if someone tells you not to touch them, don’t touch them.
if someone tells you not to yell at them, don’t yell at them.
if someone tells you not to tickle them, don’t tickle them.
if someone tells you not to do something, don’t do it.
it’s really not that complicated. respect their boundaries. they don’t have to explain why they have them. they don’t even have to be polite when they tell you not to do something. respect. people’s. boundaries.
So… I have a situation going on…. my elementary school mates decided to organise a meeting — all cool till then. The thing is someone suggested to do it at a Bowling alley and turns out I don’t even know how to bowl, is that even a word? So far my options are to either impress them with my dance moves (which on instagram I’ve already proved to be hilarious), declare myself ill or insane, and my last option is to find someone to teach me, any volunteers or at least opinions?
I’m always asked about what type of things I want to do, and if I make decisions based on my last project. Say I do a big franchise movie about a vampire that falls in love with a normal girl. It’s like, “Now do you want to show them that you can be a real, serious actor?” It’s like, “Was I not being a real, serious actor?” It was a long process, so it’s hard to generalize about it as a whole. It wasn’t entirely cohesive. We ebbed and flowed.
I don’t feel any different from the girl I was before I became famous. It’s hard to analyse it and compare how my life would have been if Twilight hadn’t happened. Although, when I look at where I am, I can at least say I’m pretty happy with how far I’ve come.
SOOOO. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything I’ve actually wanted to put out here (or anywhere), but tonight, I just kinda sat down and this happened. It’s the first short piece for the ‘If You Wait’ collection.
Growing up, Felicity never wore her hair long.
It was practical, above anything else. It was easy, having her dull, brown hair in a swinging bob, frizzy from the humid Vegas heat. It was simple, pinning her curls back as she waited tables, or served cocktails to the idle rich, becoming nothing more than part of the bland scenery.
Felicity never thought of letting it touch her shoulders, didn’t let it grow out long enough for the curls to drop heavy over her face. She was pretty good with a pair of scissors, knowing exactly where to snip and where to leave just a little longer so it tied up easy.
She used her hair as a curtain whenever she counted cards on the side, always cautious and smart with her money. Her mother had encouraged her, when she realised the potential Felicity had. She was smart, and above smart, she was quick. Living in beat down Vegas either left you with a broken spine or a quick mind. She picked up the trade easily, and when they couldn’t make the money stretch enough to cover rent or food, Felicity knew exactly where to go to make it last a little longer.
Her hair always smelled like cherries, no matter what. She prided herself on looking presentable, different amongst bitter, twisted souls. It was what it was – the cost of living in discomfort, faces etched with harsh lines, eyes heavy with the shitty hand life had dealt them. But she didn’t frown, didn’t allow herself to become like them (like her own mother) – she smiled, face glowing from the unavoidable summer tan, front curls pinned back in a simple twist, a small bounce always evident in her step.
She counted down the burning days of each summer, rolled up her savings at the end of the season, with only one goal chanting through her mind.
When acceptance letters began to arrive, Felicity hid them all, in between the pages of her binder, because no matter what her mother subtly sneered at her, she was getting out.
She wasn’t going to waste her life letting Vegas beat her down.
And then finally, finally the letter she wanted more than anything arrived.
Her hands had shook when she had ripped the envelope open.
But only until her eyes had skimmed over the most important word.
She was leaving for MIT.
That final summer, Felicity worked harder than she ever had. She only had herself to rely on, and she wasn’t going to let herself down now. She waited tables in the morning, and served cocktails at night. She counted cards at any chance she got, the rolls of cash she had hidden in the lining of her suitcase growing considerably. This time, as she counted down the days of the worst summer she had to ever suffer through, it was because she was leaving.
The night before she was to leave, Felicity and the girls who worked at the diner got piss drunk, a sort of farewell in the only way they knew. Felicity felt so, so alive – she was on her way out, finally. She could leave behind the hazy memories of her father leaving when she was only little, the sharper memories of her mom becoming stone cold, shoulders set straight but in a way that left an ugly taste in her mouth. She was finally free, and it was liberating.
Come sunrise, Felicity climbed into her little rusty car, and never looked back.
That fall, Felicity didn’t cut her hair.
It was easy to forget her old routines, because they didn’t fit into her new schedule. She wasn’t Lissy anymore, the girl with a dead beat father and a mother who didn’t care for her as long as she paid the rent. No, she was Felicity Smoak, independent from her past. She wasn’t the girl who counted cards with nimble fingers – she was the girl who made use of that talent on a keyboard now.
That fall, she let her soft brown curls grow, rings cascading past her shoulders, heavy around her face. She didn’t even realise that she could pin all her curls up high on her head now, ringlets messy and in disarray. Didn’t even realise that she could braid her hair and it would fall over her shoulder so she could play with it when she worried over her notes.
She didn’t realise until she was standing in front of the mirror, slightly intoxicated and swaying.
It awakened something within her, something so fierce and so strong.
The next day, she looked up the nearest hairdressers, and made an appointment for that afternoon.
And left the final piece of her past behind her.
She never returned to her natural hair colour. She preferred the blonde – she was no longer a wallflower, but her own future. She didn’t cut her hair for practically ever again, because she could afford to be selfish in her own ways.
Felicity Smoak had created her own path, and never looked back.
It was easy, touching up her own roots. She couldn’t make much time for a touch up appointment at her regular hairdresser, now that she was head of the IT department and partner to the Arrow at night. It was exhausting, leading a secret life alongside her already hectic one. But it was her life, and she believed, fiercely, that she was making a difference.
Sometimes, Oliver watched her from the doorway, sweats hanging loose around his hips and eyes soft as he watched her comb the dye in her hair. It was like déjà vu, the fire that lit in her stomach. It reminded her of that first time when she had stood in the tiny bathroom in her college dorm, looking at herself as something shifted and settled within her.
But with Oliver, the fire always burned. It burned with intensity wherever he touched her, wherever he kissed her. It burned with desire, with happiness, with understanding. He was another life-changing moment in her life. The only difference was, this time round, the changes didn’t stop. It was refreshing as it was frightening - with Oliver, with the Arrow, she wasn’t just the person she created, but the fighter she had always been. He allowed her to fight, to help stand for a change. She allowed him to love, to accept his darkness and to make himself a better man.
Felicity didn’t think much of her past, not when her mind had other things to prioritise. But some nights, fond memories snuck up on her whenever Oliver nuzzled the back of her neck, mumbling about cherries and breakfast.