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hairmetal666 · 1 year

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It starts in Eddie's second senior year, close to the beginning of the semester. Eddie's in trig (again). He's good at math, but Mundy fucking sucks, always giving Eddie shit for breathing, or his shoes squeaking on the linoleum, or whatever, and he ends up with detention most days. So, he hardly ever shows and can't be bothered to do the homework, even though he knows the answers more often than not.

On this particular day, Mundy is in a bad mood, on Eddie's case way more than normal. In the heat of frustration, Eddie scrawls, "I fucking hate this class" on a scrap of notebook paper, and for reasons he can't begin to explain, leaves it folded on the window ledge. He doesn't think anyone will answer; fully expects the paper to be gone come morning with maybe another detention slip under his belt to show for it. He's a little flabbergasted, the next day, when the note is still there, and loses his mind a little when he sees the words "tell me about it" underneath his first message. He doesn't recognize the handwriting, sloping and a little looped, and for most of the class period, he's too bemused to respond. Right before the final bell rings he scrawls, "trig. You?" He leaves the paper on the ledge again. "Algebra 2 :(" is the response.

They keep it up, just a few words at first, before Eddie accidentally doodles on the page, and the other guy scribbles a hasty formula, the math spectacularly wrong. There's a little arrow leading to the words, "this shit sucks." Eddie re-writes the formula with the correct math, leaving careful notations of how and why. The next day he sees, "Shit, dude, I totally get this now. Mundy should retire and let you take over." Which pleases Eddie down to his core.

The messages get longer, nothing super personal, but complaints about life, math help, Eddie's silly little doodles, bad jokes, the slightly lewd drawings typical of teen boys. Eddie's never had a better attendance record in his life, but there are some days where his notes are left unopened. Most remarkably a couple week period before Thanksgiving, where he goes unanswered for so long he figures whatever thing they had going is done. But after the holiday, the notes start up again, with no acknowledgement they ever stopped. Eddie doesn't bother questioning it.

They keep it up almost all year, and they're definitely friends, even though they're totally anonymous. And that wouldn't have changed, except it's the day before spring break and Eddie's vibrating out of his skin with anticipation of the time off, so he forgets his dnd notebook in Mundy's class. He makes it all the way to Click's before he realizes, then sprints back across the school. He crashes through Mundy's door, tripping a little over his own feet.

"Sorry," he pants. "I just left--" he looks over to his desk, far corner right by the window, and then forgets every word he's ever known because Steve Harrington Steve Harrington King Steve, stares right back at him. And he just. He stops and fucking laughs, because all this time--this whole goddamn year--it's been Harrington he exchanged notes with. And sure, the jock's star has fallen in the last few months, with the breakup with Nancy and all that shit with Hargrove, but it's still Steve Harrington. With his big house and his fancy car and his girls. It's pretty Steve Harrington, the focus of Eddie's most hopeless daydreams.

He has a few seconds to see Harrington's hazel eyes go wide, before Eddie spins on his heel and makes a hasty exit. He absolutely doesn't spend the break thinking about the notes, matching what Harrington wrote with the gossip Eddie heard on him from the past few months.

Once break ends, he doesn't bother going to Mundy's class at all.

The Friday of the first week back, Eddie walks out to his van, only to find King Steve leaning up against it. He's doing that obnoxious thing where he has one leg bent, foot resting against the side panel, arms crossed over his chest, stupid hair falling in glorious cascades around his face. It's ridiculously, unfairly attractive.

"What do you want?" Eddie asks. He opens his front door without fully looking at Steve.

"Can we talk?"

Eddie snorts, "what could you and I possibly have to talk about."

Steve narrows his eyes. It's so bitchy and so fucking cute it makes Eddie queasy. "You know what."

"Enlighten me, Harrington."

"C'mon, man, the notes!"

"What about them?

"Don't be stupid, Munson, you know what. Why'd you stop?"

Eddie pulls a pack of camels and his lighter out of his jacket pocket. "Lost its appeal once I knew who was on the other side. Surprised you even want to keep it up now that you know you've been writing to the freak."

He pointedly ignores the little jolt Harrington gives at that, like the words hurt. Which is pretty rich from Steve Harrington, former #1 bully of Hawkins High.

"I've always known it was you," he says.

"You don't--wait what?"

I've known since, like, the first week, Munson."

"How??"

"What do you mean 'how,' dude, you're always drawing little pentagrams and d20's. Writing the word "Slayer" over and over. Who else would it be?"

And he can't even deal with the fact that Harrington knows what a d20 is (what the fuck) with everything else the other boy just said.

"I gotta go," is his only response. He ducks into his van, slamming the door basically in Harrington's face, before peeling out of the parking lot.

✏️✏️✏️✏️

It's the last day of school. Eddie's failed again. His grades, which weren't great to begin with, took a sharp nosedive after spring break, and he just can't wait to be done with this place for a few months. Harrington hasn't spoken to him again, and Eddie tries his hardest to ignore the other boy (aside from seeing him hanging out with Robin Buckley, a junior and a band geek, besides, and he forcibly has to remind himself that he doesn't care what Harrington does).

He slouches into his last math class of the year, slumping over in his seat. He rests his head on his desk, eyes blankly staring out the window as Mundy talks about what a joy most of them were to have in class. His eyes are unfocused, he contemplates a nap, and then he sees it. The tightly folded piece of paper resting on the window ledge.

Eddie almost doesn't take it. He almost ignores it, but he physically can't stop himself for reaching for it, unfolding it, staring at Harrington's now familiar handwriting.

Hey man, I'm pretty sure I fucked things up with us, and I owe you an apology. I've always known who you were, but you had no idea I was me. Buckley helped me see how that maybe freaked you out a little. I know I used to be a piece of shit. But I'm better--or I'm trying to be. And I'm so fucking sorry for the shit I did to you before and the things I didn't bother to stop. You don't owe me forgiveness, but you should know that I regret all of it. I liked passing notes with you. You made me laugh, and I don't know. It was nice to think someone liked me for reasons other than that I'm Steve Harrington, or whatever. I'd really like it if we could be friends. I get if you can't do that or don't want to.

Whatever the note actually ended with is scribbled out in pen so thick Eddie can't make it out.

All day he thinks about the note, the apology, all of it. Eddie thinks, if he's smart, he won't forgive Harrington. That he knows better than to trust him. But Eddie's never actually been that smart in this way, so he's not totally surprised to find himself walking to Steve's car after the last bell rings.

This time, Eddie's the one with his foot resting on the side panel of Steve's BMW, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't have to wait long before Harrington makes his way to the car, chestnut hair dancing in the breeze, biceps on display in a short-sleeve polo. A little smile dances across his lips when he spots Eddie.

"So, you gonna tell me how you know what a d20 is, Harrington, or do I have to guess?" Eddie offers the other boy a cigarette.

"Babysitting?

"Babys--Are you serious??" Eddie splutters. Steve Harrington babysits. Steve Harrington babysits little dnd playing nerds. Steve Harrington wants to be his friend.

A full grin spreads across Steve's perfect face and Eddie is absolutely, 100%, fucked.

(Part 2)

(Steddie Notes is now posted in full on ao3!)

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shaykai · 2 months

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Something something Gortash pointing his crossbow (gun) at a redeemed Durge and saying “I already mourned you”

#on one hand. wish he hesitated just a little bit more with killing them #on the other. it’s logically a good idea for him to not be so attached to durge (bane approves) and also he already had several months to #believe they were dead #ALSO ALSO you can’t tell me Orin doesn’t parade around with durge’s face to taunt him #so that probably makes it a bit easier- just pretend it’s her #some wretched doppleganger wearing the face of his best friend/lover #ANYWAYS LOL Shshhshshshsh I’m making a comic about this (sort of) for a redeemed Vat’il #tagging this as #durgetash #but it doesn’t have to be #bg3 spoilers #kind of #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #Durge #enver gortash

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cometblaster2070 · 16 days

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i've spoken before on raven and darling and how they're such good foils to each other, but i really, really just want to emphasize this scene right here because it makes me LOSE it.

(also please don't mind maddie and her expressions)

i personally love the way darling looks at raven in the first panel, because you can see her confusion there. everyone knows that apple and raven are best friends forever despite all their differences, and everyone knows just how much apple and raven care for each other, and how they would do anything for each other.

but i really love how this is framed because you can see darling looking at the way raven looks at apple; with so much longing, with so much sorrow, so much hurt, and so much love, and you can just see it click for her in the next panel.

the way she's questioning it at first, the way she's thinking for a second that that is not the way you would look at someone who's 'just a friend'.

and then the resignation and the sadness in the next moment, where i think darling realizes 'oh, we're both in the same boat; we're both in love with apple white'.

and i love that look of mixed pity and camaraderie; that look that shows that darling knows what raven's going through and what she's feeling (even if raven herself may not understand it right now) because she's also in love with apple.

of course there's just plain sadness because she feels bad for raven, whose best friend is currently in her magical coma, and it makes sense why she would sympathize with raven for that.

but i personally like to see it in the light that darling's heart is torn realizing that they're both stuck here, next to the girl they love, a love that will probably remain unrequited because (at this point yk) daring's supposed to be apple's prince, and apple herself will never know about how they feel, and apple will never return either of their feelings.

to cut it short, it's darling looking at raven looking at apple and thinking "oh my god i thought i was the only gay bitch in love with apple white".

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aceofsages · 1 year

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susie & midge are the embodiment of not romantic not platonic but a secret third thing (so devoted the lines blur)

#susie myerson #midge maisel #are they friends?#no they're more #are they lovers?#not in the way you think #when shows give us these sort of relationships i am over the moon #the marvelous mrs. maisel #tmmm

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dreamlandcreations · 6 months

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Imagine getting into a drinking game with Shanks...

Imagine getting into a drinking game with Shanks.

You can't even remember exactly what you said when you practically dared him into the first challenge. It was his fault anyway. How could you not react to all that relentless teasing?

That was a few hours, plenty of drinks and a lot less on the stakes before but you would be damned if you'd lose to that annoyingly charming, smug-looking redheaded menace.

#enemies to lovers #sort of #or maybe #enemies to friends to lovers #opla shanks #opla shanks x reader #shanks opla #shanks x reader #shanks x you #shanks #red haired shanks #red hair shanks #akagami no shanks #shanks imagine #my stuff #my fics

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babyhaze · 4 months

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when Lorelai and Luke break up and she calls begging him to come over because she needs her best friend and he IS her best friend. man I can't help but cry.

#i rewatch Gilmore girls when im sick #honestly though people dont talk about this enough #the way we lose a lover #a confidant #a best friend #it was sort of manipulative on her part though #like she said she knew he would come if she called #gilmore girls #luke x lorelai #lorelai and luke

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joshsindigostreak · 5 months

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Coming soon…

A Josh Kiszka x Reader holiday one shot! 💙🎄

Friends to lovers! Mutual pining! Spiked eggnog! Lame office Christmas parties! And of course, Elvis.

Tag List: @dannyandthekiszkas , @gretasmokerising , @sinners-go-to-drink-the-wine , @wideminded-dreamer , @runwayblues , @wildbluesorbit , @llightmyllovee , @rhythm-of-space , @sacredthefran , @writingcold , @alwaysonthemend , @wetkleenex-gvf , @josh-iamyour-mama , @lightsofthe-living-gvf , @gvfcinema , @sacredthethreadgvf , @losfacedevil , @jakekiszkasbuttsweat , @shutupdevvie , @hearts-hunger , @gretavanfleetposts , @ascendingtostardust , @mackalah , @andromeda-raine-gvf , @jake-kiszkas-smirk , @gracev0609 , @sacredjake , @earthlysorrows , @gvfpal , @myownparadise96 , @itsafullmoon , @agitfortheneverbeliever , @gvfmelbourne

Let me know if you want to be tagged!!

#josh kiszka #josh kiszka x reader #josh gvf #greta van fleet #my fics #friends to lovers #holiday cheer #sort of #mutual pining #💙🎄#blue christmas

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aclowntiny · 9 months

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Hii! First of all, congrats con 600 followers, you deserve that and so many more, I'm literally in love with your work :) I was wondering if I could request a San scenario with the following prompts (from the lists you reblogged):

“Urgh, why do you always insist on doing nice things for me?” “Because I enjoy it.”

“Can’t you just accept when people do nice things for you?” “No, I can’t.”

“The only reason why I’m letting you get away with shit like this is because I like you, you dense fucking cabbage.”

I was thinking kind of best friend au, but they both have feelings for eachother, BUT, they're both in denial about it. You can decide how the rest goes, thank you so muh in advance!! ~

yELLS thanks sweetheart 🥲 in love with my work whAT 🥹💕 thank you for being here with me! I love this request so here is your SAN-ario 😄 ps: look up the definition of mon petit chou I dare you

Mon Petit Chou- Best Friend!San x Gender Neutral!Reader

Word Count: 2282 | Best Friends to Lovers | Warnings: language, mention of drinking but no actual drinking lol, slightly suggestive?

You weren’t sure when the fuck this all started, just that you hated it with the burning passion of a thousand suns.

Your life had been peaceful, safe, mundane even, and so help you if you’d ever complained about it you were going to invent time travel just to go back and smack yourself one in the face for it.

Somehow, against all common sense, bro or whatever codes, and hope of joy you’d developed feelings for your best friend. The two of you had known each other for the past four years, meeting in your final year of high school at the dance of all places. Neither of you dated then, so you were there in a state others perceived as ‘alone’, each of you seeing it as with friends, with the while school, and leaping into the fray of energetic dancing. And that was how you ended up doing the cupid shuffle together and, for some reason, the old YMCA routine. You’d shook and jumped to Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off and the legendary Amor Fati by Kim Yeonja, all the simultaneously memed and beloved songs you could dream of. Some people assumed you were a couple and you two burst out laughing as you told them you’d literally just met. Like, you exchanged names after they said that.

San was easy to talk to, especially after seeing each other in sweaty teenage abandon first. He was no pressure, no butterflies- until now, for some forsaken reason, when your heart had decided to abandon all reason and beat like a mother when San pulled you into a hug or smiled that dimpled smile you’d looked at countless times- why was it special now?

Sure, you’d always acknowledged he was good-looking, but in the way people talked about celebrities outside their preferred gender- just acknowledgement, nothing deeper. But suddenly you found your brain rushing out from under you like a yanked rug, wondering what his lips would feel like against yours.

And dammit, you were dead-set on never finding out.

Making a move at that point would be platonic suicide, torpedoing the best friendship you’d ever had, and frankly you’d lost too many with age, time, distance, drama to do it again. And not with San. Even if it was like life’s Master Ball and you only got one forever friendship, it was going to be San. You’d already aimed and pitched, and no petty, new, frustrating as all get-out feelings were going to knock that off course.

If only San got the memo too.

Maybe it was simply a matter of increased awareness thanks to your nascent problem, but it was like he’d grabbed the knob full force and dialed all the charm and sweetness to eleven, sensing your pulse skyrocketing for a thousand tiny reasons you wanted to shoot down like clay pigeons.

It was chilly the other afternoon? Here, take his jacket. You forgot your sunglasses? Did you want his? What ring size were you? Here, compare to his- go on, just see if it fits. And by jove, you will never carry a single remotely heavy object again if Choi San can help it.

“Why do you always insist on doing nice things for me?” You groaned, head rolling to fix your best friend with a look.

“Because I enjoy it,” he replied simply, contentedly, the most plaintive of smiles on his face as he tilted his own head down for a brief respite on your shoulder.

Curse him and his adorable love of affection. “Well, ah, what can I do for you?” You spluttered, indignant at no one but yourself.

“It doesn’t have to be a transaction. I know you’ve had people around you make it seem like it is, but you don’t have to repay me. I know you’d help me if I needed it, too.”

Biting back a response about you surprisingly not actually needing him to carry your shopping bags, you just sighed and thanked him, shuffling along the mall tile with slightly less relish. He’d always been like this- selfless, kind, loving, and you’d always loved those things about him.

So when he sat you down at the food court, gingerly resting your bags on the shiny public-eatery metal seat adjacent to yours as he scooted yours back, what else could you do but smile and thank him? San asked you what you wanted for lunch, and you told him you didn't mind, to which he shot back that he didn't either. Then you told him to pick, and he told you to pick, and you both bickered playfully back and forth until you got tacos.

Ugh, just like an old married couple.

"Can't you just accept when people do nice things for you?"

"No," you crossed your arms in mostly-mock-obstinance, "no, I cannot."

"I swear, you'd make me pay you back if I bought you a candy bar," San rolled his eyes playfully, fixing you with a fond smile.

Because if you're always paying for me when we go out, you wanted to say, I can pretend it's a date. I can get it in my fat fucking head what it would be like to have you as my boyfriend and never get it back out.

"Money is designed to be exchanged for goods and services," you actually said.

"This isn't a service," he replied, putting an arm you didn't care was sticky with sweat around your shoulders, extending the water bottle toward your hand, "it's me caring about you."

Hot from exertion as you were, you instantly melted under the warmth of his half-embrace, accepting the water bottle. "And you know I appreciate it. I'm just not used to getting cared for."

"Then I'm not doing my job!" Your best friend exclaimed, eyes glinting. "I'm always going to be here to take care of you, so get used to it!"

"I think I started figuring that out when you brought three different blankets and a plushie the first time I watched a movie with you," you told him with a teasing smile.

San's smile fell almost into introspection, getting a bit more serious, which you didn't expect. "You joke, but I mean it, (y/n)."

Almost against your will, your head nodded solemnly, though your own smile couldn't fade, in fact it widened dumbly as a side effect of your hammering heart. "I hope so."

And then, as if he hadn't said something so infuriatingly sweet, San patted your shoulder, stood up from his squatted position, and took your water-bottle-free hand in his, pulling you up, too. You could have sworn he gave your hand a squeeze, but it was so brief, maybe you imagined it.

"Alright, so are we dancing or what?"

Sometimes you wished you guys drank more. That you could hit the edge of blackout and do something you'd barely remember, nor regret, and butt so hard against the line it finally broke and reformed in less questionable territory. That some alien substance in your veins could be blamed for anything dubbed unthinkable, and you'd have already rehearsed any laughter necessary if San wanted to make middle-school ew, gross jokes as if your lips transmitted cooties.

But San was a lightweight, and neither of you enjoyed that scene. The two of you were more the types to get coffee twice in a ay and laugh too hard at stupid things like the word guava on a caffeine buzz.

"We're fun enough even without alcohol," San often joked to you.

So the drama-flick drunk confession, intoxicated makeout, was out. Best not to duplicitously offer a drink in exchange for-

"(y/n)? I think it's all done," San's voice cut through your mental spiral.

You almost had to shake your head out of it, vision having faded to a zoned-out blur, obscuring even the shape of his wide, tank-topped shoulders as he had bent over your car.

Now he was at your side, wiping his hands on a cloth like some sort of professional mechanic, not just your best friend who insisted you didn't need to pay someone like that just for an oil filter and a change. A change which had cost him the dove grey of his garment, something you could hardly help asking why he'd wear such a light color of for that.

"San, your top, it's all stained!"

As he tossed the rag aside, he tilted his head down, bobbing it in recognition of the black smudge marks. "Well, at least it wasn't expensive."

"I think I know how to get it out if you want. You could always go get a new-"

Before you could even finish your sentence, he was stripping, yanking the top off from the bottom hem and leaning against the knob of your garage door. Despite the clear invitation to go inside and, you know, do exactly what you just said you were going to do, surprised crossed your (very warm) face, effectively sealing you to the concrete floor. The only process your brain could perform in that moment was trying to figure out if you had the world's best or worst luck.

"Oh, uh-" Trying not to stare, your eyes very pointedly searched San's face.

Your best friend frowned slightly, expression halfway to the innocence you were used to, and somehow that almost made it worse. "What?"

"Just," you hesitated as you accepted his now inside-out tank top, skin-warmed fabric heating your hands, too, which you glanced down at beneath San's intent gaze, "didn't expect you to be this comfortable is all."

San crossed his arms, face falling first in shock, then shaping up into almost dark amusement as a different, more incredulous smile rose to his sharp features. "Are you kidding me?"

Oh, no. You made it weird. This was it. Or maybe he just thought you were doubting his friendship, which he shouldn't. Everyone knew unironically doing the YMCA bonded people for life. Or sharing blankets. Or...ah, crap. Not now. "No, it's great, I'm really glad you trust me. I trust you, too, you know. Maybe I don't show that enough, but that's why you know so much about me, and I really appreciate you-" Your rant suddenly fell short as your eyes betrayed you, drifting down slightly and absolutely ramming your train of thought into a wreck. "You know, always being there for me and being so thoughtful and pretty much being my favorite person ever-"

“The only reason why I’m letting you get away with shit like this, with seeing me like this," he motioned over his, well, quite fit torso, "is because I like you, you dense fucking cabbage.” The moment the words left San, his face fell into his hand, out of frustration or embarrassment it was hard to say. Probably more the latter, knowing how sweet your best friend was. He didn't use strong language...well, almost ever.

Train wreck take two. Not a single word rose to your mind, only sensations, for a solid three seconds, during which all you could do was stand there wide-eyed, venture a step towards San, two steps. Finally you spoke, feeling like an idiotic teen sitcom character as your dumb response left your lips. "You like me?"

"Yes," San sighed, posture deflating a bit against the doorframe, "I'm sorry. Sorry for the language, and just...I hadn't really planned on how I was going to say it, but it definitely wasn't like that. You deserve way better than that. I just... sometimes I feel like you like me back, but then I wonder if you're pushing me away. And you have every right to do that, especially if I've messed up our friendship, I can just-"

You cut him off, harnessing the motion of his lips for greater purpose against yours. San responded instantly to the kiss, hands cupping your face and pulling it deeper into his like you were air and he'd spent his whole life underwater. Your arms wrapped around those broad, bare shoulders, hands resting at the back of his neck.

"Wait, you like me?" Ok, you felt better about how dumb you seemed, as those were San's first words out of the kiss.

"Yes, you, what was it? Ah, yes. 'Dense fucking cabbage'," you quoted back at him with a merciless grin, arms tightening their grip ever so slightly.

"Oh, no," he winced, "that's going to stick forever, isn't it?"

"Yep," you breathed, leaning in for another kiss, the feeling of San's lips a hundred percent better than you could ever have imagined, so much warmer and realer and this time sweeter, sliding against yours like he was coaxing it out of you.

This time, upon pulling away you gave the side of his face a light, playful slap, enjoying the touch of his sculpted features against your palm.

"You're stuck with me now, mon petit chou."

San shook his head at the return of your devious grin, and you reveled in the blend of utter bliss and what did I get myself into painting his face as his hands snaked around your waist, twirling you in a little impromptu dance and dipping you down.

He smiled lovingly this time, sending your beating heart melting and surprise turning to joy across your own face. "As long as you keep being you and you'll let me do nice things for you now- no, scratch that, spoil you."

Keep being you. Holy shit, what a balm for the soul.

Cocking a brow, you shot back, "You spoil me and I embarrass you? Hardly sounds fair."

"All's fair in love and war," San responded, eyelashes fluttering.

You most definitely forgot to wash his top after that.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez reactions #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #san #san x reader #san x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #best friends to lovers #fluff #humor #sort of #requested #everywhereandnowhere02

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glassiskies · 9 months

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is it just me or does anyone else want crowley to go back to hell and take beelzebub's place instead of shax. i mean the potential for DRAMA in season 3 is delicious

#good omens spoilers #a good old sort-of-enemies to friends to lovers-for-like-3-seconds BACK TO ENEMIES #absolutely delicious i would eat that up #except they're both in it to prevent the second coming #plz plz plz #brb going to draw that now #good omens #good omens tv #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens 2 #not art

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cerise-on-top · 4 months

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I love your writing so much, you really captured who the Cod Men are 💜💜

Can I request Rudy with an S/O who likes to steal their clothing? Like I just know this man has soft hoodies and nice button-up shirts that we can use

Thank you 💜

Thank you, I try to write a mix of what I think the requester wants and how the CoD people would genuinely react to something! It's not always easy, but I try! And that's a really cute request! Rodolfo's been getting quite some love as of late, which is nice!

Rodolfo with a Clothes-Thief!Reader

When thinking about the relationship he has with you, Rodolfo thinks about many things: Spoonfeeding you some of his sorbet, cuddling under the blankets while drinking hot cocoa on a cold winter evening, kissing each other on the forehead during soft moments. He doesn’t really consider the bad things a relationship could bring all that often, being fairly romantic and wanting to live those soft and sweet moments with you, as well as remembering them in as much detail as he can. This changes when he notices you, who could usually do no wrong, waltzing around in your home wearing one of his hoodies. And I agree with you, his hoodies are very soft and warm since the fabric is important to him. He also makes sure they stay soft and comfortable since he always thought he’d be the only one wearing them. You opened his eyes, you are a thief.

When he sees you washing the dishes wearing one of his gray hoodies, he’ll simply stare at you for a moment, thinking about whether or not it’s real. He completely forgot that he, too, could be a victim of a relationship and lose his beloved clothing to his beloved criminal. If it’s a chilly morning, then he’ll simply walk up to you and hug you from behind. If he’s feeling especially mischievous, then he’ll put his hands under his article of clothing and onto your tummy so you can feel his cold hands. But that is unlikely to happen. Still! You need to be considerate of your partner as well! If you’re cold he is cold, put him in a blanket burrito!

While he knows exactly who this hoodie or sweater belongs to, he will ask you where you got it from, claiming that you’ve got a nice taste in fashion with a gentle smile. You can then either tell the truth or lie to him. The truth will earn you a chuckle and a kiss to your temple. Lie to him and he’ll interrogate you where you got it from. But eventually he will also ask you if you like his clothing that much. If you do, then you’re more than welcome to take it if he doesn’t need it that day. That extends to things that aren’t just sweaters or hoodies as well. Granted, he isn’t the most fashionable guy, but if he likes something enough he’ll usually buy it and look good in it as well. If you like his shirts as well, then sure, go for it. If it fits, then you can wear it. His clothing is, for the most part, fairly neutral. Lots of grays and lots of blues, so he prefers colder colors over warmer ones. There aren’t many motifs on his shirts, maybe some white palm leaves, but that’s about it.

If he sees you’ve really taken a liking to his clothing, then he’ll buy some more things he thinks you might enjoy, wear them every once in a while, and leave the rest up to you. He sort of does like seeing you in his clothing, in all honesty. You look snug and comfortable in it, plus it gives him the feeling that you do really really like him. When the two of you are roughly the same size, he’ll wear a sweater of yours as well from time to time, just to get some revenge and maybe feel as though you’re with him at that moment. It’s got your scent on it, and what else could be more precious in your absence? In fact, he’ll even give your big pink sweater a try if he really feels like it. You make him feel more comfortable in his skin, so he might even wear stuff like a hot pink and walk up to you so you can see him. If he looks ridiculous to you, he’ll be a bit nervous but laugh alongside you, if you compliment him and coo over how cute he looks, he’ll be a bit flustered and give you a shy smile. So yeah, if the both of you have been with each other for long enough and are comfortable enough, then the clothes stealing will go both ways, if possible.

Rodolfo might try to buy an extra oversized sweater so he can see if the both of you can fit underneath it. Yes, he hides that sweater for quite some time as he’s afraid you’ll laugh at him, but he really does want to try it some time. Maybe it’ll be fun. Maybe it’ll be pleasant. And if it’s neither of those things you have another oversized sweater to call your own. Sometimes you might even go clothes shopping together, just to see which parts of your wardrobe you can share together.

#cod #cod x reader #rodolfo parra #rodolfo parra x reader #I think I've gotten so many requests with Rudy that I feel more comfortable with him #not in writing sense but more in an established relationship sort of sense #not everything feels scary and new with him now which is why my view of him is slowly changing #like he's more willing to be touchy with reader now than he was when I started writing him since that “relationship” has been #going on for a while now. does that make sense? probably not but it feels nice #like the “relationship” is slowly progressing with him and he feels more comfortable with reader these days #I think it's sort of similar with Ghost since those two characters do share similarities when it comes to touch in my eyes #it's sort of sweet to watch actually reader and Rudy have grown closer and started loving each other even more these days #I remember when most of what I wrote could have been read as platonic as well. that's probably why they were hesitant on touch #but most if not all of what I write these days is romantic so touch isn't a big issue anymore #it just makes more sense. same thing with Valeria too I think #as a writer you sort of do build a relationship with the characters as well which is also very sweet in my eyes #the characters are friends. they're lovers. they're enemies. and anything inbetween #I never really noticed such a thing before but I thought about it today. did that happen with off too? I don't remember #so yeah. my HCs are slowly changing for the sweeter and I think that's cute! more domestic stuff which I'm a sucker for!

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jamneuromain · 1 year

Text

Creative Writing

Andy Barber x Reader (You)

Warning: Professor-Student relationship (possibly?), College AU, a lot of curses. A bit enemy to friends(?)lovers(?) vibe

W/C: ~4k

Summary: based on this prompt

A/N: dividers are from @firefly-graphics, and I spend another couple of hours on fanfic instead of my deadlines, yay!

Dancing in the Daydream M. List

Week 1

Three minutes into the class, you feel like not only you are listening to complete nonsense, but also you disagree with each and every word that comes out of your professor, who is currently standing on the podium, criticizing the shit out of your favorite author.

You regret selecting Creative Writing just because it sounds fun. Although you have been fairly warned by seniors, who took this class last year, Professor Andy Barber who taught Creative Writing runs his class with a tight fist, and of course, not kind with his comments and his marking. Not only does he want the “best” answer from students in class, but also ask everyone in the class to address him as “sir” or “Professor”.

Though he is fairly hot, as the seniors have warned you, with the trimmed beard and occasionally slipped-out Bostonian accent, with the suit and shirt and tie.

To be honest with yourself, you have been writing fanfic and whatnot for over five years, and you hoped that you could learn something from this class to improve your writing. And you love writing. If anything, this awful Professor Barber just gave you more reason to stay, because you want his approval, even if it would only be demonstrated via your grades.

You are not a quitter.

“Now speaking of a writing example that I highly recommend; this is a work I recently come across. Twenty thousand e-copies have been sold so far, now that’s a pretty good number for an author. I don’t expect you to read it thoroughly after class, but the writing style and the balance between story-telling and own reflections of the main characters are something that you should learn from.” Professor Barber takes off his glasses, twirling the frame between his fingers, hitting the button that would let the computer display the next slide.

You huff. You seriously doubt he would present anything barely readable to actual humans. Considering his comments on your favorite book, you take a rough guess that the only thing he will recommend is ancient European Lit.

Except ancient European Lit wouldn’t be in creative writing class.

You lift your head from your iPad, and you widen your eyes, unable to contain the astonishment on your face. Your jaw slams on the table – if it could, while in reality, you press your palm to your mouth, crushing your cheekbones so hard, that you feel your jaw will disconnect the next second.

Your mind blank, unable to come up with any thoughts. Apart from “THIS IS NOT HAPPENING”. In all caps.

On the slide, there is one picture, cropped out from a chapter online. Two paragraphs on the picture, the first describes the action and the verbal communication of two characters; the second describes the mental activity of one character. Below the picture, there is a bracket that contains the source of this snapshot.

The bracket and what’s in it catch your eyes, before the picture.

Well, if it isn’t your damn penname from 9th grade staring right at you in the face.

(A. Vulpecula, 2020)

Your dumb idiot self wanted something unique and stand out among all the writers in the world. You were, unfortunately, in your Harry Potter phase, and wouldn’t it be a brilliant idea to pick your penname out of constellations, just like a lot of Slytherins?

You ponder what on earth have you written in 2020, raising your head to read your own writing.

Shit, at least it wasn’t your College AU.

This piece is a long story about a witch and a demon. The paragraphs he cropped out happened to be where the witch and the demon didn’t know each other’s true identity.

Your face is burning. You don’t know if you are humiliated by reading your own fanfic in your fucking college class, or if you are gloating because the man who criticized your favorite author thinks your writing is exceptional.

Yes, that “thing” on the screen started out as fanfic.

You also don’t know whether you want to quit this class right this second or stay to hear his opinion on your work.

Or if there’s any value in his comments at all.

Your humiliation doesn’t stop there.

Oh no, it gets way worse.

At least ten slides are focused on your witch/demon au. Barber actually likes your concept of a magical world. He goes on to explain the importance of details, which runs along your story, complimenting how your designs fit perfectly into your story and your characters.

You are flattered, you guess?

But also extremely awkward when he pulls more examples from your fanfic to illustrate his idea.

“Alright, for the upcoming three weeks, we are going to look into more stories. Here is the reference reading, remember to take notes. If you want to, send me a short story or a few paragraphs you have written via email before Wednesday, no more than 500 words, and I’ll see you here next week.”

Before you even notice, the class is over. You, however, are still shocked over the fact that your mean professor likes your work.

You grab your iPad and your bag slowly, scoffing as a bunch of girls swarm up to the podium and giggling, asking Professor Barber for his contact information.

“My email address is in the course handbook, so are the office hours. If you have questions, send an email or make an appointment prior.” He nods them off coldly, though this does not discourage the girls from swooning over his broad shoulders and back under his navy-blue suit.

Your barely-friend sighs, jumping off the podium, obviously displeased by Barber’s cold demeanor. She counts as a “barely friend” because she’s just as active in class as you. Though you sometimes don’t like the way she disregards the lecturer and whisper-yell in your ear when she doesn’t understand.

She pouts: “Can’t get a hold of him.”

“You can always book an appointment for his office hour.” You swing your bag over your shoulder, shrugging, “seniors said he was harsh. I wouldn’t recommend you ‘contact’ him too much.”

“Can’t hurt to try.”

“True.” You wave your hand as a goodbye, leaving the lecture room and a bunch of disappointed girls.

Week 2

On second thought, you should have quitted this class.

Because then you wouldn’t be listening to this ridiculous remark about description over characters.

“I’m just going to let you sit on it for a minute.” Professor Barber pauses his lecture, “think about why Vulpecula describes the man’s blue eyes and red flannel.”

Then there’s silence in the room.

Knowing how easily he gets disappointed, you are not surprised.

Barber wants the “answer”, the best one, the correct one. Well, shocker that students don’t know what he has in mind.

However, in your opinion, which is: For Christ’s sake, the celebrity, Chris Evans, on whom you are basing this fanfic, has a red flannel.

What else are you going to write? Him wearing a suit being a lumberjack? In the middle of nowhere? In a fucking forest?

“What do you think?” Your barely-friend whisper-yells to your ear. Sitting in the front row, she probably makes herself heard for Professor Barber.

You lean away from her, toying with the hem of your sweatshirt, whispering back: “No idea. I’d probably say brings out the characteristics and stuff like tha-”

“Is there something interesting you’d like to share with the class, Miss …?”

Professor Barber lands his piercing sharp gaze on the two of you. Your friend ducks her head to read on her laptop. While you spare a glance at her, you silently spew a curse in your mind.

“Well, Miss…? What do you want to share with the class?”

Great. Now his gaze lands solemnly on you.

You state your name, most unwillingly, and usher out the only reasonable response you can think of: “… because the character the author is basing on has blue eyes and red flannel?”

He repeats your name, “I’d like you to address me as Professor, or Sir. Anybody else?”

He didn’t even say if your theory was interesting, needs work, or some other commentary, which he normally does, trying to inspire thinking and criticality. Like that’s going to work with his tight fist.

You roll your eyes out loud.

“I think red flannel brings out the main character’s – Christopher’s -warm and welcoming character. Red symbols the feeling of fire and warmth, and it’s only plausible that he’s wearing that color, Professor.” Your barely-friend fake coughs, then chirps “her” answer with great confidence.

Professor Barber nods, humming with approval, “very well, you are on the right track. Anybody else?”

Yeah, like anybody is going to know better than you, the author, about how and why you choose to describe his red flannel.

You begin to ponder the question, how is it possible that people interpret too much into the text they are reading? How much people are reading these days are actually the thoughts of critics instead of the authors?

But you are not standing up and revealing that you are A. Vulpecula.

Maybe in your next life but not now.

However, seeing the shocked expression on Barber’s face would be worthwhile.

You can almost imagine how his red lips form an “O” and he stutters due to the bomb you deliberately drop in front of him.

You bite your lips from smiling, too indulged in your imagination to notice Barber glaring at you a couple of times.

“Just a quick reminder that I wouldn’t be looking into more works that are submitted after today. If you want a little feedback on what you have written, send me an email before 12 o’clock midnight. Again, this is not compulsory, it wouldn’t affect your marking, think of it as a fun exercise.” Professor Barber announces once more, shutting off the projector, “we will discuss the coursework for this week next time. Class dismissed.”

Students take their belonging and move slowly toward the exit. You are sitting in the middle of the front row, which means, you are going to be stuck here for a while. A few girls go to the podium to ask questions, which you tune out completely when their questions become giggles.

You are scrolling through your phone when someone calls you by your last name.

Surprise, surprise, it’s Andy Fucking Barber.

“Yes?” You put your phone away, confused as to why he is talking to you.

“Yes, Professor. And I would expect you to pay more attention in class,” his blue eyes feel like ice, numbing your body inch by inch, “that’s all.”

Mother – Fucking - Idiot dickhead - Thickest skull in the fucking galaxy - Every curse word inside your head is cut off by one another, tangling together because none of them is able to describe your fury.

How dares he?

You were paying attention to class compared to at least two-thirds of the students present here. Focus on the word “present”, because you are fairly certain some of them skip this class because Andy Shithead Barber is too harsh.

So what you didn’t provide the answer he had in mind? And the answer he liked was not even close to your thoughts when you wrote that chapter.

You are fuming. You grab your bag and go to the library, sit there for the next two hours, and post a chapter on your Tumblr account about a love story between two vampires.

Your anger blend into your motivation to write. You wrote four thousand words in two hours, which is a record.

Yeah, you will show Mr. Professor Sir your “attention to the class”, see if he likes it next week.

Week 3

You are sure this would be the death of you.

He sent you an email two days prior, asking you whether you have time to discuss your piece of writing in his office, right after his class.

Of course, you RSVP-ed yes, but you have completely no idea why he wanted to talk to you, while other students have already received their feedback.

“OOOOOhhhhhhh, he said I am creative, but my descriptions are a little too detailed.” Your barely-friend squeaks dramatically, earning herself a silent eye-roll from you.

You can’t think of any reason that could explain his email. You wrote as yourself, you have given him a piece of your ongoing work, which was about two vampires. You are satisfied with your work. He could have just written feedback and sent it to you, even if he didn’t like your writing. What could possibly be the problem here?

Professor Barber takes off his suit jacket, rolling his shirt sleeves to his elbow, his calm voice circles the classroom, “coursework from last week, anyone has any idea about why the author wrote ‘There are two trees in the yard. One is a jujube tree. The other is also a jujube tree’?”

You turn to the page of your notes, not looking up at him, “because that’s exactly what the author sees when he looks out of his house?”

As if it couldn’t have been worse, with an extra reminder for you to call him “Professor”, his cold blue eyes glide over you, commenting on your answers to his questions that your ways of thinking and dissecting texts are “far from those of an author”.

His words, not yours.

At this point, you don’t even bother listening to his comments, instead, you start writing on your iPad.

Might as well use the time to do something at least meaningful.

“Did you make an appointment with him before, like during office hours?” When the class is over, you ask your barely-friend in a low voice.

“No.” She shakes her head, a smirk on her face, “I’m trying my best not to get on his bad side. Why? Why’d you ask?”

Like you were trying to. You get on his bad side so very easily. You grunt a “nothing”, waiting for Barber to finish packing his things.

“Okay, see ya!”

Your barely-friend slips out of the room.

You highly doubt if Barber wants you in his office because he would like to give you a compliment.

Andy Barber calls your name to snap you out of your mind. He has shrugged on his suit jacket, his lecture notes in hand, “shall we?”

At least his office is in this building so you don’t have to endure the long and awkward silence when you are walking.

You follow him into his office.

His office is a small room. Three desks are put together, taking up most of the space. His desk is by the window, equipped with computers and office supplies, while he points at the empty desk near the door, “please, have a seat.”

He drags his chair over to sit on the same side of the same desk as you. He sighs, taking off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he puts on his glasses again, rubbing his bearded chin, “do you know why you are here?”

“The homework of 500 words …?” You chew on your lower lip, hesitant to give him the answer.

“It’s Professor or Sir. And yes.” He sits straight on his chair, his blue eyes staring into you, his voice sterner than ever, “and?”

You let out a long breath, gathering enough courage to say what you have always wanted to say in the last three weeks, “to be honest, I have completely not the slightest clue what you want me to say.” You pause, then add a word for good measure, “Sir.”

He sighs again, taking a moment to organize his words, “the reason you are here today is that I want to talk to you about academic malpractice. Now it might not be stressed enough in your past studies, but the university takes academic malpractice very seriously.” He slows down as if trying to imprint you with each and every word he says.

Your brows furrow: “And how does that have to do with…”

He is NOT implying what you think he means, right?

He is NOT implying that you copied someone’s work, right?

Or you let someone copy your work?

“I don’t understand what you mean.” You cross your arms, almost defensive, looking back at him in disbelief, “I can guarantee there’s no academic malpractice.”

Pause.

Oh right, you nearly forget, “Sir.”

“I’m gonna cut to the chase here.” Sir Professor Andy Barber pulls over his own laptop, turning it toward you so that you can clearly see the content on his screen, “the document on the left is your work, the one on the right is a chapter of A. Vulpecula’s stories.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms too, allowing what he said to sink in, “can you see the similarity?”

Um.

Okay.

You did not expect this. Not one bit.

Of course, what he shows you are two identical snippets.

But since when is “presenting something that you have personally written” a crime?

You cannot hide the amusement on your face. No matter how hard you try to suppress your grin, it just keeps getting wider and wider.

“I know that it’s only homework, a practice at writing, if you will,” he gestures at the screen, unaware of your grin at first, “it won’t be reported to the university, but I strongly suggest you, not to copy other’s work just because you would like to impress your lecturer.”

He stops talking when he sees your expression, which must be a mix of half-laugh and holding back, though none of the above successful.

“I’m sorry, is there something funny?”

His voice ice-cold, clearly not pleased with your reaction, your behavior, and you as a human being.

Yeah, you can tell he is pissed.

“No, nothing,” you nearly snort out because of suppressing your laugh, “please, continue.”

“No. Indulge me.” He purses his lips into a thin line, blue eyes so sharp that they could pierce your skin.

Silence.

You thought about letting the misunderstanding of “academic malpractice” grow, but if there’s one thing you simply could not abandon, it would be your academic integrity.

You cross your legs, loosening your arms, “I just … I find it funny because I submitted my own work.”

You wait for your words to sink in.

Barber shakes his head in disappointment, “academic malpractice is what -”

“I have submitted my own work.” You cut him off, “I am A. Vulpecula.”

You really don’t mind beating the information into his thick skull.

But, alas, battery & assault is a crime here.

You pull out your iPad, opening the folder of manuscripts. Clicking on the vampire AU, you show him your own manuscript and what you have written in the past hours.

“I can post this chapter early to prove my point, if you like.” You lay your iPad in front of him, leaning back in your chair, “anything else, Professor?”

More silence.

“No. Nothing.” His mouth slightly agape, not entirely what you had in mind, but close enough, “thank you for coming by.”

“No worries.” You pack your things, heading to the door. “For the record,” you turn on your heels before stepping out of his office, “week 2, the discussion about the red flannel?”

“Yes?” He raises his head.

“That was really because Chris Evans has a red flannel, Sir.” You look at him one more time, then lower your eyes, “goodbye, sir.”

Two months later, you are celebrating with your friends in a pub, that the finals are over.

Your real friends, not your barely-friends.

“Phew! Tell me about what you wrote for your Creative Writing!” Your friend fans her tongue for having swallowed a shot, nudging you to tell them more about your major and your classes.

You down your shot in one gulp, wincing due to the burn in your throat, “well, I did learn my lesson. I wrote a new piece, about a cheesy princess-bodyguard romance.”

Your friends don’t know about the full story. You altered the details a little, not telling them about you being a part-time some-what-famous writer, but enough for them to understand your situation.

“We also had this ridiculous lecturer, a skinny guy, who keeps asking you why about everything and every question-” Your friend rambles about her life story, with a round of “No way” “No shit” “What???”.

“I’m gonna need drinks, not shots.” Another one of your friends stands up, dragging you along with her to get drinks, only for her to dump you at the bar while she hurries to the bathroom.

You wait for the bartender, slightly bored.

“Hey,” your first name was called, a slight tap on your shoulder having you turn around. Andy Barber is standing in front of you. He is wearing a casual shirt without ties, and denim from the waist down. With a beer in hand, he smiles at you, “fancy meeting you here.”

“Likewise,” you nod curtly, “Sir.”

He waves his hand as if it was nothing, “please, no need for that, Sir or… just no.” He smiles nearly apologetically, “I never get the chance to say I enjoy your writing. I’m sorry for discouraging you in class. You are an exceptional writer.”

This takes you by surprise.

“Oh! Okay…? Thanks?” You twist your fingers together, unable to think of anything that could respond to him, “I’m … flattered?”

“Please, if anyone is flattered, it’s me. I am very glad to meet an author I appreciate.” He extends your hand for you to shake. You shake his hands lightly, engulfed in his large and warm hand for a second.

The friend who abandoned you for bathroom slings an arm around your shoulders, although she can barely walk straight, “oooohhhhhh, I think he’s cute!” She yells in your ear, giggling, “you should sleep with him!”

You are pretty sure Professor Barber heard that.

He looks flustered, his neck a shade redder than before, mumbling, “I suppose I’ll leave you with your friends.”

Speaking of your friend, she disappeared – more like dashed - to your table with your drinks, yelling to your other friends about how you are “getting laaaaaaaaid” tonight.

“There goes my ‘said’ friend.” You chuckle, “it’s nice seeing you, Professor.”

Barber lowers his eyes before looking into yours, his blue eyes sparkling with joy, “please, I’m not teaching you anymore. Call me Andy.”

#andy barber #defending jacob #andy barber x you #andy barber x reader #andy barber x female reader #andy barber fanfiction #college au #angst with a happy ending #sort of?#enemies to friends to lovers (?)#also sort of #professor andy barber #student reader #creative writing #dancing in the daydream

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