Your Local Bimbo

18+  pfp @azulity she/her/hers - 28 sorry this is cringe

[peachyproserpina]

Welcome to the blog~

About me: Peach or Peachy - 28 - she/her - I edit more then I write!

All graphics are from the wonderful @glassbxttless

PFP is from @azulity

+18 only - MDNI - Thanks in Advance ♥

Masterlist - Archive - Matches

Most Recent Work:

CCODTober Day 15 (Vampires)

Zawi x OC fem!Reader

More info about what I'm currently working on, requests,and anything else I get up to below!

Who I'm writing for (slowly, like so slowly. I'm a wip it's fine):

Warfare: <Zawi3 dont fucking ask where this came from

Elliot, Sam, LT MacDonald, Tommy, Erik, Jake-maybe? ADCU: Just about anyone upon request. Check out the archive for the vibes there. John Wick: eeeeeh its gotta be good.

Currently working on:

Filthy- a almost sequel to "Nasty" Elliot x fat!Reader

Another??? - Zawi x Reader - Self Indulgent: soft for once

XXX- Large project, unable to determine deadline

Requests:

Not really taking requests at the moment in a formal manner! Mostly if something comes my way, jump in my inbox! maybe we can spark something.

General Warnings / Tags across the board I suppose:

I suck at emotions- much better with smut but I am working on getting better. I typically always write with a fat body in mind, also typically femme as well. There are some exceptions and I usually mention in the bite before. There's not much on my squick list! Be mindful of the tags. I try to tag the hardest bits but if you would like something tagged or I missed something please feel free to let me know!

If you're still reading this have a lil treat, thank you so much for stopping by.

[justsomeguycore]

lesbian scifi is so easy. here’s a woman in cargo pants and a tank top on a spaceship. are you with me

[justsomeguycore]

maybe it’s not even cargo pants. maybe it’s coveralls rolled to + tied around the waist. maybe she even has fuckoff boots

[quinntology]

[arcanechariot]

until i fold like a lawn chair....

[freckledjoes]

JOSEPH QUINN as MICHAEL Hoard - deleted scene

[glassbxttless]

I Just Got a Mom

waylon macdonald

word count: 1k+

summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Photo Prompt Server Challenge | Waylon’s spending the night with Mamaw, Papaw, and Aunt Heather and he’s got a lot to get off his chest.

warnings: a sad boy, a brief mention of infertility with aunt heather, mama’s pregnant

notes: I know this is dropping after this one, but it’s set before in the timeline. If I made any mistakes, feel free to let me know!

There's a small cluster of ducks on the bank of Mamaw and Papaw's pond that Waylon is perched a few feet away from. It smells strongly of algae and the cattails not far from the water’s edge. He watches as they move from water to land, picking at lush green grass and then moving back to the water without a care in the world. It's only a night, they'll be back to get him in the morning. He truly has nothing to be upset about. He usually loves to stay over— when he's the one asking— and ever since Aunt Heather moved back in, it's twice as fun. But this time, when dad and his mama dumped him here for a night alone, getting out of the truck felt like a stake to the heart.

He hears the sliding glass door off the back porch slide shut. He hears the shuffling of Heather's stupid leather sandals and she appears beside him at the pond moments later. Her dark hair— that matches his father's— is pulled up into a ponytail, her hands are shoved into the pocket of a burgundy hoodie, and she's wearing bib overalls underneath. Waylon and Mac had gifted them to her years ago for Mother's Day, since Way would be the closest thing she'd ever have to her own kid. She doesn't speak right away, she just settles down into the grass beside him. And they sit like that for a little while before she pulls her knees closer to her chest. "You name 'em all yet?"

Waylon gives a shrug, then points to an abnormally large mallard. "That one's Donald."

Heather raises an eyebrow and chuckles softly, "Donald Duck? After the cartoon or you, huh, Mister MacDonald?" She watches as Waylon's eyes drift back out to the glistening blue water in front of them. She studies the way he hugs his legs and rests his chin on his knees. Her heart squeezes in her chest. She smiles sadly, "You alright, bud?"

Waylon shrugs again, his chin not leaving his knees, "yeah."

"Yeah?" She echoes and then clucks her tongue to the roof of her mouth. "Because from where I'm sitting, that yeah sure looks a hell of a lot like a, no."

He sighs heavily, palms rubbing down the length of his shins before locking back together right under his knees. Heather swears she hears her little brother in that sigh. "It's stupid."

"It usually is when you're eleven." She says softly. "Still doesn't hurt to talk about it. You might feel better if you get it off your chest." 

Waylon nods as half of the ducks clamber about on the muddy bank and the other half swim in circles in the water. "I miss Travis." 

Heather's expression softens more than she even thought possible. She hears a plethora of stories each time she sees Way, most of which involve Travis. She nods, "your partner in crime, right?"

"Yeah." He presses his lips together tightly and then wrings his hands, "We used to do everything together. Like ride our bikes outside his house. And there was this burger place by our old house that had, like, the best fries ever. Dad used to take us there on sleepover nights." 

"He sounds like a good friend." 

"He is." Waylon's eyes brighten for a fraction of a second while he nods and then sighs, his light dimming as he gets quieter. "He was."

Heather tilts her head slightly to look at him, a waterfall of dark hair falling over her shoulder, her hands leaving her pocket so she can lean back in the grass. "He still is. You just don't live down the street from each other anymore." 

"It's not the same." He sighs softly and he shrugs. "Here it's just— it's whatever." He pauses and then takes a shaky but deep breath. "And now mama and dad are having a baby."

Heather hums, wracking her brain for something to say to help him feel better, but she falls short. "They are." She says as she nods.

And then he sighs even heavier, his shoulders hunching up slightly. Heather can hear the tears in hsi voice. "I just got a mom." She smiles sadly then, scooting a little bit closer. Waylon's voice shakes when he starts to speak again, "like, a real one. She watches movies with me and makes popcorn. She helps me with my homework and she always gets my favorite snacks when she goes to the store. She even keeps Donnie in her room for me when I go to moms." He sniffles then, trying to blink away the tears threatening to spill. "And I gotta learn to share dad again and now her too."

Heather reaches out to rub his back gently in slow circles. "Hey now…" She pauses and lifts her hand to swipe away a tear from his cheek with her thumb. "Do you think she's the kind of person who runs outta love that easy?" She asks softly. 

Waylon shrugs, his own hand coming up to swipe at his wet face. "Mom did." 

Heather exhales, slowly. She had never liked Courtney from the start. "Yeah, bud. I know. And that sucks. I'm not gonna pretend that it doesn't… but your mama? She's not like your mom." She nudges his shoulder with hers gently. "She just dropped you off and fussed for ten minutes about you not having your jacket because it might get cold tonight." 

He sniffles again as he listens, turning his head slightly to look at her.

"She chooses you, buddy." She says softly. "Nobody's makin' her do that. She walked right in and chose to love you. And she's gonna keep choosing you when that baby gets here too. I promise you, she's got a lot of love to give. You're not getting replaced. You're gettin' promoted." 

Waylon frowns at that, confused. "Promoted?"

"Yeah. You're gonna be a big brother. It's a big deal. You get first dibs on teaching that kid all kinds of stuff. Hell, I taught your dad things Mamaw probably wishes I didn't when I became a big sister. You're gonna love it." 

Waylon finally cracks a smile. 

They sit there together for a little while longer watching green, brown, and white feathers dive beneath the surface of the water, before Waylon looks at her again. "You think Travis would think it's cool?" He asks. "Me being a big brother?"

Heather smiles and nods. "I think Travis would think it's cool as hell." 

[glassbxttless]

I Just Got a Mom

waylon macdonald

word count: 1k+

summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Photo Prompt Server Challenge | Waylon’s spending the night with Mamaw, Papaw, and Aunt Heather and he’s got a lot to get off his chest.

warnings: a sad boy, a brief mention of infertility with aunt heather, mama’s pregnant

notes: I know this is dropping after this one, but it’s set before in the timeline. If I made any mistakes, feel free to let me know!

There's a small cluster of ducks on the bank of Mamaw and Papaw's pond that Waylon is perched a few feet away from. It smells strongly of algae and the cattails not far from the water’s edge. He watches as they move from water to land, picking at lush green grass and then moving back to the water without a care in the world. It's only a night, they'll be back to get him in the morning. He truly has nothing to be upset about. He usually loves to stay over— when he's the one asking— and ever since Aunt Heather moved back in, it's twice as fun. But this time, when dad and his mama dumped him here for a night alone, getting out of the truck felt like a stake to the heart.

He hears the sliding glass door off the back porch slide shut. He hears the shuffling of Heather's stupid leather sandals and she appears beside him at the pond moments later. Her dark hair— that matches his father's— is pulled up into a ponytail, her hands are shoved into the pocket of a burgundy hoodie, and she's wearing bib overalls underneath. Waylon and Mac had gifted them to her years ago for Mother's Day, since Way would be the closest thing she'd ever have to her own kid. She doesn't speak right away, she just settles down into the grass beside him. And they sit like that for a little while before she pulls her knees closer to her chest. "You name 'em all yet?"

Waylon gives a shrug, then points to an abnormally large mallard. "That one's Donald."

Heather raises an eyebrow and chuckles softly, "Donald Duck? After the cartoon or you, huh, Mister MacDonald?" She watches as Waylon's eyes drift back out to the glistening blue water in front of them. She studies the way he hugs his legs and rests his chin on his knees. Her heart squeezes in her chest. She smiles sadly, "You alright, bud?"

Waylon shrugs again, his chin not leaving his knees, "yeah."

"Yeah?" She echoes and then clucks her tongue to the roof of her mouth. "Because from where I'm sitting, that yeah sure looks a hell of a lot like a, no."

He sighs heavily, palms rubbing down the length of his shins before locking back together right under his knees. Heather swears she hears her little brother in that sigh. "It's stupid."

"It usually is when you're eleven." She says softly. "Still doesn't hurt to talk about it. You might feel better if you get it off your chest." 

Waylon nods as half of the ducks clamber about on the muddy bank and the other half swim in circles in the water. "I miss Travis." 

Heather's expression softens more than she even thought possible. She hears a plethora of stories each time she sees Way, most of which involve Travis. She nods, "your partner in crime, right?"

"Yeah." He presses his lips together tightly and then wrings his hands, "We used to do everything together. Like ride our bikes outside his house. And there was this burger place by our old house that had, like, the best fries ever. Dad used to take us there on sleepover nights." 

"He sounds like a good friend." 

"He is." Waylon's eyes brighten for a fraction of a second while he nods and then sighs, his light dimming as he gets quieter. "He was."

Heather tilts her head slightly to look at him, a waterfall of dark hair falling over her shoulder, her hands leaving her pocket so she can lean back in the grass. "He still is. You just don't live down the street from each other anymore." 

"It's not the same." He sighs softly and he shrugs. "Here it's just— it's whatever." He pauses and then takes a shaky but deep breath. "And now mama and dad are having a baby."

Heather hums, wracking her brain for something to say to help him feel better, but she falls short. "They are." She says as she nods.

And then he sighs even heavier, his shoulders hunching up slightly. Heather can hear the tears in hsi voice. "I just got a mom." She smiles sadly then, scooting a little bit closer. Waylon's voice shakes when he starts to speak again, "like, a real one. She watches movies with me and makes popcorn. She helps me with my homework and she always gets my favorite snacks when she goes to the store. She even keeps Donnie in her room for me when I go to moms." He sniffles then, trying to blink away the tears threatening to spill. "And I gotta learn to share dad again and now her too."

Heather reaches out to rub his back gently in slow circles. "Hey now…" She pauses and lifts her hand to swipe away a tear from his cheek with her thumb. "Do you think she's the kind of person who runs outta love that easy?" She asks softly. 

Waylon shrugs, his own hand coming up to swipe at his wet face. "Mom did." 

Heather exhales, slowly. She had never liked Courtney from the start. "Yeah, bud. I know. And that sucks. I'm not gonna pretend that it doesn't… but your mama? She's not like your mom." She nudges his shoulder with hers gently. "She just dropped you off and fussed for ten minutes about you not having your jacket because it might get cold tonight." 

He sniffles again as he listens, turning his head slightly to look at her.

"She chooses you, buddy." She says softly. "Nobody's makin' her do that. She walked right in and chose to love you. And she's gonna keep choosing you when that baby gets here too. I promise you, she's got a lot of love to give. You're not getting replaced. You're gettin' promoted." 

Waylon frowns at that, confused. "Promoted?"

"Yeah. You're gonna be a big brother. It's a big deal. You get first dibs on teaching that kid all kinds of stuff. Hell, I taught your dad things Mamaw probably wishes I didn't when I became a big sister. You're gonna love it." 

Waylon finally cracks a smile. 

They sit there together for a little while longer watching green, brown, and white feathers dive beneath the surface of the water, before Waylon looks at her again. "You think Travis would think it's cool?" He asks. "Me being a big brother?"

Heather smiles and nods. "I think Travis would think it's cool as hell." 

[pierppasolini]

Street Fighter (2026) // dir. Kitao Sakurai

[glassbxttless]

Milkshakes

derwin “d.f.” grunauer x not-the-mrs-yet.grunauer!reader

word count: 800+

summary: JQ Fic Exchange Valentine’s Day Bingo: First I Love You | On a date with Derwin, he wants to tell you something important before he heads back to Harvard.

warnings: Milkshake consumption, a date, 1940’s, first i love yous!

notes: I took a little break in writing these Valentine’s day fics, but I’m back now and I just had to make my first one back about the Grunauer’s before they became the Grunauer’s. I love them. I hope you do too. As always, If i missed any mistakes, please feel free to let me know!

By the time you and Derwin settle into your usual booth in the corner, the sky outside the wide windows at the front of the soda shop are softening towards dusk. The neon sign hums just above the table, casting everything below it in a wash of pink and blue that even makes the chrome trim glow. 

Derwin sits across from you, his jacket— and yours— tossed onto the seat beside him. He’s wearing that pretty red pin striped shirt that you adored on him. There’s a thin sheen of condensation gathering on the tabletop where his glass rests against it— a chocolate milkshake that slowly disappears the more the ice cream melts. He stirs it with his straw, not really drinking it, seemingly occupied with something else. His eyes drift between you and looking out the window at the street basked in gold from the street lamps. 

You both talk the way you’ve been talking for months. It comes easy, unhurried, filling the space with whatever floats through your minds. You talk about your classes, the children you sometimes help tutor, even how one of them read an entire paragraph of a chapter both straight through without even stopping. The way Derwin’s face changes when he listens to you talk about teaching tells you everything you’ve ever needed to know. Your futures already belong to one another. There’s a lull in conversation. A pause that’s comfortable, but heavy. Everything feels much more numbered now with his train ride looming. The dates you share, the walks home, even the time you spend sitting shoulder to shoulder on your folks porch doing nothing at all. He’ll be shipping back off to Harvard sooner rather than later and it was killing you both silently. 

Derwin glances down at his hands as he stirs his milkshake with the straw again. Then he looks back up at you, letting his gaze linger as his smile softens. “I don’t know how I’m gonna get any work done up there.” He chuckles a bit. “All I ever seem to think about is what I’m missin’ here.” 

Your chest tightens at that and you smile softly, nodding. “I know… but you’ll adjust.”

“Maybe.” He nods a bit, eyes falling back to where his hand is wrapped around the glass. He adds, his voice softer than before, “Doesn’t mean I want to adjust though.”

The jukebox on the other end of the diner clicks over and changes songs. Derwin exhales through his nose as he taps his fingers against the glass once, then he stills. “I’ve been trying to figure out the right way to say this…” he admits and then laughs, letting out a little shake of his head, “Or if there even is a right way to say it.”

Your eyes drift up to watch how he moves carefully. That familiar little line between his brows starts to appear and you smile. “You don’t have to rehearse anything with me… I hope you know that.”

He huffs out a quiet breath— which almost sounds like a laugh— “I know… I just…” He stops and places the milkshake to the side. He crosses his arms and leans against the tabletop, his eyes meeting yours now. “I love you.”

The words land softly in your chest. They’re steady, they’re sincere, they’re stripped of anything playful. You know he means every single one of them. There was no buildup, no big flourish. It’s just the truth, spoken plainly to a girl from a boy she cares for so deeply. His expression doesn’t change much after he says them. There isn’t a smile or that nervous grin you’re so used to. There’s a tension in his shoulders, trying to weigh out whether you feel the same. 

“I think I have for a while now… Ever since Thanksgiving with my folks.” He adds after a few more beats of silence, his voice more of a whisper. “I… I didn’t wanna rush anything… If you weren’t ready. But it felt wrong not sayin’ it before I go.”

Your throat tightens, your chest gets hot. Emotion starting to bloom from deep in your gut. It feels warm and happy and deeply right. You reach across the table, placing your hand on his arm. He finally starts to relax, moving so he can take your palm into his. 

“I love you too.” You say quietly. “Have for a while too.”

His shoulders start to ease then. His thumb shifts beneath your palm, brushing against your knuckles as you two sit in silence. “Good.” He chuckles and then smiles, his eyes on where your hands are joined. “I was hopin’ you’d say that.”

Outside the soda shop, a car passes. The headlights streak briefly across the glass, lighting up the two of you. Inside though, everything remains hushed and quiet. The world continues to tick on, without any regard for the small important words that just changed your entire life being exchanged within the small booth. 

tags ;; @writergiih @getaapologist @jj-155 @autumneva @ironmusictrash @keeryhours @robinbuckleywife

[glassbxttless]

Pass the Cranberry Sauce

derwin “d.f.” grunauer x not-the-mrs-yet-grunauer!reader

word count: 500+

summary: CCODs Thanksgiving Week Day 3: Cranberry Sauce | Derwin thinks about his girlfriend at dinner with his family.

warnings: Nothing I can think of!

notes: I hope no one minds the amount of Derwin I’ve got planned/posted for Thanksgiving week :D. I really enjoy writing him and his (almost) wife and just spending time in their little world. I read this over, but feel free to let me know about mistakes!

The Grunauer’s dining room is always the loudest on the block on Thanksgiving day. It made noise in the way only big families could— forks are clinking against porcelain, someone is talking over someone else, the smell of the roasted turkey is hanging in the air. Derwin sits wedged between one of his brothers and the corner of the table, where he’s always been shoved, ever since he could sit upright. He’s pretending to follow a story about a car breaking down on Route 2, though he hadn’t caught the beginning of it. His mind was elsewhere— across town in a little blue house, sitting beside you on your porch steps. He can hear the soft sound of your laugh ringing out in his ears.

He can still see the way you looked at him last week when he’d said something about his hair needing cut. You smiled at him and reached out then, tucking that one unruly curl close to his temple behind his ear instead. His heart had kicked so hard in his chest he’d nearly forgotten his own name. He’s sure his cheeks were redder than any tomato his mama had ever grown. He hadn’t meant to fall for you this fast nor this hard. But now, surrounded by his family and the smell of cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, all he could think about was the little yellow ribbon you’d worn in your hair dancing last week, and the way your hand had felt tucked against his palm in his coat pocket when you’d taken his arm.

Someone laughs and it knocks him back to the present. The room is swimming with motion that he’d been grateful to miss until now. There were hands passing dishes, glasses being refilled, and his mother’s soft voice rising above it all.

“Derwin, sweetheart— pass the cranberry sauce, won’t you?”

He startles a little, looking up at her and realizing he’d been staring at nothing. “Oh— uh— yes, ma’am,” he says quickly and flashes her a pretty white smile. He fumbles for the dish and hands it over with shaking hands. His mother gives him a fond look and reaches out to smooth back his hair. It’s the kind of look that says I know you’re thinking about her, before she turns back to conversation with one of his brother’s wives.

He glances at his plate, pushing a bit of turkey through the sauce there and lets the noise swallow him up again. He wonders if you’re having dinner with your family now too. Maybe you’re laughing at something your father said or helping your mama set the table. God knows it isn’t as loud in your house, with only the three of you. He wonders if you were thinking of him the way he was thinking of you— you’d taken over every corner of his mind, although he desperately tries not to let your face cloud his every thought. He never wins.

He’d never really understood what people meant when they talked about falling in love before. He thought it would be some big grand thing, a trumpet-blare or a jolt that wouldn’t sneak up on him like this. But here he was, his heart thudding slow and steady in his chest, surrounded by gravy boats and cranberry sauce and laughter from his brothers— and you were sitting at the forefront of his brain. Falling in love felt quiet and certain, and he’s never felt anything better.

tags ;; @writergiih @getaapologist @jj-155 @autumneva @ironmusictrash @keeryhours @robinbuckleywife

[glassbxttless]

A Yellow Ribbon

derwin “d.f.” grunauer

word count: 800+

summary: Derwin’s friends find out he’s been carrying around one of your hair accessories and the teasing ensues.

warnings: nothing i can think of

notes: While I’m struggling to come up with ideas for any of my other AUs, Derwin’s thriving. And he’s getting some more of those first few years filled in! I turned this out in an hour so please feel feee to let me know if there are any mistakes lol.

It’s hot enough that the air bouncing off the lake has started to waver. The kind of hot that would burn your feet if you stood still on the dock too long. Hot enough that the boys have claimed their usual spot on the shore. 

Derwin’s stretched out in the grass, one arm propped behind his head. He’s squinting up at the sky like he’s trying to solve the mysteries of the universe. But he’s not solving puzzles. He’s thinking of you. 

Which is obvious to everyone except for him. 

Tommy flicks his bottle cap at his shoulder. “You even listenin’ over there?”

“Hm?” Derwin turns his head towards them quietly. “Oh. Yeah, sure. You were sayin’ something about your dad’s truck.”

“I was sayin that you haven’t heard a word I said.” Tommy’s eyes narrow. 

Charlie nudges Tommy, “He’s moonin’.”

“I am not moonin’.” Derwin sighs as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. “I was just… thinkin’.”

“That might be worse.” Charlie chuckles. 

Derwin rolls his eyes and goes to sit up properly. When he does, something slips about halfway out of his back pocket. Bright against the seat of his faded denim jeans. 

Tommy raises an eyebrow, “what is that?”

Derwin reaches back, confused, but it’s too late. 

Charlie lunged forward and snatches it before he can even react. “Oh my Lord.” He crows, holding it up for Tommy to see. “It’s a ribbon.”

Derwin scrambles up to his knees then, frowning. “Give that back!”

The silk flutters in the breeze around them. The sun reflecting off the soft yellow. The exact shade you’d worn tied around your ponytail yesterday. You’d been fanning yourself as you sat on the front porch with him. Laughing at something he’d said like he was the funniest guy to grace this damn planet. 

Tommy howls with laughter, “He’s carryin’ it around like some lovesick schoolgirl!”

Derwin sighs and reaches for it again, missing it by an inch. His ears have already started to tinge pink. “She just— she took it out ‘cause it was too tight. I told her I’d hang onto it.”

“Since when?” Charlie teases. 

Derwin sighs, eyes pleading as he hesitates. “…Yesterday.”

“You’ve had this in your pocket for a full twenty-four hours?” Charlie asks, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Well I ain’t gonna throw it down in the dirt.” Derwin sighs, defensively. “It’s silk! She loves it.”

Tommy collapses onto the grass in another bout of laughter. “Listen to him! Silk! Really DF?”

Derwin finally manages to grab it back from Charlie, clutching it in his hands. “You animals don’t appreciate fine things.”

“Oh, we appreciate fine things.” Charlie laughs, wiping tears from his eyes. “Just usually not hair accessories.” 

Derwin shakes his head, a little embarrassed grin on his face. He smooths the ribbon out between his hands, careful not to wrinkle it further. There’s still the faintest crease from where it had been tied in your hair. He lies it down flat against his thighs. “She likes yellow.” He shrugs. 

Tommy groans loudly, rolling his eyes. “Oh, here we go.”

“I like when she wears it too. Makes her look like a daffodil.” Derwin continues, heart thumping hard in his chest just by the sheer thought of you. 

Charlie stares at him from where he’s sitting. “DF, do you hear yourself right now?”

Derwin just shrugs. And that’s it. Sure, maybe he’s a little embarrassed. His face is beet red and his friends are insufferable. He’s not gonna live this down any time soon. 

He folds the ribbon up carefully and tucks it back into his pocket. 

Tommy just shakes his head, “you’re too far gone.”

Derwin flops back into the grass with a dramatic sigh, getting himself comfortable again. “If likin’ a girl is a crime, then lock me up. I’ll go willin’.”

Charlie snorts at that and rolls his eyes, “You’d have been locked up since spring.”

Derwin’s grinning up at the sky now, both hands folded and propped behind his head. “Good.” He chuckles softly. “S’pose I’ll stay right there.”

The boys throw a few more jokes at him. About wedding bells and babies. But he just laughs and rolls along with it. Because when he meets you at the theater later and walks you home— he’s sure you’ll pat your hair and say, “Oh! I lost my ribbon.”

And he’s going to act real casual when he pulls one from his pocket, replying, "Funny thing.” He’ll be beaming the entire time. “I found one.”

And you’ll step closer so he can tie it back in. His fingers are going to fumble and he’s going to laugh. Then you’re going to laugh. And he’s going to smile and say, “hold still, I ain’t trained for this.”

But for now, he’s just an eighteen year old boy at a lake with his friends. Teased mercilessly. Carrying your ribbon around like it’s treasure.

But he’s not ashamed enough to stop.

[glassbxttless]

Biscayne Bay

derwin “d.f.” grunauer x not-the-mrs-yet. grunauer!reader

word count: 900+

summary: JQ Fic Exchange Valentine’s Day Bingo: First Kiss | You and Derwin are on your first date alone—

warnings: kissing

notes: I’m almost done with JQ Bingo! And my favorite little guy is kicking off my last bingo on the card! I hope you enjoy it. I’ve read this over a few times but feel free to let me know if i’ve made any mistakes!

You hear the fleetline before you even see it. The engine rumbles low as he pulls into the driveway. You glance out the window from your seat on the couch and lie your quilt block to the side, smoothing the skirt of your dress, your heart already beginning to skip a beat. 

Your mother stops her dusting to peer out the window herself and she just smiles, “That’s him.”

You can feel the heat start to rush to your cheeks as you stand and walk to the front door. Derwin is climbing out of the car when he spots you, so he puts on his prettiest smile and shuts the door gently. He’s wearing a plaid shirt with beige slacks, his belt tight around his waist. His hair must’ve been combed at one point today but his curls were fighting it. “Hi.” He says softly once he makes his way to you, his voice soft and earnest. 

You smile from the front doorway, “hi.”

Your parents are quick on your heels, meeting him on the porch. He shakes your father’s hand and answers their questions as carefully and politely as he can. You move to stand beside him, maybe that would offer him just a little more comfort. 

“We’re going to the pictures.” You say softly when your mother meets your eye. 

Derwin just nods, agreeing with you. “Yes ma’am. Won’t be too long.”

And once your parents have finally had enough, Derwin offers you his arm and he leads you to the car. The tension easing out of you both as soon as you’re settled inside. He lets out a breath and then chuckles. 

“I think your father can smell fear. Like a bloodhound.” 

You laugh, “He likes you, don’t worry.”

The city slides by you slowly. The windows are down, the air feels thicker out here, and after a few minutes you notice he’s taking a turn you don’t recognize. 

“Is this the long way?” you ask softly. 

He nods and shrugs his shoulders a bit, “I uh… I thought we might talk instead… If that’s alright.”

You don’t hesitate when you nod, “I’d like that.”

So you watch as the roads open up in front of you just enough to make your stomach flutter, and then the bay stretches out wide. He parks and kills the engine, and suddenly the realization that it’s just the two of you and the sky reflecting off the water has you nervous. 

You sit together on the hood of the car, your shoulders almost touching one another’s. The conversation comes easy, you talk about your classes and he talks about the books he loves to read and how strange it feels to be home again. You tell him about school and about how everyone around you feels like they have what they’ve wanted and you’re still figuring it out. And he listens. He listens closely. 

“Yeah… That feeling doesn’t go away as fast as people say it does.” He mumbles softly, his heart aching as he watches you. 

Time slips away from you both without a care. The sky starts to darken and the breeze off the water gets sharper with each gust. You try not to make it obvious but as the chill creeps under your collar, you shiver. 

He definitely notices. 

“Oh— here.” He says softly as he shrugs out of his jacket. Before you can protest, he drapes it around your shoulders. “I’m sorry… I should’ve thought—”

“It’s okay.” You smile, pulling it closer to you. It’s warm and smells faintly like rose scented soap that his mama must’ve loved. “Thank you.”

He watches you for a second too long before turning his attention back to the bay. “I’ve never brought anyone out here before.”

You bite on your tongue, “I’m glad you brought me.”

The sun finishes sinking below the water line in front of you, leaving the bay mostly dark. You lean against him and your shoulder presses into his arm. Neither of you move away. “I don’t… I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He admits suddenly. “With you… I’ve never had much luck with girls.”

Your heart clenches in your chest and you shoot him a reassuring smile, “I don’t know what I’m doing either.”

He turns towards you then and leans in. He’s careful and unsure, like he’s afraid of messing this up. Your lips meet his and they’re so soft. There’s a brief, awkward bump of your noses and a quiet laugh shared between you both. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. His hand lifts and hovers for a moment until you nod at him, then he rests it against your waist, leaning in for a second kiss that was even better than the first. 

“was that alright?” he asks. He sounds shy now. 

You nod, a grin breaking out across your face, “more than.” 

He helps you down off the hood after that, lovesick, and into the car. The drive home is quiet and he so desperately wants to hold your hand. He looks happier than he knows what to do with. And he walks you up the porch steps, lingering with his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. “I uhm… I had a really good time tonight.” He says softly.

You reach forward to fix the collar of his shirt, “So did I.”

And he smiles all the way back to the car. 

tags ;; @writergiih @getaapologist @jj-155 @autumneva @ironmusictrash @keeryhours @enchantedmoonlight13

[glassbxttless]

Collins Avenue

derwin “d.f.” grunauer x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k+

summary: An 18-year-old and Harvard bound, Derwin Grunauer, meets the love of his life in a bar neither of you should be in.

warnings: the drinking age is still 21 in 1940’s Florida so there’s a little underage drinking (D.F.’s friends sneak him a few beers), Derwin’s a very awkward teenage boy

notes: I love Derwin. I love his wife. I love their story. Thank you for coming along on this one with him, even if he’s not a very popular character. He means the world to me and I love getting to write bits and pieces of his world. I’ve been having a bad day so you get this story that I had queued for tomorrow. I read this over a few times, so feel free to let me know if there’s any mistakes.

Sunset had fallen over Miami in August like a heavy velvet curtain, the air around them was warm and sticky, carrying the scent of saltwater and the tang of beer and cigarette smoke. The bar on Collins Avenue wasn’t much to look at— windows smudged with sticky fingerprints, threadbare curtains permanently scented like smoke, and ceiling fans that creak as they drag themselves round and round in lazy circles. A piano in the corner tries to fill the space with some light hearted fun, but its notes wobble just above the hum of the chatter, fighting a losing battle. Nobody came here for glitz and glamour. They came for cold beer, live music, and the vague promise of forgetting themselves for a little while.

Derwin Grunauer was very, very determined to forget himself.

He was wedged at a corner table with half a dozen boys from the neighborhood, laughing a little too loud at jokes he barely followed, gulping down beer he shouldn’t have, that sweated between his palms. His cheeks were already flushed and warm, and he’d been warned twice to slow down or risk becoming a spectacle in the alley. His mind wasn’t on the story one of his friends was telling— something about a stolen bicycle and a pretty red head from down the street— it was somewhere else entirely, on Harvard maybe, or maybe on how he’d never lived away from home.

Then the door opens.

Three girls walked in, laughter cutting through the pianos hum like sunlight through the haze. Their dresses looked almost too crisp, too clean for a place like this, collars and hems precise, heels making soft taps on the sticky floor. You were in the middle, wearing the prettiest yellow dress Derwin had ever seen on a girl— a pale, button-down cotton number with a white collar and cuffs that made you look like you’d wandered straight out of a magazine ad into this smoky little dive. A small locket glints at your throat when the dim lights catch it, and for reasons Derwin could not process, his heart decided it was being kicked awake.

He forgets about the bottle in his hand. Forgets about Harvard waiting for him in just a few weeks. Forgets about the boys at his table nudging each other with knowing smiles. He just stares at you, hoping not to be caught.

“Uh-oh,” one of the boys mutters, elbowing his neighbor. “D.F.’s a goner.”

Heat shoots straight to Derwin’s ears. His face probably matched the flaming summer sky dipping below the trees outside. But he doesn’t try to deny it— he couldn’t. He tugs at his collar, wipes his sweaty palms on his shirt, then before his courage has a chance to fizzle out, he pushes his chair back and stands.

“Be right back,” he says to them, nerves evident.

It feels like he has to take a hundred steps across the room, even though it was barely twenty. He tries to pull his shoulders back and stand just a bit taller, to look older than he feels, he smooths down the front of his vest with clammy fingers. He’s never really been good at this part of talking to girls— at any part, really— but the thought of not at the very least trying his best and losing out on his chance to talk to you made his stomach churn. When he reaches you, he clears his throat. His cheeks are still tinged pink. “Evening, ladies.” The word breaks in the middle, his voice pitching up higher than he may have ever heard it before. He coughs and then tries it again. “Evening.”

Your friends start to smirk, one of them— Janice— covers a laugh behind her hand. You give him a curious look. It’s not an unkind one, which is somehow worse to him— his knees nearly buckle under it.

“I, uh…” He gestures vaguely toward the piano, and then instantly regrets it. “Fine music tonight, don’t you think?”

The girl on your right— Carol— raises her brow. “We’ve barely been here two minutes.”

“Yes, well,” Derwin stammers out and coughs again to try and cover any of his nerves threatening to break through. He grins at you then, crooked and blushing. “That’s all it takes for a trained ear, you know.” That earns him the smallest little laugh from your lips. It’s quiet but it feels genuine, and that to Derwin? It felt like he’d been handed a gold medal. He straightens, suddenly emboldened. “I’m Derwin,” he says quickly, shyly thrusting his hand forward with a smile. “My friends call me D.F.”

You slip your palm into his, the coolness of your skin from the air outside was startling against the heat of his. You begin to answer him with your own introduction, but before you could, Janice leans in.

“She doesn’t need introductions. She’s already spoken for.”

“Jan!” you hiss at her, tugging at her sleeve as you give your head a shake, clearly mortified she would even think lying with you right here was okay.

Derwin’s eyes widen as he replies, his eyes still trying to meet yours even if he wasn’t responding to you and his palm still warmer than you could’ve ever imagined. “Is she?”

You shake your head, “No, That’s not true.” You tell him, turning to meet his eyes. 

That grin returns to Derwin’s lips, a bit brighter now. “That’s… good news then.”

The piano player strikes up something faster right then and people start clapping along. Derwin shifts his weight from foot to foot, his nerves jangling around in his head like coins in a jar. He glances back at the floor where couples start taking their places and back to you before blurting out, “Would you like to dance?”

You look at him— and you mean really look — at the collar fixed nicely over his vest, the slacks that matched the color of his shoes, the hopeful expression he was wearing, and the way his hair (that clearly had a bit of curl) wouldn’t quite stay down how he wanted. Something about him was disarming, as though he hadn’t learned how to put on the polished armor the other boys you knew wore. And against your better judgment, you nod.

His hand trembles slightly as he holds it out to you, but he steadies as soon as your fingers rest in his. He leads you toward the small space closer to the piano that had been cleared for dancing, his friends across the room whistle at him and elbow each other's ribs, which only makes him flush deeper. On the dance floor, he’s clumsy, stepping once on your toes and apologizing so profusely you just have to laugh. “I’m better with books,” he admits, just a bit sheepish. “Dancing wasn’t really in the curriculum.”

“Maybe you just need practice,” you tease.

“Then I hope you don’t mind volunteering,” he says softly. It comes out more boldly than he feels at the moment.

The song goes on and though he never quite found the rhythm of his steps, he never once lets go of your hand. When the music finally ends and people clap, he realizes the grin he’s been wearing has been there long enough to hurt his cheeks. Later, once he returns home and greets his parents having to pretend he hadn’t been out drinking all night, he would remember all of this. He’d remember the haze of smoke and sea air, the citrus scent of your perfume when you leaned close to him, the sound of your laugh when he stumbled over his steps. He would remember that he’d been nervous, foolish, completely out of his depth. And he would remember, too, that you hadn’t really seemed to mind… maybe you even liked it.

He’d remember this night as the beginning.

tags ;; @getaapologist @mystic-alpaca @jj-155 @autumneva @ironmusictrash @keeryhours @robinbuckleywife

[peachyproserpina]

[smoqueen-deactivated20251108]

going to the strip clup with pip plup

[thominyourside]

[bucky-barnez]

joseph quinn in stranger things | ‘the hellfire club’ - 4x01

[glassbxttless]

All I See is You

nicholas (tea) x fem!reader

word count: 3.7k+

summary: Every single day, at 12:17, your day is lit up by the brown eyed boy who works across the corridor.

warnings: these kids are awkward as fuck but enjoy

notes: Take a look at this AU and enjoy more of bee boy. We sure do love him <3 (Title is taken from the song, Movie in my Mind by Saint Raymond, which became this fic’s unofficial song)

You push through the heavy glass doors at ten minutes to nine and the air conditioning hits your bare arms like you’ve stepped into the freezer aisle at the grocery store. It prickles your skin almost instantly— letting little goosebumps raise along your exposed forearms. The floor tiles in the food court are freshly mopped and slick beneath your sneakers. The industrial cleaner the janitor uses is fighting a losing battle against old grease and the cinnamon sugar that’s lived here probably longer than you have been alive. 

Your footsteps echo and carry further down the corridor than they will in the coming hour. The skylights above are letting in thin strips of pale morning light, landing in soft triangles against the floor. You can hear one of the security guards cough as you pass their station. It’s so early the fountains aren’t even on yet. But the escalators are moving, signaling that the day is about to begin. 

The security gate for Roli Poli is stuck halfway up when you walk up, so you duck under it. The metal rattles faintly over your head as you move. Inside, the ovens haven’t even fully heated up yet— but you can feel the building warmth radiating from the back all the way into the lobby. Dough is proofing in silver trays along the counters, rising with a faint yeasty sweetness clinging to the air. It’s a scent you’ve come to be quite familiar with over the last year. You see that someone left a bag of shredded mozzarella open on the back shelf overnight, and toss it into garbage while you tuck your backpack away on the hook. After leaving a note on the desk in the back about the mozzarella, you move on to your opening duties.

By eleven, the whole restaurant will smell like tomato sauce and hot cheese. By noon, you’ll feel it in your bones and the smell will never leave your hair. When you brush it later tonight, you’ll catch the scent of oregano and grease permeating from the strands. 

Across the corridor, Circuit Shack’s lights start to flicker on one by one. 

You can see it from the prep table if you angle your head just right, pretending to be doing anything but watching. The store starts to glow in slow stages— first it’s the harsh white above the register and then the softer strip lighting inside the display cases. 

You can see him there inside the glass, already clocked in for the day. 

Nicholas. 

Nick. 

His yellow polo is tucked into his jeans neatly, the red circuit shack logo stitched over his chest. His hair is combed back neatly, maybe weighed down with a little bit of water from the rain this morning. 

You tell yourself you’re only looking because there’s nothing else to look at yet. That he’s the only interesting thing to fill your time with this morning. But even telling yourself that? You can’t help the heat that creeps up the back of your neck. 

He steps over to a display case, the fluorescent lights lighting his beautiful face and the rest of the room up fully now. A row of portable CD players glints from the case in front of him, the silver and black plastic catches the light. Headphones hang in stiff packaging, and there’s a cardboard cutout of some musician with a guitar near the register. If only you could be that close to him all day. 

You turn back to the dough in front of you before anyone— primarily Maria, a coworker who can not for the life of her, stay out of your business— can catch you staring. And by the time the lunch rush starts? Everything around you starts to feel and sound more like itself. 

Sneakers of those who roam the mall to stay out of their homes squeak against tile. The arcade next door starts up its chorus of beeps and teenage cheers. You can imagine the amount of daily ticket explosions over there, and the sound of that stupid repetitive coin drop chime that has burrowed its way into your skull. The blender at Orange Julius grinds down ice in violent bursts. And the pretzel stand sprinkles salt over finished pretzels. Somewhere, you swear you can hear a toddler scream too. 

The air is starting to grow thick with overlapping— and overwhelming— smells now that the mall is springing to life. You can make out the garlic knots mostly and the old frying oil from the mozzarella sticks. Even the pretzel stand smells start wafting in. You almost choke on the sugary perfume drifting off the girls in line in platform sandals, short skirts, and glossy lips. You could never look like them. And maybe that’s why Nick had yet to give you the time of day. 

You’re wiping down the front counter when the bell over the door starts to jingle. You don’t have to look up right away to know it’s him. You’d checked the time right before you had picked up a rag and knew he’d be standing inside the pizzeria any minute now. 

It’s gotta be 12:17. 

He always comes in at 12:17. 

You let your eyes flick up to the clock above the soda fountain to confirm what you’re thinking, before you see him find a place in line. He tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks slightly back on his heels while he waits. His shoulders are broad and his eyes look almost golden when the light from the lamp hits them just right. He keeps them geared toward the menu though, even if you’re certain he could recite the entire thing by memory by now— right down to the misspelled items that should have been taken off decades ago. 

You direct your attention to aligning the napkin dispensers on the counter, hoping anyone would take this shift at the front instead. Tough luck. 

“Just go talk to him.” Maria mumbles from behind you, shoving a tray into the oven. 

“I am talking to him.” You whisper back to her, looking over your shoulder. “Every day. 12:20, when he orders.”

“That’s not talking.” She rolls her eyes. 

You shoot her a look, but your heart is starting to pick up speed when you realize it’s his turn to order. 

Up close, he looks warmer under the lights. You think you can smell the metal and cheap plastic from working at Circuit Shack on his skin— desperately trying to be concealed by whatever cologne he’d splashed on that morning. 

“Hey.” He smiles at you, just like he does every single work day. You two must have the same days off, as you see him for 20 minutes, five whole days a week. 

“Hi.” You answer, it comes out softer than you intend it to. You don’t recognize the way you’re speaking. It doesn’t feel quite like your voice belongs to you. Get a hold of yourself. Don’t let a boy reduce you to a puddle on the floor. 

“Uh… Two slices please. Pepperoni and sausage.” He glances at the soda fountain for a moment and hums. “and a cup.” Although you know he never grabs a soda, it’s always the sweet tea off to the side. Every. Single. Day. 

“You got it.” Your voice cracks and you close your eyes in embarrassment as soon as your back is turned. Your hands feel so much clumsier than usual when you grab his plate. What is wrong with you today? The slices slide forward under the heat lamp, cheese bubbling faintly at the edges. There’s little beads of grease forming towards the crust that makes you want to gag. The smell starts intensifying, hot tomato, browned mozzarella, sausage spiced with fennel. 

You can feel him watching you and you turn around too fast when he speaks up. 

“You work everyday?” He asks. 

You just nod, “most days,”

He nods himself. Has he noticed you in the same way you’ve noticed him? He must realize a day never passes without seeing you in the building and for some reason, knowing that he knows feels more stressful than thinking he doesn’t. You can feel something warm settle behind your ribs, but as the feeling makes its way higher through your body, you start to feel a little dizzy. 

He pays in cash, like he always does. His fingers briefly brushing against yours as he hands over the folded bills. You give him his plate and cup and try your hardest not to actually faint. 

“Thanks.” He smiles. God, is that smile the most lovely you’ve ever seen?

“Yeah.” is all you can manage. 

He goes to his usual table by the door. One of the legs is a bit shorter than the others, so it wobbles if someone bumps it. But it’s the closest to the exit. And he does not want to get stuck in here when the second wave of the lunch rush starts. He eats slowly, his gaze drifting out into the corridor. Every now and again he’ll glance over at the mall traffic a few feet away. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. Does he still want to be spending his time with Tierney? Or was that burnt out? Or does he just like to watch the way people lean over the second floor railing with the neon lights from the arcade flickering off the glass. From his spot, you can even get a good look at a mother with an arm full of shopping bags, dragging her toddler down the hall. 

You watch him through the reflection in the soda machine as you wipe it down. So your ogling isn’t as obvious. His shape warps slightly in the chrome surface, but you know the curve of his shoulders by now. 

You think about walking over there. 

Just this once. 

You could sit down across from him, that plastic chair would scrape against the tile, and you could say something normal. Something simple. Something that wouldn’t catch either of you off guard. Like, what do you listen to while you work?

But you don’t. You just keep wiping the machine down instead. Coward. 

The rest of the afternoon passes by slowly. By the time you leave the store, you’re covered in grease, have a new aching burn that you’re sure will scar, and cannot get the shrill laughter of a group of middle school girls who shared one slice of pizza between them all out of your head. You’re absolutely sure that when you step through the threshold of your house, you’ll smell it lingering on your clothes. 

And on the walk back home, your Discman skips. The sound— or lack thereof— is brief, just a quick hiccup in the song, then it fights itself. You don’t think much of it. You’ve dropped the thing before, it’s been jostled around much worse than that. 

Until the next morning when it refuses to turn on at all. 

You sit on the edge of your bed in your half-buttoned uniform. The early morning light slipping in between the slats of your blinds. You rest the Discman in your lap and press play.

Nothing happens. 

So you open it. You close it. You press the button again. Still nothing happens. You go ahead and pop the batteries out, rolling them between your palms like that will somehow magically bring this thing back to life. Your walk will feel so much longer without music and you won’t be able to distract yourself from him as easily. You fall back against your bed, sighing heavily. You can hear the hum of the box fan in the window, a car starting in the driveway, even your neighbor's dog barking. But that does little to stop your wandering mind.

Circuit Shack opens at ten. You start work at nine. You could go after?

You stare at the ceiling, the idea already making your stomach drop. You couldn’t do that. You’d have to actually talk to him if you did that. You groan and pull your pillow over your face. 

Oh no. 

And all day, the broken Discman sits in your locker while you try to work up the courage to walk through those stupid glass doors across the hall. 

And at 12:17, he walks in. Just as you expect him to. 

You’re sweeping this time when he does, pushing crumbs towards a dustpan behind the counter. You glance up and your eyes meet his for a moment. He hesitates for just a second, his lips parting like he might say something to you. But he doesn’t. He steps into line instead. 

When he reaches the counter, he gives you a small, awkward smile. You prop up your broom on a wall behind the counter, moving over to the register. The corners of his mouth tug up and he asks quietly, “you okay?”

“Yeah.” You say a little too quickly and then clear your throat, “Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “You look… distracted. I dunno.”

You think your pulse jumps so hard you might pass out. He’s noticed you enough to know that things felt off? You clear your throat again, trying to buy a minute to get your head to stop spinning before you sigh, “My CD player broke. It was… a very quiet walk this morning.”

He perks up a little, his hands sliding into his front pockets. “Yeah?”

You nod, “yeah. It just died on me.”

He nods himself, rocking back on his heels, “that sucks.”

“Yeah… it does.”

There’s a quiet moment where you could say something else. But then the moment stretches longer and longer and it feels too awkward to say anything. He orders his usual and takes the tray. “You could bring it by… If you want.”

You may as well have short circuited at that. 

“To Circuit Shack.” he adds quickly, his cheeks starting to pinken. “I mean… I can look at it. For you.”

You swallow, nodding, the words leaving your mouth before you even have much of a chance to process them. “Oh… Okay.”

He smiles and then retreats over to his table. He looks a bit more tense. Maybe he’s repeating the interaction over in his head as well. 

The rest of your shift feels like you’re straddling a live wire to avoid the shocks. Every single noise seems sharper, the ovens seem hotter, even the blender seems louder. You keep imagining walking into his store, setting the Discman down on the counter, and standing there in front of him under those stupid humming lights, not knowing what to say or do. 

And at 4:30, you finally push open the doors to Circuit Shack. His Circuit Shack. You may as well be opening the doors to Nick himself. Your hands are sweating so bad you think the Discman is going to slip from your fingers. Maybe if it clatters to the ground it’ll fix itself and it’ll save you from making a complete fool of yourself in front of him. The air inside the store is cooler than the air in the corridor. He’s got something playing low from the ceiling speakers— some radio station you aren’t very familiar with. The entire place smells like old plastic. That’s where he gets the smell. The carpet muffles the first few footsteps you take. 

The bell above the door had chimed when you had opened it and he had looked up. He’s behind the counter, fiddling with a display of tapes. His face shifts and you think you see genuine surprise settle in on his features. Was he not expecting you? He told you to stop by. Should you leave? And then his face starts to soften, a look of relief washing over him. 

“Hey, you made it.” He says. 

“Hi.” You smile. Okay. He wanted you to still come, so you step closer. You pull your back pack from your back, digging through it for the CD player. The glass counter is cool beneath your fingertips. You set the Discman down gently onto it. “Uhm… It just won’t turn on.” You explain to him quietly. 

He nods, taking it in his hands. He turns it over between his palms a few times as he inspects it. There’s a faint crease between his eyebrows now. “Mind if I open it?” He asks. 

“You can?”

He laughs, “Not really supposed to. But… yeah.”

So you just nod. 

He disappears into the back room for a moment. You can see him through the open door. His hands are steady and careful as he unscrews a panel. You can hear soft clicking sounds and a quiet swear. You lean against the counter, trying not to make your staring obvious. He keeps working slowly. You can hear the hum of the overhead lights and the shift of the radio into yet another one of the top 40 hits. The way the lights hit his face just right makes your heart thump a little harder in your chest. You swear you can even hear a child squeal just a bit too loudly and be shushed by their mother somewhere beyond the glass. 

He has his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he works and you know the loud exhale of frustration when he’s putting the thing back together comes from him. “Okay.” He says as he walks back out to meet you and you just stand up straighter. He slides the batteries in and snaps the back back on. He presses play. There’s a long pause, one that feels like you’re just going to be buying a new CD player and that this whole thing has been for naught. And then the thing whirs to life. Music starts to spill faintly from the headphones that remain plugged into it. 

You let out a breath. 

He smiles at you. It’s small, shy, but also proud. It spreads across his face slowly until you’re grinning as well. His smile is infectious. “Yeah?” He chuckles. 

You nod, “You fixed it!”

He shrugs his shoulders under that yellow polo, then they settle back down. “It wasn’t too hard.”

You smile and just nod, tapping your fingers against the counter as you notice he’s still holding your Discman in his hands. You have to talk to him. “You come into the pizzeria every day.”

His ears go a little red, but he nods. 

You smile at him, noting how the red spreads slowly across his cheeks as well, “at 12:17.”

He looks at you, surprised that you’d noticed something that small. “You’re always cleaning.” He adds quickly when the silence stretches too long.

Now it’s your turn to feel the heat creep up the back of your neck all the way to your ears. “I… Yeah. Things need it.”

He nods again, trying his best to keep himself composed, “You do a good job.”

A silence follows. It isn’t uncomfortable, but neither of you are sure what to say. And after about a minute and at the same time, you both let out a laugh to fill it. He hands the Discman back over to you, your fingers brushing against his for the second time this week as you take it in your hands. You just slide it into your bag and shift it to your back again. 

“Thanks, Nick.” 

His eyes flick up at his name. He doesn’t remember introducing himself to you. But his expression starts to soften as soon as the sound hits his ears. He hesitates for a moment before shaking his head, a grin spreading, “Yeah, anytime.”

You hover there at the counter, your pulse thudding in your own ears. It’s now or never. “Do you ever…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “Do you ever go to the movies?”

You have to be joking. You want to hide yourself away. Do you ever go to the movies? It’s the only thing to do in this Godforsaken town. Of course he goes to the movies. 

He blinks, raising an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by your question. “Uhm… Sometimes.”

“There’s one playing Friday.” You say as you tug your backpack up further on your back, hand tightening around the strap. You can hear yourself breathing and feel your heart working overtime. You can do it. You tap your fingers against the strap, not daring to make eye contact with him. “It’s uhm… Do you wanna go?” You finish the proposal, trying to get it out before you lose what little nerve you have. 

There’s a moment that slips by where he looks like he’s deciding on something more important than spending a meager afternoon with you. Was he just as nervous as you were? Does he like you too? No. You shouldn’t have done this. 

Then he just nods. 

“Yeah.” He grins, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

You swear you can feel your stomach actually flip inside of your body. You have to suppress a shocked laugh. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He echoes you, but his comes out less like a question, smiling. He almost looks relieved. Like he’d been hoping for this encounter just as much as you have. “Seven okay?”

“Seven’s good.” 

And you both stand there smiling at each other like you don’t quite know what to do next. The radio keeps playing some crummy Top 40. The fluorescents seem to hum louder now. Maybe even as loud as your heart feels. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He says after a few moments. 

“At 12:17?” You tease. 

Another smile crosses his face, somehow this one just a bit shyer. “Yeah… At 12:17.”

When you step back out into the corridor, the air feels warmer than it did when you had gotten there this morning. You can’t pick out whether it’s the interaction you just had, raising your body temperature by a few degrees, or if all the warm bodies shopping all day had caused this. The pretzel stand smells sweeter as you pass. The lights don’t feel as harsh on your eyes. You feel as if you are floating just above the carpet. 

And now, when he walks through the doors of the pizzeria tomorrow, he won’t just be the boy you watch from across the hall. He’ll be the boy you’ll be sitting next to Friday evening.