#ocuradora

where does it hurt? ( for fabián )

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖊  𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖊𝖉  𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖙  the  couch,  his  guitar  resting  comfortably  in  his  lap.  his  fingers  drifted  across  the  strings,  the  soft  hum  of  the  melody  filling  the  quiet  space  between  them.  he  played  a  few  stray  notes,  testing  the  feel  of  the  music,  letting  the  rhythm  guide  him.  the  melodies  came  and  went,  just  little  snippets  of  sound  that  didn’t  quite  fit  together  but  felt  right  in  the  moment.  he  glanced  at  gloria,  a  smile  tugging  at  his  lips. 

❝   you  know, ❞  he  said  casually,  still  plucking  at  the  strings,  ❝  i  wrote  something  for  you.❞  tage  took  a  breath,  his  fingers  settling  into  a  new  rhythm.  this  wasn’t  like  the  fast  paced  notes  he  usually  played.  this  one  had  meaning,  a  little  piece  of  him  woven  into  every  note.  he  wasn’t  sure  why  he  hadn’t  shared  it  with  her  sooner,  but  as  the  music  began  to  flow  from  his  fingertips,  he  realized  it  didn’t  matter.  ❝  nowhere  near  perfect.  but,  it’s  yours. ❞

𝖍𝖊  𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖊𝖉  𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖙  the  doorframe,  watching  how  the  light  from  the  overhead  lamps  caught  the  soft  waves  of  her  hair,  casting  a  gentle  glow  that  seemed  to  make  her  presence  even  more  mesmerizing.  her  voice,  her  expressions,  the  way  she  moved  —  everything  about  her  was  hypnotic  to  him.  he  wondered  if  she  could  ever  have  any  idea  how  beautiful  she  truly  was.  with  a  small,  self-conscious  smile,  he  lifted  a  small  hand  in  a  wave,  not  wanting  to  draw  too  much  attention  to  himself. 

@ocuradora & PROMPTS FROM ELF !!

sand kicked up by dirt stings against jesse's skin, hitting the exposed stretch of his forearms revealed after he rolled up his sleeves in the sticky MONTANA heat. he left his stetson abandoned on the passenger seat of his car by accident, lamenting its loss as he combs his fingers carefully into his hair, knotted by the wind, and starts working through its few tangles. —eye contact doesn't come easy, especially not in a town south of where he grew up, where faces he doesn't know don't register & he has to force his voice not to shake when he attempts mere conversation.

a slight show of intimidation colouring his cheeks (as it always does, in the presence of a pretty woman), as the hint of a shy smile born out of politeness shapes his mouth. a few days in a new place & he's still settling into his own skin, getting used to speaking to people who aren't the ones he's known all his life in a town he thought he'd never leave. in ways it makes it easier-- less pressure, no name passed down generations digging claws into him and altering people's perceptions. montana is a new start, he reminds himself. a chance to be someone else. as if that doesn't come with a weight of its own.

melanie looked towards the woman, a silent debate churning in her head. lips twisted as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. she hadn’t visited this joint before - she was almost debating not even going ‘cause she was used to attending bigger public spaces, bigger concerts where she stood the whole time and was lost in a wave of unknowns.

this was different. an indie band with a smaller following.

however, it was part of her homework from her therapist to do things out of her comfort zone. and uncomfortable, she was.

nodding, she grinned. 

Once the crate had been lowered nearby, Carmen had leaned casually against it, the soft click of her boots echoing in the empty space. "You know," she began, voice light but carrying the weight of shared history, "there’s a kind of thrill in knowing someone’s going to give a damn about the ‘junk’ you haul around. Most people would look at this and think I’m insane." She gestured to the collection of items stacked nearby—the crate, wrapped in an almost absurd amount of canvas, and a few smaller parcels of similar secrecy.

"Of course, it helps when you’ve got a GOOD eye," she continued, her tone playful now, as though she were testing the waters. "You’re one of the few people who understand the value of...unorthodox acquisitions." She pushed herself off the crate and stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with a touch of mischief. "And that crate? I’m almost POSITIVE it’ll be just as useful to you as the other finds I’ve sent your way over the years."

THE BREATH CATCHES IN HIS THROAT, HAND LAIN ON BROKEN THRESHOLD. HIS CHEST IS EXTENDED, AS IF THE AIR IS STUCK INSIDE OF HIS LUNGS -- THE ACT OF AN EXHALE A LABORIOUS ONE. he looks like he's aged ten years in a single day. perhaps, on the inside he feels like it. grey hair distinguished, YET, SOMEHOW HE DENIES HIMSELF THE FEELING OF LIBERATION HE SO DESERVES. has an inherent issue with admitting that he's RELIEVED. although there's still a pit in the center of his chest, hot white and sealing in oxygen, that tells him BETH WAS COMING, WITH A RECKONING. she needed to be next, before she got a hold of him. OF HIS SON.

HE FLUTTERS A HAND DOWN HIS TIE, MOUTH OPENING AND CLOSING. floundering, as his brows narrow and head nods quickly . . . "i just -- i don't know what to do." his lungs empty, finally. NODDING, AS HE FINALLY SAID IT. "i'm uh, i'm guessing you saw the . . . the press conference?" HE COMMITTED SUICIDE. "WELL DON'T SAY THAT". I WON'T. he opens his palm, stepping aside . . . she's managed to dam the river before it flowed freely. KNOWING GLORIA HAD DONE THIS, was sobering. SUDDENLY GLAD HIS PUBLIC REACTION HAD BEEN SO GENUINE. genuine, despite his deeds. PERHAPS JOHN DUTTON WAS A CAPTOR, YET STOCKHOLM HE DID POSSESS. he was his father. and the only one he had left.

everywhere you look, you see those things. those damned creatures, with those ominous chasing clicks of echolocation now so fuckin' loud inside your ears. well, least when they ain't ringing from those awful fucking screeches of theirs. beating wings, clenching talons and fanning heads. their strong yet frail legs carrying them across the temple floor, and even along the walls. biology making them superior in every way to their primitive weapons, and only one of them had a functional stake long enough to pierce them in their hearts... the big ones, anyway.

the more you look, the more they fill the room. every crack and crevice, with their team just trying to fit in between them. if you find yourself get caught up in going unnoticed, that's when you get yourself scooped up and snatched without a moment to process. jason providing cover shots to give salim some breathing room to spear 'em down.

he'd just whirled in his tracks, raised rifle in order to pound one coming around gloria's left side in order to strike her unaware. creature cowering and screeching, before scurrying off. he's not yet been grabbed and dragged away. but as he turns and moves backward with rifle slightly raised in survey of the scene around them, he doubles back with a turn of his head in clear confusion. "'ey! keep that kinda talk to a hush, ma'am." he directs, holding up a hand momentarily. not allowing him to keep eyes from the scene long enough to get caught with his pants down. "i ain't left a man behind yet.. ain't about t'start now." he tells her, cocking his head in a gesture for her to come behind him. "stay close n' you'll be fine. now ain't the time fer a debate. we provide cover fire, and we get th'fuck outta here." he asks, squinting down another creature as he shoots it back and watches it rush off towards the roof. eyes checking skyward. "we clear?"