* plot-oriented means i want to form long-term threads/relationships between our muses. we can plot scenarios between our muses or just discuss their overall relationship, either works!

i will rarely, if ever, post starter calls, but i will rb memes. take a look at my meme tag if you prefer to start interacting this way instead!

expression and ellie are like oil and water; you can try to mix them, try to have them coexist in a singular, healthy medium, but it just won't happen — not in a decently healthy way, not in the way one would expect from someone able to think for themself. [ but ellie is anything if not the epitome of breaking down the walls of expectation and pitching their own, oftentimes less sturdier, ones. ]

as an addendum, ellie says fuck [ among other curses — damn and shit chief among them — but primarily the aforementioned ] as a means of expressing their emotions; they're not good at wording themself, often says things in the heat of the moment without any tact or thought put behind them. the word, regardless of circumstance, is a lot of times used as something of a buffer; it gives them the seconds necessary to find whatever word they deem accurate to the plight and to articulate it in the way they try to get it out as. if they're especially under stress, they'll throw in a couple more for good measure as they try to think. tone and intent doesn’t always go hand-in-hand, though.

emotion and ellie, just the same, doesn’t always go hand-in-hand. not only is expressing these emotions difficult to put to voice, it can also apply to action/gesturing. ellie has a particular defense mechanism in that they essentially shut down from the conversation; they make a subconscious effort to leave the situation and seek solitude — and if they can't get that, it'll be extremely hard to communicate clearly and it's likely they'll turn openly hostile. [ other than words this can include getting in a person's face, pushing them, etc. ] their combative nature is a barrier to help protect them from showing those vulnerabilities; ellie is a very vulnerable person, and it's a side to them they don't show to just anyone. couple this with their mistrust of others, and it's a molotov cocktail in its own right.

so yeah, ellie is awkward with emotion. does this also apply to comforting others? absolutely. this is where their awkwardness really starts to rear its ugly head and haunt them considerably. ellie knows they're awkward, knows they're not exactly the go-to person for simple comforting words and reassurances, but they try — god, do they try. it's a double-edged sword, wanting to be that support, yet be unable to articulate in the way they wish they could. they try to take note of how someone else would word themselves, try to emulate it, and ultimately fall flat because it's not them and it doesn't feel right. it's a losing battle, but they keep trying. hoping that sometime, someday, they don't hate every single word that comes out of their mouth and they can be the rock for a person that's always been a rock for them.

7theaven:

"you're an ass."

ellie, laughter a quivering intimation to their lips. falling softly, like a cool autumn's sprightly breeze — only, just the slightest bit more transient. laughter doesn't come as easy. isn't as simple as an on-off switch or toggle.

"why wouldn't i? you're my friend," their grip, bleeding faint indentations of white across their knuckles. loosening when the door returns to the threshold, a quiet shutting of dirtied glass and tarnished metal. wiping the offending palm against the thigh of their jean, fingers pressing together to grind the residue away. "and seventh heaven could really use a change of music."

i finally got to take joel's pickup tonight. it's a miracle it still works.

i took my first drive into sunnyvale, and it's as picture-perfect as people say. there's no trash on the ground, no sirens, no shady high school kids lurking around. it's almost too perfect.

i found aerith's place quickly, and i'm so glad i did. she looked amazing beautiful. we were just going to the movies, but it was like she was the movie. she had the biggest smile on her face too. i probably looked like an idiot to her. all i remember is my cheeks hurting from how hard i must've been smiling.

but her smile. ARGH! i can't get it out of my head.

wish i still had my camera. stupid disposable cameras.

[ 𝙸𝙻𝙻𝚄𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙾𝙵 𝙰𝙴𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙷; 𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝙰 𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝚂𝙺𝙴𝚃𝙲𝙷, 𝚁𝚄𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙽 𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽 𝙰 𝙷𝙰𝙻𝙵 𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚁. 𝚂𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝚂𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶. ]

what a good night.

ellie has undiagnosed tourette’s, showing signs since they were in the single digits. it started out innocently enough: there would be a skip in their step, whether walking or running. it manifested sporadically; there was no telling when it would happen. then there was blinking — constant, hard blinking. ellie would shut their eyes so tightly that sometimes they could see white. it would happen during conversation, it would happen in moments when they're alone. this was never a cry for attention; these were urges. it felt good to do, so they would do it.

the few adults that bothered sticking around would show concern, maybe ask about it once in a blue moon. but to ellie, it was this part of them that couldn’t be described with words. it was also embarrassing. children would notice, too, and they were the worst. teasing was never off the table.

ellie, wise beyond their years, always knew it was normal. some people have this condition [ they think — no, they know — they can't be the only one ], and that was okay. it was fine. was it?

it didn't make enduring the teasing any easier, didn't make the fights any less frequent.

through the mentions, the acknowledgments, good or bad, they became so mindfully cognizant of their tics that they began suppressing them. [ tried to. ]   don't give them another reason to pay attention to you. you’ve suffered enough bloody noses and broken fingers to last a lifetime.   some days were easier than others. some days the urge would grow so exponentially that the moment they found solitude in their room, they let it all out — shamelessly. it was like they were on the verge of exploding, toeing the line as the seconds ticked down until nightfall. it was fucking hell.

as they've gotten older, found company in good people, they're not as predisposed to suppress them. it's still a habit that forms in irregular moments but for the most part, they just let them happen.

ellie's most common motor tics are head bobbing [ this grows in frequency and intensity depending on their stress; often gains headaches in the process ], lip smacking/making a popping noise with their lips [ usually appears when alone, but extreme silence tends to trigger it the most ], wringing their hands, nose rubbing, pulling at their fingers, and clearing their throat to an extreme degree — sometimes to the point of hurting it.

ellie also possesses some vocal tics but those typically range in saying curses in excess and quick succession [ or saying it excessively in their thoughts, to the point where it gets overwhelming ].

caerlestis  —

in the distance, a distinct tapping.  first to a neighboring glass of water — left untouched for an unknown period of time; perspiration, building into little droplets; ice cubes, melting at the sudden, quiet surge of inactivity — then to a drawing tablet — their drawing tablet, precious and worn over years of (mostly) consistent use.  the tip of their pen, whittled to a mess of bite marks old and new, hitting the surface suddenly, erasing the imaginary linework.  turning the reliable tool, before beginning again.  it's always like this: start, fuck up, erase that fuck up, try to draw the same line again.  over and over and over again.  stupid line.  why did i design her to have hair again?

questioning, attempting, until a break in the silence.  forcing them to sit upwards, the pain of hunching over a shoddy desk temporarily alleviated —     “  yeah?  ”     ellie, spinning round their swivel chair.  eyeing the relaxed aerith in their shared apartment (god, is this really real?), quietly noting the seeming fatigue growing more and more evident across her dreamy stare.     “  oh — okay.  did you wanna take a look?  it's not much but...  i think i'm finally getting over this fucking writer's block.  ”     

“  i uh, actually came up with a new character.  she's sweet, but a total badass.  ”     

what are you patron of?      patron of amends.      it is not the most gratifying of works, but someone must oversee it.

making amends is a tricky, slippery thing: they require sincerity and devotion, open ears and naked hearts.  you cannot guarantee acceptance, only the sliver of time in which they can be seen and heard and attempt repentance.  think of a festering wound and the healer that must clean and close it, plagued by the thought of underlying infection, amputation, certain death.  consider of the likelihood of those terrors, but also: think of the injured at rest, then nursed back to full health and continuing to live a fruitful life.  you are the god of tenderness and volatility, of intimate vulnerability and deep breaths, of searching for a safe place to land.  god of misty eyes, god of the strength to still shaking hands, god of realizing wrongdoings and personal failures.  defender of the prideful who are working towards humbleness, of sinners that will never again be entirely righteous.  the one who blesses those fighting to make things right, falling onto swords and walking through fire if it can afford even just the smallest chance at forgiveness.  the planter of the seed of closure, that will grow only when nurtured.