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DAISY JONES & THE SIX Track 6: "Whatever Gets You Thru the Night"

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more damning evidence clangs at her feet: a hitch in his words, the shift of big, painfully transparent eyes, the not-so-subtle shuffle of his stance. if she didn’t know before, she’s absolutely certain now — ozzy’s lying. fuckin’ terrible at it, too. what perplexes her is the unknown why. aren’t friends supposed to share everything with each other ? they’d grown older together, for pete’s sake — mutual witnesses of every awkward phase, every heartbreak, every triumph. did all those memories, all that fondness, simply slip out of his thick skull overnight ? whatever it is that has him faltering, clementine will find out soon enough. it’s a promise she makes to herself — because no, unfortunately, she won’t go down without a fight. he’d be stupid to think otherwise. most people in her life, she’s had to keep there by force; she refuses to stand idly by and watch as someone she loves packs their bags and walks away again. still wonders, constantly, what might’ve happened if she’d planted herself in the doorway when her parents left — just a little more resolve, a little more resistance. would things be different ? would they have stayed ? would she be less lonely ? " sure, man … let’s just pretend i’m stupid enough t’believe that. "  there’s anger staining her words — she isn’t exactly known for letting go of a grudge ( has a pretty tight grip on them, actually ). but the thought of going back inside, slamming the door, and remaining without human company swirls in her stomach like a bad meal … makes her claws loosen up a smidge. granting him entry doesn’t mean she’ll completely spare him from some casual cruelty, though. has to punish him somehow. has to make him understand. clem reaches forward, lightly pets the back of his neck, brushes against the silky strands she’s told him are getting too long : tryin' out a new look ? that a fuckin’ dead rat on your head ? the gesture could easily be mistaken for affection at first ( she half expects him to purr like one of her cats ). perhaps that’s what she wants — to trick him. " you’ll pay for your sins later, dummy. "  a sharp smile finally curls on her lips as her hand shifts from honey to chalk ... a yank instead of a stroke. the whole dragging-him-by-the-hair thing isn't enough, it seems, because clementine adds in a macabre whisper as he passes,  " with blood. "

ozzy can be an idiot sometimes , especially when it comes to the feelings of others . he's not the most emotionally available person in the entire world , and can be oblivious to the pain his carelessness will cause . this is definitely one of those scenarios . he observes clem in front of him as her chapped lips form the crescent moon shape of a frown ( her face always was so expressive ) as she stares back , dumbfounded . his own smile fades fast and hands which held up his prized stash of treats fall slowly to rest at his sides , shoulders slump and the once celebrated treasures dangle from his fingertips like they suddenly began weighing a ton and started to drag him downwards . " oh , c'mon , clem . i fell asleep ... easy mistake . " typical bad liar . she doesn't budge and he softens , suddenly looking down at the ground . " i wasn't coming here to buy you off . i was comin' here because i thought you'd still wanna hang out , even if it was late . y'dont have to cut my hair , obviously ... but ... idontknow . alright , i fucked up . i can just ... leave , if you want ... ?? " he could be honest if he had the guts . admit that maybe she'd gotten too close for comfort and that it scared him , hence the distance . and scare him it did — but also provided him with a sense of care and appreciation he had been longing for , for so long . nope . he's not touch starved . he doesn't even know that there's a name for feeling like that . not that he does . he's fine . " i can leave the beers and candy and leave you alone , or i can come inside . but you do have to pick one , orange , 'cause it's freezing out here . "

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DAISY JONES & THE SIX Track 8: "Looks Like We Made It"

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DAISY JONES & THE SIX — Track 5: Fire

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#precious babies #must be protected at all costs

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CHUNGKING EXPRESS (1994) dir. Wong Kar Wai

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eternal sunshine of the spotless mind; 2004 kate winslet as clementine

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Margaret Qualley as Pussycat in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019)

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Baby Blood (Alain Robak, 1990)

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a lawyer ? that makes her snort. hard. if emilio’s family ever sued her for whatever reason ( robbery, as a nonspecific example ) the only thing they’d wring out of her tattered pockets would be the trailer — tearing at the seams, wrapped in ivy, pillows stuffed with roadkill instead of feathers, one blow away from becoming a pile of dust. it almost makes her head hurt, trying to picture someone as clean as him in the middle of her eerie world, standing in the living room ( which also happens to be the kitchen ), wearing his brand new levi's, hair pushing out waves of expensive shampoo smell, while a hole in the wall glares back at him. there’s no fuckin’ way he’d do that, she thinks — not unless he was dead and i was the one dragging the body. snorts again, but a sneaky taste of bitterness creeps in, outweighing the amusement. there’s not enough time to dissect the why. he falls back onto the mattress, flicks her ankle, and distracts her. aiming to please, clementine brings his feral cat comment to life by baring her teeth, hissing; it doesn’t even register as an insult, a snide remark. it’s truthful, after all — she sees an extended hand, an offer of anything resembling comfort, and pulls the person by the arm instead ( evilly ? no ). always desperate to alleviate that pesky sense of loneliness. no one ever taught her to be different. why should she be ? to find affection, you must dig, use your claws. nothing wrong with that. " you’ve never fuckin’ fed me, man. " not directly, anyway. not willingly either. his belongings did, though. credit where credit is due. " you were fuckin’ stupid, tossed your key, and turned your back… i was smart — nosurprisesthere — and sneaky. next time, you won’t even know i was here. i’ll be as quiet as a fuckin’ church mouse. " comforting(?), fabricated words. part of the fun of breaking in is having him catch her, fingers deep inside his drawers. in her own messed up way, she's seeking company. more specifically, his company. not gonna give it up that easy. her frizzy head turns to the side, cheek kissing the softness — his bed really is very comfortable. a content sigh as complete opposites study each other for a second… she chews on her lips, bug-eyes absorbing his brown own as more insults leak, not as piercing as they should be, rounded edges instead of pointed. there’s an energy that’s lacking, hatred dialed down to a lower volume. so low, in fact, that she can almost hear an unknown shape rustling in the background of their bond, disturbing it ( as if it wasn't strange enough to begin with ). he grumbles a quiet witch, but it falls flat to the ground. it’s the other comment that has her toothy grin softening. " dunno if y’actually believe that, man. " her voice is still direct, but she’s not trying to be mean. she’s simply stating a fact. this is what's true. take it or leave it. " that what you’re after, then ? with all the — " pariah throws a couple of punches around, foot slapping his lap to bring the full effect to life. besides, he did harm her ankle — she kind of wants payback,  " bruise makin’ and blood sprayin’ ? " a gentler tap of her foot this time, craving his stare on her. open and attentive. look at me. " love ? "

foot  lands  heavy  against  his  lap—  thwack!  number  one  —following  the  end  of  her  sentence  like  punctuation.  full  stop.  beer  nearly  sacrifices  itself,  but,  for  once,  and  emilio  plays  hero,  one  hand  tightening  around  the  neck.  it  sloshes,  a  few  drops  managing  to  escape  onto  his  beloved  new  levis  before  settling  back  into  the  bottle—  nearly  no  casualties.  still,  he  shoots  her  a  look.  eyebrows  lifted,  jaw  clenched  in  a  way  that  is  visible  in  the  way  his  muscle  stretches.  anger  fades  away  (  at  least,  to  the  untrained  eye  )  as  he  tips  the  bottle  toward  her  in  a  lazy  toast  before  setting  it  down  carefully  on  the  nightstand.  outta  harm's  way.  for  now.  "my  father's  lawyer  will  get  you  if  you  threaten  me  again,"  he  warns,  because  isn't  that  how  all  problems  are  solved  in  his  little  bubble?  then,  back  onto  the  mattress,  arms  slung  wide,  he  sprawls  like  a  bored  prince  in  a  palace  he  didn't  ask  to  rule.  there’s  a  kind  of  resignation  in  the  way  he  lets  himself  sink  in  beside  her;  perhaps  now  her  repeat  offenses  are  being  taken  as  a  weird  sort  of  affection.  clementine's  broken  in  for  what  he  believes  is  the  first  time—but  that's  she  always  does,  isn't  it?  she's  crawled  under  his  skin  and  he's  not  yet  found  a  way  to  get  her  out;  she's  annoying  and  sharp-edged  and  everywhere.  the  thought  settles  in  his  chest  uncomfortably,  he  doesn't  know  how  to  name  this,  and  it  burns  a  little,  like  irritation  or  nostalgia  or  something  worse:  fondness.  oh,  god  forbid  that  that's  the  case  here,  yeah?  because  fondness  feels  like  a  trapdoor,  legs  bowing  out  from  under  him  until  he's  falling  down,  down,  down,  into  whatever  pit  she  crawled  out  of.  frustrating  thought  makes  him  internally  groan,  and  because  he  doesn't  wish  to  stew  over  that,  he  reacts  the  way  he  knows  best:  petty,  reciprocal  violence.  a  flick  to  her  ankle,  glinty  and  mean,  then:  "like  a  feral  cat.  get  fed  one  fuckin'  time  and  keep  coming  back." emilio's  gaze  slides  over  her—legs  everywhere,  mane  everywhere,  fingerprints  everywhere—and  he  sighs,  long-suffering.  "think  your  sticky  fingers—"  oh,  he  means  it  in  both  figurative  and  literal  senses,  of  course!  "—qualify  as  ladylike?  i've  got  some  news  for  you,  witch."  whether  or  not  the  nickname  is  affectionate  has  yet  to  be  determined,  but  really,  he's  not  as  angry  as  he  could  be.  despite  how  things  might  seem,  he's  never  been  all  that  sentimental.  not  really.  he  likes  stuff.  nice  stuff.  doesn't  need  it,  because  getting  and  having  and  keeping  is  how  things've  always  been  for  him.  if  she  snatched  something,  he  probably  won't  recognize  its  absence  until  a  week  from  now,  and  when  he  does,  he'll  just  picture  her  with  it  and  .  .  .  well.  it  won't  bother  him.  not  even  when  it  should.  "and  people  love  me.  don't  get  what  you  mean."

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Right.

NANCY WHEELER & ROBIN BUCKLEY STRANGER THINGS 4, VOL. 1 (2022) 4x06, “Chapter Six: The Dive”

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hiiii *trying not to sound desperate for human connection*

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pit the old truck against the luxury car, suuure, that seems totally fair... not sadistic at all. clementine’s poor baby sputters and coughs as it crawls into the crammed parking lot, tires bleeding, practically begging its stubborn owner to be put out of its misery every time it’s forced to open rusty eyes. not gonna fuckin’ die on me, baby. not today — dramatic words uttered countless times over the last eleven years, overheard by most radcliff townsfolk, always followed by a disbelieving shake of their heads. how is that damned thing still movin’ ? gonna kill someone someday. pariah refuses to listen, though — the mere thought of parting from a soul she believes to have shared many lifetimes with is simply inconceivable. do not hear those who don't know. slap, slap, slap. a couple of encouraging pats to its blue side — as if her magic touch will turn old beast into prince, dust off cobwebs and get the engine roaring. it's written all over her face: she still clings to the stupid belief she’ll win. even when tate’s evil machine swoops in before her, a clean and silent killer. even when he slides into the spot like a missing puzzle piece. even when he turns to spit an evil laugh ( there’s no evil laugh, she's just delusional ). friendly competition’s friendly competition, right ? well, that doesn’t exactly stop her from screaming " lucky motherfucker ! " when the realization of their loss finally drops in — momentarily blinds her, claws digging into the wheel, forehead slumping against it with a hard thunk. she jumps out right after, visibly irked. unable to remain relaxed, doomed to live without a notion of the concept. " psssht ! she’s havin’ a hard day is all… woke up feelin’ a lil’ insecure, y’know ? " clem makes sure to clarify, gawky legs carrying her to tate — and, yes, gertrude is simply left in the middle of the space, obstructing, collapsing. there are bigger fish to fry. " keep tellin’ her she doesn’t need all the fuss and fuckin’ feathers. nah, man, she’s a real classic beauty. salt of the earth. exactly what i fuckin’ look for in a… better half. " aha ! there it is, hidden beyond the stupid old-timey voice she puts on, beyond the grin. of course she’d caught the weirdness, the cheek pinkness, the lovey-doveyness flying wild around the breakroom during truth or dare… a butterfly that conveniently ( or inconveniently, to others ) landed right in front of her. now captured, she wants to put it under a microscope. study it fully. see all the colors. focus shifts and their battle is forgotten. she exaggeratedly clears her throat, plucking cigarette from behind her left ear. look how casual i'm being. " what do you — " a poke to his chest before sticking the thing between her teeth, " look for in a lover, tate ? that one thing that makes you go — " short gasp, slams her palm against him, pinches his shirt between her fingers, " we were thrown on this earth t’grow old and gray together ! i can guess, if ya want... real good at guessin'. like, scary good. " ding, ding, ding. a game she can win at.

𝙒𝙃𝙊  :  closed  for  @orphvc  . 𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙏  :  event  001  —  in  celebration.

tires  squeal  a  little  as  tate  slides  into  the  parking  spot.  it's  a  perfect,  almost  too  perfect  squeeze,  the  blue  drop  top  glistening  between  two  beat-up  cars.  he  can  practically  feel  the  other  car  slowing  down  behind  him—  they  were  in  a  race  to  the  lot  whether  the  other  driver  knew  it  or  not  —bright  grin  on  his  face  as  he  slings  his  door  open  with  all  the  confidence  of  someone  who  knows  they've  just  won  a  small,  petty  battle.  "better  luck  next  time,"  he  calls  out,  though  the  teasing  is  affectionate  as  he  recognizes  clementine's  ride,  smile  still  stupidly  plastered  across  his  face.  tate  leans  against  his  car,  arms  crossed  as  he  waits  for  her  to  drop  her  car  off  elsewhere.

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love elizabeth s.

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cats know their owner’s mood has shifted. one moment, a cheerful whistle chases the otherworldly voice of stevie nicks while she sets everything up ( untrustworthy stool and rusty kitchen scissors — that’s the grand arrangement ). the next, she’s a tornado of gentle destruction: tips of blades angrily dancing on the wood, splinters flying, cigarette bobbing with each grumbled curse. every " son of a – " and pretend hex in existence and nonexistence spilling out like water, pooling at her feet. it’s completely irrational, ridiculous, this drip, this anger … all-consuming, too — colors her vision with splatters of red, flames kept at bay by the tail brushes her companions provide. clementine, though lazy and peculiar, isn’t stupid. obsession, in her eyes, is a gift. a way to perceive things… slight changes, small details. case in point: ozzy has been acting differently lately. jumpy when she’s around … as if he’s suddenly decided to join the folks who find her scary ( not that that ever kept her away from those people — big, bad wolf doesn’t get boundaries ). he's been flinching when she appears over his shoulder instead of laughing, ditching their plans, taking slow steps back. disappearing. tonight is just another depressing example — and abandonment, even if only perceived, is something she doesn’t handle with much grace or tranquility. clearly. her ears barely catch the timid knocks, easily lost between the irritated stabs, mutters, and music. " better not be him… makehimfuckin'regretit. " translation: better be him. don’t really know what i’ll do if it is, if it isn't. pariah pulls on the jammed thing, slams her fists, hard. when you live at the trailer park, everything has a trick to it, a secret. the door finally gives, and there he is — the sight of his smile hitting her like a brick. he’s hours late… and he’s smiling, calling her tangerine. in return, she snarls. " this the face of someone who’s been sleepin’, man ? " sharp object still in hand, she gestures to her dark circles, frizzy hair, frumpy clothes, general vampire air. proves nothing though — that’s how she usually looks. on a good day. " knew y’were s’posed t’be here… knew, but didn’t do. that’s a sweet fuckin’ story. " she glances down at the sugary peace offering, tilts her head in confusion, looks up again. " y’tryin’ t’buy me off orrrrr — ? "

who : @orphvc where : trailer park when : 1am , two nights after the party !!

clem's always late for everything , right ?? by that logic , she won't care that he's late for the haircut they agreed on being carried out at eleven p.m — two hours earlier . at least , he thinks she won't mind ... scratch that ( no pun intended ) — hopes she won't . no matter what her reaction is destined to be , he hopes he can make it up to her , armed with a six pack of beers and some candy with plenty of red forty in it . he won't tell her the reason for his tardiness — that it's all interlinked with how he's been putting off this haircut for ages after she smoothed her fingers over his scalp last time as if she were transmitting some sort of soft , gentle energy to him and making him feel all mushy inside . how that feeling confused him , and how it came around a lot whenever clementine was close . when she finally opens the door , he holds up his prized loot like an excited child showing off his best catch at his very first fishing trip , smiling a crooked grin at her at first , which fades quickly when he sees the disappointed look on her face . " hey ... oh , shit . were you sleeping ?? i'm sorry , tangerine . i know i was s'posed to be here earlier . i can leave , if you want ... i figured you'd still be awake , that's all . "

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Charmed – 2.03: The Painted World