#I will color code them until I die

[inverted-typo]

Ooh fancy pants rich McGee over here ✨

[dotpointping]

I was indifferent to Phainon at first but now when I look at him I have to resist the urge to write the most gut wrenching tragic love story for this man. Seriously, it's too easy to torture the men of Amphoreus.

Spoilers for 3.4 down below.

This is based entirely on my understanding of the leaks. That being said, I didn’t understand them very well because I only brushed over them lol. 

You were probably just a randomly coded npc made to fill the population of his hometown and just another kid he used to play with. But as the cycles went on, you grew more and more attached to him and subsequently he grew attached to you as well. Or maybe, you didn’t even originally exist in Amphoreus until Lygus determined Phainon was seriously too emotionally unstable and kept fucking up some of the earlier cycles due to his wrath and genuine disillusion with who he should be and what he’s fighting for. 

Either way, you were crafted to be Phainon’s. 

Phainon adores you. You have always been by his side and you have always supported him. You are who he fights for, you are who he returns to after war, you are the one who greets him warmly and kisses the crown of his head. You are the one to tell him that he is doing a wonderful job, that no matter what happens, you will stand by his side and support him. While he may bring about dawn to the world, you are the only one to embrace him when his dawn gives in to night. With you, he is not a hero, but a man. He is the son of a simple farmer and the son of Aedes Elysiae. With you, he does not bear the weight of the world, does not need to placate the people with smile and charm, and can cry as often as he needs. You are always there to hold him gently, caress his face, and kiss his tears away. 

You are the only one to call his name. Not the name he adorns as the Chrysos Heir, but the name his mother and father bestowed him years ago. The one he shed to ascend his role as hero. You say his name so sweetly, as though you were caressing every letter and breathing life into every drawn syllable, until it became unrecognizable from your lips. You beckon him with your gaze, and he can never say no when you bat your lashes at him so sweetly. 

“Rest, my sun,” You would say to him, kissing the curve of his nose, brow, and cheeks. But, never his lips. No, you always made sure to save his lips for last. Instead, you straddle his hips, and cradle his face gently in your hands. You whisper his name again and again, as though it was the only prayer you had ever been taught, as though he had already ascended Godhood and you were his patron worshiper, left behind on the altar as an offering. Perhaps you were— an offering, that is. He is unworthy of your love, unworthy of your warmth and affection, and unworthy of your loyalty. 

And I imagine the first time Era Nova is brought about, Phainon didn’t know everyone had to die. You are no exception— you may mean the world to him, but to this simulation you are no more pieces of code meant to ensure he will bring about the new world. He screamed and begged, cursed the Gods until his voice died and it was nothing more than a pathetic rasp. He had grown so used to fighting monsters and spilling his own golden blood, that he forgot the color of human death. What remains of you soaks his hair and smears across his skin, seeping deep into his pristine white armor. You are the final nail in the coffin that ensures he will destroy the current world, because if not for freeing the souls of his friends, then at the very least, finding a way to be with you.

In those thirty million cycles, he tries to flee his destiny. He takes you far away to the edge of Amphoreus borders, where you live peacefully together, untouched by the Black Tide and Fate. In this life, the floor creaks beneath your bare feet, the sheep bleat in the morning fog, and the cattle graze lazily while he clings to you as you hang the linen. The dogs will bark at every passing bird and the cats will curl like soft shadows in every sunlit corner. There is never silence in your small home, only laughter-- yours and the children's. He will give you as many as you ask for. They will cling to his legs, cry in the night, and tug on his cloak as he sharpens the scythe. You will hum as you work the soil, dirt underneath your nails and sweat on your brow, singing to the clouds until even the sirens fall quiet, greedy for a voice they'll never have. But of course, he should know that Heroes do not get happily ever afters. In these timelines, you always die young. Either you are killed by the Flame Reaver, the Black Tide, or even just Lygus trying to start the story, Phainon is unable to pursue this blissful existence with you. These deaths are the most horrific— where your body is mangled beyond recognition and carelessly tossed aside. Sometimes, he fails to find you at all. Even your children are not spared this gruesome fate, wretched from his hands and into the mouths of beasts.

The world mocks him for daring to dream of happiness.

No matter what he does, you will always part from him. Just as you cradle him to sleep every night, he must bid you farewell in a warm casket of your blood. Once you arrive in his arms, he knows that the dawning of the new world has come. What point is there in this world, when you no longer exist? Thirty million, sixty million, one-hundred million. He will traverse as many cycles as need be. In all timelines, you are his. You saved him from his never ending misery, you are the brightest light of his life, you are an angel sent from the heavens, you are the breath he takes at dawn to keep himself alive. You are his and he is yours.

He will stop at nothing until you are safe in his arms. One day, he will witness the hair on your head turn grey and your face adorned in wrinkles from all your laughter and joy. One day, he will take your hand into his own and he will never have to fear your warmth being taken from him. One day, he will awake in your shared bed as nothing more than your husband. 

But until then, he will continue to rebuild the world anew. He will take your corpse with him as he ascends to the skies, the smell of burning flesh accompanying him every step of the way. Even now, he cannot weep for you, for the tears die the moment they touch his body. He is the bearer of the world, the dawn that shines upon kingdoms and the light that they worship, but he is left behind, left to wander the darkness, searching for the dawn that once called his name. 

In all broken cycles, he will hold you close. From the foundations of your remains, he shall craft anew the world.

[lowrisemiller]

a one - shot inspired by sabrina carpenter’s songs “busy woman” & “15 minutes”

harry castillo x younger!associate!fem reader

you’re busy. driven, polished, and far too focused to fall for a flirt like harry castillo—older, smug, and always one floor too close. but when a risky little challenge is whispered between meetings, you agree to play along… fifteen minutes on the clock, and he swears he can make you unravel.

masterlist | 2k words | I just watched masterlists and tbh plot was mid but harry was a whole snack & I wish he was in the film more so here ya go<33 | the pics don’t depict what reader looks like | desk/office sex , oral (f receiving) , dirty talk , light dom/sub vibe , age gap , unprotected piv sex , power dynamic

────────୨ৎ────────

You work on the twenty-third floor, executive communications, damage control, all the places where rookies go to die. Your office is tucked near the east windows, a strategic location that means you can look busy and in control while still seeing every move that happens on the floor below.

The twenty-second floor is legal strategy, crisis mitigation. Where the real sharks live.

That’s where Harry Castillo sits. Older, charming, always a little rumpled in that expensive-on-purpose kind of way. He talks like he’s too tired for games but plays them better than anyone. The man can dismantle a PR landmine with a half-sighed “let’s not be dramatic,” and somehow, the whole room listens.

You’re not dramatic. You’re busy.

Too busy for men who wear their shirt sleeves rolled halfway up their forearms like they know what that does. Too busy for the curve of a smirk that’s always half a second from being something more. Too busy for Harry Castillo.

Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You’re one of the youngest women to be promoted to associate director before thirty. A New York transfer, reputation sharpened by fire and caffeine and the kind of quiet ambition that doesn’t ask for praise. You have a master’s degree, a full calendar, and five different alerts going off in your brain at all times.

You don’t date. You don’t fuck in the office. You don’t entertain men who flirt like they’ve already undressed you.

Harry Castillo is nine years older. He’s been with the firm for over a decade. He’s good—frustratingly so. When you moved floors temporarily during a restructuring, he made one joke about your color-coded planner and you didn’t look him in the eye for three weeks. Not because you were offended. Because he noticed.

He always notices.

Today’s meeting is about the Devlin account: big-name celebrity, bigger-name scandal. You’re both on the call list for the 4:30.

It’s 4:14 when you hear the knock. Three quick raps on the glass door before it swings open, uninvited. That’s the kind of man he is.

“You’re not still rewriting that press draft, are you?”

You don’t look up from your laptop.

“Only the parts that read like a hostage letter.”

He grins. Saunters in, no tie, button-down sleeves rolled and collar open just enough to make your brain short-circuit for a second.

“Brutal,” he says. “Are you always this rude to your elders?”

You finally glance up, just long enough to let him see the faint smirk tugging at your mouth.

“Only the ones who act like they have something to prove.”

That makes him laugh. He leans against the edge of your desk like he owns the air between you. Like he can feel how it tightens.

“Fifteen minutes until Devlin,” he says. “You know what I could do in fifteen minutes?”

“Take a nap?”

“Make you come. More than once.”

You blink.

Then scoff.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re smiling.”

You bite your bottom lip before it curls up too much.

“I’m busy, Castillo.”

“I know. That’s what makes it fun.”

He glances at the clock on your wall. 4:16.

“I’ll make it interesting. If I win, you let me take you out. If I lose, I’ll file those awful transcripts you keep forgetting.”

You close your laptop slowly. Look up at him through thick lashes. There’s something dangerous behind your eyes, and he knows it. But he also knows you’re thinking about it.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

“You have fifteen minutes. If you make me late to this meeting looking like I’ve been fucked, I will destroy you in front of the board.”

“Fifteen minutes? Set a timer.”

You don’t move when he says it.

You just hold his gaze, daring him to break the tension first. He doesn’t.

Instead, Harry steps forward and pulls your chair away from your desk with one hand. You’re still sitting when he kneels in front of you, his tie long since discarded, sleeves cuffed to his elbows. His eyes flick up, dark and unreadable.

“You’re gonna be late to your own meeting,” you murmur.

“Then I better get started.”

You expect teasing. Slowness. A warm-up that never quite pays off. That’s what men like him do, isn’t it? Stretch it out. Make you beg.

But Harry Castillo is not like other men.

He pushes your knees apart, drags you to the edge of the seat, and kisses the inside of your thigh like it’s a fucking promise. By the time his mouth reaches your panties, you’re already wet and already irritated that he knows you are.

“Cute,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “Lace?”

“Shut up and—”

But you don’t get to finish. He’s already pulling them aside and licking up your slit, slow and deep like he’s starving. You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as your hips jerk up on instinct.

“Still busy?” he asks against your cunt.

You try to snap something back, something cutting, but his mouth closes over your clit and all that comes out is a broken gasp.

It’s unfair how good he is. How focused. There’s nothing gentle in the way he eats you out he devours. Tongue pressing hard against you, then flicking fast, then sucking as two fingers slide into you with practiced ease.

Your head falls back, one hand fisting in his thick hair.

“Oh my—fuck—Harry—”

He hums. The vibration shoots straight through your spine. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, but it doesn’t help. Your thighs are already shaking.

You try to pull away—pride, stubbornness, you don’t know—but he grips your hips and growls:

“You’re gonna come, sweetheart. Don’t fight it.”

And fuck if you don’t. It builds fast, blinding. Your thighs clamped around his head, back arching as you moan his name like it’s been stuck on your tongue all month.

He doesn’t let up. Even when you come, even when your hips are twitching and you’re panting, he licks you through it—drags it out until you’re squirming and glassy-eyed.

“One,” he says with a smirk, rising to his feet.

You should be embarrassed. You should shove him away and demand he leave. But you just stare up at him, flushed and fucked-out, breathing hard.

He leans down. He kisses your jaw, the corner of your mouth. You taste yourself on his lips.

“Desk,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Now. Bend over.”

You hesitate—half pride, half nerves.

He doesn’t repeat himself.

You stand on shaky legs, turn around, and brace your hands against the cool wood. You expect him to flip your skirt up and fuck you immediately, but instead he takes a second. Runs his hands over your ass. Whistles low.

“You know how long I’ve wanted you like this?”

“You talk too much,” you mutter, but it comes out breathless.

Harry chuckles. Then you feel the hard press of his cock against your bare ass as he leans over and whispers:

“You’re gonna be the one begging though.”

Then he pushes in.

No warning. No teasing.

Just thick, hard, deep. You gasp—almost choke—because it’s so much. Your hands scramble across the desk for something to grip.

“Jesus—Harry—”

“That’s right. Say it again.”

He pulls back and drives in harder. Your eyes roll. The desk creaks. Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize the meeting is about to start, but you don’t care.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because he’s fucking you like a man possessed—one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he’s never letting go. Your nails dig into the wood. You feel him everywhere.

“You feel how tight you are?” he groans. “So fucking wet. Knew you’d be like this.”

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Every snap of his hips sends lightning through your core. You feel another orgasm barreling toward you, and so does he.

He reaches around, finds your clit again, and rubs fast and filthy.

“Come on, baby. Give me one more. I know you can.”

And you do. It rips through you with no warning, no buildup—just white-hot bliss that leaves your legs trembling and your vision swimming. You come hard, mouth open in a silent scream, clenching around him until he growls something low and ragged.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls out just in time, spills hot across your lower back with a sharp groan, hands braced on your hips.

Silence.

Just the sound of your breathing. Of your pulse. Of your pride, curled and wrecked beneath your ribs.

You hear him grab something—napkins from your drawer, probably—and gently wipe you off. He presses a kiss to your spine, right at the base of your neck.

“You okay?”

You nod, dazed.

He helps you up. He adjusts your skirt. He also fixes your hair for you in the reflection of the darkened window.

You glance at the clock.

4:29.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

“Again?” he smirks.

You push past him and grab your laptop.

“If I’m late, I’m blaming you.”

“You’re glowing,” he says. “No one’s gonna believe you weren’t getting laid.”

You shoot him a look as you open the door.

“That was two, right?” he calls after you.

You don’t answer.

But your smile gives you away.

────────୨ৎ────────

🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlejoels @inbred-eater @grayandthyme @millersdoll

[crystallizedday]

SO

I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE NEW DELTARUNE CHAPTERS OR I WILL EXPLODE

I wanna primarily talk about my take on the knight’s identity, but I’ll sprinkle a few other thoughts of mine in if I can, cause HOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Anyway

MASSIVE spoilers for Deltarune chapters 3 & 4.

DO NOT CLICK READ MORE IF YOU DO NOT WANNA GET SPOILED!!

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

So

To me, it’s down to Dess & Carol Holiday.

Like

Look at this design.

Those are DEFINITELY antlers.

Toby knows his audience.

He’s poked fun of it in the game before (ie the theorist rant about Mike)

To me, he wouldn’t just include a design detail like that & NOT expect us all to think about the Holiday’s

So either he intentionally made them look like horns

Or it’s a red herring

& I highly doubt it’s the latter.

I DO think there’s a potential red herring, but it’s not in the knight’s design.

SPEAKING OF TOBY KNOWING HIS AUDIENCE & LIKELY HAVING THESE SPRITES HAVE SPECIFIC DETAILS

THOSE HAND HOLES ARE NOT A COINCIDENCE, & I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL!!

However, I don’t think it’s as mind blowing as it may seem at first.

Most of the fandom already agrees that Gaster has SOMETHING to do with the plot of Deltarune.

The hand holes don’t feel like something that indicates that Gaster is the knight.

Instead, it feels like it merely connects the knight TO Gaster.

Either the knight serves the former scientist (since there is no knight without a leader they follow)

OR

They BOTH are of equal power, people who were once of the light now prisoners of the dark.

Whether they have the same goal is… not clear.

However, the very fact that we now have solid (even if unspoken & rather interpretive) confirmation that the knight and Gaster ARE related

Is a big deal

Even if we all kinda knew that already.

NOW

Back to the Holiday’s.

I actually played through chapter 3 & 4 myself without looking anything up beforehand.

Yes, I missed some things, but from what I DID see, I first came to the conclusion that Carol, Noelle’s mother, was the knight.

In chapter 4, Kris talks to someone on the phone.

Kris seems to be working with someone who wants the dark worlds to spread & grow, hence why they stop the player from reading the bunker code written inside Dess’ guitar (keep that last fact in mind).

We don’t know for certain who this voice belongs to.

Is it the knight?

Gaster?

The same person Spamton spoke with back before his fall from fame?

It all seemed ambiguous

Until this happened.

Kris tells the person on the phone that they failed to stop Susie from getting the guitar.

The person then says they’ll be “right there…”

Which leads to

You cannot tell me with a straight face that this is a coincidence.

Noelle KNOWS her mom’s work hours.

Why would Carol suddenly come home so early?

If Carol was not the one on the phone, then someone or something HAD to come over to Noelle’s.

The voice specifically says “I’ll be right there.”

Not “I’ll stop her”

Or “I’ll send someone.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Carol is the ONLY person who arrives at the house before Susie’s kicked out & Kris follows her.

Not to mention

Like

Toby didn’t highlight “you” in RED merely to create emphasis.

He rarely does that.

We see him highlight stuff in YELLOW in this chapter, sure

But the only other thing he’s highlighted in red (from my recollection) was when Noelle talked about listening in for the presumed “mouse” while she & Susie wait in Dess’ room

& the red text hinted for you to make noise.

Considering that hint was for YOU & not KRIS (since you’re separated from Kris during this scene)

Me thinks it legitimately means something

& wasn’t just Toby deciding to be a lil funny & switch up his text colors for kicks (even if that WOULD be hilarious…)

THE POINT IS

I highly doubt Carol’s talking to Kris in the above scene, or at least, not JUST Kris.

I think she’s talking to the player.

The “you.”

We know from chapter 2’s Snowgrave route (specifically when you are about to defeat Spamton) that “you” refers to the player, not Kris.

Carol’s line here feels intentional.

ANOTHER INTERESTING THING

This COULD be seen as like

A metaphorical thing

(ie to show how “cold” Carol is toward others)

But considering Noelle’s whole thing in chapter 2

& the background ambiance when she arrives

& how Susie comments on FEELING the ACTUAL temperature drop…

It just feels

Too odd to be purely metaphorical.

Do I think this confirms she is the knight?

No.

To me, it merely shows that Carol is a PART of whatever this whole thing is.

Carol COULD be the knight

But to me, it doesn’t feel as thematically fitting as Dess being the knight.

Cause like

Dess is MISSING.

We don’t know HOW she went missing.

No one hasn’t seen her in quite a long time.

It makes sense that Dess, either willingly or forcefully, became the knight.

& when I say “became”

I mean like

MORPHED into it.

She IS the knight.

It is no suit of armor she can take off.

It is no dark world form she can shed if she were to enter the light world (assuming she ever could).

She IS the knight, & the knight is HER.

She is forever warped by a past event we have yet to see.

Plus

Carol feels like she has a few intentional red herrings that would make fans point to HER as the knight

Mainly the kitchen katana that she apparently uses to cut fruitcake with.

THAT feels like a straightforward red herring

Cause it’s TOO obvious.

Besides

The knight doesn’t wield a katana.

If Carol were the knight, I feel like the knight’s sword would be a lot more elegant looking, more katana-like.

It wouldn’t surprise me to see Carol KNOW about her eldest daughter’s fate & actively be working with her.

…

Also WHY IS THERE A NOTE IN DESS’ GUITAR??

Who put that there?

WHEN did they put that there?

I doubt it was Carol. That feels like a weird place to put a code. She feels like the character to have the code on HER at all times.

The code was likely from Dess herself.

Why was it put there?

To remind Dess how to open it (likely causing her to explore the shelter & later go “missing)?

Or perhaps

Somehow

It was written after her disappearance

As a quiet call for help

For SOMEONE to open the bunker & end the nightmare.

Carol could still know about the code without being the one to write it.

If Kris can spot the note so easily after only looking through the guitar ONCE

We can wager that Dess’ MOTHER, who LIVES in that house, likely found out about it at some point, ESPECIALLY if she truly is a part of the madness somehow.

Assuming this is all true, I wonder if Carol never plucked the note out because doing that would require breaking the guitar in some way, & she does not have the heart to do it.

That idea’s more headcanon-y than anything

Cause I’d just love to have a scene like that play out

Where she mumbled to herself about just getting rid of the damn note

But can’t without hurting the strings

Showing that she DOES still care. She DOES have humanity.

It’s just buried in the freezing cold.

…

… so while this seems like a good ending spot

I wanna say one last thing.

Fellas.

F e l l a s.

The later chapters don’t HAVE to abide by a set formula.

I keep seeing people argue whether this or that was the secret boss

& I’m just like

Fellas

It doesn’t have to match chapter 1 & 2’s format.

Hell, chapter 2 diverted from chapter 1’s format by making IT’s secret boss someone you encounter in game no matter how you play, a stark contrast from Jevil, who you can play the entire game without ever seeing a LICK of dialogue about him.

I think, out of everything, we shouldn’t worry about “who the secret boss is.”

No.

We should be more concerned about the shadow crystals & where they end up.

Cause APPARENTLY

DEFEATING THE KNIGHT IN CHAPTER 3 LEADS TO SUSIE CHIPPING OFF A PIECE OF THEIR SWORD

& WHEN YOU GO TO PICK UP THE SHARD

YOU ADDITIONALLY GET A SHADOW CRYSTAL!!

At first, I assumed the shadow crystal came FROM the sword, but that may not be entirely right.

Even still, I think the crystals either come FROM the knight

Or the knight & the crystals come from the same place.

Now, how specific characters get a hold of it

Is… up in the air.

We see Gerson hand one to Susie in chapter 4.

He tells her that someone likely wanted him to use it, but he didn’t find it interesting, so he never really did anything with it.

Perhaps someone (the knight, Carol, Gaster, who knows) is giving certain Darkeners shadow crystals for some unknown reason.

Whatever the reason is, considering the bosses to get these shadow crystals all tie to EXTREMELY hard boss fights, it’s likely a source of power the corrupts the user, just as it did with Jevil & Spamton.

So

By that logic

I suppose the knight IS the secret boss

But more so that the secret to the boss is that it’s winnable

Which feels

Very hilarious & overall Toby-ish to me, not gonna lie. IWNWODMWOCKSOMXOSMXODCM

But uh

Seriously.

We gotta look at how these bosses connect on a far less shallow level. We can’t be too occupied with interpretive patterns in the chapters’ varying story beats

Cause those story beats aren’t always gonna be repeated.

After all, repeating story beats make the rest of the potential chapters predictable

& I doubt Toby’s gonna be doing that…

Anyway uh

That’s all for now.

…

Ya know

Aside from how we finally got concrete confirmation that monsters bleed (so the whole “when you kill sans, you cut through some ketchup he had hidden away to make it look like blood” debate no longer matters)

Ralsai directly addressing how there MUST be another ending to their story (& suggesting that Toby’s “one ending” claim may be tied to the prophecy specifically)

Dead monsters having the capacity to be “revived” in the dark world, even if we can never be sure if it’s really “them”

THE FUCKING SNOWGRAVE CONTINUATION SCENE IN CHAPTER 4

LIKE HOLY SHIT

But that last one’s for another time

… probably.

For now, imma just

Close off my ramblings here before I spend another 2 hours of my day talking about how these two chapters absolutely DESTROYED my brain.

[oatmealthighs]

bigbro!choso x blackfem!babysitter!reader

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 contents: nsfw 18+, MDNI. overstimulation, rough sex, mutual pining, breeding kink, masturbation. i guess a lil stalking? choso's last name is itadori, yuji is a lil one, reader is black-coded and depicted to be a bit thick. but yea gets pretty nasty. minors gtf back

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 author's note: yea this is a bit more self-indulgent than i'd like to admit.... but nonetheless! i still hope yall like it! inspired by this work of art

“so you're the new babysitter, huh?”

his voice was so deep. it rumbled through your every limb, made every hair prick up against your melanated skin. your throat went dry as you looked up at the man so casually leaning against the doorframe to his quaint, humble home, towering over you as he observed you almost menacingly.

as choso itadori looked down at you with indifferent eyes, you couldn't stop your own from scouring, observing the way the black tee he had on was tight in all the right places, hugging and squeezing at his muscular biceps and clinging to his formed chest. his brown hair was tied up, spiky locks in two ponytails. black jewelry adorned his ears all the way up to the helix.

you felt small, under investigation as his dark orbs intensely pierced through your own. but you didn't waver, it was never in your nature to showcase your uncertainty. instead you smiled, glossed lips parting to show your pretty teeth. “yep, that's me! my name is [name].” of course choso already knew that, and maybe a bit more that he didn't plan on sharing with you. he had no shame when it came to investigating who he was entrusting the care of his baby brother to, yuji being his heart and rib, the only family he had left on this entire planet. he'd die for him, kill for him, do worse if it came down to it. but with you, all that extra shit didn't seem necessary to make clear.

choso knew you looked good from your instagram he managed to find after some digging, but your posts didn't capture the true, full essence of your beauty. the camera didn't necessarily capture the way your brown skin glowed and shimmered in light, or accentuate your curves like how they looked now. you smelled sweet, like yams and vanilla. the magenta yoga set you wore clung to your skin tantalizingly, outlining your curvy silhouette and the top zipped down just a little low to show a little cleavage. your hair was styled* into a neat bob, bluntly cut just above your shoulders, not a single hair out of place. your lips were lined a dark coffee brown and ombré’d into the pink natural color of your skin, coated with sparkly gloss. your large glasses sat on the bridge of your wide nose, a french-tipped nail pushing them higher up. choso continued to feign disinterest, but he knew the darkening scarlet brushing over the tips of his ears might be what would give him away if you took any notice.

luckily enough, your attention was drawn elsewhere, the sound of toddler yuji cooing as he waddled through the living room towards the front door making your eyes widen with adoration. you kneeled down to his height, yuji’s big brown eyes finding yours and him sending you a gummy smile. “and this must be yuji! ohh, you’re the cutest thing! making my heart swell.”

choso needed you for a short while, just until he could find a new daycare for his little brother. between him working over forty hours a week and using the weekends to focus on bonding with yuji and resting up, he never really had the time. or more-so, seeing how well yuji gravitated to you, how he began asking about you by just saying your name during bath time, how he always cried when you left, was what made it drop lower and lower on his priority list.

you were much more help than he expected you to be, and did far more than what he was paying you to do, which resulted in the extra hundred dollar bills he would sneak into your cherry coach bag every evening. it was the least he could do: you made meals, helped clean, always put yuji down to bed before you left. even did the laundry as needed. you insisted it was okay when choso told you you didn't have to bother yourself with tasks that weren't in the job description, and that you didn't want or expect anything extra out of it. but you stopped fighting against his generosity… not that there was ever a struggle.

some nights required choso to stay later, long past his typical return time of six o’clock, and some nights he wouldn’t return until 2am. he would come in from a particularly tiresome day at the hospital in his his grey scrubs and his hair pulled into a low ponytail. he would never be surprised to find you laying on the large sectional sofa, glasses still on but your bonnet tied tight around your head, under one of the extra blankets with your phone replaying a tiktok. choso always had the guest bedroom prepared for you but it was always all for naught, as the couch seemed to be your preferred place of choice. it was so soft, it had to be well over a thousand bucks. he never disturbed you, you deserved your sleep. at most, he’d shut your phone off and turn down the tv, and head upstairs to shower and prep for bed himself. he’d often hear you leave the house later that night or early in the morning.

choso was the strong, silent type most of the time. he was an action-driven man– if he didn’t say it he would show you. you knew he liked you for his baby brother when he asked how did you feel about hanging around yuji for a bit longer than anticipated one evening while you were just about to leave out for the day. or when he would sneak those crisply folded blue bills into your bag. you wondered what he did for work one day, and you asked him. he was an anesthesiologist, he said. and you knew he was rolling in the money then.

there were no signs of a woman in his life from what you’ve seen. no feminine hygiene products in the bathroom, no pictures, no particular scent aside from your own aroma of sweetness. no mentions of a “she”... not that you’ve ever talked about it. you wanted to pop the question, but you didn’t want to weird him out- you opted to just “keep things professional.” but shit, it was hard sometimes. choso was a nice-looking man, with a height of 6’3”, a hard, muscular build, and dark eyes that made you shudder when he looked down upon you with them. sometimes he would come home after a vigorous work-out at the gym if he had the pleasure of getting off on time, wearing a black underarmour compression shirt that would be so damn tight you’d see every sculpt and cut of his meticulously defined upper body. his hair would be down, brown tresses clinging to his strong neck, thick eyebrows knitted together at the feeling of sweat and perspiration sticking to his skin and his growing need to shower. you would be in the kitchen, just cleaning up since you wrapped dinner up not too long ago, and the smell would make his stomach borderline roar at him. he’d shower, then come back in a tee and grey sweatpants, damp hair hanging as he sat at the table and basically ripped apart whatever you had prepared for him.

sometimes, you’d be in a rush to go home. not because choso would make you uncomfortable or anything. never that… but you knew your body. you knew that warm pool of heat in between your legs meant nothing but trouble, and was something that needed to be handled, preferably asap. you’d rush into your little apartment, make a beeline to your bedroom and strip down to your bare skin before jumping into your silk pink sheets. you’d grab your vibrator and press it to your clit desperately, pussy squeezing around nothing as you threw your head back against the soft pillows. you’d pinch your brown nipple, bottom lip trapped in between your teeth as you moved your vibrator in small little circles. more and more, you’ve began imagining choso in between your legs, his large hands parting your thick thighs like the red sea as he ate you out, his tongue lashing at your clit and slurping up your honey like a man parched. you imagined him pinning you against a wall with those brawny arms of his, knees pressed to your chest as he pounded you, burying himself to the hilt as your pussy squeezed his thick, long dick like a vice. it would be so nasty… you could only imagine the way you’d be cumming around him, how he’d make you cream and release until you’re ran dry.

sometimes when you finish, you’ll feel ashamed, throwing your vibrator to the end of the bed as you squeezed your legs together and hid under the comforter with embarrassment. other times… not so much. the fire would still be stirring and burning within you, begging for something more, for you to truly be filled. there were times you were a smidgen too close to calling up one of your old flings, just to fulfill your desire of being stretched out once again and to just imagine the man over you was your employer instead.

your feelings didn’t go completely unrequited.

choso held his tongue for the greater good of professionalism and your comfortability, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t contemplate asking you to dinner a few times. from what he’s seen and observed on your insta, you didn’t have a special somebody. and he figured it would never hurt to ask. but choso was careful. he often opted to just not say anything.

he felt his gazes getting longer, his eyes moving more risky every time he’d see you moving about in his home working. he picked up that you really liked two piece sets, especially the ones made of sculpting spandex that always clung to your body almost provocatively. the way your ass sat in them, he was almost embarrased to say he dreamed about grabbing a handful of it, palming one of your cheeks with his entire hand. your glossed lips always caught his attention. he often thought about how it would look smudged on his skin, smeared across his own lips after tonguing you down.

your smell lingered. on the furniture, in the blankets, hung in the air. it was embarrassing how the scent of shea butter and vanilla was enough alone to make his dick stiff. it’s been so long since he’s rubbed one out. and he was doing a good job until you came along. he wasn’t proud to admit the amount of times he’s touched himself to you, his hips rolling his dick up into the clenched palm of his hand, soft squelching sounds filling his master bedroom. he’d imagine how you’d ride him, slamming your hips down against his own, your ass flush against his skin as you moan sweet nothings into his ear while he tried his damnedest to not nut in you.

the tension was growing thick. it could be sliced with a chainsaw at this point. but the both of you both opted to play it safe. until it spilled over… and it was bound to happen.

and it did.

"ouuuu, shit, choso!" the way that man was absolutely drilling you from behind was almost criminal, the deafening sound of his hips cracking against your fat ass echoing throughout the sound of the living room as he was trying his best to fuck you through the couch he had you drooling on.

you really don't know how you got here. well... you do. after all, this was the day you've been plotting and hoping on the moment you first seen choso's fine ass leaning against his doorway. it was like a dream come true, watching the way he deliciously hovered over you like predator over prey, his silky brown tresses draping around his sharp facial structure and his silver chain dangling, swinging in cadence with his hard, deep thrusts.

the two of you were just watching a movie, mr. & mrs. smith to be exact, courtesy of the invitation he extended earlier that night when you put yuji down for bed. an opportunity to "get better acquainted" over wine, gourmet chips, chocolates and a good action-romance.

"i see the way you look at me," you had stated boldly as you sipped your third glass of wine, the pillar to your sudden courage. "i know you notice how i look at you, too."

choso was sprawled out on the couch, legs spread and his arms thrown over the top. his head rested in one of his big hands, gazing at you through heavy-lidded eyes. he's silent for a moment as he looks at you so intently, his orbs filled with need, before he finally diverts his gaze to the tv. "yeah."

you look at the tv for a bit, not interested at all actually, but feigning it as you finished your glass. it was silent for a bit, albeit the sound of gunfire and car collisions booming through the in-home sound system, before choso speaks, "you can sit closer."

your scooting closer somehow led to you sitting in his lap, which led to a passionate, sloppy makeout session involving you straddling his firm thighs and his big hands gripping your entire ass in his palms as your tongue dived into his mouth. and all that led to him softly laying you on to the couch cushions, your lips never leaving each other's.

his lips are as soft as they look, yet leave scorching flames of desire in their wake as he litters passionate kisses all over your jugular and chest. he buries his nose into your skin, almost moaning at how sweet you smell and taste. as he continues to trace his name on your skin with his tongue, his fingers find the zipper to your purple yoga jacket, his eyes peering at up at yours through his thick lashes to ensure he has your approval.

you nodded your head gently.

choso made it his mission to show you he had much more to offer than some blue bills to you. you never depicted or predicted the guy to be an eater. but oh, were you pleasantly surprised.

that man can eat some pussy... and he does it like he gets paid to do it. he had you spread out like you were his dinner, and you were, your legs wide apart, knees bent. he sat on his haunches on the carpeted floor before you, spreading your lips apart and sloppily sucking at your clit that throbbed eagerly against his lips. he'd dip his head down, lapping up any of your leaking wetness before making out with your pussy yet again, his eyes trained on you and watching intently as your pretty face contorted into expressions of pleasure.

he'd make you cum all in his mouth, encouraging you to do so, never letting up as your thighs shook and vibrated, your eyebrows pushing together and your eyes fluttering shut as the bright hot warmth of your well-awaited orgasm overtook you, leaving you gasping for air. his compliments, "good girl," and "you taste so fucking good" would just get you all riled up again. choso came in his pants too, his ear tips bright red as he made it his duty to lick up all of your sweet nectar, but he kept that to himself.

that's not the only way he wants you though. he'll sit on his bottom on the floor next, his head resting against the couch, requesting for you to sit on his face. "what? choso, no, i'd crush you."

he'll take that as an insult of course. he benches twice your weight, easily. a little extra plush on the thighs wouldn't kill him, in fact, he'd love it ten times more. you'd saddle up, hesitantly brushing your pussy against his lips, and he'd look up at you, unimpressed.

"whaat?" you feign confusion, in reality, a bit shy and nervous at the thought of putting your weight on him.

"sit."

his words made every hair stand at attention against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. you bite your lip, your gloss long smeared off and all over his pale skin. you bring your weight down on him a bit more.

"all the way." fuck.

you do as you're told, and a deep moan of satisfaction rolls through him, his tongue already dipping into your dripping folds. and before you could even think about letting up, his strong arms are locked around your thick thighs.

he'd have you writhing in his grip, going insane at the way his tongue wrote love letters in cursive against your clit. he'd be damn near drowning in your release, your cum slicking and dribbling against his chin as you rolled your hips back and forth against his soft lips. you were chanting his name like a mantra, and it was a beautiful melody to his ears.

and lo and behold, that's how you ended up on a first class flight to poundtown, your eyes stuck in the back of your head and your manicured nails digging into the arm of the couch for personal brace as his huge dick kept brushing up against that soft spot of yours and his girth stretched you so damn good. you knew you were making a mess- you done squirted twice already, your juices rivering down the insides of your thighs and seeping into the soaked couch cushion below you. "fuck, please don't stop!"

"yeah?" choso breathes over you, his cheeks flushed pink from his endurance. you knew he wasn't slowing down no time soon... he told you about his daily four mile runs. his pupils were blown wide as he watched the way you managed to still throw it back at him, stilling his hips as he watched your hungry pussy swallow his length every time your ass sat plush on his lower stomach. "you like that shit?" his calloused palm smacked against your ass unforgivingly, the fiery sting setting you ablaze. he did it again, one more time for good measure.

you were losing it, moaning exasperatedly into the couch fabric as you gave him everything you got, tossing your ass back against him, trying to match the impact he was winding you with just a second ago. "yess, fuck yess," you whine. you reach your hand back, your nails clawing at his shirt and yanking it in a ball. "please, choso, keep fucking me like that."

"what, like this?" his large hands were at your lovehandles, squeezing the flesh there as his resumed his relentless rythym, his eyebrows pinching at the way you squeezed around him like a vice. you let out a wail, your cream decorating his veiny shaft, and he relished in the feeling, a deep groan of satisfaction bubbling from his throat. "shit, you just keep cumming.... what is this, your fourth time?"

actually your sixth, but you weren't gonna correct him. if there was anything you knew, you wanted more. the way the veins of his dick dragged against your walls was a wonderful, irreplicable feeling, his balls slapping your clit with each profound stroke. his thick fingers found your hair, tangling his hand in your locks and giving them a courteous yank, making your back cave and arch deeper as you let out a yelp of pleasure. any other time, you'd for sure cuss him out... but his dick touching your soul was plenty good of a distraction. besides, you knew your hair was long sweated out anyway.

he was gonna give you some money for a new hairstyle anyway. he was good for making up for it.

choso feels himself teetering against the edge, between the sounds of your disgusting squelching and the mess you left on him and his couch, your pussy still begging for more as it and all its sloppiness still squeezed him whole, and your pretty keens and gasps bouncing around the room, it was almost too much. he felt like he was losing it, the hearts in his eyes palpitating as both of his hands held your jaw from behind. "the fuck are you doing to me..." he mutters aloud, his eyebrows furrowed as you eagerly sucked on his thumbs with a slutty moan.

"you know, yuji gets lonely sometimes," he whispers, slowing his thrusts and leaning forward to crush you with his weight, his dick bottoming out and making you let out a cry as your eyes snapped wide open. he rolls his hips more sensually as he licks at the back of your nape, the cool metal of his chain brushing the skin of your back and making you shiver. his lips trail to your ear, tongue lolling out at the shell as he continues, "i'm sure he wouldn't mind a friend. you'd like that wouldn't you? for me to fuck you full until i got nothing left, huh? you gonna drain me of all i got?"

you nodded your head desperately as you hummed a whiny "mmhm", turning your head to the side as you watched in awe as the man over you was spilling over the edge. "yes, i'd love it, cho, give it to me... please?"

choso hums in satisfaction, his heart thrumming against his ribcage as your words made butterfly cocoons hatch in his stomach and his dick stiffer than ever before. "yeah..." he slams into you, winding you with power and force that insinuated that he hated you, but he'd only make such a dangerous, promising offer to someone he truly liked. let alone anyone at all. "i know you would. you're nasty as fuck."

you didn't know if you were to be terrified or turned on, but the way your core pulsated around him let you know you were the latter. he let out a breathy moan at your physical response, but it didn't stop him. not even for a second.

he wasn't letting up. you weren't getting any breaks. the way you would be teasing him wearing those tight ass clothes and smelling like you wanted him to eat you alive. nah. he was giving you everything you ever dreamed about, everything you imagined when you'd resort to using your little vibrator between your legs.

and you loved every fucking second of it.

[glowettee]

✧・creating a personal library system that actually works゜✧・゜✧

hey lovelies!

so last weekend i had a complete meltdown when i couldn't find my copy of "pride and prejudice" (the one with all my notes!) and ended up reorganizing my entire book collection at 2am. classic me behavior. but honestly? it was the best decision i've made in ages because now i actually know where everything is and i'm not buying duplicate books anymore (yes, i somehow owned three copies of "the bell jar"… don't ask).

i thought i'd share my super simple system for keeping track of my little library in case any of you are drowning in books too!

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the physical organization ･:.ೃ࿔

i tried organizing by color once and while it looked pretty on instagram, it was literally impossible to find anything. so now i do a mix of these categories that actually makes sense for how i use my books:

favorites shelf - these are my ride-or-die books that i reread constantly and want to grab easily

to-be-read shelf - keeps all my unread books in one place so they don't get lost in the mix

read-but-keeping shelf - books i've finished but want to hold onto

reference section - cookbooks, style guides, etc that i need to access quickly

borrowed books corner - a special spot just for books that aren't mine so i actually remember to return them (sorry to everyone waiting for their books back…)

within each section, i organize alphabetically by author because i'm basic like that. but honestly it works!

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the tracking system ･:.ೃ࿔.

this is the game changer! i used to rely on my memory (lol) to keep track of what i'd read until i found myself 50 pages into a book before realizing i'd already read it. now i use:

a simple reading journal - nothing fancy, just a notebook where i write the title, author, when i started/finished it, and a few thoughts

sticky flags in different colors - blue for beautiful quotes, pink for plot points i want to remember, yellow for things to research later

the inside cover trick - i write the date i finished the book and a tiny heart rating (♥♥♥♥♥) system on the inside cover

a digital backup - i use storygraph (not goodreads all the time because amazon owns enough of my life) to keep a digital record

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the borrowing system ･:⋆.ೃ࿔:･

if you're like me and constantly lending books to friends (or borrowing them), this will save your friendships:

a dedicated "lending library" note in my phone with who has what and when they borrowed it

book plates that say "borrowed from mindy's library" (these were like $8 online and so worth it)

a rule that i only lend books i'm okay with never seeing again (learned this one the hard way)

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the "did i already read this?" solution ･:.ೃ࿔

this was my biggest problem! now i:

take a quick photo of books i read but don't keep (like library books)

keep a "books i've read" list in my notes app for quick reference while browsing bookstores

add a tiny dot on the upper right corner of the first page of books i own and have finished

it's not a perfect system but it's simple enough that i actually stick with it! the key is finding what works for your reading habits rather than trying to create some instagram-perfect color-coded situation that you'll abandon after a week.

what about you guys? any genius book organization hacks i should know about?

xoxo, mindy 🤍

[palmtreesx3]

Burning Through the Pages

Summary: Steve Harrington never planned to be a college professor, but somehow, a decade after Hawkins, he’s got tenure, too many girls in the front row, and a well-worn reputation as the guy everyone secretly signs up for. He’s charming, infuriating, and cruising comfortably through faculty meetings—until you show up. The newest hire in the Education Department. Sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, and utterly unimpressed by his smirk It’s enemies to lovers. It’s “fuck you” with feeling. It’s hot copy rooms, faculty fanfic, and a battle of wills that leaves them both undone.

Warnings: Eventual explicit smut (f/m), delayed gratification, academic banter-as-foreplay, enemies-to-lovers slow burn, emotionally repressed idiots, hallway tension, power dynamics (equal, but charged), inappropriate office behavior, emotionally competent aftercare.

Read the Epilogue Here || Read the Bonus Content Here

Steve Harrington rounds the corner of McKinley Hall, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses low on his nose. His button-down is rolled at the sleeves, collar popped just enough to look like he didn’t try too hard. 

He did. He always does.

Late morning light filters through the leaves, the kind of golden glow that makes the whole campus look like a catalog. A breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair just right—effortless, even though he’d spent seven minutes with a pomade wand this morning trying to tame the one curl that always flips too high.

Girls—and guys—part like the Red Sea when he walks through the quad. Whispers trail him like perfume.

“He’s even hotter this semester.” “Do you think he has a TA? I would literally die to grade for him.” “He wore glasses last week. Glasses. Like, please, sir, ruin me and my GPA.”

He hears every word. Doesn't acknowledge a single one.

Steve smirks but keeps walking. He doesn’t look back. He never looks back. He doesn’t need to.

What started as a happy accident—subbing in for a tenured psych professor on sabbatical—turned into tenure-track real quick once the department clocked his “natural rapport with students.” Which is code, apparently, for hot and somehow competent.

He loves it. Not the attention, per se. (Okay, yes the attention.) But the rhythm of it. The power of it. The control. 

He hits the steps of the faculty building, adjusting his collar, when it happens.

You.

You walk by, nose buried in a manila folder thick with class rosters, syllabi, and a color-coded planner peeking out from between pages. Coffee in hand, the kind of cup that’s been through war—stickers, Sharpie scribbles, a small scratch near the lid like it survived a desk drop. Your cardigan sleeves are shoved to your elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers and a glimpse of a tattoo along your forarm—one of those dainty ones, maybe a phrase or constellation, hard to tell from this angle.

You're muttering to yourself like you're the only one on the planet. Something about “course shells not loading” and “students emailing at 2 a.m.” Your brow is furrowed in a way that says no time for bullshit and your shoes? Comfy. Practical. Still somehow hot.

You don’t even look at him.

Steve stops mid-step.

Your lanyard swings on your neck. A new one. Still stiff and shiny. “Faculty.”

 New hire, he thinks. Probably from the Education Department. Probably earnest. Probably tired.

But then you unlock a door.

And the office it reveals?

The office is a whole goddamn vibe.

The inside glows warm like a hidden reading nook in a secret corner of a vintage bookstore. There are tiny string lights looped around a cork board. A woven throw blanket draped over the arm of a loveseat. A bookshelf with color-coded spines and one leaning stack of children's books, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Napping House, and something with a cracked spine that looks like it’s been read fifty times. There’s a lava lamp. A basket of granola bars with a handwritten note:

“Take one if your brain feels like mashed potatoes.”

A candle flickers on a high shelf. (Technically against fire code. Bold.) And music —faint music—spills into the hallway as you shut the door behind you.

Steve blinks.

 Great. Someone with taste, and clearly not here to fuck around.

He lingers a second too long outside your door. The air smells like bergamot and cedar. And maybe a little vanilla. He rubs the back of his neck. Mutters something about caffeine. Heads to the lounge.

And just like that, the campus heartthrob feels—off-center.

---

The folder in your arms is a chaotic stack of color-coded syllabi, annotated department memos, a crumpled sticky note that just says “DO NOT trust Chad in IT,” and a worn planner threatening to burst at the binding. The corner keeps jabbing you in the ribcage as you try to sip your lukewarm coffee without sloshing it on your sweater.

You're muttering to yourself. Not softly. 

“If one more Canvas shell ‘accidentally’ deletes itself I’m going to throw my laptop into the koi pond.”  

“Why are students already asking about extra credit? The semester started yesterday.”

You pass clusters of students lounging in the sun, glowing with unearned optimism and oat milk lattes. A few wave at you—the “cool new prof” buzz is starting to catch on, but mostly, you’re flying under the radar. 

You're almost at your office when the air shifts.

It’s subtle. A flicker. Like walking through a sudden sunbeam. You don’t see him at first, just feel the collective ripple across the quad. The tilt of heads. The hush of whispers. That specific brand of breathless energy reserved for only two things on campus: free pizza and someone hot enough to melt a MacBook.

You glance up, and there he is. Professor Steve Harrington. Tenure-track. Psychology. 

 Known around campus as “Professor Panty Dropper,” though you would never say that out loud.

He’s walking across the quad like a Calvin Klein ad and a back-to-school sale had a baby. Aviators, rolled sleeves, that stupid little smirk that says he’s fully aware of every pair of eyes tracking him like a migrating sun god.

And not just students. The woman from HR tripped over her stapler when he leaned across the printer last week.

He’s the kind of handsome that should come with a warning label. Probably smug. Probably has a signature cologne. Probably thinks the faculty lounge is his runway.

You… do not have time for that.

Your office is around the corner and the door sticks unless you hip-check it just right. You bump it open, nudging in backward with your shoulder, coffee still miraculously upright. A breeze chases in behind you, lifting the edge of your curtain.

Inside, it smells like cedar, lemon balm, and ambition.

Fairy lights blink to life as the door swings shut behind you. You toss the folder onto your couch, tap your Bluetooth speaker, something alt rock humming low, and breathe in your space.

It’s small, but alive. There’s personality here. A lava lamp burbles on the corner shelf. Your bookshelf is stacked with children’s lit and theory texts, paperbacks and worn journals. One shelf is dedicated entirely to tiny thrift store figurines of frogs and foxes. You tell people it’s a mindfulness collection. Really, they just make you happy.

You light your “cozy stormy evening” candle (yes, it has a crackling wick, yes, it’s against code, no, you don’t care).

And then for a split second you feel it. A presence outside your door. Lingering. You don’t have to look.

It’s him.

Because of course the campus Adonis can’t resist curiosity. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You let the door click shut.  Let him wonder.  Let the song with the wicked guitar riff keep playing. You kick off your shoes, settle into your chair, and smirk to yourself. “Heartthrob Harrington, huh? Cute.”

But you?  You’ve got lessons to write, freshmen to wrangle, and a strict no-fraternization policy—with your dignity.…Probably.

Later that week, you find yourself in the faculty lounge mid-morning, between classes. It smells like burnt coffee and academic disillusionment. Beige walls. Beige chairs. Beige energy. A sad vending machine hums in the corner like it’s dying slowly.

Steve pushes open the door to the lounge, a half-empty mug in one hand and the confident slouch of a man who never brings his own lunch. He’s already mid-text with his TA (who's begging to switch to online office hours again—coward), when he hears a laugh.

Not a polite laugh. Not a forced, colleague laugh.

A real one. Low, warm. Kind of musical.

You're standing at the coffee counter, staring down the sad excuse for a Keurig like it's personally offended you. Your sleeves are rolled, again. That same pen is tucked behind your ear. There's a new pin on your cardigan that says “Born to teach, forced to grade” 

He smirks. Leans against the counter next to you. “You know the coffee’s been dead since 2012, right?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t giggle. Don’t even glance at him right away. Instead, you casually add a comical amount of powdered creamer to the cup. “Cool. I’ll embalm it, then drink it out of spite.”

He blinks.

You finally look up and your eyes don’t do that thing. That thing where they go wide and starstruck and thirsty. You clock him like he’s just… there. Present. Human. In your peripheral.

“You’re the psych guy, right? Harrington?”

He straightens a little. Not because he's flustered. (Okay. A little flustered.)

“Steve. Yeah.”

“Right.” You stir your disaster coffee. “I’m…New this semester. Education.” 

You extend your hand and introduce yourself. Firm shake. Cool fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Not Professor Harrington. Not Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you! Just Steve. Like he’s some adjunct in khakis and a lanyard, not the main character in every psych major’s late-night fantasy.

He watches as you lean on the counter, sipping your tragic little drink like it’s the elixir of life.

“So,” you add, eyeing him over the rim. “You always get followed by an entourage of undergrads, or is that a syllabus week thing?”

And god help him, he laughs. Actually laughs. Caught. Red-handed. Ego dented.

“It’s… a thing,” he admits. “I try not to encourage it.”

“Mm.” You raise a brow. “Try harder.”

---

You don’t mean to enjoy the way his jaw ticks when you say that.

Okay, you do.

You knew who he was, obviously. The moment you walked onto campus, students were whispering about him like he was a myth. Like he wasn’t just a thirty-something in tailored pants that were just snug enough you hesitated to question their appropriateness. With movie star hair and the smuggest dimples you’ve ever seen.

But now, standing next to him in this godforsaken excuse for a lounge, you realize something: he doesn’t know what to do with you. You’re not impressed. You’re not intimidated. And worst of all? You see right through him.

So you smile - slow, lazy, like you’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to keep him guessing.

“Well,” you say, rinsing out your cup, “enjoy the groupies, Harrington. Try not to break too many hearts this semester.”

You turn to leave. Toss a wink over your shoulder. “And don’t steal my granola bars. I count them.”

He watches you go like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. You don’t even look back. You never look back. You don’t need to.

He stands there in silence for a few seconds, a little dumbfounded. Shit.

This particular Wednesday afternoon, the Campus Center conference room is packed to the gills with first-years. You’ve been “voluntold” to join a faculty mentorship panel and of course Steve’s on the panel too. He agreed because he thought it would be low stakes and high praise.

And as he will quickly find out, it is neither.

Steve drops into the conference room chair with the casual flair of a man who fully expected to be the most interesting person here. His name card is perfectly angled. His shirt fits just right. He consciously buttoned up his shirt one more than usual, for the freshman’s sake. He plants one ankle over his knee. Casual but composed. His smile’s already dialed in at 65% charm, 25% intellect, 10% effortless heat.

He’s ready.

He’s got a few solid anecdotes locked and loaded about student success, mindfulness, and how office hours are important but boundaries are sexy—he means, necessary. A story about a kid who discovered cognitive psychology through a breakup. A bonus quip about coffee dependency, if it feels right.

This is his arena.

Then you walk in.

Late—but not flustered. Smirking like you already know you’re going to own the room. You’ve got a legal pad under one arm and a novelty cup that reads “This Might Be Wine” in sparkly font. Your hair’s up, barely, in one of those messy knots that looks like it took three seconds and still somehow makes you look put together. Your cardigan sways when you move, and you’re wearing those little earrings again—pencils today. Last time? Moons.

You greet the moderator by name. Thank the admin. You nod at Steve like he’s a familiar bench on a walking trail—recognizable, comfortable, unremarkable.

And then—you sit next to him. Of course you do.

Your knee bumps his under the table. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t breathe.

“Just so I’m clear,” you murmur, eyes on the moderator, voice honey-smooth, “this is the part where we all pretend we have our shit together, right?”

He glances at you. You don’t look back.

“Speak for yourself,” he says, smile sharp.

“Oh, I am.” You sip your coffee. Cross your legs. Settle in like you own the goddamn floor.

The panel starts. It’s a blur of pleasantries and awkward icebreakers. Steve’s distracted. Normally, he loves this shit—being asked for advice, watching students lean in when he drops something inspirational, tossing in the occasional wink that leaves half the back row short-circuiting.

But today? Today, he’s watching you.

You field the first question like it’s a beach ball lobbed underhand. You're warm, relatable, but disarming in your honesty. You admit that sometimes you forget to eat lunch. That grading makes you question your life choices. That you once cried in your car over a printer jam—but you still believe teaching is the most powerful thing a person can do.

The crowd? In the palm of your hand. You speak like you're letting them in on a secret. And Steve’s left gripping his chair, trying not to visibly squirm.

Then it’s his turn.

He speaks—well, objectively. He’s charming. Polished. Drops the right buzzwords. Tells the story about the heartbroken psych major.

But something’s off. You’re too calm. Too quiet. Too still. Nodding with just enough delay to make it unclear if you’re agreeing or letting him spiral.

He speeds up. Talks more. Tries harder. And then—you do it.

A student asks a follow-up question—his question—and you jump in. Not rudely. Not competitively. Just with this smooth, practiced, lived-in ease.

“Actually, that reminds me of something that happened last semester—”

You tell a story. Quick. Funny. Undercut with a punch of emotion and just enough vulnerability to make it land. The students laugh. One of them claps.

You turn to Steve, touch his arm like punctuation. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hijack. I just get excited.”

You don’t even look sorry.

And Steve? He is losing. His. Fucking. Mind.

---

You feel him unraveling like a cassette tape in a too-hot car and it’s delicious.

You don’t say that out loud, of course. But you can feel it. That tightness behind his easy grin. The tiny pause before he responds when you raise your eyebrow. The way he’s blinking a little too fast and shifting in his seat like his shirt suddenly doesn’t fit right.

You didn’t do anything cruel. You were just you. Which, lately, is enough.

It’s not that you try to get under his skin. You’re just existing. Thriving, really. Which seems to offend the natural order of Steve Harrington’s universe.

You caught his whole vibe the second you sat down. Tthe twitch in his jaw, the way he adjusted his sleeve twice, then again. The overly casual slouch that’s now bordering on orthopedic discomfort. He smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent when you passed him. He smelled…nervous when you sat down.

You knew his type. You were warned about him, in the way that other professors warn you about the broken heater on the third floor or the feral raccoon that haunts the dumpsters.

“Oh, and avoid falling in love with Harrington. Everyone does eventually.”

You didn’t listen. You just didn’t care. Because what’s the fun in handing someone power they clearly expect?

So you sipped your coffee, played your part, and smiled at the students. Told them about your ugly crying in the supply closet. About how real leadership sometimes means admitting you don’t know the answer but you’ll figure it out together.

And when you touched Steve’s arm? That was for you.

Now, as the panel wraps and students swarm the edge of the room with thank-yous and questions, you catch a few lingering near him. But more than a few come to you. One asks about your playlist. Another wants to know where your cardigan’s from.

Steve’s watching. You can feel it. Burning at the edges of your awareness like a sun flare. You turn to him only once the room starts to clear.

“You okay there, Professor Harrington? You look like you just got hit by a bin full of ungraded midterms.”

His stare is sharp. Heated. His voice low, quiet, nearly clenched between teeth.

“You know you’re kind of infuriating, right?”

You smile.  God, you love being right.

“Good. I’d hate to be forgettable.”

You wink - again, always just teetering on the edge of too much and walk away.

 Not looking back. You don’t need to.

He’s still sitting there, in the wake of your personality, eyebrows scrunched and rubbing his temples.  Jesus Christ, I’m gonna marry her or punch a wall.

It’s late, and you're tucked in the reprieve of The Resource Library for the night. It’s a quiet, dimly lit little faculty-only zone with overstuffed chairs, creaky floorboards, and the kind of hushed atmosphere that makes every pen click sound like a gunshot. You’re settled in and you smirk at the muffled commotion you hear through the heavy paned windows, students shouting at each other as they make their way to the bar for the night. Thirsty Thursday and all.

Steve enters the resource library with a stack of essays under one arm and a jawline so tight it could cut glass. He wasn’t looking for you.

Okay. He was.

He knew you sometimes graded here in the evenings. He’d seen the light under the door once—warm and flickering, like you’d lit a fireplace with your bare hands—and now it’s burned into his memory like a fever dream. He tells himself he needs the quiet. The focus. The printer…whatever.

But when he opens the door and sees you? Legs curled under you. Sweater slipping off one shoulder. A pen tucked behind your ear and something straight out of Warped Tour 2006 humming low from your phone speaker. You’re highlighting something in a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed and nodding along like you’re absorbing it.

And there’s only one goddamn chair left.

Of course.

You glance up. “Wow. You made it out of your leather throne and into the wild.”

He bites back a groan. “Didn’t realize this was your private lounge.”

“Oh it’s not.” You smile sweetly. “I just don’t usually have company that radiates… fragile masculinity and bergamot.” You say it without venom. Too casually. That’s the worst part.

He lowers himself into the chair across from you. The arm creaks. His knee bumps the table.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who owns a frog figurine shrine.”

“That’s sacred, actually.”

“You should label it. For when they put your office in a museum. ‘Local chaos witch with excellent taste in cardigans.’”

You don’t blink. You just keep reading.

And Steve?  Steve is falling apart.

---

He’s spiraling. Again.

You instantly clock the way he fidgets. How he shifts his weight, rakes a hand through his hair like it betrayed him, clicks his pen three times before remembering to unclick it.

He’s trying so hard to seem casual. But there’s nothing casual about the way he keeps glancing up. Like he’s waiting for you to break. To crack. To swoon, or stammer, or finally lean forward and whisper something breathless like, “I get it now. You’re irresistible.”

You don’t. You won’t.

Instead, you underline a passage and speak without looking up “You know, most people who live off student adoration eventually plateau. It’s science. Diminishing returns.”

“You think that’s what this is? A cry for help?”

“I think you don’t know what to do when someone sees you coming a mile away.”

That gets him.

He exhales sharply. Leans back in his chair like it’s trying to restrain him. The air shifts. The banter slows. There's a second where neither of you says anything. And it hums. Like the bass line of a song that’s about to drop.

You finally look up. Your eyes meet.

It’s electric.

“What is it you want from me, Steve?” You say it plainly. No challenge. No flirt. Just the question, dropped between you like a lit match.

He stares. And for a second, he almost answers. But then? He smirks. Shrugs. And lies. “Just borrowing the printer.”

Coward.

The semester is full swing and it’s Friday evening - the semi-annual faculty mixer. An annual event held in the campus art gallery, it's surprisingly refined. Jazz trio in the corner, string lights overhead, mini crab cakes and charcuterie on trays. Plus…the wine is free. 

You arrive fashionably late, because of course you do.

You trade your usual cardigan for a slouchy black blazer and a silk camisole, hair down for once, lips just barely tinted berry. Not to impress. Just to remind the world that yes, you can. You float through the gallery like a whispered rumor. Something light and unbothered. The kind of presence that makes people check their posture.

The Education Dean beams at you. A biology professor asks what scent you’re wearing. You flirt with the appetizer table and offer a slow, purring “thank you” when a visiting adjunct says he loved your article on emergent curriculum.

And then you feel it. Like heat behind glass. Like a summer storm rolling in on silent feet.

Steve Harrington is watching you.

Across the room. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he hasn’t touched. Black button-down rolled at the elbows. Hair tousled like he tried to look like he didn’t try. The exact kind of effort you now recognize as desperate control.

He doesn’t move. So you do. You loop your arm through the adjunct’s, just casually. Just friendly. Laugh a little louder than usual at something not that funny. You don’t even look at Steve. You don’t have to.

He’s vibrating. You can feel it from twenty feet away. So when he finally approaches, posture tight, eyes slightly narrowed. You’re ready.

“Fancy seeing you out of your natural habitat,” you purr, swirling your drink.

“You mean my throne of desperation and first-year psych majors?”

“I mean your office with the tiny couch and the ego to match.”

You sip. He fakes a laugh.

“Making friends tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the adjunct, who’s since been absorbed by a conversation about fungi and academic burnout.

“Something like that.” You arch a brow. “Why? Jealous?”

“Of an adjunct named Greg who quoted Nietzsche with spinach in his teeth? Sure. Terrified.”

“Mm. Thought so.”

You let the silence stretch. Let the tension thrum.  And then you lean in, voice velvet-smooth, just loud enough for him to hear “You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw flexes. You can see the war happening in real time—charm battling pride, attraction strangled by ego.

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

Your smile is sweet. A weapon.

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

---

He is not okay.

He’s on his third glass of pinot and his fourth imagined fantasy of pulling you into the supply closet just to wipe that look off your face. Not even a sexy look.

Worse. It’s amused. It’s the look you give someone trying too hard. A toddler with jam on their face insisting they didn’t touch the jar.

He watches you flit through the mixer like it’s your stage. Like the night exists to orbit you. And goddammit it does.

Your laugh? Fucking illegal. Your hair down? Criminal. The way your blazer slides off your shoulder like it doesn’t even know it’s misbehaving? A personal attack.

He should walk away. Should retreat. Should win. Instead, he follows. Because he’s already lost. And when you look at him like you’ve already got him pegged?

You do.

“You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

He swallows hard. Wants to say something clever. Something cutting. But the truth hits him like a wine glass shattering in slow motion.

He likes this.

He likes the taunting. The chase. He likes you treating him like a puzzle instead of a prize. And that? That scares the shit out of him.

Last time you checked your watch it said 9:42 PM. The office wing is mostly dark. The desks are littered with energy drink cans and half-eaten granola bars. You don’t notice he’s there until you hear the door click shut.

You’re on the floor of your office, barefoot, cardigan tossed over your chair. There’s a half-empty box of tissues, three cold coffees, and a student portfolio spread out like battlefield debris.

You haven’t cried. Not technically. But your eyes are hot. Your neck aches. You’ve rewritten the same feedback note four times and every version feels wrong.

“Didn’t peg you for the collapse-in-the-dark type.” His voice is soft. Too soft.

You look up. Steve’s standing in your doorway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, backpack slung casually off one shoulder. There’s a half-smile on his face—but not his usual weaponized one. This one’s tired. Curious. Worried.

You roll your neck, trying to summon a quip. Nothing comes. “Didn’t peg you for the stalker-who-lingers-after-hours type,” you finally mutter.

“You’re lucky I’m hot, then,” he says. But it’s reflexive. Hollow.

He steps in, closes the door behind him. That makes it feel too real.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes sweeping the mess of your desk. Your floor. Your face.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because if you start—you might not stop.

You reach for a student essay. Hold it up. “She plagiarized her final. Her whole paper. And she’s the one who calls me ‘her safe person.’ She brings me tea. Leves notes. I was gonna write her a rec letter.”

He says nothing. You swallow. “And I don’t even care that she cheated. I just—”

 Your voice catches. “I feel like I’m constantly giving everything I have to everyone else, and there’s just nothing left for me. And I keep doing it anyway, like some idiot academic martyr with a Pinterest office.”

You laugh, but it’s sharp.

 Ugly.

 Real.

And you hate how quiet he is.

You expect pity. Or worse—comfort. The kind that makes you feel small.

But instead—

---

He’s never seen you like this.

Not controlled. Not cocky. Not laced with irony or caffeine or your signature brand of bite me but make it witty.

You look tired. Really tired. And so fucking human. Something twists in his gut. He thought he wanted to crack your armor just to see what was underneath. Turns out? What’s underneath makes his chest hurt.

“Can I say something?” he asks.

You glance at him. You’re curled on the floor like a study break ghost, face streaked with the beginnings of not-quite-tears, fingers gripping the corner of a highlighted rubric like it wronged you personally.

“You scare the shit out of me.”

That makes your eyes flick up. That gets your attention.

“You walk into rooms like you’re already ten steps ahead of everyone. You don’t fawn. You don’t perform. You don’t need anyone to tell you you’re good—you just are.”

He kneels across from you now. Elbows on his knees. Voice low. “And I’ve spent so long being the one with the spotlight, I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t hand it to me. And now…”

He stops. Swallows.“Now I think you’re the only person I actually want to see me.”

You blink. The silence swells. Too full. Too vulnerable. So you do the only thing you can do. You break it.

“God,” you groan, dropping your head against your file cabinet. “That was disgustingly sincere.”

He barks a laugh. Real. Loud. Relieved. “Shut up. I’m evolving.”

“Into a thoughtful adult man? I liked you better when you were mad about your TA ignoring you.”

“I am still mad about that,” he mutters. “But also now I’m mad that I want to fix everything for you and I can’t.”

You look at him.

Really look.

He’s sitting cross-legged on your office rug, hair messy, face open. For once, he’s not playing a role. Not flirting. Not managing a brand.

He’s just here.

And that? That’s new

You haven’t spoken since Thursday night.

Not really. Just a clipped nod in the hall. A shared smirk during a joke about burnout. But you haven’t met his eyes. Not like that. And it’s driving Steve insane. At this point, it’s Monday afternoon and you’ve all just come from your respective division meetings. He’s trailing you down the hall. You’re not exactly avoiding him. But you’re not making it easy, either.

He keeps replaying it—the way your voice cracked, the way your hands trembled when you held that essay, the way you let him see you for one slivered second before you buried it all back under your wit and your warpaint.

Now he’s trailing behind you like a lovesick intern, watching the sway of your blazer and the curl of your fingers around your folder.

You stop by the mailroom. He catches up, heart hammering for no good reason. “You good?”

You don’t turn. “Fine.”

He clears his throat. Steps closer. Lowers his voice.“I meant… from the other night.”

You pause. Turn just enough to look at him over your shoulder. The look you give him could sharpen knives. “Oh, that?” you say lightly. “That was just a midterm meltdown. Happens to the best of us.”

You wink. And just like that—you’re back. 

Unshakable. Unmoved. Fucking infuriating.

He should back off. Should let it drop. But instead he presses. “You ever let anyone help you?”

You cock your head. “Sure. All the time. They just never make it past the interview.”

He chokes on a laugh. Jesus.

You brush past him toward the copier. You don’t invite him to follow.

He does anyway.

---

You know he’s following you. You could feel it like a spark pressed against your spine. You shouldn’t bait him. You shouldn’t. But something about his presence sets your nerves buzzing in the most dangerous way.

You lean over the copier. Hit the wrong button twice on purpose. His shadow falls across your side.

“You��re hovering,” you murmur.

“I’m helping.”

“Are you?”

You turn to face him—too close now, your hip grazing the edge of the copier, his arm practically brushing yours. The air feels thick. Still. Like you’re both underwater and waiting to see who breaks the surface first. 

He watches your mouth. He’s not subtle about it.

“You keep looking at me like you want something, Harrington.”

His breath catches. “And I keep waiting for you to admit it.” His eyes flicker. His soft mouth parting, chest rising, that one heartbeat away from something unforgivable.

You could kiss him.

You could ruin both of you. But instead, you lean in. Real close. Lips almost to his ear. “Go home, Steve.”

A pause. “Take care of it yourself.”

Then you walk away. Again you don’t look back. Again you don’t need to.

He stares at the ceiling. Shirt half-off.  Sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You’re all he can think about.

Your voice. Your mouth. The way you said his name like it was a weapon and a warning and a promise you had no intention of keeping tonight.

His cock is hard—throbbing in his pants—pressing against the band of his sweats like it’s angry with him for walking away.

He palms himself through the fabric, groaning quietly into the dark.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But you told him to.

“Go home and take care of it, Harrington.”

And he’s never been so obedient in his goddamn life.

He pushes his sweats down, his fist already wrapping around himself like muscle memory, slicking over the head, dragging his hand down the length with a hiss that sounds like your name.

He strokes slowly at first. Controlled. Like he’s punishing himself for not staying. Like he deserves this ache. He squeezes harder.

Thinks about the way you might taste if he kissed you. Like coffee and fire and something he still hasn’t earned.

He’s imagining that you kissed him. Hard. Unapologetic. A kiss with your hands in his hair, maybe even tangled up with your thighs brushing his hips. He thinks you might grind against him. Fuck, that grind. It would be burned into his skin like a tattoo.

He jerks harder now, eyes shut tight, your voice echoing in his head.

His hips lift into his fist, thighs tensing, body coiled with tension that no fantasy can quite shake.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “You’ve got me so—fuck—”

His stomach tightens. He can feel it—close, fast, coming apart like a thread being pulled from the inside. “Say it again.”

“Keep going.” He commands no one at all. Your voice is everywhere. And when he comes, it’s with a sharp, breathless grunt, his whole body curling in on itself, hand clenching, back arching like the release physically hurts.

Hot, messy streaks paint across his stomach, onto his shirt. He barely notices. He just lies there, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing heavy. His cock twitching against his stomach, still half-hard, because one orgasm is not enough to get you out of his system.

It never is.

It never will be.

---

On the edge of campus, you finally shove through your front door and it clicks shut. The silence hits like a slap.

You lean back against the door, jaw clenched, fists tight at your sides. 

You should feel smug. You left him clearly wanting. But you’re the one with soaked underwear and trembling thighs.

So…who really won?

You stalk to your bedroom, muttering curses under your breath. Strip your shirt. Toss it. Peel off your jeans with furious efficiency. You don’t even make it under the covers, instead you just drop back onto your bed, legs spread, chest heaving.

You drag your pan“Fucking Harrington,” you mutter. “Asshole.”

You circle your clit hard. No pretense. No warmup. It’s pure damage control—get off, get over it, and get some fucking sleep.

But your breath still stutters because you imagine the sound he might make if you bit his jaw. You imagine the way his hips would roll against you like he was already fucking you through two layers of clothing.

You rub faster.

Deeper.

Your other hand fists in the sheets. You picture him sprawled out on his bed right now—shirt half-off, pants shoved down, hand working over his cock because you told him to.

The thought makes your stomach flip.

You imagine him groaning into the dark, jerking off to the thought of your mouth, your body, your voice in his ear telling him to be a good boy and go take care of it himself.

“Yeah,” you whisper bitterly. “Me too.”

You push two fingers inside and grind your palm against your clit. It’s messy. Fast. Almost angry.

Your back arches. Your toes curl.You clench around your hand and come with a ragged gasp that you immediately swallow—because fuck him if he ever gets to know how good you just made yourself feel thinking about him.

You lie there sweating. Unsatisfied. Still fucking pissed.

You wipe your hand on the sheet and roll onto your side.

“Go take care of it, Harrington,” you mutter into the pillow. “Not the only one who did.”

You did it again. You weren’t planning on staying late, but here you are.

Tonight your grading pile was taller than usual. Your neck ached. Your playlist looped twice. And you hadn’t eaten since breakfast. So when you wandered into the café and found the lights on, you didn’t ask questions. You just slipped into the corner booth and unbuttoned the top of your blouse. Not for anyone else. For you. To breathe.

You didn’t expect him to walk in five minutes later.

Steve freezes like he didn’t expect you either. He’s in a hoodie—rare—and joggers. Hair messy. Phone forgotten in his pocket. He looks like he’s just come from a run, or like he’s been pacing his apartment all night and finally gave up.

Your mouth parts. Something behind your ribs stirs. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over. Drops into the seat next to you like he’s out of lifelines. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says.

You nod. Don’t ask why.

“I keep thinking about that night. In your office.”

You glance down. Your hand tightens around your mug.

“You were real with me for, like, four minutes, and then you put the mask back on.”

You bristle—but not because he’s wrong.

“Yeah? And you’ve been real for how long, Harrington? You want a medal for not flirting for twenty minutes?”

He flinches and looks down. Suddenly you’re exhausted. Not just physically. Emotionally. You drop your voice. Let it crack. “I’m tired of holding everything together. Of pretending this job, this ego, this game doesn’t eat me alive some days.”

He looks up. Slowly. The cocky glint is gone. “Same.”

And it’s the way he says it - soft, almost broken - that makes your stomach twist.

He didn’t come here to cry.

He didn’t come here to beg.

But the moment he sees you with your hair messy, blouse  loosened and exhaustion etched into the curve of your mouth, he knows he can’t keep up the act. Not tonight.

He sees the way your shoulders tense. Sees the way you don’t deflect.

Progress.

But when you shoot back—sharp, tired, true—he realizes something: You’re not untouchable. You’re just surviving. Like him. Only quieter.

He exhales. Laughs—but it’s dry. Cracked open. “You want to know something pathetic?”

You look at him. No smirk. Just waiting.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me. Not really. They like the version I give them. The smart, hot, chill guy with the tragic eyes. But that night when you looked at me like I was just… a guy…I didn’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t answer. You just slide your mug to the side and rest your hand on the table. Open. Neutral.

A peace offering.

He stares at it for a beat. Then reaches out. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just a simple, grounding touch. Fingers brushing yours.

---

You let him touch you.

Just barely. Just enough.

And when you speak, your voice is hoarse.

“You keep trying to be impressive. And I keep trying to be untouchable. We’re both full of shit.”

He huffs a laugh.“So what now?”

“Now,” you say, “we stop pretending.”

The air pulses. Slow. Charged. And then, just like that, you’re kissing him.

It’s not soft. Not sweet. Not polite. It’s months of tension, sarcasm, vulnerability, almosts crashing all at once. His hands thread into your hair. Yours tug his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t anchor him to something real.

He kisses like a man who thought about this too often, too long, too alone.

And you? You kiss like a woman who stopped trying to win and started needing.

It goes on for honestly, far too long. After some time, you find yourself a little breathless, foreheads still pressed together when you finally speak. 

“I still want to ruin you,” you whisper.

He grins. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked. “You already did.”

He knocks before entering now.

Which is wild. Because before? He used to just stroll in like your space belonged to him.

Now he pauses. Waits. Adjusts the coffee tray in his hand like it’s a peace offering. Or a gift to the gods.

You look up from your laptop, glitter gel pen in your mouth, brows furrowed. Barefoot again. That little woven throw blanket around your shoulders like you’re the spirit of overworked professors past.

You nod toward the chair without speaking. He takes the cue.

Sits. Quiet. No smirk. No lines. Just the coffee.

“Got you the weird oat milk thing,” he says.

You hum in acknowledgment. Sip it without looking.

He watches you read. Watches the way your eyes move. Watches the way your lips part when you’re processing something. He should say something.

Instead, he just breathes. And something in him—something unfamiliar—settles.

He’s comfortable. Which should scare him. It should send every red flag up, every muscle in his body screaming run, asshole, this is feelings—

But instead? He closes his eyes. Lets the silence stretch.

---

He’s not saying anything.

And that, somehow, says everything.

You expected him to push. To nudge the line again, cocky and smug and desperate to reclaim ground. But he’s not. He’s just… there. And it’s unnerving.

You’ve never had to figure out what to do with a man who doesn’t demand space. Who just occupies it. He’s being warm and magnetic and so obviously trying not to make it weird.

You glance over your laptop. He’s leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled, fingers drumming on his thigh. Eyes closed like he’s finally stopped performing. Like the show’s over and he’s just Steve now.

It makes your chest feel tight.

You clear your throat. “You know you haven’t hit on me in like... twenty-four hours.”

His eyes open. He looks at you. Llazy, soft. “That a complaint?”

You smile. Small. Crooked. “Just an observation.”

“I can pick it back up if it’s part of your wellness routine.”

“Nah. I think I like this version.”

His brows raise. “This version?”

“The one who sits quietly. Doesn’t flirt. Brings oat milk like some kind of reformed frat boy.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You both smile. It's small. Safe. And under the safety, there’s tension. Not the usual brand. Not the "press me to the wall and bite my shoulder" kind. This one’s quieter. Heavier. Like a whisper brushing the back of your neck.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?”

You tilt your head.“Done what?”

“This.” He gestures between you. “The… slow thing.”

“Oh. You mean restraint.”

“I mean not fucking someone the second I want them.” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, it lands like a gut punch.

You blink. The air goes still. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He stares at you. Serious. Unflinching. “It’s killing me.”

You sip your coffee. Unbothered. “Good.”

But behind your eyes? You’re soaked in want. In fear. In maybe. Because this version of him—the one who waits, who breathes in your space, who doesn’t take what isn’t freely given? He’s becoming real. And real is dangerous.

He doesn’t touch himself tonight.

He thinks about it. Of course he does. About your voice, your breath, the way you licked a little foam off your thumb without noticing.

But he doesn’t. Because this craving isn’t just physical anymore. It’s personal. And he doesn’t want to use it. He kind of wants to earn it.

You weren’t supposed to invite him in. You were supposed to take the food, say thank you, maybe touch his wrist with a lingering hand, and then shut the door like a well-behaved woman with excellent boundaries. But you’d been tired. The light was nice. And he looked so… uncomplicated with his hood up and a paper bag of Thai food clutched like a peace treaty.

So now he’s on your couch. Grading with his legs spread too wide, his hoodie half-zipped, hair a little messy. There’s a purple pen tucked behind his ear that isn’t his and chopsticks resting in his mouth like he forgot they were there. He keeps making tiny noises when a student says something smart and you hate how much you love it.

“This kid gets it,” he says, tapping the paper. “I might cry.”

“Don’t ruin my couch. It’s vintage.”

“You say that like I don’t respect antiques.”

“You say that like you’re not an antique dealer’s worst nightmare.”

He laughs. Leans his head back. Exposes his throat.

You don’t look. Except you do.

You sip your tea to distract yourself. Burn your tongue. Pretend you didn’t.

The silence grows. Stretching into something else. Something hungry.

And then your fingers brush his. Reaching for the same pen… The one behind his ear. The one that’s yours.

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. It’s such a small thing. Such a stupid, harmless little thing, but you can feel it. In the charge. In the shift. In the way the air tightens.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

---

He should pull away. He should. But your fingers are warm. And your gaze? Bare. Not amused. Not taunting. Just… open.

He hasn’t seen you like this since your office. And this time, you’re inches from his mouth.

He wants to touch you.

Not to fuck you. To feel you.

He wants to place his hand on the back of your neck and breathe you in. Wants to press his mouth to the place just below your ear and wait for you to say yes.

“Say it,” you whisper.

His brows knit.“Say what?”

“Whatever’s sitting behind your teeth like it’s trying to crawl out.”

He swallows.

Hard.

“You undo me,” he says. Voice gravel-soft.

“Good,” you whisper. “Maybe I’ll get to see what’s underneath.”

---

The line stretches. Taut.

You’re breathing too loud. The tea’s gone cold. And your hand? Still against his. You should move. You don’t. Instead, you say “If you kiss me now, it’ll matter.”

He flinches like you hit him. And maybe you did. “I know,” he says.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Flicker. Linger. Then—He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. Maybe less. But enough. And it hurts.

Not because he rejected you, but because he heard you.

Because he listened. Because he meant it.

You nod - slowly - and go back to grading. Like you didn’t just almost change everything.

The faculty parking lot is deserted at this hour. It’s late and everything is rain-soaked but tonight you just finished chaperoning a student showcase together. It was cute. It was fun. It felt like a date. And now you’re standing in the blue-black quiet of night, under the buzz of a dying streetlamp. There’s no one else left. Just you. And him.

He’s soaked.

Not dramatic-romance-movie soaked. Just enough for his hoodie to cling to his chest and for his curls to frizz at the edges. He should be annoyed. But he’s not. Not really. You’re laughing with arms wrapped around yourself, raindrops beading along your jaw, and he’d stand in a goddamn hurricane if it meant seeing that smile again.

“You let a freshman tell you his poem made him cry and then gave him your umbrella,” you say, nudging him as you both head to the far corner of the lot. “You’re such a sap.”

“I’m a mentor.”

“You’re a mess.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Your laughter fades, but the warmth doesn’t. It hangs there—between you. Like fog on glass.

And he can’t do this anymore. He stops walking.

You take two more steps before realizing he’s not beside you. You turn. Brows lifted. “Harrington?”

“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.” The words are out before he can filter them. Bare. Ugly. Real.

You blink. Caught. “Steve—”

“No. Let me—just—” He runs a hand through his wet hair.

“You’ve seen me. You’ve rattled me. And I’ve tried to play it cool. To match your pace. To act like I wasn’t spiraling every time you smiled at me like you knew. But I’m not built for this. I want more. I want you. And if that scares you—fine. If you’re not there—fine. But I had to say it. I had to give it to you.”

You’re silent. Too long. Too still, and his heart breaks before you even speak.

It’s not that you don’t want him.

God, you do.

But hearing it like this. So raw, unscripted and real knocks the wind out of you. You’ve made a career out of reading between the lines. Out of parsing subtext and maintaining distance. But now? Now he’s not leaving space for you to run.

He’s standing there in the rain, heart in his hands like an offering. And you freeze.

Because no one ever offered. You’ve always been the one earning affection. Not receiving it like a gift.

“Steve…” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts. His shoulders tighten. You can feel him retreating already, pulling into himself, bracing for rejection like it’s muscle memory. You panic. “This does mean something.”

He stops. “But you’re not ready.”

You hate that he’s right. “I don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t need me to be perfect.”

The silence between you is loud.

“Then let me be the one who doesn’t expect that,” he says softly. “Let me be the one who stays when you don’t have it all together.”

You blink, and there’s moisture in your eyes. From the rain. Maybe.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He steps closer. Slow. Gentle. Rain trickling down his temple. Breath fogging the space between you.

“So am I.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him. But just as your fingers brush—

“I can’t,” you whisper, stepping back. “Not yet.”

His hand hangs in the air for a beat, then drops. The look on his face? It destroys you.

He nods once. Just once. Then turns, and this time it’s him that walks away.

You almost don’t notice him.

In the midst of the bustling Campus café, mid-afternoon, you’re picking up a quick espresso between advising appointments and the line is long. The vibe is normal. Until you see him. You’re too busy scrolling through your calendar, juggling a dozen little fires, sipping the wrong drink the barista handed you because you're too tired to care. 

And then—You hear it. That laugh. That laugh. The one he does when he’s flirting. Actual flirting, not the subtle, almost-affectionate banter he’s given you for weeks. It’s his signature sound: light, confident, just a little too self-aware.

You glance up. 

He’s leaning across the counter, elbows braced, head tilted just so. And she—a new adjunct, you think—is giggling. A lot. Flushed. Her hands fluttery. She touches his arm and you watch him let her.

You freeze.

Something ugly blooms in your chest. Jealousy is too simple a word. This is primal. Petty. Petulant.

And what’s worse? It’s humiliating. Because you don’t get to be jealous. You were the one who pulled away. Who said not yet. Who told him this mattered. So why the fuck does it feel like he’s rubbing it in your face?

Your stomach turns.

You hate how you’re staring. Hate how your mouth goes dry when he smiles that slow, crooked, charming-as-shit smile and says something that makes her laugh so hard she leans in.

You swallow your bitterness like bile.

He hasn’t even looked your way.

---

He sees you. Of course he does.

You walked in two minutes ago. Same stride. Same coffee order. Same low hum of exhaustion wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

He feels you before he sees you. But you haven’t looked at him, so he keeps talking.

The adjunct is nice. Pretty, even. But empty. There’s no pull. No static. No fight. She laughs too easily. Blushes too quickly. There’s no sport in it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s tired of being the one who always feels like he’s waiting to be chosen.

So he leans into it. Hard. Smiles like he means it. Makes her feel like the sun. And maybe, maybe, he can pretend he doesn’t feel your gaze like a blade between his shoulder blades.

But when she touches his arm?

He hates it.

Because it’s not you.

And when he finally dares to glance toward the door—You’re already gone.

Later, in your office, you’re ripping open a granola bar like it owes you money. You don’t know what pisses you off more. The flirting? The way she touched him? Or the fact that you care. You shove the granola bar into your mouth. Stare blankly at your calendar. And think about how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How easy it looked.

Like it never meant anything. Like you never meant anything.

“God,” you mutter, throwing the wrapper in the trash. “Get a fucking grip.”

But your pulse says otherwise. Your jaw is tight. Your chest aches. You’re not okay.

You miss him. And you hate that he made you soft enough to admit it.

All the while, Steve is right there, standing outside of your office door, hand raised to knock. He’s there. He’s ready and then…he doesn’t. He stands there for a full minute. Then walks away.

The moment you step inside and see him, you know it’s too late to turn around.

He’s standing with one hand on the copier lid, sleeves shoved to his elbows, staring down like the machine personally insulted him. There’s toner on his wrist. His jaw’s tight.

He looks up. Freezes.“Of course,” he mutters. “Because of course it’s you.”

You cross your arms, your own stack of handouts balanced on your hip. “I’m not thrilled either, Harrington.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His voice is low. Rougher than usual. Like sleep deprivation or restraint.

You nod toward the copier. “Let me guess—tray’s jammed again?”

He sighs. Moves aside just enough to let you pass. Your bodies brush. Barely, and it’s too much.

He leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching you. You open the tray, jiggle a few things with practiced expertise.

Silence stretches. It screams.

And then— “You saw me at the café.”

The paper you’re holding stiffens in your grip. “I saw you doing what you do best.”

“That what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“That’s not fair.”

You slam the tray closed harder than you mean to.“Neither was watching you turn it back on like it never meant anything.” You’re not sure if you mean the charm or you.

He flinches.“It wasn’t about her.”

You turn. Finally.“But it was about me.”

The words sit between you like broken glass.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you say, quieter now. “You say it’s not a game, but every time I start to believe you, you remind me what you used to be.”

His voice is rough. “You think this is me reminding you? You think I want to go back to being that guy?”

He takes a step forward. “You think I don’t know I fucked up the second I let her touch me?”

Your chest tightens. You blink too fast. “Why’d you let her, then?”

He doesn’t answer at first.“Because for a second, I needed to pretend I could be wanted without hurting.”

And that—that cuts you clean open. 

You’re both quiet. Breathing too loud. The copier hums softly behind you like background noise in a dream. Then he steps closer. One more step. Close enough to touch.

“You still have me.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I’ve only ever meant it.”

Your eyes meet.

And there it is. The pull. The moment that could be something. Could be everything.

But instead, you turn. Slowly. Press the print button and whisper “Then show me.”

You don’t notice it at first.

Not really.

It starts with coffee. Again. But now it’s every Tuesday. Always exactly how you like it. No note. No fuss. Just sitting on your desk when you arrive. Still hot.

Then it’s classroom overlap. He prints extras of whatever handout he knows you’ll need. Leaves them in your box. Sometimes with post-it notes that say “Fixed the typo in paragraph three. You’re welcome.”

Then it’s your office light. You forgot to turn it off one night. You were tired. You left in a fog. And the next morning? A text. Short. Simple.

💬 Locked up for you. Light’s off. Sleep, for once.

You stare at your phone for ten full minutes before responding. You don’t thank him, but the next time you see him in the hallway, you hold his gaze for just a second longer than usual.

He notices.

---

He doesn't flirt anymore. Not really.

No lines. No games. He just shows up.

He picks up your favorite gum from the bookstore and leaves it on your chair with your notes after a staff meeting. He starts letting students out three minutes early so you can use the room next door for your class without awkward overlap. He starts reading the books on your shelf—the theory ones. The dense ones. Just to see what you see.

And he listens. Like really, fucking listens. To your rants. To your tangents. To your silences. And somewhere between all that effort he forgets how not to care.

---

“Okay but like… Professor Harrington’s been soft lately.”“Right?! Like he still looks hot but now he’s… dad hot.”“He literally told us to take care of ourselves emotionally before we try to ace exams. Who is he.”“I swear he smiled at the Ed Prof in the break room like she hung the goddamn moon.”“I think they’re dating.”“No way. She’d eat him alive.”“Exactly.”

---

You walk into your office and stop short. Because he’s there. Not waiting. Not leaning against the wall like a smoldering statue. Just sitting. Quiet. Reading something from your shelf. One of the denser volumes on pedagogical theory. The copy you’ve highlighted to hell.

He looks up. Smiles, slow and soft. “This is good,” he says, holding it up. “Hard to read. But good.”

You raise a brow. Toss your bag onto the couch. “Since when do you read anything without pictures?”

“Since you stopped looking at me like I’m a joke.”

Your heart stutters, and he sees it. He sets the book down. Stands. Doesn’t move closer. “I know I can’t fix what I broke. Not fast. Maybe not ever. But I’m here. Still.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be the kind of person who deserves you.”

The room goes quiet. Heavy. Holy. You don’t answer, but when you walk past him, you let your fingers graze his. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

And maybe he has.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You know it the second your hip bumps the edge of his kitchen island and your fingers brush the rim of the glass he just poured you.

It’s bourbon. Warm. A little sweet. The kind that burns slow. Like him.

He’s leaning against the fridge. Hoodie unzipped. White T-shirt clinging a little too nicely. Hair still damp from a shower, and God help you, it’s unfair. Unprepared, you think. You should’ve come armored. Closed off. But instead you’re here - dropped by to drop off a book he asked to borrow. It’s late and you’re both trying way too hard to  pretend that means nothing.

“Didn’t expect you to actually read it,” you say, nodding toward the book you dropped off.

“Didn’t expect to like it,” he replies. “But then again, I didn’t expect to like you either.”

Your breath catches. 

He watches you. There’s no smile. No smirk. Just intention.

You hold his gaze. “Careful, Harrington. That almost sounded sincere.”

“It was.”

Your pulse pounds. You take another sip. He steps closer. Not a lunge. Just a shift. One that brushes his knee against yours. One that makes your back touch cool granite and your glass feel too warm in your hand.

“You’re doing it again,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Looking at me like you’ve already got me.”

He tilts his head. Inches from your face. “I’m looking at you like I want you. Still.”

Still. After all this. After the café. After the retreat. After all the nights he didn’t knock.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done showing you.”

He sets his glass down. Slowly. His hand brushes yours. “Can I?” he asks.

Just that.

You nod.

Once.

And then his hand is on your waist. Light. Barely there. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You don’t. You lean into it, and when his forehead drops to yours you feel the heat of his breath. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, you whisper,“We shouldn’t.”

He whispers back, “You’re still here.”

And you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the second it happens, you both stop thinking entirely.

Your back hits the counter, his hand tangles in your hair and your name leaves his mouth like a vow, and every second of waiting, of aching, of almost-touching?  Gone.

You pull back just enough to breathe. Just enough to need. “This changes everything,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “Let it.”

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe you blinked and his hands were on your waist. Maybe you tilted your chin and his lips were right there. Maybe none of it matters, because the second his mouth touches yours—everything breaks open. 

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s starving.

He kisses like he’s drowning in you—like you’re the first breath after years underwater. Like every banter, every brush of your hand, every lecture hallway stare was foreplay to this exact second. His hand slides under your shirt, not greedy, just desperate. Fingertips dragging heat across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, one stroke at a time. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, dragging him closer until his chest is flush against yours and you’re gasping into his mouth.

You gasp into his mouth when his palm finds your ribcage. He groans—low and wrecked. His hands roam—down your waist, over your hips, gripping your thighs like he’s claiming territory. His tongue slides against yours and you moan—sharp, involuntary.

He lifts you—just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and plants you on the edge of the counter, stepping between your legs like he was built for it. Your hands dive under his hoodie, pulling it up, dragging nails along bare skin. He groans—filthy, wrecked—and yanks your shirt up in return, just high enough to mouth at your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Then die pretty,” you breathe, raking your fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him bite.

And he does—your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw. You arch against the counter. He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs until there’s nothing between you. 

His cock presses against you. Just grinding—hard, slow, desperate—against the soaked seam of your leggings and the unforgiving press of his sweats.

You cry out. Loud. Needful. 

He swallows it with a kiss.

His hands slide under your ass, angling you closer, pushing right there—deliberate and devastating. You clutch at his shoulders, arch into him, rock your hips, chase the friction like your life depends on it.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and just like that—you’re both undone. His hands are everywhere. Your shirt rides up. His hoodie’s gone. You’re kissing like you forgot how not to. Like every second of restraint has finally snapped.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants against your skin.

“Keep going.”

“Say it again.”

“Keep going.”

He grinds against you, hard and slow, and you moan before you can catch it. His hands tighten. His mouth finds yours again, all tongue and teeth and hunger. 

You’re right there. On the edge. One more roll of his hips and—

You reach for his belt. He catches your wrist and you freeze. 

“I want you,” he says. "So bad it hurts." He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving. “But not like this. Not yet.”

Your whole body is buzzing. Your thighs are trembling. Your lips are swollen. But your heart? Your heart cracks wide open. Because it’s not rejection it’s reverence.

You nod. He kisses your knuckles. One by one. “Let me want you the right way.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t walk away right now, I will ruin your life.”

He grins—wrecked and wrecking. “Not if I ruin yours first.”

The next morning, his T-shirt hangs loose on your frame. A little too big. A little too soft. It smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, heat.

You’re standing in his kitchen, one hip popped against the counter, sipping coffee from a mug that says #1 Psych Professor in faded print. You slept in his bed last night, but surprisingly he moved to the sofa. Said something about not having any self restraint before tugging a pillow from the bed and kissing your cheek and walking away. 

In your morning daze, you’re pretending you’re not remembering his hands under your shirt. You’re pretending you didn’t moan his name with your lips at his throat. You’re pretending you’re not thinking about the way he said not yet—like it physically pained him to stop.

He walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the back of his neck, still shirtless. Gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.

You glance up and instantly regret it. Because your body remembers. And based on the slow grin spreading across his face…So does his.

“You drink all the good creamer?” he asks, opening the fridge like he didn’t just catch you checking him out.

“Maybe,” you say, deadpan. “I let you dry hump me against a countertop. I figured it earned me hazelnut privileges.”

He chokes on a laugh, grabs a spoon and stirs his coffee like he’s trying not to lose it all over again. “You’re evil.”

“You’re easy.”

He hums, steps in close. Doesn’t touch you. He just sets his coffee down next to yours, leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me something.”

“No promises.”

“When I walked away last night…” His breath is warm. Wrecking… “Were you hoping I’d come back?”

You swallow. Hard. “You wouldn’t have made it ten more seconds in that kitchen if you had.”

He groans. Burying his face in your shoulder, biting back laughter—and something else. Then his hands are on your hips again. Casual. Familiar. Possessive. But he doesn’t pull you in. “If I kiss you again,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to stop this time.”

You’re supposed to be in your office in twenty-three minutes.

You’re hardly presentable. You were—before Steve smuggled you into bed and dragged the sheets down, pushing your legs apart with a lazy strength that said, we have time, even though you absolutely do not. Instead, your legs are trembling and his head is between your thighs. 

Your hips are tipped toward him, your thighs already sore from how long they’ve been bracketing his head—his shoulders broad and solid beneath them, his mouth ruinously good.

His tongue moves with slow, indulgent precision. Not rushed. Not greedy.  Like he’s tasting, not just devouring—like he wants to savor every twitch, every moan, every sharp little gasp he drags out of you.

One of his hands is flat on your stomach, holding you down as you start to arch. The other is gripping your thigh, thumb stroking absently against your skin as his mouth works. He licks you in lazy circles, lips closing around your clit and sucking softly. Just enough to make your spine curve, just enough to make your toes curl.

Your hands are buried in his hair, fingers clenched tight, and your voice is a high, choked whisper of “Steve, I swear to God—” as he drags his tongue slowly, obscenely, across you again.

“That’s not my name,” he murmurs into your skin.

You gasp. Yelp, really. “Steven. Jesus—”

He groans like you just handed him the keys to heaven. The vibration goes straight through you. Your thighs twitch around his head. He doesn’t stop. He presses in deeper, tongue dragging upward in a long, slick stroke that makes your eyes roll back. His grip tightens on your hips. He pulls you closer. 

“There you go. That’s better.”

He licks again—slow, deliberate. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

He’s taking his time.

He loves taking his time.

He flattens his tongue, works you with long, even licks—up, down, up again—before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs.

Your entire body is flushed. A mess. Shirt wrinkled, hair twisted, one sock still on because he got distracted halfway through undressing you.

Your planner is open on the nightstand. Your to-do list, pristine and untouched. Your phone is buzzing with a department chair text. You couldn’t care less, because right now, Steve Harrington is worshiping you. Not with flowers. Not with words. With his mouth.

And God, is he good.

He’s smug about it too, that little shit. The way he flicks his tongue like he’s testing theories. Like your body is a subject he’s about to publish a groundbreaking paper on. He lets go with a filthy little pop. Looks up at you, completely gone.

“You always sound this pretty when you’re late?” he says, voice full of smug, sleepy sin.

You slap his shoulder. “You’re the reason I’m late,” 

“Yeah, but you’re glowing. So technically I’m improving faculty morale.”

You collapse back into the pillow, laughing breathlessly and then he hums low in his throat—that sound, He just smiles. That lazy, post-sleep smirk. Bedhead. Swollen lips. His chin shiny with you.

And then—he goes back down. No warning. No teasing. Just mouth on you like he’s starving.

He works his tongue over your clit in tighter, faster circles now, your body jerking with every pass. Your hand flies to his hair—fisting, tugging, anchoring—and he groans into you again like he lives for it.

You’re already close. So close it’s humiliating.

“Steve—fuck—I really—class—”

“Just one more,” he growls, lips brushing your skin.

“You said that twice ago.”

“And I meant it both times.”

His hands slide under your thighs, holding you open, as his mouth descends. He sucks. He flicks. He hums.

You shatter.

You come with a sound that punches from your chest—half-cry, half-moan, full-body wreckage. Your back arches, hips grinding into his face, thighs clenching around him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking—slower now, gentler—drawing out every last ripple of pleasure until you're twitching, over-sensitive, gasping for air.

When he finally pulls away, his face is flushed, lips slick, pupils blown. He looks up at you with a grin that could end empires. “Good morning to me,” he says, voice low, utterly self-satisfied.

You try to respond. You can’t. Your whole body is boneless, so you glare instead.

“We are so late.”

“Worth it.”

“I hate you.”

“You love it.”

You mutter something unintelligible. He kisses your thigh, then your knee, then flops back into bed like he didn’t just commit oral war crimes.

“You’re glowing,” he says.

“You’re a menace.”

“I told you, you love it.”

You do. And when he finally gets out of bed, pulls on sweatpants, and saunters to the kitchen still licking his lips, it really settles in that you’re going to be very, very late.  

You both start clamoring around the apartment. You’re trying to find your left shoe. He’s trying to find his dignity. Neither of you succeeds.

“If I get called out for being late,” you snap, throwing your bag over your shoulder, “I’m blaming your tongue.”

“I’ll write you a note,” he grins, adjusting his shirt. “Excused tardiness: wrecked her with my face. Respectfully, Prof. S. Harrington.”

You kiss him. Quick. Possessive.“We are not telling the students.”

“No promises.”

“I swear to God.”

“What? They’ve already started whispering.”

You freeze in the doorway. “They know?”

He shrugs, smug as ever. “Only that I’m happier, wear fewer button-downs, and keep looking at you like you’re the answer to a question I forgot how to ask.”

You blink. He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Go teach.”

“You gonna behave?”

He smirks. “Absolutely not.”

Everyone’s tired, under-caffeinated, and suspiciously quiet when you walk in together to the Monday morning Faculty Meeting a few weeks later. Like, suspiciously quiet. Like maybe you should’ve come in separately. But his hand brushed yours in the parking lot and… well. You’re human. Truly, you knew it was a bad idea the moment he held the door open for you. Not because it was chivalrous, but because he smirked. That just-fucked, slept-on-your-pillow, wore-your-shampoo smirk.

And now? You’re trying to look composed while Diane from Math is squinting at your neck, and Steve is across the room pretending he didn’t absolutely tell you to call him “Professor” last night—off the clock. 

You sit down, chairs a respectful, appropriate distance from one another. Except his knee bumps yours under the table.

You flinch. He does not.

You glance at him. He’s reading the agenda like he’s not tracing circles on your thigh under the table with his fucking pinky finger.

“I will end you,” you whisper.

“Promises, promises,” he murmurs back, not even glancing up.

Across the table, someone coughs. Someone else mutters, “Tension in here is wild today.”

You cough. Sip your coffee. Do not look at him again.

---

He’s not even trying to hide it. He should be. He knows that. But you’re sitting there in that blazer and those glasses and he can still feel your nails on his back from the night before and, honestly, restraint is done.

You’re both adults. Consenting. Employed. You just happen to be very recently wrecked by each other and now expected to discuss budget reallocations.

He leans back in his chair. Tilts his head and you shoot him a glare that could kill a man at twenty paces.

He grins wider.

Then your dean says “Any… questions about cross-departmental collaborations?” 

And before anyone else can speak, Greg, the adjunct from two months ago—the one who tried to flirt with you at the mixer—leans forward. “Actually, yeah. Is Psych and Education… working together on something lately? Seems like there’s been a lot of overlap.”

The room goes dead silent.

Your head turns. Slowly. 

Steve just smiles. Cool. Calm.“We’re exploring some deeply engaged, hands-on strategies.”

You choke on your coffee.

Half the room does too.

“Very experiential,” he adds, not missing a beat.

Your face is burning. “Well,” you cut in, voice tight, “we have been reviewing active learning outcomes. Long-term retention. Depth of field experience.”

He nearly loses it. You don’t look at him again. But his pinky? Still brushing your thigh.

Once the meeting wraps you find him in a quiet hallway, tugging him into an empty office. “You’re going to get us fired.”

He presses you against the door. Grinning like a goddamn devil.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “You should see yourself.”

“I’m glowing because I haven’t slept and you won’t let me function like a normal person.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. You’re glowing because I made you come three times last night and moan my name into my sheets like a prayer.”

You stare at him. Your pulse pounds.“You’re an asshole.”

“You love it.”

And when he kisses you, hard and fast and deep—hand braced against the door, tongue slipping into your mouth like he owns it—You let him. Because for once? You’re not hiding and neither is he.

You’re not technically doing anything wrong. You’re walking. Talking. Drinking bad coffee from the Student Union and arguing over whether your classes should collaborate on a capstone project next semester. Totally professional.

Except you’re standing just a little too close, your laugh is just a little too soft, and he keeps nudging your elbow like he can’t help himself.

“You seriously think your students could handle a shared project with mine?” you tease. “They’re used to watching Fight Club for extra credit.”

“That happened once,” he grins. “And it was deeply psychological.”

You snort. Sip your coffee, and then—you hear it.

“Okay, wait—are you guys, like, together?”

You freeze.

Steve tenses beside you.

You both turn.

It’s one of his students. Freshman. Wide-eyed. Holding a psych textbook and a half-melted iced latte.

“I mean,” she stammers, “everyone’s been kinda wondering? You guys are always... around each other. And you’re smiling. A lot. And he’s nicer now? Which is weird?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, and before you can craft the neutral, chill, professional response you should give, Steve speaks. “Yeah. We’re seeing each other.”

Your head snaps toward him.

What. You blink.

“Oh. Cool. Okay. Sorry. Just—yeah. Cool.”  She scurries off like she witnessed something she shouldn’t have.

You stare at him. He stares back.

“Steve—”

“What? Was I supposed to lie?”

“No, but—” You look around. Lower your voice. “You just labeled it.”

“Because that’s what it is.”  His voice isn’t loud. But it’s firm. Frustrated. Exposed. 

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss you in the hallway. I’m tired of not calling this what it is because we’re scared someone might see.”

You blink, the beat of your heart hammering.

“So yeah,” he says, shrugging, voice sharper than he means it. “We’re seeing each other. Is that really so bad?”

You don’t answer.You can’t.

 Because the worst part? It’s not that he said it.

It’s that a part of you needed him to.

---

💬 I didn’t mean to say it like that. 💬 But I meant it. 💬 So maybe that’s okay?

You tried.

God, you tried.

You retreated into the fortress of your work, your planner, your independent woman armor. Told yourself you didn’t need him to say it. That it was better to keep things unspoken. Safer. But it’s been two days, and nothing feels good. Not your coffee. Not your playlists. Not even the jazz that usually soothes your racing thoughts.

All you can think about is the way he said it.  

We’re seeing each other. Like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t fragile. Like it was true.

And suddenly, you’re in your car. Keys in the ignition. Your pulse screams in your throat.

You don’t knock. You should, but when he opens the door, you’re already stepping inside. Already yanking your coat off. Already done pretending.

He opens his mouth.

You grab his shirt.

And everything else disappears.

---

He’s halfway through grading when you burst in like a storm, and he knows.

He knows this is the moment you stop running.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t speak, just pulls you into him the second your hands find his collar —fisting it, dragging him down, mouths crashing like you’re angry at how long it took.

You kiss him like it’s oxygen. Like you’ve been underwater for days. Like you’re angry at your own restraint and even more furious that it’s finally broken.

Your teeth graze his lower lip. He growls.

“You want to label it?” you gasp. “Then fucking show me what it means.”

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Clothes hit the floor—fast, frantic. You’re already walking backward toward his bedroom as he follows, tugging at your jeans, shoving your shirt over your head, lips never leaving your skin. Your bra unclasps without a word. He groans when it falls.

There’s a trail—shirts, socks, his belt undone, your panties half-hanging from one ankle. He kicks the door shut.

He lays you back against the mattress like he’s waited years for permission. Hands framing your face, body hovering, staring down at you like he can’t believe you’re finally here.

You pull him down like you’ll never let him go. Your mouths meet again—harder now, deeper, wet and filthy and full of everything unspoken.

His hands are everywhere. Palms dragging down your sides, cupping your tits, thumbing across your nipples until your back arches off the bed.

You writhe under him—hips rolling, legs spreading, breath coming in ragged bursts. Your fingers dig into his back, nails biting down hard enough to draw blood, and he moans into your mouth like he wants you to leave marks. Like he needs to wear them.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “No more games.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes blown wide, breath shaking.

“Then take me,” he growls, thrusting forward, finally, filling you with a groan that sounds like a man being saved.

He fills you completely. Thick. Hot. Stretching you in that perfect, devastating way.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp. Your hands clamp around his shoulders. He holds still, forehead against yours, both of you shaking from the sheer relief of it. Of finally being here.

“Holy fuck,” he pants.

“Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He fucks you like he’s learning you. Like he wants to leave something behind inside you. Not just heat, not just release—but a memory.

His rhythm is fast, deep, hungry. His hips slap against yours with delicious force, the wet sounds between you obscene and beautiful. Your legs wrap around him, ankles locking at his back. You meet him every inch of the way. Body to body. Mouth to mouth. Eye to eye.

He groans your name into your skin like a man being saved. You kiss his throat, his jaw, the hollow of his collarbone—dragging your tongue along the sweat-slick skin, biting down when the angle hits just right.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps.

“So do you,” you breathe. “Harder.”

He gives it to you. All of it. Every thrust hits deeper, rougher, more desperate, his hands everywhere—your waist, your ass, the back of your neck—gripping like he needs to keep you grounded, needs to know you’re here.

You’re close. So fucking close. And when he slips a hand between your bodies—fingers finding your clit with practiced, perfect pressure—it’s over. You come shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity, like letting go would destroy you completely. Your whole body pulses around him, pleasure ripping through you like a damn breaking and clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity

He follows with a whine—hips jerking, cock twitching, spilling inside you with a groan that’s half-relief, half-prayer. He buries his face in your neck and you hold him there. Both of you panting. Wrecked.

It’s hot.

It’s filthy.

It’s honest.

And when he finally lifts his head, presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours like a question. You already know the answer. Because there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.

You’re both still breathing hard.

He hasn’t moved. You haven’t told him to. His chest is pressed to yours, skin tacky with sweat. Your thighs are sore, legs still wrapped around him like your body hasn't figured out how to let go yet. He shifts—just barely—and you both groan.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.

“That was—”  You laugh once, breathless. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s what you asked for.”

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you both hiss—too sensitive, too much, too good. You twitch as he slips free, and you feel it—him, everything—slick between your thighs, your skin flushed and trembling.

You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing his stomach, not ready to break the contact. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like they’re holy. Then your wrist. Then the inside of your forearm, slow and reverent.

“Don’t move,” he says, already rolling off the bed, standing naked and still hard, but now focused.

You don’t. Because you can’t.

He comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. Kneels at the edge of the bed like he’s about to worship again.

You spread your legs without being asked. Your thighs tremble when the cloth touches you—warm, wet, gentle. He moves slow. Careful. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time.

He wipes away the mess between your thighs, catching what he left inside you, what leaked down to the backs of your legs, what you’re still clenching around like your body can’t bear to lose it.

“That okay?” he asks, voice quiet now. Real.

You nod again. And then he leans in—mouth just above your thigh—and licks.

Just once. Just to taste it.

Your breath stutters.

“Couldn’t help it,” he says, eyes dark, lips shiny.

He climbs back into bed, slides under the blankets, and pulls you onto his chest. You melt into him—sated, spent, but still buzzing from the way he holds you like he means it. One hand slides between your legs again—not to start anything, just to rest there. Fingers lazy and warm against your pussy, palm cradling you like he wants to remind you that you’re his now.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, voice smug and sweet at once.

You hum. Kiss his collarbone. “Still throbbing.”

“Same.” His cock twitches against your hip.

You don’t do anything about it.  Not yet.

“I want more,” you whisper.

“You can have it.”

“Later.”

“Later,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “For now just… stay.”

You do. And when you fall asleep with his hand between your legs, his cock warm against your thigh, and his heartbeat under your cheek? Well, it’s the safest you’ve felt in years.

💬 You guys. YOU GUYS. 💬 What. 💬 I just saw them arguing over who gets the last blueberry muffin at the café and it was the most sexually charged thing I’ve ever witnessed. 💬 Was he wearing that tight henley again??? 💬 She literally called him a smug bastard and he just said, ‘You love it when I’m smug,’ and winked. I need a cold shower. 💬 Are they married yet or are we still suffering through foreplay energy? 💬 They’re disgustingly perfect. I love them. I hate them. I want them to adopt me.

It’s finally the end of the semester and you and Steve have your Joint Panel Presentation. The room’s full of students trying to pretend they’re not staring. You and Steve walk in together, completely unbothered, radiating power couple energy like it’s built into your DNA. You finish each other's sentences. Your banter is lethal.

💬 OKAY NO ONE PANIC BUT THEY JUST WALKED IN TOGETHER 💬 they always do that tho?? 💬 NO. LIKE. TOGETHER. TOGETHER. 💬 she’s wearing his hoodie. THE GRAY ONE. 💬 I saw him grab her coffee cup and drink from it without asking I am unwell. 💬 he pulled out her chair and she rolled her eyes and said “you’re not charming, you’re annoying” and he just SMILED LIKE IT WAS FOREPLAY 💬 I am filing an HR report against their sexual tension 💬 bold of you to assume HR doesn’t ship them harder than we do

You still fight.

Over coffee. Over pedagogy. Over who forgot to return the whiteboard markers to the supply closet. But now? The fights end with your back against a wall and his mouth on yours, or his smug grin wiped off with one whispered threat in the break room.

The fire never died. It just evolved.

You pass him in the hallway and he grabs your hand like he has every right to it. Like you’re the thing he reaches for without thinking. You grade together. You share playlists. You present on collaborative learning and co-teach a lecture where everyone leaves sweaty and confused about the nature of attraction.

You're not the professors they expected.

You're the professors they fantasized about but never believed were real.

You’re chaos. You’re love. You were so in love it was exhausting for everyone else around you.

You’re in his lap during planning meetings.

He keeps your nameplate on his desk.

He carries your stupid frog pin on his bag like a badge of honor and threatens students who joke about it.

He kisses you in the copy room. On the quad. Behind the lecture hall door after you give a student-teacher speech that makes him feel like he’s never known pride until you put it in words.

The students ask when you're getting married.

He doesn’t even pretend to be flustered anymore.

“Not yet,” he always says. “But she’s already mine.”

And you? You never correct him.

[dexxtrosee]

Prompt 20. Purple. Mohabot. ADAD2025

Painkillers

Robby's pretty sure Jack took something before they went out.

Otherwise, he can't explain why after a single shot he's completely fuckin wasted.

“Y'just… man, you're just so fucking tall.”

He doesn’t want them to see the crimson shade that's painting his face, so he covers the lower part of it with one hand and pushes Abbot away with the other.

“I-I'm not that tall, Jack, and please shut the fuck up now.”

For a second, Robby actually believes Jack is about to start sobbing from how offended and hurt he looks at his words, and he's already babbling a half-fake apology when Mohan enters the bar and he’s completely lost the man.

“Jesus, she's just so… she’s so pretty.”

He has to physically pull him back from springing towards Samira when she slightly turns and waves. Jack pushes him away weakly, doesn’t even sway him, but then Robby lets him push until they both end up stumbling back to their seats.

“I should- I should go talk to her, right? I totally should? God Robby, look at her hair and the way… oh god.”

Jack is fully in character now, lovesick puppy whining and scratching the door to be let inside. Still, Robby doesn’t ease his grip on his shoulder, just makes sure it's not digging in.

“You took painkillers before comin’ here man?”

Jack nods absentminded, trying and failing to shrug off his hand. “The… it was the knee, been kinda bthern’ me re… recently.”

Yeah, he figured.

“Maybe don't fucking do that?”

Jack shrugs again. Robby bites the inside of his cheek and pulls him back again.

He turns to look up at him (up, Jesus, is he really that tall?) and his eyes are so intense Robby reels back a little.

“You're… like a tree, y'know man? Tall and coverin’ us all, blockin’ the sun and shit,” Jack tilts his head and leans closer. “You're the tree and I'm its shade- there's no me without you.”

Robby feels like he's six seconds away from catching fire.

“Jack, maybe we should head back.”

He shakes his head, grabs Robby and pulls him until he's awkwardly side-hugging him. Robby hears Dana cackling in the distance.

“I'm dyin’ here man, don't leave.”

Samira's wearing purple. Robby knows that every time Samira wears purple, Jack short-circuits in ways no military man should.

He first noticed Jack's moony eyes when Samira wore lavander scrubs and he couldn't string a sentence together properly when Robby asked him to tell her it was out of the color code inside The Pitt. To say he was mad was putting it lightly.

“I'm not. Not without you, at least.”

What he truly means is I'm dragging you away from here in six seconds if you keep spilling your guts to me. He refrains from saying it in case Jack decides to bolt beforehand.

“D'ya think I should- oh shit, Robby she's walking I think she's coming here oh shit she's coming-”

Robby plasters a smile on his face and bites back laughter when Jack grunts over the elbow he just buried inside his belly.

“Hi Robby,” Samira starts. She's the brightest person Robby has trained, but still he notices the way her gaze jumps from him to Jack without managing to hide it. “Hi doctor Abbot.”

And Jack doesn’t speak. A few seconds pass, both of them staring at him in wait until Samira starts fidgeting with her bag. Robby clears his throat.

“Mohan, good to see you here. Thought you weren't coming?”

He winces when he notices it sounds too much like a question, but she takes it in stride and shrugs. “Figured it wouldn't do any damage if I stayed out just one night.”

Jack is still paralyzed by his side, staring at her like she hung the moon and the stars. It makes Robby want to die from second hand embarrassment, but she doesn’t seem to mind or even notice.

“I'll go say hi to the others. See you in a couple of minutes!”

She goes away, waving at Robby. He waves back, and as soon as she turns forward, Jack groans.

What kind of friend would Robby be if he didn’t laugh his ass off for a few minutes after?

@letsgobarbs @ananonymousaffair @clubsoft

[yeloenk]

grins mischievously and rubs my hands together like a fly

i think human ink would frequently get bored of his hair color and hair style, trying out lots of different things!! he would definitely forget to maintain the dyejob tho so his white roots get REALLY bad until he dyes it again LMAO

while his dads aren't japanese (zephyr is french and idrk about undertop), they enjoy ink showing them japanese culture and participating in traditions and such :-)

ink, since they're immortal, decided he would dedicate his freetime into learning a bunch of different cultures and languages! this always tends to surprise others, since ink's short-term memory is absolute garbage. nobody understands how he remembers EVERYTHING about EVERY culture 😭😭🙏 you CANNOT keep a secret from this mofo no matter what language you speak

i think they would keep a digital diary with a camera! he records important events/moments so they can always look back at them, since he forgets a lot. his camera is mostly filled up with memories with their dads 🫶

ink LOVESS to bake!! he enjoys trying out different recepies and pastries from all around the world, but his favorites are macarons. he enjoys cooking as well, but moreso appreciates baking because of the exact instructions/measurements. (he is autistic like me and needs clear instructions or he will combust real and true trust me on this)

he has WAY too many hobbies for a normal person to keep up with. flute, baking, drawing, painting, writing, dancing, crocheting, knitting, embroidery, singing, gardening, you NAME it. any form of art, they know how to do and are surprisingly good at it

ink struggles with keeping up with his own very very busy mind. they have so many projects he wants to execute, but can only push out a few at a time. he hates having unfinished projects, and will stick with something until the end—for better or for worse.

he loves to paint over his vitiligo spots, or just painting on himself in general. they think it's fun & interesting to see how the spots shift and change on his skin, never growing bored of them.

-> his spots shift whenever code for a new AU is created, soo it's never really consistent LOL

he loves all forms of music, but holds a special place in his heart for songs that include lots of different classic instrumentals, like violin. he loves artists like fish in a birdcage and sparkbird (yes im projecting and you can't stop me)

he sometimes will drink paint out of the blue in front of others just for their reactions. they are priceless to ink and ALWAYS make him crack up so bad.. and then he has to explain that "nonono my paint specifically is okay for me to drink guys im not gonna die dw" ☠️☠️

ANNDDD i should probably stop there.. this post is so long LMFAO 😭😭 honestly most of these are just my normal ink headcanons, human or not, so take these as you will 🗣️🗣️

[stepmarchen]

Couple Coding in ASM

So there's an interesting thing I noticed about Orka's color coding in ASM and the way it changes between different interactions.

For example, JerShu moments are commonly set during early dawn. There's a cool blue from the moonlight that shades the two, adding a sense of quiet mystique to their interactions.

Maybe it's to invoke a dream-like state where Shuri is stripped bare of her responsibilities and Jeremy is just a boy who misses his parents oh, so much. During the day, there's so much commotion and stress but when they're together at night, it's quiet and lonely, with only the moon watching over them. Because when morning comes, they're forced to return back to their normal lives like a Cinderella story.

On the other hand, NoShu moments are bright like a burning sun. It's a passionate watercolor of orange, pinks, and reds that bloom as they stare into each other's eyes.

It's pure romance the way you couldn't be sure whether the burn on their cheeks was because of the warm heat of the sun or because of something else. For a couple individually driven towards death, Nora and Shuri are experiencing living for the first time, when they're together. The way the light gleams on each other like they're always discovering new things about one another is just so perfectly lovely.

And then there's TheoShu. Theo and Shuri often interact in the morning, like a icy shock to the system. For a man plagued with too much guilt to sleep and a woman trapped in her nightmares, what's a more eerie wake-up call?

TheoShu as a morning motif is so interesting because we're faced with Theo who acts like he's still stuck in a dream where he's fated to be with Shuri and Shuri, who is trying to run away from those dreams and move on with her day. They're never quite on the same page, like the feeling you get when you're debating on getting up on a Monday morning.

Finally. RiShu. I find that Richelieu and Shuri are always in a strange state of limbo when they stumble upon each other. A space that only they know, where the light doesn't shine until Shuri walks in.

Richelieu is a man that exists in the shadows, lurking around in the dark underbrush. But he can't help but be drawn to that woman intruding upon that dark forest he lives in. She gleams like a holy light piercing the black darkness. Shuri knows what it's like to die in that forest and Richelieu wants to know what path she took to get there.

[svgarz]

. ༉‧₊˚. Campus Crush — Sim Jaehyun ༉‧₊˚.

— -> Main Master-list. || This Master-list.

Chapter 001

⤷ Just Another Walking Red Flag — -> Next.

Tag-list ::: @faithnsstuff

The first time you saw Jake Sim, he was holding a basketball in one hand and a girl in the other.

That probably should’ve told you everything you needed to know.

You’d been on campus for all of three weeks, clutching your overstuffed bag, armed with color-coded tabs and an aggressive disdain for anyone who had more than one “campus crush” confession about them on the university’s anonymous gossip page. You weren’t here to simp. You were here to finish your degree, avoid social interaction, and get out in one piece.

Jake Sim? He was the opposite of that plan.

You’d seen him everywhere—plastered across every sports flyer, caught in blurry party pics on Instagram, and most offensively, dominating your For You Page on TikTok with those cocky, off-guard thirst traps that his fans (and clearly he had many) posted of him mid-game, sweat-soaked and smirking like the human embodiment of a walking red flag.

The basketball team’s golden boy. 6’0-something. Always in a backwards cap. Hoodies that definitely weren’t regulation size.

And girls? Always clinging. Laughing. Running their hands down his chest like he was built out of Greek marble and good grades.

But you knew better.

The first time he brushed past you in the quad, you saw it happen like a predictable movie. He flashed a lazy grin at a blonde girl in a tank top. She giggled and tripped over her own feet. He turned around, winked, and kept walking like he knew he was the cause of earthquakes. Like confidence was currency and he had change to spare.

You had muttered under your breath.

“Just another walking red flag.”

That was all it took. A flicker of annoyance, a little pettiness, and the birth of your spam account: @cryinginthecar69.

It wasn’t meant to be anything serious. Just a few sarcastic TikToks. Inside jokes between you and your tiny group of unhinged followers—your roommate Mina, your mutuals from high school, and that one girl from Stats who also hated sports boys.

But your best work?

Your masterpiece?

Came the night of the big game.

You didn’t go to the gym. Of course not. You were in the library, as usual, holed up in a corner with a protein bar, a stack of sociology notes, and a dying laptop charger that kept sparking every time you nudged it. You’d almost forgotten the game was even happening until your group chat blew up.

That gave you an idea.

You found a clip—one of those TikToks filmed from the crowd, shaky and saturated, Jake launching a perfect 3-pointer and turning to the stands with his signature smirk. And yeah. Okay. Fine. He looked good. Stupidly good. Stupid enough to justify the hate you were about to post.

You opened your spam, pasted the clip, and added your voiceover:

“He got a 3-pointer and a 1.7 GPA. Ladies, this is what delusion looks like.”

Then, the caption:

“Campus golden retriever gets another W (ladies run.)”

It was petty. It was stupid.

And within an hour, your private spam—which had never cracked more than 100 views—blew up.

“Babe,” Rei gasped the second she stormed into the room later that night. “You’re trending. On campus TikTok.”

You blinked. “What.”

Yunjin tossed her phone into your lap. There it was. Your post.

7.4k views. 3k likes. Dozens of comments.

“WAIT 😭😭 this is hilarious”

“not jake slander on my fyp again LMFAO”

“i go to school with this man. she’s not wrong.”

“why is this true 😭”

“he’s hot but this is killing me help”

You wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“Why would did it blow up?! It was a private spam!”

Yunjin cackled. “Girl, your video got shared. Probably by that stats girl. Or someone on the team.”

“This is mortifying.”

“No. This is iconic.”

But not really.

©svgarz

[dangerous-yam-fries]

NSFW Yandere Alien x Human GN Reader - Introduction

Asks and Suggestions are open and encouraged!

Warnings: kidnapping/alien abduction (tee hee), noncon/dubcon, uhhh not manhandling alienhandling?, MINORS JUST LEAVE I DON'T CARE WHERE YOU GO AS LONG AS IT'S FAR FROM ME

Zuri is the ruthless captain of the spacecraft Seed, plundering other ships and satellite-societies. Standing at roughly 8ft tall, his gray skin laden with tattoos and scars, long blue hair tied into dreadlocks, and his eyes. The first time you saw them, you weren’t sure what color of blue they were.

Whether it was the color of Earth, the icy planet of Kobu, or the reflective satellite society of Framtida, they were bluer than anything you had ever laid eyes upon before.

Zuri and his crews often robbed research ships for things of scientific value, usually to sell for I.U. (Interstellar Units).

It was your 3rd year working on the research spacecraft Argon. You weren’t a particularly noticeable employee, just a custodian of the first quadrant. So when the ship was breached by Seed, you didn’t think they’d bother to go after you.

You hid in your shared quarters, just sitting on your bed and guarding your belongings while you stared at all the other empty beds. You heard crashes and screams, alarms and gunfire, but all you did was clutch your pillow to your ears and wait for it stop.

But then you heard the unmistakable sound of a code being entered into the keypad of the room you were in. You dove under the bed, your body clinging to the wall as you stayed quiet. You saw pairs of boots walking through the room, heard hushed voices and watched as they looked under beds and rummaged through luggage.

The blood in your veins ran cold as they got closer and closer to you, and finally, you were face to face with a pair of impossibly blue eyes. You were so star struck that you didn’t struggle when you pulled out from under the bed and thrown into the middle of the room.

“Did you really think you could hide?” That sent a chill down your spine, or maybe it was just the cold sweat building up beneath your clothes.

You couldn’t speak, all you could see were those striking irises. It wasn’t until you felt a slap to your cheek that you spoke. “N-no.” You choked on your words, dread suffocating your throat as you prepared for the end.

When Zuri looked at you, he saw the fear that filled your eyes and how you forced your tears back. It made him want to fill you with something else, and make you cry.

So then Zuri gave you a choice, die right then and there, or join his crew. You chose the latter, but you slowly came to regret that decision as you begun life on Seed.

As a newbie, you kept your head down and did as you were told, but that wasn’t enough to keep the captain away from you. You thought that Captain Zuri wanted to kill you, or worse, so you did everything in your power to avoid him. But that only made him angrier. It wasn’t everyday that he of all people took an interest in someone, and your apparent disinterest in him left a mark on his pride.

Zuri thought long and hard as to why you weren’t reciprocative of his courting. He was obviously a powerful mate, handsome too, with wealth that could buy him a small planet if he so desired. Thinking about how to make himself more appealing to you only made him more obsessed, until you were all he could think of. An itch that he just couldn’t scratch, sitting rent free in his head.

For the next few months, you would be cleaning or doing repairs and he would be watching you. Sometimes through security cameras, usually brooding in a dark corner, or even looming over your shoulder. Zuri also gave you special privileges. You got your own room, small as it was, you always got off duty before meal times so you’d get early pickings, and you were even allowed to use the private showers.

But for some reason it wasn’t enough to cury any favor with you. You’re still as afraid of him as you were on the first day that you met, and it drives Zuri insane.

Humans are so difficult, so picky and confusing and complicated. So he’d have to make things simpler for you. Zuri found you on the east side of the ship, you were distracted with cleaning the windows. Well, not cleaning. The wash towel laid dripping at your hip while you gazed out the window into the void of space.

You looked so peaceful and content. But that changed as soon as you saw Zuri in the reflection.

You quickly apologized for getting off task, and you begun cleaning again. “Come with me. Now.” He ordered you and ignored your pleas, he dragged you back to his personal quarters, his grip unwavering.

He didn’t let go of you even once the door shut behind you both, Zuri simply stood in front of you, towering over you with his tall form. Humans have a tradition of getting down on one knee to profess their love, so that’s exactly what he did.

You were surprised that he was kneeling before you, and a little concerned. You tried to pry your wrist out of his hand, tried to get him to stand up, but he refused. Zuri confessed his love to you right then and there, his blue eyes looked so firm and steady, he was so sure of himself.

When you politely refused, he wasn’t even mad. Words and subtle gestures weren’t going to get through to a dense little human like yourself. So Zuri was going to fuck his love into you, then, surely, you’d know just how strongly he felt about you.

You were of course, extremely opposed to the idea, you struggled, but he was much stronger than you. Screaming didn’t work either, the room had thick metal walls with top of the line noise cancellation and isolation. Besides, Zuri was the captain, no one would have helped you anyways.

You were quickly stripped and thrown onto the bed, and Zuri kept a knee on your chest to stop you from running while he took his clothes off.

You saw his many tattoos, scars, and stretch marks from his muscles. And you saw his dick. He was already erect and dripping precum. It was large, and you could tell it was heavy too, some of his pre dripping onto your bare skin as he caged you in beneath him.

Zuri has waited for you far too long to wait for release, so you’re quickly forced on top of him, 69 style. You grip his dick while he services you orally, trying to stretch you out as quickly as possible. You can feel his ribbed cock throbbing in your hand, yelped when you feel a harsh slap to your ass.

You get the memo. He wants you to suck his dick, you can just barely get the head into your mouth as you rub and pump the rest of his length with both of your hands. You stop when you cum, the stimulus becoming too distracting, but this time he moves your body so that you’re straddling him.

You can’t bring yourself to look into Zuri’s eyes, the shame becoming too much as tears spill down your cheeks. And there it is. That look that he’s been looking for.

You look so beautiful stuffed full of his length, crying into his arms as he sends tremors of pleasure throughout your body.

You’re finally his<3

[rikudaa]

Observe and Detach⋆·˚ ༘ *

Tim Drake/Red Robin x Reader | <<< Part 2. >>>

ღ A/N: Ena Shinomnomme and Mizuki Akiyama kinnie but this time I let someone died (but mention briefly). Reader dress up feminine clothes but not set as Female, they are gender neutral. Enjoy!

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Isolation, Mental Health Deterioration, Obsession, Emotional Surveillance, And The Bitter Truth Of Failing To Become Friends.

It happened.

A call at 2AM.

A hospital room.

A silence that never ended.

• • •

You lost someone.

Someone real. Someone grounding. Someone who kept you tethered. They were gone. And with them, you started to go, too.

At first, no one noticed. You still showed up. Still wore your bows and little pearl bracelets and dainty heels that clicked with purpose. You still turned in your critiques. Still kept your head high.

You tried to hold the shape of yourself.

But grief doesn’t rip. It rots. Slowly. Quietly.

Like ink bleeding through expensive paper, you began to blur.

You stop dressing up after the funeral.

Not immediately. At first, you double down. Lip gloss. White tights. Those stupid velvet Mary Janes that click on the lecture hall stairs. You wear bows every day like bandages–one for every time someone tells you they’re sorry, one for every time someone stares too long without asking how you’re doing.

It’s not for comfort. It’s camouflage. The same reason you still turn in assignments with delicate handwriting and smile at your professors when they say your midterm felt “emotionally raw.”

What they mean is: Are you okay?

What they don’t say is: We’re afraid you’re going to die like this.

Because they’re right.

You aren’t okay.

And it’s starting to show.

When they stopped asking, you didn’t miss them.

Tim watched. He always watched. But he never asked.

You skip studio for the first time in early November. You lie and say you’re sick.

You’re not.

You’re in bed, in the dark, chewing at your nails and ignoring your ringing phone. There are three unread messages from your department mentor. One from a classmate. One from Tim Drake.

You don’t read his. You don’t need to. You already know what it says.

Where were you?

That’s not like you.

You’re smarter than this.

He never asks you if you’re okay. He just catalogues your decline like a data set–measurable, methodical, inevitable. The way some people study heat maps or war zones. Like you’re a puzzle or a problem. Like you’re no longer real.

Maybe you’re not.

Maybe you’re just… after.

Until you started skipping lectures more often.

Until the piece you’d been preparing all semester–a visual trauma narrative built on recurring color and texture–was submitted unfinished. Blank. Canvas gessoed white, like you’d erased something sacred and dared them to notice.

You didn’t care if they did.

But he did.

He cornered you outside the psych building, his face tight in that frustrated, academic way. As if he was mad you were ruining his hypothesis.

“You’re unraveling,” he said, not as a question. Like a scientist naming a specimen. “I’m not the only one who sees it.”

You laughed. You hadn’t heard yourself laugh in days.

“So write a paper about it, Drake.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t move.

“You’re not well.”

“And you’re not my therapist.”

Silence. Not heavy. Just hollow.

“You used to wear pink,” he said quietly.

You looked at him then. The way he said that–like it meant something. Like it was some kind of code. Like the loss of softness equaled loss of self.

And maybe it did.

But you didn’t say that.

You said: “And you used to mind your own business.”

You left him standing there. And it felt good, for five whole seconds.

You used to be coquette. You used to love the way light pink caught on your cheeks or how hearts looked drawn in gel pen on your wrists.

Now your skin feels too thin for any color.

You don’t wear bows anymore. You can’t even look at them. They sit in a little box at the back of your desk drawer, and every time you open it to find a pen or a charger, they’re just… there. Bright and untouched and wrong.

So you stop opening the drawer.

By December, you wear black every day. Not cute black. Not stylized, witchy black.

Just blankness. Oversized hoodies. Long sleeves. Jeans that don’t hug you right because you’ve lost weight you weren’t trying to lose. You smell like dry shampoo. Your eyes stay rimmed in red, but there’s no makeup anymore to cover it.

No one says anything.

But Tim watches.

Of course he does.

He keeps sitting two rows behind you in lectures. Keeps tracking your attendance. Starts submitting “group assignments” that aren’t assigned in groups, just so he can CC you and say “Thought you might want to contribute.”

You never ask him to stop. But you do start turning off read receipts.

Weeks passed.

You stopped attending studio altogether. The world dulled like overexposed film. Your professors reached out. You ignored them. Your roommate left sticky notes on your mirror. You peeled them off one by one.

The only constant was him–Tim.

Emails. Messages. PDF attachments at 3AM. Journal articles about grief regression and executive dysfunction. No “how are you.” Just clinical concern, thinly veiled as academic interest.

Emotional surveillance.

You start dreaming about him.

Not romantically. Not sexually.

In your dreams, he stands at the edge of your bed and watches you sleep like he’s studying you for symptoms. His eyes are empty. His hands are full of sharp things.

You wake up and start crying before you know why.

There’s a moment in late January when he finds you in the back corner of the library, curled up behind the stacks, your phone off, your sketchbook empty.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there. Watching.

You can feel the weight of it, like being stared at by your own autopsy photo.

Eventually, he sits down.

And says:

“You know, I used to think you were pretending.”

You don’t answer. Your mouth tastes like metal. You want to cry but your eyes are dry again. Your body doesn’t even have the energy to grieve anymore. Just a low hum of self-hatred under your ribs.

Tim keeps going, voice low, like he’s talking to a ghost:

“I thought the bows and the sweetness were performance. But I think… maybe this is.”

You turn your face toward the bookshelf.

“I don’t care what you think.”

“I know,” he says.

And then:

“But I still think it.”

Later, he sends you a document. Not a message. A full analysis.

You open it out of spite.

The Psychology of Identity Loss in Trauma Victims: A Working Hypothesis.

By T. Drake.

Inspired by case subject (Y). [REDACTED].

You want to scream. You want to set your laptop on fire.

Instead, you scroll. And read. And choke.

Because he gets it.

Because he sees it.

Not you, not really. But the fracture. The post-mortem of your former self, broken down into citations and behavioral regression tables.

He’s dissecting you like a cadaver.

You don’t reply.

But you read it again.

And again.

There’s a point in February when it’s so bad you stop going home for weekends. You stop answering your mother’s calls. You don’t even open your email anymore, except to mark things unread so you won’t be dropped from class.

Your world shrinks to your room, the inside of your hoodie, and the thin knowledge that Tim knows exactly how far you’re falling.

He’s stopped intervening. But not watching.

Always watching.

You imagine his notes. His folders. His timelines of your breakdown. You imagine him cataloging the way your hair started tangling, or when you stopped wearing rings, or the precise lecture where your hands stopped sketching in the margins.

And it’s awful.

And it’s disgusting.

And it’s the only thing that makes you feel seen anymore.

The last time you speak is in March.

You find him outside a seminar. He’s alone, reading. And you stand there in your too-long sleeves and chewed lips and ask, flatly:

“Are you still studying me?”

He doesn’t flinch.

He looks up.

“Are you still letting me?”

Silence. Cold and long and final.

You say, “I hope your research is worth it.”

He says, “I wish I didn’t need it.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment.

That’s where it ends–not in flames, not in tears, not even in a scream.

Just two people who almost saved each other.

Who failed.

Who now carry the weight of that failure in silence.

You don’t talk again.

You don’t get better.

You just get quieter.

And one day, someone asks Tim about you.

“Didn’t you know them?”

“Didn’t you two used to…?”

And he shrugs.

Like it doesn’t matter.

Like you weren’t something he watched die in real time.

He never answers.

But he keeps the paper.

And he never deletes your name.

Next up: No one else gets to save you | <<< Part 2. >>>

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[dailylooneys]

Happy 90th B-B-Birthday, Porky Pig!

Yeap! Happy 90th Birthday to Warner Bros. first ever true cartoon star and the oldest continuing character in the Looney Tunes character.

After many (somewhat) failed attempts at creating a starring character for the very young Termite Terrace, many of them being Mickey Mouse-equse characters, such as Bosko, Foxy (most infamously and obviously) and Buddy....

.....there came a point in the mid-30s' where the directors, particularly Friz Freleng and Tex Avery, wanted to try and do something different, and that was to create a character who had a unique voice and embodied the soon-to-become irreverent style of humor of the WB cartoons.

First appeared in 1935's I Haven't Got a Hat, directed by Friz Freleng, part of the color one-shot series of Merrie Melodies shorts, was an attempt for Termite Terrace to see which character who appeared in the short could be there next star. Porky appeared in a somewhat supporting role in the film, voiced by Joe Dougherty, who had an actual stutter. The character's iconic stutter was inspired by a real-life pig guttering noise, according to Mel Blanc.

Well, I had trouble with, Porky, because he stuttered, and a lot of people said, "you can't do that". That's why I did it, because everybody was using falsetto voices, everything sounded the same. And I said, what can I do to make this character different? So I called up Warners' casting and said, do you got anybody who stutters? And they had this [Joe] Dougherty guy, who stuttered, and the guy could not just get through a line. And we were doing all of our sound on film then, there wasn’t any tape. If Jack Warner knew how much film I was using, I was through with animation. So I had to get somebody to mimic, and that was Mel. And of course, Mel can do anything. - Friz Freleng (”Friz on Film” documentary)

According to animation historian Jerry Beck, there was some thought that Beans would be the studio's next big cartoon star, as he would appear in a handful of shorts in the black-and-white Looney Tunes, while Ham and Ex were the only other characters of I Haven't Got a Hat to also make one more appearance, starring alongside Beans in The Fire Alarm (1936).

Goes without saying, nobody found Beans or Ham and Ex at all interesting, leading to Porky overshadowing them, and the rest is history.

From then on, Porky became the star of the Looney Tunes series, which were still in black-and-white up until '43. Like many classic cartoons character from the Golden Age of Animation, Porky's role varied from kid to adult character, to dealing with many everyday mundane things or having a specific position, including, but not limited to, farmer, hunter, waiter and zoologist, usually accompanied with other characters such as Porky's dad, Daffy Duck, Gabby Goat, or other one-offs.

The director who perhaps was responsible for giving Porky an even more distinguishing personality and design that we associated with today is Bob Clampett, as he was relegated to directing the main Looney Tune shorts up until the early '40s, which was possibly when Porky shorts were at their best.

(an image of the now-famous "blooper" (Breakdown of 1939) of Porky swearing, directed by Clampett, was made as part of a compilation of bloopers from live-action films, was screened during WB Christmas party reels, but was never released to theaters. This was made a year earlier before Gone with the Wind gained controversy for the use of the word "damn", as swearing was beyond prohibited in films up until the 1960s, when the Hays Code was starting die out.)

However, with the introduction of other, more colorful and quirky, mischievous characters such as Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny, the directors would have admitted to having gradually grown tired of Porky as a character, even as early as 1939, he would play a very minimal role in much of the shorts, such as Porky's Hotel, Porky's Poor Fish, Meet Joe Dougherty and The Chewin' Bruin to name a few. Frank Tashlin infamously stated that he straight up hated Porky, referring to him as "a terrible character", due to the fact that a majority of the shorts he directed always starred Porky, finding him to be very inflexible, compared to his favorite character, Daffy. As a result of Porky's lack of popularity with the directors, Porky would end up becoming more of a side character, often alongside Daffy, Sylvester, Charlie Dog and so on, worked to Porky's benefit as not only did he continue to have sustained popularity with movie theater audiences, but the humor often derived from Porky being the most fairly grounded character being caught in the center of the character's wacky, off-the-wall personalities, or that when he's pushed to his limits, Porky will too snap!

"Nobody liked to work with Porky, because he was too square of a character." - Friz Freleng

Thankfully, this resulted in Porky never losing his popularity as he continues to be as world-famous and recognizable as Bugs, Daffy, Road Runner, Foghorn Leghorn, ect. After over 30 years, Porky would make his last appearance in the original theatrical series' in 1965's Corn on the Cop starring Porky and Daffy as Keystone Kops-looking cops trying to capture a crook whose dressed as Granny.

This cartoon has many significance: it being the only latter-day WB short he ever appeared in. The only Porky short directed by Irv Spector. And the only time Porky appeared alongside Granny, having almost the longest-lasting appearance of any of the characters in the original Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies series, defeating only by Daffy Duck, who's last original appearance was in 1968 (31 years), near the ending of the original theatrical cartoon series and the closure of Warner Bros. animation department.

After the end of his movie career, Porky would continue to appear in many other Looney Tunes-related material, one of them being The Porky Pig Show (1964 - 1967) which is a compilation of various of the original shorts, an appearance on Tiny Toon Adventures as Hampton J. Pig's idol and mentor, and many more, especially more recently, one of the main stars of The Day The Earth Blew Up (2025) where we see him in his original Bob Clampett design.

So, despite not being considered the immediate favorite of either the creators (both the original and new) and/or casual viewers', we should not forget the importance of Porky Pig and the impact he left on the original Looney Tunes, and the franchise as a whole. I mean, we got a whole DVD set entirely dedicated to the pig himself:

[ssa-dado]

Hi! So following up from your (incredible) breakdown of Hotch's apartment, I've always wondered why stayed in the apartment to raise Jack after Foyet/100 and I'd love to hear your thoughts about it!

Obviously, his and Haley's marital house was out after everything but the same apartment he got stabbed in is wild to me and to then to Jack who was held hostage by the guy who stabbed Hotch by the dining table? I get if it was for security with less points of direct entry but Foyet got in??? Is there a garden or green space for Jack to play in? Does Hotch do a background check on all new tenants?

Anyway, this is not anti-apartment slander because I happily live in one myself but I'm so interested in why Hotch would since he clearly has the means (Rolex watches are not cheap lmao) and this feels like the right platform to discuss it haha what do you think?

Breaking down Hotch's apartment layout until someone from Criminal Minds slides into my DMs with the damn floorplans: (The Empire Strikes Back)

I’ve thought about this a lot (maybe too much) and I honestly believe Hotch stayed in that apartment building for a mix of reasons. It’s not just one thing. Maybe one factor weighed heavier than the others, but ultimately, I picture him doing one of those classic pros and cons lists, like the fussy man he is, and letting the whole picture guide the decision... does it make sense??

Now, if we look at the architectural typology of his building, we know it follows a comb-plan layout - meaning it features two semi-enclosed, semi-public green spaces that are open toward the street. (I even made a little sketch to visualize it because I’m a visual learner... Like, I don’t know what “Hotch’s hands” means until I see them. Someone please send references...pls???)

That said, the green spaces aren’t the reason he stayed. Sure, the building has them, but they’re likely shared among all tenants, mostly decorative, and maybe even off-limits in terms of actual use (some buildings do that.. yikes). Plus, they’re super open to the street, which means they’re not really safe or private enough for Jack to play in.

So I don’t think the green spaces themselves were the selling point.

I think he stayed because of the overall architectural quality of the building. It's a historic structure (from mid 1920s-1930s??) that’s been carefully restored, updated with 21st-century systems and amenities, and built with high-quality materials and finishes. Maybe there’s a park nearby where Jack can actually play safely. Maybe it’s closer to his school. It also doesn’t strike me as a suburban area, which could be another plus - city life offers access to public transportation, shops, cultural spaces, sports activities… all of which might've played into the decision.

I am so so so so here for this headcanon and I fuck so much with the background check idea because yes, he absolutely asked Garcia for help and no, he doesn’t think that was an overstep. It was a precaution. For Jack.

Also, I’m convinced he’s very active in the tenant community.

He’s the one who created the condo group chat - no one asked him to, but it’s impeccably organized, with pinned messages and!!! a color-coded spreadsheet of recycling days (I'm European, this is wired into my DNA, sorry) he made himself at 3 a.m. on Excel. He barely answers texts from his team, but the second someone reports “unusual noises near the trash chute,” he’s replying in 0.3 seconds with “What time? Which floor?”

Sure, he’s fussy about noise (especially when he’s actually home) but he’s also the one everyone turns to when the building manager starts power-tripping or the garbage hasn't been collected. You’ve got a broken washing machine? Hotch already emailed the landlord and the building’s legal obligation clause. Trash not yeeted? He’ll yeet it himself. The man has a complex Google Drive dedicated to tenant rights #prosecutor!Hotch

I will die on the hill he is a chatty grandma. Sure, he’s serious, but he knows everyone’s business, and somehow people trust him with their extra keys and gossip. He's fbi, he's cunty, he has great hair... hello???

(Like, you knock on his door and say, “Sorry to bother-” and he’s already saying, “Your cat escaped again? He's in apartment 127, do you need anything else?”)

Another reason I think he stayed in that apartment is because, most likely between s3 and 4, he started spending some time there with Jack. I’m not sure how the co-parenting with Haley worked logistically, but I can easily imagine him having Jack over on weekends when he wasn’t working, or at least trying to carve out that time. And that apartment became part of Jack’s routine, part of what "home" felt like to him, Hotch probably couldn’t bring himself to move.

I don’t think Hotch stayed there for himself. Psychologically of course, it’s not the healthiest choice (he was literally stabbed there by Foyet) but it is the best choice for his son. And unless you’re talking about his job, Jack always comes first.

And Hotch… Hotch always comes last.

I think he bottled everything up. I don’t even think he fully let himself consider that the apartment might be an unhealthy place to stay in. If the thought of moving did ever cross his mind, I’m almost certain it wasn’t about him. It wasn’t “I don’t feel safe here,” it was: What if someone breaks in again? What if Jack’s here? What if it happens when I’m not home?

He stayed because Jack knew that place. Because changing homes again would be another loss. Another shift. Another instability. And Hotch would rather carry the weight of that trauma alone than risk making his son feel displaced.

Sooooo... yep. That's it. I guess.

Thank you so so so so much for the ask!!! I'm so so so curious to know what are YOUR! thoughts!!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Stacey Abrams at Assembly Notes:

Last night, I joined Jimmy Kimmel Live to talk about my upcoming novel, Coded Justice—a thriller that explores the power and peril of AI in the medical industry. But the conversation didn’t stay on fiction for long. We started talking about what happens when autocrats come to power—and I shared something that went viral last week: a 10-step playbook that lays out how democracies die, piece by piece.

Here’s how I said it:

Step 1: You have a free and fair election—but it’s the last one. Because once that person wins, they have no intention of letting go of power. Not for anyone. Not ever. Step 2: They exceed the bounds of executive power. You’ll see a flurry of executive orders, each one claiming new and expansive authority that goes well beyond what the Constitution allows.

Step 3: They weaken competing powers. Congress forgets it has a job to do. The judiciary becomes either complicit or irrelevant—because courts don’t have enforcement power. If the executive stops playing by the rules, the judiciary can’t force them to. Step 4: They gut the government. Fire the experts. Dismantle agencies. Break public trust in the institutions people rely on every day—until democracy no longer feels worth defending. Step 5: They install loyalists. Not public servants. Loyalists. People who will follow orders, not the law. People who won’t hire anyone who dares to think independently. And they place them in powerful positions across the system.

Step 6: They go after the media. First, they demonize and discredit legitimate journalism, so the public loses trust. Then they build an echo chamber, pumping out propaganda and calling it truth—even when it’s not. Especially when it’s not. Step 7: They pick scapegoats and weaponize DEI because it protects us. Women. Children. People of color. Immigrants. The disabled. Anyone who looks or thinks differently becomes the villain. It’s intentional. Because if we’re fighting each other, we’re not fighting for democracy.

Step 8: They target civil society that exists to defend our rights. Sue the lawyers. Attack philanthropies. Dismantle universities. Smear community organizers. Undermine the very people doing the work to hold the line. Step 9: They incentivize private violence. Maybe they send in the National Guard or militarize federal agents. Maybe they abduct protestors or arrest elected officials in the opposition. The goal is the same: make people afraid to speak up. Make civic participation feel dangerous. Make silence feel safer than truth. Step 10: And then—it’s over. Step 10 is the endgame. You make sure no one ever votes again. Because now, people are scared. They’re poor. They’re exhausted. And the autocrat has all the power.

Stacey Abrams spoke on business during the Monday episode of ABC’s Jimmy Kimmel Live! with guest host Anthony Anderson about how the Trump Regime is causing the US to slide into authoritarianism.

From the 07.07.2025 edition of ABC's Jimmy Kimmel Live!: