New Story
For now it's not really titled anything but Crimson Beanie, and that's not even a really good title.
Title: Crimson Beanie
Aunthoress: theoddment, Nicole
Pairings: Frank Iero, OC (Ingrid Rivers)
Chapter Title: None
Warnings: None for this one, but some for the chapters to come.
POV: first person
I think he only noticed me because of my hat.
It was brand new, and you always feel self-conscious while wearing a hat anyways, and it makes you feel like everyone’s staring at you. It makes everyone think you’re trying to be something special, something that you’re not. Maybe I was just paranoid, but I kept touching a hand to my new crimson-colored beanie, feeling like it was a sign that I was Wrong somehow.
But, like I said, I think he only noticed me because my hand was plastered to my head with age old glue called Self-Doubt. It wasn’t even my hat, but still…. I had timidly stepped into the library, holding my dark navy side satchel-bag to my hip with locked elbows, holding my words in with lips chapped from the wind outside. I licked them now anxiously, stopping to see if I had drawn the eyes of anyone away from their print. I hadn’t disturbed anyone, and that let me release a pent breath of relief.
At least, I thought I hadn’t disturbed anyone until he stared at me. It wasn’t a secretive stare, like people do when you’ve got pen on your cheek and you don’t realize. It was an out in the open stare; like he was so fascinated (or repulsed would be more like it) that he just couldn’t rip his beautiful eyes off me. He looked like the sort of person who made you doubt who you were. Everything about you seemed like a lighter shade when he was around. His eyes reminded me of the most springy summer grass, green from hours and hours in the sun. They weren’t pale green, or brown-green, or even bluish-green, they were grass green, factory-processed green.
For the first minute I copped glances at him at the corner of my eyes, but they weren’t the glances I wanted to give. No, I think my vibe was more of a “What are you starin’ at buddy? I don’t do lap dances” kind of vibe. I gulped and remembered the hat, and quickly snatched it off my head. It didn’t work. It wasn’t the hat, because he kept on staring, even as I turned past the nine-hundreds and into the fiction novels. He wasn’t there for and literary purposes I could see, because a musician’s magazine was splayed out inform of him opened to a two paged ad that showed a scantily clad girl advertising, of all things, birth control.
He was…There are really no words, at least not in the English language, that define him. Let me start off by describing the way he looked, then. Maybe that will be simpler. When he stood up, the first thing that struck me was he was tall, and powerful, but he didn’t flaunt it. If anything, he hid it; his walk was stooped, and he kept his shoulders relaxed and calm. It was unnerving the way he just kept staring, and then in turn, the old librarian staring at him as if he were street trash. And if he wasn’t, then he certainly looked like it. His leather jacket was tattered in many places, and a bit of the creamy-colored inside silk was poking out through a hole on his shoulder. Jeans, I would learn, were one materialistic item that he seriously couldn’t live without. Sometimes I’ve caught him praying to Levi, like he’s a real god. Okay, I was just kidding about that last part, but I’m sure it happens, if I haven’t seen it….But back to his jeans. They were decorated with rips and tears-some intentional, some not-and then pinned backed together with lines of perfectly straight safety pins. The shirt he chose to wear conveyed a picture by some underground punk-ska band that perhaps only seven people had ever heard of, but who he would rave constantly about. His eyebrow was pierced, and it was only his left one, in two places. In both those places were, like there’d be anything but, safety pins, but these were the decorated, fancy office kind, not the kind supplied to street trash.
I guess, then, that Street-Trash was the guy of my dreams.
Street-Trash, as I would affectionately name him until I found out his birth-certificate name, followed me about ten steps behind as I unloaded novels at the front desk to keep me busy for a few days. Then, he followed me outside, until I snapped, almost, with his staring and the ten steps.
“Is there anything you want or do you just have a habit of following random teenage girls out of libraries and to their cars?” I asked, whirling around with a whole lot of velocity. Apparently it was a bit too much velocity, because I and my books went whirling to the ground in a not-so graceful blend of paper, girl, and black skirt.
The next part was perhaps the worst. Street-Trash started laughing at me. And, not the polite, giggling laugh you’d expect after someone takes perhaps the most clumsy spill of their young adult life. No. It was loud, erratic, I-Can’t-Breathe-I’m-Laughing-So-Hard-At-You laughing. The kind that turned your face temperature up to a million degrees. And a million degrees is hot, in case you didn’t know.
I wanted so bad to sit there and cry, right in the middle of the parking lot, but I was too mad. Besides, tears would have just evaporated on my cheeks that could scramble an egg. All I could settle with was a pretty mean hate-glare, my eyes narrowed as far as I could get them and still be able to see Street-Trash. It took a minute for him to get to a rumbling laugh, which turned into a bit of laughing and allowed for me to speak and be heard.
“Are you done now, or have you decided to dwell longer on my public humiliation?” I snapped with a slight tremor to my tone, standing up on unsteady legs. Great. I had ripped my skirt down the entire left side. He would pay. If he hadn’t been watching me, I wouldn’t have been so nervous, and in turn angry when he followed me outside, and if no one had made me angry, I wouldn’t have twirled around to inquire about it in the first place. Hey, it made sense in my mind.
“You’re the one on the ground, I think I have a pretty valid reason to laugh,” he shrugged. Apparently something about the way I was looking at him was funny, because again he threw back his head and let out a short bark of a laugh, inflaming my anger again. I took short, angry steps to pick up the rest of my books and open my car door, jerking the handle with un-needed force. “Oh, hey, wait up.” His voice was mixed, with something like agitation and regret. I hope it was regret, because that was a very cruel thing to do. I could'nt help it that I was clumsy.
Title: Crimson Beanie
Aunthoress: theoddment, Nicole
Pairings: Frank Iero, OC (Ingrid Rivers)
Chapter Title: None
Warnings: None for this one, but some for the chapters to come.
POV: first person
I think he only noticed me because of my hat.
It was brand new, and you always feel self-conscious while wearing a hat anyways, and it makes you feel like everyone’s staring at you. It makes everyone think you’re trying to be something special, something that you’re not. Maybe I was just paranoid, but I kept touching a hand to my new crimson-colored beanie, feeling like it was a sign that I was Wrong somehow.
But, like I said, I think he only noticed me because my hand was plastered to my head with age old glue called Self-Doubt. It wasn’t even my hat, but still…. I had timidly stepped into the library, holding my dark navy side satchel-bag to my hip with locked elbows, holding my words in with lips chapped from the wind outside. I licked them now anxiously, stopping to see if I had drawn the eyes of anyone away from their print. I hadn’t disturbed anyone, and that let me release a pent breath of relief.
At least, I thought I hadn’t disturbed anyone until he stared at me. It wasn’t a secretive stare, like people do when you’ve got pen on your cheek and you don’t realize. It was an out in the open stare; like he was so fascinated (or repulsed would be more like it) that he just couldn’t rip his beautiful eyes off me. He looked like the sort of person who made you doubt who you were. Everything about you seemed like a lighter shade when he was around. His eyes reminded me of the most springy summer grass, green from hours and hours in the sun. They weren’t pale green, or brown-green, or even bluish-green, they were grass green, factory-processed green.
For the first minute I copped glances at him at the corner of my eyes, but they weren’t the glances I wanted to give. No, I think my vibe was more of a “What are you starin’ at buddy? I don’t do lap dances” kind of vibe. I gulped and remembered the hat, and quickly snatched it off my head. It didn’t work. It wasn’t the hat, because he kept on staring, even as I turned past the nine-hundreds and into the fiction novels. He wasn’t there for and literary purposes I could see, because a musician’s magazine was splayed out inform of him opened to a two paged ad that showed a scantily clad girl advertising, of all things, birth control.
He was…There are really no words, at least not in the English language, that define him. Let me start off by describing the way he looked, then. Maybe that will be simpler. When he stood up, the first thing that struck me was he was tall, and powerful, but he didn’t flaunt it. If anything, he hid it; his walk was stooped, and he kept his shoulders relaxed and calm. It was unnerving the way he just kept staring, and then in turn, the old librarian staring at him as if he were street trash. And if he wasn’t, then he certainly looked like it. His leather jacket was tattered in many places, and a bit of the creamy-colored inside silk was poking out through a hole on his shoulder. Jeans, I would learn, were one materialistic item that he seriously couldn’t live without. Sometimes I’ve caught him praying to Levi, like he’s a real god. Okay, I was just kidding about that last part, but I’m sure it happens, if I haven’t seen it….But back to his jeans. They were decorated with rips and tears-some intentional, some not-and then pinned backed together with lines of perfectly straight safety pins. The shirt he chose to wear conveyed a picture by some underground punk-ska band that perhaps only seven people had ever heard of, but who he would rave constantly about. His eyebrow was pierced, and it was only his left one, in two places. In both those places were, like there’d be anything but, safety pins, but these were the decorated, fancy office kind, not the kind supplied to street trash.
I guess, then, that Street-Trash was the guy of my dreams.
Street-Trash, as I would affectionately name him until I found out his birth-certificate name, followed me about ten steps behind as I unloaded novels at the front desk to keep me busy for a few days. Then, he followed me outside, until I snapped, almost, with his staring and the ten steps.
“Is there anything you want or do you just have a habit of following random teenage girls out of libraries and to their cars?” I asked, whirling around with a whole lot of velocity. Apparently it was a bit too much velocity, because I and my books went whirling to the ground in a not-so graceful blend of paper, girl, and black skirt.
The next part was perhaps the worst. Street-Trash started laughing at me. And, not the polite, giggling laugh you’d expect after someone takes perhaps the most clumsy spill of their young adult life. No. It was loud, erratic, I-Can’t-Breathe-I’m-Laughing-So-Hard-At-You laughing. The kind that turned your face temperature up to a million degrees. And a million degrees is hot, in case you didn’t know.
I wanted so bad to sit there and cry, right in the middle of the parking lot, but I was too mad. Besides, tears would have just evaporated on my cheeks that could scramble an egg. All I could settle with was a pretty mean hate-glare, my eyes narrowed as far as I could get them and still be able to see Street-Trash. It took a minute for him to get to a rumbling laugh, which turned into a bit of laughing and allowed for me to speak and be heard.
“Are you done now, or have you decided to dwell longer on my public humiliation?” I snapped with a slight tremor to my tone, standing up on unsteady legs. Great. I had ripped my skirt down the entire left side. He would pay. If he hadn’t been watching me, I wouldn’t have been so nervous, and in turn angry when he followed me outside, and if no one had made me angry, I wouldn’t have twirled around to inquire about it in the first place. Hey, it made sense in my mind.
“You’re the one on the ground, I think I have a pretty valid reason to laugh,” he shrugged. Apparently something about the way I was looking at him was funny, because again he threw back his head and let out a short bark of a laugh, inflaming my anger again. I took short, angry steps to pick up the rest of my books and open my car door, jerking the handle with un-needed force. “Oh, hey, wait up.” His voice was mixed, with something like agitation and regret. I hope it was regret, because that was a very cruel thing to do. I could'nt help it that I was clumsy.