yaenas

[yaenas]

Enveloped in shadow and the red neon light spilling off the sign hung above the bar, she is radiating something... strange, almost, sharp, cold beauty, the picture of powerful, stoic perfection in her extravagantly expensive leather jacket and black dress, her mouth, stained red with cherry red lipstick, hair, long and dark and thick, cascading down her back as she shifts a little in her seat so that she might better look at her, supporting her head in one of her hands as she offers a muted, strange smile, watches her order her drink, practically inviting herself into her company; she does not mind it; if anything, it's a distraction from the dark depths her mind has been submerged into for days now (weeks, even); it's refreshing to feel something other than drowning, mind afire with a million possibilities, obsessing over the unsolved murders that just keep piling and piling on top of her like dead weight- like an open wound that's been festering for month now, burning her from the inside out - the longer they - the longer she- lets whoever has been doing this, run free.

"helps pass the time..." Yaena cradles her glass with a threatening grace, acrylic nails clamoring against the outside of it as she idly brings it to her lips. "it's been a long day." she admits, her smile softening a little as she gestures for her to take the seat next to her at the bar if she so wishes. "what's your excuse?"

To call it a game would be a disservice, and yet it's what she calls it daily. It's therapy, really, going out and exposing herself to the noises of the world, keeping herself away from the sort of silence that fills her house. But to admit that, to accept that even a year on, the silence still haunts her, is something she has no interest in doing. So in her worst moments, she will sit alone in bars such as these and think. Perhaps these are faces she'll paint later, or ones who will become the ones she sees in her dreams.

Or, perhaps, she will catch one staring at her. She'd notice her earlier, if only because she seemed to be doing the same thing as her. Alone, watching. Audra smiles on instinct, a tight-lipped thing. Nods at the woman, who seems far more like the type to belong her than herself, with the plum-coloured blazer she'd been wearing for work today. Not the type to start conversation, really, but the overall wash of sound has started to echo in her ears, and she needs something - someone - to focus on. Making her way over to stand closer to her, she murmurs her drink order to the bartender and smiles once again at the woman. This time, slightly more real. "People watching too?"

#& audra. #hey!! :)

[yaenas]

She is a distant planet: cold, morose, and craterous; untouchable, sharp, like a knife, like a punch to the stomach, never letting anybody get too close; she was born to it, she thinks; that cold nature; the inability to let herself get close to anyone, to truly, really let anyone see her; but Ryan, he burns like the sun. He touches her and every last inch of her body swells with life. It's hard, letting it happen; it's a strange, unfamiliar emotion, this closeness, the warmth, the wanting to be seen, to be known, to let him in, but she wants, wants, wants it more than anything that she has ever wanted; so she lets it happen; she doesn't pull away, no matter how hard the itch to run away and disappear where it's safe, where it's easy, burns. She pries her eyes open, smiling softly as he kisses her hand, plays with her hair. She likes him this close; she likes this closeness, how easy it is to just...let go and be around him; she doesn't have to say much, doesn't even have to put on a show, play the part of the sleek, coy coquette, all rouge lipstick and slip dresses, for him to like her. The thought warms some sharp, cold part of her, and she is lifting herself up on one hand, dark curls spilling like a dark river off her small shoulders as she laughs, slaps his hand away. “The bleachers? Really, Caddel?” she narrows her eyes in accusation, laughter in her voice. (The only reason she would have been caught hanging at the bleachers would be to drunkenly make out with the players, split a pack of rolled menthol cigarettes with them and chug stale beer they would have stolen from Mr. Smith's mini mart right out of the bottle in her floral dresses and the Sunday shoes Grandma had bought for her in Italy, ruining them in the mud, in the lake water, the swamps behind the old church— the word wicked, comes to mind, a flash of cold, sharp headlights flooding a stadium and her laying on the grass in a wet dress, cherry coke on her tongue, and sweet smoke filling her lungs, but she ignores it, shakes her head and laughs a little, toying with his fingers to distract herself, hurriedly shelving the memory away so that she might not look at it; if she does, she swears, he will, too, and she doesn't want him to hate her. )

“I beg to differ. I bet 'team captain Caddel' would have... for all the wrong reasons.” Yen snorts softly, grabbing his hand when he reaches out to pinch her cheek and attempting to hold it down tightly, using all her strength to not let him pull it away as she pretends to glare, green-blue eyes shining brightly under the moonlight that drapes itself over her, pooling in the silkiness of her lashes, her curls, “you would have never caught me at a game anyway. Bore fest. Maybe you'd catch me hanging at the bleachers after the game if you were lucky.” she informs him. “that would be very on brand for me,” she confesses jokingly, her eyes igniting with a flare of mischief as she lays back again, still holding onto his hand, not wanting to let him pull it away; serves him right for daring to imply that the Mighty 16 year old rich boy-Caddel would not have noticed her.

—blue eyes watch her as she lays there, with her eyes closed, and yet it still feels like a storm is brewing inside of her. could be him, but he can tell that there is something stressing her out, troubling her, even when she doesn’t say it. he is stroking her hair, fingers combing through her raven locks in a slow, tender manner, and there is nothing he wouldn’t give to make sure she feels safe, relax, and protected. perhaps sifting the focus is what she needs, and he doesn’t mind talking about his past. at least, not all that much anyway.

a smile curls on his lips and his hand wraps around hers lightly, pressing feather-light kisses on her fingertips, in the palm of her hand, as he laughs a little at yet another assumption she makes. “I mean…you are not that far off…” he shrugs a little as he responds in a matter of fact tone, squeezing her hand in his. well, even if he wasn’t, at least in the beginning, quite liked by the staff and other students, if they were to be honest. “sixteen was around the time I decided to be somewhat…decent…” or rather take advantage of the tools handed to him instead of letting them go to waste out of pure spite; not that he didn’t clean up his act purely to just use the family’s old money and connections, though. “old money, mind you,” he points out in a playful manner. “and yeah, that’d be correct. but only after game season,” he laughs, “though..hmm, perhaps team captain Caddel wouldn’t have noticed you in the bleachers.” he laughs again whilst attempting to appear serious and failing, pinches her cheek lightly.

#he cute and deserves better :(( #& ryan.

[yaenas]

Anne Carson, from Red Doc>

#i learned early i was a cold girl — nothing more; musings.

[yaenas]

“Yeah, well...” Yen rolls a shoulder with a flourish of indifference, a languid, slow smile flitting over deep red lips as she rations her gaze towards him, then back to her drink. “Guilty. I've been known to stare.” she begins to elaborate vaguely at first, eyes ahead of her while she mindlessly swirls the bourbon in her glass. The bar is thick with smoke and the sweet-sour stench of honey whiskey; there's a red neon light hanging above their heads and even though it's dark where they are sitting, it's spilling over them like a river of blood, cold and piercing, something sharp; like a knife, she thinks; like a fist; she is dappled in it, dark, long curls and leather jacket saturated in flaming scarlet streaks of light as she shifts in her seat.

She takes a sip of her bourbon, tips her glass toward the bottle set somewhere near her, says, voice soft and slurring slightly; she has after all been drinking for the better part of the night now and although she is not drunk, per se, to say that she has remained completely unaffected, would be a lie. “help yourself...” she offers plainly. “it's Old Rip. Handmade bourbon straight from Kentucky...” she laughs a little.

yaenas​:

She’s surprised herself playing the same game a few times, now. Glancing at strangers in strange, dark places, wondering what tragedy they’ve gone through, what keeps them up at night; what digs and gnaws its teeth and claws in them like some strarved animal, scratching to get out. It’s not a sad thought, though, not really; most of the time, it’s just a game to keep herself from sinking into the darkness of her own secrets, the things that claw at her, won’t let her sleep. A pastime, if you will. Some people look at what others wear, what they eat, what they do; how expensive their clothes are, wonder where they’ve gotten them, always judging, always feeling above all others. Yen looks at people’s eyes and wonders what have made them dark and deep with misery.

This night, too, sat amidst strangers, here, in some dark bar in downtown New York, the game is proving to be rather entertaining (a deeply longed for distraction). Pubs like this, where the smoke is so thick you can drink it, crawl with tragedies. Soon enough, she realizes she’s been staring — with a cough, she violently pries her eyes (one blue, one green flecked with blue) off the stranger and reaches for her cigarettes. Her mouth is stained red, cherries and rouge lipstick. Her dark curls cascade down her back, long and dappled in the red neon lights that spill off the sign hung above the bar. She is toying with her glass, and even though it’s hot where she’s sitting at the bar, she still hasn’t taken her leather jacket off.

—

Bars had always been therapeutic to him, and not in the way you’d imagine. The drink is there in his hand, and it will be tasted without limits or guilt; yet the appeal comes not by way of intoxication, but the social setting which allows Rahi to exist in a way that he enjoys. 

The shifting lights, the music, god company and good chatter. 

And yes, the attention, too. Once he notices it from the woman next to him, Rahi can only laugh — “...What?”

Then, “You were staring. It’s fine.” Shrug. “I mean, at least own up to it.” 

#drinking tw// #IM SORRY for her lmao #& rahi.

[yaenas]

“Am I?” Yen wonders detachedly over the rim of her glass of bourbon prior to taking a small sip, mouth slick and red with lipstick, dark, thick lashes heavy from all her drinking as she spares him another long look, says, “No. I have never once in my life voluntarily had anything to do with basketball.” she laughs a little coldly, voice sounding... dream-like, almost; like part of her is somewhere very far away and distant where no one can touch it; like she is almost, not here; cold; aloof... bored.

“but I take it you are.” she offers as she reaches for the bottle to refill her glass, tossing her curls over her shoulders, pulling some of them away from her cheek to tuck behind her ear. "A fan, I mean."

ooh quirky ...

an involuntary staring competition, pip glues his eyes on the other, determined not to lose. there's something unsettling about her, slightly creepy, like she could wild out with her joints and glue the back of her head to her back whilst yodelling. he kind of digs it.

she looks away and he takes that as a win. triumphant, he leans over on his arms, waving the smoke away.

the conclusion he arrives at is: " you a basketfall fan, huh? " it's not that common for him to get recognised so he'll milk it as much as he can. " twenty-two your favourite number? "

#hiiii <3 #& pip. #drinking cw// #scREAMS at the CREEPY part lmao.

[yaenas]

#she was cold by nature; mirror.

[yaenas]

i hate it when people ask me to "explain my thought process" like hell if i know

#i learned early i was a cold girl — nothing more; musings.

[yaenas]

#she was cold by nature; mirror.

[yaenas]

Sometimes when they are together, just the two of them, like this, she does not even speak; she just listens to him; she just stares. Laying here on top of her car parked somewhere away from the center of the city, some ill-lit corner under the trees, well after midnight, eyes closed and the cold moon silver light on her eyelids, she could be anywhere. He says something about an assumption she had just made about a younger version of him, laughs a little, and she pries her eyes open, reaches over to trace his lower lip with soft, tender fingertips. “I’d like to have seen you at sixteen. Here's another guess: You were like the walking embodiment of a golden boy. Looks, money, and a brain. Mr. Popular. I can picture you right over there,” she says, pointing to the cracked bleachers somewhere near the park they have pulled over into, dark and thick with willows and damp from the rain that have fallen earlier. “Outdrinking everyone... Breaking hearts.” she laughs a little at the thought, voice soft as she moves a little closer, dark curls spilling over her shoulders as she stares at him.

@caddel

#& ryan. #lets pretend she doesnt look this serious in the gif xox

[yaenas]

She’s surprised herself playing the same game a few times, now. Glancing at strangers in strange, dark places, wondering what tragedy they’ve gone through, what keeps them up at night; what digs and gnaws its teeth and claws in them like some strarved animal, scratching to get out. It's not a sad thought, though, not really; most of the time, it's just a game to keep herself from sinking into the darkness of her own secrets, the things that claw at her, won't let her sleep. A pastime, if you will. Some people look at what others wear, what they eat, what they do; how expensive their clothes are, wonder where they’ve gotten them, always judging, always feeling above all others. Yen looks at people’s eyes and wonders what have made them dark and deep with misery.

This night, too, sat amidst strangers, here, in some dark bar in downtown New York, the game is proving to be rather entertaining (a deeply longed for distraction). Pubs like this, where the smoke is so thick you can drink it, crawl with tragedies. Soon enough, she realizes she’s been staring — with a cough, she violently pries her eyes (one blue, one green flecked with blue) off the stranger and reaches for her cigarettes. Her mouth is stained red, cherries and rouge lipstick. Her dark curls cascade down her back, long and dappled in the red neon lights that spill off the sign hung above the bar. She is toying with her glass, and even though it's hot where she's sitting at the bar, she still hasn't taken her leather jacket off.

#wb.open #HI GUYS! we can totally plot or go w the flow #or assume connections? why not

[yaenas]

Obsession sinks its claws inside of her; every last ounce of the world drips into this haunting feeling that's been living inside of her lately, a constant, endless thrum in her head that won’t go away no matter how hard she tries to banish it, no matter what else she does, how she drowns her senses into Ryan, still, she cannot seem to escape it. It’s a cliff she hangs off, with no hope of climbing back up. It’s an illness that feels terminal, a pulsing, living thing, this fear, this obsession that lives outside of her like a heart, like an animal, that has tendons and guts and, consequence.

She is distant and distracted at work, or when she is with him, half far away and always strung through with piercing, haunting tension that leaves her thrumming like a flood that swells and sweeps in a fury over everything in its way.

She is sharp and cold like some distant planet, hides herself away into her apartment; she is a startling, sensational contrast, cold and sour and menacing, burying herself in her work, in the darkness that pervades everything she touches; a shard of ice, snapping, shutting the world around her away and pushing everything she's ever felt, everything she's buried somewhere so deep inside her heart no one can ever reach it. But she is soft and warm and brilliant with unbridled emotion, too, heat and light when she is with him; she is untouchable and aloof, smoking constantly and listening to classical music in an apartment overflowing with case files and books on cults, on religion, on everything that sets her teeth on edge; but she is black slip dresses soaked by sprinklers, and the smell of vanilla and lilacs; an open balcony, pearl hairgrips on a vanity, late night corner stores, neon lights and black lace halternecks, plum lipstick, walking barefoot on cobbles, heels in hand, shooting stars and always craving him, always him, him, the only thing that pulls her out of the depths of her fury, her cool, violent obsession, despite her arrogance, her malicious anger, sharp-edged and tightly strung.

She stays in her apartment and pours herself over books and files, hunting them down, pushing away that sharp, bitter feeling that haunts her every step, has haunted her from first she left that dark place, to the last- even now, she closes her eyes and is back there, running through a cornfield in thunder and lightning, holding her brother's hand and running as fast as she could to keep up with him while the flames swallowed the cross that stood in the middle of the valley. She remembers them sending people to find them; a man trying to break in with a hammer.

She closes her eyes now, as she buries herself in old newspaper clips and files, and she is gone; phone ringing, texts unanswered, refusing to leave her apartment before she makes sense of it all; she does not even remember falling asleep- she's been that shocked through with unbearable emotions she has not touched in too long a time now... For someone so viciously attuned to details and to her surroundings, such a misstep is almost unheard of.  It’s certainly unsettling.  Such is why, when she finds herself in the midst of a dream that is all too real, too vivid, she finds the divide between sleep and reality horribly blurred.  She can’t put a description to what it is she’s seeing, simply the feeling that it bestows.

Sweat peppers her skin, accompanying the cacophony of her pounding heart.   Yen thinks that she’s crying out in her dream, but it bleeds into her waking life, too, causing her to stir.  She jolts awake mid-shout, pupils blown and hands shaking. Something's pounding at her door. She reaches for it, and when she pries it open, there it is, sprawled at her feet, a ghost, coming back to haunt her.

The Church of the Reclaimed book tossed at her doorstep like some feral, gutted creature, bleeding out all over her; seeking salvation. She cannot help but reach for it.

#just to have on the top of my blog its been inactive LONG enough. #i am spitting up pearls and my tears are clean spring water | stories

[yaenas]

my immense self hatred VS my delusional god complex

#PLS. its HER #i learned early i was a cold girl — nothing more; musings.

[yaenas]

Yen looks like a renaissance painting bought to life as she silently stands outside the bar, leaning against the wall, knocking back a whiskey. She’s got this long dark curly black hair all the way down to her back and limpid bright eyes (one green, one blue) that droop and she is wearing all black and this slash of velvet red lipstick on, eyes fierce; there’s a half-empty glass of some strong, sweet bourbon in one hand ( the rim has her lipstick stain on it so now she's absently worried that her mouth is looking patchy). She is holding a slightly smoking cigarette in the other, but not taking it in, bright, sharp gaze flitting from the crowd spilling up the stairs and into the bar, to someone... familiar stood somewhere near her.

She takes a long drag of her cigarette, (rolled in pink paper, mint filters) blows out slowly, plumes of white smoke enveloping her and the wet, sharp pang of the drizzling rain that's sluicing around her leather boots mixing with her perfume (crushed lilacs and tart berries, something sweet and haunting). "Kowalsky..." she greets her plainly, a small, strange smile curling over deep red lips as their gazes meet. "taking a break?" she offers conversationally.

Location: Evening At Hole in the Wall Bar In SoHo Status: Open

She's getting older. It's all over but the crying.

The venue's nice but it's not exactly her vibe, Tanya long ago aged out of that crowd and the second the music became too new for her to recognize as anything she'd ever give the grace of being called as such she knew her minutes were numbered. That said, it was a night without homework, so to speak, and she was damned if she was about to go sit alone at home this early on a weekend night - that would be admitting defeat.

And so, she begrudgingly stepped out to light up a cigarette, pining for the days when you could enjoy one in air conditioning, but. well, sometimes life wasn't fair.

She watches a younger couple head in after her, two girls lost in each other's eyes and she remembers when she had that sort of hope. Her lip curls around the filter as she finds something to lean on, her disaffected half smile fighting for its life against her natural grimace.

#plS #lets plot!! <3 they are both law enforcement so!! #i need me some PLOTS #& tanya. #im sorry this is bad IM COMING back from my hiatus so!!

[yaenas]

the fact that i am constantly saying strange and unpleasant things is just part of my charm

#i learned early i was a cold girl — nothing more; musings.

[yaenas]

*in seductive voice* do you find my abandonment issues and unstable sense of identity sexy? *strips off clothes* i’m convinced you hate me and i don’t know who i am baby

#i learned early i was a cold girl — nothing more; musings. #Is this not her AF t b h!!!

[yaenas]

Yaena swallowed the bitterness that had risen in the back of her throat, mustering every last ounce of her self control and reminding herself that telling this little psychopath to fuck off or attempt to shoot or chase him down like she wanted to do, was probably (definitely) just not the best course of action she could go for in the moment; she simply rolled her shoulders in a slow shrug and put on the very best smile she could when he pulled back the collar of his shirt to show off the scar their little encounter in the park had gifted him with, instead; "well... you had it coming, good sir... being all weird... you know what they say, Mat. Curiosity killed the little cat." she offered simply, masking her true emotions with a well practiced somber expression as she watched him, expertly shelving away the furious waves of something very akin to anger he was somehow able to inspire within her. Instead, she went for a completely different approach this time around, not wanting him to think he had somehow managed to get under her skin.

Idly pulling some curls away from her cheek and tucking them behind her ear, she did not offer an answer to the question that followed, but laughed in surprise instead, bright blue-green eyes gleaming under the sunlight as she moved. "oh, Mat... here you go again... being all weird..." she sighed, still laughing as she moved now so that she might stand a bit closer to him, "what is it to you, hmm? why must you know?" she demanded in return, complete with a lift of a perfectly dark brow as she leisurely reached for a cigarette. Tossing the empty packet into a bin near her, she sighed and slipped it into her mouth (lips sweet and slick with red lipstick), then, after a moment's hesitation, after pretending she had forgotten hers, asked: you've got a light at least?

yaenas​:

Her gaze - sharp and cold with fury and contempt - completely zeroed in on him, like a hawk, watching its prey, and she blindly reached for her phone, hoping to somehow be able to call for back up while distracting him with idle conversation, indulging his questions, every last muscle in her body tensing as she prepared to fight back in case he attacked her; she laughed softly at the question that followed, voice saturated with something very akin to amusement, and she could not help but take a step closer, her general demeanor completely void of anything but sharp-eyed focus on him and him alone; this time, she thought furiously, fiercely; this time she could not let him slip right out of her grasp.

“seems like you already know how I’ve been, Mathias… don’t you?” she offered simply, “I don’t think you’ve missed me all that much. I feel like you might just know how I’ve been better than I do… I’ve gotten your little letters… your gifts… Very thoughtful of you.” she trailed off, voice somber and neutral, not betraying any of her real emotions.

-

Mathias found joy in how closely Yaena was watching him. He wondered how she would react if he moved his hand just a little too quickly. Would she jump? Would she try to stop him? He had managed to create such a hostility within her in such a short amount of time. “I’m just a little curious about you, Yaena. You seem so interesting. You only have yourself to blame though. You shouldn’t have been so fascinating that night we met. I still have the scar to show for it too”. He pulled down the collar of his shirt to show the newest scar on his shoulder. The skin was still raised and pink, over time it would fade like the rest of them. 

“What is it like being raised in a cult? Was it scary?”. There was no other reason for his curiosity other than to just know Yaena. He wanted to dig deep into her life and pull out all the loose strings. What would it be like if he pushed a cop too far? “We’re kinda the same if you think about it”. 

#& mathias #hiiii <33

[yaenas]

closed starter for: @caddel

setting: anywhere in the brooklyn museum during the fundraiser

  “Ryan Hunter Caddel... the mightily busy businessman, sure does take his time to show up at events...” she drawls leisurely as he approaches her, and with a languid clatter of her perfectly manicured nails against the wine glass she cradles.  Yen is currently perched on a chaise lounge, appearing both simultaneously effortless and over-the-top.  it’s far too easy to play up the extravagance she insists to embody; especially when she wants to incite him. “even if it means he's keeping a lady waiting.” this addendum is accompanied by a well-worn smirk and upward quirk of one dark eyebrow.  guiding her glass to her lips, she takes another drink, molten gaze never leaving Ryan.

#lmaooo. #& ryan