#nofable

EXTENSIVE SCAR RELATED PROMPTS  //   Accepting  @nofable​ said: ❝  looks worse than it was.  ❞ from mr carter kane

   genya does it like it’s the most casual thing in the world. she does it, simply and entirely, plopping her legs into jesper’s lap as if it’s an every time part of her routine. it could be, in fact, because jesper doesn’t vocalize distaste at all and in fact simply readjusts in where he had been manipulating a bullet, letting it bend and warp underneath his fingertips. 

   “ is that a sign of a day well - spent, with you being so tired that you have to simply collapse in my lap? ” he says as he taps a thumb against the bottom slip of her pants, right where white fabric should be red or even purple. whenever he’s up close like this, he could feel how starchy and flimsy the fabric is, and how it hardly ever compares to the keftas grisha wear. it’s not her color. it shouldn’t be, but it is.

@nofable​ / wylan said:    I’ve a devil of a habit for being right.   

      “ you’ve a devil of a habit for being smug, ”  there’s an idiom somewhere, about hypocrisy and the like, that inej would have pointedly supplied had she been there to witness this.  van eck is right about more things than jesper cares to give the pompous little merchling credit for — out loud, at least.  on the inside, he can’t help but be . . . 

but be impressed.  consistently, wylan proved himself impressive.  if he were more honest with himself, jesper would admit that he had a hard time taking his eyes off wylan when he was truly in his element.  namely: when he was making incredible, potentially deadly things.  there’s a pull towards this work that has nothing to do with the blue - eyed wonder, and everything to do with the way jesper can sense the chemicals and metals at work.

“if  you  can’t  beat  them,  dress  better  than  them.” from mr carter kane

Well, You’re not Wrong -- @nofable​

Nico sighed through gritted teeth, arms stiff in the sleeves of his jacket, collar pressed upright, pants fabric rubbing uncomfortably against his legs. Jules-Albert, the zombie chauffeur, had been a surprisingly helpful resource when it came to finding finer menswear, and even Nico could recognize the importance of wearing nice clothes in a place like this. It didn’t mean he had to like it.

“And this was the only chance we had to get the book?” he asked for the hundredth time, even though he knew it was a useless question. 

The book he spoke of was the Book of the Dead, only this one had some big time dark magic concerning all kinds of afterlives and how to get there the hard, direct way. Meaning it was both of interest to himself and to the House of Life. And of course that meant the mortals wanted to cart it around to all the big important galas to show off and not realize what they were inviting in. The protections around the book would be lighter at the fancy parties than in an underground vault. though.

        the flowers seem to rustle in congruence with the look   of confusion she gives him, almost as if they were part of the conversation, too.  life has been relatively quiet and slow as it always was for florence, but the added presence of percy jackson lately certainly caused a disturbance — in a good way.  she really can’t say she’s met a lot of people who were like her, and she definitely can’t say she’s met anyone like him.  florence enjoyed her life of little excitement but all the quests and adventures he’s been on since he was a pre-teen made her slightly jealous.  he was practically a savior of the world and she was a damn florist, not even from the ground up.

well, everybody had their triumphs in life, she supposed.  “is that supposed to have some underlying meaning or...?”  she raises a brow expectantly, absentmindedly burying two fingers into the pot on her right to make the lilacs look a bit livelier.  “cause, you know, that’s actually a fraudulent sales tactic, and i can assure you that the only dishonest thing that happens around here is the growth process of my blooms.”

❝   NO,  NO,  NO.   SIT DOWN.   ❞      her hands settled on red clad shoulders,  &  with just enough pressure in her grasp,  alina called upon the little energy left in her to push genya down onto the vanity bench.     her hands slid across her shoulders  &  only lifted when they reached the fiery locks cascading down her back,  as if the steady presence of the tailor was the only thing keeping her upright.     [  and in a way,  it was.     the fold had weakened the sol koroleva,  but alina was sick of being looked after,  tended to,  treated as if she would break at the slightest gust of wind.  ]     she reached for the brush lying on the table in front of them and ran it through genya’s hair once,  twice,  three times.     ❝   it’s my turn to take care of you now.   ❞