no sweet dream.

i want to be like w a t e r i want to slip through fingers but hold up a ship. ⇎ she doesn't waste time trying to find the meaning of life. she's simply trying to survive it.

[emmycahill]

winnieblythe​:

The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up is an unquestionably more Winnie-like moniker than a magical nanny, but it’s less to do with who he is and more about who he wanted to be. Growing up, he clung to figures who’d mastered control over the chaos of their lives. To have the ability to snap one’s fingers and bring instant order to a situation, like Mary Poppins, was a pipe dream for a boy who felt perpetually lost. He didn’t mean to cause trouble; trouble just followed him, but to have the ability to magically rectify any damage he caused? That would’ve been a handy asset indeed.

“Jolly Holiday is iconic.” He hums the chorus, as though that alone will prove its iconic status. “And there’s penguins. Penguins, Emmy! Dancing penguins!” She may actually catch a break from repeat viewings of Spice World for him to show her Mary Poppins. “She has this fabulous white dress, with a matching bonnet and umbrella. That’s the Jolly Holiday dress, and I would happily wear it for the rest of my life.” He gazes down at the bumblebee’s wings, gently dusting some glitter onto them. “Do you ever think about how you can literally grow up on the other side of the world to someone, but you can still end up finding each other? I mean, we both ended up here together, in this apartment, through chance, right?” He doesn’t look up, frowning delicately down at the wings. He’s not wording it well, probably, but it feels important. “I kind of wish I’d known you back then. As kids.” It’s nice to have a friend now, but it would’ve been nice to have one back then, too – some respite from his house of crucifixes. “I think things would’ve been better. Less lonely, maybe.” It’s punctuated with a shake of his head, brushing off the seriousness. “We would’ve been a proper dream team. Anna Pavlova and Mary Poppins. Look out, world.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she says, laughing, as if she doesn’t already know he’s probably planning on exactly when he’s going to force her to watch it with him. And while she’s not familiar with the dress in question, her mind provides an entertaining visual, and she files it away under something she’ll have to make a reality in the future. 

Her smile falls at his next question, the silliness he’d called out of her screeching to a halt. There’s a part of her mind that’s already traveling down that dark and winding road, calling forth memories she’d done her best to bury. The ones that haunted her late at night when she’d lay on her back and stare at the ceiling, begging sleep to come and finding only torture. Even still, she can picture it: the picture he’s painting. She can see a freckle-faced little girl, hair in pigtails, practicing pirouettes in front of a mirror as a young version of Winnie sat cross-legged and hunched over a mirror of his own, painstakingly applying his best rendition of Baby Spice’s makeup. 

That ache of longing is back in her chest and she’s not sure how long it’s been since she’s spoken. She looks up finally and opens her mouth to speak but her throat feels tight so she clears it instead. “Yeah. It, uh--” She’s not sure what she’s planning to say but nothing feels like enough. Emmy’s become a tangled mess of thoughts and emotions and she’s fumbling. “I would at least be up to date on pop culture references,” she jokes weakly. Her frown lingers, but this time it’s more for him than it is her. “You’ve said you had sisters before, right? I’m not making that up?” She pauses, considers how to word her question, and then decides there’s no accounting for lack of tact. “Why were you lonely?”

[emmycahill]

lyla-brown​:

–

She smiles up at the girl who is now standing beside her. It was clear that she was in her own head for a moment; Lyla had those moments all the time. She wondered what life would be like if she had a do-over. Where she would be… who she would be, but she tried not to dwell on it often. The more time she sat on her past was less time she could be making a difference in the present.

“It’s nice to listen to.” She says, “though, sometimes I think about old stories of sirens who would pull up tides just to whisk humans away… maybe it’s a little morbid, but it brings me comfort… that there’s people out there trying to survive just like us.” 

Looking down to her notebook, she lets out a small chuckle. “I wish. I’m a chronic journal-er… have been since I was eighteen. More of a way to categorize my thoughts than anything…”

.

Despite herself, Emmy’s lips curved up a little at the corners. “I think I would have liked to be a siren,” she muses. Luring men to their watery graves sounded a lot more fun than working fifteen jobs just to keep a roof over her head, but she digresses. There’s a strange sense of kinship that settles over her-- as though this complete stranger whom she’s known for literally three seconds has any clue the struggles she’s faced. Where normally she’d find a reason to be on her way, she finds, instead, that she’s looking at the edges of the paper curiously. “Do you plan on doing anything with your writings or is it just something you do for yourself?” She pauses then and considers the ramifications of opening up, of letting a little of herself out into a world she prefers to hide from. “I do something similar,” she says, apparently deciding that she’d liked to share. “But I turn mine into songs.”

[emmycahill]

oliviapcrter​:

LOCATION: Emmy and Winnie’s Apartment WITH: @emmycahill​

“I come bearing gifts.” With a bottle of grey goose in one arm and a collection of snacks in the other, Liv offered both up to Emmy with a smile. Upon deciding what to bring, Liv had taken Emmy’s recent judgments into account and forwent on the claw. Which, may or may not turn out to be a mistake depending on how light or how hard the vodka hits her later. “Sounds like we’ve entered an intermission?” Upon crossing the threshold into Em and Winnie’s apartment, Olivia kicked the door shut behind her with her ankle and proceeded to lay the goodies out on the table. As of right now, the apartment seemed relatively quiet. Which could only mean one thing: ― Winnie must’ve relented in order to take a break. Either that or as soon as they stopped texting, Emmy had completely lost it and decided to take her annoyances out on Winnie’s Spice Girl records, thereby ―- destroying them. Though, if that were the case, Olivia would’ve expected to walk in on a meltdown instead. “Oh no, it’s too quiet… please tell me you didn’t murder him? I love you but, I don’t know the first thing about burying a body.”

Emmy, gracious host that she was, hadn’t made a move towards the door when she heard the knocking-- deciding, instead, that it made more ergonomic sense to just call “It’s open!” from where she was just now sitting up on the couch. As Liv made her way inside, Emmy pushed off from where she sat and made her way toward the kitchen to grab some cups. “He’s working. I think?” Her steps faltered for only a moment as she tried to remember if he’d told her where he was going when he left. She scoffed at Liv instead. “I’d feed his body to boars, I wouldn’t bury it,” she answered matter-of-factly. “But no, he’s alive, don’t worry. Or, if he’s not, it at least wasn’t by my hand.” Returning to table with a cup in each hand, she held them up as if in surrender. “I think we’re past the point of imminent danger here.” Setting them down, she surveyed the goodies Liv brought with her-- grinning to herself when she realized White Claw was not among them. “So, now that I’ve had time to process, care to tell me why you attacked the coat rack?”

[emmycahill]

hattie-lockwood​:

Hattie placed her hand over her heart graciously at Emmy calling her a hero, nodding solemnly as though she accepted the compliment. That was until- “Holy shit, you got a roommate? What’s he like? I mean, I can make assumptions from the questionable music taste, but…” she trailed off with a smirk. “Is it awful? I’ve thought about getting a roommate, but I can barely live with myself most days. School’s a good excuse to keep my mind otherwise occupied. Turns out I’m not as lazy as I hoped - if I don’t have enough to do, I just get bored…” 

.

Emmy laughed, dropping her chin in her hand, elbow propped up on the table as she swirled her straw around inside her drink. “He’s... actually kind of growing on me? Don’t get me wrong, he’s a lot. He’s always laughing at something on his phone, running into my room to show me memes, and uses the word yeet unironically. Actually, you might know him. He does stand-up at a few clubs downtown. Winnie Blythe? He’s definitely one of those types of people you remember meeting.” She twisted her lips to the side as she considered Hattie’s next question. “It’s really not awful. It’s weird-- I still like being alone, but I also kind of just like knowing that the apartment isn’t empty? I don’t know.” She shrugged, shaking off the thoughts that lingered on the feeling. She stabbed at a few pieces of ice with her staw and nodded along. “I understand that. I have a day off and I don’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t imagine an entire summer. Even if the Karens are out in full force.”

[emmycahill]

winnieblythe​:

He can picture the memory, in clumsy, sacred fragments. Graceless pirouettes. An enthusiastic mum who believed she could see the majesty of a future Anna Pavlova. Freckles. Ballet shoes. Handmade costumes, with Emmy and her mum sewing together in the low-light. Winnie pauses what he’s doing to give her words the attention they deserve, fingers toying absently with the gossamer-thin fabric of the bee’s wings. It almost feels as though Emmy has slipped out of the room; where she’s gone is anyone’s guess but, if her soft smile is anything to go by, it’s not an unpleasant place to be. Through her words, he feels as though he’s being invited to follow – far enough to see the memory, but not far enough to live in it. Only she can do that, the same way only he can live in his memories. The medicinal smell of his Pentecostal church. Being told to shut up in endless, wildly creative ways by his family. The narrow-eyed look of concentration on his sister’s faces when they painted his nails or gently bullied his hair into pigtails. The look of incurable disappointment on his parents faces when he told them he wanted to be a comedian.

He’s waiting for Emmy when she returns, blinking herself back into the present as though waking from a dream. He should look away when she glances at him, but her sheepish gaze is met with one of undiluted affection. It’s not how one should look at their housemate. Beyond that, it’s not how one should look at their friend, but he’s incapable of reining it in. The fact that she’s let him into her past, even marginally, has made his heart soften at the corners, and he can’t help but let the tenderness he feels bleed into his expression. He’s only human.

“For the future of hamster couture,” it’s echoed with a solemn nod as he finally – finally – looks away. “I’ve decided her next outfit is gonna be a ballerina outfit, in honour of you.” It is, he feels, an extraordinarily generous offer, and to be repaid for that generosity with a swipe of glitter on his nose reeks of ingratitude. He scrunches up his nose in protest, but he’s laughing – properly laughing now, dimples cratering both cheeks and eyes bright. His earlier gloominess has been tossed to a far-flung corner of the cosmos, giving way to something airier.

“For what it’s worth, when I was little, I wanted to be Mary Poppins.” Using his school lunchbox as a carpet bag and breaking his sister’s umbrella doesn’t hold quite the same romanticism as ballet, but leave it to Winnie to inadvertently bring levity to a deep conversation. “I still want to be Mary Poppins, to be honest. Oh! Do you reckon we could make the dress from Jolly Holiday for Luna? ‘Cause, not gonna lie, I need that in my life.”

.

There’s a tightness in her chest that feels a little like longing. His declaration about Luna’s next outfit makes her both impossibly sad and incredibly touched-- and even as she acknowledges that it’s such a silly thing to feel so strongly about, she can’t help that she does. 

She decides immediately that she doesn’t like it.

But before the sour mood can take over, he’s laughing and the sound of it welcomes air back into the room. “Really? Mary Poppins?” She scrunches her nose, glad for the shift in conversation. “I don’t know why, but I would have pegged you as a Peter Pan guy.” She frowns, trying to recall exactly what Jolly Holiday is. Disney movies hadn’t exactly followed her throughout her childhood and all she can really recall from the movie is that she was a magical nanny that could defy gravity with an umbrella. “I don’t know what Jolly Holiday is, but I’m positive Luna would love it.” 

[emmycahill]

hattie-lockwood​:

“Trust me, if I didn’t have a designer shoe habit to support, I would have been fired and possibly arrested…” Hattie wasn’t best known for restraint in her personal life, but turned out she could master pretty much anything if she was getting paid to do it. That, and she was able to tune out and distract herself with a wildly vivid inner dialogue about all the ways she would inflict physical harm upon her. “Your answer would have been just about as accurate…. God, I hate teaching summer school… Anyway, I wasted your precious 15 minutes, ” she started to tease. “What have you been up to today that you were able to squeeze me in?”  

.

Emmy smirked around the straw of her coffee. She appreciated the barely-secured rage in Hattie, recognized it in herself. It was probably the reason they got along so well. She let out a sound of disgust at the words summer school. “I commend your sacrifice. You’re a real hero,” Emmy teased back, rolling her eyes in mock annoyance at the question as she took another long sip of her drink. “Well. Did I tell you I have a roommate now? It’s going surprisingly well. I mean he does play Spice Girls on repeat, but his portion of the rent afforded me this day off to bother you, so. It feels like winning.” Honestly, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a day off and it almost felt wrong, her leg jouncing beneath the table with restless energy. “Aside from taking Noodle to the park, I haven’t done anything else today. It feels fucking weird. Is this why you teach summer school? Because you couldn’t handle an entire summer off?”

[emmycahill]

riyahorowitz​:

“Wow, a real Jack of all trades.” Riya meant it in the best possible way; it was rare, the person who could do well at such a diverse listing of jobs, and even if it was all hustle, or there was one thing she’d rather do full-time … Riya still found it impressive. “You have any other hidden skills?” Riya had no pets, and didn’t really harbour a desire to learn the piano, but she wanted to help – not with charity that might be poorly received, but with offering a job, if she could. Riya glanced back to the table where she’d been sitting, the table where she hadn’t left her purse, or even her book, and found it was occupied. She did have a refill growing cold in her hand– “Thanks, I do appreciate it. Kinda hard to drink outta one of these mugs standing up.”

.

Emmy shrunk beneath the words-- unsure if they were genuine or if the other woman was poking fun. It was such a rare commodity, that she didn’t really know what to do with praise, so she shrugged. “I’d like to say I can do anything if you give me enough time, but even I have my limits.” She smiled and while it was thin, it was still genuine. She was really bad at small talk-- which was probably a big reason why her circle was so small it was really just a straight line-- but as Riya accepted her offer, Emmy decided she could try. “I’m Emmy, by the way.”

[lyla-brown]

location: Johnnie Mercer’s Pier

time: 5pm

Lyla had always been an escapist at heart. It was part of the reason she wanted to go to Los Angeles so bad. The location change was good for her, the environment was new, and the people were all so different she didn’t think she could remember every single unique person she met. It was one of the main things that got her to return to Wilmington, especially being able to sit on the pier. It definitely didn’t rival Santa Monica, but she always thought Johnnie Mercer’s was a lot cleaner, and definitely had a more serene feel to it.

Pushing the cover to her journal open, she muses in her head for a moment before touching pen to paper, lost in thought as someone sits beside her. Truthfully, she didn’t mind the company. “Listening, or looking?” She asks, “I like to listen to the waves when it’s quiet like this.”

[emmycahill]

The memory is a fuzzy one, but it grows clearer the further out on the pier she walks. It’s not a special memory by any means, but it’s one she finds herself chasing anyway. Her mother and her gentle chiding as she wiped the corner’s of her brother’s mouth-- the glutton who wore more ice cream than he ate-- and standing on the tops of her father’s feet as he walked. The image is hazy, as if she’s watching it underwater, but it clutches her heart in a vice grip. She’s not even aware she’s sitting until the voice sounds from beside her.

She blinks, suddenly unsure of herself as the sound of the world comes rushing back like the waves that lap at the columns below. “Hmm?” The question catches up to her and she looks down. “Oh.” She’s been caught off guard, made entirely of quiet contemplation with no snark to be found. “Just listening, I guess. Whoever thought the sound of water could be so hypnotizing?” She laughs, a little forced, and takes note of the journal in her hands. She nods towards it. “Are you a writer?”

[emmycahill]

winnieblythe​:

“Hamster couture is a serious business. It requires endless focus, Em.” It reads like a joke but, somewhere in the murky depths of his heart, there’s a semblance of sincerity there. Making the costumes is important to him. He wouldn’t expect anyone to understand it. Until you’ve been alone in the world, slogging through gigs when you’re paid pennies and sleeping wherever you can – sofas, park benches, bus stations – you can’t comprehend how important certainties are. Luna was his only certainty, sleeping in the pockets of his shirts for warmth if they found themselves without somewhere to stay, keeping him company when it felt like he had nothing. She may loathe him – she invariably looks as though she’d happily do jail time for getting rid of him – but his love for her is bone-deep. Making her costumes is silly – it is – but it’s the love that goes into it that matters. Love is in the stitching. He believes Luna will feel that somehow. 

Besides, it helps when he’s sad to give love back to one of life’s certainties.

He plucks the silver jar up, nodding. Silver it is. He doesn’t notice Emmy’s bedazzled herself until she asks if she can help. He glances up, lips parted in preparation to speak, but a startled, spluttered giggle is all that comes out. “Oh, wow. You’re the epitome of elegance, truly.” He unscrews the silver jar, emulating Emmy and adorning his own cheeks with strokes of glitter. He resembles a piss-poor excuse for a Bowie tribute act, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Not when he’s smiling for the first time in days, dimples cratering his cheeks and eyes finally regaining a slither of their usual mischief.

“There’s still a couple of felt stripes to stick on, if you wanna do that? They just need to be attached to the bee’s body. I can work on the wings.” He says it with such misplaced solemnity, as though he’s creating looks for the Met Gala and not an outfit for a hamster. He also says it with the seriousness of a man whose face isn’t currently covered in glitter. Confidence is key.

Somewhere along the way, she’s stopped putting in effort, in getting to know people, in knowing what makes them tick, the slight nuances that give way to the true emotion beneath the facade. She simply hasn’t cared enough to try. With Winnie, though, it’s sort of come with the territory. He’s become a fixture in her life, a body at the shabby kitchen table framed by the pale morning reaching through the window, an outline in her doorway late at night, an echo of laughter down the hall. He has wormed his way into her routine and she’s let him. She’s come to expect it.

To look forward to it, even. 

So, she knows, without even having to look that his joke is hollow. He’s sad. Sad in a way she understands as much as she doesn’t. Her fingers twitch as if to reach out to him. They remain firmly on the fabric in her hands. 

When he giggles-- a hollowed-out version of the laughter she’s grown used to-- she can’t help the small smile that stretches across her face. There is still a war yet to fight, but a battle has been won. She’ll take the victory wherever she can get it.

She nods at his direction, happy to have something to do with her hands. A memory comes to her unbidden and unwelcome, but it’s there all the same. Toul and lace strung haphazardly around the craft room. Her mother’s hair tied back in a messy bun on the top of her head. Practicing dance moves in front of a full-length mirror and getting them wrong every single time. She’s speaking before she even realizes she’s opened her mouth. “When I was little, I thought I wanted to be a ballerina.” Her eyes glaze over, fingers tracing shapes along the fabric’s edge. “I was fucking awful at it, but my parents were always big on trying new things. And my mom just threw herself into it.” There’s a faint smile-- sad and reverent-- playing on her lips, but she doesn’t look up. The memories close in on her and if she tries hard enough, maybe she can slip into them. Even for just a moment. For just long enough to remember the way she smells, to recall the brightness of her smile. Anything. Her fingers grip the fabric tighter, but she doesn’t notice. “She made all my costumes. She was in no way a seamstress, but it was ‘in the spirit of trying new things’. In the end, we both failed at it, but I remember long nights sitting on the floor, hot gluing and sewing buttons in places buttons had no business existing.” 

Her grip loosens on the swatch of fabric then, blinking away the past and bringing herself back to the present. She glances up at him through her lashes, feeling almost embarrassed. She’s not in the business of sharing these little details of her life with anyone. They are the only things she has that no one can take away and yet---

She looks at Winnie and knows they’re safe with him. Inexplicably, she knows she’s safe with him. It makes her as uncomfortable as it doesn’t.

She recovers, clearing her throat as she looks back down at the swatch in her hands. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you’re expecting more than random buttons from me, then you’re expecting too much. But I’ll do my best. For the future of hamster couture.” She looks up again, her smile small, but genuine. Her eyebrows draw together as her finger dips into the jar of glitter once more. “Oh, and, you’ve got a little something---” She reaches out-- slowly, delicately-- and runs a glitter-covered finger down the bridge of his nose. “--right there.”

[emmycahill]

savmarin​:

“——— No. No, he is not the dog. He is——” Oh, fuck. She clears her throat, her eyes suddenly widening with the realization that she’s in it too deep to back out now and that if she doesn’t pick her words carefully Winnie will have her head. —— No, he won’t, he’s too nice. God, that makes it worse. “Never mind. Dog or no dog, I’ll pay you for your time. You can use it to buy your next vanilla latte, hm?”

She’s being purposefully difficult and watching the woman across the table from her flounder a little makes the false pretenses she’s apparently been brought here under a little less annoying. But only a little. “I’m not gonna take your money.” Though she should considering she needs it. “But I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume there is no dog.” She lifts a brow. “And, apparently, I’m a little more flattered than I am annoyed, so.” She shrugs. “Do I get to at least know who he is?”

[emmycahill]

text: olivia

Liv: Are you seriously threatening to feed me to a witch?? At least feed me to the wolves, it's less disturbing.

Liv: It's Winnie. No answer of mine will ever suffice.

Liv: I wish I could say we had a little too much to /drink/ but we were perfectly sober so....

Emmy: But it sounds like way less fun.

Emmy: That... is the truest thing you've ever said. I have no rebuttal.

Emmy: You two need a chaperone always.

[emmycahill]

hattie-lockwood​:

“I had a parent-teacher conference today,” she started, though that alone should have explained it. In high school, they usually only happened if the student was a piece of shit and, nine times out of ten, that shittiness came from somewhere… “The mom was a full-throttle Karen ass bitch who told me I was wrong to teach her son that the Civil War started over slavery.” 

Emmy’s groan was audible. “Okay fine. You got me. I feel sorry for you.” She rolled her eyes, though her lips curled up at the corners in amusement. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d have been fired twelve times over for first-degree Karen assault.” Emmy took another sip of her coffee, swirling the ice around the bottom of the cup. “What the fuck did she want you to teach her son that the Civil War start over then? Flip flops versus Crocs? Jesus.”

[emmycahill]

riyahorowitz​:

Riya winced sympathetically – these days, she didn’t have to worry about whether she’d have to pack it all in and head back home with her metaphorical tail between her legs … but she remembered that fear. Trying to find a balance between taking enough shifts to pay her bills … and studying, working enough at her apprenticeship, that she’d actually be able to earn money as a seamstress. “What kind of work do you do?” Still, she couldn’t help but chuckle at the sarcastic joke– “If only they could’ve figured it out and let you know before you even came in. But, no, it’s alright, I’ve– I’ve heard worse.” Far worse than being called late, which she wouldn’t even consider an insult. “Thursdays, hm? Getting through to the weekend’s definitely a fair justification.”

Emmy blew out a breathy laugh. “Honestly? Anything I can. Officially, I wait tables, but unofficially, I walk dogs, pet sit, teach piano, sing.” She shrugged. “Whatever pays the rent.” She spared a quick glance around the place and found it to be a lot more crowded than it had been twenty minutes ago when she’d first sat down, her gaze drifting back to the brunette. She operated on the basis that she needed no one. She wasn’t lonely-- never lonely. Still... “You're welcome to sit, by the way. If you need to. It’s pretty busy in here.” 

[magicfolk]

[winnieblythearchive-deactivated]

magicfolk​:

“Be a bit gentler.”

@emmycahill​

[emmycahill]

winnieblythe​:

“There should be a market for it.” He’d fight tirelessly for that, picket sign and all. If a market for hamster fashion existed, Winnie wouldn’t feel compelled to turn his own hand to making outfits. Luna has a handcrafted wardrobe, but the bumblebee addition is tame in comparison. There’s a Baby Spice costume and sequinned monstrosities that even ABBA would find excessive, to name but a few. The only constant is that Luna loathes them all. “Hamster couture should be a thing, don’t you think? I mean, people dress up their dogs all the time – speaking of which, I’ve got enough fabric to make a matching bee outfit for Noodle, if you want.” If you want is an unusual addition, another testament to his sombre mood. Normally she’d have precious little input, most likely arriving home to find Noodle already wearing his bespoke bumblebee outfit. However, when things get bad, Winnie questions everything he does, overthinking himself into anxiety spirals; he’s not as inclined to turn poor Noodle into a bee without explicit permission.

There’s a sigh – not at her, never at her – at the suggestion of playing dress-up, and the hand that isn’t holding Luna’s outfit raises to push his glasses up and rub his eyes. Sleep is cunning and evasive when he’s like this, a gossamer-thin prospect Winnie feels as though he can run and run and still never catch. He hasn’t slept properly in days, muddling words onstage and forgetting punchlines. His closet is a treasure trove of terrible decisions – garish Hawaiian shirts, sparkly monstrosities, endless costumes from comedy skits. He can envisage the ensembles they could create for one another but, strangely, the notion doesn’t cheer him up.

“I kind of… need to finish this?” It’s a piss-poor excuse for bowing out of Emmy’s challenge, but trying to summon up anything better doesn’t work. “You can stay, though.” Please stay. “If you want to? I – we’d like that.” We. Luna is radiating her usual murderous vibes from her cage, so that’s not true. Winnie would like it, though. His usual imposed rule of shutting himself away from the world until his bad mood passes feels redundant with Emmy. They live together. She may as well be allowed to see him at his worst.

“Which glitter do you think would look better on the bee’s wings? Gold or silver?”

This is role-reversal of the worst kind. She doesn’t normally care if other people fall into bad moods. It’s life, that’s how it works. But Winnie-- he’s never felt like just a person. He feels like a character in a movie about fairies or something equally as whimsical. He’s light personified, an artist that paints color across a black and white canvas. 

He simply can’t be sad. It’s unnatural.

That’s what Emmy reasons, anyway, as she finds herself nodding along with something as ridiculous as hamster couture. “No, absolutely. It’s a bunch of untapped potential. I can see why you need to focus.” Her eyes travel to Noodle who’s standing just outside the doorway. He doesn’t come in, though, almost as if he understands what Winnie just said. She shoots him an apologetic-- though highly amused-- look. “As long as he gets the cute antennas too.” 

She pats her knee and Noodle obeys, shoving his face in Winnie’s on his way through the room, his overexcited kisses giving the sad Winnie lump a dog-slobber cowlick. “Okay,” she says simply, sliding off the bed and towards the arts and crafts project he’s currently working on. She hadn’t been planning on leaving, anyway. At least not until she draws a smile out of him. The apartment is too dark without it. “Hmmm.” Her eyes dart between the gold and silver jars of glitter and she decides, “silver.” Casually, she reaches out for the gold and unscrews the lid from the jar. She is absolutely going to regret this, and she knows it even as she dips her finger into the stuff and drags it across her cheeks like war paint. She says nothing as she sets it back down. “Can I help somehow? I’m not really crafty, so Luna might wind up looking like a dung beetle, but this is, like, a one time offer to boss me around. You might as well take it.”

[outofthewood]

[oliviapcrterarchive]

@emmycahill and @winnieblythe

[emmycahill]

savmarin​:

“No, we already have someone for the threesome. Okay, wait—” This conversation is happening too fast for her to keep up. Emmy’s sharp, and she’s quick-witted, and Savannah hasn’t even had time to indulge in her own coffee so she’s struggling here. The worst part is that whatever plans she’d had to approach this delicately are completely jilted by the turn this conversation’s taken. “A friend. I’m asking for a friend. And before you ask, the friend is not me, so get that out of your head right now.”

She doesn’t know why but Emmy’s decided she likes this strange woman. She’s suspicious of her, absolutely, and doesn’t trust her as far as she could throw her. But she’s amused and apparently, that’s all that matters. This is by far the strangest meeting with a potential client she’s ever had and--- Wait. A thought strikes her then, drawing obvious conclusions and even more suspicion. There is no dog. “Is the friend your dog? Because I was under the impression that was why we were here. And, for the record, I’m not into that either.”