fuckingstripe

[fuckingstripe]

gutsymmetry​:

@fuckingstripe​

        Kate’s tried, but there’s no budging Molly: she’ll come out of her room when she’s good and ready. It used to be that Zephyr’s visits brought her bounding out, all smiles, looking for a present, a laugh, a rumbling, “Hey, kid,” from the closest thing she’s ever had to a second mum–or a da, Kate supposes–but sixteen is a hard age. Not so easy to put off a sixteen-year-old with white lies and generalities about where Zephyr goes and what she does, about what she means to Kate, who she is to their little family of two. Not easy to explain why sometimes they’re three–wonderfully, happily three–but just as often, not.

         Just the two of them on the sofa. Kate brings their cups of tea round. Sitting with her, she looks again–can’t help but look–at the fresh scar, a confronting pink, crossing almost the whole of Zephyr’s face in a slash across her aquiline nose. She makes a little sound of sympathetic pain, of frustration and tenderness, their mugs clinking onto coasters on the low table before she can scoot forward on the cushions and reach for her, taking her chin.

         “Shouldnae ask where you got it, then,” she says. “No, I don’t want to know. C’mere.” She cups her face in both hands, looking deeply at her. Still Zephyr, fitting just right between her palms. Still all the usual questions–where have you been, what have you done, who were you with? Did you see someone else, touch someone else, while you were out there? Did someone else make you smile like me, and laugh? Did you miss me at all? And all the answers she’s afraid of, too. No, I don’t want to know. You could fill an ocean with the murk of all the things that go unsaid between them two.

         She leans in and puts a kiss on the scar, right where it makes a jagged path over the bridge of Zephyr’s nose. “Poor lamb,” she says softly. She kisses her brow. “I’ve missed you. You don’t have any more, do you? That I can’t see?” It makes her gut clench to think of it. She needs to take inventory of these wounds, start pouring tenderness on them now.

Kate fusses. To anyone else, to a random observer, she wouldn't appear to be but she is. In her own obstinate way. Kate fusses. With tea, with concerned looks and tender touches, with what she keeps behind the blue of her eyes. "That's asking," Zephyr points out, the corner of her mouth denting a wry smile in her right cheek. Indirectly. Hopefully. A quiet entreaty teeming with the tenuous hope that a story will be told - as if knowing what happened to mar her face like that will help tend to it or understand or even just help with whatever it is brooding inside Kate. It won't. It never does.

The fussing simultaneously intensifies and mollifies. Warm lips find the wound still in the fresh, pink stage of its healing process, move upward. "If I said no you'd still take an inventory." The truth is that Zephyr doesn't know because she doesn't remember. Kate will. She's good like that. Stores so much in that stubborn head of hers. So much that needn't be stored. Chin jutting out, Zephyr peers down at her and her smile softens, her brows relax, her body sinks a little into the inviting softness of the cushion - of Kate's body. "You thought about me?" A tease. Some cheap, transparent ploy designed to goad her into talking. Zephyr missed listening to her, to the inflection in her voice.  Missed watching her, too. So now, she is. Watching her. Gazing into her eyes. 

The blue of the sky or that of the sea have never come close to that unique shade in her irises. Zephyr knows. She's looked for it. At dawn, midday, dusk. Between clouds. By the shore right before the waves break and crash. Even in flower petals or blossoms. It doesn't exist anywhere. Only here. In those eyes. She'd tell her if she could but Zephyr doesn't know how. She's a soldier, not a fucking poet.

"I'm here." One arm ropes about her waist to bring her closer. "Quit worrying." With a small tilt of her head, she arches her brows and sounds a hmm. Stubborn lass won't rest until she's made sure everything is intact, that she's fed and cleaned, her fatigues scrubbed, her hair untangled. "Where's the kid?" There's a glance towards Molly's bedroom door. "You two fighting?" When her eyes return to Kate, it hits her. Zephyr scoffs as she leans forward to pick up her mug. "She's pissed off, isn't she? What did she expect? A bloody postcard?"

#gutsymmetry #wtf is a verse tag

[fuckingstripe]

Claudia Black + being perfect

#fuck you. i was a mistake; a mean joke. i'm a stripe ;; portrait: zephyr alexis navine

[fuckingstripe]

vorcotec​:

        Stripe laughs at her. There’s a flurry of sensations in Jane’s head, hot and cold and hot and cold and she’s dizzy with it; her heart is pounding. Her brow pinches, mouth tightening into a line.

        “It’s not,” she says, and with great delicacy and effort repeats, “Bullshit.” She feels the drag at the corners of her mouth as she frowns. “You’re bullshit.” She doesn’t touch Stripe uninvited, except when she’s hurt, but she’d like to touch her now. She’d like to shove her hands away from her bag, from her boots, to take Stripe by the shoulders and shake her, or by the arm and pull on it, to make her feel, physically, immediately, the urgency of what’s in Jane’s heart and head.

          “You like to do whatever you want,” she says, her voice climbing a little louder, “and whatever you think is right. Because you think you’re always right. You’re not. You’re not right about me. Or yourself. So you. You spare me the… Bullshit. You don’t get to talk to me like that. You don’t get to laugh at me.” She takes a breath through her flaring nostrils. “And you can’t have any pheen.”

The curse word in Knitter’s mouth momentarily clears away the look of exasperation and resentment on Stripe’s face and supplants it with surprise; then surprise just as quickly and unforgivably morphs into something plainly akin to amusement. “I’m bullshit.” She wipes non-existent residue of water off her mouth with the back of her hand but it fails to fully muzzle the faint scoff. What does that even mean? Still, it’s something. Maybe Stripe’s rattled her enough for the medic to start waking the fuck up.

She sits back again, arms and ankles crossed, head canted and brows quirked upward. “You done?” It suits her, in an odd but not completely un-Knitter way. “Hey!” Not the pheen. Not the bloody pheen. Her right hand in a fist, she points a refractory index finger at her. “If you think I’m doing what I want, you haven’t been paying attention. I am the reason we’re still breathing and you know it so stuff your wounded feelings where the sun doesn’t shine. You don’t like that I make the right decisions at the right time to save your sorry ass? That’s just too bad, ma’am. Why don’t you go take a walk, see how far you make it on your own.” There’s a pause, a nudge of her boot against Knitter’s bag. “I need the pheen, you know that.”

#vorcotec #verse: 2121

[fuckingstripe]

doctor who : clara oswald quotes … sentence starters

“Please don’t change.“

“Are you guarding me?“

“I don’t know where I am!”

“Still talking to you, ain’t I?”

“Can we see it? Up close?“

“Yeah, fine… Think I’m fine.”

“Huh! All my stories are true!“

“Oh, you are a cow! I knew it!”

“Why are you showing me all this?“

“You’re going to fight it, aren’t you?“

“I just saw something I wish I hadn’t.“

“Run, you clever boy, and remember.“

“You’re not! You’re clever, really clever.“

“I’m not going to compete with a ghost.“

“Your orders come from me, don’t they?“

“Why you still here? Why you here at all?“

“Doesn’t she seem a bit too angry to you?“

“Red flashing light… means something bad?“

“You’re making a habit of this, getting us lost.“

“My mum says I shouldn’t talk to strange men.“

“Because you’re sad. Have you lost something?“

“Bubbly personality masking bossy control freak!”

“I don’t know where I am. I just know I’m running.“

“It’s never about the security, it’s about the people.”

“Are you seriously going to sit down there all night?“

“I was scared, really scared. Didn’t know where I was.“

“So, what’s happening? Is someone trying to hurt you?“

“Did you just lock us in? With the soul-eating monster?“

“I did make you a soufflé, but it was too beautiful to live.“

“We’ve got enough warriors. Any old idiot can be a hero.“

“You’re talking, but all I hear is; ‘meh-meh-meh-meh-meh’!”

“It’s gone, the Internet. Can’t find it anywhere. Where is it?“

“Day 363; the terror continues. Also, made another soufflé!“

“I think I’m more scared of you right now than anything else.”

“Where are you going? I thought we was just getting acquainted!“

“But, this is what I’ve already done. You’ve already seen me do it.“

“Okay… Can you pretend like I’m totally a space alien and explain?“

“'Cause it wasn’t there a second ago. It just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Is that what you do, bring a booth? There is such a thing as too keen.“

“It’s full of stories, full of history. And full of a future that never got lived.“

“Okay. I don’t know what the hell this is about, but the hug is really nice.“

“You’re a thousand years old, you must have something you care about.“

“Come back tomorrow. Ask me, again. ‘Cause tomorrow I might say yes.”

“Well, I’ve had nearly a year to mess with them… and not a lot else to do.“

“They came again last night. Still always at night. Maybe they’re vampires.“

“You told me the name you chose was a promise. What was that promise?“

“Well, for your information, I’m not sweet on the inside and I’m certainly not little!”

“What is that box, anyway? Why have you got a box? Is it like a snogging booth?“

“To you, I haven’t been born yet, and to you I’ve been dead a hundred billion years.“

“I was going to travel. I came to stay for a week before I left, and during that week…“

“So, I am a ghost. To you, I’m a ghost. We’re all ghosts to you. We must be nothing.“

“If this works, get out of here as fast as you can. And spare me a thought now and then.“

“Is there a word for ‘total screaming genius’ that sounds modest and just a tiny bit sexy?“

“Sometimes it’s like I’ve lived a thousand lives in a thousand places. I’m born, I live, I die.”

“You’ve been asking a question… and it’s time someone told you you’ve been getting it wrong.“

“There are billions and millions of unlived days for every day we live. An infinity. All the days that never came.“

“I’ve got no idea who you might be. I’ve never been here before. I’ve never been anywhere like here before.”

#writing ;; meme

[fuckingstripe]

@vorcotec

tell me, love, how are you still so soft? how are you not made of edges? how can you look at the world and still see so much good when it has done you so much wrong?

and tell me, love, what is it like to have a heart that big? do you feel the weight of it with every breath? how can your heart hold so much pain and so much love at the same time?

tell me, love, how has the world not carved you into something sharp?

— please tell me it never will // p.s.

#but then i found you and i realised that everything i anticipated you to be doesn't even compare to who you are ;; stripe and knitter #how stripe thinks of knitter

[fuckingstripe]

a compendium of the most romantic flavours:

rose

pistachio

pomegranate

mango

clementine

#who is this? who the fuck am i? ;; about #👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅

[fuckingstripe]

#fuck you. i was a mistake; a mean joke. i'm a stripe ;; portrait: zephyr alexis navine #please hope ;; knitter #💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦 #Time to fucking simp

[fuckingstripe]

when u like a character for their potential to be interesting and complex more than how they’re actually written

#juni ;; ooc #True and Stripe are mine now tx #watch me develop left right and center because THE POTENTIAL

[fuckingstripe]

“Yeah, this doughy little frame, it’s perfect.”

#this isn't my face ;; portrait: amalia true #stripe crying over true's body will never not be funny

[fuckingstripe]

vorcotec​:

Mark the day… June 17 2021… Jane has said a cuss

it’s what Scientists call The Stripe Effect

(read more for internal dialogue)

#vorcotec #juni ;; ooc #i got world class tits but i can't see over a chair ;; shitpost

[fuckingstripe]

AERYN SUN - 2.01 MIND THE BABY

#fuck you. i was a mistake; a mean joke. i'm a stripe ;; portrait: zephyr alexis navine #MA'AM #HELLO??? #this is young stripe #i'm right

[fuckingstripe]

The violin weighs nothing. When True unceremoniously yanks it from the man (a stroke of genius, really, and she shall miss the music; the band were rather good but the fracas she instigated in the pub saw to drown whatever tune they’d been playing), she very nearly loses her footing whilst he barely has a second or two to look up at her, anger and astonishment a flash across his face before the instrument, having changed hands, knocks him out in one single blow. “Oh.” Discomfit, True pauses to look at the mangled mess of wood and strings (hair or intestines? She’ll have to check with Penance.) and asks, to no one in particular: “Fiddle or violin?” Whichever it is, it did the job but got completely wrecked in the process.

Hands seize her. Alright then. Spinning and twisting, she disentangles herself from the male’s grip then kicks him out before jumping, spread eagle, from the stage to the drunken mass of patrons fighting each other in a great, thick miasma of expletives and exclamations heavily coated with a layer of body odour from which exudes the generous fumes of various kinds of alcohol and tobacco. She feels alive enough to pull and push and punch and hit, and the great volley of blows are returned with an adrenaline fuelled by the pints of ale she’s consummated and sustained by a strength unnatural for a woman. What bruises and cuts she sustains are cushioned with less efficacy than a couple of shots of morphine. Alcohol doesn’t so much take the edge off as it erodes it - or gives the impression to erode it. Because that fucker is back, hours later, sharper than ever. It hurts. Not enough. Never enough. Still, she crawls out of the fight, stumbles against a tall chap minding his own business, snatches the pint from his hand.

 “That’s a good lad,” she slurs, her fingers a brusque slap on his back. The glance she spares him from above the rim of the tankard gives way to a glare than a stare, eyes widening quite eloquently when she slams the empty cup on the table. “Shit!” Drops of beer generously rain on the woman’s coat. Because it is a woman. “”Fuck, I’m sorry. You…” True snorts at her own naive surprise and swipes the back of her hand across her mouth. There is a moment, a frown, a cant of her head just as the idea hits her again “How much does a violin cost?”

@listered​

#listered #verse: 1899

[fuckingstripe]

You are the strangest person I’ve ever met. It’s why you’re the one I trust.

#this isn't my face ;; portrait: amalia true #my heart ;; penance #HAROLD!

[fuckingstripe]

Zephyr aka Amalia True + petty thefts (with so little improvements in skills that she’d get caught on spot in both lives

#this isn't my face ;; portrait: amalia true #fuck you. i was a mistake; a mean joke. i'm a stripe ;; portrait: zephyr alexis navine #SHE SUCKS #I love her so so much 🤧🤧🤧

[fuckingstripe]

kiersten white / jeffrey mcdaniel, “the archipelago of kisses” / richard siken, “you are jeff” / phillip pullman, “the amber spyglass”

#but then i found you and i realised that everything i anticipated you to be doesn't even compare to who you are ;; stripe and knitter #PISS OFF

[fuckingstripe]

@vorcotec said: *objectifies you* 😏

Astonishment is plain enough on her face, obvious in that obnoxious (and quite frankly, borderline conceited) way Stripe likes to indulge in whenever that exact kind of attention gets delivered. And it’s all the more exaggerated - the wry arch of her brow creasing her forehead, the hook-like quality of her lips curving up up up - when she already knew. Because of course she knew. The medic’s hardly any good at that either. Pretending. Faking. Concealing. Something Stripe usually resents, begrudging Knitter for increasing risks, rendering situations more perilous than they ought to be or already were, or even straight up endangering the both of them. Now, though, oh now she doesn’t mind that fucking trait of her at all, no ma’am.

She pushes herself up from the makeshift gurney they’ve put together and cocks her head, looking down - barely so - at Knitter, roping an arm about her torso. “Is that what’s been on your mind then?” One squeeze is enough to bring her flush against her but she doesn’t wince at the dulled twinge of pain in her shoulder because she’s got her exactly where she wants now.  For a little while there, she says nothing: she simply watches. Her eyes are slowly devouring every inch of Knitter’s face with the same intense dedication put into the scouring of a map but they linger here and there - the corners of her mouth (finely lined), the pronounced shape of her nose, the shadows under her eyes, the dirt clinging to brown strands of hair. The smile morphs into a smirk that dissolves as she leans forward to drag her mouth over Knitter’s jaw, humming quietly, and whispers in a tone more raspy than anything else: “Don’t worry ma’am, I’m down for some of your own brand of objectification.”

#vorcotec #writing ;; answer #verse: 2121 #but then i found you and i realised that everything i anticipated you to be doesn't even compare to who you are ;; stripe and knitter

[fuckingstripe]

Is Lord Swann implying I’m in the gang? THE NEVERS 1.02

#this isn't my face ;; portrait: amalia true