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only-satisfied · 2 months

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She is cold and detached, all hard lines and tall, too tall, dark like a shadow in her black jeans and black t-shirt; sour faced. Her jaw is cut glass, you could slice a vein open on her angles; a warning lies ready on her tongue, she is quick to snap, shrug the world off, hard to make smile... And yet, something about Miz always warms under the thought of her and any thing that brings her closer, even though she's thousands of miles away, alone in their home.

She takes her time to shift through the photographs now, but her face is a perfect mask, she does not smile or frown, but there's something excessively strange in it too, a minute sort of sadness.

"—don't... 'post' these anywhere." she says it like someone much, much older than her would, but she does not want her face ouy there, plastered all over the net for the world to see; just in case... just in case. Can't have anyone that she doesn't want to know where she is tracking her down to New York through some random Instagram post or whatever hip app people flock to these days. Her voice is not unkind, but it's firm and then she's saying, in response to her observation, "yeah, not my kind of thing..." she contradicts her assumption with an easy, smooth shrug of one muscled shoulder, her eyes on that camera, flashing like mirrors as dusk falls over the city fig blue and dark. "My girlfriend is a photographer." she offers plainly; some kind of explanation of the sort of strange affection that this reminder of Isabelle has inspired. "Always a camera in hand. Can't fucking step outside without it."

Beauty - in the eye of the beholder, right? Azra, though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, could find beauty in anything around her. She could remember the first time her father had handed her a camera; heavy, disjointed, uncertain. It had all felt so complicated in the beginning - unnatural, almost. But she'd taken to it, had taken the camera on every adventure she'd gone with her brothers, had thousands of photos throughout the years. It was a world away from where she was now, as though the camera was simply an extension of her own body, her shots almost effortless these days. There was something striking about the other woman; the coldness, sharpness - in direct contrast to the warmth that the sunset had bathed the street in - and maybe that was the appeal. The juxtaposition of sharp, cold angles against the hazy light of the sun - there was something to be said for it all, Azra could admit.

Catching sight of the expression on the other’s face - the narrowed eyes, the lack of any response - Azra was sure, had she been a more timid woman, she would have lowered her camera and faltered. But - she didn’t. She continued to press that shutter button, pausing to adjust her angle, to mess with the exposure, to readjust the composition of her photograph - until she was happy enough to call the other over to show them. A gentle smile curved the corners of her lips: pride, something that shone through every aspect of her work. She was good at it, and she knew it.

Azra was quiet as the other looked over the photos, flicking through them slowly, giving plenty of time for study. "Mm," She mused, nodding, "I have a good eye." Well, there was no point denying that. She wouldn't have gotten this far without it. "Feels like it's not your first time being on the other side of the camera, though."

#screaming bc I thought she was taking pics of the SUNSET not of HER dhsjsjjasj #& azra #I'm mobile!! No GIFs 😔

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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"a nerve?" Mizu intoned cooly, her deep dark voice devoid of emotion, like a clap of thunder shaking the night sky, lips dipping up in a sneer. She blinked apathetically, and huffed, somewhere inside of her a very small part of her feeling a twinge of amusement because seriously? A nerve? She could not somehow possibly give less of a fuck about whatever little pathetic drama this girl was trying to stir than she was currently willing to offer.

Perhaps she should have tattooed a chemical hazard label right across her mouth: this woman is highly reactive, warning; contents under pressure, will fucking explode right into your face if pushed the wrong way. Then again, she couldn't find it in her to be angry either; she was just...annoyed. As though this stranger was no more than some nasty pest, a fly, buzzing around the ear of a wolf, and she couldn't be bothered enough to squash it. "—I don't give a fuck what you did or did not order." she completely ignored her insinuation, the real meaning of what she had just said and just took it for what it was, a thick dark eyebrow ticking upwards, "It's 8 in the morning and you're making too much noise."

@logan-jones

logan can already feel a wolfish grin creeping across her face, this is going to be fun. she doesn't actively look for trouble, but when it comes her way she doesn't back down either. she's more than capable of holding her own, both physically and verbally. giving the woman next to her a quick lookover, she takes in the person who decided to be this bold, wanting to remember her face.

"ooh, did i strike a nerve? living in new york you'd think that people wouldn't be so damn sensitive about small things." she quips in a mocking tone, face morphing into a fake pout. she's not about to let this person think that she's bothering her, because she isn't, logan's just here to have fun at this point. it might very well result in her being kicked from the cafe and banned for life, but hell, it'd be well worth it. plus, there's more than enough cafes in the city to go around, what does being banned from one even matter in the long run. "didn't realize i ordered the snarky bitch special."

#HSHSHSHSHS IM SCREAMING #& logan.#I'm so sorry I'm mobile so 😢

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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She looked his way and did not even know how to fashion her face, that hard, dark mask of cold detachment, into something else than a sneer, less than a sharp wolfish snarl. Immediately on edge, every last ounce of her attention snatched away from the bike and fixed onto Caddel, she was narrowing her eyes, a strange, deep fury crawling up her throat, like a fist through a wall; she swallowed it down and tossed her leather gloves on the seat, grunting a "yeah, gimme a sec." through her teeth, because this wasn't the right setting for anger and fury and lashing out, and he is not her enemy... He's his son, it's not his fault, he did not ask for that blood in him either; not that it makes her hate him less for it; not that it makes him, somehow, her brother. What a fucking ludicrous, deaf idea.

But this was a roadside, and a box club, and she was nauseous and pissed and there was smoke pouring out of her exhaust pipe and she was about to fucking lose it. She shoved her foot down onto the pedal and revved it up, once, twice, and a thick black smoke spumed through the pipe, making a screeching, metallic sound, like teeth tearing through steel. She frowned and spat out a "fuck" and a "fucking shit!" and relentlessly revved it up again. The clouds here were this strange yellow, like spilled sour milk and as she caught glimpse of his eyes, a muscle in her sharp jaw ticked, her eyes like two angry waves in a storm. "The fuck's wrong with her?" she snapped, throwing a leg over the seat and trying to rev it up one more time, feeling a deep spasmodic vibration shaking through the bike, like it was throwing up. Just her fucking luck. Then again maybe this was for the best...maybe she could somehow use this as leverage to get to know him better; get him to lead her some way or another to him.

—the cold evening air comes in contrast to how it always feels like he is on fire. a relief. he hates getting moody for, seemingly, no apparent reason; he is tired of it. today hasn’t been that bad, actually and he has learned to appreciate that; he will make it work with whatever little he can; a day at a time. placing his bag on the tank, he mounts his bike, shoots his girl a message to let her know he is picking her up from work for a little date night, since he needs to go to work later —his shift starts at midnight, so there is time and, as always, the prospect of seeing her does help uplift his mood a little; but not like when they are actually together. she has that effect on him. after he places the phone in its little stand on the dashboard, and he just about ready to start the bike, has the kickstand off, presses on the kill-switch. he has almost turned the key.

the sound of a bike struggling to come to life attracts his attention, and he looks over to notice the other rider having issues starting their bike up. if he can help anyone in distress, he will, and even more so a fellow biker, especially given that he can actually provide some insight on what the issue could be. it’s not just that he has been riding since he could walk, but mainly since he was four, he has also been tinkering and experimenting with motorcycles since he was around eight; he knows his stuff around them, in and out. placing his helmet on the dashboard, he knows he won’t walk away if he at least doesn’t try and help first. “does your switch stay on?” he addressed them as he removes his gloves, then begins to make his way towards the other. “mind if I take a look?” he asks as he is approaching, gestures towards their ride. only as he gets closer he notices it is the same person that bumped into him back in the gym. “can you try and start her again?” there is a vague guess he can already make, but doesn’t want to have her bike stripped and end up being wrong.

#caddel

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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[AS A DAGGER IS HELD TO MY THROAT] are we about to kiss rn. Lol

#Lmaoooo #about.#Knife cw //

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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mizu: wrong number

status: open starter @bhqextras

honey: okay, serious question honey: on a scale of one to ten, how many drinks would you need to sleep with me?

#LMAOOOO CHER #& honey #I love how miz is like wrong number no punctuation she doesn't give a f

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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sick pervert (affectionate)

#— my love knows a few words: I like it in your blood ; mizu & isabelle #Tags still a mess but I'm #trying xox

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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ever since i was a little girl i always knew i didn't wanna talk to anyone

#about.#I really need to redo my tags....

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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Mizu is not the kind of person that usually cares for the world around her, on in the light of day anyway - not here... not now; she is insensitive and sharp-tongued, blunt, a thing with teeth; does not give you a second look; she is a whiskey glass, and a weapon, her body like the end point of a gun. There is no softness in her; no real warmth. She blinks impassively at her general direction when the stranger yells for her to stop, her eyes drifting down to the camera in her hands.

Her eyes narrow and there's a hardness to her mouth, a muscle ticking once, twice in her jaw. But when she shows her the photos, something inside of her loosens, and it's fleeting and minute, it does not quite reach her eyes, but Isabelle is a photographer, too, her girlfriend, she's always half lost in the world around them, her eyes like whirlpools, drowning the world in their depths; their home back in Albuquerque is covered floor to ceiling in the little slices of the world she loses herself in: that sunset over that valley back in Hopi Point where she had kissed her on the edge of that cliff, the rocks brown and red, flashing golden in the wind; the purple, metalic sheen of the sea at sunrise, the dark shape of Mizu's outline visible in restricted light against the ocean in the background; the shifting brown and blue tones of the plain behind their home. The two of them in black and white, it had taken her an hour to take that picture and it had been 4 in the morning in a parking lot behind that Denny's and Mizu had threatened more than once to confiscate her camera, and I am hungry, we should get going, come on come on... but Isabelle had shushed her, had said, let it see us.

She takes a look at them now, the photographs, and says, matter of factly, bluntly, suddenly her heart crawled up into her throat. "yeah. they are pretty."

location: local street, park, could be anywhere outdoors

open to: all @bhqextras

Azra Demir was rarely seen without her camera around her neck - and that evening was no exception. She'd been making her way home when a figure in the sunset had caught her eye and she called out to them. "Wait-- stay right there, don't move!" Alright, so that was perhaps not the politest way to grab anyone's attention, but as far as she could see, it had worked. A few flashes and clicks later, and she couldn't help but smile. "Sorry about that, couldn't miss out on the lighting. Look," She continued, beckoning them towards her, "These are beautiful."

#& azra #hey!!

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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Mizu stands in line for a hot cup of plain green tea, dark and broody like something cut out of stone: hard faced, apathetic, untouchable; there is no oftness in her: her eyes (a dark deep blue) glinting like the edge of a knife, her jaw sharp and pointy like cut glass; she does not even glance at the throngs of people bustling all around her in the coffee shop, her eyes unnervingly cast ahead of her, watching blankly as the baristas behind the counter prepare her tea.

When someone next to her in line, speaks up, huffing over one thing or another, she slowly casts her eyes toward them with no real interest. A muscle in her sharp jaw ticks. She does not have the energy to pretend that she gives a fuck about what anyone wants to drink or not drink, as far as she's concerned, the world does not even exist beyond herself. She looks her way and does not even see her. She says, smoothly, slowly, in that dark smoky voice of hers that sounds like a bolt of lighting ripping the sky open. "that's a lot of words to say you care too damn much about what strangers put in their mouth." she intones cooly.

@logan-jones

status: open @bhqextras

where: rise and grind

being a full-time worker and student, caffeine was a vice that logan was all too familiar with. most days she had enough time to make a pot of coffee at home, but today she had woken up late. thankfully for her, the big apple never had a shortage of cafes in any given area, so she stopped in one before making her daily commute.

after placing her order, a regular drip coffee with cream, she patiently waits by the pickup counter. the baristas announce the orders as they finish them and she quirks up her brow at a particularly complicated order. "why do some people feel the need to be so specific about their coffee?" she asks no one in particular. "half-caf cappuccino with an extra shot, extra foam, a pump of caramel and vanilla, and cinnamon on top? what even is that? it's all gonna have the same affect, i dunno why anyone's gotta modify it that much."

#& logan.#early morning squabble yas lets go

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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I'm not fucking worried about anything, comes to her mind like a blade, cutting through the strange, numb clarity that clings to her like a burial shroud, but she does not say it. Maybe her eyes (cold and unsettlingly sharp) linger a moment too long, but they've got the same eye colour, and seeing him up closer (her brother, what a fucking sickening idea, that they can ever call themselves brothers siblings family) makes something inside of her snap, that deep, dark rage reawakened, it's a fucking tornado gathering in her blood, a natural disaster that spins out on her hands; her right one, now, curls into a tight fist as she nods curtly and walks away, eyes, mind, heart, body, all of them on edge and ready for her next move.

When she makes her way out of the box club without saying goodbye to anyone, Vlad and the Jackal call out to her, say "hey! Miz, a moment, a moment!" and she just raises one of her hands in a gesture of dismissal and keeps on walking, whatever it is they need from her, it can damn well fucking wait. She is a woman on a mission, and doesn't give a fuck about anything else right now.

Outside, a light chill creeps into the evening, a cool breeze growing teeth and a bite, and she dons her leather jacket, her dark brow still beaded with sweat ( she hasn't even showered, there is still blood on her neck), and hops on her bike, body stiff and rigid, like a livewire. She powerfully revs up the engine but, suddenly, it sputters. She grips onto the handlebars and shoves her foot down onto the pedal with intention, revs it up, but it makes a strange, spluttering sound, the exhaust pipe making a series of sharp spitting noises, like it's crying. "fucking hell. fuck" she hops off the bike and irritably removes her helmet, then tosses it onto the bike. She tries to rev it up, but it begins to tremble like it's having a fucking seizure, then, with a low, strange groan, dies. "shit!" just her luck.

@caddel

—aside of riding, which is arguably his most favorable past-time; it is like therapy to many, to him, most of the time; he also uses boxing as an outing. he has done so for years, since he was a child and a ride only meant a dirt bike and fun, there was something he needed to channel that anger to. now, the two don’t compare though, even when he has done both for about the same amount of years. going on a ride doesn’t compare; for him it doesn’t always equal fun, there is something about speeding down the road that one cannot find the right words to successfully describe how it actually feels; the speed, the cold night air in your face, the fact that you can’t really tell what the fuck is gonna happen when you go well over three hundred km per hour; it makes you feel alive like nothing else does. and it’s your thing, even when your head is not a good place to be, but a ride often helps clear the thoughts in a blur.

most days he simply uses the gym at the station, even between calls if there isn’t enough time to get one proper training session in, otherwise. lately his shifts hadn’t left room for more than a once or twice a week trip to the box club , but as things go back to his normal forty-eight-hour shifts to couple of days off, he will likely get back to a more suitable routine. regardless of his intentions, he is half-distracted today anyway, and he cut his work out session short. Caddel is getting his stuff, when someone bumps into him. it happens, and perhaps it’s his fault even for being half out of it. yet he doesn’t budge, only turns his gaze to meet the other’s when they hand over the glove. he had noticed they had been in the rink a moment ago, her precision and speed had been impressive. to him, who had done this professionally for many years, they didn’t strike him as just someone who enjoyed the sport. you can’t achieve this level of master to something by just doing it for fun; it takes dedication, and long hours of training. “don’t worry about it,” he responds, casually, taking the glove from her, and getting back to gathering his stuff without another word.

#is she a pirate? perhaps a truck driver? we will never know!!#foul language cw folks #& ryan.

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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Her face was blank and expressionless, a dark, strange mask of cold indifference to the world around her. Mizumi did not drink, had never had, not really (alcohol clouds the mind and she likes hers sharp like the edge of a knife, does not find comfort in loss of control.) but she sat at the bar swathed in shadow, her mouth drawn back in a perpetual snarl. She was wearing a men's black suit, immaculately pressed, the top three buttons of her white shirt undone.

The drink in her glass had warmed on the bar in front of her, moisture dripping down the cool glass, ice melting under the heat of the light spilling off the neon sign above the bar. She was waiting for someone, and the longer they were making her wait, the angrier she was getting but she did not show it, despite feeling like she could run his face right through the glass doors when he would finally get here.

When a stranger asked for a lighter, she slowly turned to look at them, and her eyes were dark and deep, glinting like shards of glass, blue and terrible and empty. Mizu, impassively, fished for her lighter in her pocket (not hers, her girlfriend's, it had been a gift and she always carried it with her) did not say anything but leaned in, guarding the flame with her palm and lit the cigarette with a look and a "it's three steps to the door." a shrug, and her voice was deep like thunder, dark and slow, like a man's.

@txddybxxrs

Status: open @bhqextras where: a speakeasy in Manhattan

He was struggling through his drink, which in all actuality was not only a bit pathetic for a man of his age but also made him feel like a bit of a prick, considering how well made the dammed thing was, all crystal-clear ice molded into a perfect sphere and carefully styled orange peel. Even the smooth, caramelly, oaky finish to the whiskey would be something of a delight if he were a different type of man, however, he wasn't that type of man. He was the type of man who ordered a cosmopolitan with a heavy dash of bitters or an aviation; something that came in a fancy little glass and had more than two ingredients and would most definitely be the subject of harsh ridicule from the lads back home, were he back home, though he wasn't home- not even close- and so even that thought did nothing but bring an even larger displeased sigh tumbling from his lips.

Still, it was too late to do anything about his painfully wrong rink order now, after all, who sent back a drink they had already put their lips on? Not him, even if he did grimace with every compulsory sip. It was entirely his fault, anyway. Had he not been so absorbed in his book he would have noticed that he had been given another patron's order and now they would both need to suffer for it. It was what he got for reading inside a speakeasy rather than interacting with others like a normal person.

He set down his paperback and ran a hand over his face before he reached for his pack of cigarettes and lighter, throwing a fifty on the bar top with a nod toward the bartender to save his seat when he realized his lighter was nowhere to be found in the pockets of his coat. "Sorry," he said, turning to the person closest to him, "have you got a light? I'll get your next round as a thank you."

#hey hey!! <3 #txddybxxrs #im sorry she is not very Delightful

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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you seem like you have a lot of unresolved issues that really impact your life. do wanna go out sometime

#mood #tag later #about.

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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She sees her without fail like a well-oiled machine every Tuesday and Friday a little after 3 in the afternoon, like clockwork. She's sitting on that rundown yellow Chevy parked in the back of the diner, she's in her uniform, a grey shirt and a pleated skirt, she's been working at Denny's for a month now. She's always got a cigarette in her hand, Isabelle, it's her lunch break and she's not hungry, rarely is, but she smokes like it'll heal something sick inside of her, constantly, her mouth tastes like ashes and something sweet (too much sugar in her coffee in the morning and blueberry flavoured lip balm) and she watches Mizu walk from the junk yard near the diner to the parking lot in that slow, perfect way she's got about how she moves, like a bullet through a ribcage. She's got shades on even when it's raining and barely looks her way most days, Isabelle thinks, even though she's staring, doesn't care if she'll see her; so what? It's a free country and she's got a bruise on her jaw the colour of her nail polish (ripe plum, blue-black) and Isabelle wonders how she's gotten it.

Sometimes, Mizu looks her way and Isabelle smiles, or as good as, her lips wrapped around the flute of her cig, taking long deep drags of it. When she exhales, white plumes of smoke envelope her and she closes her eyes against the sting of it. When she opens them, she's gone.

She sits in her car when it's raining and rolls down the window, likes to watch the way the raindrops gutter down her windowshield. Mizu does not run to her car, she walks the same way someone would under a hot pulsing sun and Isabelle snorts, her eyes trailing after her as she walks away. She's got her legs stretched out on her dashboard, crossed because she is wearing a skirt and what the hell, she's lost a sister not her fucking mind, won't get arrested in a Denny's parking lot for accidentally flashing a schoolkid. Mizu doesn't even have an umbrella, and Isabelle wonders what kind of person doesn't mind being soaked to the bone.

Next Tuesday, she does not show up and Isabelle feels a strange kind of shocked disappointment, she thinks about it all throughout her shift and spills hot coffee on a man while refilling his cup and when he screams at her she's useless she says fuck off. Fiona comes rushing between the two of them, offers apologies, shoves Isabelle back into the kitchen are you insane? what the hell Ainsley! and Isabelle explodes, her voice is a crack on the wall, gaping, he is a fucking asshole, and Fiona, good, kind, patient Fiona says, you can't talk to customers like that! and when she tries to defend herself she does not care to hear it.

Oh fucking well.

She moves her Chevy from the parking lot to the back of the diner again, under a streetlamp that night and does not even bother to change out of her workclothes before passing out in the backseat (too many beers, half a bottle of gin and weed, her cheeks guttered with tears).

It's another tuesday and another friday before she sees her again, and the sun's blazing in the sky, feels like the tip of a hot needle piercing slowly through every inch of your skin, and Isabelle's melting, even in the shade. She's on the hood of the chevy, beer in hand, she's worked a half shift, it's 3:03 and when she sees her like a dark, dark shadow blotting out the sky, her presence instantly threads itself under Isabelle's skin until she feels sewn through with her eyes on her. Goodness me, Isabelle thinks frantically, goodness me. So much water in those eyes, she suddenly does not feel the hot mouth of the sun on the back of her neck.

"you look like shit" she tells her because Mizu does, her left cheek bruised and purpled, her lower lip torn open.

Mizu just looks at her as she pulls off her leather gloves with swift sharp movements (she must be riding a bike then, Isabelle thinks with a hot flash of excitement) and laughs, startled, a sharp, low sound like a fist through a wall. "it'll kill you" Mizu says in lieu of any real answer and Isabelle blinks, confused, sees the way her eyes glide like the kiss of a wave in a furious storm from her face to the cigarette in her hand, and

Oh.

"worse ways to go." she tries for humour, laughs a little, suddenly flushed. Her eyes are very dark, like sunken obsidians, ink blank velvet underwater, and Mizu looks as though she's searching for something in them.

"it's a bad habit" she intones cooly, and leans against the side of her car, but it's not sloppy or lazy, she looks like something cut out of marble: cold, perfect. Immovable. Somehow Isabelle thinks it's wrong, her, leaning on anything. She looks like the kind of person that's got storms in their blood, she can't even believe she's stopped long enough to humour her bad attempts at conversation (conversation? flirting, really, her eyes had been already on her mouth, her hands, her wrists, her neck; she liked the coolness of her voice, that singular sleek strand of hair falling into her eyes. She liked the way her mouth dipped in a perpetual snarl, her wolf smile.)

Isabelle lifts a brow at her at that, askance because seriously? "that's rich coming from somehow with half their face punched off" she shoots right back but she's smiling and there's sweet white mint smoke swirling all around her, like a veil of silk and Mizu laughs.

Later they would sit on the hood of that car together and Mizu would reach over and silently wrest the cigarette from Isabelle's fingers and bring it to her mouth. She would stare at the lipstick stain (ruby red and slick, like her mouth) around the flute, then put it between her own lips and take a slow drag and it would make her lungs, unused to smoke, splutter, a sharp bout of coughing and Isabelle would laugh,

when she asks her where she got the cuts and bruises, Mizu hands back the cigarette with a cool smirk on her lips and says bad habits.

Isabelle snorts.

When Mizu shows up at the diner next day, Isabelle's filling up the coffee grinder with beans and the moment she sees the bright flash of her eyes, blinking like two angry waves in a storm, her hand fumbles, she spills half the bag on the floor, shit. she's suddenly flustered, and what the hell is wrong with her?

I got it I got it, Joe says, runs to the rescue, broom in hand and Isabelle does not know how he always does that, he's somehow always there, but she's so shaken that she does not even say thank you, she pulls her apron on around her waist and is out from behind that counter, walks to the booth Mizu's sat, afraid some other waitress will get to her before her.

"hey stranger. what are you doing here?" she asks, as though it's something normal to ask, and Mizu says very evenly, in that low smoky drawl of hers that makes the hair at the back of Isabelle's neck rise as though they too long for her touch "is this not a Denny's?" and Isabelle just stares right back at her, pen and pad in hand, squinting. She rolls her eyes excessively and "can I get you some coffee?" she asks, and Mizu says "no." and when Isabelle just stands there, pen in hand, blinking right back at her as though they have begun some sort of staring competition she says, "tea."

She watches as Isabelle swallows down laughter. Fucking grandma alert, she mutters under her breath loud enough for Mizu to hear, her cheeks crimson with amusement. "...and?" she presses her, and Mizu says, it's three o 'clock. as though that somehow answers her question, and then, when Isabelle lifts that perfect dark eyebrow at her again, she says, "are you allowed to take your lunch break in here?"

Understanding suddenly floods her and her lips part as she takes a moment to register what she's asking her. she wants to have lunch with me?

and yes. actually... I am working a half shift. So... No lunch break. Um... it's 3? Isabelle laughs, but it is more air than sound, and god god what the fuck? how could she have forgotten? Fiona looks up from behind the counter and says Isabelle, her index finger on the watch around her wrist, and Isabelle gives her a look, and when she moves that perfume fills the air, pure shimmering smoke to deep undulating amber, rosewater and violets, something redolent of fire, and Mizu breathes in deeply. Like she will fucking drown if she won't. Isabelle does not notice, she says, uh...we have a special on waffles today? do you like waffles? and Mizu, cold, dark, endless, mysterious Mizu, says I could do waffles.

They sit in that booth for so long that when they step outside, the sun's gone from the sky and Isabelle shivers in the sudden chill of nightfall. Mizu shrugs her leather jacket off and wordlessly drapes it around her shoulders despite Isabelle's protestations, her breath quickened when she notices the way she is staring up at her through dark thick lashes, like she will fucking devour her if she touches her.

Isabelle wonders what her teeth would feel in her throat.

ii.

They find each other in dark cars and in movie theatres, sit in the booth in the back of the diner (near the window, it's cracked on its bottom left, and there's a little heart drawn with blue sharpie on the sill)

Licks of heat. Undulations. Vibrations. Laughter, mostly Isabelle's but she too, smiles, and every time there is a wildness to it, like joy is something new to her. Like she does not know what to do with it. Her hand in Mizu's. Her hand on Isabelle's thigh under the table, their heads next to each other on the hood of that yellow car under the streetlamp in that junkyard behind Denny's. Writhing, sometimes. Kerosene. Shadows. Blood.

They hold each other through nightmares, kiss out the bad days and say to themselves; it’s just sex, it’s just sex, it’s just sex but it's not just sex if it's every night and if she wakes up in the morning with her hair in her face and spends all day half numb with Isabelle's taste in her mouth, furious because Mizu does not have room for love or whatever it is she feels for Isabelle, it's a distraction she can't afford but her absence is a held breath that chokes her until she sees her again.

The unfathomable meeting of them shakes both of them. How unlikely it was. How exactly perfect in position the universe must have been. How sweet she was when she cradled the two of them both in her palms and said “yes, them.”

Isabelle calls her at 2AM and falls asleep to the noises you can only make at night. Mizu is: the light that fills the cold dead empty spaces inside of her, she is heat dark deep and hungry, she is a gasp torn from her throat and tender rushing sweetness, lust want need desire. Desire is watching her eat across that booth or next to her, shoulders rubbing. It is pouring tea for her and laughing when she burns her lower lip and scowls in that terrifyingly impassive way that fucks with her brain until she thinks she is going mad. Desire is looking at the menu and wondering what it would be like to kiss her and then kissing her. It is the surprise of her skin on hers; it is revelation, her hands on her, her mouth on her throat, how she makes her forget.

She is. She is is is is

iii.

The two of them eat the dawn together, kiss each other crazy, make the mornings moan their names. They dance around the “L” word, like they are not fiendishly frantically pathetically obsessed and in love, the you're the first person I call in the morning the last one before bed and everything in between kind of love, the stay up watching marathons of bad samurai action flicks Mizu likes and Isabelle laughing at her for it, they're so bad all they do is fight! that's no plot kind of love, that kind of love. The are you even real or did I dream you up kind of love. She sleeps on her floor with her next to her sometimes, and they pretend they're not somehow intricately winding themselves together.

The first time she kisses her, she's sober. Mizu is sitting on the couch, Isabelle has been sleeping in her room because when Mizu had realized she had been sleeping in her car, her face (that perfect sleek dark flawless mask) had cracked, she had been fury incarnate but in the kind of way that storms rage through skies, not an explosion, but a shaking, and she had gathered her wrist in her hand and said you are not fucking sleeping in a car.

She awakes in a bed that smells like gunpowder and salt water (must be from her eyes; so much sea, it must have leaked right out of her, the ocean) lays motionless, as though gripped in a fever, under her blanket, staring at the ceiling. It's 4 in the morning and her head is pounding (a hangover, but then, to her credit, a mild one and what's one more of them?

When from the half open door she hears Mizu stand to pour herself a glass of water, Isabelle more feels than urges her body to lift from the bed, a strange, deep hunger in her blood. She stands at the doorway, watching her drink water. There is a burn scar on the back of her neck, and she is longing to put her mouth on it, her pulse has already jumped to starting under the electric shock of her near her and when Mizu turns around, and says, "you better?" Isabelle blinks. Her face is in shadow but her blue eyes are lit with the moon.

She says, "are you real?" and Mizu laughs, startled. "as can be" matter of fact as always.

Her stare is deep.

"what is it?" she asks and Isabelle throws herself at her, her mouth a furious thing when it crashes against hers.

iv.

there comes a morning when Mizu looks at her and realizes she cannot live with them apart. that without Isabelle her world goes dark. v.

The two of them try to jump over their hearts, fold themselves as far from the other person as they can, avoid the topic because then maybe it will not hurt when she's gone, wrap their bodies in lipstick (Isabelle's) and sweat, say: well at least it’s not over yet. vi.

they are drunk on a sweet July night and end up with their tongues spilling truths they meant to hold close to their chests; Mizu thinks no it could never work but gods if only i could be so fucking blessed for once.

vii.

Somehow, she gets what she wants.

Somehow it works and never stops working. And ain't that something, sweet thing.

#blood cw //#drugs cw //#but not really lmao #alcohol//#drabbles my JAM #words words words #**#UNEDITED we go down without style #long post cw//

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only-satisfied · 2 months

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I have spent a few days listening to the music you like. you have a tattoo of something I still don't understand but love to touch on your ribs, a stranger one on the inside of your arm. you got it when you were still just a kid. my first tattoo was a star instead. i did the math - we got our first tattoos in the same calendar year. isn't that kind of cool. When will you be home? Come home I love you I miss you you're my life Isabelle writes, it's just a text, really, she's probably have had too much sweet wine, and Mizu does not know how to tell her she's missed her too other than call her and ask her if she's been eating, and you're lying. Donuts are not fucking dinner. And yes they are. You're just dour, old and no fun.

And then laughter.

They talk for four hours on the phone while Isabelle strings together a garland. They talk for six hours while Mizu cleans out her guns, sat on the floor in a blank grey empty flat somewhere in downtown Manhattan. There's blood on her hands that is not her own but Isabelle can't see it she's so far away from her now, her absence is a bruise. She tells her I saved a Pinterest tip for the summer about making paper kites. And I planned us a week-long trip to maine, mapped out my favorite places for a hike. Maybe in may... Mizu does not say anything, she hums, thinks that she would go anywhere with her, and isn't that something. She remembers how they had driven all the way from Las Cruces up to Albuquerque and Isabelle had fallen asleep on the ride home, and Mizu had turned down the radio so it wouldn't wake her up. Her quiet hands folded over hers on her thigh. The fire of her dark eyes on hers in that Denny's she had been working at those days, the two of them sat together on that car in the junk yard behind the diner, passing a bottle of beer back and forth between them. Isabelle had been smoking constantly, her skin smelled like drenched violets and smoke, and there was fire in her eyes and something else in them. Hunger. Revelation. Mizu does not drink she's never had. But when she had passed the beer bottle to her with that strange smirk on her mouth and said come on, she had prised the bottle from her fingers, its neck so slick with dark plum lipstick where Isabelle's mouth had been, and she had pressed it to her own lips, suddenly wanting her on her mouth. It had left a smudging of lipstick on her chin and Isabelle had leaned up on her left elbow, licked her thumb and wiped it away, her skin like silk against her face. Her eyes had flashed like mirrors under the street lamp.

Isabelle had once told her that her mom used to love hallmark movies, she would watch them every Saturday, smoking wine in a bottle on the floor, so she had grown up thinking love would look like a firework. it feels like one... Isabelle drawled one moonless August night on the hood of that car next to her, her body burning into Mizu's side. Summer was dripping over them, sweet and hot and languid. it's just that my house wasn't safe. i thought love was a weapon, could be pointed at your eyes. could lose a finger to it, or your teeth. my father used to say passion is everything. I thought that meant constant screaming was a good thing. I thought that meant love looked like a week of anger, because it was worth the weekend's boombox dramatic apology. I thought quiet love was boring. That love had to blot out everything...look like ruining your own dinner table - but what a fucking feast you've had! you're so fucking lucky. She had been so drunk. Mizu had not said anything but she had reached over and gently brushed her curls from her face, wiped a droplet of beer off her mouth. Isabelle's lips had parted like a flame, suddenly sucking on her fingers, and Mizu had pulled her hand back as though scalded by fire, had said you're drunk. Let's get you home. And Isabelle had been suddenly frantic, had said no, not yet. I wanna be with you. please, Mizu and they had lied back down on the hood, under a summer sky purring with heat, Isabelle's head resting against Mizu's and even the air had seemed to shudder at the simple sweetness of it.

It had been easy, falling in love with her. She had not known how to love, but she had wanted to. It had been a shock to her system, suddenly discovering that she had a heart or as good as, pulsing and throbbing for her.

Their love had not looked like a gun; it had felt like a scarf, Mizu's hands smoothing it down Isabelle's chest in the winter, being sure each of the edges are tucked in, worried about her asthma attacks being cold-activated. Still is. It looks a little like: Isabelle racing her while she's wearing heels, and she's laughing and it's the only thing that keeps her from sliding into that dark dead place inside of her. She holds her hand to guide her downhill while walking the dog. They dance in the living room of their new flat to waltz of the flowers, or more like, Isabelle dances (she's always loved ballet) and tries to show Mizu how to hold her arms in proper ballet port de bras and Mizu scoffs and says I'm not a pussy, which earns her a badly unimpressed look, but Mizu is smiling, and Isabelle is thinking you never smile I've only ever seen you laugh with me. Taking a shower together in half light and letting her scrub her back, letting her trace the burn scars over it, they run all the way from her nape to her waist and Isabelle kisses them softly. They sit together on their porch afterwards and Mizu plaits her hair. It takes her ten minutes for a braid but when she's done, it's perfect.

she calls her now, and she's halfway across the world or feels like it. She's missed her. She does not know how to say it other than, turn on your camera pretty girl, let me see your face. Suddenly she's fucking gone. She lives eternities in that smile. For a moment nothing else matters but this, and her, the two of them together. Not anger and death and fury and revenge.

when Mizu looks up, the stars are brighter. how carefully she's woven light into the dead corpsed-out, numb, empty spaces inside of her... when she moves, she feels some part of her soul reflected back onto Isabelle.

Love is not a net, or a knife held to their throat, glinting. It's a blanket.

#words words words #Oh WELL.#**

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