#khronoes

why wouldn't he, nell thinks, almost grievously. he promised her he would come. he promised. and they— they never really broke any promises before, nell and luke. although ... although maybe a few times, but that was when they were in high school, and living with aunt janet, and nellie knew he was struggling so badly then, without steve, without dad around — could never quite focus on homework, and he'd skip school endlessly for a chance to get high, and— it isn't like that anymore, though. or even if it was, couldn't he have made it ? couldn't he have tried ? maybe he left a message, maybe nellie just needed to check her phone, but where was her phone ? maybe it's in the room upstairs. yeah, maybe it's there. she'll check it soon, maybe give him a call, if— if he's still using the same number he called her by, a month ago.

❛ do you- do you think he's okay ? maybe he needs... help. he said he'll come, theo. he told me he would. ❜

          it feels almost unnatural ,   in a strange way  -  not only to sit in a room so  ...  clean ,   organized ,   a room that bleeds softness from ceiling to floor in every crevice .   harriet hook was not born and bred for the softness that @khronoes​ holds ;   she is all sharp angles ,   broken teeth and bloody noses ,   and everything fragile crumbling between calloused fingers every time she makes attempts at tenderness .   the two of them so much like a delicate bird has been placed within the jaws of a croc ,   and they simply must trust the croc not to swallow the bird whole  -  and every day ,   harriet finds less and less reason to do so .   narrative foils ,   they are ,   pictures of everything the other could have become under different circumstances ,   but all with the same blueprints .

          so she sits on estelle’s bed ,   watching her putter around the room ,   watching the way the princess’ gold locks sway under the kaleidoscope of sunset colours seeping through the window .   self-consciously ,   harriet begins to fidget with the frayed edges of one of her own braids ,   worrying at the split ends as she observes her companion .

there is a cruel smirk that lines the curves of his mouth. really, is this who he is ? is this what he's come to ? tyler feels like a stranger in his own skin; feels like he's finally on the right track after years of searching. filling in those shoes left by the devil. sure ... he'd had had laurel to thanks for that. after all, where would he be without her guiding hands ( in chains, and in her sweetly-spoken threats, and praises, oh. so much praises. could she really be the one to accept him for who he is, the monster and the ugly and the wretched ? ) — still frightened and unreasonably angry, no doubt — but this ? this is all him. it must be him. this anger has to have an owner, after all; and isn't it his ?

❛ admit it. you're a little thrilled that it was me, weren't you ? ❜

(    ft.    estelle  ,    @khronoes    )          📜  for  an  incorrect  quote  for  our  muses.

giselle  :    do  you  have  a  self-care  routine?

the avatar is safe — that’s all that matters. out of ba sing se, out of the earth kingdom, and based on what she’s heard from her friends, he should be just fine. the weight is lifted off her shoulders, even if the warriors are spread out too thin, kagome holds on to hope and duty. pushing the forest terrain out of her face, she looks over to see the fellow warrior. ❝ over here! ❞

she cast her gaze upward, meeting the journalist's with a small, sad smile. there was pity in that stare, a kind of sadness for another that seemed genuine enough as to not be condescending. penelope was good at that; really meaning things. she didn't do anything halfway and that included feelings.

"haven't you ever... loved something?" she asked, standing up a little straighter, abandoning the paperwork she had been going through. newspaper clippings and scans from a police file she should not have had covered her desk, and she slid a manila folder over those pages discreetly, trying to make it seem like she was just fidgeting.

"better question," she interjected before zahra even had a moment to answer the first, "why did you become a journalist?"