avalonshore

[avalonshore]

avalonshores‌:

It’ll be a cold day in hell that Remy doesn’t have just the thing! in mind for whatever’s troubling Poppy. Dreams are liminal, but time works differently between the two of them. They’re seamlessly positive that if Poppy wanted to, she could stretch the minutes out like weeks. They could vacation in Aruba, watch the sky lights change in Alaska, no more than because it was her whim. And oh, god he reveres that.

Mostly because there’s not enough time in the world to appreciate her against the helpless thrum of their heart. “Everywhere, and nowhere, huh? Hey—I swear, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” He brushes a hand over her hair, dipping down to touch their noses together.

The rest might not solve itself, but this is enough for him to believe in hope. “Maybe you’re thinking about too much at once. If you’re worried about all your other classes, it’s gotta be hard to take it one at a time.” She shifts some, if only to rest both hands around Poppy’s waist. “One class, right? Okay—how ‘bout we sit, just you and me. Let’s think about it. What class feels like it lasts longest? Feels like a good place to start.” 

Before Remy, her mind is a scene of fractured disarray, R.E.M. cycles rooted in the monstrous and grotesque. It's only after Remy when she can create beautiful things again, when her dreamscape unfurls into something paradisiacal, a Garden of Eden of her own design. She fills her slumbering hours with little pockets of joy: plucking a bouquet of constellations from the sky, twining lush wildflowers into the waves of Remy's hair. Each day, it becomes harder to wake. Each day, she wishes to lengthen her escape from the mounting issues that constitute her reality.

"I'm where I'm supposed to be now only because I'm with you." She pushes herself up onto her tiptoes so she can bump her nose against Remy’s jawline. Somehow, their words seem to cut through the haze of her unforgiving day, gifting her the relief she's been yearning for.

"Have I mentioned lately that you're the best?" Poppy’s adoration manifests in the crinkling corners of her eyes and the upward quirk of her lips. "But you know what's not the best? Math. I hate math. It's the worst. I can't stand it. Everything becomes even more overwhelming when I'm trying to figure out the derivative of... some...thing." Poppy frowns. "I don't even know what I can take a derivative of."

[avalonshore]

avalonshores‌:

Supposedly, God is retribution. The back of Livvie’s mind writhes against the memory of something about Heaven and forgiveness. More than anything, she wants to believe that. They’ve got to. Without the salvation that comes with following so many divine rules, she’s not sure what will become of her.

But right now, what becomes of Livvie matters worlds less than their charge. The creeping itch of fatal danger is like a blow to the head; it winds them. She’s trying to work through a tracking method—hoping to get in contact with one of the superior archangels—when the realization strikes. How to speak with the higher-ups won’t matter for a second if they can’t prove their loyalty, or their use. And their use will wear fast without the life of their absurdly self-destructive human. (Friend? That word seems off.)

It isn’t until they make their effort to teleport to Amara’s location that the severity settles. They slip in through a side door of some stupid house just in time. Here stands an incomprehensible idiot, makeshift highlighter-halo on his head and a cup toasted like he’s heading The Last Supper. An irrational tightness winds up in their gut, and they do their best to take Amara’s frustration in stride. “It’s sort of my job, you know.” She sucks in a breath. “What say you let him call in some favors that don’t involve you getting into… whatever else this is?” 

Brad/Chad dons a triumphant smirk as if he's won some unspoken game, throwing up a peace sign before turning his attention back to his friends. And just like that, Amara knows they've been dismissed, cast aside before they even have a chance to confront him. The bitter rage swells, mingling with the sticky film of humiliation now coating their skin. Amara wants to take a scalding shower and scrub herself clean of this nauseating encounter.

But first, they need their money.

"Can I switch up your job description? How 'bout I send you on a rampage on that douchebag?" Knowing the ferocity of their voice is wholly misplaced, they force a muffled 'sorry' past clenched teeth and unclasp their balled-up fist. She turns to Livvie then, and frustratingly enough, she feels better. Calmer. As if the sight of them alone could tame the tempest of her emotions. "I need that money, Livvie. I can't let him get away with that shit. I won't fucking let some entitled fratboy cheat me out of my money and my goddamn dignity.” Through her peripheral, she tracks her target's retreating silhouette as he melts into a sea of gyrating bodies. “Are you telling me I should walk away from this?"

[avalonshore]

avalonshores‌:

Remy’s world has an interesting habit of turning on its head. From the get-go, she’s known things would be different for her. The universe Poppy’s built is strange, impossible, lurid at times and serene at others. Regardless, his job isn’t to overthink all this. It’s to be here whenever Poppy needs him–an ear, a hand, a heart. 

Whatever it is, and they couldn’t be happier to fill that role. 

When the colors blend together and she’s in front of him again, Remy smiles. She’d been kicking back, hands folded behind her head, and she jerks up to meet her. Taking Poppy’s hands in theirs, they beam. The light around Poppy seems to glow, as always. “So, what’s goin’ on? Where’s your head this time?” 

Lately, Poppy’s been nothing more than a collection of tense nerves, a knotted mess of anxiety and agitation ready to unravel at any moment. Though her nightmares have mostly dissipated, their aftereffects are still fresh in the back of her mind, clinging to her consciousness. She struggles to concentrate in school, shuffling from class to class without truly retaining any information. Mostly, she longs to go home. 

She takes a nap the moment her day is over, too impatient to wait until nighttime to pay Remy a visit. The process is second nature to her by now and she appears in the dreamscape of her own creation moments after her eyelids flutter shut. 

The smile tugging at her lips is lackluster at best, but it’s worlds better than the frown she’s been sporting all day. “Everywhere,” she mumbles unhappily. “Nowhere. I don’t know. Not where it’s supposed to be.” Poppy lets go of her hands and edges closer to her, hesitantly slipping her arms around their frame. She rests her cheek against his chest and holds on tight. “I think I’m failing at least one class. I’m behind on all my homework. I can’t focus.”

[avalonshore]

It’s their own fault, letting themselves trust the rich asshole of a fratboy who purchases a few grams off her a few times a month. His name is Brad or Chad or something along the lines of bland, but Amara’s never bothered to clarify. By the time their most recent exchange occurs, they’ve grown accustomed to his reliability and the fact that he’s never tried to cheat them before. So she trusts him, takes the wad of cash from his outstretched palm without counting and flashes an apathetic grin when he winks at her in a manner he probably considers charming. Her mistake. 

He’s fifty bucks short and they’re angry enough to chase him down at the party he’s hosting that very night. She locates him almost immediately. Crowned with an array of neon glowsticks, twisted and bent in a vaguely circular shape, he’s the star of the party. He turns, just in time for their eyes to meet, and they catch a spark of recognition in his stare.

"Hey, it’s my dealer!” The manchild crows, raising his red cup in the air. “She gave me a discount last time, isn’t that right? I called in a favor.” He makes an obscene sexual gesture to underscore his words, spilling beer on the girls tucked under his arms. The crowd titters in response. With a glower, Amara clenches their hands into fists, white-hot anger flaring in their stomach. But she’s frozen in place by the sudden sensation that she’s no longer alone, a strange yet familiar tug in her chest that accompanies Livvie’s arrival. They keep their gaze ahead, reluctant to spare a glance at their guardian demon. “Are you seriously bothering me now?” she grumbles under her breath. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”