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Nov. 17th, 2008
[FTM] Define Fairy Tale
Nov. 17th, 2008 08:49 amEveryone wants a fairy tale. That's how I define it. It's what everybody wants.
No, really. The most twisted psychopath in the world has some image in their head of their happy ending. It might not be conventional. To you and me it might be incredibly fucked up. But it's theirs. It's their happy ending. It's their fairy tale life and fairy tale ending. We have all one. We all have dreams, we all have this perfect vision in our heads of how our lives will go--influenced greatly by the stories we're told as children. These dreams change as we grow up and mature and realize that we don't get to become a sugar plum fairy or a knight because the stories we're read as children exist in some fantastical world not our own, so we adapt them to the real world. But still we have dreams. Still we have our own little fairy tales, our own happy endings.
And what they all have in common?
Nobody gets one.
Nobody.
No, really. The most twisted psychopath in the world has some image in their head of their happy ending. It might not be conventional. To you and me it might be incredibly fucked up. But it's theirs. It's their happy ending. It's their fairy tale life and fairy tale ending. We have all one. We all have dreams, we all have this perfect vision in our heads of how our lives will go--influenced greatly by the stories we're told as children. These dreams change as we grow up and mature and realize that we don't get to become a sugar plum fairy or a knight because the stories we're read as children exist in some fantastical world not our own, so we adapt them to the real world. But still we have dreams. Still we have our own little fairy tales, our own happy endings.
And what they all have in common?
Nobody gets one.
Nobody.
The Watcher diaries I
I'm bored.
Two ways to play:
Request kisses from Baileigh!
If you'd like a kiss from Bee, just comment here and let us know. She'll reply to your comment with a fic of sorts that involves the kiss, or put up a thread to get that kiss on its way. Or if you'd like a bit more control over the situation just start your own post and mark the entry locked to Baileigh and leave me a comment here letting me know where the thread is and we'll be there!
Offer kisses to Others.
If you're feeling particularly bold or adventurous, post this in your journal, note that it's open to all, and let people ask for kisses from you. Give them at least a sentence or two in response, though--none of this "*kiss*" nonsense, that's no fun.
(er, some of them may be innocent kisses, depending on the verse, as Baileigh doesn't want to piss anyone off. SO. But really, all's fair game. Hit me. :P)
Request kisses from Baileigh!
If you'd like a kiss from Bee, just comment here and let us know. She'll reply to your comment with a fic of sorts that involves the kiss, or put up a thread to get that kiss on its way. Or if you'd like a bit more control over the situation just start your own post and mark the entry locked to Baileigh and leave me a comment here letting me know where the thread is and we'll be there!
Offer kisses to Others.
If you're feeling particularly bold or adventurous, post this in your journal, note that it's open to all, and let people ask for kisses from you. Give them at least a sentence or two in response, though--none of this "*kiss*" nonsense, that's no fun.
(er, some of them may be innocent kisses, depending on the verse, as Baileigh doesn't want to piss anyone off. SO. But really, all's fair game. Hit me. :P)
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changehistoryNo woman in their right mind would not wonder. No matter how they might pretend otherwise. They have the exact same damned mouth and of course the thought crosses her mind whether or not their lips move the same way or if a couple centuries more experience really does make that much more of a difference.
The glass of wine at her right has nothing to do with the impulse--it would take the rest of the bottle and something else much harder for that to be a viable excuse. She’s watching him talk, chin in her hand and head tilted slightly to the side as she studies him and searches for those subtle differences. And there are a few. Words and vowels make different shapes of their lower lips, their smiles are their own. Little things you have to look for, though she’s never had a problem telling them apart. Should all other things appearance-wise fail, she just waits for them to open their mouths and say three or four words, and she knows who she’s dealing with.
He glances down at his drink and does not bite at his lower lip as Julian would. She huffs in annoyance, slaps her palms against the table, heels clicking harshly against the floor as she stands and circles around to his side. He watches her quick flouncing approach with a raised eyebrow, possibly wondering what the hell he said that could have piss her off even a little, possibly wondering if she planned to hit him, but the lack of anything but an exasperated pout in her expression must mollify the apprehension and leaves behind only the hint of bafflement.
She doesn’t think he was expecting her to bend down and kiss him. His lips part slightly, she suspects from surprise, and she takes full advantage, slipping her tongue through the breach to tease briefly against his. That he tastes of bourbon is the first blaring difference; Julian has not, in the time she’s know him, partaken of anything alcoholic but wine, sangria, and on one unusual occasion, a vodka martini (which she’d naturally made ‘shaken, not stirred’ jokes about until they no longer amused her). This is a harsher taste, earthier somehow. Not unpleasant but certainly different.
She does not take offense to his very momentary lack of response, nor is she surprised when she feels his fingers thread into her hair and tug to the right, tipping her head just so to mold her lips firmly against his. It’s the same fit that she’s used to but all similarities end there. Not better necessarily, but undoubtedly different. He is a very, very good kisser, but more controlling; he kisses. He is not kissed. It doesn’t feel as though he’s conscious of it, or trying to, it’s just his way.
Yet he willingly follows her lead when she breaks the connection, raises an eyebrow at her as she sucks the taste of bourbon off of her bottom lip and frowns thoughtfully. Her expression relaxes into a bright smile, and she pats his cheek gently with her fingers before she straightens and goes back to her chair. “Just curious!” she chirps as she sits down and resumes the same pose as before, chin propped in her hand as she waits patiently for him to pick up the conversation, wherever it had dropped off before. Now, at least, she can pay attention to his words, rather than his mouth.
The glass of wine at her right has nothing to do with the impulse--it would take the rest of the bottle and something else much harder for that to be a viable excuse. She’s watching him talk, chin in her hand and head tilted slightly to the side as she studies him and searches for those subtle differences. And there are a few. Words and vowels make different shapes of their lower lips, their smiles are their own. Little things you have to look for, though she’s never had a problem telling them apart. Should all other things appearance-wise fail, she just waits for them to open their mouths and say three or four words, and she knows who she’s dealing with.
He glances down at his drink and does not bite at his lower lip as Julian would. She huffs in annoyance, slaps her palms against the table, heels clicking harshly against the floor as she stands and circles around to his side. He watches her quick flouncing approach with a raised eyebrow, possibly wondering what the hell he said that could have piss her off even a little, possibly wondering if she planned to hit him, but the lack of anything but an exasperated pout in her expression must mollify the apprehension and leaves behind only the hint of bafflement.
She doesn’t think he was expecting her to bend down and kiss him. His lips part slightly, she suspects from surprise, and she takes full advantage, slipping her tongue through the breach to tease briefly against his. That he tastes of bourbon is the first blaring difference; Julian has not, in the time she’s know him, partaken of anything alcoholic but wine, sangria, and on one unusual occasion, a vodka martini (which she’d naturally made ‘shaken, not stirred’ jokes about until they no longer amused her). This is a harsher taste, earthier somehow. Not unpleasant but certainly different.
She does not take offense to his very momentary lack of response, nor is she surprised when she feels his fingers thread into her hair and tug to the right, tipping her head just so to mold her lips firmly against his. It’s the same fit that she’s used to but all similarities end there. Not better necessarily, but undoubtedly different. He is a very, very good kisser, but more controlling; he kisses. He is not kissed. It doesn’t feel as though he’s conscious of it, or trying to, it’s just his way.
Yet he willingly follows her lead when she breaks the connection, raises an eyebrow at her as she sucks the taste of bourbon off of her bottom lip and frowns thoughtfully. Her expression relaxes into a bright smile, and she pats his cheek gently with her fingers before she straightens and goes back to her chair. “Just curious!” she chirps as she sits down and resumes the same pose as before, chin propped in her hand as she waits patiently for him to pick up the conversation, wherever it had dropped off before. Now, at least, she can pay attention to his words, rather than his mouth.
This one she blames completely on the wine. The wine and the bottle of Patron and the salts and the limes, and a game of I Never.
Really, she knew better than to play I Never with an eighteen year old girl, even an eighteen year old girl in desperate need of a distraction and someone female to talk to. The sad thing is, Claire seems to have more life experience in some ways than Baileigh does. She doesn’t know whether to feel sorry for Claire or grossly disappointed in herself; sheltered was one thing, but damn, this was just really sad on her part.
They sit on Claire’s bedroom floor with the bottle and the shot glasses between them and burn through ‘I never skipped class‘ and ‘I never wrecked a car’ and ‘I never snuck out of the house’ and other such juvenile things, and by the time they’ve moved on to less innocent topics--places they have or have not had sex, positions they have or had not tried, other things that have or have not experimented with that would probably mortify the both of them if sober--she has enough tequila in her that she doubts she’ll remember the specifics, and she doubts Claire will either.
“I never kissed a girl,” Claire giggles, grinning wickedly and turning her shot glass in her hands. She blinks when Baileigh merely smiles slightly and folds her arm, her shot glass untouched. “…Oh come on! Seriously?”
“Seriously seriously,” Baileigh replies with a slow, somber nod. “Seriously.”
“Seriously?”
Baileigh snorts and starts laughing, the very distinct laughter of the very, very inebriated. “I never went off to college?”
“Ooooooooooooooh,” Claire gives the word five more syllables than it should have, the alcohol bringing both of their Texan drawls close to the surface. “That makes sense.” She glances down at the shot glass in her hand and frowns, glances at the bottle, then back to her shot glass, then back up at Baileigh, beaming and mischievous. “You waaaanna?”
“What?” Baileigh covers her face with her hands and fights to stave off the drunken giggles. “Claire!”
“It’d finish off the bottle!” She grabs the bottle and Baileigh’s shot glass, concentrates very hard on pouring the liquid and not sloshing it and fails at least partially, but they‘re both too toasty to care. “Just don’t tell my dad! Or Adam. Or anybody related to me.”
“Claire!”
“What?!”
She purses her lips down at the shot and the remaining slices of limes and the salt shaker, and naturally the alcohol induced bravery beats out inhibitions. “Okay!”
“Okay!” Claire sits up on her knees, closes her eyes and purses her lips exaggeratedly. Baileigh fights hard to stop giggling, sitting up in the same pose and leaning in until her lips meet Claire’s. They hold it until they can’t stave off the laughter any longer, and fall into each other clumsily until it passes again.
“And I win!” Baileigh declares, straightening and scooping up her shot glass to toss back the last shot. “Or lose. Depending on your outlook. I say I win!...Ooo.” She sways a bit and sinks down to the carpet, laying her head on Claire’s knee. “I think I win tonight but I will sooooooo lose tomorrow.”
“I’ll fix it?” Claire offered, giggling and patting Baileigh’s hair.
"Marry me?"
“You’re doing that already.”
Baileigh blinked up at her, then grinned brightly. “Oh yeah. I forgot. Utah? Guy would never say no to two wives, y‘know.”
Claire falls over giggling, and eventually they fall asleep.
Really, she knew better than to play I Never with an eighteen year old girl, even an eighteen year old girl in desperate need of a distraction and someone female to talk to. The sad thing is, Claire seems to have more life experience in some ways than Baileigh does. She doesn’t know whether to feel sorry for Claire or grossly disappointed in herself; sheltered was one thing, but damn, this was just really sad on her part.
They sit on Claire’s bedroom floor with the bottle and the shot glasses between them and burn through ‘I never skipped class‘ and ‘I never wrecked a car’ and ‘I never snuck out of the house’ and other such juvenile things, and by the time they’ve moved on to less innocent topics--places they have or have not had sex, positions they have or had not tried, other things that have or have not experimented with that would probably mortify the both of them if sober--she has enough tequila in her that she doubts she’ll remember the specifics, and she doubts Claire will either.
“I never kissed a girl,” Claire giggles, grinning wickedly and turning her shot glass in her hands. She blinks when Baileigh merely smiles slightly and folds her arm, her shot glass untouched. “…Oh come on! Seriously?”
“Seriously seriously,” Baileigh replies with a slow, somber nod. “Seriously.”
“Seriously?”
Baileigh snorts and starts laughing, the very distinct laughter of the very, very inebriated. “I never went off to college?”
“Ooooooooooooooh,” Claire gives the word five more syllables than it should have, the alcohol bringing both of their Texan drawls close to the surface. “That makes sense.” She glances down at the shot glass in her hand and frowns, glances at the bottle, then back to her shot glass, then back up at Baileigh, beaming and mischievous. “You waaaanna?”
“What?” Baileigh covers her face with her hands and fights to stave off the drunken giggles. “Claire!”
“It’d finish off the bottle!” She grabs the bottle and Baileigh’s shot glass, concentrates very hard on pouring the liquid and not sloshing it and fails at least partially, but they‘re both too toasty to care. “Just don’t tell my dad! Or Adam. Or anybody related to me.”
“Claire!”
“What?!”
She purses her lips down at the shot and the remaining slices of limes and the salt shaker, and naturally the alcohol induced bravery beats out inhibitions. “Okay!”
“Okay!” Claire sits up on her knees, closes her eyes and purses her lips exaggeratedly. Baileigh fights hard to stop giggling, sitting up in the same pose and leaning in until her lips meet Claire’s. They hold it until they can’t stave off the laughter any longer, and fall into each other clumsily until it passes again.
“And I win!” Baileigh declares, straightening and scooping up her shot glass to toss back the last shot. “Or lose. Depending on your outlook. I say I win!...Ooo.” She sways a bit and sinks down to the carpet, laying her head on Claire’s knee. “I think I win tonight but I will sooooooo lose tomorrow.”
“I’ll fix it?” Claire offered, giggling and patting Baileigh’s hair.
"Marry me?"
“You’re doing that already.”
Baileigh blinked up at her, then grinned brightly. “Oh yeah. I forgot. Utah? Guy would never say no to two wives, y‘know.”
Claire falls over giggling, and eventually they fall asleep.
“Mohinder? Please stop sniffing my hair.”
He blinks at her from behind something like a haze, a look she’s come to recognize, though she’s thankful that this time it’s just the spurt of hormones rather than the snap of anger. She can handle this easier, because really, it means absolutely nothing. Even people without heightened senses respond to the female body’s natural pheromones during ovulation, so she read somewhere--probably in Cosmo, but anyway--therefore she completely forgives him for the moments he looks at her that way, like she‘s a very tasty looking slice of chocolate cake and he‘s poised with a fork and a glass of milk. He can’t help it anymore than she can help smelling edible. It’s the outbursts of anger that bother her, that hurt her feelings, no matter how much she tries to tell herself that they’re equally as meaningless. She hopes they are, at least.
“I apologize.” He touches a curl with his fingertips, tugs the lock of hair straight and watches with an almost academic curiosity as it bounces back into a loose spiral. She smiles slightly, almost sighs in exasperation; men and their preoccupation with her damned hair--
The rest happens too fast for her to process, which is scary, because she’s strong, she’s quick, she isn’t taken by surprise because that’s dangerous in her profession, but her back is shoved against the sharp edge of the desk and his mouth is pressed hard enough to hers to draw blood. She plants her hands against the wooden surface to keep her back from bending, body rigid and indecisive because she doesn’t want to hurt him for Christ’s sake but he’s kissing her and that needs to stop. She’s fairly certain if Julian or Sylar walks through the door right now there will be shooting and things hurled telekinetically and she’ll be very lucky to keep her head. His hips are pining hers against the desk, she can’t knee him in the groin and well, that really seems cruel, so she settles for working her arms between them and shoving with as much leverage as she can manage.
He stares at her, a bit confused and dazed as she wipes a bead of blood from her lips and frowns down at the red smear on her fingers. He looks from the smear to her and back again, licks at his own lips, and the haze seems to clear. “I didn’t--I’m sorry--”
“It’s okay.” She laughs a bit, swipes the back of her hand across her mouth again. The split will heal quickly, they always do, so long as she can keep herself from nibbling at it. “It’s okay,” she assures him again as the stricken, slightly panicked look doesn’t fade. “Really. You didn‘t mean it, I know that--”
“I--”
“You didn’t.” She tucks her lip between her teeth, runs the the tip of her tongue over the split. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom. You should call Sylar.” Because these particular moods always improve after he spends time with Sylar.
“I…right.”
She nods and ducks past him, inwardly cringing at the awkwardness she knows will settle between them for a time; she can get past it, because she knows it really doesn’t have anything to do with her. She just hopes that he can too.
He’ll learn to control himself, eventually, even if it‘s a difficult road that he has ahead of him.