sarahawthorn

[sarahawthorn]

Zazie Beetz by Micaiah Carter for Wonderland Magazine, Spring 2018

I feel like I’ve recently come into the role of being able to curate what I do. I try to do things that really speak to me: something that needs to be told, or that’s unusual or different.

#temp face tag #what's it like being gods favorite #i gotta do replies

[sarahawthorn]

enebrolobo​:

The hug, while welcome, catches him off guard. Giving a weak laugh (because honestly, what else can he do?) Dante nods. “I can only imagine how…  surreal? Let’s say surreal– this must be.” The breath he takes at the mention of his mother is audible, and there’s really no good explanation he can give for why he didn’t come. “I wish I could have… I met Mar about a year after leaving Blackrock… again, and I sort of… lost touch with everyone. Then it was only a few years later before… well, if you’ve met Mar, you probably know what happened. Or what she thinks happened.”

Anxious, Dante bounces on the heels of his feet. “…can I still call her my wife after being declared legally dead? She doesn’t know yet. No one does, at least, no one I knew from back when. No one who knew me. You’re the first. I don’t even know why I came here to see her… I don’t want to cause a scene, ruin everyone’s good time. I just thought… I guess I didn’t think, that it would be less… waiting for her on the porch of the house could be awkward. Especially if she brought someone home with her… and if I called, or wrote, she’d think it was some sort of sick joke.”

There was still a chance she’d think that, even after she learned he was alive… after he tried to explain…

“…am I making a mistake? She deserves to know, but… she’s moved on, hasn’t she? Should I just leave her with the memories, instead of shattering her entire world? Again? …There’s a good chance she’ll hate me. She probably should. Not to be all woe is me, I’m not any sort of victim here… and it’s… probably too late to do any semblance of right by her. If she’s happy, I should leave her be, right? Or is that cowardly?”

Sara releases Dante from her grip and takes a step back, standing stock-still as he tries to explain. He’s talking a lot, over-explaining, but still, none of it makes any sense. She wonders, briefly, if she’s gone completely insane. Sara tries her best to listen, but mostly she’s repeating you should be dead over and over in her mind-- but Dante is here, isn’t he? Standing in front of her, talking about Mar like she’s not sixty feet away.

Especially if she brought someone home with her. Sara thinks of Sam, and she feels a pang of something in her chest, guilt and sorrow and anger all rolled into one. This will crush him. It’ll crush Mar, too.

“Dante,” Sara says after a long pause. She can’t help but continue to stare at him, like if she looks away for even a moment he’ll disappear, and none of this will have happened. She half expects someone to ask her who the hell she thinks she’s talking to, but nobody does. Nobody seems to even notice them at all, the buzz in the air centered around the party and not the strange widow’s thought-to-be-dead, very-much-alive husband.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” she says, choosing her words carefully. She’s not so sure she wants to know. "But Mar-- your wife--” she says it again-- “thinks you’re dead. She’s had to live with not knowing why or how for years.” She looks at him, and something resembling anger bubbles to the surface. If it’s on Mar’s behalf, or Sam’s, or her own, she can’t quite tell. Perhaps it’s for all three. 

“Don’t you think you owe her the truth?”

#interactions: dante #dante 001

[sarahawthorn]

algomalvado​:

”Santiago Zevallos,” he answers, but the name sounds strange coming from behind the rows of teeth that hold the cigarette between them. Fingers that were more adept with matches handled the lighter carefully, but the motion of lighting the cigarette seems unnatural in the way that a practiced movement (after hours of studying the way strong men in movies would do such a thing) could be. Nevertheless, a red ember glows just beneath his nose, and he hands the lighter back, matching her arms length.  

“But you may call me Santi, as most people do. It is my,” he searches his brain for the word and fights the urge to cough the smoke from his lungs, “nickname.” 

It is clear in his expression as he brings the cigarette to his lips again just how little he wants it to be there, but he breathes in nonetheless, hoping that the motion of doing so will create a commonality between them. 

“What is you name?” he asks, blowing the smoke out of him quickly. 

"Santi,” Sara repeats, testing the name on her tongue. Or perhaps she’s hoping to remember it, for later, lest somebody asks her if she’s met anyone suspicious. Yes, she’ll say. He came out of the shadows, and called it a vacation. As she watches him light the cigarette, the action significantly clunkier than before, she wonders: are you one of them?

Still, she does not leave.

“Sara,” she answers, tucking the lighter back into her pocket. A gust of wind hits and she shudders, pulling her jacket closer. She gestures toward the cigarette in his hands. 

“Do you like it?”

#interactions: santi #santi 001 #should sara leave? yes #am i enjoying this too much to make it happen? yes

[sarahawthorn]

hutchingsb​:

Carol doesn’t even have time to warn him. And the fact alone — that he has set up an elaborate scheme with his secretary should his best friend stop by — makes the guilt in his stomach churn and then latch on hard. Hutch has never felt more like an asshole than he does at this moment. Sara is placing his favorite order from Buckshot down on his desk. It’s a gesture of kindness, of friendship he doesn’t deserve.

He does not deserve Sara. He’s not sure he ever has or ever will.

Keeping the knowledge of the wolves a secret from his closest friend has been hard at the best of times. But now, as the temperature drops and the wolves threaten to crowd in where they cannot be explained away? Well, now It’s almost impossible to go a full conversation without some sort of slip up.

So Hutch has taken to hiding. Throwing himself into work he doesn’t really have, and half-baked excuses. He knows Sara can see through them, but she hasn’t pushed yet. And he’s been so grateful.

Until now. 

The smile that greets his face is not faked or forced. Seeing Sara has always lifted his spirits, even when the guilt threatens to nauseate him. Hutch pushes back from the work at his desk; folds his arms over his chest as he settles into a more comfortable position. “So you did,” he chuckles, reaching forward to pick up his own food.

He’s barely got a bite in his mouth when she prods deeper, and he stills slightly. She must know he’s been avoiding her. Avoiding Sam as well. It’s just easier. “I’ve been busy.” He cannot look her in the eye, instead suddenly makes a show of searching for a straw.

There’s a moment where Sara sits happily in Hutch’s chair, her leg draped over one side of the arm like she owns it, her Buckshot turkey burger cooling in her hand. She thinks-- foolishly, perhaps-- that lunch with Hutch will be the distraction she’s been searching for, an hour’s reprieve from the cold outside and the paranoia in her mind. But Hutch avoids her eye, begins sifting through the contents of the bag for a straw that’s right in front of him, and she knows that something is wrong. They’ve been friends long enough for Sara to be able to recognize his tells, and Hutch has always been a shitty liar.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Sara corrects him. She hadn’t realized it until now, but as she says it aloud, it makes sense. They haven’t seen or spoken to each other in a week.

Sara’s mind doesn’t jump to the wolves right away (Sam always comes first, even years later-- has he been avoiding Sam, too?) but the thought of them are always there, following close behind. Logically, she can’t be the only one who knows about them, and he’s a vet, for God’s sake. If anyone else could find out, she’d put her money on Hutch first. 

What scares her the most is that he’ll know she’s been lying to him, too. She never meant to.

Sara releases a breath and sets her uneaten sandwich back down on Hutch’s desk. She braces herself for something that she can’t quite yet place, and ventures the question:

“What’s going on?”

#interactions: hutch #hutch 001

[sarahawthorn]

basswccd​:

“Sara?” his voice comes from within the apartment as he closes and locks the door to the apartment behind him. The down coat he wears is shrugged off, it’s abandoned on a chair as the draft creeping through the living room ushers him to the balcony where he finds her. He returns the smile. 

Aside from watering the few plants he struggles to keep alive in the spring and summer, it isn’t often he went out on the balcony. The dull view had much to do with that. Avoiding it means that it’s easier to pretend their apartment is situated somewhere more exciting when the blinds are closed. 

Sam cuts her a look, wordlessly saying of course I do.

“I never read the book.” It was one of many assigned readings he once avoided. Maybe he shouldn’t have. “Saw the movie, though. He was kind of a dick.” 

Sara laughs-- she should’ve known-- and slides her pack and lighter across the table to Sam. 

“That’s pretty much the gist of it,” she replies, reaching over and snapping the lid of her laptop shut. “One day the school board will let me choose better books,” she says, a little wistfully, leaning back into the chair, “but until then...” she shrugs, then takes a drag from her cigarette. Until then, we’ll smoke.

A comfortable silence befalls them as Sam lights his cigarette and Sara smokes hers. It’s the kind that can only come after decades of friendship, the two of them knowing far more about one another than any person should. Sara’s comforted by the thought, and smiles quietly to herself. Sam is her brother, far more than her actual sibling.

“Should I ask about work?” Sara says a few minutes later. Off in the distance, an owl hoots. It isn’t a plea for details-- he likely wouldn’t give them, anyway-- but rather an invitation to ask how Sam is doing. He’s good at his job, Sara’s known him long enough to know this, but he’s drawn a short straw here. People-- kids-- keep disappearing; Sara thinks she knows why, but she fears Sam wouldn’t believe her if she tried to explain. 

She adjusts her position in her chair and flicks the ash off her cigarette. She watches it fall onto the wood.

“Or,” she continues, glancing at Sam from the corner of her eye, “should we talk about the Dante-shaped elephant in the room?”

#interactions: sam #sam 001

[sarahawthorn]

nullum-arcanum​:

Rage is a quiet thing / You think that you've tamed it / But it's just lying in wait / Oh / Rage / Is it in our veins? / Feel it in my face when I least expect it

#( decide what to be and go be it | muse ) #i need to update this tag

[sarahawthorn]

5 and 11 for the music meme!

5. a song that makes my muse sad

Broken Bones & Pocket Change - St. Paul and the Broken Bones

11. a song that reminds my muse of their family

I’m Still Standing - Elton John (more Cleaning Day Tunes)

#ask meme #lonehowling

[sarahawthorn]

1, 11, 12!

1. a song I associate with my muse’s personality

Have Faith - Mt. Joy

11. a song that reminds my muse of their family

Everywhere - Fleetwood Mac

12. a song that my muse might listen to when angry

My Girl - The Temptations (just bc I think Sara wouldn’t want to remain angry,,,this one was tough thank u aislin)

#ask meme #kennyholloway

[sarahawthorn]

a song that makes my muse sad

5. a song that makes my muse sad

I’ve Been Loving You Too Long - Otis Redding

#ask meme #willofoak

[sarahawthorn]

a song that makes my muse want to dance

6. a song that makes my muse want to dance

Bootylicious - Destiny’s Child

Sara was alive in the 90s and has taste.

#ask meme #Anonymous

[sarahawthorn]

a song that reminds my muse of their family

11. a song that reminds my muse of their family

I Wanna Be Your Lover - Prince

A song Sara’s parents would always play when they cleaned on the weekends, it reminds her of the smell of Pine Sol and being up at six am on a Saturday.

#ask meme #Anonymous

[sarahawthorn]

Music Meme

Send in a number for—

a song I associate with my muse’s personality

a song I associate with my muse’s past

a boss battle song for fighting my muse

a song lyric that describes my muse

a song that makes my muse sad

a song that makes my muse want to dance

a song that my muse always sings along to

a song that makes my muse feel nostalgic

a song that would play while my muse is having sex

a song my muse would do a striptease to

a song that reminds my muse of their family

a song that my muse might listen to when angry

a song dedicated to on of my muse’s ships (specify ship)

a song that my muse would sing to their children

a song that my muse would play at their wedding

a song that my muse can’t stand

a song that makes my muse think of your muse

a song that plays while my muse trains/works-out

a song that plays while my muse studies/works

a random song from my muse’s playlist

#ask meme #for Charlie too!!!

[sarahawthorn]

when: december 10th, afternoon where: the vet’s office open to: @hutchingsb​

Winter is closing in on Blackrock, and Sara’s fears are multiplying. It had been winter when she was attacked, but the extra layers made no difference. The wolf’s claws shredded her jacket like scissors cutting paper, her blood spilling deep red on the white snow. Now, even years later, the memory haunts her. It’s cold again in Blackrock, a new dusting of snow greeting her with every morning, and she swears she can hear howling at night.

She stifles her nerves as she drives to the vet clinic, lunch for her and Hutch in the passenger’s seat. Hutch had been at her bedside while she recovered from her attack, but she never had the guts to tell him what it really was, not after the doctors were so sure she’d imagined it. She is not a fool; she knows what she saw. Not a wolf, but something worse.

Sara parks her car, the old Charger spitting in protest, grabs the bag of sandwiches, and walks into the clinic. Carol waves her past the reception desk with little more than a hello. Sara smiles in return and lets herself into Hutch’s office.

“I brought lunch,” she says in lieu of a greeting, sidling into one of the faux-leather chairs and dropping the Buckshot bag on his desk. Their usual. Sara’s order has hardly changed since she was seventeen.

“How are you?” She asks as she starts digging through the bag, pulling out napkins and silverware and their sandwiches wrapped in foil. She pops a fry in her mouth, surprised to see it held up on the ride over. “I haven’t seen you since the party.”

#interactions: hutch #hutch 001 #hutchingsb

[sarahawthorn]

lonehowling​:

Next year. She said it so easily, so assuredly, with the ease of someone whose life never strayed too far from normal. Sola wanted to be normal too. With Sara’s easy, genuine smile, it was tempting to sink into her optimism. Maybe for just one night, Sola could let herself forgot the looming, wintery shadow and the teeth at her heels. She could pretend.

She leaned against the bartop, content to just listen to Sara explain. When she dropped the name Whitegrass, Sola couldn’t help but let out a low whistle. “Damn. No wonder they went all out.” Her eyes rounded the barn before landing back on her partner. Despite Sara’s best efforts, Sola noticed the amusement in her face and followed her gaze back down to the bottle, her expression turning sheepish. “Hope they won’t take that out of any tips.” She handed over the bottle without a fuss when Sara reached for it, studying over her shoulder as she deftly knocked the cork into the wine. 

“Brand spanking new.” She grinned at her, reaching out to take the bottle back. “Sola. It’s nice to meet you, Sara.” Sola tipped the bottle over the rim of a wineglass, watching the liquid pour out. “Good thing I partnered with you. Anyone else might have watched me crash and burn.”

“Oh, they’re harmless,” Sara replies breezily, though she knows that’s not entirely true. She can’t tell if Sola is joking-- she’s well-within her right to sincerely believe it, after all-- but Sara’s spirits are high, and the alcohol is free-flowing, so she treats it as one and laughs. “Most of them, anyway,” she continues, following Sola’s suit and leaning her elbows against the bartop. This is not the whole truth, either. The scars on her abdomen refuse to let her forget it: there is danger in Blackrock.

“Everyone in Blackrock grew up hearing stories about wolves,” she explains, her hands waving through the air as she talks. “Some people even believe it.” She is careful not to include herself in it. “That, and we got so used to these tourists coming and going, we forgot how to be nice to the ones that stick around.” She flashes Sola a smile. “You scored an invite here, didn’t you? That counts for something.”

#interactions: sola #sola 001 #i brought the gifs back

[sarahawthorn]

when: december 14, evening where: the apartment open to: @basswccd​

Sara is smoking on the balcony when Sam gets home. Despite the cold of December, she’s sitting on one of their mismatched lawn chairs, her feet propped up onto the wooden railing. Her laptop sits on the table to her left, a student essay on The Great Gatsby opened but momentarily forgotten; the screen threatens to go black at any moment. Sara ignores it in favor of the cigarette, staring absentmindedly out into the alley that their balcony faces.

What a view, Sara thinks sarcastically to herself.

Still, she stares out into the night almost serenely, lifting her head only when she hears Sam open the door and step out to join her. She doesn’t put the cigarette out; Sam is one of the few who knows of her secret, and what’s better, is guilty of it, too. No room for judgment.

“Hey,” Sara smiles in greeting, taking her legs off the railing and planting her feet back on the deck. “I got sick of reading about why Gatsby should be a role model,” she explains, waving her cigarette through the air as she speaks. She nods toward it, then looks back at Sam. 

“Want one?”

#interactions: sam #sam 001 #basswccd

[sarahawthorn]

andrewsbrewer​:

         andrew holds his hands up in a sort of mock surrender.    “  i think i can manage that , ”     he says.      “  if you don’t mind me bummin’ a light , that is.  ”      he’s got one in his pocket , always has a lighter of some sort on him       whether a lighter or a couple matches. he’s never been one for smoking much either , but big gatherings such as this? they put him on edge. too many people doing too many things with too much alcohol. he spent most of the day helping decorate. he’s familiar with all the entrances and exits , made use of a few now       including to get here. 

settling against the wall , he lets his shoulders take the brunt of it. beneath his heavy coat , the kimber strapped to his side is a familiar weight. it’s hidden by a few more layers , but still easily reachable for andrew. it’s not that he expects anything to happen now , it’s that he feels more comfortable carrying the weapon than he does leaving it behind. withdrawing a pack of herbal cigarettes , he packs them lightly against his palm before extracting one.       “  am i early to meetin’ or is it just the two’a us?  ”

Wordlessly, Sara produces an orange Bic lighter from her coat pocket and offers it out to him. Even with the alcohol muddling her thoughts, she keeps an eye on it as it exchanges hands, reminding herself not to let him leave with it. She’s lost enough of them over the years to know that all smokers are dirty thieves, whether they mean to be or not, and Andrew, despite the raised hands, doesn’t look to be entirely harmless.

“Looks like it’s just us,” Sara says finally, exhaling smoke along with it. She glances at the pack in Andrew’s hands and raises a curious brow. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the hipster type,” she comments, no doubt fueled by the liquor in her system. As an afterthought, she adds: “No offense.”

#interactions: andrew #andrew 001

[sarahawthorn]

when: december where: celeste’s garage open to: @celestewilliams​

“So?” Sara asks, impatient, hovering over Celeste as she works. Taken apart in front of them is Sara’s Dodge Charger, or at least what’s left of it. It was nice when she bought it-- a 2002 model-- but that was nearly fifteen years ago.  Since then, she’s driven it all over Montana, to college and grad school and back to Blackrock, so many of its parts replaced that it’s barely recognizable. She should’ve sold it a decade ago, but Sara is nothing if not sentimental.

“How’s she looking?” She runs an affectionate hand over the hood, propped open for Celeste to get a better look. In her other hand is a to-go bag from Buckshot, which she waves in front of Celeste like a bribe. 

“If you tell me to sell it again,” she adds, playful smile on her face, “I’m taking my sandwiches and my car and I’m leaving.”

#interactions: celeste #celeste 001 #celestewilliams