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may-stuff · 2 days ago

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a friend in need. - fc43

summary: you've been best friends for almost your entire lives. who is he to deny you some help when you need it the most?

warnings: afab!reader, masturbation, oral sex (m), dirty talking, unprotected sex, creampie || typos and grammatical mistakes because english is not my first language and I'm a little stupid. also, this isn't great in any way so please don't be mean, thank u.

word count: 6.6k approx.

a/n: please please please, if you read this and you like it at least a little bit, please interact with it. If I don't get notifications I die 🥀

In the loneliness of your bedroom, you can't help but let your mind wander. Surrounded by shadows that seem to whisper his name in your ears, you get engulfed in the reminisce of him and almost every moment you've shared together.

Behind your closed eyes you can see his beautiful face, his hair that smells so good, his hands and those long fingers that have touched you in a friendly way countless times before but tonight, tonight you remember those interactions from another perspective, in a new light.

Not everything is about his physique, though. The brightness of his smile that could light up an entire room, his laugh and the sound of his voice- everything about him is perfect, even the imperfections. You also think of his moody, short answers in the morning when he's still sleepy; you think of his frown and the look in his eyes when he's angry for something or at someone, and even that seems like undeniable proof of a kind of beauty you've never seen before in anyone else.

Your feelings for him, you realise now, go beyond everything; but tonight, in the quiet of your own room and with the knowledge that you'll never be more than his dear, best friend, you decide that setting your imagination free won't hurt anybody. He doesn't have to know, you don't even have to say his name out loud.

Only in your mind. His name echoes in every part of your conscience as you imagine. You imagine him in situations that you're sure you'll never see him in. You imagine him kissing you, both softly and then roughly, as if he were trying to consume all of you. Your mind shows him on top of you, his clothes gone, his lips on your skin and your name coming out of them in a plea.

The visions in your head are so clear that soon your own hands are exploring your body. First, they travel up and down all through your abdomen, making you feel goosebumps at the thought of how good this would feel if it only were his hands on your skin. When you reach your breasts and cup them in your hands under your shirt, you can't help but to moan softly, even more when your fingers pinch your nipples that, in result, become impossibly hard in a matter of seconds. With the image of his beautiful lips wrapping around your hardened peaks, painting them with his own saliva, you feel that familiar pressure in your lower abdomen. That sensation that comes with the arousal that becomes physical and pools in the deepest parts of you, coating your underwear more and more with each second that passes and he's still in your mind, touching you, making you feel better than any man has ever done before.

In the complexity of the mind, a deep feeling of guilt presses onto your chest. You know this is wrong, you know this isn't what you should do when you think of your dearest friend, but you can't help it. You can't avoid the feelings and the images in your mind. It's like a film that won't stop playing over and over; it's a bunch of images of him on top of you, inside of you, whispering the filthiest things right in your ear. It's him telling you how divine you feel around him, how much he loves being buried deep inside of you. It's his voice moaning and grunting, face hidden in the curve between your neck and your shoulder.

It's your hands caressing his back and your nails digging into his flesh every time he moves inside you, the lewd sounds of his cock sliding into your hungry pussy filling the room and, in response, making you more needy.

In the real world, your left hand has already reached your underwear. Your fingers come in contact with the wet spot right above your slit and you moan softly to the knowledge that you've become this wet only because he is in your mind. And as the guilt hits you once again, trying to drift your mind away from the pleasure that the thought of him gives you, you decide to go against it.

He will never know about this.

That thought is decisive. Your shirt and underwear are gone in a matter of seconds, and when you feel the soft air coming in from the window and touching your skin, you shiver. You wish he would be here, his natural warmth engulfing your body and soul, making the sadness and loneliness go away. But you're alone in your empty house- and even if he were here, he wouldn't be where you want him to be.

With the crude reality put in the back of your mind, your fingers finally travel down to where you need attention the most. Feeling your own dampness, you let out a deep sigh. No one has ever made you this wet, not even yourself. All of this is thanks to him, because of him. The fire in your veins, the need to feel pleasure, the need to cum, all of this intensity is due to him and his face engraved in your mind.

That's why you can hear his voice so clearly in your head the moment one of your fingers finds its way inside of you. The familiar intrusion feels good but it's obviously not enough, so it isn't surprising that a second finger adds to the first in a matter of seconds and this time you feel fuller. You feel fuller and needier, because now you're realising that nothing will be actually enough, because what you need isn't a matter of size, it isn't a matter of how and how much; it's about him. It's all about him.

About his face and his hands and his voice. About your own fingers trying to find the right pace as you can almost feel his lips on your skin. It's about you and the need to say his name even though you know that you shouldn't, because if you do, it'll become real. The shameful thought that you want your best friend in ways that you shouldn't, will become true if you say his name out loud.

But you can't help it. Your fingers inside of you feel good enough to make you whimper and mutter words that don't make sense. They're enough to fuel the images in your mind and you can't take it anymore. So, against your will, his name leaves your lips and you feel some sort of relief with it, because now your needs have claimed his name as their own. Your lust has a name now, and you can't stop saying it.

“Franco.”

It comes out in a soft plea at first, loud enough so only you can hear it. But it doesn't take much time or effort for you to continue further, saying it louder and louder each time your fingers enter your cunt again. Soon the room is filled with your pleas and cries that almost sound like you're in pain, because in a way you are, but his name falling from your lips over and over are enough to cover them up. Or at least that's what you think.

You would have heard the front door opening and closing if you were paying more attention to your surroundings. You would have heard the voice calling your name once, twice a second later and then the steps getting closer to your room. You would have had time to cover yourself and come up with an excuse if you weren't so lost in your own mind and body. That's why the only thing that brings you back to the present, to reality, is the light that bathes your face when your bedroom's door opens.

Everything happens so fast that you're sure you won't be able to recall this memory in the near future. Or maybe you will, and it will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Once your eyes get used to the light that has suddenly corrupted the darkness in your room, your heart starts beating fast with horror.

He's standing there, at your door, and the expression on his face is quite difficult to decipher. At his complete mercy, you're fully naked, laying on your bed with your legs wide open and your hands on your cunt; one of them with fingers buried deep inside you while the other is resting a little bit higher, just above your clit. Your chest is rising up and down with the heavy breathing that the pure terror and shame have triggered. Eyes wide open, mouth agape, you're frozen in the spot, unable to say a word, unable to act.

The tension in the room is cut when he says your name, and maybe you're imagining things, but his voice sounds strangled.

Then, after some seconds, he mutters it again, your name. This time you're sure he's shocked with the scene in front of him but not entirely disgusted.

The fear and guilt that had taken over you vanish almost completely when you see the expression on his face. Your eyes have adapted to the shining light coming into the dark room, so now you can see him more clearly, and the strange glint in his eyes is enough to make you think that maybe, just maybe, something good can come out of this situation.

Franco's eyes are wide open for a few shocking seconds. Then, when his brain processes the image before him, they start roaming your body. Bright green eyes observe your chest, bare tits and hardened nipples that seem to get even harder under his gaze. The valley between your breasts is covered in sweat and, in a strange way, that makes them look even more appealing. Your stomach, then, is a zone that perhaps you feel a little concerned to show too much but his expression doesn't change at any stop his eyes make on your body. He admires every part with the same intensity, with the same look of bewilderment in that gorgeous face.

He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible groan when his eyes reach your lower stomach and your legs, long and thick. His mouth agape when, in a sudden movement full of boldness, you open them a little wider and let him see more. He's standing to your right, so he can't see all of you properly, but he can see enough and, by the expression on his face, he's loving every second.

The absence of a negative reaction on his part emboldens you to act. Your hands, as if they were separated entities from the rest of your body, resume the earlier activities. Two of your fingers find your clit at the same time your left hand grabs one of your breasts. A sigh leaves your lips at the sudden contact and the fact that Franco is watching your every move makes a wave of pleasure hit you hard. You're aware that you're starting to put on a pornographic show for your best friend and, honestly, you're enjoying it maybe too much.

This is the first time you've seen him so focused on something. All those times he told you he struggled with his own attention span, you should've known that being naked in front of him, touching yourself for him, would be all he'd need to keep quiet and focused. That's why you chuckle when your eyes find him again and you see that his gaze is still fixed in your body.

The sound, a mix of a giggle and a moan, make him look at your face.

"Franco." You moan his name for the hundredth time this evening and rejoice when you actually see him shiver at the sound of your voice. "Please, please help me." You whimper, your own fingers pumping in and out of you faster each time. Harder. "I need you."

He closes his eyes for a few seconds and you know that he's fighting against something, against the fact that, if he gives in, everything will change. You will be friends no longer, because friends don't do this, friends don't want each other in such a way. But you do, and both of you know it. You both also know that, if you act on your shared desire, then when the moment is over you'll probably be in a limbo, trying to figure out what comes next.

But Franco actually doesn't care about the after, he almost never thinks too much before he acts. He lives the moment. You know that and your knowledge gets reinforced when he opens his eyes again and walks towards you, closing the door behind him. In response your heart flutters with excitement.

Your fingers leave you and go up to rest on your lower stomach when he reaches your side. He's standing at your right, and this time you realize that he's looking at you in the face, looking for your gaze. When your eyes finally meet again, you can read a question that is answered with a nod of your head.

You want this. You want this so bad.

Franco's left hand caresses your hair first. His long fingers intertwine in your locks and for a moment you close your eyes to enjoy the innocent touch that, in a different situation, would get you to sleep. But the grip becomes a bit firmer and now he's tugging on it so your head can move to the side again, that way you can meet his eyes. As his hand leaves your head and travels to your soft cheek and then your lips, you don't stop looking at each other.

A gasp leaves your throat when his thumb sits on your lower lip, and then he puts it inside your mouth, gently enough to give you time so you can reject him if you want. But you don't, you would never.

Soft lips wrap around his finger. Franco's reaction to the feeling of your tongue against the pad of his thumb in an almost imperceptible moan. The sound is low, coming out from the centre of his chest through gritted teeth, and it is the first time in the night that you feel some sort of pride fluttering inside you. The simple fact that he's reacting like this to the first physical contact with you is enough to make you act even bolder than before, and you keep sucking on his finger while looking him in the eyes.

Franco smiles almost tenderly before the tone of his voice becomes twisted.

“Who would've thought…” he mutters, still looking at you. “That you were such a desperate slut, huh?”

The sound you make in response to his words is almost inhuman. You're desperate and he can hear it in the tone of your moans, that are still muffled by his finger inside your mouth.

“All these years…” he continues, voice feeling like velvet on your heated skin. “You were always such a good girl. Always the one to behave properly, wise beyond her years, or at least that's what all of them said, your family and mine… What would they think of you, (y/n)?” Franco asks, the mocking tone coming back. You squirm on the bed as you take his finger deeper and hollow your cheeks, imagining his cock in its place.

“What would they think of you, (y/n)?” He presses on. This time, you look up at him. “If I told them about this. How I found you naked on your bed, fingers deep inside your soaked cunt while moaning my name like the fucking little whore you are. What would your family say? And mine? Should I let them know how much of a slut you're?”

You almost cry when he takes his finger off your mouth.

“Answer me.” He commands. “Should I let everyone know?”

“If it pleases you.” You answer, voice sounding a little hoarse because of the previous activity in your throat.

He smiles.

“Is that what you want? To please me?”

You nod, fully conscious that you're making yourself look desperate- and actually you are. His mere presence, the sound of his voice, the smell of his cologne and the fact that he apparently wants you as much as you want him is enough for you. You're more than ready for him, for all of him, and Franco knows it.

He knows it because it's written in you. All over the expression on your face and the way you open your legs for him when his right hand travels all the way down to your knee, and stays there, not moving back but neither further, torturing you silently.

“Please.” You whisper. “Fran, I need you.”

It's funny, though. You're the one who's ready to please but you also are the one who begs. You've been actually begging him to touch you since the moment you saw him standing at the threshold.

Franco wishes you could read his mind and know that he's waited for this moment for a long time. He's wanted you since the moment you met, all those years ago. First, it was an innocent crush, that was all a child could offer, of course. But since you both grew into yourselves and he started to discover the world and other people- Franco had been with enough people to know that none of them could compare to you, even if he hadn't laid a hand on you yet. Something about you, about your aura, about the strong pull he felt towards you every single time you were in the same room, would assure him that nothing, no one, could compare to you.

And now you're here, right in front of him, begging. The sound of your voice is almost haunting, like you're in deep pain. He could ask himself over and over again if this is the right thing to do, but in all honesty, he doesn't care about that. He only cares about you and the painful desire you make him feel even when he hasn't touched you properly yet.

Besides, if you really need him as you say, if you're in pain as you sound, who is he to deny you his help? Isn't he, after all, your best friend?

That thought is all he needs to vanish his worries to the darkest pit of his mind.

“Are you really sure about this?” His voice cuts the silence once again. The eager nod coming from you makes him smile. “I need words, love.”

“Yes.” You answer almost too fast. “Please, Fran. Please. I can't wait anymore.”

He curses under his breath because he honestly can't believe it. He's amazed by your eagerness and so fucking turned on that he feels like he's going to cum right here and now.

So, to avoid that, Franco doesn't waste any more time. Before you can blink twice, he's undoing his trousers and underwear, pulling them down as his hard cock springs out. You moan at the sight of it. Long and thick enough to make your mouth literally water, standing proud and impossibly hard against his shirt, almost staining the fabric with the precum that pools at the angry red tip. It's beautiful, just like the rest of him, and your cunt hurts with the anticipation of feeling it in you.

After taking his shirt off, Franco's right hand travels down to his dick, grabbing it with a firm grip before pumping it a few times, smearing his own juices all over his length, which makes it look even more appetizing.

You wait in your place on the bed, observing the small show of him touching himself for a few seconds until his right knee sinks on the mattress, right beside your shoulder. Then, his left hand goes to your hair, under your head, lifting it and adjusting it in the right way so the head of his dick is now right on your lips. He traces them with it, as if he were painting them.

“So fucking perfect.” He whispers. In response, you let your tongue lick around the head of his dick, coaxing a deep moan out of him. The first contact with his skin is delicious but now you want more, so much more. And apparently he feels the same.

“I'm gonna put it in your mouth. Is that okay, baby?” He asks. You make a sound that it's a mix between a whine and a moan as you nod for the hundredth time in the night. “Gonna suck my cock until I cum down your throat?” You almost jolt in excitement at that. “Yeah? You want my cum?”

Your answer sounds against the skin of his dick, which you keep licking. “Yes. Yes, please.”

That is the last thing you say for a few minutes, right before he presses the tip against your lips again and this time you open your mouth wide enough to take him in. The way Franco moans at the feeling of your warm, wet mouth is pornographic and you thank the Gods for that, the fact that he's always so vocal about everything and this situation is not an exception. Actually, his moans are all the fuel you need to keep going. The taste of him too. Everything about him makes you take him deeper inside your mouth every time he pulls almost all the way back, fucking your face faster and harder as the minutes pass by.

The grip on your hair becomes tighter as the sounds of your throat being fucked fill the room. You gag only two times, when he pushes all the way in and holds his dick in the deepest part of your throat he can reach, your nose pressed against him and saliva falling down your chin and neck. Every time he pulls out, you take a second or two to gather your breath but soon enough he's at it again, and you receive him without any complaint, relaxing your throat all you can as he keeps filling it over and over again.

The intensity and pleasure of it all becomes almost unbearable and soon you're pressing your thighs together, trying to ease the almost literal pain you feel. Franco sees it, attentive to your body even though a great part of his mind is clouded with the sweet abandon of pleasure. So, for a few seconds, he eases the grip on your hair so you can start doing most of the work now, because his right hand travels from your knee to your inner thigh, and it isn't long until you can feel his fingers in your cunt.

Both of you moan at the feeling. You, because the pressure of his fingers on your slit ease the pain you've been feeling; him, because you're so fucking wet that, when he starts massaging your clit, your juices are so abundant that the movements he makes leave a loud, squelching sound behind them.

“You're soaked.” He moans, still inside your mouth and touching you at the same time. “Is this because of me, love?”

The answer is obvious to both of you, but you answer anyway, “Yes.” You say, a hoarse voice can barely be heard above the sounds of your cunt. “Yes, it's because of you. Always.”

Franco smiles, “Do you always touch yourself while thinking of me?” You nod and this time he laughs. It doesn't make you feel bad because it isn't a mocking laugh, it's like he can't believe it. “Same. You have no idea how many times I've made a mess while thinking of you.”

As his velvety voice keeps sounding in your ears, he keeps massaging your clit, faster as the seconds go by.

“I've imagined you in every position.” He mutters. “I've made myself cum so many times, thinking of your sweet mouth and cunt wrapped around me, milking me as many times as we wish.”

He's realized from the first moment that dirty talking is one of your weaknesses, and lucky you, he loves saying naughty things, so he keeps doing it as he massages your clit and smiles triumphant when your legs start trembling and you look at him with an expression on your face that he will never forget. Glassy eyes look up at him as your teeth sinks into your lower lip; your orgasm is close and everything about you says so.

When you try to close your eyes, his hand immediately slows the pace on your clit. You frown.

“What-?”

“You keep looking at me.” He commands. You want to yell at him, but his movements become fast again and the sweet pressure on your lower belly comes back. “You look me in the eyes as you cum or I won't do this again, you understand?” You nod. “Words, (y/n).”

“I- fuck, I understand!” You moan as his fingers keep working you on at an impossible pace.

Not many seconds pass by until the first orgasm hits you hard. Your eyes are still on his; your entire body trembling as the most lewd sounds leave your throat. The simple act of having an orgasm while looking at those beautiful green eyes is enough to bring tears to yours. The pleasure is too overwhelming.

When the best seconds of your life so far end, your body relaxes and Franco pulls both his hands away from you, letting you rest on the bed. The fingers that worked your clit are now in his own mouth as he sucks them clean. The sight makes you moan.

“Delicious.” He says, coaxing a giggle out of you. “What?”

“You're crazy. And so fucking hot.”

Franco smiles and shrugs.

“You know me.”

“Not like this, no.”

“Oh, this? This is nothing, love.”

You frown, “You gave me the best orgasm of my life by simply touching my clit and you call it nothing? It never felt like that before.”

“I mean, it's not my fault that your previous lovers were fucking idiots.”

You smile.

“And you're what, some sort of sex God?”

“That I am.”

A genuine laugh escapes your lips. You laugh at his smug words and at the entire situation. Everything is so- surreal, in a way. It's almost comical. But the sound dies in your throat when you realize the way he's looking at you. He's not mad or annoyed, he just looks like he's discovered something new in you, but if he did he doesn't say it out loud.

Soon, when you've recovered from your orgasm, you realize that Franco's still standing by your side and his dick is still impossibly hard. You remember his previous words, about sucking him off until he's cumming down your throat, and you feel the fire inside you light up once again. Your right hand wraps around his dick without a warning and he hisses, but he doesn't pull you away, instead enjoying your ministrations.

“Not right now.” He says after a minute or two, as if he's reading your mind. You're sure, though, that he's actually reading the expression on your face as you jerk him off. It's clear that you want him to cum. “Not like this, I won't last long.”

You stop. Then, looking into his eyes, you open your legs for him once again.

“Come here, then.”

He doesn't need to be told twice. In an instant, he's standing at your feet; both hands reach behind your knees and they pull you towards him.

In a silent agreement, both of you take your time to look at each other. He's lucky enough to have you like this- completely bare before him, body glistening with sweat due to the previous activities, pretty face with an expression of utter pleasure as you anticipate what's coming, unconsciously opening your legs further, letting him fully see you. You're out of this world, so beautiful that it almost hurts. And he isn't so far behind- you also think he's the most handsome man you've ever seen, with those eyes scanning every piece of you, his curls sticking to his forehead and, oh, such a pretty face. His body is something else too- the hard muscles of his chest and abdomen, the shape of his arms, his hands. You take his hands in yours for a moment, squeezing them, praying this isn't the last time you feel them on you.

You're both so mesmerized with each other that your bodies seem to move with their own consciousness, and that's why you share a loud moan when he enters you for the first time.

It feels like nothing you've experienced before. You can't decide what is it that makes him so different from other people you've been with, but surely, there's something that makes Franco feel like heaven. He stays still for a few, long seconds because he's just realized that he penetrated you without warning and in a single movement, and even though it's obvious that you're ready enough to receive him, he doesn't want to hurt you.

What he doesn't realise is that you're in pain once again because you need him to move and put an end to this feeling, this primitive need to have him just fucking you hard and deep. And that's what you finally ask from him, without shame, without guilt.

“Please.” You beg once again. “Move. Please, move. I need to feel you.”

You're sure you're about to cry but the tears get stuck in your eyes when Franco complies and starts moving his hips. It's slow at first, like he's testing the waters, but when the only thing you do is moan softly and writhe under him, crying for more, his hands leave yours and travel to your hips. Once he's sure his grip on your flesh is firm enough, he accelerates the pace, and starts pumping into you with a force that has you almost screaming.

Soon you start moving your own hips, meeting him halfway and making the experience a thousand times better, if that's even possible. The feeling of his dick inside you, so fucking deep, is more than anything you've ever felt in your life.

The room is filled with the sound of your skin against his, and the musky smell of sex intoxicates your senses. You've dreamed about this moment for so long that it feels surreal- his hands on your hips, his cock deep inside you and his eyes roaming the entirety of your body, all of it feels so out of this world and you love every second. You love it so much that you feel drunk with pleasure and something else that you can name yet.

Franco grins at the sight of your eyes, glassy with tears that you're soon to shed. A deep feeling of pride fills his chest.

“Look at you.” He taunts, never stopping his movements. “You were made for this, weren't you? You were made for my cock, for me.”

You nod and moan, unable to form a full sentence as his pace becomes impossibly fast and hard- it's almost too much and the thought of asking him to slow down crosses your mind for a split second, until his hands travel up from their place on your hips to your breasts, and your brain almost shuts down.

“Gonna enjoy these later, I promise.” He chuckles as his long fingers start kneading the flesh of your tits. When he pinches your nipples, the moan that leaves your throat is almost too much, but you don't care. It feels too good to hold back.

You relish on the feeling of his fingers on your hard nipples until his right hand stops its ministrations to start roaming the skin of your left side, your waist, all the way back down to your hip and then- then you feel his fingers on your clit again, massaging it with expertise. You can't help but throw your head back as a deep moan leaves your throat.

“Fuck, yes.” You moan, almost hysterical. “So good, so good- oh my-”

Franco chuckles again and then says, in a mocking tone, “You're so dirty, (y/n). You really-” his words are suddenly interrupted by a strangled groan as you tighten your walls around him. Your warmth hugging his dick in a way that has him literally losing his balance and almost falling on top of you, and he would've crushed you if his arms weren't strong enough to keep him hovering over you.

His face contorted in an expression full of sheer pleasure, he looks so good with his eyes closed and mouth agape, desperately trying to hold the moans in.

You're the one who chuckles this time.

“Too good, huh?” You tease him, your cunt tightening around him once again. He groans and hides his face in the crook of your neck. “Can't take it, baby? Too much for you?”

Franco moans again and then you hear him whisper.

“I'm gonna make you- you will pay for this.”

You giggle softly.

“I think I'd like that.”

All resolve leaves him when you make your magic again. The feeling of your cunt hugging his dick so tightly is enough to make him lose his mind and almost all control. His movements become messier as they get faster, you feel him twitch inside you once, then twice. You hum at the feeling, caressing his back and nape, then intertwining your fingers with his messy, wet locks.

“I'm close.” He moans, the sound muffled by your skin.

“I know, baby. Come on, cum for me."

“You first.”

For a moment you think your words are enough, but apparently they aren't. In a second, Franco seems to take back control of the situation when he suddenly breaks away from your arms, kneeling in front of you just like before- his hard, throbbing dick still deep inside of you. You're about to ask him what's going on but then his long fingers are on your clit again, and you answer by throwing your head back in a loud moan.

Franco keeps working on the most sensitive part of your body as he starts moving again, in and out, at a torturous pace that has you writhing on the bed. Your eyes fill with tears again and he smiles.

“Cum for me, love.” He encourages through gritted teeth. You know he's holding his own orgasm back by fucking you slowly, and his will certainly impresses you. “Please, do it. Cum all around my cock.”

How would you deny him? When he looks so good fucking you, working on your clit like this isn't the first time. How would you deny him anything when this is all you've ever wanted?

So you let yourself go. Your second orgasm hits you harder than the previous one, sweet cunt gushing all around him, soaking him and the sheets below you. Your moans are almost pornographic and you feel him twitch inside you at the sound of them.

In the electric explosion that takes over your entire body and mind, you feel him crawling back on top of you, like he was just minutes ago. His face hiding in your left shoulder again as his hips keep fucking into you aggressively, making your climax last longer than expected.

“Look at me.” You moan in his ear and your body trembles with the sound of a deep groan coming as a response. After a few seconds of you repeating those words, he lifts his head to look at you, forehead pressed against yours. “Cum inside of me and don't stop looking at me as you do it.”

He chews on his lower lip.

“I-inside?” You nod as much as you can. “Fuck, (y/n).”

“Please, I need it.” You moan against his mouth, your eyes on his. “I need your cum.”

That last sentence is accompanied by his name and the way you moan it's all it takes for him to finally let go. The sounds Franco makes when he's cumming deep inside of you are never going to leave your memory, and you wish, right here, now, that you have the opportunity to hear them again many times from tonight. The sight of him is beautiful too- brows furrowed, eyes desperately trying to stay open and that pretty mouth shaped in an O form. His cheeks are red and glistening with the sweat that's covering him, as well as the tip of his nose.

As he empties inside of you, you keep caressing his back, leaving goosebumps behind your touch. His skin shivers with the feeling, still making little sounds that will haunt you forever.

He pumps into you two or three times more, still filling you with his release, that soon you start feeling overflowing your cunt, falling down your ass and on the sheets. You wonder if he always cums this hard, and the idea that he might not, that you're the only one that makes him feel like this, it's exciting.

After some long seconds he stops moving his hips but is still buried deep inside of you. His face goes back to the crook of your neck for the second time and you smile as you feel his hot breath on your skin and then a kiss, then his teeth grazing the spot and sinking into it.

“That's gonna leave a mark.” You moan.

“Good.”

You stay like that for minutes that feel like hours, in each other's arms, your skin sticking to his due to the sweat that you both share but you couldn't care less. It feels too good, everything about it feels too good and none of you make an attempt to break away from the other.

Franco knows, as well as you do, that this has been an event that will change everything forever. Some part of you is afraid of what comes next- a hundred questions flood your brain but the main one is the one that haunts you the most. Was this a one night stand?

You're about to gather the courage to ask him when he lifts his head to look at you, forehead against yours again. You look him in the eyes and, for a moment, you think that the green in his gaze gives you the answer you so desperately need. But in case you needed confirmation, he decides to speak it out loud.

“I wanna do it again.” He simply states, and you feel your chest full with happiness. “Like, forever. I really mean it.”

You giggle in response and you feel the tears that you've been holding back slowly falling down your cheeks. Franco kisses them away as soon as he notices them.

“You liked it that much?” You ask as he keeps kissing your face. He stops for a moment to answer, his lips moving against your jaw.

“Yeah. But I like you, all of you.” He says. “And I want you so much it hurts.”

“I want you, too.”

He smiles shortly before capturing your lips with his, and you realise that this is the first time you've ever kissed. People are supposed to kiss before having wild sex, but who cares?

All you care about is Franco and his pretty lips on yours, moving with such confidence and expertise that leave you breathless. You can feel everything in that kiss, it feels like he's trying to say all those things that he thinks it's too soon to say yet, but you answer him with the same intensity, making him tremble in your arms.

His kiss says that he loves you too much to let you go, and you tell him that you feel the same.

a/n2: hope you liked it! pls let me know what you think ♥

#may writes #.#franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto smut #franco colapinto x you #franco colapinto fanfic #franco colapinto fic #franco colapinto imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 smut

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sleepycelestialprincess · 15 hours ago

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Urgg! I see this e v e r y w h e r e!

I work a lot with art and photographs, I'm an artist, I work as a picture framer, and I also have a lot of experience with the history of photography and photo scanning and retouching.

Something that I see a lot is the expectation that old photographs will look low quality because they are old and new photographs should look good. This is entirely opposite in most cases. There are all kinds of limitations that may cause the quality of a photograph from any age to look good or bad and I'll get into some of those later.

Early photography was typically a daguerreotype or tintype. These are both images that are made directly on the surface that you look at. Meaning that there was no intermediate negative or copy made. The image you see was left there by light that came from the subject, through a lens, and hit that surface. The clarity of that image is limited only by how well the photographer focused the lens. If well made, there is upwards of 4000dpi (dots per inch). If you have a 2"x3" image that is approximately equivalent to at least a 96MP (megapixels or million pixels) image. If its a 4"x5", it'd be 320MP. This far surpasses any of today's highest end digital cameras. There are obviously other factors to consider in the overall quality of an image but these photographs from the mid 1800s if in good condition, look great by today's standards.

I'm not going to go into all the photography formats and sizes from the last 175+ years but I'll mention a few. When your great grand parents had their 5 wedding photographs taken, it was probably with and 8x10 or 4x5 inch large format film. Film of that era was grainier than today but at those sizes, even with making a print, will hold great tonality and detail. I would estimate between 400MP – 200MP in resolution for 8x10 or 4x5 respectively.

When 35mm film was introduced in the 1910s, it was largely criticized as not having enough resolution to make an acceptable image. It didn't really take off until the 50s when film got more detailed, and finer grained. Great improvements were introduced over the decades bringing the resolution from about 10MP (very rough estimate) to today's finest films being equivalent to about 34MP with very smooth grain.

I really don't know what they were thinking pushing out digital cameras when they did. Photographs never looked worse! Even a cheep point and shoot camera with 24mm film (APS film was 2/3 the area of 35mm film) produced images far far better than any digital camera for many years. Many early digital cameras were between 1/3rd of a MP up to maybe 3MP. And they were way noisier than even early film was grainy. Even when digital cameras became acceptable in quality if you had the budget for a good one, they still had limitations below that of film. I feel like the crossover was no earlier than 2005. I could go into detail but this post is getting too long.

Then of course phone cameras entered common use not long after and set us back again to utter trash being petaled as anything worth using for anything. This further lowered people's expectations of what an image should look like. What once would have been scoffed at by anyone, became the average common image. Family's memories being reduced to images not worth even looking at.

Luckily things have gotten quite a bit better again, digital cameras of any larger variety look decent. But I think its a real shame that most family's have completely lost about 15 years of photos because of the onset of digital cameras. I fear that may end up longer for many people, if social media sites ever loose someone's photos, many people will have nothing.

—

I didn't even get into photo and art printing. But many things were very high quality in the past, then got much worse, and hopefully have gotten a bit better again. But a lot of things right now are at their lowest yet, like buttons.

Historical context is of course very useful for important things like Politics and Science and everything, but will also open your eyes to things like, uh... the way the clothing/textile/crafting industries try to use the word "natural" as an excuse to sell shoddy and bad quality goods and make you think that's normal.

God knows there are worse things going on in the world, but it really pisses me off when I see companies advertising "Real Shell/Pearl buttons!" like that's supposed to be some upscale selling point, and the buttons in question are the thinnest, roughest, most crudely-made buttons in existence... 🙄😒 "But they're made from Natural Materials! You can't expect Natural Materials to look refined and consistent like synthetic ones!" They are lying to you. THEY ARE LYING TO YOU! And I know this because I've seen "real shell buttons" from 100 or even 50 years ago. And most of them are sturdy and smoothly polished, of a consistent thickness, and sometimes even finely carved. The buttons on nice men's dress shirts? Those are the cheap, plastic IMITATIONS of what people expected actual mother-of-pearl buttons to look like! "Natural" isn't an excuse! Your product is cheap and badly and lazily made! And I'm so sick of this, because I see it EVERYWHERE. "Linen-look" has become shorthand for "coarsely woven fabric with visible slubs" and that drives me CRAZY because do you KNOW what kinds of linen I have seen??? Antique linen so light and fine and smooth you can't even SEE the weave unless you magnify it!!! A fragment of a linen damask tablecloth so smooth and glossy, it looks like SILK? 😭 (On that note, "dupioni silk" is so roughly woven that it would have been considered hardly fit to sell a century ago) "This fabric is woven of Natural Materials, so imperfections will be inevitable!" 🙃 No! 😀 You just made it cheaply and sloppily, and that was your choice! 😊

#rant #photography #history #anti capitalism #buttons #thoughts #tech #shel celeste

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madebycloud · 2 days ago

Text

If you want to, only if you want to

jinx/powder x female reader — 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬⠀𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: when your ex girlfriend thought you'd move on with another woman, she tried to ruin your "date." (request from @Snow0Knight0 on ao3) warnings/themes: fluff and slight angst, ex lovers, valentines, amusement park date, mordern au, jealous!jinx, isha's sister!reader, bible terms ig as a metaphors, pov switch words: 9.7k notes: kinda ooc jinx cz i think she'll go on a rampage if she's jealous 🤷‍♀️

You sit on a park bench, watching your little sister play with Jinx. Isha chases after Jinx in circles around the park while Jinx hides behind trees. You see Jinx pop her head out from behind a tree and make faces at your sister before ducking back behind the trunk. Isha giggles, then keeps running after her.

Your little sister can't wait to see Jinx again. After all, they had so much fun the last time they played together. But things aren't the same anymore because you and Jinx are no longer together. Though you can't say no to your little sister, so here you are.

Isha keeps on after Jinx, her legs running as fast as they can go. Jinx grins and sticks her tongue out as she runs backward. “You gotta keep up, kiddo!”

You pull out your phone to film your little sister. But right before you hit record, your phone starts ringing. It's your boss.

You look down at your phone screen, then back up at your little sister. She's still chasing after Jinx, giggling the whole time. You hesitate, then swipe to answer the call.

—

“Yeah, I'm free next week.”

Jinx stops running, suddenly curious about your conversation. She slows down and looks over your way, trying to hear what you're saying.

Isha looks confused, her face scrunched up in a frown. She glances up at Jinx, then back to you.

“Okay, I'll see you next Friday then.”

Next friday? As in on valentine's day? Why are you making plans with someone else on one of the biggest couples holidays there is?

Jinx narrows her eyes at you. She can see the phone up to your ear. Who are you talking to? why are you planning to do something with someone else on valentine's day?

Isha tugs at Jinx's hand, wanting to continue playing. But Jinx is too preoccupied to pay attention to your little sister right now.

Jinx turns to Isha, her attention still partly on you. She squints her eyes. “Hey, listen, kiddo.”

Isha cocks her head to the side, curious why Jinx isn't playing with her anymore.

Jinx lowers her voice to a hush and whispers so that only Isha can hear. “Do you know if your sister already has a girlfriend or something?”

Isha just shrugs. She doesn't know. She doesn't really care about her sister's love life, at least not as much as Jinx does. Though she remembers you and Jinx dating, and she knows you've broken up. But all that matters now is that she plays with her favorite people, like you and Jinx.

Jinx frowns, not happy with the lack of answer she's getting from your little sister.

She's not mad... at least, not right now. She's still not sure if the person you were talking to was a girl or not, or if you two really had something going on for you to make such plans. But the thought of you spending that day with anyone but her is bothering her.

To be clear, Jinx isn't like… jealous or anything. She's just curious. Yeah, just curious. To know why you're talking to someone on the phone and what they want with you, specifically on a day like that.

Still, Jinx tries to shrug it off. You do have your own life. You're not together anymore.

She doesn't care. She doesn't care if you spend a stupid holiday with someone. She doesn't even care that you two aren't together anymore. You have every right to make plans with someone else. She can't be mad... nope, definitely not mad at all.

She looks down at your sister, who's still standing there, staring up at her expectantly. She remembers that she's supposed to be playing with her.

Jinx tries to smile at your little sister. It's forced, though. She decides to put her focus back on the kid in front of her. She can't spend her time worrying or getting upset over you and your weird phone call. Nah, it's better to focus on the little one in front of her. Playing with her is much better than worrying about you. Definitely.

“So…” Jinx starts. “Still wanna play tag?”

—

A few days later, Jinx still can't shake the thought. She knows she shouldn't care... but that doesn't stop the thought from being there. That doesn't stop it from thinking about you with someone else.

She needs to know who you're seeing. She needs to know who you're going to spend Valentine's day with.

So, she keeps trying to get more information from your little sister, whenever and however she can.

One day, Jinx finally gets the information she's been looking for.

And now, she's standing outside a cafe. Jinx sees you through the window, talking to someone. She watches as you laugh at something this woman says. She can't see who it is. She can't hear whatever the conversation you're having. But she can see you laughing, and that... that makes her stomach churn.

She's seen you happy before. But there's just something about the way you're laughing with this woman. It's making her feel... something.

Wait.

Is she jealous?

No, that's just stupid. She just wants to know who you're talking with. Yup. That's all. She just wants to know who you're seeing. She's not jealous.

Jinx steps inside the cafe, the bell above the door jingling. Her eyes are locked on you, not even twitching an inch. She's so focused on you that she's not even paying attention to anything else. Not even the barista trying to ask her what she wants to order.

“Um... ma'am?” the barista tries again.

Jinx finally snaps out of it, turning her attention toward the barista. She realizes that she probably looked weird, just staring at you like that.

She blinks once, twice, before she answers. “Uh…” She looks back at you, and then back at the barista. “Oh... um... yeah. Can I get a…” Jinx looks at the menu. “A caramel mocha, or something…”

The barista nods, not minding Jinx's sudden zoning out. “Sure thing. And just so you know-” they continue, as they start preparing her order. “We have a discount for couples, especially since it's Valentine's today.”

Oh?

Jinx's eyes dart back to you, and she starts to put two and two together. Couples? Discount? Does that mean you and that woman are…

—

“Hahaha… yeah.” You force out a laugh, feeling awkward. Free food. Yeah, free food is good.

You don't have work today, thanks to your boss who's sitting in front of you.

Spending Valentine's day with your boss of all people and…

Ugh.

It's not a date. It's just a meeting. Just a meeting that your boss decided to have on valentine's day.

You're sitting across from your boss, forcing out a laugh as she talks about… about-

Wait. What was she talking about? you were too busy thinking about the fact that you were in a valentine's meeting with your boss that you didn't pay attention to the actual conversation.

“I must say,” your boss chimes in with a smile, taking a sip of her coffee. “I'm quite impressed with your recent work.”

You force a smile back. “Oh, um… thank you, ma'am.”

Your boss nods. “In fact-” your boss continues, but their voice starts to fade out. Why? Because…

Your attention suddenly drifts towards the door. The bell jingles as someone new walks in.

You're not sure why... but you feel the sudden urge to look at whoever has just walked in. Is it... is it a feeling? a weird feeling?

“Promotion”

What?

Did you just hear your boss say... promotion?

The noise in the cafe suddenly dies out. You're no longer listening to the sound of coffee being brewed, or the barista taking orders, or the hum of conversation.

Your focus is on the one word you just heard.

Promotion.

“Promotion?” you repeat. As in, a pay raise. As in, even more responsibilities. As in-

“Yes.” She puts her coffee down. “You've been an excellent employee. You're diligent, focused, and always go the extra mile.”

Just before she can get another word out, something happens. Just when everything seems to be going right with those precious words “promotion,” something just HAS to happen.

Accidents happen, right?

Except this one is a really big accident.

Because some idiot accidentally spilled a hot, caramel mocha with a mountain of whipped cream all over your boss's shirt.

“What the-” your boss's eyes widen when she sees the ruined blouse that she's wearing. “Who on earth-”

“Oh god. I'm so, so sorry.” The idiot who caused this whole mess apologizes, stepping closer to your boss.

Wait-

There's something about that voice...

Why does it sound so familiar?

Your head turns slowly toward the source of the voice.

Your ex.

Jinx.

JINX?!

What is she doing here?!

“Again, I'm so sorry.” Jinx repeats herself as she tries to fix the mess, grabbing some napkins from the table and using them to soak up the mess on your boss's shirt. “I didn't mean to-” Her head suddenly turns in your direction.

Why is she... why is she here? she already spent time with your little sister last week, what could she possibly want-

“Oh-” your boss interrupts, noticing the way Jinx looks at you, or the way you're looking at Jinx. “You two... know each other?”

Shit.

This is going to be awkward.

“Uh…” You look over at Jinx. She's still staring at you with that look on her face. Why does she look like that? Is she trying to tell you something? “We're just old friends.”

You cringe at the words. Friends isn't the right word to use, but you know you had to say something. You couldn't just say, “Oh yeah, she's my ex and I don't know what the hell she's doing here.” There's no way you're saying that in front of your boss.

Then you notice the way Jinx clenches her jaw, just subtly. You know that look on her face. The one where she's trying to hold something back. Not that she's going to explode or anything, it's just... the expression tells you that she has something to say.

And she looks pissed.

Why is she pissed? You didn't say anything wrong. You aren't together anymore, right? So shouldn't everything be fine?

But that doesn't matter now because you have bigger problems to deal with. Like how Jinx just spilled a freshly brewed, steaming hot coffee full of sugar and cream all over your boss's blouse.

“Yep.” Jinx affirms with a nod. “We're just old, good friends.”

Your boss looks between the two of you. Then, she takes a napkin and dabs some of the excess, creamy liquid off.

You stand there, waiting for the moment when your boss will explode. That she'll get extremely mad at the woman who has just ruined her blouse (which cost probably double of your salary) and demand compensation.

But-

Your boss just sighs.

“How... unfortunate.” She murmurs, looking down at her blouse.

That's it?

Why isn't she asking for compensation? or demanding an apology? or an explanation? or whatever else one would demand in this kind of situation?

“Don't worry about it.” Your boss reassures. “It was just an unfortunate accident.” She smiles at Jinx and then places the stained, crumpled up napkin onto the table. “I'm just... out of luck, because I don't have a spare blouse to change.”

—

Jinx didn't expect that.

She thought she'd get chewed out by your ‘girlfriend’ for ruining her expensive shirt, have to pay for it, or something similar. But instead, she just walked over to the shop across the street, picked out an expensive replacement for the ruined shirt, paid for it, and then went into the changing room to try it on.

Now, you and Jinx are just sitting next to each other on a white leather couch, close enough that your thighs almost brush, but far enough that you have enough space to not actually touch.

Her foot is tapping impatiently against the tiled floor. She's staring at the side of your head, trying to catch your attention. Your eyes are glued on a random painting on the wall across from the couch.

It's quiet and uncomfortable.

She remembers how many times in the past you and her would sit on a couch like this. In her place, in your place, it didn't matter.

She'd be snuggled up next to you, sitting on your lap, and you'd have an arm around her waist, or she'd place your hand on her thigh, or her hand on the back of your neck, or she would be playing with your hair.

But now, she's keeping both hands to herself, and it feels... wrong. Like something is missing.

“So…” Jinx drawls, the tapping of her foot stops. “You and your d-” She barely gets the word out before you interrupt her.

“What are you doing here-” you turn to face her, and the words just kind of blurt out of you, “-I mean, why are you-”

“What do you mean, what am I doing here? I was at the cafe.”

“Why were you in the cafe?”

“What?”

“Did you know that I was going to be there?”

“No,” she lies. “Why do you think I went to the cafe? Do you think I'm stalking you or something?”

“Are you?”

“What?!” Jinx throws her hands up in frustration. “Since when do I stalk people?”

You give her a look, one that says, ‘really?’

“Don't look at me like that! I've never stalked anyone in my life. Ever.” She huffs. “I was just... doing my own thing. I just happened to be there. In the same place. At the same time. That's all. A coincidence.” Jinx pauses, realizing her own words, how it sounds, and how she sounded. She then looks at you, eyes tracing over your face, before she suddenly looks away. “Anyway,” she says, “you and that woman... are you two a thing?” she asks, trying to change the topic.

“Why do you care?”

Why does she care?

She doesn't.

She shouldn't.

She can't care.

She has no right to care.

She left you. She pushed you away. She can't care anymore, because that would make her a hypocrite, to push you away but care for you at the same time.

She's supposed to be moving on. That's what she was supposed to do.

But why does she still feel like this?

Why does her heart ache? Why does it ache because she's sitting right next to you, and she can't do anything but keep her hands to herself? Why does it ache because your shoulders are only an inch away from touching? Why can't you just touch each other again? Why do just a few inches feel so... lonely?

She's supposed to be over you. It's been months.

Months!

She doesn't understand why she still feels this way. She tries to date other people, but none of them compare to you.

And that's not fair.

It's not fair because she keeps comparing everything about them to how you used to be.

She compares the color of their outfit to yours, she compares the way they walk to yours, she compares the sound of their voice to yours.

Her mind keeps finding little things in them that remind her of you.

How their hands feel too rough. How their smiles are too forced. How their eyes never lit up like yours did. How their hugs didn't feel right. How they never seemed to get her the way you did.

It's all wrong.

Because they're not you. No one could compare to you.

She tries to convince herself that she's over you, that she doesn't care, that she doesn't miss you. That the fact that you've found someone else shouldn't bother her at all, that she's totally fine with the fact that you've clearly given your attention to someone else. That she has no right to be jealous, no right to be like this.

So she repeats the same thing she's been telling herself for months.

“I don't care,” she lies to herself and lies to you. Her eyes darts to your hand, close enough for her to take if she reached out her own hand. “It doesn't bother me.”

“Of course it doesn't.” You scoff. “It has nothing to do with you.”

It has something to do with her.

Before she can say anything else, the changing room door opens, and the woman walks out wearing a new black and white blouse.

“Ah, much better.” The woman looks at herself, smoothing out the wrinkles on the fabric. She turns her attention to you. “What do you think?” She smiles. “Looks better, doesn't it?”

Jinx glares at her. That woman looks dumb in the stupid white and black blouse, which somehow manages to look cheaper than the previous blouse even though it probably cost more.

“Yeah.” You force yourself to look away from Jinx, standing up from the couch. “It looks good.”

Jinx grinds her teeth, standing up as well. The way you speak to her like that, it... annoys her. It makes her want to do something petty.

“Glad you think so,” she continues, adjusting the collar. “At least this is presentable. Unlike my previous blouse, which is now... coffee-stained.”

Jinx smirks at that. But her smirk quickly disappears when the woman turns to look at her.

“Speaking of that,” the woman says, her eyes locking onto Jinx. “I don't believe we've had a proper introduction. I'm Cassandra. Cassandra Kiramman. What's your name?”

“Uh…”

“Don't be shy,” she says, in a tone that could be perceived the wrong way, and it grates on Jinx's already thin temper. “I just thought we should greet each other properly, especially after the… earlier accident.”

“Jinx,” she replies. “Just Jinx.”

“Jinx,” the woman repeats. “Interesting name.”

“Better than your boring name,” Jinx mutters.

You elbow her side. Jinx holds back a grimace.

“What was that?” The woman's brow quirks.

“Nothing,” Jinx lies. “Just…” She looks down at the woman's designer heels. “I was just admiring your heels.”

“Oh.” The woman looks down at her heels as well, raising one foot up to show them off. “I got them at the same store I bought this outfit.”

Jinx snorts. “Cheap.”

The woman either doesn't hear what Jinx just said or she just ignores it. Instead, she holds out her hand, and Jinx stares down at it.

“It's nice to meet you, Jinx,” the woman says, still holding out her hand. “I hope we-”

You nudge Jinx. “Be nice,” you whisper.

Jinx scoffs but begrudgingly reaches out and grips the woman's hand. “Likewise.” She forces a smile onto her face.

The woman's hand feels too soft. Jinx could break her with her bare hands if she wants to. Which she is very much considering.

“I'm glad that's settled then.” She lets go of Jinx's hand, and Jinx wipes it on her pants, trying to rid that weird feeling off her skin. Everything about her just makes her sick. Even her name, Cassandra, makes her want to hurl.

The woman starts to walk towards the counter. “I'll just... go pay for this.”

“Sure.” You say, watching her walk away.

—

After your boss pays for her overpriced blouse at the register, she pulls you outside, away from Jinx, who stands several feet away. Jinx can see you talking to her, but she can't hear what you're saying.

“About that promotion…” your boss starts. “Your name is still in the running for consideration, however, we're still going to be discussing it before making any final decisions.”

“Since my name was mentioned?” you repeat, “so there are already some possible employees they're considering?”

“Yes,” she says, looking at you with a stern and serious face. “The only problem being…”

“...being?” you prompt.

“How do I put this?” Your boss clears her throat. “Your performance has been excellent, to say the least. You've always exceeded our expectations and more, and your skills have certainly improved over the years.”

Your confidence rises a bit. “But?”

“But,” your boss continues, “the decision isn't solely based on your performance.”

“How so?” you probe. “It's always based on performance, right?”

“Not in this case,” your boss explains. “In regard to the promotion, the decision is up to the board members.”

The board members? Up until this point, you had assumed that the decision was made by the managers, but you guess it makes sense, since you're dealing with a large company.

“You mean the... big guys? The ones who are…”

“Rich, wealthy, snobby?” Your boss completes your sentence for you. Smirk forms on her lips, as if the board annoys her as well.

“Ahh... and that could be bad…?”

Your boss pauses for a moment, then, “...yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the board is a bit finicky.” She sighs. “They're not one to make decisions easily, and they've always had this... habit of arguing over even the most trivial affairs.”

“So… it’s not looking good for me then?”

“Don't say that,” your boss says. “It's not looking terrible for you.”

“I see.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “Wait, does that mean I have to impress the board members?”

“Yes, that's exactly it.” Your boss agrees. “The members are picky, so to speak.”

Figures. Of course the rich assholes are picky bastards.

Your boss gives your shoulders a reassuring pat before returning her hand to her side. “Just-” she glances over your shoulder towards Jinx, “-try not to worry about it, alright? It's out of your control.”

Jinx continues to glare at the woman. Your boss leans in to whisper, “Your friend-” she nods at Jinx “-doesn't seem to like me very much.”

You follow her gaze.

Jinx notices the two of you staring and suddenly finds great interest in a nearby pigeon pecking at the ground.

“Yeah…” you reply, laughing nervously.

Your boss chuckles, turning to you again. “Anyway, I've got to run. But don't bother coming to work today. You have the day off so-” She gives you a smile and glances towards Jinx, “-spend the rest of your Valentine's day... with her.”

“Oh no, we're not-”

“Don't give me that.” She cuts you off. “I'm not naive, okay? I'm not stupid. I know you two are a thing. It's obvious.”

“Was.” You correct her.

Your boss doesn't seem to care much about the correction. She doesn't react at all. No surprise, no shock, no disappointment. “Was, is, who cares?”

Huh. What is this woman talking about? “Excuse me?”

Your boss ignores your confused look. “The point is, the two of you have something. Something that still hasn't faded.” She motions at Jinx, who's still busy watching a pigeon pick at some bread crumbs on the ground. “I'd better get going. Take the day off for yourself. And…” She gives you a knowing look. “Figure things out.”

With that, your boss turns around and waves to you before walking away. You watch her go, dumbfounded and confused. Is she right? Does Jinx still have feelings for you?

—

Jinx hates the way the woman pulls you outside, she hates the way the woman lays her hand on your shoulder, she hates the way the woman leans into you to whisper something that Jinx hates because she couldn't hear what the two of you were talking about. When the two of you catch her looking, she suddenly looks away.

She hears you laugh. It's the most beautiful sound she's ever heard, but it's the fact that you're laughing with someone else that pisses her off.

She focuses her attention on the bird pecking at the ground.

That's right.

Focus on the bird, not the sound of your laughter. Ignore the way the woman keeps her hand on your shoulder. Don't pay any attention to the way the two of you are talking.

Just focus on the bird. Nothing but the bird.

She could turn and leave right now if she wanted to. Nobody's forcing her to stay. She doesn't even know why she stuck around and followed you and the woman into this shop in the first place. But she wants to stay. She wants to stay because you're here. Because of you.

This is ridiculous.

It's none of her business. You two aren't together anymore. You're not her responsibility. You're not her issue to deal with. She's free to do whatever and whoever she wants.

She hears footsteps getting closer to her, and she turns her head to see you coming over. She looks around, noticing the woman is gone.

“Did you bid your farewells to your girlfriend yet?” she asks curtly.

“She's not my girlfriend,” you reply, walking to her side.

“Oh…” She turns back to the pigeon but finds it has flown away, leaving a few bread crumbs on the ground. She's left with nothing to focus her attention on aside from you. “Then what is she?”

It's a stupid question, but she asks it anyway. It's not like she's entitled to your intimate details.

“She's just my boss.”

She lets out a sigh. Is it a sigh of relief? Maybe.

“You know… you've been glaring at me the whole time,” you continue.

She snorts. “That's just because your face is irritating to look at, nothing else."

“Oh, I'm sure that's the only reason.”

No, it's not just the only reason.

“So what is it then, huh?” she asks, irritated. “Is she flirting with you?”

“No.”

“She laid her hand on your shoulder, didn't she?”

“Is that what you're worked up about? That she laid her hand on my shoulder?”

“Why did she do that anyways?”

“It's no big deal, she's just-”

Jinx interrupts you. “Why did she do it? what compelled her to touch you like that? It's not very appropriate for your boss to be physically affectionate towards you.”

“Since when were you a stickler for rules and appropriate conduct?”

“I'm not.”

“Then why are you so worked up about a simple touch?”

“Because it's not just a simple touch.”

“What? So now you're the authority on what a simple touch looks like?”

“I know a lust driven touch when I see one.”

“Lust driven? What are you, insane?”

“I'm not insane,” Jinx grumbles. “I know the difference between an innocent touch and a not-so-innocent touch.”

“Not-so-innocent? Seriously, Jinx. What are you—do you think my boss has a thing for me?”

“Don't be dense. It's obvious that she has the hots for you.”

“Jinx, she's married. Didn't you see that ring on her finger?”

That makes Jinx pause.

A ring?

Huh... she didn't notice it.

Had she really been so focused on you that she hadn't noticed?

“And married people can't want anyone else? you'd be pretty blind if you think married people can't have crushes, or feelings, or affairs... oh god, is she having an affair with you?”

“What?! No, she's not-” You facepalm. “What in the world would make you think that my boss, who's happily married by the way, would be cheating on her husband with me? That's fucking insane!” You pause, suddenly realizing something. “...wait a minute?”

“What?”

“Earlier today... the spilled drink. That was on purpose, wasn't it?!”

She remains silent.

“You're jealous,” you state.

“What? Jealous? That's bullshit.” Her face heats up. She's a terrible liar, isn't she?

“Then why are you so bothered by the fact that my boss-”

“Because you're mine!”

And there it is. This is what she wanted to hide. Her jealousy, her possessiveness, her attachment to you.

The words slip out before she can even think, and they're so loud and so clear that anyone within a few meters could've heard them. There was no plan, no filter, no hesitation. Just the words that spill out from her mouth before her brain could catch up.

What is she even saying? You're not hers. Why did she say that? She didn't mean it. She has to backtrack, change the subject, anything, just don't look like a blubbering idiot.

“I'm-” She turns away from you. “You're-” She covers her face with her hands and groans.

How pathetic.

Why did she just say that?!

She'll just laugh it off, right? Just say haha, kidding, no hard feelings, we can be friends... right?!

You rub your forehead and shake your head. “Jinx... even if my boss had any feelings for me, which she doesn't, but even if she did-”

The thought of you being with anyone else is driving Jinx completely crazy.

She can't bear to even imagine the thought of you being with someone else or your boss. She's already picturing it in her mind, the both of you together, laughing, smiling, happy, while you're wrapped around your boss like a dog. Your boss is so rich and successful and could provide you with everything you could ever want. And what could Jinx offer you?

Jinx turns to you, dropping her hand from her face. “Why WOULDN'T you be interested in her? She's got it all, for fuck's sake! She's pretty, she's nice, she's independent, she's successful… she's everything any guy or girl would want. What's not to like?”

“Because she's not you!”

“Pfft! Of course she's not me!” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “She's got everything going for her. She's put together, mature, not a total mess-” her mind goes blank when she realizes what you'd said. “...wait. What did you say?”

“She's not you.”

Jinx opens her mouth to argue, then suddenly closes it. She looks away, biting her lip, refusing to look at whatever expression you have right now.

Why?

You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have said something like that.

Don't you realize this is only going to make things harder... and better?

—

Jinx isn't saying anything. You both are just... standing there in silence. People are passing by, couples holding hands, friends laughing and talking.

Your boss' words are still ringing in your ear. Figure things out.

You glance to the side, at the brick wall, and at the clock on the building. The second hand is ticking away. “We still have time,” you say, and you feel Jinx look at you.

“Time for what?”

“My sister isn't out of school yet, so…” You clear your throat. “I heard there's a new amusement park that just opened up nearby. Would you…”

Would you like to be my valentine? The words hang in your head, and your mouth refuses to say them. You just want to see if it's still there. If the connection you felt before is still present. If the feelings she had for you remain.

“Would you like to go with me?”

“...huh? Like, right now?”

“Er-” you sputter, “ONLY IF YOU WANT TO-” you add hastily. “I�� I mean, if you're free-” You look down, shifting awkwardly. “If you're not-”

“I am!” she blurts out.

Okay, she agreed.

Wait, what?

Your head whips back up, eyes wide as you blink at her in silence.

“No, I-I mean, yes, I'm free,” Jinx clarifies.

“Are you sure?” you ask, “I only mean if you want-”

“Yes!” Jinx blurts out again, then clamps a hand over her mouth with a muttered ‘fuck’ when she realizes how eager she sounds.

You both just stand there awkwardly, staring at each other, before Jinx snaps herself out of her nervousness, eyes hardening as she puts on a confident smile. “Well,” she quips. “Lead the way.”

—

“Watch this.”

Jinx grips the fake pistol, a grin spread across her face. She lines up her shot, and-

BANG!

The target falls.

BANG!

Another falls.

BANG!

And another.

The park staff watch in shock at the girl's accuracy, while passersby stop to watch the impressive display of skill.

“Hell yeaaahh!” she crows, spinning the toy gun around her finger. “That's how it's done, baby!”

A group of teenagers watches her, chanting “MVP” and “QUEEN!”

Jinx shrugs, twirling the gun around. She hands the toy gun back to the staff and looks up above to choose a prize. “Hmmm... hmm... that one.” She points up to a giant stuffed pink shark, and the worker sighs.

“That-” they start before Jinx interrupts them.

“Yeah, I want the giant shark.”

The worker sighs heavier and takes the shark down, reluctantly handing it over to Jinx.

Giggling, she throws her prize towards you, and you awkwardly catch the gigantic stuffed animal under one arm.

“What-” you ask as she walks away. “Where are we going now?”

“Ooh! Let's go to that!” She points to the twisted rollercoaster as you struggle to keep pace with her.

The roller coaster looks like torture, and the line is so freaking long you could fall asleep while waiting.

“Can't we go on something... calmer?”

—

“I'm not so sure about this…” you hesitantly say as you're forced to sit next to Jinx in the roller coaster, her thigh touching yours since the seat is so damn small.

You try to fit the giant shark between you, and by some miracle, you manage to cram the stuffed toy in the already crowded space.

The staff comes to make sure everyone is buckled up and stops when they see the giant pink stuffed shark squished awkwardly between you two. “That uhhh... needs to be placed there.” They point over to a shelf where they take any extra luggage/belongings.

You and Jinx both turn around to look at the shelf, then back at the ride worker.

“Oh, right.” You nod and pick up the giant stuffed animal, handing it to the staff.

“Don't lose it-” Jinx warns them.

“Yeah, yeah, we won't,” the staff says, putting it on the shelf.

The bars come down and latch you in.

“Alright-” one of the staff says, “The ride is about to start!”

You look at Jinx, and she looks back at you. “Ready?” she asks, grinning.

“Uh, Ahahaha… sure.”

The staff member comes around one last time and checks to see if you're strapped in correctly. “All right-” they say. “Here we go-”

You gulp, swallowing nervously. You'd rather take on a bullet than ride this metal atrocity, but you're stuck with Jinx.

The ride starts moving, making the clicking sound as it's being lifted upwards to the very top of the coaster.

The ride climbs up to the top, and your nervousness only starts to increase as the rollercoaster continues to climb higher and higher. When it finally reaches the top, it suddenly stops moving, probably to give a few minutes for those to take pictures.

“Hey, look!” Jinx points to the view of the amusement park below the two of you. “We're so high up!”

“I just want to say…” you start, “that I ate the cake you put in the fridge last yea- AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.”

The roller coaster suddenly drops, and the two of you are sent flying down at a high speed.

“OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD-” you scream over the roar of the coaster. Your screams are mixed in with the screams of everyone else.

“WOOOOOOO!” she yells, raising both of her arms in the air. “FUCK YEAAAHH!!”

The roller coaster does a series of sharp turns, drops, twists, and loops that completely mess with your perspective and gravity.

You feel like your stomach is somewhere in your thighs as the ride twists and turns around at breakneck speeds. “HOLY SHIT I CAN FEEL THE SKIN COMING OFF OF MY FACE AAAAAAAAAAAAAA.”

Jinx, on the other hand-

“IT'S SO FAST! FASTER FASTER FASTER!”

This is it. This is how you die.

—

…you somehow survived the roller coaster, but you're not so sure if your soul has left your body.

After the first roller coaster ride, you decided to take it easy on yourself and went on the carousel, but Jinx was having none of it and pulled you onto the next wild ride. And the next. And the next…

Eventually, you get your hands on the picture captured during the roller coaster.

Jinx laughs and stares at the picture before sticking it into her pocket. ��You should see your face.” She giggles as you pass a few other people.

She's currently holding the giant shark stuffie in her arms as the two of you walk around, looking for something else to do.

You've done just about everything except for the log ride and there's no way you're going on that.

You're walking aimlessly through the park when you notice Jinx's pace starts to slow down, trailing behind you.

“Hey?” You turn around to look at her. “What's wrong?”

She's already looking up at the sky. “Do you want to try the ferris wheel?”

—

notes: i would 100% recommend listening to “come here” by kath bloom since this scene (and what happens afterwards) is inspired by the movie before sunrise

You sit in the ferris wheel, side by side. The ride starts moving, slowly bringing the two of you up higher and higher.

You stare out the window to your left, watching the world get farther and farther away as the cabin rises up.

The giant pink shark sits across from the two of you. You like this. Just you and her and the shark.

You feel her side pressed against yours, and you're unable to concentrate on anything besides that. She also looks unable to sit still because she's constantly shifting in her seat.

You sneak a glance at her and see her looking at the window as well. She notices you staring and turns her head to look at you. Suddenly, your eyes meet—you note the color of her irises. An artist might have trouble replicating them, but you think yours could do a pretty good job.

...and just like that, she looks away. Back to the window, finding something interesting to stare at on her side of the cabin.

It gives you a good opportunity to look your fill.

But then she looks back at you, and you look away. Your lips twitch into a faint smile before you quickly purse them together.

You feel her knee brush yours, just gently, like someone walking past you in a crowded room. Except this isn't an accident.

You turn your focus back outside the window, admiring the view. You see the top of the roller coaster you were just on, the carousel, and so many other places you've been today.

But your attention soon drifts to your right side and—oh. She's staring at you again.

Her eyes trace up the side of your head. Over your hair, around your ear…

…to your lips.

She wants to kiss you.

A fact that you notice quite easily.

You want to kiss her too.

You take a deep, trembling breath. You don't know if it's the height, or the cramped space, or the fact that you're alone with her right now—but it's starting to get hot in here.

You wait for a few more seconds, but then, unable to wait any longer, you turn to look at her-

Only to realize she already looked away before you could capture her gaze.

You look down at your lap, feeling the corner of your mouth twitching into a smile again, and... you don't bother stopping it, nor the way your tongue flicks out to wet your lower lip.

You're shaken out of your thoughts when the cabin jerks to a stop. It stopped at the very top. The highest point, where the view is the best.

You don't take time to look out the window. You can only focus on the woman sitting next to you.

Just one more look.

Just one more. That's all you want. You want to turn your head just one more time and kiss her right here in the cabin.

Just one more before you lean in and capture her lips with your own.

You don't know what pulls at your chest or your head, but suddenly you feel the urge to look back at her-

But she stares down at her lap, idly fiddling with her fingers, picking at the blue and pink nail polish. Her braids hide her face from your view. You want to reach out and tuck them behind her ear to see her face better... but you hesitate.

You wait for her to look at you, and when she does-

She looks up, and your eyes lock. She doesn't look away. Neither do you.

—

“Isha will love this.” Jinx chuckles, patting the pink shark sitting next to her.

You watch her from across the table. The diner around you is mostly empty, the staff working while waiting for the next customers to come in.

You look at the clock on the wall. Only an hour left before you have to pick up your little sister. Both of you decided to take a break from the amusement park and grab a bite to eat at the nearby diner.

Jinx sighs, drumming her fingers on the table, growing bored with the wait time. “I'm bored,” she whines, “Let's do something.”

You've been waiting for your order for a while. “Like what?”

She hums, thinking. “Like... roleplay.”

You shrug. Why not? You don't have anything else to do. “Alright, let's try it.”

She grins and leans forward, propping her chin on her hand. “Okay, you're going to pretend to call a friend, and I-” she points her finger at her chest, “-will answer. Sounds good?”

You're a bit confused, but you nod anyway. If you can humor her, maybe it'll pass the time. You lift your hand up and imitate holding a phone, with your thumb and pinky pointed upwards. “Ring ring.”

Jinx does the same and clears her throat before replying, “Heeellloo.”

The sound of her cheerful voice makes you crack a smile. “Hey.” You put on your serious but friendly tone, looking straight at her. “Is this... er-” You pause, your brain working to come up with a random name. “...is this Rebecca?”

“Heyyy yes it is, this is Becca.” Jinx tilts her head to the side. “How are you?”

You have to suppress a laugh. She really sounds like another person. “Yeah, I'm doing good. I was just calling to catch up. How's life been?”

“Oh, the usual. Work, sleep, rinse, and repeat,” she says with a sigh. “What about you?”

“Well…” You look down at the table, pretending to think of something, then look up and meet her eyes once again. “I met my ex.”

Jinx's (or rather, Rebecca's) eyes go wide, pretending to be shocked. “Your ex? Like, Jinx, your ex girlfriend? When did this happen?”

“Just today. I was having a meeting with my boss, and, well she… she kind of accidentally spilled a drink on her.”

Jinx's face scrunches up into an 'O' shape. “She spilled a drink on your boss?” she repeats. “What the hell? Why would she do that?”

“I think she's jealous.”

Jinx smirks. “So... what did you do? Did you two end up talking?”

“Yeah, we did,” you reply, watching her face. “She's still the same. Same eyes, same lips, same tattoos, same long braids of blue hair... beautiful as she always is.”

Jinx's expression softens. She listens to you intently, smiling.

You hesitate before continuing. “I still... love it.”

You stare down at the table and lay one of your hands on the surface.

“I like it when she looks at me,” you say, your fingers tracing the wood. “I like to feel her eyes on me when I look away.” Your eyes return to hers.

Jinx lets her hand rest on the table, her fingers only a few inches away from your own. The gap between your fingers is not close enough to touch, but it still causes your heart rate to pick up.

You look at her slender digits, tracing the faint veins on the back of her hand.

Her hand moves a bit, as if she were about to reach out and touch yours, but then she changes her mind. “Are you going to get back together?”

You contemplate her words, and then a snort of laughter escapes your lips. “We haven't really talked about it yet,” you answer.

There's a pregnant pause, the two of you looking into each other's eyes in silence.

You break the silence with a cough and return your hand back down to the table. You mimic hanging up the phone, signaling that the conversation is over. She does the same, coughing awkwardly.

“Your turn,” you say, “you call your friend.”

“Okay, okay.” She raises her hand, mimicking holding a phone once more. “Brrrring brrrringggg.”

You play along and answer in a deep voice. “Sup, dude? What's up?”

She giggles at your tone. “Hey, how ya been?”

“Doin' just fine, ya know. Livin' the dream. You?”

“I'm doing just great,” she responds. “No, scratch that. I'm rapturous. Wanna know why?”

“And why, might I ask?”

“I met someone.”

“Who?”

“My ex.”

“Oh wow.”

“And the best part is,” she adds, looking at you. “She's here with me,” she continues. “Have you heard the saying that we're all our own angels and demons?”

You nod.

She hums and grins. “Well, turns out that's true. Because I'm looking at an angel right in front of me.”

That's so cheesy... and it's working. “How did you meet?” you ask, changing the topic.

“Oh yeah, about that…” She clears her throat and sits back. “Well,” she starts, drumming her fingers on the table. “I was just curious about who your... uh, I mean her…” She wrinkles her nose. “Valentine's date was. So I got info on her little sister.”

“My sis—I mean, her little sister?”

“Yep, that little squirt was actually pretty cooperative.” Jinx chuckles. “But I just saw her with another woman in a cafe. Turned out it was just her boss.”

You laugh at that, shaking your head.

She grins, satisfied that she was able to make you laugh.

The two of you sit in silence again, waiting for the waiter to bring your orders.

“Anyway, I know we have a lot to talk about,” she continues, her eyes finding yours. “Everything that went down between us. About our relationship. But…” her voice trails off, and then she seems to have found her voice again. “But do… do you think… do you think we would ever be back together?”

Your hand moves from the table to her hand, taking it into yours. The gesture is so natural you don't even notice it until you see the way her fingers wrap around yours.

You run your thumb over her knuckles, her hand fitting in yours like it always did and always will. “I think... if you both talk things out... and if you're both willing to try again…”

She brings your hands to her mouth, placing kisses on your knuckles, on the bumps of your skin, on the veins that run beneath. She looks back up at you, her eyes searching for something in your face. Whatever she was looking for, she finds it and smiles.

“Are you willing to try again?”

You don't reply.

What would it be like to be with her again? Despite everything, despite how things were, there were still moments you remember in a warm light.

The times you and she held hands and just walked down the street. The times you two would sit in a park and people, watch and joke about anyone that walked past.

The times you got stranded in the rain with her and had to share an umbrella, giggling as you squeezed together under it.

The times you two went on a road trip together and laughed and sang along to the radio the whole way.

The times you two spent a night at a hotel together, and neither one of you got any sleep.

The times she would laugh at a stupid joke or just do something adorable, and all the air of the room would just leave you and your voice would get caught in your throat.

The times you saw her in a t-shirt and shorts and no makeup, and she's still the most beautiful in the world.

The times you felt your heart leap when you saw her name pop up on your phone.

The times spent talking about the most boring things and the most boring things were suddenly the most interesting things in the world.

The times you went to the movies and she'd get bored and try to make out with you.

The times she fell asleep with her head on your shoulder, and you'd stay as still, not moving a muscle, and when she asked why you weren't moving, you said “Nothing,” but it was because you could feel her breathing against your neck, and it was so calming that you just wanted to stay like that forever.

The times the sun would hit her face and light up her features and her hair would be golden and the freckles on the bridge of her nose would stand out.

The times she would say something ridiculous like “Oh god, my back is killing me... it sure would be a shame if a beautiful and caring woman just, oh, I don't know, gave me a back massage,” and then look at you with complete innocence.

The times she went with you to meet your grandmother, who immediately took a liking to her and pulled you aside later on to tell you she's a keeper.

The times she would talk about her childhood, and you would listen, and you thought “I wish I could take your pain away.”

The times you stood in the kitchen and cooked together, and it was a mess of flour and batter and sugar and eggs everywhere because you two kept throwing things at each other and laughing and kissing and stealing sips of cookie batter.

The times you woke up next to her and she was looking at you and her eyes were still bleary and the only thought you could think of was “I love her even more than I did last night.”

The times she would get upset about the smallest thing and leave, only to come back hours later with tired eyes and a tight smile. The times you would try to comfort her and she would shrug you off and tell you she's fine, even when she's clearly not.

The times she'd play with your little sister, pretending to be a princess alongside her. The times she'd be a regal queen who let her little princess sit atop her throne. The times she'd be an evil witch who terrorized your little sister. The times she'd be an adventurer who'd save your little sister.

The times she'd look at you when she thought you didn't notice. The times she'd lie and say she wasn't staring at you.

The times she would come to your place unannounced, just to show you something that reminded her of you.

The times you would just exist. No need for words. No need for actions. Just both of you in the same space, comfortable.

There used to be so much love between you two.

The nicknames you had for each other. The inside jokes that no one else knew about. The looks you would give each other from across the room.

You knew the taste of her lips better than your own name. You knew where to kiss, to taste, to worship. Her moles, her scars, her tattoo, her hips, her waist, her neck, her shoulders, her wrist, and it would always lead back to her lips. “All roads lead to Rome,” they say, and Rome was her lips.

You'd trace every line and curve on her body with your tongue the way a blind man would read Braille. You worshipped her like the messiah. She was the promised land to your Moses, her body the Holy of Holies, parting her legs like the Red Sea as you knelt at her altar, and drown in her like an Israelite drinking from Marah.

Being with her was like sitting beside a fire on a cold night. It was cozy, and sometimes you would feel her hand on your back or her arm around your shoulders.

She had a habit of touching you, you could never keep yourself away from each other.

Even now, the way she holds your hand and kisses your hand, it reminds you of the days when all the two of you did was touch and kiss.

But that was then, and this is now.

Instead of spending every minute with each other, you're now sitting across from each other at an empty table in a quiet diner with the ghost of your past relationship hanging over your heads.

You remember the cold moments.

The times you two would fight, scream, yell, sometimes cry.

The times she was distant and cold. The times you wished you could just understand her thoughts.

The times you both would argue and shout at each other and afterwards lay in your bed and just stare at the empty space between the both of you.

The times she'd lock herself in the bathroom and you'd stand outside, your heart breaking with every word you heard her utter.

The times you would wake up in the middle of the night and see her on the edge of the bed, facing away from you, her body trembling, and every single time you would reach for her, and every single time she would pull away.

The times she'd hold you close and you'd hug her back and you'd feel her body shake from stifled sobs, and you would tell her it was okay, even though you didn't know if you were trying to make it okay for her or yourself because nothing was okay.

The times you felt so lost and alone and you just wanted her to hold you, tell you you were going to be fine, but instead she'd give you a blank look and just stare at you, unable to understand how you were feeling because how could she when she was so disconnected from herself and the world around her?

The times you wondered if she still loved you as much as you loved her, because even when you thought she didn't, she would catch you off guard and surprise you with a joke or a smile or a laugh or just the way she'd take your breath away with the simplest things, and you'd feel her love in those little moments and you'd cherish them because those moments were fleeting.

You'd hang onto them desperately, hoping to preserve them, hoping to relive them in your mind over and over because you wanted to feel her love again.

But the feeling would fade so fast, because soon enough she'd be in those moods again, and you'd feel yourself slipping from her grasp more and more every day, and you just wanted to hold on in vain, hold on and hope it will get better, it had to get better, it would get better.

And for the first time in your life, you were tired.

Not of her, not ever of her. You never get tired of her, you never want to be without her. But at that moment, you were tired.

You were tired of trying to understand her, tired of trying to make everything okay, tired of feeling like your love for her wasn't reciprocated.

Just tired.

You never wanted to break up with her. You never wanted to leave her. You just wanted everything to stop. You just wanted a pause.

She was tired too, maybe more tired than you.

When you said, “I'm tired,” she took it personally. She thought you were tired of her, you were tired of the relationship, and you were tired of being with her.

So she left. She broke up with you.

You never expected her to do that.

You never expected her to walk away from you, just like that.

You thought that she would understand, you thought that she would know what you meant when you said you were tired. You thought she would know that you were tired of being the only one trying to make things work, tired of feeling like you're the only one who cares, tired of feeling like the only one who's making sacrifices.

She didn’t hear the words you were actually saying, the words, “I need a break, just a short break.”

She heard different words, words that said, “I'm done, I don't want to do this anymore.”

And she responded accordingly.

She ended things before you could end them on your own terms.

She broke up with you all because you said the wrong words and she heard the wrong words.

But the past is the past, and you can't stay there forever. Right now, you're here with her.

You feel her hand squeeze yours, and you look up to meet her eyes.

They're the same eyes you lost yourself in so many times before, the same eyes that used to be filled with love, affection, passion, and desire. All of a sudden, the past is so close. The feeling comes rushing back, and you can't let it go.

You realize that your boss was right. Something is still there. Something that hasn't faded away.

Was or is, it's still there.

Are you willing to try again?

You know it wouldn't be easy. You still remember every painful, difficult moment of your relationship. You still remember every stupid fight, every misunderstanding, every mistake, and every argument.

But those warm moments that bring up an ache in your chest when you remember them, they were real. You know they were real.

Maybe this time, it will work out. Maybe this time, both of you will learn from your mistakes. Maybe this time, you'll make a better effort to understand her. Maybe this time, you'll try harder to listen to her and make sure she understands that you don't mean anything differently than what you're saying.

Maybe this time, everything will be different.

It will be different.

Maybe if things work out, you won't lose her a second time.

Just maybe… you can get things right this time.

It took you both long enough to realize that neither of you really wanted it to end, right? and now here you are, with her, and she's looking at you with those same beautiful eyes, and-

Maybe this time, things can change for the better.

You squeeze her hand back, and it's an answer without saying anything.

She sees it, and she smiles. She turns your hand and brings it again to her lips, pressing a kiss on your palm.

This time, she doesn't let your hand go.

You don't let go of her hand either.

missed a deadline for this, but that’s okay because it’s worth it, JINX IS WORTH IT!! 🤞

#arcane #jinx #arcane x reader #arcane jinx #jinx arcane #arcane x female reader #arcane x you #jinx x reader #jinx x female reader #jinx x you #jinx x y/n #jinx imagine #fluff #slight angst #valentines #‘love is sweet the second time around’ or smth

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bloominglegumes · 2 days ago

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In your ‘how to draw tf’ what do you search (if you do) to find references for the blaster poses? I love how much character they seem to show

(i assume this is what you were referring to :) )

this response is so atrociously late i dont have any excuse ._.

but to answer the question,, the two poses on the right side were the same as the one on the left, just with a slight bump to show different attitudes :O

in my drawing up there, i felt copying my real figure of blaster exactly made him look a bit stiff, esp considering his personality, so i shifted the original pose slightly to convey some stronger emotions that felt more in line with my idea of blaster :) more sass + cocky attitude, if i had to describe it, giving him more weight on one leg, leaning one way or another to show confidence or hostility or whatever

as for deciding how to bump a pose, all i can rlly suggest for that is to study body language, and pay attention to how different people will act when conveying different emotions! personally i like looking at theatre performance for this, since the exaggeration is something that translates well into art, and u could definitely study from animation as well !! disney classics are classics for a reason fjdhf

since im a transformers blog here tho, i'd place tf one, tfp and earthspark s1 as some great refs for character acting >:))

tf one being feature animation has the fullest range of motion + performance, plus its main cast w pretty different personalities all experience a huge range of emotions + situations over the course of the film and its just beautiful and who wouldnt want to study it frame by frame :DD tfp and earthspark s1 are also fantastic for seeing how to handle posing/acting in a wide range of situations, and theres plenty of screentime to work from ;)

going to stop here before i get too rambly but i hope this was at least a bit helpful? i'm rlly sorry again about leaving this in my inbox for ages :,,))

#asks

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gold-onthe-inside · 15 hours ago

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critical asset

n. def. a specific entity that is of such extraordinary importance that its incapacitation or destruction would have a very serious, debilitating effect on the ability of a nation to continue to function effectively.

who? spencer reid (s7) x analyst!reader summary: the one where you and spencer finally get closer, even if it's just because penelope's too busy. content warnings: pining spencer, r and penelope argue word count: 1.8k

It’s painful how much Spencer likes you, wishing he could just transfer to counter-intelligence and be around you all the time, especially these days. You don’t come downstairs as often anymore, not since they put away Doyle, and it makes him all the more restless. He pursed his lips, looking at the chess game he was playing out, his interest in it sapping the more aware he was of your absence.

A few weeks ago, you would have been sitting right across from him, contemplating your next move, toying with the bishop between your fingers, so focused on the game that he could stare at you as long as he liked. He liked watching your sharp eyes dart around the board, assessing threats to your victory, liked watching you chew your lip as you thought about what to do. He could notice the exact shift in your expression when you knew you were either going to win or lose.

“I see it in 4,” you said, running the tip of your tongue over your teeth, glancing up at him as his gaze shifted to the pieces, the litte furrow in his brow as he wet his lips, trying to see what you did.

“How?” he asked. He was so sure he hadn’t given you a way out… until he watched you arrange each move delicately and his lips pursed into a pout. “Rematch?” he would ask, noticing your smug smile.

“Maybe tomorrow,” you’d say, standing up and squeezing his shoulder before you’d walk away, and he’d sigh, like he’s doing right now, sweeping the pieces into the cloth drawstring bag and folding up the wooden board to put back in his desk.

He’d get one over you more often than not when playing chess at least. He couldn’t say the same for everything else. But if anyone would say yes to a meditation sci-fi film, he knows it’s you — you’re one of the rare few people in his life who has obscure interests like his.

“My Russian isn’t that good,” you said as he waited by your cubicle for an answer, watching you turn off your desktop, drumming his fingers on the top of your transparent divider.

“I can translate anything you don’t understand,” Spencer offered, able to sense that he was close to prying a ‘yes’ out of you.

“I’ve heard your Russian,” you replied, raising a brow at him as the two of you stroll to the elevatory. “Just cause you can memorise the language doesn’t make you fluent, Reid.”

“Well, how am I supposed to become fluent if I don’t immerse myself in the language?” he asked, knowing exactly how to modulate his voice to melt your resistance. He sees your nose twitch and he knows he’s got you.

“Fine, but you’re buying dinner,” you replied, pointing at him and he frowned at you.

“How’s that fair if I’ve bought your ticket too?” he asked, pressing the elevator button. “Plus paying for snacks, and you know those places charge extra than normal—”

“Ugh, fine, jeez,” you replied, leaning against the wall. “I’ll buy dinner.” He was content with that, waiting for you to get in the elevator before following you. A thought crosses his mind, unbidden, that he had never said anything about getting dinner together, and hope flares in his chest. Maybe you wanted this to be a date as much as he did.

It’s dashed when he overhears your argument with Penelope when he’s supposed to be asking her to track down gas stations close to their crime scene — “Well, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling left out if you weren’t constantly shutting me out!” you cried. “God, I mean, you didn’t even let me know you were going to work this early, but you seemed fine calling up Kevin to carpool with.”

“It’s… That’s… It’s just complicated, okay?” Penelope cried, already on the edge since they’d lost Emily.

“Yeah, a lot of things seem complicated with you lately,” you said, scoffing. “It’s kinda hard to support you when I don’t know what’s going on with you, Pen. You’re either working or you’re with Derek or you’re with Kevin—”

“Yeah, well, I could say the same about you!” Penelope shot back. “Been on any dates with Reid lately?” she asked and his breath stuttered where he stood, out of sight, behind the slightly ajar door.

“What else am I supposed to do when you’re always bringing Kevin home?” you demanded. “Seriously, it’s starting to feel like he’s a third roommate lately. He certainly eats like one.” His heart sinks at your words — were you only hanging out with him because you had nowhere to go? Spencer pressed himself back against the wall. “You know what, if he’s gonna hang around that much, you could at least get him to split the groceries,” you snapped at her, heading for the door.

“Yeah, well…” Penelope struggled to come up with a retort as fast as you did — she didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. Or at least, she wasn’t as quick with using it. “Well, if you’re gonna spend that much time with Reid, the least you could do is throw that boy a bone,” she called after you as you stormed out, slamming the door behind you and letting out an enraged huff as you stalked down the corridor, oblivious to Spencer.

He swallowed, watching your retreating figure and letting a beat pass before contemplating whether he should go to Penelope. Maybe he should just have Morgan talk to her instead. He turned on his heel, making his way back to the briefing room instead.

Spencer stared at the clock, watching the hands tick round until you would finally leave. All this week he had been trying to convince himself that you were avoiding him, but that was just his paranoia talking. You’d been avoiding everyone, really — him, Garcia, Morgan… your behaviour towards other people was almost exactly the same. Almost, but not quite. You had been colder to him specifically.

He just couldn’t help thinking you were upset with him.

“You okay?” he asked, catching up to you outside the building, a slight pant to his voice due to the short sprint he had to do to catch up to you in time. Your pace had slowed, and with your gaze to the floor, you let him fall in step beside you. Spencer tried not to pay too much attention to the distance you kept between the two of you.

He noticed everything about you. He couldn’t help it. He had noticed the stiffness in your shoulders, the rigid way you carried yourself.

"Fine," you replied half-heartedly, turning your keys over in your pocket. "I just hate taking the train home."

“Why not get an apartment that’s closer to here?” he suggested, stuffing his hands in his own pockets, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder as he fell into step beside you. He’d noticed you had been taking the metro a lot more than usual. He wondered if everything was okay with your roommate.

"I like living in DC," you replied, walking with him to the station. He hated driving as much as you hated the train.

He nodded, walking alongside you. He wished you’d look at him, though. He could never guess what was going on in your head — was everything okay? Had he done something wrong? You seemed colder to him these days. “What’s been going on with you?” he asked, his voice soft. “You’ve been a bit down lately, are you sure you’re alright?” You finally looked up at Spencer and he had to catch his breath — he’d never get used to your eyes, the sharp intelligence in them, the focus.

You sighed, looking ahead again. "Penelope's been... I dunno, things aren't great between us."

“Why’s that?” he asked, reminded of your argument again. The two of you were always together, you were inseparable. “Is everything okay?” He was about to reach out, touch your arm, but he second-guessed himself, not wanting you to push him away. He couldn’t take it if you did.

"I don't know," you confessed, your nose tinged red with the cold, still turning over the key in your pocket to keep yourself grounded. "She's working overtime, if she's not on a case, she's working on something with Derek that she won't tell me about, which is fine, I get it. If anyone understands classified projects, I do. And then she's always with Kevin and I just..." You let out a breath, like you haven't let all of it out in a while, and it fogs up a little, your eyes glassy. "You know, you see yourself as this central person in someone's life and then suddenly... all these other figures come in and you just... don't know where you fit in anymore."

The look in your eyes made him ache to comfort you and he had to look away to stop himself from being overwhelmed by what he saw there. “People get busy,” he said, softly. “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t value your friendship, or that she doesn’t want you around as much as you want to be.” His fingers twitched against his own palm as he spoke — he knew the feeling in your words all too well. He hated the idea that you were going through what he did on a daily basis.

You blinked the dampness in your eyes away, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. "It's whatever," you murmured, tucking hair behind your ear.

Spencer looked at your profile as you walked and he had to look away again. He was starting to lose count of how many times he’d stopped himself from reaching out to you. He wanted to, he wanted to so desperately… but he was also terrified of rejection from you. He didn’t have an endless well of confidence, and he couldn’t bear it if you pushed him away. So he settled with wishing he could help you more than he currently was.

"How are you doing?" you asked, glancing at him. "With Emily and everything."

Spencer cleared his throat as he walked beside you, staring at the ground in front of him. “I think I’m still in shock,” he said, softly. “I miss her a hell of a lot, I’ve never connected with someone so quickly.” He didn’t even hesitate before he added: “Except maybe with you.”

You huffed a little, smiling. "Nerds of a feather, right?"

He nodded, smiling. “Yeah, I suppose so.” He glanced over and met your gaze, and he couldn’t help the way a grin bloomed on his face, your eyes meeting his.

You smiled at him, your eyes lighting up in that way he loves — not just with amusement, but with warmth, and his chest started to ache, just a little. He could do this forever.

His heart skipped, and for a moment he could forget everything. For a moment, everything was perfect, just you and him.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x analyst!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #my fics

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seewetter · 1 day ago

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My first thought at hearing horror described as "a predatory force seeking out the exposed and vulnerable elements of society" made me think of a movie about a monster tormenting people who refuse to be vulnerable and at the end the "final girl" has vulnerability but must spend a highly uncomfortable eternity with the monster.

But then I realized that while that would make a good horror movie, it would just be the flip side of the coin of horror movie avoidance. The audience then simply gets "action movie"-like gratification where the victims have to open up and be vulnerable and laughs in schadenfreude when they fail at this task. It could be good horror, but it wouldn't challenge its target audience, who don't relate to the victims in the film. The audience would side with the monster, and watching the predation with a certain level of emotional detachment. "Ahaha, that frat bro couldn't show vulnerability, go get him". This could be a fun movie, but it's not a template for the appeal of horror. And people who don't want to be vulnerable in that particular way can become more entrenched in their mindset, because the film isn't just victimizing (people like) them, it mocks its victims, it addresses the audience as people superior to those victims.

If, say, a slasher movie features a bunch of frat bros who never open up to each other, this doesn't reflect real vulnerabilities of frat bros, who IRL do tell each other pretty harrowing stories and show emotional vulnerability in the right social setting -- the reason shitty men bully emotional or "weak" men in group settings is cishet patriarchal pecking order / violence. These guys do all these weak and emotional things all the time, just under the "right" pretense. So a horror film where frat bros are killed for being repressed kind of misses its mark as social criticism.

But even if the film killed frat bros or karens or other groups of privileged people who either repress something or hide a violent underbelly of their group, a challenging horror film walks a fine line.

Any horror film that simply *gives them what they deserve*, say a slasher film where frat bros die one-by-one as the monster seeks out guys who aren't, as prev put it "reduced to tears", is wish-fulfillment for an audience critical of frat bro culture. Like I'd get a kick out of it, I think such stories should be told and I'll watch at least a few of them, but I know deep down that I'm watching something that doesn't actually affect me. Don't misunderstand me: I don't think entertainment needs to be pure. I don't think it needs to teach valuable lessons. But since people above are discussing the kind of infantile mindset where someone basically doesn't like about horror the very thing that makes it horror (the helplessness) I can't but mention that to really get audiences to experience helplessness, you need *them* to actually feel helpless. So watching some Karen who totally deserves to get chopped to bits feel helpless ...only works if *you're* a Karen like that yourself -- and even then might not work if you rightfully(?) suspect this entertainment was made by other people to make fun of you or feel superior to you.

Schadenfreude (enjoying the damage others face) is absolutely a viable ingredient for entertainment: but absurdly, it's an ingredient for a feelgood movie. A morality play that preaches to the choir.

This is one reason why trans women and people with physical disfigurements have been so attentive to transmisogyny and ableism in horror. Because in both cases, the mainstream has been making feelgood movies where the monster is Other and people can feel superior to that form of otherness. They can pat themselves on the back for thinking that disfigurement makes someone monstrous or uncomfortable or undesireable or disgusting. A disfigured monster's body would not be half as ableist if it wasn't part of a sort of morality tale feelgood movie, where bad people get what they deserve and good people go rewarded. Giving the disfigured monster more sympathy effectively doesn't just muddle the ableism, but also muddles the predation and violence of the monster. Which won't really make sense to the audiences who wanted a morality play to feel better about themselves but also--- morality plays are a part of horror, but they are kind of like decaf coffee. It's horror without the helplessness of horror.

Even a film with an amoral ending, like Cabin in the Woods, is basically just defanged horror, it's an action comedy with horror tropes and weird sci-fi and fantasy elements. The amoral ending (just letting the world get destroyed) is cool and entertaining, but this is definitely a feelgood film.

If someone wants to make a film about unavoidable pain and suffering, then they can't shy away from actually inflicting that fictional pain and suffering on their fictional characters. And if that movie is meant to avoid the thing where wealthy suburbanites are victims of the murder doll or demon home invasion or whatever, if you want to show the vulnerability of homeless people for example...well then you can't shy away from portraying the futility of their attempts to get help.

Feelgood films (both the Action Horror movie and the Schadenfreude Morality Play) have their place in the world of storytelling and can say interesting things. But the impulse to always want "soft" horror is maybe partly due to how effective it can be, as a genre, to actually make people live through helplessness and unavoidable pain. I don't think the last type is more legitimate, but I do think, especially when it deals with marginalized pain or deals with privileged pain in a way that truly hits its mark, people will tend to not want to watch it.

It's not uniquely American for people to not want to get to close to this sort of pain. It seems like the product of neoliberalism: even the most victimized people in the poorest countries are told that what truly matters is their authenticity, their integrity. Labour is increasingly expendable, people can easily lose everything... and so they are being comforted with the idea that at least they *are themselves* (hence why I'm always trying to define being trans not as "who I am, who I truly am inside" and more in terms of "my freedom of association and self-definition is being taken from me, using biology as an excuse". When people want to *be themselves*, experiencing a story where they have to be vulnerable can be incredibly difficult.

I'm still not sure why rich people applauded "Parasite" -- did the film fail on some level, or did they shield themselves from the film's message -- and I can't say what the magic ingredients are to make a story impact its target audience. Parasite, though, is about poor people told from their perspective -- and rich folks are the Other. So maybe that explains its muted effect: Like that social media post about bullies at school cheering on Dumbo the elephant beating up his bullies. This is the story of Dumbo, audiences cheer Dumbo on because they like him. They aren't vulnerable to the critique of Dumbo or Parasite, because the hero isn't a bully like them. And bullies are fundamentally unsympathetic as characters. Audiences tend to want them to die.

I think a really psychologically effective horror film is one where the protagonists are people the audience relates to, who do bad things that the audience somewhat dislikes but can find understanding for and where the antagonist isn't a bringer of morality, but simply a force of destruction. Where the core defining aspect of the monster isn't how clearly it reflects some real-world problem, but how relentlessly it pursues its tastes or agenda. The monster(s) acts like a real-life problem in its horrific effects, but it isn't allegorical. Or at least not allegorical for an issue near and dear to the audience's heart. But I'm not sure how much horror can actually cause audience introspection. I don't think we can fully expect entertainment to hit the mark on that. People watch entertainment for the fun of it -- if someone wants entertainment to be transformative, they need to take notes from entertainment that appears to have a genuinely transformative effect (like "A Short Film About Killing" which supposedly ended the death penalty in Poland or "Jaws" which supposedly caused a temporary shark murder spree).

But regardless I think it makes sense to realize that horror films that make the audience feel smart for avoiding bad things and horror films that harrow the audience with inescapable horror are pandering to different desires and are, in a sense, different genres. If you know that, you have a better grasp on how to design your own stories or how to recommend stories you come in contact with.

people are so mean about horror movie victims like. sorry but if i had gone to a cabin in the woods with my friends as a teenager you couldn't have stopped us from reading aloud from the evil tome. how were they supposed to know the ancient curse was real they're like 17

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gothwizardmagic · 18 hours ago

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god ok also gotta say as a choreographer, whoever did the superbowl choreo was a fucking GENIUS like. it manages to be so effective without ever being flashy or complicated & like. flashy & complicated are great but to do the basics this effectively is PHENOMENAL. the repeated motifs are so striking and so strong and so CLEAR in their meaning its PAINFULLY effective - the contrast of more relaxed dancers just vibin and having a good time at the beginning & end, when its just people being themselves vs. "what america wants" - disquieting, emotionless, rigid lines of soldiers throwing salutes while kendrick & sza are singing on stage in the middle, keeping the people entertained & distracted as the goose-stepping dancers circle like sharks

and thats not to even mention the SCALE - working with such crisp colour lines in such an ENORMOUS group is staggering to even fathom like. making sure all the reds are in the right place at the right time & you dont have someone who was a blue in one section but accidentally wound up in the white group somewhere in the shuffle....... the formations are UNBELIEVABLY complex & span such an enormous space, its mind blowing to think about. over a hundred dancers. over a HUNDRED people to keep track of at all times to make sure they're getting from one place to another in the right way at the right times in the right formations. over a HUNDRED.

the dancers executed FLAWLESSLY too - taking big steps and remaining PERFECTLY in line is incredibly hard & they made it look effortless. the amount of split-second transitions to nail and vibe-shifts to hit.... oh my god. also shot to the camerapeople who were working their asses off on those transitions just as much as kendrick & the dancers were

also thinking of scale like... arena choreography and stage/film choreography are VERY different things. on a stage or in a music video etc. you have ONE front. at most on a big stage the audience might wrap slightly around the sides but generally speaking, you're choreographing for the people or camera in front of you, and they're gonna have a pretty good view of your face the whole time. arenas are MASSIVE, and there are people on ALL SIDES. you can't pick A Front, you have to be entertaining people all around you simultaneously, which means completely rethinking how things are structured. you also can't rely on detail nearly as much, because the audience is Really far away. even if there are screens, you want to make sure that there's something to look at on the stage itself, so the audience doesn't feel like they're just watching a music video. it's still a live show & you want it to feel like one

so theres a balance to strike between giving the individual artist focus & acknowledging that they literally... can't face every direction at once. even if kendrick is facing away, there are always dancers doing something that'll be visually striking at a distance for the audience to enjoy. but at the same time because there ARE cameras, it also has to work for video & HAVE those detailed up-close elements, so the footage doesn't just look like a guy bopping around with people walking past him for the whole time. the most effective example i can think of is in peekaboo - the groups of white-clothed dancers in the X is visually strong from a distance - even if you can't see exactly what's going on, it's an interesting visual, whereas up close you have the strong music video feel of kendrick popping up out of nowhere; of all these different up close groups of dancers giving their full performance directly to one front while that front is rotating from one group to another, as opposed to the multiple surrounding fronts on the main stage. it transitions from an arena show to a music video (and then back when he walks out onto the main stage with that trail of dancers so the visual is most effective from above rather than up close) SO EFFORTLESSLY and makes absolutely brilliant use of the space

this is literally jsut stream of consciousness it could definitely all be phrased better & honestly i could keep talking for a Long time like i didnt even get in depth abt the use of colour in the costuming & the way every costume is slightly unique in the up close shots but when you pan out to the stadium they become lines of clones like. god i could go on!!!! i coudl go on!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! its a masterpiece choreographically fr its elegant its communicative its mindbogglingly complex ive watched it five times now trying to absorb as much as i can

#chewing on my hands chewing on my hands chewing on my hands #i also watched a video of t-pain reacting & he said this is the kind of choreo/staging he wants at coachella so expect a trend coming #(honestly the t-pain video is worth watching its very funny he spends the whole thing basically going. ''this is so good i hate you'')#(and roasting kendrick for only knowing 3 dance moves lmao)#kendrick lamar #long post #lmao oops i went on way longer than expected #honestly dont Ever ask me about any dance video unless you want this kind of speech

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sosasturns · 14 hours ago

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bad ideas & good distractions - c. sturniolo

fic, part one of bed chem… next door neighbor!chris x beauty influencer!reader

the first time you notice the moving boxes in the hallway, you don’t think much of it.

it’s a nice apartment building, and people come and go all the time. besides, you’re too busy editing a new video to care about whoever’s moving in.

then, later that night, it starts.

the music.

so loud it rattles your walls, pulsing through your head as you stare at your laptop screen. you try to ignore it, try to focus, but the bass is relentless.

eventually, you sigh, shut your laptop, and crawl into bed, hoping it stops soon.

it doesn’t.

this continues for the next few nights—loud ass music, doors slamming, voices in the hallway. annoying as hell, but not enough to make you confront your new neighbor.

until one night, around 1 a.m., when it’s actually a full-blown party.

laughter, shouting, people stumbling up and down the hall like they pay rent here.

you lay in bed, glaring at the ceiling, seething.

what the hell is his problem?

but instead of doing anything about it, you toss and turn, forcing yourself to sleep.

the next morning, you’re filming a get ready with me for an upcoming event, sitting at your vanity, blending concealer under your eyes.

“i did not sleep last night,” you say, “my new neighbor—who, by the way, i have not met yet—thinks my apartment complex is a frat house, apparently.”

you shake your head, dabbing in more product. “anyway, i’m going to this event later, so let’s fix my face and act like i’m not sleep deprived as hell.”

you post the video and go about your day, shoving the whole situation to the back of your mind.

but that night, when the music starts up again, you’re done.

at first, you try to ignore it, sipping on a glass of white wine as you edit a brand deal video, but then there’s moaning. loud, exaggerated, fake as hell.

you slam your laptop shut.

this motherfucker has lost his mind.

you storm into the hall, crossing your arms as you knock on his door, loud as hell.

the music doesn’t stop, but the door swings open a moment later.

and that’s the first time you see him.

low sweats. shirtless. hair slightly messy.

he leans against the doorframe, eyes dragging over you—your heartless hair curlers. pink pajama set. silk robe. fluffy slippers. the sleep-deprived glare on your face.

you looked like you just woke up from a slumber on twenty mattresses and still felt the damn pea.

then he smirks. “cute pajamas.”

you shift your weight onto your hip, unamused. “most people on this floor are in bed sleeping right now.”

his smirk deepens. “clearly, i’m not most.”

your eye twitches. “turn the music down. and the fake ass moaning, too.”

he chuckles.

you wait. “so?”

he shrugs, barely moving. “i’ll think about it.”

oh, you hate him.

“whatever.” you spin on your heel, stomping back to your apartment and slamming the door behind you.

the next morning, your head is pounding, but you push through and meet your girls for brunch.

“babe,” one of them says, stirring her mimosa. “you look rough.”

you sigh, stabbing your eggs. “my new neighbor is a fucking menace.”

they lean in. “spill.”

so you do.

you tell them about the loud music, the party, the smug ass smirk.

they listen, nodding along, sharing their own bad neighbor horror stories.

but one of them grins. “he’s hot, though, right?”

you hesitate. “that’s not the point.”

“but he is, isn’t he?”

you purse your lips, sipping your mimosa. “whatever.”

they laugh. “oh, you so think he’s hot.”

you don’t answer.

but you don’t deny it, either.

a few days pass, and you avoid him.

not hard to do.

but the thought of him lingers, especially late at night, especially when you’re in bed, mind wandering.

he’s just a guy.

just your annoying ass neighbor.

but you can’t stop thinking about his voice, his smirk, the way he leaned in the doorway—

get it together.

except you can’t.

and eventually, you come to terms with it.

it could just be a singular fuck. nothing more.

just something to scratch the itch.

so, one night, against your better judgment, you grab your keys, take a breath, and step out into the hall.

heading straight for his door.

@ sosasturns

part two 02.14

sosa mafia taglist: @submattenthusiast @sophand4n4 @secretlocket @mrsdillonx @ch6rm @sweetrelieef @gabri3la-sturns @inspiredangel @sturn777 @et6rnalsun @faiyaz555 @whore4mattsturniolo @courta13 @katie-tibo @ifwdominicfike @raesturns @adoremattsturns @conspiracy-ash @chrisslut04 @ily-tothemoonandback

+ @riasturns @angelic-sturniolos111 @cinnqmonsw1rl @blushsturns @fratbrochrisgf

#sosasturns #next door neighbor!chris #beauty influencer!reader #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo au #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets

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bucketofdeltav · 9 hours ago

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I fundamentally agree with you but I wish to share a different angle on that fundamental agreement.

I am also the autism, and raised by an English Lit teacher (and an engineer whose draft reports were the household scrap paper bin, so I had good examples of both literary and technical writing available from very young).

No I don't know exactly what a character's face is doing when the author says 'their eyes darkened'. I also don't, like, care, if I'm reading for pleasure. Like I recognize the emotional state that's being conveyed by the phrase, which is the core information that actually matters here, and when I'm reading I don't have to interpret human facial expressions in real time to get that information, because it's like. Right there. What is this character feeling right now. For bonus points, how does this affect what they're going to do or say next?

I've been told it's really easy to see when I'm reading Star Wars stories specifically (and sometimes which one I'm reading) because I 'try on' the characters' faces with my own face wayyyy more than with other genres, and that's because the canon novelizations go really hard on facial expressions (and Force aura which is fundamentally just a different kind of facial expression and one real people don't actually have, except when they do) because they're very explicitly referring back to film media, where facial expression is a major way of conveying a lot of emotional information at once. I really like the RotS novelization because it's very clearly timestampable to a specific film and I can go check 'what that figure of speech looks like on a human face'.

Hello yes I learned to read human emotion largely from Star Wars this explains a lot about me actually.

I can't remember where I was going with this. Wide range of human experience good. Understanding that not everyone is going to approach your writing in the same way also good.

I’m so sorry but in the nicest way possible do yall actually read books or just read words??? Cause I’ve been seeing that trend of people not understanding how “snarled” and “eyes darkened” and “eyes softened” etc. was used in a book and like…

Genuinely, do yall just not have imagination?? Or not understand figurative language??? Also eyes do literally darken and soften have you not lived a life??? How do you read with no imagination? Is this how you get through so many books in one month - you simply don’t take the time the understand the words as they are read?

#star wars #autism #learning to read #the differences between how peoples brains work is so fascinating to me

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 days ago

Text

A Curse [Chapter 3: Flower District]

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap relationship, entertainment industry misogyny, some body dissatisfaction/dysmorphia, medical stuff, a creepy dude, a special surprise is found in Aegon's office!!!

Word count: 6.2k

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You sleep in late and wake to the sound of excited voices out in the kitchen. When you follow them, you find Baela using a pink Click ‘n Flame utility lighter to ignite the candles on a sloppily but lovingly homemade cake, Pillsbury Funfetti according to the blue box left upturned on the countertop, lumpy white icing dotted with multicolored sprinkles. Jace must be responsible. You panic, thinking that you have forgotten a birthday, but no: you quickly recall that Baela is a Sagittarius and Jace is—somewhat improbably—a Capricorn.

“What are we celebrating?” you ask.

Baela looks up from the cake, the candlelight luminescence radiant on her face. She is beaming, she is glowing, she is definitely meant to be an actress. She shines too brightly to belong anywhere but among the stars. “I got the part.”

“Which part?”

“The one in the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie!”

“No way!” you shout, and you rush over to hug her; but already there is a sinking feeling that you are dimly aware of through the rush, and when the revelry is over you will lie in bed alone with these thoughts, treasonous yet true: When will it be my turn? Why can’t this happen to me? “That’s so exciting! I’m so happy for you!”

“It’s about the French Revolution,” Baela says when you pull away, still grinning hugely. “I’m getting third billing, my name will be on the promo posters! I’m flying to Paris for filming next month!”

“Wow.” Your smile is frozen on your face. “Wow, wow, wow, I can’t believe it. This is so awesome!”

Then Baela realizes how it must feel for you, and she is sympathetic, rubbing your shoulder as her expression twists into something soft and bashful. “But hey, your luck is turning around too!”

“Yeah,” Jace says. “You got to be in Episode 5,000 of Grey’s Anatomy.” Baela gives him a reproachful glare. “What?” he asks, clueless.

“No, it’s totally cool,” you insist. “I’m really, really thrilled for you, Baela. You have to take a million pictures in Paris so I can see all the architecture and desserts and hot French dudes!”

Jace snorts. “Are French dudes even hot?” He sounds skeptical.

“You can be my date to the premiere,” Baela tells you. Jace gapes at her, incredulous. “We can pose together on the red carpet and you can do some networking! Maybe Yorgos will even like you and cast you in his next project!”

But something about the way she says it makes the prospect sound ludicrous, fantastical, fictional. Baela’s breakthrough is reality, yours is unicorns and mermaids and the Loch Ness Monster. “You are so wonderful, but you should take Jace.”

“Yeah, you should take Jace,” Jace says.

Baela pulls a knife out of the bamboo block on the kitchen counter. Her parents bought it, like they bought almost everything else in the apartment; they believe in her, lots of people do. “Do you want some cake? When’s your appointment?” The appointment you didn’t cancel, contrary to Aegon’s explicit instructions. Technically, you never agreed to, so you haven’t lied to him. That makes you feel better. Baela glances at the calendar and reads the time written there in red ink. “Oh good, not until noon. You definitely have time for cake!”

“Babe, you gotta blow out your candles first,” Jace says. Baela closes her eyes, becomes still and serene, extinguishes the tiny golden flickers of light with one delicate puff. Then she begins cutting the Funfetti cake. You get three forks from the silverware drawer. Jace hands you a plate from the cabinet as he complains about having to go to class today: Music Aesthetics, Analysis, and Philosophy.

“Just a little one, please,” you tell Baela. A moment later, she plops a skinny slice of cake onto your plate. “Thanks, Becca! Wait, no, I mean Baela. Sorry.”

She laughs, still wielding a knife covered in white frosting. “Who’s Becca?”

“Aegon’s fiancée.”

“Oh, your agent’s future wife? The agent that you are definitely not into at all?”

“Yeah, that one, you got it.” You give her a wink and take a bite of cake: frosting so sweet it hurts your teeth, tiny kaleidoscopic flecks of candy like gold in a stream.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So, which one are you liking the feel of?” Dr. Cunningham asks, smiling in a way that is effervescent and yet impersonal, vaguely impatient, a real estate agent type of charisma. He must be in his mid-fifties, and yet his face is nearly entirely purged of wrinkles, smooth and shiny and evenly tanned. His teeth are too perfect to not be veneers. People keep suggesting those to you too; you need more time to wrap your mind around the idea of having your canines and incisors shaved down to helpless nubs.

“Um…” You go down the line again, squeezing all three samples that are arranged on the stainless steel utility table that Dr. Cunningham wheeled over to you. “I walked in wanting the gummy bear implants, and I think I feel the same way now.”

“Excellent!” he says, wearing that same smile. His eyes, very blue, never change; they are alert yet vacuous, like the fatal error screen on a Windows computer.

“And they’re safer, aren’t they? The gummy bear ones?”

“Statistically, yes,” Dr. Cunningham agrees, somewhat briskly, as if he is eager to change the subject. “But I wouldn’t worry about that. I hardly ever see ruptures in any of my patients.”

Hardly ever, not never. “That’s good!” you say spiritedly, like a star pupil.

“As I mentioned earlier, they are a bit more expensive than the other options, but we have several financing options available.”

“My parents are paying, so no worries there.”

“Fantastic.” He’s still smiling. You kind of wish he would stop. “You want to be an actress, I assume?”

“I do, yeah! How’d you know?”

He chuckles as he rolls the small metal table away. “That’s what all the girls are doing out here, right? And if it’s not acting, it’s singing, or modelling, or…what do you call that, when you make money on TikTok or wherever?”

“Being an influencer.”

“Right,” Dr. Cunningham says. “Well, I wish you the very best of luck.” It’s chivalrous but hollow, an echo of the encouragement he’s given to thousands of women just like you, except probably more beautiful and more talented and actually getting some of the parts they audition for.

I got a part, you think, and your mood lifts a bit. Aegon finally found me one. And he believes I’ll get more.

“Is it okay if I take a look?” the ever-smiling Dr. Cunningham says, and your heart begins to pound beneath the gown you’re wearing, scratchy white polyester-blend fabric that opens in the front. But this is all standard procedure, and you knew to expect an exam, and you should not feel like you’re lining up for the firing squad.

“Of course!” you exclaim too enthusiastically; your voice cracks. You undo the tie down by your waist and the fabric across your chest and belly goes slack. Your tan TOMS wedges are scattered on the linoleum floor that’s supposed to look like wood. The sundress you wore to the appointment, patterned with large sunlit palm leaves, is folded on a chair. Your eyeshadow matches: matte green Thorns by Anastasia Beverly Hills, sparkly gold Whisper by Natasha Denona.

As Dr. Cunningham opens your gown and begins the exam, you stare at a framed print of Venice Beach on the wall, and you pretend you are there under the hot glaring daylight instead of here in a frigidly air-conditioned office being prodded and manipulated, measured not to be admired or understood but only to be improved upon.

Dr. Cunningham is saying: “Just so you’re aware, due to how firm a gummy bear implant is, we typically have to make a slightly larger incision in order to insert it. Saline and traditional silicone implants, being more flexible, can be squeezed in through a smaller opening, for example using a transaxillary incision in the underarm. But they’re also more prone to wrinkling and rippling, and they must be replaced more frequently, so that pliability comes at a cost. I think gummy bear implants are a very good choice for you.”

“And…where exactly would the incision be?” Your heartbeat is still thunderous; you can hear the scorching red blood flow throbbing in your ears. Dr. Cunningham either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mention it.

“We’d go in right here,” he says, skimming his gloved fingers just beneath your left breast, your raw heart just two inches away. Goosebumps prickle on your arms. “It’s what we call an inframammary incision, and it gives us more room to work with to ensure the implant is placed properly, and…”

He loses his train of thought, interrupted by a commotion out in the lobby. Through the closed exam room door, you can hear people arguing and then something being spilled—the jar of pens on the receptionist’s desk? the glass bowl of mints?—and heavy sprinting footsteps. Dr. Cunningham pulls his hands away and you snatch your gown shut just as the door bursts open, and Aegon stands there breathing heavily from the exertion, hair in disarray, white Nike Killshots with a red slash of a Swoosh, dark jeans, salmon-colored t-shirt that’s too big for him, tan sport coat jacket yanked off of his shoulders. His attacker, the elderly receptionist, has chased him to the doorway.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she’s shrieking. She smacks him with a massive leather purse. “You can’t just go barging in on patients! What are you, some kind of druggie? We don’t keep any opioids in this office!”

Dr. Cunningham yells: “Will you call the police, Barbara?!”

“No wait, I know him,” you say, and both Dr. Cunningham and the receptionist stare hostilely at you. You ignore them and look at Aegon instead, stunned. “Hi.”

He straightens his jacket. His eyes, that dark and turbulent blue, are fixed on your face as you hastily retie your gown so it stays shut. “Hi. What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s just a consultation.”

“For a surgery you’re not going to have?”

You shake your head in disbelief. “How did you know I was here?”

“I just had this feeling you weren’t going to cancel,” Aegon says. “So I went to your apartment and you weren’t home, but your roommate told me where you were and gave me the address that you wrote on the calendar.”

“Oh.”

“She’s very nice. Your roommate, I mean.”

“Yeah, Baela’s cool.”

“She offered me a piece of Funfetti cake.”

“Did you take it?”

“No. I was in a hurry to get here.”

“Right.” You remain seated on the edge of the exam table with your hands clasped together in your lap. The receptionist and Dr. Cunningham’s bewildered gazes fly between you and the intruder.

Aegon sighs and nods towards the hallway that leads out to the lobby and the front door of the office. “Come on,” he says gently. “Get dressed. Let’s go.”

“I can’t,” you reply.

“Why not?”

You don’t answer; your eyes dart to the print of Venice Beach on the wall and stay there as they begin to water. Aegon crosses the room—the receptionist and Dr. Cunningham shuffle around the cramped space to keep away from him—and stops when he is standing right in front of you, his hands in the pockets of his rumpled tan jacket.

“Why not?” Aegon asks again, very softly now.

You look at him. Your voice is a quivering whisper. “I don’t want to have to give this up.” The city, the potential, the dream.

“Hey,” Aegon murmurs, leaning in close. You can smell the ocean and sunlight and Juicy Fruit gum. Strands of blonde hair, ripped from the sheen of gel, shag over his forehead. “You’re bright as hell just the way you are. You don’t need surgery to be an actress. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

And immediately, you are ready to leave. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” You wriggle down off of the exam table, check your gown to make sure you’re still covered, and turn to Dr. Cunningham. “I guess I’m not interested anymore.”

“Please never set foot in my office again,” he says.

“No problem,” Aegon snaps. And then to you: “I’ll meet you outside. We’ll get lunch.”

“Sure,” you reply, still a little dazed.

Aegon hurries out of the exam room before the police are summoned. Dr. Cunningham and the receptionist leave too, muttering to each other and casting you appalled glares. When you are alone, you throw off the gown and put on your bra, wedges, and sundress…and as you are smoothing the creases from the soft cotton patterned with palm leaves, you smile to yourself, kind pink heat swirling in your cheeks.

Aegon is in the parking lot and leaning against his white Chrysler Sebring convertible. He has put on his black aviator sunglasses to blot out the intense afternoon sun. Dr. Cunningham’s office is on a busy street in Beverly Hills; you can hear car horns, pedestrians shouting into their cellphones, toy dogs yapping, Shape Of You chiming from a passing Mercedes. Across the street is a series of shops in a row, Starbucks and Neiman Marcus and Gucci. Aegon says, pointing to your 2003 Honda Accord: “I’ll drive you back to get your car later.”

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“Chinatown,” he says, opening the passenger’s door of his Sebring. “And from now on, you listen when I tell you to do something, just like you said you would.”

“I’ll be your best client ever,” you promise, climbing into the car. The top is down, the wind blowing in from the Pacific Ocean to the west.

“I’m here for a reason. It’s not to be ignored. I can be your advocate, but you have to be honest with me.”

“I completely understand. I won’t mislead you again.”

“The Grey’s Anatomy people really liked you, by the way.”

The hope unfurls across your face like dawn over the earth. “Really?”

Aegon gives you a teasing, crooked grin. “Don’t pretend you’re shocked.” He shuts the car door, jogs over to the driver’s side, drives east through thick midday traffic.

At the same restaurant you went to the day you met, seated beside the same large fish tank, you and Aegon place the same orders: moo goo gai pan, boneless spare ribs. The waitress, Lanying, asks Aegon about how his siblings are doing before she speeds off to tend to her other customers.

Aegon watches the malevolent ember-colored oscars for a while, then taps his paper Chinese zodiac calendar, rimmed in red and gold. “Which one are you?”

You laugh, thinking he’s joking. “You already know.”

But Aegon doesn’t smile; he only stares at you blankly. “What?”

“I told you about my zodiac sign. The first time we had lunch here.”

And he looks at you as if his skull is as clear as the transluscent blue-tinged water of the fish tank, all the lights on but nobody home, and for a split second you almost feel as if you don’t recognize him, as if he is a stranger wearing Aegon’s windswept blonde hair and ill-fitting clothes and the crow’s feet around his eyes. Then Aegon repossesses himself and he is flippant, casual. “Oh yeah, right. Totally. I remember now.”

But you have the sense that he doesn’t. You try to hide how much this wounds you. It must not have been memorable. It must not have meant anything to him. “I’m a dragon!” you say brightly, and hold up your hands as if they are claws, opening and closing your hooked fingers.

Now he does smile, a little preoccupied, a little forced. “Of course you are.”

You scan the calendar. “What year was Becca born?”

“Uh…1994, I think.”

“She’s a dog,” you say. You read the description silently to yourself as the tea and wonton soups are brought to the table: Loyal and honest, you work well with others. Generous yet stubborn and often selfish. Look to the horse or tiger. Watch out for dragons.

~~~~~~~~~~

You arrive at Aegon’s office twenty minutes early, mostly because you miss him. It’s Wednesday, June 25th, and you park your Honda on the narrow sloping street and step out into 80-degree sunlight, ambient dog barking, powerlines crossing overhead. A lady walking her chihuahua waves at you and adjusts her sunglasses. Window air conditioning units whir. The trees, ginkgos and pink trumpets and Victorian boxes and palms, are still in the bright breezeless afternoon. The skyline of Downtown is a mirage on the horizon. From the barber shop across the street, you can hear a radio playing Bailamos by Enrique Iglesias.

When you clop into the lobby in your TOMS wedges, you see that Aegon’s door is closed. At his desk, Brandon is on the landline phone and jotting notes down in his planner, his flower pen scribbling rapidly across pink paper. When he spots you, he covers the phone speaker with his hand. “Hey girl!”

“Sorry, I know I’m early. Is he busy with another client?”

“No, go on in!” Brandon reaches down to dig around in the minifridge and sets a Perrier on the ledge of his desk. You take it, thank him, and go to Aegon’s door. You are puzzled to hear people talking on the other side, muffled indistinct voices. You wear an ocean blue sundress and cool metallic shades on your eyelids: Shellshock by Urban Decay, Strike by Natasha Denona. You open the door.

Aegon has his Nike Killshots up on his untidy desk and is playing the Nintendo 64. Mario is running through what appears to be some sort of underground maze, foggy and strewn with gold coins. The greenish haze must be toxic. Mario’s Power Meter is slowly ticking down; each time Mario snags a coin, it is partially restored. Aegon is watching the screen as he talks to a woman whose back is turned to you: tall, willowy, long dark hair. They don’t realize you’re here.

Aegon is saying as he clicks the transluscent orange Nintendo 64 controller: “That’s great, babe.”

“And the charity thing is on July 19th. I got a custom suit from Tom Ford, it’s powder blue, all you have to do is show up to the fitting.”

He sighs euphorically. “You’re the best.”

She giggles. “I know.”

Then Aegon notices you, and for a moment he seems shaken—not in a good way—and for some reason you feel like you’ve made some horrible mistake. The woman spins around to see what he’s looking at. She is stunning and ethereal and wearing a plain sack dress that hangs perfectly on her, a young Cher, and she smiles at you, kind and dazzling.

“Hi!” you say. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m a little early, I mixed up my appointment time because I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re fine,” Aegon replies, but he’s still distracted. Mario suffocates in the maze and drops over dead. Aegon turns off the game. He clears his throat. “Uh, this is Becca.”

You shake her hand when she offers it. Gold bangle bracelets jangle on her wrist. “It’s so nice to meet you, Becca!”

“And you must be the new client!” she says warmly. “The one from…where was it, Michigan?”

“Minnesota,” you reply.

“Oh, brr!” Becca says, pretending to shiver, and you laugh.

“Yeah, I’m really happy to be here. And you’re getting married soon, I hear!”

Becca beams, clapping her hands together. “Yes! I’m so excited but so stressed. The planning is endless.”

“Are you going to do it here in the city somewhere?”

“Aegon didn’t tell you?” Becca is perhaps a tad disappointed. “It’s a destination wedding.”

Aegon says from his desk, somewhat recovered: “Turk…something.”

“Turkey?” you say doubtfully. An interesting choice.

“Turks and Caicos,” Becca clarifies.

“No way! My sister just got engaged there, she said it was gorgeous.”

Aegon asks you from his desk: “Have you ever been?”

“I wish. Not yet, maybe one day.”

“You’ll have to come to the wedding!” Becca says cheerfully.

“Me?!” It’s ridiculous; you’re a nobody, you barely know her, you have a crush on her future husband.

“Yeah, all of Aegon’s clients are invited. Aren’t they, babe?” Becca glances at him, and then her eyes catch there and they stare at each other, Aegon slumped in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, Becca standing next to you, and there are several slow awkward seconds of silence. Aegon gets a piece of Juicy Fruit gum from a pack on his desk and shoves it into his mouth. Becca looks at you and then back to Aegon, who is pretending to organize the clutter on his desk. You notice for the first time that there is a ceramic bowl of Honeycrisp apples there.

“I thought you didn’t like those,” you say to alleviate the tension that you don’t understand.

“Well, Brando eats them,” Aegon explains.

“That makes sense.”

“And I guess they’re growing on me.”

“They’re really good for you,” you say. “Helps to balance out all the boneless spare ribs.”

Now Becca is studying you, and instead of being warm she is now cold and rigid and perplexed. After a while she asks stiffly: “What are you two up to today?”

“We’re going to the Flower District,” Aegon tells her as he rolls his gum wrapper into a ball between his palms. “I’ll be done in a few hours, I just have to get some current pics of her to send to people. So we’re going to do a quick impromptu photoshoot.”

Becca nods, still scrutinizing you. You open your Perrier and start gulping it so you have an excuse not to talk.

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Aegon asks Becca, and she perks up a bit.

“Beef bourguignon. It’s a new recipe, I’m really excited to try it.”

Aegon pretends to drool. “Amazing. I can’t wait.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Becca says, and goes to leave.

“It was so nice to meet you!” you call after her.

Becca replies curtly without stopping: “Yup. You too.” You hear the two-inch heels of her gold sandals tapping on the scuffed wood floor and then the rough opening and closing of the front door of the half-duplex.

“What just happened?” you ask Aegon.

“Nothing,” he says, standing from his desk. His shoes match his shirt, a green plaid Ralph Lauren button-up that isn’t tucked into his jeans. His hair is slicked back and shiny with gel.

“I’m sorry, did I…did I do something wrong…?”

He sighs. “No.”

You toy anxiously with your Perrier bottle. You don’t want Aegon to fire you; you don’t want to lose him. He’s the only person who understands. “You should have told me we were going to be taking pictures. I would have done my hair and worn normal eyeshadow.”

He smiles. “I wanted you to look like you.” Then he heads off to his Chrysler Sebring, and you follow him.

The Flower District is on the other side of Chinatown in Downtown Los Angeles. It’s the largest wholesale flower market in the country, six blocks of vendors selling every plant imaginable, from ordinary daisies and tulips to bamboo shoots, ferns, herbs, cactuses, succulents, baby trees, house plants like monstera and ivy. The aroma is overwhelming; when you breathe deeply, you imagine prismatic blossoms bursting up through the alveoli of your lungs, roses and irises and calla lilies and orchids. Aegon weaves through the aisles and frowns at the magnificent flowers, none of them right for some reason. You are endlessly pausing to sniff petals and gingerly graze your fingerprints over leaves. Aegon has to backtrack to find you when you stop to watch a demonstration of a Venus flytrap being fed.

“Here we go!” Aegon announces triumphantly when at last he is satisfied, and he lifts the large bouquet from a plastic bucket for you to see: massive sunflowers, water dripping off the cut stems. “They’re sunny, just like you. You like them?”

“I love them,” you say, taking the bouquet and beaming. Aegon pays in cash.

Outside under the harsh cloudless sunlight, he poses you in front of one of the flower shops, pedestrians walking behind you and a rainbow myriad of blooms out of focus. He uses his phone to take a series of photos, some up-close and some full-body shots, and you had assumed it would be awkward but it’s not, Aegon is making jokes and you are laughing and trying weird angles and spinning around so the skirt of your sundress swishes despite the lack of a breeze.

“Cool, got some good ones,” Aegon says, scanning through his phone. “We’re done.”

“What should I do with these?” you ask about the sunflowers. “Do you want them back?”

“Why would I want them back?”

“I don’t know. You paid for them, it feels weird for me to keep them.”

“They’re yours. Enjoy.”

You inhale the faint floral scent that emanates from the yellow petals. “I’m going to put them in a vase on the kitchen counter and buy them flower food so they live as long as possible. And I’m going to talk to them, because that’s supposed to be good for plants.”

Aegon chuckles. “You are ridiculous.” He slides his phone into the pocket of his jeans and sees an ice cream vendor up the street, then gestures for you to come with him. The ice cream is allegedly homemade and only comes in five flavors. Aegon orders for you both. “Hi, one vanilla and one strawberry.”

The vendor scoops the ice cream into two waffle cones. Again, as he always does, Aegon pays in cash. You locate an available bench and you and Aegon sit together with the sunflower bouquet lying between you, watching the pedestrians stroll by with their friends and partners and children and dogs.

“Tastes better when you make it,” Aegon says, licking melting strawberry ice cream from his waffle cone. “I might have another job for you.”

“Really?! Yay!”

“It’s a little unorthodox, but you said you’d take anything.”

“I definitely will.”

“It’s a music video for Maroon 5,” Aegon cautions. “It’s honestly pretty uninspiring and stupid, but it’s work. It’s another last-minute thing, at first the girlfriend of one of the band dudes was supposed to be in the video but I guess now they’re fighting all the time and the guy doesn’t like the idea of having a permanent reminder of her if they break up, which seems likely.’”

“I want to do it,” you say immediately. “When?”

“They’re planning to film the first week in July at a mansion in Beverly Hills. They already have a male actor cast. And you don’t even have to kiss him or anything, you get to argue with him in the first scene and then the rest of it is mostly you just moping around the mansion in designer outfits. Again, it’s super unoriginal. Boy and girl have a miscommunication and split, boy regrets it afterwards, they both secretly and photogenically yearn for each other. It’s very Edward leaving Bella in New Moon.”

“Sounds fantastic! Do I get to meet Maroon 5?”

Aegon is disappointed. “Are you a fan?”

“Well…not really.” You both laugh. “But I feel like it’s always cool to meet celebrities in real life.”

“Yes, you get to meet them.”

You cheer. “You are the most talented agent ever!” You take a lick of your ice cream; it’s almost gone now. You look over at Aegon, serious now. “You’re the only person who doesn’t think I’m absolutely insane for trying to do this.”

He crunches his waffle cone with his teeth. “Your roommate’s an actress, right? She must get it.”

You shrug. “Baela is confident, and magnetic, and she wants to be famous. She’s very obviously meant to be in this industry, and agents and directors respond to her. But I’m not like that. Most people don’t notice me. And that’s okay, I don’t really want to be famous. I just want to be able to be a working actor and get to stay here. If I’m not making significant progress by the end of the year, I have to choose between going back to Minnesota or being disowned and impoverished.”

Aegon watches you, thoughtful, maybe a little sad. “I like you the way you are, sunshine.”

You smile shyly at him. “Thanks. I like you too.”

“And I don’t want you to change. It’s horrible to watch someone disappear.” He devours the rest of his waffle cone. “You know…I think helping you get to where you’re going, and making sure it’s done the right way…that will be the last good thing I ever do here.”

“You don’t have to retire.”

He shakes his head. “Circumstances change. Priorities change.”

“Do you want kids?” If Becca is in her thirties, perhaps now is the time to start planning for that.

“No,” Aegon says, flinching. “Definitely no kids. You’re anti-horse, I’m anti-kid.”

“Then what’s the rush to leave L.A.?”

“It’s the right time.”

“Not for me.” You grin. “I just got here. You can’t abandon me yet.”

“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of before I go. I’ll get someone I trust to sign you.”

“But I don’t want another agent.”

“The music video director asked to meet you before filming,” Aegon says, deflecting. “It’ll be quick, just ten or fifteen minutes. We’ll swing by his office on the way back to Elysian Park.”

“Okay,” you agree. You take a makeup compact out of your Patricia Nash purse and use the mirror to make sure you don’t have any ice cream on your nose or chin.

“I haven’t worked with him before,” Aegon says. “But I’ve heard very good things and obviously I’ll be there at the shoot.”

You snap your compact shut. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

In a spacious, glass-walled office in Downtown, the director introduces himself as Dan Sacco. He is tall and broad through the shoulders and extremely welcoming, offering you drinks and snacks and asking about your hometown as Aegon stands in the corner of the room, his hands in his pockets and his eyes watchful. Two jobs in two weeks; Aegon is a miracle worker.

When you get home to your apartment, it’s empty. Baela and Jace must have gone out somewhere for dinner. You put the sunflowers in a vase and then scroll through Instagram. Aegon has posted a new story: a photo of you standing with your bouquet and smiling, not sexy or alluring or arrogant but simply happy, and he must be very knowledgeable about filters because you think you look great.

Future Hollywood Walk of Fame star recipient, Aegon has added as a caption. If you want to book her, you know where to find me. He finished with a sunflower emoji. You press the heart button in the bottom right corner of the screen to like the story. Your own heart is racing now in the best way possible, feverish and loud, intoxicated, needful, seams ready to rupture.

You look up Becca’s Instagram, but her account is private. You send her a follow request. She doesn’t accept it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The night before the shoot, there is a knock at your door. It’s 8:30 p.m., a strange hour, not early enough for Amazon deliveries or a visit from one of Jace’s eccentric PhD program friends, not late enough for a drunk tenant to have mistaken your apartment for their own. When you open the door, you are at first so shocked you can’t place him. Then you remember where you know the hulking man in the tan suit from. It’s Dan, the director of the music video.

“Oh my God, hi!” you welcome him. You have just gotten home from Cold Stone Creamery and are still in your drab grey uniform. You always drive to and from work now, per Aegon’s insistence. You promised you’d listen, and you’re trying your best. Jace is in Baela’s bedroom banging on his Yamaha keyboard. From the velvet orange couch in the living room where she is watching The Vampire Diaries, Baela peeks curiously over at where your visitor fills up the doorway.

Dan seems pleased by your enthusiasm. “Hello again.”

“Can I help you with something? I know the shoot is tomorrow, I’m really excited. I was about to get ready for bed so I can go to sleep early and be well-rested. There’s not a problem with the music video, is there? Please don’t say it’s cancelled or that I’m fired or something.”

Dan chuckles, a deep slow rumble. “No, nothing like that. I just wanted to give you a heads up that we added a scene to the script.” He holds up a thin packet of papers held together by a single staple. “I’m not allowed to leave it in an unsecured location, so I have to take it with me when I go. But I thought you should be aware so you’re prepared when you show up to set.”

“Aw, that’s so thoughtful of you!” You take the packet and flip through it, skimming for an unfamiliar scene. “Did you get my address from Aegon? Or Brandon, his receptionist?”

“It was in your file that they sent over,” Dan says, perhaps a bit guardedly, and before you can ask anything else you stumble upon the scene, and your stomach drops. The actress—me, you think, that’s not some other woman, that’s me—will be lying in a vast empty bathtub, soaked hair, dripping skin, black lingerie, writhing and whimpering as she mourns the loss of her lover.

“Um…the bathtub scene?” you squeak.

“It’s going to be so cinematic,” Dan says, his large hands painting a picture with dramatic gestures. “Sunlight streaming in through a window, your skin glowing, you’ve drained the tub but you’re too heartbroken to get up so you’re just sprawled there, still drenched from the bathwater. Obviously it would make more sense if you were naked, but…we can’t do that in a music video.” He laughs. “But the aesthetic will be divine, like sexy mourning widow. And we’ll get all kinds of shots, you crying, you angry, you pining, you flirting and beckoning the camera closer, and we can get creative, you can just kind of crawl around all over the tub and we’ll see what you come up with.”

You gaze at the script until all the words vanish, imaging a room full of men watching you roll around in underwear, black lace wet and clinging to your skin, no secrets, nowhere to disappear. I can’t do that. But you can’t say no. “Is there going to be a woman on set to…you know, to…like…supervise, or, or something…?”

“You mean an intimacy coordinator?”

“Yes, thank you, that’s the term I was looking for.” Does Aegon know about this? He has to, right?

“Well, it’s not a sex scene,” Dan says rationally. “It’s not even a kissing scene. So we would never pay to have an intimacy coordinator around for this, it’s completely unnecessary.”

“Oh.” I can’t do that. I can’t do that. You feel nauseous; you feel dizzy, like you might stagger if you try to move.

“Look, if you’re uncomfortable, that’s totally cool,” Dan says. “I get it, a job like this isn’t for everyone. I have a list of backups I can call, and I can find somebody else—”

“No!” you cry out, then give the script back to Dan and manage a smile. “No, sorry, I was just a little confused, but I understand now. Thank you for letting me know about the new scene, and I can absolutely handle it.”

“Great.” He grins proudly. “I knew I could count on you. See you tomorrow.”

“See ya.”

Dan lumbers down the hallway, and you close the door when he’s out of sight. Baela asks from the couch: “What do they want you to do?”

You swallow noisily. “Roll around essentially naked in a bathtub.”

Baela nods; she doesn’t seem alarmed. Is this normal? Are you unreasonable? “Bikini?”

“Lingerie.”

“Want to know a trick?” she says. “After you shave, run a Stridex pad over your skin. I have a container of them in the bathroom cabinet, use as many as you want. It’ll burn at first, but it kills any bacteria and prevent razor burn. No bumps or ingrown hairs!”

“Thanks,” you reply weakly.

Baela squints at you. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A lie.

“It’s not that bad,” she says reassuringly. “I know it seems like the end of the world, but once you do a nude scene or a sex scene once, the nerves go away and it’s just another day at work. You’ll get through it. You’ll do an incredible job.”

I don’t want to give up the dream. I don’t want to leave Los Angeles. I don’t want to leave Aegon.

“You’re probably right,” you tell Baela, and you pretend to be fine so she won’t worry, or pity you, or be further convinced that you don’t belong here.

You shower, shave, scrub your skin with stinging Stridex pads, and long after you were supposed to be asleep you’re still staring up at your bedroom ceiling, a deep blue shadowscape with no stars.

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