fic: gonna leave you in the summertime (Supernatural - Lisa Braeden) - PG?
More ghost-fic. Here's some SPN character sketching, Lisa Braeden from 3.02. I don't know why I abandoned it, it looks complete to me. Oh, well.
gonna leave you in the summertime
Lisa Braeden. PG? 700 words.
So she had a type, okay? She’s not going to apologize for liking men of a certain flavor. She likes what she likes and you like what you like. You keep your neckties and polos with popped collars, okay? They get her about as wet as a skinned kitten in a party hat, and there isn’t a whole lot that’s less fun that getting fucked dry.
Anyway, just because she liked her men with bloody knuckles and the whole big-dark-and-scary thing doesn’t mean she was going out and slaughtering golden retrievers with them. She was perfectly content to be that hot little number who gave awesome head in the men’s room at Grady’s Tavern.
She’d been doing that since she was about fifteen, when spending all day cooped up in that fancy private school her parents insisted was so much better made her go a little crazy. Her friends spent high school watching 90210 and throwing rainbow parties. She spent high school going to biker bars and getting fucked in the backseat of every model GM put out the decade she was born. She was that girl from Trainspotting, okay? She knew it. She was okay with it. Could’ve been worse, you know? She could’ve been the girl from Requiem for a Dream.
When she graduated, Mom and Dad were all “Just go to college, please? Get a degree. Don’t come back here with syphilis and a bastard child.” The oh, poor little rich girl was implied. Her mother stopped going through her stuff.
She went to Brown. She spent her two years mostly feeling bad for the soft-handed Ivy League boys. Half the girls were more interested in pussy and nineteenth-century Russian literature, and she was more interested in leather jackets and scars. By the time she dropped out, she’d had three cases of gonorrhea, one of chlamydia, and the scariest month of her life when an HIV test came back positive. Even after the health center called to let her know they’d mixed up her test with somebody else’s she had a hard time getting back in the swing of things.
Her roommate sophomore year came from a hippy-dippy California family that did yoga like they drank soymilk and ate tofu. She found she was really good at it, and there wasn’t a guy on earth who didn’t appreciate a girl who could literally wrap her legs around her neck.
Her mother got sick a couple of years later and she headed back to Indianapolis around Halloween. One of her friends from high school wanted to throw the biggest New Year’s party in Indiana and wanted her to help with the planning. Franko, a guy she’d fucked a few times back before she was legal, was opening a bar down in Cumberland and he invited her to knock back a few. She got a job working in a yoga studio for eight bucks an hour. It was a pretty good deal.
And if there were a few guys, so what? They were mostly faceless, forgettable, but there were a few she liked. Randy, a big guy with dark eyes and couple of prison tattoos, who sprang for a hotel room and thought her lack of a gag reflex was the greatest thing since Jack Daniels; SK-she wasn’t sure what the letters stood for but she had a feeling they were embarrassing-with his leather jacket and big cock; and Dean, the youngest, with a little of all of the above and the smile that was ever so slightly smarmy and the fingers she would find herself still thinking about eight years later.
By January, she had to admit that maybe it was time to start a new chapter in life. She had no desire to be one of the other barflies, the sad women with crows’ feet, four kids by four different shady men, and livers that only worked half the time and so spotted they could blend in on a jungle mission.
She’d finish up her degree at IU, maybe. Stop sleeping around. Find a nice guy and settle down. Truth be told, she was tired of moving through life like a feral cat. She promised the baby she would change.
gonna leave you in the summertime
Lisa Braeden. PG? 700 words.
So she had a type, okay? She’s not going to apologize for liking men of a certain flavor. She likes what she likes and you like what you like. You keep your neckties and polos with popped collars, okay? They get her about as wet as a skinned kitten in a party hat, and there isn’t a whole lot that’s less fun that getting fucked dry.
Anyway, just because she liked her men with bloody knuckles and the whole big-dark-and-scary thing doesn’t mean she was going out and slaughtering golden retrievers with them. She was perfectly content to be that hot little number who gave awesome head in the men’s room at Grady’s Tavern.
She’d been doing that since she was about fifteen, when spending all day cooped up in that fancy private school her parents insisted was so much better made her go a little crazy. Her friends spent high school watching 90210 and throwing rainbow parties. She spent high school going to biker bars and getting fucked in the backseat of every model GM put out the decade she was born. She was that girl from Trainspotting, okay? She knew it. She was okay with it. Could’ve been worse, you know? She could’ve been the girl from Requiem for a Dream.
When she graduated, Mom and Dad were all “Just go to college, please? Get a degree. Don’t come back here with syphilis and a bastard child.” The oh, poor little rich girl was implied. Her mother stopped going through her stuff.
She went to Brown. She spent her two years mostly feeling bad for the soft-handed Ivy League boys. Half the girls were more interested in pussy and nineteenth-century Russian literature, and she was more interested in leather jackets and scars. By the time she dropped out, she’d had three cases of gonorrhea, one of chlamydia, and the scariest month of her life when an HIV test came back positive. Even after the health center called to let her know they’d mixed up her test with somebody else’s she had a hard time getting back in the swing of things.
Her roommate sophomore year came from a hippy-dippy California family that did yoga like they drank soymilk and ate tofu. She found she was really good at it, and there wasn’t a guy on earth who didn’t appreciate a girl who could literally wrap her legs around her neck.
Her mother got sick a couple of years later and she headed back to Indianapolis around Halloween. One of her friends from high school wanted to throw the biggest New Year’s party in Indiana and wanted her to help with the planning. Franko, a guy she’d fucked a few times back before she was legal, was opening a bar down in Cumberland and he invited her to knock back a few. She got a job working in a yoga studio for eight bucks an hour. It was a pretty good deal.
And if there were a few guys, so what? They were mostly faceless, forgettable, but there were a few she liked. Randy, a big guy with dark eyes and couple of prison tattoos, who sprang for a hotel room and thought her lack of a gag reflex was the greatest thing since Jack Daniels; SK-she wasn’t sure what the letters stood for but she had a feeling they were embarrassing-with his leather jacket and big cock; and Dean, the youngest, with a little of all of the above and the smile that was ever so slightly smarmy and the fingers she would find herself still thinking about eight years later.
By January, she had to admit that maybe it was time to start a new chapter in life. She had no desire to be one of the other barflies, the sad women with crows’ feet, four kids by four different shady men, and livers that only worked half the time and so spotted they could blend in on a jungle mission.
She’d finish up her degree at IU, maybe. Stop sleeping around. Find a nice guy and settle down. Truth be told, she was tired of moving through life like a feral cat. She promised the baby she would change.