girl.exe

🎀✨ master list my ao3

[bubble-tea-bunny]

hi hi so small announcement/notice thingy 

i’m not taking requests and idk when/if i will in future, so requests sent to my box are not being responded to. ++ i get quite a few asks along the lines of “can you write for x character” and while not an explicit request, since i receive it relatively often, i don’t want to clog my dash w answering it over and over. the answer for this kind of question is a firm maybe. it’s really down to if i feel like it tbh

[k4tattck]

me while writing: ah yes, this character should do this, it feels so natural with what they're saying

me while editing: why the FUCK does he lean on the doorway SEVENTEEN TIMES IN THIS CHAPTER

[bubble-tea-bunny]

a good neighbor

[joe "bear" graves x reader]

author's note: not done w it yet but i watched most of six last week and for some reason the inspo hit me like a train lol

word count: 4,440

The townhome feels a little too large when Joe first moves in, but he tells himself that’s only because he’d grown accustomed to the hotel room he was staying in previously. It’s a nice place: a newer build, open concept with updated appliances, vinyl flooring, and plain walls ready to be painted whatever color he wanted. He had already grabbed a few paint samples at the local hardware store, intending for this to be the first order of business to start making the space truly feel like his, but he has yet to get around to it. Perhaps unsurprisingly, work has kept him busy, and on the weeknights and weekends when he does get to sleep in his own bed, he’s too tired to do anything. The white walls are a little hard on the eyes, however, so he’d dropped by the thrift store for decent enough framed paintings to hang up. 

One is of a sailboat at sunrise, and it’s placed on the wall by the front door. He sees it in the mornings when he drinks his coffee while leaning back against the granite countertop, and he thinks about how nice it would be to float out there on calm waters, waves lapping gently at the boat, a gentle rocking encouraging him to rest. He’s long since settled into the chaos of his job, capable of enduring high intensity situations for days at a time, but after it’s all said and done and he’s driving back home with a podcast playing quietly on the speakers, he has never yearned for the peace of a painting like that more.

Even though it’s been a while since the separation, he’s still trying to get used to returning to an empty house. It made it difficult to fully relax, for he couldn’t get past the inkling that something was missing. Alex had taken him out for a drink multiple times, attempting to get him to socialize and loosen up, but it was never successful. Joe just didn’t find a night out like that a sufficient means of recharging the way Alex did; it seemed to take more energy out of him than anything. And when Alex finally accepted this was the case, he clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. You just need to find a hobby that leaves you fulfilled. Then he’d offered to bring him surfing, and Joe shrugged his hand away as Alex laughed.

After that conversation, Joe decided to return to his woodworking. He made a small end table of stained maple wood and it stays just beneath the painting of the sailboat. On top of it is a thrifted lamp and a bowl for his keys. This outlet for his creativity certainly helps, and while he’s not fully settled in, he knows he’ll get there, slowly but surely.

The cup of coffee he’s brewed this morning is perfect, and he sips at it as he looks at the painting and the end table in the living room, as he usually does. His gaze slides over to the window, the blinds having been opened to let the daylight in, when he sees a moving truck pass by. From here, he can still see the back of it where it has pulled over on the curb; it’s parked in front of the house next door.

His townhome had been one of two available units in this community, both previous owners deciding to sell at the same time. The other was slower to sell, and while Joe never saw any real estate agents showing it to interested buyers, he owed that to the fact he was probably out of town when they were. He’d had an idea in his mind that he could get a look at the people who were thinking about buying and guess whether they would be good neighbors.The neighbor he already has on his opposite side is nice enough, friendly and quiet, minding his own business, so Joe only hopes whoever is moving in is much the same. 

He sees who it is when he’s leaving for work an hour later, walking down the front steps towards his truck just as you hop out from the back of the U-Haul. You’re dressed comfortably in sweats and a hoodie, hair tied up to keep it out of your face. You and a couple of other people are carrying boxes from the truck into the house, but then you notice him just on the other side of the fence and smile.

“Hi!” you call out. You lift a hand to wave, but the box you’re holding is seemingly a bit heavy and it nearly tumbles to the ground when you do that. You quickly lower your hand back down to steady it, laughing sheepishly.

Joe smiles politely, waving back. “Morning.”

That’s the extent of the exchange, as you’re clearly preoccupied with unloading and he’s clearly on his way to work. He pulls out of the driveway with one more glance over at you. He wonders if you’re the only one moving in and if you might feel the space is a little too large for you too.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Joe finds out the answer just a couple of days later. It’s Saturday and he’d fallen asleep on the couch by accident last night. Work had wrapped up at a reasonable time and he took a raincheck on drinks with the guys, preferring to enjoy some time alone and relax. That was supposed to look like an ice cold beer and a replay of the Thursday night game he missed, but he only got as far as one sip of the beer and five minutes of the first quarter before he dozed off.

The doorbell wakes him up and he rubs a hand over his face, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. The television displays the home screen and the beer, still full and at room temperature and seeming very sad, is on the side table where he left it. 

“Just a minute!” he calls out before whoever’s at the door tries to ring the bell again. His voice is gruff so he clears his throat as he stands. He’s not sure what time it is, so he’d like to make it appear as if he hadn’t been sleeping, in case it’s later in the morning. Or afternoon? Geez, he hopes not. He’s been tired recently but he doesn’t think he’s been that tired.

He opens the door to see you on the other side. A full head shorter than he, you’re in a matching powder blue linen set, still dressed for comfort but with more intention than the outfit you’d worn on move-in day. But your smile is still the same, eager and bright and in close competition with the sun which has fully risen behind you, beckoning in what is quickly looking to be a beautiful day.

“Hi! I’m [Name]. I moved in next door”--you nudge your head in the direction of your house–“though I suppose you already know that.” You chuckle and hold a hand out. “I just wanted to drop by and say a quick hello.”

Joe smiles and takes your hand, shaking it firmly. It’s so soft compared to his. He tells you his name and says it’s nice to meet you. “Hope you got settled in all right.”

“Yeah!” you respond with a nod. “Still unpacking, but I’m getting comfortable. My cat, not so much. She needs a little extra time.” You laugh lightly. Joe’s chest tightens slightly at the sound, just for a moment, and then it relaxes, like a sigh.

He chuckles. “Well hopefully she takes a liking to the place too.”

You’ve also brought a small gift, and before he even registers what you’re holding he thinks that’s very sweet of you to do. It’s chocolate chip cookies, arranged neatly in a cellophane bag and closed with a pink ribbon. Very sweet of you indeed. Baked them myself! You stand straighter when you state that, clearly proud of your work.

He takes the bag with an earnest thank you and notices small scratches on your wrist and the back of your hand. No doubt the handiwork of your cat. After a bit more small talk about where you’ve moved from (only a few towns over, so you’re familiar with the area; you moved to be closer to your new place of work), you part with friendly goodbyes and see-you-around’s. 

Joe watches you walk down the steps and towards the sidewalk so you can return to your house. This isn’t how he’d anticipated his day starting, but he certainly won’t complain. It’s a relief to know his new neighbor is as agreeable as the one on the other side, and you’re easy on the eyes to boot. So it’s with only a hint of resistance that he hopes, just a tiny bit, that you won’t fully mind your own business and maybe mind a little bit of his too.

There’s six cookies. He tries one and barely suppresses a groan at the richness of it. You definitely had cause to look proud when you said you baked them. And so, having been thoroughly vetted, he brings the remaining five with him to work on Monday to share with the rest of the guys. Consider it an apology for not going out on Friday.

Alex doesn’t miss the pink ribbon, but then again, could they call themselves SEALs if they didn’t notice the details? “Who gave you these?”

“New neighbor.”

The curiosity in Alex’s eyes shifts and is replaced with something a little more mischievous. “And?”

Joe knows what he means but plays dumb anyway, not entirely willing to answer. “And what?”

“Is she cute?” Robert elaborates before Alex does, smile slowly growing on his face. It’s rare their leader is ever flustered, so it’s enough of a treat to see him like this and give him a little ribbing.

Joe shrugs, nods once. “She’s all right.”

Ricky pats him on the back before reaching into the bag for a cookie. “That’s Bear speak for very cute.”

The others laugh, and Joe speaks up to be heard above their teasing. “And too young for me, let’s just get that straight right now.”

Alex doesn’t look convinced. “I dunno, man, chicks these days dig older guys.”

“And what if I don’t have a thing for younger women?” Joe asks, brow raised like he’s gotten the last word in. “What then?”

Alex is unshaken. “You don’t sound like you believe a word you’re saying.”

The teasing resumes, and Joe can only sigh and let the guys have their fun. Partly because they’re never ones to let a chance to rag on each other pass, and partly because Alex might be right. You’re not so young that he’d view you as a kid, you have moved into a townhome alone and with a good career to pay for it after all, but he’s confident you’re at least ten years younger, and while such a gap is not totally questionable, it still feels strange. The only relationship he’d been in previously was with a woman only a couple years his junior, so the fact your ages don’t even start with the same number leaves him hesitant to acknowledge you as anything more than the friendly neighbor who can bake really well.

It’s difficult though, and through no effort on your part. You wave every time you spot him, usually when you’re getting home from work just as he is, though in his case, he tends to be returning after a few days away, sometimes several. He told you he’s in the Navy and his job has him out of town for days at a time, but he never got more specific than that. You could tell he kept it vague on purpose, so you didn’t pry. Thank you for your service, is all you’d said, having returned at a later time to give him brownies since he mentioned enjoying the cookies, and he’d like for you to maybe thank him in another way.

Such thoughts come a little too easily for comfort, and he tries his hardest to push them away. You’re too young he reasons (you’re not). You’re just being polite when you bring over baked goods he considers (you don’t do that with anyone else). And then, when he’s exhausted the list of excuses, he settles on You’d never return those feelings anyway. It doesn’t matter what Alex had said. You may not be one of the women to fall under that umbrella, and Joe sure as hell isn’t willing to compromise what is an amicable, arms distance friendship just to find out.

Besides, you’re at the age where you seem to be mostly focused on your career. You work remotely a couple days a week and he can see your home office from the kitchen window. Between operations, when he’s home in the middle of the week, he spots you there, sometimes with a headset on for meetings. You’re lasered in on the tasks at hand, and your cat stays close by, napping in the tree you’ve put in there for her. 

And it’s pure, honest to God coincidence that he’s seen you bring guys home on a few separate occasions. They all appeared to be around your age, which was another point against you potentially liking someone like him. You’ve probably got a lot of energy to burn, and though his line of work keeps him fit, maybe it’s not enough to keep up. (He’d still like to try though.)

He thinks about what you might sound like in the throes of passion, if you’d try to keep quiet or let it out freely. He envisions the bliss etched across your features; the softness of your skin pressed against him; how warm you’d feel as he pushes into you. Would you hold him close, hook your legs around his hips, and beg for more? The space between you is an ocean and he envisions himself to be in your bedroom with you, not some random guy you probably picked up at the bar. But instead, he’s in his bed alone, staring up at the ceiling with a raging hard-on and begrudging the fact you leave him feeling, quite embarrassingly, like a horny teenager.

You continue to drop by with homemade treats every now and then, which Joe deeply appreciates (and so do the guys, since you always make enough for him to bring for them after he mentioned having a team). And one day when you come by on your lunch break, and he has rationalized his next action as just being a good neighbor, he invites you inside to chat and eat the food you brought. He half expects you not to accept it, but you do. 

It turns into a regular occurrence from there, and it’s nice for what it is, nothing more, nothing deeper. He likes your company and learning more about you. You’re far removed from his job, and he feels like he can relax around you. It’s nice to not have to play the role of captain. And this space, here within these four walls, doesn't seem to feel too large whenever you’re around.

The realization doesn’t help his feelings, but he knows he can’t take it back now. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy having you here. A small part of him may regret having said anything at all that first time he invited you in, but you seem to genuinely enjoy your time together too, and he would never regret being responsible for something that makes you happy. Now, whether it crossed the line into infatuation for you the way that it does–has been–for him, he can’t say.

Eventually he breaks. What does him in is the sight of you one afternoon, sunbathing in the backyard. He didn’t mean to look, truly. But the window in his bedroom can see down into your yard, and with the weather starting to warm up, you’ve begun to take advantage of the sunlight to start your tan for the summer. You look so good in your swimsuit; it doesn’t cover much, probably to maximize your tan, and he wonders faintly if you’d wear something so revealing at a public pool or the beach. A twinge of jealousy runs through him at the idea of anyone else seeing you like that, and it’s quickly followed up by a twinge of shame, for you aren’t even his to grow jealous over.

But he imagines you to be, as he’s thinking more about what he’d seen later that evening, thinking about what’s beneath the bits of fabric so tiny it’s a wonder they could be considered swimwear. He’d like to tear it off and indulge in the feeling, the taste of you. Hot and wet and sweet like the sliced watermelon you had been helping yourself to, juices running down your chin. He thinks about doing it right there in your backyard, too impatient to usher you inside. And he can’t help jerking off to imagery so intense, wishing it was your hand wrapped around him as you coo My big Bear, watching him with big eyes and licking your lips and then he comes undone.

He’s breathing heavy, heart pounding and looking at his cum on his hand. What are you doing to me? he wonders.

The next time you knock on his door during your lunch break, you’ve brought with you a small cheesecake. Joe smiles and opens the door wider to let you in.

“That’s new,” he remarks as he grabs a couple of small plates and forks.

“I wanted to learn how to make it, and this is my first one, so let’s hope it’s good!” you state with a laugh.

“I’m sure it will be.” He hands you a knife to cut a couple of slices with, standing closer than he usually does. 

When you look up to say thanks, you appear to be keenly aware of this too, for he notices the way your breath hitches slightly as you have to tilt your head back more. You swallow, and his eyes drop to the column of your throat. “Thank you.”

He hums and then steps away to the dining table to move the stack of mail out of the way and clear space. While he does so, he sneaks a glance up at you. You’re biting your lip as you slice the cake, and he surmises if you worry it any harder you might make it bleed.

You bring both plates over and he says thank you before you both try a bite. It tastes wonderful, as to be expected, and he tells you as much. You smile warmly, pleased with yourself. 

The two of you fall into easy conversation, like usual, but something more hangs in the air between you now. His forwardness had served to test the waters, and you hadn’t moved away. In fact, he notices you scoot a little closer than normal. He’d been sitting back in his chair but opts to lean forward instead, and at this distance, you speak more quietly. You seem more distracted, and satisfaction settles within him to have you acting like this.

You look down at his lips just for a second but he doesn’t miss it. But before either of you can do anything, you clear your throat and stand up, offering to wash the dishes. 

“You don’t have to,” he assures. He always says that, but you always insist, as you do now. 

“No, it’s okay, it isn’t a lot anyway.” You grin. He wants to kiss it off. Fuck it off. Something.

You reach over to pick up his plate, but before you can, he sets a hand on the back of your thigh. You’re in a sundress, something easily thrown on for a quick walk next door before you’re due back at your home office to finish the work day. He leaves his hand where it is, waiting to see what you would do. If you pulled back, he’d know where you stood on your relationship, and while he’d be disheartened, if you were willing to forget that any of this happened, he could put it behind him too.

But you do no such thing. Your breaths are shallower and you can’t meet his eyes, your own staring hard at the table. When you finally dare to, he holds your gaze as his hand slides higher. His fingers meet the seam of your panties and he squeezes the plump flesh of your ass. You fail to squash down a whimper, and his dick twitches.

Hand still on your ass, he pulls you towards him, and it causes you to stumble onto his lap. You settle down more comfortably with your thighs on either side of his and he moves to set his hands on your hips. You brace yourself with hands on his shoulders, and still watching each other, you start to grind your hips along the rough denim of his jeans.

He lets you set the pace, lifting the hem of your dress so he can see where you’re pressed together. He groans at the sight, the thin fabric of your panties allowing you to feel the friction easily against your core. You moan lightly with each pass of the denim over your clit, growing wetter, and you might stain his jeans but he doesn’t care. 

Your head drops back as the pleasure grows, focusing on the coil tightening in the pit of your stomach. Joe takes advantage of the planes of skin now exposed to him and runs his lips along your throat, where he can feel the vibration of each of your hushed cries. The scent of your vanilla perfume is intoxicating, and both his hands are back on your hips to help you move. That’s it, he murmurs. Just like that.

You’re close now, evidenced by the fact you grind down harder. Head lifting back up, you hold onto his thick forearm for support and wrap your other arm around his neck. You lean your forehead against his and your lips brush but never fully meet. Your short breaths are hot and labored, determined as you are to cum. His hands move from your hips to your ass and with the extra leverage, he pulls you along his crotch even more harshly. 

“Fuck.” You mewl, trying to meet his gaze but the sensations are overwhelming and your eyes slide closed, brows furrowing.

“Look at me,” he grunts.

Clearly so eager to please, you open your eyes and do your best to keep them on him. They’re clouded with pleasure and desperation and Joe’s never seen anything so pretty. He lets out a breathy chuckle. Gonna cum, sweet girl?

You nod quickly, unable to speak, and then you still with a choked moan. Your thighs squeeze together as much as they can in this position and you quiver, folding over into yourself slightly as you climax. Joe’s right on the edge, so he keeps you moving, grinding back and forth, and you cry out at the extra stimulation you’re being subjected to before you’ve fully come down. 

Your almost pitiful whimpers are what push him over, and he groans lowly. He feels warmth on the crotch of his jeans and knows he’ll need a shower and fresh clothes. But for now, the two of you remain in each other’s embrace for a minute as you both catch your breath. You’re the first one to pull away, untangling yourself and standing up. You stumble slightly and Joe feels a sense of pride.

“I, um…” You clear your throat. “I’ve gotta go home and log back in.”

You look so innocent for what has just transpired, even with mussed up hair and tired eyes. You smooth out your sundress, trying to make it look presentable again, but luckily you don’t have a far walk.

“Let me walk you out,” Joe insists. But he finds he can’t get up quite yet, still trying to calm down and gather the strength in his legs to stand. Also, his pants feel uncomfortably wet. “Just give me a second.”

You smile sweetly as you look at him and reach out to set a hand on his cheek. He sets his hand over yours, thumb stroking the skin, and the moment is tender, the complete opposite of just a few minutes prior. “It’s okay, I’ll lock the door behind me.”

He surveys you for any sign that you regret what’s happened, but there are none. Your gaze is soft and you look reluctant to drop your hand back to your side. You rub your thighs together, and he feels himself hardening again at the thought of your soaked panties. He’d like to peel them off.

But alas, that would have to wait for another time. He nods and lets you go, watching as you turn the lock and close the door gently. Then he heaves a contented sigh. He might’ve felt like he was out of his depth where it concerned you, but you didn’t seem to think so, and all his concerns and doubt are washed away in a wave of relief, replaced with possibility. And it feels damn good.

He knows you log out at 4:30, so he walks up to your front door at 4:35. The events earlier in the day left him simultaneously fulfilled yet wanting more, and he’d like to be more thorough. It’s Friday, which means more time to do just that.

After he rings the bell, he’s not left waiting long before you open it and grab his hand to drag him inside. It seems you felt the same way. He barely pushes the door behind him when you tiptoe to press your lips to his in an overdue kiss. He meets you with the same energy, arms wrapping around your waist and holding you tight to him.

When you pull away, you take him by the hand again to lead him to your bedroom. He’s only too happy to follow, occasionally interrupting the short walk by tugging you into another kiss and running his hands along the delicate curves of your body, much too impatient to wait till you’ve made it to your destination. Your cat is grooming herself on the couch and her green eyes, intense and thoroughly disinterested in the new guest, are on you until you disappear down the hallway. 

[rkkuna]

everyday struggle i fear

[bee2124]

When tumblr refreshes itself and the fic I was reading fucking disappears forever 💔

I’ve been searching for a smau I was reading for three days 😔

[bubble-tea-bunny]

love you so matcha

[adam glenn x reader]

author's note: adam is so babygirl

word count: 4,740

Upon further thought, leaving an entire hour before you’re due to clock in might’ve been a tad unnecessary. The GPS app showed that even with the morning rush hour traffic, it’d only take thirty minutes, but you didn’t want to cut it that close. What if there was an accident? What if you had somehow forgotten you had no gas and had to fill up, despite the fact you checked the gauge yesterday? With all the what-if’s piling up in your already antsy mind, you simply couldn’t run the risk. Not when today is your first day.

You’ve backed into a spot towards the middle of the parking lot and shut the car off, only one of a few already here. The office doesn’t open until 8:30. You sigh and contemplate whether you should sit here or go for a walk to calm down. There’s a cafe you’d driven past that you could go to, just around the corner.

Admittedly, you don’t have much of an appetite, barely able to get down a slice of buttered toast and a couple apple slices before you were out the door. But the thought of a drink to quell the nerves is nice, a little anchor to help keep you grounded. With a resolute nod, you grab your tote bag and step out of the car before you have the chance to take back your decision.

There are only a couple people ahead of you in line, and it’s lucky you arrived when you did, since more pour in behind you until the line almost reaches the door. While waiting for your drink, you glance at your watch: twenty minutes until 8:30. You’re making good time. By the time the barista calls your name and you pick up your matcha latte, you feel more relaxed. I can do this! 

As you exit, pushing the door back with your shoulder, you catch sight of a little note written on the cup. It's a kind word of encouragement: Have a brew-tiful day!

A quick five minute walk and the office entrance is in sight, so you stand straighter, prepared to switch into work mode. Your phone vibrates then as you receive a text from your good friend and previous coworker.

From: Madison

Still a little upset you’ve left me all alone here :( But I hope you have a good first day! Good luck!

You smile widely, finding it sweet that she thought to send you a message. Practically right on the dot too–the top of the screen says 8:25. You start typing in Thank you! but only with one hand since your other is occupied.

Given that your eyes are downcast, you don’t notice someone crossing into your path. In fact, you don’t notice until you’ve already run into him and your matcha latte, barely three sips in, has splashed onto the concrete.

You gasp in shock. “I am so sorry!” you exclaim, heart pounding. “I didn’t look where I was going.” Of all the hypothetical situations you’d run through of how the day could go wrong, colliding with someone and spilling your drink was definitely not one of them. Your face is burning in embarrassment and you want to hide. 

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t looking where I was going either.” The man chuckles nervously, and you muster the courage to lift your eyes to meet his own. Wow, you think. He’s tall.

His blonde hair is tucked behind his ears but not perfectly. Some strands fall forward as he looks down at you. The button-up he wears has some wrinkles near the collar, and his broad shoulders are hunched slightly like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, though it isn’t very successful. Wow, you think again. He’s kind of cute.

“I didn’t get any of it on you, did I?” You force yourself to focus on the matter at hand.

“Ah–no, I am unscathed.” He glances at his sleeves, peeks down at his slacks, then smiles at you. It drops a bit as he points to your blazer. “Looks like you got some though.”

Indeed, the cuff of your blazer is soaked, sticking uncomfortably to your wrist. But at least a little luck is still on your side; the rest of your outfit has been spared. A good thing too, since you hadn’t packed extra clothes.

“Oh…” you trail off, then look out at the parking lot. You can see your car. “I’m going to put my blazer away. Sorry about that. Again.”

You turn back to the man with an apologetic grin and he mirrors it. “Sorry about your matcha.”

Grin still on your face, you shake your head, finally assessing the scene on the ground: lid and cup separated, ice scattered but quick to melt as the sun fully rises. Two pairs of–thankfully–clean shoes, brown loafers and black pumps. Neither of which has started to move, seemingly unprepared to part, but for what purpose, you can’t say. You look back up at him and he’s already looking at you, and momentarily the words die in your throat. But the thought that you only have a few minutes to toss your blazer in the car and speed walk into the office kicks you into gear.

“Not meant to be today, I guess,” you joke.

Then with a good-natured smile and an awkward wave, he bids you goodbye. As you bend down to pick up the cup and lid to throw away in the nearby trash can, you exhale, not entirely aware until just now how tense you’d been. By the end of the short conversation, it wasn’t even from the fact you’d nearly spilled a drink on someone! No, it was from something else, and you think you almost could’ve found it in those pretty hazel eyes if time had allowed. 

With a sense of urgency, you walk to your car and set your blazer in the back seat. You’ll have to drop it off at the dry cleaner’s on the way home. Smoothing down your blouse and readjusting your tote on your shoulder, you consider with faint amusement that the positive energy Madison had sent you and the negative energy from spilling your drink seem to have cancelled each other out. Today could still be a good day! And it’d be better if you saw him again. 

You huff and shake your head, trying to clear your mind. This is not the time to be distracted! Get it together!

Once inside, you greet the receptionist whose name unfortunately escapes you. Your boss, who hadn’t been your boss at the time, had told you her name when she directed you to her to schedule your second interview. That feels hundreds of years ago now, though it’s only been a few weeks. But you suppose you can’t be faulted for forgetting, considering how much has happened between then and now. 

Winding down the work in your previous position had been a whirlwind, especially when upper management had thrown a replacement at you in the last week for you to train as best you could. You were pissed, but it wasn’t the kid’s fault, so you’d exercised as much patience and grace as you could. The company had always given you way more than you could chew with the expectation you’d maintain results, and the burnout was bad. Walking out on the last day truly felt like pulling out an aching tooth with the relief you felt.

Miss Receptionist asks if you remember where to go and you nod. “I think so.”

Her smile widens. “Great! Well, welcome aboard!”

You smile back and give a quiet thanks, then you skirt around the front desk to head towards the main section of the office. It’s a sea of cubicles and your steps are a little unsure as you try to recall the route to Dalia’s office. There’s the sound of quiet conversation and the clacking of keyboards as people begin the day, and you can see a couple glance your way. You wonder if you appear lost, and consider just asking for directions. But you’re currently approaching the conference room, where you’d had your first interview, and you remember taking a left up here…

Aha! This hallway looks more familiar. More confidently now, you approach an open doorway halfway down. The nameplate on the wall confirms you’ve arrived at your destination, so you announce yourself with a couple gentle raps on the door.

Dalia looks up from her computer and stands to greet you with a smile. “[Name]! Good morning! I hope traffic wasn’t too bad.”

Leaving an entire hour early meant there had barely been anyone on the roads. “Not at all,” you assure.

Dalia motions you to sit down in one of the seats across from her and you do so with crossed legs and clasped hands resting on your lap. She reviews the itinerary for the day: you’d be spending most of it, as well as most of the week, training with the other senior, and if the controller had time in his busy schedule, he would like you to drop by his office to meet. But the bulk of this morning would be spent completing your onboarding with HR.

She seems to be reading off an email as she says “It looks like Adam will be helping you with that.” Then she looks back at you. “Let me show you to your desk so you can set your stuff down and then I’ll walk you over to HR, okay?”

You smile and nod. “Okay.”

You have a cubicle against the back wall which means passing traffic would be minimal, and you’re right across from Charlie, the other senior accountant. He peeks out to shake your hand but is quick to excuse himself. “Got a 9AM meeting with sales that I have to prep for,” he explains, and there’s slight exasperation in his tone, as if to say Can you believe they scheduled it that early? and you pick up on it easily as you chuckle. “But it’s good to meet you!”

After you drop off your tote, Dalia leads you to what feels like the complete opposite end of the building. You pass the corridor that you know leads to the front and there still seems to be a large stretch before you. You know familiarity will come with time, but every twist and turn looks the exact same.

“Accounting is far away because HR knows they don’t need to worry about us,” Dalia jokes. It’s like she read your mind. “Almost there now.”

And then you finally reach there. A set of cubicles that look like accounting’s, with an identical conference room just on the left. Through the windows you can see some writing on the whiteboard, talking points regarding clarity and active listening, and so on and so forth. You return your attention back in front of you when Dalia comes to a stop at Adam’s desk. A smile finds its way to your face automatically as she greets him, but it nearly drops when you see him.

It’s him. The one from outside. As Dalia introduces you and Adam’s gaze slides over her shoulder to you, you see the recognition flash across his face, so quick that you know Dalia doesn’t detect it. He nods as she mentions your onboarding, and when he looks back at her again, you can tell he’s more distracted. 

“Yeah, Suzie already let me know,” he confirms.

“Fantastic.” Dalia turns to you. “Well, I’ll let you get to it. Just come back to my office when you’re all done.”

“Sounds good, thank you,” you respond, and with one last grin, she starts the (long) trek back to accounting.

And then it’s just you. Alone. With him. With Adam.

Well, not technically alone. There are sounds from the surrounding cubicles, others in HR already well into their work. But when you take a seat across from him, the noise is dampened by the polyester-covered partitions, so it really does feel like it’s just the two of you. You’d been relaxed in Dalia’s office, but here, you hardly know the meaning of the word. You’re in much closer proximity than you had been earlier, the collision itself aside, and all your attempts to focus and not think about the handsome man are promptly thrown out the window. All you can see now is him.

Adam is quiet for a beat as well, and you sit with the silly bit of happenstance that you should meet again this way.

“Hi again,” you start shyly. 

Adam’s smile widens, the ice broken, and you think you’re a goner. “Hi.”

The tension is nearly unbearable, and you find it difficult to breathe when he looks at you. Does he know he’s doing that? Before you can drown in your anxiety, you continue: “Um… Is there a lot of paperwork?” 

Adam follows your lead, getting straight to business, and he shakes his head as he turns to his computer. “Not too much. Some tax documents, a direct deposit form... things like that.”

You nod and fidget with the rings on your fingers as he pulls up everything he needs. You take this time to glance around his space, various papers and miscellaneous notes tacked to the walls. There’s a stack of paperwork behind him which you know is bound to grow before he can go through it all. Madison always complained about that (I get so close to having everything done and filed away when they drop more on me!). The HR worker’s plight, you muse. But really, it isn’t much different in your department. Maybe that’s why you and Madison got along so well. Maybe you and Adam would too.

He’s typing, and the clacking is almost therapeutic in the silence still thick enough to slice through. Your gaze slides to him again, and you try to be subtle about it. If it were even possible, he looks even bigger now, sitting behind a desk. He seems to dwarf everything around him. His hand almost engulfs the mouse as he navigates to where he needs to go. He’s slouching, but it’s clear he could easily fill the space if he sat up. Thick fingers grasp a pen as he writes a couple of notes on a memo pad, and higher still, his sleeves folded to the elbow reveal sturdy forearms. His brows furrow in concentration, the light of the computer screen reflects off his eyes framed by long lashes, and Geez, how could a man be so good-looking?

“I printed everything you need,” he states, snapping you out of your thoughts. “I’ll just go over to grab them.”

He seems to be aware that you were watching him so closely, and his cheeks redden slightly. You swallow nervously. Maybe you weren’t as subtle as you thought, and you’d like to hide away somewhere.

“O-Okay,” you force out.

In the several seconds it takes for Adam to walk to the printer and back, you sigh heavily, trying to calm down. What notions you had of maintaining professionalism for your first day are circling the drain. You barely contain a groan and have to resist rubbing a hand over your face lest you ruin your makeup. You could tell yourself, once again, to get it together, but would it matter? Would it even work the second time?

You look up as Adam returns and scoots behind his desk, so broad he fills your vision. The fabric of his shirt strains slightly around his biceps, and his hair falls forward so he quickly moves to push it back behind his ear. It’s a firm No to both those questions.

Once situated back in his seat, he hands the papers to you. “You can fill these out at your desk. I just need them back by the end of today.”

You grab the documents and briefly scan the one on top. This is when you would say Okay, thank you and stand up to go back to your side of the office, but in these few seconds spent skimming the W-4 that definitely doesn’t need skimming because you’ve filled it out more than once, you contemplate whether to say something to prolong your time here. Or, well, try to prolong. You don’t know if it will work, and you don’t have long to decide if it’s worth the embarrassment you’ll endure if it doesn’t, walking back to accounting with your tail tucked between your legs. 

Face burning, you speak before you can second guess yourself. 

“Don’t want me around huh?” you tease with a lopsided smile. “I see how it is.”

Adam blinks, thoroughly caught off guard at the remark, and you start to regret saying anything. Of course he isn’t going to respond positively; he’s HR! That has to be a violation, and you let your attraction cloud your better judgment.The more thoughts that race through your brain about how bad an idea this was and maybe he’ll be nice about it because you’ve only been here a grand total of one hour, the more flustered you become, and he must notice. Heat creeps up your neck and you break his gaze, looking over his shoulder instead. That desk lamp hooked onto the cubicle wall is pretty interesting…

He picks up the pen he’d been writing with and holds it out. Now he’s the one unable to look you in the eye as he focuses on the pen, but then he lifts his gaze to you, and he’s smiling a little. And he looks so good when he does.

“I won’t say no to some company.”

You swallow, cheeks warm but for another reason, and take the pen.

He continues working while you fill out the paperwork. There’s the distant sounds of phones ringing and coworkers chatting, but in your little bubble there’s typing, interrupted occasionally by a few clicks of the mouse; the scratch of pen on paper; the sifting of documents as you double check what you have left to complete. The air starts to feel more comfortable as the initial awkwardness melts away, owed to the acknowledgement the two of you are exactly where you want to be.

But there’s a lingering tension, narrowly missed gazes as you sneak glances at him, and he you. Absorbing a little more each time, observations culminating into a better picture of the other, one to be charmed by, smitten; or maybe something deeper. You try not to think about that last point too hard. It feels like jumping the gun, in a way, and you can’t take your quickly growing crush and just run away with it. Well, you could, but it’s more a matter of whether or not you should. 

You try to look at each other at the same time, resulting in your eyes meeting, and it’s awkward for a second, abashed as you are to have been noticed. But then Adam cracks a tiny smile, complemented by a soft laugh at this playful game between the both of you, and you can’t help but follow. And you wonder if he’s thinking all the same things you are in this moment and maybe you can run away with this crush and maybe you will.

“All right, these are good to go.” You click the pen to retract the nib and hold the papers out for Adam to take.

He nods and flips through them quickly to make sure you filled out everything you needed to. “Great, thank you.”

You set the pen down and it’s quiet again, but the air is no longer too thick to slice through. No, now there’s a sense of ease, the ball having started into a roll, down the hill but where it stops, you can’t put into words quite yet. Neither of you is in a rush to cut your time together short; you know you need to get going but can’t find it within you to stand up. It’s only the ringing of the telephone in the cubicle next to Adam that gets things moving as it startles you both.

Adam opens his mouth, about to say something, but then closes it again. He sets the papers on the keyboard and looks back at you, a little more timid now. 

“I can walk you back to accounting,” he offers. “It’s a bit of a journey.”

You smile and feel warm all over as you say okay.

The two of you walk side-by-side, shoulders almost touching. When you need to duck behind him slightly to allow for someone to pass going the opposite way, you can’t help looking up at him. Maybe he’s just walking you back as a courtesy, but maybe he’s doing it to prolong your time together too, craving connection just as much as you are.

He drops you off at Dalia’s office and makes his leave after saying a quick hello to Charlie, who was just emerging from his cubicle now that the meeting is over. Dalia regroups with you, reviewing the duties she expects you to train on and take over, and later, when you’re at your desk familiarizing yourself with the work, you find it difficult to focus. The tasks at hand compete with thoughts of Adam, flashes of his grin and his eyes and his everything and you wonder if it’s the same for him on the other side of this building which feels almost comically large.

You set your head on your propped up hand and a smile rests on your lips, right at home. You suppose it’s shaping up to be a brew-tiful day after all.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The next morning, after a brief conversation with Dalia about the goals for the day, you settle down at your desk. You’re wearing a different blazer, the one from yesterday currently at the dry cleaners. You arrived at work early enough to buy another matcha latte, compelled to make up for yesterday’s. Really, it had been a sad sight, that which you’re not fully over, your basically full matcha splattered all over the concrete like the traces left at a crime scene.

You need to ask Charlie about the worksheet you’re reviewing so you stand up, prepared to go to his desk, but the ping of a message sent by Dalia distracts you and you linger to read it. You’re so focused that you jump slightly in surprise when there’s a knock on the cubicle wall. Most of your department doesn’t arrive for another half hour or so. Whoever is here moves quietly, and you turn to see who it could be.

Adam smiles apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He holds up a matcha latte. “I got you another one.”

You blink in surprise. “Oh…”

He continues before you can say anything more. “Now I know you said it wasn’t my fault, but I wanted to get it for you anyway because I felt bad. That wasn’t an ideal way to start the morning, much less your first day, so please accept this not apology.” The end of his spiel is punctuated with the clearing of his throat, and he holds out the drink for you to take, the ice clacking against the sides of the plastic cup as he does.

Butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach because he’s so sweet, even for all the nervous energy you can sense coming from him, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say because of it. You’re dancing around each other like you’ve both got two left feet, and it’s clumsy, but there’s also a certain charm to it as you slowly figure things out together. 

“I actually got one too.” Your drink is hidden behind you so you turn around to grab it and show him with a chuckle.

“Oh.” Adam retracts his hand and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, then clears his throat again. “I, uh… kind of had this picture in my mind, that I’d get you a replacement, and it’d be this whole cute thing, but I guess it didn’t really go as planned…”

Be that as it may, you think it’s cute all the same. He’s cute.

The smile that’s found its way onto your face as you think this seems to offer him some comfort, for he continues on. “Well, here, take it anyway. Maybe you can save it for tomorrow.” He holds out the matcha once more.

Your smile grows and you shake your head. “No, you should have it. Then we’ll both have a treat today.” Though to be honest, Adam stopping by your desk is a treat in and of itself.

Adam smiles too and lifts the cup slightly, as if to say cheers. “All right, I’ll keep it.” 

You lift your drink slightly and nod, about to take a sip, but then you catch sight of the note the barista wrote, which stops you in your tracks. You look back up at him, eyes glittering eagerly. “What does yours say? Mine says ‘thanks a latte’!” You turn the cup around so he can see the note.

He looks down at his own and if you aren’t imagining anything, his smile seems to shift to something softer. He also turns his drink to show you the words. “‘Love you so matcha’.”

You giggle because the pun is cute, but your cheeks feel warm. All you can think about is the possibility of him saying I love you in earnest, and not just because he’s reading it off a cup. You imagine a timeline where he’s bringing you a surprise matcha on a Saturday morning and telling you that because it makes you laugh and because he really means it. You wonder if you’d be fortunate enough to feel a warmth like that in this lifetime, and maybe you could, with the way he watches you now. 

He’s gone from standing at the entrance of your cubicle to standing fully within it, and he’s so close. The space is already small and he seems to fill most of it, and your breath catches in your throat. His hazel eyes are beautiful and you’re searching the depths of them again but with more time than the last, and you think you find what you’d been looking for–fondness not yet acted upon, yearning for somewhere to lay its head to rest, and perhaps he’s thinking that place is you. The shy grin he graces you with disarms you entirely, and God, you desperately hope it is.

The silence is suddenly broken by Charlie complaining. He’s at the entrance to Dalia’s office. I’m telling you, Sales is scheduling these meetings just to mess with me. Yesterday’s was pointless!

You can’t help laughing and Adam does too. The moment has passed but isn’t easily forgotten. A satisfying warmth settles in your chest as you look at him.

“I should get back to work,” he says. “But I’ll see you around?”

You nod and it’s enthusiastic but you don’t care that you perhaps answered too fast. “You will.”

He smiles widely. “Great.” 

You watch as he walks back down the hallway, taking a quick sip of his drink, and it’s only when he disappears around the corner do you turn to set your own back down on the desk. 

The cubicle feels a lot bigger, a lot emptier, without him here, and you find you don’t like that. The warmth seems to have left with him too. But as you think of him again and the softness etched in the lines of his face, you are overwhelmed with the sense that you’d never have to go without it if you just said the word. You’re God reaching towards Adam, finger outstretched and the divine spark passing between you as form is given breath, and has there ever been a sight so dazzling?

Charlie is back at his desk and you go over to see if it’s a good time to talk. It is, so you bring your chair over to sit next to him as he walks you through the worksheet you were looking at earlier. You sip at your drink while taking notes and think contentedly to yourself, during a brief pause as he pulls up another document, that the spilled matcha from yesterday morning was more than worth the six dollars it had cost.

[write-on-world]

[bubble-tea-bunny]

to be seen//to be loved

[mark s. x reader]

author's note: she liiiives! i love mark s and just wanna squish his lil cheekies. would consider this a warm up fic, as it's been literal yrs since i've written anything lol. hope i haven't lost too much of my touch. inspired by "vanish into you" by lady gaga. enjoy <3

word count: 2,668

The plain white walls of the severed floor are all you’ve ever known, and honestly, you never gave much thought about what was beyond them. 

It isn’t quite zero thought, because Irving had you beat in that regard. Anytime Dylan brought it up (Do you ever think about what’s out there?), and he was guaranteed to do so at least once a quarter, Irving was always the first to respond–no hesitation, eyes never leaving the screen, and it left little room for doubt that he could be lying (Not at all. Pointless speculation). You always take him at his word, but Dylan, always inquisitive and skeptical, isn’t so easily convinced. 

The brief back and forth that inevitably followed about if he really means that and how yes, he really does mean that serves as background noise as you refine, a small smile on your face at their banter which drops when a feeling of dread settles in your chest at a particular set of numbers. But then you move them into a bucket and the dread dissipates and the percentage of completion in the top left moves from 54 to 55 and Dylan has changed the subject to which of the four of you might get the waffle party this quarter. The routine is comfortable in its familiarity. Why, therefore, would you possibly want to disrupt it? People like patterns, and you like this one well enough.

But it is true, you’d given it a little thought. You suppose it would’ve also remained at zero if not for the congratulatory animation that played when you completed a file. Your first one, from two quarters ago, had a pixel version of Kier Eagan in a forest, emerging from the thicket onto a cliff overlooking a waterfall and against the backdrop of a beautifully blue sky. Colorful flowers bloomed at his feet and he commended your hard work and dedication and your fellow refiners were all around you because the accompanying tune had grabbed their attention, and they were proud.

“Great job!” 

A gentle hand set itself on your shoulder and you looked up to see Mark with a bright smile on his face as he watched the screen. He was so close you could smell his aftershave–musky, invigorating, what you think you’d smell if that was you in the forest among those towering trees.

“Thanks.”

At your simple response, Mark’s gaze slid down to you and he squeezed your shoulder. It’s the first time you had ever wondered what could be up there–on the ground floor, and farther still, past the edges of the Lumon office.

But you didn't linger on it long. There was work to be done, data that needed to be refined, and as the cartoon Kier Eagan had said, you were nothing if not a dedicated employee. And close on the heels of this recollection was another, of your boss this time, sitting back in his chair and wagging his pen at you when you questioned what exactly MDR was working on. Remember: the work is mysterious and important!

That had been when you were new, and he was so eager to show you the ropes. The memory makes you smile again as you grab your mug of coffee and take your first sip of the morning. It’s stronger than normal, and you grimace. Because the screens between the desks are lowered, Mark notices, and he leans over to speak to you quietly, an undercurrent to the conversation Dylan and Irving are still having (you hear mention of finger traps).

“I accidentally brewed it a little stronger today, sorry,” Mark says sheepishly.

Your smile returns. “Don’t worry about it.” A bitter aftertaste sits on your tongue, difficult to ignore, and maybe you should get a cup of water to keep next to your coffee. But then Mark smiles back, and suddenly the acidity is less intense. All you sense now is the heat in your stomach–the coffee settling, perhaps, or something else.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You don’t know for certain what’s “out there,” but it must be somewhere warmer, surely. 

You’re wearing a long sleeve button-up but it’s still not enough. You wonder if the weather outside has been more agreeable, because you arrived without a blazer. You wish your outie had considered bringing one along anyway. The air conditioning always seemed to be running on high, and Mr. Milchick made sure to keep the temperature at 70 degrees, no higher, no lower. You surmise the thermostat is broken, because you’re practically turning into an icicle. 

With eyes focused on the computer screen and the numbers you’d selected moving into their assigned bucket, you rub your hand along the opposite arm, trying to generate some warmth. Once the bucket closes, you lay your hand back down on the trackball to continue searching for the next set, but as you do, a heavy weight comes to rest around your shoulders. 

You freeze (no pun intended), and when the surprise fades, you reach up. The fabric of the suit jacket is heavy, thick, quick to assuage the shivering you could do precious little to hide (to your embarrassment, for your coworkers never seemed to feel as cold as you did, if ever). But there’s extra heat emanating from the satin lining, a sign that someone had just been wearing it.

“Hope that helps.”

You turn to see Mark, suit jacket-less, with his hands on his hips and a sympathetic grin on his face. There had been a slight upturn at the end of the statement, like he was asking a question. 

It’s so easy for you to smile back, and it’s no wonder he’s the boss, you think. Instinctively, your grip tightens on the jacket to bring it more snugly around yourself, and you nod. “It helps a lot. Thank you.”

Mark nods once, a silent You’re welcome, and walks the last few steps to his desk; he’d been walking back from the kitchenette before he paused at your station. The screens are up today, so when he sits, he disappears from sight.

You can smell the detergent he (well, his outie) uses for the laundry, and the numbers you’re making a box around don’t feel very scary anymore as two passing thoughts occur to you–what it might be like to do laundry, and what it might be like to do laundry with Mark.

The next day, you step out of the elevator and deflate slightly when you realize you’re in a short sleeve button-up. Your purposeful steps through the expansive hallways kick up a slight breeze that raises goosebumps along your arms and you consider asking Mr. Milchick if you could have a blanket, but you already get the sense the answer will be a decisive no. That, or it will be yes, on the condition you meet a certain percentage of completion on your file. It wouldn’t be Lumon without management incentivizing its employees in some way or another.

The staggered schedules of those on the severed floor mean you’re the last to arrive at the MDR department, and you mutter a quiet good morning to the others as you take your seat and boot up your computer. Dylan and Irving respond in kind rather absentmindedly, clearly absorbed in their work. Last you checked, they’d both been pretty close to 75 percent completion. They had incredibly good pacing this quarter, and you know an MDE is coming soon, though who would get it first, you couldn’t say.

It’s Mark who responds with a bright Good morning! in typical department head fashion: enthusiastic, and somehow always able to meet the day with a burst of energy. You guess it’s because there’s only four of you, so he takes it upon himself to make it a little livelier–or at the very least, to bridge the gap when the rest of you are quieter than usual.

In any case, the effort never goes unnoticed by you. You smile even though he can’t see it because of the divider, and it remains as you type in the name of your file, keyboard clacking quietly.

It takes nearly an hour for you to realize you hadn’t shivered once. You stop scrolling, brows furrowing. You twist around to look at the thermostat on the back wall, but you don’t know why because it’s not as if you can see the temperature readout from this distance (your vision isn’t great, and if you were allowed to communicate with your outie, you would tell her just a couple of things: bring a jacket, and get your eyes checked). 

“Is it a bit… warmer than usual?” you ask your coworkers, wanting to see if it was just your imagination.

The sound of a screen sliding down prompts you to turn back around. Mark confirms that yes, it is warmer. I went to see Mr. Milchick yesterday before leaving for the day, he explains. It took a bit of convincing, but once I let him know it was hindering productivity, he agreed to let us increase the temperature a maximum of five degrees!

You’re at a loss for words at the thoughtfulness, and Mark smiles, albeit awkwardly, due to the blank look on your face. “So hopefully you can work comfortably now.”

You blink and feel your cheeks heat up and you’re embarrassed to have been staring like a deer in headlights. “U-Um…” you stammer, momentarily averting your gaze. But then you meet his again as you give as earnest of a Thank you as you can manage, the corner of your lips turned up in a shy smile of your own.

The awkwardness vanishes, and Mark relaxes. “You’re very welcome.” When he returns to his work, he leaves the screen where it is, and you make no move to raise it either.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Guys, I’m at 70%! That MDE is upon us.”

At Dylan’s announcement, you chuckle and remark Can’t wait! Irving says he’s nearly there too, and muses that they might reach 75 percent at the same time.

“How would that work?” Dylan wonders aloud. “A double MDE…”

You push yourself slightly away from the desk so you can stand and stretch: arms high overhead, as far as you can go, and you sigh at the relief in your spine. You bend to the left, then to the right, then come back to center and drop your arms. It’s the middle of the day and you’ve yet to have your coffee; you’d been so absorbed in your file today, getting to work the instant you sat down, and it simply didn’t cross your mind to step away briefly to pour yourself a cup.

As you walk to the kitchenette, you roll your shoulders a couple of times. When you’re really busy, you fail to maintain proper posture, and you mentally scold yourself for not being more mindful. It’s good you decided to take a break when you did.

You see Mark at the vending machine, observing his snack fall from its tray and down into the delivery bin. 

“What’d you pick?” you ask.

Mark bends down to grab the cardboard package and then turns to you. “Blueberries!”

You grin. “Good choice.”

Rather than leave right away, Mark lingers, opting to lean against the counter near where you’re preparing your cup of coffee. In your peripheral, you can see him watching as you grab what you need: three tubs of creamer, two packets of sugar. Slightly flustered to be scrutinized so closely, you speculate if he might be memorizing it.

He asks how you’re doing with your file and you shrug and share that it’s going okay. This one is a little trickier than usual. Sometimes I think I’m moving too slow, but I think it’s Dylan and Irving that move too fast! The comment makes him laugh and you like the way it sounds. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he encourages. “You’re a great refiner too.”

You detect he’s completely genuine and give a bashful thank you. But you don’t look up at him when you do, opting to keep your attention on your coffee as you stir it because you think if you did, you’d only grow more nervous. And at this distance, he would definitely be able to hear the way your breath catches.

You take a sip and your eyes light up. It tastes great today, not too weak nor too strong, and you tell Mark as much. He beams.

“Tried my best to make sure you had the perfect cup.” His smile is fonder than usual when he says this and his voice soft, and you’re thinking about it again–the world beyond these walls.

You’re still holding your mug up to your mouth and you take another small sip, mostly to hide the blush quickly spreading across your cheeks. The small tendrils of steam are hot against the sensitive skin, and you don’t notice Mark’s moved a little closer until you turn to him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes and at this distance his scent is strong–a light spice, sweet and pleasant to draw in, and somehow intimate. 

Your breath catches. The corner of his mouth twitches because he hears it. But you don’t want him to step back. Almost imperceptibly you take a half step forward instead, and you wonder if you moved even closer to each other if you might meld into one.

Maybe in another life you’re both at home and he’s brewed the perfect pot of coffee. Maybe the sun is shining, a tranquil morning light coming in through the kitchen window that makes his brown eyes glow like pools of honey. If you try hard enough, you think you can sense the office melting away–these harsh fluorescent lights, these plain white walls, the coldness of it all. Until it’s just you and him, and you imagine him to be someone else to you besides a manager, to be someone more.

He brings his hand up to gently cradle your cheek and you startle slightly, having been so enamored with watching his face. He murmurs an apology and asks if this is okay and all you can muster is a nod. If you could dream, you believe you’d dream of this. 

His lips connect with yours in an innocent kiss; it causes a lovely warmth to bloom in your chest. And you’ll never know for sure what’s beyond the severed floor, but you’d like to cling onto the slightest chance that it could be a life with Mark.

You’re the second to last refiner scheduled to leave for the day, with the last, of course, being the department head. It’s Friday and you know for non-severed employees it’s a pretty big deal–the end of the work week, with two wonderful days off ahead. You won’t get to experience that, so instead you look forward to coming back to the office feeling a lot more energized, since your outie will have had more time to rest.

It’s 4:55pm when you shut off the terminal. You stand and push your chair in. Mark is staring at his computer and biting the tip of his pen.

“Good night, Mark.”

He almost seems surprised when you say this, like he hadn’t realized the time. But then he smiles easily, setting his pen down and leaning back, wholly relaxed, comfortable to be in your presence.

“Good night.” He says your name so tenderly your heart clenches, and it overflows with affection.

As morbid as it is, you know your days aren’t guaranteed. You are at the mercy of your outie, and there may be a day you don’t come back because she’s decided to leave Lumon. But you think that if this was the last thing you ever saw–Mark lounging in his chair as he bids you good night, gracing you with a smile that makes you wish the two of you were anywhere but here–you could be happy even as you faded away.

[bubble-tea-bunny]

hi friends!

it's been a while, how are you?

i've been doing well, haven't had time to write (or the inspo), hence why it's been quiet, but the thought of doing so was always in the back of my mind! i still like writing, it just doesn't come to me as easily as it used to. tho I am in the middle of writing something atm, and i hope to be done w it soon

just wanted to drop a quick update and say hello. and share some photos of my campsite on pocket camp! i redid it last week ^^

[bubble-tea-bunny]

Hi sorry this is super random but I read most, if not all of your pacific rim fics back when they were posted on lunaescence and I really loved them! unfortunately lunaescence is down and I dont know when it'll ever be up again, so I was wondering if you would ever consider cross-posting them on ao3 someday? Sorry if that's a lot to ask, I just miss reading them (esp the one with raleigh/reader, i think it was called half of a whole?) I hope you have a good rest of your day!

oh wow, i haven't read the name lunaescence in so long! yeah i remember seeing it went down but that was ages ago, sucks that it isn't back up yet ://

sure, i could cross-post them! it will probably be a compilation to keep it neat and tidy. just need to go through them on my laptop and figure out which ones can be posted. i wrote many drafts and i wasn't very organized at that time ^^' but i'll work on it when i get the chance!

it's made me so happy to read your msg! i'm glad you liked those fics so much you've been thinking of them over the years. what was that even.. 2013? 2014? wow!

[mugetsupipefox]

Me trying to leave a comment on a fic I love but not knowing what to say

[madrewrites]

[bubble-tea-bunny]

back to you

[gorou x reader]

author’s note: okay not quite the thoma fic i mentioned i was working on lol, that one is still a wip. inspired by the description of gorou’s specialty dish bc it was so cute. also @ the names of the misc chars in this.. can you tell i’m rewatching knb :’) hope you enjoy ^^

word count: 3,810

It always seemed to Gorou that if the soldiers were up early, you were up even earlier.

Well, the soldiers are always up early. To best optimize their training, they need to take advantage of all the sunlight they can get. As dawn breaks, they hoist themselves out of bed (on some mornings this is done more reluctantly than on others, when sparring or discussions of strategy or storytelling around the fire had gone late the night before), preparing to start the day. Everyone is a little slow to emerge from their quarters, still half-asleep and hung up on a dream, but the growling of their stomachs does well enough to pull them fully into the waking world and towards the wonderful smell of the dishes you have cooked for breakfast.

You’re in the mess hall and greet them quietly, not wanting to startle them even if you’d be hard-pressed to catch them unawares—they’re soldiers after all, ready for anything. But, you reason, there are kinder ways to begin the day than being at the receiving end of a loud voice, and you hope your food is the kindest of them.

They certainly appear to agree, judging by their thanks as they finish up their meals and head out, now fully alert… and partly wishing they could return to bed with a now full belly, comfortably satiated. You respond with a bright grin and a Yes, of course! It’s what you’re here for. You wanted to help contribute to the resistance however you could, and since you didn’t believe you would make a good fighter, you had instead found your place off the battlefield.

And because this is what you’re here for, you also want to be awake before the soldiers are so breakfast would be ready in time. It’s what you say to Gorou every time he expresses concern that you aren’t resting enough, to maintain that kind of schedule. He mentions it again this morning as he hands you his empty plate so you can set it with the rest to be washed.

“You should at least take a break on some days,” he remarks. The ceramic plates clank quietly in the bucket you’ve picked up, about to take it outside. “The men can survive the occasional meal without your culinary prowess."

Upon his comment, you then set the bucket down on the table, not intent to carry on a conversation while holding it, because it would feel heavy fast. Gorou’s suggestion is really a command, evidence of his position as general, accustomed to leading and to watch out for everyone, but his tone is gentle. He would never use anything so harsh with you, not that he had to; to speak with you like this is very different from shouting commands in the midst of a fight.

You smile softly at the praise which has left his mouth so easily. “I do this because I want to, Gorou. Besides, I have taken breaks and let other people handle it before.”

“All those times you didn’t have a choice—you were sick!” Gorou, sharp as ever, replies.

He does have a point, and you chuckle in your acquiescence. “It’s fine, really. I like to keep busy, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” You set your hands on your hips and nod once resolutely.

Your stance is cute, Gorou thinks, and his cheeks warm at the sight. He’d been wanting to continue convincing you to take actual breaks that weren’t just mandated bedrest (these multiple fruitless talks on the topic proves he isn't quite the negotiator Kokomi is) but now he’s rushing to end it despite being the instigator. He can't let you notice how flustered he's becoming!

"Well, if you feel tired, please don’t force yourself.” He says it all the time, but he wants to drive the point home.

You’re never bothered by the repeated reminders, and instead appreciate how much he wants to look after others, not just you but after everyone on Watatsumi. “I won’t,” you promise.

Then you shoo him off with a wave of your hand. Go on, you have men to train and I have dishes to wash! 

The warmth in his cheeks is rivaled by the warmth in the pit of his stomach at the playful smile you grace him with as you tell him to get a move on. The food he’d eaten was good, certainly, but he knows it’s not the cause. 

He isn’t the only one to be thankful you’ve found your place here in Watatsumi, contributing in the way you do, but he’s sure he’s a little more thankful than the rest, for reasons unspoken and that would perhaps remain as such. He’s unable to put into words the way he feels to be around you, not much of a wordsmith in matters like these. He only knows it by the way his ears perk up when he hears your voice; by the tightening in his chest when you look at him; by the itch in his fingers to reach out and curl the ends of your hair around them whenever you stand close to each other.

And in those instances when you stand close to each other, so close he could bend down and kiss you if he wanted to (and he does, but the real question is, did you?), the light in your eyes is clearer than ever, the sparkle in them the glimmer of another world and how can one person care so much? When you’d arrived in Watatsumi, you considered (albeit very briefly) joining in the fighting, but he’s forever grateful you’re helping from the sidelines, where you’re safe. A heart so big would be wasted out there.

On the days you were absent from your duties because you were sick, he had, truthfully, been disappointed. Because while the soldiers are half-asleep leaving the bunkers and still hung up on a dream, he’s half-awake and hung up on you. Don’t get him wrong, he knows your health matters most, imploring you constantly to get adequate rest, but the tinge of dismay is difficult—nay, impossible—to ignore whenever he walks in and sees someone else preparing food. 

Sometimes he’d spot you around the island, wanting to get fresh air to aid in your recovery, and a brief glance would be satisfactory to get through his day. But during one instance when your friend Satsuki had mentioned dropping off some tea leaves at your home, a rather expensive blend she saved for whenever she was feeling under the weather, Gorou had pounced on the opportunity and offered to drop if off himself.

Maybe it was a little odd because Satsuki’s own work took her closer to your house than Gorou’s did (it was actually completely out of his way), but if this thought occurred to her, she (thankfully) didn’t address it. She simply handed him the small burlap sack tied closed with twine.

The fact your house is out of Gorou’s way isn’t lost on you, as it’s the first thing you commented on when he knocked at your front door that evening. That’s a long walk!

But he’d only shrugged and smiled. The path to your house never feels long. And really, even if it did, it would always be worth it. 

Yet he wants to do more to show you his appreciation. You’ve mentioned that the thanks you get from him and the others in the village is plenty enough appreciation for you, but at least once he would like to go beyond that. He knows you’re too humble to accept anything more, but you deserve it for working hard. He ruminates on this throughout the day, at some points during breaks staring ahead at a wall or a tree so intently that others take notice and, unlike Satsuki, draw attention to his unusual behavior.

“Is there something particularly interesting about that wall, general?”

“Huh?” Gorou blinks, snapped out of his train of thought, and turns to the one who’d said that.

One of the newest additions to the resistance, Takao, grins playfully, betraying that it had been him who had voiced the question. He says nothing more, opting instead to take another bite of his lavender melon. Next to him, the more seasoned Hyuga chuckles.  

“You’ve been pretty distracted today.”

“Oh, u-uh… have I?” It’s Gorou’s turn to chuckle as he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. He’s normally composed in front of his soldiers, as is befitting his position, but normally thoughts of you don’t follow him onto the training grounds. 

For all his talents at strategizing, he’d failed to strategize how to navigate around this, having not anticipated, perhaps foolishly, that he’d be caught thinking about you by his men. In his defense, it had been subtle up until this point: a brief thought about where you might be and if you’ve been able to receive the newest shipment of supplies okay—serious matters relating to operations. They were things that hardly merit acting embarrassed, things no one would find strange if they were to ask what is on his mind. He could share the thought freely. 

Today’s daydreams, however, he is not as intent to share. It had shifted from merely wondering what he should do to show his appreciation to wondering how you’d react after the fact. He could see it clearly, your bright eyes and wide smile like the crescent moon, directed at him, for him, and he is so happy to be the cause. He’ll memorize the way they look and how it feels to receive them, and he will watch you, standing there in front of him, wishing he could have the rest of you too.

“It’s nothing.” Gorou tries to be dismissive but it’s a lame attempt, even he’ll admit that. To shut it down entirely before they can grow more suspicious, he changes the subject. “We should get ready for the next round of sparring. I took some notes on what I observed earlier that I wanted to go over with everyone…” Great. It seemed in his distraction he had misplaced them; they’re not on the table or on any of the empty chairs.

Hyuga nods and goes to round up the others. Gorou thinks he’s in the clear and huffs quietly while he continues to search for his missing notes, but Takao, spry as ever, which Gorou had quickly come to learn, can’t help but make one final comment.

“If you’re needing some victorious luck for whatever’s on your mind, do you think rubbing your own ears would count?”

Gorou looks over at Takao, cheeks hot, and he's feeling embarrassed but for another reason—he isn’t keen to be reminded about that rumor that went around. It has mostly fizzled out, but some (read: Takao) still like to tease. But then he considers what his subordinate has just said. Why would Takao assume he needed luck? Even if he did choose to share what had him distracted, it’s not as if he needed any assurances of victory in trying to decide what to do for you. 

Perhaps it runs deeper, touching on a point Gorou hadn’t really put into words until now. Now, he realizes, it isn’t merely about doing something nice for you to return the favor. He’s always been one to show, not tell, and a part of him had begun to hope that by being the one to extend an extra measure of gratitude, you might understand just how much he cares about you.

Is this the issue which Takao implied he would need that victorious luck for? Gorou, even for basically being found out despite sharing nothing out loud, is impressed. He’s more perceptive than he seemed.

“Here.” Takao holds his hand out and Gorou glances down: the missing notes. “You left them on the bench back there.” 

Gorou takes them with a quiet Oh… Thanks. Takao smiles and wordlessly joins the rest of the soldiers.

It’s during dinner when Gorou finally comes up with an idea, and he's annoyed he hadn’t come up with it sooner. It seems so obvious now! He initiates the conversation just as he had this morning when he walks up to hand you his plate. As he’s the last in line, he’s able to linger. You ask if he enjoyed the food and he nods, telling you he always does. The corner of your mouth lifts in a little grin, subtle but full of pride. I’m glad.

You always cook for us, he then remarks, but please, at least once, allow me to cook for you. Your head tilts as you admit you didn’t know he liked to cook too. He says it’s only sometimes—he can't do anything complex due to lack of time, and besides, he prefers to eat the food you prepare anyway, which is leagues above his own. 

“But there’s a dish I think I’m pretty good at, and… I’d like you to try it. Well, that is, if you want to…” Gorou trails off, suddenly unsure of himself. Asking you hadn’t seemed like it would be a big deal when it first occurred to him to offer this, but now he’s worried he might make a fool of himself. Of course his cooking would never be as amazing as yours, and what if that’s all you’re  thinking about? Are you contemplating a polite way to turn him down? What if you say yes but while he’s cooking his hands get shaky and he messes up? You’re a sweet person and he knows you’ll just try to assure that it’s the thought that counts but that’s not enough for him! He wants to do his best for you because you do your best for the resistance.

It seems his worry at potentially being rejected is unwarranted, as you interrupt his internal speculations and accept. I’d really like that. The rainclouds which had slowly been creeping over him the more he thought about what could go wrong recede until all he sees is beautiful sunshine, sees that grin still on your face. You’re the fresh air and the rainbow after a storm, and he can hardly recall how dark the clouds just were. Did they even matter?

He invites you to his home the following evening. You typically don’t eat dinner until after everyone else has been served, and it works out well for tonight. While you’re cleaning up in the mess hall, Gorou prepares the food. Though he doesn’t make this dish often, he still has it down to a science—the ingredients are fresh, the measurements are accurate, and his timing is perfect. After he’s arranged everything in a bowl and set it aside on the counter, he’s only left waiting for another ten minutes. 

Your knocks on the door are light, but he hears it clearly enough in the silence. At this time, the commotion outdoors has died down. The moment the thought crosses his mind—It’s you, you’re here—his heart starts to race, and the deep breaths he takes on the brief walk to answer the door do nothing to calm it down. Why was he feeling like this? Mentally he’d been perfectly fine, because you’re nice and easygoing and he’s never had reason to be anxious around you. Your earlier acceptance of trying his cooking had helped ease that anxiety then—he had nothing to fret over.  But his body evidently hadn’t gotten the memo as his nerves run away now, having taken his confidence hostage.

Now is not the time! The last deep breath he takes, now standing in front of the door, comes out a frustrated huff. Yes, you’re just on the other side, waiting to greet him with your pretty smile, and yes, you are here to try his cooking upon his invitation, but Gorou is hesitating to just move, open the door and welcome you in and play the part of a hospitable host, because of nerves. The surety he exudes as general is nowhere to be found now. He’s left in the open, exposed and helpless. 

He’s addressed that before to his soldiers, what’s to be done when a battle looks like a lost cause. What was it he had said? 

An invitation for dinner is far and away from a battle, but the advice is still the same, and it spurs Gorou into action: continue to power through, because the tides might yet turn.

Your face lights up when the door slides to the side and reveals him there. He meets it a smile of his own and his heart continues to race but while previously it had been the nerves, now it feels like that of relief, of being pulled from open water into safety, of watching the cavalry arrive to turn those tumultuous tides. To be in your presence right now is to be at ease, drifting to sleep atop the clouds, and he wants you to be next to him forever, if it meant he could always feel like this. 

The panic he’d worked himself into during all this had been the result of thinking too much, and to be graced by your charming features was to be reminded that when it comes to feelings for the one you care about, overthinking hindered more than helped. He need only to sigh and let go, heart drifting like the falling cherry blossoms in spring, down, down, down into your waiting hands. Maybe that’s why it beats so hard, eager as it is to reach you.

“Hey, you made it!” he greets. “Hope it wasn’t too bad a walk, especially after a long day and all.” His house is on a higher hill than yours, which is closer to the entrance of the village.

He steps to the side to allow you in and you step across the threshold, glancing over your shoulder to reply. “The path to your house never feels long.”

At hearing his words from long ago repeated back to him, he chuckles. “I’m glad.”

You stop and turn to face him, hands clutched behind your back. “So what has Chef Gorou prepared tonight?” Your eyes sparkle and it can’t be blamed on the moonlight.

This time, it’s a full laugh that leaves Gorou’s mouth. “‘Chef’? You’re getting a little ahead of yourself there.”

“I can’t help it; I’m excited!” You clasp your hands together in front of you now, palms meeting in a firm clap.

While you take a seat at the dining table, he gets the food. It’s nothing too special, he says, wanting to temper your expectations because it’s true, he doesn’t find it to be anything remarkable. It’s something I make if I have the extra time. Hardly fancy. Your eyes brighten in wonder when he sets the bowl before you, and you tell him he’s underselling himself. It looks amazing! The bowl of ramen is piled high with toppings, sheets of dried seaweed and fresh cuts of chashu pork resting against the far side. It’s still slightly steaming, and the aroma makes your mouth water.

Gorou's typically fine when receiving praise, taking it in stride, but it’s different when it’s you. He blushes, thankful that you’re preoccupied with studying the dish and aren’t looking at him. He only hopes you think it tastes amazing as well.

And you do think that. You hum contentedly around the first mouthful of noodles, the spices washing over your tongue. It had been a little chilly at night this time of year and the heat is pleasant, warming you from the inside out. You eat it rather quickly; you worked up an appetite due to eating lunch a little earlier than usual today.

Satisfaction settles within Gorou to see you enjoying what he has made, and he remarks to you that it might be a small gesture, as one meal is nothing to the countless number you have prepared for him and the others, in addition to all the others ways you help around Watatsumi, but he wanted to switch places for once. He could surmise by each dish how much love you have to share, ensuring everyone is cared for, and he wanted to return the favor, to show you how much he cares about you too. 

We’re grateful to have you here, he declares. Brilliant blue eyes are suddenly shy to hold your gaze, interested in the notches in the wooden table. Then more quietly, he confesses But I think I’m the most grateful of all.

The words have left him, can no longer be taken back, and slowly he musters he courage to look at you then, hopeful of what you might say. 

You’d paused in your eating halfway through his speech to focus fully on what he was saying. Silence hangs in the air but it isn’t awkward, and your gaze is soft. You tell him thank you—truly, deeply, from the bottom of your soul. You’re also grateful to be here; a place where you feel you belong. And you'd like to stay, you timidly admit, for as long as he’d let you stay by his side.

How lucky am I to be cared for so much by someone so kind. Your heartfelt proclamation is the sound of wind chimes blown by a gentle breeze on humid summer days, and he would have you stay with him until the sands of time drain and you return to stardust to travel through space together, into eternity.

And he says, with a sighing heart at rest in your hands: “I ask myself the same thing.”

Once you finish eating, you pat your now full stomach. Thank you for the meal! You stand to bring the bowl over to the counter, but Gorou rushes to do it instead. After, he returns to you where you’re standing by the table, and he grins proudly when you exclaim once more how delicious it was.

“I really wanted to make a good impression,” he states. “Somehow the stakes making that dish felt higher than the stakes on the battlefield.”

You giggle. “Well, it’s safe to say you were successful.”

“I’m happy you enjoyed it.” 

You smile, and Gorou doesn’t miss the twinkle of amusement in your eyes. “I know; your tail is giving it away.”

That’s when he realizes his tail is wagging, a gentle swish from side to side; pure instinct. Was it really—the whole time?! Embarrassed to be caught, he stops, tail drooping down. He averts his gaze with a blush across his cheeks, but when you laugh, he turns his attention back to you. 

He smiles because you sound so wonderful, and upon this thought his tail starts wagging again. This time though, he doesn’t stop it.

[princessdanhowell]

people are always like “are you a morning person or a night person” and I’m just like buddy I’m barely even a person

[bubble-tea-bunny]

What Fanfic Writers Are Like

Readers: We'd really like an update.

Writers: Yeah me too.

[bubble-tea-bunny]

under an umbrella meant for one

[josuke higashikata x reader]

author’s note: i rewatched diu in spring and had a few ideas drafted at that time but i didn’t actually write anything until this one, which i came up w last weekend lmao. enjoy <3

word count: 3,408

Josuke’s still half asleep as he saunters into the kitchen at 7AM on Friday, and he’s only half listening when his mom tells him to bring an umbrella today.

“It isn’t raining yet, but with how dark the clouds are, it definitely will be soon,” she remarks as she opens the refrigerator door and reaches in to grab her food. “I left the umbrella for you right by the front door so you don’t forget it.” Like I always do. But she keeps that last part to herself.

Josuke hums, taking one of the glasses sitting on the dryer rack from when he’d done the dishes last night and filling it with water from the tap. As he drinks, gulping audible and head tilted back, Tomoko glances over at him. The vague response is meant to be a confirmation that he heard her, but she doubts he actually processed it. He isn’t truly awake until at least 11:30AM. She follows his movements: sluggishly setting the glass in the sink; eyes sliding shut; swaying a little as he stands in the one spot. In such a state, he’d be hard pressed to repeat back what she said successfully had she asked him to, but at this point, he might have already fallen asleep again.

With a quiet sigh, Tomoko closes the short distance between them and rubs his back to bring him back to consciousness. Dozing off and potentially falling over on the cold kitchen floor is hardly an ideal wakeup call. (Though she won’t deny that maybe something so shocking to the system might be what he needs every now and then, with his tendency to stay up too late playing video games and paying for it in the morning.)

“Don’t forget.” She punctuates her parting words with a couple pats to his shoulder, and then she takes a seat at the dining table to eat.

“Yeah. Umbrella. Rain. Got it,” Josuke mutters and waves a hand dismissively.

The corner of Tomoko’s mouth lifts in a small grin, and she watches him amble back out of the kitchen, very much resembling a zombie. Ah. So he had heard.

Unfortunately for Josuke, that doesn’t mean much. He’d taken too long to get ready, the fact it was still dark outside due to the clouds blanketing the sky making it even more difficult wake up. Upon finally getting his pompadour just right and throwing on his uniform, he’d glanced at the clock to learn he should’ve left almost ten minutes ago. And with how close he normally cuts it with getting to school, sliding into his seat in homeroom just as the bell goes off, it’s ten minutes he doesn’t have.

Shit. He grabs his books and dashes out of the house. Why hadn’t Okuyasu come by the house today? They always walked together. He thought he had more time than he did because it was his friend’s knock on the door every morning that signaled when he had to leave. Then he remembers: Okuyasu had a quiz to make up and he’d opted to do it in the morning rather than after school.  

Josuke remembers another thing too, but he remembers it too late: he left the umbrella by the front door. He groans and slaps his palm on his forehead. Not again. He can hear his mom now, brow raised with hands on her hips once he gets home later, soaked through and miserable—You can’t say I didn’t remind you! Cue the disappointed head shake. And be careful, don’t track water on the hardwood! He really is just a mess in the mornings, isn’t he?

Get it together, Josuke. The front gates of the school are in sight now, and he ends his mini pep talk to himself with two more slaps, this time to the cheek, to try to wake himself up a little more.

The hallways are mostly empty once he’s finally inside, and his classroom is right at the end, the door slid back. He spares a glance to the clock on the opposite wall, where the hour hand is at 8 and the minute hand is pointed at the notch just before 12. The third hand ticking away the seconds is incredibly close to completing its full revolution, and it does so in 3… 2… 1.

A shrill ringing fills the air that’s otherwise dead considering most students are now in class, and Josuke starts running, shoes clacking on the linoleum. He’ll be fine if he gets there before the bell stops!

He curls his hand around the edge of the door as if to stop himself from overshooting his target, and comes to stand in the frame, panting quietly. Yes, made it! The teacher stands close by, clearly on her way to shut the door, signaling the beginning of lecture and that anyone who were to come after was to be marked tardy. But Josuke wouldn’t be one of them today!

“Perfect timing, Higashikata,” the teacher remarks.

Josuke chuckles quietly, closing the door behind him. “Heh, yeah…” By now she is accustomed to his very last second arrivals, and he’s certain he’s closed the door for her more often than not this trimester. Maybe one day he’d actually be late, but he’s not keen to let that happen anytime soon.

While the teacher returns to her spot at the head of the classroom, he walks over to his desk, the second column from the far side and three rows back. He sets his books down before plopping into his seat, and as he does, he catches your gaze from where you’re sat to his right.

When your eyes meet, you smile brightly and the corners of your own crinkle slightly. He smiles back but it’s not nearly as energetic. Even after you’ve turned your attention back to the teacher, he lingers on you, your hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, white ribbon holding it in place; your knee high socks and pristine Mary-Jane’s with a small heel; your cheeks dusted in soft pink to complement the translucent sheen of gloss on your lips. He already feels frazzled in the mornings and is sure he looks the part too (the one exception being his hair, of course; he’d cut no corners with that) but the sentiment is magnified as he studies you.

You’re always so put together, so neat. You have good grades and everyone likes you, students and faculty alike. If someone needs help you’re happy to offer assistance, and it’s almost shocking how well you can remember everyone’s names. It makes you personable and inviting, and not to mention your smile: warm and amiable, you’d always have one to share with whoever looked your way. Josuke won’t lie that he’s a bit more awake now that you’ve graced him with one. And truly, considering all these things, is it really a such a surprise that his crush is as big as it is?

He’s inclined to think no. Though he’s also inclined to think he is far from the only person to feel this way about you. Hell, he knows he’s not because Okuyasu had mentioned the other day how cute you’d looked when he passed you in the hallway and Josuke had asked what you were doing and Okuyasu shrugged and said Nothing, she was just talking with a friend. Then he went on to say well, you look cute every day but there was just something about that moment you looked cuter than normal and to anyone else this wouldn’t make any sense but Josuke, a boy with butterflies in his stomach that seem to rouse to wakefulness at the sight of you and at the sound of your voice, even when you aren’t doing anything special, understood perfectly.

Beneath your seat he spots an umbrella, folded up and covered with a slip: a pink one with strawberries dotted on it. Well, at least you’d prepared for the rain today, but that’s to be expected. He wonders what that’d be like, to not be forgetful and to be even half as composed as you are. He bets it’d be nice.

It’s your turn to catch him as you glance at him and his eyes slide from your umbrella up to your face. Briefly you look down at his desk where his books are still sitting the way he left them, and you mouth the words Page 217. That’s when Josuke notices your textbook is open, and he observes the students around you who also have theirs out. Quickly he moves to catch up, grabbing his copy and flipping through.

He does it just in time, too, as the teacher calls his name to ask him a question.

“What page are we on?”

Though he’s been taken by surprise in the past, you’ve spared him of that today and he answers correctly. Satisfied (though slightly suspicious of whether he really had been paying attention), the teacher returns to writing on the board. Once her back is turned, Josuke mouths Thanks and you flash that perfect smile at him again and his stomach feels a bit funny.

The rain begins to fall halfway through the day. It starts as a drizzle, silent and feeling more like a mist than anything, until it comes down a little harder, with enough force that the raindrops darken the cement. Students are quick to flee to the safety of the indoors during lunch, hiding beneath their umbrellas (or in the case of the less prepared, beneath their textbooks).

When classes resume, the rain is descending in a steady downpour, beating against the windows with muffled patters. It’s nice background noise for lazing around at home, but while at school, not so much. The dark sky makes Josuke sleepy (though he hadn’t been fully awake to begin with) and he rests his head on his propped up hand as he looks outside. He’s sitting right by the window, and he follows the path of a raindrop sliding down the window. It goes straight for a short while, then at a diagonal towards the right; it picks up a few other raindrops along its way, growing in size, and down it goes, until it reaches the windowsill…

Josuke’s eyelids begin to droop. Could this day go by any slower?

The bell to signal the end of the school day is truly a blessed sound indeed. It seems the weather has decided to have some mercy for the students who had failed to bring an umbrella, for the rain ceases and the sky, while still cloudy, isn’t as dreary as it had been earlier. Because of this, Josuke is able to wait for Okuyasu and Koichi at the usual spot, right outside the front gates. All three of them have a different final period and Josuke is the first to arrive this time.

He watches the crowd of students leaving campus, large groups of them taking up most of the space on the sidewalks and the crosswalk. The air is filled with energetic chatter and the whoosh of passing cars. As the minutes wear on, the hustle and bustle gradually diminishes, and only a few students here and there trickle through the gates. However, thus far none of them have been Okuyasu or Koichi, and Josuke’s brows furrow. He peaks around the corner to look past the opened gates but they’re nowhere to be seen. What gives? Where the hell are they?

Normally they don’t take this long to show up. Did they get distracted or something? Josuke huffs and turns back around, looking down the sidewalk. The plan had been to get food at St. Gentleman’s, and while any other day he might try to wait it out or even return inside to search for them, he’s getting hungry and considering going ahead. They wouldn’t be annoyed, and they’d all meet up eventually, just now at the bakery and not outside the school building.

Not that it takes much convincing on his part, Josuke makes up his mind, and with a decisive nod, stuffs his hands into his pants pockets and begins walking. He wonders what to buy once he’s there, and envisioning the different choices makes the rumbling of his stomach only grow louder. But he doesn’t make it more than ten steps before he feels a solitary raindrop land on his head.

At first he thinks it’s his imagination, but then he feels another, and he glares up at the sky. Is it really— A few more hit his face, one narrowly missing his eye, and he groans. There was no more denying it now. It was beginning to rain again.

A light drizzle would’ve been the most ideal, and he wouldn’t have minded walking through it, but he’s not quite so lucky. The most he could hope for is that it doesn’t come down any harder than it is now; the torrents of earlier this afternoon would be difficult to trek in. Possible, but he’d look like a wet dog by the time he arrived at St. Gentleman’s (and halfway to shaking the excess water off his body like one too). He considers what he might do if it did rain that hard, if it would be worth the walk, and he sighs. He’d be soaked whether he chose to go to the bakery or reroute to his house. At least a trip to St. Gentleman’s got him some warm food at the end.

Josuke’s once perfectly done pompadour is being messed up by the rain, and he pushes some of the stray strands back from his forehead. Man, this sucks! Did Okuyasu or Koichi bring an umbrella? If they had, it would’ve been left in their lockers for the day since they ate lunch indoors, so Josuke wouldn’t have seen. Okuyasu he was a bit unsure of, but Koichi stayed prepared, and Josuke doesn’t put it past him to have brought one just in case.

Maybe he should turn around then? He could go back inside, find his friends because really, if he hadn’t seen them while standing by the front gates for fifteen minutes then where the hell were they, and just take the walk to St. Gentleman’s with them, while, fingers crossed, sheltered beneath an umbrella.

As if on cue, Josuke no longer feels the rain falling, and he looks up to see he is now beneath an umbrella: it’s colored pink and has a strawberry pattern.

His eyes trace the length of the handle and find you at the end, smiling at him. Your arm is lifted slightly to be able to keep him covered as well as your much shorter self.

“You’ll catch a cold if you just stand there,” you remark.

Ah. It occurs to him he had stopped walking when it started raining. Deep in thought about how to proceed, he had neglected to actually move out of the way so that he might continue his thinking without getting wetter by the second. Just staying in one spot was even worse than just continuing with his walk! First not bringing an umbrella to begin with, and now this, he truly was screwing himself over at every turn.

But it would seem the world is taking just a little pity on him, for not only has his need for an umbrella been answered, it had been you that answered it. The weather is cold but he hardly notices due to his rapidly warming cheeks. He is suddenly acutely aware of how close the two of you are standing, and you have to, given your umbrella isn’t that big and he has a broad form. He detects the faint smell of your perfume: powdery and floral, a vibrant freshness that matches the bright expression on your face. You’re like a ball of sunshine competing with the cloudy afternoon, but he already knows who he’d declare the winner.

“Uh, yeah…” Josuke finally forces out awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. On the inside, he cringes. “Just… got distracted deciding what to do since I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

You tilt your head. “Where were you going? I could walk you there!”

Your offer catches him off guard, quick as it had been. Clearly it isn’t something you said just to be nice. If he wasn’t mistaken, your suggestion had an eager undertone to it, as if hoping he’d agree and grant you the opportunity to help someone. Once more he’s in awe of your willingness to lend a hand where needed, and maybe this was the intention of the powers that be all along—where Josuke was unprepared, you were, as always, put together, and it was his lucky day that you had set your sights on him.

His brief silence you interpret as hesitation to agree, so you continue: “And don’t feel bad about accepting! I’d hate for you to walk under the rain.”

You wear your heart on your sleeve and Josuke can’t help smiling. It’s a good look on you. “I was going to get food,” he states.

“Oh, me too! Where were you thinking?”

The longer this conversation goes, the more it becomes apparent this may turn into more than a simple walk. The prospect of eating a meal together and spending time with you outside of class makes Josuke’s stomach do a flip—there’s that queasy feeling again. His anticipation was such that it made him feel sick. Was that typical? Was this sensation written about in romance novels? He wouldn’t know since he’s never read stories like those. And yet, ironically, he finds himself to be right in the center of one.

The name St. Gentleman’s is on the tip of his tongue before it dies out and he reconsiders. If both of you went there, you would inevitably run into Okuyasu and Koichi, and as much as Josuke enjoys being around them, right now, he just wants to be with you. They’d be a distraction, and he has no qualms in admitting he wants you to himself because with the way you watch him right now, he wants to remain the center of your attention. You make it simple to forget the cold weather. Besides, the others wouldn’t mind his absence, especially not after he tells them his reason for not meeting them.

“Cafe Rengatei,” he says instead.

You nod once, resolute. “Let’s go there then!”

The optimistic part of him seems to spring to life—this is a date! But Josuke tries to push that down quickly, not wanting to make this out to be more than it is. Because it isn’t much, really. Just two classmates getting a bite to eat after school. That’s it. As friends.

“Here, you’ll need to hold the umbrella though since you’re taller.”

You hand him the umbrella and he takes it, and to ensure you’re also properly covered, you step even closer, shoulder pressed against his. You’re touching him and you’re so warm and smell like flowers and even if on the outside he appears perfectly fine, on the inside he’s freaking out and he might not call it a date but it sure as hell is playing out like one.

He’s still in shock at the events that are transpiring, and doesn’t immediately fall into step with you. You blink and glance up at him, and the gloomy weather and umbrella cast a shadow over his face that, thankfully, hides his blush. It deepens when you take hold of his arm, the one between you holding the umbrella, as though to pull him along.

“Come on, let’s go before it starts raining harder!”

Josuke didn’t think he could like the rain as much as he does now. Talking with you becomes increasingly easier with every step, and it feels like his heart stops when you grin softly. The walk is unhurried, even for the rain falling all around you, and it’s hard to say who is dictating the pace, who has decided to prolong this time spent so close together.

The depths of your eyes are crystal clear at this distance and he knows one thing for sure: if it had, in fact, been you at the start setting this slow pace, it’s him who would keep it that way. He’ll keep his steps slow to extend this moment with you, all the while wishing it would last forever.

[darklesmylove]

au where i actually write