#and then blue and somehow never has the connection with silver

[bunnygirl678]

Wanna hear an absolutely soul crushing realization I had??

Giovanni saves Red from his ice prison but is never able to save Silver

[totallynotalaundromat]

Two Nickels

Sometimes, stuff from your childhood rears its head and drags you feet-first into a series you hadn’t even thought of in years. It’s marketed towards children, and its primary audience isn’t the ones in your country, so you’ve only been able to read it in dribs and drabs - enough to know the concept and characters, but you’re aware you’re missing some pretty major information. Which you now suddenly want to know.

And you can’t even find physical versions of it (without paying for the books + shipping, which you cannot afford to do) so you turn to scavenging the internet and get hit with a wave of nostalgia (this arc was surprisingly good!) then fatigue (the longer the series goes on, the harder it is to stay engaged) and you drop it again, glad to at least have closure about that one cliffhanger from years ago.

But you still want more, so you go where everyone goes when this happens - the community.

And it’s filled with people talking about the more well-known game version of it, to the point where you wonder if you haven’t been using the right words for it and wonder how to find the appropriate terminology.

Anyway if anyone remembers reading Comic Maple Story: Offline RPG (or whatever the hell the official or “official” English title is) please. I want to talk. I don’t care if you only remember a couple of books - that was me a few weeks ago. If you remember one of the spin-offs instead, that’s also fine with me, though I will note I only know the maths one.

(Cliff hanger in question was Horntail and Aruru(?) (blue-haired dragon guy and eyepatch boy) going off on a two-man war. And for ages that one scene was one of the few things that I remembered. The pay off failed to live up to my expectations, but I think it was overly heightened from the literal years spent dangling over a cliff.)

(For anyone wondering about the title of this post: Pokemon Adventures, known as Pokespe to fans and “the pokemon manga” to most others that know about it. I will admit to minor exaggeration - Pokespe was significantly easier to get ahold of, and therefore only really had a couple of holes, while Maple Story… let’s just say that where Pokespe was a quilt with a few holes, Maple Story was more akin to a net.)

(I actually know where to find the pokespe fandom - more or less - so this is really just a lament and a shot in the dark for Comic Maple Story. It just so happened to remind me of the Pokespe situation as I was writing it. Strange that it happened twice.)

[em1i2a3]

Glide

Pairing: College AU! Frat Boy!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When your friends drag you to a frat house party during spring break you weren’t expecting much, but when you go to seek out a moment of silence and end up accidentally stepping into someone’s room, you end up forming an odd connection with one of the fraternity members.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Some Angst, Mentions of Alcohol and Drug Use, Reader gets a little anxious in the crowd and mentions agoraphobia, Swearing, Reader has beef with one of the fraternity members, Reader is a Chemistry Major, Bobs in Aerospace Engineering

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (Female and Male Receiving), Handjob, Bob is Inexperienced (but he’s enthusiastic to try everything), Bob talks a lot during sexual acts, Dirty Talk, Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, Making Out and Dry Humping, Bob is super sensitive.

Author’s Note: Frat Boy Bob y’all. This was technically a request, but I dashed away with it and truly came to enjoy this so so much. Also just as a side note lol, Frats aren’t really a huge thing where I am, they’re so subdued it’s not even funny, though if you go to party schools you’re definitely going to get an experience and a half (I did not go to a party school so I’m going off of my friends experiences at this point 😂)

Word Count: 17,352

”Tell me again why the hell we’re going to this party?” Your voice cut through the late evening air, low and flat, edged with irritation as you pulled your windbreaker tighter across your chest. The nylon rasped beneath your fingers, a poor excuse for protection against the sharp spring breeze. The smell of your dorm clung to it–laundry detergent, stale coffee, and whatever perfume your roommate had sprayed on in the vicinity of it.

The sidewalk beneath your sneakers was still damp from a passing rain shower. Faint streaks of moisture glimmered on the concerte, catching the fractured yellow light from the street lamps above. You stepped around a crushed beer can and kept your head down, following the clacking of heels and bare legs that were moving a few paces ahead of you.

Jess, Monica, and Sue, your friends by proximity. You had met them during welcome week and never managed to shake them–even though you didn’t really want to. They existed in a different orbit entirely, but they took you in with open arms and tried to crack the shell that you had built around yourself. They were the people that convinced you that college didn’t have to be all about studying and going to class and that it could also be fun too, despite the hefty tuition bill.

The girls had built a three person wall along the sidewalk, pushing against each other as they chatted and laughed about something you hadn’t heard, keeping balance on their heels, skipping cracks in the pavement. They were dressed like the party was going to be a runway show instead of an absolute chaotic mess. Jess wore a short leather skirt and a cropped corset top under a trench coat she wasn’t planning to keep on. Her hair was up, slick and sharp, gold hoops brushing her jaw. Monica had on a silver halter top that sparkled under every porch light you passed, paired with high-waisted jeans and glossy lipstick that matched the cherry polish on her nails. Sue, as always, looked like she’d stepped out of an editorial spread–draped in a backless silk dress and strappy heels that should’ve been impractical, but somehow weren’t.

You, on the other hand, were the outlier–and it was obvious.

Black low-rise jeans hugged your hips, the waistband dipping just enough to expose a sliver of your stomach where your t-shirt stopped. The top was fitted and a plain navy blue, not short enough to be bold, and not long enough to be considered modest–though it was enough to remind you of the cold every time the wind shifted. Your black sneakers were scuffed at the toes, laces uneven, but they were practical for the walk home.

Technically, you were dressed for the weather, but standing next to your friends made you feel underdressed in a different way. Not because you didn’t look good, but because you just didn’t meet the same standard they had set for the group.

Your question had interrupted whatever conversation they were tangled in. Jess glanced over her shoulder first, her earrings catching the light at the turn.

”Well, Jake personally invited us,” She explained, like that was a valid reason, “And you’ve been holed up in your room almost all of spring break studying. You needed to get out. Breathe some fresh air, get social contact apart from us…Maybe drink something that hits a little better than three iced coffees a day.” You groaned immediately at the name Jake, ignoring the rest of the comments she had made about what you had been doing during the break.

”Not that meathead…If I knew that moron invited you guys, I would’ve locked my door and turned off my phone.” Monica sighed.

”C’mon, Y/N, he’s not that bad.” You let out a short laugh–dry and humorless.

”He’s a douchebag. And he thinks I’m a cockblock because I don’t let him get handsy with you guys when you’re half a drink in. I think he’s exactly that bad.” Jess gave a low laugh.

”He’s just a flirt.” You hummed.

”Right, and I’m just a buzzkill.” You muttered. Sue looked over at you now.

”We appreciate the defense. Really. But tonight…We’ve got a bit of a bet going.” You raised an eyebrow.

“What, like who’s gonna bed him first?” There was a pause, and the silence was telling. It caused you to stop walking.

”Oh god.” You rubbed your fingers into the corners of your eyes like you could physically wipe the idea out of your brain. Monica didn’t even flinch.

”He’s hot! How can you not be curious?! I’ve heard a lot of good things…” You dropped your head, staring at her.

”You better make that guy bathe in hand sanitizer before he touches you. God only knows where he’s been.” That got a laugh–sharp, unapologetic. Jess bit back a grin. Sue let out a quiet, breathy chuckle behind her hand, and even Monica smiled.

They didn’t deny it. They didn’t defend him, either.

The four of you continued to walk, your pace catching up to them so you could get involved in their conversation a little more, as your ears caught a hint of bass echoing through the streets.

Campus was surprisingly crowded for a week that should’ve been quiet. Most students hadn’t gone home–not for lack of desire, but practicality. A three-day visit to your hometown wasn’t worth the bus ticket, the packing, and the return. The majority of people who didn’t travel long distances had quietly agreed to stay put, which caused a social pressure cooker of chaos. Parties bled from one house to the next, yards were flooded with empty kegs and pool floats, and of course people were out till all hours of the night taking in the extracurriculars.

You were one of the people who chose to stay, but it was for different reasons.

You had a chemistry midterm that was going to hit you on the Monday right after break, and you needed peace and quiet to get the thirty five page study guide your professor had emailed. You had been hunched over your laptop, dragging a pen across every other line and downing iced coffee like it counted as fuel. Your residence hall had been silent–peaceful in the way only empty buildings could be. No thumping floors. No bathroom chatter. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional door shutting down the hall.

And honestly, you liked it that way.

Which was why walking up this street, with the scent of cheap body spray and beer already creeping into the air, made your skin itch.

Jess, Monica, and Sue weren’t wrong–you had wasted half your break studying. But a frat party was a far cry from the kind of break you would’ve chosen. You would’ve taken a quiet bookstore, a blackout curtained room, maybe a hot bath. Instead, you were heading straight into the epicenter of campus chaos.

The house came into view like a rising tide–inevitable and loud.

Theta Rho Alpha Sigma Heta.

TRASH, for short.

It was a reputation as much as a name. It was burned into every party story, every Camus warning, and every early morning regret that started with “so we went to TRASH last night.” Ten fraternity brothers lived inside, and every square foot off the place bore evidence of that fact. It was a massive, century-old house–once regal, now abused. Three floors, five bedrooms, two makeshift attic spaces, a finished basement that doubled as a moldy second living room. The paint on the siding had faded into a blotchy, sun-peeled gray, warped by years of weather and neglect. The porch sagged under the weight of too many bodies. One of the support beams had been duct-taped after someone fell through it last fall.

The front steps were uneven, patched with mismatched bricks and sagging plywood. Two of the railing posts were zip-tied together in a last-ditch effort to pass housing inspection. The fraternity’s letters were bolted crookedly above the door, one hanging loose on a single screw. Half-lit from a porch light that flickered like a dying candle.

Light poured from every window–yellow, blown out, too warm. It cast strange shadows across the lawn, catching in the curls of smoke that drifted from blunts and vapes and burning firewood in the backyard pit. The music pulsed through the siding—more vibration than melody. Heavy bass that flattened everything it touched, beating into your chest like an arrhythmic second heartbeat.

The lawn was packed–shoulder to shoulder, people overflowing onto the sidewalk, the flowerbeds, the hood of someone’s car parked at a bad angle. Plastic cups were everywhere, crushed or half-full or abandoned in the grass. The scent of spilled beer hung in the air, warm and sharp, mixing with sweat, weed, fast food, gasoline from a knocked-over jerry can, and the stale breath of a thousand unwashed Red Solo cups.

Someone was blasting a megaphone from the porch steps–a guy in a backwards cap, red-faced and laughing, trying to shout over the music. You caught pieces of it: something about jello shots, something about the beer pong table being “winner stays,” and something that sounded suspiciously like “naked mile.”

Two guys were wrestling in the grass by the mailbox, one of them missing a shirt, the other holding a can of whipped cream like a weapon. A girl stumbled past them in glitter boots and a bikini top, waving a phone and yelling at someone you couldn’t see. Another was throwing up behind a bush while her friend held her hair and nodded along to the music like it was a shared ritual.

From the second-floor balcony, a makeshift banner drooped crookedly on a frayed bedsheet:

TRASH FEST 2NITE - NO RULES. NO EXCUSES. NO SLEEP.

“Jesus,” Jess muttered under her breath, pausing at the edge of the lawn. “It’s already booming and it’s not even 9:30. We are so late.”

You followed a few paces behind her, stepping carefully around a puddle of cheap beer that had soaked into the grass. “Didn’t know we could be late for a frat party,” You mumbled, eyeing the porch like it might collapse under the weight of the crowd.

But the girls were already in motion, rushing toward the chaos like it was gravity pulling them in. You hung back just slightly, weaving your way around the worst of the lawn–dodging a guy hurling glow sticks into the crowd and stepping over a discarded takeout container that looked like it hadn’t survived the walk from the sidewalk. Your shoes slipped slightly on the wet grass as you moved toward the porch steps, where cigarette butts and crushed cups had collected like driftwood on the edge of a rising tide.

You stepped up, sneakers hitting the warped planets, hand grazing the rickety railing as the music began to rattle your teeth at full force. The door was open, the entryway wide and glowing with overexposed yellow light. You could smell it all before you even crossed the threshold–booze, sweat, pot, deodorant masking body odor, and something burnt that might’ve been food or someone’s hair.

The second your foot crossed the threshold, it hit you all at once–the heat, the crowd, the crush of music and smoke and too many bodies packed into too little space. The entryway smelled like spilled tequila and cheap cologne. Someone’s hoodie brushed your shoulder, sticky with sweat, and you recoiled instinctively, scanning for your friends. Jess’s trench coat disappeared into the living room. Monica’s glitter top flashed once, then vanished into the blur. Sue was already at the bar cart in the corner, snagging plastic cups.

You were still deciding whether to follow–or leave–when he stepped in front of you.

Jake Seresin.

Leaning casually against the wall near the stairs, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

He looked the same as always–clean cut and cocky, like a walking recruitment poster that never had to try too hard. His hair was neatly styled, strawberry blonde in colour, and slightly dampened from either sweat or a shower. You didn’t know and quite frankly you didn’t care.

He wore a snug black t-shirt that clung to the curve of his biceps, jeans slung low on his hips, worn-in boots planted like he owned the floorboards. A silver chain peeked from under his collar, catching the glow from the overhead bulb. The smirk on his face arrived before he spoke.

“Y/N…I see you’ve decided to come out of your cave.” Jake’s voice cut through the heat and noise like he owned the damn place–which, unfortunately, he sort of did, especially because he was the head of the house. His smirk was smug enough to slap off his face, and the way he looked at you–lazy, head tilted just slightly–made your blood itch.

“Didn’t realize you were doing doorman duty tonight. What’s the matter–couldn’t con a freshman into kissing your boots on the way in?”

Jake laughed, low and amused. He shifted his weight, arms crossing, biceps flexing like it was involuntary. “Cute. But if you really wanted to see me, you could’ve just said so. No need to pretend you’re here for the punch.”

“If I wanted to see you, I’d schedule a lobotomy first,” You said, eyes scanning past him to where the party stretched out like a sweaty nightmare, “You’re like athlete’s foot. Persistent. Itchy. Impossible to get rid of.”

That earned you a flash of teeth, the smirk sharpening. “Damn. Must’ve missed that sparkling charm of yours. Thought maybe you’d chilled out since fall semester.”

“Nah,” You replied, smiling without warmth, “You don’t know me well enough to assume something like that.” He hummed.

”You always this feisty, or do you just save it all for me?”

“I save it for pests,” You shot back, “Like you.” And with that, you pushed past him–your shoulder clipping his lightly–just enough to make it clear you were done. You didn’t wait for a comeback. You didn’t care what his smug ass had to said next. The music hit harder in the next room, and the humidity had already begun to creep under your clothes like steam.

Sue caught up to you almost instantly, already grinning like she’d watched the whole exchange from the sidelines.

“Thanks for buttering him up,” she said, patting your arm. Her tone was teasing, but not mocking. “I’m going in for the first interaction of the night.”

You raised your cup-less hand and gave her a small salute.

“Good luck,” You shouted back over the bass, smirking. She gave you a wink before disappearing into the crowd, swaying through the bodies with ease. You peeled off toward the kitchen, dodging a couple making out near the coat rack and stepping over a few abandoned beer cans. The kitchen was a warzone of overturned shot glasses, and a group of architecture students stacking some of the spare red solo cups in a tower. To your left, a half-empty bowl of lime wedges was slowly withering beside an array of crumpled napkins, and then your eyes found the coolers.

There were three of them, stacked neatly along the wall beneath the fogged kitchen window–white Igloo coolers with duct-tape labels stuck to their lids like someone had planned this out. You paused for a second, brow lifting slightly. It was the first thing you’d seen in this entire house that resembled forethought.

POP / ENERGY / SPORTS DRINKS

It was handwritten in black Sharpie, a little smudged from condensation, but legible. Organized.

You flipped the lid, expecting warm cans swimming in brown ice water and maybe the scent of something that had once been fruit punch. Instead, it was ice cold. There were cans lined up in half-hearted rows–soda, sports drinks, a few scattered energy drinks, and even a rogue seltzer tucked in the corner.

You spotted the ginger ale immediately and grabbed it, the can blessedly cold against your hand. You popped the tab with a low crack, the fizz whispering up as you turned around and leaned back against the counter. The metal felt cool through your jeans, a shock of comfort against your overheated skin.

You brought the can to your lips and took a sip–dry, sweet, clean. The carbonation hit your throat gently, but the cold grounded you.

The nausea that had been curling in your gut since you stepped into the house–maybe even since you left the dorm–began to quiet under the fizzy bite. Not completely. But enough.

Your eyes scanned the room as you sipped. People buzzed in and out like bees. Music bled through the drywall. There were beer pong shouts from the living room, someone screaming off-key to a pop remix from the basement, and a girl in the corner of the kitchen trying to convince her friend that no, taking another shot wouldn’t fix the situation.

You took another sip of your ginger ale, but this time it caught in your throat.

You coughed into your arm, quietly at first—then once more, harder, sharp enough to make your eyes water. The fizz didn’t settle your stomach like before. It turned sour, bubbling too fast. Heat rose under your skin, too much of it. The air felt wrong—like it wasn’t going in properly, like the room had subtly tilted without warning and your lungs were working against it.

Maybe it was the noise. The press of people. The humidity clinging to every surface like a second skin. Or maybe it was you.

You blinked slowly, dragging in another breath through your nose, but it didn’t go deep enough. Your chest tightened instead. Like a pressure band had cinched beneath your ribs, subtle at first, then steady, then sharp.

Shit.

You glanced around again, searching for something—a signal, maybe. A reason to leave. A place to bolt to. But everything looked the same: sticky floors, laughing strangers, red cups tipping on every flat surface. Too much noise. Too much movement. You couldn’t catch your footing in it. Couldn’t ground yourself.

You didn’t know if you were going to throw up or have a panic attack, and honestly, it didn’t matter—because either way, you needed out.

You pushed off the counter. The cold had left your jeans, and your hand trembled slightly as you set your can down, half-full and already forgotten. The kitchen was a blur behind you, the music thudding harder now, bass lines vibrating in your teeth.

You moved fast, weaving through the main floor with quick, shallow breaths. Eyes down. Shoulders tight. The living room passed in a smear of sweat and cheap cologne, someone’s laughter bouncing too loud off the crown molding. You didn’t stop to said anything. Didn’t look for your friends. You didn’t want to worry them–not yet. Not until you figured out what the hell was happening.

Going outside wasn’t an option. Not with the yard full of people. If one of your friends saw you slipping out, they’d follow. Or worse–they’d worry. You didn’t want that either.

So you made for the stairs.

The banister was sticky and warm under your palm as you took the steps two at a time. Your breath hitched halfway up, chest clenching like your ribs were welded shut. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to keep going.

The second floor was marginally quieter, but the walls were still too thin. Bass leaked through every inch. Laughter echoed from behind doors, and the smell of weed hung low like a fog.

You moved fast–hand grazing doorknobs, cracking one open only to find two people already tangled on a futon, backlit by LED strips. You didn’t pause. You just kept going.

Next room: a circle of guys smoking out of a gravity bong made from an Arizona bottle. One lifted his hand in greeting, eyes bloodshot and lazy. You shut the door.

Another: a girl crying on the floor while two of her friends huddled around her with shot glasses. You closed that one a little more gently.

The hallway seemed endless. Your chest was still too tight. Like there wasn’t enough air on this floor either.

Then finally the last door on the left creaked open to a well lit, completely empty room. You stepped in, fast, and shoved it shut behind you, the slam loud in the sudden quiet. Your back hit the wood, hard enough to jolt your spine, and you didn’t care. The silence was immediate, muffled and warm and blessedly still.

Your eyes adjusted to the sight in front of you and almost immediately you were absorbing all the details.

The room was bright in contrast to the rest of the house–lit by a desk lamp angled toward a bulletin board cluttered with index cards and printouts. The overhead light was on too, not dim or tinted like the others downstairs, but clean and soft and yellow, illuminating the space in a way that made everything feel more grounded. Less warped. Less unreal.

Your eyes scanned the details, cataloguing without meaning to.

A twin XL bed sat tucked in the corner, sharply made with a green-and-navy plaid duvet pulled taut at every corner. The sheet edges were squared, the pillows firm and aligned. Not a wrinkle in sight. There was a subtle indent on the right side of the mattress—someone had been sitting there recently. Maybe even within the hour. But whoever it was, they weren’t here now.

You stared at the bed like it might steady you. Like if you focused hard enough, the room would stop spinning entirely.

Beside the bed, a heavy oak bookcase ran nearly the full height of the wall. It was packed with titles, every shelf brimming. Not decorative either–thoroughly read. Dog-eared paperbacks leaned into thick hardcover editions, grouped not by color or aesthetic, but by subject. Biographies. Math. Novels. Non-Fiction. Chemistry and Science. A few textbooks on differential equations, stacked beside a worn copy of Dune and a boxed set of The Lord of the Rings. Your fingers twitched, instinctively wanting to trace the spines.

You blinked slowly. Breathed in through your nose. The room smelled faintly like pine and laundry detergent–clean and muted. No sweat, no beer, no weed. Just detergent, and the faint dry scent of paperback pages.

A corkboard hung above the desk, pinned with exam timetables, lab schedules, a few biology notes, and what looked like a printed-out list of citations in 12-point Times New Roman. The chair tucked neatly beneath was ergonomic, not cheap. Beside it sat a large, dented water bottle and a stack of neatly bound notebooks.

Posters lined the wall–nerdy ones. Retro Star Wars prints. A 2001: A Space Odyssey poster framed in black. There was a NASA diagram of the solar system pinned above the desk, annotated in ballpoint pen like whoever lived here used it to actually study, not just decorate.

You took a step forward, the floor creaking under your weight.

“…Geeky,” You muttered to yourself, voice hoarse, quiet. The sound came out more like a breath than a statement. Your knees nearly gave out when you reached the side of the bed. You sat down slowly, hands braced on the plaid comforter, fingers splayed across the dense fabric.

It gave a little under your palms. Still faintly warm.

You let out another breath–long, uneven, but better than before.

Your heart was still pounding, but it was loosening its grip. Slowly. The walls weren’t closing in anymore. Your lungs weren’t seizing.

You tapped your fingers against the mattress and started listing what you could see.

“Desk lamp. Physics textbooks. Star Wars poster. Clean sheets. Plaid pattern.”

Another breath.

“Water bottle. Books on aerospace…Math. Scent’s clean. No body spray. No beer.”

Another breath.

It wasn’t magic. But it helped. saiding it all aloud gave your mind something to anchor to.

You swallowed, eyes fixed on the corner of the room. “Big bookshelf. Index cards on the corkboard. Neatly folded blanket on the chair.” You paused, blinking. “Shit,” you whispered softly, dragging your hand down your face.

It wasn’t that you were weak. You knew what this was. You’d never been diagnosed, but the signs were hard to ignore. The panic. The way crowds made your body feel like it was misfiring from the inside out. How your throat closed up in packed rooms. How every party ended with your head spinning and your jaw locked in quiet dread.

Agoraphobia. You’d read about it. Dismissed it. Then quietly reconsidered it. And then dismissed it again.

But tonight? Tonight your body had decided to remind you it was real.

You leaned forward, elbows to knees, head in your hands. Not crying. Just breathing. For a long moment, you stayed like that–drinking in the quiet, letting the static in your limbs slowly begin to fade.

The sound of the door handle turning ripped through the quiet like a thunderclap.

You jolted upright–spine snapping straight, fingers braced against the mattress, breath catching mid-inhale.

The door creaked open slowly, a rectangle of warm hallway light spilling across the floor, cutting a golden line through the carpet and up your jeans. And then he stepped inside.

You blinked hard.

He froze halfway through the threshold. One foot in, one out, like he hadn’t meant to walk in on anyone–and certainly hadn’t expected to find a stranger perched on his bed.

He looked about your age, maybe slightly older. Tall but not imposing, lean in the kind of way that came from long hours of running or lifting–not bulking. His face was unmistakable even in the soft light: gentle features, tousled light brown hair that curled slightly at the ends from where it had dried naturally, no product. A strong jaw softened by the faintest dusting of stubble. He had a pair of glasses perched on his nose–simple, silver rimmed, they looked similar to aviator glasses, just a little more rounded off in the lenses. They were crooked but he didn’t reach up to fix them.

And those eyes…Wide, bright, and startlingly blue.

Like the ocean under a cold sky. The colour made your stomach turn, and the way they reflected in the light made your head spin.

He wore a navy crew neck sweater with the university crest stitched over the chest, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing ink stains and a faint red pressure mark on his wrist where a watch probably used to be. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn at the knees, soft enough that they must’ve been his go-to. A can of sprite was in his hand, dripping from the ice that had melted over it.

“Oh. Oh god–I’m sorry.” The words rushed out of your mouth quickly, breathless, “I didn’t mean to–I wasn’t…” His brows lifted slightly, but there was no alarm on his face. Just surprise. His voice was low, quiet, and careful.

“It’s okay…I–uh–it’s alright.” He hesitated, eyes flicking across the room, landing briefly on your curled posture, your flushed face, the slight tremble in your hand as you pushed back from the bed. “Are you…Okay?” You blinked. Your heart was still hammering. Not from fear anymore–but embarrassment. Humiliation. He didn’t look like he thought you were stealing. He didn’t even glance toward the desk or the bookshelf. He was looking at you. Really looking. Reading the panic that hadn’t quite drained from your body yet.

You felt your shoulders curl in instinctively, defensive. But there was no judgment in his expression–just a quiet, earnest concern that felt way too soft for someone who’d just found a stranger in his room.

“I–” You swallowed, hand hovering mid-air like you weren’t sure whether to stand or bolt. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I just–I needed out. I was–I had to get out of the kitchen.” He nodded once, like he understood completely. He stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him–not all the way, but enough to soften the noise from the hallway. It was strange how quickly the room felt like a bubble again. A barrier. A pause from everything that came before it.

“I figured…” He said quietly, “The parties here get pretty loud and overcrowded, so I don’t blame you for wanting to get some peace for a minute.” You swallowed thickly, your throat still tight with leftover nerves, and exhaled through your nose.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice quieter now, “I can’t imagine living here, to be honest.” He smiled—not cocky like Jake, not smug or practiced. Just a small, self-deprecating curl of his lips, as if he agreed with you more than he was willing to admit.

“Noise-cancelling headphones really come in handy.” That earned a low breath of amusement from you.

“I guess you’re right with that one…”

He took a sip of his Sprite, the faint crackle of carbonation filling the small silence that followed. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly–just heavy with all the things neither of you were sure how to said yet. He stayed near the door, not wanting to hover or crowd you in any way. You watched him for a second, and then another, noting the way his shoulders shifted under the weight of the conversation–or maybe just the attention.

Then, softly, like he was testing the waters:

“I’ve seen you around before…In the science building. You’re in Chem 241, right?”

Your brows lifted slightly, caught between surprise and guarded curiosity. “Yeah… it’s my major.” You tilted your head. “How do you know what class I’m in?” He gave a sheepish, quiet laugh, the kind that curled at the corners of his mouth without ever really reaching full confidence. He ran a hand through his hair, the motion making it stick up slightly in the front.

“You’re in the class before mine. You’ve got kind of a familiar face.”

You paused, eyes still on him, your heart starting to settle into something else–less fight-or-flight, more puzzled curiosity. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly, but there was a warmth in his cheeks now, visible even in the soft lighting. A flicker of nervous energy vibrated at the tips of his fingers as he shifted his Sprite to the other hand.

Then, like the thought had only just occurred to him:

“Oh–Jesus, sorry. I’m Bob, by the way. Bob Floyd.” He grimaced slightly at the awkwardness of it, wiping his damp palm against the thigh of his sweatpants before offering it out to you, fingers curled slightly.

You hesitated for only half a second before reaching out and slipping your hand into his. His palm was warm, slightly chilled from the condensation of the can but dry now. The grip was gentle, just enough to be firm without overcompensating.

“Y/N,” You said quietly. Your name sounded softer in this room than it had downstairs-like the sound itself respected the quiet.

He smiled again. “Y/N,” He repeated, a little slower this time, like he was filing it away in some meticulous corner of his brain. “Nice name,” Bob said, quiet and genuine. The words weren’t perfunctory–they landed with a softness that didn’t feel like filler. More like a real compliment, shaped by how he said it. You blinked once, caught off guard by how sincere it sounded.

Before either of you could speak again, a sudden crash reverberated through the floorboards beneath you–so loud and forceful that your feet actually lifted a half inch from the mattress. Something heavy had toppled on the first floor. Maybe furniture. Maybe a person. Followed by a cascade of laughter that barely muffled the groaning bass still pounding through the walls.

You flinched, eyes widening, then looked toward Bob with a raised brow.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a frat house, by the way?” You asked, your voice dry but curious, brushing your palms down the front of your jeans. “You seem too…Sane.” Bob took another slow sip of his Sprite, his glasses catching the overhead light as he tilted his head slightly.

“It’s pretty good to have on a résumé,” He said mildly. “Minus the parties, of course.”

You hummed, the sound low in your throat as your eyes flicked toward the ceiling like you were scanning for divine confirmation. “Yeah…I think if any future employer found out the type of parties TRASH throws, I’m pretty sure you’d be hired immediately. Just for surviving them.” That earned an actual laugh from him–low and warm, the kind that started in his chest and curled up into his mouth like it surprised even him. It settled something inside you. Not the panic entirely, but the vulnerability that had followed it. His laugh made the room feel a little more human. Less clinical. More like a moment you weren’t intruding on, but sharing.

“I don’t participate in them, evidently,” He claimed, gesturing lightly toward his desk. “So I’d be lying.”

You followed the motion with your eyes–the papers, the water bottle, a perfectly aligned mechanical pencil, and what looked like a cracked-open packet filled with printed slides and diagrams.

“Evidently,” you echoed softly, tilting your head a little as you looked around again. “What were you doing?” Bob exhaled–half sigh, half breath of frustration–and stepped toward the desk. He reached for the study packet, flipping the top corner up between his fingers to show you the first page. It was already heavily marked–some in black pen, some in red. Diagrams had been annotated, circled, dissected line by line. Across the top margin, written in neat, even letters, was the course title: Space Systems Design – Midterm Review Packet.

“Studying,” He said. “I have the test on Monday, and I’m nowhere near done with this thing.” His tone was tired but not bitter, just resigned in the way that only students deeply familiar with academic despair could be.

You gave a quiet, knowing laugh–one that felt more like release than amusement. “Of course. I guess every professor gets off on torturing science and engineering students,” You muttered, stretching your arms briefly. “Because I’ve got a very similar packet sitting on my desk right now for my Chem Midterm.” He placed the packet back on the desk with a soft tap.

”Misery loves company, I guess.” He offered.

“More like intellectual suffering,” You replied dryly, crossing one ankle over the other where you sat at the edge of his bed. There was a beat of silence, the kind that settled into the warmth between two people who hadn’t yet decided if they were strangers or acquaintances.

Bob leaned slightly against his desk, fingers still resting on the edge of the study packet. He tilted his head just enough for his glasses to slip down his nose for a moment, then asked softly, “So…Who dragged you out of your studying and brought you here?”

You huffed out a breath, half a laugh. “My friends got personally invited by your frat brother Jake,” you said, tone flat and unamused. “I’m assuming you know him well.”

That pulled a low, genuine laugh from Bob–his shoulders lifted slightly, the sound soft and disbelieving. “Well… I guess he’s trying to expand his roster again.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little on your palms. “Guess one of my friends is getting lucky tonight then, if he’s looking to score.”

Bob let out a hum, lips twitching toward a grin. “As long as they have a pulse, they’re fair game.”

You groaned. “Figured that…”

Another crash exploded beneath your feet–some combination of broken glass and furniture legs giving out–followed by a howling cheer from the crowd downstairs. You both winced slightly, shoulders tensing at the same time.

Bob exhaled a sharp breath, then straightened. He looked at you carefully–not with pity, but consideration–and then asked, quiet and steady:

“You wanna maybe…Get out of here?”

You blinked.

He shrugged one shoulder, casual but sincere. “Denny’s is 24 hours. We could sit there for a bit, get something to eat. And I’m sure if we stay long enough, the party’ll start to die down. Then you can get your friends when they’re all done here…” It was such a simple offer. No pressure. No weird edge. Just a safe, open hand held out toward the exit sign.

And god, it was tempting.

“Yeah…” you said almost immediately, your fingers already moving to unlock your phone. “Yeah, that sounds great, actually. I’ll just text them and let them know I’m going.”

Bob smiled–wide this time, soft and relieved. “Great.”

You glanced back up at him, still a little breathless from the past hour, still not sure if this was all a fever dream or the best part of your spring break. But you smiled back.

And maybe, just maybe, your night was finally starting to turn around.

———————————

The walk to Denny’s wasn’t long, but it was everything you needed.

The fresh air hit your lungs like a blessing–not sharp, not cold, just crisp enough to wash the smoke and sweat from your senses. Each breath cleared your head a little more. The bass from TRASH still thudded faintly in the distance, but the further you got from the house, the more it faded into the background noise of a quiet college town on a restless spring break night.

The streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional burst of laughter echoing down from a distant porch or a cluster of bikes propped against a lamppost. The rain from earlier had left the sidewalks glistening, catching the glow from streetlights and shop signs like scattered glass. Bob walked beside you, not too close, not too far–just an easy, steady presence. Every now and then, his shoulder would sway slightly toward yours, like gravity had its own opinion on the distance.

Denny’s sat at the edge of campus like a low-lit promise. The sign flickered faintly overhead, buzzing with the tired hum of fluorescent tubes, casting a pale glow on the nearly empty parking lot. It was a local staple–open all night, slightly grimy, and universally understood to be the unofficial overflow space for students who couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to go home, or just needed somewhere to exist without judgment. You’d studied here before. So had everyone. It smelled like syrup and fry oil and burnt coffee, and for some reason, it always felt safe.

Inside, the place was quieter than usual. A couple of booths were filled–one with a pair of students whispering over open textbooks, another with two guys splitting a plate of mozzarella sticks and arguing over a March Madness bracket. But the energy was muted. Dimmed. Like the whole place had taken a collective breath and decided to chill.

You and Bob slid into a booth by the window, vinyl seats squeaking under your weight. The table was slightly sticky with syrup residue–standard–but the lighting overhead was warm and soft. You could actually hear yourselves talk. You could actually think.

The waitress–a woman with tired eyes and a pen stuck behind her ear–dropped off two mugs and a full pot of coffee without asking. She must’ve pegged you both as regulars, or at least as students. Bob gave her a soft “thank you,” and you echoed it before she disappeared behind the counter.

Bob poured the coffee first, filling your mug before his. The gesture was small, automatic, but it made you pause for just a second.

“I think breakfast is one of the only meals I actually enjoy at any time of day,” he said as he handed you the sugar packet holder.

You hummed softly, stirring a little cream into your cup. “Pancakes, waffles, French toast–all sweet things,” You replied, voice a little lighter now, “But I do agree…Breakfast foods are definitely better than most.”

Bob nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he reached for a menu. “Haven’t eaten much today, so I’m probably going to order a lot,” He said, deadpan but with a flicker of a smile. “Just warning you now.”

You laughed, slouching into your seat as you wrapped your hands around the warmth of the mug. “I won’t judge. As long as you don’t judge me for ordering an extra order of bacon. And possibly ham…And maybe another round of home fries.”

He looked up at that, a glint in his eyes beneath the lens glare. “Definitely won’t.”

Then, leaning forward just a little, voice conspiratorial and soft, he added, “But I will probably steal some of those home fries though, so…By all means, order away.”

You grinned, lifting your coffee to your lips. “Fair trade.”

And just like that, the tension that had wrapped itself around your ribs for hours began to unravel–for real this time.

It took a few minutes for both of you to confirm your orders–too many good, greasy options, too little brainpower left to commit. You squinted at the menu through the soft overhead glow, half your focus still caught in the feeling of warm coffee and the unexpected calm of the moment. Bob, meanwhile, flipped his menu once, then again, lips twitching like every option looked equally dangerous.

The waitress returned, pad in hand, looking only marginally more awake than when you walked in.

“I’ll have the fruit-topped pancakes,” You said, “With a side of bacon, ham…And an extra order of home fries…For the table of course…” You offered a small smile, like you were trying to excuse your own hunger, but she didn’t blink.

Bob, on the other hand, cleared his throat like he was preparing to read an oath. “Ultimate omelette, please. A side of pancakes, just the normal ones…And…A side of French toast, with bacon.”

She paused. Just slightly.

Her gaze slid over him like she was doing mental math on how someone built like a straight-laced study boy could possibly demolish what would equate to three breakfasts at once. Her brow lifted–just for a second–but she didn’t say anything. Just jotted it all down with a faint scribble of pen on paper, nodded, and disappeared with both menus in hand.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Bob let out a short, quiet laugh, leaning back in his seat. “I think I freaked her out a bit with all the food.”

You stifled your own laugh behind the rim of your mug. “Yeah, maybe a little. She’s probably wondering how you’re going to eat all of it.”

He shrugged, lifting his coffee. “We’ve got a bit of time. I think I can manage.”

That earned a proper laugh from you, low and genuine. You settled back against the booth as the hum of Denny’s buzzed softly in the background—silverware clinking, someone flipping a page from the next table over, a soft beep from the kitchen.

Bob took another sip of his coffee and set the mug down, fingers tracing the rim absently. “So…” He began, voice still gentle, “what’re you doing on campus during spring break?”

You exhaled slowly, watching the light catch the small glint of moisture still clinging to the window beside you. “My parents’ house is… A little chaotic,” You admitted. “And I really wouldn’t be able to study if I went back. So I just figured I’d stay in my dorm. Easier to focus. Cheaper, too.”

Bob nodded, listening like he really meant to. “Do you work?”

You reached up to scratch the back of your neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I work at Beans To You. Part-time barista. It gives me some extra spending money–enough to keep me caffeinated through exam season, anyway.”

That pulled another smile from him. “Do you like it?”

You lifted your hand and made a so-so motion in the air. “It’s fine. Tips are decent. My manager’s a nightmare, but I like the regulars.”

He nodded like he got it, then said, “I don’t really work…Not officially, anyway. Sometimes I write essays for a few of the frat guys and they pay me.” He gave a small shrug. “So I don’t know if you’d count that as a job or just…An Academic crime.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest like you’d just been personally betrayed. “You? Violating academic integrity? I’m shocked.”

Bob laughed, tipping his head down in mock shame. “Yeah, well…I can’t really keep a normal job while studying. Too much going on up here.” He tapped the side of his temple with a finger. “But I commend you for being able to juggle it.” You can feel your face heat up slightly.

“Thanks…” The silence between you and Bob stretches for a few seconds–comfortable, not strained. Outside the Denny’s window, a streetlight flickers, casting faint gold shadows across the table. The warmth of your coffee mug seeps into your palms, grounding you even as your thoughts turn over the night like a loose coin.

You glance over at him, chin tilted slightly, voice soft. “So why are you still on campus during spring break? Since you asked me…”

Bob’s hand curls around the coffee pot again. The ceramic glugs quietly as he refills his mug, steam rising faintly into the warm air between you. He doesn’t speak right away–just watches the dark liquid settle.

“Same as you, pretty much,” He replied after a beat, setting the pot back down. “But… I also don’t have a lock on my door, and the guys go into my room pretty often to steal things, so…” He shrugs one shoulder, faintly sheepish. “I figured it was better to be there. Y’know–stand guard.”

You smirk and lean forward slightly, grabbing a little plastic creamer cup from the holder and rolling it between your fingers. It clicks softly as it spins. “Interesting that you have a bunch of thieves in your presence.”

That earns a laugh from him–low and rough with amusement. “Well… they’ll always give the stuff back, of course. But only if I remind them.” He lifts his mug, lips quirking slightly as he takes a sip.

You hum, raising a brow. “Still sounds like thievery to me.”

His cheeks tint pink as he glances down into his cup, swirling it once before replying under his breath, “Touché I guess…” The silence slips in again—brief, like a shared breath—and you let your gaze settle on his hands for a moment. They’re long-fingered, a little ink-stained around the knuckles. Gentle, despite the size. His nails are clean but bitten at the edges. Tired hands. Capable ones.

Your voice cuts through the quiet again, this time softer, almost curious: “Your girlfriend must not like the guys coming in and out of your room, though.”

Bob pauses mid-sip. His lips part like he’s going to reply quickly, then he stops. A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He sets the mug down gently.

“No girlfriend,” He confirmed finally. His voice is steady, but there’s a faint guardedness behind it. “Kinda stopped trying with the whole dating thing. It was a bit… much.”

You blink at that. “Too much of a line-up?”

That draws a real laugh from him–quiet, exasperated, a hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck. His glasses slide slightly down his nose again.

“Oh, please…” He chuckles. “No. No line-up for me. I mean—look at me.”

You do, pointedly. “I am.”

He goes redder. You smirk.

“It’s just…” He exhales, shoulders relaxing as his fingers stir the coffee absentmindedly. “It’s complicated, y’know? I’m not very good at the whole–putting yourself out there thing. And I think people expect something when you show up to a date all prepared and polished. It gets weird. You have this whole pressure to perform. To be ‘on.’”

You tilt your head slightly. “Well, you seem to be outgoing. You’re doing pretty good with this conversation. I don’t know how it could be complicated.”

Bob stirs the sugar in his mug, the spoon clinking gently. He looks down at it, not quite meeting your eyes, but not avoiding them either.

“Maybe it’s because you’re pretty easy to talk to,” He explained. “It’s different when there’s no pressure. No expectations. You didn’t show up tonight wanting something from me. We just…Met. You don’t have a picture in your head of who I’m supposed to be.”

That strikes something in you–a truth you hadn’t quite realized was sitting at the edge of your own thoughts. You nod slowly, leaning a little further into the table.

“That makes sense,” You said softly. Your hand brushes the edge of the sugar packet holder again, fingertips tapping faintly. “I also think you walking in on me having a bit of an anxiety attack probably helped. With you staying calm, I mean.”

Bob’s head lifts slightly. His blue eyes catch yours again–bright, steady, warm. “That too,” he said, with a small smile. “It kind of cut through the usual noise. I knew what it was the second I saw you.”

You raise a brow gently. “Do you have experience with that kind of thing?”

He nods once. “I’ve had my moments. I’m…Pretty familiar with what it looks like. What it feels like.”

You feel your chest loosen–just slightly. There’s something in the quiet way he said it that wraps around you like a thread. Honest. Matter-of-fact. Not dramatic. Just shared.

You sip your coffee again, letting the silence settle in a way that feels companionable now, like you’ve both earned it.

Then Bob lifts his head a little more, his glasses catching the light as he looks at you across the table. His voice is lower now. “You’re okay now though, right?” You could feel your heart catch–not in that suffocating, chaotic way from earlier, but in a softer, almost stunned kind of ache. Because here he was: Bob, a stranger only hours ago, asking with quiet sincerity if you were okay. Not out of obligation. Not to get something from you. Just… because he cared. And somehow, that mattered more than you were prepared to admit.

“Yeah,” You replied, your voice light, but genuine. “I’m definitely feeling much better. I think it was just…How cramped the house was, to be honest.” You gave a soft, sheepish smile, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Wasn’t really a fan, I guess.”

Bob nodded, the corners of his mouth curling faintly. “That makes sense,” He murmured. “I think TRASH is like… the physical embodiment of a migraine.”

You snorted, and it broke the last of the lingering tension between you.

Before either of you could respond, the clatter of ceramic and the faint shuffle of sneakers announced the return of your waitress. She placed your food down with the weary grace of someone who’d balanced plates through hundreds of midnight shifts.

“Alright,” She said, eyeing the table, “Round one.”

She set down your fruit-topped pancakes–stacked high, glistening with syrup and dotted with blueberries and strawberries. The bacon was curled and crispy, the ham thick-cut and slightly charred at the edges. A steaming mountain of home fries followed, golden and peppered with bits of caramelized onion.

Bob’s first plate came next: a monstrous omelette, folded tight and stuffed with peppers, ham, cheese, and something else that looked like it might have once been alive and screaming. French toast followed, dusted with powdered sugar and still steaming, then the final plate of classic pancakes–plain, but perfectly browned and stacked like they belonged in a diner commercial.

“Damn,” You muttered as she walked away to grab another pot of coffee. “You weren’t kidding.”

Bob gave a faux-serious nod. “I take breakfast very seriously.”

Conversation flowed easily now, spilling over between bites and swipes of syrup, the low hum of the diner cocooning you in soft sounds: the hiss of the kitchen, the occasional ding of a timer, and the quiet scrape of forks over ceramic.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite professors. Weirdest drink orders you’d ever made at work. Other times, he said things you hadn’t expected: like how he wanted to work in aerospace design someday, or how he didn’t sleep well unless there was white noise playing somewhere nearby.

Somewhere between your second helping of home fries and Bob’s last piece of French toast, your phone buzzed. You picked it up mid-chew and glanced at the screen.

Jess: we’re heading back. dorms are too far but jake’s breath is worse. I’m tapping out.

Monica: don’t wait up <3

Sue: text when you’re home safe pls 🫶

You thumbed a quick reply, a warm smile tugging at your lips.

You: i’ll be good. i’ll text when i get back to the residence so you know i got home safe <3

When you set the phone down again, Bob was watching you–not in a weird way, just casually, curiously, like he could tell something in your expression had shifted.

“Friends bailing on you?” He asked, reaching for the last bite of his pancakes.

You nodded. “Yeah. Party must’ve worn them out.”

“Probably for the best,” He started, “It starts getting rowdy at around this time.” You snorted.

”What’s new? It’s like y’all don’t sleep, I’ve heard enough stories that it literally feels like when I don’t go to one of your parties I still attended.”

Bob laughed so hard he almost choked on his coffee.

By the time your plates were mostly empty and the coffee pot had been drained down to lukewarm remnants, you realized just how late it had gotten. The booths had began to thin out even more–there was just one table of students left, dozing over half-finished pancake stacks. The quiet was deeper now, but not uncomfortable.

The waitress returned to your table just as you were lifting your mug for one final sip, now half-cold and slightly bitter. Her pen was already poised, her notepad loose in one hand, her face unreadable behind the faint sheen of a night shift glaze.

“It’ll be one bill,” Bob said before she could even ask, his voice smooth but casual.

Your head jerked slightly in surprise, a protest already rising in your throat. “Wait, no–Bob, come on, you don’t have to–”

He shook his head gently, cutting you off with nothing more than a glance and a small smile. “It’s all good,” He murmured, already pulling out his wallet. “You got me out of the house for the first time this week. I owe you.” Your cheeks warmed, a slow bloom of heat rising into your ears. You blinked down at your mug, then back at him, and that’s when the sky opened.

A sudden roar of rain crashed against the diner’s roof, pounding like a thousand thrown pebbles. The windows misted almost instantly, a sheet of water streaming down the glass and distorting the world outside into a watercolor blur.

Bob flinched slightly, twisting in his seat to look outside. His shoulders hunched on instinct, and a low, resigned sound escaped from his throat. “Well…” he said, squinting past the droplets, “That doesn’t look good.”

You turned your gaze to the window and let out a dry laugh, exhaling softly as you looked down at the windbreaker you had draped over your lap. The nylon was thin and practically useless, more aesthetic than functional, and the idea of stepping into a monsoon in it was laughable at best.

“Guess I’m gonna be taking a second shower tonight,” you muttered.

Bob laughed—a soft, tired huff that carried the warmth of shared annoyance. He reached for the debit machine the waitress had just placed down, brows furrowing slightly at the glowing screen.

“I mean…” he began, eyes still on the numbers as he typed in a 20% tip with practiced ease, “TRASH is closer than your residence, I’m assuming…”

You stilled, your fingers lightly tapping the rim of your coffee cup. You raised an eyebrow and tilted your head toward him, a smirk flickering at the corner of your mouth. “Are you asking me to stay over at the frat house for the night?”

The question hung in the air, playful but open-ended, wrapped in something more vulnerable beneath the teasing. Bob’s fingers hesitated only a second on the keypad. Then he cleared his throat, his jaw flexing faintly as he focused a little too intently on the screen.

A tinge of pink crept into his cheeks, barely visible in the soft overhead glow, “Well,” He started, still looking at the machine, ““I don’t think it’ll be as chaotic as it was when we first left. It’s…”

He pulled his phone out of his hoodie pocket, thumb swiping the screen quickly before glancing at the time. His voice was slightly rough when he spoke again. “1:58…So most of the party crowd’s probably passed out or Ubered home.” You let the moment linger, your gaze resting on him as you traced the edge of your mug with your fingertip. The rain was still coming down hard, a near-constant shushing against the glass. You could feel the chill creeping in from the windowpane behind you, but your fingers were warm.

Your tongue flicked out to dampen your upper lip–an unconscious movement. “Okay,” you said quietly, meeting his eyes as he finally looked up. “You’re right.”

Something flickered behind his glasses–relief, maybe. Or hope.

“So…” He asked, voice gentler now, “Is that a yes?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it for dramatic effect. Then you nodded, slow and sure, your smile small but certain. “Definitely.”

———————————

By the time you reached the frat house again, your windbreaker had clung to your frame like a second skin–useless, soaked through, plastered to your arms and back. Bob hadn’t fared much better; his sweatshirt was darkened with rain, sweatpants sticking to his legs, curls dripping water down the sides of his face. You both half-jogged the final stretch of the walk, laughing breathlessly as puddles splashed beneath your sneakers, your jeans growing heavier with every step.

The porch light still flickered above the sagging steps of TRASH, casting its usual jaundiced glow across the warped wood and the crowd that lingered despite the downpour. The music inside had dulled to a murmur now–more background hum than bassline. A few people still lounged on the porch and by the windows, some wrapped in borrowed blankets or wearing half-soaked hoodies, clearly unwilling to brave the rain to get home.

You and Bob didn’t say anything as you stepped back inside. You didn’t need to.

The shift in temperature was immediate. Warmth hit you like a wall–sticky and musty from the remains of the party, but comforting after the rain. Your wet clothes clung to your skin, and you blinked against the fog that immediately fogged up Bob’s glasses.

He muttered something under his breath and took them off, reaching blindly for the nearest surface. A tissue box sat crookedly on the edge of a table cluttered with empty bottles and a half-eaten slice of pizza. He snagged one with a quiet “thanks,” as if the house had done him a favor, and carefully wiped the raindrops from the lenses.

You stood beside him, dripping gently onto the floorboards, ignoring the damp squish of your socks in your shoes.

“This is your fault,” You murmured dryly, nudging him with your elbow, pointing down at your shoes.

Bob smiled behind the tissue, his glasses still in hand. “Can’t control the way I splashed the puddles, it’s not my fault.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of the exchange settled between you like steam, softening the cold still clinging to your back.

The climb to the second floor was quieter than before–no bodies spilling down the stairs, no screams from behind doors. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of a nightlight near the bathroom and the soft hum of a TV still playing somewhere behind a closed door. You padded side by side, shoes squelching softly, until you reached the door at the very end.

Bob stopped and looked down at the wet prints you’d both left on the wood floor. “Wait,” He said, hooking a finger into the heel of his sneaker. “Let’s not trash the room on the way in.”

You mimicked him without question, tugging your own shoes off and stepping gingerly onto the dry patch of carpet just outside his door. Your barefeet were cold against the wood, but you followed his lead as he opened the door and ushered you inside.

The warmth of the room embraced you immediately–soft light still glowing from the desk lamp, books undisturbed, bed still neatly made. It looked exactly as you’d left it, like the universe had paused while you were gone. A pocket of calm in the storm.

Bob shut the door behind you with a quiet click, and you both stood there for a second, wet and shivering, taking in the familiar scent of detergent and paper and pine.

You turned to him, wringing out the bottom hem of your shirt slightly. “So…What’s the protocol here?” You asked, gesturing vaguely to your soaked clothes. Bob cleared his throat, the sound soft but a little strained as he shifted in place. His hair was damp and sticking to his forehead from the humidity of the rain and the faint warmth of the room.

“Um… I have some spare clothes you can wear,” He said, gesturing vaguely toward the small closet on the far side of the room. “They might be a little big, but…”

You shook your head immediately, brushing a few wet strands of hair back from your face as water dripped quietly from your sleeves. “I don’t mind,” You murmured. “Not really trying to impress anyone.”

That earned the faintest smirk from him, quick and crooked–just a twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He turned away and opened his closet, the wooden door creaking faintly on old hinges. Inside, everything was neatly stacked or hung: flannel shirts, hoodies, folded sweats, a few plastic hangers twisting slightly from where they’d been jostled. It wasn’t much, but it was organized–just like the rest of him.

After a second of deliberation, Bob pulled out a pair of flannel pajama bottoms–soft-looking, forest green and navy plaid–and a white t-shirt with faded navy lettering stretched across the front.

You tilted your head, brows lifting slightly. “‘The All-State Mathletes’?”

He sighed. “Yeah…It was a math team I was on in my first year. Don’t ask.”

You grinned and took the bundle from his hands, brushing your thumb across the worn fabric of the shirt. “I’ll take anything at this point.”

“I figured,” He muttered with a low huff of a laugh. Then, with a tilt of his head, “Bathroom’s two doors down. Towels are in the top drawer if you need one.”

“Got it.” You nodded, stepping back into the hallway barefoot, flannel bundle tucked under your arm and your wet clothes slapping faintly against your side with every step.

The bathroom was empty–thank god–and you wasted no time peeling off your drenched clothes. The fabric clung stubbornly, cold and limp against your skin, your jeans making that awful suction sound as you dragged them down your legs. The windbreaker hit the floor with a wet slap, your socks not far behind.

The dry fabric of the borrowed clothes was a godsend.

The pajama pants were big, predictably, and you had to roll the waistband twice just to get them to sit above your hips. The t-shirt hung past your thighs, thin and worn soft with age, the letters cracked and faded from a thousand washes. You caught your reflection in the mirror briefly as you towel-dried your hair–still damp–but a little steadier now.

You bundled your soaked clothes into a loose pile in your arms and padded back down the hall, feet cool against the hardwood. The party had dulled into something sleepy and distant. A door creaked open somewhere behind you, but you ignored it, your focus set entirely on the quiet golden glow spilling from the crack beneath Bob’s door.

When you opened it, your hand halfway full of damp denim, you froze in the doorway.

Bob was halfway through pulling on a clean shirt, the fabric bunched in his hands as it hovered just below his collarbone. His back was to you, bare and still slightly damp, pale under the soft overhead light. And god–he was lean, sure, but he was defined. His shoulders tapered into the strong slope of his spine, the muscles along his back pulling tight with every breath as he raised his arms. His skin was smooth, but the planes of him were lined with quiet strength–faint dips and ridges casting gentle shadows across his shoulder blades and the curve of his waist. You hadn’t expected him to be built like that.

Your throat went dry.

You coughed–a soft, involuntary sound that slipped from your chest before you could stop it.

Bob startled slightly and turned, shirt still bunched in his hands. His glasses were back on, fogged faintly from the warmth of the room. His cheeks went pink almost instantly, like the realization had only just hit him. “Oh Jesus,” he muttered, yanking the shirt over his head in a single, awkward movement. “I didn’t know you’d be back already.”

You took a cautious step in, one hand tightening around the bundle of wet clothes clutched to your chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just walk in–didn’t really expect you to be…Changing.”

Bob shook his head as he adjusted the hem of the shirt, tugging it into place at his hips, smoothing it over the faint damp patches on his new pair of navy sweatpants. “No–it’s fine. Really. Uh…Let me get you a towel for your pillow…And I can throw your clothes in the dryer so they’ll be good by morning.” He moved quickly, brushing past you with careful steps, warm air trailing in his wake. You caught the scent of him as he passed–faint detergent, piney body wash, something subtle and clean that clung to the soft cotton of his shirt.

He opened a small drawer near the dresser, pulling out a thick grey towel and handing it to you without making eye contact. Then he glanced down at the soaked bundle in your arms and gently reached for it.

“I’ll toss these downstairs now,” He offered. “Give me five minutes and they’ll be spinning.”

You nodded, lips parting slightly. “Thanks. Really.”

Bob’s expression softened as he looked up at you–his blue eyes still wide behind the lenses, but a little calmer now. “Do you want a drink or anything?” He asked as he backed toward the door. “I’m probably gonna grab some water before…Sleep.”

You hesitated, then gave a small, grateful smile. “Yeah. Water is fine…Thank you.”

He nodded once and slipped out the door, leaving you alone again in the soft glow of his bedroom. The sound of his footsteps faded down the stairs, and you sat slowly at the edge of the bed again, towel draped across your shoulders, the smell of his room slowly working its way deeper into your skin.

You thumbed open your group chat as you sat at the edge of Bob’s bed, the thick towel still draped over your shoulders like a shield. Your wet clothes were gone–already clunking softly in the dryer downstairs–and the cold had mostly left your skin, replaced by the slow radiating warmth of his room.

The group chat lit up under your fingers:

You: made it back to the frat house safe. staying here tonight—will explain tmrw. love you guys. <3

A second later, Sue reacted with a heart. Jess sent a gif of someone raising an eyebrow dramatically, and Monica just wrote: “knew it 😉”

You rolled your eyes and let out a soft breath of amusement, then set the phone down on Bob’s desk, the screen glowing faintly for another second before fading to black. You turned back toward the bed and let yourself sink into the mattress, exhaling slowly as your shoulders dropped. The towel slipped from your frame, and you folded it carefully, placing it over the pillow before lying back, arms stretched loosely at your sides.

The room hummed around you. Softly. Comfortably. A distant thump of music still pulsed from the floors below–muted now, a sleepy echo of chaos already starting to dissolve into morning fog. Somewhere, a door clicked shut. Pipes murmured in the walls. And the desk lamp bathed the room in a low, golden glow, casting soft shadows against the bookshelves and the edge of the closet.

Then, the door opened again.

Bob entered quietly, closing it behind him with the same practiced care he’d used all night. His hair was slightly less damp, the ends curling gently around his ears. A bottle of water was tucked in each hand, condensation trailing slow rivulets down his fingers.

“Here,” He said, holding one out to you.

You sat up slightly, taking the bottle with a soft “Thanks,” and cracking it open. The cap clicked beneath your fingers, the cool water a sharp contrast against your warm skin. Bob twisted the top off his own and took a quick sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Then he lowered it and glanced toward the bookshelf with an unreadable expression.

“I’m just going to grab a blanket,” he said casually, “and take the spare room.”

You paused mid-sip, brows lifting. “What?” you said, letting the cap snap gently back in place. “You don’t want to share a bed?”

Bob’s eyes darted to yours, surprised. His lips parted faintly. “You…want to share a bed?”

You shrugged, voice light but steady. “Well…yeah. I don’t really mind. There’s enough room, isn’t there?”

His gaze flicked to the mattress like it needed to be double-checked. “Yeah, there is,” He admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just thought you wouldn’t want to be sleeping in a bed with a stranger.”

You tilted your head, the edge of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Hey now,” You teased softly, “Come on. We aren’t strangers.”

Bob huffed out a breath–a laugh, almost. “We met less than twelve hours ago and we’re already sleeping in the same bed. Seems fast.”

You stood slowly, the blanket falling back in soft folds behind your legs. “I’m fine with fast if you are,” you said, tone flirtier than before, the words curling at the edge like steam rising from pavement.

Bob looked at you for a long moment. His eyes flicked down your frame briefly–respectfully–but you caught it. Just the faintest breath of a glance at the oversized shirt, the rolled waistband of his pajama pants on your hips. Then he swallowed, the movement subtle but visible.

You climbed under the covers, placing your towel-topped pillow against the headboard and leaning back into it. The sheets were soft–cotton, a little warm from the dryer, carrying the faint scent of his detergent. Your body sank into the mattress like it remembered the panic you’d felt hours ago and wanted to nestle into something still, something safe.

You patted the empty space beside you, eyebrows raised in invitation. “Well?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just smiled–shy and a little stunned–and shuffled toward the bed like he didn’t quite believe this was real. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he climbed in beside you, his long legs folding under the blanket, which he pulled up to his shoulders like muscle memory.

His shoulder brushed yours–barely–but the heat of it lingered.

You reached across your chest and handed him your water bottle without a word. He blinked once, took it with a murmur of thanks, and leaned over to place it gently on the nightstand beside his own. The lamp clicked off a second later, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint sliver of moonlight that slipped through the small window of his room. A silver-blue sheen spread softly across the edge of the comforter.

The quiet pressed in, not heavy or stifling, but thick with awareness.

Your bodies didn’t touch, but the heat between them curled like smoke.

You could hear the shift of the covers when Bob adjusted his legs, the soft whisper of fabric against skin as he rolled slightly toward you on instinct–then seemed to catch himself and settle again on his back. The bed creaked faintly beneath the motion, and then stillness returned.

The air smelled like clean cotton, pine body wash, the faintest trace of rainwater clinging to the ends of your hair. You turned your head on the pillow slightly, voice just above a whisper.

“Still awake?”

“…Yeah,” He said quietly. “You?”

You nodded in the dark. “Mm-hm.”

The quiet stillness wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, warm but buzzing with something new. It had shifted—gently, imperceptibly—but it was there now. Not the panic. Not the awkwardness. Something softer. Something waiting.

You turned over slowly, your arm sliding across the blanket as you rolled onto your side, the mattress giving slightly under your weight. The movement made a faint rustle, just enough for him to hear.

Bob shifted too.

His silhouette turned toward you, quiet and careful, until you could make out the soft rise of his chest beneath the covers, the faint slope of his shoulder, and the curve of his jaw in the pale wash of moonlight. His glasses were gone, probably folded on the nightstand with your water bottles, but even in the dim light you could see the glassy reflection of his eyes.

Blue. Gentle. Wide. Fixed on yours.

“Do you maybe want to maybe…Do something?” You asked, voice soft, watching as he swallowed hard.

”…What…What do you have in mind?” You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch between you like silk. Then your gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, to the shape of his mouth.

Soft, parted slightly. Waiting.

His breath caught–just the faintest hitch–and you saw his eyes flick down to your lips, mirroring you. Like instinct. Like gravity.

You leaned in.

It was tentative at first–your chest barely grazing his, your hand resting lightly on the edge of the pillow as you crossed the final few inches. Bob didn’t move, but his breath deepened, a quiet exhale drifting over your cheek as your nose brushed his. Then you closed the distance.

Your lips met his, soft and feather-light.

He froze for half a second, as if stunned–but then he kissed you back. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but so gentle it almost made your ribs ache. He moved like he was afraid to shatter you, like this moment was too fragile to claim outright.

His hand came up slowly–hesitant at first, then steady. His palm cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. The contact lit a slow-burning warmth across your skin. He let out a breath–long and unsteady against your lips, like the kind you exhale when you’ve been holding it too long.

He pulled back just a little, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he hovered, eyes open now, close enough that you could feel the faint tremble of his breath. You opened your eyes too.

And then you leaned forward again.

This time it wasn’t tentative. Still soft, still slow–but heavier now. More certain. You kissed him with your full mouth, with the weight of everything the night had built. Your lips parted slightly and so did his. The kiss deepened, quiet but lingering, the kind of kiss that said I see you. I feel this too.

Bob responded with a quiet sound in the back of his throat, like the breath had been pulled from him again. His hand shifted from your cheek to the base of your skull, fingers slipping into your damp hair, holding you with a gentleness that made your stomach flutter.

Your other hand found his forearm beneath the blanket, the heat of his skin a slow thrum against your fingertips. He tilted his head slightly to meet your mouth more fully, deepening the kiss just enough that you felt your body lean in instinctively. His lips moved against yours with the kind of reverence that made your breath catch–slow, aching, as if he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch. Just enough for air. Just enough to look at you.

The moonlight caught in his lashes, his irises shining like sea glass. His lips were redder now, parted slightly, the corner of his mouth trembling faintly from restraint or disbelief. His thumb brushed along your jaw as he studied you, breath still coming a little faster than before.

“Is this okay?” He whispered.

Your heart twisted at the softness in his voice. You nodded–barely a motion–but it was enough.

“Yeah,” You whispered back. “It’s perfect.” Bob stared at you for a breath longer, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like this whole thing might vanish if he blinked too fast.

Then he leaned in again.

The kiss that followed was deeper–hungrier. Less tentative. His hand was still cradling the side of your face, thumb brushing under your eye, but there was a new weight behind the way he kissed you now. A heat that curled up from the pit of your stomach, spreading like honey beneath your skin. His lips parted a little faster, like he was giving in to something he’d been holding back.

You pressed in with him, lips slotting together again and again, and then you moved–your body shifting under the blanket as you brought one leg over his hip, slowly, testing.

Bob froze for half a second–just long enough for you to hesitate–but then his hand moved. The one on your cheek slid down, dragging lightly along your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder, until it found your thigh. His fingers curled around the back of it, firm and warm, and pulled you gently closer.

You moved instinctively, hips settling into the cradle of his body, your leg draped loosely over his, pressing in. The blanket bunched around your waists, forgotten. The worn cotton of his borrowed flannel pants brushed against your skin as you rocked forward, just enough to feel the heat between your bodies catch.

His breath hitched.

The kiss deepened again, your lips parting just slightly, just enough to taste his breath. And then you felt it–his tongue, tentative but sure, slipping past your lips to meet yours. It wasn’t sloppy or rushed. It was slow and searching, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth from the inside out. You responded in kind, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt, gripping the soft cotton as you rolled your hips again–just once.

Bob gasped against your lips.

It wasn’t loud, but it was raw–half breath, half sound, the air from his lungs catching in his throat. You felt the heat of him through the fabric, the slow, aching tension building there. His fingers dug into your thigh just slightly, not enough to hurt–just enough to pull.

You did it again. Slower this time. Your hips moved in a slow, steady circle, the friction sweet and hot even through the layers of borrowed clothes. Bob broke the kiss suddenly, his lips parting with a soft huff of air as his head tilted back against the pillow.

“Fuck–” He breathed, almost inaudible, as though it had been dragged from him by accident.

You pulled back slightly, brushing your nose along his cheek before pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Get on top?” he asked, voice rough, uncertain but yearning.

You nodded, lips still brushing his.

He shifted beneath you, back arching slightly as he rolled onto his back, adjusting the blanket so it slipped lower across his hips. You followed the motion, moving carefully, straddling him with slow, deliberate movements. The oversized shirt you wore fell forward slightly, hanging off your shoulders as you adjusted your weight over him.

His hands settled instinctively on your thighs, fingertips flexing gently as you leaned down to kiss him again–this time firmer, more desperate. It was less polished now, more honest. You kissed like people who hadn’t had something like this in a long time. Like this was a secret you weren’t supposed to be sharing but needed anyway.

You began to move again, hips rocking gently against him in a slow rhythm that made his jaw slacken beneath your mouth.

Bob groaned–quiet, tight–and his hands moved to your waist, holding you just a little more firmly now. His breath was hot against your mouth as he kissed you harder, sloppier now, letting go of some invisible restraint. Your thighs squeezed around his hips, the pressure sending heat curling down your spine. You could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants now, the heat of him pressed up between your legs with every slow drag of your hips.

His moan broke the rhythm.

Soft and helpless. It slipped into your mouth like a secret.

You pulled back, barely, kissing the line of his jaw and the soft, exposed skin of his neck. He tilted his head just enough to give you more space. His throat flexed when you kissed him there–gently, again and again–before murmuring softly:

“Are you okay?”

His fingers tightened just slightly where they rested on your hips. His breath came a little faster now, chest rising against yours in shallow waves. And then, softly, almost embarrassed:

“I…I’m a bit sensitive…”

You paused, still straddling him, your hand smoothing lightly over his chest. The thump of his heart was rapid beneath your palm.

You looked down at him, eyes searching in the dark. “Are you…A virgin?”

He shook his head quickly, cheeks flushed red even in the faint light.

“No…No, not a virgin. But it’s…It’s kind of been a while. And I haven’t… I haven’t had sex with many people.”

Your heart softened at the honesty. The way he said it, not ashamed–just cautious. Like he wanted you to know what you were working with. What you were holding in your hands.

You leaned down, brushing your lips gently against his jaw.

“We can stop if you want,” You murmured. “I don’t mind just doing this. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Bob shook his head immediately, voice quiet but steady. “No…No, we can keep going. I want to. I really want to.”

You smiled, slow and reassuring. A gentle hand slid down to his chest again, your thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt as you spoke.

“If you want to stop, just tell me, okay?”

He nodded, eyes wide and warm. “Okay.” You leaned down again, your lips brushing the corner of his jaw, then trailing lower, slow and coaxing. Bob tilted his head back, just enough to expose his throat to you, and you took the invitation without hesitation–pressing soft, lingering kisses to the curve of his neck, the warm hollow beneath his jaw. You let your tongue flick out lightly, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint tang of piney body wash and rainwater still clinging to him.

His breath hitched again when your lips ghosted over the edge of his collarbone.

You kept moving downward, slow and deliberate, your hips still rocking gently against his as your kisses followed the slope of his body. The heat between your legs pulsed against the firmness beneath his sweatpants with each subtle shift, each teasing grind of pressure. You could feel him trembling slightly under you–barely noticeable, but there.

Then, without a word, he shifted.

He leaned up just enough to grab the hem of his shirt and peel it over his head in one fluid, unhurried motion. His hair stuck up in damp little curls as he tossed the shirt aside, chest rising and falling more quickly now, bare and flushed under the faint light.

You paused.

Your gaze swept over him–up close now. Every inch of him laid out before you. His chest was broad, lined with soft muscle, not overworked but strong. The subtle lines of his ribs shifted with each breath. A faint trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweats, and your mouth went dry again.

“Jesus,” You murmured, almost to yourself, your fingers ghosting over his sternum. He shivered under your touch. Your hands traced down slowly–past his chest, over his stomach, feeling the flutter of his abs tensing beneath your palm. You kissed each inch as you moved, warm and open-mouthed, pushing the comforter lower as you went.

He was breathing harder now, lips parted, one hand fisting the sheets beside him as he fought to stay still.

When you reached the waistband of his sweatpants, you looked up.

“Can I take these off?” You asked softly, fingers already hooked into the fabric.

Bob looked down at you, eyes glassy with heat, and nodded. “Yes… Please.”

You pulled them down slowly, dragging them past his hips, down his thighs, then off entirely. Your breath caught as he was finally exposed to you–fully, completely. He was big. Thick and flushed and already twitching under your stare, the head glossy with arousal, a vein pulsing visibly along the underside.

Your eyes widened just a little.

He saw it.

His face went red immediately, arms twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to cover himself or not. “Is…Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly–so quickly it made your hair shift. “Yes. Oh my god…Yes.” You reached up, wrapping your hand around him carefully. His whole body reacted–his hips stuttered and his eyes fluttered shut, a choked gasp leaving his lips. His thighs tensed beneath your knees.

“Still okay?” You asked gently, your hand already stroking him in slow, reverent pulls.

He opened his eyes, dazed and breathless, and nodded. “Yeah. Fuck–yeah.”

You leaned forward then, dragging your mouth along the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, kissing just above the base of him. His hips jerked slightly under you. And then you took him into your mouth.

The reaction was immediate.

Bob let out a sound–high and broken, something between a moan and a whimper–and his hand flew up, grabbing at the pillow behind his head like he needed something to hold on to. You started slow, letting your lips stretch around him, your tongue tracing every inch you could reach, eyes flicking up to watch the way he unraveled.

It was messy. Your lips were already slick, your breath hot against him as you took him in deeper, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t manage. You let spit slide down your chin, let your tongue swirl at the sensitive underside of the head, and when you pulled back just enough to suck softly–he whimpered again.

“Fuck–Fuck, you’re–” He didn’t finish.

His chest was heaving now, one hand clenching the sheets, the other twitching at his side like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. You glanced up again, your eyes meeting his as you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time. His head fell back.

He tried to warn you. “I–I’m gonna–shit–”

You didn’t stop.

You kept going, messy and steady, humming softly around him. That was what pushed him over.

He came hard.

It hit like a jolt–his thighs tensed, a full-body tremble ran through him, and his hips jerked once, deep and involuntary. You swallowed everything, kept your mouth on him, letting him ride everything out with soft, wet pulls until he was gasping, his voice broken and breathless.

“Holy shit…” He whispered, “Holy shit.” You pulled off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, then kissed the inside of his thigh gently. He twitched under the touch, already so sensitive.

You looked up at him.

His hair was wild against the pillow. His chest was still rising and falling fast. He looked wrecked–in the best way. Flushed and dazed and entirely undone.

“…You okay?” You asked softly, your voice a little hoarse. He nods. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, a light sheen of sweat just beginning to bead at his collarbones. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“You’re…” He swallowed, almost like he didn’t believe it himself. “You’re so good at that.”

You smiled–lazy, warm, lips still glistening from where you’d had him in your mouth. “Glad I didn’t disappoint.”

Then you began kissing your way back up, slow and teasing, your mouth trailing over his thigh, the curve of his hip, the faint dip of his navel. His body tensed in small waves under you, his hands twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to grab you or ground himself.

By the time you reached his chest again, your lips hovered above his, your palms pressed flat against his ribcage as you straddled him once more. The moment your mouths met again–softer now, slower–he kissed you like he could still taste himself on your tongue. Like he didn’t care. Like it made him hungrier.

Then, without a word, he shifted beneath you.

His core tightened–subtle but strong–and his hands slid firmly up your sides. And in one smooth, steady motion, he turned you both. Rolled you right onto your back, his body pressing down over yours, careful but deliberate. The mattress dipped beneath the change in weight, the blanket twisting around your waists as he settled on top of you.

You gasped, then laughed, the sound half-breathless. “Oh, okay,” You whispered, grinning up at him in the moonlight. “You’ve got muscles after all.”

Bob smirked–still shy, still pink in the cheeks, but he liked that reaction. You could tell.

His hands skimmed up beneath the oversized shirt, fingers warm and reverent as they rested just below your ribs. His thumbs rubbed slow, uncertain circles into your skin.

“Is this okay?” He murmured, already breathless again, eyes locked on yours like he’d stop the world if you flinched.

You nodded slowly, voice quiet but steady. “Yeah. Let me take it off for you.”

Bob leaned back just enough to let you sit up, his hands sliding down to brace your waist. You grabbed the hem of the shirt and peeled it up and over your head in one swift motion, the cotton catching briefly at your wrists before falling in a heap beside the bed.

The second you were bare to him, Bob’s eyes darkened. Not with anything aggressive–just wonder. Awe.

Then his mouth was on you immediately.

He leaned down, lips brushing the curve of your breast, then the center of it, then closing over your nipple with a gentleness that made your breath stutter. His mouth was hot–wet and reverent–and when he sucked, slow and careful, your back arched instinctively off the bed.

You heard him moan against you.

It was low and quiet, but you felt the vibration hum through your skin, straight down your spine. One of his hands came up to cup the other breast, thumb flicking across the nipple, just barely grazing it–testing your reaction. You gasped, thighs shifting beneath him, and his fingers twitched in response.

He liked that. He really liked that.

Bob switched sides without warning–his lips moving from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of kisses behind. He sucked more firmly this time, tongue circling your nipple before pulling it into the warmth of his mouth. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, broken moan, your fingers threading into his hair.

You tugged. Not hard, but enough.

His breath hitched again, and he groaned into your skin.

The sounds he was making were softer than you’d expected–gentle and desperate all at once. As if pleasuring you was more overwhelming than being pleasured himself. He took his time with your chest, letting each kiss linger, letting each flick of his tongue draw another gasp from you. He alternated pressure, learning what made your back arch, what made you squirm, what made your thighs tremble against his hips.

You tightened your fingers in his curls and whispered, “Bob…Fuck.”

He pulled back, lips red and wet, his breath warm against your breast. His eyes flicked up to yours.

“Can I go down on you?”

The question hit low in your stomach–immediate, electric.

Your lips parted before you even thought. “Yes…” A breath. “Yes, please.”

His smile broke through slow and stunned, like it had just dawned on him that he’d get to do this–that this was real. He kissed your sternum once, then lower, reverent as he worked his way down your body. His hands slid beneath the waistband of your pajama pants, fingers brushing your hips gently.

You lifted your hips in silent offering.

The flannel was untied with fumbling fingers–more eager than graceful–and he tugged it down with care, eyes glued to your body like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. You helped him, pushing the fabric past your thighs, letting it fall in a heap somewhere at the end of the bed.

Bob shifted between your legs, hands bracing your thighs as he kissed the inside of one, then the other. His short strands of hair brushed your skin, his breath hot and unsteady against the most sensitive part of you, and when he glanced up–eyes wide, lips parted–you thought you might actually combust.

He settled lower. Breathed deep. And then tasted you.

The sound he made was immediate—a choked, guttural moan that vibrated through your entire pelvis.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked already. “You taste so good…”

Then his mouth was back on you.

Hot, open, eager.

He didn’t know what he was doing at first—at least not perfectly—but he learned fast. Every whimper, every shift of your hips, every breathless moan was something he studied. His tongue flicked, then flattened. Lapped broad and slow, then circled tight and precise, adjusting to your reactions like he was memorizing you.

The warmth of his mouth was overwhelming. It was everywhere. Wet and insistent and so good.

Your back arched and your hips rolled forward on instinct, chasing the pressure, and he groaned into you again—into you—like the weight of your pleasure was his. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you open for him, holding you steady like he needed to stay here, buried here, like he couldn’t risk missing anything.

“Bob–oh my god–”

You felt him moan at the sound of his name, his tongue dragging slow and deep, lips sucking just enough to make your breath catch and stutter. It was dirty and worshipful all at once. Sloppy and reverent. It had you squirming against his mouth, your legs trembling on either side of his shoulders.

Then he paused.

Pulled back just barely–just enough to catch his breath and speak. His voice was thick and panting, his lips shiny, chin wet.

“I’m gonna…” He swallowed. “Add fingers.”

You let out a breathy, desperate moan, hips twitching up toward him involuntarily.

“Fuck, Bob…Please.”

He dipped his head again, kissing your clit once–soft and wet–before trailing lower with his tongue as his hand slid between your thighs. You felt the first press of his fingertips at your entrance–tentative, reverent–and then one slipped inside, slow and gentle, curling just enough to make you cry out.

“God,” He breathed, kissing your thigh as he moved. “You’re so wet…”

He added the second without warning–easing it in slowly, stretching you around his knuckles, and you swore the breath left your body in a rush. His fingers filled you, thick and warm and so good, and he started moving them–slow and firm, curling upward just right, just right–and then his mouth was back.

This time, he devoured you.

Messy, hungry, moaning against your clit as his fingers worked inside you, finding a rhythm that had your entire body going taut. You were writhing now–hips lifting, thighs clenching, voice catching in your throat as you tried to stay grounded, stay still, but he was relentless. Determined.

Like he’d waited years to do this and he was making up for lost time.

You felt it building–hot and sharp and inevitable–and your hands found his hair, pulling tight, holding on for dear life as your body surged forward.

“I–I’m gonna–fuck, Bob, don’t stop–”

And he didn’t. He just moaned into you, tongue flicking faster, fingers pumping deeper, curling as he groaned in response to your tightening around him.

You shattered.

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into the mattress, your hips twitching against his face as you came with a full-body spasm, mouth open in a silent cry. You heard yourself babble his name, hips bucking helplessly as the orgasm tore through you, hard and fast and blinding.

Bob kept going. Gentle but steady. Lapping you through it, moaning into you like your pleasure was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You finally collapsed back into the sheets, breathing ragged, hair clinging to your forehead. You laughed–soft and winded–still twitching every time he brushed too close.

He lifted his head slowly, face flushed, lips slick, chin glistening in the low light. His pupils were blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“You okay?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked up at him, dazed and completely blissed out.

“You’ve been blessed…” You dragged in a breath. “With such raw talent.”

Bob blinked–then laughed. Hard. Giddy. His smile broke wide across his face, messy and flushed and so proud. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Definitely. You were so good… So, so good.”

His cheeks turned red. “Like, uh… Good enough for a second round?” He teased, voice low. Your smile widened, slow and a little wicked, still flushed and catching your breath. “I think…” You murmured, voice soft but laced with heat, “I want to feel you. Actually.”

Bob’s breath caught. His eyebrows rose just slightly, like the words had short-circuited his brain. “Yeah?” he asked, half-disbelieving.

You nodded, lifting your hand to trace a lazy finger along the line of his jaw. “If you want to, of course.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I want to.” His voice was rough again, thick with desire, but gentled by the way he looked at you. With care. With hunger. With awe.

He crawled slowly up your body, his hands braced beside your ribs, his chest brushing softly against yours. His lips found your collarbone first–featherlight and reverent. Then your neck, where he pressed an open-mouthed kiss just below your ear, tongue flicking briefly against your skin.

You could feel him, hard and hot, dragging against your inner thigh as he moved. It made your hips roll on instinct.

“Going down on you really got me going…” He breathed into your skin, voice low and desperate, hips twitching slightly. His body was shaking with restraint.

You giggled–a breathy, warm sound that made him smile as you turned your face toward him. Your mouths met again, lips pressing together, and you tasted yourself on him–your own slickness still clinging faintly to his lips, his tongue. You kissed him deeper, your hand sliding along his spine.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You really want to?”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Do I need a condom?”

You watched his pupils dilate at the question, a harsh breath catching in his throat. “I’m on the pill, and I haven’t had sex in a bit but my recent STD test was clean.” You added, voice even softer now.

“Fuck…” He breathed, voice cracking a little. “Okay.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time–urgent but not rushed. Like he needed to feel you everywhere before he could push in. One of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding the heat between your thighs with instinctive precision. He nudged the tip of himself against your folds, dragging it up and down–slick and hot–through your wetness.

You both groaned.

Your hands gripped his arms, fingers curling into his skin as he slowly began to push in. His body trembled above you, the pace careful but steady, like he wanted to feel every second of it. The stretch burned in the best way–deep, hot, slow.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, his voice completely wrecked. “You feel so good… You’re so fucking warm…”

You gasped when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, every inch of him buried deep inside. The fullness made your toes curl, your whole body responding with an involuntary tremble.

He didn’t move right away. Just hovered above you, his breath ragged, his eyes searching your face. He kissed you–softly–his mouth trembling slightly as he whispered:

“You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

You moaned at that, your thighs tightening around his waist, your hands sliding up his back and digging in just enough to make him gasp. His hips drew back and rolled forward again–deep, grinding, slow. Each thrust pressed his pubic bone against your clit, and the sensation made your breath stutter.

“Oh–fuck–“ You gasped, your voice catching.

Bob stilled immediately, looking down at you through glassy, blown eyes. “You okay?”

You nodded frantically, hand gripping his bicep. “Yeah. Do it again.”

He did.

Again. And again. A slow, sensual grind that hit exactly right every time. Your hips began to twitch under him, your breath breaking in little gasps as you chased the rhythm with your body.

He moaned into your mouth as he kissed you–lips sloppy now, too lost in the moment to care. Every sound he made was raw: gasps, whimpers, soft broken curses whispered against your lips and skin.

“Fuck… You feel so good, so good around me, sweetheart,” He rasped. “You’re squeezing me—God, you’re… You’re perfect…”

The praise was relentless. You could barely breathe from how hot it made you.

You tightened around him, fluttering involuntarily with every thrust. You were close again–dangerously close–and the next roll of his hips sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

Your orgasm hit with a choked moan, your nails digging into his back, your body clenching tight around him as your hips bucked helplessly. Bob groaned as your walls squeezed him, loud and unfiltered.

“Fuck–I’m gonna–” He gasped, hips stuttering.

Then he buried himself deep, letting out a ragged, whimpering moan as he came inside you, face pressed into your neck. You felt his teeth graze your skin, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

For a moment, you both just lay there–panting, gasping, covered in sweat and warmth and each other.

Then he slowly lifted his head, eyes dazed but bright, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised.

“…Do you,” He began, breathless, “Do you want to go out to dinner with me tomorrow?”

You blinked, and then started laughing–a soft, disbelieving, breathless laugh.

“That would be really great,” You murmured, your voice thick with affection.

Bob grinned, wide and flushed, before collapsing gently beside you on the mattress. Your legs tangled. Your breath slowed. The room hummed in the quiet aftermath, soft and safe and one with the both of you.

[hanafubukki]

Imagine having soulmates in Twisted Wonderland. Soulmates could be platonic or romantic.

Soulmates were connected in various ways. Some had the red string of fate, some the other’s eye color, some had words on the body, and others could hear voices.

For Lilia Vanrouge, it was colors.

He couldn’t see certain colors until he met his soulmates.

The first time he saw the color silver was when he was introduced to Meleanor Draconia. Her clothing and jewelry gave way to her status but also her fierce nature.

The first time he saw the color blue was when he met Levan. What a fitting color for somone so kind and calm. The perfect complimentary color to silver.

The years pass on, and yet, Lilia still couldn’t see certain colors.

What was green, purple, and red to him? When he had never known them? Who knew it would change his life so drastically when he first saw them?

The first time Lilia sees green; it appeared at the time of Malleus’ birth. The sharp acid color stood out to him as he hold onto the little fae. So feisty and rebellious just like his mother with fire spitting out of his mouth. As kind as his father as the baby fae then licked at his cheek in regret of any injury he may have given. A son born out of his love.

The first time Lilia sees purple; it came about on a whim. Visiting an old castle with years of memories. Holding a babe close as the little one cried. Purple eyes emphasized by tears. The little one calming as Lilia hummed him a loving lullaby, blessing the babe right after. A son he learned to love.

Lilia saw the world in an almost complete picture. He was content with that. Not many can say they had met their soulmates. Especially someone like him, who was graced with five.

Not to say he wasn’t curious about his missing one at times. Who was it that bore the color red?

The color known for passion, desire, and happiess?

A color symbolizing destined fate?

Imagine his surprise, when he met with you one day, and he suddenly saw the color red.

What a beautiful color it was.

He understood, then, the significance of the color red and its’ tie to you.

Your passionate nature.

Your desire to live life the way you wanted.

Your desire for happiness for yourself and for others.

You who would somehow end up bringing a smile to everyone’s face, be it fond or exasperated. The way you brought one to his just by being you.

You certainly charmed him, had him falling for you.

Was it the way you smiled at him? Maybe it was when you helped with his pranks?

The way you stood up to him when it came to his family? Maybe even how you would help him cook meals despite other’s warnings.

Or maybe it was the way he allowed himself to be vulnerable to you as he gradually let you into his heart? A place he rarely let anyone in.

How he looked forward to seeing you every day? Making him look forward to the future and not run from it.

The kisses you both would share in the hallways or in your rooms? The gentle and sometimes teasing touches. Your eyes shining bright as the stars in the sky as if he was your world as you had surely become his.

Lilia knew.

It was everything about you that ensnared him so irrevocably.

Red.

It also has another meaning, didn’t it?

It was the color of love.

His world complete.

It was filled with love.

It was truly beautiful.

[blkgirl-writing]

Valentine's day drabble HCs for the men of BG3 x Reader

These are a collection of small drabbles written in different styles for valentines day! Warning Gales is the longest, whoops.

Gale:

Gales cold warm hands grasped around your waist from behind, squeezing your skin gently as he rested his head on your shoulder.

"The earl grey lavender, please-" He kissed your neck softly, speaking in a quiet tone. It was a perfect day inside his tower, the rays of sun beaming through the stained glass, fluttering rainbows across the cozy kitchen. The kettle whistles quieting down as you took it off the stove.

"It's already in the mug, lovely" You gestured to his favorite mug, a heavy stoneware piece decorated with flowers of purple and pink encased in a golden heart, he said it reminded him of when he realized he had loved you. You never fully asked why, but it made enough sense to be sweet.

"How you know me so well." Gale Smiled. You finished pouring the water and handed him his extra-strong tea. He leaned against the counter, blowing on the drink a few times. "Maybe I should have told you earlier, but I do have a surprise for you."

"I thought we said no gifts!" You batted his shoulder playfully, "though I'll admit, I didn't follow that rule either."

"is that so?" Gale leaned in to kiss your lips through a smile. "We just can't seem to help ourselves."

"So what's this gift?" you asked. He set down his own mug, ducking into the pantry to retrieve a box, unwrapped and simple. He placed it on the counter and patiently waited, his excitement barely hidden in his smile.

You opened the small box to reveal a mug, a matching mug to his, but a dark blue with purple and red flowers, with a silver heart. It was gorgeous, less heavy than his and somehow it felt built to hold within your two hands.

"Oh Gale, it's perfect." You kissed his cheek, refusing to let go of the mug quite yet, the hug would have to wait.

"I had it specifically made by the same artist. Tara now has a similar water bowl as well. She felt left out" Gales hand slipped around your waist yet again. "as much as I love it when you steal my mug, I thought it was beyond time you had your own as well."

"Oh so you didn't want me using yours?" Your teasing turned into pecks, which led to kisses- "Your gift is waiting in the bedroom," You smirked, hand caressing his messy hair. "If that's ok, of course,"

"I was secretly hoping that was the case." His hand intertwined with yours, nearly sweeping you off your feet.

Wyll:

Wyll had been staring at you for some time before you'd woken up, the sun shining down on your resting face, the definition of peaceful. Wyll hadn't remembered pure peace, it had been years since he'd felt fully at rest, but with you, calmness was as easy as breathing. All he had to do was look at you, and he remembered serenity.

He had made sure he was the best man for you, the best man he could be. He loved you with all his heart and made sure you felt like a goddess above every waking moment of your lives together, however long that may be. He loved the small moments you shared, like when you'd tripped and nearly fallen, but straight into his arms. "Well I didn't think you'd be falling head over heels for me this fast," He'd said. And you'd laughed and smiled, and he swore he'd do everything to keep that smile on your perfect lips.

He remembered your first date, where he had tried so hard to reserve a seat at the best restaurant in baldurs Gate, but ended up in a dingy bar, getting more drunk with each cup, and instead of spending the night entangled in each other's bodies, you'd shared barely cohesive thoughts and stories from lives long past. He learned your favorite color, your old friendships, and the star that you felt most connected to, the smaller details that never seemed to have enough time for during your big adventure.

Or the time you'd styled his hair into braided buns, which he'd kept in until his hair was frizzy and far past wash day. But you'd worked so hard on it to be perfectly symmetrical that he never wanted to take out your work. He asked you to help him with his hair, after that, not just because you were good at it, which, hells, you'd made him feel confident in himself for the first time since he grew his horns, but because your light touch sent him into a nearly meditative state of bliss. The way your fingers carefully combed through his hair, spending time to detangle each knot with such care that he had barely noticed it at all. And eventually, you'd taught him how to do your hair, too. Eventually wearing matching styles (if he asked politely), and took turns in the "hair chair"

"Honey?" You whispered, groggy and barely awake, "have you been staring at me again?"

"Is it a crime?" Wyll asked, placing a light kiss on your forehead.

"Only if I was drooling"

"Oh, but you look too adorable when you drool." He chucked, holding you closer to his warm chest.

"Shut up..." You pouted, eyes fluttering open and closed, trying to force yourself awake. But sleep had you tight in it's arms, and so did Wyll.

Astarion:

Red was his favorite color, after all. The room was dripping with it, black, gold, and dark, burgundy. Candles dripping hot wax down into careful carafes, soon to be poured and decorating your skin. It was romantic, it was warm, and it was lustful. Astarions eyes never left you, dancing across your body in pure sin, he clearly knew exactly how your night would unfold, and the only hint he'd give you was the devilish smile on his lips.

"It's going to be a long night, hm?"

"Oh yes, darling" Astarion purred, his hand sliding into your hair and pulling downwards, revealing your neck to him. His fangs scraped against your bare skin, but not piercing it, no, that was for later, with much less clothing and a lot more sweat, when all you could see was his snow-white skin and the blood rushing through your veins.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

@shyminnie07 @makers-breath @claryvoyantfray @black-sapphic @fapqueen

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

(Consider supporting me on Ko-fi)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[wendichester]

not a req, just a thought!

yesterday i finished sp for the first time and i've been thinking all day that maybe Dean's heaven had some memories/scenarios of bad hunts because he grew up so used to nasty things that, maybe, he might have been happy to just be in the moment hunting with sam and jword

okay but this is such a heartbreaking dean take and i couldn't agree more. because, it' almost too real. dean's baseline for "normal" was always twisted by trauma. the man was raised in a world where danger equaled purpose, where saving people meant being in pain. so yeah... it makes complete sense that his version of heaven might include just not the good, golden-lit moments, but also the bittersweet, bloody ones--because to him, even those were home.

i can perfectly picture the exact moment post hunt. sammy. john. no one's really hurt. sam's snarking. dean's covered in mud and monster's guts, and somehow--he feels whole. because in that fleeting second, there's order. everything's where it's supposed to be. he has his family. he has a purpose. and even if its violent and messy, it's his.

maybe part of his heaven is that weird motel room with the creaky bed and crap wallpaper, all three of them eating burgers and pie, talking over a police report, laughing. that was his childhood joy. the hunt wasn't just survival--it was a ritual. a connection. an identity.

and dean's always such a "shoulder-the-weight" kinda guy. so i wouldn't be surprised if his heaven still had echoes of hardship. not because he had to suffer, but because he couldn't imagine peace without a little grit in the gears. his version of happiness wasn't soft white clouds--it was the quiet after chaos.

dean died a hero. he was given peace on a silver platter, and still... you just he'd carry this quiet ache in his chest. because he never truly believed he deserved more than scraps. and heaven? even when it's finally good? it still can't quite patch the holes in him.

mary ( coming back) never truly saw him as a soon. in fact, that whole reunion arc was gutting. he idolized her, held on to that impossibly perfect memory of "mom baking pie" like it was the last clean thing in the world. and when he finally gets her back? she's distant. she's awkward. she looks at him like he's a soldier, not a son. and it wrecks him. because deep down, he's still that little boy in the firelight whispering "i got you sammy". and he wanted someone to say that to him--just once.

and in heaven, where everything is supposed to be whole and full of light, jack's version is still interactive, not isolating, sure--but not whole. lit's flickers. like spiritual facebook or something. sam drops by when he can. cas, maybe, floats in and out like a blue-swirly therapist. mary's off doing her "peace" thing with john. and dean, what? rides the backroads in the impala alone?

dean never really got anyone. not permanentaly. not in the way sam got jess. or eileen in the later seasons.

like, imagine: sam's with eileen, finally getting a taste of the normal dean always wanted for him. hell, he could even be with jessica. and dean, he smiles. he says "i'm happy for you, sammy". and he means it. he is. but he goes back to his garage. back to his pie. and it's quiet. too quiet. because yeah--heaven's interactive. mom and dad are next door. bobby's there. but that doesn't mean anyone stays.

that emptiness? that little pit in his soul? it doesn't just vanish. it's baked in. god. does that make sense? or am i too far rambling to even have a grip anymore? that even after all he gave, all he lost, even in the afterlife, dean winchester still only gets pieces of people. never the whole.

well, now i'm upset.

[lovemiraamira]

The Revenge List // Ellie W.

Chapter One - The Wedding List

hello there beautiful people!! the prologue got significantly less traction than the introduction, and i think it might be the lack of the smut tag lmao… i’m not gonna put it on ones that don’t have smut however because i don’t wanna disappoint people looking for that. there will be some soon though! btw this is all written in lowercase, which is the usual writing habit i have. you’ll learn i’m a sucker for using song lyrics to orchestrate pieces of writing, so the first chapter of this is titled and built off of the first half (intentionally) of the song that inspired this fanfic! hope it is enjoyed <3

warnings: much angst, descriptions of gore, pure shock, things along those lines, (i will probably only proofread these every few chapters — i plan for there to be 12 — so it has not been proofread)

“no i’ll never give the hunt up, and i won’t muck it up”

“your ‘something blue’ is here, dear.” your mother says. she steps towards you, holding a shining silver broach, with blue gems. it is in the shape of a bluebird; it is small, fragile, and perfect for the side of your dress. she didn’t know it, but her gift meant a lot to you. in a couple hours, you will be that bluebird. your freedom in the hands of the only friend you’ve ever had. you smile at her sweetly, “thank you, mama.”

a small sting of nervousness pits in your chest. you have a weird feeling that you cannot describe, but you can only connect it to the chances your parents have caught onto you and luca, which were low with how well you had thought out this ordeal.

“somehow this is it, i knew. maybe fate wants you dead too.”

you look like nothing short of a princess. your parents had chosen for your dress to have sheer sleeves for the sake of modesty, but you wouldn’t complain about a damn decision they made for you any longer. you’d take it, because it was almost over. it was almost over.

there is a small silver cross dangling from your bouquet. blue petals of narcissus mix with the gorgeous bloom of white myrtles. a single blue primrose graces the middle of the assorted mix. you bring it up to your nose and take a hazy whiff of the scent of those flowers. it only sharpens the feeling you had even more. as you’re engulfed in that funny feeling, your mother pokes you slightly as she puts the broach on the sash-like part of your skirt. “ouch!” you whipser.

“my apologies, sweetheart…” she mutters, voiced filled with saccharine. you stare dead into her fresh pearl eyes, and this time the iridescence does not disturb you. “it’s fine, mama.” you say with a small smile plastering your shiny lips. this was the moment she knew something had changed within you.

“are you nervous?” she asks, and you simply nod. your mother gets up from her knees and brings her lips to dawn a feathery kiss on your temple. “don’t be. you’ve known luca since diapers, we’ve always known this would be the boy you’d marry.”

her emphasis on boy did irritate you, but you didn’t think twice about it. remember. you are that bluebird, and your freedom flight is a couple human steps away.

“we’ve come together in the very same room. and i’m coming for you”

you struggle only a little bit in walking in those heels as you move towards your father. two of your cousins help carry and place the train of your dress.

“well aren’t you beautiful. gotta say im sad i didn’t get to see you in your allegiance attire, but i would’ve missed those pretty eyes… having them replaced with white and all.” he places a hand on your lower back and your face visibly drops.

“i’m almost a married woman, dad. it’s disrespectful to talk about the allegiance ceremony stuff here, isn’t it?” you state, briskly attempting to look away from him. he redirects your face, and declares that “it is only fair for your papa to be sad letting his baby bird go, isn’t it? i should get to reminisce on what could have been…”

“alright, dad.” you frustratingly sigh out. you keep telling yourself it is almost over. almost. over.

“do you think i’d ever let you… get away with it,, huh?”

he removes his hand from your back and instead grabs your hand. “you’re all grown up. its bittersweet to see.”

yet again, your fathers touch has scorched an uncomfortable flame in your stomach. you have to whisper just quiet enough so that he would not notice, “it’s almost over.”

and you take your first steps from under the pretty canopy, hearing the bells ring and the pianist begin to play.

“he swooned in warm maroon”

as soon as you begin to walk the isle, it feels so much more real than you ever thought it could. you immediately make eye contact with luca. his face lights up like a sunshine fresh after rain. before you know it, you’re smiling too. to other people, this was the look of love, romance, a beautiful marriage waiting to occur. to you and luca, this was sweet and hopeful victory.

every hit of the ivory keys slowed with the moment and your steps feel long and staggered. this is happening so fast and so slow for you at the same time and the adrenaline surges inside you until you’re damn near dizzy. you look at all the guests as you past — momentarily — but your vision always makes its way back to luca’s.

you feel your wings strain under your skin. you can even feel the splitting of your shoulder blades as they push through. you swear if you looked back you could see those big blue wings preparing for flight behind you; heavy feathered and new.

“theres gas in your barrel, and im flooded with doom.”

luca immediately matches your giddy smile once you let go of your father’s hands and meet him at the altar. this is when the ceremony really begins for you. “hello there gorgeous” he whispers.

“hey luca” you whipser back. both of you were so ready to say your vows.

“may i go first?” you ask immediately when you’re prompted the idea. your family thinks this is untraditional for them and that the man should go first, always, but the priest lets you stand on your indifference.

“luca,” it starts, and those in the crowd even shortly gasp at the suspense and sincerity.

“since diapers you’ve been the only person i’ve dared to trust. you taught me how to tie my shoes. how to use a microwave. how to hoola-hoop. when our parents would get on you for “watching my girl shows” you’d refuse their offers at other things just to support me in whatever i would do. you have been with me almost every single day of my life, and now you’ll be with me for the rest of them all. we never judged each other if not for the benefit of change. you’ve looked at me through raw, and unconditional lenses, and would never fold me to be in “your image” but rather made me feel like it was okay to improve without running from insecurity. and for that, i love you and will always love you. you and your contagious laugh, silly crooked nose, those big dopey glasses you wore in 5th grade. all of it. i admire the conversations we have, even the ones we have without a single word. the things we do and don’t even have to talk about. everything you have ever blessed me with in life, i promise to give back to you, tenfold.”

tears stream down his face, but you know luca, and they aren’t all happy. why?

“luca, your vows.” the priest says. motioning his hand towards luca’s paper in his sleeve.

he pulls it out and begins. “you… unique, universes-worth, and beautiful human being.”

“when we were kids i remember always watching you fall. you’d be so clumsy. fall and fall and fall again, but the only way you managed to repeat it is with the fact that you always got right back up.

you were never made for the life you were given. you were made to soar, up with the planes and even the rocket ships. your legs were never good for you. you run like you’ve got wings to pull you up when you’re about to fall. and i’ve loved you and those wings since the day i knew what love was.”

love, yeah. like you guys were best friends. you were best friends, right? he’s loved you like a best friend… right?

but something tells you this time he means it differently.

“even though i know you were made for the sky, with another bird like you”

you begin to realize what he means. with another girl, like you.

“i watched you stick on the ground with me and wished it was by your own will.”

the crowd sits confused, but you know exactly what he means, and you feel like throwing up.

“truth is, i’ve wanted to marry you for a long time. you’ve got that glare that can burn holes through people, and it’s a pain i’ve learned only i am strong enough to enjoy so far. i cherish every moment you’re on the ground with me, selfishly enough, bracing myself to be more proud than fearful when you spread your wings and head for the sky. i love you no matter if its your legs or you’re wings you are using, and that will never change.”

“you’ve made a wake of our honeymoon, and i’m coming for you.”

but what did change, is what was in the air. you’re so stunned by this guilty feeling, and you realize you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. you’re dizzy, looking to the crowd to avoid the look you know luca is giving you; as if none of them exists and it is only you and him at this wedding. he’s looking at you as if you’re the goddess his one-man cult worships and desires. you notice a darkly dressed figure besides more of the kind standing in the back, not even taking seats right in front of them. you have to remind yourself your parents are cult leaders. they’ve got all kinds of shady people at your wedding.

you finally find the courage to turn to luca, and you give him a sickly and bittersweet smile. he gives you, devastatingly, the same. the priest turns to luca.

“do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“i do.” then he turns to you.

“and do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“i do.”

“i now pronounce you husband and wife. you may kiss the bride!”

you’ve kissed luca multiple times, and up until now you’d assume they were experimental for both of you, but now realizing how much it has meant to him every single time you can feel the tears swelling in your eyes. they’re daring to dwell past your waterline. luca looks at you for approval before pulling you by the space just above your waist, and you put your hands at his shoulders. the kiss feels like its over as soon as it starts and the cheers roar in both your ears.

“all of the headlines said ‘passion crime’ ”

your mother stood immediately to clap her hands, and as soon as she could, she yells “let the lovers take a picture! everyone out of the way, out of the way!”

first it is the bridesmaids and best men to leave. the priest himself walks away as well, and the photographer sets up the camera just at the end of the altar and beginning of the isle. you don’t at all notice the shady men you’d seen earlier change their position.

you and luca take a glance at each other then at the planted camera, and flash bright and hopeful smiles. you guys will have so much to talk about later, you think.

“newly-weds, groom shot dead, mystery man, God help the bride”

six men are in a line behind that photographer. no one has time at all to expect the red dot appearing on luca’s head as the camera clicks to focus.

and as soon as it flashed to take the picture, the bullet hits right where it intended to make it.

from that point, everything moved in slow motion. people scatter like ants, everyone disperses but you. no, not you. you drop with luca’s body, right on top. you shuffle in confusion, feeling for every single trace of a pulse even though your heart knows just how over it is.

when you look up, the men were gone.

“she’s a widow all in red, with his red still wet”

you knew you couldn’t have stayed there. dead or alive, that wedding had to be your escape. so you ran away, keeping the picture taken on that awful day in your pocket. now you had the knowledge that those six men were a part of a group against luca’s parents. his mother and father gave you every piece of knowledge you wanted about this faction that you asked for before you left.

“i’ll put him on the wedding list.”

you were going to find each and every one of those men and kill them. but how?

as of now, all you were was a hunger-panged girl walking through the woods miles away from home with a dried bloody nose and clothes you usually wouldn’t ever have to wear. all you could hear is luca’s vows repeating in your head as you walked, and even though eating was nowhere near on your mind, your body ached for sustenance.

“i’ll put him, on the wedding list.”

around a week in, you’re met with a campfire kind of sight… that kept you from believing you’d been walking in some kind of circle. you peak from behind a tree but immediately make contact with bright green eyes, for some reason making your body ache more for food. the smell of the fire brings you back to a life where you had a warm heart and warm blankets to hide you from pain and deceit. the owner of these eyes is immediately defensive of your presence, grabbing their rifle and heading towards the tree that you were behind, but you wouldn’t end up threatening them for long because your eyes flutter shut and you’re slump against the damp bark. luca’s voice takes over your head as you lose consciousness.

“i’ll get him and i will not miss.”

[tadc-harlequin-au]

Hi! Please excuse any misspellings, english is not my frist language...

Firstly I just wanted to tell you that I love your AU! Your Harlequin au was what intorduced me to lovely TADC au Tumblr community and I absolutley love it! I haven't seen alternate universes as creative as these since the Sansverse era!

Secondly, I hace a question about the Patriarch: He seems to have a very good idea of who Caine is, wouldn't he be this world's equivalent to Able? I ask because althugh his design is WAY different from most fan Able depictions, he still has that "The Puppetmaster's brother" vibe that all Ables tend to have, a peace of Caine's past that he can never get rid of!

If he is not Able then I am curious of who he is, if he is then the lore just got spicier and if you don't want to spoil anything I'll understand.

But honestly: Keep it up! Your au has filled 70% of all my daydreams, the only thing I have been able to think about for a while has only been game mechanics, combat and chase sequences!

Damn y'all are fucking sleuths istg

Though I am very proud of that because that means my design philosophy worked somehow, and for that, I'll throw you guys a bone. And also because I can't keep it a secret any longer I've been holding it in since the very beginning of this au

YES.

The Patriarch of Puppets is none other than Abel, Caine's biological brother.

When I was first designing him, I wanted every aspect of Abel's design to scream "opposite of Caine", and to hold some form of symbolism. From his megaphone head, down to the color palettes, there is meaning. Don't get me wrong, Mushy's Able is a very memorable and awesome design and I could've incorporated him the same way I did Souls-like, but I wanted something deeper for Harlequin.

While Caine is adorned in golds and maroons to symbolize his warmer nature, Abel has teals and silver, a very cold and intimidating stature. Their outfits and the colors are an opposition towards each other yet reflect one another somehow, the way Abel dresses tightly and formal when Caine is loose and open, his intense red pupil conveys his hostility, whilst Caine's eyes are softer blues and greens.

His king-size height dwarfing Caine tells just how much the Puppetmaster felt living on his shadow, HELL, someone noticed the weird "A" on the sides of his head and I had to shrug it off because I didn't want to reveal it as early as that time.

Even the megaphone head design holds SO MUCH UNTOLD STORY BETWEEN THE BROTHERS THAT I WILL CHOOSE TO KEEP A SECRET FOR NOW. I've put SO MUCH THOUGHT behind his design.

*sigh*... Which is also why I very much dislike the "siren head" jokes, because it's the one thing I didn't really foresaw when I was developing his design until I finished, and someone pointed out it might cause jokes like that to prop up. Something I thought I wouldn't mind initially, until everyone made the same joke over and over again and I just audibly groan irl.

But you know. internet's gonna internet, they see one thing that resembles a popular media, it's an immediate connection. I didn't even give a shit enough about Siren head to know how the design actually looked like, just a silhouette of the guy.

Therefore, I would really appreciate it if saying this out loud would help lessen the jokes, but ik not everyone is going to see this post so.

I do still wanna thank you for your kind words, because these kinds of asks are the fuel to my fire of inspiration and motivation for this AU, and I wish that I can keep this fire going till the very end of this AU's story :')

[lime-sketches114]

Oh boi been a while since I did a sort of romance one shot/drabble thing but SHADOW MILK COOKIE has me in a vice grip and I love his voice and design! So I've decided to uh make a small fix about my CRK cookie OC named Faerie Cake Cookie (she's based off for another word for cupcake) and make an AU of sorts. Hope y'all enjoy it!

A Fool for a Faerie

★★★★★

Warning: mentions of loneliness, depressive subjects, degradation, abuse, manipulation, etc.

Shadow Milk Cookie × OC/ Shadow Milk Cookie × Faerie Cake Cookie

★★★★★

Loneliness....

I know it all too well...

Like you're wrapped up in a cocoon of your own making to shun away or put there by the world around you. Barely a friend or loved one to soothe your aches and pains of your heart.

I can feel his soul...crying out for understanding...

Like a galaxy of stars waiting to be discovered, to be charted and known. I am determined to find out more.

My eyes open to the music box I am trapped in. Playing a familiar tune I heard once before. The same music box in the Cake Tower that was once my home. Its twangs and twinkles bring back memories of good and bad. Happy memories with my brother, Red Velvet Cookie, and currently agonizing memories of Dark Enchantress cookie. Day in and day out I was to be trained to be the next ruler of the Cakes. A cookie of tremendous power at her hand.

I never wanted this...to hurt them too...

My friends...

At the hands of the Cake Empress, my corrupted form.

My heart aches at the memories so much. For days I have relived the memories.

Tears fell from my blue orbs of icing. Hands shaking as my wings hugged me. I wanted to wrap myself up into a cocoon and be a different cookie. One with compassion like Pure Vanilla Cookie.

Pure Vanilla Cookie...

He's in trouble! My friends are in trouble!

I needn't sulk here no more! I am a faerie after all!

The love my friends have for me shall guide me back to them from that fiend! Now for a way out of this!

I began to dance and the music started to warp and change. One to a tune so sweet and uplifting. Like heart sprinkles and love swirls. Like warm icing bread and jam.

My tears began to fall more as my ballet shoes tapped to the rhythm. The room morphs into a new scene. Like a play scene to an uplifting number of the orchestra. The room shatters into a memory of a forest. One near the Silver Faerie Kingdom. I look around and smile at the wonders.

"Hello Faerie Cake Cookie" a soft voice called out to me.

I whipped my head around to see a faerie cookie like me. Holding a type of Soul Jam around her neck. The shape looks like a rounded teardrop. Her regal aura reminded me of Elder Faerie Cookie and White Lily Cookie.

"who are you?" I spoke up

"I am Faerie Bread Cookie, the Cookie of Love, the devotion of all kinds. I am your Ancestor." She stood up and extended her butterfly-like wings. "And the dearest friend and partner of Shadow Milk Cookie...well he used to be called Blueberry Yogurt Cookie way back when. Before the fall..."

"why am I here, what happened to his realm?"

"His realm is connected to memories and thoughts of him and to the world outside and of others. Even his magic can't control everything. Even a Fountain of Knowledge has holes to fill" Faerie Bread Cookie smiled. "Your silver pendant led you to me, a whisper of what I was but still conscious in the world of the Silver Tree."

"What am I supposed to do, I have to save my friends but also....somehow save him..." I looked at the ground of sugar grass.

"oh? And how do you think you'll be doing that?" She smiled.

"with my friends! I need them....I can't do it alone"

"you sure? It seems like you depend on their love, instead of believing in yourself first."

"believing in myself?" I looked up at her.

"Love comes in many ways, but the one I lacked was believing in myself. I couldn't free my friends from their fates and my own self worth. Blueberry Yogurt Cookie was the only one that believed in me and loved me for who I was and not just the Beacon of Faerie kind." She placed a hand on my rosy cheek. "Now it's your turn to believe in yourself and pour your love into him."

I looked into her eyes and nodded, "I'll do my best"

"good, that's all I ask, and maybe you'll earn your wings yet" Faerie Bread Cookie started to fade away.

"earn my wings..." I watched as the room turned into a hallway of sorts. I started running towards some commotion I heard nearby.

★★★★★

I arrived at a large theatrical arena and the tower rumbled as I saw my friends fighting and being tormented by SMC.

"Shadow Milk Cookie!" I yelled up at him, puppeteering marionette strings.

"Oooooo, it seems the butterfly has broken out of the jar I made for her! How surprising~" Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled and dropped his playtime.

"I know what happened! I know your loneliness must be agonizing!"

"No! Faerie Cake Cookie!" Ginger Brave called out to her. "Don't give him even a jelly bean of your time! Find Pure Vanilla Cookie!"

"I got this Ginger Brave!"

"oh! How CoUrAgEoUs!" Shadow Milk Cookie mocked before winding his staff, "you don't know the half of it you puny pawns"

"I do know about her! Your love for Faerie Bread Cookie!" I shouted to him.

He shuttered in his wind up. His face darkened. "Silence! Don't DARE speak her name! She abandoned me!"

"She didn't! And neither did you in her times of need! Her fear blinded her! She fears her image to you, her love was true but your imprisonment broke her!" I held my necklace tightly. Unfolding my wings I glared up at him. "And I will not break! My love for my friends and new found family is all I need to give to you!"

"Yay~ the Power of Love! BLEUGH! Soooooo last Script! Bye bye little butterfly..." Shadow Milk groaned before firing a beam at Faerie Cake Cookie.

"NO!" Shouted the kingdom trio.

The Beam hits the Silver Pendant and it holds up but barely. I struggled against the force of his magic. A hand held mine, the Truthless Recluse with the face of Pure Vanilla Cookie smiled at me.

"Pure Vanilla Cookie..."

"I know you can do it, I believe in you my dear, I always have ever since the day you came to the kingdom. Thank you for helping me through the dark too."

I smiled before the pendant broke and shined brightly of a tealy/aquamarine color. My wings sparkled and morphed. Pure Vanilla Cookie transformed into Compassionate form and shared his aura with me. I gathered my energy and love and shot it back at Shadow Milk Cookie.

The area began to warp and shine brightly of light and sparkled. The realm began to fall apart and all was left was the same scene I once saw with Faerie Bread Cookie. Everyone woke up in the field. Everyone but me.

"Faerie Cake Cookie?" Strawberry Cookie searched around.

"over here!" Ginger Brave pointed out a cocoon hanging on a low branch of a new tree from the Silver Tree.

"oh no..." Wizard cookie lowered his wand and hat in sadness.

Shadow milk cookie, Candy Apple cookie, and Black Sapphire Cookie rose up from the grass to see the scene. A new one rewritten into the script. With all the time he and I spent together, even one-sided at most, Shadow Milk Cookie sheds a tear from his teal eye.

Pure Vanilla Cookie placed a hand on the defeated Shadow Milk Cookie. He guided his staff to the cocoon and smiled.

"do you wish to be lonely, or open your hand to the one who saw past your facade and wanted to write a new script."

Shadow Milk Cookie looked nervous but floated towards the cocoon and fixed up his hair. He was scared. A new script or keep repeating the scripts he made. He took a leap and put his hand to the cocoon as it shined bright blue before opening up.

I fell out into the arms of Shadow Milk Cookie. My eyes opened to his silhouette and my vision was blurry.

"Blue...berry...no....Shadow Milk Cookie?" I smiled as my vision focused onto his teary face. "No more tears, I am here" I wiped them away. He held my hand, so many times he held my hand, but this felt different.

"Faerie...I'm sorry" Shadow Milk Cookie said in a soft tone before my hand covered his blue icing mouth.

"I'm sorry too, I just wished I could've helped you sooner....My Love" I covered my mouth with my hands, the shock of realizing the words was surprising.

"Stockholm Syndrome much..." Black Sapphire Cookie sighed

I started laughing behind my hands before Shadow Milk's hair started tickling me. I cracked up laughing as something fell off my chest. I noticed and saw it was the Silver Pendant's material before a glitter caught my eye. A Soul Jam.

"Faerie Bread...she kept her promise." Shadow Milk Cookie hugged me tightly

"and I shall keep my promises." I hugged him tightly as my wings unfolded. They felt...heavier?

I turned around to see my new wings, bright blue monarch wings similar to Elder Faerie Cookie's shape. I gasped at their elegant and sparkling sheen. I fluttered them open and scared Ginger Brave with the silvery eyes on the back.

"oops! Sorry Ginger Brave"

"it's alright! They looked like Shadow Milk Cookie's eyes..." He sighed. We all laughed before looking at the sun.

"let's go home, give the fantasy realm a rest" I smiled before holding out my hand to Shadow Milk Cookie. "Every kingdom needs a Jester"

Shadow Milk Cookie brightened up and scooped me up to above his kingdom with a devious chuckle. I spun around with him like the figures in the music box as it magically wound itself. I hummed the tune as I held him close. I could feel his worries melting away as he found his own again.

"Thank you, Cupcake"

"Thank you too, Silly"

[timeclipsed]

This is a oddball question but can you name afew sonic fandom blogs? (just curious is all)

Hey anon! I'm not sure if you meant fandom blogs as in roleplayers or art accounts, so just I'll go ahead and list off a few of my favorite Sonic RPC mutuals!

@hiswrlds — First off, big blue himself! If you want a Sonic that's somehow simultaneously both canon compliant and creatively divergent, look no further than Peach's portrayal! Strive manages to be a vivacious, epigrammatic muse who always has you guessing what he'll say next, but there's still a pungent air of unresolved sadness and an edge of building rage in the way he presents. What you see might not be what you get in full, but a guy who loves adventure can also be tenderhearted, right? @tcils — For as little as we've interacted both in and out of character, I'm always clinging onto every word that Alcohol's Tails has to say! Strictly a movie portrayal to my knowledge, but he's the sweetest little guy around and Alc really hits the target straight on with how they write him! I think you'll find it hard not to read their posts without hearing Colleen's voice. @baymaxmuses — Baymax writes for a few different fandoms, but that's part of the charm when you follow for Knuckles! Titan, as he's named himself, is an amazingly fun iteration of everyone's favorite treasure hunting emerald guardian, especially with the recent event Baymax is running for him! For someone who manages to be so silly and fun in character, you'll be surprised how deeply emotional and articulate Knuckles' adventures can get, especially when he's contemplating solitude and eternity. @sweet-punch — Let's take a minute to talk about Nymphia's Amy! Mismashed with the quirky 2000s fangirl with a heart of gold and the independent free-thinking leader of her own crusade in terms of vibes, this Amy is worlds of fun just to watch in action! Even if you're not threading with her, you can always appreciate that she's trying her very best and the way she feels very in-touch and human about her flaws. (Plus, Nymphia drew the art in my icon for free without any prompting, so the mun is just as sweet as the muse!) @allcfme — Do you want a Shadow who will rip your heart out, stomp on it, then pick it up and eat it? Look no further than Kayden's Shadow! Honestly, what a cold and emotionally devastating take on the Ultimate Lifeform. I'm always gripped by the antics this wet little beast gets wrapped up in, especially the kind of in character connections/relationships with other muns' muses he mingles with. You love to root for him, but also throw him down the stairs when he does something silly (/aff). @psychokineticstarlight — You might know the wonderful mun of this equally amazing Silver better as the writer of Cats Don't Dance's lead, Danny! Bear's writing is always bouncy and exuberant, which works amazingly with Silver's optimistic and amicable personality! Seriously, as much as I love all the Silver writers I mutual with, Bear's sticks out to me as one of the most animated and fun portrayals! Although they're not too active on this blog, getting to thread properly with this sweet little starlight from the distant future is so totally and completely worth the wait to me!

Honorable mentions speed round, a.k.a. the people I never shut up about as is, go to the writers of Chronos' found family throughout the verses he's active in!

@scumbag-the-hedgehog — Missile's Scourge! He may be an uproarious jerk with a checkered past, but the slow climb to finding a better part of himself is apparent! Chronos worships the ground this guy walks on, and who wouldn't? Hail to the king, baby! @powered-by-prower — Leland's Tails! Mr. Part Time Horror Experiencer Part Time Teenage Dreamboat Heartthrob over here is Chronos' found/adoptive father in a few verses, namely the Tomorrow!AU we've been stuck on the last few weeks. How can you not love this guy? @red-eclipse — Vee's Blossom! The byproduct of Cosmo's sprout growing into a brand new seedrian and Chronos' little sister. Blossom's story will have you weeping with sympathy and rooting (pun intended) for her and her father to succeed in just getting by! (Check out their AU and art while you're at it!) @sorrowfulsidekick — Luc's Kitsunami! Chronos' beloved baby brother and arguably the most important person in his whole life through multiple timelines. Don't let yourself get fooled by the cuteness aggression, though: he's got a bite with the force of a few dozen angry attack dogs. Let your guard down, and he might just drown you in your sleep! (Chronos will help hide your body btw.) @run-muse-dot-exe — T's Clutch! I may not be too familiar with the character on my own, or even read much of the IDW comics, but that doesn't mean Chronos won't unwaveringly support his beloved (asshole) uncle. Try to stop yourself from screaming as this iteration of Clutch both intrigues and infuriates the mind! @cxffeeshxp — Lastly, L's Surge and Kitsunami! The roles are practically reversed here in every way; Surge and Kit, now adults clawing their way to an easier tomorrow, have taken in a teenage Chronos. Aside from the dynamic duplicitous duo, L also has a variety of other different Sonic muses, all with their own lore and fun little backstories, and is always a riot to watch on the dashboard. If you follow, expect to cackle yourself into stomach pain from some of the things he posts.

Every other Sonic blog I follow should rightfully be on this list, but unfortunately we'd be here forever if I took the time to write them out. But don't discourage, anon! These amazing folks who must go unnamed for the time being are always here waiting for you to seek them out!

[theficpusher]

Soul by roaroftheninth | T | 4772 Liam tosses a grin back over his shoulder. “What are you going to do when I’ve gone and there’s no one around to drive you round the bend?” Louis’ bike coasts to a stop. It happens so slowly that by the time he’s at a standstill, Liam is far ahead, up by the curve. “I’ll forget.” Liam stops much more quickly. They’re alone in the dome; their private conversation can be held across thirty feet of open space. “You’ll what?” Louis watches him. “I’ll forget,” he repeats. “Not the way you forget things, when you can’t pinpoint them but you still carry them in your heart. I’ll just have my hard drive wiped.” Or: Louis is the medical android tasked with taking care of Liam in a world after nuclear war.

Will You Still Call Me Superman by el_em_en_oh_pee | T | 6370 When Harry opens his locker, there's a box wrapped in blue tissue paper, wound messily in a skinny white ribbon, just sitting on top of his textbooks. A piece of paper taped to the top of the box readsTo Harry, Happy Christmas! I noticed how you're always chewing on your pencils in class so I thought this might help! -Your Secret Admir Santa xx In which Harry has an overwhelming crush on Liam, the nicest, coolest guy in school, and his friends aren't very supportive of the pain his crush causes him. The jerks.

we speak in tongues and start to teethe by theamazingpeterparker | G | 8856 There’s a moment, a second, where Liam’s eyes are spitting angry. Bright gold and looking like he’s going to tear Louis’s throat out. And then Louis growls low and tightens his grip on Liam’s neck, leaning close enough that he can lay his sharpened canines on the pulse that’s jack-hammering in Liam’s neck. He could kill him. He could at least bite him, sink his fangs into the soft meat where his neck and shoulder meet as a reminder of who’s pack he’s interfering with, whose turf he’s on. It’s the first time that Louis misses it, for a heartbeat, blood flooding his mouth from more than just a scratch in a fight. Enough blood to satiate the full moon buzzing in his ears. Or, werewolf fight club.

FourFiveSeconds from wildin' by apfelhalm | E | 11366 "What about this one? He doesn't look too bad. I could take on, uh," he stops to look at the name, "Liam. I bet I'd stand a chance against Liam." Liam looks fit, well-trained without being too beefy, and perhaps a bit ridiculous, too, with his gold chain and a bandana hanging from his trouser pocket. He also looks fit fit and if this were a normal dating app, Louis would swipe right in a heartbeat. This isn't a normal dating app, though, and Louis has a bet to win. "So? Are you going to pick him or what?" Harry asks, grinning very much like a predatory shark. Or: the one where Louis and Liam meet through a Tinder-style fighting app.

written in my memory by carissima | M | 21646 Liam turns towards the voice. It sounds a bit like Harry, but deeper somehow. Huskier. He blinks carefully as he stares at Harry, who's half-sitting in the window, staring back at him. Or maybe it's not Harry, he thinks dizzily because this boy is taller, much taller than Harry is. He's also got longer hair, tucked back in a bandana, and he's wearing clothes that Harry would never wear; tight skinny black jeans and a loose black tee, silver chains around his neck hanging loose over his chest. Or the one where Liam has amnesia and he struggles to connect with the boys.

Your Lips On Mine by taecheeks | E | 56139 The situation is weird, like really fucking weird. Liam thought maybe he was hallucinating when he first saw Zayn in their apartment, exhausted from work or something. He thinks about Bradford a lot more than he probably should, always eager for the next time he gets to watch him. But when Niall told him about the other new roommate, Zayn, he never in a million years thought it would be him - even when Niall said Zayn was just his type and had silver hair. [Or the one where Zayn is a camboy, who likes to think about the fit mechanic with a liking for leather jackets and scruffy beards from uni during his shows. And Liam, the mechanic, who realizes his new roommate is Bradford, the man with the smooth skin covered in tattoos that Liam watches late at night with a hand wrapped around himself.]

Floating On The Water by scottmcniceass | M | 58206 Liam just wants to get through his last summer working at Malik Resort before University without incident. Of course, life is never that easy, and he ends up getting roped into giving the bosses son, Zayn, swimming lessons. That wouldn't be so bad, if Zayn didn't happen to hate him so much.

Crawling on Your Shores by juliusschmidt | E | 66631 "You're a mechanic?" Liam nods. Harry gives him another long, appraising look. This time it lingers on his hands. "Your nails are clean." The tips of Liam's fingers tingle. "Got laid off a month ago." "Sorry to hear that." Harry smiles, soft and small. ~ Liam is searching for direction, purpose, connection, and, ultimately, himself. Harry is searching for aliens.

Easy As All That (Go Around A Time Or Two) by sunsetmog | E | 84957 Sometimes the hardest part of growing up is figuring out who you are in the first place. Or: The one where Liam and Louis only kiss when they're on nights out, when it's secret, when there's no one around to see them. If no one knows you're having a sexuality crisis, that means it isn't happening, right? Or, or: Liam accidentally turns Louis' world upside down. A high school sixth form AU.

[msshadowqueen]

Part 4 of Fenrys x Nesta for @hrizantemy

read here or on ao3

Nesta stood there, stunned. She hadn’t just landed in a different nation; she’d landed in a whole other world. That explained why she and Fenrys spoke entirely different languages. What it didn’t explain is how Fenrys could understand what Nesta was saying and Nesta Fenrys in spite of it. It didn’t explain how they’d spoken in their dreams just a day before Fenrys had shown up in her world. All that Nesta could guess was that they had some sort of magical connection.

That woman…she had to be Fenrys’s queen. She was beautiful, with flowing blonde hair and blue-and-gold eyes. Nesta observed her companions: a massive white-haired faerie with tanned skin and green eyes like a hawk’s. The woman she had been talking to also has green eyes, though hers was paired with curly black hair tied into a bun. Sitting on a couch nearby was a small woman with pale skin and midnight hair and eyes, nestled in the lap of a giant man Nesta assumed was her husband. She could not see his face as it was covered by her, but she could see his massive legs. Fenrys, the hawk-eyed man, and this woman’s husband were gigantic. They were a far cry from the faeries in Prythian, aside from Cassian and Tamlin. Were all faeries here that big?

Though the queen appeared to be faerie too. The other women were human though. Huh.

The woman said unintelligible words again. Nesta turned to Fenrys for help.

“How did you get here, she asked,” Fenrys explained.

Nesta scoffed. “Why don’t you answer that, since it was you who jumped to me?”

Fenrys shrugged sheepishly and told the queen just that. Her brows flew into her hair. She muttered something and Fenrys translated.

“I thought the barrier between worlds had closed.”

Nesta squinted her eyes, confused. “What do you mean? You can travel between worlds if you have certain weapons made by the cauldron.”

“The what?”

“The cauldron. You know, the giant pot with which the Mother created the world?”

Fenrys translated her words to his queen. Everyone was looking at her now. Nesta crossed her arms over her chest defensively. She didn’t need Fenrys’s translation to understand those looks.

Girl, what?

“You don’t have a cauldron here?” Nesta asked. Fenrys shook his head. Nesta scowled. “Well, we have one,” she hissed. “And it can create dark and deadly things. Like me.”

Fenrys watched in awe as Nesta’s eyes began to glow with fire. It seemed the antithesis of Aelin’s- while her’s glowed orange-red, Nesta’s flame was silver. She stood tall, staring them all down, letting her power show. Borne from a Cauldron. It sounded like those terrible ilken, who had been made by servants of Erawan in the mountains. Once human beings, the ilken had been molded and twisted into enormous winged beings with sleek black fur and claws that could gut you in one swipe.

But Nesta was no Valg monstrosity. She clearly had emotions and a moral compass. Still, they did not know her, and she was yet another powerful being in Terrasen. Yet somehow, Fenrys trusted her wholeheartedly.

This court put Maeve’s to shame. But Fenrys couldn’t help but wonder if that may be a bad thing. Too much power in one place never turned out well.

“If you can still travel between worlds…” his queen Aelin said, worry clear in her voice, “does that mean there’s a possibility that the gods escaped their cages?”

The gods who had been stuck here in Erilea after wandering through a Wyrdgate, a special portal. Aelin had begged them to spare Queen Elena, who had trapped the Valg temporarily under Morath and eventually became a ghost in the eye of Elena. Instead, Diana had destroyed Elena’s memory and she wasn’t united with her husband Gavin in the world of the dead. To spite the gods, excluding Mala, who granted Aelin an extra kernel of her magic, she had banished the gods to hell. If they somehow escaped…well they weren’t going to be happy with his queen. And they were exceptionally powerful beings; there was a reason they were considered gods.

If the gods returned to wage war on Erilea…how would they survive?

“We can’t rule it out,” Rowan murmured to Aelin. “If there is more than one way to world-walk, it is a highly likely possibility.”

Aelin scrubbed her hands over her face. “We can’t survive another war. I don’t even have my world-shattering magic anymore, and neither does Dorian. I mean, we have the healers, but they’re split between here and the southern continent. Will it be enough?”

“What are they blabbering about?” Nesta demanded. Fenrys tried to explain as succinctly as possible. “They’re afraid an old enemy of ours may return for revenge, and our numbers are depleted. We are not powerful enough to stop them.”

Nesta shrugged. “It’s a good thing you have me, then,” she replied. Fenrys translated to Aelin, who stared at Nesta.

“Just who exactly is she?” Aelin wondered aloud.

Fenrys didn’t answer, but he knew exactly what she was. She was a queen without a crown.

[themattress]

Fire Emblem: Three Houses

Continued from my last post.

Ending September with Chapter 6, the one that actually transpires in September!

- Let's not mince words here: Chapter 6 is in the running for my favorite chapter in the game. This primarily comes down to one thing: the mood. We have a lovable character in Flayn who has gone missing, with rumors spreading that she was abducted, quite possibly by the deathly visage said to be haunting the grounds outside the monastery. Because of this, your exploration period is all about trying to search for clues to her disappearance and gathering suspects based on accounts of suspicious activity, all while this fucking music is playing:

That music does brilliantly at creating the atmosphere, conveying both a sense of urgency and a sense of dread, making you feel unsure who to trust as you run around interrogating people and desperately trying to solve this dark mystery. It never fails to give me chills.

- The suspects you end up with are Tomas (based on Leonie's account), Shamir (based on Petra's account), Professor Manuela (based on Dorothea's account), Professor Hanemann (based on Linhardt's account), Jeritza (based on Felix's account), Sir Alois (based on Raphael's account), and Sir Gilbert (based on Ingrid's account), with some other inhabitants of the Monastery also pointing the finger at the Death Knight, Dedue, the people of Abyss or even Flayn herself. Obviously some of these possibilities are more likely than others (really, was there any player that thought Alois might be responsible?), but it all does a great job creating the sense of a whodunnit with all the various people and potential motives raised.

- The Blue Lions route has an exclusive scene before the exploration period that serves as a funny pseudo red herring where Byleth and Dedue come across Dimitri in the library late at night. When Byleth checks the book that Dimitri had been looking at, they see it's all about the financial donations to Garreg Mach by Lord Arundel, making you wonder if Dimitri suspects Arundel to be involved in Flayn's disappearance. It later turns out that no, this was related only to Dimitri's quest for answers concerning the Tragedy of Duscur...except that Arundel actually was the one ultimately behind Flayn's kidnapping anyway! Ironic, isn't it?

- The culprit, of course, ends up being Jeritza who it turns out is the Death Knight, whom the Flame Emperor loaned out to Arundel back at the end of Chapter 4. The underground lair beneath Jeritza's quarters is swarming with Agarthan mages and Flame Emperor soldiers who join the Death Knight in trying to keep you from rescuing Flayn and another girl being kept hostage. If your units are strong enough, they can charge on through with no problem, but if not the game provides a back route via teleporting tiles that makes things easier.

- Your house leader will be absent for the battle and their second-in-command takes charge alongside you instead. This is especially interesting in the Black Eagles route, which was the first one written, since Hubert's exchange with the Death Knight hints at their secret alliance with one another, and the Flame Emperor showing up while Edelgard happens to be absent is a huge red flag especially if you did the C+ Support with Edelgard beforehand. Byleth must be pretty thick in that situation since I just can't imagine anyone hearing Edelgard say this:

then encounter someone saying this:

and not make the obvious connection.

- If you somehow fail to defeat the Death Knight or his paladins in 25 turns, this happens:

"Bring me the women"!? Could you have made it sound any creepier, Edelgard!?

- Finally, the end of this chapter is officially what makes the split in the Black Eagles route between Silver Snow and Crimson Flower a difficult choice for me. At first I would have thought that it was an obvious choice given that I can never personally connect with Rhea no matter how much I like her as a character and am more in agreement with Edelgard on the state of Fodlan despite the whole "masked terrorist working with the Agarthans" thing.

But counterargument: Seteth and Flayn.

This is the chapter that marks a huge shift in Seteth's character and how I perceived him. First off it was impossible not to feel terrible for him in how emotional he's rendered due to Flayn's disappearance (with Mark Whitten once again killing it with his voice-acting), a reaction that foreshadows that the "brother-sister" relationship between them is a ruse and that Seteth in fact has a much deeper connection to Flayn that justifies this vulnerability he is feeling. And once you rescue Flayn, his overwhelming relief and gratitude is palpable. As he says, he is indebted to Byleth and feels extremely remorseful for all the doubt and passive-aggressive barbs he's given them in the past. With Seteth becoming friendly toward you and even allowing an equally grateful Flayn to join your class, you will feel like an ass betraying their trust by joining with Edelgard and fighting against them as you help her sack Garreg Mach. But for this playthrough I'm doing Crimson Flower, so I'll have to live with that guilt

[eggoflore]

DND OCs I'll never get to play: Nyssos, spirit of the sea 🌊🐚🦀

Name: Nyssos (Any pronouns)

Race: Triton / Seafoam Spirit

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Class: Druid (Circle of the Moon)

Background: Outlander

At first glance, Nyssos isn't particularly abnormal for a triton. Standing at a height around 5 and a half feet with sea blue skin and webbed hands and feet, they're almost perfectly average. Even the long, curly hair the color of seaweed that cascades down their face and obscures their eyes isn't too out of place, nor is the well-worn shawl on their back, weathered by the waves and winds that adorn it. One thing would be off about them though, if anyone could see it. Hidden beneath their tangled green locks are a pair of eyes that sparkle with a silver so brilliant they could only belong to a shapeshifter or a fae. The thing is, Nyssos has a secret. With a snap of their fingers and a burst of sea foam, Nyssos can transform into a whole bestiary of marine creatures, from a crab, a seagull, a shark, a colossal squid, up to even an elemental of pure water. To distinguish them in their myriad of forms their biology somehow always incorporates the wave pattern on their cloak, and their eyes are always of shimmering sliver. Despite this no one seems to have ever seen Nyssos' true form, to the point where those who know them best assume that they have none.

Nyssos is in reality something which I'd call a Seafoam spirit, a type of slightly mischievous fae from the ocean who dedicate their lives to protecting the oceans and their denizens, from flora and fauna to sailors and their crews. Thanks to their innate ability to shapeshift at will they'd be able to seamlessly patrol the waves, getting up to all sorts of shenanigans while still keeping a watchful eye on the sea and those who inhabit it. While most Seafoam spirits lack a primary form that they use all the time, Nyssos' triton body is used to pay homage to an old lover of theirs who they were unable to protect from the pirate raid that would lead to her untimely death. As a constant reminder for both their love for her but also their inability to save her, Nyssos has taken her form for what may well be over a century now, though their actual age is unknown to anyone but Nyssos themselves (though I do like to think they've been patrolling the seas for so long now that they're incapable of remembering their exact age).

Thanks to their true nature as a fae, Nyssos has a profound connection to the seas and their inherent magical forces, having abilities that often reflect those of Druids known for revering the waves, such as:

As mentioned before they have the ability to shapeshift into a slew of different animals and monsters, though they are all connected to the ocean in some shape or form

Limited aerokinesis and hydrokinesis, bending and shaping the winds and waves around them to their will

The ability to emit a shriek comparable to a whale's sonar, which allows them to send out messages that various forms of marine life can comprehend

I know this is the second seafaring Dungeons and Dragons OC I post on here (the first being Captain Tyrren Bilgeborn), but the sea and all the things that surround it are such a massive source of inspiration to me, plus I had to make a character to represent my second favorite DND class (#1 being Warlocks unsurprisingly). I hope you all like Nyssos, and if you want to make any comments or ask any questions, I'd been more than happy to hear them. Anyways, EggOfLore, signing off!

[morphomixz]

Eclipsed in Paris (Miraculous x Reader) Pt 5

5:17:23 PM 

"I'm sorry to say this, but who are you?" 

Why was that my first reaction to a flying bat-mouse-looking thing? Most people would have screamed, probably even throw something at it... and I said I was sorry to it?!?!

"Hello! I am Bazoo (Baz-zoo) your kwami, you must be the holder of the bat miraculous." 

"I guess... What's a miraculous?"

"Your necklace. When you wish to transform using the fear miraculous, you will say Bazoo, spread my wings! To detransform, you'll say drop wings." came the squeaky voice. 

"Alright, and do you need anything specific to eat? Do you eat?"

"I do eat! I love blackberries and black cherries!" she replied cheerfully, I think.

"Okay, then... Bazoo spread my wings!"

A bright purple hue covered my body. I can feel a sort of latex, maybe leather take over the denim of my jeans, and they disappear like nothing leaving me clad in a black suit with plum undertones. My arms have some sort of loose jagged fabric resembling bat wings, and my hands are completely covered with sharpened tips where they end. My head somehow has ears connected to either side, that are completely pointed at the ends and the mask isn't like most where it covers the eyes, but rather it covers the mouth, and my hair covers the majority of my eyes. Where the miraculous was, the originally red jewel turned wine colored and the wings of the bat glowed a light silver hue. 

"Um... Bazoo, what do I do now?" I asked the emptiness of the room. No response. 

Then I happened to notice outside the window just how much of a wreak Paris was. Oh yeah, the first day of school, the first day of dealing with akumatized villains. Great...

There was supposed to be a Ladybug and Chat Noir interview tonight. I only know this because Chloe said she'd be the first caller. Speaking of the call, she also told me she gave Adrien my number so I'd at least have some connections here for better friend choices... Anyways, it appears Ladybug didn't want to talk about her relationship with Chat Noir and now the news lady's gone crazy.

Oh my, Atlanta, she's got, Chloe!

I raced over to Chloe's room just in time to see her disappear into the subway and for Paris to get a look at me in a bat costume, but Nadja didn't recognize me. However, it wasn't just the viewers who saw me, but also Chat Noir and Ladybug... and they looked just as shocked as "Prime Queen". 

"Well, well, well, looks like we have a new superhero joining us tonight. Are you here to fight Ladybug for Chat Noir's love since she can't just confess?" Nadja or Prime Queen questioned. 

"Uh, sorry but I've never met Chat Noir, nor am I here to fight Ladybug..."

That's when a blue-purple butterfly appeared in front of her face, and she decided to push me through the portal where Chloe was and followed through.

"You're going to give me your miraculous, after making my rating skyrocket,"  she said to me off the record of her broadcast. Then she addressed Ladybug and Chat Noir. 

"Welcome, to the subway of suspense! If it reaches seventy miles per hour, you can say goodbye to your precious little friend."

I made a grab for the "weapon" I had as part of my costume. It's a boomerang. What can I do in a cramped subway with a boomerang? Bazoo mentioned a special power, "echo" that would allow me to locate something I desperately want to find, but I can only use it once and I have to go find it. Echo also pushes back anything in my way of the item but it may be too dangerous in a confined space. 

"Well, well, look here, the ratings are rising! More and more of you want to know if our superhero friends will get here on time. The suspense is killing her! Ladybug! Cat Noir! Are you willing to travel through the screen to save your darling Chloé? Ladybug are you ready to fight... What was your name dear?!" Prime Queen knocked me out of my thoughts.

"I'm Rouge, and she's not going to die in this train just so you can get more viewers." my glare spoke more than my tone for me. Nadja recoiled away from me with that glare but continued her attempt at luring in Chat Noir and Ladybug. 

" Ladybug, Cat Noir, New Girl! I beg you, save my jacket!

"Your jacket or you?" I replied to her. Is she seriously more worried about the jacket than her own life?

It appeared Chat Noir and Ladybug were preparing to enter the portal to the subway. Not the greatest idea, but I guess it works. I had already started trying to untie Chloe's binds with much struggle because she keeps moving around. 

"Will you stay still? I'm trying to save you and your jacket right now." I commanded. She listened until she saw our two new members at the subway party. 

"Ugh, finally, what took you so long? Hurry up and get me out of this underground nightmare! Woah!" Chloe fell over and took me with her. 

"I thought I told you to stay still. Now we're both in trouble!" I harshly whispered to Chloe as Prime Queen noticed my hands. 

"You're about to be the stars of the highest-rated show in all of TV history! Rouge, shall we dance with our stars?" Nadja said to Ladybug, Chat Noir, and I.

"Excuse you?! In what way am I on your side?" I said while throwing the boomerang, effectively tripping her up. 

"Where's the akuma?" asked Ladybug clearly focused on Prime Queen. 

"I'll find out, just trust me on this," I told her gaining strange looks from her and Chat Noir. 

"ECHO" and an ungodly screech left my throat following the command. The ringlets from the screech pinpointing on Nadja's watch and also effectively shattered the windows of the moving subway.

"It's in the watch," I said rather ashamedly, but then again Chat Noir is the holder of the miraculous of destruction.

"I'll deal with Prime Queen." Ladybug said. 

"We'll get the door, " Chat Noir said dragging me with him, and forgetting Chloe in the process, I followed him. 

Checking the door, it's clear the door isn't locked but it won't budge. The only way to get out would be through the windows at this point. 

"The doors jammed. You're Rouge, right? I'm Chat, welcome to the club."

"Uh, thanks? Is this normal?"

"Akumatized villains, yes. Being stuck on a train, not so much." he said before yelling back to Ladybug,  "We're trapped!". 

"The rules for my show are simple, admit the truth live on TV that you're dating and in love and I'll stop the train!"

"What did I just get into?"

[heavenzscent]

what are some of your jeankasa modern au hcs? ☺️ and i’m kind of curious what you think their respective fashion styles r like

I’ll start with Fashion :

As for fashion styles : I’ve made two posts showing how I think they would dress.

Mikasas style : X

As a child she likes girly sort of cottage core clothes and overalls. In HS she goes through a goth phase, more in a 80s/ 90s goth then an early 2000s mall/ hot topic sort of way. But she did enjoy getting accessories at hotopic and twilight sleepy shirts. By the end of HS and Uni she is mostly in aethlesure. She was so many sets. She still wears dark liner as a nod to her old style and she’s back to gravitating to pinks , and blues again. She is a silver girl for sure. She wears a lot of jewelry even if she’s wearing a unitard and a hoodie. She manages to never look messy somehow. Her crazy bed head is her best kept secret only Sasha ,Armin and Eren know about it. Her makeup bag is expensive but kinda bare bones. She wouldn’t be the type to have a makeup room.

Jeans style: X

As a child he would get dressed by his mom like a little dork alot of sweater vests. In HS I think he would dress a bit accurate to bad boy Jean in Isayamas school castes. I think he would try to break free of his mothers styling choices for him.

In Uni he would find himself. Jean loves gold. He is the type to ask for gold for every special occasion. He has a gold Cuban chain that he never takes off. He has some diamond studs but he only wears them to parties and Connie teases him.

He gravitates towards , preppy /sporty sort of clothes with a 80’s and 90s influence. Think Tommy Hilfiger and college sweatshirts / caps. He also wears a lot of work wear and takes alot of inspo from people like James Dean, Paul Newman . And generally old Americana and music videos.

He would actually be surprisingly articulate in fashion.

He loves dressing up but acts really nonchalant when people comment on his clothes. Although He once sliced his food budget in half for 2 months so he could buy a dressy coat. Any vacation he goes on he looks up the shopping first then food places.

HEAD CANONS

Jean and Mikasa are both really involved in university extra curriculars and they make it look easy.

Mikasa finds Jean a little over bearing at first but since she sees him at so many community and Uni events she gets to know him and actually finds him kinda funny when he isn't trying and reliable.

Jean was in a frat for his first semester before he decided it was dumb because someone was rude to Marco.

Mikasa and Marco really get along and that makes Jean jealous at first when then were all just friends.

Marco and Sasha finally get Jean and Mikasa confident enough to ask eachother out

Jean spent a whole day learning how to change car oil because Mikasa complained about the price one time. Then he casually dropped that he had been tired because he been changing his car oil earlier and if anyone needed their oil changed they could hit him up. Unfortunatly that meant everyone else in the firend group now gets free oil changes now.

Mikasa is never on socials and Jean is on them too much

Mikasa has a extremely clean car but the trunk is basically a storage unit

Both spend too much when they go shopping

Jean turns anything and everything into a date. Barnes and noble date ! Study date ! Errand date ! Taco Bell date !

Everyone thinks Jean and Mikasa are just some odd opposites attract fling . When they move in it’s a shock ! When they get engaged it’s a shock!

Have more but those are connected to my neglected Uni AU fic.