circecroft

[circecroft]

ofendtimes​:

         there’s a piece of the puzzle missing. something in the middle, jagged and precise, but impossible to find. knocked under a table or chair. hidden from sight. but it’s presence is felt stronger in its absence than if it was found—she’s not fine and he can sense it. there’s a familiarity in her distraction that enzo just can’t quite place. it’s not his business, but he finds himself curious ( concerned, maybe. would he ever use that word? ) nonetheless. “what’s got you so distracted?” he asks, the question leaving his lips before he can call it back. he thinks he might know a piece of the answer, but says nothing. instead, he continues to pick up the bruised groceries and hand them back.

YOU ! she wants to exclaim. now it isn’t just him - - - once control starts to SLIP from her grasp it is difficult to regain, slipping from her fingers like sand - like the beach, sunny day, sunset, crash of waves and hands scrabbling through the sand because his wedding ring oh god his wedding ring it’s gone and RING RING RING THE PHONE HAS BEEN RINGING OFF THE HOOK, ARE YOU GONNA ANSWER THAT ANY TIME SOON OR ARE YOU GONNA - - - circe blinks hard and swallows air as she takes one of the offered apples. smile wavers further and she is careful not to touch skin when she takes the fruit from enzo. “just - a lot has happened. is happening, today. sort of,” free hand not holding the bag gestures sharply, palm out flat and fingers splayed, “overwhelms you, sometimes. you know?”

[circecroft]

ofendtimes​:

         there’s something uncomfortable about her far off stare, but enzo can’t come up with the reason why. is she having some sort of episode? should he be calling an ambulance? definitely not. who would pay for it? there’s a brief thought that maybe he should say something to help bring her back to the present, to the groceries that are still scattered at both their feet, but before he can bring the words to leap off his tongue, she seems to come back to herself. but seems to is a strong term to use when she still looks as though she’s just seen a ghost. who knows? maybe she has. “maybe we both weren’t looking where we were going,” he compromises, thoughtful. “hey, you sure you’re alright?”

it’s something she has gotten better at - - - PRETENDING. pretending things do not barrage her. pretending people’s histories do not jump into her mind without fail. but this - HE IS SHOUTING. he is the end of the world. smoke and ash and despair cling to it all. dark feathers and a grim childhood. circe blinks and looks up at him with a smile that is more grimace than joy. another bruised apple is grabbed and put back in the bag and she nods quickly, the movement jerky and uneven. “sorry - fine, yeah. just, uhm. it’s...” it ought to be easier to talk about ABILITIES here. SANCTUARY ; safe. even other people with abilities often do not like hers - - - sometimes MORE than those without, she has found. it’s fair enough. circe would not like someone knowing everything about her. “just. distracting. ED. distracted.” a quick laugh is offered.

[circecroft]

fliightless​:

         baaz waits. he is patient : working as a private investigator demands getting used to such things, not rushing before all the information is collected. things are always revealed when they are supposed to, and baaz has spent too many nights on fire escapes and dark rooftops to not know that. the day is young and the sun is high, and eventually circe responds and baaz nods, climbing down from his perch on the top of the bench. the hard edge had been beginning to dig into his backside anyway — it is as good of a time to be moving on from this shady maple tree as any. there are things to be done, photos to develop, notes to arrange, birds to check in with — but they are all distant thoughts, things that can wait.

         " lead the way — “     he says kindly, readjusting the straps of his backpack, tugging the back of his jacket from where it had ridden up slightly. people still pass them by on the sidewalk — very few stares turned their way, only a couple that manage to spot the ends of his wings camouflaged against the deep taupe of his pants ; it is how it has always been for baaz. for circe. perhaps they will stop at the ice cream shop or the bakery on the way there, grab a bite of something sweet to brighten the day. it’s october now : the fall flavors will be in full swing. baaz begins to make a list as they begin down the sidewalk : push pins and string and post-it notes in addition to new pens — might as well get a few other things he’s low on the art store. there is always something he’s low on it seems : replenishment low on his list of priorities.

it’s part of the reason circe likes hanging about with baaz so much - HE DOES NOT RUSH HER, not even in his head. there are plenty of people who can keep faces placid or even kind while mind is a roil of anger and irritation in the face of circe’s tongue tangling. she tries to ignore it - - - or better, to not let it bother her - - - but there is only so much ANNOYANCE one can abide without it starting to wear at you. when he gets up she gives him a moment to right himself before she rises as well. a leaf has fallen and is clinging to the shoulder of her pale blue sweater and she takes a moment herself to brush it away before she does as he said - LEADS THE WAY.

she goes this way every time she goes to the shop. it helps cut down the noise - - - she already has tread upon these sections of pavement time after time and will again. the sound of the buildings and the space they occupy and what will be within them later are familiar background noise instead of a sudden barrage. so long as circe does not get caught off guard by something or stopped suddenly she can step through this area well enough with only...mild distraction from what is nearby. it does not silence the sound of a girl in lynmouth ( ELLIE, 1617181920) writing a letter to a man who will not come home - who didn’t come home - who won’t? NO, didn’t. circe shakes her head and continues down the sidewalk, focusing instead on what baaz needs from the store today. “they’ll be out of - - - orange post its. manager forgets - forgot - forgets - no, forgot, sorry - to order them.”

[circecroft]

cvnfvtti​:

    eyes  are  glued  down  to  phone  in  hand  ,  as  she  turns  corner.  very  much  so  startled  by  the  other’s  sudden  outburst  &  quick  to  take  a  defensive  step  back.  only  once  the  stranger  isn’t  labeled  as  an  immediate  threat  ,  does  lu  lower  her  guard.  tucking  away  phone  &  crouching  as  well.  “  it’s  alright  …  stuff  happens  …”  assures  with  still  wary  smile  ,  delicately  cradling  one  of  the  fruits  ,  with  both  hands.  straightening  up  ,  she  offers  it  out.  “  seems  like  something  spooked  you.  you’re  alright?  ”  

there are some people who speak about their abilities as easily as breathing. circe is not one of them. people do not like it - - - they do not like someone knowing EVERYTHING ABOUT THEM THAT HAS AND IS AND WILL HAPPEN. they press her with questions about the future that overwhelm and threaten to overtake. they avoid her at all costs as though that will keep her from knowing. they frown and fret and do not continue along with their days. so circe does not tell people - not usually - not until they are CLOSE ENOUGH that they won’t mind. people often assume she’s a PSYCHIC ; she lets them. it’s easier. so when lucrecia asks if something spooked circe, she does not tell the truth. she gives a wavery smile and shakes her head NO - and then YES instead. “fine, sorry, just,” she gestures with unsteady hands, perpetually unsteady, and shrugs as she shoves some apples in the bag, “...distracted.”

[circecroft]

ofendtimes​:

         there’s a lot of reasons enzo should mind his own business—a list that gets longer and longer with each day that passes—but upon seeing someone stumble, human nature gets the better of him. against better judgement, he steps in to help. not much of a step when she’s practically dropped them onto his feet, but still. “yeah, no, it’s fine,” he starts, crouching down to start picking up the stray groceries that are out of her reach. “i should probably watch where i’m going.” a statement more for any wounded pride she might be harboring than a real apology, but since he hasn’t actually done anything…

YOU - she does not say - ARE RUIN. it is a sudden ROAR of suffering. of sulfur. of running and dark feathers and flickering light in a hallway and footsteps behind a door and TESTS AND BEING FORMED AND BEING SHAPED AND RUNNING AND. circe falls backward on instinct - sitting on the ground now rather than crouching, dark eyes glazed over and distant while remaining locked on him. it is the feeling of brush-burn on the heels of her hands that pulls her unceremoniously HERE and circe blinks at him. “you were -” the words gum up quickly and she feels she might choke on them. her ears ring with DEVESTATION. a hand flies up and presses to one ear as if she might close the noise out; it’s a habit she had mostly STOPPED since childhood, but some cases - - - it’s INSTINCT. the hand flies down and she moves back forward to continue loading the bruised apples into her canvas shopping bag. if her hands are SHAKIER now than they were a moment before she can only ignore it. “sorry - it’s not...wasn’t...you. i haven’t watched where i was going.”

[circecroft]

fliightless​:

         baaz doesn’t know why he is drawn to this odd woman who talks in circles, always caught between knowing too much and not enough at the same time. he does not talk to her with a far flung hope that he will be the one who can put order on her thoughts — the universe trends towards chaos constantly, and if everything in the universe is truly in circe’s head, then no, order will never be found. no, it is not her power that excites him in the same way capitalists foam at every opportunity to squeeze another penny ; they are not people to be extorted for their abilities. sometimes circe helps him anyway, information sandwiched between ramblings on the history of paint, though that is not the crux of this relationship either. the simplest answer is that baaz cares, but it is such a rare thing with him,  so he cannot be sure.

         but he knows to waits for circe to answer, because she always does in one way or another. when she does answer, it is not surprising — the art store is a good place, full of opportunities and people who do not mind a few oddities. he looks up to the sky again ; a few sparrows flit by overhead, prompting a humorless smile to baaz’s face.     “ do you want company ?? ”     he asks. there is not much to be done back in his office ; there are barn swallows tasked with surveillance today, but they always seem to be able to find him no matter where he is. he could sleep, but he does not feel tired or wanting to retreat from the world just yet on such a beautiful day. and he could use the company — even if not many people would consider circe very good company. but still he says,     “ my favorite pen ran out of ink. ”     it technically isn’t a lie : the felt tip thrown into the trash earlier this morning when not even a bit of rubbing alcohol hadn’t been able to revive it. he has other pens though.

he wants the company ; he also doesn’t want someone else to KNOW that he wants the company - - - but he also knows that she knows that he doesn’t want anyone to know. circe gets stuck in that circuit of thought for a long, quiet moment before she manages to catch a string of numbers ( five plus six plus twenty eight multiplied by six ) - - - someone doing math homework in a quiet bedroom with light filtering in sunset through the small window - - - and pulls herself back into NOW. into baaz looking at her, waiting for an answer again.

the image of his favorite pen springs into her mind, his fingers wrapped around the plastic chamber, writing a note next to a glossy printed picture on his office desk. the sound of it, empty, falling into a wastepaper bin. a shelf freshly stocked. she nods and sets to work gathering long, loose strands of hair up with one hand and tying them into a messy ponytail with the other and the hair elastic she had remembered to slip over a wrist this morning before heading out. “they had them. have - right now, at the store. restock’s this morning.” it’s why she had headed out today - - - they’ll have her favorite brand of paints in today, shelves filled by raji and emilia in the early hours of the morning while they chatted idly about their weekends and listened to their own music over the speakers before open. they’ll smile when she comes in - they always do, they like a regular who is quiet and polite and doesn’t make a mess. “let’s go?”

[circecroft]

The Haunting of Bly Manor episode 1: The Great Good Place

[circecroft]

a SHARP inhale, a stumble backwards, a hand fluttering towards her head where it cradles a temple for a moment as circe grits her teeth against a pulse of LIGHT, a throb of SOUND - - - hands have lost the hold on the handles of her shopping bags and circe only realizes that apples have rolled across the sidewalk all akimbo after the clattering sound of hooves on the road, on cobblestone brick wheels against it AND THE MEMORY OF ACRID SMOKE & ANCIENT GUNFIRE - - - after all that has passed. SHIT. it’s no big tragedy, some lost produce, but it is irritating. circe crouches after a moment to try and gather them up but manages instead to nearly collide with the knees of someone else. “ah - sorry, i am - was - getting them. the apples.”

[circecroft]

fliightless​:

         baaz leans forward a bit, his forearms resting over his thighs and supporting his upper body as he watches circe carefully. his concern has passed now that they’re out of the crowd of the street, no longer forced along like a pair of limp leaves — this now is just as circe is and how she will always be ; there’s nothing to be done about that. ( part of him still wishes she was more careful, even as the logical part of his brain supplements that it wouldn’t matter ). it’s been a long time since he’s stopped overthinking about what circe’s ability means for their interactions, for… a friendship — some things weren’t made to be overanalyzed, and for once, baaz is content to let his brain not handle something too deeply.

         " i closed another case this morning — “     he tells her. the memory feels distant in spite of that, the deed finished before he’d fallen asleep for a solid four hours, rising again at noon.     ” the electrician’s daughter ran away to new york, wasn’t kidnapped or murdered after all — who can blame her ?? “     it’s a murmured rhetorical question he tacks onto the end. her father had been so angry at the news, baaz had wondered if he’d wished she’d been dead instead. his gaze shifts down to his shoes, worn, almost as much as the wood of the bench beneath them. he supposes a closed case means he’s doing well, though most days he feels he just simply is. patches of sunlight filter through the maple tree’s branches, the light swaying almost hypnotically as baaz watches.     ” — where were you going ?? “

she watches him back for a long moment. there’s less noise here, even with the ambient knowledge that all trees hold trapped within their bark and branching limbs. there is something about the way some of the most ancient things on this earth absorb and cling to the world around them - - - their roots spread too wide and soaking up too much. it’s secondary, though. not loud in the way true places and people are. it’s ... different. dulled. the memory of a memory or a vision of a vision. she nods as he speaks and doesn’t let herself hear the next word before it comes ; it’s actually EASIER to focus when someone speaks. something concrete to do - - - listening.

“i didn’t,” she replies quietly, because he’s right. WHO CAN BLAME HER? the electrician is not a kind man, is spitting words and glaring eyes and an iron fist. circe can hear the jack-rabbit heartbeat of a girl on a greyhound bus heading for a city that is too large and too loud and too long-lived for circe to EVER want to visit. she knows it wouldn’t go well. she knows it would choke her. hands begin habitual and incessant fiddling with a fidget ring she wears on one hand ( an alternative picked up by her dad when she was fourteen ) and she blinks at him. HE ISN’T HAPPY ABOUT THE CASE. isn’t ... sad about it, either, she doesn’t think. circe could pick up that string and follow it down a long road of life but she swallows and focuses in on the question. fingers spin the band. “oh. uh,” she has to think. HOW ODD IT HAS ALWAYS STRUCK HER, that her own life is so much easier to lose track of. drowned out in the noise of it all, of all of it, of everything. “sorry. uh. headed ... art supply store. i was going there. AM, once i,” a hand flits to motion at herself and circe offers a self-deprecating smile, “you know.”

[circecroft]

jackconroy​:

A convenience store had been robbed. On a normal occasion, probably not making the seven o’clock news; however, there were several police cars, barricades, a couple of fire trucks and a swarm of people filming. This wasn’t a normal situation; the robber apparently had turned his whole body into fire and lit the place up like the human torch. Boston was an immunity city for those with abilities but even they had to obey the laws. The camera had been melted and the footage destroyed and now they were left to pick up the pieces. 

Jack had been on scene for a couple hours as forensics worked on the side of the building. Luckily, nobody had been killed, the shop owner was being treated for some minor injuries. He stepped out of the ruins of the shop and stopped one of the officers asking about any witnesses. The officer pointed over to a group of individuals that had been asked to stick around at the scene. He approached the group, stopping at the first individual, “Thank you for hanging around, one of the officer’s said you were walking by, was the shop already on fire or was it before?”

the thing is - - - SHE KNOWS WHO DID IT. the smell of smoke had colored the air around the shop for months ( six and a half is when it really began to reek of burnt wood and melting metal and scorched concrete ) and circe had taken to avoiding it on her walk from the larger grocery store back to her apartment around that time. the smoke that would be there later - would be there NOW - had stung her eyes and made her lungs too tight to breathe comfortably and the heat of it all, of it coming from INSIDE someone, of it burning up - - - circe didn’t want to deal with it anymore. not when it was getting LOUDER AND HOTTER AND CLOSER AND NOW - and now here she is anyways.

people don’t think about that part. circe KNOWS they don’t ; she cannot stop every tragedy in boston. she cannot stop even half of them. even a third. even a quarter. to be human is to be saturated in the little terrible things that happen day to day. circe cannot quench all the fires at once. she knows what would happen if she TRIED - one day she would get caught in the crossfire. no one got terribly hurt. no one died. it is minor enough to ... not eat away at her too terribly.

wide eyes tear from the smoldering ruins and the years of work and the sound of the bell above the door ringing and the owner smiling from behind the counter and greeting you with a grin and a laugh and the generations of feet that trod the floor and the sound of tinny music from tinny speakers and - and - the sound of the detective’s voice. she grits her teeth against the sound of gunfire ringing from behind him, of the sound of ORDERED SILENCE. circe resolves to stay out of range of his touch. “i - have been here. now. i - it was -” it has always been burning. circe goes to bite her fingernails and jerkily changes the movement halfway through to brush dark hair behind an ear instead. “before. i mean - sorry. sorry, uhm. i was here after. i got here after the fire.”

[circecroft]

fliightless​:

STARTER FOR: circe ( @circecroft​ )​ E​XTRA: baaz happens to be passing by when circe stumbles / is pushed / otherwise is unsteady…

          baaz sees it happen as if in slow motion and he is there at her side in an instant.     “ come — ”     his hands land large and firm on the woman’s frail shoulders, easing her up from the sidewalk.  his jacket pulls tight around his wings as he twists to look at their surroundings, the sensation familiar but still unpleasantly constricting. he tries to herd his thoughts away from it, instead focusing on making sure circe does not stumble. his grip does not withdraw just yet, helping to guide her away from the busyness of the sidewalk and towards the refuge of an empty bench situated beneath the branches of a maple much older than either of them. boston may only have a fraction of the population that new york does, but it still amazes baaz how, in some parts, the difference in foot traffic seems negligible. eventually they reach the bench, baaz finally deems it safe to let go of circe and sits — though not directly on the bench seat but rather perched on the thin edge of the top as not to bend his wings uncomfortably.     “ you should be more careful — ”     he tells her, though really there is no point.

wind in her hair, stinging at his cheeks, the bottomless pit of your stomach when you feel that you are FALLING instead of FLYING. circe does not jerk away like she has been burned by the touch - she stopped doing that when she was twelve - but the instinct to jostle away from hands is still there. not because she is AFRAID, but because it is harder to shut out the push of sound when contact like that is made. it is easier when she KNOWS someone, which might be an odd assertion for HER, of all people, to make - but it’s TRUE. there’s a difference. circe is somewhat used to BAAZ FLYING/FALLING TWISTING THE TIGHT DISCOMFORT OF WINGS BENEATH CLOTHES THE CLICKING OF A CAMERA SHUTTER AND THE WEIGHT OF HAVING TO BE THE BEARER OF BAD NEWS.

she blinks and she is sitting down on a bench. HUH. circe blinks a few times before rubbing a hand across the bridge of her nose. “sorry,” is what she gets out, though it isn’t quite what she had wanted to say. something about - it happening a lot. the tree behind them is DISTRACTING, though, the leaves rustling just like they did in 1873 when a couple quarreled beneath it and ultimately ended in tragedy when she left boston all together and sailed to england and left him there sad and alone and he never really recovered, never married, never got over - circe rakes her nails over the thigh of her jeans and tilts her head back. “how were - are - you doing?”

[circecroft]

( victoria pedretti. 25. female. she/her/hers ). quick, look !! did you see CIRCE CROFT disappearing around that corner ?? i’ve heard that the FREELANCE ARTIST has OMNISCIENCE and has been in boston since 1996. rumor has it they are quite GENUINE and EMPATHETIC, but also ERRATIC and INCOMPREHENSIBLE. maybe we should follow them and see if they really give off the vibes of the peeling old glow in the dark stickers your dad stuck to your ceiling when you were eight and couldn’t fall asleep. you put them in the shapes of the constellations without having to look up a reference // perpetually skinned knees and elbows from tripping over stoops and walking into doorframes // sometimes you play music in your earbuds so loud it hurts and it still isn’t enough. you knew it wasn’t going to be enough and you still tried. why do you keep trying? // there is an inherent tragedy to being human. everyone is aware of it, but none so much as you. you try to smile anyways. the sun always rises.

BIO

at 3:21 in the morning on the coldest day of january in the year 1996, CIRCE CROFT was born not in a hospital, but in a car on the side of a road on the way. she was exactly 12 days, 13 hours, 14 minutes, and 2 seconds early. her parents - robert and helen croft - would have gotten to the hospital on time were it not for the white-out snow conditions that had caused a severe collision when truck driver alec moses had accidentally crossed lanes into oncoming traffic and the ensuing accident blocked the road. had the crofts left their small boston home just 16 minutes and 43 seconds earlier they would have made it to the hospital on time. they did not, though, and so circe was born in the back seat of their dark blue crown vic in a flurry of snowflakes and cold air.

she, of course, knew all of this was true from the first breath.

circe was an UNNERVING baby. she did not cry, not ever, not ONCE. instead she would lie still and solemn and regard the world with steady and unblinking eyes. once, aunt amelia - robert’s elder sister, born 4 years before him on a middlingly warm september midafternoon - said that circe was AN ODD LITTLE GIRL, REALLY - BABIES SHOULD CRY, OR MOVE, OR - BABBLE OR SOMETHING, AT THAT AGE. it was a sentiment aunt amelia has never let go of to this very day - - - though she lives 3,086.2 miles away in california and does not call circe or see her in any real regard now a days. it was a sentiment many people carried for many years. as circe grew from babe in arms to infant to little girl of 5 years old, she remained as she always was. quiet. still. wide, watery eyes and fingers that curled ‘round something and held steadfast all day. she did not speak a word until she was nearly 5 years, 6 months, and 3 days old. when she did start it was in fits – in babbling words that tumble-weeded out of her lips in a tangle of tenses that never aligned.

it only became WORRYING when circe began to predict. or ... recall things she had not even been alive for. telling her father she liked the hotel he and her mother had stayed at before circe was born. telling him that the sound of screaming and musket fire was keeping her up. babbling frantically about the fire that is down the street, it’s down the street, when the fire that takes out a neighbor’s home doesn’t happen for another four months. neither robert nor helen were mutants and knew very few - - - none in the family so long as they knew ( THOUGH UNCLE ED, HELEN’S STEPBROTHER, WAS AN EMPATH - SOMETHING CIRCE SAID ONE DAY AND WAS GREETED WITH NERVOUS LAUGHTER IN THE FACE OF ) and circe knew before she fled that her mother would not stay. her mother who did not know what to do with this girl, with this person who knew too much and knew too little how to say any of it. circe told helen she forgave her for leaving 5 months and 12 days before the thought had even passed through helen’s mind. she did leave, though, 8 days shy of circe’s 8th birthday.

the thing about omniscience is that it sounds fun in THEORY. knowing everything sounds like a blessing, like knowing the weather all the time and never being caught off-guard. to know everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen is something so many would pay to harness. but circe’s mind is over-loaded by the constant noise that rings through her head, deafening her from the inside out. it isn’t a QUIET knowledge – not the sound of scholars in a library. her mind is a riot of pain, of anger, of violent noise that never ceases in its pounding against her eardrums, a march of the dead and the not yet living. what they don’t understand is the weight of it all. they don’t see 5 o clock in the morning, still haven’t slept because someone 100 years ago is crying so loudly and circe can’t shut it off and it’s just going and she wants to help but she can’t because she’s too far and too late and too small and she can’t breathe.

she knows how the worry keeps her father up until the early dusky hours of the morning, when circe would creep down the creaky stairs from her room to the front porch to go for a walk in the relative quiet of the waking hours, driven from sleep too early by the sounds of those around her, and behind her, and before her.

circe knows her life is not QUITE like that of others. she is lucky - - - very lucky - - - to live on her own with aid from her father & paternal grandparents ( rose & robert sr think their only grandaughter is an odd duck, sweet thing, poor girl, and so help her along. ). she knows she would be a disaster at most jobs ; she would meet too many people, hear too many songs, too many pasts, too many horrors, and be driven to exhaustion with the lot of it. INSTEAD - SHE PAINTS. it was an outlet discovered very young and has turned into something she does on commission, now. large canvases covered in abstract portraits of SOUND, OF LIGHT, OF STARS IMPLODING AND THE WORLD FRACTURING. it is a way to try and SORT the unending information into something comprehensible. it’s just a - - - helpful side effect that she can SELL THE WORK as well.

PERSONALITY

circe is often not exactly PLEASENT to be around. she tries to remain palatable, friendly, polite, but there is something OFF about her that is not difficult to pick up on. eyes often unfocus suddenly and intensely. she will trail off mid-word and sometimes entirely drop conversations suddenly mid-stream. it is difficult for her to keep tenses straight, which leads to an unusual speaking pattern where circe will often have to try multiple times before hitting the correct tense - past, present, or future - and it makes communicating with her somewhat difficult at times. worst still is the fact that she KNOWS when people are becoming irritated or upset by her and it makes things even worse. STILL - - - she cares a lot about most people. she tries to make other people’s lives easier and better whenever she can, sometimes at the expense of her own health.