wweismann-blog - Tumblr blog

wweismann-blog · 7 years ago

Text

again

(...) She smiled while Henrique offered to feed her daughter but she could not help but think in who she would like to be by her side at that moment. Someone who would make the inquisitive eyes when people see the blonde green-eyed baby girl who did not look like any of them ceased. Because the truth is that despite all the effort Giovanna had in forgetting the one who broke her in a million pieces, she wasn't able to do so. Not when she was constantly reminded of him when looking at that perfectly straight nose, that smile that could light up the world and made her day, the confidence in those eyes despite her baby girl being so young, by the soft skin that was already darker than Giovanna's. It is not easy to forget toyr ex when everything in your daughter makes you remind him. They put Gabriela back on the baby's trolley before they start to walk back to her apartment a couple hours later. At some point while the were walking in the big square close to their destination, Gabi complained and Giovanna saw herself in front of the trolley, picking up her daughter: she had 9 kilos and Gigi knew that she could not carry the baby on her arms for more than a couple blocks but her baby was tired and wanted to be cuddled and she would not deny it to her. She then came back to walk standing by Henrique when the daughter looked to their diagonal and finally delivered the word her first word. "Papa" Giovanna felt goosebumps on her spine, the impuse of turning to the direction to whatever had captured her daughter's attention being faster than the capacity of Henrique of stopping her to do it. And then she saw, a few meters away, who caused this effect on Gabriela. Destiny is truly cruel. Sending warnings is not part of its game. He was standing there, thinner than the last time she saw him, the marks of a year and a half in jail on his eyes. His beard had seen better days, she thought, the thick lips and eyebrows staring at Giovanna and the baby on her arms. It didn't take more than fifteen seconds but it felt like an eternity while she stared back at him; while he processed the pitoresque picture that a man, his woman and a baby took part. While she wanted to scream but could not move, while he wanted to ask her if what they had was real at least for a moment. Her green eyes fought not to express any emotions, his brown eyes were furious. The silent fight that left a chaotic amount of unsaid things, feelings and questions. (...) Giovanna thought she should have seen it coming. That things have been too good to be true lately. That after the tranquility, the strom was about to come. That she could not live like that forever. That one day her sandcastle would be destroyed. That one day the truth would come up. That at a point she would have to face it all. That this moment was about to come. And that was how while the first teardrops left her eyes that Gabriela saw her father for the first time. _______________________________ (Just a small piece from one of my favorite characters without any context in here - but. Swear it makes sense in their timeline - just because it has been a while since I posted anything around here, not that people actually check. Life has been complicated but I've managed to write a dramione on ff.net if you wanna check! It is called Silence and you can find it on my profile. My username there is wweismann)

#original character #fanfiction #real life #rpg #my fic #fanfic

0 notes

wweismann-blog · 7 years ago

Text

(...) Lately she hated thinking. When you are left alone with your thoughts the results are not always good. She, who had always found comfort in herself and her own ideas, was now terrified, desperate to do something to take her away from them. Earlier in the week Lara - the only person she could bare to see lately - had kept her company and Giovanna couldn't be more grateful: it was a breath of fresh air to hear someone talking about their own dreams and projects without asking for her's. Lara didn't insist, she knew that when the time would come her friend would come and talk it out. It's just a shame that Giovanna suffers in silence. (...) But yesterday there was no Lara. Waking up - maybe waking is a word too strong to describe it, maybe you can't use the word wake when you've been sleeping five discontinuous hours for the past five weeks. Maybe that's the problem, getting used to so little. Because that is what you think you deserve - and standing, deciding to clean the house today. For a second she smiled when she saw herself away from her work's routine that she had been having in order to keep those dangerous thoughts away that she could not deal with, getting straight into the house routine to fill those blank spaces where her demons would be standing. She choose the broom over the vacuum just to be able to be busy a bit longer before cleaning the surfaces of the furniture, organizing the books by alphabetical order, rearrange the boxes and change the pictures in the frames. She shouldn't have reached the frames. (...) "New starts" she thought to herself, about to change the pictures - including the one in the frame facing down, the one she knew would show their picture. That is when somehow a brown envelope fell on the recently cleaned floor and she instintively got it. She could feel she shouldn't open it, but she did. "Gi, I know that you would be waiting for an outdoor, bungee-jump or me invading the operation room. I know you'd expect me standing on my knees in front of you, this ring on hands. You should wait for it. But I can't. I wish I could, but I can't. I love you, Giovanna. And I know it ever since the first day I saw you. And that is exactly why I'm not brave enough to kneel in front of you and wait for an answer. Yes, I, Bernardo Magalhães, am afraid of something. I am absolutely terrified. Better men would ask this question in person. Better men would be this brave. I love you, Giovanna. Will you marry me? Yours, Bernardo" (...) She doesn't know if she slept that night and she never will. What she does know is that the letter and the ring started a series of thoughts and calculations and a special visit to the toilet four twenty three in the morning. After that she saw herself picking up the phone and learning how the visit regime of the facility he was incarcerated in worked, finding some relief to learn it started in a few hours. She showered, the wavy messy hair of someone who didn't had strength to bother to use a dryer and just let it dry naturally. It's only a pity that there are things that you can't wash away: the oily of the hair and the dirty can go away with a shower, but the pain persists in the dark circles under the eyes and in the opacity of the eyes, impossible to be hidden no matter how elegant the clothes were nor how much make up she'd wear. The portait of emptyness, by Bernardo Magalhães. Oil in canvas, 2017. (...) The officer eventually came, guiding her to an empty room and learning that he would be on the way. It would be good for her to have a few more extra deep breathes to calm down her heartbeat. Soon it would all be over. A couple minutes passed until the door was wide opened, her hand finally stopping playing with the ring around her right ring finger while she looked up to face the one getting in. She always faced whatever it came without hesitation. If she would be honest, she'd say that her heart shrank even though she didn't think there was room for it. She would say that she had to fight not to smile when she faced those brown eyes, the skinny body in that uniform for the prisioners, the smile she could swear appeared in his face when she saw her finger (that would suddenly disappear when she immediately took the ring off, holding on the palm of her hand with a serious face). There was no room for hathred, only sorrow. The officer made him sit in front of her across the cold metal table while she wouldn't break eye contact. Giovanna was always certain that the only person who could truly see though her serious and strong façade was Bernardo and for the first time in so many days she allowed her true self to be seen, she allowed herself to show all she was feeling. The first seconds passed in a silence that would seem to be unbearable for any spectator that did not know their story, with them, but that would speak out loud. It screamed that none of them was fine and that there was still a spark in there. But there was always self-respect. "Gi, I..." He shut up when she opened her mouth like a child who's caught doing something it shouldn't be done. She finally broke eye contact, allowing herself to look down to the ring on her hand and enjoying the moment to rearrange her thoughts. When he was arrested she thought it was due the kind of lie she could deal with. It would be a few months, maybe a couple years, but she would wait. When she learnt everything that was going on, she froze. She could eventually get over the bribe scandal (greed was one of the sins she could sympathize with), she could try to see Pedro's father death as an unwanted collateral effect and help Bernardo to obtain the forgiveness from his best friend, but she could not deal with his cheating. Not at that point. Not when all those "I love you" were not only for her. Not when he pretended to be busy to meet that other man and worse, develop feelings for him. Much less when he lied straight to her face for so long and planned what was supposed to be a proposal to brag about to their friends if he wasn't caught. "I came to make some things clear, Bernardo" the tone of her voice when talking to him usually involved some degree of fun, even when they were fighting. It used to have nuances of love and endearment, adjectives used with association to the past tense that will never be again and he knows it very well. Perhaps he also knows how much it is hurting her, how it keeps scratching the open wound that she truly does not know when it will be cured - not even if it will. Maybe he doesn't know that what hurts her more than anything is that she loves him above anything and that she knows that if he was a free man and he insisted to come back together she would give in, that her heart belongs to him and it doesn't matter in how many tine pieces he breaks her heart, she will always glue them together just to give it to him again. What she is sure is that he knows that despite all of that, all they had together, she got to the limit - and he can't blame her. He does not have this right. He lost many rights in the moment he got caught and left her to learn about everything by herself. He lost so many chances that he still didn't know he had just for not being honest with her. He lost so many rights and only God knew how many more he had lost in the years to come. That is the price this soul paid, is paying and will pay for digging it's own grave. All it's left is for it to lay down and wait that the seven feet above it are filled with dirt. "You've hurted me" her deep green eyes once again met his, the pain exposed like she could not show to anyone else. "But you will no longer deceive me" her sentences were short and her message was clear. Before all that she had been dreaming with a future for them both, not that he knew anything about it (she suspected he knew it in some extent, somehow he always knew everything even before she realized). But dreams break and burn and are left behind. Just like them. "If one day you leave this place don't look for me" inside she was dying but she was dead searious. The pain of their sudden break up was intense but she would get over. She was sure that in her soul there was not even a tiny part that would allow her to love someone like she loved him but she also knew she didn't deserve it. That no one deserved it. Maybe in another life she'd be luckier. "I want you to spend every day suffering. Every single day thinking about your mistakes. Every moment thinking that you may have played around with all of us but in the end you are the one paying for it. I want you to remember that what goes around comes around and you had it coming after all you've done - and you are paying a much lower price than you should be" she allowed herself to be resentful. Giovanna had among her abilities the capacity of knowing where it hurts the most and go straight there: many in her position would be screaming and spiting a mouthful of curses but not her, the voice in the same tone she used with her patients, the face unable to be read by whoever it was. "I want that every day the sun rises you see how useless you are, how fast you are going to be forgotten by anyone that surrounded you. I want you to remember the failure you've become. Of how much you've hurt your family with your actions and become their biggest disappointment. Of how you became just a number in the system and no one cares. Of how the Police you were once part of was the same that discovered your crimes and ended up with a life build on lies" she allowed herself to stop and appreciate how much her words were hurting him. I am sorry to say but despite what she though it was not doing her any good, her words were only coming to haunt her in the future. But that is not about the future, not when it comes to Giovanna and Bernardo. There was no future for them due to his actions and the part of her full of resent and revenge - a part of her that you don't want to know, a part that she hides underneath the surface, a part that gets only stronger with prolonged hathred, the most dangerous of all parts - had found momentarily satisfaction. She was no longer consumed by pain and sorrow but for satisfaction and it was good to feel something different after so long. It was just a pity that it would consume her slowly in the time to come. "I won't fall for your lies, Bernardo"she said more to herself than to him. Her free hand went to her bag to pick up a perfectly folded piece of paper. "I won't make a fool of myself" she said, the piece of paper on the table. "I don't love you" she concluded, putting the ring on top of the paper and sliding it to his side before standing up and turn around, leaving the room without looking back. She walked firmly till the exit door of the building, heads up and firm posture that did not match the lonely tear the office responsible for the exit saw, the only weak spot on the armor she built and was about to collapse piece by piece in the following months - not that she knew it, not at that moment. The sunlight blinds who sees the shadow of a woman leaving that place, the unexpected image of a visitor to a prisoner while she walks a few hundred meters along the walls. On the next block she allows a tired sight to come to life, the soundtrack of wail, her hand heading to her belly and the noise of the city camouflaging her whispered words. "We will be alright" ______________________ Giovanna is one of my OCs and developing her relationship with Bernardo (a friend's OC) has been one of my favorite things to do in RPG lately. Their personalities and backgrounds are so rich and their relationship is unlikely anything else I've wrote and I truly appreciate understanding them after writing every interaction. It was also the first time I do not write her story as herself telling it so it was pretty challenging aswell. Translating my words to english has also been a great exercise to understand how to work in another language (I promise this piece, fully written in Portuguese, sounds much better in the original. The choice of words are not well translated as I expected to be able to do) This is not by far their end. We already have planned their future. If you ever want to see how they look like, their photoplayers are Grazi Massafera and Cauã Reymond

#fanfiction #oc #original character #rpg #oc rpg #writing #writers

0 notes

wweismann-blog · 8 years ago

Text

cuts

TW: cutting, depression

And I cut myself

A clean and deep cut that because of its location will not be seen by anyone. It could have been done on the sin,the red liquid dropping and making its way through arms and legs, the burning sensation when it gets in the water, the blade making the unique sound when falling from the fingers to the tiles while the bathtube water becames pink and I close my eyes, assimilating the incomparable sensation of having everything that haunts my thoughts floating away through the self-inflicted wound.

But I don’t cut myself like that.

I cut myself from the inside. I dwell on each and every one of the worst moments in my life. I drink my tears and drown into my own fears. I fantasize the worst, I want to be taken away from here. The memories of a smile are soon blotted, that kiss reminds me of being abandoned. They were gone, one by one, and with them I went. I lost myself from me so many times that the big surprise is that I’m still standing here, intact - or almost. The misplaced pieces of someone who highly doubts that were once a whole, of someone who is used to pretend to be fine in order to move on.

Of someone who is so coward that cannot even put an end to it.

I have lost myself in so many smiles while looking for what I was missing. I swam in an ocean of bodies looking for the one that would dovetail like one has already done before, accepting the failures, returning the smiles. I don’t even recall when I realized that no one could fill the void left by the two biggest loses of my life - at that time I’ve had gone too far in the useless atempts of trying to do it.

And their faces appear when I close my eyes.

The first one is young, serene. Of one who left us too early telling me that I have to move on. Exempting me from the guilt that erodes me no matter how much I try to deny it. Saying that I have to let go the strings of the past while I curl up in them. The words are said over and over again in an intense whisper: live. Live the life I could not live, do what I haven’t had the chance to do. For me, for you, for us.

And I run. I run away.

Desperatly, barefoot on the unknown place, trying to get distant from what is said to me, of the words echoing in my head for so long that have convinced me that what she said was not true. I run from you, from the need of screaming on the top of my lungs to the entire word how unfair it was to not have you here and having to deal with only me, the same words that Kathrine would never let me forget.

That is when I run into his arms.

They are strong, safe. He would smile at me while making my heart break in a thousand pieces because it reminded me that I no longer have him. That I no longer will. If there was such a thing as Divine Justice, this would surely happen.

But maybe Divine Justice is reaping every spark of joy that threatens to arise in my life.

His eyes keep reading my soul. His arms are still my safe port. He is still an illusion.

I remember of our relaxing afternoons, the stupid fights, the insufficient “I love you” said because, well, we had our entire lives ahead. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have gotten envolved, I shouldn’t have dreamed about our future children (three, blond like you with the same intense eyes I learnt to read) nor signing your last name as mine. But I did.

Want to know a secret? Sometimes I still do it.

And I cut myself.

I cut myself thinking about all the what if, I cut myself thinking what I could have be living now. I cut myself everytime I see a piece of any of you two, your blond hair, your perfect smiles, whenever you tried to make me laugh. I cut myself every time I feign - and I feign all the time, you both always knew you -, I cut myself every time I think about you. I cut myself at home, on the streets, during classes. I cut myself when I smile, when I talk, when I study, when I go out. I cut myself, I cut myself, I cut myself.

And no one sees.

______

(this is a piece of a post from an original character called Wonder Weismann which was probably my favorite RPG character of all the time. I do often enjoy exploring AUs with her but there are some constants: she had a sister 2 years older than her called Lucky and they both starred in a TV show between their 12-16 years-old and then coming back from a party they got into a crash. Wonder has no memories but when she woke up in the hospital bed and leant that her sister has died. Her mom who said several times how much she liked Lucky better comes to her and says that she wish Wonder was the dead daughter and she calls her a killer - and Wonder believes it.

Their parents got divorced and she stays at the family place for an entire year only with a maid. She is, then, enrolled into a school to finish her education when her father comes back to the city, decided not to lose another daughter. Back to school she meets this russian guy, Andrej Volkov, and they fell in love.)

#wonder weismann #original character #fanfic

0 notes

wweismann-blog · 8 years ago

Text

autumn

“Autumn is the season of the year that succeeds Summer and predates Winter. It is characterized by a drop in temperature, and by the yellowing of the leaves of the trees, which indicates the passage of seasons”

She was born in a cold morning of October. If she was able to have memories from that day, she would have seen her parents’ smile when they welcomed her to this world, the curiosity of her sister radiant as the summer - a four year old back then - and the Northern Lights painting the sky of Anchorage. She would have known that that night the termometers were setted in minus four celsius, that the snow was falling and that her first outfit was orange, just like the season she shared her name with.

She would also know that her youngest child days would last only for two years, but a baby’s memory is not exactly precise and this is another story.

She could definitely remember, though, of days and days in Anchorage with average temperatures between six and minus one that would allow her to enjoy the days spent out of the house and develope her passion for ice skating while everything was going on how it should be. School passed by with no memorable event and she would focus on training and everything else related to skating. She would dedicate herself to the sport with her body and soul, spending nights and more nights (re)watching and studying jumps and international competitions, trying to put everything in practice as soon as possible - and often being successfull in it. She had a bright future, everyone knew it - just like the medals of local competitions that would slowly fill her room could prove.

She was fourteen when that happened - and of it she remembers clearly. Her room had the walls full of posters of Oksana Kazakova, Artur Dmitrev and so many other russians and soviets that made history in the sport. The collant she was weating was red with orange bolts, her make-up in a variety of shades os orange and the automatic smile shaping her lips - and there was a good reason for it. Coach Carlton had told her that she got two proposals of training in Toronto or Moscow and keep what was supposed to be a promising career out of Alaska.

It was such a pity that when she got home ready to tell everything to her parents she was told that they were dead.

”Les sanglots longs des violons de l’automne Blessent mon cœur d’une langueur monotone.¹”

Autumn stopped practicing. She had lost her parents so abruptly and violently that the mere sight of the red suit made her think of the explosion that had taken their lifes. The house in Anchorage seemed cold and the nights where she could get some sleep - only possible after she stole her parents’ pillows to have with her in her bed - always turned out to be full of nightmares in violent colors: red, yellow and orange in a profusion of fall that had once made her so happy and now would leave her miserable.

She was forced to abandon her dreams because of grief, abandon the capital because of her sister searching for a new start in a place in the middle of nowhere that even if one day she was able to get back in the rink she would never be able to do so - and she made sure to remind Summer at every single opportunity how much she hated Homer, how much she hated the house they lived in, how much she hated how Summer was trying to pretend to be their mother when she clearly was not and would never be. Autumn was fifteen when she ran away for the first time and got her first tattoo, getting back home a few days later. When she was sixteen she was threatened to be expelled from her new school.

At seventeen she dropped out three months before graduating.

She remembers clearly of that October night, her eighteenth birthday’s eve. She had spent the summer cleaning tables, moving chairs and saving enough not to ask for a dime to her older sister, having that exact moment in mind in order to get over innapropriated comments, rude words and stupidity of costumers in the dine. She remembers that she knocked on her sister’s door twice before opening it carefully without even waiting for an invitation to get in. She anounced that she was leaving that goddamned city that has never brought a single good thing to her, that freezing state that could not bring her any remnant of happiness - which, she made sure to say, has been gone when she was forced to leave behing everything she knew and had in Anchorage just because Summer decided so.

She left her e-mail. For emergencies only.

With a luggage with no more than fifteen kilos and a backpack she went south without looking back not even once. She was not needed there and she was fully aware of this fact.

”Associated with the transition from heat to cold and with the seasonal status of the crop, Autumn has dominated the popular imaginary. In Western cultures, the personification of the season occurs through beautiful, curvaceous women - associating them with the season's abundance - with adornments of fruits, vegetables and grains harvested in the Autumn.”

Colin told her that the Big Apple was the solution to her problems.

The city was big, shining, full of new beginnings and people reinventing themselves. It allowed Autumn to get back in touch with that part of her that she still liked and made her able to recover all the time she had been wasting. When she was eighteen she was walking out of the bus in New Jersey, where she could afford rent. She would take the night shifts in a random diner and would go back to ice skating during the day. Life would slowly return to her body, the amount of possibilities increasing every moment. It was hard to become a professional after not practing for so long, it was true, but it was not impossible.

‘Nothing is impossible’, Colin would say.

Colin was her biggest fan. Her gay flatmate that introduced her to a Thomas Richardson that guaranteed that with hard work she could get what she wanted. At nineteen she got back to amateur competitions, amazing all the judges. At the age of twenty, she got a sponsorship of a team, making her able to leave her job and dedicate herself entirely to the sport.

She was twenty-three when she got her invitation to join the American National Team for the World Championship. Only a few weeks before getting in the plane to Turim, she got out the team. While training, she jumped as the coreography requested but landed poorly. The result? Two injuried ligaments, one ruptured, a broken knee. She went under surgery but alter re-running all the tests, the doctors were able to provide a simgle answer: she would not be able to compete again.

“Tout suffocant et blême,

quand sonne l’heure.²”

Frustration. Celebrating her twenty fourth birthday in a hospital bed, she had spent the year in a useless physiotherapy. She knew that she was able to walk without showing any physical damage but the cold brought her pain only controlled with medicine. She saw the national coach turn his back to her as soon as he could. She saw Mao Asada got the first place in the competition. She saw Colin finding herselv HIV positive and die slowly.

Then she saw nothing.

No, not nothing - fate would be too nice if it hidden everything from her. She saw death take Colin in less than an year, pneumonia. She saw herself being evicted due to lack of payment. She saw her skin being pierced so the paint could fill the void of her soul - and it would not, not for a long time. She moved to Brooklyn where she would share an apartment with four models from somewhere in Eastern Europe that introduced her to their agency and the possibility of making some money. She was tall enough, thin enough and young enough to get jobs that would pay enough.

Too bad that she was also desperate enough to submit herself to certain things.

”In poetry, Autumn is recurrently associated with melancholy: the possibility of Summer is gone and the coldness of Winter begins to appear. The heavens turn gray and people turn inward, both physically and psychologically”

Jerry Allen was his name. He was a good photographer that would repeat several times how Autumn was beautiful and how she would become his muse. She was twenty five, he was thirty eight. They fell in love. She saw herself leaving the apartment she shared with the slavic girls and heading to a beautiful place in East Village. She left behind photos, memories and the recently found profession that were now nothing but papers in a box. She was happy, she was loved. She would stay at home, cleaning it, preparing dinners, pouring smiles.

And after all she had nothing to complain about - it was her fault if there was dust above the table or dish on the sink. All Jerry did was only to disciplin her and he would not have to do so if she did not make mistakes. If she did not talk too much. If she did not looked too much for one of his guests. If she did not dressed like a fucking whore. If she did not keep in touch with those models that would sleep her way to a job.

It was not Jerry’s fault if she really needed slaps, punches and kicks to learn what was really right. The fault would be hers only, of not being able to meet the expectations, to keep the house clean, to please the one she loved. The fault was and would always be Autumn’s, with her skin tainted with permanent marks made in her youth, her skin showing trying to seduce other man and cheat on the only one that loved her and gave her a home.

This happened for two years.

”Je me souviens des jours anciens et je pleure³”

The upstairs neighbour was the one who took her away.

The old lady found her in the hallway in a November afternoon. She asked her where Autumn came from, she saw the purple bruises on her skin. She paid for a one way ticket to Anchorage, leaving from JFK in five hours with a connection in Seattle.

She tried to made Autumn go to a safe place, far from there, far from everything. She insisted that she would go to the police and report her boyfriend and heard from the girl that she had no reason to do so - at least not just because he was not guilty and only did that to her own good. The lady got a luggage with things necessary for a few days, gave her three hundred dollars in cash and took her to the airport herself.

She left her mobile back, a goodbye on a paper above the kitchen table and sent an email to her sister before heading back to Alaska. She hasn’t been happy there - she hate Homer with all her strenght - but now at twenty seven she believed that if her sister has gone there after the death of their parents, there should be a reason. There should be some wisdom on doing so, she would hold into the possibility of, onde againm have a new beginning.

In the night she got to the city, the snow was falling. You could also see the Northern Lights.

“Et je m’en vais au vent mauvais

qui m’emporte deçà, delà,

pareil à la feuille morte*”

__________________________________________________

¹ – The long sobs of autumn violins hurt my heart in a faint monotony.

² – All suffocating and pale when the time has come

³ – I remember the old days and I cry

*- And I leave in the mean wind that takes me back and forth like a dead leaf

(another original character for a RPG. Autumn is the second of four kids all named after the season they were born, Summer being the first and Winter, the only boy, being the third - their personalities are related to the seasons they were named after, one thing that we really enjoyed playing with. the quotations regarding the fall were taking from wikipedia, the ones in french are from a poem called Chanson d’Automne by Paul Verlaine. the temperatures are in celsius because it is just easier to work with for me and US has to get over farenheit and join the rest of the world soon. the idea is to see Autumn’s life as a circle; it starts and ends in the same state, with the same weather. that was the start point of when I started to roleplay with her - unfortunately not for too long)

#original character #rpg #fanfic

0 notes

wweismann-blog · 8 years ago

Text

colors

Maybe it was not something that insane. Maybe the profusion of oranges, yellows and browns were just a vestige of the autumn that was coming. Maybe it was the red in the leaves that let nature decide their path and not the red in the lipstick, maybe it was the blue in the sky at the end of the day and not the blue of the sweater, maybe it was the green of the lawn regaining its radiance and not the green in her eyes.

It was just a conspiracy of the weather, this was clear. It was not like their eyes crossed path or if the smiles to herr friends were something out of ordinary. It was not like the sound of her laughter was svelted in his memory nor if he was able to recognize her anywhere from afar. It was not like they were each in their group of friends observing eachother. It was not like if their bodies were dragged to eachother’s - it is not like they arriving at the same time, walking almost side by side together by the hall nor sitting close to eachother without exchanging a single word was planned.

It were the colors of the season, the green getting more intense in her eyes and capturing his attention, the brown moving with the cold breeze, the blue coming in the sea of grey. It was just the appreciation of the autumn, he was pretty sure of that.

It was not like the brown spread on the pillow made he feel something. It was not like if he felt lucky when the red was blurried on her lips. It was not like when the blue was on his bedroom floor he was too busy with his hands touching every inch of her exposed skin. It was not like he felt special when the green stared into his eyes before disappearing in a high moan. It was not like he laughed when the white of her teeth did so, it was not like if he got amazed discovering the colors every night.

Maybe it was the complicated feelings of dealing with being apart during the day while she would moan in his ears at night, maybe it was the gravity that made a body orbitates around another. Maybe it was how she had wear her sweater from inside out by mistake that morning, maybe it was the discovery that the green was accompanied by hints of brown and blue, maybe it was his newcoming habit of looking the colors in the city in order to compare with the ones he could find in his bedroom.

It was not like if he was falling in love.

#fanfiction #original character #autumn #love

1 note · View note

wweismann-blog · 8 years ago

Text

love

You don’t love, you just like the idea of loving. You like tot hink that your heart beats faster or even skips a beat, you like feeling the heavy breathe and imagine the butterflies in your stomach, like to think that you are feeling the tension before meeting the one who allegedly has your affection. You like to collect smiles and taste the lips, of exchange compliments while flirting and touching casually, how the bodies fit perfectly on eachother and to hear the whispers. But you don’t love. You don’t see beyond your own wishes and cravings, you don’t stop projecting what you want to happen and how you want it. You create such a detailed script that anything that does not go exactly how you want it already loses it’s charm, it’s fun. You say you are madly in love but waste no time to just get your sanity back and leave with no warning. You say you live with such an intensity, that you want to seize the moment, but you look for every drop of affection from someone else to hold on to with all your strenght because you cannot guarantee this kind of afection for yourself. You throw yourself with all you have in so many arms while you don’t allow yourself to have someone in yours. You don’t love - you need. You need to guarantee that everything is fine, to prove - to yourself - that you have the control of the situation and that everything is going on exactly like it should be. You need because deep down inside when you look to yourself you see emptiness.

And you cannot fill it.

0 notes

wweismann-blog · 8 years ago

Text

liberty

(this is an old character I had while playing RPG on a forum when I was like 16-17 that I found here and decided to translate to english and share. there are several quotations, some from music, some from serial killers, aswell as references in the text. the mentions to god in italic are in a fanfic sirius/hermione that i’ve read a long time ago and it was written in portuguese and I cannot find it to credit so if you know which is please tell me)

There is no happiness without tears, no life without death. Beware! I am going to make you cry. The sixth commandment - 'Thou Shalt Not Kill' - fascinated me . . . I always knew that some day I should defy it.

Liberty Beth Martin ▪ Stripper/Prostitute ▪ Occasional Killer

(Put on that red light) They start with smiles. They are old, corpulent, thirsty to obtain once again any trace of youth: they can not find it on themselves and end up looking in other people. In people like me. There is a place where we are always available to welcome whoever may afford with arms wide open. We attend to the most obscure desires, to the uncanniest fantasies. We sell our bodies, our smiles, the illusion of love (sell yout body to the night). Sixty percent goes to the house, fifty if you can bargain. Forty if they need you just like they need me. Ten if you can provide the information I can. We have our bodies bathed in cash and diamonds but my favorite payment comes in form of secrets. In between the sheets with our heads laying on a fluffy pillow while the sweat drops are running on our foreheads and the smoke of a Marlboro Red there is only a few amount of things that are not shared. There is almost no wish that is asked to become true. There is no favor that we do not provide. Specially when you have taste for blood and get a good reward.

Hey, momma, look at me! I'm on my way to the promised land.

Heaven does not belong to me, it never has. Nor kindness, affection, the future. Not in this life, not on next. I am the product of the environment I was raised on, the fruit of an unwanted relationship, what was left behind. There is no past, there is nothing to hope for. (the God you pray to, the one who loves you and protects you, is nothing but a stupid superstition) You are the master of your fate and shall not be taken by any emotions: there is only the carnal, the exchange of interests, of momentarily pleasure. And then you are only another face with no name, lost in the despised crowd. You are disposable and you are only wandering around in this planet untill they take your life. Untill they ask for your head in a silver tray. Untill they ask it to me.

The truths they have told you when you were a child, they are all lies. You are thrown into an abyss of falsehood and powerless prayers

#original character #rpg #i really love creating characters #miss playing

0 notes

wweismann-blog · 8 years ago

Text

broken

The thing is: I’m broken.

She may come to me and give me one of those smiles that could light up a whole damn country, she may hold me close and whisper words of love into my ear. She may come to me before every full moon just to be sure that I have everything under control and say goodbye with a tender kiss but this just doesn’t seem right.

She is the one, mum always says. She tells me I will never find anyone who will be just like her and – mom will confess to me in a low voice how much Ron was stupid and ended up losing her, even though I protest and says you can never lose something that was never yours in the first place – I know she is right. I know I feel those stupid butterflies in my stomach just like an unexperienced teenager whenever I see the messy hair coming into my direction and how much I wish I could stop time just to be with her – in between her arms, in between her legs – and Merlin knows how much I hate admitting it to myself.

But once again the thing is: I’m broken.

Not like an old vase someone owned and can be easily fixed with a reparo. I’m broken in so many ways that I hardly doubt I can ever be fixed. I’m old. I’m a father. I’m divorced. I almost became a werewolf. I have ugly scars. I have baggage. I am just too broken to ever bother to be repaired. But whenever I say that, she just laughs.

She says I’m not as bad as I desperatly try to convince her while serving me raw meat. She smiles and winks at me while going upstairs to call Victoire to come and have dinner with us, saying it is about time for me to give up those silly thoughts. I know she is much more than I deserve and whenever I come up with those words she just tells me to shut up and keep doing whatever I was doing. She is a war heroine but all I can think is how much better she would be without me, with someone of her age, someone ready and able to give her the perfect life she deserves, to be a husband and have two kids and a cat, someone who did not need to be fixed.

But there is one thing with her. I heard Ginny’s theory and I confess that part of me was glad with what she said: Hermione is not a girl who needs someone. She does not need to be with a person like she needs knowledge. She is an independent woman that – Merlin knows why – chose to be with me. She could throw me away at any moment but she insists in staying with me. She knows I may never put a ring around her finger but she doesn’t care: she is not someone who needs a piece of paper to prove our love. She knows I have secrets and she does not try to know them, she keeps repeating that we have all the time of the world to talk about this if we ever want to. She came into my life out of nowhere but somehow I can’t ever let her go. All I know is that I love her and she loves me.

Even if I’m broken.

#drabble #fanfic #fanfiction #hermione granger #bill weasley #harry potter

0 notes