Wattpad

Hey guys! Just wanted to let everyone know that I just made a Wattpad account! I'll be posting a lot on here still, of course, but I wanted to write a longer story over there!

https://www.wattpad.com/user/marg928

Check it out, or not, whatever you want is fine with me (:

Books and Boys

Erika sifted through the many books like they were delicate flowers that would be ruined or crushed with the slightest wrong move.

Books. Books meant everything to Erika. Most bibliophiles can agree that reading a good book fills the heart with an overwhelming feeling of… sometimes joy, sometimes passion, even a ripping pain that makes you question why you picked up the darn thing in the first place. But that’s what makes a good book great, the ability to make the reader feel something, really feel something.

At least that’s how Erika felt. Especially because she was rather bored with her life. Bored in the predictability of waking up, going to school, seeing the same faces, disliking those same faces immensely.

Erika was graduating this year, which sounds like the perfect remedy for these tired feelings, but no. Erika’s brain, or heart, or whatever it was that created the dissonance, wasn’t that simple. Erika hated change, which sounds weird, I know. After that whole explanation you’d think she couldn’t get enough of it, that she’d sacrifice a horse for it (it doesn’t have to be a horse, you get what I mean.) But Erika was strange, she was confused. She didn’t want to leave home for college, she didn’t even want to go to college, just thinking about it made her head feel light and her stomach hardened like cooling molten rock.

In case you are confused, let’s break down why college sounds horrifying for Erika: She hates parties, like really hates parties. She hates drinking, she hates loud shitty music, and she hates crowds. So, yeah she hates a lot of things. Oh I almost forgot one, she hates being away from home. One time, in the sixth grade, she convinced her parents to let her go to summer camp (5 nights, 6 days) and she bawled her eyes out every time the opportunity presented itself. Obviously, she is no longer in the sixth grade, but thinking of college still conjures up, almost magically, those nauseating feelings. You know, the whole butterflies fluttering wildly in the stomach as if they’re trapped in an overcrowded cage, thing.

Next reason, she doesn’t want to share a room, much less a bathroom. The thing about Erika is she loves her privacy, covets her privacy. Stolen moments away from the human race, balled up in odd unconventional places reading a book or playing on her mac was kind of her thing. Whoever takes away Erika’s privacy will have hell to pay. I just hope her roommate makes it out alive. That’s another thing, Erika is extremely awkward, and it takes an extremely long time for her soul to settle with new people. Once she is comfortable with someone, it’s hard to get her to stop talking, especially if she’s on a roll with her uncharacteristically crude jokes. But when she’s uncomfortable with someone, that someone typically describe her as shy or quiet or both.

So yes, Erika was an enigma, and very disenchanted with the whole “college experience.”

As soon as she was done browsing the books (had no more arms to hold her future purchases) she headed for the register.

“Damn woman, back again? You already get through that series with the robot girl? That was quick.” The register lady (Tamara) said to her as Erika dropped the heavy load on the counter.

“Nah, I’m not finished, I just needed a break.”

“A five book long break?”

“Alright just take my money and stop judging me,” Erika said whipping out a gift card and some extra money, “I don’t think I have enough on the card so…”

“Yeah, probably not.”

“Yeah… so when are you going to wipe that judgy glint from your eye?”

“Hey, I never agreed to the no judgement rule. New rule, I’m taking your money, judging you harshly, and you’re not gonna come back here so you have some spending money in college!”

Erika groaned internally at the mention of college. It made her angry, it shouldn’t, but it did. Why was everyone so obsessed with college? Why does everyone think it will be the best time of her life? And, sure, she hated high school, but that doesn’t mean she’s ready to leave! Why is everyone else so okay with leaving?! “Alright, thanks Tamara, I’ll try my best.”

“By the way,” she pointed to one of the novels, “that book gets pretty… smutty.” Tamara said while bagging the many books.

“Oops,” Erika grabbed the bags, walked a few paces, and opened the double door with her back, smirking and holding up her bags in place of a good bye.

Erika walked along the sidewalk of the complex. She liked to go to this bookstore because it was farther away from her hometown. It sounds a little out of the way and very much unnecessary, but she liked being in the new environment with the promise that she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew from school.

She headed towards the small coffee shop that was pretty much just a diner pretending to be a coffee shop.

“Hey Rikki got some more books to tell us about?” Matty, the Italian server in his mid-forties, called to her in his heavy New York accent.

Erika really liked Matty. He was friendly and always gave her a hard time in the best sort of way. She liked Matty because he stood outside her bubble. He didn’t care about new trends, he didn’t care about looking goofy, and he seemed like he was plucked right from a New York City crime solving show from the 90’s, Erika loved it.

“Oh, so many, Matty, so many.” She said in a faux-wistful tone.

“Well, sit down, take a load off. What can I get you?” His stance was wide and his hands were on his hips. He was one of those waiters who seemed like they were born to be a waiter. A professional waiter, well passed using a pad to write down orders.

“Hmm… a green tea. And, can I just get, like, a hard boiled egg?” Erika had said, while forming her hands in the shape of an egg. She always caught herself using her hands to much.

Like Matty doesn’t know the shape of an egg, she thought to herself stupidly and dropped her hands.

“Of course, changing your orders every time, I like it.” He had said with a smirk.

“Hey, I’m here to make your job harder. If I can, I will.” She lifted her shoulders helplessly.

“Ahh, get outta here. I’ll get you your single hard-boiled egg you weird fuck.”

Erika appreciated his unchecked language. It made her feel like they actually had a connection, they were actually friends, despite their huge gaping age difference. She liked how he didn’t treat her like a 17 year old girl, he treated her like just another customer, just another person.

The strange part is, Erika usually got along better with older people. Trendy young people scared her, confused her. She was very much an old soul, and very much unabashed about it.

She loved wearing mostly black, to differentiate from the crowd. Through floral trends, through the pastel age, even when black was cool, Erika stubbornly clung to her trademark style. But when she found the perfect piece, she loved to though vintage clothes into the mix, because she loved pretending to be Audrey Hepburn or Doris Day.

Erika settled in the spot at her booth, putting in her headphones, blaring the This is: Queen playlist, and taking out one of her new books. She took a moment to marvel at the freshness. She momentarily wished she had a better camera to take a picture of the beautiful cover, but nope. She still had the iphone 5 which sounds exceedingly privileged and very much obnoxious, but come on, an iphone 5?! How is she supposed to take a decent photo that would do this beautiful work of cover art justice with the archaic piece of junk! (Ok, not at all archaic and very extremely far from being junk, but still!!) She pushed away the thought and opened to the first page.

Starting a new book was usually her least favorite part of the whole “book experience.” She wanted to know the characters, know the story, be submerged in the plot. In this way, books were like relationships for Erika. She hated the beginnings. She wanted nothing more than to skip the small talk and go straight to being best friends or having the steady boyfriend or whatever the relationship entailed.

She was startled from the page by someone smashing into the opposite side of the booth.

The smashing thing was a boy. Alerts and alarms sounded in Erika’s head.

A. Boy.

The boy was probably around her age, maybe older.

Her age. Maybe older.

He looked like he had just finished running after the bus and screaming “Stop wait, I need to get on!”

Sweaty and flustered.

Ew.

“Hey sorry I’m late I- oh, you’re not Frida.” The boy said.

Excitement pumped through Erika’s whole body.

Finally, she thought, something new, something different.

“Nope.” She hated how timid she sounded. How much of herself she still held back. She pulled out her earbuds. The faint sound of Freddie Mercury’s vocals wafted through the air like a pleasant smell, it blared out of her small black earphones breaking the silence that had momentarily been caught between them.

“Queen, nice. Well, have you seen a girl that looks almost exactly like you from behind?”

“I don’t really know what I look like from behind.” She said, like an idiot.

“Well, you like very good from behind. God, not like that, you know, not your behind, but like the back of your head. Fuck, Frida will kill me. Don’t tell Frida about this.”

His rambling calmed her nerves. Almost reassuring her that he was also human and he was also awkward. And despite being slightly pervy, he flattered her in a way that brought warmth to her cheeks. “But Frida’s my doppelganger, I don’t want to have to hide anything from her, we haven’t even met yet!”

The boy laughed. “So can I call you Frida 2.0, or are you going to force me to call you by your real name or whatever.”

Erika was never really sure how to discern what was and wasn’t flirting but part of her hoped this was it. (And that same part of her wanted to know who Frida was and forcefully shove her out of the picture.) “It’s Erika.”

The boy’s face lit up as if he just discovered the cure for a rampaging plague, “That sounds like Frida!”

“I guess, a little,” Erika responded with not even half as much excitement as he had shone with.

“Oh, shit, there she is. It was really nice meeting you Frida, I mean Erika,” he smiled at his own joke… lame, “Oh and I’m Ralphie.”

“Nice to meet you and goodbye, Ralphie, have fun with Frida.”

He flashed another grin and walked over to the criminally beautiful girl near the door, who Erika will admit, looked like what she assumed she looked like from behind.

Whatever, she thought to herself, who needs boys, anyway.

Erika always felt she fell for boys way too easily. No boy was good enough for her yet all of them seemed to get to her, fluster her. She was always falling.

For these random-ass boys.

She shook her head disapprovingly at the hopeless romantic in her.

And with that last thought she delved into her steamy romance and turned up the volume in her headphones.

Like any other day.

Ty/Kit Fanfic (Lord Of Shadows, Cassandra Clare)

Ty sat at the library table and tried to concentrate on his book. It wasn't Sherlock, not even close, but it was still a mystery, and Ty still tried to read it. But his mind was racing. This never happened. Reading had always been such a simple task for him, an easy one to get absorbed into. But today was different, he couldn't keep his mind from wandering. To Livvy. To Kit.

It had been almost six months since what happened to Livvy, well, happened, and Ty in the past week hadn't broken down once. Which, in comparison to all the other long weeks, is a huge accomplishment. And Ty can't help but think Kit had something to do with it. Kit had been patient with him, let him scream, let him cry, let him destroy things even. But never did he leave Ty's side.
 It felt as if Kit were the only light in the world of darkness he was surrounded by, being suffocated with. And Ty was just now starting to realize how special Kit really was to him.

Many months ago Kit told Ty that he would miss him. Kit. Would miss Ty. It made Ty want to hide his face, want to giggle, want to cover his cheeks so no one would notice that they've gone red.
He tried again to focus on the words on the page. It really wasn't a bad book, good even. But Kit was a fierce competitor for Ty's attention. Most things wouldn't win that battle. Maybe not even Sherlock.
He didn't know what was happening, though. Why did his heart flutter when he thought of Kit's shoulder rubbing against his? Was this what a crush felt like? He's never had one, certainly not for girls anyway.

Sometimes, in bed, he'd imagine himself as Sherlock, working late as he so often did, and Watson coming in to help work the case out, piece by piece. And of course one thing would lead to another and somehow Sherlock, or Ty I guess, wound up atop Watson on the table nibbling at his ear, and biting at his neck, everything previously on the table thrown on the floor.

"Ty?"

Ty's breath caught, and he again tried to focus on reading. Wait. No, he should respond, that was polite, and that's what anyone else would have done.

"What are you reading?" Kit asked before Ty could say anything else.

"A Mystery. Murder on the Orient Express, by Agatha Christie."

"Agatha Christie, she's like a big deal, right?"

"I guess so," Ty held back his history lesson on Agatha Christie.

"But she doesn't hold a candle to Arthur Conan Doyle," Kit said with confidence.

"Hold a candle?"

"Oh, sorry, right. This saying actually has an interesting back story that I just so happen to know," Kit looked at Ty like he was expecting him to be impressed. Ty just stared at Kit with his eyebrows drawn together, eager to hear what Kit had to say. "Back in the olden days a workers assistant or apprentice, I suppose, would hold a candle to their seniors as they worked to aid them in even such a tiny way. This was considered a pretty low and insignificant job. So if Agatha Christie doesn't even hold a candle to Doyle's work that means she's far inferior, below even the apprentice."

"Oh." Ty said, obviously still thinking. "But that's not true."

"What?"

"Agatha Christie, in most peoples opinion, is equal to Arthur Conan Doyle in merit."

"Well, not my opinion."

Ty stopped for only a second then said, "Yeah, me neither."

They both smiled at each other.

"So, the book. Is it good?" Kit asked.

Ty could tell he was trying to distract him, keep him happy, but Ty willingly took the bait, "It's good, but I'd rather be talking to you," and he closed the book.

Kit looked taken aback and Ty didn't understand why, he was just telling the truth. "Well, good. Because I'm bored, and while watching you read is fun and all, I'd rather be talking." Kit stopped and then looked as if he remembered something, "To you. Talking to you."

"I'm glad you're here, Kit. You've been very nice these past months. Not just nice, a lot more than just nice."

"I'll always stand by your side, Ty. No matter what. Even if you tell me to leave, I'd stay. That's what friends are for."

"I would never ask you to leave," Ty confirmed.

"Well, good. That makes things easier."

And before Ty could stop himself he slid his fingers across the table and into Kit's. Kit looked startled but then grasped his back. First he squeezed Ty's hand, but then he eased back and started to rub his thumb on the back of the other boys hand in rhythmic circles.

Ty closed his eyes, feeling as if he were about to melt and hoping that, if he did, Kit would scoop him up and hold him close. It was easy to get lost in Kit's touch, Ty realized.

And with startling intensity, Ty realized something else. That this wasn't a crush, this was more. Much, much, more.

Baz Creepily Watches Simon Sleep -- Baz/Simon Fic (Carry On, Rainbow Rowell)

Baz Creepily Watches Simon Sleep

Baz watched Simon with piercing eyes, a gaze almost pointier than his fangs.

Fangs? What fangs? He thought to himself, mocking his crappy efforts of concealing who he is, what he is.

Simon tossed in his sleep like stir-fry and Baz shot his attention back to him, like a guard who had fallen asleep on duty. Simon's hair was pushing the limits of being one entity of curly tangles and Baz cursed himself for thinking how adorable it was.

Adorable and sexy.

Damnit.

So much for him moving on from this weird pervy obsession with Simon Snow. Every year Baz promised himself things would be different and every year he broke the promises miserably.

Correction: they are different, very different. Somehow with every passing year Simon Snow becomes more desirable to Baz, and every year he becomes more unattainable.

The summer doesn't help, either. You'd think being away from the snowball would make Baz forget or dull his feelings, but nope. He'd go to bed every night playing scenarios out in his head. Dirty rotten scenarios.

He'd crawl into bed and think to himself, Alright Snow, where'd we leave off.

So there he was, staring at the man of his dreams-or pre-dreams-longingly. More anger went in to his gaze then longing, actually. He wanted to rip Simon to shreds. Or maybe it was his clothes he wanted to rip to shreds...

Baz let out a wicked humph that spoke to his frustration.

"Baz?"

Baz froze, he didn't dare say anything.

"Basil, did you just growl at me?"

"I don't believe I did, no." Baz said as coolly as possible, still holding on to his breath for dear life.

"But you are awake."

"Are you some sort of idiot, Simon? Yes, I'm awake... now."

"Oh, sorry. I woke you up."

Baz went along with this, this was good, this put him in the clear. "Don't worry about it, Snow. We all know everything revolves around you, it's you're world I'm just living in it."

"Just shut up, Baz."

"You're the one that yelled at me about growling while I was in a deep tranquil sleep state!" This was Baz's favorite activity, pushing Simon's buttons. Well, I suppose he would prefer pushing Simon's tangible buttons, but this would have to do... for now.

"I said I was sorry! Do I have to come over there, get on my hands and knees, begging for forgiveness?!" Simon was nearly yelling now.

Thinking of Simon on his hands and knees made Baz's breath come unevenly. He was nearly panting.

"Probably."

"Goodnight, Baz." Simon said with finality.

"Night, Snow." Baz said more to himself.

And he stayed up two more hours watching him toss and turn in his bed wanting to do nothing else but curl up next to him and comb his long slender hands through Simon's tangled hair.