extras: kissy kissing; no use of y/n; pre-established relationship; some swearing; pet name ‘sweetheart’ ↷ gif by @/avengerdaisy
There were a dozen other places your bag could have been placed. Right beside you atop the motel bed was one, or the thin carpet at your feet as you sat down that held footprints of visits prior, just barely felt like they were a secret once the door closed with its respectful key.
It would have been fine by the television or hung next to his jacket at the coat rack (just a hook with a nearly loose screw).
Instead, it balanced itself on the edge of the coffee table, which was oddly placed between the beds and the door to the bathroom, and the stale air courtesy of the wallpaper pattern. Purposeful, maybe. You knew a part of him wanted to take a peek at what was inside, leaving it like something to ogle at under the fan’s dying lightbulb rather than protectively at your side.
The two of you talked like you always did. More like bickered, waiting for one to shut the other up with a part distracted with want, basic pleasure a string to get closer, eventually all wound up and not to be spoken of when the night gave way; talking, nonetheless.
You excused yourself with going to the bathroom, returned to six feet stretching lazily from the headboard, shirt revealing skin above a denim waistband. His lips moved to say something as his head did the same, watching you walk back to the bed—and accidentally brush your bag with your forearm. He could think that, anyway, as the contents spilled out onto the carpeting and he moved as if strung to the bits and pieces themselves, kneeling.
You could practically hear the smile that tugged at his lips when his hands collected four small tubes, each with a colorful wrapping and unfamiliar against his calluses.
“When did you get these?” he asked, swaying one from two fingers. A pastel white wrapper: vanilla. You reached over for them, crouching to his level before he could read the fine print curved around their edges. They clacked in your hold.
“Last week,” you stated simply, removing the cap of the one he wagged with a soft pop and lifting it under his nose like some sort of charmed perfume written in the journal you knew was tucked somewhere in the room. “Thought they smelled good.”
It was an entertaining sight; Dean leaning in with enthusiasm, breathing in a scent you knew he would soon associate with your hand.
“Only four?” His brow quipped up.
You rolled your eyes at his almost boyish inquiry. “They were on sale.”
He hummed, handing over whatever else lay uninteresting and boring on the carpet: two pens nearly run out of ink, a pair of tangled headphones, two square tissues.
You thanked him, waiting for him to stand from where you were still both folded to the floor.
He gestured with his chin to your hand still grasping the other three. “What are the other ones?”
A smile dared to ache your cheeks. Instead, you furrowed your brows at him as you stood yourself, sending him a teasing glare from his position now at your feet. It was short lived; he was quick to follow.
“Why? Do you want to use them?” you joked, setting your bag on the table once more (though in the center, where there ought to be some fun centerpiece, anyway). Even with the remark, you let the vanilla tube fall in with the rest of the contents, the other three still in your palm as the backs of your knees met the edge of the mattress.
“C’mon, I’m bored,” he reasoned. “Besides, think of it more like a game,” he continued, denim stretching as he sat down next to you. The bed dipped, squeaked under his weight and he leaned the rest on an arm behind him. “You always love to see me lose, anyway. Brings you some kind of sick joy.” The light overhead delivered the words with a sly glow, one that dipped with his nose and settled at his cupid’s bow above his smile. At your delayed response, he added: “I’ll give you twenty bucks if I get one wrong.”
You didn’t need any more convincing, if any to begin with.
You told him to sit at the headboard once more while you sat in front of him, crossing your legs beneath you. Turning to the space of the bed behind you, you lay the three tubes of chapstick like a set of silverware away from his stare along aged plaid.
You picked one up—striped white and red, peppermint—and covered the tube with your hand. You faced Dean; there was an expression on his features you couldn’t quite name with the green of his eyes slightly lidded, relaxed and waiting.
Before you removed the cap, you met his gaze. “Close your eyes; no cheating.”
He scoffed but obliged nonetheless, crossing his arms across his chest, biceps stretching black cotton.
A soft pop, a line to the space just beneath his nose. He inhaled just a bit harder when the clear gel barely met the skin.
“Mint, easy.” His eyes opened immediately, confidence sure in his tone.
You nodded anyway, muttered a ‘good’ as you shoved the cap back on and threw it to your side. The next one was a light brown, coconut. You waited until he closed his eyes once more to put it to his nose, and couldn’t help but exhale a little laugh as his lips pursed in a near frown.
“Don’t laugh at me, sweetheart, this is serious.” He then mumbled a barely heard ‘what the fuck’ under his breath before his guess came next.
“... Coconut? Who even likes—” You swatted at his arm before he could finish; he let out a whiny ‘hey!’ as his eyes shot open. You ignored his yelp as you put the tube next to the previous one, the plastic meeting with a gentle clack.
As you turned to get the last one, you kept your eyes on the green of his own. “Let’s see if you can go three-for-three...” You let your words trail off as he already let his lids fall and you held the last tube, a dark red wrapper concealed by your palm.
The same pop, the same path to just underneath the nose.
This time, it hit yours first. You bit back a smile as he sat patiently (if drumming fingertips along his arm meant patient) for the smell in the air to change while you glided the stick along your lips, pursing them together and applying a little more. When you let the cap click back into place, you caught the furrow in his brows, muttered an ‘open your eyes’.
He did just that, followed your pointer finger to your lips, eyes widening as they reached the sheen just noticeable across them.
“Go ahead.”
A hand on either side of your jaw, closing his eyes without the sound to tell him to.
He was gentle even with the eagerness in his pull. His lips were a little chapped, but with the way they were pressed against yours you knew they would be stained with a smeared shine, slightly swollen. You reveled in the hushed sound that fell from his lips in the otherwise quiet of the motel room. A deeper inhale, as if he were still guessing that way, and he pulled away slowly, though only for your noses to touch.
There was a bob to his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Strawberry?” The guess was plush against your lips.
You placed a quick kiss to his lips with a satisfied smile, watched as he leaned in as you pulled back just slightly to say, “You owe me twenty dollars.”
“Let me guess again.” He barely finished his sentence, quiet and spoken through a murmur before his lips were back on your own, covered in a shine you hoped the lightbulb caught.
It wasn’t until his lips were sticky and the skin of his cheeks was flushed with a rivaling shade that he whispered ‘cherry?’ between desperate kisses.
You nodded. Not that it really mattered.
“I’ll slip the bill into your bag,” he uttered before placing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
extras: suggestive; established relationship; pet name ‘honey’; no use of y/n; lowkey highkey listened to ‘coldsweat’ by the sugarcubes so listen along to it if you want! happy new year x
BASKETBALL PLAYER!DEAN who glistens underneath the stadium lights, amulet tucked underneath his jersey. there’s another necklace around his neck, one he knows you like to see against his skin shining and slick when you’ll inevitably pull him closer by the beads.
BASKETBALL PLAYER!DEAN who will sign autographs with a pearly smile. he makes his way towards a group gathering out of their seats, yourself a little off to the side so as to give them room. while gliding a marker across a blue baseball cap, his eyes meet yours under lashes framing green as he hands it back to a hand reaching from behind you:
“anything specific for you, honey?”
“oh, no, i’m ok. i don’t think my boyfriend would approve, anyway.”
he raises his eyebrows, still looking at you as a card gets pushed into his view. “sounds like he’s no fun.”
you shrug with arms crossed over your chest. “he doesn’t like to share.”
BASKETBALL PLAYER!DEAN who insists you give him a kiss for good luck before every game, but one turns to two and the third is melted into the fourth. for the first game of the season, he’ll watch as you kiss the tips of his fingers with a mutter of a ‘good luck’.
BASKETBALL PLAYER!DEAN who loves coordinating his jersey color to your outfit, loves eyeing that same shade where you sit near the front.
BASKETBALL PLAYER!DEAN whose arms are sometimes littered with scratches at the meat of his bicep to elbow after a game. he’ll flex an arm, joke that “they look oddly familiar, don’t they?”.
BASKETBALL PLAYER!DEAN who comes home with the smell of exertion sunken into his skin, his cologne melting into something you can only smell if you press your nose to the curve at his neck to his shoulder, to which he never complains. encourages it as he mutters under his breath about shots he made, a particular player that pissed him off, that then slur into one incoherent sentence as something akin to a hissed groan leaves his lips when your lips trail to his collarbone.
BASKETBALL PLAYER!DEAN who tries to get you into a hug with his canines touching the pink at his bottom lip, but you laugh and tell him he needs to shower first, pushing him with a hand at his chest. he’ll lace his own around the wrist, leaning in with hooded eyes, and you can already predict what words will leave his lips.
extras: suggestive but more so in reader’s thoughts than any actions; pet names ‘sweetheart’ & ‘doll’; no pronouns or use of y/n; just something short bc he’s been plaguing my mind since i started watching arrested development a few days ago
becoming an assistant to kitty consisted of simple—boring, but you wouldn’t admit that—busy work: organizing papers from the copy room, taking calls when she (frequently) left, buying ink or staples whenever there was word of the absence of either, discreetly eyeing the head of the company whenever he passed with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to the bones of his elbows; why else would his office be behind the secretary’s desk?
she told you michael asked one morning if you could bring the copies to his office directly, rather than handing them off to her to do so; she grumbled something about him not trusting her—whether it was a quote or simply her irritability bleeding into her request, you didn’t pry—with an eye roll and an annoyed tapping of her pen to the desk. you could tell she really did not care—it was less work for her to do, more time to catch the phone if his father called.
you did as you were asked. you made the turn into his office rather than the straight path to kitty’s desk, knocking on the already-open door as a greeting along with a brief ‘good morning’ (even though he had echoed the same words when the two of you crossed paths earlier).
his head raised from whatever he was writing in a haste, flipping a page as he sent you a smile.
“you can just leave them right there...” he drawled with a slight raise to his eyebrows, eyeing your respective movement to the corner of his desk. “that’s perfect. thank you, sweetheart.” it was quick, thrown out of his lips with a charming crease underneath his eyes.
you nodded, reminding him with a routine phrase to let you know if he needed anything else. you hoped he didn’t exactly catch the brief glance to his hands atop his desk, baby blue sleeves, of course, rolled to his elbows.
delivering papers to the head of the company, whom they were intended for in the first place, was not unusual, not difficult.
michael was definitely making it so.
no matter if he was bickering with someone on the other line, scoffing at a file and marking another, only meeting eyes with a narrowing of his own if his head was still angled to the work atop his desk, whenever you came in with a new number of papers in hand, he made sure to offer you a smile, fiddle with the folded edges of his shirt around his arms. if there wasn’t anyone in the room or another voice registering through the phone, he would ask how your day was going with a low cadence to his voice, nodding regardless of what you said.
the days were much the same. you handed him copies and files; he muttered ‘thanks, doll’ in a lower octave, a tilt of his head. his actions were becoming less a friendly demeanor and more of an ease into whatever made a heat crawl to the skin of your neck, the shells of your ears, your eyes to wander to the slope of his nose or the way he shifted to spread his legs at his desk chair.
kitty, to no one’s surprise, left early one shift, leaving you to do more work than you knew she even had that day. the office was quiet into the later hours, save for the one sitting in the room behind you muttering under his breath.
you ended the last few minutes in the copy room, already tracking the path to michael’s desk, the elevator, your apartment. the fluorescent lights were a sore that sunk into the blacks of your pupils, and you might as well have kept track of the number they subconsciously flitted to the open door of his office.
but, he wasn’t at his desk. you rifled through the pages to check that you copied the right ones and he stood in the doorway of the copy room after having been looking for you, and you hadn’t noticed him until you were nearly chest to chest.
your apologies blended into one another, his hand already reaching out in belief the papers were to slip out of yours.
before you could ask, the dusty blues of his eyes broke contact to glance at your hands.
“i got ‘em, you can head on home.” his speech was tired, slow, punctuated with a small breath and his hand brushing against your own, gesturing with a wink to the door.
perhaps it was the sleep that strung itself in your figure, or maybe it was a simple itch that needed to be scratched, but you placed a kiss to his cheek as a thank you, not glancing back as you made your way to grab your stuff.
“have a nice night, michael.”
he could call if he needed anything—the almost displeased rasp in the brief apology that met your ear through the phone a few hours later proved your point.
⤿ REQUESTED! “… could you write something about michael bluth calling the reader a good girl? in like a completely innocent context but then he sees that she gets a rise out of it and starts calling her that more often? :)”
extras: established relationship; use of ‘good girl’ and ‘atta girl’ (though if preferred, can be swapped out for whatever term); no use of y/n or she/her pronouns; sorry for the wait!
- -✁- - -
michael bluth, you learn, likes catching you off guard.
a recitation of your day (after having been asked by a voice clearly spoken through a sly smile that meant he was waiting for your mentioning of it) is what brought up the situation at work: deadlines and impatient coworkers and clients with a night of sleep that was anything but. you droned on with a twirl of the phone cord to your pointer finger, punctuating your relief with a sigh that it was all over and done with after a stressful, albeit necessary, talk with your boss.
he didn’t cut off your sequence. it was quiet for a beat once the line was just your patient breathing before he hummed. “good girl, i knew you could do it.”
your eyes widened as the words met your ears, the coil around your finger suddenly a little too tight, not that he could take notice. you answered a little too quickly before you could seal your lips and cut the response short. “oh, it was nothing. what about you—how was your morning?”
much to his amusement and your hopeful disregard of the fact, he did notice the delivery that met his ears much faster than he’d anticipated, just didn’t know how he’d go through with it.
the next week, you were looking over paperwork your boss had given you last minute that needed to be done the next afternoon. something tedious, fine print resembling parallel lines with how much was lined on the page. michael stepped with wide strides around your dining room table, briefcase clutched in one hand. he had forgotten his brush at the model home; it might as well have been no accident, as you had mentioned to him when you first started seeing each other that his unkept hair was quite cute. he had groaned and rolled his eyes but kissed your cheek nonetheless, mumbling something incoherent against the skin—clearly it wasn’t a reluctance.
he stopped for a brief moment to put a palm against the wood, leaning over to check how much you had left. a few seconds and you tapped the pen on his knuckles as a means to say you were fine, that he should get going. he pressed a kiss to your head as he obliged, sliding an arm through the sleeve of his suit jacket. “atta girl, you know what you’re doing. i’ll see you later, alright?” it flew from between his lips, carried away with his rush to the hall and the soft shut of the front door.
soon it’s over the phone, at times over dinner, the dim of your bedroom. never in every line to a brash degree, only said here and there to mirror the smile he croons that he loves to see.
supervising capture the flag isn’t so bad when you’ve got company.
extras: tommy doesn’t get possessed bc i said so; kind of forced proximity; no use of y/n; to the anon that asked me to write a fic here it is; ending is kind of rushed so don’t mind if it has weird pacing; title really has nothing to do with the fic i just like the song with the same name from the smashing pumpkins
It was too quiet with the campers hiding. The wind took their space, the faint giggles you thought you could hear as they hid or ran brushing past the trunks and cabins that concealed their figures.
The dingy light at the doorframe bled a yellow onto his frame sitting at your side. Everything else was clouded with a balmy, sharp blue as the moon poised high, watching as your eyes scanned the campgrounds. As far as you could tell with what little you could see, you were the only counselors out on watch—Alice and Arnie could be anywhere.
In the uncommon still of the night with its pockets of mischief maneuvering closer to either flag of red and blue, you tried not to dwell on his humming every now and then, some tune you’d grown used to hearing from his pursed lips or the radio’s static from his cabin window.
It was like this summer wanted you and Tommy to be closer—physically.
Practically every chore you were assigned to was with his name written right next to it. Your group of campers would want to join with his for an archery competition or a game in the lake, to which he’d shrug and stand by your side until they were collectively coming over, groaning about lunch.
One of the counselors had chosen some sort of scary movie to watch for movie night last week, the scenes enough to keep their eyes either glued to the screen or hidden behind their hands. You were glad they were preoccupied; the creaking of the door would have definitely ruined the mood, even if it had made them jump.
There hadn’t been many spots left towards the back, save for one right next to him. He had given you a small smile as you sat down, mumbling a ‘hey’ under his breath and letting you know you didn't miss much of the movie. He had shuffled his legs so as to give you more room, his posture shifted a bit straighter. He had walked you back to your cabin once it was over, whispering a ‘good night’ you returned at your door.
Every past year you were at Camp Nightwing you had considered him a friendly face, one you were almost relieved to see when you stepped off the bus the first days of camp—it was only a matter of time before you found yourself aware of where he was—and perhaps what he was in your mind—in regard to you.
He didn’t seem to mind the seemingly constant pairing, to your relief. If anything, he was eager to offer company if you wanted it, and his energy was infectious once it dwelled. All the more reason to wonder if perhaps your eyes were consciously looking out for him in the mornings to when it was announced lights were to be put out.
A clearing of his throat made you glance over at him. The only two counselors in sight whose names might as well be carved into the adirondack chairs that stuck to whatever skin it touched.
“Who d’you think’s gonna win?” he asked, looking at his hands in his lap. If you were supposed to see the sly smile at his lips, you didn't point it out.
You tilted your head to give him a look of faux consideration. “Well, given we’ve already seen three-quarters of Shadyside brought over here, you tell me.”
“Hey, they could pull it off,” he said, putting his hands up in defense. “Maybe they’ve got some tricks up their sleeves.”
You smiled at that possibility; he was ever the enthusiast. “Maybe.” Your voice trailed off as one of the campers donning a blue shirt snuck behind one of the cabins in your line of sight. “Kids do have great imaginations.”
The night stretched on as campers were escorted by opposing teams to the designated areas reserved for the ‘jails’, some rescued with serious hushes and sneakers flattening grass with the pace they kept. A few would come up the steps asking for a bandaid after having tripped in the woods or scraped a hand, to which Tommy told them to stay put as he left; you would ask them how they felt about their position in the game, nodding along to whatever elaborate plan they had in mind, wished them good luck once Tommy returned with a bandaid and a generous smile, repeating your words with a hand to their shoulder.
As he sat back down, he looked around the grounds, tucking his hair behind his ears. You could barely hear him when he spoke after a while of quiet company.
“Are you hungry?”
With patient silence he walked you to his cabin, just a few feet from your own. When you went past a few kids hiding, he put a finger to his lips as to zip them closed and toss the key into the bonfire, no matter if they were wearing red or blue.
He let you in first, wooden steps just giving in to his boots, and closed the door softly behind him. He didn’t turn the lamps on, so the inside wore the same blue as the moon gave the campgrounds. He brushed past your waiting figure, a hand briefly meeting your elbow.
“I’ve got some stuff stashed from the kitchen earlier,” he whispered, gesturing with a nod of his head to follow him to a bed at the farthest end. “Hopefully it’s still here, anyway,” he added with a biting of his bottom lip, though more so to himself at his hand pulling the drawer to the table beside the frame open.
It wasn’t anything fancy. A few pastries in napkins he unraveled with a small hum of relief, a few bags of chips, two root beers near the AC. He gave you first pick, tips of his fingers brushing along your own.
You ate in between talk of plans over the fall, stories of instances at camp when you were at opposite ends that made you laugh as you drank from the rather lukewarm can and he recounted with low chuckles. You didn’t mind the warmth, welcomed it as you settled alongside him on his plaid sheets.
Maybe you welcomed it a little too much, because the next second you were a coughing fit, reaching over to place the drink blindly on the table. Tommy immediately took it out of your hand to do so himself and readjusted so he sat right in front of you, as close as he could without being practically on top of you with how small the mattress was and gently put his hands under your forearms.
“Hey, hey, arms up,” he whispered through a crooked smile, hands following suit as you did as he said. “There ya go. You ok?”
You nodded despite the burn that now crept along your throat. If he believed you or not he didn’t pry, instead waiting patiently for your breathing to even. This close you could smell the firewood in his hair.
The door then sounded with a crude creak. You both turned to the outline that stood blue and plain before it made itself known.
“Tommy, you sly dog, I didn’t think you had it in you,” Arnie’s voice crooned. “And during color war, too. Hell yeah.” With Tommy’s back to him and you sitting against the wall, you would have rolled your eyes if it wasn’t you he was referring to.
The pull of your features was involuntary; a curious half-smile at his state, a raise of your eyebrows and a clearing of your throat from the root beer. Though you could practically smell the weed that clung to Arnie’s clothes and tone of voice, you wouldn’t lie and say his words didn’t pique your interest.
There was a sigh from Tommy, his eyes dropping shut as his head was still angled away from you. A low ‘oh my god’ stumbled from his lips. “Arnie, shut up.” The slices of moonlight that lay upon his skin from the window showed his cheeks and ears flushed a ripe red, an afternoon sunburn in the late hours of the night.
He just giggled, stumbling into the cabin as he went over to his own bed, leaning over with loose limbs to slide a hand under his pillow. If he wanted to say anything in retaliation, it was slurred into the cool blue as he got whatever it was he came inside to get. It sounded more like an improvised tune, one made up as he went back to the door not without nearly tripping over his own feet or whatever lay on the floor, which Tommy had steered you clear of.
You did catch his last words, delivered with a childish whistle and whisper.
“The night is still young, Tommy!”
The door rattled at his departure, the scene returning to that of before. This time with a smile that tugged at your lips and a warmth not from the root beer. Your eyes glanced at his shifting at the head of his bed, rustling the sheets as he moved.
He let out a low groan at his quip, rolling his eyes before leaning back to sit against his headboard like before, lulling his head along the wall, his voice spoken through a sigh.
tommy’s willing to ease your pent up frustration. what’s a friend if not someone there to help?
extras: 18+ minors dni: thigh riding, tommy’s kind of awkward but he aims to please do not worry; no use of y/n; i am writing a longer drabble for him i was just plagued with this thought; also don’t mind if this is sort of choppy i have never written something like this so please bare with me anyways
He had been the one to bring it up in the quiet of the late night. You were both still awake, though the hour coaxed your lids to fall and his cadence to drop as if to not stir the summer air.
“Is there anything I can do?” spoken through a crooked smile, an innocent enough question to your complaints without their context at the moment, practically rhetorical, though he hoped you would say yes regardless. He knew of what you were talking about over the phone, and whether you were aware didn’t particularly matter.
You glanced over at him with suspicion in your glare, his eyes already on you. You responded with a shrug. “You tell me.”
After a moment he gestured with a nod of his head for you to meet him on the other end of the couch—you did, though not without an almost disbelieved smile you wondered if he could catch with the little light that slipped through the blinds.
Once close enough, he eyed you expectantly, light blues waiting for whatever you would say or do. He took notice of the way you sat—maybe you were waiting for him to move. He spread his legs.
Denim to cotton. You reassured him he didn’t have to do this if he didn’t want to.
“No... no,” he sighed—too quick, and a smile briefly tugged at your lips. “I don’t mind.” His upper half relaxed against the back of the couch. You caught the drag of his eyes along your figure in his lap, half lidded in a daze.
An ‘ok’ left your lips as you reached over to put your hands atop the couch. He leaned his head back so they were at either side, Adam’s apple flinching with a shaky breath that barely disturbed the space between his lips. You liked his hair this way, messy, strands weaving over blushed skin.
He watched as you moved, not wanting to disturb you—this was for your pleasure, after all. “Feels good?” he asked, though the cadence was barely audible, hands sliding to your hips; he doesn’t guide, just follows your movement. Metal circling his fingers left a cold tinge against your skin that you welcomed.
You nodded, breathed out a ‘yeah’. Tommy mumbled a ‘good’ under his bitten lip, not entirely realizing he’d adjusted his legs until your breath hitched at the reciprocating drag of his thigh. He paused for a second for your response, good or bad.
He could barely hear you when you muttered “do that again, Tommy”, but you didn’t have to ask him twice.
The rest was a continuous back and forth. He let his hands go from your thighs to your hips and back again while you moved, rings coming too, a grounding of sorts as you came down. He coaxed your movements with small mutterings between heavy breaths you could just catch: ‘there you go’s turned to a quiet mantra.
⤿ REQUESTED! “... could you maybe write something in the kitty's assistant secretary universe where kitty is just being a little rude to reader and michael steps in? very hurt/comfort he's just so sweet ugh...”
extras: no use of y/n
- -✁- - -
the hands on the clock could not have been ticking any slower, and kitty’s voice could not have been more irritating to the ears in between each second.
from the moment you stepped onto the office floor she had something to say, to sneer at over the rim of her glasses: you filed her paperwork too slowly, labels and stickers were put on crookedly, you took forever to get from the printer room back to her desk. though she was far from an enjoyable coworker, you hadn’t had to hear her so much in one shift, and it was starting to give you a headache aided unhelpfully by the yellowed fluorescents.
shoes shuffling against aged carpet directed your eyes to your peripheral when they stopped right outside his door a little while later. the beige slacks were familiar, as was the voice that made kitty look up from the most recent file you had given her, even with how much it looked as though she wanted to do anything but.
“there’s a package at the front; could you get that?” barely spoken into the stale office air or in her direction, but the glance of his eyes from hers to the elevator door was enough. you brushed off the fact that he usually sent you—he would start some small talk with you when you’d place it in the corner of his workspace, or to occupy the chair in front of his desk. you liked to tell yourself when it happened it was his excuse to talk with you more (and it was).
her chair was empty, the elevator door shut. he flipped a page over on his clipboard.
“she’s being more annoying than usual, huh.” not a question, but an agreement to words you hadn’t spoken.
you scoffed out a laugh. “who’s surprised?”
focusing your attention on the red pen whose glide breaks along the page, its own reflection that it ought to be thrown out, you didn’t notice the smile on his lips in response.
he set something on the desk to your right after a moment. “don’t let it get to you; you’re doing great. better than she does, that’s for sure.” he walked over to stand in front of you, reaching over near her computer for a file she had forgotten to give to him as if to prove his point whether voluntarily or not. he pressed his tie to his chest so as to not let it dangle on her desk; a strand of brown against his forehead did instead, between the crease at his eyebrows as his eyes dragged at the label stuck to the top. “besides, she doesn’t make my days a little less boring when she comes in with the mail.”
you hoped he didn’t notice your pen faltering along the letters inked into the page, a red strike through a few black loops and serif lines that didn’t look too out of place given the rest of the margins (he most certainly did).
