"And Yet Here You Are Still Here Talking To Me," Aiden Replied Cockily, A Smirk Tugging At His Lips.

Lydia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders finally slumping as she perched on the edge of the bed. She glanced at Kaleb—really looked at him—taking in the exhaustion in his posture, the quiet understanding in his eyes.

She gave a small, humourless chuckle, running a hand through her already-messy hair. "Yeah," she admitted, voice quieter than usual. "Always."

She let the silence linger for a moment before flopping back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. "I swear, I could write a book on bad dates at this point. Chapter One: ‘How to Spot a Walking Red Flag in Five Minutes or Less.’"

She threw an arm over her eyes, shaking her head. "Tonight's disaster? Talked about himself for two hours straight. Didn't ask me a single question. Like, sir, I promise you, I do not care about your fantasy football league that much."

A short laugh escaped her, but it lacked any real amusement. "The worst part is, I knew. I always know. Five minutes in, and I was already plotting my escape. I should start carrying smoke bombs or something—make my exits more dramatic."

She peeked at him from under her arm, a smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. "Or, you know, I could just stop going on these stupid dates altogether. But where’s the fun in that?" Lydia stated, flipping over on to her stomach to look at him properly. "Your turn... Make me feel better about my tragic night."

Kaleb’s eyes widened a fraction as he saw Lydia’s familiar silhouette against the window. Of course, it was her. When a date went south—and they often seemed to do so for her—she always ended up at his window. He’d grown accustomed to the soft tap, tap, tap against the glass, a signal he knew well. He pulled back the curtains, his own exhaustion mirrored in her posture.

Without a word, he unlatched the window. Lydia clambered inside with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it countless times. It was a routine, a comforting ritual built on years of a friendship deeper than most people understood.

Kaleb knew she wasn’t really asking a question. It was more of a statement, and one he already knew the answer to. He just nodded as he replied, "Always. You?"

a fucked up modern day marriage plot where a rival mob boss marries his daughter, muse a, off to muse b to calm the tension between the families. at first they hate each other, but once forced to live together, they start warming up to each other, too stubborn to let it show. then one night he comes back from an important deal gone wrong, his face is fucked up and he’s feverish and she takes care of him all night and etc etc etc…i need it?

Jeyda’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to take the mail right away. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked from the envelopes to the woman standing before him—Aylin. 4B. Too many words, too much warmth. He wasn’t used to either.

A beat passed. Then another.

Finally, he reached out, taking the stack from her hand with deliberate slowness. The legal firm's gold lettering gleamed in the sunlight, but he didn’t bother looking at it. He already knew what was inside.

His voice, when he spoke, was low, rough from disuse. "Thanks." Nothing more. No welcome, no acknowledgement of her offer. Just that.

Jeyda turned the mail over once in his hand, then tucked it under his arm. His gaze settled on her, not quite meeting her eyes but near enough. Aylin was still watching him, waiting—for what, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t have anything else to give. Not pleasantries. Not reassurances. Definitely not friendship.

Closed starter for @littledaydreamers based on this:

"Excuse me! Are you… Mr Arslan?"

Aylin held out a small stack of mail, the afternoon sun catching the gold lettering on the return address of a legal firm. "I think I might have accidentally grabbed your mail. 4A, right? I’m so sorry! I was in a rush, trying to beat the heat… and honestly, these boxes are practically prehistoric. I'm Aylin, by the way. I live in 4B." She offered a tentative smile, one practiced for calming anxious brides and soothing stressed mothers-of-the-groom.

She took a closer look at the man in front of her. He was… imposing. Tall, broad shouldered but there was an intensity in his eyes, a haunted quality that sent a shiver of unexpected concern through her. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He didn’t speak, didn't even acknowledge her. He just stared, his eyes fixed somewhere just past her shoulder.

“Look,” she continued, her voice softening. "I really am sorry. Here." She extended the mail again, pushing it gently towards him. “I'm sure you’re expecting these. Welcome to the building. I hope you… settle in okay.”

She hesitated, a sudden impulse tugging at her. Against every ounce of self-preservation, Aylin added, "If you need anything… anything at all… please don't hesitate to knock. I'm usually home, knee-deep in tulle and seating charts, but… I wouldn’t mind a break. Just let me know if there's something I can do." And then, she waited, holding her breath, wondering if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.

Is Larry Stylinson still a thing? If so, I have some prompts if anyone wants to rp >.<

Mei froze mid-rant, her fingers tightening just a little around the bandage she was wrapping around his leg. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous little slits. "Oh-ho, crispy, is it?" she echoed, voice deceptively light. "Just a little crispy? Owen, you look like a marshmallow that someone dropped into a campfire and then tried to convince everyone was still edible!" Ok, so maybe she was exaggerating a little, but she was just trying to get her point across.

She huffed, pressing the bandage down with just enough extra force to make him wince. "And elbow grease and a scrubbing brush?! Oh wow, thank you, Mr. Domestic, for your deep and insightful cleaning wisdom! I’ll be sure to remember that while I’m on my hands and knees scraping your poor life choices out of the floorboards!"

Her frustration hitched when he grinned at her—grinned!—like this was all some big joke. Like she wasn’t currently battling the very real urge to smack him upside the head with the nearest throw pillow. "Owen, I swear to everything good and sparkly--If you make one more joke—" And then he called himself a big, glazed doughnut.

For a moment, silence. Then, a deep, slow inhale through her nose. "Oh, you did not just—" The glare she gave him was like none other she'd ever given.

But just as quickly as it flared, her anger deflated. She sighed, shoulders slumping, as she secured the last of the bandages with a little more gentleness. "You know I hate this, right?" Her voice had lost its sharp edges, replaced by something quieter—something raw. "I hate seeing you like this. I hate that you act like your pain is just… a funny little inconvenience. I hate that you think I only care because of the mess or because I have to clean you up." She tied off the bandage with a little flourish and then sat back on her heels, arms crossing. "I care, you big, dumb, freshly burnt doughnut because you matter. Because you being okay matters."

She sniffed, then nudged his uninjured leg with her foot. "And because I like stealing your medical supplies, but that’s beside the point." A pause. Then, grudgingly, "... You are kind of a glazed doughnut, though."

Owen sighed, though the attempt was somewhat stifled by a sharp intake of breath as Mei pressed a bit too firmly on the singed flesh of his thigh. "Explosion battlefield? Now that's just colourful," he mumbled, trying to inject a lightness into his tone that he wasn't entirely feeling. He knew Mei worried, and he appreciated it, even if her worrying took the form of theatrical frustration and a concerning knowledge of bloodstain removal techniques.

He watched her, amused despite the discomfort, as she ranted about cotton and floorboards. "Relax, Mei. It's nothing a little elbow grease and a good scrubbing brush can't fix." He even managed a small, lopsided grin. He knew she hated that he dismissed things so easily, especially when those "things" involved explosions and blood, but it was his default setting. Panic rarely solved problems.

When she called him a doughnut, he chuckled. "A big, glazed doughnut," he corrected, then immediately regretted it as her glare intensified. He understood her frustration, truly. He knew seeing him hurt bothered her more than she let on.

"I know, Mei," he said softly, his eyes meeting hers. "But I'm alright. Just a little… crispy. Besides," he added, attempting to lighten the mood again, "who else would you steal medical supplies from if I wasn't constantly providing a reason to?"

Give me a vampire couple that’s been on and off again for like hundreds of years. Like they fight like crazy and break up and not see each other again for a long time but then come back together like nothing has changed and are all over each other in love. They won’t admit it but they’ll love each other forever no matter what, even if they’re not always together. 

dxrlingdevils​:

“Ohhh right because the two of us together with a bunch of cops sounds like a good idea?” Liam wanted to keep his job and the contract he had with the station and he knew that probably wouldn’t happen if he combined his best friend with alcohol. “Nope, I think we’re definitely talking about you now.” He sighed, reaching for a bottle of water and asprin so he could deal with this conversation. “So tell me, what’s the excuse this time?”

Becca pursed her lips. “Okay, fair, I’ll give you that. It seems you’re off the hook this time.” She replied, still narrowing her eyes at the male before breaking out in a grin. Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. “Excuse you, but my excuses are always good and valid. Just like this time, I had it all planned out to do — I was even on my way there, but then I found a stray dog and I had to help him.”

Jimmy stood in the doorway, his usual confident demeanour softened by concern as he looked at Thomas. He took a step inside, closing the door gently behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Barrow, you know me well enough. I don't need much of an excuse to avoid working," Jimmy replied with a lopsided grin. He moved closer, pulling up a chair beside the bed and sitting down, his eyes scanning Thomas's face and the still-healing bruises with genuine worry. "How are ya holding up?"

He leaned back in the chair, trying to appear casual but unable to hide the tension in his posture. "Can't imagine how boring it must be, stuck in 'ere all day. I brought you something to read, thought it might help pass the time," he said, pulling a small book from his pocket and placing it on the bedside table. He wasn't about to admit, he'd popped down to Thirsk to buy the book as he had nothing in his own room to lend to the male.

Jimmy's expression softened further as he met Thomas's eyes. "I know it's been rough, what with everything that happened… and, well, how I've been. I'm sorry, Mr. Barrow. I truly am. But I'm 'ere now, and I wanna help in any way I can. You need anything, you just let me know, alright?"

He reached out, a hesitant but warm gesture, patting Thomas's arm lightly. "And don't worry about the work. Mr. Carson won't miss me for a few minutes. Besides, Mrs Hughes said that I could come and see you."

after the events at the thirsk fair thomas was healing up well, although he had mostly been sleeping for the first few days. a week in, the smaller of his cuts had begun to heal, bruises turning from angry purple to a sickly shade of yellow. it would be another three weeks before he could fully return to work — his cracked ribs ensured that, the pain down his left side was still almost unbearable at times, the skin still tender, mottled purple bruising in the shape of a boot betraying where the thugs had kicked him.

still, for all the pain and trouble, at least thomas had gotten something out of the whole affair. jimmy kent was to be his friend again... after a year of snide remarks, cold shoulders and avoidance that hurt almost as much as the physical beating he'd recieved at the fair, each and everyone one like a punch to the heart... things were okay now, between them, things had been set right. and that had to account for something, at least.

but, right now, thomas was bored. a week of bedrest and he had seen enough of his small attic room to last a lifetime. he wanted to get up, he needed to shave, he wanted to have a proper bath, he wanted something to do. sitting up was a struggle, the metal cot groaned and creaked under the shifting of his weight, aching muscles screaming in protest as the underbutler slowly moved, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and bracing himself for a moment. the pain in his ribs spiked and twisted, causing a sharp hiss to escape from between his teeth — his stomach churned and he felt sick, worried for a moment that he'd become reacquainted with his breakfast...

there was a short knock at his door before it opened, and thomas glanced up at his vistor, his friend, and couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at his lips, small and questioning.

❝ ... jimmy...? shouldn't you be workin'? ❞

plotted starter ~ jimmy kent ; @littledaydreamers

Fletcher narrowed his gaze at her, his patience wearing thin. "Have you ever thought, knowing what you know about me, it might not be sensible to blackmail me?"

open  to  any gender connection: any, just no strangers.

❝If  you  don't  want  the  world  to  know  about  your  secret,  you  better  do  as  I  say.  Was  that  clear  enough  for  you?❞

amoonlitmemory​:

Closed starter for @littledaydreamers​

“I’m sorry–” Niamh glanced down at the parchement unsure of what she was supposed to be looking at. “Are you sure this is meant for me? I– I don’t know what this is.” Having been self taught, she would never admit that when it came to reading her knowledge was only that of which she appeared familiar with. Yes, she could read words but that didn’t always mean she had a clear understanding of what things meant.

Tristan nodded affirmatively, a subtle gesture accompanied by a satisfying "Yep," the soft sound of the "p" popping. "Well," he continued, his voice filled with a hint of curiosity, "that's what it seems to be—a letter. If you'd like, I could read it aloud for you. The lighting in this room leaves much to be desired, but fortunately, I possess exceptional vision." With a compassionate gaze, he observed the writing before him, sensing the air of perplexity surrounding it. While illiteracy wasn't uncommon among the inhabitants of Nassau, Tristan understood the reluctance of many to acknowledge this fact openly.