A/N: This story is a collection of all the drabbles and ficlets I've written based off prompts I received on my tumblr (illbeoutback dot tumblr dot com). If you have a fic req, you can send it to me either on there or the comments section here.
This first one is based off a prompt from joffreywinger, who also goes by Chairlampdesk here: " Annie/Abed baking a birthday cake for Troy together.
"We should bake him a cake," you offer, and from the way her eyes light up you know you've made a mistake.
Troy's birthday was this week, as Annie had just reminded you. Again. The repetition of that idea let you know there was something about it, either about the event itself or about Troy more generally you weren't sure which, that was bothering her. And because Annie was your friend, and because it hurt you in a way you couldn't fully express consciously to see her upset, you'd thrown out that piece of desperation and hoped it'd stick.
It wasn't until after, after her mouth curved upwards and she ran into her room, that it occurred to you that maybe you were projecting when you assumed jealousy over the amount of time Troy and Britta were spending together lately was the cause of her anxiety. That maybe instead she was upset about one of the natural byproducts of Troy's frequent absence from the apartment: that you were becoming more and more uncomfortable spending time alone with her, and so finding excuses not to do so.
Your suspicions are strengthened when she returns, clutching an old, child's cookbook to her breast with an excitement that is unmistakable even to you. She shows it to you, flipping through its faded, browning pages. There's one recipe for each letter of the alphabet; Annie wants to make the X-tra Special Celebration cake but you convince her that Troy would probably prefer the Boston Creme Pie, and that following strict delineations of what was and was not a birthday cake probably wouldn't matter to someone who technically shouldn't be celebrating his birthday to begin with.
And all the time that you and she are talking she's so close and you can smell her, her skin and her hair. You want to reach out, to gather her against you and just inhale her scent deep into your lungs, but you don't because that's not your role. It isn't. And even if it was, even if you were wrong and Britta was right and being human was all about defining your own role (and also assuming she was right about you being fully human which in your darker moments is something you aren't so sure of), you know deep in your bones you shouldn't. That you can't be what she needs.
But the thoughts won't go away and maybe that's why you end up tripping, your feet catching each other like you're some kind of gangly teenager again, and you fall onto the floor, spilling the bag of flour you were carrying all over it and you. Annie, who was busy whipping together eggs and sugar with her back to you (and who you'd been studying intently, perhaps further explaining your clumsiness), gasps, calling your name in a worried voice, all baking forgotten as she rushes to your side.
You're embarrassed, waving her off as you try and ignore the pain, blushing fiercely under the coat of flour covering your face. But then her hand is over your wrist and she's kneeling over you and your breath hitches in your chest. Her fingers are soft. You like tactile sensation, you always have, and her touch is one of the more pleasurable ones you've been lucky enough to experience. You feel it again, that want. It makes you feel like a greedy little pig and you want to wallow in her, to roll around and feel her all over and around you, to squish her inbetween your toes.
You can see in her face that she's seen that she's effected you, see it in the way her eyes light up again, and you know that you are doomed. Her fingers drift lower down your arm, reaching under and pushing up the arm of your shirt, rubbing your bicep as her other hand brushes some of the flour off your face. She's looking at you again, like the way she did at the end of the second paintball game and there's no way you can deny anything this time or come up with more bullshit about context because Han isn't here it's just lame old you and she's kissing you and her mouth is hot and it molds to yours just like it did that day and as good as she smells its nowhere near as good as she tastes and your tongues caress each other like old lovers and you stop caring anymore about anything besides how this feels.
You never end up finishing the cake.