Realistic or Modern &nbsp; 𝕃𝕀𝕄𝔼𝕃𝕀𝔾ℍ𝕋

interactions

casey, celie, viva

tags

thatonegirl28

By the time Iris reentered the building, the attendees had settled, returning to their prior conversations, no longer particularly interested in the fight they’d just witnessed—it was none of their business, after all.

If any of them were especially desperate for closure on the girl with the bloody face and the wayward Clairmont who’d inflicted it upon her, they’d probably be able to hunt down the answers in a Twitter article by morning.

Casey was where Iris had left him, playing mediator with Celie and Viva. Whether or not he’d made any progress in subduing the two remained to be seen, though the blonde doubted it—her husband glanced nervously over his shoulder at her approach, eyes locking with hers in a silent plea, though if he wanted help in placating the women or a means of escape, Iris couldn’t tell.

Heaving a sigh, Iris planted herself at Casey’s side. “Hard to say,” she answered, keeping her voice low so as to attempt to avoid inciting any more of Viva’s wrath. “She won’t tell me anything.”

Iris would’ve said more on the matter had they not had company standing close enough to hear.

Ember’s being a stubborn, little asshole, and I’ve failed as a mother, apparently, because I can’t even tell when my own kid is having issues.

The twins had been so easy to raise when they were younger, but Iris had evidently taken the simplicity of the toddler-to-tween years for granted. Really, she shouldn’t have been as shocked as she was—her freshman year of high school had been a gateway for rebellion, but the roles were reversed now, and in that moment, Iris realized that karma had finally snuck up on her to exact revenge on her parents’ behalf for all of the shit she’d put them through. Now, Ember was angry with the world for reasons beyond Iris’ comprehension, and Brinley was inclined to act above it all, as if she existed on a different—and far better—plane of reality than the rest of her family.

If not for the baby currently taking up residence in Iris’ stomach, she would’ve still been outside, cigarette clenched tightly between her lips and smoke pouring out her nose.

“You can if you want,” Iris said, placing an encouraging hand on Casey’s arm. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with her than I did.”

As her husband retreated, the blonde turned to Celie and Viva, smiling weakly as a staff member materialized at their side to deposit a first aid kit into the concerned mother’s waiting hands. They moved to leave, but Iris stopped them. “Let me help,” she offered, taking the box from Celie and leading the way to the nearest bathroom.

She may not have always trusted the two women and their intentions with her husband, but she could still be civil, even if it was only driven by guilt.

Iris set the bandaging kit on the edge of a sink, briefly checking for feet under the line of stall doors to ensure that they were alone, then she started, “I’m really sorry about that. Ember’s been in a mood all night—I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but you know how it is. Teen hormones make everyone crazy. Honestly, a visit or two to the family therapist would do her some good, but what fifteen-year-old girl wants to hear that?” Iris scoffed. “I sure wouldn’t have—it would’ve done more harm than good. Nothing like being told you need to stop what you’re doing to make you want to do it more.”

Dampening the clump of paper towels in her hand beneath a thin stream of water, Iris surveyed the damage for the first time that night—Viva’s pretty face was marred by a bitter expression and the thick, crimson liquid that flowed freely across her lips and chin. “Here,” the blonde said, passing the wet paper towel. “Tilt your head back and put pressure on it.” Iris glanced to Celie before continuing, “It’s probably not as bad as it looks.”

She hoped.

Otherwise, they might have a hospital bill to pay.

Soap · Jul 21, 2024

dance instructor / board member

Juliette Jameson.

can't get you out of my head

location

gala

outfit

interactions

DJ, Trevor

tags

gingersnaps

ohdittoh

“I didn’t lie. Where in that sentence did I fu–” She took a deep breath and focused on the road instead of finishing her sentence. Ever since that reality show, Juliette had taken anger management classes – only because her manager believed it would be good for her reputation. Not that she particularly cared much. Those days were long gone. The fame would stick to her like flies did to honey; that wasn’t going anywhere.

She wasn't trying to please anybody, never was and never would. Those classes ended as soon as they started, but Juliette remembered the breathing technique they attempted to teach her before she cussed out the director there.

Whether it was for her daughter or for herself, some part of Juliette wanted to be better. So, she shut up. If DJ wanted to get it all out, let her. It was no use and certainly wouldn't help for her anger to stew. That never did her any favors growing up - but then again, she was more impulsive than DJ was.

She probably would've jumped out the car to prove her point at her age.

“So what, if he’s there, we’re all gonna sit down and have a nice family dinner? That way we’ll look like the perfect family in front of your friends and the cameras, right? God!”

DJ wasn’t wrong either. A good part of it was certainly for the cameras. She shouldn’t be on the board of a new school that had been so messed up in the past if she didn’t have a stable family herself.

It was obvious she didn’t – the fact her husband’s new apartment that was his minivan and her daughter’s temper tantrums that seemed to be getting worse the longer she went without knowing the “why” of Trevor and Juliette’s separation.

They needed to tell her. Jules just needed to gather the courage to do it.

“I mean, what did you do to make him so mad?! And why am I getting punished for it?! It’s not fair.”

“... Are you fucking kidding me? You’re being punished?”

Remember the part where she was trying to cut down on the swearing?

It’s a process.

She would've put up with it – but Juliette wasn't going to sit here and allow her daughter to make herself the victim. In this case, she likely was. She didn't know that the man she'd called "Dad" her entire life wasn't her father.

But... she didn't fucking know that she didn't know, so the spoiled brat attitude needed to be dropped.

“Are you being punished with Cartier bracelets and designer fucking dresses? Locked up in the ivory tower that has not one, but two walk-in closets in your bedroom? I’m struggling to see where you’re suffering, Deedge.”

Juliette shook her head, glancing over at her. “Do you know how incredibly lucky you are? My parents were losers, complete utter wastes of breath. My mother wanted me to abort you–” Juliette laughed in disbelief. It was a traumatic moment in her life – but if she wasn’t laughing, it was reporting her parents for tax fraud.

"Am I glad that I didn't? Abso-fucking-lutely, but am I rethinking my choices right about now?"

They pulled up to the school as valet already started to approach them. “And your father? Your father has no parents. They died on the shitty roads of Ireland. So be grateful you have two. I don’t want to hear about what’s fair and what isn’t.” The car door slammed, making the valet jump by the sheer force.

The sight of Trevor shouldn’t have eased her stress.

Even though he wasn’t Delphine’s biological father – he was the only person she had been able to count on for the past seventeen years. If you told her that twenty years ago, she’d laugh in your face – spit in it too for insulting her so blatantly.

The tension in her shoulders released slightly. “Oh great. Glad you can grace us with your presence. Is your phone not working?”

The glare in her eyes spoke for itself; it better not have been fucking working.

“Your daughter is determined to die of heat stroke at seven 'o'clock at night."

Juliette handed the keys off to some employee and opened up her daughter’s door.

“Let's get one thing straight: your father isn't here for me. Right now, I can't stand him, and vice versa. But you aren't being punished because we're fighting." For the first time in fifteen minutes during their argument, her eyes softened.

She knew what it felt like; looking at DJ was like staring into a mirror from twenty years ago. The uncertainty and hurt etched into every inch of her face, the way she averted her gaze every so often, and the way she raised her voice defensively at every turn.

The only thing Juliette didn't have at her age was the reassurance that somebody actually cared.

"This leprechaun loser and I have done and would do anything for you."

She crossed her arms, casting a glance at a passerby who seemed overly interested in their familial drama.

"So... get out of this goddamn car, take the family fucking pictures, and lose the attitude."

ohdittoh · Jul 21, 2024

as if.

Brea Ackerman-Emerson.

2005 Barbie Doll

location

gala

interactions

n/a

tags

H Harry

Painted fingertips stained the purple canvas with neon green prints, and the young artist’s eyes narrowed. Leaning her ear against her knee, she studied the painting from a closer angle, and then, sitting up straight, scraped a fingernail through one of the blobs of orange in the top corner with a quick flick of her wrist. Now, the mass of paint—which was certainly intended to look like something—had a large white streak through it; the artist brushed a cornsilk hair from her face with her pink, leaving a green streak across her brow.

After looking for a few moments, she decided that, no, that wasn’t quite it, and she picked up one of the cartoonishly small brushes that lay by her sock-covered foot and, contorting her body to reach behind herself, dipped it in a mound of aqua paint. Leaning forward and narrowing her eyes again—she really needed glasses, but glasses were a no-go and contacts were torturous—she lowered her paintbrush to make just the right width, just the right length of a perfectly straight—

“BRAY-yuh!”

Brea jerked, dropping her paintbrush, and immediately folded in her body, clutching green hands on her face before her body realized she wasn’t in danger. In another instant, she was on her feet, fists balled, brows furrowed, her eyes wide in anger as she stomped her foot and yelled, “Look at what you made me do!”

Her dad, standing in the doorway, crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow—what would seem like a stunningly calm reaction to being yelled at. He looked down at the canvas on the ground, and then his brows furrowed.

Brea sighed exasperatedly and gestured to the canvas. “You made me—look at the line!”

There were many lines that she could’ve been speaking about—practically the whole painting was lines—but Brea was speaking specifically about a two-inch line across the corner of the 8x10 canvas.

“Good job, hon,” Felix, her father, said, coming in the room and putting his hands on his hips to stand over the painting as though a father looking down at a flat tire.

“No, you screwed it up,” Brea hissed.

Felix—again with the surprisingly calm reaction—chuckled. “Alright, well. It’s time for you to get ready,” he said, brushing onto a new subject.

You know, some people would say that Brea had her father wrapped around her finger; Brea would rephrase it and clarify that she couldn’t get him off from around it. For real—he always wanted to know what she was painting, why, yadda yadda, and then when she explained it, he would always nod and have a super blank face, super obviously not understanding it. If she wanted something—even said it once—he would always buy it for her, and then she would buy it herself not knowing that he bought it, and then she would come home and then she’d have two, and usually one wasn’t at all what she actually wanted. What was worst was that he wanted to be friends with her friends. Of course, Brea didn’t have friends—she had some people who she could call her “circle” sure, some people who she hung out around all of the time who seemed to enjoy her presence, people who she’d shared deep experiences with—but he tried to impress them so that Brea would think that he was cool. Felix was not cool.

But he was rich, and he did give her her own credit card and pay it off for her, so…he wasn’t that bad, she guessed.

Eventually, Brea washed her face and hands of the green paint, got dressed for the gala, and somehow wound up wandering with a flute of faux champagne. She wished it was real champagne, but there were too many adults around for that.

In her wandering, she found herself at a table displaying a large splay of items. Curious (but reluctant to appear as such), she scanned the items with narrowed eyes, her “champagne” balanced between two fingers. A signed Casey Clairmont CD (worth a considerable amount of money, but, like…ew pop music), an autographed manuscript of some poetry book by S. T. Callaghan (more intriguing), a handbell used in a movie that her father was in (why was this here)…

A…pair of shoes worn by Landon Sinclaire?

Brea almost brushed past it, but she quickly did a double-take, and then help a hand up to her mouth to snicker.

A pair of sneakers—like, shoes that weren’t even branded—being auctioned off just because they touched a guy’s foot? Landon Sinclaire was…well, he was probably handsome back in the day, she guessed—so why his shoes?

You know what…

It was funny for, like, a comedy bit, at least. Even if no one ever knew about it.

Plus, she would be the second on the list, so she probably wouldn’t win it.

Glancing over her shoulders and then casually leaning down, Brea neatly signed her name and the amount beside it—a small amount, just a little above the last bidder—and quickly sat down the pen, an amused smile on her face.

ohdittoh · Jul 22, 2024

teacher. poet. ~~father~~.

S. Trevor Callaghan.

hello world

location

.

interactions

JJ, DJ

tags

Soap

gingersnaps

Family photos. Goddamn family photos. Juliette wanted him to be in goddamn family photos. Even thinking about that fucking word—family—made him feel dirty, like he was speaking about something forbidden.

There were so many fecking times that he should’ve seen news like this coming. Jesus, he laid awake at night and counted every reason, rehearsed everything that he’d seen along the way that made him know—just fucking know that something was off—things that he’d brought up only to have them brushed off or ignored. Everyone in this fecking world thought that he was a joke, always had and always would, and now, his wife—Jesus, calling her that felt wrong—was finally revealing what the monkey on his back had been whispering to him this whole time: it was all some elaborate prank, seventeen years of his life down the drain, because he was pathetic and always would be, and no one would ever love him. Not his grandparents, not his wife or whatever the fuck she was, and now that his wife was telling his daughter, not even his fecking daughter.

But he had to be strong, didn’t he? That was what he always had to do—brave face it, huh? Act like he hadn’t been drinking himself to sleep, hotboxing his thirty year old hollowed out van that he parked in the parking lot of a sketchy motel with weed he swore he’d put down twenty years ago? For fecking what? To look strong for his “daughter”?

…

Well…fine. If that’s what he needed to do, Trevor would do it. He’d done things just for the sake of doing them for a long time at this point—it was part of being a father.

Or, well, “father”.

Jesus, fuck, he didn’t even know what to think anymore.

When Juliette stepped out of the vehicle, Trevor felt the color drain from his face. He turned his eyes away for a moment, closed them. Drew in a sharp breath—tried to remember everything that his therapist had told him.

But that was fecking years ago, and he unfortunately had lost a majority of his healthy coping mechanisms when he’d lost his mental status as the biological father of the daughter whom he’d poured his blood, sweat, and tears into raising for all of these years.

His heart rate rapidly quickening, he drew in a sharp breath and opened his eyes. His chest was heart. Jesus, he was going to have a heart attack—he was going to have a heart attack and fecking retraumatize his daughter—

“Oh great,” Juliette said, glaring at him. “Glad you can grace us with your presence. Is your phone not working?”

Trevor’s eyes bore angry holes into hers. God, he hated that fucking look in her eyes—smarmy, bitchy, fucking performative. She wanted to scare him—she didn’t scare him. I blocked your fecking number. He could leave out the part that he hardly ever turned it on anymore, since there was no point if she wasn’t calling him. “It’s dead,” he lied, flat-voiced.

“Your daughter is determined to die of heat stroke at seven o’clock at night,” Juliette said.

Sounds like you can’t manage your own fecking child, then.

“Let’s get one thing straight: your father isn’t here for me,” Juliette said as she opened the door for DJ; Trevor’s stomach twisted, and his eyes darted away. “Right now, I can’t stand him, and vice versa.”

“Fucking understatement,” Trevor muttered.

“But you aren’t being punished because we’re fighting,” she said.

We’re not just fecking fighting. This is the fucking end, don’t you get it, you psycho?

“This leprechaun loser—“ He grit his teeth as Juliette continued. “—and I have done and would do anything for you.”

Trevor finally looked back in DJ’s direction. When he saw her, he felt a squeeze on his heart. His right eye’s vision grew a bit blurry, but he blinked hard to get it to go away.

That was his daughter. Or not. But it was. But it wasn’t.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—Juliette, why the fuck did you have to do this?

His heart squeezed.

“So…get out of this goddamn car, take the family fucking pictures, and lose the attitude,” said Juliette.

Paternal anger instinctually flared in Trevor’s stomach, and Trevor snapped, “Talk to her like a fucking human being and maybe she’ll want to do what you say.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, still not thinking, he made his eye level even with hers, squatting like he used to do when she was a young child to make his body even with hers. “Your mom’s a bitch,” he said, trying not to think about how this wasn’t even his own fucking kid—it wasn’t. “You can wear whatever you want to.” He managed an incredibly small smile, and he offered his hand to help her out of the vehicle. “Now come on. We have some pictures to take, darlin’.”

ohdittoh · Jul 22, 2024

good guy in progress.

Michael Reid.

pink + white

location

gala

interactions

Ronnie, Angie, Nate

tags

Soap

“It’s all about image.”

Mike’s voice reverberated around the room, and then the room was silent. One-hundred-and-fifty men in black suits leaned forward in their seats or crossed their arms. Three hundred eyes were on him, studying every inch of him. He knew that. From the moment that these men stepped into the conference room, every second was curated. All forty minutes of this talk—each word, pause, and motion—had been planned and rehearsed by Mike. These last two minutes were crucial—audience members, he had learned, only remembered the start and end of speeches.

“Image is the foundation for trust—for relationship—and thus, for success. Image makes it so that when you move…” He took a step, then paused. “Others watch. Your suit, how well it fits, your shoes, how well they are shined, your hair, how clean your cut is—that’s what people see. Before they know about you, your family, your history—they know about you, who you look like.”

He made eye contact with the company chairman for a brief moment, then looked at the crowd and chuckled. “I am sure many of the other speakers whom Lounder Enterprises to speak to you gentlemen—“ There was not a single woman in the room, but calling out misogyny was above Mike’s paygrade. “—have fed you the cliche of ‘be your authentic self’—but I am here, as I hope you have noticed throughout my time speaking, to tell you to do the opposite.” Mike chuckled. “My authentic self put me in front of a judge. My authentic self is what sunk me to my lowest. It was my image—who I wanted to look like, sound like, be like…it was him who lifted me up, who placed me at the top. Who never left me sleeping alone, who lined my pockets with more money than I could count.”

He scanned the room, looking at everyone and no one in particular. “I look around this room and I see men who want to be someone. You all are the upper echelon of Lounder Enterprises’ west branch. But you don’t want to stay here—you want to go up. You want to live in mansions with ten women on each arm. You want to have your name in history books. And I’ve been there, and I am there, and if you want to follow me, you’ll do as I do: show the world who you want to be, and your reality will conform to the one you’ve built.” He paused, then smiled. “Thank you, and have a good afternoon.”

As usual, he was politely applauded. At this point in his post-career career, Mike knew what would happen after each speech: he would be applauded and complimented and, if not requested to come do a Q&A onstage, subsequently be approached by whomever was in charge, handed a sum of cash, and asked to sign a copy of one of his memoirs, after which his PR assistant would come and sweep him away (a moment which they discussed before each event) and escort him to his cab.

Today was no different. Mike gave his usual professional, rehearsed thank yous to the members of the audience who were pretending not to piss themselves with glee for the fact that they got to speak to the Michael Reid—which he could understand, because fucking look at him. He scribbled a few autographs in the books that were presented to him before the chairman swept him away into the green room, where he offered him another gig, handed him his money, and pulled out several things for Mike to sign—and, right on cue, Kyle, the member of his PR team selected to accompany him today, pulled him aside at the perfect moment to make his escape.

It wasn’t until he made it back to his home that he could drop the fucking act.

The moment he opened the door, he dropped his belongings to the floor and dropped himself onto the armchair, groaning at the pain in his legs. After a moment of letting himself melt, he pulled off his coat, loosened his tie, undid a button of his shirt, and then splayed out his limbs again.

Old bastards in their stuffy ass suits who thought that Mike’s message was meant for them never failed to exhaust him. No amount of image-shaping could save sorry souls like that. But hey, they were paying, so whatever they wanted to hear.

He closed his eyes and sighed. This whole…thing just exhausted him.

He opened his tired eyes and looked at the fish in the light-up aquarium beside the tv. Janet Jackson (that was the fish’s name) seemed to be tired, too, swimming slowly in a circle and then hovering in one spot. Was this what an honest living got him? An audience of old men fellating him (metaphorically), a wad of cash, and onto the next, saying the same thing over and over and over again and promising life change for these sorry saps…

Stop thinking like that, Mike, he had to tell himself.

This life wasn’t all that bad, and he damn sure wasn’t about to go back to the old way. No matter how much he wanted to, he just…couldn’t.

Breathing out a sigh, he opened his phone to check the schedule for the rest of the day.

GALA

“Gala…?” he mouthed, and then—Oh. Gala.—he remembered.

He’d volunteered to help out at the NYA Gala back…when. He’d said something about helping serve, blah, blah, running…something? Was that even still going on?

After a few calls, much to his irritation, Mike discovered that, yes, it was still going on, and yes, they had banked on him coming and assisting with setup and teardown. Why the hell they couldn’t pay someone to do it was one thing, but Mike was working on this new thing called commitment—or, well, he was trying to—and he decided that, where he’d failed so much with this new vow of commitment in the past few months, he might as well try to turn that new leaf back over and stick through with this.

Even if this whole thing was going to be a total shitstorm. Chas Marino organizing anything? Even God couldn’t help a disaster like that.

(Generally, things that Marino organized went fairly well. Mike just fucking hated the guy.)

He showed up on time with grit teeth, helped set up, and…well…after that, just sort of loitered aimlessly, wandering here and there, saying hello to old friends and avoiding old enemies—as tempting as it was to approach them and be passive aggressive, he was trying to be…”kind.” 
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her.

He’d tried not to think about her, and, genuinely, for the past four months that they had been apart, after the promise he’d made to her in the angry moment that he was done for real this time, he’d managed to do it pretty well—managed to push her out of his mind.

But here she was, and goddamn it, Veronica Crosby was fucking beautiful.

He turned his eyes away, but he couldn’t keep them off for very long. There was an ache in his chest and an itch in his throat, and all of it kept turning his eyes back to her.

He managed to keep his eyes off of her for several minutes, and then when he looked next—God, she was so fucking beautiful, his chest hurt—Woods was standing there with her. He noticed as well, for the first time, though she’d likely been there the whole time, Angie—but the Angie beside Ronnie wasn’t really Angie, was it? Was she that old already?

Mike caught himself watching for several minutes—observing the commotion, trying to understand what was going on. Something with a painting? He wasn’t sure.

And then, some guard-looking guy showed up.

Curious (and regrettably instinctively protective), Mike made his way through the crowd over to the man, trying intentionally to keep his eyes off of Ronnie.

Jesus fuck, what was he doing? Why was he putting himself back here? He’d said he was done—why was he stepping back up?

“Excuse me,” he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder for a brief moment and moving into the circle. He glanced at Woods—not at either the girl or the woman, only at Woods—and then back at the guard. “Is there some issue here?”

gingersnaps · Jul 22, 2024

D.J

Maybe it was because they were too alike, but DJ could tell the second she’d crossed the line with her mom. She knew she was about to blow up and take Delphine down with her in the process. All she could do now was brace for impact.

“Are you being punished with Cartier bracelets and designer fucking dresses? Locked up in the ivory tower that has not one, but two walk-in closets in your bedroom? I’m struggling to see where you’re suffering, Deedge.”

Delphine could only cross her arms and laugh dryly- a very juvenile response, but she felt she’d earned the right to be a little fucking childish during her mother’s little temper tantrum. None of that had anything to do with anything!

“-my mother wanted me to abort you- Am I glad that I didn't? Abso-fucking-lutely, but am I rethinking my choices right about now?" “

Her mother was laughing without a hint of humor, and DJ kept her jaw clenched and her glare fixated on a random bush outside. She was not going to cry, thank you very much, because she spent way too much time doing her stupid make-up to ruin it over this, and she was not giving her mom that satisfaction.

"...Your father has no parents. They died on the shitty roads of Ireland. So be grateful you have two. “

“Well, I wish you had.” DJ spit out, with as much venom as she could muster without bursting into tears. She was determined to be hurtful and difficult all night, to not let them get to her- that was the plan, at least, until she saw her father standing outside, waiting for them.

It was embarrassing, really, how quickly her facade shattered with just one look at him.

Delphine said nothing as JJ exited the car to exchange words with Trevor that she could not make out from the passenger’s seat. She glared at them through the window, still determined to not move an inch, even as they approached her once again and the car door flew open. It was going to be a hard night for everybody if she could help it.

They talked over each other, DJ’s green eyes zapping between her parents as they attempted to convince her to play along and get the hell out of the car already. She thought of what to say that would hurt them the most, what would really sting. The more they talked, the angrier she felt- her dad, whom she hadn’t heard a word from in so long, had the audacity to stand up for her.

DJ thought of all the nasty, horrible things she would say to get back at them.

And the second she opened her mouth, her bottom lip started trembling and her eyes filled up with tears.

“…You couldn’t have picked up the phone?! What the hell!” She sobbed out, hating how childish she sounded DJ tried to hold back the tears, lifting her face up so they wouldn’t fall down her face and ruin hours of hard work . “I hate you both! You’re so lucky this mascara is water-proof, or else I’d be so mad at you right now!”

She sniffled, slowly getting out of the car and avoiding eye contact with either of them as she delicately wiped at her eyes.

“Let’s just get this over with, please.”

mood

mood mood mood

location

location location location

outfit

outfit outfit outfit

playing...

song title

by artist

mentions

mentions mentions mentions

interactions

JJ.

tags

ohdittoh

º º code by ditto º º

hery · Jul 22, 2024

MOOD: mood

OUTFIT: clothes

LOCATION: location
basics

MENTIONS:
ohdittoh

INT:
Brea
tags

TL;DR no
tl;dr

Gabi Cervantes

I'm in a clique, but I want out.

Brea stuck out like a sore thumb. Not because her outfit wasn't tastefully chosen—it passed. What caught Gabi's eye from a few tables over was her friend's style of aimless wandering, with no attempt at networking or accosting the bartenders like Diego and her parents. Gabi, too, had been searching for the "fun" part of the gala. She'd already discovered that it was nowhere to be found.

After setting her glass of real champagne off to the side, Gabi snuck up to the auction table her friend stood nearest. With a slight grin, Gabi leaned over Brea's shoulder, scanning the auction sheet. Her delicate fingers gripped the pen, and she quickly scrawled her name below the blonde's, adding a bid that was just a little higher.

“Those are something, huh?” she remarked, removing herself from Brea's personal space to lean beside the table, arms crossed. Her sleeves were long, red, and lacy, a distracting contrast to her otherwise simple outfit. She felt badass. "What a shame I was here first."

Gabi smirked, tilting her head cockily. “You know what they say—second place is just the first loser." She didn't really think like that, but she'd bet money Brea did. And if the artist didn't think that way, well, the auction was Gabi's, wasn't it?

"You could grab the little Saint Taylor figurine, though. Didn't I hear you say that fiberglass inspired you most?"

Listen, as soon as Gabi's eyes fell on the Landon Sinclaire shoes, she had to have them. She could gift them to her dad and watch him flip. Resell them for, probably, a profit. Throw them at Theo's balls... endless possibility.

What was Brea going to do with them? Laugh for a second and then let them collect dust in a box in Maeve Ackerman's walk-in closet? No, that wouldn't do.

Unless she... no, definitely not that.

Gabi placed a ring-laden hand on the bid sheet, covering the pen as if to embolden Brea to try her luck. "It's mine, Bray-yuh."

For a second, it really was dead silent around the table.

Until an enormous fit of laughter erupted from the fashion student, for she was sure she'd gotten Brea going.

...

But her hand was still on the pen. That would be her game; she'd psych her opponent out.

Because the shoes were hers.

code by valen t.

Soap · Jul 22, 2024

broadway wannabe.

Angela Crosby.

There she goes

location

gala

outfit

interactions

nathan, ronnie, mike

tags

ohdittoh

Performance art.

Angela laughed, a snort escaping her while the guard and Nathan Woods exchanged words. This was how it often was with them: always on the sidelines with a smile and a humorous quip to make the night memorable. To her peers, it might’ve sounded loser-like to be on such good terms with her mother. But since when was a good mother-daughter relationship a crime?

Think Lorelei and Rory, Sophie and Donna, Tracy and Edna—she could go on, but for the sake of your sanity, she won’t.

He probably would’ve been escorted out if her mother hadn’t intervened, but Nathan’s pleas and his mention of his wife’s hatred for bad publicity were enough to shoo the guards away—watching on the sidelines, seemingly satisfied with the story that he was, in fact, supposed to be here.

“I’ll send Mike your regards, alright?”
"Oh, gee. Thanks."

She had half a mind to flip Nathan off and ask him to carefully deliver that as well—but he wasn’t to blame for Michael’s poor decision-making.

Well, not all of them anyway.

Glancing between her mother and Nathan, Angela watched the interaction that was about to unfold. Veronica Crosby was not going to be liable for losing an auction item. Her dependability would plummet.

Her head cocked to one side as the stared at the donation in question.

Personally, the painting lacked emotion, and Angela felt nothing for it. But her love for the arts had nothing to do with lazy brushstrokes on a canvas.

Her opinion meant nothing here and she couldn't speak on it—which was a blessing because Nathan was just about to whisk away the painting with a self-satisfied smile and the privilege he thought he had when he was stopped by one of the guards yet again.

Before Nathan could get a word out, lo and behold, his savior had appeared.

Michael Reid.

“Is there some issue here?”

You're the issue.

You're involving yourself where you shouldn't be.

Make like yourself and run away before things get too real.

"We can't allow him to leave with an auction item without it being paid for, sir. We'll be forced to escort him off the premises and call the proper authorities." His hand rested on his hip, where zip ties resided—security here wasn’t surprising; half the items would likely be on display in a private collection. A private collection of a weird, borderline insane superfan, probably, but one nonetheless.

"He just got ahead of himself," Angela said, her tone casual as if she were discussing a minor inconvenience. Was she sticking up for her father's best friend? It could very well be perceived that way. Except, Angela didn't particularly care what happened to this man one way or the other. She’d just seen an opportunity to push a few buttons and jumped at the chance. It’d been around four months since she’d seen Michael last—and frankly, Angela had wished it was longer.

"They thought it was already theirs, ha!" Angela rolled her eyes, smiling all the while at the guard. "Rich people... let me break it down for you, this guy over here? Original artist of said painting, sad part is..." The redhead frowned, shaking her head.

"He didn't donate it." It wasn't as though anyone else but Nathan was on the verge of being kicked out of the gala, but thanks to Angela's sob story, he wouldn't be. It's hard to say if the guard was particularly moved by anything she was saying, he was quite stoic.

The guard narrowed his eyes at the group, glaring over at Nathan until he backed away from the painting. "But not to worry, Michael here was just about to throw his hat in the ring. Pretty hefty starting bid, though. Twelve hundred and seventy dollars? Youch, I didn’t know you were such a big deal, Uncle Nate!" Angela picked up a pen and a bid sheet, her smile widening.

Her words and gaze were directed at the guard, but it wasn’t rocket science to read between the lines.

"What wouldn’t you do for family, am I right?" she said, holding out the sheet for Michael to take.

Sorry, she meant Dad.

Let’s be honest, though: sperm donor would suffice. Wasn't like he played a bigger role other than that anyway.

ohdittoh · Jul 22, 2024

as if.

Brea Ackerman-Emerson.

2005 Barbie Doll

location

gala

interactions

gabi

tags

Brea’s lovely time alone being entertained and perfectly content was short-lived, unfortunately, as those moments tended to go, and someone discovered her in her habitat of solitude and decided to pop that bubble by picking up the pen and writing a bid that was just a little higher.

Brea sighed through her nose. “Well,” she said, giving Gabi a quick scan up and down. She looked hot, Brea guessed. Of course, she wouldn’t admit that out loud because Gabi didn’t need more of an ego boost. “I didn’t know you had an interest in Landon Sinclaire memorabilia?”

“Those are something, huh?” Gabi said, leaning against the table, seemingly brushing off Brea’s question. So obviously the answer was no. (Brea would brush past the fact that it was a no about her being interested in Landon Sinclaire merch on her part as well.) “What a shame I was here first.”

Brea furrowed her brows (though quickly stopped because ew wrinkles). She looked down at the paper, which had her name very clearly before Gabi’s on the bidding list, and then back at Gabi. “That’s my line, Gab.”

Gabi smirked, tilting her head. Ugh, she was irritating with things like that. Fake tough. “You know what they say—second place is just the first loser.”

First is the worst, second is the best, third is the one with the hairy chest was the one that immediately came to Brea’s mind, but bringing that up have the opposite effect than what she wanted, and so Brea just opted to sigh through her nose and roll her eyes. “Be honest,” Brea said, “you don’t want this—you only want it because I do.”

“You could grab that little Saint Taylor figurine, though,” Gabi said, and Brea let out a soft chuckle, crossing her arm over her chest again. “Didn’t I hear you say that fiberglass inspired you the most?”

“You want me to buy a Taylor piece?” Brea asked, clicking her tongue and chuckling again. “He’s so overdone. He has, like…one thing. I’m not interested in the work of a man who can only sculpt barnyard animals, no matter how symbolic he says they are. You know…” She looked back at the pair of shoes, and she tried to find something nice to say about them. She came up empty, so instead, she rerouted her entire sentence: “That—“ And she pointed over to a LEGO mini figure of Amy Jones. “—seems more your speed anyway. I know your love for R&B runs deep.” She looked down at the shoes, which she was gradually growing more and more attached to by the moment for sheer fact that Gabi actually seemed to really want them. “This is mine, though, so…nice try.”

Gabi flat-palmed the bid sheet, and one of her rings glinted and flashed Brea in the eye. Brea grit her teeth, forcing a small smile. “It’s mine, Bray-yuh,” Gabi said.

Brea’s blood was only slightly boiling at the moment. Like…very, very slightly. Because people like Gabi…? They couldn’t get under her skin. Not that easily.

Brea chuckled, grabbing the pen from Gabi’s hand. “Yeah, sure. Nice try, Gabber.” She leaned over the paper again, and, grabbing the paper out from under Gabi’s hand with a polite smile and a, “I need that for a moment, excuse me,” she scribbled her name down and bid a fairly large sum above what Gabi had bid.

She clicked the pen off and smiled.

Try me, bitch.

“Now,” she said, laying the pen down in a casual challenge and taking a sip from her faux champagne, “you have to tell me—where did you get that dress? I could’ve sworn that K-Mart went out of business, so…did you go dumpster diving or did you find it in a thrift? And be honest.”

hery · Jul 23, 2024

MOOD: mood

OUTFIT: clothes

LOCATION: location
basics

MENTIONS:
Soap Winona ohdittoh

INT:
Angie, Nate, Mike, Pitbull
tags

TL;DR no
tl;dr

Veronica Crosby

In the crowd, the music's loud, but I'll find you!

"I'll send Mike your regards, alright?" said Nate.

Irk.

Ronnie had always been the last one to be in on the joke. Sometimes, it was on purpose—you could go a long way playing the oblivious ditz after learning to master the conversational immunities it granted. But, earnestly, Ronnie's aim in life had always been to just get along, and her own pride seldom got in the way of that.

But Nate was dropping sass. It was the drawl of his words, and the fleeting eye contact he offered the woman who had just defused a potential security mishap. Similar to Ronnie's four-time ex-fiancé, Nate Woods had not yet learned how to speak to a lady.

And it was never too late to learn.

The film actress and part-time auctioneer looked to her daughter, then started to address the man with a bit more spine. "Not so fast. If you'd like to place a bid—"

"Excuse me," entered a gruff voice, clear as a bell.

Ronnie's heart dropped with her jaw, and she turned to see Mike stepping into the circle, robbing her of the breath in her lungs. She knew where Angela's eyes would be, flitting between each of her separated parents, judging the decisions Ronnie prayed her daughter would learn from as an adult. If there was one thing Ronnie was sure of, it was that she was fully in on the joke of this relationship.

Mike's eyes were on Nate's, Nate's on the painting, and Angela's on Mike. All over again, Ronnie felt like a small woman. Where would she look? Whose words should she hang onto?

Fortunately, Angela had reached the age of complex thought, where kids could really start to pay off. Ronnie, in her sudden daze, drew a pleasant, almost medicated smile as her daughter grabbed the reins in dealing with the security guard. Angela's words were directed at the guard, but Ronnie could see the underlying message clearly.

The likely, stinging reality was that Mike had inserted himself into the conversation to bail his buddy out. Guys of that caliber fight tooth and nail for each other, and it was a hard thing to admit the amount of jealousy it cultivated in Ronnie. She could have written volumes on the motives and behaviors of these man, all more true to their character than the fraudulent self-help series that paid Mike's child support bills.

As an actress, nothing was more obvious.

The guard remained stoic, his gaze shifting between the group. "Angela," Ronnie warned, holding the guard's gaze. "Nate, you need to step back," she ordered firmly, "before this becomes an issue."

Ronnie reached an arm out in parallel to Angie's, which held the bid sheet for the painting. "Either of you are welcome to pledge what you can afford," she clarified, her easygoing stare drifting between both Nate and Mike.

Locked and loaded.

"We're all here to support our children, right?"

You haven't forgotten to smile for the camera, have you?

code by valen t.

hery · Jul 23, 2024

MOOD: mood

OUTFIT: clothes

LOCATION: location
basics

MENTIONS:
ohdittoh

INT:
Brea
tags

TL;DR no
tl;dr

Gabi Cervantes

I'm in a clique, but I want out.

Gabi's laughter slowed as Brea’s words sunk in.

"Hm, I'm more of a Zephyr girl," she corrected, scrunching her face mockingly. Each of the girls could play "free and easy", but Gabi was confident in the fact that she could last longer. Her hold on the paper was strong, and she ignored the discomfort it brought her wrist.

Being easygoing was a test of will, meaning not slapping Brea's hand away when she went for the sheet. "Nice bid," Gabi conceded, making an unfortunately obvious double-take, "but my credit card limit's definitely higher than yours, Brea-bae." Paired with her words was a faux ouch face.

Okay, there's no way she's really pledging this much just to spite me!?

Gabi tilted her head just enough to seem unimpressed but remained locked onto Brea's face, her eyes sparkling with the playful thrill of competition. She wouldn't crack this early in the game, and her prize would be Landon Sinclaire's old movie kicks.

But if Gabi was going to make it, she'd have to stall a little. She suspected the same from Brea, given those shoes she had on were the same she'd worn to their last run-in at the club.

Playing to Gabi's proclivity toward fashion, the blonde went straight for her ensemble, which took an hour to plan out before the gala. An hour. She'd barely had time for makeup and—

Oh.

Ohohohoho... what's this?

"Wait, Brea," she interjected, largely unconcerned with whatever untrue things the girl had to say about her outfit. "Hold still."

While savoring the brief gap in conversation she had created, Gabi licked her thumb and pressed it behind Brea's ear. Then, to finish the job, she dug a ruby-red nail into the blonde's skin, flicking off a speck of dried acrylic.

"Neon green?" she teased, huffing out a chuckle. "Were you painting tennis balls? Is that going to pay for the big-ass sum you've now bid on a pair of shoes?" And, as if she'd come up with the brightest idea in the world, Gabi's entire face lit up like an actor being forced at gunpoint to read for Will Ferrell in Elf. "Oh, I have the best idea!"

She snatched back the paper and jotted a higher bid with the minimum increase. "There we go. You're off the hook! Phew."

code by valen t.

ohdittoh · Jul 24, 2024

as if.

Brea Ackerman-Emerson.

2005 Barbie Doll

location

gala

interactions

gabi

tags

Brea’s brows knit for a fleeting second (and, of course, quickly unknitted—she was having no premature wrinkles) as Gabi reached for behind her ear. She jerked, swatting at Gabi’s hand, but not before the dark-haired girl scratched at the back of her ear. “What are you doing?” Brea asked, genuinely confused and concerned, brushing her hair over the spot that Gabi had scratched.

They were not on that level—physical contact? Total no. Again, this girl was not her friend.

Gabi came away with a fleck—literally just a s speck—of green paint. Brea must’ve missed it—honest mistake. When one is so enamored in a painting for hours and hours, paint gets in places that one wouldn’t expect. Of course, Gabi would never understand that, seeing as her “art” was dressing up. (Brea never understood fashion like that. Gaultier and Prada were art, sure, but not…what people at NYA did.) Gabi made some comment about…something. Brea wasn’t really following what was being talked about, beyond that Gabi didn’t get it.

No one ever understood Brea’s creative mind. Actually. She knew that that was cliche to say, but it was true: no one got Brea’s mind.

Also, dumb comeback.

“What is that…even supposed to mean, Gab,” Brea said, not punctuating her sentence with a question mark because honestly, she couldn’t care less about the meaning being spelled out to her. “Whatever. It’s called high art, by the way.” Brea smiled, and then rolled her eyes. “But I didn’t expect you to recognize that.”

Gabi’s face lit up (very obviously forcibly), causing wrinkles on Gabi’s forehead. Tsk, tsk. She was going to look forty by twenty.

Snatch!

Brea’s mouth formed a flat, unamused line as Gabi grabbed back the paper and scribbled down a higher bid. “There we go. You’re off the hook! Phew,” Gabi said.

Brea locked eyes with Gabi and narrowed her eyes. For a moment, the feud was silent, only fought through bullets sent by their eyes.

Finally, Brea broke eye contact to gracefully sip from her faux champagne. It tasted like dirty dishwater, if she was honest, but again, she wasn’t the type to actually slip in any alcohol if there were any adults around.

“Gabi, does this make you happy?” Brea said, her voice suddenly serious and concerned. “Trying to purchase something that you will never use and only discard just to prove something to yourself? You’re not masking it very well.” Brea tucked the corners of her mouth in almost sympathetically. “Jealousy really is toxic to your health, don’t you know, and green’s not your color.” She brushed a hair behind her ear again, revealing another small spot of neon green that she’d missed. “So drop it, hon. Mr. and Mrs. Cervantes will have your ass on a slab for overspending me, anyway.”

She aggressively snatched back the paper and took her careful time writing every letter and number, and then smiled at Gabi. “If you want to have a bidding war with someone,” Brea said, “at least pick someone on your level.”

She eyed the glass in Gabi’s hand and noted a difference in the way the water looked. A bell rang in Brea’s mind, and her mouth gaped slightly. “Oh. My. God. Did you…?” She looked between the glass and Gabi’s face, and then let out a laugh. “Gabi…are you actually stupid?” She lowered her voice slightly. “Sneaking hooch into a school party…are the weekends not enough for you?”

thatonegirl28 · Jul 25, 2024

.
.
.
.

how she's feeling...

mad as hell and in pain
what she's wearing...

white and blue floral
where she's at...

the gala > the bathroom
in the conversation...

casey Winona , ember + iris lvcid

Viva

Kinsey

The gentle brushing of hair from Viva’s face by Casey was a tender reassurance and stark contrast to the pain inflicted by his daughter moments ago before Iris showed up and rightfully dragged her away. How something like that had come from someone as fun and relaxed as Casey. Guilt twisted her guts as she came to the realization that she was face to face now with the person whose career she had just disgraced moments ago. Regret flowed through her veins as rapidly as the blood gushed out her nose.

“It’s not your fault.”

Viva said quietly as she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the sincere feeling of what a father’s love was like. Casey was as close to the real thing as she could get. Ever since Celie won out in court and had their custody arrangement renegotiated from Pierce having sole custody of Viva with supervised visitation for her Celie to a fifty-fifty split between them both, her father had had little interest in ever being a dad to her again. Rumor has it, according to the gossip blogs anyways, that when the judge made the decision Pierce had said “She can take the kid.”

It wasn’t as if her dad was ever particularly interested in being her dad when he did have primary custody anyways. He would sit her on his hip for a walk down Rodeo Drive now and then or bring her to lunch with his newest girlfriend, as long as it was just long enough for a photo op. He’d throw her extravagant birthday parties, buy her the newest toy on the market, but when it came to who ate dinner with her, gave her a nightly bath and bedtime story. It was always one of the half dozen nannies under the Crusoe payroll, or maybe Pierce’s mom, Helena, if she was lucky.

She didn’t always remember much from the first few years of her life, but the night when she was just three years old and awake in the middle of the night with bad dreams stayed with her even now fourteen years later. She wandered out of her bedroom and down the big empty hallways of her father’s mansion in the hills, looking for some comfort in a parent’s arms with a stuffed doggy in her arms, only to push open the master bedroom door to see her dad fucking some girl’s brains out. Viva wandered off to the staff’s quarters and ended up crawling in bed with their maid, Sigrid, who ran her fingers through Viva’s hair and sang her a song that she has said she used to sing to her own children when they were little. It was as close to being in her own mom’s arms as she could get until Celie actually got her back the next year.

Viva had still been chasing that feeling of comfort now.

It ended abruptly when Iris showed up again and stole away Casey’s attention and he eventually left to find wherever she had left Ember to sulk. Her overly nice tone grated on Viva’s ears as she insisted on helping and snatched the kit from Celie’s hands.

Here we fuckin’ go.

♡coded b

thatonegirl28 · Jul 25, 2024

.
.
.
.

how she's feeling...

sick to her stomach
what she's wearing...

red satin dress
where she's at...

the gala > the bathroom
in the conversation...

Casey Winona Iris lvcid Viva @me

Celie

Kinson

“Thank you so much.”

Celie had said as the disinterested waiter dropped the kit into her hands. She’d only held it a moment when Iris scooped it up with vigor and waved her and Viva on a path towards a nearby restroom.

She wrapped an arm around her daughter’s hesitant shoulders and began to guide her behind Iris. Not quite used to the younger woman taking the initiative in, well, any situation, but she was willing to see what kind of help she had to offer as they entered the girl’s room. It was the exact sort of location that Celie used to sneak cigarettes in a couple decades ago.

With a delicate hop upwards Viva sat on the edge of the sink’s countertop, rounding her shoulders forward and slouching with a roll of her eyes. Celie decided not to mention it, her daughter had been through enough.

She let out a weak and wry chuckle that was a bit closer to a strong and directed exhale rather than a real laugh at Iris’s words

“I hear you on that. I think the more my mom told me to stay away from shit, the more I wanted it. Especially the boys she told me to stay away from.”

Memories of the twenty year old production assistant that she used to make out with in the closets on the set of Miles to Go when she was just sixteen came quickly to mind. She shuddered at the thought of Viva ever being in a situation like that. It scared her almost as much as the fight that she’d seen her daughter in earlier tonight.

Viva took the wet paper towels from Iris and winced as she put them to her face “Ow! Fuck…” She hissed through her teeth as the pain from her own touch burned through her head again.

Celie clenched her jaw and nodded

“Let’s hope.”

She agreed.

♡coded by uxie♡

Stardust Galaxy · Jul 25, 2024

Luciana Navarro

fashion designer

It didn’t take her by surprise how Damien reacted, probably because she knew him like the back of her hand after all those years of being together. Or perhaps it was because reading him was so easy. He either had two moods that didn’t hate the world, but still I am a ticking bomb although I can still coexist; and the other one was the world is praying for my downfall so I’ll drag everyone with me exploding and not caring about the collateral damage. That was Damien to you.

But that was how they made things work, a constant push and pull between the two where they would get on each other’s nerves; but at the end of the day, they would move on. They always did, or at least that’s what they pretended. Luci wondered if he was some kind of karma of a past life or if she was his karma. Maybe they were just the best the other could get, two people who were too flawed to even consider there were better people for each other than them, and perhaps that was how her life was supposed to be.

Luci held the free hand of Damien as she started making small circles on the back of his palm. It was obvious he wasn’t in a good mood, nor was she, but at least both of them were on the same page about wanting a nice night out.

“Hey look at me, we are both tense. I get it, our children are a headache to not say a pain in the ass. And I am not thrilled either about attending this gala.”

She said with a small sigh,

“Half of these people are still stuck in their high school days. I doubt they could make something like this work. I could bet anything that it’s going to end up in a messy situation. But until that happens, let’s enjoy our night bid on something silly with the hopes that we don’t win it, because the last thing I want is to have any of those stupid objects at my house... our house”

mood:in need of patience

outfit: here

location: gala

interactions:

SZA - Saturn

coded by Stardust Galaxy

hery · 2024-09-14T02:12:35-0400

MOOD: mood

OUTFIT: clothes

LOCATION: location
basics

MENTIONS:
jasmyn Historia Calamatium

INT:
Lola, Cass
tags

TL;DR no
tl;dr

Gabi Cervantes

I'm in a clique, but I want out.

"This mailbox is mine, and this triagonal sign," murmured Stephanie from Lazytown, her head swaying side to side in an ostentatiously pink bob wig, "That blue balloon, the month of june. They're mine, mine, mine, mine, mine..."

"Huh? What was that?"

There was no life in the girl's eyes as she met those of the teen boy standing before her, as difficult-to-ignore the werewolf tuxedo shirt below was. Their mouths moved, but neither captive in the conversation had extended the effort of straining their ears over the speakers' booming bassline.

"Nothing," Gabi answered, at once hiding her face in a red solo cup. The punch at the party tonight was purple and it was strong. She glanced around, feeling her body move like a puppet to the strings of the beat. There were flashing strobe lights, but it was never dark enough to conceal the bright, bubblegum colors of her hair, jewelry, and dress.

The werewolf's gaze drilled holes into Gabi's head. However he was planning to charm his way into a kiss, he was already out of time. Gabi flung her thumbs backward, moving her lips. Back to the friends. And good luck on your endeavors, Twilight.

"Um, I'm starting to think that every guy here is just trying to make their crotch rise from the dead," she began to theorize over the sound of the music, seeking shelter in the little pod of three she'd brought to the party tonight. There was Lola, who Gabi knew. And Cass, who she didn't really. He'd already been warned about Diego and his very... overzealous habit of meddling, though. So by Gabi's book, she and Cass already knew each other quite well.

"Also, is it me or does everyone low-key seem like they know each other!?" A passing look was drawn on Cass, being the Clairmont in the conversation, but Gabi's focus lingered on Lola. Gabi was technically an NYA legacy kid herself, but it didn't feel so much like it compared to the others. "Unless all those trillions of angel and devil pairs actually a big, giant group costume?"

Gabi quirked a brow, shushing her lips with a curled finger like a caricature of a detective. "Either way, they look great," she finished with a shrug.

"So, shots?"

code by valen t.

Soap · 2024-09-14T21:45:11-0400

upcoming rockstar.

Lyrica Jericho-Moore.

360

location

halloween partay!

outfit