shark vs the universe
NASA
will byers stan first human second
$LAYYYTER
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
Not today Justin
One Nice Bug Per Day
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
@theartofmadeline
almost home
ellievsbear
icyghini twinkie
cherry valley forever
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
pixel skylines
bliss lane
RMH
Misplaced Lens Cap
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Türkiye
seen from Russia
seen from Romania
seen from Japan
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seen from Singapore
@irysque
about me , masterlist , rules
➷ current fav fandoms !!
the boys. gen v. stranger things. degrassi. the umbrella academy. marauders. harry potter.
+i’ll write pretty much any other fandom on my ‘about me’ page or that you’ll ask me to watch lol
© IRYSQUE — up and down
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the marauders (and more) as ot3 dynamics.
a/n: ur gurl has gotten sick 23456 times this year, and i am recovering from the flu rn! and. . . my butt hurts for some reason. just thought i'd clean my drafts, otherwise they'd be sitting in my gdocs forever. . . to wither away. . . unread. . .
all your’n | H. ABERNATHY.
ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ paring: haymitch ambernathy x fem!reader
summary: haymitchs first night back from the capitol.
warning: typical thg violence. crying, angst, but comfort
a/n: hi i’m so excited for thg movie next year. i’m also obsessed with writing angst so expect a lot!!!
not proofread
requests open
Copyright © 2025 bartxnhood. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.
︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧
bittersweet symphony || chapter 4
Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader || series masterlist
Summary: Being back in District Twelve isn't at all the silver lining you'd imagined it to be ... 4.8k
The morning after the festivities thrown for your return to District Twelve, you stay in bed for as long as possible.
Not because you’re tired - though you feel such an all-encompassing numbness that the whole night spent tossing and turning doesn’t seem to have settled deep down in your bones just yet - but because you can’t stand the thought of actually getting up and facing the day.
Because getting up would mean having to go down the grand marble staircase of the new grand and cold house your family now lives in, and having to face your family at the grand mahogany table in the kitchen for breakfast.
You can picture it all on your head: your brothers, Will and Felix, bickering over who gets the larger slice of bread, and your dad watching them with a knowing, tired smile on his face. He’d be the first one to notice you approaching, looking up at you and asking you how you’ve slept and whether you want tea from some herbs growing in the meadow behind the house or some fresh milk from the goat for breakfast. You’d answer tea, as you always do, grinning, as you’d ruffle through Will’s hair, ignoring his cries of protest.
But all that is a thing of the past now, isn’t it?
Sometimes I think about Finnick trying to befriend Katniss before the Quell and I lose my shit
The other rebels are like you need to subtly let her know you're on her side, so you go bet and turn your charm up to 11. Which would have maybe worked on anyone else but this is Katniss Everdeen we're talking about.
So now you're stuck doing increasingly ridiculous social gymnastics every time she's around and still by the time the night before the Games arrives the only thing she's convinced of about you is that you are going to try to fucking murder her
So you freak out, seek out Haymitch and basically go "hey what the fuck is wrong with your kid". And Haymitch just stares ahead for a second, nods, takes off his bracelet, says "wear this" and leaves. You fucking hate district 12
So you go okay. Breathing exercises. This is fine. Guess I'll have to save her life during the Games or sth maybe that'll do the trick. And when you see the Arena you cheer up for a sec bc you definitely have the advantage here she'll have to trust you right?
Wrong. She can fucking swim. SHE CAN FUCKING SWIM.
So now you're in the Cornucopia with no cards up your sleeve, no time left, and arguably the other deadliest tribute in that Arena pointing at you with a bow, and so you go "you know what, fuck it, I'm going to die anyways" and you show her the bracelet
AND IT FUCKING WORKS
Bear in mind Finnick had no first-hand experience on Katniss and Haymitch's bitch-to-bitch telepathy this was his first contact with it
Just saying lucky for the Rebellion this was Finnick and not me if I was in his place I would have killed her there and then just out of principle
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the baddest girl you’ve ever seen is probably also ur favorite boyliife tumblr writer these face reveals go crazy every single time
every time - tim drake
content tim drake x gn! reader, meta! reader, forget-me-not powers, memory loss, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, strangers to friends to soemthing more, canon-typical violence, no yn, memory loss, loneliness, identity erasure, implied childhood neglect, injury/blood, panic, gun wound, stab wound
masterlist
wordcount 7.1k
every time someone looks away from you, they forget you exist, leaving you trapped in a life of constant introductions, abandoned conversations, and grief no one else remembers causing. desperate for help, you track down red robin again and again until tim drake begins building systems, notes, recordings, and theories around the shape of your absence—even though he forgets you every time his gaze slips. but as tim’s body learns to trust you before his mind can remember you, both of you must decide whether trying again and again can be enough to turn loneliness into something like hope.
The first time you met Red Robin, he forgot you before you finished bleeding.
To be fair, it wasn’t his fault.
People never meant to do it. They didn’t mean to turn away from you in grocery aisles and leave you holding half-finished conversations like dropped glass. They didn’t mean to blink past you at bus stops, their faces emptying of recognition while your mouth still shaped their name. They didn’t mean to invite you in, laugh at your jokes, make promises, then look toward a ringing phone and turn back with polite fear in their eyes.
Can I help you?
The worst four words in the English language.
People always said them gently. That was the thing.
No one remembered hurting you. So, no one ever apologised.
saddest thing i’ve ever read
does anyone else squeal at the sight of jack quaid like a beatles fangirl in 1963. god knows i do ♡ ꒰ᵕ༚ᵕ⑅꒱
Blood, sweat, and silver linings
It's the last thing I wanted (tell me, which side are you on, dear?) — It's the first thing I'd do (give me some tips to forget you) — I tell you my problems (have I become one of your problems?) — And you tell me the truth — It's the last thing I wanted (everything that's mine is a landmine) — It's the first thing I'd do (did my love aid and abet you?) — I tell you that I think I'm falling back in love with you (back in love) — Back in love with you — Alcott, Taylor
Masterlist: 💌
Synopsis: There are quarrels that pass like summer storms, and there are quarrels that leave the house feeling smaller afterward. Theirs, tonight, was the second kind. The dishes were washed in silence. The water was run too hot, and too long. And when he came to the door with a pillow under his arm, quite certain that the kindest thing a man could do was remove himself from the room he had darkened, she found she had exactly enough patience left to tell him he was wrong.
Some fights don't have a winner. They just have two people who ran out of ammunition at roughly the same time, and stood there afterward in the ringing quiet, unsure what to do with hands that had spent the last twenty minutes reaching for the worst possible words instead of each other.
That was us, in the kitchen, past midnight, with a whole day's worth of dishes between us and nothing left to say, and a silence so total I could hear my own pulse in my ears, could hear it the way you hear your own heartbeat in a pillow at night, too loud, too present, refusing to be ignored.
I turned the tap on because it was something to do with my body that wasn't shaking, because if I stood still one more second I was afraid of what my hands might do — reach for him, or slam something, I genuinely didn't know which, and neither felt survivable. He came in a minute later. I heard him before I saw him, the particular weight of his footsteps, the ones he uses when he's trying to walk lightly and forgetting, in his own grief, how loud a person becomes even barefoot. He picked up the towel without a word, and something in my chest lurched at the sound of the fabric coming off the hook — small, ordinary, and somehow unbearable, because it meant he was staying, and staying was the last thing either of us had earned the right to expect from the other tonight.
I handed him a plate. My hand shook, just slightly, passing it over, and I hated that it shook, hated that my body was still keeping some kind of ledger of the last hour that my pride wanted no part of. He took it. Our fingers didn't touch. I noticed that they didn't touch — noticed it the way you notice the absence of something you didn't know you were braced for — the careful half-inch gap we both kept without discussing it, like touching by accident might reopen something neither of us had the strength to survive twice in one night.
He dries dishes like he's handling something breakable that isn't the dish. Slow. Deliberate. Both hands, always both hands, like carelessness were a kind of violence he refuses to commit even by accident. I've always loved that about him, that unbearable gentleness, and tonight it very nearly broke something open in my chest, watching him be that careful with a ceramic bowl an hour after being so uncareful with me. I don't think he even noticed the contradiction. I don't think he ever does, in the moment — that's the quiet tragedy of him, that he pours all his tenderness into the things that can't be hurt by his temper, and forgets, until it's too late, that the person three feet away might have needed some of it too.
I scrubbed a pan long after the food had come off it, my knuckles going raw and pink under water that had started too hot and stayed that way because I refused to adjust it. Somewhere in there I glanced sideways — just once, just a fraction of a second — and caught him mid-exhale, this small, controlled breath through his nose, his shoulders drawn up tight around his ears like he was trying to physically occupy less of a kitchen he owns just as much as I do. Something in me ached at that, sharp and sudden, an ache I had no room for yet, and I looked away before he could catch me looking, because I wasn't ready to let my face do anything soft. Not yet. Not while the wound was still that fresh.
When the last pot went into the rack, neither of us moved. We just stood there, side by side, staring into gray dishwater like it might finally say the thing neither of us could. My chest was so tight it physically hurt to breathe past it, a real, physical ache behind my sternum, and I dried my hands on my own shirt instead of taking the towel from him, because his hands, right then, felt like something I couldn't trust myself around — not fear of him, never that, only fear of what my own softness might do if it got too close to him too soon, how fast it might fold, how little it would take. I walked out without a word, and every step away from that kitchen cost me something.
He stayed behind. I heard the water keep running. I heard him wipe a counter that hadn't needed wiping in ten minutes, the cloth moving in slow, aimless circles, and something about that — a man who has survived five hundred years of history reduced to cleaning an already-clean counter at midnight because his hands didn't know what else to hold, because his hands were the only part of him he still trusted to behave — cracked something wide open in my chest that I shoved back down, hard, because I did not have room for it yet.
The shower ran too hot. It always does, on the nights that earn it. I stood beneath it with my forehead nearly against the tile, my whole body curled slightly inward, and let the water hit the back of my neck like it might, if it tried hard enough, actually rinse something out of me. I replayed the fight in broken, out-of-order pieces — a sentence here, the exact register his voice had dropped into near the worst of it, the specific silence that had followed the thing I'd said, the thing I felt leave my mouth and regret before it had even finished landing, felt it the way you feel a stone leave your hand a half-second too late to call it back. I am not a woman who takes pleasure in cruelty.
I get nothing from it, nothing at all, no relief, no righteousness, only this hollow, sick feeling afterward. But I know him well enough, after all this time, to know exactly which door to knock on if I wanted to do damage, and some ugly, cornered, exhausted part of me had knocked on it anyway, hard, and I hated her — that part of me — standing there under water too hot to actually comfort anything.
I turned it off before I was ready to stop being alone. My hands were trembling slightly when I reached for the towel, and I noticed that too, filed it away with everything else I didn't have the bandwidth to examine yet.In the mirror, I did the whole routine on something close to autopilot — cleanser, toner, the serum whose name never sticks, moisturizer worked in with both palms, slow, deliberate, like I was trying to press something calmer into my own face through sheer repetition, through muscle memory, because my mind had nothing left to offer.
I avoided my own eyes for most of it, actively, on purpose, because I didn't trust what I'd find there. Near the end I forced myself to look anyway, forced my own gaze to hold in the fogged glass, and felt something in my throat go thick and swollen at what looked back — someone tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour. That was the worst one we've had, I thought, plainly, without flinching from it.
I turned off the light and stood a moment in the dark hallway, just breathing, my hand pressed flat against my own chest like I could hold something in place by force, before I let myself go to bed at all.
The bedroom was cold and unlit. I got under the blanket without turning anything on, curled toward the wall instead of the middle, which is the closest thing I have to a small, silent flag staked into the mattress that says I am still hurting, even now, even like this, please don't ask me to pretend otherwise yet. I lay there a long time in that heavy half-place between waking and not, aware enough to still feel the ache sitting low and constant in my ribs, when I heard it — the hallway floor, giving under a foot trying very hard, and failing, to be silent.
I didn't move. My whole body went still, listening, and I let myself hear the specific hesitation in it — the pause before a person decides whether to actually cross a threshold or just stand in the dark a while longer, arguing with himself, alone. I already knew, with the particular dread of knowing someone down to the very architecture of his fear, exactly what I would find if I opened my eyes. My heart was pounding by the time I did.
I opened them anyway.
He was there. Backlit by the hallway light, so still he could have been carved that way, one hand pressed flat and white-knuckled against the doorframe like he needed it to keep himself upright, and under the other arm, held a little too carefully, like evidence he was ashamed to be caught holding, a pillow.I looked at the pillow first. I needed the extra second — needed it badly — before I let myself look at his face, because I already knew, with a certainty that made my chest hurt in advance, exactly what I'd find there.
When I finally did look, really look, past the pillow, past the practiced stillness he wears like armor, something in me gave out entirely, all at once, no warning. The anger was still there. It hadn't gone anywhere. It was allowed to stay as long as it wanted to stay.
My knees actually weakened at the sight of him — uselessly, absurdly, lying flat on my back, which should not be a thing that can happen to a person horizontal in bed, and happened anyway, some old gravity in my chest pulling toward him even now, even furious.
"You weren't actually going to sleep down the hall." My voice came out rough, cracked at the edges, stripped of anything performative, worn down to the studs by the whole night.
He didn't answer right away. I watched his jaw work, once, twice, watched his throat move as he swallowed something down, watched his eyes drop to the floor and then lift again like even that much eye contact cost him more than he had left to spend.
When he finally spoke, his voice had none of its usual composure in it at all — smaller, thinner, careful in a way that had nothing to do with elegance and everything to do with old, learned self-preservation, the kind you build brick by brick over centuries until it becomes indistinguishable from your own skin.
"I thought it might be a mercy," he said, so quietly I had to strain to catch it. "For you. One night without me in the room."
"A mercy." The word came out of me sharp, almost a laugh, except there was nothing funny sitting in my chest, only something raw and disbelieving. "Since when do I need mercy from you sleeping ten feet further away?"
"Since I said the things I said tonight." His voice dropped even further, and I watched something in his throat work again, hard, like he was fighting to keep it together at all. "I keep hearing myself say them. Over and over. I don't know how you're supposed to lie next to that."
"By lying next to you. That's how." I sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off my shoulder, cold air hitting my skin, and I looked at him properly — unguarded, too tired for anything but plain, unbearable truth.
"You don't get to decide unilaterally what I can and can't survive being near, Armand. That decision was never yours to make. That one's mine."
"I only wanted to make it easier." His voice cracked, visibly, on easier, and I watched him hear it crack, watched something like shame move across his face at his own voice betraying him.
"Easier for who." The words left me sharper than I intended, and I let them stand anyway, because they were true and because some things need to land hard to land at all.
"Because it is not easier for me. Lying in here alone, replaying the worst fight we have ever had, wondering if you're somewhere down that hallway convinced you've ruined something you haven't ruined. That isn't mercy, Armand. That's just you, alone, punishing yourself somewhere I can't reach you to tell you you're wrong and I don't want that. I have never once wanted that, not for one single second of one single night."
He was quiet for a long moment, longer than felt bearable, and I watched something in his face struggle — visibly, painfully, the way it does when he's holding two true things at once and hasn't yet learned that they don't have to cancel each other out.
"I don't know how to sit in a room with you," he said finally, so low I felt it more than heard it, "after I've hurt you. I never have. I feel it happening — the wanting to leave — before I've even decided to do it. It's already moving my feet before my mind has caught up."
"I know." Something in me softened completely at that, all at once, every sharp edge going quiet in the same breath. "I've watched it happen to you more times than I can count. It's not new information to me. But knowing where it comes from doesn't mean I have to let it win. Not tonight. Not this time."
"What if I do it again? Next time."
"Then I'll say this again, next time." I held my hand out into the dark between us, and it was steadier than anything else about me felt in that moment. "As many times as it takes, Armand. I promise you I am not running out of this. I have more of this in me than you think. Now come here — before I have to get up and drag you by the collar myself, because I genuinely might, and I am too tired tonight to make that threat elegant."
Something in his face cracked loose at that — not quite a smile, just the ghost of one, startled out of him despite everything, despite the weight sitting on both of us — and it was enough. It was enough to finally get his feet moving.He set the pillow down on the floor instead of finishing the gesture properly, his hand lingering on it a beat too long, like some part of him still wasn't sure he was allowed to let go of it yet. He crossed the room slower than I expected, each step almost disbelieving, the walk of a man approaching something he had been taught, over centuries, that he did not get to have more than once.
He sat on the very edge of the mattress, spine too straight, hands knotted together hard enough that I could see the tendons standing out beneath his skin even in the dark. For a moment neither of us said anything at all. I just looked at him — the tired, uncertain line of his mouth, the white press of his own fingers into his own knuckles, like he needed something to hold onto that wasn't me yet, in case I changed my mind, in case he needed both hands free to leave quickly.
I didn't wait for him to decide the rest on his own. I reached out and pulled him down by the arm, and he came — off balance for half a second in a way he never lets himself be, a small, involuntary sound catching in his throat at the loss of control — and then his whole weight was against me, giving way all at once, like he had been holding himself upright by sheer, exhausted will for the last hour and had only just been handed permission to finally, finally stop.
I gathered him in properly. Not a token arm slung over him — both arms, one hand sliding slow into his hair, the other spread flat and warm against his back, and I felt him go rigid beneath my palm for one long, terrible second, some old, trained reflex bracing for the comfort to be yanked away as fast as it had arrived, his whole body waiting for the other shoe. And then he broke. Folded into me completely, his face pressing hard into my throat, his breath leaving him in one long, uneven shudder that had absolutely nothing composed left inside it, nothing performed, nothing held back.
"There you go," I murmured against his temple, pressing my mouth there, soft, unhurried, feeling him shake faintly under the words. The anger in me had gone quiet for now, tucked somewhere it could wait until morning without disappearing entirely. "I've got you. I've got you. You're not going anywhere tonight, and neither am I."
He made a small, broken sound against my throat, not quite a word, more like something finally allowed to escape after being held too long, and I felt his hand come up and fist — careful, disbelieving — into the back of my shirt, like he needed physical proof under his own fingers that I was real, that I was staying, that this wasn't about to be taken back the moment he let his guard down completely.
I kissed the crown of his head. Then his temple again. Then just rested my mouth there, breathing him in, feeling the frantic, stuttering beat of his heart slowly, slowly learn how to slow itself down against mine, matching itself to me the way it always eventually does.
"I'm still upset with you," I whispered, and even as I said it my thumb was moving in slow, soothing circles at the back of his neck, because both things were true at once now and I had stopped needing them not to be.
"That doesn't cancel out any of this. I need you to understand that, all the way down, not just for tonight. You can survive me being angry, Armand. I promise you can. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just going to be a little annoyed with you while I hold on to you anyway."
He let out something that was almost a laugh, thin and wet and utterly disbelieving, and pressed closer instead of pulling away, closer than before, like he was testing whether that was allowed too, and I felt something in his chest finally, finally unclench beneath my palm, some old, tight thing letting go for the first time all night.
"You know what I was thinking about, in the shower earlier. I was thinking about how you always stir things that don't need stirring. Every single time I'm cooking, without fail, you come and stand next to me and pick up the spoon like the pot was going to give up without you, and I used to find it so annoying, genuinely, I used to have to actively stop myself from saying something about it. And now I just — hand you the spoon. Without thinking. Because somewhere along the way it stopped being annoying and started being just the way things are in this kitchen, the way things are in this house, the way things are with you."
"And I don't know why I'm telling you that right now except that I've been lying here thinking about how much of you has just — quietly become part of how I live, without either of us making a big decision about it, and it makes the idea of you sleeping down the hall tonight feel so ridiculous I can't even hold it in my head properly. Like rearranging furniture in a room you've already memorized in the dark. Nothing would be where I expected it. I'd keep reaching for things that weren't there." A pause, long, unhurried.
"I'm still upset with you. I'll probably be a little upset tomorrow too. But you're part of how this place feels, and I don't know how to explain that any better than that, and I just needed you to know it tonight."
He lifted his head slowly, and I let him, and for a moment we just looked at each other in the dark the way you only look at someone when you've run out of anything left to perform for them — no composure between us, no careful choosing of words, just his face close to mine and both of us a little wrecked and a little relieved and too tired for anything but the plain fact of each other.
He opened his mouth once, closed it. Tried again.
"I don't know how you do that," he said finally, so quietly it barely made a sound. "Look at me like that. After a night like this."
I didn't answer him. I didn't have an answer that wouldn't have taken an hour to say properly, and we were both too far past the hour for that. So I just looked at him a moment longer, the way he'd asked about without meaning to ask, and then I pressed my lips to his forehead, slow, and pulled him back down, and that was the end of it. That was enough. The dark settled around us, and neither of us said another word, and somewhere in the quiet after that, finally, we slept.
A/N: Hiii hellooo. so. this took me an embarrassingly long time to write for something that is essentially just two people doing dishes and having feelings about it. I rewrote the kitchen scene so many times I started to genuinely resent the dishes, which is saying something because I already resented them before I started 🤍
I don't have a lot to say about this one except that I've been thinking about armand's specific brand of self-destruction for a while now — the leaving before you're asked to leave, the shrinking, the pillow under the arm at midnight — and I needed to write someone who just refused to let him get away with it quietly without making it a whole thing. I think that's the most loving thing you can do for someone like him, honestly. just keep the light on and tell him to get back in bed.
Anyway, I hope you're warm wherever you are and that nobody you love is sleeping in the guest room tonight <3
Pretty When I Cry
𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖮𝗀𝗂𝗅𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: James, who constantly follows you around, finds himself debating his career after something happens with a patient, so you invite him out for drinks to talk. What could possibly go wrong with that?
holy shit
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the idea of dennis not really having any girl friends when he was younger and also growing up with only brothers so sometimes trinity says stuff and he's like 😦 what. like he makes her laugh really hard and she's like "oh my god huckleberry, stop making me laugh or i'm gonna pee" and he's like what the fuck do you mean
ex-husband!frank langdon x reader
cw: coparenting, divorce
frank might be ooc, this is my first smau
reblogs will always be appreciated <3
I’m afraid of social media, but I want to share my fan art
tumblr is the website for if you're just someone's weird sister
➤ 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 - one shot
ian mckinley x shy!photographer!reader
tags : fluff, reader is very awkward, mention of the cry_wolf movie, reader and ian are both loners.
request from @rikisluv
a/n: one request down. one more to go. (stay tuned for a perry miller fic)
You sat on the bleachers, looking over the empty football field, your camera lying in your lap. Lunch period just began so you decided to head outside to eat lunch alone. It wasn’t unusual for you to do stuff like this. You preferred to be alone. Anyways, the cafeteria was way too loud.
It was still early in the school year, the weather was beautiful. Warm air surrounding you but with a soft breeze, hinting at autumn’s arrival. You picked up your camera, lifting it up so your eye was level with the viewfinder.
You took a few photos of the field, zooming in on the goal posts. You kept taking shots of the scenery for a few minutes, getting some good pictures. Eventually, lunch period was ending, so you got up to walk back over to the school.
As you approached the entrance you heard a voice behind you.
“Nice camera.”
You turned around, seeing Ian McKinley standing there.
“Sorry, were you talking to me?” You asked.
“Well, you’re the only one around. So I’d assume so.” He replied, sarcastically
“Right…” You muttered. “Thanks.”
You were about to walk away but he spoke again. “I saw you. Uh, on the bleachers, taking photos.”
You nodded, “yeah. The football field has a nice view. And it gives me something to do while I’m out here.”
“You always sit outside during lunch?” He questioned.
“Yeah…The cafeteria is just too crowded and nosy. I prefer to be out here…Alone.” You said.
“I get it. People suck.”
You let out a huff of laughter at that. “You can say that again.”
It was silent for a few moments after that. “Uh, look, I’d love to chat but the bell is about to ring.” You turned around, getting ready to go.
“Yeah, you’re right.” He agreed. “Oh, but before you leave. I never got your name.”
You looked back over your shoulder and said your name.
“And I’m Ian.” He stated.
“I knew that.” You smiled.
—
A few days later, you were sitting at your usual spot on the bleachers. It was a nice day again. The sky was clear, the sun was shining. Perfect weather, really. You had just finished eating your lunch when you heard footsteps.
You looked up instinctively, seeing a very familiar face.
Ian McKinley.
He keeps walking towards you until he’s right next to you, sitting down on metal. “Hey.”
“Hi, Ian.” You greeted back, a little confused as why he was here.
“You take any more pictures recently?” He asked.
You nod, taking your camera out of your bag. Clicking through photos, turning it towards Ian so he can see.
“You’re a really good photographer.” He complimented.
A smile tugged on your lips at his comment. You looked down, feeling a bit bashful. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m serious.” His voice, genuine.
You lifted your head up, slightly. Looking into Ian’s blue eyes. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, just enjoying the nice weather. Then, suddenly Ian stood up.
“Take a picture of me.”
You raised an eyebrow, “really?”
“Yeah, now come on.” He persuaded.
“Okay, okay.” You lifted up your camera to your eye. “Do something cool.”
He lifted up one hand, flipping the bird. And twisting his face into a playful snarl. You press the shutter button, taking a few photos of him. Once you were done, Ian sat back down, looking at the camera.
“You look great.” You said, sarcastically.
“Damn right.” He laughed.
You and Ian sat there for a while, just talking. Until lunch was over.
“Alright, we gotta get to class.” You stated, grabbing your belongings and standing up.
“Aw, but I was having so much fun bothering you.” He joked.
You rolled your eyes. “Poor Ian.”
“Wait, can I get your number?” He asked.
You raised your eyebrows, surprised he wanted your number. You looked into his eyes. Trying to see if he was joking. Ian was asking for your number? The Ian who never talks to anyone?
“Uh, sure. Yeah that’s cool.” Your lips lifting in a half smile. You dug through your bag, finding a pen. You gestured for his arm. Which he lifted up. You grabbed his arm, gently, carefully writing your number on his wrist. “There.”
“Cool, I’ll call you later.”
—
Hours later, you sat on your bed. You grabbed your camera that sat on the nightstand. Turning it on, you went to the photo gallery. Clicking through pictures until you found the ones you took of Ian. You paused, and just looked.
It was a dumb photo. But for some reason? You couldn’t stop looking at it. Suddenly, you start to feel butterflies in your stomach. You then looked over at your phone, hoping he would call.
Did he forget? No, he was the one who asked you. But then, after a few minutes of waiting. Your phone began to ring. You quickly grabbed it, flipping it open and holding it to your ear.
Ian’s voice came over the speaker. “Hello.”
You lost track of time after that. You and him talked for hours, about nothing and everything. You really enjoyed having conversations with him. He was easy to talk to and you didn’t feel like you needed to pretend to be someone you’re not.
You eventually got off the call because your mom called you for dinner. But after the call, you didn’t stop thinking about him. If anything, you thought about him more.
And over the next few weeks, you and Ian started hanging out more. You ate lunch together everyday and called everyday.
And your feelings for him never went away. You wanted to say something to him but you were too afraid of rejection. So you stayed quiet.
—
One day, you just got out of math class. You stopped by your locker to put away your math book when someone tapped you on the shoulder. You turned around and saw Ian standing there.
“Oh, hey Ian.” You said, happy to see him.
“Hi.” He avoided eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Yeah? About what?” You asked.
“Uh. Well I was wondering if maybe—“ he trailed off.
“What?”
“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so nervous.” He apologized, a strange look for someone so outspoken. “What I’m trying to say is…Would you want to go out with me…On a date or something?”
You swore your heart was about to jump right out of your chest. Ian just asked you out. Like for real. You stared at him for a bit, trying to see if he was joking. But he wasn’t.
“Uh…Yeah! Of course!” You exclaimed.
Ian let out a sigh of relief, smiling now. A real, genuine smile. One that you hadn’t really seen from him much. “Okay, cool! How about this weekend? There’s a showing of Cry_Wolf at the cinema.”
“That’s perfect.” You replied.
The bell rang after that. Ian walked away. But you stayed standing there. Still in disbelief that you were going on a date with Ian McKinley.
You let out a huff of laughter, realizing things this year were going to get a whole lot better.
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nettspend let me touch you. just let me touch you. one time.
the idea of posting fanfic is so nerve racking !!! like last time i did that i was 12 what if it's shit and they take me out back and beat me to death with one trillion baseball bats
