#on borrowed time (da Yvonne)

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

Harper didn’t particularly have any specific purpose when they appeared in Yvonne’s presence. Their purpose, they supposed, was taking a break. It wasn’t truly an escape until they knew they were somewhere safe. Being in the presence of such a dear friend fulfilled that requirement with ease. Expression softening nearly as soon as they saw their friend, Harper smiled. “ I hope I’m not bothering anything. Any important studying going on, or do I have permission to interject ? ” // a harper has arrived ! @rabbitholewritten

@rabbitholewritten

The radio clicked off and the clothes iron set aside once the knock came to their door. She hadn't been expecting company, but then Yvonne didn't really... know anyone. No one outside work and the scant few people she had kept in touch with from her university days; most of which had gotten married and had children- clicking their tongues at Yvonne still being single and childless. It was from a place of concern, allegedly; no one wanted to be a spinster.

The tension left her shoulders immediately upon seeing Harper on their doorstep. They had been a mismatched pair in university: one a fatherless woman with aspirations above her station, and the other the scion of a nouveau riche family whose relationship with the concept of "biological sex" was scarcely acknowledged. Despite the canyon's worth of differences between them, Yvonne and Harper's friendship had lasted well beyond those halcyon school days. "As a matter of fact, I am studying the best method on how to iron socks." Yvonne replied, opening the door wider. "As fascinating as that is, I can spare some time for you. Just remember to take off your shoes."

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

Morgan: Thunder stone

Yvonne: Dawn Stone

If you were a Pokémon, how did you evolve? (expand for full pics) tag yourself

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

“I think I might be as old as you now. Maybe even older.”

Morgan’s “voice” echoed in Yvonne’s ears, giving her momentary pause as she continued to oversee the construction of the colony.  They were still too tired to Front, hovering groggily near the surface. “Not literally, ‘cause of timeloops and all that. But emotionally. Soulfully? One of those two.”

Yvonne hummed and flicked through another report that had been sent to her datapad. She had gotten quite accustomed to the technology of this era, if she did say so herself. At the very least she didn’t “peck at the screen like a granny”. An outsider looking in probably wouldn’t notice unless they really examined Yvonne’s body language; the way she squinted at the screen sometimes, or how her hand would hover awkwardly over buttons and touchpads while she tried to remember what did what. She walked on eggshells around the terminal on the ship, but could anyone blame her? In the wormhole, it ignited if someone looked at it wrong.  

“Maybe.” Yvonne replied after a moment. Neither of them knew how old Morgan had been when they died in the timelines where they lived on those parallel colonies; anywhere between fifty to ninty. In at least one timeline, they had been kept alive for centuries due to the machinations of a tyrannical lunatic.  Yvonne couldn’t help the icy sting of pity piercing her gut as the realization settled in.  One hundred and twenty-four years as of their last birthday had felt too long to her. But it was far too late for her to pass on. The tangled, gnarled mess she had made of her’s and Morgan’s souls when she had still been bitter and angry and half-mad had seen to that.  Her rest would probably not come until Actor -wherever he was skulking about- finally got tired of this façade.  “Why bring it up?”

“Cause I need to tell someone. If I told any of the crew: ‘hey, I’m actually old as fuck because of timey-whimey bullshit’, they’ll think I’ve gone crazy. I don’t know how much they remember, and honestly I hope they don’t remember everything.” Their voice lowered, heavy with remorse and lifetimes of grief. “It’s better for everyone if I’m the only one who does.” 

“You do not wear martyrdom well,” Yvonne said. She could almost feel Morgan recoil, retreating that much deeper into their inner world. “In any case, it is not as though you are the only one to blame. I know you are fond of him, but your Head Engineer made just as many mistakes as we did. Perhaps even more egregiously- and before you say it: No. I am not just saying that because he has more than a passing resemblance to the Mark I knew.” Yvonne let out a breath through her nose and ran a hand over her hair, attempting to coax a few loose curls back into place. It didn’t stay for very long, and fell back against her forehead as if to spite her. 

Morgan was silent for a long period of time- so long Yvonne speculated that they had fully withdrawn into their inner world, wrapping themself in the bliss of “slumber” like a blanket on a cold night.  Yvonne went back to work. If the Head Engineer noticed her being particularly curt with him, he did well to mask it (a flicker of remorse and guilt. A flash of genuine hurt before he swallowed it down and replaced with with a porcelain mask of professionalism. Yvonne knew her bias would never allow her to speak to him; that was for Morgan to do.) 

“You said ‘we’ earlier.” Morgan piped up after a few hours of silence. By this point the work day had been completed. Yvonne snapped the uniform jacket crisply on the clothes hanger.  

“I do not know. In time, mayhaps. When we can start learning how to forgive ourselves.” 

“...What do you think I did when I was Fronting? I made my fair share of bad decisions. Choices that antagonized your friends, made things harder for us and got people killed. I will carry that weight with me forever.” 

“Will it ever go away?”

Morgan was silent again, contemplative. Yvonne settled into bed, pushing aside two of the three overstuffed pillows. She turned to look outside the small window in Morgan’s quarters. This world two moons looking over it, sharing a space in the sky and glowing gently against an expanse of a thousand, thousand glittering stars. It was poetic in a way she could not quite put her finger on, but it felt significant somehow.  Ruminations for another day, mayhaps. 

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

Morgan did not have an ironing board in their quarters. How did Morgan not have an ironing board in their quarters? They were the Captain of a spacecraft and the de-facto leader of a colony. Oh, but they made sure to bring their mug collection; that was the important part. And their hair- God, how could they stand having such long bangs covering half their face? But it would make them upset if Yvonne got a haircut while they rested, so that was off the table.

Yvonne's brow pinched and their lips pursed around the bobby pins in her mouth as she attempted to slick all that hair back. Her hair had never been so hard to manage, and Damien made it look so effortless. Yvonne was finally able to make it stay with the help of at least four bobby pins, and Morgan's dress shirt, jacket and slacks were pressed to crisp perfection.

"Morgan" would probably get off looks for looking so uncharacteristically well put together, but it would only be for a day or so. Morgan needed the rest.

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

📼 !

Send 📼 to see an early childhood memory of my muse’s

-----

A dusty television forgotten in a half-demolished van sputters to life, buzzing with static. Through the haze a picture begins to coalesce, faded and hazy from time. T̴͊ͅḫ̶̀ȃ̵̯ţ̵̈́'̵̀ͅs̸͎̈́ ̶̭̎a̵͇͝l̴̹͑l̵͓̉ ̵̐ͅt̴͍̐h̶̳͘a̴̞̾t̷̨̿ ̸̻̅i̸̧̒t̴͈̉ ̶̠̌ì̶͙s̶͉̉,̷̼̐ ̸̺́r̸̨̒î̴͇g̵̳͐ḣ̶̠t̵̲̊?̸̟̎

Morgan, about five or six, scampers up to a male figure leaning over his desk, reviewing c̵̹̉͗̔̀́̉̀̒̑̊̔à̶̡͙͇̰̙̠͆̾̐̅ͅm̵̨̹͓̆̈́͐̓̃̂̕p̵̙̬̍͛͐̊̂̒̒̋͆̒͋̑̏̂͝ą̴̛̤͎̺͕͎͍͎̈́́̀̽͐̔̈̊͠͝i̷̧͎͚̒̈̚g̶͈̖͎̲̝͎̺̺͖̫̾̾̓̄̊̔̂̒͒͘͜n̴̗̹͓̞̙̘̮̰̪̪̝͑͗̈́́̈̅̄͛̂̕͠ ̸̨̨̧̠͕̰̘̹̼̳͉́̏̊̅̂̉̑́͒̕̚͜͝n̷̝̖͕̯̯͈͉͙̩̺͊͒͋̉͋͆̃̏͘̚̕͝ͅō̵̼͚̫̬̟̖̿͒̋̚t̶̳͚̆e̷̘̳̣̍̈́̆̆͘ͅͅs̸̢̢̘̦̤̩̼̰̜̯̼̣̦̱̝͐́̊̈́̑̃̔ something about architecture a child so young could never understand. He looks down at his child and -s̴͖̀ñ̵̼e̸̗̋e̶̱̅r̶̘͗s̶̭̍ ̷̥͠i̵͖̚n̵͈̒ ̴̠̅d̵̰̔ì̵̙s̸̰̓g̶͈͑u̴̬͠s̷̺̐t̶̻͆.̴̙̋

"̶̬̎I̵͝ͅ ̷̖͋ţ̵̆ó̵̢l̸̖̄d̶̨̀ ̶̙̾y̷̭̚o̴͙̚ȕ̵̬ ̵͈̆t̴̞̽ḥ̴̏a̷̗͗t̸̻̋ ̵̨̕y̶̠̒ò̴̠u̶͇̇ ̸̝̅a̸̹̍r̸͓̕e̴̲͑ ̵̙̂n̴̊͜e̵͕̒v̵͈͊e̶̩̔r̵̰͆ ̸̳̀a̴̠͝l̸̙̍lo̴̙͂w̶̹̎ḙ̵̾ḑ̵̌ ̴̫̉i̴̛̭n̵͓̊ ̴̣͆h̴͍͛e̸͓̅r̸̲̐e̴̲͘.̶͈͘"̴̤̀"̷̒ -smiles gently, "You know you're not allowed in here when I'm working."

s̵͎̄h̸̦͝e̸̦̚ ̶̬͌l̴̿ͅo̴̺̾o̸͖͒ķ̵̎s̸͙͌ ̵̫̀d̸͖̐ŏ̶̺ẁ̴̲ň̵̡ ̵̹̌a̴͕̚t̶̞͘ ̵̘͝h̷̔ͅe̵͓̽r̶͖͛ ̷̘̅ḟ̵̖e̴̼͌e̷͙͐t̸͈͛,̴͕̒ ̸͉͛ḁ̵̓s̴̊ͅh̵̠͋a̸̬͌m̵̺̔e̷̲̒d̶̪͌. Morgan shuffled their feet, little body not quite used to standing still yet. They pull out a picture book they had tucked under their arm and open it to a page diligently marked with a smiley face bookmark.

"What does this word mean?" They point to a word in their book- a children's story meant to teach Greek children how to read, pudgy finger pressing against the word "αστέρι". "Astéri- Star." "Like what you call me?"

"Not quite," he chuckled good naturedly. "I'll go over the rest of that book later, alright? Papa's working." -h̸̙̋ī̷̱s̸̭͘ ̸̭͊h̷̖̃a̸̡͆ṇ̵̂d̸̤͑ ̴͓͑t̵̉ͅr̵̛͖ë̴̢m̴̠͗b̷̜̀l̷͜͠e̵̹͊d̵̮͌ ̶̺͛a̸͓̓s̷̻͝ ̵̯͆i̵̳͗t̷̥͒ ̶̨̿c̸͇͠u̴͎͑ṟ̷̛ĺ̵̯e̵̮͂d̶͚̊ ̸͓̾ỉ̴̬n̴̟̿ṭ̵̾o̸͓̓ ̷̲́a̴̼͐ ̴̙̂f̷̙͝i̷̖͐s̶̺̓t̶͔̚,̸̖̍ ̷̯̎t̶̩̄h̷̥̓e̸̲̍ ̴̘̚m̵͓̓a̵̻̕n̵͎̉ ̴̬͗ṣ̷̈e̶̼͘e̵̕͜ṯ̶̚h̴̩̑i̴̹̋n̴̜̓g̴͔͑.̶̣̈́ ̶̤̌"̶̯͂Y̶͖̒o̴̲͛ǘ̵̬ ̴̣̏ć̵̱a̶̧̿m̵͍̒ě̵̻ ̶͙̒i̶͕̅ñ̵͈ ̵̱̏h̸͖̒e̴͕͝r̸̖̐e̴͔̎ ̴͉̀ţ̵̓o̴̼͑ ̷͔̊ḅ̷̉ö̵͖́t̵̑ͅh̴̙͂e̸̯̒ṛ̴̍ ̷̜̃m̴̟̎ȅ̶͓ ̵͇̕o̷̹͠v̷̦͗ȅ̷̢r̵̮̾ ̸̲̉t̶͕̕h̴͈̏a̴̩̓t̶̢̃?̴̪̀"̴͒͜ ̵̮͊Ḫ̵͊e̴̳͒ ̶̳̈́r̶̓ͅḁ̴̾ȋ̵̡ś̸̪ẻ̸͔ḋ̵͜ ̷̭̌t̵̢̀h̸̥̒ą̴̊t̸̘͂ ̷̠͌h̶͇̓a̸̠͛n̷̺̎ḓ̵̾ ̴͍̀t̶̤͝ő̵̭ ̶̟̑s̶̥͘h̴̝͠o̸̝̒o̷̭̿ ̷̲̈́ẖ̶̄ě̷̜r̶͕͝ ̶̨͊a̶͓͊w̴̨̌a̷̧̔ỷ̵͙.̴̰̐ ̵̮͛"̷̍ͅO̷͇͑ú̷͜t̷͇̾ ̸̯͑o̴͉̕f̷̘͌ ̸̼̔m̷̦̂y̸͇͝ ̵̮́s̸̪̋ȉ̸͓g̴̛̪h̵̞͠t̷̥̚.̸̦̂ ̷̳̀N̴͋ͅỏ̵͕w̷̬͝.̴̬̿"̸̬̇ - He reached down to pat the head of dark curls.

S̵̤͂h̵͎͋ĕ̴̡ ̵̲̈́h̶͚͆u̴̳͑ǹ̷̞c̷̝̚h̸̢̍ë̸̺́d̶͕̒ ̶̻̇h̸̢͊ȇ̷̙r̴̜̀ ̵͉̍s̷̳͋h̵̳̅o̴̭͐u̶̥͒l̴̗͒ḏ̴̀ě̸̮r̴̡̀s̴̳̄ ̶̟̽á̶̞n̸̫̽d̶̥́ ̸͚̂m̴̺͝u̷͕͌t̴͇̔t̶̬̋ĕ̷͜r̷͖̒è̸̫ḍ̵̑ ̵͓̈á̷̢n̶̦̈́ ̸̰̿á̶̗p̷̤̓o̸̢̍l̷͇͑o̴̹̎g̶̜͋ỵ̴̾,̴͈̈ ̶̠̓b̵̲̍į̴̒t̸͎̋ī̶̳n̷̠̆g̸̝̚ ̷͇͒h̶̭̀ȅ̶͜r̶̻̓ ̸̝́l̵̖̄i̶̼̕p̵͎̈́ ̶̗̃h̷̨̓â̸̳r̷͗͜ḑ̴͛ ̸̯͘ẽ̴͚n̸̾͜ò̶̟u̶͈͌ǵ̶̪h̸̡̾ ̴̯̇t̶̲͂ơ̴̱ ̴͉̽ḏ̵͆r̸̮̅ă̷̖w̵̅ͅ ̴̢̃b̴͉́l̴̟̀o̶̻̊ó̴̰d̷̹̈́.̶̮͛ ̴̜͗Ā̴̲n̸͈̎ÿ̴̗́t̸̝̏h̴͔̑i̴͎͘n̶̹̂g̵̠̕ ̸̱̀n̵̖̚o̵͉͐t̸̰͠ ̴̠͝t̴̞̎o ̷̨̆ć̶̥r̵͖̅y̸͚̋.̵͙̈́

They smiled brightly and replied with a cheery "okay!" before skipping out of the room, book clutched to their chest.

The image fizzles out with an electric buzz, a singular white lie cutting across the black screen before it slowly fades, left to decay like everything else no longer plot relevant.

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

(I’m not about to fall asleep, lol, so I did one for Yvonne. She got Shuckle c:

Well, would you look at that! It seems a Shuckle wants to be your partner! Shuckle, also called the Mold Pokémon, stores berries inside of its shell and mixes them into a delicious juice. Like most bug and rock Pokémon, Shuckle are drawn to people who are creative and determined, though they are also known to also be exceptionally perceptive and conflict-avoidant Pokémon. They make the perfect partner for trainers who are thorough and stay in their own lane, and have a deep internal sense of imaginative many don't see. My friend, this marks the beginning of your and Shuckle's journey together. Welcome to the world of Pokémon!

Who’s your Pokémon partner? [200 possibilities]

Welcome, young trainer, to the Pokémon laboratory! I’m Professor Bayberry and here the Pokémon partner selection process works a little differently — instead of the trainer picking the Pokémon, the Pokémon picks the trainer. Why don’t you sit down and answer a few questions while we wait to see which of our many Pokémon chooses you?

— [ it’s finally done! head’s up, this is a long quiz, 44 questions! art credit here ]

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

Let's see. What about... Morgan with Flying, or Moira with Psychic?

Give me a Pokemon Type and I'll Make a Team :)

Morgan probably isn't going to be winning any high-tier competitions, but that really isn't the point, lmao.

Rowlet- If Decidueye wasn't ghost/grass he would have made the cut. But regardless, Rowlet is just a polite little man. If you've seen Ash's Rowlet in the Sun/Moon Anime, Morgan's would be like that; sleeping in their backpack, eating their snacks, and just generally being the best little bird orb he can be. Noivern-Aside from giving Morgan's team a little extra 'oomph', I imagine she would be their guard-bat dragon. Sweet as sugar to Morgan, and then turning around to immediately hiss threateningly at whoever may be lurking in the dark (especially since Morgan can get it a little narrow-minded when taking pictures outside). Rotom- Rotom is one of those Pokemon that I imagine would always be on Morgan's team in some capacity or another. In battle, they would be the jack-of-all, master-of-none to try and mitigate the weaknesses of an all-flying type team. Gyarados- She's primarily used for water-transportation, but she can absolutely hold her own in a battle- because she's a Gyarados. Her species are infamous for being destructively violent, so I don't imagine there are a lot of pictures of them in their natural habitat. Morgan shamelessly uses their Gyarados for pictures that would otherwise be incredibly difficult to get. Chatot- Primarily a non-combatant, Morgan's Chatot as been trained since hatching to translate sign language to vocal language. The sad truth is not everyone in the world knows sign or is willing to wait for Morgan to write things down. Since he's a service Pokemon, he spends the most time out of his Pokeball. Tropius- Morgan's primary flyer and, because deep down I'm a sentimental old what'cha'ma'callit, a gift Pokemon from their parents. A strong and steady flyer, a lot of Morgan's aerial shots have been taken from Tropius's back.

-------

Moria (You said Moira specifically, so this will be pre WKM)

Gardevoir- A gentle, calming presence, Gardevoir is an emotional support partner, softly singing or humming whenever Moira is several days into a stressful case. She is also not opposed to the idea of forcing Moira into sleeping using Hypnosis, or by levitating her paperwork out of reach until she takes a proper break.

Gallade (Mega)- Not that she'd ever admit it to anyone, but Moira is a hopeless romantic at heart, and when she was little she fantasized about a charming and gallant prince to come and rescue herself and her mother from their poor living conditions. She inevitably grew out of those fantasies, but her love for those old fairy tales remained.

Espeon- There really isn't any deeper meaning other than the fact that Moira loves cats. Espeon isn't a cat, but you can bet your bottom dollar that he's just as pampered and spoiled as the average housecat. Moira first got him as an Eevee, and despite him acting indifferent at best, it's hard to ignore the fact that Espeon evolves from happiness.

Slowbro- Look at that doofy smile; there is nothing in that head. Slowbro is one of Moira's oldest Pokemon, having met him as a Slowpoke trying to fish in a water-filled pothole on the side of the road. He doesn't do much other than stand, stare, and occasionally chew on his paw, but Moira loves him regardless.

Raichu- Received in a trade wherein she gave the other person a Kadabra. Moira knew what a Raichu was (who doesn't?) but she wasn't expecting a darker, rounder, much more energetic Raichu who flew around on its tail and loved flapjacks. Moira does love her strange little Raichu, and finds an odd sense of comradery in that they're both seen as "other" for not being entirely native to the country.

Delphox- Moira's very first Pokemon, as a matter of fact. Fennekin was most likely brought to California as an exotic pet, but she either escaped or was abandoned. No one ever specifically mentioned having ever lost a Fennekin so Moira, young and stubborn, insisted that meant Fennekin as hers; finders keepers after all. Regardless of how she came into Moira's life, she's grateful for her presence, as she's been a constant pillar of support and familiarity, especially useful when she started living on her own.

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

Another October 10th, another day spent squirreled up on the couch watching episodes of Golden Girls in between dissassociative episodes.

It got easier every year, but some days hit harder than others (last year they had been 90% fine, so this relapse was kind of a kick in the pants); specifically the morning of the 11th, where Morgan would wake up with the phantom taste of fancy-ass champagne on their tongue and a stiffness in their neck. At least they were able to function like an actual adult today; that was something, right?

Morgan took a sip from their lukewarm mug, sputtering in surprise when bitter-sweet green tea splashed against their tongue instead of pumpkin-spice coffee. It would have freaked them out, once upon a time, but Morgan was weird- same-body-roommates with a mirror ghost. She must have decided at one point that two cups of coffee in as many hours was "too much caffeine", and disposed of it when She and Morgan had Switched.

"Rude." Morgan directed the thought pointedly in Her direction and set their mug down. They got the body-roommate-head-ghost (which was as difficult to describe as it sounded) equivalent of a shrug. Morgan huffed and buried deeper into their blanket cocoon, but not before "accidentally" flipping to another show as revenge.

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

"It's almost time. Are you ready?"

"... No. Honestly? I'm... I'm horrified. What if I can't fix this? What if everything I've tried so far is for nothing? I don't think I'd be able to..."

"That's enough. We do not know what is waiting for us. Giving up isn't like you."

"I've tried! I've tried, and I've tried, and I've tried! Nothing works! And I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired."

"I know."

"I don't want to keep doing this."

"I know."

"... Will I still be... me after this?"

"Only you can decide that."

"..."

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

The spotlight was off and the curtains were drawn. It was just the two of them now, all pretenses of civility between the two of them shattered like ashes and dust. A pause between performances, wherein he could drop the facade of being anything resembling a decent man. It must have been exhausting, for how quickly he shed his previous costume and draped himself in fine red silk and black velvet.

Yvonne's jaw clicked. No matter how many layers of foundation he slapped on, or how many hours he spent quaffing his hair to perfection, she would always see him. A monster masquerading as a man. A soul corrupted and decayed it was a wonder it didn't bleed outwards. Not that he noticed, so lost in his delusions of grandeur and "heroism".

"You act like I had some other choice, then and now." She snarled. "You haven't gotten any better at pretending to care about others, unsurprisingly."

@xshatteredreflectionsx​ arrived to center stage!

A patron of the arts required the utmost attention before his grand debut. The hair, makeup, and costumes were all but a feeble attempt to feed his ever-growing ego. Alas, such generosities could not be said for the reoccurring cast that orbited his success. Not everyone could bask in the glory of the lead role! Such sacrifices required years, nay, centuries of dedication only he could provide.  

“Ah, you’re looking…. well.” The disgust rolled off his tongue purely to antagonize the other. His nose twitched as though an unwelcome stench hung in the air by their presence. “I can’t say I’m surprised you’ve come to share the limelight with me. I thought that dishonorable colonel did away with you. Such a sad state of affairs that was. And in my own home too.”

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

△ soooo you and the mayor....... anything between you two? 👀👀👀

Difficult Questions (Open)

Four Six

(TW for minor racism/classism)

There is the tiniest twitch in the corner of Yvonne's mouth. A flicker of hurt and a deep sigh through her nose. "Seven."

" Interracial couples are generally more accepted in this century, but when Damien and I were still ourselves, it would have caused a scandal. A white-passing nouveau riche man and a fatherless bitch who was very clearly not white? His political ambitions would have gone down in flames, and I would have never be taken seriously as an attorney. People would assume my rich husband threw money at the district until they gave me the keys to the District Attorney's office."

You can see her jaw tense up, something roiling just below the skin at her indignation. Hatred and fury, as hot as the fires of hell. Just as quickly as it comes, it is gone. Yvonne breathes evenly through her mouth, pushes her hair back, and gives her clothing a sharp tug to straighten imaginary wrinkles. "Even if I did want to pursue anything, Morgan and this world's Damien are like siblings. And considering I am only borrowing their body while they rest..." A stiff shake of her head. "...It's just not meant to be. No matter how much a part of me wants it."

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

So I've been thinking about this for a while (and there are too many instances of "DA" showing up for me to ignore. So! Tap that lovely little heart if you would be interested in interacting with The District Attorney for a while.

I can't guarantee she'll handle everything much better than Morgan, but it'll prevent them from complete mental and emotional collapse.

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

It’s Witchsona time!

Stolen from: @briingmayflowers​

Tagging: All mutuals

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

The sheet-covered bathroom mirror didn't come as a surprise to Morgan. She (Yvonne. She called herself Yvonne. It was the closest thing she had to a name, and Morgan let her have it in the spirit of peaceful coexistence) didn't like mirrors even on the best of days. But today, October 10th, disgust turned to fear, rage, and overwhelming sorrow. Morgan could feel it buzzing in the back of their skull. It picked their skin like someone had just dumped ice water on them. Morgan shut their eyes and counted backwards from ten in their head.

'When... This happens,' Morgan began in their mind, waving a hand towards the floral print hanging on their wall, 'I don't make a fuss about it anymore. But could you at least wait until I make myself look like a presentable human being?'

They turned on their camera phone and propped it up on the sink, holding a hair tie between their teeth as they began the arduous process of taking their bed head.

It was admittedly odd, talking to the ghost half-possesing them like she was an annoying roommate (which she was? Kinda sorta? A body...mate?). But anything was better than constantly screaming and mentally fighting with her. And it made Morgan's therapist happy so- win-win.

'I would like to think I am better than I was," Yvonne responded. Her voice was like wind whistling through dry branches; eerily calm and quiet. A sharp contrast to her self-assured confidence.

'Anything's better than waking up with a bleeding hand and every mirror in the apartment broken.' Morgan replied, wincing as the hair brush tore through a stubborn clump of curls. They felt Yvonne recoil in shame. Morgan still had scars from stitches on the knuckles of their left hand- one that refused to fully disappear even after several years.

Morgan pulled their hair into a half-up-do and looked themselves over in their phone. Mark would say he wore it better, but what did he know? 'Will watching I love Lucy all morning make you feel better?'

'Very much so.'

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

OOC

I’ve been playing St@rdew V@lley again, since the new update just dropped and I have a PC now; which means I can download mods. (St@rdew V@lley Enhanced is something I absolutely recommend, btw.) I ended up romancing Abigail on my main, but Yvonne would fall completely head over heels for Leah. 

Like, calling Morgan at 3 in the morning and asking what she should do about this levels of “I’m in love but I am a disaster at romance. What do?” As if Morgan “I’m going to yearn for someone for months because I’m insecure” Papageorgiou would know. 

[xshatteredreflectionsx]

(Reblogging because I’m happy with this. Ft The Attorney being touch starved AF, the squeakqual)

(So, what do you do when you have Actor on he brain? Write, of course!

I’ve never actually written Actor before, so here’s hoping I got it right =7=b )

The world on the other side of the glass never changed. It was always the Manor, slowly decaying over time. Luxurious drapes and furniture succumbing to mold and vermin. She had seen opportunistic thieves rummaging through the Manor once, ignoring the ghost stories surrounding the place; only focusing on the fact that someone fabulously wealthy used to live there.

  The Groundskeeper chased them off, but eventually he too succumbed to time. He died in a rose bed; she thinks.  Perhaps the only person who had died and stayed dead, since she hadn’t seen him patrolling the grounds in years. She hadn’t seen him in the Void either, so he must have passed on to an actual afterlife.  

(And that wasn’t fair. Why did he get to go, while she was forced to stay in this Hell?!)

She didn’t need to breathe. She hadn’t in decades, but she did so regardless. If nothing else, it was a hollow attempt to cling onto something she had when she was alive. (It she had ever been alive at all. It was getting harder and harder to tell). Stumbling through the darkness, ice and snow still clinging to her shoulders, she hobbled towards the only consistent thing in this world: the mirror.  The Manor on the other side remained empty and decrepit. A reflection of herself, mayhaps; a hollow, broken, rotting thing. She pressed her hand against the glass, and stared at the pitiful reflection of the woman she had become. Sickly gray skin scarred with a spiderweb of cracks, expanding from a spot just beneath her ribcage, where a splotch of dark reddish-brown stained the front of her dress.  Her left eye had long since crumbled away, leaving only a jagged hole in its place that grew more and more every passing decade. What remained of her face would crumble away soon enough, she surmised. And then? ...Then she’d truly be nothing. Another faceless voice to join in the choir of souls who wailed and begged for a way out.  

It was an ending. And she wanted nothing more than for this farce of an existence to end.  

The Man Wreathed in Blue had left his cabin sanctuary. The Woman Who Burned Red was nowhere to be found.  There was no one left to direct her anger towards. No one to stalk, hunt, blame and curse.  Even the Voices seemed to have grown bored of her, tossing her aside like a broken doll in search of something more interesting to play with.    

She pressed her forehead against the glass and then, slowly, sunk to her knees.  

“You win,” She said, voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’m done playing. Do what you want with me.”

“You’re giving up?” Another voice cut through the Void, confidant and almost musical. “Moira, that isn’t like you at all.”

She didn’t know that name –Moira- but the voice did cause a spark of familiarity to ignite in her chest.  She looked over her shoulder. A man dressed in a fine red suit sauntered towards her, casually traversing this endless darkness like it was his own backyard.  He stopped a few steps away, the end of his silver-tipped cane thudding against the “ground” with all the weight of a judge’s gavel.  He looked over her pitiful state, compassion and sympathy creasing his brow. “Oh, my dear,” He began, his voice almost gentle. “What has he done to you?”

“...Marcus?” She hedged. She remembered... A party celebrating his first successful movie.  An extravagant wedding on the coast.    And then...

“That won’t do. I won’t abide such formality between friends. Please, just Marc is fine.” He insisted, all charm and charisma. He cocked his head to the side and hummed, “Although, we weren’t as close friends as I would have liked. But that’s in the past! I am glad I was able to find you, Moira.” Marc leaned forward, balancing his weight on his cane. “I want to help.”  

“Help,” She parroted, not entirely convinced.  Marc nodded, his smile never faltering. “How?”

“Weeeelllll, I have a little project in the works. Several, in fact. But I find myself without a co-star. A one-man show can only be entertaining for so long. That’s where you come in!” With a dramatic flourish, he kicked his cane up into his hand and pointed the head at her.  “You’ve always had a certain...” He waved his free hand, searching for the right term, “Je ne sais quoi.”

“No.”  

Marc blinked, taken aback by her bluntness. “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” She said again, firmer this time. “I’m not going to be your... your hapless damsel in distress.”

“No, no, no, no! You have it all wrong!” Marc assured, “Those gender roles are woefully out of date these days. We’d be on equal terms. No damsels, no side-kicks, just two old friends having a good time. More to the point.” His voice dropped to a more serious cadence. “What other choice do you have? You won’t survive here much longer,” Marc waved a hand towards her, gesturing to the myriad of cracks and holes across her body. “You’re barely keeping yourself together as it is.”

She glanced away, worrying her bottom lip while being mindful of the large crack that ran across it. Her canine scraped unpleasantly against the edge. If she bit down too hard, she worried it would cause that entire part of her mouth to shatter.  

Marc approached her slowly and knelt before her.  Gently, he brushed away the hair that fell over the hole where her eye used to be and cupped her cheek. His hand felt cold and almost waxy, but it was the only gesture of warmth and kindness she had felt in decades. She leaned into his touch with a trembling sigh.  “It isn’t right, what they did to you. Lying to you, taking what they wanted, and then casting you out to die. I know what that feels like.” His voice darkened to a low, spiteful growl. The edges of his form flickered an angry, roiling red before slowly settling against his skin like a shroud. He took a breath, reeling in his temper, and spoke again in a soothing tone. “You don’t really want to die here, do you?”

Slowly, she lifted her hand to cover Marc’s, preventing it from leaving her cheek as she all but nuzzled into the faint comfort his touch brought.  But she was still angry. She was still bitter. Despite what little of her remained in this place, she was still stubborn and not easily swayed by honey-sweet words.

“Why should I trust you?” She probed sharply. “After everything that happened? After everything you did?”

Marc clicked his tongue. “I will readily admit that... mistakes were made. I did, I was, perhaps, too ambitious for my own good. And that caused some-” His hand reached around to the back of her head- she jerked away and grabbed his wrist as tight as she could manage. The popping of her knuckles sounded more like glass cracking.  Wrinkles of Concern, empathy, and anger flitted across Mark’s face before he smoothed them away with a breath. “Unforeseen accidents to happen. To me. To you.” He finished. His gaze trailed to the stain on her abdomen. She snapped her fingers to bring his attention back to her face. “I just want to make it right.” Marc said, gently prying her fingers from his wrist.  “You won’t last much longer here,” he noted grimly.  Hesitantly, as if asking for permission, he reached up to card his fingers through the thick curls of her hair.  She could have shattered under his touch right then and there, fingers gently gliding over cracks on her scalp as if to mend them. 

A lump formed in her throat- large and tumorous. If she still had the need to breathe, it would have suffocated her.  Warmth and longing sprouted in her chest. “I don’t want to die here,” She finally admitted, voice painfully small and fragile. A part of her hated it. 

  “Then let me help you.” Marc returned softly. “It will take a few years, but I promise you it will be worth it. You just need to trust me.” Marc offered his free hand to her. Trembling, she took it. He gave an award-winning smile and kissed her knuckles gently. It felt like being kissed by a corpse, but it was something. “You won’t regret this, my dear. Just watch, you and I are going to create something wonderful together.”