chammtea - Tumblr blog

[chammtea]

“...I—I don’t think you should run into oncoming traffic,” Simon says, more than a little uncertain, his knuckles bone-white around the granola package — in moments like these, it’s only too easy for him to fall right back into his old habits, constantly backtracking and second-guessing himself, wondering am I doing this right? am I saying this right? is it all right to say this out loud? is this the sort of thing that normal people would say out loud? is this the sort of thing that normal people would even say in their own head? what if I’m just messing everything up like I always do? “I give a shit. And so do the others. I’m sorry you don’t think your mum does.”

 (It wouldn’t be exactly fair to say I’m sorry your mum doesn’t give a shit about you, because he’s not even entirely sure if it’s true — he’s never actually met Louise Young before, and even though she certainly doesn’t come off as a very nice lady in all the various anecdotes he’s heard about her, Simon knows better than to jump to conclusions about others based purely on Nathan’s opinions of them. Nathan is... not always the kindest person in Wertham, after all.)

“Oh—” the mention of the requested granola immediately jolts him back to the present, and he hastily surrenders the pack without protest. “Yes, of course I got it.” What kind of question is that? Was he not supposed to remember the granola? Is it weird that he remembered the granola? Is it weird that he always remembers his friends’ requests and takes great pains to fulfill them whenever he can? That is what friends do, right?

 (Simon takes a very deep breath, and tells himself to forget about the damn granola. He’s already handed it over, so even if he wasn’t supposed to remember, and even if it’s weird that he did remember, and even if he violated some sort of unspoken rule of social interaction because he remembered the granola, there isn’t anything he can do to correct the mistake. He’s just going to have to roll with it, and do all he can to help Nathan brighten back up — he might not know how he’s supposed to act in social situations one hundred percent of the time, but he does know what it feels like to have parents that don’t particularly like you very much, and he hates that Nathan has to feel that way, too.)

“I—I know it’s not the same thing as a holiday with your mum,” he clasps his hands politely in front of his own body, “but... would you like to go for a drink? Y-You can talk about it, if you like, and I’ll listen. If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.”

          “—so now, my mum’s got some freak with a doggy fetish’s tongue down her throat, and they’re off to fucking Italy for the week, a trip that used t’ be something just me an’ her did, I’m ninety-nine percent sure the bastard is plannin’ on proposin’ to her, and I’m stuck here with you shitheads, fucking homeless, fucking girlfriendless, and fuh-huuuck-ing zee-ro prospects for as far as the eye can see!”

          “And Italy wouldn’t bother me, maybe not even the whole proposing thing, ‘cept no one’s even asked me what I think about it! I mean, if he’s gonna be my fucking stepdad—” gag, “—then I think I should get a little bit of a say, right? It’s like she’s pushed me completely outta her life for Jezza, and I’m pretty sure that guy’d sniff his own arse if he could reach it. Like—”

          Nathan had been ranting ever since ‘good morning’. He’s still going, and with scarcely taking a second to breathe, it doesn’t look like he’s stopping any time soon. His face has gone an awful red and a vein has popped, angry and prominent, on his forehead. 

            “—if I dropped off th’ face of the planet, yeah? I don’t know if she’d even miss me with Jeremy around. I might as well run off into oncoming traffic for all th’ good it’ll do me! No one gives a shit!”

          The latter is punctuated with a frustrated kick to the nearest trash bin. It jumps a good inch and tips, clattering onto the pavement and spilling out everywhere. Nathan stills. Then with a long exhale, deflates.

          “…Not that I care or anything,” he says, and it’s like he hadn’t just been raving out a personal novel. Hands in pockets, a casual shrug. Water off a duck’s back. “Anyway, did you pick up that granola I asked for? I’m starved.”

[chammtea]

Final Cut (2022) dir. Michel Hazanavicius

[chammtea]

The moment her eyes find the mysterious knight’s face, a bolt of recognition tears through Guinevere like a strike of lightning straight out of a clear blue sky, and all the breath rips itself out of her chest in one enormous rush — her whole body locks up tighter than a dungeon door, so she’s frozen where she stands, still as a stone statue, as the sharp shocks of disbelief and denial burn through her brain.

 That can’t be him, she tells herself over and over and over again, even as her heart pounds and her hands shake. That can’t really be him. That can’t really be Sir Lancelot, because Sir Lancelot is dead by his own hand.

Yet there can be no mistake that the man before her, and the brave and noble knight she once knew, are one and the same, and suddenly, the weight of the queen’s crown upon her head and the heavy velvet dress on her body is nothing to the gravity of the guilt pressing down on her, crushing her.

 Guinevere edges cautiously closer to him, one hand outstretched to touch him — to take him by the elbow, or take him by the forearm, perhaps — but she pulls to a stop with her trembling fingers mere inches from his skin. “L-Lancelot? You’re—you’re here?” she takes in a slow, shuddering breath. “N-No, you—you can’t be here, you can’t be here, they—they told me you were...”

[ a plotted starter for @chammtea ! ] ~~~

Risen from another land, the feeling of solid ground, free of weightless fog and a sense of instability in the very fabric of reality, is a strange one. Familiar, from what feels like a lifetime ago, yet still so strange from what he has grown accustomed to.

Black robes are stark against the state of nature around him. A sword at his side, a ghostly but true blade. Marks across his face which almost resemble scars, but are not clear from every angle; a ghostly state to him, to where he may appear like little more than a spectre when seen from the corner of one’s eye. He has been called back for a reason — a reason, which he has yet to know. That unknown of his purpose, of how he came to life again ( if life could be what his state is called, at all ) is one which he knows he will not simply be given … but something in his awareness tells him where he must go.

Camelot.

The travel is long, and gives him much time to think. There is little else to do, when faced with nothing but the silence of nature. Everything feels so … alive. So real, in a manner which the other Realm has caused him to nearly forget. The memories of that other land grow distant with every step ; perhaps, that is part of its magic, for no living being is truly meant to know what may lie beyond. What he does recall, is his first life, and that he is back from that death. That he has been summoned, by what he does not know, to return to his King, to his knights.

The castle approaches.

The familiar village, he must pass through to reach the structure which sits above all else in the land. Familiar stalls and homes, the sights of which return pieces of his memory to him. The journey to the castle gates passes before he has realized, and without much further time, he has nearly reached his destination — nearly reached it, when he looks over to find a sight which he could not have anticipated, nor prepared himself for.

In passing the corner and turning his head, he is greeted with the sight of Guinevere.

[chammtea]

@hvbris​​ said: “I’m just… doing everything I can to keep my family together.” from Viktor, for the Handler

“Careful, darling, you’re starting to sound like that brother of yours — the cute one in the tight little shorts.” Not that she truly thinks the seventh Hargreeves sibling (Viktor, isn’t that his name?) could possibly misunderstand what she means by your brother, but this dysfunctional band of superpowered, time-traveling loose cannons has been a thorn in her side for far too long, and it looks like they’ll be her personal headache for the remainder of their natural lives. Not much satisfaction to be had in that, so she’ll gladly take any opportunity she’s given to remind them that they can’t ever get rid of her, either — even if the rest of them eventually mellow out and settle down into ordinary civilian lives, Number Five belongs to her forever, and her iron control over him will always inevitably bleed over onto all of them.

 The Handler takes a long puff off her cigar, and blows out a curling coil of silver smoke as she considers the situation from all angles before she finally commits to a definite course of action — much as she’d love to reject Viktor outright, it’s far more logical, not to mention lucrative, to capitalize upon his desperation. “Well... I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but since you’ve asked so nicely and all, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to help you and your family out. Just this once. But I’m afraid you can’t get something for nothing, Mr. Hargreeves — you’ll need to do a little something for me first.”

[chammtea]

Biological father(derogatory)

[chammtea]

Dolores silently studies the man on the glowing screen in front of her — lined face, heavy brows, intense green eyes, thick curly hair, and an absolutely fantastic five o’clock shadow to boot — before she takes the opportunity Nathan has just given her in both hands, and lets loose the loudest wolf-whistle in her life.

 “Damn, you never told me your pops was so easy on the eyes! You’ve been holding out on me, Young.” Sure, it’s a deliberate effort to wind Nathan up, and she’s not trying to pretend it isn’t (it’s always a challenge to get under his skin, and that’s what makes it fun — she has to really work for it if she wants to piss him off) but even if he didn’t look like he was about to burst a blood vessel, she’d still call the man in the photo a looker without a second thought. It’s probably the furious glower at the camera. Or the general air of disdain that clings to him like a winter coat. Or both.

(She likes the sullen type. Is that so wrong?)

 “Break it to me now,” she tosses her head back and claps a hand over her heart like the lovestruck heroine in a romance novel, all unnecessary melodrama and exaggerated theatrics. Just to really sell it. “Is he single?”

          “—I just don’t know what’s becoming of the world, man. We are going straight down the shitter! STRAIGHT down!” Nathan shoved his phone inches from their nose. “Just take a look at this. They’re tryin’ to tell me that they think my dad, my dad, is hot. See? See that text with your own eyes? Open ‘em up real wide, now. See that? Okay—!”

          Nathan furiously began tapping through his phone and when it was turned toward them again, he’d opened a photo of Mike Young. Scowling, of course, and slightly blurred, like he’d not wanted his photo taken. Nathan remembered him best like that.

          “That’s him! Tell me, do you see anything attractive here? Be honest.”

[chammtea]

“Okay, wow,” Hayley laughs, bright and bubbly and real, at all the biting, relentless criticism delivered in Wednesday’s flat monotone, ever serious and somber as she always is. “Tell me how you really feel, I guess. But you can’t deny he’s definitely cathartic to watch, right? I mean, who hasn’t wanted to just... go around, whacking people with a Michigan axe every now and then? The guy is living the dream, I tell ya.”

 She finally drops her spirited defense in favor of another handful of potato chips, going quiet for a minute or two so her friend can take the time to consider her response carefully before she says it aloud — Wednesday always puts so much thought into everything she does, even the small-scale low-stakes decisions like her favorite fictional serial killer, and honestly, it’s actually kind of endearing.

“Yeah, knives are pretty cliché, I’ll give you that,” Hayley has to concede the point. “And Hannibal is definitely in the top tier. I’ve gotta respect an intellectual, whether he eats people or not.” But all her vague, nebulous thoughts of fictitious murderers take a sudden backseat to this brand-new information, and she bolts upright so fast that she almost spills her bag of chips in her lap.

 “No fucking way! For real? How’d you even find that one out?” she carefully pushes her snack away to pull her knees to her chest and stare at her friend in a kind of morbid fascination. “Swear to God, you have, like, the coolest, weirdest family on earth. How’d you get so lucky?” She’s joking, obviously, and she’s sure Wednesday can tell it for herself, but there’s a note of raw, naked longing in her voice, too distinct to disguise — even now that she’s old enough to need no one but herself, she still thinks she’d give up everything she’d ever had to have a mother like Morticia, and a father like Gomez, instead of the family she got.

Hayley swallows hard and shakes it off, pulling the smile back on her face and leaning in a little to lock eyes with Wednesday. “Seriously, though — cannibalistic grandfather? I need the details on this one.”

𝐇𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐄𝐘 & 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘​

“All right, you know what? I’m gonna say it.” Hayley pushes herself up on her elbows and stuffs another massive handful of salt and vinegar potato chips in her mouth before she finally makes her declaration. “Patrick Bateman is actually hilarious. Hands-down my favorite of all the fictional serial killers.”

Though Norman Bates is definitely a close second, and of course, she’ll never say no to a good old-fashioned rewatch of Carrie or Saw. What can she say? A girl’s got to get her morbid fascination fix somewhere, and she’d be lying if she tried to say gory slashers aren’t entertaining as all hell.

“Okay, what about you?” she tilts her head back a little to lock eyes with Wednesday and shoot her a quick, sincere smile. “Your favorite horror-flick villain of all time. No takebacks.”

@hvbris​ / liked

“Patrick Bateman is sloppy, pathetic and weak,” retorted Wednesday without missing a beat, planting her unblinking eyes into Hayley’s, “he gives serial killers a bad name. He wears a plastic trenchcoat.” It was as if this last point was truly the deal breaker for Wednesday. A respectable serial killer would never wear a trenchcoat!

“But this is an interesting question, so I’ll indulge,” she added, as if her participation to this debate was a gift in itself. Wednesday was not a very sociable girl. 

“I could say Michael Meyer, because he has the merit of being quiet and efficient, but killing with a knife is terribly overrated. Lazy, even.” It seemed she had given this question a lot of thoughts. “So I will have to go with Hannibal Lecter. I like cannibalism, I think it’s an elegant solution. I had a great great grandfather who was a cannibal.” 

[chammtea]

im just built different (unstable)

[chammtea]

AN AMERICAN CRIME STARTERS

a collection of quotes, phrases, and sayings from the 2007 film An American Crime. change & alter as needed.

“I used to love the carnival.”

“I’m feeling much better on my new medicine.”

“What happened to your leg?”

“Do you miss him any?”

“Let’s go get a Coke.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“We’ll help you unpack.”

“If I had the money, I’d give it to you.”

“You just don’t want me making the same mistakes that you made.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m staying out all night tonight.”

“Honey, you’re crying. What’s wrong?”

“You need to apologize to [name].”

“You have the right to get even.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“That’s what happens when you tell lies.”

“Who’s taking care of you?”

“You got a crush on [name]?”

“I came by for the free food. And the women.”

“Coming over to hang out with the grown-ups?”

“I thought I taught you a lesson.”

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

“Best to stay out of it, I think.”

“We’re all going to have to work together. As a family.”

“I just did what I was told.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“You hear anything from [name]?”

“You really like her, don’t you?”

“Honey, you are a good daughter. I’m so proud of you.”

“There are things in life we have to do, whether we like it or not.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know what it’s like to be sick, [name]. I’ve been sick for so long, too.”

“I’m just… doing everything I can to keep my family together.”

“There has to be something better.”

“Go and find your parents.”

“No, no, I’m not gonna hurt you! I swear to God! I promise, I promise!”

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, all right?”

“You want to go to the police? We can tell ’em everything.”

“What happened to you?”

“They did this to you?”

“I’m just so sorry I left you there.”

“We spoke to [name] on the phone last week. She said everything was fine.”

“Everything’s gonna be taken care of, [name]. You’re with your family now.”

“Don’t call the police!”

“Get me out of here, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Did they all lie?”

“I have been scared about a lot of things for a long time.”

“I don’t know what happened to any of the rest of them.”

[chammtea]

Oh—Astro lights up with enthusiasm as he quickly catches onto the clear parallels between their own solar system and this brand-new one, far beyond the reach of the astronomers’ telescopes and the astrophysicists’ instruments—a sunny side and a shadow side, and the rain isn’t water, it’s iron— “Oh! Like the moon! And Venus! I—I mean—the moon isn’t a planet, obviously, and it’s snow on Venus, not rain, but—” he shakes his head, shakes it off, and refocuses on her — he hastily runs the new term (mycelium) through the high-speed online search engine built into his brain (no need to interrupt her with his annoying questions when he can figure it out just fine on his own, and besides, he’s already interrupted her plenty) and nods silently to himself as his robotic mind flawlessly constructs a crystal-clear mental image of what all these unfamiliar planets must look like, based solely on the data that Udyati has offered him.

“You—?” he tilts his head at her, already steeled for insincerity, but as far as he can tell, it really does look like she means it when she says don’t be sorry, it’s nice, and the tight knots of nervous tension in his body finally pull loose. “You really don’t mind? Because I can stop if you—” he cuts himself off again as her newest offering of information sinks in — we just live in regular houses, much like humans do. “Oh, jeez, I-I’m sorry, I just figured—y’know, aliens, they live in pods. Or their spaceships. Or—something.”

Fantastic job, Astro, tell her you think she’s a freak without telling her you think she’s a freak, and that’s not what he means, but that’s definitely the way it came out, isn’t it?

“I’m sorry. About your dad,” he adds, quieter now. “That must be... really hard.” I know what that’s like, he thinks, except he doesn’t, not really, because his mother didn’t just up and leave him one day out of the blue, she died, and anyway, she’s not technically his mom, she’s Toby’s mom, so even if she was still around, he wouldn’t be her son like Toby was. 

Astro goes quiet for a long minute, plucking lightly at the blades of cool, damp grass all around him — not hard enough to pull it out of the ground, or anything (it’s already hard enough to get plants to grow here in the city, and it feels... unnecessarily cruel, to hurt something simply because it’s there) — before Udyati fires off what feels like a hundred questions of her own. To tell the truth, he’s a little startled at the decidedly uninvasive line of inquiry — he’d expected a lot worse, like doesn’t it creep your friends out that you look so human but you’re actually just a super-expensive talking doll and why didn’t your dad just go out and adopt an actual kid if he wanted a son so bad and are you really an imperfect copy of a dead boy like the rumors say and so are your feelings written into your code, or installed in your software?

(It’s a relief to be asked some questions that don’t make him feel like his chest is caving in on him.)

“Y-Yes, I can sleep,” he says, finally. “I have to sleep, actually. All robots need to recharge in one way or another — most of them can just plug themselves in to a wall outlet or a power bank and keep working, but I don’t have a charging port, so sleep is my only option.” He pulls a face as he says it — no matter the way he looks at it, eight hours of inactivity isn’t exactly helpful in his line of work. How on earth is he supposed to effectively defend his city if he has to sleep all night long? “And yeah, I can eat, too, but I don’t need to do that like I need to sleep — I mean, I’m programmed to feel hunger signals at prearranged times, but if I ignore them, they just go away, so I can’t starve to death, or anything like that.”

Astro perks up a little at the mention of languages, excited to finally perform a service for her. “Oh, I can speak in any language you’d like! If you have a preference, please let me know — I can just download a dialect packet that will give me complete fluency, so don’t worry if it’s one I don’t know.” The next query is significantly thornier, though, and his mouth twists down in a frown as he tries to come up with an adequate response. “I—I mean... technically speaking, I’ve only been alive for seven months, but I was programmed to be eleven years old. I’m... not sure if my cognitive processes will advance as I grow older, or if I’ll stay the same forever. I—I don’t know that my dad really thought that far ahead.”

“Twelve?” Astro echoes, half-breathless with the sheer wonder of it all — of course, it’s only simple logic that other planets exist outside the tiny perimeter of human discovery, but he never thought he’d live to hear firsthand accounts from intergalactic travelers. “Have you been all to twelve planets? Have you seen them? What do they look like?” But it only takes a second for him to forget these questions in favor of ten thousand brand-new ones. “Wait, if you were born on earth… does that mean there are other aliens on the planet, too? Are your parents still here? What are they like? Do you guys have, like, a dedicated district somewhere that’s specifically for aliens, or do you just live wherever you want? What do your homes look like? What do you guys—?”

The minute his own overexcited voice finally catches up to him, Astro goes dead silent again, his cheeks hot and flushed with the sharp sting of humiliation. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to—I was just…” but he never actually chokes out the full apology before the last of her statement hits him, and he pulls back to gape at her. “I—I’m the first robot you’ve ever met? Really?”

It feels completely unthinkable to him that, in all her travels, Udyati has never encountered another android before — there are simply so many of them in Metro City, around every corner and on every street and in every home, it just doesn’t seem possible that there could be places where none exist — but at least it puts her… unearned fascination with him into some kind of context. 

“Well, we’re a dime a dozen up here, so… I’m definitely nothing special.” It’s barely left his mouth before he bites back a wince — it just sounds so rude out loud, so dismissive, like he’s trying to tell her to stop asking questions (or, even worse, like he’s calling her stupid) — and he adds, too quickly, desperate to cover the slip, “But I-I’d be happy to answer any questions you have about us. What do you want to know?”

“Yes, I have. Each planet is different. There is one that has a sunny side and a shadow side. Over there, the rain isn’t water. It’s iron. There’s another one that has lush vineyards and connects everyone through a mycelium-esque system. And so on, and so forth.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s nice. Normally I’m the one who asks a billion questions and then apologizes. It’s nice to be on the other end of that for one. Um. yeah, there are more aliens. I’m fortunate enough to know a few. I can’t speak for the other ones I know but we just live in regular houses. Much like humans do. My dad’s not around. He was the alien. My mom is though. She’s all human. And my home? It’s… well, I guess you could call it tiny. Two bedrooms. One living room. Thin walls. And sometimes the neighbors are rowdy. But it’s home.”

Astro gapes at her and Udyati giggles. “Truly.”

She runs a hand through ehr hair then. “Hey, no, none of that. You’re special to me too. Erm, okay, good question. Didn’t get that far yet. Uhhh…” For a moment, she’s quiet, and then she takes the plunge: “Everything. Do you sleep? Do you eat? How do you… you know, how many languages do you speak? How old are you? Stuff like that. Little things like that.”

[chammtea]

Another day of being a sweetiepie. Just clocked in

[chammtea]

The moment she’s obtained his permission (and wasn’t that the easiest job in the world — she didn’t even need to introduce herself or explain herself or anything. honestly, she’d expected just a bit more suspicion from a member of the Hargreeves family, but perhaps paranoid neurosis is particular to Number Five, specifically) she holds out a hand to help the Hargreeves brother to his feet.

She would be lying if she tried to say she isn’t extremely tempted to go ahead and eliminate Klaus’ attackers while she’s already got them right where she wants them — it wouldn’t even take ten minutes, and then she could rest assured that they would present no future interference — but she can’t risk it, not with such a delicate and sensitive soul as Number Four. With his macabre abilities and his (alleged) distaste for death, she’d do better to play it safe for now.

“You look like you could use a lift as well,” she allows herself a little laugh, colored with the smallest shred of fond affection — see, I like you, I think you’re entertaining, I think you’re amusing, I think you’re charming, I like you, I like you, I like you when no one else does — before she rattles the briefcase at him, a silent question. “Where would you like to go?”

She lets it hang in the air long enough to count all the way down from ten before she cocks her head to the side and removes her sunglasses. She softens out the sharpest edges in her smile, smooths it down into something sweeter and sadder and dripping with sympathy. “Do you... have anywhere to go?”

chammtea​:

“You look like you could use a little help.” Briefcase in hand and black, oversized sunglasses on her face, the Handler casts a deliberate glance over at the dozen men — all frozen in midmotion thanks to her own timely (ha) intervention — before she turns back to the Hargreeves brother (Klaus — the lanky obnoxious one who can speak with the dead), a smile curving her scarlet lips. “Maybe I could lend a hand?”

@theseancekid / liked

     CHRIST on a fucking CRACKER, these guys are fast! Klaus didn’t even do anything this time— well, he may have gotten a case of sticky fingers around the dope stash but it’s not like they didn’t have plenty to go around! Surely he won’t even notice it’s missing, Klaus had thought, and surely he doesn’t have a dozen cartoonishly brutish goons with nothing better to do than chase him down. 

     It wouldn’t be so bad if his legs would just cooperate with the rest of his body, but he’s hardly coordinated enough to walk straight on a good day, let alone when he’s got half his brain dripping out his ears on goddamn ketamine. All he has to do is round the corner, hop the fence, and— OW!

     He lands face-first on the pavement with a loud SMACK, air rushing out of his lungs as his body deflates. Oh god, this is it, this is how he dies (arguably, one could say this is how he always WANTED to go— surrounded by 12 burly men— but he always imagined it to be less violent and more sexy). 

     But when some woman’s voice cuts through the ringing in his ears, he reluctantly opens one squinting eye and— jesus fuck, he is so high. Rasping laughter wheezes past his lips as he hauls himself onto his back, one shaky hand extended towards this random MILF angel (demon? hallucination?) as he glances back and forth between her and the gaggle of goons set to beat his ass only 0.001 seconds ago.

     “Yeah, okay, lady!” He cackles

[chammtea]

THE REAL IMPORTANT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT QUESTIONS PART 2

another random assortment for your enjoyment!

do they enjoy silence or find it too loud?

how many hours of sleep do they average per night?

would they ever skydive/paraglide/etc?

describe their dream home.  looks, location, decorations, etc.

can they roller skate/skateboard?  would they like to learn?

what’s their favorite dish to cook?  favorite dish to order out?

describe their dream vacation.  would they take anyone or go alone?

are they close to any of their family members?  

what is their idea of the afterlife?  does it scare them?

what’s their love language?  

would they describe themselves as beautiful/handsome/etc?  

did their childhood have a negative or positive impact on them?  

what they wanted to be when they grew up vs what they do now.

what type of neighborhood did they grow up in?  do they still live there?

does their family/friends have any traditions they take part of?

who is their best friend?  how long have they known them?

do they have anyone they consider their enemy?  what did they do to gain that title?

did they have a rebellious stage as a teenager?  what did it involve?

what’s currently in their pockets/purse/etc?

how much cash do they generally carry with them?

do they celebrate any holidays?  what are the celebrations like?  do they have a favorite?

have they ever traveled outside their country?

are they an affectionate person?  how do they feel about pda?

if they were choosing an adventure to go on what would it consist of?

have they ever been in a physical fight?  what happened?

are they more likely to take the leader role or let someone else call the shots?

has anyone ever betrayed their trust?  do they still speak to them?

do they believe in magic?  why do they have this belief?

do they wake up on the first alarm, hit snooze, or have multiple alarms set? 

what’s the first major event they remember in their life?

what would their three wishes be if they found a genie?  

have they ever ended a relationship to pursue their career/education further?  what happened?

what do they consider their worst habit? 

are they good at explaining things to others?

how do they handle being upset/angry?  do they yell, cry, go silent, etc?

do they have any habits they believe are odd?

if they could hit redo on a single past event in their life what would it be?  would they do it if it meant changing the present?

what does their future look like when they picture it?  who’s there with them?

have they ever been to court?  what was the outcome?

what would they do for a klondike bar?

[chammtea]

@wrensfeatheredpen​​​ said: ❝ i’m just…not that man anymore. ❞ [ Caleb, to ( Luz / Hunter ) ! ]

“Yeah, I—I get what you mean.” At least now that the initial shock from their first encounter has finally worn off, Hunter can actually look at the man who wears his face (or—the man whose face he wears—the man whose face he’s stolen, really) without the usual wave of knife-sharp, white-hot panic as the inherent insanity of the situation slams into him (oh, holy mother of Titan, I am literally a clone!!!) but it’s still somewhere in the vicinity of freaking crazy to see his near-perfect doppelganger in front of him.

It’s even crazier to realize he has so much in common with the original Caleb Wittebane.

“I’m not exactly the person I used to be, either.” It takes him a long second to realize he’s tracing his pointer finger lightly over the colorful coven sigil scarred into the soft, thin skin on the inside of his wrist, the flesh still bumpy and warped from the decade-old damage, and it takes him even longer to stop, to pull his sweater sleeve back down to hide the symbol. “It’s... weird. When you realize you’re not who you were. Or... who you thought you were.”

[chammtea]

@wrensfeatheredpen​​ said: ❝ despite it all…i can tell you have a good heart. ❞ [ Caleb, to Luz ! ]

“What does it even matter if I have a ‘good heart’?” Luz practically spits his own words back at him, with air-quotes and an almost-sneer twisting her mouth — and she knows that’s not fair, she knows he’s got the best of intentions here, but she’s too furious with herself to care. And maybe she’s a angry with him, too — for trying to be nice to her when she doesn’t deserve it, for trying to sugarcoat what she did when she singlehandedly doomed the Boiling Isles to centuries of oppression under a tyrannical witch hunter. 

“People still got hurt because of me! People have died because of me, Caleb! I—I mean, Philip only learned the light glyph because I taught it to him! He only found the Collector because I helped him! He probably never would have become Emperor in the first place if I hadn’t come here!”

[chammtea]

Dolores shoots her friend one last smile over her shoulder at Udyati as she slips into her own dressing room and closes the door behind her with a soft click. Under the sickeningly-bright, ice-white fluorescent lights, she kicks off her scuffed-up Converse sneakers, peels the paint-stained T-shirt from her back, and slides her legs out of her jeans to pull the dress over her head.

 It’s not an absolutely perfect fit, of course, but she already knew better than to think it would be — it’s obviously intended for a full-grown woman, not a fourteen-year-old girl deep in the agonizing throes of puberty, so the hem drags the floor just a bit more than it should, and even when she cinches up the ties in the back as tight as they’ll go, the bust still hangs a hair too loose, but she tosses her reflection a bright grin all the same. Like she always used to do, right before she stepped out from behind the curtain, and glided down the runway.

It’s kind of funny — she’d never particularly liked the whole model business while she was actively doing it, but now that she’s back in her teenaged body again, the nostalgia is a sharp, bittersweet thing in the dead center of her chest, and she misses all the friends she made in the field like a physical ache. She can hear Janelle’s voice in her head, loud and clear as a bell — come on, give us a twirl, sis, you can’t not show off a number like that — and the playful wolf-whistle from Nicole whenever she inevitably gave in and offered her usual overexaggerated spin and theatrical bow.

 Dolores takes a long minute to collect herself, pulling in a deep breath and shaking her head, before she pastes the grin back on her face and pops out of the dressing room, arms spread wide to show herself off to her friend. “Okay, it’s official — I’ve fallen madly in love with a dress, and I don’t even care what that says about me.”

She finally lifts her head to lock eyes with Udyati — who, exactly as she predicted earlier, is a total knockout in that bright, butter-yellow sundress, and a genuine smile overtakes the imitation now. “Wow! Check you out! You look fantastic, kiddo! Come on—” just like Janelle, “—give us a twirl!”

Let it be known, Dolores has never been particularly susceptible to peer pressure, not even back when she was actually fourteen, but she’s already teetering on the precipice of capitulation, and that final push from Udyati tips her right over the edge.

“Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me,” she pulls the dress away to admire the way the glitter and sequins catch the fluorescent light overhead before she drapes the sparkling gown over one arm. “But! You should try on a little something yourself, young lady. Something like…” she picks through the endless rows on rows of shining silver racks for a long and silent second before she finally emerges with an off-the-shoulder, butter-yellow sundress, with a liberal sprinkle of pure-white polka dots to boot. Being a teenage model might have had its trials, but it certainly has its upsides, too — she just knows her friend would positively kill in this particular number. “Oh, my god, yes, you have to try this on. It’ll totally pop against your hair and skin.”

Young lady. It always makes her grin. It makes her think of Nana - of Five. The way he calls her ‘kiddo’ sometimes. Like she’s younger than he is. Technically, she is. Though she looks older than him. Whenever they walk around with Mr Pennycrumb, there’s at least one person to comment on it. Most of the time, it’s sweet old ladies who think she’s baby sitting him when it’s clearly the other way around.

She thinks of Dolores’ Five. Wonders what he was like. If he was anything like the Five she knows.

“Oh!” Udyati looks at the dress. “I like that. Not something I would have picked out for myself, but yeah. I like it. I’ll—I’ll try it on.” And so she did.

[chammtea]

list of bastards

1. my dad

2. god

3. my dad

4. my dad