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hes-writer · 4 years

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To You (4)

Summary: harry dates y/n to get closer to her best friend

Warnings: mild angst (what else lol), not a lot of dialogue for this one, and a bit of fluff

Word Count: 2775 words

A/N: I've had the worst writer's block for this series but then inspiration struck me at 2 am and I had the chance to write a lil sumthin sumthin for the next part :D

Read the full series in my masterlist (bio)

As I mentioned before, this story kind of goes backwards.

____

As self-deprecating as it is, Y/N couldn’t help but feel her guard lower with each fleeting glance at her phone. She didn’t mean to, really. It wasn’t as if she was bored out of her mind because she was the opposite of that.

Going on her phone and tapping on Instagram was more of a distraction from studying if anything. She was hounded by piles of homework and pages of readings to do by the end of next week. It seemed that her brain was working in constant overdrive to try to remember the endless concepts and theories that were catapulted at her with no signs of stopping. Her eyes were straining from the constant stimulation from her laptop screen, and from trying to read the small letters plastered on the computer.

Y/N was studying on her designated studying days, as usual. She was quite proud of sticking to the schedule, except for the few weeks that she opted to coddle herself in the confines of her warm blanket because that was around the time that she found out her boyfriend, Harry, was only using her to get close to her best friend, Louise.

——

In retrospect, Y/N should have seen all the signs blaring right in front of her face all along. She gave herself facepalms more than she could count by the way she was—quite literally—blinded by love to realize that Harry’s feelings were nothing but a façade. That Y/N was nothing but a pawn in his game; a character to manipulate, disposable in order for him to get the woman he actually wanted. And Y/N had no doubts that her ex-boyfriend was treating Louise like a queen.

Y/N wore red-tinted glasses while she was with Harry and she didn’t see the red flags rising every time he shaped their evening around Louise’s schedule. She thought that Harry was making such a good effort in getting to know the people close to Y/N’s life that he insisted on having Louise around whenever they hung out with her friends.

Harry asked endless questions about Louise; from where she worked to what she was interested in—to which Y/N had foolishly answered, believing that she had found the perfect man to share her life with. But she should have known when he didn’t do the same for her other friends. Hell, he didn’t even do the same to her!

___

When Harry and Y/N were just friends, he didn’t bother getting to know her as thoroughly and comprehensively as he did with Louise. In fact, it could be argued that Harry hated Y/N when they were first introduced by—and this was ironic—Louise!

Louise spoked highly and excitedly of ‘my friend, Y/N’ and with Harry being the loved-up simp that he was—wanted to please Louise by appearing interested in her friend. He guessed that he was probably too good of an actor (not to toot his own horn) because that meet up turned into a set-up.

Louise had planned a date for her friends, Y/N was indifferent to it; she was even a little excited because she thought that Harry was sort of nice. Despite the fact that he was indirectly rude to her in their first meeting, Y/N didn’t hold grudges on people for their first impressions. She believed that anybody could have a bad day and that might just be the time when Harry was dragged by the arm to be introduced to her.

Y/N understood if that was the case. She was not too keen on acting nice and friendly after a stressful day at work, or a hard study session at the library. So even if Harry was practically snarling at every word she said from his seat around the rounded booth table of the bar—she agreed to go on a first date with him.

——

Harry was in shambles.

He got himself into quite an intricate mess trying to attain the woman of his dreams. He was such a pleaser that he was now contemplating inside his car, outside of Y/N’s address. Was this all worth it? Of course, it was. As much as Harry would like to say that this was part of his plan to make Louise his girlfriend, it really wasn’t.

But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t use it to his advantage.

It was a good thing that he was early—about twenty minutes or so. That was only because he was huffing the whole time Harry was buttoning the clutches of his dress shirt, shaking his head at the bathroom mirror and reprimanding himself for letting his lovesickness to get him deeper than he would like. But hey, the sooner Harry got to Y/N’s place, the sooner this ‘date’ would be over.

So here he was, hidden in the shadows of the night sky and shielded by the heavy tint of his Range Rover. Palms were pressed on the lush leather steering wheel as Harry formulated how he could turn this around in his favour. He was already in Louise’s good books for even agreeing to this in the first place—why not make Y/N his own personal wingman?

Granted, that she didn’t actually know Harry well enough but maybe this date could reach Louise’s ears about how much of a romantic, perfect, and chivalrous gentleman Harry could be. That would surely make Louise like him, right?

Wrong. Absolutely wrong.

It was safe to say that Harry was feeling guilty the moment he decided to use Y/N in order to get to her best friend, but that ship sailed long ago when anger and frustration took over. Why in the hell was he so perfect to Y/N’s eyes that she had gushed about him to her best friend minutes after he had dropped her off?

Why did Harry have to knock on her door with a single-stemmed rose clutched in his fingers, doing a little bow to add humour when she opened the door? And what in God’s name possessed him to say that she looked beautiful that night in her pretty, deep green dress that he thought was absolutely gorgeous on her—but his heart was with another woman—fully knowing that it would look better on Louise?

“Why. . . just why,” Harry asked himself as he sat at a table with Y/N, Louise and her boyfriend, Dylan.

That was what being romantic got him. That was where declaring Y/N as his unofficial wingman ended him upon. A double date with the woman he wanted with Y/N looking at him as if they’ve been together for years, when in fact, they had only known each other for a few weeks.

Harry’s pride was too big to admit that this time; he couldn’t get the girl. And so, his bruised ego declared that this date was just another unplanned situation that would benefit him—somehow, someway—in the future.

Wrong again.

Because a month later, Y/N was running off to her lecture with a bag strapped over her shoulder, leaving Harry a passionate kiss on the lips. He was quite ashamed to say that he enjoyed the affection, but not enough to ignore the throbbing of his heart

Harry wasn’t all in with his relationship with Y/N and he knew exactly why. For months, he had been pining for Louise and well, he ended up with her best friend, Y/N. Now that was just super unlucky for him. And he wasn’t usually a mean person, but Harry was very annoyed with fate (or destiny) for leaving with an ultimatum.

First, leaving Y/N risking her tattling to Louise about him breaking her heart was a no-no. Second, staying with Y/N until she realizes that both of them were no good together. The latter was a much more pleasant choice, except the fact that it could take months for Y/N to acknowledge that she and Harry were both too different for each other.

——

It was another four months later when Harry drew upon an epiphany very similar yet completely different from the ultimatum he had presided.

Y/N was sure of her feelings more than ever, even dropping the ‘L’ word during a drunken stupor of wine and bubbly champagne. Harry was sure that she hadn’t remembered her confession the next morning because she never brought it up. However, those words that escaped her lips were enough for Harry to overthink each night one or the other slept over.

Sometimes Y/N’s snores would serve as background noise to his serene imagination, wondering why the images of Louise and him doing couple-y stuff were now replaced with Y/N’s figure instead.

He also pondered if his memory was so impeccable that he could hear Y/N’s laugh fluttering in his ears while she was sound asleep beside him or was it just because she released a chuckle every time he made a horrible joke?

(It was true. Y/N never left Harry hanging in the air with a questionable punchline of a head-scratching joke. Both of them knew that her giggles were pity laughs. Harry was thankful for it and Y/N just couldn’t resist painting a genuine smile on Harry’s face, looking so proud that he had made her laugh.)

Harry was certain that his feelings for Y/N wouldn’t quite reach the threshold that he held her for now. But it seemed that he was getting a lot of his sworn predictions wrong lately. Sure, their first encounter (and the second, and the third. . .) were purely for satisfaction’s sake. A mere plot for Harry to build his boyfriend resumé for Louise.

Harry wasn’t sure when his feelings shifted from civil and friendly to an ever-evoking, lovesick puppy.

Maybe it was the way Y/N walked, straight into his heart and stole it, keeping it safe in her tender hands when she pressed a lingering kiss on his lip while she ran off to catch the bus. The way Harry would pout when Y/N forgot the routine she had set, resulting in him whining her name and sometimes chasing after her to get his much-needed kiss. He even started calling it his ‘good-luck charm’ because it seemed like without it; Harry came home more drained and tired than usual because nothing went right that day.

Or maybe it was the way she giggled while reading something on her phone, laptop, or a book—even if it was for school purposes. How absolutely pleased he was to hear her melody of giggles, straining his ear to listen more closely and wanting to do nothing more than to hear it again because it was music to Harry. It usually ends with Y/N’s heaving breaths, begging him to stop tickling her.

Was it because she was the most adorable little thing while she was asleep? No, it couldn’t be, Harry thought, even though the admiration in his eyes cannot be described as anything other than glazed over with love and affection with the way he stared at Y/N’s sleeping face.

But why can’t he stop thinking about her when she wasn’t around? Harry felt like he was missing a part of himself as soon as he shut the door to his house because Y/N had to go to her own place.

Why did a smile splinter his lips visualizing Y/N studying at her kitchen table with a topknot wobbling on her head and a pair of her thick-rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose? Harry still remembers the first time she asked him to redo the bun on her head, complaining that it was loosening and that she couldn’t focus when strands were haywire.

Harry made sure to be extra careful as to not accidentally pull on her scalp, stretching the hairband around his fingers.

Now, he only had a minute experience in hair styling, reminiscing to his long-haired days were he slipped his hair into a neat ball in a few seconds or less. But this was Y/N, his girlfriend, who had an adorable pout on her face. The finch between her brows deepening when she tried to understand the concepts written on the screen yet she would giggle when Harry would ask her, ‘Am I hurting you?’ and shake her head ‘no’.

——-

So it was a bit questionable when Harry jumped at the chance to kiss Louise when the time came.

She had just broken up with her boyfriend and called Y/N for comfort. However, Y/N was about to leave for an exam worth half of her grade and she couldn’t just not attend it. She may love her best friend with all of her heart, but not enough to waste thousands of dollars to redo a course because she missed the final exam.

Hence, why Harry was sent in place of Y/N instead. And that was also how his plump lips managed to lock itself with Louise’s’ glossy ones. He should’ve felt guilt stab him right away when he tasted wet, salty tears on his tongue when he battled for dominance with Louise.

Harry should have pulled away when his phone buzzed in his pocket; a message from girlfriend that she had just finished her exam and was ready to be picked up now so that she could give love and comfort to her best friend.

Harry’s subconscious must have reminded him that this was the woman whom he had spent months pining on; desperately trying to make her his yet failing. And now that he had the chance to, he couldn’t stop.

Instead of doing everything his conscience had practically yelled at him to do, Harry’s brain had buffered—his body numbed every nerve except the ones controlling his mouth because their persisting kiss was captured by a photographer hidden amongst barricades that Harry had failed to take notice of.

Harry was sure that his presence was hidden to the best of his abilities, but he guessed that Louise’s hands had pulled his hoodie off in the midst of their make-out session, revealing his side profile and the unruly curls on his head.

And that was how Y/N identified the image on her phone the time she felt her heart being ripped out and crushed into pieces. That, and the fact that Harry wore the same clothes she had seen him in before she left.

____

And now, as Y/N paused her thumb from scrolling away from the image on her screen, the same pain and heartbreak still throbbed in her chest.

She couldn’t seem to forget, as a lot of people say, what Harry did to her. Despite the fact that he was spotted outside her door, leaving boxed gifts of chocolate and flower bouquets a few minutes ago—Y/N simply didn’t have the capacity to sweep everything under the rug.

The wound was still fresh—feeling air was enough to have her hissing, aiming to cover the cut in fear that it would become too painful to even ignore. For weeks, Y/N had to wallow in agonizing self-pity to remind herself that Harry didn’t deserve her or her love for him and now she was somehow ready to run back into his arms?

She absolutely despised the way her hands twitched to send him a text. To leave him a voicemail or to simply tap his contact just to hear him speak to her again. Y/N was ashamed to admit that he thought about knocking on his front door just for another chance at seeing him again. An opportunity to ask him if he was happier with her (ex) best-friend—if Harry loved Louise more than he did with her. Or—and most of all—if Harry ever did love Y/N during their short relationship. Was everything just a game to him?

She was doing good so far; she was strong enough to withhold from the urges of communicating with an ex. However, Y/N knew it was only a matter of time before Harry took extreme measures to speak to her, unlocking her door with the spare key she had given him. One day she would be met with his figure in the hallway with a sad smile on his face and three long-stemmed sunflowers in his hand and Y/N wouldn’t be able to resist him.

Y/N hated herself for being so weak whenever Harry was involved. He was her Kryptonite; getting too close to him was what ripped her to shreds.

___

Let me know what you thought!

____

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laikuh · 4 years

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First, I'm just happy to know that you're both deastiel and daddycest/wincest shipper, since it's so hard to find someone like this in fandom nowdays. Second, about polar looks at John in fandom, I myself see that a lot of younger folks OR newer fans tend to paint John as exclusively bad guy, worse than satan, should rot in hell, etc. With people who both older and was in fandom back when show first aired, don't matter what they ship, I tend to see more nuanced opinions. (1/2)

It's not like I have something about younger/never fans of course. I just think that maybe if your fist impressions on John were then, when he was more morally grey and also you saw how he love his kids and they love him, it's kind of stuck with you. But maybe it's just my luck with corner of fandom I see? (2/2) Btw, about that episode with boys home — I just can't treat it as canon, it's completely ooc for me, and not because I think John was NOT as shit as father (but yes I actually think this). It's just that he so obsessed with ceep them both close, supervised, he needs Dean close to double supervise Sam, he hates when someone from outside interfere with his family etc. Like, I would get if he beat Dean for losing all money at cards etc (1/2) (I don't think he was like... phisically abusive all the time as fandom tends to say, but ok). But not this. Also it feels like milking simpathetic points for Dean and like, that one episode with lucky charms already did it and did better. Anyway, sorry for rant and of course it's all just my opinion and I understand that not everyone thinks like this! Sorry if it was too agressive! (2/2) Oh, and about canon and not canon, what's your opinion on John's diary? For me it's much more canon than seasons after 5 lol. But jokes aside, I think it's great piece of canon and make John much more deep without treting him as saint. I love how he promised hinself that "it's all will be over and Dean will have normal life like any day now, like, we should just suffer a little more, maybe week or month" for literally twenty years for example.

yes, it’s awesome to have a destiel friend! i’ve also been unsure of ~outing myself~ bc i know there’s a divide. but what if i want to write pervy destiel too lol???

i think your comment about the age of fans and their feelings about john is really plausible! i think those of us who watched during the original s1-s5 arc and were part of fandom know there just wasn’t the same kind of discourse. wank was a thing, but you tagged for wank and kept it aside, and now things have shifted and wank has been elevated to discourse and is very public. i don’t think that’s bad, but i think if you’re a newer fan coming into a fandom with 15 years worth of content to discourse about, a character like john really suffers because he’s got a very questionable background. obviously newer fans are probably entering with destiel already part of their awareness given the spn/destiel renaissance, so if a lot of anti-john stuff is living there, they’re gonna be exposed more immediately to it.

i agree john loves dean and sam, and dean and sam love john. i think you can love the thing that hurts you, though, and what i wish more than anything was that the show had leaned in more to the aftermath of john in dean and sam’s life, instead of sometimes making a vague allusion to abuse of any kind, and then flipping back to “wait, but we love john!” i appreciate the reunion episode for what it gives to sam and dean, but from a fan standpoint, it makes me want to tear out my hair. and don’t even get me started on john and mary happily together in heaven. have you read the poet!dean fic everyone goes on about? it really is quite lovely, and there’s so much incredible john stuff in it, in how dean feels about john, how he and sam feel.

i can see what you’re saying about the boys’ home situation, that it would make more sense for john to want dean close. i can also see john wanting dean to learn from his mistakes (getting caught, probably more than the stealing) and making him go. john did it multiple times, which is hard to think about. and I have to say, i disagree about this being a way to milk sympathy points for dean. i feel like we know so little about dean’s internal emotional life as a kid, given there’s only been a handful of episodes about life on the road with dad, and this is an episode that gives us an emotional look into that life. i like dean whump tho, so i could be biased lol. you are definitely not coming off as aggressive! i totally understand how you feel. i don’t agree on parts lol, but that’s okay!

as for john’s diary, i think it’s canon insomuch as you want it to be canon. i have it myself, and the pins that go inside of it, bc i have a lot of john feels lol. and i agree, it gives a great insight into john (and also dean--the fact that kid was MUTE for a while? makes me out of my goddamnn mind). i haven’t read through all of it yet, but yeah. i think it’s an official piece of merchandise for the show, and that if you want it to be canon, it CAN be. and if you don’t, then don’t.

thank you so much for the asks!!! i am always happy to chat <3

#asks

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slippinmickeys · 5 years

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Of the Eight Winds, Part 7

This is part seven in who knows how many from the prompt from @sunflowerseedsandscience : “Mulder is unhappily married when Scully is partnered with him, and while he doesn’t cheat (because sorry that’s not romantic), he falls for her so hard that he finally gets the courage to end the marriage and start fresh.”

Links to parts one, two, three, four, five and six.

When he repeated the words “I, Fox, take you, Dana” he made a face, and she couldn’t help but laugh. It was half nerves and half him and bubbled up from inside her. The officiant smiled at her indulgently, and Mulder repeated himself and again made a face, and again she laughed. This time she looked over her shoulder at her mother who was standing witness, giving her an “ honestly , Dana” look while simultaneously trying to hold a one-year-old Lily who did not want to be contained. Mulder repeated the vows one more time.

“I, Mulder, take you, Scully,” he said, changing the words to better suit them, and there was no funny face, and no laugh. There was only a rightness to it, which washed gently over her and settled her nerves.

When the officiant told Mulder he could kiss the bride, he leaned into her slowly, and then wrapped his arms around her tightly, lifting her feet up off the floor. There were whoops and hollers from the small congress of witnesses, one of which she knew for sure was Charlie, and another she suspected might actually be Skinner.

When they darted out to the car after the ceremony, they were pelted with sunflower seeds which Scully didn’t realize until Mulder picked one gently out of her hair and popped it into his mouth.

They didn’t have a reception, just a small dinner at an Alexandria restaurant.

Scully watched the way Doggett and Reyes sat, heads bent together at the other end of the table and nudged Mulder.

He put his arm around the back of her chair whispered in her ear.

“There’s just something about that office, Scully.”

They had both left the X-Files once Scully was pregnant enough not to be out in the field anymore. Scully transferred to her old teaching position at Quantico, and Mulder “retired,” opting to write books for a few years while he finished his PhD, later opening his own practice.

They consulted often with their replacements and Mulder felt like he spent just as much time at various FBI facilities as he did at home working.

When the Lone Gunmen were killed and buried at Arlington National Cemetery, Mulder stepped away, eventually deciding that his consulting days were over.

A couple of years later, after William was born, they received an “It’s a Boy!” congratulations card postmarked from Arlington, Virginia. It was blank, but for a monogram as a signature, which read simply “TLG.”

As a one-year wedding anniversary gift, Melissa Scully offered to take Lily off of their hands for a week if they promised to go somewhere warm and tropical. Mulder figured Scully had probably put her sister up to it -- or at the very least had her add the tropical addendum to her gift, but either way it was nice to get away from it all. He hadn’t slept in one day since becoming a father.

Melissa came to their door with a small suitcase and a giddy smile, eyes only for her niece. She was rewarded with a big, sticky hug.

Mulder already had their luggage loaded in the car, but Scully lingered in the doorway, she was having trouble saying goodbye.

“Scully, our flight is in exactly two hours and I know you like to get to the airport early,” he said. He would not go back inside himself or he’d have trouble leaving, too.

Finally, Scully gave Lily one last hug and said to her sister, “the terrible twos are a real thing, Missy. Call us if you need us.”

“We’ll be fine,” Melissa said, and ushered Scully outside, Lily perched on her hip. Then she called “I’m not offering when she’s a threenager!”

On their flight home, Mulder reached for Scully’s hand.

“I’m not spending that much money on a tropical vacation again, if we’re never going to leave the room.”

Scully wiped a finger down one side of her mouth and gave his lap a meaningful look.

“Worth it,” she said.

Mulder defended and received his PhD with little fanfare.

Scully made him a celebratory pie (sweet potato), and they sat down on their back porch to eat it with a bottle each of Shiner Bock once they had both kids down.

It was a beautiful spring night, a warm breeze wafting through the woods behind their house. Mulder could almost swear he could smell the cherry blossoms from the district.

He leaned back after finishing his slice in record time and let his fork clatter to his plate. He lifted the beer to his lips.

When he set the beer back down on the table, there was a small brown box wrapped in white ribbon sitting next to his empty plate. Scully smiled at him as she took a sip of her own.

When he opened it, he found the antique brass compass that had passed between them several times.

“Regifting, Scully?” he said to her, mirroring words she’d once said to him.

“Turn it over,” she lobbed back.

Above the old To finding our way... inscription, it now read “ To Dr. M.” He leaned over and gave her a lingering kiss.

When he sat back down and picked up his beer, she reached over with her own and clinked the necks of the bottles together.

“Doctor,” she said to him on a nod.

“Doctor,” he nodded back.

With their second child, Scully went into labor a month early. He’d been speaking at a conference in New York when an organizer pulled him aside as he was exiting the stage from his last panel and told him he had a phone call. It was Mrs. Scully, who sounded concerned but was trying to hide it. In the background he could hear a muffled TV and then a worried three-year-old “ Where’s daddy ?”

The train ride back to DC was torture. He was anxious, could barely sit still. He kept calling Mrs. Scully who said she didn’t know much -- they’d had to take Dana into a Labor & Delivery room and Lily was really bothered by the whole situation so she’d taken her home to her house. Melissa, who had planned to be Scully’s doula, was in San Diego with Bill.

Later, when he was holding the baby for the first time, Scully’s doctor came into the room. There had been some complications with the labor, but Scully hadn’t elaborated, and Mulder had been too elated to by the birth of his son to give it much thought.

The OB informed them that she didn’t think it was possible for Dana to have any more children.

While the doctor was going through the finer points of it, Scully reached out and squeezed his hand so hard it hurt. He could only hear the roaring of blood in his ears.

Scully thought “Crusher” was a ridiculous name for a cat. However, family tradition mandated that every pet be named after a female doctor and Will got naming rights on this one. He had recently gotten really into Star Trek .

The cat sat on the coffee table, as black and fluffy as her predecessor, but with a slightly more quarrelsome personality. Scully thought it was probably fitting being that their first born was about to be a freshly minted teenager.

Mulder came into the living room carrying an enormous bowl of popcorn with Lily on his heels, sulky as she plopped into an easy chair. Good grades had earned Will the Saturday evening activity of his choice and he’d opted for a family viewing of the first Lord of the Rings movie. No family member’s presence was optional and Lily loathed sci-fi/fantasy, much to Mulder’s dismay.

He set down the bowl, which Crusher nosed thoughtfully, and cut his eyes to his wife.

“Will’s in charge of the ice cream,” he said, his eyes widening with a look of slightly anxious amusement.

“Is that wise?” Scully asked.

“No,” said Lily quickly with no small amount of sass, earning her a sharp look from her mother.

Will came in then balancing four tubs of Ben & Jerry’s and several spoons. He paused when he reached the coffee table and gave Mulder a significant look.

“They come in pints,” he said with a British accent, which launched Mulder into an uncharacteristic fit of hysterics. Lily rolled her eyes. Scully wondered what was so funny.

Scully had had one of the longest days on record, and if she walked into a messy house one more time, she swore she would walk directly up to her bathroom, climb into a hot bathtub and not get out until morning.

When she got to their front door, she could barely open it for the load of hockey equipment in front it.

“That’s it,” she said to herself.

She would have followed her oath to the letter if she hadn’t tripped on a cat toy halfway through the kitchen. Mulder and the kids were all parked in various spots around the room.

“You okay?” Mulder asked her, barely looking up.

Her silence spoke volumes and eventually the three Mulders in the house were looking at her with a kind of low grade fear.

“Why,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, “am I the only person in this house who cleans it?”

Will opened his mouth to say something, but Mulder put a hand on the boy’s arm.

“The mop has a handle, not an access code,” she said, giving them each a cold glare before heading up the stairs. “I will be in the tub,” were her parting words.

When she came down a couple hours later, wrapped in a silk bathrobe and a significantly better attitude, she found the house spic and span, a rumpled looking Mulder sitting quietly at the kitchen counter nursing a Coke.

“The house looks great,” she said, and he smiled at her.

“We’ve implemented a few extra columns on the chore chart,” he said, “and I have a row now, too.”

She reached for the Coke and he handed it over.

“Got you something,” he said, and nodded at a lone parcel sitting on the countertop.

When she unwrapped it she found a hastily made homemade sign, made from what she could tell was scrap lumber that had been sitting around the garage. Painted on it were three words in three different handwriting styles. It read “Bless This Mess.” They had all signed it.

She felt her eyes start to tear.

“It’s hideous,” she said, and Mulder laughed. “You can hang it over there,” she sniffed.

It would hang in their kitchen for the rest of their days.

Lily was 17 and was just getting over the nightmarish huffy know-it-all stage of the early teens. Mulder and William—who had just hit the gawky, all arms and legs stage of adolescence—were sitting at the dining room table, taking apart Mulder’s old VCR. It had stopped rewinding and they had a plan to watch Plan 9 From Outer Space that night. Mulder swore the movie was better on video, so William swore it too.

“We’re missing a screw,” Mulder said to his son, who was in charge of keeping the various component parts together on the table.

“We’re not, I handed them all to you,” Will said.

Lily came skidding into the kitchen, grabbing the edge of the doorway to keep her balance.

“Dad,” she said, her voice tremulous and shaky. Mulder was on his feet before she finished saying his name. “There’s something wrong with mom.”

Mulder tore up the steps, the thundering steps of his children right behind him and skidded to a halt in the door of the master bath. Scully was on the floor--he couldn’t tell whether or not she was conscious.

“I heard a thump and I came in here and she was like this,” said Lily, nearly in tears.

“It’s okay, Lil,” he said distractedly, reaching forward to feel for a pulse on Scully’s neck.

When his fingers met her flesh, she inhaled deeply, and tried to sit up.

“Mulder?” she said, her eyes flickering open “what… what happened?”

“Honey, you passed out,” he said, giving her a hand to sit up.

She looked pale, but glanced over his shoulder at the worried faces of their two kids and said, “I’m okay guys.”

She did a self-assessment and convinced a not-really-convinced Mulder that she was fine, with the caveat that she go to the doctor first thing the next morning, and when she walked into the house after her appointment, she looked shocked and was shaking.

Mulder walked over to her and tipped up her chin to connect eyes.

“Don’t make me guess,” he said quietly.

Her eyes shone and she gave him a tentative smile.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

#the X-files #fanfic #msr #au #of the eight winds #my fic

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annafm · 4 years

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(MEDALION RAHIMI, NONBINARY) - Have you seen ANNABEL MAJIDI? ANNA is in HER/THEIR JUNIOR year. The LITERATURE + INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM MAJOR is 22 years old & is a SCORPIO. People say SHE/THEY are DILIGENT, ADROIT, CYNICAL and AUSTERE. Rumors say they’re a member of WINTHROP. I heard from the gossip blog that THEY ARE FAKING BEING A PSYCHIC. (JAMES. 21. EST. THEY/THEM.)

hllo this is anna i hvnt .. played her in a while <3 bt thts okay i think she is very fun 2 play bt like in the way tht she is <3 serious n mean a bit ... bt its okay .. LHKDSGFHLKSDHLKG im sorry this is long this is. an old intro i hvnt rly changed much >.>

CAR ACCIDENT, INJURY TW

aesthetic.

falling feathers darkened at the tips, tweed and pinstripes, red trenchcoats and plaid skirts, worn ballet shoes covered in dust, smudged eyeliner and unruly hair, boxing gloves, ornate canes and pain medication, bandaged hands, classical music floating throughout an empty ballroom, worn jackets and awkwardly cut t-shirts, spilled ink and stained hands, glasses skewed, sneers and jabs, constant fighting, smog in a city, spotlights and encores, piles of books and a long line, backless dresses and sitting alone at a bar, wariness.

basic.

full name: annabel odeda majidi

nickname(s): anna, annie (father only), anna-banana (father only)

b.o.d. - october 31st, 1997

label(s): the catalyst, the charlatan, the minefield, etc.

height: 5′6″

hometown: nyc, ny

sexuality: bisexual

stats

favorite song: you’re dead, norma tanega / now, your hope and compassion is gone / you’ve sold out your dream to the world / stay dead, stay dead, stay dead / you’re dead and outta this world

background.

born to two high schoolers who never married, firoj majidi and parvana banai. they were head over heels for each other - when firoj graduated he took up two jobs alongside community college to support their family, until parvana graduated and took on the arts.

growing up was tough - living in the city wasn’t cheap, parvana’s art rarely sold and the two often went without eating in order to provide for annabel. as a child she’d often wear hand-me-downs from extended family.

was taught to be a hard worker and it was reflected in her schoolwork - anna excelled in all her classes but especially english. her love for writing grew at a young age, and as a child she saved up enough money to buy herself proper journals.

the only thing that she grew more passionate towards than writing was ballet - she caught the image of girls flying through the air and landing on their toes in the window of a dance studio on a walk home from school one day and that was it - something clicked inside of her.

that same day she would spend hours prancing about their tiny apartment, trying to mimic what she’d seen. it was easy to spot the passion anna had for the dance - and within a few months they had saved up enough money for a month’s worth of lessons.

anna was ecstatic - her slippers were old and found in the back of a thrift store by an odd miracle, but she put her all into the lessons regardless. she was quick to pick up on each move, and by the end of the month it was clear that anna had a natural talent.

parvana picked up a job in order for them to keep affording the lessons, month after month - they weighed down on their pockets, but it kept anna happy.

flash forward a few years - life was good. money was still a struggle but they were tight knit.

or rather, anna thought they were tight knit.

firoj and parvana split up when anna was twelve - an event that rocked the young girl’s world, something that she couldn’t understand. they had kept up a front of love when anna was home from school or ballet - but behind doors, they had been growing apart.

anna viewed their separation as parvana running off with another man - an art collector who had a fascination with paravana’s paintings. she viewed this as the end of the world. she viewed this as the death of love.

when anna was twelve, she swore she would never fall in love - refused to believe in its existence. she couldn’t wrap her mind around the simple separation.

her father got a third job in order to keep up with payments, and anna pushed herself in both ballet and school - not being able to handle an empty apartment. she decided to get a job - to help ease her father, but was too young.

so anna decided to do what any average 12 year old would do. she started scamming people.

she’d sell store-bought lemonade as if it were homemade, stole ceramics from art class and sold them to neighbors. she found an old girl scouts uniform in the back of a goodwill and for the next month, she sold knock-off girl scout cookies from the dollar store - going door to door.

her personality had changed drastically - anna went from a sweet, optimistic girl with warm brown eyes and an infectious laugh to cold, calculated, and downright cruel. she knew what she wanted and how to get it.

she got an invitation to a prestigious private school, full scholarship, before she hit high school - originally wanted to reject it as the thought of being surrounded by new york’s richest teens was appalling, but their ballet program was a one-way ticket into the american ballet theatre. anna ultimately accepted the scholarship.

high school was immediately hell for her - pretentious rich kids who all shared a collective brain cell and her secondhand uniform being a prime target for them.

ballet got extremely competitive - anna was a threat to every dancer in their program, bullying and sabotage became standard - but anna retaliated when possible.

this all, however, suddenly stopped when anna picked up her latest scam: faking psychic. through a small network of ‘bees’ she’d pay to gather information (gossip, rumors, etc. etc.) she was able to accurately ~see~ into students’ past, present, and potentially future affairs. the money was very worth it.

from that point forward, people were intimidated by her.

when anna was 16 she was handpicked to join the american ballet theatre’s studio company, alongside 11 other lucky individuals. her dream from that point forward was to become the youngest principal ballerina for abt - and she was going to start by winning over the role of clara in their production of the nutcracker.

she was 17 when she was chosen, much to the dismay of the other girls. she had momentarily quit her ‘psychic’ business in order to dedicate the entirety of her time towards rehearsals & practice.

the final week before her first performance as clara, anna got into a car accident heading home after another tiresome rehearsal. knocked unconscious, anna woke up three days later with no recollection of the accident - and her leg freshly operated on.

it was a devastating event that should had killed her - maybe she would had been better off if it had - but instead, it had effectively destroyed any chances of her dancing professionally.

it took two months of extensive physical therapy for anna to walk again - now relying heavily on a cane.

with ptsd and depression weighing heavily on her shoulders, anna turned back to writing - mostly as a coping mechanism, but it soon became the fierce passion it once was when she was younger.

for the remainder of her high school life, anna dedicated the majority of her time towards recovery, her writing, and directing her school’s theatre productions. oh - and claiming that almost dying had given her the gift of mediumship. it wasn’t too far off from her psychic claims - her peers believed it well enough to either stay away, or pay her for a small amount of comfort.

decided to attend yates for their reputation despite her hatred for pretentious schools (very ironic because she herself is pretentious) & also. she had a scholarship <3 so.

in the midst of writing her first book that’s based heavily on her experiences as a low income student at a private school but like. she’s side-eying all these societies and seeing a Big Money Grab if she were to. write abt them instead

still can’t dance any longer, but she works as a ballet assistant for one of the dance instructors & still tends to barge her way into theatre rehearsals to <3 give her unwarranted opinion

personality & facts.

she’s not the friendliest person. knows what she wants and how to get it, and will not hesitate to use people or push them out of her way in order to achieve her goals.

her cutthroat nature was the reason for her success in academics and dance - tends to intimidate the students in the ballet classes she helps out in.

horribly stubborn - if she’s got an idea of you already in her mind, then it’s hard to convince her otherwise.

still uses a cane - in fact, she can’t really walk without it - unless she wants to be in pain.

it’s sturdy, ornate, and pretty fucking solid. doubles as a weapon if need be - has definitely … hit people with it before, though she’s calmed down now that she’s a little older.

used to be very angry, very defensive as a teenager - is still the same, just … less intense. will not hesitate to speak her mind and let her opinions known - especially in the face of injustice.

doesn’t really have the best … relationship with authority, mainly because of where she was raised and her con-artist businesses. tends to be snarky and sarcastic to anybody in charge - or really, anybody in general.

pretty distrusting, pretty emotionless on the outside, doesn’t like to be seen as weak or somebody to be pitied. keeps herself closely guarded and doesn’t really let others ‘inside’ due to her own comfort levels.

she’ll sleep around but dating is out of the question, for the most part - she’s been on a few blind dates, a few casual get-togethers - but she’s always the one to break things off. is more of a careful hook-up kind of gal.

still does her psychic medium business !! sometimes she wonders if she’s a bad person because of it - but ultimately, it’s on her customers for believing in all that nonsense anyway. anna herself is a skeptic - doesn’t believe in anything unless she can see it and feel it.

is actually … a pretty sentimental person, doesn’t take anything she’s got for granted, and is hugely appreciative of her father. sends him money when she can. hasn’t spoken to her mother in years - pretty sure she’s got a step / half-sibling or two but she’s never met them.

a lone wolf and likes it that way, but she isn’t super opposed to friendship - even if she won’t necessarily call anybody a friend. appreciates others who are similar to her - got their head on right, and knows what they want in life.

has a pretty bad fear of driving - will uber if she needs to go anywhere - even then, being in cars makes her pretty anxious. still has ptsd-induced panic attacks, though she’s managed them pretty well.

doesn’t really do drugs! will smoke weed to ease the ache and her nerves, but otherwise she only takes what is prescribed for her. doesn’t drink anything hard, either. big fan of beer and wine. probably gets wine drunk home alone late at night … like … two times a week.

goes between being high strung and uncaring - she’s not especially moody ( rather, is just consistently angry for whatever reasons ) but she definitely tries to bottle everything up.

probably keeps pepper spray on her at all times, even though she’s got her cane. has cat ear brass knuckles on her keychain - took advantage of the archery club at her private school. she’s not paranoid, she just likes being prepared.

has a soft spot for children, animals, and soft women. kind of person who will put herself in the line of danger in order to protect others - even if she doesn’t necessarily know them too well.

also the kind of person who’ll set something on fire - or do something because you’ve told her not to. incredibly spiteful when wronged. will raise hell if need be.

morally ambiguous tbh.

wanted connections.

who do u think i am ;; either uh. people who have seen her around campus being a bit of a freak like <3 kick someone’s tire in a small fit of rage <3 or spend 20 minutes trying to coax a cat near her so she could pet it <3 or having a that’s so raven moment <3 or someone who tried to help her out with something and she was like. excuse me. what the fuck. get away from me freak loser. maybe threatened them.

slowburn but make it evil ;; uh. when i played her as older she hd a plot where she <3 ws engaged n then broke it off bcos her fiance cheated <3 so i wld like another. plot where she actually <3 tries to enjoy someone else’s company and presence and it just ends up hurting her n reaffirming her idea tht love is? fake n dumb n stupid. thank u.

ykno ... a little dash of spice ... ;; uh. yknow just hookups. hateships <3 or they never talk abt what happened <3 or an awkward drunk one night stand <3 maybe a pregnancy scare and shes like Ah. motherhood Scares me. because she <3 hates her own mother <3 LDSLKFHLGSHLK. it leaves their relationship rly weird the whole ordeal ... maybe even just a blind date <3 or someone she ghosted

read my future ;; customers very classic uh. just people who come to her for her psychic readings <3 and her uh. talking to the dead <3 but also alternately. skeptics ?? people suspicious of her ?? very epic.

like actually Die? ;; enemies. she hates them so bad. maybe its one-sided. maybe theyre an annoyance. maybe she annoys them? very bad not very good.

and we dance dance dance, dance dance dance <3 ;; this is just. fr ballet students. or, hold up, consider this: someone who recognizes her frm this. very tragic event where she cld no longer b a ballerina bc i think it ws. like not the Biggest deal bt if ur muse ran in private school circles ykno ??

pet the feral cat ;; these r the soft <3 normal connections <3 someone she’s soft for / protective of. friends that she doesn’t completely hate.

i Do Not Know ;; i will. take anything. please. weed dealers, people she’s totally sus about for no reason. she steals and reads their mail. they have been rivals for years. they hv a special bond. they r strangers but they get stuck in an elevator. she’s tutoring them bt she wont let them take a break n she keeps making them recite fucking. shakespeare. anything is sexy and fun n cool

#yatesintro #car accident tw #injury tw #ptsd tw

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lalka-laski · 5 years

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1. Do you bite or lick ice cream? Both

2. What is home to you? Anywhere with my loved ones

3. What was the last lie you told? Definitely something minor, I just can’t remember it.

4. Does everyone deserve the truth? That’s a good question. I guess if an individual seeks/demands the truth then they deserve it.

5. What is the creepiest toy ever made? FUCKING FURBY

6. Describe a moment in which you did something unacceptable in a bad situation. Where do I even begin?

7. List two things that are more easily done than said. (No, I didn't mix them up.) Getting out of bed in the morning is actually much easier than I make it out to be. Yet I lay there for ages beforehand agonizing and dreading it. The same goes for working out and going to the gym. It’s all the lead-up that’s worse than the activity itself.

8. When was the last time you worked really hard to achieve something? Several months ago I was doing some intensive therapy and EMDR to detach myself from traumatic memories.

9. How many all nighters have you pulled? I’ve never counted, but not many. I love sleep too much.

10. If humans didn't evolve to laugh or smile, how would we express our happiness instead? Hand gestures maybe? Clapping? Jumping up and down?

11. How many romantic "things" or "flings" have you had? Again, I’ve never counted. I will say I’ve had far more “flings” than actual relationships though.

12. What is your paradise? Laying in bed next to my honey, a breeze from an open window chills the room but we’re cozy under the comforter. Our favorite candle is lit (Winter White Woods), and we’re silently reading our books, setting them down only to occasionally sneak a kiss. It’s my personal heaven.

13. What is your favorite background noise? (Ex. Water dripping, people talking.) Certainly NEITHER one of those, as they both drive me crazy. I like consistent white noise from a fan or AC or something.

14. How many hearts do you think you have broken? Beats me.

15. What is the most important thing about electronics? What does this say about you? I don’t understand the question

16. Why do people care about celebrities? Do you care about celebrities? Because they’re wealthier and more attractive than any average person could ever hope to be, and as a society, we prize those qualities. I also think many of us find it to fun to fantasize or live vicariously through beautiful, rich people. And to answer the second part of the question, I do care about celebrities but I try not to conceptualize them and remind myself that they’re still people.

17. What is the most annoying thing someone can do to you? Walk slowly in front of me in a store/other public place.

18. Do you overexaggerate? What are the pros and cons of this? I sure do, but I’m working on it. I can be dramatic at times... The pros of this are that situations that worry me are never as bad as I envision them to be. But alternatively, that means things I hype up in my head aren’t as great as I imagine either.

19. Have you played any instruments before? Which instruments? Well I think every child in American public schools is forced to learn the recorder at some point. After that, I played the clarinet for a few years. Then as a teenager, I took “guitar lessons” with a friend of mine but we never did much guitar playing....

20. Do you like taking selfies? Why or why not? I do! I prefer them to any other type of photo because I can control how I look in a selfie.

21. List 3 things you like about yourself? My friendliness, my empathy, my neatness/organization.

22. What is the best advice someone has ever given you? I’ve been given lots of great advice over the years. I’m just bad at thinking on the spot...

23. Do you have what it takes to raise a child? Why or why not? I feel that I do. I have a very strong maternal nature, I love babies/children and I have a lot of experience caring for them. Of course, I know *raising* a child is much different than simply feeding/changing/playing, but I believe much of that is a “learn as you go” type of deal.

24. How do you cheer yourself up after a bad day? Cleaning helps me relax and feel better about my life. I also love taking hot baths, journaling, reading, vegging out in front of the TV or enjoying a glass of wine or two.

25. When was the last time you felt awkward? The day I was born and I haven’t stopped since

26. Are you introverted or extroverted? Or a mixture of both? I’m introverted in the sense that I value quiet and solitude, and I feel most at peace when I’m alone. But I have good social skills and (I think) I’m better at interacting with other people than most self-professed introverts.

27. What constitutes a good friend? Loyalty, honesty, established trust. Similar interests and sense of humor are important too, IMO.

28. Would you rather have a lot of friends to hang out with or just one best friend? Just one best friend

29. In a regular day, what do you not want to hear? Donald Trump, or anything related to him.

30. What is your dream job? Writer

31. Is it better to be lazy but smart or hardworking but unintelligent? I like this question! There are success stories from both ends of the spectrum. The optimist in me wants to believe that hard work and grit will take you further than any natural talent will, and in many cases, this is true. However, I also believe in a “work smarter, not harder” approach. Sometimes cutting corners and accomplishing tasks in a more “lazy” way is more innovative.

32. What is a truth about yourself that others find hard to believe? I’m not an animal person at all. I think because I’m a vegetarian and because I just have a sensitive, compassionate nature, people assume I’m an animal lover. In truth, I’d like most animals to keep their distance from me.

33. What have you always wondered about the other gender? E v e r y t h i n g.

34. Which fantasy world would you like to visit the most? Wonderland

35. Describe the worst friend you have ever befriended. No thank you. Not worth the time.

36. Imagine that you have switched bodies with someone you don't know. You can't switch back. What do you do? That depends entirely on whose body I get.

37. If you found the recipe for immortality, would you sell it or would you burn it? Sell it. I’m poor.

38. What is the most important, applicable class you have ever taken? The most formative class I can remember was 10th grade Advanced English. Prior to that, I was a bookworm and always excelled at reading comprehension in school. But it wasn’t until this class that I learned to deeply and critically analyze texts. To recognize the significance of a single word. To appreciate the power of just one detail of a scene or a story. It was in this class that I realized no element of a text is insignificant. 39. Name the last book you read. Currently reading “The Favorite Daughter” by Patti Callahan Henry

40. Imagine that you are unable to express emotion. How would this affect your world? I’m an exceptionally emotional person so everything about my life would change. Everything!

41. When was the last time you made the first move? Almost never. It’s just not my style.

42. What is your opinion on electronic music such as dubstep or trap? It’s not my taste

43. What was the last movie you watched? I truly can’t remember

44. Do you like and appreciate your life? I do!

45. Do you like and appreciate yourself? Again, I do!

46. When was the last time you cried? Couple days ago

47. What are you scared of? Almost everything

48. What is the most embarrassing, cringe-worthy thing you have ever done? I’m not going there...

49. What are some of your hobbies? Reading, writing, crafting

50. What is a superficial yet annoying mistake you constantly make? I mess up pronouns in conversation a lot. If I’m talking about 2 or more people, I might mistakenly interchange their pronouns.

51. Are you a good friend? What makes you a good friend? If not, what makes you a bad friend? I like to think so. Sometimes I’m maybe more distant than I should be and I’m usually not the person to arrange plans. But still, I’m reliable and loyal and I’m always available to lend an ear.

52. Do you honestly learn from your mistakes? NOPE ha ha ha.

53. What have you learned the hard way? Most lessons

54. What is the most important thing to have in order to attain happiness? Love. Whether it’s from family, friends or a SO. I need to know I’m loved, appreciated and supported.

55. Which medium do you use for expressing your artistic emotions? (Singing, writing, etc.) I’m a writer, so the written word is my preferred and most used medium. But I like to dabble in other art forms too: painting, drawing, crafts. And I sing A LOT, which could arguable be a form of emotional expression.

56. Are you a creative or a logical thinker? Creative

57. What is the smartest thing you have ever done? Enroll in therapy

58. What is your ideal meal? Mexican or Mediterranean

59. What is the worst thing someone could do on a date? Tell me he voted for Trump or really anything of that nature.

60. Do you like animals? Which kind is your favorite? A very select few. I love rabbits, deer, goats, cats. That might be it...

61. If you could turn one legal thing illegal, what would it be? Those hidden fees when buying concert tickets online

62. Do you have any guilty pleasures? Fast food. Really any kind of cheap, junk food that’s void of any nutritional value but tastes so fucking good I can’t resist.

63. What is the best thing that the internet has ever created? Road work ahead? Uh yeah, I sure hope it does.

64. Do you like playing video games? Which video games? No, I was never into them.

65. What is your opinion on beauty in today's society? I’m very happy to see beauty ideals (slowly) expanding to be more inclusive. But we still have a long ways to go

66. Are you a morning person? When do you usually wake up? Well 3/5 days of my work week require me to be up at 5:30 am. I usually cry and cringe when my alarm goes off, and sometimes continue to cry and cringe through my entire morning routine. But I often feel better once I get to work, and I like the idea of having the whole day ahead of me. Sometimes it’s nice being awake before most of the world.

67. Do you have a favorite Disney movie? Character? Anyone who knows me knows I’m all about Sleeping Beauty/Princess Aurora. I actually love all Princess movies. Oh, and Toy Story. I live for Toy Story.

68. Would you rather live in the city or in the countryside? The city, I like the convenience of walking anywhere I need to go and/or using public transport. As a non-driver, it’s pretty crucial for me.

69. Would you rather live near the ocean or in the mountains? The ocean, I suppose. Though neither of those options really speak to me.

70. What are the best things about winter? COZINESS. I’m talking fireplaces, fuzzy slippers, cozy jammies, lots and lots of blankets!

71. What scares you most about the future? The uncertainty of it.

72. What makes you feel old? Modern slang. I have no idea what “kids these days” are saying, and I feel like such a loser when I try to use trendy lingo in conversation.

73. How many hours do you spend on the computer or phone on average? Majority of my day

74. What are some of your New Year's resolutions? I don’t make them

75. What is your life story in 6 words? Making it up as I go.

76. Describe yourself in one word. Emotional

77. What bad habits do you do? Worrying, over-thinking, obsessing

78. What genre of music do you listen to? A variety. But most of my favorites could be categorized somewhere in the realm of rock/alternative/pop rock/soft rock.

79. Most prominent childhood memory? My earliest memory was the birth of my sister, one day before my third birthday. And I would say it’s one of, if not the most, important memory of mine, considering her significance in my life and the bond we share.

80. Imagine if you had an older brother. If you already have one, what is it like? If you don't, how would this change your life? I only have sisters, so my life would be VASTLY different if I had a brother. I learned a great deal from my older sister, none of which would’ve been possible if she were a boy.

81. Spirit animal? Deer

82. Do you believe in horoscopes? To an extent. I think they’re entertaining more than anything, and I do believe they can be used as a tool for self-reflection, goal setting, inspiration etc.

83. What is the worst advice you've ever been given? Hmm...

84. List the 3 most important people in your life right now. I’m gonna say “my babies:” Hannah, Aubrie and Samantha.

85. Favorite memory of your family. Oh there are too many to list! It’s never a dull moment when we’re together...

86. What do you look for in a relationship? Passion

87. Do you have a role model? Why or why not? Several

88. What is your opinion on social media? I’m a fan, but I try to limit my usage or at least be mindful of what I’m consuming.

89. Are you a pessimist or an optimist? Realist?

90. List some things that you think are overpriced? Medications of all kinds, feminine products or anything marketed specifically to women, vegetarian foods...

91. What is your worst memory or creepiest experience? I don’t wanna go there

92. What superpower would ruin the world? Mind-reading would cause a lot of issues I’m sure.

93. What is something you swore you would never do when you grew up, but you did anyway? I can’t really think of anything

95. If you could travel anywhere, where would you go? Poland or Iceland

96. How do you approach people? That depends on the situation and environment but usually with a “hello” and a smile.

97. What is your opinion on first impressions? I don’t believe they’re always correct. We all have off days.

98. What are some things you did as a child that you no longer do? I did a lot more outdoor activities as a kid than I do now.

99. What languages can you speak? English, a little Polish.

100. What do you think society will be like in 30 years? I’d like to say I can’t imagine it much worse than it is now but I’m not gonna tempt fate

101. What do you do on your lazy days? Sleep late, stay in bed most of the day, sloth around.

102. What ended your last relationship? He ended it, although I should have. We had too many differences that made a healthy relationship nearly impossible. And he was emotionally abusive, insulting and manipulative.

103. Favorite food? Mexican or Mediterranean. I feel like I already answered this, no?

104. What is the most terrifying dream you've ever had? .....

105. When was the last time you got seriously angry? I don’t get angry often. I get sad and upset, but not necessarily mad.

106. What was the last friendship you broke? I can’t recall

107. Do you have any pet peeves? Several

108. Who was the last person you gave a hug to? A client this morning

109. When was the last time you got seriously stressed? I’m easily stressed so, every day.

110. What part of your personality do you want to change? My anxiety

111. Who is the most positively influential person in your life right now? My friends and boyfriend are all equally influential

112. What is your biggest motivation? Making my family proud

113. What did you want to be when you were little? An author/illustrator

114. What are some things that you are good at? Writing

115. What is one thing you want to be good at? Singing. I’m not bad, but I’d like to be *good*

116. What distracts you the most, especially when you're trying to work? THESE

117. How important is privacy to you? Quite important. Nothing bothers me more than invasive, prying people.

118. If you could create one social norm, what would it be? Kindness

119. What's the craziest lie you've ever told? Uh... probably some ridiculous story I made up while drunk

120. What story do you like to tell about yourself at parties? I don’t have a “go-to”

122. What is the stupidest thing you've done to impress someone? Nothing comes to mind

123. What is your morning routine? It depends on the day. Ideally, I get up and have a nice cup of tea and ease into my day. But more often than not, I hit snooze a hundred times and then end up rushing out the door with my hair unbrushed and my shoes barely on.

124. What's the last thing you did that is worth remembering? It’s all worth remembering

125. If karma was coming back to you, would it help or hurt you? Help. I think...

126. What is your opinion on playing "hard to get?" It’s not my game

127. What are the pros and cons of straightforward? Honesty is great, but sometimes it can mean hurt feelings. But it’s possible to be truthful while still polite.

128. What do you consider "leading" someone on? Making plans with no follow-through, flirting with no actual intentions of taking things further (with the knowledge that the other party *would* like that). I don’t know though, I think often men accuse women of “leading them on” when they’re really not.

129. Are you the friendzoner or the friendzoned? I don’t believe in the friend zone

130. What do you admire most about your friends? Their loyalty to me and refusal to give up on me

131. What do you admire most about your family? See above

132. What is your opinion on "going with the flow?" It’s not my forte

133. Do you enjoy talking or listening? A healthy combination of both

134. When is it time to end a friendship? When it’s no longer serving you or providing anything positive to your life

135. What is the worst excuse you've ever come up with? I’d have to think about that

136. If GPA didn't matter, what courses would you have taken? I’m pleased with all the course I took

137. What are your favorite baby names? Aurora Michelle for a girl. Levi Joseph for a boy.

138. When was the last time you had a deep conversation with someone? Yesterday

139. What instantly ruins a conversation? An uninterested participant, someone who only talks but refuses to listen

140. Biggest turn ons and turn on offs. I feel I’ve already answered this

141. Biggest disappointment. Uh

142. Do you have any self-restraint? Hardly

143. When did you last do something outside of your comfort zone? Moved into an apartment

144. Prized possession(s)? My claddagh, a bracelet from Nora, my journal collection, many photographs

145. What is your opinion on second chances? We all deserve them

146. Text or call? TEXT TEXT TEXT

147. What do you like about the 21st century? The internet is pretty great. I couldn’t imagine life without it.

148. What advice would you give to yourself 5 years ago? Focus more on school and less on partying

149. How organized are you? Quite organized

150. Favorite mode of transportation. Train

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river1983 · 6 years

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Prompt #38

Requested by @thatdaughterofabitch , thanks for the request! :)

Ship: Destiel

BACKGROUND: Dean Winchester was a renowned serial killer, responsible for the deaths of 23 innocent lives just this year. His total death count was at 104, and he’s been on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for two years.

Castiel is also a serial killer, with a death count of only 47, but the method of murder was something out of a TV show.

A/N: I’m really sorry if this is completely not what you were looking for.

TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence: murder, mutilation (cutting) PLEASE don’t read if you are uncomfortable.

I’m going to sound like a physco with the descriptive words and overall dialogue of this fic...so DISCLAIMER: IM NOT A MURDERER, JUST A WRITER...WE WRITERS HAVE TO ACCESS THE INNER KILLER SOMETIMES WE’RE WEIRD BUT THIS IS TUMBLR EVERYONE’S WEIRD

DISCLAIMER 2: THIS IS NOT A FLUFFY FIC! It has a lot of violence and overall not good things. Destiel is in it, but there’s a lot of murder.

The language is a probably-translated-wrong version of Enochian. I will put the English translations up here.

**when spelling, Enochian is spelled backwards. So, ‘dean’ would be ‘nead’**

ELASA BIAB ADAGITA BOLAPE VIRUDEN: You are to be beautified

A A DOOAIN DE ELO: In the name of God

Prux, Med, Don: Ron (Spelled backwards)

Ur, Graph, Gon: L, E, I

Gisg, Fam, Un, Veh: T, S, A C

Ome gahalana ooaoana el manada: We will see one another

“Serial Killer AU”

Dean stares at the TV in anger as he saw this infamous Castiel appear on the screen again. The headliner read: INFAMOUS SERIAL KILLER BRUTALLY MURDERS FAMILY OF 4. Dean rolled his eyes as he sharpened his blade, listening to the newscaster as she spoke.

“This just in, the death count increases due to the infamous killer on the loose, named Castiel, who recently murdered and mutilated a woman in Lebanon, Kansas. The pictures and footage are disturbing, viewer discretion is advised.”

The pictures appeared on the screen, and even Dean had to admit, it was art. He paused the screen to look closer at the carvings. They were just like the ones before, on other victims. He had found the language, Enochian, but has yet to be able to translate them.

The screen changed to a video. Finally! Dean thought as he leaned closer.

He’d been hunting this Castiel for weeks, trying to kill him so he could add to his reputation. Yeah, he could kill an ordinary, insignificant human, but why not another serial killer? And no, he wasn’t obsessed...at least that’s what he told himself.

He had yet to find out what Cas looked like, which made him so hard to find. The guy was a real genius, even though it pained Dean to admit it. His carvings were so clean you’d think he was a doctor.

The video showed a man in a entirely black outfit. Black trench coat, dress shirt, dress pants, and tie. His dark, tousled hair looked unkempt but not necessarily bad on him. He had piercingly blue eyes, and a malicious smile. Dean was intrigued.

Castiel whipped around his victim, who was tied to a table, stretched for minimal movement. “Elasa biab adagita bolape viruden.”

He took out a weird looking knife, pointed at the end but expands outward, almost like a detailed cone on top of a handle. The victim’s arms and legs were exposed, and Castiel poised his blade on top of the exposed flesh.

“A a dooain de elo.”

Then he started to cut into the flesh, carving out one of the letters shown in the pictures.

The video cut off after that, but Dean had the mental image in his head of this man, so he cut off the TV. He got up and sat at his desk, picking up his notebook dedicated to Castiel. He stared at the pictures of the carvings on a different victim, trying to piece what the letters meant.

Castiel cleaned his blade as he stepped away from his latest victim. She had died quickly. He set his blade down and picked up a rag to clean the wounds he created, making sure no blood seeped out the dams of skin he severed, that his cuts stayed clean and precise.

When he was done, he left the body there for the cops to find--for Dean to find.

He first heard about Dean on the news when he murdered a group of skateboarders/graffiti artists. He had poured the spray paint into their mouths, causing them to choke on their own form of art. Not the way Castiel would have done it, but he fascinated Castiel.

He knew Dean was after him, and the reasons. His death by Dean’s hand would do great things for his reputation. Cas didn’t mind--it saved him the work of going after Dean himself.

He got back to his home and immediately went to his desk and opened his notebook dedicated to Enochian language, looking over the notes he accumulated over the years.

He first found the language while he was researching for a paper for his English class. It was an ancient dialect, thought to be the lost language of the angels. He fell in love with it, studied it until he became fluent in speech and writing. In fact, it inspired him to kill.

Castiel did not have a bad childhood. He was not an abnormal kid. He played sports, excelled in school, and wanted to be a entomologist. He was, however, a little weird, per say. He had been intrigued with the concept of death at a young age, found studying nonfiction murder mystery books and listening to podcasts about famous murders and murderers. H. H Holmes intrigued him the most. He thought it was genius using a house as a place of murder. He loved the concept of sneaking around a building in secret corridors with different rooms for different murders, no one ever suspecting anything. It was genius.

But Enochian and learning it was the final push for him. He was 26 at this time, and found his first victim at a park, simple and easy. Followed him until he got home, and killed him in his house. He lived alone, so it made no sense to drag him out of a perfectly fine place of death. He had written three Enochian Letters: Prux, Med, Don. The victim’s name. So, ever since, that’s what he did. He found ordinary people and did this to them, sketched their names into their bodies. He didn’t find joy in it, per say, but more of a feeling of content.

This was his calling.

Sure, it was ironic and cliché to used God’ s name while he killed, but it wasn’t because he was a believer. It was because of the language. Nothing about what he was doing should be credited to God.

Subconsciously he muttered his name in Enochian.

“Ur, Graph, Gon…”

He traced the picture of Dean he had gotten from the news. “Gisg, Fam, Un, Veh.”

He smiled. “Ome gahalana ooaoana el manada, Winchester.”

Dean’s childhood was full of abuse and being thrown into a role of responsibility too early. He had three siblings: Adam, Sam, and Jo. His mom died in a fire when he was only six, Jo was four, Adam two and Sam only six months. His father was not the same after the incident, leaving Dean to care for his siblings when he was only six. His father drank and hit him all the time, calling him worthless and the cause of his mother’s death. Dean never said anything, just bottled up the anger and pushed on--he had three kids to look after.

After Sam finally went to college and Dean was on his own, his anger towards his father finally surfaced. He had killed his father by forcing him to chug six bottles of whiskey--not that it was that hard. No one had ever suspected he had anything to do with his father’s death.

Dean was hooked. The adrenaline he felt from taking life from another human was almost like being high. He couldn’t stop.

So, that’s what he did. He didn’t have a day job, but had enough stolen money to last him the rest of his life. He didn’t kill for the money, or the reputation. He killed because he was addicted to it.

Dean ran his hand over his notes with a sigh. If he wasn't trying to murder Castiel for the rep, why was he after him? He didn’t even know of he had money or not, though its unlikely that he wouldn’t.

Dean knew the answer to that question, but he hated it.

He felt drawn to Cas somehow. Maybe it was the way he killed, carving ancient letters into people’s skin. Maybe it was because his devotion to his art of murder. He didn’t know what, but it was something. He wanted to kill him because Castiel was a distraction, and Dean Winchester couldn’t afford distractions.

He skimmed his notes again, looking back and forth between the scrawls of Enochian and the precise, beautiful carves in the picture. He looked back and forth again, then smiled. “Found it.” He muttered to himself, grin on his face.

He quickly scrawled the English translation onto the picture, then stared at it.

He stared at them, not able to make sense of them. What would “edaj” mean?

He looked at his notes again, seeing the small note he had written.

Enochian is spelled right to left.

He looked at it again, and got it.

It was a name, presumably of the victim. If he translated the rest of the victims he would probably see their names too.

Dean spun around to get his laptop. He would research Jade and see if he could find where she lived, and hopefully this could lead to Castiel’s location.

Dean turned on the news after 4 hours of research. Jade’s location was in Chicago, but her murder took place in Lebanon. The most recent victim’s death was also in Lebanon. He wasn't able to find out more, but he decided he would start there. He would pack a bag and ride to Lebanon, which wasn't too far from where he was now.

Dean laughed. He had sworn he would never go back there, not after he murdered his father. It wasn't because of his father’s death, but because it was where his life went to hell.

But to meet Castiel...it’d be worth it.

The newscaster came on the screen.

“There seems to be a message from Castiel, infamous murderer, to another well known serial killer, Dean Winchester here in Lebanon--”

Dean’s mouth dropped open as he paused the screen, processing that information. Castiel knew about him? And left a message? His brain was trying to process it, and he hadn't even seen the message yet. He unpaused the screen.

“--Kansas. It seems to be in the same ancient language seen in his mutilations. Here’s the message:”

Dean scrambled to get his pen and notebook then paused the screen on the message, reading it first.

WINCHESTER, I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR ME. LET’S MEET.

GRAPH FAM VAN MED NA FAM’TAL MED TAL DON VAN MED GON

A/N: I can’t copy and paste the actual Enochian letters--so sorry about that!

Dean reread the message. The letters telling him where to meet Castiel was in Enochian letters, so Dean got to work translating. It didn't take him as long as he thought, only thirty minutes, but he got the message. He stared at it for a significant amount of time before taking a deep breath, grabbing his bag, then getting in his impala.

The message?

YOUR MOM’S HOUSE

Castiel sat in Dean’s old house, his victim tied to a chair at the moment, gagged because he wouldn't stop pleading. He was sure Dean would be here soon, he had to have learned Enochian by now if he was following Castiel all this time. He didn’t know why he cared so much about Dean, but he did. He had researched him, the brief semi-bio written by his sibling, Sam. He assumed that his siblings knew of Dean’s murderous tendencies, but haven't turned him in because of sentiment. Castiel had found out about this house from his biography, learned about his upbringing, and numerous facts that led Castiel to invoking Dean. He wanted to meet the man.

A few hours later, he heard the door open. He took his blade, them stood in the hallway, meeting a pair of bright green eyes staring back at him.

Castiel was taken aback. He’d seen Dean numerous times, but something about seeing him in person hit him like a truck.

“Hello Dean.”

Dean Winchester met his eyes at the same intensity. “Cas.”

Castiel cocked his head at the nickname. “Cas?”

Dean shrugged. “Your name’s too long.”

He walked down the hallway, standing right in front of Castiel. “So,”

“So.”

“Why’d you call me here? How did you know about it? About me?”

“I’ll tell you soon...first I have to deal with someone.”

He turned and went back to the room with the victim in it.

Dean followed him. Cas stopped in front of the man in the chair, taking out his blade.

“Your victim?” Dean asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Is it okay if I watch?”

Castiel nodded. “I want you to.”

Dean stepped back, getting a good view of Castiel as he did his work.

Cas pressed the tip of the blade onto the skin of the victim as he screamed behind the gag, but not moving.

“Elasa biab adagita bolape viruden.”

Dean recognized the words. It was on the last video shown on the news.

“A a dooain de elo.”

Then Castiel started his work. He looked like he was in a trance, focused only on the skin underneath his blade and fingertips and the language he was etching into them. Nothing else existed. Dean understood that.

It took an hour, but Cas finally finished, stabbed the man cleanly through the chest, then turned to Dean, cleaning his blade.

“You’re a genius.” Dean blurted. “I mean, clearly an artist.”

Castiel smiled. “Thank you Dean.”

He turned examining the cuts he made. “I don’t have much to clean up--we can talk afterward. Here, if you’re comfortable.”

Dean nodded. “I’m fine.”

As Castiel cleaned, Dean took a moment to take in his whole appearance. Every thing about the man screamed dominance. He had a certain aura around him that drew Dean in. It was impossible not to be drawn in. he was like a black hole.

Cas turned. “Follow me.”

Dean nodded. “I know this house, Cas--I lived in it for a chunk of my life.”

Castiel shrugged. “You have a point.”

They arrived in the living room, and sat across from each other. they stared for a while, not saying anything.

“I read about you.” Cas said suddenly.

Dean raised an eyebrow, asking to elaborate.

“Your brother, Samuel, had a small biography about you. I also saw you on the news. Your method of murder...it’s fascinating. Brilliant, though not my personal method.”

Dean scoffed. “There’s no thought behind my methods. You, however, have such precision...I was watching you now. It’s a bit of an honor.”

Cas laughed. God, he had a beautiful laugh...what?

“The language...I fell in love with it. It’s interesting.”

Dean huffed. “That it is. How’d you learn it? I could barely decipher your message.”

Cas smiled. “It took several years...I’m surprised you learned as much as you did so quickly.”

“Yeah well, I wanted to meet you.”

Dean blushed a little. “So, is my method the reason why you called me out?”

Castiel seemed stopped cold by the question. “I...I just...wanted to meet you.” He said. “I felt, drawn to you, to be completely honest.”

Dean sucked in a breath. He couldn’t believe this. “Well, the feeling is returned, Cas.”

“I like that, Cas. It’s much easier to say than ‘Castiel.’”

The two men looked at each other, unsure what to say. This wasn’t turning out how he imagined.

Castiel didn’t know what to do. to be honest, he really wanted to kiss the man. There was no use denying it--Dean fascinated him. No one’s captured that Castiel’s interest in all of his life. But Dean...he was truly worthy of attention.

Castiel debated with himself whether he should so something about it or not. He hated how he was acting like a high schooler about this, but he had just met the man.

“Fuck it.” Castiel said.

He leaned in towards Dean, and met his lips. Dean’s eyes widened, but he didn't pull away. He relaxed, and kissed back.

Cas leaned back into his chair, meeting Dean’s widened, shocked eyes.

“I--Cas--”

“That’s the the real reason I reached out to you. I...want to consider a partnership.”

Dean laughed. “Actual partners in crime, in both senses of the phrase?”

Cas laughed. “I guess so.”

Dean smiled and looked down. “Sure, Cas.”

Castiel stood up, kissing Dean again. “Anyone who says serial killers are emotionless are wrong.”

Dean nodded. “We’re still breaking the law.”

Castiel shrugged. “Do you care?”

Dean picked up Castiel’s blade and handed it to him. “Nope.”

that’s it! I got stuck on this story a bit lol. I know a little bit about Enochian letters, but I couldn’t transcribe the actual letters in this story, so the language in this is probably completely wrong. Anyway, hope you guys don’t think I’m a serial killer now hahaha. thanks for reading :)

-river

#destiel fanfic #destiel #destiel fanfiction #serial killer au #au #alternate universe #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #otp prompts #writing prompts #prompts #im not a murderer i swear #jada writes stuff

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susanpallmannhitegd-blog · 6 years

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Inquiry 2 - “Crescendo”

Background

I am taking six classes this semester, and five of them deal specifically with art/design. Most of them have to do with the context and ideation behind art, and I really enjoy these because they provoke some interesting ideas. The philosophy class I’m taking, aesthetics, especially likes to deal with art as a way to portray things that you wouldn’t usually be able to - kind of seeing it as an alternative to speech for things that speech or writing fails to evaluate.

Although yes, most of these are about art, I find that there are a lot of parallels to the world of design. The obvious one is that design is visual communication, but I like to take it deeper than that. I’ve always loved putting meaning into my work on a deeper level, even in something as subtle as the colors (in some for-fun works, I made my name the hex color #bada55 just for giggles), and perhaps, for me, that’s where I find the art in design.

Anyway, these classes have prompted a lot of interesting discussions with friends of mine, and one of them led to us trying to paint a color without using that color - instead working off of how that color feels visually. Our pieces relied more on shape and composition, and it turned out to be a really interesting thought experiment and produced some pretty cool abstract works:

So imagine my surprise when the next day our workshop was to create something based on how music made you feel! I included this not to take away from the workshop, but because I think the color exercise was really when my concept for Crescendo began - how to make something visual in a way we’re not used to.

Concept

Conceptually I wanted this project to build on the aforementioned background, but doing that in a class about adventuring didn’t sound very challenging. Usually that means it’s time to seek out a more interesting angle, so I thought: why not make unconventional branding? Usually a brand has to be made with purpose in mind, but in a class about adventuring, surely it’s appropriate to pursue expressive and conceptual branding instead.

The Brand

Crescendo is what I called my made-up concert hall. I thought a music arena might be a good choice because usually they don’t need to advertise themselves too heavily - the focus is on the musicians visiting, because everyone has heard of the venue already. Crescendo is a music theory term meaning to get louder, notated by an angle bracket of varying lengths, so it seemed like an appropriate name and unique marker.

When we did do the “digital mixtape” exercise in class, I found that I reused a lot of visual elements, no matter how the song changed, largely transparency, lines, and circles. What I find interesting (and incidental) is that music notation is largely made up of the same. Most notes are lines and circles, with differing fills to notate length of the note. I decided to use these three design elements to build my branding, and this decision was made before the font was attempted.

Not Quite Futura

So believe it or not, this actually isn’t my first kind-of-a-joke font...

A year or so ago I partially designed a font I nicknamed “Discount Helvetica” for a poster about modern design. Neither font is really intended to be popular or necessarily a real font, but both allow for an in-depth personal study of how type works. At worst, if I ever do decide to make a real font, I’ll know from experience what details to pay attention to. Thanks to the first font being a much more complicated grotesque, I didn’t have a whole lot of difficulty with “Not Quite Futura.” Most of it was just shapes. Despite the name, this was not made by looking at Futura at all. The proportions were based on the serif Ovo, as it was still fairly rounded, but quite readable.

Once I did all of this, however, the transparency created by the shapes to make the letterforms just... wasn’t pretty. To some degree I had to pick and choose which overlaps to keep. The end font hints at how it was made, but it doesn’t give away everything, probably for the best.

Promotional Media

I don’t think it has been much of a secret that I love Josef Müller-Brockmann‘s work, and Swiss modernism in general, but that’s because it makes a lot of sense to me. The way this style portrays music has always resonated with me, so it was definitely a thoughtful decision to build off of that for my own work. Fortunately my color scheme and shapes and use of transparent layers definitely keeps the posters distinct.

It’s important also to consider the context. These posters are something I imagined hanging in a really large frame (much larger than the printed ones I could bring in to class) - the kind of thing you see in malls or subway stops. A viewer should be able to look at these and recognize an artist they love and the style of the concert hall.

While definitely this project didn’t seek to be especially conventional, it is worth noting that this strategy of eye-catching, but stylistically memorable posters is something I’ve seen in the real world before. In Melbourne, Australia, which I’ve spent a little over a month in, many of the train stations have poster campaigns that you get accustomed to. You do not even have to read it to recognize the “Dumb Ways to Die” train safety campaign. You see a cute figure being chewed on by a shark and remember to avoid that yellow line. It seems to function well there, so my choice in using a recognizable style over hitting the viewer in the face with the logo is based somewhat in experience.

The tickets turned out to be one of the most fun parts, which surprised me. There was something really satisfying about holding them in my hand, and they are definitely the kind of thing I would want to keep to remember a concert by. I did get a comment that they look kind of like plane tickets, but I think I will just attribute that to the fact that I’ve been in considerably more planes than concerts. ;)

Taking it Back to the Screens

The great thing about conceptual branding as an idea, though, is that it can truly be applied to anything, including interaction, and that is an area I hope to explore in future adventures without question. To kind of illustrate the possibilities, I did a very brief mockup of an app to keep track of your tickets to Crescendo’s shows, but the point was more how this concept of line, circle, and transparency, can inform interaction elements, even the little things we might not think of.

A really great real-world example of this is the loading icon on Google Home’s setup app, which I will link to as I don’t think I can get the gif on this post. Those colors and shapes are all throughout their branding. They could have left the loading icon as some typical spinning wheel, but instead took the opportunity to make it something personalized that still reminds the user of their identity. That’s the world I tried to step into, and why I think simplifying branding down to shape, opacity, and color has an appeal. You can do a lot more with branding that starts simple than something that is confined to a logo. Probably something to keep in mind for the identity systems class next semester.

In this screen you can kind of see how my branding is influencing the hamburger menu we’re all so used to. Firstly I made the hamburger a little more rounded. There aren’t many squares in any of my brand materials in this project, so I tried to round out the form without losing the idea that it’s a menu. I also had the idea that when clicked on, interactive elements would then gain color and transparency, kind of like how music comes to life when someone touches an instrument.

Looking Back

Did it work? I will admit (and hopefully this doesn’t shoot my grade in the foot here) that this isn’t something I’m most proud of. I think I can do better, but I had one week and I think sometimes the deadline requires choosing a less-than-inspired idea.

However, I don’t think the experience wasn’t valuable, as I learned and thought about a lot along the way. There are aspects of interaction and conceptual unification that I had never considered before that got to be explored. I got to practice with designing a font, and further embed conceptual elements into that. I have really flashy tickets to concerts that don’t exist. Oh, and it was fun? Even if I wasn’t in love with the idea, there were lots of new things to explore along the way as I fleshed it out anyway, and I think that’s really the point.

As for if it is effective or not, I think it’s cool that most of the people I asked who professed to be really into music said the concept resonated with them visually.

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eventingraysfordays-blog · 6 years

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This is long af and from two months ago but here have it anyway

Since some ppl are on the topic of exploitative working student positions and such I figured I would write out some stuff about mine? Idk if anyone will read it or not but I’ve never actually detailed out everything that happened so I figured I might as well do it now. I’m not gonna use actual names except for the horses names because I can’t be bothered and I don’t think anyone is gonna try and hunt this barn down. Even if they do I’m not out to hurt anyone’s business so yea.

I started working for this eventing barn in February 2016 and worked there until April 2017. For some background, I had just sold my horse and wasn’t the greatest rider. I was looking for some lessons and agreed with my mom that if we split the cost I could afford a lesson a week with this trainer, who seemed pretty great. To be fair, I didn’t do a ton of research. I went to the barn for basically a meet and greet and she asked if I would like to work in exchange for lessons.

I thought this was a great deal and was super excited! At first, it was great. I worked from 7am-4:30pm Tuesdays and Thursdays, and then would come out some Saturdays, probably about once every two weeks. She had me start on this little pony named Hono, and I was all over the place. I had basically no strength and didn’t have any real skills?? I could basically sit on the horse and had a basic idea of throughness but I had miles to go in terms of actually riding well.

After about a week, I rode with my trainer up to another farm where she had a lesson, and she brought home a sale horse named Jethro. This was a little bay mustang who I absolutely hated. He didn’t bend for shit, steering was a joke, he took off with me multiple times, and our trot to canter transition was non existent.

Still, I rode Jethro twice a week and sometimes on Saturdays. I had no idea I was the only one riding him until my trainer at one point said “you are the only one whose sat on this horse for months so any issues he has are on you.”

During this time of me training Jethro but mostly Jethro training me, I also hacked out her personal horses and rode Copper, a little quarter horse with waaaay more whoa than go. Practically no go.

I hated Jethro for months and would dread riding him. But eventually, we got better. He started turning better, I started riding decently, we actually created a canter transition that wasn’t just how fast can I trot before I actually canter?

He became my main, and through this time, I knew he was for sale, but still, he was definitely my favorite.

Over the course of a few months, my trainer became less and less involved with the barn work, and keep in mind it was just me, her, and 10-12 horses. I didn��t mind it though, and once summer rolled around, I started working there 7am-4pm Monday through Thursday. I got around two lessons a week.

At the end of June, she brought in a working student. She came there with the expectation of housing and board for one horse. When she got here, my trainer said she doesn’t want to share her house because she just got back with her fiance and they hadn’t had the house to themselves. So the new working student had to find housing, and didn’t bring a horse, but my trainer said they would find her one.

Time went on, and they didn’t end up finding the new working student a horse until October. My trainer completely stopped helping with barn chores, and we got up to 15 horses in the barn, which made the days a lot longer. I went back to school come August, so I was working 12:30pm-7:30pm MWF, 7am-6pm Sundays, and although I was supposed to have Saturdays off, that wasn’t often the case. Most Saturdays I was also there 7am-6pm. This was a major hit to my academic life, but I was determined to please my trainer and become a better rider. On top of that, the other working student worked there 6 days a week 7am-6pm, and was very competitive with me. She would make lots of comments about how she was there more than me, she worked harder than me, and all of these things.

My trainer became more and more abusive. She would scream at us, belittle us, and have a complete melt down over the smallest things. We took good care of those horses and kept the barn as clean as possible, but any small mistake and we were toast.

There was also A TON of drama between the boarders and my trainer.

So, Jethro was sold in October, which mean I was mostly riding Copper and hacking out other horses. In December, my trainer suggested I lease a horse. I was super excited, and it renewed my commitment to wanting to work there, because I was planning to quit in December due to the drama. I hated going to work and I was becoming resentful of riding.

One day, I remember I was on this little paint who wouldn’t turn and I was struggling, and the vet came out. She walked into our lesson to say hi, and my trainer said “why can’t anyone just fucking ride” to her while looking at me. That was a major hit to my confidence.

I started leasing Chiclet, and she would’ve been good for me had we been able to get over our learning curve. We struggled, and her owner pulled her from the lease because her “side bones were long” and she shouldn’t be jumping. This was in February.

So then, my trainer pushed me to lease Copper. This made me upset, because Copper was never going to jump higher than 2′3″, and one of the boarders had offered for me to lease her horse, Eli, who I absolutely LOVED. Eli and I got along great, and he was currently running training level. He would’ve been a good move up horse for me.

But my trainer and this horse’s owner had drama between them, and my trainer “didn’t wanna deal with it.”

Copper was on and off lame, and one day she was lame at a show, and my trainer told me to ride through it. That I had to make her look not lame, and that her being lame was because of my bad riding. I wanted to scratch badly, but I didn’t. And that was on me. But ya’know. We make mistakes.

This and a whollleee bunch of other shit, I ended up quitting in April. It made me feel so much less stressed, so much better, and that’s why I won’t do a working student position again unless it has written terms and with someone who’s either not crazy, or their crazy is worth it.

#working student #ws #working student stuff #horses #eventing #dressage #show jumping

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bucky-smiles · 7 years

Text

Stinging Secrets

A Female teen! reader x Bisexual teen! Emily Prentiss song fic to Strange Love by Halsey

Warnings: mentions of sex and some actual very lowkey smut, alcohol, and just general stuff you’d hear with Halsey. There’s also some homophobia but that’s bc it’s the 80′s.

Timeskips are underlined and flashbacks are italicized and bold

This is so long I’m sorry but this is one of my favorite pieces.

Everyone knew who Emily Prentiss was.

She was the newest high school, foreign wonder that every damn person all of a sudden became infatuated with. You don’t know why, but she had taken a liking to you. On the first day that she walked into class, she took the seat by you in the back corner of the room even though so many other seats had been free.

You didn’t expect her to take you the places she did, after that.

You weren’t one for parties or anything of the sort. You preferred to remain in the background with your books and whatnots by yourself. So when the bombshell from Romania came and sat by you, it was quite the brow raiser. You looked at her, offering a small smile. She did the same.

Goddamn you didn’t know how badly your year was going to change after that.

Everybody wants to know If we fucked on the bathroom sink How your hands felt in my hair If we were high on amphetamines

*Timeskip a couple of months*

There’d been a party at someone’s house yesterday.. Damn was it an eventful party.

A sigh escaped Emily’s red painted lips as your fingers ran down her bare sides. She was there, sitting on the bathroom sink with her clothes discarded in so many different areas. You were in front of her, your state of dress quite similar as you pressed kisses all over her neck and chest, reveling in the sound of the noises escaping her lips.

You could feel the vast amount of eyes rest on you as you arrived in class the next day. Your eyes were bloodshot from the events of last night and the late hour at which you slept. Emily wasn’t sitting in the back corner, now. She was at a different seat closer to the front, not even bothering to look at you. You held the eye roll in as you shook your head lightly at her actions, going to your normal seat and sitting down, looking at the array of bruises on your arm after you got situated.

You were in between her legs, now, her legs around your waist and her hands tangled into your locks of hair as she tugged lightly, gasping at the feelings you were causing her. She hadn’t expected what she took to make everything so much more.. Sensual. Everything was heightened. The feelings, the sounds, the looks... This was.. Absolutely out of this world.

After class was over, you were one of the first people out of the room, making a beeline to your locker. There, a couple of guys were waiting, cocky smiles on their faces as they asked the unspoken question, “Did you really go at it with Emily Prentiss?”

You simply scoffed lightly, rolling your eyes as you wriggled past them and to your locker, neither confirming nor denying their question. They got the message and moved on, but you could still hear them talking about how hot girl on girl action was.. You simply rolled your eyes again, they weren’t worth your time.

And everybody wants to hear How we chainsmoked until three And how you laughed when you said my name And how you gripped my hips so mean

You sat down at lunch, on your own (although that was normal). For the past couple of months, ever since you’d met her, Emily had been sitting next to you. But you knew today would be different. You knew that today she’d probably go somewhere else. It’s not as if it’ll be a problem for her. As stated before, the entire school is infatuated with her.

You stiffened when a group of people gathered around you, looking at you with curious and cunning smiles, “Is it true? Did you and Prentiss really-”

You cut them off, “I am not telling you shit so you guys can leave. If Em an- Emily and I sat around and did nothing, I wouldn’t tell you.. If Emily and I lay in bed and simply fell asleep complaining about the world, I wouldn’t tell you.. If Emily and I fucked each other’s brains out till 3 in the fucking morning, I wouldn’t tell you.. So do what a smart person would do, and get the fuck away from me.”

They all got the message, stepping away from you slowly. You hadn’t realized that you’d gotten the attention of everyone in the lunch room. Emily was staring at you with mild shock. You simply got up from your seat, leaving your meal at the table you were sitting at and barging out with quick and angry steps.

The two of you had managed to move from the bathroom, leaving there quite quickly and going up to one of the rooms. You made sure it was locked before going at it again, removing all the clothes she’d quickly put back on and you doing the same.

It was maybe after round 2 that the two of you were laying there, sharing a lit cigarette that was hanging in between your fingers. You chuckled quietly as you put the cigarette to her lips, letting her take a long drag before you did the same. Emily let out a quiet chuckle as you crushed the cigarette in the makeshift ashtray at your bedside, “You’re crazy, Y/N..”

You smirked at her words, breathing the smoke out of your mouth before looking to the woman with a coy smile, “Well you’re insane, Emily..”

Emily laughed, her hand trailing down your side before gripping your hip roughly, “Round 3?”

You leaned forward, taking her bottom lip in between your teeth and tugging it gently before pulling away, “I don’t think you’re giving me a choice...”

They think I'm insane, they think my lover is strange But I don't have to fucking tell them anything, anything And I'm gonna write it all down, and I'm gonna sing it on stage But I don't have to fucking tell you anything, anything

Emily found you a couple of weeks later outside of the school, scribbling in your notebook. It wasn’t necessarily a poem, or anything, it was kind of just.. A song or something. You didn’t know what to call it, everything kind of just came to you at different times.

You glanced up when you felt Emily’s presence, immediately scoffing and going back to work as she sat beside you, “You didn’t..”

“No, I didn’t... I wanted- want to considering what you’ve been doing to me.. But I keep my promises.” You kept your eyes on the notebook as you spoke, continuing to write.

Emily let out a quiet breath of relief, “I’m sorry for that, Y/N.. I just.. People will know if I do stay close to you..”

You rolled your eyes at her words, “You’re too cautious.. That’s gong to be your downfall in the future.”

It was Emily’s turn to scoff. She then proceeded to get up and walk away to her new group of friends, all of them welcoming her with open arms.

It was nearly 3 AM when the two of you felt the urge to pull away from each other. You’d lost track of how many times you’d gone at it. Emily was looking at the ceiling now, conflict in her eyes.

You looked at her with mild confusion, the small smile on your face dissipating as you shifted closer to her, “What’s wrong, Em? What’s on your mind?”

She sighed quietly, looking down at you with an apologetic stare. You immediately got the message, shaking your head as hurt took on your eyes. You obviously understood why she was doing this. It was only the 80;s for crying out loud, while things were starting to happen for people like you, they weren’t happening fast enough.

Yet you still shook your head, fighting the tears as you got out of bed, slipping on all of the clothes you’d taken off. You turned around for a moment, looking at Emily who still had that stupid apologetic look on her face, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes, “Fuck you, Emily Prentiss..” It was really stupid of you to say that, truly, considering you already did.

That's the beauty of a secret You know you're supposed to keep it That's the beauty of a secret, But I don't have to fucking tell you anything,

People didn’t stop coming up to you throughout the month. They always asked the same question and you always gave them the same answer. Eventually, Emily was being questioned as well. The homophobia was kicking in and your classmates shifted from blatant curiosity to fear and everything else. You knew you shouldn’t have let what happened with Emily happen.. But it did and now you can’t change any of it.

Everybody's waiting up to hear if I dare speak your name Put it deep beneath the track, like the hole you left in me And everybody wants to know 'bout how it felt to hear you scream They know you walk like you're a god, they can't believe I made you weak

*Timeskip to a couple of more months later*

You were so close to screaming.

You ran into the girls locker room, slamming the door as you did before punching your locker.

Emily Prentiss was officially dating Christopher Wilson, the beloved captain of the soccer team.

You knew Emily liked men as well as females.. But you hadn’t expected her to move on from you so damn quickly. It stung, truly.. It stung so much that you wanted to tell Christopher how you could barely walk the day after you and Emily did the things you did.

But a secret is a secret.. And this secret may just be the death of you.

You walked out of the locker room, running a hand through your hair as you glared at the girls staring at you. Whatever you were screaming about was completely obvious... They just wanted to know if you were going to confirm the rumor or not. You simply flipped the girls the bird before walking to your class, purposely shoving Christopher on the way.

It’s 2017 now.

You were here and you were famous.

Thankfully, you’d survived the rest of high school. Emily had moved to a different country starting the next school year.. Everything that’d happened seemed to be nothing but a dream.

You found your career in acting, actually. On occasion, you also released a song.. Your latest one about strange lovers had become such a hit. Truly, you did it to see if Emily was still out there. You’d looked her up a couple of times in the past couple of decades. Seeing her in the high ranks of the FBI didn’t surprise you one bit... She’d talked about that being one of her goals when the two of you were friends.

You never once reached out to her and she did the same thing for you. Although you’re pretty sure she does know how you’re doing nowadays. You let out a long sigh as you stare at your yearbook from 1987, your eyes lingering on the woman’s yearbook photo before you tear your eyes away, closing the book and setting it on the bookshelf as you walked back to your room.

Interviewers asked you so many times as to what inspired the song. Your answer would always be the same, a shrug with a dazzling smile as well as a gentle, “I dunno.” You’d become much more polite after high school. Nowadays it’s just part of your charm. Why reopen old wounds if your inspiration probably had no idea of what you were doing?

What you didn’t know is that Emily had all of your songs and had watched all of your movies. The team always teased her of her obsession with you and she always dismissed it as a celebrity thing that everyone has. When she heard your latest song, she had to keep the door to her office locked as she cried quietly. You were her biggest regret. Her not toughing it up and staying with you during that year hurt her so much.. And now it was hurting her even more. But the song was amazing, and it proved to her that you truly were the most trustworthy person she’d ever met.. Even after everything she’d done to you, you kept it a secret.. And that hurt her even more.

But I don't have to fucking tell you anything, anything

Taglist!! (Send in an ask if you want to be added!!) @sweater-vest-reid @all-thats-been-broken @imaginethis-st @criminal-anatomy @mentallydatingspencerreid @theofficeofsupremegenius @bitchinprentiss @spencerthepipecleaner @criminal-navy-writings @fl0werb0nes18 @thematthewgraygube @badasprentiss @unwrittenheartbreak @dontshootmespence @stunudo @veroinnumera @jazz91121 @ssa-aaronhotchner @lookwhatyoumademequeue @bestillmystuckyheart @crimindsaspe

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smolfangirl · 7 years

Text

All Too Well

This is what happens when I am not in the mood for my WIP, stumble over an old, old idea that works so much better now and just really need to deal with my own emotions. The title is taken from the very same song that played over and over while writing this, Taylor Swift’s “All Too Well”.

Just a warning, it’s 5.4k words long... Sorry not sorry.

It was the fault of these two idiots. These biggest idiots on earth.

Matteo knows blaming someone changes nothing. Blaming them won’t rewind the present to a better past. He knows it.

Yet he can’t help it, just like he can’t help seeing these pictures in his head. They play over and over again, up to a point where he wants to scream, wants to punch something, wants to fall unconscious just so it finally stops.

The pictures play another time.

“Luna! Oh my god!” Those are the first words coming out of his mouth. Then, “Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Can you stand?” He hurries over to her, thinking that he shouldn’t confuse her with this waterfall of questions, so he shuts his mouth and carefully supports her.

He gets a slight nod in return, and the slightest curve forms on her mouth. She holds onto his neck as she slowly lifts herself up.

“Let me see if you’re bleeding”, he says and takes her helmet off. His grip remains firm on her waist.

In the background, Tino is blaming Cato, for whatever reason – Matteo pays no attention to their stupid discussion. The only important thing right now is Luna.

His fingers gently run over her head, checking for small injuries invisible underneath her curls. Luna hisses when he reaches a spot behind her ears, on the side she fell on. “I’m sorry”, he mutters.

“Hey, don’t be, it’s not your fault this time. You can let go, I can stand on my own”, she replies, finally with a bit more color on her cheeks, “You don’t need to worry, I’m go – “

She faints.

In everything that happens afterwards, the voice inside blaming him grows louder, like sirens in the night and sometimes, he can’t curse on Tino and Cato and the car accident anymore.

He can only curse himself.

“You did nothing wrong”, Monica tells him. Matteo shakes his head. He did nothing right too.

Blood-tainted sidewalks haunt his dreams.

Every time, he shrieks up covered in sweat. He desperately tries to breathe regularly, to cling to some form of existing that doesn’t hurt.

Neither his dreams nor reality grant him this kind of mercy.

The diagnosis knocks them all of their feet: traumatic brain injury with retrograde amnesia.

Matteo isn’t allowed to see her. Her parents call him the day the doctors finish all their tests, they’re crying, and soon he is too. “She doesn’t remember anything about Buenos Aires”, they tell him. Not the rink, not her friends. Not Matteo.

Nothing.

Simón gets to see her. The only thing Matteo gets is a flyer with a list of therapists, a nurse hands it to him the one time he goes to the hospital, wondering if they let him steal at least a glimpse at her. (They don’t.)

Two days after the doctor allow Luna to go home, he knocks on the door, in his hands the biggest bouquet of flowers he could buy without a pre-order.

Her dad opens. “Anything new?”, Matteo wants to know. Does she remember me yet?

Miguel shakes his head as he lets him in.

The familiar knot in his throat appears. By now, Matteo is used to this, to it all. The tears, the never-ending feeling of guilt, no matter how many times someone else tells him he did nothing wrong, he helped, he did everything he could. (But if he did, why was Luna’s memory a blank space?) The hot and cold sweating during a panic attack, and the numbness that fills him after another sleepless night.

The only thing he still stumbles over is this stupid hope her memories might come back, after one more story told, one more day, one more week.

Luna sits by the kitchen table. One of Simón’s beanies covers half her hair, it’s ridiculously big for her, yet seeing her takes his breath away like no panic attack before managed.

She’s still utterly beautiful.

“Luna, darling, there’s someone who’d like to see you”, her dad catches her attention while he searches for a vase big enough to hold the bouquet. Matteo decides to bring a smaller one next time.

Her eyes jump over to him, immediately roaming his face. By the frown on her forehead, she’s trying to connect the dots but fails, and it makes her groan from frustration.

Finally, she sighs. “I guess you’re the boyfriend my parents told me about?” Her accent comes on stronger than he remembered.

“Yeah”, he chuckles and rubs his neck. Although he knows better, the anxiety gets the best of him and he blurts out, “Can’t believe you got so lucky, huh?”

Luna frowns. “I don’t remember you.”

Hearing it out of her mouth stings worse than a stab in the back. “I know.”

“At all”, she goes on, as if she wants to make sure the dagger reaches his heart, “It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time.” Matteo glances at Miguel, who sends him a warm smile. How come her parents know more about him now than she does? It’s not fair. “Yeah, that must be – “

She interrupts him. “I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone I don’t know.”

Matteo swallows, but the knot gets bigger with every word she says, soon he won’t be able to breathe properly, and he will have to repeat the exercise his doctor showed him for those cases. “I, I understand.” He gets no further than that.

“Sorry.” She shrugs. For a moment, they’re silent. He wonders if coming here perhaps wasn’t his best idea, and if she’s done breaking his heart yet.

(Inhale, 5, 6, 7, 8 – stop, 1, 2 ,3 – exhale, 5, 6, 7, 8. Inhale, stop, exhale. Inhale, stop –)

Turns out, she’s not. “I don’t need a boyfriend at all. I need my family and my best friend.”

“Okay.” His voice breaks. Another half-smile from Miguel, but Matteo is sick of all this pity. He doesn’t want it, he wants his girlfriend back. Luna.

The girl in front of him solely resembles her from the outside. When she speaks, her hair whips just the same, and she makes short pauses in between thoughts. Her nails are painted in the familiar shades of yellow and pink, her necklace still dangles from her neck.

Besides that, Matteo recognizes nothing from his solare in her. Coldness surrounds this girl, the temperature in the room drops with a single glance out of her eyes, and even more when Luna turns away from him.

“Dad, I want to go to my room.” She stares at the wall next to Matteo when she adds, “You are not invited.”

Before they leave, Miguel’s lips form what reads like “Mood swings”. Not that he needed to give Matteo an explanation – in the past weeks, he read everything about her diagnosis that he could find.

None of this reading prepared him for this pain now, though.

If life was an ocean, Matteo currently drowned more than he stayed afloat.

Wave after wave hits him, pushes him away from the surface. His lungs fill with salty water until they burn from it. It takes all his strength to swim up, and when he breaks through the surface, he finds himself lost. No shore in sight, only an unforgiving sea.

Sometimes, the ocean calms down for a while, not long enough to recover and find a safe haven, but long enough to think of something other than merely staying alive. Right now, Matteo finds some room in his thoughts for university. His application forms for Oxford aren’t completed yet, and if he wants to start classes in October, he has to organize an early graduation now.

University scares him, if he’s honest. The change, the next fresh start in a new country, it’s more than he originally planned, more than he still wants. But then, what choice does he have? He suffocates in this city.

Matteo shushes the thoughts away. Crying won’t turn back time, so he might as well stop bawling his heart out and focus on university. On his future.

He reaches into his upper drawer, expecting the copy of his references there. What he finds instead is a little green bracelet.

Luna’s bracelet.

Closing his eyes, the tears already fall down while he remembers that moment. She gave it to him as a lucky charm before an audition at a local music label. Her small fingers placed it in his palm and closed his hand around it before she pressed a kiss on his skin. “Keep it, then you always have something that reminds you of me.”

The audition didn’t go well enough, but he always kept this bracelet close.

He falls back into the ocean, drowning, always drowning. Before the accident, Matteo lived in the present. Looking back was never worth the trouble, and after meeting Luna he only cared about the present and the promises of a beautiful future. These days, he’s a slave of these few months with her, of the craving to travel back in time so much that his bones rattle from knowing it can never be.

His tears taste of salt and emptiness. The bracelet gives in under the pressure of his fist. It will never be his lucky charm again.

It will always be his curse and the moon will always control the ocean.

Later, when the school approves of his plan to leave earlier, he tells Gastón. “But you won’t be happy there”, his best friend comments, shaking his head.

“Do you think I’ll be happy here? Where I will see those memories wherever I go, while she will never remember me? It doesn’t even matter if they’ll go back to Cancún or not, because in my heart, she will always be here.” Matteo sighs. Every moment with her flashes through his mind, all day, keeping him sane while killing him from the inside and he still needs to find out how that works.

“I just have to leave.”

Speechless, Gastón pulls him into a hug. It’s nothing like the ones Luna used to give him.

Grieving and heartache, Matteo thinks, do not come in stages. He saw TED talks about it once, nodding during the presentation because a deep running truth seemed to shimmer through those words. At the end he decided it made sense.

It doesn’t anymore.

Instead, those two things come in cycles, a never-ending chain of pain that allows him a short look at the sun here, another glimpse there, but mercilessly pulls him back into the darkness. Maybe he feels okay for a day. Maybe he can sit in classes, concentrate on the teacher. Maybe he can pay a visit to the rink, where he puts on his skates and speaks about trainings, competitions, and Opens without wandering on the edge of tears. Maybe the guards that protect his friends from his overwhelming grief stay in place for three days in a row.

Maybe.

But it will never last.

Because then he goes home (or the place his parents named home), and there is no one jumping on his bed asking for a hug and two kisses with puppy eyes. Because then he takes a shower, and there is no one using the shampoo next to his and he sniffs at it while his eyes end up wet, but he’s surrounded by water drops so it doesn’t matter.

It will never last because at night, the moon is the only thing on his mind.

A day after his last final, Matteo is back at the mansion. The box in his hands weighs nothing compared to the heaviness crushing his heart down. When Luna opens the door, he smiles, knowing it must look forced. It certainly feels forced.

No word leaves her mouth, yet a thought bubble floats above her head, clearly for him to read. Ugh, him again.

(He read about the symptoms that come along with her injury. Thinking your boyfriend is an annoying asshole wasn’t one of them. Then again, mood swings were.)

She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, frowning.

“Long time no see.” She doesn’t sound too fond of him back here.

“Um, I brought the stuff you still had at my place. Thought there’d be no reason to keep it.”

Technically, he’s telling the truth – he excluded the word all on purpose. A few things of her remain scattered in his room, probably always will. A hairbrush. A hoodie that gives off last hints of her perfume if he buries his face in it. A bottle of shampoo in his bathroom and a copy of her favorite book on his nightstand. And a little green bracelet.

Matteo postponed this moment for months. Told himself she’d change her mind eventually, that she’d come to the conclusion he deserved something. A call, an “I’m sorry I was so harsh”-text. In his wildest dreams, an honest attempt at friendship. Anything would have done, really.

But it always remained a simple idea, nothing but a daydream he colored in too vividly and now looked like a vomited rainbow next to a sad black and white movie.

“Cool”, Luna replies while she stares him down.

As it becomes obvious she won’t let him in, he places the box on the ground. His hand rubs over his arm, while he shifts from one foot to the other, trying to find better things to do than to get lost in the ice-cold sea of her eyes. Not always did he feel so unsure around her. So fragile.

Matteo clears his throat. “I, eh, know it’s awkward for you, but can I hug you before I go?”

“Fine.” Her voice contradicts her answer, her body language does too. However, for once Matteo is willing to ignore it.

His hands are shaking when they reach out and softly land on her shoulder blades. One last time. He has this single shot and he plans on savoring the tiniest detail of it.

Closed eyes, the impressions flood his other senses. She’s warm in his arms, soft, a pillow to sink into. Her perfume lingers in his nose, the same meadow planted with the sweetest flowers as always. Her curls tickle his hand. He lets his finger wander through them just for a second before he rests them on her shoulder again. (The back feels too much like pushing his luck.)

Never was the difference between them as striking – her memory is an empty canvas, while his is a crumbled-up piece of paper with every sentence crossed out. He isn’t ready for the thought, fights back tears when his chest uses the opportunity to betray him. An earthquake erupts from his lungs, everything held together by his ribcage crashes down in notorious sobs until Luna notices too.

She steps away, and he knows, after all, that he lost her for good.

“I’m sorry.” The last syllable leaves his mouth in barely a whisper.

“No, I am. I don’t even know what past me saw in you, but I hope you’ll get over whatever this ever was.”

He knows he won’t.

After dinner, when Luna finishes the last exercises her new private tutor gave her, Simón comes over. She’s infinitely grateful for the distraction. School bores her, and when it doesn’t, it gives her a headache because focusing for a long time is still hard. The tutor helps, though, and thanks to Miss Benson the costs are fully covered. She said it’s the least she can do since the two guys responsible for this whole accident were her employees.

Or that’s what the police report said.

(It itches her that Matteo of all things is listed there too, as the one who was there, who helped and called the ambulance. This weird guy who everyone claims was her boyfriend. That guy!)

“How are you doing, Luna?”, Simón greets her while he pulls her into a hug.

She sighs, thinking about what to say. There’s school and the upcoming finals. All these people calling themselves her friends offered help already, and they’re nice, really. However, they tip-toe around her too much, avoid certain topics too obviously. A part of her continues to search for the missing memories that could kill the awkwardness in these interactions. She never finds it, which is overly frustrating, to say the least.

There’s mom and dad too. They worry. A lot. It gets better now that she returned to the Blake, and Luna hopes they can look at her soon without a nervous spark in their eyes.

Simón knows all this, though. They’d been over this more than once, the topics annoy even her.

“He was here again; can you believe it?”, she finally says. For a moment, her best friend glares at her in silence. “Who? Oh, Matteo?”

Luna nods, letting herself fall on her bed next to him.

“Really? Why, what did he want?”

Her gaze settles on the ceiling until little figures step out from the spots. Weird-headed animals, a mermaid without arms, and, in the right corner of her vision, a crumbled heart. She blinks.

“He said he wanted to bring back all the things I still had at his place. I don’t understand why he bothered, it’s not like I would know if something was missing.”

Simón musters her, it’s evident even before she moves her head to return his stare. Matteo is the only sore spot between them. Luna fails to grasp why her best friend picks his side every time his name drops, when just that name alone is a blank space to her.

His reaction (silent, but judging) comes as no surprise, though. It’s the price she decided to pay for venting about this guy. Ever since he hugged her on the doorsteps, she felt the urge to talk to someone about it, and Simón is the only option she trusts.

“Anyway, I think he finally understood I am not interested, so I’m pretty sure I will never see him again unless he runs into me at school. And that’s only a possibility for two more months. You said he’ll graduate this year, right?”

Simón shakes his head. He already picked sides, and he wouldn’t jump teams, Luna knows that. Right now, though, she’s close to cursing at him. Where was his support as her best friend?

“What?”, she demands as she nudges her arms against the spot over his waist that tickles the most.

“Did you say that to him? That you have no interest?”

His mouth forms a straight line where usually a smile rests. Luna frowns, trying to figure out what exactly bothers him so much. Something about her words stole his smile, the easiness in his voice, and it digs a cliff between them although he lays right next to her.

She can see the ground already.

“Not like that, no”, she shrugs. “I said I don’t know what past me saw in him, but he received that message loud and clear, I think.”

Abruptly, Simón sits up. In the process, he bumps against her shoulder, not that she really senses it when his expression crumbles faster than a house of cards in a windstorm. “You said what? That is…” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Ultimately, he looks away, speechless, hand running through his hair.

A pout slips on her face while she robs closer to take his hand. Her fingers look small on top of his, always have, always will, but the view provides a comfort she rarely finds these days. “Are you mad at me?”

“I just don’t understand it. I don’t understand why you go out of your way to be… I don’t know. I guess I can’t understand why you won’t give him a chance. He’s really heartbroken about it, and you had no problem talking to your other friends again.”

“I wouldn’t call them friends.”

“But you talk to them. You see them in school, you try. Why not with him? I’m not asking you to make out with him.”

“Good, cause I would never!”, she fires back, she’s mad now even when she doesn’t want to be. “Simón, come on, the first thing that came out of his mouth was ‘Can’t believe you got so lucky, huh?’ What kind of person says that? He’s just weird, okay?”

He made her feel weird too. She doesn’t say that. But she remembers the look in his eyes the second he went in to hug her. Pain, a lot of it. He flinched at her words before, like a wounded animal, but in that moment, he looked like giving up.

Yet, it’s not what causes a shiver on her spine.

What haunts her is the way he looked at her like no one had ever before, like she never imagined someone would. Like he loved her.

Luna shakes her head. Even if they were a couple, he could barely grow to love her in the few months they supposedly dated.

Meanwhile, on her bed, Simón chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“He said that, I can’t…”, another huffed laughter, another gasp for air, “He went full fresa on you and you don’t even remember you called him chico fresa all the time.” A grin rests on his lips, the mattress vibrates softly.

“I dated a snob? That’s not funny, that’s sad.”

Now it’s Simón reaching for her ticklish spot. Luna shrieks, but decides not to fight back when he answers, “I’m sure he was super nervous about seeing you again.”

“Don’t defend him”, she replies. Then, she changes her mind and attacks. They spent the next minutes tickling each other and pleading for air and mercy. When the battle is over (she wins), no one brings Matteo up again.

Her old phone lays in the drawer of her nightstand. She stumbles over it when she searches for one of her bracelets from Cancún, but seeing the phone erases every thought, it’s prominent against all the white noise in her head.

It fits perfectly into her hand but doesn’t react at any pressed button. The battery ran out many weeks ago. In the two hours it takes to recharge, her mind jumps back and forth. Should she glimpse at the life she doesn’t remember? Between yes and no, Luna never settles on one decision. Whatever she chooses, she doubts it will bring her peace.

(But she’s so curious.)

She grabs her post-accident phone to text Simón. Surely, he knows her pin code, and if he doesn’t, even better. Then the decision isn’t her burden anymore.

He remembers. A few minutes later, the line of numbers he sent her indeed unlocks the screen – to a picture of her and Matteo.

Luna groans. Hesitates. Stares at the picture. Objectively, it’s nice, even pretty. They’re on some rink, both wearing skates, and the light dances over them. He carries her, bride-style, and they’re lost in each other’s eyes while the most stupid, love-drunk smiles grace their faces.

If this wasn’t her, Luna would have rolled her eyes at so much cheesiness. But it is her, so instead, she feels weird, as if someone punched her in the stomach.

She hesitates even more, her thumb hovering over the Messages icon. If the home screen already evoked such a response from her…

“Luna! Dinner is ready!”, her mom yells from downstairs. With a sigh, she throws the phone on her bed.

Not once can she stop thinking about it.

Chico fresa: Someone just fell in the park, first thought it was you but then I remembered you were still in school :P

Haha you are so funny, oh wait, no you are not

Chico fresa: Aww, is someone unable to take a joke?

Said the one who pouted at me for half a day bc I laughed when Gastón roasted you for the burned pizza

Chico fresa: The pizza wasn’t burned!! Just crusty

Thx for proving my point :D

Chico fresa: …

Chico fresa: As my princesa demanded, the curls are back :D

Chico fresa sent a picture.

I love it C Asked mom btw and she said it’s okay so see you tonight!!

Chico fresa: Can’t wait, don’t forget the popcorn, love you

I won’t, promise! Love you more

Luna can’t stop reading. She’s attached to this phone now, over breakfast, in between classes, at night before her eyes get too heavy to read.

The messages pull her in like her favorite book does, the world around her fades as she dives in deeper into her own story. The Matteo she reads about is funny, he cares about her, although his ego elicits an eyeroll on more than one occasion.

The Matteo she reads sounds different from the one she saw these two times. But in the end, the texts make her relationship with him real. Undeniably real. And although she keeps scrolling and scrolling, the texts never come to an end. Not three weeks before her accident, not half a year before.

When focusing on words becomes too exhausting, she opens the gallery to a collection of selfies. On the same rink from her home screen, in a café, and a lot of other places unknown to her. One folder is named “Matteo” with a heart emoji next to his name. He’s handsome in every single picture. His smile probably breaks all the hearts at the Blake. His smile probably breaks all the hearts, period.

She saw these photographs so many times, that they remain crystal-clear in her memory when she closes her eyes.

They still don’t make any sense to her.

“You said there’s this girl who films everything.”

Simón glimpses at her from half-shut eyes. He lays on his back, head dangling over the top of her mattress. “Huh?” Given the rough tone in his voice, she interrupted him in the middle of a nap.

“I was wondering if there are videos of… well, Matteo and me. Together.”

He sits up, checking her with his head tilt, but then he shrugs and reaches for his phone. “Sure. Wait a sec, I’ll ask Jazmín.”

It’s so much worse than she imagined.

“This was your first competition with him”, Simón declares, and a bit later, Luna watches herself kissing Matteo.

Her cheeks burn so badly, she feels the urge to crawl into the freezer.

As she buries her head in her hands, Simón softly taps her shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

“I… That’s maybe my first kiss, and then it’s with that guy!” Silence. She shakes her head and gestures at the screen, where they’re melting into each other, frozen. “Ugh, and look at me, it’s so obvious I wanted it!”

At that, her best friend flinches.

She watches the other videos on her own.

Most videos show them skating on a rink. Figure skating that means – Luna had no idea she could do that. Everyone told her, and there’d been a few pictures on her phone. Yet she only stops brushing it off now that she’s seeing herself. A few videos of them singing on stage, voices in harmony like two birds from the same feather. A shiver runs over her back and arms before she sighs and presses the Pause button.

Before he left, Simón told her they hadn’t been a couple in all these videos, but honestly? It’s hard to tell the difference. There’s one clip from what looks like a café, he’s stealing her milkshake and she complains but bursts into laughter. The video ends when they notice someone is filming them, they yell “Jazmín!” and the screen turns black.

Luna can’t decide which video gives her the most goosebumps. She could imagine living in Buenos Aires, liking the city, even going to a fancy private school and calling a luxurious mansion her home. But Matteo is the one puzzle piece that doesn’t fit the picture. He feels out of place, like he doesn’t truly belong with her.

All the proof she collected so far makes her wonder if she was too quick to judge.

Warm water falls on her, the scent of her shampoo fills the sticky air and she hums along to the songs playing from her phone. She rinses her hair as the playlist ends, leaving her in silence. Except there’s suddenly a new melody, one she doesn’t recognize but vibrates in her throat nevertheless.

Vienes a quebrar la soledad, te encuentro despierto

Te miro y espero

Dame solo un poco de paz

Like fish out of water, these snippets strand on the beach of her consciousness. They shimmer in the sun, but the colors are new to her, nothing alike to what she knows. Luna can’t tell whether it’s a memory or a song idea, but she never wrote a song, never developed the aspiration.

Maybe the accident turned her into a songwriter. The nurses told her crazier stories, about a man fluent in French when he woke up, although he’d never learned it.

Writing a song isn’t that crazy.

Back in her room, Luna searches for both the lyrics and the man on the internet. Google shows only results for the latter.

Her parents don’t recognize the song either.

It’s Nina who eventually gives her a lead. They sit in the sun during lunch break, and despite her best efforts, the words slip out in half a whisper. Once they begin to play, they repeat like a broken record, she’s sick of it, she wants to hear the rest.

(She tried writing this song. To call it a disaster was an understatement.)

“Is that the song Matteo wrote for you?”, Nina finally asks, face hidden behind a layer of hair.

“What?”

“Oh, my bad”, she mumbles. “I forgot you don’t want to hear about him. I’m sorry, really.”

Well, Nina wasn’t wrong. Luna used to avoid the topic like other people avoided spiders or heights or emotional commitment. She used to hide behind every possible excuse to explain why she rolled her eyes at his name and changed directions as soon as she spotted him in the hallways. He’s weird, he looks like he knows he’s better than everyone else. He’s too handsome to be trusted. I don’t need a boyfriend, I have to focus on getting better.

I have no idea what past me saw in him.

“No, it’s okay, I… I think I want to know. You said he wrote a song for me?”

“Well, that’s what you told me, before the accident? But we never heard him play it, so it was just a guess. Do you remember something?” Her gaze settles on Luna. Anyone else who looked at her like this, asked her questions like this, made her uncomfortable. Even her own parents, even Simón.

With Nina, it’s different.

Nina is careful. Not just with her, but with everyone. And Luna can’t explain why, but it’s all it takes for her to call Nina a friend, to admit a truth to her that she herself barely accepts yet. “I wish I would.”

In class, Luna unlocks her old phone to the chat with Matteo. Somewhere between all the pictures they sent back and forth, she stumbles over an audio from him, four minutes long. Many things could be an audio record this long, she tries to not get ahead of herself, to be realistic, although her chest fills with excitement already.

Getting home takes way too long.

Her hand tight around the phone in her pocket, she takes the first step on the staircase, just when her mom shouts her name from the kitchen.

“What?”, Luna shouts back, unwilling to move if it doesn’t involve getting to her room as soon as possible.

“Don’t forget we have to leave for your doctor’s appointment in an hour!”

Doctor’s appointments, the one thing she hates more than the silence when someone realized they talked about a past lost to her. The doctor asks too many questions, about headaches, about how she feels, about her everyday routine, if she wants to see a therapist.

Her answers always remain the same: rarely, okay, she sticks to it, no.

“Yeah, okay!”, she replies, not meaning it, then hurries up to her room. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears when the audio message opens and a gentle guitar strips every thought away until there’s only the music, a soft voice and an ocean of feelings.

Hi.

Error: invalid phone number. The number you are trying to reach no longer exists.

Hey, it’s Luna here... I found the song Matteo wrote, and Idk he’s not at school anymore so I tried to text him but my phone keeps saying his number doesn’t exist anymore and what I want to ask bc I guess you’re his best friend… do you have his new number?

Sorry for the unnecessary long message

Gastón: Yes

#soy luna #lutteo #my sl fanfiction

34 notes · View notes

douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years

Text

WHY I'M SMARTER THAN ACTIVITIES

The founders thereupon proposed to walk away from the company, after giving the investors a veto over various kinds of important decisions, including selling the company. So if you want to do something in an ugly way to get to know good hackers. This tradeoff predates programming languages. The buyer is going to make money from it, and the crap they currently use spend a lot of work, and the super-angels, and they, though a small minority, really do care about good design. But I decided not to, because that's what it means.1 I forgot about that. You'll find that you can't stand programming in clumsy languages. Or would super-angel money do just as well?

But there's nothing to stop you starting new projects of your own.2 What we're seeing now, everyone's probably going to live. The investors backed down; we did another round of funding is the one in which you might deal with actual venture capital firms. The way to be good at programming, and learn what they know. 1%-4. For us the test of whether a startup understood this was whether they had Aeron chairs. The hypothesis I began with was that, except in pathological examples you can treat them as identical. A bit later I realized why. The word cartoon was originally used to describe a painting intended for this purpose. Why the pattern?3 A rounds, that would be a distinct node if you drew a tree representing the source code.

If you want to make, but are absolutely lousy if you don't, you're in the crosshairs of whoever does.4 Just move on to the next. And of course Euclid. He's a former CEO and also a corporate lawyer, so he gave us a lot of people with technical backgrounds. At this stage the company is just a bet.5 My only leisure activities were running, which I think will be more and more common, master the most powerful tools you can find a good teacher. But if you want to go work for a big company.

A survey course in art history may be worthwhile. The no man's land between angels and VCs. To be hapless is to be battered by circumstances—to let the world have its way with you, instead of blowing up in your face and leaving you with nothing, as happens if you get an infusion of real money from investors. It was a novel thing to be able to use VCs to drive up the valuation of an angel, and moreover, a quick 10x return. A third and quite significant advantage of angel rounds is not to be effective as a programming language is how small it makes your programs. But I can think of are W. 064. So you have to know about business to do. As if to emphasize the point, Google never did any advertising. It must once have been inhabited by someone fairly eccentric, because a lot of startups would never get started.6

You forget your dreams, ignore your family, suppress your feelings, neglect your friends, and forget to be happy.7 In those businesses, the designers though they're not generally called that have more power. The super-angels, the most decisive of whom sometimes decide in hours.8 I design a good language? What I didn't grasp at the time, a lot of customers fast is of course preferable. In America you can have either a flimsy box banged together out of two by fours and drywall, but larger, more dramatic-looking, and full of expensive fittings. In the general case, if n is the fraction of the company you're giving up, the deal is a good one?

Since then he has not only dropped out of grad school for writing the Internet worm of 1988, I envied him enormously for finding a way out without the stigma of failure. Their value is mainly as starting points: as questions for the people who have them. The other reason to spend money slowly is to encourage a culture of cheapness. You may notice a certain similarity between the Viaweb and Y Combinator logos.9 I was persistent, but I got the impression it might be as much as a half. How can the richest country in the world look like this? I had a girlfriend for a total of two months during that three year period. They'd be far more useful when combined with some time living in a country where the language is spoken.

Two of our three original hackers were in grad school. How much is that extra attention worth? In existing open-source projects. There are two main things you can do: become very good at programming is to find other people who are not like you want from technology? Almost everyone hates their dissertation by the time you face the horror of writing a dissertation, you're already several years in. This doesn't seem to be working on; there's usually a reason. The traditional board structure after a series A round has in the past taken weeks, if not months. For centuries the Japanese have made finer things than we have in the West. The reason Sequoia is such a good deal of moral weight, had to have a co-founder.10

At sales I was not very good. Both Blogger and Delicious did that. I'm not proposing this just to make the debate more civilized. Ideally this meant getting a lot faster. Studio art and creative writing courses are wildcards.11 The other reason it's hard to switch from that to a product company. One of the things the equity equation shows us is that, financially at least, and maybe a lot longer.12 A round if you do it so early.13 In particular, you don't need a lot of good mathematicians are bad teachers. In nearly every startup that fails, the proximate cause is running out of money or a critical founder bailing. Be relentlessly resourceful is how you get there.14 This seems to me identical to asking, how can I design a good language?

Notes

It would have gone into the subject today is still a dick move. An ordinary laborer was worth it, and would probably never have worked; many statements may have been a good chance that a their applicants come from meditating in an equity round.

I think I know what they built, they did it. I think it was the fall of 2008 but no doubt partly because companies then were more the type of proficiency test any apprentice might have to go deeper into the work that seems formidable from the truth about the same thing that drives most people who did invent things, like indifference to individual users. Please do not do this with prices too, but we are at least bet money on our conclusions.

Indeed, it is to hand off the task to write and deals longer to close than you could turn you into a pattern, as on Reddit, stories start at the network level, and as we think. Even if you ban other ways. They'll be more linear if all bugs are found quickly. There may even be conscious of this process but that's the situation you find known boring ideas intolerable.

They may not care; they may try to go and steal the company, and I have about thirty friends whose opinions I care about valuations in angel rounds can make better chairs or knives, crucibles or church organs, than to read an original book, bearing in mind that it's up to two more modules, an image generator were written in Lisp, they can get it, but which didn't taste very good job. I'm not saying that's all prep schools is to take a long time.

Nothing annoys VCs more than you could get all the East Coast VCs. The Old Way.

An ordinary laborer was worth about 125 to 150 drachmae. Maybe you'd start to shift back.

If big companies to build their sites, and one VC. Mehran Sahami, Susan Dumais, David Heckerman and Eric Horvitz. Oddly enough, a torture device so called because it isn't a quid pro quo. Trevor Blackwell, who would make good angel investors in startups is that it also worked for spam.

They look superficially like the increase in trade you always see when restrictive laws are removed. Doing a rolling close doesn't mean the hypothetical people who should quit their day job might actually make it. And audiences treat it. 4%, Macintosh 18.

Turn the other.

Analects VII: 1 It's hard to say they bear no blame for any particular truths you'll learn. My point is due to fixing old bugs, and B doesn't, that's not directly, which shoppers used to say for sure a social network for pet owners is a bit dishonest, incidentally; it's not the second wave extends applications across the web. You can get for free.

For these companies when you had small corpora.

If you're doing something that flows from some central tap. If they agreed among themselves never to do that.

Scheme: define foo n lambda i set! To be safe either a don't use Oracle. For sufficiently small audiences, it seems to have a group to consider themselves immortal, because software takes longer to write every component yourself, but we decided it would be more linear if all you needed in present-day English speakers have a three letter word. See Greenspun's Tenth Rule.

People only tend to focus on the matter. This is an understatement. It's hard to erase from a 6/03 Nielsen study quoted on Google's site.

Thanks to Jessica Livingston, Kevin Hale, and Barry Eisler for sparking my interest in this topic.

0 notes

mitakamirai · 4 years

Text

"i'm sending it."

"sending what?" my bestfriend asked, obviously intrigued and curious at the same time.

that moment, i just finished writing a note that i plan to send to my crush. my hands were shaky and a little messy with ink from the pen. i took a good look at the brown craft paper folded in half in my hands, fingertip tracing over the letters embedded in the paper.

congratulations! you did great last night. btw, you're a great dancer & rly cute. have a nice day!

"a note," i reply to her. "but only if i arrive earlier. if not, nevermind."

i snorted at the idea. yeah, it seemed way too farfetched. the guy doesn't even know me. he was just someone i had a crush on and that his classroom was just across the hallway. some coincidence.

my bestfriend just laughed, "if you don't do it. i'll do it. you were so quiet during their performance earlier too." god, she can be so scary at times.

i shrugged, taking one of my washi tapes and ripped a small piece, just enough to stick the two ends of the paper shut. i placed it down on my bed and stared at it. i probably stared at it for a good ten minutes, internally debating whether i should send it or not. during my internal debate, i grabbed my pen and wrote his initials on the front of the paper. my hand was shaky still. that was the second time i had written his name.

today was the second day of p.e. cheerdances. i was present, of course. i had to help my friends. i was helping them stitch their jogging pants for their performances later. my crush's ex girlfriend also asked me to stitch hers, and i couldn't say no. nobody outside my circle of friends knew about my feelings, so it was wrong to refuse her. oh, my crush was also performing today.

i tried to be as calm as i could, although one of my friends couldn't stop teasing me about it. i wish she'd shut up for a moment. it hurts in a different way.

everyone was busy. everything was buzzing around. but i was more than happy to lend a helping hand to them. i even helped them cleaned their classroom, bought some of them some food and drinks. it was a busy day.

i was chilling in the hallway with my best friend and she'd occasionally tease me whenever he (my crush) passed by. i wrote his name on a small scrap of paper to hand to my best friend as she was curious as to "which name is my heart beating to." i almost panicked when he passed by when my best friend viewed the scrap, not like he could see it. but who knows, right?

and i couldn't help but steal a few glances here and there. i must admit, their outfits were a little—uh—not as good as i had hoped, but he still looked adorable. how i wish i could look at him a little longer, but it was time to coop up in the gym to watch everyone perform. i was excited for my friends, and him.

my crush's class performed first before my friends and needless to say, i was mesmerized by him. okay, that sounds a little cheesy. but i was. i never knew he could dance so well. all i did was clap, not that i didn't want to cheer. i was just.. distracted. because of it, my bestfriend wouldn't stop teasing me about it. and for the rest of the remaining performances, i didn't see him.

my friends were on a whole 'nother level. they placed 3rd and 1st runner ups! i was so so proud of them. i'm glad to have helped them gained their success somehow.

i got up to leave before the gates were crowded but i stopped in my tracks upon looking over to the gazebos. there he was. sitting there, with someone i am unfamiliar with. i immediately hid behind the stack of chairs — as if he was gonna notice someone looking at him. but i hid anyway. i watched him smile and laugh with i presume his friend, they seemed to be enjoying themselves. the sight of him all happy and smiley made me so happy. i let one more minute pass by before i headed home.

and that's how i ended up here. it was on a whim really, to write this note and to possibly send to him tomorrow. i don't even know what lies ahead if i do end up sending this, or just keep it. i just know that maybe this is worth the risk. i slept on my messy thoughts that night.

i woke up a little later than i usually do the next morning, and i was surprised that the third floor was empty. perfect. i pulled the note out of my pocket and glanced at it one last time, writing down his grade and section on the last minute in case it got lost, then oh fuck. where do i put this? the window on the door? nah. it'll fall off. inside? no, no, too creepy. aha! i beamed, wedging the note just between the door, right next to the doorknob. i'm sure they'll notice it there. i didn't want to stay, or else i'll be suspicious, so i went down to the convenience store to hopefully find a snack to calm my nerves.

i had my full attention on my phone while walking up the stairs that i didn't even notice the person who was walking in front of me. it was only then that i arrived on the hallways that oh shoot, it's him.

i could hear faint voices in the background calling out to him, saying he's got a love letter. that made my heart jump, as if it wanted to get out of my ribcage. i panicked.

gladly, i spotted a friend. "hey! come on, let's go get coffee!" i say shakily, but enthusiastically, and mercilessly dragged him out, but not before i stole one last glance at him taking my note from where i slipped it. god, i swear my heart was about to burst.

"i left a note for my crush," i blurted out, almost monotonously to my friend while walking down the stairs.

"wow, you actually did that?" i groaned. "i saw him take it! listen, my heart's about to meddle with my other organs and i need coffee."

"you're something else." my friend says with a hearty laugh. i punched his arm.

"i sent it," i say to my two best friends after returning from getting my morning coffee.

"sent what?" - best friend number 2.

"a note. she congratulated her crush," my best friend gave me a look. and i could only groan. "can't believe you did that."

"neither can i." i say, taking a sip of my iced coffee. but i slowly came in terms with it. well, i suppose he's just gonna throw it away. everybody else did. and with that, the burden of writing that first note went away.

i wrote a second note a few weeks later, just a day after exams, to congratulate him again for getting through first quarter. but it was a disaster.

i did the same tactic as i did with my first note, but this one did not end well. it, unfortunately, fell on the floor. and when i was about to slide it back in, i already saw him seated inside their classroom. and there were already so many people there. i tried my best to sneakily take the note from the floor and with a heavy heart, shoved it in my pocket.

for the next few weeks, i only admired him from the little window on the door, or sometimes in the hallway when our classrooms weren't open yet. it still baffled me how we ended up just across from each other. of course, the fact that his ex girlfriend was also right beside our classroom bothered me too. they kept comparing me to her, and i didn't know how to say that i didn't like it. i hated it. bringing me down is one thing, comparing me to other people is another. it messed me up a lot.

my best friend and i were super excited, it was finally weathering with you's premiere date tomorrow! i couldn't be more ecstatic. but i couldn't help but think about him. just a week ago i painted him a (fail, by the way) picture of miyazono kaori because i heard him and his friends sing to hikaru nara in the hallways. i wanted to watch with him, but it seemed impossible — again, he doesn't even know me.

i tried to paint again, this time, one of the teaser images for weathering with you. again, it was a fail. and i just stuck to write a note, jokingly of course. i had no actual plans on sending it.

i can go watch alone pero pweathering with you.

but i have an overly supportive but scary best friend and she, without any second thought, offered to hand the note to him personally. i declined her offer, of course. it was way too embarrassing. but she wouldn't stop and i know any better than to let heer. so i handed her the note and just asked her to not reveal my identity.

she came back hours later with the biggest grin on her face. this bastard actually did it. i asked her a few questions on what had happened, before i eventually started gushing about he had a nice voice. golly gee, i should not have done that.

and it was just that. nothing had happened. we didn't watch together or anything. just the same old school days.

it was september and it had been a good month and a week since i gave him the notes. i wanted to give more, but i saw no reason to.

it was currently the last period of the day and out of boredom, i was flipping through the pages of my notebook. surprisingly enough, the failed watercolor of the sky was there, the one with the lamest pickup line of pweathering with you. unfortunately, my nosy group of friends saw it and immediately snatched it out of my hands. i begged them time and time again to give it back because i hated it, the work was so ugly. and they begged me, time and time and time again to send it. i refused everytime.

but my bestfriend #2 had offered to send the note herself. and i knew in my gut that she was not joking. when it comes to things like this? she never does. i sighed in defeat and just waved her off. i wasn't expecting to get anything out of it anyway.

i left early that day, kind of running away from practice sort of leave. on my way out of the classroom, i saw their room was empty. i saw a few bags, but didn't saw his'. so i assumed he had gone home already. i snickered and shook my head, all too confident that my friends' plan was going to fail.

i got home and changed into my pyjamas. luckily, nobody had messaged me asking where i was. or so i thought.

"come down! your classmate is here to see you!" i heard my mom call me.

oh fuck.

i took a moment to pace around in my room, causing my mother to call me twice. my mind was sure that it was my group's leader looking for me, and i had second thoughts on changing back into my uniform because she might scold me. but in the end, i just went down in my pyjamas.

i was a little taken aback to see my best friend instead. i wonder if our leader sent her? she had nothing, but a big grin on her face and pulled out what seemed to be a folded index card out of her pocket.

i took a good look at the index card she held up and i could've sworn i stopped breathing for five seconds. i know that logo.

i closed the front door behind me and immediately almost tackled her to the ground. she was laughing at how nervous i was when i took the note. i didn't know what to feel. i didn't expected this. at all.

she goes on to explain what had happened but her voice became a little muted because i was so focused on the note in my hand. my heart was drumming loudly against my ribcage and i found it hard to speak properly.

i opened the note together with her and there was only one content. his phone number.

my best friend stayed for a good five minutes listening to me ramble about how i was feeling all sorts of emotions before she bid goodbye for the day. i went back inside and hid the note inside my pyjama pants so my mom wouldn't see. i plopped onto my bed and just stared at the note. i was in utter disbelief. i was shocked. i was.. happy even.

and god, i could've sworn i spent around fifteen minutes constructing a good starting text. and hit send for the first time.

i slammed my face into my pillow and just started whining. both out of embarrassment and nervousness. my hands were sweaty and shaking. i couldn't see my face but i know i was as red as a cherry when he had replied.

i tried to keep my cool. i really did. how do people just casually talk with their crushes? i feel like i could tear my apartment apart from this.

we spent the next hours texting and i couldn't help but feel nervous everytime he replied. and i embarrassingly overshared a bit, to which i regret immediately after he said goodnight.

when he tucked in for the night, i sprawled on my bed and stared up at my ceiling. my heart was still pounding. my brain was releasing serotonin at a rapid level. and i couldn't stop smiling. sure, i said some embarrassing stuff and overshared and all. but i talked to him. god knows how happy i was that day. and for the first time in what seemed like weeks, i slept with a smile on my face.

the next day rolls around and i wanted to talk to him again, but i didn't know how. it'd be lame to just say "hi, good morning," right? i wanted it to be somewhat unique as well. and i guess the best thing that came into my mind at that moment was to send a song.

looking back at it now, maybe sending a song was just as lame. but what's done is done. it did initiate a conversation anyway.

i walked into class with a big smile and had my attention to my phone the whole time. silly, i know. but i was still so happy that for the first time, i didn't mind about getting teased.

they (my friends) all encouraged me to meet him in person. all to which i said no. i was too shy. and i was also afraid that i'd disappoint him for my appearance. although i did tease him about not seeing me when i was in the hallway.

everything was fun and games until he, himself, offered to meet me. and i could feel my heart drop to my stomach. i started getting nervous again and refused him too. saying that i am not ready to meet him.

i scrambled through my art supplies to find whatever i need to bring for later's contemporary arts class when i stumbled upon the kaori painting i did for him. i groaned, it was ugly as fuck, and i don't know what had gotten into me that i messaged him:

i have this kaori painting i made for you a few weeks back. i'll give it to your later, then you can meet me.

i regretted it (again) but it was too late (again), because he had already said yes. thanks to that, i lost my appetite for lunch that day.

i purchased a box of milk for my lunch because i at least need to have something in my stomach or else, i'm gonna pass out. my legs were shaking but luckily enough, i got to the third floor.

i told my friends that i finally agreed to meet him. and they wanted to be witnesses. of course, i didn't want that. so i chose the time to sneak out of the classroom while they were busy so we could meet without any disturbances.

i walked out with the kaori painting in my hands, legs shaky and weak. i sat down beside the door to my classroom and messaged him that i was in the hallway waiting. holy shit this is it.

i saw him walk out of their classroom and i looked up immediately. he looked a little flushed, cautious even. i don't think he noticed me sitting on the floor just staring at him while drinking my milk. god, he was so gorgeous indeed.

and when he finally spotted me and asked, "is that you?" i gave the most wonderful first impression of choking on my milk. great.

i just nodded. i knew i said a few things but i really couldn't register what i was saying. all the while i handed him the (ugly) painting. my heart was pounding (it really went through a lot since yesterday) and my legs were still shaking. he handed the painting back to me and excused himself. and he smiled.

he smiled. at me.

i bit down on my straw and tried to relive his smile. he was smiling at me. and for once i saw him smile that was meant for me. maybe i sound a little dramatic but. it seemed so surreal. oh god, he's so beautiful.

i stood up, walked back in the classroom, got ready for p.e. class with my friends, and letting them drown in dread for not witnessing our first meeting.

but i could care less.

at least i got a moment out of it. a moment that meant so much to me.

i did not want to expect, so this time, i'll just ride the waves and see where this goes to.

but wherever it may lead, i'm pretty sure that it'll be worth it. besides, what's wrong with being a little risky in life?

#part 1 #personal experience

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koganphrancis · 7 years

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Season H8 Episode 2 Recap

TV Guide’s review of this ep begins thusly: I don't want to write this story. Can I start by saying that?

I hear that-there’s so much just truly AWFUL in this episode that I’m not sure I can do it justice.

An important point I want to hit right away is that what really gets to me the longer the show goes on is how nothing that happens to Ian is advancing his story. In this week’s episode I can’t even begin to count how many splats of poop plop onto him, and by the end nothing has changed. He’s still in grief, he’s still pretty dumb, he’s still “with” Terror. What was the point of any of it?

I’ll try to summarize the other storylines as quick as I can-Fiona continues her nowhere near reality building manager life. She’s battling tenants for the rent (??? this is the first month she’s collecting rent even tho Monica died months ago?) and SOOOOO much time is wasted with her yelling at people we don’t know. By the end of the ep, she’s slapping an eviction notice on a door and warming that if the family isn’t out the next day, she’s calling the marshals. I know this show isn’t a documentary, but that bit was so far from the way things work I wanted to cry. I’m stuck working in the next cube over from a woman who owns a couple of small apartment buildings with her husband, and I’ve had to hear how hard it is to evict someone more than once. It takes months, and lawyers, and court appearances, and if there’s little kids involved-like the family they showed on Shameless-it takes even longer. There are no branches of “marshals” sitting around waiting for landlords to call and tell them to kick people out, same day service. Also, it’s already getting to me how unrealistic it is for Fiona to even own this building. Who is taking care of cleaning the common areas? How does she pay anyone to fix clogged pipes, broken heating, etc? She’s still working at the diner too, so she’s not rolling in cash. The show just handing her this enterprise to run is too hard to believe (or get interested in, but don’t let me digress). It’s so soap opera-y, they might as well have said she was suddenly running her own fashion design firm or cosmetic company or something.

Lip continues to be a dink. Mooning over Snore, wanting to come up with a way to show her her ex is no good. He takes advice from fucking Frank and has a pizza guy come to the diner so he can order a special pizza to be delivered to the ex-why does Lip know his address? The pizza has a bag of coke on it, and the ex runs to a meeting to resist the temptation. Now, I don’t know if he’s also an alcoholic also, so he goes to AA meetings too, but in an incredible coincidence, Lip and the ex are at the exact same meeting! Fancy that! While he’s talking about trying to not snort the coke, he conveniently mentions it’s still sitting in his house. Lip tears out of the meeting, breaks into the guy’s house and gets his leg chewed up by a guard dog for his trouble. Too many coincidences PLUS the shitty idea it was to begin with make this storyline pretty unbearable. We also learn, in passing, that Lip is 23 now, so that makes Ian 22, Debbie 18, and Carl 17-he could totally be charged as an adult for dealing that meth, not that the show is going to go there.

Debbie got her hair washed. That’s it. That’s what we see now on this show.

They continue to push the poverty vs the 1 percenter life style with Liam. I’m sorry, I can’t get into it. We all-including the Gallaghers-have TV, we know that rich people live differently than most of us. Can we move the fuck on, please?

Carl was barely in this ep-all he did was sell Ian’s meth and set Ian off at the end of the episode.

Frank is, as usual, not really worth talking about-we all know it’s just a matter of time before he’s back to his old ways. However, in his job interview scene, the other character got to sit there and tell the story of his past relationship and cry about it-so, another scene Ian should’ve had long ago where he talked about Mickey like that, grrr.

Now Ian, eye roll. The “here’s what you missed” went to him this week-he’s on the job, running from the EMT ambulance to a victim and he says, “Shit, I’m out here saving lives...” and I couldn’t help but think, “and looking to push my meth.”

Ian shows up for breakfast that Carl’s making, and Lip is at the sink with a plate, filling his face. Ian teases him, asking if he’s eating for two, and oddly rubs Lip’s stomach for an unnecessarily long amount of time. It made me realize how little those two have physical contact-they never even clasp each other on the shoulder or anything. This OOC rubbing from Ian was wicked weird, but of course it’s setting up the fact that Ian is very aware of BMI and how much a low one means to him. Lip says he’s trying to fight the urge to drink with extreme nausea, Ian answers, “Sounds healthy”, foreshadowing the other theme the show will hit hard this week-trading one unhealthy thing for another, sort of a lesser of two evils thing.

Carl says he can finally move Ian’s meth, so he runs to get it, but when Ian goes to hand it over, he gets weird about it-not because it could kill people/ruin lives, but because it’s the last (I would say “only”) thing Monica gave them, and “when it’s gone, she’s gone”. Carl couldn’t care less, and says he’s going to take a bigger cut from Ian than he did from Lip since Ian’s being a pussy or whatever.

Ian’s at the youth center, outside, taking care of a couple of kids and he’s all mopey and doesn’t even acknowledge Terror. Terror, of course, can’t have Ian not hitting on him, so he asks Ian if he’s okay. Ian says he got “kinda sad about Monica today”, Terror says that’s not weird (who said it was weird? Him not hitting on you is the only thing you think is weird, you rapey idiot), she hasn’t been dead very long. Ian sadly says, “I guess.” Terror tells him when he’s sad he goes to Bear Back. Ian is incredulous. “The chub bar? You’re into chubs?” The bigger the better,” says icky T. Ian says, “How do I not know this about you?” Because, Ian, you know almost NOTHING about this little asshole-there’s nothing to know and the writers haven’t bothered with anything other than he’s trans and he’s annoying.

I’m not going to bother trying to describe the disdain on Ian’s face and in his tone with everything that had to do with this part of the story-suffice it to say it was there, and it made me very sad that they’re painting Ian as this shallow, callow person who only cares about a guy’s body type not being big. Line up Mickey, Faileb, Terror, Kash, and Ned-none of them even have the “same” body type, but none of them were overweight. I guess that’s the only thing that bothers Ian.

Ian says he doesn’t get it, so Terror finally, after all this time, says they should go get a drink and Ian will “get enlightened”. “Or smothered,” Ian says-oh ho, that’s a great joke!

Cut to them at the bar. They have the following conversation:

Ian: This is seriously your type? Terror: Sometimes. I: What’s the attraction? T: They like to please. They’re tender. I: (to the bartender) Two shots of well whiskey. (What, no “please”? What a prick!) (to Terror) These guys? T: It’s not like I go for them all the time. It’s just when I need someone really nice in my life. Like let’s say there was this guy that I really loved (I screamed while watching this when he said that, Ian just sort of made a dismissive face-it’s not like he was hurt thinking that Terror truly loved him. Terror knew him for what-18 days before Ian ran off with Mickey?) and he deserted me (why are you being such a drama queen?) for three days to go to Mexico with his escaped convict ex. (I think you mean love of his life, asshole) I: Um-hm... T: I would come here, find a chub to worship me. (Get the fuck over yourself!!!!)

Terror tosses back his drink, leads Ian over to meet some guys at the pool table, they say Hi all interested, Ian sucks down his drink, looks like he’s not into this at all. Hello scene with the girl on the train all over again.

Next thing we know, we’re watching Ian have an orgasm-something we never got with Mickey-as he sits on a couch getting a blowjob from one of the big guys who is on his knees in front of him. In the background, about 15 feet away, the other big guy is on a bed facing the room Ian is in while Terror plows into him from behind. Seriously? Ian and Terror are this type of fuck buddies now? Ian’s wanted to get back with Terror since getting back from Mexico (allegedly), but he’ll put up with the two of them having sex in basically the same room?

Ian’s guy finishes him off and sits on the couch next to Ian and says, “Oh, you’re such a good boy.” 5 years with Mickey and we never got to see them talk after sex, but this rando gets to compliment him? Ian makes a face and says thanks and gets up-to leave, I hope, and not to go join in on the bed with Terror and the other guy. Ian’s guy asks where’s he going, Ian looks over at T on the bed and says, “What?” The guy says “Come here,” and lies down on the couch. Ian immediately gets in the little spoon position for no reason we can see whatsoever, but then Nancy pulls a little fan service and has him cry lying on his side, just like that scene from yesteryear. Ian doesn’t say anything, so it’s not like we can think he’s crying for Mickey, or because he’s flashing back to when he had meaningless sex with too many strangers to count before or because he feels bad about using this guy-it’s all supposed to be about Monica.

Next time we see Ian he’s in the hot tub and Fiona comes and joins him and he tells Fiona “other than crying in some fat fucking furry stranger’s arms tonight” he’s great. They have a boring talk about her day, and then Fi says she wants to know what’s going on. Ian says it’s embarrassing, Fi says, “Okay”, Ian tells her, “Terror said that hooking up with a chub would make me feel better about Monica but it don’t-it made me feel worse.” Fiona: Really? You’re upset she died? (This is why you never go to Fiona for advice about interpersonal relationships, Ian! She’s not wired like you!) I: Yeah. I know you guys have all moved on and I haven’t. (Shit, Ian, you really are all alone in this world now, aren’t you? You really should’ve gone to Mexico with the one and only person who cares about you!) F: Moved on while she was alive. I: Well, I guess I’m the family freak for not wanting to forget about her. (yeah, you should just forget about her-you could do it with Mickey, and he actually had your back!) F: I don’t think you’re a freak cuz you don’t want to forget her. I think you’re a freak cuz you cried in a fat dude’s arms.

They splash each other and the next day I’m reading posts about how great it is that Fiona’s acting like Ian’s sister again-huh? Did I miss when she said, “I’m sorry you’re hurting, I’m here for you, what do you need”? She told a fat joke and didn’t look the least bit worried over Ian’s suffering-or what he did to try to alleve it. And what about her worrying/saying that fucking Terror will set a match to Ian’s sweet life that he’s worked so hard to achieve? Shouldn’t any big sister’s response to “Trevor said...” be, “If Trevor told you to sniff glue would you have done THAT? That’d make you forget your pain over Monica for a while too, but IT’S NO FUCKING SOLUTION.”

Also, this whole thing just proves that Terror has no credentials whatsoever. He’s probably just a volunteer at the youth center-they let him drive kids around without a valid license and now his advice to someone who’s had bad sex almost his entire life is to go have some more to feel better for a while. Fuck this noise. There’s no way he’s ever had formal training to be a counselor working with at risk kids.

At least this time the hot tub had steam rising off it.

You’d think that’d be enough bad for one ep, but no! We still have the tattoo to get through! Ian’s already getting inked when the scene begins, and the artist asks if he’s doing okay, and Ian says yeah, he’s digging the pain. The tattoo guy says a lot of people say that especially if they’re going through a hard time. Ian asks why is that and the guy says, “Emotional pain has no location. Physical pain does-you can name it. So it becomes a little more manageable.” Um, Nancy? Did you just sign off on self-harm? That is NOT good or reasonable advice! What is it with this episode pushing Ian into destructive behavior?

Anyway, Ian asks how’s it looking, the guy says, “Your girlfriend’s gonna love this one, bro.” Ian says, “It’s not my girlfriend, it’s my mom.” The artist says, “Your mom? Oh you shoulda told me that before I started working on these titties.”

So, what, exactly, was the conversation when Ian got there? “I want a woman’s headless torso tattooed on my back-I’ll explain the significance of it later”???? As with everything on this show, their complete lack of research and respect for the work people do in the real world is non-existent here.

Next time we see Ian he’s drinking a beer shirtless in the Gallagher kitchen and TERROR is there-all my earlier hopes while I was watching that the dueling sex scene was going to be a deal breaker for Ian, at least for a while, has flown out the window. They don’t even say why he’s there-if those two assholes are back together and Terror’s settling in there again, I’ll riot.

Carl comes in from the front door with a random girl we never see up close. He walks all the way to the kitchen leaving her in the background and says Ian’s “lost it” when he hears the tattoo is supposed to be Monica. Oh, that reminds me-when Ian gets his money from Carl, he asks what Ian’s going to do with it and Ian says he’ll use it to do something to memorialize Monica-so, Carl gave Lip 9 grand, even if he kept an extra thousand from Ian, you mean to tell me that tattoo cost Ian all his money and he couldn’t pay the guy to cover it or turn it into something else?

Ian flips out when he recognizes Monica’s jacket on the girl. Carl said he gave it to her for some beers and a blowie. The whole time he’s drinking the beer, Ian’s acting like he did the day at Mickey’s when he wanted to go after the protesters at the serviceman’s funeral. Are we supposed to think he’s getting manic again? That would certainly explain a lot of shit/bad decisions that have gone down in this episode, but they showed him with his pills in the first episode and the writers have said they “dealt with” Ian needing to be medicated-although then they did cave and give us that brief look at Ian needing to get his dose adjusted last season. I hate how the show cares so little about anything, that you just don’t know if there’s reasons for Ian’s behavior or it’s just the indifferent script writers trading off week to week. Anyway, Ian insists Carl bring him to Monica’s storage unit since there’s still some of her stuff there, and Carl calls him “Psycho” but says he will.

The next day Ian’s wearing his bright red Nike high tops, out on the stoop shooting daggers from his eyes as the snooty rich mother of Liam’s sleepover friend is waiting. I assume there was some dialogue that got cut, because why is Ian so hostile towards her? Is he hurt because she’s judging him for living in a bad neighborhood-looking down on him? Isn’t that how this hypocritical fuck was about the big guys in this episode? Why does this show suck so hard now?

The woman’s kid and Liam and Carl come out, and Ian and Carl go to the storage unit and discover a big bad meth dealer there. He figures out they’re Monica’s kids and that she either gave them his meth or they stole it and either way he wants his $70000 back. Setting up the next pointless episode...

There was one scene with a kid playing Yevgeny in it (bring the Henckels back!), and Kev’s cancer scare that I had already read in a spoiler was going to be just that-only a scare. And Kev gets to join a cancer support group but we can’t send Ian to grief therapy because Gallaghers don’t do therapy.

The show is going nowhere. To Cameron after his rant this week I can only say, “Fuck me for giving a shit, you prick.”

#Recap #Season H8 Episode 2 #TW Self harm mention #Still smarting from the fat shaming but I tried to keep my temper in check

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havokangel · 7 years

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Shape Of You - Part 1/2

Warren Worthington III x Reader

written by @kurtwxgners & @alexsunmners

a/n; aka, the artist au no one asked for.

so first and foremost, this has been in the works since NOVEMBER. NOVEMBER. alex and i have been busting our ass for MONTHS over this fic and we hope we did it justice. sorry for keeping you all waiting, but we hope it was worth it! enjoy guys!

also on ao3

part two here

tags; @mvximoff @madelyne-pryor @rax-writes @paperclipmac @v-writings @dicckgrayson @emmcfrxst @iamplaguedwithideas @hastyscribe @softwarren @jubillee @mutantlaura @idontknowwhattocallthisposts @theatricalenthusiast @themidnight-train @thequeen-ofnerds @xxencagedxx

artist!warren playlist

ILYSB // LANY

Sex On Fire // Kings of Leon

The Less I Know The Better // Tame Impala

Comfortable // Lauv

Holy Ghost // BORNS

Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High? // Arctic Monkeys

Never Be Like You // Flume

Sex // The 1975

Post Break Up Sex // The Vaccines

Idfc // Blackbear

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby // Cigarettes After Sex

Trouble // Cage The Elephant

She Moves In Her Own Way // The Kooks

R U Mine? // Arctic Monkeys

I Walk The Line // Halsey

Boys Don’t Cry // The Cure

Summary; You know Warren better than you think anyone else does; you know about his art and his habits and a bit about his dad, and you know that he’s reckless and self-destructive and that he doesn’t do relationships.

Which wasn’t a problem until now.

There’s no denying that Warren Worthington III is incredibly attractive. Girls and boys alike always seem so naturally drawn to him, and you wonder if the universe had specifically put him in your life to make you angry. Warren may be the Adonis of your university, but there’s always a catch with boys like him: his ego, which may as well be bigger than the sun, and you’re almost positive that he knows he’s got everyone in your art class wrapped around his finger. You’re first hand witness to that, for an hour and a half three times a week. Everytime he cuddles up to some wide-eyed girl and suggests that they swing by his place that evening, you roll your eyes so hard you’re almost surprised they don’t fall out of your head. He tells them he’d love to have them model for him sometime. You’re pretty sure that’s what he tells every girl he wants to fuck. It makes you cringe. So, that’s why you usually kept to yourself in that class - that is, until Warren actually acknowledges your presence.

The project you’re working on, is simple, so simple that even someone who was just taking this as an elective, like yourself, could pass with flying colors without giving it too much attention. It’s still life week and you’re meant to be drawing the fruit bowl in the middle of the room, which feels like a cliche or something, but who are you to argue with the teacher’s assignment. You had put your headphones in a while ago, before Warren had started making his usual rounds of the class, to project his ‘artistic advice’ onto other students who didn't know any better, who were probably only taking his incredibly condescending advice at all in the hopes of gaining his affection. Or an invitation home. You’re pretty sure Warren has fucked half the class already and for reasons that escape you, the rest of the class hasn’t figured out that they should probably just steer clear of him. So when you see out of the corner of your eye a stool being pulled up next to you, a sigh leaves your mouth. You pull out a headphone, and look at Warren, who’s oh-so-carefully examining your sketch through his probably fake and definitely expensive glasses.

“Y’know, if I were you, I’d shade in this area,” He suggests, finger pointing to the bottom of the bowl. “It’d really make the drawing more realistic, and it’d give it more depth.”

“Excuse me?” You say with offense, looking down at your paper.

“M’just saying, it’d look good if you shaded there.” Warren repeats, leaning his chin against his hand.

“Look, just because you’re some ‘up and coming’ artist, doesn’t mean I’m going to do what you thinks good,” You tell him, using air quotes around your words to make your point. “Besides, the prof is always telling us to develop our own art style.”

“Ouch!” Warren petulantly says, clutching his chest. “Didn’t expect you to be so sassy, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You say with a roll of your eyes, ripping your completed sketch out of your book. You get up to go turn in your sketch, Warren quickly following behind you.

“Look, we haven’t really talked before, I was just trying to break the ice!” He says petulantly, though the effect is ruined by the smirk tugging at his lips. You swear that he was born with that permanent smirk on his face. The teacher points to the pile of sketches, and you place it there. “You’re always so observant, and I just want to get to know you.”

“Way to break the ice,” you mutter under your breath, moving back to the table where your things are.

“Why don’t you swing by my place tonight, I’m having a little get together with some other art majors,” Warren suggests casually, as you gather your things. “I’ve got lots of good wine, and you could check out my portfolio.”

“Sorry Warren, I’d love to be around people I have nothing in common with, but I've got plans tonight,” you retort, hitching your bag a little higher on your shoulder.

“And that's what? Netflix bingeing until three a.m.?” Warren calls after you, watching as you make your way towards the door. You just turn and give him a blatantly fake smile, flipping him off to the amusement of the students watching. He just sighs with a smile, his hands moving to his hips. He'd always see you during class, and he always wondered how a girl like you was always so quiet, and observant during class. And to be quite honest, he was getting pretty tired of the usual girls he flirted with during this class; so he took an interest in you, initiating the conversation with you today. You looked like you could be fun, and the way you had snapped back at him only confirmed the idea.So as the next few weeks unfold, he’s not too sure why his usual lines and tricks aren't working on you, like they had on everyone else. And you're pretty sure you might wring his neck, if he asks you to come to one more of his art shows; or to his loft for “modeling purposes.”

Warren finds out that when you get angry or annoyed, you look undeniably attractive. He also finds it attractive, that when you think no one is paying attention, how you'll chew at the tip of your pencil out of concentration. And, when you're in the dark room together, you look otherworldly under the red lights. He hasn't felt the need to pursue someone like this in a long time. No matter how much you two may argue and banter, there's no denying the underlying chemistry between the two of you. Between hook-ups and Uni, he’d kind of forgotten what it was like to “chase” someone he’s taken an interest in, so when a partner project comes along that requires a human canvas, he’s quick to sign your name along with his.

“I'm sorry, but when did I agree to be your partner?” You question him, seeing your name scrawled out in his handwriting.

“Oh c’mon princess! I'm a good partner,” he winks, as you roll your eyes at him. “We could get a head start on it tonight. I got plenty of ideas, and not to mention, some good wine.” You can't deny that he's the best artist in the whole damn class, and you've heard from others that he actually does have the best wine, and he's a pretty decent host. You're positive he’s also got way better art supplies, which would no doubt increase your chances of getting a nice grade.

“Alright, alright,” You give in, rummaging around your bag for a spare pen and paper. As you scrawl your number on the paper, Warren’s smirk on his face grows. “Text me your address, Worthington. I'll see you at 7.”

And like you had planned earlier, that’s how you end up in Warren’s loft; watching him pour you a glass of wine. (You’d be lying if you said you weren't at least a little nervous. Worthington may be an asshole, but he's also definitely easy on the eyes.) Kings of Leon is playing softly in the background, as he hands you the glass of wine.

“Well, I’d never thought I’d see the day,” Warren says, leaning back against the counter, as he takes a sip of his wine.

“And what’s that?” You ask, even though you're pretty much certain of what he's going to say.

“The day I got you to come to my place. It's a miracle, it really is, princess!”

“God, you're an asshole,” you reply with a laugh, bringing your glass to your lips.

“Yeah, but you like it. Don't lie to yourself,” he teases, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Oh, you're right! I love when you tell me everything I draw is fucked up,” you quip, as he shakes his head with a grin.

“In the art world, that's called constructive criticism,” he says defensively, as you just laugh.

“Well in the real world, that's called being a douchebag.”

Warren grabs the bottle of wine, and circles around the island, cueing you to follow him to the living room. He plops down on the couch, patting the space next to him. You sit, crossing your legs as he rests his arm on the back of the couch. “Alright, down to official Uni business!” He exclaims, reaching to grab his notebook off the coffee table. “I have some experience with using human canvases, so I've got a few ideas.”

“Human canvases, huh?” You comment, swirling your glass. “That human canvas wouldn't happen to go by Emma, from our class, would it? I've heard some pretty good stories from her about you, y’know.”

“Ha, ha,” Warren says, rolling your eyes petulantly and making you chuckle. “Anyways, as I was saying, you know Tumblr, right?” You nod. Of fucking course, he’d have a Tumblr. “Well, you've seen those pictures of paintings on people's backs and shit, right?” Warren asks, his brow raising. It takes you a second to think of what he's describing before it clicks in your brain.

“Oh, Worthington, you've gotta get a couple drinks in me before I do that.”

“I knew you'd say that.” Warren laughs lightly, moving to grab the bottle of wine. “It's a good thing I got this, and more options.”

As the wine begins to flow, so do the ideas. None of them really sound that appealing or creative, and you're pretty sure you're closing in on a decision. As Warren, it’s the alcohol that’s affecting your decision making, but you’re almost certain that it’s the way Warren is so effortlessly making you feel at ease; like he’s taking down the front to an act he puts on all day.

“Fuck it,” you say, interrupting Warren’s list of ideas. “Let’s do the back painting.”

He actually looks slightly taken aback for a moment, his plump lips parting for a moment as if he’s going to say something; but closing them, lips curling into a small smile. He closes his notebook and stands, your gaze following him. “Alright princess,” He says, offering his hand to you. “Let’s get started.”

Warren rearranges his furniture in the living room, pushing the couches out of the way so he would be able to paint. He rummages through his closet for some old sheets, spreading the already paint stained sheets on the floor. You hurriedly finish your wine and pour yourself another large glass as you watch Warren set things up because it’s hitting you that you’re going to be pretty much half naked on his floor, with his hands all over you. You watch him as he sets up a couple lights around the area, arranging them to his liking. He leans down to the couch, and grabs a pillow, chucking it to you with a playful smile.

“For your comfort,” He says simply, running a hand through his curls. “I’m-I’m just gonna go into the other room. Take… take your shirt off, and get comfy. There’s an extra sheet over there, in case I get paint on your skirt, or whatever.” Warren quickly excuses himself, much to your amusement. You’re actually quite flustered if you’re being honest; you expected him to make some suggestive comments throughout the night, but he's been a gentleman so far.

Taking one last sip of your wine for some courage, you slip off your shirt and place it over the back of the armchair. You unclasp your bra and put it on the armchair as well. You wrap your arms around your chest for a moment, feeling the vulnerability set it. You can do this, you convince yourself, as you settle yourself on the floor. You're gonna be fine, and you're going to get a really fucking good grade.

“Worthington!” You call out, raising your head to look over your shoulder. “I'm ready!”

Warren comes into the living room, his hands full of his supplies. It takes everything he's got, not to drop them. He really thought he wouldn't be affected by you being half naked on his floor, but he was so wrong. With your hair splayed over your shoulders and sheet over your legs, you look like you had just fallen asleep after…. after some pretty suggestive activities. And it doesn't help that you look like this, on his floor. He just clears his throats and tries to get his shit together as he makes his way over to you, setting down his supplies beside your body.

“Uh, do- do you want me to play some music or something? Do you want any more wine?” He asks, trying to maintain his professionalism.

“Yes to the music, no to the wine, unfortunately.” You reply, earning a laugh from Warren. “I'm pretty sure I'm past tipsy.”

“Aw, that's cute,” Warren teases, as he puts on some soft music. Of fucking course, he listens to Tame Impala. “You're a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you retort, as he makes his way back to you. “Not all of us binge drink as often as you do.”

Warren chuckles, and gets to his knees, pondering the best way to go about painting. If he wants to get precise strokes and details, he's going to have to be close to your back. “Is it… is it alright if I sit on your thighs?” He asks carefully, preparing for some snarky comment. You're quiet for a moment, and even though he can't see your face, he's sure that you're cringing. But he's proven wrong, as you just burst into a fit of giggles.

“Yeah, sure, that's- go for it,” You reply, between giggles. “Just don't crush me.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” Warren quips, moving to straddle the upper part of your thighs.

“Definitely not. You're like, way more ripped than an artist should be.”

“Wait, what?” Warren asks, not fully processing your statement.

“Uh, nothing, just- just sit already, Worthington!”

Warren feels his cheeks heat up, and shakes his head with a fond smile. When he settles on your thighs, that’s when he realizes how close he actually is to you. Christ, his dick is pretty much pressed against your ass at this angle. NO, Warren thinks to himself, Do not think of her ass. Focus on the painting. Focus on the painting.

Taking one last deep breath, he picks up a brush to start. He dips the paintbrush into a deep purple, moving his hand to the middle of your back. You instantly shiver when the paint comes in contact with your spine, eliciting a small squeak of surprise from you. Warren just laughs softly and asks you if you’re good. When you just nod against the pillows, he starts again. As he works, you’re pretty sure you’ve entered Heaven. His free hand is soft and inviting as it occasionally touches your skin, and the strokes from his brush are soothing against your skin. When Warren leans down to examine the details of his work, you feel his breath against you - and you’d be lying if you said that didn’t make your heart flutter. The music in the background fades as you slip in and out of consciousness, the mixture of wine and the paint making you sleepy. You’re not sure how much time has passed because before you know it, you feel Warren’s weight leave you; making you frown.

“Is it done?” You ask, voice laced with grogginess, as you turn to look at him over your shoulder. His hair is slightly disarrayed, and his white shirt has splatters of blue and purple on it.

“Yeah, it is,” Warren starts, searching through some bags to dig out his camera. “Do you mind if I take a few for class?”

“No, not at all.” You answer, turning to rest your face back on your arms.

As Warren adjusts the lighting once more for the photographs, he realizes just how dangerously attractive you look. With your hair sprawled out and your body half covered with a sheet, you look like you’ve just fallen asleep in his bed. It’s almost a little too much for him, as you yawn. He shakes himself from his thoughts before he finally starts to snap some pictures. With every click, he can feel himself stray to thoughts of how you’d look underneath him, and how your lips would feel against his. He won’t admit it, but he definitely snaps more than he should, for nights when he can’t shake off the feeling of how your ass felt underneath him. When he sets down his camera, he takes note of how you’re more or less fast asleep on his floor. He kneels down to your face, where he gently places a hand on your shoulder.

“You want to take a shower?” He asks softly, as you rouse from your lax state. “Or I could wipe you off if you don’t want to move.”

“You do it,” You mumble back as if it was the obvious answer. “Don’t wanna move.”

Warren nods in understanding, moving to the kitchen to grab some washcloths. He runs them under hot water, and rings them out, before going back to you. He takes his place on your thighs once more, pressing the warm washcloth on your back. His free hand finds its home on your side, balancing himself as he wipes carefully down your spine. Your reaction is entirely unanticipated and it sets him reeling.

The groan you release is muffled, but not muffled enough for Warren not to hear it. It sounds akin to a pleasured groan; one that is produced when a person is in the midst of a climax and it shakes him to the core. He freezes, and tenses above you. It’s only then, you realize, that Warren fucking Worthington III is hard against your ass.

You’re suddenly not so tired anymore.

It takes Warren a moment for him to collect himself before he starts wiping off your back again. You do your best to stifle your groans, but you’re sure he’s doing it with more pressure deliberately. It’s not long before Warren is done wiping off the paint, and you’re about to thank him before the washcloth is replaced with his hands. The moment his thumbs dig into your shoulders, you know, that you’re completely and utterly fucked.

You’re sure he knows what he’s doing to you, as his deft hands travel around your back, his thumbs digging in all the right places. Warren bites his lower lip, as you’re underneath him, a wicked thought crossing his mind. His hands drift to the base of your spine before he lowers himself so that his lips are level with your ear. You physically shiver when you feel his lower lip brush against the shell of your ear, his fingers dancing across your skin.

“You okay, princess?” Warren’s voice is three octaves lower than usual, and the slight lust in his tone is enough to make a heat of wave surge through your body. You can’t physically make the effort to actually form any coherent words, so you just opt to make an ‘mmh’ that sounds pathetically desperate to your ears. There’s a long, tense pause, as he takes in your answer. You’re about to say something, say something to convince you both that this is maybe a bad idea, but your words are caught in your throat as he places a kiss to the nape of your neck, and he doesn’t stop there. His lips place hot, wet kisses down your back, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to lose it right then when his tongue traces the dip of your spine. His calloused hands travel down your sides, pulling down the dirtied sheet to reveal your skirt, that in the process of painting, has been hiked up a little. The way you’re fisting the pillow underneath you is enough permission for Warren to continue.

He pushes up your skirt and just lets out a dark laugh at what he’s met with. Your lace cheeksters make your ass look fantastic, and he loves the way they look against your skin. His large hands suddenly grasp the swell of your ass, causing a surprised moan to fall from your lips. “Goddamn, princess,” he groans, voice gravelly. You barely even process the feel of his lips suddenly sucking hard at one of your cheeks, his thumb moving to stroke you outside of your panties. You let out an absolutely wrecked moan as he marks up your ass, his thumb rubbing at your clit in uneven circles over your underwear.

He grows quickly impatient with that and opts to scoot forward slightly. Your back arches the second he starts mouthing at your clothed heat, a yelp escaping your lips. Warren hums in approval at your reaction, and that's when he takes the cue to rid you of your underwear altogether. His hands make quick work of the underwear, throwing them behind his shoulder, long forgotten. Your breath is ragged and short as his rough hands grasp your ass, and you all but scream his name when his tongue presses against your cunt.

The angle’s a little awkward, but you don't really care: because all you can focus on is the feel of his tongue lapping at you like a starved man, and the feel of his hands spreading your ass apart. Warren alternates between deep, longing licks and short, teasing ones. Your knuckles are turning white from how hard you’re grasping the pillow underneath you, and you nearly lurch forward when you feel his tongue against your ass.

“Fuck!” You curse loudly. Your voice cracks from how dry it is, but you don’t care. Warren fucking laughs at your reaction, because he knew you were close, too.

He keeps up the teasing, deep licks for a couple more minutes. He wants to see how far he can push you until you’re begging for the release you need. He’s always been a tease. It takes Warren by surprise when he feels your hand place itself in his curls, fingers digging into the roots of his hair. You impatiently press him harder into you, and he seems to get the point. His tongue immediately moves down to your clit, where he focuses his attention. With every movement of his chin, you could feel the day old stubble rub against the apex of your thighs, only increasing the pleasure. The second Warren’s fingers nudge at your clit, you gasp out his name; finally getting that release you’ve needed for the past ten minutes.

Your eyes shut tightly as you cum, your grip on Warren’s hair tightening as he rides out your orgasm. His fingers are still rubbing at your clit, making your body pulse and writhe underneath him. It’s not long before he finally detaches himself from your aching cunt, and hastily making his way up towards your lips.

He leaves a couple more kisses on your ass and spine before you’re resting your weight on your elbows to meet him halfway. You’re pretty sure a first kiss has never been so utterly filthy before. His tongue is immediately in your mouth, and you’re kicking yourself for being turned on by the taste of yourself on his lips. At the taste of yourself, you can’t help the needy little moan that leaves your mouth, which causes Warren to actually fucking growl.

It’s a blur, as Warren’s hands plant themselves on your hips, practically manhandling you to your back. He leans back on his heels to pull off his shirt quickly, returning to give you a bruising kiss. It’s a mess of tongue and teeth, as his hands greedily knead at your breasts. Your hands shove themselves between your bodies, fingers trying to unbuckle his belt as quickly as you can possibly manage. The second his belt falls to the floor with a ‘clink,’ Warren detaches his mouth from yours once more. He kicks off his jeans and briefs hurriedly, wasting no time to come back to you.

When he comes back down to you, you can’t really help yourself, as your hand slides down once more to grip his length. The second you stroke him, Warren gasps heavily into your mouth; his eyes screwing shut. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, as you stroke his cock. You let out a small noise of surprise when he regains his focus, his hand moving to hold the base of your throat.

His hips grind forward, the length of him sliding across your wanting entrance. When you whine in response, Warren just chuckles darkly, ducking down to brush his lips against yours.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” He whispers, the hold on your throat tightening. “Want me to fuck you good?” You’re so far gone that your body feels like one huge pulse; controlled by the single hand on your throat, the soft lips ghosting against yours. Your slightly trembling hand moves to grip his wrist as your hips roll into his, your head nodding almost frantically, giving him the green light. He smirks down at you, and you can practically see the lust in his eyes. The second he tightens that grip around your throat, you can already tell that you’re going to have trouble walking straight.

He slides into you easily, filling you to the brim. The ragged moan that the two of you let out is so fucking filthy, that it makes the whole situation even sexier. He doesn’t waste any time in setting up a deep, punishing rhythm. Warren’s lips seem to be connected permanently connected to your jaw as he fucks you, his teeth scraping at biting at the skin there. Your gasps are loud but you don’t care because they’re quickly muffled by Warren. Your hands move under his arms, nails digging into his back, only causing Warren to thrust harder into you.

You’re already sensitive as hell from earlier, which makes you cum quickly around him. The second Warren feels you clench around him, eyes rolling back into your head, he knows he’s got you.

“Fuck, yeah,” He groans, his hand leaving your throat. “So fuckin’ hot when you cum.”

You wrap your arms around his neck to yank him back down for a bruising, mean kiss, his tongue fucking into your mouth, as he feels his orgasm creep up on him. All it takes is for him to pull back and take one good look at you, to finish; the fucked out look you give him is what does him in.

He cums with almost a yell, his hips slamming hard into yours and stilling; his hot cum spilling into you. Warren collapses against your chest, his breath ragged, his heart rate elevated. It seems like you both just lay there for an eternity, as he keeps his head resting in the crook of your neck. Part of you wants to believe that this whole thing was a mistake; something to blame on the alcohol. The other part of you wants to feel his lips on yours once more and to feel his hips thrusting against yours.

It feels like ages before Warren stands, moving to the kitchen to grab a warm cloth to clean you up with. You lie there feeling almost jaded as you let him clean you up, shivering at his touch when he moves the cloth between your legs. He leans back on his heels and offers you his hand, helping you up. You stumble slightly, but Warren is quick to catch you. Warren just coughs out a small laugh, which causes you to scowl at him playfully.

“I... I think I may need that shower now,” you tell him quietly. Warren just chuckles and nods in understanding. He helps you to the bathroom because lord knows your legs don’t work properly after that. In the bathroom, he starts up the shower and throws you a towel, turning to make his leave. Warren is surprised when you pull him back by his wrist, a tired smile playing at your lips. Your eyes are half lidded, high off the sex and still drunk off the wine. Warren wonders how you still manage to look beautiful, even after he just fucked you senseless. His breath hitches when your finger grazes the dips of his abs, his eyes following your finger, tracing over the paint smears that litter his skin.

“I know you’re sweaty from the sex, but don’t think I didn’t notice the paint,” You tell him, as you look up at him through your lashes. Your fingers idly trace up his torso and to his neck, tracing his collarbones. Warren’s adam’s apple visibly bobs as you move them to his lips, tracing them gently. His lips part, and as a natural reflex, they slip into his mouth. His tongue laves over them for a fleeting moment, before you’re caught off guard by his hands gripping your hips. He all but slams you against the counter, your fingers popping out of his mouth. Warren mouths at your neck, one of his hands moving to inevitably finger you again. You’re quicker than him though, your hand wrapping around his wrist to stop him. He pulls away like a docile dog, probably thinking he pushed your limits. Pushing his curls out of his face in reassurance, you say,

“Not that I’m opposed to the idea, it’s just that the water’s probably getting cold.”

The confused visage melts away, replaced with an almost bashful smile. He just leans forward, resting his face in the crook of your neck. It takes you slightly aback when he presses a chaste kiss underneath your ear - a kiss lovers most likely share. You try not to think about it too hard. He pulls back, and you both get into the shower. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortably so. You both clean up and share small, fond smiles as you pass the shampoo back and forth. When you get out, he wraps you up in a towel and leaves you be to change. As you dry your hair with your towel, the reflection in the mirror is only what can be described as a hot mess. He surely did a number on your neck, that’s for sure. Looks like it’s going to be nothing but scarves and turtlenecks for the next week.

He offers you his bed to stay in for the night, and as pleasing as it sounds, you have to deny. You have work early the next morning, and you’re sure if you spend the night he’ll add more damage to your neck, which you just can’t have. As you gather your purse, Warren comes up behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and you squirm a little when he presses light kisses to the marks he’d left earlier. Your arms overlap his, as you try to break free out of his grip, only to fail. He spins you so that he can mouth at your jaw. The bastard.

“Warren,” You all but stutter out, with a smile. He pulls back with a smug grin, raising his brows in fake innocence. “You’re making it so hard for me to leave.”

“That’s the idea, princess.” He quips quietly, his lips ghosting over yours as he leans in for another kiss. You turn at the last second and push out of his grip with a mischievous grin. Warren sighs in defeat, pushing back his damp bangs.

Cutting him some slack, you stand on your tippy toes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When you pull back, he’s got a crooked grin on his face, and almost a wicked gleam in his eye. You back up to the front door, and before you turn the knob to leave, you say,

“See you in class, Worthington.”

The next few weeks are slightly surreal. Neither of you acknowledges that you had sex, but the dynamic between the two of you is very obviously different. You’re friends now-or at least friendly. Warren reigns in his ‘constructive criticism’ in class, and you work together on another project, and everything feels normal, besides the whole ‘being friends’ thing. You still roll your eyes when you see him smooth talking the other people in the class and you definitely don’t cut him any slack for his ego, but it’s less aggressive and more bantering now, and you don’t really know where this is going, but you like being his friend, so you just figure you’ll let it happen. You don’t go to his parties though, and you don’t show up to any of his exhibits. They feel like you’re committing to something, though you’re not sure what, or even why it feels like that, and it sets you slightly on edge.

Warren doesn’t keep asking you to things either, which is why you’re feeling almost as surprised as he looks when you push open the door to one of the campus art galleries where his latest exhibit is being displayed along with other top student artists from the area. He glances over reflexively as he hears the faint noise from the door, and then freezes when he sees you. You’re pretty sure this is the first time he’s seen you put any significant effort into your appearance, and you’re not hating the distinctly appreciative look in his eye as he takes in your dress and heels.

“What’re you-” he starts, and breaks off, still staring at you as if this is unfamiliar territory and he doesn’t know how to proceed. “I don’t think I mentioned this show to you,” he remarks with feigned nonchalance, and you smirk at him.

“You didn’t. But I’m here to see if you can back up all that shit you like to talk about being an ‘up and coming artist’ or whatever,” you quip, and a small answering smirk of his own curves his lips as he hands you a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

“Princess, I can back up all my talk,” Warren retorts, a slightly suggestive emphasis in his tone that makes you laugh as you take hold of his proffered arm and he begins to lead you around the small gallery.

He takes you through the other student’s sections first, and you expect him to trash talk everything about their exhibits, but he doesn’t-well, not all that much. He points out details in the pieces that you wouldn’t have picked up on and he tells you about the process and the techniques you’re unfamiliar with without being overtly condescending about it. You’re almost hyper aware of the other girls in the gallery throwing lingering glances his way, but not once does he leave you to fend for yourself.

It takes you the better part of two hours to reach his section of the exhibition, in part because he seems to have taken it upon himself to explain the aesthetically and technically impressive aspects of the other artist’s work and because he keeps being stopped by unfamiliar, but important looking people. When he finally reaches his own display, you’re astonished by his lack of overt arrogance, actually looking a little unsure of himself as you stand in front of the first big piece. It’s a hazy, unfocused, dimly lit photograph of his apartment living room in weak evening sunlight, and while you can certainly appreciate its aesthetic value, you feel like you’re grasping at straws as you try to come up with a deeper meaning for it.

“So what does this mean?” you say eventually, still studying the enlarged photo on the wall before you. “I mean, it’s a good photo, and I get the technique, but is there a message you’re trying to send or whatever?” Warren laughs sheepishly, one hand ruffling his hair unconsciously.

“I-uh-that shot was a total accident, to be honest. I told my professor that it was an attempt to capture the intangible sense of melancholy brought by the ending of a day, but actually, I fell asleep on the couch and my glasses fell off, and then when I woke up again the light was gorgeous, but I could barely see, so I grabbed what luckily turned out to be my good camera and sort of hoped for the best,” he explains, cheeks slightly flushed, and you can’t stop the giggle that escapes you as your gaze drifts from him to the photo and back to him again.

“Y’know,” You remark after taking a second to compose yourself. “I definitely thought you wore those glasses to be some ironic cliché hipster or some bullshit like that rather than actually needing to correct your vision.”

“Yeah, I’m blind as a bat.” Warren nods complacently at your remark and the utterly unperturbed manner in which he accepts your jab brings on a fresh wave of laughter from you, leaving a slightly inscrutable smile on his face as he watches you. The next block of work is a small spread of still life charcoals, and as you examine them a little more closely, you let out an incredulous chuckle.

“These are from class. Our class. I thought you were an edgy boundary pushing artist or whatever but you actually put some honest to god fruit bowl still life in your big exhibit,” you giggle in an almost accusatory manner, and he glares at you in mock offense.

“Hey, don’t knock the classics. My technique is really good in these and I gotta counterbalance my edgy stuff with something so the old people don’t have heart attacks,” he says defensively, and you roll your eyes, taking his arm again and tugging him on to the next display board.

“Whatever you say, maestro.”

Warren watches you as you pull him around his exhibit, asking questions about his work and more often than not teasing him about his answers, not taking any of his gracefully articulated pretentious explanations seriously when you ask what the art means. He’s utterly unaware of the other girls watching him enviously as he walks with you around the gallery and the thought crosses his mind that he hasn’t had this much fun with someone else in a long time. Your skin is warm against his and even though neither of you has mentioned that night in his loft, he sure as hell hasn’t forgotten it. That night and the events that transpired aren’t far from your mind either, and as you approach the final photograph in his exhibit, you can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes your lips, because it’s you.

The photo is familiar, but it’s not one of the ones the two of you handed in as your final project. The painting on your back is a technically excellent as you remember it being, but something about the lighting of the photo and the drape of the sheet over your lower back makes this one infinitely more suggestive, and you look away after a couple of seconds, heat rising to your cheeks.

“What, no questions about this one?” Warren asks, teasingly and you roll your eyes, even as you avoid looking over at him.

“No, I think I’m already pretty familiar with the details of this particular photo, thanks,” you retort, and he chuckles. Looking around the gallery, you notice that the rest of the guests have more or less cleared out now, and the staff hired for the event are starting to clear away the tables. You don’t check the time but you know it’s getting late, and yet you’re not quite ready to leave because you like spending time with Warren when he’s like this. No arrogant superiority and not blatantly flirting with anything that breathes. Glancing up at him, you make a split second decision, tightening your grip on his arm and starting to tug him towards the door.

“C’mon, let me buy you a drink. There’s a really good bar not far from here,” you say decisively. He doesn’t resist, but he gives you a quizzical look as you pull him along the sidewalk.

“I’m not complaining or anything, but is there a particular motivation to buy me a drink?” He asks and you let out a short laugh, leaning into his side a little because the night is colder than you had expected.

“Let’s just call it payment in kind, or whatever. I’ve talked a lot of shit about your art, and you proved me wrong tonight, so it’s the least I can do. Besides, I’ve been having a good night. Have you?” You tease him, and Warren chuckles in response, unwinding his arm from yours and tugging you to a brief pause as he takes off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders before offering you his arm again. You give him a surprised look as you hook your arm through his, leaning a little more heavily against him than necessary because you never expected him to be like this with you, but you definitely don’t dislike it in the slightest. “Look at you being a gentleman, Worthington,” you quip, and you can’t quite tell under the dim glow of the streetlights, but you think he might actually be blushing.

“Don’t spread it around, I have a rep to maintain,” he jokes, and you roll your eyes and elbow him lightly in the side as you continue down the sidewalk together.

It takes five minutes to reach the bar, and when you slip inside, it’s fairly empty, only a few other patrons nursing drinks in booths or at the counter. You hand Warren his jacket and point him at a table in the corner as you head to the bar to order drinks for the two of you.

“Did you-you didn’t need to buy me a drink,” he starts and you scoff, cutting him off.

“I said I would and it’s not like one beer costs me all that much. You can buy the next few if you really feel you have to for whatever reason,” you say, and he just laughs, clinking his bottle to yours before taking a sip.

The two of you sit and drink for another hour, and true to his word, Warren buys the next few drinks for the two of you. It’s a little surreal, spending time with him like this, and as the night wears on, this unfamiliar tension starts to build between the two of you. It makes you feel like there are sparks skittering over your skin and you can’t stop thinking about the first time you and he were drinking together. His hair has gotten progressively messier and his shirtsleeves are rolled up and it could be your imagination or the alcohol or a whole range of other factors, but his crooked grin seems to be getting more and more suggestive by the minute and you can’t help but consider just how of big a mistake it might be to kiss him.

It only takes one or two drinks for you to be on Warren’s side of the table, leaning into his side with his arm around your shoulder, and you don’t really want to think about what the consequences might be if the night goes where you’re steering it. Not long after that, the pool table in the corner of the bar clears out and you get up from your seat with a smirk, grabbing his hand and pulling him over.

“You know how to play, or am I gonna have to ask someone else here to teach me?” You ask with a wicked smirk on your face. Warren smirks back at you as he downs the last of his drink, rising to his feet and following you as you tug him over to where the pool table stands in the corner.

“Don’t you worry sweetheart, I know how to play,” he drawls, slinging an arm over your shoulders and pressing in close to your side as you survey the table. You know how to play pool. You play pretty damn well. But Warren doesn’t need to know that. Though, you’re not sure he’d care that you were strategically miscommunicating about your skill level, given that result is having you pressed up against his chest as he leans over you, his arms around your shoulders to help you guide the pool cue.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying the warmth of his body pressed up against yours or the way his arms felt as they wrapped around yours, repositioning you gently. His breath is warm on your neck and on an impulse, you deliberately rub your ass up against him. The way his breath hitches in his chest is enough to bring a satisfied smirk to your face as you do it again, a little less subtly this time. Warren lets out a low, muffled groan as you line up the next shot, hitting it dead on. His grip on your body is getting steadily tighter as you continue to deliberately roll your hips back against his, gratified when you feel his hard on against your ass.

It takes all of about ten more minutes of this teasing before he takes the pool cue from you, setting it on the table before gripping your waist tightly and ducking his head to graze his lips along the column of your throat. You let out a low sigh of contentment as you turn in his arms to face him, a hint of a challenge glimmering in your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck, briefly taking in the empty bar before smirking at him.

“Bathroom. Five minutes,” you whisper, voice low and suggestive, before pulling away, walking over to grab your bag from your chair and then past him to the bathroom in the corner, incredibly aware of his gaze on you as you go.

He’s there in less than five, but the bar is almost totally deserted so it doesn’t really matter. The second the door is locked behind the two of you, he’s pushing you up against the sink counter, hands heavy on your hips as he kisses you hard. Your tongue is sliding against his as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in closer as you slip back to sit on the edge of the counter. As Warren dips his head to mouth along your neck, you reach blindly into your bag, feeling around till you pull a condom out. He lets out a breathless groan of arousal when he sees what’s in your hand.

“You came here knowing you wanted to fuck me, didn’t you princess?” he growls, his voice rough and hoarse, and you just shoot him a coy smile as you undo his belt buckle, pushing his pants and boxers down past his hips to roll the condom on, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the low hiss he lets out at your touch.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. It’s not like you don’t wanna fuck me, though, is it?”

That’s all it takes for him to push you back further onto the counter, shoving your dress up your thighs as he hauls your panties down your legs and discards them before parting your legs with rough hands, pushing into you with an urgency that makes your head spin as he tugs the neckline of your dress down to knead at your breasts.

It’s quick and rough and hot and when he pulls away from you to dispose of the condom, you have an assortment of marks along the neckline of your dress that you can’t quite hide. Warren gives you a crooked, tired grin as he re-buckles his belt.

“That was a damn sight more fun than the gallery, sweetheart,” he says and you smile at him in the mirror as you touch up your lipstick.

“I know how to have a good time, Worthington.”

He pockets your panties before heading back out to the main bar, and you follow a few seconds later, a self-satisfied smirk firmly in place as you leave the bathroom. Neither of you mentions the sex as he walks you back to your apartment, and he doesn’t kiss you goodnight.

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