Realistic or Modern 𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙾𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙾𝚂

[triples]

triples x reveriee

 

[triples]

dignitas.

the ringleader

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  name.

  
  
  

  julian s. montague

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  02

  
  

  
  

  aka.

  
  
  

  jules (close friends)

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  03

  
  

  
  

  age.

  
  
  

  twenty-one

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

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  gender.

  
  
  

  cis male

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  05

  
  

  
  

  orientation.

  
  
  

  bisexual

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  visage.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height.

  
  
  

  1.83m

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye & hair color.

  
  
  

  blue | light brown

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  style.

  
  
  

  simple, crisp and preppy, all cashmere sweaters and leather shoes, classic pieces and vintage silhouettes. a silver of designed messiness to add some flair, perhaps, finished off with a spray of subtle cologne. a casual aesthetic that lets you know his formal wear is bespoke, even if you haven't walked through his wardrobe yet.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim.

  
  
  

  (young) alain delon

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  02.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  vibes bank.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  cherry cigars, dark chocolate, whiskey by the swimming pool at night. bright smiles with sharp canines, bright eyes that feel dark. a boyish charm, they'd call it, but that didn't feel quite right. his fingers mindlessly twist his ring, his chin rests in his hand, his pen taps impatiently on the paper. "brilliant," he says, but his tone is dry. a shared sidelong glance and a quirk of his brows makes you feel like part of something. quiet stares until you shift in your seat without a reason why, "i'm just messing with you," he laughs — you can't be certain if it's a lie. shooting trophies that line the shelf, paintings after paintings that line the walls. nails cut too short, he keeps biting them uneven. fresh flowers appear every morning in his vase, letters and gifts are left gathering dust. his chessboard is always mid-game in an empty apartment, his favors always come at a price. there's a beauty in his silence that he despises, and only in his anger, did he seem almost real.
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  quote by.

  
  
  

  oscar wilde, the picture of dorian gray

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  ❛❛

  ❜❜

  you will always be fond of me; i represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  03.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  summary.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  In the Montague house, there was a wall. A merlot-coloured canvas sat at the crest of a stairway, on which hung a collage of hunting trinkets: framed photographs, a deer's stuffed head, and some medal Mr. Montague won years ago.
  
  In the Montague house, there was also Julian, looking up at the wall. Wrinkles on the carpet told a tale of struggle to drag a heavy chair all the way down the corridor — but in his victory, he now stood tall, precariously balanced on the tip of his toes. Stubby hands reached for the gorgeous cherry-laced rifle, fixed in the center of the collection, as crystal-blue eyes glimmered back at him through the polished wood. His fingers stretched, determined; close.
  
  But as they graced the cool metal, his mother had pulled him away, into her arms and away from his goal. No, Julian, stop! Then his father, striding in from the dining room, a crease growing between his brows. I told you not to touch a damn thing on that wall.
  
  The rifle hadn't been loaded, of course. That didn't stop his parents from dismissing his nanny, or moving the display into a spare room and locking the doors.
  
  Over time, the weight of the moment would fade, and the day would turn into a quaint memory, retold in light spirits. He was always trying to get his hands on that thing, his mother would laugh — brag — to the other ladies over tea. In the distance, the sound of gunfire would briefly interrupt the cool evening breeze, and they would wonder what the men had caught. I guess that's what you call a passion from young.
  
  But the truth is that Julian never really liked any of it. Not the sound of gunfire, the weight of a weapon or the look of prey when they go down. It didn't matter, though.
  
  Because in the Montague house, there was a wall, once more. Hunting trinkets hang on it: photographs of father and son on their range, stuffed heads, and all the medals that Julian had won. When he visits from school, he sometimes stands there alone, running his hand over the pieces. And the world feels right, resting on his fingertips. Put back into its place.
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  extra.

  
  

  click

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  misc.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  studying in.

  
  
  

  kingston college

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  major.

  
  
  

  economics & sociology

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  secret society.

  
  
  

  the serpent's head

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  family.

  
  
  

  the montagues, third-generation french immigrants and, among other things, owners of multiple diamond mines. currently headed by orlando montague and his wife, cassidy. julian is their only son, though there are many cousins who visit far too often.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  affluenza (slowed)

  
  

  
  
  
  

  conan gray

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[reveriee]

imperium.

the traitor.

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  01.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  01

  
  

  
  

  name.

  
  
  

  Dhruvi Sheth [ध्रुवी शेठ]

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  02

  
  

  
  

  a.k.a.

  
  
  

  just Dhruvi

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  03

  
  

  
  

  age.

  
  
  

  twenty-two

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

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  pronouns.

  
  
  

  she/they

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  05

  
  

  
  

  birthday.

  
  
  

  April 12

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  06

  
  

  
  

  sexuality.

  
  
  

  gray-ace and kinda bi, but mostly straight?

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  07

  
  

  
  

  ethnicity.

  
  
  

  half Gujarati, half English

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  08

  
  

  
  

  hometown.

  
  
  

  Cambridge, England

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  09

  
  

  
  

  major.

  
  
  

  economics & applied and computational mathematics

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  10

  
  

  
  

  minor.

  
  
  

  public policy

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  visage.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height.

  
  
  

  173 cm (5'8)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  style.

  
  
  

  Leather jackets and lace, heeled boots that let her tower over you more than she already does. Long maxi skirts and necklines that expose her collarbones. Earrings that dangle just a bit above her shoulder, with feathers, big hunks of jewel, or just a simple silver chain. Clothed in some white, some olive green, some gray, but mostly black, there's something distinctly model-esque about the way Dhruvi composes herself, and the sense that even if she isn't old money, she certainly has more than enough of it.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim.

  
  
  

  Saffron Vadher

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  02.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  vibes.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  dark, narrow eyes, cheekbones high and cutting, hair sleek, glossy. nails perfectly manicured, painted oxblood. her mouth quirks into a smirk when she wins. there's a casual yet frightening intensity about her. she laughs with you over coffee, and you feel settled by her smile, but then you see the smug glint in her eye when she pushes forward and pushes others aside to get there. but she's no backstabber, no snake; no pretenses, no illusions. no need to fear -- everything is right in front of you. you see the twist of her lips, the oxblood, the organized desk, and you close your eyes and see a hungry high school valedictorian, brutal prom queen, miss scary and miss perfect. miss perfect, misperfect. you know that she fights because she likes to win, and she likes to win because she likes to see others lose. but not everyone, you tell yourself. she wouldn't turn on her friends, just her fake ones. and you turn to watch her again and think to yourself that she won't ever turn on you because she will never need to. she's a little scary in a way that makes you feel a bit unsettled, a bit anxious. like you know what she's capable of but you trust that she will never do any of it but there's only so much that trust can do for you.
  
  but as long as you don't know who she used to be, there is no need to fear.
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  virtues.

  
  
  

  stalwart. enterprising. confident.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  vices.

  
  
  

  stubborn. competitive. unreflective.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  fears.

  
  
  

  spiders. fear. getting caught.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  quote from.

  
  
  

  lost, by forugh farrokhzad. tr. sholeh wolpé.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  ❛❛

  ❜❜

  but i am dancing on my own grave; i illumine this sad ruin with flames of my regret

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  03.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  summary.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  You see a little bit of Dhruvi in her mother.
  
  Her mother, a political scientist specializing in the political economy of South Asia, her mother, professor at Warwick, Cambridge, Yale, her mother who had a relationship with a coworker that she broke off at the first red flag and took their daughter and never looked back. Her mother, who is intelligent, hungry, and independent, who knows what she wants out of her career but still has enough of a beating heart in her to be a mother.
  
  Dhruvi's mother set standards for her, of course, but she was really just a good mother, who spent time with her daughter and listened to her daughter's feelings and supported her daughter through everything. If anything, she was just a bit busy, and Dhruvi spent maybe a couple hours too many by herself.
  
  But the point is, you will look at Dhruvi -- who is generally nice, despite her moments of severity and despite her hunger -- and then you will look at her mother, and it will all make sense.
  
  But the thing is, you don't know Dhruvi. Dhruvi in high school. Dhruvi who was not smart, Dhruvi who was a cheater. Dhruvi who smoked in the school bathroom and Dhruvi who did molly in her friends' bedrooms. Dhruvi who graffitied her neighbors' wealthy estates at night. Dhruvi who shoplifted at the mall, Dhruvi who stole from the small businesses lining the road. Dhruvi who watched her friend get high out of his mind and jump off a bridge into the river. Dhruvi who did nothing good with herself because she thought it was funny. Dhruvi who was caught out. Dhruvi who had to get her mother to do some shit under the table for her record to be cleared. Dhruvi who probably got into Kingston because of her mother and a couple hundred thousand bucks.
  
  And it's understandable, that you won't know that Dhruvi. Because the only thing that's the same between this Dhruvi and that Dhruvi is that she's hungry and will feel a little happy to see you fail. Because when Professor Brown got murdered and everyone turned to Julian Montague, Dhruvi's leg started jittering, and she had to hide her sneer. Because when half of her friends went to juvie while she went to Kingston, Dhruvi felt her palms get sweaty and her heart beat into her throat and her eyes stay wide open till the sun rose, and smiled. Because when Owen cracked his head on a rock in that river, Dhruvi felt something in her stomach drop and all her blood rush to who knows where, and laughed.
  
  She's still laughing, by the way.
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  extra.

  
  

  click

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  misc.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  fun facts.

  
  
  

  ✧ she goes to the nail salon every two weeks to have her oxblood red nails maintained
  ✧ she knows who her dad is, and he knows who she is, but they never talk
  ✧ really loves a disposable camera

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  family.

  
  
  

  Saraswati Sheth [सरस्वती शेठ] — mother

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  eat your young

  
  

  
  
  
  

  hozier

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[reveriee]

bonafide.

the connection.

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03.

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  01.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  01

  
  

  
  

  name.

  
  
  

  Simeon James Douglass III

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  02

  
  

  
  

  a.k.a.

  
  
  

  Sim

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  03

  
  

  
  

  age.

  
  
  

  twenty

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

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  pronouns.

  
  
  

  he/him

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  05

  
  

  
  

  birthday.

  
  
  

  September 24

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  06

  
  

  
  

  sexuality.

  
  
  

  questioning

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  07

  
  

  
  

  ethnicity.

  
  
  

  Black

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  08

  
  

  
  

  hometown.

  
  
  

  Lawrence, Indiana, USA

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  09

  
  

  
  

  major.

  
  
  

  earth sciences

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  10

  
  

  
  

  minor.

  
  
  

  archaeology

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  visage.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height.

  
  
  

  1.87m (6'2)

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  style.

  
  
  

  A teenager of hoodies, khakis, and yellowed sneakers, Sim's style has transitioned into a more sophisticated blend of trench coats, loafers, sweaters, slacks, and scarves. Under the influence of his wealthy peers, Sim's closet is now full of corduroy and wool rather than just the classic cotton and polyester. The only thing that hasn't changed from his pre-Kingston days is his love for the color orange, which dominates his wardrobe in full force alongside tans and browns.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim.

  
  
  

  Désiré Quadjo Mia

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  02.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  vibes.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  bright, frequent smiles, corners of the eyes crinkling; a solicitous gaze, body angled towards you. conversation is a gentle river around him, ebbing and flowing, always filling the spaces. he's that easy-going guy who gets along with everyone, that nice boy your mother wants you to bring home. he turns chlorine into cologne, humid noons into fresh air. sim douglass has no enemies.
  
  how you holding up, what're you up to, wanna go out tonight -- oh that's my friend, you know him? he means no harm; he converses with you, laughing, clapping your back, he looks at you with eyes so genuine and turns around to smile at the guys who make your life hell. he's inaugurated into everyone's circle, loves them all like his brothers. he loves you too, so know that the knife in your back is forged from compliance and never malice. sharing secrets with the everyman, rubbing elbows with the rich, shaking hands with the devil,
  
  sim douglass has no enemies.
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  virtues.

  
  
  

  easy-going. solicitous. diplomatic.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  vices.

  
  
  

  complacent. cowardly. conflict-avoidant.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  fears.

  
  
  

  fire. the dentist. being hated.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  ❛❛

  ❜❜

  it overflows and overwhelms, so much it means nothing at all

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  03.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  summary.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  On the most important day of his life, Sim Douglass was in the water.
  
  On the scoreboard, his name was emblazoned in bright white, the number one to its left and a new personal record to its right. His boy Henry had leaned over the lane divider, slapping his back and hollering in his ear. When Sim turned his head, he could see his family sitting in the front row of the bleachers, cheering. Happy.
  
  Sim in the water was always characterized half by humble roots and half by a sense of glory. His mother was a secretary, his father was an accountant. He was the middle of three children. They all went to the local public school, and never vacationed, spending their summers by the lakeside or in their friends' yards. They did their homework after coming home from school and had game nights with their parents after dinner. By all accounts, they were an ordinary, loving family.
  
  Sim's mom put him in swimming lessons so he wouldn't drown when he played by the lake. He was nowhere near a prodigy, but combined with hard, honest work, Sim was good enough to be a talent -- the kind your teachers tell your parents about so you can keep going. He kept swimming because he liked it, improved because he knew how to practice, won because that was the natural next step. He was at first a popular kid at school, then a local celebrity, then the type of swimmer recruiters went to meets to see. Swimming got Sim into Kingston, and while it wasn't easy, it was certainly natural.
  
  And he has the privilege of a supportive family to back him through it all. If you see that tired, accepting twitch in his sister's smile (his sister, who grew up when their parents were actually poor, who was never able to do anything she loved and had to watch her brother excel doing just that), if you see that begrudgingly proud glint in his brother's eyes (his brother, who was always sidelined by Sim the star swimmer, who felt their relationship sour beyond repair), if you see the loving looks on his parents' faces, split in half by their smiles, (his parents, who supported him not because of his glory but because of his happiness, who put everything into his swimming because they would never let themselves be his downfall), and asked Sim if you knew how lucky he was (if he knew that his family, who undoubtably loves him, was also undoubtably shaped around him) --
  
  he would say yes. And he would mean it.

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  extra.

  
  

  click

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  misc.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  fun facts.

  
  
  

  ✧ favorite color is orange
  ✧ recruited swimmer specializing in backstroke
  ✧ identifies as a Baptist

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  family.

  
  
  

  Simeon James Douglass Jr. — father
  Charity Douglass — mother
  Elisha Mae Douglass — older sister
  Isaiah Scott Douglass — younger brother

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  nothing but silence

  
  

  
  
  
  

  seriously

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[triples]

amicitia.

the unassuming

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03.

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  01.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  01

  
  

  
  

  name.

  
  
  

  anastasia m. grace

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  02

  
  

  
  

  aka.

  
  
  

  stacy, stace, etc.

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  03

  
  

  
  

  age.

  
  
  

  twenty-one

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  04

  
  

  
  

  gender.

  
  
  

  cis female

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  05

  
  

  
  

  orientation.

  
  
  

  heteroromantic ace

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  visage.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  height.

  
  
  

  1.62m

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  eye & hair color.

  
  
  

  brown | strawberry-blonde

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  style.

  
  
  

  warm tones spiced up with the occasional red, in her clothes and on her lips, often picked to fit well with her hair. her solid-tone wardrobe is occasionally specked with floral prints, mostly on loose blouses and pretty dresses, to go with her floral perfumes on days when she hopes to impress. nothing striking, per se, but enough to say she was a mood of her own.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  faceclaim.

  
  
  

  camille yolaine

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  02.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  vibes bank.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  coffee, freshly roasted, and a pristine collection of records. hands pulling a sheer cardigan tighter, brushing the same strand of hair behind her ear again. hidden journals, nervous smiles, lips between teeth and eyes that light up when someone's really listening. a sweet voice from a sweet face, it hasn't been long since she learnt to say not-so-sweet things. "be good, stacy" — she knows that's only because perfect seemed too far. raindrops against the car windows that make her think, a frown she doesn't realize she's wearing, doodles descend from simple to scratches but "are you alright?" only ever gets one answer. glances jumping quick between one to the other, the sound of her own swallowing that sounds too loud, anxiety rising at the smallest fights; at least she's good at hiding it. I get it, I know, I understand but how much does she really? it bothers her to think it might not be much.
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  quote by.

  
  
  

  donna tartt, the secret history

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  ❛❛

  ❜❜

  our own selves make us most unhappy, and that's why we're so anxious to lose them.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  03.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  summary.

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  An extravagant garden, an extravagant cake, and extravagant decorations. She'd stared too long at all the little details. None of the other girls seemed to care.
  
  They stood around the star of the show, wearing pretty dresses and blasé smiles, speaking in tones as if they were their mothers. Stacy — whose dress was pretty, too, but whose smile was not the same — stood awkwardly on the fringes.
  
  Oh, I love the charms on your bracelet. Oh, I just got this one as an early present. Oh, I'm jealous, I only have that in silver.
  
  They could never agree on what colour was the best, but they all seemed to agree that every girl had such a bracelet. When they asked her which version she liked, she flinched, and they'd stared. She said, rose-gold, of course, but she knew she hadn't convinced them.
  
  Every year, she accepted their invitations, though she wondered why they sent them. She bought the bracelet, learned the piano, started horse-riding lessons. But every year, the topic changed and she was still the last to know.
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  extra.

  
  

  click

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  misc.

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  studying in.

  
  
  

  kingston college

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  major.

  
  
  

  history

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  secret society.

  
  
  

  the serpent's head

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  family.

  
  
  

  the graces are a historically upper-middle class family, just breaching new boundaries of wealth. marcus and yvonne grace are stars of the real estate world in new england, who want nothing more than their three daughters to marry into the sprawling mansions they sell.

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  fly me to the moon

  
  

  
  
  
  

  dazbee

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[triples]

amicitia.

the unassuming

fly me to the moon

the macarons project

stacy grace.

Stacy was a fan of silence — but only in empty rooms. The lounge was not empty, even though her breathing was the only sound to indicate otherwise. Her gaze traveled from one wall to the other, past solemn figure after solemn figure, their eye-catching looks contrary to the drab mood they sat themselves in.

Despite its sangria themes and ebony shelves, the lounge itself was not to blame for the atmosphere. In fact, Stacy found this place cozy most days, dust-filtered sunlight and all. Not right now. The room was the same as always, of course, but its occupants were unlike their usual selves today. And it was these occupants causing the sense of dread that now suffocated her.

The most nonchalant of them, sitting alone on the largest couch. Perhaps the least nonchalant, discounting Stacy herself, leaning against a shelf in the corner. And between them, a girl, pondering something all too serious.

Julian. Simeon. Dhruvi.

A friend. A friend. A dear, old friend.

The room was small. The distance between each of them was immense. To Stacy, in this moment, almost insurmountable, not least thanks to her own imaginations.

A sharp sting stole her attention before her eyes could make one more lap. She glanced down at the crimson dotting the pale skin of her left ring finger, blood pooling underneath a half-torn hangnail. Her brows pulled together, a quiet show of frustration.

This isn't it, she thought. But — the question occured to her perhaps belatedly — what had she expected?

Another minute passed in pin-drop silence. She looked up, away from her wound, only to be met with a pale blue stare. Stacy flinched.

If he were in a novel, she guessed Julian Montague's eyes might often be compared to gems. A sort of double entendre for his family's nature, perhaps. Bright and clear. Clear and cutting. Truth be told, some days, Stacy found his eyes more unnerving than beautiful, more reminiscent of a polar predator than diamonds. Days, unfortunately, like today.

Julian refused to look away, no matter how she tried to avoid meeting his gaze, as if he was waiting for her to say something. Maybe it was obvious she wanted to.

Stacy cleared her throat, in a misguided attempt to hide her nerves.

"So, uhm, Julian-"

"Yes, Anastasia?"

It was that tone again. The one she could never convince herself was meant to be joking. She gave a small laugh anyway.

"Jules,"

she amended, clearing her throat once again,

"what did the professor say, when she pulled you aside?"

It must be paranoia again, that his gaze seemed to steel a little at her question.

"Something about a class I'm taking with her. Why?"

"Oh. I just was, I was worried."

She smiled, he didn't.

"Me & Dhruvi, 'cause you were with us and then suddenly you weren't, and-"

She paused. Impossibly, the room felt even quieter than before. Julian's gaze finally moved off her, towards Dhruvi, but the relief didn't last long. His tone changed to something slow, deliberate — and, by now she knew him well enough to know, annoyed.

"And why would that worry you, Stace?"

"No, nevermind."

She waved her hand, as if that might dismiss the awkward conversation.

"It's just such a shock, I'm not thinking straight."

Stacy glanced nervously at Dhruvi — even she wasn't sure what for, herself. She shouldn't have said anything.

♡coded by uxie♡