Cutting Edge

Stern, Jadis Stern. The best PR representative the world has probably ever seen. I can also beat you in literally every other category, like foosball or arm-wrestling and soduku. Don't believe me? Pick up a fucking newspaper. Pisces, ambivalent Democrat, whatever, I like my water with a wedge of lemon. I don't even know how to blog. Is this thing on? [For the West Coast Wonderland RP.]

[jadisstern-wcw]

jade-tow answered your question:/squishes Laura. Hello there. o vo <3 what’s good?

who dis tho. i was lured into following via olivia wilde’s face

IT RICO, instinctively following TOW accounts and making tactical roleplay errors.

@jade-tow

[jadisstern-wcw]

sarahdahl-wcw answered your question:/squishes Laura. Hello there. o vo <3 what’s good?

/curls around. ovo Hihi. A little headachey but good, what about yourself?

I’m okaaaay. Curled up with a snoring cat who is slowly pushing me off the bed. /gives you water and a neck pillow full of lavender. Feel better pls?

[jadisstern-wcw]

/squishes Laura. Hello there. o vo <3 what’s good?

[love4glamour-deactivated2016051]

[jadisstern-wcw]

Save it for a rainy day.

I’d never felt anything like it before.

               Scratch that. Never felt much of anything before.

               Not that this is some fairytale wherein the prince wakes the princess up with a kiss and they ride off into the sunset to bang in a castle or something, no it’s not that clean-cut or medieval. Thankfully, because I’d hate to die of the plague before I hit forty.

               Not that I intend to hit forty with anything less than the grace and eloquence of a twenty-something. Where’s my fucking fountain of youth—

               In any case, what I’m trying to say is that before Benji, I didn’t…know I could feel.

               And it makes no sense as to why it’d be him. Of all people. My god, Jadis, set the bar a little—well, that’s actually not fair. For all he is—curly-haired, scruffy-faced, big and lumbering, mumbling, with a little bit of a tummy…(god I hate that word ‘tummy’).

               He’s perfect.

               It’s the kind of perfect where you wake up to sunny walls and soft sheets in a freshly-made bed. Where the laundry is always ready and the sound of coffee brewing in the morning (the smell, too, hazelnut and warm) is what gets you up instead of an alarm. It’s the security in not sleeping with a gun under your pillow anymore (it’s under the mattress instead with the clip in the bedside table drawer).

               It’s going downstairs in bare feet wearing one of his shirts, not feeling obligated to check the parameters. It’s waiting at the foot of the stairs in the kitchen, humming off-key and making what passes for quality scrambled eggs (which is just as well because holy shit I suck at cooking). It’s got kind blue eyes and a hesitant smile.

               And while you’re not who he’s hoping to see, you hope you’ll do.

               I didn’t…mean to fall for him. I shouldn’t have, actually. He’s always getting migraines—storm pressure headaches, no doubt—he’s…reserved and did I mention the mumbling? Nobody has to say “uh” after every other, uh. Word. Okay, I need to tone down the meanness. Because it’s really not his fault and I’m being—what’s the word—ableist, or something. It’s a defense mechanism.

               Push them away before they can hurt you and pick on the weak points.

               This feeling, though—it started with a broken set of heels and the willingness to take a piggyback from a man who’d later swear he didn’t throw out said back just to help you out. It’s watching his face on gray and cloudy days and trying to coax smiles out from behind the clouds. It’s being there when he has a nightmare. Or you do. Car crashes and white rooms. It’s the realization that silence can be comfortable, it doesn’t need to be suspicious. It’s knowing he’s more than he appears to be, and it’s knowing you can be yourself around him.

               As much as you know of yourself.

               I don’t know myself. I don’t know if I ever will. What I am is a weapon used by others. A pen or a pin in a grenade, it hardly matters. I’ll write or set off smoke alarms, I’m versatile that way.

               He, on the other hand, remains stable. Steady.

               Reading Corp was—is—my life in part, but it isn’t. I might handle PR, I might play nice with executives, but in selling shares and shifting branches around, I feel—empty. That old hollow friend that whispers under my skin, saying that I should prepare myself for war instead of boardrooms (though some would argue when you’re a woman, it’s the same). It’s the sensation of being on constant alert. Knowing something is out there, waiting. Knowing your purpose isn’t to just push papers and sign leases. It’s not shaking babies and kissing hands or breaking ships in bottles—bottles on ships, whatever.

               It’s espionage and deception and death, and that’s where I come in.

               But he—Benji.

               He makes me feel like none of that matters.

               The world stops being the enemy.

               I stop being the guillotine.

               A cutting remark earns me a lifted brow or a cocked head and a dubious smile. A display of knife throwing gets me a cautious and concerned look. A fight clearly started by someone other than myself that I just happened to break up as we passed an overcrowded bar gets me picked up off the ground and carried.

               I thank him for it later. In my own way. Burnt toast and what I hope is strawberry jam but is more likely some kind of Reading pharmaceutical leftover as a thank-you—but—in any case, point is, I’m trying.

               To keep feeling.

               To be more “normal”.

               And all I wanted to say is that he makes me feel. That, and so much else.

               So when someone comes into our house, looking for fuck knows what, and I have to load my gun from under the mattress and go downstairs to take care of the intruder on my own, without waking him up, to protect him, I feel—

               Like this is my purpose.

               To protect.

               And I can dispatch a breakin with the ease of someone who was made to dispel threats without so much as firing a bullet, but I won’t be happy about it. I don’t like disruption in my life. In fact, I hate it.

               Besides, getting rid of an intruder is one thing.

               Explaining to my—whatever he is—that we should probably move, and coming up with a genuine excuse…?

               That’s not something I was made for.

               But hey, I’m adaptable.

               And, as it turns out—

               So is he.

[jadisstern-wcw]

#dreamy sigh

it's like he got lost in his own eyes.

[asapmobdaily-blog]

[jadisstern-wcw]

kaelanandrews-sna said: LAWD eliprice-sna said: …yeah I see it. Damn.

[thecineramadome]

Olivia Wilde - b. Olivia Jane Cockburn

Born March 10, 1984

[frejskamavora-deactivated201801]

[vegetable]

[strawberry-pills]

You have stolen my heart.

[jadisstern-wcw]

/kills everyone off.

/rolls away.

[trophychaser-deactivated2015021]

✿ 6/50 photos of: Olivia Wilde.

[jadisstern-wcw]

I KNEW IT

[jadisstern-wcw]

[jadisstern-wcw]

Kaelan wondered if she would slap him this time and then walk away. He would have deserved it but it wasn't what he wanted. Looking into her eyes, brows together, he waited for the verdict- and exhaled, relieved, when she agreed to speak with him. Grinning through the sudden surge of tears, he nodded, "I'll buy you anything you want, just. Thank you, Jadis. For giving me another chance. I won't screw it up this time, and if I do, you have the freedom to beat me to a pulp."

"Don't count your chickens just yet," Jadis whispered, fighting back her own tears as she took Kaelan's phone from him and mashed in her number with shaking digits. Passing it back to him, she shook her head and smiled thinly. "You've still got a long way to go before we're friends again."

And with that the secretary turned and strode off--taking the flowers with her, and placing them close to her heart.