the paris swing box .

[Deleted]

There is an hour in the morning reserved for balancing pure glee and terror. Glee for the life Catherine has chosen, terror as it is the life she has tried to avoid most of her young adult life. It is forty-five minutes of paralysis. As the raven haired girl grips at the king sized bed's white duvet and cocoons herself within it. A desperate moment of panic, in which she rolls to the edge of the bed (the coldest part) and rolls her knees into her chest.. as far as she can get from her partner, who is sound asleep on the opposite side. The forty-five minutes can be summed up into four parts – ten of reviewing her life, ten of reviewing the lives she could have had, ten of thinking where Harry would be without her (usually involving a dramatic event that concluded in death), another ten of thinking how she was this mother figure but not actually a mother and a final five of “God, Catherine, get over yourself.” As the tangerine light of the sun pores into their large bedroom, the paralysis subsides. The warmth of the light and the cold of the right side of the bed drives her awake. Fifteen minutes are spent being antsy. Cat shuffles back to the middle of the bed, her body still dreary and asleep.. her mind is the same, as she yearns to fall back into the darkness, nestling her head into a fluffy feather pillow. With her eyes tightly shut, she begs to fall asleep, clutching onto the blanket. In two minutes she's repositioning herself, trying to be quiet as to not disturb the slumbering giant next to her. It takes a few positions – on her back, on her stomach, to her right, to her left – before she gives up. Her face buries into Harry's shoulder, her bare leg entangles in his and her arm droops across his chest. She's forcing him to be as uncomfortably awake as she is by invading his warm body with her cold one. The clock on the wall reads 7:17, the twins would be waking up soon.. if not already awaken, they were probably chattering in each others beds. “Harry?” her voice is soft, surprisingly girly, her long fingers pet his warm skin. “Harry..” she hears the whisper of a groan and she smiles, deciding to become increasingly annoying. “Morning, baby!” she clenches his skin, not soft but not too rough. Her lips press into his neck, letting her messy mop tickle him as it drops. Cat takes on the challenge, rolling her weight onto his, stretching her body vertically. “Are you awake?” she questions, a sneaky grin tugging at her lips and she gives him a peck. Notes: anna is so hard to find pics for, i'll probs change the image. edit: i changed the image. Listening: my brother's dumb band.

[Deleted]

Born of the relative poverty that comes from being one of no less than seven children, the only luxury Harry is truly accustomed to comes in the form of duck down duvets. A childhood comfort, he can't sleep anywhere without them - even in the heat of New York summers, the boy will always be found buried deep in that feathery bliss, air con whacked up high enough to stop him from running a fever. A natural insomniac, it's one of the small factors that can contribute to a good nights sleep, and as such is invaluable. Never had this been so true as it had been lately, when more nights than not he would be disturbed by a little person clambering into bed with him in the small hours of the night, breathless little voice whispering of monsters and ghouls. Truth be told, it was in those moments that he started to most regret the great undertaking that was parenthood. But he was adapting to this new life. Though the disruption never failed to irritate, he was becoming a master of navigating life chronically tired, usually fidgety with exhaustion, pushed into a state of near-hysteria by the constant depravation of that most basic human need. So it was not with great pleasure that he took to being woken up from one of his rare peaceful nights. A vehemence for life itself strikes him as he's stirred from slumber, a flash of pure hatred for the cycle of life and death that meant another day with another morning and another solid fifteen hours before he could be back in bed, a fate that seemed in that moment more cruel than death. A groan emits from the depths of smoke-damaged lungs, and he's hoping his conveys his deep existential malaise to his wife. It doesn't seem to, since she continues to press against him, her girlish voice sounding borderline Satanic in his desperation to sleep. But her body pressing against him reminds him that there are other things to live for, her skin soft and smooth... he grins as she pecks him, raising a tired hand with the weariness of a Romantic poet, letting his fingers sink into the dark mass of her hair. "You have no idea how tempted I just was to stick my tongue down your throat," he says, knowing her phobia of morning breath. Sleepiness ebbing away, the lack of commotion from the girls' room makes his mind wander to how best they can use this blissful moment of quiet, and he pulls her in for another brief kiss. "Morning Mrs. Rutherford," he mumbles, starting to lay soft little kisses down her jawline and neck. "Think we have time to fulfill our marital duties before Dumb and Dumber decide it's time to watch Frozen again?" It's a hypothetical question, with his hand inching down her side, his lips still dotting kisses onto her neck... when there's a screech from the other room, a familiar voice echoing through the wall. "India it's my turn! Stop it! Daaaaaad!"  Falling onto his back, Harry runs a hand down his face. He's a picture of despair. "There is no God." Notes: i stole ur code and can't write. sry. Listening: weezer.

[Deleted]

A successful grin lights up her features, her cheeks embossed with pillow creases and her under-eye is veiled ashen. Their apartment rings silent, the echos of nothing hitting off the walls and pounding her ears. Catherine's presses her hand into his, her silky artist fingers colliding with his lean calloused ones. She crinkles her nose at his threat, lifting a limb to knee him gently. “Morning,” her sofa lips linger on his, “it's quiet.” She withers in his touch, his warm lips against her cold neck sending a stream of shivers down her vertebrae, her head dishes deeper into the pillow. Her fingernails run softly down his torso, writing ligatures into his ghostly skin. It is a high pitched scream which shuttles them both back into reality. Her cerulean eyes watch grief fill Harry's face, his body slipping from her light grip. She sighs, a bit less dramatically. This was the life she now assumed, the life she adopted. A guardian of two girls – lovely girls. Step-mother extraordinaire, Queen of school lunches, Catherine Rutherford. There's a part of her that wants to lock the door and let the two of them tear away at each other while she and her new husband enjoy some well deserved time together. But instead she composes herself, and transforms into Lady Catherine. Balancing Harry's despair with lightheartedness. She smiles through it, turning to watch as Harry runs his hands over his face, her own lips drooping in a mock pout. ”Oh, baby,” she cries, lifting herself to give him a long kiss, her left hand caressing his modelesque jaw. ”I'll get them,” she glides her figure over his, ”we'll finish off later... call Sienna, she'd love it.” The hardwood is cold on the balls of her feet, and the panels cry as she walks to a pile of clothes on the floor. Cat throws one of Harry's massive sweaters over her mismatched underwear and pulls a pair of spandex short shorts through her legs. Grabbing her mass of noir hair and tugging it out of the sweater she turns to Harry and raises her eyebrows, ”wish me luck.” As she gets closer to the door that peaceful silence comes to its demise, the chittering of multi-accented voices booms softly. ”Morning... who wants waffles and hot chocolate?” Notes: i apologize for this quality. but they are still my otp Listening: the new basement tapes