something something about writing a collection of characters and being obsessed with the canon they're from while also rewriting it all because the writers didn't know them like i do
eve (she/they), twenty-two, fully vaccinated.
read more : muse list.
the og cursed cowgirl
ishtar atta isil, original character. if you know, you know
give it up for stranded girly girls
shelby goodkind, the wilds
leah rilke, the wilds
mari morales, yellowjackets
natalie scatorccio, yellowjackets, @huntalie
shauna shipman, yellowjackets
magic's real, folks
adam parrish, the raven cycle
claire novak, supernatural
lisa sherwood / the hag, dead by daylight
mikaela reid, dead by daylight
orla sargent, the raven cycle
ronan lynch, the raven cycle
swan de beaufort, the raven cycle
superman sucks & your heroes are dead
henrike bane, original character, the boys
you're in a tavern drinking shit beer
alina starkov, the grishaverse
amren, a court of thorns and roses
cirilla of cintra, the witcher
daenerys targaryen, a song of ice and fire
jaskier pankratz, the witcher
nikolai lantsov, the grishaverse
yennefer of vengerberg, the witcher
playing lorde's melodrama on high volume
cassie howard, euphoria
rue bennet, euphoria
tabloids, red carpet & champagne
barbara byrd, original character, actress
mauve, original character, member of the band the atomic chic
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taissa shoots a scowl her way, part of her not wanting to entertain her at all. there were plenty of reasons to keep what she and van had private --- even out here, where there were no rules, no one to stop them from being who they are, but it had been so long, too much had happened, and tai didn't want to keep it private anymore. she needed to give van the reassurance, and she needed to be able to be what she is to van without worry. it's moments like this that bring her back to before, and she can't tell whether or not shelby means what she says or not.
βΒ yeah, it's . . . van, β she mumbles dryly, closing her eyes and bringing her hand to her forehead to rub it for a moment. she gives a tired look to shelby now, challenging her instead of answering her simply. βΒ like --- what? β
"duh, van, whose god-given name's vanessa." shelby's reponse comes with a bright sunny smile that seems a little bit forced, as it has been for the last few days -- god as a shackle rather than the helium balloon it was meant to be. it's heavy. foreign belief in enemy land⦠"like. like that. i dunno. what do folks call it? queer? bent?" the problem with shelby is that the more she talks the more she seems to be spewing insults she learned from another mouth. the words sit heavy on her tongue. they tumble out, unsure of themselves. they sound like lashes on one's own back ; the fact that she's holding the whip doesn't really lessen the harshness of it all. instead, she looks exactly like her father : another bigot who can't keep her mouth shut. she wishes she could stop. instead, she adds, defensively : "don't play dumb, yunno what am sayin'. a friend of dorothy or whatever y'all like to call yerselves." @ladyintree
π°π²π πΆπ·: πΆπ΄π½π΄ππΈπβ¦ Β Β ARTHUR AND DONNA BANKS KILLED IN ACCIDENT Β βΒ Β THEY LEAVE BEHINDΒ TWO DAUGHTERS, INCLUDING A RECENTLY GOLDEN GLOBE-NOMINATED MARA.
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it is easy to watch her ; she is the kind of woman a man would most likely gaze at with interest, profiler or not. but spencer does not let himself be tempted -- instead, he searches for the details that most would miss : the obvious lack of anxiety that screams an assurance that innocent people usually find themselves short of. the bright crimson nails, a color that only authoritative and self-assured women go for ; the tint too reminiscent of blood for people's taste. "doctor." he corrects easily, "doctor spencer reid." he doesn't offer a hand to shake nor does he seem like the idea ever reached his mind. instead, he opens the file. "what can you tell me about the "house of hades" ?"
β OH, MY APOLOGIES. β the correction spills out of her mouth like the politician she is, with a tint of admiration and amusement at the same time. β you seem incredibly young to be a doctor. i get the feeling that you must be very, very good at your job.β she is not used to the interrogation of boys like him. she eases in her chair, backing off a bit to eye the doctor that made all the way down here to greet her with a yellow file in his hands. it's not mockery, nor belittlement: it is simply interest, gleaming bright in emerald eyes. the question is an easy answer, years of training: β it is our family company, β she replies without missing a bit. β my father, which i assume you have talked to, is the founder and the acting CEO. i am responsible for PR. how can we help you, doctor reid? β
every change in her demeanor is observed with an intensity that always deranges. outside of work, it is some sort of weakness : people do not like to be seen & often prefer to entirely avoid talking to reid instead of subjecting themselves to his eyes. at work, though, it is most certainly an advantage : the guilty tremble at the strong attention & the narcissistic preen under such consideration. he isn't sure what category bianca di angelo fits into -- but considering the way she replies without an ounce of hesitation, he is rather interested to find out. "we are not here to talk about me." he offers nothing of himself, because he has learned his lesson : sharks will bite if they sense blood. "yes, i've heard all of that. actually, i've heard exactly that. same words, well-rehearsed. even the rhythm of that sentence was the same -- you all know the script by heart." his eyes leave her to settle on the file, pictures of dead bodies printed in color, "i suppose hosting murders won't be good for business, right?"
"miss di angelo", he greets, a file in his hands while he sits across from her. after a moment of silence (the tick tock of the clock their only company) he places the pile of paper down and presses his hands, flat, over the cold metal table. "do you know why we are keeping you here?" @infernocte
IT IS NOT THE FIRST TIME HOUSE OF HADES DABBLED WITH THE FBI NOR IT WOULD BE THE LAST, so while bianca sits in the cold depressing room, she merely has the looks of a woman bored out of her mind rather than the anxious wait of the predator. and oh! here he comes. although, she is unsure if she would indeed call him a predator- he's too pretty for that. " not yet, " crimson polished nails tap on the cold metal, a pleasant smile tilting her lips. " but i guess i am about to, mister?... "
it is easy to watch her ; she is the kind of woman a man would most likely gaze at with interest, profiler or not. but spencer does not let himself be tempted -- instead, he searches for the details that most would miss : the obvious lack of anxiety that screams an assurance that innocent people usually find themselves short of. the bright crimson nails, a color that only authoritative and self-assured women go for ; the tint too reminiscent of blood for people's taste. "doctor." he corrects easily, "doctor spencer reid." he doesn't offer a hand to shake nor does he seem like the idea ever reached his mind. instead, he opens the file. "what can you tell me about the "house of hades" ?"
"miss di angelo", he greets, a file in his hands while he sits across from her. after a moment of silence (the tick tock of the clock their only company) he places the pile of paper down and presses his hands, flat, over the cold metal table. "do you know why we are keeping you here?" @infernocte
"you seem tired." reid's voice is soft ; morning light seeps through the plane's windows. only the engine's trumming and morgan's snoring have broken the silence that has stretched between them for hours now. but @greeneway hasn't closed her eyes & neither has spencer. he thought of it all night ; only found the courage to ask when morning caressed the sky with soft orange light. "and even though altitude definitely affects rest, as oxygen becomes rarer, therefore making it harder to go to sleep -- well, you haven't even tried." the confused look on his face swiftly becomes a concerned expression. "why?"
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grieving is like. the song "home" but the edith whiskers slowed version. it's not missing it & still thinking about it every day. it's feeling sick to your stomach because it's over (thank god it's over) it's not being able to write about it because it all sounds fake or rehearsed. it's not being able to tell anyone because the only person who'd understand left already. it's being unsure if you can cry because you miss it while still being so fucking relieved you got out
with a shark smile shining over a flute of champagne, she taps on the side of the glass with perfectly taken-care-of nails⦠manicure a deep red that screams velvet & money. "fancy meeting you here, di angelo." solange's bored tone is a grating sound -- there, it gets stuck at the bottom of your ear. it hisses & puffs until you feel yourself moving arms & legs to try and get her attention... the desperate desire for her to be anything but deeply done with you. "who's the unlucky date?" @infernocte
"ya 'nd vanessa, uh?" shoulder knocks against shoulder in a playful way while her tone is carefully curated to sound mildly interested ; kind, too kind, the old jesus kind of sweet that shelby has been overusing for years. "ain't nothin' bad 'bout it, of course, just wonderin' is all. like. i didn't know yer like that."
im so emo about shelby. the wilds gave us such a good representation of what growing up religious and gay is like. how they teach you that jesus is love but jesus wouldn't love you. what growing up as a girly girl and realizing you're gay is like. the yearning for your best friend, blurring the line between friendship and love and not knowing how to deal with a lesbian situationship you basically created in your head. how cruel you can be when you desire so loudly it reflects in your acts and yet refuse to act on that desire.
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my new fave thing during pride is saying "oh yes happy pride to YOU, ally" with the biggest dumbest goofiest smile while the straight person next to me looks at the inexistent camera like theyre in the office