#Roll laminating Machine

[selfadhesivepaperindustry]

Label stock Kraft Paper Lamination Film Jumbo Roll Release Paper slitter

This model jumbo roll slitter rewinder machine mainly use for converting pressure sensitive material, such as self adhesive paper, sublimation paper, BOPP, OPP, PVC film. Differential friction rewinding shaft for better control tension.

sonia wei E-mail: sonia@makwell-mech.com whatsapp: 008613306265137

[redlandsmachinery]

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[sixeyesonathiel]

in which you, the sharp-tongued president of the journalism club, declare war over a stolen layout, and satoru, the insufferably flirty photography club president with a camera full of your secret candids, decides he’s having the time of his life.

highschool au | wc — 1k | next. | masterlist.

the meeting room smells like ink, film, and freshly laminated passive aggression.

the overhead lights flicker with the kind of fluorescent buzz that makes everything feel more hostile. satoru props his legs up on the table like it’s his personal recliner, one ankle carelessly balanced over the other. his reading glasses—thin, silver-framed, and infuriatingly stylish—glint under the cheap lighting, slipping a little too perfectly down the bridge of his nose. he chews idly on the end of a red pen, the cap tucked behind his ear like some kind of pretentious artist. his white shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a constellation of old ink smudges near his wrist. the top two buttons are undone, just enough to make the faculty advisor twitch.

the click of your heels hits the linoleum like gunfire. you walk in like you own the air, a stack of mock-up spreads clenched in your hands. your brow is pinched, lips already curled in a frown, and there’s war in your eyes. one of your earrings swings with each step like a warning bell, catching the light with every calculated movement. behind you, two juniors from your club trail in silence, wisely scattering to opposite corners like soldiers avoiding crossfire.

“you stole my layout.”

he doesn’t even glance up. his gaze stays fixed on a spread of black-and-white prints, one finger tapping the margin absently as he exhales a sigh that’s more theater than actual exhaustion.

“i improved your layout,” he replies, voice drawling like warm honey, every syllable laced with calculated apathy. “you should be thanking me. i made it… tolerable.”

you bristle, one corner of your mouth twitching with the effort not to scream. your grip on the mock-ups tightens enough to crumple the edges. the laminated surface of the table reflects the clench of your jaw.

“i will be thanking you in court.”

finally, the president of the photography club looks over his glasses, pale blue eyes flicking toward you with all the weight of someone examining a particularly amusing page in a novel. his grin spreads slow, lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun. he shifts in his seat, boots thudding against the wood as he plants both feet firmly, clearly settling in for entertainment.

“you always this dramatic, sweetheart? or is it just me who gets the full opera?”

you drop the folder onto the table with a satisfying smack. papers fan out, sliding perilously close to one of his prints. his feet don’t move, but his fingers pause mid-flip.

the tension crackles. a freshman from the debate team peeks through the glass pane in the door before backing away like they saw two lions about to brawl. somewhere outside, the vending machine hiccups and spits out a half-stuck can.

“you know what, gojo?” you hiss, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “one of these days, your camera is going to mysteriously go missing. maybe it’ll be a tragic accident. maybe the journalism club just decided it’s not photogenic enough to live.”

he lets out a low whistle and leans back, folding his hands behind his head. his sleeves slide up farther, baring more skin, as if he’s flaunting his comfort just to get under your skin.

“such violence from such dainty hands. should i be scared, or turned on?”

your eyes narrow. “i’ll make you a headline.”

“make me your centerfold while you’re at it.”

his voice is light, but there’s a glint in his eyes now—sharp, fascinated. your lips purse. your fingers twitch against your arm, like you’re debating whether to throw something. he watches the motion closely, the corner of his mouth twitching.

the truth is, he’s annoying. impossibly annoying. but he watches you like it’s a compulsion—like if he blinks, he might miss something vital. like you’re the only person worth photographing in color.

he always gives the worst pictures to the press. the ones where your mouth is open mid-lecture or your hair’s caught in the wind wrong. those go to print. but the good ones—the ones where your smile breaks slowly, or your eyes are scanning a page like it holds the world, or you’re caught mid-laugh with your nose crinkled and one hand over your mouth—those stay with him. those are his. they’re tucked behind his portfolio, buried in folders named things like “b roll” and “miscellaneous,” like he’s fooling anyone. he edits them late at night, adjusting brightness, cropping out noise, zooming in until your expression is framed perfectly.

he tilts his head, voice dipping just low enough to make the space feel smaller.

“by the way, new lipstick? not that i was staring. but it’s smudged. right here.”

his finger lifts, hovering near the corner of your mouth, too close for comfort. his tone is playful, but his eyes trace your features with an unsettling softness—one you pretend not to notice.

your breath hitches. then—smack.

your palm connects with the back of his hand, hard enough to sting. the sound echoes, sharp and final. he laughs, not even flinching. the sound is warm and low, like you’d just told him a secret. he rubs his hand where you hit him, still grinning.

“worth it,” he murmurs under his breath.

you storm out, heels clicking faster than when you came in, the door creaking open and slamming shut behind you with a force that sends dust motes dancing in the light. one of your juniors rushes to collect the scattered pages, her face pale.

he’s still smiling when he watches your reflection disappear in the dark tint of the window, glasses now pushed up fully onto the bridge of his nose.

he’s still smiling when he slips another candid of you—half-turned, sunlight catching your cheekbone—into a folder buried beneath three layers of encryption on his hard drive. the photo’s file name is a random string of numbers. there are dozens of them.

journalism club’s president is going to be the death of him.

and god, he’s going to die so happy.

[charles-leclerizz]

01 . ᝰ.ᐟ do i look like i care about love ?

models: carlos sainz x journalist!reader

status: just met . ( she's hot. he's annoying )

series ?: Off the record (OR25)

timeline: Before the 2024 season starts

mood: Chapter one. Hopefully they don't kill each other.

warnings: swearing .

editors note: its finally hereee. I genuinely love what's going on here, so I hope yall do aswww. just a reminder that my requests are open (Though I take my damn time icl) and I love talking to yall so come on down *wink wonk*

tags : [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @lorarri, @scuderia-piastri], [@dallaski, @nichmeddar, @sisinever, @ksthegreat] IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, PLEASE SEND IN AN ASK, AND MUTUALS LET ME KNOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE REMOVED ON PRIV !

One. Two. Three�� 

The rhythmic tapping of your pen against the desk is interrupted by the quiet hinges of your office door, “Hey, I got a new story for ya.” 

Your boss stops in front of you, buttons straining against the bulge of his stomach, not entirely where you would look and flinch from the pressure, but enough to make you squint your eyes to make sure you were looking at the correct part of his body.  

You groan, head lolling back lazily, “Sal, I already have an article to write.”  

“Yeah, but this one’s better,” He implores, smacking a thick manilla folder on top of the mountain of crumpled papers, an array of newspaper cuttings and pages ripped out barbarically from the assorted magazine’s, staples everywhere.  

You roll your eyes, “really? There's something more interesting than this.” you arch an eyebrow, picking up a laminated cutting from your interrupted research, the flimsy picture of some irrelevant rugby player sways between your fingers, before falling flaccid, “you’re kidding.” 

Sal ushers your attention to his addition on your desk, “I'm not going to lie to ya, this is huge, you crack this one properly. It's a whole new world for you.” His southern accent comes out thicker with each minute he spends amping up this assignment, “I'm talkin’ corner office, ya own assistant, one of the expresso machines that ya gals love.” 

“You mean an espresso machine?” you correct unhelpfully, boredom already weighing your eyelids down. You adjust your glasses, pushing them to the highest point of your nose as you flip open the folder.  

You’re met with images of a vaguely familiar face, tan, European with stumble scattered across his cheeks and chin like calculated dark brown paint splatters. 

“am I meant to know who this is ?” your fingers glide against the pile, fanning out multiple other pieces of paper, full body shots of him walking down what seems to be a tarmac, flanked on each side by loyal looking assistants clad in an eye-watering red uniform, matching his... astronaut suit?  

You thumb through the more interesting looking papers as Sal answers your question, exasperated by your hesitance, “Carlos Sainz, F1 Driver for Ferrari. He’s like their golden egg. Real pretty, real rich 'n real fucked up.”  

You nod slowly, the pieces starting to form in your mind as you consume more and more flashy tabloid titles,  

“ FERRARI'S GOLDEN BOY OR LIABILITY ? ”  “ SAINZ'S LATE-NIGHT ESCAPADES: PR NIGHTMARE OR JUST FUN ? "

" INSIDE THE MIND OF AN F1 REBEL "

Each photo is paired with damning evidence, blurry images of the man in clubs with various women clinging to his arm, leaning into his side drunkenly as camera’s flash in their faces. 

 Others include him stumbling out of expensive nightclubs, surrounded by diamonds and debauchery along with more invasive photos of the glitz and glam of this guy’s... no Carlos’ life- yachts bigger than hotels and enough alcohol to put a whole transplant list out of business. 

 All in all, not your vibe.  

You shake your head, “Are you serious right now?” your voice is low and disbelieving, “I’m not writing about a spoiled brat, who by the looks of it,” you hold up a photo of him pouring too much vodka into a too small shot glass, “is perfectly happy as is.” 

“You don’t get it,” Sal lowers his voice to a hoarse whisper, “I want you to expose him. According to some connections I have in the sport- there are rumours floating around of him having some deep secrets, anger issues, broken contracts, women signing NDAs. There’s something about this guy- I know it, and so do the guys who sign your pay cheque, who are also willing to write a much higher number if you get the inside scoop.” 

“So, you want me to socially assassinate him.” 

He squeaks noncommittally, “If that’s what the truth is, then yes. I just want you to find out what he’s hiding. You've got the best eye for cracks in the paint, sweetheart.” Sal shrugs, “You think he managed to keep himself clean while driving a goddamn Ferrari?” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, still rifling through the seemingly never-ending pages of Carlos. Granted, nearly half of them are in other languages, a perk of being an international race car driver, you assume.

Yet you pause when your eyes find a smaller photo tucked away, this one doesn’t have a flashy, insulting title, neither does it have an unflattering flash-bang emphasising his face. It’s just him. Head bowed between his shoulders, elbows braced on his knees, with his hands tangled in his hair. No champagne shower, no confident smirk. Just. Exhaustion  

You sigh.  

“Why me? You've got a bunch of capable guys out there, girls as well, who won’t mind getting their reputation damaged for writing a piece like this.” 

“Your’e the best there is” He implores, “They're just not as good as you at getting the maximum reward from the risk. And you’re the only one who won’t fall in love with him.”  

You harrumph, ignoring Sal’s victorious smile.  

When he turns back around, large hand braced on the door handle, you take notice of him once again.  

“Oh — one thing. Ferrari agreed to let one of our journalists shadow him for a month. We told them that you're writing a PR piece to soften his image. They don’t know about this.” He gestures to his addition to your mess of archives.

You snap your eyes up at him, “You’re kidding.” 

“You know I never joke about access; it was easier this way.” He waggles a finger at you, “Play nice, act fluffy, get in deep.” Sal clears his throat cautiously, “And — this is the kicker — Carlos and his team think it’ll be easier to justify your presence if you two fake a relationship. His PR manager thinks it’ll sell the ‘soft’ angle” 

Your mouth parts. “Fake date him?” 

“You’re hot. He’s hot. The optics are amazing. Everyone will eat it up.” 

“This is fucking insane.” 

Sal’s already walking out. “So’s journalism. Pack a bag, take the week, you leave next Monday.” 

y/n ' s instagram stories :

privacy status - 30% , you're a semi-famous sports journalist

instagram security - private . 10 k followers ( close friends, coworkers , favourite clients )

< DESC -- story 1 : a picture of your suitcase, captioned : "packing for a little unexpected trip", song : " tadow " by Masego & FJK . story 2 : a picture of your airport security tray, captioned : " got the essentials", song : " sunset lover " by Petit Biscuit. >

< DESC -- story 3 : a picture of airport gate board, captioned : "ok . dont freak out", song : " electric " by Alina Brand & Khalid . story 4 : a picture of museum ferrari in maranello, captioned : "❤️", song : " God Speed " by Frank Ocean. >

y/n's group chat

grp chat name : " The Scoop Squad 🕵️‍♀️☕ "

members : emma, scarlett & sophie

relationship : co-workers at network, best friends.

You tipped the guard handsomely once he had safely dropped you off in front of the large sleek doors of the Ferrari headquarters, though you would have appreciated if he hadn’t let you lug around all the luggage you were instructed to bring.  

“a whole years' worth darlin’” Sal chortled over the phone, his laugh grating against your ears as you sat on the third large, over-packed suitcase of the evening.  

You huffed, flipping your hair out of your face as you stood the expanded luggage upright, “i hate you, you know that right?”  

“Yeah, sure sweetheart” 

Apparently, the first hotel of many you were staying at, would've collected your entire circus school of worldly possessions. But alas, there was nary a pre-booked taxi waiting for you on the hot streets of Maranello.  

So, there you were, sweaty, flushed and panting in front of probably one of the most prestigious buildings in the world of motorsports. Ready to meet, your fake boyfriend. 

Thankfully, your ID card had worked and as soon as you scanned the piece of plastic, the door mechanically opened, welcoming you with a jet powered gust of chilled air.

If you were honest with yourself, the Ferrari headquarters were exactly what you expected, bodacious in the impressive history they had and unapologetic with the displays of their many trophies. A living legacy of speed.  

“Hey!” 

Bright voice. Too bright. Lina. 

You turned to find your PR handler bounding down the glass staircase, her tall heels clicking dangerously against them. You recognised the voice from its echo, almost identical to how it sounded through the phone.  

“You must be her,” Lina said, stopping short in front of you with a dazzling smile, framed by bubble-gum pink lipstick. Sparkly pink clipboard in hand. “God, you look better than your press photo.” She fawned over you briefly, her knees melting slightly as her face tilted.  

“You say that to all your fake girlfriends?” You replied, deadpan as you wiped off the sweat beading on your forehead. 

Lina blinked. Then laughed delicately, almost like bells. “Oh, I like you.” She extended a hand. “Lina. We’ve like, totally, spoken over the phone. Ready to sell your soul?” 

You took Lina’s perfectly manicured hand. “Always.” 

“Well, come on then,” She grinned at you, crooking her finger. “Time to meet your boyfriend” She jumped happily, “I feel like cupid y’know, I have everything planned out to a T” She slaps the thick wad of papers on her clipboard.  

You didn’t have to walk far. 

Carlos was already waiting — leaned casually against the reception desk in a hoodie and joggers. His hair was falling artistically over his face, eye’s focussed on his phone as his fingers tapped wildly on the screen. He looked better than the photos. His eyes larger, more sensitive. Lips fuller and pinker. Shoulders wider, stronger. Everything was so much more overwhelming, more heart stuttering. 

He looked up. And smiled. 

Slow. Wide. His gaze looking you up and down, studying you.  

“You’re early,” he noted. Slipping his phone into his pocket 

“You’re overdressed,” you replied, eyebrow arched, signalling to his ensemble.  

Carlos glanced down at his clothes, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Comfort over ego.” 

“Doesn’t seem like you’re lacking either.” 

Lina's bright blue eyes pong-ponged between the two of you as the conversation quickened pace, smile plastered on thicker. “This is going great.” 

You looked Carlos up and down once, eyes unreadable. “You’re shorter in person.” lie 

He laughed, unaffected. “You’re meaner.” 

You scoffed. “Surprised?”  

“Not at all.” He cocked his head. “Hot journalist. Bit of a bitch. Yeah, that tracks.” his accent is too hot 

You smiled, tight-lipped and dangerous. “You’ll love me.” 

He snorted, amused. “I already hate you.” agreed. 

Lina clapped her hands once, too loud.

You snapped your mouth shut, lips pressed together as your gaze never left Carlos'. He continued to smirk down at you, biting his lip as your eyebrows furrowed with annoyance. The longer you stare at one another, the more sure you become of the flush crawling up your neck, colouring your cheeks an embarrassing shade of attraction.

"you hot?" Carlos asks, faux-concerned, eyes twinkling with amusement as you press your hands to your face.

your eyes snap up to his face, studying the delicate curves and sharp lines, "fine. thanks"

Lina chirped “Okay! Love the enemies-to-lovers thing we’ve got going on.” She turned to the you. “Let’s get you briefed before you start a fistfight in the lobby. You can leave your luggage here; the hotel will send your taxi in a few minutes.” 

Lina led you toward a quieter corridor, rattling off acronyms and regulations — paddock zones, press call windows, sponsor tiers — your eyes glazed over ever so slightly. 

You could feel his gaze on her back, or ass, before you heard him murmur something low to the man who had joined him, equally clad in casual clothes, though his hoodie was a bright red. Loyal, even if its unfashionable.  

“She’s gonna eat you alive,” Charles said, grinning as his teammates eyes never leave your retreating figure. 

Carlos shrugged lazily. “She’s smoking hot.” 

You turned your head over your shoulder at that exact moment — slow, purposeful — and caught his eye with a look that said, I heard that, paired with a cheeky wink.  

Then you smirked and went back to focussing on Lina.  

Carlos coughed once, flustered, his tan skin turning a blushed pink. Charles cackled, patting Carlos on the back.

Game on. 

[sillysiluriforme]

Planes pass by overhead in a milky tea green sky direction Charle de gaul airport.

She hasn’t been grounded for this long in 4 years now, not since the hospital. She tries to think about Zoey and her grubby little hands. The way she looks up at her. Her babbling.

It’s all futile, her third sex-on-the beach has rendered her brain mushy and uncooperative. She used to hate being drunk. She still does, so it’s particularly perplexing she finds herself inebriated so often.

A pair of perfect manicured fingernails grazes her shoulder.

“Audreeeeeey…” comes Emilie’s pitch perfect practiced whine.

“I’m talking to you !” She ends her sentence on a higher note, indicating playfulness. Her bronze skin, dusted with crystals of pool droplets, sparkles in the light of the terrace- curtsy of her fresh perfect tan.

She furrows her brows through Audrey’s sunglasses. The green of her eyes is exacerbated, almost comical. Like the warning label on a bottle of helium.

“Whaddidyasay ?” The slurred words slither out of her mouth like drool. Why do people even drink ?

She puffs up her cheek and readjusts her hold on the sleeping toddler in her arms clover- Chloe. Chloe, after her mother in law- not that she’d ever met her- Some gold digging cover girl with a strong stomach and very little shame, from what she gathered.

Maybe that’s what her Andre wants for her at the end of the day. A well-to-do husband, some kids, a big house and as little shame as possible… he’s boring like that.

“ Here I was getting sentimental and you just ignore me, how could you be so cruel ?”

Chloe doesn’t stir in her arms, somehow, despite the brat normally sleeping as sleep as light as a feather. The mass of perfect honey colored curls go up and down as she photogenically lays her restful little head on Emilie’s chest. It’s like she’s doing it on purpose.

Audrey, working at half the speed she usually would, languidly blinks at her. No point in playing her verbal games. Emilie always wins.

She sighs with all the gusto of a mistress of the silver screen and repeats herself.

“I was saying I used to wish I had met you younger.”

“…” the congealed remains of her mostly-fruit-juice-cocktails have seeped into the crevices of her synapses, the coughing machine chugs along. “Why ?” She says flatly, without too much interest.

“I didn’t know you actually had curly hair till the day we all moved out, did I ever tell you that ?”

Audrey goes to push her sunglasses up her forehead almost pokes herself in the eye.

“What did you think I was doing when I woke up earlier than you everyday?”

The perfect hand lurches like a snake to grasp her arm, like otherwise she’d run off and miss hearing her out. “You’re missing the point.” Audrey’s eyes roll in their sockets from the snake to the grass-green eyes.

“You wouldn’t let me in, ever, not of your own will.” Her mouth curves down and her brows curve up. “It… hurt me.” Her voice wobbles in a controlled manner not unlike a prop laminated metal sheet. “My first friend- my best friend, trapping me at arm’s length… so during lectures I’d try to imagine you,”

“And me…” and there’s something she manages to catch for an instant. Something soft and fidgety held in her gaze. “As schoolgirls- sometimes even younger, already friends, shared secrets and make believe memories.”

And with a sharp snap it’s gone, cold and still forever. Emilie’s gaze rises past Audrey, as it often does when she goes on a tangent. Her fingers tangle in the little girl’s curls.

“I missed you, you know. It’s not the same without you here. Im so happy you’re home now.” Glossy pink lips plucker into a heart shaped smile. The perfect snake coils through perfect yellow swirls to unearth Chloe’s sun kissed forehead before planting her lips on the unmarked surface. The glittering pink stain stands alone like a flagpole in no man’s land.

Audrey’s foot catches the leg of her deckchair and narrowly misses eating shit on the sharp white tiles when she stands up. Emilie still reaches out like it’d help in any way.

“I want another glass.”

[archeracy]

“Kids and teens have no third spaces these days!!!”

Before you go to Starbucks or other corporations who want to co-opt the term “third place” and make you become more consumerist, consider:

Are you making full, effective use of your public library?

This is especially true if you live in a big city. I know going to a store or mall is the most tempting third place. But go to the library. Find out what the library has available to you. I live in a major metropolitan area, and my local library offers books, e-books, and audiobooks to library card-holders, but also: sewing machines, 3D printers, recording studio space, individual study space, group study space, an auditorium hall, and conference rooms! Not to mention a website where you can use your library login to log in to ADDITIONAL websites that teach you valuable skills or crafts, or read research journals for free!

If you don’t live in a densely populated area and your local library has less of those things, you better go there and start asking about it. Because librarians WANT you to use their services. They WANT to stock up the library with loads of books and services, but they need the foot traffic and continued requesting to get the ball rolling.

You can also ask about donating things to the library! My library, despite its numerous riches, does not have a laminator. But I guarantee you if someone donated it, they would be eager to let people know they can use it. If you have a tool or machine you don’t use, find out if a library would make better use of it!

[iyoonjh]

Beyond Plus Ultra! – The anatomy of falling in love

Chapter 16: From Dungeon to Deck Chair: The Fellowship of the Beach

wc: 2082 words

The apartment smelled like pizza, bad decisions, and the faint threat of Monster Mango Punch.

Soobin sat cross-legged on the carpet, pencil tucked behind one ear, a character sheet half-filled beside him, and a bowl of pretzel sticks within reach. Beomgyu had a bandana tied around his forehead for “battle energy,” Hueningkai was double-fisting Capri Suns like a sugar-fueled druid, and Taehyun—eternal Dungeon Master and occasional monk—sat at the head of the table with a mini fog machine and actual laminated maps.

“I cast Charm on the goblin guard,” Beomgyu declared, holding up a sparkly d20. “And then I ask him if he’s emotionally fulfilled in his job.”

“I’m going to scream,” Taehyun said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re trying to seduce the goblin again?”

“I’m trying to connect with him,” Beomgyu shot back. “Consentually. And with vibes.”

Sunghoon was perched on the edge of the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big, the sleeves swallowed his hands completely, giving him the appearance of a moody High Elf who’d been hexed into eternal comfort. He held a spell card up in front of him with the seriousness of a Shakespearean lead about to deliver a monologue in Act III of a drama no one else had read.

“By the celestial light of the twin moons,” he intoned, squinting dramatically, “I summon the sacred winds of Elarion—wait, wait, do I add my modifier to this?”

“Yes, but only if you’re not holding a cursed item,” Taehyun said without looking up.

“I’m literally holding a cursed item,” Sunghoon sighed. 

Beside him, Heeseung sat cross-legged with perfect posture, playing a kazoo version of The Lord of the Rings theme song like it was his druid-bardic duty. He was wearing a DIY cloak made from an old blanket and had penciled a tiny mustache onto his upper lip with eyeliner.

“I’m adding ambiance,” he said cheerfully, ignoring Yeonjun’s fourth aggressive glance.

“I will snap that kazoo in half like a breadstick,” Yeonjun hissed, glaring at him from across the table.

Yeonjun himself was the most overdressed person in the room—tight black jeans, silver rings on every finger, and a velvet choker that absolutely did not match his wizard robe but somehow still worked. He had two sets of dice laid out on a silk cloth like a tarot reading and a single tealight candle flickering dramatically beside his character sheet.

“You don't understand the mood,” he said when Taehyun asked if the candle was really necessary. “Besides, my dice roll better when they feel respected.”

Hueningkai was lying on his stomach across a bean bag, sketching an anatomically incorrect dragon with sunglasses on the back of a pizza box. He kept muttering things like “do goblins wear shoes?” and “how much emotional trauma can one elf carry before he becomes a bard?” Every few minutes, he’d gasp, snap his fingers, and write down notes for his future webcomic.

“Did you know octopuses have three hearts?” he said suddenly, looking up. “Imagine breaking all three. That’s so dramatic. I want to play a sea creature who just got ghosted by a mermaid and now he haunts tide pools.”

Leehan sat cross-legged by the window, furiously scribbling in a weathered field journal labeled Tidal Lore: Volume II. He wore a “Support Your Local Fish” T-shirt under a faded zip-up and had five different highlighters spread around him like a ritual circle. Occasionally, he’d whisper something to himself and nod solemnly, as if communing with the spirit of Poseidon.

It was chaos. Beautiful, stupid chaos.

Soobin had barely spoken in the last ten minutes. Not because he wasn’t having fun—he was, truly—but because his phone kept lighting up with new messages. From Y/N.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

That, of course, was his first mistake.

“Okay.” Yeonjun narrowed his eyes across the room like a hawk with better fashion sense. “Why is Soobin smiling like he just got kissed under a rainbow?”

Soobin blinked, thumb still hovering over his screen. “What?”

“Bro’s been checking his phone every six seconds,” Hueningkai said through a mouthful of gummy worms. “You’re glowing. Like, that glow people get when they are pregnant. It’s alarming.”

“I am not—” Soobin started.

“HE’S SOFT-LEANING,” Beomgyu gasped, pointing. “That’s the ‘I’m flirting with my crush and pretending I’m not panicking’ posture. Boobie, know your worth my boy.”

Sunghoon leaned forward. “Did Y/N text you?”

Soobin hesitated. And in that half-second of hesitation, the room exploded.

“Oh my GOD,” Heeseung howled. “She did!”

“Okay spill” Taehyun demanded, slamming his dice bag on the table with the weight of a federal agent.

Soobin sighed, but he couldn’t fight the grin crawling up his face. “Okay, fine. She invited me. Well, us.”

A beat. A pause so sharp you could hear the dramatic swell of nerdy destiny approaching.

“To…?” Hueningkai asked.

“Jake’s beach house,” Soobin said. “This weekend.”

The room erupted.

“WE’VE BEEN CHOSEN!” Beomgyu shouted, throwing his arms into the air like he was being knighted.

“We beat the social game,” Yeonjun said in awe. “We’re getting a beach episode.”

“I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life,” Heeseung whispered, dramatically clutching his character sheet to his chest.

Sunghoon rolled off the couch entirely.

“I can’t go to a beach,” he groaned from the floor. “I’ll burn. I’ll melt. I’m pale and emotionally fragile.”

“I don’t own a swimsuit that’s not from middle school,” Hueningkai added. “It has Charizard on it.”

“BRING IT,” said Beomgyu immediately. “I’m wearing my sailor moon rash guard. We go down together.”

Leehan looked up from his sketchpad, completely serene. “Do you think I’ll be able to identify local tidepool species from the balcony?”

“Leehan,” Yeonjun said gently, “please do not give the crabs names again.”

“I only named five.”

“They followed him back to the Airbnb,” Taehyun muttered.

“THEY UNDERSTOOD ME.”

“Can we focus?” Soobin said, cheeks warm, eyes wide. “She invited us. That means we have to—like—be normal like we were at the party.”

Beomgyu laughed so hard he choked. “Yeah, right. Bro, you summoned a ghost in the last campaign by accident and apologized to it for interrupting her grave nap.”

“I’m just saying,” Soobin said, flustered, “this trip is kind of a big deal.”

“Because of Y/N,” Taehyun smirked.

“Because of—shut up. SHUT UP IMMEDIATELY.”

Yeonjun tossed a chip at him. “Just admit you’re already imagining a slow-motion beach kiss while a ukulele plays in the distance.”

“I—”

“And then you trip on seaweed and try to play it cool but she has to help you up,” Hueningkai added.

“And then you say something like ‘You’re prettier than the moonlight on the tide’ and we all die,” Beomgyu finished.

Soobin covered his face with both hands. “I hate all of you.”

“No, no,” Yeonjun said, leaning forward with a sparkle in his eye that could only mean chaos. “Important question. Who’s going?”

Soobin peeked out between his fingers. “I don’t know. Y/N said her whole group. Probably Jake, Jungwon, Yunjin, Sunoo, Jay—”

Yeonjun’s head snapped toward him. “Jay?”

“Oh god,” Soobin mumbled.

“JAY,” Yeonjun repeated, gripping the back of the chair. “My nemesis. My forever enemy. My beige counterpart. I must prepare.”

“Your what now?” Taehyun asked flatly.

“Listen,” Yeonjun said, standing up as if that would make his next sentence make sense. “We’ve spoken, like, three times ever. But every time he says something, I feel personally attacked. At the party he called my necklace ‘dramatic.’ Dramatic! It was a minimalist silver dagger!”

“He said in a fun way, he was trying to be social with you’” Beomgyu added helpfully.

“And yet,” Yeonjun said with a finger in the air, “Yunjin laughed.”

“Ah,” Heeseung said. “There it is.”

Yeonjun flopped dramatically back onto the couch. “If she’s there, I have to look good.”

“I saw a guy on instagram selling a cologne he promised to be aphrodisiac” Sunghoon offered from the floor. 

“And that's a pyramid scheme” Leehan told him.

“I’ll bring backup necklaces,” Yeonjun muttered to himself. “Statement pieces. Ones that scream ‘I'm in a band and also collect knives.’”

“You're in a band with Hueningkai” Heeseung mocked.

“Why do your accessories have backstories?” Soobin asked.

“They’re part of my lore.”

Meanwhile, Hueningkai, who had been very quiet until now, looked up with wide eyes. “What if we see dolphins?”

Everyone paused.

“I mean, yeah,” Soobin said slowly. “That could happen.”

“No. Like, what if they’re watching us?” Hueningkai whispered. “From just below the surface. Judging our land-walking rituals. Like, ‘look at these fools and their SPF 30.’”

Beomgyu gasped. “Kai. Have you been reading dolphin conspiracy blogs again?”

“I haven’t stopped,” he replied solemnly. “Also, fun fact: dolphins are one of the few non-human species that can recognize themselves in a mirror. So I’m gonna bring one to the beach. Just in case.”

“So what?” Heeseung asked, grinning. “You’re gonna walk up to the water, hold up a mirror, and wait to vibe-check the ocean?”

“Yes,” Hueningkai said without hesitation. “And if they wink at me, we’ll know. We’ll know.”

“You know what?” Taehyun muttered. “I’m not even gonna stop you. I want to see how that plays out.”

“Can I help?” Leehan asked, folding his crab journal closed with reverence. “I can chart dolphin reactions based on lunar phase and water clarity.”

“You’re all unhinged,” Soobin said, somehow fondly.

“Wait,” Yeonjun interjected, suddenly serious. “What are you wearing?”

Soobin blinked. “What?”

“To the beach. You’re the romantic lead now, remember?” Yeonjun leaned forward again, eyes gleaming, Heeseung shook his head. “You need to serve something soft. Boyfriend at golden hour. Wind in your hair, gaze full of longing.”

“He can wear that light blue hoodie,” Sunghoon offered. “It's very boyfriendable”

“Oh my god, I’m not—” Soobin buried his face again, this time in the nearest pillow.

“We are styling you for your beach romance,” Yeonjun said proudly. “This is our Clueless montage. I will not be denied.”

“Just don’t let him wear that one shirt,” Beomgyu said. “You know. The cursed one.”

Soobin looked up. “What cursed shirt?”

“The minions one.”

“I like that shirt.”

“We know,” everyone said in unison.

And then—

A beat of silence.

Soft. Happy. The kind of pause that felt like a smile exhaled into the air, filling up all the little spaces between them. Outside, the hum of late-night traffic drifted past Taehyun’s apartment windows. Inside, the glow from the string lights made everything look golden, like this wasn’t just another weekend but the beginning of something else entirely.

The map on the table was still spread open. The dice lay scattered, untouched for once. And around the room—this warm, weird, chaotic room—sat seven boys who had started this campaign as just friends and had somehow become their own little universe.

Taehyun looked around, his gaze quiet but steady, a knowing softness in his eyes. “You know…” he said, voice low, like anything louder might scare the feeling away, “I think we’re gonna have a good time.”

He wasn’t talking about D&D anymore. And everyone knew it.

Because this wasn’t just a trip. It was them, getting to be part of something. Getting invited. Getting chosen.

It was walking into a party and not standing in the corner.

It was laughing too loud and being laughed with, not at.

It was the quiet victory of being seen—the kind that doesn’t need a trophy or a big speech, just a look across the couch and a shared bag of snacks and someone saying, “You’re coming too.”

Soobin hugged the pillow tighter to his chest. He didn’t say anything right away. Just let the feeling sink in—the one that made his chest ache in the nicest way. The one that said this was all real.

And in his head, looping like a secret, was the image of Y/N’s smile.

That look she gave him whenever she teased him.

He hadn’t even told her how he felt yet.

But he would.

God, he would.

And maybe, when he got there, and the sun was setting, and she was looking at him like that again—

Maybe he’d finally kiss her without a dog interrupting.

And if not?

Well.

At least he’d have his friends. His party. His chaos.

And a beach full of crabs, apparently.

Not bad, for a bunch of kids who used to watch from the sidelines.

Not bad at all.

prev | masterlist | next

profiles: d&d saturday mass group | bling bling losers

author's note: SURPRISE! updating twice this week! hope you guys like it and look foward to the next chapter! as always, let's chat, please tell me what do you guys think in the comments ( i do not think aquarius are dumb, i'm an aquarius moon and we are elite). ALSO what do you guys think it's gonna happen at this beach trip? hehe thank you so much again <3

taglist: @heejamas @mingyustar @wintereals @mimimiloomeelomi @wonderstrucktae @delirioastral @gomdoleemyson @i03jae @irishspringing @bunniwords @kirbrary @sirenla @saladgirl @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @uvyuri @imlonelydontsendhelp @haechology @sanriwoozzz @stormy1408 @soobinieswife @ijustwannareadstuff20 @soobskz @jkeydiary @imnotsureokay @nyanzzn @lostgirlysstuff @lilbrorufr @beomgyusluver@lveegsoi@pagesoobinie @catpjimin @t-102 @sh0dor1 @i-am-not-dal @bbeomgyucafe @damn-u-min-yoongi @https-yeonjun @booksxandxlace @kookssecret

[fisherld3]

Detention Hearts ❤️

Prompt: You gonna glare at me all day or actually do your job?” Melissa throws you a smirk across the teachers’ lounge, her tone sharp as always. You shoot back, “Why do you care? You’re always in my business anyway.”

WC: 2k

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x GN!Reader (2nd-person POV)

Rating: T (mild language, flirty tension)

Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Banter, Romantic Comedy

You’re not even fully in the lounge when her voice cuts through the air like a serrated knife.

“You gonna glare at me all day or actually do your job?”

You roll your eyes before your feet even cross the threshold.

Melissa Schemmenti—redhead, attitude machine, and general thorn in your side—throws you a smirk from her seat by the coffee pot. She’s perched like a damn queen, one leg crossed over the other, her usual black cardigan hanging off her shoulders like she’s in a mafia film and the school is her turf.

“Why do you care?” you shoot back. “You’re always in my business anyway.”

She snorts. “Please. I just happen to notice when you’re slacking. That’s not my fault. Maybe if you did more teaching and less brooding, the kids wouldn’t call you ‘Mr. Moody’ behind your back.”

“Or maybe they’d stop if you stopped feeding them nicknames.”

“You give yourself too much credit, sweetheart.”

You bristle at the word. She always says it like it’s both an insult and a dare.

⸻

The truth is, you and Melissa have been dancing this line since your first week at Abbott. You’re the new-ish hire—idealistic, progressive, fresh out of a fancy urban education fellowship. You believe in laminated lesson plans, collaborative circles, and positive reinforcement.

Melissa believes in street smarts, tough love, and yelling louder than the kids.

From the moment you met, sparks flew. Not the romantic kind. The friction kind. Like flint on steel.

And today? Today is just more of the same.

You plop into the seat across from her and reach for a donut on the counter. She swats your hand before you touch the box.

“Uh uh. Those are for the sixth graders. Fundraiser.”

You arch a brow. “Then why are you eating one?”

She shrugs, powdered sugar on her lip. “I’m part of the community. You’re just visiting.”

The other teachers titter under their breath. Barbara gives you a knowing look before sipping her tea. Janine mouths, Just ignore her, but you’re too far gone for that.

“You really wake up and choose chaos, huh?”

Melissa leans back and grins. “I wake up and choose to deal with amateurs. Chaos is just the bonus.”

⸻

It’s later that week when Principal Ava pulls both of you into her office.

“My two favorite coworkers who pretend not to hate-love each other.”

You both say at the same time:

“We don’t.”

She ignores you.

“So here’s the deal. The district wants us to run a weekend mentorship program for at-risk kids. And lucky me—I volunteered you two.”

You blink. “Wait, us?”

Melissa’s eyes narrow. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Ava smiles wide. “I’m never kidding. Now go be role models before I change my mind and assign you to locker-duty during prom.”

⸻

Saturday morning arrives with rain and regret.

The gym smells like floor polish and faint despair. You’re stacking folding chairs when Melissa walks in, her red hair pulled into a messy bun, hoodie zipped up, eyes scanning the room like she’s casing it for weaknesses.

She stops when she sees you.

“Oh good. You’re early. Didn’t know punctuality was in your skill set.”

You sigh. “Can we try to not fight today?”

She smirks. “What would be the fun in that?”

The kids trickle in—ten of them, middle schoolers mostly, each carrying more emotional weight than any twelve-year-old should. One boy won’t take off his headphones. One girl keeps staring at the floor. Another won’t speak above a whisper.

Melissa doesn’t flinch.

She walks in like she belongs there and starts passing out granola bars like she’s done this a hundred times.

You watch, stunned.

And that’s the first crack in the wall.

⸻

By noon, the kids are laughing.

You ran an art activity. Melissa taught them how to play blackjack with math problems instead of chips.

She’s surprisingly gentle with them. Sharp, yes, but careful. Her sarcasm wraps around the room like a blanket, not a blade.

You sit on the bleachers beside her while they eat lunch.

She nudges your knee with hers.

“You did good, Rookie.”

You glance at her. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

She shrugs. “Take it how you want.”

A silence falls—not uncomfortable, but unfamiliar. She taps a cigarette box against her palm, but doesn’t light one.

“You really care about them, huh?”

You nod. “Of course I do.”

She doesn’t look at you, but her voice softens.

“Yeah. I can tell.”

⸻

A few weeks pass.

The mentorship program continues.

And something… shifts.

You still argue—God, you argue—but now it feels less like a battle and more like a sport. A sparring match with unspoken rules.

And in between the jabs, there are moments. Glances. Lingering words.

Like the time she brought you an espresso before a staff meeting and muttered, “You looked like death. Don’t read into it.”

Or when you defended her in front of the district rep and she smiled at you like you’d just carved her name in a tree.

Or when a kid asked if you two were dating and she didn’t immediately say no.

⸻

One afternoon, you stay late to help her hang decorations for the mentorship showcase.

You’re on a ladder, fighting with a string of lights, when you hear her say:

“You always been like this?”

You glance down. “Like what?”

She leans on a desk, eyes following your every move.

“Trying too hard. Caring too much. Getting under people’s skin.”

You smirk. “Are you admitting I get under your skin?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

You hop down from the ladder, landing a little too close.

There’s a beat.

Then she says:

“You ever think about leaving? Abbott, I mean.”

You blink. “Why?”

She shrugs. “You’re young. Smart. Probably got offers somewhere shinier. Safer.”

You pause.

Then: “I stay because of the kids. And… because of people who surprise me.”

Her gaze sharpens. “You mean me?”

You smile. “Would it make your ego feel better if I said yes?”

She steps closer.

“Maybe.”

@schemmentis @daddy-heather-dunbar @milfjuulpod @milfandh0ney @janeyseymour

[z-eel]

Red Rose Surprise

[a rosekiller kid fic]

BARISTA BARTY | ROSEKILLER | WC: 2.7k

i'm not sure why no one's written a rosekiller kid fic, but i give you this. i will definitely expand on this because i just love this idea so fucking much.

"Stupid strawberry milk."

If Barty was allowed to say one thing publicly without the risk of being fired from his place of employment, he'd probably say fuck big companies who ruined coffee shops for regular ass people. 

Sure, the big coffee chains have been around for years and it’s not like he knew what ordering coffee was like before them, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t despise them.

At least they were taking away the really insufferable customers, or that's what his boss liked to say. The only reason she can say that is because she doesn’t have to deal with them. 

Barty’s known to have a shit attitude. This is especially known in the coffee shops that employed him so many years ago. He doesn't take shit from anyone, and who have been going long enough know that Barty doesn't fuck aroud. 

He’s pretty sure Rosmerta is using his bad attitude in some marketing scheme.

“Stop by The Three Brews and get uniquely insulted by our prickly barista as he makes you latte art.”

He has to give it to her if that is actually what she’s doing, it’s one hell of a marketing tactic.

Still, it doesn’t mean he enjoys dealing with the annoying customers, and sure, he does know how to make the complex orders, and yeah he technically can make them, but it's not like he wants to. There’s a menu for a reason. Barty was not going to make a triple shot latte with a fraction of every type of milk substitute they had in stock. 

I mean, he could use the syrup pumps when people wanted hyper specific orders, but there’s a reason why they were placed so far back. Barty wasn’t going to walk all the way back there when the next customer just wanted an espresso. Getting orders out quickly got him tips and tips were what paid for his lunch.

What really worsened them was Rosmerta's seasonal menu, because now if Barty said they ran out of something they could just point to the menu’s seasonal options. 

“If you’re out, why are you still offering it? The least you could do is take it off the menu."

Apologies Susan, he wasn't aware someone could simply wipe off the words from their laminated menu that was placed in front of the cash register.  

He also hated the menu because it meant he had to put even more effort when serving. It’s not like you could serve a ‘Heart Flutter’ with a frown. It ruins the atmosphere or whatever.

Sometimes he wishes he would’ve just taken Regulus’ money, at least then he wouldn’t be forced to work the morning before Valentine's Day listening to the same romantic pop songs as he wiped down the coffee machine for the umpteenth time. 

One more hour, he just had to hold off for one more hour.

The door chimed and Barty only rolled his eyes when he heard the soft clicking of metal rings rubbing against each other.

“If you're not gonna order, you can make your way out, Sirius. I'm not dealing with your shit today.”

Barty could feel the judgemental stare of a mother on the other side of the counter. If it wasn't for the fact that he was still on the clock he would've flipped her off already.

“You can't kick me out Crouch, Rosmerta loves me.”

“Rosmerta loves using your face to draw up business. Hurry up and get behind the counter before we get told off again.” Barty threw him an apron that Sirius was just barely able to catch.

So, the thing was Sirius didn't actually work here, and technically he wasn't allowed behind the counter, but it's not like Sirius needed the money and Rosmerta wasn't going to keep him from working for free. 

“Are you still pissed off that I'm ditching you to go out with my super tall, super smart, super hot boyfriend tomorrow.” 

Sirius pulled his hair back carelessly before tying it up. Only Sirius Black could present an effortless look with no actual effort.

“Do I need to remind you that I've already had the pleasure of enjoying your super tall, super smart, super hot boyfriend.”

Barty had in fact had a go with Sirius’ boyfriend some couple months back. They hadn't known each other at the time, and Barty was certain that if he hadn’t hooked up with Lupin that night, Sirius and Remus would have never even met. Sirius’ entire relationship existed because of Barty.

“Don't talk about Moony like he's a piece of meat.”

“Oh, so only you can objectify him?”

Sirius nodded as he took off his jacket to hang on a hook and tied his apron. “Boyfriend privileges, but you wouldn't know about that would you Crouch.”

He wouldn't actually, Barty Crouch Jr wasn't known for settling. Not a single one of his relationships lasted longer than three months, at least if you didn’t count Emmeline Vance, who Barty tends to go back to every couple months when she’s single.

Sirius didn't count Emmeline as a relationship.

Barty could only roll his eyes before he started on the next order, cappuccino, no foam. He wanted to kill someone.

And so it went for the next half an hour, Barty rotated from creatively insulting one of his regulars and resisting the urge to pour the frothing milk on some prick's head. 

“Fuck this, I'm taking a break, call me if you don't know what your doing.”

Sirius waved him off before he turned to the cash register with a bright smile, his loose curls falling to frame his face. Barty wasn’t even surprised when the woman began to stumble with her order, Sirius had that effect on everyone.

He was sitting across the counter when a little girl walked in all by herself.

Bright blonde hair held in two crooked pigtails. A set of plastic butterfly wings that were sliding off her shoulder, her face decorated with glitter and star stickers. He was pretty sure that the smudged paint around her eyes was supposed to resemble wings as well. It was the sparkling princess skirt and mismatched shoes with untied laces that really pulled the whole thing together.

She was already heading towards the display case, eyes focused on the pastries that had been delivered earlier that day by the local bakery.

Sirius leaned over the counter when he noticed who Barty was looking at. 

“Hi sweetie, you see something you like.”

The girl looked up at Sirius with a nod before she pointed at one of their last brownies. Barty bit the inside of his cheek, he was really hoping that someone wouldn't take it before his shift was over.

As if to sense his despair Sirius looked over at Barty in question.

Would Barty be generous for the first time in his life and sacrifice the last brownie to the little girl who had her face pressed against the glass, or would he be a selfish prick and break this little girl's dream?

Barty sighed before gesturing for Sirius to give it to her.

He hated kids. He hated seeing their round faces with their big eyes.

Oh, but the smile that broke out the moment Sirius handed it to her in a napkin was heart melting. Barty couldn't help but laugh at the way she began to jump around in joy. Her little wings flapping with each jump she made.

“Luna, there you are. What did I tell you about running off on me?”

The girl turned around proudly presenting the brownie she had just received, “Evie look, brownie!”

Barty hadn't even noticed when the guy walked in, too focused on making sure she didn't slip on her untied shoelaces.

He was tall, and that was saying something because Barty was tall. He might not have been Remus Lupin tall, but he was definitely tall. He also had blonde hair, nearly platinum. Barty was almost in awe of how good it looked on him. He didn't know many people who could pull off platinum.

Silver septum ring with plenty of other piercings on his ears. Each one carrying silver jewelry. Barty couldn't help but think that gold would've suited him better.

“I can see that angel, but I only have enough for one treat right now. You're going to have to choose if you want this or your red rose surprise.”

The girl, Luna, pouted, and Barty wanted to groan. Kids were his weakness.

Sirius looked over at Barty unsure of what to do. Barty only mouthed his response.

“The brownie's on the house.” Sirius gave the customer that charming smile of his as he rested his arms on the counter. This was the real reason Rosmerta kept him around. Always so charming that Sirius Black, no one could resist him. 

“My boss just loves fairies, and she told me that every fairy who visits is supposed to get one treat for free.” 

Luna beamed up at Sirius before turning around to the guy, Evie, and sticking her tongue out before turning back to Sirius.

“I want a red rose surprise.”

“I don't think we have those here.”

Evie let out an exaggerated sigh before he kneeled in front of her. “Imma have to work my magic little moon. Why don't you go pick a seat and enjoy your brownie while I get that red rose surprise.”

Fuck it all to hell, ‘little moon’. Kill him, kill him now. End his existence before he ends up falling in love with a complete and utter stranger.

There was something that needed to be known about Barty.

He found people who were good with kids attractive. And he didn't mean it in a ‘Oh, wow. That's so cute. You're sweet and protective.’ kind of way, but more like, ‘I don't care if it's biologically impossible. I want to have your kids so that I can see you do this for the rest of my life.’ kind of way.

Regulus says he's absolutely mental and this is a result of his daddy issues, while Sirius says that it's perfectly reasonable because it's exactly how he feels about his own boyfriend.

Seeing this super hot guy talk to this little girl like she was the only good thing in the world made his heart race a little. A strangely weird feeling because even though he's felt this way before, it's never gotten this intense.

His friends find the dichotomy between what he's like and what he finds attractive absolutely hilarious, because Barty liked pretty people. He liked sweet looking people who take control of a situation with a smile on their face. A big contrast to Barty who was covered in tattoos, used cheap black box dye, and had a shitty ass personality, or so he was told.

His last boyfriend would disagree, but Sirius refuses to listen to anything James Potter had to say in regards to Barty. Skewed perception was his reasoning. 

“Cute kid, is she your's?” Sirius stood back up and eyed Evie as he stood up, blue eyes following Luna as she sat down at one of the booths.

“My sister's, actually. I’m babysitting today.” 

“Oh, and what, no girlfriend to help you out.”

The guys smiled at Sirius and Barty wanted to roll his eyes. 

Although in a fully committed relationship, Sirius Black was incapable of not flirting with their customers. He's probably the reason why Barty has to deal with so many annoying customers. Charmed by Sirius and insulted by Barty, only at the Three Brews.

“No one at the moment, but Luna’s a good help in getting people interested. Someone's bound to find me worth sticking around for.” He smiled at Sirius and although Barty couldn't see just how lethal it was he could definitely see its effects by just how red Sirius was getting.

It wasn't by much, but no one's been able to get such a reaction from him since he's gotten with Lupin. It wasn't often when Sirius Black could be brought to blush, and if someone ever did manage it, it was a sure fire way to get Barty interested.

Sirius looked over at Barty and Barty took it as his cue to go save his friend from possibly ruining his newly established relationship.

The transition was quick and simple. Barty pulled Sirius back and told him to check on that order Rosmerta had placed for sandwiches for the incoming lunch rush. Sirius barely had time to wish him luck before he was pushed to the back where the phone was.

“Good morning, I'll be serving you since my coworker doesn't know how to keep from drooling when he sees a pretty face.”

And fuck did he have a pretty face. Barty was going to need more than luck to get through this.

“Well, I'm not complaining. One pretty face replaced by another, nothing to be disappointed about.”

Red alert, red alert! This is not a drill! Why the hell is this guy flirting with him?

“Um– what would you like to order? We have plenty of Valentine's Day specials if you're feeling festive, but we do have regular coffee if you aren't looking for anything fancy.”

Barty looked over at the little girl who was carelessly kicking her feet as she broke off a piece of the brownie. He was kinda regretting giving it to her now. He could really use some chocolate to ease the nerves that were eating at him. 

“Do your Valentine's specials have strawberries?”

No, no, don't do this to him. He really didn't want to make anything too difficult. He already had to make three of those today and tomorrow that all he would be doing.

“Some do.”

“Okay, then, do you mind just putting regular milk in a cup, adding some diced strawberries and whipped cream with strawberry syrup on top. It's my niece's birthday today and I always get her one of these, but the last place we went to ran out of strawberries.”

“So, the red rose surprise is just strawberry milk.”

He shrugged a little, “It's what my parents used to do for my sister and I on our birthday. I guess I'm just following the tradition.”

Oh, he was so fucking screwed.

“Yeah, I can make it work, Evie.”

He laughed and Barty could only stare at him as he covered his face in embarrassment. 

“It's Evan actually.”

“Barty.”

“Well, thank you Barty, you just saved my day and made her birthday ten times better. How much would it be?”

And Barty knew the moment he made eye contact, he was done for.

“It's on the house, a gift for the birthday girl, and you if– if you want something?”

“No, I'm good for now, but thanks.”

Evan smiled and Barty swallowed nervously.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

“Yeah, no problem. I'll have your drink ready to go in a moment.”

Evan nodded his head before he turned around and sat next to Luna who was now staring at him with wide eyes and head tilted to the side. As soon as Evan sat down she turned to him and pointed at Barty before gesturing at her cheeks. 

Evan laughed for a moment before looking over in Barty's direction. They made eye contact, Evan winked at him and Barty quickly turned around to get that drink ready.

Strawberry milk, strawberry milk, strawberry milk.

How the hell was he supposed to make strawberry milk?

“Hey Barty, are you okay? Your face is all red.” 

Barty jumped at Sirius' words

“Relax, it's just me.”

“You know how to make strawberry milk right? I mean the pretty kind that you see all over Instagram and shit.”

“Yeah, I used to make it for Reggie. Why?”

“Teach me.”

“What?”

“Teach me how to make your stupid strawberry milk.”

“I can just make you some.”

“No, you have to teach me so I can give it to that little girl and then when Evan sees how good I'm at making strawberry milk he'll have no other choice but to marry me so I can keep making strawberry milk.”

Sirius blinked at him before laughing. 

“Evan? Is he the reason why your face is all red like that?”

Barty wanted to strangle Sirius or drop to the floor and die, preferably both, but not necessarily in that order.

“Fine, I'll teach you how to make it, but first go wash your face. You're as red as a strawberry right now.”

Barty could only hang his head in embarrassment when he saw his reflection on the mirror. Bright red, strawberry red.

Stupid red rose surprise. 

Stupid strawberry milk 

Stupid Barty for falling for some guy named Evan.

tags: @the-person-that-did-that @saiichai

[rcmclachlan]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by the lovely @leashybebes! Thanks, friend! Writing this fic is starting to feel like a Sisyphean task, but goddamn it, I'ma push that boulder until I finish it.

+

If it were a normal day, she would have snapped at him to lower his voice, because you had to be on your best behavior in a church, but she didn't say anything. She didn't move. It was like she was asleep with her eyes open. Even her mouth wasn't doing that pinched thing it did when he talked too much.

Heart pounding, he shook her knee a little harder. Maybe she had fallen asleep and her brain forgot to tell her eyes. "Mom?"

His mother blinked slowly. "I never should have answered the phone."

"What?" That didn't make any sense. Their phone had been ringing off the hook all week and his mother was always the one to answer. The one time he got to the phone before her, she threatened to take away his TV privileges.

"I knew it was going to be bad," his mother said softly, like she hadn't heard him. "I had the most horrible feeling in my gut when the phone rang. I've felt it before. I knew what it was, and I should've just let the answering machine take it. I never should have picked up."

More than two decades later, when Buck's phone starts vibrating just as he's ruining the lamination of another batch of would-be croissants, he understands what his mother had meant that day.

Every atom in his body is straining toward the phone, but he can't unlock his hands from the death grip they have on the rolling pin in order to reach for it.

Incoming call: T. Kinard

+

No pressure tags: @epiphainie, @dadvans, @firehose118, @screamlet, and @newtkelly

[hanespiritu]

PANTHEON HIGH

(Antinous x Telemachus)

╰─▸ ❝ @HanEspiritu

-------- ≪ °✾° ≫ --------

Pantheon High was just like any other high school in the city—graffiti in the bathroom stalls, vending machines that only took coins, and drama thicker than Zeus’s ego. But what made it different was a single senior who made the library his second home and Ancient Greece his obsession.

“Telemachus Petros,” read his ID card, laminated and frayed at the corners. But most people just called him “That Myth Guy.”

“Where’s your toga, Petros?”

The voice came from behind, smug and sweet as poisoned honey.

Telemachus sighed. “It’s in the laundry, Antinous. Along with your sense of originality.”

Antinous dropped into the empty seat next to him, right in the middle of the library’s quietest corner. His smirk was pure chaos—dimples, sharp brown eyes, and that eternally annoying strand of hair that refused to stay down.

“Still reading about gods and monsters?” he asked, casually flipping a page of The Iliad with one finger. “Hoping Athena’s gonna drop in and do your math homework?”

“I don’t need divine intervention to pass calculus,” Telemachus said, brushing Antinous’s hand away as if it were a stray insect.

“You sure? Because your last quiz looked like it was cursed by Hades himself.” Antinous leaned in, close enough for Telemachus to smell the faint hint of citrus shampoo. “Seriously, man. Ever thought of reading anything written after 400 B.C.?”

“I don’t make fun of your hobbies,” Telemachus muttered.

“My hobbies don’t involve pretending to be the son of Odysseus.”

Telemachus flushed. “I don’t pretend—I just appreciate mythological parallels and—”

“Right, right. ‘Parallel this, parallel that.’” Antinous grinned wider. “You’re like a whole museum exhibit. ‘Behold: the last living nerd in his natural habitat.’”

“You’re the worst,” Telemachus muttered, scooting his chair half an inch away.

Antinous responded by dragging his own chair an inch closer. “And yet… here I am. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and most Fridays, bothering the school's most tragically romantic dork.”

Telemachus looked up then, squinting suspiciously. “Why are you always here?”

“Because.” Antinous tapped the cover of The Odyssey. “I think it’s cute how worked up you get when I insult your gods.”

“Cute?” Telemachus choked.

“Yeah.” Antinous tilted his head. “You go all red and stammer like an anime protagonist. It’s endearing.”

“You are not supposed to call people you bully endearing!”

Antinous shrugged. “Guess I’m bad at bullying.”

That was the start of it. Not the literal start—Antinous had been a thorn in his side since junior year began. But that was when Telemachus started noticing things: like how Antinous always sat by him when no one else was around. How he stopped making jokes when Telemachus looked genuinely upset. And how his teasing had slowly morphed from cruel to something that almost felt like flirting.

Almost.

-------- ≪ °✾° ≫ --------

One Rainy Tuesday

“I can’t believe you named your cactus Achilles,” Antinous said, peering at the tiny potted plant on Telemachus’s desk during study hall.

“Because he’s tough on the outside but actually very sensitive,” Telemachus said matter-of-factly.

“And dies if you touch his heel?”

Telemachus gave him a deadpan look. “You do listen.”

“Unfortunately,” Antinous muttered, but he looked amused.

There was a silence, broken only by the rain tapping the windows. Antinous pulled out a granola bar from his hoodie pocket and wordlessly placed it on Telemachus’s desk.

“For me?”

“I’m not about to let you faint like some tragic scholar from hunger,” Antinous said, rolling his eyes. “Eat, Plato.”

“You know Plato was more of a philosopher than a myth guy.”

“Exactly why I like you better,” Antinous muttered under his breath.

Telemachus blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Antinous said quickly. “Eat the damn bar.”

-------- ≪ °✾° ≫ --------

Later That Week

"Telemachus!" Antinous called across the hallway. Heads turned.

Telemachus froze in place like he’d been caught in the gaze of Medusa herself.

Antinous jogged up to him, unbothered. "You forgot your scroll, wise one." He held out a crumpled printout from the mythology club.

“It’s a worksheet.”

“Sure it is.” Antinous wiggled his brows. “Or perhaps, a divine decree?”

“You're insufferable,” Telemachus grumbled, snatching it.

“And yet you look happy to see me.”

“I look constipated.”

“That’s your happy face?”

Telemachus looked like he was about to retort, but something flickered in his gaze—nervousness, maybe. He glanced around the hallway. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"What?"

"Talking to me. Following me around. Giving me snacks. Calling me cute.” His voice dropped. “You don’t do that to other people.”

Antinous looked at him, the smirk fading into something real. “Maybe I don’t want to do it to other people.”

Telemachus blinked.

Antinous stepped in closer, not touching, but near enough to feel the static charge between them. “You really don’t get it?”

“Get what?” Telemachus whispered, heart thudding in his ears like a war drum.

“I like you, you ancient literature-loving dork.”

The words hit him harder than a Trojan spear.

Telemachus gaped. “You… what?”

“I like you,” Antinous repeated, softer this time. “I make fun of you because I’m a coward and a flirt and maybe a little obsessed with the way you talk about myth like it still matters. Like you still believe in something.”

Telemachus's ears turned crimson. “I— I mean—”

“You don’t have to say anything now,” Antinous added quickly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Just… I had to say it.”

He turned like he was about to walk away.

“Wait.”

Antinous paused.

Telemachus adjusted his glasses. “Did you know… in some versions of the myth, Antinous and Telemachus never met?”

Antinous tilted his head. “You trying to break my heart using citations?”

Telemachus smiled—awkward, crooked, and more genuine than anything Antinous had seen. “I’m saying… maybe it’s nice we get to write our own version.”

Antinous stared at him. And then—slowly, softly—grinned.

“Gods, you’re such a nerd.”

“And you’re still a pain.”

Antinous bumped their shoulders together. “But you like me.”

“I’m… considering it.”

-------- ≪ °✾° ≫ --------

That afternoon, the library wasn’t just a haven for mythology books anymore. It was where a senior nerd and his bully junior sat side by side, arguing about heroes and gods, and maybe—just maybe—starting their own myth.

-------- ≪ °✾° ≫ --------

⚠️ Plagiarism Warning:

This work is original and written by HAN ESPIRITU. Do not copy, repost, or translate without permission. Plagiarizing or claiming this story as your own is strictly prohibited and will be reported.

[panerasbox]

FOR THE LOVE OF LEARNING

Genre: College AU, Drama, Slice of Life, Romance, Comedy

Warnings: M for future chapters.

Summary: A documentary crew follows a group of future educators navigating the ups and downs of college life, friendship, and unexpected romances. From campus coffee runs to lesson plans and complicated relationships, this group proves that learning isn’t just about the classroom. follow along on ao3.💋

here’s an introduction of FOR THE LOVE OF LEARNING!!

If you want to be added to the tag list for future chapters, just let a girl know! 💛📚✨

I’ve been working on this fanfic for a while now, really shaping how I want it to play out and bringing all my ideas together. I hope it’s something you’ll be interested in following! I know I have a lot of WIPs going on, and I’ll get to them in time, but it felt like the right moment to finally release this one into the realm. let’s get into it…

Chapter One: Introduction

There’s a faint click. A red light blinks on.

“Okay. Rolling,” says someone behind the camera.

The campus of Philadelphia College of Education and Human Development buzzes in the background. Pigeons swarm a pretzel stand. A freshman cries on the steps of the registrar’s office. And in the middle of it all, sitting stiffly in a folding chair set up way too close to the student union, is Janine Teagues.

She smiles. Too hard.

“Hi! I’m Janine. Teagues. But people mostly just call me Janine. Unless they’re my professor. Or my boss. Or that one lady who yelled at me in the bookstore because we were out of laminated binder sleeves. Anyway… I’m a junior, education major, and future elementary school hero. I believe every kid deserves to be believed in. And I have five different Pinterest boards dedicated to classroom organization.”

She beams. The smile falters only slightly as a pigeon lands behind her and stares ominously into the lens.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Janine works part-time at the campus bookstore, where she has singlehandedly reorganized the bulletin board six times. She’s known around campus for her bright cardigans, color-coded planner, and tendency to carry around laminated affirmation cards. She’s a helper. Always has been. Even when no one’s asking.

Especially when no one’s asking.

Her best friend, roommate, and occasional walking anxiety spiral buffer is Jacob Hill.

Cut to Jacob in a tour guide polo, standing outside the library…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Welcome to PCEHD! If you’re watching this, you’re either new, lost, or deeply invested in academic documentaries. Either way, I’m Jacob. He/him. I lead campus tours, run the progressive education zine, and last semester I singlehandedly organized a protest against vending machines that only carry sugary snacks. We’re still negotiating with administration. I don’t give up easy.”

The camera pans down to show his khakis are absolutely covered in chalk dust.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jacob is passionate about making education accessible and inclusive. He once cried in a seminar about social-emotional learning and then offered everyone vegan banana bread. His friendship with Janine is the kind that still makes people whisper, “Are they dating?” which is wild, considering Jacob is very gay and very vocal about it.

They’re just the kind of soulmates who share highlighters and cry during teacher appreciation week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cut to the student café.

The camera zooms in on a sign that says “BREW CAN DO IT!” then pans over to Ava Coleman, lounging against the espresso machine like it’s a throne.

“I’m Ava. I work here, obviously, because they wouldn’t let me just sit and vibe. Which is honestly a violation of my rights. I’m also in the teaching program, not that I need it. I already know how to run a classroom. Or a campus. Or a small country. Take your pick.”

She sips from a mug that says “Espresso Yourself or Stay Basic” and flashes a grin that suggests she knows everyone’s secrets.

“Some people are here to get a degree. I’m here to get leverage.”

She winks at the camera. The manager yells something offscreen about her stealing biscotti again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No one knows how Ava got into the education program. There’s a rumor she blackmailed a dean. Another rumor says she has compromising photos of the provost. What’s true is this: she runs the college’s social media pages, always gets her way, and makes Gregory do the afternoon shift alone when she’s “emotionally unavailable.”

Speaking of…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cut to Gregory Eddie, cleaning the counter with intense focus.

“I’m Gregory. Junior. Education major. Coffee’s four fifty. We don’t take cash.”

There’s a beat. The interviewer tries to prod him into saying more.

He sighs.

“I like teaching. I think kids deserve consistency. That’s all.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gregory is quiet. But not cold. He’s the kind of person who says exactly what he means and nothing more. He’s on a scholarship, keeps a small succulent on the windowsill of his dorm, and drinks tea like he’s eighty. He’s also been slowly falling for Janine for a year and a half. He hasn’t told her. She hasn’t noticed.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few buildings over, in the advising office, two more chairs are set up.

Melissa Schemmenti is sprawled in hers, looking like she’s about five seconds from lighting a cigarette despite the clear “No Smoking” sign behind her.

“I’m Melissa. Grad student. Working in Enrollment Advising. Lifeguard at the pool. Podcast host. Former child. You get the idea.”

She crosses her arms.

“I’m not here to make friends. Except maybe one. Or two. But don’t quote me on that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Melissa is twenty-eight and has the energy of someone who’s lived five lives already. She took a break after high school, worked in a bunch of odd jobs, then came back to get her degree when she realized she was tired of yelling at kids in the neighborhood without a teaching license. She’s Philly to the bone, has three fantasy football leagues, and hosts a popular local sports podcast where she occasionally drops educational hot takes in between Sixers rants.

She also happens to be dating Barbara Howard.

Cut to Barbara, sitting in the second advising office chair, posture perfect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“My name is Barbara Howard. I am a graduate student specializing in early childhood education. I believe in high standards, strong moral character, and getting things done the right way, the first time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Barbara is twenty-nine. She left a private Christian school teaching job to return for her Master’s after realizing she wanted more autonomy in her work — and maybe fewer PTA moms telling her what she could and couldn’t say. She’s organized, polished, and carries a pen that cost more than a month of Gregory’s rent. She’s also been in a relationship with Melissa for three years.

No one on campus knows.

Barbara says it’s “private.”

Melissa calls it “closeted.”

They compromise by telling people they’ve just been friends “since undergrad.” No one pushes. But Ava definitely suspects something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the sun starts to set over campus, the camera catches them all at once. Janine rushing across the quad, a stack of fliers flying out of her hands. Gregory picking one up for her without saying a word. Jacob standing on a fountain, trying to start a chant. Ava sipping a latte she didn’t pay for. Barbara and Melissa walking side by side, their hands not quite touching.

Just another day at PCEHD.

Where the lesson plans are still hypothetical, the drama is very real, and no one’s quite as put-together as they pretend to be.

Class is in session starting Monday, June 9th!

dividers by @strangergraphics

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. (Uni!lock)

An Old Joke

Like with so many things, it was Mycroft who learned Sherlock to build houses with playing cards. When Sherlock was bored almost to death, the simple task made his brain focus and find new solutions to construct the perfect house of cards.

At the age of seven, he was a master, even surpassing his older brother. His parents thoroughly believed he wanted to be an architect at that point, which both brothers dismissed as utter nonsense.

John was in awe over Sherlock’s skills when he showed off at the second week of uni, but when Sherlock waved it away as nothing, John surprised him.

“Challenge yourself then if you think of this card palace as a minor thing,” he said with a mischievous grin.

“Elaborate,” Sherlock retorted, sceptical that anything could make the building more interesting.

“From what I can see, you only operate with unused or fairly new cards. I think you’ll find it quite difficult to build a two stories high house with these,” John said innocently and presented a stack of cards.

The cards were old. Worn and soft, lacking the sharp edges of Sherlock’s cards. Some missed a bit of a corner, others were bent. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stated that it would be impossible to get John’s cards to do anything but collapse.

“I’m sure you can figure something out, posh boy,” John said and winked at him before he went downstairs for dinner.

***

Sherlock got absorbed in the difficult assignment John had presented him with. When John had rugby practise, slept, or had biology classes, Sherlock practised with his old cards. As predicted, it was futile, until he went to get his mail in the secretary’s office. 

“Am I allowed to use that?” Sherlock asked, and pointed at a machine on the opposite wall, trying to be as polite as possible to ensure to get permission.

“What for?” the secretary asked suspiciously.

Sherlock had a rather questionable reputation already, but he managed to charm the middle-aged woman, and gained access to what he presumed would be the solution to his predicament.

***

When John emerged from the showers a week later, Sherlock had built five small houses with the old cards. John’s eyes widened in surprise and astonishment, before his brows furrowed. He walked slowly against Sherlock’s desk, and once he realised how Sherlock had solved the puzzle he started to giggle. It was Sherlock’s favourite sound in the whole world.

“You are amazing,” John said when he’d gathered himself. “I told you, though.”

“Mm, so you did,” Sherlock murmured and crowded in on John.

“What are you doing?” John asked gingerly.

“Claiming my prize,” Sherlock purred.

“What prize?” John whispered; his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s lips.

“I’m sure you can figure that out, captain,” Sherlock answered and bent down to connect his lips with John’s.

***

A decade later, Greg Lestrade walked into the living room of 221B and stopped abruptly. Sherlock sat by the desk, which for once was cleared of the normal clutter, and before him was a house built of old playing cards. It was high and remarkably sturdy. When Greg moved closer to the table, he paused for a second, not sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

“Are those cards laminated?” he asked incredulously.

Sherlock hummed in agreement but didn’t take his eyes off the construction.

“Hi, Greg,” John greeted when he entered the room from the kitchen, bringing two mugs of tea.

“John,” Greg said and gestured with his head in Sherlock’s direction.

John placed Sherlock’s mug carefully on the desk, far enough away to not disturb the building, and near enough for Sherlock to reach when he wanted a sip.

“What’s with the lamination?” Greg asked silently.

“Oh, just an old joke,” John said and shrugged.

“Must be by the look of them,” Greg deadpanned.

“Oi! Don’t be disrespectful of my cards,” John protested half-heartedly.

“Your cards?” Greg asked, evidently none the wiser.

“Just tell him, John, or we’ll never hear the end of it,” Sherlock huffed and took a sip of tea.

“You’re quite the genius yourself,” Greg said when John finished the story behind the cards.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Cheeky bastard is what people normally said about my behaviour and appearance back in uni,” John retorted.

“We both were,” Sherlock stated and made room for himself in John’s lap, giving him a soft kiss.

John giggled into the kiss, Sherlock snuggled into John’s neck and sighed contentedly before he rose and turned to face Greg.

“You have a case. Where?” he wanted to know.

Greg cleared his throat awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Piccadilly. Um…Grosvenor Casino,” he retorted.

“You have got to be joking!” John exclaimed.

“´Fraid not, John,” Greg sighed.

Sherlock’s deep rumble was soon joined by John’s higher pitched laughter, and for once Greg descended the stairs with a hopeful feeling that Sherlock would behave on the crime scene where the croupier lay dead surrounded by playing cards that consisted only of hearts of spades.

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

This is also my entry to this month's Sherlock Challenge and the prompt Joke.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno

@jolieblack @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @raina-at @helloliriels

@topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @221beloved @ninasnakie

@bs2sjh @a-victorian-girl @meetinginsamarra @meandhisjohn @brandiwein1982

(Tell me if you want to be added or removed from the list)

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Silly Games for Silly People

Okay so I asked for some ideas for the big boy, and in particular Summoned!König. I got some great ideas from @callofdreams and so I hope they enjoy this! I am definitely taking more of their ideas for this series, and so we might have a few of Summoned!König playing some board games. I didn't play many board games as a kid, but I do have fun writing this. I am still taking ideas for Summoned!König, so please let me know any ideas you have!

CW: none

Wordcount: 1.4k

Art from This Post

Story below the cut

Silly Games for Silly People

You glared at the eldritch monstrosity across the table, your breath baited as your hands tightened together. He glared back at you, arctic blue eyes mere slits behind his dark hood. He leaned in close, analyzing your every move. You did just the same.

“Just roll the dice, König!” you finally snapped.

“And how do I know this is not mortal trickery?” König scoffed, “you truly believe that I am unaware of your inner machinations? That I am not leagues ahead of you in every possible way? You cannot possibly begin to compete with the likes of me.”

“Oh yeah? You really think you’re all that and a bag of chips, don’t ya?” you grabbed the dice and shoved them into his talons.

“Have you never heard of the concept of ‘patience’?” König snorted as he shook his palm.

“Have you heard the concept of ‘sore loser’?” you retorted.

König raised an eyebrow.

“It means you’re being a bitch because you’re losing,” you explained with a smug smile.

König bristled and tossed the dice. He glanced over the numbers, promptly slamming his fist on the table with enough force to shake all the pieces of the game.

“Oh yeah, look who’s all high and mighty now, huh?” you grinned as he slid his token back over to one corner of the board.

“Petulant worm,” he muttered under his breath as he leaned back into the folding chair that was only barely supporting his weight.

“I think you just don’t wanna admit that I’m better than you,” you snickered as you finished another lap of the board and collected your cash.

“I could eviscerate you,” König huffed, “and yet you mock me over some mindless board game, the only way you could possibly even try to leverage any power over me.”

“I think you’re just mad I’m better,” you gave him a cheshire grin.

You grabbed the dice and rolled them out on the table. The dice rolled a clean five and a four, just enough to get you to that final spot you wanted.

“Alright, hand over Pennsylvania Avenue,” you held out a waiting hand.

König grumbled bitterly, but thankfully he passed over the square of cardboard with a disgruntled flick of his wrist.

“Wow,” you laughed as you tucked the squares down in front of you,” you’re actually upset about this, aren’t you?”

“I am not upset by some inferior construction of human hands,” König sniffed, “I am merely astounded by the arrogance you exude.”

“Arrogance?” you scoffed, “au contraire, my friend! I think I’m creaming you this game.”

König glared at you from behind his mask. You were fairly certain that he wanted to strangle you that moment. You were only more and more excited by how upset he was.

König silently rolled the dice on his side of the table. The both of you hissed when one red die rolled over the edge of the table.

“Cocked,” you called out as you grabbed it back.

When you brought it back to König, he seemed positively peeved by you.

“What?” you handed the dice back to him,

“That was a six,” he huffed, “I needed a six to get out of jail.”

“Okay but it rolled off the table,” you pointed out, “when a die hits something on the table or rolls off it, it’s cocked and you need to reroll it.”

“And who taught you that inane ruling?” König drummed his claws against the laminated wood table.

“I dunno,” you shrugged as you sat back down, “it’s just something my DnD group taught me.”

“DnD?” König perked up, “what game is that?”

“Uh…” you looked down at the monopoly board and back up at your eldritch partner, “okay so, we’re struggling trying to play Monopoly, you’re not ready for DnD.”

“I could just read a mortal’s mind and get a good grasp,” König countered.

“Okay but, like, that would be their version of DnD,” you explained, “DnD is different for everyone. And you are not ready for DnD yet.”

König looked back down at the Monopoly board with disdain, “I want to move on from this one.”

“So are you admitting defeat?” you grinned.

“I would never deign to do such a thing, Summoner,” König snorted, “I am simply stating an opinion. Is that such a unfathomable concept?”

“Well, when you’re complaining about Monopoly, it’s kinda funny,” you pointed out.

König grumbled under his breath as he rolled the other die, blatantly ignoring whatever you wanted to say.

“Hey look! A six!” you cheered as the die flopped onto the center of the board.

“Finally!” König exclaimed as he slumped back into his chair with a groan.

“Hey hey hey watch it with the weight there, big guy,” you snapped, “I don’t wanna have to pay for another chair.”

“Did they actually deduct the past one from your pay?” König eased himself up off the backrest again.

“Yes!?” you laughed, “they took out all of them!”

At the very least, König had the decency to look sheepish about the matter as he steepled his fingers together on the table, “I see.”

“You see? Yeah I sure saw it coming out of my paystub!” you laughed.

König cringed into himself, but politely moved on to ask, “Well, who’s turn is it?”

“Um…” you looked down at the table, “I actually don’t remember. You do, don’t you?”

“I see no reason to try and clarify,” König’s eyes glinted with amusement.

You, on the other hand, were as far removed from any sense of amusement as you could have possibly been.

“No seriously, König, who’s turn is it?” you asked again.

“Why should it matter?” König shrugged, “is this not a simple game?”

“Yeah but, like, I don’t wanna be rude and take your turn or anything,” you tried to reason with him, but he was persistent. After a bit of back and forth, you finally relented. König was content to lean onto the table as you tried to get him to budge, but as it was, trying to get an avatar of chaos to play by the rules was next to impossible. Instead, you had to be creative.

“Alright, let’s play rock paper scissors to see who’s turn it is,” you determined.

“Rock paper scissors?” König tilted his head like a cat, “tell me, what is that?”

“It’s a game where you kinda, I dunno,” you patted your fist against your open palm, “you make your hand either a rock,” you held up a fist, “a pair of scissors,” you extended two fingers, “or paper,” you held out your palm. You extended your fist and held it up, “you say ‘Rock, paper, scissors,’ and the next time you put your fist on your palm you make the sign you want. Rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, paper beats rock. Whoever wins gets the next turn. Wanna try?”

König held up one taloned hand and watched the lamp light glint off his black iridescent scales, then locked eyes with you, “It sounds rather simple. I think I can manage a round.”

And so, you both extended a fist and chanted, “Rock, paper, scissors!” and extended your hand.

You let your fist drop in horror.

“König that’s not what you’re meant to do.”

König frowned, “Aren’t I meant to make my fist look like the object?”

“König you’re meant to do the hand sign. Not… Not that,” you cringed as you heard his bones snap back into place.

“I apologize.”

“Wanna try again?”

“Seeing as my first attempt left much to be desired, I see a great need for another,” König mused.

“Alright!”

You chanted again and extended your fist. König, on the other hand, held out an open palm.

You glared at him and thinned your lips into a line, “Alright, best two out of three.”

“Vas!?” König scoffed, “are you telling me that we need to play again?”

“Just to be sure!” you huffed, eying the red and white dice hungrily.

König clucked his tongue and made a trill that sounded like bubbles rushing to the surface, but he held out his fist again.

“Go ahead Summoner, see how well this works out for you.”

You learned quickly that trying to win a game of chance against an avatar of chaos was, sadly, not as easy as you hoped.

Konig Masterlist

Konig Alternate Universes

Summoned!Konig