(oh god. some douchebag use the 'so what else can you do with that mouth, babe?' line on Ames when she's sucking on a popsicle or something. I fucking dare you.)

(Amy usually either has a piece of licorice gum or a cigarette in her mouth. Because, yes. Even candy that isn’t dark in color rubs her the wrong way. She can’t chew any other kind for more than two minutes without it bothering her.

It's most of why her teeth and tongue are often stained a gross blackish-grey color), but a lot of people jump to the assumption that it's just natural.

iamsomethingbeautifultodestroy

“— My dad was kind of tall, Cas. Did you know that?“

“Those function here? Never sure. And I’m pretty sure a few of my organs came pre-decayed.” She can’t remain serious for long, quickly clamping a spidery hand over her mouth to avoid giggling too loudly. “…Think it helps.”

Random sentence starters

The door seems to have simply been blown open by the wind, as the vacant-eyed, blonde woman is not only standing several paces too far away to have touched it — but she seems mentally out of commission, staring rather cockeyed at the newcomer with no real reaction to their arrival.

“I heard his condition was improving. Now that, y’know, it won’t be so hard, seeing him half-dead, and all━ I figured it was about time I should visit...”

✗✗ “Welcome home.” the young woman quips at the approaching figure, nodding; but not so much turning to acknowledge him as she focuses on muttering something under her breath and lightly tapping the end of her wand to one of the many cigarettes she often smuggled along in a hollowed-out apparent schoolbook. “Noticed anything new, yet?”

For anyone with functioning eyes, it’s impossible not to notice a chance. Namely in that the already post-pubescent woman seems to have sprouted up at least a foot and a half in height over the last couple of months.

 It isn’t the only difference. Her facial structure seems to have grown, her skin and features stretched tighter across her bones, looking more skeletal. Her stringy, black curtain of hair’s been lopped off and sheared around the back of her neck, into a short, spiked cut that suggests a woman capable of shameless murder. Almost every open space on each of her ears is lacerated with some sort of metal stud or spike.

In fact, she’d be fucking unrecognizable, if it weren’t for the grey-eyed, grey-skinned tonal palette no one else on the planet seemed to share.

There’s a sharp curse as her cigarette goes up in flames, singing the tips of her fingers. “Cocksucker. Was getting better at it...”

vincenzovinnievalentino

She’s growing less and less trusting; evidenced enough by the rush of steam that abruptly rises from the slowly freezing pot she’s holding.

It’s let go before anything’s ruined, but her expression’s growing darker.

“Seems like something’s wrong. You were fine a few minutes ago. Was it━ something I said, dear?”

juniicr

“Would you prefer an answer you’ll actually like, or the truth?” the woman replies, coldly, without a beat; not even facing him as her attention’s held by the cracked, overgrown fingernail of hers she’s picking at.

“Maybe I just instinctively don’t like you.”

✟✟ She’d been what you might call funny.

All day.

Maybe he really ought to have taken her to the open house before officially becoming owner to the- alarmingly cheap little country property. Had she slipped into that dissociated state and spent over an hour pacing aimlessly through the dead grass out back prior to his decision, they’d know something

was

                                          strange.

Wrong as how the sanity seemed to evaporate her the minute she stepped onto the property. How she couldn’t be willed to spend a second of time with him that first evening they’d intended to be special. Just went on drudging in the yard. Searching for something. Lighting up a smoke every half hour on impulse, but that seemed to be the only original part of her remaining.

That cold little body was late arriving to bed. But she finally did stumble robotically inside.

Maybe that wasn’t the best word. A bit more like a graverobber coming off a speed high.

Her hands are dirtied heavily with mud she hasn’t bothered to wash off, all of her typically clawed fingernails worn down to painful-looking, blistered nubs. Something faintly, eerily glowing dangles from beneath her oversized sleeve, that she weakly slams down on the dresser.

“Nnnh. But they said it’s okay.“

Those are her only, nonsensical words that night, before she collapses face-forward down onto the mattress. Fully clothed. Filthy hands and all. Deeper asleep than she’s been in years.