la-sangradura​:

The pancakes had been cut to pieces before him, and he continued to prepare them to make up for the grotesque quality only for to move it around in the syrup until it was ruined. This was suppose to be her remedy, not his. There was something nostalgic about diners, even if it was never part of your own past. It was the haven of what was suppose to be, the safe house in every movie where you could reflect or you could hide in plain sight. What they were hiding from and what they were looking to find would only be left to themselves. That was the case until Amara broke the silence, pulling Atticus’ gaze up more abruptly than he intended. Chewing paused, sticky sweet suddenly tasting no more than overbearing at her description of him. If that was the case, him and this setting didn’t mesh because he was absolutely certain that the only thing he knew about himself was that no one ever suspected him of anything at all.  

Atticus lived his life in his life not in the shadows, because that meant there a quality he had the incentive to hide, nor in the light, because that meant he was worth something. He was off to the side, put there by his brother’s sole selfless act and left there by no one other than himself. It had kept him safe. It wasn’t until he grew weary of living with his head bowed into his chest that he challenged it, but even then, his work at the pharmacy was meddling that no one would ever consider. The sheer thought of her acknowledging anything about him, considering to solve the puzzle his own body was, had almost startled him. 

“You worry me,” He finally says, gaze drifting back to his food and between his coffee. The shock subsided, but his jaw was still clenched in whatever clairvoyance Amara held under whatever spell of happy little helpers he assumed she was on. “When you’re not being a pain in the ass, you worry me. I used to know someone who was like you, but it was… at their end. You’ve been the same since the day I met you, but sometimes I wonder, how many days left? So I’m gonna ask again, Amara. The fuck are you on?”

...

she could tell her words had left a stain on him, and soon he was colored with it  — she imagines his disdain a burnt orange drip all over the peach of his skin, yellowed by diner lighting, soured by his concern for her. when the conversation flips to amara and her worrisome everything, she observes the white underbelly of his syrup-clad distress. even to the bloated, rotting selfishness between amara’s thin, black hair and red ears, she could tell this was more about him than her. her face is pale and blank with a hint of something cold. “i’m not on anything.” she wishes she were walking slowly through a chemical high she often chased when the sun was hiding and the sky was ink. “i wish i was on the moon.” she tucks a grease-slick piece of hair behind her ear, wishing her sleeves were long so she could hide the red raw of her bitten fingers. instead, she curls them into a first on the cool table top, analyzing the wear of it. she wonders if anyone else had sat here, as dreadful as her. as ugly as her. as curious as her. 

“i’m not on anything. i’m not. you’re a fucking jerk sometimes, you know? you don’t care. i don’t care.” she sticks a finger in the syrup pooling brown and sweet on his plate, and sucks it between chewed lips. there’s a pop sound that made her smile when she releases her flesh from the pink wet. cinematic. “i wanna see where you live.”

luciana-morales​:

=

Friends had brought her here for a bit of a fun night. Frankly, if she would have known that this was where she’d end up; she would have stayed home and chosen to drown herself in essential oil, bubble baths and a bottle of wine. But alas, she can’t leave now without raising suspicion so she’s gone outside for too many cigarette breaks albeit barely smoking. It’s already been more than she normally smokes in a day so this night isn’t going to plan. Nor is she enjoying herself. 

She almost stops in her tracks when she sees a frantic girl but when she sees that the male doesn’t want any part of it, she intervenes and stops beside them. “I’ll take you in.” A hand wraps around her wrist to uncurl around his. “Come on, let’s go inside.” 

➼...

like a beast in headlights, delicate skin pulls amara from one frantic endeavor to the next. suddenly, she’s head over heels into the safety of this stranger. a calm washes over her, weirdly, and too much fear in her throat to be jealous or rude or crude. nodding quickly, amara followed the newfound hero inside, to be met with a symphony of sensory cocktails.

amara quickly tried to transition between a hand swaddled around her wrist, for taking the other girl’s hand in her own, like they had been longtime friends. like amara wasn’t awful, like they could’ve braided each others hair in some far off universe. the thought of it threatens tears in the wide of her eyes. “there’s — “ she feels honesty coming up like vomit. “there isn’t anyone. i’m not seeing anyone. i was lying. do you think i’m terrible now?”

deidiavoli​:

What the fuck was this girl on? Rolling his eyes, Lincoln had had it up to here already with the bullshit of today, the endless people he had to talk to, the stupidity draining him dry. He stared right ahead at her, eyes narrowed completely as he shook his head. “Little girl, I would not be joking around right now if I were you. Saying that you set the goddamn fire that killed a deputy, or had a deputy in there - is nothing something you can handle, because guess what? If that were true, I would book you, in three seconds flat and you’d be transferred to the tombs and you really don’t want to do that. ALthough, after what you just said to me, maybe that is the place for you.” His gravelly voice spoke, shaking his head. “Did you or did you not call 911 for the fire, Miss Martin, and answer me with a goddamn serious answer because I won’t be kind a second time.” He demanded, wiping a tiny bit of sweat from his shirt. Goddamn heat in this boxed room he had felt like he had been in for so long. 

self-absorbed ways often came with an insecurity that fluctuated between getting flustered over a fast food led interaction, and facing enforcement boldly in his crooked, rotting teeth and telling it to go fuck itself. the scales were more than tipped, probably shaken and swaddled and thrown like a mother abandoning its child. if she were honest, she’s not sure where her courage is coming from, where it ever developed and let itself free inside her. maybe in the shear ridiculousness that was a chain of power, and in the disbelief you become a fabulous, terrible creature. she supposes that was what she was now, too ugly to care about anything else. 

his voice was hard like cobblestone. amara wondered what he spoke like to his loved ones. her stare is cold and focused, like gawking at a fish tank with the kind of curiosity that drove you insane. “you’d love that wouldn’t you!” there’s a gross smile on her face now, teeth yellowed and jagged but fierce in her awfulness. she’s acting like this is a movie. “kidding. you’re so sweaty! i called 911. that’s it.” honesty, but she’s jittery, and in a way trying to make herself at home. her ankles locking and unlocking below the table, her shoulders shimmying in discomfort, maybe boredom, maybe excitement, “i’m living in my car, sheriff, maybe you should care a little bit more about your community and leave the fires to the fire experts.” she imagines setting him on fire. she wonders what that would smell like.

la-sangradura​:

He held his hand out to her again, some ghastly weight settling on his shoulders as he did. He thought back to a night like this where it was quieter all except for his own voice, where he had made promises only to have them left unfulfilled because of the other party involved. A young girl who would come to the pharmacy trying to be no more than selfless and helpful had been hurt, and when she confided in Atticus, it was too late. Atticus thought of her, and he felt guilty thinking he could so easily put someone else in her place and in her struggle. If only he could risk his self preservation to face the fact that so many people he tried to help, tried to find justice for, had all been masks over the one person he had turned away from. 

“My car’s right out front,” He said with a short nod, and the lights that he had been chasing to turn into a blackout by the time morning came would have to wait for another day. “And I don’t. I’ve got people who are far worse that need that energy. You’re not one of them.”

The ride was quiet, soft breaths and the echo of the AC through stiff vents, but Atticus found himself stuck in a loop of sounds from the past. His complex, one that he rarely gave a thought to because he had learned to find sweetness in the undertones of its bitterness, had latched itself on to his senses. Every pour of light through the back window illuminated the stain of blue in the backseat, Amara’s breathing reminding him of a little boy’s heavy hearted predictions of what would come from his mistake of playing with a slushee in the back seat. He looked to the crinkle of papers in the back seat that shifted with every graze of his foot on the break, files upon files of people who had instilled more pain than anything else and got to laugh about it. Atticus knew he was too old to grow a spine, something to make him stand a little straighter in defiance, so he would have to accept that he was meant to lie with his head tucked between his shoulders over a desk crafting whatever justice the world failed to serve. 

It seemed like the darkness would follow them. The lights inside the diner flickered, and they had slipped into a corner where the light hummed the softest but shined the least. He slid syrup across the table to her, the once watchful intention he had slowly leaving him as he fixated on flattened hash browns and melting whip cream.

“How is it?” He asked, his head too far away to hear his own question. “It’s better than anything you’d get in that place, and I’m talking about the drugs, too.”

the entire ride to this slice of normalcy, incredibly cinematic, buzzing and quiet, was silent and ridden with thought. amara felt the urge to pick his brain, both literally and metaphorically. he kept dozing off into this intense look of thought, like lost in a memory less than kind or seeing something in her, past her grotesque, into something meaningful to him. if he looked at her and saw someone else, she’d have love for him forever because of it.  the diner table top was cool underneath the hot pink of her skin, staring at a plate of food she didn’t want to eat. she tried to picture it rotted with worms and maggots. she still had a bit of sausage in her mouth, chewing hard and slow, staring staring staring. 

she only looks up from the hometown grease when he speaks, “huh?” how is it, amara? “oh. it’s.” eyes flicker down, “thanks.” she decides to keep her comments to herself. “it’s good.” she had hardly eaten, but decides to take a big bite of pancake. she looks at atticus while she chews like a child with no regard for others, hoping he wont comment on her eating patterns. that, she doesn’t want attention from. that was the worst part of her beast. it did not like to be fed much. and when it did, it ate the entire world, every disgusting little bit. 

she watches him for a while. “why do you sometimes look so sad when you look at me, if you don’t hate me?”

la-sangradura​:

The violence, while guarded, still reached Atticus. He didn’t move. He stood still. Atticus had learned that the typical response, the one decided by nature to survive, hadn’t worked in his situation. Fighting lead to one split skin and broken bones, while fleeing the scene only dragged him back downstairs once more. Dark hues watched her hands and any movements that she fought to make, predict where to move to be out of her line of fire.

“You can kiss anyone anywhere,” He told her. “Today, tomorrow, next week. Let’s save it for the next day, how about that? C’mon, Amara, let me just take you h—“

His suggestion died on his lips. Home wasn’t an option, her confession the last thing he expected, but it seemed to start building the framework to herd his theories into. He had always thought up the ideas on how he’d run away, even at forty two, but he never did. He always stayed, right where everyone left him until he was needed. It wasn’t until a few years ago that that had changed, some shift that pulled a bite against a bark of orders that had landed Atticus right back home where it all started. 

“Hey.” His voice was softer now, and Atticus gently crouched to her level now. He was practically concave, some form of a makeshift shield against the distractions he started to believe she was seeking out. “Hey, I won’t leave until you tell me to, alright? I’ll help you find someone to kiss, and then we can get out of here and we’ll figure it out from there. The diner’s still open, right? Waffles are better than whatever sticky lipgloss and spit you want to swap. How’s that sound? We can go to Styxs. We can to your car. Anywhere. I just need you to take some deep breaths, right, Amara? You can’t kiss anyone like that.”

➼...

atticus was a strange case of kindness. when he was gentle, it seemed like he had derailed that way. like he had fallen in the path of this nicety. it felt like his decisions of softness were at the hands of something that scarred, something that he feared. she wonders if they have a similar fear in their eyes, looking at each other, negotiating in chaos. she decided then, she liked him. she liked how she called her by her name, and liked that he could take a hit from her stupid fucking words. the world, the room, felt smaller, now that they were level. breathing through her mouth, less ragged now, face wet with tears and spit, wide eyed, terrible, ugly. she listens to him carefully, and tries to pretend she was someone else. someone else would listen sincerely, absorb the words, and act on them. she could do that.

there’s a sort of relief on her face  —  it was hard to accept a soft tone. it was hard to submit to a kindness, to calm down, to allow yourself to still your boil, because amara was constantly convinced all she could be was the worst parts of herself, that those were the only sincere parts. the parts of her that could calm down, that could listen, that could be normal and okay, those didn’t seem like her to her own mind. they felt like tricks, like she was lying. it’s hard to face your own humanity, a natural process, when you’re so used to seeing yourself as the beast. her gaze falls to his chin, “okay,” her voice cracking with misuse  —  there’s acid in her throat. for once, there’s no gore in her head. just what’s happening now. “okay, okay.” small, frantic nods. “can we take your car? do you hate me?”

la-sangradura​:

Something was fraying, Atticus was sure of it, but he reminded himself that it wasn’t his place to decide, let alone cure. He was only ever assigned the solution and the responsibility to administer it. The act of deducing was never his to own. It had been that way all his life, and he wasn’t about to start changing it now. 

The way her eyes glazed over, the tears dissolving whatever facade Atticus had to believe she was putting on and falling victim to in its dissolution, was all too familiar. Or maybe, just maybe, Atticus simply willed it to be. He thought of the girl who came by the pharmacy every day, searching for remedies for everyone but herself. She was coaxing her demons, the one that walked and crawled and lived on top on beds instead of under, in the hopes of easing her own ailment. When he had found out happened, he didn’t know what to do. She had found her relief, found her sleep that finally silenced the hands that would reach through her dreams and wake her into nightmares. It had to be the mix of his own panacea now, burning through his veins with every sip and making him face memories that would scar but seemed more inviting under the glistening lights. 

“You might want to keep the ten dollars if you’re looking for a kiss,” He advised her, the bill crackling from his palm to hers again. “I’ll leave you if need me to. What do you need? It’s late. You should go home while there’s still empty taxis.”

He looked away from her now, his gaze dropping to the floor to find the darkness and let it wash away his sight for a moment. The florescent lights still found him, because where he went there he was, and Atticus turned to face her again. 

“What the hell are you really doing here?” He asked. 

➼ ...

he’s not hearing her. she should scream in his face and hug him so violently that his inner soft, wet, red pours out of his ears and eyes. instead she blinks hard, and swallows, lips pursing with the sour of her own taste. “i told you! fuck! fuck! i need to kiss someone and then i’ll go. i can’t sit there and be alone anymore. my car  — “ a true, honest slip up. she could lie. was it too late to lie? she imagines a grand hall, ceilings the size of skyscrapers, loved by pink, vintage wallpaper. a home, head to toe with everything amara had ever loved. she could lie and say she lived in heaven. “i’ve got to be kissed and  —  don’t go. don’t go yet. i’ve got to be kissed and i don’t have money for a taxi you fucking fuck! i’m living in my car. happy? okay?!” that self obsessed bit of her wanted someone to know, because it was sad. the situation was sad, right? to picture her, in a car, sleeping with her forehead against the glass of the window, was sad, right? and she could look beautiful that way too, right? she hated every second of being in that car, it was her mother’s. she hated every bit of it, besides having her belongings closely beside her. she hadn’t realized until her throat hurt with it, but she’s yelling now; face scrunched, furrowed and a picture of frustration. the shrill of her speak can be heard even through the obnoxious club pop. 

her gaze is fixed on the brown of his hair, which looks purple depending on which way he’s facing the lights. maybe she’d dye her hair purple soon. her face is wet with long, hot tears. she wishes they’d burn through her skin and show off the rotted bones below the pink of her face. maybe then he’d run off, screaming. and she could kiss her own reflection instead of making a victim out of anyone else. the bill had fallen on the floor amidst her troubles.

la-sangradura​:

He looked down at her, and at her sudden aggression, he tilted his head back in a dulled vexation. Atticus was never one to bark, or bite, which was a stark contrast to the Bailey reputation. He didn’t pull away from her, either, though. Her grasp was the only thing binding them aside from slight curve of Atticus palm under hers. 

“Then I guess that makes me part of your crowd since I’m here,” He pointed out, the slight gap between them and the door as identification was checked once more separating them from the rest briefly. A duo by no more than shitty circumstance. He had been in and out a few times now, and they waved them both in with little concern. “I’m not that fond of you to begin with, Amara, so I’ll give you the chance to rethink your threat.”

The music engulfed them, dulling their voices under the music and the animalistic noises of those present. If it wasn’t the howling of men, it was the screeching of collateral damage when survival of the fittest was down to cash payments instead of good looks. 

“I charge fifteen dollars an hour for babysitting,” He said, but he was certain it was lost to change of scenery. He pulled her in front of him, this time inspecting her with more effort. He got her in, and now he’d figure out what was wrong. He angled her right into the spotlight he angled himself away from with every entrance and exit, trying to see her eyes but it was too fast. “What did you take?”

led into a swell of noise, a cocktail of color and sound like the inside of a disco ball. i’m not that fond of you. she should pull his eyes out with her teeth. she should show him her beast! though she’s hardly paying attention to his words now, gawking at the newfound atmosphere, some mix of disbelief and awe and disgust and fuck. “this music is rotted garbage.” there’s this horrible frown on amara’s face, almost animated in its roundness. she pictures atticus twisting her mouth completely around like a spinning wheel to get her to smile. then she pictures pushing him hard. instead, she shoves a hand in her pocket and takes out a ten dollar bill. she doesn’t give it to him, just holds it tightly in her fist as he examines her.  being held like this felt like her mother. felt like her stupid boring father, asking her for some sense. amara was growing hot under the lights, and finally she looks him square in the face. “i want to kiss someone.” fuck you. die. die. “i came here to kiss someone. fuck you.” her eyes sting with tears now. stupid fucking asshole. she should die right here. she thinks back on his previous remark, her words mismatched and delayed like a drunken attempt. she’s sober as a whistle. i’m not that fond of you. “i didn’t take anything. i only take stuff to sleep because i hate my bed. are you gonna leave me here now?” the question is ridden with accusation. her mouth feels dry. she pins the ten dollar bill on his chest with a hand.

ivanpctrov​:

—-

the drink in his hand soon became a distant memory. the bartender noticed this, taking it upon himself to refill it. ivan knew here was a reason he kept him around. he liked people who took initiative. the girl sitting next to him was doe eyed, staring at him as if he were some curious creature from a distant planet. his new drink arrived. her insinuation that he had been the one begging was a little insulting but at the same time somewhat amusing. “no.” he replied, dryly. “do i seem like the begging type to you?” it happens from time to time that people underestimate him because he didn’t look like the gangster type. “quite an ear you’ve got there. were you spying?”

➼...

her eyes, for a moment, sit among his glass. amara can’t wrap her head around how someone could ever tolerate such a taste, yet she’d down it if she was asked. her nails dig into her palm at the thought. gaze flickers up with his response, the audacity in her simmering, becoming still, some intolerable thing inside her, un-bubbling for now. “i’d beg.” she’d beg for her life, though it was worth virtually nothing. she’d beg for more years to roll around in her own filth, to waste time, to become everything and nothing she desired. she’d kill for more time to scrape at this world. now she’s looking at the illuminated bottles on the shelves ahead of them, tries to find her reflection in one of them, failing. “if you don’t want people listening maybe try, like, not being super loud. you might as well do your business in a crowd on the strip.” she cuts herself off, “is there anything you’d beg for? your life? your mother?”

la-sangradura​:

The sudden touch catches Atticus off guard, and he succumbs to it in surprise. As he’s dragged down to the height of his newfound company, his drink in hand lapping at the edges of the glass, dark hues lock onto familiar ones just barely illuminated by the outside of the Mirage’s display. Atticus knows them well, but he wonders if they’re darker than he remembers. He was tempted to escape the night, abandon whatever promises he made to sit and watch to go lie down and close his eyes somewhere far more quiet. It was the reason he had stepped out, a brief existential reflection into the whiskey he was sipping that rippled as the bass moved through the wall he leaned against and into his drink. As soon as he finished it, it would have been resolved but now he was interrupted. 

He steadies her, moving his hand over hers to peel off her desperate grip and slide her palm against his. 

“Are you looking to meet new people or bullshitting me?” Atticus asked, but he didn’t shake her off of him. The faster he helped her, the faster he could wipe whatever mess was unfolding from his hand. It was the way he had interpreted his oath for helping anyone. He was already in the line to return inside with her. “I don’t think that’s really your crowd in there, Amara. You alright, sure you don’t wanna remember how to breathe first? The perfume in there’s thick to make anyone voluntarily stop.”

desperation was like a thick, black-blood on amara. she wore it like dread, she wore it like death. she wonders if there would ever be a girl more dreadful than herself on this hunk of concrete, underneath this gaze from atticus, underneath the stupid dark sky that won’t consume her even after she’d politely asked it to. she wonders if she’ll stain this moment forever. and in the wake of her desperation comes regret. she should’ve shut her fucking mouth, sewn it quiet, and walked inside. she should’ve never touched atticus. should’ve never recognized his walk or the way he held his glass. “i hate you. you’re fucked,” is the only thing that seems to come out of her, petty and rude. her eyes going between his, the street lights, and just about everything else, a million miles a second. “i hate you. my crowd is everywhere.” her words are quick like brick-hard remarks, but they’re baseless. they’re harmless in a weird, sour way, if you knew amara to any extent. for some reason, hell was if he decided to let go of her. she hopes he doesn’t, not ever. “will you just shut up and take me inside? i’ll hate you forever if you don’t. i’ll fucking hate you!”

deidiavoli​:

Ari had just gotten off of his shift at school, and while they had his outfit in the bag to put on with the rest of the girls inside, they had noticed a little twig of a girl looking rather frantic as she stood outside. He was just about to open the door when they heard her say to someone if they could go in with her and of course, the rude patron brushed her off, but Ari had a small smile on their face as he walked over to her. “Hello there, love,” His sweet British voice rang out. “You bit afraid of some lovely lookin’ ladies and men, huh? It’s not scary in there, I promise ya. It’s a good time. How’s about we go in, yeah? Together? I’ll stay with ya, and you can help me get dressed if ya want. I work here, so you can come in the back with me and help me out - or I can just walk you in. Either or, it’s all okay, love.” They reassured in a soft voice. God, she reminded him of one of his students, young and frantic, but she had to be at least twenty-one. 

➼...

kindness fell on amara like a thin dusting of snow. she couldn’t make sense of unbridled warmth  — but always jealous of its sincere nature. yet here she was, begging for niceties on the sidewalk of the strip like a fucking beggar. if someone could be gentle in the face of her feverish beast, the churning, ugly core of who she was, there must be something behind its considerate eyes. where was the fucking trick? amara’s eyes, blown up like a brutal motion picture, searched the man’s face with a wildness. on his tongue, sweetness, and on hers, salivating, sour, careful curiosity. “i’m not  —  shut up. i’m not afraid. shut up. shut up.” the words were nasty with venom but her face was just as afraid as the claim made against her. she was timid, but still with a grip on the kind skin across from her. she would be okay going in with him, and after this she’d never see him again, and he’d forget about her, and she’d draw a picture of his face and write a song about his stupid kindness. her breathing slowed, “okay. ..okay. just  —  go first. go first. pretend it’s a job interview or  —  pretend you know me. why do you work here?” her sentences were frantic lines of wire, electrified and sewn together dreadfully. she wasn’t sure she was making sense, and she pictures the back room and what it might smell like. she wants to see it. “yeah! take me back there, okay?”

endless gifs of  ANYA TAYLOR-JOY  5 / ?

deidiavoli​:

location: nevada police station

time: night after the fire opened to: all who need to be interrogated, come at me 

The chaos that had erupted after the horrific, tragic fire that left Lincoln now deputy-less - it was unspeakable. People were hurrying in and out, in and out of of his office and it annoyed Lincoln to no fucking end. Sure, it was truly tragic that his young deputy was found the way he was found, in a blaze of horror and torture, but regardless, what Lincoln hated the most was doing actual sheriff work. If he could, he would take a half day and head over to Rousseau’s, but unfortunately, that was just a pipe dream, as the entire Nevada Police station was buzzing with people, cops and suspects alike waiting to interrogate and be interrogated. 

“All right then - it’s hour fuckin’ forty-two of this shitshow and I’ve already missed my lunch and now my fuckin’ dinner, so you better go on and tell me what the fuck I want to hear.” Lincoln sat down, across from his suspect, eyeing them up and down. “You tell me - where were you last night?” 

amara thinks about what this man must be like alone. if he’s quiet and brooding, or if he talks loudly to no one and burns himself to a crisp even in his lonesome. she wonders if he’s unhappy, or married, or dating around, or if he hates his job or his life. she wonders if he’s had sex with anyone in this building. for a second she imagines looking in the mirror and seeing his face instead of her own, delighted in masculinity. she wonders what he thinks of her hair. she hasn’t brushed it. his hair looks damp.

ripped from the dark warmth inside her thoughts, her eyes are glued to the space between his eyebrows. she doesn’t want to watch him blink and move his mouth anymore. “i smelled it.” she says, “the fire. i smelled it. so i called 911 because it was an ugly smell —  oh and i also started the fire! and i ate a whole dead body with my jaw unhinged like a snake.” shut up, stupid. she pictures herself in handcuffs. she wouldn’t like how that’d make her shoulders look; like a chubby bird trapped in wire. “it was great. can i go now?” she’s tired of his yelling, and she’s scared and that’s evident in her leg shaking, her bitten lip, but she wants to see him angrier. maybe she’d paint his stupid face when she got home. he’s so shiny. “you’re sweating a lot.”

open starter ! location: the mirage

pacing on the outside of a loud and fantastical establishment was a flustered and frustrated amara, pink and white to the touch, sweat slick and feeling fiercely impulsive. she does not want to go inside. she wants to go inside. people walk in and out with the kind of ease that made her stomach churn, and after being lost in thought she notices a hole developing on the tip of her boot and she imagines screaming so loud that her eyes turn red with blood and she drops dead on the concrete. in reality, she’s looking slumped and distressed outside a strip club, because women and their shapes and their morphing skin and bones, fluid like a stream, terrible like a stupid makeup commercial, wonderful like everything amara has ever wanted to be and live inside the chest cavity of. half of her doesn’t know why this is such a big deal, why she can’t just go in and sit quietly in the back, order nothing, then something, then throw it away because her stomach can’t stand the thought. she is ugly and this is no place for ugly, not her ugly.

in a burst of white hot impulse, desperation on her like an ill-fitting sun dress, making her gawky and awkward and pink, she grabs the forearm of a figure seemingly about to enter. “ — please !” please what, you fucking asshole? “take .. will you take me inside? i’m being a ridiculous stupid fucking —  ass. and i’m  —  well, okay. i’m meeting someone and i’m scared to be alone.” it’s a lie. she’s alone as a drifting planet. “just walk me in, okay? alright?”

ivanpctrov​:

who: anyone where: vicky’s

“you have two choices,” ivan started, sitting casually on a countertop in the back room of vicky’s, holding a hammer in his hand. “you can either tell me what happened to the money,” tim, who was currently sitting in a chair, wasn’t tied up, because ivan didn’t want the restraints to terrify him. “or you can spend the rest of the night picking your teeth off the floor.” when tim didn’t say anything, ivan added, “you have five seconds.” tim threw his hands up to cover his face, but mostly his mouth and yelled, “ok ok ok. i don’t have it anymore more someone else does. he just came out of no where and took the bag. ivan, i swear, i didn’t mean to lose it.” ivan rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “do you know who it was?” tim nodded. “y-yes, i do. his name is ryan. and he’ll be at the mirage tonight. his girlfriend, shawna, works there. i can come with you. point him out for you. and we can-” ivan chuckled. “no tim, you are getting it back, cleaning up your own mess. you better believe if the money is not in my hand by the end of the night i guarantee you’ll be picking a lot more than just your teeth off the floor.” tim whimpered, and started breathing heavily again, trying to not cry. ivan left the back room so he didn’t have to hear tim grovel anymore and headed to the bar, taking a seat on an empty stool and asking the bartender for a bourbon. “everything ok, boss?” the bartender asked. he sighed, reaching for th glass and taking a long drink. “fine, just fine.” it didn’t take long to realize that he had a pair of eyes fixed on him so he casually turns to the person sitting next to him. “do you need something?” 

➼...

the atmosphere of a bar was exciting to someone like amara -- not because she particularly enjoyed countertops with a dissolving glossy finish or the sound of vague mumblings from the slick wet mouth holes of its patrons dancing with the high pitched clink of glasses, but because she felt real, with a fever she rarely caught. people drank and people went to bars and people sat with their feet crossed below barstools, looking around in thought. her thoughts were mostly vile, sort of like a slush of dirty snow, and she wasn’t drinking anything-- alcohol tasted like licking concrete, bitter like death. she imagined a strawberry milkshake that she wouldn’t drink. something pretty that spoke for her character. she sat with her arms crossed on the bar top, chin on her forearms, listening, face blank in focus. something loud and demanding was happening in the back room just below a tiny tv playing some ugly sports rerun. she imagines someone slitting a throat, or pulling teeth out with plyers. she also imagines opening the door and a body falling to the floor, like a stiff movie prop stuffed with rocks and cotton. she’s pulled from her thoughts when a man’s presence bursts through the door and swiftly takes a seat beside her. oh, so he was a boss. why aren’t his hands bloody? he should feel stupid. she thinks about him in a clown suit. she thinks about him and his breezy seeming confidence filled with rocks and cotton.

blood making itself known on her cheeks, skin turning to blobs of red red red against her greatest wishes. she’s wide eyed looking at this boss, mouth pressed into a line. her voice, just on the brink of monotone but at the very least, determined. she wishes very badly no one was speaking to her. “i heard someone begging.” seemed to be the only words that came out of her mouth. people only owned bars in movies. she imagines a guy in a hat handing this boss the keys and saying it’s all yours, kid! she almost smiles. instead, she persists, gaze ahead now. “was it you begging? someone sounded stupid.”

eyesxindisposed​:

++ open to: everyone || location: fremont street ​

“nice night?” she asked, falling in step with the individual at her side. hands carefully tucked in the twin front pockets of her jacket, she kept her gaze ahead, fixed on the horizon beyond the strip. “pretty quiet, though, especially for sin city.” a light smile spread over her lips, a glance cast the way of the person beside her. “any ideas on how to remedy that?”  it was random, to be sure. maybe a little frightening if the other was weak. only time would tell. 

➼ . . .

the fuzzy quiet was intolerable. it made amara’s head sound like there were dying bees inside the cave-like pink between her ears. that and small talk is poison-- her voice feels unused, lifeless in comparison. every second speaking was like hearing yourself on a god-awful recording from five years ago. “i dunno. there’s nothing nice about the strip.” she imagines everything around them covered in pink paint, like chocolate on a strawberry or some shitty landlord renovation attempt. maybe then, she’d learn to like it. she observes the light smile from beside her with the slightest turn of her head; her eyes doing most of the work for her. something about it enrages her. why are you smiling? looking ahead, she sighs as if her presence is a precious charity, but it is simply just another discolored spot on fremont street. “scream at the top of your lungs.”

Everyone suspects AMARA MARTIN of at least one of the cardinal sins, but in Nevada, the worst sins are bound by blood and this is HERS: THE BROTHERS OF ICHOR. SHE rolled the dice ONE YEAR ago as a SECRETARY. Under the desert sun, they claim the act of SALES ASSOSIATE AT WHITE DAHLIA. They’re often mistaken for ANYA TAYLOR-JOY before those crimson colored glasses slide down their nose. AMY better get busy living, or they’ll get busy dying by the ripe age of TWENTY-FIVE. There are no second acts in a marked life, and it’s measured out by the melody of WHISPERS BY HALSEY.

HELLO jub here they/she 21 !! my writing w amara tends to be rly gory and gross so if you need me to tone that down PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!! i have no problem adjusting the amount of ick in her noggin. shes relentless . i also dont wanna be one of those people who r like heres my asshole character and they leave u no where to develop bc its just like “fuck you” - end of thread. I PROMISE IT WONT BE LIKE THAT!!! hopefully. FUIKFJGHJFH

you can find amara’s bio HERE and her stats HERE ! (for mobile users its /bio and /learn)

here’s a rundown, however:

she’s terribly jealous and selfish

tends to idolize ideas and concepts that occupy her dream life

dresses . interestingly 

horrible posture . resting >:| face

dont call her amy . or u can if u wanna be saucy

hasnt seen the new movie ur telling her about . she watches the same 4 

some WANTED CONNECTIONS !

her twin brother andy: he’s a very desperate guy who wants to climb the corporate ladder by schmoozing rich people. that’s all u need to know the rest is up to u

her first kiss: it is not hard to imagine that she hasnt kissed anyone bc shes disgusting and also has the highest standards for absolutely no reason? please humble her

will add as i think of them!