Holy fuuck you can't say fuuck anymore. There goes my vocabulary. (I'm just kidding but still. People are way too sensitive. They're just words. I'd italicize words if I could. See? Polyvore is spending time censoring harmless little things instead of making improvements. Ugh ugh ugh.)
Indignant Sigrid hair flip (http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m62kbc0zzp1qgvdcto1_500.gif)
Sigrid has (somewhat? temporarily) replaced Terese as Lumen's model, because I ran out of pictures I could colour scheme. Also I noticed everytime I go into Lumen mode I start typing British. Huh.
Yee so this set turned out so so so fab I love it actually.Let's pray for no shift (instead of useless censorship Polyvore could STOP SHIFT).
All the little details make the set, and there are so many hints to the story's plot if that's your kind of thing. I'm waiting to see jolieenrose's story because we're kind-of collaborating? I don't know. But I have to work something in and so I have a little bit story to write. IE it will be uploaded by Saturday.
So hold yer horsies.
labellabeautyxo & henna-enjoys-the-little-things HEY I MADE YOU A KIND OF REALLY DUMB PRESENT
Thank you for dealing with me, it's so not easy
♡ × ∞
[Wednesday, November 7]: It’s almost Brielle’s wedding week. That means bachelorette party! Her maid of honor, Bellamy, is planning the most epic bachelorette party any of you will probably go to. Most girls go to Las Vegas for their bachelorette parties, but Bellamy has something else up her sleeve. She’s flying the girls in Brielle’s bridal party plus all of the Save the Date Paris girls to Amsterdam. This city is known for its social inhabitants and their crazy partying. We’ll be starting off the night with a nice and quiet dinner. The night will continue on to being a bar and club hop. The local men are known for their flirting. We can change the famous slogan to Amsterdam…”What happens in Amsterdam, stays in Amsterdam.”
As soon as my door clicks closed, we're kissing, and I wrap my legs around his waist, his hands supporting my back, one smoothly sliding down the zipper and undoing the clasp, skin touching skin. I retaliate by unknotting his bow tie, and he tosses his jacket to the ground, scooping me up and laying me on my desk as he slowly inches down the gown, his eyes glazing over with unapologetic lust at the gold and cream lingerie. He trails kisses down my stomach, onto the tops of my thighs, and I twist and arch my back under his touch, biting my lip to stay quiet.
My hand flails in my state of bliss, and I knock one my precious stacks off its designated area. "Hold on, Lu, I'll get that." He murmurs, the pressure I feel through the darkness of closed eyes leaving. The papers rustle, and then stop. There's a different sound, a crinkling like one that accompanies a letter being pulled free. His voice this time is low and growling, angry. "Lumen, what is this?" My eyes shoot open, and I sit up immediately, squinting. It's the silver flecked envelope I dread so. "It's from something I must have entered when I was drunk." His expression changes, it's darker somehow. "Why didn't you say anything about this?" He tries again, still angry sounding.
This I answer seriously. "It doesn't matter, we're not going anyway." This makes him almost angrier, and his eyes narrow. "Like hell we aren't." He growls. I start to protest, but he's grabbed my wrist. "Be serious, Lumen Stark. Do you even want to marry me? Am I another one of those boy toys you had in high school? Do you even love me?" His anger dissolves into sadness, the heartbreaking sort that makes me want to cry too. "I do, I do love you Brooks." I mumble, reaching out to stroke his cheek. He slaps my hand away. "Then why have you blatantly ignored marrying for three years, Lumen?" I'm dumbfounded, gaping as he throws one of the tickets at me.
"Don't you dare come to the flat tonight. And if I don't see you at the airport tomorrow, you're not going to need a wedding planner."
I wake up on the plush carpet, one leg still dangling off the bed. The muscle is pulled so taut it hurts, adding to my growing migraine. One of my hands is tangled around the curve of the silky white sheets, swathed around me like a warm cocoon, shielding me from the big bad world. Lumen the chrysalis. I like that. Not quite a butterfly, but no longer a plump caterpillar. My cell phone is beeping incessantly in my other hand, and I ease into sitting with a wince. It's nearly five am. Wednesday. I've lost two days.
The click of my answering record goes off without warning, shrill and noisy, sending my aching head into another wave of pain. His voice fills the room, pleading for his Lu to talk to him about the weekend. I delete the message. The next four are the same, increasing in desire, and maybe just the slightest hint of fear. I've never done this before.
When we first came here I was the beggar, and he was the key keeper, his heart locked tight and forbidding. He was so angry. I realise with a start how angry I am. I've slept two entire days away to avoid him, his messages, this suffocating place. I feel like I could never speak to him again. I'm almost pleased by the hatred surging through my veins like a potent drug, making me high.
I climb up onto the bed, massaging my stiff limbs with wounded sighs. My suitcase, packed to the spilling point for the coming days, lies on the ground opposite me, a luggage reminder of Amsterdam. My heart leaps and soars at the thought of abandoning him, if only for three days. I should be disgusted, but after he forced that man on me, knowing full well my feelings, I can't feel pity. Even if being alone is killing me. I smile to myself, almost a reassurance, glazing in the mirror at my face pulled tight and unnatural.
There's no hope I'll fall back asleep, and instead I get back up on my stiff, wobbly legs and leave the room, drifting down to the early breakfast, breakfast of champions. A few couples are there, kissing goodbyes and exchanging forlorn looks. I scowl at their reluctance. Three days is quite simply nothing at all, no time whatsoever. I keep my head down as I take a cup of dark but weak coffee, avoiding creamer and sugar in favour of side-eyeing the others. There are only two pairs, and then a tired Bellamy licking her cracked lips as she barks into her phone and scrolls on her iPad.
The door swings open and I lift my eyes instinctively to see who is coming for me. I think I gasp audibly and recoil before setting my face into a hard mask of smirking confidence. He piles his plate with the things he loves, jam and toast, eggs with pepper and molten butter. He once told me he'd eat breakfast for every meal if he could, and that night we shared pancake syrup kisses and chocolate milk caresses. I could almost smile. He looks up, finally, and I realize I've wanted him to, so I can stare aloofly into the distance and ignore him. I do but he approaches, cautious, anyway, setting his plate opposite my coffee cup and sitting. I want to bare my teeth but doing so would do nothing for our image and now is not the time for our facade to fall.
Neither of us speak for a long time, and then I do. "What do you want?" I'm using the patented Glacial Tone and it sounds magnificent. Now is not the time for coddling. He doesn't answer so I refuse to add more and we're submerged in silence again. He's managed to stain his lip with jelly like always, but it's grape. He hates grape. "Lu, I'm so sorry, I know how you feel about your father, but Bellamy insisted-" I cut him off, leaning forward, feeling fiery and snarling in my lowest voice. "Bullshat. You're making excuses. Pathetic." He gulps. I suppose I'm terrifying right now.
"Will you break up with me?" His voice is so small and little, and a different me would have cried and fallen all over herself to reassure him. "After Amsterdam, we'll see." His face tightens and his bragging grows rapid, he's trying not to get upset. As soon as I've said it, I realize it's true. I'm not trying to hurt him, at least not like this; I genuinely want to give him his ring back and run far far away. I adore my new intensity. The way I was when he left me. “When… when do you leave for Amsterdam?” He asks this, interrupting my dreamy reverie, knowing full well that I leave within the next hour; the dining room has filled around us and the air is heavy with lover’s longing and suppressed sighs. I ignore the question, and rightfully so.
We dissolve back into the quiet like it’s our permanent starting point, the place we can’t help to return to. I fix my smirk on his stained t-shirt, one with a silly little cartoon turkey from the 10K we ran together in his hometown last Thanksgiving. I realize with a start he has mine, he’s wearing mine, the cut is too feminine to be his. It stretches on his lean limbs. Like me, pulled so tight under him. I’m having all sorts of revelations today. Behind me the perpetually sullen, not unlike me, Queen Bellamy rises, looking lost without Brielle. Almost. “It’s time for you to finish goodbyes ladies and gentlemen, our car will be arriving shortly.” Her words send off a flurry of activity, kisses and hugs and wheels on suitcases spinning in squeaky circles.
I give him one last long, heard stare and stand up, turning away, back to his face. His chair creaks slightly as he stands, clasping a hand on my shoulder tightly. I can’t shake it off without attracting attention, and I grit my teeth, my words almost hissing. “Let go.” He tilts his head towards the approaching Bellamy, and I surrender, turning around and throwing my arms around his neck, nearly choking him, and kissing him so hard he nearly falls over. I’m a good liar. Bellamy smirks as she breezes by. “It’s only three days Lumen, relax.” I roll my eyes at her back and let go. Brooks rubs his bruising neck. “Goddammit Lu, that hurt.”
I laugh before I turn to saunter away, putting extra swing into my steps, and his eyes widen slightly in something like horror. I suppose my laughter is far too cruel. “You deserve my worse, my love.”
“This is Amsterdam?” One of the girls is perplexed by the distinct lack of stoners and drunks, and I roll my eyes, not bothering to bite my tongue and snapping back. A fire’s been burning my body, consuming my insides, since the beginning of dinner, which I have already decided to refer to as ‘Lumen in the Sea of Idiots Part One’. “Don’t be idiotic, the bad people come out at night.” She recoils, and someone else takes interest. “Have you been here before, Lumen?” I nod. “Catalogue trip.” The girl smiles back, I think she’s in Brielle’s bridal party. She looks dense. “Did you hit any of the famed districts?” I scoff, sliding my hands off my lap so they touch the cool leather seat of the limo. “It was a goddamned business study, of course not.” Someone I recognize, the doctor, Seraphina, shares a smirk of solidarity with me.
Bellamy finishes pouring the bottle of champagne into flutes, handing each of us a single glass, cool and shiny glass, foggy with cold. I down mine immediately, delicately, the way I was taught at my first gala. The bubbles tickle like always, and a pleasant chill washes over me. I’m a particularly good drinker and it stays, I’m not tipsy or drunk, not giggly or stupid, just… Champagne-happy. I could almost forget this morning.
The limo comes to a lurching stop and Sutton, looking as ridiculous as I could imagine, perfectly suited for this city and standing out in the sea of tight black cocktail gowns, pitches into my lap with a slight giggle. I have my suspicions and I make note to find her later. The club is not unique, pulsating lights and grinding on the dance floor and tables upon tables stocked to the brim with giggling drunkards. Some of the more naïve girls look terrified.
I advance for the bar, mentally prepared to destroy myself tonight; after all, I have an excuse. There’s a weak selection of liquors and I order a series of ten shots, alternating liquor and wine sips, and the bartended smiled, speaking something Dutch I can follow, barely, thanking whatever higher being for the Museum’s grim dedication to slowly dying languages. “Are these for your party?” I shake my head in the universal symbol for no. He lifts his eyebrows slightly, but isn’t surprised, eyeing me carefully as I tilt back four, coughing once from the hideous taste. No matter how long I drink I will never be used to the cough syrup tasted of expensively labeled but rather cheap vodka.
I sway slightly on the bar stool, leaving the six with a smile and promise to be back. The buzz, light and pleasant feeling, had set in, and I felt giddy, desperate to finish the remaining and forget my name and where I came from. I usually take copious amounts of alcohol to do so. I feel in my waistband for the pack of clove cigarettes I bought in the airport, and sashay out to the curb, sitting on the edge and lighting up. The sullen Doctor Seraphina walks out of the club, and I turn to look at her. She stares back. I remember twenty minutes ago we were dancing. “Smoking isn’t good for you, you should really stop. It’ll kill you.” She has the authoritative voice all doctors have.
“Other people smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.”
I stumble into the bathroom, a quite simply put disgusting place filled with the haze of marijuana smoke, and I remember the way Sutton was earlier, a sober thought in my ditzy ones. I push back out without bothering to look, really look at myself, a depressed drunk with a complete inability to act human. Sutton is standing on the edge of the dance floor, swaying, an unlit white joint between her brightly-coloured lips. I touch a hand to her shoulder, miraculously sobering instantly for the second time tonight.
“Can you hook me up, love?” I coo. She widens her already huge eyes and grins, taking my hand, albeit cautiously. “Let’s go outside, it’s much easier to smoke out there.” We slip into the courtyard and drape over the green, plush seats. Sutton leans forward, pulling a lighter and pack of similar joints from her exposed cleavage, and I make up my mind to call her Sutt the Slutt, in my head obviously. She lights the tip of the one in her lips, making it glow like fireplace coals, inhaling once and passing it to me, watching carefully. I suppose I don’t seem like the type to have ever smoked, and that’s somewhat true. Drugs are poison to my system.
I breathe in, closing my eyes and letting the fat wadded joint dangle hap hazardously as the smoke rolls around in my lungs. I let it go in a stream, still not quite used to the opaque, bubble smoke the cannabis makes. Sutt the slutt watches approvingly. “You would think you’ve done this before.” I nod, closing my eyes again and letting out another blow to breathe. “Not this, but cloves.” She nods, understanding, and lights her own. For a while we’re draped together, inhaling and exhaling and the world spinning and a haze of smoke descending over us. I’m infatuated, I need more. I’ll die if I don’t get more, intoxicated by madness and sadness and chemicals.
The Lumen piñata empties.
I have no time with which to finish this, so I’ll just spoil it: Lumen cheats on Brooks. She gets smashed out of her mind and makes out with a Dutch boy. Nothing more, but I consider it cheating regardless.