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moonvoiid · 4 years

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i am writing on two hours of sleep in the past twenty-four hours so please excuse me and all of my mistakes, both grammatical and overall. i swear i’m usually in a playful, cryptid in a sexy way kinda mood... fhsduifhds SO. so ! ian moon. alright, i’m leaving important links down below !! the google docs document contains his biography in a slightly ( re: no big improvement ) better state than what i’m giving you under the read more, so if you’d like 2 give something ( SLIGHTLY ) more comprehensive a read i’d recommend it !!!

( jeon jungkook, cismale ) hey ! have you seen IAN MOON around ? HE works as a SKI INSTRUCTOR (KID) at big bear resort, but they must be off their shift by now. well, if you do see them can you let me know ? they’re 22 years old & they’ve been working here for THREE MONTHS. they tend to be +SPONTANEOUS & +CHARISMATIC, but can also be -MANIPULATIVE & -DESTRUCTIVE. the other employees have labeled them THE REVELLER. thanks a lot ! ( charcoal-stained fingertips, cat hair on dark hoodies, frowning lips around an e-cigarette , distressed pokemon cards & the gleam of a new mercedes benz under street lights. )

google doc + playlist + pinterest board

THE PAST, a brief summary:

ian was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. as soon as he could make demands, he got everything he wanted whenever he asked for it and then more. i wish i could sum up his childhood in those sentences alone, but the bitter reality of his early youth was that he was a lonely kid. his mother was a rather young trophy wife who married into his father’s family and became pregnant to tie herself into the family’s empire and his father was a ceo of a real estate company who only cared about making ian a suitable heir to the title. he was allowed too much freedom from the start– his dad only involved himself in ian’s life when it came to academics and his mom… well, his mom lazed around the house enough for ian to see her every few days or so.

he rebelled around his first years of university in seoul. he was studying business to follow the path that was set for him when all of the pressure that had been building up finally made him SNAP. ian ruined what little relationship he had left with his father and decided to leave home altogether after making a massive mess he couldn’t fix. with a subsequent agreement he made with his mom, he got to choose where to live, if to study right away, and what to do for the time being with a bank account full of funds. now THAT’S the ian living and working in big bear village you know !

ADDITIONAL HEADCANONS:

his job ! ian works as a ski instructor for kids. back when he was a child himself, he and his family would often go on vacations and that frequently included leaving korea to go play in mountains of snow. ian is really good at skiing because it was one of those skills that he worked his naive ass off to be wonderful at so his parents could have something to brag about. besides choosing it because he’s good at it, though, ian also enjoys really active atmospheres in general. he likes being kept busy and interacting with others and he likes being out in the cold like a mama duck since he ended up getting assigned to teach children how to skii. he quickly warmed up to the job and he has a ton of fun working with kids which is hard to believe considering how generally insufferable ian is in any other setting.

mimi ! a short one but definitely worth mentioning because if i don’t mention her, he will. mimi is ian’s ( and roman’s ) beloved cat, he would literally die for her. she began living with them in their chaotic apartment after ian rescued her tiny kitten self and took her home. she is extremely spoiled by him even though she herself is lowkey feral.

postive habits ! so ian is truly a man of habit. the pros are that some of his habits are really, really good... and the cons, of course, is the flipside that his negative habits are rather... very bad and annoying. but these are the good ones !! it seems like he doesn’t really notice it, but he makes an active effort to treat his friends because he doesn’t really know how to express affection unless it’s within an inappropriate joke or comment. he’s quite loose with his expensive belongings and will quietly pay for his friend’s drinks throughout the night. he works out a lot, he would be a gym rat if he wasn’t busy being a disaster. he makes up for all of the alcohol he drinks by eating really healthy ( unless he’s high or, again, drunk and needs oily unhealthy food or else he’ll die ) and keeping up with workout routines ! i don’t recommend having him as a gym buddy because he’ll show up at your doorstep at four am with protein shakes and a really shitty workout playlist. he is very into art !! his favorite medium is charcoal and he keeps his drawings / occasional paintings very greyscale. he can be seen sketching the mountains during his free time like a true buffering romantic, and his future plans include going to art school !! he’s real organized with his general space n etc ! a tidy boy.

negative habits ! alright, so ian has a lot of these. perhaps the biggest one is that he doesn’t accept criticism on his character even though he cares about how he’s perceived which is really very annoying for many people who know him. he’s... how u say... irritating. he never, ever takes anything seriously and he’s always making a dumb joke, so he has this persona of being a charming flirty pretty boy who sleeps around like a god taken straight out of greek mythology. in other words, he’s 100% a fuckboy. the reason this is a bad habit is that ian is actually really smart and reliable but he wears 50 coats of shallow asshole that cover that up. it’s his thing. he thinks it protects him or whatever. he can b... manipulative... he’s just really good at lying and will never hesitate to do it. he is BAD at relationships !! he treats them as things to pass the time or avoids them altogether in lieu of just getting the fun part of people and honestly... it’s lowkey evil... he’ll string people along and then blame them for getting attached ? of course he goes on to feel very empty !! because he does this stupid impulsive shit !! all the time !! but anyway ian smokes e-cigarettes and he’s always got a fancy one in his pocket that he WILL use during any free outdoor time that he has. he likes 2 party a lot and make bad choices while he’s drunk and then do that over and over and over again fhdisufh. that’s the reveler for u babey !!

misc headcanons ! ian is a huge weeb and loves video games. he plays all big three gaming consoles + PC and u BET he hosts super smash bros hangouts w/ snacks and weed and everything u need basically every weekend when there’s not already a party goin’ on. tbh in general ian rlly likes to start parties up like he’ll b the first to text ‘ aye where the party at ’ all the time and there’s no party invite he’ll say no to. / he’ll randomly start sketching u if ur sitting across from him n there’s a pen in his hand. / he wears absolutely no colors like this boy rlly only owns dark or pure white clothes. / he has only 1 tat: a palm-sized heart on the side of his right hip. ton of ear piercings tho !! / nnnn.... i’ll leave this lil section at that fr now !!

to sum it up, ian is a mix between a charming socialite boy and a messy fuckboy.

#bigbearintro #intro #👻 » OwO ᴡʜᴀᴛ's ᴛʜɪs? . ／ ᴏᴏᴄ

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skinfeeler · 5 years

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meandering diary post, or the melancholic tale of my 24-hour completely onesided romance in the context of the human condition

[[MORE]]

i've been a member of a student organisation for queer people for about half a year now. this means that i hadn't attended an introductory period yet — once an academic year, at the start of it — but that i knew basically everyone who organised it.

after a few days of miscellaneous activities that were mostly 'okay' (minus a drunk fall of my bike at some point) i knew a couple more people. still, it was nothing like the summer camp at the end of it.

the first 90% of the journey was by train. i shared four seats facing each other with three other people, including a girl who was slightly taller and a bit older than me. she had brought a wine bottle and so it happened that the four of us already started drinking at about 15, not even at the camp yet.

we got along though— especially this girl and i. we talked a bunch about the kinds of exercise/sports we like. she was my second round that day in explaining the rules of roller derby, i can do it in about 20 seconds now with the help of the images from the 'basics' section of this article: http://mtlrollerderby.com/the-rules-of-roller-derby/?lang=en w

e also talked about gender a bit. it went all right. we had a later conversation in our bunk that day where we really bonded, about trauma too and all that stuff.

"we have a bond, i think."

that was later though, for now i was still on my way. at some point i turned inwards as i sometimes do and during one of the transfers while outside she pulled me away and asked me if i was all right. i explained that i just have a few issues and that sometimes they played up. she gave me the big scarf she was wearing and told me to put it over my head and narrow my field of vision that way, just kind of hide in it. that that's what she does when she's not well. that was nice of her.

we missed the train-bus connection because we went to the supermarket of the small remote village to buy more wine, but we got picked up by a second bus a bit later.

once at the place i changed into a sexier outfit and instantly felt more confident. this was immediately crushed once people started making (completely benign) jokes about std tests. i started thinking about my own test and the rape that happened before it and just went sit somewhere with a beer bottle to be sad. one of the people who i knew was an organiser but didn't personally know asked me if i was all right and i stood up and tried to ask if we could go outside for a bit, but didn't manage to speak because i was already crying. fortunately he understood the cue. i told him about that i got triggered and he made sure to make it clear to me that the committee would do its best to look after me if i allowed him to tell that sometimes i get like this, with them not having to know what exactly. i took him up on the offer, and it helped that subsequently an organiser would occasionally come to me when i lost my vibe, which was quite often.

but in that moment just knowing people actually take it seriously was enough, and i told him that the best thing now would probably just be to rejoin the party and chug my beer, and so we returned inside and so i did.

a while later i lost a good portion of my energy again. in a fateful moment, i decided to go back to my room which i shared with others. my new friend was talking about speed with another girl, who ended up giving it to us.

"i'm done with this crap. you can have it if you want to."

i don't have the required associations to procure anything like this myself, so i thought i'd not pass up on the opportunity.

the four of us went back downstairs.

first i was cold, tired, and dull. now i possessed immense warmth, energy, and clarity, almost immediately.

i asked my friend if this is about what i should be feeling. she told me it was, but also immediately switched to her more caring tone and that i should be careful.

"if you ever want to try something, you can always do it at my place."

sounds like a fucked up bid to get me in a vulnerable situation, but given the context and her general conduct i am certain she really was just caring about me in a slightly dark way.

there were drinking games that we played in teams, in most of them chugging alcohol fast combined with skills of physical dexterity was determinant. in my current state, i was absurdly good at both on top of my usual degree of mastery and won us the tournament. it was nice to get cheered on lots— it was cool to be in a parallel dimension where suddenly the skills i had were brought up a number of times in the days after.

i had a great night. i hadn't been (that) happy in months. every moment my body was bursting with energy. i love dancing, and i especially love dancing when weird fellow mental cases who have taken it upon themselves for reasons i don't understand grasp both my hands, pull me in, and keep me very close to them. later we sat on a couch and i leaned against her and it was very nice. every time i asked her if she was uncomfortable she pet my head for a bit, so obviously i was instantly in love.

alcohol disables your mental safeguards and this can backfire. cigarettes just make you slow. speed simply solved every problem instantly.

we danced until 0400. after that we were offered a joint by someone and we passed that around in a circle so we could sleep better. it worked very well, but by the time we went to bed, it was simply almost time to get up, and they don't fuck around with schedule at student camps.

i woke up in agony because the day before i went on camp i had a really intense derby training, and when i dance, i really love to bring my hips into it. everything between my waist and knees was searing, burning, i had to stretch and massage until i took the edge off enough that i could convince myself that i wasn't injured. the night before i hadn't felt anything at all. obviously i was also more hungover than ever before, but like, whatever. because i value a varied diet and a rigorous exercise routine, i decided to take it easy from thereon, only start drinking in the evening, et cetera. i was already going to skip sunday training for this, and additionally there are a few resistance training goals that i want to meet in the near future.

these three felt otherwise. they would go on to drink all day. it was very difficult to talk to any of them, although they seemed to be having fun though. i was kind of bothered that i couldn't talk to this girl meaningfully at all anymore at some point, so during that day and the last day of camp i kind of stopped feeling something for her entirely, which was very odd, completely unlike how it usually goes for me.

we played some games, including a quiz. my team won the quiz, but not the other game.

that night most of my acquaintances were absent for the first part. the sweet autistic metalhead i met earlier had gone to her one-person bedroom to decompress, the three from the start were apparently on a walk that i couldn't safely participate in, the others were fuck knows where. i was in a really, really bad mood. i knew that speed would solve all my problems, allow me to join the dance party going on. instead i wasted away on a couch for a while.

then there was dinner, and then an awards show. two games won (the beer game counted) meant i was called in front twice and won a shot of hard liquor as a price, thus twice in a row. very convenient for my fealty to fitness, but at least nice.

afterwards, a number of friends were periodically back on the dance floor in shifts, and the shots were doing their job. the nice thing about shots is that they mean you don't constantly have to piss as with beer, so they made a nice base for the rest of my consumption that night.

i found my new favorite pop song dancing with the girl who i have a particular unbreakable fealty to— that resultant from me breaking down in her arms about a girl not liking me back earlier that year lol

that girl would eventually do some things to me that would present one of the main causes of me at times completely turning inwards and become unable to talk to people, simply looking on and knowing my humanity has been taken away from me by many people.

but right there, dancing, knowing i was surrounded by people who care about me even if i am nothing like then, i was doing just fine, despite having quietly had a mental breakdown on that couch where everything at once played up.

eventually the music selection turned to shit and i decided to do the smart thing and have six hours of sleep instead of two. some sweet angels made sure to coax me into drinking lots of water.

"you'll be grateful in the morning."

a decent night, minus the transmisogynist components of some sketch one of the members of the previous committee did. i'll talk to her about it soon and i'm confident she'll understand how it was hurtful— i had a drunk conversation with two other girls in the restroom about it and they were fully behind me and encouraged me to do this.

the next morning almost everyone was still drinking, despite the fact that most of the day we would just spend in a bus bringing us back from the middle of nowhere.

at some point i sat down on a couch and for the first time in days, took out my ear buds and listened to some music i like.

it was cathartic and i had a particular kind of realisation.

i had spent an entire alcohol getting fucked up to music i could only tolerate there and then, under bright lights and with accompanying alcohol. drinking the kind of alcohol i don't like drinking because it's what was available, hanging out mostly with people with whom i have very little in common. in general, kind of losing myself.

i knew what i needed to do, what i can do soon. all i need to do is get out of this house to a better place, get my painting station set up, keep being involved in the roller derby, and maybe somewhere along the lines i would figure stuff out for myself.

of course, there are certain social circumstances that need to happen to me too, but i certainly can't do that while inert.

i had skipped the derby's general member's meeting on friday. it was the only one of the year, and i really wanted to attend. they were discussing attendance policies, and i feel i could've really learned a lot about the members of the league from that. debates about derby as its own reward and assuming the inherent joy of cooperation versus a dedication to structured sustained development and competitivity, or any of the ways one could frame that.

i had missed a training, when i had immediate short-term goals that i could have fulfilled that training.

the other rookies like me, and so does the trainer. not because of my ability to chug alcohol really fast — although i intend to impress them at the party we apparently have soon — but because of my dedictation, fervor, and general attitude.

maybe there is a common source to the fact that i can dance better than i can talk and that i feel i'm more meaningfully together with people when i'm on wheels than when i'm not, generally speaking at least.

it feels like there's a rift between me and the rest of humanity, but a little less on the track than most other places.

but then speed also helps.

it helps everything. it makes me feel happy.

but i know i can't actually take this as often as i would need without fucking myself up. still, on our way back, alienated and exhausted, i was constantly craving it.

when we got out of the bus and a people hugged me goodbye, i did meditate for a bit on the fact that i did create many new bonds. maybe i'll get more out of them than i felt by the last day, but it's complicated.

and now i'm at friends who fed me and gave me weed to finally fucking calm down. it's all right.

i miss my friends in london who i feel separated from only by distance.

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robinrunsfiction · 5 years

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We Own The Night

Pairing: Frank Iero x Female Reader Rating: General Requested By: @icantemo Word Count: ~2,000 Author’s Note: I had a request from @icantemo for a Frank fic inspired by his song Blood Infections, I hope I accurately captured the mood you were looking for! I’ve been in such a Frank mood lately, so this was fun to write, it’s kinda fluffy, so enjoy!

I wanna try I wanna live all night And burn out bright I want you to know What I can't show the outside It's why I hide But your friends say I'm no good for you What do they know? Please don't listen to a goddamn thing they say Frank watched as (YN) crossed the street with her friends. He was on a smoke break between sets playing at a small dive bar, leaning against the exterior of the old brick building. His heart rate shot up as he saw (YN) look his way, smile and wave.

Frank had been desperately in love with (YN) for ages, but he still hadn't worked up the courage to say anything. He was completely certain she was way out his league and even though he flirted with her, he didn’t really believe she was flirting back at him. He had convinced himself she was just being nice.

He watched as (YN) stopped her friends before they went into the loud, bustling bar a few doors down and motioned toward where he was. The others shook their heads and tried to pull her inside, but he could see her shake her head back and held up a finger, as if to say ‘just one second’.

"Hey," she said with a smile as she hurried down the street to him.

"Hey back, are you gonna come in and catch the rest of my set?"

She glanced back at the other bar where her friends went, as people stumbled in and out the door.

"Don't worry about them," he said, sensing her hesitation. "I'll take care of you," he said as he reached out and rubbed her arm.

(YN) smiled. "I don't doubt you could."

"Please come in. I guarantee the beer is gonna be cheaper here, and a lot less gross dudes are gonna try to flirt with you."

"But you're still gonna flirt with me, aren't you?"

Frank blushed a little and tried to hide it by putting on a look of offense. "Are you calling me gross?" He laughed.

"Definitely not," she laughed back.

He put out his cigarette under his shoe and threw his arm around her shoulder guiding her into the grungy bar. Tonight's our night Just don't hurt me, don't hurt me I'll give you my heart Tonight's our night Just don't hate me, don't hate me For taking your light (YN) found a spot at the bar and ordered a beer as Frank made his way back to the stage. Frank had invited her to this performance after she had already made plans with her friends. She suggested they all go to his show, but no one was interested. When she saw him outside the bar, she knew she couldn’t let him down. Frank was who she wanted to spend her night with. If she was being completely honest with herself, Frank was who she wanted to spend all her nights with.

"Ok, the next one is for a girl who I hope will maybe one day take a chance with a guy like me. It's by ABBA," the crowd groaned and booed, and Frank laughed. "I'm just fuckin with you, it's called 'Blood Infections'."

As he started playing the song, his words reverberated around (YN)'s mind. She and Frank had been friends for a while and flirted less than subtly with each other, but whenever she thought about maybe asking him out, she wondered what her friends would think of the punk that she had feelings for. They'd never give him a chance, they'd never look past the tattoos and get to know the sweet, dog loving musician she knew.

Then she heard the words to the song. The desperation. The longing. The vulnerability. When the song was over, she was on her feet cheering for Frank. His eyes met hers and she grinned at him again, her heart fluttering. It was time to make a change. I need a love I want enough to keep my thirst satisfied I wanna take your hand Make you understand my side Our kind But I know it’s hard for you to let go of the world that you knew Please just close your eyes We’re better off this way When he finished his last song of the night and came off stage, Frank found (YN) at the bar.

"So, what did you think?"

"Frank, you're incredible, your music, the lyrics, all of it."

"What did you think of 'Blood Infections'?" He asked apprehensively

Before (YN) could answer, the door of the bar banged open and a couple of her very intoxicated friends tumbled in.

"(YN), oh my God there you are! We thought that dude you were talking to kidnapped you or something!"

"You mean my friend Frank, who is literally right here?" She snapped back.

One of them came up to (YN) and pulled her away from Frank and whispered loudly in her ear "He's all greasy and gross, you don't like him, do you? Like just wink and I'll lie and say there's an emergency to get you out."

"No," (YN) said shaking her head. "I don't want to go back out with you guys. You're a mess and I like Frank. Just go away, leave me alone."

"But (YN)," her other friend whined. "We wanted to get drunk with you! And see if we could find some cute guys!"

"I found one, good luck to you guys," (YN) replied turning her back on her friends and facing Frank. The scorned women left the bar, whining and huffing the whole way about how lame and weird (YN) had become lately.

"You think I'm cute?" Frank asked with a smirk.

(YN) tried to look casual, but she was blushing. "I mean, that’s what I said, didn’t I? So, umm, since I told my friends to get lost, can you help me get home safe?"

"Are you sure you wanna go home now? Because I think the night has only just begun," he replied looking at (YN) hopefully.

"What do you have in mind, Iero?" Tonight's our night So don't hate me, trust in me I'll show you my world Tonight's our night So don't hurt me, don't hurt me I'm so scared of what's to come Frank put his guitar in his car and then offered (YN) his hand. "Our next stop awaits."

(YN) took his hand and he led the way up the street. "And where exactly is the next stop?"

"You'll see."

After a few blocks, they arrived outside a tattoo parlor.

"I already had an appointment tonight, you don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," she said intrigued as she followed him into the shop. The tattoo artist named Aaron greeted Frank warmly and asked what he wanted to get done.

"I dunno, I was jonesing to get something done, but I dunno what.” He paused and thought for a moment. “(YN), what's your favorite flower?"

"Oh, umm, I don't even know what they're called. Hang on," she replied as she started searching online. "These," she said holding up her phone. "White anemone, with the black in the middle."

"There we go," Frank said to Aaron.

"Alright, I'll sketch it out and be right back."

"Wait," (YN) said. Both men turned to look at her. "I want it too."

"Sure, I got time," Aaron said. "I'll be right back."

Frank turned to (YN), eyes lit up. "You want to get matching tattoos?"

"Yea, I do. Let’s do this.” In the dark, in the dark, no one hides but me In the dark, in the dark, no one gets away We own the night

Frank went first, finding a small space on his arm for the flower. It was quick and easy, and he didn’t even flinch. (YN) had been considering her own tattoo since she set her eyes on Frank’s, but when she got in the chair, Frank could tell she was nervous. Frank took her hand and kept her distracted.

“Oh wow, its beautiful,” she murmured softly when it was complete.

“You guys are all set.” Aaron said and you went back up to the front of the store. (YN) reached for her purse.

“Don’t worry, I got them both,” Frank said.

“No, you don’t have to, it was my idea-"

“Nope,” he insisted taking out his wallet.

(YN) decided to stop arguing and let him pay. They walked out of the tattoo parlor, hand in hand.and Frank suggested getting a midnight snack.

“Ok, but I’m buying,” (YN) insisted.

Frank lead the way to a late-night food truck that was parked nearby and they each got a burrito and sat down on the edge of a fountain that was lit up as the water bubbled through it, a pale glow cast across them as they ate.

“Frank, I just want you to know how much fun I’m having tonight. Like this is so much better than watching my friends get wasted in an awful bar with awful music again.”

“I’m glad,” he said with a warm, genuine smile. “so uh, you never told me what you thought of Blood Infections',” he replied distracting himself with his food.

“It was great. The passion and the desire, it was incredible. And any girl who you write a song for is incredibly lucky and should realize what’s been in front of her all along,” she said looking up at Frank.

“(YN), I-” he started quietly.

“Frank I really like you. Like a lot. And I was too scared what others might say before and now I’m not. I’d pick you over anyone, any day, Frank. I hope you feel the same way.”

“Yea, yea I really do,” he said nodding emphatically, almost feeling like he could cry tears of joy. He reached out and ran his hand over her cheek and she leaned in. He met her halfway as their lips pressed together.

Everything else melted away, nothing and no one else mattered. All either of them cared about was the other and they didn’t care who knew. When they pulled apart, they were both grinning and blushing like kids. They finished their food and then headed hand in hand back to Frank’s car.

Every night's our night So stay with me, be with me 'Til the end of this world Every night's our night So stay with me, be with me Until the end of this world

Frank parked in front of (YN)’s building and turned to face her. “I’m really glad you decided to come to my show tonight.”

“I’m really glad too, probably the best decision I’ve made in a long time. You wanna come up?” She asked, motioning to her apartment.

Frank stammered for a moment, wondering how to respond. “Yea, sure,” finally escaped his mouth.

They made their way up to her apartment and she let them in. She had was glad she had cleaned up recently, as she had not foreseen bringing Frank over when she left for the night.

She sat down on the couch and pulled her shoes off her aching feet as Frank sat down next to her. They fell back into their conversation about bands they wanted to see live and restaurants that they recommended to each other, and how soon (YN) could get her next tattoo. The conversation only interrupted by moments of making out with each other.

(YN) couldn’t believe that this night had changed her whole life for the better, but she was ecstatic. Frank couldn’t believe his luck, that he took a chance inviting her to his show, in writing that song, and performing it and now she was his.

As the sun began to rise, they were asleep on the couch, wrapped in each other’s arms, exactly where they each wanted to be.

We own the night

Masterlist

#we own the night #frank iero x reader #frank iero fanfic #frank iero fan fic #frank iero imagine #my chemical romance fan fic #my chemical romance fan fiction #frank iero fan fiction

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curiouskrp · 5 years

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“WELCOMING APT 5B TENANT, KIM YANI !

INFORMATION

age – 25 pronouns – she/her occupation – gs25 night manager moved into treehouse – six months ago

PERSONALITY: ISFP, THE ADVENTURER

positive –

artistic / passionate, obsessive, curious, imaginative, creative - over the years there have been many adjectives used to pinpoint yani’s ferocious obsession with the aesthetic, with knowledge and beauty. from painting to literature, film to sculpting, she’s busied overeager hands with innumerable past times. a bout of interest in sewing left over enthusiastic fingertips tinged in bloodied pinpricks, a season of interest in ceramics caked her nails in clay, a mishap with glassblowing burned her trachea and she lost her voice for a month. her home is her workspace now, awash in warm colors and soft sketched lines, photographs strung up on the walls to examine with less tired eyes later - she’ll exhaust herself otherwise, staring at her work until a hypercritical eye begins to pick apart every minute detail, every miniscule flaw. her medium of choice in the moment, and for quite some time now has been photography, both digital and film. she works mostly with still images but has embarked on some video components. she has had her art in a few minor installations and featured in gallery shows, but has never had her own exhibit or show.

charming / the most necessary to her success as both an artist and as a human being is the fact that yani is innately charming. warm, open, and bright she has an energy that is hard to resist. this is half by design, motivated by an obsessive need to be liked, which has prompted her to cultivate a sharp sense of humor and a dry wit to match. playful, hyperbolic, and creative, she can be a blast at parties or when in a group where she is able to play off the jokes and comments of others. however, leave her to her own devices in a one on one setting and she’s much more laid back and easy-going, preferring to let others steer the conversation. she’s got an easy grace and brightness to her disposition even when she falls into the macabre or dark, tinging it with a sense of humor.

negative –

unpredictable / yani is not the friend you call at two in the morning for help, unless you’re looking to get really trashed and/or are okay with being left on read until a bleary and misspelled “sup?” at 4am. it isn’t intentional. yani is a slave to her emotions, moods and whims taking over each step of her life as she allows circumstance to pull her rough and tumble through the narration of her story. she seems almost a slave to impulse, which she may grandiose-ly chalk up to “leaving things up to fate” but in actuality is an effort to remove agency from her own hands due to a paralyzing fear of making weighty decisions. while she finds herself empathically able to relate to and understand the needs, fears, and motives of others, she can easily become overwhelmed with this perceived information and find herself retreating without warning, lest she fail them in some way. her presence in life is both unpredictable and routine - she’ll flit in and out like a butterfly, appearing briefly to leave a mark before she retreats away again, always acting as if no time has passed. her personal moods are just as mercurial, vacillating wildly throughout the course of the day, or even across a number of hours. quick to anger and quicker still to apologize, she’s prone to impulse and erratic behavior that can be off-putting to those who prefer someone more stable and grounded.

fluctuating self esteem / if you’re being kind, you’ll describe yani as sensitive. a bit empathic, too easily swayed by the emotions and feedback of others. she has a distinct lack of guard up against the world, for all her fronting to appear otherwise. the jaded exterior lasts for only a moment before it’s smashed by the reality of a girl with a heart on her sleeve. she wields a biting tongue against this like a lackluster defense mechanism, as if verbally lashing out at others can counteract how easily, how readily she can be hurt by them. while yani would often rather die than verbally express her feelings, fears, concerns, or worries in any real way, they’re very easily apparent even to the untrained eye. it frustrates her, how easily other people can read her ups and downs, of which there are many. she vacillates between an obsessive egotistical pride in herself and a damaging, truly deep set self loathing that eats up her insides. in reality she has no idea what she thinks about herself, if she’s proud or not, and pulls all of her validation (as meager as it is) from external sources. thus, her self worth is immensely predicated on the actions, thoughts, and expression of those around her, leaving her incredibly vulnerable despite a veneer of a “devil may care” attitude that, in fact, persists long after the ruse is up.

HAUNT

how many ways can yani answer the question?

is she haunted by her own failures? by choking in the middle of the entrance exams for university, clutching her chest in a violent panic attack in the bathroom and leaving with the test unfinished, summarily ruining her chances for higher education in the country of her birth that year? is she haunted by wasting her teenage years on booze and cigarettes and skateboards? is she haunted by pining after men and women that would never want her the way she wanted them, who relegated her to her childhood past of knobby knees and awkward limbs and dirt smudged cheeks, sunburnt and freckled from the sun that crested over the mountains? is she haunted by the death of the one man who professed to love her, by the knowledge that she’d settled for him, had never been able to return the love he so generously gave her? is she haunted by the fear that she’d squandered her one chance of love and now it was summarily too late, and he was too far and too permanently gone, and she would now be punished for her ingratitude with years of nothing? is she haunted by her own propensity to run from the inevitable, to escape to distant locations only to realize her problems were still hers whether she be in paris or london or seoul?

it’s hard to say.

maybe, in the end, yani is haunted by herself.

HISTORY

i. birth is an uneventful affair. she isn’t a planned baby but she isn’t unwelcome either, youngest of three by enough years that her older brothers dote on her in the abstract but aren’t really fans of actually having her around. it’s sort of a theme. her mother hires a nanny and goes back to work immediately - she took time off with the boys and she’s not willing to do it again. her father is as distant as he was with the elder two, unsurprisingly.

yani grows up this way, chasing after affection and attention, calling out for the same things that were doled out to the other two so easily. she wants her brothers to play with her - dolls or tag, she’s not picky, she’ll take what she can get. they play hide and seek but she always hides, and they never seek, just let the little girl coop herself up in the closet for a half an hour, or until she dozes off. eventually she stops asking.

ii. she grows into the hand she’s been dealt. she wears a tan like a shield, testament to hours spent outside in the sun, relentlessly scrambling over the landscape. they live on the outskirts of a little town on jeju island, and the sun and surf and sand and rocks and mountains are her company. she takes after her brothers, athletic and enthusiastic, seemingly immune to the scraping of her knees and the scabs on her elbows, bruises on her shins.

yani feels the freest on the skateboard she inherits from her brother - or, more specifically, steals from his room when his interest in girls and his worry about entrance exams takes over his free time. in this way she learns two things: she can only rely on herself, and that she must always, always take that which she desires.

she spends hours on it, rolling through town to the ultimate displeasure of the ahjummas who sit outside the town hall and gossip. a girl should be more demure, she should be more careful, she’s going to hurt herself or someone else, they say, but yani is past the point of craving approval now. or at least, that’s what she tells herself, disregard is a shield she equips, straps it over a soft heart, hardens herself by hoping for little and expecting even less. when you expect the world to let you down there is a freeness in being proven correct when it doesn’t surprise you by being anything but bleak.

iii. high school treats her well. there are only so many other kids in town, so it’s not like there’s enough trouble for cliques. not when they’ve all known each other from birth. there isn’t much reason to come to the little excuse for a city, unless you’re a tourist or you’ve got a burning passion for the fishing industry, and even then there are better choices in destination. she studies well enough, but yani is prone to distraction. her attention wanders and she spends plenty of time staring out of the window, as opposed to anything else. but she’s clever, and when she does apply herself she catches up just fine.

there’s a certain sadness to a decaying rural town, and the older yani gets the heavier it weighs on her, this realization that there are no opportunities here, that the only chance for a viable future any of them have exists in some ephemeral elsewhere always slightly out of reach. it’s the cycle of poverty in action - the jobs are manual labor or hardly impressive, few remain in the town, the aging population is setting the community up to collapse in on itself, but what is anyone able to do about it? so they drink or they fuck or they whine about it, anything to carry on the way they always have. from this town yani learns denial and resignation, in a bizarre blend that ought not be properly possible.

iv.

whatever chance she had of success in school goes down the drain with truancy and delinquency, with smokes stolen from the corner store and beer she convinces neighborhood oppas to buy for her with their ids. she gets what she wants and she doesn’t look back, morality a luxury she can’t afford and frankly doesn’t try too hard to squeeze in anyway. she loves boys that don’t love her back and she chases a high that never quite seems to satisfy. climbs a little bit higher, goes a little bit further, to fill herself with the seratonin and the adrenaline that seem to evade her.

when she finds out, in the dead of night, half drunk with her best friend, who has never seen her the way she’s wanted to be seen, that his older brother - her boyfriend, her second choice, because he sees her the way her best friend refuses to look - is dead, in a car crash, her word falls apart. it crumbles.

yani deals with her tragedies and her uncertainties in the way she has been taught. she denies it even unto herself, buries herself into distractions. it gets harder, immeasurably, when her two best friends leave for the military one after the other. she submits an application, a portfolio. it’s a long shot, but she makes it. she leaves, on a plane, in a search for more ways to bury her heart.

it’s so easy to find them in a city like paris. in drink and drugs and then maybe even in boys and girls. she finds her redemption in sex and adrenaline and in petty, stupid actions. she is a terror on two slender legs, she is weaponized femininity and a cutting tongue, she is every bit of sharp wit and killer instinct wrapped in a devastatingly pretty package. the last distraction, the most enjoyable and the most wholesome, comes in the form of an old film camera. she buys it with money she’s picked out of the pockets of men who lean to close to her in clubs, men too old to promise her the things they do, who line her pockets and give her gifts in the hope that she’ll be foolish enough now to offer her youth to those leeches, those vampiric men that wait so eagerly and desperately to drain her dry. it’s another way to put a distance between herself and the world; observer and artist, not integral, not intertwined. she can expose the truth of the world without involving her own truth in it, betrays herself in a thousand tiny ways.

vi.

it is so terribly easy to get what you want in a city like this. there is always someone willing to give it to you, for a price of course. yani learns to play this game, to divorce herself from her own reality, to compartmentalize. she feels like a hundred different girls. she feels like a line of glasses on a counter, each varying levels of empty. she feels like she could shatter in a moment, or sing beneath a touch, or neither, or both.

she feels like they can sense it on her, the sins that paint her skin. she rots herself with alcohol, nicotine, prescription pills designed for someone decidedly not her. she wears herself down with long nights, early mornings, insomnia that clings to her, a weight that settles heavy, drags her down. her moods are mercurial, she tears through the people around her like a storm, intent on destruction, pausing for the briefest moments of calm before the winds pick up once more.

she falls apart this way, bits and pieces at first, and then all at once, like a spaceship reentering orbit too quickly, she is engulfed.

vii.

in the end she stays there, in france, for a little longer. longer than she’d intended. money starts to run out, her feeble language skills are put to the test. it’s sheer luck that lands her a job at an art gallery, luck on top of luck that gets her through an accelerated program. in the end, she spends two and a half years in france, eventually returning to her dismal little rural town. returns with a degree from france that means very little besides “you didn’t make it into a korean school” and “you dedicated your life to creative pursuits that will provide you with nothing.”

she returns with her camera, with a few years of gallery experience, with a couple thousand dollars saved and very little in the way of confidence or strength. she has dreams she barely dares to dream, thoughts she can hardly expose herself too. with a portfolio and no direction, no idea what to do with herself, for herself.

viii.

by the time she gets back, one of her friends is out of the military at last, the other long gone for seoul. she spends two months in the little town before she can’t handle it anymore. has photographed every inch of the decaying rural landscape, the town left forgotten by progress, by the government, by the future. her collection on the state of the town, deemed a cutting photojournalistic insight to rural korean poverty, becomes a minor sensation and is picked up by a gallery in seoul. it’s the boost she needs to relocate, flees the town that made her, that funded her flight, to head for the city, to lose herself again.

seoul is much the same as any other city. she wanted it to have answers that it doesn’t. she hates her apartment, a half basement decked out in mold and wrinkled vinyl flooring over the thick pipes of the ondol. she drags herself through the day to day, gets a job and does what she can to keep herself afloat. takes pictures, sells them, does what she can. it’s unfulfilling. she’s frustrated. her friends feel distant and she feels thoroughly disconnected from the world around her, floating as if on the currents of the ocean.

viv.

the treehouse offers a chance at a community, the selfsame thing she has done so much to avoid, so earnestly distanced herself from - lest anyone figure out the great pretending of her life. that she’s not half the person, half the artist she wants to be. she lives a life steeped in imposter’s syndrome and unspoken words, preserving her thoughts in notebooks and photographs, fragments of time and feeling captured without explanation, left for the viewer to infer.

#cu bio #cu kang seulgi #cu isfp

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kbstories · 6 years

Text

And with this third chapter, the fic is complete!

Only Lost The Night

Tags: Recovery, First Kiss, Fishing (non-graphic)

No additional spoilers apply.

>>Read on AO3

<<First Chapter

<<Second Chapter

The coffee comes out of the pot piping hot, quickly warming his mug and filling the morning air with its scent.

Arthur downs it in big gulps, wincing as it burns down his throat. The bad taste in his mouth is gone, though, and his queasy stomach settles with something to digest. The cold sweat he wakes up in every morning, or the tremor in his hands, well – recovery, as it turns out, is one tough son of a bitch, much more so when your alcohol supply is out of reach.

A sigh worms its way out his mouth, clouding white in front of him. There's precious little for him to do in camp – he can barely raise his left arm higher than chest height without pulling some wound or other – and most of the gang's inner workings come along well without his input.

This must be the longest Arthur's been off duty in... a while. It's disorienting, to say the least.

It doesn't help that, additionally to Miss Grimshaw's care – a duty she caries out with a gruff undertone in her voice but an indulgent glint in her eyes –, Charles has been watching him like a hawk, grumbling about his hard work going to waste otherwise.

Arthur would be the first to admit that drinking himself into a stupor a week into his mandatory bedrest was not his brightest moment. It definitely beat sitting on his ass all day long, doing fuck-all to earn his keep.

At this rate, he'll end up going to the dogs like Uncle. Isn't that a fun thought to entertain?

Even now he can feel the man's gaze on him, all the way across camp. Arthur raises his mug in the general direction of Charles's usual post, and plants himself on one of the logs surrounding the camp fire. See, I can be good, too.

A lazy salute is his meagre reward. Arthur shakes his head, only noticing the smile on his own face when he goes to light a cigarette. Drawing deep, he exhales slowly, finding himself enjoying the bite of nicotine on his tongue instead of merely going through the motions.

Maybe he can ask Hosea for one of them crime novels he's been so involved with lately. How was the author called again? Arthur flicks the excess ash to the ground, chasing the name on the tip of his tongue. Nope, gone. Never been his strongest suit, books, but Jack's seems interested too as of late, and with how things have been, the boy deserves some hero's tale or other to dream of.

… not one of Hosea's, then. God knows the kid sees enough blood and death as is.

Gaze lost in the fire and with nowhere else to go, Arthur's thoughts drift like smoke in the wind. To Jack, and how somewhere in this mess, he became Uncle Arthur to him. About that boy Kieran, so desperate for somewhere to belong it's painful to watch at times, and John, who had it all and disappeared who-knows-where all the same. Dutch and Hosea and that ever-shifting dream they keep chasing.

And yet his fingers itch for... something more, something to touch, to hold on to, like a pen or a gun or–

A genuine connection, to tether his very being to something bigger than himself. What if, Arthur thinks.

What if, what if.

He blows another puff into the sky and watches it disappear into nothingness.

“Okay. Hunting. Nothin' fancy, just a doe or two. Need practice with that bow, right? Takes a lifetime to master, an' all that–”

“No.”

“Oh for... One ride. To– to the general store in Rhodes, or, uh, to the tree line and back. A glimpse at the fields.”

Charles hitches his elbow on his knee, hand under his chin. “No”, he repeats, the low, serious timbre of his voice crumbling with veiled amusement. A searching gaze is leveled on Arthur, the kind to reveal every weakness hiding under his skin.

“Is that what it takes, Morgan? Two weeks in camp?”

“Ain't beggin' yet”, Arthur mumbles under his breath and throws Charles an unhappy look – Charles, who is currently sitting cross-legged on his saddle stand, confident as a king and entitled like one, too. Behind him, Dyani sniffs Charles's hair and pushes it around with her nose, rubbing his shoulder in the process.

It took Arthur weeks of constant work (and treats) to get the hang of the Andalusian's fickle temper and here they are, chummy like old friends. Traitors, the lot of them. Arthur's shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine, have it your way.”

The statement isn't immediately followed by action, however. The mere thought of wasting more hours walking a line into the dirt, watching people come and go and feeling their sympathetic eyes on him is revolting to an almost physical degree. Arthur stares at his cot, just a few feet away, and can't bring himself to move.

“Arthur.”

Just his name, without pity. He closes his eyes and rubs his neck, staring at his boots as he struggles to find the right words.

“Just feelin' useless, is all. Can't do nothin' for weeks now an' with the O'Driscolls and whoever else breathin' down our necks... Ain't the man I am, Charles. To sit around an' wait for things to happen.”

A rustle of movement makes him glance up. Charles hops to his feet, easy as anything, and Arthur barely registers he's throwing something until he's grabbed it. A fishing rod? Arthur tilts his head with a frown.

“But you–”

“Teach me”, Charles says simply, and all Arthur can do is shut his mouth and nod, trying (and failing) to ignore how warm his chest feels.

Little by little, the smooth lines of graphite connect, fill in blank space, spill over the shadowed fold between the pages and beyond.

The gentle rocking of the boat, the rhythmic lapping of water against lacquered wood, the sting of a wound, still healing – it all fades into the background, there but muted as his attention is bracketed by the edges of his journal.

With the sun warming his back, Arthur draws.

In front of him sits Charles, leaning back just as he is, feet propped up against the boat's curved hull. Rod and line in place, his eyes are alert and search the surface of the lake for any movement, the very picture of endless patience. The breeze plays with a loose strand of his hair before he reaches up and tucks it away.

Charles fishes, and Arthur draws... him.

(Arthur's sketch of Charles by @ISpitznagel)

His shoulder doesn't allow him to sit as he usually does, legs folded close to his chest and journal balanced on his knees, angled away so nobody can see what he's working on. The members of the gang quickly learned that whoever tries is more likely to catch a fist to the jaw than a glimpse at his sketches. What is to others a collection of landscapes and animals and the odd person, to Arthur, well...

Things in his life don't have the best relationship with permanence, as it were. He'd rather commit what he can to paper before they inevitably disappear too.

Charles asks later, “What do you think of when you draw?”, when the light has grown too weak to keep going and Arthur reached for his pack of cigs to occupy his hands instead. Arthur, who drew in his lap instead of on his knees and knows that Charles saw.

He finds he doesn't mind one bit.

“Depends”, he mutters, stretching his legs out as far as the narrow boat allows, bumping against Charles's hip. “Sometimes nothin', sometimes somethin' I can't put words to just yet. Just keepin' track of things, in my own way. Makes 'em less unfathomable, if I may borrow one of them fancy terms.”

Charles snorts, “You may”, his grin there and gone in a flash. He's set aside the fishing rod – with the bucket they brought along filled to the brim with fish, there wouldn't be anywhere to put them anyways –, merely watching Arthur smoke now.

“Never was much the artistic type, myself. Looks all a bit like magic to me.”

Arthur grins back, offering him a cig of his own. Charles shrugs and takes one out of the box, leaning close to the match Arthur lights for him; his face is momentarily lit by its flaring tip, his eyes reflecting the embers' glow.

Their fingers brush and Arthur hums, exhales another smoke-filled breath into the night sky.

“Well I'd show you how, Charles, but if you take to it as quickly as fishin', what unique skills would that leave me with?”

Charles shrugs. “I can think of some”, he counters easily, another step in this dance of theirs that they slip into on nights like these. Teasing words wrapped around tender spots and soft-spoken secrets. Arthur takes the compliment for what it is, shaking his head fondly.

They smoke. Arthur tells Charles of the time he went fishing with Jack, months ago now; how hard it had been for the kid to focus on the fish, and less so on picking flowers.

“Seems the creative sort, you know? Better to let 'em make things. Kid's too young for all this crap we keep puttin' him through.”

“Does Marston know, though?” Charles sighs. “Some days it seems to me like you're more of a father to that boy than he is.”

Arthur frowns, rubs at his chest and that dull ache that, years later, is still there.

“Well, in some ways... Can't up and leave for a year an' expect things to remain the same, I guess. But John cares, or at least I think he does.” A pause. “'cause that's the thing, ain't it? Dutch taught us to give a shit 'bout family an' whatnot but, John an' I, we ain't got the same charisma he does. 's one of those things that's easier said than done.”

For a while, Charles says nothing. Just sits and smokes, looking into the distance. Turning some thought or other in his head, Arthur assumes. Eventually: “Guess you're right. Just doesn't feel good, seeing a kid on the run. Too much of that, as of late.”

“Ain't that the truth”, Arthur nods, righting himself to shake off some of the somber mood weighing on his shoulders. Smirking, he nudges Charles's knee with his own. “Just glad he stuck by that when them O'Driscolls got me. Didn't know I was even worthy of the best damn rescue squad we got.”

Charles's eyes snap to his then, narrowing a fraction. “Huh?”

“Dutch, I mean. An' you.”

“Oh.” That peculiar expression vanishes, Charles's face all-too-neutral. “Guess so”, he repeats, and Arthur draws back a little.

“Did I, uh–“ Glancing down, Arthur fiddles with the burned-out stub, staining his fingers with ash. “Didn't mean no offense, Charles. Been complainin' a lot but I wouldn't be here at all without you. Just wanted to let you know, 'm takin' none of that for granted.”

Suddenly Charles's hand is there, giving Arthur's a gentle squeeze. “Hey. That's not what I meant. Was just somewhere else, there.”

Automatically, Arthur squeezes back.

“Point still stands. Thank you.”

A quiet chuckle reels him back in, as it always does these days, “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, you know that”, and Arthur can't not look up at those words, searching his expression for– What, exactly?

What if, what if. The distance is gone, Charles's gaze warming further as Arthur's thumb brushes over the scarred back of his hand, feeling the calm rhythm of his pulse against his.

“What are we doing, Charles?”

The question is soft, said without any idea where it's headed: a road untraveled, missing from every map yet waiting to be explored.

Charles blinks, taken off guard. He opens his mouth, hesitates, admits, “Whatever you want us to”, sounding just as vulnerable as Arthur feels.

A split-second decision: Arthur tugs, Charles follows, catching himself against the boat. “Arthur”, he whispers, close enough Arthur can feel his breath on his face.

Arthur rasps, “Tell me to stop”, but Charles never does; he leans in, interlacing their fingers in the same moment their lips meet, tentatively – Arthur's eyes flutter shut, his fingers find the collar of Charles's shirt blindly, pull him ever-closer as he melts into it.

They barely part between one kiss and the next; Arthur murmurs Charles's name with the little breath he can catch, and “Fuck”, as Charles's tongue pushes into his mouth and he tastes smoke. His blood sings, throbbing in his veins in a dizzying rush, all the more prominent when Charles's thigh slides between his, caging him in–

The white-hot flash of pain comes so unexpected Arthur gasps, twisting his shoulder away from the pressure. Charles flinches, leans back, “Shit, sorry”, he pants out, mouth spit-slick and eyes wide.

Arthur can barely hear it over how loud his heart is, drumming away in his chest– “'m okay”, he says because Charles looks like he needs to hear it, but he doesn't let go, not yet.

“Come back. Please?”

Charles sways like he's drunk, nods – presses his forehead against Arthur's, noses brushing, but his tone is cautious, now. “We– This is not wise. You need time to heal.”

Arthur laughs, more than a little husky. “Do I look like I care about wise right now? Fuck, Charles.”

Charles's voice isn't faring much better; he hums a low “mmhm” before he kisses Arthur again, fleetingly. “Fuck me, indeed. I swear I had pure intentions with this.”

“You hate fishing. Dunno why you tried to convince me otherwise.”

“... I do, sorry.”

They share a smile, and Arthur shakes his head, tracing the curve of Charles's lips with his thumb.

“I don't mind. I prefer the alternative, too.”

>>Read on AO3

#red dead redemption #rdr2 #arthur morgan #charles smith #charthur #rdr fanfiction #fuckin......... finally #i'll probably write smut next lmao it's been a while #but these boys desperately need to 👏🏽 get 👏🏽 it 👏🏽#pls rb to feed your local fanfic writer!#my stuff #RDR

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postfuguestate · 7 years

Text

Rewrites

So I’m writing this Life is Strange fanfic called Grit and I recently found a draft of a scene where the protagonist, Victoria, has a run-in with her social rival, Rachel Amber. I had to rewrite that scene from scratch, partly because I thought that I had lost that draft.

The high quality of those opening sentence indicate how necessary redrafting is for me, generally...

Anyway, for (hopefully) fun, I’m bunging the original draft and the final version below for your comparing and contrasting pleasure!

(And if you wanted to read the whole thing from the start, you can read it right here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10449993/chapters/23067879 )

So, a quick note: the original draft was written a couple of months before the final draft. I had an idea of what the scene was likely to be, but I didn’t know specifically where it would fit into the story, or where Victoria was emotionally. So the original draft was written in a vacuum, just to get the ideas down.

This isn’t really a normal process for me. I tend to just rework and refine a draft rather than write multiple versions. But I thought this might be interesting?

Oh, and I have resisted the considerable temptation to fix anything in the first draft. It’s pretty much as I first wrote it.

First Draft:

"Well, well, Victoria Chase walks among us again! I would be strewing rose petals at your feet, but I ran out of roses."

Rachel fucking Amber strides towards Victoria across the quad with all the poise and certainty of a catwalk model. And while she might be too short to walk runways, she's too beautiful not to turn heads wherever she passes.

Everything about Rachel Amber pisses Victoria off at the best of times, but if her voice is warm, her words are ice down Victoria's spine.

"Fuck off, Amber. We're not friends and I'm not interested in that changing."

Rachel gasps in mock horror. "Don't you even want to know how my Thanksgiving was? Or what I did with all my roses?"

"I want to go to my dorm without throwing up at the stench of skank. Move."

Rachel isn't really blocking her path, and it would be easy to walk around her, but that would be too much like giving in for Victoria to consider it.

Rachel taps her chin with one long finger. Her nails are perfect. "Hmm. Here I was, all ready to tell you all about Heliogabulus and a prank I have conceived in his honour, and you go straight to cheap insults."

"Still don't care. Get to the point or move."

Rachel pouts. "I'm almost beginning to think that you don't like me, Victoria!"

"You are slow on the uptake, Rachel. I'd hate you if I thought you were worth the energy."

Rachel's expression brightens. "Ooh! That's a bit better! Still room for improvement, but preferable to name-calling."

Victoria takes a step forward. She glares down and the shorter girl. "Are you done?"

"Fine, fine!" Rachel holds up her hands. "I was only teasing. I'd like it if we could be friends, Victoria. Or at least not enemies. Having enemies clogs the pores, don't you think?"

Victoria smiles her most cutting smile and steps forward. Rachel moves out of the way, and Victoria smirks and heads towards the dorms.

She makes it two more steps before Rachel says, "You should lay off Taylor."

Victoria stiffens. She turns around and glares at Rachel. Rachel smiles pleasantly back at her. Victoria growls, "What the fuck did you say?"

Rachel shrugs. "Taylor. You know, the girl who seems to want spend all her free time in your shadow? She's too nice to be stuck with you."

Victoria feels her skin heat up. "Fuck you, Rachel. You don't know anything about me. Or Taylor. Who happens to be my best friend."

Rachel laughs. "Oh, Victoria. You're kinda transparent, y'know? And the only thing you and Taylor really have in common is that you're both trying too hard to be you."

Victoria glares at Rachel but for some reason she can't stop herself sounding defensive when she asks, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Oh, honey. You're not the right kind of pretty to be so obvious."

Victoria does not need any of this right now. She grits her teeth. "Why don't you go fuck-"

Rachel steps forward, crowding Victoria. Her are like icebergs: cold, hard, dangerous and hinting at unknowable dimensions beneath the surface.

In a flat, clipped voice Rachel says, "What? Don't like it when someone pops out of nowhere and starts giving you shit for no good reason? Huh. And I thought that was your thing."

Victoria can't think of anything to say, not before Rachel steps back, grinning and warm again. "Anyway, see you at the Vortex reunion bash later?"

Rachel keeps backing away, head cocked and grin locked in place.

Victoria can only ask, "What the fuck...what is your problem?"

Rachel laughs and spreads her arms. "Oh, come on, don't you know? There are no problems, only opportunities! Later, sweetie!"

And with that, Rachel pivots on her heel and strides off. She's long gone before Victoria can think of anything to say.

And the Final Version:

Victoria doesn't want to retreat, but she doesn't want to have to deal with Rachel. She tries to walk past the table, ignoring her.

Before Victoria has even drawn level with her, Rachel says, "Victoria Chase walks among us again!"

Victoria pauses, reluctantly.

Rachel is drawing her right hand with her left. Near the wrist, her sketch dives beneath the skin, revealing muscle, sinew, and bone.

It's exquisite. And fucking creepy.

Rachel looks up at her, smiling all the way to her hazel eyes. "If I'd known you'd be out so early, I'd have brought some roses. I could've strewn rose petals in your path."

Victoria's whole body tenses, the last wisps of her delicate mood burning away. "If I'd known you were going to be here, I'd have gone somewhere else."

Rachel laughs cheerfully. She taps her chin with the pen while she studies Victoria.

"Hmm. Good thing I didn't waste all those roses, I suppose. Perhaps I'll borrow a trick from Heliogabulus when I use them later."

Victoria wants Rachel to stop talking, but she doesn't want to show weakness. "Perhaps you'll get to the fucking point. If you actually have one?"

Rachel switches her pen to her right hand, and makes a few quick, bold strokes on a fresh page of her sketchbook.

"I'm just saying welcome back, Victoria. Be nice, or I won't tell you who Heliogabulus is."

Rachel's pen moves quickly. Her eyes stay mostly on Victoria, though she flicks a glance at the page from time to time. Her lips continue to smile.

"I don't give a shit!"

Rachel glances down, saying, "That's really not your problem, my darling Chase."

"I don't have any problems, precious Amber."

Rachel raises her free hand and waggles it. "Eh. Bit obvious, but not bad. You and Taylor both have the same problem, in fact."

Victoria grits her teeth. "Other than dealing with you, I don't see what that could be."

Rachel finishes sketching. She tears the page out of her book, and shows it to Victoria. She's surprised to see her own face scowling back at her. It's a simple sketch, but startlingly lifelike.

As Victoria studies herself through Rachel's eyes, Rachel says, "You're both trying too hard to be you."

Victoria stares at her. "What...? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Rachel tuts. "Oh, honey. You're the wrong kind of pretty to be that kind of dumb."

Victoria isn't sure when she started shaking. She has to make a conscious effort not to chew her lip.

With a convulsive jerk, Victoria yanks Rachel's drawing out of her hand. She tears it in half, wads the pieces into a ball and tosses it at Rachel's face.

Rachel doesn't even so much as blink when it hits her cheek. "Play nice, Victoria," she says, calmly.

"Listen, bitch. I've tolerated your bullshit so far, but I'm about fucking done!"

Rachel smiles over Victoria's shoulder. "Good morning, Mr Madsen."

Victoria takes a quick breath before she turns.

David Madsen glowers at them both. "Everything okay here...ladies?"

There's a tightness to him that manifests in the skin around his eyes, and the pitch of his voice.

Victoria nods stiffly. "We're fine."

"You were yelling." He glares at her, stepping forward so that he's standing just a little too close. "And littering."

His kuckles are white.

Before Victoria can say anything, Rachel chimes in with, "We were just playing a game, Mr Madsen. Sorry if we got too loud. And look!" Rachel scoops up the paper ball. "No more litter!"

David glances at Rachel, grunts, and walks away in the direction of the dorms.

Victoria fumbles for her cigarettes.

Rachel says, "He...is one motherfucking piece of shit asshole."

Victoria's so startled by the undisguised venom in Rachel's voice that she drops the packet.

Rachel tucks her sketchbook into her bag and climbs off the bench while Victoria recovers her cigarettes.

Victoria is about to light up when Rachel touches her wrist. "Come on, silly. Not here."

When Victoria hesitates, Rachel gently grips her wrist and tugs Victoria towards the steps.

Victoria finds her voice. "I'm not going to the fucking bleachers. Not with you."

Rachel tilts her head and studies Victoria again. "Oh? Who do you normally go with?"

Victoria snatches her hand away. "Fuck off, Rachel. Leave me the fuck alone."

Rachel sighs. "I had hoped we were going to bond, but..."

Rachel takes a step back and curtsies ostentatiously. "Good night, sweet Chase. And flights of angels sing thee to thy cigs."

Victori snarls, "Why are you fucking with me today?"

Something dangerous pushes every vestige of warmth from Rachel's eyes. "It's not nice, is it? Being fucked with for no good reason? That's something you should maybe ponder once in a while."

Rachel turns, pauses to blow Victoria a kiss, and strides away.

#Life is Strange #fanfiction #Writing #Grit #Is this how one tumblrs?

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gino94k545929-blog · 7 years

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rockinmoroccann · 7 years

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not my template, stole this from my old blog where i stole it from idk where

you just learned a bit about me:

i am a cuddler. (depends on who it is and my mood, but generally im not the most touchy-feely person ever?? i love lovelove affection from friends/partner tho)

i am a morning person. (you gotta be if youre a swimmer smh)

i am an only child.

i am currently in my pajamas.

i am currently pregnant.

i am left handed.

i am a little shy around the opposite gender at first. (if i find them attractive/i like them, otherwise im fine)

i bite my nails.

i can be paranoid at times.

i enjoy country music.

i enjoy smoothies.

i enjoy talking on the phone.

i have a car.

i have/had a hard time paying attention at school.

i have a hidden talent.

i have a pet.

i have a tendency to fall for the “wrong” guy/girl.

i have all my grandparents.

i have been to another country.

i have been told that i have an unusual sense of humor.

i have or had broken a bone. (stress reaction in my femur)

i have caller i.d. on my phone.

i have bathed someone.

i have changed a diaper.

i have changed a lot over the past year.

i have friends who have never seen my natural hair colour.

i have had major/minor surgery.

i have killed another person. (ofc)

i have had my hair cut within the last week.

i have mood swings.

i have no idea what i want to do for the rest of my life.

i have rejected someone before.

i like the taste of blood.

i love michael jackson.

i love sleeping.

i love to shop.

i own 100 cds or more.

i own and use a library card.

i read books for pleasure in my spare time.

i sleep a lot during the day.

i watch soap operas on a regular basis.

i work at a job that i enjoy.

i would get plastic surgery if it were 100% safe, free of cost, and scar-free.

i am currently wearing socks.

i am tired.

i love to paint/draw/sketch/sculpt.

i consume at least one alcoholic drink every month.

i have/had:

graduated high school.

smoked cigarettes.

ridden every ride at an amusement park.

collected something really stupid.

gone to a concert.

helped someone.

spun turn tables.

watched four movies in one night.

been broken up with.

taken a college level course.

been in a car accident.

been in a tornado.

watched someone die.

been to a funeral.

burned yourself.

ran a marathon.

your parents got divorced.

cried yourself to sleep.

spent over $200 in one day.

cheated on someone.

been cheated on.

written a 10 page letter.

had a best friend.

lost someone you loved.

skipped school.

gotten in trouble for something you didn’t do.

stolen books from the library.

been in a mental hospital.

watched the “harry potter” movies. (some)

fired a gun. (it was an airsoft but im pretty sure that doesn’t count)

been in a school play. (it was mandatory)

been fired from a job.

taken a lie detector test.

swam with dolphins.

attempted suicide.

written poetry.