the {hardest} of hearts // reagan

the {hardest} of hearts // reagan Jan 20, 2012 1:47:19 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Jan 20, 2012 1:47:19 GMT -5

Penny for your thoughts
But a dollar for your insight
Or a fortune for your disaster
I'm just a painter
And I'm drawing a blank

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Kaelen is rarely visibly angry. While cold wrath gleams in the darkest depths of his eyes in varying stages, rolls off of him in palpable waves that make others shiver in trepidation, he's never been one for temper tantrums anything that would disrupt the fluid, silky subtlety that coats his every movement in feline grace. No, he's never been all that overt about when something has irritated him past his default disenchantment with the world and all its sinful shortcomings.

But as he stalks down the locker-lined hallway, he is positively seething.

He's going to brutally murder that overbred cow of a guidance counselor. As soon as he writes up his kill list, she's going straight to the top, even surpassing Wheaton in his twitchy transgressions with her idiocy and the gumption to toss him into the most ridiculous, torturous class he could ever imagine. Home Economics? Honestly? What earthly good is he going to get out of being forced to craft a perfect souflee for a grade? He'd wanted to take Philosophy, had come dangerously close to actually begging the stupid woman to deliver him from the pink-oven-mitted hand of doom that waits for him down the hall in room 326. Kaelen Dempsey doesn't beg, though. Not for anyone. But he also doesn't even begin to let himself think that his own stubbornness is the reason that he'll be spending fourth period learning how to cross-stitch or some such nonsense for the rest of this hellish semester. Between this and glee club and Speks' ridiculous excuse for an English curriculum, he may well hang himself before all is said and done. Maybe this damnable class will teach him how to crochet a noose.

The teacher all but cowers under his glare as she stops mid-chastisement when he walks in five minutes late (he will go along with this ~~bullshit~~ ~~outrage~~ ~~sin against his own divinity~~ foolishness if only for the sake of his GPA, but he will go kicking and screaming, damn it all), mumbling something about how it's certainly easy for new students to get lost as the amber-eyed boy pinches the bridge of his nose in an effort to compose himself, breathing deeply and thinking out a slow count of ten. Everything in the fucking room is pink. Pink mixing bowls on the desks, pink-tinged posters on the walls, pink measuring cups, pink aprons - if he has any color left in the pallor of his face, it drains. He will singlehandedly put the strongest form of cyanide he can get his hands on into every batch of cupcakes in the room if someone even suggests that he wear one of those things - adorning the form of every girl in the class. Every girl. The entire class is female. Underneath the icy rush of his indignation, Kaelen feels a slight smirk settle on his lips. Every sickeningly pink cloud has a silver lining.

"You, erm... You can... You can partner with Miss Cromley today," the teacher stammers (he didn't catch her name and certainly won't bother trying to learn it - he prefers his torturers to languish in anonymity. Snubbing them is a little bit better than just laying there and taking it), pointing to the back corner where a classically pretty girl with dark hair and very nice legs purses her lips over a recipe card. She's vaguely familiar, but the girls all start to blur together after so long and Kaelen can't quite remember if he's ~~slept with~~ met her yet. Still, she's nice enough to look at even though she's not precisely his his type - he likes them petite, blonde, and stupid enough that he can play with them and they won't expect a thing until they're already broken beyond repair - and he at least tries to make himself appear a little less infuriated as he moves gracefully between the pink-topped (Ripred almighty, this room was designed by a children's book illustrator with a very dark, specific fetish and some other underlying psychological issues) counters, dark eyes rimmed in smoky kohl meeting her startlingly blue ones when he slides into place next to her, picking up a plastic spoon gingerly between a spindly thumb and finger as if the pink might rub off on him like a disease if he isn't careful.

"Hello," he grumbles, offering her a sidelong glance and a quick look up and down - definitely the best set of legs he's seen since he set foot in this overglorified basement of a district, and the rest of her isn't bad by any standards - before his eyebrow quirks up questioningly and he remembers where he's seen her before. "You're in glee club. Your name's... Renee, right? I'm Kaelen, the one The Twitchy One refuses to stop calling 'new kid.'"

He pauses to let the smirk play a little wider on his lips, gauging for her reaction. "You're going to have to help me with this. I'm pants at cooking."

The least this stupid class could do to repay him for enduring it is get him laid.[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

the {hardest} of hearts // reagan Feb 27, 2012 21:02:44 GMT -5

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Post by Nofo on Feb 27, 2012 21:02:44 GMT -5

ooc: lol wip, she's hard to write.

There was something about their apartment that made Reagan uneasy. Maybe it was the all-white walls. (White everything, really.) Or maybe it was the fact that they didn't even have any photographs anywhere. It was awkward and depressing. Her parents didn't seem to care that she existed, that she was the popular girl, that she did everything of importance and still maintained a 4.0 GPA. Reagan had never been used to being ignored. Her parents were kind of nice but they were so preoccupied with their jobs and never made time with her. Perhaps that was a good thing because her wardrobe probably would be vetoed if they saw it. Reagan liked short skirts and lots of makeup. It was hard to make herself presentable in the morning. It relied on hours of careful preparation. She walked into the bathroom with her inventory of beauty products she had gotten in both legitimate and illegal ways. She didn’t care that she had broken the rules, it was worth it.

She started off by stripping off her night-clothes and stepped into the warmth of her shower. The shower water was regulated, of course, but Reagan had put in enough practice so she could use her time well. She washed her face clean, scrubbed her body. She shaved her legs and cleansed her face. Rubbed lotion over her long legs and arms. Once she was done with that, then came the careful hair styling. She let it dry and began to curl it into nice clean waves of ebony hair. Reagan's hair was very important in her beauty regimen. Her shampoo was careful not to strip it of natural oils but cleanse it, making it naturally soft and bouncy. She never used an iron with wet hair out of fear of damaging it. She was protective over her body and wanted to protect it from damage. Being beautiful was vital to her popularity, she was sure of it. It had gotten her Jackson, the most popular boy in school but not the most attractive or smartest. Those came second in her plan, as it always had. Her plan was to run the school, become student body president and reign supremely. Reagan had an inflated ego from her years of popularity but she wasn't stupid. She made all the right decisions, worked her charisma where necessary, and kept the look.

Her makeup was not about looking natural; it was about making a statement and looking pretty. Today, her makeup would be going dark around the eyes, careful to draw attention to the light blue of her eyes. Her mascara lengthened the lashes and she used a pencil to darken her eyebrows making them top further. Her lips were simple with a little flash of color, trying to emphasize the size of them. Her lips were large and surely second to her eyes. She left her cheeks alone and walked back into her adjoining bedroom. On her bed, she had her outfit choices laid out. A darker dress that gave at an inch or two above the knee.

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