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![she is the new thing [one-shot] Empty](https://2img.net/i/empty.gif)
They’re sitting in her basement as usual working on homework because it’s a weekday, and really they aren’t even supposed to see each other until the weekend. But he called her for help with his trigonometry and she tells herself she can never say no when he’s willingly doing his school work. But she just likes the excuse to see him.
He uses a regular, yellow number-two pencil—old school style, with the entire length of it covered in bite marks. She’s always preferred mechanical pencils—the kind with the thick, unbreakable lead that always stays sharpened. She feels childish if she uses anything else.
Of course, he looks childish, his legs tucked underneath him, Indian style, as he chews on the end of his pencil. He stares intently at the page, every once in a while licking his lips or running a hand through his hair. His ADD gets him most of the time, and she has to snap her fingers—hey, you’re already on number seven—just to make him look back to his work.
She never gets anything done when he’s around. It’s all she can do not to jump on top of him. He’s utterly and annoyingly adorable when he’s trying to concentrate, and she can only stare at him and try not to smile.
Most of the time though, she can’t help her lips from curling up in the corners, and he looks up, eager for any distraction. When he sees her staring he turns a faint shade of pink and manages to mumble something like enjoying the view? Or anything that will earn an eye roll and a blush from her.
Sometimes he repositions himself, his eyes never leaving the page, but his body moves of its own accord and he ends up crouching, rocking back and forth, heels to toes, just so he doesn’t have to sit still. Every once in a while he murmurs to himself—the tangent of 36 degrees is point seven-two-six but round to the nearest one-hundredth so that would be point seven-three—and she is still convinced he’s a genius.
He looks up at her with puppy-dog eyes—why are you doing this to me? or don’t you like me? or you’re lucky I think you’re pretty or else I’d despise you—and who is she kidding, she can’t resist him.
So she crawls into his lap and he wraps his arms around her and they both pretend his hand isn’t resting on her butt until he squeezes a little and ruins the entire moment. But she kisses him anyway if for no other reason than to make him stop smiling.
AN: I'm really gross when I have a crush on somebody. Just started rambling and this came out <3
He uses a regular, yellow number-two pencil—old school style, with the entire length of it covered in bite marks. She’s always preferred mechanical pencils—the kind with the thick, unbreakable lead that always stays sharpened. She feels childish if she uses anything else.
Of course, he looks childish, his legs tucked underneath him, Indian style, as he chews on the end of his pencil. He stares intently at the page, every once in a while licking his lips or running a hand through his hair. His ADD gets him most of the time, and she has to snap her fingers—hey, you’re already on number seven—just to make him look back to his work.
She never gets anything done when he’s around. It’s all she can do not to jump on top of him. He’s utterly and annoyingly adorable when he’s trying to concentrate, and she can only stare at him and try not to smile.
Most of the time though, she can’t help her lips from curling up in the corners, and he looks up, eager for any distraction. When he sees her staring he turns a faint shade of pink and manages to mumble something like enjoying the view? Or anything that will earn an eye roll and a blush from her.
Sometimes he repositions himself, his eyes never leaving the page, but his body moves of its own accord and he ends up crouching, rocking back and forth, heels to toes, just so he doesn’t have to sit still. Every once in a while he murmurs to himself—the tangent of 36 degrees is point seven-two-six but round to the nearest one-hundredth so that would be point seven-three—and she is still convinced he’s a genius.
He looks up at her with puppy-dog eyes—why are you doing this to me? or don’t you like me? or you’re lucky I think you’re pretty or else I’d despise you—and who is she kidding, she can’t resist him.
So she crawls into his lap and he wraps his arms around her and they both pretend his hand isn’t resting on her butt until he squeezes a little and ruins the entire moment. But she kisses him anyway if for no other reason than to make him stop smiling.
AN: I'm really gross when I have a crush on somebody. Just started rambling and this came out <3
