#obsessher

ㅤ❝ 𝐨𝐡 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞. ❞ it's a simple half scoff, matched with a quick roll of her eyes. arms left crossed as she leans against her doorframe. ❝ if you're going to blatantly lie to my face at least make it interesting. ❞ she neither invites him in, nor slams the door in his face, despite her debating to. there's something off about you, jonathan . . . i will figure out what it is. ❝ how about you tell me what this is about? 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎? ❞

empty coffee cup is discarded as she enters . . . her fifth of the day , and it isn’t even noon . anya has been avoiding sleep ever since the news broke . in all fairness , the fact that she found out over text didn’t exactly help -- though it should have been expected . their father never has been good at the whole emotion business . bell dings , and the click of heels comes to an abrupt halt as soon as she sees the table display to her right . sister’s face sits atop stacks of green , sold to feed the people’s morbid curiosity & fill the pockets of whatever publisher had picked it up .

her jaw sets , and the blonde tears her eyes away , searching instead for him . guen had mentioned joe a few times in passing -- he may not know much , but every lead is worth following . throat is cleared , and she steps forward with tired gaze and extended hand . “ joe ? i’m anya . anya beck . ”

                                ──────────────                                bare  foot  taps  against  the  hardwood  flooring  on  a  cluttered  living  room ;        courtney  no  longer  considered  this  place  to  be  home ,        no  longer  found  joy  in  the  trivial  nuisance  of  a  life  that  she’d  built  for  herself  within  the  confines  of  california’s  narrow  streets                (    the  life  that  she’d  built  for  rachel  kindsley ,    an  identity  built  for  herself  after  the  death  of  her  mother ,    but  courtney  had  been  juggling  so  many  identities  lately  that  she  struggled  to  remember  her  own    ) .                there’s  a  gentle  groan  from  her  captive  as  he  slowly  comes  to        ──────        she’d  recognize  that  face  anywhere ,        the  latest  and  greatest  of  love  quinn’s  admirers .        like  all  of  the  others ,        @obsessher​  would  never  be  good  enough  for  her  sister ;        she’d  escaped  to  europe  to  get  away  from  her  own  obsession ,        to  create  a  better  life  for  herself  as  a  new  and  improved  woman ,        but  that  bitch  candace  had  dragged  her  right  back  into  the  centre  of  it  all .

❝        𝚒  𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝  𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎  𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢  𝚝𝚘  𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍  𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 .        i’d  apologise  for  the  restraints ,        but  i’m  pretty  sure  you  should  be  the  one  apologising  for  breaking  and  entering .        ❞                                los  angeles  accent  eases  into  speech  as  though  it  had  never  left ,        silk  mask  slips  over  features  as  robe  is  draped  over  lingerie - clad  figure ;        there’s  a  lack  of  tenderness  as  she  pushes  joe  to  his  side ,        as  figure  drops  to  a  slow  crouch  beside  him .                                ❝        i  have  no  desire  to  know  what  you  intended  on  doing  to  poor  amy  with  all  that  shit  in  your  bag ,        but  i’m  certainly  glad  that  she  won’t  find  out .        ❞

ㅤ𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫, clipboard held tightly in her grasp as she takes in a deep breath in preparation. she's seen the file on this man, it's something thick, filled with horrors. is this a good place to start? a way to test the waters as a psychiatrist? another deep breath. oh, ophelia, what have you gotten yourself into? & just like that the door opens, she slowly comes to enter. brave faces, everyone. ❝ sorry for the delay, mr. goldberg. there's been quite the series of hiccups this morning . . . i hope i didn't keep you 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐? ❞

             felicity  clings  to  words  of  comfort  as  if  they  are  life  preservers  thrown  to  her ,    even  when  they’re  carelessly  tossed  in  the  general  direction  of  where  she’s  been  drowning  for  the  past  twenty  eight  years .    her  friends  seem  completely  unaware  of  her  daily  struggle .   in  truth  the  women  aren’t  quite  deserving  of  the  title  friends :    a  group  of  paper  dolls  playing  pretend  together ,   dinner  party  after  dinner  party  and  girls  night  after  girls  night .    for  all  the  time  they  spent  together ,    felicity  heavily  suspects  none  of  them  are  actually  very  fond  of  each  other .    they  had  no  more  say  in  their  friendship  than  they  did  in  their  finances :   such  is  the  fate  of  wealthy  men’s  wives .     the  weight  of  the  diamond  ring  on  her  finger  grows  heavier  &  heavier  with  every  passing  day ,    though  the  cracks  in  her  facade  are  hardly  visible  to  the  naked  eye .

             her  friendship  with  the  bookshop  clerk  had  caught  her  off  guard .   even  though  it  wasn’t  illicit  to  make  a  friend ,   deep  down  felicity  had  a  feeling  it  would  be  leading  to  something  like  this  —-  and  worse ,    that  hugo  would  be  blinded  with  rage  if  he  knew  she  was  spending  time  with  someone  he  hadn’t  introduced  her  to .    but  joe  was  sweet  &  attentive  when  she  was  around ,   and  that  alone  was  enough  to  upset  the  delicate  balance  that  upheld  her  life .   his  hand  was  placed  light  as  a  feather  over  her  own ,   his  murmured  sentiment  accompanied  by  a  look  that  seemed  to  pierce  right  through  her .   for  a  moment ,    she’s  rendered  speechless  by  the  tender  gesture ,   struck  by  the  oddly  poignant  phrasing .   poor  felicity :   with  no  defense  for  kindness ,    the  conflict  she’s  feeling  is  clear  on  delicate  features .

             ‘  at  the  end  of  the  day ,    faith  is  all  we  really  have .  ’    it’s  spoken  like  an  apology ,   her  hand  gently  freeing  itself  from  his   &  settling  instead  in  her  lap ,   two  carats  of  prison  chains  glittering  on  her  left  hand .    she  can’t  seem  to  hold  his  gaze ,    blue  eyes  ultimately  landing  on  the  floor  as  though  she’s  ashamed .   of  what ,   exactly ,    she’s  not  sure .   perhaps  it’s  because  she  knows  full  well  that   there  were  worse  situations  to  be  in  than  a  loveless ,   neglectful  marriage  —-  and  a  foolish  part  of  her  still  desperately  hopes  that  someday  the  tide  will  shift ,   &  she  and  hugo  could  be  happy  again .    as  a  child  felicity  was  always  left  last  in  hide - and - seek  because everyone  knew  she  would  wait :    now ,    like  deja  vu ,    she  sets  her  table  for  two  every  night  for  a  man  who  is  hardly  ever  home .    ‘  i’m  sorry .  ’

𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍.

𝐀𝐑𝐓.

This is actually something I’ve been building on for a while. I’ll probably release a more extensive post exploring this idea. Crane actually does enjoy art. He isn’t impressed by skill or composition, but an artist’s ability to digest and communicate certain subject matter in their work. When he left home, he took several books with collections and reprints detailing different artist’s work. That being said, he avoids galleries and installations because he, usually, finds artists insufferable. He claims most of them have a “ certain vanity more offensive than that of the wealthy or entitled. ” While he’s a passive observer of the visual medium, he’s out of touch with contemporary movements and trends.

a few examples of artists and work he finds particularly compelling are: Laurie Lipton’s Series, The Sleeper’s Reason, The Illusion of Brainwashing, Weapons of Mass Delusions, Empty, and Lockdown. He owns reprints of Francis Bacon’s various works, Peter Ondreiča’s “Man With a Mask” and Francisco De Goya’s “Black Paintings.” Ken Currie is currently one of his favorite artists.

Unsurprisingly, he gravitates towards visual representations of fear, violence, insanity, and the ego.

what is one thing you like about the way i play my character?

bloodied hands. a freshly used shovel, still teeming with dirt. the way in which he scurries his way back from the depths of the woods, looking over his shoulder with every step. it all paints a picture that she's all too furious with herself for not being able to stop.

she wasn't entirely certain of his nature from the get-go. joe appears nice enough on this surface, sane enough as a front — but her instincts have been honed over the years. he's not the typical sort of threat she fights — no, he's decidedly more human — but a threat is still a threat. it's her fault for dropping the ball on tailing him when a pack in crisis reached out, needing her assistance in argentina for the week. he couldn't cause too much trouble while she was gone, right? wrong.