.Carey Mulligan as Jean Berkey and Oscar Isaac as Llewyn Davis in “Inside Llewyn Davis” written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen
"Only if you eat out my fish taco."
Shameless Doom Generation reference right there. Sixteen going on seventeen, he still wants to be Amy Blue. Lolita is overrated anyways. He lifts his hand, only his index and middle fingers up to form a split V, so that he can stick his tongue through the void in between. Even with just air molecules, his tongue can do obscene things. The boy breaks out laughing before he falls back on the hood of the car. With melodramatic flair, he flicks his wrist and returns the cigarette between his lips.
He thinks that he might have just found the Stella to his Smith, the Wendy to his Neil, but he’s not going to get his hopes up. Once, he had Estelle, but ever since she discovered how much of a junkie whore Lionheart is, how he’s really taken to heart who Neil McCormick was, the girl has been drifting from him. She broke down after seeing Lionheart’s arms before he could shoot up with Glamor to conceal the track marks. When Estelle said she was going to tell his mother, Lionheart threatened her. (Shove against the wall, grip her throat, and lift her off the ground—) And that…that scares him. How far he would go with someone he loves just to hold onto the freedom of being in control of his own life? He is a rent boy, a junkie, and no one will take that from him. Lionheart knows that sooner or later, he will have to burn the bridge between Estelle and himself. It’s only for the best anyways. She’s too good for him, but at the same time, she makes him weak. Vulnerability is unacceptable for him.
Spirit, on the other hand, always knew what Lionheart did, what he was. From what he can tell, she doesn’t give a fuck. They met when he was on shift, and seeking out another Daddy to score some cash from. Ever since their first encounter, Lionheart did not forget the girl. That’s something, because honestly, girls are boring to him. They’re only fun to play with when he’s turning their boyfriends from straight to not-so-straight, showing them that he could wear their clothes better, and just be overall more awesome in being a femme fatale slash queen bitch. But Spirit…Spirit had spitfire.Something about Spirit made Lionheart want to poke at her sides, giggling like a kid on a playground braiding her hair into tangled knots. They weren’t close enough to know the details of each other’s lives, but they had an odd kind of chemistry that instigated the most spontaneous, ridiculous adventures.
Lionheart rolls from his back onto his front. “Is it true that a kid died in this car? Heard about it once on the news.” He grins wickedly. “Is this place haunted? ‘cause that would be pretty fuckin’ rad.”
The boy sits upright, hand ruffling his already messy blonde hair. He tosses the burnt cigarette butt off to the side on the forest grounds. If the forest catches on fire, that would be awesome. “Dude, let’s go, like, do something. Yeah?” He glances over at her with a beaming smile. “It’s Halloween, man!” Hence why he’s dressed as Heather Chandler from the Heathers. He even has a red bow in his hair, and wields a croquet stick. “Sun’s only setting now. If you want, we could go to a party, buuuut I think explorin’ some off-limits, creepy, haunted place would be totes cooler.”
She rolls her eyes, sighing, and this is where the girl turns away from, or maybe towards, the boy to laugh at, or maybe with him: his crudeness, his forwardness, his dumb film references and the fact that he smells like cigarette smoke, indie-alternative trash, and Bad Life Decisions in an otherwise peaceful forest. It should go without saying that Spirit doesn’t look at Lionheart like she is the girl and he is the bad boy in this hipster movie, more like he is the irritating five-year-old brother who just ruining her science experiment, and it should also go without saying that she’s hesitant to get wild and crass and dangerous with a boy like him. We’ll say it anyways, though.
Here’s the thing: Lionheart cuts a figure that you could describe in many words: promiscuous, slutty, enticing, disconcerting, even dangerous, and these are usually not the sort of figures you would find yourself lounging about with in the forest on a rusty, abandoned car, especially when you decided somewhere around ages nine or ten that crude boys, cruel boys, crooked-quirky-edgy boys are worth jack shit. Maybe she makes exceptions for the gay ones or maybe she’s just grown weary of keeping her guard up for things she honestly can’t be assed about worrying about hurting her later; either way, here she is, elbow bumping, shoulder bumping, ankle bumping with some prepubescent-looking mess of a boytoy preforming cunnilingus on the air. She wonders why she ever stopped herself from making friends just because they might ditch her; moments like these with assholes she knows have her same emotional depth, or lack thereof, are worth a lot more than severing ties that had barely formed.
The air-pussy eating, though! She still looks mildly disgusted, but it’s all for show; it’s hard to be bothered by Lionheart’s occupation when she barely understands it, what with her ten-year-old mentality when it comes to most things sexual, so she’s only going to judge him for being an overly-promiscuous slut and embarassing himself with all of this daddy talk. Sometimes it just seems like he’s trying to make her uncomfortable, but she can get used to that, even work off of it—hence asking him to suck her dick.
"Yeah. I heard about it, too. From the dead kid." Another thing to make her feel uncomfortable (but doesn’t, or at least not as much as it should): this is the same car burnt by a sudden explosion when she was solving crime with that Batman wannabe. If the burnt exterior and charred upholstery weren’t enough to go off of, she can still hear some remnants of the boy’s sobs. What a nightmare. "It’s not actually that cool. You’re so immature.”
"—we’re not going to a party. All you’ll do is get high and fuck boys and I hate people who smell like alcohol. Let’s go flip of death and beg for some shitty horror movie to happen—only idiots willingly investigate haunted houses." She’s already sliding off of the car. "Let’s go. I’ve got somewhere in mind."
If Consequence had been in a bad mood, she might have been annoyed with the girl’s mimicry of her actions, but if anything there was faint amusement edging into her features. Analyzing the words that fled the youth’s mouth, she was genuinely thinking about it all. Her brows furrow as she speaks wonderingly from pink-stained lips, leaning back a touch on her heels to match the back-tilt of her head.
❝—- hmm, well, planned accidents are tedious,❞ she pauses carefully, ❝They’re more my twin’s game admittedly. But, I am definitely a qualified candidate for such a thing.❞
Karma would always be the far more qualified of the two when it came to people getting their dues — but that would never make it so that Consequence was ill-equipped to do things sometimes deemed his specialty. Or rather his job, so to speak. He was after all spawned of her.
[What a relief. Sassy, crime-oriented, exaggerated movements that’ll be easier to make fun of (again) if the mood strikes her (again). For now, Spirit straightens herself, hand moving to scratch lazily at the nape of her neck and eyebrows furrowing as she considers the woman’s words. The whole eyebrow thing is good at making her look attentive, invested, she thinks, however difficult it may be to care about things.]
Are you in the mafia, or like—does this have to do with you being some mysterious nonhuman entity not making any noise on my radar.
[She can’t resist: head cants to the side, body tilts back to balance on her heels. At least the imitation only lasts for a few seconds, long enough for her to smirk some wholly unnecessary smirk.] —I’m just asking. Either way, you should totally accident-assassinate the woman from the park.
( He blinks a few times almost as though rapid blinking will help him understand what was just said. He saw her mouth moving, he heard words coming out, but somewhere between his ears and his brain, the meaning was tossed around and it felt a lot like translating a foreign language. Frederick found that this happened when he did not get enough sleep or drink enough coffee to compensate for the sleep he didn’t get. The only thing that he really heard was about stabbing people and smoking cigarettes. )
None of that makes any sense to me. Could you please repeat yourself without using terms like 'stabby thing'?
( Stabby thing referred to a knife — that he knew. Perhaps he shouldn’t bother with trying to understand this female. Frederick pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger for a moment before trying to look attentive. )
[Ugly suit. Creepy beard. Smelly, fake hair. Eyes even uglier than the suit. Now that he’s made such a big deal out of being a grand, pretentious asshole, she’s more liberal about letting the criticisms fly. While they remain internal, for now, there’s no other way to interpret her gaze that harshly judgmental. It’s almost as if he’s the one who just went off on a tirade about metaphors and stabbing people, not him, and now she’s the one struggling to find coherency.]
I’d love it if you could be just a little more patronizing, thanks. Also, stabby thing was meant to be all-inclusive, because, like. It could be a knife. A piece of glass. A pointy stick. Something sharp and dangerous you found in a department store. The list goes on. I thought you could figure that out, but. Whatever.
[She, too, pinches the bridge of her nose, even going so far as to add a ‘the-Lord-is-testing-me’ inhale before continuing.] All I’m asking is if stabbing somebody without twisting the—knife—is a good enough metaphor as Augustus Waters buying cigarettes but not smoking them. You looked like you would know.
( He doesn’t need to question what she means. There are few places he could have gotten out from - most of them revolving around the canines that echo those of the very creature he was bonded to. And that - that’s just for starters. Even with time passing he hasn’t yet tracked down every change made to his body. Doesn’t think he ever will. For a moment he’s nothing but silent, in a way that could be taken as hesitation. Not that Sevo cares much. That she could figure it out from him without parted lips ( though they do part now ), or glowing yes is… impressive. Frightening on some levels. Sevo could walk away - it may be smarter, leaving this girl behind. But her eyes flash in a way that reminds him of Lapin, and he finds himself speaking before he can think it over. )
"…A year ago. Or two. Ain’t real sure how much time was spent there."
[He’s got quite the deer in headlights thing going on, now, which only accentuates his wide set eyes, and Spirit is grateful for the opportunity to look collected and controlled and Totally Normal despite her own perpetual state of dishevelment. It’s a slight advantage, but an advantage nonetheless, to be the one asking the questions about these sort of things, she’s realized, instead of being attacked by knowledge you had no idea other people were aware of.]
[For getting out so recently, he’s remarkably—well-adjusted. Spirit remembers herself a year after the laboratory: skewed grin, twitching constantly, jutting rib bones, blood crusted under her nose and on her chin, starving for something, anything substantial, barely able of coherent speech or hearing what another person had to say without bursting into laughter. He’s got a lot going for him, Sevo, if some hesitation is the worst thing about him after going through debatably-literal hell.]
That’s nice. I wish you’d scratched the days by while you were there, but that’s fine.
—how’d you get out. Is it still standing. [Harris would fucking kill her right now. Maybe that’s why she’s so open.]