Vivian Duval. Journalist, workaholic. I tend to be rather quiet, so don't expect much. However, I'm not an unpleasant person, so please, feel free to speak to me. I'm always open for interesting conversation.
My story
Photographs
Facts about me.
[Occasionally NSFW because of the subject matter she studies. I will rp with any verse even though Vivian is mainly crime and serial killer centric.]
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
“What can I say? I’m the talk of the town, kiddo.” Arms wide, he spins and laughs and frolics over to a street lamp.
Only to stop at mid-rotation, dangling by one arm.
“You ain’t too bad yourself, from the looks of it.”
“So it would seem.”
Really, Vivian wasn’t one for small talk, or just talking in general unless she found topic that fully grabbed her interest, but she would always make conversation to be polite. She really was wondering what he did for a living. At his words, her lips curl into a slight smirk, and she chuckles.
“And what do you mean by that? My introduction?”
She nods empathetically, tilting her head to study the face of the other woman. Disappointment was clear in her eyes and the slight movement around the lips. “It really is. I’ve been at it for 4 years now? I still feel so inexperienced, and that everyone is still looking at me like the newbie in the field still. You never really find what you’re looking for. I hear you on that. You want certain things, But no one ever gives you a chance, because you’re a woman, you’re too young. Among many other factors that shouldn’t matter in the end.”
At this she sighs. A part of her wonders why she is sharing these things with the other woman. Perhaps it was part of the other’s charm, or the fact that someone else would know the woes of the field. All these thoughts stemmed from her frustration at not being taken seriously as a journalist when they heard her previous career choice as a model. Also the fact that she wasn’t in law enforcement. They thought she wouldn’t be able to handle interviewing serial killers. “It’s being an optimist. You think that everything you want will come true.” She averts her eyes, thinking of the past events that had shattered the old dreams, and how she had to reforge everything she had planned in the past.
“There’s always something, isn’t there?” She shrugged, her lips quirking a little. “Oh well. I’m a pretty firm believer in ‘life sucks and then you die.’ I suppose it could always be worse— we could be on the other end of things, y’know?”
There’s something therapeutic about running into another journalist. Maybe Cleo’s been away from home just a little too long, but she feels like she and this woman have something in common. Like they’ve shed blood together, or bear the same scars. God knows life as a journalist isn’t for the faint of heart. “That’s life in general. For those of us who didn’t wake up one day with superpowers and a perfect body to go with them, that is.”
“Yes. That there is.” Her lips curl into a little smile, and then she shakes her head. “I do think that those are part of life, though it’s not the only part of life. I always think of how I get to explore the parts of human nature that few so rarely see.” This is said with a slight smile, and a raised eyebrow. “And it is true. We could be on the other end of things. Personally? I am glad to be out of high school.”
At her words, she nods.”And I certainly didn’t wake up with either of those, that is for certain.” Her mind goes to the scars all over her body, wetting her lips slightly before looking back over and meeting Cleo’s eyes again. There was definitely something about this other woman that made her feel like they had gone through the same traumas, that made her want to open up and tell this woman her story. It wasn’t something she enjoyed sharing. Even when people saw and asked about the scars littering her arms and chest, along with a couple small ones on her face, she would state it simply, ‘Motorcycle accident’. Which was only part of the truth of the matter. For some reason she almost wanted to trust Cleo, to open up for once in her life. However, what would be the purpose in that? Well, really the only reason would be to open up old wounds that she knew would never fully heal.
A soft smile lights Cleo’s lips, vaguely wistful, and one finger taps lightly at her cheek just below a dark freckle. “That’s right. You’re a hell of a journalist, I’ll give you that much. Maybe it’s the romantic in me talking, but you do what every Journalism major dreamed they’d be doing after graduation. Hunting down the passions of our race, bringing them to bear on the altar of the public eye.”
For a moment, Vivian finds herself lost in Cleo’s large blue eyes, remembering how she had felt right out of college, worried about getting a job, about getting by day to day. She had been lucky in that regard. Her father had been a respected cop in New York City, which provided her a few connections until she was established, and her mother had helped Vivian financially though Vivian protested at every chance. Her lips curl into a wistful, almost tender smile, before a small blush touches her cheeks, looking abashed for a moment.
“Thank you. I’m flattered that you think so, Ms. Campbell. I had help getting started, and I still am never satisfied with my own work, but that’s how it goes. We are always our own worst critics, however. I also have the habit of being a perfectionist and a workaholic.” A slightly larger smile plays around her mouth, though it seems a bit rusty, as though she doesn’t do it all the time. “So I suppose that also contributes to me feeling like it’s never enough.”
Truth be told, Cleo has never felt satisfied with her work as a journalist. That insecurity is, perhaps, one of her most deeply hidden weaknesses. Finishing off her undergraduate degree, she was bright-eyed and green-horned, ready to go out and win herself a Pulitzer. But Earth-shattering material isn’t as easy to come by as she hoped, and ultimately, she turned to novelty out of desperation. Superheroes are a cheap ticket, but they keep her off the street.
“God, I know the feeling,” she agrees enthusiastically, letting out a sad chuckle. “Seems like when I was a kid, I thought I’d have it all down by now. I thought I’d be a master of my craft and the work and money would come pouring in, and everything I touched would turn to gold. The longer I write, the more I realize that I’m never going to be happy with where I’m at. One of the charms of the job, I guess.”
She nods empathetically, tilting her head to study the face of the other woman. Disappointment was clear in her eyes and the slight movement around the lips. “It really is. I’ve been at it for 4 years now? I still feel so inexperienced, and that everyone is still looking at me like the newbie in the field still. You never really find what you’re looking for. I hear you on that. You want certain things, But no one ever gives you a chance, because you’re a woman, you’re too young. Among many other factors that shouldn’t matter in the end.”
At this she sighs. A part of her wonders why she is sharing these things with the other woman. Perhaps it was part of the other’s charm, or the fact that someone else would know the woes of the field. All these thoughts stemmed from her frustration at not being taken seriously as a journalist when they heard her previous career choice as a model. Also the fact that she wasn’t in law enforcement. They thought she wouldn’t be able to handle interviewing serial killers. “It’s being an optimist. You think that everything you want will come true.” She averts her eyes, thinking of the past events that had shattered the old dreams, and how she had to reforge everything she had planned in the past.
(Source: ambrozia-a-a)
“Duval?” Cleo purses her lips, flipping back through her memory. “I swear I’ve seen your name. I’ll bet I’ve read one or two of your articles.”
Vivian watches her eyes as she goes back to think on how the name sounded familiar. She decides to clarify. “I write about crime, and serial killers. Investigative journalism? Serial killers are my main focus, but I work with cops on writing articles about investigations and such. That’s only once in a great while though.”
A soft smile lights Cleo’s lips, vaguely wistful, and one finger taps lightly at her cheek just below a dark freckle. “That’s right. You’re a hell of a journalist, I’ll give you that much. Maybe it’s the romantic in me talking, but you do what every Journalism major dreamed they’d be doing after graduation. Hunting down the passions of our race, bringing them to bear on the altar of the public eye.”
For a moment, Vivian finds herself lost in Cleo’s large blue eyes, remembering how she had felt right out of college, worried about getting a job, about getting by day to day. She had been lucky in that regard. Her father had been a respected cop in New York City, which provided her a few connections until she was established, and her mother had helped Vivian financially though Vivian protested at every chance. Her lips curl into a wistful, almost tender smile, before a small blush touches her cheeks, looking abashed for a moment.
“Thank you. I’m flattered that you think so, Ms. Campbell. I had help getting started, and I still am never satisfied with my own work, but that’s how it goes. We are always our own worst critics, however. I also have the habit of being a perfectionist and a workaholic.” A slightly larger smile plays around her mouth, though it seems a bit rusty, as though she doesn’t do it all the time. “So I suppose that also contributes to me feeling like it’s never enough.”
Yes’m. I’m sure it sounds a little weird, but— I run a superhero gossip column. Popular in the right circles.
“That’s how I knew you. It doesn’t sound weird at all, I assure you.” She pauses, and extends a hand in greeting. “Vivian Duval. I’m a journalist as well.”
“Duval?” Cleo purses her lips, flipping back through her memory. “I swear I’ve seen your name. I’ll bet I’ve read one or two of your articles.”
Vivian watches her eyes as she goes back to think on how the name sounded familiar. She decides to clarify. “I write about crime, and serial killers. Investigative journalism? Serial killers are my main focus, but I work with cops on writing articles about investigations and such. That’s only once in a great while though.”
…Maybe.
You’re not making it up, are you? Well… I know what you have on your mind.
Clara Bow (age, 22) in an elephant sweater, short skirt, knee-high socks & strap-on roller-skates accompanied by comedic actor Chester Conklin (age, 41) circa 1927.
ask-tony-dinozzo started following you
cleorocksyourcampbell started following you
“Hello.”
Aloha. Cleo Campbell, at your service.
Cleo Campbell. Your name sounds vaguely familiar. Are you a journalist?
Yes’m. I’m sure it sounds a little weird, but— I run a superhero gossip column. Popular in the right circles.
“That’s how I knew you. It doesn’t sound weird at all, I assure you.” She pauses, and extends a hand in greeting. “Vivian Duval. I’m a journalist as well.”
(Source: subaroosmiles)
