Any Clients please leave

// Marvel OC side blog // //all likes and follows through @voiid-baby//

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

[carrd (WIP)]

[About the Mun] // [About the Muse] // [Rules/DNI]

[Starter call] // [Open RP]

High risk patients:

Mr. Reynolds. Bob.

Walker

Cherry

Yelena

Mr. Barnes. James.

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

I'm moving! @drcarpenterinthehouse is heading over to @oxentrate

I've been wanting to set up a multimuse for a while, and now is apparently the time!

I'll finish up the final asks and drafts, but all new content will be written over there. Come follow me there if you aren't already!

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

@belcvas sent: 📔

August 24th. I've always sucked at. I'm not good at. I feel like I used to be a lot better at making friends. I don't think I'm a recluse by any stretch of the imagination, but now I'm starting to feel like I look like a hermit. Okay, granted, the only friends I seem to be making are potential patients. Or actual patients. Which I don't know what's worse. Or fireable. How many times do you have to smoke with someone before you can say 'hey, what if we smoked at a bar instead?'. Jesus Christ, this is so much easier with dudes. I think I think better with my dick. I mean, she's the first person I've cried in front of in like, what, four years? That means something. Even if it makes me want to shrivel up and die hide. She's cool, at least. Sometimes I wonder if she feels as similar to me as I do to her. Outside of the whole dead sibling club thing, I mean. I don't know. Maybe I'll ask her if she wants to hang out outside of the stuffy tower. E.C

send “📔” to read an entry from my muse’s diary about your muse(open)

[phantom-threaded]

Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith

[unmichka]

"What, you mean before she threw herself off a fucking cliff because she decided someone else's family was worth more than hers?" It bubbles to the surface too fast for her to tamp it down, clipped and brittle. Yelena grits her teeth.

It's stupid. Stupid how the anger still digs into her like a broken rib, even three years out. Stupid how shaky her thumb is on the flint wheel as she fumbles for a relight. Stupid how quickly that first, brilliant flash of hurt fizzles out into something desperate and bruise-like. Stupid how deep the pathetic ache to talk about her runs.

The guilt claws in a second later. Dull, but there. She shouldn't be mean, not right now - not when Elijah looked more miserable than she'd even seen him, face damp and blank. They'd only talked about this once, briefly. No feelings. But enough for her to have a fair guess as to why he's asking about Natasha.

Yelena fiddles with the lighter, metal warm in her palm. If anyone was going to get it, it was Elijah. Right?

"She told me, uh. To go free the others. So I did. Took a few years. Didn't see her again after that. Texted a lot though, talked on the phone." Her voice pitches, catching uselessly on her dry throat. "We were gonna move in together."

It's still in her phone, the list of apartments she hadn't managed to delete, even when half of them went off the market. She hadn't told anyone about it. Not Bob, not Walker, not even Alexei. Yelena's nose is smarting; she pushes her knuckles over the corners of her eyes angrily.

"I think about her every day. Most days suck. But some are - really, really awful." Yelena takes a drag, holds her breath till her lungs sting. Coughs on the exhale. "You think about it and think about it and everything hurts, like it's the first time you found out all over again. Fuck, I'm supposed to be helping you feel better." She laughs, forced and unsteady. "Guess I owe you more credit. This therapy shit isn't easy."

She's not sure if she should ask him about it. Not sure she'd want to be asked, in his shoes. Yelena hums something, flat and two-note, to herself. Pauses, like she's expecting an answer that doesn't come.

"You ever - think about him? What he said?"

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

He exhales, blinking away tears he wishes weren't there. Every lingering second of silence only makes the lump in his throat constrict worse. Of course, she aches. An all too familiar bitterness biting every other word. Elijah knows it well. Too well. Even when the blonde tries to redirect that comfort, he feels the hurt.

Any other day, he'd be able to do his job. Comfort her through it. Not today. Elijah just can't.

"Last thing he said to me was that he never wanted to see me again." He can't look at Yelena when he speaks. Not when it's his biggest shame coming out as a pathetic mumble. "Last thing I told him was how good that idea sounded. I was... I don't know. Strung out. And kind of an asshole, back then. Still am, I guess."

It's the first time he's ever admitted it out loud. Revisiting the scene like a movie in his head as it all comes to a front. But after Yelena's near poetic honesty, how could he not reciprocate?

"Every now and then I just tell myself to wake up." The redhead finally croaks through a breathy laugh—though the action isn't mirrored in his glassy eyes. "Like this is all a bad dream, and one day I'll wake up and he and I will be ten years old again. That maybe— maybe I didn't fuck up. And maybe he and I are still friends."

As soon as the words spill from his quivering lips, Elijah just can't seem to stop himself. Trembling fingers wipe at his wet nose. Wetter eyes stay on his untied laces. It's not like he needs to look to know how she's feeling.

"Had so much love for him, you know? Took me seeing him dead on a fucking table to realize how bad I ruined it." Fuck, he's just about ready to gag from how much it hurts. Elijah swipes a hand down his face. "Izzy was... he was better than me. Should be him here. Not me."

Finally, when the words get too much, and he knows he's shown too many of his most crumpled cards, Elijah looks over at Yelena. Jesus Christ what a mistake. Half his stomach just about sinks into his asshole when he catches her staring.

"Fucking, yeah, anyway. Dumb. Siblings. Twins. Assholes. You, uhm. Uh. Yeah." He's quick to bring himself to his feet, dusting away the grit embedded into his slacks. "This is not appropriate for me to be doing with a potential patient. Rules and regulation and shit."

[mad-hatter-memes]

Send ☕ for my muse to rant about something in character

(Bonus: Add + *a topic* for my muse to rant about a specific topic)

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

@daemondaes sent: 📔

Dear diary. Dear journal. Dear July 5th. Went to the bookstore today. Picked up three new books and only spent twenty dollars. Thought it was a good deal until I realized I picked up a blank journal instead of the book I wanted. Fuck me, I guess, right? Anyway. Maybe I wanted to give this a go. Cherry Mar. A friend. One of my reoccurring patients has what they call a 'grimoire'. Stupid name, by the way. Holy shitballs did I want to take a peek. Didn't. You know. Professional boundaries and all that. Still hate that I can't just blue skadoo into people's heads like i used to. Would make my life so much easier. Actually, with a case like Cher this patient's, maybe it wouldn't. With half the stuff that comes out of her mouth I think getting inside her head would feel like whiplash. Borderline undecipherable. Her sessions aren't any easier. Like last week. Something about a cockatrice with Bob a former patient. Cockatrice. Are those things even real? I thought they were just a logo from that one youtube show. Anyway. I need to chase her up about a session with the other one. Seems like everybody and their left tit have an alter ego now. This chick just sounds like a scary one. Okay. I'm done with this now. E.C

send “📔” to read an entry from my muse’s diary about your muse(open)

[bobrvynolds]

Once the warmth of the stage lights hit and he feels the impact of their instruments on the shoddy stage, everything else melts away. It's always felt this way for Bob; light and airy, the pain of his own thoughts and looming bad decisions momentarily lost once he's in the music. For once, he forgets.

Every headbang is choreographed, every stomp and solo perfectly synced, letting himself be completely swallowed by the high that engulfs him every performance.

He knows Elijah's watching, too. Dark eyes momentarily sweep at the redhead idling by the sides of the stage, just out of sight from the audience. It lasts too long this time, and Bob feels his stomach turn; flashing a lopsided smile when he eventually walks away.

Their set ends as soon as it started. The band waves their goodbyes to the crowd, and Bob passes by Elijah as they return backstage. He's still in the high of it, all sweat and grime from the stage heat; and surprisingly, no sassy quip from the brunette.

When he's recovered and MHD had set up, he quietly listens from the backstage. Familliar, absolutely criminal voice echoing loudly through the speakers. The lyrics come to him naturally, and Bob sits up with a grunt, coming to the side to watch.

The lights dim, smoke machines on, and Bob feels his vision blur.

He'd seen Elijah way too many times like this- shirt off, chest tattoo exposed, droplets of sweat running down from his neck to his chest as he flawlessly hits a high note- and oh god, Bob should fucking stop ogling, blinking a few times to reset his vision.

The man's voice sinks deep into his veins. Elijah makes it all look so effortless, captivating the judges so, so easily- they're in the absolute pits tonight if this is the rest of the competition. As he's watching, Yuu comes up next to him; leaning in just to tease a little.

'Sometimes I dunno if you actually hate him or you just really like him,' she comments along the lines.

Bob clicks his tongue, shooting her a glare. "That's fucked, Yuu. I can pull better men than.. that. Fuckass bob." He retorts back, gesturing to the barefoot man at the center of the stage.

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

In the process of out back to stage, Elijah's ritual begins. The half-shredded shirt comes off. Pale skin to air, the inked swallow on his chest flexes as he rolls his shoulder. Boots come off next; exposing the rough pads of his bare feet to cold concrete. Every trudge towards the main stage is another step towards his purpose. Go. Sing. Win.

He makes sure to nod at the clipboard lady on his way past the curtain.

As soon as he hits the front stage, and Russell clacks those beautiful sticks together, he's on. No longer Elijah Carpenter, psychology student. There he stands in all his glory, flicking his ginger hair behind his back as he strums the first note. Within second, the crowd is pumping. High energy. Good bass. Even better melodies. All four of the MHD boys know exactly how captivating they are.

It's unfair, really. Mental Health Department have played this venue enough times for the regulars to know the words. A tiny part of Elijah's conscience wonders if they'd sing along to Brawler if they stopped taking the gigs. Whatever. The sappy thought is swallowed up as soon as he reaches the chorus. Smoke machines billow around his feet as he continues to prance around the stage. Shit, maybe he should give up the guitar—it'd make the dancing easier.

Fifteen minutes fly by. So fast that Elijah only catches the brute staring twice. True to character, he sees the band off with a bow towards the crowd; educing more rampant cheering from increasingly drunken college students. A sharp-toothed grin snarls onto his face as his heart pounds in his chest. It's funny how a crowd cheering his band's name can take those nerves away.

Though, the second the redhead returns behind the curtain, back to the dressing rooms they all manage to squeeze into, it comes back. Shaking hands. Lumpy throat. Elijah manages to hide it by wiping his sweaty chest with his shirt. It's not just a gig tonight. It's a competition. One he's not too sure he'll win. Just as the next act is called out to play, Elijah turns his head towards the Brawler crew.

"Played good." He acknowledges, telling himself through gritted teeth that the compliment is just for Yuu. "Finally feels like a fair battle."

[bobrvynolds]

As the opening band goes to set-up on stage, Bob pops a menthol candy in his mouth. Any other sensation to distract him from his nerves. The hit hasn't helped either. He puts down his guitar for a moment and walks to the side, arms crossed as he gets ready to watch the opening.

Bob's not even sure if the music's sinking in properly, or if this band was just shit. Bass line's off, the drums are overdoing it- and it manages to calm down the brunette enough knowing it's one less competition for them.

A small, middle-aged lady with a clipboard gestures towards them.

Shit, they're next.

Yuu drags him back towards the dressing room for a short huddle. Few short words on how they don't have to win this, just place- and Bob feels a hand squeeze his shoulder; which earns a soft smile from the brunette.

When they hear the crowd cheering as Brawler's called, Bob shakes off the rest of his anxiety, grabbing his guitar- and goes on stage, but not before he shoots a glare at the redhead that was hovering around. Dark eyes meet the green. Bob feels like throwing up.

4 counts. The brunette feels the heat of the stage lights on him. Few waves to the crowd, a little wink towards the judges- a familliar drum beat starts them off as Bob lets himself melt into the music, head going static.

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

A repetitive sound of a pen tapping against clipboard cuts through the drums. The god damned crypt keeper of a show runner. She's in the corner, glaring him down as if he's the devil incarnate. Christ, he hates the woman. Usually Atlas deals with her yammering. Maybe if he ignores her, she'll go away. Elijah puts his full attention towards the stage.

The shift in energy is almost immediate. From an abysmally dead crowd to movement. Dim lights and smoke machines take over. the drum count rings out. Two, three, four, and then—show time. Their setlist is almost committed to his memory. The words of the song daring to roll off his tongue. Yuu's voice sits deep in his chest, powerful from the first word purred into the microphone. He'll compliment her for it during the next psychology lecture; out of earshot from the asshole on guitar.

Speaking of, it's unfortunate how good fat fingers looks on stage. Elijah stands by the barricade; arms folded over his chest, nails embedding into his pasty flesh as he nods along. Green eyes stay trained on the brunette. Every strum of his fingers against the chords. Every bob of his mop-topped head of hair. Every tense of his strong jaw. Nothing about the visage in front of him feels good to look at.

It feels too good. And that's a problem.

Before he can think too much of it, he turns his head towards the rest of the crowd. Fuck. They might actually have competition tonight. Dubiously dressed patrons all sway and rock to the catchy tune. Good. The people deserve entertainment. All the more reason for MHD to give it their all tonight. A double feature of sorts. At least, that's what he's telling himself when he sees one of the judges crack an impressed nod.

Fuck.

He locks eyes with Bob again. Blown pupils too smug for his own good. Elijah's jaw works, letting the stare-off last a second too long before he skulks back to the backstage. He should be with his band, anyway. They're up next, after all.

[rpclefairy]

send “📔” to read an entry from my muse’s diary about your muse

[harrisonforded]

A Single Man (2009) dir. Tom Ford

[bobrvynolds]

"Huh. I dunno. Is it?" Bob smirks. So he noticed- just like how this loser notices everything he does. He momentarily stops playing, and keeps the redhead's gaze.

The brunette's pupils are blown out. Already in it before the show's even started; a line exactly an hour before they go on stage, just to pump himself up. He sits up; stance mocking, before putting the pick between his teeth- making sure to make a show of it just to aggravate Elijah.

No drug is beating the satisfaction he gets when the singer scowls.

Just enough to keep him distracted, though from what Bob's noticed, he's not on his best game either. Seems like everyone's on edge tonight.

"Gonna come get it? Aww, did the nerdy loser only pack one pi-" He's promptly cut off by a drumstick flying straight to the back of his head. "Ow! Lana-" Bob turns to glare at their drummer, scrunching his nose.

The smaller girl quietly reprimands him. Something about focusing. God, Bob knows. They're treating him like he doesn't know what this gig will cost them. Place or disband. He sighs and takes the pick, tossing it over across the room, letting it land on the redhead's feet.

"You probably need that from how muddy your plucking sounds. Blah."

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

Everyone watches it happen. The brunette stands, wincing in place as he's scolded like a school boy. Thank Christ, someone had to. Elijah looks on with curled lips—barely holding back the smugness that pokes through the nerves. It's a dick move. He knows. To stare the other man down in a weaker moment. In truth, the redhead isn't sure how many times he can catch Bob in a 'weak moment'.

Any part of him that wants to poke the bear dies in the back of his throat. Destined to withdraw, Elijah plucks the pick from the floor, catching sight of his lucky pick tucked into his boot. His lips purse, eyes flicking back to where the other guitarist stands.

'Loser', man, what a jerk. Fat fingers and his stupid arts major. Who knew that would make him a grade A piece of work? The asshole deserves to be chewed out by the short stack in front of him. Even if it's making the brunette's blown eyes water. Elijah chews on the inside of his cheeks. An unfamiliar hollowness set deep gaze.

It's Atlas that breaks his focus. A muttering in his ear about ten minutes until the first set. Neither Brawler nor Mental Health Department opening. Christ, maybe some other shitty starving artist can help break the tension. Or, at least, get his mind off of Bob. The redhead clears his throat, gesturing with his head towards the stage curtain.

"Anyone else want to watch the first gig?"

[bobrvynolds]

At the redhead's comment, his bandmates switch to high alert. Knowing Bob's unstable tendencies (and his ongoing beef with this fucking band, whoever they were), a small brunette peers from the inside of the van- and tugs on the guitarist's shirt.

It doesn't stop Bob from retorting back, though. Despite Lana's best attempts at rectifying what would be a situation, the taller just shrugs her off. "Hey, you wanna talk a bit louder? What'd you say?"

Asshole. As far as he knows, they deserve none of their wins. Not when he knows Brawler's been working twice as hard as they have, scraping just enough money to go on this godforsaken stage- only to be cooked by some wannabe sellouts that have no idea what they're fucking doing.

This time Bob bends over to pick up a small pebble on the ground, cigarette still on his lips. He throws it hard enough to leave a dent on the concrete beside Elijah's foot. "You can barely fucking shred. Only thing that's saving you guys is this sad excuse of a voice- you get one cold and it's bye bye, boohoo. Off to the asylum or some shit."

He rolls his eyes and grabs his guitar, slinging the case over his shoulders as they get ready to go inside the venue.

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

"Oh, I can't shred? Let's count how many—"

Russell's hand hits his shoulder, Eugene's his stomach. Elijah; in his notoriously abrasive state, is held back by his two larger bandmates. Nostrils still flared. Green eyes still burning. The redhead is sizing Bob up as if he actually still stands a chance. Maybe when the rival guitarist is strung out he'll actually land a punch. Right now? Maybe he's better off restrained.

A tiny voice calls off from the side. Something about the gear. Something about things to do. Anything to keep the band's resident loose canon from, well, this. Elijah chews on the inside of his cheek, glaring down the brunette as neither of them seem to budge.

The other band members from both sides keep moving, shifting equipment and unloading each van, all the while the two men stand. It should be embarrassing; how remarkably civil everyone else seems to be. Not to Elijah. Not when the guy standing two feet from him keeps running his mouth about 'deserving'. He's heard it on campus. Sellout. Asshole seems to forget you actually have to sell shit to sell out.

"Fucking whatever." He grunts as he tucks a pedal under his arm. Elijah stalks toward the side entrance, towards the back. Right as he tears open the door, he looks back. "It's only got one dress room. Try not to stink it out with whatever vice you've moved onto."

[bobrvynolds]

It's routine at this point. Doesn't matter where, really. He sees this bastard's face too much on campus already, now he has to go against them in every. Single. Competition.

Sure, Bob can take a nice, healthy rivalry. This was something so much fucking worse, and instead of actually wanting to win because of motivation- or something else that's healthier, he's gradually starting to do it out of spite.

Its to the band's detriment, too. Ever since the brunette had put a target on Elijah's back, he's not really been focused. The rest of the band's noticed- why wouldn't they? The boys look ridiculous everytime.

Something about the vocalist drives him crazy. Not in a good way, either. Not in the 'you make me want to better in my craft' way, more of he'd daydreamed about mauling this dude on stage as the crowd watches him get beaten to death.

God, he should chill. It's the pre-finals.

As they squeeze through the small doors, Bob huffs, knuckles turning white at the harsh grip around his guitar case's strap. He makes sure to bump Elijah's shoulder when they get into tue dressing room, ignoring the rest of expletives that leave the smaller's mouth as he chuckles.

The bands huddle in their own little circles now. Top 5 tonight, and the placing three would play finals. Bob's making sure his guitar's tuned properly, warming up with a few chords. He glances at redhead, then does a quick sweep of the room.

They have to place today. They have to, or they won't have any money for gas. Bob looks away and tries to focus.

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

Elijah sits in front of one of the mirrors; messing with his long hair as he begins to hum the odd notes from their starting number. A fifteen minute set each. Four or five songs, depending. It doesn't take him long to catch his fingers trembling, each one seizing as he struggles to pull off his top.

He stumbles over some of the lyrics.

Words shouldn't get to him like this. Every lecture he sits through is about the mind. Science tells him a few deep breaths can bring him out of it, yet his own jittery state tells him he's better off just doing a line. Then again, that wouldn't make him any better than the other guy, would it?

He can't quite hit a note.

His jaw clenches tight as he fights the urge to peek. Really, he doesn't need to. Droning chords of the brunette's plucking fills the space (even louder than Russell's fingers tapping at the snack table). For once, the guitarist actually sounds interesting. Something catchy. God damit it, Elijah can't believe he's actually thinking something positive.

Man, fuck this guy.

By now, his breath is uneven. Nerves. One thing he can't fight with witty quips and insults. Someone speaks up about the turnout. Good, they say—voice too cheery to be one of his own crew. Elijah finds himself blinking off into space. Top Five. This means something. To all of them, really. Elijah knows they all want this. Perhaps all a little too much.

There's a moment, right as he finally looks over at the other band. Where the daring statement of 'good luck' burns on the tip of his tongue. It doesn't get spoken. Instead, green eyes meet brown, and Elijah finds himself scowling. Steely gaze locked directly onto the other man's hand.

"Is that my god damned pick?"

[bobrvynolds]

At the redhead's comment, his bandmates switch to high alert. Knowing Bob's unstable tendencies (and his ongoing beef with this fucking band, whoever they were), a small brunette peers from the inside of the van- and tugs on the guitarist's shirt.

It doesn't stop Bob from retorting back, though. Despite Lana's best attempts at rectifying what would be a situation, the taller just shrugs her off. "Hey, you wanna talk a bit louder? What'd you say?"

Asshole. As far as he knows, they deserve none of their wins. Not when he knows Brawler's been working twice as hard as they have, scraping just enough money to go on this godforsaken stage- only to be cooked by some wannabe sellouts that have no idea what they're fucking doing.

This time Bob bends over to pick up a small pebble on the ground, cigarette still on his lips. He throws it hard enough to leave a dent on the concrete beside Elijah's foot. "You can barely fucking shred. Only thing that's saving you guys is this sad excuse of a voice- you get one cold and it's bye bye, boohoo. Off to the asylum or some shit."

He rolls his eyes and grabs his guitar, slinging the case over his shoulders as they get ready to go inside the venue.

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

"Oh, I can't shred? Let's count how many—"

Russell's hand hits his shoulder, Eugene's his stomach. Elijah; in his notoriously abrasive state, is held back by his two larger bandmates. Nostrils still flared. Green eyes still burning. The redhead is sizing Bob up as if he actually still stands a chance. Maybe when the rival guitarist is strung out he'll actually land a punch. Right now? Maybe he's better off restrained.

A tiny voice calls off from the side. Something about the gear. Something about things to do. Anything to keep the band's resident loose canon from, well, this. Elijah chews on the inside of his cheek, glaring down the brunette as neither of them seem to budge.

The other band members from both sides keep moving, shifting equipment and unloading each van, all the while the two men stand. It should be embarrassing; how remarkably civil everyone else seems to be. Not to Elijah. Not when the guy standing two feet from him keeps running his mouth about 'deserving'. He's heard it on campus. Sellout. Asshole seems to forget you actually have to sell shit to sell out.

"Fucking whatever." He grunts as he tucks a pedal under his arm. Elijah stalks toward the side entrance, towards the back. Right as he tears open the door, he looks back. "It's only got one dress room. Try not to stink it out with whatever vice you've moved onto."

[bobrvynolds]

Closed starter for @drcarpenterinthehouse --

Great.

They're here too. That pasty fucking redhead and the nerds he calls his band. Everything about them just peeves him to the core- and the fact that they'll probably make finals alongside them is a terrible thought, to say the least.

Bob throws his lit cigarette on the concrete, dirty boots stepping on the flame to douse it. He watches them unload their dingy truck as his own mates chat at the back, with the brunette lighting another cigarette.

There's not enough cigarettes in the world to take the edge off of this shit.

Dark eyes cast over the redhead (Elijah, or something), his own face half-covered with smoke. Bob quietly wonders if they'll play a new song today- wonders if they'll win the judges over again with that stupid voice of his.

Out of sheer pettiness, the brunette tears off one of the newspapers they use to pad the floors of their van, crumpling it and throwing it over Elijah- Bob letting out a chuckle when it hits the smaller with a thwap.

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

He doesn't even need to turn around.

Of course, he knows who it is. Bob the brunette. Crummy guitarist from the crummy band playing before them. Brawler. What a dumb name. Okay, Mental Health Department isn't much better, but come on. Brawler? At least play some music that'll end in a mosh pit, not whatever fat fingers and his bandmates keep putting out.

Elijah picks up the crumpled paper with a huff, going the extra mile to deliberately roll his eyes in the other man's sightline. Petty, he knows. The crumpled paper is lobbed into the trash by the door—filled far past the bag with cigarette butts and god knows what else.

His cigarette dangles from his lips. Cherry bright orange as he bites back any vitriol through an inhale. Smoke escapes his flared nostrils. Yellow teeth come exposed as he finally manages to impersonate a grin. Elijah can hear one of his bandmates groan from inside the van. That doesn't stop him from looking back with a cocked brow.

"Too bad you can't play as good as you throw." He gives the brunette a coy shrug. "Hope you got your losing face ready, man. Wouldn't want to upset your groupies with a crash out."

[filmgifs]

Blue Velvet 1986, dir. David Lynch

[drcarpenterinthehouse]

@daemondaes sent: 👫 (Cherry Edition)

✩ 90% of Elijah's understanding of new wave lingo comes from Cherry. Each session he manages to pick out a new phrase in-between her stream of consciousness style chat. The ratio of how much is real vs. Cherry-isms is up for debate, but it's not like Elijah can tell the difference.

✩ After FINALLY upgrading from his ever faithful flip phone, he's rewarded with his new cell being stolen for... nefarious purposes. Elijah has an indescribable amount of pictures of Cherry's forehead on his phone. All taken by Cherry. He doesn't know where or when they get taken, but they're there.

✩ The kiss incident breaks any illusion instantly. Cherry's immediate flustered embarrassment was all Elijah needed to know that the woman does, in fact, feel shame, and he does, in fact, use this to his advantage. Namely, by reminding Cherry of the 'kiss incident' when she flies too close to the bantering sun.

✩ Cherry's contact photo:

Left on his phone after he stepped out of his office for ONE MINUTE.