#thosefour

[delohabitual]

“   INSIDERS REPORT SEEING ENGLAND'S BRIT POP PRETTY BOY COZYING UP WITH RIOT GRRRL AT INSANE HOLLYWOOD PARTY - MAYBE SHE DOESN'T HATE MEN AFTER ALL? YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT  :   READ THE FULL STORY ON PAGE 24 !  ”   

All   it   took   was   one   magazine   interview   where   Jane   had   mentioned   she'd   been   listening   to   Beetlemoth   a    whole   lot   recently   before   the   music   tabloids   ran    wild    the   idea   that   she   might   be   romantically   linked   with   Micky  ,      a   man   she'd   never   met   before   her   in   her   fucking   life  ;       it   was   funny  ,   really  ,      the   way   it    was   always   an   insider  ,      or   a   close   friend   who   chose   to   spill  such    juicy   details  ,     when   really   ,    it's   just   some   poor   sap   of   an   intern   lying   so   that   his   boss  might   promote   him  .        She   found   humour   in   it   above   all   else  ,     but   having   to   explain   to   her   sibling   over   the   phone   that  ,     no  ,     she   hadn't   started   dating   anybody   without   telling   her   first   ,    was   a   bit   of   a   conversation  .    Jane    may   or   may   not   have   been   offended   by   the   scoff   that   came   from   her   seventeen   year   old    sister's   lips   before   she   proclaimed   that   she   ' knew   it   was bullshit  ,    there's   no   way   you'd   ever   get  a   boyfriend  '    but   whatever  . 

But   as   fate   (  and   companies   trying   to   sell   more   tickets  )    may   have   it   ,        the   two   bands   were  now   crossing   paths   for   a    three   day   weekend   festival   ,       and   quite   frankly  ,    Jane's   only   hope   was   that   she'd   be   able   to   see   the   boys   perform   their   set   at   least   once   over   the   course  of   the   next   few   days  ,    because   she   hadn't   been   lying   when   she   said   she   liked   their   music  .       

It   was   early   afternoon    when   the   girls   finally   arrived   with   their    van    that   had   broken   down   only   once   today   somewhere   along   the   freeway  ,       and   had   to   haggle   with   security   to   let   them  in  .      She   recalls   having   to   say  ,     "   No  ,    I'm   not   FUCKING   the   bass   player  ,    I   AM   the   fucking   bass   player  ,   "      to   really   drive   her   point   across  ;     it   usually   worked  . 

After    everything   was   said   and   done  ,    and    they'd   checked   in   with   tour   management   to   receive   their   artist   passes  ,    it   was   deemed   first   priority   that   Jane   track   down   and   find   out   where   the   catering   tent    was   to   determine  whether   or   not   they   had   sufficient   coffee  .       Naturally   ,     the   rest    of   the   band   opted   to   stay   behind  ,      and   it   was   likely   because   they'd    caught   a   whiff   of   marijuana   somewhere   along   the   way   and   wanted   to   use   their  fucking   bloodhound   noses   to  track   it   down  .        They'll   regret   that   later   when   they're   stoned   and   don't   know   where   to    go   to   get   food   ,     she   thinks  .    

STARTER THAT GOT WAY TOO LONG   :      @thosefour  .

[fangsharrison]

wall of text for @thosefour

‘I love you more than Renault and Picasso. I love you so much I have to see you. Meet me this coming friday on the green outside the school Remember me to Gingy the cat and your beautiful mother Elsie. All my love. Your Robbie.’ George managed, just about, to get to the end of the letter he was holding up in front of him, despite uproars of laughter close to his ears and Arthur leaning his elbows heavily on his shoulder as he guffawed. George smiled and looked up from the paper proudly, taking a smear of surreptitiously obtained lipstick from Tony Workman’s fingertip onto his own and pressing the pink fingerprint onto the letter by the forged signature of their form teacher at the bottom of the love letter to a fat lunch lady who worked in the tuck shop. ‘How’s tha’ for friday's entertainment?’ George grinned, nodding to his cohort as even other people around the common room sniggered and commented to each other. ’That’s great Geo but it’s Renoir not Renault,’ said Stan Mackey, side-elbowing George’s head and setting off more laughter. George grinned and corrected the letter supposedly from a history of art teacher. George was amongst the more popular boys in the Upper Fourth, even in the whole boarding house, and, along with Arthur and Tony it was a job which required no short stock of traditional Liverpool loutishness. George’s signature move was headbutting kids suddenly out of nowhere, but he had other tricks up his sleeve and no time nor patience for education. If this was a rough area of Liverpool then it was a rough place to be a Latin teacher, that was for sure. Better still Art History. John Lennon’s uncle, a foppish, gay-looking english teacher called Mr Smith, taught here and George had immediately christened him Cissie Smith, which stuck to him like flypaper and had never come unstuck. Now the man couldn’t even walk down an empty corridor without someone in a classroom shouting ‘faggot’ or hissing the name ‘Cissie’ through at him. But it was a new school year now, and they were a year older. Exams were rearing their heads over the horizon and, frankly, George was bricking it. After slipping the letter into a readily addressed envelope, the bell having run five minutes ago George, Arthur, Tony and Stan slung their bags over their shoulders and went to their form room, queuing up outside the door with their backs against the wall, kicking each other’s shins until the master arrived. He came sweeping down the corridor in his black gown and a stack of their homework in his arms, not deigning to look at a single pupil before opening the classroom door and disappearing inside. A second later, he stepped back out again. His beady eyes narrowed halfway down the line on George, and he walked back towards the boy. ‘Harrison, why are you smiling like that?’ George shrunk back against the wall a little more and looked up at the teacher with a clueless expression, having instantly wiped the grin of machiavellian cunning off his face. ‘Sir?’ he replied, whilst those on either side of him tried not to laugh. The only person not holding back laughter seemed to be a sandy-haired new boy passing through the corridor to whom everyone gave either a wide a berth or merciless grievance about the words ‘larf’ and ‘barth'. George, too self absorbed at this stage in teenage-hood, had hardly noticed him. ‘Get inside,’ Mr. Fraser resigned, and the line moved forwards. George, Arthur, Tony and Stan took their seats along the second-to-back row of desks. Only the second-to-back by dint of being banned from the actual back row in their first week at this school. ‘Tony?’ asked George, eyeing the blonde boy curiously from across the way as Mr. Fraser spoke about football trials and chapel. Tony leaned in. ‘Who’s that blonde fella who looked at us outside? Is he foreign?’ ‘No he’s from London.’ George’s gave an expression of surprise which turned into an impression of a posh, obese tory landowner. Tony let out a snort of laughter and the words ‘Harrison Kelly and Workman, get out of my classroom’ shortly followed. With the other two gone back to the common room, George wandered in the direction that blonde guy had been headed and soon came to one of the older classrooms, where the teacher was giving notices too. He stood in the doorway for a minute or so and peered in, watching the blonde boy sitting looking bored near the window. Then he noticed, their eyes met briefly before the boy's flickered away and George quickly took his leave in case the southerner told his own teacher. He was of course probably a snitch. Nevertheless, back in the common room that night as he sat on a window seat watching the Under-15s football practice in mud and lashing rain, George decided that it would be a good idea to test the character of this alien, foreign student. He’d been looking for a new target, anyway...

[damnedcrybaby]

I find the map & draw a straight line over rivers, farms, and state lines; the distance from A to where you’d Be, it’s only finger-lengths that I see.

“Set The Fire To The Third Bar” - Snow Patrol

[chantoile]

ok i FINALLY did it @thosefour

[damnedcrybaby]

"What do you think of that Britpop boy, Micky, or whatever?"

~three’s a crowd~ // Accepting !!

…oh poor, uncultured Daniel… “What the fuck is Britpop?” 

Elijah rolled his eyes, leaned forward for the opportunity to literally speak over Caroline and correct his brother– until he caught that ridiculous smile she wasn’t even trying to keep back, ear to ear, even NIPPING at the tip of her tongue– and he’d swear there was even a Disney~era SPARKLE in her eye: “Who’s Micky, Caroline?”

“He’s an ARTIST-” correction came as she streeeeetched arms out ahead of her, and bit onto that bottom lip… until she could roll the ball of her palm across the table, focusing on her fingers as they unfurled, curled, unfurled, back in to touch the line supposedly dictating heart. “He’s in’a band and they’re good, they’re travelin’, I’ve seen ‘em. He’s fascinating and he’s sweet, and he’s got’a real lovely voice, like Orpheus you know… the most lovely, most wonderful, musician and guide of the argonauts…”

Daniel’s much less impressed by her performance than she’d been with theirs: shows so only with a slump in his chair- “She cares more’a ‘bout what’s in his pants than whatever he’s singin’ off’a silver tongue.”

A chuckle from the eldest: “As does half of Britain, I’m sure.”

“What the Hell does Britain have to——” a pause, as those pieces fell together in Daniel’s head, and both other siblings ceased their antics to watch. “So she’s here goin’ doe-eyed and he’s collecting KNICKERS on tour?”

OH HOW THE TABLES HAVE TURNED! “N-no,” Caroline stammers, without even realizing her hands had curled to fists. “No, that’s not– I think he’s just fascinating besides his pants– we’re talkin’ ‘bout Micky, not knickers, nobody calls ‘em that anyway, you don’t even know what that MEANS, you just heard it somewhere–”

“Yes it is.” Elijah goes to nodding. “Britpop, babe: and the ladies love a cute boy on stage, and knickers are what them British would call the lacy bits he’s probably notching his belt with. What’s the band’s name?”

She’s already slunk forward, elbows up and cheeks caught in her hands: “Beetlemoth.”

“I’ve heard of them!” OH THIS JUST GOT BETTER, Elijah slaps at the table, sends the girl into a frazzled fury: suddenly so thankful he’s found himself within the music scene lately. “Mostly read ‘bout ‘em in the tabloids, they ARE touring– hold on– YOU giggle with THAT GUY on the phone at night?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and she goes ten shades of CRIMSON. “Anyways, Orpheus’ song was lovely enough to drown out the sirens: My———” FREUDIAN SLIP! Only acknowledged when Eli poked a fingertip into her cheek; she snapped teeth to urge him away, “Micky is talented, he writes beautiful songs, he’s got lovely eyes, he’s more than a pretty picture or a paparazzi plug-piece and he’s my yellow, so you two can just…”

Elijah tried to deescalate, reached for her, only to get slaps aimed back at him: “Calm down, I’m sure he loves you as much as the other skin he’s signed, I was with you on the mythology but what’s the YELLOW ?!”

All Daniel had anymore was honesty: “I don’t even know what any’a that means, but if I have to hear her talkin’ like’a teenage girl at two AM anymore, I’m gonna riot.”

“You don’t have to-” The interview’s done, when Caroline rises up from her seat and uses a single shove on the back of her chair to let it clatter on to the ground. “Ya boys’re uncultured and Scrooges and I hate you both.”

“Oh c’mon, Caroline,” Daniel tried! “Lemme sing ya a song-” ELIJAH FAILED!

She’d gone, stomping away, muttering about BOYS, and HATING ALL OF THEM!After her brothers finally stop their cackling, Daniel sincerely addresses the question:

“He took’a pastry when she snuck ‘im up to her bedroom like a damned bobby-soxer, I KNOW- and I was looking forward to those, so–” a shrug, which finally set Eli over the edge as he buried his face in his hands, trying to shield the laughter– “fuck ‘em. Music’s good though, from what I’ve been told… often… by her…”

“Yea, yea, I’ve heard of ‘em, heard they’re good…” wheeze, wheeeeeeeeze, before we finally got Elijah back. “We pissed her off, get that BRITPOP lad to call her, or we’ll be dealing with her all night…”

[damnedcrybaby]

"why are you sitting over there? there's a perfectly good lap right here." 😏

… thank goodness he’s here to ask the real questions!…

And it’s that comment which manages to pull the flighty girl from her guise of blissful, distracted, ignorant, innocence ; a luxurious lounge took over, arms falling back to brace herself, as if this was the very most comfortable countertop she’d ever been sat on, a leg even ceasing that to-and-fro kicking to go on and stretch faaaaar over the gap between them – until she can press the very tippiest-tips of her toes to his thigh, use the slight leverage to assist as she BENEVOLENTLY slipped herself down to the edge of her perch.

“But ‘m comfy,” who doesn’t like to be up on a pedestal, even if it’s made of fake marble?One lazy leg was curled back up so she could wrap arms about it, rest chin on her knee: the other stayed with Micky, falling from the top of his leg to the side, and she’d like to make it perfectly clear it’s her toes!! her eyes are following!! not his lap!! nope!!

All she’d really have to do is hop on down.It’d be easy, too, wouldn’t take a moment of her time.But she’s already followed enough cues of his… His Ego might get too big if she just keeps lettin’ him win like this.

“How ‘bout instead…” New plan! and she clarifies intentions by sitting up straighter, even scooting on back atop her counter, it’s a cheap counter she probably shouldn’t be sitting on, spot’s meant for glasses not asses, throne! Fingertips tip, tap, tip, tap, tip a come-hither rhythm to the spot of granite that came in view between her thighs after a few wriggles shifted her about just right.– look, she’s even made room for him, he’ll fit just perfect if he obliges her and takes a stand, how sweet is she!! 

“You c’mere??”

[damnedcrybaby]

“so? aren’t you going to say something?” ( uh-oh... )

~Betrayal & Regret Starters~ // Accepting!! (… oh… oh no…)

Oh, if looks could kill, Beetlemoth would need to find a new lead singer- and Caroline might feel a bit better about this whole thing…

THERE’S JUST SO! MUCH! TO SAY!

But it’s all stuck, behind the pinch of her brows, under the teeth marks embedded into her bottom lip– better than nipping at her tongue, she’d probably choke on the blood before the tension in her jaw let up… she’s such an idiot… a hand flies for Micky, and though she really would have preferred to just swat him into oblivion like a mosquito, he’s instead used as leverage: a way to gruffly push herself past that stupid, stupid, stupid haze and away.

A slight tumble as she struggles to pull her sweater back over her shoulders, and she shows questionable priorities when she uses the shoe she’d snatched back up to weaponize: the sole thwap, thwap, THWAPS his thigh before she tosses the damned things into her purse.

Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl: dumb boy!! Awful boy, TERRIBLE BOY: just a boy, and she’s a stupid, stupid girl who’d gone and tangled herself up so he could pluck and snap her like a guitar string: she can hear it– that twang the yelp, the disappointment: what was she THINKING!? Why did she even care, was there really any other outcome for this?

He’d said he was the boy of her dreams. This is a fuckin’ nightmare.

But this isn’t necessarily heartache, oh no, we’re in some purgatory before that whole issue crops up: she’s pissed. Hard to tell if it’s really all even aimed at poor Micky, though he’s going to certainly get the brunt of her rage– and that pink lighter she’d had was ABSOLUTELY aimed right at his AWFULly adorable FACE… he’s really lucky she didn’t have anything more dangerous on her, and is too mad to throw properly: Girl’s Gone Wild!!

“I knew better,” words spat out, as if they were too vile to even accept as an aftertaste. “I’m an idiot for givin’ a shit about you, an idiot–” who desperately wants a cigarette, NEEDS A CIGARETTE, and it’s the only thing that causes her pause as that self-deprecating rant reels on in her head. Caroline pays no mind to the sweater that slumps to her elbows, or the straps of her dress– and may we mention: she LIKED that dress, CHOSE that dress when she knew she’d SEE HIM again, it’s all slinky and cute, and she is SO MAD SHE WASTED IT LIKE THIS– as they fall loosely from her shoulder… Cigarette was found, oh thank god, tossed up between trembling lips, and she went to feel in her purse for her lighter…..

…. oh… shit…

… aw, damnit: “Gimme the light, Micky–” She won’t even look at him, won’t straighten her posture or fix her disheveled appearance, won’t let him get the satisfaction of seeing her crybaby tears threaten the whole facade to crumble; only holds out a hand in the distance between them… hoping for her kamikaze lighter back: 

“Y’can do that without hatin’ me, can’t you?” unnecessary conduct!

[voguecovcr]

35! :)

from the meme x

35. Do you read other people’s threads or do you only read your own?

To be honest, not much… I do read a few replies when they pop up in my dashboard sometimes, but I’m that kind of person who *has* to read something from the very beginning up to the very end and it’s hard to keep up with that with the dynamics of roleplaying, so I never read the whole story. However, when I do approach people to invite them for a thread, I always read some of their replies, along with bio & rules, so I can see how my muse can connect with theirs. 

Thank you!