#REJECTORY

[petitsdieu]

@rejectory

GOTHIC (1986), dir. Ken Russell

[itsalwaysgal]

What if rejection means the other person gets that they don’t deserve you?

What if they’re actually saving you from the damage they couldn’t fix? From the emotional wreckage they couldn’t undo? From the grief they never meant to leave in your hands?

ps: but my chaotic-romantic head made up a scenario that somewhere out there, they’re trying so hard—becoming the best version of themselves while watching you grow from afar… just so you both can meet in the middle. healed, ready, steady, just in time.

@itsalwaysgal

[petitsdieu]

@rejectory, clark kent ... "what men do, women can do, if they're given an opportunity."

His choice communication slides a course off the heart and instead pinprick's an interlude — her gaze rocks side to side in spatial information, looking for meaning or (attempting) a settle in feeling, cutting through confusion. The results reflect to the little, and lessoning, window of time for responding back before the silence swells into something unpleasant. Even the slower baseline pace of her normal speech patterns can only go so far.

❛ Bien sûr⸺ But the capabilities of any being are too personal to be hung up on any singular aspect of someone... no? ❜

The bigger preference to get out of nonspecific conversation takes precedence over someone else leading it.

❛ You don't have to prove your goodness to me. I feel what you are. ❜

[archcr]

@rejectory wants to [ GUIDE ]: tony guiding clint through a crowded post-press junket by a steering touch to his elbow

WELL , THIS IS UNCOMFORTABLY NEW . newly uncomfortable . whatever .

those three fingertips on his elbow barely count as a touch and yet manage to be a very prominent part of Clint's sensory system right now . like an unruly child threatening to disappear at the grocery store the second mom turns away .

feels a little bit invasive , truth be told .

his voice drops low , one look cast to Tony from the corner of his eyes . " why exactly are we steering me through here like a horse at the rodeo ? "

it couldn't possibly have anything to do with Clint's bad , very horrible and undoubtedly disrespectful track record with the press . there's almost zero chance , after all , that he's ready to deck the guy asking what it's like to be the only non - powered person on the team for the fiftieth time . and concerning the unspecified projectile that had destroyed about 60k in camera equipment for FOX a month ago : nothing could be proven and Clint continues to plead the fifth .

[insidemyblood]

starter for @rejectory (Tommy)

The cold wind bit through Joel’s coat, sharp enough to sting. Snow crunched beneath the hooves of their horses, the rhythm slow and steady as they followed the ridge line. The trees around them were stripped bare, reaching up like bones against the slate-gray sky. Dead things clinging to life.

He shifted in the saddle, joints stiff from the cold and from riding too long. Two hours, maybe more, since they’d left Jackson. The silence between him and Tommy had stretched thin but familiar. Comfortable in some ways. In others, not so much.

Joel’s eyes swept the treeline again, a rifle secured near his lap. "Y'know, I've been thinkin’ about the fences." He leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening on the reins. "Northwest sector’s too old. Wood’s warped. Barbed wire’s saggin’ in places." Bill wouldn’t trust that kind of setup either.

[vitalphenomena]

@rejectory // kraven said: ❛ what kind of insurance coverage do we have for people falling through the fucking wall? ❜

IT WOULD HELP IF THEY WEREN'T ACTUALLY THROWN THROUGH THE FUCKING WALL.

"Sergei—"

Not today. Not today!

"We have general liability insurance and crime insurance. The policies cover different claims—have different deductibles. — I'm not sure which category this falls into. Before I call them: do I get an explanation?

[unpossession]

@rejectory said: ❛ i wouldn’t ask you to do this if i didn’t know you could handle it. i believe in you. ❜

The thing is, she's pretty sure that he would. One half-step into Vought tower and it was like being hit in the face with a wet towel, pinned to the floor and waterboarded. All trauma leaves energy. Willow sees it all. Not just the dead, but the living grievances; Ashley's hair is all over the floor here, no matter how meticulously vacuumed this building is. There's blood on the walls, jizz stains mark each carpet with a new wound. Gash.

It's quite overpowering; migraine is imminent.

She knows better though, than to argue with Homelander, of all people. So she bats her heavy glue-on lashes his way (why do they insist on a costume when Willow's strength lies behind the scenes, out of the camera-flashes and nestled among the car-wreck of whatever botched supe operation they want her to asses?) and forces a smile.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," It's a very convincing lie. "I'm just not very accustomed to coming to an active scene. I didn't think I'd have to do it again, after the last time..."

But the people love an underdog!

[sxrgeant]

"I need you here, actually." | @rejectory

He had felt slightly pathetic, standing just left of the closed door, leaning against the wall and waiting. It’s a familiar feeling, though. It’s been around longer than he could remember. Not embarrassment, not even shame, but something he couldn’t name. Trying to convince himself that what he thought was going to happen, wouldn’t happen, so maybe he wouldn’t feel disappointed if it didn’t.

He counts the minutes without trying to. Five, seven, ten. You’re not going to convince him to move until he hits 90 at least, he’ll tell ya that right now.

He’s very much aware that this time, Steve can hear him out here. Can hear every shift he makes. He knows because even with his own jacked up serum, he can hear Steve through the drywall. So when the door opens, it’s not a surprise. He heard Steve’s footsteps approaching before he even stuck his head out.

Yeah, he doesn’t say, because you’re like me, he doesn’t say.

He slips back into the room without a word, only speaks when he’s leaning a hip against the table. “33 minutes, by the way. To come to that conclusion.”

[sicariav]

@rejectory for Steve

Hospital wasn't an option, contacts lost and scattered vanishing one by one, HYDRA defunct. The doctors knew how to fix him up faster than he could breathe but they were the first to go. Re-integrated without hesitation. Drug store butterflies didn't cut it, needle and thread too messy, too hard to focus on getting threaded, hands shook too much. The faster he moved, the faster he bled out.

Had to keep moving though. Made some enemies in the nests he burned, attempts at rebuilding HYDRA but their goals didn't align. It wasn't world order, it wasn't peace, it was war. Domination. Destruction. Everything had to burn. It wasn't the HYDRA he fought for. Pierce would've gotten them in line.

Don't know if this is still the last place of residence or if some poor innocent unwitting family's about to be dragged in to the horror but the pain's reached up into his jaw and dug its claws in down to his knee. He doesn't have time to sit and sleep it off anymore. It's the only place he knows the shadows won't move.

His shoulder connects with the moulding, heavy and grating the plates take some of the paint with it as he slides down....down.....down. Tears a low groan from the base of his throat and it squeezes with the effort. No words for now, a knock'll have to do. Halfhearted and losing strength by the third. Shit...please be home. Please don't answer. Please...

At least the enemy'll keep him alive long enough to get their answers. After that, padded cell and R&R for the rest of his unnaturally long life. Sounds better than the freezer.

[svjetllost]

There was still a trace of the day’s heat clinging to the air. It was not summer yet, but the light held longer now. Blue and orange streaked across the sky, refusing to leave quietly. "And what table might that be?"

Even at a glance, it was clear she was built to endure, sharp where it counted. The kind who knew how to survive, and more importantly, how to win. A good one to keep close, if you wanted to stay breathing. "What is it you really want?"

He had a guess. But it was better to let her speak it into the air, truth always carried more weight when it came from the mouth of the ambitious.

rejectory asked: "i want a seat at the table." mary to remmick

[echoestm]

@rejectory

Inherited black eyes are rolled in annoyance, uncaring of the logistics—whether or not that's something image in reflective surface can perceive or be bothered by. Hallucination. Not real anyway. The way he calls Tara That Girl in that tone though says everything it needs to about his hate boner for her sister. Like he's still mad, a couple decades after bloody gory death that her mom was making it with somebody other than him. "Shut up." Petulant mutter back. His feelings are not hers, this is not an echo chamber.

Tara's got a right to want space from her and the LEGACY she's inherited. This is blood they don't share. GHOSTFACE. Books. Podcasts. Dreddit creepers and beyond. A life interrupted. GALE. Stab installments. The never-ending invasion of nonexistent privacy, phones and cameras and social media lives. No peace from infamy or strange horrible fandom.

Sam just rolls up flannel sleeves and helps move boxes. It's the heightened emotion around Tara being on her own that's got her seeing and hearing the old man in spite of faithfully taken regimen. She's sure of it. For her, it's only natural to worry. Billy Loomis had been an only son according to Wikipedia. Sam doesn't really remember a time when she wasn't a big sister.

"In before you even think about it— don't even try the whole Team Loomis thing again. It still says CARPENTER on my ID. You're not my real dad."

[insidemyblood]

starter for @rejectory (Johnny Storm)

"Johnny!" Reed's voice echoed up through the stairwell. "Could use your help down here."

His coat was half-buttoned, goggles perched on his forehead, brows slightly furrowed in contemplation. The first prototype of the Fantasti-Car hovered a few inches off the ground, humming quietly.

"It's… almost there," Reed muttered to himself. "Graviton dampeners holding at 84.3%. Plasma coil temperature within tolerable limits, although the stability vector’s off by a fraction." He scribbled something back on his chalkboard.

[kinomorebi]

@rejectory asked "Abandonment requires expectation." Peter to Felicia.

“Well well well… if I didn’t know any better, Spider—” Voice of lacey silk, she circles him with the makings of an enemy. Predator and prey. A cat with claws readied to strike. Movement ultimately brings her to a stop just a short distance in front of him. She’d use the space there like a tool. “—I’d think you were making implications.”

He poses it as a means to push her towards her own realization. At least, thats what she assumes of him. What she expects of him. If he was to be holding out bait, she’d bite, but never without unsettling the trap. Never.

“Seeing as expectation is a given, doesn’t that make abandonment inevitable?”

[vitalphenomena]

@rejectory // kraven asked: "new dress?"

THIS ISN'T EVER HUMILIATING UNTIL KRAVEN MAKES IT HUMILIATING.

Dmitri smoothes out his skirts and clears his throat. It is a daintier sound than he is accustomed to.

He's not a very fashionable individual. He's only as creative as necessary. We can't all effortlessly dazzle in carefully-curated couture like Elsie Fan.

"If you don't like it, I'm not changing." Shifting, that is. He's said it once and he'll say it again: "I'm not your avatar."

[nightmarefuele]

x.

Billions of deaf ears on a billion deaf heads. You should've heard the cheers. Could you, Atreides, swimming around in that golden head? Maybe to an outworlder it's all clamp, no noise, just blind ants. Swarming down on Giedi Prime at a hammerhead crawl with the Warlord Emperor in tow settled the ripples. There are no heretics in house. All the would-be's have been deposed.

What does Feyd-Rautha need do besides open down the grinless line of his eyes? Smile. A bodied auditorium glittering milky neath his tongued empyrean procession.

Baron. The planet knows.

Mah di with his brows set on a foul flavor, and his cheek pinching about it. He'd be inscrutable if he weren't so tensile. A middle going both ways. Feyd-Rautha, now royal proper, has his head on smug and silent, his vertebrae all cushioned on the flare of a tête-à-tête. The side facing Paul. Not that rail of a window, grey and bleak and fibroin as his back, his collar, his splayed-winged chest.

Feyd slips a wedge through skin and sucks the fruit clean. Says, through pome, ❛ Watching you panic at it's almost as fun as imagining it on. ❜ He's got a knee propped transversal, bobbing the boot. Smiles his brow forward. ❛ You, ❜ who else.

The bald arms bracing it out are closer to Paul's than Feyd-Rautha's. Planet's own, yet he outlies, watching something mirrored. If the mirror were wrong and all scared up inside, hunched in on its scrawny bird self like the mother he once had would've been. Could've been. Would muad-eeb's mother be a little disturbed, please, just a little?

Paul's scrawny except for the right places where he's not. Feyd-Rautha's the right places everywhere.

He thinks himself back from the teetotal gladiatorial bug. His two-hundredth. His first real Atree-i-dees. That one was scrawny, too. Feyd-Rautha bends up, and posts both feet on the floor. It's so private here the air wants to shush what moves.

❛ Looks comfortable. You won't even notice it's there. Mm? ❜ Sylphine slip of a thing. More gauze than fabric. More water than either, or both. ❛ Shy? Try it on. Give me a twirl. ❜

A leash crawls up on the defunct presenter palm.

@rejectory

[sxrgeantbarnes]

"you shouldn't have let me leave." | prompt | @rejectory

He’s tired, hasn't been sleeping right. Bone deep kind of tired. He’s pretty sure that's his natural state more often than not lately. Real big sob story there– he’ll have more time to cry himself a damn river when he’s alone and not sitting down making some serious eye contact with a wall. “When’s the last time I’ve been able to stop you from doing something you’ve already set your mind to, huh?”

Steve makes him tired. Because with Steve comes adrenaline that he’s never had a handle on, followed by an inevitable crash when he’s left to himself. Maybe that’s separation anxiety. Sitting in an apartment in Brooklyn waiting to see him again in the twentieth century. Mirroring it in the twenty-first. He doesn’t think it’ll ever change— he’d sure prefer it didn’t. 

There’s gotta be a red mark on the side of his face where he keeps rubbing his temple. He pulls his knuckles away from his eye to lift his hand in a sweeping gesture. You know, what can you do. “Not a day in our lives.”