#pen emoji hours

[freddy-owo]

HAPPY TOYA BIRTH!!1!1!!!1!!1!!!

[pinkrelish]

𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐬, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐬.

ex-con!linecook!eddie x fem!reader

✶Steve messed up. He assured you over and over again that you could have the spare bedroom in his apartment, but while you took your time mulling over his offer, someone else moved in: his down-and-out best friend who needed a place to stay. When you show up at Steve's door with little warning due to your job relocating you, he suggests you and Eddie share the bedroom. Nothing wrong with that, right?

Besides the fact Eddie hated you, and in turn, you hated Eddie.✶

NSFW — smut, masturbation, eddie watches porn, dry humping, cumming in pants, reader flashes her bra & wears a pencil skirt, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, there was only one bed(room)

↳ teaser oneshot | [wc: 9.3k] | series tba!

⋅line cook hc from @bewilderedbunny⋅

Steve was a nice guy. Really.

He was your pen pal since meeting at summer camp when you were both eight-years-old. He was sweet, and wrote you back within a week, without fail. He was your first kiss one sweltering afternoon on the dock over the lake; a quick peck when the counselors weren’t looking. He was one of your first contacts in your flip phone, and his picture occupied the first circle when you got a smartphone, after pestering him to meet up with you in Indianapolis, snapping the pic at a crosswalk; a day where your conversations spanned nothing and everything. What was there to talk about when you talked via pencil, pen, markers, emojis, and photos for years, and suddenly forgot the past decade when you encircled your arms around each other?

He was a nice guy throughout all of college. He’d text you during class. You’d text him from states away, falling asleep at your dormroom desk. He worked at his father’s business. You started as an unpaid intern collecting coffee orders, and pulling all-nighters doing spreadsheet grunt work your superiors didn’t deem worthy of their time.

Stevie 🌞: just quit your job and live with me!

Stevie 🌞: I still have that spare bedroom

Stevie 🌞: rent free

Year after year, you always declined. Climbing the ranks at your job was important to you; and one day it paid off. They were relocating you to the Chicago, and if you didn’t take their pitiful relocation package, you’d get a decent advance on your next paycheck (which was dire considering your salary was roughly the same, despite the ever increasing cost of living); and knowing Steve always had that spare furnished bedroom, and most of your belongings could fit into your car (as long as you didn’t need to see out the rear window), it seemed like a done deal.

Until you surprised him.

You: hey! can i move in w you? my jobs relocating me to chicago and i might already be two hours out. sorry i didn’t text sooner. i had to leave my apartment asap. fuck paying for the damage cindy’s doberman did to that place 😬

Stevie 🌞: Lets talk when you get here

Stevie 🌞: I’ll meet you for coffee

Let’s talk? Never a good sign, even when he was smiling at you from over his latte.

————

“My friend needed the spare room, but he’s a good guy, I swear,” he told you.

“He’s just a little rough around the edges,” he told you.

“He’s understanding; I’m sure you two will get along,” he told you.

“He can make space in the closet for your stuff, and one of you can sleep on the couch,” he told you. “Maybe you can alternate! Bed, couch. It's not like I’m charging him rent, so he should be cool with you living with us until you can afford to move out, or whatever. No big deal. I don’t really care when, you know that. No rush.”

Right. Just share the room.

You weren’t present for the conversation; Steve and Eddie were in the bedroom while you stood awkwardly in the living room, but the result of the exchange made quite the first impression.

“I dunno,” Steve’s voice carried, “maybe you could work something out like you get the room Monday through Wednesday, and she gets it Thursday through Saturday. Sunday’s up in the air?”

“Oh, just share the room like I used to, huh?” Eddie asked, alluding to the life he lived several months ago. “Finally got some privacy to breathe around here, and now you’ve invited some chick to live with us without telling me? Actually–no–you invited her to live here. In my room. No heads up.”

Steve’s wince was audible in his heavy sigh. “You work weird hours, you probably won’t even have to interact with her. C’mon, man. She’s been my friend since we were kids, and it’s just until she finds her own place. She’s cool. She’ll sleep on the couch, or whatever if it really bothers you; just like, let her keep her clothes and shit in here, and let her use the computer for work.”

“Whatever, man.”

“Eddie, wait!”

Thunderous footsteps and a seething, “Fuck this,” followed the heightened emotions, and before you could straighten your spine, you were introduced to your new roommate.

His pace faltered, not expecting you to be standing there. The fine wrinkles in the outer corner of his eyes pinched tighter, and his long hair flowed around a faded black snake tattoo on his throat, stretching across the strained tendons it was inked over, reaching the twitching muscle in his jaw from his clenched teeth. It took him a narrow-eyed glance to sum you and your pink luggage up, and place you firmly in the ‘I don’t like you’ category in his mind, and he continued his march.

“Hi! I’m–”

Your outstretched hand went ignored as he passed you.

He shoved on his boots, and slammed the front door behind him, rattling every piece of metal in the apartment. You stared at where he was just standing, vision marked with a black silhouette of the good guy you’d be sharing intimate space with for the next.. however long, and still with your hand out, you swiveled to Steve. “Yeah, he seems nice.”

————

Eddie Munson glared at your very existence. He wore a permanent crease between his brows when you were in his vicinity. Apprehension tensed his muscles when your soft gaze slid from Steve, to him. There was distaste in his frown. He rolled his eyes when you laughed too loud at the TV. His voice was vitriol, words clipped when he had to speak to you. His shoulders hiked to his ears when you entered the kitchen for a glass of water and caught him mid-chew on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich after he got home from work. When it was your turn to sleep in the bed, he made it a point to come home as loud as possible–yanking open the drawers on the dresser, waking the computer to blazing home screen, and leaving the light on when he went to shower across the hallway, pretending he didn’t hear you grumble at him to turn it off.

You wore a sleep mask to bed after that.

And when you slept on the couch, it was the only time he cooked for himself. Scraping pans across the burners, clinking silverware, gathering his hair off his neck and twisting it between his laced fingers, creating a cradle for him to drop his head back and sigh at the ceiling, just loud enough to stir you from your sleep.

You wore earplugs to bed after that.

Eddie Munson made it known you were not welcomed in his territory, and saw your accidental warm smile thrown vaguely in his direction as a threat to his well being.

But as much as he ensured misery every second you had the fortune of spending in his presence, you weren’t so innocent of terrorizing his every waking moment either..

Soon, Monday through Wednesday, and Thursday through Saturday, and a chance at a lazy Sunday were not enough.

————

When Steve was home, he acted as the mediator when it came to you two being at each other’s throats after another vicious stare-off. Currently, Eddie was standing with his arms crossed, leaned against the counter with his cheeks darkened to a fleshy red, and you were pacing the kitchen, wrapped in a bath towel, stating your case to Steve. You argued since most of the hair clogging the drain belonged to Eddie, he should be the one to clean it. And Steve, not knowing how to interpret Eddie’s steely focus on the fridge as if you didn’t exist, nor the fact a woman was dripping wet and yelling at him, he put his hands up in defense.

He edged away from your ire until he was at the cabinet housing a toothpick dispenser, and depressed the mechanism for one to roll out. He snapped it, put his hands behind his back, and shuffled the two ends into his palm, and had you choose one. Eddie kept his gaze averted, but grasped the other.

You held the long end of the toothpick above your head with a smile to rival the kitchen’s daylight bulbs searing into your retinas. You were the winner, and Eddie was the loser who had to clean the bathroom.

This worked swell when Steve was around to mitigate the tension. But when he was on a business trip, or out on a date, the Bed Schedule was a formality at best, and largely ignored at worst.

Meaning, the bets, deals, and favors began.

They started small: Rock, paper, scissors; winner gets dibs on those just-washed sheets. Flip a coin and see who has to rough it in the living room for the next two nights. Draw the shorter toothpick and try not to stab it in Eddie’s eye when he smirked.

But those were childish games. It was the deals and favors that proved more interesting.

“Can you help me punch holes in these?” you asked, voice high and urgent as you rushed to grab your color coded pie charts from the printer and clip them into a presentation binder.

He scoffed from the bedroom doorway, smelling of fryer oil and bacon grease. “What makes you think I want to help you after cooking for assholes all night?”

“Because you’re nice, and you love me.”

“I despise you,” he corrected, crossing his arms tight over his chest. He shifted his weight from foot to foot while you organized the pages, resisting the bait to give him what he wants, but you knew in your heart it was the only way to not be late for work this morning.

“Fine. You can have the bed tonight.”

He stayed put. “Nope. You know I’m working the overnight shift until Thursday.” That way, he slept while you were at work, and you slept while he was at work.

You glanced at the blue dawn creeping in from the window, then red the time on your watch. “Okay, fine, whatever! Have it all next week. I don’t give a fuck, just help me!”

Reveling in his victory, his plush lips stretched into a wide grin, showing too much teeth. He sauntered at his leisure, closing his eyes half-way, and gazing at you down the long slope of his nose. “Good girl, I knew you could do it,” he mocked.

You wanted to strangle him.

–And another time–

“Shut the fuck up for an entire day, and you can have to whole fucking closet,” Eddie snapped after your fifth instance of complaining about your professional office clothes not having available hangers due to him taking them for his old, ratty band tees.

Centering yourself, you brushed the dust off your favorite pants after finding them wadded up on the floor, and whispered, “I hope a rogue knife finds its way into your thumb again tomorrow.”

You swore you saw his hand flex out the corner of your eye, reacting to your curse.

–And the week after that–

You: come help me bring up these groceries

You: elevators broken

You: we can race up the stairs

You: loser washes dishes and takes out the trash

😒dumb: as long as the loser doesn’t cry about it when she sleeps on the couch

You: whatever

😒dumb: i’ll even give you a head start to make it fair

Struck with being that person grinning down at your phone in the stuffy underground parking garage, you gilded your thumbs over the keyboard in a fluttery tease.

You: you just want an excuse to stare at my ass

It took Eddie longer to reply, fumbling with his phone to find the emoji keyboard, only to send–

😒dumb: 🙄

–And the week after that–

“Get a life, you fucking loser,” you yelled from within the metal cylinder of the dryer, bent over on your hands and knees to wrestle your silk blouse free from where it was tangled in a rope of bedsheets, after you told him–explicitly–to never wash it because he’d do it wrong.

He merely watched you struggle from the sidelines, informing you, “You’re the one who asked me to do laundry. Don’t toss your precious, delicate shirts on the bathroom floor if you don’t want them thrown in with everything else. And by the way, I did my part of the deal, so the room is still mine tonight.” As a bonus, he added as he walked away, “Suck my dick, sweetheart.”

Your gums ached from how hard you clenched your teeth. You didn’t leave your blouse on the floor. He did, when he went hunting for his wallet he left in his jeans, and dumped all the clothes out of both baskets, mixing your work clothes with his.

That night, you locked him out of the bedroom. Fuck him.

————

After tireless days of the same back and forth, the juvenile deals and favors were losing their significance. Someone needed to up the ante. And a certain line you two skirted taunted you both, but remained uncrossed until..

————

The hallway leading to your apartment was stale with inactivity. Most people had been home for hours, or were back from bars and crashed on the couch, drooling on their girlfriend’s favorite decorative pillow–the kind with the pom poms. You thought of them with envy. Snoring, dreaming of some blissful shit like sheep hopping a pasture fence. But not you. Your 9 to 5 extended far past those numbers on the clock. It skipped right over them, just like you were skipped over in meetings, being told the extra burden you were taking on was good for the company, and the programs you were learning would be paid in experience. Bullshit. You were tired, and the last thing you needed was some long haired man stubbing his toe on the coffee table to wake you up–morning or night.

But perhaps you were blessed.

You opened the door to near-darkness. Not a lamp, or TV on inside to show someone was home. Not a groan, sigh, or blast of music funneling from a set of oversized headphones. Not a creak of movement from the hallway, or bathroom; surrendering your heartbeat as the loudest feedback.

It appeared you were alone. What a wonderful thing.

The muffled thud of the low pile rug under your heels gave way to silky sweeps of plush carpet welcoming your aching pantyhose-covered feet. Moving further into the apartment, you knew the shapes to avoid in the dim light coming from above the stove, casting the coffee table and scattered stools at the breakfast bar in shadow.

Groggy from exhaustion, you blinked at the spice cabinet door Eddie left open before leaving for his shift. During a conversation with Steve, you let it slip that people who leave the cabinet doors open annoy you, so of course he began leaving one open as a greeting when you came home.

You closed it with your right hand, swinging your laptop bag wildly, and before you could react, the strap caught the top of the glass sugar jar and knocked it over in a wincing crash. Luckily, after peeping one eye open, you assessed nothing broke, but now there was a streak of glittery white dust on the countertop you definitely weren’t going to clean up.

Maybe you could strike a deal with Eddie to wipe it up for you. It was–in a way–his fault, since he left the cabinet door open. If you didn’t need to close it, none of this would’ve happened..

You made a gagging sound.

Since when did your immediate thought process swing to him, and how do you get it to stop? It was bad enough you peeked around the corner into the hallway, praying, praying, praying the bedroom light was off, and feeling your body slump with utter relief when it was. Being on the same planet as him was hell, you didn’t need your private thoughts to linger on him, too.

Mentally dismissing Eddie Munson from your brainspace, you invited yourself into the bedroom. You sought the cushy mattress to cradle your weary body after a long day, and the nest of cozy fleece blankets to swaddle you as you drifted to sleep. Unfortunately, the idiot’s pillow smelled far too much like him; cigarettes and cheap vanilla cologne combined with his hair products, burning your nose like toasted sugar. Despicable. Just the worst. You should exchange it with your own pillow, but you forgot it on the couch, and the couch was so very, very far away..

~~~

Eddie sat crouched in the alleyway outside of Benny’s Diner with a stubby cigarette balanced between his lips, blowing the smoke out in a slow exhale like a roll of fog on a misty morning. Cold emanated from the bricks pricking the expanse of his shoulders, and the night air chilled his damp shirt to his sticky skin, erupting goosebumps along his forearms. Standing around him were the other cooks on break. He didn’t share a common language with them outside of gestures, curse words, and kitchen lingo, but they gathered in a semi-circle as if to include him.

His shift was over. He’d technically clocked out, but he loitered until their vices were stomped under their shoes, and he snuffed his glowing ash on the wall behind him, and followed them inside.

Washing his hands first, he dried them on the towel tucked under the string of his apron tied around his waist, and set up a space on the flat top for him to occupy since the dinner rush had long since died, and the only patrons on the floor were drunks wandering in for greasy hashbrowns. He grabbed the four quart Cambro from the fridge beneath the prep area, and ladled enough batter for two large pancakes. Borrowing a station, he sliced up a ripe banana from the walk-in, and dropped it into a hot pan with a bit of butter, caramelizing them on the range while he waited for the pancakes to be flipped.

The guys behind him read off the few tickets, and carried their conversation from earlier. Eddie caught some of it, learning a few words here or there, but regardless of the language barrier, he knew they were talking about him. They were snickering with their heads together, pointing at the pancakes he was making despite being clocked out.

Eddie spoke with a sneaky grin, “If I make them for her, she’ll leave me the fuck alone on my day off.”

The guys may not have understood entirely what he meant, but his sunny disposition juxtaposed by his wry gaze communicated a universal plight: girls.

One of their hands landed hard between Eddie’s shoulder blades when they doubled over in a belly laugh, and the other one made whip-cracking sounds, calling him the same slang word he called the married cooks. It wasn’t worth it to attempt to correct them that these pancakes were not for his girl, but for his future migraine, so he hummed along with them, and flipped the pancakes with his right hand while tossing the bananas with a swift jerk of his left.

After their gossip, they went back to work, and Eddie grabbed a to-go container, loading it with the two pancakes and sliding the caramelized bananas on top. He brought it to the prep area to drizzle with chocolate sauce, and finished it off with heart-shaped strawberries, a dusting of powdered sugar, and a sprig of mint. He didn’t cut the strawberries that way with ulterior motives, it was just something he did when he had spare time in the morning. Cutting a wedge out of the stemmed top, and slicing them vertical. The customers liked it. It was cute, supposedly. There were no hidden intentions to him taking his time to place them just so around the box; it was merely him taking pride in how he plated his dish.

Clamping the container shut, he untied his apron, changed his shoes, and left out the back entrance, kicking pebbles under the crescent moon, and walking through the front door of the next building over. Gray concrete, a faulty elevator, ugly rugs to feign elegance, and high rise as far as ‘high rise when you live next a bunch of squatty buildings’ went. It was home, and it was blissfully dark inside.

Eddie worked his feet out of his tied-once-and-never-untied street shoes, and dropped his non-slip clogs next to them in a loud clatter.

He breathed. Inhaled deep. Sighed through his nose.

Quiet. Peaceful respite behind his eyelids.

The adrenaline ebbed. The hours of shouting and being shouted at, metal on metal clangs, timer beeps, and mechanical whirr of a ticket being printed out would never cease haunting his mind, but he should stop flinching from the imaginary sounds after a few hours. The pain stretching the length of his back should ease under a hot shower. The throbbing ache in his knees should lessen once he sleeps. The fatigue, like needles driven into his bones, should heal so he could be on his feet for thirteen more hours tomorrow.

Warmth worked its way beyond the calluses creating a barrier in his palm supporting the styrofoam container. Syrupy sweet hot sugar invaded his nostrils from the pancake bribe, battling the stench of his dried sweat and body odor baked into his t-shirt. The tiled entryway beneath his feet woke him out of his daze, and he slid his heavy-lidded gaze to the vacant couch; the comforter was folded, and the pillow was propped up, unslept on.

Briefly he wondered if you went out with your friends after work. But as he approached the kitchen, his dreams were crushed by a single closed cabinet door.

You were home.

You were home, and you weren’t on the couch, nor in the shower.

Eddie allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he hung his head back. In that position, he rolled the disappointment out of his shoulders, and braced them with something new.

Irritation.

Tamping the frustration in the pit of his stomach from bubbling up, he exhaled another calming breath, and opened the fridge, placing the pancakes exactly front and center amongst the fresh produce he was sometimes excited to create with, and sometimes slammed to the bottom of the trash when he was too exhausted and uninspired to do anything with their rotten corpses.

He prepared his expression into one of unbudging indifference. Flat, and unwilling to back down.

And yet, his nose scrunched when he pushed open the bedroom door, and there you were, as predicted, lounging amongst your hideous blankets spilling out from under you as if you were an opulent pearl nestled within an oyster shell.

The resentment built as he assessed your form delicately painted in a red glow from the ugly neon sign in the shape of a lipstick kiss tacked alongside his favorite band posters. He’d only lived with Steve long enough to feel comfortable decorating the blank walls, and you ruined the Rob Halford flow three days into your invasion. Your face was highlighted by the dim blue light of your laptop resting on your stomach, rising and falling with each gentle breath, and you were haloed by the Himalayan salt lamp crowding the nightstand. It’s trendy, you explained.

With vehemence, he flickered the light switch.

You cringed from the bright assault, and clacked your fingers on the keyboard, pretending you weren’t dozing off a second ago. “Can you go away?”

“What’re you doing in here?”

Unimpressed by his tone, you glazed your response in insolence. “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m minding my own business.” At that, your attitude was solidified, along with how this interaction would go.

Eddie stared at you for a long minute. Not once did you acknowledge him. He watched your eyes dart across the screen, probably watching one of those Youtube videos where girls walked around exciting cities with a camera way too close to their face, and he dragged his gaze downwards, noticing you were still in your work clothes; though, your blouse and skirt were disheveled, and your pantyhose were discarded on the floor, still holding the vague shape of your legs, resembling a flattened rotisserie chicken.

He focused on your eyes again. Bloodshot, rimmed in red with a suggestion of water clinging to the outer corners where your eyelashes met, and sporting a hefty burden of bags beneath them.

“It’s Wednesday,” he reminded you, voice heavy in his chest, but sounding scratchy, and hollow. His throat was shot.

“Mm,” you hummed and glanced at the clock in the corner of your screen, “it’s Thursday, actually.”

White hot anger boiled in his veins, striking his skin like a leather lash. It simmered, popped, sizzled, boiled over. The yelling, the timers, the cacophonous clanging. The ticket machine, the keyboard, the stinging cut on his thumb. Smug fucking brat laying in his bed on his night to have it. It was sudden, it was stark, and it was hatred.

“Make a deal.”

“A deal?”

“A fucking deal,” he repeated. “You know, like we’ve been making?” He stopped himself short of calling you a dirty name, but you must’ve gathered it from his tongue’s hesitation, because you turned your head a few degrees to challenge his temper.

“Oh, lucky for you, there was a two-for-one deal at the store.”

You waved two middle fingers at him, showing a bit of teeth with your crooked grin.

The hatred festered, but not as vicious. The anger was there–oh, the anger was there–but the energy to keep this going hit its peak, and fizzled. There was no sense in reasoning with you. The pancakes in the fridge were for a different occasion, he couldn’t waste them on this, and he was too tired to come up with his own bet, deal, or favor. “Just think of something so we can get this over with,” he nearly begged.

After some consideration, you held your fist out for rock, paper, scissors.

“Where’s the option for a gun in my mouth?”

“Harsh,” you pouted. Instead, you pointed at the 20 sided die on the desk. He inclined his head, shaking it with a slow sort of intention, eyes wide to express his warning to knock it off, and give him a true answer, something to make this worthwhile.

Finding the whole ordeal dull, you returned your attention to your laptop, pressing the white earbud into your ear before unpausing the video.

It took seconds off his life, but you finally spoke again.

“How long were you in prison? Six years? Bet it’s been a while since you’ve seen one of these in the flesh.” Due to your satin cream blouse being unbuttoned at the neck, you dipped your thumb under the collar, and traced the vibrant temptation of your red bra strap in a long, deliberate stroke. You hooked the soft pad of your thumb under the luxury, and brought it out for his viewing pleasure. A moment later, you snapped it to your skin, and went back to typing, not once breaking concentration with your video.

Eddie’s fascination, however, was trained on the dainty crimson gift slipping under the shimmery cream, sliding against the soft slope of your shoulder.

Heat thrummed in his chest. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, sloshing his blood like viscous tidal waves, muting the clacky sound of your keyboard. Anger mixed with something more, something worse. It warmed his cheeks, and reignited the cold sweat prickling his back. It honed his curiosity, sinking every detail of the second tortoiseshell button on your blouse into his mind. Memorizing how the fabric around it went taut, and glinted honey at the height of your breath. Noticing how the bottom of your shirt was wrinkled and pulled slack, but still tucked into your pencil skirt. Remembering how the tight material hugged your thighs when you traipsed around the apartment. Although, the navy blue number was less defined now, fitting looser around your hips.

He didn’t know how long he was fixated by your clothing, until you sighed.

“Not enough for you?”

You asked it with forced casualness, he could tell. Your voice was too even, tone too polite, eyebrows too raised in mock indifference. You were introducing a line that had yet to be crossed. A door which, when opened, would give access to more possibilities than the usual bets, deals, and favors. An enticing offer, and he didn’t deny the nervous flutter of intrigue arousing his blood elsewhere.

But past the line was dangerous territory. Right? That’s where things got muddied, and feelings got involved.

Or maybe not. Because, above all else, he hated you, and you hated him.

This was a deal like any other.

“Maybe this’ll help,” you said, never breaking eyesight from the screen, its colors reflecting in your pupils.

You were the epitome of cool pinching the blouse between your fingers and slotting the buttons through the holes one after the other. Down, down, down to your navel, tugging either side of the shirt open, letting the elegant cream frame the aggressive scarlet.

Eddie was taken off guard.

The bra was more akin to lingerie than he expected. Its cups contained you like a poorly kept secret. Curves of red peonies covered your nipples–hard bud pressing against the center of the flower from the thrill of exploring a new end to your daily arguments. Your areolas peeked from between the petals, where the intricate lacework went see through, granting him a preview to the smooth flesh beneath.

Click clack, click clack, space bar, space bar, space bar, he swore you pressed your arms together to make your breasts rounder. Actually, he didn’t need to second guess. He saw the cusp of cleavage squish before his very eyes.

“Satisfied?” you inquired.

No, he ached.

The voice in his head was so automatic, so sure, he didn’t question it, either.

When he refused to verbalize the things which made him nauseous, his opulent pearl rolled onto her shoulder and lifted the laptop the pillow, turning over onto her stomach to engage with it solely, circling a manicured fingernail over the trackpad, and clicking.

To his surprise, the video on screen wasn’t of the vapid people you watched, but of a troubleshooting guide to the program your company was having you learn in order to teach it to the higher ups next week. (Or so he heard when you told Steve yesterday.) You tabbed out of the video, fixed a property in a column, checked the statistic it was evaluating, and added in an aesthetically pleasing green color before tabbing back.

He couldn’t parse how he felt about you having to do more thankless tasks off the clock, especially when you were clearly tired, but something else stole the last of his fiery anger, and doused his willpower to resist a glance.

Your habit of unzipping your skirt as soon as you walked into the apartment proved evident when you rolled over. The silky polyester lining slipped against your skin, shifting the long zipper from your hip to your backside. The halves parted, showing the end of the cream blouse, and a peek of skin. You adjusted how you laid, rocking your hips back and forth until you sank into the plush blankets, and propped your chin in your palm when you weren’t typing. Small movements working the skirt higher, and higher, bunching the fabric around the fat of your ass. Squirming, and stretching, tugging on your blouse, pulling, pulling, blouse, skirt, blouse, skirt, and then he saw it..

Red.

Delicate, feminine.

Tucked, hidden from anyone’s view but his, were the matching red panties to your bra. Trapped in a valley between thighs and ass, and stretching over the swell of your heat, embellishing the mouth watering desire in opaque lace strained firm against the outline of his treasure.

Eddie swallowed.

“Why’re you still in here?” you asked with a bite of annoyance. “You got to see a girl’s bra for the first time ever, probably. You should be celebrating, throwing yourself a party. In the living room. On the couch.”

The anger had returned like a slap of reality across his cheek. He narrowed his eyes at the back of your head, remembering why he loathed you with every fiber of his being. “I’ve seen a bra before.”

“Pictures don’t count.”

“Whatever, bitch.”

Your body jolted with a snort, and he flung open the door hard enough for it to bounce off the door stop. He heard your infuriating inhale, and slapped the lightswitch off, shutting the door behind him with excessive force before you could ask more demands of him. Gladly, he closed himself out of his own bedroom. The physical barrier under his trembling fist had never felt better, still gripping the knob as if he’d go back in there.

He wouldn’t.

He let go of the chilled metal and stalked down the hall, curbing himself from stomping out his frustration, only to throw himself onto the couch. Stomach burning with hunger, hatred. Chest heaving with rage. Pulse rising in his throat, beating against the ball chain necklace he wore. Breathing so hard, sounding as if he’d ran laps before collapsing onto his bed for the night, crossing his arms to squeeze his biceps, massaging his fingers down the muscle. Occupying himself. Distracting himself.

It wasn’t working.

He was mad.

Furious.

Draping his hand over his eyes, he gave himself a moment to make a decision, and pushed his bangs off his forehead. They stayed in their gravity defying position due to the oil. He needed to shower. He needed to clean himself of this day, and go to sleep. But he couldn’t.

The fever in his veins was too distracting. He needed to take care of it. Get rid of it.

Sitting up, he unfolded the comforter from the end of the couch, and propped the pillow against the armrest to angle his head slightly up, where he could see the hallway.

From his front pocket, he collected his phone and laid it on his stomach while he unbuttoned his pants, pinching the waistband together and pulling the zipper down, sighing through his nose at the relief of the lines he was crossing.

He grasped his phone and brought it close to his face. Cupped in one palm, and using the other hand to tap it twice. A streak of perspiration was left on the screen where he swiped in his passcode, using his index finger to open a private browser and type in a porn site. Any porn site. Whichever variation of the word porn + noun he thought of first. It didn’t matter much to him; that’s not where his preferences lie.

office worker

co-worker

secretary

office worker tight skirt

office worker pov skirt grinding

His brain went stupid for synonyms trying to narrow down his search. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he knew the ultra HD, professionally lit, fakey acting wasn’t it. He scrolled, and scrolled. Narrowed his search again. Ticked off boxes on the side. Tried broader genres. Went back to the results he was on, and traveled down the rabbit hole a few more pages until, at last, he found what suited him.

The thumbnail appeared promising. Dimly lit, sorta bad quality, and clearly shot at home with a woman whose body type wasn’t far off from what he was hoping for. He even appreciated the visual similarities in the amateur actress’ navy blue skirt, and off-white blouse. As long as he scrolled down a tad to crop out her face, it was perfect. Plus, it was easier to insert himself into the scene that way.

He clicked it, and– ”Jesus Christ,” he turned down the volume as quickly as he could, accidentally pressing down the two buttons on the side that took a screenshot and saved it to his gallery.

The video started a little further into the act than he anticipated.

Such a fucking idiot, Eddie, Jesus Christ. Sitting in thick silence, he waited to see if you’d heard, and once his face calmed of the embarrassed flush stinging his cheeks, he moved on.

Eddie worked his right hand under the comforter, but heeded his boxers as a layer of separation. At the first contact with the parts of him he denied aching for the bane of his existence, he allowed his eyes to flutter closed. Gently, he raked his fingernails down the base of his shaft, and over his balls. He cupped them. Felt their heft. Cradled them and dragged them softly upwards, letting them fall and stretch before repeating the motion, enjoying the tickly sensation of being the first thing he touched. His most sensitive, most susceptible part of himself. Meanly ignoring the other part of him twitching, throbbing, begging to be catered to.

He kept some fraction of his brain alert to the hallway, senses sharpened by the spike of adrenaline, listening out for any sound of you exiting the room. But most of him was focused on hitting the play button, sticking to his decision that he couldn’t wait to do this in the shower. He needed it now.

It started with the woman already in motion. Shot from the guy’s point of view laying on the bed, his obvious hardon pressing through his slacks into her pussy grinding down on him. Her skirt lifted with each motion, showing her black underwear. Not that he was complaining they weren’t red, but he didn’t concentrate on them.

He switched from playing with his balls to gripping his cock. Finally. It buzzed with the rush of pleasure, harder than it had ever been, even in his youth. His fingers hardly met through his boxers, but he encircled them the best he could, and started with fast, desperate, stunted strokes, getting himself to where the guy in the video was in a matter of pent-up seconds, clenching his ass to buck his hips up. Heart pounding. Inhales shaky from the speed at which he took care of his problem, exhales interrupted by muted huffs.

Maybe he should be embarrassed, but it didn’t take him long to feel that encouragement to keep going, keep going, keep going. Where each frantic pump along his length was better than the last. Where each accidental graze of his fingers over the lipped edge of his tip sprinted towards his bliss.

In the video, the woman dipped a finger between her lips and moved her panties aside.

There was a low hum in the back of his throat, engrossed by the wet warmth opposed to his dry fist.

Metal knob turning–door creaking–carpet groaning, step, step, step–

It was a fucking miracle he managed to close out of the window in his panic. His thumb missed it the first two times as fear coated him in a cold sweat, and the phone fell out of his palm, smacking him in the chin as you rounded the corner.

You didn’t spare him the time of day as you walked into the kitchen and got a glass from the cabinet. Didn’t bother looking at him as you stood at the fridge with your hip cocked out, holding the cup under the outer dispenser and depressing the button for ice.

The fridge made a mechanical whirr, and filled your glass. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk, the ice cubes tinked into the cup for the longest seconds of his life. His hand was frozen mid-tug on his dick, and you were wearing an oversized t-shirt, and nothing else. Truly, it hardly covered your ass. It clung to your hips, brushed the height of your thighs, and suddenly, he was checking how obvious the bulk of the comforter was over his lap, and if it creased when he moved his hand upwards.

Nothing. Not a fold out of place. He could keep it up. Stroke, by stroke, brushing his fingers over the head only, testing his limits to keep discreet while you switched to the other spout on the fridge for water.

Even when you turned to him, he massaged himself over his boxers, soaking the sticky slick beads of precum into the fabric.

“What?���

Your tone didn’t deter him from tracing the underside of his swollen head, caressing the glans with the same sort of sentiment he experienced in the homemade porn between a real couple–all gentle and nice.

He mustered enough brain cells to respond, “What? I’m already sleeping on the couch. Can’t you leave me alone for one night? Or are you that desperate for attention?”

None the wiser, you took a sip from your glass, and folded your other arm across your stomach, making it obvious from the natural sway that you weren’t wearing a bra. Probably weren’t wearing panties either..

Swallowing the ice cold water with a satisfied ‘ah’, you went on your merry way. “Just came to gawk at the bridge troll, is all. Night night!” Your annoying farewell was followed by the creak of the door, and the faint click of it closing.

What a fucking irritating person.

The anger bristled again. Definitely anger. It was there, lurking, when he rubbed at the sore spot on his chin and picked up his phone, unlocking it to stare at the homescreen.

There was no patience within him to find the video. Besides, the sanitized professional thumbnails on the homepage were enough to have him dropping his phone to the cushion crevices beside him, surrendering himself to his imagination. Nothing lived up to the scenarios in his head, anyway.

Before getting ahead of himself, he slid his fingers beneath the elastic waistband, and gripped himself wholly. There was no sense in denying what he wanted: the raw desire of his hand wrapped firmly around his cock, not caring about creating a mess. It could be cleaned up later. He needed this. Now.

He immersed himself in the fantasy.

The visuals took place minutes ago, if he hadn’t backed down. It was based on you refusing to give him the bed, and instead of walking away from your bratty attitude, he lifted his chin, and broadened his chest with a confidence he didn’t possess. Fantasy Eddie had the courage to kneel on the mattress like he belonged there. Your body would dip, rock towards his imposing knees straddling either side of your calves, and in his strongest dreams, he acted out what should’ve happened.

If he had his way, he would begin with your hips. A single strong palm on the curve would have you hiking them up to greet him, and he was a gentleman. As soon as you presented him with the opportunity, he was scrambling to spread your legs so he could dip between them, eager to please. He wanted to know the sensation of coarse red lace scratching across his tongue; it would be a novelty only he would know. His hands would be on your upper thighs, bringing you closer, closer, to where his mouth awaited you. Persuading your face to the sheets. Putting a wicked arch in your back, granting him permission.

He’d angle his mouth to your clothed clit and collect spit to his bottom lip, parting, and lapping his tongue over the pretty thing, suckling it through the fabric. His nose would be to your cunt, inhaling the musky pheromones. Didn’t matter how long you’d been at work, proving yourself to people who would never appreciate you like he did. He cherished every bit of you so much. The heady scent intoxicated him like a drug, the dimples when he smashed the fat of your ass around his face, your silly whine when he pressed kisses up your pretty pussy. The anger was gone. Like that, he adored you. After all, you craved him. And it’d been a long time since he was wanted. It felt nice to not be rejected.

Eddie, Fantasy You gasped when the wet sound of him sucking your clit through your panties grew in fervor. He was drunk on you. Trying hard. Giving more. Licking at the dark patch he created. God, he loved it. He loved the evidence. He could suckle, moan, flatten his tongue like torture and just breathe on you until he fell asleep, waking up to nudge his teeth over the sensitive areas you presented to him. Spending hours getting you to your peak, over and over.

But in reality, he was approaching his end rather quickly.

My turn, sweetheart, he regretfully informed you.

Getting to his knees, he positioned himself behind you. His cock slotted so nicely against you; red lace meeting unzipped gray uniform pants, and he wasted no time stoking the flames from where he left off.

He clapped your cheeks around the hard outline of his cock. His black boxers stretched to their limits to contain him. There was a dark patch at the tip peeking out between your ass, growing with each slow, assertive grind he committed to, fucking himself into the curve of your cunt with ragged breaths. Losing himself. Mouth agape, and eyebrows pinched as his needy head was swallowed when he rocked his hips back, and reappeared with a rough thrust.

Again, it didn’t take long until he needed a break to make himself last longer.

He draped his weight over you as he slid his rough, calloused palms up the backs of your thighs, creating goosebumps along the sensitive flesh on his way to your sorry excuse for skirt. He bunched the pitiful thing to your waist, and reached for the hem of your shirt.

You hummed in approval, pressing against his lap.

It was hard to balance, but you supported him as he yanked your blouse up–sucking in a sharp breath when you moaned, and rutted yourself on his length–and he brushed his fingers along your soft skin in search for the bra clasp, and when he found it, he pulled the band tight. The latch gave. He caught sudden heft in his palm, cupping you and the bra together, massaging lightly until your nipple slotted between the base of two of his fingers, and he applied the gentlest pressure.

Oh fuck, you whined so nicely for him.

They’re extra sensitive after being caged all day, you explained.

Yeah? Does it feel good?

You nodded, cheek smashed against the wrinkled sheets.

He pinched harder.

Saliva gathered at the corner of your lips, spilling in a sticky string as you dragged your head in another nod, heavy-lidded eyes just visible through your lashes, open mouth panting for him.

True satisfaction spread like weightlessness from the pit of anger in his stomach. He wasn’t supposed to be making you feel good, not the person ruining the one place he found peace after six years of paranoia, but here he was, wishing the taste of your pussy lasted longer in his mouth. Here he was, anchoring his forearm alongside yours, gripping the same sheet you gripped while he beared his weight down on you, and pressed kisses to your clothed shoulders.

His other hand was trapped between you and the bed, but each pulse around your nipple was another long stroke on his cock.

The scene had been set. The build up and story line were crafted. Now, he could play.

He worked kisses under your collar, tasting the sheen of sweat at your hairline, leaving trails of spit to cool as he lolled his head on top of yours, resting his forehead amongst your hair, and he put his lips to the shell of your ear, feeling you shiver beneath him.

Do you think you can treat me that way, and get away with it? Fantasy Him asked. Think you can boss me around whenever you want? He punctuated his question with a hard, unexpected thrust, earning a gasp from your pretty mouth.

Turn over. He didn’t command it verbally, but when he took away his hand to smack the side of your ass, and sat back, you were aware of his unstated switch in position.

You laid on your back, legs spread for him. Skirt bunched around your hips, blouse fallen open, except for the one button remaining. He grasped his cock, and stroked himself through his boxers for you. His brows were drawn together in a gentle question, gaze locked onto yours. This was supposed to be about him, but he still asked, Is this okay? Is this what you want?

The source of his anger, his rage, his frustration–all the blame, burdens, and negativity he attributed to a single woman–opened her arms to him, and nodded.

He passed over your pussy to praise kisses to your stomach. Deft fingers working to undo the last button on your blouse, and explore upwards. Wet smacks of his sloppy gifts arched your back the higher he traveled, molding his large hands to your body. Brushing his rough fingers to the junction of your inner thigh and hip, and spreading you open so your pussy swallowed the fabric, wedging the red lace tight to your clit for later. Up, up, his kisses covered you, until he nosed at the underwire of your bra, and lifted it out of the way.

Fuck, Eddie.

You pushed his hair out of his face. The shorter curls fell from the low bun at his nape, and you tucked them behind his ear so you could watch his tongue lap and swirl at your nipple. Your fluttery moans were heaven, as were your tits being shoved in his mouth. You squirmed for him, clamored for him. You wanted him, needed him. Did you care that his hair was greasy? Did you care that dried salt crystals from sweat scratched your fingers when you cradled his jaw? Did you care about his smell from thirteen hours of being in a hot kitchen when you cupped him under the armpits, encouraging him with a buck of your hips to get back to business?

He supposed not, since it was his fantasy.

But just like reality, you were trying to boss him around.

Want me to fuck you, sweetheart?

You could hardly meet his gaze, eyes so heavy with lust you couldn’t keep them open long enough to beg.

He aligned himself, nudging the tip of his cock to your clit, and he savored the experience of watching the bliss wash over you. It took him a beat to realize, but he moaned in response to your moan. Watching you react from where he picked up his head from your chest, memorizing the fake vision of your face losing the usual harsh distaste for him. Your lips were better this way–lush, and making an effort to sound out his name as he drew his hips back–not sneering because you had the displeasure of asking him a question.

Still, he drove forward with haste. Cotton on lace. Layers of separation. Anything else was too intimate for how he wanted to fuck you, rough and fast, caring only about himself and not about your poor neglected clit, swollen and pleading for his soft tongue, only to get rough, unmeasured thrusts. Messy, and unintentional, and denying. Until you made them work for you.

You used the meat of his shoulders as leverage. Digging your fingers in, holding tight as you rocked with him and raised your legs, wrapping them around his ass. The squeeze of your thighs, and pressure built from your locked ankles tipped you into a better position, and now, his entire length was flush to your clit, not simply passing over the top of it.

All of him was touching you, touching you, touching you. Trapping his cock between your stomachs, damp with reignited sweat. Back to rutting against one another at a desperate pace, chasing the tension, the high. The snap of his hips. Your stuttered groans for more. The anger, the hatred. Festering under the surface, bubbling in your insolence. Present in his teeth grazing your throat, nipping at the pulse, kissing, sucking, licking, tasting.

You’re gonna make me cum. Even Fantasy You said it in a lower register, reaching where the molten resentment laid dormant.

He found the same gravelly animosity and warned you, “I’m too close, I’m too close.”

You cradled him tighter, burying your heads in each other’s embrace. Muscles quivering from effort, burning with each grind, tensing under curious hands finding new places to cling to, curves to admire. Until they stayed put.

Nails bit flesh. Strong fingers dug painfully at bone. Mouths fell open. Eyes closed. Writhing flesh on fabric, and flesh, you trembled under him.

I’m–mm, Eddie–I’m cumming–

His thrusts faltered, jerking into short bursts, and his gracious moans went high and tight in his throat, spilling out as he panted, “You make me feel so good, baby. Fucked you so good. I can’t–I’m cumming–fuck–”

Fuck, Eddie–Fuck, Eddie–Fuck, Eddie–

–”Fuck,” he babbled aloud.

The climax took him to the dark apartment. The overwhelming shadows of sleeping in the lonely living room on the flat couch under an extra blanket not yet broken of its factory starch, scratchy on the skin. His muscles were still tensed into him curling in on himself, lifting his aching neck and shoulders off the pillow for a few more pumps of his hand sliding over his slick shaft, spreading the warmth oozing towards his hip, no doubt tangling the curly thatch of hair above the base. In lip-biting silence, he stroked himself, not daring to breathe after he knew he said something out loud from his imagination. He listened. Eyes straining to see the hallway.

His bangs stuck to the heavy sweat on his forehead.

His entire body was heated beyond belief.

Anticipation sat heavy on his tongue.

But as he came down from his peak, nothing happened. He stayed lonely. His heartbeat pounded against the guitar pick sticking to his chest, and that was it. Now his head was cleared of distractions, and he could sleep. The fantasy was a fantasy, and in this reality, he wouldn’t do this again. It was too weird to muddy the multitude of negative feelings he had for you with.. whatever this was.

A release, that’s what this was.

Kicking the blanket off, he swung his legs to the side to sit up, socked feet softened by the plush carpet. He pressed his palm over the sticky substance dripping downward, and soaked it up to the best of his ability. And as his cum hit the fresh air, and his inhale was cut short as he smelled his shirt, he thought about the shower he needed. And he thought about the dark patch on his boxers. And he thought about his clothes in the dresser in the bedroom.

Looking down, he inspected his gray pants, and groaned.

They were ruined.

So, so ruined and obvious as to what he was doing.

There was no way he could go into there and grab new clothes for a shower. The thought of facing you after this, and you seeing him in this pathetic state–and God, if you knew it was because of you, and because he couldn’t control himself–he’d rather die than admit you did this to him.

Fuck.

Couldn’t even go to his own room for some fucking clothes so he could shower after working all day.

Yeah, that confirmed it. He fucking hated you.

Hated you even more when he thought about you sleeping on his mattress, wrapped snug in his bedsheets wearing only a t-shirt with nothing else to cover you, and his dick twitched again for that red lace he knew was discarded in the laundry basket.

“Fuck my life.”

[fantasyyluvr]

Hey there👋👋 could you please do whatever love language of the bamboos are ??

LOVE LANGUAGE OF THE BATBOYS

A/N: terribly sorry I let this request collect dust. My interest in comics fell as life got hectic and whatever the hell. I won't go all Wattpad author on you.

Dick Grayson’s love language is words of affirmation. At the peak of his characterization, he is a man ravenous for praise and attention. A moment of peace, of relief, of sweetness.

Stunted, yet too grown for his own good—simultaneously. He will seek attention, showering you with gifts and compliments in hopes that you reciprocate. Holidays would read like a HallMark movie that would move suburban mothers to tears.

Dick is also the man to send romantic quotes stolen from Pinterest, and the occasional confusing poem of his own hand. His nerves would grind as he read the ‘’seen’’ stamp beneath his text, worried out of his mind that it didn't properly convey his emotions, his love.

“What, no reply yet? If you're that moved, you could always come kiss me.” He'd send the message, playing it off as a joke. But his stomach groaned with the familiar ache, that cold and empty feeling of uncertainty.

What if she doesn't like it? Will she still like me? Would I seem lame if I double texted? Am I bugging her?

The flames of self doubt would spread and eat at his mind until his phone pinged with a,” it's beautiful, babe. A hard read, but the intention was there.” And a flirtatious emoji paired with it.

Thus, the flames of doubt were stomped out, like they never existed. They liked the poem, and he would spend hours rereading it. Marveling and gushing because you liked it. Something he made.

Jason Todd's love language is acts of service. It's a loyalty thing for him.

Gift sharing could be manipulation; soft words could be lies, and he's too self-loathing to believe them anyway. Red Hood swallows his spare time, and his desire for touch swung on a pendulum—one side thirsting for it, the other side uncomfortable.

The thought of returning home to a nice and warm meal would make him melt into a puddle. Or finding his hero suit washed, and his gear cleaned and stored away.

It reignites a flame in his cold eyes, the domesticity calling forth an unclassified emotion that sent goosebumps blazing over his skin like wildfire, calling his arm hairs to attention.

Jason would return the favor. You would awake to find breakfast made, the aroma of bacon and eggs thick in the air, the sweetness of syrup carrying around the house. Scalding tea trickling into a pot, milk and sugar already on the table. Plates washed and set.

Jason would also do laundry and iron clothes. He gets those random bursts of energy (or adrenaline) and cleans the entire house spotless.

Baths would be drawn for you, and if he's feeling lavish, he'll add roses to the bubbles. The finest soaps would lather your skin, scented with the the best smelling perfumes—business was good, and it was a present. His calloused fingers would be overjoyed to massage your scalp (he hoped you'd do his next).

Tim Drake’s love language is quality time. Also, I would like to preface this section by admitting I haven't read much of Tim.

He would help you study. Textbooks adorning the wooden table after hours of quizzing. Coffee steaming in a mug, pens and highlighters scratching at paper. Kisses shared with each right answer.

He'd tease,” Oh, that was a hard one. A trick question.” A smirk, sweet as frosting would tug on his lips, then a warm kiss would swallow yours.” If I were as filthy minded as Jason, maybe I'd crack a joke.”

Tim’s gaze would find you, in the middle of whatever—washing dishes, doing laundry, exercising. They'd burst with amorous passion, like exploding stars, shimmering and twinkling in his irises.

When the sun kisses Gotham goodnight, and the moon assumes it duty, he'd find himself wishing he could be beside you. Not Batman, not Dick, certainly not Damian. That's not proof that he hates his colleagues or that his work is last on the list of priorities. It's just. . . you're higher.

“Hey, love,” he'd speak into the phone, after the voicemail prompted him.” I know you're likely sleep tonight. But I wanted to at least call and tell you to sleep safe and warm. And to save space for me.” A chuckle would roll of his tongue, the wailing of police sirens in the background.

Damian Wayne's love language is also quality time.

Time is precious to him. His mother’s presence was unreliable. He, his father, his siblings tango with dead every silvery night. Each misfortune in his family reminded him of that.

Robin is not what Dick thinks. It's not just bursting into hideouts and knocking the crap out of villains. The peril is real, as well as the potential for failure—and failure in their line of work means death.

Oracle was paralyzed in a second, one wrong move and her nerves were shot. Jason’s life was quite literally put on a clock, killed by time itself. When Damian was an assassin, it merely took seconds to end a life, one of emotion and desires and opinions—gone at the stroke of a blade.

Time matters.

Damian would try to spend all of it with you, doing anything. Attending museums, painting you, listening to your playlists. Finding the child he was depraved of for so long. Being an angsty teenager and loving it.

“This is considered fun?” A dark eyebrow of his would raise teasingly. There you sat, at a sport's game, the roaring crowd trembling the stadium and stabbing his ears. The golden beam of the sun roasting both you, and the overpriced popcorn tossing and gurgling in his stomach.

But, deep down, the liveliness of the crowd intrigued him. Even he'd find himself screaming along with the masses on their feet, yelling out praise or curse words.

Damian's jade irises would slide over to you, the sheer glee decorating your features. A painting. He'd see a masterpiece in you; how that expression would translate onto a canvas.

[lilylovestowrite]

AN ECCENTRIC'S ENTROPY ୨♡୧

PAIRING: (Dr Ratio x Professor! Reader)

WARNINGS: Suggestive

SYNOPSIS: For people who get into each other's pants a lot, you sure do know how to piss each other off...

WORD COUNT: 1k

Divider by @/cafekitsune

Entropy: The measure of the degree of disorder within a substance

“Will you stop your incessant whining?” Dr. Veritas Ratio groans, “I’d have thought spending more time with me would have caused your IQ to surpass at least a vegetable.” You roll your eyes and slam your new research paper down on your colleague's desk. 

“If you didn’t want to be surrounded by idiots, you shouldn’t have decided to teach at a university. Even if Stellaron University is prestigious, you’re still teaching barely adults.” You sigh with faux pity. “But I guess you didn’t think that far, poor Dr. Ratio.” Mockingly, you pet his head, the silky locks of violet slipping through your fingers as he grabs your wrist and forces it back on the desk. 

“I’m not reading your paper.” He shakes his head, brows furrowed and a scoff leaves his lips. Even though he looks up at you from his desk, the way he reclines on his chair so casually makes you feel small. It has always been like this. Veritas and his obnoxious attitude driving you up the walls. A prodigy yourself, the pursuit of knowledge has never been a struggle to you. Yes, it was challenging, but that was part of the fun. The thrill of tearing apart a formula and sinking your teeth in until it churns out a set of numbers that you like.  This allowed you to be the top professor at Stellaron for almost three years straight, until Veritas. Veritas, who opposes almost everything that you do, from the way you prefer to use a whiteboard and pen and him a blackboard and chalk. The way your coffee is dark and his is sweetened with milk and sugar to the point it doesn’t even look like coffee anymore. You didn’t have a problem with this until he published a scientific paper which had quoted your own paper published a month prior, and pointed out how it was not mathematically viable. You still remember the smirk he wore on his face when he emailed you the manuscript for peer review, the audacity of this man to ask you to proofread the very paper he dedicated hours to just to prove your own wrong! 

Naturally, your response is to ask him to do the same. But not with one email, but with twenty scheduled emails every other day. Sometimes, you like to add little emojis to the subject of your emails, and other times you embed links into the email that isn’t your paper, but wikihow articles. This pettiness has caused many encounters with him, some ending rather… intimately. 

Of course, Veritas has not proofread your paper, and you don’t expect him to, so he has no idea how much you’ve referenced his paper and disproved it. But you know how much it ticks him off regardless, the urge to tear through each of your arguments, even if logically speaking, arguing with you is  a waste of time. This degree of disorder is what drives him crazy. You sew chaos into his life as he does to yours, and as the entropy of a heating substance increases the entropy of its surroundings, so too does the tension-filled competitiveness from one of you, causes the other to maniacally lust to overpower the other. 

“Come on, read it. I know you want to.” You slide the paper closer to him, your hands sliding across the epoxy finish of the oak desk. “Unless… You’re scared I’m right.” He stares up at you with eyes the same hue of gold as the award trophies that line the shelves of his classroom, and cocks a brow. He stands up, leaning over the desk and moving his face closer to yours. His cologne almost overpowers your perfume, the musky scent of pinewood and berries he reserves for winter mixing with your vanilla scented perfume, and it sends you into overdrive.

“Oh? I think someone is too overconfident.” He remarks. You’ve noticed that there’s always something up his sleeve, something that he uses at the last minute to defeat you, but you’re getting better at recognising his patterns. And the way his deep voice becomes breathier, softer, akin to a snake’s sinister hiss, you understand that you’ve gotten under his skin. 

“You don’t think enough, Veritas, that’s your writing skills are bare bones and your papers hard to understand.” 

“Shut that mouth of yours.” He grits his teeth further, finally sitting on the edge of his desk and flipping over your paper. You let out a small laugh and sit at his chair. He looks down at you disapprovingly as you do so, but you pay no mind to the fact you’ve sat yourself down on his throne, because your paper will definitely take him down a peg or two. 

“In your bibliography, you spelt ‘accessed’ on your third source wrong.” He points out, taking a red pen from his desk and removing the cap with his teeth, circling the typo as you burn with humiliation. “Oh my, your spacing for the first page and last page are different. How irritating it must be for your readers to be accustomed to one layout and then switch to another.”

“It is just spacing, Veritas.”

“It’s more than that, dear, people like some organisation in their scientific papers. And your way of writing is chaotic! I should have known just by your handwriting and layout in sums.” He tuts, petting your head in faux pity just as you did to him seconds ago.  

“Read the damn paper, Dr. Ratio.” You grit your teeth, now irritated that you’ve dedicated hours and hours bashing him in the footnotes, researching just so he can get a taste of his own medicine, for you to be corrected on your formatting. 

“Patience.” There is something downright Dionysean about his voice, if it were a colour, it would be the seductive shade of red wine, and just as addictive. Addictive like the many times where you two have come too close for comfort, like the one time you two were locked in the storage closet together, and you felt his strong arms encase your body as he helped you push the door open from behind. Or this one time at a work event where he made fun of your table manners and swiped ice cream off of your lips to prove his point. It made you feel red hot, just like the colour of his voice, and the way he acts too hot around you, too excitable. And you wanted more. To make a man who is cold and reserved morph into a competitive beast  raring to go and one up you at every turn is no small feat. The dichotomy makes your head spin, and this side of him only you know wants to make you explore him more. And you know just from the way he cocks his head and slides off the desk, that he’s switching from sub-zero aloofness to scorching hot opposition. 

He grabs the arms of the chair you sit in to push it so far it hits the wall so you are cornered against the blackboard. 

“Actually.” He muses, tilting your head up and sliding your hair to one side. “I want you to read it.” He whispers, breath hot against your ear. “Read it, and I’ll give you,” he encircles your waist with one hand, “appropriate feedback.” 

He hands you the manuscript, and kisses your neck softly. His other hand, now free, unzips your skirt and you gasp as his fingers venture between your legs. 

“Start reading. You’re good at running your mouth, aren’t you? Let’s see how long that attitude lasts…”

[aswefindourwayback]

Sold to one direction 2013 (BAU's version)

Author's note: This is a literal joke and for fun and nostalgia. Also yes I know hazel eyes aren't completely green or anything but I've got limited emojis lol.

WC: 569

No warnings! Hope you guys enjoy!

You had just gotten home from a day at uni. 

You went to your room, covered in posters by bands like the smiths and radiohead. You weren’t like the other girls who had Taylor Swift and Harry Styles posters on their walls. You were… different. You were weird and quirky, so no one ever paid you any mind. 

You took off your beat up converse and put your hair in a messy bun. You looked in the mirror and analyzed the outfit you were wearing: a nirvana shirt, shorts, black knee high socks and a plaid flannel around your waist. 

All of a sudden your mom opened your door. “Mom, privacy? Knock next time.” 

“Oh you won’t have to worry about that. Pack your things.”

“What? Why? Are we moving?”

“I’m not. You are. We’ve sold you to pay for our trip to Bora Bora.”

With that, she walked out the door of your bedroom. 

Welp, you guess you have to start packing. 

After about an hour, you had all your things packed into 2 suitcases. You didn’t have much since you didn’t wear makeup and wore less girly clothes, unlike the other girls. 

You carried your stuff downstairs where you bumped into a tall, kind of broad build. You look up and are met with honey brown eyes. 

“Aaron Hotchner. Hotch. Is this all your stuff?”

“Y-yeah..” was all you were able to say. 

As this “Hotch” took your bags out to the car, you looked at your mom. 

“Bye Sweetie!” was all she said as she waved you goodbye with a smile plastered on her face. 

You walked out to the car and saw Hotch holding the car door open for you. 

“Prepare yourself to meet everyone.”

Everyone? Who’s everyone? What the hell is going on?

After a few hours of driving, you guys finally arrived at your destination which was…. An FBI building?!

“Woah mister, idk what kind of game this is but I haven’t done ANYTHING wrong. Okay I lied, one time I stole a pen from Jessica Anderson but that was because I really liked that pen and she stole my boyfriend but THAT’S IT. Oh my god I can’t believe I’ve already lied to the FBI. I SWEAR IM INNOCENT AND NONVIOLENT SIR IM SORRY.” you scream as you bury your face into your hands. 

“Are you done screaming?” says Hotch.

“Yup” you say, still hiding your face. 

“You’re not in trouble or anything.” You sit up straight and look at him, “I’m not?”

“No, this is where the team and I work. Come on, let’s go in.” The team?! What in the butt fuckery???

You guys walk into the building, towards the elevator and go up a few floors. 

When the doors open again, there’s another fucking glass door.

How many doors are there? Damn. 

“Most of the team are out at lunch but this…” he says walking towards a scrawny looking boy, not too far from your age, “is Dr. Spencer Reid. I think you two will get along well.”

Spencer begins to stand from his chair. 

He’s so tall he’s towering over you. It also doesn’t help that you are small and petite and fragile. 

His hazel orbs 🟢👄🟢 are staring into your soul. 

“Hi” he says giving you a smirk.😏 

“Hi” you say back.

Maybe getting sold by your family isn’t going to be so bad at all. 

[mcflymemes]

IN-DEPTH HEADCANON QUESTIONS * collection #1

when your muse enters a grocery store, what's the first section they walk to and why?

what would your muse describe as their "essentials" for life?

is your muse a note taker? list maker? do they keep their life organized, or are they more of a go with the flow type of person?

how passionate is your muse about recycling, and to what extent do they enforce this passion (i.e. never drinks out of plastic water bottles, has a reusable straw, etc.)?

what's one thing your muse has too much of but can't stop buying?

does your muse collect anything? where do they keep their collection?

if your muse could pick a song to play at their own funeral, what would it be?

how does your muse store and display memories? do they have a shoebox full of photos, polaroids hanging on the wall, etc.?

does your muse own and/or trust devices like alexa, siri, etc. and use them regularly? why or why not?

describe your muse's handwriting. do they prefer using pens or pencils? is their handwriting neat or messy? do they use all caps?

what's a quote that best describes your muse?

what's a quote that your muse tries to live each day by?

does your muse keep track of their family ancestry? why or why not? how much do they know about their family history?

does your muse have a green thumb, or are they a notorious plant killer? what's their experience with plants like?

what's one memory your muse wishes they could forget forever?

what's one memory your muses wishes they could relive over and over?

who is your muse's favorite person and why?

how does your muse prefer to listen to music (headphones/earbuds/record player, etc)?

if your muse could have dinner with three people, living or dead, who would they choose and why?

does your muse have any routines or expected behaviors throughout the day? if not, why do they avoid following a routine?

is your muse interested in celebrity gossip? why or why not?

what's your muse's niche interest that they could talk for hours about?

what are some popular foods that your muse hates?

what's your muse's favorite zoo animal?

what kind of texter is your muse? do they send multiple messages at once? do they forget to respond to messages often? do they use gifs? emojis?

what's your muse's favorite physical aspect of themselves?

what's your muse's favorite aspect of their own personality?

did your muse ever have an imaginary friend growing up? what were they like, and how long did they have them?

does your muse regularly check the weather, or do they play it by ear? do they keep an umbrella on hand? do they love storms, or fear them?

how would you describe your muse's aesthetic?

if your muse was handed a $100 bill and told to buy anything they wanted at the store, what would they get?

does your muse run hot or cold? are they always in jackets, or always sweating and asking for the air to be turned on?

at restaurants, does your muse prefer to eat inside or pick something in the outdoor seating section?

how are your muse's table manners? do they sit a napkin on their lap? do they know which forks and spoons to use? do they have any particular preferences at the dinner table?

[shaisuki]

SLEEP, SLEEP, SLEEP

ft. isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, itoshi rin, barou shoei

ᝰ synopsis .ᐟ falling asleep is nothing but when you say their name while asleep things change.

ISAGI YOICHI

“you can sleep here, (y/n).” isagi commented. your eyes droopy and a telltale sign of you being sleepy. patting his shoulder and you only nod.

“thanks, yoichi.” putting your head in his shoulder and you were off dozing while the train ride starts.

busybodies step off on the train platform. smoothing out your skirt to avoid someone getting a peek under those isagi could feel the softness of your thighs, a blush adorning in his cheeks at what he was about to do.

“yoichiiiii.” you whined and isagi froze. he awkwardly laughs, explanation in the tip of his tongue but it stops when he sees your sleeping face.

isagi's cheeks burned at the call of his name, followed by a smile. you were too adorable in isagi's eyes and he smiles. shaking his head. before holding your jaw to better sleep in his shoulder.

he was all smiles until the stop.

BACHIRA MEGURU

he's bored and he's looking for his own sort of entertainment and what's more fun to pull a prank to his chubby girlfriend's sleeping figure. draw a funny emoji's to your face.

his bright, yellow eyes widens in amusement, a pen in his hand and the tip of it is ready to create cat whiskers in your cheek not until you move and a word that stops bachira from what he was doing.

“meguru, love you....”his golden irises widening at your choice words and his heart swells of love.

bachira can't help but to chuckle and presses his forehead to yours. kissing the tip of your nose.

“i love you too.”

ITOSHI RIN

the screen coming from the television was the only source of light in the dimness of the room. a stephen king movie playing. rin's gaze remain fixated on the tv screen.

his expression remains stoic throughout the movie. his heart beat pumps a few beat. adrenaline running in his veins. the blood it was everywhere, watching as a character dies in the movie. he was in the most climax of the movie not until a voice interrupted him.

"rin." a familiar voice calls out to him and rin looks below him. his girlfriend fast asleep while the movie plays in the background.

did he misheard you, probably he didn't. it was your voice but you where asleep or his head is playing with his imaginations. too much horror movies, he thinks and rin continues to watch not until he hears you call again.

your head in his thigh and your hands holding the hem of his sweater. cheeks squished in his thigh and rin's heart made a badump sound.

placing his palm in your cheek, "rin." you call out again and a ghost of a smile appears on rin's face.

sighing, you're too good to be true sometimes. if only you knew how much he loves you.

rin just rests his palm into your cheek and caress the skin there. his gaze returning to the television screen and for the first time, he showed emotion while watching those horror films.

BAROU SHOEI

“oi, where the fuck are you?!” barou groans, you were supposed to be helping him clean your shared apartment but it's been half an hour since you went missing.

barou didn't need help with cleaning. he can get the work done faster but he can't refuse his girlfriend to help him and it would only get him the cold shoulder if he refused.

now, he's stuck waiting for you. rubbing the spot where mold and spores would gather when ignored. you were supposed to be bringing him the solution that would surely rid the annoying mold in days and his patience is running out.

his heavy steps echoed through the place. first stop in the bedroom and damn, he's right. your plump form sprawled in the bed while you slept.

he can see the rise and fall of your chest and barou kept silent. admiring his girl and for somehow his annoyance dissipates while looking at you.

“shoei....” barou's eyes slightly widens. his red irises scanning all over you if you're awake but you only changed your position to the side, your soft belly squished to the side.

another call of his name was heard and somehow barou's expression softens. are you that attached to him to call his name in your sleep and pride swells in his chest. you were truly made for him. a queen fit for a king.

maybe he could skip on scolding you for today. yeah. maybe. nope. you two are cleaning today and barou pinches your cheek.

“wake up. now” he firmly said and you whined from being disturbed in your sleep.

you only stare at him through your half-lidded eyes. trying to adjust your eyes to your surrounding.

“sho-chan.”

“we have to finish cleaning.”

“okayyyy.”

standing up and you wrap your arms around him. barou only grunts. accepting the hug you gave him.

“that's enough.”

“eh, stingy.”

a tick mark appearing on his forehead and you only laughed.

“we cleanin' now. happy? can i get hugs later?”

“yeah. after this.”

the little things for you.

[bridgertonnteas]

So groups of fatphobic & homophobic people have been review bombing & giving bad ratings to Bridgerton S3 on RT & IMDB

I wish I was shocked honestly, but I'm not. that doesn't stop me from feeling disgusted by everything regarding this and disappointed that some people in the fandom are like that too It is honestly upsetting to see all that hate the cast and show are subjected to

So, I came here to ask something from Bridgerton fans who like the show and want to show support for the cast & the crew few things that won't take much time to do but will help greatly!!

1-Leave good supportive comments under the cast members insta posts comments, just leave nice supportive comments or even leave heart emojis

2- Leave extra supportive comments under Masali Baduza (Michaela), Hannah Dodd (Fran), Nicola Coughlan (Pen) & Luke Newton (Colin). Masali & Hannah were getting spammed by homophobic comments and Nic & Luke were getting from body shaming to appearance mocking comments. at the moment I have seen people on twitter see the bad comments and also asked people to leave nice comments which I do see now more than this morning, but it still would be really nice and helpful to leave a lot of nice supportive comments because the gross people won't stop and might try to leave nasty comments on every post of theirs for a while

3- If you could please report the bad comments on insta & bad tiktoks you see regarding this because there are ones that are violently homophobic or body shaming ones that have lots of likes which is disgusting but with more reports those videos could be removed

4-As for IMDB & RT ( Rotten Tomatoes) sites, if you could report the weird reviews that its purpose clearly body shaming, homophobia, racism, and appearance shaming, then report those reviews because I have personally seen & reported some body shaming and homophobic ones

5-If you could give higher ratings and write normal reviews on IMDB & RT, it would also be appreciated because the ratings before that were fine then in less than 4 hours the ratings for the episodes on imdb & the season on rt went down which means that the season is getting review and rating bombing by groups of homophobes sadly like it was planned ( some ppl on FB & tiktok openly talked about making fake accounts to leave bad rating on imdb)

[archangeldyke-all]

slow living reader and sev having a baby? 🥹

AWE of course!

also! this is the fifth little blurb for this series so i'm giving it an emoji on my masterlist! 💐 lets do a little bouquet of flowers because i picture a bunch of wildflowers surrounding your garden :)

men and minors dni

sevika doesn't fuck around when it comes to your pregnancy. so while you're used to getting up in the early morning and spending a couple hours on your hands and knees in the garden and hauling wheelbarrows around your property-- the moment you find out you're pregnant, sevika puts you on a ban from all physical activity.

it's ridiculous. you're barely three weeks pregnant, and sevika's insisting on helping you carry a gallon of milk in from the goat pen. just a gallon.

it's sort of nice though. your baby certainly takes after sevika, if it's appetite is anything to go by. while you're usually happy snacking on snap peas and berries from your garden all day until dinner, where you eat a hearty meal cooked by sevika: now you're shoveling half a dozen scrambled eggs down your throat in the morning, eating through a month's worth of cheese and crackers in the afternoon, and snacking on spicy pickles when you can't sleep in the middle of the night.

sevika finds it hilarious. you guys buy a few more ducks to keep up with the rate your house is eating eggs.

as annoying as she is when she's insisting you don't do anything, she does a fairly decent job of handling the garden herself. after a few afternoons of standing over her to supervise as she weeded to make sure she didn't pull any of your crops on accident, she made a little custom set up for you in the garden: a big sun umbrella covering a reclining lawn chair, a battery-powered fan, ice-cold pitcher of water, and big bowl of sunflower seeds waiting for you each afternoon.

it's become your favorite part of the day: lounging and snacking and chatting with your wife while she learns more about the garden, one of your hands on your growing belly, the other reaching out to pull sevika down for a kiss every ten minutes.

the cats start becoming really protective of you. a few of the older mother goats do too-- recognizing that you're pregnant. you never have a moment to yourself once you start showing, there's always a cat or two standing on guard to make sure you're okay while you wander around your home.

what you used to call 'the cats room' is now your baby's. all the cat trees, beds, and toys have migrated to the basement to make room for a bunch of furniture sevika hand-made.

a crib that can transform into a kids' bed when the kid gets older, a dresser that can last a lifetime, a rocking chair and stool for you to nurse in, and a gorgeous bookshelf for you to fill with toys and books for your baby. sevika made it all in at her little woodworking station in the storage shed by the goat's pen. each piece of furniture is inscribed with a message that makes you sob each time you see it, a simple, sweet, 'for our sweet baby.'

you know that once the baby comes, it'll be a few years before you and sevika can fully adjust and get back to growing all your own food. so, you guys start stocking up on produce and meat-slabs from local farms nearby.

you don't make it to the hospital when the baby comes. you planned to deliver in the hospital, you wanted a fucking epidural, but your baby came out of nowhere a week early.

one minute you were laughing at sevika struggling to prune the watermelon vines, the next minute your water was breaking and you were going into labor right on the reclining chair you'd spent a majority of your pregnancy on.

it doesn't take long to realize that you're not going to make it to the hospital. you know something's wrong when you try to stand.

"sevika!" you gasp. she's staring at you like a deer in headlights as she holds you up.

"what, honey, what's wrong?"

"fuck, baby, i think it's coming now." you whine.

sevika sits you back down on the chair, helps you get your bottom half naked, then looks between your legs.

"is it bad?" you start to cry, the pain and adrenaline needing an escape.

sevika's panicked, you can see it in her eyes, but she doesn't let it show as she speaks. "it's exactly what it's supposed to be, baby. but i think you're right. i think you gotta push."

you start to freak out. "sevika! we can't have our baby here! it's the garden, there's dirt everywhere! we don't even have clean towels and fuck!" you growl as a contraction overtakes you. sevika's pressing kisses to your knuckles as you grip her hands. "sevika, you're not a doctor!" you cry.

she chuckles, reaches up to kiss your head, and then kneels between your legs again.

"i delivered the goats when marnie got pregnant a few years ago." she tries.

"i'm not a fucking goat!" you scream.

and then--

little tiny cries fill the garden, and all your pain washes away. sevika looks up from between your legs, grinning and sobbing, and then she stands.

and wiggling and screaming in her arms, umbliical cord still attatched, is your little fucker.

"it's a girl." she whispers, leaning down to pass the baby to you.

you take a shaky breath, and then burst into tears upon seeing your baby. she looks just like sevika. it's uncanny. "she's so fucking beautiful." you cry.

sevika wraps your baby up in her shirt, cuts the cord with the gardening shears, and throws your placenta right on top of the compost pile before she starts guiding the two of you toward the car to take you to the hospital.

you have to keep reminding her to drive-- she'll pull up to a red light and get distracted looking at you and your baby in your arms in the passenger's seat. you get honked at a few times, but you don't mind.

not when she's looking at you like that and you've got her baby in your arms.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @vikasub @glass-apothecary @m0numents @macaroni676 @vixel352

[illubean]

I saw ur celebrity Iso x bakery girl post and im in LOVE

May I req an art student!Iso x reader where Iso is roommates with another guy (either Phoenix, Gekko, or Yoru) and that dude has friends over with reader being one of them and tries to go find the bathroom but instead stumbles upon Iso's art room where he's painting away and doesnt notice reader? :3

And maybe reader leaves their number without him noticing until the guests all leave🤭💜

If You Need a Muse

Characters: Li Zhao "Iso" Yu Type: Fluff, Oneshot, Gn!reader

this request has sparked something within me... how do we feel about CeramicArtist!Iso smirk emoji also I changed the req just a tad bit >.<

Warnings: none

It wasn't often that your dear friend Jamie invited you over to his home. Your little group often spent time at Sunwoo's (who prefers to be called Jett) house or showed up at Ryo's uninvited. He was always too lazy to host or feared disturbing his roommate, but today he wanted for you all to play a console game he just bought.

You sat on the floor in front of Jett, who was on the couch battling against Ryo. You watched the game on the screen as you awaited your turn, as Jamie came from the kitchen with more snacks. Jett was currently losing, yelling and leaning into Ryo in hopes of throwing his game. You laughed before looking at your brown haired friend who sat on the floor next to you.

"We're not bothering your roommate are we?"

"Nah, I don't think he's home right now."

After about another hour of playing the game and eating junk food, you needed to use the bathroom. Setting your controller down you looked over to Jamie, asking for directions to the bathroom.

"It's down the hall, first door to the right."

You nodded, getting up and going on your way to find the toilet. You stopped in front of a closed door, pushing it open to reveal NOT a bathroom. You look around, taking in the room. It was well lit, the walls decorated with paintings in various sizes. In the center of the room was an easel, and a man standing in front of it who's gaze seemed to have shifted from the piece in front of him to you. He was wearing comfortable clothes protected by an apron, a paintbrush in one hand and palette in the other.

"Oh uh- Sorry. You must be Jamie's roommate, I was just looking for the bathroom."

He offers you a small smile before returning to his work.

"No worries, it's one door over."

From where you stood you couldn't really tell what he had been painting, but what you could tell was that the man himself was a piece of art. He had beautiful purple eyes and sharp features that you could almost believe he were a marble statue come to life. After taking him and the room in for a little longer you spoke up once again.

"Your art is very beautiful."

He looks up and smiles at you again before responding.

"Thanks. I'm working on pieces for my portfolio, though I don't think anything I paint could compare to your beauty."

You were left speechless as you felt the tip of your ears burn.

"O-oh. Thank you. I'll be- uh- going now..." You stuttered out, before turning and going back to your original task.

Find and use the bathroom.

After doing your business, you returned back downstairs to find that your friends switched to watching a movie.

"Geez, you took forever in there!" Jett complains.

"Did you take a shit or something?" Ryo asks, scrunching his face up at you.

The other two laugh at his statement before you give a response.

"I don't see how any of that is your business," you huffed. Instead of rejoining your companions in the living room, you make your way into the kitchen. There was a magnetic basket stuck to the side of the fridge with pens, some memo pads and sticky notes in them. You grabbed one of the sticky notes and a pen and begin to write your note. You look around for a place to set it as your eyes land on a coffee machine.

Bingo

The machine must belong to your friend's mysterious and attractive roommate, as you knew your friend didn't really enjoy coffee all that much.

You stuck the note on the bottom of a mug sitting underneath the machine before setting it back in place and finally returning to the living room.

{timeskip}

The next morning, Li made his way towards the kitchen for his daily cup of coffee. He would be headed off to class soon and needed a bit of caffeine to start the day. Jamie had already been up, also about to leave for class. After brewing his coffee and picking up his mug, ne noticed a yellow corner of a sticky note peeking out from the bottom.

Peeling the note off, confused, he brought it up to eye level to read.

"If you ever need a muse (or wanna go out :D) call me~ XXX-XXX-XXXX (Jamie's Bathroom Friend)"

A light blush dusted his face at the note. This had to have been left by his roommates attractive friend yesterday. He was so distracted buy the number written in front of him that he didn't notice Jamie peeking over his shoulder.

"That's why they took so long in the bathroom! Hah, looks like one of my best mates likes you."

The man gave his flat mate a firm pat on the back before going about his day. The light blush on Li's face darkened in embarassment at the realization Jamie had seen what was written. Drinking his coffee, he sat down and put the note in his pocket.

He would have to put the number in his phone later.

[xiao-come-home]

Can't stop thinking about Neuvillette not liking christmas at first and you finally warming him up to it & realizing whats important :(

A/N: next day update lmao as soon as i posted it i saw official Christmas fontaine art skull emoji there might be some mistakes bc i was very focused on writing the original idea i had in my mind. i really hope it makes sense in the end bc at this point i kinda fried my brain. merry Christmas!

Christmas time is surely a time that is treasured by many people. For Neuvillette though? A time when people pass him by so many times and greet him so much, that the judge has a hard time keeping track of how many heard him saying them back.

Green, red, blue, orange - the bright colors used to give the poor, young dragon a headache, when he first appeared on this world. The jarring sound of bells rang in his head many hours later, in the dead of night. Furina’s Christmas-loving attitude certainly made it more challenging, as „the Christmas spirit,” like she always called it, had to be present every year.

The young dragon yelped slightly when his hair got tangled in some Christmas ornament; Neuvillette can’t say how much time has passed until he finally got that damned thing out of his long hair. Once stepping past the familiar door of his home, the judge plopped on his bed heavily, letting out a defeated sigh. The moonlight from the tall window kissed his face gently, making him stare at the mountains far, far away.

„Just what is this holiday about?” Little did Neuvillette know, but this question was about to remain unanswered for a very long time.

Years, if not centuries have passed, having now the chief of justice has fully accustomed to the human tradition. He passes shop windows and stalls decorated with colorful Christmas lights, and now they don’t seem that hurtful to his eyes. „It is simply a human tradition,” is what occupied his mind every year during the gift-giving period.

Neuvillette sat by his desk, his orchid eyes concentrated on the paper in front of him; the pen in his hand danced between his index and middle finger.

Christmas lights - check. Ornaments - check. Christmas carols that lady Furina loves singing - check. Christmas gifts - check. Sweet pastries for lady Furina (decorated accordingly to the holiday) - check. Additional clothing provided for the patrolling melusines - check.

For Neuvillette, this is what holidays were for a long time. Nothing changed, nothing appeared new or grew old. And for some reason, despite everything staying the same, gave people the same amount of joy every year.

Neuvillette expected it to go the same way as before. Well, mostly - because now, he’s spending his holidays with you, therefore making the tradition a little bit easier to understand. The smell of the finest Fontaine dishes was the most distinctive for his nose whenever he entered his home, the blinking lights could be seen from the other side of the street. He knew you wanted to decorate the house like you always used to, but this year kept you extraordinarily busy compared to the last one, so Neuvillette offered his help with the matter; your joy was more than convincing, giving the dragon’s heart a lovely squeeze in his chest.

He didn’t know that he owned so many ornaments until that day. He examined various pieces with caution, the way they glittered in different angles, and truly experienced how much of it stayed on his hands later on instead. He more than often paid attention to you rather than decorating, noting to himself that your eyes shine even more vividly than any other plastic sprinkled with glitter. He discovered how much your smile grew even more heavenly whenever you found a good spot for your wooden reindeer.

It would be a lie if Neuvillette said he didn’t enjoy preparing for this year’s upcoming celebration.

Now that he was the one ruling the nation of Fontaine, it was going to be his first Christmas without Furina and Focalors’ active presence.

And the day has finally come.

The fireplace kept crackling gently, hugging you two with comforting warmth. Neuvillette watches you rummage through your gifts, smiling to himself when you gasp blissfully, exclaiming that none of it was necessary, but it’s clear you’re enjoying it more than he ever could... except it's a lie.

Your eyes are absolutely mesmerizing with the shining lights around the room. Green, red, blue, orange - every color accents something else, that he yearns to watch over and over again. The bells that hung on most of his doors ring every time you move, causing his head to turn to the direction the sound came from - it means you’re nearby. Although he got better at avoiding his hair getting tangled in wintery trinkets, nowadays a laugh can be heard, before your hands swiftly take it out and place it on a table nearby. An unwise thought appeared in his mind, to clutter his hair with some other accessories, if it meant to hear you laugh once again. Instead, his hand travelled to one of his gifts - a thematically accurate hair clips - that held his hair nicely and allowed him to come home with fewer unwanted bibelots.

Earlier that day, Neuvillette’s eyes softened at the sight of melusines’ fluffy clothes embracing their tiny bodies. Some of them waved their gloved hands at the Chief of Justice during his walk to provide Furina with her favorite cakes, some of them scolded him for not wearing a scarf, while offering their woolen hats - to which Neuvillette politely declined. He kept thinking of Furina possibly overdoing her sweet tooth - so made a mental note to remind her to eat sensibly and not to open her gifts right after he leaves.

It takes him a while to truly realize in what state he’s in.

He did not need to have any list this year, no - it seemed to come naturally.

And it no longer felt like a chore.

„What’s got you smiling so much, hmm?” Your playful tone is evident in your voice, and the feeling of your elbow nudging his side is present right after. Neuvillette embraces you tightly, placing a sweet kiss on your forehead, and lets out a relieving sigh.

„I suppose this is what the holidays are truly about. Merry Christmas, ma chérie.”

As simple as it sounds, the kindness and small things matter more than anything when you have someone’s best interest at heart.

[drvmekoo]

regroup | jeon jungkook [prologue]

summary: drifting away from your best friend is never an easy thing to deal with. it's a good thing a very important project is forcing you both to regroup.

➳ pairing: jungkook x reader (f)

➳ genre: college au, fluff, angst, smut (eventually)

➳ rating: 18+

➳ warnings: there's no smut in the first part (sorry!) but there will be so beware! just a mention of s*x in this!

➳ wc: 0.9k

➳ author's notes: so this is my new fic! i have no idea how many parts this will have but i swear i will try and update as soon as possible! i hope you enjoy!

PART ONE | PART TWO

“There you are! I was starting to think you weren’t gonna show up!”

You greeted Namjoon as he sat beside you, plonking his textbooks on the desk in front. The lecture hall was starting to fill as the time drew closer to the hour. 

“Please don’t start, I feel like I got no sleep whatsoever last night.” He rubbed his eyes “Jimin and his stupid friends decided to throw a party on the floor above and I swear I heard like four couples have VERY rough sex by the constant rhythmic thudding.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling “What were they even celebrating? It’s literally the middle of the semester? Exams haven’t taken place, right?....right?” 

It was Namjoon’s turn to laugh as you panicked, digging through your diary and frantically flipping through the pages for any missed dates. 

“Relax, they were probably celebrating not getting caught skipping all their classes or something.

You both burst into fits of laughter, people turning towards you as you pushed Namjoon away comedically. Wiping your tears, both of you calmed down as the lecturer walked in and started to step up at the front of the hall. As you got your laptop out, the booming voice of the professor travelled across the room 

“Everyone, please take your seats! Let’s get started! Today is a very important day!”

The room quietened down and people seemed to settle in their seats at this command. 

“Now as you know, you all have a very big project coming up, weighing over 60% of your overall grade.” The lecturer started “Of course, one of the key skills this course observes is collaborative work. Which is why-”

The bang of the door abruptly interrupted his big announcement, as a tattooed figure rushed in.  “Sorry, sir…I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He smirked as many beading eyes stared at him while he climbed the ascending stairs to an empty seat.

“Jeon Jungkook.” The professor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why am I not surprised? 

Jungkook leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders, not evening bothering to get even a pen from his bag. 

The lecturer cleared his throat “Just…please don’t interrupt me again.” 

“You got it, boss.” Jungkook winked cockily.

Namjoon leaned over to you, both observing the encounter like the rest of the hall, and whispered  “What an ass.”

You didn’t reply. Knowing Jungkook for a big part of your life, it saddened you that he had adopted this new, arrogant persona since starting college. You had once known Jungkook as this shy, kind and respectful guy, your best friend who would visit your house every day. Both of your parents thought it was a great idea that both of you were attending the same university.

How wrong they were. 

Something switched between you two in the summer before college. Jungkook stopped coming over, stopped answering your texts. He barely spoke to you even when your families met together. On the day of moving into the dorms, you both planned to celebrate by going out to dinner but instead, he ditched, texting you a simple ‘i’m a little busy. maybe another time?’

No emoji or anything. 

And from that day, you guys haven’t spoken at all. Not one word. 

It seemed like the Jungkook you once knew and loved had gone. 

“Anyways.” The professor continued “As I was saying, this project will very much focus on a joint effort between two students. Which is why each of you will be paired with another in this room. You both will have 3 weeks to complete and submit this project.” A murmur echoed across the room as he continued “Details of this assignment will be posted later today on the student forum and your partners will be emailed to you tomorrow at 8 am.”

The lecturer carried on talking for 20 more minutes, running over the exceptions for the project as well as answering any questions some students hay had before dismissing everyone. 

Namjoon turned to you as everyone packed up and filed out. “Imagine if we got each other? That would be such an easy A for us both huh?”

“That would be so lucky, ugh fingers crossed!” you replied, putting away your laptop and diary. “Hey, I’m kinda hungry. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

He smirked shaking a phone in your face  “Already ordered the chicken nuggets!”

- 

[8:03 am] joooon: HAVE YOU CHECKED YOUR PARTNER YET? THEY JUST CAME IN

[8:05 am] joooon: I got jin which is cool! he’s really smart!

[8:08 am] joooon: hello? who did you get??

Namjoon's text alerts felt so far away as you stared at your computer screen. This couldn’t be happening to you. Why you of all people? Just why?

Hi Y/n, 

You have been paired with Jeon Jungkook for this assignment. 

Remember, this is 60% of your grade! So work hard!

You weren’t a violent person usually but you’ve never wanted to punch your computer screen more than at this moment. How did they expect you to work with someone who hasn’t even so much as looked at you since the summer?

You were fucked. Royally fucked. 

Another chime sounded from your phone. You sighed, deciding it was time to text Namjoon back and tell him the bad news. 

But instead, you were met with something else. 

[8:11 am] Maybe: jungkoo: So, when do we start?

read part one here!

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[bellysoupset]

I cannot find the ask for this, but to the anon who requested sick Wendy + Max caretaker, here you go!!

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

"Marshall, you've gone over your hours," her supervisor had squinted at her in a tired manner, "again."

She was a resident doctor, meaning Wendy's hours were split between clinic, or more often than not ER in her case, and specialized clinic, where she took the neurology cases and discussed it with fellow residents and her supervisor.

Problem was, Wendy had taken half of Jon's general clinic hours during his three weeks away. She had figured it wouldn't be an issue, given those were up for grabs and she'd get a considerable pay bump that month...

"No, I didn't," Wendy pouted, rubbing at her forehead and drumming the pen impatiently against her notepad, "I did my math, I didn't go over 80 hours per the week..."

"You got Patterson's double shift last Monday and came in an hour early every day this week. That puts you at 96, Marshall," her supervisor, Dr. Jones, was a woman in her early sixties, who always looked annoyed, "I'm putting you on leave for the rest of the week."

"What-" Wendy's eyebrows jumped up, "you can't do that, ma'am-"

"The hospital cannot afford all the hours you think you can do," Dr. Jones glared at her, "and frankly, Marshall, it's neither financially feasible or healthy. Push me on this and I'm gonna request your psych eval."

Well, shit.

Really, what was there to even say?

Wendy's frustration at being forced away from work dragged during most of morning, until Jonah had sent her a string of laughing emojis when she told him about it and the text, You're pissed because you got a free vacation? get out of my sight Dee and Bella had sent her a middle finger followed by go FUCK YOUR BOYFRIEND, WOMAN!!!!!

Her mood had cleared up considerably as she was forced to realize this meant five uninterrupted days of waking up next to Vince and eating her boyfriend's cooking and getting dicked down until she forgot her name.

Her bag was 70% just lingerie and Wendy had put on her best matching set under her outfit — beige flared jeans, chunky white heels and a sage green frilly crop top, with silver jewelry — all but bouncing to her car. She had turned up the music and ignored the drumming behind her eyes.

By the time she got to Doverport, though, her headache had escalated enough to cause Wendy to shut the music off. She had taken the max dosage of tylenol already and her stomach was iffy from a mix of hunger and too much medication, since she had skipped lunch when trying to get to the town before the school day ended, so she could wait for Vin in the parking lot.

She was glaring at her phone, trying to will Vince to answer her text, when the screen lit up.

P.Mgnt: you're here???

This caused Wendy to pout. She had expected a more enthusiastic reaction than this.

Wendy: sorry?

Vince was typing back an answer immediately.

P.Mgnt: I'm sorry honey, I'm happy you're here. I just can't go meet you right now, I'm stuck in detention duty :/ I'm gonna be here for another hour :(

Ah, shit. Wendy rubbed angrily at her forehead, the throbbing there increasing considerably. It was a warm day and she really didn't want to wait in the parking lot for another hour... She just wanted him.

She considered telling Vince she wasn't feeling well, maybe he'd find another teacher to watch the kids, when another text came in.

P.Mgnt: Go ahead to my place. Get a shower and catch up on an episode of 911 , i'll be there soon🥰

Wendy sighed heavily, feeling a knot form in her throat and her eyes burning. The text wasn't dismissive and she knew it was only one hour and that she had dropped by surprise, but it still sucked and she really just wanted him.

Her headache spiked to the point it it felt like an actual physical drilling on her left eye and Wendy bit back a groan, getting inside her car once more. There was no kidding herself this was just a headache anymore and she felt even closer to tears, it was so unfair she got a migraine right now, of all times.

Not only that, but a sense of urgency overtook her. If it was a migraine, she needed to get to Vince's place quicker, before her brain forgot how to drive and was too busy attacking itself in a constant pain loop.

With something closer to a whimper, Wendy started her car.

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

Max Daniels was not a snoop, he'd like this in writing.

Sure, he had been very curious when he saw Vince's cute girlfriend in the parking lot, but instead of staying to meet with her boyfriend she had gotten in the car back again and left.

And sure he was tailing her, but that was only because the shortest route to his own place was through the main avenue and he was not about to take the longer way just to avoid her.

And yes, when she turned the emergency lights and pulled over on the side of the road, he had pulled over as well, but that was called Being A Nice Person, after all he knew the woman. What if she needed help?

He was currently sitting in his pickup, staring at Wendy's car and trying to figure if it was completely out of line for him to approach her or not. Vince wouldn't be pissed Max had tried to be nice to his girl, right? He didn't seem the jealous sort, but then again he had bitten Max's head off for less regarding the woman and he had been all sarcastic that one time Max hit on Wendy, before he knew who she was.

Why wasn't her getting out of the car, anyway?

With a frustrated sigh, Max got out of his own pickup and circled Wendy's pale pink sedan, until he was in front of the driver's side. She was crumpled forward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel and flinched visibly when Max knocked on the window.

His curiosity only grew as he saw her bloodshot eyes and Max jumped back as she pushed the door open and squinted at him, "yeah?"

"You need help, gorgeous?" The nickname rolled past his tongue, before he could think better of it, "you turned your emergency lights."

"Uhm-" Wendy pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead like she wanted to push her eye in its socket, "car-" she gulped down, frowning, "carsssmakin' a weird noise..."

Max's frown deepened, noticing the slight slur of her words, "are you okay?" he asked, really taking in her appearance. Her lips were pale and she looked close to the color of spoiled milk, eyes rimmed red...

"Mmm'kay," Wendy groaned, then a small, cute little burp shook her frame and she squeezed her eyes shut, "S'ry..."

Max was well versed enough with puking to recognize nausea from a mile away. He stepped to the side, but crouched down to touch her arm, "you're feeling sick?"

She nodded, gulping down, without opening her eyes and Max winced in sympathy, looking around her car. There was a suitcase in the backseat and a frankly ridiculously looking Stanley cup sitting the cup holder. Max chewed on the words, hesitantly, before saying, "would water help?"

Wendy shrugged, the hand that was pressed to her forehead digging in even more, so much it looked like she was gonna leave a bruise there. Max reached in and grabbed her cup, opening the lid and sniffing at it. Monster Energy, great. No wonder she looked sick, just smelling that made Max's stomach squeeze, he couldn't fathom drinking it.

He needed a new plan, because Wendy was leaning forward, elbows on her knees now and breathing slowly through her mouth, condition deteriorating by the seconds, "were you headed to Vince's?"

She nodded, then let out another little burp, this one not as dainty, with a brassy tone to it.

"Alright, hurl and then I'll drive you there. I can come back for your car later," Max decided by clasping his hands and the clap noise they made caused her to flinch, then another burp snuck up on her, this one turning wet... She whimpered and cradled her head with both hands, while Max moved further away so his shoes wouldn't get covered in vomit.

"Get it up, gorgeous, you're gonna feel better in a second," he figured her stomach was rejecting all that energy drink, as his own would've been, and planted a hand on her back, looking around to give her some semblance of privacy. It was a sunny day and the main avenue was quite busy, cars continuing to go past them.

Under his hand, Wendy's shoulders rolled and she let out a little choked, "Oh god-" before heaving and nearly falling from her seat. Max cringed, glancing down and noticing her wavy hair getting in the way, so he carefully held back her curtain bangs, just in time for Wendy to vomit. A small light brown puddle formed on the tarmac and Wendy let out a burp again, before melting into a coughing fit.

Max grimaced as he heard another whimper, then a gag, "there you go," he moved his hands so his left one could cup her clammy forehead, "get it up."

She nearly fell out of the door with the next heave, whole body lurching as a much bigger wave came up and splashed on the ground, causing Max to internally curse as the tips of his brown boots got splashed with puke.

Then Wendy went boneless.

He let out a yelp as she collapsed forward, only not falling because he was holding her, and puke be damned, Max crouched down in front of her, "Wendy, Wendy, hey-" he said frantically, patting her cheeks, "Wendy, c'mon, don't do this to me, open your eyes."

It was just a small black out, she started to straighten up again, but Max's heart was now in his ears. He couldn't believe his luck if girl died on him. He pushed her hair back, no longer trying to be gentle, hating how white she was, "Wendy?"

"Sssstop-" she grabbed his wrist, whole face scrunching up with pain, "talkin..."

He snorted in disbelief. Some nerve she had to tell him to shut up!

"Well, fucking excuse me if I'm worried! If you die on me, your polar bear of a boyfriend is gonna have my head!" Max glared at her and Wendy opened her eyes. He knew they were pretty, but he couldn't remember their color. Now he saw they were a beautiful dark green shade, currently welling up with tears, "wait, no- No, don't cry-"

"Stop. Talking," she said strongly, as tears ran down her cheeks and gritting her teeth, "hurts..."

Oh.

Max felt stupid and embarrassed, his whole face turning red as he understood why she was shushing him. He wiped the tears with his thumb, trying to collect his thoughts. She needed to be lying down in the dark, not sitting on the side of the road with a puddle of puke in between them.

"C'mere," Max whispered, grabbing her arms and throwing them around his neck, silently praying she was too out of it to comment on how touchy he was being when they were basically strangers. There was no other way of getting her out of that car, "hold on me," he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted Wendy out of the car.

It was a good thing she was so tiny, because he managed to lift her up entirely, so she didn't clumsily step on the mess. She was panting in pain against his ear, burying her face in his shoulder, body tense as a slab.

"Almost there," he stumbled forward with her, all but bracing against his pickup. Max opened the passenger door, then cringed, "sorry, uh- Excuse me," he mumbled, then hugged her waist and lifted Wendy up to sit in the passenger side. Whatever misplaced intimacy he was feeling, was promptly ruined by her gagging and burping up a small stream of puke, down his shirt.

Max froze, while Wendy's forehead pressed to his shoulder, like she couldn't lift up her head. Her shoulders were shaking as she sobbed and he rubbed her back, "it's alright, gorgeous, don't even worry about it," he sighed, straightening her up to rest against the passenger door. It was terrifying how quickly she had become unresponsive, "I'll just put this down in Vince's tab, don't stress it."

He leaned over her, grabbing his shades in the glovebox and then planting them on her face. Wendy let out a little sigh, body melting slightly, "t-thanks..."

"Yep," he grimaced at the mess in his t-shirt, wanting to remove it, but worried it'd make her uncomfortable if he was shirtless around her, "I'm gonna lock your car, be right back."

At her car, he grabbed her purse and suitcase in the backseat, her keys still in the ignition and then stripped his shirt, using her Monster energy drink to wash off the puke. He'd rather be smelling like that than vomit. Then he drove her car further to the dust shoulder and turned off the emergency lights, locking it.

Wendy was curled up as much as she could in the passenger seat and Max squeezed her knee in a friendly manner, before driving off.

[spaceorphan18]

The Lady Whistledown Papers: 1x06 - Swish (Part 2)

Welcome back, Gentle Readers, to The Lady Whistledown Papers, where I’m taking an in-depth look at Penelope Featherington and Colin Bridgerton’s character arcs and romance within the show Bridgerton!

For previous issues, follow tag : The Lady Whistledown Papers

Skipping over, like, ten minutes of Daphne and Simon sex. Look, I know it looks hot, but I don't recommend doing it outside in the rain. But that's just me. Maybe it's your thing. You do you, boo.

Anyway...

Violet

Can we talk about the beginning of this scene for a second? One of the things I truly love about Bridgerton is the family dynamics, and all of these little insights we get into the family. Gregory and Hyacinth are arguing over a ribbon and Benedict is really stepping up and being 'dad' because Anthony has other things going on, and meanwhile Eloise is just grabbing food and Violet is reading the morning newspaper and it really doesn't matter if it's 1824 or 2024, some things don't change in families, and I think that's kind of cool.

Colin trepidatiously walking into the dinning rooms screams kid who is coming out of his room after being grounded for the night. Also, the timeline is weird on this. So... we know time has passed because of the sex montage (btw - are Simon and Daphne Saphne? Why not Dimon? I feel like then you can use the little diamond emojis for them anyway...). Time has passed. Whistledown needed to be written and released. Has Colin just avoided his family for that long? Is that why he's being that sheepish about approaching his mother? What has he been up to for the past twenty-four hours?

I just had to include the family shot. Violet is pissed. Eloise is delighted. Hyacinth is like - yo, you made the news!!! Which, is funny, because according to the books, Whistledown mentions Colin, like, every other issue. How no one figured out Pen was Whistledown or her feelings for Colin just continues to crack me up. I understand why they didn't, but man it would have been entertaining if someone at least mentioned how often Colin ends up with Whistledown -- and be like, we don't know who she is, but she sure does love Colin.

Also love that Benedict is like - okay, everyone out, Mom's gonna yell at Colin now, and as much as we'd love to watch that, we probably shouldn't... The only unrealistic thing is not one of them going -- no, I want to be here and watch the drama. You know they're all talking about it in whatever room they've relocated to.

Continuing on our theme of how Colin is still very childish in nature... the FIRST thing he does when he sits down is apologize. Again. Violet does not look happy. And Colin, the child who probably didn't get disciplined all that often (or at least not from Violet) is backpedaling a little, and wanting to make immediate amends. He doesn't want to disappoint his mother. (He doesn't want to disappoint any of his family, really) But his whole demeanor here is -- kid who was caught getting in trouble and is now facing the consequences of his actions.

Violet mentions that she's glad she knew (about 2 seconds) before Whistledown reported it. Which is kind of funny because technically, Pen did know before her. But the point is -- just as Anthony was shocked by the development, so is Violet. It does feel out of nowhere.

Colin digs in his heels (stubborn man that he is) and throws out that maybe if Violet hadn't been so caught up with Daphne, she'd have seen that he was courting Marina all season. Which is very much a... you're not paying enough attention to me because of your other children... moment. And I can only imagine that in a family that size, fighting for your parents' attention is a thing that does happen.

And it's not even about attention in this minute. It's about being taken seriously. Colin is in that awkward time of late teens/early twenties where you just want everyone to think of you as AN ADULT(TM) and most people still think of you as a child. Colin's feelings feel very real to him, and while Violet and Anthony (and hell, maybe even Pen gets it) may still laugh and shake their head and go - boy, you still young yet, he doesn't feel that way.

And I mean, I'm not discredit Colin's feelings here, either. Because they are real. He does feel attachment to Marina. He does find her attractive. He does want to explore what a relationship is with her. And he does want to play out all these romantic fantasies he has. BUT. His his inexperience is showing. Because the infatuation he has with Marina is more idyllic, and not built in reality, commonality, and a deeper bond the way it will be with Penelope.

Violet says something key here -- first of all, I need to point out that even if he doesn't feel like it, and even if she is a bit preoccupied with Daphne, Violet is paying attention to all her children. She does get her children. She was well aware Colin was enjoying flirting with Marina. And it's brought up that he flirts with lots of girls. But the key element is that he never acts on any of it. The flirting is just a part of his personality, the way cracking jokes and being kind are. It's how he relates to others. He's charming.

But the thing is the whole charming thing can feel - hollow - for him. Especially when he wants to be taken seriously. Serious people in love are - charming - or - funny - or flirty. (Oh, poor Colin who has people like Anthony and Simon for role models. And Benedict, who is more like him, and who is taken even less seriously at times). Colin comments that no one takes him seriously except for Marina.

Which... isn't true. Because we all know Pen takes him seriously. And, really his other does, too. And we all know Marina isn't being altruistic with her seriousness. But Colin is really only seeing what he wants to see here. Which leads me to a thought I should have brought up in the convo about Anthony ---

The more people don't take him seriously, the more Colin decides he's in some kind of Romeo and Juliet type scenario. He almost wants it to be like that, which again, is another romantic fantasy, where he and his love can run away and be happy together, and face the world on their own despite all the people telling them no! But again, the youthfulness is on display here. Because Romeo and Juliet is not a romance to aspire to.

Violet does make the comment that she's never seen him so solemn and serious. And I am curious as to what she means here. In the last day or so? In the past few weeks? Whatever the timeline is, I think it's telling that Violet has noticed this. Colin is the type of person who you wears their emotions on their sleeve. And as much as he can withdraw when upset (sensitive soul that he is), the lack of a more jovial and lighthearted Colin is always a tell.

And I think that's another key aspect to letting Violet know that something is off about all of this. Colin, ultimately, isn't happy. Sure, he's frustrated here because (he thinks) he's in love and wants to get married and achieve his romantic dreams. But he's in love with an idea. And he doesn't want to face that fact when Anthony and Violet are kind of pointing that out. He just wants to be in love.

But being in love with an idea means you are ultimately unhappy with it. It'll never measure up to what you want it to be because it's not real. And I mean -- clearly real love comes with its own set of issues. But here, the simple act of being in love really isn't bringing him the joy it should be -- and that is telling.

The thing about Violet is that she is a sympathetic and kind person at heart, who is trying to take him seriously. She may not love this idea, but she will support him in this if it's what he really wants. Yeah, it's the 1800s, and there are all these extra societal components that layer on, but I still think she comes off as a mom who will let her kids be her kids. She'll direct them when she feels she needs to, but she allows them to make their mistakes and live their lives. And she's not perfect either, but she does try.

I also love the very honest end to this scene, where now that Daphne is married and out of the house, the reality that Violet's kids are moving on is hard. They've always been a unit and they're starting to fracture off, and that change is difficult.

I also love that, in a way to bring levity, and make his mother feel better (because he is an empathetic little soul) he jokes about Violet having her hands full with Eloise. And, you know, good luck with that. (Which is also such a sibling thing to say/do. I LOVE the sibling dynamics of this show.)

Anyway, this is such a sweet little scene, and I love that we get some Violet/Colin stuff, because while there isn't much of it -- it's always good. This episode is so good... there's so much!!

[sillyvampireboi]

A new letter, in my electronic mailbox!

AO3

Summary: Armand starts receiving loads of love letters to his electronic mailbox, as he calls it, after the success of Daniel’s book, bombarding his useful iPad with notifications.  Why do strangers “love him” so much? Writing such intimate letters to him? While Daniel never writes anything. He must find out. 

contents: pov Armand, first person, Armand x Daniel, fluff, slight angst, slight emotional hurt, comfort, romantic, armand needs some love and reassurance!, he is sad meow meow

a/n: I just want some happiness for Armand ok? Also this whole fic was born from musings with @okaytosave <3 I hope you’ll like it :D | 👁️^👁️ <- this is Armand as emojis. No one can change my mind

let me know if you would like to be tagged :)

-English still isn’t my first language-

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

New era, new technology. New pace of life, new social norms. 

I saw the slow death of my mortal life’s world dying, inventions, religions and ideas popping out of thin air, countless wars and and even more deaths. The rotting of old academies which were the only acceptable faiths a few years prior, abandoned places and cities that were used for more polished ones’ base, art styles changing, fashion and garments changing, dialects changing, languages changing. Changing, changing, changing. 

Ever since I opened my eyes under the eternal night, I knew that change will be constant while I remain the same. This rotation happened rhythmically, slowly, inevitably, leaving enough time for its creatures to adapt. However as we waltzed into the 20th century, this sleepy melody began to alter. The music sheet decided to rewrite itself, to twitch here and there like a beetle on his back, but still following the original melody with these slight changes. 

Then came the 21th century, with his new suit and confident lettering. He glanced once onto his fathers’ theme and murdered it with a steady move of his pen. The tune turned from the unhurried pace and formed into a metallic scream. 

Changing, changing, changing. 

This one word has never been more true to any other century than this present one. 

My interest first started to grow with a funny device called the telephone. I could speak to someone in France while I was in any other part of the world with it! As years danced by me, I witnessed that same machine evolve. First it shrank. Got smaller and smaller, until at last I could put it in my pocket. 

Then came the ‘Internet’. It changed even more things in this racing century and— 

“Are you still looking at those emails? Really?” - I heard Daniel’s low vibrato next to me. We were laying on our shared bed in our new apartment. Long, thick curtains framed the windows, now placed on either side of the pale blue painting that was the sky. The blinking stars were invisible in this new hour, covered by the polluting light of the streets. 

Oh my sweet, seeing through me Daniel. He knew what worries or excites me without being able to read my mind. He simply sees me for what I am.

“Ever since you published your book, mortals keep sending me letters. People I don’t know nor have ever met. I don’t understand how they know my address.” - a loud snort was the only answer that Daniel honormed me with. He was covered with our heavy blanket that he liked, reminding him the warmth and comfort it brought him when he was still a human. As the owner of all the pillows, even mine, he was half laying - half sitting while he was scrolling through the application called twitter, now renamed as X. Not a smart decision in my opinion. It’s always been more flourishing for a company to have some kind of unique or catchy name. 

“Daniel, beloved, please listen to me. — for a moment he glanced at me, the half amused expression in his eyes with his half mocked eyebrow that jumped up on his forehead — Yes, I’m still looking at these ‘emails’. I’ve been browsing through these letters and many of these individuals have been referred to me as ‘little meow meow’ and ‘dear’ or ‘demon kitten’. Please love, what does it mean? Of course, I know what kitten and meow means, however I still fail to understand how these apply to me. But Daniel, what do they mean by ‘demon’? Is this a reference to my vampire nature? If so, I would ask you to tell your followers it’s not true! Love - why are you laughing? 

Daniel’s laugh filled my ears, borrowing a giggling sensation into my body. I loved his laugh. His sarcastic wheezings were frequent and without a stop, falling like rain upon a curly head. His good hearted laughs like this however! They felt like a special occasion of my heart whether I made him laugh or not. Although I felt my dead heart skip joyously when I caused his self forgetting roar. 

“ It’s because of your face.” 

“ My face? I don’t look like a cat! I’m far from it.”

“ They think you look very pretty and adorable. Like a little kitten, who can’t do anything wrong.” 

“ ….Are they the only ones who think I look pretty and adorable?” 

“ Flirting with me huh? Are you looking for compliments, now that I’m your fledgling? You know well how I feel, I don’t need to spell it out.” 

But I don’t! Please say it! I need to know! Please please please! I can never be so sure in my or your feelings. I can lull myself into the lie of love as I did with Louis, but I'm so tired. Fatigued by the endless knot of loneliness around my neck, please spell it out for me! 

I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Just stared at him silently with my usual expression of calmness as his face was illuminated by the light of his phone. I know my face was the perfect practiced mask, but I assume my eyes showed a glimpse into my turmoil because Daniel’s features changed.  

He put down his phone, somewhere amongst the folds of our bedsheets, and oh so gently he held the left side of my cheek in his palm. I leaned into his touch immediately, melted like snow under the mellow heat of the sun. He pulled me towards him and hinted a kiss on my other cheek. 

I slanted towards him, wanting more, not simply the only child kisses here and there, but the whole family and its storm. I wanted to be devoured by his all so consuming love, finally melting out of the ice I've buried myself in. 

“ I love you.” — heard my love’s voice close to me. He placed another kiss on my eyelids, the most intimate part of the body. How frequently do you see someone’s closed eyelids? When they are in deep sleep, flying among their safe dreams? — “ And no. They are not the only ones who think you are pretty and adorable, just so you know, you dickhead.” 

Ah my dear Daniel with his sinful tongue! I relearned with him how it feels to laugh and smile. 

I giggled into his traveling lips, suddenly shy to deepen the kiss. — “ Apart from ‘not the only ones’ , who else thinks that I am those things? I haven’t seen electronic letters from my starred address. 

“Oh, so this is what annoyed you, is it? I’m not rescuing the princess with my typed out words. Will he let down his hair too, if I go to the lengths to send a raven to him ?” 

“Hm! So why this stranger, who sent 5 separate letters to my electric mailbox, all of them detailing an adoration towards myself, could express more appreciation to me then you? 

“ You think I don’t appreciate you? I rather spend my night with more useful things than typing out words I can tell you. We live together, remember? “ 

“ You are on your phone all day beloved, harassing that American ex-president with the yellow wig—“ 

“ Come on, that’s besides the point. I don’t need to send detailed emails since I share a bed with you, Armand. I can tell you how I feel, just like I did now. .. Is that really so important to you? “

I huffed and silently stood up with my iPad. He doesn’t understand. It seems so insignificant to him, such an unimportant act. Of course, he is capable of speaking and expressing his care to me in his own ways, which I really appreciate that we can talk through, but …. 

“ Hey, where are you going?” — Daniel’s voice followed me faintly as I floated out of the window, towards my destination. 

~~*~~

I was standing in front of an apartment complex, with many tiny apartments inside. As I was blinking under the streetlamp, I saw many of them wrapped in shadows at that late hour, but the one I needed still bathed in a faint yellow light. 

How the streets and buildings changed within this century! Seemingly, in a blink of an eye. All life, all beauty and art disappeared from the newly built systems, and lazily leaked into the sewers. Oh how far we got from the Medicis! 

With my iPad still in my hand, I effortlessly opened the front door and floated upwards without a sound, in the center of the zigzagging stairs. 

On the floor, I knocked on the plain white door, which wore the same lifeless appearance as its partners. 

“Who could it be that late?” I heard your soaring thoughts, grumpily addressed to me. It felt like years until you opened your door, so leisure were your movements. Upon seeing me, many different emotions washed over your fragile form, from the first surprise to the blushing anticipation. It seemed like you lost your voice, so great was your astonishment. 

“We’ve never met. I don’t know you, why did you send this? Explain it to me.” — I opened up the Pandora box of my questions, showing your own letters to you on my iPad. 

You just stared, mouth slightly agape, looking between your own words on my screen and my face. As I waited for your answer, my gaze traveled behind you, into your cozily stuffed home. Right in front of me on the wall hung a huge mirror, reflecting me in the weak light from the hallway. My eyes were huge as usual, staring into space while the rest of my face was emotionless. 

I waited and waited and waited, yet you still haven’t talked, merely your skin got redder, your veins pumping your sweet blood into your head with a thundering noise. 

“Pay him no mind.” — all of the sudden I heard Daniel’s deep voice behind me. Looking up into the mirror I saw him lazily leaning to the wall, crossing his legs and arms in a ‘I don’t give a fuck’ fashion as he liked to call it. He was wearing his black, leather jacket and little round sunglasses, which I fancied seeing him in. — “‘He understands parasocial adoration from the old word, he is just your boomer’s boomer.’” 

I felt blood traveling to my cheeks, heating up my cold skin. I saw myself blushing under Daniel’s amused gaze. He lifted his eyebrows in a ‘what now pretty boy?’ way. My blushing was followed by a surprised oh, then I remembered that I was still angry at him, so I knotted my eyebrows to show clearly my frustration. 

“Daniel I have the right to inquire about such letters regarding my self. Parasocial isn't the word that I would - Excuse me for a moment” — here I turned away from you, looking Daniel in the eye — “ I still await an answer from them. And Daniel this is the last time I tolerate your stalking while I pursue- “

“Look who's talking about stalking, Miss Stalker. Also, you left without a word. I thought we had a moment of trauma bonding.” 

“Daniel, I need to know..” — I trailed off, seeing a sudden notification on my lock screen. 

A new letter, in my electronic mailbox! Its title said: ‘Here is your first love letter, fake Rashid’.

I felt my muscles loosen and tighten on my face in a warm, familiar way. I felt my lips dancing, my blood chuckling and the air from my lungs tittering outward. 

“You sent it to me?” 

“Yes I did. And just so you know, there is more where it came from. I didn’t know it was so important to you, Armand. You’ll get my ‘love letters’ princess. 

You, who were of the utmost importance to me a few minutes ago, were locked out of my mind. The only being I saw was Daniel. Daniel smiling at me. Daniel mocking me in a sarcastic adoring way. Daniel waiting for me and holding my hand. 

Daniel, Daniel Daniel, Daniel. 

He pulled me, waltzing away with me into the cool night, back to our home. Our home. What a nectary taste it has on my tongue. 

I felt myself flying while still stepping on the dark earth, laughing unselfishly under the invisible stars, still holding Daniel’s hand, feeling the ice melting inside my heart. 

~~*~~ 

The sun woke behind the blotchy buildings of the era, smiling away the cold shadows. Daniel already slept sweetly in our room, awaiting the next sunfall. 

Only a day passed since his first letter, however my electronic, organized folders were filled with his chaotic letters. 

‘Here is your 27th love letter, fake Rashid’, I read that morning. 

I’m pretty sure he meant to annoy me with the number of ‘emails’ he queued to be sent. Instead of annoyance, they became a sacred prayer I waited every day. I’ll need to buy more space to store them securely. Or I could print them out, hang them on the wall. It would irritate Daniel so much! 

After reading his 27th letter, I ambled into our bedroom. He was deep in his vampiric sleep, laying on his back, still as a corpse. 

I climbed next to him, throwing my arms around his neck and stealing kisses all over his cold face and lips. 

“I love you Daniel.” — I whispered into his ear as I snuggled into the crook of his neck. “Thank you for your letters.” 

[blueskrugs]

Kiss Him Goodbye at the Door | Nick Blankenburg

this fic is for me and demi @wyattjohnston​ specifically but y’all can read it, too

I’m obsessed with blanks these days, and I’m not mad about it. have fun. 

length: 4.2k words

It starts like this:

It’s posted everywhere: Twitter, Instagram, on the doors of Yost. A few fliers even appear on the bulletin boards in the dorms. Your roommate tears one down and leaves it on your pillow, because screenshotting the Instagram story and texting it to you wasn’t enough to tease you about your little crush on the new captain. 

It’s a raffle of some kind, you’re pretty sure. You crumpled up the flier left on your bed without really looking at it, and you’d texted Samantha back the middle finger emoji instead of reading the screenshot. Something, something, self-preservation. 

You know the hockey players tangentially, in the way that they all move in packs of backwards snapbacks and seem to make hockey their entire personality. You see them around campus, you see them on TikTok, and you go to games when you can. You try to avoid them as much as you can for your own sanity, honestly.

It’s getting harder to avoid them when Blankenburg’s smiling face seems to be following you around campus.

You hear Jacob Truscott talking about the date raffle in one of your classes a week or two after it’s announced, early in the fall semester. You’re the same major as Jacob, and you seem to share at least one class a semester with him. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t know you exist.

“Blanks is so mad about it,” he’s saying to whoever is nearby and will listen. “Apparently no one asked him about it beforehand, but he can’t back out now.”

You know Blanks even less than you know Truscott, which is to say not at all. You don’t turn around to ask Truscott any questions about it. 

You come home from classes that afternoon to a stack of raffle tickets on your desk. 

“Sam, I’m going to kill you,” you yell, even though your roommate is sitting at her own desk five feet away from you. You leaf through the little pieces of paper; there’s six of them, which had to have cost like $30. You’re not paying Samantha back if she asks. 

“They’re all in your name,” she says, not looking up from her notes. You throw a pen at her head. 

You never should have told her you thought Blankenburg was cute.

Three days later, the team Instagram posts the winner of the raffle. You tell yourself you’re not going to check. You last less than an hour before you open up the app to check. There, in big letters on a cute graphic is your name, followed by the winning raffle number that is apparently on one of your tickets. You carefully sift through them to find the right one and take a picture of it to send back as confirmation.

You get a “Congrats!” DM back minutes later. There’s a follow-up message about how someone will reach out to you in a few days with more information. You double tap the message and toss your phone to the foot of the bed, suddenly uncomfortable with the whole thing.

It had been kind of funny while it was all theoretical, but now it’s startlingly real. All you can think about is Truscott laughing while he talks about how much Blankenburg didn’t even want to give away the stupid date. You wonder if it’s too late for you to back out, ask them to draw someone else’s raffle ticket. Make it all someone else’s problem.

When you dig your phone out of your blankets later, you have another notification from Instagram: nblanks98 has requested to follow you. 

You don’t even follow Nick yourself. You accept the follow request and quickly hit the follow back button, too. You put your phone back down before you start waiting for a DM that will probably never come.

You’re in class the next Monday when someone taps on your chair from behind you.

“Hey,” a voice says, tapping on your chair again with a pen. Truscott. You turn around and raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re the girl who won the date with Blanks, aren’t you?”

Truscott isn’t quiet, and you know there’s a few other people around you listening in. You can feel yourself blushing. 

“Yeah, I guess,” you say.

Truscott grins at you. It doesn’t feel very kind. “I knew I recognized you! Blanks is pretty excited about it, he was showing everyone your Instagram.”

You remember again what Truscott said about Blankenburg and the raffle. The team had played at Yost over the weekend, but you’d avoided the games. You imagine Nick showing everyone your Instagram afterwards, the things they might have said about you. You blush harder. 

Truscott barrels on, seemingly not noticing. “I’m Jacob, by the way.” 

You don’t bother introducing yourself, since apparently Jacob knows exactly who you are already. “My roommate bought me the ticket,” you blurt. “She thought it would be funny.”

To his credit, Jacob’s grin doesn’t falter. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a great time. Nick’s a really good guy.”

You’re saved from having to say anything else by your professor starting class. You turn back around. 

You escape the room as quickly as you can when class ends, desperate to not be cornered by Jacob again. You know he’s going to tell Nick what you said. Maybe he’ll end up canceling on you, after all, save you both the embarrassment. 

You don’t get quite so lucky. You get another DM later that afternoon from the team account, asking if you’re free that Thursday evening. You can’t come up with a good excuse, which is how you end up agreeing to a date at 6:30 in three days. Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re supposed to wear. 

Thursday comes too quickly. Your plans with Nick are casual, and you’re nervously standing outside of Cottage Inn in jeans and a sweater when Nick appears, looking just as nervous as you. He looks as if he’s not sure if he should shake your hand or hug you; he settles for pulling the door open and gesturing for you to go first. 

It’s not until you’re seated across from him that you realize that neither of you have actually spoken. 

“Hi,” you say, “by the way.” Your laugh sounds awkward to your own ears, and you cringe at yourself. 

On the other side of the table, Nick’s shoulders are stiff, even if he forces a smile in your direction. You can’t help but notice how cute he is still, even though you wish you couldn’t. You’ve both ordered sodas, but you’re aware of the fact that Nick’s a couple of years older than you. You feel young, small. You pull the sleeves of your sweater over your hands. 

Nick peers at the menu in front of him. “You do like pizza, right?” he asks, suddenly worried. 

You laugh again, and it sounds more natural this time. Nick’s shoulders relax the tiniest bit. “Yes, I like pizza,” you say, “I wouldn’t have agreed to come here if I didn’t.”

Somehow, the words are a mistake. Nick’s glances up at you, tense again. 

“Wouldn’t want you agreeing to anything you don’t want to do.”

“Is this about what I said to Truscott?” you ask. You should never have said that. Nick hesitates, then nods. “After I heard him saying that you never wanted to go on this stupid date in the first place?” It’s not an exact quote, but it’s close enough.

Nick’s eyebrows furrow. “Did he say that?” It’s your turn to nod. “He shouldn’t have said that.”

“Was it a lie, though?” you challenge.

Nick looks sheepish. He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Maybe, no, I don’t know.”

“My friend only bought me so many raffle tickets because she knew I had a crush on you,” you admit. “And then Jacob said you’d been passing around my Instagram, and I was just worried about what you’d been saying about me.” 

“Oh,” Nick says. “Wait, you have a crush on me?”

You take a drink of your soda to avoid answering. Nick is looking expectantly at you when you set your cup back down. There’s a small smile on his face, the first real one you’ve seen out of him. “Forget I said that.”

Your waitress suddenly reappears, asking if you’re ready to order. Why couldn’t she have come back five minutes ago to save you from embarrassing yourself?

“Oh, uh—“ Nick looks up at you, then down at his menu, then back at you. “Can we have some more time?” he directs at the waitress. He beams at her as she walks away, then turns that smile on you. To you, he says, “Can you pretend you like me long enough to eat?” He nudges his foot against yours underneath the table, leaves his ankle pressed against your own. It’s a joke, and it eases some of your nerves.

You stick your tongue out at him. It takes longer than it should to agree on a pizza—“No mushrooms, God”— but you end up ordering a pizza and cheese bread. Conversation is easier after the menus are cleared away, and you can stop bickering. 

Nick seems disarmed, and he asks questions about your classes, seems genuinely interested in the answers. It’s easy for you to talk about the things you’re studying, and you almost forget the awkward start to the evening. Almost. Nick never gave you a real answer when you asked if he’d been lying when he’d been complaining to his teammates about this date.

You let it slide—for now. You’re desperate for this date to be at least mostly-bearable, and you don’t think you could stand going back to the uncomfortable tension from before. You ask Nick about his classes—International Studies sounds terribly boring to you, personally—and the hockey team this year, and you watch as Nick absolutely lights up as he talks about them. You’re not sure how anyone could enjoy language classes as much as Nick seemed to have enjoyed taking Swahili, but there’s also a reason why you’re in the School of Kinesiology. 

The pizza is eaten before you know it, and you’re busy laughing at a story Nick’s telling about some of the freshmen at practice from the week before. The restaurant has cleared out and filled up again around you, the early crowd you’d arrived with come and gone. You feel a little weird letting Nick pay the bill, but he doesn’t give you a chance to argue.

Nick checks the time on his phone. It’s not too late, still; you’d made tentative plans to do something else after dinner, but never got much further than that. You’re still not sure how much time Nick actually wants to spend with you. 

“So,” he starts. Here it comes. “How do you feel about bowling?” 

“Huh?” you blurt. You finally process what Nick said. “Oh, God, no. I’m terrible at bowling.” You dropped a bowling ball on your foot at your cousin’s birthday party once when you were, like, five, and you’ve been anti-bowling ever since. 

Nick’s laughing at you across the table. You kick him, and he just laughs harder. “Okay, no to bowling.” Nick slides out of his side of the booth and holds a hand out for you. 

You stare at it for a second before carefully placing your hand in his and letting him pull you to your feet. Nick drops your hand as soon as you’re standing next to him. You try not to miss it. 

“Okay, how do you feel about arcades?”  Nick asks next, leading you out of the restaurant. 

“There’s an arcade in Ann Arbor?” you ask. Nick shoots you an amused look over his shoulder. “I mean, sure.”

After another brief argument over the best way to get to your next destination, you and Nick end up cutting across campus to get to the arcade. Pinball Pete’s, Nick had called it. Nick walks close enough to you that he bumps into you sometimes. You bump him back.

It’s chilly now that the sun has gone down, the beginnings of fall in the air. You shiver in spite of yourself. You feel Nick looking sidelong at you for a moment, before he’s hooking his arm through your crossed arms and reeling you in close. You shiver again, but you’re not sure it’s because you’re cold, anymore. Nick’s warm pressed along your side, and the rest of the walk to the arcade passes in a blur. 

Nick leads you inside Pinball Pete’s with ease. It’s dim inside, lit with lots of neon and dad rock playing faintly overhead. Nick bobs his head to the music as he walks in front of you. It’s not very crowded—it is a random Thursday night, after all—but you and Nick are far from the only ones inside. Nick stops abruptly, and you, distracted by watching people flit between games around you, nearly walk into his back. 

Nick turns, startles a little at seeing you standing so close. He blinks, but barrels on.

“Where do you wanna start?” he asks. 

You’re a little overwhelmed, actually. You eye the air hockey tables behind Nick. “How good are you at air hockey?” you ask.

Nick grins at you. “Only one way to find out, eh?” he asks. 

You both step over to a free table. You watch as Nick fiddles with the buttons, trying to figure out how to turn it on. The serious look on his face is kind of funny, brows furrowed and lit up with green and pink neon. The table whirs to life, and Nick looks up at you, catches you staring. 

“What?” he asks. 

You shake yourself. “Nothing.” Nick flips the plastic puck onto the table. “You’ve been here a lot?” you ask. You whack the puck back towards Nick.

Nick doesn’t answer at first, concentrating on rallying, but he shrugs. “I come here with the guys sometimes instead of studying.” You score, and Nick gives you a dirty look. He points his mallet at you accusingly. “Quit trying to distract me.”

“I wasn’t!” you protest, but Nick’s throwing the puck back onto the table and you have to focus again. 

You both lapse into a comfortable quiet, only broken up by chirps, after that, focused on the game as the goals stack up. You end up beating Nick—three times. He beats you at skeeball twice, though, so it kind of balances out. Not enough to keep you from teasing, “Aren’t you supposed to be good at hockey?” You have to dodge Nick trying to put you in a headlock for that one, both of you cracking up.

When Nick finally feels vindicated enough by his skeeball wins, you bounce around the retro games lined up along the walls. Most of them are single-player, and you and Nick take turns watching each other play. 

Nick’s cute when he’s focused. He catches you staring more than once; he might be blushing in the dim light. But you catch him staring just the same in between your attempts at Pac-Man, so you’re even again. You’ve all but forgotten the stiffness in Nick’s shoulders at the start of the date. You even forget the reason why you’re on the date in the first place, until Nick opens his mouth.

“Hey,” he says, as you step away from a pinball machine. “I kinda promised the social team I’d get a picture of us tonight. Proof we both followed through, you know?”

There it is. The reminder that you both thought the other didn’t want to be on this date in the first place. 

“Yeah, of course,” you say. 

You help Nick set up his phone timer up in a spot with decent lighting. You stand close, carefully leaving a few inches between yourself and Nick. Nick puts his arm around you, his hand hovering above the small of your back. You smile as the flash goes off. You’re not sure if it looks as fake as it suddenly feels. 

You wander a few steps away as Nick swipes through his phone, presumably sending the photo off to be posted on the team Instagram. The awkwardness is back, palpable in the few feet of space between you. You don’t want the date to end, no longer interested in getting in and out as quickly as possible, but you’re not sure you can take much more of this fakeness.

Nick steps behind you again. His chin is close to your shoulder, and you do your best not to flinch.

“So, what’s next?”

You could ask Nick to take you back to your dorm. You’ve both played your parts for the night. “Have you ever played pool?” you ask instead. 

It turns out that you’re both pretty shitty at pool. It’s enough to ease the tension between you again, laughing at each other’s mistakes and playfully nudging each other out of the way with your bodies and your pool cues. 

When Nick finally walks you back to your dorm, he drapes an arm over your shoulders, and you let him. It’s getting late. You attempt to hide a yawn against Nick’s shoulder as you walk. Your attempt is unsuccessful, judging by Nick’s quiet huff of laughter above you. 

Nick walks you all the way to you door. He grabs you gently by the elbow before you can unlock your door. You twist in his grip to look at him. He’s standing close, his easy-going smile gone. 

It’s late enough your hallway is deserted, but anyone could walk past. See you standing too close to the captain of the hockey team. You don’t step back, don’t wrench your arm free. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Nick asks softly. 

“Only if I can ask you one first,” you counter. Your roommate Sam is no doubt eavesdropping on the other side of the door. She’s probably been obsessively tracking your location all night. It doesn’t matter. You need an answer from Nick on this.

Nick hesitates, but he says, “Sure.” His grip on your arm tightens. 

“Did you mean it? When you told your teammates that you didn’t want to go on a date with me?”

Nick winces. “I only said that before I knew it was you,” he protests. 

“That doesn’t make it better,” you argue.

“I was just worried that it would be awkward and weird.” You can tell Nick’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes at you.

“It was awkward and weird,” you point out. Nick winces again. You try to cross your arms, but Nick refuses to let go of your arm. “I spent most of the night worrying that you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

Nick opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He’s quiet for a long moment. “I worried the whole night about you not liking me,” he admits.

You heave a sigh, tilting your head to the ceiling and letting it thump against your door. You squeeze your eyes shut so you don’t have to look at Nick’s face when you say your next words. “I literally told you I have a crush on you, dude.”

You feel a hand on your face, Nick’s thumb gently tilting your chin back down to look at him. “But you told Truss—“ 

You sigh again. “He’d just told me you’d passed around my Instagram to the team, I was thinking about all the ways you all could be calling me ugly.”

Nick’s gaze softens. “I would never let that happen,” he tells you seriously. After spending the evening with him, you think you believe him. “For what it’s worth, I thought you were pretty cute, too.” You stare at Nick in disbelief. “Can I ask my question now?”

“I think you just did,” you tease.

Nick does roll his eyes at you this time. He presses closer, boxing you in against your door. “I have another question then.” You open your mouth, probably to make another smartass comment, but Nick talks over you. “Can I kiss you?”

You shut your mouth again, taken aback. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, uh—“ Nick let go of your elbow at some point. You’re still standing in the middle of your hallway. You wind your arms around Nick’s neck and say, “Go for it.”

Nick grins and leans in. You’re just starting to settle into the kiss, the feeling of Nick’s lips moving against yours, your fingers playing with the curls brushing the nape of his neck, when your roommate jerks the door open. You’re only saved by falling by Nick’s fast reflexes, his arms tight around your waist. 

You turn to glare at Sam. She grins innocently at you.

“Quit making out in the hallway,” she says. “Have some dignity.”

As if you didn’t see her making out with some guy she didn’t know in the middle of a party the first week of classes.

Nick tugs you upright before letting go and stepping a respectable distance away. You huff and take his hand. He’s blushing hard, visible even in the washed-out glow of fluorescent lighting.

“Nick, this is the bitch who bought all my raffle tickets, my roommate Sam,” you tell him. “Sam, you obviously already know who Nick is.”  Sam’s grin sharpens. “Don’t,” you warn, but you are ignored.

“Oh, I know who Nick is alright, you’ve only talked about how cute he is for the last two years we’ve lived together.”

Next to you, Nick lets out a startled laugh. “Good night, Samantha,” you say pointedly. Sam winks at you and disappears further into your suite. You pull the door shut again for good measure.

“Can I see you again?” Nick asks. He pulls you in again, kissing you quickly one more time. 

You pretend to think about it. “You sure are asking a lot of questions tonight, Blanks,” you tease. Nick pinches you on your side, where your sweater has ridden up underneath his hands. “I guess we can make something work,” you say. Nick tries to pinch you again, but you squirm away, giggling. You pull your phone out and pass it to Nick. “You’re going to have to text me, though, no more lurking on my Instagram.”

Nick laughs, but does as he’s told. He kisses you against the door one last time before he leaves for good measure.

You’re waiting for class to start the next morning when your phone lights up with a bunch of notifications: umichhockey has tagged you in a post, nblanks98 mentioned you on their story, and a text from Sam with a picture—judging by the image preview, you’re pretty sure you know what it is.

You click on the notification for Nick’s story. He’s reposted the hockey team’s post, the photo you took at the arcade the night before. He’s added his own caption—same time next week??—followed by a string of emojis that probably only makes sense to Nick. 

You click through to the post so you can like it, then swipe backwards, back to Nick’s story. You click the little heart to like it, too, before swiping up to reply to it. I think I told you no more Instagram lurking. Nick’s already texted you a bunch of times—you’d managed to stay up too late talking to him, tucked underneath your blankets—but it’s nice to be able to tease him. Nick’s still active, and you watch the three dots appear and disappear for a second before you get another emoji, this time the one winking and sticking its tongue out.

Sam’s sent you a screenshot of the Instagram post, followed by a string of smirking emojis. You ignore her, but peer closer at the photo for the first time. It turned out pretty good, actually. Your smile doesn’t even look fake.

Someone pokes you in the back. You know without turning around that it’s Truscott. You turn around anyway. Jacob had grinned at you when you walked into the classroom, and he’s grinning at you now. His phone is tilted away from you, but you’re pretty sure he has the team Instagram post open. 

“Date went well, huh?” he teases. 

You stick your tongue out at him. “No thanks to you and your big mouth.”

Jacob looks like he’s about to argue, then reconsiders. “Well, it worked out, didn’t it?” In the front of the room, your professor is getting ready to start class. “I’ll see you around, yeah?” Jacob asks. 

You sit in front of Jacob in this class three times a week, and you’re pretty sure you share at least one other class this semester. “Yeah,” you say anyway. You know what he means.

You’ll be seeing Nick again, for sure, and you have a feeling that means you’ll be seeing the rest of the hockey team a lot, too. Your phone vibrates with a new text from Nick. You grin and tuck your phone away, finally turning around and focusing on class. You guess it did work all work out after all.