knock off morticia adams.

TJ was almost going to take his phone out and try calling Yaena before the door was suddenly being pulled open. He wondered if maybe he’d come over too early? Or maybe she’d cancelled the lesson for today and he’d just forgotten? Either way, it was clear that her head was somewhere else right now. He gave her a quick once over before stepping inside the house. He’d honestly never met anyone like her before. The vibes she was always giving off, the style of the house, the location….it was all very strange. Very witch-like, in fact. Not that he was complaining. It was quite intriguing, to say the least. He’d definitely been in awe the first time he’d ever come over though. There was just so much to take in when you stepped into the house. And it was fucking cool, to see how differently other people lived compared to himself. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to suddenly pass out in the middle of your living room.” he adjusted his back pack that was over his right shoulder, following as she made her way further into the house. “Do you need to reschedule this lesson? You look like you’re caught up with something else at the moment?”

Despite his words, TJ still ended up setting his bag down as soon as his eyes landed on the piano in the room. It was easy to distract the blond when there was an instrument in the room. Especially if that instrument was a piano or a guitar. For now, he decided to just let Yaena do her own thing while he sat in front of the piano, happy to wait around until she was ready. It’s not like he had anywhere else he needed to be this afternoon. His attention went back to her when she spoke again, and the blond simply nodded in reply. “Take your time.”

                half distracted by whatever emails she's been reading and responding to, her head turns, making a show of pretending to think it over and casting a fleeting glance toward him before going back to typing away on her phone for a few moments; in the end, Yaena simply rolls one of her delicate shoulders into a languid shrug and lets a few beats of silence pass, prior to tossing her phone aside and giving a dismissive wave of her hand. “ has it occurred to you that i can press myself to more than one matter at once ? ” the corner of her dark red lips pulls into the barest hint of a smirk. She, then, shifts until the silks of the peignoir she has draped across her shoulders slip down the peaks of her arms prior to cascading into the chair from which she removes herself. “ and at any rate, Mr. Michaelson; I'd hate to miss out on the joys of our lesson. ” ( only half a joke ) she says this as she makes her way toward the piano, inviting him to join her so that they may begin— despite her sense of self-importance and, oftentimes, somewhat arrogant, displays of boredom and elegant aloofness, she does hate, after all, to keep anyone waiting too long. She takes her place at the piano and offers to bring him something cold to drink before they begin, arches a perfectly dark eyebrow as she idly fingers through the music sheets atop the piano, smiling elegantly. “you do look like you might be in desperate need of it...” she suggests, teasing him a little— mostly to deflect any attention from the fact that she, too, would probably benefit from a drink or two... (  Understatement of the year, but her week has hardly been what she's hoped for, between long hours upon hours of endless work and unexpectedly running into.. him, again. )

—the grounds of Champoeg park have become his usual hangout spot, it is his most preferred place to visit when he needs to be out of the house, walk Kyle for a good amount of time, but he does not really feel like being around people. everyone comes and goes, seeing some friendly faces, but still, everyone going about their walk, their trail of choice. enjoying the riverside view, no one paying them nearly enough attention now. the sound of the running water has lulled Kyle to sleep long now, his head rested on Ryan’s lap. running his hand along the dog’s back, he felt the steady rhythm of his breathing in addition to the sound of nature; it works wonders in calming him a bit too, letting his mind rest for the first time in a long while. to not overthink was quite uncharacteristic of him as of late. it was in this half distracted state that an Irish wolfhound found itself at his side, nudging his shoulder with his head. the half annoyed look on his face was quickly replaced by a smile that tugged on the corner of his lips at the side of the dog, and he lifted a hand to pet the unexpected visitor. “well, hi there…” he said as the dog nudged him once again. Kyle growled and he gave him a pointed look. “be nice,” and if Kyle could roll his eyes at him he was certain, he would. but he stopped and stood up, standing protectively at his side. “Mister…” the name was all he managed to read on his collar before a familiar voice demanded his attention, distracting him completely from the task at hand. this voice was etched into his mind, he could recognize her anywhere, certain it was hers before he could put a face to the voice. “Yaena…” her name fell from his lips, more air than sound, just as he looked up to meet her eyes. whatever she said after that was lost on him, probably to apologize for the dog’s behavior; a dog he did not know she had, so she must have gotten him after their break-up. Kyle rushed to greet her, the big guy always had a soft spot for her, and he idly scratched the side of the dog’s neck. “nice dog,” a neutral, matter of fact tone. blue eyes met hers once more for a moment, taking her in. it had been long since he had last seen her, too long, and he had thought it would take a lifetime more to meet her again, after the last time, considering how things had ended between them. man, she looked good. beautiful as she always was. and definitely looked like she did not fit it; Yeana had always been different than others. poised, elegant, with an air of an old Hollywood star, too, drawing all the attention, yet completely unfazed about it, unbothered. unapologetically herself. and he loved her for exactly how she is; he still loves her. always will. god, he still loves her. “Kyle.” he signaled for him to come to his side with a nod of his head, his tone got the dog’s attention instantly just as he was rubbing himself like a cat against Yaena’s skirt and legs, with full intention to jump on her for hugs and cuddles. whining quietly, he returned to his side and Ryan patted his back. “I did not know you were in Portland…” in Newberg, to be more precise, though knowing her he was certain this was definitely not where she lived.

in a lot of ways, this moment doesn’t even feel real. they’re close—almost intimately so—and yet the circumstances surrounding this chance encounter are near comical for how fairy tale they are in origin— him and her, and the dogs on some scenic hiking trail overflowing with lilacs and blueberries— ( to think that she had run away half way across the country seeking to forget him— and them, and everything that had left her torn apart and aching, only to see him here, of all places, half a year after that night. ) She’s gasping softly now, at the sight of him— her name in his mouth— holy, sacred thing; something bitter tightens around her lungs, and she’s grappling with herself, fearing she’ll unravel, spill over— , a jolt of volcanic sentiment shocking through her; she wonders if anyone could feel so much longing for someone so close. She wonders if she’s dreaming— and is he really here— he looks… different; older; darker. Her hands are burning, she wants to reach out and touch him— always him, because, still, after everything, he’s hers, hers, hers and it’s been too fucking long without him— she swears she cannot breathe for it— how she’s yearned for him; how’s she’s suffered.

She remembers the last time she had been with him before that night– how they’d been sitting out on the edge of his roof, and he’d cleared away the snow with his hands, dismissive of her protestations. Her anxiety amused him and sometimes he would trace her mouth with his fingers when she whispered to be safe because that usually shut her up. He had felt him shiver besides her, smiling when she said, I told you so and smoking, of course— he had been losing something in himself those days, she thought— him and her and everything they had built together, half shattered at their feet, a disaster waiting to happen. His eyes were hooded with laziness, something dark, unreachable— and a languid sort of determination trembled inside him where she couldn’t reach it. The skin on his cheek had been cold and stiff sandpaper but she had rubbed her face against his and murmured my darling and, I love you, hoping it might be enough. His hand was freezing inside of hers and she had tucked both into his pockets and nibbled at his chin. ( He’d tasted like burning. )

She’s left staring at him now— an ocean moving inside of her— deep, dark; it’s flooding her— spills over; and God– God, she loves him, she still loves him, she always has, she always will. “of course you didn't.” she drawls, half air, half a haughty scoff— she stands pristinely, an air of elegant detachment dripping off her— aloof, untouchable. “I'd be surprised if you did.” she’s talking but she cannot even recognize her own voice, dazed, far away and detached from everything around the two of them— as though, half in a dream. Her eyes are dark and moist, her mouth, wet with lipstick, glows— her skin reflects the sunlight, loose curls down around her bare shoulders. She reaches out in a daze and elegantly scratches at Kyle’s fur before he slips away and back to Ryan, feeling her heart race— and, “what are you doing here, Ryan?” she’s asking breathlessly, liquid eyes swallowing the image of him with a ravenous advance.

“I didn’t even say anything yet!” Rory exclaimed indignantly with a roll of her eyes, except it was more of a mutter through a mouthful of food as she chewed, frowning slightly. “Maybe it is something you would want to do, you don’t know, you can’t read my mind! Can you? Wait can you read my mind?” She narrowed her eyes a little.

          Her head tips ever so slightly backward as she casts her a fleeting glance from under long, dark lashes, barely managing to fight the urge to roll her eyes. “mmm... if you could not talk with your mouth full, dear, that would be stellar.” she reminds her, her voice rather aloof, monotone; she's ever languid in the manner in which she carries herself, ever composed, perfectly elegant, from the tone of her voice (dark, detached) to the delicate way she moves and glances around her, she's gracefulness personified. Nevertheless, there's a twinkle of amusement shining in liquid blue eyes at the statement that follows, one corner of her mouth slanting up in something akin to a smirk. “oh, do I now, Hudson— ” she alludes in a soft little whisper, pretending to deflect the question, humoring her. There's a long, slow pause to amp the dramatics, too, and then, “And just what pray tell, do you suppose I’d be interested in abandoning my peace and quite for? Enthrall me,” she drawls, sounding almost bored.  

“Hmm? Oh, am I?” Mason coughs out the question, a natural born hater of confrontation, Mason twists on the spot at the predicament he finds himself in, “Alright,” he sighs eventually, shifting away from his boss’ cold gaze as he pulls up a chair next to hers, “I’m on your side like every other day, but damn girl, this is a coffee shop, unless it’s coffee in that glass, you can’t be drinking wine in here!” 

“ naturally; i’m an utter delight. ” She punctuates the joke with a barely-perceptible, elegant smirk, brushing a lock of long, dark hair behind her ear with the tip of her index finger as he claims the seat next to her. She casts his boss a cold, piercingly menacing look too, fully displaying her disapproval until he looks away from them— ( no one glares at her friends in her presence— not even their bosses. ) “ me? wine? You're mistaken— it's coffee.” she lies, voice dripping aloofness, dark and soft like velvet; naturally, they've been talking about Ryan, ( again) — and to say that her mood has soured, would be an understatement, not that she would ever admit it. Nevertheless, she does what she can to ignore the gnawing feeling that settles heavily in the pit of her stomach and deflects, pretending talking about it doesn't bother her. She's moving to take another sip from her glass, instead, smirking at him over the rim of it as she does so; she's the very picture of elegance itself in her black, silk slip dress and vintage faux-leather boots; with her columnar neck and fine bones, black curls streaming over her shoulders, she is at her most radiant. There's a long pause as she absentmindedly toys with her phone, hesitating, and then, “I actually ran into him, the other day” she confesses, sounding (or at least, attempting to sound,) bored, detached: uncaring— like the mere sight of him, here, after everything that had happened, hadn't torn her apart from the inside out; like it had meant nothing to her. “I had no idea he had moved to Portland... How very poetic.” she scoffs, tone flat, sarcastic.

Yen: I can't take you seriously when you're using that many emoji.

Mason: when words fail emojis speak!

Mason: ❌ 🕒 🐂 💩

Yen: You're twelve.

Yen: Any other startling realizations you’d like to share with the class, Mahir? Or shall you get to work and make that cold brew of mine while we’re still young?

“Are you taking his side against me?” she wonders lazily, and with a languid clatter of her acrylic nails (long and black and perfectly manicured) against the wine glass she cradles.

A gentle shake of her head, shiny black curls spilling over one shoulder. “Whatever you're going to ask, the answer is no.” Yaena begins with aged exasperation. Charmingly aloof and elegant as ever, she does not even bother to look up from her journal as she does so, to make a point.

@xryandavis

They could’ve stayed in Lake Oswego. They’d could’ve spent the day on the deck terrace to laze around by the pool, they could’ve played cards or watched a movie and eat too many snacks but no, Shannon had convinced her brother to take her biking at Champoeg State Park. Although Ayrton first thought it was a great idea, once he realized a giant dog had taken off in his direction, he’d regretted leaving his house. It sure didn’t look good as even the dog’s owner seemed to struggle to calm him. It sure looked like he was about to get mauled by a dog named Mister and his only consolation was already in the car and was therefore safe. He’d always been told that trying to run away from a dog would only excite it more so calmly he took a couple of steps back and ended up falling into the pond. Great… just great. His mood had obviously worsened as he emerged from the water and by the time he made it back on the shore, Shannon -who didn’t seem the least impressed by the dog’s size was laughing her heart out. He shot her a glare, which only caused her to laugh louder. “It’s fine” he grumbled. Ayrton wasn’t usually scared of dogs, in fact he loved them, but the sight of what was probably the biggest dog in world hurtling his way was a valid reason to be worried. “Shannon, can you get me a towel. Please” he added, still eyeing the dog suspiciously. “And what is he usually like?”

       Black, shining curls fly through the air and down the length of her slender back— a cascade of messy, loose ringlets— as she turns on her heel, dark blue eyes rounding with a look of utter disbelief at the scene that unfolds before her. She lets out something in between a sigh and a scoff, too, as she elegantly— although, simultaneously, impatiently— gathers the leash in her left hand so that she may keep Mister close to her; despite both her shock and irritation at both her dog and the situation in general, she's perfectly composed, the very picture of delicate detachment itself: pristine in her silks and lace, she looks almost untouchable—almost like something out of some fairytale: The long, black curls cascade around her face, framing its angular features. Her skin is luminous and dappled with freckles; her deep-set blue eyes taking in every detail. A Renaissance goddess; her ex husband had once called her; a Botticelli in the flesh. Despite the chaos that ensues, she remains calm, detached; she manages to soothe Mister into placidity, scratching at the back of his head as he moves to sit near her; then, the girl laughs, and she cannot help but find something... a touch amusing about her reaction in contrast to the man's— (and who could really blame him? poor guy.) although nothing about her betrays it: she's elegant in every sense of the word, polite and discreet in the way that she moves to offer her paper towels to him. She watches him eye the dog suspiciously, and staves the sudden urge to laugh— Mister's big— a giant of a dog; but gentle, soft; she knows for a fact that he would never hurt anybody. “not like this...” is the vague answer that he receives from her, voice flat, detached, monotone. Her head tilts to one side, half-smile pulling at one corner of her red lips. “are you hurt?” she asks then, wanting to make sure that no real damage has been done; she eyes his outfit with a touch of detached curiosity too, recognizing the brands— the expensive textures— the quality of the pieces; if nothing else she fully intends to offer to pay for any potential damage.   Him almost drowning in a pond because of her overexcited dog hurling itself at him? No big deal. His haute couture pants potentially being ruined as a result? Criminal! 

Hikes weren’t really something Tariq had the “pleasure” of going on very often. Between the lack of sleep he usually got, due to career choices, and general lack of wanting to be physically active in this particular way, this made sense. Today, however, his usual dog walker had cancelled on him and he found himself outside, fleet of pugs -it was two, but fleet sounds cooler- attached to leashes at his feet having a good and grand ole time enjoying the day. They probably hadn’t been out by the pond for very long before the giant dog approached them, with who he assumed was its owner not far behind and he crouched down to scratch it’s head. “It’s cool. He just wants to make friends.” He shouted glancing up at her for a moment before returning his attention to the dogs. “Mister is it? This is Donald Faison.” He motioned and introduced the smaller, and silver one, of the two pugs. “And this is, Zach Braff.” He motioned to the other, larger, but brown and black pug. He wasn’t much of a fan of people, but he did have a soft spot for dogs.

        Yaena raises a hand, shielding her face from the bright southern sun, while the other comes to delicately rest at her hip, keeping Mister close to her; a soft sigh of relief, too, is soon expelled from her lungs at the reaction of the man, more than a little grateful that he seems neither upset nor in any way angry about the incident. On the contrary, the sight of a man his size — all tall, sun drenched, and smiling at her dog, tiny, little pugs running about their feet— makes the corners of her mouth — all rouge lipstick and sheer gloss— slant up, a somewhat softer, less aloof, less unapproachable expression draping itself over her face. “ooh la la, how very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Donald —,” a beat, to amp up the dramatics, “—Mr. Zach...” she's elegantly reaching out to pet the top of their heads, tiny, jeweled silver rings around every last one of her slim fingers glinting in the late evening sunlight. In truth, she's not a people's person either— perpetually aloof, detached— embodying her delicate elegance and carrying herself in a way that makes her appear almost untouchable; — like something right out of some vintage film— or an exotic tale; but she does have a soft spot for dogs, and people who love them— and thus, she cannot help but smile a little at him as she watches Mister excitedly lick at his proffered hand and wag his tail like a puppy, wonders: “and your dad over here?” she places this forth, more to the dogs, than mister stranger, himself, and although, her delicately dark and detached voice sounds as if she would prefer to be hundreds of miles away, there's a coy, friendly lilt in it, too, that suggests otherwise, “does he have a name?”

Though Claire could go on and on and on about the beauty of California — the way the Malibu mountains overlooked a gorgeous sunset kissing the horizon and Big Sur up North providing endless hiking opportunities for wanderers — Portland did have the upper-hand in just existing amongst nature. Back in Los Angeles, the closest greenery came from potted plants in her friend’s and family’s homes. So, she relished in the natural scenery that Portland provided, how every small park came complete with green grass, wildlife and real (not man-made!) bodies of water.

With just enough leftover sun filtering through the trees to keep CJ warm, she’s far off in dreamland (using her backpack as a pillow) when a rather large paw lands at the foot of her leg. Startled, she jolts up. It’s a minute before she realizes the culprit is actually a cute dog. With a laugh, she shakes her head and brings her hand up to wave off the incident. “Don’t even trip,” she says genuinely, still seated on the ground. The dog’s at level with her, and CJ’s hands are behind his ears instantly. “Mister!?” she’s looking at the dog, but essentially asking the owner the question. “Is he normally not a good boy?” she bats along playfully, before leaning back on her forearms to look up at the woman. “Sick lip color,” she compliments.

            A delicate hand reaches back, sweeping a mess of dark ringlets across the back of her neck so they gather at one shoulder. There’s something so … sweet about her reaction, it almost catches Yaena by surprise— relief, too, surges through her in the moments that follow, and she's elegantly pawing at her chest as she allows herself to catch her breath— all flushed, red cheeks and breathless— watching Mister insistently rub his head against the girl's hand (he's practically looming over her — this giant of a dog of hers), demanding pets and attention. It's truly a miracle, she thinks, that she's not in any way neither offended, nor upset about the situation, and although she wants to scold Mister for acting in such an unexpected and disobedient way, she cannot help but smile somewhat at the sight of him all sweet and excited around the stranger, how soft he gets— how friendly; indeed, she thinks, she's never known a kinder, gentler dog than him (even Kyle, hadn't been this sweet around complete strangers), and she cannot find it in her to deny him a new friend— disobedience and all. “—oh, thank you.” her smoldering gaze finds that of the stranger with an eyebrow arched in curiosity and intrigue, both surprised and pleased by the compliment. "Unreleased product. I.. Make cosmetics.” she explains vaguely, her posture pristine, poised, oozing something almost... otherworldly as she stands there swathed in silk and lace with the dog at her side, letting him snuggle into the girl's hands. And then, in a smoother, brighter voice, “something tells me excitedly attacking complete strangers in parks does not make him a very good boy, hmm, Mister?” she idly scratches at the back of his head, sighing delicately, “we got lucky you love dogs but— again, I am sorry...he knows better. I'm certainly glad you don't mind his... lack of good manners.” she jokes subtly, smiling a little softer as he whines demandingly.