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About Varied / Hobbyist Member DuchessUnknown Group :iconfrozen-bravery: FROZEN-BRAVERY
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Amella was cooking up something... edible for her visitor tonight. Brown stains covered her apron, and an unexplainable smell coming from the unknown substance she was stirring up in the pot hovered in the kitchen. Later, she stopped her movements and stared at the stew she ought to make.

She shouldn't have even tried.

Sighing, she wiped sweat off her brow with her arm. She held the pot by the two plastic handles attached to the rim and carried it, making sure that the still hot surface didn't make contact with her body. She walked to the trash bin by the door and threw it in. The wasted... whatever it was she conjured would surely smell, so she made sure that she placed the lid of the bin back on.

"Gosh, a popular homicide detective and I can't even make a proper dinner for my guest," she harshly whispered to herself as she removed her apron and mitts and cast them aside. Well, it seemed like it was pizza then.

Amella made her way to the living room where her telephone was to make a call to the nearest pizza hub. Before she could even touch the phone, a short tire screech sounded outside her flat. Sighing, she briskly walked to the front door, and when she opened it, the smiling face of none other than David Jones greeted her. She gave a lopsided one in return.

"For the life of me, I could never figure out how you can hop out of your car that fast." The fact that a renowned inspector was saying this to him was a big complement to the man, turning his smile to a grin.

"Good evening to you, too!"

Amella chuckled and stepped aside of the doorway, motioning her guest to come in. Jones stepped inside and looked around, gaze lingering on objects or familiar displays that acted as souvenirs from past investigations. Amella closed the door and beckoned her guest to sit down on the sofa, which he gladly did. He then asked the one question she deduced that would come out of his mouth once he entered her home.

"What's for dinner?"

"Pizza," she quickly said.

At this, he seemed to sigh in relief. The hostess rolled her eyes and walked towards the phone on the table against the corner of the room. She picked the phone up and dialed a number, the vibrating ring on the other side meeting her ear.

"It's brown. I'm guessing that it's more vitriolic than the last," she spoke over to Jones as she waited for the pizza boy's voice to pipe up. From where she stood, she could only see the back of the sofa and the brown, spiky head of Jones. He was leaning lazily against the backrest, his form obviously limp and relaxed. It was an odd sight, Amella thought, to see a man who knew how to wield a gun and arrested many cads in the city of Grimsborough so idle and at ease. The man of thought turned to her and slung his arm on the padded backrest to see her more easily.

"Brown? I think that might be an improvement. It's an acceptable color for stew. Greenish-purple isn't."

"If only you were there to smell it. You weren't the one near the boiling puddle." Amella placed her free arm under her chest and on it was propped the one holding the phone. She shifted her weight to one leg as she continued to wait for whomever to answer.

"Not my fault that you're the wicked witch boiling hex in your cauldron. I remember having a severe stomachache because of it," he snided playfully. Amella snorted and glared at him.

"Call me a witch one more time and I'll be sure to hex your coffee tomorrow."

That seemed to do the trick.

"Good evening, ma'm/sir. Sorry for the delay. There were some technical difficulties. What would you like to order?"
Some Dinner - Part 1
Amella tries to cook, and Jones claims that she's a witch! Oh my~

The chapter isn't as exciting as the summary makes it look. 

If you're wondering about my plans for future CC FFs then it's prolly all about Jones and Amella's adventures as normal people outside of Grims PD. Enjoy their misfits!
When someone awesome faves my artwork...

Me: Ooh, someone faved my work! *clicks name, lead to the page and sees the epic artworks*

MOOOOM!!! I'M SCARED!:scared: 
"What... what happened here?!"  Jones walked into the room, paying no heed to Amella's protests on his presence while she was only in a green sports bra. He grabbed her arm, not hearing her yelp at the strength of his grip. His eyes flickered to the small scars that were dashed along her chest, and widened in horror as they raked along the expanse of white, puckered tissue that scored from her collarbone to her abdomen. He snapped his eyes to hers, a silent question flickering on them and demanding an answer.

Amella was slightly taken aback by Jones' sheer silence. She wasn't expecting him to suddenly open the door and announce that some party will be thrown for her then see her almost naked and exposing what was to be kept a secret. She didn't plan on telling anyone the history of her scars she obtained since working in Pacific Bay. Scars are inevitable in this type of job, so if she were to be honest, she was  more overwhelmed with his reaction rather than the fact that he was seeing her shirtless. She wanted to tell him that, but after seeing the intense blue of his eyes desperate for an explanation, she just had to relent.

"Jones, let me go." He didn't budge, and Amella sighed. He had always been so stubborn. "I promise I'll tell you if you do. I need to get a shirt on." Jones cocked a brow then  his eyes fell on her exposed torso, and with the flush of realization coursing through him, he let her go. She turned around and went to her bag on the foot of the bed, missing the faint pink that emerged on Jones' cheeks.

Jones watched Amella open her bag and rummage through her clothes. He watched as the stronger and more defined muscles of her back worked, her slender arms moved about within the bag, and the rather nice curve of her bum that was emphasized at her crouch... No! Such thoughts were not welcome to his brain! Amella was his friend, for goodness' sake! Since when did he start ogling her behind?

Since bending down to such levels in investigations during her time in Grimsborough PD.


He was jolted from his thoughts and was met with an affronted look from the woman who was already in a green tunic that reached down to her hips (unfortunately covering her backside). Her arms were crossed under her chest, hip cocked to the side, and foot tapping an irritated rhythm on the floor. It seemed like he stared too long.

"Are you done looking at my butt?"


Jones couldn't remember a time when he really wanted to smack himself. He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry to even form words, and found it even more difficult with the impact of the woman's frankness. He closed it again, then attempted to try again, seeming like a fish gasping for water.

She raised an eyebrow, demanding what he found difficulty in forming at the moment.

"I-I couldn't help it! You were there in front of me, exposing your nicely shaped butt. It's hard not to look, you know?" Oh gosh.

She stared him down, face stony for one moment, then she smirked, which turned into a chuckle. "Oh, Jones, sometimes it's hard to believe that you're Grim's senior police officer."

Now it was Jones' turn to be affronted.


Amella raised her hands in the air in mock surrender. "I'm not the one looking at your butt!"

Jones suddenly looked sheepish and scratched his head. His gaze turned to the ground, and he peered up at her from his brow. "Not even once?"

Now it was Amella who got silent. She gaped at him, and he was certain that his stupidity  would clearly end their friendship. Then she looked away, her cheeks heating up.

Jones analyzed this motion, confused for a second, then upon arriving at a conclusion, his grin turned face-splitting, and he guffawed in triumph.

"You were, too! Ha! I knew that I still got it!"

Amella snapped her head back to her former-partner and cast the stoniest glare she could muster. Unfortunately, this fell unnoticed by the officer who was still enraptured with his mini-tryst. How she wished that they would talk about her scars and not about looking at each other's backside anymore! Defeated, she rolled her eyes and waited until Jones cooled down. It was fortunate that it didn't take as long as she had expected.

"You done?" she asked, rather put off with one of her deepest secrets exposed. Jones cleared his throat and nodded.

"More likely," he playfully said, the very familiar twinkle of mirth shining on his eyes. Amella didn't realize that she was staring at them and was suddenly feeling the strong tug of longing for the times back when she was just a rookie cop and when the conspiracy with Chief King was yet to happen. Jones had been so much happier back then.

"So... what really happened?"

She was riveted back to the present and saw the same compassionate face of Jones when he talked to victims' relatives. That face directed at her made her somehow vulnerable, but she quickly rubbed that insecurity off, wanting to get this conversation over with.

"Jones, I've been to so many cases. It's clear that you have , too, and probably more, considering that you're the senior officer. Is it such a wonder how I got marks from them?"

"Yes, because my scars don't look like a rabid animal scratched me." His face morphed to all seriousness. "Tell me what happened."

Amella frowned. "You sound like you're interrogating a suspect."

Jones wasn't deterred. "I do, don't I? In that case, you're bound to answer."

She sighed, frustrated at his antics. She walked to the side of her bed and sat down, the soft mattress sinking slightly at her weight. She rubbed her left arm with her right hand and stared down at her lap. "I don't want to talk about it." It came out as a whisper, a soft and broken one that held fear.

Jones was not letting this topic go. Whatever reprobate did this unforgivable thing to her deserved to be behind bars. However, when he saw Amella sitting on her bed, gaze cast down and whispering something to the air, his heart fell and realized that in this instance, she was letting herself be vulnerable to him. Thoughts suddenly flared up in his mind, questions that he was afraid to answer. In all the horrible cases that they had attempted and succeeded to exploit here in Grimsborough, did she also feel afraid? Did she hurl on the toilet bowl as she got home after seeing an open body? Did she have nightmares on blood and gore as well?

Of course she did, he voraciously thought. She was as human as he was!

Silently, he walked towards her. He slowly descended beside her at a friendly distance on the bed, and studied her. She wasn't looking up, but he could see the crumple on her glabella and the frown on her lips. He extended a hand and hovered it over her shoulders. He made no contact right away, awaiting her permission. Her body inching closer to him was what it took to make him wrap his arm around her shoulders and let it stay there, his hand creating soft circles on her arm, until he felt her relax. He didn't fail to notice how heavily she leaned against him as his ministrations continued.

The silence that came with their proximity was companionable, one that put both people at ease and reflection on the old times they spent together, the good and the bad, the best and worst, and the irrelevant snippets of memories from childhood and teenage years.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you," she said, voice soft and a bit hoarse.

"I'm sorry I forced you," he replied.

"It's fine, I think."

"You think?" he looked down at her and watched as her crown moved as she nodded. "Why just 'think'?"

He couldn't see it, but he knew that she smiled. "Reasons."

He smirked. "Always the mysterious one, huh?"

She looked up and met his smirk with an affectionate smile. "You're darn right I am."

Scars and... Derriers
Jones and his former partner-in-crime-fighting found themselves in a compromising situation. Minor angst, vague backstories and obvious ogling ahoy!

And what is this? A fanfiction? With butts in it?! What has the world gotten into?!

Amella is one of the names I made up for myself. If I jumbled my name creatively, it will turn into "Amella Pikan Gudaca." The name kinda sounds indigenous, more or less - a bonus for me. So, my inspector's name is Amella, but I do not imagine myself in her shoes. That would be just... weird. :{

I didn't mention the backstory because I've not had much experience with CC yet, which also leads me to my next point: did I get Jones right?

Llama Emoji-46 (This and That)  Enjoy! And if you don't like this, Deal With It - Rapunzel (Icon) .
Margaret was toying with the pearl necklace that she received from her friend on her birthday four days ago. The jewelry was a gold band of a fine, delicate chain that hung around her neck, the circular stone draping nicely in her front. It caught the warm light coming from the window beside the armchair she was sitting on, enticing her with its small and simple beauty even more.

"You seem to like that little gift of yours."

Margaret turned her head to the voice beside her and saw that it was Blue Bette. The nickname was a running trend among her classmates because of her obvious penchant for the color blue - a blue bonnet that adorned her crown of brown, curly locks;  a woolen, navy blue cardigan that was unbuttoned, with a tee that was of a darker shade underneath; a pair of a dark, skinny jeans that looked black, but was actually a dark cerulean when caught with light, and a pair of blue loafers that completed her look and identity. She was one of the odd sort of the class, always blurting questions out of the blue and popping up unnoticeably, like now.

"Oh, hello!" Margaret waved her free hand in greeting, and Bette tipped her head to bid her the same. Margaret returned her attention to the precious jewelry in her hand, not noticing that Bette had taken the vacant seat next to her.

"You didn't answer my question. How rude."

"Oh, what? Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied. You were saying?" If Margaret turned her head quicker without giving hasty glances at her necklace, she would have seen Bette roll her eyes.

"I said that you didn't answer my question," Bette answered lazily, propping her jaw on her hand.

Returning from her stupor, Margaret recalled the short exchange earlier, then knitted her brows in annoyance.

"If I recall correctly, you didn't even ask a question, Briette. Before anything else, good morning, and I apologize for my lack of manners a while ago. Now, do you need something?"

Briette didn't utter a word after that, and held Margaret's gaze unexpectedly instead, as if she was a new specimen being studied. Briette's gaze was focused and firm, pinning Margaret in place. She felt so awkward and overwhelmed at the unusual turn of the conversation... or whatever it was they were having. Perhaps the rumors were true that among the Odd Lot, Blue Bette was the oddest of them all.

"You're extremely fussy. It's weird."

She'll hold those rumors true, then.

"You don't say," was Margaret's brilliant reply.

Briette leaned back, looking at her incredulously , and tilted her head to the side. "And sarcastic." She leaned in again, crossing her forearms on the chair's arm, her eyes never breaking contact with hers. "You're wondering, it's not a wonder. First impressions last, and its only odd that mine of yours changed fast."

Margaret raised a brow. "Oh, so you're a poet now. Charmed," she answered nonchalantly, sarcasm dripping like venom in her voice. Whatever this girl was thinking, she no longer wanted to take any part of it.

"You're looking well." Margaret scrunched her brows together at the sporadic statement but was grateful of the complement, until Bette opened her mouth again. "There, are you happy now? I attempted to be prudish and pertinent like all the folks of the Fussy and Perfect would be. Shall I go forth and bring you a cup of tea? Or perhaps share with you some of my techniques in knitting doilies?"

Margaret did her best to control her ire. Clearly, 'Blue Bette'  must have also come from the many connotations of blue with its tacky shade and meanings.  She took a deep breath and came upon a decision to dismiss this anarchic discussion as gently as she could, leave, and avoid Bette for the rest of the school year.

Before Margaret could even utter a word, Bette beat her on it. "You sure like that gift of yours. It's no wonder. It's from your friend. Pray tell, did you like her at your first impression of her?"

Will this girl ever give a hint if she'll change the subject? It's getting on her nerves!

Margaret held the stone resting on her chest with her thumb and index fingers, and looked at its dainty appearance. A warm smile ghosted on her face, the sour demeanor of her conversant forgotten. Returning her gaze back to the waiting Bette, her ire returned. Now, her resolve on avoiding Bette solidified. Her very face agitates her without preamble.

"Well, unlike you, I did like her at first impression. She was likeable because she knew how to greet properly, how to be respectful, and how to keep herself from prying." She gave the brunette a pointed look.

Margaret's irritation heightened when Bette laughed like she heard a joke. "Wow, she must really have worked hard for that."

Her mouth gaped in fury, affronted at how Bette was ridiculing her, much more her friend. "Are you suggesting that she's -"

"A fake? A fraud? An attention-hooking loner who would eventually leave you bereft of her presence once she gets what she wants? That's a downright yes, your majesty, though the last part might just be me being presumptuous."

"If you must know," she said, relieving some of her anger by  spitting the last word, even if Propriety itself would label such gesture as impertinent, "it is downright improper and rude to claim something as offensive as that on someone that you don't know, much more forcing your insinuation on her friend!"

Despite Margaret's anger being directed at her, Bette was clearly extracting pleasure from this. It was creepy and weird that she was, if she really was, but it didn't change the fact that it angered Margaret more.

"If you must know," mimicked Bette, at which Margaret scoffed at, " I am not improper and rude to be claiming such things because I might know your little friend better than you, which leads me to my next point: I am not called 'Blue Bette' just for my likeness of blue. I also appear out of the blue." There was silence.


Bette rolled her eyes. "Fine, riddle you that. Take this for instance: a smuggler walks along the street with his loot to distribute to poor fools who'd take them, not knowing that it was illegally taken into the country. Then, suddenly, MI-5 bursts out of the blue, gun in hand and exploiting his ordeal, and the lout didn't even know that Mister Sneaky was just hiding in the shadows." She was looking expectantly at Margaret, anticipating for her understanding.

"You really are a poet, aren't you?"

Bette's face fell at this, and gave an exasperated sigh."Here, dunce, let's just say that I like staying in the alleys or in some wayward, narrow spaces, where I usually take in some unpleasant air or good stuff from people who bypass me. There, you get it? Goodness, for someone so eloquent and respected, you sure are loblolly."

Margaret puffed her cheeks at the consecutive insults. "It doesn't help that you're a blatherskite. You talk too much nonsense instead of getting straight to the point. It's no wonder why you're the oddest among your peers."

"Hey! I'm not a blatherskite!" At this, Margaret smirked triumphantly, happy that Bette got to experience the frustration she's making her go through. It seemed that annoying Bette put her in such a good mood that she'd have to credit her for her wide vocabulary. Not that she was going to let her know.

"Then what are you, if not a blabbering minx who un-tactically backstabs others in front of their friends?" she asked smugly, crossing her arms under her chest. "Enlighten me," she challenged, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lip.

Bette rose to her invitation, standing up and leveling her look. "I am Blue Bette,  the oddest among the Odd Lot, the bluest student there is in this poser-infested school, and definitely not a blatherskite. I am the most unsavory character you'll ever have the misfortune of meeting, and I work effortlessly for that in my first impressions, unlike your friend there who utilizes persnickety manners and temperament as a white plaster on her rusty attitude, and uses pathetic excuses of gifts to get you, a respected elite in this school,  by her side to make her growing fame thrive."

Margaret was speechless, and she didn't know whether it was because of surprise or fury. Before she could even return to her wits, Bette stormed off in a flash of blue out of the room.

She didn't know what to make of what just happened, but it was striking and unexpected. It was full of conviction and shadowed with the tone of righteous truth. She returned her attention to the pearl she didn't realize she had been holding during the unpleasant banter. She rolled it between her fingers, examining it with less enthusiasm as before, until she felt something rough under her index finger. Letting it settle on her palm, her eyes widened at the revealed, rusty, brown spot of the concealed, cheap copper of the pearl, its glossy, white paint scraped off and lying haphazardly against her skin.
Pearl Necklace
This was a story that I passed for the school folio. Apparently, there are some themes here that are considered as offensive, so, not bothering to hope that this will really be included, I decided to post it here. 

This is the first story where I wanted to express imagery more than descriptions. I was inspired by what my English teacher said, also of the cheap ornaments and jewelries that are plastered with some kind of shiny white paint. Merriam's Top Ten List of Uncommon insults triggered this idea to completion. Loblolly and Blatherskite. Ha! 

Here's the link to that awesome page in case you're interested.…


kksfriend1000's Profile Picture
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
Hey there!


I really don't know what to say.

As my sister watches me type this very sentence, we have just finished a heart-to-heart conversation regarding literary anxieties, specifically re-reading past works which, in our case, is quite a horrendous step to take, knowing that our works a few years prior were just. Utterly... how do you say this - ridiculous: our intolerable grammar, dim sentence construction, and pathetic attempts at making our works a teeny weeny bit better by using such unnecessarily big words.

Enough of that, and to the point now.

I - I mean - we are such wimps.

  • Mood: Anxious
  • Reading: Take From Me My Lace
  • Eating: Sky Flakes

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trendylina1994 Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2014  Student Digital Artist
thank you for the fave!!!
Eu-saama Featured By Owner Apr 17, 2014  Hobbyist
Thanks soo much for the fave Camy~! skjhdkas love you to bits
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No problem. :)
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Thank you for the favourite!
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thanks for the fav...
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Thanks for the :+fav:
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