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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Nov 16, 2014 17:16:07 GMT
Pike gave a cold over-the-shoulder look that looked more teasing than ferocious.
Jasmin shut the door on their way out, blinking slowly several times so her words wouldn't weigh her down as much. "My family that he was talkin' about....they're gone," she admitted lowly, anger dancing in her eyes. "But he doesn't need to know. I wanted to tell you before it came up."
She pulled on the door to make sure it'd shut tight, and wandered into the kitchen.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Nov 16, 2014 17:04:34 GMT
It was an ordinary night of an ordinary week of a less-than-ordinary life. Louly Greenburrow knew how to party, there was no denying that. Although she could slam down whiskey like the men, she lacked a restraint and self-care...
Every night had to be a thrill, or the next morning would leave her depressed and going through withdrawals. It was better, feeding the beast, than spending your days half-dead and rotting with the scent of illness. Like every other night, she left the party alone and barefoot, her creatively slashed tights chafing. Her whole outfit was minuscule, but no worse than most girl's at any ole' party.
But most girls didn't have a half-shaved head or eyeliner smeared under their eyes. They went home with their one night stands or friends or lovers with giggles and a buzz. She left alone, reeking of booze and sweat, with her nude-toned lips set in a thin line.
The unshaved portion of her head fell in loose, nautical waves down her back.
She let her thumb wag at any cars passing by, bouncing on her heels to distract herself from the sheerness of the cold.
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The Capitol
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Nov 2, 2014 23:23:44 GMT
Three AM. Three AM and she was just now walking home, half-shaved head glistening with perspiration, hair sticking to her face. For once, though, she'd departed early when someone'd insisted she was the hooker they'd hired.
She wasn't dressed abnormally for a party. A few guests shot up to her defense, saying it was only the way she carried herself. She always felt...different, but not blatantly alienated at her one true haven: a party.
Even though the air was bristling with chill and frost, she walked barefoot, chunky leather platform booties in hand, toes curling against the icy sidewalk. Her unshaved portion of head's hair had softened into loose, aquatic waves, strumming past her shoulders. Her eyes were dark - the cat eye once gawk-worthy reduced to a charming smudge around her irises.
She tugged her body contoured skirt down, hiking it as low as possible to warm her legs, the translucent, crimson tights underneath too distressed to offer much warmth and support.
"Fuck-fuck-fuck," She sing-songed, humming lowly to warm herself as she quickened her pace, her tucked-in, deeply v-necked white tank-top thin and unlined, the straps falling down, large gold bracelets jing-jangling and twisting against her wrist.
Even though she'd promised her roommate countless times that'd she'd never hitchhike, she was all too tempted to scoot into somebody's car and rest. She crossed onto the edge of the street, toeing the curb, and stuck her thumb out, visibly trembling.
She pursed her lips as the wind blew, tossing her honey-toned hair in every direction.
'If someone tries to grab you, hit them with your shoe. Or scream - scream. Do that too.' Her mind made up small-talk to distract herself from the bitter chill that seemed to be seeping into her pores. Her teeth chattered, and her arm ached, and for once in her life, she was completely unsure of what to do. She wasn't in control. Her head spun.
A car snailed into view, and she stretched, trying to appear confident. She did know these streets well, but who would guess she was anything but a hooker? If she did, she surely looked like the most sour prostitute for miles, face set into a permanent expression of boredom.
She started to bounce impatiently on her heels, then out of habit she started counting under her breath: "one, two, three.." After three bounces, she had to quit there, or do it another three times. She had many, many obsessive compulsive tendencies. She wanted everything perfect to make up for her own lack of perfection.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 16, 2014 0:31:21 GMT
"Drunks," Louly chimed in at the mention of drinks. Or food. One of the two. Either way, she was hungover, grumpy, and moreover uninterested in much more than spacing out with an icy drink under her palms. "I'm her special-special drunk. She loves me best. I can roll a mean rush hour where I work." It was fair to let Calypso take this one, but she felt icy and talkative.
She could talk him under the table if he proved to be less than a Prince to Calypso; her other half.
She eyed her foamy drink spitefully before taking a short pull.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 16, 2014 0:26:35 GMT
"Order something nice and yummy, Ray-Ray," Apple baby-talked, face beating a blush as Harley picked up, hearing the end of her statement. "Harley, there's something super wrong with Raiden. I need you to pick us up. We're on the corner of Diamond and Couture."
She gnawed on the edge of her mouth.
"Ray, pick me something nice to eat too, mmkay?" It was all distraction. She didn't know how much longer she had with him even semi-coherent.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 16, 2014 0:22:30 GMT
And then she started spitting up copper. It hit her mouth like a freight train, lips parting to push the blood from her mouth. It clung in a slimy trail to the corner of her mouth. "Oh my Go-" She hocked up another wad, eyes travelling to the surrounding people for explanation.
"They hit me on-" Cough. Spit.
Someone offered her a basin, stroking her back. "On purpose." She reached for Felix, who was being talked down by a paramedic, but he felt worlds away.
"Let 'im ride in the..." She vomited, half blood and half stale, strong whiskey.
"Get her fiance." The furrow-browed paramedic rushed as he lifted her into the ambulance, where she was swarmed by machines and blood pressure cuffs and IVs.
She felt numb. Cursed. Cursed to be forever accident prone, forever unhappy. She was going to lose herself to this.
Tears pushed out of her eyes, spilling over her cheeks, stained pink with the blood that'd gathered around her mouth. Her thoughts of death those years ago felt horrid and psychotic.
She knew she wasn't dying, but something was coming. Something was off.
She was too drunk and too injured to protest.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 16, 2014 0:15:05 GMT
Jasmin watched with fascinated elation as his expression furrowed, then morphed into something peppy and pleased, like it was his birthday and not her own. Was this what a friendship was like?
She'd made it. She'd made it to seventeen. It was like she owned the world; her tiny, bizarre world...
She had control again. And then she was wrapped in his arms, and she tried to force her arms around him, but the spinning had her seeing stars, so she just bunched up the fabric of his shirt, a tiny squeal escaping her.
Then her eyes rolled. "Fuck, I think I miscounted. Maybe it was yesterday." She made light of it, allowing her head to curve into his shoulder for a nanosecond, not even enough time for the warmth of him to tease her. She released her tight hold on his shirt, eyes twinkling like tiny galaxies.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 16, 2014 0:09:48 GMT
"Were you not impressed? If you wanna round two, I can sure as shit change your mind," She half-joked, finally forcing it past her tongue. She tugged lightly at the cotton that banded her injured arm, flexing the taut fabric discreetly.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 16, 2014 0:04:56 GMT
Jasmin was beginning to relax against his frame. Whether it be because of his sheer warmth, his kind eyes, or the undeniable respect and upfrontness about him, even she wasn't too sure. "Don' get ahead of yourself there, sporto."
She was joking - anyone could tell, even the onlooking, setting sun, watching them, guiding them...
"Where are we going?" It was safe to say there wasn't much of a chance he was leading her to some kind of dungeon, as she'd proved that she could handle herself. She liked to think that not every man was a predator, even when, in reality, they were predators in another form.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 16, 2014 0:00:47 GMT
"Far the fuck away from your half-stupid, gropey ass." Maybe it was a bit over-the-top, her insults, but she had a dramatic flare to her spite. Jasmin jumped at his touch, skin infested with the squirmies.
She knocked into him too roughly with her elbow, adjusting her purse in a tizzy. She knew what even a drunken fool could be capable of. "Get off of me!" She spit at him, mouth curling like a snake's.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 15, 2014 1:35:09 GMT
"Like everything, though, it comes with a price. Some people don' like witches," Jasmin's heart stuttered when his fingers felt along her's. "I sound like the poster child for juvenile witches." She snorted, trying to shake the cold off.
The warmth he radiated was undeniable. "Are all werewolves so pretty? Serious question." She bit back a smirk.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 15, 2014 0:58:18 GMT
Jasmin squinted, a mild habit she seemed to do before considering her words. Everything she could say felt wrong. "I was homeless" or, "I was a junkie." It felt bitter to say. She wasn't afraid to admit it, it just felt like false claims.
"I was real into bad stuff after my ex passed away. I was super into heavy shit. I spent a lotta' my time around the streets. That was nearly two years ago. I remember it happened aboutta' month after my birt-" Caught mid-sentence, she lifted five fingers and counted backwards. "A month after...today?" She'd forgotten her own birthday. Her expression was pinched.
She'd forgotten her own birthday.
Laughter rose in her like a disease. "Seventeen!" She said it to herself like it was a gift, then Jay, beaming widely. "Seventeen, Jay-"
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 15, 2014 0:52:15 GMT
"I had to ask." Jasmin admitted almost - dare I say - meekly. It'd feel wrong not to make the offer, even though she'd known the answer before the inquiry left her lips. Lightning screamed in the sky, giving her a wild start, heart leaping as the light reverberated a crash of thunder.
She followed his lead, mouth close to the talkie. "Head for cover, soldiers. We don' mess with storms in Four." She'd always be looser in some ways as a commander. The power flickered and faltered all together, lights drooping.
The rooms were all nearly pitch-black.
Her hand fell to the flashlight at her side. She beeped the button and it flashed on, illuminating a small circle of light against the wall, shining against Jay, narrowing his wide-set cheekbones and making him appear even more lean.
"Soldiers, get to your beds. We ain't dealing with any injuries because someone fell." She heard a scoff from one of the clumsier soldiers and the flitter of footsteps.
Commander Forte eased herself into bed, fully mobile but sore. She moved to haul her over shirt off, but her injured arm was too thickly wrapped to lift it. "Jay, will you take my shirt off?" She mocked gently, shirt tugged halfway over her head, voice muffled by the stretched fabric over her face.
She wore a thick, comfy, pale gray camisole, straps thicker to hide the wide straps of her sports bra.
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 11, 2014 1:47:51 GMT
Louly did it all: pills, powders, potions. The one thing she was earnestly against was shooting up. Anything revolving around needles made her swoon, but so did lots of other things: boys, girls, rush hour at the shinty little diner she worked at part-time.
She leaned her face into the wall, the coolness seeping into her hot, overheated cheek. Her heavy eye-makeup smeared classically under her eyes, her once-pristine eyeliner wings disheveled and unrecognizable.
A voice called to her, and though she smelt of stale vomit and alcohol, she lifted her hand in a groggy wave. Before she could shake it at her friend, she was lifted to her feet, velvet mini skirt too cold and too thin for the weather; she was pulled upward by Calypso, her faithful, kind-hearted best friend.
Beauty was pain.
She allowed herself to be towed down the street, skin glossy and pale and under eyes dark from the constant party. A door clinked as it was pushed open. "Cal, I hate pumpkins!" She whined, clearly joking. Calypso lead her to a seat and sat her down. She searched through her purse for a make-up wipe, but Cal had her covered, tossing over a few wrinkled napkins.
She smeared off the ending to her night, free hand evening the ketchup container and salts and peppers against the wall, perfectly even. It was habit to yearn for perfection, in everywhere but herself.
"He was kinda' cute. Want me to hook a sista' up?" She wasn't a bad friend, but a careless one. As much as she preached self-respect, often times she didn't show it.
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The Capitol
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Post by Louly Greenburrow on Oct 10, 2014 21:09:41 GMT
Name: Louly Greenburrow Age: 17 Face Claim: Natalie Dormar Orig. District: 6 Occupation: Makes and distributes fake IDs - part-time waitress Capitol or 13: Capitol I have read & understood.
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