#just chill out jfc shes not even graduated high school yet

[youngshiney]

some of yall are a little too weird about a 17 year old

[mf-despair-queen]

Jigsaw Pieces - Chapter 4 - Mitch Rapp

Author: @mf-despair-queen​

Characters: Mitch Rapp/Reader

Word Count: 4,715

Summary: Mitch has changed since the in Ibiza. After some fearful words, Mitch disappears without notice. She’s determined to find him - no matter the cost.

Warnings: None Really?

Notes: JUST LET ME POST ALREADY TUMBLR. JFC

Eighteen Months Later…

Mitch changed.

After spending countless weeks in the hospital for his injuries, he was forced to undergo physical and mental rehabilitation. You couldn’t count how many times the doctors had called because he had awoken in the middle of the night screaming at the tops of his lungs from the trauma on the beach. You couldn’t count the number of times you saw him collapse from pain, the wound in his leg throbbing with unyielding agony. You couldn’t count the number of times you stood outside his hospital room, staring through the window at his broken figure, fingers running over the scar on his shoulder.

Yet, he never said a word of it to you. Not once did Mitch say anything about his pain or his distress, keeping a cold persona that made your skin crawl and your wrist ache.

After graduating with your masters, you moved down to Rhode Island with Mitch, despite his silent protests. He never actively pushed you away, but you couldn’t help feeling that he was trying to distance himself from you. Writing it off as part of his painful loss, you stayed with him, caring for him just as you always had.

Every night, you would show up at his apartment door, letting yourself in with the spare key he never complained that you had. He would be shirtless at his computer or in his bed, reading some book in which you weren’t sure the contents were. Every once in a while, you would find him knee deep in exercising, his fists pounding away at the punching bag hung up from his roof. His eyes, dark and mysterious, would glance up at you, never truly acknowledging your presence in his messy home. He would follow your form across the apartment until you found the kitchen, placing the groceries you got for him in his fridge, making dinner for the two of you.

He would grace you long enough to sit at the table for an awkward, silent meal, words rarely being shared. The clink of silverware against the plates filled the apartment, sometimes Mitch being preoccupied with a book. He never gazed at you for long, your eyes lefts to linger on his form, taking in the changes he had undergone in a year and a half.

His hair had grown out, the once shorted chocolate locks having grown out to something that was reminiscent of his high school days. The ends curled towards the roof unless they were wet with sweat or a shower. His luscious locks had lost some of its sheen, mirroring his depressed form. You only knew that it was the same fluffy locks he always had because he would sometimes fall asleep after dinner and you would sit with him, running your hands through his hair. It seemed to calm him, a wave of relaxation washing over you almost like you were able to feel his aura seeping through your system.

To add to the longer hair, the man had grown out his beard considerably. It felt like the first true sign that he was a man now, no longer the teen you went to highschool with. A thick brush of hair covered his lip, chin and cheeks, hiding the constellation of marks that were spread across his jawline. It saddened you that they were invisible to the naked eye as the hair got longer. Recalling the nights you could just say next to each other talking, you had counted the number of marks and moles he had strewn across his fair skin countless times, memorizing them without realizing it. Though, staring at him now, his slender digits stroking the length of his beard, tugging at the end strands

His body had changed. The fact that he strolled around his apartment shirtless helped you to admire his newly improved physique. His arms had bulked up from incessant training, the same veins you were used to running alone paled skin. His pecs had tightened, showing off his collarbone more pronouncedly. His shoulders had broadened with his increased muscle tone, his sheer strength of will resting on them. The thing that made you frown the most was the star that glared across the room on his shoulder - from either side - from the bullet wound he incurred. It was the bitter reminder of what had happened; it was the imperfection that seemed to keep him going.

The cold man sat across from you, you heart breaking at the sight. You never stopped caring; you never stopped loving him. If anything, you cared for him more than ever. From the time you saw him lying in the bed, broken and lost, you wanted to be there for him. And over time, as you watched him recover - watching him grow strong physically and mentally - you couldn’t help but feel your rapid heartbeat pounding against your ribcage, a clammy hand placed over it when you were alone. Your body burned, yearning to touch him, hold him and tell him things would be ok. You wanted to feel loved, even if it was a simple friendship once more.

The burning intensity that spread up your arm, however, worried you.

An uncomfortable knot typically sat inside you, something unsettling egging at your insides. Your mind screamed that something wasn’t right - that something was off. But what it was, you couldn’t say for sure. The only sign your had was the constant sizzle the ran through your veins, resembling adrenaline and determination that didn’t feel like your own. The source: the puzzle piece. Everything seemed to radiate from it and resting a hand over it at night, it felt like your skin was n fire under chilled, icy hands. Whenever your eyes fell upon Mitch, the burn seemed to increase, your thumping heart speeding up without the feeling of love.

Swallowing thickly one night, you placed your fork down with a loud clatter than caught Mitch’s attention for once. Dark whiskey eyes glanced up from his own food, a brow raising. Your hands fell into your lap, fingers fiddling together anxiously. Your eyes squeezed shut, unsure why you felt so nervous. It felt like it had been forever since you spoke to him. It felt like you hadn’t had a normal conversation with the Mitch you knew and loved. His gaze now felt like it was piercing your soul, your blood running cold. His warming presence now teetered over you, intimidating you with just a glance.

“Mitch,” you breathed, finally daring to look up at the man. “Are you ok?”

The question was honest, and you could see Mitch waver slightly at the sudden inquiry. His hand shook, the fork placed on the table slowly. His reddened lips pursed together, rubbing together in thought. His eyes narrowed before falling to the table, pondering whatever words he would spout off. Cocking your head to the side, you waited, no immediate answer coming. Your hand unconsciously rubbed at your irritated wrist, a sense of dread and anguish beginning to wash over you. Your lip quivered, eyes glistening with unshed tears you had withheld for years.

“Please,” you let out quietly, voice cracking under the weight of worry. “Please, Mitch. Just answer me honestly. I’m so worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” came his quick reply. His sultry voice made you shiver, the man returning his gaze to you across the table. A fire burned in his orbs. His hands curled into tightened fists, knuckles glowing a ghostly white from the tension. “I promise, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure-”

“Yes,” he cut you off, giving a small smile that screamed fakeness. “I promise, I’m fine. I will make things right, I swear.”

His words sparked a sense a distrust - a feeling you never thought you’d feel. Something felt off with the way he said it. Something wasn’t right because the mark imprinted in your skin burned hotter with determination. Yet, behind the fire was a cold wave that told you one thing.

Mitch lied about being fine.

But…

He wasn’t lying about making things right.

The words lingered in your mind ever since. You wanted to piece together what it meant. You were scared your friend - your crush - was going to do something he may regret one day. Nightmares plagued your mind of the reckless things he could attempt, the result always the same. He would lay on the ground in a pool of his own blood, the crimson liquid spreading out in every direction. Finally, it would settle around your feet, staining your bare feet. His lifeless eyes would bore into you, head giving a sickly crack as it tilted in the wrong direction in a zombie-like manner. His mouth would part, the same words making you scream yourself awake.

Why didn’t you help me? Why did you let me die?

In your state of panic, you began to use your days ff to tail the man. Taking note of his odd behavior as the fall and winter weather approached, you bundled in the warmest jacket you could find, a bean on your head and gloves on your hands while following him, keeping a safe distance so he wouldn’t pick up on your presence. His head occasionally would whip around, as if he felt eyes on him at all hours of the day.

You hid in a corner of the gym, sipping on a bottle of water while watching him wrestle and fist fight with the other men. Mitch seemed to be oblivious to your form watching over him, too focus on the punches he would throw, the kicks he laid and the aggressive grappling he had become fond of. One too many times, you saw how violent he would become, spinning his body around in a way that made his butt stick out in the black and red gym shorts. His legs would wind around a man’s torso, hands gripping at the shirt to begin choking the defenseless trainee. Only when they were red in the face and on the verge of passing out would Mitch be ripped away, his opponent gasping for air with the mumble of low curses under his breath.

The increased violence furthered your worry. Mitch could be a hard ass growing up, but before your eyes, this was new extreme. He seemed primed to kill, his sight gone red with one thought: fulfill the task at hand. Even in training, he seemed to be prepping for something, not caring who was in his way of becoming strong. His steps never tangled and his hands never wavered, the intent to end a life sickening.

Your head snapped up one cold afternoon, the straw of your coffee between your lips when you heard the yells of Carlos from the mats. The pen in your hand fell into your notebook, straightening up where you sat to see what was going on. Mitch was swiping his thumb across his nose, cheek red. His eyes had narrowed as Carlos’ booming voice carried.

“That’s it, Rapp. You’re done. Get out,” he told the sweaty man. Mitch glanced between the gym owner and the guy gasping for air on the ground, cursing out Mitch. Noticing he stood stagnant, Carlos’ voice raised, pointing at the door. “Get out!”

Mitch rolled his eyes, an air of annoyance exuding from him body. He reeked of it, not caring who knew he was pissed off. Ripping off the gloves, Mitch trotted to his belongings, removing the leg pads before pulling on his shoes. His hair stuck to his forehead, clothes clinging to his limbs. Whipping his jacket onto his shoulder, he stood from his seat, gym bag tight in hand.

“Have a nice fucking day,” was his bitter remark. You winced when the clang of the door banged open, Mitch disappearing into the cold while the door clattered shut.

Gathering your stuff, you rushed over to Carlos, giving him a sad smile. “I’m so sorry about him, Car. He’s just… he’s been on edge.”

Carlos sighed, rubbing his chin. “I know he’s your friend, but you can’t keep making excuses for him, Y/N.”

“What? I’m not-”

“Watch out for him,” Carlos said. “He’s going to get hurt with this reckless behavior. Or worse - he’ll get someone else killed. And I’d rather not hear that it’s you.”

You frowned, tightening your grip on your bag. You stared at the ground, biting at your lip. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I don’t know about that anymore.”

You left without another word, following Mitch to his next destination: the gun range. With every step you took, all you could think was, He would never do that.  

Walking down the packed street, you slid past people as fast as you could, trying to keep pace with the ever vigilant man. Your hands were stuffed in the pockets of your jackets, only pulling out glove-clad hands when you moved by people while uttering low apologies. Your eyes never left the man through the gaps in the crowd, a considerable gap to keep from being noticed.

Through the entire process of tailing your friend, you missed the shutter of a camera going off, a man in black clicking photo after photo of Mitch as he hastily sped his way down the Rhode Island streets of gray brick and cobblestone. The circle with a distinct crosshair narrowed on the man for a flurry of pictures before turning to you. The man in black taking the photos stared at the image of you he had captured, clicking the radio on his ear.

“Candidate is on the move to the gun range. The girl is on his tail.”

“Does she know anything?”

“I don’t think so. I think she’s just concerned.”

“Well, make sure she doesn’t pick up on his habits. If he makes a move, we can’t drag her into this.”

“Yes, ma’am, Director Kennedy.”

~

You didn’t know that the last time you would would see Mitch was that day at the gun range. You had stood worried near your coworker who agreed to cover for you as you watched Mitch. It started out normal: shot after shot making your ears ring, even through the noise cancelling headphones you were designated to wear in the pit. Each shot that was fired nailed its target, the paper cut out of a human being displaying holes in the head and chest.

The noise picked up when he swapped guns, the hand gun exchanged for a high powered rifle that struck through the air with a sickening crack. The constant ‘boom, boom, boom’ made you wince, watching the slaughter of the target in progress. Dust was flying, bullets hitting the wall behind the target as it was torn to shreds. People stopped at stare at the man you called your longtime best friend, his form unwavering and unflinching.

You stood from your seat in panic when the alarm sounded, blaring into your mind clearly. Each step into the gravel Mitch did made you heart jump, clammy hands gripping at the bottom of your shirt. After swapping guns again, the even more high powered pistol firing off into the air, Mitch was attacking other targets. When he moved forward, the gun dangled at his side, the former athlete swapping to a handheld pistol as if he were finishing off a target after he ran out of bullets.

You wanted to run after hi, hugging him from behind to stop him. But Jeremy held you back, shaking his head. Sadly, you were forced to watch Mitch get escorted from the premises.

You didn’t follow him after that. You headed home, soaked in a bath, and never heard from him again. He seemed to vanish, leaving nothing more than a note on his fridge door that said he was on a trip and not to worry about him. The words didn’t calm you, your worry building each day that passed. Phone calls went unanswered, going straight to voicemail after a while. Texts went unread, no reply attempted. No sign of life lingered in his apartment, the mess the same very time you walked in, walking back out immediately after. Dust was gathering on the surfaces. Mitch’s landlord asked every time you walked in what was going on.

All you could tell him was you didn’t know before passing him the payments Mitch neglected while he was away.

Sitting at work one afternoon, Wendy, you seatmate, slide over to you, leaning on her elbows as she eyed you. Her long black hair draped across her shoulders, tips brushing against the tabletop. Her dark eyes narrowed on your form, bright red lips pursed together. Manicured nails drummed against the polished table, the click clack making your nerves rattle. Amidst all of your stress, you were on edge from lack of sleep. Hearing her chair squeak when he shifted into a different position to stare at the side of your face, you let out a deep sigh, turning to her.

“Can I help you, Wen?”

“You look like you haven’t slept again,” she pointed out. Gesturing to her own face, she pointed out the spot just under her eyes. “Your make up didn’t cover the bags. And you look like you haven’t eaten. You’ve lost color in your cheeks.”

“Is my makeup really that bad that you can tell?” you huffed, pulling a mirror from your purse.

“Yes and no,” she mused. “I just know you that well. So, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you mumbled.

“You’re a horrible liar.”

You sighed again, letting your head fall to your lap. You hand instinctively rubbed at your wrist, feeling a brief sting of pain course through your body. It wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the shockwaves you had encountered, but it was rattling whenever the sudden feeling took over. Wendy watched on, waiting for you to answer.

“I’m just worried,” you admitted, eyes darting to her for a second. “Mitch hasn’t been home in over a month. He was he was on a trip, but I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. I’m scared something happened. The last time he left like this, he was shot in Ibiza. He hasn’t been the same since and I’m afraid that he went off to do something reckless. That he’s on some suicide mission.”

You wanted to tell her more. To tell her about the burning sensation that flowed through your veins like fire. To confess about the feelings you felt that weren’t your own: the sense of dissatisfaction that happened days after Mitch vanished, the anger that made your skin crawl, the shocks of pain that ripped through your body nights ago while a sense of determination and focus kept your eyes open. But, you knew she would think you crazy. It was like telling someone you could hear voices. It wouldn’t end well to say something.

“All he left was a note, right? Saying he would be away?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I’m sure he left it because he knew I would stop by. I-”

“You always do. I know,” she mused. “You care a lot for that man but it feels like he doesn’t care back.”

“No, he does,” you said, almost as if trying to convince yourself too. “He’s been my friend forever. So, whatever’s been going on - what’s been going through his mind - I don’t think he wants me involved. That’s why I’m afraid he’s going to do something reckless. He won’t tell me so I don’t try to butt in. He knows I will. I feel like he has some death wish.”

“Well, he’s stupid if he keeps pushing you away.”

“I…” you started, letting out a choked sigh. You were fighting back tears. “I don’t know why he’s fighting so hard against me. I know he’s been hurt and he lost Katrina, but all I’ve ever done is been there for him. And he keeps himself so sheltered now. I don’t understand what happened or why he’s being like this. Everything changed, Wendy…”

Wendy rubbed your back, giving a sad smile. “He’s a male. Males do dumb shit.”

“You can say that again.”

“As much as I hate the guy for making you feel so shitty, I want to say that he has good intentions. If you were as good of friends as you say, he must be doing this for a reason. He kept himself away maybe because he doesn’t want you to get hurt by something?” Wendy grinned, trying to lighten to mood. “Or, maybe deep down, he just loves you so much that he is afraid you will reject him.”

You let out a bitter laugh, unable to smile fully. Maybe he does care and he’s pushing me away because of it. Because of Katrina…

“How about you take the rest of today off?” Wendy proposed. Your brow rose at your friend, silently asking what she was talking about. “I will take care of the work you have to do today. You should go to his apartment and snoop around.”

“Snoop around?” you inquired.

“Have you ever actually looked around since he left?” she asked. When you shook your head no, she continued. “Maybe there is some clues around for where he went to what is going on.”

“Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?”

“You have a key to his apartment. It’s not like you are breaking in,” she claimed. “As far as I can see, it’s perfectly fine for you to look around.”

“I don’t know…”

“Y/N,” she cut you off. Her hands took yours, smoothing over the tops. “I know you care about him. I know you are worried. So, figure out where he went. It’s the only way to put your mind and heart at ease. Just look around. Maybe there is something there you never noticed. Something that’ll tell you what you need to know. Anything that helps, I want you to look for.”

You pouted for a second before nodding. “Fine.”

“Good,” she grinned. “Text me and keep me updated if anything happens.”

“I will. Thank you, Wen.”

You rushed from the office, headed straight for Mitch’s desolate apartment. Mr. Hazir nodded at you when you walked in, rushing up the stairs to the second floor where the apartment sat. Your hand shook with the key, making you stop to take a deep breath before sliding the key into the lock and twisting. The door clicked, squeaking open as you entered. The dark apartment made you grimace, the smell of old, sweaty clothes giving off a distinct musk wafting up your nose.

Your bag was left by the door as you wandered the apartment, searching for anything that may give you a clue to his unknown location. The punching bag swung lazily when your hand brushed against it, the chain rattling against the hook with its strained weight. His work out gear sat discarded on his ruffled bed sheets, training gloves and pads full frontal vision for you to see. Dust collected on your fingers when they were swiped along any surface, reassuring to his vacancy.

Sitting on the bed, you flicked your eyes through the apartment, straining to see if there was anything out of place that you weren’t used to seeing. “Where did you go?” you asked aloud, receiving no answer back. You sighed, laying back on his bed, feeling the cold sheets and blankets under your hand. “What are you up to, Mitch?”

Your throat tightened with unshed sobs and tears, choking back the sorrow you felt. You forced yourself to sit up, going through his drawers to find something - anything. Your mouth dropped at the sight of the multiple books on the Arabic language, culture and history you never truly realized he was reading. Balls of paper were in the waste bin near his bed, each one being a different article about the same person: Adnan Al-Mansur. The last article you picked up made you body quiver.

It was an news article about the attack in Ibiza.

“Mitch…” you whispered out, biting your lip.

Moving to his computer, your heart sunk further into your stomach. The keyboard was covered with a transparent keyboard with the Arabic alphabet. More books and papers were piled on either side of his laptop, adding to the confusion of what he was doing. Powering on the laptop, you were met with his login information, the password unknown. You sighed hopelessly, not wanting to attempt to break in. Instead, your fingers brushed across the keyboard, feeling warmth along your tips despite the cold plastic it felt. Your fingers moved like you were typing unsure what you were saying.

It just felt natural.

“What have you been doing?” you asked yourself. “I don’t get it. You’ve been learning Arabic, but for what?” You felt dread seeping in, not wanting to believe the following question. “Were you planning revenge on Mansur, the man who murdered Katrina?”

Nausea began to set in. Your stomach twisted with unanswered questions. You needed to escape before you spewed your lack of food onto the hardwood floor. The chair clattered backwards in your haste, hitting the floor with a loud thump. Your heel clacked against the floor while rushing for the front door, stilling before you got there. Your body froze, eyes directed at the closet that hung ajar.

You tried to push it closed, but something impeded it. Swallowing thickly, you pulled it open, letting your arms drop to the sides. Pasted to the inside of the door were pictures of Mansur, slices and cuts ebbed into the photos. The Wooden door had been punctured, but by what? The knife that still sat imbedded in Mansur’s forehead. The black handle poked straight out, blade sharp and stuck in the wood. The pit in your stomach grew at what you saw, the worst becoming reality.

You ran away, not looking back at the evidence of insanity and maniacal vengeance that was present in that room. You didn’t want to admit what you knew. You didn’t want to believe that Mitch was out for revenge.

Mitch was on a suicide mission to kill Adnan Al-Mansur.

~

The room was dark. The only sound was the clicking of fingers against a keyboard. The multiple screens that were perched along the wall were the only source of light, eyes flittering between the codes that appeared before them. The white letters against a black screen flashed rapidly across the screen until the stopped with coordinates to the destination in question. The eyes blinked, blinded from the constant staring at the bright screens in the dark hour.

It was after midnight.

But the chair sliding against the floor was loud, feet padding across the room to find the first bag possible. Clothes were shoved inside, hygiene products shoved into a small pouch on the inside. A passport sat on the bed, ready for use. A hand grabbed the phone that was connected to the computer, dialling a number rarely used.

It was cheating to do so, but you had no choice. Years in a computer science field and you were well adept in the task of breaking into someone’s phone, tracking the location of its whereabouts. The task was illegal, so you rarely did it. But when Mitch changed, you knew you needed a way to keep an eye on him.

Zipping the bag shut, the phone pressed to your ear, you spoke to the person on the other end confidently.

“I need the first available ticket overseas. Preferably the fastest travel.”

“Where is the destination?”

Your eyes fell on the computer before swinging the bag onto your back, backing towards the door. One hand rubbed the jigsaw piece on your wrist, feeling the determination that spurred from not one, but two sources: yours and the unknown presence that lingered around, giving you a sense of comfort that came from something, or someone, else. You were going to him. If he was still alive - you would be there. Even if he didn’t want you there, you couldn’t abandon your friend. Your mouth parted to answer, accepting what you had to do before answering.  

You would save Mitch, one way or another.

“Istanbul, Turkey.”

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[percontaion-points]

Let’s Play “Moments: Hold Me, Leave Me” Part 1

Time to start a new game. I've named our character Angela, but the game gave her the surname of Owen. She's the daughter of some business tycoon, William Owen. He's apparently very over-protective of Angela; the mom died in a plane crash, and the older sister turned “rebellious”. Like... I'm all for backstory, but maybe? Work harder to include this in the actual story? Show us daddy dearest being over-protective of his baby girl. Angela is 22.

Anyway, on to the actual story. It takes place four years earlier, at Angela's first day of college. So I guess that she's 18 now? Anyway, as Angela's going to classes, she's hit by a basketball and papers and books go everywhere. Oof, been there done that; not fun. Somebody comes over to help her out.

Isn't that Justin from “Challenge Accepted”? Either way, boy does not look remotely straight. He apologizes for having hit Angela... which damn right you should, jackass. However, Angela is a little too startled by how good-looking that Grayson is.

That's Angela, BTW.

He introduces himself as Grayson Maxwell. With a name like that, I'm surprised it doesn't come with an “-the third” and an air of superiority. JFC. He tells Angela to watch where she's going or else she might get hit again, and then he leaves. LIKE EXCUSE ME? YOU FUCKING HIT ME. MAYBE DON'T BE FUCKING PLAYING BALL IN A BUSY UNIVERSITY COURTYARD ON THE FIRST DAY OF CLASSES, YOU JACKASS.

I'm like two seconds into this game and I already hate him. I hope that the other datable is better... At least Angela seems to think that this guy's a jerk, so there's that.

Angela goes to her class, but Grayson is in that class, too. Ugh. He keeps pestering her in class, amazed at the thought of somebody... get this... TAKING NOTES. IN SCHOOL. (Although, it's the first day, so IDK what there could possibly be to take notes on, but whatever.) She ignores him, and keeps taking notes. Don't rise to his level, honey. However, at the end of class, Angela randomly slips in some water, and Grayson helps her from falling. He also randomly calls her “little kitty”. Time to switch classes, I think.

She calls him out on his shitty behavior, saying that college is just like high school. (Which, maybe if you went to the most chill high school ever, I suppose...) Grayson says that nobody will bother her if she joins his group, but she obviously refuses. However, joining his group appears to be less voluntary and more mandatory... she's already in. Like dude, do you want to get maced? Because this is how you get maced. Also, really time to switch classes.

Random time-skip to four years later. Angela goes to a coffee shop, where she meets up with her friend, Ashton Ryder. (PLEASE DON'T BE A DOUCHEBAG. PLEASE DON'T BE A DOUCHEBAG.)  

At least he doesn't dress like he's auditioning for a boy band, so there's that. Team Ashton (I guess?)

Anyway, he works at his dad's coffee shop, is a year older than Angela, and has already graduated with some IT degree.

Angela randomly brings up Grayson, which... dude. Four years later, and like... drop-kick that assrag to the curb already. Ashton mentions Grayson “stealing” Angela from him, and he thinks that Grayson's jealousy is too much, considering that Grayson and Angela aren't even dating. Grayson is a horrible flirt, and he'll hit on anything that moves, but he seems to worship Angela. Which confuses Angela something fierce, because she doesn't know if Grayson wants to be her friend or to bone her. They both agree that Grayson and Angela are complete and utter opposites, but like... in my mind, they're not even good opposites. They're just horrible together, I think.

However, the reason why Angela's bringing all of this up right now is because graduation is in two weeks, and she doesn't want to lose Grayson. (Word of advice honey: LOSE HIM.) Ashton clearly has a huge crush on Angela, but for some reason, is holding himself back. (Well I for one plan to change that. No way am I going to end up with Grayson.)

Grayson shows up, and he did not forget to bring his ego. Also, Grayson calls her “Angela”, which??? That's her fucking name. I hate these games that let you pick the name, and then they're like “Here's the nickname!” I suppose that there are a few nicknames for Angela, but like??? None of them are that great, I don't think.

Grayson joins them at the table, and he's like “You know Angela, you'd be super sexy if you just wore some sexy clothes and took off those glasses (character avatar not wearing glasses), and stopped being such a stick in the mud.” Gee, thanks. That's literally everything about me. Why the hell does she like this guy so much? However, Angela is quick to tell him that she's waiting for a guy who likes all of that in her. He seems surprised that such a guy like that exists, though. Angela insists that he'll find her, but Grayson isn't so sure. He talks about girls sending out signs, and Angela asks him about that. He says a girl has to do something special that she's never done before.

Angela thinks about this, but Grayson randomly changes the topic to graduation. He says that the only thing he'll miss is teasing Angela. Ashton asks if they're “done” yet, which leads to Grayson being rude, and Angela punching him on the arm.

Grayson then says he wants to take Angela somewhere tonight, but says that it's far away, and they wouldn't be able to get back before midnight. Which is one of her dad's house rules. (Which, girl. You're two weeks away from being a college grad AND YOU'RE 22. Stop living in tyranny.) I would also not like to go with Grasyon, despite Angela's obvious interest. My only options are going with him anyway (VIP), or suggesting something else instead. Guess which I picked?

Grayson gets upset over her blind obedience towards her father, and says... pretty much what I just said about why she shouldn't be listening to her father. (You don't get points for trying, because I know that he's trying to get into her pants.) They start fighting about this, because nothing says romance like “I want to do something.” “No, that makes me uncomfortable.” “DAMMIT, I WANT TO DO THE THING.” Ugh.

Grayson then says that she should clearly stay at home tonight, and storms out. Hey, I'll take it if it means not having to spend time with that selfish asshole. After he leaves, Ashton tells Angela not to cry over that asshole. She says that she's thinking about her mom, and if she was still alive, then her dad wouldn't be so lonely and overprotective. But both of them understand that both of William's two wives have died in accidents, and he's afraid of losing Angela, too.

Angela goes home, where she changes into comfortable pajamas and reads for two hours. She then starts thinking about how much she misses Grayson. (And I feel like I need to start spritzing her in the face with water. NO. BAD PROTAGONIST. NO.)  At least the game gives me the option to call him or not... and I pick not to.

Just as she's searching for something to watch on Netflix, somebody starts throwing rocks at her window. Le sigh. Time to turn on the sprinklers and go sleep in the guest room. All he says is that they'll be back before midnight, and she tells him that she needs five minutes. Le sigh.

He takes her to a party, because... yeah. Real boyfriend material right there. Ugh. Angela knows that the tabloids will pick up on stuff like this... if only because the same stuff happens to her (half) sister, Amelia, all the time. She can't do something like this. However, Grayson came prepared with a wig and sunglasses. Ugh.

In the party, he introduces her to his friends, and gets her a beer. He insists that one drink isn't going to kill her, which... dude. The lady said no. I hate this guy more and more and we're not even off the first section yet. He gives her a sort of out, by saying that she can rest upstairs in the host's bedroom. That's the only non-VIP choice, but I would have taken it, regardless. He shows her to the room, tells her not to open the door for anybody but him, and then leaves. Angela starts reading a random book before she falls asleep.

However, when she wakes up, it's past 2 AM. Grayson comes back, but he's drunk. He wants to take Angela home (BITCH, DO NOT), but he's apparently too drunk to even fucking STAND, and forget about being a safe driver. Angela helps him onto the bed and turns the lights off (DANGER WILL ROBINSON.)

He then starts to put his hand up Angela's shirt (OH NO YOU DON'T YOU PERV!), and then he starts kissing her neck and shoulders. He says that she's beautiful and that he wants her. (Not when you're this shit-faced, you asshole.)