#it feel like a yearbook entry

[oftenwantedafton]

Vent - Steve Raglan/William Afton/Springtrap x Female Reader

Chapters 18-20

Rating - Explicit

Warning for sexual content

Also available on AO3 Chapter 18 | 19 | 20

Chapter 18 ~ deja vu ~

The spring rains in Hurricane have begun in earnest.

Ten steps from your front porch and down the driveway bring you to Steve Raglan’s car. There is no longer any debate about how you will reach your destination. You just accept that he will be there each afternoon, ferrying you to your fate.

It’s pouring today and the water sits on your cheeks, sinks into your hair, douses your lips. Your work shirt clings to you, the white material plastering to the flesh beneath. Your fingers press into the stitching on the seams of the seat your body sinks into. Cherry licorice today, you can smell the artificial scent. His palm cups your cheek and his thumb approaches the shallow divot at the center of your bottom lip and you automatically reach for it, sucking it into the warm wetness of the cavern just behind. You’ve been trained for this. You’re good at it. You listen to the sharp intake of breath and let the older man drink the rainwater from your mouth. The sky weeps onto the sedan. The windshield wipers squeak gently as the blades streak across the glass.

Your employer brings you to the establishment.

***

“Where’s Bonnie?”

You notice the absence of the blue rabbit as soon as you enter the dining area, the main stage now only displaying two animatronics.

“Transferred for repairs. That’s what we’ll be working on this afternoon.”

You follow him to the workroom. You’re still damp from the inclement weather outside. Wetter still in other places the rain cannot touch.

Your boss has not escaped the deluge. You watch him remove his glasses, tugging a corner of the hem of the tucked dress shirt free to polish the lenses. They smear and he sighs and sets them on the closest free surface. He depresses some hidden panel and a section of the robot’s shoulder lifts, then shines a pen light into the darkened space. “There. You see it?”

You lean closer. The wires look frayed, the electrical components charred. Almost as if it’s been struck by lightning, receiving too much current.

Raglan clutches the light between his teeth, rummaging among the tools he’d selected when you’d first entered the workshop. You feel like you’re assisting a surgeon as you watch him remove the damaged parts carefully, handing him the requested items, holding the light steady, participating in the removal when he indicates for you to.

“How was school today?” So casually asked. As if he hadn’t just spent long moments letting his mouth wander over you inside his car. You long to be back within the confines of that steel beast. Steve on his knees outside the car with you draped across the back seat, parted legs near the edge and that sinful mouth you’re constantly craving between them. You knew he didn’t care about the rain pummeling his spine or the puddle soaking through his work pants or the fact that it was still daylight when he’d pulled off the road. Your mind lingers on the way he always watches you watching him when he takes you apart.

“I got an A on my Calculus test.” You see a faint smile on the bearded man’s face. He’s pleased with you. “The yearbook committee went around asking people to submit photos and gave us pages to fill out for our entries. And the prom tickets went on sale.” You struggle to dig a ruined circuit board from the joint, hissing in satisfaction when you succeed.

“Good. Are you going to prom?” He pries the frayed wiring loose, glancing at you.

“No, of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’?”

“Because I have no one to go with. I can’t dance. It would be awkward,” you protest. “Did you go to yours?”

He nods. “It was terrible. But it’s one of those things. A rite of passage. You shouldn’t miss out on.”

“And stand in the corner all night? No thanks.”

He uncoils fresh wire from the spool, sheathing it in electrical tape. The copper glints in the illumination from the penlight you’re still holding to assist your boss.

“Someone would still ask you to dance.”

“No one would notice me. No one ever does.”

His hands still and he looks at you. “I did.” His eyes are dark gray today, matching the storm outside.

“Yes, you did,” you agree quietly. You think about the open door behind you. What a shame he hasn’t locked it today.

***

There’s a party that night at the restaurant. Nothing formal, just a little taste testing event to confirm choices for the upcoming menu, a little reward for how well everything’s been progressing. It will be opening day soon.

You tuck yourself into the edge of the kitchen, watching Steve help the staff prepare the meal. For all his protests about not cooking that he'd made on your first night in his car, he clearly knows his way around a kitchen. You can envision him in a smaller space at home cooking, back when he’d had a family. Helping the kids with their homework until it was time to start getting a meal ready. The counter a mess by the time whatever dish or pot is simmering on the stove or placed in the oven to bake. Stacks of dishes in the sink. Sneaking a piece of cheese, licking a stray bit of tomato sauce from knuckles. Wife coming home, sighing at the mess good naturedly. Standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Positions reversed. She’s been waiting for him to get home from the restaurant. He asks her if she wants to go out. The kids are staying at their grandparent’s house. The wife now wears your face, suggesting they stay inside instead. The counter is cleared with one broad sweep of a scarred arm. His mouth is on your throat and his cock is driving into your pussy. This is what you dream about, in the quiet dark of your room. You draw his face and his hands and the patterns of his scars. Your journals remain blank. They’ve been that way for weeks. You cannot fill the pages because you’ve given all your words to him.

“Hey. Are you alright?” Raglan sees your far away look, perhaps notices how rapid your breathing has gotten. You nod. “Try this.” An appetizer is brought to your mouth. You accept it hastily, burning your tongue in the process. Something fried, cheesy, dipped in marinara. It’s delicious. His thumb lingers a heartbeat too long against your lips. One of the servers—a girl from your high school, a cheerleader, popular—glowers nearby. He’s too bold. Of course people must be talking about how the two of you are always together. They see you arrive as a pair, know you’re the last two leaving. As unremarkable and unnoticed as you think you are, they’ll still figure it out.

The girl says as much minutes later, backing you into a corner, arms folded beneath her breasts. She’s nearly got all the details right, save she assumes you’re already having intercourse. You haven’t gone that far yet, but that result is inevitable. You deny that he favors you, that you’re making more money than the rest of the staff. Steve sees your predicament. He tells her to leave, dismissing her threats to expose your relationship.

“Get the fuck out of my restaurant.” His voice is low and dangerous. He’s still holding a kitchen knife in one hand. The girl opens her mouth to protest, swallows the sound instead, and disappears into the deluge outdoors. Your eyes dart again to the blade. A sense of deja vu floods over you.

Chapter 19 ~ want ~

You’ve grown to enjoy some of the cassettes Steve Raglan plays in the car during your commute together.

You’re as familiar with the melodies and the lyrics as intimately as the older man is with your body. Sometimes he pulls the car over, fingers thrusting inside relentlessly until you’ve become lost in the rapture once, twice, and another for good measure. Sometimes he doesn’t even stop and touches you while he’s driving. An artist that’s perfected his craft. A musician plucking your insides until he creates the symphony of your pleasure.

“Do people still make mix tapes?” His fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties. It’s one of those nights when he’s multitasking, still driving. One finger probes inside your entrance, finding it already drooling.

“Um…yeah except they burn the songs on a CD instead…fuck…”

“I’ll make you one.” He adds a second finger. Curls the pair. Rubs that secret space inside you. You clutch his forearm, feeling the taut muscles there, your hips writhing in ecstasy. He removes his fingers when you’ve had your fill and sucks them. “My favorite candy.” You reach for the fly of his pants.

***

It’s late at night. and the restaurant still slumbers, not yet ready for customers. You and Steve are the only people inside, seated at one of the booths. You finish the last college application and the older man sets it onto the pile. You’ve decided on a career in engineering, still debating about the exact branch you’d like to focus on.

“Tonight was your prom night, wasn’t it?”

This again. You don’t understand his preoccupation with it. “Yes.”

“Would you mind running down to my office and grabbing something for me? There’s a package on my desk I need to mail.”

You nod, shoving at the employees only doors. The route is familiar to you now, the misgivings long buried. You still think of the yellow rabbit from time to time, but rarely. There is just too much of Steve to fill the spaces.

The manager’s door swings open and you pause, realizing there is no box on his desk. Instead there’s an evening dress, sheathed in a clear plastic garment bag hanging on the coat rack tucked into the corner. It’s dark navy, the scrolled embroidery on the bodice and skirt glinting where the embedded silver threads catch the light. Matching low heeled pumps sit nearby.

You gather the items in your arms and enter the restroom nearby, dragging your tshirt over your head and shrugging out of your jeans and sneakers. The dress fits you like a glove, draping neatly over your frame. You have no idea how he’d known your size, the shoes also a perfect fit. You wish you had makeup, something to style your hair with.

“Stunning,” the man greets you when you return to the dining room. The first two buttons of his dress shirt are undone, his tie coiled neatly, resting next to the car keys on the table and a CD that you think must be the promised mix tape, your suspicions confirmed when you recognize the first song that plays moments later when he’s slotted it into the player.

“This is… you didn’t have to…thank you,” you whisper.

He grins and offers you a hand, pulling you tightly against him. You laugh and he spins you around. He’s dimmed the lights. Your fingers weave together. His dark eyes devour you and his mouth covers yours.

You’re in the back seat of his car, dress hiked up, the dark fabric gathered above your hips. You feel him through his clothes grinding hard against your crotch. Lace panties today. You won’t wear anything else. They’re his favorite.

You kiss the scars that mark his collarbones, peeling the folds of the collar back to have better access. You love the noises he makes; love that it’s you making him create them. You’ve never had a friend before him. You’ve waited your entire life for this.

“I want…” he begins, the words hot against your ear.

You want, too.

Chapter 20 ~ jekyll and hyde ~

Steve Raglan’s house is a well maintained brick Tudor with curls of ivy wrapped around the iron gates bordering the front yard.

You wait for him to fumble the key to the front door in the lock. His smile is as unsteady as his hands.

There’s a living room with a fireplace to greet you when you first walk in. A row of built in bookshelves filled top to bottom. Your fingers run over the spines, tugging a copy of Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde free. You’ve read this before. You envision the older man tucked into the recliner in the corner with this book cradled in his hands, those long, deft fingers turning the pages.

He drags you against him and the book falls to the floor.

Past the kitchen and bathroom you’re led inside his bedroom. Tidy walnut dresser and matching nightstands and a platform bed with storage beneath it. You wonder what he might keep in those drawers. A free standing full length mirror occupies one corner of the room.

You see your reflection in it as stands behind you, helping to pull the dress over your head. He takes his time removing your undergarments, his fingers calmly skimming over your still damp skin, but you know better. His eyes betray him every time. They meet yours in the mirror.

You turn, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. You’ve never seen him undressed. The scars extend over every inch of his now exposed torso. You lick along the line of one, hear the air whistle sharply as it’s dragged into his lungs. You’re pushed onto the bed. Firm mattress, firm pillows, soft comforter beneath you. He unfastens his pants, lets them drop to the carpet. More scars tattoo the skin there, your gaze lingering on the ones that extend promisingly down from his abdomen. Briefs pulled from hips and there they are, running down over the wings of bone, spilling down his thighs. There is no end to the patterns that you can see.

He climbs into bed, his long frame hovering over you. Still the deceptive calm before the storm, every movement slow and deliberate. Your heart is racing. His lips press into your hairline, graze your nose. Finally on your mouth. You clutch his neck, dig your nails into his bicep. One hand finds the space between your thighs and his fingers fill the hollow wetness. His mouth leaves yours as he straightens, on his knees, tugging your legs up and apart. Pressure when he’s positioned there, just slight, still poised, waiting. Those eyes on yours again. There’s no going back from this. It’s your final lesson. One moment still virgin, the next not and oh, the stretch of it as he pushes. It’s beyond what his fingers have teased for so many weeks. You feel yourself tearing, a sharp burning pain. You bite your lip and whimper. He’s barely begun. There’s so much more of his cock to take into you. Your throat knows this lesson only too well.

Another couple inches buried. Your hands squeeze the duvet beneath you. The fingers on your thighs dig into your skin. Deeper still. The absolute ache of it. You wonder what it feels like to him, to be clenched in that narrow space. You’re tugged against him, the distance closed in one impatient burst. Another high pitched whine escapes. Fully inside you, pausing before withdrawing partly. Pushed back in. The process repeats. Again. In. Out. In. Out.

Raglan’s body shifts. He’s bent over you again, still seated inside your body, your knees hugging his ribs. His mouth melts in yours. Still fucking your raw pussy open slowly. Reaching your cervix. A new ache when he strikes that place.

The sensations evolve as he gradually pushes into you faster. It still hurts, but there’s another feeling blossoming inside. You grow wetter. Your hips meet his. Your breathing is so harsh; his own huffed against your neck. One hand paws at your breasts. There’s none of the usual careful artistry in the touches, the strokes desperate, needy. The contact between your bodies is a feverish sequence of slapping movements. A thumb finds your clit, grinding the tender nub. Faster still. Your body knows instinctively how to move. The hair at the nape of his neck is damp beneath your fingers, moist from rainwater and perspiration. You can taste the salt of it as it beads on his forehead and slides down into your mouth.

Steve’s body tenses, rigid against yours when he cums, spilling inside of you, claiming you. He’s your first and you’re his only and that’s the thought that carries you through to your own release.

***

The older man is asleep beside you, snoring gently. You cannot join him in slumber. You’re sore inside and out, tender, raw, but it’s a good kind of ache. You’re proud of it. You slide out of bed and grab the dress shirt lying on the floor, slipping it over your shoulders. You pad barefoot down the hall to use the bathroom, then wander back to the living room. The book is still on the floor. You bend to retrieve it, thumbing through the printed text. The pages are thick, ivory colored, and smell like the public library, old paper and old ink. Vintage, like all of his other possessions. You are the newest one he owns. You reach the title page. The one opposite from it features a book plate. It looks very dated. He’s had this story for a long time.

You’re about to shut the cover when you realize it’s not Steve Raglan’s name printed there.

William Afton

Your eyes ignore the surname and focus on the first one. You stare until the pair of orbs burn, until they water. The yellow rabbit’s warning reverberates in your mind.

William. You should avoid him at all costs.

He’s using another name, but it’s him.

You should run. Get out while you still can.

Your stomach drops and the book follows, clattering to the hardwood floor.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you #fnaf fanfic #fnaf movie #william afton #steve raglan #springtrap

[airenyah]

Hi, I came to report to you that your ql music research is rubbing off on me 😅 I was watching ep 2 of Ploy's Yearbook (for Joong and Namtan 😍), when suddenly I recognized a piece of music!! But I couldn't place it, so I tried to remember which series have I watched so many times that I'm familiar with the music. I reached the tentative conclusion that it must be from SIMM or possibly from Hidden Agenda (but I definitely connected it to JoongDunk). Maybe I need to do a complete rewatch of both series to confirm, what a hardship 😂 I just wanted to tell you that maybe aside from being a JD vampire bl truther, this will be your other legacy

oh my god, that's amazing!!!!!! i LOVE to hear that!!!!! i'm actually planning on making a side blog focused on shared royalty free music in thdramas, but that's something that is earliest going to happen in the summer if not in the winter. i wanna work my way through some of my fave shows first, because those are the soundtracks i'm more likely to recognize and i just wanna have them on my google doc before i go put everything in tumblr posts (which is also gonna take forever bc my google doc is currently at 100 pages worth of entries sjkfkjsfdj)

aaaaanyway, re: music in ploy's yearbook

was it by any chance desert caravan by ludvig moulin? i haven't watched ep2 yet (i was actually about to go watch it when your message came in and i couldn't help answering it first kjdkfdg), but i did see a clip of it earlier in jimmy's insta story and the scene had this music in the background. it has come up in episode 1 already as well. if it was this, then good job on connecting it to a joongdunk show because it actually has come up on hidden agenda a couple of times! i'm still missing the last 3 episodes on my music collection, but these are the time stamps so far:

ep1 pt1 - 0:13

ep3 pt2 - 0:20

ep4 pt1 - 4:32

ep8 pt4 - 8:08

And here are the time stamps for ep1 of ploy's yearbook:

ep1 pt1 - 11:10 / 17:41

ep1 pt2 - 1:50

ep2 pt1 - 9:38

ep2 pt2 - 0:27

ep2 pt3 - 3:09

ep2 pt4 - 3:07

you might also have recognized get up on that horse by spring gang as the music that plays in bad buddy at the beginning of ep7 when pat is in the car (ep7 pt1 - 1:20) or also in ep12 when patpran claim they broke up (ep12 pt3 - 3:45). oh but wait, it's definitely connected to joongdunk, you said? well, as it turns out this one has actually come up in star in my mind a lot. like. A LOT:

ep1 pt2 - 5:55

ep2 pt1 - 4:00

ep2 pt4 - 1:02

ep3 pt2 - 1:15

ep3 pt3 - 1:55

ep3 pt4 - 1:17

ep6 pt2 - 1:23

ep7 pt2 - 1:48

ep7 pt4 - 0:48

ep8 pt1 - 4:33 / 5:41

ep8 pt3 - 5:07

and here are the time stamps for ep1 of ploy's yearbook again for reference:

ep1 pt1 - 13:00

ep1 pt2 - 2:26

ep2 pt1 - 8:37

and here, have a bonus because why the fuck not: moonshiner's turn by martin landström. this one has shown up in ep1 pt4 of both bad buddy as well as 23.5 degrees. also found in ep1 of ploy's yearbook at:

ep1 pt1 - 18:53

ep1 pt3 - 6:16

ep2 pt1 - 0:35 / 17:30

well, i'm gonna go watch the new episode now! feel free to check back on this post in a couple of hours, i might edit it or add a reblog with all my findings about the music in ep2 😂

edit:

i've added the ep2 time stamps to the aforementioned ones! and i found new music as well!!

maybe the one you recognized as a joongdunk series music in ep2 was winning hand by ealot. it came up in star in my mind a couple of times:

ep1 pt4 - 3:00

ep2 pt2 - 2:20

ep4 pt2 - 9:16

ep8 pt3 - 4:17

it featured in ep2 of ploy's yearbook at following timestamps:

ep2 pt1 - 16:58

ep2 pt3 - 3:45

and there was some more bad buddy music as well (diggin' the drama by the new fools) and it amazes me that my brain immediately went "we know this!!" considering it showed up in bad buddy exactly one single time (ep7 pt2 - 13:45). bad buddy really has wormed its way into my brain in every single aspect in the last two years huh djkfkjdfg. anyway you can find it in ep2 of ploy's yearbook at:

ep2 pt1 - 11:10

apart from these, there were also two pieces of music that sounded increeeedibly familiar to me but neither shazam nor google could come up with any results! i'm gonna have to click through my "not found" list at some point, maybe they're already there. here are the time stamps if you're curious:

first one i can't find (ep2 pt3 - 2:06)

second one i can't find (ep2 pt3 - 7:09)

this is gonna bug me for a while....

#anon it makes me so happy to hear that my ramblings about thdrama music have at least one listener dfjkkdfj #and no need to rewatch the series (except if you want an excuse to do so ofc dkfjkfd) because i have it all on my list!! #you can just tell me a timestamp or shazam/google it yourself and tell me the title and i can check if it's on my list <3 #also i'm telling you recognizing thdrama music is a curse really #you'll innocently be watching a video by one of your fave youtubes and suddenly be hit by a flash of ''oh this is gay thdrama music'' #or you know. instagram algorithm presents you with some reel and suddenly you sit bolt upright bc you know. gay thdrama music #airenyah plappert #asks #anon #adrm #ploy's yearbook #pyb music #ha music #simm music #bbs music #23.5 music #airenyah's thdrama music collection #ok no but for real tho #the other day i saw liam carpenter's sketch on ''tschechisches streichholzschächtelchen'' and halfway through the sketch some music started #and i go ''ah yes sneaky town by playtown from bad buddy. cool cool. i am fine :))))'' #thdrama music comes up on jet lag the game all the time as well #i've found thdrama music in max fosh videos and in a daniel thrasher sketch after the sketch that happens to be paid for #this skill is a curse #anyway thdrama music and joongdunk vampire bl truthing. what a legacy <3

[samtallchester]

Fanfic extract from 911 x mbav crossover

This brought him to the situation he was stuck in now.

A girl from his school wanted to use some old camera for their yearbook photo, which Ethan and Benny were against doing. Not like they could do anything about it, but still they could complain about it, right? Not the usual type of thing they had to deal with, but still pretty normal for them. Because all they’d asked for was to use their super rad avatars. Why would they want to use themselves as their yearbook photo.

“Hannah Price wants to use some lame old camera for the photos. She probably doesn’t even know she has to develop the old film. She’s probably still staring back at the camera right now, wondering why the screen isn’t working–”

Seeing Rory’s face made him pause as the two stood in the hall and his heart raced nervously, the grin on his face starting to fade.

“She’s standing right behind me now, isn’t she?”

He replied awkwardly, feeling his nerves go from 10 to 100. Still, he awkwardly looked behind him towards the girl in question, realizing that indeed, she was there. He had sort of been trash talking the girl with the red cardigan the entire time she was there, yet Rory had failed to tell him that, leaving the male stranded in this situation with a simple “later!”

“Hi-”

“Hi Ethan, I like your shirt!”

That had confused Ethan much more to no end because, one, why would someone compliment his shirt, and specifically, why was Hannah being nice to him after hearing Ethan just trash talk her seconds ago? Was she going to use some psychology thing to hurt him?

“Uh, thanks…i-it’s a small.”

“I’m so sorry about not liking your idea this morning,” Oh, “It was a really good one, maybe we can still find a way to use it?”

Ethan was shell shocked, because this wasn’t really what he expected from Hannah Price. Sure she was popular, quite well known among her peers, but he expected her to be a little snobbish about shooting his idea – well, their idea (as Benny and Rory had been in on it).

“R-really? W-what about your camera?"

"Y-yeah, about that. C-can I trust you?”

“I don’t know uh, I will find out.”

And with that, Ethan ran away from this situation much faster than he’d ever done before, because clearly, this had been the first time a girl had asked him such questions, and in the sense, he couldn’t tell what her intentions or thoughts were. Not to mention, why was she asking him that, when she had been so happy with the use of the camera?

Ethan had always found himself in awkward situations and sometimes ran away from them, or more often, really. So this was no surprise that while running from one situation, he’d ended up in an equally embarrassing situation.

Cliche situations were the most common for Ethan and he hated that. He’d had everything happen in the book to him, from being told off for gazing out of the window, to making a fool out of himself in front of someone of the opposite gender.

He hadn’t been counting on that happening twice within five minutes, because now he had stumbled backwards after colliding with another classmate, her books flying to the floor with the impact – because once again, Ethan was never one for being normal.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry!”

He frowned, kneeling down to pick up her books with urgency, because he had already made a fool of himself once, and doing so twice in the time span of less than ten minutes was probably an entry for the Guinness World Record book.

“Hey, no, that’s okay! If it’s any comfort, it’s usually me running into people.”

Ethan looked up as he passed over the books, trying to recognize the girl. He had seen her before, no doubt. Only, in return to her words, he could only awkwardly laugh, passing her the books – and just like that, he ran away from another insane situation, leaving behind the confused, brown haired classmate he’d just stumbled into.

So his first thoughts were finding Sarah, because she was a girl, and she knew what girls were like. She could help him, right?

#mbav x 911 crossover #mbav #my babysitter's a vampire #hannah price #ethan morgan #may grant #911 #911 abc #911 fox #911 show

[morganharpernichols]

When I feel boxed in, I think of this door with three rows of windows side by side. From what I've seen, it's called a "window grille." 

I can't help but see many things here:

A social media profile with images and videos side-by-side.

A wall of photographs in square frames.

A wall calendar with many entries in little squares.

Even a yearbook with square student photos lined up side by side.

These things are different, but they have this in common:

As much as they reveal, they only say so much:

A full social media feed can tell a lot about life, but for many things, a 10-minute video would only scratch the surface.

A grid of photos (on your phone or in real life) are just the moments someone decided to capture.

A full calendar reveals much about life, but it doesn't tell you everything.

An old yearbook photo might lead to a thousand words, but still, leave out 10,000 other words about everything that happened your senior year.

I see these "boxes" everywhere.

Even when sending a text, that narrow horizontal window where you type sometimes makes me feel like what I need to say must take up as little space as possible.

I'm not saying texts must be 100 words or even a sentence. 

I'm not suggesting gridless windows and doors.

Frames and brevity are useful.

We often need to "edit the plate."

Save time, and value others' time,

and be expedient when necessary.

But in our fast-paced world, windows keep closing faster and faster.

So I'm learning to break out of some boxes:

I'm fine if people keep scrolling and leave because I didn't get to the point fast enough ––

There are billions of other posts out there that will grab their attention better than I can.

I'll always respect others' time. And also, I can't control all those variables.

I can't be put in a box of 60 seconds for everything, just like I can't be put in a box about what "30s" should look like. And I want the same for my 40s, 50s, and so on.

Windows, frames, boxes, squares, and rectangles may have their place, and also, when you feel stuck, I hope you find ways to discover how: there's more out there.

Putting something in a frame might just always have its place in our world, and, so will finding ways to live unframed. - Morgan Harper Nichols

#prose #everyday #life #life quotes #art #morgan harper nichols #mhn

[beardedcomputergardener]

Tup: Physically, yes, I could fight a bird. But emotionally? Imagine the toll.

Hunter: There are seven chairs and ten kids. What do you do?

Echo: Have everyone stand.

Tech: Bring three more chairs!

Wrecker: The most important ones can sit down.

Crosshair : Kill three.

Hunter: Why isn’t the statue smirking at me?

Echo: It isn’t smirking at anyone, they’re all just imagining it.

Hunter: Three of us saw it, Echo. How do you explain that?

Echo: *points at Tech* Sleep deprivation. *points at Wrecker* Paranoia. *points at Crosshair * Delusional personality disorder.

Hunter: I’m an idiot.

Echo:

Tech:

Wrecker:

Crosshair :

Hunter:

Echo: If you’re waiting for us to disagree, this is going to be a long day.

Hunter: What did you guys get in your yearbook?

Echo: 'Prettiest Smile'

Tech: 'Nicest Personality'

Crosshair: 'Most likely to start a bar fight'

Wrecker : 'Least likely to start a bar fight, but most likely to win one'

Hunter: What does 'take out' mean?

Echo: Food.

Tech: Dating

Wrecker: Murder

Crosshair : IT CAN MEAN ALL THREE IF YOU'RE NOT A COWARD.

Tech: We need more help. Maybe I should call my friends.

Echo: ... You're what?

Tech: My friends.

Hunter: Are they saying “friends”?

Wrecker: I think they're being sarcastic.

Crosshair : No, no, no, this is delirium, they've cracked from being awake all night. Hey, Tech! All of your friends are in this room.

Tech: I have other friends! You asked me to make new friends, I made new friends! It was a task. I complete tasks.

Mayday: Crosshair, stop! This isn't you, you've gone mad with power!

Crosshair: Well of course I have.

Crosshair: Have you ever tried going mad without power?

Crosshair: It's boring.

Crosshair: I turned out perfectly fine!

Mayday: Crosshair, this morning you thought a ghost made your toast

Crosshair: I DIDN’T PUT THE BREAD IN! YOU DIDN’T PUT THE BREAD IN!!!

Crosshair: Name a more iconic duo than my crippling fear of abandonment and my anxiety. I'll wait.

Mayday: You and me!!!

Crosshair, tearing up: Okay.

Crosshair: Mayday and I have the kind of easy chemistry where we finish each other's-

Mayday: Sentences.

Crosshair: Don't interrupt me.

Crosshair: English is a difficult language. It can be understood through tough thorough thought, though.

Mayday: You need to stop.

Nolan addressing the squad: And if you have any suggestions feel free to put them in the suggestion box.

Crosshair: But – that’s just a trash can.

Nolan: It sure is!

Crosshair: If you had to choose between Mayday and all the money I have in my wallet, which would you choose?

Nolan: That depends, how much money are we talking about?

Mayday: Nolan!

Crosshair: 63 cents.

Nolan: I'll take the money.

Mayday: NOLAN!!!

Crosshair: Dandelions symbolize everything I want to be in life

Tech: Fluffy and dead with a gust of wind?

Crosshair: Unapologetic. Hard to kill. Feral, filled with sunlight, bright, beautiful in a way that the conventional and controlling hate but cannot ever fully destroy. Stubborn. Happy. Friends with bees. Highly disapproving of lawns. Full of wishes that will be carried far after I die.

Mayday: wow

Crosshair: Would you stab your best friend in the leg for 10 million gold?

Tech: You stab me, and then when my leg gets better, we buy a house.

Mayday: You can stab me too, then we'll have 20 million.

Tech: Good thinking.

Crosshair: So, what, now I’m just supposed to do anything that Tech does? I mean, what if they jumped off a cliff?

Mayday: If Tech were to jump off a cliff, they would’ve done their due diligence regarding the height of the cliff, the depth of the water, and the angle of entry, so yes. If you see Tech jump off a cliff, by all means, jump off a cliff.

Tech: I really like this whole ‘good guy, bad guy’ thing you guys have going on.

Crosshair: It’s not an act, it’s just that I’m mean and Mayday isn’t

Crosshair: Don't worry, I got a plan.

Tech: Alright.

Crosshair: TraitorSayWhat?

Hemlock: Excuse me?

Crosshair: What?

Tech:

Crosshair:

Crosshair: No wait-

Crosshair: *Screams*

Hunter: *Screams louder to assert dominance*

Echo: Should we do something?!

Tech, observing: No, I want to see who wins this.

Tech: Did you know you remind me of all 26 letters of the alphabet?

Phee: What?

Tech: like, U R A Q T.

Phee: Awwww!

Phee: You believe me?

Tech: Phee, you’re the last good person on this planet. I‘d believe cartoon birds braided your hair this morning.

Kidnapper: I have your partner.

Tech: What? I don't have a partner...

Kidnapper: Then who just spit in my face?

Tech: Oh my gosh, you have Phee.

Phee: What the hell were you thinking?

Tech: I heard releasing birds at a wedding is romantic!

Phee: You released OSTRICHES!

Tech: Wait, you like me? For my personality?

Phee: I know, I was surprised too.

Phee: Tech told me that brown is just navy orange, and I have never been more disappointed with something I agree with.

Phee: My future partner must be brave, strong, intelligent, successful and organized.

Tech: *steps on a caterpillar and proceeds to drop to their knees and sob while apologizing profusely*

Phee: That one. I want that one.

Phee: So I was just having a conversation with Tech about Star Wars; particularly, about the choice of architecture. The amount of people who die from falling down bottomless pits is TOO HIGH! Like, who designs architecture like this? Catwalks with no guard rails whatsoever, just zigging and zagging through enormous voids. Giant holes to nowhere!

Tech: It's by design. It's a cleaner look, for a more elegant time.

Phee: Like... who put this hole here???? And why????

Tech: Exhaust?

Phee: Darth Maul falls down a hole, Palpatine falls down a hole, Solo falls down a hole, everyone falls down a hole! Star Wars universe needs OSHA.

Tech: Luke falls down a hole, Boba Fett falls down a hole…

Phee: Yes, yes, I forgot about those! R2-D2 falls down a hole in the Millenium Falcon after he fixes the hyperdrive.

Tech: We're onto something here!

Phee: Obi-Wan almost falls down a hole.

Tech: C-3PO falls off the barge into the sand. Pretty close to falling down a hole.

Phee: His lightsaber does though.

*Tech thinks hard about what other Star Wars Characters fall down holes*

Phee: What if the hole is symbolic? The hole represents the dark side.

Tech: Nah, doesn't work. Luke chooses to fall down the hole instead of joining Vader/The Dark Side.

Phee: Fair point.

Phee: Did you buy eggs like I asked?

Tech: Even better!

Phee: What did you-

Tech: *holding up a chicken* Her name is Fluffy.

Tech: What’s your favorite color?

Phee: Stop asking stupid questions. Ask me something logical and mature.

Tech: How many moles of sodium bicarbonate are needed to neutralize 0.8ml of sulfuric acid at STP?

Phee: My favorite color is pink.

Tech: Okay, I’m going to get the wedding cake.

Phee : Perfect, while you do that I’ll check on the ring bear.

Tech: ...

Tech: You mean ring bearER, right?

Phee : ...

Tech: Look me in the eyes and tell me you are not going to bring a dangerous wild animal to our wedding.

[hernameisgwynne]

Why I’m Leaving Teaching

In a yearbook-like collection back in, let’s say, 2004, there’s an entry from a little girl. It answered the question “What do you want to be when you grow up” and in 2004, it was easy: the little girl wanted to be a teacher. Despite earning a degree in a different field, and telling everyone else that it is not what she wanted anymore, a teacher, still, she would become. Who knew that after eight years of being a teacher--a dream she’s had most of her life--she’d be resigning, never to teach again. In this country, at least.

If you haven’t guessed it yet, that little girl was me--10 or 11, brooding writer, shy loner, and already had a penchant for oversharing. While everyone else had doctor or policeman or even astronaut in their entries, I wrote something more practical, more achievable: a teacher. 

Chalk it up to having teachers who were nurturing or intelligent, or a grandmother who was a retired principal, but I have always wanted to be a teacher. When I was applying for universities in my last year of high school, all my forms had education. Even when I passed up the opportunity to go to a teaching school, being a teacher was still on my mind. So at 21--a fresh grad with no second interviews, mourning over a sister who was gone too soon, and healing a broken heart--I decided to apply for a teaching job. 

When I got the job, I was ecstatic. The “job” I had before this drained so much from me, that this breath of fresh air--which included twenty-three almost adults--was the thing I wanted, no, needed. For years after that, despite the many comments from people around me--my mother especially--of the job not paying enough, of my potential being lost, of apply for public school already! and the exhaustion of just being a teacher. I knew I was happy. 

Until I wasn’t.

When the owners of the school talked to me about my leaving, in between my bawling, one of them said: “The pandemic really took so much from us” and she’s right: it started with the pandemic. 

When I graduated from university, there were so many things I didn’t know, but there was one that I did: I didn’t want to be stuck in an office, staring at a computer, day in and day out. So when were all forced to do just that, I almost lost it. 

The changes were bullets you had no choice but to take. From being at a safe distance from the looming eyes of parents, we were now front and center. From seeing the improvement of these kids with our own eyes, we had to believe that what we were seeing is truly improvement. From the incessant conversations and oftentimes annoying laughter, there was now only silence and black screens. There was no formal diagnosis, but I knew, I was depressed.

Still, I trudged. I found happiness in fleeting conversations with some of them, a semblance of recess and lunch breaks when these kids would surround the teacher’s table. I found excitement in the submissions of some of them, the phrases and sentences carrying the honesty they were still willing to sharing. I found a reason in all of them, and I held on to those. Even if there were parents who called me names, even when there were students who had no respect of my time, even when the deadlines and paperwork piled up, even when I asked--no begged--for cameras opened and all I receive are empty black screens, I still grasped at straws to find meaning as to why I was still doing this.

The meaning came in the form of blended learning. Back in school, back in the classrooms, back in front of dozens of eyes, ready, excited, present. In my head, I thought, maybe I can still do this, maybe I can still be teacher they deserve again. 

But I wasn’t. I thought it was going to be easier, but I was wrong. The exhaustion of teaching and paperwork outweighed the excitement of being a teacher. The glaring reality of not being paid enough outweighed the truth I accepted so long ago--that this was my passion. The feeling that I wasn’t good and kind and the person I needed when I was younger outweighed the love I thought I still had. And the worst thing? The parents and all their constant demands outweighed the care I had for their children. 

And that’s why I’m leaving teaching: I am not a teacher anymore--I have become the empty husk of one. All the love and care and affection I thought I had with this job, this career, has been taken from me--first by the pandemic, then by the demands of everything else. Every time I beg for cameras to be on so that I can see that they’re there. Every time someone messages me at an ungodly hour asking for this, asking for that, when everything has already been said. Every time I am called in when I shouldn’t be. Every single time a parent messages me asking me to do more of the job that they should be doing. And, still, every time I do all those, every time I allow myself to say ‘yes’, to reply, to apologize, I take from me, too.

It is easy to blame external circumstances, especially since they play a huge part in my decision, but I am not being honest, not being me, if I don’t factor myself in, too. I could have said no, could have taken care of myself better, could have turned the laptop, the phone, off. But I didn’t. All because I loved, no, love, being a teacher. 

The easy answer to why I’m leaving teaching is them, and there’s morsels of truth in that. The harder answer, the one that hurts the most to accept, is that it’s me. I have always wanted to be seen as kind and giving and selfless, but the pandemic and everything else have taken that, too. 

They took all of me, yes, but I also asked too much, expected too much. There are no more reasons because I lost all of them, but I have also given up finding them again and just accepted defeat. 

I’m leaving teaching because I’ve decided to become selfish, because for the first time in a long time, I’m choosing myself and my happiness over anyone else’s. I am going to miss all of it, all of them, but I am ready now. I am ready to leave. 

#education #teaching #teacher

[joie6000]

I wanted to do something different for the 8th grade girls VB team - not just a picture or a framed quote. I asked each of the girls to write something special - a memory….a wish….anything that would make it personal - to every single girl on the team. Some girls wrote paragraphs and some wrote a short wish, some were lovely and some were heartbreaking (“I know I don’t stick up for you at school and for that, I’m sorry).

These girls are just used to commenting on each other’s Snapchats or texts so this is probably the first time, outside of a yearbook entry, that they could really show some emotion. And I wrote to the girls as well - some got paragraphs, some got a few lines. Some of these girls felt like family to me - like I had a bunch of nieces that would tell me things they would never talk about with their mother - that was the benefit of being the assistant, and not head, coach for this team. The head coach, Melissa, and I became good friends and she would always remark that I could get through to these girls so well because of how close our bonds were/are. “Hey, can you go talk to B and see what’s going on with her today?” Typically it would be me pulling these girls out of practice or a game and just saying, “ok, talk to me.” I’m not sure how I became the coach that all of the girls would come to cry to but they just knew it was always ok to come to me.

I remember one conversation in particular where a girl came into practice so sad. She said her mom had yelled at her for being so slow to get ready but that she honestly lost track of time. I told her, “do you know how much Moms have on their plate? They time their life to the millisecond to get their kids to school on time with lunches made and snacks ready for after school and uniforms washed and dinner made all while they are trying to work a job and take care of the pets and sign their kids up for summer camps 5 months in advance.” She smiled and was like, “I guess I should try to be more on time for practice considering it’s the only thing I have to worry about after school.”

Before I gave out these boxes I told the girls that someday, sooner rather than later, they are going to need some inspiration or a pick-me-up or a laugh and that’s what these are for. Knowing what kind of mental illness these kids face, if they even help one to make one person’s day a little better I will feel like it was a success.

And this is a message to my Kacks and Benny boy, please volunteer your time. Give back. Coach. Be someone’s listening ear. I swear the time you donate will come back tenfold in what your receive.

[iloveyou-writers]

My high school's librarian asked to talk to me in my senior year because she read the yearbook entries I wrote for my friends and she wanted to know if I wrote in general as well. I told her I did and she told me that I should never stop and keep it going, because all those years, she's never seen a student write like I did and my writing was special. That was honestly, a very good feeling. And once my mom's bookworm friend read a short story of mine and said "You're gonna make it" which was one of the best things anyone's ever said to me

That's wonderful, especially to be sought out so someone could say that to you. That had to have felt amazing. <3

Thanks for sharing!

🤍 H

#question response #asks #awkwardteenwriter

[rootworkin-arc]

@irrwicht​ sent ➞  opal sky. do they tend to get lost in their own thoughts / daydreams?

topaz tears. do they have any sort of outlet they use as a means to cope (e.g. writing, drawing, playing music, etc.)? how’d they get into it if they do?

                                                                                                                       ➞  accepting

opal sky.   she tends to daydream when she’s home, since that’s one of her safe spaces where she doesn’t have to worry about being caught flat-footed. that being said, i have said before that she’s not very wishful. she has dreams and goals, but she’d rather work to make them happen (or at least do her damned best) than wonder if they could ever come true. she’s also just realistic, in general, about things in her life

now getting caught up in her thoughts is a completely different story. pasha can be pretty hard on herself when it comes to her decision-making. she likes to weigh her options thoroughly before coming to a conclusion, because she fears letting someone down or making the wrong choice. and if she thinks she’s made a wrong decision, she will beat herself up over it and spiral into a panic attack until she either rationalizes it or has someone talk her down. (more often than not, it’s the former.)

topaz tears.   in addition to dream journaling, she also has journals for her day-to-day life. she likes documenting the important moments from her own perspective, and often goes back through her entries to try to learn from them in one way or another. this is something her therapist recommended that she do, even if it’s just to write out how she’s feeling. she’s been at it for a few years now. 

when she wants to escape from her thoughts, however, she’ll either turn to deep-cleaning her house or going out with camera and capturing pictures. deep-cleaning really just works her down to the bone so she ends up too tired to think properly. with photography, though, it literally gives her a different point of view and helps her see the beauty in the world when maybe she’s feeling a bit more negative than she normally would. she’s been practicing photography since high school when she was part of the yearbook club, and absolutely fell in love with the medium. you see the world differently through a lens, and can trap a moment with a single press of a button. she always feels better when she gets home and can look through all that she’s captured.

#irrwicht #( ask reply. ) #( headcanon. ) #( study. )

[since0202]

Taking Time—Fifty-One

With you in my head

Word count: 6,907

There’s this rush I used to get anytime Paul was near but I couldn’t see him yet. Whether he would sneak up behind me or was simply patrolling the forest near our home, I would get this short tingling drop in the pit of my stomach. Like that anticipatory rush at the top of a rollercoaster right before the descent—pure elation, euphoria, bright, light happiness. And that feeling would dissolve into a warm satiated buzz when he would put his hands on me, wrap me in his arms, or lower his lips to my shoulder, the side of my neck, my cheek. Lately though, I’ve been feeling that rush all of the time. As if he’s right behind me, peeking over my shoulder, his warm breath rushing across my neck. When I turn around though, there’s no one there and that unrelenting rush never dissipates into that satisfying buzz. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy.

“Cheers!” The collection of engineers, scientists, and interns raised their plastic cups filled with cheap champagne in the heuristic lab room amongst scattered papers and gently whirring machinery. Maya’s blunt, shoulder length hair was half pulled up into a messy top knot and she beamed at the colleagues she had come to know and become friends with this summer. 

Dr. Bronnard’s lab held some of the most invigorating and fascinating work Maya had ever encountered. Everyday she woke up in her shared bungalow with Rosalie and Emmett and was thrilled to get to the lab to work. Each day was a new and exciting discovery and Arden had been right—the work that Dr. Bronnard was cross-creating with the aerospace and biodynamics team was right up her alley. 

Surrounded by such brilliant and passionate people bolstered Maya’s belief that the decision she had made to stay away from the rez this past year was the right one. She knew she might never have had this same experience otherwise. The drama back home, or pending threats, or urge to take care of her chosen family may have overridden any opportunity. Not to mention that with Paul’s absence this past year, Maya was able to work closely with Arden without interference and show him that she was worthy of his time and effort. His vouch to Dr. Bronnard pretty much guaranteed her spot in this internship and it was safe to say, it had changed her life. 

Maya felt good. She smiled at the people around her, casually joking and chatting about all of the breakthroughs and progress they had made this summer. These people had genuinely become her friends and the opportunities this work held for her future were limitless. She had basically secured herself another industry internship Dr. Bronnard was a part of for next year which would ensure her Junior year was well spent in setting up her thesis and job prospects in her final year. 

It was all going according to plan. Even Noah had come regularly to visit his parents on the occasional weekend and let Maya tag along with him. Noah’s parents were wonderful, warm, and welcoming. Their home was a generous three story renovated farmhouse—his father’s DIY pride and joy as Noah explained that first sweltering afternoon as they walked up the front porch steps. 

The home was a marvel to be sure, all shiny, polished wood, and bespoke flooring. Noah’s dad, Reggie, was a bit of an aspiring carpenter. Maya thought, upon first entry to the home, that Paul would appreciate the love and care Reggie had put into restoring the home, but she quickly pushed that thought out of her head as the familiar ache squeezed at her heart. 

Maya spent many weekends at Noah’s family home, helping his mother Martha bake rhubarb pies, picking weeds and gardening a fresh plot of summer squash with Reggie, and even thumbing through some of Noah’s old highschool yearbooks with him in his childhood room. She would throw her head back and laugh every time she came across a floppy haired candid of him amongst his highschool friends. 

For once, Maya felt normal. 

Rosalie and Emmett rented a cabin in the Ohio wilderness and would spend about a week hunting. The short time alone in the bungalow gave Maya a glimpse into what her life might be like if she carried on this way. She spent time with her new friends from the lab, Noah, and sometimes just quietly by herself. Her nights were slow, and she cooked meals quietly to Rosalie’s beloved thirties and forties love ballads. She’d spend most of those late summer nights tucked into a hammock on the porch or in the soft low light of the cool living room combing through that day’s research and findings. 

Each day was peaceful and pleasant. It was one of the best summers she had had in recent memory. Certainly better than last summer with her and Paul so strained. 

Still, even in her moments of peace, there was a faint, hollow ache that echoed through her and let her know that something was missing. Maya knew what that meant. The imprint was alive and well. But she didn’t begrudge it this time. 

Now, as the celebration began to die down around her in the lab, she smiled as a bittersweet feeling came over her. This is everything she’d wanted so far, and she felt like there was so much more to come. But what would she have to give up to get there? 

Maya’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she set her cup down excusing herself from the group of scientists surrounding her. She quickly opened her messages, her heart giving an involuntary flutter. 

The fluttering settled once she saw that it was a text from Arden. She promptly opened it, ignoring the still astronomical amount of messages, though now dwindling, that were from home. 

Arden: Today’s the last day of your internship, right? When are you back in New York?

Maya bit her lip and smiled before replying: Yeah, just finished up today. I’ll be back this weekend. 

Maya watched as the bubbles appeared and disappeared on her screen. She couldn’t help the butterfly sensation from erupting in her belly despite herself. It was odd—it was only a microscopic feeling of what she used to experience with Paul, but it was there. 

Even stranger, Maya hadn’t heard anything from Paul since she had ran into him at the art show back in May. 

For those first few weeks, she was convinced that he would track her down or that Arden would show up with mysterious bruises one random afternoon. But it was all quiet. 

No texts. No calls. No Paul on her doorstep. 

She didn’t even know if he knew where she lived to be fair. And that felt….weird. Her imprint had no idea where she lived. An involuntary shudder rushed through her, one that left her feeling cold and uncomfortable. 

Arden’s reply finally pinged through and Maya raised her cup to lips, letting the bubbles of the champagne tickle her nose as she read from him: 

Perfect timing. I’d love to grab a coffee and catch up on everything before the semester starts. Maybe informally interview you for a TA’ship. What do you think? 

Maya stared at the text message feeling the swirl of uncertainty flip over and over in her stomach, mixing with the champagne. 

Sure. When and where? 

She responded with a smile and downed the rest of her glass before slipping her phone into her back pocket.  

-----

It was nice to be back in the city. As much as she enjoyed the late afternoons in the lab back in Ohio, she had missed the buzz of New York and all of her usual haunts. When Rosalie, Emmett, and Maya returned that Friday, it was dark and drizzling rain—perfect weather for vampires returning to their city. Emmett carried their bags into the three story Brownstone Carlisle had owned since the early 1900’s. Rosalie and Emmett typically occupied the top two floors and Maya had the entire first floor to herself equipped with a wide marbled kitchen, complete with cozy hearth, couches and lounge chairs that spilled into an ample living room, a library off to the left of the main entry, two large bedrooms and a lush, well manicured garden complete with glassed in sunroom off of the main kitchen. 

Maya had only lived at the Brownstone for a couple of weeks before heading to Ohio after the semester ended, but in that short time, she had fallen so deeply in love with it that when she crossed over the doorway, she breathed a sigh of relief. Rosalie gave her a soft smile and promised her and Emmett would join her downstairs in a bit after she got settled. 

Maya walked down the hall and set her purse on the marble kitchen island before sinking into a soft, overstuffed yellow armchair in the living room and took a deep breath. The vibe returning to New York was calm. As far as Maya knew, there hadn’t been any new developments regarding the Volturi scouts looking for her. Or any new vampire sightings in Forks or the greater Washington area that seemed to be a threat for that matter. She had gathered that Rosalie and Emmett felt fine leaving Maya mostly on her own both in the city and during her time in Ohio. 

Again, Maya felt fortified in her decision to return to New York, despite the tension at home and her falling out with Paul. She never wanted to feel so at odds with her imprint, but for now, it still seemed like the best decision to leave the reservation and leave….him. She swallowed hard and fought back the sting of tears forming behind her eyes. Before she could devolve too deeply into her feelings, Rosalie’s soft footfalls could be heard across the foyer. When she entered the kitchen, she gave her a knowing look, but Maya averted her eyes and was thankful for the distraction when her phone buzzed in her pocket. 

She fished it out as Rosalie clinked pleasantly around in the kitchen, no doubt preparing her some tea with a punch. Maya opened her messages and smiled at Arden’s recent text: 

If we’re still on for tomorrow, I’ll swing by and pick you about 7. My co-collaborator invited me to the opening of this new ritzy club in Soho. Would you be interested in dropping by with me? 

A club. Fuck. Maya would have to really dress up now for this ‘catch up dinner’ that was certainly turning into something more. A feeling akin to guilt started to stir in her stomach, but Maya banished any hesitance and quickly typed back. 

This is all starting to feel strangely like a date. 

Before Maya could even shoot off her next text he responded with. 

We’ll see. 

She’d be lying if she didn’t say the quip didn’t send a thrill through her. So, she smiled and typed back. 

Sounds good then. I’ll dress accordingly, trash bag and all, and see you around 7 tomorrow. 

Maya turned her screen off just as Rosalie set her tea down on the small side table next to her. 

“Mm,” Rosalie hummed softly. Maya took a minute before meeting her golden gaze. “I’m assuming that’s Arden.” Maya let out a huff of breath and grabbed her tea. 

“We’re catching up over dinner tomorrow,” she said matter-of-factly. Rosalie watched her for awhile and then simply said: 

“Just be careful, Maya.” 

To which Maya fixed her with a somewhat annoyed stare and shook her head. “Nothing is happening, Rose. I’m not an idiot.” 

“I know,” Rosalie said softly, “I just worry about the perception of others in this…delicate situation we have so far successfully maintained.” 

“By ‘others’ I’m assuming you mean Paul?” Maya shot back a little too harshly. She closed her eyes tight and just as breathed out a “Sorry” Rosalie stopped her. 

“You never have to apologize for choosing this path, Maya. To be honest, while I understand the spirit of a thing like an imprint, it still feels very much like being put into a box sometimes for your friends and family. We just need to be mindful of what gets back to them and how. Jacob…Jacob and I have been friends for a long time now. And he has a tendency to change his mind,” Rosalie said this all very sympathetically and Maya gave her a small smile. 

“I know, but if I live under the weight of a fickle alpha decision, I’ll never truly get the life I want out here. Arden is a….friend. A colleague,” she quickly corrected. “I’ll be careful, though.” 

Rosalie patted Maya’s hand and got up to grab a book off the bookshelf in the living room and headed out into the soft glow of moonlight in the garden. Maya toyed with a loose thread on the armchair and thought about Rosalie’s words again. There was nothing to worry about. Arden had set a clear boundary with Maya earlier in the year when she’d slipped up. Plus, unless Rosalie and Emmett were reporting back to Jacob—which they’d never said they were—she wasn’t really sure how anyone could perceive her out here. 

Still, she’d be careful. If not for herself, then for her life out here. 

----

Just as Maya had expected, the dinner with Arden was friendly and focused solely on her internship in Ohio. He asked her such thoughtful questions and posed ideas to her regarding how to build her thesis around what she’d learned.

Maya was happy to just be back and in comfortable company. Rosalie’s warning was unnecessary, Maya thought as she sipped her third glass of white wine and laughed at Arden’s recounting of his hapless solo trip to Rome this summer. 

They were friends. Maya could have friends. 

After dinner, Arden placed his hand on her lower back and guided her outside to hail a cab so they could drop in on the new club he had mentioned in his text the night before. Maya tugged down at the hem of her burnt orange halterneck mini dress. The soft fabric clung to Maya’s curves and ended tightly just above her knees. 

Arden opened the taxi door for her and helped her into the cab. They laughed and chatted all the way to the club and Maya was having such a good time that she didn’t notice Arden’s warm hand on her bare knee. 

Once they’d made their way across town, Maya could tell that this was definitely not your average night club hang out. The outside was lined with expensive foreign looking cars and real lighted torches flickered and set the entryway off with a sensual glow. 

Arden’s hand landed lower on her back this time and Maya couldn’t shake that tingling tug in her belly as soon as they got out of the cab. He ushered her past the line and through the front door as the guard waved them in without a second glance. Maya beamed up at Arden, completely enthralled by her surroundings. 

Once in the main lounge, Maya was overtaken by the high ceilings that glittered with faux starlight and opulent gold chandeliers that mimicked planets. There was a low bar at the center and plenty of lounge spaces with black leather and deep purple suede chairs and couches. 

Maya was definitely dressed up, but even here she felt a little out of place. Most of the seats were packed with well-dressed New Yorkers, socialites, and even some celebrities Maya recognized. Low, articulate pop pulsed through the club and the hum of constant chatter buzzed through Maya’s ears. It felt like she was in a much too high-society hangout and was such a stark contrast to the home she had come from that it made her slightly dizzy. 

She pushed some hair behind her ear and tucked herself a little more into Arden’s side in hopes of blending in. Arden led her toward the bar and leaned down to whisper softly: “Most of these folks are socialites and artists, so don’t worry too much about giving them the signature science Maya razzle dazzle.” 

Maya giggled and ducked her head a bit as they leaned conspiratorially toward one another against the bar. He did have an easy way of drawing out some of the best parts of her personality, she had to admit. Still, that aching tug wouldn’t leave her and Maya grimaced as she brought the fancy cocktail to her lips that Arden ordered her, wishing she had a warm whiskey to calm her nerves instead. She was determined to have a good time despite the sickening feeling growing in her stomach. 

Maya was halfway into her second drink when a prickling sensation began on the back of her neck. Arden had stayed close to her by the bar and carried on talking and laughing with her, even touching her occasionally. Although Maya became a little quieter as that aching feeling grew. He didn’t seem to notice though, not even when Maya winced and leaned across the bar to order a water mid-conversation. 

He was absently stroking her thigh and carrying on when Maya got the distinct feeling that she was being watched. 

Suddenly, the bar felt sweltering and Maya had an overwhelming flash of stress brought on by the last time she was at a club and there were preying vampires about. Instead of bolting, which she desperately wanted to do, Maya covertly glanced around the bar for any standouts. Rosalie and Emmett had schooled her well in picking up on vampires when they were out and about, but Maya couldn’t pinpoint any here, though she was sure there must be given the scene. Her heart rate picked up and she felt a soft bead of sweat start to form on her forehead. 

“You okay?” Arden finally said, his voice sounding like he was under water. Maya snapped her head back toward him and swallowed thickly to clear her head.

“I, uh,” Maya stuttered and tried to give him her most convincing smile, “No. Yes, I’m fine, I just got a little hot, I guess. This tequila really warms you up,” she joked. Arden nodded and watched her curiously. She was sure she didn’t look too good at the moment. When she felt that sharp tug again at her belly, Maya was awash with a sudden sense of dread. She remembered this feeling.

Slowly, she let her eyes sweep across the club again and finally travel up across the elevated area of the club that held VIP sitting areas, roped off with gold chains at the top of a short wide staircase. Maya didn’t have to scan for long before she met the dark pair of eyes that had been staring at her for god knows how long. Sitting in the VIP area on a plush leather couch was Paul.

His arms were outstretched on the back of the couch and his left foot was crossed over his right knee. The dark, trimmed beard and soft swept back hair was still the same as it looked from their last meeting all those months ago—seamlessly put together, darkening his entire face, and matching that sharp, brooding look that emanated from his eyes. Maya’s mouth went dry as she let herself drink in his image—black slacks covering his thick thighs, black button up covered with a fitted black sports jacket. His eyes were locked onto her, dark and alight with something terrifying and feral. 

A line of fire could have erupted between them from the heat of his gaze on her. Maya’s lips parted as she stared back, and felt that familiar tug in her belly that pooled warm and thrilling at the apex of her thighs: the imprint, or Paul maybe, beckoning her over. Maya snapped her mouth shut and set her mouth in a firm line, turning back to Arden and placing a hand on his bicep to help steady herself as she tried to continue their conversation. 

The tug became more persistent though, and the pang between her legs grew to an unbearable level that she could barely concentrate on what Arden was talking about. Her face heated as warmth pooled between her thighs and she abruptly interrupted Arden just as he was going on about something Maya knew she’d be interested in normally: 

“Could you excuse me for just a second?” Without waiting for a response from him, Maya hopped up and turned on her heel to stomp toward Paul. His arms were still outstretched across the couch and he turned his head lazily toward her as she ascended the short steps to the lounge area he occupied. He gave her a warm, knowing smile, but his eyes held complete fire. He glanced behind her to see that Arden had stayed put by the bar with a worried grimace on his face for a half a second. Paul let out a short low laugh before turning his attention back to his imprint.  

“What the hell are you doing here?!” Maya snapped. Paul let out a low chuckle and the sound sent a thrill through her. This was ridiculous. She had barely seen him in over a year and her body hummed with such intense heat and desire that she thought she would combust on the spot from just his laughter.

“You’re being a bit dramatic,” Paul finally replied gently, a condescending tone in his voice, taking a sip from his whiskey. His eyes never left Maya. She bristled at his tone. 

“This is New York. There are literally so many other clubs you could go to and you just happen to be at this one?”

“Imagine that,” he said bluntly. She couldn’t stand this blase way he drenched his every word in as if he was bored, as if he was fed up, as if he might snap at any moment. Maya’s thighs clenched together instinctively. Her eyes drifted over to the collection of people scattered around the small VIP area Paul occupied. They all gave her varying looks of interest, but no one really paid much attention. A hard blush rose up to Maya’s cheeks regardless. Paul’s eyes lit up at the wash of color on her face. 

“I am happy here you know,” she nearly pleaded, as the anger pumped through her, the heat of her blush stinging her ears.

“Oh, yeah, I can tell,” he mocked, a cruel smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Maya took a step forward in her fury as if to grab him or slap him, but she stopped herself. Paul’s eyes shot down to the miniscule step she had taken forward before his gaze slowly traveled up the length of her body to her face. A smug look replaced that blase attitude and Maya stilled as the anger roiled up in her. It was as if getting a rise out of her was the whole point. Or to prove that he still had an effect on her and always would. Maya clenched her fists.

“Get over yourself,” she spat, “It’s a little desperate that you keep showing up like this.” She would do anything at this point to throw him off this smug little hill he was standing on. 

“Oh, so you’re fucking drunk,” he quipped, his words echoing in his glass as he took another nonchalant sip. Maya almost lost it at that, her fingernails digging into her closed fists as a sharp jolt of anger ricocheted down her spine unpleasantly and landed between her legs. She took a minute to get herself under control before deciding not to take the bait. 

This wasn’t her Paul. Or at least, not the Paul she had fell in love with, but something darker, angrier. She couldn’t help but feel like she had driven him to this point and she wondered what it meant. This distance between them, this lapping lick of anger that they threw at one another was what their relationship, or lack thereof, currently rested upon. It filled Maya with such sadness that she had to clench her jaw tightly to dispel the tears fighting their way out behind her eyes. 

“Fuck you,” she finally said with a hard smile as she flipped him off. “Have fun watching me walk away. Again,” Maya whirled around, her hair swishing against her back and stomped back down the steps without a second glance. Maya could feel Paul’s eyes burning into her back but she didn’t dare look behind her.

The minute she reached the bottom, she felt the imprint slam through her, hollowing out her stomach and making it hard to breathe. Suddenly, the club felt too crowded, over-perfumed, and loud. She didn’t even look up to try and find Arden. Maya knew she had to take a minute of reprieve, to gather herself and catch her breath before returning to him or else he’d ask her too many questions she couldn’t bear to answer. 

So, she stumbled off in the direction of what she thought might be a bathroom. Maya pushed through a dark door and found herself in a secluded hallway. Not thinking too much about it, she carried on toward another door at the end of the hallway, and pushed it open. She reveled in the gentle breeze of summer air that hit her face. The door led outside to a dark alleyway and Maya let it close behind her as she leaned up against the cool, damp brick of the building taking in deep lungfuls of air and trying to calm herself down. 

Back on the couch, Paul seethed. He had watched Maya stalk away from him, his whiskey glass clenched dangerously tight in his hand. When he watched her make her way out toward the back door, he immediately snapped up and after her, unable to stay seated a moment longer. The people around him gave him an odd glance as he quickly glided off toward the direction Maya had gone, simmering with rage.

He had realized her presence the minute she had arrived in the club, that asshole’s arm wound down around her waist and leaning down to whisper something in her ear. It had taken everything in him not to shout at her across the lounge just to get her to see him—Jacob’s ridiculous alpha order not to interfere kept him glued to the spot. Instead, he stewed in his own shimmering rage, disinterested in the conversations happening with his artist friends around him. His eyes had stayed glued to Maya’s form, traveling down her soft curves that her dress clung too. 

She made his mouth water. Her image sitting at that bar with that old, fucking professor consumed him and he shot through with feral anger whenever Arden would lean forward to say something closer to her so she could hear, his hand travelling the length of her thigh nonchalantly. 

Was this what he meant to her? Their bond, their life? Easily discarded and forgotten at the first opportunity? No. He wouldn’t allow that. She was his. Their bond was taut between them and he could feel it sharpen every day to an excruciating point since she had left him behind. Now, he wielded it against her. Prodding at the imprint to stir her awareness of him in the club. He smirked when he saw that familiar grimace come over her face, that pang of understanding and uncomfortableness that plagued his every waking moment that he wasn’t near her, that she wasn’t underneath him. 

The last year had been nothing short of excruciating. Paul knew he had to get Maya back, but this time things would be different. She belonged to him, body and soul, but tethering her to the reservation had been his downfall. Trying to box her in had backfired. This time, she would have to come to him. Willingly. No more promises, no more broken bonds, no more running off. 

But in all that time, Paul’s black and burning anger had grown, not necessarily at her, but rather at the absence of her. And, even moreso, at himself. He would get her back, but he didn’t know if he could quell his rage long enough to do it. So, he acknowledged that things might get a little messy.

When Maya had finally seen him, her gorgeous amber eyes connecting with his across the room, he knew he had her. When she had stomped over to him, barely acknowledging Arden in her haste, a sick thrill had rocketed through him. And when she was close enough to him, he could smell every enticing inch of her. Getting her angry was easy. Getting her back would be harder. 

So, he’d start there—with anger. That oh-so-familiar feeling that he had too much experience with and had tried not to let completely consume him again this past year. Anger. He could get her angry to get her close, or at the very least weaken the alpha order so he could remind her of who exactly he was.

Her little charade had been cute—asking him what he was doing here, as if he had even planned their encounter. He hadn’t, but he’d let her think that just to get under her skin a little bit. That pulsing anger would be her undoing if Paul had anything to say about it. Which was why, when she had taken a step toward him after he had mocked her happiness, Paul felt the cinch of the alpha order loosen in that moment. His eyes lit with fire and he worried he was giving too much away, because Maya retreated almost immediately, but not before giving him a hardy ‘Fuck you.’

Oh, you will baby. He had thought to himself as he watched her walk off for a moment. Patience had never been Paul’s strong suit however, and the anger ticked a vein in his forehead. 

Slamming through the hallway door, he saw it was empty and quickly walked the rest of the way to the door that led into the alleyway. The sound of the metal door banged against the brick wall, startling Maya who had had her eyes closed, with her hands over her face, trying to take calming breaths. 

Maya straightened, her back pressed into the cold brick as her wide eyes watched Paul glare at her from a somewhat safe distance. 

“What the fuck, Paul?” she nearly choked out. 

“You left me, remember? I’m the one who gets to be mad this time,” his voice was grave, halting as he slipped his hands in his pockets. Maya shook her head, unable to hold back the tears this time as one escaped and rushed down her cheek. Her hands shook as the rush of the imprint pulsed painfully through her and she thought she’d collapse on the spot. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Why wouldn’t he just go? If he left, maybe she could get this pain under control and get back to her life. She drew in a shuddering breath and closed her eyes tight as the tears came in earnest now. 

“Fuck,” she breathed out, pain lacing her tone, “Just…fucking go, Paul. Please just go,” she begged as she wrapped her arm around her stomach. If she had been able to keep her eyes open, she might have seen him take the five short paces to close the gap between them. Suddenly, Maya’s bare back was pressed firmly in the cold brick making her gasp. Her eyes shot open and she was immediately enveloped in his warm, soft aroma. That soft spice and citrus that smelled like the forest after a fresh summer rain invaded her senses and her gaze traveled up his frame to his eyes that were burning with so much anger that it physically made Maya wince. “If this is how it’s going to be, please just…leave me alone,” she couldn’t even say each word fully she was lacking so much breath. 

This must be how she’d die—with the imprint tearing her apart piece by piece until there was literally nothing left. He lowered his fact toward hers so she could feel his warm breath cast across face as he said in almost a growl:

“I’ve heard you in my head everyday for a fucking year,” his warm hands cupped either side of her neck as his thumbs coasted across her jawline. Maya erupted in goosebumps down her spine at his touch. When he lowered his forehead to hers, his mouth hovering over hers she couldn’t help but groan with need. The imprint thrummed in her, the pain still erupting and subsiding as waves coming in with the tide. Paul was only holding her head against his, leaving just a little bit of space between them, but Maya arched her body up to connect with the line of his and she felt him breathe out across her face as if in relief at the contact. 

He was so big. Was he always this big? She wondered as he pressed his entire body against hers in response. Her naked back dug into the brick wall of the alleyway as he ground his hips into hers. Maya was dizzy, she was aching, and that pulse between her thighs was making her knees buckle. She held onto the underside of his biceps to steady herself, but she was close to shattering or bursting apart into a million pieces and scattering across this alleyway. Paul stilled, his eyes closed as he pressed his forehead to hers simply breathing her in, or trying to get himself under control, Maya wasn’t sure. She hadn’t forgotten that feral, dark look in his eyes she had seen just a moment earlier. That cruel and unabashed tone that had eviscerated her heart when she had just been starting to get by again. 

Her hesitation was laid plain by her shuddering breaths despite her body pressing and pushing against his, her hips moving of their own accord as her body called out to his. His eyes shot open suddenly, boring into hers and Maya could have moaned for all that need it shot through her. His eyes were wanting, dark, hard, but shining with that same need that she felt. 

“Please,” she mouthed wetly, not knowing exactly what she was pleading for. For him to go? For him to stay? Her head was a dizzy mess and Maya would have given anything if this pain and overwhelming sensation would just stop so she could think it through. 

Paul’s eyes danced around her face, searching for some answer, but his need overtook him before he found a compelling answer in her and he crashed his lips down on hers, pressing her body impossibly harder onto the brick. Maya groaned and deep inside, she felt her belly erupt into white hot flames and spread outward to every limb, searing that pain clean away and leaving nothing behind but relief. 

Her mouth remembered his instantly, and she opened her lips eagerly to taste the forest on her tongue, to taste home again. She had never quite quelled the tears that had burst forth and brought him closer, but she felt their plain wetness on her cheeks as he brushed them away. 

Paul let a guttural moan escape into her mouth, chasing his own relief as the imprint rejoiced in both of them. 

His hands never left her neck as he gently tilted her head to the side to gain more access to her mouth, hungrily devouring her, claiming what was always his again. Maya was lost in the rush of him, all at once, and she couldn’t breathe let alone pause to think about what it meant. 

Here, again with him. It always felt right with Paul, even when she was running, she knew he was it. And if he needed to give chase for a bit so she could get some distance and fulfill her dreams, then so be it. 

But this was no longer the chase. Maya was well and truly caught and as Paul let out another satisfied groan into her mouth, she couldn’t bring herself to care just yet. All that mattered in this moment was that that dull ache was finally gone for the first time in a year and Paul was here, kissing her. 

Maya had no idea how long they stayed pressed together, reveling in the home they found once again in one another. But when Paul’s kisses softened and slowed, gently peppering her lips and around her mouth, Maya took her first full breath as her eyes opened slowly. 

She had no words, as she looked up at the man who had all at once loved her, trapped her, found her, and invaded all of her senses again. Her breathing was labored, but the pain was long gone as she held tightly to him.

“Come on,” he said gruffly as his eyes narrowed. He took a step back from her, the cool summer air rushing in and sending a chill across her. 

“Where?” Maya breathed out softly, her voice a heady whisper as her heart raced. But she was already following him, her fingers lightly tangled with his as he tugged her down the alley and toward the busy street. She felt like a lamb being led to slaughter, but the ache between her legs urged her on anyway. 

When they reached the street, Maya bumped into him and wobbled a bit on her heels. She grabbed the wrist of the hand that held hers and looked up at him as he towered over her, his free hand high in the air as he hailed a cab. 

Maya felt like she was floating in a dream and before she could will herself to wake up, the cab pulled up to the curb and Paul yanked the door open to usher Maya inside before he followed her. 

She had no idea where he was taking her but when he opened his mouth and easily said, “Upper East, 5th and Madison, please,” it took Maya a moment to realize he had said her address. 

“You know where I live?” she finally managed. Paul glanced at her sideways and gave a low chuckle. 

“Of course, I do.” He said it so easily, as if she was ridiculous for even thinking he would have no idea where she was at all times. Maya pursed her lips and looked down at their gently clasped hands as the lights of the city washed them in a warm amber glow. “Hey,” he said with a bit of a tenderness. Maya looked up at him and almost lost her breath again just at the sight of him. 

She opened her mouth as if to respond, but nothing came out. He smirked and leaned forward to kiss her again, his other hand gently caressing the side of her cheek. Maya felt her nipples tighten and that fresh need sweep through her again. But just as she began leaning into his kiss, running her free hand down his neatly trimmed beard, the cab pulled over and the cabbie cleared his throat. Paul pulled away slowly, his eyes racing across every inch of her face again. Maya was dumbstruck. All from a kiss. 

He paid and opened the door, pulling her out behind him and up toward her house like he had been here a million times. Maybe he had. The thought made her heart race as they reached the stoop awash in a soft amber glow from the iron porch lamp that hung above them. 

Again, Maya was lost for words and she was seriously starting to second guess her education at such a prestigious school if she couldn’t even string a few words together in front of the man she loved. 

They just stood there, looking at each other, standing just a few inches apart. She needed to say something, anything to him. To explain, to set things right, or at the very least ask him what exactly was happening. But she stayed quiet, her body content just to be close to his in the moment and not in pain. 

His eyes never left hers as he tried to understand what might be racing through her head. When he suddenly leaned forward slowly, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck, Maya’s breath hitched in her throat.

“Maya,” he said softly with so much adoration, love, and desire that she thought she was going to combust right there on the doorstep. But instead, he leaned forward, kissed her softly and said, “Goodnight.” 

Maya’s eyes fluttered open just as he was stepping away and moving gracefully down the stairs, leaving her there. Her mouth fell open as she watched him push his hands into his pockets and walk down the sidewalk and out of sight. 

She stood there for awhile after he had disappeared and when she had finally shut the front door behind her and leaned against it, she breathed out a sigh and said “What the fuck?” 

What the fuck, indeed. 

Later, when Maya was tucked away in her bedroom, she pulled her phone out and listened to every voicemail and read every message from each of her friends and family back home until the early hours of the morning.

Next > >

#taking time #paul lahote fanfic #paul lahote smut #paul lahote x oc #twilight fanfiction #the twilight saga #rosalie cullen #jacob black #twilight wolf pack

[twoplantsinatrenchcoat]

Hello, I wanted to post about two people who are important to me, David Gonzalez and Elizabeth Tiralongo. I spent the best year of my life with them and would like to share my memories of them both.

I met them both in the Cypress Astronomy Club. Here are their entries in the yearbook, as well as the going away party. All of the people in this photo meant the world to each other and the Astronomy Club was the best friend group in Cypress no question.

Admittedly I didn’t know David for very long but he’s not exactly the type of person you forget. He’s boisterous and legally too funny. A room with just David is technically a party. I’m not especially funny but with him it never mattered - An image, a song, a typo, are all enough of a prompt for the funniest 5 minutes of your life. We drove around playing Pokemon Go for the summer of 2018, competing to give each other gifts from ever-stranger locations (He toured Europe and had me beat for a long time). He was a light to everyone around him and I’ll miss him so.

Lissie was inarguably my best friend in high school. Here are some pics of them.

Lissie was a superfan of movies and music and made it everyone else’s passion too through recommendations and lists catered to those around them. My movie recs had a mix of classics like Citizen Kane, Cinema Paradiso, and Contact; along with more modern animated movies like Princess Mononoke, La Luna, and Grave of the Fireflies. Their taste in songs was equally split between classic crooners, Italian love songs, indie rock, and electro music. All these songs are Lissie’s. The first messages we have on record are us bonding over Porter Robinson and Madeon, and the rest is history.

Lissie was a remarkable painter. Their subjects included flowers, space, and the uniquely human desire to explore them both. Like any true artist Lissie had hundreds of WIPs stashed under their bed but you can find the ones made public on their art insta @lissies.art . This painting is a personal favorite because it’s a quote from Galileo about not denying beautiful observations of the universe. https://www.instagram.com/p/CmBHqbNOGYk/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

Lissie was the first person I’d regularly texted and talked to in a long time, and it was too fun. Through a lot of sharing and perhaps oversharing we talked about hopes and dreams and what we wanted to do in our time. I spent a lot of nights tutoring them in exchange for conversation and stories, and Lissie was genuine and hilarious to pass time with.

There is no one that has altered the direction of my life more than Lissie. I’ve always waltzed blindly through STEM classes because they were what I was good at, but not what I am passionate about. I’ve never had a watertight answer for why I major in what I do. Lissie’s impassioned and almost frenzied speeches on the beauty of space and our place in it are something I would wish on everyone. They had such a clear direction of where they wanted to go with their life: Towards space and towards their friends and family. I promised Lissie I’d put something of theirs into space and I fully intend to. Here I’m switching colleges to UCF vs U-M in July, following Lissie’s lead.

Lissie was and is well loved by everyone they’ve ever met. The feeling was mutual. Lissie left constant reminders that they loved us and cared about us. It was hard to even narrow it down to one picture. Saying their friends and family meant the world to them is an understatement - Lissie would’ve preferred “the cosmos” anyway.

This is my astronomy shirt now. It’s the only shirt I have from Cypress. The colors have faded a little, but only due to frequent wear. Until we see them next, we’ll have to keep the faith that they’re out there, dancing in the stars we have yet to see.

[tryst-art-archive]

Old dA Journal from Feb 2005

I deleted all my dA Journal entries a million years ago, but there are a couple saved into notepads in my archives. Like this one, which frankly reflects poorly on me!

I'm editing out the names, but otherwise this is intact.

Just Waiting to Hit Rock Bottom Journal Entry: Fri Feb 11, 2005, 4:00 PM Mood: Calm, Tranquil | Music: Enya (Random Thought: Is her real name 'Enya' or is that just something she made up for herself?)

Things are slowly worsening and I'm simply waiting for my face to hit the ground so that the only place I might go is up again. Or perhaps Kriamiss will help me up? (Alas, no… That is foolish hope.)

But I suppose I should explain a little.

On the bad side, the voting for the end-of-school awards of 'Most Artistic' and 'Best Smile' and so forth was cast today. Three classes did not vote simply because the teachers of those classes neglected to hand out the slips and have the voting done. One such class was mine. Which - understandably - thoroughly angered me for several reasons. My anger was fed by the fact that the voting has been the only (and I do mean only) thing my peers have talked of since second period (and we have seven periods with a lunch after the fifth). Further, it seems the most votes I've aquired to my goal of Most Artistic is about three, possibly five, if I got lucky. Generally, the populace has forgotten that [deadname] draws incessantly and remembered only [artistic classmate] - whom, I might add, is stating repeatedly (and I'm not making this up) that I'm the better artist and should be the one with the votes. In fact, [artistic classmate] voted for me. Okay, I'm feeling a bit more charitable to the girl, certainly. My mood from yesterday has passed. Though I still don't like her due to her positively disagreeable personality.

However, there is still hope! Rumor has it that [a teacher] ripped up the voting slips and that the school will either have to revote or will simply cut the whole awards thing. And I hope the latter. I'm thorougly aware that I stand no chance of winning the Most Artistic award and I'd rather see no one get it, really.

It's selfish of me, I know. If I had been given chance to vote I would have put myself as the female and [different artistic student] (a particularly good artist and fellow, I should mention) as the male. And it's so silly, my brain cries! I shouldn't even care, honestly! And yet I do! The thought of winning the award is enough to set me doing happy backflips, but the thought of loosing it (and to [first artistic student], of all people) is enough to bring me to the edge of tears (something I've thankfully saved myself from on the bus several times). I don't know why, but that award means a lot to me, and the only reason I can fathom is that it must (in my subconcious) symbolize achievement in one of the only things I'm good at - art. That people would recognize me for my art and not for my brains or kindness or anything else. That they'd say, "Oh, art? Well, there's this girl named [deadname] who's pretty skilled." Perhaps I only care as it would give me the feeling that I really will ammount to something.

But it seems not. I suppose I will be the poor bum on the street as I've predicted so many of my peers to become… sigh

But, perhaps, there is a way to redeem myself. It seems the yearbook is looking for anything and everything it can get it's hands on, including original artwork. Perhaps I'll submit something or several somethings, just to redeem myself and make them see the art and go 'Shit… We voted for the wrong girl' and feel positively horrible.

Of course, that's just sense of revenge talking. (I think I have an overdeveloped sense of revenge.)

Still on the bad news, it turns out [close friend who abused me] finds the idea of homosexuality positively… wrong. And that's unsettling. I knew she would probably find the idea discomforting, but I didn't think she'd ever freak out as badly as she did. My stomach is still tied up. I'm torn between my love for [close friend who abused me] - as she is my friend - and my positively immense disgust that I could even be friends with someone who would think of being gay in such a manner. sighs

But, on other news, I still lack a History teacher (she's been gone since Christmas break) but my class and I got to sit in [different teacher than before]'s (my social studies teacher from last year and by far one of my favorite teachers of all time, simply because I love his cynical, I-hate-the-world personality) class for that period. A lovely flash from the past, I think. I begin to think [same teacher] likes reptiles. He has at least three Frog statuettes and he has two newly-aquired turtle statuettes. But the turtles are cute. Oh, and he still has that splendid Government poster that explains different sorts of governments in terms of cows. (Ex: I remember one of the descriptions (and my favorite one, by far) was "You have two cows. The government takes the cows and shoots you.") I wish I had a poster like that.

My French Teacher, [third teacher] is presently in the hospital. I'm not sure why, but rumor has it that she had a stroke. And of course, all of us students are (cruelly) celebrating. But, really, we hate her. Ah well. I suppose she'll pull through in the end, anyway.

On an Art-for-DA note, I promise, promise that - once I take care of the rest of the internet things I've to do - I will upload, if only in scraps. But even so, it may prove interesting, hm?

And - with any luck - I'll be able to finish something sometime soon and upload that.

Oh, I'm such a terrible person to Dev Watch sometimes…

"But don't worry… It's okay… Because I'll come back."

PS -

I suppose I should explain why I'm not a complete wreck of mixed, crossed, and conflicting emotion. Honestly, I don't know myself. It seems that I'm sad, or perhaps angry, to the point where I feel completely empty. Whatever happiness I've experienced throughout the day is - for some reason - being put into a surprisingly realistic mask to wear for my parents and give them the happy thought that I'm open with them. Admittedly, I did tell my mum of the Artistic award, but she'd have found out later, anyway, and - besides - I didn't tell her how desperate I am for it. But I'm off topic.

For some reason, I'm completely calm and tranquil, and I'm not sure why. I suppose, and foolishly, I'm sure, that it's just that I'm listening to meditative Enya and am empty enough to have that hole filled with emotion stirred by music. Aside, it may also have something to do with the bus ride. The window of the seat I sit in is permanently cracked open. It's snowy out and the wind has been blowing the snow in delicate clouds. I was listening to Enya on the bus, too.

And then the most picturesque scene I could ever hope to occur to me happened.

The CD launched into one of the most tranquil Enya songs it has, it may have been "Wild Child", but I'm not sure anymore. At the same time, warm, soft sunlight shone through the window and onto me and the wind blew flakes of snow through the crack in the window and they landed on me softly…

And I instantly felt peace.

#deviantArt journal #old writing #nonfiction #journal entry #deviantArt archive #00s #Age 14 #me #I actually did talk like this #2005

[nicoleknows-nothing]

Hi, I’m very drunk and I love the Winnipeg Jets.

(btw, I am very intoxicated writing this. Lots of wine was consumed during this game.)

Last year, I was not a hockey fan. I barely knew nothing of the sport despite living in a place that breathed and bled hockey. When the Jets made it to the second round with the Preds last year, I decided to tune in. I can tell you that my life has not been the same ever since. I used to follow basketball growing up but I never followed it religiously as much as I followed the Jets this season. I watched their preseason games, I watched every regular season game. Even when I was at work I was listening to the game quietly in the stock room. I learned so much about hockey from the Jets. This past year, I have been through ups and downs with this team but through it all, I love them all.

I am now forever a Jets fan. A Jets stan. People on my social media are shitting on them and I will protect my babies like the mother bear that I am.

Not to mention, all of the wonderful people I have met through this fandom. Especially to the fantastic women in our Jets group chat that have dealt with my antics (like me getting sucked into the Kevin Hayes tag a few days ago... by the way, Chevey needs to sign my boy or else I will RIOT) All of you are beautiful and talented and I love you all so much and I am so happy I have met you guys. For those that live in Winnipeg, we need to do a meet up and crash Scheif’s golf tournament this year LOL.

Thank you for everything this year. Have fun golfing, and we’ll see you at Fan Fest :) Once again, I am drunk :P

#Winnipeg Jets #a blurb #I love the Jets #never change #it feel like a yearbook entry #I reblogged this on someones else blog but it didnt feel right so I deleted it and made it my own post #once again. drunk. #Imma bout to cry watching the last Jets post show #Jamie Thomas #youre a dilf #ok thats it

[billsfangearring]

I've really enjoyed reading these posts today—thanks for kicking things off and making this lovely banner, @efkgirldetective! I thought it would be fun to do one myself even though I'm not a fic writer. (Yet? See Goal 1. 😬)

Goal 1: Publish my first fic.

I will almost certainly regret stating this publicly, but I've got about 1,200 words written of my first fic. It's a First War Remus/Sirius fic that probably won't be most people's cup of tea, but it's the story that started bouncing around in my head this fall that eventually drove me to give this whole fic-writing thing a shot. (Lessons learned so far: Plotting is hard! Atmosphere is easy! I use too many similes!) Since I'm in it now, feel free to ask me how I'm doing with this and hold me accountable—@consistentsquash and @the-dream-team have already been doing a good job at occasionally prodding me about my snail-like progress.

Goal 2: Publish four more of my Wolfstar Yearbook rec lists.

For those who don't know, I've been putting together rec lists of my favorite five or so Wolfstar fics completed in each year, starting with 2003 (the publication year of the oldest fic I'd ever read). I cranked out five of these in less than three months over the summer and kind of burned myself out on the pairing and those posts for a few months. I think aiming to post one every three months is a sustainable goal given other things I want/need to do next year.

Goal 3: Publish at least one non-Wolfstar rec list.

I'd really like to do some sort of Jily rec list, maybe sticking with my M.O. of reviewing older fics that aren't as well-known now. I can also think of a few other pairings/themes that I conceivably could do a list for. I already have a multi-pairing time travel rec list that was well-received on Reddit, but I haven't posted it here because it doesn't really fit my tumblr "brand," to the extent that I have one. I may post that over here too at some point, but it won't count toward this goal.

Goal 4: Publish another deep-dive single fic rec.

My excessively long review of The Last Enemy series by @chdarling was an interesting challenge this fall. I'd never written an in-depth review like that before, and the fact that TLE is a WIP series with a pretty intricate plot added another layer of difficulty. I had a lot of fun analyzing it in more depth though, so I'd like to set a goal for myself to do another one of these if something else speaks to me in 2022.

Goal 5: Consistently leave comments on works I enjoy.

It took me 15 years of silently reading fic before I mustered up the courage and effort to leave my first comment. I've tried really hard these past six months to make commenting more of a habit, and I'm happy to say I've managed to build some momentum! Part of this process for me personally has been giving myself permission to not do the absolute most with every comment—they don't have to be beautifully articulate and insightful to mean something to the author and make me feel happy about leaving one. Lowering that self-imposed barrier to entry has been really helpful for me to get better at commenting. I want to keep working on this in 2022.

I think most of the authors I follow on here have already been tagged. As a reccer/reviewer myself, I'm going to tag some fic rec blogs I've appreciated this year instead. Zero pressure to do this, of course, but I'd love to hear your 2022 goals for your reviews if you have any you'd like to share! @consistentsquash @wolfstarwarehouse @wolfstarlibrarian @wolfstarhaven Anyone else who wants to participate should consider this an open invitation too!

#2022 goals #wip that shall not be named

[psychdelia]

max showed up on his doorstep with blotchy red cheeks and puffy wet eyes, board discarded on his lawn as she pounded on the door with her free hand, holding a shoebox in the other.

“okay, okay!” steve called out as he rushed downstairs. “i’m coming! jeez.” he huffed as he opened the door, ready to bark out a what, shithead? because who else would show up to his place and pound on his door for a minute straight?

except his mouth snaps shut when he sees her shivering in the winter cold and cheeks still damp. it’s been about 4 months since billy died and he hadn’t seen max in this state for a couple months now. he thought things were getting better.

maybe not.

“max.” he frowned. “what’s wrong? what happened? are you okay? are you hurt?” he asked, the panic in his tone increasing with each question.

she just shoved the box into his hands, giving him a determined look. so similar to billy’s. too similar.

“i found this in his room.” he can hear the suppressed tremble in her voice as she fights the urge to cry again. “i never gave it you because i thought maybe,” she frowns, looking down. “maybe he-“ she lets out a shaky breath. “but he never came back so it’s yours now.”

then a switch is flipped and she’s suddenly glaring up at him, yet another expression too similar to billy’s.

“you can’t tell anyone.” she clenches her shaking fists. “if you tell anyone what you find in there i swear to god steve i’ll hurt you.” her upper lip is twitching into a snarl and steve is genuinely scared of this little fiery teenager.

“jesus, max,” he sighs. “first of all, you two are way too goddamn similar for not being blood related.” he ruffles her hair with a free hand. “second of all, you can’t just tell me what’s in here?”

“no.” she shakes her head as she bats his hand away. “just,” she plays with the hem of her jacket nervously. “just keep an open mind.” she frowns. “we’re not from here. things are... different back home.” her shoulders sag a little and he can tell she misses home. misses life before hawkins. “promise you won’t tell anyone?” she looks back up at him.

he frowns as he stares at the box in his hand before nodding. “promise.”

“good.” she nods. she rubs harshly at her face with her sleeve before turning away to walk to the lawn.

“you need a ride?” he calls as she grabs her board. chuckles when she rolls her eyes, tosses back an i can get myself around, steve. then a quick thanks, though. see you around. then she’s taking off.

steve practically sprints up to his room after that. sets this mystery converse box down in front of him on the bed as he sits, unsure of what to expect. maybe porn mags? weed stash? who knows.

so, naturally, he dumps it all out on the bed. stares at the pile of magazines, books, seashells, pictures, papers. the first thing he grabs are the magazines, expecting to see a half naked chick on the cover. he freezes when he finds a half naked man instead, clad in leather.

drummer. drummer. drummer. all of these are the same magazines, different issues with different men. he wonders if they’re targeted towards women, but then he’s opening them up and finding men... with other men. figures maybe hargrove had been holding onto them for someone else because there’s no way in hell these are his. no, no, no. that boy was straight as hell. loved to show off a different girl hanging off his arm every week, made shows of flirting with both girls and women.

but then he’s grabbing a polaroid dated 1983 and it’s billy with shorter hair and fuller cheeks kissing another boy with a big smile and lovesick dopey look on his face.

holy shit. this can’t be real. billy hargrove wasn’t gay. he couldn’t be. he was the womanizer, ladykiller, heartbreaker of hawkins. he loved women and they loved him 10 times more. none of this makes sense.

he grabs the journal next, the leather on the cover worn and threadbare. the first entry is dated from 1983 and the last just a couple weeks before starcourt. right before he got possessed.

steve sets the journal aside, opts to look at the other pictures and items billy had stashed away before he reads about the last three years of the guy’s life. there are a couple pictures of a blonde woman with striking resemblance to billy, the same saint christopher pendant and thick silver ring billy wore present around her neck and finger. some of them feature billy when he was a baby, toddler, kid. he finds jewelry that seems feminine, womanly. figures they must’ve been his mom’s.

there are also some california souvenirs. he finds seashells and movie, concert tickets that read “san diego” on the top. there are also some books steve remembers he was supposed to have read or heard about in school, but also some more he never heard of.

at the very bottom of the box he finds expired makeup and empty hair product. there’s black and dark blue eyeliner and mascara, baby pink lip gloss. nail polish in black, dark red and a deep purple. in some polaroids, the slight sheen of the gloss and his dark, thick lashes are barely visible, but he still catches it.

steve can’t help but chuckle when he finds some candy wrappers and leftover weed grinds at the bottom of the box alongside the butts of joints and empty cigarette packs. marlboro reds. there’s scrunchies, too. shimmery and purple, probably stolen from max.

once’s he’s finished digging through hargrove’s secret belongings, he leans back and sticks his nose in the journal. it takes him the rest of the day and all night to read it from cover to cover.

the beginning is mostly about missing his mom and hating his father, documenting his abuse. there are a few pages about his crushes and boyfriends, allowing him to figure out that the boy he was kissing in the polaroid is named santiago, but billy calls him santi. once he reaches the end of san diego and beginning of hawkins, billy’s tone and messy scrawl is full of hurt, anger, and melancholy.

and then steve’s name pops up. KING STEVE in all caps, taking up nearly half the page. there are hearts around his name, alongside a big drawing of a dick. below, billy writes about feeling like a foolish schoolboy with some stupid crush on some guy with a huge dick he saw in the showers. steve’s already blushing and it only deepens when he gets to the part about billy wanting to feel said dick in his hand, his mouth, inside of him.

he has to take a break after that. doesn’t realize things only get spicier until he gets back to reading and finds out billy’s jerked off and fingered himself open to the thought of none other than king steve. his eyes immediately flick to the half empty jar of vaseline, finger-shaped holes indenting the jelly.

he spends the rest of the night reading about billy’s remorse and guilt towards him and lucas after that night, how billy still wants to hop on his dick and kiss him stupid, his and max’s relationship and how it’s gotten better even though they still blame each other for the move.

it’s both of their faults, steve realizes. billy missed his curfew for a boy and max had no choice but to lead neil to him.

along the way to the end, a couple pictures of steve fall out of the journal. pictures that steve has no idea how billy acquired. some are from school yearbooks, others just random polaroids that might’ve been taken by tommy or carol or jonathan. when he finally reaches the end, he reads about billy’s pool job and plans fo move back to california for college as soon as he graduates.

i know it’s stupid but i’m gonna miss him. his stupid hair and big brown eyes and pretty face and pink lips. i didn’t know anything about the guy but i wish i could drag him out of this shithole and take him home with me. i still haven’t apologized to him. maybe kidnapping him and showing him the ocean would count. but i can’t fall for a straight boy, no matter how big his cock is. i don’t get to fall for someone i hurt. it’s not fair. none of this is fair.

that’s the very last entry. it’s 1am and steve is wide awake. too awake. before he thinks too hard about what he’s doing, he’s shoving everything back into the box and flooring it to robin’s house. he knocks on her window incessantly until she opens it with a glare and he’s pushing his way inside before she can greet him with a snarl.

“billy hargrove was gay and in love with me and-and and jerked off to me and,,, pretended his fingers were mine and his dad was hurting him and his mom left and he was alone, robin.” he’s rambling, eyes wide as he paces the room with the box in his hands.

“he was s-so hurt and alone and no one paid any attention and now he’s dead because of a monster in some town he got dragged to as punishment for being gay and,” his voice cracks. “he’s gone.” he whispers brokenly as he shoves the box into her hands.

robin is very confused and surprised but all she knows is that her best friend is in distress, so she sets the box down and grabs his hands.

“steve. look at me.” she only continues when he does. “sit down and talk to me. let’s go through everything together, okay? just calm down and breathe.”

by 3am robin’s looked through the box and the majority of the journal - steve dog-eared the important pages and she’s a fast reader - and she’s just as shocked as steve, apparently, if her bewildered expression and silence is anything to go by.

“robin? rob, say something.” he urges. “please. i need you to talk to me.”

“holy shit.” she finally raps. “steve, i’m gonna ask you a question and i don’t want you to freak out, okay?”

he nods.

“do you think you could’ve... reciprocated billy’s feelings?”

he opens his mouth to answer but halts, eyes wide and crazy as he stares at her.

“i-“ he gulps. “maybe?” he croaks out. “i-i think so? maybe yeah. yeah.” he nods.

“so you’re bisexual.”

and that’s throwing him on a whole other whirlwind. steve’s had too much thrown at him for the night and he doesn’t have it in him to deal with a sexuality crisis on top of everything.

but billy’s pretty. so fucking beautiful and steve can’t admit it just yet but he wishes he were still here. he wishes he could travel back in time and reach out to billy and save him from the horrors of hawkins but also kiss and fuck and love him properly but now it’s too late and steve and billy have one thing in common.

they’re both alone. lonely. so much love to give but no one to receive or give back.

“bisexual?” he chokes out.

“you like both. boys and girls. like david bowie. and david bowie’s awesome. you’re kinda awesome too, i guess. for a dingus.” she playfully punches his arm and it makes him feel better for all of 2 seconds until it’s hitting him again that the person who wanted to love him is dead. died right in front of him.

“do you have hot chocolate?” she nods. “with marshmallows?” she nods again. “can i have some?”

he feels like he’s about to faint. completely black out. wonders if he looks pale to robin. he needs something warm and comforting and hot coco will do the trick.

———————————

billy comes back in february. hopper and joyce gathered everyone up in joyce’s living room early february. sat everyone down to announce that hop had gotten... a call. a call from some doctor named owens who hop has a history with, the same doctor who helped will.

owens was nursing billy back to health in some secret lab in indianapolis, hence the funeral with no body. apparently billy was in comatose, then a medically induced coma when his brain woke up but he wasn’t strong enough to just yet. then, when he did wake up, he had to relearn how to eat, write, walk in physical therapy, alongside the heavy emotional therapy.

owens hid billy from the world until he was ready to be exposed to it again. then he called hopper one afternoon and told him to come pick the boy up.

max was angry. screamed and yelled until she was reduced to tears in joyce’s arms. the other kids were shocked and confused. didn’t know if they should be happy or scared. will and el were the only positive ones. nancy and jonathan were mostly shocked and indifferent, numb to these crazy surprises the shithole town throws at them. steve and robin just stared at each other knowingly, a million thoughts racing their minds.

a week later they were all in joyce’s living room again, nervously anticipating hopper and billy’s arrival. everyone looked up when the doorknob began to jerk and the lock turned, their eyes trained on the door as it opened to reveal hopper standing beside billy.

billy. clad in a big hoodie, gray sweats and converse. the same ones that were once in the box steve has hidden under his bed. his hair is long now, flowing freely and curling wildly at the ends, looking so soft with the lack of product. he looked tired, fading blue bags under his eyes. he hadn’t lost his tan, steve noted, and looked a little softer around the stomach and legs. for someone who went through all the shit he did, billy looked good. healthy.

max got to him the second he stepped inside, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close. he immediately clung to max, holding her tight and whispering a shaky, wet hey, shitbird, only audible to her, resulting in her wet laugh. the siblings stayed like that for a few moments before pulling away to let billy see and greet everyone.

joyce had demanded they all not coddle billy because it would be suffocating and he probably couldn’t deal with that. except now she was serving and feeding him a million things, coddling him just like any other mother would. billy was hesitant and tense at first, but slowly relaxed, especially when he was given cookies.

sweet tooth, steve distantly remembered. billy has a sweet tooth, if the candy wrappers and lollipop sticks in the box were anything to go by.

everyone takes turns greeting and talking to billy. steve’s last in line to have his quick one-on-one with the guy and by the time they’re face to face, everyone’s sitting together, talking and laughing and eating.

“hey,” steve greets with a small smile. he can feel robin’s eyes on him and not-so-slyly flips her the bird, his eyes trained on billy and only billy. “it’s good to have you back.”

“you know you don’t have to say that, harrington, especially if you don’t mean it.” billy tries to joke but his eyes and smile are sad. “i only died for, like, two minutes. not a big deal.”

“shut up, man.” steve rolls his eyes and chuckles. “i do mean it.” he chews on his bottom lip nervously, doing a quick scan of the room to make sure there are no eyes on them before he looks back to billy.

then he’s reaching out and grabbing billy’s hand. running his thumbs over the scars along his palm and knuckles. he looks up to find billy confused and blushing. he smiles before pulling billy into a tight hug.

“you look good. so good.” steve whispers in his ear, getting a whiff of generic coconut shampoo. he has one arm wrapped tight around billy’s waist, holding him close with their bodies flush. he slides his free hand down and rests it on billy’s ass, barely squeezing. he chuckles when billy jumps a little.

“harrington.” billy chokes out, voice wrecked. “what’s your hand doing on my ass?” steve can feel billy’s lips moving on his neck and it makes him shudder.

“just doing what i should’ve done a while ago.” he sighs, content, just holding billy’s warm, very much alive body close to his.

“if you wanted to get in my pants, pretty boy, all you had to do was ask.” billy flirts with a smirk steve can feel on his neck. then he pauses. “you’re not fucking with me?” he asks, tone serious.

“nuh uh.” steve shakes his head. “actually, uh,” he pulls away just enough to meet billy’s eyes. “max gave me your shoebox.” he watches as billy’s eyes widen and go fiery. “hey, no, don’t get mad at her. it’s not her fault. she didn’t know you were comms back.” steve reasons. “plus, now i know big bad heartbreaker billy hargrove has a crush on little ole me.”

“who says i still do?” billy raises his eyebrows, as if his hands aren’t tightly holding onto steve’s shoulders and he’s not blushing and making heart eyes at the guy.

steve’s not too bright, but he knows when people have a crush on him. he’s always been bright in the language of love. and sex, for that matter, as billy will eventually find out when he inevitably get lovingly and romantically railed and fucked into steve’s mattress later that week.

“just have a feeling.” he shrugs, giving billy’s ass one last squeeze before he rests his hands on his hips with a grin.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #my writing

[francoiserenaldt]

kat thompson

Thank you @evil-owl-loki for this amazing commission of my @emersonfreepress​ MC, Katherine “Kat” Thompson! 

She has a selfless, sweet, and direct persona and a selfless, sour, and deceptive personality. She has a classy, deliberate, and an equally compassionate and cutthroat demeanor. Her dominant skill is persuasion. 

headcanons below! 

general/misc. facts

her birthday is february 27th, 1980

her favorite artists are swv, 702, michael jackson, brandy, and later the pussycat dolls, justin timberlake, jodeci, and destiny’s child

loves recording home videos of her and her family and is always the first to pull out a tape when something cool happens

her favorite classes at school are math and accounting (her grades are highest in those classes and she gets to see gabe) and her least favorite is history (so much writing and for what?)

personal style: neons and pastels all day long, color block patterns; basic tees and long sleeved knitted shirts; fleece jackets and large pullover sweatshirts; overalls and a-line skirts; mary janes and converses; her dark blue bucket hat

make-up: generally natural looking with a splash of glitter; glittery eyeshadow and brown mascara, no eyeliner; very filled in brows; lots of blush; brown lipstick or clear lip gloss

her time at red oak high

her too earnest smile and her exceptionally bright eyes made her an easy target for fuckboys and fake friends

which only got worse after her parents blew the family funds on deals made over handshakes and after several glasses of wine

regardless, she could always negotiate her way into a group setting when the time called for it

yearbook was her favorite club at the school by far

not only did she get to take photos around the school (which meant free entry to every school event, her parents would be so proud), most people in the club at least appreciated her work

outside of that space, she was essentially a nobody

so when they tell her to transfer over to emerson prep, it feels like a fresh opportunity to assert herself as someone new

(someone who wasn’t a sad, pathetic pushover that practically begged for attention.)

junior year at emerson prep

her classmates are uninterested and a little rude to her when she first arrives, but it’s nothing she isn’t used to. they’ll come around eventually, right?

(they didn’t.)

she still sat alone at lunch most days, but now people wouldn’t even take pity on her

despite everything, she’s still convinced they’ll come around if she keeps pushing

yeah, it hasn’t worked out so well thus far, but they will give in sooner rather than later. they have to. right???

her perspective on that night + how she deals

she was happy to help her dad with the catering shift, really

things had been getting unusually tense between her parents and it seemed like a good idea at the time

and it was...until they started hiding things from her

it was far from the first time, but she’d think that they’d be a little nicer to her considering that she really didn’t have to do this for them

regardless, this night going off without a hitch would be big for the thompsons

and then they pull a disappearing act on her? after her dad lied about being there?

it was only a matter of time before she got sick of it and left

katherine thompson is not a pushover and she’s goddamn tired of people treating her like it

(even her own fucking parents don’t respect her.)

so that night, she did something she would have never dared to: she left.

and it felt amazing, powerful even, to throw up her middle finger until she realized she didn’t have anywhere to go, with the whole “outcast whose family is going broke” thing

eventually she finds the abandoned warehouse and hey, it’s kind of dark and filthy in here but not the worst place to be after getting your father fired, so she can’t complain

she’s wrong about the warehouse being abandoned 

she quickly realizes that she’s also wrong about her crush being normal when he shoots carter johnson in the head

(she has no room to judge; marie’s blood pooling around her body is proof of that)

once the she has a choice to make: to snitch or not to snitch?

on one hand, she sings like a canary and kile gets shoved back into the pen where they belong; on the other hand...more time to hang out with gabe.

the choice is easy.

everything comes with a price, including friendship, and access to the emerson elite is notoriously expensive (she would know; her parents only complain about it every chance they get)

so if she needs to break a few skulls eggs to make a successful popularity omelette, that’s just what she’ll do because she is never going back to being the girl who sits alone at lunch or the girl who has to wait around to be noticed

and anyone who tries to ruin the progress she’s created will be dealt with

is that a little fucked up? maybe, but so is emerson

all her life she’s had to play their little social games just to be treated like someone who deserves basic respect

this time, she’s playing to win.

her feelings about her parents

she knows they want the best for her at the end of the day

it just so happens that the best thing for her in this case is to help them get their respect back in the community

but jesus fucking christ, they make it hard

not only do they absolutely refuse to stop meeting with sketchy investors 

(seriously, how hard is it to stay out of shady business deals long enough to pick up your daughter from the event she’s doing to help you?)

but they don’t even keep the small promises they can afford to make 

(like showing up to help their own fucking daughter do the catering event she wasn’t even supposed to be at.)

she can’t help but feel used by them most days

despite everything, she still feels like it’s unfair of her to stay mad at them for long

even now, they’re doing everything they can to give her a good life

she goes to a good school, she wears nice clothes, and she’s not exactly sleeping in the slums

so for now, she’ll grit her teeth and bear it

after all, she’s got one more year of helping them out before she’s completely on her own

and it’s all gonna work out in the end, anyway. right?

her feelings about the cast

gabe: holy wow. gabe cortes is beautiful, respectful, and...murderous? okay. not ideal, but everyone has flaws. he had to earn his popularity just like she will. maybe he’ll have tips? either way, he’ll be fun to hang out with and make out with while she finds her footing at emerson. maybe he’ll even want to go out sometime?

kile: every bit the freak that everyone has been telling kat they are. no idea what the hell gabe sees in them. their lack of impulse control is gonna put in them in a situation gabe can’t think their way out of. however, kat has a grudging respect for their killing prowess, especially since it means that she always has the option to stay out of the action when they’re on the job. 

jack: she sees a lot of her old self in him. kind, gentle, and well-meaning, but extremely weak and easy to exploit. nonetheless, his sci-fi nerdiness is as cute as it is geeky and she knows she’s always got a hug with her name on it when she needs it. 

jessie: thankful for her kindness in emerson’s overly hostile environment, but not naive enough to fall for the sweet girl act. after all, that’s kat’s thing; make yourself approachable, docile even, so that people are willing to do anything for you as soon as you say the word. it’s a smart move. apparently she has feelings for gabe? that’s not gonna work. jessie doesn’t seem like she’s gonna make herself a problem yet, so she’ll play nice. for now. 

rain: not really sure what to make of them. they’re weird and...lazy. as hell. can’t help but resent that they’re better liked in school than her when they don’t even care enough to try. until she figures out just what they’re after, she’s keeping a very close eye on them...

vi: initially feels annoyed by the way they refuse to acknowledge her; she didn’t exactly choose to have parents with bad priorities and she’s sick to death of people treating her like her financial situation is contagious. still, she can’t help but feel bad for them; they’re clearly not happy with the way life is going for them, but they’re refusing to ease up. prefers to pity them from a distance. 

r: she’s glad to have a friend at school, but r’s disregard for rules could be a problem if she’s trying to help her family gain favor in town. r doesn’t benefit much from getting in trouble on campus either. they’re a lot of fun regardless and she can count on them to keep things interesting, if nothing else. 

heidi: very clearly the head bitch in charge. kind of cold, but nothing she hasn’t dealt with before. definitely not the type to befriend just anyone, so she’ll really have to put on the charm to get noticed. it can get really lonely at the top, especially when everyone wants something from you. she might benefit from having a real friend. 

curt: cute, but unreliable. seems to go through girls like clothes; definitely not boyfriend material. also has a thing for gabe, but anyone with eyes can tell that he doesn’t have a fighting chance in hell. he just might be down for a chance to make gabe jealous if the chance ever comes up, though...

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#mc: kat thompson #conspiracy in emerson #headcanons #if cie #i definitely didn't finish this over the summer and have it rot in the drafts for months what