#shayla never had romantic attention growing up Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[pinnesasong]

[Someone has left a poem! It's obviously been printed out, it's been crumpled and wrinkled all around with the intent of being scrapped but never having had actually gotten thrown away. For whatever reasons- such conflicting feelings the author had.]

[It is quite cheesy but sweet (in an almost awkward sense) nonetheless, clearly written from the perspective of someone looking at Stick through their eyes.]

[It does have a signature at the end, but it's been scribbled out with a black pen like a last-minute decision.]

(OOC. More Under The Cut)

"Goodness, did I forget to empty my desk this morning...?"

Dragging his half-lethargic frame through the door, Stick mused as he passed through the threshold of his shared dorm room with Knox, his eyes homing in, and immediately taking notice, of the wholly discarded piece of modern parchment, the flowers of both curiosity and suspicion taking their respective roots in his mind. This can't be—his wooden desk was clean, and in order, when we left for his Trigonometry Class earlier, his own papers organized and put into a file case that rested on top of the said desk for good measure. This enabled him to come to the conclusion that this lone star was not his own property. The paper, crumpled and wrinkled, laid on the floor near his bedside table, the aura of a complex intention to keep it hidden strangely radiating from it. Though, by some streak of luck, it seemed to have managed to evade perpetual obscurity with any sudden blowing, via careless wind or some rough Knox-ian motion, towards the underside of the blonde guy's bed.

What a sweet and wholesome letter, he thought. Akin to a doughnut covered in confectionery sugar, it was enough to send his mental glucose level all the way up to his cheeks, the dulcet surge tinting his face with a light flush of pink. 'What's all this...?', he thought. At first, he harkens back to his lovesick roommate, and his pining for a girl that he met a few months back. Stick mulls it over, certain that this paper has a high probability of being a product of that romantic fool, he thinks... Until he sees the 'he' in one of the verses, 'He, with hair shining like gold-'. And another one, aw, dang it—a somewhat decipherable scribbling of his nickname on the top right corner of the paper. Okay, we can leave Knox out of the equation now, it seems. There's no way that this would come from him... To tell the truth, it made him a little giddy, in a way. The mere fact that someone liked him enough to send this to him? How decent of them—No, how thoughtful of them! Just like a kind well-owner drawing a cool jug of water for a thirsty traveler in the harsh and dry desert.

Stick plopped down on his bed, his facial expression calming, his eyes softening; and his mask, unfurling, feeling safe and secure in the comfort and privacy of his apartment. He's never gotten a letter from anyone... Who sent this? There's a signature at the end, but it's all scribbled and illegible with black marker ink. Awh—The poor, cute guy was probably too shy... The gesture's sweetness involuntarily made his lips curl upward, his heartbeat racing a little bit faster, too. His hair a few strands unkempt, as he reads the poem over and over again, his eyes increasing in adoration for the sweet letter. It makes him want to cherish this beloved possession and nurse it back to pristine health.

After a few trial-and-error thought processes, a certain person pops into Stick's mind, to which his flustered state visibly increases as he tries to subtly avert his train of thought from. To no avail, though, as the more he mulls over the idea that it was him, he finds himself getting... strangely excited? Nervous? Giddy? Like a child walking for the first time, it was a leap into the Great Unknown. Outside the bounds of calculated action, outside the bounds of polite speech and courteous decisions; it was an entirely new thing for the blond guy. 'No, he couldn't have... Could he? Entirely... Entirely unprecedented...' He muses in amazed and affectionate incredulity.

Stick pressed the letter against his Latin and Trigonometry books, hopeful that the pressure might help straighten out the crumples, for even just a little. One last tender touch, one last gentle gaze at the page of his afflictions (and his budding affections), before he sets out, once more. There are no more classes today, he remembers. He could make a cake, yes! That'd be a nice idea—would strawberries and cream be nice? They're both sweet, tart, and a little sour; they're red, and they're quite a bit rough on the outside, hiding their soft decadence underneath. Y'know, it's funny, because now he's suddenly in the mood for making cake... That absolutely wasn't the case a mere few minutes ago. Real apologies. A true 'I'm sorry'. They are in order, after all. He... can probably don on the mask a little while later, no? It wouldn't hurt to try...