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somekindofseizure · 5 years ago

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When the Ink Dries Part X

<Conclusion. Rated for adults. Thank you @icedteainthebag, @gazeatscully and all of you for your help and support over the years (wtf?!!) it took to finish this. Hope you enjoy.>

Chapter 26

Stella had been bracing herself to enter a courthouse with the two of them for three years, ever since Scully had delivered news of their engagement. Self-preparation for this had involved two phases. One: fuck all of London for about six weeks and two: settle into the rationalization that nothing would really change. Mulder and Scully were a couple before any sort of documentation, and they would be after. Stella had made peace with it, anticipating that they might spring the actual event on her any time, that every time she came to America, it might be the one. But that had not happened.Scully didn’t have a dress. No one spoke of dates and no one had given her the address to a courthouse...until today.

“Why don’t you sleep over,” Mulder stage-whispered, leaning in beside her. He smelled of whatever he’d been chewing on the car ride over - almonds? - no, seeds, those fucking confounded seeds. “You haven’t been to our new place. It has a guest bedroom.”

“Hotel is fine.”

He hesitated, hovered over her shoulder in a particular way that men generally did not have the temerity to do. Luckily she liked him more than other men, still liked him, even if he was poised to marry the only person for whom she’d ever considered unravelling the tightly wound spool of her existence. Thankfully, circumstances had not allowed her to make such a mistake. She reminded herself to be thankful often. Forcefully.

“Why?” he pressed. He was eager to keep her close, Stella knew. On her better days she believed it was because he cared for her, was her friend. It was also possible he only wanted to be forgiven for winning. Most days, when she was feeling her cheerfully doubtful self, it struck her as strategic. One distances one’s wife’s female friends at one’s own peril, particularly if said wife has had sex with said female friend.

“I’m not sleeping in your guest bedroom,” she declared in the hushed voice required of their environment.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not your great aunt,” Stella said, her eyes firmly rooted on the hulking shoulders of the man in front of her in the light grey prison uniform. Mulder righted himself beside her, took a sharp inhale. The air was stiff and stale in the room, tasted of chalk. This must be as frustrating for him as it was for her - watching Scully testify on Jerse’s behalf twenty some-odd years after she’d helped put him in jail. Only fair that Mulder was distracting himself with matters of guest bedrooms.

Ed was taller than Stella remembered. Also, less nimble, the kind of man who might lose his balance trying to kill a mosquito rather than someone who had escaped notice as he escorted human beings to their unwanted cremations. His tattoos had multiplied over the years behind bars - all the faces of girls, and each one turned out to be meaner than the last. Stella and Mulder had both taken turns judging Scully as she made phone calls over the years to keep him out of or remove him from solitary confinement. But even her (arguably inappropriate) kindness had not spared him. Time had passed for all of them, but it had passed hardest for Ed. A courtroom was a very good argument for the health benefits of freedom.

Funny that Stella had always assumed they’d get married in a court and not a church. Scully was Catholic, after all, but somehow she’d always pictured herself in a skirt-suit set and a plasticky smile watching an uncomfortable hour-plus of Mulder pawing gently at Scully as she stood steel-eyed and stiff-jawed before a government clerk, her favorite skeptic allowing an indulgence of incalculable faith. It was enough of a stretch without bringing God into it, maybe.

She had kept her negativity about marriage to herself, had made a concerted effort not to spoil things. It would be unseemly considering. But she had tried to talk Scully out of this, and Mulder had tried too. But Scully was adamant right up until last night’s spaghetti carbonara; there was an uncommon amount of swearing, flame-freckled seething, tossed crumpled napkins and waiters trying not to look.

They’d relented - what else could they do? He was her potential murderer, after all, not theirs, and one supposed she was entitled to a certain amount of possessiveness on that account. Many was the sleepless night that Stella had spent cursing the people who had interfered with her plans for Paul Spector.

The worst part of hearing about the engagement had not been the news itself but the manner in which it was delivered. Scully’s lowered volume, the gentle lovers’ cadence, lips pressed against the mouthpiece, two hands surely cupping the phone. The worry, the consideration, the sizzling quiet on the other end of the line as Stella rustled up a response she thought she might be able to live with forever. The grand poetry of it all, the drama and Scully’s quietly feverish attempts to mitigate it.

Scully, neatly trimmed in burgundy, hair just so, shifted at the small cafeteria-style table where she sat with the other testifiers. As someone else stood to speak, Stella saw Scully clasp her hands in loose prayer, gaze resting on her fingernails. She had not turned to look at them since it had begun. Perhaps she was thinking of the first time she met him, trying to reincarnate the moment when she knew him only as an innocent entity. A memory that had been discounted by such drastic measures lived on uncomfortably, vividly, a spider pinned alive and preserved under glass.

And what about the day Stella had met him? He’d impressed himself upon her almost by accident. It had been a lark, something to get her out of England and keep her busy, but had turned into something she would never forget, scenes in a movie that only later seemed significant. The heavy stench of fear-twinged anger, the impressive composure of the beautiful ginger-faced detective, the nearly imperceptible twitching of her fingers at the table, the lanky male counterpart’s eventual leap at the killer’s throat. Stella had felt safe and separate from them all, even the killer; she’d ridden the experience like a seasoned surfer, keeping an eye on the two young kids desperately paddling in the frothy tension beside her. That is how she used to do things before Paul Spector had gotten under her skin. Or maybe it was how she used to do things before Dana Scully had. Sometimes, Stella was unsure which had been the bigger danger.

Stella glanced down at the skin of her bare knees and thought maybe she had unravelled a bit over the years after all.

Jerse appeared to be watching the speaker, but with a slight tilt of the head, Stella could see that he was focused on Scully. The others were guards, cafeteria workers, psychologists - but Scully was something else, someone he’d had feelings for, someone who had known him as good before evil. Mulder must have caught the look in his eye as well, for beside Stella, he gave an angry swallow, widened his legs in macho (and pointless) provocation. Stella knew that Mulder’s concern about today was the physical threat of Ed - what he might do if he were out, how his fixation with Scully might manifest into an act of violence or possessiveness. But Scully could handle her own safety well enough. Stella worried instead about the subtler effects - the nightmares, the guilt she might experience wondering who he was luring in the dusty pick-up joints of Philadelphia. Things you could not fix with a lock and key or a sidearm.

But when Scully stood and spoke, it seemed she was not worried about any of these things. Her voice was steadfast and clinical, though it carried a heartfelt quality that unsettled Stella to her core. Stella had heard the rundown of events before - years ago, when she’d asked as a matter of professionally curiosity and Scully had answered as a matter of courtesy. But now Scully spoke of the invitation to dinner and the subsequent date with a matter-of-fact tenderness. The way he seemed before “the voices” had interfered, her belief in an underlying true nature beneath his mental illness. She had been sparing Mulder the nuances back then. Stella had been just an acquaintance. But inadvertently, she’d spared Stella too. For all these years, Stella had not had to look at the inky snake on Scully’s back and think: she liked him. She’d been spared the pain of identifying with how that must have felt. To have been so wrong about someone.

Scully finished without flourish, smoothed the wool skirt at the hips with two hands and sat - still not looking back at them, seemingly alone in her moment, and perhaps rightly so, for this was her unsupported decision. Stella felt vaguely hypocritical for even attending, but then not attending had seemed wronger.

Snippets of Ed’s report cards were read aloud, brief and modestly generous endorsements he’d received over the course of the years. Mistakes here and there, but a generally cooperative nature, etcetera - no compliment as persuasive as Scully’s sincerity. They were going to let him go - Stella could feel it the way she could sense a confession coming or intuited a multiple murderer’s next attack before he actually crept up someone’s back flight of steps.

Mulder’s hand startled her as it descended heavily atop her own and quieted her wriggling thumbs. The weight of him in the lap of her skirt made the mucous in her throat thicken - was he holding her hand or asking for his to be held? He tightened his sweaty fingers around hers. There was no reason to cry. This was not her moment. Not her murderer and not her fiancé. She was in the role she’d always found most comfortable - observer. Someone to put in the guest room.

When it was over, Scully stood, looked at the floor and moved toward them like a funeral attendant in the aftermath of an Irish wake - sad, but relieved - attending to the memory of something she’d long past buried.

“That tattoo hurt at all?” he asks with a dipped clefted chin and a gleam in his eye that reminds her of her little performance in the shop. Scully is not even sure why it happened – the booze or the slow burn of the needle or the way he looked at her. It makes her look away for a second now in shyness - the fact that he’s already seen that face she makes. But she did not call him up earlier to be shy. She did not sit in a dirty dive all night with a handsome stranger all night to be shy. She did not break skin, make permanent marks she might later regret to be shy. She is too quickly running out of time to be shy.

She steals glances at him standing there across the room with his flop of dark sailor’s hair and suggestive sailor’s tattoo and she stammers through something about feeling different. This is true but she doesn’t mean the heavy handed flashart on her lower back. She supposes she might feel strange the next time she’s at the beach with her mother. Supposes, the next time, really, anyone looks there, she’ll probably have to laugh. But nobody ever looks there. And that’s why she’s here. She’s responsible. She’s a woman of faith. But she’s human, she’s mortal, she knows that more now than ever, even before the doctor’s appointment, and tonight she wants to act like it. That is what feels different.

He looms over her as he lifts the back of her shirt to peek and she actually believes he just wants a peek. He’s enormous by comparison, a monument to masculine threat. He could crush her. He will try to crush her. But she doesn’t know that now. Has no way of knowing that now as he traces the outline of the snake with his finger and tells her it looks all right. It actually seems like too much of a cliché to fear someone who looks like him, like flinching when you walk down the street past a Doberman. Every cop knows the scrawny ones can be meaner.

She likes him, has liked him from the moment he spoke to her. She considers herself a good judge of character and she feels in her soul that he is good, but she’s not looking for a soul mate. She’s in the mood for someone who’ll look at her like she’s a problem, not their problem-solver. Someone who’s not just handing her instructions and checking in. He is not a slap in the face to Mulder. He’s just not Mulder.

He doesn’t leer and he doesn’t suggest. He offers to take couches and asks her if things hurt. He’s aware of his own strength even as he displays it. It may be that none of this counts at St. Peter’s gate, but it will count for something when she’s letting a man a full foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier fuck her standing up. It will count when he tries to kill her too, but she has no way of knowing that’s what fate – God? No, not God, that’s not the God she believes in – has in store.

If she were going to stop him, she would’ve stopped him by now. But instead, she’s telling him she’s a doctor and nothing turns her on like telling people she’s a doctor. Instead, he’s holding her wrist firmly in the dance partner position, looking down at her like he doesn’t care about his bleeding infected arm as long as he’s got her. She has wanted to be needed in this way, has been wanting someone who will trade in their other obsessions for five feet two inches and a few hours of her, and she’s been ashamed of that desire. Then such a person appeared, offered himself up and she’s accepting. She feels compelled on behalf of her mortality. Funny - it’s the very thing he’ll turn out to be after.

It’s a quick rundown of events, some of which she’ll be forced to mention later to law enforcement or doctors or both. She’ll glare and ask them what that has to do with anything as they jot down her perfunctory details. There are some she doesn’t give. That she reaches for the hem of her shirt two seconds into the kiss, feels his tongue touch her nose when she sloppily backs away to get it over her head. That he unbuttons her pants as she runs her hands over his chest and his stomach, makes shapes across it with her mouth. They look for cause and effect, these medical doctors and detectives - she knows because it’s how she normally thinks too. But the system is working in reverse. The moment his hands graze her ass over her underwear – simple briefs, work underwear, investigate-the-Russian-mobster-underwear – is when she realizes she’s wet. The moment she drops his pants and puts her hand over his erection is the moment she hopes she’s wet enough. Effect is what she notices first.

It’s been a very long time. This might hurt a bit, she tells herself, and gets wetter.

He takes out the condom of his own will but she insists on being the one to put it on him, stares, buying time, as she rolls it down his shaft. It could stop here, she thinks. She could still wake up tomorrow not feeling a bit of regret or the urge to confess, still go into work and not duck from Mulder’s gaze, but it doesn’t occur to her that she could still avoid waking up concussed in a hospital, and that ought to be a fair oversight.

She brushes the infected pinupped bicep by accident, but when she does so, an evil little smile appears on his lips. Blood as permanent as ink itself smears beneath her hand and there is something beautiful about it or something perverse, something she doesn’t take the time to put her finger on because he’s a very good kisser and he can span the entire width and length of her torso with two spread hands, and now he is lifting her with those hands, tossing her up like a lost princess, starting to carry her toward the bedroom. Just think - Dana Scully, a princess.

“No, here,” she says and so he backs her into the wall as she squeezes her thighs around his thick body. He shows her with various little touches that he’s willing to take this step by step, but if he does, she’ll lose the nerve, and if she loses the nerve, she knows how she’ll wake up feeling nothing tomorrow morning, because that is how she has woken up many mornings, and she doesn’t think at the time that it might even be worse than waking up in the hospital. “Fuck me here.”

And then he gets a look in his eye that makes her not care whether there is a tomorrow, not that she has reason to wonder (no cancer moves that fast, has that glib a sense of timing). It’s a look that says he’s going to ravish her, take her and at the same time sacrifice himself. It is the look that will haunt her when she’s bandaged and stitched, when she hears of him going to prison, when Mulder makes his stupid, insensitive quips about ass tattoos.

He fucks her with her bra clasp digging into the wall, her underwear pushed to the side, his upper body curled over her like a cobra as he tries to kiss her neck and stay inside her at once. She lodges her fingernails in the plates of his back lest he drop her, listens to the sound he makes as they penetrate his skin, feels his dick go so high inside her that she’s sure despite all knowledge of anatomy that he’s occluding the base of her throat.

For the moment, with his cock stiff and wholly inside her, she is the threat, the overpowerer. He’s awed by it, grateful for it, and - she’s sure - fearful of it.

“You can do whatever you want,” she orders, “I want you to.” She hears but barely feels her shoulder blades bruise the wall, any remaining sense she has left sliding out her ears onto the paint job. He holds her waist very still to the wall as he thrusts upward into her and she tilts her head toward the heavens to moan. Her eyes burn and her hips ache and she will laugh in a few minutes when he holds her sweetly and still offers to sleep on the couch after giving her a pounding like none she has experienced.

“Come for me, Dana,” he begs and she clutches at his hair, presses her open mouth to his jaw, uses her tongue to try to reach him when she’s not using it to swear, digs her heels into his backside for leverage, consistently pressing the full weight of his hips into her body and she lets herself slide into the deepest, slickest, hardest home plate she’s ever come across. Or at least that she can remember coming across. It has been a very long time. As of tomorrow morning, that won’t be true, but then a lot of things won’t be true anymore.

He’s looking at her like she’s the only thing that can save him but the reason she is doing it is to save herself.

The decor was sleek and dripped in silver grey, an unslept-in bed at hip height. There was a photograph of a naked woman in a carnival mask on the wall opposite, the figure’s seductive pout leering over the edge of a dressing-room-style vanity mirror. The room looked like it belonged in another home - a distinct departure from the oaky, slightly inexplicably Asian-influenced-Americana couple-who-hikes aesthetic of the rest of the townhouse. Sleek and sexy and cool. Nobody’s great aunt would have slept there.

“Hope this is all right,” Scully said behind her, leaning against the doorjamb with pantyhosed feet piled one on top of the other.

“Fine, more than fine.”

“Thank you for staying.”

Mulder’s sports announcers prattled on in the master bedroom down the hall. The bedroom Scully should be in, would be in by the end of the night.

“I wanted you to be close tonight,” Scully said, punctuating the statement with the kind of breathy chuckle that stood for self-criticism. The days of their holing up in hotels with platonic devotion for a weekend were long gone. Now, Stella stayed in those places alone and Scully visited for dinner or shopping - a pair of regular friends. Scully no longer came to London - Stella’s request - and she did not generally make admissions, however innocently voiced, of wanting her close.

Stella spotted a bronze-brown silk robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door.

“Pour moi?”

Scully smiled, nodded and Stella grabbed it, turned her back to Scully as she exchanged her clothes for the robe with as much modesty as she could. There was a brass-edged glass bar cart in the corner, fully stocked with red wine and whiskey - the place was a veritable theme park in her honor. Stella resisted the urge to tease and instead took advantage, tweaked two glasses in one hand, opened a bottle of Macallan’s and poured. Anyway, there was no way to know if the room had been decorated for her because it was meant to court her visit or because there was no one else’s visit to court. They were solitary people, all three of them. It was part of the reason they had held onto each other the way they had.

Scully stepped fully into the room for the first time, rolling from heels to toes like a soft-footed doll in stockinged feet.

“Sentiment get to you?” Stella inquired as her drink pooled, syrupy, in the bottom of the lightly dust-coated glasses. She lightened her tone to a mild taunt in order to refract any impression of flirtation. “Whenever we visit Ed Jerse together we sleep under the same roof?”

“Something like that,” Scully murmured, untouched by the sarcasm. She had known Stella too long, had developed an immunity to it. Sometimes people could say they meant nothing by their sarcasm; with Stella, something was always meant and yet one had to be able to take it in stride. It was not one of her best tendencies but she had never been able to control it.

She handed Scully a glass sympathetically, gestured for her to sit on the bed. Stella sipped and Scully gulped...

“You all right?”

Scully’s eyes began to water. She looked at the ceiling, preemptively tightened the skin near her eyes with her fingers. Stella came and sat beside her.

“Do you think it’s wrong, what I did today?” Scully asked.

“You know I don’t see the world that way.”

“But do you feel like…”

“You’ve a good heart, that’s all.”

“I remember when you first told me I was good, do you?”

“Not really.”

She’d always thought it. It was rare for her. Usually she suspected people of things, even when she liked them. Scully stared at her, chewed her lip until it was practically blue.

It would pass. It would pass. It would pass. They had more practice letting it pass than anything else. But this time, it didn’t.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stella said finally and she meant it.

“You don’t really want me to marry him.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you marry him.”

“You don’t care if it means you’ll lose me forever.”

“What do you want from me, Dana.”

She’d said it quickly, not meaning to, was immediately angry with herself for doing so. But Scully’s shoulders softened, some long-suffering secret released.

“You sent me back here for my own good, didn’t you? Because you knew about William. Not because you wanted me to go. I need to know.”

That was three years ago and in that time Stella had gotten the hang of her being gone. This was no time to undo that, not with an engagement pending.

“I sent you back because I couldn’t do it anymore,” she said methodically.

“You couldn’t do it every minute of every day-”

“No - not with anyone-”

“But you could do it sometimes.”

“What does that matter?” Stella said, her voice rising into the tight part of her throat like a trapped scream. Fighting with Scully was like fighting with a teenager sometimes - ridiculous and yet impossible to come out on top. Stella always had the urge to tell her not now, you’re tired, you’re emotional, and yet, there was always a devastating honesty to Scully’s behavior when she was being influenced by such feelings. “You want something constant, that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed. But it doesn’t mean I need everything to be constant.”

Stella’s head ached - she shook it, rubbing her temples, sipped her whiskey.

“I don’t even know what we’re talking about,” she said, sorry that she’d come here.

“I’ll stop,” Scully said. “It’s been a long day.”

Stella drank. Yes, a long day. Scully was tired, emotional, deserved a pass.

“Can I lie down?” Scully asked.

“It’s your house.”

“It’s your room,” Scully said and Stella couldn’t help but smile a little.

She let the Scotch burn the back of her throat a bit as Scully scooted back on the bed, dropped herself into the center of a stack of white linen pillows, put her buttoned-up wrists by her ears.

Stella lay on her back until the remainder of her anger dissipated into the plume of Scully’s perfume. Stella pictured Scully dressing, powdering this morning, pretending to herself it was like any other day. She turned onto her side, placed her hand carefully in the center of Scully’s sternum, carefully avoiding the structured brassiere swell on either side. A warm heartbeat patted at her palm.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable in these clothes?” she asked.

“Deeply.”

“Want to go change?”

Scully shook her head no.

“May I?” Stella asked as her hand drifted button by button down the front of Scully’s shirt. “I won’t touch you, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Scully said.

Stella half-smiled, flicked the front clasp of the bra, dragged the side zipper down Scully’s hip and finally rested her hand dutifully on the comforter next to Scully’s still wool-crepe skirted, nyloned thigh.

“I’m still deeply uncomfortable,” Scully said, face turning toward her, the malted, woodsy scent of alcohol drifting on the air between them. A forest, an orchestra pit full of string instruments, hollow and waxed and just removed from velvet cases. “I am actually more deeply uncomfortable than before.”

“Sorry.”

Stella held her breath, her nipples hardening against the silk of the borrowed robe as Scully licked her lips at her, breathed with her whole body so that her open blouse slipped from her chest to her sides.

“Want to kiss me?” Scully asked.

Goddamit.

“He’s down the hall.”

But she was salivating, tasting Scully, the memory of her. It had been years. Scully slithered out of her clothes, shedding them like snakeskin, looking new as she lay back down on the pillow.

“I dare you,” Scully whispered.

Stella brusquely threw a knee over Scully’s opposite hip, straddling her as the golden robe slipped its knot. She shook it down off her shoulders, let it fall to her thighs. Her chest rose, naked and weighted by her heart as she dipped forward toward Scully’s face.

Scully caged her ribs with two hands, traced the black and white tattoo on Stella’s body, draping a finger this way and that in the shape of the rose.

The door was open. He would hear them. It would be a betrayal greater than any Stella had ever committed. But she could feel her entire body sinking toward Scully, melting at the heat of her. Muscles trembled, spine withered like an end of summer plant, hips rolled, changes Stella assumed would be imperceptible but Scully’s body moved in response to each one.

She reached down, took Scully’s chin in her hand -

And in a flash of Scully’s eye contact, it all made sense.

“He knew you were going to do this,” Stella said, measuring her surprise.

Scully gulped. Nervous.

“You can live in London, come and go as you please...”

Stella tensed, probably would have moved away but in a burst of effort, Scully reached for Stella’s neck, pulled her close so that she could speak directly into her ear.

“I need you.”

Stella closed her eyes, trying to process the enormity of what was being asked of her but paralyzed by the scent of Scully’s skin and hair and mouth so close.

“I don’t know,” Stella said, her pores sucking up Scully’s skin like the air. She was drowning in her.

Scully’s heart beat faster, she’d begun to sweat, and rightly so. She was gambling with her future - all their futures. Stella wanted to be angry with her but it was impossible. Impossible not to lift her mouth to Scully’s, just briefly enough to leave some of her shimmery gloss on Scully’s lower lip. She paused long enough to settle, to let herself enjoy the certainty of a decision having been made. Sometimes she thought this was the best thing about sex - the rare moment of knowledge, of conviction, of committment. She could not agree to whatever Scully was asking of her, some sort of future promise, but she could agree to right now. The moment would come and go, and in a few minutes, when they were having sex, she would have other ideas about what the best thing about sex with Scully was. With other people, this was often not the case.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” she said. “I’m going to make you pant and swear and moan and we’ll see if your fiance will come down the hall.”

“Do you want him to?”

“I don’t know,” Stella said. “But either of you cries, I swear to God, I’ll never speak to you again.”

She covered Scully’s body from the palms of their hands to the tips of their feet, slipped her tongue into Scully’s mouth before either of them could ruin it by saying anything further.

Chapter 27

He wasn’t sure how he’d feel about it until he saw it. He had agreed to it without reservation. It was even possible to interpret it as having been his suggestion. But still, he could not be absolutely sure how it would feel. And if he was going to live with it, he needed to see it with his own two eyes at least once. It had always been him or Stella, not both. He’d only shared her once - the first time - and the second time they’d tried had ended in disaster. They’d all kept things separate, Scully in her actions - he doubted she had ever been unfaithful to him when they’d been a couple - and he in his mind. He’d approached his memories of that night with the chastity of a priest, resisted even thinking about it until Scully had made this recent proposition. It was not an unpleasant memory to relive but still, it was a memory.

And now he had arrived at the reality. Stella’s mouth suckling Scully’s nipple in a room wreaking of Scotch and women, her arm’s well-hewn muscles spasming as they worked on Scully beneath the weight of her body, four rounded thighs swathed in a pond of flaxen silk. Scully’s skirt and nylons had been discarded near her ankles, and one of her hands was cupping Stella’s jaw, the other raking up her back. He had waited until he could hear Scully from down the hall, which meant that he had waited until things were very near the end, too near to undo - he could not have stopped them now if he begged. It was a scientific experiment, a matter of proving to himself he could handle what he’d feel.

What he felt when he stood in the doorway to the guest room was hard. Superman fucking hard.

He watched for as long as he could stand it, cleared his throat when he couldn’t stand it any longer. Stella pulled back and sat on her haunches with a well-well-well sort of expression on her face, hair whipping like a blonde gauntlet over her shoulder as she held Scully deep-breathing beneath her palm.

“Come here,” Stella said. He stepped up to the side of the bed, resisting the urge to look anywhere but her eyes. They turned bluer when she made love. Of course - he’d only seen her with Scully. He wondered if they did the same when she was just having sex. “I’m very impressed.”

“With my middle-aged hard-on or my open-mindedness?”

“Both. Have a drink, you might need it.”

She gestured at the friendly half empty glasses left gawking and scandalized on the nightstand. Scully took his hand, squeezed Stella’s thigh with the other. She was in no mood for banter.

“Finish me.”

“You talking to me, honey?” he asked with a slow smile. “Or your girlfriend?”

“Both of you.”

Mulder picked up the glass and sipped - just a bit because he was old enough to be negatively impacted by substances at such critical moments - and then he tipped the glass at Scully’s chest, poured it over her body from navel to neck. She gasped, body rolling like pavement over a growing root. He sat on the bed and leaned to kiss the tip of her drunken shoulder.

They settled in on either side of her, Stella’s breasts nestled beneath her armpit, his dick wedged against her opposite hip. His arm slid under Scully’s back, his hand pinned by Stella’s trembling belly as she arched it into the hollow of Scully’s waistline. Stella playfully hooked her foot over his leg in the space between Scully’s spread calves.

“So wet,” Scully murmured and he wasn’t sure if she was talking about herself or the stamp of Stella’s body on her hipbone, but either way it made him desperately want to fuck her. He settled for a kiss, first on the mouth and then the side of her neck the way she liked as she turned her mouth to Stella.

“Shall we make her come now?” Stella asked without looking at him. Scully’s little ovular fingertips dug into his skull.

“You want to come, honey?” he teased in her ear, and Stella said something similar in the other, each talking to her as if they had her to themselves, but revelling in the knowledge that they didn’t.

Scully gave a feverish nod yes to all the questions she was being asked, hot tears of simultaneous need and something else - relief? - dripping from her tightly shut eyes. This would not just be the conclusion of a steadily built orgasm, but the proof that her love could carry them all, that she could have the life she wanted but feared was too much to ask.

Their arms draped Scully’s body in the shape of a V, two pageant queen sashes - one ivory, one olive - as they reached inside her together. Stella’s finger was slender and deft against his, leading him sportingly as they found a rhythm they could both live with. Scully hooked her elbow around Stella’s neck, put her hand on Mulder’s cock.

“Dana,” Stella whispered.

The sound of her so-rarely-uttered first name made him ache like a dirty word. He writhed naked against her thigh, and across from him, Stella’s head hung loose toward Scully’s shoulder as though it might unhinge from her neck. Scully held the center with ease, the flexible crux of an unwieldy machine.

“You’re both so incredibly beautiful,” he said.

Stella thanked him in that a spare, sweet tone she sometimes used but which every time sounded like someone else, and Scully told him to shut up in a voice that sounded exactly like her. Everything slid, slithered - the hand he had wrapped around Scully’s waist bathed in their combined sweat, the whiskey sheen tanning Scully’s chest as she curled it this way and that between them, dipped her tailbone to grind against their hands.

“Good girl,” Stella purred, composed enough even as she gripped Scully’s hip tight between her thighs,. “Good -- girl.”

He lowered the hand up between Stella’s belly and Scully’s waist, bent his knuckles to be of use. Stella found them as she rolled her clitoris from Scully’s hip over his knuckles and back down, delivered a soft fuck from her lips.

Scully liked it too.

“We’re going to -- take such good -- care of you, Mulder,” she said.

It happened soon after that, the two of them in swift syncopation, Scully moaning and swearing liberally as Stella held her breath, her lips frozen open in the shape of an O. There was a rush of tension and release, sore, slick fingers, wet hair sticking to skin like a sacrament, baptizing a long night to come, and maybe, a new reality.

Chapter 29

The sequence of events was not identical but it was close. A questionable interaction with Ed Jerse that she stubbornly stood behind, come hell or highwater. Stella’s seduction (she had, admittedly, played more of a role in that this time), the precise feminine touch combined with the loving enthusiasm of Mulder’s involvement. And finally, waking up in a bed with him, snoring like a Golden Retriever beside on one side, while Stella’s side was a cool evening desert, bereft of the musky morning jasmine scent that should have been wafting over her shoulder.

Twenty years and somehow she had still not got it right. In some ways she felt they had all been through everything, moved the pieces around in every configuration that existed and she’d landed on a new one, one she knew she wanted best, one in which she knew she could make them both happy. But in other ways, she felt as though she’d been standing still ever since that night, learned nothing, come nowhere.

And more than anything, she was angry at Stella for letting her feel that way. The least she could have done was stayed, told her she hated the idea, rubbed her temples grouchily over a cup of inferior tea while Mulder flipped pancakes. Was that really too much to ask from someone she had known and loved so long?

And in place of that tiny bit of consideration, she’d left a little gift box.

“Sorry...xo” said Stella’s haughty half-script on a prismed, torn-off piece of paper she’d turned into a card.

A hasty unwrapping revealed a shiny little ivory-colored porcelain replica of Big Ben. A delicate and expensive version of something you’d get an an airport. Its base stood in the center of a small dish.

“What’s that?” Mulder grumbled, squinting one eye open. He’d lost some of his voice, left it in one or both of their bodies.

“Stella left us a wedding gift.”

“She left it? You mean she’s not here?”

Scully didn’t answer, so he took the object from her and looked closer.

“It’s a ring holder,” he said. “What does that mean?”

Scully slammed it on the nightstand hard enough to get some satisfaction but not hard enough to crack it. She knew that at a later date, she would cherish this object as the only connection to their union that Stella condoned. She had Mulder had not exchanged any rings - she was no more a jewelry person than she’d been when Mulder had first bought her that Elvis thing and then second-guessed himself. But maybe they should, maybe they would. Maybe she had clung to all the wrong ideas she could have about herself, let all the wrong things slip away into the unlived version of her life. She flexed her fingers over her forehead with a groan.

“She’ll come around,” Mulder said gently. “Let me get you some coffee.”

He was only gone a minute when she heard him calling her name from the kitchen. She joined him, expecting to be shown the spectacle of an ant problem or a pretty bird sitting outside the window or a strange neighbor out to get the mail in a funny outfit - he looked hard when he was aiming to cheer her up. Instead, the presentation involved a brown paper bag on the table, the oven-y smell of bagels hovering, and Stella... leaning against the counter in the rare odd wrinkled t-shirt, lips pursed, arms folded under her breasts. Scully clung to Mulder’s bare back for protection.

“She came around,” Mulder said.

“Isn’t that getting old?” Scully demanded of Stella, stepping forward, and Mulder sat down, pulled the bag of goodies over. He hesitated to open it in a sudden bout of manners, waited for Stella to answer her.

Stella dipped her head for a deep look at the ground, as though checking to see if she’d stepped on something. Her arms did not uncross.

“Yes,” she said finally with the bluntness Scully imagined she applied to a cold case re-opened and placed unwelcomed on her desk.

“It’s childish, Stella. I asked you a question, all you had to do was answer it,” Scully pressed.

“You asked me a question while I was taking your clothes off -”

“Because I thought if I combined it with sex, you’d be more likely to unders -”

“You thought I’d be more likely to say yes. Is there any behavior more childish than that?”

Scully opened her mouth, made a couple of sounds that didn’t turn into words.

“You’re right, Stell...” Mulder chimed, “Is what Scully is trying to say. She has trouble with that sometimes.”

Scully swallowed her pride, realizing only then that she could let go of both her disappointment and her anger. Stella was still there. They were both there.

“Sorry,” she said softly.

Stella nodded matter-of-factly, uncrossed her arms.

“Eat a bagel and re-ask the question clearly and while I have my wits about me.”

Chapter 30

The neighborhood was full of cobblestone and good bones, svelte-faced buildings painted in aristocrat white, noses in the air as people swept past with briefcases, the damp winter wind whipping chilled hair in their faces. Scully hugged herself tighter in her long black coat and little white dress, swayed from side to side as she picked a wave of red from across her forehead. She looked too perfect for this stuffy old courthouse. She also looked nervous.

“She’ll be here,” Mulder said.

Scully smiled close-lipped, dusted the chest of his jacket, tightened his tie and lied to his face.

“I’m not worried.”

When she looked at him here on the courthouse steps, she saw him as he once was, young and bitter, eyes that looked perpetually impressed and a smooth-lipped mouth that looked forever disappointed. She saw their son, the short exchange Stella’s cleverness had allowed her to have with him that day in the park. She saw all the close-calls, the times they should have been parted from one another forever and yet somehow found their way back. They were, as a couple, simultaneously inevitable and a miracle. They were each other’s something old and time itself, their something borrowed.

And Stella - though she’d met her just a few years after Mulder - was still her something new - and that’s how Stella liked it. It was part of the allure of her and the problem of Stella Gibson. She liked to maintain the shiny, silvery lacquer of mystery, and Scully knew Stella worried today would tarnish it. She had considered Scully and Mulder’s offer very carefully, very sensibly, then delivered her answer as she tore bread from the inside of a bagel, a calm voice but a tear in her eye, an embarrassed smile, a mellow-limbed embrace - joy. But there had also been signs of anxiety that day and ever since. It didn’t upset Scully, it only worried her that it might upset Stella. Along the way, Stella had become something else besides the shiny new toy, she had been for some time.

She moved in closer to Mulder as they waited, let her nose rest against his Adam’s apple, a small concession to the robust unflappability she was determined to show off today. She did not want him to feel his presence meant less to her - it was just that, in this current incarnation of her life, she worried less about losing it. He was sturdier these days, took his medicine and jogged and read novels rather than nonfiction and conspiracy theory websites. He less apt to disappear on her or on himself.

“Maybe we should have stayed at her place last night,” she said. “Reviewed things.”

“All she has to do is show up, what’s to review?” he remarked casually but through it Scully could see he was more concerned than she was. “You tried her phone?”

“Three times.”

Him too.

“I could go to her place, make sure everything’s okay?” he offered.

“No,” Scully said, her face stoic but her fingers slipping up and down his tie. The gesture brought him back to the moment and he smiled. His eyes were greener than usual here in the English afternoon.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Mulder? There’s no part of you that would be relieved if we didn’t pull this off today?

He took her chin in hand.

“I’m sure, baby. We’ll do it another day if she can’t make it. Something must have come up.”

What he didn’t say was: we could do it without her. Because he wasn’t sure that he could. It was almost perfect, him and Scully alone. Almost, except that at the same time, always teetering on not-at-all. Stella’s involvement made it possible somehow, even when she was physically apart from them, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. They seemed to need her to survive each other. And as stubborn as he was about not needing people, he was also too old, too experienced not to admit when he did.

Suddenly, Scully smiled and he saw Stella getting out of a black cab in a wooly grey dress and the highest heels he’d ever seen. She turned to pay the driver through the window, at first glance betraying nothing but her usual charmed confidence, although upon closer inspection, he could see the way she was gripping her leather clutch with nerve-wrecked white fingertips.

“See? She’s here,” Mulder said and twirled a length of Scully’s hair between her shoulder blades.

She kissed him briefly on the lips and in a moment Stella approached, tapped their cheeks with her own, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

“Sorry I’m late. You look lovely. What are we doing afterward?”

“We’ll go get you a stiff drink,” Scully said dryly with a tweak to the neckline of Stella’s sweater dress, playing as she’d done moments ago with Mulder’s tie. An excuse for contact, a doctor’s emotional temperature-telling.

“Drink, yes, maybe several,” Stella said a little more gently, as though she too had merely been awaiting the doctor’s call to feel better. A malady that eased by benign diagnosis. You will not regret this, I will not let you regret it, Scully tried to communicate telepathically as she looked Stella over, but couldn’t quite rein in the eye contact necessary.

“I’m surprised she doesn’t have a flask on her,” Mulder said.

“Who says I haven’t,” and she handed Mulder her little bag. “Here, just a second.”

She smoothed her dress, checked the backs of her earrings. Perfume stabbed the air and committed Stella to memory with every flick of her wrist, every twist of the neck.

“I hate weddings,” she said. “You know that right?”

But Scully was not fooled by the mask of Stella’s comfortable complaints. She busy staring at Stella’s body, trying to place the odd feeling of deja vu and then -

“I remember this dress.”

And for the first time that day, Stella steadied, really looked at her, let her eyes rest there in the cradle of Scully’s gaze. Her cheeks colored pink a little and her eyes deepened, the greyness of them taking on the hue of brushed denim, the deep hint of indigo.

There it was, the something else Stella had become, her something blue.

It was one of Stella’s great weaknesses that being told she was loved made her want to cry and not in the so happy tears are falling sort of way, but rather in the way of someone falling to pieces. There was only one way she could handle it - in the passive elocution. There were people, mainly men, she’d known over the course of her life who’d somehow learned and observed the rule. One of them had probably taught it to her in the first place.

“You are loved,” her father used to say, or her favorite uncle, or her late-mentor at the academy. “You are missed,” Mulder would sometimes tell her on the phone. But Scully either couldn’t or wouldn’t get used to it. She was restrained in the frequency of her expressions of affection but not in the manner or delivery of them. She gave her love actively, when given.

So of course she remembered the dress, the thing Stella had been wearing that first time.

“Yes, I thought you might,” Stella said, allowing Scully to believe that she’d done it on purpose. She had not consciously thought of that day this morning when she reached for it. But admittedly, there could be no coincidence in such an action. She had dozens of outfits that would have been suitable, in fact two others she’d bought expressly with this day in mind.

“My, you do look lovely, darling,” she added, tingling with warmth as she looked Scully over. More ethereal and yet more solid all at once. “What is it about white that makes a woman look like a new person?”

Actually, all of it was new to Stella except Scully - she was the only thing familiar about this willingness she felt, the generosity of spirit. She was not pretending to be pissed off for having been asked to do this. But really she was self-conscious about not being pissed off. It would have been more comfortable to resent being here, would have felt more herself.

Inside, there would be waiting to do, the collective and similar but varied anxieties of twenty other strangers pledged to do this same thing this same day. She and Mulder would bicker amiably, tease about who was going to be fucking whose wife later. Scully would hold her head high, pretending to be above it all, threaten them with moving entire affair to a church, but secretly be glad she’d done it here, in the shadow of all the petty tragicomedies of bureaucracy. They all three were creatures of the system, and they were also its rebels. That included Scully. Sweet, silently subversive Dana Scully, who was sneaking her hand into Stella’s palm, the other already tucked deftly and permanently into Mulder’s elbow.

It had been Mulder’s idea to configure it this way. He’d said it made sense because then she and Scully would be able to visit one another longer. And it would make it easier for her to move to America if she ever wanted to join them there. She had marveled at the breadth of his spirit, his confidence and his love, had been glad she’d fucked him the previous night. But she’d also panicked. She had only just returned from possible escape minutes before.

Scully had hedged when she heard it and fidgeted, twiddled her fingers and smiled shyly as she admitted to approving of the plan. They each took turns making sure Mulder was in his right mind. And ultimately Stella agreed to it because she wasn’t sure any other way would feel binding enough, would serve to remind her that somewhere, someone expected something of her. And if she didn’t feel that, well then what was the point of being involved at all?

Courthouses could be jarring settings for ordinary people but they were familiar to her, and this one in particular. She’d come out of them over the course of her career in all manner of states - furious, indignant, satisfied, vengeful, victorious - all three of them had. When she came out of this one on this day, she would be no more and no less than... married. No one was changing their name. But hers would be a little different because it would be signed on a piece of paper beside Scully’s, with Mulder’s below as the “witness.”

He would get Scully with his morning coffee every morning. She would get her on vacations, on special weekends, and, somewhere she had never in a million years expected to either get or look forward to getting - on paper.

The law would be involved, black ink and clerks, a mess to undo if needing undone. And the fact of all this did, at moments, make her want to run. But what did Scully deserve if not that? Her momentary fancies of flight, her panic. That was worth more than her love, it was more than she had ever been willing to entrust to anyone else.

Overhead, a couple of birds scattered noisily from the ancient stony doorway. Mulder and Scully watched them in tandem, eyes arching from here to there with expressions of matching surprise and gratitude.

“Are those pigeons or--?” Mulder asked, and Scully tightened the lobster clasp of her fingers. “Doves,” she said. “Mourning doves.”

Stella squinted and smiled alongside them in the breeze. For once, for the moment, there was nothing for any of them to mourn.

The end

#wtid #myfic #stella and scully #xfiles fic #the fall fic #thank you all for being a part of this

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purplesurveys · 4 years ago

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942

“ar_”

ARB Have you ever had strawberry rhubarb pie? Do you like it? I have not. I’m afraid I don’t even entirely know what rhubarb is; I wouldn’t call it a part of Filipino culture. I don’t know if I would like this kind of pie; I prefer my pies more savory than fruity. Do you like carbs a little too much? Yes ma’am. I can’t exist without heaps of rice in every meal. Last garb you wore? The last fancy/formal thing I wore was my business casual look for last Thursday’s interview. I felt a little overdressed arriving at the office because the other applicants just wore a shirt and jeans...but ultimately I think it was better that I looked more prepared than they did lol. Do you know anyone named Barb? There’s a teacher in my old school named Barbie but the other teachers call her Barb. ARC Would you like to see the Arc de Triumphe? Sure.

Are you a narc? That’s not a common slang where I live, but I’m gonna say no. ARD Have you ever read “The Tales of the Beetle and the Bard”? Nope, I’ve never heard of it. Do you have a credit or debit card? Debit. I don’t exactly know how credit cards work just yet, so my dad has kept me from getting one hahahaha. What’s the last card you received? For which holiday? We don’t really exchange cards over here. We tend to go ahead and give physical gifts, no matter how simple it is. I think the last one I received was a birthday card from Athenna, five years ago. That was a different time. What’s something that is hard for you? Letting go. I have serious issues with abandonment and I always feel like it’s the end of the world when someone leaves my life or something I’ve been accustomed to abruptly ends. I’ve never been good at handling all of that. Do you ever feel like a tub of lard? I am almost positive that I’ve never felt like one before. What is in your front yard? How is it landscaped? Just a few plants and a tree that my grandpa planted for my mom shortly before he passed. Last piece of meat that you’ve charred? I’ll get back to this question in a few years where I’ve hopefully learned how to cook a few things, including meat. Have you ever lived with barred windows? No. That sounds awful. Is it easy for you to let your guard down? Just with the right people. Otherwise I prefer keeping a wall up; no one else needs to know who I am behind closed doors. Have you ever cut yourself on a shard of glass? No. Again, sounds like my worst nightmare. This happened to my mom a year ago and I remember being unable to help her because I would’ve proceeded to just faint anyway lmao Favorite barnyard animal? Cows. What do you like to do in your backyard? Cooper loves our backyard, so I bring him there to play and run. He loves staying there so much more than actually walking around the neighborhood, which is a little confusing but still endearing. What do you think of people who use the word “retard”? They’re stuck in the late 2000s and early 2010s and need to be schooled on Twitter as soon as possible lol. Last person you sent warm regards to? The HR person who hooked me up with my internship. What do you tend to disregard? Fake news or people who routinely share fake news, for obvious reasons. Have you ever worn a leotard before? For what? I’ve worn a swimsuit as a leotard, but I’ve never owned a leotard that was meant to be that.

ARF Last time you barfed? I kept hurling last week when I did a lot of crying and had a few breakdowns, but nothing ever came up. The last time I puked would be over a year ago when I was at Pop-Up with friends. Last food you scarfed down? My mom’s burger from last night. Do you rock a fashion scarf? Nah, not really my article of choice. What does your winter scarf look like? I don’t own one. ARK What pair of animals would you like to bring on Noah’s ark? I would try to save as many of them as possible; but in the cruel circumstance that I only have limited choices, I would prioritize stray cats and dogs first as well as cats and dogs in animal shelters. Did you used to watch Arthur the aardvark? I did not watch the show – I’m not sure if they ever aired it here – but I liked reading Arthur books. Those were one of my favorites to read at the library. Have you ever been to a ballpark? No. Well baseball is not a popular sport here so it’s not like we’ve got lots of those, and the few that we have are a little dilapidated due to a lack of interest or support in the sport...we do have a field in my old school that’s designated for our softball games, but it’s hardly a legit softball field. Is your bark worse than your bite? If this is a saying or slang, I don’t know what it means. What’s a personal benchmark of yours? Hmm I know what a benchmark refers to, but I’m not exactly sure of the context in this question. Where is your birthmark? My most distinguishable birthmark is on the upper left region of my back, but I also have one by my butt. I used to have one on my right arm that was green-blue when I was an infant, but now it’s nothing more than a super slight discoloration that is only noticeable if you look hard enough. Do you fold book pages over, or use a bookmark? I remember the page number. I don’t like the gaps that bookmarks create, and I like keeping the pages of my book pristine. Are you afraid of the dark? Only if the context is meant to be scary, like how abandoned houses or forests are dark. I like the dark when I’m trying to fall asleep though. Do you prefer dark or light colors? I prefer neither extreme. I like muted and pastel tones. Last time you disembarked a ship? 2016. Last time you embarked on an adventure? End of February, 2020. Do you celebrate any of the hallmark holidays? Some of them, but I take them seriously a lot less than the actual holidays. I celebrate them primarily because I have people in my life who value those Hallmark holidays, so I greet them so they don’t feel forgotten, like greeting my parents on Mother’s/Father’s Day. If I had it my way I’d ignore those holidays completely, though. Do you watch the Hallmark channel? No. I don’t think we even have that channel here. Do you like the song “Hark The Herald Angels Sing”? I have nothing against it. Which landmark would you like to visit? The pyramids at Giza. Last mark you made on a paper? I made random scribbles because I was just checking if my pen had ink. Do you know anyone named Mark? I don’t think so. No Marks are coming to mind. Have you ever heard a lark sing? Nope. Do you know how to parallel park? Yeah but I’m kind of cheating a bit because I own a really tiny car that fits nearly anywhere ha. What’s your favorite activity to do at the park? We don’t have any public parks...if we did, I imagine I’d have picnics and take my dogs there for long walks. Last postmarked piece of mail you received? I don’t really receive mail of my own. Last person you left a remark for? Idk maybe my dad when I remarked how spicy the sisig he made for dinner was. Do you speak with a lot of snark? Only in private or with my closest friends. I try not to be snarky with workmates. Do you ever have the Baby Shark song stuck in your head? That does happen sometimes, yes. Until today ha. Last time you went around your house stark naked? Oof, I never walk around the entire house naked. I only do so in the bathroom and within my own room. What’s your signature trademark? Everyone knows me as loving Paramore, so maybe that. Does it bother you when there’s a watermark on an image that you want to use? Sometimes yes, sometimes I realize someone took effort for that image and probably just needs to earn a little bit for it. ARL Who did you snarl at last? I don’t snarl a lot these days. Are your fingers gnarled? No. I don’t actually know what this means but my fingers are pretty healthy so I’m guessing it’s not whatever gnarled is. ARM Have you ever broken an arm? Nopes. Do you keep people at an arm’s length? In some ways, like how I refuse to talk about the things I’m going through and I don’t like showing most people that I struggle.

Last time you went to a farm? I’m not sure if I’ve been to one. We drive through fields and farms all the time, in the provinice; but we’ve never actually stopped over and went to a farm. Do you self-harm? Yes. Surprisingly, I haven’t done so this month. But yes, I have in general. What time is your alarm set for? For a while it wasn’t set to anything but now that I have an internship I’ll probably need to set it to at least around 8 AM. Do you own any firearms? No thanks. Would you get a tattoo on your forearm? Sure. Do you have a certain charm about you? Don’t you kind of have to ask other people when it comes to possessing charm? I certainly wouldn’t endorse this myself, lol. Do you need to be disarmed? I have nothing on me, so no. ARN Were you raised in a barn? I was not. I grew up in a house in a suburban-ish neighborhood. Do you use “damn” or “darn” more often? Damn. I’ve never used darn...or if I have, it would’ve been well over a decade ago. Do you knit or crochet with yarn? I don’t crochet or knit. ARP Have you ever caught a carp while fishing? No, I’ve never gone fishing before actually.

Do you like harp seals? I’ve never heard of them until now but it’s an automatic yes for me because they are animals. Would you like to learn how to play the harp? Sure. Name something in your house that is sharp? Keys. Is anything you own covered by a tarp? No. ART Last time you fell apart? This morning. Well, it’s 2 AM now so it’s more accurate to say yesterday morning. Are you good at any sort of art forms? Not at all. I like coloring and painting, but with painting I like those that come with paint-by-number guides. I’m not very creative myself and don’t know for the life of me what colors work together and I’m terrible at creating images. Last place you used a shopping cart? Grocery store, ages ago. Have you ever created a chart in Microsoft Excel? Yes but it’s not my favorite thing in the world to do. Who is your other counterpart? I dunno if I have anyone. Angela, I guess. Do you like to play darts? I’ve never played it but it looks fun and I’m always up for a friendly game. Who’s the last person you departed from? My family, when I left the living room where we were all staying at to go back to my bedroom to resign for the evening. How often do you fart? Never. I don’t like the sensation and if I feel one coming I suppress it lol. No one has heard me do it before, and I don’t plan on making it heard hahahaha How’s your heart been feeling lately? Not well. Is there a K-Mart or a PetSmart where you live? No. Is it easy for you to outsmart a child? Idk man, they can be a little surprise at times. Where is the part in your hair? It’s on the left side. Have you ever gotten a part in a play? No, because I’ve never auditioned for one. Not interested in that kind of activity, either. Last time you had to restart your computer? It’s been a while. Would you consider yourself to be smart? In some ways, like in academics. What trend would you like to start? I don’t feel like starting one. Do you like tarts? Not very much, but my old school has this trademark tart that I love so much. [a-zebra-is-a-striped-horse]

#survey #surveys

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randomtowns · 6 years ago

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Beckley, WV

In the late 80′s and early 90′s, we lived on a hill on the edge of Johnson City, Tennessee. The hill faced north, away from the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains the region is known for, and looked out over the city (including a great view of the trailer park down the hill). I had a room on the second floor. My Friday nights were spent with my boombox - a small single cassette version about 6″ high and 3′ long - with its antenna raised. The Tri Cities region didn’t have much of a radio market, so there was a lot of frequency space to pick up from outside the area. For those who don’t follow that I should explain: the FCC requires that radio stations keep a certain distance from each other in their frequencies. The distance is determined by the radio stations’ geographic proximity and the power of their transmitter. In areas with large populations, like Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, etc., this has led to a mostly full radio network. So, in Los Angeles, if you had a good antenna on your radio, you would likely be able to pick up stations in San Diego. However, because most of the frequencies - FM goes between 88.1 and 107.9 and stays on odd decimals in the US - are already taken by stations in the Los Angeles area, you will not be able to pick up the San Diego stations because the Los Angeles stations are closer and overpower those from San Diego. Even when one of the stations’ signals gets weak, you start to pick up both on your radio and end up hearing nothing intelligible. You often hear this in rural areas, where stations trade control of a frequency as you drive over hills and pass things like buildings and powerlines.

I would mostly pick up stations in southwestern Virginia on those nights. I specifically recall a station in Bluefield, a town on the Virginia-West Virginia border, as something I picked up consistently at night, but never during the day when the light and heat weakened the distant radio signals. I would also get, some nights, a station in Portsmouth, Ohio. I know now that this was likely not from Portsmouth itself (which is over 200 miles from Johnson City) but rather from a repeating transmitter, likely in Kentucky or Virginia. The farthest away I could pick up - and I would typically scan the whole dial each night, trying to find new stations - was Beckley, West Virginia. Beckley is a mid-sized city, not much smaller than Johnson City, located along the West Virginia Turnpike. For years, this is the only way I knew Beckley. On our trips out of Johnson City, we would never go to West Virginia. We would go to Knoxville and Asheville often. We once went to Roanoke and another time to the big city of Charlotte. We even once took a longer roadtrip and drove to Cincinnati. But West Virginia was not on my parents’ radar. They wanted something more dynamic, with better shopping and restaurants. West Virginia offered them nothing.

So it wasn’t until 2009 that I actually got out to Beckley, on my way south toward Johnson City, to revisit my childhood home for the first time in over 15 years. I had spend the two prior nights in a hostel by the scenic New River Gorge. I was the only guest aside from a balding 30-something man, who wanted me to go get drunk with him at a local bar, and slept naked in a front room separated by only by a curtain. West Virginia did not impress me. It was pretty, but the towns seemed depressing. Charleston, its capital, seemed full of itself. People were dressed just a little too nicely, and the sushi restaurant I had gone to, as somewhat of a lark, was run by Chinese people and vastly overpriced. But Beckley is a large presence on the state map, and I wanted to stop before giving up on the state.

I arrived in town at the tail end of a street market. A few crafts vendors were still out, but the band was packing up. It looked to be a lively and enjoyable spot. I found a bar that served food. It was a weird hour, something like 2:30, but I hadn’t eaten lunch. There were just a couple of people inside apart from the bartender, who was cheery and smiley but did not ask me any questions aside from those to clarify my food order. After a few minutes, a younger man came in. He stood out from his tattoos, piercings, and style of dress. The older man at the bar perked up and greeted him: “Hey, Cincinnati!” The man sat next to me. I didn’t look up and remained quiet. When the bartender returned, I asked a question about the beers. I do have to establish myself as a snob wherever I go, so asking about different beers is a great way to do that. I chose to abstain, but Cincinnati next to me said, “That one isn’t that good anyway.” I chose to ignore him, pretending not to have heard him, or maybe just not realized that I was being addressed. He took the hint.

It seems like somewhat of an innocuous story, but I think about that a lot. I could have had a really interesting conversation with a guy who probably understood Beckley much more than I ever will. But now I still don’t really understand the town. After finishing my food, I left him at the bar, got in the car, and continued south. I’ve never been back.

#randomtowns usatravel roadtrips

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mittensmorgul · 7 years ago

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Is there anyone delving into the meta of Jack's name?

Okay, first off, friendo, are you somehow hacking into my search history, and into my chattybubble chats with @trisscar368 or @elizabethrobertajones? WELL ARE YOU?! If so, sorry about the spoilers about the fic I’ve been writing... but anyway, YES, in fact, I have been delving into it and just sorta... letting it all simmer...

I know we went into the meanings of Jack’s name back when we first learned he was going to be called Jack... but I went diving through my Jack tag and I just can’t muddle through all that early Jack speculation right now, so I figure I’ll just start fresh here. :P

trisscar368... see this is why i prologued with "meandering off to bed" because even to me i make no sense. Also "the jack" - playing card?

mittensmorgulACK sorry, I don't know if you already went to bed... But I was thinking "the jack" like a car jack, a mindless tool that enables a human being to raise a car off the ground...

trisscar368*blink*Oh that would make sense too

mittensmorgulor maybe (depending on perspective) a child's toy that really hurts when you step on it

trisscar368Fits with the tool imagesFor some reason my brain is stuck on the jack -> the knave -> the Fool

mittensmorgulor a big jack, like a caltrop

trisscar368YeahThat tooSo many options

I’d scroll back like three days to where I was talking about this with lizbob, because we kind of expanded on this a bit, but until tumblr makes it easier to search backward through chat logs it’s just too much trouble to dig back that far :P

Needless to say, this actually set me off looking for Meaning™ in Jack’s name. Because Jack can mean a lot of things. I’m just gonna copy/paste the definitions from google here, and then have some fun with this:

jack1jaknounnoun: jack; plural noun: jacks; noun: Jack1. a device for lifting heavy objects, especially one for raising the axle of a motor vehicle off the ground so that a wheel can be changed or the underside inspected.

I guess this was why my first thought was exactly the first definition of jack. :P Because how often have we been screeching about how Jack is in fact a mirror for all of TFW? How he’s literally a vehicle for Sam, Dean, and Cas to deal with their own personal issues, inspecting the underside, so to speak, being able to see their own issues that had otherwise been buried or unrecognized. Jack’s doing some pretty heavy lifting in terms of shining lights on aspects of all three of his guardians’ Major Issues, enabling us to shine a light up under there.

One thing I remember saying to lizbob when I explained this theory is that TFW is finally getting some fresh tires. :P

2. a playing card bearing a representation of a soldier, page, or knave, normally ranking next below a queen.

And here’s trisscar’s theory. I think this definition fit him more back when he was Intern Nougat, before he started seeking out his own hunts, and definitely before he went walkabout at the end of 13.06. But we shall see. He’s still trying to figure himself out.

3. a socket with two or more pairs of terminals, designed to receive a jack plug. synonyms: socket, outlet, plug, connection; "a phone jack"

Well, he quite literally acted as a jack in this sense in 12.19, when he plugged Cas into himself like some sort of cosmic toaster oven and used Cas to roast Dagon for him.

Unfortunately for Jack, Asmodeus tried to forcibly plug into his power (jacking jack, if you will... but you probably shouldn’t)

4. a game played by tossing and catching small round pebbles or star-shaped pieces of metal or plastic; a small round pebble or star-shaped piece of metal used in the game of jacks. noun: jackstone

And this is another one I’d come up with... Jack’s sort of at the mercy of the people around him, and the people trying to “scoop him up” in order to “win the game.” The angels, Asmodeus, Lucifer, and the Winchesters (including Cas) all have different motives for “winning Jack”

But heck, just thinking of a child’s game metaphorically here, Jack has been “playing” with his power for the most part. His first conscious use of it was to “jack” a vending machine to get free candy bars. Sam tried to encourage him to use the non-delinquent school-level performance of power in moving the pencil (still disappointed nobody’s actually said “wingardium leviosa”). But when he forgets, when he’s not keeping mind of his powers and they just sort of get tossed around willy-nilly, hooboy does it hurt when someone accidentally steps on it, you know? (the tattoo artist who got thrown into a wall, the poor security guard).

It’s not one of the official definitions, but since caltrops are also known as “jackrocks,” I’m assuming a connection here. Used in ancient times to slow the movement of troops (by injuring the feet of people, but especially of horses, etc.), they evolved into what we know as “spike strips” that puncture tires during police chases. They’re a vicious weapon, and nearly foolproof. No matter how they’re thrown, they always land with a pointy-side-up. Ouch.

I kind of think that this is how Jack thinks of HIMSELF right now, that no matter how much he tries to do good, all he does is hurt people.

5. in lawn bowling, the small ball at which the players aim.

Now this isn’t something I’m familiar with at all, but yeah. Going along with what I said under point 4 above, pretty much every player on the board right now is taking aim at Jack... poor kid.

6. US informal: used as a form of address to a man whose name is not known. NORTH AMERICAN informal: a lumberjack. archaic: a steeplejack. the figure of a man striking the bell on a clock.

Hit the road, Jack. Jack of all trades. In this sense, it’s interchangeable with such generic terms such as “Buddy,” “Pal,” (pal >.>) etc. But heck, Lumberjack. Now I kinda want the kid in plaid...

7.: a small version of a national flag flown at the bow of a vessel in harbor to indicate its nationality.

Union Jack, anyone? I have no idea how this relates to Nougat.

8. NORTH AMERICAN informal dated: money.

Well, this one must be REALLY dated, because I’ve never heard it before. But Jack and his potential power are certainly being treated like some sort of cosmic currency at the moment, no?

9. a device for turning a spit.

Wow these definitions are getting more and more obscure :P

Can we stick Lucifer, Michael, and Asmodeus on this spit and have a good old fashioned rotisserie? Please? Evil Colonel Sanders deserves no less.

10. a part of the mechanism in a spinet or harpsichord that connects a key to its corresponding string and causes the string to be plucked when the key is pressed down.

well alrighty, then. *thinks about randomly pressing down on Jack and seeing if that plucks his strings* *wonders if the result would qualify as “music”*

11. a marine fish that is typically laterally compressed with a row of large spiky scales along each side. Jacks are important in many places as food or game fish.

http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/tagged/the-fisher-king

12. the male of some animals, especially a merlin or an ass.

I was gonna just let the picture stand on its own, but heck, I looked up some info about merlins:

Merlins are small, fierce falcons that use surprise attacks to bring down small songbirds and shorebirds. They are powerful fliers, but you can tell them from larger falcons by their rapid wingbeats and overall dark tones. Medieval falconers called them “lady hawks,” and noblewomen used them to hunt Sky Larks.

and then for a sense of completeness, i looked up asses too...

Donkeys have a notorious reputation for stubbornness, but this has been attributed to a much stronger sense of self-preservation than exhibited by horses. Likely based on a stronger prey instinct and a weaker connection with humans, it is considerably more difficult to force or frighten a donkey into doing something it perceives to be dangerous for whatever reason. Once a person has earned their confidence they can be willing and companionable partners and very dependable in work.

And... okay both of these descriptions seem apt for Jack...

13. used in names of animals that are smaller than similar kinds, e.g., jacksnipe.

Well, he is the lil nougat son. The tiny smol giant manbabby.

14. short for jackrabbit.

aka, the hare. that’s a very long article behind the link. For anyone interested. Y’all who get a kick out of Wild Speculation of the “Red string tangles and wild eyed conspiracy theory” variety.

15. US informal: short for jack shit.

Whelp I think this one speaks for itself.

jack2, jak, noun historical noun: jack; plural noun: jacks

1.another term for blackjack (sense 4).

Riverboat gambling, anyone? Lizbob?

2.a sleeveless padded tunic worn by foot soldiers.

I just googled “jack tunic” at first and... then immediately added “historical” and came up with much more apt results :P Basically, it’s a form of padded armor.

jack3verb NORTH AMERICAN informal’ verb: jack; 3rd person present: jacks; past tense: jacked; past participle: jacked; gerund or present participle: jackingtake (something) illicitly; steal. "his MO in the studio remains the same—jack other people's tracks and present them in a new context" rob (someone). "they jacked him for his car"

We’ll see how this eventually plays out.

Honestly, I’m just waiting for someone to say they’ve got “Jack on Jack.”

I don’t know if this is the sort of thing you were looking for, but I had fun researching it all anyway. So, thanks! :D

#jack nougat winchester #what's in a name? well if you're a fictional character... potentially an awful lot #silent storytelling #Anonymous

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dhp-o2h · 7 years ago

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92 Statements Tag

tagged by @academniac and originally it seemed like way too long of a task but these are the crazy things you do at 5am

LAST:

1. Drink: last saturday, preceded by 3 others. make me a drink, bartender i declared. less alcohol than last time. ooh this is good, what is it? pure alcohol? yes, that’s exactly what i wanted

2. Phone call: who do you think i am!?

3. Text message: thx -- sister, thanking me for bestowing greatness upon her life

4. Song you listened to: 22 -- taylor swift, the only tswift song i have ever actually related to even though tswift is life

5. Time you cried: last wednesday, i was hungry. but like really, really hungry.

HAVE YOU:

6. Dated someone twice: hell no, i love all my exes but like get out of my life forever

7. Kissed someone and regretted it: yes but in my defense he kissed me first. what am i even defending

8. Been cheated on: not unless they did it really really sneakily in which case sorry but i still broke up with you anyways

9. Lost someone special: yes

10. Been depressed: yes

11. Gotten drunk and thrown up: have you seen me lol

LIST 3 FAVORITE COLORS:

12. red like the blood of my enemies

13. that light teal thing

14. brown

IN THE LAST YEAR HAVE YOU:

15. Made new friends: i make new friends all the time i just don’t care to keep them lol

16. Fallen out of love: nice try but you’ll never catch me in love

17. Laughed until you cried: all the friggin time since i moved in with S, usually over nothing, often over my own jokes

18. Found out someone was talking about you: who isn’t honestly

19. Met someone who changed you: ew no

20. Found out who your friends are: i have always known who my friends are, they are these nice people in the very back of my brain who i never talk to and only trot out once a month

21. Kissed someone on your Facebook list: sadly yes so now we can’t be friends anymore

GENERAL:

22. How many of your Facebook friends do you know in real life: all except the few tumblr friends who crossed the threshold and now we know each others real names and can use that information any time

23. Do you have any pets: brownie, a horse, and moe, a beastie (also a horse)

24. Do you want to change your name: no, i don’t really like my name but it would look damn good on a book cover

25. What did you do for your last birthday? pony ride!

26. What time did you wake up: it’s 6:02 am right now so let’s not talk about it

27. What were you doing at midnight last night: zzz like a good muffin

28. Name something you can’t wait for: my paper to magically finish itself without any further input from me, our children can achieve great things when we keep our expectations high

29. When was the last time you saw your mom: mid summer in belgium, hi mom!

30. What is one thing you wish you could change in your life: to be able to eat real food without it turning me into a zombie

31. What are you listening to right now: the horse who lives underneath me getting restless about breakfast

32. Have you ever talked to a person named Tom: these questions get so deep and then there’s this one, who wrote this and why are they obsessed with tom

33. Something that is getting on your nerves: the semester starts this week and there’s too many people on campus ruining everything, they need to go home

34. Most visited websites: tumblr, reddit, gmail

35. Mole/s: quite a few, they add character which i am always in need of

36. Mark/s: birthmark on foot that looks like a flip flop tan line, always fun to show that off at parties

37. Childhood dream: write stories ! someday ! live your dream !

38. Hair color: brown which gets called for blonde by people who like to annoy me

39. Long or short hair: long enough to strangle your enemies

40. Do you have a crush on someone: yah but it will go away soon, don’t worry

41. What do you like about yourself: i am funniest person i know and no one gets my sense of humor like i do

42. Piercings: never, i saw the parent trap as a small child

43. Blood type: once i asked this while having blood drawn and the nurse looked at me like oh you poor innocent thing so not only do i still not know my blood type, but now i am super confused about it

44. Nickname: J

45. Relationship status: unavailable but single

46. Zodiac: aries

47. Pronouns: She/her.

48. Favorite TV Show: PRISON BREAK

49. Tattoos: i can’t choose a daily outfit much less a tattoo

50. Right or left hand: right but sometimes i take notes with my left because my right gets too fast and loose but my left is a trustworthy and dependable strong woman

51. Surgery: not that i know of

52. Hair dyed in different color: my hair doesn’t cooperate with me like that

53. Sport: have you not been paying attention

54. Favorite accessory: to crime

55. Vacation: dramatic mountainy views, cozy cabin

56. Pair of trainers: wtf

MORE GENERAL:

57. Eating: paleo crap ugh. kids, don’t let your friends do paleo

58. Drinking: water like the blood of my enemies

59. I’m about to: go back to sleep and shut out the world and this too way personal and introspective questionnaire

61. Waiting for: the sun to come up (it’s been night time forever and i’m over it)

62. Want: dead or alive

63. Get married: maybe one day for a lark, like after one of those nights that ends with you sitting on a beach sharing secrets and you’ve lost your shoes. but then it’s annulled just as fast and you wonder at yourself sometimes.

64. Career: saving the environment

WHICH IS BETTER:

65. Hugs or kisses: kisses but i've been known to give a good hug

66. Lips or eyes: eyes, love a smoulder

67. Shorter or taller: taller

68. Older or younger: older

70. Nice arms or nice stomach: absss (of which i have 4, ask anyone)

71. Sensitive or loud: in my experience these are the same, i prefer strong and quiet

72. Hook up or relationship: hook up, relationships are for teens and adults and i am way too grown up for that

73. Troublemaker or hesitant: troublemaker, the more trouble the better

HAVE YOU EVER:

74. Kissed a stranger: frequently, it’s hilarious

75. Drank hard liquor: yesss

76. Lost glasses/contact lenses: im no scrub

77. Turned someone down: all the time, but i never get any better at it

78. Had sex on the first date: not yet

79. Broken someone’s heart: multiple but i think they lived

80. Had your heart broken: never gonna happen

81. Been arrested: i am a law of my own

82. Cried when someone died: of course

83. Fallen for a friend: i only fall for friends

DO YOU BELIEVE IN:

84. Yourself: yes, with realistic expectations

85. Miracles: i love shouting IT‘S A MIRACLE at things that obviously aren’t miracles

86. Love at first sight: no but you can get a certain feeling about someone without knowing them yet, like yeah they’ve got it, they’re OG, dey aight

87. Santa Claus: don’t bite the presents that feed you

88. Kiss on the first date: kiss on first date is awkward, kiss before first date is best

OTHER:

90. Current best friend name: SKYSICLE

91. Eye color: brown like the blood of my enemies

92. Favorite movie: austenland when those first notes drop!!!

tagging @intlstudier, @orionstudy, @studying-succulents, @donutdesk, @pens-paper-and-inspiration, @daiseestudies, @caffeinatedcraziness, @catharticstudying, @everydaygreenday, @lost-in-books94

#about me #tagged

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isempiterna · 7 years ago

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REALLY LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. RULES. Repost, don’t reblog! tag 10 ! good luck! TAGGED. @starryeyecl TAGGING. who of my followers haven’t been tagged yet, I tag u

GOTTA DO BOTH GIRLS CAUSE I LOVE OVERSHARING INFORMATION !!!!

the following information is for the verse YELLOW ROSE. information differs by a little or a lot depending on verse

FULL NAME: Lark Maureen Tempest ∬ Sparrow Grace Weave NICKNAME // ALIAS: HILARIOUS STORY TIME Lark used to introduce herself all the time as “Lark, but you can call me Temmy if you want” and nobody would call her Temmy sdhfdskfslhf ∬ one of her friends calls her Spar sometimes AGE: 26 ∬ 20 BIRTHDAY: November 26 (1991) ∬ February 20 (1997) ETHNIC GROUP: European mix (Irish-French, German-Polish-Danish) ∬ European mix ? (Irish-French, British-Indian) NATIONALITY: American LANGUAGE/S: English ∬ English, very limited Spanish SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual ∬ asexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: biromantic ∬ demiromantic RELATIONSHIP STATUS: single CLASS: middle class / lower middle HOMETOWN/AREA: I just stick em places CURRENT HOME: ┐(ツ)┌ PROFESSION: café owner ∬ student

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: white-blonde, practically white ∬ black EYES: copper brown ∬ light blue FACE: heart ∬ peach LIPS: pouty, rather pink ∬ soft, dark cherries COMPLEXION: European, tans easily ∬ fair, smooth BLEMISHES: beauty marks! one at the inner corner of her eye (left), one at the bottom of her mouth (left), two on her cheek (right) ∬ none SCARS: a few here and there TATTOOS: none HEIGHT: 5′2″ ∬ 5′3″ WEIGHT: ~116 lbs ∬ ~106 lbs BUILD: hourglass, strong, compact ∬ pear, slender, toned FEATURES: major resting bitch face, can’t tell if eyes are bored or bedroom, STRONG ARMS ∬ delicate, almost a sense of ethereal beauty? bordering on creepy, hidden strength

ALLERGIES: none USUAL HAIR STYLE: casual ponytail, messy bun, whatever it’s called when you fold your hair up with a big hair clip?? ∬ down, easily hides her face when necessary, ponytail for running USUAL FACE LOOK: resting bitch, politely waiting for...something?, clear gaze ∬ thoughtful, mild to intense interest in whatever she’s looking at USUAL CLOTHING: comfy, loose ∬ simple, comfortable, subtly stylish

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: losing Sparrow, losing her father ∬ losing her loved ones, what happened in elementary/middle/high school coming back to haunt her in college ASPIRATION/S: take care of her sister FOREVER ∬ get a degree that will help her help people (nursing? doctor? therapist? environmentalist? ??) POSITIVE TRAITS: honest, easy to talk to, very aware of her emotions, can let go of grudges ∬ good listener, friendly, supportive, forgiving, pacifist, Mom Friend NEGATIVE TRAITS: immediately dislikes you if you look at Sparrow funny, doesn’t always lose her temper but when she DOES, doesn’t know how to pull her punches, god her plastic smiles are the most annoying thing in the world, possibly too honest ∬ doesn’t think of her own well-being in the least, can’t stand up for herself, highly manipulable, apologizes for everything, gives way too many chances (as in she never stops giving u another chance) ZODIAC: Sagittarius ∬ Pisces (Aquarius-Pisces cusp) TEMPERAMENT: sanguine ∬ phlegmatic SOUL TYPE/S: warrior ∬ ghdvkhldlf couldn’t take the quiz again but I’d guess server (maybe she coulda been an artist if I hadn’t fucked w things ( ᐛ ) ) VICE HABIT/S: using force when frustrated, cheat day every day? ∬ apathy towards herself, unnecessary guilt, keeping secrets VIRTUES/VICES: kindness & wrath ∬ patience (and also liKE ALL OF THEM AAAA) & ........maybe like sloth...about herself.....emotionally....... FAITH: Lark has faith in herself hghdksvh ∬ Sparrow has faith in the good of others GHOSTS?: maybe a little but probably not ∬ who knows, why not? AFTERLIFE?: nope ∬ maybe, who knows REINCARNATION?: god she wants to be Sparrow’s sister foREVER ∬ maybe, who knows? ALIENS?: why not ∬ w h o kn o w s ? POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: democratic-leaning ∬ democratic-leaning or third party EDUCATION LEVEL: college graduate (4 years) ∬ currently in college

FAMILY.

FATHER: Lionel Tempest ∬ Chandler Weave MOTHER: Phoenix Burke SIBLINGS: Sparrow ∬ Lark EXTENDED FAMILY: uugh I don’t wanna write all this out but Phoenix has a p big family and Lionel has a huge family and Chandler also has a pretty extensive family that he’s largely estranged from NAME MEANING/S: Lark as in the bird ∬ Sparrow as in the bird HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: BIRDS

FAVORITES.

BOOK: the poetry book Sparrow got her ∬ just one favorite?? MOVIE: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (lotta fond nostalgia) ∬ prolly watches a lot of foreign films? not really a fan of violence 5 SONGS: JUST 5 ??? HOLIDAY: 4th of July bc FIREWORKS ∬ Christmas bc she can give gifts to ppl MONTH: July ∬ late September/early October SEASON: SUMMER ∬ fall and winter and actually spring and heck why not summer too PLACE: wherever her sister is ∬ home, her uncle’s library (visited once when she was very young, still dreams about it) WEATHER: SUMMER NIGHT ∬ mild autumn day, early winter morning SOUND: the crackle of fireworks and fizz of sparklers; ice cracking; distant traffic; Sparrow singing when no one can hear her; the thump of sand-filled canvas; bird wings ∬ snow falling; Lark idly playing the piano; footsteps on carpet; 3am thunder over the mountains; wind chimes and bells and glass tinkling and music boxes SCENT/S: summer air, heavy and humid; smoke (fireworks, campfire); hot spring waters; lilacs ∬ books and paper and binding glue; evergreen trees and juniper berries; the first breath of a cold day; healthy earth and roots and sun-warmed leaves; graphite and fresh ink TASTE/S: orange soda, carbonates; smooth coffee; light, crunchy snacks ∬ fresh fruits and vegetables; colloidal silver; water after a long run; raspberry chocolate FEEL/S: warmth, solid or soft or just the air pressing around; post-workout, heavy muscles but light on the inside, sweet oxygen and satisfaction; cool piano keys and worn foot pedals ∬ sunlight on window seats; scritta paper; winter’s chill; downy blankets and a warm mug; runner’s high ANIMAL/S: KOALAS ∬ so many?? NUMBER: uh ∬ prolly like 3 or smth COLORS: yellow ∬ soft blue and peach

EXTRA.

TALENTS: piano, kick boxing, Worst puns, keeping a straight face ∬ violin, bullet journaling, painting/ink drawing, cooking, running, creative and harmless pranks BAD AT: being patient, cooking, not starting fights with people who are mean to her sister ∬ speaking up for herself, cutting toxic people out of her life, arguing, jokes and sarcasm TURN-ONS: strong people, cute girls, people with secrets, soulful singers ∬ she’s so confused TURN OFFS: too many secrets, dismissive of Sparrow, BAD teeth, narcissism ∬ are u making her uncomfortable? HOBBIES: kick boxing, piano, talking about her sister ∬ reading, journaling, painting/drawing, running, violin TROPES: Action Girl, Plucky Girl, Beauty Mark(s), Cool Big Sis, Daddy’s Girl, DEADPAN SNARKER ∬ Sibling Yin-Yang ∬ Actual Pacifist, Shrinking Violet, The Heart, Friendless Background, Feminine Women Can Cook, Nature Lover AESTHETIC TAGS: coffee n shit, fireworks, summery things, bikes maybe?, that’s yellow, this looks like Sparrow ∬ books, journals, art stuff, blue, snow maybe, skies I guess, pretty things GPOY QUOTES: “When the guys call you bro” ∬ “When you think something’s nice but nobody else does”

FC INFO.

MAIN FC/S: ┐(ツ)┌ ALT FC/S: ┐(ツ)┌ ┐(ツ)┌ OLDER FC/S: ┐(ツ)┌ YOUNGER FC/S: ┐(ツ)┌ VOICE CLAIM/S: me, actually, when I channel Lark (?? it’s weird) ∬ Liv Tyler GENDERBENT FC/S: u think i got time for that

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1: if you could write your character your way in their own movie, what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?

A1: hfskdghsdf I’d prolly end up calling it smth rly edgy and dumb like “Forbidden” or “The Blue Rose Girl” which doesn’t even sound edgy it just sounds dumb. black and white might be cool, or sort of a faded color? maybe it would go from black and white to color. it would be about the blue rose verse and the consequences they face bc of Lark’s actions and maybe Sparrow was better off staying dead? the folly of the heart type thing I’m tired can u tell

Q2: what would their soundtrack/score sound like?

A2: pls don’t do this to me rn I’M WORKING ON IT

Q3: why did you start writing this character?

A3: it all started w Sparrow. actually it all started with BJDs. I did a faceup and was like “cool who’s this” and thought Sparrow Weave was a cool name and literally started rping her with just a name and a face long story between that n this, but I decided Sparrow needed a sister bc of long story, and a lark was a bird and tempest was sort of the opposite of weave? why did they have to be opposite? Lark totally changed as a character tho originally she was super happy-go-lucky and bouncy and cheerful all the time but then I started to rp her and she was like “MOVE bitch get out the way”

Q4: what first attracted you to this character?

A4: ?? her name was Sparrow and she looked nice with dead flowers and I threw her into the fray. she grew to be beautiful and extremely damaged. Lark tho, I really liked how she kicked my ass and did her own thing

Q5: describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5: just cause I know all their flaws doesn’t mean I dont love them for it

Q6: what do you have in common with your muse?

A6: Sparrow and I are super squishy and people-pleasers and like books and art, and Lark and I get waaaaay over protective of people and have similar taste in puns, although I’m never confident enough to say any of mine

Q7: how does your muse feel about you?

A7: Sparrow would like me, I’d remind Lark of Sparrow until she found out I’m the cause of her suffering?? then I would cease to exist down to the last atom

Q8: what characters does your muse have interesting interactions with?

A8: this is going to sound horrible but I have this weird fascination with Sparrow in unhealthy relationships. she’s extremely manipulable but she’s also aware of that? so she might be onto you the whole time but why is she going along with it why does she have so much faith in you what are you going to do. LARK AND HER ENEMIES HALSKFHDKFSH

Q9: what gives you inspiration to write your muse?

A9: Lark writes herself, Sparrow’s more shy but I know her. if I see or think of anything that reminds me of her I remember everything she’s ever done and I fall in love again. I never lose muse just the ability/focus to make the words go

Q10: how long did this take you to complete?

A10: fuck ass long I stayed up way too lat workin on it, went back and edited/added more information to parts so it made more sense today, STILL WORKING ON THEIR PLAYLISTS but yeah this was fun!

#𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚 ∬ memes #𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 ∬ 𝓢 & 𝓛 #𝟐𝟎 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐤𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝟓 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐠 ∬ 𝓛 (headcanons)#𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟 ∬ 𝓢 (headcanons)#((GOD THIS TOOK ME FOREVER BUT I LOVE IT))

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