#of course they have matching jackets! it was necessary

[hellotailor]

Apologies if you've already done a post on this and I've just missed it, but can I ask for your take on the pyjamas worn by the cast of interview with vampire? I mean technically they're not a 100% necessary item, but just from a quick look there seems to be a lot of variety and they do change over the series

ok, i’m delighted by the specificity of this question, and it turns out that i have a VERY extensive answer.

there’s a lot of sleepwear in IWTV due to the volume of bedroom/coffin scenes, and like any other outfit, these costumes are shaped by characterization and historical period. for instance claudia initially wears a long, modest, frilly nightgown - an old-fashioned style that plays into her girlish doll wardrobe purchased by louis and lestat. however her sleepwear matures over the years, including a trendy lace nightdress with bloomers in the 1920s (note the rectangular silhouette), and a pink padded jacket/pastel robe outfit in 1940s paris. she's following contemporary trends while charting a visible trajectory from child to adult.

when i wrote about the Théâtre des Vampires coven costumes, i noted that while their wardrobes share certain themes (ie. monochrome patterns and stripes), they each have specific personal tastes. that holds true for sleepwear. in the S2 finale we see the coven going to bed in their coffins, with Eglee in a gorgeous (maybe 1940s?) robe, Celeste in a striped pajama suit reflecting her 1920s-30s cabaret style, and Armand in a plain grey set of prison jammies because he's Suffering.

of course, the star pajama outfits all belong to Louis and Lestat, playing into their wealthy domestic aesthetic in S1. they receive multiple bedroom/coffin scenes, and Lestat's gold Leyendecker robe is obviously iconic.

touching on the historical side of things for a moment, pajamas (as in a matching buttondown top and loose pants) were popularized in the western world in the 19th century, as a repurposed south asian import - kind of like how banyans became trendy among the upper classes in 18th century england. this was when loungewear started to catch on as a concept, both in terms of dressing gowns and smoking jackets (which you could wear while socializing at home) and actual pajamas, which became unisex in the 1920s.

back in his human life in the 18th century, Lestat probably slept naked or wore a shapeless white nightgown (and possibly a nightcap, the sexiest of garments). but in New Orleans he adopts Louis' lifestyle, which involves a luxurious wardrobe of fashionable menswear. they're both into shopping and looking good, and i think they enjoy the ritual of getting dressed together each night.

(i also have a personal theory that Lestat may prefer to sleep fully clothed because his formative traumatic memory involves waking up naked in the dark. after all, he doesn't need pajamas to stay warm, and he doesn't have a recent habit of wearing them in his human life like Louis does. then again, maybe he just enjoys having a new outfit for every occasion!)

in Dubai, we only get one scene (iirc) with Louis and Armand in their pajamas, lying in bed wearing outfits that tie into the striped prison bar imagery of their bedroom. Armand is in warmer brown tones (like his Paris wardrobe) while Louis is in black and grey, like the rest of his Dubai outfits. i'd also note that this is the one place where they're genuine in private, meaning that they aren't putting on a show for Daniel. so this is potentially Armand's most relaxed costume in the present day.

the fact that they're wearing this kind of old-school sleepwear feels very appropriate for their whole deal, imo. in the 21st century, a lot of people just sleep in boxers and t-shirts or whatever. there's a slightly 20th century vibe to wearing a full set of buttondown pajamas, and Armand's outfit reads as more stylish (and possibly more wealthy) than your average millennial guy. which makes sense! they're old men.

i think we can assume that every single thing in their Dubai home is ferociously expensive, even when it doesn't need to be. considering the way Louis gives himself a modern makeover in the finale, i do wonder if he'll switch over to sleeping in t-shirts etc next season, or if he'll stick with variations of the same sleepwear he wore during his mortal life.

p.s. all of my iwtv design posts are available on this tag!

[moodiestmags]

Angel and Timothy (post-Bl2)

Needed some solid character designs for Rise to Grace 2

[gyuswhore]

Statistically Speaking...

part of the svt TA collab

kim mingyu x reader

word count: 21k

contains: TA! mingyu, fluff, smut [minors DNI], angst, statistics, ur honour they're stupid for one another, descriptions of stress exhaustion and burnout, academic burden, disagreements, mingyu is smart as hell, shitting on bad professors, smut but its a surprise [gyu gets his soul sucked while he's reciting statistical models I mean what]

words of conviction from @highvern: Kim Mingyu, total asshole , 1-800-HOT N DUMB , THEYRE IN LOVE MINGYU SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU LOSER , sick fucking freak , i know when you wrote this you put your head in your hands , OHHHM YW GOD

synopsis: In all your years of academic endurance, you’ve never failed. A 100% success rate, despite you cutting it close at times. However, the line graph that is your life starts tanking somewhere around the time you began taking this hellsent Statistics in Psychological Research class. With a professor that wouldn’t know his ass from his head, and an overworked, overenthusiastic, and overcaptivating TA, it couldn't possibly get any worse than this. However, statistically speaking,…it could.

[a/n]: this fic is set in the same universe as @highvern's wonu fic endpoint [to be released], some insight for wonu's pov is included here as is some of Mingyu's pov in cam's fic if you'd like to see more about what happens in the gaps!!

I want to start by thanking everyone who chose to be part of this collab fic and for being the reason cam and I were able to open up @camandemstudios in the first place. everyone's been so kind and cooperative and I still cant believe we managed to convince such amazing writers to join us on this collab journey 🥹 I love u guys

Thanking my wife camothy @highvern for brainstorming with me since day one and for betaing for me. @seokgyuu and @miabebe for also looking over the doc and reassuring me. I'm for sure forgetting someone and I'm really sorry about that, know that I appreciate you just as much 🤍

on that note, I hope you guys enjoy this fic, im HELLA nervous for some reason so plsplspls remember to reblog and send me feedback on how you liked it, I will love you forever <333

masterlist

Monday

A normal person would’ve cried. Perhaps even sued the entire institution for all it was worth. Burn down the world, if it came to it. 

But as you stare at the tiny 37/100 on your screen, you feel…nothing. 

You could’ve said you saw it coming, which you did, but something about blaming someone else for an exam you took was beginning to feel a little manipulative. 

Clicking off the student portal, you huff loudly, five in the morning too early for you to begin breaking down over a grade that was completely unreflective of what you were taught. 

Or maybe it was, because as you count one, two, three hours till your dreaded Statistics in Psychological Research class, you can only hope you’ll hold back from spitting in your professor’s coffee. But alas, you can only shut your laptop harder than necessary for what it costs and push the grade out of your mind.

You were tired enough to sleep for a couple more hours, and you take it as an opportunity to spite the entire course by giving just as many fucks as your professor did.  

Which was little to none. 

That was a lie—on your part anyway. Because you continue to show up, and probably will until you can put this course and all of its trauma behind you. Even now as you feel the inclining beat of your pulse sitting in the white lecture hall, you know this is all but you versus the universe. 

Dr. Cho might as well have wheeled himself into the room on a skateboard with the way he struts into the room. 

He’s wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off and jeans of a matching finish that do not fit him properly. There’s pins in every last colour on this earth, littering the front of his jacket with sayings that toe the silver controversial lining. There was one that said Vote for John F. Kennedy, another plain black one with I Eat Kids, and of course, the blaring Cunt written in cursive, pink sparkly letters. 

This man that’s pushing into his 60s stands before his slightly wilted class in his crocs, hands on his hips as he heaves a long breath. 

“I have to say, not the turn out I was expecting on that last report.”

He’s talking about the report you coincidentally failed, the same one you were pushed into with little to no direction and a deadline tighter than any you’ve had to bully yourself through. 

“All I can say is to read through the feedback I’ve given and try a little harder next time.” His voice is somewhere bordering comical exasperation. Feedback that consisted of sparing ‘?’’s and ‘no’’s with zero further explanation. He could say more, but you’ve learned that he simply chooses to not. 

Besides the man that drones in the front of the room, there’s another person in the other corner of the lecture hall. He’s hunched over a giant pile of papers, sifting through each and every one with a pen in his other hand. 

The TA doing a mundane task is somehow more interesting than whatever seminars of disappointment your professor was giving. He’s crossing something out on every single leaf of paper that he flicks through, and you vaguely wonder if those were today’s worksheets. 

“...and post hoc tests last week, we can start on Bayesian today. Mingyu will be handing out the tutorial papers.”

The poor TA looks like he thought he’d have more time, snapping his head up to look at the professor with an expression of pure incredulousness. He staggers for a moment before he’s flicking past the pages even faster somehow, striking out what seems like the same instruction in the giant pile of papers meant for an entire lecture hall. There’s a rustle as about a hundred laptops are being pulled out and booted up, waiting for the worksheets to land on the desks. 

You hear the familiar warble of papers being passed out and you watch as the TA pulls chunks of sheets out of the giant stack in his arms to slam down onto the front tables. 

“Pass it down, please… pass it down, please…”

There’s a voice that calls from one of the front seats, “What formula is the sheet talking about?”

Mingyu looks startled as he snaps back to look at the blaring empty whiteboard. In the midst of passing papers, you watch him sprint to the rolling whiteboards, pulling one of the giant flats of white over to the other side, the mechanism slamming into place with a louder than comfortable slam. It reveals another whiteboard underneath with the detestably long formula already written (and the one you’d have to figure out yourself).

 The professor remains with his chin in his hands behind his laptop, unphased. 

By the time you’ve registered the foreign symbols on the board, one of the tutorial papers has made it into your hands.

Sure enough, there’s a quick line across one of the steps with a thick black marker. 

Blinking hard, you attempt to pull yourself into the zone, staring at the white sheet with words that are barely stringing themselves together. Nothing out of the ordinary, especially as you lift your head to find hunched shoulders and furrowed brows all around. 

There’s one person that’s zipping back and forth, just like there always is. 

You watch as Mingyu hunches over certain laptops and whispers in rapid explanation before moving on to the next, a looming sense of dizziness that trails behind him as he shoots up the stairs to the back rows to help someone else. 

There’s a brief consideration to raise your own hand to ask for help, but one look at his disoriented gaze and the amount of hands that shoot up by the second, you guess it wasn’t going to help.

Back you go, hunched over the same wretched paper as everyone else, and praying for some divine revelation. 

Tuesday

Divine revelation did not come to you, but the good sense to make use of office hours did. 

So here you are, a printed copy of your supposedly horrid assignment and a pack of multicolour pens in your tote, and determination in your stride, you make your way to the department building. 

You’ve double, triple, quadruple checked the times to ensure you don’t dip in at the wrong moment, swiping open your phone to re-check the room number yet again. 

Standing outside the door, you knock with mustered confidence, waiting for something akin to an affirmative from the other side of the door. 

Nothing. 

You knock again.

Silence. 

You glance around the empty hall before grasping onto the cool brass handle of the door, wrenching it open just a peep. Poking your head in, you find the room…empty.

The chairs and tables that usually buzz with discussing students lay barren as you step into the room. Moving to look at the front of the room, you inhale sharply as you realise the professor’s desk has been occupied this entire time. 

Except he’s asleep.

No, that’s not the professor. 

Moving closer, you watch the way his back rises and falls ever so slowly, head resting on his arm as his hand hangs limp off the table. Whipping your head around with more attention this time, you attempt to find an explanation written on the walls. But there’s none, even in the papers that litter the table he rests his head on.

You don’t need to see his face to know it’s the TA. But as you stand in the empty room, clutching the straps of your tote, you aren’t quite sure what to do. 

Another glance around the table and you realise his laptop remains on, the screen yet to sleep. Before the obvious issue of a blatant invasion of privacy can befall you, you take a step forward to take a peek. 

It’s his schedule, a million colours blaring on the screen in a colour coded regard with barely any white spaces. It doesn’t take long to find his time slot for right now, red with importance. 

Glancing down, the man remains fast asleep, pen still in hand as it inks a faint line on the page. You look around the room for the nth time, taking constant glances back at his laptop that tells you he’s actively missing something right now. Clearing your throat, you hunch over a tad bit. 

“Um, excuse me.” He hardly moves. So you try a little louder, hunching over his sleeping form even further. “Excuse me.”

You could’ve sworn you heard a snore. 

Out of instinct, you bring a hand forward to his shoulder, shaking ever so slightly as you call for him again. “Excuse me!”

There’s a sharp inhale and he shoots up quicker than you can back away, ensuring you get an entire back’s worth of force as he bumps into you, hard.

“Wh–ow!” The noise is collective, yelps and thuds as you both back away from each other. 

“W–what’re you doing here?” he asks, hair still ruffled and eyes barely open as he stands at the table. There’s a bright yellow sticky note on his right cheek, ink scribbled on in something you can’t decipher.

“Um, it’s office—”

His eyes land on the same screen you were peering into just before and it looks like his life flashes before his eyes, widening at the sight as he slams around the table looking for something. 

“I have to go,” he announces, gripping onto an unstrapped watch as he registers the time, his other hand shoving his laptop and a few papers into a dark messenger bag. 

“Wait, isn’t it still office hours?” you call out as he whizzes past you. 

He’s swinging his bag over his shoulder and half tripping to the door as he calls out, “Wednesdays and Thursdays.”

“But—”

“It’s on the portal.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it—” he pauses as he exhales loudly, closing his eyes and bringing a hand to rub across his tired face. “I’ll double check. But it’s Wednesdays and Thursdays from now on. You can wait till I get back if you really want help.”

“How—”

A loud slam! of the door. 

“—long…” 

You’re left draped in silence yet again, the echoes of the slammed door ringing in your startled ears. It all happened too fast for you to process, blinking rapidly as you registered that you were now alone in the room. 

He said he’d be back, but left you with no indication as to when. By the looks of his god awful schedule, it looked like he had something else to attend to right after whatever it was he buggered off to right now. 

Fingers clenched into a fist, you consider your options. You could wait, sit on one of the desks and try to get some work done until he gets back. 

The universe gives you your answer as the door opens with a loud creak in the empty lecture hall. It’s another professor who looks quite startled to find an overenthusiastic student already present for class. 

She stares before craning to look at the room number outside the door, “Am I in the right room?”

“Uh, yes! I was just leaving,” you buffer out, moving to shuffle out immediately. 

You’re halfway out the door when you hear another call of an “Excuse me!”

“Are these your papers?” The professor’s full arms are up as she gestures to the still littered table. 

The No is ready on your lips. Until it isn’t. 

Later on, you’d consider how you left that room with an armful of papers that did not belong to you. How you’d ducked under the table to ensure you’d gotten everything, down to the leather strap watch with the cracked clock face. 

But as you stare at the stack of files and sheets that lay on your desk at home, you only know of the decent act that you’d committed.

And nothing of the hourglass you’d just turned over. 

Wednesday

In your Sent box are three emails sent on three separate days, all asking the same recurring question, all responding with the same recurring reply.

I wanted to confirm the days and times for office hours. I’m aware it’s on the portal but I’d like to reconfirm. 

Regards, YN

Dear YN,

Wednesdays and Thursdays. 4 to 6 PM.

Kim Mingyu, T.A. 

So there you were on a Wednesday afternoon, 3:59 PM sharp, outside the lecture hall where office hours have always been. With the same tote hung on your shoulders, with the same printed assignment and pack of multicolour pens, and a separated stack of files and folders, you wrench the door open with bated breath. 

The blended murmur of the usual hustle and bustle of the appointment reassures you first, the sight of scattered students of familiar faces reassures you second. And most of all, a conscious TA that sits at the professor’s desk, speaking to another student over a laptop screen. 

The man does nothing to acknowledge your arrival, continuing above the babble of students that occupy the chairs and the discussion. It isn’t too full, but considerably busy nonetheless despite how early you’ve swooped in. 

There’s a brief consideration whether this was in the TA’s job description at all, craning your neck to take a full sweep of the room to find a sparing glimpse of the man who should be here. The professor and his loud fashion choices are nowhere to be found. 

The sigh you let out is heavy and full of an emotion you cannot possibly begin to unpack, taking a seat on one of the unoccupied chairs to slump against. Shoulders sagging, you feel every fibre of your being screaming against your better judgement to pull out some work and to be productive while you wait. Reading over your failed assignment for the nth time, the same one that seemed to be some sick form of rage bait. 

You pull a couple things out so as to not look awkward sitting and staring into nothing on an empty desk, uncapping your pen and pulling up your sleeves like there was business to be done. Which there was, but none of which you wished to entertain. 

People watching, you realise, is a lot easier when most of the room is preoccupied with whatever it is they’re doing, too busy to notice your blank stares. 

The faces are familiar, none of which are people you’ve interacted with before but classmates nonetheless. The room is full of shaking legs, spinning pens and hunched backs, not an un-scrunched brow in sight. There’s a particular gaggle of girls somewhere around the front, their tables suggesting a work environment but between the whispers, giggles and glances to the front of the room, you assume there’s one thing in common the both of you weren’t doing. 

Speaking of the front of the room, your matched glance finds you face to face with the student at the main table in the middle of pushing himself off his seat. Your reaction is immediate, hand coming over to slam against the flat of your bag to find the lost straps, moving out of your seat as you keep your eyes on the front of the room. 

Bad luck must be a lover, because you realise quickly that somebody’s already beat you to it. Before you even noticed the first’s intentions to. The student stands beside the chair ready to keep it warm as the previous occupant leaves. 

Slamming back down on your own seat, you realise very quickly that trying to get an audience with this TA was going to be harder than you anticipated. There’s multiple other sounds of frustration around the room, and you doubt the slowly increasing pool of students was going to help anyone’s time management. 

Realising you needed to be a little more tactical if you didn’t want to sit here for the next month and half, you find an empty spot near the gaggle of girls you’d noticed before. It was right up front, just enough for you to hear when the conversation would begin to conclude at the main table. 

Once again, the TA doesn’t seem to notice any of the hustle and bustle of the room as his mouth continues to move rapidly, eyes on the question as he invests himself in his explanation. 

It was unfortunate that the only remaining seat was right next to the louder than necessary group, but you take it as a blessing anyway. It’s then that the one right next to you turns to stage-whisper to you. 

“Are you here to see him?”

You don’t expect a conversation, ears straining to eavesdrop on the other conversation in front of you to find your cue. You snap to look at her in surprise. “Pardon?” 

“Are you here to see him? Mingyu?”

“Uh—” Wasn’t everybody? “Yeah, I had a couple things I wanted to clear out.”

The revelation makes her shoulders drop as she lets out a loud sigh, “God, I can never get anything this professor says. I've been here nearly every week trying to figure it all out.”

“Yeah he’s a bit…unorthodox.”

“He’s unorthodox too.” She looks over to the main table towards the TA, chin in her hands as she gazes. “A face like that is rare.”

It wasn’t that she was wrong, it didn’t take more than a glance to convince yourself that Mingyu was possibly one of the more attractive people you’d meet in your lifetime. But the appeal lasted for all of five minutes for you, flitting away when you noticed that he dragged along a very…overwrought… suggestion wherever he went. 

It was clear he was stressed seemingly all year round, nearly just as relaxed as your professor seemed to be. 

But Mingyu was attractive. And you realise how much of a fool you’d sound if you admitted to anything other than such. 

“It is. His willpower’s somehow even rarer,” you add. “Don’t know how he does it.”

“God, tell me about it. Forget getting his number, trying to have more than a three sentence exchange with him without some statistical nonsense involved is near impossible.” Her face has fallen, a tight little frown on her face as she irritates herself with some other memory. 

Taking a glance down at her notes, you find the printed sheet littered with glitter gel pen ink lining the edges, doodles of stars and hearts and small anime characters next to p values and z scores. 

There’s a distinct sound of a chair screeching, and it’s like a large GAME OVER sign is hanging above your head. 

You jerk in your seat, like you could jump over the table and land in the emptying seat with some god-given stroke of luck, like the person already standing next to the chair wouldn’t hold a lifelong grudge against the insane girl with an unnatural acclimation to statistics. 

Although, nothing was more unnatural than the way this TA seemed to know more than the professor. Or you were just really behind. 

Alas, you don’t tumble over the table or kick back your chair, merely making a forceful motion in your seat, palms itching terribly as you watch the girl with her open laptop balanced in her arms move to take a seat. 

You were preoccupied, hence you do not notice that the TA has also noticed you. 

Suddenly, the girl looks startled as she’s told to wait. 

“She’s been waiting nearly a week, I really hope you don’t mind,” you hear him say, voice strained as you turn to look at him. His hands are outstretched to motion towards you a few feet across from him. 

For whatever reason, you had no thought that he might’ve remembered you. Something about his half asleep state when he’d spoken to you, perhaps he might’ve thought he dreamt it. Or he’d just forgotten it altogether. 

The girl glances at you, and her shoulders sag a little as she nods in formality. 

“Thank you.”

It comes out of both of you, snapping to look at each other hardly a moment as you go back to smiling at the retreating student. 

“You can come right after her,” he reassures, his own upturned mouth tired and fading. 

Never have you felt more awkward trying to come around the elongated student tables. 

You pause at first, staring at the table in front of you like it was worth trying to climb over or even crawl under it to get to the desk. Another moment of eye contact as he stares at your unmoving form with a blank look, and the heat pools your skin. 

Staggering for a moment, you end up moving past your chair and walking the way round anyway, the screeching of the chairs only nurturing the existing budding humiliation for no apparent reason. 

It only gets worse when you sit across from him finally, backside barely touching the plastic before realising you’d forgotten your bag in your seat. 

Mid smile in a timid greeting when you make a sound resembling something of an “Oh!” as you spring back up immediately. It’s easier to reach for your bag over the table you were sitting on, reaching across to grab it off your vacated seat. 

The girl you were sitting next to just before makes a motion like she’s trying to help and you have to remind yourself to smile at her as you retreat. 

Mingyu has the very beginnings of an amused expression on his face once you’ve finally made yourself comfortable across from him, clearing your throat just for something to do. 

“Right. How can I help you?”

Pulling out your printed assignment, you bring out the sheets of stapled paper to the centre of the table, writing facing him. 

One look at the sparse format of the cover page, he blows a full mouth of air at the sight of recognition. Without you having to say a thing, he flicks to the very last page, finding the rubric printed on a separate page. 

“It’s a 37,” you inform him like he couldn’t see the bold 37/100 in the bottom Total cell. 

“Do you think you deserved a better grade?” he asks. It would have sounded direct, an accusation even. But he asks with an intonation of genuinity, like he actually wanted to know. 

It stumps you regardless.

“Well…I know I can do better, at least,” you decide to answer. 

“You’re here, which means you’re at least willing to try. That’s a start,” he murmurs. His eyes are laser focused on the sheet beneath him, holding it open as his eyes move faster across the page than you can keep up with. Somehow talking to you while taking in the words on the paper.

“I remember marking this,” he says, looking up to address you. “Your concepts are nearly there, but your structure and presentation was off.”

“You marked them?”

He raises his brow, “I hope that wasn’t an accusation. I need to stick to the rubric.”

“I thought the professor marked the lab reports.”

“He’s…supposed to.” There’s a forced reservedness in his voice. “I mark them and he puts in his comments if he has any. But I’m not sure you’d fare any better than this if it was him behind that pen either.”

Every question that floated in memorisation, from the form and structure, to the nitty gritties of the data presentation, all evaporate as you realise you’re at a loss for words. 

Even more embarrassingly, you feel tears prick the back of your eyes. You don’t have an explanation, but it’s somehow easier to feel helpless in front of the man that’s meant to help you. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“That’s alright,” he says as reassurance, though it sounds awfully rehearsed. Like he has to say it everyday. “We’ll work through it.”

He lets out a big sigh, adjusting in his chair and running a hand through his hair. The motion has you noticing the dishevelled nature of the mop on his head, un-uniformed and sticking out at certain places, yet still somehow cohesive with his look. His shoulders are straight and taut, fingers working as they fiddle and flick the pen in his hand. 

Despite it all, his shirt is ruffled and creased, unbuttoned at the first couple steps. The buttons are misaligned, one side of his collar higher on his neck than the other. It takes an effort to not reach over and fix it for him.

“Lab reports can be quite tricky if you aren’t sure what you’re doing. Did you refer to the tutorial?”

You mean the one that did nothing to help? “Yes.”

“You got those bits right, format and whatnot. But—”

“It was a lump of writing about subheadings and word counts,” you say plainly.

Mingyu lips are in a tight line. “Well, yes, but it helps—”

“I know the results are supposed to go in the results section. I don’t need a PDF to tell me that,” you cut him off. Your voice is reserved, and you hope it comes off as a point across and not a complaint. Although it was a complaint. “I want to know why the entire section was ruled off as incorrect when we were never properly taught how to write it in the first place.”

“Dr. Cho—”

“Is no help.”

“I understand—”

“He can’t even mark his own papers. I’m quite sure that’s not in your job description. It’s supposed to be him here. Not you.”

It’s silent. There was nothing in your voice that suggested you wished to pick a fight, on the contrary, quite calm and matter of fact. Mingyu’s fingernails are going white as his grip on his pen and paper grow stronger. 

“And yet, we continue to show up. Because we do what we must.” He raises his head in control, a small smile on his face, eyebrows unnaturally raised. “And, better that I’m here rather than no one at all. I can help you too.”

Help, he did. 

Mingyu had made it quite clear his time with you was limited, but by the end of the near 25 minute session, nearly every inch of your printed assignment was covered in a rainbow of notes and corrections, additional papers and post-it notes pasted on the back as you remain careful to not lose them as you slip the stack in your bag. 

You only remember when you spot the segregated file of papers in your bag.

“I almost forgot,” you say, slipping the files and tidbits out and in front of him. 

“Where did you find this?” he asks sharply, eyes widening as sees the familiar blue. 

“You left them at the desk of the lecture hall last week,” you say, before quickly adding, “There was a class right after you left. I took them off the professor’s hands before they got lost. Thought it might be important.”

“I’ve been looking all over for these,” he says as he goes through the pages and files. Random sticky tabs and highlighted regions across the pages. The leather strap watch with the broken clock face remains on top, and he picks it up. He looks up to you with wide, sparkling eyes and a smile that feels genuine. “Thank you.”

You flush for some reason, “O–of course, couldn’t just leave them there.”

Pausing, you wonder if you should make the next comment, the words tumbling out before you can make a decision. “Maybe don’t run out of rooms still half asleep.”

By the grace of God, he laughs, “No, you’re right. I should be careful.”

It isn’t till you’re pushing yourself out of your chair that he continues. “You can come in at 3:30 tomorrow.”

“Pardon?”

He’s stood up as well. “I have a free thirty minutes before office hours formally start. I can help you out a little more without the crowd.” 

Feet planted on the ground, there’s not much you can do but stare. “Um, sure. I can come in a little early.”

He nods casually, “Thanks again for the papers. And the watch.”

You smile, “No problem.”

Thursday

True to your punctual nature, you make yourself known at exactly 3:29 PM.

Mingyu is at the desk, conscious and on the phone, eyes closed as he rests his face on his fist.

“I don’t know if I can make time for that—no, I understand, sir,”

Another pause as the noise from his speakers fill his ears, his rubbing over his face a little harsher than you doubt he’s entirely comfortable with. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

His phone hits the table with a heartbreaking thud, both hands covering his face as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

“Light on your feet or something? I can never tell when you come in,” he startles when he notices you. 

Sheepish smile on your face, you move to sit down. “Sorry.”

You know it’s invasive, and you also know you might be asking him to break some unknown university code of conduct, but curiosity takes charge as you ask a casual question. “Important call?”

“Uh, yeah, um, just work stuff,” he states, shaking his head swiftly like he’s trying to shake the thought out of his mind. 

There’s a pause while you're slipping your papers and laptop out of your bag, during which he seems to have decided to divulge a little more. 

“It was Dr. Cho. More stuff for me to do,” he says. “As always.” 

“Does he do anything other than show up to class?” you ask through a snort. 

“Of course he does. He cusses out every article he doesn’t agree with, is anything but objective and…the occasional relay of blatant misinformation.” 

For the record, you’d never really heard Mingyu speak at all for the months he’d been TA-ing for the semester. It was small whispers of choice words in a vague voice, the distant murmur as he exchanged with the professor too far for you to hear. 

The voice of the seemingly quiet and diligent TA was never known to you, not until yesterday as he explained statistical models and the flaws of your data presentation. 

Passionately too. Incredulous for a discipline so dry and unapproachable. 

That being said, something about the grit in his voice as he positively sneered through his teeth, badmouthing his professor—it was something you couldn’t quite believe he was capable of. 

“I’m sorry you have to put up with him.”

Once again, by whatever stone of tolerance the universe bestowed in his heart, you watch him sigh and smile, “Anything for that recommendation. And the pay too, I suppose. Besides, he’s done a lot for the area, can’t discredit him entirely.”

With your eyebrows raised, he seems to catch your expression. He pants out a laugh, and your stomach lurches as you watch it reach his eyes, teeth on display, a lurch in his chest; a true laugh. 

Raising his hands in surrender, he responds, “I’m stuck.”

There’s nothing you can do to stop the smile that reaches your own face, turning your laptop screen towards him with the JASP software display. “I am too. Help.”

Help, he does.

Monday

Mingyu ended up giving you an entire hour on that Thursday. 

The thirty minutes before office hours began soared by like they were nothing, and you were ready to take your leave the minute students began to scatter in as the clock hit a swift four. Except he kept going, another 30 minutes in deep concentration as he retaught you nearly everything from scratch. 

Perhaps his proven determination to ensure you don’t tragically fail is what prompted you to do this, standing at the till of your regular coffee shop as you ask, “Make that two, please.”

It might also be important to mention the 7:30 AM on the dial on a bright Monday morning as you walked into your slightly less dreaded Statistics in Psychological Research class, knowing there would only be one other person insane enough to get to the lecture hall this early. 

Something isn’t right. 

Mingyu is in a position all too familiar to you and everyone else who shares this class, hunched over something or the other in deep focus. The sun pours in through the lifted blinds, the lights of the class turned off as natural light does more than enough of the job. 

It also shows you a blaring hot pink post-it note on his face, all too familiar to a previous interaction you’ve had with him. 

He notices you before you need to announce yourself, brows separating as he recognises you in the doorway. “‘Morning!” 

“...Morning.”

“You’re early,” he comments, straightening his back with a hand behind him for support as you approach. 

“Figured we both needed this,” you hand him a tray with his cup of coffee, eyes still trained on his lower cheek with the paper stuck to it. “It’s a latte with no sugar, but I added a couple packets on the side anyway. Just in case.”

“O–oh, thank you. And you’re right I did need this.”

Now that you’re closer, the scrawled writing on the post-it note is clearer. 

To Do:

Call mom

Shoot myself

“You, um—” It’s alarmingly difficult for you to say it, despite the words being so simple. Hey! You got a lil’ something on your face.

But all you do is dumbly point to your own cheek, eyes trained on the loud piece of paper that tells more than he might like the world to know. 

There’s a loud slap of his hand on his own cheek as he crumples the paper in his hands, bringing it forward to see. “For fuck’s sake.”

“It’s okay! I wanna…shoot myself too sometimes.” 

What the fuck?

“I mean!” you correct louder than you anticipated, before covering with a laugh. “It’s okay, it happens. Good thing I caught it before someone else did.”

It’s all the more petrifying when your voice echoes across the blatantly empty lecture hall, reverberating like it was a punishment for you and your horrid lack of volume control. Meeting his eyes feels like a sin right now, so you keep them downcast and pray he doesn’t try to sabotage your education. 

“Good thing it was just you. Yeah.”

Just you.

“Anyways, I think I’m done with prepping for class. Do you wanna squeeze in twenty minutes of ANOVA?” 

“Have you seen the time?” 

“Not a morning person?”

“Nope!”

“And yet it’s 7:40 on a Monday morning and you’re absurdly early.” His brows are raised as he pulls around the professor's chair to bring it to you. 

“Do you want the coffee or not?” you ask, watching as he drags another chair for himself. 

The both of you sit away from the professors table, coffees in hand as you watch Mingyu run a hand through his hair. 

He gives you a crooked grin,“I apologise.”

“To be fair,” he continues. “I’m not much of a morning person either.”

You narrow your eyes the slightest bit as Mingyu takes a sip of his unsweetened coffee, “I’m starting to think no money’s worth this job.”

Mingyu snorts, coffee suspended in his full cheeks. He swallows with much difficulty before answering, “You’re right. Not sure why I’m still here either. I could get an offer from another professor.”

“And that isn’t happening because…?”

Elbows on his knees, Mingyu swirls his capless coffee cup, the beige liquid moving in a growing tornado. “I like Dr. Cho.”

“You—”

“I know,” he laughs loud, a deep, echoing sound that shakes in your ears. “I know. I sound like a lunatic.”

“I don’t know about lunacy, but insanity can have its reasons.”

“Another would argue that insanity was the very absence of reason.” 

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“Excuse me for doing my job.”

He takes another sip of his coffee, and you ask again, “No, but really. I can’t imagine this man having too many redeeming qualities as an educator.”

Mingyu lifts his chin as he presses his lips together. “When I was in my first year, there was this other class I had where we had to write a lab report for the first time.”

“PSYCH101?”

“That’s the one. I’d never written one before, but I liked statistics enough to do a little more digging than what the assignment called for. I ended up finding one of Dr. Cho’s studies, read the entire thing, word for word. I was up all night reading nearly everything he’d published, some of ‘em before any of us were even born.” 

“Oh. So you’re a fan.”

“Everyone tells you to never meet your idols,” he snickers. “He’s done amazing things, but I guess he pays for it with his flawed personality.”

“I’m sorry it had to be you,” you half joke. 

Mingyu looks at you sheepishly, “That might also be my own fault.” 

“Don’t tell me you offered.”

“I might as well have. All my assignments referenced his work the most. I was always talking to him about upcoming research after class, and it was like he was a different person. Forget differing opinions, some of what he was saying was just…plain incorrect. He welcomed the argument though, and I couldn’t—can’t—stand listening to someone spew nonsense when I know it’s not true. He was always emailing me extra resources which…I’m pretty sure he isn’t supposed to do. Only reason I did so well in his class was because I taught myself.” 

He sighs a loud sigh, straightening his back, “I guess he liked me more than I thought, because next thing I know I’m getting a call over the summer telling me I have a job.”

“Did he…have a TA when you were in his class?” 

“Four.”

“Four?!”

“Two at a time. All of ‘em quit at some point. Said they didn’t want the recommendation or the pay.”

“Would he…not give you a recommendation anyway? You said he liked you.”

Mingyu shakes his head solemnly, “He’s a tough cookie, everyone in the field knows that. If you’ve impressed him, you’ve impressed everyone.”

You take a moment to really absorb everything you’ve just learned. “That’s a sucky position you’re in.”

“Tell me about it. But it’s okay. Three—three and a half more months to go? This isn’t even the worst of it, I’m just dreading study week when I’m gonna have to handle all the crying.”

You wince as he mentions something even remotely close to exam season, still barely at a stage where you can accept you’d be alright with this class. 

“I know you’re not nearly as qualified or experienced as him, but I think you could take over his class.”

“Ever heard of barriers to entry? I’d be ruined if I wanted a career in this.”

You roll your eyes playfully, “All I’m saying is I’ve learned more from you in barely a couple hours combined than the last two months I’ve spent cursing this very lecture hall.”

If you weren’t lying to yourself, you could’ve sworn you saw a blush creep up his face, and paired with his shy laugh and hand at the back of his neck, you can’t help but bite back your own smile. 

“If I can help you then it’s worth losing myself.”

Your heart is in your fucking throat.

“I’m glad when students tell me that,” he continues, utterly oblivious to the landslide happening in your digestive tract. “Makes me feel like I’m doing something right.”

“You’re—” you swallow thickly because you sound like a toad. “You’re doing more than just something right. You’re saving us therapy and an extra semester.”

He laughs at that, and you wish he’d let you breathe. 

“Feels like I’m doing something wrong sometimes,” he huffs. “My friend’s a TA too and he’s got himself a girlfriend on top of everything else he’s got going on.” 

He goes on, “Do you know how many times I need to ask people to quit twirling their hair? To look at the page and not my face? Asking for my number, I have an email for a reason, for fuck’s sake—”

Mingyu is cut off because you’re laughing, hand to mouth as your shoulders shake through your sniggering. “W–what?”

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup. “It’s just…It sounds like you don’t know what you look like.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?” he frowns.

“Nothing!” you exclaim. “But that’s the problem isn’t it.”

Mingyu doesn’t seem to buy it, even through your coaxing as you attempt to explain to him that he is, in fact, desirable.

“Can’t possibly be enough to distract people,” he huffs in earnest, still hung up on the students he can’t get through to. 

“Majority of the class would beg to differ.”

There’s a pause as he registers what you imply. 

After a few moments, he drops his head, opening his mouth, “Would… you also—”

There’s a loud creak of the door as you hear the immediate noises of shuffling feet and chattering mouths, as low and tired as they sounded. Turning back to look at Mingyu, he’s already jumped out of his seat, wrist to face as he checks the time on the same leather strap watch you returned. 

“That’s our cue,” you breathe, pushing your chair back behind the professor’s desk as you manoeuvre around Mingyu who’s suddenly frantic. 

Of course you realise there’s people other than just the two of you in the room, heightened in seats that are designed to ensure they can absorb every detail that goes on right where you stand in the front of the room.

But you feel the soft of Mingyu’s shirt over his wrist as you give him a gentle squeeze despite it all, barely enough pressure. Half your index finger brushes the skin of his hand, just enough to register how cold your fingertips are and how warm his body is. 

“Relax,” you whisper. “You’ll be better off without all the panic.”

You don’t see his face as you brush past him and up to your seat, looking up to see him disappear somewhere in the corner hunched over another stack of papers. The next time you see Mingyu’s face is when the professor arrives and has begun his regularly scheduled tomfoolery, and realise all the age that can accumulate in the span of five minutes. 

Thursday

Midterm season is nothing you’ve ever really had to worry about. 

Something about the halfway point did make it obvious that the clock was ticking, but danger was far enough away to prevent the ultimate breakdowns reserved for the peak seasons. 

Except this class isn’t ordinary, and it’s all you’re able to worry about all semester. And as Dr. Cho in his Thrasher vest announces the date for the in class midterm, the glass once half empty, suddenly looks very half full. 

“I’m not ready.”

“You’re more ready than anyone else in class.”

“How do you know that?”

Mingyu stares at you blankly, “If I don’t know that, then who else does?”

You have tears in your eyes, which is embarrassing enough since this is the second time you’ve teared up in front of him, but also because you’re in a library following Mingyu around like a lost duck because he insists on putting the books he borrowed back onto the shelves himself after registering the return. 

“But I don’t feel like I’m ready,” you whine, turning the corner as he searches for the last spot to place his final book. 

“You’ll realise just how ready you are when all those hieroglyphs on the page start to make sense to you,” he grunts the last bit out as he reaches on his tippy toes to shove the book back up. 

Dusting his hands off, he adjusts his shirt before turning to you, “You only feel that way because I’ve been giving you harder problems to work on. You’re past the level you need to be at right now. Trust me, you’re more than prepared.”

“But—”

“Listen,” he waves to the librarian as you both leave the library, your eyes still glistening as you fiddle with your sleeves. “It’s only the midterm—”

“Only the—”

“If this goes wrong, I’m just gonna have to work you harder for the real thing. Even though I know it won’t go wrong because I said so.”

You fall into silence as he walks you towards the coffee shop across the courtyard. 

“I’m assuming…” you start. 

“Hm?” he looks over to you.

“I’m assuming you can’t hint at what’s on the paper.”

Mingyu barks out a laugh of disbelief, “You assume correct. I’m not going through hell with this job just to lose it because of a paper leak.”

“But it’s just the midterm,” you mumble, not even close to remotely audible. 

“What did you say?” Mingyu smirks. 

“Nothing,” you huff.

“You know, I’m a little offended you don’t trust me.”

“Who said I didn’t.”

“Well then, stop being such a worrywart.”

There must be something written on your face, because as you pass Mingyu standing at the door he keeps open for you, entering into the coffee shop with fallen shoulders, he seems to change his mind. 

He brings you a coffee, sits you down, and gives you something else you need. “I made the paper. Every question. And I taught you. Every concept. So I definitely know you’re gonna be fine.”

In that moment, with the large glass walls of the warm coffee shop, the afternoon sun comfortably resting on every last object of the room, you don’t see it illuminate anything other than the man before you. 

Perhaps you're being dramatic at the revelation, but you don’t take anything into account as you note Mingyu’s eyes and how they sparkle like they were gifted from the centre of a flaming volcano, brown and polished more than any jewel or stone you’d ever seen. Reaching out to touch him, you know you’d feel nothing but smooth stone, the indentations only possible by a being beyond what you could comprehend. 

He’d given you more than just reassurance, and at times, his timing makes it feel like he was sent from the heavens itself, just for you. 

You sniffle. 

His hands brush over yours as he hands you a napkin, and even more so, cover your own as he takes your freezing fingertips into his own palm, the contact burning you like hot coal. 

You know he’s real. And you don’t know why quite just yet, but that reassurance is enough to give you calm.

Monday

You were alright, but it seems that Mingyu seemed to disintegrate right after he was done reassuring you to the moon and Saturn and Jupiter and back.

It’s midterm day, and as always on every Monday morning, you enter the empty lecture hall with two warm coffees in your hand, ready for whatever shitshow you’d have to perform for today.

It seems Mingyu must defect from at least one regular string of behaviour to remain as Mingyu, who on this occasion, stands before you in a baby blue polo sweater. 

Except you only know that because you can see the unique collar, but it might also be important that his back is turned towards you. 

“Morning, champ,” he gruffs, nothing encouraging about his voice in the slightest. 

Your breath hitches when you finally see his face, eyes sunken in and face pale. His lips are chapped and peeling, eyes half closed. 

“Why’re you looking at me like that, why has everyone been looking at me like that?” he huffs in one long, rapid question. 

“Um, I mean,” you stare at his shirt that’s backwards. And inside out. “I can’t tell if that’s a choice or a mistake.”

Looking down at his front, he looks back up, “What?”

“Your collar is…not at your collar, Mingyu. And your shirt’s inside out.”

Hand at his nape, he reaches his fingers down and finds the unmistakable starched planes of his collar, eyes closing at the realisation. He’s immediately pulling his arms out of the shirt with his eyes still closed like it’d all disappear if he keeps them like that. 

“Wait!” you exclaim before he strips entirely, scrambling to put your coffees down to push him out of the room towards the restrooms. “Do you wanna strip for the CCTVs?”

You only hear him sigh as he moves out and into the hall, doors closed behind him. 

You’ve nearly forgotten about the midterm at this point, your concern now growing in a completely different direction. By the time Mingyu returns, he’s blabbing about wondering why everyone he ran into since he left home was giving him the strangest looks, and then something about you always swooping in to save him before the real bout of disaster strikes. 

It’s hard for you to listen to him when you’re more worried about him passing out, his face doing him no favours to reassure you that he wasn’t a breathing corpse. 

“Mingyu…did you sleep at all?”

“Hm?” His eyes are glazed over and unfocused. 

“Sleep? Rest?”

“Oh,” he frowns. “Not really. I had emails coming in all night.”

“And you were replying?”

“It's the midterm today,” he responds flatly, like it should’ve been enough explanation. 

You almost don’t believe him. “Doesn’t mean you stay up to answer something that should’ve been cleared out beforehand!”

“Couldn’t just leave them to fend for themselves,” he dramatises. 

“Yes, you could!” Your voice comes out louder than you expected, eyes wide as you realise what he’s doing to himself. “You barely look human and it’s only the midterm.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“I don’t know if this job is really worth as much as you think it is.”

Mingyu’s jaw is clenched, fists tight as he releases them to grip paper weight on the desk, knuckles white. “I can’t get anywhere if I don’t—”

“Mingyu, please. This isn’t good for you.”

He says your name. Declarative, almost like a warning. “If you think this job isn’t worth it then you just don’t know.”

“Mingyu—”

“No, you don’t, because I’ve seen how good of a job I’ve been doing.”

“You have, you’ve been amazing but—”

Mingyu’s own voice is raised, a hard impenetrable floor to the words he spills. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You look like a corpse!”

And then he’s getting out of his chair with so much force it almost knocks it backwards, “Why on earth do you care so much? So what if I look like a corpse, if I‘m doing my job?” 

It might’ve been better if he knocked the chair right into you, your breath dissipating in your chest like it never existed. His face is morphed in an expression of exasperation your anxieties fear the most, every line on his face committed to irritation and anger. 

Why on earth do you care so much?

Right. Why do you? 

“Are you asking me that?”

“What?”

“Are you asking me why I care?” 

Mingyu only sighs, shoulders dropping and eyes closed. Like so many times before, you watch run a hand through his hair, except this time he yanks on the strands harder than ever before. 

His eyes are bloodshot. 

“I have to get the exam pack.”

Marching out the door in front of your own eyes, you’re left with a feeling that’s right in the back of your throat, curling and whirling into something you wish you could hack and gag out. Gripping the corner of the professor’s desk, you feel the peeling wood cut into your skin. 

There’s a draft, the delayed slam of the door has only hit its wind now, a delayed reaction. It’s like it registers in your mind as you feel strands of your hair shift, the clarity that comes with it.

Delusive. Chimeric. Cruel.

Everything you’d subjected upon yourself. A whimsical fantasy between pages of logic and numbers, a story that simply didn’t fit where the laws wouldn’t allow it. 

The null hypothesis of your most elaborate nightmares.

Monday

Your favourite commonplace box, where your mother once placed all her most prized jewels, had a finicky latch. 

It wasn’t broken, simply worn in from years of opening and closing. It took a few tries to get it shut. Simply pressing down with pressure didn’t work; you had to open it again, press down on the individual elements of the latch and then try again. 

You were never satisfied until you heard the distinct click of the latch fixing itself, the box closed and ready for you to hook your lock through.

Earlier on in your undergraduate career, you remember a professor talking about the effects of external factors on the mind, how they can sometimes cause it to ‘shut down’ when overwhelmed or stressed. 

It’s happened to you on many a occasion; like when you stayed up too late on a school night to watch a documentary about the Stanford prison experiment, or when you’d neglect food or water on busier days, or when you’d stop paying attention in class because you were too preoccupied thinking about Taco Tuesday. 

Regardless, you’d found a way to recognise when your brain would fall into some strange kahoots with daydreams, or whatever was bothering you, and learned ways to give yourself a reset. 

Pressuring and forcing the attention wouldn’t work, just like how the latch wouldn’t fit when you’d do the same with your beloved old box. So you’d take a walk, drink something cold, spray yourself with a garden hose, or even take a nap altogether. Opening yourself up, so the latch can finally click. 

On the morning of your midterm, when you’d ensured your brain was in optimal condition for the exam you knew would be one of the worse ones you’ll have to take, you were sure the only external force that could ruin your vibe was from God himself. 

Having been so preoccupied with your mind and its functions, you’d seemed to have forgotten where your heart had wandered off to. 

Somebody else might consider it a minor disagreement; an anxious squabble if you will. But your breakfast in your throat was enough reason to deem what happened that morning much more than that. At least for you. 

“Pass it on, please…pass it on, please.”

The sound of his voice is tectonic. Rattling in your head like a superior force had slammed into your skull like a padded hammer to a gong. 

You hated it. You hated everything. You hated yourself. And as the midterm paper reaches you with your pen in your clawed fingers, the first three questions already making perfect sense, you realise you hated Kim Mingyu the most. 

That was a lie. You were lying to yourself, yet again. 

Because it was quite the opposite. You couldn’t hate him. 

As you drift past every question of conditional experiments and screenshots of data and tables on a software, you hardly remember what you circle and what you don’t. Hardly remember what words you picked for the short answers and labels. You hardly remember taking the steps down from your seat to the front of the room, where the professor sat scrolling through his Skateboarders [!MEN ONLY!] facebook group, placing your paper down and leaving the classroom. 

Throughout your years of living, you’d learned what you needed to get your brain out of its clouded muffle, to refocus when you needed it. 

Everything. You tried everything. 

But on that day, when it mattered most, your latch never clicked.

It’s Wednesday. 

You order lunch from the Italian place a few streets down. Ravioli; it’s safe and you know you’ll like it. 

Savouring it is easy in front of another true crime show. You pull a lone soft drink from your fridge, one that your friend left weeks ago. It tastes just as bad as the last time you tasted it from someone else’s cup, but you drink it anyway, the empty can now in your trash. 

It’s 3:30 PM, and you sit at your desk. It’s strange. It feels like you’re missing something, which in ways, you are. But as you pull your laptop from your nightstand instead of out of your bag, you slow your movements. 

The papers are the same. But you read them anyway. 

Parameter estimation: Make inferences on characteristics of the population, including distributions of the variables and the effect of one variable over another. 

It’s accursed the way the universe won’t let you live. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue, estimation cannot be perfect. 

Estimation cannot be perfect. 

[_]

It’s Thursday

Class. Eat. Drink. Work.

Hypothesis testing: Determine whether null hypothesis is rejected or not after data observation. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue, no null hypothesis in bayesian approach!!

[_]

It’s Friday

Eat. Drink. Work.

Latent means to have meaning but is yet to be manifested. The greek letters are placeholder values for values yet unknown. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue; values that you will find out

[_]

It’s Saturday

Eat. Drink. Work.

P(A|B) = [P(B|A)P(A)

              ——————

                     P(B)

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue;

 it gets less complicated

 promise :/ 

[_]

It’s Sunday.

Eat. Drink. Work.

The page is blurry. Your eyes hurt. 

There’s a scribble in the corner in a dark blue;

you’ve got this!!! < 3

You give up.

It’s Monday.

8:14 AM. 

You barely glance at the front of the room; swift turn to the left and right up the steps. Dr. Cho’s outfit almost goes unnoticed by you, tamer than most. Bright Barbie pink with large polka dots, untucked into too tight white jeans. His crocs are sparkly, at least that’s what the twinkle from up here looks like. 

He’s insulting another author, the man’s ProQuest journal article open for the world to see like a mediaeval scandal. 

There’s another person next to the whiteboards, back to the wall, hands clasped in front of him. His hair is messy, shooting lasers into the carpet as he rocks the slightest bit, listening to the professor rip this author to shreds. 

An hour later, you’re staring into the JASP software like it was written in a different language. 

Glancing next to you, the boy in the spongebob hoodie is playing sharkboy and lavagirl by himself. On your other side, the girl has the same thing as you open on her laptop, her pen occupied with drawing about a hundred tiny gojos on a bright pink sticky note. 

Bright pink sticky note. 

You snap your gaze back to your screen quickly after that. 

9:58 AM. You start packing up, shoving everything into your bag. 

Dr. Cho doesn’t even notice you slip out of the room, hardly a minute to the end of the lecture.

In the hallway, you take your first real breath in two hours. 

It’s Tuesday.

You’ve come down with something, head heavy as you feel yourself burn up. Skipping class is easy when you sleep through your alarm and every phone call from a friend asking where you are. 

They drop by, armed with medicine and soup. You almost feel better. 

It’s silent after they leave, and you realise in that moment how much you hate it. 

Opening your laptop for the first time in over 24 hours, you turn on a random podcast to play in the background, needing something to fill the air before you lose it entirely. 

The screen lands right where you left on the incredulous data presentation, unsolved tutorial paper crumpled between the screen and keyboard like a wilted leaf. 

Hot, scalding tears sting your eyeballs when you realise there was nowhere to turn to.

It’s Wednesday.

After a long day of doing nothing, still sick from whatever plagued your body, you go to bed earlier than usual.

It’s Thursday. 

Walking out of class, your mind is empty. You’re still sniffling, still achey, but better than you were. The shawl wrapped around you is warm, and your hood covers the cold tips of your ears. 

This other class makes you feel better about yourself, especially when the content is digestible and so is the professor. The TA feels like a mere accessory in the room, something you’ve learned to appreciate. 

With your gaze lowered, you only see midriffs as you walk out the classroom into the busy hallway. 

It happens in an instant, the flash of a clenched hand as the owner walks by in quick stride. An unmistakable leather strap watch with a broken clock face on the wrist.

You freeze like you’ve been caught. 

The hard bump of someone coming out the room behind you is welcomed, the annoyed “Hey!” knocking you back to earth before you could even exit the dimension. 

You’re off centre. But it’s fine. 

It’s Monday.

“Midterm results are out Tuesday morning. If you have any questions I’ll be sitting at office hours on Wednesday and Thursday, four to six in the evening. Or you could send me an email, either’s fine.”

Dr. Cho isn’t here. Something you only found out when the pitt sank in your stomach as Mingyu cleared his throat at the full hour. 

You want to leave, not caring about how strange it’d look if you did. Not caring about how he would definitely notice if you did. You want him to shut up, to stop talking, for anything to halt the way his voice infiltrates your entire being, talking about things you don’t understand but more familiar than anything else. 

Mingyu’s voice is hoarse, and you loathe the way you can tell the difference. 

It’s Tuesday.

Midterm Results for Statistics in Psychological Research.

—  92/100

It’s Wednesday. 

4:10 PM. It’s almost too much for you. Almost. 

The screech of the door is loud, the slam of the handle’s rebound even more so. The room doesn’t so much as glance at you at the door, the half full seats preoccupied with more important things. 

The front desk perks up immediately, eyes shooting towards the door for the nth time that day, like he was expecting someone that never seemed to show up. 

It’s ironic, you think, how Mingyu never seemed to notice you walk into the room for the many months you’ve walked in just for him. And now, as you walk in fists clenched and jaw set, eyes wild and burning, he’s breaking away from a student to look at the door before you even come into view. 

“Did you feel bad?” you spit.

“What?” he whispers. He seems to come around, glancing back before continuing, “Can we talk? Please.”

“Answer the question, Mingyu,” you snap. You don’t care there’s a confused student sitting right across from the both of you, his slot interrupted by your barge. “Did you feel so bad you had to give me something I didn’t earn?”

He’s stood up now, half confused. “Is this about the midterm—”

“I did not get a ninety two, I know I didn’t,” you grit. “Whatever happened before that stupid paper made sure I wouldn’t.”

Mingyu says your name and the sound makes you want to vomit. “What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I fucked up because of you?” you announce, louder than before. 

The world disappeared, your tunnel vision pointed at Mingyu’s face that wears an expression you cannot even begin to read. The unbecoming tears in your eyes are of a type of unadulterated rage you’ve felt only a few times before. Your heart is going about a million miles a breath, everything else only triggering an added bout of infuriated tremble in the forefront of your emotions. Nothing makes sense. 

Mingyu pushes back his chair in silence, stalking over to a large cupboard in the corner of the room. He shuffles around for a minute before returning. 

There’s a packet being thrust into your fists when he reaches you. He does not meet your eyes. 

A bright red 92/100 marks the front page.

“Here. It was all you, if you can’t believe me.”

It’s a careful mark, unmistakable lines and curves of the nine and the two. 

Reality is slow to sink in, but for some reason it’s only making you angrier. The paper curls under the pressure of your fingertips. You don’t open the packet. You refuse to flick through the pages. 

Because you know you’ve lost.

It’s Thursday. And it’s full of regret. 

There’s a sickness in you, from that dreaded day, something beyond what affects your body temperature and your energy. It’s in your mind, flooding the nerves that swim through every crevice and cave of your brain, a physical venom that does the opposite of kill but also the opposite of letting you live. 

There’s a feeling in you, that even if you were to open your mouth, unhinge your jaw, try to scream as loud as your throat would allow, there would be no sound. Something like a horrible dream, that you need to screw your eyes tight shut to fall out of. Except you aren’t waking up from this one. 

In a coffee shop, where Mingyu held your hand in a reassurance you now bleed for, you were sure he was real. Real like some deiform image; too good to be true. 

In your bed, dry tears on your face, midterm packet sifted through that showed you absolutely everything that you did right, thanks to him. He feels too real. Real like a cloud of obsidian that follows you everywhere, like the sad that’s been sleeping with you every night. 

If there was a way to hate someone more than a human limit, you’ve crossed it with the resentment you’ve now fostered for yourself. 

Barging into office hours like that, accusing him on a basis of nothing but your own dangerously stewed thoughts. If there was a hope of salvaged parts, you took a hammer to it in disregard; tearing it to ribbons that lay at your feet. 

It’s Friday.

At least it was. It bled into Saturday before you realised the 3:23 AM on the dial. 

Two weeks of no help and you already feel lightyears behind. The hour is getting to you, and you feel the frustration pool into tears, that turn into full fledged sobs. You’re crying over Bayesian inference and it’s somehow more pressing than any other emotion you’ve ever felt. 

Impossible numbers on your data sheets taunt you, not a single reference to if it was a button you clicked wrong or if you were playing a fool’s game altogether. 

Ding! You pick up your phone, the weight of it is enough gravity to pull you back to earth. 

[Mingyu]: switch to bF10 

[Mingyu]: you’ve been pulling numbers from bF01

It’s immediate the way your eyes dart towards your lit screen, clicking off tables to get to the drop down menu you need. And there on the left, two tiny buttons, one clicked on bF01. 

With shaking fingers, you move your cursor to hover over the tiny bF10, anticipating. You click. It takes a moment for the numbers to change, but they do. The nominal values turn into something you can actually work with. 

Something akin to a tut leaves you, hidden in the breath of another sob. It’s stupid, unreasonable, absurd. Your fingers hover over your phone, shaking as tears drop onto the screen, faster than before. 

Do you not miss me?

Do you not want me around?

Talk to me

I miss you

Please talk to me

“I couldn’t—can’t—stand listening to someone spew nonsense when I know it’s not true.”

Mingyu is a product of his personality. You can only imagine he’s helped because he saw you struggling in class, heard from someone else, or perhaps, he just knew the very thing you’d make blunders out of. 

The reasons come to you, that Mingyu is a product of his personality. Then why does it hurt? Why does it feel like the knife’s twisted a full 360, that despite the way you accused him of the thing that would strip him of everything he’s bruised himself for, he helps you. The very thing that caused this rift in the first place. 

There’s a reason for that, and it is again, that Mingyu is a product of his personality. 

It’s Saturday. 

Perhaps you relied on your olfactory senses to remain calm, because you always knew you could count on a coffee shop to forever and always smell the same. 

The universe seems to want to ruin that for you too. 

“Latte, please,” you voice. “Iced.”

“We have a one plus one for the week! Would you like to receive another latte?” The lady taking your order looks no older than 17, a pep in her voice. 

“Um, no thank you. Just one, please.”

She looks taken aback, a reasonable reaction to anyone turning down a free drink. But you couldn’t bring yourself to walk home with two cups in hand. 

You’re plucking a napkin from the pickup counter when you hear his name. 

“...that he manipulated her grade because they were hooking up.” 

“He has time to hook up?”

“I remember hearing about that! She barged in during office hours and asked why he fixed her grade or something.” 

“A ninety two? In that class? Oh, they were definitely fooling around with each other.”

“Whatever, at least we know he’ll entertain you if he likes you enough. I’m just glad those two are over so I can swoop in.”

There’s an eruption of giggles. You press your head down further. 

“Unless he flirts in variables.”

“All is forgiven when you’re born with a face like that.” 

Another explosion of giddy laughter, through which your drink is slid across the counter towards you, like it was waiting for you to hear the damning evidence before you could leave. You grab it anyway, grip tighter than usual. 

Turning around, your eyes search, finding a group of people that sit in smiles and in various states of trust-falls. 

There she is, the girl you sat with on the first day you attended office hours, the one with the glitter gel pen doodles on her notes and her blatant fawns over the TA you slipped under just as easily. 

She locks eyes with you and her face falls, eyes widening the slightest bit in recognition. 

Pressing your lips into a smile, you hope it doesn’t look as menacing as you feel. You don’t wait for a response before you walk out the large glass doors.

It’s Sunday.

It seems every sip of water you’ve taken during the week has been used up in all the tears you’ve seemed to be shedding. By the bucketload.

Alas, even blurry and puffy eyed, you pour over statistical formulas anyway, running on no energy and all antagonism. It’s another tutorial sheet left incomplete, a single question taking a pour that lasts in at least an hour of struggle. 

Reading the same question for the nth time, your palms press into your temples as you stare lasers into the paper, like the revelation would come to you if you stared it down hard enough. It doesn’t make sense, the commands you’ve toggled on and off identical to the instructions on the page. 

Hence the question begs why the data was coming out like someone pressed the ultimate on a number generator. 

With a heat of unreasonable embarrassment, you find yourself checking your selection in one of the drop down menus, switching to bF01 and back just to see the difference. It does nothing to help, and you can’t help but feel a little relieved it wasn’t that particular snag. 

The library is as silent as it could possibly be on a Sunday morning, near empty as you occupy the mostly vacant seats. The librarian is having her own day off, as you could swear she’s playing computer games behind the counter instead of actual work. 

The only noise in the room is your own breathing, and that seems to be enough to mess with your concentration. You’re going cross eyed staring at the page for so long, the words doubling and  disappearing before going back to normal. 

Bayesian inference…z scores…null hypothesis…

Wait. 

It’s like you can see it in front of your eyes right now, the scribble of someone else’s dark blue on your notes.

no null hypothesis in bayesian approach

Bayesian approaches don’t use null hypotheses. And z scores are in…

“Oh my god, this is a t test,” you whisper to yourself in disbelief. Immediately, you’re scrambling to shake your laptop out of its sleep, switching over to a t test to redo everything, following the instructions on the same data set. 

And there it was…a clear 0.067 under the p value. 

In a moment of questioning, you laugh out a breathy sound, the absurdity of it all becoming too real. T tests were the first thing you learned, the foundation to all your statistical knowledge. Coming so far, and it took you days to realise the instructions under a Bayesian approach were for a different realm entirely. 

It was stupid of you. But in this difficult aftermath you can’t help but feel victorious. Laughing to yourself quietly in this empty library. 

When the initial adrenaline fades and you’ve double, triple checked to ensure you were right, you can only stare at the tiny mail button in your shortcuts on the screen. It was clearly an error, one that was given out to nearly a hundred students. 

The first step was clicking, your inbox coming to life as you drift towards the big blue button with the readily available NEW MAIL. So you click. 

There’s an attached file in the email you draft. 

The tutorial paper has titled t test instructions as a Bayesian approach. Just wanted to point it out and ask if I could receive a corrected version. 

Regards, YN

It’s almost like you’re trying to remember how it feels like when you type an experimental m in the To bar. His name pops up immediately, email address typed out in full, full name clear on top as a regular contact. 

You don’t need a suggestion to remember, his email came easier to you than your own. 

But you don’t email him, backspacing till it’s empty once again. 

Dr. Cho’s email sits in that place instead, a first for you. 

SEND.

You don’t expect him to reply on a Sunday, in fact, you aren’t sure if he’s going to respond at all. You’ve already shut your laptop, half out of your seat in an attempt to pack up. You’re forced to consider. 

Would it be terrible to go back and cc him as well? 

A spiteful part of you might find joy in correcting him for a change. The rational part of you wants to actually finish the tutorial before tomorrow’s class when you’d have to tackle another beast for the rest of the week. 

Sitting back down, you move without thinking. Your mind is still cooking up possibilities as you swing your screen open once again, still weighing as you click back into your inbox. 

There’s a new email in your sent box after you’re done, a copy of the one you sent your professor, the same attachment and the same question; word for word. The only difference, a more familiar name in the address bar. 

Before you can chicken out, you slam your laptop shut for the actual last time, shoving everything into your bag before the speeding thoughts can infiltrate your mind's barrier. You’re out the door before you know it, ready to be done with this. 

You’re afraid if you put a hand to your stomach it’d be met with kicks and punches, especially with the way you feel the aggressive cartwheels slashing away at your insides. The butterflies are making it to the end of your food pipe, and you briefly wonder if you need to break into a sprint to make it to a safe throwing up zone. Your entire being jolts as you feel a buzz in your hands, a loud click that signifies a new email in your inbox. 

Right there, in the middle of the sidewalk, you stop. 

The grip you have on your phone is unyielding, your fingers beginning to hurt from the pressure. There’s no way to tell if you’re shaking or not, but you bring your phone to your face anyway. The screen flips on, a lone notification on the screen. 

RE: Tutorial Error from Kim Mingyu

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since you sent that email, the library still in sight from where you stand. At the same time, it’s almost funny you expected any different from him. 

The kicks and punches in your stomach halt, the cartwheels have calmed, the butterflies have fallen asleep. The grip on your phone has loosened, and it’s like every nerve in your body went from on fire to serenity in a whiplash inducing shift. 

Clicking on the notification, the email opens. 

Noted. I have another tutorial sheet for you if you want it. I’ll be in the room where office hours are held for the rest of the morning.

Kim Mingyu, T.A.

There was no way he didn’t have a softcopy he could send you in less than a minute, and you’re sure he knew you’d realise that too. You should scoff, be upset, roll your eyes. 

But instead, you find your feet making a 180, turning around to go right back to where you came from. You walk, eyes still half trained on the email, reading and rereading as you walk back onto campus, towards the building you’d once considered a second home. 

You walk, and walk and walk, in through the doors, up the stairs and then another set of them, you take a left and look up. The hallway is empty, the door on the right coming into view as you slow your steps significantly. 

Closer and closer, you realise the light surrounding it is brighter than usual. The door is open, and you can see the empty rows of tables and chairs, set neatly against one another. It��s strange, you’ve never seen it wide open before. 

Walking even closer, you can see the beginnings of the professor’s desk come into view, and it only takes you one more step forward. 

Standing in the doorway now, you find yourself in the direct path of the sun that pours in through the open windows. It’s warm, but just enough to combat the cooling weather. 

The desk up front is occupied, as it always is. 

Mingyu is only in a t-shirt and trousers, glasses perched on his nose as he scrawls away on the paper in front of him. His laptop is turned on, screen facing the door where you stand, his inbox open and available even on the weekend. 

It wasn’t that you were waiting for him to notice, but you found yourself inadvertently taking your time looking at him. Every other situation, you’d done your absolute best to avoid your eyes grazing over him at all costs, hardly drifting over his form before flitting away. You never did it on purpose, but it was more like you were unconsciously protecting yourself.

 Like looking at him would only make the ache in your heart worse.

If that was the case, you would’ve been right. There’s a tug in your chest, and in that moment, it all comes flooding in like a gate destroyed. 

Mingyu looks up and sees you in the doorway, standing immobile. He sets his pen down, taking his glasses off. There’s the smallest hint of a smile on his face as he greets you, “‘Morning.”

You take it as your cue to move forward, stepping foot into the patch of sun slowly. “‘Morning.”

You reach the desk, standing in front of him, the only thing blocking you being the littered table with files, papers and stationary; the trench between you both. 

It’s so silent it tears at your insides, gripping the strap of your bag to have something to do. 

“I, uh, double checked when I saw the email. You were right, nobody noticed in class either.” There’s an airiness in his voice, like he might be struggling just as much as you are right now. 

He clears his throat when you don’t respond, looking back down at his workspace like he was looking for something. He finds a paper from some stack, handing it over to you. 

“Thanks,” you hoarse. It’s the same tutorial you had, except the instructions had been crossed out, replaced by a list of handwritten instructions instead, detailed in their annotation. You recognise it, because of course you’d recognise his handwriting. 

“I didn’t have time to print one out right now. I’ll probably send a corrected copy to everyone tonight,” he explains. 

“That’s alright.” You look up, lips pressed together, eyebrows forced into a regular position on your face. Nodding, you thank him once again. “Thanks again. I’ll…get going.” 

Every fibre in your body screams at you to turn back around, hollering profanities at your inability to deal with this. You’re already halfway to the door though, and your pride’s already deemed it too late. 

Please stop me, please stop me, please stop me, please just say something and stop me—

There it is. Your name, from his mouth, in his beautiful voice. 

Turning back around is the easiest thing you’ve ever done. 

Mingyu has stood up from his seat, out from behind the desk. He looks like he wasn’t expecting you to turn back. “Can we talk?” 

And then he’s pulling out the chair he was sitting on, presenting it like a piece offering. If you heard correctly, you could’ve sworn you heard his voice break the slightest bit when he pressed, “Please?”

So there you were, in a position all too familiar as you sit across from the man that’s haunted you for the past weeks, trying to keep your chest from falling in. 

“I guess I should start with an apology,” he’s fidgeting with his own fingers. “I don’t need to give you excuses about stress or exhaustion because…”

He closes his eyes, trying to find the words. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you. You were only trying to help and I was too preoccupied with myself to notice. I’m sorry I spoke to you like that when you didn’t deserve it.” 

For about the millionth time, you realise you’re tearing up again. He continues. “And then…right before the midterm too. You were right, I did feel horrible. But I swear that grade was all you, I didn’t touch those numbers.”

He really didn’t, because the papers he had thrust into your hands on that fateful day in this very room proved that you earned that mark. You wince regardless.

“I thought I could apologise before the exam started but I couldn’t find you, and then you were gone right after. I didn’t text or call because I was sure I’d fucked it all up.” 

“I’m sorry too. For barging in in front of everyone and basically accusing you. I wasn’t thinking straight.” You look up from your lap, wet lashes and all. “I really hope you didn’t get into any trouble.” 

“I–no, I didn’t.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I promise I didn’t.” He locked eyes with you when he said that, hoping you’d believe him. You nod slowly. 

“It wasn’t even that bad, what you said,” you sniffled. 

He scoffs at that, “I’d beg to differ.”

“I would’ve gotten over it,” you continue, bracing yourself to admit to something you’ve had trouble admitting to yourself. “I should’ve gotten over it. I don’t know why it hurt so much, why watching you walk out felt so horrible. But I haven’t been acting like normal ever since, and I’m sorry for stretching this whole fiasco out into something that didn’t need to turn into…this!”

“You were hurt because I hurt you.”

“People have said worse things to me. And you were practically a zombie, I should’ve just left it for another time. It was a little bit my fault too. But…yeah.”

There’s a silence as you try to remind yourself to breathe. You speak up again. “I just want us to go back to normal. I’ve missed you. Alot.”

“Me too. The go back to normal bit. And the…missed you bit.”

Mingyu’s half smiling when you look up, biting your lip hard as you try to keep a smile of your own at bay. “I’d thought if I gave up and admitted I was struggling that day, that’d be admitting defeat. That you’d think I…couldn’t do it.” 

Why on earth do you care so much? It rings in your ears. 

You sound light when you say it though, knowing now it wasn’t what he meant.“Since when are we on caring terms?” 

Mingyu cringes. "We are. I am, at least, if you aren't anymore, which is fine. I care about you. A lot."

It’s hard to not let out a laugh. He looks half constipated as he tries to navigate his words. 

“Oh well I’d hope you’d care, since you’re my TA and all.”

“Not in a TA way.”

“Tutor way.”

“Um.”

“Friend way? A human way?” 

“No.”

You both know you’re being obtuse on purpose, and you aren’t sure why. Maybe you just like to watch him squirm. 

“You know what?” he rasps. 

“What?”

Your answer comes in the form of Mingyu lurching to grab the legs of your chair, pulling the wheels to crash into him where he sits. You’re not expecting it, the clashing legs causing you to swerve forward, hands on Mingyu’s lap. 

And then his hand is on the back of your neck, and his lips placed on your own. 

You’re stiff as a board, brain computing the fact that Mingyu is kissing you in a classroom. 

It’s short, hardly a few moments before he pulls away. “Does that clear things up?”

There’s nothing you can do but blink at him, the reality of it all settles in. “Hm.”

He laughs at your half dazed state. It’s a purely instinctual part of you that speaks after this. “Maybe one more time. To make sure.”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait to laugh again as he wastes no time, putting his mouth on yours properly this time. There’s more of a drive in you this time, moving your mouth against his and he keeps your head close. 

The ecstasy is slow but sure to build in your stomach. Mingyu is kissing you. Mingyu is sitting with you and kissing you so good you’re already half faint. 

His mouth tastes like coffee and remnants of berry, a combination you can’t believe you could enjoy this much. Licking into his mouth, you let your tongue drag over his, like the tactile would convince you this wasn’t some too vivid fever dream. 

He pulls away for a moment, but hardly so as his lips remain pressed onto yours. 

“For the record,” he pants. “I love that you care. And I hope you’ll keep caring. Because I don’t think I can handle it if you walk away after this.”

Mouth back on his own, you decide there’s only one way to convince him you weren’t going anywhere without dragging him with you. 

MINGYU'S APARTMENT IS CLEANER than you expected. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, perhaps more mad scientist than anything else. But the most you find is a mug and plate in the sink, and a moderately crowded study desk, which is to be expected. 

Mingyu decided to abandon his work for the day to spend it with you, to which you contest that it was Sunday anyway. His response is making you change into something comfortable of his so you could laze on his couch. 

Like you would run away if he didn’t, Mingyu keeps his arms around you in a tight hold, fingers curling around your shoulders as you lay on top of him. Your head rests directly over his heart, his cheek and lips taking turns to occupy the top of your head.  

You fill him in on everything, and realise the most eventful weeks you’ve spent were actually quite uneventful in hindsight. He feels up your cheek and forehead when you tell him you got sick at one point, to which you have to reassure him it was either something going around or stress that you subjected on yourself. 

“I went to a frat party,” Mingyu mumbles into your forehead. “For Halloween.”

The information has you shifting to look up at him in bewilderment, “You went to a frat party?”

He snorts, “Dressed up for it too.”

“Oh my god,” you voice in mild horror. “Do I wanna know?” 

“Wonwoo and I matched,” he hums as he pulls out his phone, scrolling his gallery to look for pictures. “I was Mario, he was Luigi.”

“How adorable.”

He only gives you a look and shoves the phone in your face. By some grace of god they aren’t wearing moustaches, but the distinct red and green outfits are enough to give you enough recognition. 

“Thing 1 and Thing 2 were also possible contenders,” he informs. 

“That might’ve been a little better.”

“What’s wrong with Mario?” he asks sharply.

“Nothing. But I do hope you weren’t sporting an Italian accent throughout that.” 

“I was,” he pushes. “A horrible one too.”

You give him the satisfaction of an eye roll. 

“You could’ve gone as Peach. We could’ve matched.” 

“I don’t know if I’d wanna wear any available Peach costumes during Halloween time.” You crinkle your nose as you think of all the racy costumes that unearth every October. 

“Maybe in private,” he says with an insufferable smile on his face. 

Placing your hands flat on his chest, you rest your chin and look up at him. “I’m not sure I want to interrupt whatever you two have going on.” 

“Who?”

“You and Wonwoo, you’re practically married.”

Mingyu laughs out loud, and you can feel the rumble in his chest against your hands, his body moving against your own that’s stuck to him. “Not with whatever he has going on with his girl.”

“Oh right,” you frown in remembrance. “What happened to not understanding how he does it?” 

“Hm?”

“He’s a TA too. Probably just as busy as you. You said you didn’t know how he could juggle a relationship and his job at the same time.”

His eyes spark in remembrance, pausing for a moment. “I may owe him an apology.”

“Do you?”

Mingyu frowns, “Actually no I don’t. I don’t think he and his lady are doing too well right now. He’s been insufferable lately.”

“Is it because of the TA-ing?”

“I never know with those two,” he sighs.

There’s silence once again, in the midst of which Mingyu leans over to kiss you a few times, soft and lingering. Like he’s trying to familiarise himself with the shape of your mouth, the tactile feeling of kissing you. 

“Do you…know about us?” There’s hesitancy in the way you ask. But you can’t help but ask anyway.

Mingyu thinks for a moment, and it has your heart beating out of your chest. “I know that I want us to be concrete. That I wanna work around whatever life throws at us. You can decide what to call it, but I know I’m in it for the long run.”

“I’m glad you’re smarter than your husband,” you smile.

He only rolls his eyes, “He’s only good at one kind of chemistry.” 

“D’you think they’ll be okay?”

“Oh yeah,” he assures. “They’re just going through a…rough patch.”

“Like we did?”

“If you’re asking me, I’d say they’re being a little more stupid about it.”

The snort that leaves you is unanimous with his own. He continues, “They’ll be okay though.”

“I hope so. I’d like to go on double dates with my boyfriend’s husband’s girlfriend.” You start giggling in the middle of your sentence, too ridiculous even for you to voice. 

“This is getting weird,” Mingyu breathes. 

You only hum against his mouth, “Do I have to take your husband's blessing before we can move forward?”

“For fuck’s sake.” 

You’re both laughing again, a sound that comes from your stomachs, true and uncontrollable. For a moment, you can’t help but be conscious of how light you feel, how happy you feel with his scent infiltrating your nostrils, his presence known where his fingertips touch you. 

“I did the sticky note thing again too,” Mingyu says into the silence, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the fit of giggles that erupt all over again. 

“Said something worse this time,” he continues as you laugh into his chest. “Accept that you’ll die alone or some other shit like that.” 

There’s comfort in this moment. In your giggles and in your tears, in his voice and in his affection. His lips are another sanctuary you’ve found, and perhaps even another way to make your dreaded latch click. 

Nose nuzzled in his cheek, the feeling of his skin so soft against yours, fingers at his chin where a slight stubble grows, you relax in ways you cannot comprehend. 

MINGYU'S LIPS BECOME A feeling you’ve grown dangerously accustomed to. 

It isn’t that he has them on you too much, regardless of what an outsider might suggest; to you they simply aren’t on you enough. 

The following Monday went as usual, for you anyway. You weren’t avoiding Mingyu this time, and you were grateful for it. It was two hours of following him with your eyes as he darted around the room. You could hardly constitute it as not paying attention when Dr. Cho was preoccupied with explaining every reason he hates JASP over SPSS, but also ultimately, hates them both. 

You don’t even notice his loud outfit (overalls and a neon green sweater underneath), happy to watch Mingyu flit about and whisper incoherent explanations to students. 

The tutorial paper is barely looked at by you, because you know your boyfriend will be happy to help you out later at his place. 

You’re barely through the door that night when he gets a hold of you, tight grip across your waist as you’re catapulted into his arms, door slammed shut behind you. 

Bag still on your shoulders and your shoes still on, Mingyu’s slammed his mouth onto yours before you can take a proper breath. You stumble, squealing through the kiss as you realise you aren’t escaping the iron grip he’s got on your face. 

Somehow between it all, you manage to slip your bag off to let it drop to the floor of his doorway, shoes kicked off one after the other as he leads you inside, littering the way. 

“You aren’t actually paying attention in class anyway,” he breathes against your mouth before kissing you again. “So why don’t you sit in the back where you don’t distract me.”

“Who says I’m not paying attention.” You open your as your back lands on the couch, looking at him as he looms overhead. 

“You’re paying attention to me.”

“It was in my job description when I signed up for the girlfriend position.”

He’s all over you now, hands at your sides, mouth underneath your earlobes as he husks, “Was letting me take you in front of the entire class also a clause? Because if this goes on I might have to take up on that.”

If you didn’t know any better you would’ve assumed he’d been possessed, everything about his behaviour screaming the opposite of the well behaved, restrained man you’ve been accustomed to. The fact that he’s whispering directly into your ears isn’t helping either, a conspicuous shiver dragging across your spine. 

It lands with precision, right at your core. You’re too hot to tell, but there isn’t a doubt you’ve begun to pool. 

There’s a ding in the background. 

He’s suckling underneath your ear, his hands roaming in ways that would smear your reputation altogether. 

Another ding. 

He’s reached your mouth once again, groping your right breast lightly. Like he’s testing the waters.

Ding. 

Mingyu makes a noise of annoyance, the other hand trailing underneath your shirt. 

His ringtone blares throughout the room, whoever the caller was having reached wit’s end. 

“Gyu…” you whisper. 

“Ignore it,” he growls. The ringing has stopped. 

He ducks underneath to kiss at your stomach, lifting your shirt oh so slowly. He goes higher, and higher and higher, leaving a trail of kisses at the skin, taking deep breaths as he drags his mouth over your torso. 

His phone begins to ring again. 

Your head is spinning, your senses overcome. If you weren’t sure before, the air of wetness between your legs is definitely obvious now. 

He brings a hand to your centre, pushing inwards at your jean clad core. You exhale sharply yet shakily. 

The ringing stops. 

Mingyu makes a gumbled sound that you can’t quite make out, too preoccupied with the way your shirt is now up past your bra, at which Mingyu has taken to leaving open mouthed kisses to your cleavage. 

There’s a ding. 

“Mingyu, I really think—”

His phone begins to ring again. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he curses, rearing his head like an interrupted animal, wet mouthed and bleary eyed. He looks at his buzzing phone on the floor in an accusatory glare, like he wants to chuck it out the window and go right back to burrowing into your chest. 

“You should answer.” 

He looks irritated as he takes his phone in his hands, and you find a flash of Dr. Cho’s name on the screen. “It’s eleven O’clock.” 

“It might be important.”

“The last time he did this he asked where his peacock feather pen was,” he grunts as he silences his phone. 

You laugh, running a soothing hand through Mingyu’s hair, a tiny attempt to calm him down. Pulling your shirt down, you attempt to sit up. 

Mingyu makes a noise of denial, attempting to stick his face into your now clothed chest, knocking you back down, “Nooooo, I’m gonna ignore him.”

“He’s not going to leave you alone,” you sing quietly, running your nails across his scalp lightly, holding his head to your chest. You place your cheek on his head, playing with his ear. 

As if to prove your point, Mingyu’s phone begins to ring again, and he groans at the prospect. 

“Go on.”

He swipes to answer it. A loud sigh and then a tired, “Hello?”

His volume is bumped up enough for you to make out what’s being said on the other line. “Where have you been?”

“It’s nearly eleven, sir. I was in bed.”

“My flash drive won’t open up on my computer.”

You have to stifle a snort. 

“Is it…plugged in?”

“Of course it is, I’m not an idiot.”

“Is it showing up on your files?”

“Disk…is not…formatted.”

“Erm, it might be corrupted.”

“How did that happen?”

“Did you download something off the internet onto it?”

“Hardly matters, I need the attendance sheet on it!”

Your fingers are massaging Mingyu’s temples as you feel him tense on top of you. 

“Your attendance sheet is on the teacher’s portal,” Mingyu grits before adding, “sir.”

“...I have other things on there too.”

Mingyu exhales ever so quietly and you tighten your hold on him a smidge. “This sounds like something tech support could help with.”

“Why can’t you help?” he asks sharply. 

“I…I don’t know how, sir.”

There’s a noise of indignation from the other end, and you can’t help but keep from laughing. 

Mingyu sighs into the phone, this time doing nothing to hide it. “I’ll take it to tech support for you tomorrow. And I’ll send you a direct link for the attendance sheet for Monday and Tuesday’s classes.”

The line beeps shut. Mingyu brings the phone for you both to see the professor’s hung up as soon as the words left Mingyu’s mouth. 

“Wow,” you whisper into the silence, the weight of Mingyu’s head heavier on your chest. “Not even a thank you.”

“Absent father behaviour,” Mingyu grumbles as he moves his face to burrow into your shirt. 

It’s a bad joke, but you laugh anyway. 

“Will I be an asshole if I say I’m not in the mood anymore?” he murmurs. 

“Absolutely not. Everything sucked right back in the minute I heard his voice on the line.”

“Gross,” he comments, but he’s laughing too. 

“Should we call it a night?” he asks, rearing his head. 

Nodding, you rise with him. By the time you’ve reached the bedroom, you’ve already begun taking off your accessories, fiddling with your bracelet as you voice. 

“I need a shower.”

Mingyu throws you a towel and a t-shirt, which you catch and move towards the bathroom. Halfway through the door, you sneak a look at him fiddling with his belt. 

“Do you wanna come in too?” 

Mingyu looks at you peering through the door frame. You’ve never seen anyone leap across the room as quickly as in that moment. 

THE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE just as eventful as that phone call, Mingyu running around as the midterm low passed and the line creeped up towards finals season. 

Perhaps it was better that you stopped attending office hours, because the room seems to become increasingly packed as the days progressed. 

You only ever saw Mingyu in the wee hours of the night at his place, where he begged you to camp out till the end of the semester so he “doesn’t move to insanity”. It might even be better for you, going about your day as usual, without the usual added distraction of a partner.

Coming home to him was easier, where he could clear up your doubts while in ratty pyjamas and starfished across the bed, where you could find solace in Mingyu’s chest without prying eyes when the information became like filling an already stuffed junk drawer. 

It was a Friday night, you’re alone at Mingyu’s place sitting cross legged on the floor. The table in front of you is pouring over the final question of this week’s tutorial paper, everything seemingly whizzing right past the top of your head. 

Despite that, as Mingyu stumbles inside past eleven, you know you shouldn’t ask him for a thing. 

Tired was a look on Mingyu you’d gotten quite used to, so you’ve learned to not comment and simply let him fall into the couch cushions with all his weight. 

His face is parallel to yours as he closes his eyes with a light groan in greeting. Moving forward, you kiss the flutter of his eyelids softly, down to the apple of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. 

Your fingers run through his tangled and distressed hair as he mumbles against your mouth. “Did you finish the tutorial paper?”

You huff in mild annoyance, that despite his state he still thinks about work. “Not yet. One last question and I’m done.”

He hums and waits a moment before reopening his eyes. With a loud groan he’s pushing himself off the couch, sliding off of it to sit with you on the uncomfortable floor. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

“I can figure it out myself, Gyu.”

“You would’ve been done by now if you could,” he answers. It’s annoying that he says it but he’s also right. 

Mingyu holds the paper a mere inch from his eyes, the sight almost comical if he also didn’t look an inch from passing out. 

He mumbles the question as he reads, “It’s nothing, just worded weird. Toggle this off and move this to mixed factors and you’re done.”

The toggles are done for you, and Mingyu takes the liberty crossing he question off with a pen he finds on the table. 

“Did you get everything else?” he asks in earnest. 

“Hm? I think so.” 

“Good.” And then he’s throwing his head back to rest it on the couch cushions behind him, breathing slowly. 

He’s in a navy sweater, collar of his undershirt peeking through the top. Your gaze leads up further, to the exposed area of his throat—clean, tan and naked. You realise this might not be a good time, but it’s only natural your mind cooks up other ways to translate your helplessness as you watch your boyfriend push himself to the brink. Release is never a bad idea. 

Besides, it’s a Friday night. No reason to not. 

“Gyu,” you shuffle closer. 

Lolling his head to look over at you, he answers in a small voice, “Yeah?” 

You put on the guiltiest face you can muster, complete with darting eyes and fidgeting fingers. “D’you think…d’you think you can go over post hoc tests again?”

“Post hoc?” He furrowed his eyebrows. You bite the inside of your cheek, having blurted the first plausible model you could think of to ask him. It’s an older bit of the syllabus, something you should already be well versed in. 

Not that you care what he thinks right now, he’d figure out why you were asking anyway. 

“Post hoc, um,” he rubs a hand over his face as if to jog his memory. 

Shifting forward, you plaster you front onto his side. He thinks nothing of it. 

“Analysis tool after you’ve already run the data,” he begins. 

Placing your chin on his shoulder, you let your nose nuzzle against his cheek. Trailing up, your lips find the shell of his ear. 

“Results have to be…they have to be…” He falters when your hand reaches his front, running across the expanse of his clothes stomach, nails digging ever so slightly as you reach his abdomen. You continue to place open mouthed kisses at the space of neck you can reach. 

“Hm? Has to be what?”

“Statistically significant,” he breathes when your palms reach the tops of his thighs. “To run a post hoc test.”

His trousers are less barrier inducing than regular jeans, something you’re both grateful for as you begin to palm his clothed bulge. “Results of what, baby?”

“For the love of—”

“Go on,” you whisper in his ear. “Please.”

One flick and his trousers are unbutton, pulling them aside as the zipper pulls open. You're pushing down his boxers when he answers you. “ANOVA.” 

“What’s that again?”

“You little shit.”

You move your mouth forward to kiss him.

“Analysis of variance.” 

You hum against the column of his throat at that, his half hard member in your hands. Light touches, that’s all they are, running the pads of your fingers across the pulsing length, coaxing him into full length. 

“What’s it for though? We already got our results.” Bending forward, you stick your tongue to kitten lick at his tip. Mingyu hisses, hips shifting. Your tongue swirls around the tip, pushing into the skin on the head where he’s most sensitive. 

“Ugh, fuck, for um,” he falters as you begin to suck at his head, tongue running over each hollow of your cheeks. 

“For…for…” His chest is moving up and down in quick breathes, every sound from his mouth coming from a deep rumble in his stomach. 

Letting go of his cock, you continue to pump him with your hand as you gaze up at him from your position. “For? Keep talking, baby.”

“For…To identify groups,” he grunts out. He lets out a louder moan when you place your mouth back on him, going past his tip and taking as much as you can of him into your mouth. “Identify…the differences, shit, hmph.”

He takes a loud breath before speeding through it again, “Identify which groups actually differ, oh my god.”

The bit of him that you can’t fit on your mouth is being pumped by your hands, fingers pushing into him like you were trying to indent them on the base of his cock. A glance upwards and you find his head thrown back, hands coming to tangle in your hair. His thumb caresses the side of your cheek.

“How many groups?” you ask, before diving back in. 

“Three,” he chokes out. “Three or more, oh I’m gonna cum, fuck don’t stop, holy shit.”

Both of his hands are at your head, guiding you as you suck him harder, faster, more tongue digging into his slit. You hum against his dick on purpose, making sure it’s coarse enough to get the reaction you want. 

You succeed, because immediately after you hear Mingyu rip out the loudest moan you’ve ever heard, his grip on your strands harder than ever. He cums into your mouth, hips stuttering as you place your entire weight on him to keep him in place. 

You let some of it dribble out your mouth and back over his softening dick like a hot coating, sucking him through shooting spurts of cum that land on your tongue. 

When you emerge from underneath, Mingyu looks like he got the soul sucked out of him; eyes closed, stuttered breaths raking through his entire body, a light sheen of the beginnings of sweat that glisten in the low light of the room. 

Reaching for the tissue box and water bottle on the table, you soak the napkins and bring them to clean him up. He whines when the cold tissues touch him where he’s most sensitive right now, you want to kiss him but account for the cum that is actively stuck to the walls of your mouth. 

You leave for a few minutes, much to Mingyu’s hoarse protests. He’s almost on all fours, hands on the floors as you promise to be back. By the time you’ve hauled his tired ass into bed, you’re just as ready to knock out as the half asleep man beside you. 

Mingyu’s face is plastered into your neck, arms and legs thrown over your form as he hugs you close to him. 

“I might love you,” he says into the darkness. A secret, just for you and the walls to hear. 

You hide the way your heart absolutely leaps, conceal the way your hands tighten around his form into an affectionate caress, hold your breath to prevent the inevitable hitch. 

I might love you too. 

You hide that as well. For now. 

Smiling into the skin of his temples, you sigh.

“Feel free.”

[Mingyu]: class ended early 

[Mingyu]: be there in 5 

[You]: ???

[You]: wdym ended early

[You]: kim did u end class early to come home

Your response comes in the form of the front door lock jiggling loudly. You’d stayed the night at his place, knowing you didn’t have anything to do but study by yourself. Sickly as you were, you doubt you could sit through two hours of even more statistics. 

He’d left you in bed with a kiss, needing to be extra early since Dr. Cho decided to dump the last crucial few weeks leading up to finals season entirely on his TA. As much as there was on Mingyu’s already overflowing plate now, you couldn’t deny the elated feeling of your attendance being taken care of regardless of whether you show up to class or not. 

A very real violation, but no one truly notes one skipped student in the midst of hundreds. Besides, the bag under Mingyu’s pretty eyes might be enough for anyone to have mercy and let the supposed mistake slide.

As Mingyu walks into the room, shoes flying and back dumped on the floor, he finds you still half clothed with leftover sleep in your eyes, standing in the middle of the living space like you were lost. 

He drops his things to come and drown you in his arms, loud kisses all over your face as you talk. “You’re getting too comfortable with this job.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t possibly expect me to teach a bunch of half asleep idiots when my woman is all alone at home, sickly and cold without me.”

You grumble wordlessly as you feel him check your temperature with the back of his hand. “How’s the congestion?”

“Bad,” you respond nasally. “I can’t find my Afrin.”

“It’s on the bedside table, baby.”

“No, it’s not.”

Still wrapped in his hold, Mingyu begins to take steps forward that lead towards the bed, pushing you to walk backwards.

“I’m not awake enough to navigate,” you sniff.

“I’ve got you,” he lowtones, pushing backwards slowly. 

The back of your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall back into the unmade sheets. You crawl back under the covers as Mingyu navigates between used tissues, water bottles and pills on the bedside table. But no sign of your nasal spray. 

You have to breathe through your mouth and you hate it, but you send a remark his way anyway. “Told you.”

Mingyu bends down and emerges with a familiar red capped bottle. He stares at you while you stare at it, choosing to simply snatch it from his presenting hands and be done with it. 

“Good thing I came back early, hm?” 

“Shut up.”

He leaps over your form to claim the spot in bed right next to you, still fully clothed as he burrows under the covers next to you.

There’s nothing flattering about the way you stick the nozzle up your nostrils and sniff hard, but the gleam in your boyfriend’s eyes might as well suggest you were trying to get him to look at you like that. 

“Are you gonna keep doing this till finals?” you ask throatily, shifting under the covers. 

“Teaching during class time is just extended office hours, I’m gonna go insane if I keep going like this. Probably just today. Or…once more if I feel it.”

“Didn’t you say you were gonna extend office hours to Fridays too?” 

Mingyu moulded himself against you, giving warmth to your shivering body even under thick blankets. 

It seems throughout the course of your relationship, your time with Mingyu is either spent laying down or in the process of doing so. Not that you mind, you’ve found that remaining horizontal was what worked best for someone like Mingyu who seemed to want to fuse with your very being whenever you were together.

“Ugh, not this week. Do not have the patience.”

“I’m proud of you,” you say, eyes closed, already on the highway to dreamland. 

“Thank you, I do think I’ve been very brave.” Even while slipping into dreamland, you find the good sense to find his nipple through his sweater and give it a hard pinch. He jerks away in a yelp, clutching his chest. 

“What’s that for?!”

You ignore him and simply run your hand over the area you just attacked. “You’ve gotten better at knowing when to slow down. I’m proud of you.”

You’re too far gone to make out what he answers you with, but with the hot breath against your already warm forehead, you decide it's more than enough for you. 

MINGYU DOES IT FOR the fourth time, but this time round he’s smart enough to not tell you. 

It’s the Friday before finals week officially begins, and you remain in your own place for once to crack down on the last bits of syllabus you want to go over, away from your extremely distracting boyfriend. 

There’s a text when you check your phone after a couple hours of hyperfocus, and you narrow your eyes at the notification. 

It’s Wonwoo’s (actual) girlfriend, and she’s sent you nothing but a picture of both of your men on Wonwoo’s living room floor, thoroughly occupied with the floored expanse of sheets, pillows and cushions. 

It’s a pillow fort.

Your boyfriend is building a pillow fort in his not-husband’s living room mere days before the final exam for the most dreaded course of the semester. All while he’s actively meant to be available for office hours.

You want to laugh. The man that stayed up multiple nights to answer stupid questions in emails, is now less than concerned about the pandemonium that is probably ensuing in the department building. It isn’t that you’re upset, because this was what you wanted from him. To learn to take a break when it was needed. But you would also prefer he’d time them a little better. 

Inevitably, you text him, but not before sending an encouraging text to your girlfriend-in-law for putting up with the both of them all by herself. 

[You]: where are you

[Mingyu]: where im meant to be?

[You]: office hours?

[Mingyu]: mhm

[You]: are u and ur husband conducting them under a pillow fort in his house

You imagine him sending Wonwoo’s girlfriend a betrayed look. Perhaps even throw a frilled throw pillow in her unassuming direction. 

[Mingyu]: DONT KILL ME

You let him suffer in your silence, clicking your phone off and leaving it somewhere you won’t be tempted to look. 

Besides, it wasn’t long before there was an incessant banging at your door that you ended up needing to get up to open. He looks so timid, the face of an innocent perpetrator that waltzes into your space. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins, following you to your desk like a lost duckling. 

“Whatever for?”

“For lying.” 

You snort as you sift through tutorial sheets, “Might wanna take that up to the poor hopeless student that thought you were their last hope.”

Mingyu’s head sinks to your shoulder where you sit at your desk. “God.”

“Him too.”

In another few moments, his arms have come around to cage you into your desk where you’re sat, hands placed on the table as he towers over the top of your head, mouth to crown. 

“Rumour has it,” he starts. 

You make a face. “Now you’ve joined in on gossip? Maybe I have steered you wrong.”

He ignores you valiantly as his mouth drops lower, down to the beginnings of the tips of your ears. You can smell him. He smells good. 

“That a textbook recitation is all it takes to get you all bothered down there.”

Lifting your head from its craned position over your papers, you stare straight ahead. Blank and unassuming. 

“Take a hike, Kim.”

“...Sorry.”

NO MATTER HOW FAKE annoyed you were at your boyfriend, you cannot possibly credit anyone else for how smooth your finals had gone. 

Not a single tear, hack or whine. Your meals were on time, your sleep schedule the healthiest it’s been for months. You even managed a movie night break in the midst of it all. A record for you. 

The very first thing you do after walking out of the exam hall, stretching and sighing, you find Mingyu waiting with nervous eyes. 

“Well?” he asks, eyes wide and lips pulled into his teeth. 

You merely grab for his hand and pull him out of the crowded hall and past a few familiar turns. 

“For the record I didn’t want some of the questions on there,” he yaps as he follows behind your stalks. “Hard ones weren’t mine. I promise I’m not a sadist.”

Then, in an un-CCTV’d corner, marked by the broken, empty vending machine, you round up on him. In seconds you’ve pulled him down to meet your lips in an eager, full kiss. 

In the moments your lips remain intact, you can feel all the horrid statistical knowledge you’d gathered over the months slip out the cracks and crevices, relieving you. 

Mingyu is careful to let you pull away first, eyes sticky to open when you do. There’s a smile on your face. “It went great.”

A strong tug against your waist and you’re suddenly pressed into Mingyu’s all too familiar hold, so everloving tight you can hardly breathe. His lips are smacking and pressing into your skin, all over your face, neck and hands. Anywhere he could possibly reach. 

There wasn’t much he could do standing in a huddled corner at nine in the morning on a Tuesday, where anyone could pass by and question what in the high school was going on. But there was more than enough Mingyu could do behind closed doors. 

In true Mingyu fashion, he’s begun to grope in every way you love the minute the lock clicks shut of his apartment, every fibre of both of your beings giddy and jumpy, giggles erupting from your tired mouths. You haven’t been touched in ages, always too tired to do anything even when you would find the time. 

It isn’t remotely strange that you're wet from only a few kisses and hot breaths against your neck. Although Mingyu’s hands haven’t been modest either, already reaching your clothed cunt as you fall into bed. 

He says it was your reward, for doing so good, his illustrious mouth suctioned onto your naked core, moving and grinding in ways you can more than just appreciate.

His tongue is nothing below made for you, like he knows exactly when to flick his tongue, graze his teeth and all but suck the daylights out of you. It’s marvellous, even more so as you realise he won’t stop. One, two, three mind blowing orgasms later, your legs still shake around his head as you cry out for him to stop. 

Not that he was going to listen, as he did not the last fifteen times you tried, simply pushing a finger into your abused hole to chuck you into yet another climax. You’re sobbing, trembling, sweating; but also half hearted in your attempts to stop him. 

By the time he’s relented, you’re sure you won’t feel a thing down there for at least a week. If Mingyu will even let you go untouched for that long. 

But as you’re finally able to catch your long lost breath in bed, and Mingyu has curled up right beside you, like he always does, you let the finality of it all sink in. You were done. And so was he. And you could now begin to experience a Mingyu that wasn’t exhausted, stressed or tired. Even now, the long indented layers of fatigue begin to melt away, revealing a less strained man. 

Mingyu was beautiful either way. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you, his fingers tracing your features. 

The pads of his fingers glide across your eyelids, down the slope of your nose, tracing the outline of your lips. You kiss his fingers as they reach you there, hand coming up to hold his wrists. You kiss the tips of his fingers, down to the palm of his hand. Eyes closed, you keep your lips there. 

“More than okay,” you mumble. 

“Good. Thought I lost you there.”

Stretching unceremoniously, you drape yourself over his naked form, head on his shoulder. “You’re not losing me. Not after being the sole reason I pass this devil’s module.”

“Is that all it takes? Make sure you don’t fail?”

“And give head like that.” It’s a half joke. “But also be Kim Mingyu comma TA.”

He mimics you between a breathy laugh, “Comma TA. Not anymore, I guess.”

“How happy are you?”

“Still have to grade the last set of papers. But I got what I wanted.”

“The recommendation? You deserve it.”

“That, and not having to be in Dr. Cho’s presence every other day. And you.”

You kiss his shoulder. “Look at you. All grown up with your big boy grad school on the horizon.”

“Not just yet.”

“You’ll get there too. If you can power through this hellsent semester, you can power through anything grad school applications throw.”

Mingyu shifts where he lays, taking a turn to lie on his side to face you. The afternoon sun peeks from behind his form, his outline made of pure gold. His breath is in your face as he talks, and there’s comfort in the air it penetrates.

“I only powered through this because of you. I hope you know that.” He’s smiling. 

“Girlfriend duties,” you quote solemnly. 

“I mean it. I knew I was walking into disaster with how this stupid job was going, all that work was just a distraction. I didn’t wanna believe this was a bad idea. And then you walked in.”

You cup his face and pout, “Oh, my damsel in distress.”

“Hm, my knight in shining armour,” he giggles. “Galloped in and saved me from myself.”

“You saved me too. From the world and its horrible creations.” 

“I’ll start talking in formulas if this keeps up.” 

You can only grumble in mild annoyance. 

“I’m glad I asked you to come in early that day,” he says.

“I’m glad I was a good samaritan and gathered all your stuff that day.” You grin.

Mingyu leans in and kisses you. It’s soft, slow, and drips of the romance he’s trying to bring into the conversation. His lips are bliss, the feeling of him is bliss. 

It’s almost scary how easily you’ve been able to give yourself to him. How quickly he’s placed himself in every nook and cranny of your heart. With his tired eyes and stronger than himself smile, the hand he extended in ways beyond you could ever explain to him. It’s terrifying when you realise what remains on the tip of your tongue, ready and bursting. 

But it’s true, and you can only pray it remains that way. Because in that moment, naked and tangled between Mingyu’s limbs, his heart in your ears, your hands on his being, you just know. 

“I think I might love you too.” 

[andyoullhearitagain]

Top Ten Least Bad Outfits in TNG

I'm gonna be honest and say that the non-uniform outfits in TNG are not my favorite costume design in the world, but there are some looks that stick with me:

10. That Girl Who Kissed Data That One Time's Outfit:

I can never decide if I like this look or I think it's ugly, but I love the pants and tall boots combo. Her blouse is bad and the bouclé jacket is both too heavy and too fussy for this outfit, but I love the belt and suspenders combo, and the chevron embossing on the suspenders. This costume and all the others except #9 is a Robert Blackman design.

9. This Jumpsuit On That Girl From "The Dauphin":

This is the only William Ware Theiss design on this list. I love his TOS stuff but most of his TNG designs leave me cold 🤷‍♀️. But I love this is extremely 80s jumpsuit. Love the pretty drape, love the ruching on the sleeves, love the harem pants silhouette. Only note is that the whole bodice should be a structured corset bodice instead of the kind of odd structured panel it has now.

8. Picard's Shorty Pyjama Set:

TNG is absolutely full of the strangest pyjama choices you can imagine and Picard is no exception but I love this bold look. Would kill for this pyjama set. He also takes a work zoom wearing this one time which is insane.

7. Data's 1890's Looks But Specifically This One With The Shirtsleeves And The Blue Shirt:

The best part of "Time's Arrow" is that Data isn't a fish out of water in the 1890s, he's absolutely killing it, and I love that the only real Casual Data look we get is this one. I prefer the blue shirt to the pink because Data should really wear more blue, it's a nice contrast with yellow. Please also note his emerald watch fob, which was 0% necessary to blend in, he's just having fun with it.

6. 12 Year Old Keiko's Linen Overalls:

The paperbag waist! The bow! The little bows at the shirt cuffs! I can understand why she replicated a miniature copy of this outfit.

5. Beverly and Guinan's Dixon Hill Holodeck Costumes:

I'm counting these as one because they're essentially the same design in different color pallets but what color paletts! Bev is pulling off the very difficult pink+red+red hair and the mint green on Guinan is 🤌. I particularly love how Guinan's hat is so 1940s yet also echos the silhouette of her usual costume.

4. Deanna's Teal Dress:

Like all of you I prefer Deanna in the uniform, but this dress slays, ok? The space age asymmetrical neckline. The drop waist. The structured bodice. The slit almost all the way to the hip. And of course the matching tights and shoes CANNOT BE BEATEN. Also one time I saw a dude on a Star Trek forum call this a "ballgown" which baffles me to this day, this is clearly a slightly fancy day dress.

3. Picard's 1890s Look:

You'd think Picard would go full posh in the 1890s but instead he gives us this working-class Shakespearean director look and he 👏 looks 👏 incredible 👏. Way to mix textures, Jean-Luc.

2. Lore's Turtleneck and Giant Vest:

You and I know that Lore stole these clothes from the Pakleds because we pay a lot of attention to Star Trek costumes, but to a normal viewer Lore shows up and this is just his outfit!! It's giving, like, space-age goblincore and it's incredible. I want wear this oufit every day. I want to make a little doll Lore wearing this outfit to express my love for it. It's only not #1 because the pants are too orange and a strange weave.

Deanna's Ancient West Holodeck Outfit:

Deanna!!! The pants! The hat! The calico! She looks 10/10 hot in this outfit. For sure the superior version of this is before she gives her neckerchief to Worf (it really benefits from that cool highlight) but either way this is the best anyone's ever looked on that holodeck.

[erodasfishtacos]

Steer Clear Pt. III

summary: yn figuring out dynamics with her grumpy flat mate. word count: 7k warnings: abo!, moody h

author’s note:

There is 8 more parts to this up on patreon

I upload a piece of writing every 1-3 days (usually two) consistently// currently updating doctor!h blind date

All writings are accurately and always added to the organized folders in the collections feature

There are currently 300 + pieces available to read

It only cost $3USD —— thanks for any support and check me out here! PART ONE PART TWO +++++

YN‘s day goes by in a blink of an eye.

She and Beatrice slept most of the morning and afternoon without interruption.

YN was of course wrapped as tightly as possible in the blanket that Harry had warned her about.

He was completely right too.

It was absolutely sodden with his scent, YN wishes she had an unlimited supply of it.

It makes her wonder if it’s a reaction purely based off of her current state or she actually would like this scent just as much when she wasn’t in heat.

YN finds herself wishing that Harry was back in their apartment.

It’s a fierce protectiveness, possessiveness that is flaring up in a way that is very unlike her.

Typically, she did the exact opposite.

She pushed people out, sure, all of those said people have been betas but still.

YN had never wanted Niall to stay or anybody else she was close to either.

She would turn venomous, mean, into someone that didn’t match her true personality.

It was pure fight or flight mode that she was willing to act whatever way was necessary to get everybody out of her protected space.

Around three is when YN starts paying closer attention to the clock.

It’s stupid though because Harry very rarely walks in the door earlier than eleven in the evening.

He’s your alpha. He’ll know to come home, YN omega assures her.

“He’s not my fucking alpha,” YN hisses to herself because she doesn’t need to know when he’s getting home because they’re not in any type of relationship.

Exactly the opposite, YN is still convinced more than not that Harry is only tolerating at best until he can find somewhere else that’s not with a broken omega.

With all that being said, YN still watches the clock and in no time, eleven has long passed.

She’s tired but there’s irritation building as she watches it get closer to midnight and her alpha- Harry still hasn’t come home yet.

YN has rubbed her face into the blanket so much that it was ridiculously enough already starting to lose the scent that he had interwoven into every fiber of the knit material.

It’s hard for YN to always decipher her emotions in these cycles before every time seems real, logical, and more than that more intense.

So YN sits and sits and sits on that couch until she finally hears the doorknob turn with a key before it turns open softly.

Harry is assuming she’s asleep, logically, and obviously trying to be quiet as he leans down to untie his shoes before placing them neatly in the spot.

He hangs his gym bag on one of the hooks and shucks off his jacket before tucking it over the bag.

YN doesn’t even realize that she’s growling at him until it exits her mouth and he turns his head to look at her, clearly confused but not startled necessarily.

Harry doesn’t react, he turns back to lock the door before finally making his way to the living area with the same, infuriating emotionless set on his features.

YN raises her pitch, more pushy, not requesting but demanding a response from him.

“I know you’re not growling at me,” Harry rumbles bored, not giving her the attention or response that she was craving, that her omega desired.

YN does not relent, she doesn’t even recognize herself as she watches Harry watch her - his eyes falling on the blanket she was currently wrapped up in.

YN tugs it closer to her body, protective and unwilling to give it up because she felt safe in it.

“I’m not going to take your blanket,” Harry replies to her growls, steady and still almost sounding unbothered, and he doesn’t even care that she loves his scent so much.

YN glares at him, watches him as he makes his way into the kitchen, and her omega hates that it feels rejected by the way he doesn’t come to comfort her.

Harry pulls out a container of one of his meals he’s already prepped for the week, basic chicken and rice that he pops in the microwave before mixing up another protein drink.

Once he’s finished shaking the drink, he takes a long chug from the bottle before he’s finally looking at her again.

Even though his face and body language was appearing unaffected, the thing that gave him away was the way he was pumping out his scent - obnoxious and stronger than necessary.

YN wasn’t really sure what that was about but she was focused on much bigger things at this point.

“Are you going to explain to me what I’ve done that has you so up in arms?” Harry raises an eyebrow, taking another slow sip and licking his bottom lip, “I haven’t had anyone over. I told you I won’t do that again. I will remind you that I’m not a mind reader.”

He was so alpha, so nonchalant, so just….alpha it was frustrating and unfair.

YN’s throat goes dry because she’s not getting the comfort, the reassurance she needs, and in the past, when betas have tried to reassure her old boyfriends and flings, that was when she would turn nasty on them.

She has no urge to get nasty with the alpha standing in front of her.

Instead, embarrassingly enough, she wants to cry because she just wants to bury her face in his neck where the scent is the strongest and she doesn’t know in such a short amount of time that her viewpoint on him has changed so drastically.

“Are you going to answer me or shall I go to my room?” Harry prompts after a long pause of her just staring at him, trying to swallow down the range of emotions that was swirling through her at this time.

YN growls again, louder and more agitated.

“Enough,” Harry finally breaks but just barely, his teeth flashing at her in warning, “I’m sick of the growling. You’re like a feral pup. Tell me what's going on, this is the last time I’m asking you before I go into my room. It’s nearly two in the morning, you shouldn’t even be awake.”

YN’s growls cut off almost instantly even though it wasn’t a command in his alpha timbre, she mumbles, “You came home late.”

Harry grabs his food from the microwave, “Speak up, you were loud enough a minute ago.”

“You came home late,” YN grits out, she knows how utterly ridiculous she sounds, she knows okay?

She wishes she could swallow the words back up.

Harry’s eyebrow only gives the slightest raise before his face is blank again, “I’m always home late. You should have told me if I have been disturbing your sleep by getting in at this time.”

YN stands up, flustered and her face felt hot with a mixture of rage and embarrassment, “That’s not why.”

Harry sighs as he drops his fork to the counter, “What’s the issue then? Do you not want me here? Are you trying to kick me out?”

A distressed whine leaves her throat, that’s not her intention of this conversation at all, and the thought of him leaving makes her want to be sick.

Harry shows he is at least somewhat in-tuned with his alpha when he perks up at the noise, “Okay, that’s not it then.”

YN blinks at him.

“Go to bed,” Harry tells her evenly, no hint at whether any of this has even slightly affected him, “There’s no need to wait up for me. I’ll always be home.”

He doesn’t really get it.

YN wants to cry which means it’s the opportune time to go to bed, moving towards her bedroom without another word to him.

After she uses the restroom and almost gets in her nest, she realizes she hadn’t brought the striped blanket with her which makes her even more unsettled.

If that’s even possible at this point.

Just as she swings open her door, Harry is walking away from her and towards the living area.

He doesn’t look back.

However, the blanket is folded neatly in front of her door, and when she picks it up - she’s fucking delighted to realize that he laid more of his scent on it.

Maybe his inner alpha did exist after all.

YN purrs relentlessly with the blanket perfectly nestled into her bedding like everything else, it was an absolute perfect addition.

If she wasn’t so tired from her long night up, waiting for him, maybe she would have considered the implications of Harry rescenting a blanket for her and leaving it at her door.

Instead, she brushes it off as a nearly fed-up alpha who just wants the needy omega he’s cohabits with to just chill the fuck out and leave him alone.

The latter seems much more likely the scenario for YN.

+

Harry doesn’t not bring up the incident again.

He doesn’t sit her down and set firm boundaries with her that she’s not allowed to control when he comes and goes from the house.

He doesn’t scold her and tell her that he’s an alpha who will not tolerate an omega, who isn’t even his mate, growling at him for no logical reason.

Instead, Harry does the exact opposite of those things.

Their communication is still minimal at best but Harry comes home before ten every single night now without fail.

From the night on after YN’s behavior towards him, he walks through the doors before the clock strikes ten, and continues on with his nightly routine.

He doesn’t acknowledge the change or why he’s doing it.

But YN doesn’t find herself needing to growl at him every time he walks in the door.

She also thinks she must be getting closer to her heat or maybe even insane because she swears that her little items she steals from Harry, like shirts and hoarding the blanket in there as well, are never losing an ounce of his scent either.

Every time she crawls into her nest, it’s the same overwhelming rich and dizzying aroma that is distinctly him and only him.

Harry doesn’t make any type of effort to sit or socialize with YN if she’s in the living room.

What she does notice is that he pops out of his room every so often and YN feels like he’s checking in on her because sometimes he opens the fridge, stares for a moment, and closes it without grabbing anything.

But YN can feel his gaze on the back of her and it makes goosebumps break out on her arms for a reason she can’t really explain.

There’s tension, YN feels like she can almost see it, thick and cloying but she’s not going to be the one to break it either.

On this particular night, YN was more irritable than she’d been in at least a week and it was mostly because her inner omega was unsettled by the lack of attention from Harry.

YN hasn’t felt the need to growl at him recently but her mind keeps replaying the time she hugged him and he squeezed her neck.

How could it go from so intimate to nothing in a matter of seconds.

Does YN choose to stir the pot?

Absolutely.

The next night, right around nine-thirty, YN decides it would be a wonderful time to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies from scratch.

Harry claims the kitchen when he’s home for his dinner.

If YN so much as tries to enter for a bottle of water, it’s not that he would stop her but she’s accustomed to the low grunt that he’ll let slide from the back of his throat at his displeasure of sharing his space.

Fucking alpha.

YN’s used to omegas and betas who are not only okay with sharing space but encourage it.

YN wasn’t trying to be overly messy but she naturally was clumsy, there was flour dusted across the countertop (maybe even a little bit on Beatrice), the drippy yolk of an egg on the side of the bowl when she cracked one funky.

YN’s hands were caked with a mixture of egg, sugar, flour as she tried to roll each ball of cookie dough into similar shapes and size - the made it look so much easier on Bake-Off than now.

When Harry walks in the door at nine-fifty three, doing his typical, neatly lining up his shoes, hanging up his gym bag, and then placing YN’s shoes neatly as well because she just kicks hers off.

Very opposite for their secondary genders.

It would be expected that YN would be the one organizing while Harry was haphazard and careless because he knew an omega would clean up after him - he didn’t seem to share the same beliefs as other alphas.

Harry takes a few steps into the kitchen until he’s on the opposite side of the bar that looks into the open space of the kitchen, an irritated tick in his jaw as he observes the mess that is the kitchen.

”S’quite enough of this, yeah?” Harry rumbles, he looks rougher than usual, not putting on such a good mask as his normal is.

His eyebrows are knitted deeply enough that his lids cover his eyes more than normal, his nostrils were flaring, and his upper lip was crooked upwards in a makeshift almost-snarl as he let out an exasperated huff.

YN turns on the clueless act, a perfectly crafted expression of faux surprise covering her face, “You don’t like cookies?”

”Out of the kitchen,” Harry replies sharply, his hackles would be up in any other situation and they were close, shoulders so tense that they were nearly to his ears as he stared daggers into her.

It was intense enough that she got a zip of electricity up her spine that she couldn’t tell whether it was arousal or fear.

Maybe both.

Definitely both.

Her inner omega wasn’t all together clueless and knew that she shouldn’t be taunting an already on-edge alpha because she wanted attention that she didn’t even deserve or should expect from him.

”Once I’m done with the cookies,” YN waves her hand, airily and trying to appear unbothered like he normally is - she gives him credit because it’s a lot harder than it looks if she’s being honest with herself.

”You’re not finishing the cookies,” Harry shakes his head, turning the corner into the kitchen, and making YN’s heart rate spike instantaneously, “You’re going to sleep. You need rest and this isn’t the time to make fuckin’ cookies.”

”It’s the perfect time to make them,” YN turns it back easily, trying not to let the quiver in his tone as obvious, she can hear it easily and hopes that he doesn’t.

”Do you think I’m stupid?” Harry asks bluntly, his tone louder than normal as he reaches over the stovetop to press a button on the panel to turn the oven off from where it was preheated and ready for the cookies, “You’ve never made cookies once since I’ve been here. You are off work and have all day but you choose right now. The only time I use the kitchen.”

Shit.

She wasn’t as smooth as she thought.

YN swallows harshly, the quip about turning off the oven dying in her throat.

He doesn’t acknowledge the implications of what he just accused her of.

He ignores it like he does with everything else.

”Go to bed,” Harry repeats, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he watches her, he catches onto her game easily even if he doesn’t completely know the reason that she’s playing it.

“I have to clean up,” YN argues now, she wasn’t going to leave him to clean up the mess.

That was never her intention plus with how exhausted, irritated he appears, YN was already feeling guilty for picking such a bad day to mess with him.

”I’ll clean it up,” Harry retorts firmly, the timbre coming into his tone but it wasn’t enough to be commanding, just tilting on the edge of it, “Leave it alone and go to sleep.”

YN hesitates by the doorway of the kitchen, loitering as she watches Harry roughly grab a towel from where it was hanging on the oven door, reaching under the sink for the cleaning spray, and getting to work.

This did the opposite of YN’s intentions, it made her feel even more unsettled.

She somehow managed to not even really get Harry’s attention this way, he just dismissed her again.

YN doesn’t argue further, doesn’t want to push him to use his alpha command but she does retreat down the hall with her metaphorical tail between her legs and goes into her room like Harry had asked multiple times.

She can’t sleep, her nest doesn’t feel right and she can’t make it feel right.

YN is trying desperately not to cry when she rearranges a sweater for the fifth time to no avail.

As much as she doesn’t want to leave the bedroom, she needs a break from her nest because it is driving her insane, and it’s been long enough that Harry should be out of the kitchen for her to grab something to drink.

This was hell.

YN opens her door, takes one step forward, and her foot hits something soft.

When she glances down, it’s one of the blankets from the living room, neatly folded and right where the one was before.

YN picks it up, pressing it to her face, and realizing that it was another scented blanket.

A gift from the alpha almost.

But YN wonders if it’s just stressing him out to have such an dysfunctional omega in the same proximity of her.

It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t a courting gesture, it was a simple gesture her for his own benefit.

Or that what’s her inner omega was convincing her even as she arranged it nicely and fell asleep promptly afterwards like she never even struggled to sleep in the first place.

++

When YN wakes up in the morning, reflecting on the night before, she realizes that she really cannot continue to put Harry through this mayhem of her pre-heat.

It’s not fair to him, he’s just an alpha who she happened to agree to let move in with her who didn’t really now what he was signing u poor, and she really wasn’t making his life easy with all of it.

If YN had thought about it for longer, she would have realized it was an absolutely horrible idea.

However, she was much more focused on not embarassing herself in front of the most attractive alpha she’d ever come across anymore than she already had.

She couldn’t believe she even attempted the cookie thing, getting so easily called out, and getting nothing of a reaction.

YN doesn’t think it’s possible to embarass herself further than she already had in that scenario.

It was time to change something.

For the first time, YN was going to try to seek out an alpha.

It was a knee-jerk, too much of an emotional reaction when she sends a text to Niall.

YN: Blaze tonight? We haven’t been clubbing in a hot minute! Thinkin’ it’s about time to find me an alpha ;-)

Niall: Fuck yeah, pick u up at nine?

YN: I’ll be waiting.

And again, if Niall knew she was in pre-heat, he would never agree.

However, what Niall doesn’t know will not hurt him.

Right?

+++++++_ When YN walks out of her bedroom after shooting off that text to Niall, satisfied to have plan to get her mind off of an alpha that is not only out of her league but minimally tolerates her.

The house smells amazing but it’s not just because of Harry’s scent (that’s a big part of it) but YN feels like now she must be hallucinating because the apartment smells like chocolate chip cookies.

Sure enough when she makes her way into the kitchen, there’s a clear storage container holding what looked to be a dozen chocolate chip cookies.

And when YN peels back the lid, taking one out to examine, she realizes that Harry had made the cookies.

The frustration that shot through YN was for multiple different reasons.

Did he think that it was funny to tell her she couldn’t and then he did?

He looked so incredibly exhausted last night and he was still vindictive enough to stay up and make cookies?

She had watched him with her own eyes lean over to turn the oven off which meant he would have had to preheat it again.

YN glances over at the sink to see that there are no dishes either which means after all this, he really did clean the whole kitchen.

It was most likely to prove a point.

It felt like the point was that she wasn’t a good omega.

When she wasn’t in these vicious cycles, she was tidy and more on-top of things but in it, there was almost this brain fog that blanketed her.

The chocolate chip cookies just solidified that she needs to go out tonight, she needs to get her mind off of Harry, and find another alpha.

Her omega despises the thought but she pushes that prodding inner monologue as far back in her mind as possible as she’s getting ready in her room.

YN goes for a simple but sexy dress, a makeup without wearing makeup look, making a subtle look with dewy skin and a highlight on her nose, hair loose and purposefully messy in waves.

She looked good, felt good as she gave herself a once over in the mirror, and before she knew it, Niall was texting her that he was out front.

YN doesn’t leave a note, why would she?

She doesn’t owe that alpha anything, just like he doesn’t owe her.

They’re not even friends for crying out loud.

YN gives Beatrice half a dozen kisses before locking the door on her way out of the apartment, fixing her hair in the reflection of the elevator doors as she waits for them to open.

Niall unlocks the door for YN to slip into the passenger seat, “Whoa, you tryin’ to pull tonight with that outfit, huh? You’d get any betas in the room.”

“Alpha,” YN corrects as she places her small purse in her lap.

Niall’s eyebrows raise towards his hairline, “Since when are you interested in alphas? You’d literally never wanted to even interact with one.”

YN shrugs, not quite willing to share the honest answer, “Something new, I guess.”

Niall doesn’t buy it, as he pulls away from the curb, “Does this have anything to do with the fact that you live with an alpha now?”

YN lets out a faux-surprised laugh, lying through her teeth when she says, “If anything, it makes me never want to meet another alpha again. I don’t know what you were thinking when you thought that’d be a good idea.”

The smile falters on Niall’s face, his big blue eyes turning into a pool of concern, “Is it bad? Will he not leave? You could have told me-”

YN’s heart rate spikes, she doesn’t want him to think that or report that back to Harry.

“No! Jesus, Niall. I was joking. Harry’s a great flatmate, a little quiet but as non-problematic as they come,” YN lets another lie slip out, this one a bit easier because she wasn’t intending to paint a negative picture of Harry to her friend.

“Oh, okay. Good,” Niall nods as his shoulders relax, “It’s not like I could even match him anyways. There’s a reason they call him The Annihilator.”

“Who calls him that?” YN asks, having never heard the name before.

“It’s his fighting name. I told you he fights for money, that’s where he is most nights. That's what they call him because he rarely loses,” Niall shrugs as he stops at a light, looking over at her, “You’ve had to have seen his muscles. He’s ripped even for an alpha. Dude is the definition of an alpha.”

YN could definitely agree with that.

YN also doesn’t like the idea that he fights for money or knowing that’s what Harry does when he’s not at their apartment.

He hides it well when he walks in the door, YN sometimes notices a bruise or a mark but she knew he boxed.

She didn’t realize that it was actual fighting where he could be injured or seriously injure someone else.

“He didn’t tell you that? Huh. I guess it’s not surprising, I only found out by accident,” Niall shrugs easily, honking when the car in front of them doesn’t move, “He rarely shares anything about himself.”

“How do you accidentally find that out?” YN asks curiously, Harry wasn’t going to hand over this information nor would she ask him so Niall was the best second option to get the information out of him.

“I was walking home from the pub one night, a Saturday, I think,” Niall recalls, pausing as he remembers, “There was a huge crowd of people, a line waiting outside of a gym, and I thought that it was odd because it was like two in the morning.”

“I was a little buzzed, wasn’t necessarily in my right mind, and I followed the crowd into the gym to see what all the excitement was about,” Niall continues, “I realized a bit too late that it was an illegal fighting ring. I went to leave but as soon as they announced the main fight of the night, Harry was the person who walked out that had people going insane.”

“I stayed, he didn’t notice me in the crowd. I really didn’t know anything about him. He was a guy I worked with who I occasionally talked about the weather and sports with,” Niall laughs, “He really fucked the dude he was fighting up. I mean like…within the minute, the dude was knocked out cold.”

“It was odd, very Harry-like but he didn’t even look excited that he just won. When the ref raised his hand in the air, everyone was screaming, and Harry just looked bored. It was crazy, I think I would feel on top of the world.”

“I didn’t think he noticed me in the crowd. He really wasn’t in the ring for that long nor did I think he even glanced into the crowd once.”

Niall bites his lip for a moment, “The next Monday, he kinda confronted me in the break room. He told me to keep my mouth shut about it. I told him I thought the fight was awesome and we sorta became chill after that.”

YN can’t help but scoff because that’s such a Niall way to become friends with someone who was threatening him like that.

YN had so many questions rolling around, none get out before they pull into their parking spot, and Niall is getting out to usher her towards the club.

It was packed.

YN was used to going to omega and beta clubs only, no alphas allowed but this was for every secondary gender, none were excluded.

The smells were overly intense to YN’s sensitive nose, making it crinkle and wish that she had something of Harry’s to bury her nose in.

As they make their way through the crowds, YN can’t help but wish for Harry, wish to be back at their home, back in her nest surrounded by her soft, amazing smelling things.

The desire for another alpha had left her body the moment she had entered the club and saw the way the alphas were leering at her.

There was a reason she never came to these types of clubs.

Niall would be horrified and quick frankly hurt if he found out that YN was in her pre-heat, it wasn’t until now she was realizing how much she may be endangering herself.

She wanted Harry.

Even if he was mean.

Grumpy.

Only tolerating her.

He was safe.

He made her feel safe and protected.

YN was fighting down the urge to ask to go home.

She knows that Niall would take her but when she sees how happy he is, how in his element he is when a few omegas circle him, it would make her feel guilty to take him out of his already fun time.

The night goes pretty uneventful until the end, YN sat on her barstool, sipping on the same drink for the last hour.

Niall was socializing, dancing, and coming back in regularly to check on YN but he was oblivious as always to how subdued she was.

A few different people had come over to strike up conversations but they fizzled out after she realized the majority were just looking for a hookup and all she could think about was the alpha who was most likely already home by now.

YN goes to check her phone, trying to see what time it is but it’s dead.

She must have forgot to plug it in while she was getting ready but if she was to guess, it was getting into the early hours by this point.

YN hasn’t seen Niall in a few minutes and she feels like now is an appropriate time to ask for them to leave so she slides off the barstool that she had been taking residence on to find her friend in the crowd of sweaty bodies.

As she makes her way through the swarms of dancing people, someone grabs her wrist and it causes her to stumble backwards.

She assumes it’s Niall, she must have walked right past him.

But when she looks at the person who tugged her, it was an alpha.

A big, beefy alpha with a sharp, unsettling smile as he eyed her up.

He didn’t let go of her wrist and even with the mass amount of people surrounding them, she could smell how harshly he was pushing out his own scent which smelled like something akin to a musky, dampness that made her want to gag.

”Let go,” YN demands as she attempts to tug her wrist away.

”I just want to talk to you,” The alpha responds, in a fake display of playfulness as he yanks her again, bringing him even closer to his own chest.

”I said let go,” YN repeats, firmer as she tries to escape his grip, the pressure on her bone was painful and surely going to leave a bruise.

”I’m not done talking to you,” The man replies with a hint of offense, like it was absurd that YN was trying to pull out of his grip, “You shouldn’t come to these types of clubs if you’re not looking for an alpha to take you home and knot -“

YN brings her wrist up which mean his hand as well, she is in pure defense mode when she sinks her teeth into the meat of his hand which makes him jerk away with a very unalphalike yelp.

He glances down at his bloody hand with disbelief, “Did you just fucking bite me?”

YN wipes her face, she knows she has his blood on her lips from how fiercely she had sunk her teeth in, with the purpose of pain and injury.

”Whoa, whoa…” Niall’s voice comes out of no where, putting himself between the two of them, “What the fuck is going on?”

YN wants Harry.

YN wants to fucking leave.

YN wants her nest.

”Take me home,” YN says to Niall instead.

”YN, what- “ Niall tries to ask again, concern and utter confusion written over his facial features as he watches the alpha tend to his injured hand by ripping a piece of his shirt to wrap in a makeshift bandage.

”Please take me home,” YN is pleading at this point which leaves Niall’s lips in a firm line as he nods and guides her out of the club.

++

It isn’t fair by YN doesn’t talk on the way home.

She doesn’t give Niall any explanation for the events that had unfolded when he deserves it.

YN promises she’ll make it better in the morning but her omega is so incredibly unsettled and she can’t believe that she was fucking stupid enough to think that going out to a club with alphas would have made her feel differently towards Harry.

She just wants to crawl into a ball in her nest and disappear until her cycle is over.

It was getting worse, further, closer.

She had fucking bit someone like a feral fucking pup as Harry had previously called her.

Niall walks her up to her door, waits patiently as she rustles in her purse for the keys to the apartment door.

However, it isn’t necessary because before she can even find her keys, the door is swinging open, and revealing an absolute incensed, furious alpha who’s nostrils were flaring, teeth were flashing, and he looked less than a second away from ripping out Niall’s jugular vein. +_+

[yourheartonfire]

"Hello! If you are receiving this, [medic] has missed their daily deadman switch check in. All client information will be released in 12 hours."

For a second villain stared dumbly at the text on her phone. Then she bolted from her desk towards the door. It was 10:17 - a taxi would be faster than the metro at this hour to get to midtown -

"Hey!" their coworker said, pulling out her airpods. "Where are you going?"

"Medical emergency," the villain snapped and slammed out the office door.

A precious 29 minutes later the villain arrived at the medic's apartment to find a motley gathering of capes and masks shuffling and looking suspiciously at each other in the hall. There was an air of a 2am fire drill - few supers operated on daylight hours, especially not the low to mid-powered supers the medic took on as clients, and the whole event had the awkward feel of meeting your neighbors in their pajamas.

The vigilante wore their normal black of course, but in the daylight the denim was faded and the jacket obviously cheap pleather. On the villainous side there was that grimy little clown themed duo in plain white face paint instead of their full make-up. For the heroes there was that kid goody-two-shoes try-hard - of course she'd rolled up in full uniform, minus the normal tracker camera the Hero Agency mounted on all its people now. And hero, the villain's nemesis, was there too, having jammed on the cowl and gloves over his t-shirt and jeans, just like villain had over her business clothes. He was standing in the doorway, and visibly sighed in relief as villain turned the corner.

"Oh thank God you're here," hero said and wasn't that terrifying that he had nothing flirty or snarky to say about villain's suit.

The goody-two-shoes did a double take. "Her?!" she snapped, even as she rocked her weight nervously from leg to leg. "You were waiting on her?"

"We sure weren't waiting on you to do something useful, cupcake," the female gremlin drawled from where she slouched against her partner on the hall floor, flicking her knife through her fingers.

"Yeah, didn't realize medic was a pediatrician too," the male gremlin giggled.

"Knock it off." The hero stepped aside, opened the door. "I kept them out, kept the scene clean for you."

The goody-two shoes groaned, buried her head in her hands. "This can't be happening."

"Quick, did someone bring a pacifier?" one of the gremlins stage whispered.

The vigilante pointedly stepped over the two clowns, forcing them to jerk backwards or take a combat boot to the face. "We're assuming this is about us," they breathed to the hero and villain. "What if they got hit by a bus? Dropped dead of a heart attack?"

"No reports from the hospitals or morgues of unidentified persons matching medic's description," Villain said curtly. "Checked on the way here. No communication to or amongst medic's friends and family about an emergency."

Goody-two-shoes blinked. "You... know [medic]'s real identity?"

"And that is why we were waiting on her," hero said patiently. "Now everyone shut up."

The villain curtly nodded acknowledgement, stepped into medic's apartment though it would not be necessary. The medic had disappeared from the street, at some point after they'd used their debit card to buy their usual black coffee at 7:04am and at some point before they'd failed to badge in at work by 8:15am. Still, the villain did a quick scan. The little homemade exam/treatment area had been freshly cleaned, the trash emptied. The tablet and laptop were missing from their docking station, but the go-bag was still in place under the desk.

"Y'all are gonna give me a minute with [medic] when we find them," the male gremlin drawled. "This 12 hour deadline is bullshit. They said we'd have 24 hours if they missed a check-in."

"You're not getting shit," the vigilante growled around the toothpick they were chomping.

"And they shortened the deadline because I told them to," villain said, breathing in the smell of antiseptic and bleach. She'd also told the medic to set the deadman switch to every 8 hours, not every 24, but the others didn't need to know that.

"You what?!" said the gremlins and the goody-two-shoes in unison. The vigilante choked. Even hero looked startled.

"I advised them to consider how long they could hold out under torture to reveal the abort protocol," said villain, using a tongue depressor to lift a latex glove from the kitchen trash. "I'd say medic was pretty generous. Speaking of generous, I've seen enough." She pointed to hero. "Last person you referred to medic and when?"

Hero tilted his head, realization blooming. "You," he said to villain. "Nine months ago."

One of the gremlins pointed to vigilante. "We did you! We did you last Arbor Day!"

Vigilante sighed and jabbed a thumb at goody-two-shoes. "The kid," they sighed. "I dunno when. Summer?"

The goody-two shoes swallowed. "Um," she said very quietly.

As one, the group turned to the kid. She froze, eyes going wide behind the mask. "It was - I didn't mean to!" she cried, backing up. "Just - he noticed the scar and realized it wasn't sanctioned medical care and I - and I - !"

"Okay, slow down," said hero gently, shooting a warning look to the gremlins who were both holding knives and on their feet now. "Who did you tell?"

The goody-two shoes' shoulders collapsed. She looked miserably at her toes. "Superhero. Yesterday."

Everyone flinched.

"You idiot," the vigilante breathed.

"We're going to kill you," the female gremlin said to the goody-two shoes. The male cracked his knuckles. The hero took a deep breath and pushed the goody-two-shoes behind him -

"Save that for 12 hours from now," villain said briskly and dropped the glove back in the trash. "We've got just under 11 hours to find where Superhero's got medic stashed and mount a rescue before our identities and medical records are splashed all over the internet. And frankly, I think it's going to take every single one of us to meet that deadline."

The six of them looked at each other in the shadows of the hall. The hero mustered a grin. "That's why we're all here, right?" he said. "Instead of hiding or running. Medic's saved all of us- now we save them."

"They didn't save me, I wasn't dying," one of the gremlins muttered. But no one walked away.

"Right," said villain. "Let's do this."

[futurecorps3]

Sirius black with a busty reader

𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐲!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Masterlist<3

MINORS STAY AWAY I'LL BLOCK EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU, THIS IS +18!!! See also… All marauders versions in my marauders masterlist<3

I want you all to picture me giggling and kicking my feet while writing this 'cause this is my main hoe 🤭💗

-BUYS. YOU. NECKLACES.

-I'll die on this hill dear god

-Pretty silver chains, golden necklaces with expensive charms, you name it! HE SPOILS YOU SM BECAUSE THOSE ARE EXPENSIVE ASF TOO?????

-Yk that good house of Black money n shit hehe

-Loves seeing how it sometimes gets in the middle of your tits and pulls it out himself, definitely touching you more than necessary

-"Wait, I'm almost there doll" "Do you need to bury your face in my boobs to get that crow charm out?” you deadpan with a smile, looking down at the pretty boy, feeling his nose dig in like he’s on a treasure hunt

-“Helps my visibility” yeah visibility my ass he loves your pretty tits

-He’s the “Wear what you want, I can fight” type of guy <3 (all of them are!!!)

-Will and has gotten into fights if someone’s staring and making you uncomfortable. No one disrespects his girl like that:)

-L E A T H E R T O P S

-You both wear leather tops that show your belly and chests, matching ones ofc!!!

-Remus loves sweaters, James loves crop tops

-Sirius lives for seeing you in lacy bras AND his leather jacket:(

-Boy gets heart eyes, jaw to the floor, drooling, screaming (ofc the boys mock him for it<3)

-“You’ll catch flies with that mouth, Pads” Remus smirks, watching Sirius watch you having a conversation with some Ravenclaw girl as you pour more fire whiskey on your glass “Shut it Moons” he replies, dreamy voice too entranced to even comprehend the chaos the party around him was causing

-Speaking of parties, he loves doing vodka shots from your boobs.

-Ogles them sm and compliments them all the fucking time!!!!!

-He’s shameless about it as well

-"Your tits look amazing" with a lovesick expression on his face like he genuinely loves them so so so much

-He knows his friends stare and he doesn’t mind as long as you don’t either. Boosts his ego quite a lot tbh!!

-If you feel uncomfortable, he’ll definitely do something about it! The boys would never make you uneasy, of course. They look away to be respectful, but those small glances have Sirius all cocky

-Having said THAT…

-Marks u up <3

-I’m talking love bites, scratches, hickeys

-Makes sure to make them on a regular basis so they don’t fade out with time

-Yes the boys have walked in on him marking you many times

-“Fucking hell Padfoot just lock the bloody door” James groans while covering his eyes since he knew damn well his best friend wasn’t stopping. “Hey Prongs” you giggle “Hi darling” he says, still not looking at you guys

-“Could you tell your pig boyfriend to lock the door next time?” “ITS AN ART YOU WOULDNT GET IT!!!” he yells, but the sound comes out muffled and barely understandable. “We’ll try” you muse, giggling slightly as the other boy left the room

-Won’t do any of these if he knows it bothers you!! Respectful legend <3

-So, summing it up

-He absolutely adores your boobs, is very much shameless about it and will not tolerate bullshit from anyone <3

[katyswrites]

put on your records (and regret me)

PART 2 | SERIES

Pairing: Steve Harrington/fem!reader

Warnings: asshole!Steve, rivals-to-lovers, swearing, HEAVY alcohol use, recreational weed use, getting drunk/blacking out, descriptions of puking/hangovers, no use of y/n

Wordcount: 3.7k

Playlist

You love WAMC-Hawkins, Indiana’s top college radio station. It’s your safe space, your niche. It’s where you’ve made your friends, your favorite place to be when the rest of the world gets to be just a bit too much. Well, with one exception.

Steve Harrington is a thorn in your side. And just as well - he thinks you’re a royal pain in the ass. But in your senior year, you’re both on the e-board, so you have to work together. You love to hate him. So why can’t you get him out of your head? And, why do you find yourself going to see his band, each and every weekend?

Underground basement concerts, spinning old records, and screaming matches in the vinyl library with the boy you love to hate. An enemies-to-lovers college radio station 90s AU.

TRACK 2

You don’t truly decide to go to Steve’s stupid party until the last possible moment. You already know that spending more time with him than necessary is a recipe for disaster. But, you reason, you probably should show your face. It actually does seem like nearly everyone from the campus’ music scene would be there - it would look bad if you didn’t show up. The radio station’s funding is always on the chopping block - half of your job is networking and being friendly with practically everyone on campus to keep it alive. 

Still, as you start getting ready, you consider backing out about 50 times. Is Steve actually expecting you to show up? Is it a pity invite? Or, a challenge?

Knowing him, it’s probably the latter.

Throughout the course of getting ready - which mostly involved throwing on some makeup while intermittently feeling like you had nothing to wear every time you looked in your closet full of clothes - you chugged a bottle of wine to help yourself relax. It had been on the door of the fridge, so God knows how long it had been there, but it’s good enough. Then you’re out the door and catching a bus downtown, shivering a bit in the crisp October evening air. You pull your jacket tighter around you as you hop on board, forever thankful that university students get to ride the city’s buses for free. 

It’s packed full of other college kids, mostly freshmen undoubtedly on their way to frat parties downtown. You had outgrown that phase after sophomore year, opting for friends’ house parties and going out to bars as you got older. You can’t help but look at them fondly - somehow, despite being peers in all the ways that matter, you feel so far removed from them; the girls in their mini dresses and crop tops, boys carrying six-packs and sporting unbuttoned flannel shirts, loudly packed onto the bus like sardines on their way downtown to make bad decisions.

Hamilton Street is in the heart of the downtown area, where a lot of students live. You hop off the bus with nearly everyone else, droves of kids filling the streets, chugging beers and smoking cigarettes as they make their way to various frat houses. You follow the groups, the other students slowly peeling away until it’s much quieter - it seems like Steve’s place is one of the last ones on the block.

You had purposely left late enough so that you could guarantee you wouldn’t be in the first wave of people to arrive - it was closer to 11 than 10 at this point. The autumn evening air was chilly enough that you’re walking briskly, jacket pulled tightly around your shoulders. You nearly turn around approximately six times between the bus stop and his house - yet, against all odds, you find yourself standing on his front porch.

Like most student rentals, the house is old and a bit rickety - you can hear the din of chatter and music inside. A good sign, you suppose - part of you had been worried he’d purposely given you the wrong address. You wouldn’t put it past him, not when it comes to you.

You take a deep breath, and open the door. The smell of beer, weed, and sweat hits you like a wave. The small living room is hazy with smoke, the house immediately a bit too warm from body heat. A few heads look up as you enter, followed by an uproar of greetings.

Look who decided to show up!

Hey babe!

Everyone hide, mom’s here!

You roll your eyes, laughing.

“I do have fun sometimes, guys.”

“Oh, I know,” a familiar voice says, Eddie lifting himself off of the couch to give you a big hug.

“I was there at that party freshman year when you nearly fell off of Mikayla Hodder’s roof-”

“Shut up,” you say, face flushed with embarrassment at the (fuzzy) memory.

“Can I get you a drink?” the shaggy-haired boy asks.

You nod, following him back through the house towards the kitchen. You shoulder your way through bodies, saying the occasional hello when someone you recognize catches your eye.

Eddie is rooting through the fridge, pulling out a beer and extending it to you. You accept it gratefully, pushing the fridge closed with your hip as he leans against the counter.

“So…I wasn’t expecting you to be here tonight,” Eddie remarks, popping his bottle cap off with an opener screwed into the wall. 

“And why’s that?” you ask casually.

“Well… I mean, please tell me you know whose house this is -”

“Of course I do,” you say quickly, taking a swig of beer. “Harrington invited me.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“Really?”

You nod. “Is that so unbelievable?”

He just shrugs, staring down at his bottle.

“Dunno. I know he’s not exactly your favorite person -”

“Maybe so, but a lot of my friends are here, so… who's to stop me?”

Eddie grins, clinking his drink with yours.

“There you go - I was hoping you’d come out, to be honest. Sometimes I’m worried you don’t let yourself have fun anymore.”

You scoff.

“I - I have fun.”

“You used to. This year, though, you’d been so…”

“So what?” you ask defensively.

Eddie’s face starts to turn a bit red.

“Well - you know - I know you’re stressed and all, managing the station, but… you can be a little…uptight.”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m not uptight -”

“Look, trust me - I’m saying that with love, as your friend -”

“Yeah, whatever - I can be fun.”

“I know - I’ve been there with you through it all. Just… I’m glad you came. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.”

You don’t really respond, crossing your arms as you glance around the kitchen a bit.

“What are you looking for?” he asks.

“No one,” you respond absentmindedly.

Eddie smirks.

“Yeah - okay.”

Steve is nowhere to be found. Perhaps that’s a blessing - it’s busy enough here that you ma be able to avoid having a conversation all night.

It’s around then that Eddie’s bandmate Gareth is stumbling into the kitchen, stopping himself for a moment before breaking into a grin when he sets eyes on you and Eddie.

“Thank God - me and Jeff need someone for pong!”

That’s how you find yourself partnered with Eddie, letting yourself forget about Steve as you play beer pong. You’re a competitive person, and arguably more so when you’re drunk - that’s how you and Eddie kick ass two rounds in a row, leading a fed up Gareth to declare the game totally bogus before storming out to the back porch to smoke with Jeff.

You high-five Eddie on your way back to the kitchen to grab another drink. You’re properly tipsy now, probably on your fourth drink in less than 2 hours. Your tolerance did used to be better than this - maybe Eddie was right, about you not being as fun as you used to.

The kitchen is empty, which you’re thankful for - it’s tiny to begin with, so more than a handful of people makes it feel cramped. You’re a bit hot, working up enough of a sweat during the game that you had shed your jacket already. The refrigerator light is nearly blinding in the dimness of the room, but the cold gives enough of a relief that you bend over and lean into the fridge. You hang there for a moment, sighing. In the distance, you hear the sound of a glass breaking, followed by a series of aw, mans - you decide it’s not your problem to worry about, and stay there another moment. You then root through the fridge for a moment until you find a bottle of something you like. 

You slam the door shut and turn to head back towards the rest of the party, only to nearly jump out of your skin when you realize you’re not alone.

Steve Harrington leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and wearing a smirk.

“Jesus - you scared me. Why the fuck are you just standing there like that?”

He shrugs.

“Just enjoying the view, sweetheart.”

You scoff, popping the cap off of your bottle and heading right towards him, hoping he’d move out of the way to let you through. That, of course, is wishful thinking.

“Can I get through?” you ask, bristling as he blocks the doorway.

“You decided to come,” Steve says, looking down at you with a grin.

“Well, you did invite me.”

“I know - I’m glad you actually showed up, though.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” you mutter sarcastically, shouldering past him and back towards the living room.

Eddie’s lounging on the couch, eyelids heavy as he passes a joint between himself and Argyle.

“Got enough to share?” you ask, plopping down next to him. He nods, passing it over to you. You take a long hit, letting the smoke settle into your lungs as you sink further into the couch.

“You good?” Eddie asks.

“Mm, yeah. Just want to chill here for a little bit.”

He nods, paying you no mind as he takes a deep inhale. Your eyes follow Steve as he crosses the room and heads out to the front porch with a girl you don’t recognize. You feel your brow furrow, your eyes trained on the front door. It’s not too long after that that you manage to help Eddie finish the joint. You chug your beer, starting to feel lightheaded, the world around you moving a bit more slowly.

You fall into a comfortable crossfaded lull there for a while, with Robin Buckley eventually placing a beer can in the middle of the table and calling for a game of Kings as she shuffles a deck of cards.

You open another beer as she does, sitting forward a bit to half-heartedly play the game. You find yourself getting stuck taking a drink quite a few times, your reflexes slow and your wits not quite about you. A few more people filter in, sitting criss-crossed around the coffee table and pulling cards from the deck and doing what it dictates. 

“Six is chicks!” Eddie cries out, flashing his six-of-spades card to the group. You roll your eyes as you take yet another drink, reaching to grab your own card as Eddie sticks his under the can’s pull tab.

You glance at it, and giggle.

“Jack - what’s Jack again?”

“Never Have I Ever,” Robin says, holding up three fingers. Everyone follows suit, and you think for a minute to start it off.

“Okay, um… never have I ever done a drug harder than weed.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Eddie asks.

“What do you think it means?”

“Alcohol is technically more powerful of a drug than pot,” Steve pipes up across the table - when did he get here?

“Shut up Harrington, you know what I mean -”

“Yeah, like acid and coke and shit,” Argyle adds.

“Well fuck,” Eddie concedes, putting a finger down. 

You laugh, expecting nothing less of him. It goes around the circle for a bit - things ranging from never have I ever broken a bone to never have I ever had a threesome, followed by a series of laughs or groans as people put down fingers and down drinks. You only have one finger left by the time it gets to Steve.

He thinks for a moment, humming to himself as he does - you can’t help but think that there isn’t much he hasn’t done. After a few more seconds pass, he smirks, and locks eyes with Robin.

“Never have I ever hooked up with someone in the vinyl closet at the station.”

“Not fair,” Robin exclaims, smacking Steve on the arm. He laughs as his friend lays into him. She’s blushing, and officially out of the game. She glares daggers at him as she takes a drink.

You can’t help but notice that Steve gets quite a few people with that - Eddie being one of them, caught in a cascade of groans and fingers getting put down. You feel your mouth fall open in disbelief.

“Whoa, wait - is everyone fucking around in the vinyl library?”

Robin stares at you for a moment, dumbfounded, then laughs.

“Wait, seriously? You didn’t know that?”

You feel your face flush with embarrassment, all eyes on you.

“Well - um, no, this is the first I’m hearing of it.”

Eddie just grins, and gives you a playful pat on the back.

“You seriously don’t know your own radio station at all, huh?”

“I - I guess I’m not that surprised that someone has, but - all of you?”

“Not all,” Steve chimes in.

“Yeah, wait - how have you not?” Robin asks.

Steve just shrugs. “I don’t know… I have things like, I don’t know - a bed, in my own home, for starters.”

Robin rolls her eyes. You meet Steve’s eyes for a moment, and quickly look away.

You stick the Jack card in the pile under the beer can’s pull-tab - only to hear a pop followed by a hiss.

“Uh oh, Madame President broke the seal!” Eddie declares, pushing it towards you. “Looks like somebody’s got to shotgun it.”

You take it begrudgingly and stare at it for a moment.

“I need to borrow someone’s keys,” you finally say, earning some whoops and hollers from the group. The last thing you vividly remember is popping a hole in the can, and downing the whole beer in a manner of 30 seconds.

******

You blink awake groggily - enough sunlight permeates through the curtains that you know it must be morning. You groan, your mouth dry and tasting distinctly of alcohol. A turn over towards your bedside table makes your stomach feel all wobbly - fuck.

You reach for your alarm clock, squinting at it - nevermind. It’s not morning - more like the afternoon. Well into the afternoon.

A pit of dread settles into your gut - when did you get home? How long were you asleep? You never sleep this late, not even on weekends - a late lie-in for you is 11 AM. You’re definitely in your own bed, which is a positive - still in last night’s clothes, though. How? 

You don’t remember much after the game of Kings - though, you were definitely doing shots at some point… with who? You remember being in someone’s car - maybe. Or was it the bus again? If you actually managed getting the bus home while blackout drunk, you’re actually quite proud of yourself. But that somehow doesn’t seem too likely.

You pulled yourself to sit up, only to immediately regret it. Your stomach is now churning like a stormy sea, and your head is starting to throb. You’re an idiot. 

You hadn’t gotten drunk like that since your freshman year - it was a rookie mistake. You just hoped you didn’t make a complete idiot out of yourself in front of everyone.

After finally pulling yourself out of bed, you stumble over to your bedroom window and open the curtains. The bright afternoon sunlight hitting your face made you realize what a horrid mistake that was - you’re practically blinded by the light, and your head is properly pounding now. And now…

You barely make it to the bathroom in time, keeling over the toilet to puke up all of last night’s mistakes. The second your knees hit the cold tile floor, you begin coughing everything up, regretting anything and everything you’ve ever done to lead you to this moment. You don’t even hear Nancy approach behind you, not even aware of her presence until you’ve flushed and fall back against the wall, feeling disgusting.

“I was going to ask how you’re feeling, but it feels like a stupid question,” she says, leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed. 

You glance up at your roommate, feeling so small.

“Ha ha,” you say sarcastically. She offers a hand to help you up, which you accept gratefully. She waits until you’re hunched over the sink, brushing your teeth and gargling water to clean the taste of sick out of your mouth, to speak again.

“So - it was a fun night?” she asks cautiously.

You laugh dryly. “Um, yeah, I guess the night was fun. Right now… not so much.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Nancy coos teasingly. “You’ll be alright - just chill out today, yeah?”

“Mm - yeah, that’s the plan. I think I’m going to take a shower… and lie down for a little.”

Nancy nods. “Yeah, good idea - maybe I can go down to Blockbuster, rent a couple of movies, get some snacks?”

You offer up a small smile. “That’s nice, but you really don’t have to -”

“No seriously, it’s fine, I think they have some new stuff I want to check out anyways. I don’t have plans anyway - let’s just do a girls’ day, maybe get takeout later -”

“Sounds great, Nance. Thanks. Maybe hold off on takeout, for a bit… let me see how all of this feels,” you say, gesturing to your stomach. 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll head out - take a nice, long shower, it always helps.”

“Sure thing - and hey, I don’t know who called you, but thanks for coming to get me last night.”

Nancy furrows her brow quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“I - didn’t you bring me home last night?”

Nancy shakes her head.

“No - no, I was asleep. I think I heard the door open at some point, but I assumed that was just you coming home - you don’t remember?”

You shake your head, properly confused now.

“No - I don’t. I - think maybe I took the bus back then?”

“I thought they stop running those after like 2AM? I didn’t hear you get home until around 3, I think.”

She’s right - then how did you get back?

You bite your lip, thinking for a bit. 

“Maybe it was Eddie. I’ll call him and ask.”

Nancy nods. “Alright, yeah. Either way, you got back safe. Sorry about the hangover, though.”

You wave her off. “It’s my own fault - I went too hard last night. I’m just going to try to sleep it off, I guess.”

After Nancy leaves, you take a nice, long shower - you feel utterly disgusting, still in last night’s sweaty clothes and smudged makeup. You let last night’s bad decisions cascade down your skin and into the drain, sighing as the shower semi-revives you. 

By the time you’re out and drying off, your stomach has settled a bit more. The headache has only gotten a bit worse, though. You open the medicine cabinet, only to find the bottle of Ibuprofen missing. Did Nancy use it and forget to put it back? You don’t want to go rifling through her room, so you trudge back to your bedroom, praying she can find it when she gets back.

Pulling on a baggy t-shirt and pajama shorts, you reach for the phone on your bedside table - you punch in Eddie’s number, sitting on the edge of your bed as you twirl the cord with your finger. He picks up almost straight away.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Eddie - it’s me.”

“Whoa! She lives!” he cries out, laughing. You wince.

“Can you not yell, please?”

“Uh oh - are you feeling a little… delicate?”

“Fuck you,” you murmur, falling back onto your mattress. 

“I’m only teasing -”

“Yeah, whatever. Listen - did I make an idiot out of myself?”

“How much do you remember?”

“Uh - I remember playing Kings… and not a ton after that. I remember little things here and there, but… were we dancing?”

“You were dancing. On the kitchen table, if I remember.”

You groan, letting your head fall into your free hand.

“Oh God -”

“It’s all good, listen - people thought it was fun, I swear.”

“Yeah, if you say so… did I throw up?”

Silence on the other end.

“Oh fuck -”

“Only actually in the toilet, though - well, someone’s Solo cup at one point. Then it was all the bathroom after that, I swear. I really don’t think a lot of people saw that part though, the night was kind of winding down.”

“You swear?”

“Positive. Even I was leaving at that point. Don’t know if you got worse after that, though.”

You sit up suddenly, despite your body’s protests.

“You - what?”

“Listen, I didn’t want to leave you, but Argyle’s buddy Jonathan offered to drive us, and he didn’t want someone who might get sick in his car -”

“But wait, hold on - how did I get home? I thought you got me back -”

“Oh - you really don’t remember, huh?”

“Well - no.”

“Don’t get mad, but -”

“But what?”

“It was Steve. He drove you home.”

You pause, opening your mouth a few times to say something, but not finding the words.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, Harrington only had like, two beers all night, so he said he could take you back.”

“I - oh.”

What you wanted to say was, why the fuck would he do that?

“So… yeah. Sorry about that. But, I’m glad you made it back okay.”

“Yeah - mm hm…” you murmur absentmindedly. You hear a shrill beeping sound through the phone, making you wince.

“Sorry - fuck, Gareth set off the fucking fire alarm again. Sorry, I -”

“No, it’s okay. Go deal with that. I just… wanted to make sure you knew I’m alive.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, and you can practically what your friend’s grin through the phone. “Gotta go - drink water, eat some fries, bye -”

Click.

You sit there in silence for a few moments, brow furrowed - Steve? Did you really make a drunk fool of yourself in front of him? You groan - he’ll definitely find a way to use this as leverage. How did he even get you inside? Did you throw up in his car - Christ, you hope not.

Worst of all… now you owe Steve Harrington, of all people.

It’s as you’re making peace with this horrible realization that you finally spot the Ibuprofen - there it is, in plain sight, on your bedside table. The bottle is conveniently right there, somehow, with a glass of water. You hadn’t noticed it in your hungover stupor earlier - when you reach for it, you realize it’s sitting on top of a note with untidy scrawl that reads:

Take some of this - you’re going to need it, sweetheart. 

-Harrington

You stare at it dumbfoundedly, then scoff.

Motherfucker.

author's note: I'm back! I took a bit of a hiatus, but I'm back in the swing of writing. I wont lie though... this is barely proofread. So, please be kind. This is a slow burn, so don't expect real smut for a few more chapters. But, let me know your thoughts, and I hope you enjoyed!

[last-herondale]

Almost Pt. 6

Bucky Barnes x Femreader!

Bucky POV

Angst, heartbreak, love triangle

Warning: none?

AN: We had state testing this week. My brain is fried. Sorry if this is trash but it’s my trash.

Enjoy 🤘🏼

It seemed that yet again I was standing there, watching you walk away from me after I had undoubtedly broken your heart. Again.

I tried to rationalize with myself that it wasn’t my fault. That the last thing I expected to happen that night was to run into you. Of course, I had dreamed of it. Concocted ways in my head of how I could accidentally run into you, just to see you. Maybe even talk to you. The ache in my heart from missing you had become a constant hurt. I had missed you while you were away, but after seeing you kiss Steve in the kitchen…after seeing you so happy…

I knew I had to step away.

I had been doing so well. Only seeing you when only absolutely necessary. Filling more and more of my time with missions and other distractions like Nadia, who seemed content enough to spend her time with me. I knew I was using her, and I hated myself for it, but I didn’t know how to handle the alternative.There was a certain torment in knowing you were back. In knowing that you were under the same roof as me, having a life that was becoming more and more distant from mine.

After tonight, I would be surprised if you ever talked to me again. I realized instantly that there was no excuse for what I said to you. I had been taken off guard seeing you pinning Nadia to the wall. I wanted to laugh at the scene before me. The shocked look on Nadia’s face, the stern, determined look in your eyes that was immediately overshadowed by the look of pure shock as you locked eyes with me.

There were a million things I wanted to say to you at that moment. A million feelings that came to the surface, and yet like an idiot, the only emotion I could convey, the only emotion I seemed to ever convey, was anger. The moment I began opening my mouth, the moment I saw the light in your eyes die out…

I went back inside of my apartment and grabbed my jacket before stepping out again. I knew there was no chance of me sleeping tonight, not after that. So I might as well torture my body in the training room as some sort of recompence for what I did.

The training room was empty, luckily. I started with the punching bag, made extra durable by Tony, and put the rest of my stupid emotions into that bag. Punch after punch I laid all my frustrations into my fists. The rhythmic thuds were comforting as I felt my chest heave after each breath. Sweat dripped down my forehead.

The slamming of the door took me out of my zone and I jerked in the direction of the entrance to see Steve standing there in the doorway. His body seemed eerily calm, with his hands in his sweat pockets, but he had a furrowed brow as he looked at the floor. I wasn't surprised to see him. I had insulted you, in possibly the worst way I could have. If you had run to tell anyone, it would have been your… I think the ache I felt now was over the fact that it wasn’t me.

“Up late?” I asked, grabbing a towel off of the rack and wiping my face. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep,” Steve said in a flat tone, “Then of course I heard yelling down the hallway.”

I winced. Honestly I had been surprised that no one else had come out during the altercation. The amount of people in that tower that had super hearing… I turned towards Steve, trying to fix my face into some sort of nonchalant pose. I knew he would see right through it. Part of me wanted him to see right through it.

I wish he would just come out and yell. Let his anger come out so that I could match that energy. But Steve was never the guy to throw his anger out without cause. He was patient. He was understanding. He was a good man. Everything I wasn’t. So, rather than punching me in the face, he was just standing there, waiting for me to talk.

“Sorry for waking you, it's been a weird night.”

Steve kept his eyes steady on me. I clenched my jaw.

“Look, I don’t know what she told you–” I began

“She hasn’t told me anything,” Steve said calmly, “In fact, I can’t seem to get her to leave her room to talk to me. She won’t even pick up her damn phone.”

I couldn’t hide my shock. I thought surely after the altercation you would run to the man that has been providing comfort to you for the past few months. If you hadn’t then maybe what the two of you had wasn’t as deep as I first thought…

“I heard what you said to her, Buck,” Steve said in a cold tone.

My stomach dropped at his words.

“I didn’t mean it,” I said weakly, “I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I…”

My words seemed to fail me as I sat down on a bench. A couple of moments passed, but eventually, Steve sat down beside me and sighed.

“Bucky, you need to be completely honest with me. Do you love her?”

There it was. The question I couldn’t face. The answer came so easily in my head. Of course I did. What was there not to love? How was I to admit that I was lost without you? That turning you away was the worst mistake I ever made. I couldn’t look at Steve. I couldn’t talk.

Steve sighed again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was rubbing his face. He was tired and exhausted. I was hurting everyone around me.

“Stop that,” Steve said softly.

“What?” I blurted out.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You don’t do yourself any favors by pushing everyone away.”

When I didn’t respond, he continued.

“I know how hard you are on yourself, especially when Nat left. I know you thought you found your person in her, and after everything you have been through you deserve to find someone who not only makes you happy, but fills your heart with so much light that it overshadows the darkness. When you were in that pit of despair, I had no idea how to get you out of it, and I felt like a failure as your best friend. But then, she showed up. She came into both of our lives like a wildfire. She brought back the light in your eyes, and reawakened your soul.”

I felt hot tears down my face, but Steve continued on.

“I won’t deny that I’ve grown feelings for her. I think seeing her love you and care for you as much as I do, makes me see her in the greatest of lights. She is worthy of so much love. I thought maybe you… I thought that maybe you would love her… I thought that was where your story was heading Buck, but you chose differently. I saw her leave my birthday party. I saw how distraught she was. I could only assume that you didn’t have feelings for her as she had for you. That’s why I… that the only way I could live with myself for… feeling these things.

“But clearly, there is something there. You avoid her now like she is the plague. You hardly talk to me anymore and we are brothers, you and I. So, Bucky, you don’t have to say it, but I know you love her. In some capacity, I know you do. You can deny it all you want, but I know you.”

Steve sighed again. “I know you think you don’t deserve to be loved. I know it’s hard for you to see the goodness in yourself, but you deserve love. You deserve to be happy. If she is what makes you happy, you need to let her know. She deserves that, doesn’t she?”

Yes, you deserve everything.

“What about you?” I asked, my voice was shaky as I spoke. I finally looked up at him and saw his expectant blue eyes waiting for me. I was surprised to see that he wasn’t angry.

Steve gave a small chuckle.

“I have never been one to deny you your happiness Bucky,” his voice turned a bit solemn, “I care about her… a lot. She is one of my best friends, and the time we have spent together has been… great. But we have been honest with each other. We both have unresolved heartaches from the past that prevent us from becoming more. She doesn’t hold it against me for still loving Peggie, and I don’t hold it against her from loving you. Maybe in time, we could become something more, but for now our hearts do not beat for each other as they should.”

“So you don’t… love her?” I asked carefully. I didn’t like that I was beginning to sound hopeful. I wanted you to be loved. I wanted you to be cared for. I thought Steve would be perfect for you… I thought there wasn’t a chance in hell that I would be able to…

“I love her, but not in the way that she clearly loves you,” Steve gave me a smirk.

“I don’t know if she does anymore. I’ve been a complete ass to her,” I mumbled, putting my head in my hands.

“Oh I know,” Steve laughed a bit but then looked at me seriously, “So what are you going to do about it?”

I raised my head out of my hands. What was I going to do about it?

“Do you really think she could love me, after everything? After tonight?” I asked pathetically.

“I think,” Steve said carefully, “That you will have to earn her trust back. It’s not about making her love you again, she loves you, has loved you through everything. You messed up, and you realize that, so you need to change. Change for her, change because of her. You already have and you haven’t realized it. Now show her. Give her back the love she gave you, and more.”

Images of you flashed through my head. Memories of you laughing with me, holding me when I was a complete mess. Memories of you consoling me, telling me that I was worthy, that I was more than I thought of myself. These memories warmed my soul, as they always did. I realized that I wanted more memories with you. I wanted to be consumed by them. Enveloped in them. I need you now more than ever. I would always need you. Always want you. Always desire you. And I needed to show you how much you meant to me.

I let out a small chuckle.

“For an old man,” I said playfully, “You are really good at giving advice.”

Steve laughed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

“Remind me to charge you for my services later,” he teased.

I clasped my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you Steve.”

He just gave me a hopeful look and slapped my back.

“Go get her, buddy.”

I was up and out the door before he finished the word. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t know what I was going to say to you. Apologize. That's what I needed to do first. Grovel at your feet. Beg for any forgiveness you would be willing to give me. I was at your door, knocking in quick succession before I could fully think about what I wanted to say.

My chest was heaving and my palms were sweaty waiting for you. I knocked on the door again. Impatient, I put my ear against the door to listen for any sign of you. I heard the soft sound of your radio playing your favorite channel from your room, but nothing else. The sun was rising, and beams of sunlight were breaking through the windows of the tower.

It wasn’t unusual for you to be up and about early in the morning, but after the night we had, I know you didn’t get much sleep. But you wouldn’t be asleep with the radio on. You hated any sort of noise when you slept. I knocked again.

“Please open the door,” I begged.

Nothing.

A sick feeling spread through my stomach like ice. I shoved down the door in one hit. Your living room was empty, no sign of a break in or struggle, but you were nowhere in sight. I called out for you. Nothing. I scanned your apartment, looking for any sign of where you were. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except on your nightside table there was an envelope. I approached it slowly, my hand shivering as I saw the name on the outside of the card.

Steve

[nerdieforpedro]

Cadet Gray

For Jo's Birthday Bash @undercoverpena

Tim Rockford x GN plus size reader

Summary: The weather is fairly somber, but there's still quite a bit to celebrate.

Warnings: Angst, silliness in an office, allusion to implied smut, two pinches, a few tears and sunshine ☀️

Word Count: 700+

Notes: Originally, I was going to write something with Javi G, but it just wasn't working. Then I was talking it out aloud with @soft-persephone mentioned Javi P, suits and sheets. Then made it over to Tim, still unsure how the dots connected. 🤭

Main Masterlist/ Tim Rockford Masterlist

Everything is coated in chases of gray. The sky has patches of white with periodic specks of blue. It’s not the type of day anyone would say that they were happy about being out and about it, but you happen to be. You’d been a bit sneaky with your plan, slowly gathering your information and numbers. The only snag in your entire plot was getting your own ducks in a row, surprised at the actual measurement of said ducks. It was difficult to accept but necessary since this was a special occasion after all. 

Detective Rockford is of course located in his office, behind his desk, surveying which pile of files to start on. At least, that’s how he is usually, but today he’s looking through his notebook. Going over any details that might shed more light on any number of cases. 

You’re not here for that today though. It’s noon and he promised to be out of here by one in the afternoon so you two wouldn’t be late. They would never forgive you. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he greets you with a smile and squints at the large garment bag you have in plastic. Rockford knows very well what today is and is not looking forward to trying on this suit for the fourth time. It seemed despite going to two different tailors, it never fit quite right around the inseam or his waist. He was about ready to just show up in a tracksuit and throw in a wet towel. He got the sense that you enjoyed dressing him up a bit since he normally did the same for you. Picking out an outfit or two for you to wear, only to peel it off of you later that evening so he could get at those curves or yours. Might have been a time or two that a reservation was missed.

On top of his files, you laid his garment bag and told him to put it on, promising that this one would be the right fit. It was the same person who did your dress after all, they can be trusted. Shrugging, Tim gives your cheek a kiss, your rump a squeeze and closes the door and blinds to his office allowing for privacy. The two of you change into your matching gray attire. Yours fits you like a glove and he’s already thinking how to get it off of you this evening. The glint in his eyes has you pinching the bridge of his nose in jest. His crisp white button down fits like a second skin, with enough stretch that it moves with him. His gray slacks sit just right on his waist with the help of a charcoal belt to keep them in place. His tie matches his belt and shoes while the suit jacket is the same light gray of your outfit and his pants.Tim remarks how comfortable everything feels and that he might in fact stick around at the event a bit longer than planned. 

The precinct claps for the two of you as you leave, giving little waves to play along with their bit. On the way over to the venue, Tim is a little watery eyed, the normally stoic man is reminiscing of younger days full of small moments he holds dear. You pat his shoulder and tell him that it’s alright, he’s not really losing anything truly. Consider it a new phase of life for everyone involved.

Finally parked, little details are added like flowers and handkerchiefs. You sit on the bride’s side of the aisle near the front behind her brothers and sisters. The heavens still keep their steely color as the music ramps up and everyone stands. The bride makes her entrance in a beautiful white dress accompanied by a flushed faced Tim brimming with pride arm in arm. He was ambivalent about walking his daughter down the aisle, unsure if he was ready to fully let her go, but he finally reconciled it’s not about him but her and the new family she’s starting. 

You swear that even the wide expanse above agrees by having some sunlight shine on the newlyweds while they finish their vows. Tim appears at your side with an arm around you and a quick peck to your neck.

“Thank you sweetheart. Turns out it was a great fit all around.”

Tim’s Tailors 👀: @megamindsecretlair @sin-djarin @readingiskeepingmegoing @survivingandenduring @morallyinept

@inept-the-magnificent @maggiemayhemnj @secretelephanttattoo @goodwithcheese @trulybetty

@angelofsmalldeath-codeine @604to647 @magpiepills @pascalsanctuary

[evellynssocbrainrot]

My modern-day Kaz x Inej head-canons

They have a cat

They read and annotate books together

They study and do puzzles together

They have matching sleep sweaters, Kaz's sweater says Inej's name and Inej's sweater says Kaz's name

They go out for ice creams and milkshakes in the summer and hot chocolate in the winter

Kaz spends a lot of money buying Inej gifts and necessary things even though she insists he shouldn't spend that much money (But she takes the gifts anyway)

Kaz tells her stories in the evening, Inej tells him stories as well

Whenever Inej gets into a silly argument with someone, Kaz always backs her up

Inej is a tom-boy (she only wears dresses and traditional Suli clothing sometimes) and studies law

Kaz studies business and economics

Inej bakes cookies for her friends, Kaz loves them but never admits it

When they go to a restaurant, Inej orders spicy food sometimes which Kaz has a miserable time eating (he can't handle spicy food), but, of course, he never admits it and ends up seething by the time he finishes, Inej laughs the whole time

Kaz loves, if not, is absolutely obsessed with Inej's hair, which is why he taught himself various hairstyles like braids, ponytails, buns, curling, and straightening so he could do it for her (as an excuse to touch it more)

For his birthday, Inej looks around with Jesper for the hardest escape rooms

For her birthday, Kaz organizes the biggest parties but lies and says Jesper and Nina were the ones who put it together to not draw attention (Inej doesn't fall for it)

Once they reach that stage of intimacy, they would love cuddling, hand kisses, cheek kisses, hugging, and holding hands, Inej loves to rest her head on his shoulder, they sleep in the same bed, and he lets Inej be the big spoon sometimes (But they do also love kiss-kisses and some private bedroom stuff every other day as well)

She steels Kaz's waffles in the morning, he gets a little grouchy at first but then doesn't mind

When she's cold, Kaz lets her borrow his Jacket

Hope you like'em :)

[juniperpyre]

continuation station: jily week 2024

for the last day of jily week, run by @sunshinemarauder and @kay-elle-cee this is a cut scene that will never make the published work from my ongoing fic, when i first saw you, the end was soon. it's so cute tho i want people to see it. there's a small amount of context missing but it's not super necessary. this takes place in late October of their 6th year

Regrettably, the next boy who approached her was Potter, who already had a date, so she'd have no chance to shout at him. 

“Cheers, Evans. Where are we off to?”

“Owlery. Sending a letter.”

“Sending a letter in the owlery? What a novel concept.”

Lily resumed her walk down the corridor at a quicker pace. The autumn cool had started to seep into the castle, but the halls were bright on the shockingly cloudless day. 

“Ha ha,” Lily deadpanned. “You don't have to join if it bores you. I insist you don't, actually.”

“Oh, don't worry, you could never bore me. I'd be happy to join you.” 

James grinned and offered Lily his arm. For a moment she considered taking it, just to see the surprise on his face. But no. Even as a joke it felt strange—especially since among her letters she was sending her reply to Fabian, her ex, along with the letters to her parents and Alice.

“Shouldn't you be planning your best mate's party?” Lily asked. 

“That's all done, of course. It's the day of, I'm not a procrastinator.”

Lily raised an eyebrow.  

“Just because the results were a bust doesn’t mean I was procrastinating,” James answered as if her raised eyebrow was a complete sentence. 

“School, then.”

“It's not procrastinating if I get an O, it's good time management.”

“How many Os did you get?”

This time James raised an eyebrow with a smirk to match. He was so arrogant, it sent a flare of irritation through Lily. 

“That's private, isn't it, Evans?”

“Never thought you'd pass up a chance to brag, Potter.”

“I'm going for charmingly humble this year. Is it coming across?”

Lily pointedly looked him up and down, intending to answer with some sort of scathing no. But he did look humble, infuriatingly normal, in belted jeans, a dark brown corduroy jacket, and a long-sleeve tee, tucked in. He looked casual in a way most purebloods could never pull off. Until he winked at her. Lily glared, her cheeks flushed. 

“Don't you have a date to bother?”

“Aw, but you're my favourite person to bother,” James said, not with a smirk but a genuine smile. 

Lily grunted in response.

“If you'd like I'll tell you my OWL results.”

They turned the last corner. James motioned for Lily to go up the stairs first, a gesture she accepted with some irritation. For a few moments, the only sounds were their shoes on stone steps and the gentle hooting of birds getting louder before James spoke again. His voice echoed up the tower.

“If you really want me to go I will. I'd thought we were both having fun, bantering, y'know, but if not… I want us both to have fun.”

He sounded earnest and not the least bit wounded. 

“No,” Lily mumbled. “You can stay. I just—I don't know. I don't know what we are. I dunno what to say or how to act. Last year—”

“We never really talked about it, yeah.” Because she’d refused when he brought it up. Chivalrous of him to pretend differently. “I hope you know, or, can tell, I guess, I'm trying. Not that it's about me!”

Lily took a deep breath. His words added to the weight of guilt, shame, and hurt she carried. 

“I know. I know you are.” 

Lily stepped into the owlery, her next words frozen on her lips as soon as James came into view. She looked at her hands, fiddling with the parchment, then back at him. His hair was messier than it had been when they started their climb. It was too hard to talk about this while looking at him. The boy who'd been the enemy, the immature, arrogant toerag. He was being too nice for her to be as mean as she wanted. 

“You have a feather in your hair. Can I?” James asked.

Lily nodded. He ran his fingers through a lock of her hair and presented her with a small bunch of fuzzy feathers and a smile. 

“It doesn't seem like you want to talk about it.”

“The feathers? Er, thanks for getting them?”

James let the feathers fall before tucking the lock of hair back behind her ear. His hand hesitated there, the soft touch of his thumb grazing under her jaw. At his touch, Lily shifted her head up, closer to James. She looked at his chest, unwilling to meet his eyes. Parchment crunched in her hand. The lightest stroke of his thumb on her skin beckoned her to look up. 

When their eyes met it became clear; she was evading, and James would let her. Lily pressed her cheek into the warmth of his hand in unspoken appreciation. He cradled her face for just a second, brief enough as to pretend it didn't happen. 

“Cheers,” he said as he pulled away. “Anytime.”

He turned to go, and Lily’s chest tightened. 

[solaris-amethyst]

🪻Please save Mr. Fishy🪻

✨Pairing: non idol!Hendery x vet!gn!reader ✨Prompt: You're a vet and he's pleading with you to save his goldfish since you're the only vet he's visited that hasn't asked him if he doesn't just want to go and buy another goldfish for three dollars. ✨Word count: 1.4k ✨Genre: fluff, humor ☀️Authors note: I've never really written humor before, I'm not even sure I did a good job so do let me know if it was good or not. Or if you just enjoyed this one shot or not?🥰 Also I am not a vet nor a vet student so take what I've written with a grain of salt lol. I am no expert when it comes to fishes and vet terms😅

Today was not like any other day at the clinic. It was unusually calm for a vet clinic and maybe you should enjoy the serenity which is often times unusual for you. Your colleagues had gone for their lunch breaks since it was so calm with not a soul in sight and you decided that sorting through the boxes would be a good thing to do now. Sort out what would be necessary to keep and what could actually be thrown away. Your colleague, Sam, had mentioned that everyone always said they'd sort the boxes out but no one had the time nor energy to do so.

"Let's see what we got then." You mumbled to yourself as you put on the radio, enjoying the slow tune of Celine Diones It's all coming back back to me now, the slow piano in the begging matching the calmness as you hummed along while pouring everything on the front desk. Pens, erasers, bobby pins, receipts, pieces of chocolate and much more fell out of the box. You started by going through all of the receipts, some of them were simple lunch receipts that your colleagues must have put in the boxes when they had bought lunch. You threw them all away in the trash can, they were more than a month old and it was hard to imagine anyone really would need a month old food receipt. Next came organizing all of the paperclips, there were way more than you had anticipated but it was nice finally having a lot of them again after going months not figuring out where all of them had gone.

The chocolate you put in a little bowl and put at the front of the desk to give to any owners coming in that might need some extra reassurance or something to calm their nerves as their beloved pet was taking in for surgery or a check up. Just as you were collecting all of the colorful pens to put away in the pen holder you saw outside of the big windows o your clinic a man rushing with incredible speed, you could not help but follow his eyes as he rushed towards the clinics doors, almost slipping past them only managing to stop himself by grabbing onto the door handle simultaneously as he slipped down because of his speed.

The wet pavement and the autumn leaves probably made it even more slippery and from what you could see and hear he had let out a shout in surprise whilst looking down at something he was holding. You started to clear some space on the desk in case he were to enter and just as you looked up again the door flew open and the man who had brown hair and a khaki green autumn jacket on barged in looking around until he saw you. "Help! Please you have to help me!" He said before rushing up to you and putting something on the desk.

"Please help save Mr. Fishy!! I cannot live without him! He's my best friend and number one supporter please I need to have him live longer!!"

You stared at him in shock not expecting him to barge in and hurriedly put a fishbowl on your desk, a fishbowl which had a very sad looking goldfish in it.

"Oh umm hello? Of course I can try and help you? What seems to be the problem with umm.. Mr. Fishy?" You asked him before looking down at the fish to see if you could figure out what the problem might be.

"No please I cannot buy another one for three doll-wait what?! You-you'll help me??" This made you look up at the man who looked at you in shock.

"Of course, we're a vet clinic and while a gold fish usually isn't a part of our visitors I cannot say no to you? I'll do my best to help your fish if you know what the problem might be?"

"Oh thank you thank you for wanting to help him! Everyone I've gone to have just told me to go and buy another one for three dollars. He suddenly started to swim weirdly and he hasn't been eating properly for a few days and I'm really worried. Just please do whatever it takes to help him. He's my favorite fish please and the snails in his tank would be so sad if he suddenly disappeared and the guppys and the discus will all be so sad if he passes away hes like the boss of the aquarium everyones best friend so please please please help him!!" The man was practically leaning over on the desk begging for you to help his fish and you couldn't help but feel bad for him. He obviously cared about the fish a lot.

"Let me take him inside to the vet room and check on him okay? You wait out here and try to calm down and then we can fix with payment and such after it." You gave him a smile as he thanked you profusely before allowing you to take the fishbowl with his little fish he cared for into the other room. As you walked in you put the bowl down on a table and put on some gloves so you can handle the fish carefully.

"Let's figure out what is wrong with you my little friend." You mumble for yourself as you put your hands into the bowl carefully to look closer at him.

-

It took you a while to figure out what was wrong with the little guy, he was having a case of fin rot on one of his fins, at first it wasn't very visible until you looked closer, you had to remove a part of his fin-nippers and use some anti-fungal treatment to make sure that he doesn't get infected again. When you walked out with the little fish the man stood up and rushes to the counter staring at you with hope.

"You do not have to worry, Mr. Fishy is alright. I had to remove a part of his fin-nippers because he had a case of fin rot. I've given him treatment but what you need to do to make sure hes okay in your tank at home is to improve the water quality in the tank and feed him vitamin c enriched food and he should be good to go."

"Oh thank you thank you thank you!!" He bowed towards you multiple times "What's your name?? I need to have a name for Mr. Fishy's savior!!" He stares at you with grateful eyes.

"My name is y/n. I'm glad I could help you and Mr. Fishy."

"Thank you again! I'm Hendery by the way! I'll pay however much it cost and I'll pay you back for your kindness."

You thanked him and told him he really did not have to pay you back a part from paying the fee. He payed and told you he'd pay you back for sure in the future before going back with his fish and the new food for his friend.

-a few days later-

The doorbell rang as the door opened again and when you looked up from the desk you saw Hendery walking in beaming as he was holding a cup walking towards you.

"I told you I'd pay you back! I got you a cup of hot chocolate! I wasn't sure If you'd like coffee but most people like chocolate so I got that!" He smiled as he handed you the cup.

"Thank you Hendery it wasn't really necessary for you to get me something I promise." you responded as you took the cup

"I wanted to okay? I gotta go but I'll see you around!" He waved as he ran out of the door again and when you looked at the cup you could see he had written a little note thanking you and asking if you wanted to hang out in the future with his number written under a little fish drawing.

You smiled as you took up your phone to put in his number, saving him as Mr. Fishy Hendery before deciding to send a text asking if he was free to hang out next Friday, smiling even brighter when you immediately got a text back saying that Friday would be perfect.

Maybe it wasn't so bad after all to help save Mr. Fishy.

[lorewriter]

Aizawa/Oboro first date prompt please!

Hope you like it!!

It was raining the day Oboro had asked him out. He’d been holding an umbrella over a box of abandoned kittens when Oboro had come up behind him with an umbrella of his own. It was sky blue, like his hair. He’d looked up at the other, the only sound around them being the small mewls of the kittens and the soft beat of the rain against their umbrellas.

“Go out with me.”

It was so sudden that Shota had needed to do a double take before simply replying; “Sure.”

He’d never seen Oboro smile so bright as he did that day. Of course Hizashi was ecstatic, hopping up and down repeatedly as he asked for details in school the next day. Oboro had told him to let him do all the planning and to just be ready this upcoming Saturday for their first date.

He’d sighed as Hizashi’s patience seemed to completely diminish causing the boy to all but tackle him for answers. He explained what happened, but his mind still drifted off to what he’d need to prepare. Just what exactly was etiquette for someone’s first date. Finishing off the school day, Aizawa headed home to his one bedroom apartment, his parents having long since abandoned him to live on his own, but they at least sent him an allowance every few months.

He began with what he wanted to wear, looking through his closet in hopes of finding something suitable for his first date. Upon finding nothing but his UA uniform and a few cat sweaters, he decided a trip to a local clothing store would be needed. Next he checked his hair, did he need to style it? How dressed up did he need to be?

Deciding he was getting nowhere with his lack of knowledge, Shota turns to the internet to solve his problem.

SEARCH ENGINE:

“What does one wear on a first date?”

“Do I need to style my hair?”

“What topics would be good to bring up on your first date?”

“Funny cat video compilation.”

*

Hizashi ended up being his savior as his previous online search led him nowhere. The excitable blonde rushed him around Musutafu mall, grabbing whatever he could force onto Shota before finally stopping at a small cafe for some coffee.

“Is all of this really necessary?” Shota spoke, fidgeting with his now styled hair.

“Of course, you need to look your absolute best to woo him. Who knows, he might even ask you out again the moment he sees you.” Hizashi replied, laughing to himself as he did.

“You’re ridiculous.”

*

Soon Saturday was upon him and his nerves had ended up keeping him awake all night. He’d been told to meet Oboro at their normal crossroad where they met to head to school together. He’d picked out a plain black t-shirt along with a long gray jacket that went down to his knees. His hair had been half way tied up, leaving only a few strands left to shadow his face.

With one final glance into his bathroom mirror, he decided he was prepared enough and set off.

Walking up to their meeting spot, Shota could already see a fidgeting Oboro messing with his fingers. His hair was the same as always with those clunky goggles pushing up his bangs. He wore a brown jacket over a navy blue shirt with black pants.

“Beautiful.”

A blush rose to Oboro’s face, matching his own as he realized he’d said that out loud. Not wanting to make the situation any more awkward, Shota coughed a little before asking where they’d be going. Seeing the Oboro’s eyes light up like starlight, Shota knew he was in for a day full of surprises. And surprised he was as Oboro dragged him around Musutafu. Their first stop had been a small hole in the wall bookstore that held his favorite author's new book, which he’d thought had already been sold out. Next was a hero exhibit on his favorite underground hero Smoke-Eater. He’d been wanting to go see it for a while now but hadn’t had the time due to all of their training at UA.

Next came a small lunch at his favorite ramen shop followed by their final stop at his favorite cat cafe.

The day had been perfect but from the beginning Shota had had a knot in his stomach, a feeling he couldn’t help but focus on as Oboro returned with their coffees in hand. Sipping his coffee, Shota finally gained the courage to ask the question he’d been replaying in his head all week. “Why do you like me? Don’t get me wrong, today was perfect. This was honestly the best day I’ve ever had in my entire life, but, why? Why me?” He asked quietly, eyes firmly fixed on his coffee in hopes of not meeting the others' eyes.

“Well that’s simple, it’s because I like you. I’ve liked you since I saw you fighting your hardest in the sports festival. You’re incredible, you face odds that most of us don’t have to and you still come out stronger. You fight for what you want, I admire you for that. But you’re also kind, you look after others in your own way and that makes me want to work harder to be a hero just like you.” Oboro responded, shattering Shota’s view of himself so completely that all he could now was gape.

“I’m glad to have met you Aizawa Shota, and if you’ll have me, I’d very much like to be your boyfriend.”

Gold eyes met red and for a moment, Shota felt like he could do anything, if only Shirakumo Oboro was by his side.

*

“So, did Nemuri get to you too?” Oboro asked, walking him back to his apartment at the blue haired boy’s insistence.

“Huh? No, but Hizashi helped me prepare for today. Told me I needed to look my best so we just spent a day at the mall picking out an outfit and getting my hair done.” He responded, feeling more relaxed as the knot in his stomach had disappeared.

“Wha? Lucky, Nemuri was like a wild animal, she spent this past week drilling me on what to wear, how to act and what to say.” Oboro replied, a small whine in his tone as he lamented on his past hell week with Nemuri.

Laughing quietly, Shota thought; there’s nowhere he’d rather be, than by Oboro’s side. And he hoped they’d stay together forever.

Lore: Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.

[lisbeth-kk]

December moments

Prompts used in this chapter: resolutions - Auld Lang Syne

Almost everyone who knows Sherlock wouldn’t believe it if they were told that the great detective has resolutions for the upcoming year. If they were to guess what said resolutions could be, they would fail. Exceedingly.

December 30

Sherlock’s phone pings with a text before we get up this morning. He frowns at it for a while, huffs, hums, then sighs and turns to face me. 

“John, I…uhm…”

It’s so out of character for Sherlock to stutter like this, and I worry instantly, which Sherlock assures me isn’t necessary. 

“Not to worry, John. I had a dream just before I woke up this morning, or rather a memory. You remember when Mycroft sung when I played earlier this month?”

“Of course, love. It was the most surprising thing I’ve ever encountered, but definitely a wonderful surprise. What does that have to do with your text?” I ask him. 

“The text is from Mycroft. He’s asking us over for dinner at his chambers at the Diogenes this evening. My instant thought was obviously to decline.”

“Obviously,” I chuckle, which earns me a smile. 

“You know I don’t do resolutions of any sorts, but I can’t help myself. It’s clearly your fault for having put a spell on me or something,” he tells me, his eyes now gleaming mischievous. 

I snort and poke him in the ribs. He grabs my wrist and brings my hand to his chest and rests his own hand on top of mine. 

“Behave, captain,” he purrs, and only those two words, not to mention the tone of his voice, makes my penis instantly interested. 

I beckon him to continue, and I couldn’t have been more surprised if Sally Donovan had sent Sherlock a Valentine card. 

“If you’re amenable, I think I’ll say yes to the invitation. My brother’s clearly serious about him and George, and I think it’ll be a good thing to spend some more time together with them. Besides, the food and drinks at the Diogenes are excellent. Would be a shame to let those two devour it all by themselves.”

I lean over to kiss his perfect mouth and give him my answer while looking down at him, with what probably is a soppy expression. 

“How is it that you’re still able to surprise me like this, sweetheart? Of course, I’ll come with you, and you two Holmes’s can use the evening to practice names,” I say and kiss him again.

***

When I see Sherlock walk into the sitting room all dressed up, I just want to undress him, no unwrap him like the exquisite gift he is. My fingers itch to mess up his perfectly styled curls and I clench my fists and groan. The smirk appearing on that beloved face, showing his dimple, make my knees weak. 

His long legs are enveloped in black, bespoke suit trousers, which end in black polished shoes. My eyes wander up his body, finding his torso covered in a white shirt, a black bowtie and a burgundy jacket with black velvet lapels. I lick my lips and swallow the considerate amount of saliva filling my mouth. 

“You’re staring,” Sherlock rumbles, but there’s no hiding that he enjoys my openly admiration of his attire and general looks. 

“Anyone with a pulse would,” I mutter and deliberately walks in a large circle to avoid the temptation of touching this delectable creature that is my boyfriend. 

I take my time dressing, fully knowing that I’m no match when it comes to Sherlock’s otherworldly beauty, but I will make an effort to look my best tonight. My pinstriped grey suit, white shirt and ivy green tie look rather good on me, and I put a bit of product in my hair and the aftershave Sherlock gifted me on my birthday, complete my business in the bathroom. 

“John,” Sherlock breathes reverently when I come back to the sitting room, and that tells me everything I need to know. 

His eyes roam over me with a hungry look, and I bask in it for a few seconds before I tell him we need to be on our way. I know from experience that if I even took his hand just to kiss it, we’d be lost in the desire to undress and devour each other right here. His disappointment is apparent, but I remind him of his resolution, and mentioning his brother’s name, is enough for him to tear his attention away from me. Not without an eyeroll and a growl, though. 

“Later, my love,” I say and wink at him over my shoulder before I descend the stairs. 

***

Socialising with Mycroft at his club, is not something I ever thought I would experience, but here I am. He greets me with my first name, and Sherlock calls Greg by his in turn. I may have to start believing in miracles if this continues. 

“Myc was over the moon that you came,” Greg whispers while Sherlock and Mycroft discuss the best way to open a champagne bottle. 

“Does he let you call him that?” I ask incredulously.

Sherlock is going to have a stroke when he hears about this!

“Of course, John. He’s my boyfriend,” Greg says a bit affronted. 

Boyfriend. Another word I find hard to associate with Mycroft Holmes. 

Sherlock saves me from embarrassing myself further, by handing me a flute of fizzy champagne. Greg walks over to Mycroft to grab his own glass, and Sherlock curls his pinkie around mine, and bends his head down to my ear. 

“Alright?” he inquires softly. 

“Yeah. It’s just a bit…”

I let the sentence hang in the air, but Sherlock catches up quickly and chuckles quietly. 

“I know what you mean,” he says and kisses my cheek before he straightens. 

We toast our host with the exquisite champagne, and the rest of the evening proceeds quite civilly. As Sherlock informed me, the food and drinks are superb. In particular the veal saltimbocca served with a perfectly matched Italian wine. Even Sherlock eats a fair amount. 

The warm forest berries and egg liqueur ice-cream leave me in a state of bliss, which the cognac Mycroft serves in large glasses, does nothing to change. My hand hangs over the armrest of the comfortable chair; my fingers interlaced with Sherlock’s where our hands meet in the empty space between us. Mycroft and Greg mirror our position and now, after hours being in their company, it doesn’t seem strange at all. 

I feel a bit emotional; I blame the alcohol, and I must swallow hard when Auld Lang Syne plays on the hidden music system. I vividly remember that it was sung by myself and my fellow soldiers before we got on the plane to Afghanistan. Sometimes that day seems like a lifetime ago, but right now it feels like it was just the other day. I close my eyes and lose myself in the memories and don’t realise that Sherlock has stood up and looms over me. 

He reaches out his hands to me and I let him pull me out of the chair and into his embrace. His long arms encircle my shoulders and I place my head on his chest, registering that my face is wet with shed tears. 

“My John. My brave captain,” Sherlock murmurs into my hair while holding me tight. 

Of course, he’s picked up on my mood and the reason for it. 

My brilliant detective of a fiancé. 

Suddenly I feel the urge to be back home; just him and me. 

“Let’s go home, John,” Sherlock says as if he’s read my thoughts. “There’s a car waiting outside.”

Many things can be said about Mycroft Holmes, but his effectiveness is never to be questioned. When Sherlock releases me and I brace myself to face the two men, I realise we’re alone in the room. In my relief, I grab Sherlock’s lapels and kisses him fiercely, conveying all my gratitude and love into the kiss. 

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” I whisper when I withdraw. 

“I love you too, John,” Sherlock retorts and strokes my cheekbone before handing me my coat. 

Read it on AO3

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[firecooking]

A fun piece that took me WAY too long to complete!

I wanted to draw out the Z stacks for my humanoid au and do something fun with the outfits and the posing. I almost always draw them in some form of work uniform or in their formal gear and while that's pretty accurate for most situations they also have non work good clothes, of course in shades of Zero Marine Bigg City approved browns and blacks.

I also wanted to highlight more personal styles with them as well as keeping the context of the 1920s in mind! I also gave them all weapons for fun!

Zip has a VERY stylish youthful way of dressing for the 1920s, his bow tie would be seen as rather formal in contrast to his outfit which would be very youthful and in matching, shorts don't match with sweaters, boots don't match short sleeves, young men often dressed 'eclectically' to 'stand out'. Zip Carries a rather standard hunting rifle, he doesn't much like to use it, but it lets him stay away from danger while protecting himself. He's a small guy and doesn't like to be in the action, the gun lets him keep his distance, and he quite likes that. He does know how to use it and will if necessary.

Zug wears a pretty average day suit, it's pants cut is a little big and the coat is a sport cut, he'd been seen as basically a lousy dresser, sorta like a used car sales man. Zug carries a Tommy Gun, he's a small guy and it gets the job done.

Zorran dresses in a modern for the time business suit, the cut is straight on the pants and jacket and the bi coloured pants and jacket would be seen as a more relaxed choice and he's forgone the vest of old. Winged saddle shoes complete the look, he would be a snazzy dresser in the eclectic sense like Zip. Zorran is a resourceful man and will fight with anything at hand, but a good old fashioned lead pipe is easy enough to carry and conceal and even easier to ditch without suspicion

Zebedee forgoes convention, instead going for comfort and a relaxed fit. The Zoot Suit is still two decades out but the smoking suit is making its debut, considered a wasteful use of fabric Zebedee is on the cutting edge of fashion, even if he just wanted something comfortable. He is a fan of brass knuckles, if he has to fight he'd rather brawl fair and square

Zak, like Zorran, forgoes a piece of the standard business suit, However his piece of choice is the Vest, which sets him firmly into casual. With a dark grey shirt and matching tie, pants, hat and shoes, Zak is scrubbing against the grain of fashion conventions of the time, Zak would be kicked out of a fancy restaurant on sight in such an outfit. Zak keeps a switch blade on him at all times, he's a big fan of stiletto style knives, they make quick work of any target

Zaffre opts to forgo feminine dress but doesn't abandon women's wear. The Blazer is in its second decade as women wear, note the lack of collar notches on the blazer and the single button, and the loose fitting light fabric pants are the trend with young flappers for day wear. Her shirt and tie are what step back into men's wear but are not unheard of anymore. She's young and a great example of a second generation suffragette, the right to vote is just the first step, you know. Zaffre hasn't opted for any weapons yet, the hat pins and batons of days past are not needed when you are ready and willing to beat someone to death with your bare hands. Maybe she'll find something someday

Also have a high chart because I am terrible at drawing them to scale, by 1920s average heights they are all pretty average, Zug and Zaff being extreme but not unheard of, by today's average heights literally all of them are average and below with Zug being unheard of as a 'normal' hight