#and sometimes I literally sit here for 20 minutes and churn out nothing :(

[starsoforionwrites]

So, I'm finally back to writing Nature of Purity after.... fuck me, 7 months without an update. And I thought I'd take a moment to talk a little bit about why I stopped updating it.

The Setup

When I started posting NoP it was, I thought, mostly done. I'd originally intended it to be about 20k words. I had a sketch for the the overall plan, and I'd written what at the time felt like about 75% of it. In fact, I'd been sitting on those chapters for a few months already, working on them here and there as the whim took me.

One of the reasons I started posting it on AO3 was to try and push myself to complete it. I'd never finished a fic before. NoP was actually the first thing I'd written in years.

So I jumped in and started posting, knowing that if I stuck to a weekly update schedule I had a twelve week buffer to finish it off. That's ages! So much time! And I only had a few more chapters to write really!

Things went fine for a while, although I was still really struggling to stick to a schedule. I mostly managed though. I know some of you sit down and write in huge swathes, working steadily for hours and churning out 20k words at a time. That ain't me. I flit in and out of my fics, working for 20 minutes here, adding 150 words there. I'll get tired of the section I'm writing and move down a few pages, adding a section title with a couple of bulletpoints of things that will happen.

If I work at it, I can hit 1500 words in an hour-ish. I'm quite lucky in that once I start writing, I don't get stuck. Staring at an empty page means sometimes I never start, but if I put words to paper then I can keep going, flow of consciousness, pretty easily.

But usually, 2 hours is about my absolute maximum for a session, and I pretty much max out at 2 sessions a week.

Anyway, around June of '21, THINGS started to happen in my life. Here's a fun list.

I got a promotion at work

My mortgage came up for renewal

I ended up buying a new house instead

I had to buy a new car

I had a trivial argument with some close friends that got blown out of all proportion

This literally all took place in a period of about two months, which is right about the time I stopped writing. I kept posting chapters, but I couldn't bring myself to write any more. I ran out of chapters to post in August '22 (although I had been checked out mentally for a long time beforehand), and then I fucked off into the darkness never to be seen again.

So yes this is obviously a mental health post

I've always really struggled with depression. It's been a constant in my life ever since I can remember. I was sent home from school several times when I was around 10-12 because I was inconsolable over nothing. Or had been laughing hysterically for hours. Or I'd been staring at a wall for hours.

Eventually they sent me to counselling, which I did not handle well either.

Things got really bad for me around 16-20, and then slowly I started to level out a bit. Eventually I mostly got a handle on it as I learned to live with myself.

That said, I still find it really, really easy to fall into depression. Days when I wake up and just think "no" and go back to bed are still not uncommon.

This is all a precursor to say that, that bullet-point list above? Yeah, I didn't handle it too well.

The promotion at work came with huge amounts of new stress. I was now a client-facing, team-leading, systems-architecting badass, and my workload roughly quadrupled.

Buying a new house is also, it turns out, ridiculously stressful. This is the second time I've been through the process, although the first time round I had a partner to do it with. This time, it was just me, and on top of that I was having to deal with the transfer of assets due to my prior mortgage being in both our names, along with a wildly fluctuating market value of property. I'm aware this is not a particularly relatable thing to bitch about (oh no, poor me, my hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of material assets), but at several points in the process it genuinely looked like it would all fall through and I would be left homeless in one way or another.

The new car was a fucking ridiculous situation. I previously had a company car, as a perk because they didn't want to give me a raise. This meant I could sell my car and was very cool! Then covid. The company decided to cancel the car policy, and I no longer had one at all. Then the chip shortage! Remember that? The price of second hand cars skyrocketed. Again, very stressful.

And then the nail in the cake, my friends situation. I'm not gonna go into it, but it was ridiculous. Like, a genuinely stupid argument over absolutely nothing important. These are people I've known IRL for fifteen years. But the upshot was, I didn't feel welcome around them anymore, so I just stopped showing up on discord.

I haven't spoken to any of them since.

Sooooo, all this shit combined together to leave me a barely functioning person. I just about held things together enough to get moved in. I unpacked. And then I more or less fell apart.

Don't call it a comeback

Eventually I crawled my way back out of my pit.

This is, genuinely, in no small part thanks to the wonderful comments I received while still posting NoP. I have saved many of these comments. The fact that people were engaging with the stuff I was writing brought me so much happiness, I actually don't know how to describe it.

Reading the comments from you guys, who are out there reading my work, literally makes me cry almost every time. I get weepy over it. I have to go and have a little sit down. I can't stop smiling. It uplifts me, even if the comment is something small and throw-away for you. And Christ, some of you write such beautiful things. My God. Are you for real? I want to hug you so fucking badly.

But I was left in a bit of a pickle. I couldn't face going back to NoP. I'd sit in front of it, and I just couldn't find the voice anymore. The exact state of mind I'd been in when I was writing Hermione and Draco bitching away at each other in the library was eluding me. I'd sit staring at an empty chapter, which just had headers in it like "Talking to Luna" and "Nott a problem" and I was like who the fuck wrote this what does it mean??

But I wanted to write again.

And I had so many WIPs. Like no lie I have about thirty, that range from one-sentence descriptions of a vibe, to heres-a-complete-first-chapter-and-nothing-else-lol-figure-it-out.

And one of those WIP's was actually fun, and breezy, and easy to write. Epistolaries are so fucking easy my guy. Like they're so easy. You don't have to worry about any of that other shit! You don't need a plot, or to set the scene! You don't need to force yourself to describe what people are doing as they talk. They aren't doing anything! They're just writing letters! So easy!

For reference, I find dialogue absolutely trivial to write. It's everything else that fucks me up. So heck yeah epistolaries.

And it was a LOT of fun. Especially those first few easy-breezy chapters. Especially when you can leverage the fact that everyone reading knows EXACTLY what's happening in the background, so you can just drop allusions to it here and there in dialogue.

So I began posting The Penpal Program. And, because it was mostly canon-compliant, it got heavier and darker towards the end, but still stayed pretty light and fluffy. I had a few hiccups here and there where I (as I am wont to do) did no writing at all for three weeks and then had to have a massive catch-up session in the 11th hour, BUT I completed it.

And again, the comments throughout the whole process kept me going. It's actually crazy how much it makes my day to read a comment.

And, throughout all of this, I've been conscious of not updating NoP. I've had a couple of comments here and there asking for updates, and they've made me feel guilty. I've looked back at one specific comment made on the last chapter I wrote, letting me know they had faith in my storytelling. That they couldn't wait to see what happened.

And I feel like I let them down personally. Like I've just been the most useless, selfish, worthless asshole for seven fucking months. And I know that's crazy and depression and etc. etc. (I do know that), but still. I want to finish the fic. For them. And for the rest of you, who have commented, or not. Who hit the kudos or the like button or the bookmark or who didn't do any of these things and just kept the tab open and refresh it once every month or so. And also, for me. So it's done. Because it's not the longest fic ever written, or the fluffiest, or the darkest or the most realistic. But it's mine, and I'm proud of it. I've loved writing it. I love reading it back, because I'm a slut for reading my own stories. I love the way I feel every time I see someone else like it. I love sharing it with you guys.

And so, I'm writing it again. And I'm going to finish it. As I write this I have two chapters left to go and then it will be complete. I'm going to complete it before I start posting it again. I don't want to throw a single chapter up and then lose control again and disappear.

I said there would be four chapters to go, but there will actually be five. Three of them are written.

I also have a couple of "scenes from the cutting room floor", which I think I'll just chuck on here for you pack of reprobates to read. Or maybe I'll put them on AO3 as part of a series, loosely affiliated.

Either way, The Nature of Purity will be complete, and should be updating on AO3 within the next few weeks.

Sorry for wasting almost 10k words (fuck me) on this explanation of why I've not been writing, but I figured fuck it, you might wanna know.

Anyway as a little treat for reading so far have a little snippet form the next chapter of NoP.

"Merlin Hermione," George said, interrupting her. "I don't give a shit about your exams! Tell me about Draco dearest. I mean, when he stormed in here at Christmas and read Harry the riot act... Honestly, he got me all hot and bothered!"

"George!"

"Oh come on babe, I'm only human! Besides, I was only looking at him."

"Well keep your bloody eyes to yourself you git!" she snarled, as George and Ginny both giggled and exchanged significant looks.

"Relax love, he's not really my type you know? He was just all... I dunno. Commanding!"

"Oooh yeah," Ginny cut in. "I know what you mean. He's a bit... angular for me really, but he looked very.... stern didn't he Georgie?"

Hermione resumed drinking her tea, tuning out the background of Weasleys singing the praises of her betrothed. For Merlin's sake, Draco was right. They had no bloody decorum.

[supposed2bfunny]

Alright, this might be a bit serious for this blog, but do you have any Plastic Beach headcanons? I know that neither of the boys were in a mentally good state back then, but it certainly made an impact on their relationship.

Oof I do generally avoid Plastic Beach because it is definitely not my cup of tea in terms of dark plot and angst factors. Angst is just. Not generally my thing unless there’s a hefty dose of comfort with it.

But here goes!

-Murdoc was drinking and drugging himself nearly to death during his time on PB, but at some point, you have to consider the possibility that one of the ships that brought supplies might have been delayed due to storms or something. Consider Murdoc, locked away in his room, out of drugs, nearly out of liquor, physically ill and mentally reeling. 2D didn’t see Murdoc during this time: Cyborg Noodle was under strict orders to keep 2D in his room, so he wouldn’t see Murdoc like that.

-2D would spend so much time in his captivity having imaginary conversations with Murdoc, ripping him apart, saying all the things he’s always wanted to say. But whenever they would meet up to actually record music, 2D would clam up and not say anything. His silence seemed to sting even more than if he had snapped at him.

-Outside of strictly necessary exchanges to make music, they didn’t talk to each other at all for a majority of their time on the island. The toxicity of Plastic Beach was not Murdoc and 2D’s hatred coming to a head: it was their self-imposed forced isolation.

-2D’s anxiety spiked so bad: he bit his nails down till there was nothing left to bite, then started picking at his hair and clothing. His shirts and bandanas were always super ratty-looking and covered in holes, and his hair became so frayed with split ends that Murdoc eventually ordered Cyborg Noodle to cut his hair. He had none of the stim toys/comfort items he usually had with him :/

-It was Murdoc who eventually reached out, unable to handle the silence anymore. He sat outside 2D’s door one day and just kept talking quietly, coaxing, until 2D opened the door and let him in. They sat on opposite ends of the room, stiff and awkward. Eventually, Murdoc started to cry. 2D just watched him do it, and after some time, Murdoc left in shame.

-But that was a sort of breaking point, because after that they began to talk, 2D asking questions about the lyrics, the music, when they could leave the island, what they might do next (even on PB, their co-dependence was so bad that he never pictured a future where Murdoc wasn’t with him in any scenario they could scheme up). Their relationship began to repair itself just a tiny bit.

-The first time he was recording a demo of “To Binge,” 2D broke down in tears when he got to the “I just have to tell you that I love you so much these days” part. Murdoc couldn’t look at him. They both knew.

-It was on the roof one night, under the stars, that Murdoc repeated those words, confessed that he was in love with 2D. Despite how much their relationship had been improving, that night, 2D, unable to hear those words and reconcile them with this torture, stood up and went back into his room, where he remained until the Black Clouds attacked.

-I KNOW this is giving Murdoc far too much humanity and credit, but the way we see him trying to escape in that submarine post-Rhinestone Eyes? He was fleeing and leaving 2D behind, yes. That’s because he was willing to gamble that the Black Clouds would follow him and leave 2D, Russel, and Noodle alone. He was correct.

-As bad as it was being stuck on the island with each other, the events between Plastic Beach and Humanz was worse. 2D and Murdoc both assumed the other was dead and they did not respond well. 

-Murdoc was not imprisoned by EMI: he was institutionalized after being found, incoherent and near-death, in his submarine in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

-2D didn’t fair much better: he was found in Guadalupe, frying his brain with psychedelics, alternately insisting that he had to find his friend Murdoc, and that Murdoc was the devil and had sunk to the bottom of the sea. That year of finding himself? That was a year in a rehab center detoxing and receiving news that the rest of the band was alive.

-Basically, when they got back together for the next album, a lot was clear: they both knew Murdoc loved 2D at this point, but neither of them was sure if they could get past the toxicity of what they had survived, or if that love was worth exploring at all.

-Nonetheless, Murdoc’s willingness to ultimately die to protect them, and 2D’s pain at his loss, was enough to indicate to them that their compassion for one another, however fucked up, was pretty mutual and real.

-But hoooo boy they both had to start fresh and learn to be friends all over again.

These are really dark, and not really headcanons so much as a personal timeline. I hope these are okay! Again, I don’t exactly have headcanons for this phase because I tend to avoid thinking about it altogether. Hope these suffice!

[i17iskillingmylife]

it's been a few days since i went up here. ive been informed that its kind of telling the extent to which im touched like deeply in my heart over the boring ugly ass places i spend my time but like lets be real here most people are basically on some hot mindless bullshit vis a vis beauty like youve got people talking about like. fucking. what. literally the most boring shit ever like just incapable of forming a single relationship with anything theyve ever seen unless they've been given the wordless "okay" for it from the world at large like people wear fucking makeup and shit. thats whats really gay i think.

theres a circle of nothing around the facility just boxing you in same way the heat does you know, which makes sense because no one wants to live around this place for the same reasons no one wants to live by an airport or a cemetery or anywhere drugs are produced in significant numbers, all of which they also do out here btw. lol. anyway it's a chain; youre contained first by the heat then by the machinery and then by miles of space, empty space not even horse trails or makeshift shooting ranges or nothing like that. you dont come out here you know theres no lights.

anyway personally i think there's a lot to be said for walking on something huge and hollow. i'm pretty significantly underweight and shorter than the average adult male even though thats what i am and i wasnt expecting the metal underneath me to cave but it did. nothing gave way of course but there's something interesting about the feeling of the "ground" literally caving in under your feet. im vaguely conscious that i should be afraid of this, but that's just another sensation.

the lights are off color here but your presence makes every one of them feel like a halo shining down. i dont make a habit of thinking about or expressing my feelings but sometimes i do feel them and i think you're a dumb bitch for asking any more of me than that

churning and gurgling under the dented metal beneath my feet is laid over by the dull roar of the fans. the wind blows and from what cant be less than five stories above the ground i look down and watch him move. it's always fascinated me the way clothing can frame a body; he looks different than he did before. i'd smile but i don't feel like it. thats okay though

used to spend a lot of time thinking about places like this and the consequences of spending lots of time in them. i want to get my fingers into places like this even if it pinches and burns. now's a really good time for us to split a cigarette you know. sit down a minute. 20$ says you wont see more than 7 or 8 cars on the road going through here the whole time we're up watching. it's got to mean something to someone but im honestly just cool hanging out with you. no big deal yk i just dont get out that often anymore so i get sentimental real easy like its so gay.

so yeah slickdirk. this is a little rambly and shit im not apologizing here just like giving a warning im typing this up inthe library after an early early morning /late late night shift cuz the electric in my unit is off and its hot as ass in there so fuck that basically. anyway

before i say anything more of course ive got to specify that i'm totally riffing off of tumblr user @youabandonedthem for my slick characterization here. but honestly it doesn't feel like characterization it's more like dear beloved sweet yat has the only meaningful understanding of slick anyone has ever had in the world like i mean come on look at that fucking blog youre kidding me and also stupid as fuck if you think thats even an interpretation of the character its just straight up factual. jackass. anyway im all over it hope its ok to namedrop you here dont be a stranger and all that.

similarly shoutout to dear beloved sweet @ottiliere for her dirk characterization which is similarly the only dirk that could possibly matter to me like most of everyone else who posts about him seems to have just not read homestuck some of the people writing meta about him even just have no grasp on ANY of the characters if were being real here but thats way off topic anyway otti owns i dont usually give a shit about aus but if its good its good and if you deny it youre nothing basically.

i dont think anyone has given love to tmc the way yat does and i don't think anyone has really put their heart into making weird niche homestuck art the way ottiliere does (at least not in this era like ive been OVER this before if youve ever talked to me we are living in a post-post-homestuck society). which makes sense because the vast majority of modern fans (of anything) are altogether much more boring breed. no plumage or patterns or anything fun. but thats another thing. and also overly pessimistic of me but whatever i feel like if someone reads that and feels like theyre being called boring its because they know somewhere that theyre boring and missing out and maybe thats their wakeup call to start getting silly with it. or maybe no one cares i dont know i dont give a shit.

anyway the intitial interest in slickdirk was generated pretty specifically in the context of the two of them being psych warded together. typically this prospect alone would be like harlequin novel parody fanfiction type shit such that i wouldnt have any interest in it, but this was different from the get go on the basis that their interactions were never initially about romance.

dirk is self aware to the point of walking backwards. he's self obsessed, self conscious, hyperfixated-in the true sense-on how he presents himself. like all people like this, he's also constantly telling on himself. i'm speaking in terms of canon and otti's dirk here btw, this is true of both fundamentally. in terms of otti's vision specifically, though…it's dialed up, right.

people who think about themselves like this are inherently isolated from other people because, regardless of how they feel about themselves, they're very convinced they're better than everyone else. being in an institution full of other sick people can spur this line of thinking regardless of how untrue it is; once you've decided you're above the rest of the BRAINBROKE FREAKS around you, it's hard to even start to empathize with any of them! if you look back at some of otti's older posts you can kind of feel the extent to which dirk doesn't want jackshit to do with nothing going on in the hospital like just obviously has no interest in participating or anything like that in any capacity.

slick on the other hand like. really i can't write any of this without referencing yat's house essay about the midnight crew watching house and specifically spades slick watching house and how he would feel about it. forget everything i just said and go read that and then come back. okay so he obviously thinks about himself and his body and very specifically his disability in such a way that he is basically completely unaware of it in spite of living with it day to day. if you know what kind of guy im talking about here you know but also im going on good faith here assuming you read the youabandonedthem papers so even if you dont KNOW you should at least have kind of an idea what im referring to here.

the big draw between these two is that they're both in completely different subtypes of denial about themselves to vastly different effects. of course they'd be drawn to each other in this scenario…they're literally the ONLY NORMAL people in the whole building uhh have you seen the other guys in here. lol like what even.

and the thing is that even following up the initial theorized meeting in the ward, like, there's all this potential for what could come after…don't get it twisted this isn't some edgy folie a deux that im suggesting that would be so boring.

they're more than "bad for each other" even if they're not quite "good for each other" either. it isn't about an endgame or even necessarily "shipping" as a lot of people think of it. it's more like…the ways their differences and similarities line up feel aligned, even though it wasn't intentional, the same way some moments just feel "right". it isn't about how long the moment lasts or what its impact is, just that there was a moment where there wouldn't have been one if even a few tiny things had shifted. life is comprised of shit like that right. so when something like slickdirk comes along you can either balk at the absurdity of it or ride the wave.

orjust like passively observe thats an option too of course. no big deal it could literally never ever be a big deal im literally just out here trying to have fun trying to make myself laugh yk.

[songbirdstyles]

bang a gong.

summary: you’re tired of being a virgin, and when you meet harry at a bar, he’s more than happy to help you out.

warnings: literally all porn, very little plot. fingering, m+f receiving oral, dom!harry

word count: 11.1k

listen to while reading: bang a gong (get it on) by t. rex

You should say - for the record, or perhaps to maintain your dignity - that this is never the type of place you’d generally be caught in.

If you hadn’t been dragged from your faux pretense of nonchalance after you got dumped, you never would have come. It wasn’t like it was a serious relationship - barely two months - but it was your first since graduating college and perhaps you thought, maybe, you were in with this guy for the long haul, but he didn’t agree. You suppose it was a silly thought (your friends had told you not to expect too much from a former frat boy, anyway.) And it did prove to be, anyway, dissipating the second you woke up to a text saying he didn’t reckon things were working out, and could he please have his hoodie back?

Whatever. You hadn’t been too sad but your friends insisted you needed to let go of him and that is exactly why you’re here, pressed into a booth at a high end nightclub you can’t afford, your friends and the randoms they’d pulled from the dance floor packed so tight that you can feel your thighs sticking to the leather seats and to each other. You hadn’t intended on drinking anything because the prices of the drinks would absolutely kill your bank account, but that, according to your friends, is exactly why you’re here - meet rich guys who frequent here, to have drinks bought for you with false promises of a night of fun, before leaving them high and dry while you are thoroughly drunk.

A good concept, in theory, and it was enough to tug you off of the couch and dig through your closet to find a suitable dress to wear. Perhaps you’d support it more, though, if you had any experience in seducing guys at all - the entire night, you’d merely been grabbing the extra shots your friends had gotten from the guys they’d located.

“Aren’t you having fun?” your friend asks, and you turn to look at her from where she sits next to you. The music is thumping some song you can’t recognize and it rings in your ears as you raise your eyebrows at her. Speak louder, your eyebrows say, and Natalie leans closer so her lips are nearly brushing your ear. “I said, are you having fun?”

Are you? Well, you’re not sure. Even if you’d done nothing to earn the two shots you’d downed, they did taste better than the cheap bars you and your friends frequented on weekends. And it was entertaining, watching guys nearly twice your age seriously believe they’d end up between the sheets with your friends later. So you shrug, bringing your hand to fan at your neck, trying desperately to alleviate the heat burning at your skin. “It’s alright.”

It’s good enough for Natalie and she turns back to Valerie, whose legs are swung over the lap of some 50 year old who had got you all your second round of shots. His hand is pressed to her waist, fingertips digging into her skin through her dress, and it makes your stomach churn to see, so you drop your eyes to the table, where you’ve been picking at your screen protector for the past 15 minutes.

It’s times like this you wish you were a lightweight but you barely feel tipsy, and you’d like nothing more than to rip away your inhibitions and go out and dance against some guy who you’ll never see again, but you find it too awkward to do while practically sober. You bring your eyes up to scan at the dance floor - God, there’s so many girls with the same ideas you had, presumably. The demographic of this club is rich old men and broke, early-20s girls and you don’t know how much you really like to be one of them.

Though you can’t deny that the drinks are good.

“Stop thinking so much!” you glance back at Natalie with your brows furrowed. You hate the way she can practically feel what you’re thinking because you’d have been more than happy to tug at your screen protector until it peeled off of your entirely-too-vulnerable phone but she’d never allow it. Never let you sit here, in this booth, while everyone else is having a good time. Sometimes you appreciate it and sometimes you don’t and you aren’t quite sure of how you’re feeling about it now. “You know what I think?”

You can’t fucking hear her and you lean your head in more, awating her response as your narrowed eyes look around the crowd on the dance floor again. No one catches your eye but nobody catches your eye here, either, and you reckon you’d have better luck roaming the streets of LA to find someone worth your time.

“I think you should go get laid,” Natalie tells you, and you exhale, a humorless smile turning your lips up. “I’m serious! There has to be some hot, rich guy here. What, did that guy fuck you so good you never want anyone else again?”

The thought of being pinned under any guy that your eyes are glazing over could make you gag, but you reckon she may be right. Unbeknownst to your friends, you’d never fucked anyone and you hadn’t necessarily felt the need - you’d done just about everything else under the sun, and not a single guy you’d given a blowie to, or who’d fingered you, had ever been able to find the spot that made you squirm more than anything. So you’d never quite understood why having someone’s dick inside of you was such a big deal but you can’t deny, now, that getting it out of the way does sound quite nice, solely to boost your self esteem after getting dumped by a graduated frat boy named Logan.

There wasn’t much of a bigger blow to your ego than that.

You tug your gloss-coated bottom lip in between your teeth, dropping your eyes back down to Natalie’s, and she widens her eyes at you in a way that further encourages you to get the whole virginity thing out of the way. It’s not like it matters, anyway. “Maybe,” you tell her, entirely too quiet compared to the music pulsing through the club, and she smiles, leaning back in the booth. You’re not sure if she heard you because you can’t hear whatever she says next, but it doesn’t matter - you’re already pushing your way out of the booth, calling excuse me to where Alexa is leaning close to the man she’d found (and he’s, by far, the most attractive of any of the three guys your friends had located, but Alexa has always been the best at finding the hottest guys, and you’re nearly positive she actually will end up fucking him tonight.) She leans forward so you can climb behind her, awkwardly in your heels, and you tug at one of her curls as you clamber out of the booth.

Working your way through a crowd of people to the bar is a skill you’ve all but mastered and at a club like this, it’s a lot easier than you’d expected. There’s less people dancing than you’d thought though you shouldn’t be shocked - it certainly isn’t like the usual clubs you go to. And so, you push your way through the people dancing to the bar, and there’s a few people spread out on the barstools. You scan the back of them - you can’t see any of their faces, naturally, so you merely judge from their hair, and you take a few steps forward and settle yourself onto a stool besides a man with messy brown curls, a pint of beer in front of him.

When you peek at his side profile he certainly looks younger than you’d expected - hardly older than you, if at all. And that’s a score for you, you figure. You’d much prefer to lose your virginity to someone who doesn’t seem like they could be your dad. But he is wearing sunglasses and that’s a bit weird - certainly not a dealbreaker but odd enough to make you wonder.

You aren’t sure what to say - should’ve listened closer when Natalie, Valerie or Alexa were seducing their men for drinks - and for a moment you sit in silence. 

It’s only when you turn your head to take another look at him, at the sunglasses sitting at the very top of his nose, that the silence between you two is broken, and his head tilts ever so slightly towards you. “What’re you looking at?”

God, his voice. You’d always had a thing for British accents and his is better than most, deep and raspy and slow, and you shift on your stool. And it sounds just a bit familiar but you can’t exactly pinpoint where - well, it doesn’t matter. If things go further between you two, tonight, you surmise he’d forever be the sexiest voice you’d slept with.

But you can’t get your hopes up. After all, the sunglasses in a dimly lit, fancy club is enough to make you just a bit suspicious of what type of person he is, and you refuse to hand over your V-card to a weirdo.

“Just wondering what your glasses are for.” Figure it’s best to figure that out before you let this get any further. You don’t want to waste your time. And you pointedly glance up at the ceiling, eyes darting around the walls of the club. “S’not like there’s much light here to protect your eyes from, is there?”

He chuckles, then, and you raise your eyebrows. “Guess I just don’t want people to see me,” he tells you, and when he turns to face you fully your eyes scan over his face and - God, he really does look familiar. And he sounds familiar. Have you met him before? No, you don’t think you could ever forget someone like him.

But - well, maybe. You weren’t necessarily known for having the keenest of memories.

You smile at him, brows creasing together. He certainly does seem to be a mystery and you’d love to uncover it in more ways than one. So you lean forward, resting your arm on the bartop. “Seems like the wrong kind of place, if you don’t want people to see you.”

“I reckon it’s working - you’re the first person to talk to me all night.” A hand - a large hand, you note - goes up to his hair, fingers brushing through his curls, and your eyes follow its path in a way that certainly isn’t anywhere close to subtle. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

Is he flirting with you? You’re not quite sure but God, you hope so, because so far he keeps getting better and better to you. So you turn to completely face him and you can see the small smirk on his lips, as if he knows what he’s doing to you without even having to try. “Are you going to tell me your name?”

You can see his eyebrows raise as he picks up his beer and takes a sip. Your eyes can’t help but follow every movement he makes and you don’t care if you look desperate - truthfully, you are. You hadn’t even seen his face in its entirety but you suspect your friends would be impressed if they could see the sort of guy you’d located. Even if you leave this club and never see him again, you’re not sure you could ever forget the way he’s making your stomach flip just with a small quirk of his lips.

When he’s set his drink down again and brought his wrist up to wipe at the beer still lingering on his lips - is that a Gucci watch? - he tilts his head at you, curls flopping, and then says, “Tell me yours first,” so you do. And he nods slowly before telling you, “My name is Harry.”

Harry. 

Your mind is whirring because suddenly the pieces are coming together - and you hadn’t been in your One Direction phase for a few years but you certainly know who Harry is. And the fact that you’re just sitting here, right now, talking to him in a club filled with too many other girls to count, seems like an accomplishment in itself. But you don’t want him to know you know, though surely he must assume you do, so you nod in the same fashion he did, as if you’re content with what he’d told you.

“Harry,” you repeat, as if testing the name out on your tongue. He spins his stool slightly so he’s facing you and your knees knock into his slightly. And then you raise your eyebrows at him, reaching down to tug your dress down slightly where it’s been riding up on your thighs, and you don’t miss the way his eyes follow your movements. “Are you going to let me see your eyes, Harry?”

Harry laughs slightly and then stands, and you look up at him, confusion blazing in your eyes. Is he leaving? God, you hope not. You don’t want your experience with him to be over before it's begun, no matter what it ends up being. But then he motions, with one finger, for you to follow him and you’re standing so fast your head is spinning, and you trail after him as he leads you through the crowd of people, and you crane your neck to try and see where your friends are but you can’t see them anywhere.

It’s fine by you, you decide, as Harry stops in front of a small, darkened booth towards the back of the club. You’re surprised but positively overjoyed that it’s empty - seems like the perfect type of table for anyone looking to get lucky. And, Christ, you are.

You slide into the booth and Harry slides in right next to you, leaving hardly a few inches between you two as he rests his arm against the back of the booth oso he can face you, and, beneath the table, your ankle links with his. You give him a moment to see if he’ll pull his foot loose from yours, but he never does, and it makes your heart race.

“Gonna take off your glasses for me, Harry?” you tilt your head forward - where you’d moved to is closer to the source of the music and it’s harder to hear, all of a sudden, but you can’t bring yourself to pretend that’s why your face gets so close to his. His breath smells like beer and mints, and you can see the smirk spreading further across his face. “I’ve been dying to see your eyes. Bet they’re pretty.” And you’re not quite sure where this confidence is coming from, because you’ve hardly tried to seduce anyone like this, but you’ll lay it on thick for him.

He’s different.

He chuckles and you can feel his breath, hot against your face. It sends a shiver down your spine and you hope the instinct was imperceptible. “Take them off for me, then,” and you do, reaching up to pull the glasses off his nose, and you can tell - just by the feeling of them in your hands - that they’re more expensive than anything you’d ever held in your life. 

As if everything before this wasn’t proof enough that you truly were talking to Harry Styles, sliding the glasses down his nose and meeting his eyes really validates it. You can’t help the way your lips part as you reach down to rest his sunglasses on the sticky table and you hope you don’t look as amazed as you’re feeling.

God, you have to be dreaming. The guy you cherry pick from the randoms sitting at a bar is - him. And you’re sitting with him, his fingers dancing across your shoulder blade where his arm is thrown lazily over the back of the booth, your ankles intertwined.

16-year-old you never could’ve believed it, but 22-year old you is having the time of her life.

“You look a bit shocked,” Harry murmurs, barely heard over the pounding music, but you hear it as clearly as if he’d yelled it in your ear.

You shift your mouth closer to his ear, so close that you know your lips graze his skin when you tell him, “Prettier than I’d expected, s’all.” It’s then - with a start - that you feel his other hand drop to your knee, pressing circles into your soft skin. You could nearly moan at the feeling and you know, suddenly, that this’ll definitely go where you want it to, assuming you don’t fuck it up.

And you won’t. Won’t let this opportunity go to waste.

“Ah.” When he tilts his head ever so slightly your lips are hardly a centimeter apart and with one shift forward you could close the gap, press your mouth to his, slip your tongue into his mouth. Force this into exactly the direction you need it to go, feel his hands drop to your hips, pulling you into his lap, cock hard against your core where your dress is riding up your hips.

As soon as you start to lean in, to make every fantasy you’ve had a reality, you feel two fingers, harsh against your shoulder, and they don’t belong to Harry.

You glance up, eyes narrowing at whoever had disrupted you, and standing in front of your booth is Alexa, wearing a small smile reeking of both excitement and guilt. And you can’t bring yourself to be mad at her for interrupting you, even though you want to, as she drops your phone onto the table.

“Sorry for interrupting,” she calls above the music, and you roll your eyes, leaning over Harry’s shoulder to move your head closer to his. In your ear you can hear him groan softly as your chest presses against his, and you can feel his arm that had been over the top of the booth drop to wrap around your waist - exactly where you’d wanted to feel it. “We’re gonna head out. Are you going to come?” The question is innocent but you can tell she already knows the answer as her eyes drop down to Harry’s arm, secure around your waist, fingers rubbing patterns into your hip through your tight, black dress.

“No,” you tell her, and Harry squeezes your hips in approval. “No, I’m gonna stay.”

“Are you sure?”

It’s then that Harry turns his head to look at her, effectively pressing your bodies closer than you’d thought they could go, and you can see the exact moment Alexa recognizes him - the way her eyes widen and her lips part into a smile. You’re not sure if she’s simply shocked that she’s seeing Harry in person or if she’s surprised you’re wrapped around him, but either way, she looks absolutely shell-shocked. “Promise I’ll take good care of her,” Harry tells your friend, and the double entendre makes you shift slightly, thighs rubbing against each other. 

He better take good care of you.

You bring your hand up to wave to Alexa and you can’t hear the response she squeaks out before she’s gone, and you don’t look to see her go back to your friends. You merely lean back, just a bit, pressing your hands to Harry’s shoulder to look at him.

“Gonna take good care of me, then?” you raise your eyebrows and you can see Harry’s pupils dilating as he stares at you, and you shift closer to him, practically in his lip. The music changes, then, and you hadn’t been paying attention to it before but now, Bang a Gong seems quite fitting for the moment. “Hope you follow through on that.”

It’s then that he leans forward, eliminating the distance between your faces as his lips press to yours. And you hardly have a moment to even comprehend it as his hand rises to the small of your back, pulling you closer to him, and you moan into his mouth just about immediately. Harry’s tongue slips into your mouth and one of your hands drags up to the back of his neck, nails tracing along his sweaty skin. You’re not sure you’ve ever truly appreciated being kissed until right now, feeling his lips slotted against yours, the way his hand is pushing further up your thigh until his fingertips are creeping up the cheap material of your black dress.

You only pull away when you need to catch your breath, and Harry’s arm keeps you so close to him that the thought of regaining your composure seems too far away to consider. You’re not sure you’ll ever recover from that and you know there’s so fucking much more to come and you truly have scored, even if you only end up with kiss swollen lips to show for it.

But you reckon he has a thing for hickeys. It’s just a vibe you get from some guys, and as soon as the thought settles into your brain Harry proves it - mouth moving down to just below your jaw, and you drop your head back with a whine as you feel him beginning to suck a dark mark into your skin. His hand on your hip clutches your dress between his fingers, pulling the material tighter to your body than you’d even thought it could go, and it’s all the leverage he needs to pull you as close to him as you can go without being on top of him.

Which - you aren’t opposed to, but you’d always pictured your first time being below an incredibly handsome man.

(Though, you hadn’t ever pictured your first time being with your teenage crush, so you shouldn’t start relying on your fantasies now, you guess.)

When you shift your leg so it’s hooked across his, he pauses, pulling back to glance at the mark he’d left on your skin. In the dim light in the back of the club you’re not sure how well he’d be able to see it, but he grins as he examines it. Your fingers tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck and you can feel him shiver beneath you and it makes your clit throb. “I think,” he tells you, leaning in so his mouth is right at the bottom of your ear, and you fight back a whimper at how deep his voice had gotten - dropped nearly an octave since the last time he spoke. “I think we should take this somewhere else.”

Harry squeezes your bare thigh, then, fingers just a few inches from the hem of your panties. You’d let him pin you to the booth, fuck you hard where anyone could walk by and see but - of course - that isn’t feasible. And as much as you truly do not care about losing your virginity, you don’t think you want it to be here, so you nod your approval. In an instant he’s out of the booth, fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugging you out after him. You grab his sunglasses and your phone, resting on the sticky table. You stumble as soon as you stand up and you’re not sure why - you think you’re just a bit overwhelmed with everything that had happened in the past 20 minutes, and the fact that Harry fucking Styles is almost certainly taking you to bed.

“Hang on,” you tell him, and when he turns to look back at you with an eyebrow raised, you reach forward to perch his glasses on top of his nose, preserving the anonymity you knew he wanted. He smiles slightly as he reaches up to push them further up his nose, and then he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him as you begin to walk towards the door.

Your friends are gone, you note, as you pass the booth you’d occupied earlier. Your phone, firm in your hand, has been buzzing incessantly since Alexa dropped it off but you haven’t bothered to check what the notifications are - your friends, surely wondering what you were doing, where you were going, when you would be home. And you didn’t know, truly, but you hoped it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

Harry pulls you through the doors of the club into the moist, nighttime air, and immediately you’re shivering - it’s chilly, just a bit. Not too bad, but you can tell it’s just rained by the way your foot sinks into a puddle of water, soaking through your cheap black heels.

You pay it no mind - just keep walking in pace with him, wondering, briefly, if there’ll be a time when you wake up from this. Perhaps right as he slides inside of you, filling you up so good, you’ll squeeze your eyes shut and moan and when you open them you’ll be in your bed, staring up at the ceiling and wishing you didn’t have such a rampant imagination.

There’s no way this can truly be real but at the same time it is - the way his fingers tap against your hip feels so real. The way he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple as he turns you both down the street, it feels like it can’t possibly be a dream.

“What are you thinking about?” his voice sends vibrations rolling through your body and now that you’re free of music blaring through your head, muffling every word the pair of you spoke, you can appreciate it more - the rasp in his tone, how deep and slow he speaks. You could nearly moan at that but you hold back, biting on your tongue to prevent any loose noises from slipping out.

You lean up so your mouth is close to his ear like you had in the club, even though there’s no music surrounding you to make it necessary - you like the way he tightens his grip on your hip when you breathe against his ear. “Just wondering where you’re taking me.”

That wasn’t, in fact, what you were thinking about, but you didn’t think you could muster up the courage right now to tell him how bad you want him inside of you.

Harry points down the street and you squint to what he’s motioning to - “Have a driver waiting for me. Gonna take us to my hotel room, not too far from here.”

“And then what?”

He raises his eyebrow as he glances down at you, and you can see the amusement twinkling in his eyes even on such a dimly lit street. “And then -” he turns into a parking lot, just behind the club you’d been in, and you can hear the distant thumping music from inside - “I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

Christ. You nearly whimper just at the implication and your mind speeds off, leaving your body behind, imagining every single thing he could do to you - or you could do to him - or anything. You can picture a thousand different scenarios and every single one ends with you in his hotel bed, your V-card firmly in his pocket.

It’s then that Harry stops in front of a sleek, black car - raps two knuckles on the tinted window of the driver’s seat and it rolls down almost immediately, as though it had been waiting for his signal. You can’t hear what he murmurs to the driver as he ducks his head inside the window and you don’t strain your mind to try and listen - within a few seconds he’s stepping back, opening the door to the backseat and ushering you inside.

You’d never been in a nicer car before but you shouldn’t be shocked - the outfit he’s wearing tonight could pay your rent for the next four months. There’s a partition between the backseat and the front and you’re beyond thankful as Harry slides in beside you, slamming the door shut, and he doesn’t give you a moment to process anything before his lips are on yours.

You wouldn’t dream of complaining as your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer to you, and he’s groaning into your mouth as his hand drifts downwards to cup your ass through your dress but it’s not enough for him and you can tell. Fingers push up the bottom of the cheap material so he can slip his hand beneath it, hand cold against the back of your thigh and he slides his hand further up until he’s groping your arse once more.

“Fuck,” you breathe, and you can feel Harry smirking against your lips - a smug bastard, he is, but you find you don’t truly care. You pull your mouth from his, feeling his teeth tugging at your bottom lip, but you’re hardly disconnected a moment before you throw your leg over his thighs, straddling him, and he moans like music to your ears. 

He uses his grip on your ass to force your hips to rock against the bulge, prominent even through his pants. His other hand tugs your dress up to your hips, letting the material bunch around your waist, and immediately his hand comes down hard on your ass - you squeal, dropping your forehead against his, as he rubs over the spot he’d just smacked.

“Y’like that?” You nod, pressing your lips to the side of Harry’s neck as he lands another slap down on your bum. Your hips press harder into his, feeling the pressure on your clit as you roll against him. “Yeah, know you do. Dirty girl.”

And - you’re not sure why - but you drop your lips to his ear, nibbling on his earlobe and feeling the way his cock twitches beneath you. “Can I tell you something?”

He nods, and you bring your hand up to his hair, running your fingers through his sweaty curls. Harry tilts his head to the side and your lips briefly brush, feather light, as you slow the pace your hips are rocking, savoring every brush of your panty clad clit against the material of his pants. “Anything,” he mutters, head dropping against the headrest, and you reach down to press your palm to his cock. God, he’s so hard and he feels so big too, too big to even fit in you, but you know damn well you’ll try your very best to make it work.

Even if you’ve never done it before, and before you can wonder if it’s the best time or thing to tell him, you lean in. “I’ve never had sex before.”

Harry certainly seems shocked and the way his lips part goes straight to your ego - do you seem so good at all of this that he’d suspected you’d done it time and time again? Maybe he’s confused as to why you told him and truthfully, you are, too. Just felt like the kind of thing he’d like to know. Your ex boyfriend had certainly wanted to know, and two days after you’d told him he’d ended things.

Maybe some guys don’t want to take girls’ virginities, but judging by the way Harry’s fingers dig further into your ass, you suspect he does.

“Never?” There’s the surprise thick in his voice and you nod, grasp on his cock tightening ever so slightly, and he groans beneath you. “God. Never would’ve thought. Bloody good at this.”

Yep, there’s your ego inflating, and you shrug. “Done just about everything else. Just haven’t gotten to the good part.” Another smack lands against your ass and you moan, pushing back against his palm as he smooths his hand over your skin.

He leans back, then, shifting his hips, and you can see his pupils dilating more and more as he glances down at the way your cunt presses to his cock - “Why don’t you show me what you can do, then?”

You’re much more than willing, and you lean in to give Harry one final kiss before pushing yourself off of him and sitting, on your knees, on the seat beside him. He’s watching you so intently you could almost feel judged but you love it - love the way he watches you push your hair behind you, how he reaches down to slowly undo the zipper of his fancy dress pants, but you wanna do it yourself. You push his hand away, wrapping your hand around his wrist, and surely he’s strong enough to resist the dominant act you’re playing if he wanted to but you can tell he doesn’t. You finish unzipping his pants and he lifts his hips slightly so you can shimmy them down his thighs, just enough so you’re face to face with his cock, thick and bulging through his briefs.

You don’t give yourself a moment to examine just how big he is - bigger than you’d anticipated when you were on top of him and when you’d felt him up. You’d sucked off plenty of guys and none of them came close to his size but you’ve mastered the faux confident facade as you shift backwards, leaning down with your ass high in the air to press a soft kiss against Harry’s cock through his boxers.

He groans, those glasses slipping down his nose, and his wandering fingers end up dancing down your back - you’re not sure where he’s going but you shift forward to give him easier access to your ass, if that’s what he wants, and your fingers hook in the waistband of his boxers to pull them over his cock.

Jesus, yeah, he is big. You wrap your hand around him, pumping experimentally a few times, listening to the way Harry moans brokenly. You wonder, briefly, when he’s last done this - he looks as though it’s been a bit too long but, well, you suppose you can’t judge how sensitive he is when just the feeling of his hand splayed across your lower back is wetting your panties faster than anything has before.

Lips press a wet kiss against the tip of his cock, just briefly, before you wrap your lips around his length and push our head down - a gurgled cry escapes his throat and you nearly smirk around him, taking him as far down your throat as you can until your nose is just about brushing his pelvis. Your hands press to his thighs and you can feel him growing stiffer in the confines of your mouth by the second. Fingers tangle in your hair, forcing your head down, and with any other guy you’d roll your eyes but there’s something different about him, something that makes you like the dominance. Any semblance of it that you’d had seconds before is gone and there’s a smack against your ass, causing you to cry out against his cock.

Normally you pull off of guys after 15 seconds (or so) but Harry doesn’t let you, holds you down, and you hollow your cheeks around him. Swallow, and his hips jerk up into your mouth, forcing a gag from you, and then he loosens his grip on your hair, allowing you to pull your mouth from him.

Harry’s breathing is heavy and his hand is groping your ass so tight it nearly hurts but the pleasure overpowers it and you push back against his hand. His fingers tug at your thong, slipping beneath it as you lap at the tip of his cock, and no sooner have his fingers circled your puckered hole - is he gonna do it? - that he slides them further down, running his digits through your soaked folds. 

“So - so fucking wet -” his voice cracks as you take him down your throat again but his hand doesn’t force your head down like last time - instead he brings his other hand to your bum and smacks you hard, harder than every other time, and you moan and he moans, and then two of his fingers slip into your cunt and you moan again.

God, it really is happening, because if it wasn’t, you’re sure you’d have woken yourself up in excitement by now. He really is two fingers deep in your pussy while his cock is all the way down your throat, and he really is crying out as you whine against his cock. His digits curl, brushing against that sweet spot in your velvety walls that has you clenching around him, and you think he’s the first guy you’ve ever done anything with whose found your G-spot without 10 minutes of needed assistance.

Your tongue swirls around his cock as you take your mouth from him, throwing your head back with a cry, and your first still pumps him up and down - his fingers are thrusting in and out of you so fast that the sound of your arousal is nearly the same volume as your moans lingered with his. You’re going to cum so fucking hard, first time you’ve cum from anything other than your fingers or your toys, and you roll your hips against his fingers, grasp on his cock tightening.

“Gonna cum -” your eyes roll back into your head as your thumb flicks over the head of Harry’s length, feeling the way his body jerks at the sensation. “Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop -”

“Gonna cum for me?” his voice is a hiss through gritted teeth as his fingers speed up even more, pumping inside of you so fast that your head is fucking spinning. “Do it, then. My dirty - fucking - girl, cum for me.”

It’s all you needed and you can’t even bring yourself to feel embarrassed at how fast you’re cumming because as soon as the pit in your stomach starts to unravel you can feel his cock twitching in your fist. You can’t think of a single thing to say, vocabulary wiped clean, merely throwing your head back with a noise akin to a scream as you cum on his fingers, and as his hips jerk up, you can feel his release coating your hand.

Harry’s fingers still pump slowly inside of you, prolonging your orgasm until it fades away and in turn you try to do the same to him, hand moving up and down his cock until your breathing steadies from labored pants into something more normal. So you pull your hand off of him, pushing yourself to sit on your knees, cum covering your fingers. And, in an instant, Harry’s fingers are wrapped around your wrist, and you let him guide your hand up to your mouth.

You can tell he’s merely testing you to see if you’ll do it - but, truthfully, you’d wanted him to cum in your mouth, anyway, if only to prove something to him, or to yourself. So you stick your tongue out, lap a thick stripe through his cum on your hand, dripping down your wrist, and Harry’s lust ridden eyes watch you, lips parted and breathing picking up again.

Your eyes never leave his as you lick up the last of his release on your hands, swallowing every last bit of it, and when you open your mouth to stick your tongue out - proving to him that you took every single goddamn drop - his hand flies to the back of your neck, pulling your head in, and your lips connect with a clash of teeth.

“Like a fucking angel,” Harry groans, pressing his fist to the car seat next to you, and the feeling of him hovering ever so slightly above you makes the buzzing in your head that much more intense. His other hand works at tucking himself back into his pants, zipping them up, and you figure it’s good to pull your dress down to cover your ass, too. “My fuckin’ perfect girl. Jesus Christ.”

You can feel the car slowing to a stop and you’re entirely too ready to go up to Harry’s bedroom and have your goddamn brains fucked out. You already feel like you’re on cloud 9 with one orgasm down, one so intense and brutal, one that you reckon nothing but him could muster up, and that’s just his fingers - you need to know what his cock’ll do to you. 

His hand falls back down to your waist where it seems to love to reside and he squeezes your hip, leaning in to nibble at your bottom lip again. You grin lazily, then reach up and push his sunglasses back up his nose where they’d slid down the bridge ever so slightly. “Want you t’fuck me,” you breathe, voice raspy in all of its post-orgasm glory. “Never gotten fucked by anyone before but I need you - swear, I’ve never cum so hard in my life.”

Harry chuckles and turns to glance out the window - then he grabs the door handle and pushes it open. When you’ve both clambered out of the car his arm is around you in a heartbeat, and you need the support, legs feeling shaky, and you take just a moment to glance up at the hotel you’re walking into - nicer than anything you’d ever been in in your life but you feel a bit more used to it by now.

“Tell me,” Harry mutters, leaning his lips close to your ear, as the automatic doors slide open for the pair of you to walk into the hotel lobby. “How many guys have made you cum before, hmm?”

“None,” is your response, turning your head to the side so you can witness the shock that overtakes Harry’s face - you can’t see his eyes but you’re sure they’re wide. “Told myself I didn’t want to fuck a guy who didn’t know where the clit is, and - well, none of them did.”

He chuckles as you two make your way through the lobby towards the elevators - it feels wrong for you to even be here, walking by people who see more money every day than you have in your life, in your dress you’d gotten at the thrift store and your heel still slightly wet. But being with Harry, having his arm around you, makes you feel decidedly less awkward, because you’re sure millions of girls would positively die to do what you’re about to do.

But you get to do it, and if that isn’t the best feeling in the world.

He stops in front of the elevator and presses the button to go up, and the doors open almost immediately - such a gentleman, he is, letting you step in first, and when you’re both in you watch the button for the very top floor light up as he pushes it. 

“You’re in for the night of your life,” Harry tells you as the elevator doors slide shut, and you’re entirely expecting him to pin you to the wall but he doesn’t - incredible composure, really, staring straight ahead like he can’t feel the desperation practically dripping from your body. You stare at him, for a moment, at his side profile, jaw set. Like he isn’t as needy as you are, but, as your eyes trail down his body to the bulge already hardening again in his pants, you know that he is.

It seems like an eternity later that the elevator doors slide open again, and you want to race down the hall to his room but you let him lead the way, even if his pace is pathetically slow as he strolls down the hallway. There are only two rooms up this high, on either ends of the hall, and his is to the left of the elevators and it seems so much further than the one to the right.

But you make it there, and Harry’s reaching in his pockets to find his key card - and then he’s swiping it - and then he’s pushing open the door - and as soon as it shuts again, you’re pressed firm against the wall. Your hands fly to the back of his head as his drop to your back, trailing downwards to cup at your ass again (he seems to have a thing for it, but you would never think of complaining.) Your lips press to his as your head falls back against the door, and his hips jerk forward to roll against yours.

You still feel entirely too sensitive and you moan out, pushing your hips forward to meet his as you pull his face closer to yours, using your arms around his neck as leverage to pull him in, but you didn’t need it - you can tell he’s just as desperate as you are, and soon he pulls you off of the door, backing you up to God knows where. You let him lead you until your legs hit something and you fall backwards onto a plush couch, pushing yourself onto your elbows to watch Harry as he drops to his knees before you.

Oh, shit.

Your cheeks heat up as he rests his hands on your knees, spreading your thighs apart. Harry’s hand rises up to his sunglasses, perched, still, on his nose, and he pulls them off, resting them on the coffee table behind him. His eyes meet yours and perhaps he can see the apprehension in your eyes because he leans up, pressing a kiss to your lips. You savor the moment, the sweetness of his tongue entering your mouth, before he lowers himself back down onto his knees. Hands go to the bottom of your dress, rolling it over your hips until it can settle around your waist, exposing your entire bottom half to him, and it feels so much more intimate now that you’re not confined to the backseat of a car.

Harry leans in without giving you a breath to collect yourself, pressing a kiss to your clit through your arousal-soaked lace panties - your hand drops to the couch, squeezing the edge of the cushion between your fingers, and you can already feel your slight embarrassment slipping away as Harry pushes your thigh, forcing it further open.

“Tell me,” he says, deep and hot with how close he is to your cunt, and your hips roll of their own accord at the feeling. “How many guys have done this to you?”

You pause to think, chest rising and falling as he leans in again, licking up your panties, and the sensation makes it a bit difficult to gather yourself enough to respond - eventually, though, you swallow and say, “Not too many. One or two.”

He leans back, pressing a kiss to your thigh. “And they never made you cum.”

“N - no.”

“Well, I will,” is his response, and, as cocky as it may seem, you know he’s right - could probably make you cum through your panties, but his fingers hook in the top of them as soon as the thought pops in your mind. You lift your hips up so he can drag them down your legs, and when they’ve puddled by your feet he helps you take them off. You watch as he crumbles the lacey material in his hands and then stuffs it into the pockets of his fancy pants - for later, he murmurs against your thigh. And then he goes in - hands on your thighs forcing them apart so hard it nearly burns but you find you like the stretch, and his lips wrap around your clit, cheeks hollowing as he sucks on the small nub.

Your head drops back against the couch and you bury your hand in his hair, a loud moan escaping your throat. He wasn’t teasing you and you were beyond grateful - tongue laps up every drop of wetness that gushes in your cunt, kitten licks against your clit, and you can tell he has more experience than you could have imagined. Harry has it mastered, exactly where to place his hands (one on your thigh, the other creeping its way beneath the material of your dress towards your tits) and how to flick his tongue just right to have your hips bucking up against his mouth. And if you thought you’d cum hard in the car you know you’re in for a fucking treat because there’s already pressure building in your stomach and it won’t be long until it fucking erupts.

When you squeeze your eyes shut he stops - pulls away, his mouth and his hands, like he’d never been there in the first place. You open your eyes, chest heaving as you stare down at him. His pupils are lust blown and wide as he stares at you, eyebrows raised, as if you’re meant to know something he never told you - “Eyes open,” he tuts, tone condescending and smug, and you hate how much you love it. “Keep them open. Gonna watch me make you fall apart, alright?” You nod slowly. “Tell me.”

Your voice is caught in your throat as Harry’s lips form a small o, breathing a puff of air onto your beyond sensitive clit, and your fingers in his curls tighten to what has to hurt - but he moans, ever so slightly, as you finally breathe, “Yes. Okay.”

“S’what I thought,” is his response, and then he leans back in, licking up your soaked folds as though no time had passed. Both of his palms press against your thighs, pinching your soft skin, fingers dangerously close to the area he’s working so well. God, his fingers, you swear you’ve never felt anything better than them - you want them again, so bad, hitting your sweet spot so good.

You can’t begin to get the words out to tell him that, though, so you merely reach down, shaky fingers wrapping around his wrist and pushing it closer to your cunt - he pauses, tongue mid-swirl around your clit, and looks up at you with a glint of pure cockiness in his eyes. 

“What do you want?” he doesn’t remove his mouth from around your clit as he speaks and the vibrations roll through your body, sending a cry through your throat, and you push his hand further towards your cunt. You know it won’t be enough - haven’t known Harry for quite long at all, but you reckon you know that much about him. “Use your words,” and Harry sounds so fucking commanding that it could make you cum right then and there.

“F - fingers,” you just about sob out, rolling your hips up into his mouth so your clit brushes against his tongue. “Please, Harry - need your fingers, please -”

“Fingers, hmm?” His digits dance across your thighs, straying further away from where you need him, and your eyes just about roll back into your head as he pulls his mouth from your clit and blows on it again. “Where do you want my fingers?”

But you’re too far gone to speak - as he leans in to brush his tongue against your sensitive clit once more, you can feel the pit in your tummy starting to come undone. You drop your head back as Harry licks a thick stripe up to your sensitive nub, and he stops again, pressing his cheek against your inner thigh. “Does my dirty girl want my fingers in her pussy, hmm? S’that where you want my fingers?”

You moan out in affirmation.

Harry pulls his head from your thigh and you push yourself so you’re sitting up more, getting a clear view of everything he’s doing as he spits on your pussy, the saliva dripping down onto your clit, and you fucking cry out. His fingers come up to collect the spittle, rubbing it along your clit before dragging it down your folds so he can push them into your pussy - curling up immediately, knowing exactly the spot that makes you squirm. His other hand comes up and lands a firm smack against your clit, one that has your eyes rolling back into your head.

It only takes a few quick pumps of his curled fingers, in and out of your fluttering cunt, that has you cumming so hard you swear you see stars. Every single sob that breaks free from your throat is so loud that you swear the neighbors in the room at the other end of the hall must be able to hear you - should send them a flower arrangement tomorrow morning, because it’s just his mouth and fingers that has you screaming bloody murder.

“Oh my god -” your hips jerk against his mouth, your hands in his hair dropping back down to the cushions. “Fuck.”

Coming down from your second high of the evening is entirely different from your first - you can’t imagine how you’ll possibly be able to pull anymore from you but, as Harry stands up, your slick covering his mouth and chin, you know you have to.

The whole point is to fuck him. To finally know what everyone’s talking about - to see what the fuss is all about. 

Harry leans down, tongue forcing its way down your throat the second your lips part for him, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. Your arousal mixed with the beer he’d had earlier, all traces of the mint washed away, and it tastes so divine. Even more divine as his hands drop to the zipper of his pants, sliding it down, and you slide your fingers in the waistband, helping him tug them down his thighs. He kicks them off as soon as they’re near his feet and then he pulls away, palm pressing against the bulge in his briefs. 

“How do you want it?” he asks, words dripping with lust and desperation and you know the exact way he’s feeling and more. You watch him intently as he grips the bottom of his sweater and tugs it over his head - it drops to the rug atop the ground and you let your eyes soak in the sight of him, almost fully nude, briefly ignoring the question.

You hadn’t necessarily expected him to ask. He seems more dominant than that, needing to take control, so you swallow, chest heaving as you try to think. “I don’t - I don’t know.”

He seems to have been expecting that answer, because his hands fall to your waist, pushing you down so you’re lying on the couch. It’s spacious, just enough room for you to adjust yourself comfortably, and Harry lowers himself down on top of you the second you’ve shifted enough.

“How’s this?”

And his caring demeanor is shocking but fitting, because as much as you merely want to get your virginity out of the way, it does feel like a sort of important moment. You want it to be comfortable, and lying on the plushiest couch you’ve ever been on with Harry hovering above you, his arm inches above your head, is about as comfortable as you’re going to get.

You loop your arms around his neck and you can feel his clothed cock, pressed to your cunt. He’s so fucking hard and you’re amazed at the amount of composure he has. “Perfect,” you mumble, leaning up to attach your lips once more (you swear, you can’t get enough of him.)

Harry tugs down his boxers, just enough to free his cock from the flannel confines, and you can feel his tip, running along your folds - he slaps it on your clit and you groan. You drop your head back against the arm of the couch as he sinks his tip into your cunt. Slowly, steadily, he pushes himself the rest of the way in, stuffing you so deliciously full of him that it nearly overtakes the pain.

Nearly.

You’ve used dildos before and you’re thankful for it, now, because you reckon without any sort of experience you’d feel absolutely split in half. Even now, there’s a dull burn sparking between your thighs, and you drop your head back, eyes squeezing shut as you try to adjust to the feeling. No, it didn’t necessarily hurt but it was different and that in itself was enough for you to need a moment to adjust. The way his cock twitched inside of you every so often encouraged you and subsequently turned you on beyond belief, and you don’t need too much time to adjust, after all.

Harry’s breathing is heavy and you can feel it against your face, barely an inch above yours. Poor guy, must be torture, holding out, because you can practically sense how needy he is. You lift your head up to press your lips to his, soft like the brush of a butterfly’s wing, before pulling back. “Move - fuck, please, move, Harry.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, pulling his hips back before thrusting them back in. That is certainly different, verging on the border of pain, but with a few more slow pumps, in and out of your dripping cunt, the pleasure is beginning to take it over.

It takes a moment to find a rhythm that’s enough for both of you. There’s still a slight discomfort but not enough to make you want to wait any longer. You’re finally having sex and you want it to keep going, to do it forever and ever with the absolute God hovering above you.

“So goddamn tight,” Harry grunts as he rocks his hips into yours. “Squeezing me so good. Never fucked anyone so tight in my life, I swear.”

His compliments, whether they were in the heat of the moment or genuine, makes you moan out - makes this entire thing feel so much better.

And fuck, it truly does feel good, especially when he angles his hips just so, every thrust sweeping against that sweet spot deep inside of you that he’s so adept at finding. For the first minute or so you’re fine with the leisurely pace he’s doing but you can tell it’s killing him and it’s starting to kill you, too. You’ve never been too patient, even if you’d waited 22 years for this exact moment.

You’re not a virgin. It feels good, the invisible badge of honor and the cock, going entirely too slow for your liking, deep in your pussy.

“Faster - need you to go faster,” you gasp as Harry’s thumb drops to your clit, rubbing slow circles on the sensitive nub, and they’re immediately a sharp contrast to the way he pulls his hips out and slams them back in. This is what he wanted, what he needed, and it’s what you need, too. No slow pumps. You need him fucking fast and hard and God it feels good, the way he presses down on your clit, sending pleasure coursing through your veins. “Feel so good inside me. God, keep doing that.”

Harry braces a hand on top of the couch, lifting his body slightly off of yours to piston his cock in and out of your cunt, taking him greedily and fully. He’d been with plenty of girls before - more than he could count - but there was something different, being the first guy to fill you up, to fuck you so hard you saw stars. And it was bloody good, watching you beneath him, your mouth falling open with a broken moan, pushing your pelvis up towards his, trying to help him along.

“Such a dirty girl,” Harry rasps, reaching down to grab the top of your dress - should’ve taken it off of you, really - and he pulls it down so aggressively you’re sure the fabric will rip. Your tits spill out of the top, covered only by your bra, and his fingers hook in the cups, pulling them away from your breasts, and in an instant his head is lowered to flick his tongue against your nipple. “Feels so good, hmm? Getting fucked for the very first time? Poor baby - never had a dick before. Tell me how - tell me how it feels.”

Your head is fucking spinning, is how it feels, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to talk for days to come. You sob out your response, barely audible, but Harry hears it as if you’d spoken loud and clear - “So good, fuck, gonna cum.”

Two of his fingers pluck at your clit like the strings of a guitar, as if you’re merely something to be played with, but it’s enough to send you over the edge again. Your body convulses beneath him, eyes squeezing shut. Your cunt fluttering around him could make him cum but you can tell he wants to hold out - wants to see if you have one more in you, and you’re not sure if you do.

It’s as though Harry can sense the second you’ve milked your orgasm for all you can, because he pulls out of you the second you’re done. Before you can cry out, his hands grab your hips and flip you over with such ease it’s nearly embarrassing. You hardly have the muscle strength to hold yourself up, merely dropping your face into the cushion as his hands position himself at your cunt, pushing in without giving you a second to adjust, and it’s back to the hard, steady pace you’d reached before.

This position is a fucking change and one you love, a new angle letting him reach spots inside of you that you hadn’t even known existed. Your moans are muffled where your mouth is pressed to the cushion but Harry’s are loud and clear, piercing the air near violently as he cries out. You can’t see him but you try with all your might to picture exactly what he’s doing - picturing how his mouth is open and his eyes are shut and he’s lifting his hand to land it back down on your -

As though he can read your thoughts his hand goes up and smacks down on your ass, the noise cracking through the air, and you sob out at the feeling. You love that, you really do, and you’d never have expected yourself to but as he sends another slap to your skin you decide it’s one of your favorite things you’ve done this whole fucking evening.

“Gonna cum,” Harry grunts, hand gripping your thigh to rock your body in time with his. You wiggle your ass, pushing it against him, and for that, you earn another smack. “Where d’you want me to cum? Want it on your back, hmm? Or maybe flip you over again and cum on your pretty tits.”

You can’t verbalize anything, nothing except for broken cries and his name falling off your lips like a mantra, and he knows it.

“Or -” and his voice drops nearly a whole fucking octave, deeper than you’d even thought it could go, and you’re so close to your fourth that your ears are starting to ring - “does my dirty girl want me to cum in her pussy? Fill you up with my cum, fuck you so good until you’re stuffed with it.”

It’s that - his words, fucking filthy and rising above every other noise the two of you make - that ends you. Sends you hurtling into your fourth, now, the couch practically absorbing your moan (or more like a scream) and any ability you’d had to hold yourself up on shaky legs dissipates as you collapse against the couch but Harry’s there, holding you up, forcing your hips back into his you were made for it.

You don’t need to say anything - he knows what you want, can read you like a book by now, and you’ve only known him for tonight. So as his cock gives its final twitch inside your cunt, worn out from cumming four times in such a short amount of time, he makes no move to pull out. Just grips your hips and holds them close to his, and the feeling of hot ribbons of cum shooting into your cunt, filling you up exactly the way you’d wanted, is a sensation you don’t think you’ll ever forget.

When he’s done, pulling out slowly, you collapse fully onto the couch with nothing to hold you up - you’re fucking exhausted but you’ve never felt better in your life. A haze seems to be settling over your mind and body, preventing you from paying any attention to anything that’s not Harry as he stands up above you. And then you feel him, wrapping his arms around you, picking you up like a goddamn baby and you like it a lot.

You’re entirely too close to falling asleep in his arms before he lies you down on a surface softer than the couch - has to be the bed, the rich hotel beds, and as your head lands on the pillow you know you’re correct. God, feels like a pillow, and you’d like to spend the rest of your life right here.

Harry’s like a God in human form, truly, getting a warm washcloth from the restroom to wipe at the cum dripping down your thighs. You two speak in soft, hushed voices, as though making up for the absolutely inhuman noises you’d made before, as he pulls your dress over your head and deposits it on the ground. It is ripped, you can see, but you find you don’t really care. Not like you didn’t get it for less than $10 - and it’s just a reminder of every amazing thing that happened tonight, not that you’d ever need one. You know you’ll remember this night forever.

Finally he lies down beside you, shifting so he’s spooning you, arms firm around your waist and your head to his shoulder. This feels perfect, exactly what you needed to end off your first time perfectly.

“M’not a virgin anymore,” you murmur, adjusting yourself to press your body closer to his. “Feels good. Feel like I’m finally living.”

Harry chuckles at that, pressing a kiss to the side of your face. “Hope your first time was as good as it could be.”

You exhale softly. “It was perfect,” you tell him, voice soft and dripping with emotions you can’t possibly decipher. And it’s the absolute truth - even if your first time wasn’t with a boyfriend you were in love with, like your friends, you don’t think you’d ever have it any other way. “Maybe we could do it again, some time.”

Probably a mistake to ask, but there’s nothing to lose, really. Maybe a piece of your dignity if he says no, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. You’d do this a thousand times over again with him without hesitating.

He takes a beat to respond and you know you fucked up, already squeezing your eyes shut in regret, but then he rasps, “Definitely gotta do it again. Tomorrow night … and the night after that … and the night after that …” and you know you’re in for it.

[puckinghell]

Know Your Worth | Tyson Jost

Summary: While you’re busy with some guy who’s clearly not worth your time, there might be something better waiting at your door... Words: 2.3k Note: Happy Valentines Day remember chocolate will be on discounted on Saturday

--

“I’ve got a problem,” you proclaim, putting down your phone onto the counter, making sure to turn the screen to the bottom. From where he’s standing at the stove, Tyson raises an eyebrow without looking at you.

“I’ve got many problems,” he deadpans, “but you go first.” 

You know Tyson is talking about the struggles he’s been having with scoring, not enough goals after his name in the stats. But this is, arguably, more important. 

“It’s almost Valentines Day.” At those words, Tyson somewhat freezes, before finally turning around to face you. 

If you weren’t so caught up in this issue, you would’ve told him to keep watching the rice. Last time he tried cooking for you and took his eyes off the stove, everything literally crashed and burned. 

“So?” he asks. 

“So I haven’t heard anything from Calvin yet! How am I supposed to know whether or not to keep my evening free this Friday, if he doesn’t text?” 

“Your evening is free anyway,” Tyson says, not unkindly. Which, it might be true, but that’s just rude, so you take the spatula that’s on the counter and throw it in your best friend’s general direction.

“Hey!” Tyson yelps, jumping to the side. “No throwing kitchen utensils! And I didn’t mean it in a bad way, just, you’re gonna keep that evening free anyway, so.” 

“That’s so not the point,” you whine. “The point is that Calvin shouldn’t expect me to keep that time free, he should text me and ask me to keep it free!” 

From Tyson’s expression, you can tell he doesn’t really get it. That’s not surprising: your best friend is annoyingly practical, and annoyingly male, and guys just don’t get this kinda stuff. 

And then there’s the tiny detail that Tyson really, really, really doesn’t like Calvin, anyway. 

You’re not sure why; they’ve barely ever interacted. They met once when you ran into Calvin while buying groceries with Tys, and Calvin was perfectly polite and nice, while Tyson spent the entire 10 minute conversation shooting daggers at your...

Well. Boyfriend would be too big a word. You’ve not ever had that conversation. 

The thing is, things are complicated between you can Calvin. You met months ago in a club and you've been dating since, but not very regularly. It’s like one day, he’s interested, and the next he’s not. He texts you either twenty times a day or not at all for a week. He’ll either tell you he thinks you might be the one or tell you he’s just not ready for anything serious. 

It’s like, headspinningly stressful, to never know what he’s thinking. 

And yet, Tyson is probably right; saying no to him is simply not an option for you. It’s not even... Calvin is not the greatest guy you’ve ever met. He’s not the kinda guy you can count on, which was made clear to you when he failed to show up to help you move some boxes - you called Tyson for that, later, and he showed up within 10 minutes - and instead you got a call from him at 4am from some kinda club. Calvin is also not super funny, he doesn’t make you laugh like Tys can, and he’s not... 

He’s not even that hot. 

It’s just.

He’s interested in you. Sometimes, or maybe even most of the time. And it’s been a while since you had someone like that.

So. 

“You should come over Friday.” 

Tyson’s voice shakes you out of your land of dreams, and you land harshly with two feet on the floor.

“Huh?” 

He rolls his eyes. “For Valentines Day. You should come here. I’ll cook for you.” 

“You, cook?” you grin. “And this is supposed to make me want to come here?” 

But Tyson is genuinely looking a bit distraught, his cheeks red and eyes fixed on the floor, and you do love how your best friend always tries to be your knight in shining armor, so you nod.

“Okay, sounds good.” 

“You gotta keep your head up, babe,” Tyson says, before turning back to the stove, and you smile. 

He always says that, whenever you’re complaining about your - nonexistent - love life: “gotta keep your head up”. 

You imagine that must be pretty easy for him to keep his head up: he’s Tyson, he’s a professional athlete, he’s funny, he’s easy to talk to, he’s kind and caring, he’s attractive and cute - yes, they’re different things - so girls would be lining up to go on Valentines dates with him. 

But you know he mean well, so you roll your eyes.

“Sure, Tys. How about the rice, is it ruined yet? Am I ordering pizza?” 

Tyson’s voice is small when he answers: “Maybe.” 

---

You’re about ready to leave to go to Tyson’s apartment for your dinner and movie night when your phone rings. 

“Babe, happy Valentines!” It’s Calvin, because of course it is. You check your watch; 10 to 6. 

“Hello,” you say, carefully. You haven’t heard from him a few days, apart from maybe two Snaps that were of very little interested to you, so it’s kinda strange that he’s calling. 

“So, you, me, dinner at the Ivy, I’ll pick you up in half an hour. How does that sound? I made reservations and everything.” 

Your heartbeat picks up; you know this is stupid, you should say no, you already have plans, because you do. You’ve got plans with Tyson and he would be annoyed if canceled now. How could you even get ready in half an hour? You’re in your sweatpants, for Christ sakes. He didn’t even take the time to text you before, he didn’t even bother to ask...

“Okay,” you hear yourself say, and Calvin says something you can’t really make out before hanging up. 

Fuck. 

But you’ve said yes now and Tyson is your best friend, so surely he would understand, right? Tyson is your best friend, so why do you feel like your hands are made of lead as you lift the phone to call him.

“Y/N?” Tyson’s voice is cheery. “Are you running late again? You know you don’t have to call me for that, I always add at least 20 minutes to whatever time we decide on.” 

An involuntary smile makes its way to your face before you remember why you’re calling, and it drops immediately.

“Uhm, Tys, I’m really sorry, but...” 

“Oh,” Tyson says, and all the cheeriness has disappeared from his voice. “You’re not coming.” 

It’s not a question, it’s a statement; he knows you just a little too well. 

“No.” You hate how small your voice sounds, how guilty you sound; you don’t want to do this to him, but if there’s even a small chance that Calvin wants to be with you, you need to take that opportunity, you need to...

“I’ll throw the food in the freezer,” Tyson interrupts your trail of thought. He sounds flat, like he’s trying not to show you that he’s annoyed; it doesn’t really work.

You know him quite well, too.

“I’m really sorry Tys, I just...”

“Don’t,” Tyson cuts you off. “I’ll see you later. Have a nice night.” 

Then there’s nothing but the flat tone of a dead line, and the nagging thought in your mind that you might’ve made the wrong decision.

---

Two hours later, you’re standing outside Tyson’s door, your arms folded around yourself. You knock, but when the door opens, it’s not Tyson.

“Oh, JT,” you say, a bit weakly. “Hey, I just came to...”

“To apologize, I hope,” JT interrupts. He narrows his eyes, looks you over. “Where’s your coat?” 

“I don’t have one.” You blink, a bit confused. “Wait, what are you doing here on Valentines? Shouldn’t you be with...”

“My girlfriend? Yes. But when my friends are upset and need me, I’m there for them.” There’s an underlying tone to his voice that you can’t quite place. “Your date didn’t work out again?”

And, oh. You like JT, but you rarely talk to him, so the only way he can know about Calvin is if Tyson told him. The idea, for some reason, makes your stomach churn. 

“No,” you admit. “Listen, can I come in? I need to...” 

But you don’t get to tell him what you need to do, because before you finish, JT steps aside and suddenly you’re met with Tyson’s apartment.

Except it doesn’t look like Tyson’s apartment at all. Because Tyson’s apartment doesn’t have a million candles scattered across the place, doesn’t have a nicely set up dinner table in the middle, doesn’t have a big bunch of roses in the middle of that table. 

It doesn’t have Tyson sitting on the couch with a bottle of red wine in his hand. 

“Let her in,” Tyson calls to JT, and you can immediately tell he’s been drinking the bottle. He’s not pissed drunk, not quite slurring his words, but he’s definitely mumbling a bit. 

“Fine,” JT says. “I’ll be going, then. Call me if you need anything, Josty.” 

And then he’s gone and you find yourself standing in the middle of the room, staring at Tyson.

“What’s this?” you ask, and you can hear your own voice as if it’s echoing in the room. 

Tyson laughs, but it’s clear he doesn’t find anything funny. 

“This was for you,” he says, with no malice in his voice. “I wanted to give you a proper Valentines date. But I guess Calvin beat me to it, huh? Did he show up this time?”

You stay silent, and he sighs. “He didn’t, did he?” 

And it’s so stupid because you’re clearly the one in the wrong here, Tyson should be yelling and screaming at you and probably throwing you out of his house, but there’s tears burning behind your eyes and he takes one look at you and opens his arms.

It feels safe and familiar, to fall next to him on the couch and crawl into his arms. He smells like red wine and he’s wearing a nice button up, the one he usually saves for fancy Avs business.

“Want some?” he asks, handing you the bottle. 

It’s quiet for a while, before you manage to bring out the words you really should’ve said the moment you walked in.

“I should’ve never ditched you for him, Tys. I’m so sorry.” 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Tyson agrees, and he sounds sad. “But it’s okay, I’m not mad. I just wish....” 

He cuts himself off and you allow him a few seconds before your curiosity can’t take it anymore.

“Just wish what?” 

“I just wish you found someone who loves you like you’re worth.” 

It’s like everything in the room freezes, Tyson’s words echoing in your head. But he’s still talking, not giving you time to process.

“It’s just, he keeps leaving you for dead. There’s no way that makes you happy, you know? You’re worth so much more. It’s like you don’t know what you’re worth, but I know you deserve so much more than this.” 

Tyson sighs. “I’m gonna stop talking and go to bed because I’m slightly drunk, but don’t forget what I said, okay? You deserve someone who picks you up when you’re down, who loves you at your worst.”

He stands up, stretching out in the middle of the candle lit room. “Someone who always puts you first, who wants nothing more than to see you smile.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Blow out the candles before you leave, will you?” 

And then he walks out and the door of his bedroom falls shut behind him, a million words swirling through your head.

There’s no way he could mean... him. Right?

Except, what if he did?

---

You go home that night confused and still upset with yourself, and you barely sleep that night. Every time you close your eyes you see the sadness in Tyson’s brown eyes, but also the understanding.

Like he knew this was going to happen. Knew you were going to ditch him and then come crawling back. 

Maybe he did.

But you also think about other things. About how Tyson always drops anything and everything when you need him. About how he makes you laugh even when you feel like crying. About how he’s always your biggest supporter, but never expects you to be at any of his big events. How he lets you complain without judging, always offers a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear, ready to give advise when asked but never shove it down your throat.

About how he loves you at your best, and at your worst.

And for the first time, that night, you think that maybe you could be worth it. 

---

“Y/N?” 

It’s not surprising that Tyson looks slightly confused and a little disheveled when he opens the door, because it’s only 9am, but you really couldn’t wait any longer. 

“You,” you breathe out. “It’s you.” 

“Huh?” Tyson rubs in his eyes, presumably trying to get rid of the sleep, and stares at you. “I mean, yeah, it’s me. I live here.” 

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, what I deserve. What I’m worth. It’s you.” 

Tyson’s eyes widen and for a second, a terrifying, horrible second, you think you read it all wrong; he didn’t mean he wanted to be that, he was just being a good friend, he just wants somebody to be that, he didn’t mean...

“Finally,” Tyson grins. “I told JT you would get it after all the candles.” 

A weight lifts from your shoulders.

“It took more than just the candles,” you admit a bit sheepishly. “I guess I really needed you to spell it out for me.” 

Tyson opens the door wider, motions for you to come in. “I could relight some candles. I don’t think last night’s pasta is gonna be very good, but I have cereal.” 

“Hmm,” you pretend to think about it. “Aren’t I worth more than cereal?” 

He waggles his eyebrows. “Lucky Stars.” 

You step inside and throw your arms around his neck.

“Show me the way.” 

But then he leans in and his lips touch yours, and well. 

Cereal can wait, a bit.

[itsclydebitches]

How do you manage to write so much? I have this fic I'm working on and I know exactly what I want to happen in the scenes, but I struggle with actually writing the prose for it and describing the events. Even getting 500 words out is hard, so seeing you churning out content is pretty amazing to me (especially because it's all so good). If you have any tips to share it would be really appriciated!

First - thank you so much, anon! I was literally just thinking tonight about how I haven’t written enough lately and then you come in with “How do you manage to write so much?” So I think that’s a good thing for every writer to keep in mind: how we might perceive our accomplishments doesn’t necessarily reflect what we’ve actually accomplished. Those feelings are something I’d like to address here. As is abundantly obvious, the advice I’m about to offer is stuff I often struggle to follow too ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But let’s see... yes, I’ve got 10 tips (nice round number) for producing writing, approaching your writing, and dealing with that pesky “How do I describe events?” issue. These are in no good order:  

1. Reject the “Write ___ amount of words every day” advice. It doesn’t work. Or if it does work it’s because we’re prioritizing writing over literally everything else, which I personally don’t think is healthy. The days I haven’t written recently include things like “Battling a bad cold” and “Spent the day with Dad in the ER” (he’s fine!). If I had forced myself to write on those days it would have been in lieu of taking time to rest/recuperate, so I didn’t. If I were still demanding of myself, “You can’t lose your writing streak 😡” then I would have felt intensely guilty about taking that time to rest. That’s just training yourself to associate writing with negative emotions. Instead, I’ve started tracking my progress with Word Keeper.

As you can see, it’s all over the place, but over the last month I’ve found that it has given me a much better sense of what I’m accomplishing overall. Rather than getting upset about days where I only wrote a tiny amount, or didn’t write at all, I can now also easily remind myself of the days when I wrote a whole lot, or the days where I managed to be fairly consistent. Let your writing fluctuate. There’s something to be said for not being dependent on motivation (there are plenty of times where I encourage myself to write even if I don’t want to), but don’t hold yourself to overly rigid standards either. 

2. Consider rejecting the “Write for an hour every morning/carve out a specific time to do nothing but writing” advice. If that works for you, great. Me? I’ll never manage it. Beyond the fact that I would murder mornings if I could and, as established, don’t do well with a rigid schedule, my brain is way too hyperactive to focus on one task for long. And by “long” I mean... more than 10-15 minutes. So what I personally do is alternate tiny bits of writing with something else I want to accomplish, usually another task I’m having trouble focusing on. Let’s say I need to read an article and I want to write those 500 words. Both tasks are rather daunting. 500 words? 35 pages?? No thank you. I can, however, manage 100 words and 5 pages... so I just alternate. Read 5 pages. Write 100 words. Read 5 more pages. Another 100 words. Back and forth, with amounts that work for you. Whatever is doable, even if that means something like 10 words and half a page. And if you find yourself going, “Wait, wait just 100 more words so I can finish this scene,” all the better. Do that for an afternoon and you’ve made significant headway on both projects. You can also alternate with something you want to do. I finished the latest Before the Dawn recap by doing that with The Clone Wars. One 20 minute episode, then 250 words, essentially using my show as a reward system: write that little bit so you can find out what stupidity Anakin does next. 

Speaking of rewards...

3. Try using 4 The Words. I absolutely love this website because it turns writing into a game and I am an absolute sucker for validation of any sort. Essentially, you get to choose how much writing you want to get done in a single sitting - either timed or by word count - and that goal corresponds with a monster to defeat. Write the required amount in the allotted time period and you receive rewards for your avatar, experience, etc. If you’re like me and enjoy games at all, that’s a huge motivator. Maybe you’d never consider trying to write 750 words in a single sitting, but the 750 words monster drops the specific loot you need to finish a quest... so why not give it a try? I find that the time limits are quite generous and the system counts any words you’ve written, not what you decide to keep. Remember that writing is writing, so even if you churn out those 750 words and then decide you hate the whole scene, that time wasn’t wasted. It’s helping you figure out what you do want instead. 

4. Don’t set those rigid standards, but try to hold yourself accountable in some manner too. That’s why when I changed my blog theme I decided to put what project I was working on in the bio and what I planned to work on next. Whether anyone actually cares about that doesn’t matter, I perceive that as, “Damn I told everyone I’d have a Witcher drabble done next. Better work on that!” That veneer of accountability helps keep me on track. 

5. It sounds like you’ve already got an outline - which is great! Once you know what you want to happen, keep in mind that you don’t have to write it in that order. This is something I still really struggle with because I often post chaptered fics as I go. I can’t be writing Chapter 20 when Chapter 15 isn’t even out yet! But sometimes that’s the best way to get past your road block. If you’ve got a scene in your head that’s a little more clear, even if it’s just a tiny description or dialogue exchange, go write that instead of beating your head against the part where you’re stuck. 

6. Regarding the specific issue of prose and describing events: daydream about it. Be the most cliche, cringy author who falls headfirst into their own worlds. A lot of times when I’m stuck I try to stop thinking about this as me writing a scene. Rather, it’s a scene for me to escape into when I’m bored in the car, or falling asleep, or tuning out an awkward conversation. Presumably you want to spend time in the world you’ve created, so let yourself do that, either as an outside observer or taking the place of one of the characters. Fantasize about this moment and then afterwards think back to what your brain conjured up. Going, “I need to write this fight scene now” is kind of daunting and maybe you just sit there, having no idea how “fight scene” translates into actual pages of action. If, however, you daydream about an epic battle you might later go, “Oh yeah! I/they did that cool flip move to disarm the opponent. Let’s see if I can describe that...” 

7. If the problem is more “I know there’s going to be a cool flip move but how do I describe that without just saying ‘The hero did a cool flip move’???” Let yourself just write “The hero flipped the sword out of his enemy’s hands.” Probably the most annoying part about writing (besides, you know, all of it) is remembering that you can, should, and must revise. Write a shitty description and move on. Come back to it later. Composing the rest of the scene will help you make the description less shitty the second time around. And want to know a secret? It’s probably not nearly as shitty as you first thought it was. A lot of times I churn out what feels like truly horrific descriptions, let it sit for a while, and when I come back to the work as a “new” reader I think, “You know what? There are definitely things I want to change, but this isn’t nearly as bad as I remember it being...” Again, writers often can’t be trusted to judge their own accomplishments. 

8. Research things. Watch stuff. Read stuff - and pay attention to the fact that you’re currently reading to learn. No one is born knowing how to write compelling scenes. That comes of not just practice, but engaging with a ton of other stories and consciously/unconsciously pulling from them. Not sure how to write a cool fight scene? Go read some cool fight scenes. Watch your favorites on Youtube. Pull a detail from here, there, then weave them into something new. Some authors claim they won’t engage with any stories similar to their own because they don’t want to taint their own ideas, but that’s just trying to write without providing yourself with any fuel. If you want to know how to describe a farm, go read others’ descriptions of farms, look at pictures of farms, watch TV shows with farms in them, etc. Same with anything else you might be stuck on. 

9. Remind yourself that some kinds of writing are going to come more easily to you than others. That’s not just in regards to things like dialogue vs. prose, but also big categories like fiction vs. nonfiction. Me? I can (quite obviously...) write a ton when it comes to asks and recaps. Explaining my own thought process comes very easily to me, and I’m long-winded, which means that when the project is something like, “Tell readers what you thought about this book” I can churn out 4,000 words easy peasy. Fiction though? That’s a slog. That’s where I’m writing in 100 words chunks, sometimes pulling each word out with all the joy of enduring a root canal. I will never - EVER - be a Stephen King writing 2,000 words of fiction a day. And that’s okay! Every writer is different and it does no good to compare ourselves to others who are writing more (hard as that is) because there will always be someone doing it “better.” That’s a competition we can’t win. Getting writing done is as much a mindset as it is a skill. Teaching yourself to go, “Yeah! 50 words today!! :D” is going to help more than berating yourself with, “Oh. Only 50 words today :(” But a part of that is also recognizing that you probably wrote a whole lot more than just 50 words. Do you write for your job? Answer emails? Keep a journal? Answer asks? Text whole conversations with your friends? Writing of all sorts takes energy and it all “counts.” If you spent the day catching up on your messages, it’s no wonder you might struggle to write more during your free time. Saying you “haven’t written” today because you didn’t write fiction as well as all the writing we naturally do on a daily basis is absurd. Sometimes you’ve just got to recognize that and let yourself watch some TV instead. 

10. Finally, WRITE “BAD” THINGS. This is something I’m still really, really struggling with. It’s very much connected to #7, but try to let yourself accept what you’ve produced at a certain point. Doing that will, in time, help you produce more things in the first place. The author who obsesses over writing the perfect paragraph is unlikely to get to the second... and writing the second paragraph is what’s going to help them develop the skills to make the first paragraph better. Put aside the perfectionism. I’m currently trying to do that with my original work. I have lots of ideas for flash fiction and, like you, I know precisely what will happen in them... but I struggle to actually write the stupid things. I’ve recognized that a lot of that difficulty stems from how bad I perceive them to be. When a story doesn’t sound like that flash fiction with the national award attached to it my brain goes, “Well, looks like we’re trash! Time to stop writing forever and ever 🙃” At some point you’ve just got to take a mental broom and beat that bastard voice into the back of your mind, far enough to start writing again. Try to accept that no, our prose probably won’t win any awards. Also try to accept that hey, someday maybe it will. But neither can be reality until we actually write the story. So one of these days I’ll set a goal for a flash fiction, finish it, post it here for you masses to judge, and try to shrug off all the scary feelings that come with that. Every good writer has to write a LOT of bad stuff in order to start producing something decent, let alone good... so let yourself do that. The more we can concentrate on why we want to write, rather than those “Ugh this description isn’t good enough” or “I can’t even get 500 words done” feelings, the more we create a situation where, in time, we will write astounding descriptions and far more than 500 words. 

All of which is much MUCH easier said than done. But I hope this helps at least a little, anon! 💜

[altviktcrr]

『MAXENCE DANET-FAUVEL ❙ NONBINARY』 ⟿ looks like VIKTOR SAMUELS is here for HIS/THEIR SENIOR year as a VISUAL ARTS student. HE/THEY are 24 years old & known to be OBSERVANT, INGENIOUS, RETICENT & DEPENDENT. They’re living in NOLAND, so if you’re there, watch out for them. ⬳ JAMES. 20. EST. SHE/THEY.

hllo ,,, again ,,, this is my last child i SWEAR ,,, at least fr now ,,, hes also the most problematic one ,,, the most dramatic ,,, one of my absolute faves ,,, pleathe love him. as always if u wish to plot please like this so i can msg u !!!

TW DEATH, HEAVY GRIEF, OVERDOSE / DRUG ADDICTION, HOSPITALIZATION, HYPERSEXUALITY, RELIGION MENTIONS, MENTAL ILLNESS

aesthetic.

old tvs and their static, worn tapes, horror movie screams, spilled ink, a sculptor’s hands, clay-stained, chicken scratch handwriting, messy notes, messy hair, scoffs and eye-rolls, bruised knuckles, sore throats, funeral homes and a crying preacher, shattered ceramics, knife fights, high ledges, vertically-striped pants, red lights, the moon shrouded in clouds, cigarette butts, graveyards and half-empty wine bottles, sitting there for hours and talking to nothing, about nothing, a god complex, gold rings adorning both hands, barbwire baseball bats, having never played baseball in your life, deep eyebags and broken mirrors, a permanent chip on one’s shoulder, yearning, longing, wishing.

basic info.

full name: viktor phillip samuels

nickname(s): icky vicky :/

b.o.d. - jan 2nd

label(s): the black hole, the crepehanger, the impious, the opaque, the tempest, etc.

height: 6′1″

hometown: rochester, new york

sexuality: pansexual uwu

pinterest

stats

inspired by: beetlejuice (beetlejuice), sid (toy story), jack sparrow (pirates of the caribbean), francis wilkerson (malcolm in the middle), azula (avatar: the last airbender), vicky (the fairly oddparents), stu macher / billy loomis (scream), marshall lee (adventure time), bojack horseman (bojack horseman), any it’s always sunny character :/

biography.

born to mama and papa (preacher) samuels in rochester, new york - fifteen minutes after his twin sister, tatiana samuels. years later, rosa samuels joined the gang. 

was an awkward, quiet kid growing up, he didn’t interact well with others and preferred being left alone to dig up worms and draw on the walls of their childhood home. the only exception was his twin, really.

as he got older he grew out of this, but instead became like ... sort of an asshole? maybe to compensate for years of childhood awkwardness. he’s the sort of person who will bite the hand that feeds him & developed into a full time nuisance by middle school, unlike tatiana who was much more subtle about her conniving manners.

always has been a fan of ‘darker’ materials. grim & creepy morbid shit. probably the biggest tim burton fan, ever since he was a kid ... not a good look for a preacher’s son, but he never really felt ‘in’ with the rest of his family to begin with. classic black sheep syndrome.

drew disturbing pictures as a kid that probably prompted one or two or five phone calls home to assure everything was fine. 

just really had a knack for art at a young age, from drawing to painting to playing with clay. it’s always been his Thing and probably is the only thing he’s good at.

being twins with tatiana was hard. they were near opposite besides both being quite mean-spirited. tatiana handled being in public better, left a better image behind - but viktor had talent, more than she did. they loved each other deeply - y’know, those unbreakable twin bonds as cliche as it sounds - but found each other as competition for their parents’ attention. a rivalry for affection.

in high school is when viktor really started to act out. it started extreme, like losing his virginity in their church and vandalism around the neighborhoods. faked being possessed in the middle of sunday service & almost had an exorcism performed on him.

his only redeemable trait was like ... just his sheer talent in the arts. was in a 3D art AP course and specialized in sculptures. he could pretty much create anything he wanted with enough dedication.

because he was the problem child, the one who deserved to be disciplined for all his antics, tatiana could sneak away and get away with whatever she wanted much easier. on the bright-side, for her, i guess.

not a very motivated person - wasn’t planning on going to college, much less going to radcliffe but his parents literally wrote & sent his college application for him because they weren’t going to house a deadbeat but had too much heart to kick him out onto the streets. cool!

he’s actually pretty smart but he just doesn’t apply himself. has a minor in english because he didn’t care for an extra course-load, but he’s good at writing & analyzing literature. is going to use it to write and illustrate his own series of children books with a style similar to tim burton’s. not for the kids, but because he likes to leave a trail of terror in whatever he does.

has been experimenting with himself since high school but college is where he really had started to crack down on himself. was out as pansexual & nonbinary by his sophomore year of college just ... not to his parents, who don’t really need to know. 

if you asked him if he believed in twins having a psychic connection with each other - he’d tell you he wouldn’t know. it felt believable at times, but sometimes he had no idea what was going on inside of tatiana’as head. on the other hand - viktor had always felt oddly transparent to her, like she knew all of his moves before he did. the only person who could predict him accurately.

( TW DEATH, GRIEF, OVERDOSE / HOSPITALIZATION BEYOND THIS POINT )

when tatiana disappeared, viktor knew something was up. it was a twist in his gut, pure instinct that something wasn’t right. and it wasn’t right - and when she was proclaimed missing, they couldn’t find her.

and when tatiana died - viktor knew. it felt wrong, something cut so severely in him he could pinpoint her death to the second. he didn’t know how, or why, but he knew it. knew it before anybody else had.

afterwards he went on a sort of bender. he’d begun to struggle with a mild drug addiction late senior year of high school / early college, but he was managing it up until this point. 

his mental health had also sunk to an all-time low, when it’d never been great to begin with. (manic & depressive episodes. once fixated on a sculpting project for six months and then knocked it off the table and destroyed it as soon as he finished it for no apparent reason.)

tatiana’s body wasn’t found immediately, and when it was ... viktor went off the rails. ended up overdosing & being hospitalized. spent six months in & out of psychiatric care after that.

came back to radcliffe to finish his senior year because ... for the reasons above, he hadn’t been able to complete it. just wants to get his credits and get out of here.

is still dealing with a lot of trauma & grief, especially since the one year anniversary of tatiana’s death was this month (january) - causes him to spiral and be unpredictable in regards of his mental health. he stopped taking his medication, so. :/ some days are alright, other days are pretty bad.

personality.

the human embodiment of a gremlin that was fed after midnight. a goblin, if you will. one of those cats with a narrow head and really big ears ... that’s them!

a big horror & halloween enthusiast. loves the old campy horror movies & probably has an abundance of masks from different movies. dresses like a grimy millennial beetlejuice more than they should because they just ... love those black & white vertical-striped pants. 

can appreciate the lore & cryptids at radcliffe and likes to feed into the fear that surrounds them. is probably the cause of a few ‘anomalies’ and ‘paranormal sightings’ because they’re just ... a jerk.

fashion alternates between e-boy (they would be tiktok famous if they were 17 & didn’t think that a majorly minor based app was weird.), millennial beetlejuice, and goth in a crop top & sweatpants. big fan of crop tops and a big fan of sweatpants. 

they can be really fucking mean? petty, aggressive, a major instigator. will literally spit in your face for little to no reason, you could just look at them the wrong way. the kind of person who will stick their gum into someone else’s hair. other than that? they’re like ... sort of okay. they’re not always mean, just a dick about 90% of the time lmao

like okay yeah they’ll call someone a stinky bitch for no reason except they feel like it and believes it. it’s fine, they’re fine, we’re fine.

despite the fact that they’re probably getting into a fight whenever, considers themself to be a lover and not a fighter but that’a primarily because they fuck a lot. uses it as a coping mechanism, like they’re this big fancy carnival show that’s like ‘come one, come all! fuck the dead girl’s twin brother!’ and it’s ... a Lot. might have a problem with hypsersexuality but they’re not fully aware of it. 

the preacher’s whore son, basically :)

pansexual & nonbinary, switches between he & they pronouns often and without a pattern, but they have such a fragile grip on their identity that you could call them ‘dog-faced bitch’ and they’d turn around like. sup.

vastly impulsive ... like i said, they destroy their own creations for the fun of it. spends all teir money on useless shit, will cheat on someone because they feel like it & likes the thrill, screams into the night sky frequently like a cat in heat.

will also spend months creating useless shit for no reason too. spent six of them sculpting a hollowed out tree the size of them & then took a sledgehammer to it.

they’re very super dramatic. would play the organ at church when nobody was looking after them and service was about to start. would just churn out these super haunting, creepy melodies like they were phantom of the opera. would do the same exact thing at home on their keyboard with the pipe organ setting whenever they got grounded until their parents took it away HBDSJFNGKH

will absolutely not talk about their ‘time away’ because it’s not anyone’s business, not even their own younger sister. still refuses to talk about tatiana’s death, or their mental health, or their addiction (fallen back into it but it hasn’t gotten severe ... yet :/), or anything involving their own emotions.

will just change the topic abruptly, no warning. asks about the jonas brothers instead and they fucking hate the jonas brothers.

that being said they’re absolutely not over tatiana’s death & it’s to the point of obsession over it. like there’s some kind of secret that needs to be uncovered, even though there just. isn’t. tatiana was their rock and they were pretty much dependent on her. kept them grounded. could control them when nobody else could, got into their head easier than others. it’s sort of like rosa lost two siblings that day because viktor hasn’t been the same since.

emotionally unavailable while also crying twice a day. cries during their brawls but still wins. is stony-faced when they tell you they cheated on you with your much hotter best friend.

will tell you straight up what they want from you, no bullshit & no beating around the bush. just blunt. if they want to fuck, nothing else, then that’s it. if they feel deviation or developing feelings then they’ll ghost in less than a second. is awful like that but feels no shame.

but also emotional as shit and it’s confusing. will cry on a whim and then flip you off if you try to console them or ask them what’s up. will bite you.

they go to therapy but they just fuck around and wastes their therapists’ time ... also is fucking their therapist, but that’s neither here nor there. so they’re not really getting the help they need.

likes to be intimidating but not ... with their body or anything because they’re a TWIG but uses their love & knowledge of horror and creepy shit to their advantage. has an abundance of fake blood. has channeled the energy of jack nicholson and used it on tatiana’s boyfriends before (also is a big fan of sfx makeup & has dabbled in it)

probably chases kids around with a chainsaw without the chain on halloween every year.

generally never doing good, both mental health wise & morally. would probably steal candy from a baby for funsies.

i don’t know if there’s a good to them somewhere deep down, but they don’t see any issues with themself either. nothing really breaks through to them anymore because the only person who ever made them stop and think about their actions was tatiana, and well, y’know. :/

an introverted reclusive type who doesn’t like most people or going out, but does so anyway if it means a quick high & a cheap thrill.

pretty observant and likes to analyze people even though they’re often like ... partially wrong. judgmental because they like to make people feel bad, not because they’re a righteous mighty person. because they’re not. so like, a hypocrite!

wanted connections.

a roommate... but it’s an absolute nightmare to live with him.

enemies... because viktor would have a lot of them...

familiar faces... people who knew tatiana or of her / were her friends. maybe even those who dated her, and who viktor would’ve tried to intimidate / scare at any given chance :/

pitiful glances... people who take pity on viktor and he hates it sooo much.

hooligan gremlin kids... just a friend group of grown ass adults who do drugs and fuck shit up around town like they’re edgy teenagers.

high school girlfriend... probably the one he lost his virginity to inside his family church :/

childhood acquaintances... people who knew him from his youth.

exes... good & bad terms, but mostly bad terms because viktor is an actual demon. probably cheated on them.

soft... i don’t know if he’s soft towards anyone and/or is capable of it but we can try. we can try.

unrequited... either viktor just doesn’t like them or he’s holding back because he’s :/ got issues with relationships & is self-sabotaging as one does

enemies with Tension... of the ... spicy kind if you know what i mean. wink.

friends... old friends, new friends, bad friends, good friends, close friends, frenemies, etc. i don’t know how many he had but if your muse likes to cause a ruckus and fuck shit up then viktor’s your man.

hook-ups... current or old. friends with benefits, one night stands, anything and everything because he fucks around a lot.

ride or die... friendship but make it extreme.

bad influence... he’s just toxic to be around and brings out the worst in people :/

bad egg... he’s gotten into a few fights :/ maybe you witnessed it. maybe you were in it.

literally anything i wld love all sorts of plots.

[bokhooto]

Chef Bokuto AU Story Name: Bokuto Route

 Akaashi was sitting at the counter of his workspace. He was pretty bored at the moment, only accompanied by Kenma and Hinata, who seemed very preoccupied with their own squabbles. Akaashi accepted the fact that he’d have to awkwardly sit in his chair, developing a game the professor said “could make a profit”. While really, Akaashi wasn’t going for money, though that was a good portion of the reason, he wanted to send a message. Maybe the message was bitter. He was making his game about a character who is lonely, and could interact with ANYONE in the ENTIRE GAME to be a potential date. It was make your own story really. Akaashi really liked that, because in here, he could have the perfect lover. 

Akaashi was a day dreamer, he wanted to be in a relationship so bad, but utterly failed. He never felt love towards anyone. It was almost a curse really. It hurt his heart to know that he may have to settle for someone to love who’s not the love of his life. In his game though, he described the perfect person.

A girl with long hair, perfect body, smart, active, funny, and loves playing video games. It was his story, because face it, his real life story would never as interesting as the ones he created in the video games.

Or that’s what he thought.

Akaashi, Sugawara, Hinata, and Kenma seated themselves around a table at a very expensive restaurant. It was Sugawara’s treat. He had made big on his shooter games, as he was good at making it fair. While he wasn’t close to rich, he was celebrating the fact that Akaashi and Hinata were almost done with their games. 

As they shuffled into the table, trying to act as polite as possible, a waiter came running out. He was short, really short, maybe the same height as Hinata, with brown hair that short upwards and a blonde streak at the front. He bowed politely, then smiled.

“Hello, I’m Nishinoya Yuu! I’ll be your server tonight. Is there anything I can interest you in? Drinks? Food? We also have a new table opened up! You get to watch the chef cook!” He smiled. When Hinata heard the word “Watch him Cook” he nodded, while Sugawara looked hesitant. He probably was already going overboard, giving them such a nice restaurant. He finally nodded, and Nishinoya excused them to a table. 

The chef hadn’t come out, as Nishinoya explained it “He needed their food orders so that way he could bring out the ingredients for the chef”. They all eventually got drinks and ordered food, and Nishinoya had brought out ingredients. He smiled. As he hurried back out to another table, a man appeared.

Not just any man though, he was tall, hair bleached at the ends, muscles that baffled Akaashi, and an owl looking face with golden eyes that could pierce a soul. Akaashi felt breathless for a moment, but blamed it on the onions. It had to be the onions. No other explanation. 

The man was stunning, he could admit that much, but the breathlessness was obviously shock. As the man smiled, and looked Akaashi in the eyes, Akaashi felt about ready to leave. He couldn’t tell how red his face got. He wanted to punch himself. All the awkward feelings. Must be shock. Onions. 

He finally settled down. The man had looked up at them, and grinned like he just saw his mom come home from the hospital. Akaashi’s heart squeezed, but he was able to brush it off. “I’m Bokuto Koutarou, head chef here. Pleased to meet you all.” he said, bowing.

Akaashi could tell that this would be like some sort of performance. The way he stood, talked, and readied himself was making that much obvious. Akaashi couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, or if Bokuto had just given himself the title of “Head chef” because he didn’t seem like it. As Bokuto pulled out the main course (uncooked and still in “gross looking” form) , he sprawled them out onto the giant stove and began heating up the grill.

Bokuto had pulled out onions, meat, and just flipped them into the air, in patterns and shapes. He made an onion tower, igniting the middle, then making the onion tower flip. This stuff had to be impossible. Bokuto even tossed an egg 10 feet into the air, flipped it, caught it, the flipped it once more, but this time it landed on the side of the spatula, and it cracked perfectly over the food.

Was it even legal to be this good? Akaashi was absolutely stunned by the performance. When Bokuto had finished almost everyone’s meal, he never slowed down. Akaashi wondered how someone had that much endurance. The ability to go on for that long, cooking things at high intensity and not breaking a sweat. 

The only sweat was from the heat of the fire. Though, now that the head had died down, the sweat was gone in an instant, and Bokuto looked composed. For what he looked like, a composed, happy person was not what he would have expected. He wanted to ask questions, something perhaps. Maybe he could make a character out of Bokuto. He seemed interesting.

Bokuto turned, grabbing his stuff, and leaning against the grill. He didn’t face Akaashi, not once, which meant Akaashi had to start the conversation. Akaashi opened his mouth, and knew nothing intelligent would come out. For as smart as he was, social interaction was no easy task to accomplish. He only met his friends through texting, then being in the same college class. 

Akaashi started with, “Hey? Hello. Hi. I liked your food cooking.” Akaashi was utterly embarrassed. He literally had said something so stupid, it made Suagwara burst out laughing, Hinata and Kenma quickly turning their heads to see what was happening.

Though Bokuto didn’t seem to care, as if he’d seen nervous people or idiots, or maybe he himself was embarrassing. Bokuto smiled. “Why thank you! It was a lot of hard work. I thought I was pretty cool though.” He laughed. Akaashi quickly knew the type of person he was. 

Egotistical. His ego was so big he could practically be the sun. Akaashi felt a weird turn in his stomach. “S-so do you do anything other than cook?” Sugawara asked, almost choking on his water. Bokuto thought about it for a moment. “Well I sort of do a few things in college. I do a tiny bit of art, maybe a few other things, but I mainly cook.” He stated, putting the used dishes (spatula, plates, etc) on a cart. Nishinoya came running out, pushing the cart away. 

“How do you stay in such good shape?” Hinata asked. “No shame, wow Hinata.” Akaashi thought to himself. Bokuto laughed. “You like my muscles? Well it takes a lot of work! I go to the gym, and then cooking like this is a serious workout, but I also play-”but then stopped. “never mind.” he stopped.  

Akaashi was curious, but from context, he could tell Bokuto probably didn’t want to talk about it. Hinata looked stunned though. Hinata had the jump of a kangaroo, because he mainly played a lot of volleyball with his boyfriend Kageyama, had almost no muscle to him. Hinata was always crushed when someone pointed that out to him.

Bokuto looked at them all. “What about you guys?” he said, sounding genuinely interested. Which was actually was a nice change from his narcissistic attitude. Hinata and Sugawara went first. Hinata answered with “Volleyball” along with his name. Sugawara was much more formal though. “I’m Sugawara Koharu. I major in Marine Biology and Economics. I do a minor with my friend Akaashi, who is a major in Game Development.” He said, proudly.

Great, now Akaashi had nothing to say. They all waited for a moment for Kenma to reply, or at least do something, but he was probably texting Kuroo about binge watching “Harry Potter” or  “Star wars”. At least Akaashi had some social skills. Kenma had none, and could barely talk to a friend without making every other word “um” or “er” 

Akaashi looked away, waiting for a response from Bokuto, which came quickly. Though Akaashi wasn’t really surprised. “Nice nice! Game design? Man I love gaming, but I really have no one to play with, or should I say DOMINATE, I just don’t like that. I love playing the game with other people. 

Akaashi felt as if Bokuto was blessed with a beautiful body, and an idiots mouth. Akaashi still felt his heart churn though, as if his stupid remarks were almost cute in a way. His brain wasn’t going with it though. His brain was sighing. 

Akaashi was caught in between the feelings of “exchange numbers, let’s play video games together” or “I hope you find someone to play games with.” Though the entire scene began coming awkward when requested drinks.

Akaashi drank a lot, much more than he expected. While Sugawara and HInata were much more wasted, Akaashi could barely walk. Kenma had to call Kageyama to come pick everyone up. The entire time was just a blur. All he knew is that they all laughed as Bokuto told random stories, then had to go serve another table.

Akaashi awoke at 12 P.M, and was utterly confused. He was in his bed, a phone number in his hand, and his phone saying “(3) New Messages!”. He reached over, looking at his phone. A number he hadn’t recognized, though it was the same one as in his hand. Must of been Bokuto.

And he was right.

Akaashi sighed. it was 12:05 A.M, and though regretting not just going back to sleep (Because he’d most likely have to game with Bokuto, which didn’t sound fun), he typed back.

Akaashi put down his phone. Hoped Bokuto didn’t see the text, hoped that was Bokuto’s “i’m about to fall asleep!” text. He was wrong, Bokuto texted back.

Akaashi could just say no, turn away and stop. Not deal with him. As far as he could tell, Bokuto was very hit or miss. Sometimes it was sweet, other times Bokuto was just downright annoying. He seemed to have so many opinions from just talking to him for 20 minutes, then getting drunk and not remembering 85% of it. He was just like that. He made many opinions, usually right. He was rarely every wrong.

Akaashi typed back the dreaded words.

He sighed, rubbing his head which was pounding. He tiredly rolled over to his desk and logged onto a few different games, unaware of what Bokuto liked to play.

Surprisingly, they both liked similar games, and they each got to try a few games. It was weirdly fun playing games with Bokuto, probably because he was so competitive, not bad at everything he tried, and made so many stupid mistakes that made Akaashi laugh so hard. They had to stop around 4 A.M, considering they were meeting up in 5 hours, and they both needed sleep. Akaashi would probably only get about 4, which was slightly less than normal nights, but Akaashi didn’t care.

From how awake Bokuto sounded until around 2:50 A.M, Akaashi assumed Bokuto never really slept much either. Owls were nocturnal. 

Bokuto got quite loud though, which never really helped his head ache. Even after shushing Bokuto, Bokuto could only hold onto his quietness for about 5 minutes before completely rebooting and screaming again. Annoying, yes.

Akaashi finally fell asleep though. The fresh air from his open window and no more screaming settled the head ache. He was finally okay. 

His sleep was good enough. As good as it usually got. He often had nightmares. Terrible ones that scared him. They were about his past, about the terrible things that always happened to him. Tonight though, he had a normal dream. He settled into like his sheets after an all-nighter of game design. When the night had passed, he felt more refreshed than he had in a while.

Apparently Kenma had noticed when Akaashi walked in the next morning. Maybe it was the bags under his eyes were not raised to 100% contrast anymore, or maybe it was the fact that instead of giving himself too much work, Akaashi had actually told them he’d be in the lab later today. 

“Time off?” Kenma asked, looking puzzled. Akaashi nodded. He could tell something bad was about to happen, and he was right. Daichi had come running around the corner, after talking about cucumbers to Sugawara. “Ooh! Are you going to meet with Mr. Golden Eyes?!” He yelled. 

Akaashi shook his head. “One, his name is Bokuto, Two, Yes I am meeting up with him, and three, go back to your damn chemistry lab.” He snarled. Daichi laughed, as if he was innocent. Daichi and Innocent did not belong in a sentence together.

“OOOH DAMN!” Hinata screamed from across the room. 

Akaashi in some way felt as if he’d just “burned” someone for the first time. To his knowledge, it actually was. Akaashi seemed like the type to constantly judge and burn people, accounting his “good looks” , people assumed he was petty.

“I’ll be back around 12:00 P.M, okay?” Akaashi sighed, closing the door behind him before anyone could yell anything more at him. He had to be there in 10 minutes. A little short on time, but thankfully it was only about 5 blocks from here.

He may have been 3 minutes late, but Bokuto wasn’t even there yet. He awkwardly sat outside the restaurant for 5 minutes, still no sign of Bokuto. Was this a set up? Was the hopes of a possible friendship gone?

No. Of course not.

Bokuto was standing on the other side of the building, and had thought Akaashi had set him up. He was just going to just go to the cafe by himself, but actually saw Akaashi as he rounded the corner. Akaashi laughed.

“Never thought to look around the corner?” Akaashi laughed. A thin and light red coating of blush flew across Bokuto’s face as he quickly shot back, “Well I mean, i thought you’d stand at the entrance of the building!” 

Akaashi did think about it for a moment, and it was strange he hadn’t gone to the entrance, but none the less, he was still correct. Bokuto was weird. In a good way. Probably.

“Shall we?” Bokuto asked, bowing in a very cheesy manor. Akaashi smiled. Not something he did so often anymore. Akaashi nodded, and Bokuto turned to the streets, walking them over to the cafe. Kageyama sat at the table across from Bokuto and Akaashi, well hidden by the disguises from his theatre class. Oikawa had helped him cover up himself so he could spy on Bokuto and Akaashi for Hinata. Why? He wasn’t really sure himself why Hinata wanted so badly to know about the status of Bokuto and Akaashi. Kageyama had searched for maybe 20 minutes until he finally saw what Kenma described as “Black and White hair that shot up like an anime character” ((I JUST BROKE THE 4TH WALL OMG))  

Kageyama thought he saw Bokuto, and was correct, because Akaashi was sitting next to him sipping a smoothie. Kageyama had ever so casually tripped when he entered the building, then knocked into a table, and had to re-order his coffee after spilling it all over himself. He got a lot of attention, that was for sure.  

He constantly sent Hinata and Sugawara pictures, but Bokuto and Akaashi seemed to do nothing but talk and laugh. No hugs, no kiss, no nothing. It’s like they barely knew each other. Though that might be the case, as he’d never seen Bokuto before. 

Finally, after getting his 4th coffee, and his 600th weird glance, he saw Bokuto and Akaashi stand. They high fived, but at the time Kageyama had snapped a picture, it looked like they were holding hands. Perfect. 

~~~ PoV Change ~~~

Bokuto thought it was quite a pleasant time. Akaashi had been a lot nicer and open than he’d expected. They rambled on about stories from their childhood, awkward breakups and one night stands, funny friends from high school, awkward middle school years, etc. From what he knew about Akaashi, it was basically just he left his parents as soon as possible (for unknown reasons), Met Kenma in highschool and got friends through him, and basically was quiet and awkward. 

Though, his beauty was what interested Bokuto so much. How does someone even just BE that pretty? It felt like Akaashi was made of perfection, and it made him so happy. His voice, his laugh, and his smile! That smile killed him every time. 

“Hey Akaashi?” Bokuto stopped, Akaashi turned. “Yes Bokuto-San?”                  “Can we hang out tonight? Maybe tomorrow?”                                                    “Sure, maybe not tomorrow, I have a lot of work to do, but tonight will be great.”

Bokuto smiled, and high fived Akaashi. He turned, and waved goodbye, triumphantly walking to work. The next hours were going to be boring as hell, but he just had Akaashi’s gaming to look forward too.

~~~ PoV Change ~~~

As he returned to the lab, everyone’s head turned. Akaashi knew something had happened, and it most likely involved him. He let out a deep sigh. Hinata, obviously, had jumped up first, and shoved his phone in Akaashi’s face

“Akaashi! Akaashi! Akaashi’s future date!!” Hinata yelled. Akaashi was confused, very confused. All they did was meet up and talk. “Hinata, he’s a guy, i’m straight.” He interjected, pushing past him, and sitting down, not acknowledging the phone Hinata had basically thrown at him. 

“But you guys are holding hands?” Hinata said, sounding very confused. Akaashi whipped his head around. “What, no we didn’t.” he panicked, grabbing Hinata’s phone. It was a picture, clearly taken from the table next to him.

Who had taken this picture? “Who took this? How did you get this?!” He panicked more. Bokuto was getting taken advantage of, wait- WAIT, why did he care? He should care about himself more. He was having a panic attack, Sugawara had noticed.

“Hinata! I told you sending Kageyama to spy was a bad idea! Their hands are blurry, I don’t think they’re even holding hands!” Sugawara defended him. How sweet, even squeezing his hand. Sugawara had always been his protector of sorts. He was always helping Akaashi through panic attacks.

Hinata was pretty shocked, he was not ready for it. Kenma didn’t even noticed, which either meant he never cared about Akaashi or knew he could handle it on his own. Either one was still kind of upsetting. 

As Akaashi calmed down, Hinata deleted the photo, told the entire story, and apologized profusely. “Y-you- f-fine I.” He said, breathless. He sat down as his bench and put in his headphones.

He was about done with these idiots. He clicked on his game, and decided to make a new character. It was a muscly tall man who was happy-go-lucky, and it reminded him of someone, but he just couldn’t think about it. 

As he finally finished up for the day, made some good progress, he went home, kind of excited to see Bokuto, but at the same time very hesitant. He was not excited for his hearing loss.

He sat down, and messaged Bokuto at 11:10 P.M, around the time Bokuto got off work. “Bokuto~, What game do you wanna play tonight?” He asked. Bokuto responded not even 2 minutes later. “Well, how about (insert game they both like)!” and Akaashi smiled. “Sure.” They both called each other, and the night began.

“I had a panic attack today.” Akaashi sighed. “Really?!” Bokuto yelled. “Yeah, my friends were spying on us!” He said, obviously flustered. Bokuto laughed. “Well aren’t you the popular one there.” Akaashi almost smiled, but didnt. He still didn’t know what to think about the situation. 

“Meh, my friends know I have no friends outside of well- college, so it’s just exciting for them.” He stated. Bokuto sighed. “Anyways, I’m off work tomorrow, how about I come to your class?” he asked. Akaashi quickly responded with, “That’d be nice, they’re all very annoying though.” Bokuto thought about that for a moment. “They seemed nice enough when I cooked for you guys.” 

Akaashi quickly sat up in his seat. “Would it be asking to much for you to cook me a lunch and bring it? My friends want to eat the same thing everyday, i’m getting sick up bagged lunches from a small deli across the street.” He complained. Bokuto laughed a little harder. “Yeah! Sure! I’d love too. No one asks me to cook for them.” 

Akaashi was a little surprised by that, considering Bokuto’s cooking was so good. “How come no one asks you?” he wondered. Bokuto sighed. “Well, I only have 2 friends, because most others just want my money, and then then the ones that do stay…leave. My other 2 friends don’t leave because one of them cooks with me, and the other one doesn’t ask for cooking too often.”

Akaashi was silent for a moment. “Why- I mean, not to be rude, but why do the others leave?” He asked. Bokuto didn’t answer. “Well. I- they leave because i’m too hard to get to. I never  open up, I’m never- I’m not out there. But it’s because- I dissapear a lot. I move. A lot.” He managed to squeak out.

“You- Move?” he Akaashi wondered, quickly regretting it, because he swore he could hear a sniffle. “I- my job requires me to move a lot, so I always leave my f-friends b-behind.” he coughed. “B-but that’s aside from the point. What about you Akaashi?” 

Akaashi had to lighten the mood, and quick. “Well I-” and he heard a knock on his door. “GUAGGH” he yelled. Bokuto burst out laughing, probably because that was the weirdest noise that had come out of Akaashi’s voice in a long time

Oikawa had barged in. “Yo wassup Akaash? Oh wait- hold on- I’m not interested. Anyways, i brought Iwa home tonight, we’re going to watch a few movies, so be quiet alright?” He demanded. 

Akaashi sighed. His room mate was so annoying. He hated Oikawa, and he was sure Oikawa hated him too, but for much different reasons. Akaashi turned back to his computer screen. Bokuto was yawning, so Akaashi did too. 

“You heading off?” Akaashi asked. “Yeah.” Bokuto yawned. Akaashi looked t the time. 3 A.M. Wow, Bokuto probably never stayed up this late. He was a chef who worked long hours basically doing kitchen work outs. 

“So- I should probably get your address so we can meet up tomorrow.” he yawned. Akaashi sent it, no hesitation. Akaashi usually thought these things through. “See you tomorrow Bokuto-san.” He said. He turned off his computer and crashed.

Within seconds, or at least what it felt like, Akaashi had woken up to the sounds of Oikawa screaming. Akaashi pulled his phone from his bed side table. 8 A.M. Why was Oikawa screaming so early? Akaashi grabbed his phone, and stomped out into the living room. Iwaizumi was tickling him, and Oikawa couldn’t handle it apparently. Akaashi threw a nearby pillow that was somehow next to his door at OIkawa. He screamed even louder, rolling onto the floor.

Iwaizumi quickly sat up and composed himself. Akaashi snarled, brushing his hair, then throwing on semi-fashionable clothes. OIkawa and Iwaizumi talked for a long time about random stuff when the doorbell rang. Akaashi had thankfully gotten ready in time.

Oikawa got to the door first though, and Akaashi tried to push him out of the way, but he was too late. “Huh who are you?” Oikawa asked, looking at Bokuto. Bokuto tilted his head. “Is Akaashi here?” he wondered. Oikawa sighed. “Uh yeah, that loser is literally sprinting towards the door right nOw-” He yelled, getting thrown to the side. Bokuto was utterly confused, but went with it.

“Sorry Bokuto, that’s my annoying room mate Oikawa.” he explained. Oikawa’s voice screamed from across the room “I AM NOT ANNOYING!” as he stomped off. Bokuto nodded, as if agreeing with him. He liked that.

They walked together to the college, which Bokuto seemed to like a lot. He treated it like a palace more than a college. “Have you not been to a nice college?” Akaashi asked, kind of confused considering Bokuto was literally border-line rich. Bokuto’s hair seemed to extend a tiny bit by hearing his name said. Akaashi held in laughter.

Bokuto thought of an answer. “Well, you see, I go to a private college, and so it’s cool to see everything so open like this!” he answered. So Bokuto really was rich. Smart too? He doubted it.

Bokuto skipped along side him, and eventually, they came to the door of the classroom. Akaashi took a deep breath and opened the door. Everyone looked up at him to say hello, but it was silent.

Suddenly Hinata screamed, “BOKUTO!!!!!” and jumped onto him. Bokuto was a bit overwhelmed. “H-hinata was it? Hi Hinata!” He laughed. Sugawara ran up. “Hey Bokuto! What are you doing here?” he asked. 

“Akaashi said I could come today!” he cheered. As Hinata was basically wrapped around him like a tortilla, Sugawara was like “HEAAAGH?! AKAASHI INVItED sOmEoNE?!” he yelled. Everyone was confused. Even Akaashi sort of was.

He didn’t like people, all he wanted was a Girlfriend, but why was he inviting this GUY here? Akaashi lead him away from everyone, and they sat down next to each other. Bokuto leaned against him, making Akaashi feel suddenly warm for no apparent reason. “So, watcha working on?” Bokuto asked.

Akaashi closed his mouth, trying to think of an answer. “My game, you wanna try?” And as he said that, everyone SCREAMED. Bokuto was overwhelmed, and Akaashi was way too surprised

Another panic attack. Great, Sugawara was about to jump from his seat and help, but all Bokuto had to do was ruffle his hair, whisper a few words into his ear, and hold his hand. He calmed down instantly.

“How did you-” Akaashi was baffled. No one had calmed him down with such ease. It’s  like he’d known Bokuto all his life and right now, he was just doing something like breathing.

“I have a friend who gets frequent panic attacks, so I mean, I- it works for him sort of, I had no idea how well it’d work for you…” he whispered. Akaashi nodded, and scooted the computer to him.

Everyone was staring, like Bokuto had just done the impossible. They all had this look in their eyes, like they’d proved Akaashi wrong. Like they knew something he didn’t. Maybe they did. 

Sugawara tried not to make a fuss, and texted him. 

Sugawara: Are you two close or something

Akaashi: No, he just has a friend like me. Sugawara: It’s more than that Akaashi.

Akaashi: What do you mean?

Sugawara: You let him come here, to your house, let him play your game, are you sure he’s just a friend.

Akaashi: yes?

Sugawara: Just wait.

Akaashi was confused. He didn’t know what Sugawara meant. He kind of just rolled with it. It was the best he could do. As he finished his conversation with Sugawara, he noticed Bokuto running around the game, and actually getting the controls down a lot faster than he’d expected.

Akaashi leaned against him without even noticing. He watched Bokuto talk to a few people, and quickly found his taste for people. He liked people who were kind of shy, smart, funny, and weird. 

He kept that in mind, not really sure why, but he did. As he noticed the entire room staring at him, he quickly pulled away from Bokuto and blushed. Akaashi snarled at them all. Was it really this weird to be this close with someone

As time passed, Bokuto test ran the game, pointed out mistakes, complimented it, the day had gone by in a flash and Bokuto had left. It went by so fest, he didn’t remember getting Bokuto’s address. it was in his phone apparently. Weird. He didn’t even remember Bokuto leaving. it’s like he was drunk and he just didn’t remember anything like in those funny memes with the “I WASN’T THAT DRUNK!”  He found those amusing. 

He walked home, and didn’t text Bokuto. He fell right asleep. It was such a quick day, and didn’t feel like it came at all.

He had that same nightmare again. Where if felt like the world was crumbling on him, and he was sitting there, breathless, couldn’t move. He wanted to much to be free form his parents, and their tyranny of injustice. How he’d wanted to just be free. He was free, but there were chains still flying through the air, trying to pull him back down. He screamed.

Sugawara, gone, Hinata dead, Kenma leaves, and worst of all. Bokuto left without so much as a word. 

He awoke, he was having a panic attack. Terrible timing, no one was there to comfort him, and felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had to make it to his computer. He had to text someone, but his words were drowned out. 

He fell, his eyes closed. Hopefully this was a dream, hopefully he was just going to wake up and go see Bokuto. 

He didn’t He still felt the suffocating, and couldn’t ask for Oikawa’s help. He lied on the ground and didn’t move, it was almost as if he’d been paralyzed. His words couldn’t come out to the surface of his dark waters. he’d passed out, but the feeling remained.

He had no idea how long he was unconcious, but when he awoke, his vision was blurred by tears. He moved his head a little. Two arms were wrapped around him, and he was in a vehicle. It moved to the road’s patterns. He couldn’t tell where he was.

As his vision began to clear, and the heat of arms wrapping him became more obvious, he knew where he was. An ambulance. This wasn’t the first time he was in one. He looked to his right. People rushed around. He then looked to his left.

It was Bokuto, and he was in tears. Akaashi, though his arm still weak, touched Bokuto’s weeping face. He felt Bokuto flinch as he swallowed down the tears. “A-akaashi. You-you’re awake..” he sighed. Akaashi turned onto his other rib. “I- how’d you get to me?” He asked.

“Oikawa texted me on your phone because my contact was the first open one. He panicked and called the ambulance too. I ran to you as fast as I could, but- but-” and the tears came back to his eyes. 

Akaashi touched his perfect face. “I’ll be fine. Wait- don’t you live 5 miles away…” He asked. “The ambulance is only 4 ½ miles away….” and then it hit him.

“HOW FAST DID YOU RUN!?” Akaashi yelled, then coughed. Bokuto placed a resting hand on Akaashi’s chest and ruffled his hair. He whispered to him. “Fast, but that’s not what’s important What’s important is that i’m here now Akaashi, i’m here.” 

Akaashi felt so calm, felt so at peace. He could close his eyes and rest, and know everything would be alright.

This time, he was back in his bed. Bokuto had carried him back after Akaashi could leave the hospital at 3 A.M. He turned to his side, the light barely shining through the windows. he covered his eyes, and saw a note on his phone.

Dear Akaashi

I know last night must have been terrifying to you, and it was for me too. I don’t ever want that to happen again, so I moved into the apartment 2 floors up! I promise, I swear and I put my life on it that you will not be sent to the hospital ever again. I’m in room 5 D

                                              Best Regards From Your Best Friend - Bokuto.

Akaashi’s face was completely red. How much did Bokuto care about Akaashi? He rolled out of bed, did his daily morning routine, and left quickly to go to the 5th floor (He was on the 3rd out of 5th). He knocked on the door Bokuto had said to go to. He knocked on 5 D. Surely enough, there was Bokuto, tired and with the cutest bed head he’d ever seen.

“Oh hey Akaashi.” he yawned. Akaashi smiled. “Hey I don’t have class today, wanna do stuff?” He asked. Bokuto smiled. “Sure! Lemme get dressed, come in.” he said, running to his bathroom. Akaashi had no idea how nice the 5th floor apartments were. Bokuto’s house, to his surprise, was really well decorated. He loved it, it smelled nice, fresh, great. He heard another voice, a voice he’d never head before yell out. “Yo’ BOKUTO! WHO’S HERE!?” it yelled. 

Akaashi was confused. Did Bokuto have a boyfriend? Why did that hurt Akaashi’s heart? It felt like someone grabbed his heart and threw it on the ground. 

A guy, maybe 6′2, strolled out. He had black hair over his eye, and he looked intimidating. Akaashi tried looking tough, or at least not shy, but it didn’t work. Kuroo smiled. “Hey! Who are you?” He asked.

“A-Akaash-hi K-Kei-Keji.” He managed to say, breathless. The man smiled. “Hello, i’m Kuroo.” He smiled. “Oh wait- Akaashi, like Bokuto’s friend Akaashi?” He asked. Akaashi nodded. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you!” he laughed. Akaashi was surprised. Bokuto talked about him?

“Really?” He wondered. Kuroo stood up straight. “Now why would I lie to you?” he asked. Akaashi shrugged. Kuroo smiled. “Lemme tell you what he say-” Kuroo started, but Bokuto had flown in, looking like his normal, fashionable self. “Shall we?” he smiled.

Akaashi nodded.

Bokuto said he had something planned, something really cool. Akaashi was super nervous but excited. Bokuto lead him to a place called “Wakatomaji’s Hei”, which he had no idea what that meant. The place seemed empty, no cars were there. 

“This place is shady. No one is here except employee’s.” He said, wanting to turn back. He didn’t want to embarass Bokuto by making him feel bad about the terrible place he picked. They walked in.

No one was there, just some bored looking employees. A trampoline park and an Arcade? The place was so nice, how was it empty. 

Suddenly the lights went out, and Akaashi naturally just  wrapped himself around Bokuto. He was comforted, So he didn’t have a panic attack. Suddenly Bokuto walked forwards, as if he knew the place.

What the hell was going on?

They sat down, and all the lights came on. “SURPRISE!!!” maybe 20 voices yelled at once. AKaashi was surprised, but happy to see all of his friends sitting on trampolines, jumping around. Akaashi smiled. grabbing Bokuto’s hand and jumping on the first trampoline.

They sprang around, as they yelled and cheered. Bokuto did flips, and everyone was screaming and having a good time. 

They went to the arcade and Bokuto has having serious road rage. They did tricks on the trampoline together, had great food, and had an amazing time. He felt as if he hadn’t been this happy in a very, very long time.

Even as the fun time was ending, people were beginning to grow tired and start finishing up, he was still enjoying himself. He help Bokuto’s hand as everyone left. He looked up at Bokuto. 

“Thank you.”

That night Akaashi couldn’t sleep, and Bokuto wasn’t responding. He decided to go upstairs to the apartment, but it was just Kuroo who answered. Akaashi was confused. Maybe he was out doing something. 

“He’s out looking around your college and stuff.” Kuroo answered, closing the door. He could tell Kuroo was very tired. Not blaming him though, it was like 1 A.M

Akaashi looked in so many rooms, but could not find him.

growing weary, he’d even texted Sugawara, Hinata, and even Yamaguchi, someone who’d he’d barely known, and no one had any answers. He creeped through the music hall, and it was dead silent. He kept walking, only the sound of his heart and food steps were audible.

Finally, he came to a stop. A violin. A beautiful sound, a sound that reminded him of when he played the Viola. He crept towards the noise. It got louder, and Akaashi realized just how good it was. It was amazing. Distracted from looking for Bokuto, the music was just too captivating. 

His feet basically refused to go back, and even his brain for once agreed with his heart. Akaashi could almost feel his hands’ fluttering up the Viola again. He opened the door from where the sound had come from.

In the moonlight, the stars reflecting onto his perfect hair, his golden eyes flaring with passion and excitement, his muscles moved in such a perfect manor that Akaashi’s face just naturally turned red. It was Bokuto playing.

He seemed so perfect there, like the moonlight was his, and his alone. Bokuto didn’t stop for Akaashi, no, he hadn’t even noticed Akaashi. And in his heart, Akaashi had never noticed him.

How had he not noticed Bokuto’s heart. It’s like he could see it, like he could see it flying through the air at breathtaking speeds, He could imagine himself holding Bokuto’s hands and flying away.

He loved Bokuto, and how had he not realized it sooner? He remembered all those looks from his friends. They knew, they knew, how didn’t he?! As Bokuto stopped playing, he looked up.

Bokuto’s face turned red, and so did Akaashi’s.

“That was beautiful.” he whispered. Bokuto smiled, even his smile fit the moon light. “T-thanks…I didn’t know- I’m sorry.” he whimpered. Akaashi shook his head. “Don’t be sorry…it was…amazing.” he said, grabbing Bokuto’s hand.

Bokuto seemed hesitant for the first time. He almost pulled away.

“I don’t like playing for people.” 

Akaashi didn’t expect that answer. He though Bokuto would run around, screaming to the world, “HEY LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!” but no, Bokuto may seem that way on the surface, but really deep down inside his heart is a blazing fire of love and humbleness. 

“Why.” he asked.

Bokuto bit his lip. “Because, my folks found out I could play and- and I-” he started. Tears built in his eyes. “They told me it was worthless.” he began. “They told me that what I was doing made no sense, and that it was pointless. All i w-want i-is” he tried to say more, but tears fell from his face.

Akaashi ran, hugging him. The world was cruel to Bokuto, but he didn’t deserve it. He was so kind, so loving, and he knew for sure, Akaashi didn’t deserve him. Bokuto needed the best, and Akaashi was afraid that wasn’t him.

Bokuto stopped crying, the tears had stopped, and Akaashi had finally calmed himself. 

“You’re so helpful Akaashi, i’m so happy to have someone like you by my side.” Bokuto sighed. Those words made Akaashi’s heart fly.

“Bokuto.”

“Akaashi.”

Akaashi was about to say it, about to scream  “I LoVE YOU!” but the words refused to come out.

“Let’s go home.” He said, blowing this perfect chance to kiss him, like he’d dreamed. He wanted to punch himself. He wanted to turn around and scream “I LOVE YOU!” and he didn’t. Who was he fooling, he was just a coward. A coward who didn’t deserve a man like Bokuto

* * *

That next morning, Akaashi was sitting alone at his workspace. He didn’t speak to anyone. he was to drained, to afraid. He looked for love for so long, now that he had it, it was pointless. God Damn it! He yelled in his mind. He decided, that here, in his game, he’d write Bokuto.

He’d play Bokuto in his game, and here, he’d love him and not be afraid to move forward and say the things he wanted to say. 

* * *

“Hey Akaashi, look at them.” Sugawara said, pointing out into the hallway. Akaashi turned, as he was getting some stuff from the storage room for Daichi. From the corner of his eye, he turned, and down the hallway, he thought he saw Bokuto. He turned to Sugawara.

“May I go over there?” he asked, basically already running down the hallway. He could see, he could see that beautiful hair that he admired so much. He was going to tell him now, going to say it. He felt like the words might come out this time.

He was almost there, but then he saw it, A girl grabbing Bokuto’s shirt and pulling him into a kiss that looked amazing. A kiss the Akaashi should of had. Akaashi turned, he turned so quickly that he almost turned fully around back to them. He ran the other direction. He didn’t even look back. 

Sugawara was confused as he should’ve been. He just picked up his stuff and walked with Akaashi home, still no idea what was happening, and probably never would

* * *

Bokuto and Akaashi sat in the music room at midnight every night and Akaashi listened to him play. Every note made him want to fall apart even more, because every note was his heart pulling even though the chains were down on his already.

Every note, well, every note almost felt like another bar in his prison. Who was that girl? Why had Bokuto been with her? It was all so confusing. 

* * *

“Akaaaaashi!” Bokuto knocked on his door. Akaashi answered, and he noticed the girl that Bokuto had kissed was standing behind him. “Oh h-hey Bokuto-san. I’m busy right now, s-so can y-you go? I’ll be out later.” Akaashi pleaded. Bokuto’s face seemed sad, like he cared. 

Bokuto turned, left, and didn’t come back for the rest of the day.

* * *

This happened for days, where Bokuto would try to talk to Akaashi, but he was busy. The only time he ever saw Akaashi is when he listened to Bokuto play the Violin. It made him feel so bad, what had Bokuto done wrong?

First his sister died, dad hates him, mom leaves, brother locks himself away, he moves, he moves and moves, leaving everyone behind, and now, now that he finally had found love in Akaashi’s heart, Akaashi had gone too.

He decided to talk to Sugawara about it

Bokuto: Sugawara? You Awake

Sugawara: Yeah, what’s up?

Bokuto: Akaashi has been ignoring me, and I feel bad. Did I do something

Sugawara: No, not that I know of. Though, yeah, Akaashi has been pretty distant recently. I’m worried, can you talk to him? Forcefully?

Bokuto: I’ve tried, i’ve tried really hard. He slams and locks his door, and leaves the moment my songs end

Sugawara: Tomorrow, i’ll lock the door behind Akaashi when he listens to you, got it?

Bokuto: Got it.

* * *

Bokuto was playing, the song was nearing it’s end, and he came to his loudest point. That’s when Suga locked the door

Akaashi stood, and Bokuto reached for his hand. He missed, just like every other night. Akaashi grabbed the door handle. It was locked. He seemed scared, terrified. It’s like Akaashi had met Bokuto for the first time.

“Akaashi, why are you running.” he said, his voice was weak. Akaashi didn’t answer. He could see fear, guilt, everything a hurting person would feel. Bokuto didn’t know why Akaashi felt this way, and he didn’t care why, he just wanted to make him feel happy. Happy where he was.

“Hey, can I ask you a question.” Akaashi said, finally hearing his voice. Akaashi’s voice, how he’d missed it. He wanted to hug Akaashi, kiss Akaashi, tell Akaashi how he felt. 

“What?” Bokuto answered. “Who was that girl you kissed?” he asked.

He saw that? Is that why he was like this? “The girl kissed me but I rejected her.” Bokuto said, almost as if he had no emotions. He told the truth, that was no lie

“Wait- really?” Akaashi studdered. “Yes, why? Did you think we were dating- did you think-” He stopped. He leaned in, Akaashi’s face was so close, he wanted to grab it, hold it, claim it as his own. He didn’t know feelings could be felt this strongly. 

Akaashi had unlocked the door, and ran off, after Bokuto was so close. He wanted to chase, but he knew, he knew deep inside that it would not help him, it wouldn’t help him get any closer to Akaashi. Akaashi would keep running. Bokuto knew this.

Tomorrow would be the day. Bokuto had to tell him, he couldn’t handle being so far away from Akaashi. It was insanity.

The day, the day he’d have to face Bokuto, he knew this because, well, obviously, even though not much was said last night, Bokuto probably saw everything, and was probably going to reject Akaashi.

He stepped outside, it was midnight. Bokuto would be playing any moment. He was correct, and instantly, and 12:05, he began, and the notes were perfect. So fine tune, so much more than every night. Every note packed meaning behind it that made Akaashi’s eyes burn. He knew those notes.

His family, he’d heard from Kuroo, about all the times Kuroo had come home to Bokuto crying. About his moving, his failures and down falls, and then, when he got to the “meeting Akaashi” part, Akaashi fell apart.

Every note was like floating on water, like it was the best thing that happened, for so long the notes screamed out in joy as if something deeper were under those notes. An undertone of relief, and something else. 

He knew it was there, what was it?!

The notes suddenly changed. It was when Akaashi ignored him, and those notes, those notes sounded like this family’s notes. He hoped those notes would never be played again. Never, Bokuto deserved more.

And Akaashi had been letting him down this entire time.

As the last note played, it wasn’t happy, it wasn’t a full resolve, it was empty, like there was one more thing. It fit in perfectly with Akaashi’s heart.

“Bokuto”

“Akaashi.”

“B-Bokuto!” he yelled, falling into Bokuto’s arms. It was like everything he wished for and more. He looked up, tears in his eyes. “Bokuto I love you!” he screamed, feeling everyone ounce of love and sorrow and hatred and happiness collapse onto Bokuto.

“I love you too, Akaashi.” He said, holding him close. This is exactly how the song needed to end. Akaashi lifted up his face, and pulled Bokuto’s to his. This kiss was everything he needed. The warmth, the love, the sweetness, everything! Everything he wanted was here in his arms, and to think, Bokuto  used to be just a random chef. 

* 5 Years Later*

Bokuto sighed. “Mokari! Keijaei!” he yelled. Both kids stopped, turning to look at him. “Yes dad?” they asked. Bokuto smiled. “I got you trEATS!!!” he yelled. Both of his kids ran up and grabbed a cookie. They smiled, and Bokuto loved that, they were just the cutest things ever.

“Wow, spoiled.” Akaashi said, coming around the corner. “Daddy!” both kids yelled, jumping into Akaashi’s arms. “Hi! I missed you guys!” He said planting a kiss on their foreheads. He sat next to Bokuto and snuggled in his arms. Their wedding rings ticked together.

“Hey, remember that old violin piece I played for you the day i told you I loved you?” He asked. 

Akaashi looked up. “Yeah why?” Bokuto smiled.

“I think i’m going to finish it.”

** THE END!!! **

[lalorrunningclub]

Rottnest Island Running Festival

The Rottnest Island Running Festival had been on my radar for sometime and when Karin Smith from RunMum said she was doing the 42.2 it wasn't long before I'd booked and locked it in with Adam also agreeing to join us.

Friday June 14 came around pretty quickly and as we drove to the airport at 6am Adam was reading previous race recaps and all they talked about was hills, hills, toughest marathon, hills and more hills. I'd started to panic but hey I'd been to Rotto before and it wasn't hilly.

After a delayed flight due to the AFP needing to board once we landed <insert look of fear> and an Uber to Fremantle for our Ferry connection it was time to fuel and carb load with a smoked feast at The Norfolk Hotel with a few ciders whilst watching the rain fall down. Across to the ferry terminal and onto the boat where we secured a seat on the back deck and we were off. Swells seemed about 5 meters as I reminisced watching The Perfect Storm and about 20 minutes into the 30 minute trip I became quiet and looked very green as I scrambled in my bag for some Ondansetron which I got into me super quick without any incident.

Once safely at the Rotto Terminal we checked in, threw our running gear on and went exploring to find these 'hills'. We set off around the golf course, through the salt lakes whilst dodging quokkas (except for the one that bit my hokas) and found some gentle undulations and decided that Perth people must run on flat and call undulations 'hills'. We had nothing to worry about!

Saturday morning we woke to an eerie quiet. There are no cars on Rotto. Just a tourist bus or you hire a bike or use your legs to get around the 22km x 11km island. Saturday is parkrun day so I mapped out a route and 4 of us completed Rottnest Island parkrun event #1 in pouring rain. The course is an out and back to Kingstown Barracks and around Governor's Circle return.

As the morning got later we jumped on the tourist bus and agreed the island was fairly undulating. More ferries were arriving carrying runners creating a buzz at event central, the expo opened at 1pm and we collected our bibs and jam packed race bags and familiarized ourselves with the start / finish line area only meters from our accommodation.

We headed out to get some flat me photos and selfies with the quokkas before heading to the official Pizza and Pasta evening at Riva within our resort complex. The spread of food was amazing coupled with a nice glass of pinot griggio or two. Apparently that's how we carb load.

I headed back to get the rest of my gear ready and had made up my mind that maybe it wasn't the time for a PB. I'd messaged one of my training partners saying "Im not getting a PB here tomorrow it's hilly as fuck " I was literally trying to talk myself out of it. His response ... "You're amazing what's the negative shit!! You've done the hard work!! Oh by the way I don’t really want to chat negative Melissa i really like positive Melissa. Suck it up Princess" The chat had gone quiet and then I got this "Hey I hope you have an awesome run tomorrow...May your feet be light and the wind at your back!!"

Race day had arrived, there wasn't much of a stir on the island at 6am. My race didn't start until 7.30am but I was up to see Adam and Karin start the Full at 7am. With the Full started I returned back to my accommodation for a final toilet break and to drop off my jacket. It was 15 degrees, 69% humidity and clear skies at this time.

The race director soon called all the half runners to the start-line and I seeded myself toward the back of the chute and began my activations. The gun sounded and off I went.

My nerves were through the roof. I was trying to settle my erratic breathing which can sometimes take up to 7 or 8km to settle into a comfortable rhythm. I went out sitting on between 5.40 and 5.50 and switched between telling myself I've gone out too hard and I've got this I feel comfortable.

Drink stations were placed every 2.5km which was great as I had agreed a 10 sec stop at each would be part of the race plan. I approached the first aid station and stopped for water "Don't dehydrate" said the little voices in my head. The first 'undulation' was upon me which was no big deal. The smell of the salt lakes churned my stomach and 'undulation' number two had come and gone no issue. Another drink station with cadets offering water and coke and the site of another 'undulation'. This time it was a little steeper alas I got up it no issues where runners were met by 2 bag pipers.

I'm now 8km in as another aid station approaches and a long 'undulation' into Geordie Bay was looming. From here you run through the narrow streets where people were cooking bacon and eggs on their decks (it smelt so good) and all the people cheering from their glamping tents. The final aid station was near with a DJ pumping tunes and then off to the start-line for another lap. YASSSSS I'm doing well, I feel well. I've done 11km and it seems I'm unknowingly on my way to a PB if I can just hold this pace for one more lap.

Through the start-line again, I amuse myself by thanking the volunteers and telling them I don't need to see them again.

Now onto lap two .... I'm going to start calling these 'undulations' 'hills'  Heart rate working hard, legs working hard, 'hill' 5 arrives and I stopped to walk for 20 seconds, 'hill' 6 arrived where I walked a little bit from the aid station, past the bag pipers where I considered stopping to look under the kilts but no I was on a mission. Looking at my clock I'd slowed to 5.55 - 6.00 pace as I approach 'hill' 7 and its here I had to have a good stern talk to myself.

Next aid station arrived where I yelled for hydrolyte but they didn't have any expletive. I passed through the last aid station and DJ with 3km to go and 18 minutes to get to the finish. I'd stopped talking to vollies at this stage as I couldn't feel my legs, my breathing was labored and I started to run with my heart. I took some seconds to walk a part of the last hill as I played duck hunting with a few on course, I ran again passing two and said come one we're almost there!!!

1km to go. I wasn't feeling anything here at all. I couldn't even scoff at the kids on bikes and scooters on course but I needed to hang on to this pace for dear life to get my goal. I rounded the last corner and saw that finish chute and gave it everything I had left. That last 400m completed at 5.32 pace. I crossed that finish line, stopped my Garmin and eagerly awaited the New Record notification! Wooop there it is ... New half record 2.04.09 🏅 my previous PB was 2.12.11 at Portland 3 Bays in November 2017 so this PB had been a long time coming.

I learnt a few good lessons on this trip, as a coach I need to eat my own words. I need to believe in myself a lot more than I do. PB's aren't for an audience, it's a battle between you and the clock.

I sat with a Perth family at the Bakery not long after my finish and they had been at GOR last month and had commented on how many LRC shirts they saw at GOR and that it was good to see some over west!

Celebrations began at Hotel Rottnest early afternoon and went well into the evening at the Governors Bar with great company, drinks and food.

If this race isn't on your bucket list then please consider putting it on there. A reasonably small event with a huge atmosphere and well run by the Western Australian Marathon Club and sponsored by Mizuno and Running Warehouse.

[hysterialyywrites]

From Rue to None (Multichaptered)

One

If there's one good thing about this particular school, it's not having to worry about choosing what outfit to wear every day.

Swiping my phone off the table, I hastily slipped on my blazer and double checked my image.

Pressing the lock button on my phone, I noted the date.

September 1st.

Looking back into the mirror, I considered our uniform tolerable enough: a white blouse tucked into a dark, sort of army green skirt, with a navy blue striped bow tie under the collar adorning our necks. The blazer was the finishing touch; it shared the same shade of army green as the skirt, with the school emblem sitting proudly on the right breast pocket. Ironic how evidently dark, male, and militaristic our colors were, seeing as we attend an all-girls academy. You'd expect the colors to look a bit more chipper and charming, the common depiction of a young lady's soul and spirit. I've heard enough complaints from my fellow classmates to know that more than half of the academy has already signed a petition to redress (quite literally) the students' concerns on uniform colors. If all goes well, the uniforms might be different next year. Quite a shame though, since I liked the way the colors complemented my eyes: dark, hollow, and grey. A stark contrast to the rest of my family's irises.

I spotted Minella a few ways back from my reflection in the mirror. Without turning back, I called out to her. “Minella?” “Yes, my lady?” she replied, her accent rather distinguished in only three words. “Adelia is fine, Minella. Are we late for the opening ceremony?” “Not yet, my lady, although we will be in a few minutes.” I hummed in response. “Then, let's get going. It wouldn't look good for me if I were to be late on the first day.” I brushed past her without a second glance as she took my bag and followed me out of my room, down the long hallways of my family's prestigious manor, until she finally saw me off at the courtyard. She gave me a small smile, one that I did not acknowledge, as she closed the car door and nodded at the driver. My eyes were on the sky, taking in the grey of the clouds and the gloom of the weather. Reports say there might even be rain later afternoon. On the 15-minute ride to Hopewell, I felt my stomach churn at the memory of Minella's fallen expression at my surly response to her smile, but I brushed it off, held my head high, and kept my eyes undeterred. A Calloway does not lose face because of a simple, trivial regret. I hear the booming of thunder as the car drives on.                                                             * * *

Minella is, for the lack of a better word, my maid. I found the term quite derogatory, so I asked her if she knew of another word to describe her line of work. She told me that back in her country, she was often called ate, and prior to the Calloways, her family in the Philippines had her siblings call her ate or ate Ella instead of her given name alone. When I asked her what it meant, she told me it was a term used to refer to an older sister, or any girl a few years older than you. As I tested the term myself, I found it rather awkward on my tongue, so I resorted to calling her by her first name instead. She didn't mind one bit. Minella, 20 years old at the time, first came to the estate when I was only 3 years old, and was a general housekeeper before she was reassigned to me as my personal maid. My parents have noticed that I've taken a particular liking to her after her first two weeks, and decided that it would be better if she were to care for my needs instead of the manor's. It was a good call on my part, since I consider Minella the first friend I've ever made. She was incredibly kind, caring, selfless, and very family-oriented. Her movements were kept to a minimum and she worked with such poise that I once thought of her as a long lost queen. She told me I described her as mahinhin. Ever since then, she's been teaching me her language little by little everyday. She was younger than she looked as well, so I really did treat her like an older sister instead of a maid. We were inseparable. I would have her teach me how to play games such as sungka, play hide-and-seek with her around the garden, have her teach me how to braid my own hair, and she would tell me stories about her family back home. As mentioned before, she had siblings about my age, and she told me we would get along very well if we were ever to meet. I started writing them letters then, and they would always write back. Minella was right; we did get along. As I grew older, however, my priorities started to change. As the only daughter of the estate, I was expected to take over the family's well-renowned railway company in the future. My growing fluency in Minella's language was replaced with French, Spanish, and German. My expertise insungka was replaced with chess and card games to entertain guests and clients that I would accommodate in the future. Stories of Minella and her family were replaced by both world history and the history of the company. I started taking my studies a lot more seriously. I stopped writing letters. A rift grew between me and Minella, until finally, I became the very description of my eyes: cold, dull, and lifeless.                                                            * * * I stepped out of the vehicle, ignored the familiar gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach and made my way over to the front gates of Hopewell Academy, one of the finest institutes in the country. We followed standard protocol that was expected to be adhered to by every student on opening day, and proceeded with orientation. As lunch break rolled by, I was greeted by two girls, Henley and Kristina. We've been friends since primary school, and I would trust them with my family's wealth, precisely because they have no intentions of exploiting it. “Ada, how have you been? Is your family alright? I haven't heard from them in a while,” said Henley as she took a bite of her sandwich. She comes from a small, working class family in the south. She got into the academy on a scholarship, triumphing over her status with her smarts. “Yeah, they've been busy. They're in Germany right now on business.” “Oh, really? That's too bad, I would've made them something for their trip,” replied Kristina. Her family owns a small bakery downtown. My parents often love to bring home cake fresh from their oven from time to time. Like Henley, Kristina is here on a scholarship. I'm the only one in the group who got in with their family's wealth. Money, however, is not the base of our long-standing friendship. We talked and caught up for the rest of the break, rejoicing as a drizzle started to pour. As the bell rang, we were off to our separate classes, familiarizing ourselves with our new schedules. As I walked along the school courtyard, I fell witness to a girl tripping over the now wet asphalt as she fell flat on the floor, her bag spilling its contents, getting soaked in the rain. The girls around her paused, then laughed (rather heartlessly), and carried on with their own businesses, without even bothering to help the poor girl. I sighed. Still as obnoxious as ever. These girls never change. I was a good distance away from the scene, about to run and help her when I realized who she was. Zelda Fitzgerald, the daughter of the rivaling railway company who threatened to buy out the Calloways. Her older brother, Nathan, was a sly and crafty young man who had the audacity to bribe my parents with their wealth, offering a sum that totaled in millions for the sake of getting his hands on our business. Of course, my parents refused the outrageous offer, albeit regretfully, as they realized the weight of the new responsibility they have placed upon my shoulders. Nathan Fitzgerald was sure to strike another bargain, and I had to be ready when I take over in a year. I told my parents there was nothing to worry about; I would take matters into my own hands and ensure that the company stays ours for as long as I can manage. I turned a blind eye to the situation and walked straight to my next class. My parents despise the Fitzgeralds. I do too. I ignored the churning in my stomach.                                                            * * * “Hello, young Delia, how was your day?” Leo, my afternoon driver, asked as I got into the car, shaking off my wet umbrella. A headache was forming since the last period started and it hasn't gotten any better. “It was okay. Quite tiring, if I may add.” “Ah, first-day fatigue. A cup of tea would be the perfect solution! Would you like to try that newly opened café just a few blocks down from Miss Henley's place? The weather shouldn't be a problem; we've had tea with rain and thunder as our accompaniment before, haven't we?” “Yes... oh, today was the opening day for that too, wasn't it?” I started massaging my temples. “Indeed, my lady! I hear their crêpe−” “It's okay, Leo. Let's just go home.” “Ah... alright. Right away, my lady!” I tried not to think about Leo's sudden drop and forced change in energy and his apparent disappointment as we head back home in silence.                                                             * * * I sit at my desk later that night, working on some papers father sent me as Minella comes in with a cup of tea and some waffles. The waffles, doused in chocolate sauce with strawberries at the side, caught my attention. “This is unusual for a midnight snack. Aren't waffles supposed to be served for breakfast?” “Ah! Um...” Minella stutters and starts mumbling in a panic. “I'm sorry, I couldn't hear what you just said. Could you repeat that?” “Um, well, one of the maids told me that you liked to eat waffles for dinner sometimes, while you work on some papers. Since I was on kitchen duty tonight, I thought I'd make you some.” I looked at the dessert again. “You slightly overburnt the waffles, I noticed, and the chocolate sauce was messily spread around. Your hands were shaking. Did you wash your hands after ironing again?” Minella looked down at her feet and pursed her lips together. “Yes... I'm sorry, I forgot.” I sighed, and with the paperwork in front of me I could feel the day’s events taking a toll on my body. The Fitzgeralds have been a huge bother recently. Half of these papers are largely attributed to their ever growing interest in our company. Without glancing up from my desk, I said, “it's okay, Minella, there's no need to apologize. Look, I can always ask Kristina if you want to learn a new dessert recipe. She knows loads and she's willing to help you out.” I looked up, and saw how Minella was still looking down at her feet and pursing her lips. She was aimlessly fumbling with her apron. My stomach churned all of a sudden. “You must be tired. Go to sleep, Minella. It's been a long day.” She looked up. At me, specifically, and smiled as if she knew something I didn't. “Speak for yourself, young lady,” she said, her Filipino accent clear as day, her hands on her hips, pouting in a rather futile attempt to seem intimidating, all while using the formal term to address me. “You've been working ever since you got back from school, and you have the nerve,” she continued, pointing a finger at my face, smiling and so close to laughing, “to tell me to go to sleep?” I stared at her, wide-eyed, slightly shocked because she never told me off like this before, and all the while wondering what was so funny; she was basically shaking from trying to suppress her laughter. I took note of her slightly deranged face, contorted into an expression that can't seem to choose between anger and light-hearted playfulness. I'm guessing she was aiming for both. Her face, still a sight to behold, brought me close to laughing as well. I was trying to keep it to myself, although it was useless as we both burst out laughing at the same time. Minella's laugh came with a snort, making it as funny as you can imagine, so I laughed harder until I could feel tears pricking my eyes. We both calmed down after a full minute or two. It was quiet once again, but less tense than before. I haven't laughed like that in ages. Minella spoke first. “Sige na, since you skipped dinner, I advise you to finish your burnt waffles and your tea so you can finally go to sleep. Don't overwork yourself with those papers; you might get a papercut,” she said as she walked to the door, half-closing it as she made her way outside.     Her drop in formality gave me a warm feeling of ease that I knew all too well. “A papercut can't kill me, Minella.” She smiled. This one I acknowledged. “Good night, langga.” I watched as the door shut behind her. It's been a while since she used that nickname with me. I felt the churning in my stomach again. As I did before, I pushed it away once more. I finished my tea and the last of my paperwork, and I felt my eyelids grow heavy. The last thing I heard before passing out was the sound of my head hitting the desk.                                                            * * * I woke up in the comfort of my bed, snuggled up in my sheets, extremely confused. Didn't I fall asleep at my desk last night? I sat upright and looked around, eyeing my desk, questioning the missing paperwork from the night before. Maybe Minella just kept the paperwork in one of the drawers after she brought me to bed. I'll ask her when she comes in. I hear the click of the door as it opens. Minella comes in, wearing a look of shock on her face. I'm never awake when she comes in. “Good morning, my lady. This is a surprise; I hope you slept well last night.”

I noticed how she reverted back to using the formal term to address me. “I did, actually. Thank you, Minella.” I climbed out of bed and walked to my desk, checking the drawers as Minella proceeded to fluff my pillows. My eyebrows raise at the still missing stack of paperwork, because they arenowhere to be found. “Minella, where did you put the paperwork from last night?” “Paperwork?” “Yes, the ones Father sent me yesterday after I got home from school.” “My lady, I don't remember your father sending you any paperwork yesterday. Plus, school? I'm quite sure opening ceremony is today.” “What?” I laughed. “That's funny, Minella. Today's the second day. Plus, you saw me doing the paperwork last night; you even said I might get a papercut!” Minella looked utterly confused. I slowly felt my heart race and my breath hitch in my throat. I walked to my closet. I had three sets of uniforms. I threw the one I wore on the first day in the laundry yesterday. If today really is opening day... I threw open the closet doors, and there I saw three uniforms, ironed, pressed, and ready to be worn. I looked out the window, saw the familiar gloom of the sky, the grey of the clouds, the resounding boom of thunder. I've watched the weather forecast for this week. Today, September 2nd, was supposed to be sunny. I was too freaked out to check my phone. “Minella, what day is it today?” She looked up from her chore, smoothing out the covers as she warily replied. “September 1st, my lady.”

Two

There's no mistaking it. September 1st has repeated itself. I was convinced of this fact the moment the school decided to proceed with first day's orientation. Ever since then I started telling myself that this was nothing but a dream. A weird dream, in fact. Everything, from when Minella saw me off at the courtyard that morning, Zelda's fall after lunch break, Leo's invitation to that newly opened café after school, up to the hysterical laughter that ensued after I blatantly pointed out the flaws of Minella's waffles, everything, was in fact, the same. The only differences were the shortened amount of time it took me to finish the paperwork, seeing as they're the exact same paperwork from “yesterday”, and that annoying gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach. That feeling was multiplied tenfold today, making it almost impossible for me to ignore it. But I still did. In fact, I was surprised I didn’t throw up today. As I lay in bed that night, I was one hundred percent convinced that this was just a weird dream, and that when I wake up tomorrow, all I'll be seeing is the sunny September 2nd that was supposed to play out today. But in the back of my mind, I knew for a fact that this was not a dream, however impossible it may seem, because for all these years I've been alive I was never once conscious of my dreams, and I saw no reason to start now. I pushed away the thought, closed my eyes, and let my mind wander off as I slept. I was thinking about tomorrow. But tomorrow never came.                                                            * * * “A god is out to get me.” “What?” “Oh, nothing. Sorry, today’s just been really freaky.” “Well, our first day at school has never exactly been a road trip in the first place,” commented Kristina. “Plus, the weather itself is kinda freaky. It’s the only gloomy day this week.” “We’re still happy it rained though,” Henley chimed in. “There’s no denying that.” “Oh, do you remember that one time I snuck out in the middle of the night with a baseball bat because I was convinced there was something supernatural going on in the bakery?” “As if I’d forget! You wouldn’t stop calling me that night! I was this close to throwing my phone out the window!” Henley and Kristina’s recollection of that night slowly drowned out with the background noise as I found myself staring at my feet, thinking long and hard about my current situation. I’m thankful my sense of panic disappeared after meeting with Henley and Kristina, despite not telling them that this was actually my third time meeting them. As if they’d believe my nonsense about warped time travel, or whatever this was; I would be the first Calloway to go insane. Everything screamed September 1st; every single event on replay like a broken record, and I still have no idea why. I could no longer ignore that uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, for my heart was starting to become affected as well. Turning a blind eye to Minella’s smile and leaving the car without a word were all followed by a churn in my gut and an ache in my heart, and I thought maybe I was dying, but that still doesn’t explain my life’s fondness for the first day of September, and I thought, I can’t go on like this. I need to find out what’s wrong, and fast. Think, Adelia, think. I let the day’s events play out. I noted the familiar gut-churning and heart-aching after Zelda’s fall and Leo’s invitation, wrapping my brain around the mess that I’ve become. As I sat at my desk later that night, the paperwork finished in record speed, I got back to thinking. The next time these feelings would turn up again would be after my encounter with Minella an hour later, and if I don’t do something, I’ll never get out of this mess. Think, Adelia, think. Why is time so bent on making sure you know that you’re dying, replaying this day because you’re too dense to figure it out? I recalled those particular events: Minella smiling as I left, leaving the car without a word as I entered the academy, Zelda falling, receiving no help, Leo’s invitation. And right now, Minella charring my waffles. And after all of those events come the gut-churning, and just recently, the heartache. Suddenly, I was invaded by a memory.                                                            * * * I was 5 years old, playing tag with Minella and the family butler, Victor. I was running down the halls as Victor was chasing me with half his speed, giving me time to run with my little legs as I raced through the manor. I veered right, dashed left, sprinted up the stairs, and made another left. I kept looking back after every turn. This, on my part, was a mistake. As my eyes were trained on an exhausted Victor, I failed to notice the stand that held my family’s heirloom: an incredibly valuable 18th century pocket watch that once belonged to Howard Kenneth Calloway; in other words, the founder of my family’s company. In my haste, I knocked over the stand, breaking the glass box that encased the prized heirloom. The pocket watch did not break, that is, until I accidentally stepped on it. At the age of 5 I already knew how important this heirloom was to the family legacy, so of course, I was horrified. And it was when Victor and I stood side-by-side, getting an earful from my mother, that I first realized I was also a coward. “Adelia is not to blame, Madam Sophia. It was my fault; I knocked over the glass case and accidentally stepped on the pocket watch while I was running after the young lady. I apologize, Madam. It was my mistake.” Victor held his head high, kept his eyes undeterred, and did not lose face because of an irresponsible 5-year-old girl. I saw this in Victor for a mere second before I hung my head low in shame. I forever burned this image of Victor’s fortitude in my mind, as if that alone was enough to make up for my lack of courage at the time that Victor was temporarily excused from the estate. He returned a few days later (I’m honestly thankful my parents loved the staff), but he was no longer a butler. I couldn’t look him in the eyes ever since, even though he told me I had nothing to worry about. I felt my gut churn and my heart ache. That was my earliest memory of guilt. My earliest memory of regret.                                                            * * * All of a sudden I felt stupid; of course I wasn’t dying. What was I thinking? I’m the first Calloway to go mad. I understand now. When I didn’t acknowledge Minella’s smile, I felt regret. When I left the car without greeting my driver, I felt regret. When I left Zelda to embarrass herself, I felt regret. When I heartlessly dismissed Leo’s invitation, when I criticized Minella’s waffles, I felt guilt. I felt regret. I still feel those now. But now I know what to do. Minella comes in, tea and waffles at hand, still slightly charred with the chocolate sauce all over the place. I eyed the waffles warily. “This is unusual for a midnight snack. Aren't waffles supposed to be served for breakfast?” “Ah! Um...” for the third time, Minella stutters and starts mumbling in a panic. Tonight was going to be different. I giggled, then smiled. “I’m kidding, Minella, thank you. How did you know I liked to eat waffles while I worked on some papers?” Her face instantly lit up. “Ah, well, I was on kitchen duty tonight, and one of the maids told me you preferred waffles whenever you had paperwork… or whenever you skipped dinner,” she smirked and gave me a knowing look. I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.” We both laughed, and I’m thankful she took it as a cue to enter my room without waiting for my permission. The formality was making me feel lonely. She walked to my bookshelf, right at the foot of my bed, and took a photo album out of the top shelf. She turned to me and said, “Since it looks like you’ve finished your paperwork, would you care to join me for a trip down memory lane?” I chuckled at her use of the phrase. “Hardly anyone says that anymore, Minella.” “Oh, hush. Just come sit with me,” she said, followed by a mutter of Filipino words that I couldn’t quite catch. We spent the next few minutes flipping through the pages of the album, constantly laughing at my hilarious antics caught on camera when I was much younger. We stumbled upon a picture of my parents, my mother smiling next to my father despite the burden of pregnancy on her shoulders. My father had stunning green eyes, and my mother’s a beautiful blue. I looked up at Minella, seeing her warm brown eyes for the first time in years. I looked back down at the photo. “It’s a shame I didn’t take after my mother’s eyes.” “Ah, I remember you telling me blue was your favorite eye color,” Minella said. She always had the better memory. “Yes, and it still is,” I sighed. “My eyes are such a bland color. This must be a recessive trait… but I don’t remember my grandparents or my great-grandparents having grey eyes.” I looked up again at Minella, and saw her giving me a sad smile. She must pity me right now. I usually hated it when people gave me pitying looks, as if I couldn’t take care of myself. My pride couldn’t allow that. But looking closely, I could see that that wasn’t Minella’s intention at all. She didn’t show me a smile that pities; she showed me a smile of hope. Once again, it’s as if she knew something I didn’t. “A lot of things aren’t always going to go the way you want them to, langga. There are times you’ll feel frustration and anger over some of the things that you do, and other times, guilt and regret for the things you didn’t do. There are times when you’ll feel like you’re stuck in a never-ending nightmare, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wake up from it.” I was in awe; her words were spot-on. She closed the album, returned it to the shelf, took the empty tea cup and plate, and turned back to look at me. “You’ll learn to love your eyes, langga. Just wait for it.” She gave me a wink before closing the door. I was sound asleep that night, my mind chasing dreams despite the nightmare that surrounds it. Tomorrow didn’t come, but that’s okay. Because now I knew what to do.          

Three

This was my fourth September 1st, and I’m going to make sure this is the last.

I looked up from my seat in the car just in time to see Minella smile at me, and I returned the action as I rolled down the windows and said, “Leo and I will be going to that new café after school. Would you care to accompany us in this dangerous endeavor against the forces of nature?”

Minella chuckled at my dramatic flair. “Why, of course, my lady,” she said with a curtsy. “Now hurry up before you’re late for the ceremony!”

I did as I was told, and rolled up the windows with a smile on my face.

The 15-minute ride to Hopewell was a good one; I was in my best mood.

As I was about to leave the car, I turned to the driver. “Did you hear me invite Minella to the café after school?”

“Yes, my lady,” the driver replied.

“Good, because that invite is for you too. Tell Leo about our plans once you get back.”

I stepped out of the car and was about to close the door when I forgot to do one last thing: greet the driver a nice day.

I knocked on the driver’s side window, and saw his look of surprise as the window rolled down. This is the first time I’ve ever looked into his eyes after he was temporarily dismissed from the manor all those years ago.

“Thanks for dropping me off. Have a nice day, Victor!”

                                                           * * *

“Someone looks happy today,” Henley remarked.

“Did that guy from France send you flowers again?” Kristina suggested. Her eyes were hopeful.

“Knock it off you guys, that’s not it,” I countered. “But yes, he did. I got them last week.”

The girls squealed and bombarded me with questions.

I shouldn’t have said that last bit.

As expected, rain fell as the break ended and we parted ways for the next class. Zelda slipped (for the fourth time) and I watched as the girls around her neglected helping her. I rushed to the scene, gathered her belongings, among them an open sketchbook, and held out my hand for her to take. As I did so, I noticed her face. Her cheeks were blushed and her eyes red and puffy. She looked like she was about to cry.

No, she had been crying even before she slipped in the rain.

She took my hand, and I helped her up. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

I gave her a small smile. “What’s your next class?”

“Um, chemistry. With Ms. Margaret.”

“Oh, we’re in the same class then! Let’s walk there together.”

She looked surprised (I’ve been getting a lot of those lately), but she smiled in return and nodded at the offer.

As we walked, I got to know a lot about Zelda. I first asked her about her sketchbook, and she told me she wanted to be an artist someday.

“I was made fun of by the other girls during art class because my paintings were “too simple”, “too boring”, or “lacked artistic sense”. They trashed my canvas and somehow made the teacher believe I’ve gone mad. I dashed out of the classroom halfway through the period and stayed in the bathroom. I’ve been crying ever since.”

I flipped through her sketchbook, and I sort of got what they meant when they said “lacked artistic sense”. Her pieces consisted of mostly black paint smeared across the page, with some red and blue here and there. I could make out a few shapes as well. They all focused on a central theme, with simple colors and simple designs. I knew nothing about art, so I asked her what exactly she was working on.

Her face lit up at my question. “It’s called minimalism. It’s an art form where the subject is eliminated of any unnecessary details and is stripped down to its barest form. In other words, “experiencing reality in the most direct way”.”

The whole walk to class consisted of Zelda explaining her pieces to me with a glint of passion in her eyes, and never once did she falter when I failed to understand. She would simply rephrase her explanation, and she made it look so easy. Up until then, I completely forgot she was a Fitzgerald.

But I guessed not all the Fitzgeralds were that bad.

                                                           * * *

Zelda came up to me after school, once again thanking me for helping her out after she slipped.

“It’s no problem, Zelda. Thanks to you, I got to know a little bit about art. I’m not a very good critic, but I can tell you’re really talented. Keep it up, and don’t let other people dictate your art for you.”

She gave me a look I couldn’t quite fathom, but I saw how her eyes softened. I noticed we both donned the same shade of grey.

“Y’know, I used to think the Calloways were a bunch of stuck-up snobs who didn’t care about anything else but their pride and wealth. My brother was wrong about you guys. I’m sorry I thought otherwise.”

I laughed, then replied, “And I used to think the Fitzgeralds were a bunch of hot-headed children who flaunted their money and didn’t know how to take “no” for an answer. I’m just as guilty as you are. I’m sorry too.”

After talking for a few more minutes, we finally waved each other goodbye. Upon opening our car door I was met with the Calloway staff fiasco, their arguing and shouting spiraling out of control like a bunch of children. I then realized what all the fuss was about.

Leo, who once took pride in his slicked black hair, now sported a neon pink afro.

“Leo, if you wanted to join the circus that badly­−”

“That’s not it, my lady!”

Four

(One Month Later, October 1st)

It took extreme concentration to block out the distractions that threatened to impede my journey to victory.

And by ‘distractions’, I meant Zelda’s incessant chanting.

“It’s going to fall.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“Oh, hush now Zelda. I’m trying to win here.”

“Pft, yeah. Note, “trying” to.”

My thumb and forefinger worked closely together to remove a wooden block from the tower, and so far, with Zelda annoying me to my wit’s end, things are not looking good for me. While slowly moving the block, I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding, which was, of course, a bad mistake, considering how the tower wobbled and fell to the ground with a regretful clanking of wood against ceramic.

Like the blocks, I fell with my back to the floor in one fluid motion. I give up, I thought. I’ll never beat Zelda at Jenga.

“Care for another round?” she suggested, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Oh, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Of course; it’s not every day you get to beat a Calloway at something. You may have an advantage over me in cards and chess, but when it comes to Jenga, nothing beats Zelda!”

“That rhyme was awful.”

“You’re awful.”

We both laughed as Victor knocked on my door, tentatively opening it halfway to reveal an envelope in his hand.

“Is that from Mico and Micah?”

“Definitely so, my lady! They just arrived this morning, I presume.”

I got up from my position on the floor and walked over to Victor, taking the envelope from him. After one week of numerous repetitions in the first week of September, I thought, if I was clearing as much guilt and regret as possible, I might as well continue writing letters to Minella’s siblings in the Philippines. I’m not able to write as frequently as I could before, but at least we’re keeping in touch.

“Thanks, Victor. Where’s Minella, by the way?”

“She’s over at Miss Kristina’s, probably to hunt for new dessert recipes.”

I chuckled at that. “She’s taking her new hobby quite seriously, isn’t she?”

“Why yes, she is. At least she isn’t burning pancakes or waffles anymore, right?”

I remembered those days, and smiled fondly at the memory.

“I shall leave you and Miss Zelda for now; if you need anything, please let me know.”

“I will, Victor. Thank you.”

He gave a quick bow before closing the door behind him.

I returned to my seat on floor, across the low table from Zelda, and opened the envelope.

“A lot’s changed this past month, huh?”

After four September 1st’s, two September 2nd’s, three September 15th’s, five September 22nd’s (that was a horrible day), Victor being reinstated as the family’s butler, Leo growing fond of his pink afro, and the Fitzgeralds reaching a compromise with the Calloways, I’d say “a lot” is an understatement.

““A lot” is an understatement,” I actually said.

“Your parents will lose their minds when they find out what you’ve been doing without them.”

“Considering my parents, as long as I don’t go anywhere near the kitchen, I’m safe.”

“You seriously almost burned the house down?” Zelda asked in shock.

“I seriously almost did,” I replied. I was never a magician in the kitchen; always a witch.

The sounding of the grandfather clock in the hallway tells us it’s 6 PM sharp, and Zelda stands up to gather her things.

“Thanks for having me over, but I have to go. My family’s expecting me for dinner.”

“Alright, I’ll see you off.”

We both walked together to the courtyard, where her driver was waiting for her at the gates. We waved each other goodbye, and I watched as her car drove off, thinking

wow, I never expected to befriend a Fitzgerald just a month ago, and now both families have reached a compromise, too. Mom and Dad will never believe this if I told them.

As I walked back to my room, I passed the Calloways’ “Hall of Fame”, where portraits of every single family member were hung on the walls. There were too many frames to count, so I only paid attention to the portraits of my parents and my own. I stared at my mother’s portrait, taking note of her blonde hair tucked neatly into a braid, crossing her right shoulder. The evening gown she wore looked regal, her smile bright and shining, and I remembered this photo was taken when she was about my age, several years ago. I looked over to my dad’s portrait and noticed his slicked-back hair, as brown as Minella’s eyes, and thought, this must be where Leo got his style, before he got his afro.

I ran a hand through my own hair, the same shade of brown as my father’s, as I took in his posture and branded dress suit. His smile matched my mother’s, and it looked as if he hasn’t been carrying the weight of the company his whole life. A carefree smile, to put it simply.

I shifted my focus to their eyes: my father’s a striking green, and my mother’s a beautiful blue, a color I envied to have. These familiar hues are what I should have seen in these portraits, just like all the other portraits of my parents in this manor, however, I’d be lying if I said I did. Instead of their rightful colors, both my parents’ irises were a dull shade of grey, just like my own, as if they mirrored all the struggles they’ve carried, all the frustration, anger, guilt, and regret they’ve felt. I blinked once, twice, rapidly three times, and hastily rubbed my eyes, but the portraits’ irises did not change. Upon closer inspection, they don’t seem to have been painted on either. I’ve looked into my parents’ eyes countless times, and they’re nothing like my cold, lifeless, grey ones at all. But these portraits seem to be saying otherwise.

I suddenly remembered Minella’s words on the third night of September 1st.

“A lot of things aren’t always going to go the way you want them to, langga. There are times you’ll feel frustration and anger over some of the things that you do, and other times, guilt and regret for the things you didn’t do. There are times when you’ll feel like you’re stuck in a never-ending nightmare, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wake up from it.”

I realized she wasn’t just spouting random advice; she was actually speaking from experience. Minella, my parents, they must’ve gone through a ‘nightmare’ of their own, and it may or may not have been warped time travel like mine.

It must’ve been something they had to overcome by themselves, a struggle they had to grasp before their eyes changed the way they saw the world.

I then remembered Minella telling me at random instances recently that I seemed a lot happier, I smiled a lot more, and I asked her, “What made you think so?”

And she replied with, “Your eyes made me think so.”

I looked into Mico and Micah’s envelope as I slowly walked back to my room. In their last letter, they said they would send me a photo of themselves from a few years back, when Minella was still living with the family. I fished out said photo, and saw the three siblings smiling at the camera, Minella in the middle, tightly hugging her little brother and sister. She must’ve been no more than 19 years old here.

Her eyes in the photo were the same shade of grey as my own.

No camera tricks, no Photoshop, no faded filters; in fact, the photo seemed newly developed.

This further confirms my suspicions, but I still had no concrete evidence to prove what I had just concluded, other than my own experiences this past month. But how and what can I prove with that? This past month has been nothing but pure insanity; no one would believe me.

But to think that my parents and Minella once had eyes like mine, I’m not sure which one I believe to be more insane: changing eye colors or days that repeat itself? Both are, realistically speaking, impossible.

I return to my room with a headache, still racking my brain for answers that I can’t seem to find, until I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t believe what I just saw.

“You’ll learn to love your eyes, langga. Just wait for it.”

I walked closer to the mirror, making sure I saw what I saw.

This past month, I have never really cared to pay attention to little details in my reflection, one of them being my eyes. I looked at them closely.

Since when exactly have my eyes turned blue?

Written: July 16, 2016

[cutsandcurves]

How I lost 80 pounds in one year

How I lost 80 pounds in one year 

July 15, 2007 

Current mood: encouraging Category: encouraging Goals, Plans, Hopes After the many requests, I thought a static blog was in order. Here's something I wrote for a few friends who asked that very same question: HOW'D YOU DO IT?!?! I am NOT a nutritionist or a doctor. This blog is NOT meant to be a substitute for any professional guidance or counseling. The information I provide merely reflects my own personal experiences and is NOT meant to take the place of medical or nutrition advice from professionals. But it’s helpful and pretty…so enjoy! :-D This is based on: Waking @5:15am Driving to work @ 7:45am Getting towork @ 8:30am Leaving work @ 5pm Getting home @6pm Bedtime@10pm

Table Of Contents:

* Exercise 

(+) Favorite exercise routine 

* Healthier food choices 

(+) Recipes 

+ Quick recipes 

+ Flounder foil packet 

+ Taco salad 

+ Recipe websites

* Tips 

(+) Liquid tips 

(+) Exercise tips 

(+) Food tips 

(+) Shopping tips 

(+) Sleep tips 

(+) Tracking tips 

* Words of Encouragement 

Exercise 5.30 am :

In 2006, my schedule was every other day – strength;  Every other day than that – cardio. I didn't go to the gym; I bought DVDs for @ home. For me personally, if I do the gym, it's an excuse for me not to do it (I don't want to drive, it's too this or that outside, gas, etc). In my living room, I have no excuse. 

For strength I did Gunnar Peterson's line of Core Secrets. [1] [2] [3]

For cardio I did Madonna Grimes hip hop and Latin series, a hula series by Kili, Paula Abdul's dance cardio, Chalene's Turbo Jam, & Shaun T's Hip Hop Abs -- Level 2 Ultimate Results Series.

Since January 2007 I've done Turbo Jam exclusively and have her full collection of workouts. I LOVE it and will keep it as a staple in my daily workouts. Anything dancey is the easiest way for me to get it done – I get bored with other stuff. I change my schedule every month; I like to keep my body guessing and not getting used to a routine!

In July '06 I did cardio M W F and strength T Th Sat.

In August '06 I did cardio Sun W Th F and strength T Sat

Then, up until January 20th, 2007 I did cardio Sun W F and strength T Th Sat 

My favorite TurboJam Routine is the 'Advanced Rip You Up Rotation'. It's Sick and INSANE and I LOVE IT! It pushes my body to the max and then I don't do it for a few months later so my body doesn't get used to it. Click here to see the TurboJam Advanced Rip You Up Rotation.

Healthier Choices:

Breakfast 7.30 am – I never have time to eat in the morning so yeah, I am do a quick slim fast instead. To save money, I do the powder and just mix in the morning with Lactaid non-fat or fat free milk. It costs MUCH less than the individual cans. $7 for a can that lasts you like 2 months. 2 months of breakfasts for just $7?! Come oonn hahaha. To alternate when I have time (usually weekends), I'll do 1 cup of Total Raisin Bran cereal (high in iron) or multigran multiberry Cheerios instead with some type of fruit. For the winter, oatmeal or grape nuts with lactaid non-fat milk and nuked in the microwave. Omelet's are yummy with Egg Beaters, green red and orange peppers, some onions and a little low fat cheese. Try Morning Star breakfasts sausages. They aren't real meat, so the fat content just isn't there. And they're actually good!

Snack 10 am– something small like a low fat yogurt & pretzels or grapes & pecans. You get the idea.

Lunch 12.30- This is "big" meal time or where I try and do high caloric if I get the inkling rather than at dinner. If you do it at lunch, you're more likely to burn it off during the day than to have something high in calories for dinner and then go to bed. To save money, you can do Healthy Choice Flavor Adventures. They're really good and are usually on sale for $2. I now cook my lunch & dinner at one time daily. I'll do 2servings, eat half for dinner and half for lunch the next day, it saves tons of time and thinking!

Snack 4pm- whatever I didn't eat for the earlier snack. Or I get a big bag of Snyder's low salt snap pretzels and at home, break them into little 100 calorie packs (kind of what they're trying to do now with cookies and chips, etc) into sandwich bags. It actually helps because it helps me stop at a point and not sit and eat and eat with an open bag. Some yummy air popped popcorn from my local Nuts To You store. Also fun option is 1 or 2 cups of seedless grapes or just a piece of fruit. I also enjoy Vita Muffins You can get them from a Whole Foods supermarket or go to vitalicious.com.

Dinner 7pm- Again, Dinner is half of whatever I've previously cook for lunch. Or I just go with something light since I can’t burn off much at night

Click here to see my favorite quick 'recipes'.

Tips I've learned along the way

LIQUIDS

I drink AT LEAST 64 oz of water a day. 32 oz during my morning workout, 32oz on my way to work (it's an hour commute by car) after the slim fast (You MUST drink a lot of water after slim fast). 32 oz during the rest of the work day. I know that if I try and do it at home, I wont. Sometimes making the water with Crystal light can help you drink it–rather than just plain water.

I went 2 months without drinking any diet soda. I now allow it as a treat(the new diet cherry coke zero is phenomenal!!! )

FOOD

No eating after 8pm. No snacks or sweets or anything. Before I did nothing at all after 8, but now I won't deprive myself of water, crystal light, diet soda... Since while you sleep you are your most dehydrated. The time is determined on when you go to sleep. I go to sleep at 10pm – so 8 is my cutoff.

Wheat Wheat Wheat! There are SO many choices out now. I sometimes do wheat potato bread instead of white bread or even whole wheat bread. I do wheat bagels (Thomas' has some yummy ones! They're called Bagel Squares). Wheat tortilla bread for my wraps. Wheat pastas –ORGANICS is a great brand! ORGANICS has yummy wheat pastas and pasta sauces!The marinara sauce is amazing. Ooo with wheat penne pasta, shrimp and some cheese on top *drools*.

Low fat does not = low calories. Read your labels. I track my exercise and calories. 

Low fat mayo, low fat yogurts (I do a generic supermarket brand. 40 cents and its sooo yummy!), Low fat dressings – try the new salad sprays! They give you the dressing taste without all the calories. Balsamic is my favorite. Also, instead of mayo try Hellman's new Dijonnaise. It is soo yummy. 0g of Fat. Its a mixture of spicy mustard and mayo.

Treats

EDDYS slow churned ice cream –½ cup for 100 cal!!! A nice pick you up and it's really yummy. I usually have that ½ cup with a Deep Chocolate Vitamuffin -- my healthy version of 'ice cream and cake'. Breyers slow churned is YUMMY also. It tastes just like frozen yogurt.

ALLFRUIT Popsicles – mmm they're excellent. I've even gotten my 'bad eating' family hooked on those hahaha. You can get them anywhere but Target has them for less.

Snyder's snap pretzels, popcorn, nuts (like pecans, sunflower seeds)

& of course, Fruit fruit fruit!

Exercise

It is recommended to do 30 minutes of exercise 6 days a week. That doesn't mean 30 minutes all at once. You can do 10 in the morning, 20 later…20 in the morning, 10 at lunch -- like that. Exercise in this form is represented as "breaking a sweat". So whatever helps you break a sweat, do that for 30 minutes… if you get my drift ;)

Never do exercises less than 6 hours to your bed time. It'll throw off your sleep and good sleep helps you have energy which in turn helps you lose weight.

Sleep

Wake up the same time every day, even weekends. Your internal clock will thank you!

Shopping

There are just so many choices out now. And they aren't too much more than the"regular" stuff. Genaurdi's is my favorite supermarket. Shop Rite has better prices and Target has some great things also. Whole Foods is a great supermarket. I also buy in bulk my meats and veggies at a wholesale bulk store – like BJs, Sam's or Costco. I only cook for me, so I freeze everything in twos – 1 serving for lunch and one for dinner.

Tracking

My one major piece of advice? TAKE PICTURES! You'll thank yourself when you are 80+ pounds less a year later and can look back and say wow.. Take swimsuit, underwear or exercise clothing pictures for your own collection and clothed pictures to share your success with others.

 I measure & weigh myself every week (although it started melting off so fast in the beginning I would do it every other day LOL).

Invest in a good digital scale. Mines is so good, it literally told the same exact weight the same day I went and got on the doctors scale: true test of a great scale. I got the Tanita with Body Fat% calculator for $70.

Keep a diary. I TRY and track everything I eat, exercise, how I felt about that exercise, menstrual cycle (it affects your weight counts-ovulating, cycle, end cycle), and a chart of my measurements, weight and dates. - This also helps you learn more about your body. I'm so much more self aware! I track my exercise, food and weight. I've noticed that by the end of the day I have 400 –900 calories left to expend!! How self-aware it makes you!

I also invested in a good heart rate monitor. I have a PINK (heheh) Polar F6 heart rate monitor. It tracks the amount of time you work out, how much you have burned, how long you were in your selected hr target range, plus so much more! I use it at every exercise session.

Words of Encouragement

Turbo Jam + Tracking program + Polar hr monitor = a SICK combination that will help you SO much!

Just be patient! HAVE FUN! That is the most important. If you're not enjoying it, you won't lose and it wouldn't be worth it even if you did!

Don't be so strict with yourself. Slip ups happen. It's the control you set that will amaze yourself. "ya know, I really only do want this one piece of candy". "I don't really need 2 pieces of pizza".. etc.

PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR BODY. In a week or 2 my appetite completely shrunk. Pay attention to when you feel hungry and etc. You'll be amazed.

It takes 45 minutes for our bodies to realize we are full. Eat slow –cut up your food as you go.. sip water..etc.

This is the first step, getting information. Gradually do it. You don't have to be a pro from the get go! Try the exercise first. It's most important to change exercise first because when you start changing your diet; you'll need your metabolism to get going on this new routine. Then try the stopping eating at 8 (or what works with your bedtime).Then try the eating changes. Let me know how you're doing! Slow and steady wins the race. Don't look for quick fixes as we've all tried those and we see it doesn't work. It didn't take you overnight to gain the weight, so you won't lose it overnight either!! You have your whole life to lose the weight –more important? TO FEEL HEALTHY! My energy has skyrocketed and my self esteem and self confidence has followed.

Currently watching : Turbo Jam LIVE Cardio Party REMIX

[tobns]

8, 12, 13, 20, 36, 42, 49 xo

love you long time!!!

8. what time are you most productive?

at night. and not just like rn, where it’s only like 8pm, i’m talking like painfully inconvenient night where i can’t half stay awake but yet i’m ridiculously inspired and i have throwback songs from middle school BLARING, lmao. i’m a night owl so i’m always more productive when it’s dark outside and everyone in my house is too busy relaxing or sleeping to bother me

12. favorite place to write

my room is always kinda number one, i’ve written so many things sitting here on this bed it’s probably kinda lame but this is always where i’ve been most in my element, in my own little space or whatever. i also love love LOVE writing at my memaw/aunt’s houses or out on the balcony whenever we go to the beach, i find being in places that are more or less a little part of me that i’m able to churn out some really good work

13. hardest character to write

already answered!

20. favorite character to write

oh god, i’ve had so many over the years. i always tend to like writing the characters who feel most like myself or are literally the products of my inner voice?? right now it’s definitely lexie grey, she’s so much fun to write, especially her dynamic with mark and everything (and add in the fact it’s like writing myself, oh well). i definitely think isabelle, jackie, or dayo have been some of my absolute favorites of all time, though, they’re an actual party to write

36. oneshot or multichaptered story?

multichapter; my oneshots are usually enormous undertakings and nothing at all short or sweet or simple and they often come out mirroring the length of my multichapters and i come out even more dead than i would have been writing a multi

42. do you plan or do you write whatever comes to your mind?

i do both, mostly because sometimes i have ideas that i have to plan out ahead of time???? i always write stuff down the minute it comes to mind especially since i can be very very forgetful (who’s surprised by this??? no one??? what i thought) and a lot of times it’s usually me jotting out plans for like overall plots or scene ideas, sometimes even actual dialogue and stuff? i’ve gotten to the point now where i usually just plan everything because unlike back in 2012, i can get a little spaced out and forgetful and like having everything right there in case i do drop a story and want to return to it later

49. writing advice

only do it if it makes you happy. seriously. i spent a majority of 2016 being so goddamn FRUSTRATED with writing because i was writing for fandoms and things that i thought made me happy but really, it all felt like a chore and i’d get so pissed when no one cared that i’d poured every ounce of effort i had into it and it just wasn’t fun and writing is always supposed to be fun??? so if you’re not happy, don’t do it. switch it up. take a break. find something else to write about. half the time when you don’t have the muse to write something, that’s your brain (and your heart) telling you that you’re really not in it anymore and you need to move onto something else. i’ve been back writing on here for a few months now and literally can’t remember the last time i was this happy because i’m loving what i’m writing, others are enjoying it, but most importantly, i’m having FUN in my escape, lmao. also, FORMATTING. JESUS CHRIST IF YOU CAN’T DO BASIC, BASIC FORMATTING..........look at a book. follow the book’s example. it is like this for a reason.

[quickbrownfoxjumpsoverthelazydog]

ROY ORBISON'S HOLOGRAM SINGING FOR THE LONELY..

(Let it be known, I am no Music Critic. I’m just a fan.) On a cold wet evening in mid-November, I embarked on an hour’s drive south to see the hologram of Roy Orbison perform in Greenville, SC. Yes, that is correct. Along for the ride was my Ma, and her boyfriend of some years.  It was a special occasion to get to see Roy’s hologram perform, and especially to share it with my Ma. I remember being a kid and one of the only albums I can picture in her possession was that of Roy Orbison’s Hits. She always used to say: “He wasn’t much to look at, but boy could he sing.." (including at least once in the Prius on the drive down, and once post-show): The Peace Center in Greenville is a large auditorium, seats I would say 2,000 butts. (I just search engined it and it appears I was only 112 butts off. As a musician, who plays in rooms, way smaller than this, I just pat myself on the back for being able to gauge that). I crack to my Ma that I must be the youngest person here (I was born in ’83) and I’m not too far off. We bring up the tickets on our smartphone, get scanned in, empty our bladders, walk up the stairs 2 flights to the balcony, get told where our seats are, scoot down the narrow aisle, take off our coats, and pop a squat. It’s about 10 minutes til showtime so we dilly dally for a bit on our smartphones, look around, comment how it’s maybe a little more than half full, talk about how weird this is going to be, until.. the lights go down. Much hushed murmuring, as that cue always cues, and a flesh colored fella comes out, makes some announcements, says there will be 25 minutes of music, followed by a 20 minute intermission, followed by 90 minutes of music, and then he introduces…. !!! … Peter Frampton’s son, Julian. Oh, okay. Frampton Junior walks out and begins to strum his acoustic-electric and launches into a song that he wrote, of which approximately 15 seconds into I can feel hard struck panic begin to swell into every inch of my being as I realize I am stuck there for the next 25 minutes, because I am literally smack dab center of a row that has approximately 18 people to my left, and 23 or so to my right. Any attempt at escape is out of the question.  25 minutes to go.  I decide to try and give it a chance, but alas, I cannot. It is the exact opposite of everything about music that I stand for. I feel like Ethan Hawke sitting on the couch in Reality Bites, after Winona Ryder comes in from making out with that yuppie, and Hawke patronizingly croons: “Ooo baby I love your way.. Everyday..”. (Julian’s pops, nonetheless, in case you didn’t know). Perhaps I am as cynical as Hawke, maybe because the music deserves it, or maybe because I’m an asshole, or maybe just because, like Hawke, I was jealous of something. When 25 minutes is up, I clap for the first time, as it’s Frampton’s last song and I am more than ecstatic. Next up: THE BIG O! After a 20 minute break that is. I begin texting one of my friends. Not because I have nothing better to do, but just because I have to complain to someone about Frampton’s set. Okay okay, I’ll stop the Frampton bashing. I honestly don’t care and that’s not what this essay is about, it’s about Orby! Good ole digitally back from the grave Orby! 20 minutes finally come to pass, and the lights go low again. Much excitement and applause and Woo Hoo's..  And then.. The curtain raises quick as a wink and there’s a huge orchestra must be 25 or 30 pieces and they’re churning out “Pretty Woman” and there’s a screen on the back of the wall and it’s a montage of Roy and “Pretty Woman” actually turns into a sick medley of this and that and the other but keeps coming back to the “Pretty Woman” riff until finally a strong male voice comes on the PA and announces “Ladies and Gentleman! ROY ORBISON!”. And I'll be damned if I didn’t look to the back of the stage thinking he was just going to stroll out from behind the curtain and right down the middle of that orchestra in the flesh.. But that didn’t happen. INSTEAD, ROY comes UP through the GROUND as though on an ELEVATOR straight outta his CASKET, Center Stage, Microphone, Mic Stand, Guitar, Guitar Cable, Grey Suit, Sunglasses, Pompadour, and all! The band has already been “Dum dum dum dumdee doo wah”-ing away, and the moment Roy is fully there, he let’s it come right out: "..Only the lonely.." The crowd is wide-eyed, they’re smiling, they’re laughing, they’re a bit confused, they’re clapping, and so on.  Now, this is probably one of my favorite songs of Orby’s, and I’m into it, but immediately, I can’t help but feel as though.. well feel as though I KNOW.. this just ain’t real. Don’t get me wrong. The orchestra is all outta bubble gum, (i.e. they’re just kicking ass) and Roy’s voice in on point. It’s just that.. it’s just not real.  At least Frampton Jr., bless his heart, was real and in the flesh. He could crack a dumb off the cuff joke or forget to un-mute his tuner pedal. All Roy says is the occasional “Thank you” in between songs. This brings me to what I guess is the posed point of this writing: Shouldn’t live music be: Live? Isn’t that the purpose? I can listen to a Roy record at home or watch a video if I want and have this same visceral experience. In the words of Eddie Vedder, when I see a live show, I wanna see the “distress on a guy’s face as he’s trying to sing and play guitar at the same time.” Ma brought some binoculars, so throughout the show we pass them between us and, looking through, we come to find and agree upon: Roy’s face doesn’t look quite like him. It’s slightly.. off. At least, it’s off from the pictures that have been telling us what he looks like our whole lives (“He wasn’t much to look at…”). Ma also comments “He don’t look like he’s even playing his guitar!” (I assure her, he's actually making chords). I wanna see the distress of a guy’s not-entirely-how-I-remember-hologramed face as he’s singing and (appearing) to play the guitar at the same time.  As the show goes on, I’m able to give into it here and there, and there are some moments of pure magic. Perhaps not a testament to this production, but in the least to Roy as a performer, and the strength of the songs he performed. “A Love So Beautiful” was just downright heavenly with that string section swelling. “I Drove All Night” just about brought me to tears, though perhaps more for the fact it was the song a friend (who recently killed himself) and I learned in order to play at some of our best friends’ wedding a year ago. I overhear the elderly ladies to my right comment a few things every now and then. Sometimes I sneak a look over and they just seem delighted at all of this. I think: what do they think of this show? Is it just a pure magical treat to them? Is their disbelief completely suspended? To see someone who maybe they actually saw live in their time, come back to life while they are here, late in their life, to give them the time of their life, again? I don’t know, I didn’t ask them. Every once in a while, there is a short Photo or Video Montage on that back screen and the Orchestra will accompany it, so, whenever that happens, Roy will literally POOF into thin air, leaving a trail of ghost-like smokiness. Then when he comes back for another song, he will elevator ride up again from the ground/great beyond. When the riff finally comes in again for his biggest hit “Pretty Woman” to close out the show, the crowd is hooting and hollering. And to be honest, I can’t help but tap my foot and bop along, as my Ma does the same, a big smile on her face and a glow in her eyes. And I’m transported back to being a kid, and she’s got this song on, and she’s dancing around to it, and singing along, and I’m watching her, with a glow in my eyes.  I guess that’s just the power a song can behold, everything else be damned.  Maybe this is the future of music, to bring the past back. Or maybe it’s just the future.  But really, it’s here now. It’s present.

[horrible-monstrosity]

17 We open with friendly neighborhood dumbass Akko studying studiously, sitting on a bench in a sunny grassy field which she ignores in favor of a massive stack of books like the bookworm Lottie only sort of is, while redhead side witch bitches about dropping out of school because she's just too cool. An... interesting entrance into the episode, to be sure.

Redhead turns herself into a dashing boys' school student. ..... Did the spell make her grow bollocks

"even though no one's asking you?" is a pretty weird way to ask someone about their dream. I don't think anyone asked redhead to become a broomdancer, or robots girl to become robots, or... anyone to do anything they just wanted to do. and again, she has already accomplished what she says she wants to do- the yeti, in the next episode robert girl, the fairy strike... this show does not know what it has done or what it's doing.

... Wait, are they really here to just fucking steal the grail from the school? why? I've already forgotten why they wanted it, and why petty theft by a couple of randos is so easily accepted as a method of getting it back. Are there no witch authorities who might have wanted in on this? Later redhead says it "belongs" to the guys' school as a way to deflect explaining how it works... shrugg

Have I mentioned yet that I like the supporting trio more than the main three? I could probably write a whole fucking essay on that. All three of them are straight-up archetypes... but that alone is enough to make them at least basically functional as characters. Because that's *why* archetypes end up as archetypes- it's a grouping of character tropes and traits that hits a chord with people. And that's why "cunning normal" was such a fucking retarded concept, Kiznaiverrrrrrr-

It's kinda weird she stays disguised even after getting caught... I guess this is actually consistent; it's been shown before you need to use another spell to transform back, meaning unlike most settings ontological inertia actually applies. but then later on the transformation seems to start slowly undoing itself for no reason anyway. How does this work? magic router?? why'd akko even take that?... whatever

we finally get some violence against witches (threatened but never put though because of course not), which doesn't explain anything but at least characterizes the guys as your entirely typical medieval-styled witch not-likers. The fact that this is what passes for an improvement in this fuckshow of a shitshow is just fucking sad. there are some actually tense and brutal scenes in there, some nice visual shots, like akko getting thrown on the table tied up and the distant side-shot of the guy getting hit by the armor... that aren't killed by wackyness! Amazding! ... Though it still doesn't quite work, probably because the show is still clearly too light-hearted to, say, actually use the torture devices. But them being pulled out isn't a wacky gag either aside from a bit of the reaction. what tone is this?

"y u no use ur magic on me??" "because there's no reception here dumbass the fuck do you think this works like"

Yet another interesting unaddressed plot point- magic was what got them into this mess and turned blong guy into an armored monster, and while a witch was the one who stopped it little to no magic was used in doing so, she basically just needed to smack him hard enough. It seems like the takeaway from this is that witches are perfectly fine people, but magic still needs to fucking die. hmm

by the way what happened to the wordfinding plot this episode

So clearly this was Croi boi testing her angery magicks, but I have to wonder... *why* is anger magic the strongest sort? I mean, it can basically only be arbitrary, but how convenient that her evil energy-having plan can't just go off by spreading feelings of sunshine and happiness.

18 "trained to catch every gost in 12 days, but the goal is one gost in one year"... This is literally, exactly, what Lottie says. What? Literally one minute in and like 20 seconds of dialogue and already this shit makes not a single lick of fucking sense.

akko trips and fucks things up again okay we fucking get i- why was that enpugh to breakm the fucking robort? akko's own body must be the most destructive object know to mankind.

We return to the generic wackey-qwackey humorisms the show had mostly shed in the last couple episodes, and it feels more forced than ever before. After all these thng I can't actually believe Akko's still this shit... and apparently the show itself doesn't either, since as soon as Akko finds something she can actually do it entirely stops. Once she starts working as a convincer/go-between/gopher, not a single thing gets broken. In other words, Trigger just abandoned her character development to churn out and force out more mediocre obligate humor. But at least it was only for, like, half of the episode.

on the other hand once she gets her shit back together the cards get brought back. That was always a kind of interesting little thing, that Akko knew some things even other witches didn't because of the fandom-ing that brought her to the school where she was otherwise so far behind everyone else. I mean, that just raises the question of why the other witches apparently never saw these cards and I feel like I asked exactly this many an episode ago so let's just move the fuck on again

isn't the ship from the OVA? it looks like the shiny rod... and like the same old vaguely eva-lagann looking shit. I forget what it was from Gainax that looked like that, but definitely it was something.

"I already know I won't be as good as Constance"... Man, when Akko's good, she's fucking good. She really isn't trampling over someone else with the conviction that she's always right about everything, she's just so excited she wants to draw a fucking robort. And then Candace loves it and is inspired to make it actually work. it's fucking cute man

gosts viral on social media Normies can't see gosts, but presumably Akko can. How is this actually determined? Rather, the deeper problem is that the line between witches and normies was never defined. There's some implication that it's hereditary, since everyone aside from Akko comes from a "witching family", but the very existence of Akko belies that. So if anyone can train to become a witch, how much training do you do before you become witchy enough to see gost? Actually, should people with latent potential be able to see gost? If Akko is bad at becoming a witch, logically there should be some people who would be better at it relative to her. Shouldn't there be some people in the crowd who can see gost as is? Also, do any males exist with any amount of witch potential, who could see ghosts on their own? If they had never called attention to it by doing the "gost can't see normie" thing, there'd be nothing to really question- you could assume witching is a skill like any other that people could aquire, that's often handed down through families like any other job or career, and that some people are just kind of terrible at. Buuuuut they had to get in this lame "muh on muh cell phone at tuh evuuuunnnt" joke and didn't think it through. Good work, Trigger, keep it up

how is many crow? how many gost We're shown each cube succing up at least one gost each, then multiple cubes forming one crow, but then there's a whole fucking lotta fucking crows. How many gosts were there? How many were left after the large amount that were already taken out? There's just an unmeasured infinite supply of gost somewhere offscreen to conveniently move in as needed. Trigger didn't think this through. And then a super-giant mega-crow shows up which must have used up even more gost. Great

and then the robort- OKAY TRIGGER WE GET IT YOU WUZ GAINAX ONCE CALM THE FUCK DOWN this is just so boring. YEAH, A FUCKING ROBOT, WE GET IT TRIGGER, YOU FUCKS HAVE FUCKING ISSUES. GAINAX-SENPAI WILL NEVER FUCKING NOTICE YOU, GET OVER IT. ... reactions from the peanut gallery are on point tho. akko even credits constantinople for her part in making this possible. she's a good kid. so good. too pure for this fucking show - the robort runs out of energy- WHY DID YOU NOT BRING A ROUTER YOU FUCKNAUTS THERE WAS ONE IN THE IMMEDIATELY PRECEEDING EPISODE WHY - it's a drill. it's a fucking drill. ........ i want to cry acid.

team cubes it blastign off againnnnnnfuck this gay earth

aww man akko doesn't even want to be thanked but compton gives her a training broom anyway. it's beautiful.

19 an old tradition and a new power... croix-was-write is written into the very fabric of reality in this show. good and then mom-diana fucking dies. LOL BYE BITCH.

why would you have the head-appointing ceremony randomly every few years rather than, like, when you need to appoint a new family head? it would even affect the exact same urgency, just have events come to a head so she needs to be pulled out of school and become family head now. why are they electing a baby teen as family head anyway? what age are these kids, anyway? akko looks like ten sometimes.

the second diana says "muh respekt for convention!!" you know she's gonna be treated as full of shit. it's over something we've never heard of and had no reason to assume, anyway. i don't even know "you know about the words?" you've blabbed them to everyone including the rival school that wants to execute you all, so why are you surprised?

...... LOL WHUT THE AUNT LITERALLY HAS GLOWING RED DEMON EYES WHAT THE FUCC?

.... Andrew is one of the best fucking characters in this shitshow of a show. The amount of fucks he's come to not give... Just invite the witch girl your father knows and hates to ride in your car squished up between him and yourself. And dad-man just can't fucking do anything about it. Holy shit lol and lol these british people sure fucking love soccer. boy i sure bet this isn't hammed-in foreshadowing for some fucking bullshit that's going to happen in the last episodes!!!! i'd fucking bet my lyfe on it !!!!!!

what fuck is diantha wearing We get another one of those nice moments that makes me hate the rest of the show. Akko, being energetic and people-oriented as always but somewhat more constrained due to the awkward and unfamiliar situation, tries to go for the teddy bear as an attempt to start some conversation with Diana... Diana yells at her not to touch it, and she actually does not touch it. Now go back and watch the robot episode again. HMMMMMMmmmmm Except it wasn't about the bear, it was about the box of Chariot cards, because of course Diantha actually likes Chariot, bet no one ever saw that twist comingHEY WAIT A MINUTE, didn't one of the earlier episodes hinge on Akko knowing something Diantha didn't because of the cards?? It can't be because Akko was the only one to autistically memorize them all, because Diantha is smurt character and should have remembered it at least somewhat just from reading it normally. kindness from diana, when the rest of the family and household is by akko's own statement even worse.

old lady yells at akko while unfitting music plays