Small prompts for a break from The Awful: I am also trapped in an office and having thoughts about a guy maneuvering in an office he hasn’t Been in since gaining weight. Whoop can’t walk between those desks that’s narrow, was the chair also this tight? That vibe. Just smth to chew on yknow. Less a prompt more a thought
Send me little prompts or headcanons to save me from legal-writing horrors!
Oh my gosh I have some coworker OCs that I think about from time to time! They’re a copywriter and art director because there’s nothing like the sexual tension within a creative tandem.
They’re friends-to-lovers but the vibe is that they’ve always been slightly more than friends. Absolutely electric chemistry. She’s the cute office feeder and he’s lowkey jealous when she brings in desserts for everyone :( why can’t she just feed him? :( isn’t he canonically her favorite? :(
So your delicious little snack—let’s take him back down memory lane to the post-COVID return to office. Let’s say he put on, minimum, thirty pounds. Minimum. They’re in for a 2-in, 3-home split, which is honestly fine by him because oh no! He missed his copywriter. Did he say that out loud?
She brings in welcome back treats for everyone, probably stress-baked a bunch of scones because she (1) was very not hype about going back to the office and (2) missed her AD :(
But when she sees him on that first day back?
Imagine she gets there early. She wants to make her scones look nice beside the coffee maker. She even starts a pot for everybody. His first stop in the morning is the coffee pot, as usual, and oh my gosh why does it take her a hot second to realize that it’s him? Because while she’d seen him in plenty of video calls over the last few months, she’d been thinking his MacBook camera added ten, twenty pounds—not that he actually got lockdown fat. But now he’s here. In front of her. Smiling because wow that’s her work husband and why would he not be smiling at her, duh.
But—belly.
And he has to squeeze around the sofa crammed into the break-room-slash-kitchen to get his cup of coffee. And he has these sweet little swells of grabbable fat threatening his waistband on each of his hips.
Who had those thoughts? Certainly not our copywriter.
Oh, shit, he’s talking to her.
He just grabbed three scones in one meatier-than-ever hand.
And she hopes—knows—he’ll swing by for more.
So, she’s going home to make something else for tomorrow. Maybe a second batch just for him. Because she missed him.
