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wlw-lovestruck-fiction · 4 years

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vanessa super sappy lines #20, please?? thank you in advance, you're amazing.

Written by @evoedbd

“Vanessa, you dropped your nametag.” Emily’s voice was clear over the din of the auditorium.

Vanessa Helsing blinked, brought back to herself. School was her long-forgotten dream of a life where she’d had friends instead of the abusive training she’d had drilled into her. She could imagine that she’d actually attended school for longer than a few months at a time. She’d stayed in one place, where she’d made the best friend a girl could ever ask for. It was a life she’d never known she’d missed until she met Emily. The formal dances she’d never attend, the jitters of asking her crush to the dance that she’d never get to genuinely experience. The photos for prom, where her date would watch her descend the stairs like a princess, or dance close under the romantic lighting towards the end of the night. There were so many moments that had been robbed from her, that she’d been convinced she would never need. Now, with hints of that waving beneath her nose, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of longing. For a few moments she could try to forget that she was the Helsing heir. She could pretend she was a normal young woman who’d had all those teenage firsts. That she’d attended the prom beside another beautiful young woman. That she’d had her romantic dances and awkward first kiss, the cheesy prom photos, getting home at 11:00 on the dot so her girlfriend’s family thought her a respectable woman. That she’d graduated and gone to college, then come back to the small town and collected her sweetheart into her arms. That life had been a romantic story without the death and heartache she had endured, that she was back at her old school to see her friend’s little sister in the school play, then they’d go for pizza before a sleepover where they could watch movies and talk about old times.

“Oh, tha-” Vanessa never finished her sentence. The moment she grabbed her “name tag” she knew something was off. Were schools really offering such cheap, thin paper? What was that gritty, powdery substance rubbing between the wrapper? Wait… wrapper? Her eyes darted down, confirming her building suspicion when she saw the blue letters S U G before her thumb blocked off the remaining two.

“Emily, this is sugar.” She deadpanned, turning her gaze to the expectant vampire.

Emily was… dear gods, she was proud of her horrific joke. It was written across her timeless face. The brightest stars had to have been plucked from the night sky just to form the unique mischievous twinkle in Emily’s expressive blue eyes. Without the glasses needed in her mortal life, the scar across the bridge of Emily’s nose was more prominent, however the blemish only served to solidify the vampire in the real world. She had some flaws, such as how the somewhat heavy set of her brows always made it appear as if they were creasing in thought, or annoyance.

“Yep.” Emily began, popping the P on her smirking lips. That smirk only drew attention to the defined, high set of her jaw, along with her strong yet feminine chin. The strength to her feminine features made that playful smugness so unfairly attractive, more so than they had any right to be. Dear lord, she was embracing her vampiric nature to appear so smug, so above the world of mortals even as she delivered the cheesiest of lines without an ounce of well-deserved shame.

“I am in the unique position of knowing everything about you is sweet…” the vampire trailed off, leaning closer so that her breath could tease Vanessa’s ear as she whispered.

“Especially how you taste.”

“Emily!” Vanessa exclaimed in something of a squeak, hoping her scandalised tone could make up for how hotly her cheeks were burning. This was how she died. Not to vampires, demons and the abysmal supernatural who would prey on humanity, but to her mortification in some school she had no association to.

“I’m sorry!” Emily quickly cut in, realisation dawning on her face. Remarkably, the Vampire’s cheeks flared at how her words seemed to have been taken.

“I haven’t eaten today.” She confessed in a low tone, clarifying what she had meant by taste. That was very Emily, thinking with her stomach. So, maybe Vanessa could forgive her.

“I am currently only sustained by your immortal love.” Another pun, clearly Emily wasn’t feeling that guilty about her seemingly unintentional innuendo.

“What’s this after show gathering about, anyway? I was told to read the fine-print, but I didn’t see your name anywhere.” Emily continued, voice lowered enough to conceal her words from unwelcome ears.

“Sttoopppp” Vanessa groaned, allowing her head to fall forwards into her hands. She’d genuinely thought her face couldn’t get any hotter, yet she was once again proven wrong. Her blush doubled down, intensifying all the way to the tips of her ears.

“I don’t know what I expected from a school that is so cruel. It forces U and I apart.” Emily dramatically lamented, lifting the back of her hand to her forehead as her body appeared ready to fall. Her other hand clutched at her heart, fingers clawed as if trying to hold the muscle together. Her caramel brown hair swished around her face chaotically, strands streaking across her pale face when she shook her head mournfully. The display was enough to make Vanessa laugh out loud without a regard for any other.

“You’re so cheesy!” She accused, reaching out in an effort to playfully shove Emily’s shoulder.

“Ungtie Em! Auntie V!” A high pitched squeal of joy broke the moment. A dash of colour flew past the corner of Vanessa’s vision mere moments before there was earth shattering impact. A bundle of excitement leapt at Emily, making high pitched noises that Vanessa couldn’t decipher. The Vampire smiled, a single arm curling out to embrace the squirming mass clinging to her chest.

“Hey Kiddo, you were awesome up there!” Emily eagerly responded, leaning her head back and cocking a hip to establish some distance from the excitable child.

They looked so similar to Emily one might actually think them mother and daughter. Despite her youth, the girl’s cherub cheeks already showed signs of how they’d sharpen, whilst her chubby jaw already was beginning to form that devastating swoop. It wasn’t merely the physical aspects that struck Vanessa however. Although the child’s eyes were a vivid green instead of blue, they held that exact same twinkle that Emily’s did. The stars personified into mischief and glee which captivated the Helsing Huntress once again.

“I already sent the video to your mom and Gwen. They’re going to be so proud! Did you have fun?” Emily continued, attempting to smooth over the potential hurdle of an absent parent.

With Code Black extending into other countries, and Grace dealing with the consequences of having being changed into a supernatural being, coming to her daughter’s school functions had become a tad difficult. Vanessa’s heart plummeted as she remembered the tears in Grace’s eyes when she’d video called them, explaining that she was not stable enough to be near mortals just yet. Gwen had been equally as hurt, although she disguised it with her usual attitude. The Banshee was officially under orders not to leave her partner’s side, and to contain any supernatural outbursts. Of course, Emily had quickly agreed to step up and be there for her niece, barely getting her rushed words out before Vanessa was also agreeing.

The Helsing was brought back to the present as Emily pretended to nip the child’s delicate nose, earning an adorable squee followed by twinkling giggles. For a young Banshee, her voice was already captivating, drawing attention without even trying.

“Yeah!” She declared, giving a rather stout nod to compliment. her words. That drew another grin from both the adults, Emily making no effort to conceal her relief. This child was so precious, even though she was developing an attitude similar to Gwen’s. Briefly, Vanessa pondered if the vivid green eyes were a Banshee trait, or if it was merely that her father and Gwen had similar origins. The Helsing order had taught Vanessa a lot about hunting monsters, though its education on living with supernaturals was so painfully limited. Questions Vanessa had simply couldn’t be answered by The Helsing Order, and she was loathed to start badgering Gwen about these things. She was already very cautious about the answers she gave, seemingly not trusting Vanessa’s intentions. Thankfully, Grace’s daughter held no such hesitations.

“You were absolutely amazing, Gloria.” Vanessa affirmed, stepping closer so that she could squish Gloria into Emily with a hug.

“Thanks Auntie V!” Gloria muttered as she wiggled again, working one arm free so that she could curl it around Vanessa’s neck. Vanessa couldn’t stop her smile growing as her chest morphed into a comforting warmth. It was an instant sensation that encompassed her, just as her arms attempted to encompass the two amazing individuals she called family.

“I am surrounded by the most amazing women in the world! I love you both.” Emily announced softly, her smile so filled with joy that Vanessa’s heart almost burst through her chest. The Huntress had no idea how her body was able to contain the love she felt for these two, nor the pride she had in Emily. The Vampire was so fearless, so loving and tender despite her rebellious streak. Vanessa couldn’t help but lean closer, accidentally squishing Gloria, to press a quick peck to Emily’s smiling lips. It wasn’t quite a kiss, not with both of them smiling so much, but it was enough to express their love. That overflowing sensation that clearly filled both of them. Though, Gloria was clearly not sharing the sentiment.

“Ewww! Grown up kisses!” She declared, lifting both of her hands to shield her nearly glowing eyes. At that, both Emily and Vanessa laughed. Emily’s eyes adopted that wicked gleam again, the one which screamed that she was plotting. It was Emily’s equivalent of a cliché villain drumming their fingers together dramatically. One twitch of her brow was all it took for Vanessa to catch on, then act. In unison, the two women leaned in and pressed their lips to Gloria’s chubby cheeks, earning another high-pitched sound that was too preciously adorable for words.

“Disgusting. They have their fake marriage and now they want our schools too! The people of America shouldn’t have to let their kids go to a school where these perverts have access!” The voice that said those words was so gruff. Vanessa couldn’t help but flinch, even though she refused to turn her attention towards those speaking. Emily’s demeanour had also changed, shifting from playful to enraged within a single second. Her jaw hardened, almost bulging as she ground her, fortunately still human, teeth together. The blues of her eyes seemed almost purple for a moment, before she squeezed her eyes shut. When they opened, blue prevailed, although the stars had been returned to the sky. These blues were the depths of the ocean, where light only just could define colour. Vanessa shuddered at that. She couldn’t help it. The cold rage and building pressure within Emily’s eyes was crushing, and her glare was not even aimed at Vanessa.

“Honey, you mustn’t associate with those types of people, or their children. The devil uses them to spread wickedness and keep us from God.” The second voice was a woman. Gentler, quieter too. Perhaps that is what made her words hurt more than the man’s. Her tone was not rage and hatred, but the concern of a mother who desperately was trying to protect her child from what she feared. Her intent was not ill, even though her words spread hatred. She was just a mother trying to care for her child.

“These freaks want everyone to treat them special. If it were up to me, I’d execute them all, and the poor kids they’re corrupting. Cut evil out at the root before it ruins our country.” The male spoke again, somehow growing even louder. Around the room, some people cast him strange looks, or so Vanessa assumed. Nobody addressed his words, however. From the corner of her eye, Vanessa noticed one of the teachers discreetly turn and walk away, leaving the man unchecked. Something about his words cut too close to the bone, leading to Vanessa flinching. She’d heard homophobic comments before, even dealt with them, yet something about this man’s words. His conviction… it was too familiar.

“But Gloria is really nice! She helped me with my shoelaces!” A little boy spoke up, clearly trying to defend Gloria. Vanessa couldn’t miss the way Emily gave Gloria a proud smile, nor how Gloria snuggled closer into Emily. The little girl had gone several shades paler, whilst her eyes had darkened and dimmed. It was like watching a light switched off, leaving only fear and shadows in place of a vibrant scene. Then, Gloria’s body appeared to house a tornado for how violently she trembled, and the rushed breaths she took curled into the safety of Emily’s neck.

“Nice? She wants to turn you into a damn woman! All dykes are man haters, even the really pretty ones. If I see them later, I’ll make sure they ain’t so pretty anymore.” The Man spat. Like a key in a lock, understanding bolted into place within Vanessa’s mind. The words for gay were shifted into Supernatural. Vampires. Monsters. This man’s hatred was no different than the hatred which had been beaten into her own head. Vampires were evil, no debates. Then, her one time doubting it had led to the death of her team. For so long Vanessa had been sure of herself. Had not distinguished supernaturals between dangerous or not. They were the enemy. An enemy she’d struck down on hateful orders. Had she sounded like this? How many people had she saved and spread talk like this to? How many supernatural beings had felt the fear she felt now? The pain? How many children cried as Gloria was into Emily’s shoulder? How many little supernaturals had panicked and asked the questions Gloria was now?

“Ungtie Em, is that true? Because you love auntie V I have to marry a girl? What if I want a prince? I don’t wanna love a girl! They’ll hurt me! And I’ll go to hell! A-“

“Gloria Collins! You listen to me right now.” Vanessa cut in, turning her own body to shield Gloria from any hateful glances. The little Banshee lifted her head, green eyes blown wide with terror. A small nod let Vanessa know she had Gloria’s undivided attention, which she greedily claimed. If she had only ONE chance to fix this, she was going to do her best. She could not undo the damage of her own hatreds and past, yet she could prevent further hatred spreading.

“Nothing they have said is correct. Those people want to hurt others and make them feel bad for being different. There are lots of people like them in the world, but you can’t let their words hurt you.”

“You don’t have to love anybody you don’t want to, Gloria. Don’t you think Uncle Diego is handsome?” Emily questioned gently, earning a small nod from Gloria. At this, she smiled and continued.

“I thought so when I first met him, honestly I thought he could be my prince Charming.” Emily’s words earned a blink from Vanessa. She hadn’t known THAT! Though, when she really thought about it. Pale. Athletic build. Dark hair. Unique eyes. Broody exterior with a secret softness? Connections to the Supernatural… nope! She wasn’t going there. Nope, nope, nope!

“But, what about Auntie V? Don’t you love her?” Gloria gasped, seemingly invested in what Emily was saying.

“More than anything in this world, kiddo. Just look at her, don’t you think she’s pretty?” Emily’s gentle words caused Vanessa’s cheeks to burn. Her lips curled into an instinctive smile, unable to resist mirroring the tender expression across the vampire’s face. After a moment, she groaned, unable to endure the scrutiny. Her hands came up, shielding her face in a weak attempt to maintain some composure.

“She looks like a princess.” Gloria whispered all too loudly, earning a good-natured chuckle from Emily. When Vanessa braved a look through her fingers, she found herself gazing into two expectant faces. Emily was more matured, her amusement evident, whilst Gloria seemed almost enchanted. As if she were seeing Vanessa for the first time. Her little face echoed the wonder of characters in the anime and manga Vanessa so adored, right down to the twinkle in her eyes. These stories were filled with princesses and royalty, characters that had enchanted Vanessa for hours of her lonely life. She never had even stopped to consider herself anything like these characters… now, she was hearing that her niece thought her worthy of that title? It was too much!

“Yes, she is.” Emily agreed in a wistful tone.

“The first time I saw her, I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I was so lost in how pretty she was I almost crashed my old truck.”

“Not the truck!” Gloria dutifully chirped, earning a laugh from both Emily and Vanessa. That old truck was a nightmare, forever breaking down at the worst of times. Yet, their attachment to the truck didn’t let them quite dispose of it. It now served the Hunt family, breaking down at the worst of times and putting Mac’s teeth on edge. It also kept Mothman in business and gave them an excuse to visit Razi. Somehow, Razi’s sister always seemed to be visiting around the time as well… coincidence? Vanessa thought not.

“Yes. The Truck. Then she saved me and kept protecting me. She showed me that her heart was even more beautiful than I could imagine. She made me happy in ways no man I had been with ever had, or ever could. There were millions of little moments that made me realise we were meant to be together. The way her smile made me feel as if I was looking into the sun, how just holding her hand made me feel as if I could take on the world. She made everything seem easy and fun. She made me want to live, to be better than I used to be.” Emily explained, her voice going so wistful and gentle that Vanessa felt her heart beating faster and faster. Her chest thrummed and tingled, blood burned down her neck and collar in addition to her cheeks. Emily wasn’t done.

“She makes me want to protect the world, because I want everyone to have the chance to experience a love like I feel for her. I love Vanessa Helsing with all my heart, Gloria, and she loves me the same way. Even after I was turned into a vampire, she continued to love me. A Helsing and a Vampire is all so many people could see when they looked at us. To us, we were always just Vanessa and Emily. That’s why I married her, and not an uncle. Because I would rather have one single kiss from her, than an eternity with anybody else. I’d never go to bed again unless it is with her by my side.” Emily made no effort to conceal the tears dripping down her cheeks, not even when Gloria gave one an experimental poke. Crystalline blue eyes stayed focused on Vanessa, absorbing every single reaction as if they were water to a dying woman. Vanessa found herself in a similar state, enchanted by how the tears shone like diamonds against Emily’s pale skin. The huntress was enthralled by the beauty of the words, unable to even begin to process them despite the fact she knew them. In her heart she KNEW those words. They were every beat. They were every breath she took. Those words, their sentiment, were her existence. How Emily had plucked them from the air and given them form was… Vanessa didn’t have words.

“Does any of that sound evil, Gloria?”

“Nope!” Gloria stated, shaking her little head. Vanessa let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Gloria was just so accepting, so intelligent, so…

“It sounds gross! I’m never falling in love with anyone! Yuck!”

Well… she WAS still a child.

“I don’t think tha-” Vanessa began.

“Babe, hold onto Gloria for a second, I need to go talk to those people.” Emily was faster, cutting Vanessa off by thrusting Gloria into her lithe arms. She recognised the twinkle in Emily’s eye, that mischief with a touch of hunger which promised chaos. Staggering under the sudden weight, Vanessa’s extended hand missed Emily’s sleeve by an inch. An inch which may as well have been a mile.

“Em-” Vanessa stopped herself. Any further insistence would cause a scene, which wouldn’t be good for Gloria at all. Whatever Emily was planning, Vanessa knew it couldn’t be horrific. Not within such a crowded place, or in front of Gloria. Though, nothing could be more horrific than what she had seen. People doing nothing. Letting such vile words go around such vulnerable people. How? When Vanessa had realised her errors she had fought back. She had stood up to those who spoke with hatred, had fought to protect the innocent. Was she truly as unique as Emily said? Was it truly rare for someone to tell these people that their words were not appropriate? That threatening others was… she never concluded her thought as she watched Emily’s hand grab a packet from one of the tables. With an all too demure smile filled with fang, Emily held the packet up for Vanessa to see.

S A L T.

Vanessa let her head fall into her waiting hand, covering her face with a loud sigh as she predicted what was going to happen next.

Emily, with her saccharine smile fixated across her lips strutted straight up to the homophobic man, extended the packet and with a faux innocence spoke.

“Excuse me sir.” Her tone drifted from innocence to a purr, matching the way she spoke when her fangs were out and her eyes blazing. Through her fingers, Vanessa noted how pale the man had gone, even as Emily’s rich voice filled her ears.

“You dropped your nametag.”

#lovestruck #women of lovestruck #vanessa helsing #vanessa x mc #havenfall vanessa #havenfall is for lovers #fluff #sporadic sunday #lovestruck headcanons #answered

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xo-dailypier-blog · 5 years

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this is not a recap;

hey cumguzzlers,

It has come to my attention that Lady X took it upon herself to rate the nether regions of the men of Santa Monica. Unfortunately her assessment was BIASED and hardly based on facts. So as a JOURNALIST, I have taken it upon myself to get to the TRUTH. Today will be a Top 9 list of the men in this town, and their BEDROOM PERFORMANCES.

I’m not revealing actual sizes, because I firmly believe that it’s all about the motion of the ocean. And if you think I’m giving a run down on every SCRUB in this town, you’re out of your mind! I WISH I could have made this a Top 10 but most of the guys on Lady X’s assessment, have already been exposed in the fuck hut tapes during Summer Crush, and honestly? Don’t even make the cut for the top 5. Like, we KNOW the #DemonDick is low-key worth the hype (BUT YOU SHOULD STAY AWAY FROM IT BECAUSE HELLO? IT RUINED TWO RELATIONSHIPS IN LIKE THE SPAN OF A DAY! AND IM SURE THE BUCK DOESNT STOP THERE!), and we GET IT, Adam has a massive ROD, and I’m sure (Power Top) Asher, his brother, isn’t that far off. Vic IS well endowed AND can make things EROTIC. And we all know about Jack, who is also well endowed but has, like, erectile dysfunction or whatever. Oh, and don’t forget Daddy Sorrentino is obvs a beast in the sheets, but I’ve been telling you guys that since, like, ever. And I’m honestly on a Jamie/Cunty Sabbatical atm, they’re going through a difficult time after Cunty cheated, so who really needs their dick-info broadcasted on top of all that, ya know? (Cunty deff comes in at an alleged 9 inches, which is bigger than Jamie, BUT he (Cunty) never uses his junk on Jamie because, like Asher, Jamie is a Power Top. (but you didn’t hear this from me). Look, if any guy is left off the list that you have interest in, like, just ask Phobe. I’m sure she’ll know.

But before we get started, Congratulations are in order! You guys voted on Hottie of the Moment, and we have a winner!

It’s none other than Miss Fraudi Zirconium herself (@heidistarks) The queen of bargains has stormed onto the scene in her Wild Fable Couture and has CAPTIVATED the hearts of all Santa Monicans. In honor of her win, I am giving everyone a $25 gift card to Claire’s! If you go to their website and use offer code SharkThot, you too, can get the Heidi Look. When asked about her recent accomplishment she had this to say:

"It's about fucking time." - Fraudi Zirconium Stark, 2019

Congratulations, again Fraudi! You go girl, work that Forever 21 tracksuit, bitch!

NINE - ALEC CLARKE @alecxclarke

One of the wangs in question that Lady X TOUCHED ON was Alec Clarke. She mentioned that Alec was more than likely LACKING in the his SOUTHERN MEAT DEPARTMENT. So obvs i had a BONE to pick with this assessment because Alec’s fan base is GETTING UP there with Jamie Carter’s so we have to know what he got in them jeans. Sadly ... while his junk is fine. His way around the bedroom is is abysmal, I honestly thought it was a PHALL-ACY but one girl who is one of his past flings, wrote to me after seeing Lady X’s post. She has asked to remain anonymous...

Hey DP (and Lady X),

I saw your post about Alec and you’re wrong about his size. He’s actually pretty girthy and lengthy or whatever. But he is honestly one of my worst encounters. We met on a dating app, that shall remain nameless. So fast forward to sexy time, and once we started making out it was a tragedy! No tongue, no passion. It was like kissing a mcfucking corpse! His lips were like, so dry, but, whatever, that’s not the problem. Once I started giving him a blow jay he just randomly burst into tears, and said he couldn’t do it anymore, and asked if I wanted to play fucking Yahtzee. I left and bought Listerine. I think you should look into if he is like this with all the girls, instead of his size. Bc that’s the real tea. Anyways, Love the Blog! Kisses!

Its always such a disappointment when this happens. OBVIOUSLY our HoneyBun Alec has some issues to work on. I know he has a Crazy life but I didn’t think things were this HARD for him.

Overall Rating: N/A

Favorite Position: Again, N/A. I could hardly find girls who’ve had sex with him ................. INCHresting. (Ok, that was the last one).

Downside: I mean, Hello? He breaks out in tears mid-coitus! He IS the downside!

Alec! Write into us with your side of the story! I prom (half a promise) that I won’t believe the rumors. Love ya, Honey Bun!

EIGHT - SKYLER DAVIS @skylerxdavis

No idea where Lady X got the idea that he had the biggest LOVE MISSLE in town, but it is absolutely FALSE. And in fact, what I’ve heard about his performance in the bedzzzZzZzZzzzzzzzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZzZzZzzzz ZzzzzZzzzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz

Overall Rating: zzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz

Favorite Position: zzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZzzzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz

Downside: zzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZzzzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz zzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZzzzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz zzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZzzzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz zzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZzzzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz zzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZzzzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz

Alleged Body Count: zzZzZzZzZzZzZzzzzZzzzzZz

SEVEN - NOAH SINCLAIR @nhsinclair

So next on the list is Noah Sinclair. This one will be brief, because it really threw me for a loop. So I’m sorry to report, that Noah has a Chode. I know. I’m actually crying while typing this but this is only the word on the street, so take it with a grain of salt.

“Darla” (fake name) wrote in to my blog to refute Lady X’s claims. She writes:

I’ve had half way sex with Noah one time and when he dropped his pants I literally laughed. Not to body shame or whatever, but I, like, couldn’t have sex with him because the condom didn’t fit. Sorry, didn’t have a Trojan Jr readily available? He’s good with his hands though.

So Noah has made the list in a sad and unfortunate entry. So ladies if you want Noah to DIP his NUGGET in YOUR sauce, you better make your move!

Maybe this is why he got that divorce. Ugh, poor Natasha. Let’s hope this is all a rumor, I would hate for it to be true.

Overall Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️ (The hand thing is kind of important).

Favorite Position: Noah’s Nugget Number (No clue what this means, ask Diana or Natasha).

Downside: There is no downside if you, like myself, are privy to a good Nugget or two. #RanchPlease

MOVING ON!

SIX - LOGAN LANCASTER @loganlancaster

Our next entry is none other than Long Dick Logan Lancaster. According to Lady X, Logan is average. Well I’m here to let you know that, thankfully, LDL lives up to his name (no nuggets here!). But you guys would have to get with him to truly find out how #blessed he is.

Overall Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Favorite Position: Alligator Fuckhouse, according to sources. (DON’T Google it, live in ignorance).

Downside: The only reason, ya boi has gotten 4 stars instead of 5 is because of the rumors surrounding his hygiene. As we know, there’s been a debate on the internet about washing your legs. And Logan, an able bodied man, doesn’t do that. Nor does he take showers the way that he should. Many girls who’ve been with him have complained of smelling the stinch of onions and mildew while ENGAGING with him. Others have complained of a SALTY taste while going down on him. Most of the girls he’s BANGED have all been in the junkyard of his Auto Shop or whatever so maybe it’s a fetish for them? That’s no excuse for bringing that nasty ass behavior to every other girl in Santa Monica.

Thankfully a bunch of you have been sending body wash to his shop, so maybe we can LanCAST the mustiness away (If this is true).

Logan, please write in, I need to know the truth. But other than that, the dick is BOMB! But make sure you don’t over-do it on B.J. part though, sodium intake is v important and you wouldn’t want to get hypertension suckling on his salty ass COCK.

FIVE - EMRE YOGIOH @emre--yavuz

Ok, so next on the list is Emre Yugoslavia (or whatever his name is). Ok so ... buckle in ladies.

Overall Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Favorite Position: The Lion King (I’m serious, don’t Google these things).

Downside: Ok, so Emre is supposedly into bondage. Which totally makes sense since he’s like, repressed from childhood. The whole missing sister thing really took a toll on his psych, since he’s parents totes forgot about him. Now he YEARNS for control. So the word is that he’s basically Christian Grey but not a literal abuser. He’s into bondage, slapping, SPITTING, choking, flogging, and whips and chains EXCITE HIM. An S&M Daddy! Now the only reason this is in the Downside section is because it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Some girls find it disturbing, and others are totes into it. I’m the latter! Sign me the FUCK up! Choke me with those strong REPRESSED hands.

I noticed he and Olivia have been friendly recently, let’s hope she knows that she’ll be walking side to side after a night with him (no, but like, because of the flogging, not the dick). Once he’s done with those spread sheets at his hoity-toity big boy job, spread sheets take on a whole new meaning once the dawn comes. You go Emre Yahooligan! #callme

FOUR - DEVIN FLORES @devinxflores

First of all, I just want to give a big thanks to all of you for letting me call him Devin TORRES for the past few MONTHS like a complete MORON! I really appreciate you guys letting me disgrace the future KING of Santa Monica in such a terrible way! No really, you guys are the best. I love my fans <3.

Anyways, it’s well known that Devin and his Alaskan Bull Worm have burrowed through the city. Both the men and women alike have survived the DF experience, with ZERO complaints .... well, except for one ...

Overall Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Favorite Position: The Charizard (ONCE again, don’t Google. Just know that it involves fire ... And we aint talking about lighting no candles (which he allegedly seems to enjoy, how romantic!)).

Downside: As we have witnessed, Devin is a complete and total klutz! He is always getting himself into a bullshit that is literally all his fault. Didn’t he glue something to his head a few weeks ago -- actually, you know what? That’s not important. What I was getting at is, the main complaint about DaddyDevinFLORES is that during SACX the klutz JUMPS OUT. He has been rumored to have smacked his head on the headboard whilst switching positions (causing him to go UNCONSCIOUS for SEVERAL HOURS, which completely RUINS the mood). One of his Encounters even claimed that during a Romantic Toast of Wine, he clinked the glass so hard it broke and and SHARDS of GLASS went into his hands, causing him to bleed INSTANTLY. What the fuck, Devin?

How could someone who can handle balls so well out on the soccer court, not be able to handle them in the bedroom without accidentally falling out of a window in the process?

Ladies and Gents, much like Emre, Devin will have you walking Side to Side, but if it happens you might be suffering from brain damage after falling in the shower whilst trying to have sex with him. Please seek professional help immediately.

THREE - BERNBERN<3 @carverberncrd

Coming in at Number 3 is none other than Heidi’s personal play thing! We’ve seen his bulge through his Under Armour spanks, so Of Course I had to do a little research to find out the Lipton on HIS heat-seeker. I’ve reached out to his past flings and came to a general consensus.

Overall Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The women I interviewed all confirmed he is an excellent LAY, so once again, I was right. BernBern<3 outsold your favs.

Favorite Position: Doggystyle (obvi)

Downside: He’s a Taurus so while he will indeed fuck you into a state of paralysis, it’s only to reach his Hedonistic Quota for the evening. He probs won’t even remember your name once he’s done, let alone learn it in the first place. So don’t get attached<3.

His star sign also explains his relationship with Fraudi. Not only are they both so annoyingly stubborn, but Two tops can rarely make it in a relationship. Just ask Ash — never mind. (Omg, btw Idk WHY everyone keeps asking. YES, the rumors are true! BernBern<3 gets pegged, but only by Heidi, it’s actually a testament to his masculinity and how he’s reached the apex of it at this point. But this is all old tea. So I guess Julian isn’t the only #DemonDick in the Stark Fam, Surprise?). Anyways, I ship them, but they get on my fucking nerves! They can’t even admit their undying love for each other, which is so obvious. But this isn’t about #Berni (working ship name), BernBern<3 has a massive COCK (and heart) and it has landed itself on the Top of the list.

TWO - SINRIQUE @itsenriqueaguilar

This one came as a surprise to me because I have no idea who this is. But yalls asses do! So here we have Enrique Aguilar, coming in at number 2 because of the OUTPOUR of receipts on the TALLY WACK ATTACK that he PACKS.

Overall Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Favorite Position: You know, there wasn’t a general consensus, he’s a man FULL of surprises.

Downside: No, you don’t understand, there is literally no downside. Look, here is a letter from one of the women he’s slept with. For reasons, you will understand REAL soon, this person has been kept anonymous.

Dear DP,

It’s been approximately 1 year, two months, 9 days, 5 hours, and 46 seconds since I Locked Eyes with Enrique from across a crowded room. That night would go to be on of the most invigorating, tantalizing, and romantic experiences of my life. But when I woke up the following morning HE was gone. I long for the day I see him again. My heart Aches at the thought of him with another women. Giving her the same love that HE gave to ME. I need you to understand that I was a grade A student at my university (4.0). I had an paid internship at an elite institution that OWULD HAVE LED ME INTO A PROMISING CAREER! BUT AFTER THAT NIGHT I BECAME RAVENOUS. I NEEDED MORE. AND IT CONSUMED ME! EVENTUALLY I LOST MY INTERN BECAUSE I STOPPED SHOWING UP! I FLUNKED OUT OF SCHOOL BECAUSE I DIDN’T CARE ANYMORE. I SEARCHED YOU ON ALL SOCIAL MEDIA BUT I COULDN’T FIND YOU! ENRIQUE I NEED YOU BACK IN MY LIFE! JUST FOR ONE MORE NIGHT! PEASE I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE! CALL ME AT [redacted]

Obviously Ivy, sent this in ... kidding (But honestly though? They did used to date, which ... yikes ... Good to know Daddy Rique has no standards, maybe we all have a chance. #shade #clapback #scalpt)

Anyways, I’ll have to keep an eye on this one, he seems to have a good head on his shoulders ... AND good head on his shoulders OKURRRRRR!!!

ONE - SEBASTIAN DELGADO @bashdelgado

That nerd that sat in the back of the classroom brainstorm his next nerdy ass invention with high-watered khakis, and orthopedic shoes in like, the ninth grade (because he was focused on Arch Support???????). That’s him, Sebastian Delgado. And Baby Daddy Bash has DITCHED the NERD LOOK and is now ready to SNATCH YOUR CAT BACK.

I’m sure everyone is just surprised as I am. But hey, they don’t call him “Bash” for nothing (except for the fact that it’s a shortened version of his name). He’s totes Bashing Puss with his MONSTROUS MEAT TRUNCHEON (and Buss?? Sebastian contact me about your sexuality).

Overall Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Favorite Position: Missionary, he’s a man of passion and likes to stare DEEP into your eyes. #swoon #romantic #westan

Downside: Well if you HATE Love and AFFECTION, this one is not the one for you. Not only does he have a GINORMOUS, UN-NUGGETED MEAT SEPTOR/LAP ROCKET/VAGINA MINER, which, by the way, last a LONG time, He is EXCELLENT BOYFRIEND Material! He’s caring, patient, kind, resourceful, loyal, and he is well on his way to becoming a multi-millionaire -- which is NOT the reason he is number one! Money is not the goal here ladies (and guys? Seriously Sebastian, I need to know what’s up).

Sebastian is the complete package and he has ALL of the other guys in this town QUAKING!

So Stan A True Man. Stan .... Sebastian.

And that, my friends, ends the TRUE tea on the wangs in this town. This was fun while it lasted, but I have some COCKtails that need my attention (ok, maybe THAT was the last one).

xo, DP

#santamgossip #abuse tw #blood tw #I LITERALLY SIT AROUND AND MAKE HEADCANNONS ABOUT YALLS CHARACTERS NO ONE ASKED FOR #IM LIKE JK ROWLING BUT POOR #IM TRULY THE WEAKEST LINK

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saintaugustinerp · 5 years

Photo

Congratulations Alexandra! You have been accepted for the OC role of The Crestfallen with the faceclaim Blanca Padilla. Please be sure to check out the accepted applicants checklist! Also be sure send us a link to your blog within the next twenty-four hours. Welcome to St. Augustine!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name/alias: Alexandra

Age (18+) : 21

Gender/Preferred pronouns: she/her pronouns

Timezone: EST but PST when i’m home for holidays aka Tuesday when I fly home

IN CHARACTER

Character Label: So I really like ‘The Crestfallen’ because of how it ties into Poppy’s sense of hope and then sudden disappointment but since it does have ‘fallen’ in it, I get why it would be weird given her origins with the Fallen Angel, even though they have fairly different meanings, so I’d say maybe ‘The Pariah’? It’s really up to the admins, so whichever you prefer!

Character Name: Poppy Charlotte Northcott

Poppy was the choice of her mother: a Brit, through and through, she’d allowed her husband to choose the name of their first child, but insisted upon naming their second. Her father, naturally, had played up the flower name’s symbolism with regards to soldiers, claiming it was in honour of his daughter’s maternal grandfather, a veteran of the second World War.

Charlotte was in honour of her paternal grandmother, a woman well-known in their community for being a staunch supporter of Connecticut Republicans. She died just after Poppy’s high school graduation, but she’d left a great deal of money to the girl she proclaimed loudly and often to be her favourite granddaughter.

Northcott, of course, was her father’s name, tying her to a family of rather politically-involved, staunchly Catholic Connecticuters, a line which stretched back rather far in the state’s history.

Age (18+): 20

Gender/Pronouns: cis woman, she/her

Desired Faceclaim: Blanca Padilla

Home Town: Greenwich, Connecticut

Three Positive Traits: Kind, faithful, charming

Three Negative Traits: Self-conscious (in the sense that she’s very overly aware of her actions and how she’s perceived, more so than in the sense that she’s not confident), repressed, stubborn

Major: History Major, Art Minor

Year: Second

Quote: “Is she a sinner, or is she a martyr? Some days she cannot remember the difference.”

Character blurb: For the briefest of moments, she is radiant. Clad in a perfectly fitting white sundress, dark hair escaping a bun in the softest tendrils, framing her face as if they’d been styled to do so, she steps off the train and onto the bustling platform. Her footsteps are almost instinctive, with little uncertainty as to their goal, and it is instead her eyes which hold reservations. As she walks, whispers follow her, not overtly, but as she passes, students cluster together, murmuring words you cannot hear — though you’re certain she can. As she draws nearer, making eye contact with what is certainly a familiar face, you can see a spark of hope grow, and then die out, in her expression. Her shoulders sink, almost imperceptibly, and as she draws close enough for you to see the exhaustion on her face, you understand: this is less of a homecoming, more of an ordeal.

Developed Head Canons:

family and youth — Poppy was born to Bridget Alston-Northcott, British socialite turned supportive housewife, and Phillip Northcott, former lawyer, current politician. She was not their first child: Eleanor, born ten years earlier, was a wild-child even at 10, but she adored her little sister, admiring her little fists as they waved in the air. Both girls were raised by their mother, taught to be polite, elegant, and quiet, always subservient to their father, and in the future, their husband. While Poppy, always the softer, gentler of the two sisters, did well in this domain, Eleanor was less of a fan, and it was rather unsurprising when, after a series of expulsions from boarding schools throughout the world, she ran away at age 17, choosing to live with Bridget’s mother, her grandmother, rather than fulfill her parents’ expectations. Poppy grew up with little knowledge of this, having only the vaguest childhood memories of her sister. She was always a perfect child, good at her schoolwork, obedient to her parents, and as her father transitioned from mayor to senator, she was always on display, a doe-eyed, polite little girl who learned how to smile and shake hands, attending church ever Sunday, and winning hearts for herself just as much as they were for her father. She never witnessed any hints of her mother’s frustration, nor any sign of her father’s occasional infidelity, and grew into a young adult that was as much a trophy as she was a daughter. Her parents were firm about their beliefs in theory more so than in action, and so Poppy adopted them, about the sanctity of marriage, about children and the responsibilities of women. From her mother, she learned always to present the perfect image, to stay skinny, to keep her teeth white, to exit cars in ways that prevent wardrobe malfunctions… Her image was everything, and she learned to protect it. Though her views changed a little, particularly in high school, she never questioned her parents openly, reserving physical intimacy for men, and only those she believed she would marry. Though she rebelled against their strict demands in the smallest of ways, attending parties and having fun as any teen would, she was careful to never go too far, never do anything overly wild or illegal, and always showing a smiling face to the world.

(tw: mentions of miscarriage and addiction-shaming in the next two headcanons)

the destruction of her reputation — First was her decision to go to a party in town, not something she ever would have done before she’d witnessed her boyfriend kissing another, but then, perhaps she was owed a little leeway for impulsive decisions, after everything. (It wasn’t like one act of rebellion could have any real lasting consequences…) It surprised her, if she was honest — St. Augustine students had a tendency to look down on the town’s resident youth for their provincialism, but really, they weren’t all bad. Difficult to understand, especially with her rudimentary grasp of Swiss German, and with abysmal taste in alcohol, but what they truly were was different, which was precisely what she needed. No reminders of him, nor of whoever he’d been kissing — god how it shattered her, that he’d cheat on her with someone else — and when she thought of either, the solution was another shot. It’s how she met him, on one of these nights, a scruffy blond, too-tall and awkward as anything, but the way he smiled at her made her feel as though the sun had emerged on a bitter winter day. And the way he touched her, well, it was magical and beautiful, and they both knew it wouldn’t last, but it didn’t matter.

Then was: forgetting to take her birth control a few days in a row, and then losing it in the chaos of a particularly paper-filled week, and then not replacing it — a recipe for disaster, under any circumstances. But that’s when they fell apart, Poppy and this local boy, and so it didn’t matter if she was on the pill or not, because she wasn’t sexually active and so what would be the point? Four months pass, and maybe she gained a little weight, but without her mother there to constantly criticize her body, with studies and internships and her missing classmate and her cheating ex to consider, it was easy to ignore, really, easy to lose herself in the routine of wine and cheese on Sundays and late-night study sessions and everything in between. Maybe she felt ill more than she ever usually did, maybe she had trouble sleeping, developing dark circles under her eyes that never seemed to truly go away, but that was just stress, right?

And lastly, well. It’s May, they have found Frederick’s body, finals are well underway, and so when Poppy began acting oddly during a morning exam, hands shaking and face pale, school gossip acknowledged it, but only just. Trembling, in pain, but incredibly conscious of the room full of her classmates, she finished the exam before going to the infirmary. She’d intended only to find the problem, take some pain medication, and return to her studies, but the nurse, recognizing the pain and bleeding and eager to rule out every possible cause, gave Poppy a pregnancy test, which came out positive. Confused and insistent that she wasn’t pregnant, that she couldn’t be, even in the face of the nurse’s certainty that it was a miscarriage, she simply took the strong pain medication that she was given, and returned to her room. There she lay, curled on her comforter, pale and sweating and terrified, ignoring all of her roommate’s concerns in favour of staring blankly at the ceiling of their room. All too soon it was the evening, and the candlelight vigil for their deceased classmate. Naturally she attended — even ill, with the possibility of something she refused to belief floating around in her mind, there was little question of missing it, and inviting the questions that would draw. In such a small school, Poppy was ever conscious about the way whispers spread, the way any little thing could draw attention, and in these moments she thought of her parents’ teachings on the importance of public appearance.

It would have almost been magical if it hadn’t been so sad, the woods filled with little sparks of light, rows of students illuminated with candles, tears in the eyes of so many, and perhaps flickers of guilt, or shame, in others — though there was little chance of Poppy even noticing any of it. It was as much as she could do to hold a candle, almost swaying, face tight. It was all she could do to keep from passing out, to hold on to consciousness in the face of the dizziness from missing lunch and dinner, and from the medication, and from the stress that threatened to overwhelm her. Chest tight, darkness all around her, and unable to even comprehend any of the words of grief being murmured, someone bumped into her, and that was it. She grabbed the arm of the friend nearest her and explained that she had to leave, that she didn’t give a fuck what it looked like. But her words were far too loud in the moment of silence, voice somehow strong despite the way the world seemed to spin, and when all eyes were drawn to her, Poppy realized she’d made a mistake, and threw up before fainting.

The hospital said, first, allergic reaction to the pain medication, and then, even worse:miscarriage �� she’d lost the chance at a child she’d never even known she had, and not even the doctors could tell her why. The alcohol, maybe? The smoking she’d started only to keep from feeling ill in the morning? No matter how many times Poppy pleaded that she hadn’t known, that she hadn’t wanted this to happen, the result was the same: this could have been a child, this could have been… something, and now it wasn’t. Not a soul at Saint Augustine knew, beyond the nurse, and all they’d seen was a dizzy mess of a girl, being sick at a vigil and saying she didn’t give a fuck: it was a catastrophe. And with her stay at the hospital preventing her from returning to school before the end of the year, there was little chance of her preventing the gossip that made its way throughout her classmates. She was branded an addict, a trashy, tragic person who couldn’t even go to a vigil without getting high or being drunk (the rumours varied on substance, but were consistent with their condemnation of her actions). Poppy was pathetic, a joke, and as the hours passed, her reputation as the beautiful, untouchable girl was destroyed. Even her parents heard, kept from the true knowledge of what had truly happened by the privacy she was awarded as an adult, and so rather than return to their home in Connecticut, she was simply shipped off to her grandmother in London, ostensibly to detox before they would do so much as speak to her. Alienated by her family, condemned by her friends, and terrified to even admit to herself that she’d been pregnant, there was little Poppy could do to dispel the gossip, or to defend her actions, and so she, heart-sick and lonely, could do nothing but watch.

the aftermath — Unable to bring herself to tell her parents what had happened: that she’d had sex before marriage, that her wild actions with alcohol and cigarettes had caused her to miscarry a child, that she’d sinned, and sinned to such a horrific extent, she went willingly to London, withdrawn and silent in the face of their fury. Not only had she disgraced herself, she’d damaged their family name; more than one of Saint Augustine’s students had political or media connections, and in-school gossip soon made its way out into the world. Perhaps the seeming addiction of the daughter of a gubernatorial candidate was minimal in the face of a world filled with news, but in their Connecticut community, it was a scandal, and like her sister before her, Poppy was a thing she’d never before been: a disappointment. The implication, though neither of her parents ever explicitly said it, was that if she improved, if she took the summer and made better choices than those she’d made, it was possible for her to return to their family at the next Christmas. If not, well. Her parents would accept the damage done, and she would never see them again, though they’d naturally pay for the remainder of her university. After graduating, her disappearance from their family could be explained away as simply a busy, successful career, and so their image of a perfect family would be repaired, if only a little. There was zero acknowledgement of the possibility of her not returning to Saint Augustine, and distraught as she was, Poppy understood only that if she could not get her addiction under control, she must at least keep it secret: appearance must be everything, as usual.

Her grandmother, a rather severe British woman who disapproved of all of her daughter’s choices, from her parenting to her choice in husband, was also surprisingly more liberal in view than her daughter. She brought in a therapist to talk to Poppy, and though Poppy refused to talk to him, she faced no criticism from her grandmother, only love. She could sense her granddaughter had suffered, though from what (beyond, of course, terrible parental guidance) she was unsure; she knew, though, that Poppy needed love. And so she immediately facilitated a reunion between Poppy and Eleanor, the older sister, thefirst disappointment to the Northcott family. Her older sister was now an openly lesbian artist, her sexuality being the reason for her departure from the intensely Catholic family, and she was rather popular for her sculptures in France. She was also, unsurprisingly, far more accepting of everything Poppy had done. Though she spent the summer with both her grandmother and sister, who were incredibly supportive throughout the ongoing ordeal of gossip and familial expulsion, Poppy still struggled with all that had happened, and it was only towards the end that she admitted she was not an addict, but she was a child-killer. Even this, to her surprise, was met with nothing but love, with both reacting only with tears and hugs. She had done nothing wrong, they told her, only made mistakes that, though they had serious consequences, showed little cruelty or negative character or sin on her part. This, though, Poppy was unable to accept. She had done wrong, and so she was suffering for it.

At the only Saint Augustine’s party she attended during the summer, thrown by a fellow student, for all of the school’s finest who found themselves in the United Kingdom, she was asked about the her addiction, a question to which she responded with a resounding slap, to be documented on video on the private instagram accounts of other attendees, and one which also made the rounds of her classmates, essentially confirming the gossip: that this girl, once so perfect and polite in every action and word, had fallen, and it was undoubtedly a fascinating thing. Though she strove to ignore the gossip, it was difficult, and she dreaded her return to school nonetheless. A letter from her mother, explaining the love she and her father had for Poppy and the way their decision was for the best, only served to confuse her, and make the entire situation even more difficult. Even confession did little to quell her nerves: the priest advised her that she should tell the truth about her sins, and never commit them again, did little but add another conflicting idea to the many in her mind. She was unable to reconcile all these things, unable to decide if the truth, shameful as it was for her and her family, though on occasion, when her hope was the strongest, she wondered if perhaps at school things would go back to normal, if upon seeing her all her friends would return, if her parents would welcome her back to their Connecticut home with open arms. Other nights, she wondered if it would be better to give it all up, to live with her sister, to embrace everything about herself she’d ever denied and hid in order to follow by the rules of her parents. (And with that came the question of her attraction to those who weren’t men: just an added aspect of stress upon everything else, and one that Poppy refused to even consider in light of the already high list of her sins.) Even her return to school brought no reality, and no clarity, and Poppy is still torn between these two variations on a theme, these two potential realities.

her room — When Poppy ‘was ill’, as the school described it, at the end of her sophomore year, she didn’t return to her dorm room and pack up her things for her return home and subsequent move to a single room. An Augustine worker, along with her roommate, more than a little eager to be rid of Poppy’s things, did so instead, sending boxes of clothes with her, but with all room decor packed away for her return. This meant that when she did return, newly friendless and alone, what she found in her new room was boxes of photos. Polaroids, still with blu-tack on their backs, of her with people who now whisper to others when they see her, smirking in amusement. It cuts like a knife, but something in her cannot bear to throw the boxes out. Rather than deal with walls now bare of friends and parents, she has walls covered in art — with prints of Monet’s lilies or abstract tapestries on every wall. One remaining fragment of her life is a pair of photos from the summer, one of her and her sister, as taken by their grandmother, and the other a selfie of the three of them. Her bedding is all soft blues and whites, her bed is stacked high with pillows, and it always smells of vanilla. It truly is her sanctuary, where there is no-one to gossip about her, and there are no expectations but her own.

Plot Ideas:

Specific connection ideas:

a note: I know this sounds a little god-mod-y, but Kayla (Damien’s player) and I are actually friends + we planned this all out, so it’s def okay with them!

Misc:

For her Minor in Art, Poppy is focusing on photography, and while she does prefer still life and landscape photography, she does the occasional portrait. She’s recognizable for having a camera in hand, and this could either lead to a bond with someone else who enjoys photography, or perhaps her photographing someone who very much likes having their picture taken. (I speak from experience when I say it’s difficult at the best of times to get friends to pose for photos, and considering the state of most of Poppy’s friendships, I don’t doubt that she’d take literally anyone’s photo if they were willing to pose for her)

Sure, Poppy is relatively innocent and sweet, but her hopes as they pertained to her first relationship weren’t misplaced. They spent so much time together, and for her to lose her virginity to him, with the thought that they’d get married, wasn’t entirely ridiculous. Still, he did cheat, and it did break her heart, though that was less painful than everything that followed. I’m open to connections here both with her ex or with the person her ex cheated on her with! Poppy doesn’t hate easily, but I do think she’d hate both of them, and it’d be easy on either of their part to just dismiss her, given her overall image. I envision her ex as having been exactly what her parents would have wished for her: the perfect potential husband, in essence, but that doesn’t mean that his image can’t have been a facade of sorts. As for whoever he cheated on her with, I’d be open to really any genders, any personalities, and really any motivations for doing it! They don’t even have to have known that he was in a relationship. Maybe he betrayed them just as much as he betrayed Poppy, who knows!

Poppy is more than a little uncertain about religion right now, and really she could go either way: returning to her Catholic roots with full strength or going full atheist or agnostic. I could definitely see her having interesting late night conversations or debates about religion with someone else with strong beliefs one way or another, and that then influencing her actions.

Writing Sample:

Tendrils of smoke swirled around her hair as she breathed out, the last of the summer sun’s warmth tempered by the cold breeze off the mountain, making her long for a jacket. Taking another drag from her cigarette, Poppy leaned against the bell tower, posture casual, with shadows under her eyes betraying her late night. She’d been unable to sleep, first too restless to lie down properly, and then endlessly disturbed by a few girls in a nearby room. Not that they’d been loud — their voices had been soft, and Poppy was certain they hadn’t bothered anyone else, but their disruption of her had been more related to their companionship than anything else. She missed all of what they had, that close friendship, late night conversations about anything and everything, and that longing had kept her away, contemplating what she’d once had. At the sound of rustling in the long grass at the base of the tower, she crouched, hand outstretched and dark eyes curious. It rustled again, and Poppy, realizing she knew very little about Switzerland’s wildlife, pulled her hand back. A third rustle, and the head of what was very obviously a fluffy tabby emerged, looking just as curious about her as she was about it. “Meow?”It asked her, and she almost laughed aloud at her caution, dropping her cigarette on the ground and grinding it out with her heel.

“Hey, little buddy. You’re not going to nibble on my fingers, are you?” With little care for her clothes, she plopped down on the grass, all else forgotten in this adorable scene. The cat walked up to her, sniffing her hand with an aura of uncertainty before climbing into her lap. “Are you lost? There’s no way you live in the wild, and we’re not allowed pets…” Poppy, stroking it gently, felt for a collar, only to find nothing. It began to purr, and she smiled, kissing it on the head. They sat like that for a while, the girl and the cat, and Poppy found herself lost in a moment of perfection. The cat didn’t care who she was, it only cared that she was warm and kind, and very good at petting it. Cozy and delighted, it rolled onto its back, batting a lazy paw at her long dark hair, and making her giggle. “Why can’t I keep you? I wish I could.” She kissed it once more, and then became aware of an audience: a pair of sophomores she vaguely recognized, looking at her and whispering to each other. In that moment, Poppy felt something within her crumble, and she felt almost like crying. With a deep swallow, she straightened her back, making eye contact with them and raising a perfectly-arched eyebrow. Away they ran, and she sighed. The peaceful moment was officially over. Scooping up the cat — and ignoring its little mew of indignation at the disruption of its lounging — she strode in the vague direction of the cable cars. “You are going in my backpack, and then we’re going to find that animal shelter so you can have a home away from terrible, awful people, okay?” Her voice was soft as she spoke to the cat, but nonetheless there was venom in it, and a little resignation. “At least — at least one of us can have that.”

#accepted

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insomniac-arrest · 7 years

Text

Dear Tuesdays

pairing: Blue Zircon x Yellow Zircon (Courtship?)

words: 7k

summary: Blue Zircon x Yellow Zircon law school human AU set in 1973. Slightly NSFW in some parts

Ao3

Warning: slightly NSFW but nothing explicit, briefly deals with homophobia, race, and sexism in the 1970s

Reference:

Blue Zircon- Zarah Khan

Yellow Zircon- Zadya Gold

Dear Journal,

The councilor said that journaling could help with stress. I said that I figure I’m about as stressed everyone else, she says most her patients don’t look like me this early in the semester. I think I should be offended.

On the other hand, I have begun tearing out my hair. I’ve increased grinding my teeth. I have a twitch in my left eye and that’s the one I can barely see out of anyway.

It’s only the second month.

Go to Harvard Law they said, graduate Summa Cum laude, get hired at your mom’s law firm. Easy? Of course it’s easy, it’s perfectly easy.

I wish my hair would stop falling out.

10/15/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I was once more sent down to the counselor for concerning noises coming from my dorm room. The noises would be far less concerning if people learned to mind their own businesses, surely they have to have classes on that somewhere on this godforsaken campus.

A useful class, something that isn’t torts.

I was sent here and she told me to try journaling again, so trying again I am- and investing in new neighbors hopefully soon. Or classes that aren’t on torts.

They won’t even teach us heresy until year two, so here I am, watching my eyes fall out of my skull over civil legal liability (let no man on earth, specifically Professor Woods, see I wrote this. I’m stressed out enough as it is).

And of course, she is also in that class.

I am going to buy thicker pillows. Or get my neighbors earphones.

10/18/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

If you are wondering, you non-sentient piece of barely passable paper (my proper notebook paper is taking down the ink, blood, and tears of my notes for Professor Woods lecture), the counselor said that I should write to something I hate. She gave several reasons of compassion, forgiveness, and sending a postcard to my vacationing emotional state or some other questionable transcendentalist bohemian sentiment.

I told her I would write to the day of Tuesday, ever since my brain has had a critical capacity I discerned Tuesday is objectively the worst day. Sure, people en masse hate Monday, but that’s because it’s a red herring for the abysmal time period that is Tuesdays.

You have some reserve of energy from the weekend for Monday’s, some feeling of being resigned to Wednesday and the hope of the weekend from Thursday, Friday. Tuesday is the energy sapping in between scourge of this mere existence.

And she would know that if she listened to my entire case instead of dismissing the first lines and making our classmates side with her ‘Monday’ arguments. I wasn’t done! She didn’t deserve that round, or the next.

I’m never participating in ‘Drinking Court’ ever again, that’s my ‘Smiley Goal’ or however the counselor put it.

No more, drinking, no more teeth grinding.

10/19/1973

Dear Tuesday,

I had to go to the dentist.

10/22/1973

Dear Not Tuesday,

I have another name I would like to put as the recipient to my stress letters, but she is currently the Unnamable Problem. Her name just leaves a bad taste in my mouth every time.

There are exactly eleven (used to be thirteen) women in my law school graduating class, much more than last year but not enough for me to ever feel comfortable in any room. She is, of course, one of the few other female students in any of my classes.

Which would be fine, good really. If she wasn’t the worst.

She’s good, I’ll grant her that- but almost too good. Smug grin, smug laugh, wants to only work for corporations who will pay her six figures like the men.

Admirable, attractive even, but that does not detract from her incessant ‘teasing,’ and insatiable need to win. She challenges and laughs and points and grins with that feline look that I would give a good right hook to if I was still in Kentucky. But we are no longer in Kentucky.

I should simply stop accepting her challenges.

Or stop going to class. There are many dilemmas.

10/25/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I cut my hair short. I’m already tearing it out from the stress as is and I am that much closer to looking like a professional, that’s what she must want right? Hopefully. Maybe.

Mother sent me a blue handkerchief with the firm insignia on it. Diamond Corp, where the best and brightest work for the best and brightest and the family will hang our name in the ledgers of its services.

I’m going to have to grow my hair out if mom is going to visit in December, Lord, maybe stop biting my nails too (The Unnamable said the hair was attractive but I have serious doubts she’s ever meant anything she’s ever said. I also don’t like that look she gave me afterwards- mocking).

10/26/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I accepted another Drinking Court, future lawyers shouldn’t drink this much, but the man next to me said ladies shouldn’t drink like this either. I downed that entire whiskey in one go.

Note to self: do not down entire whiskeys.

Our topic today was on which was the least savory condiment. I defender Worchester sauce and she prosecuted.

Honestly, what is there to defend on Worchester sauce.

She was faster, made more eye contact and started louder. But my points were better! More thought out.

Damn her, damn her, one day I’m going to beat her at these fake games- or the real games.

That is of course, after I down more aspirin and I drink the largest cup of coffee I can find (perhaps a bowl?)

I have a theory she’s trying to ruin me.

Even if she complimented my hair again by the third round of drinks.

10/27/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

There are negative ‘Smiley Points’ today. In fact, frowny points are had all around.

I have to wear a night guard now for the teeth grinding and that rash is back. And she made me an offer- what choice did I have?

I was sitting in Professor Woods class, my 9am with the least amount of frills and most amount of reading- which is saying a lot.

I was re-skimming the section on Civil Liability for prisons, nursing a second headache in a week (not from a hangover this time thank you). When she came in.

She always sits in the front. I sit behind that, not too close but close enough to show the professor I am not cowed and trying to hide. That will be important one day.

She didn’t sit in front of me. She sits by me.

The unnamable, Zayda Gold (I might as well say it) approached. She slid over like she invented sitting, invented sliding, and invented grinning at me like I was the first person on her ‘swallow whole list,’ right after ‘the entire world.’ Ugh.

“Zarah Khan.” I don’t like the way she says my name. I mean, granted, most everyone in this school just turns it into ‘Sarah’ and forgets the Z. They say it’s easier, there’s a lot of things they would like to make easier about me.

I try to turn slowly, lawyers are never eager. They are collected, patient.

I nod at her, she leans forward, “You are the smartest person in this entire class,” my thoughts freeze in place for a moment, an ice cold punch, “And they aren’t even teaching us hearsay yet.” “I know.” I say mechanically.

“That is not going to help me be the best prosecutor in the the next 50 states and the District of Columbia.”

“Um.”

“I plan to make six figures.” “I know,” I wrinkled my nose.

“I need someone to practice against that isn’t a complete fool and where we aren’t at a bar.” One of the boys behind us scoffs, covering it up with a cough.

I frowned, “It’s the middle of the semester,” she raised an eyebrow, I took a deep breath. “I’m a little busy.” “I can make it worth your time.” “Oh?” I hate to admit it, she had my attention.

“You’re struggling in this class.” I scowl, “I’m doing just fine.” I sniff and scratch my arm, “you just said I’m the smartest one in this class.” She rolled her eyes, I could kick her, “You don’t know how to relax. They’ll eat you alive as a defender if you don’t practice now.” I look down at my lap, “I’m working for my mom after this. I’m not going to be a defender.” I wish I hadn’t mumbled.

“Oh please,” she says airily, waving her hand in the air. “I’ll help you with torts if you hurry up and help me practice for being an attorney.” I scowl at her further.

“Don’t try to force your hyper-aggressive BS on her Gold,” we both turn around as the boy behind us spoke, Aaron something. “If you think you’ll actually be hired for court cases...Well, just don’t make her into another little hopeless cocky would-be-attorney.” Zayda looked like a viper coiling to strike and for once in my life I was less nervous and instead waiting for the entire force of thunder to brought down on this boys head. I’m a little giddy too.

She simply turns away. She doesn’t spare him another look and I’ve never wanted to have something like that before, whatever it was she did. I watched him as he shook his head, “Especially for Khan.” He said my name in a much worse way than Zayda ever could. There were some things in this world they would never to let me forget.

I set my mouth into a hard line and turn back to Zayda, “I’d love to help you prepare for trials.” She makes the look of someone who planned to win and the professor walks in before O’Connor makes comments on things he feels obligated to comment on.

Journal, I’m not sure if any of this is a good idea- I don’t plan to be ruined by such girls that plan to ruin me. But something like this, it is a little tempting.

10/30/1973

Dear Tuesdays, I HATE HER.

11/1/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I. hate. her.

11/1/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

People are the worst. And by that I mean mostly Zayda Gold, I’m moving to the middle of the desert. Maybe my counselor will say I’ll reach Nirvana through the great outdoors and baking myself alive (she is always talking about Nirvana and ‘the magical east,’ double ugh).

Nevertheless, Zayda. Girls like Zayda are the worst kind of...mocking? Mocking.

I helped her with her dumb ‘fake’ cases where she goes through archives of trials and has us re-argue them. Until two in the morning.

Truly, I am a charitable person.

I told her, I told her, we had a test in one of my intro classes the day after and I should study for that (I always try to study four or five days in advance). But I had been busy- with a treason case for some Russian spy in the 60s. Like I’ll ever will defend a case like that.

She had us run through it anyway, openings, pretend-cross examinations, closings. It was exhausting, why is she like this.

Perhaps that would be all, nothing wrong, nothing amiss. Just practice.

And perhaps it was my own fault.

I insisted she fulfill her end of the bargain: help me with torts and whatever magic flashcards she had that let her ace more tests than not.

She just shook her head with a little humph. I told her to help or we would never practice the next case and whatever it was we were preparing for.

She took out a bottle of rum ‘two shots’ she said ‘and then we’ll play a game.’

I was not happy, she said being stress while memorizing anything was the only way to do it- nerves were going to ruin me if I didn’t practice getting a handle on them. Like I didn’t already know that.

I take the shots, she took out her damn flashcards, she said stress now made oral exam stress later manageable, ‘practicing like you play’- Zayda Gold.

I roll my eyes and accept whatever it is.

She tells me if I get a flashcard wrong I’ll have to take off some article of clothing. I balk, maybe my face was a little hotter than it should be, I tell her that’s juvenile.

She just does That Smirk and asks me what my problem was- “we’re both girls here.”

I don’t know how to answer that, maybe I was a little rocked because my mind goes blank. She was a good lawyer.

“Fine,” I gritted my teeth, it’s not like I’m bad at flashcards.

We start, her flashcards for one are very detailed, and for two, I’m a little tired. I get the first fifteen right, rapid fire. But I stumble on a question about false imprisonment- of course I did.

I take off a sock.

But I had lost my momentum, incorporeal chattels- I don’t answer with enough detail. Another sock. Law of Obligations- my brain is very tired. I take off my jacket.

I’m sweating now, I get the next ten right out of desperation.

Then of course, neighbor principle, a tort of negligence. My face goes pale, I can feel my mind racing, reaching. This wasn’t that hard.

“Um,” I pressed my finger tips together and then jam my glass farther up on my face, “omission… omission rules of evidence.” She raises an eyebrow, “and?”

My mouth opens and closes like a fish, I flounder. “That’s it?” She shakes her head and reads the full definition, I sink down lower into my chair. She turns back to me, “Go on.” I almost refuse, I had pride, standards, a reputation. A lawyer is nothing without a reputation. But she is nothing without a backbone either.

Zayda was looking at me expectantly, smoothly. I grit my teeth, everything about her was a challenge.

I start to unbutton my shirt, I could have gone for my pants but someone was going to learn if nothing else I had backbone.

I unbutton it slowly, one by one, forcing my heart to slow down and forcing my eyes to meet hers. She wasn’t the only one here that was a force onto herself.

My shirt falls away and I sit calmly in my brazier, I hadn’t put on an undershirt in weeks- there wasn’t enough time between classes, food, and not sleeping.

She looks coolly down at me and I wonder if it’s judgement or disinterest. Though I wouldn’t call it disinterest.

I spent a good deal of time always looking for jackets with large shoulder pads so people couldn’t tell I was just a slim gangly girl who was too tall for her age. Nevertheless, I had a feeling Zayda wasn’t accessing me like that.

She holds up another flashcard.

Something else hung in the air like an electric buzz that would sizzle eggs on the sidewalk.

I answer the next one wrong too, a simple mistake this time. But she doesn’t let it pass.

I don’t hesitate when I take off my pants, I’m not going to show any weakness here. Besides, it was just beige long underwear underneath anyway, for the cold night. And I wasn’t going to get any more of the questions wrong I promised myself, she watches me closely now as she flips the cards.

The next half-hour is a blur, I get the next handful right, there was nothing else to do but get them right. My nerves were a dull drone in the back of my mind and I ignore them.

She had something liquid and venomous in her green eyes, shining.

Journal, I can’t believe myself, I honestly can’t believe myself.

I draw a blank on the very last card, honestly I couldn’t tell you what the the subject was on since the panic set in.

“Go on,” she flapped it in the air, “It’s the last one.” My eyes go wide, a dryness in my mouth. I give a rapid-fire series of answers, her eyes narrow.

“None of those are right.” I clench my jaw, I knew that. “Forfeit.” I put my hands in the air, “I’ll study that one later.” Too bad I forget what it was.

Zayda had been leaning on my raised bed, accessing me. She gradually stalks across the room as if she is the slowest tidal wave in the world.

She was looking down at me, she was looking down at my long underwear and brazier, my heart does something unhealthy in my chest.

She leans over me, “What are we without rules?” The words honestly haunt me.

I shake my head, “I already gave in.” “We are a society of rules.” She was toying with me.

I wrinkled my nose. I wouldn’t be toyed with.

I snort, “Whatever.” I reach behind me and undo the clasp on the back, I meet her eye as one of the last pieces of my clothing falls away. I am laid bare.

I blow air out my nose, this was normal, it was just rivals, female rivals.

The air sizzled, she was just teasing me.

She looks down and I look up, I slowly raise myself to my feet, she is still looking down and we are in something that I can never tell my mom. Something I really shouldn’t be telling you.

Her hands dance at her side, I am standing now, we are around the same height. Almost six feet and perhaps finally not too tall for girls.

I watch her, I am the steady one for once.

“What is it Gold?” I finally ask in a low tone.

She takes a sharp inhale of breath, I half-lid my eyes as if in amusement (I do foolish things sometimes journal).

She glances down at my exposed skin and her hands reach forward.

Her hands ghost over my back, lightly touching the curve of my waist. She looks up slowly and her acid green eyes are helpless.

I don’t do anything, I won’t give her the pleasure of anything.

She is a shaking twig at the moment and I can feel her breath on my cheek, it is a little fast. We aren’t anything.

She arches forward as if by accident and our lips meet like phantoms. It’s not like a real kiss, real kisses are not accidents and this touch is as light and unreal as a dream. But our lips still meet.

She stumbles backward immediately and pants. She quickly straightens her shirt.

“You got six wrong.” She croaks and stumbles further backward, “and you’re still sweating when talking. Juries smell ineptitude in a courtroom.”

I blink a couple times, I start to hate her a little bit again, “six out of a hundred and twenty.” She shakes her head and turns away. She jams her flashcards in her bag and hefts over her shoulder.

I clear my throat and she turns around, her eyes cover me like glue again, “get them all right next time.” She covers her mouth, I seethe, “And be a little more decent.” She sniffs, her cheeks are flushed, “it’s lewd.”

“What?”

“Naked? Sweating? Honestly.”

My nostrils flare and I see red, “You’re the one that...this is.” I ball up my fists and stand up straight, she is still flushed. I didn’t care I was almost naked, “I have another rule for you.” I say with steel in my tone, she pauses at the door, “I’m never going to lose to you again.”

She blinks, something unreadable on her face. She leaves.

I shouldn’t feel this way. Hatred, real hatred, I’ll write it in my head until maybe I believe it.

11/3/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I passed the torts exam and my Intro to Procedure oral midterm. My name is boosted into the top three student rankings posted in the hall (a ‘motivational board’). So that’s at least three ‘Smiley Points’ I can tell my counselor about...woo.

I’m not sure if I’ve felt any sort of emotion in a week, but I’m sure I can just focus on the number one spot and be out of here. In a year and half. Out of here.

Please let it pass quickly, I’m having the worst dreams ever, and they aren’t even nightmares.

I’m going to focus on my classwork.

11/10/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

It’s parents weekend, I don’t know why they have it so late in the year but I really haven’t grown my hair out long enough for this.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so engrossed in essays, notes, and pouring my blood out for Professor Woods I would have prepared a little more mentally. My parents are sweet, but… a lot.

My mom knocked on my door five times at 8pm that day, and then she knocked some more until I answered.

She hugged me so hard I could burst and slicked my bangs back to get a better look at my face.

“It’s so short.” She says with a discerning look in her eye, “And you are so thin! Have you been eating enough? Or just coffee!” She wags her finger, “my bumblebee, have you been taking care of yourself?” I shrug loosely and she pulls me out the door, “I’m feeding you right now! Breakfast. Your father is still out getting you flowers, oh don’t let him know I told you. But I made sure he didn’t get the ones you are allergic to this time.”

I was smiling despite myself, rolling with her singing voice that held the air like a microphone. My mom could always talk.

I nod along and she tells me about the firm and annoying clients that bothered her boss and nonstop paperwork. ‘There were always things to do! Work to be done.’ That’s my mom’s favorite phrase, ‘There is work to be done!’ That’s what I used to chirp when I wore her heels in pre-school and pretended to debate the world, to be her.

I’m relaxing into my mom's presence, and her hugs and nice hazelnut coffee smell, but she pauses when we make our way down the stairwell.

Paul Michaelson passes us with a slight nod, he was a quiet boy who was seventh on the ranking list and had fair hair that slid over his eyes.

My mom nodded back and gave me a mischievous grin as we make it to the bottom, “He’s cute.” She says with a little hop in her step, “Is he in any of your classes?” I groan and look away, “I’m busy mom, I told you, I’m focusing.” My mom shakes her head, “This is the perfect time for romance bumblebee!” She tutts, “Me and your father met in school.” She always reminded me of that.

My mom had been able to slip into law school during the war when all the men were gone, my father did basic training but got a bum knee during the grueling exercises. He was really more of scholar. He ended up in her tiny law school class, and then her mom told the detailed Epic Romance of their lives as they courted.

I don’t think I’m going to have one of those, I’m not sure I’m built for it.

She rushed me down the stairs and into the nearest restaurant, afraid for my health and how much time I spent in the library. She told me I loved sunshine as I kid, the color yellow, and wouldn’t have me grow sickly.

She continues to point out ‘cute’ boys on the way.

“Is he in your class?” She asks as we pass the quad, “He’s very handsome, consider the grandkids!” I groan again.

“No, he looks like a 2A.” I assure her. “How about him?” “No.” “Tell me that one is, he has such a nice face!”

I pause and stare at Aaron O’Connor, I wince, “He’s in my torts class.” “Lovely!”

“I....I guess.” I don’t have the heart to tell her O’Connor was probably the one scrawling ‘Beware: Genghis Khan in here’ on my door- even after I explained to him my family was from Turkey and no where near Mongolia. I stopped trying after the third attempt.

My mom wants to go talk to him but luckily my father comes with the bouquet of flowers ‘for my first semester!’ and I can escape to a breakfast bistro. They are daisy’s.

It’s not a bad meal, it’s actually really good, I get a little misty eyed when my parents let me get the pancakes, the eggs and the fruit. A college budget it not always friendly.

Plus, I don’t know journal, they keep smiling and telling me how good I am doing, that they’re proud. The feeling of home is a little hard.

They want me to be happy, very happy. My father tells me my sister says I can wear her wedding dress after this year, she’s done with it. He winks and tells me she thinks it’s going to be a good year for me.

I sink a little lower in my seat, a year or so to meet a nice boy in a suit that can provide for me, before a wedding they are happy to plan. And they want me to be happy.

So I get a little misty-eyed.

“Mom, dad,” I take a deep breath and both of them pause, I edge my eggs around my plate, they look at me, I swallow.

“What is it honey?” My dad moves my orange juice closer to me.

I look at my lap, press something down, and then look back up, “Do you think I could make it as a defense attorney?” My mom and dad share a look, a calculating one.

My mom finally reaches over and squeezes my hand, “If that’s what you want bumblebee, of course. But...The Diamond firm is very good you know. The pay can make a family veeeery comfortable and the paperwork isn’t all bad.” My father is glancing at me, he rubs his mustache, he tried to smile, “Attorney’s can be very stressed. And it can be...unforgiving.” I shake my head, I know I’m worrying them. I know it would be the hardest thing I’ve ever done to make it as an attorney.

I lift my chin and smile, projecting a kind of confidence I always wanted, “I was just thinking outloud. It could just be...an option.”

“You can be whatever you want!” They are grinning, I am still their law school daughter and still going to marry that nice man and be comfortable.

“Now,” my father rubs his hands together, “Are there any boys I need to have a talking to?” He winks and holds up his hands, I look down again.

“No dad.”

My mom looks between the two of us, “Tell us about school.”

It’s not a bad visit. I tell them about the workload and pretty campus and the offer to join the debate team (I don’t), a few rivals I’ve made. And try to make up a boy for them, competitive, confident, yellow floppy hair and a stubborn nose.

I’ll let them be happy.

11/13/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I have a cold. I’m not pleased with said cold and have spent the last three days sniffling, I haven’t been able to answer so much as one question in class and I think my ranking might slip.

Zayda is still insisting we practice as if nothing has ever happened between us and I wish nothing had ever happened between us. Should I avoid seeing her? Is that defeat?

Who knows. I don’t. I haven’t been able to smell anything for 72 hours.

People with clear sinuses should give thanks to some sinus god, this is awful.

I’m going to go take a hot shower.

11/16/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I’m feeling a little better. I drank enough tea to potentially sustain a British army and lay in the sun for a couple hours yesterday- maybe my mom was right about the outdoors thing.

I even got a brief drink with two other female law students, I sip of some tonic and let them play ‘Drinking Court’ without me this time.

Zayda was looking at me the whole time but one of the boys said she was a bit of a germ-phobe, she doesn’t approach. Good.

I sniffle and watch her beat the 1A at lightning round cross-examination of whether mosquitoes should be eliminated or not.

There was a protest against what’s going on in Vietnam outside campus yesterday.

I really need to double down on my studies.

11/19/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I feel almost better, I woke up with barely an ache in my throat! Just in time to ace my oral exam in intro to Criminal Law. Things are looking up.

11/21/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

Things are weird. Life is weird. I think I’m feeling sick again. Why is life like this? Why did I even invite her into my room?

Protect me from the dumb things I do oh beings that protect law students. Or at least give me a guide to pretty girls that say cryptic truly bizarre things in the middle of the day.

I am going to bed.

11/22/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

??? I am still confused. Very confused. Zadya came by my room yesterday, she made it out like it was the most normal thing in the world.

She wanted to do that Russian spy trial again and record ourselves on tape, which sounds embarrassing.

I told her I was sick. She flinched and looked at me carefully. I shrug and tell her we could do it later, anything outside of schoolwork could really wait right now.

She came up beside my bed anyway.

“You are too stressed. What have I been telling you?”

I roll my eyes, “I’m not more stressed than anyone else.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Yeah. But the rest of us have coping skills for it and are not sick right now.” I set my jaw, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

She lifted her chin and said the next part very matter-a-factly, dryly, slowly, “Do you masturbate?”

Every muscle in my body tenses and I squawk, “What?!”

“You heard me.” I sit up completely straight and don’t meet her eye, my gut churns, “That is a ridiculous question.” And I certainly didn’t want her to be the one asking it.

“See? Bad coping mechanisms. You’ll die if you keep that up.” I snort and push my bangs back, “Not masturbate?” She grins, “No.” She prowls, “but I guess that confirms it.” I don’t answer and frown deeply, she draws nearer, “I’ve never seen you release a day in your life.” I make a face, “Release?”

“It’s good for you.” I make a face and she holds herself very still.

I look away and she just hopped down to the floor. I sniffle and she turns away, looking over her shoulder enigmatically.

“Call if you ever need some help with that stress. I probably don’t need anymore court practice right now anyway.” She had something coy on her lip this time. I am slack jawed and frozen.

I am still slack jawed and frozen. Help with stress? After...Do you think….

She has to be messing with me, right? RIGHT?

11/24/1973

Finals are coming like an avalanche I have no equipment to evade or stop. I’ve buried myself in books and there is no escape.

I’ve chewed a hole in my nightguard and haven’t returned half my phone calls, Professor Woods gave me an 83% on a test. An 83. I don’t know what his game is.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve become more aware of Zadya than I have of anyone else in my life. She hasn’t talked to me since.

11/27/1973

Dear Tuesdays or whatever,

I have two weeks until finals, I need to get it together. I better not lose anymore clumps of hair, I’m too young to have a bald spot.

12/1/1973

Dear FINALS,

I’ve been drinking three-day-old coffee for hours now and don’t why I don’t become an elementary school teacher or sheep herder. There are no sheep at an Ivy League law school. I’m not sure if the professors are going harder on me than everyone else, or if I’m doing that for them.

I want to sleep. I saw Zadya smoking last night, Cara, one of the other eleven female law students said she only did that near big tests. Maybe even the queen gets stressed.

12/5/1973

Dear Lord,

I think I need to go to the doctors for a developing ulcer.

11/??/1973

Dear FUCK,

Four more days, four more days and it’s 2 in the morning with another stack of torts literature to go through. They call these classes weed out classes but fuck if I’m not going to be that weed (weeds grow in places they aren’t supposed to like insidious fools).

I am considering doing something I may regret. I’m seriously considering something I might regret. It’s 2am, I know someone else that may be awake.

I’ll leave you here to watch my books.

11/11/1973

Dear….

Well. Well? Well! Well.

I have, ahem, done something.

11/12/1973

I have very bad decision making skills.

11/12/1973

It snowed! It’s very pretty.

Nothing quite like this in Kentucky, though one of my professors is already suggesting I do something about that accent.

11/12/1973

The snow was nice for a moment. I have made another questionable choice.

11/12/1973

Dear Goddammit,

I did it AGAIN. Someone needs to get me a leash, but Zadya would probably just like the look of it.

I need to erase that last sentence. And myself.

11/13/1973

Dear WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS,

I keep doing this.

At least she fed me breakfast again this time.

Or is that bad too? Ugh.

11/14/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

Finals begin tomorrow, I should be more nervous.

But I am genuinely thinking about other things. My stomach is in knots all the time, I think I’m getting a fever, she sits by me in torts. She puts her hand on my thigh in torts.

Not that we haven’t done more things than that.

Someone save me. I didn’t imagine this is how she would ruin me.

11/16/1973

Dear Exhaustion,

I did my first two finals today. I am too tired to say much, they went well, I hope.

11/17/1973

Dear Sleep,

One more day. Two more to go.

11/18/1973

Dear ALMOST,

Break is so soon! I am so close!

I did one last final this morning, the second is in the afternoon. She’s coming over in between tests, I should stop it. But I’ve never done better on tests before.

11/19/1973

Dear Confusion,

I did the last final. I barely remember it.

I can only remember the moments before. Should I be this red? I was just a simple exercise between...friends? Rivals? Something.

My heart, damn my heart. I can’t stop thinking about it, she laid me down on the bed this time, no hoisting me onto her lap and reaching down my pants, fast and dirty with a few dry expletives. Not that I’ve minded that way.

No pinning me against the wall and heavy petting until I whine and she says she won’t stop until she hears me. It was a long night.

But it wasn’t today. In the middle of the day before both of our last final in Professor Woods class.

I can see the bags under her eyes and smell coffee like stain over her whole being and ginger in her hair. But maybe she always smelled like ginger.

I take the opportunity to get her shirt over her head, she rarely let me get her clothes off. She is pliant in my hands as I wrestle her pants to her ankles, delicately taking my time with her under garments.

She arches into me, I kiss her neck, maybe the kiss is too light, too tender. She moaned.

I took her carefully in my hand and rolled her over in bed, she runs her hand down my sides and we kiss. It’s not like before.

I can’t call it fast and dirty anymore. No, the desperation lingers, as it always had, the secret in our chests. And she touches me.

We make love this time and the hour passes with the scent of ginger in my mouth and sweat covering my body.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers and I know she’s saying something like a truth this time. I kiss the end of her nose and we roll into each other like coaxing symphonies out of pelvis’s and skin.

It’s only after we are both spent and the ticking clock tells us it is almost four that we lie wrapped in one another.

Her face is pressed into my chest and we are breathing heavily. I look at the wall opposite of us for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into my skin and traces the muscles on my back lightly.

I chuckle gently, “I promise, you did good.”

She shakes her head into my skin, kissing it lightly, “For all the nasty things O’Connor writes on your door.” I purse my lips and feel the sunlight play across my skin like a caress, “You get a tough skin.” “I should kick his ass,” Zayda runs her hands down my side and kisses my shoulder, “you’re too good for him to even share the same air.” I roll my eyes, “Boys write those kind of things near you too.” I say slowly, delicately; ‘Jewish American Princess’ was the nicest of them. “We’ll get through.” She kisses me again, my collarbone and chest, as if she wanted to memorize the curves and swallow me whole- like I predicted. She kisses and kisses again.

I feel a shiver go up my spine and screw my eyes shut, something mournful bubbling up deep within me. I take a deep shuddering breath. She looks up at me with a question in her eyes, I swallow.

“Are you alright?” She weaves her hand in my hair.

“Zadya,” I say quietly, a shameful wetness breaking in my eyes as I look at her, “Is this… practice to you? For...others. For,” I gulp. “For after this.” She shakes her head, “I’m not looking for their ‘after.’” I take a rattling breath, almost a sob. I curl into her and she holds me closer, she messages my scalp and tucks my head under her chin.

“I’ve known what I am for a long time,” my eyes go wide, her hand grips me, “I’m sorry if...I dented any of your plans. It can just be practice for you.” I feel the sob rising in me again, I wipe at my eyes. “No.” I say it outloud like a curse, “No! I don’t...those aren’t my plans either.” A rule book written for somebody else, a love letter from society on the promised dream. I wish I could return to sender.

She kisses my eyelids and the timer goes off.

I go to my last final.

What have I done.

11/19/1973

Dear Tuesdays,

I have three days to pack and go home for winter break. Three days before this spell might be broken and I am asked about ‘after’ again.

I took Zadya to the movies tonight, I told her it was the least I could do (see? Backbone). She seemed just as smug and victorious as ever, figures.

We hold hands in the dark and laugh at the silly faces we make at a movie that is not particularly good.

She takes me to ‘the best ice cream shop this side of the Appalachians.’ I accept, for now.

It’s good, almost a little too good. Someone stares at us when she gets ice cream on her nose and I kiss it, but they look away muttering on girl friendships and hippies.

Maybe we could be ‘friends forever’ if no one looked too closely and I could hold her hand and they wouldn’t ask questions. I keep my hand by my side for now.

We walk and she asked where was I going after this.

I shrug, “anywhere I want.” She grinned from ear to ear at that, I lick the end of my orange creamsicle. “You?”

“You know,” she looked off into the distance, “Someone who will pay me enough to never have to worry about anything again.” Her shoulders squared, “Buy my parents a house.” I nodded, we weren’t all here under our lawyer-parents bankroll. I wished I could hold her hand.

I chomp on the ice cream, “Anything in mind?” She gave me a devilish look, “If Yellow Corp will hire me I’ll take them for all their worth.” I shake my head, “Lawyers already have bad name as it is you know.” She slips her arm over my shoulder on the empty street, pulling me close, “Don’t worry babe. I’ll make the CEO’s richer and you’ll put them all in jail.”

I raised my eyebrows and a laugh a little, “You know, I said I would never lose to you again.”

Her eyes go soft, “I don’t doubt it.” We go back to my dorm and kiss until our lips are bruised and blue and I try with all my might to tell myself a different story.

11/20/1973

Dear Journal,

Wow, I actually thought I lost you. I must have dropped you under the bed when I was going home for winter break freshman year.

It’s move out day and my freshman counselor would be happy to know I managed stress enough to graduate summa cum laude. Soooo, smiley points.

Gee, it’s been a long two years. Better though, it got better.

I can’t believe I wrote all this down, especially the last couple entries, I should burn this- a lawyer is nothing without her reputation. I might want to remember this all one day though.

Zadya’s been avoiding me for the last couple days, but she isn’t very good at goodbyes or sentiment. I’ll see her no doubt before my parents arrive to help finish packing.

I wish we were both going to the same city, I wish she wasn’t quite so stubborn.

But I’m stubborn too, I’ve already promised myself I’m getting that public defender job in DC. Just let them watch.

But I want to see her first.

I wouldn’t even be going out for these jobs without her, God, that crazy confidence and cocky smile, I can’t believe I gave in.

I’m going to have a lot to beat in the future, there is work to be done. First we have to say goodbye, even if it’s the hardest damn kiss of my life.

I’ll see her again, even it’s in the courtroom.

And maybe… some time forever from now, we’ll work this out and the law will recognize us back. Not that either of us would put our pride aside to propose.

But there’s always potential.

5/12/1975

Dear Journal,

She did it on a goddamn Tuesday. Of course, on one knee with a symphony playing because she is that kind of ridiculous. She chose a Tuesday and that is the day I’ll have to celebrate from now on every June.

Curse this woman, curse this woman for the rest of my life I guess.

6/27/2015

#steven universe #zircons #zirconshipping #steven universe fanfiction #bellow zircon #courtship #the formatting on this was really wonky for some reason so I'm sorry if it looks weird

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kwa-mii · 7 years

Text

Le Chat Noir

SInce exams are over it’s time for me to write again! yaaay!! I missed this!!!

Since it’s Marichat May I decided to Get In On The Action and so here’s a fic for day 19 - identity reveal - which I’ve been planning for ages and it was pretty fun to write tbh

The title is a lazy reference to Le Chat Noir in Montmarte, which was one of the first cabarets. Titles are not my strong point, but eyyyyyyyy it’s doubly relevant

Also feel free to pop to my ao3

Le Chat Noir - a reveal fic with a bit of humour amidst the fluff (1959 words)

Chat was a self-proclaimed charmer. Self-proclaimed, because he considered his pun-based flirting to be the epitome of seduction and would often brag about his 'way with women'. Charmer, because it was somewhat true.

Marinette, weird as it was to admit it to herself, had been slowly falling under his spell. Yes, she'd always liked her teammate - he was reliable, good company, kind to her - but she'd never allowed herself to transgress that boundary. It would make their partnership weird after all, and Ladybug wasn't ready to make mistakes because of some silly crush. But as Marinette that had changed slightly.

When he was around her civilian self, Chat lowered some of his walls. Lolling on her bed and enthusing about his favourite anime, playing videogames, salivating over freshly-baked pastries, he seemed less untouchable hero, and more human - and an undeniably cute one at that. Without an akuma to distract her, she could really admire his tousled golden hair, his bright green eyes, the gorgeously toned body beneath the suit. (Stop it Marinette! Don't think about that! That was a violation of their sacred comradeship! He was Chat, and she was Ladybug and)

Chat really wasn't making it easier on her. His effusive, natural flirtatiousness, concentrated like that on her, was an indomitable force. Every time he sprung onto her balcony with some freshly plucked roses, or bought another small plushie to fill her bed, or, damnit, hit her with that confident, toothy smile, she could feel that partnership-relationship boundary becoming less clear. And sometimes, when they cuddled in bed and watched movies together, she couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to kiss him, to entwine their bodies more deeply. His heat was enticing and his arms were strong - but Marinette was strong too, and unerringly loyal to the thought of Adrien.

So, in the end, it didn't matter. She could not afford to fall in love with Chat. She could not afford to admit that parts of her, great and persuasive parts, wanted to.

Even so, as Chat sprung into her room that evening, she couldn't stop her heart's flutter. Light in step, and light in voice, he bounced over to her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Though many people in France did this in greeting, Chat made it feel more... charming, she supposed, amorous. Then, pulling away, he beamed at her, "Did you miss me?"

She gestured towards her homework, "Oh, desperately. Has my knight come to rescue me?"

Marinette was not naturally flirty, at all, but there was something about Chat (there were a lot of things about Chat, it seemed) that was different. She felt a bit nauseous every single time she batted her eyelids, but it was definitely fun.

He leaned over her to look - his smell so cosy, like home - and smiled, "Oh, it's science. I could help you with that."

"That's not the kind of rescuing I was thinking about."

"I can't condone slacking, Marinette."

"Bummer," she muttered, turning back to her work, her pencil tapping aimlessly against the edge of the desk.

"However," he purred, spinning her chair back to face him, "It's bad manners to ignore a guest."

"Are they a guest if they climb in through your windows? I'd call that an 'intruder'."

"Semantics."

There was a pause here. With Chat leaning over her, his hands placed either side of the chair's back, Marinette felt herself beginning to blush. She wrested herself away, getting up abruptly, and turning on the radio, "Well, you have a point. You can help me later, I guess, if you still want to. I need a break."

He grinned, "Alright! What's the plan?"

"Uh, I assumed you had one, considering you were so eager..."

"It's all a front, princess. I just wanted to get you away from that desk; you looked half-dead."

Princess again. She'd heard it a few times now, but the pet name still got to her, in its delightful intimacy. It made her warm and fuzzy, knowing he thought of her like that - or, at least, pretending to. She wasn't sure how she felt about his just saying it for the sake of it... somehow, it was important to her that he meant it, at least partly.

Wishing to shut out these traitorous thoughts, she turned the knob on the radio louder. Chat's eyes widened, "Oh, I love this song!"

Marinette's eyes widened too. Somehow, despite their shared evenings together, she had never pictured him liking music like this - sweet, cutesy, romantic. She loved it too, but, "I would've thought your taste would've been way different. Stromae, or something."

"Oh, I like him too, I listen to pretty much everything. But I have a special place in my heart for romance."

She wished he wouldn't look at her like that when saying such things. Especially when he was starting to move in time to the music, swaying and tapping his feet. Chat was beginning to transcend cute and had become irresistibly so, mouthing the words to the love song at her with an earnest expression: ‘I always liked to seduce but it's OK if you're the only one who likes me.’

She could laugh. She could swoon. She could kiss him!

At least, until he started actually singing. Maybe it didn't help that the singer was at a range well above his own, but it was clear that Chat had not been made to sing. Instead, he yowled, like the cliché of a cat, every note landing far from its mark. His voice strained at the edges. He was a mess. She could laugh, and so she did, unable to keep the giggles in at his genuine attempt to serenade her.

It seemed even Chat had flaws. Just like that, it had become a little easier not to fall in love with him. As long as he kept serenading her, she was safe; they could be Just Friends.

In the end, Marinette did not finish her science homework. She had spent the evening messing around with Chat, singing karaoke, and dancing goofily until they were flush and breathless, in a heap across Marinette's bed. Her mum had come in to ask about the noise, but she had managed to hide him beneath a blanket just in time - she wasn't ready to answer those questions just yet.

Luckily, the homework became unimportant, overshadowed by the news that their year would be putting on a musical. Every year put on a show around this time, but the fact that it was going to be a musical was especially exciting.

Nathaniel wished to do nothing more than make the sets - "I couldn't... I'd rather not be on stage" - and Marinette, though she wasn't a terrible singer, would rather be in charge of the costumes. However, there were certainly many others who wanted to act.

Alya was enthusiastic, "I wonder what it'll be! I love West Side Story, or maybe it's Phantom? Les Mis, perhaps. There are so many good musicals out there - ooh, what about Wicked? No, no, Grease is a classic."

Nino was interested, "I don't know how good I am at singing, but I'd like to do something, y'know. Music is my jam, so this should be cool. I'm pumped."

Chloe was confident, "Oh, I'll have to get the leading part. Daddy says I sing like an angel, and besides, I was born to be centre stage. None of you losers had better audition for the main part. It'll be me and Adrien up there together, right, Adri-kins?"

Adrien did not look particularly taken with the idea. However, there was no two ways about it - his looks and his natural stage presence meant he was the ideal lead. He had proven his talent in their class film, and there was no other boy quite as handsome or as charming as him. As romantic interests go, he was the perfect match. Besides, "I'm not a bad singer," he shrugged.

Alya nudged her neighbour, "Yes, but Adrien's probably just being humble. When he says 'not bad', he probably means 'amazing'. I wouldn't put it past him. Kid is perfect."

Marinette nodded, leaning forwards in her seat as Adrien stepped up to sing for them. She could imagine he was singing just for her, if she just pretended there was no one else in the room. Adrien, with his eyes like emeralds, and his hair like spun sunbeams, and his voice like -

Like nails scraping on a chalkboard? Like the clatter of old machinery? Like a primordial screech?

She winced. She noticed everyone in the class, from the corner of her eye, had been similarly affected. Faces paling, mouths dropping, Chloe on the verge of tears. No one had expected this. That perfect, beautiful Adrien, with his perfect, beautiful soul, should have such an ugly voice when he sang. A voice like -

A voice like Chat?

Her small wince turned into a minor coughing fit as she spluttered on the thought. That was ridiculous. Chat couldn't be Adrien. Chat was dangerous, Adrien was gentle... but had Chat not shown his gentleness to Marinette? Ok, ok, so they shared a characteristic or two. And ok, so they were both blonde, green eyes, beautiful body - as his partner, Marinette knew Chat's body well, as his covetous fan, she had studied Adrien's, and admittedly they bore remarkable similarities - but those were superficial traits. And, like, fine, they both had an abysmal singing voice, like a crying cat, but what did that mean? Nothing.

Except face it, Marinette. The chances of two people in Paris singing that badly was infinitissimally small. That was a god-given voice, a rarity. Forced with this truth, reminded of others, she had to accept the possibility that Adrien was the boy under the suit.

She relaxed now. Watched him. Despite the assault on her eardrums, it was actually quite cute. He didn't seem to realise, sang with abandon, with his whole body flung into song. He always had been eager.

Perhaps now she could afford to fall in love. With the both of them, with each part of the wonderful whole. She didn't need to forsake Adrien for Chat, she didn't need to hold Adrien on a distant pedestal when she knew and loved him in different skin. But, there was still the chance... she needed to check her theory.

Adrien came to the end of his song, and saw that the class were staring at him without a word. Not a single reaction, not a single sound. Slightly fazed, he went back to his seat. He whispered over to his friends, "How was that?"

Only Marinette had the wits about her to reply, "It was an interesting experience."

"Interesting doesn't always mean good," he said self-consciously.

"Semantics."

He didn't catch the hint, looking still a bit awkward. Obviously she had to be more blatant, to check if her idea was right, "You know, even though there were a few technical faults, you looked like a perfect knight up there."

He jerked to attention, looking her in the eye, seeing some meaning hidden there, "You think so?"

She nodded, "I can imagine you climbing in through the window to rescue someone."

Alya looked baffled at her friend's new bravery. Adrien looked coy, "Ah, damn, there goes my secret."

So it was true! "I have one or two of my own I think I could trade for that," she smiled. It was only fair after all, he should know the face of his partner. Friends across both identities - and perhaps, with more brewing beneath - she could only see that their teamwork would improve now. He'd all but confirmed it. Adrien was Chat Noir and there was no more perfect person it could be.

But meanwhile, "Hey, I was thinking, could you maybe help me with my science homework? I didn't get a chance to finish it last night since some dumb stray cat distracted me."

He laughed, fixing her with his intense green gaze, and brilliant smile, "I'd love to, princess."

Alya all but screamed.

[BTW this is the song I was thinking of when I wrote this]

#marichat may #marichat #chat noir #marinette #miraculous ladybug #ml fanfic #adrien agreste #adrinette #playing with the cliche boyyyy #kwa-mine

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the-revisionist · 7 years

Text

the tristan chord: chapter 18

xviii. long day’s journey into freak-out

one sunday morning

It is not daylight that awakens Gillian but awareness of time pressing in on her—a merciless internal alarm clock suffering a severe malfunction today because under normal circumstances she’d be on her feet for hours by now. The last step in surrendering to the conscious world is the most painful one: she opens her eyes to a blindingly bright bedroom. After so many days of pissing, sodding rain Mother Nature got cheeky and lo, here’s a sunny warm day worthy of a tropical beach confirmed with a blue-sky striptease courtesy of the fluttering curtain.

Flat on her back, she squints at the ceiling’s white glare, wriggles a bit, and there it is: the delicious awareness of Caroline pressed against her. The day expands exponentially. She raises her head for confirmation and sees blonde hair and a lightly freckled arm draped over her waist, feels heavy hot breathing—miraculously, not snoring—against her upper arm.

Everything would be perfect save for the mobile on the nightstand that starts ringing. While she patiently waits for it to go to voice mail, the reaction from Caroline is akin to poking a hibernating bear: She rumbles loudly and lunges wildly over Gillian—who, as a result, gets unceremoniously smacked in the face with a tit—seizes the offending phone, squints at it, stabs a button, and attempts plastering it onto Gillian��s face. As the phone slides off her cheek Gillian hears a tinny male voice chattering away who is, in all likelihood, Raff, while Caroline rolls away from her and with a lovely snorty growl falls back asleep.

So much for the afterglow. Gillian bobbles the phone. Even with it closer to her ear she can’t hear Raff very well, and wonders if the old mobile is finally dying on her. The mere thought of its demise is actually quite liberating. Maybe she’ll decide not to get a new one. Maybe she will become the only farmer in Yorkshire not to own a mobile. Even Pete, who owns the farm closest to her and is so old that he calls Alan “lad,” has one. Then she realizes she’s holding the phone the wrong way around, with the hearing bit pointed past her chin.

Righting the phone, she plops right into a ranting, raving run-on sentence: “—and I’ve called Nev already and of course since it’s Sunday no one’s working but him and he can’t get out right away and on top o’ that everybody’s stuck in mud or broken down somewhere and I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do, so go on, have your bloody fit already, it’s all over but the shouting as they say, go on, go on.”

“What?” Gillian is still in blink-at-the-ceiling-oh-God-that-was-wonderful-last-night mode.

“Did you not hear what I just said? I drove the Land Rover into a ditch.”

She winces. Such furious enunciation, such painful shouting. She continues blinking at the ceiling. Several long seconds disperse into the summer air as she tries to muster the appropriate amount of outrage but at the moment all she can think is, how did she make me come three times in a row?

“Oh,” she finally says.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

This time she manages to keep a grip on the mobile while yanking it away from her ear to avoid the worst of the shouting, although she does catch the bit about being drunk. “Knackered, is all,” she says. In a futile effort at waking up, she vigorously rubs her face. “You all right?”

The unexpected maternal concern waylays Raff’s fit. “I—yeah, I’m fine. And the Landy’s all right, really, not wrecked, just stuck in mud.”

“What happened?”

“Oh.” Raff drags the syllable through an elongated groan of frustration.

Gillian knows the sound well—this sad abbreviation of oh, I’ve done something stupid—it’s a family speciality, both the sound and the stupidity. Now she knows exactly what happened and sighs. “Took the shortcut to Harry’s, didn’t you?”

More shouting on his part, more wincing on hers: “Yes, I took the bloody short cut!”

Even in the best of weather, this infamous short cut to Harry’s house is a trial: a narrow, winding dirt road lined on one side with a fence older than Methuselah and on the other side with a wicked slope to a bog of indeterminate depth. Why no one thought to erect fencing on the bog side of the road is anyone’s guess and Gillian knows better than to put such a simple question begging logic to any denizens of the dale because she’d probably get in return some epic horseshit tale involving nubile shepherdesses, infidelity, murder, ghosts, curses, and whiskey.

“That bog is all mud now, and I couldn’t get her out. Needs towing, like I said.” Raff groans. “And don’t say I told you so, I know you did. Happy now?”

She turns toward Caroline, whose back rises and falls in slow, sleeping rhythm, and rediscovers the freckled map of the stars that she saw only in her mind’s eye the night before. The vault of heaven has cracked open and spilled these burnished stars along Caroline’s skin and her hands and mouth are desperate to navigate once more by these beloved stars. Her fingers hover just above skin, swooning over the coordinates of Cassiopeia again and again, the repetitive motion as necessary as a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling because no one can see. “I am happy.”

“Now you’re taking the piss,” Raff says angrily.

“I’m not, honest.”

“Seriously, I feel shitty about it, I don’t need you messing me about on top of everything—”

“Raff. Hey.”

He groans again.

“It’s all right. Okay?”

This time a sigh.

“It’ll get sorted. So you called Nev?” Nevin was the knobhead who ran the nearest garage. He was also the first idiot Gillian slept with after Eddie died, begetting a long line of abysmal, regrettable sexual partners. He has since lost hair and gained a beer belly, so now she conveniently forgets whatever she saw in him other than desperate affirmation that she was still reasonably desirable to anyone.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Then just sit tight till you hear from him. Don’t call him again, you start nagging him he’ll never show up. Call me once he’s got it out. Okay?”

“Yeah, all right.” He sighs again. “I am really sorry.”

“Shit happens.” Another stellar moment of maternal comfort, Gillian thinks.

As if commenting on this universal truth, Caroline unleashes a completely unexpected and utterly savage peal of snoring.

“Sink clogged again?” Raff asks.

No, I’m in bed with my stepsister and we’ve spent the better part of last night shagging each other’s brains out. “Um, yeah. Just a bit. So I should—”

“Right. I’ll let you go.”

“Yeah. Oh, one more thing—”

“What?”

“Once it all sinks in I will probably string you up by the bollocks.”

“Aw, bless.” He chuckles sardonically. “Now there’s the mother I know and love.”

She rings off, tosses the phone in the general direction of the nightstand, and misses. It clatters to the floor. Caroline’s head lifts off the pillow as she mutters “Jesus” in a voice whiskey-sweet with sleep. In response Gillian places her lips against Cassiopeia and the sky shifts under her mouth, the stars dust her tongue. Caroline pushes against her and grabs her arm, pulling it across her waist as if it were a safety belt. As she clears her throat, her chest rumbles and Gillian tastes the raw vibrato of the body at work, a guttural song for an audience of one.

“Everything all right?” Caroline manages to ask. Her cheek, partially obscured with hair, is mottled pink and cream from sleep in Gillian’s rough, cheap bedsheets and she is still here, she has spent the night in this unholy bed in this cursed bedroom and this alone is so utterly unbelievable to Gillian that she is perched on the edge between great happiness and great ruin and it is no wonder that for want of anything she does not want to get up ever.

She kisses Caroline’s flushed cheek and sets out on a tour of the constellations along the shoulder and arm; the Big Dipper and Orion come easily to mind, touch, and tongue but as for others, well, she cannot recall them and so maps new constellations. My name on your skin and no one else will know, not even you.

“Perfect,” she says, over and over as she marks every kiss and freckle, an incantation that leads them both back to sleep.

An hour later she wakes up alone, the room brighter and warmer and the disorientation she feels suggests that last night and earlier this morning was some sort of prolonged, feverish erotic dream. But no—she sits up and sees a pile of Caroline’s clothes on the chair in the corner. She assumes that Caroline is in the shower, but does not hear the water pipes or any other sound of activity from the bathroom. Naturally this leads to a rather paramount concern: There is, potentially, a naked woman roaming her farm. Perhaps the ever-rational, science-loving headmistress has finally lost her mind. No one’s ever gone barmy from having sex with me before, Gillian thinks, but there’s a first time for everything.

Common sense prevails: Or maybe, just maybe, she’s put the kettle on. While naked. Which could be dangerous. Thinking that she may need to supervise this activity, Gillian gets up, throws on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. She looks out the window—sunny and breezy with a chance of naked women in the forecast—and gnaws her lip while staring at a barnyard booby-trapped with sticky mud and dank puddles that cannot dry fast enough. What has happened here is new but not new, and she has no idea what to do or what to say. Well, she knows what not to do: Don’t say I love you, don’t pledge eternal fidelity or devotion because you know she won’t believe it because you’re just bloody old slapper anyway.

In her head Gillian’s more censorious lectures of self-recrimination and restraint are usually cast in her father’s voice so it’s slightly disturbing, to say the least, to sort-of hear him going on about how best to conduct a half-assed lesbian affair with her stepsister—half-assed because Caroline already has a girlfriend and she’s not sure how to handle that. Hell, Caroline doesn’t seem to know how to handle that. Maybe she needs to call what’s-her-face from Hebden Bridge to help her sort through this lesbian horseshit. There’s got to be a Dyke Handbook. There’s got to be a morning after. She rubs her brow. No, no thinking of melodramatic shit 1970s songs right now.

By this time she’s biting her fingernails again and automatically berates herself for it; this time the voice in her head sounds like Robbie, because her nail-biting was one of his pet peeves. As was her drinking, her cooking, the way she dressed—come to think of it, her very existence was his pet peeve.

This time, when she condemns herself for the hundredth time for marrying a man she did not love, it is in her own voice.

Then the creak of the bedroom door and Caroline is there—in a dressing gown nicked from the bathroom and holding a plate of fluffy golden scrambled eggs. Gillian wonders if she is dead. Or dreaming. The dressing gown is a tartan plaid of green and blue that Gillian had initially bought as a birthday gift for her father a few years ago until a series of ill-advised laundering attempts on his part shrank it; in her more paranoid moments she thinks he did this on purpose because maybe he didn’t like it but at any rate, this resulted in Gillian taking default possession of the gown. Even in its shrunken state it is still big on her, but she likes that. She likes it even more so on Caroline—it fits her well and reveals a pleasing bit of calf.

This unbelievable image of domesticity breathes life into a story she has told herself many times late at night when she was too tired to go on and too drunk to care: We live together. Our children are always underfoot. We work too much. When it gets hard we can barely manage to be civil. But at night you are home and tired and after dinner you pour yourself a glass of wine, you push back my hair and lay your hand on the back of my neck like you do and that means everything is all right. We’ll sit around and watch telly and you’ll bitch about your day and on Sunday mornings we’ll make love because Sunday is sacred and quiet and it feels like the end of the world and we can take our time, and I’ll fall asleep after and you’ll let me sleep in while you get up and make me coffee.

Then Caroline says, “It’s weird.”

The storybook closes and Gillian resists the urge to gnaw her fingernails again as she goes into a tailspin: Of course it’s weird, it shouldn’t have happened, you have someone new, someone better, you could not possibly feel anything real for me despite all your fine words and big ideas last night. She attempts leaning against the windowsill with the casual, worldly confidence befitting a woman of her age and experience but instead gets momentarily entangled with the curtain. “W-what’s weird?” she mutters, while furiously batting away the curtain.

“You’d think by now I’d know how you like your eggs,” Caroline says. “We’ve known each other long enough—well.” She shrugs apologetically, half-heartedly raises the plate. “Anyway, thought you might be hungry—”

“Oh,” Gillian says.

United in postcoital awkwardness, they stare at the plate.

Then Gillian grins stupidly and hugs herself, as if Caroline is offering her an engagement ring or an epic love poem she wrote with the blood of angels on the smoothest of antique vellum or, best yet, a purebred ewe. And it’s not as if Caroline hasn’t fed her God knows how many times before, but these incremental kindnesses fray the edges of so many incontrovertible memories that she can imagine an eventual softening, a dissolution of the rough fabric binding her to the past and blinding her to possibility.

Caroline, however, interprets the smile as commentary upon a dish that does not live up to her Le Cordon Bleu standards. “It’s not my best effort—” she says apologetically.

“No, no—I didn’t mean—thanks. It looks grand and I am hungry, really hungry. Thank you.” Gillian seizes the plate.

She is about to spear a yellow cloud of egg with a fork when Caroline asks, “So for the record, how do you like your eggs?”

In response it seems quite natural, more than natural, to reel Caroline closer by pulling at the knotted belt of the dressing gown so that she is close enough for blonde hair to brush Gillian’s cheek and that it is absolutely impossible not to kiss her. Repeatedly. “I like them scrambled,” she says between kisses. “Served to me in my bedroom.” One more. “By a beautiful, snotty bitch.”

“Well.” Caroline’s hands skim her hips and find anchor in the waistband of the pajamas, and she presses her face into Gillian’s neck. “Got it right on the first try, then.” There’s no response to this because no mere moan or gasp can completely convey the sweet shivery pleasure of a neck well nuzzled. “I made coffee,” Caroline murmurs in her ear. “Forgot you had the Chemex that Gary got you.”

“Y-you actually used that thing?”

“Yeah. Gave it a thorough washing first—it smelled suspiciously of Jagermeister.” She gives Gillian a wry look and a kiss on the cheek before darting out of the room.

Still convinced that a dream or an altered state of consciousness or being is responsible for all this, Gillian stands alone in the bedroom, blinking slowly. Then she shrugs and decides to just go with it, to enjoy both the food and this quasi-honeymoon bit of bliss for as long as it will play out. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she digs into the eggs—which are real and, of course, so perfect in taste and appearance that Gordon Ramsey would weep with joy. But when Caroline returns with only two mugs of coffee and no more food, she panics that she has made some sort of romantic faux pas: “Oh, shit.” She raises the plate. “We supposed to be sharing this?”

“Nope. All for you.”

“Did you eat anything?”

“Toast.”

“Toast?” Gillian scoffs.

“Yeah, I—oh, do you want toast?”

“No. God’s sake, sit down. Feel ridiculous, having you wait on me hand and foot in my own home.”

“Don’t be silly,” Caroline says. She settles in beside Gillian, reclining against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle, and drinks her coffee. Strong sunlight catches the gold glint of fine, sparse stubble along her pale legs. After a moment she rests a hand on Gillian’s knee. There are a million things that need saying but for the moment this concert of silence reminds Gillian that there is no one else in the world with whom she can fully share her solitude.

Several satisfying minutes pass by, enough so that she welcomes casual conversation once again: “What was that phone call this morning?” Caroline asks.

Gillian takes a deep, calming breath. “My idiot son drove my Land Rover into a muddy bog.” She looks at Caroline, whose jaw drops with mute horror. “Now that’s something, when it leaves you speechless.”

“You’re being very calm. Did you sneak out, track him down, and kick his arse already without my knowing it?”

Gillian points at her with the fork. “I’ve always loved the way you think.”

“Where’d this happen?”

“Shit road out near Harry’s. First time I ever drove your mum out that way, she called it ‘the road leading to the end of civilization.’ Anyway, Raff says she’s just stuck in bog so we’re waiting get towed. Thanks to this fucking flood everyone is stuck somewhere, needing fixed, needing towed. And it’s Sunday to boot. So God knows when I’ll get her back.” Done with the eggs, she deposits the empty plate on the floor beside the bed.

“There anything I can do?”

Gillian straddles her and begins to undo the thick knot of the dressing gown, lays bare one shoulder. “Give you one guess.”

“Naked prayer circle?”

Her lips touch Caroline’s collarbone. “Aye, you’ll be hollering for Jesus when I’m done with you.” Then she gets distracted and discovers freckles heretofore uncharted. This constellation is shaped a bit like Andromeda. Lightly she traces them.

Head tilted back on the headboard, Caroline observes her lazily. “It’s like you’ve never slept with anyone who’s had freckles before.”

Christ. She noticed. Like a child about to touch a hot stove, Gillian pulls her hand away. “Oh. Sorry.”

Caroline gently seizes her hand, kisses her knuckles. “It doesn’t bother me, really. ” She smiles, almost shyly. “Just not used to it. No one’s ever made a fuss over them before.”

She wants to say, it’s like gold dust all over you but doesn’t because she thinks it sounds too twatty. Instead she parts the dressing gown further and lays bare the smooth plain leading from Caroline’s throat to her chest, her belly, to a hint of pubic hair. “Almost a shame to take this off, though. Looks damn good on you.”

“It smells like you.” These words, whispered against Gillian’s ear, bring on another shivery bout of pleasure enhanced by the sharp nip of her ear and the gentle violence of this is almost too much, the frightening line between pleasure and pain blurs. Of all the borderlines crisscrossing and dissecting her mind into fearful, feral fiefdoms, this one is the most dangerous and as such access is routinely denied, and has been for a long time.

But now? She pins Caroline’s wrist against the headboard and kisses her rough, a way that they’ve both responded to well in the past—and she remembers the last time they were in this bedroom, which seemed very long ago but wasn’t. It was only the second or third time they’d fucked and right before Caroline had been very solemn and lovely and said, quite serious, something that no lover before or since has said to her: don’t ever let me do anything to you that you don’t like, that you don’t want. Despite that caution, Gillian could not override that innate need to provide pleasure at any length and satisfaction at any cost; fortunately Caroline was and remains an attentive and observant lover, knowing when to push the boundaries and when not to. Gillian attributes this to her scientific background—imagining that, as a chemist, she’s used to dealing with volatile, toxic substances.

Like me, Gillian thinks—a thought quickly banished as Caroline continues nibbling on her ear and murmurs, “Take off your shirt for me.”

She releases Caroline’s wrists and, too eager to make a show of it, quickly discards the shirt. “Anything else you want?”

Caroline admires her, clasps her waist, pulls her closer. Still smiling, but with that imperious glint in her eyes. “Anything I want?”

The familiar border crumbles. Gillian hesitates, then: “Yes.”

“Well, then. I’ll tell you what I want. What I really, really want—” She pauses, kisses Gillian’s neck gently, gently, then bites and sucks with enough intensity that they both know a mark will be left.

Gillian sputters out a laugh. “Spice Girls reunion?”

“Shit, that was not intentional,” Caroline groans. “That bloody song, it’s like one of those intestinal parasites you can never get rid of—”

“Focus, Caz. Parasites are not sexy.”

“Ah, right, right. Hang on.” She resumes with the neck-kissing while slowly, cautiously touching Gillian’s ribs, then the underside of her breast. “Better?”

“Y-yeah.” That Gillian manages to say anything seems miraculous. She takes a deep breath. “Tell me—what you want.”

“I don’t know. It’s not sexy enough.”

“Come on now.”

“Was just a random thought.”

“Tell me.”

“You should move your books into the house. It’s damp in the barn and not good for them.”

In a fit of laughter Gillian collapses, rolling off her and thus losing her topping advantage.

Giggling, Caroline crows “ah-ha!” and drapes a log leg over her torso, pinning her down.

“All right, you win. That was not sexy.”

“Au contraire, winning is always an aphrodisiac for me.”

“Bloody figures.”

“But books are sexy too.” She continues feasting on Gillian’s neck with the sybaritic intensity of a vampire toying with her food. “Almost as sexy as you.” She pulls back and studies Gillian’s body with eyes and touch, plucking at the waistband of her pajamas. “It would be nice to have them close by, wouldn’t it? In case you ever want to read in bed. Or, er, read in bed to me.”

Confounded—and suspicious—Gillian blinks at her. “Why’d you want a stammering old pillock like me reading to you?”

“Because I like the sound of your voice,” Caroline replies, as if it’s glaringly obvious.

“I’ll repeat the question, then.”

“Oh come on, you only stammer when you’re angry or worked up about something—well okay, that is like ninety percent of the time but still, you could stammer your way through the entirety of Shakespeare and I’d love every second of it.”

Gillian stares up at her and despite all evidence to the contrary remains fundamentally unconvinced that anyone with half a mind would find anything remotely attractive about her, let alone a cursed, much-loathed defect of speech. “All right. I’ll—I’ll build bookshelves, then. In the fall. Good project for when things slow down.”

As usual Caroline is mystified by thrift. “You could just buy a bookcase.”

She rolls her eyes. “No.” Scrambling, she frees herself from Caroline’s leg and regains her status on top. She regards Caroline carefully, plotting her next move—where to begin, where to begin?—while Caroline plots of how to lure her further into the trap of capitalism.

“I could buy you one,” Caroline offers.

Gillian traces her torso, fingers strumming the soft, ridged plateau of her ribs. “No.”

“For your birthday.”

God, Gillian thinks, the one time I want her to shut up. “No.” Determined, she lurches upward and kisses Caroline soundly.

It doesn’t work. “Christmas,” Caroline exhales after the kiss.

“No.” Time for serious diversionary tactics: the breasts.

Ardently she kisses, sucks, teases, and then with her face pressed in the smooth plateau between caresses both breasts—and is both irritated and impressed when Caroline squeaks out, “Arbor Day.”

Gillian continues on her merry way downward, confirming between kisses: “No.”

Caroline pulls at her hair and writhes wildly underneath her. “Morrissey’s birthday,” she gasps.

“Was in June,” Gillian points out. “Already past.”

Her hands remain tangled with Gillian’s hair. “Stubborn bitch.”

“Isn’t he, though?”

Caroline’s laugh is truncated by a sharp moan as Gillian’s mouth arrives at a particular erogenous zone: the crease between torso and thigh, the femoral artery running wild beneath her kiss. “Oh fuck—that feels good.”

Her fingertips graze pubic hair, the back of her hand drags along the interior of Caroline’s thigh. “Give up?”

“If I say yes, will you keep going?”

“Say yes, say no, say uncle.” She grins.

“You win, my lovely girl,” Caroline says.

She basks in the beauty of the moment, the woman before her. The curtain twists in the breeze as if a flag marking the moment of surrender, the distant sound of a lapwing calling peewit lazily winds through the warm thicket of summer air, and the rich boundless contours of Caroline’s body are reminiscent of odalisques seen in museums when she was a teen—the kind of paintings that brought about a revelatory unease in her—and she thinks she has never seen Caroline look so relaxed when naked, and beautiful, so beautiful.

She dives in. The patience she cannot be bothered to extend to people or situations because they’re all too bloody complicated she finds instead in reading, working, fixing things, and making love. She remembers well how Caroline likes it—slow and easy, the teases, the feints, penetration at the right moment—it is a gift to be inside her, to taste her, to be penitent and powerful all at once.

Caroline’s fingers are flexing rhythmically as they push through her hair and press into her scalp. Her urgent touch falls away and her palms press against Gillian’s shoulders before her nails bite into Gillian’s skin. “Jesus,” she moans, then “oh God,” and Gillian half-expects to hear invocation of the Holy Ghost next but when she hears her own name in a reverential susurrus, she decides she’s beyond pleased to be included in this sacredly profane trifecta.

apres-midi du farmer

After so much pleasure in so short a span of time, Caroline’s sense of duty has percolated with such fury that it spills into her subconscious and the list of things she has to prepare for in the coming week drops into her wakening mind with the fierce magnificence of an unexpected Beyonce song released on the internet.

She would sit up dramatically save for the fact that she is tangled up with Gillian, who is draped over her, dead asleep, and drooling on her breast. Her frantic efforts to grab Gillian’s mobile from the nightstand in order to check the time wake up her slumbering companion, however briefly: She makes a mewling noise and rolls off Caroline and onto a pillow. Finally Caroline snags the mobile, hits a button, and is informed by the greasy cracked screen that it is nearly 2:30 in the afternoon, 2:24 to be precise; this discovery leads her to utter an oath reserved for only the direst of emotional circumstances and crises:

“Jesus Fucking Christ on a Cadbury Egg Hunt!”

Again Gillian makes a kittenish noise.

Caroline nudges her. “It’s 2:30!”

This time Gillian makes an oh really? kind of hum.

Sadly, Caroline realizes it is time for deployment of the always-effective headmistress roar: “Gillian!”

Wide-eyed, Gillian bolts up with the ferocity of a reanimated zombie. “Shit,” she groans, then blinks at the mobile in Caroline’s hand. “Did Raff call about—”

“—no, he didn’t call about your fucking Landy!” Caroline says, even though (1) she has no idea if this is true, and (2) she understands on a profound, Bee Gees how-deep-is-your-love level the pure, unconditional devotion of a woman for her automobile. Nonetheless she leaps out of bed and pulls on the plaid dressing gown, which somehow ended up on the floor during the morning’s sexual shenanigans—oh yes, hastily shoved aside when she had pressed Gillian against the headboard and started fucking her and she can’t imagine how many scratches are on her back now as a result—no, she begs herself, don’t start thinking about that. “It’s two-thirty in the bloody sodding afternoon and I have things to do, I have a proposal to write, a budget to look at, teachers to interview for the fall, playdates and meetings, it’s a whole long list in my head, and, and—don’t you have things to do?” she marvels.

“Well,” Gillian says. “It’s all relative, really.” She rakes hair out of her face and smiles.

Philosophical naked women are a particular weakness for Caroline and she wants nothing more than to crawl back into that bed with that woman. Then she wants to slap herself straight into sense but instead reverts to what she does best, which is ranting: “Oh God, my mother has probably left a hundred messages on my mobile, Lawrence is stranded in Sheffield with Angus but who knows, maybe they’ve finally consummated their relationship, and it’s probably a miracle your father isn’t here or Raff or the goddamned Land Trust—I need to shower—”

“Oh. Yeah.” Gillian makes a move to get out of bed.

“No, Halifax succubus!” She thrusts an accusing finger at Gillian. “We are not showering together, I cannot risk shower sex with you.”

“‘Halifax succubus?’” Gillian muses aloud. Then, as Caroline stomps down the hallway and into the bathroom, shouts after her: “Should be able to shower when I want in my own house, y’know!”

“Wash up in the sink!” Caroline yells just before she leaps into the shower and confronts the unpredictable water pressure, grimacing as bitterly cold water spikes her skin.

Which, about five minutes later, Gillian does. “My own bloody house,” she grumbles good-naturedly whilst at the sink.

“You’re using up the hot water.”

Gillian cackles maniacally. “Damn right I am.”

“I’m sorry, but you are a perpetual temptation and I am but a weak, mortal woman.”

“Don’t talk fancy at me. I get it, you’ve a list of things you want to do. Me, I’ve just a got a list of things I want to do to you in a shower.”

Caroline’s resolve dwindles rapidly, going down the drain like the suds from the Jack Black True Volume Shampoo that she’s using and assumes is some sort of leftover from either Raff or Robbie’s testosterone toilette, but it appears to be the only shampoo in the stall.

“Or a bath,” Gillian continues. “That’d be fun too.”

“Next time, then.” A silence, as Caroline realizes she has committed to this happening again. While on some level that seemed obvious, this casual promise gives the last twenty-four hours or so substance, makes it all real. Despite the stinging shampoo in her eyes, she arches on the balls of her feet in happy anticipation of Gillian’s response.

“Yeah,” Gillian replies softly. “All right.” Something clatters. “Oh, I um, have a toothbrush for you here. Gonna get dressed and put the kettle on.”

Out of the shower Caroline attempts multitasking: While wrapped in a towel she waves Gillian’s ancient hairdryer at her wet hair while trying to brush her teeth with the never-used toothbrush. Then she gets seriously distracted by the thought of Gillian just randomly having a new toothbrush available for her use. Does she have a stockpile of toothbrushes available for sexual conquests? With the toothbrush lodged in her foaming mouth and the hairdryer spewing hot air at her head, she noses around the bathroom looking for a secret toothbrush supply, but the medicine cabinet only holds an alarming amount of plasters, gauze bandages and surgical tape, antiseptic creams, and antibacterial sprays all necessary to the life of a woman constantly surrounded by sharp and dangerous objects. Guiltily Caroline stares at herself in the mirror. She has toothpaste in her hair.

About twenty minutes later she is mostly dressed and plowing through a second attempt at multitasking: trying to pull on socks while hopping down the hallway. Obviously Gillian has heard this irregular thumping from downstairs because when Caroline is on the steps—socks on, not hopping—she finds Gillian waiting at the bottom of the stairs, rocking back and forth as she does sometimes when nervous, holding a cup of tea and gazing up at Caroline as if she is some sort of adoring concierge.

“Your mobile rang,” Gillian says.

Gratefully Caroline takes the tea. “Why didn’t you answer it?” She wants to kick herself. She’s not your bloody personal assistant. She’s not Beverly. “No. Um. Sorry. I meant, you could have answered it—if you wanted too.”

This prompts a derisive snort. “You kidding? It was probably your mum.”

“Probably.” She sips the tea and realizes she is as nervous as Gillian is. She is about to awkwardly go in for a kiss when Gillian darts away and mumbles that her mobile is in the kitchen.

In the kitchen, she peruses her messages. Of course there are about eight voice mails from her mother, all variations upon the classic theme of where the eff are you? and what the hell is going on? She girds her loins and calls.

“What the eff are you doing out there?” is the first thing Celia says. “What the hell is going on?”

“Why Mum, I’d have never guessed it was you.”

“We thought you’d be back by now. Is Gillian actually making you work?” Celia pauses before tendering the delicate inquiry in a shrill tone: “Are you handling sheep?”

“No, everything’s fine, we’re all intact, and I have not laid a hand on a single sheep.”

“Did she tell you what Raff did to the Land Rover?”

“Yes.”

“Has she murdered him yet?”

Caroline winces at the regrettable hyperbole. “No. How’s Flora?”

“Oh, lovely as usual. She and Greg are in the garden right now looking at worms.”

“Worms,” Caroline says flatly.

“Yes, apparently after the rains she found a few while playing and she is quite fascinated with them. Earlier today they discovered ladybugs and slugs. She’s putting them all in your Oxford travel mug. She’s been asking after you. We told her you were off saving the sheep from the flood.” Celia laughs.

When Lawrence and William were younger, she had thought nothing of the occasional weekend trip that would take her away from them—the conferences, the supposedly romantic long weekends and adult-only vacations with her husband that, with time, usually ended up with them both drunk and arguing more often than not—so she does not expect the acute, palpable stab of guilt that radiates through her chest and leaves her standing senseless and numb and, once the call is over, staring at a black screen and thinking I should be there, I should be the one showing her bugs. Duty and expectation always came easy to her and she embraced it with fervor; it was a privilege to be entrusted to care for children, to run a household, a school. She could not love Flora any more than she already does, but the responsibility of this child is fraught with a meaning that has, over the past two years, nearly crippled Caroline with endless self-recrimination and doubt.

She’s still staring at the phone when Gillian comes into the kitchen. When Gillian sees the expression on Caroline’s face she dials back her big, sweet grin and jams her hands into her pockets. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Caroline says perfunctorily. “It’s—” She shakes it off, smiles, and reports the only thing that matters: “Flora is collecting bugs in the garden.”

“Got a curiosity about ’em, doesn’t she?” Gillian grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and starts washing it. “Calam has this picture book—all drawings of animals and such. It has a few pictures of insects in it like a spider, a ladybug, and a caterpillar, and a butterfly—well, when Flora was here last, I showed her the book and after we’d looked through the whole thing she kept turning back to the insects—she really liked the caterpillar and the butterfly. I was trying to tell her that the caterpillar turns into the butterfly but I don’t think she was having any of that, kept looking at me like I was off my nut.”

Helpless, Caroline glares at her. “You know my own child better than I do.”

Gillian rolls her eyes, and to Caroline’s mild horror wipes the apple on the front of her jeans. “All recent developments, Caz. You know how kids are. One week they’re keen on one thing, next week it’s something completely different. You can’t notice everything.” She heads back to the living room and calls over her shoulder, “Come sit and finish your tea, yeah?”

Instead of heeding the suggestion, she makes the mistake of checking email on the mobile and encounters several tedious messages about setting up and conducting interviews for the new teacher. Her stomach churns. Wandering into the living room, all thoughts of worms and caterpillars and teachers and interviews fly out of her head, for Gillian’s particular brand of rough but indisputably feminine sensuality is on full display: she sits in a sprawl on the couch, legs extended and feet bare, lazily chewing on a bite of the apple. It’s so undeniably erotic that she stops dead in her tracks. Then Gillian looks at her knowingly, lustily—o the mighty Caroline McKenzie-Dawson wishes she were an apple, doesn’t she?—and the conflagration of desire and emotion burns hotter and brighter.

“C’mere,” Gillian says around a mouthful of apple.

Caroline shifts nervously. “No,” she blurts.

A sardonic laugh. Gillian keeps eyeing her. “No?”

Self-conscious, she looks away from Gillian’s beautiful eyes and feels as awkwardly on display as when she was nineteen years old and attending a lesbian and gay social at Oxford for the first time.

“I’ll let you have a bite of my apple,” Gillian singsongs.

Caroline laughs. “I seem to recall hearing a story like this a long time ago.”

“If it’s the story I think you mean—don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

Caroline crosses her arms. Usually she feels quite self-important and in charge when she does this, but in this moment the gesture feels more as if she is somehow barely holding herself together. “Be flattered. Very flattered.”

“So you’re just going to stand there like a numpty ’til you fall over.”

“Very likely, yes.”

Humming, Gillian finishes the apple, rolls the well-gnawed core in a napkin, and places it on a side table. She leans back into the couch again and in this manner of voluptuous repose resembles a wild queen of the forest bored with both debauchery and duty and awaiting the one subject that will liven her mundane existence, and so softly issues a summons: “Caroline.’

Well. Unable to resist the devil’s draw, Caroline fights off the almost imperceptible buckling of her knees and strides across the room.

Gillian seems surprised by this as well; she is clearly not expecting to be boldly mounted, have her face cradled in Caroline’s hands, and to be kissed so senselessly that her eyes glaze over similar to when she has consumed three or more glasses of wine and prompting Caroline to silently congratulate herself on being a similar form of intoxicant.

“Jesus,” Gillian exhales.

The insistent pounding of blood in her veins drives her on. “When can I see you again?”

Gillian’s eyelids flutter. “W-whenever you like.” Then, as if remembering something: “Wednesday.”

Clearly Caroline has forgotten it too. “Wednesday?”

“Yeah. Gonna be at your place anyway. Remember? Taking Dad for his checkup.”

“Oh. Right. You’re still—going to stay for dinner?”

“Of course. Unless you don’t want—”

“No. I want you to.”

“We won’t have time to—”

“I know.” Caroline pauses. Her mouth moves, the words struggle to come out, but finally do: “It—it’s enough just to see you.”

“Yeah?” Gillian’s pupils blossom, dots of ink from a divine fountain pen that drop a dark expanse into those amazing irises, and that stupidly prompts Caroline to think of some old song from the 80s—oh you’ve got green eyes oh you’ve got blue eyes oh you’ve got gray eyes—and God help her, she’s pushing Gillian down on the sofa and they’re at it again: Clothes discarded in a whirlwind of haste except for Gillian’s jeans, which are always a bit of an ordeal to pull off and seriously, she deserves another orgasm for accomplishing that task alone but instead she slips a hand between Gillian’s legs and cradles her cunt, possessed of great patience despite the nervy curl of her fingers and waiting for the single tremulous please whispered into her neck before entering her. She particularly likes to watch Gillian’s face at this moment: the tense lines around her mouth slackening into pleasure and eventually release. In the Mobius strip contortions of sex satiety becomes need and after she comes Caroline moves against her roughly, grinding against her thigh until the surprising intensity of the climax falls over her like a wave.

Afterward she does not fall asleep so much as enter a drowsy fugue state while lying there on the couch and more or less on top of Gillian, who at some point managed to pull a quilt over them against a vigorous, chilly cross breeze; even in the summer, the farmhouse living room stays surprisingly cool. Silence here is different than at home, in Harrogate; silence here intensifies the smallest sound and the swish of the wind ruffling a newspaper reigns equally with tires on gravel, bleating sheep, a leaking faucet, and her own obvious comments: “It’s so peaceful here.”

In response Gillian merely hums and strokes her hair, her glugging heartbeat providing a backbeat to the torch song of her blood, the muscles of her forearm twitch restlessly in the clasp of Caroline’s hand.

“I have to go,” she finally says.

“I know.” Gillian says it clearly, strongly, as if she has been bracing herself for it in every action and breath since the moment they kissed the night before.

Despite her reputation as someone operating on pure reckless impulse, Caroline knows that she mulls things over to the point of obsessiveness; perhaps that is why the execution and results of her decisions are less than ideal—classic overthinking, pummeling things in her mind to such an extent that no action seems ideal or even makes sense anymore. It would not surprise Caroline that in the aftermath of all this Gillian has been cogitating mightily all along—perhaps more than she does herself. Perhaps Gillian thinks that this is not the beginning of anything but merely a sex-saturated coda to what they had been before, because there is simply no way of going forward. So she could back out, save a scrap of dignity while rescuing Caroline from violating whatever vague code of ethics she lives by, a code at times impenetrable and incomprehensible to Gillian and seemingly bent by the arbitrary whim of a woman in constant conflict between desire and expectation.

“Can—can I say something?” Gillian begins, and Caroline finds it heartbreaking that she seeks permission to speak up in her own home.

She presses her face against Gillian’s sternum, the boombox that contains a very complicated heart, and tastes the sweet salt of sweat. She thinks of how, as a child, she would press her face against the stereo speakers in her father’s study, desperate to catch the warp and hiss and delicate strains of music, as if she wanted to taste the sound—and laughing in delight when an orchestra would rise up and knock her back on her arse. “Of course.”

As usual the mix of thoughts and desires that go through Gillian’s mind tumble out in poorly congealed fashion; Caroline likens it to following an elaborate recipe in a cookbook where the result turns out to be an edible yet spectacular mess that in no way resembles the glistening food porn photo in the book itself. It’s particularly true in this case, where she is obviously trying her damnedest to ensure not only Caroline’s happiness, but her own: “I just wanted to say it’s, it’s okay. If you want to keep seeing her. Sacha, I mean. Yeah? I want you to be happy. And I’m happy being with you like this, spending time with you when we can. I want to be with you, and, and I don’t know what—what that could be like, you know? Well, yeah, maybe you don’t know yet either. But, I’ll, I’ll take what you’re willing to give.”

It is at this crucial, awkward, and somewhat inconvenient moment that Caroline finally remembers she already has a girlfriend.

to an evening star

On the drive home the evening sky is so spectacular that Caroline eschews sunglasses, boldly squinting westward into white and gold and pink and orange—she stops counting at seven different colors and thinks, if only the skeins of the sunset could be gathered and woven into one fantastic word that would adequately describe them. It is the time of day when one should be sitting somewhere with a drink or walking across the moors, in either instance the ideal being alone or with the right person.

It would have been nice to fit in a walk with Gillian this time. In times past, whenever she visited the farm they made a habit of going for a walk together. The last time, however, seems a lifetime ago and she has since molted several skins of grief; it was about seven months after Kate died and not long after Gillian had married Robbie. For no reason in particular it had been a bad week and she had only gotten through it on diazepam-driven automatic pilot and wanted nothing less than enduring a family dinner at the farm. But Alan had twisted his ankle while gardening and so it was Caroline’s chauffeuring abilities and not her company that was desired. While straining at the effort of bare civilities, she avoided a nervous breakdown and got through the meal. Afterward, Gillian—rocking on heels, peering at Caroline from under bangs desperate for trimming—shyly mumbled a suggestion that they go for a walk, as if for all the world Caroline would refuse this mad idea when in fact she was seconds from collapsing under the chaos of the household and if she heard Robbie tell more banal police adventure about drunkards at the pub she would scream.

She dreaded the possibility that Gillian might use the walk as an opportunity to bitch about Robbie and/or enumerate a list of recent shags. Instead Gillian prattled softly about the land, in that sweet low burr she used only with those closest to her. It was late autumn and late afternoon, with the sun hugging the horizon and shooting through the sparse clouds in a last blaze of glory, throwing shadows and gold on the dales and copses, the moss and hedgerows, the evergreen heather. They had taken a different path than times before, one Caroline was not familiar with, so Gillian would stop and point out things. Down a ways, she said, was the stream where she and her father used to fish when she was young. And there, that old broken fence along that bridleway—used to jump over it with ease. Probably break my neck now.

On the way back they encountered Gillian’s closest neighbor, a wizened, gnarled old farmer named Pete and his sullen middle-aged son. While Gillian and Pete made impromptu arrangements to help each other at harvest, the son mercilessly appraised Caroline as if she were a ewe at a country fair—not quite top notch in his silent estimation, but she would do.

Under normal circumstances she would have no problem summoning a few choice words cutting him down to size. But she was tired, tired of being mercilessly judged by any male idiot with an opinion, and she grew increasingly enraged. She glared at him, trembled, and her jaw tightened in a massive effort to not scream what the fuck do you think you’re looking at? Then, without breaking conversational stride, Gillian casually took her hand. She could breathe again; in fact, she released such a hoarse, shuddering breath that Pete gave her a concerned look. His son glanced down, caught sight of the clannish, protective gesture of her hand in Gillian’s, scowled, and turned away.

Meanwhile Gillian laughed at Pete’s joking efforts to sell her an aging ewe. Then the men went one way and they went another. Gillian kept hold of her hand for a while, even gently swinging their arms back and forth as they walked in silence. Then she told Caroline that after Eddie died Pete, ever the dealmaker, had been mad keen to match her up with his unmarriageable son—complete eejit, she said. Makes Robbie look like Stephen Hawking.

That made Caroline laugh. Few things made her laugh back then. Even now, it’s not as easy as it used to be. Now. She realizes that she has not had a proper panic attack about all this—resurrecting this affair, what it means, how it will play out—and so she pulls over abruptly on the side of the road, breathing heavily at the shock of the new and the old commingled together in this thing called life. Way to go, she thinks derisively, think about Prince—one of Kate’s favorite musicians—now of all times. She recalls how Kate had initially proposed painting the nursery a very lurid shade of lavender in honor of the Purple One; Caroline had to rely on a steady supply of ice cream and sexual favors to convince her otherwise. She chuckles aloud at that—and abruptly stops. She has arrived at the point she has dreaded for so long now, where memories of Kate were growing relatively painless because now she is strong enough to forsake the bad ones and hold dear to the good ones. For so long pain had been the only thing convincing her that she had loved, that it was real, and the void it would leave too terrible to contemplate.

She stares at the sunset. The white edge of the multi-skeined sunset cedes to blue and the glint of the evening star. This morning she witnessed not the sunrise but the nascent blaze of bright heat from the open door in Gillian’s kitchen, standing there barefoot and in a dressing gown not her own, eating buttered toast with cunty fingers—all the perfections of English life distilled into one moment, as an always-obscure writer once posited. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she had been content. She sighs and climbs back into the Jeep Cherokee. Hedonistic pursuit of another moment like that will have to wait.

An hour later she pulls into the driveway of the house and is unsurprised when accosted by her mother and Alan the second she steps out of the vehicle.

“Well,” Celia declares, folding her arms. “We thought you’d gone native out there.” She nods at Caroline’s Wellies, which Caroline has retrieved from the back seat and are baptized with grime.

“You do realize Gillian lives in a house and is not some wandering gypsy around a campfire?”

“You’d never know by the way she acts sometimes,” Celia replies.

Rather than contradict this, Alan grumbles in agreement.

Caroline sighs. “What’d she do now?”

Poking at his mobile, Alan brings a series of Gillian’s terse texts on screen and, once read, resemble a form of cranky beatnik poetry:

Im ok just leave it hes an idiot fuck I want brandy snaps don’t lecture me old man christ

Alan rumbles, “Not one bit of relevant information!”

“Except the bit about the Brandy Snaps,” Celia observes helpfully.

“Like getting blood from stone!”

“At least she didn’t call you a mad old dyke,” Caroline replies, recalling Gillian’s most infamous text to her, for which Caroline had to endure a drunken, stammering, nearly incoherent apology several months after the fact. By that time she had completely forgotten it and on recalling it once again, thought Gillian had deserved to call her far worse in light of the events that had transpired between them. Blame yourself as usual, Caroline thinks. When Alan pulls a face of pure despair—sometimes she thinks her mother’s melodramatic antics are a poor influence on him—she squeezes his arm affectionately. “Don’t worry so—she’s fine, really. And given everything that’s happened, the farm could be in far worse shape. She was in, um, good spirits when I left.” Now she longs for the camouflage of sunglasses because she’s fearful that the luscious glaze of her eyes and the rosy glow of her cheeks will somehow announce to Alan that she has spent the better portion of the past twenty-four hours fucking his daughter.

Fortunately Alan moves on to the Land Rover Drama. “Land Rover’s out of the mud, at last. All she needs is cleaning up.” He chuckles, shakes his head. “Aye, poor Raff, that’ll keep him busy!” He kisses Caroline’s cheek and murmurs, “Well, anyhoo. Welcome back, love. See you at dinner.”

“Although God knows when that will be,” Celia mutters, as Alan heads back to the guesthouse. “A lot has happened in a day,” she says to Caroline, and matches her daughter’s gait as they meander to the front door.

“Yes,” Caroline sighs happily—then, before the old woman could get suspicious, reforms it as a question: “Yes?”

“Lawrence keeps going on about clown school.”

“Well, it may be the only chance he has, you know?”

“William broke up with his girlfriend.”

“Told him he should shave that bloody beard.”

“John called. He’s out of rehab but he’s still writing a memoir about you.”

“You think Meryl Streep would play me in the film? She’d love the challenge of a new accent.”

“I’ve saved the worst for last,” Celia says, and then intones grimly with her flair for the dramatic: “Greg is making tofu.”

“Oh shit,” Caroline wails. While Greg is a decent cook, his ambitions sometimes exceed his natural talents; she is still discovering bits of chocolate here and there stuck to countertops, appliances, and various crevices courtesy of this spring’s Great Souffle Debacle.

“He’s having woman trouble,” Celia says, as if this justified destruction of her kitchen.

She groans. Recently Greg had become enamored of a woman named Brigitte; on first glance she seemed as compelling and attractive as a Malibu Barbie still trapped inside the box. What nudged Caroline’s apathy into active dislike was this woman’s barely concealed consternation regarding Flora’s mere existence.

Speaking of whom, when Caroline opens the door Flora, like a tiny determined rugby player, rushes at her, crashing against her shins. She scoops the girl up into her arms.

Flora’s default greeting these days is an enthusiastic “Hey!” with arms raised.

“Hey yourself, sweetheart! I’ve missed you.” She notices that Flora is desperately trying to wipe tofu goop from her hands onto her orange hippo t-shirt. “God, why are your hands so white?”

Celia opens her mouth.

Caroline is one step ahead: “If you make any sort of racist comment right now I will smother you to death with tofu.”

“Everyone is so sensitive these days,” Celia complains. She shrugs dismissively. “Fine, I’m leaving. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” She nods toward the kitchen. “He is like a woman and you like women, as we all know.” On that barbed note, she departs.

“Tofu,” Flora says, quite clearly.

On one hand, Caroline is disappointed not to hear her say mum—which she hasn’t done yet but Greg has assured her that Flora said it the other day while pointing at a picture of her; on another, she’s relieved that Flora has stopped saying shit. At least for now.

The kitchen is indeed a wreck and Greg sits morosely at the table, surrounded by old cookbooks, soybeans soaking in a pot, and batches of tofu in various blob-like states and stages, as if he is Dr. Frankenstein brooding in his lab and flanked by brains in jars and convict corpses ready for reanimation. Her first thought is to snap a pic and text it to Gillian with a caption: The Tofu That Ate Harrogate. Over the past year, she has made a concerted effort not to treat him like complete shit; it seemed an easy enough goal to achieve once she became truly cognizant of the fact that while she may have lost a wife, he suffered a loss too: one of his oldest and closest friends, the woman who kept his confidences, offered him advice, and vetted his girlfriends. Clearly there is no replacing Kate. But she could do better in providing some sort of emotional support for him—although she fears her lack of diplomacy may rear its ugly head if he ever seeks an honest opinion of Brigitte.

Caroline attempts to joke him out of it: “There’s really no need to out-lesbian me, you know.”

His pathetic attempt at a smile resembles the sad rallying look of a Labradoodle on a rainy day.

“Right, then. What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says.

Gently she juggles Flora, who squirms restlessly while smooshing tiny sticky tofu fists against her face.

“Mum!” Flora barks, as if to say pay attention to me and not the nitwit who made tofu in your kitchen.

“Well.” Caroline grins ridiculously. The day could not possibly get any better. “It’s wonderful to be in love.”

SOUNDTRACK: “One Sunday Morning (Song for Jane Smiley’s Boyfriend),” Wilco—oh, but it’s long, like this chapter. “Temptation,” New Order “Everything Hits at Once,” Spoon “Evening Star,” from Richard Wagner’s Tannhauser (Franz Liszt transcription)

#long chapter is long #are we cool vincent #last tango in halifax #random purple prose smut

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