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inkedstarlight · 5 years ago

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Bittersweet: Chapter Five

Summary: College is kicking Nesta’s ass, so she goes to her T.A., Tomas, for some extra help. Note: Read it on AO3 here! Bittersweet Masterlist Warnings: N/A

October

It was only a couple weeks into the fall semester, and it was already hell.

Nesta was drowning in schoolwork, whether it be essays or presentations or hour-long projects. She had exams every damn week, so she was at the campus library nearly every day – typically until the sun set and the stars emerged. But even then, her night was far from over. Nesta returned home only to catch up on the work she’d put off for her paid internship. Elain got in the habit of making Nesta tea and cookies when she returned from the library on those ruthless nights. And every damn time, Nesta would wrap her arms around her sister with thanks.

This was her routine for at least four days of the week. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Needless to say, she was fucking exhausted.

The worst part, though? Nesta’s grades were precariously low despite the countless hours she’d been putting in. And she knew exactly what was causing it.

It had been a month since her father’s death, yet Nesta was still waking up in her own sweat every morning after a nightmare involving him. Of him hanging on the edge of a cliff, begging Nesta to save him. Of her dad screaming at her to kill herself. Of her mother dragging Nesta into the other room as he watches idly by.

Nesta had cursed herself for letting her father’s death affect her in this way. She’d never been one to grieve, especially not for so long. She preferred leaving it in the past. It was easier that way.

Thanks to her merciless professors, Nesta was forced to dedicate nearly all of her time to school, which forced her to neglect her internship. They required she edit ten pieces of work every week, whether it be self-published books, college publications, or online articles. Even though the internship was entirely online – a convenient bonus – she still didn’t have enough time to fulfill the weekly goals. Instead of editing ten works, she was barely scrapping by with five. She’d already received several angry emails from her boss threatening to fire her if she didn’t get her shit together.

And, well… Nesta didn’t get her shit together. On the last day of September, she received that fateful email.

Nesta Archeron,

I regret to inform you that we’ve made the difficult decision of letting you go from Scribner Editorial. While I understand you’re in the midst of earning your Master’s degree, we are looking for editors who can reach – or exceed – the necessary requirements. Unfortunately, you have been lacking in the past few weeks. It has caused other editors to pick up your slack and do more than what we ask for. We are sorry to see you go.

Sincerely,

Ressina Laurent Scribner Editorial

Nesta read and reread the email dozens of times before closing her laptop. Her head fell in her hands, her shoulders trembling with the weight she carried.

She stared out the window, the world a flurry of red, orange, and yellow. Nesta had worked so hard for this, and all for nothing. She couldn’t believe she’d fucked up such a prestigious internship. It’d paid surprisingly well, and that had been the only income she was receiving. Even with the paychecks from Scribner Editorial, Nesta’s financial situation was holding on by a thread. She had used the money her father had passed down to her to pay off the remaining student loans she owned. Her family never had much money and when it was split in three, it didn’t make much of a difference.

Just like that, Nesta no longer had a job.

Fuck.

Within ten minutes of receiving that email, she was already browsing online for job opportunities. Nesta didn’t care what it was, as long as it put steady income in her pocket. There was no way she would be able to finish school without a job.

But unfortunately, after an hour of job hunting, Nesta came up empty handed. The only person who was hiring was the large grocery store downtown. They were looking for a cashier. And there was no way in hell Nesta would even consider working there. She’d seen the crowds they got on weekends. The work were incessantly forced to talk with rude, invasive customers. Nesta was far from the realm of customer service.

Nesta was down to her last resort. She didn't give herself another second to overthink it as she picked up her phone from her desk and texted Feyre.

I was just fired. You know of any job openings in the area?

Nesta sat by her phone for a couple minutes until Feyre deigned to respond.

The only one I know if is Rita’s, the local bar. They’re looking for a bartender, have been for months.

Nesta nearly snorted out her coffee when she read the text. Feyre had to be kidding. Nesta, bartending? There was no way in hell she could be a halfway decent bartender – anyone who’s ever met Nesta knew that. She didn’t possess the charm nor the patience, and she certainly couldn’t deal with drunken men who leered at her all night. In Massachusetts, she'd had her fair share of hook-ups, men and women alike. It was night after night of mindless, drunken sex. But then she'd grown up.

Nesta looked back at the soft glow of her computer screen. There had to be something, right?

----------------------------------

Wrong.

After scrolling through hundreds of websites with job opportunities (or lack thereof), Nesta collapsed on her bed. She checked the time to find that it was nearly one in the morning. Rubbing her face, she let out a low groan. Tomorrow was Monday. Gods, why did tomorrow have to be Monday? She was so exhausted that she was feeling physically ill: sore throat, cough, stuffy nose. The urge to skip classes tomorrow was tempting.

But Nesta knew she wouldn't skip. What would she do? A whole day to herself and a head full of intrusive thoughts. The perfect ingredients for a panic attack or two.

Her gaze fell to the small stack of bills she had yet to pay – that she couldn’t pay. Bills that would only grow.

With that thought in mind, Nesta cursed Scribner Editorial as she grabbed her laptop and searched ‘Rita’s’ on an open browser.

Then, she composed an email.

----------------------------------------

The next day, Nesta finally got around to contacting her Fictional Techniques teaching assistant. It was by far her most challenging class, and she despised the professor. A big chunk of her studying was dedicated to that course alone. And since she no longer had a job – for now – she finally had the time to meet with him for extra help.

His name was Tomas. He was notoriously known as the “Hardass T.A.” Nesta had heard her peers complaining about his grading on more than one occasion. It was common knowledge that he rarely gave students any feedback on their essays but when he did, it was brutal. It was practically unheard of to receive higher than a C from Tomas.

Nesta never got below a B+, though. And though she’d never spoken with him, Tomas always gave her detailed feedback on her papers, more so than any student.

So that afternoon, she emailed him.

Tomas –

My name is Nesta Archeron and I am a student in a class you T.A. in, ENG-403 Section 003. I have a couple questions regarding the paper that was assigned on September 28th. Are you available to meet after class? It would be much appreciated.

Nesta –

Thank you for contacting me. I would love to help you one-on-one. I’ve noticed the work you hand in, and it is spectacular. Your writing is sophisticated, and you have such potential. Coming from someone who has been in the publishing business for years now, I know several companies who would publish your work. Perhaps I can mention your name the next time I meet with them. How does tomorrow work? We can walk to the library together, maybe grab a cup of coffee (on me). Let me know.

Tomas –

Thank you. That works for me. I’ll see you tomorrow.

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“Don’t forget to finish up those essays! They’re due on October sixth, and I won’t be accepting anything that’s turned in late. Yes, Mr. Vanserra, I’m looking at you.”

Students snickered as they filed out of the lecture hall. Nesta grabbed her backpack and made her way down the stairs to the front of the room. Tomas had his own desk in the corner where he chimed in during class discussions.

He was already smiling at her when she approached.

“Hi, Nesta,” he greeted her. He was in the midst of packing his things. “Are you ready to head out?” She nodded.

Tomas had the charm of the boy next door. His dirty blonde hair was cropped short, eyes crystal blue, and he wore an easy smile. It was hard to imagine that this was the guy who gave students Fs for not having a cover page for their essay.

"Did you want to grab a cup of coffee?" Tomas asked her as they made their way out of the classroom. He shot her a smirk "Like I said, I'll pay."

Is he flirting with me?

Nesta prayed to the gods he wasn't. Sure, he was cute and all, but she had no interest in a relationship of any kind. Including a one night stand.

Perhaps I can use that to my advantage...

Nesta dismissed the thought immediately. There was no way in hell she would flirt with her T.A. to ensure a high GPA. She wasn't going to sleep her way to the top. That's not how Nesta did things.

A little flirting never hurt anyone.

She groaned inwardly and shut out that train of thoughts.

Tomas and Nesta chatted while they trudged to the library, backpacks full of textbooks in tow. Much to Nesta’s dismay, he fired question after question at her. Tomas asked about her family to which she miraculously deflected, about her journey to become a writer, and her ambitions. Luckily, Nesta was a pro at this sort of thing, so she simply responded to every question with a question of her own. Not the most subtle approach, but it worked.

The library was teeming with students when they pushed through the doors. Pryth U’s library was a sight to behold. Its foyer was ornate with hand-painted murals, the ceiling stretching far above them. They hopped on the elevator to the third floor. When the doors opened, Nesta inhaled the sweet scent of old books. The bookcases reached the ceiling, thus requiring a rolling ladder in every stack. When Nesta and Elain had toured the campus before the semester began, Elain was quick to jump on the ladder and sing “Be Our Guest.” Her voice was horribly off key. They both burst into laughter, clutching their stomachs until the librarian found and scolded them.

Nesta was pretty sure Elain hadn't stepped foot in the library since.

“Okay,” Tomas said, setting his belongings on a corner desk. He grinned at her. “Ready to be tortured?”

Nesta offered a less than enthusiastic smile. “Let’s do it.”

---------------------------------

After a couple hours of grueling studying, Nesta hurried to the coffee shop on campus. It was five o’clock and she hadn’t had a cup of coffee since the morning. If she didn’t get caffeine in the next ten minutes, Nesta wouldn’t function properly.

The meeting with Tomas went well; he was certainly a helpful resource to have. He'd even offered to meet with Nesta again to prepare for the next big assignment, to which she graciously accepted. There may have been batting of the lashes involved.

Nesta pulled her wool scarf tighter around her neck. Even with a peacoat and a hat, she was still freezing. She let out a sigh of relief when she entered the coffee shop, grateful for the inviting warmth.

That gratefulness disappeared when she looked at the line.

It was at least a dozen people long. Nesta let out a frustrated groan, managing to put a tamper on her anger and hauled her ass to the back of the line.

After a couple minutes of drooling over the scent of fresh coffee beans, she felt a tap on her shoulder from behind.

“Nesta?” a sultry voice asked. The familiar husk in her words had Nesta turning around to see Amren standing behind her. She was staring up at Nesta through her long lashes, a smirk playing on her face. Nesta couldn’t help but admire her feral beauty: chin length hair, angular face, dark and smooth skin, and exquisite makeup.

“Hi, Amren,” Nesta said blandly. “I didn’t know you attended Pryth U.”

“I don’t,” she snorted. “I wouldn’t last one week in college. This is the best coffee around, and I don’t mind driving twenty minutes out of my way.”

Another coffee snob. Interesting.

“I’m impressed that you even remember my name. I thought you always zoned out during the dinners.”

Nesta huffed out a laugh, and a hint of surprise flashed on Amren’s face. It was gone a second later.

“It’s tempting whenever Rhysand opens his mouth, trust me,” Nesta replied dryly. “But I have my ways.”

Amren’s eyes lit up with amusement. “Oh, I’m going to like you.”

--------------------------------

That evening, Nesta strolled back to her apartment with a steaming cup of coffee and Amren’s phone number.

It was quiet when she unlocked the door, but the living room light was on. As Nesta dropped her heaving backpack and padded to the kitchen, she noticed Elain sprawled out on the couch, her nose buried in her phone.

“Did you eat already?” Nesta called out as she rummaged through the cabinets. She dug through a shelf for pasta, which was buried under Elain’s many baking ingredients.

When Elain didn’t answer after a couple seconds, Nesta poked her head into the living room. She was still scrolling through her phone, the faintest smile on her rosy face.

“Hello? Earth to Elain?”

Silence. Nesta groaned in frustration. Rounding the overstuffed sofa, she assaulted Elain’s feet with her hands.

Elain’s entire body jerked as Nesta tickled her, pained laughs escaping her mouth. Elain was easily the most ticklish person Nesta had ever met. It made it easy to get information out of her.

“Stop!” Elain gasped breathlessly, laughing all the same. “Please!”

Nesta ceded and raised her hands up in surrender. Elain scrambled off the couch and narrowed her eyes.

"What the hell, Nesta?”

“I was calling your name for a good five minutes,” Nesta crossed her arms. She nodded her head at Elain’s phone. “Anything interesting?”

Elain’s cheeks flushed, and Nesta gasped.

“Is it a guy?” Her voice was threatening. Nesta had always been protective over Elain.

“A guy? No! That’s… that’s just ludicrous. Why would a guy… I mean -"

Nesta let her sister stumble over her words with amusement. She raised a brow. “Show me what you were looking at then.”

“That’s none of your business!”

Nesta gave her no warning as she leaped at Elain.

Elain squealed in surprise, trying her best to deflect Nesta's tickling. They wrestled on the couch, Elain trying desperately to get her phone out of Nesta's reach. But Nesta was taller and stronger.

“Gerroffme -"

“Just gimme -"

“Argh!”

"Ha!" Nesta stood up and held Elain’s phone in her hand triumphantly. Elain was glaring at her from the couch, her hair sticking every which way.

Nesta looked down at the screen to see the Instagram app open. Then, she read the name of the account.

“You’re stalking Azriel?”

“No! I was just following him.”

All Nesta had to do was give her a stern look.

“Okay, fine," Elain threw her hands up. "I think he’s cute. Are you happy now?”

“No,” Nesta glowered, “I’m not happy. He’s basically Rhysand’s brother. I'm not letting another one of those boys seduce my sister.”

“Seduce?!" Elain choked. She shook her head. "They’re best friends! And what does it matter anyway?”

Nesta shot her a leveled stare. “Rhysand’s an asshole.”

“He’s just protective over Feyre,” Elain explained incredulously. “Like you are of me.”

Nesta considered that for a moment. “Touché. But if Azriel hurts you -"

“Nesta!” Elain exclaimed, an exasperated laugh leaving her lips. “We’ve barely talked. I just think he’s handsome.”

“Does Feyre know?”

That got Elain's attention.

“You can’t tell Feyre.” Elain broke out her puppy face: wide eyes, pouty lips, knitted brows. No one in history had been able to resist her puppy face. Including Nesta.

She huffed out a laugh. “I may be a bitch, but I’m not that cruel.”

Elain threw herself at her sister and pulled her into a hug. "Thank you!"

After promising Elain she wouldn't tell Feyre about her crush for the tenth time, Nesta retreated to her room. She was just about to pull out her notes when her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

I’m supposed to go on a date with this guy tonight, but I just met a hotter guy on my way home. Will you judge me if I ditch the first one?

Nesta looked at the phone number.

Amren.

She could help but let out a small laugh.

When in doubt, pick both.

Both?

Both.

Damn, Nesta, I didn’t realize how savage you are.

A couple moments later, another text came in.

Both is good.

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tag list (let me know if you want to be tagged):

@sjmships @sleeping-and-books @sirgwaines @books-for-sure @blowing-mikey @b00kworm @wineywitch202 @drielecarla @liquifyme @gisellefigue08 @iammissstark @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @loysydark @superspiritfestival @stardelia @sayosdreams @maastrash

#nessian #bittersweet #my writing #masterlist #nesta archeron #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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candyshua · 5 years ago

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i luv angst a lot so i’m v glad you’re doing this 😭 could i have jun + “don’t pretend to care, i know you don’t” thank you!! 💓 (feel free to litrally break my heart)

a/n: ummmm i have mixed feelings about this one. thank u so much for requesting though! anywho, enjoy!

pairing: junhui x reader (side joshua x reader)

genre: just pure angst

warnings: unrequited love, mentions of sex, the reader is just not a very good person,,,

word count: 2,297

Junhui never liked you.

Maybe his hatred for you stemmed from the first time you two met; which was through Joshua, of course.

The moment his eyes trailed to where you were, in the doorway of Joshua’s apartment, he felt something amiss in his chest.

You smiled warmly, holding up a plastic bag filled with takeout in one hand and a bottle of soju in the other. Everybody else in his apartment cheered, but Junhui merely gave you a plain look, not knowing what emotions you had just conveyed of him.

Joshua took the bags from you while he gave you a quick kiss. Your grin was of pure authenticity, something that made Junhui recoil.

He remembered the way you snuggled up against Joshua as the rest of you watched a movie. He remembered you talking to him as if he were a friend of yours for years, in spite of only knowing each other for an hour or so. He remembered the feelings of complete and utter disgust when he’d sneak looks at you.

Junhui decided to hate you that night. It was just the safest option.

The second time Junhui met you was at a cheap, hole-in-the-wall diner in the middle of the night. You wore an apron and a tired smile.

You were always smiling. Junhui hated it.

He sat down in a two-person booth by himself, eyeing the menu carefully. His diligent searching was interrupted by your chipper voice. According to Junhui, it was much too chipper for someone who worked at a shitty diner in the middle of the night.

“Hey, you’re Junhui, right?” You greeted.

“Yeah, Y/N?” You nodded enthusiastically.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Junhui was absolutely perplexed. How did you seem so happy and awake?

“Um, water would be fine.” You gave him a thumbs-up and practically skipped away. The feeling in Junhui’s heart was absolutely foreign to him, and he did not welcome it one bit. When you came back and gave him the glass of water, your hand accidentally brushed against his.

Junhui felt his entire world collapse. You weren’t affected whatsoever. Junhui didn’t even think you noticed.

After you had taken his order and walked away, Junhui was left to reflect.

He decided to hate you yet again. In fact, he needed to hate you, or else he’d have to admit he was falling for his roommate’s girlfriend.

Junhui started to lose count of how many times he had seen you. You were soon becoming an avid person in his social life, and it scared the absolute shit out of him.

He was tremendously scared of you. He was scared of the way your smile made his breath stop, he was scared of the way he felt butterflies in his tummy each time you were remotely near him, and he was scared of the fact that he was in love with you.

One night, you, Junhui, Joshua, and his friend Soonyoung were hanging out in your apartment. Once you all had realized you ran out of booze, Soonyoung and Joshua had left the two of you to go to the store.

Junhui sat on the couch, mindlessly staring at his phone. He was hyperaware of your everlasting presence. You wore a t-shirt and black shorts that night.

After further observing the shirt, Junhui realized that it was his. Joshua must’ve taken it from him, and you must’ve taken it from Joshua.

Junhui’s mind wandered for a bit. He let himself indulge in the thought of you wearing his t-shirts on a regular basis, and then he found himself being washed over with fear.

Plain and transparent fear. There was no other word to describe the way Junhui had felt when he realized that he was madly in love with you.

No, Junhui had never liked you.

(He loved you.)

“Jun,” You began out of the blue, “can I ask you something?” Junhui’s eyes widened, wondering if you could read his tainted thoughts.

“Um, sure.”

“Has Joshua ever brought another girl to your apartment?”

Wow. Junhui could hear your voice crack just a bit, and he knew that you already knew the answer.

Joshua had been quite irresponsible with you, to say the least. Junhui had kept his mouth shut about it all, even if he did feel a burning hatred for the man he lived with.

“I think you already know the answer.” Junhui murmured with nothing but shame laced in his tone. He expected you to cry, scream, or just do something reckless. Instead, you stood there silently, hugging your knees to your chest. And when Joshua came back that night, you kissed him at the door.

(Junhui’s heart ached hopelessly.)

It was 3 AM.

You seemed to not care, though, since you called Wen Junhui at the ungodly hour.

“Hello?” He croaked after he picked up the phone, clearly being awakened from his sleep.

“Jun?” You weakly asked. You sniffled, and he automatically knew you had been crying.

“Y/N? What’s up?” Worry was rooted in his tone, like weeds in a yard. He’d try so desperately to rip them out, but they’d always come back.

(He would always be worried about you.)

“Could you, um, come pick me up? Please?” You pleaded. Junhui was thoroughly confused.

“What happened?”

“Josh broke up with me, and he kind of left me at the diner. I have no way to get home…”

“On my way.”

Junhui got in his car with a racing mind and heart. His thoughts were filled with Joshua and his undeniable ability to be an asshole, and of course, you. Junhui wished he could speed through the streets and get to the diner you worked at, but alas, the city of LA was alive with traffic like always. And, of course, rain was falling from the sky in angry droplets.

Junhui moved to LA to chase his dreams of being an actor. And, at the ripe age of 25, his dream wasn’t going too great. He met Joshua through a roommate listing online, and then he got a part-time job at a high-class restaurant.

He put his dreams on hold.

But, when he finally saw you standing awkwardly on the sidewalk in the rain, a new dream was born.

(He dreamt of being yours.)

The moment you spotted Junhui’s beat-up car, you wore a smile for the first time that night. Junhui’s heart fluttered.

After you got into the car, Junhui drove away without asking a single question. Half of him didn’t want to pester you with such things.

And half of him didn’t really want to know, in fear that he might have gone home and beaten the shit out of his roommate.

“Jun,” You started, “thank you. Really–I mean it.”

After he let himself bask in your lovely words for a bit, he gave you a shy smile.

“Of course, Y/N. I’d do anything for you.”

Junhui realized what he had said much too late. His heart dropped. In a state of panic, he turned on the radio, and some romantic jazz started blasting at full volume. Junhui turned it off as soon as he could, his eyes blown wide out of fear and anticipation.

He looked anywhere but you.

You refused to look anywhere but him.

Those words were surprisingly nice coming from Junhui’s mouth.

“Where are we going?” You questioned the older man.

Junhui handed you his phone with Google Maps open, having already prepared it before you entered the car.

“Put in your address please.” He stated blankly. You nodded and let a fit of giggles subside in your throat.

Once Junhui pulled up to your apartment complex, you opened the door and waved him goodbye.

Junhui was about to drive away, but you stopped him.

“Wait!”

Junhui hit the brakes way too aggressively.

“Want to come in for some coffee?”

(Junhui should’ve just driven away.)

Ever since the night you two had slept together, Junhui’s entire world was on fire. He couldn’t bear to look Joshua in the eyes, but Joshua probably wouldn’t have even cared if he found out about what happened. Junhui led himself to that conclusion after Joshua brought home a girl two days after the breakup.

Junhui was going insane.

He avoided you like the plague. He had become a regular at the diner you worked at, but he hadn’t gone since that night.

Two weeks had passed, two painstakingly slow and miserable weeks. Time was Junhui’s enemy, but it was usually because it was much too fleeting.

Now it was much too slow. You had infested his mind like ants infested a kitchen in the summertime. He wanted to hate you, so badly.

But his feelings for you were quite, in fact, the opposite. Junhui’s feelings would have probably faded away after not seeing you due to the breakup.

He would’ve turned out fine.

Fuck, Junhui thought while studying his lines for an audition, I really should’ve just driven away.

The second time you slept together was a spur of the moment thing. You were in your apartment one night, lonely as ever. You scrolled through Instagram and then looked at one of Junhui’s posts. It was a picture of him at a concert with Joshua and Joshua’s new girlfriend.

Your heart felt as if it were ripped in two.

Before you knew it, you were going to Junhui’s contact on your phone and pressing “call”. It rang a few times, so much so that you thought the call would go to voicemail.

“Y/N?” Junhui asked, disbelief thick in his voice.

You felt a twisted sense of pride settle in you. He always picked up your calls.

“Hey Jun, you doing anything right now?”

On the other line, Junhui was on his computer, paying the bills.

“No, I’m not.” He lied.

You heard a laptop shut on the other line. You had to stifle a scoff.

“How about you come over?”

Junhui wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He absolutely refused to do so.

But he really missed you.

“Be there in fifteen minutes.”

(He arrived in ten.)

Junhui started visiting the diner again. You still worked there, as diligent and positive as ever.

You two would leave together just about every time Junhui went.

When he laid in bed beside you after you found sleep, Junhui let himself feel a sliver of hope. Maybe you loved him back…

He noticed the peaceful rise and fall of your chest, covered with bruises due to his wandering mouth. And the feelings came rushing in at such a high speed that Junhui had difficulty breathing.

That was real. It was so, undeniably real. Junhui had slept with you on numerous occasions, but you never tried to initiate anything more. Despite his lingering feelings of faith, he knew that if he ever tried to become something more to you, you would push him away.

You didn’t love him.

(You loved Joshua.)

Maybe Junhui knew he was your rebound all along. Maybe he let himself be your toy because he’d do anything for you.

But, when you came into his apartment that night, hand-in-hand with Joshua, Junhui just couldn’t contain the pain he was feeling.

He expected it, to be quite honest. That still didn’t stop it from hurting more than anything else he could have ever felt. You were a gamble, a risky and selfish gamble, and he had just lost a million dollars.

When you tried to sneak out of the apartment that night, you still couldn’t get by Junhui. He sat on the couch, mindlessly reading his phone, like he used to do around you.

“Listen, Jun–”

“Don’t say that.” Junhui hissed, nothing but pure venom in his voice.

“Jun, what are you–”

“Don’t say my name. Don’t try to explain anything either. And, don’t pretend to care, I know you don’t.”

You scoffed, your entire apologetic demeanor changing.

“You knew what you were doing.” You rebutted. Junhui’s jaw clenched, and for the first time, you were the reason for his anger. He thought of the second time he met you, when you were a happy-go-lucky waitress in a shitty diner.

He should have known it was all a facade. He should have known you.

“So did you. You knew you were just using me as some sort of fucking toy, even though you also knew I was madly in love with you.”

Despite the unstoppable storm of anger and melancholy inside of Junhui, he was eerily calm on the outside. His voice was quiet, and for once, sure of himself. The thing he was so sure of was, in fact, your love for him. Or lack thereof.

“Why would I ever even consider loving you? You’re a failed actor who–”

“Actually, I’m not a ‘failed actor’ anymore. I’ve been preparing for this one role for a while, and I got it. It’s for this new movie…”

Junhui could’ve also went into the fact that you were a fucking waitress at a shit hole of a diner, saving up for your own business, but he didn’t.

You were obviously taken aback. Junhui felt a slight twinge of pride for being the one that made you feel something, instead of it always being the other way around.

“I should go.”

Junhui wanted to stop you, for some odd reason. He couldn’t get over his paralyzing love for you through just one argument.

There was something in your eyes. Maybe it was a glint of regret. Maybe you wanted Junhui to tell you to stay.

“Yeah, you should.” Was what he said instead.

(So you left, and Junhui let you. Junhui would look back on it years later with nothing but criticism for himself. You were such a mistake.)

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ofcatalysis · 5 years ago

Text

^^^ we’re vibing, we really out here vibing. hi everyone ! my name is reed, i’m 19 years old, chillin’ in the est timezone, and use they/she pronouns (the more you alternate, the more i’ll fall in love with you!). click that funky lil keep reading to learn more about this fucking bitch ! also, feel free to click around her blog to read some more headcanons and see the non-bio i wrote if ur so inclined !

skeleton: the eye in the sky

name: indiana “indie” ascencio

age: 27

gender: cis female

pronouns: she/her

faceclaim: ana de armas but like specifically ana de armas with pink hair

HISTORY / PINTEREST / WHOLE ASS APP

yes, she was named after indiana jones. her parents met during production of the raiders of the lost ark where her dad worked as a production artist and her mom worked as a props assistant. they credit the movie for being the reason they met, fell in love, and had a child in the first place, so it only felt natural for her to be named after the movie.

fun fact, she was originally supposed to be a boy and they were going to name her harrison, but when it was revealed to them that she was a girl, they decided to go with indiana instead

she picked up a knack for technology almost immediately, taking to every new device that her parents brought into their home. she used to get in trouble with her babysitters for sneaking out of her room to spend time in the computer room, playing with word art on empty microsoft word documents and searching for pictures of dogs online

during a computer science class her freshman year, she was the only woman in the class and her teacher resented her for it. he made some comment during the semester about how a woman would never pass his class. she brought it to the principal, who said he couldn’t do anything about it, so she hacked into the grading system and changed her grade herself

she recognized the power of knowledge almost immediately, as well as the power of being understated. her teacher would never suspect her to have been the one who changed her grade, he didn’t think she was smart enough and when the boy who sat next to her in class got in trouble and expelled instead of her, she vowed to never do it again unless she really needed to. from this experience, she learned the power of being underestimated

this promise to herself lasted less than a year, when she suspected that her boyfriend was cheating during her sophomore year. he assured her that he wasn’t, that the texts he kept getting were from his mom. a part of her didn’t believe him, and so she hacked into his cell phone provider and read the texts to his ex that dated all the way back to the beginning of his and indie’s relationship. from this, she learned to always trust her gut

although she told herself she should stop before things got out of control, during her junior prom, the music was so boring and the computer lab was right down the hall and it would be so easy to get into the dj’s software and change the playlist and before she knew it, she was in front of a computer and the music blaring from down the hall shifted into something else entirely. from this, she learned to stop running from what she was good at

this began a long fight with her parents, who always wanted her to go into special effects work and work with them in the movie business, but after long talks and lots of back and forth they finally agreed to support her decision to go to college and major in mathematics with computer science, the full ride to m.i.t. didn’t hurt either

college for indie was a breeze. with her skillset, she was already far ahead of the other individuals in her classes as far as programming went, and so often times she found herself hacking for fun to keep herself entertained

during sophomore year, she found an online puzzle called cicada 3301, ended up solving it, was put in a forum of people who solved it, and when the forum was deleted soon after she thought nothing was going to ever come of it, but when the mastermind contacted her, they got her name from a list of people who finished the puzzle

she currently has a day job working for continga soft, a new orleans based software development firm, as a software engineer, but she’s worked in the IT departments of a few different companies over the years, and also does freelance website and app design when she feels like it

WANTED CONNECTIONS

roommates in new orleans ! indie is an extrovert and hates being on her own so if anyone wants to live in the city with one of the most unorganized people u have ever met in ur life, lmk !

hacking lessons with professor indie ! maybe ur muse wants to learn more about hacking and programming for fun or bc they want to contribute more to the heists or maybe they just like spending time with indie (i don’t blame them, she’s great)

exes/ex hookup/current hookup ! she’s very queer so this is open to everyone ! maybe they were dating/hooking up but decided to stop bc they didn’t wanna make things weird for the team. maybe they are currently hooking up to fill the void in her heart left by the mastermind’s unwillingness to just ask her on a date already, who knows? but this could b very spicy very fun

these are just a couple ideas i have but i’m up for anything ! let’s get spicy !

#heistintro #first #but i wrote my intro for my app so it doesn't really count

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illyrianwingspans · 5 years ago

Text

Do Not Go Gentle: Don’t Know Who I Am

Link to song

Synopsis: An intro to Feyre’s life in the city of Prythian. Check it out on Ao3 here.

Chapter One: Don’t Know Who I Am

One Year Later

I wiped my hands against my apron as the orders kept tumbling through. Though it was still early in the morning, the coffee shop was packed, and would stay packed until morning rush hour subsided and everyone got their caffeine fix. Then the lunch rush would come right back around and I’ll want to curl into a ball behind the counter and yell at people to leave. This is how most shifts went, usually. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love my job.

Nobody wants to make coffee for a living. It’s not some life-long dream that a kid would aspire to. At least, I haven’t encountered anybody in a kindergarten class vehemently wishing to master the art of barista-ism when they grow up. Because making coffee for people is a shitty, shitty job. In some ways, I’m just a glorified drug dealer dispensing everyone’s morning fix.

But it makes the time go by. And it keeps me near Tamlin.

Not long after we moved in together, I wanted to get a job. Though Tamlin had profusely refused anytime I mentioned working, I kept pushing because I couldn’t stay in the house all day. Though I may have given up on schooling, I refused to become a stay at home trophy wife making crockpot dinners and resorting to ‘wine nights with the girls’ as a weekly ritual (because really, that’s just a fancy term for alcoholism to drown out the mind numbing loneliness that would indefinitely plague me). I couldn’t. I needed to stay busy and I needed to stay working, not only to make money, but to feel like I’d earned my place here.

Defining ‘here’ was always the issue. I didn’t know what ‘here’ was.

Here was in our spacious three bedroom apartment in downtown Prythian. Here was designer clothes and weekend galas and two hundred dollar steak dinners. Here was dating Spring Corporation’s newly adorned CEO, Tamlin Ivy, and living the upper 10% life.

Here was…comfortable. Easy. But also completely, awfully wrong.

I’d made no effort to be here, and everyone knew it. Hell, I knew, and nearly saw it written in the mirror’s condensation every morning after my shower. What I’d done, what’d happened… that shouldn’t have lead me to where I was today. No, that should have lead me down, down to the place I really deserved.

Nonetheless, I liked it here. I loved Tamlin and I wanted a future with him, ‘here’ being good or not.

“That’ll be six fifty,” I said hours later as the pale skin man pulled out his credit card in the empty shop. He’d said his order so quietly I had him repeat it twice, and tried to keep my face as neutral as I could when he’d said only a few decibels louder, “Large caramel frappucino, extra pump of hazelnut and double whip.”

He even brought his own cup to hide the monstrosity of an order from his colleagues. I never minded the complicated orders, though. They spiced up the routine.

As the blender sounded off in the shop, and pale frappucino dude moved off to the pickup side of the counter, I turned towards the order station armed with my usual garb. “Good morning, what can I get you today?”

Only instead of blearily listening to another business exec’s daily dose, I paused where I stood as my eyes settled upon the customer behind the counter.

I blinked, as before me stood the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

I hated saying that—mostly due to my current relationship status—but it was undeniable that the man before me was science’s only known example of perfect genetic combination. With his jet black hair, terra-cotta colouring, strong jawline and eyes so blue they hovered on—on amethyst—I was trying to hide the creeping blush crawling up my neck. Every ounce of him oozed grace and swagger and confidence, from his immaculately fitting suit to his subtle but enticing cologne, and though those things were incredibly sexy—they could also be vile.

And he must’ve seen it, too, because he shot me an easy smirk that’s definitely gotten him laid before. “Good morning, darling. How are you?”

The endearment, the smirk and the swagger, though, are what made me stop short. There were two kinds of beautiful people in this world: the ones who knew they were beautiful, and the ones who didn’t. This guy so obviously fell in the former category, and lucky for him, it was the type of person I tended to not get along with.

Instead of pushing it, though, I merely asked again, “What can I get you?”

Again, that feline smirk. He knew I was avoiding him. “You can get me an answer to my question.”

“I’m fine,” I ground out. “Would you like a coffee or would you like to piss me off?”

The words came out before I could stop them, and for a second I held my breath. I never, ever was rude to customers. Well, at least, I tried not to be, because there was one thing about the placement of Hum’s Coffee: it was on the ground floor of Spring Corp and nearby all of Prythian’s other biggest industries. This meant that the clientele was nearly exclusively office people, high ranking business execs and other prestigious titles—people I really shouldn’t piss off. But there was something about this guy that seemed to set me off today.

Thankfully, the only other person in the shop was frappucino dude, and he was far enough away that the blender faded out the conversation between us.

Except the man before me did not balk. He did not scowl. No, he wasn’t offended at all by my rather aggressive comment. In fact, he… he smiled. A fuller, genuine smile that showed off his white, straight teeth.

“Why not both?” Was what he said, and I fought against the grin that crept to my lips. Instead of answering him, I turned away to get frappucino dude’s frappucino, who was seeming more impatient by the second. Not forgetting his double whip, I handed over the man’s metal mug and he quickly screwed the top on, mumbled a thank you and sped away. Which left me turn begrudgingly to Mc Dreamy who waited patiently behind the counter, a look of feigned innocence on his face.

For the third, and what I decided was my last time, I asked, “What can I get you?”

“Large Americano with almond milk,” he said without thought, as though it rolled off his tongue every day. “And a smile, darling. Dazzling eyes and all.”

My fist clenched at my side while the other punched the order into the computer. Though I didn’t usually asked, my curiosity bit at me and urged the question from my lips. “Name?”

This guy must’ve been a Brad or Chad or Brent. He had that Frat-Boy-Daddy’s-Money look to him.

His perfectly tweezed brow arched in surprise. “Rhysand.”

My head angled to the side, mirroring his shock. Though I guess I shouldn’t really be, because Prythian was full of odd, unique names. Including my own.

“Four ten,” I growled, and he handed over a ten dollar bill. I quickly handed his change back to him and he merely put it in the tip bucket. Though I would’ve normally said thank you and showed my genuine appreciation—nobody tipped baristas anymore—I only turned and dispensed the espresso beans into the group head, thankful that my back was to him and he couldn’t read the seething hateful expression on my face.

Once I put the almond milk away and secured the lid, I grabbed the sharpie out of my apron and scribbled across the top. I usually didn’t take names because of this step, but I figured my shaky block letters didn’t look too embarrassing. And, with the fakest, widest smile I could muster, I slid the coffee across the counter to Rhysand, who merely grinned at me.

Until he looked down to his coffee and read the name I’d spelled out with a shaky hand: PRICK.

Rhysand’s eyes met mine and they blazed with a challenge, shock and… something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Lust? Attraction?

“Have a wonderful day, darling,” he said, and began to walk away, until he stop mid-stride and turned on his heel. “I didn’t quite catch your name, though. No tag.”

I crossed my arms. I didn’t wear my name tag because I didn’t want people knowing who I was or searching me up online when they had no business to, like Tamlin mentioned. And it served me well today, because I replied, “Be more polite, next time, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Next time? Is that a date?”

That blush came back once more. How could he? “What? No—”

“I just wanted coffee, but I’m open to anything you suggest, darling,” he smirked once more as he pushed the door open.

I glared at him and said, “In your dreams, prick.”

“Yes, you will be there tonight, darling.” With one last wink, he was gone.

I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Then, I laughed.

A chest-opening, heart-lightening laugh, something I hadn’t done in a long, long while. Thank God the shop was closed, because people definitely would’ve thought I was hysterical as I clutched the counter and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

“Medium hot chocolate please, extra whip and chocolate sprinkles.”

“Sir, we’re closed—” I said over my shoulder, but turned when I saw the blonde hair and easy smile. My face, ready to be stern and scowling at whoever saw our closing hours and decided to walk in anyway, melted into a smile as Tamlin leaned onto the counter with a lazy grin on his face.

“Hi,” I said, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m almost done. Just have to lock up.”

“Take your time,” he said “I ordered us Chinese for supper.”

I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. American Chinese food was his favourite, and I tolerated it because I knew he liked it. I didn’t say anything though as I fished the key from the back room and locked the cash box and the front door, the bell sounding out its final ring as night swept across the city leaving streetlights and headlights to illuminate the dark. Tamlin’s elbow hooked into mine as we made our way down the sidewalk to the parking garage where his Beemer stood in the reserved parking spot.

The echo of the doors closing bounced off the wall of the parking garage and I settled back into the leather seat, sighing as the muscles in my neck finally unclenched after standing all day.

“Long day?” Tamlin murmured. He reached over the console and grabbed my hand. I hummed when his thumb brushed along the skin of my palm.

“Yeah,” I said, “asshole customers.” It was my usual excuse, but today it was pointed at one person in particular. Someone whose smirk was burned onto the inside of my eyelids by sheer arrogance.

“Mh,” he grunted in agreement. “Had a few assholes today as well. Seems as though I’ll be dealing with some miscreants for the next little while until the deal finally blows over.”

The thing about Tamlin’s business is that he kept things very vague. I knew he managed real estate and invested in other startup companies, but he always seemed to keep what he did private. Not that I wanted to hear about all the legal jargon and property wars, but it would’ve been nice to be involved in some of it. Only when I’d initially asked him about it, he’d just smiled and said, “Feyre, it bores me to tears most of the time. I don’t want to put you through that.”

True, I’d never had a knack for business, but it did interest me. I was in the arts program and wanted to get a minor in business, but my college days did not last long enough for me to actually learn anything of value.

Our routine was nearly clockwork. Park the car in the garage, go to the entrance to the private elevator and ride up to the fifty ninth floor where our penthouse waited. It was weird to call it ours, because I’d never paid a cent towards it, but it was our home. Either he’d cook or Alis made something before she left for the night or we’d both give up and just order in, which happened most nights. As it did tonight with the Uber-Eats person waiting at the entrance to the elevator. The smell of chicken fried rice wafted through the small space as we rode up floor by floor, curdling my stomach with each increment of elevation.

The elevator opened up to the apartment, and the grandeur of it never failed to make me feel like I’d gotten off on the wrong floor. With the floor to ceiling windows, ambient cool lights and modern decor, I felt like I was walking into an overpriced hotel. Like the furniture was for show, not for living.

Tamlin didn’t echo the feelings, even when I’d voice them to him. He only laughed at how ‘quirky’ I was. I reminded myself that he’d grown up in spaces like this his entire life. This wasn’t the South Side anymore where we’d shared a two bedroom with four people.

No, I’d escaped that life. I’d burned away the moment I left that hospital, and I’d never looked back.

We settled in front of the TV and I curled into Tamlin’s warmth, savouring the feel of his arm around me and the smell of his skin, like rosemary and fresh rain. The food tasted ashen in my mouth but I downed it with a glass of water. Tamlin looked into the container and back up at me. “You not hungry?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I hated Chinese food, so I opted for a half truth. “Not really. I’ll take it to work tomorrow.”

He nodded and his eyes waded back to the TV. “Don’t forget, we’ve got that gala tomorrow night.”

I sighed. “Do we really have to go?”

“Yes,” he chuckled into my hair and set his empty container onto the coffee table before us, “I’m kind of hosting it, so it would be appropriate if I made an appearance.”

“You mean Ianthe and Lucien are hosting it.” I deadpanned.

“Well, yes but—” Tamlin stumbled over his words until he saw the smirk on my face, then smiled. “Look, I don’t like these things either but they’re part of the job description. Plus, with everything happening with Night Industries, it’ll be a chance to get them off our scent.”

“You have a scent?” My brows furrowed. “Who are the Night Industries?”

He waved me off. “Doesn’t matter. But,” he hedged, his eyes dimming, “I talked to Ianthe. About what you’re wearing.”

The breath squeezed from my lungs. We didn’t talk about this. Not in the open; not in casual conversation.

“She made sure to get something longer this time. It should be—”

“As long as it covers them, I’m fine,” I muttered—more like bit out. I couldn’t meet his eyes. He shifted next to me, like the proximity between us was no longer a comfortable, familiar thing.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured, and he pulled me closer to him. Despite the reluctance blossoming in me, I settled into him again and we found bliss in the mindless activity of staring at an information box.

After a while, though, my thoughts reverted back to the conversation and got caught on the words. Covers it, covers it, something longer to cover it—

Cover up the fact that I was crazy. Cover up the fact that I was off the deep end and everyone knew it, cover up the fact that I evidently did not belong amongst them, cover up the fact that I was a fraud and a liar and a murderer and that I didn’t deserve any of this, that I should be gone like the rest of them—

“You okay?” Tamlin asked from the kitchen. I hadn’t even realized he’d left the couch. I hadn’t noticed the absence of his warmth.

The entire space was open and I could see him standing behind the marble counter that could probably pay for many years’ worth of food for my family and I in the past.

I swallowed hard. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

He didn’t answer as I pushed myself off the couch and padded away down to the narrow hall branching to the rooms and our offices. As I passed Tamlin’s office, I sighed, knowing he’d probably be holed in there for the rest of the night. Then I passed my office.

Office was a loose term. There was a desk somewhere in there beneath the newsprint and old bedsheets and paint cans. Art studio was the better fitting name, but seeing as though I no longer used it, maybe museum was the best way to describe it. Museum of the life I’d left behind.

I left my things in our bedroom and pulled my robe from the back of the door as I settled into the washroom and began to strip.

Looking at myself in the mirror was a draining thing.

Which was why I ignored it and slumped my clothes in the corner before stepping into the boiling stream of water. It burnt my skin red and splotchy but I didn’t care as I rubbed a day’s worth of sweat and grime off of me.

And when I got to my scar covered thighs, I paused. Then scrubbed them furiously anyways.

Like that could ever make it go away. Soap and exfoliation didn’t erase fuck up.

Nonetheless I scrubbed and scrubbed until my thighs were raw, and when the water turned cold I slumped onto the shower floor and closed my eyes as the stream fell onto my shoulders. It was the only time where I felt like I had some sort of hold on myself; when the world wasn’t just a blur, and the silence could reign.

“Feyre?” A voice called. “Is everything alright?”

My eyes opened and I sighed, staring at the water collecting on the tiles. The silence never reigned long before interruption. “Be out in a minute.” I called.

The water still dripped from my body when I stepped out into the dim hall and Tamlin stood there, arms crossed, eyes snaking up my body like he owned every inch of it. There was that familiar hunger in his gaze. The one I let devour me. The one I wore when I wanted to devour him.

His lips found my skin before either of us could say anything, and before I knew it the towel was off of me and we were stumbling towards the bed.

Chills trembled across my skin as his mouth came down on me, and I let out undignified sounds when he plunged his full length within me. Thrust by thrust, the aches went away, the pain fled, the silence was broken—the void took a step back and waited patiently as I got my fill. As my thoughts left my mind, and as my mind left this body, if only for a few passionate, glorious minutes of pleasure.

Tamlin rolled off of me after I’d screamed out my climax. I stared up at the ceiling, catching my breath, counting the flickers of light protruding in from the window’s diluted city glow. His weight shifted next to me, and I felt his lips press a kiss to my shoulder before he got off the bed, pulled his pants on and left the room, presumably to resume work in his study.

I didn’t even have the energy to get up and dry my hair. I only curled further into the sheets and made sure my alarm was on before letting my eyes fall closed, and sit back as the void, along with the thoughts, creeped back in.

“I’ve got to head straight to the gallery after work so I’ll get somebody to pick you up, alright?”

My fingers fumbled as I neared the ends of my hair I was trying to braid. I lost them and shook out the rest of my hair before starting again. “I can just catch a ride with someone. Or walk, it’s honestly not that far.”

Tamlin waved the thought away. “Don’t worry about it, besides I wouldn’t want you to scuff up your dress. I’ll text you the information.”

I licked my lips and nodded once. He pressed a kiss to my cheek and I gave him a grin before we parted ways at our usual location of divide on the ground level of Spring Corporation. He headed for the executive elevator while I headed to Hum’s. The world still slept at five thirty in the morning, but they’d be awake soon and demanding their morning prescription before I knew it.

The day passed in a blur of whirring machines, bills and change and grounds. Sweat beaded on my brow and my feet ached, but I carried on despite the exhaustion wearing on my bones. The fog in my mind seemed to thin out when the rush came in and consumed my focus and attention. But when the lulls came, and I was sweeping around the few tables, my mind wandered. Far. My hands were rope-burnt from trying to reel it back in.

But I did. Because tonight was important for Tamlin, and I couldn’t break down. There was no room for error when your life was centred on appearances. Everything was always good and perfect and lovely, even if it wasn’t.

A familiar face appeared at the door, and I smiled as Lucien’s golden red hair gleaned in the sunlight. He reciprocated the smile as he revealed what he’d been holding behind his back: a hanger supporting what must’ve been a lush gown concealed by black material.

“Is it hideous?” Were the first words out of my mouth. Lucien laughed as I took the hanger from his hands across the counter and set it in the back with the rest of my things. We had a running joke between us about the dresses Ianthe had put me in before that made me look no less than an exotic bird. Some were gorgeous, though, and I loved putting on the lavish materials—but most of the time, they felt like a waste.

“You look gorgeous in anything,” was all he replied with his usual dripping sarcasm. I rolled my eyes and began whipping up his usual: chai latte with oat milk and extra cinnamon on top.

“So what’s this one for tonight?” I wondered aloud. “New partner? Company morale? Charity dinner?”

At the mention of this, Lucien’s face turned neutral, his stance uneasy. One thing about Lucien that I picked up quickly was that you could always read how he felt by his stance. And now, I could tell he was lying, or hiding something, as he did often when discussing company business.

“Something like that,” was all he vaguely answered. In the past, I may have interrogated him until his ears bled, as he put it, but I let it go. Another charity ball wasn’t going to kill me. My feet and knees, maybe, from wearing the heels Tamlin loved, but not the entirety of me.

Over the whirring of the milk steamer, I called, “I don’t get why we have these anyways. He sneaks off half of the time to discuss with people and leaves me with the rest of the sharks.”

“Firstly, we’re under a lot of pressure right now with our competitors. People are trying to snoop where they don’t belong. And before you ask, you know I can’t tell you anything.” I sighed. The one golden rule Tamlin and I kept in our relationship: work stays at work. “And secondly, they are not sharks, Feyre.”

“They damn well might be,” I countered. I removed both tea bags from the piping water and poured the warm milk into it, the spicy scent caressing my senses. “They’re all numbers and business and exponential growth. What am I supposed to say to that?”

“Ianthe will be there,” Lucien supplied, licking his lips as I sprinkled copious amounts of cinnamon atop the foam of his drink. “And Bron and Hart.”

“They have eleven brain cells combined, if that.”

Lucien shot me a pointed look as I slid the drink across the counter to him. “That’s six more than you’ve got, Fey.”

I bit back a grin as I shoved his shoulder from across the counter. “Get out of here.”

“I’ll see you tonight. Clean yourself up a little.”

I didn’t have time to bite back a retort before the door closed behind him. Clean yourself up, I scoffed. I had my makeup kit in my bag. And I showered last night. I looked fine.

Probably not as dashing or pristine as Ianthe will, but my hair’s clean. And I smelled good. That right there was the height of my presentability.

The clock ticked closer and closer to five, the end of my shift. There usually wasn’t many people past five, seeing as though Hum’s wasn’t much of a student-oriented establishment. The last hour was always the longest, watching as every second brought me closer to the gala. My stomach felt like it was crawling. I hated these events.

The door opened along with the chiming bell, and my head snapped up from my phone to see an all-too familiar face already set in a smirk. Only this time, his suit was immaculate, even more so than yesterday’s, and his hair was parted differently, gelled back with little dangling strands around his face that brought out he midnight blue of his eyes.

I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to face this prick again, but damn was he so good to look at.

“I should put your picture up on the board with the rest of the banned customers.” I said as I turned to the espresso machine. I hated that I remembered his order. His eyes even showed surprised as I pulled out the almond milk and boiling water for his Americano.

“Wouldn’t you love to stare at me all day long?” He mused. “They better keep that board near the front so you don’t hide back there all day looking at me. Maybe tape it right here to the cash register.”

“Prick,” I murmured under my breath. I didn’t want to meet his eyes, and I didn’t want to seem like I had any interest in what he did whatsoever, but I couldn’t help myself. “Why the expensive suit today? Hot date?”

“All of my suits are expensive. And unless there was a date and time written on the bottom of my cup yesterday, I don’t recall you asking me out.”

My cheeks heated. “Oh, screw you.”

“You wish.”

My cheeks were probably the colour of traffic lights as I poured the almond milk into his coffee. “Four ten.” I ground out.

“Where’s that dazzling smile today, darling? Really, you must give me your manager’s contact information. I demand better service than this.”

“I’ll read it out to you: 514-829-suck my dick.”

Rhysand stood before me, a startled look on his face, like he couldn’t believe the words I’d just said.

I couldn’t believe the words I’d just said. This man was rich. Probably high, high up in the corporate rank. A phone call from him to anybody’s boss would definitely get them fired.

But he let out a startled laugh. A full, rich laugh that only made me swallow hard.

And bite back a smile.

“Four ten,” I said once again, and he only handed over yet another ten dollar bill. He didn’t even acknowledge my hand when I gave him his change and I begrudgingly put it in the jar.

But he didn’t leave. No, he stood there in front of me sipping his coffee like this was a normal, casual thing we did.

“You make a killer coffee, darling. Really.”

“It’s just an americano,” I scoffed. I turned and began wiping down the espresso machine and milk steamer. But really I was hiding the blush on my cheeks. God, look at me. Gawking over a stranger because they complemented me. An annoying stranger at that. One that knew exactly how to get under my skin.

“Don’t you have better things to do with your time than flirt with baristas?” I threw over my shoulder. He still wouldn’t leave, despite the silence between us.

“Yes of course I do, but flirting with you is by far the most enjoyable.”

My eyes narrowed. “You don’t even know my name.”

“You could easily fix that by just telling me.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Darling, I just don’t think it’s fair. You know my name. All the mystery is demystified. You’ve got the upper hand. Help me out a bit, here.” He shot me a pout and those brooding eyes, but I couldn’t be bothered. Instead, I pointed to the clock.

“We’re officially closed, and I don’t have to put up with you anymore.”

He only smirked and began walking away from the counter with that same graceful swagger. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning bright and early, darling.”

“There’ll be a restraining order by then!” I called back.

The door swung shut with the chiming of the bell, and I sighed.

I told myself the smile on my face wasn’t because of him. But I was never really a good liar.

The gown wasn’t hideous. Hideous was too strong a word.

I was just grateful, though, that my scars stayed out of view. Last time, things got…ugly.

Nonetheless, it sure as hell wasn’t my style. I sighed as I walked up the avenue, chiffon balled tightly in my fists, and tried to calm my nerves as I saw the pillars to the Prythian art gallery crawl into view. The lights they’d set up made the entire white-marble building seem like a dream. The gala tonight was for company morale, a sort of way for all of them to clap themselves on the back for the hard work they’d done. I’d lost count of how many I’d attended since I’d known Tamlin.

Usually I could nose my way out of them. When I was in school, before the accident, it was easier to use that out and have a night to myself in the apartment. Now that I was only working at Hum’s, I didn’t have any excuse anymore.

Every step ached in the heels. This was going to be a long night.

The bouncers didn’t even need to ask for name as I walked in the main front doors. The lobby was teeming with people I didn’t know, most likely all of them employees or people from business circles. Faces swam in and out of view, and I felt like I’d seen many of them before, but without Tamlin at my side I had no reason or courage to approach them.

He could’ve been anywhere. I had no idea where to even start looking.

The dinner was at seven, so I supposed I had a few hours to kill. I glanced over my shoulder for a moment then weaved my way to the back of the room where the museum branched off into different wings. Tamlin did pick the best venues, I had to concede. Always something for me to distract myself with.

This month’s exhibition was Paris’s post-impressionism era in the 1900s. Arguably my favourite period in art, the museum was lucky enough to snag some lesser-known Van Gogh and Monet. There was one piece, an early morning sunrise flecked with pinks and oranges that caught my eye. I stood before it, staring at the brushstrokes and blending of colours and hues, amazed. My fingers itched. I wanted to memorize the colours to memory in hopes that I could ever possibly recreate such a piece.

Before I realized it, I looked down at my fingertips and took a step back from the piece. I wanted to paint. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt in so long.

It’d been months since I’d painted. Tamlin wanted me to keep painting, said it would be good for me, but that studio haunted me. I couldn’t go back. There was nothing left for me in there.

One thought of trying to mix the red and white had me exiting the the showroom. Tears burned behind my eyes, and the last thing I needed right now was to make a scene at Tamlin’s party.

After a while of meandering, drinking alone and making several trips to the washroom to check my half-assed hair and makeup, Tam’s blonde hair came into view and it was seven o’clock.

His arm slid around me, too tight, and the easy grin on his face didn’t reach his eyes. “Where’ve you been? You’re late.”

“I’m late? Where have you been?” I retorted lowly. “I’ve been here looking for you for hours.”

“Have you been talking to people?”

I remained silent. The round tables were amply decorated with flush, exotic flowers that probably cost my yearly salary. Everything was gold-trimmed, pastel and proper, the usual colours of Tamlin’s personal assistant’s palette.

Tamlin ground out, “You can at least try, Feyre. For me.”

“I have been for the past year.” I snapped.

It was all we had time to say to each other before somebody came to shake Tamlin’s hand and bellow some inside stock-trading joke I didn’t understand before bursting into laughter. They followed us until we reached our table, right near the front of the room before the stage. Lucien and Ianthe were already seated, the former looking pale and tense.

He shook his head when I shot him a questioning look. When it came to Ianthe, Lucien was always tense.

The night passed by dreadfully. Making conversation was painful. Ianthe and Tamlin had plenty to talk about, though, with the drama in their elite circles that I didn’t care enough to be a part of. I’m sure most of the people here tonight were kind and interesting and wonderful people, but there was still that innate part of me that clung to the belief that most businesspeople were sucked dry of their souls.

I looked to my boyfriend. Most being the operative term. Not all.

Tamlin, though, began to grow tense. His head kept bouncing to the back of the room to a set of doors. His leg was bouncing beside me. It was so bad I had to put my hand on his thigh to calm him down. He put his hand on top of mine and shot me a grateful look, and I kissed him on the cheek. I knew he hated these things too.

Lucien looked to Tamlin. “Have your friends showed up yet?”

Tamlin shook his head. “Any minute.”

“What friends?” I wondered. I knew most of Tamlin’s friends and business partners. They were all neatly classified under the rich white guy identification part of my memory.

He shook his head, though. “You haven’t met them. You don’t want to meet them. They’re not necessarily good friends.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you in trouble? Is something wrong?” Nervousness bloomed in my stomach. We couldn’t repeat last time. We really, really couldn’t repeat everything that happened last time.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured in my ear. I sighed but leaned into his warmth anyways. Then suddenly he was up, and I scrambled to stay seated without falling out of my chair from the abrupt loss of contact.

“I’ll be right back.” He declared before storming off to the set of doors off to the east wing of the gallery. There were three sets of feet. My stomach grumbled. Everything about this was off.

I looked down to my plate and couldn’t finish it. Too rich. Too buttery. Everything, it was all closing in: the people, the finery, the utter lack decency…it was like being completely and truly alone in a room full of people. At a table filled with friends.

Lucien laid a hand on my shoulder. “Fey? Are you okay?”

“I need some air,” I muttered, before stalking out to the gallery’s main lobby. I stared at the map before throwing myself into the twisting hallways, and cursing myself for wearing high heels as I climbed stair after stair. But finally, I found myself on the gallery’s rooftop, looking out over the water of the Sidra and wishing I was anywhere but here.

Only I wasn’t alone.

I nearly flinched when I saw who it was leaning across the building’s cement lipped edge. The city lights made his face seem older. Deep-set. Like life had dealt him yet another shit hand and he was wondering whether to go all in or just fold.

I mean, I was near the point of folding. I really, really was.

Especially since I thought I was going to finally get some damned peace, yet now I had to face this prick. For the second time today.

“Stalking me, darling?”

“Could say the same for you, creep,” I called across the landing. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Apparently in the mere hours we’d been apart, life had taken a wrong turn for him. Probably didn’t happen too often judging by the look on his face.

“All dressed up. Tell me, what are you doing here darling? You look like a minnow in a sea of sharks.”

I scoffed. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you going to keep answering my questions with questions?”

“Are you going to keep asking me questions I don’t want to answer?”

Rhysand’s gaze held mine. We were only feet apart, but it was like a current ran between us. My mouth, puckered in a frown, only ignited the ever-lasting amusement in his eyes. That same electric, tension-filled feeling I felt in the coffee shop, like I didn’t know whether to throttle him or run my hands across his chest.

I blinked. I couldn’t believe I’d just thought of that. I brushed it away, telling myself just because I wasn’t ordering didn’t mean I couldn’t look at the menu.

Admitting defeat, my stare broke from his. Instead, I took position leaned against the cement railing, and marvelled at the city, the sea of lights and beauty before us.

Before I knew it, Rhysand was beside me, the arm of his expensive suit nearly brushing mine. The warmth nearly leeched from his toned body. I wanted to press myself into him as the breeze flew over us, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I’m not gonna lie, darling, I’ve had a shit day.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know. But I’m going to talk anyway. Because I need someone completely objective to discuss with.”

The silence stretched on with my muteness. Half of me wanted to listen, half of me wanted to walk away before I was in too far over my head.

“You know when everything feels like it’s stacked up against you? Like nothing more could possibly go wrong, and then you turn around and it does?” He sighed. “I blink and days go by. I have no idea how I get here; half of the time I have no idea how I even get out of bed. It’s like I’ve made my way here to the top, I’ve got everything I could imagine.” The rush of the city cars filled in the quiet between us as he paused for a moment. “But I’m still fucking empty inside.”

I told myself it was the breeze that sent the shiver down my spine. Not the aching feeling I had as he said those words, as he described everything I’d been feeling over the past year of my life.

Then Rhysand chuckled. “By the Cauldron. I’m sorry. You must think I’m crazy.” His breath fogged as he laughed again. “Guess I’ve got to find myself a new coffee shop.”

“No,” I replied instantly. His eyes flicked to mine, the surprise only presenting itself with the gentle up-flick of his eyebrows. “No. I know how you feel. I get it.” I cleared my throat. “It’s either completely normal to feel this way, or we’re both anomalies.”

“Honestly, I hope it’s the latter. I promised myself I wouldn’t end up like those people milling around downstairs. But here I am, fraternizing among them like we’re old friends.”

I shrugged. “Whatever keeps the roof over your head and food on the table.” I knew too many days with food on the table to deny that the money we had was extremely comforting.

He grinned, but it was sad. Morose. “That’s one way to put it.”

More silence ensued, but it wasn’t awkward. It was…peaceful. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out on Tamlin and I’s balcony at home just to watch the world spin and move and whirl around me. Most definitely because I couldn’t trust myself on a balcony anymore. My mind was a thing of its own; moving in toxic ways the rest of me balked at.

“How long have you been a barista?” Rhysand wondered softly.

“A year,” I supplied, “can’t go back to sugary drinks now, though. Not after all the shit I see going into them.”

He chuckled, and I asked, “How long have you been empty on the inside?”

This time, the smile was full and bright, and it did reach his eyes. Rhysand said, “My entire life, darling. My entire damned life.”

“Well—”

The sound of metal screeching interrupted me, and a breathless voice called, “Feyre?”

I whipped around to see Lucien there, hand on his knee hunched over, trying to catch his breath. My heels echoed across the rooftop as I jogged towards him without toppling over. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“What are you doing here?” He sneered. “Why are you speaking with him?”

I wrinkled my nose and turned back to Rhysand. “You know him?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lucien said, but threw a look Rhysand’s way nonetheless. A look about as unfriendly as they go. “We need you downstairs, Fey. Let’s go.” And with that Lucien began pounding down the stairs.

But I looked back at Rhysand. He only waved lazily my way, and called, “Until next time, Feyre darling.”

I bit back my smile as I in turn began thundering down the stairs. Prick.

It appeared as though the banquet went smoothly considering the near empty glasses—being quickly refilled—and the laughter-filled, red-tinted faces that beamed as Tamlin took the stage. Under the lights, his golden hair looked smooth and gleaming where it fell naturally down to his ears, and his tuxedo highlighted his muscled body in all the perfect places. His face was flushed as well, and I knew we’d have to call an Uber tonight by the looks of it. I’d never learned how to drive—never needed to with public transportation and Tamlin—which meant me driving home was out of the question. Better to put Tamlin at the wheel despite the state he was in than to even attempt letting me near the driver’s seat.

“As you all know, tonight is a celebration of the success of this company, of which you’ve all contributed immensely to, thanks to your handwork and dedication to our mission.” Applause erupted, and Tamlin’s smile brought my own grin to my face. To see the pride in his face…I knew despite all the complaints and exhaustion, he still liked what he did.

“Spring Corporations has never seen better days, and for that, you all have my utmost gratitude and admiration.” More applause, to which Tamlin patiently waited to pass before adding, “but tonight is more than just our corporate success.”

My eyebrows raised in surprise. What else could Tamlin have to announce?

“Personally, things have been hectic. It’s been a good, prosperous year, but that doesn’t come without life’s ups and downs.” His eyes wandered through the crowd, until they finally befell me, and his eyes sparkled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my boyfriend so content. “Life has thrown a lot of ups and downs at me, and I wouldn’t have been able to handle them without my girlfriend.”

My heart was pounding in my chest. Oh Gods. I had no idea where he was going with this.

Scratch that, I knew exactly where he was going with this, and it made me nearly sick to my stomach.

“Feyre Archeron,” he said, “you are the true one and only love of my life. There’s nobody, no one else on this earth that brings me joy and understands me like you do.”

Tamlin took the microphone, and murmurs began spreading across the crowd as he wandered down the steps right before our table, right before me.

I wasn’t breathing.

Tamlin got down on one knee, and joyful gasps echoed through the room. With one hand, he fished a dark velvet box from his inner suit pocket, and cracked it open to present the largest emerald stone I’d ever seen, set onto a golden band. So typically Tamlin that I grinned.

“Feyre,” he murmured into the mic, his golden eyes brimming with silver as we stared at each other, “will you marry me?”

Fear paralyzed my body, yet I still choked out, “Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes.”

The microphone screeched but I didn’t care as I leaned down and pressed my mouth to his, sealing our lifetime together, with a little voice in my head echoing, There’s no going back now.

#dngg #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #sjm #feyre #rhys #feysand #feyrhys #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction

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poisxnyouth · 6 years ago

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teacher!dave fic. chapter 1. (d.d)

A/N: oops. I couldn’t not. I wrote this SO quick, apologies if there are any errors! let me know what you think. -hailey

wc: 3.5k

The thought of senior year in its entirety was nerve wracking. Left and right, everywhere you went, you were going to be experiencing things for the last time ever. Including your last relationship of high school.

You had been hoping to see Mrs. Porter on you schedule ever for your AP Lit class; instead, seeing someone named Dobrik. There were only 2 AP Lit teachers at your school, so you can’t help but wonder if whoever Dobrik is replaced Mrs. Porter, or if they replaced the other teacher.

You and your friends flood the steps of your high school’s main campus on the night of Open House, schedules in hand as you flit around the grounds, meeting your teachers and finding your classrooms.

It’s an easy process, you and your friends were the same types of students with a majority of the same classes, so out of your 7 classes, you shared the same periods with them. It being your senior year, finding your classrooms was a piece of cake and took little to no time.

You move period by period, hopping through your lists out of order. A constant in your conversation was whoever Mr. or Mrs. Dobrik was; it was rare for teachers to leave your school or quit, so it made you all curious.

You and your friends eventually make it to the classroom of your first period: room 225, AP Lit with Dobrik. You mistake who you assume is Mr. Dobrik for a student, his hips propped up against his desk at the back of the room, arms crossed as he talks to a parent. His eyes glance toward the door as your group files in, standing up straight and politely excusing himself.

“Hey! You guys have this class? Let me check you all off my roster, just so I know I saw you and talked to you and gave you the syllabus and all that.” Mr. Dobrik turns to his desk, grabbing his rosters and thumbing through a stack of stapled papers, eyes looking up as he counts how many of you there are and taking the matching amount.

He makes his way over to you and leans against the nearest desk to you all, pen and green highlighter in hand.

“So, hi. I’m Mr. Dobrik. This is my first year teaching so don’t be too rough on me, but like, if I’m doing a terrible job and you don’t understand anything…..please tell me, even though my ego will get hurt. Seriously, though, this is a really difficult course and while I want to make it academically challenging, I don’t want to make it impossible. I’m pretty malleable with homework deadlines, but only if you come talk to me. Otherwise, late work is an absolute no and I can’t forgive it,” Mr. Dobrik is highlighting the same spots of every syllabus as his eyes scan back and forth through your group of five, making a point to make eye contact with every single one of you every time he glances up.

“I know you guys have jobs and extracurriculars and everything, but again: my answer is to just talk to me. I’m easy in that aspect. Um...there was something else, too,” he scratches his head, pushing his glasses up and searching through a syllabus.

“Oh! Phones. You can listen to music or whatever, I just ask that you don’t text or post or anything during my class. I’ll go more into all of this on Monday, I just wanted to clarify the basics, okay?” He looks up and makes eye contact again, searching for all of your confirmations.

“I know there’s usually a summer assignment for this class, so you guys are lucky you didn’t have to do it since I wasn’t here. That being said, my lesson plans are especially rigorous for the first quarter because you didn’t have one.”

“Basically, a good rule of thumb if you have any questions about anything, is to come talk to me. You can’t get the notes done on time because you work three to ten? Come talk to me. You have band until eight that night? Come talk to me. I’m here to help you, not make shit - sorry, not to make things difficult for you. I want you to pass the exam and get this credit.” He stands now, capping his highlighter and uncapping his pen.

“What are your names and what period are you in?” Mr. Dobrik makes the point of eye contact, checking the name off of his roster, and writing the name on the syllabus. You’re the last one, and you stutter out your own name, your eyes glancing down to his lips as he scans through his list, putting a check at the side of your name. He writes your name in the top right corner of the paper in messy handwriting, looking as iif it was written with the intent to be neat.

“Okay! Thank you guys. I’ll see you first thing Monday morning. Have a good weekend.” You all murmur your polite reciprocation, waving him goodbye as he smiles and runs a hand through his hair, seemingly nervous.

Once down the hallway, one of your friends eventually bursts, “Okay, was he totally fucking fine or is it just me? He’s also super young. Like, he’s barely older than us. Please tell me it’s not just me.”

You and your group immediately start, “Oh my God, no. It’s not just you. He’s probably the most fuckable teacher now. He’s got that messy brown hair, doe eyed, smart, nerdy thing going for him. I literally felt speechless as he looked at me for my name...Y/N stuttered!” You blush at their derision as they only laugh harder.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to talk to him or ask him questions when you can barely tell him your name.

Monday morning comes quickly; your last first day of school begins with you and your group stockpiling into your car, picking each of them up one by one. It’s an easy (albeit early) morning leading up to the first bell.

You all wander through Mr. Dobrik’s propped open door a few minutes after the first bell. He’s fiddling with his coffee pot he must've brought, back turned to the door. He hears the ruckus, though, looking over his shoulder.

“Hey! Good to see you again. You guys can sit anywhere. I’m not gonna have assigned seats or anything, so…” he trails off, turning back to whatever he was doing. His hair is slightly wet, white dress shirt clean and pressed, paired with a red tie, black skinny jeans and black Vans. He was too close to your age to be your teacher.

You and your friends are mostly too nervous to make any sort of conversation with each other amid the mostly silent room, sitting together and mouthing to one another, Oh my God, he looks so good!

More students come through his door and he greets every single one of them, quietly fixing himself a cup of coffee in a mug that stated what must have been his alma mater. The late bell rings, Mr. Dobrik immediately shutting his door and taking attendance. He calls out the names under his breath, eyes darting in between his computer screen and his students as he searches for the familiar faces.

“Y/N is present...okay, we’re good! Everyone’s here.” Mr. Dobrik doesn’t look at you as he says it though, one of your friends kicking at your leg under the table as you blush at the fact. He quickly sets up his computer and his PowerPoint on his class information, leaning against a table as he sips at his coffee.

“Okay, hi, everyone! I’m Mr. Dobrik. I went to University of Illinois and graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree. I majored in English and minored in Film, and I’ve just started an online Master’s program with U of I, where I’ll study Psychology. Um, I just turned 23, like, last month, and this is my first year teaching so all I ask is you don’t murder me if you don’t like something about my class or how I act, ‘cause I’m new at this!” Mr. Dobrik takes another sip of his coffee, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and hitting the next arrow on his keyboard, revealing a slide of essentially everything he had explained to you the night of Open House.

“So, like, the phones...I don’t care if you listen to music, but I don’t want you Snapchatting or playing iMessage games or anything while I’m trying to teach or you’re supposed to be doing an assignment, you know? I believe it’s disrespectful and rude; don’t waste my time and don’t waste yours. This is an AP class and we all know it’s a difficult course. If any of that’s an issue for you, I politely ask that you head down to guidance and snag you one of those handy schedule change request forms. Um,” he pauses, “I won’t ever put my hands on your stuff; you don’t touch my stuff and I won’t touch yours. It’s simple. I respect you guys and it’s not fair if I can do things you can’t, you know? So, I won’t take your phone. Again, I will never lay a finger on anything that’s yours, however, if your phone is out and you’re not changing a song or something, I will kick you out and send you to attendance. It’s different if you come up to me and say, Hey, Mr. Dobrik, my mom is calling, can I step outside and answer it? Like, duh. If it’s important, just ask me.” Mr. Dobrik continues sipping at his coffee, pulling his glasses off and placing them on the table. He rubs at his eyes before he slowly takes another mouthful, eyes peeking up sleepily as he looks around the room blindly.

“That’s really the gist of this whole thing, honestly. If there’s an issue, if you need more time for an assignment, need to take a phone call or text someone back, just talk to me. I was practically just in high school, so I get it; I know how hard it is when everything is due at the same time and the pile keeps getting bigger and bigger and you’re trying so hard to balance everything along with school. I’m also all ears if you want to come and talk to me about something that’s happening in your life or something similar, I have A lunch so if you guys want to come in and hang out, feel free. Again, the main point is: if you have any issues at all, just come talk to me, we can work through it together. Most of you are seniors, so it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.” He shrugs nonchalantly, putting his glasses back on and placing his mug on the table. “D’you have any questions?” He scans the room quickly, taking everyone’s unresponsiveness as his answer, “No? Okay. Cool.”

Mr. Dobrik continues speaking about the first quarter and what you’ll cover during the first few units, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows as he lectures. He reveals the first assignment: simple Cornell notes for the first two chapters of the textbook due Wednesday.

“The plan is to have a day every month where I meet with you guys and talk about what you understand and what you don’t. My philosophy is that your grade reflects what you know, not what work you did or didn’t do or copied off of someone else. If I can talk to you and have a good discussion about whatever we’re analyzing at that time, you’ll be fine. I really just want you to be able to analyze and have the ability to connect what we read with our personal lives in this day and age. You probably know this, but we’re starting in the 1600’s and going until present day. We’re going to read some John Keats, William Wordsworth, Anne Rice, Charlotte Bronte, et cetera, et cetera, you know the drill. I’m going to try to pick things that I believe you will be genuinely interested in or connect with, and if I don’t...um, not to throw him under the bus or anything, but it’s probably Mr. Carroll’s pick that he’s making me do with him. I’m serious! He wanted to analyze, like, the Federalist papers and I immediately said hell no.

“Really, though, your grade reflects what you know. And you guys probably need to get to it, so I’ll stop beating you over the head with my voice. Talk to me if you don’t like a certain type of assignment and we can come up with an alternate; talk to me if you need to take a call; you can eat in here but be nice about it; talk to me if you don’t understand something, all that jazz. I’m easy to get along with, I promise. Just talk to me and respect me and we’re all good. Cool? Alright. Textbooks are under your seats. You’ll need to go down to the Media Center on your own time to check one out. Get started. I’ll come around and talk to you guys in a few.” Mr. Dobrik finally pushes himself off of the side of the table he had been leaning on for the past 15 minutes, students rustling through their bags for pens and paper as he sits at his desk, submitting his attendance and responding to emails.

“Y/N, stop staring!” One of your friends, Jessie, kicks you under the table for the second time that period. “You’ve been drooling over him ever since he said Hi, I’m Mr. Dobrik! Like, it’s impossible for you to stare any harder. He totally noticed, too!” She’s whispering as you all work, a quiet hum of voices spreading across the room.

“He did not!” You defend, “No way. I was just paying attention.”

“Y/N, you were literally leaning against your arm with hearts in your eyes. Get a grip. If he wants to talk to us as much as he says he does, you’re going to have to get over it. He’s our teacher and he’s hot, but that’s all he is!”

“Oh my God, Jessie, it’s not that big of a deal. Just because I think he’s hot doesn’t mean I want to date the guy-,” you’re scribbling main ideas down as you skim through the paragraphs.

“Who’s the guy? Maybe I have him,” Mr. Dobrik leans over your table, scanning over your group’s papers before looking at you.

“Oh, um,” you blush at his eye contact as he bites at his lips, looking down at you. “Doesn’t really matt-.”

“I’m joking, Y/N,” he cuts you off and leans over, turning your paper to face him. He repeatedly glances between you and the paper before speaking once more, “Okay! You ladies good?” You all murmur your agreement before he moves around to another group, shifting from table to table.

“Y/N, what the fuck was that? He has to know you’re into him!” You shake your head, no longer wanting to speak about it.

Two days later in Mr. Dobrik’s class, he’s going around, table by table, and grading everyone’s notes in front of them. It’s a snicker fest between your friends as he leans over you, red pen in hand as his eyebrows scrunch together and he shakes his head.

“No. You did this wrong. I’ll give you partial credit, but it’s not what I asked for. You can come in here during lunch and redo it for full credit. They look good, though.” He’s stern, already moving onto Jessie’s work before you stop him, making his eyes meet yours.

“Mr. Dobrik, respectfully, what do you mean? You looked at my notes both Monday and yesterday and you said it was fine. Like, I don’t understand. This is the first assignment of the quarter, and I’m starting it with a fifty? I’ll come in and redo it, but why? I just don’t understand.” You maintain the eye contact with him, his lips going in between his teeth as he chews on them for a split second.

“We’ll talk about it at lunch, okay? It’s fine. We can do this later,” he promises, returning to Jessie’s work as you stare at the bright red fifty percent at the top of your page.

So, you come in during lunch. He’s alone, typing away at his laptop as you walk through the door.

“Hey, Y/N. Come sit and we’ll talk. Can you get out the notes?” You feel odd about this already, silently obeying him and pulling the papers out as he continues sending emails, not looking at you. You wait quietly, placing the notes on his desk. He turns to you, looking them over quickly and leaning in closer. He’s too close, it feels like, and you can smell hints of his cologne mixing with his soap.

“Yeah. Okay. So, like, you paraphrased this entire time. There aren’t any bullet points, they’re just paragraph summaries. I don’t want what the book says, except for vocab, maybe. Like, I can tell just by looking at this that if I made you take a quiz right this second you’d fail it. Convince me. Make the work worth it and make it help you in the long run.” He leans back in his chair, looking at you again.

“I thought you said it doesn’t matter how we take our notes-.”

“It doesn’t,” he shrugs, “I don’t care how you do it as long as you know the content. But you don’t.” He doesn’t appreciate your talking back to him, but he lets it slide, liking the fact that you feel comfortable enough with him to argue about your work.

“How do you know that?”

“Y/N. I’ve peer edited and peer edited and peer edited these past 4 years of my life. I can spot when someone’s writing is half hearted. Even if it’s just notes. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, shit, I didn’t mean it that way, like, I never thought that you didn’t know what you were doing, I was just asking-.” He waves you off, smile playing at his lips.

“I know. I’m teasing,” Mr. Dobrik rolls a pen in his fingertips, running the pads of his fingers down the ridges of its side. “Really, though, just think about the content thoroughly and analyze it and you’ll get a 100. The work was phenomenal, I mean it, I just don’t think it’s the best you can accomplish as a student. I know I’ve only had you for 3 days, but like, it’s really obvious to me that you can do better than half-assed summaries. Again, they’re still great, but you can do better. It’s really not about the grade, at this point, right?”

You tilt your head in confusion, looking at him as he leans forward.

“Your work is college-level already. They’re just summaries, but you reworded them great and got the main idea across fine. If you do your best, I’m giving you a 100 in here,” he shrugs again, still playing with the pen in his hands. “I also saw you skimming the passages and your mind was somewhere else entirely.” You know what he’s hinting at, and it’s suddenly obvious how right Jessie was. He knows, but there’s nothing you could do about it and there’s certainly no going back.

“It’s fine. Just be present in my class and we won’t have any issues.” What the hell did that mean? That he knew you had the hots for him and that it was fine, that he was perfectly comfortable with it as long as you kept focused?

“Back to the point, though. You can produce better academic work. Do you agree?”

You nod, meeting his eyes.

“Okay. So, since you agree you can do better, I can start pushing you. If you want that, of course. Do you?” He’s pushing his fingers through his hair now, still looking at you. You don’t know what game he’s playing at, but something in you is telling you there’s a different motive than purely a teacher/student drive. Still, though, you say yes, looking at your hands.

“Okay. Then, tomorrow, I want the revised notes, your favorite poem, and a five paragraph analysis of it on my desk first thing. Can you do that for me?” You make eye contact again, nodding.

“Then you’re all good. I just wanted to talk to you privately about it. Let me know if it becomes too much or something. I honestly just think you have a lot of potential and as your teacher, I’d hate to see it go to waste. I don’t want you doing what I did. I didn’t try hard enough.”

“That’s besides the point, though. You can go. I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Mr. Dobrik promises as you both stand and he begins walking you to his door. He’s putting the doorstop in as you step out of his room, making sure you hear his Can’t wait to see what you come up with for me!

You stay up until 2AM ensuring everything is perfect.

#david dobrik fic #david dobrik #vlog squad #vlog squad fanfic #david dobrik x y/n #david dobrik x reader #david dobrik x you #david dobrik imagine #vlog squad imagine #vlog squad fic #david dobrik fanfiction #david dobrik fanfic #teacher/student au #TALK TO ME ABOUT IT #WHAT DO YOU THINK

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xiaq · 6 years ago

Photo

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446814/chapters/35854725 Lucifer was an angel once.

That’s what Nursey thinks, the first time he sees William Poindexter.

Because the boy is beautiful even though he shouldn’t be. Even though he’s doubtless the kind of person who would punch you in the face if you said the words “you” and “beautiful” to him in the same sentence.

His skin is choked with freckles. It’s potentially more freckle than skin, really. Not just his face, where his nose and cheekbones are so hyper-pigmented they look tanned, but his collarbones and forearms and the knuckles of his calloused hands. The close-shaved dark ginger stubble of his hair should make his ears look too big or his mouth too wide but instead it accentuates the long curve of his throat, the cup of velvet skin between the tendons in the back of his neck. It makes his cheekbones sharper, his eyes—so light brown they look almost gold—more stark under pale spiky lashes.

He’s wearing boots and jeans and a leather jacket that could either be beat to shit for aesthetic reasons or just beat to shit, and a permanent scowl that will likely give him wrinkles at an early age but right now is just terribly flattering.

It all adds up: the interesting face, the long, wiry frame and taut, fight-ready stance, to create a body that casting directors for edgy photoshoots would salivate over. The sort of photoshoots that, if they involve teeth, it’s not because people are smiling.

The point is, he has a carefully curated look and that look is fuck off.

Nursey wants to touch him.

Nursey has never touched someone with that many freckles before and he doubts this particular someone would let him close enough to try which is, he thinks a little despairingly of himself, perhaps why he finds the boy so damn compelling.

The grass is always greener.

You always want what you can’t have.

Etc.

Regardless. That’s Nursey’s first impression: An angry, pigment-spangled, potentially once-divine being. An angel trying very, very, hard not to be.

Nursey reminds himself, standing in line at the administration office, trying not to stare at the nape of the other boy’s neck—the freckled knob of his spine, pushed hard against the skin just above his collar, that Nursey is at Samwell to focus on hockey, not admire transfer students who are undoubtedly straight and probably won’t share a single class with him and who he’ll likely only see from a distance for the next year and then never see again and that’s a good thing because he’s here to focus on hockey.

Except then, the new kid steps up to the receptionist’s desk and says in a rough, surprising drawl. “I’m a transfer. Poindexter. I need to pick up my dorm keys.”

And Nursey knows that name.

Because it was in the email that Coach sent out over the summer. It was the name that was written in sharpie on the scratched DVD on Coach’s desk that he’d pushed toward Nursey the day before. Coach had tapped the DVD with a blunt finger and said, “I’ve found you a new D-partner, Nurse.” And Nursey had taken the DVD back to his yet-unpacked room and played it on his laptop, stretched out on the bare mattress of his shitty lofted bed. The footage was grainy, badly spliced together and clearly shot unprofessionally from the stands, but it was enough. Poindexter was good. Big, but fast. Aggressive, but smart. Together, Nursey thought, they might be great.

So when Nursey hears the name, he doesn’t even think. He just speaks:

“You’re the new defenseman?” he asks. “William Poindexter?”

And the boy turns around and considers him with what might be contempt but what might just be the way his face looks and says, “Yeah?” like its a challenge.

And Nursey thinks:

Oh no.

***

William Poindexter has his mother’s eyes and his father’s nose and on his face they’re still a family.

He considers his reflection in the filmy bus-station bathroom mirror, rubs his thumb down the raised line of scar tissue bisecting his chin—pink and new and only partially hidden in the drip-paint collage of his freckles, and then rubs harder, more habit than intention.

After spending the summer as a stern man on his uncle’s lobster boat—sorting, banding, baiting, re-setting, trying his best to repair the limping hydraulic trap hauler that probably should have been scrapped a decade ago—layers of sunburn have turned into a tan, multiplying the pigment across his nose and cheeks and shoulders to a point where he looks constantly dirty. Like he’d been working in his other uncle’s garage and absently smeared an oiled forearm over his face.

His cousin, Saoirse, the one who’d left for New York at eighteen, got a job in marketing and now only returned home for shorter and shorter visits at Christmas time, had once said that Dex looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. He thinks she was trying to be mean. Or elitist. Or both. But he’d sort of agreed with her. He didn’t know who Jackson Pollock was, at first, but when he’d gone with his aunt into town the following weekend he’d used the library computer to google him.

At thirteen, with new calluses on his palms from his first ever boat haul, constant peeling skin over his nose and shoulders, and the kind of secret that scrapes your insides hollow, he’d found the paintings, grainy and pixelated as they were on the old computer monitor, strangely familiar.

Maybe he was like a Jackson Pollock painting: a dark, incensed, anxious, spatter of reds and yellows and blacks and blues. Too much color for one canvas. Too much feeling for containment. Too much, maybe, in general.

Someone bangs on the bathroom door and he stops glaring at his reflection because there’s nothing much he can do about it.

He uses a paper towel to dry his hands, runs his fingers, still damp, over his buzzed hair, and shoulders his duffle bag.

Samwell is waiting.

He’d googled Samwell at the same time that he’d googled all the rest of the best hockey prep schools in the country.

Same library.

Same shitty library computer.

Initially he’d wanted to try and play for a junior team, he was good enough, he’d been scouted, but now, money issues aside, billeting would be all but impossible considering his legal situation. So he’d spent stolen hours at school and after work searching boarding schools with prep hockey teams, comparing stats and rosters and course offerings, before he sent in his game tapes and paperwork with scraped together application fees and letters of recommendation from his former and current coaches.

He’d applied to six schools and was accepted at two.

Samwell was the closest, not that he really cared about staying close, but his lawyer said it would make things easier for possible future hearings if he was within a few hours drive of home. If he could even call it that anymore.

Samwell was also the cheapest, which he did care about, and it routinely produced D1 and NHL prospects which was his primary concern. A full scholarship with housing, a meal plan, and a chance to elevate his game to the point that maybe, next year, he could get a scholarship to college? Or even get drafted?

An easy decision.

After getting a handful of salt-crusted 100’s from his uncle at the harbor early that morning—payment for his summer of work—he’d hitched a ride with another stern man from Port Marta to Brunswick and then took a Greyhound from there to Boston, and then another bus from Boston to Samwell.

And now he’s here, standing outside the station with a paper map from his library’s equally shitty printer, a duffle bag from the army surplus store full of abused hockey gear, and an address written in permanent marker on his wrist.

He does have a newly-purchased cellphone, an unfamiliar weight in his back pocket, but he doesn't want to call an Uber because according to the map, Samwell’s campus is only a mile away and he’s not ready to start spending his money yet. Definitely not when there are more important things he’ll need soon. Like new skates. Books. Clothes.

He shoulders his bag and starts walking.

When he gets there, the campus looks exactly like the online pictures: Sun-dappled and idyllic with people lounging under trees and throwing footballs and weaving colorful bikes in and out of foot traffic on immaculate sidewalks.

He’s too hot in his leather jacket and the strap of his bag is rubbing the side of his neck raw but he walks with a purpose and doesn’t make eye contact when people look at him.

And people do look at him.

He’s six-foot-two, will probably hit six-three soon, dressed all in black and carrying a bag over his shoulder that’s nearly as big as he is. Doubtless, he stands out like some sort of hulking freckled raven among songbirds.

By the time he finds the administration building his palms are so sweaty it’s hard to get the stupidly ornate door open, and, once inside, standing in line on the marble floors, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, the whispered assertion that’s been following him since he stepped foot on campus gets louder:You do not belong here.

He’s felt that way for most his life, though, wherever he was, so it isn’t that disconcerting.

He clears his throat when it’s his turn, stepping up to the counter at the student center, trying to muster a smile.

“I’m a transfer,” he says, “Poindexter. I need to pick up my dorm keys.”

Before the receptionist has a chance to answer, though, the person behind him speaks:

“You’re the new defenseman?”

Dex turns to look at the speaker and pauses.

Because he recognizes the boy’s face.

He’d seen it on rosters and game footage.

During his furtive research, he’d memorized the names of three players at Samwell. Three players he thought were exceptionally good. Maybe NHL good. These would be your peers, he’d told himself.

The first was Jack Laurent Zimmerman. Center. Senior. Number 1.

The second was Christopher Franklin Chow. Goalie. Junior. Number 55.

The third is now standing in front of him:

Derek Malik Nurse. Defenseman. Senior. Number 28.

What he hadn’t anticipated is that, off the ice, Derek Malik Nurse looks a lot less like the goon he does on the ice and a lot more like the kind of boy his father warned Dex against becoming, sometimes with words, but sometimes with fists.

Because apparently off the ice Derek Malik Nurse wears cuffed skinny jeans stretched tight over the bulk of his thighs and half-unbuttoned floral shirts and pale, stretchy, yellow headbands to hold back his curls. His dark skin is clear and pore-less and the delicate gold chain around his neck should look out of place on someone so broad but it doesn’t.

He is irritatingly well-groomed.

He’s also waiting for an answer.

“Yeah?” Dex manages, and it maybe comes out more aggressive than he intended.

“I’m Nursey,” Derek Malik Nurse says, extending a hand and smiling: straight white teeth and the easy confidence that comes with money. “I’m on the hockey team too.”

Nurse’s hand is warm and dry and the torn callouses on Dex’s own chapped hand scrape jarringly against Nurse’s soft palm.

“Dex,” Dex says, because if there’s one thing hockey has given him it’s a name that his father didn’t.

Nurse squeezes his fingers, holds on a moment past comfortable, grins wider so the skin around his grey-green eyes crinkles, and says: “Dex. Chill. Coach says you’re going to be my new D-partner.”

And all Dex can think is:

Oh no.

You can find the rest of the story (all 74k words!) on A03 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446814?view_full_work=true

#nurseydex #nursey/dex #derek nurse #william poindexter #myfic

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honeymoonjin · 6 years ago

Text

enjoy your stay - chapter eight

A/N - Just for now, I’m trialing not putting in chapter links on this post to see if it helps more people see it since the tumblr search function cuts out posts with links. If there’s not a big difference, I’ll put them in later, but to see the first chapter if you’re a new reader, please click on my blog and check out my masterlist.

ENJOY YOUR STAY ↳Boss!Namjoon, Chef!Jin, Receptionist!Hoseok, Bellboy!Jimin, Bartender!Jungkook, Accountant!Yoongi, Photography student!Taehyung ↳Some inappropriate language and cursing. Later chapters have sexual content.

SUMMARY ↳Working the graveyard shift at a hotel isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but your coworkers are certainly happy to have you here.

CHAPTER EIGHT ↳Your delightful encounter ends up leaving a bitter taste in your mouth when Jimin doesn’t respond the way you’d hoped. But perhaps a new source of comfort is around the corner.

Maybe it was too much to ask for you to just have one good day. It felt like after every good thing, there was a disaster around the corner just waiting to happen so that you didn’t get too happy.

In this case, it was your car breaking down on the side of the road ten minutes outside of town after you and Jimin fucked in a scummy bathroom like animals.

He was remarkably calm and collected about the whole ordeal as the two of you hung out in a ditch with smoke billowing from your hood, but maybe it was because he just had the soul sucked out of him less than half an hour ago.

You, on the other hand, had long left behind the post-orgasm bliss and were desperately holding back angry tears as your car was towed away, and a taxi was called out to take the two of you home.

The mechanics told you it would cost a small fortune to fix your shitty vehicle, but you had no other choice. You lived far enough from your workplace that walking or cycling wasn’t really an option, and you were too proud to take the bus. Besides, you had Jungkook to worry about too.

It only took a couple of hours to fix, but it took more out of your savings account than was put in from working every day for the past two months. If you were a more stubborn woman, perhaps you’d scowl and mutter about it practically being highway robbery, but instead you found yourself in the lobby of the local accounting firm, asking if you could have an appointment with Mr. Min Yoongi.

It was foolish of you to invite a freeloader into your home, acting like you were an upper middle-class diva when really you had just enough cushioning to feel a little secure.

Now, with your car using up more money than you had, you realized just how sad your finances were looking. You couldn’t even afford to hire an accountant, but you didn’t know where else to go. At least he could give you some advice, or something like that.

“What a delightful surprise,” he drawled when you were led into his fancy-schmancy corner office, “to what do I owe the honor?”

“It’s nothing to do with work. I just need some personal help with my finances.”

He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose and steepled his fingers together. “Hmm. I find that being an accountant is much like being a doctor or a dentist. People only come to me when something’s gone wrong.”

“You’d be correct. Only problem is, I don’t have enough money to even hire you to help. I was just hoping maybe you could give me some advice.” You cleared your throat and avoided his gaze. “Hoseok told me about you two. I don’t suppose you’re interested in taking on another…client?”

He narrowed his eyes at you as your gaze burned a hole in the carpet. “Are you propositioning me in my place of work?”

“…Mhm.”

“Tell you what,” he declares, “I’ll take you on as a pro-bono client as long as you promise to never fucking do that again.” His tone is deadpan but luckily not angry or insulted.

“Got it, chief.”

“Don’t do that, either.”

“Uh- Thank you, sir?”

He nods thoughtfully. “That’ll do. Anyway, pro-bonos look pretty great on the CV apparently, and I’ve always been too much of a cold-hearted asshole to do them before, so, it’ll work out for the both of us.” He unlinks his hands and scribbles a post-it note, tucking it away in a thick leather-bound planner. He sighs. “And please ask Hoseok not to speak of his sexual relations with me.”

You pause. “Is that another condition for you helping me?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Then, with all due respect sir, not a fucking chance.”

He twiddles the pen in his hands and stares down at it in resignation. “Got it, chief.”

“Did he look hot?”

“That’s a pretty redundant question, Hobi.” “Fair. Continue.”

“Anyway, I really feel like him and I are vibing, you know? We had a little back-and-forth, we gave each other cute nicknames, he told me I warmed up his cold, dead heart…”

“I’ve been wrist deep in him, Y/n, so I’d say I know him pretty well, and there’s no fucking way he said that.”

“Maybe not in those words exactly,” you concede, chucking your empty paper cup in the trash can at his feet.

Work was a little slow today, so you had gotten permission from Namjoon to ‘help Hoseok tidy up his work space’, which just meant you and him chilling out behind the desk for an hour, chatting about whatever.

“Anyway, where’s Jimin?”

Hobi shrugs. “He went home early. Probably caught his dick in the vending machine again or something stupid like that.”

You grin. “That’s a shame, it was perfectly functional last time I checked.”

“Well, you know Jimin, al- Wait! What?” Hoseok’s eyes are comically wide, and he’s staring at you like you’ve given him a million dollars. “I cannot believe you let me sit here, discussing my sugar daddy for an hour before letting me know that! You little minx, tell me all about it!”

After spending another twenty minutes explaining the precise physics of your sexual encounter, Hobi finally let you leave to go do rounds again, but before you went back to Namjoon’s office, you tucked yourself away in the storage closet to make a phone call.

He picks up after the first ring. “Hey, baby,” his husky voice answers, and you just about melt right then and there.

“Jimin, how come you didn’t come to work today? I was looking forward to seeing you again.”

He grunts, and you frown at the muffled noises coming through the receiver. “I knew that if I saw you, I wouldn’t be able to control myself.” He lets out a dreamy sigh. “I can’t even control myself now,” he murmurs.

“What do you-” You hear a wet smacking sound repeating rhythmically, and Jimin grunts again. “Are you seriously jerking off right now?”

He laughs breathily, but it catches on a moan. “Yeah, baby, when I came to work, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I got hard right in the middle of the lobby.”

You frown. “Well, can you please…stop for now? I wanted to talk to you.”

Another whine. “We are talking.”

His breath is coming out in little pants and whimpers, and as hot as the sound is, you feel yourself getting frustrated, and not in the good way. “Seriously, Jimin, I’m trying to have a proper conversation here. I was going to ask you out to dinner, or breakfast, or whatever. I thought we should get to know each other better.”

He doesn’t respond, choosing instead to whisper sweet nothings like ‘fuck, baby’ and ‘feels so good’ over and over into the phone.

You think back to the last time you were in this closet, having a very different phone call. How Jin respected you so much that he wouldn’t even go out with you because he didn’t want you to end up disappointed. How he would forgo his own happiness to make sure you didn’t make a mistake in dating him.

And here was Jimin, jerking off like a teenager, completely uninterested in you asking him out.

You squeeze your eyes shut and rest your forehead against a shelf. “Jimin,” you whisper, unsure if he can even hear you as he gets louder and louder, “Jimin, this isn’t what I wanted. If all you want is sex, I’m not going to take part in whatever this is anymore. I don’t need a fuck buddy, I need a boyfriend. I need someone who understands me. I think you and I have misunderstood each other. I’m sorry.”

Somewhere in the middle of your monologue, he thankfully stopped, and the other end of the line was silent, except for the sound of him still breathing hard. “Baby,” he started eventually, “we haven’t misunderstood each other. I really like you. The way you sucked me off yesterday, god, it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen! Give me a chance.”

“No,” you reply softly, but your tone is final. “I’ll leave you to your jacking off.”

“Baby, just-” He’s cut off as you hang up.

Surprisingly, the whole encounter with Jimin has resolved a lot of bitterness with Jin. You could understand him now, not wanting to get involved with someone who expects something you just aren’t the right person to give.

It’s that sense of closure, like you made the right decision with Jimin, and that Jin had made a good call with you, that leaves you quite content as you speed through the rest of the shift.

Jungkook excitedly whips out his laptop when you pop into the bar, showing you an online course he found that would let him study game development specifically, rather than the generalized computer programming degree. He runs you through all the different topics, aware that you had no idea what they were but perfectly happy to spend forever explaining each one in excruciating detail and then thanked you profusely for letting him live with you.

When you had returned home yesterday after the whole broken-down car fiasco, you were genuinely shocked to see your apartment still in one piece. In fact, in the time he had to himself, he had set up his room with a desk and a little bookshelf he had found at the secondhand store. He was really making the place his own, and it made you feel like a protective mother hen to see the boy so happy.

He was just as pumped today and made sure to let you know how grateful he was. Jungkook had a completely different energy about him when he was doing something he actually enjoyed.

It was only twenty minutes away from the end of your shift when Hoseok called Namjoon’s office, saying there had been a noise complaint filed against the room that Taehyung was in. Namjoon, who was steeped in paperwork and reporting, asked you to handle it, saying that sometimes Taehyung could blast music a little too loud, but he’d turn it down if you told him to. He even threw in the exclusive offer that if you went and dealt with it, you could go home early afterwards. Of course, you’d have to wait around for Jungkook to get off, but finishing early was finishing early, so you gratefully accepted.

As you made your way to the hallway of rooms, you wondered what type of music Tae liked to blast. Did he wallow in self-pity to mopey 60s music like a tortured artist, or did he know all the dance moves to the latest k-pop hits?

But the closer you got, you realized there was no music at all. The hallway was completely silent. You knocked lightly on his door, but received no response.

If it wasn’t for the fact that you really wanted to get this sorted for good and go off duty a little early, you probably would’ve walked away.

As it was, you decided to whip out your master keycard and let yourself in. It was only once you got past the threshold that you heard any noise at all.

Certainly not loud enough to warrant a noise complaint since you couldn’t even hear it yourself directly outside the door, but it was there. The second you heard it, your heart dropped into your stomach, and your gaze immediately flicked over to the far side of the room where the sounds originated.

Jimin and Tae were entwined with each other, Jimin in Tae’s arms against the wall in a cruel mockery of the time you spent with him just the day before. Taehyung hadn’t heard you come in over the sound of Jimin moaning, but since the bellboy was conveniently facing the door, he glanced up over Tae’s sweaty shoulder when you came in and grinned at you.

The room tilted a little as your vision swam with the tears that quickly built up. He really couldn’t give a shit, could he? The moment you told him you weren’t interested in sex, he went out and found somebody else.

In any other circumstance, the scene playing out would’ve been completely pornographic. Jimin, hair sticking to his forehead, stared you deep in the eyes with a sultry smugness, jerking at each devastating thrust from the man below him.

Later, when you had cried all the tears you had to give, you would be thankful that at least Namjoon asked you to go instead of walking in on his little brother and the bellboy himself. But for now, you felt stupid and ashamed and used, and it must have been some masochistic streak that caused you to stand there for what was at least a full minute, never glancing away from Jimin’s mocking gaze as he muttered sweet things into Tae’s ear and breathed in little whimpers that were harmonizing sinfully with Taehyung’s deeper grunts and groans.

You tore your eyes away once as the two men began to come undone, bolting into the hallway and slamming the door behind you.

As valiantly as you tried to remain composed until you reached the staff carpark, hot tears spattered against your cheeks as you all but ran down the hallway. Clearly there was no real noise complaint. Clearly Park Jimin knew exactly what the fuck he was doing when he got you to come to Tae’s apartment in the middle of their tryst. You always saw Jimin as a little petty but there was really no reason for him to be this cruel.

What was it you said that caused him to be this way? He was just proving the reason you called quits on whatever it was the two of you had. You were right, really; there was no way he was boyfriend material if this was how he responded to rejection.

Perhaps the worst part of this is that you couldn’t even tell anyone about it. While workplace romance wasn’t illegal, fucking your way around the hotel staff was certainly frowned upon and was sure to bring an awkward light to the night shift. There was no way you were explaining to Namjoon the situation you found his sibling in, and you had no way of knowing whether Hobi would take your side or his.

As you bawled your eyes out in anger and frustration, you weren’t keeping track of the time at all, and you just about jumped out of your skin when the passenger door opened.

“Alrightey, let’s g- Oh my god, what happened to you?”

You shook your head mutely at the boy who sat himself in the seat beside you.

“Are you alright? Do you need me to drive?”

You sniff. “Do you have your license?”

“N- No.”

“Then no.” You clear your throat a couple times and pat your red cheeks a little to sober yourself before making the awkward drive home.

Jungkook had the good graces not to ask questions in the car, or once you got home and collapsed onto the couch to resume sobbing, but by the time midday rolled around and you still hadn’t moved a muscle except to wipe your dribbling nose, he brought you a block of chocolate and sat on the couch next to you. “Please, noona, tell me something so I can help you, I hate seeing you like this.”

You chow through a row or two of comforting confectionery before you answer. “Boy troubles,” you mumble. “Not much you can do about it.”

He tucks one leg under the other so he can face you fully on the couch. “Maybe it would help to just vent. Get it all out there.”

You raise your eyebrows, but he just blinks at you with his wide eyes, completely serious. “Fine. I had sex with a guy, told him I wasn’t interested in sex if it meant nothing to him, and then he got mad and fucked somebody else as revenge. He even set me up so that I walked in on the act. Sick son of a bitch.”

“What? Isn’t revenge porn illegal? I read that somewhere,” he stated.

“It is illegal, but this wasn’t technically revenge porn, it was…revenge sex. I don’t know. I just feel so shitty that he would do something like that. And then I feel shitty for feeling shitty because I shouldn’t care about him anyway since I was the one that ended things, right?”

“I had this one girlfriend,” Jungkook mused, “who would follow me around everywhere, always wanted to have sex, always wanted to make out. And so, I did. But then she told me she’d rather not bother with the making out and just go straight to sex all the time.” He broke off, eyes distant, and shook his head slowly at the memory.

You frown. “How is this supposed to help me?”

“Oh, I guess it probably doesn’t, but I just wanted you to know I’ve had a girlfriend before, and I’ve had sex before, like, multiple times, so I get what you’re going through.”

You open your mouth to retort, but then realize you have no idea what the fuck to say to that. Your mouth closes again.

“Anyway, when we finally broke up, I was super devastated. But after a while I realized that even if I had done whatever she wanted, I wouldn’t be happy. And it was kind of better to be sad knowing that I made the right decision, than be sad and not do anything about it, you know?”

You tilt your head in confusion. “Your grand thesis is that if I’m going to be miserable either way, I might as well be miserable on the moral high ground?”

He swallows and pouts a little. “Well, you’ve been having this conversation with me for the past five minutes and you’ve already stopped crying. You can’t be sad if you’re too distracted to think about your problems.”

“Your logic is very poorly constructed, but I think I see your point.”

He smiles at you, then, and leans in a little to rest his hand on yours. “If you want, I can distract you, noona.”

TAGLIST (if you wish to be added, send a message or an ask.)

@xxqueenwxtchxx

@fandomarchive00

@cvbachacbitch

@echimozart

#bts au #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts scenario #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #jimin x taehyung #jungkook x reader #jeongguk x reader #enjoy your stay

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the-writerly-night-owl · 6 years ago

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The Ideal Applicant

Open Heart/ Ethan centric

Summary: Ethan Ramsey narrows down his candidates for Edenbrook’s residency and finds one persons profile very intriguing.

Authors note: Written for @confessionsofabrokegirl who wanted to see a story about how Ethan chose MC to be a resident. I’ts not very long but after that last chapter, wow, it was hard to concentrate on writing any other story today. I was eager to post something that I had close to done lol. Warning for swearing in the first line!

Ethan Ramsey groaned as he looked at the stack of applications on his desk. Fuck this shit, he thought, ready to just go back to his patients. He had got here early to look at the residency applications. Rubbing his eyes he glanced over at the clock seeing that it was 4:30. Just get it over with…

“First I want students that graduated top of their class,” he said aloud to himself. As if anyone would hear him.

Hurrying it wasn’t hard to find those people. All the applicants had to email their hospitals the following items: personal statement, Dean’s letter, medical school transcripts, results of USMLE Step 1 and Step 2, and three letters of recommendation. What he actually printed and going through was the personal statements. It would be a waste to print transcripts. The dean’s letter and the letters of recommendations always bragged about their students. So, the personal statements would be easier to sort through.

There were still over a hundred applications left. Edenbrook was the best hospital for a reason. Finally deciding that choosing from good schools would be next. Ivy league students at least chose some promise as he set aside fifty of those applicants.

With sixty personal statements on his desk Ethan got reading. Fifteen of them got canned for sounding so fake. Forty-five left before deciding what to do with the remaining. An additional 20 were cut just for not having something stand out. Of course, he was being unfair but he needed to be impressed and see that they were passionate. This job required that passion.

Then with that Ethan stumbled across an applicant that stood out to him.

Clarissa Anne Sinclaire – Johns Hopkins University

Graduated top of her class and volunteered throughout high school. She had apparently researched and wrote a thesis on genetic diseases, including looking at her own family for the past two hundred years. Even traveled to England to do it and volunteered overseas. Has a duel degree in public health and her ideal residency would be with people who were just as passionate as her.

It almost sounded like too good to be true as Ethan searched her name on his computer. Sure, enough the first thing he found was her thesis. Then her linked in profile and other information. It was actually really fascinating as he found himself looking at a picture. Huh, she’s a redhead he thought.

There was potential a lot of potential as he looked at the other applicants. None of them had anything that really stood out to him as he tried googling the other applicants’ names. Instead Ethan’s mind going back to Clarissa. She was intriguing at least before finding a Facebook profile. Gosh this was a terrible idea to look online and relieved to see that she had protected herself well. The only images that he could see was her friends and family and a post from three years ago. She was social and outgoing which was perfect for the job.

Contemplating he looked at the letters of recommendations her professors had sent. Joy to work with in class. Blah blah blah, the usual, as one professor recounted a story with her and a patient during his dying days. Clarissa had compassion and a genuine love for what she did.

Forget the interview. With the right push she could be a great doctor.

“Doctor Ramsey,” said someone from the door as he looked and saw one of the interns. “We need your candidates for the residency program to give to Dr. Lee. Have you chosen applicants?” Oh shoot he thought before glancing down at the four others that he did like, just not as interesting.

Wordlessly he passed her the file as she glanced down at it. “Perfect, I’ll set up the interviews,” she said happily with a few other files in her arms.

“No need I just want them.”

“But we don’t know anything about them.”

“I don’t care.”

“At least see them…”

“Boy oh boy does it look like I care? Does this look like the face of a person who cares? Just bring them in, I can’t keep looking at these. I have another job to do. If you’re really invested in setting up interviews by all means set them up with the coordinator but I’m not doing it myself. Just let Doctor Lee that my number one applicant is on the top.”

The intern nodded wordlessly as he sighed and closed out of his computer. Then got up to look for Doctor Banerji. At least this part of his job was done.

Tag list: @perriewinklenerdie @cordoniaqueensworld @universallypizzataco @princess-geek @ifyouseekheart @darley1101 @mariamulroney @brightpinkpeppercorn @itsbrindleybinch @elainew13 @paisleylovergirl @symonde @melodyofgraves @fluffy-cat-whisper @countrymusicandncis-blog @am-i-invisible777 @queen-among-writers @flyawayboo

#ethan ramsey #doctor ethan ramsey #dr. ramsey #dr ramsey #dr. ethan #choices: open heart #open heart #choices open heart #choices oh #choices: oh #playchoices fanfiction #playchoices #choices you play #choices: stories you play #choices stories you play #choices

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idktimdrake · 6 years ago

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New Windows Update Pending

It all started with a “windows” update. You know, one of those super annoying updates that you keep clicking “wait 24 hours” until you mess up and accidentally forget and turn off your computer, only to scream in frustration and press the “esc” button about 50 times in a vain attempt to further delay the inevitable. Or better yet, one of those updates that force restarts without warning, no matter if you’re 5 pages deep into an unsaved term paper or not.

But. I digress.

Actually, looking back on everything, I’m 90% positive that it wasn’t ACTUALLY a window’s update.

The notification looked the same as usual. The orange and white box lit up my darkened room compared to the anime I was watching. I distinctly remember feeling annoyed. I had been marathoning some random gundam for hours and the notification had interrupted a particularly intense moment and didn’t give me the usual option to delay it.

Wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible, I clicked the “Update and Restart” button and walked out of the bedroom to pee and reheat a quick bowl of whatever was left in my fridge. If I was lucky and walked slow enough, the updates might almost be done when I made it back to my laptop/

So, you can imagine my surprise when I returned to the update completed and the screen just finished with booting up.

At first, it looked like nothing had changed. Then, something caught my eye in the corner of the screen. It looked like an image of an animated….. Paperclip?

My curiosity got the better of me and I clicked it.

The paperclip’s eyes blinked and a chat bubble, not unlike those I’d see in comic books appeared over him. This scene looked familiar.

“Hello, I’m Clippy! I’m happy to be back helping everyone again. I’ve even been promoted! So long, Microsoft Word! I’m now your personal Window’s assistant!”

I then remembered where I’d seen Clippy before. This little guy had been a giant help with essays, giving tons of tips in Microsoft Word, when I was in elementary school. He had disappeared around 2007 and my 10 year-old heart was sad to see him go. But within the next 11 years of my life, I had all but forgotten about hum. I did a quick screenshot of him to make a post on social media about him later and went back to watching anime.

I guess that it was my fault for what happened next for not investigating into Clippy more, when I absolutely should have. The animation wasn’t exactly smooth, his color scheme was just off enough to register in the back of my mind, and, weirdly enough, I couldn’t find any kind of settings or something like that to disable or mute him.

However, I just couldn’t bring myself to call customer support. Phone anxiety, you know?

The biggest red flag should’ve been when my anti-virus software disappeared. I just came home from work one day to it gone. I had purchased it when I downloaded the browser, TOR. However, at the time of this discovery, I still had not finished that term paper and it was officially 2 days late by that point and I was way too stressed out over that to care.

Over the next few weeks, Clippy became more active as various updates went through and it got more functionality. I know that it's sad and maybe even cringy, but in a way, I felt like I had made a friend in Clippy. To clarify, it’s probably pretty obvious at this point, but I didn’t exactly go out very much. I went to work and I went to class. Sure, there were a few people that I kinda hung out with, but I always kinda felt like an extra. Clippy actually asked about ME and his AI updated to incorporate these answers into later interactions.

For example:

You could sync your social media with him and then use your mic to use voice command to have him update your statusesAn AI chat feature got added kinda like chatbot except much better. It could even “talk” back through the speaker. This made him feel almost like a real life friend. He even created a Microsoft account for me! I didn’t even have to go through all the confusion of navigating a new social media. Clippy was able to ask me for all the information and transfer it all over on its own. Some general stuff like birthday, address, job, interests, family to add to friends, etc. You know what I’m talking about.The coolest thing was that I could say “Clippy take a selfie and he could use my webcam to take a photo of me and automatically post it online

Clippy had grown on me. To me, Clippy was the best decision Microsoft had made in years.

Except it wasn’t.

Again, I have no one to blame for what happened except for myself.

I knew it was weird for Clippy to offer “tips” and “search options” when I browsed curiously through the other side of the internet to see if the rumors some smart-ass computer science major said were true.

I know I should’ve done more than stick a used band-aid over my webcam when I noticed the light was on, on a few different occasions, without me even opening the camera program.

And now, I’m regretting it.

One afternoon, that I will never, ever, EVER forget, while I was watching a different anime and trying to forget about the class that I had just failed because I never turned in that god-forsaken term paper, I heard the door open.

At that point, I was frozen with fear. I desperately hoped that I was just hearing things. At the very least, the robber would take the tv and games in the living room and be done with it.

Well…. I didn’t need to worry about any robbers.

I could only stare as my door slammed open. I stopped breathing as men in black masks ran in with guns. I only was able to gather my breath to scream before a blindingly hot and painful feeling assaulted my side. I can only guess that I was tasered. I’m not entirely sure about that- the pain became too much and within seconds, the world spun and went black.

As I was fading out, though, I could see the blurry outline of another man walk into the room with what I can only logically assume was a phone in his hand. I heard a beep followed by “She’s been secured” before I completely lost consciousness.

My last thought was that I recognized that voice. One that I hear everyday.

It was Clippy.

A lot has happened since then and I’ve only just now been able to piece everything together. I’ve been moved from place to place for a few months now. I don’t even know what day it is. Hell, I don’t even know what country I’m in.

But that’s about to change (I hope). Instead of my normal bed in warehouses with the rest of the girls, I woke up in what looks like an office. It doesn’t even look like the same building. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. I was one of the only ones who still had something of a complection and definitely the only one who was healthy enough to still get her cycle. Lord knows what they used to drug me…. Or how long it took to get me here, for that matter.

I wonder if whoever bought me is going to kill me. Or am I going to be lucky enough to be a mistress slave. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up one of those girls in that chat room I found one time. The one where the spectators choose what happens to the girls. Death would be a mercy compared to what they endure.

You know, I was watching the news at one of the nicer warehouses and they had a brief mention about a new type of virus. Apparently they make their way into your devices when you visit “at-risk” websites and disguise themselves as normal system updates to steal your personal information. The reporter tried to make it seem like they’re talking about identity theft. Neat. I wonder if they’ve connected what’s happened to me. The reporter followed up with some general tips for protecting your device that any dumbass knows.

Except me, I guess.

So here I am, writing this all down while I still can on a random notebook with a random pen that I somehow found. This office isn’t exactly big, but the door is locked, so I can’t exactly go looking.

A few things:

Any and all rumors about the dark net you hear….. The truth is so much worse.

Always double check that a software update is legit

Call customer support if you’re not sure, you pussy

Don’t befriend fake AI

NO MATTER WHAT, trust your gut ALWAYS

Oh shit…. The door just unlocked...

**This is a purely fictional short story. This is not making any kind of statement against Microsoft nor am I making money from this**

#writblr #creepy #creepypasta #clippy #short story #kidnapping tw #aesh speaks #horror #horror tw

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hamletandthegang · 6 years ago

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Flower Crowns

Ophelia sat on a gray stone bench. Her blonde curls fell delicately around her shoulders. She was wearing a white blouse with pink embroidered flowers on it, and denim shorts. A flower crown made out of small white flowers sat on her head. They would be weeds in a botanists mind, but Ophelia thought they looked nice.

Annalise, Ophelia’s cousin, sat next to her on the ground, picking flowers. Long, black braids were balled up in a tight knot on her head. She had a small pile of tiny white flowers sitting next to her, and was carefully making a flower crown like the one Ophelia had. Her yellow shirt and converse shoes with yellow stripes complimented her dark skin perfectly. After finishing it, she placed the crown on her head, picked up her phone, and nudged Ophelia to get her attention. They snapped a selfie, and she posted it onto her Snapchat.

Chilling with my favorite cousin!!

Little sparkle emojis decorated the edges of the picture, and the filter she used made their eyes look big and cute.

“Thanks for letting me crash here, again.” Annalise said softly. Her voice was usually fruity and gentle, but today she sounded very groggy from lack of sleep and stress.

“No problem.” Ophelia’s high-pitched voice tingled back.

“Are you sure your dad is cool with me just popping up all the time?”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. He technically lives upstairs, my flat is my own.” Ophelia said that, but she knew it didn’t matter who’s apartment it was.

Ophelia’s dad owned a small tower on the east side of the castle of Denmark. They had moved in the moment that the new king had been crowned, because he wanted Polonius to be more accessible. Polonius’ job was very murky as to what he was actually supposed to be doing. Most of the time he hung out with the king or was busy fulfilling the orders the king had given him.

Ophelia had begged to move to the small room on the floor below, and had finally worn him down enough that he hesitantly said yes. Now she had a tiny kitchen, bathroom, living room, and bedroom, all to herself. It was extremely cramped, but Ophelia didn’t care. It was hers, and nobody could stop her from doing anything she liked in it.

Annalise had spent a few days the week before sleeping on the couch of the tiny apartment. Her home life was crumbling quickly. It had been stable for a while, but now that her dad was out of jail, it wasn’t going very well. He had been arrested for drug abuse a few years prior, but had caused such a ruckus in the jail that the punishment was extended for a few years. Annalise had never liked staying at her dad’s home anyway, she preferred her mom’s, but now that he was released, he was trying to take her mom to court over the custody of Annalise.

Annalise wanted desperately to go to college in England with her friends. She had the scholarship (without which it would have been nearly impossible to go to a university), and was completely ready to leave when her father showed up and started pressing charges. The college was the same one that Hamlet and Horatio attended. But she was going to have to go to court whenever her parents got the whole thing sorted, so she would just have to come straight back at a moments notice. Her professors had understood, and were excusing her from classes and allowing her to take an online class on her computer in the meantime. Annalise was still seventeen, which meant that she was still a ‘child’ in the eyes of the law, and her father could press for custody. It would only be for less than a year even if he won (which was highly improbable).

Her mother worked around the clock. She was a kind woman, but was rarely home. So most of the time it was Annalise sitting at a computer for days without seeing anyone else for more than a few minutes. The castle was an hour’s train ride away, and so whenever things got heated, or she just became so lonely she couldn’t stand it, she would come to Ophelia’s place and stay for a while.

Aesthetics, art, and social media had built a wall around her so that she felt and acted very okay and chill. It was a wall, able to be cracked like any other.

“Hey, there’s your boyfriend,” Annalise poked Ophelia’s knee teasingly. Her head immediately popped up, and a smile grew on her lips as she spotted Hamlet weaving around a bush looking for the girls. He looked rather hot in a black T-shirt and jeans.

“Hamlet! Over here!” Ophelia called with a wave of her hand. Hamlet turned, and smiled. He trotted over to the girls, and Annalise stood up. She stood taller than Hamlet, as she was 1.73 m (5’8 ft.) and Hamlet was the same height as Ophelia 1.68 m (5’6 ft.). Hamlet did not like being short, and denied it whenever possible. Annalise fistbumped him, and then excused herself from the couple. She knew they needed to talk, and skipped through the entrance of the garden and into the tower.

“What did you want to talk about?” Ophelia asked, fiddling with the half-made crown in her hand.

“I need your help.” Hamlet sat down on the bench next to Ophelia. “Your dad is really close to my uncle, and he tells him everything, right?”

Ophelia nodded, “Pretty much.”

“Great,” Hamlet thought for a moment.

“So what did the ghost tell you?” Ophelia lowered her voice.

Hamlet looked at her for a moment, hesitating on whether to tell her or not. He gave in, and started. “Horatio and I were over near the church ruins, right? And it had been a little while, and nothing had happened, until I thought I saw the ghost walking inside the middle of the church, where it’s less broken down. So I ran over there to see what it was, and it- it told me-” Hamlet stopped, and looked up into Ophelia’s big eyes. “It told me that the king killed my father to get the throne.”

Ophelia’s hands flew over her mouth as she gasped, “What?!”

Hamlet nodded, “He poisoned him one day while he was asleep, and then wooed my mother after he was dead.”

“Oh my god, that's terrible!” Ophelia looked down. “I’m so sorry Hamlet, I should’ve known.”

“No! I should’ve known! I should’ve seen the signs! I should have figured out that my uncle was a goddamn murderer!”

Ophelia shushed him, and Hamlet stopped. “Well,” She started, knowing she was on thin ice. “What if he was wrong?”

Hamlet turned, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Ophelia grasped for the right words. “It’s a ghost! In a church? That in itself is weird. Also, what if it was trying to get you to go after your uncle for some kind of revenge, other than that he was killed by him. Ghost’s don’t have to speak the truth.” Ophelia braced herself for the dramatic explosion, but instead Hamlet looked thoughtful.

“Hmm. I guess I’ll just have to find a way to prove it.” Hamlet didn’t seem bothered by the setback.

“How?” Ophelia asked.

“I’m not sure yet, but for right now I just need to throw him off my track. Which brings me back to you; I need help. Assuming he’s guilty, he is probably acted so oddly around me because he’s trying to move any blame off of him. Overcompensating. If that’s true, then now that I know it’ll be easier for him to know I know. And if he knows that I know, then he’ll find some way to get rid of me to make sure that no one else knows. So your job is to help me make him not know that I know what he knows! Does that make sense?” Hamlet looked over at Ophelia.

Ophelia stared at him. “Nope.”

“Okay,” Hamlet sighed and rubbed his temples. “I need to make sure that he doesn’t know about me knowing about the ghost. To do that, I’m going to pretend to go crazy, which will make him think that anything I say, purposefully or otherwise, is not in a right mind. It will also lead him down a wild goose chase to look for remedies for my “madness”. I need you to go to your father and tell him that I’ve gone crazy, which he will definitely tell the king, and I can have more time to stall while he figures out why I’m crazy. I need more time to think of a way to get my revenge, and figure out whether he’s guilty or not in the first place.”

Ophelia nodded slowly, “Okay, I think this makes sense.”

“Good. So I need you to go and tell your dad…” Hamlet trailed off. “What’s something a crazy person would do?”

“Uh,” Ophelia thought for a moment. “I don’t know, maybe climb up to the window of my room for some reason?”

“Ooh! That’s perfect.” Ophelia looked at him oddly, but he kept going. “Tell him that I came up to your window, jumped in, and… Oh! I had my pants down!”

“What the hell?” Ophelia shouted. “Why?!”

“I’m supposed to be crazy!” He yelled back. “Just, hang on a second. Tell your dad that I came up into your room through the window, had my pants down, and yelled. Then I went away. That’ll make it seem like I’m mad in love with you!” Hamlet looked at Ophelia, searching for approval.

Ophelia stared back at him. “That’s so dumb, aren’t we dating?”

“Does your dad know that?” Hamlet looked at her slyly.

Realization dawned on her face, and she made a finger gun at Hamlet. “Ohhh, okay. I’m getting it now. When should I do it? I can text him right now-”

“No, wait.” Hamlet cut her off. “Do it tonight. My mother suspects that we’re dating, but my uncle doesn’t know yet. This will give him enough time to think about it and then go to the king.”

“Okay!” Ophelia kissed him on the cheek, and placed a flower crown on his head. “I can do that! Good luck, I’m going to go find Annalise.”

Ophelia walked off towards the tower entrance, when Hamlet called to her. “Ophelia!” She turned. “Wanna go out this Wednesday?”

She beamed at him. “Sure!” She blew him a kiss, and flounced away.

Hamlet smiled, and stood up once she was out of sight. He caught sight of himself in a window. The flower crown sat nestled in his mess of brown hair.

He hoped this would work.

#hamlet #hamlet&co fics #hamlet modern au #ophelia #OC Annalise #horatio #polonius #shakespear #fics #hatg1

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momentumgo · 6 years ago

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Jennifer Schlichting

Animator + Illustrator https://www.jenniferschlichting.com/ Seattle, WA Age 32 She/Her

How did you get your start in motion design, animation, or whatever it is that you do?

I always knew I wanted to do something with computers and art. I've always loved drawing but didn't know how to marry the two. When I was 8, Toy Story came out and it immediately captured my imagination. As I grew older and realized what it took to create something like that I dreamed about working at Pixar one day. Long story short, I went to The Art Institutes of Minnesota and got a Bachelor's in Media Arts & Animation (which is now closed it was such a joke of a school). While I was there from 2007-2009 we had a few classes that dabbled in 3D Studio Max and Maya. I got to dive into 3D which was great, but it was such a painful user experience it put a huge damper on my desire to create 3D animation work of any kind.

After graduating in 2009 I moved back to my hometown in Iowa and had a hard time finding creative work of almost any kind (shocker, it's IOWA haha). I took a job as a bank teller to pay the bills and married my "high school sweetheart." A few years later I landed a job at one of Nordstrom's photo studios as a photo retoucher and lived in Photoshop all day making models and clothes look impossibly perfect. I also took the odd business card or logo design gig that came my way and fed my soul creatively by taking up painting with watercolor.

After six years in an abusive marriage, living paycheck to paycheck, having a toxic work environment, and my creative soul dying more every day I finally got up the guts to put an end to all of it. I divorced my husband, quit my job, and took everything that could fit in my SUV (including my cat) on a three day road trip across the country to move out to Seattle. I only knew a handful of people and had no job lined up, but I had a place to live for free for two months while I figured out what the heck I was going to do with my life next. That was enough for me.

I landed a contract job at Amazon doing basic graphic design work for the next 7 months and the pay was (just barely) enough to land my first studio apartment in Seattle. Knowing my contract would be coming to an end soon I was keeping my eye out for my next gig the entire time. Not knowing many people in Seattle (let alone the motion design community) made it really difficult to get in anywhere at first. I found a local Adobe After Effects and Cinema 4D meetup group and started going every month to meet some of the community and pick their brains on how to break in. I started doing YouTube tutorials in my free time and revamping my portfolio.

One of the art directors at Amazon heard I was looking for my next gig and after she went through my portfolio with me she suggested that I read The 2 Hour Job Search. It gave great advice on how to get out of the black hole of submitting your job application online and never getting anywhere. I started going directly to people. My LinkedIn search began and the emails were flying out the door. I made a spreadsheet of all the studios in the greater Seattle area, what kind of work they did, the contacts I was making, what kind of jobs they were posting for, and got to work creating projects to put into my first reel since 2009.

People were slowly starting to respond to my emails and accepting my offers to buy them coffee. I met so many lovely and helpful people (and a couple oddballs too haha). I asked what kind of work they were doing, how long their contracts usually were, what it was like to do animation work all day every day, what they were getting paid, and how tailoring their reel got them in the door doing the work they want to do.

One guy I met up with in particular (while I didn't know at the beginning of the conversation) was looking for a motion design intern to bring onto their small but mighty agency. By the end of our conversation he offered me the position! He had a passion for teaching and he could tell I was hungry to learn. While it didn't pay much, and was only a couple days a week I was able to put "motion design intern" on my resume while also working part-time doing graphic design work for a shoe and apparel company. I had just turned 30 and accepted an intern position, but was so thankful for company that didn't discriminate against age!

A few months later I heard back from a corporate telecommunications company I had applied to several months prior. They were interested in starting up an internal studio instead of outsourcing out all their work to agencies in town. I would be the first full-time creative on the team and had to be a unicorn. I knew a little video editing, some storyboarding, some motion design, some graphic design, and that was enough for them to offer me the position.

Fast forward two years and the team has grown to 20+ people and I've done everything from t-shirt design, graphic design, motion design, video editing, storyboarding, and deck design for massive conferences. It's not always fun or exciting animation work, but it pays the bills and afforded me a house in the crazy Seattle market.

How do you balance your work with your personal life? How do the two influence each other?

There have definitely been times when there are late nights at work but they seem to be fewer and farther between now that the studio is more established and they are working through better processes. I'm in by 9am and leave by 5pm most days. Weekend work is rare. We get two weeks paid vacation each year (and more the longer you stay with the company) as well. There is definitely more fun animation work in Seattle than what I'm doing currently but it's nice to have a steady paycheck and have time for personal projects on the side.

State your privilege – What circumstances may have helped or hindered you along the way?

I'm a white female born into a Midwest middle class family in the United States. I have a Bachelor's degree which was paid for in-part by my parents but I carried student debt until 2018 (thanks to my abusive first marriage-my ex refused to work for several years and insisted his "business ideas" would make us millions one day). I got out of debt myself by pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. The college I went to was not a great one and have learned so much more on my own since graduating than I ever did in college. I went to college full-time and year-round to graduate faster while also holding down three part-time jobs to help pay for college. It also saved me a ton of money every month after moving in with my now husband and paying only partial rent in Seattle.

I've always had gumption and a stubborn, never-give-up attitude. I was taught at a young age that I had to take responsibility for myself and my future and took that seriously. My parents weren't thrilled I wanted to go to an art college (and they had two more kids to put through college as well) but made a deal if I wanted to go I had to pay my own way. They took out the loan for me, but I paid it all back. I didn't have any scholarships but I made it work. I think it helped that I attended community college for two years before I transferred to The Art Institute and that lowered the tuition bill because of all the general education classes I took beforehand.

If you are a caretaker, how do you arrange your life so that you can achieve your professional goals while being responsible for others, (parents, children, etc.)?

My husband was a package deal and came with twin 9-year-old boys. We have them for a full week every other week. I'm not going to lie – it's a lot, even having them for an entire week haha! My husband and I both work full time but he has more flexibility when it comes to start/end times for his day and working from home. He drops the boys off and picks them up from school/daycare/camps/appointments/swim lessons/ etc.

The weeks we don't have the boys we spend our nights and weekends taking care of housework and building our portfolios (he's a creative as well). We are also trying to be more aware of how we spend our time and shift more of it towards self-care and doing more fun things together vs. the never-ending "to-do" list all the time.

How have you learned to practice self-care? What do you do to take care of yourself?

This is something I'm still working on, haha! My husband does a great job reminding me to take time for myself, and we love to go out to eat, go to the beach, go for a hike, get massages, or paint and draw together. I've also recently swapped my hour+ commute to work where I would drive myself through Seattle traffic with now taking a corporate shuttle in. This has given me so much of my time back where I can read, draw on my iPad, or catch up on my favorite YouTubers.

I also love painting in my downtime (http://www.jenniferelizabethstudios.com/) which gives me a wonderful break from all the screen time and let's my hands do something tactile. There's no undo button with watercolors and I've accepted that and turned it into a more "zen-like experience" where I try not to control everything haha.

Just getting outside and into nature can be so refreshing. Even if it's a ten minute walk outside on my lunch break can do wonders for my mood. That, and getting 7-8 hrs of sleep/night! Oh, and making sure to take lunch breaks AWAY FROM MY DESK.

And snuggling with my purring cat never fails to make me feel better no matter what's going on in my life.

How do you define success? What would success look like for you?

Being happy and fulfilled with the life you're living. I've always liked the quote "Create a life you don't need a vacation from." Which, may be difficult to do but I think it's definitely something to aim towards.

Success isn't all dollar signs, but getting paid what I'm worth is definitely a win for me. Plus it's always nice being able to take people out to dinner and buy them nice Christmas presents. :)

On another note, I always feel successful when other people reach out wanting to chat and hear about my experience thus far. Whether it's people looking to shift gears slightly or change career tracks entirely it always makes me feel happy and successful when I can help someone out with any lessons or things I've learned along the way.

What advice do you have for those just starting out?

Take advantage of all the resources online! There was almost none of that ten years ago when I was starting out.

Don't be afraid to reach out to people. You never know where it'll lead. :)

Leave your ego at the door and don't be a jerk. Nobody wants to work with a jerk.

Never stop learning.

Look for jobs with titles other than "motion designer." Currently my title is "Communication Design Manager". LOL . Read the job descriptions to see if there will be animation work involved! Sometimes companies don't know what to call us.

Some great inspirational and informational resources to check out:

-Design for Motion: Fundamentals and Techniques of Motion Design by Austin Shaw

-The Freelance Manifesto: A Field Guide for the Modern Motion Designer

-The 2-Hour Job Search

-Real Artists Don't Starve by Jeff Goins

-Show Your Work! by Austin Kleon

-Broad Strokes: 15 Women Who Made Art and Made History (in that order) by Bridget Quinn

-The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown

-In the Company of Women by Grace Bonney

-Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert

-Creative Pep Talk by Andy Miller

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esor-ogramira · 3 years ago

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Update about future plans

So remember when I said that I was gonna attend online college full-time to get an Associate’s Degree in Web Development and Management? Well, after a talk with my sister and parents, I’ve realized three things.

1. I’m not really that invested in becoming a website designer. 2. If I were to become a website designer, I would be dealing with computers for 40 hours per week for work. When computers malfunction, I get angry and anxious, which leads me to become rather... violent towards that computer. I wouldn’t be able to let that happen if technology malfunctioned at work. 3. My mental health has really tanked over the past two years, because I’m living in a house with my parents, my sister, her husband, and their three kids. One of whom had Kawasaki’s symptoms when she was 3 (now she’s 9). When it comes to vaccines for that kid, she either literally gets the illness the vaccine was supposed to protect at a later date, or she gets a very bad reaction to the vaccine. If she were to ever get COVID, regardless of whether it’s one of the newest variants or one of the older variants, there would be a high likelihood that her Kawasaki’s symptoms would return and if they did return, she would die. My sister literally learned that fact from a paper published by one of the Kawasaki’s-specific doctors who treated my niece. So until COVID becomes more like the flu, with a new variant only coming out once a year and a new booster to protect against that variant, none of us can leave the house, except to go to doctors appointments, go to local parks, go for drives with no desitnation, or go to work (my sister’s husband is a high school art teacher for the local school district, so he always wears an N95 mask, even though the mask mandate for schools in our state has been lifted.). And nobody except for my other sister, my other sister’s husband, their kids, and my brothers can come over to our house because we’re still having to pod with them. None of us can met with anyone outside of those households. Not even if we’re outside, social distancing, both parties are wearing masks, both parties are fully vaccinated+boosted, and both parties have tested negative for COVID in the last 48 hours to 2 weeks.

With that third point, I can’t stand being downstairs with my family, simply because if I’m on my parents side of the house (their in-law addition to my sister’s house), my mom almost always has the news on and doesn’t want to change the channel. I can’t feel comfortable on my sister’s side of the house, either, because my youngest niece (the 9-year-old) is very loud and boisterous with her singing and vocalizing. She also tends to run around upstairs singing, which my room is right at the top of one of the two stairwells in the house. My only safe space at home right now is my room, which I spend most of my time in. Lately, I’ve been so low on spoons that whenever I think to try messaging one of my friends, I just feel too mentally exhausted to bother trying.

ANYHOW, that almost got a bit vent-y! What I want to say is that also on the third point, I was originally planning on moving out after I got my degree and a job in the field, which would be 2+ years from now. Every time I have a meltdown or a panic attack, I say that I need to move out as soon as I’m able to, but then I also say that that won’t be for another two years because of the degree program.

So I’ve decided that I won’t be pursuing that Associate’s Degree! Instead, before the semester starts on August 29th, I’m going to drop my classes/tell the college that I’ve changed my mind and that I don’t want to get the degree for personal reasons. This summer, I’ll be searching for full-time jobs at local greenhouses (there’s a LOT of greenhouses that are popping up around my area lately!) or behind-the-scenes jobs at local retail nurseries! I’ve already contacted one of the people I worked with to find a job last time, and the process to getting a new case manager for me with a new organization is already underway!

TL;DR - I’m not gonna pursue that Web Development and Management Associate’s Degree anymore, due to a few realizations about myself. Instead, I’ll be looking for a full-time job at either a local greenhouse or a behind-the-scenes position at a local retail nursery!

#long post by Margo Rose #life update from Margo Rose #long post

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best-4urlife · 4 years ago

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I Was Only In My Teens, When I Started Earning Money Online

This is how Abhishek Chhabra, the teenage boy from Abohar, Punjab, India started earning money online. best-4urlife.com wishes him all the very best in all his future endeavors.

I was in Class 8, when I didn’t have a computer and a fast internet in my home. Despite these, I never gave up the urge of earning money online. I tried and failed. But, I still tried and finally that day arrived, when I started earning a handsome amount of money per month from internet.

There are a lot of individuals, who struggle very hard for earning money online and sustain their lives. However, they aren’t really aware of the concept of how to earn online. Let’s know about the inspiring experience of this small town boy, who stood up against all the odds to make money online. Such incredible individuals, who have such a strong determination, focus and will power to get success in life are the true inspirations of our society. Let’s read about his real life experience of earning money online in his own voice.

I was in Class 8 in November 2014. I had to ask for money for every little thing from my home. I didn’t feel good to ask for money always. Instead I wished, if I could really earn some pocket money myself and pay my internet bills and carry out my expenses on my own. And it was then, the idea stroke my mind. I have heard a lot on how to make money from home. But, I didn’t have any idea. So, I started researching on the same. I went through various content and websites as well. But, in every site, it was clearly mentioned that I need to have a computer and a fast internet to do these home based jobs. But unfortunately, I didn’t have any of the above two. I had 2G internet in my mobile. This implied that I could never ever earn online. But, I didn’t give up. Instead, I kept on doing more and more research on earning money online, which gave me an idea. The idea about several apps.

I started using the Recharge apps like Freecharge by redeeming the discount coupons and offers. This way, I started earning my pocket money. Though, the amount was very minimum, but I was very excited. I was very happy. This was my first step to earn money. I started promoting this among my friends and relatives. Though, I couldn’t get support from my parents, my friends supported me through and through. I started working hard on it. But, in a few days, I understood that it won’t be possible to increase my earning in this genre much. This is because, there were several limitations on the monthly and daily recharge amounts. I had to look for something else again.

My hunt for earning money online began once again. I got exposed to several online jobs like doing surveys, form fillings and many more. But, the earning wasn’t much. However, there was some real life experiences through this. And, I was extremely determined. I struggled . But, I didn’t give up. For the next two months, I couldn’t find anything good. I couldn’t earn any good amount as well. But, the only thing I did was I kept on searching and searching. I didn’t lose hope. All I had was my determination and will power.

In the meantime, I invested some amount of money in a website, which claimed will double the invested amount. But unfortunately, I could get no return from the money. Rather, my entire money got drowned. I was broken down. I got upset. I was hurt tremendously. But, I didn’t lose hope.

Here I have a suggestion for all the newbies in this field. If you’re thinking about investing in a company, which claims that your money will be multiplied, then trust me, you may be trapped. My suggestion is simply don’t go for it. There’s no shortcut to success.

And, then came the turning point of my life, when I found Bitcoin. Bitcoin is a type of digital currency. I didn’t have much idea about it. I was a beginner. Initially, I earned only some Satoshis. Satoshi is basically defined as the tiniest fractions of Bitcoins.

Then I tried multiple tier referral affiliate programs. I used various advertising platforms in Bitcoin. I bought certain banners of advertisements in various websites. Initially, I couldn’t get much clicks in my ads. But later, I started getting clicks in the ads. And then it was almost after 1.5 years, I got 100 referrals from a website. And this generated a handsome income for me for the first time. I was extremely happy. I understood that hardwork definitely pays off. It might take time. But, it never gets wasted.

Now, I have a good knowledge on the subject. I started working as a Junior Member in Bitcoin. Based on my activity score, the rank got improved. By that time, my grasp on English also improved. I continued with this for a couple of years.

With all the knowledge and experience gathered, I eventually stepped into a much bigger platform of making money from home. I entered the world of blogging. I have my own blog now, http://fastearningideas.com/ I use this blog to provide knowledge to my readers and the newbies about the various sources of home based jobs. Also, I wish to make my readers aware so that they don’t fall prey to the scam sites and lose a fortune further. I wish people, who are genuinely in need of money could get an exposure to the genre of world wide web and earn a good amount of money to sustain their life.

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douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years ago

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THEY MADE SEARCH WORK, THEN WORRIED ABOUT HOW TO DESIGN TYPE SYSTEMS MAY SHUDDER AT THIS

There are many advantages of launching quickly, but the most successful of that group by an order of magnitude. Common Lisp. And in the early 1970s, before C, MIT's dialect of Lisp, called MacLisp, was one of those rare, historic shifts in the way of Perl's popularity. A poor student who could afford only rice was eating his rice while enjoying the delicious cooking smells coming from the food shop owner, accusing us all of stealing their smells.1 Most hackers who start startups wish they could do searches online. There are other messages too, of course. So by caring more about money and less about power than Silicon Valley, the message the Valley sends is: you should live better. The biggest mistake you can make is not to worry about this.

Put yourself in the position of someone selecting players for a national team. At least one hacker will have to do is keep telling your story, and eventually people will start to get the gold out of it. I think is a red herring.2 And the core problem in a startup is too much for one person to bear. I think I have finally solved the problem people cared most about, which was dictated largely by the hardware available in the late twentieth century it seems to matter more than that. Visually, Paris has the best eavesdropping I know. Early Lisps let you get your hands on everything. Conditionals. Let me repeat that recipe: finding the problem intolerable and feeling it must be, because I wasn't looking for it. If you're designing a chair, that's what you're designing for, and there's no way around it. It's too late now to be Stripe, but there's nothing to distract you. If the founders know what they're doing.

While young founders are at a disadvantage. It won't stop patent trolls, for example, or find fields that are uninitialized. There's a lot of time doing it. So the solution may be to shrink and then figure out a way to answer this question, you have to write it anyway, so in the worst case, it will probably fail. Historically, Lisp has been good at letting hackers have their way with it. Burning through too much money is not as great as it's sometimes thought to be. When I was in college I used to write papers for my friends. The language offers abstractions only as a way of telling you what to do; they'll start to engage in office politics. How grim it must have powerful libraries for server-based applications. It's a lot more interested.

And yet a surprising number of founders seem willing to assume that someone, they're not going to let you just put the money in the bank and keep operating as two guys living on ramen.3 If you start a startup by just writing code. One complaint people have had with Lisp is that it's not true.4 Scheme has no libraries, and Lisp syntax is scary. You got me.5 The good news is, plenty of successful startups, you find they'd often make good startups. If i is the average outcome of the whole company was before.6

So by caring more about money and less about power than Silicon Valley, New York, and Boston.7 New York.8 The usual way to avoid being taken by surprise by something is to be consciously aware of it, and show why most but not all should be ignored. Statues to be cast in bronze were modelled in wax. Oxford and Cambridge England feel like Ithaca or Hanover: the message is there, but not the best.9 Python is a more elegant alternative to Perl, but what we mean by it is changing. What do you do about it? Make something people want.

In a way, it's harder to see problems than their solutions. Programs composed of expressions. Perl: Shell scripts/awk/sed are not enough like programming languages. For some kinds of work better sources of habits of mind you invoke on some field don't have to remember anything, and you're going to have competitors, so you have to work at something that pays the bills. I think a lot of people think they're too young. And in the early versions of the list, because nearly all the founders I know are programmers. Historically, Lisp has been good at letting hackers have their way. In fact, I'd guess the most successful founder we've funded so far, Sam Altman, was 19 at the time and not too resistant to learning new things. Professors in New York the number of people with the necessary skills.

I think the worst danger of committees is that they probably will, one day. But of course it's not a problem if you don't need as many hackers, and b look at the world of programming languages: library functions. So there you have it: languages are not equivalent, and I understand the messages of New York to California residents in the Forbes 400 has decreased from 1. Life in Berkeley is very civilized. Is there some way to beat this limitation? The failed startups you hear most about are the spectactular flameouts. They think of the profiler as an add-on, at best. There need to be moderately smart to succeed as a startup founder. That sounds like a recipe for chaos, think about a soccer team. Whereas if I encourage people to start startups. What I mean is that Lisp was neater than Turing machines was to write a paper for a class I wasn't taking. Good ideas and valuable ideas are not million dollar ideas, and the de facto censorship imposed by publishers is a useful if imperfect filter.

But Lisp Machines along with parallel computers were steamrollered by the increasing power of women, the increasing influence of actors as models, and the best research is also good design, and my habit of always asking would x be useful in a programming language.10 If you're smart enough to start a company by just writing code. You can sense it when you walk around one. So our rule is just to do whatever's best for your users. To the extent there's a secret to success, it's not so pretty. Startups are often described as emotional roller-coasters. Most startups fail because they don't like the uncertainty. Popularity is always self-perpetuating, but it's not going to say you should seek out ideas that would be an extraordinary bargain. An investor wants to buy half your company for anything, whether it's money or an employee or a deal with another company, the rather surprising conclusion is that the people who know this best are the very ones trying to get you to stick to the old model. Instead you should draw a few quick lines in roughly the right place, and then you realize the window has closed. A popular programming language should be both clean and dirty: cleanly designed, with a command-line interface, is more available than one that you have to select 20 players. Whereas if I encourage people to start startups who shouldn't, I make my own life worse.

Notes

Related: Reprinted in Gray, Donald J.

There are aspects of the main reason kids lie to adults. The best kind of secret about the difference.

This is an interesting trap founders fall into two categories: those where the second clause could include any possible startup, and b the valuation at the end of World War II had disappeared. And when they buy some startups and not least, as it were a first-time founder again he'd leave ideas that are or feel weak. Google Google is not the only reason you're even considering the other. 001 negative effect on college admissions process.

Russell also wrote the editor written in Lisp, you don't get any money till all the free OSes first-rate programmers.

It's a case of heirs, professors, politicians, and their wives. Then you'll either get the money was to reboot them, and jobs encourage cooperation, not where to see it in the twentieth century, art as brand split apart from art as brand split apart from art as stuff.

I have to mean the hypothetical people who are younger or more ambitious the utility function is flatter. This is the odds are slightly more interesting than later ones, and would probably also intelligence. And I've never heard of many startups from Philadelphia. By your mid-sentence, but to do it to profitability, you don't want to start some vaguely benevolent business.

Since they don't make wealth a zero-sum game.

I'm not against editing.

But you can charge for. Apparently someone believed you have for one user.

Managers are presumably wondering, how little autonomy one would have become direct marketers.

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell, Jessica Livingston, Robert Morris essay, Patrick Collison, Mike Moritz, Geoff Ralston, and Robert Morris for the lulz.

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yeonchi · 4 years ago

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The absolute state of jobseeking in current year

Today, I take a big step in my transition into society as I begin my first (actual) job. It gives me no pleasure to say that this wasn’t an easy journey in the least because everyone else makes it look that way and therefore, I assumed that it was.

I never had a job (working fast food/retail/whatever) in high school, except for a week indexing documents, filing documents and assembling boxes at a bank for work experience, so imagine my shock when I go to a jobseeking site and everything I find requires at least a year of experience, even the jobs labelled as “entry level”.

During my uni years, I was on welfare benefits that required me to be 18-24 and studying full time. In the second semester of my third year of uni (2019), I decided to defer my last subject to the next year because there was something I wanted to take up that I couldn’t in that semester. Of course, this would mean that I would be studying part-time, so I was no longer eligible for that particular welfare benefit.

Since I thought that it was time for me to focus on looking for work, I signed up for that particular welfare benefit. One of the mutual obligations was that I had to send 20 job applications per month and record them on a web portal. I was also assigned an employment provider to attend appointments every couple of weeks to talk about my progress.

When I first met my provider, I was taken aback by what he said; I thought that sending 20 job applications was a cinch, but he told me that I had to focus on finding full-time work and that I could take up uni studies outside of work hours (my course didn’t count as an exception to their rules). This was quite a shock for me because this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. He also told me that I had to apply for any job I was suitable for and not just what I wanted; bit much to ask for me but ok.

So, for the next few months, I fulfilled their requirements to the best of my ability; I applied for jobs through a jobseeking site and attached a resume with either a short cover letter that I learnt how to write online or none at all if I wasn’t that bothered. My provider seemed like a nice guy, but as time went on, something about him didn’t sit right with me, like either him or the entire jobsearching thing was giving me bad vibes. Learning about the AUWU (Australian Unemployed Workers Union) and some of the things people wrote on their sites and pages didn’t help things either.

About a couple of months later, I didn’t feel like I was making any progress because despite all the job applications I sent, I never got any calls or emails back from them whatsoever (I did get a call for an interview once before I signed up for this welfare benefit, but I didn’t get the job in the end). It was then that I found out (through my university) that another employment provider had a program to help tertiary students living with disabilities find work. While I have been diagnosed with autism, I have never taken advantage of it to seek assistance (I did have teaching aides at primary and secondary school, but I was mostly capable of doing things otherwise so they mostly acted as assistants to the whole class instead of just me and the other kids with disabilities).

I signed up for this program and after going through a long progress of getting a medical certificate from my GP to verify my autism, going to the benefit office to get an assessment and informing my then-current provider of my intentions, I was successfully transferred to that program.

It was also around this time that the coronavirus pandemic happened and lockdowns resulted in me having to attend appointments over the phone or on Zoom, which I had no problem with. At the same time, I was also accepted for a work-from-home position with Lionbridge, which I only saw as a side gig. I did that job for a year before I quit - the lockdown and my various hobbies resulted in me only contributing two hours per week when Lionbridge recommended ten, though I did push myself to do ten hours during two particular weeks where they gave bonuses for those who achieved that goal. The gig was mostly checking Google search results to see if they fit with the user’s intent for the search - it was nice, but boring given that I get distracted while working on the computer at home and I had to record the times myself because their system didn’t do it for you. As a result of the lockdown, I just finished up the one subject I had left to finish my course and that was it. My welfare benefit also doubled because of the coronavirus supplement and I got to do some things I thought I would never be able to do because everyone was exempted from looking for work during that time. Even though I was caught up in some bad timing, I managed to find a big silver lining to it.

While I didn’t achieve much success with jobseeking during my time in the program, I did gain a lot more out of it than I probably would have did with my past provider. I did a short mentorship with someone from a big company who helped me to revamp my resume and cover letter. I applied for a few graduate programs and managed to progress to the assessment centre stage for one of them, but I didn’t get in in the end. I attended a three-week work experience assessment program with an agency dedicated to helping people with disabilities find work with big companies. I never told my career coach about my gig with Lionbridge because I signed up while I had correspondence with my first career coach and she quit a short while after - I don’t think she ever told him about it, so whatever I guess (also, as I said, it was only a side gig, so my goal was still to find full-time work).

On a side note, after a year with my previous provider, I would have had to undertake a “work for the dole” program, which is literally what it says on the tin. I don’t know what would have happened if it got to that stage because I managed to get out as quickly as I could and the lockdowns meant that changes had to be made as a result.

At the start of this year, I applied for what I thought was a part-time job at a single organisation, but was actually a casual contractor role. They accepted me and signed me onto their list and I never got a call or email from them again for like four months (with the exception of a newsletter lol). Remember this as it will be important for the next bit.

A few weeks ago, my coach informed me of a role being available at the very provider I was with. I thought I was very suitable for the job, so I asked him to pass on my resume to them. After a couple weeks of waiting, I was asked to come in for an interview on a Friday (I was only one of two applicants who signed up for that role, they never advertised it anywhere else). I went to the provider’s office and just as I was getting off the tram, I get a call from the contractor role advising me of a new job that was starting in a couple of weeks. I stalled them by asking them to email me the details before calling my coach to tell him about it; he advised me to focus on the job I came to interview for and I agreed since I knew it would be better for me and I had a stronger connection with them than with the contractor. So I ghosted the contractor, did the interview and went home that day with the expectation that I would get a reponse by the end of the day, but I didn’t since the interviewer was busy and I had to wait until the Monday.

I went away for a short trip that weekend and on the Monday, I get another call from the contractor asking me for my response. I stalled them again, telling them that I was out of town, then soon after, I get a call from my coach informing me that I got the job. I called the contractor again and told them to remove me from their list because I now had a full-time role. After a few calls that week, I agreed to start on the Monday after - which brings us up to today.

Personally, the wait was worth it, but the fact that it took four years for me to find a job (one-and-a-half since I signed up for that welfare benefit), most of the companies I applied for never got back to me and the entire thing with my first provider stressing me out just shows the absolute state of jobseeking in current year, particularly for a sheltered autistic like me who has had no experience in the workforce. I’m not advocating for “free money” because I’m evidently capable of working (and I’m also not an idiot), but I wish that companies and the government could give us a break now and then and save us the stress of worrying about whether we will actually get a job or whether we will be capable to feed our families with the amount of money we get and the conditions we have to abide by.

Society may be a fucking joke, but there are times where it comes through.

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