notes – I ship this so hard.

calculate the value of love


He thinks: a bouquet of smiling flowers, german chocolate, quiet candlelight, cologne, perfect weather, shiny leather shoes.

She doesn't need to think: there's only sex, sex, sex.

Then Brief knocks on the door of the church like he has a purpose other than bedding her, and she's not exactly pleased because she's already half-naked (due to an intense fight with Stocking over the remote) and impatient. He's in that sorry jumpsuit of his, except this time he's equipped himself with a sea-green bow tie and the usual jittery smile. Brief tumbles so haplessly through his words, that Panty has long stopped listening by the time he manages to speak coherently. She barely hears him talking about a date in the city, and she laughs a hilarious laugh, like she's just seen bad, awkward, virgin sex.

Seriously? Her? She isn't trained for the trivalry of dates and posh dinners, she's a bitch as much as she is an angel, which puts her somewhere between a borderline cafe and the shithole of a bar downtown. Panty knows she doesn't deserve to be treated like a princess, and it's not like she's asking to be pampered from head to toe. All she needs is good sex and beer, and she's as contented as she thinks she can be.

Brief doesn't quite agree though. He says something along the lines of 'you do deserve a date and you aren't that much a bitch, and you're beautiful and great' with a stutter permanently fixated in his throat. The message gets across though, enough for Panty to stop scratching under her bra and regard the boy with wide, unguarded eyes and an open, lipstick-smeared mouth.

She fights an involuntary smile, fights back her desire to have intercourse under her pink blankets, and stalks off to snatch her underwear off the couch.