nari

“No.”

“I haven’t even asked yet!”

“Don’t care. I know that voice.” Colt points at his brother suspiciously with the empty carton. “That’s your ‘this is about to ruin my evening’ voice, and I don’t think I appreciate the sentiment.”

Ryland ignores him. “Listen. I have a blind date tonight, but apparently Ilyukhina is unaware of the blind aspect of a blind date so she showed her a picture of my face.” 

Colt’s mouth drops. And for a moment, he just stares at his brother. Until a few seconds pass and he starts to laugh. And he keeps laughing—in that mouth wide open, head tilted forward, hands clutching the stomach kind of laughter. “Oh, absolutely not.”

If murder wasn’t illegal, one would’ve already been committed in this very moment.

“We’re twins. It’s not like she’s going to kno— okay, will you stop laughing?”

“Ry, you have to understand how insane this sounds. Come on, that sounds like the plot of a really bad sitcom.” Colt’s shaking his head, trying to wipe away the remains of laughter in the corner of his eyes, but his mouth is still twitching a little from the aftermath of laughing a little too hard. “Besides, why can’t you just go yourself? Are you chickening out?”

“I am not chickening out. I got pulled into a meeting.” Ryland exhales sharply through his nose, voice deeper when he says 'not' and currently visibly trying not to strangle his brother with anything within reach, which is quite a number of things—the rag cloth, the strings of his hoodie, his own hands. 

Instead, he continues speaking, “Just pretend to be me for an hour. I’ll try to make it after the meeting.”

And with the gravity of the situation, he adds one last word, “...please.”

Well, that one definitely lands and Colt has to pause from gulping down the orange juice he’d stolen. And he thinks he should relish in this moment longer, his brother begging him. It doesn’t happen very often. He’s usually reprimanded by his twin, not pleaded with.

“Oh, you’re desperate.”

Ryland’s eye twitches, and he resists the urge to pinch his nose bridge. “All you really have to do is show up, smile, don’t flirt too much–”

“Impossible restriction.” Ryland drops his face into his hands, groaning loudly at his brother’s response, and before he can reply with a snide remark, Colt asks, “What if she asks a question I can’t answer?”

“Colt, you’ve known me all my life.” Ryland deadpans, heaving a stage-worthy sigh.

“Fair point.” Colt sighs. “You're really asking me to commit identity theft? You think this is going to work?”

“Yes. So, will you do it?”

Colt ponders on the question because technically, he did owe Ryland a favor, and he was only asking for an hour of his time. And, in all honesty, Colt thinks he can pull of a perfect Ryland Grace so it was a way to boost his own ego. And what was a date anyway? He’s been on multiple dates before. 

Even with an answer, he lets the silence stretch for a few seconds more, just to be annoying. Just so he can see the way Ryland anxiously taps on the kitchen counter with his fingers, or his feet on the ground. And when Colt has enough satisfaction, finally, he says, “Fine.”

Ryland visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”

“But if she falls in love with me, that’s on you.” 

The relaxed features on Ryland’s face contorts into a somewhat disgusted face. “You’re ridiculous.”

The air is cool in that early-evening way that denotes the slow tipping of autumn into winter. The city glows a warm orange, and there’s laughter spilling out from crowded restaurants whenever the doors open. 

Colt checks his phone again. Ryland had given you his number, claiming that he’d suddenly had to change numbers due to scammer calls and phishing schemes. And he all but stares at the same message reflecting, that you were on your way. 

It stares back at him.

He rubs the space between his eyes and sighs. This is a terrible idea, a terrible terrible idea. Still, Colt thanks Fuck for choosing the day he’s not masked in his own injuries or little scars from stunt work, picks a day where he actually looks like he has his shit together, and not a man about to commit identity fraud. 

“Ryland?,” a soft voice. 10 jars of honey in the way you speak, but Colt recognizes that this was about to be the start of an evening full of lies. And then he sees you, and Colt looks beyond amazed. 

Suddenly, he’s nearly convinced there is something significant standing behind him, because what is the connotation of the beauty he’s being subjected to, the same beauty who is looking up at him with a hesitant smile. 

Colt pauses, which if Ryland was here to see it would know that it was always a bad sign because it means he’s thinking, really thinking. And he is, he knows this is the exact moment he could stop everything. 

Instead, he says, “yeah.”

Your smile widens just a little, and there’s something endearing about the way you press a hand briefly against your chest. “Oh good. I was terrified I’d accidentally agreed to meet a serial killer.”

Colt snorts. “Well, disappointing start for you, then.”

“You joke,” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly as you step closer, “but statistically speaking, I was taking a real risk tonight."

You look up at him, looking up at his disheveled hair from the wind outside. It curls slightly near the ends, stubborn in a way Ryland’s is too. "Your hair's a little longer than in your photo."

“Ha, you know hair. Grows… grows at no specified rate." Woah, what the hell. He didn't even mean to perfectly imitate Ryland in that moment. "Sorry, could you remind me how long do blind dates usually take before one person decides to fake a family emergency?”

You laugh, and Colt feels something shift in the air. “Maybe around twenty minutes. Sorry, we’re still a little ahead of schedule. You’re still stuck with me for 17 minutes more.”

Colt can’t help but smile back at you because the thrill in your smile is too wholesome not to. “Shall we head inside then? Got to make those 17 minutes count.”

“Yeah. That would be ideal.”

The hostess leads you toward the patio seating, and it’s quaint, but incredibly breathtaking. The warm lighting does a great deal at creating an almost comfortable environment. And it’s the perfect spot that the blurred headlights and the city lights reflect just at the huge glass window behind you. Really, perfect for a first date. 

Colt pulls out the chair for you, something that’s just taught in the How To Be A Gentleman handbook, and tucks you into the table before he takes his own seat.

“I should tell you right now that I’m a little terrible at first dates.” You say the moment you're settled in.

“You seem fine.”

“That’s because you just met me. It’s only been like five minutes.”

He smiles despite himself. “It gets worse?”

“Dramatically worse.”

“Good. I’m excited to see that.”

The waiter assigned to you arrives with two menus and a bottle of service water, and you thank him politely as you take a copy, flipping through it without really reading.

And by the time you order your drinks and the food, a few conversations have already passed.

“Were you nervous to come here?” You ask more for yourself, but you’re still curious what his answer would be. 

“Maybe a little.” Nevermind the reason for his nervousness was the identity theft he was committing. He’s still trying to get used to you calling him Ryland without it surprising him each time.

“Good.” You mirror his response from a few minutes earlier, and he can’t help but huff out a laugh. Though, despite his laughter, he still notices the way your shoulders visibly loosen at his response, like you’d almost hoped that would be his response.

“Good?”

“Yeah cause I was nervous too. It makes me feel less stupid to know you were too, even if it was just a little.”

Colt watches the way you fidget lightly with your sleeve as you speak. Your fingers keep smoothing the fabric over your wrists before immediately letting go again. 

“You shouldn’t feel stupid.” He interjects, trying to ease your nerves. 

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t told you what I did yet.”

He smiles. There’s something about the way you say it, like you’re about to change his life, tell him the craziest story. “What did you do?”

“I changed outfits three times.”

“That’s normal.”

“Four times.” You glance at him, your cheeks pink, and he has half a mind to tell you just how strange the sight makes him feel.

“Still normal.”

“And I arrived way too early so I had to walk around the block twice. And then I almost cancelled.”

This time Colt’s smile softens around the edges. You’re so honest and so easy to talk to, and so quick with conversation. You’re someone who can make anyone feel at home, and you’re charming without intending to be, and that's exactly the problem. Colt has known you less than an hour and somehow you're already slipping through his walls.

"You know," he says, leaning back in his chair, "I don't think I've ever met anybody who admits that on a first date."

You groan immediately. "See? This is why I almost cancelled."

"No, I mean it." Colt shakes his head. "Most people would've taken that information to the grave."

Your smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. He watches it for a second before asking, "Why'd you almost cancel?"

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly, glancing down at the table. “I always think things will be awkward before they happen.”

“And does it feel awkward right now?”

You look back up at him then with your head tilted, and you can almost picture the glint of hopefulness in his eyes but you don’t want to assume. “Just a little.”

Colt leans further back in his chair like he’s relaxed. He isn’t, really. But he wants you to believe he is because a few minutes into the date, you’d already turned him into a sap. And relaxed is way cooler than sappy.

He really does not want to think about how sappy he feels right now. He doesn’t want to think about the feeble stutter in his heart whenever you laugh. He's already lying to you. Developing feelings on top of that feels like building a second bad idea on top of the first one.

“Oh, you’re a science teacher, right? What’s that like?”

Right. Jesus, he forgot he was still pretending to be Ryland. You really have to stop smiling at him like that. He’s starting to like you, and it’s not good on his conscience that he’s pretending to be his brother, and that you think he is his brother.

“It’s uh, good.” Colt says carefully.

You rest your chin against your hand. “What’s your favorite thing to teach?” You ask like you’re genuinely curious, and for a second Colt has the answer, but you’re looking at him so intently that his brain empties completely. 

Think, Colt. You attended your brother’s graduation, what the hell was it that he studied? Astronomy? No, it’s something with little things and life. 

“Molecular biology!”

Your eyes widen with immediate interest. “Really? For eighth graders?”

“Yeah,” Colt says, nodding like a man moments away from being exposed from a grave sin. “I love molecules. Tiny organisms. Cells. Little… science fellas.”

You stare at him for exactly one second before breaking into laughter, and Colt finds himself watching, drinking up your movements. You just, you laugh with your entire face, and your happiness just spills into everything and it’s so infectious. The way your eyes widen slightly, the way your shoulders fold inward, like you’re genuinely delighted instead of politely amused.

Fuck, he wants to keep making you laugh. He wants to keep hearing your laugh.

Something warm twists in his chest, and Colt has the deeply alarming realization that there is something blooming inside of him and it’s akin to romance. He certainly did not expect to meet someone like you tonight. And shit, his heartbeat is doing something genuinely humiliating inside his chest. 

“You don’t really talk like a teacher,” you say after a moment. “Come on, little science fellas?”

“That’s the official term.” 

“Stop lying to me!” He laughs at your being flabbergasted, eyes turning into crescents. 

“Okay, okay. Here, I’m gonna talk like a teacher.” Colt straightens immediately in his chair. 

Your smile turns teasing. “Oh yeah?”

“Here it goes.” He clears his throat dramatically. “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

He delivers it with complete sincerity. Smug for exactly one second. Then your laugh breaks loose again and his expression softens helplessly. 

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Sorry. That’s all I got.”

“No, that was perfect.” You shake your head, grinning down into your drink. “You looked so proud of yourself too.”

And the scene of you smiling that greets him is so gentle, so soft, that it takes him a moment to catch up to what you’re saying. He knows you mean something else, that he should be proud of his stupid joke or for remembering something he learned in high school, but he looked proud for an entirely different reason.

He’d made you laugh again. He’d heard you laugh again. 

So, he replies, in a little white lie, “I really was.”

Colt realizes immediately after, with that same deep undertow of shame, that he is caught in the jaws of a trap entirely of his own making. And he can’t stop walking willingly deeper into it.

He thanks Fuck that not long after, the food arrives and for a moment, the sounds of the city accompany the pair of you as you eat—silverware clinking somewhere inside the restaurant, distant traffic below, the low hum of conversation from nearby tables. It allows him a moment to catch himself, to try and stabilize his heart.

But how can he really when you keep looking at him. Then quickly looking away. Then back again, before darting away again. Finally, you sigh. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I keep looking at you.”

A smile twitches on Colt’s lips. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

You laugh quietly, ducking your head in the palms of your hands. The sight of your smile makes him laugh a little too.

“Why are you looking at me?” He inquires, his grin lopsided as follows the lilt of your movement, the way you hide your face in your hands, and he can’t help but seek for your eyes. “Don’t hide from me.”

You lower your hands slowly, peeking at him through your fingers first before finally answering in such a clear, and almost sweet tone. “You just look really pretty, and you’re really good at paying attention to everything.”

Colt’s stomach twists as his ears registers your words and somewhere during it, he grows redder than before and his palms are suddenly becoming clammy and he’s rubbing the back of his neck. How do you always catch him off guard like this?

He blinks once. Then twice. And maybe ten times more.

That's genuinely the nicest thing anyone's said to him in a while. "Oh."

He’s still looking at you even after the silence that follows, amazed and flattered that someone could ever say that about him, that you could say that about him. And he’s trying so hard not to look like he’d just been called pretty.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “Am I talking too much?”

“No.” He immediately interjects, coming back to look at your eyes. Something inside him is still stuttering as he tries to focus after you’d just complemented him.

“I usually do.” You glance away briefly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear and Colt personally has to fight down the urge to reach out and tug the slip of hair back down to your face. “I’m doing it right now.”

“Then keep doing it.”

You pause, and a smile slowly starts to creep back on your lips. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, I noticed it’s been more than an hour since our date started. Do you no longer have that family emergency you have to fake?”

Colt smiles at the repetition of the joke he’d said earlier in the evening, before realizing you’re waiting for him to say something. There’s still that same softness pulsing inside of him, slowly growing and growing and growing. “I’m invested now.”

“In what?”

He lets out a soft breath, shoulders hunching forward slightly as he bends over to be a little closer to you. His expression changes into something more serious. “You."

Your smile changes then—softer, crooked, almost shy. Your limbs are starting to feel loose, and your chest tightens and blooms with warmth.

“That’s a very nice thing to say, Ryland.”

The name lands wrong in his chest, but he doesn’t want to dwell on it. He can pretend much longer, especially after receiving a text from his brother earlier that the meeting would run later than expected. Colt had you for the night, and he intends on making it last.

“Well,” Colt says, “I like you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you flush at the sudden confession. Your lips part, wanting to say something, but all the vowels and consonants twist in your mouth, and all you can manage is a small “Oh.”

Shit.

You watch as the color rushes into his face, like spilling wine on a paper towel, and he’s covering his mouth with his hand, and he’s struggling to meet your eyes.

“That came out weirdly fast,” he says immediately, trying to catch himself. His eyes are wide and almost panicked, and it’s so endearing because he looks like he’s ashamed of the way he’s softening and coming unraveled and untangled in front of you.

“No, it’s okay.” You smile. “I just wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.”

He pauses, and you see him filing through potential responses or excuses but give up midway.

“Yeah,” he chooses honestly instead. “Neither was I, honestly.”

“Most people wait until at least dessert.” You tease, glancing at him over the rim of your glass, and this time, when he looks at you, his face is full of nothing but fondness twinged with embarrassment. You don’t know how the two emotions are able to coexist on his face at the same time. 

“I feel embarrassed. Was that intense? It was, wasn’t it?”

“A little.” you say softly. 

“Just a little?”

“Okay, maybe a moderate amount. But it was nice.”

You smile at each other, and neither of you are able to keep the blush from your own cheeks.

By the time dinner ends, the city outside has morphed into a blue-black evening with stars littered randomly in the blanketing sky. The cold air rushes in as the two of you step out onto the sidewalk together, and Colt’s hand brushes lightly against the small of your back while guiding you around another couple exiting the restaurant.

The touch lingers half a second too long.

You notice.

“I’m glad I came,” you admit quietly.

“Yeah?” He asks, almost too quiet to catch, almost like he can’t believe it. 

“Yeah.”

“Even after changing outfits four times?” He nudges your shoulder with his, and you laugh.

“Five actually.”

“Five? I think you failed to mention that.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and he’s trying so hard to fight the grin that’s threatening to show, but you just have that effect on people. You’re just so earnest. “Which outfit won?”

You gesture down at yourself. “This one.” 

You say it with such happiness and enthusiasm that Colt can’t help but stare at you and the cold that catches pink along your cheeks, and your hair that’s shifting softly in the wind, and how bright your eyes look under the streetlights. God, he really thought he was doing his brother a favor by coming here, but Ryland might’ve accidentally done one for Colt instead.

His heart gives one hard, helpless thud against his ribs as his eyes travel up and down your outfit.

"I've been meaning to mention it all night, but you look really pretty."

The blood thumped so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him. “Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself."

A comfortable silence falls, like neither of you want to leave quite yet. And then, "Ryland?"

"Hm?"

"I'm really glad tonight wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be,” you admit.

Colt blinks. “So you still think it’s awkward?”

“Yeah,” you say thoughtfully. “But like… the good kind.”

“There’s a good kind?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that?”

You look at him for a second. “When you’re nervous because you want someone to like you.”

Colt’s heart nearly stops. That was the final blow. Of all the things you could’ve said, this was not something Colt could’ve ever braced himself for. He looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck again. It’s really not in his nature to falter, but then again, he really can’t help it with you, can he?

Not when this is what your heart is like. Like there’s no need to put pressure when it’s something as warm and easy as this.

“You’re blushing, Ryland.”

“I can’t really help it when you say things like that.”

He lets out a helpless laugh at the name. He has half a mind to tell you he actually goes by ‘Colt’ even though it couldn’t have been further away from ‘Ryland’.

Still, he swallows it to enjoy these last final moments with you. 

“Goodnight, Ryland.”

“Goodnight.”

A silence falls between you both before you take a few steps away. He mirrors your actions, albeit a little more tentatively.

“Ryland?” 

Colt immediately turns back at the interjection of your voice, looking at you with that same look from earlier. It’s almost fond, almost hopeful. And Colt hovers there, waiting. 

“Do you want to walk me home?”

You’re trying so hard to keep your voice monotone. He’s trying so hard not to smile, and in all honesty, he should absolutely say no, he should tell you the truth right now before this turns into something impossible because he knows that if he continues to know you, he won’t be able to stop falling for you. Instead, he answers almost immediately, “I’d want nothing more.”

And while walking home, he finds himself glancing down at your hand, wondering what it would be like if he could just reach over and intertwine his fingers with yours, or kiss your cheeks, or make you laugh again.

You’ve advised Ryland against drinking past his limit before. Multiple times, actually, because you’ve seen what he’s like when he drinks a little too much — not that you complained about his heightened need to give and receive affection, but you also didn’t want him suffering in the morning when he inevitably has to run to the bathroom and heave out the contents of his digestive system. He’d always come back to bed looking like a guilty five-year-old who puked and hurriedly rinsed and cleaned his mouth of the evidence. 

Before Ryland left to attend a birthday celebration (of one of his colleagues in the science department, as per the invitation he got via text), you repeated those same words of advice to him. You were sure that you were clear enough in your warning and recollection of what would happen to him if he drank too much again, but you’re now beginning to realize that Ryland, despite everything that had changed in his personality since working as a teacher, still had that propensity to be provoked; it only laid dormant and never truly disappeared.

They had playfully accused him of being a lightweight at the party — you were told when you arrived at his coworker’s house to pick him up. Ryland thought it’d be a good idea to drink past his limit, feign sobriety, and silently prove to his fellow teachers that he was not a lightweight.

Ultimately, his efforts were for naught, because you found him snoring away in the living room — tie loosened, glasses and jacket nowhere to be seen. His more sober friends helped you retrieve some of his dignity before letting you deal with the knocked out man on the sofa. Ryland didn’t even recognize you at first when you shook him awake, and when he did, it was only downhill from there.

You had to physically pry him off yourself so you could drive home safely — his drunken state had him convinced that you two had been separated for longer than five hours, thus prompting him to demand an onslaught of kisses from you — you were successful in this area until you made it back to your place, because Ryland was all over you again even as you were keying open the door. And god was he hard to fend off. He was hugging you, pawing at you; insisting to hold your hand even when you had to use it to lock the door. Each time you pulled away, he’d come right back to you like he had been magnetized. You had to drag him around as he had his arms around you, nuzzling into your neck and impeding you from properly and freely using your entire body to move. 

Somehow you got Ryland out of his clothes and changed into a more comfortable set; he asked for something to drink after that, and you dutifully went to the kitchen to fix him a mug. Ginger tea was your go-to fix for nights like this, and even if Ryland hated the stuff, he had accepted and learned how to drink it for his own sake. If he could down alcohol like it was water, he could handle drinking ginger tea just fine.

He didn’t let you off while you were waiting for the water to boil, either — he had himself draped over your back; his chin was resting on your shoulder as he sang a slurred and chopped version of Champagne Supernova into your ear. He kept on pausing to kiss your cheek, too. You were convinced that if Ryland was presented the option to sew himself to you, he would do it in a heartbeat. He’d be happily attached to you forever. 

You didn’t let him lay down yet even when he finished his tea — you wanted to get him cleaned up, at least. So here he was, sitting at the edge of your shared bed, a dopey smile plastered on his face as he watched you wipe at his cheeks, forehead, and neck; hoping that the cold washcloth would refresh him from this stupor that he willingly dove into. You couldn’t even bring yourself to scold him; you already knew that tomorrow was going to be hell for him. Thank the heavens that it was the weekend. 

“[Name],” Ryland called out for you. You had just gone back from the bathroom to rinse the cloth and change the water in the small basin. You were going to wipe down his arms next; he seemed to have rested them on some surface and had them smelling like an entire bar counter. He really stretched himself thin tonight. 

“I’m here,” you replied, returning to his side and tending to his arms. He adjusted his glasses to get a clearer view of you while you had your head bowed down, focused on your work. He put out a hand to brush at your jaw. You paused and looked up at him.

“I love you,” said Ryland, taking your hand with the damp towel and pressing it to his cheek. “I love you so-o-o-o much,” he giggled, then hiccupped. You couldn’t help but smile at his attempts to sway you. You shook your head. The last thing you wanted to do was to stroke his ego by letting him witness what he was doing to you and your heart. 

you both finally look at rocky. with his carapace tilted upwards, rocky has one of his hands outstretched, seemingly waiting for his “tip”.

“a tip! when humans provide good service they are usually given a reward!”

“i—where’d you learn about that??”

“from (name)!”

grace directed his confused look towards you now.

“… i did talk to him about being a barista one time,” you sheepishly smile.

“yes, (name) did! was very educational! made rocky wish to participate, too.” he tapped his “fingers” together as a reminder. “tip, please!”

“wow. you’re, uh, kinda putting me on the spot here. you know, tipping is usually done with cash and we don’t really have any—“

“is ok! rocky will accept any item as a tip.” his arm stretched out further, eagerly waiting.

out of excuses, grace turned to you. “help?”

you giggle. “i think rocky just wants a reward for helping us.”

looking around the room for something, your eyes catch onto the whiteboard that’s behind the desk you were working at and notice one of the magnets attached to the board. you grab it and hand it out to the eridian, your arm and his stretching out further so that it transfers through his ball.

“here you go: for a job well done.”

rocky let out a trill, something equivalent to a laugh that you both decided to not translate (it was nicer to hear the melody rather than the robotic voice go “ha ha ha”).

“(name) is rocky’s favorite human! grace is not. rocky will spit in grace’s food as revenge.”

“huh?!”

you burst out laughing at rocky’s words, but you’re practically keeling over in your seat because of grace’s reaction.

“i told him that we’d sometimes joke about spitting or sneezing in our customers orders if they made us upset.”

“he knows you were joking, right?!”

“he just learned about knock knock jokes, give him a few days. besides,” you manage to calm down enough, still grinning widely at grace, “eridians don’t leak; you’ll be fine.”

“i guess…”

grace fixes his glasses, seemingly having calmed down now that he knows he’s safe until—

“rocky will find a way to make spit.”

you laugh again while grace groans loudly.

⤷ “hey sweetheart, did you need som–”

⤷ “shush, i’m concentrating”

⤷ if he had a rough day teaching (or a bad interaction back when he was still in the scientific community), he immediately seeks out your comforting embrace once he gets home

⤷ one day while you were kissing his face, he reached up to remove his glasses so they weren’t in your way

⤷ when you realized what he was doing, you interlocked your fingers with his to stop him, and continued about your business

- Colt Seavers -

⤷ he’s down bad for you, so anything you want, it’s yours

⤷ cuddles? hand holding? kisses? your wish is his command

⤷ please be careful while snuggling with him though, this poor boy has at least ten bruises on him at all times from getting thrown around for his job

⤷ you both like laying on top of the other when relaxing, and Colt falls asleep every time

⤷ if you’re draped over him, he’ll have his arms wrapped around you and knock out in minutes– he claims you’re like a cozy weighted blanket

⤷ on the flip side, if he’s laying on top of you, he’ll bury his face in your neck and drift off while your hands comb through his hair

⤷ whenever he’s sitting in a chair, you like standing in front of him to hold his face and press gentle kisses into his skin

⤷ Colt just sits there and soaks it up, completely drunk on your love

- Holland March -

⤷ oh you’re touchy? don’t need to tell him twice— he’s allll over you

⤷ especially when he’s drunk, Holland’s hands are physically unable to stop roaming your body

⤷ one time, when you were guiding him to his car after a night out (he was DRUNK drunk), he was shocked to find a pretty girl on his arm and couldn’t stop spewing out cringey pick up lines

⤷ you just buckled him up, kissed him on the cheek, and got in the driver’s seat

⤷ he normally blacks out after drinking too much, but his resolve to stare at the pretty lady driving him home won out

⤷ after a particularly long day of detective work with Healy, he’ll collapse into your arms without hesitation

⤷ likes to bury his face in the crook of your neck or lay on your stomach if you guys are lounging

⤷ you idly scratch his head or play with his hair in these positions, and he absolutely melts

⤷ when he’s smoking, you’ll kiss him around his neck and face… sometimes the cigarette gets forgotten as a result

- Court Gentry -

⤷ BIG MUSCLESS… who said that

⤷ anyways you’re one of his “safehouses”

⤷ every time he shows up at your doorstep all battered and bloodied, he berates himself for always endangering you even though he’s double and triple checked that he wasn’t followed

⤷ before the regret can fully sink in, you never fail to dissipate it when you embrace him and usher him inside

⤷ to Court, your house is cozy and warm, but your arms are warmer

⤷ when he gets in his head about how dangerous his job is and how he’s risking your life, you shut him up with a kiss and firmly restate that you’d rather take the risk of being with him than choose to be with anyone else

⤷ if it was an especially rough mission, you force him straight to the bathroom where you turn on a hot shower and prep first aid materials

⤷ you take your time to wash him, and Court finally lets himself relax while you lather him up and massage his tense muscles, careful to avoid his injuries

⤷ in bed, you love to delicately trace his scars, fingers just barely ghosting his skin

⤷ you also make a habit of reaching under his shirt, running your hands along his abs

⤷ when he inevitably has to leave, the two of you stand in front of the door for a while, with you slowly kissing his face and refusing to let go

⤷ “darling, I really need to leave now”

⤷ “one more minute, please”

⤷ when you whisper into his ear like that with that pleading tone, he can’t refuse

- Jacob Palmer -

⤷ as much as you love touching him, he’s equally all over you

⤷ he’s used to girls getting with him to ogle at his body, so when you simply caress his face and hold his hand, he falls hard

⤷ the two of you spend a lot of time in bed, morning and night, just talking about life while being a mess of tangled limbs

⤷ he never realized it before you, but he loves being held– with previous girls, he was always the one to take the lead and initiate touch, but now that he has you, he’s able to let loose and be the one receiving all the affection

⤷ spooning is the go to sleeping pose, and you guys definitely switch between being the big/little spoon

- Lars Lindstrom -

⤷ back when he was still hesitant to touch you, he would often give you his special blue blanket to snuggle with 

⤷ whether you guys are at church, on a walk, or resting at home, holding pinkies is a must

⤷ one morning, he was putting on one of his many sweaters, and you took a special liking to it

⤷ “that’s a nice sweater”

⤷ his head whipped up to look at you, and after a moment of processing, he couldn’t repress the genuine smile spreading on his face

⤷ you held the sleeve of his sweater for the rest of the day, and you couldn’t help but notice that he wore it a little more often ever since

⤷ at night, he’s grown accustomed to falling asleep with his hand intertwined with yours

⤷ you’ll work up to cuddling/spooning, and you reassure him there’s no rush

⤷ Lars was pleasantly surprised to find that your touch doesn’t burn as much as others

- Officer K -

⤷ for the longest time he only had Joi, so this boy is touch starved like crazyy

⤷ he loves coming home to you and he deeply treasures the fact that he has someone tangible to hold and be held by after a long day

⤷ you’ve formed this nightly ritual of him coming home and collapsing into your arms– you like to lay there as he tells you about his day while you rub soothing circles into his back

⤷ if his hunting job was particularly brutal or bloody, you gently peel off his clothes, draw a bath for him, and help him clean up

⤷ his favorite part is when you wash his hair– the way your fingers scratch his head just right and how they trail down his shoulders to gently squeeze his arms really gets him

⤷ one rainy night, he led you out to the rooftop, hands intertwined as you let the rain hit your skin and drench your hair

⤷ he reached out to tuck your soaked hair behind your ear, and when he let his hand hover beside your head, you guided it to rest on your cheek, nuzzling into it

⤷ K doesn’t smile often, but in that moment, he couldn’t help it because of how real everything felt to him

- Sebastian Wilder -

⤷ one of your favorite pasttimes is to curl up with him at night and listen to his grand plans for his club, all while absentmindedly tracing shapes on the palm of his hand

⤷ after his performances, you love pulling him in by his tie for a kiss (and he’s so into it)

⤷ when you’re done with him, his tie is loose and his hair is all messed up, but he’s got this drunk smile plastered on his face

⤷ you guys go out to jazz clubs at least once a week, and without fail you’re holding his hand under the table

⤷ he’s a traditionalist, so he loves offering his arm to you whenever you guys are walking together, which you gladly take

⤷ your shared bed is small, but it doesn’t even matter because of how thoroughly entangled you guys are while sleeping

- Ken!! -

⤷ after a long, laborious day of beach, he’ll happily prance into your open arms (beach is not an easy job!!)

⤷ if you’re holding on to his arm, he’ll puff out his chest a little and deliberately walk past the other Kens to make them jealous

⤷ you love running your hands down his abs or feeling up his biceps and this man absolutely soaks it up

⤷ he lovesss when you make him feel macho

⤷ but in the privacy of your dreamhouse, Ken will cling to you like a koala

⤷ bonus: one day, you asked him to stay the night to cuddle, and let’s just say his reaction was NOT as subtle as he thought it was

⤷ he had to excuse himself (which meant walking a few feet away, still directly in your line of sight) to triumphantly pump his arms and yell “SUBLIME!!”

⤷ he comes back all nonchalant, so you just scoff with a smile and drag him inside your dreamhouse by the hand

∘₊✧ Ryland Grace

Ryland immediately covers his eyes, hopes beyond hope that you haven’t noticed him entering the room, and runs in the opposite direction to afford you some privacy. He plans to never bring it up, no matter how much he will replay the few seconds he did see of your fingers disappearing into your deliciously wet pussy, over and over again in his mind. That can be for his private thoughts just like this was supposed to be your own private time. Unluckily, however, as he attempts to leave you to it, he trips over his feet on his way out, knocks a side table and crashes to the ground with it which of course, alerts you to his presence. You’re there faster than he can get up, a sheet wrapped around you, a little flustered but asking if he’s okay. ‘Yeah I uhm- I needed something from the bedroom but I uh… changed my mind?’ You laugh, knowing, ‘Wanna come join in?’ Wobbly as they may be, Ryland’s legs suddenly spring into action, rushing you back into the bedroom. 

∘₊✧ Lars Lindstrom

Lars isn’t sure what to do with himself when he finds you on his bed, face buried in the scent of his pillow with a hand shoved down the front of your pants. Should he apologise? Leave? Join in? God knows he wants to. He freezes to the spot, still in his coat and hat and gloves and snow boots. Eyes clamped shut. Of course, his place is small and it really doesn’t take long for you to notice his arrival  — you shoot up, apologising for him finding you like this, almost as embarrassed as he is. ‘It’s okay,’ he winces, ‘it’s natural. At least that’s what Dagmar tells me. I’m sorry I interrupted.’ He turns to take off his outer layers and hang them up as you smooth down the bedsheets and sit waiting for him. ‘You talk to Dagmar about… about touching yourself?’ you ask, surprised. Lars is already pink in the cheeks. Now he’s beet red. ‘No- not exactly. We were talking about attraction and desires and stuff, and… it seems I’ve repressed a lot of that. She was explaining it’s normal to feel urges and that it’s okay to act on them if I want to.’ You pat the spot on the bed next to you. ‘Do you want to? I can show you,’ you offer, and Lars nods, pupils blown wide as he looks at you. ‘I’d really like to see how you uh- act on yours, too… if- if you want to finish up for me?’

∘₊✧ Driver

Driver comes home in the early morning after a getaway drive, pumped up on adrenaline. You’re on his bed, bathed in darkness with only the pale lights of the city glinting through the window to highlight the shape of your form. You don’t notice him, way too lost in your fantasy and your pleasure to hear the front door click or his quiet footsteps. You’re spread out with a hand between your thighs and his name on your lips between hungry little moans. Moans meant for him. He’s hard in what feels like seconds. Leaning against the wall, he watches you silently as a gloved hand slips down, rubbing himself over the denim. He tries to match the movement he can see beneath the sheets, the way you fuck yourself hard and fast between breaks to slowly circle your clit – the way he does it to you. ‘Ughh-hnngh-’ it’s over in under a minute, hot, thick cum staining the front of his jeans, and his vision clears just in time to see you come undone, too. He shakes off his jacket, peels off his gloves, and climbs onto the bed, kissing you hungrily, as though he hasn’t just spent himself in under a minute.

∘₊✧ Colt Seavers

Colt finds you showering in your trailer, and thinks it’d be sexy to join you as a surprise. He strips clumsily and sneaks into the little bathroom, where he finds you leaning against the wall, shower head on its most powerful setting pointed right between your thighs. Your eyes are closed, you’re moaning… and he’s stood there naked watching like some pervert. Great. ‘Colt!’ you exclaim, snapping him out of it, ‘I uh- I was just-’ Colt looks at you like a sad puppy, pouting as he says, ‘Without me?’ You can’t help but laugh, asking, ‘Wanna get in here? You’re way better than the shower head,’ you offer, opening the door to squeeze him into the tiny space with you. He takes the shower head from you and examines it, before placing it back exactly where you had it before he came in, the powerful stream of water hitting you just right. ‘It’s better when I do it, right?’ he asks, half joking. Your answer comes in the way your fingers grab his broad shoulders to keep from slipping as your release takes hold. Colt’s rather satisfied with that.

∘₊✧ Ken

Ken barges into your room looking for something unimportant – a phone charger or a hairbrush – most days. Today, what he found was a little more exciting. He bursts through the door and there is literally nowhere for you to hide. You’re sat back against your headboard, striped bare, fingers buried in your pussy, the others pinching a nipple… and you try to cover up, but it’s too late. ‘Wow!’ Ken exclaims, eyes wide and glittering. ‘I didn’t know you could do that to yourself!’ He rushes back out of your room, leaving the door wide open of course, and you hear him in the bathroom (also door wide open) dropping his clothes to the floor before the lewd slapping sound of his fist with a handful of moisturizer frantically pumping his cock. You can’t help but carry on where you’d left off – not when you can hear his ridiculously enthusiastic moans and surprised Oooh!s and delighted Ahh!s. He comes back to your bedroom with hooded eyes a few minutes later, leaning against the door frame and yawning dramatically. His shorts are back on, but he’s topless, with a pink shimmery substance staining the skin of his abs where his release had shot Jo over him. ‘Can we take a nap together? I’m sleepy.’

∘₊✧ Henry Letham

Henry is unphased by catching you in the act, and wants nothing more than to immerse himself in it with you. He stubs out his cigarette and crawls up over your trembling body. His ryes are intense on you as he instructs, ‘Keep goin’ for me.’ He kisses up your thighs, wet and open mouthed like he’s devouring you. His hands travel, too, running along every contour of your body, playing with your nipples, and all the while he watches the way it makes you squirm, the way your rhythm changes with each touch. When he can tell you’re close, he gently pulls your hand away, sucks your fingers clean and buries his head between your thighs to finish the job. 

∘₊✧ Holland March

clark leans down, replacing the pads of his thumb on your inner thighs with his mouth. you jump at the press of his lips, followed by the sharp nip of his teeth on the sensitive skin. he works his way upward, holding you still against the mattress.

it's agonising. all of it. his slow explorative touches, all the hot, wet kisses everywhere but where you needed it the most. he's somehow managed to park his own aching need, painfully bobbing against his own abdomen — with the intentional dragging out of your pleasure.

you wince when his gaze meets yours. they aren't unkind, but they're glazed with a new teasing glint you hadn't quite seen from clark yet.

"claaark…quit teasing…"

your sweet plea echoes in the room, and you feel a low, approving hum vibrate against your skin. as though he'd been waiting for you to get the taste of what you'd deprived him of. his mouth wraps around your pussy without further teasing. tongue flattened, pressing a firm and relentless pressure. your back arches off the bed, though restricted with a possessive hold pushing them back down onto the duvet.

"f-fuck! cla — hhrk. don't — stop!"

clark's palm slides up your belly, moving upward to cup your warm, sweat-slick breasts. he squeezes the softness as his tongue works your pussy. dipping in and out of your tight walls and up to your clit. his mouth was just so fucking big that it felt like he was everywhere around you.

helplessly, you buck into clark's mouth, rocking and grinding into the gentle curve of his nose. whimpering incoherently at the assault of his wet, insistent tongue curling to the roof of your cunt.

he knows when you're close. and he sucks your bud hard, the sound wet and obscene in the room, "a-ah fuck! gonna cum. g'na cum!"

clark's acknowledgment rumbles riiight against your clit. he feels the telltale sign of your orgasm as you pulse on his tongue. broken cries spill from your throat as you cum hard, thighs quivering with how clark refused to relent, drawing out every last drop of your slick until you're a trembling puddle beneath him, with an arm strewn over your eyes as you finally come down from the high.

the mattress dips at the shift of his weight, the shadow casting over you ominously just as you think it's over.

he looks to you, desperate and broken, unable to curb his own need. you feel him pry your arm away from your face, "gonna put it in okay? hm?"

you barely get to protest as he positions himself at your entrance. offering you enough time for refusal or hesitation. but the needy look of his gaze was enough for your body to act in compliance. you slide your palm past your navel, to the folds of your cunt, parting it wider for him to see the eager pulse.

a low broken groan rumbles in clark's throat at the sight, the quiet invitation being all he needed. he enters you in a deep thrust, accentuated with a jerk of his hips. you both gasp simultaneously, the overwhelming full feeling coming so soon after your earlier orgasm has you tightening deliciously around his cock.

"mmh…baby you need t'relax," he chokes, enforcing his iron will to make good on his unspoken promise to make sure you feel like he fucked you.

he wanted you to feel him even days after, and that determination was enough for him to keep a languid pace, designed to draw out your pleasure.

and god, it had. each stroke of his girthy cock in your walls, the creamy, slick that made it so much easier for him to fuck your pussy in shallow thrusts. the sounds alone were making your belly churn with need, let alone that sweet spot he hit over and over again.

your palms come up to rest at his abdomen, each thrust making you go dumb, incoherent babbles spilling from your lips. his body remains a fortress. the muscles in his arms tensed and reddened, back rigid and strained with every fiber of him taut.

"s'too…much!" you squeak, weakly pawing at him, in attempt to push him.

clark catches your hands, lacing his own fingers with yours with a single palm, pinning them gently above your head with a pressure that offered you escape if you wished. he keeps at the pace, brows knit in focus.

"i-i can't anymore."

he merely tuts softly at your breathless whisper, clearly having lost all the fight from your earlier taunts. he sees the truth in your words, the trembling or your thighs and blissed out look in your eyes. but he shakes his head, voice low and equally pleading.

"yes…you can."

"claaaaark…" you whine softly as he guides your limp arms over his shoulders, cupping one of your palms flush against his fever-hot cheeks.

"i'm getting real…real close baby," his voice cracks for a second, "can you hold on? f'me?" through laboured pants, he continues grinding and circling his cock into your cunt.

you pulse around him with another, drawn out whine. dragging your nails down his damp, strained biceps. when you offer a weak nod, the bed creaks louder. whispered curses were quickly swallowed when he shifts his angle a tad, hitting a spot in you that made your vision blur.

"fuck! t-there", you gasp sharply, fingers digging into his muscles. you nod hastily, unsure at even what — the insistent probe of his cock in that gummy spot deep within you sent shockwaves through your entire body. pushing you into another, white hot peak. the bed frames only continue scream louder under the relentless motion he keeps up.

"here?" he pants, gaze unfocused as he tilts his body to support his weight, with his forearm against the duvet to keep the angle.

"FUCK, yes! there, there — th—ah!"

your pussy gushes around him with no further warning, fluttering hard along his length as you cum again. a ragged grunt resonates against the side of your head, followed by clark's growls. his hips bucks wildly, body shuddering as he coats your insides deep with spurts of his thick spend.

the force of his very last thrust elicits a screeching crack of the bed frames, and you both drop hard.

the two of you briefly look at each other in a bewildered surprise and synchronised breathing, and you finally break the intense haze.

"shit." you croak, voice hoarse in its delivery.

clark lets out a huff, rolling to his side and taking you with him so you're nestled against his chest instead of being crushed beneath him as he slump.

𓇬 the first time you meet, richard is fully expecting you to be exactly like everybody else. maybe not fawning over him, but at least impressed. that’s normally how these things go. he’s richard haywood. handsome, wealthy, intelligent, captain of whatever club he feels like joining and quitting that week. people tend to react accordingly.

𓇬 instead, he makes some smug mean comment during class discussion and you immediately raise an eyebrow and say, “wow, do you practise sounding condescending or does it come naturally?” the entire room goes silent. richard just stares at you. because nobody talks to him like that. ever.

𓇬 what makes it worse is that you don’t seem angry. that’s what really gets under his skin. if you hated him, he’d understand. if you were intimidated, he’d understand that too. but every time you challenge him, you look almost amused. like he’s a particularly intelligent raccoon trying to steal food out of a bin. you’re not afraid of him. you’re not impressed by him. you’re not even particularly bothered by him. and somehow that drives him absolutely insane.

𓇬 meanwhile, you think richard is unbearable. objectively unbearable. every conversation feels like he’s trying to win something. he has this infuriating habit of looking pleased with himself after saying something clever. worst of all, everybody lets him get away with it. people laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. teachers excuse behaviour they’d never tolerate from anyone else. you find the whole thing ridiculous.

𓇬 unfortunately, richard is one of the only people who actually argues back. everyone else either agrees with you or apologises when you call them out. richard doubles down. every single time. if you disagree with him, suddenly you’re trapped in a twenty-minute debate. if you tease him, he teases you back harder. if you roll your eyes, he smirks. it’s exhausting.

𓇬 after a few weeks, your arguments become an established part of school life. people literally stop what they’re doing to watch. you’ll be halfway through lunch when richard walks over, hears the last sentence of whatever conversation you’re having, and immediately inserts himself just to disagree. not because he actually cares about the topic. because he knows it annoys you.

𓇬 and you always take the bait, always. “nobody asked.”

“you seemed lost without me.”

“i was actually having a lovely day.”

“my condolences.”

𓇬 your friends think it’s hilarious. richard’s friends think it’s even funnier. everyone except the two of you is having an excellent time.

𓇬 the real problem starts when richard begins paying attention. because initially he only notices you when you’re arguing with him. then he starts noticing you at other times too. he notices how everybody lights up when you walk into a room. he notices that you somehow manage to have conversations with people from completely different social groups. football players, theatre kids, straight-A students, goths kids, book worms. everybody likes you. and the strange thing is that it doesn’t feel calculated. you’re not collecting admirers. you’re genuinely interested in people.

𓇬 one afternoon he watches you spend twenty minutes helping a nervous student prepare for a presentation. nobody else is paying attention. there are no teachers around. nobody’s giving you credit for it. you just saw somebody struggling and decided to help. richard finds himself staring.

𓇬 because he doesn’t understand it. most people are nice when somebody’s watching. you’re nice when nobody is. somehow that’s far more unsettling for him considering he murders people for fun, as an exercise of superiority.

𓇬 the first crack in your little rivalry appears during a group project. because of course it does. the teacher pairs you together and both of you immediately protest. loudly. dramatically. unsuccessfully.

“absolutely not.”

“i agree with her.”

“thank you.”

“don’t thank me.”

“i wasn’t going to.”

𓇬 the teacher ignores all of this, naturally. and suddenly you’re forced to spend actual time together. not arguing in hallways, not sniping at each other during lunch. actual uninterrupted hours together. which turns out to be a disaster. because richard is irritating, but he’s also funny. annoyingly funny and highly intelligent.

𓇬 and when he’s not actively trying to impress people, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to. you hate discovering this. absolutely hate it.

𓇬 richard hates it more. because the more time he spends around you, the more he realises the version of you everybody loves isn’t fake. he keeps waiting for the performance to end, waiting for the sweet, popular girl act to crack, waiting for some hidden selfishness or arrogance to appear. it never does. you’re just… like that. warm and genuinely kind.

𓇬 and suddenly his favourite part of the day is arguing with you. which should probably concern him.

𓇬 richard still teases you constantly, but the edge is gone. before, he’d challenge you because he enjoyed getting a reaction. now he seems genuinely interested in what you have to say, he’ll ask questions, listen to your answers. remember things you mentioned weeks ago. it’s unsettling.

𓇬 the eye contact becomes a problem. a massive problem. before, the two of you could stare each other down out of sheer stubbornness. now suddenly every glance lasts a second too long. you’ll be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly become painfully aware that richard is looking directly at you. not at your face in general. at you. and neither of you knows why that’s suddenly making your stomach do strange things.

𓇬 richard starts smiling more. specifically at you. and that’s dangerous because richard has two smiles. there’s the public one. the polished one, the charming richard haywood smile everybody knows. then there’s the real one. the one that sneaks out when he forgets himself. softer, younger somehow, less calculated. you start seeing it more often and it becomes a genuine threat to your wellbeing.

𓇬 one afternoon you make a joke at his expense. nothing unusual. you’ve done it a hundred times before. except this time richard laughs so hard he actually has to look away. and suddenly you’re both just staring at each other smiling like idiots. neither of you says anything about it. the moment passes. but afterwards you both think about it far more than necessary.

𓇬 he starts finding excuses to stand closer to you. not consciously, that’s the embarrassing part. he’ll walk over during lunch and somehow end up directly beside you. you’ll both be looking at the same paper and he’ll lean in slightly. then realise how close he is. then refuse to move because moving would be admitting he noticed.

𓇬 everyone else notices before either of you. your friends are exhausted. completely exhausted. “you know you’re flirting, right?”

“we’re arguing!”

“no.”

“yes.”

“you’ve been standing here talking for forty minutes.”

“we’re disagreeing!”

“about what?”

then silence. because neither of you remembers.

𓇬 the turning point happens when somebody is rude to you. not jokingly, just genuinely rude, and richard reacts before he can stop himself. one second he’s standing across the room. the next he’s already involved. immediately, cold in a way you’ve never heard before. because teasing you is one thing. upsetting you is another. afterwards you’re both slightly startled by how quickly he stepped in. neither of you mentions it. but something changes. and you best believe that person went missing afterwards.

𓇬 from then on, the arguments start feeling different. softer, the insults lose their bite. the eye contact lingers too long, sometimes you’ll catch him looking at you before class starts. he’ll immediately look away. you’ll pretend not to notice. because admitting you noticed feels ... different.

𓇬 what nobody realises is that richard is absolutely losing his mind. because for the first time in his life, somebody isn’t fitting into the neat little boxes he usually puts people in. you’re not somebody he can charm, you’re not somebody he can manipulate, you’re not somebody he can outsmart and move on from.

𓇬 every time he thinks he’s figured you out, you surprise him again, and somewhere along the way, fascination becomes affection, affection becomes attachment, attachment becomes something much, much worse.

𓇬 eventually somebody asks if you’re dating another guy. it’s a completely innocent question, meaningless. except richard immediately looks up. just s little too fast, and for one horrifying second, everyone sees it. the concern, and the jealousy. especially the panic. because suddenly he realises something. he never actually wanted to beat you at anything, he never wanted to win. he just wanted your attention.

𓇬 every argument, every debate, every sarcastic comment, all of it was just the only language he knew for keeping you close.

𓇬 and when he finally falls in love, it’s not pretty. because richard haywood is used to understanding everything, used to being in control, he’s used to getting his own way. then along comes the one girl in school who refuses to be impressed by him, refuses to back down from him, refuses to treat him differently than anyone else.

𓇬 and somehow that’s exactly the girl he ends up loving most.

𓇬 richard is absolutely insufferable for the first few weeks after you start dating. not because he’s a bad boyfriend. quite the opposite. the problem is that he’s spent weeks pretending he wasn’t completely obsessed with you, and now he suddenly has permission to be. the result is catastrophic. one day you’re his rival. the next he’s casually appearing beside your locker every morning, stealing your books so he can carry them himself, and acting offended if you walk to class without him. “you managed before.” “yes, but now i don’t want to.”

𓇬 everybody at school is horrified by how quickly he becomes attached to you. this is richard haywood, asshole extraordinaire, first class jackass, the guy who acts like emotional vulnerability is a communicable disease. meanwhile now he’s sitting beside you at lunch with one arm draped over the back of your chair, looking at anybody who interrupts your conversation like they’ve personally ruined his afternoon.

𓇬 the biggest surprise is how much softer he is in private. because public richard is still richard. smug, sarcastic and impossible. but when it’s just the two of you, there’s this entirely different version underneath. he’ll lie on your bedroom floor while you’re doing homework and just listen to you talk. he’ll bring you your favourite sweets without mentioning it because he happened to see them while shopping, he’ll buy your favourite coffee before class every morning.

𓇬 arguments don’t stop. they just evolve. before dating, arguments were genuine battles. now they’re practically a love language. you’ll spend twenty minutes debating something completely ridiculous and eventually realise neither of you even disagrees anymore. you both just enjoy the conversation.

𓇬 your friends absolutely despise sitting between the two of you. because one second you’re bickering and the next richard is tucking your hair behind your ear and kissing you without even interrupting the argument. “you’re impossible.” he says, “and yet here you are.” you tease him, “unfortunately.” he sighs, “obsessed with me.” “absolutely.” then he kisses you even more and continues the conversation like nothing happened.

𓇬 richard becomes unbelievably possessive about your time. in both an unhealthy way and a pathetic way. if you’ve been busy all week and haven’t had much time together, he starts appearing everywhere (because he’s stalking you, of course). suddenly he’s waiting after class. suddenly he’s offering to drive you home. suddenly he’s found a reason to attend functions he normally wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. when you point this out, he denies it immediately. unfortunately everybody else notices too.

𓇬 he absolutely loves that you’re one of the only people who isn’t impressed by him. in fact, once you’re dating, he starts actively seeking your opinion because he knows you’ll tell the truth. everybody else tells richard what he wants to hear. you tell him when he’s being an idiot. and weirdly enough, he trusts you more because of it.

𓇬 the first time you defend him in front of somebody else genuinely affects him more than he’ll ever admit. because you’ve spent months calling him arrogant and annoying and unbearable. then one day somebody else says something cruel about him and you immediately shut it down. afterwards richard acts completely normal. meanwhile he’s replaying the moment for the next six business days.

𓇬 richard discovers very quickly that he’s obsessed with physical affection. absolutely obsessed. which comes as a shock to you and himself. he’ll be talking to somebody while absentmindedly holding your hand. he’ll pull you closer without even thinking about it. half the time he doesn’t realise he’s doing it until somebody points it out.

𓇬 when he’s tired, all the arrogance disappears. completely. he’ll rest his head in your lap while you’re reading. he’ll close his eyes when you play with his hair. he’ll get this soft, sleepy expression that nobody else ever sees. if anybody from school witnessed it, they’d think they’d entered an alternate reality.

𓇬 jealousy becomes significantly funnier after you’re dating. because before, richard was trying desperately to hide it. now he doesn’t have to. he still won’t admit it outright, but it’s obvious. if another guy is being overly friendly, richard suddenly materialises beside you like some sort of ghost. he’ll sling an arm around your shoulders and smile politely while clearly evaluating whether the other person deserves rights. you find this hilarious. he does not.

𓇬 the thing that surprises you most is how much he values your approval. richard acts confident. sometimes excessively confident. but once you’re together, you realise how much your opinion actually matters to him. a compliment from you will genuinely improve his mood for days. he pretends otherwise, but fails miserably. every single time.

𓇬 and whenever the two of you have a real disagreement, something serious, richard is always the first one to come back. not because he likes admitting he’s wrong. he hates admitting he’s wrong. but because somewhere along the way, the idea of you being upset with him started feeling worse than swallowing his pride.

𓇬 eventually people stop being surprised that you’re together. they stop asking how it happened. because after enough time, it becomes obvious. richard challenges you, you challenge him, and neither of you backs down. neither of you lets the other get away with nonsense. and beneath all the arguments and sarcasm and eye-rolling, there’s this ridiculous amount of affection.

𓇬 the sort of affection that shows up in a hundred tiny ways. his hand automatically finding yours in crowded hallways, you being the first person he looks for in a room, him remembering every little thing you tell him, you seeing through every carefully constructed mask he wears, and maybe that’s the real reason it works. because everyone else sees richard haywood. clever, and charming, and intimidating.