svlhouette - Tumblr blog

[svlhouette]

super sorry i’ve been gone. i swear i’m gonna get to the replies i owe + plotting ( for both august n olivier ) tomorrow as i’ve been busy w holiday stuff after finals. i just wanted to get the secret santa starters out dskjf but!! i swear i’ll be hitting everyone up n working on things i owe ♡

[svlhouette]

THE OPEN LAYOUT OF THE VENUE IS UNSETTLING, an aspect that he hadn’t quite been able to digest since their arrival. it reminds him of home, of the glimmer of over-hanging chandeliers decorating the painted ceilings of galas, or the accented silk curtains hanging over larger than life windows of charity events. it swallows him whole, forces him underneath the cloud of nerves that always came associated with events such as these, with the chore of mingling with others and keeping up the facade of becoming invested in whatever words were spilling from the other’s lips before excusing himself to drown in the contents of the open bar. just like home.

then, hues are catching a glimpse of honeyed locks once again, almost as if they’re drawn to her, like it’s become increasingly impossible for august not to be aware of where she is within the sea of glitter and champagne. the pads of his fingertips drum against the neatly wrapped box in his hands, the gold ribbon pulling the white and off-pink pattern of the paper all together ( or that had been what the cashier had repeated to him in an attempt to have him cash out extra for the last touch ). admittedly, perhaps too much time had been spent mulling over the contents of the box ( a set of crystalline wine glasses, the stem of both filled to the brim with swarovski crystals ) due to him never having gone out of his way to procure christmas gifts before. it does more to the nerves than he had anticipated as he finally pushes his way towards her, placing the gift into her grip. “i didn’t know what to get you, but i figured you could use new ones.” / @wilderviolets​

[svlhouette]

hello loves, i will be taking a hiatus n returning around the 14th/15th. will still be on discord so yall can still hmu but ill be focusing on finishing finals. see yall soon 💕

[svlhouette]

wilderviolets‌:

               a king in a barbed-wire crown. it feels sometimes as if thea holds a match while august wields a canister of gasoline — and she’s seen fire in action ; they’d be nothing but ash. he touches her waist and all the clocks stop. he touches her waist and her heart falls out through her stomach, his grip closing in on her until all she can think, breathe and feel is the shape of his hand on her waist. though it’s gone as soon as she finds herself craving more, ripped from her grasp the moment her pulse adjusts, and all they are is two strangers face to face, trying not to choke on the taste of each other’s breath or the bile that’s built up in their throats from swallowing spite. 

             the tension feels like a rope around her throat until he cuts it and she feels like she’s gasping for air. “how much did you drink?” thea fires back with the quicken of her brow, filching in her clutch bag ( scarcely large enough to hold a wallet ) for a key and licking off the remnants of powder trapped in the grooves before she slides it into the lock, the twist of it feeling like a bed she can’t unmake. a bed where the image of their tangled limbs beats like a wild thing, her face flushed as she gingerly tugs him through the door, fingers pulling on the edge of his sleeve, too anxious to touch him. sometimes she can’t stop.  

               warmth, bright from the burn of a log fire seems only to draw her more to him. he resembles it’s heat, the thin shadows cast across the rug by its flames. home to thea feels like a winter afternoon, mulled wine and blankets, the smell of a loaf of bread baking in the oven. in the home she shares with vera his presence feels alien, other, and yet somehow as if he has existed there since the first flint had caught light. “enough,” is the answer she eventually gives him when she shrugs off his jacket, lets it drop onto the sofa, her fingers dropping to loosen the lace on her knee-high boots. “–don’t worry.” enough for what? to ask him to come or to ask him to want her? both feel tied up in the same end. spilled wine on carpet. a fever she can’t sweat out. the taste of regret on her tongue when she wakes. 

              “you like red, don’t you?” it’s a question, though from her lips it reads more like a statement. she supposes that august would like anything if she told him to like it  — and in the same breath she feels as foolish as a child. he doesn’t want her. she doesn’t want him. a series of unrelated events does not correlate to desire, merely circumstance. they’re both cold and hungry and searching for someone to build a home in, however temporary. perhaps for a night, perhaps just an hour. it hardly matters when she’s drunk on the feeling of being looked at by him and drunker on mixing her liquor. her eyes leave his as she strides towards the kitchen, though her skin pricks under the weight of his stare. the cupboards stretch high above their heads and the step ladder vera usually uses to reach the flour on the top shelf is still at jac’s for repair, the third spoke split by a too-eager step. 

              thea’s fingers skirt the wine glasses, pinching their stems, a hairsbreadth away from grabbing them even on the balls of her feet, though it’s a fraction too far. of course it’s too far. her own house seeks to undermine her in his presence. “reyn–” no. she won’t ask for help. she’ll reach it with one more push though there’s sweat on her fingertips from her stumble on the staircase and her hands can’t quite catch, suddenly hot with the memory of his breath on her neck. “fuck! i can’t—” perhaps, she can’t accept when she needs august’s help? or maybe just when she needs august. still, she won’t ask, won’t belittle herself with the notion, cheeks flushed as she reaches again and shatters a tumbler in her too-heavy hands. blood on her fingertip, a catch in her breath, and still the wine glasses just out of reach. “come here.” the request is strained, as if it hurts just to say it. she refuses to look at him, focusing instead on the glass, half an inch from her fingertip. “please.” the blood that trickles down her hand reminds her of wine.

IT SPEAKS VOLUMES THAT the withdrawal of his hand isn’t enough to grant him steady breathing, or that the pull away from him as she rummages through her clutch is sufficient enough to gift it back. the doubts that pile higher command him not to take any steps closer, but hers are much stronger. her tug feels like an unstoppable force he must now follow, and the ringing of the door closing behind them sealing in his decision for him. 

for a reason unknown, stepping into her home seems like the most intimate moment that has been shared between them, with angry kisses in the bathrooms of house parties, or lewd acts in the back row of the movie theater included. it’s as if her home manages to warp his vision of her, with the simple act of her slipping out of his jacket seeming so much more suggestive than it would have just outside the party, and him now realizing just how little her dress seemed to cover. the lift of the skirt as she reaches for the glasses reminds him just how difficult it seems to control himself once skin meets skin and they’re fighting for control — though whether it be over one another or over themselves is a question he couldn’t muster up an answer for, even if he tried.

it’s the act of seeming to be busy that he hates. hues skim over the rug on the floor, the contents of the coffee table before him, the material of the couch, almost anything to make him seem like he belongs in a place he certainly does not. for once he’s thankful to hear her voice calling out for him, his attention taken from the extreme interest he had portrayed for the literature that he had found near the couch towards the one that leaves him second guessing every move. hesitant steps shift into ones of haste at the sound of glass breaking, a hand quickly plucking the two items in question before setting them down, and the other gingerly taking a hold of crimson stained fingertips, effectively forcing her to turn to face him as he tries to make out the source of red. “you’re so fuckin’ stubborn.”

worry isn’t one that paints his features when it comes to her, though it manages to flicker across for merely a second as eyes skim over the surface of padded fingertips, the small cut across her pointer finger not deep enough to warrant concern. it only takes a shift in his gaze for him to realize how close he’s positioned himself, with her lower back pressed against the counter, her hand in his, and his hues locked onto plump petals. the moments like these, with the both of them brewing in silence filled with all the words they’re terrified to speak and the tension of almost caving, are when he regrets allowing his emotions to get the better of him that night. not knowing what her lips tasted like, or how the hitch of her breath sounded like as he pressed her up against the bathroom stall would perhaps make things so much easier. at least then, he wouldn’t know what he was holding himself back against instead of spending nights wondering what kind of sounds he could pull from her.

his breathing leaves jagged, ghosting over her lips, against his control and against his will. it’s not a surprise — control and being in her presence seemed to be mutually exclusive nowadays. hues take careful, cautious steps, skirting from her lips to the tip of her nose, running up the bridge of it, and finally settling onto pools of blue, where he wonders if she can see the self-control slipping from his grips. did he have the same effect on her? the tips of their noses brush against each other, and the difference now is so stark. there isn’t any background noise, no thumping of music or comfort of conversation, just the deafening silence filled with uneven breathing and the ringing in his ear that grew in intensity with each fraction of an inch he moved closer towards her, hues never breaking their hold on hers as if asking her to stop him if she so pleases.

but she doesn’t, and as eyes flutter shut and lips press against hers, he wonders if she can taste the hunger on his lips.

[svlhouette]

*/ vera

THE hoarse sound of his voice that muffled through the door made vera feel a slight twinge of guilt at waking him up. her restaurant ran from late mornings to midnight, but she knew that his bar ran later in the evenings and sometimes through the break of day. and it had been a couple of years since august stopped working at the restaurant to pursue his own place. he had his own schedule now, she had to support that, just as in everything else he did.

her eyes shifted to her watch, and she replied, “it’s, um- half past nine.” she wasn’t sure if she could come into the room yet, so instead she leaned towards the door in an attempt to hear him better, and continued, “I’m sorry, did I wake you too early? should I come back later?” perhaps vera could drop by during her lunch break instead. as long as everything goes smoothly, she was sure the rest of the staff wouldn’t mind that she took an extra hour. she could just make it up to them some other way. 

THE BALLS OF HIS HANDS press into closed eyes, attempting to rub the sleep from them, but to no avail. “no,” he calls out, the smell of her cooking now wafting into his room ( or perhaps he had just begun to realize its presence in his room, now being awake ). vera isn’t the type to cook up a simple breakfast; he hasn’t spent years knowing her to think differently. the tiredness isn’t as heavy as the guilt he knows he’d feel if she were to leave her food out cold for him to rest more, and so he pads over towards the door, wrapping his arms around her shoulder and giving her a light squeeze as a welcome. “mornin’,” he says, though it comes out more of as a grumble than anything else.

“what’d you make?” sleep blurred eyes allow him to peer over at the kitchen table, chuckling softly at the sight dishes cluttered together to fit on the small, circular surface. “jesus fuckin’ christ vera. you didn’t make the koulouri here too, did you? last time you were here half my fridge was gone,” he teases, nudging her gently before his steps take him towards the bathroom. “lemme wash up first. start eatin’.”

[svlhouette]

*/ sihyun

“Believe in your dreams, Auggie. Anything is possible,” he teases, laughing still. Sihyun takes the phone from August and immediately starts cooing and aww-ing at the sight of the little kitten. “She’s so cute, oh my god.” He’s always been a lover of animals and cats are just his favorite even if he himself doesn’t have one. “You have to keep her. She’s yours now. Congratulations on your daughter,” he gives August’s phone back and grins widely. “I absolutely am. Should we stop by the pet store to get something for her? A gift from her uncle.” 

THERE’S A VISIBLE WITHDRAWAL at the nickname, his features adopting a sour expression for the duration of a quick second before they melt away at the words of adoration towards his ( now new ) pet. “i’m gonna keep her,” he decides, figuring that if the owners hadn’t reached out to anyone this many hours into the day, he had probably procured her some other way, whether it be through theft or the rescue of a stray. “i didn’t have shit in the house this morning, so i just gave her some canned tuna. we needa do some shoppin’ afterwards.”

[svlhouette]

*/ eden

     * ╰   " DON’T BE SILLY, ” eden begins ; words hummed, light & soft —— a rather apt reflection of how he felt whenever in august’s company, “ it’s not a hassle being your friend —— ” eden pauses here for effect, eyes trailing over to meet august’s gaze dead-on, glimmers of mischief pooling in his brown hues. “ —— it’s a disaster being your friend. ” and at this, eden all but melts into a warm little grin ; laughter falling from his lips like petals shaken a cherry blossom tree. “ a beautiful disaster. ” eden elaborates in earnest. how dearly he revelled in the act of teasing august ryen.

        as the box of liquor is relieved from his grip eden’s shoulders drop ; their tensed stance relaxing as he leans back to rest upon the counter —— the neon glow of the garage’s sign painting eden’s warmed features with a red hue. there, eden rests, watching august with a smile. it came to eden like breathing ; sharing in august’s company, together in an otherwise empty room. it was like the world outside, loud & terribly frightening, fell away for just a moment. theirs was a friendship that had always grounded eden —— the man who felt like he could just float away, untethered. “ i’ve missed you. ” is what eden says next ; not poignant, not forceful, just true. he’d missed august terribly. manhattan had felt so very empty without him in it. “ ‘missed this. ” eden finishes —— and by ‘this’ he means them. 

THERE’S A GROAN IN RESPONSE to his addition, pools of honey rolling as he moves to set the shipment of liquor in the back with the rest of the neatly stacked boxes. out of the extensive list of talents ( as one might call them ) august had gifted to eden, speaking words dripping in honey to that extreme had not been one of them — that was purely eden, and characteristically so at that.

“dude, stop,” is his response to eden’s confession, brows knitting together at his words. eden had always been the more verbally affectionate between the two of them, with words of that nature feeling alien on lips that only ever spat out blood and words of anger. there’s a lull in their conversation as fingers weave themselves underneath the paper binding of the pack of napkins in his hand, the tearing mingling with the whirring of his neon signs before words he’s spoken before leave his lips, mirroring the tone that eden had put forth. ”i’ve missed you too. don’t,” he interjects, though the words are cut short with a heavy laugh; they had been much more common in the past few days with eden around. “don’t fuckin’ make it a big deal.”

[svlhouette]

*/ ara

ara counted the circles he traced on her back until her breathing steadied. the gentleness she found within august never surprised her, though others would probably find it hard to believe. and while others would never think of the softness he could possibly have within him, it was part of the reason ara never told him what had happened. 

“i’m sorry, auggie,” she said, face buried in his sweater, but took one last breath and moved away to face him. “it had just happened when i got here. i left right after the funeral and when i got here - when i saw you,” ara knew her excuse didn’t seem enough to have kept it from him, but she couldn’t help what she did. “and when i saw you, everything felt so nice and good. i didn’t know what to say.” she looked into his eyes pleading and searching for some sort of understanding, which she knew he would have but the worry still seeped into her mind. 

“i’m sorry, auggie,” she repeated quietly again, but the pain in her voice was unmissable. for some reason, it almost felt like she was reliving the first 2 months all over again and she just wanted it to stop. she squeezed her eyes shut as if it would somehow seize the thoughts in her brain. “i’m so sorry.”

SHE APOLOGIZES FOR SOMETHING out of her control, and there isn’t an attempt to stop her, for he knows this is exactly who she is. even when dealing with the death of a loved one, she apologizes for not informing him earlier, of not being strong enough to muster up the words to ruin their reunion. “ara, i swear ... “ a deep sigh quickly follows, fingers combing through disheveled locks and pushing the falling tresses from his eyes before they set on her once more. there’s a feeling of regret sinking deep within the pits of his stomach, rebuking himself for not having picked up on the minute signs that she had surely been giving off; the joy of seeing an old friend had clouded his senses.

“stop.” he knows she recognizes the sternness in his voice, the way his stare becomes serious, even with her eyes closed. “i’m leaving if you apologize one more time.” patience wasn’t one he had an abundance of to begin with, but it grew thinner each time ara subjected herself to guilt that wasn’t justified. “you don’t need to apologize, ara. you told me when you were ready, and this is harder for you to deal with than it is for me.” leaning in closer, the tone that grips his voice is loosened, hues looking up at her from his position as he breathes in a steady, calculated breath. “you wanna talk about it, i’m here.”

[svlhouette]

*/ lena

“Maybe.” Lena replies petulantly, though they both know this isn’t the case. She crosses the room to stand on the opposite side of the counter, one hand almost digging into the countertop as she leans heavily against it. She shrugs at the question, “It was nothing out of the usual, but Ramona was in a bad mood. Kept snapping and yelling, and she wants me to work on Saturday.” Lena didn’t really have much intention of following through with that, but if she was planning on keeping her job, she might have to reconsider. “But enough about me,” She says, waving her hand as she changed the subject, crossing back around the counter and sidling up next to August, “How was your day?”

THERE WERE PERKS TO BEING his own boss, and one of them was that he didn’t need to answer to anyone but himself. it’s a liberty he knows not everyone can afford to have, and he finds it similar to the years he spent answering to his father, so the feeling isn’t too foreign to him. “just come work at the bar. decent pay, decent hours ... if you like the graveyard shift,” he says for perhaps the fifth time since the bar has opened, sliding his elbows from the counter to allow her more room. “nothin’ special. got home, knocked out, woke up, hit the gym, then you called.”

[svlhouette]

This.

[svlhouette]

❥      NON - SEXUAL   ACTS   OF   DOMINANCE . 

feel free to edit or elaborate as you please .   ( add  ‘ reverse ‘  to your message if you’d like to see how my muse would perform the action ) . otherwise , send in one of these for my muse’s reaction to   …

[ lit ]  your muse lighting a cigarette , spliff , etc. for mine . 

[ order ]  your muse ordering for mine at a restaurant or bar .

[ guide ]  your muse putting a hand on mine’s back to lead them .

[ pay ]  your muse paying for mine at a store , bar , restaurant , etc . ( you can specify where or for what . )

[ open ]  your muse opening a door for mine .

[ dry ]  your muse drying mine off with a towel after a shower , bath , swimming , etc . 

[ instruct ]  your muse giving mine instructions / telling them what to do . 

[ groom ]  your muse adjusting mine’s appearance , such as straightening a tie , fixing their hair , or buttoning their shirt for them , etc . 

[ direct ]  your muse taking mine by the chin and telling them to look yours in the eye .

[ disagree ]  your muse sternly telling mine  ‘ no ‘ .

[ rest ]  your muse resting their arm over mine’s shoulder / s .

[ clean ]  your muse cleaning a smudge of something off mine’s cheek , forehead , etc .   feel free to specify what and how . 

[ answer ]  your muse answering a question meant for mine . 

[ coat ]   your muse holds mine’s coat out for them while they put it on .

[ pilot ]  your muse taking mine by the arm , hand , shoulder , etc . to lead them . 

[ stare ]  your muse staring mine down . 

[ placement ]  your muse telling mine to sit down .

[ teach ]  your muse taking control of mine’s hand , arm , hips , etc . to make sure they do something correctly .  

[ patience ]  your muse telling mine to be patient .

[ tears ]  your muse wiping away mine’s tears .

[ swat ]  your muse swatting mine’s hand away from something they’re not supposed to touch .  

[ jewelry  ]  your muse clasping a piece of jewelry for mine , such as a necklace , or earrings . 

[ enough ]  your muse commanding mine to stop talking . 

[ retrieve ]  your muse requesting or ordering mine to retrieve them something .

[ invite ]  your muse inviting mine to sit on their lap .

[ lean ]  your muse inviting mine to lean into their side while they’re sitting or laying together . 

[ calm ]   your muse telling mine to  ‘ just breathe ‘ .

[ scold ]  your muse scolding mine for something .

[ comfort ]  your muse pulling mine into a reassuring hug .

[ approval ]  your muse complimenting mine on a choice they’ve made .

[ beckon ]  your muse beckoning mine to them without speaking . 

[ laces ]  your muse lacing , tying , or zipping something for mine , such as shoes , a dress , or a jacket , etc .

[ stay ]  your muse telling mine to stay in the car . 

[ defend ]  your muse defending mine’s reputation , dignity , or safety for them . 

[ feed ]  your muse feeding mine something , feel free to specify what .

[ volume ]  your muse demanding mine speak louder .

[ read ]  your muse reading something to mine .

[ refill ]  your muse refilling mine’s glass for them . 

[ possessive ]  your muse resting their hand on mine’s leg or the small of their back while they’re sitting beside each other . 

[svlhouette]

*/ thea

              it comes unexpectedly, like hailstones against a windowpane. she can’t tell if it’s anger or sadness but there’s something inside of her that childishly wants to be held. held in the arms of a person who speaks with confidence when they tell her she’s going to be just fine. but those arms would never be his. she’d sooner burn than let august reyn comfort her. “you don’t get it,” she starts, tucking her hair behind her ear in a way that’s so characteristic of thea when she’s trying to make her voice heard. “violence begets violence, it’s cyclical. you can’t change the way a whole industry operates by barging in like a bull in a china shop and starting a fight.” she’s irate, though her words remain measured. it’s hard to be angry when he’s looking at her like he’d pluck the eyes right of their sockets if he didn’t like her face so much. typical. 

              she’s seen it all her life and yet it still shocks her that she’s judged not by the contents of her heart but by the composition of her face, the way she smiles, the softness of her voice, how wide she opens her mouth like a good girl and swallows when you tell her to. she feels sick just thinking of the way men like him have looked on her with bawdy, licentious thoughts ; and yet somehow at the same time it makes her feel powerful, limitless, as if by leashing desire in her hands she can somehow assert some control over men when all her life she’s been made to feel small by them.

               “you don’t… change these things overnight. you change it by doing your fucking research. and now i don’t have a leg to stand on because you lost me my angle. you lost me the opportunity to write about something real. to write from experience.” the facts, laid out like wet washing on a line, lifts a weight from the ache of her shoulders. she feels lighter, now. like even if he doesn’t get it, he might half-understand her reasoning. “let’s just… stop talking about it.” the first sensible decision she’s made all night. “i came out to have fun, not a fucking fight. i don’t like you when you’re aggy.” which silently implies there are times when she does like him, times when she’s able to find herself swinging not between hatred and apathy, but lingering in something softer. something like kindness.

                for half a beat, her eyes stay on him. she drinks him in like poison, locked stares in a battle of who-dares-blink before he’s shrugging off his jacket, tossing it to her, the simple act enough to curl her lip. she’s touched, though she won’t admit it, the smell of his aftershave as she pulls it around her shoulders, shrugs her arms into the too-large sleeves, watches him reach out to touch her face. for a blink of a second she thinks he might take her chin in his hand, run his thumb over her lip. but instead he merely plucks the cigarette from her mouth and slides it into his own, and she tells herself the flurry of disappointment that swells in her stomach is just the drunken need to feel skin against her own. not his skin. just skin. the thought chimes bright like a dropped coin as she takes a hesitant step after him, her head turning to look back at the door that’s been closed on them. “fuck it.” 

               her shoulder brushes his as she sidles past, a newfound drive behind her steps, hands digging into her pockets. his pockets. there’s a swiftness to her steps as she heads for the liquor store, not even risking a glance behind to check if he’s following — he will be — her pace half-frantic by the time, three streets later, they reach it, come face to face with the flipped over sign that reads closed, the on-off flicker of the neon sign circled by flies. it paints a pretty picture, tragic as it is, and the red light casts a glow over his face when she ( finally ) turns to look at him. “i’ve got wine back at mine.” it’s said with apathy, like it’s scarcely an afterthought, her eyes examining the flecks on her fingernails in a show of disinterest, though she’s watching him in the edges of her peripheral vision. “come if you like. i don’t care.” with that she turns on her heel, striding back in the direction from which they had come, and while she tries to seem casual the breath catches in her throat at the thought of him in the apartment. it’s like forcing a square peg into the round hole of a children’s game, and the image won’t align in her mind. still, she’s hopeful. hopeful enough that when she climbs the steel staircase that ascends the side of floros soi, she falters, almost stumbles on the last step, her hand grasping through air and landing on him.

SHE TELLS HIM THAT he doesn’t get it, as if he isn’t the prime example of how violence is passed down like a torch he must now carry, or as if he doesn’t realize that every time his fists connect with skin that he takes steps closer towards his father that his mother cannot follow. violence is indeed cyclical, and he stands as living proof of it. 

the tinge of guilt that follows her side of the story that night is in no way articulated, and he allows himself to place the blame onto the fact that she had asked to drop the subject completely. before thea, august had always come in fists first, and set words aside for after the chaos settled down. impulsive decisions had decorated the timeline of his life, because he had always placed actions first and pushed thoughts aside for later. thea, however, had completely flipped the script for him. now all that encompassed his mind when they related to her were thoughts, with his hands attached to his side. there were thoughts of pressing his lips onto hers, thoughts of gripping her thighs and pulling her closer to him, thoughts of dragging his tongue along places he had no right in tasting, and thoughts of inviting her over to his place, knowing that there was a chance she would agree and he would regret it the minute her fingers lost themselves in his hair and his tongue fought a losing battle.

and so once again, thoughts so deeply intertwined with her flood his mind, the both of them bathed in bright red flickering lights, with her invitation sounding more like temptation than anything else. there are warnings that a sober version of him would hear, would listen to: big red flashing lights telling him that he should go home, but so characteristically,  he follows the girl clad in nothing but a thin layer of silk, with his jacket running so low on her frame that it gets harder and harder to see the flash of pink. tonight had become one of the rare nights with thea that perhaps thought would be placed in the backseat.

every step they take closer towards her dwelling is accompanied by the small voice that knows much better than he does. the soft thuds of rubber against metal as they climb the staircase match the steady rhythmic rise of his heart rate, images of what her apartment could possibly look like racing through his mind before she catches herself on his shoulder, his hands instinctively grabbing a hold of her waist to steady her. the voice in his head now screams at him. i should go home, he sees himself saying. the six inches between them should be sufficient enough that he shouldn’t feel like he’s drowning in her, but it’s not. so, lips are sealed shut, with the material of her dress thin enough that padded fingertips can feel the dip of her waist, and her falter sudden enough that he’s now drenched in the smell of her shampoo, or her perfume, or just her. the glow of the moon above them and the seemingly decreasing distance between them is almost enough to trick him into taking a step closer, into acting first ... almost. his grip on her tightens, as if trying to drag himself from thoughts so poisonous they seep out so obviously through his actions, before hands are dropped to his side. 

“how much did you drink tonight?” he asks, breaking the silence that had hung over the pair since their trek towards her house had begun. maybe it’s to break the tension, maybe it’s his own way of saying that what they were starting was a bad idea, or just maybe it was an invitation for her to confess that she had drank just enough to know she wouldn’t regret stepping into such a dangerous situation with him.

[svlhouette]

*/ angele

There he was, hidden behind all the hate, resentment and anger, behind that mask of negative emotions she’d only caused in him by her own selfish fears, her August was there, concern and need as he tried to stop her little striptease for his fleeting patrons, grip tight on her wrist while tugging her along the edge of the counter like a child about to be scolded, “Ooh, this feels a bit like when my papa would spank me and put me in the corner for stealing too many sweets before dinner.” Angele teased as August dragged her towards the kitchen, all but pushing her through the doors. It felt like an eternity while she waited in the kitchen, ignoring his words to sit in the chair, her time-out chair. Anytime she got too rowdy it’s where August would place her, though back then he’d keep her company, his hands would brush her thighs, lips would press beneath her jaw, breath against her neck. Now it was placed in the corner of his kitchen, out of sight, forgotten, much like she was sure he wished she would be, she’d done so many awful things to him after all.

Angele was tracing her fingers over the hanging pots above the island between his conventional stovetops and large refrigerators when August marched his way back in, an annoyed and grumpy look on his face while he ignored her and pulled something from one of the fridges, shoving it into the microwave, making her pout. “Auggie,” Angele sighed as she leaned over the counter, his back to her as he watched the food go round and round, “As delicious as your food is, microwaves are good for nothing but popcorn, it’s just going to dry it all out and I need nutrients, greasy and good for soaking up alcohol right?” She pushed herself back up, walking around the counter to where he was, hands finding their way to his arms, “Hey, come on, we can cook together.”

THE COMBINATION OF her voice and the godforsaken nickname is enough to make his ears prickle with an emotion he can’t explain, which was very telling of their stance now. the ambiguity that had encompassed the beginning of their relationship had blossomed into an ever-growing need for her,  though now, he couldn’t tell the difference between his anger, the pit in his stomach that grew whenever he saw her, and the lingering emotions of love that had been just so intense three months prior. 

“it’s for me,” he sighs, pools of honey refusing to look her way, instead intensely concentrating on the spaghetti that was going round inside the microwave before he feels her light touch on his arm. the way he pulls her arm from her touch is gentle, much too gentle, he thinks as his hand lingers atop hers before dropping back to his side. he can’t bring himself to admit that he misses it, misses her soft strokes that lulled him to sleep, her hand that had always found his, or her nails that had left marks along his back.

“why’re you here?” there’s annoyance laced into the words, as mild as it is, along with confusion and what can only be described as exhaustion as he finally tears his eyes from the machine and they land on her. she’s drunk, he knows, and he can’t place too much blame onto her at the moment, but it doesn’t help the questions eating away at him every time they happen to cross paths, questions that he knows will hurt him if she ever answered. “gerald’s is open until five and i know you like their burgers better than mine,” despite the amount of times she had denied it to spare his feelings. “you can’t just ... “ he trails off, the last of his words barely squeezing through as a whisper, teeth sinking down onto the inside of his cheeks to steady his voice, though it doesn’t help. glances of her around kaos or glimpses of her photos online are manageable but this, with the silence of the kitchen only filled with the whirring of the machine and the distance between them closer than it has ever been in three months ... this is a harder pill to swallow.

[svlhouette]

*/ vera

@svlhouette​

9 AM on a saturday was a little too early for some, and vera knew that august was one of them. but she had to be back for the afternoon and evening shift, so she was only able to scrape her early morning hours to drop by. plus it was nearing the end of the week, and she hadn’t checked in on him yet. between this and that, there had been a lot that kept her busy. once she arrived at his place, she debated between knocking or using the spare key, but figured she might prepare breakfast before he wakes. she already had a basket of koulouri with her as well. 

careful not to make too much noise, vera tidied up little things that were littered all over the place as she made her way to the kitchen. in a short while, she had the coffee maker running, and the koulouri heated up, with a few filling options to go with it (honey and tahini, ham and cheese, tomato and olives, and she can’t help but feel proud that august kept his fridge stocked. a brief reminder of what her father had taught them). with everything ready, she gently knocked on his door. “august? are you awake? it’s me.” 

NINE IN THE MORNING meant that it had only been about four hours since he had returned home and crawled into his bed, exhausted. the implications of owning a bar such as his own meant that he was responsible for ending the brawls that erupted throughout. never before had he understood the anger of various owners throughout kaos ( and most definitely back in manhattan ) that followed his own drunken antics, until now.

the curtains he had acquired after his bar had opened meant that there wasn’t a trace of sunlight, but the knock and the soft voice that follows is enough to guide him out of his slumber and back to the darkness that was his room. a soft groan sounds, his body refusing to get up from the warmth of his bed, not that he himself is willing. “vera?” he calls out, the unevenness of his voice evident of the lack of sleep. “oh fuck, what time is it?”

[svlhouette]

*/ andrés

andrés is not expecting the stranger to be so upfront. and he knows it shouldn’t turn him on. but it lowkey does. he’s just wired like that. the way he’s pushing him against the wall, his hand pressed against his chest. he can feel his anger. and it’s like a flame ignites inside him. 

andrés smirks, then laughs when he finally realizes what this is all about. he’s had plenty of one night stands since he arrived and he never bothered to ask any questions. except with this one girl. the bartender. angele. “right.. you’re that boyfriend, nothing personal, by how she talked about you, i assumed you wouldn’t care,” he says, looking at the guy, grabbing him by the wrist in an attempt to free himself from his hold.

and this is the part where any normal guy would apologize and try to make amends. but andrés is no normal guy. so he gives angele’s boyfriend one more smirk before speaking again. “well, the only good reason i can think of is that if my nose stays in place, then we can make it into  threesome.”

IT’S THE MENTION OF ANGELE that pushes his fists closer into the prince’s throat. perhaps it’s worse that he’s seen the face of the man so much hatred had been focused on, because now he knows the images that had dashed along in his mind when he had first heard the news could most likely be true, with him standing before him with a smirk cemented on his lips and no sign of remorse.

the last comment is what manages to draw out a chuckle from deep within his chest, a matching grin sitting dangerously on his lips as brows cock and the grip on his collar loosens for the entirety of it. “that’s too bad then,” he begins, his tongue sweeping over his lips before he continues: “cause you’re not my type.”

and in a flurry of chaos, he manages to cranked his arm backwards and connect knuckles to what he can only assume is teeth through the skin of his cheek. the dull numbness that followed on his knuckles had become a sensation he was much too familiar with, but with anger still pouring out of him and his hands no longer gripped onto his collar, he takes a step back and allows for the other to gather himself.

he did like a fair fight after all. 

[svlhouette]

he needs to stop

[svlhouette]

*/ ágata

Ágata had been vaguely briefed prior to their dinner with the Ryen’s by none other than her grandmother. As far as she knew, they were meeting up to discuss a potential partnership. She’d gotten little snippets of names, ages, and professions, but that was about it. With how meticulous the duchess of Saravia typically was on a day to day basis, Ágata found her lack of intricate details this time around to be quite odd. Suspicious even. And yet, the girl opted not to question it and simply went along for the ride. Something she’d soon regret by the end of dinner. 

When August’s father spoke out, Ágata smiled politely as he thanked them for being so patient and listened on intently. Her grandmother had a smug smile of her own plastered on her face, but for a much different reason it seemed. She glanced over at her grandmother curiously when August’s father did, only for her to practically freeze up like a dear in headlights at the sound of the word ‘marriage’ slipping from the man’s lips. Marriage? So that’s what she’d meant by ‘partnership.’ This wasn’t a business dinner at all, it was step one of an arranged marriage. 

Ágata felt sick to her stomach. She was barely eighteen and yet she was already being thrown off to the highest bidder? Sure, something like this wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for her family, but that didn’t make it any easier to process. She opened her mouth to say something, but was ultimately beat to the chase by August’s own questioning. “This is good news, young man. Families like ours take these sorts of measures all the time,” The duchess chimed in. “Yet not all are given the pleasure of getting to know one another to the fullest as you two will. You are very fortunate, don’t you think? Ágata?” Fortunate? Ágata wanted to scream, run, hide, be anywhere but there. 

She sat in silence for a moment, her expression the epitome of shock, until the sound of her grandmother clearing her throat zapped her back to reality. The blonde flashed her apparent suitor an apologetic glance before stammering out, “I-I…well..uh…” So much for composure.

BLINDSIDING AUGUST WAS one of his father’s specialties. even now, in the presence of one with such an esteemed title placed upon her, he can feel the smugness radiating off of the man on his left. august had always been a mere pawn in his climb to the top, the son that had become dispensable the minute kaden had walked into the manor. 

fortunate. similarities in wealthier families were always revealed in some form or another. money meant that futures were placed on lock, that outspoken children were unruly and ungrateful, and now, that they were to be grateful of such an opportunity as this one. already ghostly white knuckles intensify in color as the grip on the handkerchief draped across his lap tightens, the muscles of his jaws flexing in such a visible way that he feels his father’s eyes boring into him, but now has become one of the few occasions that august feels himself slipping from the place he held in what could only be called a home in label alone.

the tripping over words that is next laid out onto the table is more than welcomed, as words seem to be falling short in his own mind. the contemplation of whether or not to voice his opinion is one that consistently plays in his head, though now it’s become a question of what the smarter option would be. the silence from the ( suddenly ) proclaimed future spouses weighs itself so heavily on the room that there is a clear exchange of looks between the elders.

“i can see both of you seem uncomfortable by this proposal. i apologize for bringing it up so suddenly. perhaps we can give the both of you some time alone to figure out your stance on this marriage. duchess?” this response is one august knows too well as rehearsed. again his father has a contingency for every possible outcome, though this one should have been seen from miles away. silence creeps in and takes a hold of the room even after the receding sounds footsteps merge into white noise.

the corners of his lips tug upwards in what could only be assumed to be a grin, though hues hold none of the original intent in them. “i’m guessin’ she didn’t tell you about it either, huh? that’s fuckin’ rich.”