#the meetcute

[as-above-is-moving]

@splinter-sister

It had taken nearly an hour of public transport to get here, but Gale had finally found the Workshop that she'd been looking for. She stuck out like a sore thumb amidst all the grey and earthy tones of mechanics and scrap metal junk piles, with pink hair, bright purple eyes, and a style that could only be described as soft pastel punk.

Having caught the attention of nearly everyone there who wasn't wedged under a car of some kind, one of the mechanics did come over to ask what she was looking for. The others waited and watched, curious about what was being said between the two as she pointed to her phone and the gentleman looked it over. After a few moments he returned to the others, and to some of their disappointment, informed them that she was looking for a specific mechanic to help with a bike she'd purchased. The mechanic came and found him, knocking on the side of the vehicle he was working on to get his attention.

"Oy, Burner. There's a girl here about a motorcycle that needs fixin'. Says she'll only talk to you."

[carelessflower]

Divorcee Alec and Single father Magnus but Magnus was his divorce lawyer…

meet cute?

omgggg they bonding for legal documents and how to make alec ex husband suffer

[tamelee]

'I wanted to talk to you' ;-;

[eddiesxangel]

I Do Believe In Fairies | E.M

Cw: Halloween party, reader is dressed as Tinkerbell, alcohol, anxiety, blood, fluff, meet-cute, 1.7k words.

An: this is a repost, not a lot of people saw it the first time so hopefully you enjoy 🧚

Your anxiety flourished as you walked into the dimly lit room at the back of the restaurant. Your boss was hosting her annual Halloween party, and you came alone because your work friends were meeting you there. They had planned a group costume, but you didn’t have time to go shopping, so you settled on your usual Tinkerbell.

As you scanned the room for your friends, you noticed you hadn’t seen anyone out of costume. Even the bar staff were dressed as mad scientists so that settled your nerves. You always felt weird about appearing in places overdressed or worried you would bring more attention to yourself than needed. To say you did not like to stand out from the crowd was an understatement.

Surprisingly, the night has been going well. There have been no embarrassing qualms like your wings getting stuck on someone’s face or you tripping over your heels. Your boss was in a great mood, and your mood lifted once your friends arrived and a few drinks had been consumed.

A few hours into the party, you were chatting with your friends, and they quickly excused themselves to get more food. You turn around because you don’t know what to do while waiting, and an unfamiliar but handsome face approaches you.

"Hi, I’m Eddie." He smiles.

“Hi, I’m Tinkerbell,” you giggle

“The Tinkerbell? No way.” he raises his hand to his heart and pretends to stumble back. You noticed his fingers were adorned with tattoos and plenty of silver metal rings.

“What are you supposed to be? A waiter?” You giggled, flicking his black apron wrapped around his waist, which held a notepad and pen sticking out of the pocket.

He was dressed in a sleek black button-up shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up, paired with well-fitted black dress pants and matching shoes. Around his waist, he wore a neatly tied black apron. His hair was neatly pulled back into a low bun, and his most striking feature was his incredibly large brown eyes that seemed to draw you in.

“Uh-yea? So can I get you anything? Another champagne?” He smirked.

“Very committed to the role, I see,” you state as a matter of factly, twirling your empty glass.

"Another champagne coming right up." Eddie gives you a wink and walks away.

“Hey, I’ve never seen him before. He in marketing or something?” Your friend dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo comes back and hands you a bread roll.

“I don’t know, but he’s so cute,” you whisper back.

A few minutes later, Eddie returns with your drink

“One champagne for Tink.” You quickly turn your shoulders and see Eddie, but your wings knock the glass out of his grip.

��Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” You quickly squat as much as your tiny green dress and heels will let you so you can pick up the bigger pieces of glass.

“Do you know where the staff are? I haven’t seen anyone all night. We need a mop and a broom,” you say frantically, holding broken glass in your hands.

“It’s okay, Tinkerbell. I’ll be right back; don’t move.” Eddie ran off to the back to grab the broom from the supply closet and a paper bag from the kitchen, and you continued to pick up the pieces of glass.

When he returned, you held your thumb, bouncing repeatedly like you had cut yourself.

“Fuck” you whispered under your breath. You cut your thumb.

“Here,” you look up to see Eddie holding out a bag to put the glass in and a broom in the other.

“How did you find this? Why didn’t you find someone that works here? Won’t you get in trouble?” you were rambling, and your thumb was in pain.

“Sweetheart, I work here.” He takes your hand to examine your thumb.

“What? But you-” he gently took your wrist and weaved you through the sea of monsters, witches and mummies until you got to a door that said Staff Only

“Am I allowed back here? I don’t want to get you in trouble?” you worried.

“Calm down, Tink. My middle name is Trouble. Let me help you,” he said calmly and collectedly. Being near him made you feel calm yet anxious at the same time.

“I’m sorry, but I thought you were in a costume...” You shake your head as he closes the door behind you.

The single washroom was very quiet, much more intimate than the loud, boisterous party room.

As you turned to face him, you noticed the lighting was much better in this spot. In contrast to the dimly lit party room, you could now clearly make out his features. His face was clean-shaven, with a hint of a 5 o'clock shadow starting to form. His jawline was defined, and his lips were full. You were so engrossed in admiring his features that you didn't even realize he had moved and was now standing beside you at the sink.

“Don’t sweat it, babe,” he smirked, turning on the faucet and guiding your hand under the water. You winced at the cold water hitting your open skin, and Eddie apologized. He grabbed a paper towel, and you wiped your wound as he unwrapped a bandaid.

“Thumb,” he asked, and you stuck it out like you were giving him a thumbs up. He wraps your thumb with concentration, his tongue peeking out as his eyes focus on your finger. He unexpectedly kisses it. “There. Good as new.”

“So how do I contact your boss to inform them about the excellent customer service?” You awkwardly giggle.

“Shit, I’m sorry, you’re uh, you’re just adorable, and I don’t know what came over me” he took a step back.

“I think you’re cute, too.” you look down bashfully

Eddie sighed with relief.

“Why don't you give me your number so I can ask you for a proper date?" He smirks.

You pass him your phone so he can enter his contact info.

A loud bang on the other side of the door startled you, and you jumped.

“Come in, Ed. We are drowning out here; get her number already, and let’s go,” his friend yells. Eddie hands you back your phone and swings open the door. Eddie's coworker is standing on the other side dressed as a pirate.

“Jesus Christ, man, we’re on the clock,” the one-eyed pirate whispers under his breath

“It wasn’t like that man; she cut her thumb, and I was-” You didn’t hear the rest because they both walked further away.

You chased after them out of the staff bathroom, not wanting to get into trouble and made your way back to the party

“Where did you sneak off to? Your friend, dressed as Shaggy, wiggled his brows at you.

“Oh, uh, cut my hand in the broken glass.” You lift your hand to show them your bandaid-clad thumb.

“Yeah, you cut your thumb,” he air quotes and laughs.

You playfully roll your eyes, and your phone chimes, so you glance at it.

Lost boy: Hey Tink, sorry I had to run off. Got kidnapped by the evil pirates. Hopefully, you’ll be able to save me with that magical fairy dust and find me after my shift. 😉

[kitkatpancakestack]

You did the right thing . . . I mean, moving out here. Whoever she was, she's in your rearview now.

Justine Alpert and Jordyn Chang as Chloe & Gabi in 9-1-1

[stick-ball]

In this essay I will

[succubusvalentine]

Everyone loves a Ghost mechanic AU, but I raise you mechanic au where the roles are reversed.

Simon cursed as the engine to his truck made the third unpleasant grinding sound within the past half an hour. He didn’t exactly know a lot about cars, so he thought it would be better to just drive to a mechanic. And that’s exactly what he did. 

Pulling into the mechanic garage, Simon stepped out, brows furrowing when he can’t see anyone.

“Hey, hun. What can I do you for?” a voice rang out from behind him, and when Simon turned and looked down, he saw you. A woman who looked far too pretty to be working in a dingy mechanic shop. You were far more fit to be in SImon’s house, all barefoot and pregnant, greeting him with a kiss and a hug when he gets home from work. 

“Hello? You need something done on your truck?” you asked, snapping Simon out of his thoughts.

“Uh, engines making a sound. Like grinding.” Simon muttered, voice gruff “I'd fix it myself but all I know about cars is how to change a tire.”

You seemed satisfied with that answer, wiping your hands on a rag you had tucked into your overalls, before walking over to the front of the old beat up red truck, and popping open the hood.

Simon leaned against a concrete pillar, crossing his arms and staring at you. He didn’t trust easily.

After you’d looked at his car, you wiped your hands again, before going up to Simon. “It seems to be your bearings, sweet pea. Gonna be around four hundred, I can have it done in a few hours” you informed him. Simon couldn’t help the twinge of amusement at the nicknames you’re calling him.

Simon nodded silently, before pulling out his wallet.

“But,” you start, a coy smile on your lips “i’ll only charge you three hundred cause you’re cute”

The tips of Simon’s ears go red, something that happened whenever he was flustered. Been happening since he was a kid and Penny on the playground gave him a kiss on the cheek before running away. And judging by how your coy smile only grows wider, you notice his flustered give away as well.

“Right…thanks” Simon says, still reeling from your boldness. “You uh…You take care of my truck. Real attached to that thing” he finished.

“Oh don’t worry, by the time you come back to pick her up, she’ll be stripped and sold for whatever parts I can salvage.” you quipped, biting your lip as you grinned. The action made Simon swoon slightly.

Simon ended up leaving and going to a coffee shop nearby, talking to Price on the phone about an upcoming mission while he waited.

When Simon got back, he couldn’t help the twitch of his lips at the small amount of grease smeared on your cheek. You walked over, wiping your hands on your overalls this time, not the rag.

“All fixed up for you moonpie,” you grin, “I’m about to close up for the day so you best go on now.” you smile, holding the keys out to him.

Simon grunted and nodded, “thank you” he murmured, taking his keys from your hand, noting how much bigger his hand was compared to yours, before turning and getting in his truck, reversing out of the garage.

He grimaced slightly when the sun hit his eyes while he waited for an entrance to pull out onto the road, the sun was setting yet not all the way set, at that annoying angle which practically blinded him.

So, he quickly pressed the sunglasses compartment above him, Simon’s eyes widening for a moment when a piece of paper fell out alongside his sunglasses. 

“You’re sweet on the eyes, sweet pea. Call me sometime xoxo" with your phone number scribbled on it.

[seeminglydark]

🎃First Halloweeny art of October, a throwback to the original Meetcute. Poor kid never knew what hit him.🎃

Carrie and Sully are from my webcomic and podcast Mil-liminal.

[centipededotgov]

I’m gonna fucking pass out

[sic-vita]

GOOD OMENS + 6000 years meetcute

[eff4freddie]

Physical Therapy

Joel Miller x AFAB Reader No Outbreak AU - 4.4k words

For @punkshort's AU August challenge, in celebration of her one year Tumblr anniversary!

A.N: My prompt was 'lifeguard Joel' and I'm nursing a bit of a sore wrist at the moment, hence whatever this is was born. Thanks for the fun prompt! I would very much like Joel to save me from drowning now, please and thank you.

Warnings: None.

It had just started out as a kind of tickling feeling around behind your ear on your left side, and down along the back to the shoulder blade. When you’d first noticed it you’d thought you had a hair stuck under your shirt, and all day you kept reaching up under your bra strap to try and free it. Later, you would rub the skin red trying to lift the phantom follicle from your skin.

Later, it developed into a coldness, punctuated sometimes with ants marching up and down your shoulder blade. Your clavicle ached in cold weather, and you rolled your shoulders of a morning to try and shake the weird sensations from the joint. You were too busy to worry about it, you had too many deadlines, you could just type with your left arm resting on a pad of paper to elevate it. You knew you’d been working too hard on your paper for your next research symposium. As soon as it was over you’d deal with it.

When it started thrumming of a nighttime you’d just take ibuprofen to dull it, numb it off with a heat pack and an occasional glass of whiskey. But when it got too hard to type, when the daggers started shooting down your arm to the point that you could barely get your sleeve over it, when your shoulder was so frozen you couldn’t lift it over your head to brush your hair, you conceded defeat.

Your physiotherapist was lovely, and young, and fit, and you wished you could hate her. She ran marathons on weekends, on purpose and apparently without having first been threatened, and she gave you a bunch of exercises you promised you would do, made you pay $24.95 for a bit of stretchy rubber you could tie to your doorknob and stretch with, a couple of strength building exercises printed out and folded neatly, which you immediately threw on your coffee table and used as a coaster.

You went twice a week after work. She massaged you until you had tears in your eyes, biting back the pain by clamping down on your back teeth. You lied to her that you’d done your stretches, and she let you, because she was a nice person. Your recovery stalled, and you both pretended not to know why.

In the end, you just got fed up with yourself. You’d had to push back your presentation at the symposium, had found it too painful to sit at your desk for the long stretches it would take to be prepared. Your supervisor had insisted you take time off, that your PhD could be extended, and you had balked at the idea and then, eventually, conceded that too. Your stupid frozen shoulder was icing out everything in your life you cared about. You suggested to your physio you might like to swim.

--

It had been a while since you’d been in a bathing suit. Glad you’d at least thought to shave, you went into the change room dreading coming out again. You’d deliberately gone at 2 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, figuring the only people there would be either 100 years old or ladened with babies, and their bodies wouldn’t be so threatening to yours. You remembered a time when your body had felt strong, when your legs had carried you around European cities, up and down mountains. You wondered where that girl went.

You were a careful person, and you liked rules, so you shuffled as speedily as you could towards the pool, careful not to run. Your brother had slipped once, aged 9 and a half, and knocked out two of his teeth when he went down. Your mother had to wait three months to get them fixed, having to save up the fee, and your brother had whistled slightly on windy mornings. You’d teased him about it, and you felt bad about it now, holding your arm tight to your body so as not to jostle your shoulder.

The water was cool, and you took the stairs one at a time to get yourself into it. You gasped when it reached your belly, reaching down to splash yourself to try and acclimatise. It wasn’t an especially warm day, but the sun was out and it was warm enough on your skin. You sunk down, feeling the water lap at your shoulder. The relief was immediate, the cool spreading over your strangled nerves, and you let out a sigh. You didn’t think you were about to swim any laps, but it was enough to bob around in the shallow end and feel the water carry your weight. Your mind was quiet for the first time in a while. You watched two birds glide on the breeze, ducking down to skim over the surface. You hoped they didn’t shit in it as they passed.

Then, a giggle. A tittering, high-pitched thing that shattered your reverie and made you turn towards it, a scowl on your face as you looked up into the sun. A woman in a high-cut bikini straight out of the 80s was standing at the base of the lifeguard’s chair, looking up at the man sitting atop it. She was practically drooling, flipping her hair and nearly slipping out of her top. You couldn’t make him out, the glare casting him in darkness and too proud to shield your eyes with your hand to get a good look. She had all her weight on one foot so she could thrust her hip out and her chest up. You heard his voice rumble out of his chest, deep and heavy and surprisingly kind. You couldn’t make out the words. You reminded yourself you didn’t care.

--

Your physio was proud of you, and you wanted to hate her for that, too. You reported your attendance at the pool, lied about doing your exercises, and paid another $24.95 for another rubber band thing after you pretended you’d misplaced the first one. You knew exactly where it was, on the doorknob where you’d tied it the first night and then ignored it. But it was a good, if expensive, excuse.

The next time you went to the pool you chose a time slightly earlier in the day, hoping that the midday sun might tan you a little as you rehabilitated. You bobbed around again in the shallow end, experimentally rolling your shoulders and moving your arms in small semi-circles in front of you. The water carried the weight so you could just focus on moving the joint, and when the ache set in you could just float there, let the water carry you completely as you floated on the surface. With your face to the sky and the sun beating down the whole world turned bright and colourless. It sanded down the sharp edges, turned the detail to pulsing fuzz on your retinas.

80’s Bikini Lady didn’t resurface, but you got out when an entire class of 4th graders arrived for their swimming lessons. As you went for your towel you heard that rumbling voice again, booming out over the top of 20 excited kids, instructing them to quiet down so he could teach them to tread water. You wondered if that was what you were doing now, your research and your thesis gathering metaphoric dust on your laptop. Treading water.

--

It took you until your fifth visit to try an actual lap. Your shoulder had been feeling lighter, the joint freeing itself under the water just enough that you could bear the weight of the it as you moved. You had been experimenting with little half breaststrokes, just two or three with your head high over the water and only deep enough that you could plant your feet at the first twinge of pain. But you wanted to try something different, today. You wanted to make it down to the other end, even if you had to grip the lane rope and pull yourself there.

You felt eyes on you as you walked to the edge, and you turned quickly to see the lifeguard was at his station. It was early enough in the afternoon that you could see him properly, his aquiline nose, his curls unruly and chocolate brown. He nodded at you, an acknowledgement that he was keeping watch, and you nodded back to him. It was just you and a man in his 60s in the pool today.

You hissed a little as you descended the stairs, feeling goosebumps rise on your skin. Today it was cloudy, and the water was cooler than you had been expecting, and you worried for a moment it would be bad for your shoulder somehow, that your muscles would be less malleable, less cooperative, in the cold. You swallowed, wondering if you really wanted to do this today. Then you remembered your thesis, and the way you had thrown yourself on dancefloors, in spin classes, ridden boys in your dorm room like your hips would never ache. You wanted that girl back. She was at the other end of the pool.

You pushed off, holding your arms straight out in front of you and using your feet against the wall of the pool to propel yourself forward, letting the momentum drift you the first few feet. With a brave breath in you spread your arms wide in a breaststroke, kicking with your legs to keep up some sort of speed. Three strokes, then four, then five and you were nearly a quarter of the way down the pool already. You just had to keep breathing, stick with it, pace yourself out. You cupped the water with your hands, pushing it away from your chest as you moved. There might have been a little twinge, but you banished any worry. You were doing it, if slowly, if gingerly.

You swam over the point where the bottom of the pool fell away, past the point where you could stand. The water felt cooler, the depth of it stealing some of the warmth, and you felt a little warning tingle up your elbow. Your neck pulled a little to the right to try and dodge the pain, and you faltered a little, lost some of your rhythm. In your surprise you’d opened your mouth and taken in a little bit of water, and you spluttered.

Suddenly your arms were out of sequence, and you were struggling to bring them back together in front of you while kicking with your legs. They felt uncooperative, like they were on different strings, and you were finding it hard to keep your neck bent up high enough to keep your face out of the water completely. You jerked to try and regain your momentum, and sent an electric shock through your shoulder, pain spreading out all the way down to your wrist. You gasped, the pain making you pull your arm into your body, trying to cradle it against your chest, and you started floundering, your nose and mouth dropping beneath the surface as you struggled to stay upright. You swatted at the surface of the water with your good arm, panic in your chest, as you tried to figure out if it was better to turn and head back to the shallows or carry on to the other end.

You heard a splash behind you, a huff of air as a body broke the surface and then an arm around your waist.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said, and you leant back into the warm body behind you, trying to suck in air.

‘My shoulder, my arm,’ you cried, keeping it tucked against you as the lifeguard pulled you to where you could stand. You gasped, choking a little on water but mostly just from shock, your face burning red with humiliation and the pain of your throbbing collarbone. ‘I’m sorry,’ you said, suddenly feeling like you wanted to cry, as you caught your breath, the man still holding you gently around the waist and leaning down to study your face.

‘You’re OK, you’re OK,’ he said, his voice like warm honey as it oozed over the panic in your brain. ‘Take a breath, I’ve got you.’

Oh fuck, you were definitely going to cry if he kept being so nice to you. You felt heat in the back of your eyes, bit down on your bottom lip so he couldn’t see it wobbling.

‘I just wanted to swim a lap,’ you said, and you could hear the desperation in it, feeling as small as a child.

‘You injured?’ he asked, and you nodded. He tugged you further towards the shallow end, led you by the good arm over to the steps.

‘My physio said exercise would help it,’ you explained, throwing her soundly under the bus. ‘I just…I thought I was ready.’ You felt the frustration bubbling over. You had a terrible habit of getting teary when you were mad. ‘It’s just been so shit, and I wanted to…I just don’t even know this body anymore, you know?’ you complained, wincing when you realised you’d just trauma dumped on him.

‘Can’t rush these things,’ he said, unfazed. ‘Gotta take it at your own pace.’ Standing up in this part of the pool the water only came to his waist, and he gestured to his belly where a jagged scar punctured his left side.

‘Jesus,’ you said, at the sight of it and also realising for the first time he was shirtless, water running in rivulets down his golden skin. He was so broad it was no wonder he’d managed to get to you in the centre of the pool in all of three strokes. You felt yourself start to tremble, and you weren’t sure it was from shock.

You’d known, of course, that he was handsome. You had eyes, after all. But up close, standing over you, hair slicked back as his brown eyes roamed your face for any sign of distress…up close, he was devastating.

‘Joel,’ he said, holding out his hand, and you took it, awkward and shy. He told you he liked your name when you mumbled it to him, and you realised he was very good at his job. You wondered where you could find an 80s bikini.

‘Thank you, Joel,’ you said, when your heart had finally settled back into its normal rhythm. ‘I’m sorry you had to…’

‘Trust me, pulling beautiful women out of the deep end is not the hard part of my job,’ he said, and then you watched as his eyes widened, like he was only just realising what he’d said, and you felt heat crawl up your cheeks.

You wanted to ask him what the hard part was. You restrained yourself, because you’d been humiliated enough for one day.

--

You skipped your next session at the pool, instead using the rubber stretchy thing to try and elongate the joint. It didn’t feel as good, and you nearly snapped it into your face more than once, and you definitely didn’t think about Joel’s golden skin glistening in the sunlight the entire time you did it. You didn’t think about his arm banding around you as he pulled you to safety, not even a little bit. The rubber thing was fine. It was going to solve all your problems.

--

You hated the fucking rubber stretchy thing. For one, it smelled like condoms but in a weirdly stale kind of way, and for two you were fairly sure it was going to rip your door off its hinges in your crappy little apartment, and you really didn’t want to have to call your landlord when that happened. It might mean you’d have to tidy up.

Also, it was late Spring and pretty soon school would be out, and the pool would be heaving, and so you had to get your shoulder back to normal as soon as possible before the place got flooded with kids. The bikini you fished out from behind a bunch of old clothes in the back of your closet was so that you could move your shoulder more freely. You were being pragmatic. You were planning ahead.

It was hotter again, the warmth of summer encroaching, and you were genuinely relieved to see the sparkling, clear water when you arrived on the pool deck. You walked, head held high and chest out just a little, past the lifeguard chair, studiously not looking but also really trying to look. You spent an extra few seconds fishing around in your back for your sunscreen, trying to steady your pulse. When you swivelled around, preparing to smear it over yourself, you glanced over at the chair.

Unless Joel had aged 20 years in the week since you’d been, and gained forty pounds and lost all of his hair, he was not on shift today. You felt yourself deflate, your shoulders slumping, your left collarbone sending out a thrum of pain in warning.

It was probably for the best, of course. You were here to do rehab. This was serious medical stuff.

You didn’t want to hazard another lap, not with Beergut McBaldALot on patrol, so you floated a bit in the shallow end and practiced making circles with your arms. You were stiff, having taken a week off to whip yourself up into a pointless frenzy over the lifeguard. The water eased some of the tension in the muscle, and you once again felt your mind start to still.

You wondered if, on his down time, Joel preferred board shorts or speedos. You couldn’t imagine him in a full banana hammock – you could, but you didn’t want to – but you wondered if he was a Daniel-Crag-In-His-First-Bond-Movie-When-He-Emerges-From-The-Ocean-Booty-Shorts kind of guy. That didn’t feel right either, though. His work uniform was boardies, and you decided that Joel was the type of guy who just wore them on his own time anyway, because they fit and they were on hand. As for what was going on underneath them. Well, that was something else entirely.

As you bobbed in the water you imagined his strong arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest and letting you rest your head on his broad, tanned shoulder. You wondered if you’d be able to feel his heartbeat on your cheek, if that close you could hear his tight little exhales as he glided you through the water, held you up so that you could finally, finally let go. You sighed a little to yourself, drifting in the middle of the pool and hoping no one had any plans to swim any laps. You let your hair trail out behind you as you drifted, imagined the slight pull of the water was his fingers threading through.

--

You weren’t hungry but you had nothing at home, so you stopped off at the grocery store on the way home, your shoulder feeling better for having had a little bit of movement. Sleepy from the warmth of the sun and your weightlessness, you barely noticed the man standing at the end of the cereal aisle until you were tripping over him, his arm shooting out to catch you before you could really, properly fall.

‘Ooof,’ he exclaimed, and you knew that voice, felt the furious rush of blood to your cheeks as you righted yourself and were met with the same warm, brown eyes.

‘We really must stop meeting like this,’ he said, smiling down at you, and he was just as beautiful on dry land as he was submerged. You felt your hands start to tremble and you worried you’d drop your basket.

‘Joel,’ you said, trying to hide the comingling shame and excitement on your face. ‘You look different when you’re wet.’

Murder you. End it now. It would simply be kinder.

Joel, to his credit, just laughed a little.

‘Hair’s a lot fluffier,’ he said, reaching up to tug at it and making you want to chew on your own fist.

‘There’s that,’ you said, your voice oddly strangled.

‘You breakfast shoppin’ at 4 in the afternoon?’ he asked, gesturing to the cereal box in your hands.

‘Dinner, actually,’ you said, strangely proud at your sheer level of disfunction. ‘Ever since my shoulder, cooking hasn’t really been…’

You trailed off. Your mom had sent over a couple of frozen lasagnes, and you’d worked your way through those in a week. For a while you got dinners delivered but it got expensive, and then worst, it got boring. Before all of this started there were some nights you’d been so engrossed in your thesis you’d forgotten to get dinner at all. You missed those nights, too. To be so distracted.

‘How’s the arm?’ he asked, and you realised you were cradling it again, holding it fast against your side.

‘It’s slow, and I’m trying to be patient,’ you said, honestly, and his brows saddled. He hummed in thought, pouting his lips out a little. You fought every atom in your body not to lean forward and pull them between your teeth.

‘Your physio given you exercises?’ he asked, and you nodded, avoiding his gaze. ‘You doin’ em?’ he asked, and you were suddenly really interested in the nutritional content of your Cheerios. He snickered out a laugh. ‘No one ever does ‘em.’

‘You speaking from experience?’ you asked, and he smiled.

‘I used to…well, not a physio but I did a little personal training, and uh…basically unless I was there barkin’ at ‘em no-one did what they were told.’

Bark at me, you thought. I’ll do anything you say.

You coughed, trying to collect yourself. Fuck, he was beautiful, but you realised what you liked most was just the warmth in his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. You trusted him, you realised. You didn’t know him, and you trusted him.

‘I’m pretty sure my physio knows I’m lying to her,’ you confessed, and he smiled.

‘She definitely does,’ he agreed.

‘I’m otherwise a very honest person,’ you added.

‘I have no doubt,’ he said, with a little twinkle in his eye that made you want to gouge the things out so you didn’t have to deal with them torturing you anymore.

Instead, you looked into his basket and saw kale, a bunch of carrots and a carton of eggs. You grimaced.

‘Please tell me you’re not on a cleanse or some shit,’ you said, and he smiled.

‘Nah, you got me just before I headed over to the candy aisle.’

‘You like candy?’ you asked, and he grinned.

‘Got a sweet tooth,’ he confessed.

‘Name your poison.’

‘Reece’s. The umm…the cups.’

‘The cups. A peanut butter man?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ he said, that southern drawl appearing again. You felt it hit you like a bullseye in your core. You wondered what else you could get him to agree to.

‘A man of taste,’ you said. You were flirting over grocery items and you didn’t fucking care. You would banter about the phone book if he kept grinning with his whorish little dimples out.  ‘Thank you for helping me out the other day,’ you said, and he shrugged.

‘S’my job,’ he said, and you shook your head at him, swishing your hands in front of you as if you could push his humbleness aside.

‘Yeah, but you chose that job, and I’m glad that you did,’ you said, simply. ‘It’s a generous thing, putting yourself on the line for someone else.’

‘Always been a kind of protector,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘I can see that,’ you replied, honestly, and he turned his gaze to you, considering you for a moment. ‘Although I guess a lot of the time it’s just watching people splash around.’

‘Ain’t hard to watch some people,’ he said, gazing down at you, his jaw muscle twinging a little.  You felt your stomach do a silly little flip.

‘No?’ you asked, your throat dry.

‘Mmm-mmm,’ he said, shaking his head but not breaking eye contact. You wanted to grab his broad, golden shoulders and hitch your thighs over them. You wanted to reach up and take his curls in your fingers, pull him onto his knees and his mouth to your nipple, let him nibble where they pebbled. You wanted to drown the gorgeous fucker, just for being so pretty he was setting your brain on fire.

For a second the two of you stared at each other, trying to pretend the sparks weren’t flying.

‘That can’t be dinner,’ he said, after a while, and you realised he was talking again about your cereal.

‘I could get some grown up muesli if that would make you happy,’ you offered.

‘Wouldn’t want you to get malnourished, come by the pool and drown from lack of…vitamins,’ he finished.

‘Lack of vitamins?’ you teased, and he blushed.

‘Can’t have you wastin’ away on me.’

‘So, you’re saying I have to eat the muesli for your benefit?’ you asked, and he shook his head.

‘No breakfast for dinner,’ he said. ‘Maybe I can fix you somethin’.’

Your heart stopped, right there in the grocery store, in your flip flops with your hair still wet from the pool.

‘…’ you said, and he finally broke your gaze, finally allowed you to breathe for a second. He looked thoughtful, maybe even a little sorry.

‘Not professional of me to ask out the patrons,’ he said, after a while.

‘Do you work at the grocery store?’,’ you asked, bolder than you were feeling. He moved closer towards you, just a half-step, so that you could feel his breath ghosting over your face.

‘If I gave you some exercises, would you do ‘em?’ he asked, his voice so low it came straight from the Devil himself. You felt the jolt of want spear between your legs.

‘My physio might get jealous,’ you said, and he grinned.

‘As your lifeguard I feel like it’s my duty to overrule, baby,’ he said. He lifted a hand to your bad shoulder, holding it gently, supporting the joint. You sighed a little, the extra support releasing some of the pressure from the tendon.

‘If you think it’s that serious,’ you whispered, as you leant in towards him, his mouth hovering just out of reach of yours. ‘Life and death.’

‘I’m afraid I might,’ he replied.

His lips tasted like coffee and sunshine. You lifted your arms to rest them on his shoulders. There was not a single twinge.

[spoopyblues214]

Pssst.. rottmnt fans.

Would you like to romance a turtle? How about all 4 with multiple different routes?

Well, look no further! I'm developing a visual novel for just that.

Meet'Cute Turtles in your area is a short little project I'm working on, and depending on the feedback, I may add more story or extra content! Once I'm further in, I'll make a separate blog for the game.

[Here's some sprite art]

@meetcuteturtles-official for the game blog!

[tgmsunmontue]

                The loud THWACK of the ball hitting the wooden floor at speed has several heads turning, including Jake’s, and he straightens up from where he’d been bent over the table talking to the others. He turns toward the pool table, sees the brightly coloured yellow ball rolling across the floor toward him. At the table the woman is laughing almost uncontrollably, the guy playing with her has gone bright red and Jake shifts slightly, stopping the ball with his foot before reaching down and picking it up, eyebrow quirking as he looks at them. Then the woman is shoving the guy toward Jake and he takes pity on him a little, because he’s clearly embarrassed.

                “Yours?”

                “Yeah. Thanks.”

                “New to the game?” Jake asks.

                “Uh. No.”

                “He was a little distracted is all. Normally he’s a half-decent player,” the woman says, and she’s smirking like she’s incredibly amused by something. Then she’s shoving the guy with her cue, putting a bit of force behind it because the guy stumbles closer to Jake.

                “Uh. Can I buy you a drink?”

                Jake blinks, not having clocked anything so he’s a bit surprised. Not unhappy though.

                “Yeah. Sure.”

…            FEW MINUTES EARLIER AT THE POOL TABLE …

                “Why do people like that exist Nat? It’s not fair to the rest of us mortals.”

                “Speak for yourself, I’m plenty gorgeous when I want to be. And you’re not exactly an ogre, you just hang back too much.”

                “I’m cautious,” Bradley insists.

                “You’ve missed out on asking four different people out because you waited too long and other people asked them out first. You have to seize the moment.”

                “Oh god, now he’s bending over. Fuck.”

                Natasha picks up the yellow ball and throws it.

[thesoupisburning]

toriel definitely fought in the war btw like no way she's that strong AND knew the king and wasn't like. a general or something. and it's awesome and she's awesome

[divanchedraws]

they dont know yet 🤌

[tinytennisskirt]

Fresh Laundry and Other Things

Summary: Art sees reader at the laundromat, the first time he sees her outside of the tennis world. A simple question turns into a sweet bit of flirting and a few hours of conversation

Warnings: cheek kiss, flirting, fluff, and Art for sure likes Car Seat Headrest when Twin Fantasy came out in 2011, you can���t say he didn’t, I won’t listen. Unedited from my notes app and a little scene inspired by Baby Driver.

Art looked at you from across the laundromat. Perfect, pretty, digging through your laundry to separate the whites and colours. He watched you play today, he was a little shocked to look up to see you in the same laundromat as him.

You’d played an amazing game. It was almost even until the very end where you absolutely crushed your opponent and won the game. He’d only ever heard great things about you and the way you played. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t watched a few of your games online before.

He hadn’t put his things in the machine yet, so he took the chance to move a little closer.

Art had only ever seen you in your tennis skirts and tank tops, hair in a braid when you played but here you were in a sweater that draped over your bare shoulder and loose shorts, your hair down. You looked different, softer, comfortable, but still pretty. Sorting laundry.

He did the same, sorting his clothes, thinking back to your game, wondering why on a day like this you were doing laundry. But a college student is a college student, Art was doing his laundry days early because Patrick had accidentally shaken a can of Fanta and cracked it open over pretty much everything. You went to Stanford with him, so I guess it was expected to see you once or twice around doing college stuff and not just tennis.

Seeing you dressed down was hot, honestly. Cute, but hot. You weren’t wearing that activewear eyeliner from the brand you endorsed, your eyelashes were the colour of your hair and not much else. You were pretty, all casual. Art was surprised he hadn’t seen you like this sooner, being on the same residency as you. He tried not to stare, turning to put his stuff in the washing machine.

“Hey,” a voice chimed. It was funny how he had never really heard it before. He almost didn’t place it until he placed it spatially, half-turning. “You’re Art Donaldson.” It was you. Your voice was surprisingly soft. Art dumped his laundry in. You stood where you were folding.

“Yeah.” He smiled shyly. You knew who he was. “You’re Y/N Y/LN.” He replied. “I watched your game today.”

You smiled, tucking your hair behind your ears, “Really?”

“Whole thing,” Art replied. He kicked himself mentally for sounding like a dunce and a creep. “You have an amazing swing, by the way.“

“You’re sweet,” you smiled, bringing your basket over to the machine, putting your things in. Art tried to pretend that didn’t bring a bit of heat to his cheeks. He acted like it was nothing. “Thank you. I’ve seen you play too, you and your friend are incredible. I was at the U.S. Open when you won.”

“Oh, that’s crazy. That was a good game.”

“Your friend’s save at the end was something I’d only heard about, never seen. It was a great win.” You smiled, pushing the rest of your things in. Art was reminded that he too was doing laundry, resuming his activity. You’d noticed Patrick, he thought, not exactly pleased thinking about that. “But I’ve watched you at Stanford too and you’re great on your own.” Like a dog, Art perked right back up.

“Which games?”

You thought back, eyes looking up to remember, “Ummm… versus Kaplan, I think the other game was versus Campbell. I remember hearing how bad they moped after from one of my friends. You kicked their asses.” You grinned and Art felt just a little proud. Art was so glad there was only two other people in there with you. You turned the dials on the washing machine, putting your money in as you spoke.

“They were moping?” He laughed.

“Big time, I heard. Swearing, broken racket, the works,” you smiled and Art could see you were a little cheeky. “I mean if I lost to a backhand that good, I’d be doing the same.”

Art’s first instinct was to geekily reply with ‘really’, but he just laughed, doing the same with the dials and putting his money in, “Thank you, but it’s nothing compared to your volley today. And your serves? Crazy.”

“Uh huh,” you leaned against the machine. You had this cute smirk to you Art noticed-he couldn’t ignore it. “You’re too sweet.”

“It’s nothing untrue,” he replied. You lifted yourself up to sit on the top of the washing machine just as Art closed his, turning it on. He turned his attention back to you. “I bet some of those girls you demolished today had their own moment to mope.” He straightened out, putting hands in his pocket as he swayed closer to where you sat.

“As they should,” your smirk was more apparent and Art knew it would be burned into his brain from this point forward. You were a little evil, he liked it. “It was tough, though. A close game.”

“Was it though?” Art squinted just a little, “Did they stand a chance?”

You grinned, looking away, “Mmm… no.” You giggled and it was a perfect sound. Art found himself trying to fix his hair over it, suddenly wanting to look better in front of you. “Oh you-“ you pointed to his hair, giggling just a little quieter, pointing at his hair. “Can I?” You asked.

Art knew he just fucked his hair up in front of you, he grimaced, shutting his eyes tight and giving a nod, succumbing to the embarrassment. The second your hand touched his hair, the feeling melted. It was just a second and you fixed it from just looking a little silly, but your hand in his hair for a split second was completely worth it. “Thank you,” he said,

“Of course,” you grinned. Then there was a moment of silence between, you looking at your hands, Art watching your eyelashes from your side profile, how pretty they were. You looked back at him. “I’m surprised we haven’t spoken before.” You confessed. Art had that exact thought earlier.

“Me too,” he replied. “I’ve seen you at games but never on campus.”

“I rush around a lot,” you nodded. “Never sure why. I’m at the campus cafe a lot if you’re ever around there.”

Art shook his head, “I’m not. Any good?”

“I’d say so, but I’m a coffee freak,” you replied. “It’s on the North end of campus, like a ten minute walk. Do you want to go? We’ve got an hour to kill, it seems.” You asked. “We can discuss your backhand.” That smirk of yours pulled at your lips again and how could Art say no? He raised his eyebrows, surprised at the offer.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like ‘why not?’ when it took all he had not to stumble over the simple word. “You’re asking if I want to get coffee?”

You smiled a sweet smile, “Mhm. If you’d like.”

“Yeah, I’d love that.” He watched you hop off the washing machine and grab your bag. Art couldn’t help but grin. He followed you out, putting his hat back on backwards. The conversation slowly drifted from tennis to music as you neared the coffee place. You were engaging and you talked a lot with your hands, Art noted. It was adorable.

“-And there’s Car Seat Headrest.” You said. “I love Car Seat Headrest.”

Art’s eyes widened as you approached the doors to the cafe. “I love Car Seat Headrest, Twin Fantasy? So good.” He grinned.

You lit up, “Oh my god everyone I know says they sound like they were recorded in a tin can, you like Car Seat Headrest.” Art loved how loud you were in the cafe. You were cute excited. “That’s amazing.”

“Patrick hates on it a little too much, I get that.” He said, stepping into line. “My favourite song on the album is Sober to Death.”

“Ooh, that’s my second favourite. Next to Cute Thing. I found them on Bandcamp last year I’ve been obsessed, it’s so good to find someone else who likes them.” You tucked your hair behind your ears and Art noticed just how close you’d gotten to him when you were excited. You were so pretty this close. “Sorry, my spatial awareness when I’m not playing tennis is not great.” You said, stepping back. You must have noticed Art’s reaction.

“I don’t mind,” Art grinned his winning smile. You covered your smile with your sleeve, looking away. The flirting was obvious- you both knew it. You crossed your arms over your chest. It was your turn to order, Art went first, he looked at the menu and got himself a mocha iced coffee, which was exactly your order. He turned to you, pulling out his wallet. “I’m paying.” He told you. And you shyly ordered the same thing.

“Thank you,” you said, twirling your cup around to move the ice. “You didn’t have to pay.”

He brushed past you to grab two straws, all too aware of how good you smelled. “No worries. I had to spend my laundromat change somehow.” He said, looking over at you. He grinned back in response to your perfect smile. The sun was setting as you walked back to the laundromat, the dimmed light of the sun casting over you. You were sweet, you were kind, you were funny, and your hair blew perfectly in the light evening breeze. “Do you have Facebook?” He asked.

You turned, excited, “I do. Do you want it?”

“If you’d give it to me,” he grinned, glad he asked. “That or your number.” He swayed a little bit closer to you.

You pursed your lips to hide your blush. It was just a question, but it made you smile uncontrollably. “Sure.” You said, looking back at him. “I’ll call you when I need to work on my backhand, I honestly can’t believe how good yours is.”

“Sounds perfect, I’ll need tips on how to serve that smoothly,” he joked back, handing you his phone to enter your number. You took it, entering your number and your name into his phone and messaging yourself a simple

:)

Art thought it was cute. He gladly, whilst grinning, shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Now we’re even for the coffee.”

“Mhm?” Your smile turned to a smirk and you knocked your iced coffee against his cup happily. You returned to your laundry, putting the second load on after moving your other clothes to the dryers.

You stood, leaning against the dryer across from him, watching him as he picked up his heavy basket, carrying it back over to where you were. You had your chin propped up on your hand, eyes on his forearms. He was sweet. He was cute. He was pretty much perfect and he played tennis. And he loved Car Seat Headrest. You pulled your iPod out, unravelling your earbuds.

Art shoved his things in the dryer and put his coins in, shutting the door and turning it on, facing you, leaning against the very same dryer. You popped an earbud in, extending the other one to him wordlessly, sipping your iced coffee. He took it without hesitation, enjoying how close to you he needed to be to put in his left ear while it was in your right.

You had Cute Thing cued up, already a few seconds in and he grinned when he heard it. You were so perfect. “It sounds much better when someone isn’t on your ass about how unprofessional it sounds,” you said. He chuckled at your choice of words.

“Oh yeah,” he agreed, leaning with his elbow onto the same dryer you were leaned against. “Patrick, he listens to only 80s, early 90s music before a game, which I don’t mind but I prefer when I play singles so I can listen to whatever I want.”

You nodded, “I love music before a game. Usually it varies depending on the day but I really like Ginuwine before a game. Guilty pleasure.” You said, sipping your coffee again. “What about you?”

“Oh that’s…” he laughed to himself, “I set myself up, it’s too embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than Ginuwine?”

“More embarrassing than Ginuwine,” he replied. “No, I can’t.” He tried not to smile so hard but you were giggling excitedly at the pending information and he couldn’t help it.

You got just a little closer to him even already being fairly close in proximity, “Please?” You said. “You have to now, you can’t tease something like that.”

“I can’t, I really can’t,” he laughed, trying not to show how flustered you were making him just being this close. He was an adult man… “It’s too embarrassing.”

“Please, Art, I’m begging.” You giggled. “I probably have it in my playlist if our music taste is similar,” you said, handing him your iPod. “Flip through this and find something.”

Art was embarrassed, taking it and flipping through. Your jaw dropped the second he stopped flipping at the very intro to a song by the Spice Girls. Art pressed his mouth into a thin line as you burst out laughing in the near-empty laundromat. “Oh my god!” You laughed. “This is so good! This is your pre-game music?”

He nodded, trying not to smile with you but it was so hard when your smile was so bright and your laugh was so contagious. “I should have made you promise not to laugh.” He said sheepishly. “Yeah. Spice Girls. And sometimes Britney Spears, but don’t tell Patrick.”

“Your secret is so safe with me,” you said, listening to the upbeat tune of the song. “I won’t tell a soul, I swear. Oh my god I love this, this changes everything.”

“Like what?”

“For one I think I like you a lot more knowing that before an intense game you have Britney in your ears whining out lyrics,” you started. “And two, you have amazing music taste. This is some lesser known Spice Girls, you must be really into it.”

“What can I say?” He shrugged with a smile, getting just a little closer, pretty much against you as you spoke, but neither of you paid any notice. Both of you pretended you didn’t. He smelled good, like fresh cologne and a bit like citrus.

The buzz of a nearby dryer startled you both and in a second you were moved a step back again. Art kicked himself once again. You got into a conversation about tennis clothing prices and about past experiences with bitter tennis players and it once again drifted back into movies, music, books, media of all sorts. You loved what you loved a lot and Art took about a hundred mental notes of all the things you said you loved and hated. A list of things to watch were made as he spoke to you.

Soon the laundry was done and it meant that the trip to the laundromat was over. Art looked over at you. “I’ll walk you back if you want? It’s getting a little dark.”

“I’d like that.” You replied. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he answered, happy for more time with you.

You picked up your things and grabbed the basket you had and the two of you walked in conversation back to residency, right up to your door. You were a building over from him. You stopped outside your door, setting the basket down. “It was nice meeting you properly,” you said. It was more than nice. “And thank you for the coffee and for walking me home. You’re sweet.”

Art rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, looking away to hide the flush to his face. “Nothing out of my way,” he maintained. “It was nice meeting you too.”

“So you’ll call me?” You asked. You were forward, secure in it.

“For sure,” he replied with a growing grin. “I should probably head back, I’ve got a game tomorrow morning- I- completely forgot.” He exhaled. He’s spent all this time with you when he was meant to be practicing.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” your smile immediately left and he hated how cold this hall felt without it.

He touched your arm just bracingly, “No, no, it’s fine! I’ll do fine, I just forgot,” he said. He chuckled at the way you wiped his mind clean of everything in his world but you. “You should come.”

“I should?” Your smile returned in seconds.

“If you wanted,” he replied.

“I will.” You beamed. “What time?”

He pressed his hand to the side of his head, “I… am not sure.” He pointed at you, “But I’ll text you it. And I’ll talk to you soon, absolutely.”

“Sounds amazing,” you replied. “Talk to you soon.” You reached up and placed a hand on Art’s cheek and raised yourself on your toes to kiss Art on the other cheek. “Goodnight, Art.”

He liked you. And it was so obvious when you kissed him on the cheek because he felt the flush return to his cheeks like a faint sunburn. You saw it when he met your eyes, blue with just a little bit of brown meeting yours. It took him all his mental strength to say it back. “Goodnight, Y/N.”