Isabella Marie Swan ✴ "Stella" (
self_composed) wrote2012-10-01 04:08 pm
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some people are this impressive without magic, but how?
It has been six weeks since Bella sent out her applications and it is now the end of March. She has been on the soccer team since that time, winning the one game they've had against the team from the Quileute reservation, and has introduced Charlie to her flute (he's nonplussed but proud), and has been keeping straight A's in everything.
She has received four rejections (Harvard, Yale, MIT, and Princeton). The other schools are still quiet on the subject of applicant Bella Swan. Except Stanford.
Stanford thinks she is interesting, and would like to interview her in person, when would be convenient for her?
Hmm.
[Hey Alice. If anybody asks you, would you mind telling them you bought me a motorcycle?]
She can drive herself to the airport.
She has received four rejections (Harvard, Yale, MIT, and Princeton). The other schools are still quiet on the subject of applicant Bella Swan. Except Stanford.
Stanford thinks she is interesting, and would like to interview her in person, when would be convenient for her?
Hmm.
[Hey Alice. If anybody asks you, would you mind telling them you bought me a motorcycle?]
She can drive herself to the airport.
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He turns invisible and zooms up out of his lair.
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She's had a while to design it now, and what she doesn't know about motorcycle functionality she can let the magic handle. "Behold," she intones, and burns a pentagon.
It appears.
It's sleek and beetle-black and detailed in brilliant gold with patterns like thin vines twining around all its edges. If it were an inch long and strung on a chain it'd be jewelry; instead it's like a metallic animal crouched on the floor of the garage.
"Doesn't need gas," Bella brags. "Can use it in case someone's watching me though."
She wishes on another pentagon, because she wants her riding gear (pants, jacket, fingerless gloves, and a pair of short-heeled half-calf boots) to have certain properties. "Repels water, helpfully temperature-regulating whether warm or cold," she says. There's a helmet too, appearing in the same conjuration, equally shiny, although whether she'll use it or it's just for show is anyone's guess.
It's black with gold designs on it too, and it fits like a sexy, sexy glove.
"After you went and got me such a silly present I just had to go ahead and get my motorcycle license," she shrugs, petting the soft leather on her thigh.
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She tilts her head. "There might be extra requirements to drive a motorcycle at my age, actually. My birthday's not till September... I wonder if I need Charlie's permission or something. I will look into that." She strokes her bike. "But I'm keeping this regardless. I like it."
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He does not promise not to go home later and think about fucking it. Mmmmmm.
(Promising something doesn't mean the same thing to him that it does to most people. The promise, by itself, is meaningless. What he's saying, the thought behind the words, is that he acknowledges she doesn't want him to do that and therefore predicts that he won't. He isn't paying much attention to this definition at the moment, but it's still there.)
"And I am glad that you are keeping it, because it's fucking awesome and so are you."
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[I love you,] he says by brainphone, because he is laughing too hard to use out-loud words.
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A few things click in his head. Presents; beautiful things; designing for function and form.
"Hey, can I make you hot clothes?" he asks, already running through possibilities in his head. Dresses, various lengths; suits; assorted other items.
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