#Liv goes off the solve the case during the day. It's night again at the 8 minute mark. Then Clive and Liv go to investigate an (empty) club | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

barbasbodaciousbeard · 3 years

Text

The Iowa Caucus Happened

A job offer slides into Rafael’s DMs as he waits to find out if it’ll be a new start or prison on February 8.

Accidental Feminist Icon

Delete the Twitter app, Mr. Barba

“Mister Barba?”

Rafael didn’t like hearing his name from the young woman behind him, especially not given what he’d done. He’d texted Carmen on the first day of the trial, and she’d agreed to look into the offers from attorneys he knew, and some he didn’t, while he sat beside Dworkin and emotionally prepared himself to testify. The ones he’d looked at the night before came from people he didn’t like or were last resorts. He’d moved from his visceral response to finding law to back his actions. Applying logic could let him detangle himself from his conflicted emotions. Catholic guilt wrestled his humanity. That said, he also found himself desperate to introduce Ollie to music as Carmen worked from his apartment that first afternoon, not caring for once as the toddler drooled or sneezed or spilled all over him.

“Yes?” he asked, taking his coffee from the cart. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“We haven’t. I follow you on Twitter.”

“Ah,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss-”

“Rachel Sullivan. I have, like, a reading Twitter.”

“I’ve seen that! Read with Rachel? Your icon is a copy of Howl?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, chuckling. “I just- listen, I know it’s bad what’s going on and a lot of people are really hurt and going after you. Do I get it? No. But, I think you didn’t get a good choice, and you did what’s right for you. When it seems impossible, it’s not my place to judge something I can’t fathom. And a lot of people feel the same. A bunch of us have a group chat and we hope everything goes well and you get to start again.”

It was a stark contrast to his interaction with mami or emails from church ladies. There was an acknowledgement of disagreement, but he needed more people to respect that they weren’t there like she did. He also remembered watching his father die, and while he didn’t like the man, he regretted not ending that pain. It only drew out hurt for everyone.

“Thank you, Rachel. That really means the world to me.”

“Good luck today,” she said, giving him a wave when she took her coffee and left. By the end of the day, Rafael hated Peter Stone for being a damn good prosecutor, and he wondered if there were any cases he’d tried, especially the ones before SVU that he was wrong on. He made his way into a new bar, definitely not his usual during all of this, and he sat and drafted his resignation. It took longer than he cared to admit, and he restarted and reread it time and time again. By the time he was drunk, he’d written something he could proofread the next morning and ignored calls from Olivia, Carmen, and mami.

He decided it was time to do what he had been dreading, logging into Twitter. Since Carmen had cleaned it up, more people had found him, and he was able to easily ignore anything hateful by skimming for murder or murderer in the body of the tweet. He skipped those, and Rafael was surprised to see some apathy, sympathy, or respect for his reasoning. Lazily, he scrolled his direct messages. A select few of the people who knew him contacted him with revulsion, but his filtered messages were filled with vitriol. He found Rachel’s account again, following her back and deciding he could break his unspoken rule of only following people he knew or the occasional blog/podcast/museum/celebrity. If anyone contacted him with kindness, he was now more open to the reciprocity of Twitter; no one would be asking him to prosecute their case soon.

He saw a message from Tripp Greene. In Harvard, they’d had an unspoken alliance as the two scholarship kids in their cohort, a silent allegiance that continued into law school. There were very few people Rafael respected personally from Harvard, but Tripp had remained kind, even if he worked in something as ruthless as politics. They’d been reunited by Rafael’s uptick in Twitter popularity. He was more proud than he should be by the potential presidential candidates that had followed him. Rafael should have known Tripp would reach out; he was ever the silent cheerleader and had watched a sibling die on life support when he was at Harvard. They’d discussed the morality of pulling plugs and the selfish desire to keep people alive, though most of it had been Tripp talking and Rafael listening.

While moving to Iowa seemed extreme, he was acutely aware that he would end up haunting the DA’s office and Manhattan SVU like some ghost of ADAs past instead of moving forward. His mother had a boyfriend and looming retirement that seemed likely to take the pair to Miami, where she could play grandma to his grandchildren. There was nothing left for him here but Carmen, and while a great friend, she was not enough to erase the last twenty-one years of his life. When Carmen called for the fifth time that night, he ignored it, but it was quickly followed by Answer the phone or I tell Olivia I haven’t heard from you. With a groan, he answered when Carmen called again sixty seconds later.

“I’m fine. I don’t want to delve back into a play by play of my day.”

“That’s why you’re drunk at seven o’clock,” she said, her tone thick with sarcasm as she pretended that solved everything.

“It’s only been two hours?”

“You’re not at Forlini’s.”

“I’m not hanging out with Stone.”

“Send me your location. I just picked Ollie up from mom’s.”

“Take your son home, Carmen. I’ll be fine.”

“But we could talk about how much I also hate Stone. I’ll even stop and let you grab take out from that Cuban place you like.”

“Deal,” he acquiesced, motioning he wanted to close his tab. “Call me when you’re close.”

“Deal. ETA is about fifteen minutes.”

He polished off his scotch, signing the check and tipping well before taking his briefcase and leaning against the wall as he waited for Carmen’s SUV. She waved at him out the window, and he hurried into her passenger seat. Though he always knew that she was a great secretary and assistant, Carmen was proving to be the friend he needed right now. Olivia, in the few phone calls they had, was unwilling to discuss anything but the case. She was in cop mode, and she talked to him like she could swoop in and fix what he had done. While she thought he didn’t know, she’d talked to McCoy, talked to Stone, talked to anyone who would listen. But what she didn’t understand is that he’d accepted going to prison was a possibility, but it was one he felt was worth it.

“Barba!” he heard from the backseat, smiling softly to see Ollie more awake than he’d expected. He’d seen the boy periodically, mostly during evening handoffs when Carmen’s mother would drop him off so Carmen could take him home. There were a lot of single mothers in his life, and all were exceptional. The last few days, Carmen and Ollie both had spent a lot of time with him. He kept introducing Ollie to music and movies and foods like he could make up for everything Drew wouldn’t experience by making sure Ollie did.

“Oliver!” he smiled, twisting around to smile at him. The boy kicked his leg, and the blue stripe on the rubber of his sneakers lit up. “I like your shoes.”’

“Thanks,” he giggled, kicking again.

“You’re good with him,” Carmen smiled, the navigation now leading her to get his take out.

“He’s a good kid. Noah made me better with kids. Liv said I held him like a sack of flour at first.”

“You’ll be ready by the time you have your own.”

“I work too much.”

“That can change.”

“I don’t deserve to have a child,” he shrugged, and he could see Carmen purse her lips. “I don’t. I wouldn’t be good at it anyway. Wouldn’t be fair. Besides, I might end up like dad. No kid deserves that shit.”

“Bad word!” Ollie scolded, tablet in hand as he watched a movie.

“Sorry, Ollie. Stuff.”

“You’ve never told me what he did.”

“He wanted heterosexual, toxic machismo and got a swarmy, emotional bisexual.”

“You’re not that emotional.”

“He took care of that,” he said darkly. “I used to cry when he went after mami. That turned his attention to me.”

Carmen knew there was nothing she could say, so instead she silently took his hand, squeezing softly. He was taken aback at first, but he kept her hand loosely in his as his head lulled against the headrest. It was strangely grounding, the physical affection. He’d felt like he was swimming the last few days as memories of his father, his father’s death, his childhood, and each case he tried bubbled up. That wasn’t including the vision of baby drew and Maggie in the hospital room that lingered everywhere.

The conflicting guilt and conviction he’d done the right thing also broke a damn and the feelings he’d suppressed- loneliness, guilt, abandonment, distrust- were all bubbling to the surface. He’d spent so much of his life trying not to process them so he could focus on a conviction rate and moving forward that he didn’t have the tools everyone else did sometimes. Right now, Carmen felt like an anchor, and he was grateful for her.

He got out of the car when Carmen parked, ordering enough food for three adults, one take out container containing whatever he thought a toddler could handle. Soon enough, they were settled in his living room and eating, though Ollie had minimal interest in the pork, beans, and rice in front of him. The thought crossed his mind that when he took one of the out of state jobs, he wouldn’t have Carmen there like this. He was sure this friendship would be short lived; when he didn’t need her anymore, she’d leave him. That’s what usually happened, wasn’t it? She just felt bad for him.

“I’m moving to Iowa,” he blurted out before he was able to spiral into the self loathing he’d recently discovered.

“That’s far,” she said, and he thought he could detect sadness in her voice.

“There’s FaceTime.”

“Not quite the same, but I’ll take it.”

“Tripp understands,” he said, sobering up as the food hit his stomach. “He lost a sister. Watched someone dying like with my dad except she’d been born that way. It was years, Carmen.”

“That’s a lot. I’m going to miss you, Rafael. Ollie will too.”

“Come visit. If the tickets are bad, I’ll pay. Or cover renting a car.”

“You’re drunk,” she chuckled.

“Sorry. Best friend. It’s the rules.”

“We’ll come. But I can afford tickets.”

“Promise if it’ll make things tight, you’ll let me. You’re raising a kid. No kids means I can afford to get my friend the occasional plane ticket.”

“Deal.”

“Next week, will it be Des Moines or prison? Who knows! I’ll probably grow a beard either way. Think they’d recognize me in prison if I grow a beard?”

“I’ve never seen you with a beard. Stop shaving and we’ll find out.”

She could see Rafael getting tired, head leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. She preferred when he joked about all of this. They were stuck waiting, and this time the next night they’d probably know. Ollie climbed between them on the couch, and she realized her boss wasn’t the only one almost asleep.

“You two can stay,” Rafael yawned, hand smoothing Ollie’s curls back.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. It’ll be nice not being alone in the morning. And you can stay here to work. We didn’t talk about it, but I know you hate Stone. He’s a good attorney. Doing his job.”

“His job is wrong.”

“That isn’t his fault. If another ADA had done what I did? I’d be prosecuting them.”

“Go get ready for bed,” she chuckled, rolling her eyes. As she scooped Ollie up, she kissed the top of Rafael’s head. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Carmen?” She turned in the doorframe. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“I’m glad to, Raf. Promise you’ll actually sleep.”

“I promise.”

“Night, Barba,” Ollie yawned, waving over his mom’s shoulder as they entered his guest room. Maybe Iowa was going to be too far if he didn’t go to prison. He was getting quite fond of having Carmen around quite quickly. He wasn’t going to be her superior anymore, so this friendship could be something he maintained.

Olivia would be a given; even if they were primarily united around work, she was also one of his closest friends and maybe not working together would make him relax. Hell, maybe the end of his life in the city would do it. Rafael couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t felt he was chasing an upward trajectory in New York City. Even at Harvard, the plan had been to return. Maybe coming into Des Moines established would let him feel comfortable just existing.

He liked cooking and reading in the park and going out dancing on occasion. He rarely had time for two options, and the latter made his cheeks red with embarrassment at the prospect of a colleague seeing him during the outing. In Iowa, maybe he could go dancing and take up a new hobby and wear jeans without feeling like something was out of his control.

He woke up before Carmen, excited to be able to cook for her. He appreciated the fact she was happy to help him, but she had paused her own life for the last few days. Their friendship was relegated to offices and dinners by the office. He’d come to her baby shower and birthday parties and even a holiday party, but that was it and that had other colleagues present. Except maybe the baby shower, but he was determined to buy up whatever was left on her registry when the day came, using mami, abuelita, and the older women at church as pseudonyms to pretend he’d just let family know.

“You can cook?”

“I just never had time,” he shrugged, tray coming out of the oven.

“You made pastries?”

“Pastelitos de guayaba.” Carmen didn’t miss how proud he looked as he admired them. They were something he’d always made with family. “They aren’t hard, but abuelita used to make them for me all the time. Puff pastry, sweetened cream cheese and guava paste. Cafe con leche on the way.”

“You couldn’t sleep?” He shook his head, pouring the espresso and adding the milk before placing mugs at the breakfast counter. His mouth was set in a line now, the corners sucked in as he focused on the countertop. Her hand rested on his, giving a squeeze and he rewarded her with a soft smile. “We’ll be helping you pack for Iowa in no time.”

“I hope,” he nodded, biting into a pastry. Ollie came out, eyeing the countertop. “Want one, Oliver?”

“What are they?”

“Delicious,” Carmen groaned, having torn into her own. That was enough for Ollie, who accepted a pastry from Rafael with a soft Thank you before biting into it carefully.

“Wow! It is good!”

“I’m glad you like it.”

It felt a somber affair, despite the pastries, when Carmen saw him off to court. She chose to wait in his apartment, ringer on high and news coverage on. Ollie was easily entertained by the toys she had in the car, and the phones were forwarded to be answerable on her cell phone. By the end of the day, she’d put dinner in his slow cooker and cleaned most everything at least once. And then her phone rang with his ringer. She’d picked one of the other presets for him long ago, and she watched Ollie with his blocks as she answered.

“Rafael?”

“Not guilty,” he exhaled, still unable to believe it as he surveyed his office to begin packing. Her desk was empty, and he didn’t mind today because if she had been here, McCoy would’ve had her helping Stone. Carmen was his assistant, his friend, and it was bad enough to know Stone would probably take his place at work.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “Did you turn the letter in?”

“I put it on Jack’s desk. I’m hoping to be gone buy his return. I think three heavy boxes will cover it. Plus anything I hung, but other than diplomas most of it came with the place.”

“I put dinner on. Ollie and I ran to the store and picked up short ribs and potatoes and carrots. I needed something to do.”

“Nervous you’d be visiting me in prison?”

“You know damn well juries can be swayed. You’ve done it.”

“And I’m safe. I’ll be there in a couple of hours, okay?”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I’m really glad you get to go to Iowa.”

#Rafael Barba x Carmen #rafael barba x reader #law and order svu #law and order special victims unit #svu

21 notes · View notes

freddieslater · 3 years

Text

✨ Kindly pressure me to actually write things ✨

Okay, I’m stealing this idea from @a-lil-bi-furious because it is Genius and I could really do with the motivation! So, I will list my current WIP’s and brief descriptions of them. For each title I get in my inbox, I will write you a snippet for that WIP, and you can feel free to send me as many titles as you like! (If I get two asks for the same title, I will just write another snippet so don’t worry about that!)

And because that neat little list seems weirdly motivating too, here are the promises I make:

• Each ask will be answered within the week

• I will write a good few paragraphs for all of them and do my best to make them Really good paragraphs!

I’m only gonna do the WIPs that I think I could actually be motivated to write. Here we go!

WIPs below the cut:

Find me in the forest, Frodo

A sequel to a fic I wrote called “a dance for the decades” about Lizzie, Josie, Hope, Kaleb, and MG sneaking out to a decade dance at Mystic Falls High, based pre-canon with major divergence. In this one, it focuses solely on the Lizzie/Landon storyline while also dealing with the aftermath of Connor’s attempt to kill Lizzie and the revelation that he knows she’s a witch, in which he’ll once again attempt to out her to the town.

Clash of the European Boyfriends

A dinner party is hosted at the Salvatore House in order to force Damon, Stefan, Enzo, and Klaus to have at least one civilised conversation, courtesy of Elijah and Lexi, with some extra cooperation and persuasion on Enzo’s part for Damon.

that’s a kindness you can’t afford

Another sequel, this one to “don’t be kind to it, it’ll come back” in which young Elena discovers Enzo being held in her dad’s basement and frees him, only he erases her memories. Now, years later, Enzo is keeping an eye on her from afar — until her parents’ care goes over Wickery Bridge, and he’s forced to confront his past through Elena and, to his displeased surprise, Damon.

Let the Games Begin

An AU where the Avengers are all entered into a social experiment called “The Circle” in which they are isolated for three weeks with only one form of communication to each other. Only, Stark Industries isn’t aware that its “experiment” is being used by S.H.I.E.L.D for other purposes.

So if you wanna piss off your parents

Sirius is being forced to go to a social event, hosted by his own family, where Purebloods gather to find prospective husbands and wives for their heirs. But he has a plan: His parents can’t marry him off if he shows up with a date on his arm. And they absolutely cannot marry him off if that date is a bloke (hopefully). It just so happens that James is his only viable option, resulting in a night of faking a relationship to Sirius’ entire family and a bunch of other Purebloods.

Uncle Wolf and Auntie Witch

Lizzie and Josie know about the merge. Liv can’t stay away anymore, and so she and Tyler leave the safety of their newfound contentment and go back to Mystic Falls so that she can help them. Only for them to arrive right in the middle of a Malivore monster invasion.

The Great Magic(less) Bake-Off

As a distraction for the students remaining at the Salvatore School for the holidays, Caroline and Alaric decide to host a series of friendly competitions. Hope is less than thrilled when she’s not only made to take part, but also paired up with Penelope, who is equally as dismayed about the entire situation.

Dear Past, I miss you

Pre-Legacies, when Hope’s room goes on fire and she loses nearly everything she owned, she loses control and hides in her temporary room (Caroline’s old one). In it, she finds a box of unopened letters that Freya had passed along in case Hope wanted them. All from her mom, addressed to her dad.

Were in the woods

Set just after 3A but Boyd and Erica are alive. Erica is wandering the woods during a full moon and comes across a coyote with bright blue eyes. She swears they’re some kind of werewolf, like her, and so she keeps coming back, trying to figure them out, and accidentally ends up solving a murder and a missing person’s case in the process.

First Wizarding War (to be changed)

Begins before the Order finds out that Voldemort is after Harry, before Lily and James are forced into hiding, before Harry is even born; one action completely changes the outcome. Petunia kills Vernon, in self-defence. It’s a burst of magic, she doesn’t know how or why, but it’s brief. With no one else to turn to, she turns to Lily. And with their bond quickly becoming restored in a few short weeks, when the prophecy is revealed, Petunia insists that they make her their secret keeper. In order to keep her safe, Dumbledore hides her and Dudley. They stay on the grounds of Hogwarts, undetected by the students, and from there, Voldemort’s plans are hang in the balance.

The Speedster & The Spider

All of the Avengers are alive, and they see a broadcast of an attack on Venice. Remembering where Peter’s field trip is, Pietro runs off to help — and thus breaking the Sokovia Accords. Again.

are we just a stepping stone?

It’s a late June night in 1978, and neither James nor Peter can sleep. James knows something is wrong. When he finally confronts Peter, the truth spills out about what Dumbledore has been planning. Now the Marauders need to find a way out without anyone getting hurt.

Always In the Closet

It’s the day of Lily’s wedding, and of course all four of the Marauders are there to support her and celebrate with her. Two of them just happen to be a bit distracted elsewhere.

And I’m not sorry for myself

A glimpse at life growing up in Ottery St. Catchpole for the Weasleys, Diggorys, and Lovegoods; from when they were kids, to starting Hogwarts, to the death of Luna’s mum, to the end of the line.

Why McGonagall banned Gryffindor Common Room parties

A series of parties held in the Gryffindor common room throughout the Marauders’ years at Hogwarts, ranging from explosions to snogging (and more).

Crash back into you

After Tracy’s face is in every newspaper across the UK for being seen with Sean Godfrey, Crash gets back in touch with her, and they restore their old friendship while Jess gets to bond with him, and it feels like another piece of their family has been found.

Wedding Disaster

Tracy can’t figure out how to fix Mike and Fiona’s wedding when it starts to turn to chaos, only for a few surprising guests to show up right when she needs them most. With Crash, Jackie, and Justine there to help, they manage to save the wedding — barely.

#ask games #fanfiction asks #harry potter #mcu #legacies #the vampire diaries #please absolutely help me ou if you want to!!#I’m desperately hoping this will help

7 notes · View notes

arecomicsevengood · 4 years

Text

Watching Movies In Self-Isolation, Part Two

L’Assassin Habite Au Rue 21 (1942), dir. Henri-Georges Clouzot. Clouzot is better known for directing The Wages Of Fear (the movie William Friedkin remade as Sorcerer) and Diabolique, but this is the first movie he directed. It’s a pretty effective comedy, as well as an Agatha Christie style murder-mystery thriller. It’s really cool to watch these things that feel like they are just “movies,” before a bunch of genre conventions got built up and put in place. This one’s also eighty minutes long, super-short. The premise of the movie is there’s a serial killer on the loose, leaving a business card on every dead body. A dude passes along to the police that he found a stash of the business cards in the attic of a boarding house, so the killer must live there. A police officer goes undercover as a priest moving into the boarding house to investigate the residents. His wife, an aspiring singer, has made a bet with him she can solve the crime first, and in doing so become a celebrity that will be hired to perform places, so she also moves into the boarding house, partly to annoy him. The stuff at the boarding house is basically the film’s second act, while the first and third act are more typical murder-mystery stuff, although the tone of comedy is maintained throughout, despite all the cold-blooded murders.

All These Women (1964), dir. Ingmar Bergman. Kind of dumb sex comedy directed by Ingmar Bergman, but with gorgeous Sven Nykvist cinematography, bright jewel-toned pastels, and sort of theatrical staging in spots seeming to foreshadow Parajanov’s The Color Of Pomegranates or eighties Greenaway stuff. About a critic who visits the palatial estate of a famous cellist to write a biography of him only to find a harem of women; the whole thing unfolding from the cellist’s funeral a few days later. The winking humor is both music-hall bawdy but in a way that feels self-aware or “meta” in the context of a sixties film.

The Touch (1971), dir. Ingmar Bergman. Bergman’s one of my favorites, many of his canonized classics resonate deeply with me, but he was also astonishingly prolific, with a bunch of movies of his blurring together in my mind, and even more that I didn’t know existed, like this English-language one, starring Elliott Gould. Gould’s another favorite of mine, being in a bunch of great movies in the sixties and seventies, but damn, he’s unlikable here. Unlikable characters “hit different” in older material because I’m not sure if you’re supposed to sympathize with them according to the sexist cultural attitudes of the day. Here he’s “the other man” Liv Ullman is cheating on Max Von Sydow (RIP) with, but he’s pretty emotionally abusive, just a shit to her, extremely demanding of her in a relationship he did nothing to earn, though it does feel like the movie is kind of treating him as a romantic lead.

The Anderson Tapes (1971), dir. Sidney Lumet. This is heist movie, starring Sean Connery as a dude fresh out of prison, planning to rob his girlfriend’s apartment building, costarring Christopher Walken in his first film role. It contains all the plot beats of a typical heist thing, all the satisfying “getting the gang together, planning things out in advance, chaotic elements interfere” stuff but also a totally superfluous bit of framing about like constant surveillance, video monitoring and audio tape. All this dystopian police-state stuff seems, implicitly, like it would make a crime impossible to execute, the criminals are monitored every step of the way, by assorted agencies. But then the punchline, after everyone’s arrested for reasons having nothing to do with that, is that all this recording is illegal and all the tapes should be erased as the high-profile nature of the case makes it likely the monitoring agencies will get caught. Sidney Lumet directs a good thriller, even though I don’t find Connery (or Dyan Cannon, who plays the girlfriend) particularly compelling.

The Testament Of Dr. Mabuse (1933), dir. Fritz Lang. I watched this years ago, after reading Matt Fraction praise it, particularly how skillful the transitions between scenes were, and I really enjoyed it, but didn’t remember much about it and was excited to rewatch it. It’s got a lot going for it: An exceedingly elaborate criminal plot whose only goal is to wreak chaos, low-level criminals caught up in something they’re morally unprepared to reckon with, a charismatic police detective interviewing a bunch of weirdos, Fritz Lang following up M by continuing to be a master of film and sound editing very early stitching it all together. The Mabuse character was previously the star of a silent film I haven’t watched, and here he’s mute, which is a clever choice I didn’t register until writing it out just now. He’s gone completely insane, but is nonetheless writing a journal filled with elaborate crime plots, and his psychologist is completely insane and following these directions, in a commentary on the rise of Nazism in Germany at the time.

House By The River (1950), dir. Fritz Lang. I watched this in the pre-Quarantine days, but it totally rules. Again, it feels sordid in part because of how old it is and my assumption you’re meant to identify on some level with the completely loathsome protagonist’s sexual desire and anger at getting turned down. It’s so creepy, he’s listening to the sound of his maid showering at one point. All the characters seem very fun to play, they’re all pretty cartoonish. This guy murder his maid, and then gets the idea that he should write a book about the murder when someone explains the idea of “writing what you know” to him, and he is then surprised when his wife reads the book and puts together that it’s a murder confession, saying something like “Really? I thought I disguised it pretty well.” The film functions as a dark comedy because every character is completely mortifying. Lang’s work becoming less ambitious and more reduced in budget during his time working in America is pretty sad but this movie feels legit deranged.

Midsommar (2019), Ari Aster. Heard good things about Hereditary, but haven’t watched it yet, having been put off by the plot summary of Aster’s preceding short film, about a kid who rapes his dad. This is like a longer version of The Wicker Man, basically, starring Florence Pugh, who I had heard was like the new actress everyone’s enamored with, but didn’t think was that compelling in this. A bunch of Americans go to a Swedish village, one of them (played by Chidi from The Good Place) has studied their anthropology extensively, but all are unprepared for the fact that their whole culture seems to revolve around human sacrifice and having sex with outsiders so they don’t become totally inbred. There’s a monstrously deformed, cognitively impaired child who’s been bred specifically so his abstract splashings of paint can be interpreted as culture-defining profound lore, which I took away as being comparable to the role Joe Biden plays within the death cult of the DNC.

Long Day’s Journey Into Night (2019), dir. Bi Gan. This got a lot of acclaim, but I am almost certain the main reason I watched it is because the director made a list of his favorite movies and included Masaaki Yuasa’s anime series Kemonozume on it. Does a sort of bisected narrative thing, where half of the movie is this sort of fragmented crime thing, a little hard to follow, and then you get the title card, and then the second half is this pretty dreamlike atmospheric piece done in a single shot, with a moving camera. I’m not the sort to jerk off over long shots, although I appreciate the large amount of technical pre-planning that goes into pulling them off. The second part is pretty compelling though, enveloping, I guess it was in 3-D at certain theatrical screenings? I’m a little unclear on how my fucked-up eyes can deal with 3-D these days and I was never that into it. The first half is easy to turn off and walk away from, the second half isn’t but I’m unsure on how much it amounts to beyond its atmosphere.

Black Sun (1964), dir. Koreyoshi Kurahara. This one’s about a Japanese Jazz fan and dirtbag squatter who meets a black American soldier who’s gone crazy and AWOL. He loves him because he loves Jazz and all Black people, but the soldier is pretty crazy and can’t understand him anyway. Jazz is, or was, huge in Japan and this is a cooler depiction of that fandom than you get in Murakami novels but it’s a fairly uncomfortable watch, I guess because the black dude seems so crazy it feels a little racist to an American audience? Maybe he wasn’t being directed that well because there would be a language barrier but it’s weird.

Honestly the thing to watch from sixties Japan on The Criterion Channel is Black Lizard (1962), dir. Umetsugu Inoue, which I watched shortly after Trump’s election in 2016, when all the Criterion stuff was still on Hulu, and it cheered me up considerably in those dark days. It feels a little like The Abominable Dr. Phibes, but with a couple musical numbers, and is about a master detective who thinks crime is super-cool and wishes there was a criminal who would challenge his intellect. Then the Black Lizard kidnaps someone. It’s a lot of fun, with a tone that feels close to camp but is so knowing and smart it feels more genuinely strange and precise. One of those things you get fairly often where the Japanese outsider’s take on American genre stuff gets what it’s about more deeply and so feels like it’s operating on a higher level. I really love this movie.

I had this larger point I wanted to make about just feeling repulsed by genre stuff that self-consciously attempts to mimic its canonical influences and that might not be all the way present in this post. Still, something that really should be implicit when talking about movies from the past is that they are not superhero movies, and how repulsed I am by that particular genre’s domination of cinema right now, and how much of cinema has a history of something far looser and more freewheeling in its ideas of how to make work that appealed to a broad audience, and how much weird formal playfulness can be understood intuitively by an audience without being offputting, and the sort of spirit of formal interrogation connects the films I like to the comics I like (as well as the books I like, and the visual art I like), this sense of doing something that can only be done within that medium even as certain other aspects translate.

3 notes · View notes

veridium · 5 years

Text

the dark side of your room

hey, it’s an All Time Low song for the College AU Update!! Woo!

Time for some more queer fluff and anxiety, what I do best!

masterpost // last chapter

Olivia: Hey, still down for me to come over in an hour?

Cassandra: Yeah, I’m just running errands. I will be back but I might hop in the shower. I’ll leave a key under the mat.

Olivia: Ohhh, a key...we’re getting heavy.

Cassandra: Don’t get cocky.

This must be like what people who are ‘Superb Owl’ fans experience the week leading up to the big sports game they all watch. Day after day, since the one when she asked her to come to the party it gets harder to breathe. It might also be from the surmounting happiness that she is in no way used to, that is nevertheless overwhelming. She can’t do what she usually does and hideout in Ellinor’s company, because she is just as nervous as she is -- if not more. Poor Ellinor. Their conversation by the soccer field is still fresh in her mind even two days after. Now, it’s Friday, making it 24 hours until it all goes down.

Whatever ‘it all’ is, remains to be seen.

Speak of the devil. She catches a familiar, similarly petite figure walking past her open doorway while she’s finishing up getting ready for the night.

“Hey!” she peers out the doorway to see Ellinor fumbling with keys sluggishly, backpack on her shoulder. “Everything okay?”

Ellinor glances briefly. “Yep! All good.”

“You sure?”

“...Are you?”

Olivia strolls out into the hall and to her, all the while Ellinor finds her key and slides it into the lock. She stops short of twisting it, mouth tight with bated breath behind it, so it seems. In return, Liv grins in order to provide some form of comfort.

“At least our costumes look hot.”

“They do. They really do.”

“...Ugh, I’m so worried Dorian is going to make Cassandra want to punch him or something--”

“And if the lesbians scare the shit out of Cullen, I’m gonna--”

“Oh God, Cullen and gays...Cullen and the leftist kombucha hipsters?! Do we even know--”

“We don’t! That’s what I’m saying! And isn’t this Cassandra’s first real thing, going out with a girl?”

Olivia bites her lip. Fuck. She’s right. “Oh no. I’m taking her to the lion’s den right off the bat. Oh my God, why didn’t I think of this. I should have called for brunch like normal queer people do. The fuck is wrong with me?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know the gay agenda protocol for this, you never gave me a copy!”

“You aren’t supposed to have one, Ellinor, it’s not a Reader’s Digest.”

“Pfft,” Ellinor leans unto her hip and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Figure out the heirosapphics all on your own, then.”

Olivia pouts. “You stole that joke from me,” she grumbles, before brushing hair out of her eyes. “I have to get going, I’m supposed to be at Cassandra’s in like...whatever amount of minutes is left. I don’t know.” She pulls out her phone to check the time. Fifteen minutes, to be exact.

“Well then go on, get out of here,” Ellinor shoos, “I got plans too, anyway.”

“With C--”

“Yes, with him! Who else, the Pope?”

Olivia shrugs and dances off back on her toes towards her door. “Touchy Ducky!”

“I hate when you call me th--” the rest of Ellinor’s avarice is cut off by the door shutting. Yeah, yeah, she hates being called a touchy ducky. Which means, naturally, Olivia will have to tell it to Cullen and say she loves it, because pranks are healthy for any sustainable friendship. She giggle-snorts all by herself and searches around for her pair of sneakers she tossed somewhere earlier in the week, the perfect casual cap-off to her black leggings and tank top. Whatever tomorrow night turns out to be, at least she has tonight.

Only five minutes late, Olivia makes use of the key hiding for her when knocking doesn’t work. When she enters, the holiest of smells -- Italian spices that promise carbs -- greets her first. The kitchen is lit up, and on the stove is a big pasta pot that seems to sing to her. She follows the aroma over to it and finds steaming spaghetti, sauce, meat balls, large forked serving spoon and all. Beside it are two small bowls, and only two. Was Cullen not around? Eh, figures, if Ellinor said they had plans.

That means Cassandra made this. Cassandra made this for her. God, it’s been too long since she had any close associates who knew their way around a kitchen. Ellinor is a walking bio-hazard, Theia knows every order-in number in the city, and Josephine...well, she probably cooks, but she just doesn’t brag about it.

A whine gets caught in her throat -- the kind of “aw” one she makes at puppies in the mall and kids in the park. This is so sweet.

She drops her shoulder bag on the small dining table and lets herself wander. One slow loop around the coffee table, absentmindedly observing all the furniture. Sounds of a shower echo from the other side of the suite, and the mystery is solved just as to where Cassandra is. She must have gotten right into cooking and forgotten to shower when she got home.

Olivia comes to a halt at the mouth of the dark hallway and peeks with growing curiosity...

She’s been down to Cullen’s side, during the infamous occasion she went a bit Rutherferal, but that’s long in the past. Okay, a week, but the past is the past. Cassandra’s, on the other hand, is like some mystical Narnia closet. No one’s been in, and no one’s gotten out as far as she knows. The first time she slept over it was implicitly clear the living room was where she was invited and nowhere else.

What’s so mysterious about a dorm suite bedroom, anyway? What, is she hiding two twin beds down there put together to make a queen? The more she speculates, the more her feet inch closer and closer to the mostly-shut door. The light from the other side almost adds to the temptation. Liv, don’t, this is so weird. Yet, she keeps going, all the way until she reaches the door. She looks back down the other end, silent as sin: the shower is still going. So, against all logic in her head saying ‘stay in your lane,’ she pushes the door open. Expecting the worst, like in that Fifty Shades bullshit film.

The first thing to hit, again, is the smell -- it’s not spaghetti. Lavender? Lavender. In the corner on a desk a diffuser is on, spouting steam into the air. It invites her in like a shiny thing would to a squirrel, and in the process, the rest of the space becomes unfolds: A made bed with navy blue comforter and pillow cases, a stuffed bear against the throw pillow -- wait a minute, she has a stuffed bear? Yes, a stuffed bear with a button nose and all. Is that what she doesn’t want anyone seeing? Just a stuffed animal? I have five under my bed alone...

On the wall facing the door the curtains are pulled but the window is shut, and the floor is completely clean. The laundry basket by the door is almost empty, holding nothing but a t-shirt and a few socks. Up on the wall lining her bed there are origami stars and shapes taped all over, some making what look like constellations. They’re beautifully meticulous, just like Cassandra.

Nothing surprises her more than what she finds in and around her corner desk on the right, diagonal to her bed. Standard dorm honey-colored wood and red upholstery on the chair. Her laptop squarely centered, with a cup of pens and pencils off to the side. Books stacked neatly all around. On the attached shelf above it all are pictures with black frames, all shorter than the gold, silver, and blue trophy for some sport or another.

The pictures, though: that is what draws her in even more. From left to right there are four, total: the first shows two adults smiling with two kids: a boy, standing in front of the man holding onto his arm across his chest, and the other, a girl, held on the woman’s hip. She’s wearing a pale pink babydoll dress, she can’t be any other than six by the look of her baby face and twisted pair of buns in her long, dark hair.

Is that her? Wait, shit, then this must be her family.

The next picture provides more answers: the same adult couple, only the kids are older. The teenage boy is holding a soccer ball against his hip, and he has his hand on his Mother’s shoulder. They’re at the park, or somewhere green, and Cassandra is sitting on the blanket hugging her knees in a similar fashion as she did when she and Olivia lounged on the field. No baby pink anything in sight, though, just grey basketball shorts and a shirt, both a little big on her. The third is one of her and the boy again, her on his back riding piggyback and smiling such a joyous smile, it looks as if she was about to burst. Cheesy, and Cassandra is never cheesy. It’s heartwarming, the way the boy is looking at her from his periphery, chest puffed with pride.

The fourth and final one, though, is just him. He’s much older, and the picture is weathered even with the glass shielding it. As if it spend years just by itself, stashed or crammed somewhere, before finally being framed. The shot is off-center, tilted at an angle that cuts off the top of his head, making the shot look clumsy. He’s leaning against a car front, arms crossed and strong. The washed out lighting, like it was taken by a disposable camera, makes everything seem too bright: except for him, his smile, and his car.

He looks so nice. Why does she never talk ab--

“What are you doing?”

Olivia flinches like a cat struck by lightning, whirling around with her hands linking up behind her. She had been leaning over, soaking up every last inch of detail, but to the outside eye she simply looked nosy.

“I! Ah!” she struggles, “I’m...I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Cassandra shows no sign of intended placation. “You didn’t mean to, but you did.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I fucked up. “I did, b-but, I’m sorry. I just wanted...I think I was just…”

She tosses her clothes several feet into the hamper. “Just what? Going into someone’s room without asking or telling them?”

Olivia blushes and looks away, suddenly aware that she’s standing there with nothing but a blue towel on her and skin still damp from the shower. If there was a God, he would smite her this instant from her foolishness.

“Cassandra, I’m sorry,” she can’t say it enough, “I just--”

“Can you at least let me get clothes on?” Her tone is straight-and-narrow, and Olivia can’t quite discern whether she is deeply pissed or deeply understanding. She knows what she sounds like when she’s losing her cool, and it’s not anything like this. It’s unnerving, to say the least. Though, the guilt leads her to vacate the room without so much as a word, shoulders hunched and arms crossed as she skims past her.

The door shuts, leaving her to think about what she did. And boy, does she: making a slow death-march to the couch where she sits smack-dab in the middle. Every half-second feels like an hour, her knee anxiously bobbing. Her arms haven’t left her chest, and her lungs feel like kiddy pools for air.

Then, at last, Cassandra re-emerges. She’s wearing shorts, a black, slim hoodie, and a frown. Rather than join her on the couch she leans against the corner of the hallway wall and folds her own arms, phone in her hand. Olivia gets the courage to meet her eyes, and when she does, she’s reminded of how fatal ‘disappointment’ can feel.

“Well, I’m waiting,” Cassandra says flatly.

“Waiting for...for what?”

“For an explanation as to why you were nosing around my bedroom.”

“I was...um, the thing is, I couldn’t find forks in the--”

“Olivia Sinclair.”

Liv swallows and curls her legs up against her, hands hooking under her thighs. Humor won’t save her this time. “I don’t know! I just...the door was open, and for some reason, I just kept going and going until I was hip-deep and I just...didn’t think...well, fuck, okay, I didn’t think. That’s what happened. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, just please, don’t…” she’s spiraling into nervousness and it makes her words start to blur into one another. The sound of pleading, the kind that comes from someone who’s grown up being corrected too harshly for her age. “Please, I didn’t mean to...t-to...ugh, shit.”

Cassandra’s stoic, but just as Olivia is about to break from the tension it causes, she sighs through her nose and rolls her eyes, chin lifting towards the ceiling as she does so. “At least you’re bad at lying.”

“I know I c--h-hey! I’m not...I…” as she grumbles, she only vindicates Cassandra’s opinion, and elects to shut her mouth rather than dig the hole any deeper.

“Mhm,” Cassandra hums, moving away from the wall. The way her hips sway, like she has the upper hand and most of the battlefield already won, is both attractive and disconcerting. She comes to the side of the coffee table closest to the couch, sitting down on it directly in front of her. It’s so close, she has to keep a knee on either side of Olivia’s legs, but she makes do.

“I don’t like people invading my space,” she says as she settles in, very matter-of-fact.

Olivia is stiller than a grave casket, and stays that way. “Mhm...”

Cassandra smirks drily. “If you know, then why did you do it?”

“Because I didn’t think...”

“You weren’t thinking? You sure about that?” Her stare focuses, as if she has the power to break glass with it alone; only, Olivia is the one to crack.

“I...guess I just wanted to know about you. Maybe I thought your room would...satiate my curiosity.”

Cassandra raises a brow. “Ah, so there’s the answer.”

Olivia wants to leap out the window for a cold breeze. Or escape...kill two birds with one stone, as it were. No one likes their space to be invaded. Why did I do it? That’s such a no-go. God dammit.

“I guess I just wondered.”

“Wondered?”

“About your background. Your...childhood...and your interests…”

“Snooping is a great tactic...if it’s a matter of national security.”

Olivia huffs through her nose. “Oh, yeah, okay, technically that is correct. But...but…”

“But what, Liv? Are you suddenly scared of me?”

No. No, no, no. “No, it’s just!” She stops herself before she is definitely in yelling territory for no good reason. “I’m just nervous about everything, all the time, and sometimes it’s weird. I overthink even when I do impulsive things like go in someone’s room and look at their family pictures and gawk at their teddy bear and their fancy oil diffuser and yes, okay, I gawked. I admit it. It was all gawk….just...gawk-able...fuck, is that even a word? Fuck…” she whispers the last expletive as she leans forward onto her lap, putting her face in her hands. The solace she finds from Cassandra’s discerning capabilities only goes so far, though.

Then, in the self-induced darkness, she hears Cassandra chuckle, low and warm despite the conflict. It’s almost unbelievable, until it’s followed up by the sensation of hands holding onto her forearms and lips pressing to the top of her head. That makes it definitely unbelievable. A lingering kiss, before her hands move up to Olivia’s shoulders and start to rub nice and slow.

“I was only looking for an apology, not to put you to the guillotine.”

“I apologized like five times in one breath, though,” Olivia replies as she lifts her eyes out from her palms.

“Yeah, but you panicked.”

“I did.”

“I was looking for more of a calm, collected, sophisticated apology. Maybe even slightly poetic. Rhyme optional.”

Olivia’s mortification is olympic swimming pool levels, but even then, she finds she cannot escape the desire to giggle at her humor when it shows. It’s both kind-hearted and measured. Her hands go to her lap and she sits up more, chin still tucked from bashfulness.

“I can’t rhyme for shit, but...I can do sophisticated.”

Cassandra grins. “I’ll take it.”

Olivia takes a deep breath, mostly for herself and her still racing heartbeat. “I’m sorry I went into your space uninvited. I should have asked, and communicated, and respected your boundaries. I will take care to do that from now on.” The few seconds of ‘deliberation’ are more than enough on what remains of her nerves.

Luckily, Cassandra ends the anguish with a soft smile. “Very impressive. I don’t forgive you, but it’s impre--”

“What!?”

Cassandra bursts into a laugh, leaning back as she puts her fingers to her mouth. “I’m sor-rry, I couldn’t h...help--”

“You could help it, Pentaghast,” Olivia smiles, and takes it upon herself to push Cassandra the rest of the way down by her shoulders until she’s laying flat and expectant. Rather than do as she did in the field and make it interesting, she jumps off the couch and jogs to the kitchen.

“Kiss my ass, I’m getting pasta!”

“Hey!” Cass jumps up, “do I not get any appreciation as the cook?”

“No! Psh, you must be new here.” Olivia grabs a bowl and takes hold of the serving spoon.

“Oh am I?”

“Yep! Fresh mea-yAGH!” She shrieks as Cassandra’s hands rush around Olivia’s sides so quick they tickle her, cutting her off in her triumph. She giggles and curls against her hold, dropping the thankfully hardy bowl onto the stove while the spoon remains in a death grip. It’s not enough calamity to distract her from the silly awe she’s in, being like this. And Cassandra just rests her chin on her shoulder and chuckles along. Her strength nearly picks Olivia clean up off the kitchen tile.

“Stoopp! Let me!--” Olivia gets out in between laughs, “let me eat, woman!”

“Woman!? Is that all I am to you?!”

Olivia tries to wiggle free, but it’s a lost cause. “Yes! Ugh!” she huffs as Cassandra inches them both away from the stovetop, “A heartless, tormenting, merciless woman!” She finally pivots around to face her, arms bracing against her shoulders. Cassandra is smiling so big and bright...just like the way she did in the picture. Her arms stretch up straight until they wrap around her neck loosely, and Cassandra only glows more. Their laughs simmer down into tired, but wonderful giggling, and Olivia feels nothing but the urge to keep her this way.

“But...you’re my woman.”

“Yeah?” Cassandra mutters back as their faces draw nearer, her hands travel low down Olivia’s back.

Olivia makes a ‘tsk’ sound with her tongue. “Yeah, but...only part time.”

Gullible if only for a moment, she catches on. “...Ugh. Ok, I deserve that.” They move together as she pushes Olivia back against the edge of the counter.

Olivia gasps and giggles more. “Is this the way you’re gonna try to dance with me tomorrow night? All nice and close, then bumper cars?” Olivia teases, tongue sticking out for added effect.

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, tomorrow night. The party..?”

Cassandra pauses and grins, but loses exuberance. She rubs Olivia’s arm lovingly before breaking from her. Her side-step brings her to the stove, where she picks back up the bowl Olivia dropped, and the spoon she surrendered; the pot needs stirring, apparently.

“Cass?” Olivia asks, feeling a bit left to hang, her hands going behind her and resting on the counter.

“Hm?”

“Is...everything alright?”

Cassandra nods, eyes still on her very important stirring. “I’m just hungry. Running you down must have reinspired my appetite.”

Olivia lowers a brow. “Uh-huh.” Her skepticism is either undetected or ignored, though, as Cassandra spoons the first generous spoonful into the bowl and hands it to her. Once it’s taken off her hands she goes to the second, and is equally as unceremonious with her own serving. Olivia stares down at the amazing looking meal in her hands but can’t seem to just enjoy it. Is she trying to ditch out? Is this a ditch-out attitude? Ugh, she does hate it. She’s just going for--

Cassandra hands her a fork. “I was thinking we could all ride together. I know how to drive Cullen’s car, anyways.”

“I mean, sure, but that means you’d have to…” it’s a wonder it takes her so long to figure it out, but when she does, the sentence doesn’t need finishing.

“Yeah, but that’s fine. I wasn’t planning on it, anyway,” Cassandra seems to read her thoughts anyways, and begins twirling the first bite of noodles around her fork.

“Okay. I just...I dunno, I thought you might want to since you did at Rylen’s…”

Cassandra shrugs, and leans her hip against the stove. Her forkful suspended in the air. “Yeah, but, that’s Rylen’s.”

Olivia scoffs, and begins forking around for a meatball to take a bit out of. “That place isn’t exactly child safety approved. What’s the difference?”

Cassandra swallows and tucks an ankle behind the other. “The difference is I don’t want to be drinking when I meet all your friends at once.”

“Oh, come on, it won’t be that bad. I mean, I went whiskey-hunting up in the cupboards the first...time…” crap, this isn’t a shining example. “You know, nevermind.” She shoves her first bite into her mouth to help ignore the sound of Cassandra’s smug chuckling. At first, she’s pressed, but then she looks down again in amazement.

“What the fuck? Cassandra, this is so good,” she mumbles with a full mouth, preparing another forkful, “oh my God.”

“Have you never had spaghetti before?”

“Ugh! Yes, I have! That’s not…” she forks it into her mouth some more, reckless abandon and starvation taking over. “Holy shit.”

Cassandra smiles and keeps modestly twisting and preparing her mature, normal person serving. “Here I was worrying I wouldn’t compare to your standards.”

“What, am I Rachael Ray all of a sudden?”

“By the way Ellinor looks at you in reverent fear while you explain how you get your onions diced so fine, I’d say it’s a strong possibility.”

“It’s just the way you hold the kn--you know what, I’m gonna just…” Olivia shakes her head, wiping her dirty mouth on her wrist. “Did you just know how to do this?”

“No way, I learned a long time ago. It’s one of the few things I can cook off memory.”

Olivia eyes her as she takes another bite. She wants to ask where, or who, did. Someone, at some point, had to have taught her -- and maybe there’s a story. A funny story, or a cheesy one. It doesn’t matter what kind, as long as it is one that could help her discover more about what makes her tick. Olivia’s never wanted to know every crumb of a person like this before like she does now, for her.

“Hm. Good to know, but I think I wanna know if you got the better bowl.”

Cassandra peers up, nonplussed. “What? But, it’s the same dish…”

Olivia draws herself in, step by devious step. “You sure? ‘Cause I think I gotta do a quality check.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. This is a democracy, right?”

Cassandra snorts, twisting another forkful just as Olivia is about to collide with her. She holds it out carefully, bowl underneath for insurance. “You are ridiculous.”

“Mhm,” Olivia repeats, before she takes the bite with glee.

“And this is a democratic-republic, woman.”

“...Woman?” she asks, but with her mouth full, it sounds more like ‘wuhmin.’

They link eyes, and Cassandra shakes her head slow. “You heard me.”

Olivia swallows, wiping the corners of her mouth and proper, before she sets down her bowl off to the side. She does the same with Cassandra’s, so that it can rest beside hers.

“Say that to my face,” she dares, pitting her torso against hers.

In return, Cassandra tilts her head, hand wrapping around her. “I just did. That was kind of the point.”

“You really don’t know how to play along with things without critique, do you?”

“I just don’t like double-standards.”

Their mouths veer in close as Olivia’s hands slide up her Cassandra’s arms. “You don’t like a lot of things.”

“No, but I like you.”

Olivia’s eyes widen. “Oh? Prove it.”

That’s the kind of thing you say right before you get kissed so well the world could end around your feet and you wouldn’t care: which is exactly why she said it. And the competitive look in Cassandra’s eye doesn’t disprove it. But just as she’s about to make her move, a ruckus erupts on the door. Out of nowhere Cassandra’s hold turns from casual to protective, and she whirls around to face the corner where the door is shaking from what sounds like hooves rather than fists. It isn’t long until the perpetrators are identified.

“Cass! I really gotta pee, help a guy out!”

“Yeah, Cass!! wake up, grandma!”

“Answer the group chat!!”

Three voices, all somewhat slurred, and definitely gregarious. Cassandra’s shoulders release and she moans in disgust, letting go of Olivia and marching towards the door to save it before the hinges break. She opens the door wide and fast, and two of the three stumble in while she stands by.

The boys make various ‘woah’ sounds as they collect themselves. Olivia recognizes one of them, the guy who opened the door at Rylen’s party. Which means he must be Rylen, of course. The other has a fresh undercut and is wearing a white v-neck and jeans, too well-dressed for a jock she’d think. The cloud of Axe-smelling odor overtakes the room and makes Olivia’s nose itch.

“What have I told you all about coming over on the weekends?” Cassandra asks, indignant.

They all straighten up. The third of them, a woman with brown hair tied back and wearing jean shorts and a sports bra underneath a flannel, walks in with keys in-hand. “You said...uh...call?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I said.”

“We’re just stopping by! We cut through campus on the way home. A break was in order.” She glides on through between the two others, immediately spotting Olivia standing with a thoughtless bitch face on. Or, she must be, because she stops dead in her tracks, and even backs up.

“Woah, dude, I’m sorry,” she puts his hands up, “I didn’t know--”

“Hey! You’re Ellinor’s friend!” Rylen manages to collect himself. He shoots a look at Cassandra and smiles big, “wait...what are you two doing wi--”

“You said you had to use the bathroom,” Cass is quick to usurp, still glaring.

Rylen’s happy-go-lucky act subsides, and he keeps his head down as he walks off out towards the hall. He gives a “Yes, Ma’am,” before disappearing completely.

“Sorry, Cass,” the one in jeans says as he pulls out a chair and sits sideways. “We haven’t been...uh...well, we’ve had a few.” He whisper yells it like he’s trying to tell a secret across a room. Oh boy.

“I couldn’t tell,” she replied, shutting the door and going to the cabinet. “You need water?”

“Nah!”

“Uh huh, okay,” she takes a couple plastic cups out and goes to the sink.

While she is busy filling them with tap water, Olivia is still there like a Greek statue, unsure of what to do. Jocks in close proximity like this feels...odd. Like they’re just as apt to sniff her hair as shake her hand; or maybe that’s just her snobbery. She takes hold of her elbow and slides herself up on top the counter to the right of the stove, reminiscent of her climbing escapade at Rylen’s house, only now she’s just trying to keep out of the way rather than day drink.

The seated guy’s gaze flickers over to her, as if he just now realizes she’s there, watching. “Hey, I’m Krem. I don’t think we’ve ever met,” he waves.

She nods once, and manages a grin. “Hello.”

“So your name is Hello? Is it a f-family name?” he gurgles out the last half, unable to keep himself from chuckling while the other stands wide and joins in. Oh great, they’re both laughing at her, and she’s only said one word. Can she phone a friend? Surely Ellinor knows what to do.

“Krem, cut it out,” Cassandra hands them both their cups. “This is Olivia. Olivia, these are some of my teammates, Krem and Lysette. You already know the brute using too much of our soap in the bathroom.” She returns to Olivia’s side and places her hand on the stove handle where a clean towel hangs.

Olivia side-eyes her, before the staring from both of them provokes a response. “Nice to meet you all.”

“Cass, is this the girl you--”

“Not a word, Lys.”

“...Right,” Lysette answers, rolling her lips shut and looking off to the side. “Well, good to meet you finally. We see you on the field with Ellinor all the time!”

“Yeah, we...we do that,” Olivia shrugs, but it comes off a little mechanical in her attempt to be approachable.

Krem finishes a gulp of water. “I think we had a class together. Was it anthropology…?”

“Oh, hah, no it couldn’t have, I haven’t taken any anthro classes here.”

“...Oh! Gotcha. Hm. I wonder who that blonde was then…”

“There are quite a few of us around. We have a local chapter established. We call ourselves “The Bleach Bunnies.””

They both laugh, a bit uncoordinated, but they laugh. Cass shoots her a grin, but in her Captain persona, she can’t shake her vigilance for her inebriated peers. A door opens from out in the hall, and heavy feet track on the carpet towards where they are all congregated.

“So, Liv,” Rylen dusts his hopefully freshly washed hands off, “you have eyes for our Master and Commander, here?”

Cassandra growls. “Rylen.”

“No, no, Cass! This is tradition--”

“Since when is it ‘tradition’?”

“Since uh, 2003! Approxim-manly!” He waves a hand dismissively, and Cassandra rolls her eyes and snorts with frustration. “Now, look. You’ve let Cullen get all the action from us even though you’ve been having a little escapowerade all on your own.”

“Esca...power..?” Olivia tilts her head and looks to Cass for answers, but she’s above trying to figure out the linguistics of the situations. The scene from Finding Nemo where Marlin yells ‘it’s like he’s trying to speak to me, I know it!’ comes to mind.

“You know, a randall-view--”

“Okay, okay,” Krem saves his friend from further butchering the English and now French language, “I think she gets it, dude.”

“Alright, fine! But she has to do the thing!”

“What thing?” Lysette asks, folding her arms against her leather bomber jacket.

“She has to do a shot!”

Do jocks just test each other for every little rite of passage with shots? Is that all there is to their courage? Jesus Christ. Olivia waits for him to say something, anything, to clue in that he’s joking. Or that he’s wrong. But he just stands there, t-shirt, khakis, crocs and all, hands sliding into his pockets and chest puffed out like he’s the big ol’ man of the house.

“Rylen, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Olivia says calmly.

“Oh? You think yourself above the rules?”

“No, I think myself already indebted to you in the amount of half a bottle of whiskey, the one I nabbed out your cupboard about…two? Three? Weekends ago. I prepaid my hazing process.”

They all go quiet, eyes and mouths agape at varying degrees. Even Cassandra has teeny bit of a wince on her lips.

Rylen, now rebuffed, blinks like that white guy gif. “Uh...oh. Indeb-ted.”

“Yeah.”

“Uh...that would...yeah that would do it. Wait, but, I thought Elli--”

“She had the rest of it, but she shared that with Cullen. I alone took down the first half.”

“But...but you’re tiny.”

Cassandra scowls while the others try not to giggle. Olivia only shrugs a second time, and picks up her bowl of spaghetti and brings it to her lap.

“What can I say: the shorter the woman, the closer to hell, Rylen.” A bit more comfortable, she lifts the fork of noodles to her lips. For some reason the other two start to making low noises of ‘oohs!’ and ‘uhh!” which seems to mean they approve? Or are at least entertained. It occurs to her that this must mean she bested him.

“Good one, Olive,” Krem remarks, so cheerful that she doesn’t have the heart to correct him on her name.

“I think that is answer enough,” Cassandra agrees, shifting her weight onto her feet. “I think you all should get going, it looks like the night’s just begun for you.”

“Ah, yeah, shit,” Rylen shakes his shoulders and saunters with that wide machismo walk, sizing Olivia up some more in his inebriated state, before he ushers them all with him. It all happens as quickly and rumbly as it began, and they stampede back from whence they came with much less fuss. A symphony of “Later, Cass!” and “Sorry, Cass!” with one “See ya, Olive!” as the cherry on top of a socially-awkward sundae. At last the door shuts, swiftly locks, and the quiet is welcomed back into the room. The nice, sober quiet.

Cassandra comes back, palms pressed to her thighs before she uses them to rub her face with a little exasperation. “Ugh. That won’t be the end of it.”

“Do they come around often?”

“More during the season, but...now it’s playoffs, so I don’t know. Rylen’s place tends to be headquarters, but sometimes...they just...ugh.” She elects to stand in the middle of the tile floor and fold her arms. She still looks a bit anxious, trying to decompress from the rush of events. Olivia can’t help but fixate on it while slicing a meatball that’s too big for one bite. Did that actually scare her?

“Hey,” she holds up the forked half and offers it, and takes on her best ‘Rylen’ voice, “I think you need more meat, bro.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes and grins with dread. “Don’t even start.”

“Bro, come on, get that protein. How else are you supposed to get--”

“No one ever says ‘get that protein,’” she chuckles and walks to her, and Olivia spreads her knees to invite her in; something she happily plays along with. All trapped in her hold, Olivia feeds her the sacred bite, and tries not to burst into giggles again.

“Do you still need your proof of my affection for you?” Cassandra inquires, wiping the corner of her mouth and then resting her hands on Olivia’s thighs.

There’s the penchant to continue the jest and say no: put up a fight and see where it gets her. Olivia is always ready for more playful fighting. But what can you say to a woman who was ready to deploy herself as a human shield against the unknown forces on the other side of a burgeoning door?

“I think I’m good.” She sets down her meal in favor of the rim of Cass’s hood and brings her in even closer.

“Are you sure? Because I did have a plan of action.”

“A plan?” she says hushed, “and what is this plan, exactly?”

“Uh...debating over whether to watch Titanic or Love, Actually. Then debating over the acting abilities of either cast. Then...more debate about the historical accuracies and politics that you will inevitably bring up when a male character is awful or another character is racist--”

“Or classist. You forgot classist. I hate that shit.”

“Yes. Classist.”

“Yeah.” Her smile widens, and she knocks noses with her playfully. “I suppose that all could be evidence to further support your claim. I can oblige. We should get started though, it’s already kinda late and I might have forgotten my ID to get into my dorm after 10...again...because I’m a dumbass.”

“Or you could just not go home.”

Olivia’s stomach erupts into butterflies drenched in pasta sauce and garlic seasoning, so much so her back arches like she’s being secretly zapped up with electricity. “I...could also do that.”

“What, you don’t want to?”

“No, I do, I guess I’m just...nevermind. I’m down!”

She smiles again. “Okay, good.”

“On one condition.”

Cassandra blinks and stops just as they are about to kiss. “Hm?”

“Only...if we do the thing I wanted to do the first night I stayed over.”

“You...you still want to make a pillow fort?”

Her shoulders bunch up in pre-eminent glee. “Yeeaaah.”

Cassandra sighs, but it doesn’t sound completely out of patience. “Alright, fine, you drive a hard bargain.”

More butterflies. More spaghetti butterflies. I can’t wait to brag about this to Ellinor, she’s gonna be so jealous. Yeah Cullen can eat two burgers in five minutes flat but can he say that he made a pillow fort?! Can anyone? This is some next-level shit. They kiss to seal the deal, and to her delight, she tastes like marinara.

#college au update #adventures of ellinor and olivia #day & age #friendship fic!#modern thedas au #WOOOOOO I LOVE ME SOME FUNNY FLUFF

20 notes · View notes