#pm;cs

[nanotomik]

in my romcom era

[cellularmatter]

end

[whewchilly]

Carlos vía IG Stories | 8 May 2024

[hildannette]

they should make yuri a college major so i don't have to do stem anymore

[csinstruments]

The Current/effective power meter measures the voltage, the Power meter and calculates the active power, apparent power, reactive power, active energy .

[magister-magolor]

I LOVE COLOR SPLASH

"I really like Color Splash" said me and only me :'3

[slattlicker]

college age schlatt i beg 🙏 like the proper nerdy computer science college student everyone seems to forget he was

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * no recursion without return ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: hot engineering nerd meets cute cs nerd. she needs help passing a required class. he needs someone who actually listens. one tutoring session turns into two... and then they build something together. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: college schlatt is real, actually. nerds deserve romance too. i'm so so sorry if this is inaccurate,,, i am an english writing major (who used to be in biochem) so take everything stem-talk in this with the biggest grain of salt ♡

warnings: academic setting · lots of stem talk (cs + engineering) · mutual nerd crushes · slow-burn vibes · tutoring sessions · project bonding · lab flirting · light insecurity · soft & earned first kisses

✧✧✧

it starts with a room that smells like dry-erase markers and burnt coffee.

tuesday afternoon, 3:15 pm. you’re ten minutes early to the cs building’s third-floor lab—mostly because the alternative was sitting through another insufferably slow dining hall lunch, and partly because you weren’t sure if you’d find the place at all.

the whiteboard has a half-erased doodle of a mushroom in glasses. someone’s labeled it fungi with a minor in comp sci.

you snort, drop your bag onto the table, and slide into the nearest swivel chair.

you're not exactly struggling in the class—but you're also not thriving. cs230: data structures and algorithms. it’s mandatory for your minor, and you’ve been putting it off for two semesters too long.

the professor announced last week that office hours would be staffed by the department’s “stem peer guides.” you hadn’t planned on going.

but then the last lab nearly made you cry in the library bathroom.

so here you are.

you’re still tugging your laptop out of your bag when the door creaks.

he walks in backwards—wearing a hoodie that probably cost too much and socks with cartoon ducks on them, juggling two coffees and a laptop under one arm.

“hey—sorry,” he says, turning around and freezing when he spots you. “didn’t think anyone was gonna show up.”

he sets the coffees down. his glasses slide a little down his nose when he tilts his head.

“you here for cs230?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he blinks. then smiles—just a little. you catch the beginnings of smile lines.

“i’m schlatt,” he says. “stem guide. i did the class last year.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and survived?”

“barely.” he slides into the chair across from you and cracks open his laptop. “what are we working on?”

you pause. he’s surprisingly cute for someone who clearly color-codes his life. his keyboard has custom caps. his notes—when he turns the screen to show you—are annotated with little pixel cats.

you try not to show your amusement. “i think i broke my brain trying to write a recursive function.”

schlatt huffs a laugh. “you and everyone else.”

he takes a sip of his coffee, then pushes the other cup toward you.

“extra,” he says. “in case you need brain fuel. also because i got nervous and ordered two by accident and i couldn't tell them i didn't want the other one.”

you accept it without thinking. warm. lightly sweet. you usually take yours iced, but it's cold in this room, so you'll take it.

“thanks,” you murmur.

“no problem,” he says, already pulling up the assignment prompt on his screen. “let’s untangle some loops.”

✧✧✧

you’re twenty minutes in and already rethinking your life choices.

not because schlatt’s bad at explaining things. actually, the opposite.

he’s good. really good.

he’s got the kind of brain that makes metaphors on the fly—comparing recursive functions to russian nesting dolls, stack overflows to a laundry chair that’s reached critical mass, and call stacks to cabinets held open in sequence.

“okay,” he says, spinning the whiteboard toward you, “so imagine you're opening those russian dolls—you know, the ones that keep getting smaller?”

you nod, watching as he draws a series of half-circles nestled inside each other.

“each function call is like opening another doll. every time the function calls itself, it goes one layer deeper. but the only way to start returning values—to actually finish—is to reach the smallest one.”

“the base case,” you murmur, tapping the smallest doll he’s drawn.

his smile quirks. “exactly. once you hit that, you start putting them all back together. one by one, returning values up the chain.”

you tilt your head. “so recursion’s not about jumping around—it's about going in and then back out in the same order.”

“bingo.”

he pivots to his laptop and pulls up a short recursive function on the screen. you lean in.

“okay, next part—this,” he gestures at the lines of indented code, “is the call stack. think of it like trying to put dishes away.”

“…dishes?”

he nods, animated now. “you open a cabinet to put a plate in. then you grab another plate, but instead of closing the first cabinet, you open a second one. and a third. and a fourth. you keep opening cabinets without shutting the old ones.”

you raise an eyebrow. “sounds like how my roommate loads the dishwasher.”

he grins. “right? but the point is, each open cabinet is a function waiting to finish. they can’t finish until the one they just called returns. so when you hit your base case, you finally start closing those cabinets, in reverse order.”

you stare at the screen, tracing the indents with your eyes.

“so,” you start slowly, “the top function keeps waiting—holding its cabinet door open—until the one it just called is done. and that one’s waiting for the one it called. like a long hallway of open doors.”

“yes!” schlatt nearly bounces in his chair. “and that hallway is your stack. it fills from the bottom up—every time you go deeper. but if there’s no base case—or it’s too far down?”

“then the hallway gets too crowded.”

you glance up at him. “and the stack… overflows?”

he throws both hands up, mock-dramatic. “you get it!”

you laugh—really laugh—and shake your head. “it actually makes sense. which is annoying. because i was ready to just declare defeat and become a barista.”

he nudges his coffee toward you. “nah. baristas don’t use call stacks.”

you take a sip, smiling into the lid. “honestly? if you’d used metaphors in the lab handout, i might’ve passed the last quiz.”

“metaphors are how i survive,” he says, then lowers his voice in mock-conspiracy. “they trick your brain into thinking you’re doing storytelling, not math.”

you grin. “you are such a dork.”

“thank you,” he says, deadpan. “that’s the highest compliment in this lab.”

you roll your eyes—but you’re still smiling.

✧✧✧

you hadn’t meant to invite him.

it just slipped out—somewhere between scribbling return values and teasing him for his handwriting—your mouth said, “hey, i’m grabbing food after this. you want to come?” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

he blinked. just once.

then shrugged and said, “sure,” like he wasn’t surprised either.

now you’re sitting across from him at a corner table in the dining hall. your tray’s got a slice of pizza and a sad salad. his has a sandwich, two cookies, and three chocolate milks.

“you know,” you say, chewing thoughtfully, “for someone who talks like a grad student, you eat like a middle schooler.”

he takes a sip of one of the chocolate milks. “middle schoolers are onto something.”

you snort. then pause. then blurt it out—because you’ve been thinking about it since the cs homework started, and he feels safe, in a quiet, weird way:

“okay, don’t judge me, but i’ve been working on this stupid little side project where i’m trying to build a low-power prosthetic hand using recycled printer motors.”

schlatt looks up, mid-bite. “wait. seriously?”

you nod. “yeah, i’ve been salvaging parts from the e-waste lab and retrofitting them. it’s dumb and janky and probably not functional, but—”

“that’s so sick,” he says, with total sincerity. “like—you’re making that from scratch?”

you sit up a little straighter. “well, not the whole thing. i’m using an arduino as the controller right now, because i suck at microprocessors and writing drivers from zero is hell. but i’ve been wiring it to flex sensors, and i’m experimenting with these homebrew 3d-printed phalanges—”

you don’t stop.

not once you get going.

you talk with your hands, gesturing wildly, pulling up half-broken images on your phone, sketching quick shapes on your napkin with a pen in the side-pocket of your backpack.

and the whole time? schlatt just watches.

listens.

not just politely—but engaged. interested. like he wants to hear it all. like you’re not over-explaining, or rambling, or going on too long about a niche thing that keeps your brain lit up at 3am.

you pause somewhere around “wrist articulation via recycled watch gears” and finally look up.

his eyes are warm.

“you know,” he says, grinning, “i think you just activated my stem side quest.”

you blink. “what?”

“i wanna help,” he says. “i mean, if you’ll let me. i’ve never coded a servo system, but… i’m a fast learner. and i think it’s badass.”

you don’t say anything.

not right away.

because your chest feels kind of full. your face feels warm. and for once, your brain doesn’t immediately try to shrink you back down.

instead, you nod. just once. “okay.”

he smiles at you over his chocolate milk.

and you think, shit, maybe office hours weren’t the highlight of the week after all.

✧✧✧

the next few weeks settle into a rhythm.

it starts with tutoring.

once a week turns into twice. then three times. not because you’re struggling (anymore), but because he’s… kind of fun to talk to. at least when he’s not roasting your variable names or trying to explain recursion using empty cereal boxes.

he sits across from you at the library table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, laptop screen smudged from how often he drags his fingers across it to point something out. sometimes he forgets to eat. you learn to pack granola bars in your pencil pouch. he never says thank you—just steals one with a smirk and keeps talking.

you start getting better. grades creeping up. error logs shrinking. you don’t dread opening your ide anymore. the code starts making sense—not just his, but yours.

one afternoon, you casually mention a project idea you’d been playing with—something stupid, just for fun. something to do with hardware integration. you expect him to laugh.

he doesn’t.

he spins his laptop around and starts mapping out a database schema like he’s been waiting for you to say it.

that’s how the side project starts.

lunches get longer. office hours get later. one day you bring your soldering kit to the library, and he lights up like you just handed him a rare pokémon card. the whole table smells like burnt plastic for an hour. no one complains. but no one sits near you either.

you nerd out hard. unapologetically. you find yourself going on tangents—about conductive thread, or how weird the i2c protocol is—and instead of zoning out, he asks questions. good ones. thoughtful ones. he doesn’t just tolerate your rants; he builds on them.

and okay, maybe you start noticing things.

like how he mumbles to himself when he’s focused. or how his hands are always warm. or how he smiles at you—not in a big, charming way, but in a quiet, earned one. like you’re the only one who gets to see this side of him.

it’s nothing serious. just… a shift.

you brush it off.

but your code’s never looked cleaner.

and your heart’s never beat louder.

✧✧✧

it happens by accident.

you’re heading toward the back patio of the student union, iced coffee in one hand, a stack of circuits notes in the other, when you spot him.

schlatt.

at one of the outdoor tables.

not alone.

there’s a group of students—three of them, maybe four—leaning in. cs majors, you recognize them. they’re the type who ask three questions per lecture and answer five more that weren’t theirs. big voices. bragging energy.

you can’t hear everything, but you don’t need to. the body language’s loud enough.

schlatt’s sitting off-center. not really in the circle. elbows tucked in, voice low, like he’s trying to contribute. like he wants to. but they’re talking over him. dismissing. one of them even laughs—not the good kind. the kind you’ve felt in your spine before.

and you watch it happen:

the way schlatt’s mouth tugs tight at the corner. the way he adjusts his sleeve, like it’ll make him smaller. the way he tries one more time to speak, then gives up halfway through the sentence and shrugs it off, pretending it didn’t matter.

they keep talking.

he goes quiet.

you’re frozen in place, coffee sweating through your fingers, because it clicks.

he’s like you.

he is you.

all that time you thought he was the confident one—the one who belonged. the one who was already part of something. but he’s not. not really. not when it comes to this. not when it comes to them.

he’s just better at hiding it.

better at laughing it off.

but the look in his eyes, right then—small and a little tired—that’s a look you know too well.

no one talks about what it feels like when your brain lights up for something and everyone else treats it like a joke.

no one talks about what it’s like to be too much in the wrong direction.

and suddenly, all your late-night rambling about microcontrollers and e-textiles feels different.

because he listened. not just because he was polite. but because he got it. you don't think you've ever felt so fully understood until him.

you take a step forward. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you’re not about to leave him sitting alone in a conversation that doesn’t want him.

not when you know what that feels like.

so you walk over.

“hey, there you are,” you say, nudging your knuckles gently against schlatt’s shoulder. “i was looking for you.”

he turns, surprised—then relieved. “oh—hey y/n.”

“sorry,” one of the students says, hesitant. “uh, are we… interrupting something?”

“nah,” you say, easy. “just didn’t want to miss my favorite stem guide.”

schlatt’s ears go a little pink.

you glance at the table—some kind of project group, you think. their laptops are open, notebooks out, but their conversation’s turned awkward now. the vibe’s off. not hostile—just… cliquey.

“you guys working on something for fundamentals?” you ask, glancing at their notes.

“uh, yeah,” one mutters. “trying to figure out the recursion stuff.”

you smile. “then you’re in luck. this guy’s a recursion whisperer.”

schlatt huffs a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i’m serious,” you say, looking at him now. “you explained it to me with like…those russian dolls. made it make sense in ten minutes.”

“you remember the russian dolls?”

“obviously,” you grin. “changed my life.”

he smiles, a little shy, but brighter now.

you turn to the group. “anyway, sorry to interrupt. i just wanted to steal him for a bit. we’re working on something together—well, more like, he’s doing the hard part and i’m nodding along and pretending to contribute.”

they chuckle. the tension eases.

“good luck, though,” you add, friendly. “you’ve got a good one here.”

you tap the back of his hand.

“ready, genius?”

he nods. stands up. follows you without question.

and once you’re a few steps away, you glance over and say, casually but soft:

“for the record? you’re way too smart to sit through that kind of conversation, with those kinds of people, and not say anything.”

his voice is quiet. “didn’t think they really wanted my advice…or any of my input, for that matter.”

"sucks for them," you bump his arm. “i do.”

he looks at you.

and smiles.

“you’re different,” he says.

you shrug. “nah. i just don’t have the patience for people who don’t know a good brain when they’re sitting next to one.”

he laughs under his breath—bashful, but warm.

“besides,” you add, nudging him again, “you’re the only guy on campus who’s ever made me care about code.”

“flattered,” he says, with a little bow of his head. “high praise.”

“it is,” you nod. “don’t let that go to your head, though.”

“too late.”

you both laugh.

and as you walk side-by-side down the hallway, something feels… lighter.

✧✧✧

the lab is mostly empty—just the hum of old fluorescents overhead and the rhythmic click of schlatt’s keyboard echoing off the cinderblock walls.

you’re both hunched over the prototype, wires splayed like spaghetti across the table, your laptop screen casting a pale blue glow over your notes. it’s late. not late-late, but late enough that you’ve lost track of time in that delicious, focus-hazed kind of way.

“okay,” you murmur, “i think that’s the last adjustment on the sensor matrix. wanna try running the loop again?”

schlatt doesn’t answer right away—he’s rereading your code, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open like he’s working through it out loud in his head.

you wait.

he presses enter.

the terminal blinks once more.

and then—

nothing.

the servo doesn’t twitch. the sensor reads null. everything is still.

you groan, letting your head thunk forward onto the table. “are you kidding me?”

“hang on,” schlatt mutters, already scrolling. “it’s not a full crash. there’s something—it’s just not hitting the output loop.”

“i swear,” you grumble, face still mashed into your notes, “if this is another semicolon issue, i’m throwing myself into a ditch.”

“nah,” he says, voice calm, reassuring. “it’s not your code.”

you lift your head just enough to side-eye him. “it’s not yours either, huh?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

instead, he reaches for the breadboard, fingers quick and precise as he repositions a single wire—green to yellow. it’s such a small shift you almost miss it.

“that,” he says, “was plugged into the wrong pin.”

you blink.

he presses enter again.

and this time, the prototype moves.

just a little—just a careful curl of synthetic fingers, one joint at a time, like a hesitant wave from a ghost hand.

your jaw drops.

schlatt stares too. for once, he’s quiet.

“…did we—?”

“yeah,” he breathes. “we did.”

you let out a half-laugh, half-squeak. “dude—”

you turn to him without thinking.

and he’s already looking at you.

and before your brain catches up with your body, you’re reaching out—arms around his shoulders, heart in your throat.

he stiffens for a second. then melts into it.

his arms curl around your waist, tentative at first, then tighter. his cheek brushes your temple.

“holy shit,” you whisper, still breathless. “we did it.”

“we really fucking did it.”

the hug lasts longer than it needs to. it shifts. softens. becomes something else.

your hands curl in the fabric of his hoodie. his thumb rubs slow circles at your back.

neither of you move to pull away.

but eventually—awkwardly—you both realize you probably should.

you shift first, just a little, arms loosening. schlatt mirrors you a second later, like he’s waiting for permission.

and then—

your foot bumps a loose cable under the table.

you stumble, just a half step, enough to make you grip his hoodie tighter out of instinct.

he catches you by the elbow—quick, steady—but in doing so, he knocks into the edge of the desk.

a pen clatters to the floor. your hip bangs against the chair. both of you freeze.

then, in perfect harmony:

“sorry—”

“sorry—”

you look at each other.

he’s flushed to the tips of his ears.

you’re no better.

his hand’s still on your elbow. yours is still in the front pocket of his hoodie. neither of you seems to know what to do with yourselves now.

“…so,” you say, trying to laugh it off, “we’re, uh—officially engineers now, right? or, mad scientists? mad engineers? built something that works and almost died doing it.”

“sounds about right,” he mumbles, eyes not quite meeting yours.

you step back fully, brushing imaginary lint off your sleeves. he clears his throat and bends to pick up the pen—just a little too quickly.

“we should, uh…” he gestures vaguely at the wires. “log this. before we forget what we changed.”

“yeah,” you nod. “documentation. good. yep. very sexy.”

he snorts.

and the tension cracks just enough for both of you to breathe again.

✧✧✧

friday lunch.

same table.

you’re there first, as usual—tray to the left, elbow room cleared, and your little “project napkin” tucked just out of sight beneath your phone.

it’s not schematics, not exactly. more like an outline of “natural” movements. lean angles. average post-meal proximity. potential trigger phrases that could ease the moment into something more than just eye contact and banter.

it’s stupid. it’s excessive. it’s so you.

but it’s not like you’ve kissed him yet.

and it’s not like you haven’t thought about it. a lot.

he slides into the seat across from you—slightly out of breath, hoodie slightly askew.

“hey,” he says. “sorry, i ran into a professor who wouldn’t stop talking about his cat’s gut biome.”

you snort. “sounds riveting.”

“almost kissed him out of pity.”

you choke on a bite of salad. “what?”

“nothing,” he mumbles, sipping chocolate milk. “just—brain fried. bad sleep. lots of… thinking.”

you nod. you get that.

you were up half the night replaying yesterday’s hug on a loop. you hadn’t meant to squeeze him that tight. hadn’t meant to say “good job, genius” like that. hadn’t meant for your fingers to linger on his hoodie hem when you stepped back.

but he hadn’t pulled away.

so.

so.

you both eat in silence for a minute. your foot brushes his under the table. once. twice.

neither of you moves.

finally, you say it. quiet. almost like a confession.

“i, uh… may have tried to engineer a perfect kiss scenario today.”

he freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

“...engineer?”

you nod, cheeks warm. “like… ran a few simulations in my head. built a model. set parameters. i was…probably gonna initiate if you laughed three or more times by the end of lunch.”

his jaw drops. “are you serious?”

“extremely.”

he blinks. “because i wrote a whole conditional loop for this.”

“…what?”

he fumbles in his hoodie pocket and pulls out a sticky note. it reads:

python: if eyes_hold >= 3.5 and cafeteria_noise == low: lean_in()

you stare at it.

then back at him.

and burst out laughing. “we’re so stupid.”

“no,” he says, laughing too. “we’re scientists.”

“why can’t we just communicate like normal people?”

“who needs normal?”

he’s still smiling.

you are too.

and this time?

there’s no plan. no diagram. no if/then logic.

you just… lean in. and he meets you halfway.

your noses bump. just slightly. your knees knock beneath the table. it’s clumsy at first—uncoordinated, like every group project you’ve ever had to rescue last-minute.

but then his hand grazes your wrist. your mouth fits against his like it already knew how. like maybe, all along, this wasn’t something to calculate.

it just needed to happen.

and suddenly, none of it feels theoretical. not the way his lips press softly, then more certainly. not the quiet exhale he lets out when you shift just a little closer. not the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie like you’ve done it a hundred times.

no flowchart could’ve planned this.

it’s instinct. it’s connection. it's human.

it’s easy.

you pull back first. slow. breath caught somewhere behind your grin.

but before you can say anything—

he leans back in. less hesitant this time.

his hand cradles the side of your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw. his mouth meets yours like a spark catching on dry kindling—familiar, but heady. deliberate. like he’s trying to commit it to memory. like he’s making up for every time he could’ve kissed you and didn’t.

your heart stutters. your fingers grip the edge of the table.

he tastes like chocolate milk and lip balm and something stupidly addictive.

when you part again—barely—you stay close, noses brushing, breath mingling.

“you’re gonna break my brain,” he whispers.

you grin. “then i guess i'll be the one to tutor you.”

his laugh is low and warm and very, very fond.

“deal.”

[bullet-prooflove]

ONE WILD NIGHT SERIES: Wildest Dreams - Frank Langdon x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @julessworldd @yousigned-upforthis @travelingmypassion @julius-ceasar

Summary: Frank gets an unexpected surprise in the E.D.

Companion piece to:

Ivy - Frank gets a tattoo to commerate the woman he loves.

Hypocrite - Frank struggles to make amends for a past wrongs.

Crash - Almost getting you fired wasn't the lowest point of Frank's addiction.

Rock Bottom - Frank hits rock bottom when he sees the devastation his addiction's caused.

Little Black Dress - Frank starts to spiral when he realises you're dating.

Every Damn Day - A drunk text leads to a confession.

Wet Dream (NSFW) - Frank sometimes dreams about the life you had together.

War Stories - A realisation about your coping habits leads you to Frank's door.

The Three Cs - Frank and you finally discuss your issues and pave away towards the future.

The Wall - A date at the climbing wall leads to a revelation from Frank.

Commitment - You create a fun way of showing Frank your commitment to the relationship.

At Your Alter - You discover Frank's tattoo when you undress him for the first time.

All In (NSFW) - You and Frank take a big step forward.

Slut (NSFW) - Frank gets a little bratty after a bad day.

Nightmare Fuel - Frank’s been waiting for the fall to come.

Boo Fucking Hoo - Your forced to defend yourself after you’re attacked outside the hospital.

The Incident - Frank’s world is thrown into turmoil when he learns about your attack.

The Filing Cabinet - Things haven't been the same between you and Frank since the attack.

The Perfect Storm - Frank's time in North Carolina almost leads to his downfall.

The House - Frank reflects on his decision to sell the house.

Hawaii - Frank travels to Hawaii to lay it all out on the line.

Frank doesn’t attend Jana’s wake.

It’s too much heartache for him, too much temptation. Booze may not have been his drug of choice but it’s a slippery slope especially with NA. He opts to take Shen’s shift instead, allowing the other man to attend the event with Cici.

Work and the lawsuit are the only things that have been keeping him out of own head recently. His house has been sold and as agreed with you back in Hawaii, he’s now living at your place until he can find a new one.

“You just want someone to look after your garden.” He had teased you when you suggested the idea.

“That’s an added bonus.” You’d informed him as the two of you sipped coffee on the balcony of his hotel room, watching the sunrise in the distance.

Being around your things, it balances him. It reminds him that you aren’t gone for good, that despite the fact it’s been three months, you’re still planning to come back to him.

It’s ten pm when you turn up in the E.D, to say that Frank is surprised is an understatement. The last time he spoke to you, you were on the beach playing with your nephew and now you’re here in Pittsburgh, dressed up like a wet dream. You’re wearing a black sequined dress that cinches at the waist and thigh high boots he desperately wants locked around his hips. Your hair is swept to one side, falling over your features in a dark wave. He can’t speak, he can only stare as you stalk towards him in a long wool coat that wards off the nighttime chill.

“So, I thought you were going to be at the party and I wanted to surprise you.” You say as you stand before him with your hands on your hips. “And now I feel like an idiot for not asking.”

“I’m being a good boy, making sure I don’t compromise myself.” He tells you, signing off the patient’s chart with a final flourish before setting the tablet down on the desk. “So are you back? Like back, back? For real back?”

“Yeah, I dropped my stuff off at the house this afternoon.” You say, tucking your hands into your pockets as you look around you. “I feel very overdressed for this conversation, like super overdressed.”

“You look like every single one of my wildest dreams come true.” He says, biting his lower lip as he reaches out, his fingertips trailing along the lapels of the coat. “What’s the chance that you’ll still be wearing this when I get in later?”

“At seven in the morning? After a 12 hour flight from Hawaii this afternoon? We’re lucky I’m still upright right now.” You tell him, shaking your head. “I just couldn’t wait any longer to see you. I wanted to come by and say I’m back and… that I don’t want you to move out of the house. Seeing your stuff around like that… it kind of felt like home and I want that for us. I want my house to be our house.”

“Ivy Williams.” He smiles, his palms skating down to your waist, drawing you closer against his firm body. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Well you’re already kinda moved in so this is just a formality.” You say as you tilt your face up to meet his gaze. “I was going to ask you at the party, where there would have been fire dancers, rose walls, probably sex in the bathroom. All of that would have added the element of romance I was looking for.”

“Well I am very sorry I missed all that but my answer would have still been the same.” He teases you, his forehead coming to rest upon yours.

“And that would be…”

“Yes.” He laughs, his lips brushing over yours. “Yes Ivy, I would love to live with you.”

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The Study of Us - CHAPTER 8

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

word count: 5.8k

warning: language

hey yall heres chap 8. not much to say abt it cs its nth crazy but js that it wasn't edited so idk if some bits even make sense 😭 lemme know what yall think ! hope u guys enjoy 🫶🏽

‼️‼️this wasn’t edited

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Paige shoved open her door with 1 shoulder, letting it swing closed behind her with a soft thud. She dropped her gym bag to the floor, kicked off her crocs, and stood in the middle of her room for a second just breathing.

Her arms ached. Her legs ached. 

She was also tired. Not the dramatic, exaggerated kind, either. The real, bone-deep kind that settled into her joints and behind her eyes like fog. She blinked slowly, took another breath, then flopped face-first onto her bed with a groan that probably echoed down the hall.

For a full min, she didn’t move. Just let her body melt into the mattress and tried not to think. Of the endless notes from film. Of the weight room that felt more like a warzone than a training space today.

But then her brain gave her a lil reminder.

Azzi. Tonight.

She rolled over with a grunt, propping herself up on her elbows. Her phone buzzed somewhere at the edge of her blanket and she fished it out lazily, swiping through notifications until she landed on Azzi’s name in her messages.

She stared at it for a beat, then started typing.

Paige: js got back to my dorm

Paige: u can come over around 6 ??

Paige: gives me time to clean n maybe nap so i dont die mid sesh lol

She hit send and stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary. Then, as if struck by a sudden bolt of awareness, she bolted upright.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, looking around the room.

The clothes. The dishes. The actual chaos that had accumulated on her desk.

“Okok. I said I’d clean. I can clean.”

It wasn’t dirty, not really. It was just lived in. There were 2 crumpled practice jerseys slung over the back of her desk chair, a single sock peeking out from beneath the bed, and a pile of notes and empty gatorade bottles occupying most of her desk surface. She shoved her phone into her pocket and got to work, redoing her hair up in a loose bun and putting one of her playlist that made it feel less like a chore and more like a montage.

Paige moved with energy—half fuelled by the desire to make the place presentable and half fuelled by the knowledge that Azzi would actually see this place. That she’d be here. In her room. 

By the time the clock read 2:30 pm, Paige had made some pre solid progress. The laundry was either folded or hidden, the dishes were stacked neatly in the tiny sink, and she even lit 1 of the candles Ice had given her last Christmas which was some weird vanilla-honey scent that actually smelt kinda nice when it wasn’t overpowering.

She stood in the middle of the room again, surveying her work.

“Acceptable,” she declared to no one. “Barely.”

Her bed looked freshly made, the desk was cleard, and she even managed to find the whiteboard markers she’d lost a few weeks ago.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten, so she grabbed a protein bar and flopped back onto the bed. She opened her messages again, half-hoping Azzi had already responded.

When the reply came a few minutes after she had messaged, Paige couldn’t help but smile.

Azzi: sounds perfect

Azzi: see you at 6 :)

Azzi: i will bring snacks and flashcards like i said i would

Paige stared at the screen, the little warmth in her chest building slowly.

Paige: u r srsly too good at this. i owe you big time.

Paige: see u soon :)

She set the phone aside and stretched her arms above her head, letting herself relax again. Everything was ready—or close enough. She had just under 3 hours now. Plenty of time to shower, wear something simple that didn’t smell like gym floor. And, if she was lucky, sneak in a short nap before Azzi got here.

Paige stood up and grabbed a towel, heading toward the bathroom for a quick shower. The hot water was a relief against her skin, helping to loosen the tension in her shoulders that she didn’t even realize was there. After she finished, she wrapped herself in a towel, then pulled on a pair of grey trackies and a black nike sports bra.

She stepped back into her room, feeling the familiar weight of the day lifting as she moved around. The clean scent of body wash still clung to her skin, and she felt a little more like herself.

Paige climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over her shoulders, letting her body relax into the softness of her sheets. Her playlist still hummed in the background, a familiar rhythm in the quiet room. She let her mind wander to the evening ahead—Azzi sitting with her, focused and sweet, laughing at something dumb she said. 

Something normal. Something calm. Something good.

She hadn’t realized how much she was looking forward to tonight until now.

With a soft sigh, Paige let her eyes slip closed, allowing herself to drift off, thoughts of Azzi still lingering in her mind.

—-----------------------------------

Azzi stood in front of her mirror, still dressed in the comfortable sweats she’d thrown on after she settled back into the dorm earlter. Her mind was half-focused on the clock, the other half wandering back to the thoughts that had crept in earlier of Paige. Her room. Tonight.

With a soft sigh, Azzi tugged her hoodie off and turned toward the bathroom. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Paige. Just imagining sitting with her, the easy rhythm of their conversations, her smile lighting up the room, it felt different than anything she’d experienced in a while.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her, and Azzi turned the water on, letting it warm up before stepping in. The hot water hitting against her, the steam filling up and wrapping around the room. She tilted her head back for a moment, letting the water fall across her face, and for a second, everything else faded away. The weight of the day, the lingering tension in her shoulders, all of it was washed away with each passing minute.

She let her mind wander again as she worked through the routine, scrubbing off the day’s sweat. The thought of taking a picture of Paige earlier still lingered, that sharp image in her mind of the way Paige would look sitting at her desk, looking just a little too cute with that casual, effortlessly unposed vibe. She bit her lip as a sudden flush crept up her neck, the memory of the polaroid camera she’d jus got making her feel unexpectedly shy.

When she stepped out and wrapped herself in a towel, she took a long look in the mirror again, feeling that familiar pull toward something that felt more and more like a quiet certainty with each passing day.

It was already a little past 5:30, just a couple of minutes before she’d head over to Paige’s dorm. She moved quickly to change. She pulled on a plain, oversized hoodie and matching trackies, it was nothing flashy but it was perfect for the evening ahead. Comfortable, laid-back, and just right for the session.

She grabbed her bag and began packing her things. Snacks, flashcards, her books, laptop, and charger. and then, without thinking, she reached over to her desk and picked up the camera.

It felt different in her hands now. The camera was light, but holding it made her feel strangely aware like it meant more than it should. She kept thinking about Paige, maybe smiling, maybe mid-laugh. What if she could capture that ? Just 1 small, quiet moment. Nothing posed. Nothing big. But real. The thought made her stomach flip, and she looked down at the camera again. 

Azzi swallowed, feeling her cheeks warm at the thought. She gently placed the camera into her bag, making sure it was secure. She still wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of taking a picture of Paige made her feel like her heart was doing a slow, steady flip, but she knew that it was something she couldn’t quite shake.

With a final glance at her reflection, Azzi grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, stepping toward the door.

Azzi tugged the door shut behind her, the strap of her bag slung over one shoulder, the weight of it comforting against her side. The air outside was cooler than she expected, and the faint golden hue of the setting sun casting shadows across the pavement as she made her way across campus. The sidewalks were quiet, just a few students here and there, mostly retreating back to their rooms, the buzz of evening starting to settle in.

She kept her steps even but not hurried. There was no need to rush. Still, her heart beat a lil quicker with each stride, and it had nothing to do with pace. Her thoughts were ahead of her already on Paige. Paige, in her dorm. Paige, who would probably be in another hoodie and trackies, maybe a lil sleepy from a nap, maybe sitting cross-legged on her bed with a bag of chips between them as they studied. That’s what Azzi pictured anyway.

As she stepped into the dorm building and started walking down the hall toward Paige’s room, Azzi heard muffled shouting, a sharp burst of laughter. She smiled to herself before she even reached the door.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS ? Bro is really emoting on me. That’s not even—ok, rez me, rez me—ICE, BRO, COME ON—”

Azzi paused outside the door, listening. Paige’s voice rang through, loud and animated.

“HE’S ONE SHOT. HE’S ACTUALLY ONE. KK PUSH LEFT. LEFT ! LEFT—no, not that left. Geez, we’re cooked.”

Azzi grinned, her fingers curling into a light fist as she knocked softly once. No response.

“NOOOOOO This is actually criminal,” Paige growled from inside. “Dude, how did he third-party from that angle? That’s literally the dumbest—KK, stop emoting and rez me bro, I swear to God—”

Azzi knocked again, louder this time, and leaned in.

Still nothing.

“Hol up, I’m hearing something. Someone’s at the door ?” Paige’s voice dipped slightly, distracted. “Did I order food ? I didn’t order food.”

Azzi waited, biting her lip to keep from laughing. A second later, the door clicked open.

And there stood Paige, headset still snug over her ears, a controller still in 1 hand, her other pushing the door back lazily. Her grey trackies were low on her hips showing the top of her boxers, and she stil hadn’t bothered to throw a shirt or hoodie on yet. Her face still held that soft look of someone who had just napped, and her glasses sat slightly crooked on her nose. Her hair was up in a loose bun, messy, cute, effortless.

Azzi blinked.

She had not been prepared for this.

“Azzi ?” Paige squinted at her, a little breathless. “Wait—shit, is it six already?”

Azzi nodded, her lips parted slightly, her mind struggling to find a neutral landing point. “Uh, yea. Just about.”

Paige looked confused for half a beat before her eyes widened slightly. “Shit, sorry. I fell asleep earlier and then hopped on with KK and Ice. We’re running trios. I promise I won’t be long. You can come in.”

She stepped aside, tugging the door open wider and turning back toward her desk, still talking into the mic. “Yea, yea, I’m back. Chill. Hopefully y'all didn’t get me killed.”

Azzi stepped inside, her smile spreading again. Paige’s dorm was warm and tidy, everything in its place except for a single hoodie draped over the back of a chair. A faint vanilla-honey scent from the candle Paige lit up earlier hung in the air. But Azzi wasn’t looking at any of that.

She was looking at her.

Paige, hunched slightly forward in her chair, thumb flying across the controller, legs tucked up, headset still on. Her glasses kept slipping a little lower on her nose every time she tilted her head, and she had this intense focus, mouth slightly parted as she yelled again, “HE’S BEHIND THE TREE. I’m not even trolling—BRO. Ight he’s knocked. Ice, clean up.”

Azzi lowered her bag gently and sat down on the edge of Paige’s bed, eyes never leaving her. She reached into her bag without really thinking, fingers brushing past flashcards and snacks until they found the soft shape of the polaroid camera. She lifted it slowly, quietly.

Paige was still mid-game, too caught up to notice.

Click.

The flash went off.

“What the— ?!” Paige flinched, glancing over her shoulder while quickly muting her mic. “Did you just—did you take a picture of me?”

Azzi grinned, holding up the developing photo. “I couldn’t help it.”

Paige’s eyebrows shot up, but her smirk followed quickly. “While I’m mid-sweat ? Wow. Bold.”

“You looked focused,” Azzi said softly, biting back her own smile. “And kinda cute.”

Paige’s smirk faltered for half a second, her cheeks turning just a hint pinker behind her glasses.

“You think so ?” she asked, voice low now, just for her.

Azzi nodded, still looking at her. “Yea. I do.”

There was a pause then, just a beat between them, the game still running in the background, the clack of buttons and KK yelling indistinct things through the headset.

Paige’s mouth quirked again as she glanced back at her screen. “Well… I’m glad you caught my good side, then.”

“Hard to miss it,” Azzi replied quietly, her fingers fiddling with the photo’s edge. Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest. “You have a few.”

Paige looked at her again and the moment stretched between them, lingering, soft and charged.

“I won’t be long,” Paige murmured, suddenly shy again. “Then we can get into whatever nerd stuff you’ve got in that bag.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, a small shake of her head. “Take your time. I’m good right here.”

And she was. Watching Paige as she unmuted herself, admiring her, sitting in a room that suddenly felt warmer than any space she’d been in all day.

The photo finished developing in her hand, the soft colors settling onto the image: Paige, headset on, one hand gripping the controller, the other mid-gesture, lips parted like she’d just said something she meant.

Azzi stared at it a long time before tucking it carefully back into her bag.

On the other hand, Paige was fully locked in now.

“NAHHHHH, THAT’S WHAT YOU GET, YOU DUMBASSSSS,” she shouted, standing up slightly in her chair, her voice almost cracking. “YOU WANNA EMOTE ON ME EARLIER ? LEMME JUST T-BAG YO DUMBASS RIGHT NOW. SWING AGAIN. I DARE YOU.”

She pressed her joystick down repeatedly, making her character crouch repeatedly over the knocked body. “stupid idiot emoted on me earlier.”

Azzi, still sitting on the bed, burst into laughter. “Wow” she said, raising her brows. “You’re actually toxic.”

Paige glanced over her shoulder, unbothered. “He emoted on me when he knocked me before. I have to make it fair.”

From her headset came a burst of chaotic voices shrieking over each other.

“PAIGE, WHO IS THAT ?? WAIT—IS THAT AZZI ? IS THAT AZZI IN THE BACKGROUND ?”

Azzi looked up, curious, hearing the faint squealing but unable to make out any words. “What’s going on?”

Paige’s eyes went wide. She hunched her shoulders, pulling the mic slightly away from her mouth. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she muttered, her voice suddenly lower, face heating up immediately.

The headset voices only got louder.

“OH MY GOD IT IS AZZI”

“Y’ALL ARE SO CUTE OH MYYYY”

Azzi tilted her head as she heard more muffled screaming from Paige's headset. “They ok in there?”

“They’re just loud,” Paige muttered, fidgeting with the thumbstick. 

The squeals kept coming. “P BOOGERS LIKES AZZI SO MUCHHHHH LIKE SOOOO MUCH” KK sang dramatically. “OH MY GAWSHHHH, AZZI, YOU’RE SO COOL, YOUR VOICE IS SO SOOTHING—PAIGE, IS THAT WHAT YOU SOUND LIKE WHEN YOU TALK TO HER ?”

“I do not sound like that” Paige hissed into the mic.

“YES YOU DOOOO,” both of them chorused.

Azzi, still smiling, shook her head and reached for her water bottle. “They sound pretty wild.”

“They’re unwell,” Paige said through gritted teeth, her face now fully red. “Actually diseased.”

From the headset, “YOU GUYS WOULD BE SO CUTE TOGETHER. JUST KISS HER ALREADY.”

Paige instantly yanked the mic away. “Geez bro, I can’t with them—”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Oh nothing” Paige said, spinning back to the screen like she was avoiding cross-examination. “I’m hopping off after this game anyway. Got uhhhmmm, school things.”

The end of the game came fast. They cleaned up the last team with a push. Paige headshotted the final player mid-air and let out a yell.

“LET’S FUCKING GOOOOO !”

She leapt to her feet, flexing hard with both arms overhead. “VICTORY ROYALE, BABY”

She turned to Azzi, still shirtless, a lil sweaty from adrenaline, smug as hell.

Azzi, caught mid-sip of her water, choked slightly and looked away fast.

“Ok, wow,” she mumbled, covering her mouth to hide a very unchill smile. “That was… something.”

Paige grinned, still high off the win. “Told you. Revenge arc. I’m nasty wit it.”

The headset still on Paige now had KK’s voice coming through loud and clear.

“Ok but for real,” KK said, calmer now. “Paige. Be honest. You gonna try and be a lil bold tonight ?”

“Yea,” Ice added, “like, look at her. You can’t not flirt. Just a little.”

Paige leaned closer to the headset. “You are both on thin ice.”

“Just do subtle stuff” KK said. “Eye contact. Stare at her lips when she talks. Laugh at her jokes.”

“Touch her arm,” Ice added. “Like casual, not weird. But enough to be like I’m noticing you.”

“Compliment something,” KK said. “Not like ‘you’re smart,’ but like ‘you look good’ or ‘I like your voice’ that stuff works.”

“Take notes, Rizzler,” Ice cackled. “Wow, who would’ve thought we’d be giving you advice.”

Paige sighed dramatically, but her brain was taking notes. Quietly, carefully.

Eye contact. Laugh at her jokes. Subtle touches. Compliments. Stare at her lips.

Bet.

“Alright, alright, I’m hopping off,” she said, glancing at Azzi, who was now reading through one of her notebooks with her legs swinging slightly off the bed.

“Have fun being emotionally repressed!” Ice yelled.

“Good luck, P Boogers,” KK called. “We believe in you.”

“Bye, losers.” Paige said before turning off her console and taking the headset off and settling the controller next to the console.

She turned to Azzi and shrugged, trying to act casual, even as her ears were still pink.

“Ok,” she said. “I’m all yours now.”

Azzi looked up, still grinning a little. “Well, that’s good. I was starting to feel like I had competition.”

Paige blinked. “From Fortnite?”

Azzi laughed. “From the two in your headset.”

Paige snorted and sat down next to her, close—but not too close. “Trust me,” she said, voice dropping just a notch. “They don’t stand a chance.”

Azzi paused, eyes flicking toward hers briefly, and something passed between them just for a moment.

“Good,” she said softly, nudging her bag toward Paige. “Now. Let’s get nerdy.”

Azzi unzipped her backpack and started pulling things out: a small stack of flashcards, a neatly tabbed notebook, a worn textbook, and a half-crushed bag of chips.

She tossed the snacks on the bed between them, then reached back into the bag. “Oh,” she said casually, “I also brought these. Thought we might need a lil sugar boost.”

She pulled out a frozen bag and set it on the blanket with a casual thud.

Paige’s head whipped around so fast it was a miracle she didn’t get whiplash.

“Is that—Wait. Is that Tru Fru ?”

Azzi blinked. “Uh, yea. Why?”

Paige stared like she’d just seen a miracle. “Are you serious right now?” she said, reaching for the bag with almost reverent hands. “This is elite behavior. You just brought Tru Fru like it’s casual?”

Azzi laughed. “It is casual. I like them.”

“No. No, Azzi. This is amazing.”

Azzi grinned, watching her tear open the bag like it was treasure. “Glad you’re easily impressed.”

“I’m not.” Paige said, already popping one into her mouth. “Ok, maybe I am. But still—Tru Fru ?”

She offered the bag to Azzi with a look that bordered on romantic devotion. “You want one?”

Azzi took one and nudged Paige with her foot. “Alright Rizzler. Focus.”

Paige choked a little, glaring. “You heard that?”

“Bits,” Azzi said with a shrug. “Enough.”

Paige groaned and muttered something under her breath. Then, with a quick glance to make sure Azzi wasn’t looking, she checked herself. 

Eye contact. Laugh at her jokes. Casual touch. Compliments. Lips. Got it.

She exhaled slowly, rolled her shoulders, and leaned in.

Azzi pulled out the flashcards and handed half to Paige. “Ok. Let’s do the derivatives first, and then hit matrix operations. Sound good?”

“Sure.” Paige leaned slightly closer. “Coach always says hit the fundamentals before the fancy plays, so. Makes sense.”

Azzi nodded. “Exactly. Derivatives are like… reading a defense. You’re not just reacting to a play, you’re predicting how it’s going to change. Like, if you’re driving the lane and the defender’s momentum is moving left, you already know to cut right.”

Paige raised her brows. “Okay… yea. Yea, that actually makes sense.”

Azzi flipped to the next flashcard. “What’s the derivative of 3x²?”

“6x,” Paige said immediately, then grinned. “Quick first step.”

Azzi chuckled. “Not bad.”

Paige tilted her head, letting the silence linger for just a second longer than necessary. “You’ve got a good teaching voice, by the way.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

Paige shrugged, playing it off as casual. “I’m just saying. Like, it’s calm. Explains things well. Makes stuff less scary.”

Azzi opened her mouth, then shut it again, just barely ducking her head. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

Point one. Compliment. Executed. 

Paige smiled, trying to hide the way her own pulse had jumped.

Azzi moved to the next card. “Alright, what’s the derivative of sin(x)?”

“Cos(x),” Paige answered, still watching Azzi.

When Azzi looked up, Paige met her eyes, holding it just a beat longer, before offering a small smile. Azzi faltered. “Right,” she said, blinking once before looking back down. “Correct.”

Eye contact. Check.

Paige scooted a little closer and reached across to grab one of the notebooks Azzi had opened, brushing their arms together. Her fingers grazed Azzi’s wrist, then lingered there just a second as she pulled the notebook toward her.

“Sorry,” Paige mumbled, but didn’t move her arm away.

Azzi didn’t either.

Touch. Casual. Executed.

They moved on to matrix multiplication. Azzi leaned in to explain it using a basketball example.

“Ok,” she said, “imagine each row in this matrix is a player, and the columns are stats—points, assists, rebounds. When you multiply by this matrix, it’s like applying game conditions—home or away, fast or slow tempo, pressure defense. It changes the output.”

Paige nodded, absorbing every word—but her eyes were flicking, just briefly, to Azzi’s mouth. Her lips, the way they moved when she talked, the little quirk in her smile when she finished explaining.

Stare at her lips. Not creepy. Just once. Nailed it.

Paige leaned in a little more, then draped her arm over Azzi’s shoulders and let it rest there. Her hand slid down to Azzi’s far arm, light and steady. She didn’t make a big deal out of it. Just… settled.

Azzi barely reacted. She was used to it now—Paige’s warmth, her arm casually thrown around her like they’d done it a dozen times. Paige’s hand resting on her shoulder as they leaned over notes together. Normal.

But then Paige’s fingers tapped lightly against her shoulder. Absentminded. Gentle. Azzi tried to focus on the next example.

“And if we look at—uh—so if this row is the defensive scheme, then…”

She trailed off, eyes flicking down.

Paige’s bicep flexed a little as she adjusted her grip, anchoring them both together. Azzi blinked, her brain stalling for just a second. Her gaze dipped lower then back up quickly.

Focus.

“Anyways” she said, voice just slightly thinner. “That’s how you interpret the output. It’s… it’s predictive.”

Paige nodded, focused and calm, totally unaware of how her muscles were being lowkey studied.

Azzi tried again, flipping a page.

Paige leaned in, chin brushing close to Azzi’s temple as she peered at the notes. “You’re smart,” she murmured. “Like, actually.”

Azzi paused.

She turned her head slowly, met Paige’s gaze up close.

Paige smiled again, soft and maybe a little too honest. “I mean it.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers for a second too long, her heart thudding. Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something but she didn’t. Just nodded faintly and looked back down.

Paige didn’t move her arm.

They worked through the rest of the practice problems slowly, surrounded by flashcards, open books, and the remnants of snacks. Every so often, Paige would make a little joke or laugh at Azzi’s quips, just enough to keep the mood light. The tru fru bag was nearly empty.

—-----------------------------------

Azzi scribbled something into the margin of her notebook, trying to stay focused. Paige’s arm was still draped comfortably across her shoulders, her fingers resting against Azzi’s upper arm like it was second nature. It was distracting. In the most confusing, quietly electric kind of way.

Paige glanced over at Azzi’s backpack again and tilted her head. “Hey,” she said, nudging Azzi’s knee with her own. “You just get that camera ?”

Azzi looked up, blinking. “Oh. Yea.” She reached over and pulled the small, pastel pink camera out from where it was half-buried under a notebook. “Received it this morning. Been wanting one for a while.”

Paige’s eyes lit up. “It’s cute. The colour is nice and kinda soft. Feels very you.”

Azzi gave her a skeptical look. “Soft ?”

Paige smirked. “In a good way. Like… deceptively powerful. Sneaky-soft.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Ok, sure.”

Paige leaned closer, eyes flicking to the camera in her hands. “Also, by the way,” she added casually, “you can keep that pic you took earlier. Of me.”

Azzi paused, fingers tightening slightly around the camera.

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked down at the camera like it had betrayed her.

“I mean,” Paige continued, voice a little gentler now, “not that I’m, like, obsessed with how it came out or anything. Just… you know. You took it. It’s yours.”

Azzi glanced at her, surprised by the softness in her tone. “Ok,” she said. “Thanks.”

There was a small pause.

“You wanna take one together ?” Azzi asked, not quite meeting Paige’s eyes. “Like… for the study archives or whatever.”

Paige beamed. “Absolutely.”

Azzi turned on the Polaroid and flipped it around in her hands. “Ok, it’s set… we’ll have to, uh… get close.”

Paige’s heart jumped just slightly but she kept it cool. “Right. Cool. Yea, no prob.”

She adjusted her position without moving her arm from Azzi’s shoulder, instead pulling her a bit closer, their bodies shifting naturally until their sides were pressed together.

Azzi inhaled a little too sharply.

The camera was held out in Azzi’s hand, a little shaky, so Paige reached her other hand up to help steady it. In doing so, she dipped her head slightly, letting her cheek rest gently against the top of Azzi’s head.

Azzi froze. Her heart was doing something weird.

“Ok ?” Paige asked, voice soft right above her ear.

Azzi swallowed. “Y-Yea. Good. Smile.”

They both smiled—maybe too much, maybe too soft. Paige’s eyes had crinkled a little at the corners, and Azzi’s dimples showed as her lips curled with that barely-there shyness she only showed when she wasn’t guarding herself.

Click.

The camera whirred and slowly spat out the photo.

They stayed like that for a second longer than necessary.

Neither moved.

Then the photo popped out, and Azzi reached for it quickly, setting the camera down.

The image was still developing, colours slowly blooming into clarity.

Paige leaned over to peek, cheek brushing against Azzi’s hair again. “Nawwww that’s actually kinda cute.”

Azzi held it up between them, her thumb brushing the edge. “Yea,” she murmured. “It… is.”

The photo showed them pressed close together, Paige’s arm curled protectively around Azzi’s shoulders, her cheek resting on Azzi’s head. Azzi was leaning just barely into her. They both looked comfortable. Happy. A little flushed. Like more than friends.

Azzi glanced up at Paige, who was already looking at her.

Neither of them said anything.

Paige just smiled, softer now. “You can keep that one too, if you want.”

Azzi blinked, something tugging in her chest.

“Thanks,” she said again. And this time, she meant something more.

She set the photo carefully beside the flashcards.

“…Ok,” she said after a beat, “but now I want one to keep for myself.”

Azzi looked over, intrigued. “Another one?”

“Yea,” Paige grinned. “But this one’s gotta be stupid. Like, completely unserious. I want chaos.”

Azzi blinked. “Chaos ?”

“Yeah. A silly one,” Paige said, reaching for the camera again. “Like for balance. You keep the soft, wholesome one. I keep the unhinged one.”

Azzi gave her a slow, suspicious look. “Define unhinged.”

“Like… we commit. Dumb faces. Chaos energy. No regrets,” Paige said, sitting up straighter with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Azzi laughed despite herself. “Ok, fine. But if this ends up on the internet, I’m suing.”

“No one’s seeing it but me,” Paige said, holding the camera up again. “Unless u start slandering me publicly. Then it’s going on every social media platform I use.”

Azzi scoffed, scooting closer to get in the frame again. “I’m literally tryna help you pass.”

“Exactly why I’m letting you in this iconic moment.”

They shifted again, bodies brushing, legs pressed together. Paige slung her arm right back over Azzi’s shoulder like she belonged there and grinned.

“Ok,” Paige whispered. “How about you do the disgusted look. Like, ‘ew what the fuck’. I’ll go dumbass mode.”

Azzi bit back a smile, but she nodded, glancing up at Paige as Paige tilted her head toward her dramatically.

At the last second, Azzi turned her face, giving Paige a dirty—chin tucked, eyes narrowed, lips curled like she couldn’t believe she was associated with this person. Her head rested right on Paige’s shoulder, angled up, expression perfect.

Paige, meanwhile, crossed her eyes hard and stuck her tongue out to the side, her nose nearly brushing Azzi’s from how close they were.

Their cheeks were flushed immediately but they held still.

Click.

The photo slid out again with a whir, and they both burst into laughter immediately, faces still close enough that Paige had to pull back slightly to avoid accidentally bumping lips.

“That was ridiculous,” Azzi muttered, but she was smiling so hard her eyes had almost disappeared.

“Iconic,” Paige corrected, already grabbing the photo and waving it gently in the air to help it develop. “Frame-worthy. Poster-worthy.”

When the image started to appear, they leaned in again to look—Azzi’s dramatic look, Paige’s deranged expression, their faces way too close, and somehow still cute.

Paige blinked at it, a slow grin spreading across her face.

Azzi tilted her head. “We look…”

Paige snatched the marker from the desk, uncapping it with her teeth before scrawling the date along the bottom of the photo. Then, trying to play it cool despite the buzz of excitement under her skin, she stood and slapped the photo onto the corner of her whiteboard, holding it in place with a magnet.

Then she turned back to Azzi.

“We lwkey look like a couple.”

Azzi blinked. Her breath caught in her throat.

Paige didn’t say it like a joke.

She said it with a little smile and a shrug, like the observation didn’t scare her. Like maybe she’d been thinking about it for a while.

Azzi opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“I—yea,” she said, voice quieter than before. “We kinda do.”

Their eyes held for a moment longer than they should have. Long enough that Paige’s teasing smile started to fade into something softer. Something neither of them could name yet.

But neither looked away.

—-----------------------------------

Time had slipped by unnoticed. Now, the clock on Paige’s desk glowed quietly—9:02 pm.

Azzk’s gaze flicked to it, reluctant. She shifted a little on the bed, tugging her hoodie sleeve over her hand, suddenly too aware of how late it had gotten and how long she’d been there.

3 hours. 3 entire hours of studying, laughing, and taking couple-like polaroids with someone she never thought she’d be like this with.

She shouldn’t have been thinking about how good Paige looked like this with her bare shoulders, messy bun, those grey trackies still hanging low on her hips. And those glasses. God. It was like some twisted test designed to expose all her weak spots.

Paige, meanwhile, stretched with a soft groan and stood up, glancing toward the door like she’d just remembered Azzi had to leave at some point. She looked over, eyes soft.

“You heading out ?”

Azzi nodded slowly, rising to her feet. “Yea. I probs should before I end up just… staying.”

Paige chuckled. “You wouldn’t hear me complain.”

That made Azzi pause for a split second, but she forced a little smirk and reached for her backpack.

Paige walked her to the door without thinking, her hand finding its way to Azzi’s waist as they moved side by side. Natural. Familiar now. Her touch lingered even as they stopped at the threshold.

Azzi turned to her, backpack slung over one shoulder, a little flush high on her cheeks. “Thanks for today,” she said quietly. “This was… actually kinda fun.”

Paige smiled, stepping closer. “Yea ?” Her voice dropped a little. “I like hanging out with you.”

Azzi swallowed, eyes flicking down, and then back up. “I like hanging out with you too.”

They leaned in at the same time hugging like it was routine now. Like this was what they did.

Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi’s waist, slow and easy, pulling her in. Azzi’s hands found Paige’s back, fingers curling gently into the bare skin.

The hug lingered. Just a little too long. Just enough to feel everything.

Paige’s hand moved slowly, softly up and down Azzi’s back. A quiet caress. Thoughtless, but tender.

“Text me when you get back ?” Paige murmured near her ear.

Azzi nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “Yea I will.”

Paige hesitated, lips close enough to brush the edge of Azzi’s cheek but not quite touching. “I could walk you back,” she offered softly. “It’s dark.”

Azzi shook her head gently, still in her arms. “You don’t have to. That’d be… too much.”

Paige smiled against her hair. “Too much, huh ?”

Azzi breathed a soft laugh. “Yea.”

They pulled back slightly, but their arms stayed in place. Just swaying there in the doorway, faces close again, unspoken things passing between them.

“I’ll see you soon ?” Paige asked, voice a whisper now.

Azzi nodded, eyes warm. “Yea. Soon.”

Then slowly, they let go.

Paige watched as Azzi disappeared down the hallway. The warmth of her still clinging to her skin. And when she closed the door, she didn’t move for a long time.

Just stood there.

Smiling.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[scoutofmymind]

AHHHhhhhGg!!!! We need more sweetie pie fratty Lu!! beg for a pt 2 🛐

I’ve Got You — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW — MDNI kissing, dry-humping, fingering, fluffy, handjobs, LuigiTalksYouThroughIt, he finishes a little Too Soon ™️, quickie

Wc: 2,586

Notes; Luigi reveals he was a psych major before venturing into the world of CS. He helps you through what seems to be yet another crisis, in more ways than one.

This is a Pt 2 of the Divine Timing Bullshit drabble.

"Well, I was a psychology major for a minute." Luigi's voice carries a hint of amusement as he settles cross-legged on his bed. The room surprises you — a private dorm that speaks of his family's wealth, yet the space feels lived-in, humble.

Lamps with amber edison bulbs cast a warm glow over textbooks stacked beside engineering manuals.

"And so that makes you my therapist?" The words come out more bitter than intended, hanging in the air between you. You hadn't planned this visit — just a casual 'wanna hang?' text at 3 PM that somehow led to you wearing tracks in his floor, your anxieties spilling out unchecked.

"Well, no, but I probably give better advice than Liz, or Scarlett, or Johanna." His voice stays steady, eyes tracking your movement with quiet attention. The way he lists your friends' names shows he's been listening all semester, filing away the details of your life. "Not licensed, but if it makes you feel better, you—"

"Never mind." You drag your sweater sleeves across your eyes, the soft fabric catching on your damp lashes. Your chest feels tight with that particular brand of exhaustion unique to college students — equal parts caffeine jitters and existential dread. "I'm just — I'm so tired of feeling like I have no purpose, you know? Just this thing floating around, ma-"

"Come here." His voice cuts through your spiral, soft but unmistakably firm. He pats the space in front of him, the gesture both invitation and anchor. When you hesitate, hovering between flight and surrender, his lips curve into a gentle smile. "Present moment exercise."

Reluctantly, you migrate to the space before him, mirroring Luigi's posture like a hesitant reflection — crossed legs, straightened spine. The mattress dips beneath your weight, creating a subtle gravity that draws you both incrementally closer. "What's the exercise?"

"Close your eyes." His voice carries that gentle authority that seems to bypass your usual defenses, making compliance feel less like surrender and more like trust. "What do you feel right now? Not think — feel."

You hum softly, hands resting in your lap as the world shifts from visual to visceral. The darkness behind your eyelids makes every sensation sharper, more immediate.

"Your knee touching mine," you start, clinging to this exercise like a Hail Mary thrown into the depths of your winter despair. "Uh- the texture of your comforter" - soft, worn cotton that speaks of countless nights studying - "the candle you lit..."

"Good." The word comes with the warm press of his hands finding yours, and your breath catches slightly. His skin feels sun-warmed against your winter-chilled palms, his thumbs painting invisible patterns that seem to speak directly to your nervous system. "What else?"

"Your hands," you murmur, the words falling soft and honest in the space between you.

You let yourself sink deeper into the sensation — not just the mechanical fact of his thumbs against your palms, but the way his touch seems to radiate warmth up your arms, how each deliberate stroke feels like morse code tapping out a message: breathe, settle, stay. "Uh — little sparks."

"Mm, that's good." Luigi's voice has mellowed to warm honey, no longer needing to rise above your anxious litany of deadlines and mounting student loans. "What else?" His fingertips whisper along your forearms where your sweater sleeves have retreated to your elbows, each touch deliberate and grounding.

"Water." The word emerges soft as you lose yourself in the patterns he traces, his fingers creating phantom ripples across your skin.

Memories surface with each touch — the shock of cold spring water on sunburnt skin, the gentle rock of a weathered pontoon boat, the way summer light dances on the farm's pond. A smile tugs at your lips, unbidden and genuine. "Reminds me of home."

Though your eyes remain closed, you can feel Luigi's answering smile in the air between you, sense the careful attention he pays to each micro-expression that crosses your face, every subtle response to his touch. "Yeah? Take me there," he whispers, his fingertips discovering new paths now, mapping the delicate architecture of your wrist bones. "What do we see?"

In your mind's eye, reality softens at the edges, then transforms completely.

The suffocating weight of impending papers dissolves, the tyranny of five-thirty alarms fades to nothing, and the guilt of rushed mornings and forgotten breakfasts melts away like frost in sunshine.

Instead, memory blooms bright and clear as summer.

"There's uh — it smells like hay," you murmur, the sandalwood candle's warmth fading as memory takes over. Your voice grows stronger with each detail. "There's Rosie, our herd dog. And the birds are chirping in the trees." Luigi's fingers trace their way back up your forearm, slower this time, as if drawing out each remembered sensation. "The sun." You can almost feel its warmth on your skin, that particular kind of heat that's been absent since fall break left you stranded in winter's gray embrace.

"That's beautiful," Luigi breathes, his words carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, something that makes 'you're beautiful' hover unspoken in the air between you. "What do you feel now?” The question lands softly as he observes the transformation in you — shoulders that have finally surrendered their tension, lips curved in a gentle smile, hands that have shed their anxious chill for a living warmth.

"I feel comfort." The words come with a small nod, the first movement you've made since closing your eyes, since letting him guide you away from the chaos in your head. Your voice holds a certainty that wasn't there before. "I feel safe."

Luigi's touch anchors you back to the present moment, gentle but grounding. "Yeah? And we'll keep that feeling, hm?" His hands find their way to your thighs, the touch carrying no threat, no expectation – just steady warmth and presence. "Even when we're away from our safe place, we can find it still."

Something breaks open then — maybe it's the simple humanity of it all, how Luigi offered not just a listening ear but a path back from the edge where dropping out had started to look like your only escape.

Your chin trembles, and behind your closed eyelids, tears begin to gather. All you can manage is a soft "Mhmm," anything more threatening to unleash the emotion building in your chest.

"Ohh," Luigi's gentle tsk carries nothing but understanding as his thumb finds your jawline, the touch tender as a whisper. His soft coo acknowledges what he already knows — that this reaction is natural, expected even.

He'd been here himself once, tears falling during his first time with this very exercise.

When you open your eyes, a watery laugh escapes as you reach to brush away the tears tracking down your cheeks, but Luigi's already there, his thumbs gentle against your skin. "You did great," he beams at you, his smile radiant with a pride usually reserved for mountain summits or graduation stages. "Not so hard, is it?"

Your head tips forward into his touch as another laugh bubbles up, accompanied by fresh tears — a release valve finally opening on emotions bottled since semester's start. "What the fuck did you just do?"

Luigi's grin is soft as he catches each tear with careful thumbs, taking in your flushed cheeks, the way emotion thickens your voice. "I fuckin' popped that big ass dark cloud over your head." There's gentle knowing in his tone – the cloud will gather again, but now you have a way to part it, to find light.

Sniffles punctuate the quiet as you lean into his touch with a sigh, studying him with new eyes. The image of Frat Boy Luigi feels like a distant myth now; trying to picture him dominating a beer pong table seems as misplaced as a lion in a library. "Why did you switch to CS?" The question comes carefully as his hands migrate from your cheeks to your neck, thumbs finding pressure points behind your ears that he somehow knows to touch, pressing gentle circles that make your shoulders drop another fraction.

"You want the honest answer?"

Your nod is immediate.

"I was good at psychology — too good, honestly. Reading people, understanding their patterns, their defense mechanisms." His words come measured, thoughtful. "It began to feel... manipulative? Like I was collecting everyone's source code without any permission."

You raise an eyebrow, shooting him an inquisitive grin. "So, you fuck with actual source code now instead?"

"Exactly." Luigi nods, but something deeper flickers in his gaze. "With programming, everything is transparent. The computer does exactly what you tell it to do — there's no hidden agenda, no complex histories. If something breaks, you can fix it by looking at the code."

Understanding hums through you as your hands seek his, drawing them into your own, missing their warmth for reasons you can't quite name. "What happens when you start looking at people like code?"

The playfulness drains from his expression, his fingers going still against yours.

"That's actually why I switched." He straightens, fingers weaving gently through yours. "I started seeing everyone like programs running on faulty logic. Started thinking I could debug them, optimize their processes." His laugh carries a edge of self-reproach. "God, I sound like such an ass."

"No, keep going.”

"There was this girl in my Abnormal Psych class. She had anxiety, pretty severe. I thought I understood her patterns so well that I could help her rewrite them." His free hand rakes through his hair. "I ended up making it worse. Way worse. Because people aren't programs — you can't just identify the bug and patch it. Every 'bug' is part of who they are."

You study his face in the mixed glow of candlelight and distant desk lamp, catching shadows of old guilt in his expression.

"With code, there's always a right answer. A most efficient solution. But humans — fuck," he draws your hand to his cheek, releasing a soft sigh. "We're messy. Contradictory. Beautiful because of it, not in spite of it. The moment I started seeing people as systems to optimize was the moment I stopped seeing them as people."

You study him — the way he cradles your hand, his own need for contact as evident as yours. "Is that why you're so focused on being present? Not analyzing?"

His smile returns, gentler than before. "Yeah. Turns out the best way to understand someone isn't by debugging them." His lips trace down your wrist, following the same path his fingers had taken earlier, recreating that feeling of safety and home. "Being here. Feeling. Letting things be messy and imperfect and real."

You feel yourself melting further — transformed into something soft and vulnerable you never expected to become.

By all rights, you should be alone in your dorm right now, buried under your duvet until the hypnotic loop of slime videos lulled you to sleep.

Instead, here you are, receiving wisdom from someone you'd once dismissed as just another beer pong champion, your best friend's crush turned into something far more complex.

Fuck.

"And how's that working out for you?" A grin spreads across your face, warmth flooding your cheeks as your heart performs an impromptu butterfly migration. "Letting things be messy?"

He moves with purposeful grace, drawing you onto his lap, his back finding the carefully arranged pillows behind him. "Well," he murmurs, warm hands sliding beneath your sweater to grip your waist, carrying the same gentle certainty as before, "I haven't color-coded a single spread sheet this week, and somehow the world hasn't ended."

Your laugh comes out breathless as your arms find their way around his shoulders. He gazes up at you through half-lidded eyes, those stark black eyebrows relaxed like brushstrokes across his features, each detail seeming divinely crafted.

"You're different than what I expected." The confession slips out as his hands chart a careful course up your back, then down to trace the curve of your ass, maintaining their unhurried, gentle exploration.

"I won't ask." Luigi's grin carries the weight of familiar labels; valedictorian, hazer of newcomers, dean's list fixture, beer pong legend, app development champion, notorious panty dropper. "But, thanks anyway."

Your lips crash together with sudden urgency, your hips finding their home in the space between his crossed legs, your body molding against his like a missing puzzle piece. "It all worked out in the end," you murmur against his mouth, teeth grazing his bottom lip as your hips roll downward. "Wouldn't you say?"

Luigi nods slowly, lips brushing yours with each word. "I'll say whatever you want me to." His grin is a contradiction — shy yet heated, pure yet hungry — as crimson spreads across his cheeks and creeps over the bridge of his nose.

A moan escapes you, startling in its intensity, warmth flooding your cheeks.

His hips rise to meet yours, a deep groan rumbling through him as the hardness in his jeans presses against your inner thighs. “Is this the kind of messy you were talking about?” you breathe between heated, spit-slick kisses, your hips rocking with a deliberate, determined rhythm.

Luigi seems to be unraveling beneath you, his hands exploring every inch your oversized sweater allows, hiked up to your bellybutton. He watches intently as you grind against him, the obvious tent in his sweatpants twitching in response to the attention.

“The kind of messy that practically comes with a free therapy session before making you come in your sweatpants?” A smirk curls your lips, playful and devious, your gaze locked on Luigi, who looks as if he’s found heaven.

“Gonna make me come, are you?” His breath quickens, a familiar tingling sensation building deep within him.

“Only if I get to,” you reply, your words igniting a spark. His right hand slips down the front of your leggings, his palm replacing the stiffness of his groin, fingers teasing momentarily as they gather the arousal dampening your panties.

You tug the waistband of his sweatpants down below his hipbones, revealing his cock — proud yet desperate, glistening with pre-come. The whine that escapes him as you begin to stroke him speaks volumes of his growing need.

“Look at me,” Luigi begs, and your attention snaps back to him, too captivated by his size and the slickness on your knuckles to focus on anything else, wrist working in rhythmic timing over his length. “God, you’re fucking—” He’s cut off by a chorus of moans, hot and steady, as waves of arousal spill onto his abdomen.

Your hand instinctively moves to your mouth, tasting him—bitter at first, but sweet on the finish.

How perfect.

His breath comes in ragged gasps as his fingers work their magic inside you, curving just right to find that sweet spot that makes your eyes flutter and a wave of warmth wash over you. “You can do it,” he whispers, his free hand trailing gentle touches up and down your forearms, mirroring the soothing gestures he’d offered only thirty minutes prior to this. “I’ve got you.”

Your hands are still slick with his release, but it doesn’t matter. You lean forward, tangling your fingers in his hair, your lips crashing together in a desperate hunger punctuated by whimpers that signal your impending climax.

“Fuck,” you curse, your hips moving in rhythm with his fingers thrusting inside you, still gentle yet insistent. His palm presses against your clit, creating a friction that pushes you right to the edge.

His praises shower over you like a sweet melody. “That’s it, baby,” he coos, your head tilting back as you ride the wave of pleasure until you can’t anymore. “That’s my girl.”

[burrowglazer]

SHOW ME OFF BABY - JOE BURROW

★ summary — soft launching with joe burrow... but everyone already knows.

˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: joe burrow x reader - social media au ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. n/a ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. n/a ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. n/a

★ authors note: never made a smau before so if this aint good look away, also again, short asl cs tumblr as an image limit APPARENTLY. fc is madison beer.

❛⠀⠀ not requested by anyone :: no tags

@ y/n.ln has posted... ! (at 10:07 pm)

♡ liked by joeyb_9 and 5,795 others — @ yn.ln: nights like these ;)

view all comments !

@ yniloveyou: mommy? sorry, mommy?

⤷ @ yn.ln: ayo?!

@ bqngals: yo anyone notice how fast joe liked her post...

⤷ @ ynupdates: exactly!!! this isn't even the first time! ⤷ @ joeshiestylvr: hey at least it isn't the past 3 olivia girls... ⤷ @ fixthedline: dont diss my goat olivia

@ yn.ln: @ joeyb_9 hoe i see you.

⤷ @ burrowglazer: oh NAH... clocked. ⤷ @ hugs4joe: HELP ME I LOVE YOU ⤷ @ ynsangel: bro did NOT respond

— @ yn.ln has posted on their story !

@ y/n.ln has posted... ! (at 4:48 pm)

♡ liked by joeyb_9 and 184k others — @ yn.ln: mr loverman <3

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⤷ @ joeyb_9: ❤️❤️❤️ ⤷ @ joeshiestylvr: OH MY GOD IT'S HAPPENING EVERYONE STAY CALM

⤷ @ hugs4joe: I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I CALLED IT GUYS

⤷ @ lahjay10_: joey b finally got rizz 👀

⤷ @ yn.ln: everyone cheer ⤷ @ joeyb_9: what do you mean "finally" ⤷ @ yn.ln: oh honey...

⤷ @ bengals: aw, our joey all grown up

⤷ @ ynsangel: y/n already insulting his rizz, lil bro is NOT gonna catch a break

⤷ @ olinegoat: free my man

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[a-kind-of-merry-war]

NOW CLOSED!

Wanna win a queer historical romance book? Wanna win.... TWO queer historical romance books??

@tjalexandernyc and I are hosting a joint giveaway to celebrate our upcoming novels!

Enter for a chance to win a prize pack that includes ALL THE PAINTED STARS by Emma Denny, an advance reading copy of A GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN (UK title: THE EARL MEETS HIS MATCH) by TJ Alexander, plus secret extra swag and treats.

To enter, just fill in this Google Form.

Giveaway will close on the 5th November - the date All the Painted Stars comes out in the US - so you've got one week to enter! Full blurbs as well as Ts&Cs under the cut.

ALL THE PAINTED STARS

When Lily Barden discovers her best friend Johanna’s hand in marriage is being awarded as the main prize at a tournament, she is determined to stop it. Disguised as a knight, she infiltrates the contest, preparing to fight for Jo’s hand. But her conduct ruffles feathers, and when a dangerous incident escalates out of Lily’s control, Jo must help her escape.

Finding safety with a local brewster, Lily and Jo soon settle into their new freedom, and amongst blackberry bushes and lakeside walks an unexpected relationship blossoms. But when Jo’s past catches up with her and Lily’s reckless behaviour threatens their newfound happiness, both women realise that the choices they make will always have a cost.

***

A GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN/THE EARL MEETS HIS MATCH

The notoriously eccentric Lord Christopher Eden is a “man of unusual make” and even more unusual habits: he prefers to live far from the prying eyes and ears of the ton, and would rather have the comfortable company of his childhood cook and his aged butler than the swarm of servants and hangers-on befitting a man of his station.

But Christopher’s pleasant, if occasionally lonely life is upended when he receives word from his lawyers that, according to his late father’s will, he must find a wife by the end of the Season if he intends to keep his family’s fortune and the Eden estate. If his quest to marry has any hope of succeeding, he must move to London posthaste and acquire some more suitable staff. Enter James Harding, Christopher’s new, distractingly handsome—if rigidly traditional—valet.

***

Terms & Conditions

Open internationally. No purchase necessary. One entry per person at the link provided. Sweepstakes not affiliated with or endorsed by Google, Vintage Books, HQ, or any other entity. One winner will be randomly selected at 3 PM EST on November 5, 2024 and alerted via email. Winner will be required to share a valid mailing address in order to receive prizes.

[deeisace]

Nearly £400 for a root canal?! Fuck me I wish there was an NHS dentist accepting patients near me

The emergency appointment is twice the price of a check-up, but I have already paid for the first-appointment thingy so hopefully maybe I only have to like pay the other half?? Please cries

hm. Bad.

NHS website says I have a dental abscess and to get an emergency appointment. That explains the ow and the swelling. Hell.

Maybe they'll swap my new-patient check-up on Friday, but then I really don't have time before work for a root canal or whatever then lmao.

Maybe they can fit me in sooner than that. I'll ring them on my lunch break :/

[sweetshuga]

Roommates 4 ✧ CS

───~𓆩♡𓆪~───

roomie!chris! "No friends over after 8 pm." Is what you both agreed on but you couldn't handle your friend's stubbornness anymore.

Your best friend texted you one evening, begging to meet since he had broken up with his girlfriend and needed comfort, and you tried to reason with him saying you would go to his place instead of him coming to the dorm, but he insisted on the latter. You were torn between the ground rules and your friend’s obvious heartbreak—you chose the latter since Chris wasn’t home, he wouldn’t know, right?

𓆩♡𓆪

It’s been a solid 2 hours of comforting and listening to your best friend ramble on about his ex, as much as you wanted to listen further and be a friend, you were on edge, wondering when Chris would come home. It was 10 pm already, and finally, your best friend took a deep breath, saying he was feeling a lot better and he should probably go home to which you internally sighed in relief to—not because you were tired of your friend’s ramblings, but because you didn’t want Chris to come back to the dorm and think you’re untrustworthy.

Finally, your friend left with a small smile on his face, having talked his tension out. You were left in the living space and decided to tidy up – even though it wasn’t that untidy – as you were bent over, trying to pick up your phone you had dropped under the table; Chris walked in through the door, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw the compromising position. You scrambled up to your feet with your phone in hand, "oh, you’re uh... home," you smiled awkwardly. "Yeah..." His voice trailed off as he saw the red beanie that belonged to neither you or him.

Your gaze followed his and you took the beanie, not making a comment about it, you had broken yet another rule.

Rule number 4: Do not invite guests over after dark.

𓆩♡𓆪

rule. 1 2 3 5 6 7 Origin

wc. 306

note. English is not my first language—if you didn't catch on with my poor vocabulary and writing skills.

Isa's notes. I need ideas for ground rules, this one wasn't my favourite, dunno what was happening.

© sweetshuga

[medstudentblues]

10.10.24

i can’t believe it’s already october 10th. days are just passing by!!! but !!! i love love where i am. i’m happy where i am even though sometimes i’m tired. i attended a pre-op conference this morning and i got asked lol. thankfully it was just a simple question: the indications and contraindications for vaginal birth after CS that i was able to answer.

then i had breakfast with my beau in a nearby café. i did my journaling there. was hoping i could study but the envt isn’t really conducive for studying. i prefer to study these days at home. now i’m on my bed, about to do my anki cards 💀 hopefully i’ll nap before my PM duty!

[bad-wingsoffire-ideas]

Adding to the idea of calling Peacemaker "PM", they start referring to ALL the NightWings by initials, and nothing else

SF. MW. MS. FT. FS. DS. SW. SK. CS. BW. MM. The list goes on.

🐉