#I felt like I was writing an essay for the first time in years in the best way possible

[nihilisticlinguistics]

I am off to a great start with @batmanisagatewaydrug's 2025 Book Bingo, with 2 books finished in the first week of the year! I'm also trying to tackle books by nonwhite authors as much as possible (that "reread a childhood favorite" box has caused some reflection on the diversity of my books as a kid).

For my Sequel box, I read The Angel of Indian Lake by Stephen Graham Jones. This is the final installment in his Indian Lake trilogy. I started my 2024 with the first two books in the series, so this is a nice full-circle moment for me. Jones moves fast and keeps your head on a swivel throughout all three of these books, but none moreso than The Angel of Indian Lake. If you like a gorefest, slasher horror, and small towns with dark secrets, I can recommend the entire series wholeheartedly. I particularly enjoy the multi-layered approach to these novels--generational trauma, regular trauma, religious horror, serial killing, accidental homicide. So, so much grievous bodily harm.

For the Essay Collection box, I picked up Meaty by Samantha Irby. I read her collection Wow, No Thank You back in 2020, but it's really been a while and frankly I don't remember much from that whole year. Meaty feels like an incisive, acerbic commentary on a time I only kind of remember; it was originally published in 2013 (I was 15), and the zeitgeist Irby is tackling has changed a great deal since then! So while Meaty didn't exactly feel relatable to me, as I read it I felt I could see a snapshot from a "how we got here" recap. Irby writes of online and offline dating, diet culture, and chronic illness with a deft, ironic hand. I'm not generally a 'laugh-out-loud' gal, so my highest praise is when I read a line, read it again, and say aloud, "oh, that's funny." Irby scores by that metric again and again.

[futurewriter2000]

Favours

pt. 1

A/N: I AM BACK! For a while, I guess. I should have been studying statistics but this is just more fun. I am back from the dead however and I am back to writing. New Years resolutions and such. Well, this has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I decided to do it. I wanted to do a one part but I just can't because... well, things took a turn lmao. Hope you like it!

PAIRING: Sirius Black x reader

REQUEST: hi! this is my first time requesting anything so like hello. hru. anyways i wanted to request a sirius black x reader where the reader and sirius are best friends but the reader has feelings for him and confesses. but then sirius doesn't feel the same way at the time. but then he starts to fall in love with her and he feels kinda stupid i guess lmao, for not accepting the confession

XX

It was not every day classes got cancelled, but today seemed to be a good day after all. You slept in and spent most of your morning in your bed doing absolutely nothing. You haven't even cleaned your room, nor yourself and it was already 2pm but like you thought before, it's not every day classes get cancelled. Not that you had a lot of homework to be done, but still, you just wanted to take some rest.

Hogwarts was your home. More than the place you go to every holidays and summer vacation. The sound of rain and boys imitating airplanes was the one thing that made you believe you really were experiencing a good time. Mostly because hearing boys be boys was making you laugh all the time. It was why you hung out with most of them.

But not today. Today you have been just inside your own comfort zone.

---

"And where the hell have you been?!" a boy has shouted from the other side of the class as you entered into his eyesight.

"Heaven and beyond." you stretched your arms and smiled. "Best day ever."

"I sent you like a million letters and all I get back was a 'nah'?" he glared at you.

"What did you expect? A whole essay?" you sat next to him and said hi to the rest of the group. "Plus I heard you boys from the other side of the dormitory. You haven't missed me at all."

"You think I need you to enjoy my time?"

"No. I think you need me to have the best time of your life, not only enjoy." you grinned at him, hugging your books and knocking his shoulder as you made your way to your seat. You plopped yourself down and smiled at the empty board. It felt like a breath of fresh air to be rested and back at the classroom- even if it was only for one day.

He plopped himself next to you and tried to push you off your chair but you only pushed back. It was an already won war- he was absolutely stronger than you and both of you knew it, he just liked to pretend that you have a shot. With a wink, he pushed you off your chair but caught you by the arm to pull you back up before your bottom left the chair. Laughter filled the competitive void between the two of you and he just leaned to you and whispered. "I missed you... even if it was for a day." his eyes glinted with overjoy and you felt a familiar sensation in your stomach.

Anxiety? Or butterflies...? Never-the-less, it made you happy and uncomfortable at the same time.

"Have you really?" you eyed him, half joking, half serious.

"Between you and me?" he eyed you back, matching your energy and tensing the air between the two of you. "You were on my mind all day."

You stared at him lustfully and he pretty much did the same but that air was quickly cut by the entrence of the professor. The two of you continued to stare at each other and all that came to your mind was the words 'I love you so much, you don't even know.'. But those words could and should not be ever spoken out loud. Never.

It drove you insane though, every moment of it. Every single interaction with him for the past year since he has grown taller and muscular, his bone structure defined and his hair longer. His confidence rose with passing time but you never wanted to admit it to yourself. It was no denying it- for the past year, you had been pinning over this boy like a lost puppy and it showed more, day by day.

Did he know?

Was he playing with you? - No, he wasn't the one to play games with you. Not ever.

But maybe if you grew some balls and confess, maybe he did feel the same way? He surely acted like he did.

---

The next day there was a whole group of you in the common room, far from the fireplace. There were only two lamps bringing light to the table where some were reading, some were writing homework and some were just playing cards to pass the time. The rain was just as common as the mist and the darkness loomed over all the students and their moods for the past day. Though it as almost night and you couldn't help yourself but to stare at him over your crossword puzzle

He was sitting on the sofa by the lamp and it absolutely threw perfect shade of light onto his dark features. His eyes disappeared with the light but his dark eyelashes and his dark eyebrows brought out the sharp tones to his face.

Maybe he likes you too? - you thought for a moment. You drew your foot to his thigh and poked it gently.

He raised his finger as he continued to read the last paragraph of his book and slowly looked at you with a lovely smile. "Yes, sweet soul."

"Do you want to go get some snacks from the kitchen?" you asked, leaning the crossword puzzle over your nose and peering over it.

He tilted his head sweetly and smiled. "I would love too."

"Bring me some dry apple slices." said James without looking up from his homework.

"Dry apple slices? What are you? A deer?" said Sirius, grinning mischiviously at him.

James raised his head slowly, his eyebrows drew together in an annoyed look. "For your information, I have to keep an athletic build for Quidditch."

"I'd like some dark chocolate." said Remus.

"Bring me some coconut cookies." Peter added.

"I would love some refreshing lemonade." added Lily.

"What am I? Your bartender?" you asked and they all smiled.

"There's two of you with two perfectly working hands, so I'd say get creative." James winked. "And don't do something stupid." he added.

You rolled your eyes and Sirius flipped him off, but as you walked in front of Sirius, your smile broadened.

The two of you walked out of the room and into the cooled off hallway. Your cheeks lit up from the previous heat and the sudden cold. His cheeks did exactly the same and it looked wonderfully aesthetic on him- or those were just your rose-colored glasses.

He bumped into you playfully, his arms tucked into his sweatpants. You bumped back, smiling. Your stomach twisted inside of you, churning from anxiety and you couldn't even stop what happened next.

"Hey Sirius." you stopped and he made a few steps forward before turning around for you. His eyes were tired, but they always looked at you so lovingly. As if he just adored you so much. You looked away for a moment, playing with your fingers, but there was something in his eyes that felt so safe. "We're friends, right?"

"Best." he swang his feet forward, grinning. He stopped less than an inch away from you. He put his hands on your shoulders. "Aren't you cold?" he rubbed his hands down your arms.

You chuckled and looked up at him. "Have you ever thought... that we could be more than best friends?" you continued to smile, biting your lip out of habit.

His hands fell back to his side and his smile faded. It was like a shot to the chest for you because you knew that whatever he decided to say next wasn't going to sound great for your ears. He was already further away, rubbing the back of his neck.

"(y/n)..." he dragged your name from his mouth awkwardly.

"Oh..." was all that you said. "I just thought..."

"No..." he continued in the same akward tone as he said your name before. "I don't see you that way."

"Oh..." you looked away, feeling something rise up from your stomach to your throat. "I think I'm going to be sick..." you said outloud to yourself.

"It's not that anything is wrong with you- you're amazing." he came to your aid as you turned around and hugged your arms. "Really amazing- I just never thought- I never- I..." he started to lose words to say. "I didn't know you liked me like that..." he finished, looking at the floor and sighing.

"It's fine." you forced a smile, though your eyes continued to glisten but you hadn't shed a tear... not yet at least. "Let's just get those crackheads their food and forget this ever happened- PAL!" you hit his shoulder- stronger than you anticipated.

You walked in front of him, looking up at the ceiling an preventing your tears to fall from your eyes. Though your eyes were completely soaked in tears, your throat was too dry to say anything.

The rest of the trip, the two of you spent in silence. Coming back, the two of you plopped back to your own seats and picked up where you left off.

The others didn't even notice. James was already melting with the table, his eyes barely opened meanwhile the others just got stuck in a deep conversation.

---

You couldn't handle the embarrassment of it. You couldn't face him, and when you did it was like a breathless hiccup that made you hold your breath for a little too much. Your eyes would just look at each other for a while, but both of you couldn't say a word.

Slowly, the others started to realize the awkward tension and you couldn't really know, if Sirius told them or not. You didn't tell anybody. You kept the embarrassment to yourself and if you did tell somebody, well,.., your friends are his friends and everything comes around so easily.

And it happened so innocently- when you started to distance yourself from the group. You've tried to keep your cool, but it was as if they knew. You couldn't be sure of it, but there was a feeling that loomed. The way they quieted around you- when suddenly the silence became too loud. You've tried to be yourself, but it just didn't matter and slowly but surely, you pulled away and it felt lonely.

You felt furious at yourself. If only you could have kept it to yourself but then you would have been blinded by love all this time- so as badly as it was, it was also liberating to do it. You've also noticed that most of them pulled to his side- even though there was no fight, no drama, just a casual conversation between two friends.

Remus was the most normal. You could have seen it in his eyes, but where there was Remus, there was James and nobody could really talk about what really happened, even though everybody wanted to know.

Sirius could see it in your mood. He could notice the way you held yourself. He noticed the faded smile, but it didn't feel like heartbreak, more like disappointment. He didn't want the friendship to end, he didn't think it would, even after the conversation that was held, he thought the two of you could pretend that nothing happened but it was as if somebody shot a bullet through his head and now he had nothing to say to you. He felt as if anything he would do, would indicate to you that he might like you and he didn't want that. He didn't like you.

So you pulled away and Sirius... he missed you. He saw you less and less, day by day.

He had his friends. He did.. but the conversations he had with them were different than with you. The energy shifted and he felt safe and comfortable with you in a way, he didn't with his friends.

So, his mood changed as well but contrast to you, he hid it well. So when you saw him all chirpy and as if nothing really changed, you felt your mood lower.

You made your way to them with a big force pulling you back. Every step... counted to another step to...

"Hey (y/n)!" somebody called out your name and you turned around to see, who might be.

You turned to your table, but you saw no Gryffindor calling your name. He called your name again and you realised it came from the other table.

To your absolute surprise it was- "Nott?" your eyebrows furrowed.

You didn't dislike Nott, but you neither not disliked him. He was nice to you- as nice as Slytherins can be. He was a handsome boy though. His dark hair was slicked back, long strands of gelled hair falling over his forehead.

"Can I ask a favor from you?" his smile was broad and white. He had almost perfect teeth, but the horrible gossip you heard of him, even those perfect teeth could not make you like him.

"I don't remember doing any favors from you." your eyes furrowed. "I don't even remember if you acknowledged my existence in all seven years." you kept your eyebrows furrowed.

His eyes sparkled when you had said that and he quickly got up. "I know... I apologise for that but-" he looked around, his friends giving the same mischivious grin as he did. "Let us talk somewhere else." he threw his hand over your shoulder casually but you quickly gave him a look that made him remove it.

"Why would I go anywhere with you?" as the two of you walked further from the group. "I don't trust you." you kept your voice serious and low.

His face changed immediately. It wasn't so confident and mischivious. It was worriesome and... nervous?

He was tall but not as lanky. His black jacket and slicked back hair, his eyes dark as the darkest shade of brown can get stopped sparkling. It almost made you let your guard down.

"It's embarrassing to ask you this..." he started and your crossed your arms over and leaned back, your eyes narrowing in suspicion. "My dad... he works with yours."

"I know that."

"I know..."

"And your father is respected in the community."

"Meaning he's a rich pureblood in your language." you snarked back and his eyes looked at you, wide and then they narrowed.

"You know what... forget it." his voice lowered into a stern, sharp tone. "I really thought you were different than those sore losers, you hang out with."

"Are you really calling my friends sore losers when trying to get a favor from me?" you scoffed.

He turned around and slicked back his hair.

He walked very fast to you and stopped a breath away. You could smell his cologne and you could almost feel his heartbeat through the air. "Are they really your friends? Because friends don't treat you the way they do for the past few weeks."

You felt speechless but you also felt frozen by his presence. "I didn't want to ignore your existance. I prayed 7 years ago that the Sorting Hat would bring you to our table but the moment you chose their company, you turned into them."

You felt guilty by that... it did happen like that but you were 11 years old and desperate for a group to belong to. So you did what every kid does- you blended.

"Why did you want me to be sorted to your house?" you whispered and his eyes focused on yours.

"Why do you think?" he whispered lower than you.

"HEY!" there was a shout behind him and in a flash, those brown eyes disappeared from your view.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, turnedh him around and threw a fist his way.

Nott flew the other way and you looked in front who it was- contrast to Nott's dark, there was a pair of light eyes, burning with fire. He looked at you, eyes wide and worried. "Are you okay?"

"ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?!" you shouted and rushed to Nott's aid. "WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU PUNCH HIM?!" you shouted.

"He was cornering you."

"He was not cornering me!!" you shouted back, lifting Nott's pretty face. No blood, just a slowly appearing swollen lump on his cheek. You turned sharply back at Sirius, James and Remus, even Peter standing behind him. "We were just talking!" you snarled back. "Are you okay?" you turned back to Nott, who was only smiling.

"I'm perfect, Love." he said back as he started to get up. "Quite a throw there, Black."

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" you threw fire his way.

"I was protecting you!" Sirius shouted back but you only felt more furious by the second.

"Fuck you!" you flipped him off and walked away with Nott. "Let's put some cold on that."

---

You sat in the Slytherin common room. Your legs were up on the armchair with you and you faced Nott on the two-seat couch, looking at you with a bag of peace on his cheek.

For a moment, you thought the Slytherins liked the cold but the room was rather cold and the silver-green tones gave a nice silhouette to the area. It was like this invisible veil that oozed you to serenity. Time felt as if it didn't exist.

"Is there a charm in the room?" you asked eventually and Nott smiled.

"No, not really... or if there is nobody really told us about it but it's nice." he answered.

"Not too shabby." you shrugged casually, though you felt quite impressed by it.

He chuckled, leaning forward and looking at the floor.

"I'm sorry about the... you know... my loser friends." you bit your lip and he looked up with his dark eyes.

"So now you admit they're losers?" he raised an eyebrow.

"About what they did without reason, I'm willing to call them that for this exception."

He kept watching you for a long pause at the end of your sentence. "I don't think there was no reason." he said and leaned back on the couch. "There was definitely a reason." he stretched.

"Like what?"

"Like that Black has the hots for you."

You bulged your eyes and laughed. "Hah! No... no he doesn't." you shook your head in disbelief.

"Oh, yeah? So there is just no way that he punched me when he saw me leaning close to you?"

"There is no way, yes." you admitted and he observed carefully.

He could see your face force a smile but there was something shameful behind it. So he shook his head and chuckled lightly.

"That's why then..." he said and broadened his smile.

"What do you mean?"

"You told him you fancied him and he rejected you." he blurted out.

Your eyebrows narrowed and you felt your guard build up immediately. "Excuse me."

"Oh, come on. It's written all over you."

"How would you even conclude all of that from my face?"

"Because I fancied you since the First Year and I thought I never stood a chance to Sirius Black- because from the way I saw it, you and him were like meant to be at some point. But it's been what? Seven years and he rejected you?"

You felt your cheeks burn up. "You fancied me?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely." he said as a matter a fact and you sat there quietly. He gazed at you for a moment. "How about... I do you a favor and you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"I show you that he fancies you and you help me with my father situation." his eyes shimmered in the light, his light red bruise matching his perfect dark brown pallete and let's be honest... how would you not be intrigued.

[leslutdepointedulac]

So me and my family spent the morning at a rescue looking at dogs and there's two that we're looking at inparticular and I shit you not one is giving pure Louis vibes while the other reminds me so much of Lestat it's literally Louis and Lestat but if they were dogs. The only thing is, we're only getting one but we love them both so making a decision is going to be so hard

[dbphantom]

maybe i should have gone into practical effects instead of computer science...

[oranberrie]

Ah the autistic experience of randomly remembering a situation from your childhood and realizing things

[camellia-thea]

don't want to study. don't want to do exam. i must do both.

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was in third grade I got Weird with writing. It makes sense in hindsight. Oppressed people find their own ways of carving out space for themselves.

The first bit I did landed me in trouble more immediately. I was given, god knows by who, one of those enormous giant pencils. I loved it. My tiny nine year old body was consumed with love of this pencil that was roughly 1/3 of my height. I insisted that I would only use this pencil in school.

It was an unlucky year to be stricken with whimsy. My third grade teacher was a tyrannical Japanese woman fueled by her dislike of children. I suspect the cultural divide between how she expected children to behave and the reality of American children broke her.

She was three foot nothing and getting berated by her was the first time I’d ever looked down at an adult. I also saw her once standing next to her white 6’ behemoth of a husband and tried to conceptualize how two such disparate people had sex. I never could.

If you think I’m exaggerating her wrath it’s worth noting that my best friend at the time developed a stress disorder from this woman and I fell into a bizarre stutter that cleared up the moment I was out of class. In her classroom breaking down crying was a weekly occurrence.

But despite the frigid conditions, I persevered. I stayed silly. I brought my enormous novelty pencil to class every day. It was an act of rebellion that I sank my teeth into and refused to let go. I could barely sharpen it because its girth defied standard sharpeners the way I defied my teacher. This was my pencil.

When she attempted to confiscate my giant pencil I rose an unholy ruckus. This would not turn into the confiscated holographic Charizard, my tamagotchi, or my little pop frogs that she never returned to me. No. This was my goddamn pencil. There was no rules against enormous novelty pencils and after a heated week of debate she finally conceded I could use the hated thing.

It was stolen by my kleptomaniac friend a week or so after that a fact I’d only discover at the end of the year. But my tiny mind was convinced the evil teacher had stolen it.

In retaliation, instead of resuming normal behavior I decided that I would do all my writing upside down and backwards. No one, least of all myself, could explain why I felt this was necessary. Maybe I felt I’d be cool like a spy, maybe I just needed to buck the teachers hateful authority, or maybe I was just a little autistic kid.

When taking notes or writing essays I’d arrange the paper to be upside down. It may surprise you to know that my penmanship was actually quite decent, albeit I wrote a little more slowly than my classmates. That’s why it took the teacher a while to realize what was going on. There wasn’t a drop in the quality of my writing.

Unsurprisingly she hated it when she found out. She lambasted me both privately and in front of the class to write normally. I asked if my writing was illegible. She had to admit that no, it was not. I shrugged. I did not see a problem.

Like the pencil my new writing fixation was cited as being a distraction to the other children. But similarly she didn’t have an easy way to make me stop. She marked me down, gave me several talking tos, and generally bullied me into writing like everyone else.

All attempts at correcting me simply ran off my back. I had found a way to cope with how miserable she made all of us, by inflicting misery back upon her. I was unswayed for the rest of the year.

When I graduated up into fourth grade and had a teacher I adored it suddenly stopped. I looked at the paper and thought, Well that’s silly, and flipped it the right way round.

I can still write upside down, though, a testament to my worst year in public school.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Sandra Newman’s “Julia”

The first chapter of Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four has a fantastic joke that nearly everyone misses: when Julia, Winston Smith's love interest, is introduced, she has oily hands and a giant wrench, which she uses in her "mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines":

https://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks01/0100021.txt

That line just kills me every time I re-read the book – Orwell, a novelist, writing a dystopian future in which novels are written by giant, clanking mechanisms. Later on, when Winston and Julia begin their illicit affair, we get more detail:

She could describe the whole process of composing a novel, from the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not interested in the finished product. She 'didn't much care for reading,' she said. Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces.

I always assumed Orwell was subtweeting his publishers and editors here, and you can only imagine that the editor who asked Orwell to tweak the 1984 manuscript must have felt an uncomfortable parallel between their requests and the notional Planning Committee and Rewrite Squad at the Ministry of Truth.

I first read 1984 in the early winter of, well, 1984, when I was thirteen years old. I was on a family trip that included as visit to my relatives in Leningrad, and the novel made a significant impact on me. I immediately connected it to the canon of dystopian science fiction that I was already avidly consuming, and to the geopolitics of a world that seemed on the brink of nuclear devastation. I also connected it to my own hopes for the nascent field of personal computing, which I'd gotten an early start on, when my father – then a computer science student – started bringing home dumb terminals and acoustic couplers from his university in the mid-1970s. Orwell crystallized my nascent horror at the oppressive uses of technology (such as the automated Mutually Assured Destruction nuclear systems that haunted my nightmares) and my dreams of the better worlds we could have with computers.

It's not an overstatement to say that the rest of my life has been about this tension. It's no coincidence that I wrote a series of "Little Brother" novels whose protagonist calls himself w1n5t0n:

https://craphound.com/littlebrother/Cory_Doctorow_-_Little_Brother.htm

I didn't stop with Orwell, of course. I wrote a whole series of widely read, award-winning stories with the same titles as famous sf tales, starting with "Anda's Game" ("Ender's Game"):

https://www.salon.com/2004/11/15/andas_game/

And "I, Robot":

https://craphound.com/overclocked/Cory_Doctorow_-_Overclocked_-_I_Robot.html

"The Martian Chronicles":

https://escapepod.org/2019/10/03/escape-pod-700-martian-chronicles-part-1/

"True Names":

https://archive.org/details/TrueNames

"The Man Who Sold the Moon":

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/05/22/the-man-who-sold-the-moon/

and "The Brave Little Toaster":

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_212

Writing stories about other stories that you hate or love or just can't get out of your head is a very old and important literary tradition. As EL Doctorow (no relation) writes in his essay "Genesis," the Hebrews stole their Genesis story from the Babylonians, rewriting it to their specifications:

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/41520/creationists-by-e-l-doctorow/

As my "famous title" stories and Little Brother books show, this work needn't be confined to antiquity. Modern copyright may be draconian, but it contains exceptions ("fair use" in the US, "fair dealing" in many other places) that allow for this kind of creative reworking. One of the most important fair use cases concerns The Wind Done Gone, Alice Randall's 2001 retelling of Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind from the perspective of the enslaved characters, which was judged to be fair use after Mitchell's heirs tried to censor the book:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suntrust_Bank_v._Houghton_Mifflin_Co.

In ruling for Randall, the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals emphasized that she had "fully employed those conscripted elements from Gone With the Wind to make war against it." Randall used several of Mitchell's most famous lines, "but vest[ed] them with a completely new significance":

https://law.justia.com/cases/federal/appellate-courts/F3/268/1257/608446/

The Wind Done Gone is an excellent book, and both its text and its legal controversy kept springing to mind as I read Sandra Newman's wonderful novel Julia, which retells 1984 from the perspective of Julia, she of the oily hands the novel-writing machine:

https://www.harpercollins.com/products/julia-sandra-newman?variant=41467936636962

Julia is the kind of fanfic that I love, in the tradition of both Wind Done gone and Rosenkrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead, in which a follow-on author takes on the original author's throwaway world-building with deadly seriousness, elucidating the weird implications and buried subtexts of all the stuff and people moving around in the wings and background of the original.

For Newman, the starting point here is Julia, an enigmatic lover who comes to Winston with all kinds of rebellious secrets – tradecraft for planning and executing dirty little assignations and acquiring black market goods. Julia embodies a common contradiction in the depiction of young women (she is some twenty years younger than Winston): on the one hand, she is a "native" of the world, while Winston is a late arrival, carrying around all his "oldthink" baggage that leaves him perennially baffled, terrified and angry; on the other hand, she's a naive "girl," who "doesn't much care for reading," and lacks the intellectual curiosity that propels Winston through the text.

This contradiction is the cleavage line that Newman drives her chisel into, fracturing Orwell's world in useful, fascinating, engrossing ways. For Winston, the world of 1984 is totalitarian: the Party knows all, controls all and misses nothing. To merely think a disloyal thought is to be doomed, because the omnipotent, omniscient, and omnicompetent Party will sense the thought and mark you for torture and "vaporization."

Orwell's readers experience all of 1984 through Winston's eyes and are encouraged to trust his assessment of his situation. But Newman brings in a second point of view, that of Julia, who is indeed far more worldly than Winston. But that's not because she's younger than him – it's because she's more provincial. Julia, we learn, grew up outside of the Home Counties, where the revolution was incomplete and where dissidents – like her parents – were sent into exile. Julia has experienced the periphery of the Party's power, the places where it is frayed and incomplete. For Julia, the Party may be ruthless and powerful, but it's hardly omnicompetent. Indeed, it's rather fumbling.

Which makes sense. After all, if we take Winston at his word and assume that every disloyal citizen of Oceania is arrested, tortured and murdered, where would that leave Oceania? Even Kim Jong Un can't murder everyone who hates him, or he'd get awfully lonely, and then awfully hungry.

Through Julia's eyes, we experience Oceania as a paranoid autocracy, corrupt and twitchy. We witness the obvious corollary of a culture of denunciation and arrest: the ruling Party of such an institution must be riddled with internecine struggle and backstabbing, to the point of paralyzed dysfunction. The Orwellian trick of switching from being at war with Eastasia to Eurasia and back again is actually driven by real military setbacks – not just faked battles designed to stir up patriotic fervor. The Party doesn't merely claim to be under assault from internal and external enemies – it actually is.

Julia is also perfectly positioned to uncover the vast blank spots in Winston's supposed intellectual curiosity, all the questions he doesn't ask – about her, about the Party, and about the world. I love this trope and used it myself, in Attack Surface, the third "Little Brother" book, which is told from the point of view of Marcus's frenemy Masha:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250757531/attacksurface

Through Julia, we come to understand the seemingly omniscient, omnipotent Party as fumbling sadists. The Thought Police are like MI5, an Island of Misfit Toys where the paranoid, the stupid, the vicious and the thuggish come together to ruin the lives of thousands, in such a chaotic and pointless manner that their victims find themselves spinning devastatingly clever explanations for their behavior:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/adamcurtis/entries/3662a707-0af9-3149-963f-47bea720b460

And, as with Nineteen Eighty-Four, Julia is a first-rate novel, expertly plotted, with fantastic, nail-biting suspense and many smart turns and clever phrases. Newman is doing Orwell, and, at times, outdoing him. In her hands, Orwell – like Winston – is revealed as a kind of overly credulous romantic who can't believe that anyone as obviously stupid and deranged as the state's representatives could be kicking his ass so very thoroughly.

This was, in many ways, the defining trauma and problem of Orwell's life, from his origin story, in which he is shot through the throat by a fascist: sniper during the Spanish Civil War:

https://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/soldiers/george-orwell-shot.html

To his final days, when he developed a foolish crush on a British state spy and tried to impress her by turning his erstwhile comrades in to her:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orwell%27s_list

Newman's feminist retelling of Orwell is as much about puncturing the myth of male competence as it is about revealing the inner life, agency, and personhood of swooning love-interests. As someone who loves Orwell – but not unconditionally – I was moved, impressed, and delighted by Julia.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/28/novel-writing-machines/#fanfic

[auroracalisto]

Hey can you do a fiyero x reader where the reader is afraid of being vulnerable and he helps them?

yes, superfartninja, i think i can.

to be changed.

movie!fiyero x gn!reader, 3.4k words summary: to be vulnerable meant to be defenseless. it was a liability and that's all it ever would be. fiyero couldn't have that, now could he? a/n: please remember that i only have movie knowledge, so this will be based solely on what i saw in the movie. :P also, shout outs to house song by searows (was on repeat for this fic). erm. this kind of got away from me. i started it was 12 AM and now it's nearly 2 AM. hope it's coherent.

It wasn't like you to be vulnerable. It just didn't happen. It was like... asking a fish or an elephant to climb a tree, or some other weird analogy that you heard oh-so-long ago, when vulnerability aged you more than it helped.

To be vulnerable meant to be hurt. To be ridiculed, to be laughed at, to be made a fool in front of anyone who cared to look your way. It was something that you knew was not needed. You would be fine living by yourself. You came into this world alone and screaming, and you would leave this world the same way.

If you cut out the wound before it began to fester, you solved the problem immediately. Or so they say.

So that's what you did, long ago, when you swore to yourself that the pain you felt would be the very last time. It would never happen again. It couldn't happen again.

Oh, Oz, it couldn't. Your heart couldn't take it.

What was left of your heart, anyway. Sometimes you feared you no longer had one, especially when you feared the pain that would haunt you if someone else came along and made you feel that way again.

It's not that you were afraid. No, fear of being vulnerable was foolish. At least... you believed that you weren't afraid of being vulnerable.

Perhaps that was an act of foolishness in itself. Pretending that you weren't afraid. Pretending that having few friends and few moments of happiness didn't pierce your heart with every passing second.

Perhaps you needed to be better. To be vulnerable, to swear off that silly promise you made to yourself so many years ago.

But it was so difficult.

Being vulnerable was to be in pain. To be lost to a world of sorrow. To be... hurt by the very thing you swore you'd never be hurt by again.

It wouldn't happen.

You wouldn't let it.

He existed in the back of your mind. His beautiful blue eyes, the way those pretty locks fell in front of his eyes when he actually studied his books (if he ever did, of course).

When was the last time he actually tried...? No. You couldn't think of him like that. Too much thinking about his pretty face would ruin you.

You had only talked to him a few times here and there, and the first time was to merely ask him to move out of the way. He took up quite a lot of space—or at least, maybe it was his confidence. It oozed from him like an air of upmost superiority.

No...

You were just being cruel. He was just standing in the way, out of breath from singing to Galinda in the library (because of course—who didn't sing to pretty girls in libraries anymore?).

The second time you spoke to him was over the essay you had to write in your literature class. Peer reviews were the bane of your existence, and this essay, because of course it did, had a simple prompt in response to one of your readings: Taking into account the author's sheer disdain for the idea of magic, write what you believe Oz would be like without magic.

Thought-provoking, yes. You wrote a decent two pages, handwritten of course.

He gave you a paragraph.

If the world of Oz existed without magic, perhaps we would all be better off. No more bickering over the usages of it all, no more idiosyncrasies, no more debates on whether you are intelligent or mediocre if you hadn't the ability to wave a wand or utter a simple spell. If we didn't have magic, perhaps life would be far more difficult, but I also feel as if we should see what it would be like. Maybe there would be less heartbreak. More happiness to go around.

Okay. A piss-poor paragraph that made you wonder how he was even passing Madame Lillabet's literature class.

Maybe he wasn't.

You didn't feel pity for the man—nobility had the ability to do so many things that you would only ever dream of. Why should you feel pity—vulnerability—for a man you didn't know, let alone understood?

Oz, even now, his essay haunted you. You did your best with your review, pointing out the obvious things missing—a decent thesis, body paragraphs that proved his thesis, and just in general, an entire essay that was expected of the entire class.

He merely read over your essay and made one simple comment: Excellent.

Oh, yes, excellent. It was excellent to know that he was just trying to help your essay, yes? Leaving that little comment, even though you didn't make full marks—how was it supposed to help you?

Pity be damned. He was a fool, through and through.

Things muddled in your mind like they often did. Thoughts racing, heartbeat close behind the quick pace.

If you had magic, you'd be sure to quell it.

These thoughts were the one thing that you wished you could squash under the heel of your boot. They were the bane of your existence, the utterance of a foolhardy penance to the god of whatever looked down upon you and wished for pain.

Perhaps that was what was meant for you.

A life of pain—of pity from others, of the amenability to be swayed by those around you even when you tried, desperately, to stay away from those who may catch your attention.

Like him.

Oh, Oz, just like him.

Fiyero.

The man who'd lose his head if it wasn't attached to his shoulders. The man who once told you in passing that if he hadn't a brain, perhaps classes would be easier—then he wouldn't truly be all there, and he'd easily get around the... well, specifics of it all. The man whom you felt tugging at your heartstrings, even when you told yourself no.

It would not happen.

It could not happen.

You would not let it.

In typical, terrible luck fashion, you found yourself wandering the halls of Shiz late at night, unable to sleep. The thoughts racing through your head of so many things, not just him (although they kept leading back to the fool), they just weren't stopping.

An exam was to be held tomorrow. Perhaps you could create a distraction—keep the professors from being able to do as they needed. There were a box of fireworks hidden in one of the many corridor closets, kept for special occasion. You could whip a few of them out and create so much chaos that they'd surely have to cancel the exam!

You leaned against the railing, looking down at the stonework of Shiz's courtyard. A chill ran down your spine from the cold breeze, and for once, all was silent if only for a moment.

His voice brought you out from your thoughts.

"Y/n," he said, an obvious smile playing at his lips.

You squeezed your eyes shut and glanced back at him. Without saying a word, you acknowledged him.

"Doesn't look like your dorm," he continued. "What are you doing out here, all alone?"

"Thinking."

His eyebrow quirked. "Thinking? Oh," he softly hummed, coming to stand beside of you. "Well, that's no fun, now is it? What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

He snorted softly. "You're thinking about... nothing?"

"Whatever I'm thinking is none of your business," you retorted.

He stared you down for a moment, tilting his head curiously. He hummed again and looked out at where you had been staring moments prior.

"You are right," he softly said, voice much quieter this time. "Let me lead you back to your room. We have an exam tomorrow, remember? You at least need to pretend to sleep."

You paused. Since when did he care about exams? You glanced at him, fighting the urge to question him. You let out a soft sigh and shrugged, allowing him to lead you to your dorm.

The walk was quiet, and you almost questioned how he knew where your dorm was, but you didn't. He seemed to pay attention better than most (it was part of that aloofness, you've noticed), and it wasn't the first time he had seen you near your dorm.

It was at least the third. The number had to be easy to memorize by now. 133.

As you opened your door, Fiyero spoke. "You know, I've been thinking..."

"Dangerous thing for you, isn't it?" you quipped, not looking at him as you stepped inside.

He let out a soft chuckle. You amused him to no end.

"Yes, perhaps," he softly said. "But besides. I was still thinking. I've been... well, wondering if perhaps you would—"

"—no."

He blinked slowly. "What? No? Y/n, you didn't even hear what I had to say—"

"—the answer is still no," you said. You glanced up at him from the spot you had been staring at, frowning. "I don't know what this is, but we are not friends. Do not ask me for favors."

"Not friends, hm?" he softly hummed, leaning against the doorway as he locked eyes with you. So knowing your dorm number was just a fluke.

"Not friends. Now if you'll excuse me, I should probably go and pretend to sleep."

His upper lip quirked in a faint smirk. Not friends, but you still joked with him as a friend would do. He rolled his eyes and gave you a rather joking half-bow.

"Of course," he said. "Do not let me keep you up. Perhaps I should find my dorm as well."

"You should do that," you simply said, shutting the door right after.

You didn't give him a chance to say anything else, quickly locking the door and heading back to your bed.

Heart pounding, mind still racing, but not with the thoughts of earlier. No, dear reader, your mind raced with thoughts of him.

So impressionable, so—so kind, so—well, was he really kind?

To you.

He was kind to you.

Nearly a week passed you by. The exam went rather well, without any kind of distraction. Passing marks and a somewhat decent night sleep.

You do everything you can to try and avoid Fiyero. Running this way and that, going through all of the longer corridors instead of the shortcuts you knew by heart. You did everything you could to avoid his handsome face.

You did everything you could to avoid the vulnerability that plagued your heart every time you thought of him.

If you simply embraced the wants of Fiyero, perhaps not having a brain would keep you from thinking this way. You'd still have a heart, sure, but it was much better than keeping yourself on your toes wondering if you'd see the damned man at any passing second.

On the hour of the rising moon, almost exactly on the dot, Fiyero spotted you. And this time, you were not evading him.

He practically took off after you, leaving his friends behind. They scoffed and called after him, but he didn't look back. His focus was on you.

He grabbed onto your wrist as you went to leave, not letting you go.

"Y/n! There you are," he softly said. "I have been looking everywhere for you. I wouldn't have thought it would be so difficult to find you, but—"

"—there you go, thinking again," you blurted, unable to stop yourself. Your tongue was wagging faster than your brain was working.

He weakly smiled. "Yes. I know. How ironic, hm?"

You watched as he stared you down.

"Look," he softly began. "I truly—I do not know what I did to deserve you ignoring me at any which way, but I wish you would tell me why. What did I do, Y/n? I thought—well, I assumed that we were friends, but perhaps I was wrong. I find myself wrong quite often nowadays."

"I—well, Fiyero, I—" you paused. You squeezed your eyes shut and inhaled a deep breath. "I don't have friends."

He blinked slowly. "You don't have friends? What of the one girl you were with the other day? Milla?"

"I do not have friends," you repeated. "I have... acquaintances. People I do not get attached to."

"That is sad."

"What?"

He raised an eyebrow. It seemed like a commonality when he spoke with you. The staple eyebrow raise had to happen or else he wasn't really chatting with you.

"It is sad. Why wouldn't you want to get attached to people?"

"I don't want to have meaningless relationships," you said. You avoided saying, I don't want to have relationships at all. "Not everyone can be as friendly as you, Fiyero."

He rolled his eyes. "Friendly. Yes. I talk to people, but I would rather not have all the attention that I do."

"Oh, that's rich," you said, scoffing. "You play the popular little prince and then claim you do not want it? What is that, Fiyero?"

Fiyero pursed his lips. "It is just—this is not a conversation about me. I wanted to have an intervention for you since you seemed as though you were avoiding me every which way. Now. Just—"

"—an intervention? What? Please. You sound ridiculous."

"So do you!" he returned, hands to his hips like an older man scolding a child for something they broke. "You vex me, Y/n! You act as if you are interested in me, then run away hiding like a scared little pup. You act as if you are afraid to get close to anyone."

You stared at him, lips parted ever-so-slightly. But it was enough. You were done for.

He let out a curt laugh. "You are."

"What?"

"You are. Scared. I can see it in you. You listen to what I have to say, even when the others don't. I've made an effort to pay attention to you. To see what you—"

"—Fiyero, stop."

"Do not tell me to stop, Y/n," he said, voice low with conviction. "Not now. Not when I've finally figured you out. You are scared. But of what? Being close to someone? Having a friend?"

You frowned. "I am not scared—"

"—you look at me like if I were to touch you, you'd melt."

"That doesn't mean anything!"

"I can see it in your eyes, Y/n," he said, not looking away. He held eye contact with you and hoped that you would continue to do the same. "You—you're scared. To open your heart to the people around you."

You frowned, again. It was perpetual anymore. "And you're a sad man who dances and pretends everything is fine because Galinda said you looked pretty one day."

He blinked slowly, a smile quirking on his lips. "Maybe. But this—this isn't about me, Y/n. This is about you."

"What even is this? I didn't agree to have you psychoanalyze everything I've ever done."

"Neither did I, yet here we are," he said. "I've had a lot of time to think, to mull it over, and I know it. I know it now. You are scared. I don't know what happened to you. I don't know who hurt you in your past, or if something tragic happened to make you so cold inside, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with being... with being vulnerable, Y/n. There's something... magical, even, about opening up to others."

"Oh, and you would know, wouldn't you?"

He frowned. "Y/n—"

"—no. Absolutely not. You do not get to sit there and ridicule me for not wanting to be close to people and then not take what I give you," you said. "You do not let anyone close to you. Sure, Galinda, but what does she know about you? Does she know how you half-ass everything? How you hardly even talk to your 'friends' and just let them float along with you like everything is fine and dandy? You're as sad as I am, if that's what you're trying to say. Don't try to fool yourself."

"I am not trying to fool myself," he softly said. "I am only trying to make it known that I see you. I see myself in you."

"Oh, that's rich," you said, scoffing. "The rich, popular boy sees himself in little ol' me. That's perfect."

"Y/n—"

"—no. Don't. Stop. Just. I don't want to talk to you anymore. We're not friends. We never were friends. Just leave me alone."

It's simple, but it shuts him down. And with that, you run from his side, rushing to hide away in your dorm.

You couldn't believe what you did. Blowing up at him instead of listening to what he had to say. He read you like the children's book your heart truly was—while everyone else focused on the words, he focused on the pictures. The minute details that seemed to pass by everyone's mind because the story was flowing far too quickly.

He saw the delicate brush strokes, the intricate colors, the pieces of you that the words did not show.

He knew you.

And it scared you.

Only you knew yourself. If anyone else were to know who you were, deep inside, well, that would be disastrous.

It couldn't happen.

You couldn't let it.

Fear.

Perhaps fear was the best way to describe the way you felt.

You sat by the edge of the lake in the forest just beyond Shiz's campus, fingers gently brushing against the water. The surface rippled, sending small waves to the end of the shore.

You were afraid.

Of what?

Of a man knowing you?

Of Fiyero knowing you better than even your family once knew you?

You sat there, thoughts racing through your mind. It was as if you couldn't avoid them anymore.

Days had passed since you blew up at Fiyero and ran. You couldn't avoid him forever, you knew that, but it seemed as if your thoughts believed the same.

Tears pricked at your eyes. The warm, salty tears began to fall before you could even try to stop them, and a soft sob bubbled at the back of your throat.

"Y/n?"

Shit.

You quickly wiped your tears away and looked back at him—at Fiyero. But your tears wouldn't stop. A soft sob rippled through you and you turned your head away.

Fiyero came to your side, kneeling down in the soft earth beside of you. He inwardly grimaced at the dirt, but he said nothing of it. He'd bathe in mud if it meant you would stop your tears.

He reached forward, gently placing a hand to your cheek. He turned your head to face him.

"Y/n," he softly said. "It's alright. You... you're alright."

Another sob.

He pulled you into his arms, and you let him. You didn't pull away, melting into his embrace as he said you would before. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, situating himself so he would be more comfortable near you.

He softly hummed a soft tune—you remembered it. The one thing he hummed quite often when you caught him alone, or trying to focus on his school work.

Dancing through life, skimming the surface... Life's more painless for the brainless.

He was just a sad boy with needs of his own, much like you were scared of being seen. Of being known.

Of being loved.

Oh. Oh, that's what it was.

It terrified you to no end.

Fiyero pressed a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, gently cupping your cheeks in his hands.

"What's got you so upset, love?" he softly asked, wiping your tears away gently with his thumbs.

You shook your head. "I... later," you mumbled. You leaned into his grasp, and you could have sworn you saw his eyes soften.

He released a soft, shaky sigh of his own, before he pulled you back into his arms. He'd hold you until the end of the world if that's what you needed him to do.

Being vulnerable—it was the one thing you had told yourself you would never do. Ever again. And here you were, letting this man hold you and practically lull you into a calmness you'd never felt before.

Is this what it felt like? To be... weak? To be... frail?

No.

Vulnerability... it didn't mean that.

It meant that you were... open. That you had managed to open your heart to a more... malleable form.

To be changed.

To find the one thing in life that you knew would keep you going for as long as it could.

To be vulnerable meant to be loved.

[crescenthistory]

hii 🫶🏻🫶🏻!

im not sure if you've written for james potter before, but if you're up for it, could i request d5 with him? i thought like, reader is a slytherin and she fooled around with barty while she was with james. also not sure if you're okay with writing cheating, (feel free to ignore this is you're not!)

hi lovie! thank you for your request<3 i don't vibe with cheating storylines, but this inspired me to write a one-shot of james pining for reader but thinking she's with barty because they're such close friends. i hope that still scratches your itch!

Prompt: D.5 "But do you love me?" changed into "But you are in love with me?"

Words: 3.7k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, slytherin!reader (sassy/feisty), use of y/n, james pov which includes relentless pining and silly comments, genuine yearning, miscommunication, bsf!barty, slight jealousy/envy, some self-deprecation, background skittles rosekiller and dorlene

The Boy with the Glasses is Blind

James could have kicked himself.

Despite what some professors insinuate, he is usually quite bright – he just so happens to prefer dedicating his intellect to good-willed humour and pranksting rather than gruelling essays that have already been written a thousand times before. He felt he had properly demonstrated his abilities for creativity and strategy with everything he had pulled off over the years, both the pranks he took credit for and the ones they were never able to pin on him.

Yet, here he was.

Sitting in the Transfiguration class shared by most Gryffindors and Slytherins in their year, where Professor McGonnagal in some horrific – in James' previous sentiments – attempt to bridge some gaps and mend some fences, seated a Slytherin and a Gryffindor together at every table. Sitting beside you, the one Slytherin he had never seemed to fully dislike nor target with his more insidious of pranks, but a Slytherin nonetheless, and attached at the hip with one Barty Crouch Junior.

Yes, here he was, sitting beside you and staring at you with what most look like cartoonish heart eyes.

It was not something he necessarily expected to happen, at least not to this extent. You had always held his interest, a fascinating person from who you were to how you spoke and where you placed yourself in society, but it was easily brushed off in the flurry of everything else that surrounded the young boy. In here, he couldn't escape you as easily, and once he realised just what he had been depriving himself of in his avoidance of you, he couldn't escape you even when you weren't around. To him, you were everywhere.

James Fleamont Potter was falling more head over heels in love with a Slytherin with every passing minute. Sirius would have kicked him blue and yellow had he dared open his mouth and voice what was running through his mind when he admired you. Though, James supposed, some of those thoughts were perhaps best never uttered out loud to anyone.

He really couldn't help himself, he thought, it was all your fault for being so sodding angelically flawless. From the first lesson when you playfully threatened him to "behave, Potter, and not soil my education with your unruliness" with that glimmer in your eyes that felt like it must have been reserved for him from a previous life, he has had to pick his jaw up from the floor whenever your eyes meet. The way you carried yourself with a lightheartedness and crackling self-assurance, the way your hair cascaded around you as you turned to him, the way your occasionally crude words towards him were softened by your exuberant tone, as if you took as much pleasure from your back-and-forth exchanges as he did, but with none of the guffawing – a stronger man would have faltered, and James had no qualms about admitting that for you, he was rather weak.

And then there was the way you grinned with your whole body whenever you spoke to your friends and your–

And therein lies the issue.

No gem can sparkle that brightly and not be picked up and admired. To anyone with eyes, let alone ears, it was painfully clear that one Barty Crouch Junior had already snatched up his Treasure, as he called you. James was too late.

The nickname felt tacky in James' mouth as he silently felt around it, trying to figure out what it would feel like to have you as he does. It felt too cheesy, not elegant enough for someone like you, not perfect enough, though James supposes nothing quite could be. Nor was he any better himself, angels and loves had already slipped from his tongue, only to be laughed away as a quip and not a confession – and he didn't even have the right to, not the way Junior did.

You were seated beside James, he could imagine himself feeling your body heat seeping through your clothes and into his if he inched even a centimetre or two closer to you. He could hear your laughter in his ears, he captured the smile in your eyes with his own as often as he could, but even here, within his direct vicinity, he saw the effect Barty had on you. How the two of you seemed to be able to communicate with limited words, mostly through glances and silly facial expressions from where he sat a few rows ahead, fully twisted in his chair to get a good look at you.

James couldn't blame him. It was how he wanted to turn around and stare at you whenever you were near him as well. That maniacal grin on Junior's lips was something James wanted to resent, but also wondered if he would be wearing himself, if he was allowed to brandish it on you.

Unlike Junior, though, he couldn't. James is not a jealous man, he felt he owed his father not to be, but there were few words to describe the sensation building in his throat other than envy. And, perhaps most painfully, a yearning so significant it ached its way through his bones until he was left pliable and broken.

"You with me, Potter?"

James' smile smacked right back onto his lips, albeit slightly more forced than normal as he forced his eyes away – from what he hoped seemed like Junior's general direction and not him specifically – to lock onto yours. There was a quizzical expression on your face and mirth playing over your lips, your soft, beautiful lips.

"Yeah," James made out hoarsely, clearing his throat. "Early mornin' s'all."

The mirth stretched out into a wide, teasing grin on your face, and although James was certain it was at his expense, it melted his own smile into a more genuine one. "Uh-huh. What's made you so tired? You're usually caffeine incarnated first thing in the morning."

"Are you saying you're missing my usual self, love?" Easy, easy, keep it easy.

"I'm saying you're suspicious," you replied with a gleam in your eyes. "Although, you always are. Perhaps it would be suspicious if you weren't behaving suspiciously."

James laughed a bit too loudly at that, warmth spreading in his stomach. "Don't go philosophical on me, L/N."

"I won't, if you don't go boring on me. Transfiguration's enough of a chore as it is."

Pride bloomed out of the spot envy inhabited in James' throat. Somehow he felt just as guilty for both of them, and was just as unable to suppress it as it flowed into his bloodstream.

"Well, when I know you're missin' me so, I can't very well let my best girl down, can I?"

"What a presumptuous young man," you say, words becoming a whisper as McGonnagal walks in to begin her lecture. Despite your smug smile as you said so, James couldn't help but feel slightly rattled at you pointing out the truth to him.

He righted himself in his seat and attempted to dedicate his attention to the Head of Gryffindor, which, unfortunately, he had never been good at even before his entire mind, body and soul seemed to be possessed by the stunner sitting beside him in class. His eyes kept darting over to you, smiling at your facial expressions, even more so when you occasionally caught his gaze with a smile of your own. A strand of hair fell out of your hairstyle as you cocked your head to look at him. James couldn't decide whether he wanted it to stay messy or if he wanted to be the one to tuck it back in for you. His hands remained drumming on the desk.

He attempted to focus up on the lecture, but poor Minnie's voice simply became droning to him when his nose was filled with the smell of you, making him slightly lightheaded. And Merlin, the way you were biting your lip while you took notes – it was an actual miracle he hadn’t melted into a puddle on the classroom floor by now.

Then, his attention was abruptly captured by a small piece of parchment whirring right past his face to force itself into your hand on the desk. You were shaking, smiling over the lip you were still biting as you opened it.

James – in a totally cool non-creepy fashion, of course – tried to get a good luck at the note, but couldn't without giving it away. What he definitely could tell, though, was how Junior was snickering at you over his shoulder like a hyena. Not the borderline scary snicker James had been victim of before, but a fond one, like you were sharing a secret together just the two of you.

Unable to watch more of your reaction, James looked back onto the desk, willing himself away.

You were never one to allow him reprieve, giving him a discreet poke with your wand. When he looked up, your head was in your hand and you were leaning your head sideways to look at him. “Daydreaming again, Potter?” you whispered.

His cheeks burned. “Not a chance,” he responded a bit too quickly, causing you to smile in delight as you leaned closer to him. His heart gave a particularly hard thud at that.

“Are you sure? Because you’ve been staring at my notes for a few minutes, and last I checked, you don’t even take notes. So it's clearly no ruse to copy me.”

“I take notes!" James tried to retort, but when you levelled him with a stare he just smiled indulgently at you instead. "Occasionally."

"Yeah, you're a total swot, babe," you laughed quietly, shooting McGonnagal a quick glance to make sure you're still being discreet.

He knows you're messing with him, he knows it's just colloquialism, but he would have paid embarrassing amounts for you to call him that again.

"Very well might be, you're quite contagious, angel." The slight snort that escaped you at that probably made his day.

“Uh-huh,” you said softly, for the second time that lesson. “Whatever you say, Gryffindor.”

By the grace of Godric, McGonagall dismissed class before James combusted like he thought he would. He exhaled in relief, but it was short-lived as his nerves shot up as you began to pack your stuff, knowing he won't see you again until dinner. Not that he had memorised your schedule, or anything.

He opened his mouth, hoping to think of something clever and smooth to keep your attention for even a second longer, when your usual company approached your shared desk. He heard Junior's laugh before he saw him, eyes still trained on you, and when he turned Barty, Dorcas and Evan had formed some circle around you, chattering away with a casualness he rarely witnessed up close.

“Tomorrow’s going to be incredible,” Dorcas exclaimed almost-giddily, pulling her scarf up around her neck. “I can't wait to let off some steam finally."

“Oh, I'm sure you will, Cas,” you replied teasingly, pointing a finger at her teasingly. "Asked a certain blonde to join you yet?"

"How about you mind your business, Missy?" She shot back trying to shove your face away, but you dodged, using James' arm as a shield. He felt like a mannequin the way he stood beside you, almost dumbly, frozen by the exchange.

Evan just snickered. “Good luck prying Barty away from the game section, he's still pissy about last time."

"You mean when he gambled away all–" Dorcas was shut up with a quick silencio from Barty, which she quickly fought through and stuck her tongue out at him for.

"Hearsay and goss, I tell you!" Barty declared, shoving Evan aside to come stand beside you, arm circling around your waist. "I almost didn't go this year, I'm only joining because Treasure here practically threatened me to."

"Yeah, how dare you even consider leaving me to the wolves," you retorted to him at the same time as Dorcas murmurs something about "yeah, didn't wanna go because you lost so bad".

"Nah, we can't have that," Barty agreed with you while shooting Dorcas a glare, and then he – to James' utter pain and heartbreak – pressed a kiss to the top of your head while squeezing your hip.

Nevermind that it was a quick kiss, nevermind that you laughed at him. James just saw lips against skin.

Now that Junior was basically cuddling you standing up (James wanted no corrections calling this description an exaggeration), James had gravitated further away from you. He may have lost his mind with this whole lovesickness, but he respected you, your choices and your space. With the way you were throwing your head back laughing with your friends about some plans James didn't even know about, he knew he was not wanted nor needed here.

Pulling his bag closer towards his body, he gave a quick nod to no one in particular and turned around, headed towards the door.

"James, wait up!"

Your voice cut through his mind's ramblings, as it always does, and your use of his first name brought flowers to his vision once more. He turned around, hoping to look mostly casual but he's sure his face was an open book. His eyes zeroed in on you walking towards him, leaving your group of friends and Junior behind, but he heard a telltale laughter and he hoped it wasn't at how stupidly in love he looked with someone he could never have.

James blinked at you in confusion as you stopped before him, but you just wore the simplest smile on your face.

“Want to take a walk with me?” you asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"What?" he asked dumbly.

There was mirth in your gaze when you repeated your question. "We both have a free period now, I usually spend it in our common room. But I'm asking if you want to take a walk with me instead?"

James had to physically restrain himself from replying "I know" when you disclosed your habit, while also wondering how and why you came to know his schedule.

He managed to sputter out a response. “Yeah, yes, of course.” He couldn’t quite stop the grin from spreading across his face, and he felt a bit like an overeager puppy, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you looked rather pleased, which only made his heart race faster.

"Enthusiasm gets you everywhere, Potter," you responded calmly, falling into step with him as you led him out of the classroom, leading him down the less-frequented hallways. The road less travelled by.

The two of you strolled down the corridor, side by side, with the chilly autumn breeze filtering through an open window. James wanted to say something witty, something that would make you laugh, but he was mostly in his head, confused about everything that transpired the past few minutes.

"What's that about the fair?" He decided that was safe territory, though he feared having you recount all your plans with Junior there.

"Oh, you have no idea," you started excitedly. James pretended it didn’t cut a bit that he had no idea. "It's this annual fair that Pandora – you know, Rosier – discovered back in fourth. It's got the weirdest, coolest booths and games you'll ever see, with performances from unique professionals. It usually changes every year, last time it was a fire manipulator and a necromancer."

Upon James' quirked brow at you finding fire and necromancy the coolest, you continued. "Come on, you Marauders would have loved it. There's prank ideas and props to last you for months. And there's great food as well."

"Okay, okay," James laughed as he maintained eye contact with you. "I believe you, sounds fun. I hope you guys enjoy it."

If James wasn't as bright as he was, he might have mistook the flash of emotion across your face as a small bout of uncertainty or insecurity.

"Actually, that's something I wanted to ask you about," you started, trailing off as you stopped by one of the larger windows in the hallway, leaning against the windowsill. He followed your example, attention wholly on you. "We have this tradition, my friends and I, that we use the fair as an opportunity to challenge ourselves in some way, do something that... I guess something that scares us."

James just nodded, keeping his attention on you as his heart beats in his chest. Your smile turned a bit rueful.

"That's actually what I was messing with Cas about earlier," you continued. "She's finally asking your friend Marlene out on a date, to go with her to the fair."

That's what you wanted to talk about? James admired you almost more for how dedicated you were to your friends.

"I can tell you without a doubt that Marls would say yes," he reassured you with a smile. "Those two have been a work in progress for ages."

"For so long, it's been physically painful to witness," you laughed. That sound is anything but painful to witness.

James hummed in response, laughter rumbling through his chest as he continued to take you in, scanning your face.

"What are you doing that scares you?" he asked before he could stop himself.

You took a deep breath, chin up in that almost defiant way as you held his gaze. "I'm actually following in Dorcas' footsteps... or I guess perhaps beating her to it, seeing as she hasn't yet."

James blinked at you, clueless as to what you're leading up to.

"I wondered if you wanted to go with me to the fair?"

He felt as if he had been slapped in the face and like he was coming up for air after a long snog. He didn't really know what he felt, just that it was a lot, too much, even for him.

"I'd love to," he blurted out with a breath, words scrambling together. Then, his brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to understand your sentence. "I mean– with me, are you sure? Aren't you going with, erm, with Junior?"

You gave him a puzzled look, cocking your head at him as if he had said something entirely irrelevant. "What do you mean?"

James looked sheepish and couldn’t quite meet your gaze over the sound of his own heart breaking. "I mean, it would be really nice to go with you to the fair, anywhere really, but wouldn't Junior mind?"

"Barty–" You cut yourself off, still looking confused. "Barty's the one who's been encouraging me to ask you out, actually. What are you on about?"

"Why?" was all James could breathe out, world unravelling in a way that made his stomach twist with painful hope.

"Um, because I like you? And unless I have suddenly lost all my interpretation skills, I am quite certain you've been fond of me for quite some time too, Potter."

"I am, but– wait– you are? What?" James guffawed. His intense confusion irritated his skin apparently because he had a sudden urge to scratch the back of his neck, his upper arms and pretty much any other piece of flesh. Maybe the embarrassment could be peeled off that way.

Despite it all, you laughed heartily and, what James was beginning to realise, bemusedly maybe even adoringly at his failure to speak. It seemed like you had pieced together everything he couldn't.

"Yeah, I like you, you sod. Think I just flirt with everyone?"

An "I hope not" lies on the tip of his tongue, but instead he shook his head in admonishment.

"Snake's got your tongue, babe?" you asked him, taking a taunting step closer.

"Looks like it," James mumbled, eyes zeroed in on your face as heat rose to his own. Growing bolder in your declaration, he continued, "I suppose I'm just confused. I always thought you were with Junior? That you two were... in love."

The last words brought a grimace to his lips, like it pained him to say. As if on instinct, your hand shot forward to wipe beneath his bottom lip to coax the frown off his face. His lips parted in shock and suspense at your touch and when you seemed to realise what you had done, you pulled your hand back quickly. You had the decency to look slightly flustered after that, allowing him some semblance of a more even playing field.

"No, James," you whispered with a smile as you shook your head. "Barty is my best friend and I love him with my whole heart. But I never have, and never will be in love with him. Him and Evan have been an item for, like, ages."

Finally, a brilliant smile – one you would later describe to him "shone like the sun" to which he attacked you with kisses because "that's so sodding cute of you to say, you sappy romantic" – took over his face.

Without thinking, he stepped closer to you, hand coming up to brush carefully against your cheek as you looked wide-eyed at his positivity and adoration now radiating off of him. "But you're in love with me?" he whispered with rapture, up to speed at last.

It took you a moment before you chuckled lightly, sheepishly looking down at your feet before once more meeting his piercing gaze.

"How about we start with that date, and see where it goes from there, huh pretty boy?"

So, yes, James most certainly could have and probably should have kicked himself – but right now, he found that he had other business he would much rather attend to.

[dumbass-sappho-stan]

hit first and hit hard || challengers

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ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴛ ᴅᴏɴᴀʟᴅꜱᴏɴ, ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ᴢᴡᴇɪɢ, ᴛᴀꜱʜɪ ᴅᴜɴᴄᴀɴ

— fem! reader

summary: the tennis girl weaves her way through simple lover's quarrels and one manipulative blonde boy.

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦(?), 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴/𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 sleepy 𝘛𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪 𝘋𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘯

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ʜɪ! ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏ, ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ, ʏ'ᴀʟʟ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴏ, ꜱᴏ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ! ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏ'ᴀʟʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ.

​🇼​​🇴​​🇷​​🇩​ ​🇨​​🇴​​🇺​​🇳​​🇹​: 7.7k

Read Part One here!

𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙏𝙬𝙤: 𝙇𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙁𝙊𝙍𝘿, 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙄𝘼, 2007

𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺

The days following your fight with Art were rife with silence and solitude. Sequestered alone in your dorm, you lay there either working on your piling homework or listening to 'emo'-esque music to help funnel your emotions, but that still didn't help.

As much as you hate to admit it the one thing that did was tennis. Wanting to avoid Art and even Tashi, you went as early as possible. Every morning since the fight for at least a solid week, you got up at 4:30 AM, dressed, jumped the court fence to practice for about 5 hours, and exited just as the other 'early' players showed up.

It invigorated you to be energized early in the day and you sometimes smashed the ball or even your racquet if you felt like it. Being alone wasn't a new circumstance for you but it was certainly novel as of late. You were so used to Art's presence on the court and in your life.

Dinners were spent together, and silly chats you two had were the norm for at least a year. Not to mention the bizarre push and pull with the romantic tension between you two. Even before Stanford, you'd labored to get his phone number, after begging Tashi for a few days and speaking to him on the phone constantly.

Though, the blonde seemed just as ardent as you in your aversion to one another. He had tried calling you multiple times and texting but it was fruitless. You'd picked up the phone once to only put it back down.

 ⋆★⋆

"I'm so sorry," Art sobbed, he sounded as if someone had stabbed him, "I'm so, so sorry." You said nothing and stayed neutral. You, unfortunately, picked up the phone after Donaldson had called it 23 times in the past 2 days, and decided the 24th would be the last. It was time to be the bigger person and end the fight between you two.

"Me too, Art." Muttering drily you heard his hiccups stop, and a loud sigh of relief. You could almost feel the weight being lifted off of his shoulders.

He whispered your name softly, "I never meant to hurt you. I just... I wanted to say what I thought you wanted."

A sharp pain shot through your chest as those lethal words left his lips and pure white-hot vexation replaced whatever emotion had been there previously. It was silent between the two of you, which confused the boy.

Art called your name but was interrupted, "You know what I want Art Donaldson?" You roared, "For your fucking castration to be slow and painful!"

 ⋆★⋆

The poor cutesy, pink Motorola Razr was no longer a phone after the conversation and lay shattered on your floor for days before you finally felt bad and threw it out. Your new one, a hue of bright cherry red, felt much more fitting for this new lifestyle.

Tashi you didn't actually avoid, more like you didn't tell her what was wrong. If beating around the bush was a professional sport you would've left tennis ages ago. Every time you and Tashi would be talking, in your small instants outside of your room or the court that week, Art would approach and you'd immediately give these automated lines;

"Oh shit, Tashi, sorry I got an essay to write!"

"Oops! I forgot I had a thing I have to get to so.."

"It's what time? I gotta go walk my fish!"

Ausispously, these went unnoticed by Tashi because in every single one of the instances you slipped away back to your dorm and to your desolation, without as much as a blink from your friend. If you weren't so content in your loneliness you probably would have been much more uncertain or at least unhappy about her sudden disconnect from you, but chalked it up to Patrick being in town for a longer period.

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𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗖𝗞 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗖𝗞

𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗖𝗞 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗖𝗞

The loud pounds landed dully against your door and woke you up immediately. Your body sat up and the sun's harsh blare into your tiny room flashed in your face, nearly blinding you upon waking up. You frantically glanced around your dorm room, seeing if it was something inside rather than external.

But no, all in your room were your postered walls full of music artists, art pieces themselves, silly photos of you and your friends from home (though most of those photos were overshadowed by Tashi's), and other miscellaneous items that sat around. In the small moment of silence between pounds, you began to slightly enjoy the pleasing sight of how pretty your room looked in the California dawning sun.

However, you were quickly slapped back into reality because the pounding had not ceased; seemingly getting louder if it was imaginable. What the fuck... That specific thought rattled through your foggy brain and your face contorted to deep confusion—even fear. Yet, you finally got the motivation to gradually inch toward the door, not even knowing who the fuck could be on the other side. The door rattled and shook explosively the closer you got until a hand to the handle.

The metal felt cool and smooth under your grasp. Soon flinching at the pounding and slightly wondered how your neighbors didn't get pissed off yet. But, you focused and opened the door.

Then there he was, Patrick Zweig, in all his glory posed in a mid-pound gesture at your dorm room door, staring straight at you.

"Hi,"

"Hey..."

Patrick soon pushed his way past you, walking into your dorm unphased. "Okay, just come right in.." You muttered, shutting the door behind you before turning to him. He stood in the middle of your room, inspecting it like he's the fucking DA. Nevertheless, he looked quite pretty as he was dressed in a simple white t-shirt with some dorky slogan and jorts—fit for California weather.

The silence was palpable between you two, Patrick seemed unbothered, almost jovial, and the signature devilish glint in his eyes. You, in contrast, glared at him like he was the spawn of Satan.

"Don't you look joyful?" Patrick chuckled, a playful smile soon following. Your scowl didn't budge but despite that, he came toward you with arms open wide, and enclosed you in a hug, "I'm certainly happy to see you." His words were muffled in the tangled mess that was your hair at this early of an hour. You hugged back briefly, then pressed him off.

"Pounding at my door at..." You glanced at the digital clock, "Jesus Christ, 7:15 in the morning?!" A small chuckle left Patrick again at his ability to get a rise out of you. You crossed your arms angrily and pinched the bridge of your nose with a sigh.

"Well, I'm eager to see one of my two special girls," He quipped, leaning back on your window sill with a surprising suaveness. That had become his nickname for you and Tashi over the past months. His 'special' girls were his way of flirting with you and getting on your nerves all at the same time. Both he and your best friend found it hilarious.

"Zweig, you have a pretty fucking odd way of showing 'enthusiasm'," A scoff left your lips just as you sauntered to the bathroom that was tangent to your room. The brunette soon followed and leaned on the doorway as you started your routine.

"I adore you, pookie!" A shutter audibly left you when he drawled out the terribly cheesy nickname. That one was the worst.

"Bleugh," You gagged, "Jesus Christ, Patrick why can't you be normal?" Somehow you frowned even deeper if that was even possible.

The boy laughed in reply, "Because who would be around to force you to have some fun?" Patrick looked at you with those eyes, his pretty forestry eyes that have broken hearts all across the country, they were meant for you. It made you want to stare back with your own, basking in it like a summer's day. And that smile, god— his smile was the sun itself. If Art was the ice, Patrick was the fire, the sun. The sun's light could always melt the winter's snow, you assumed he was with Tash for that similar reason. Opposites attract.

You started to feel yourself blush, your mind overthinking and repeating thoughts that all were about him, Patrick.

Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.

Hastily, you rushed to turn on the faucet and started to forcefully wash your face. Hopefully, it would wash away the shame that overtook the sudden rush of emotions for your best friend's boyfriend. Damnit, this is what happens when you don't get laid for a week... Scolding yourself internally, you washed your face and sighed to look back at him. As you expected, his eyes were still on you. But something had changed, the playfulness just wasn't there. It was something else, but you didn't have the time to place it before he looked away.

"So," Patrick spoke your name, "I haven't seen you for my entire time here, and..." He paused for effect, "I missed you."

You gasped dramatically and put a hand to your chest, "Me? Patrick Zweig misses me?" Teasing him with a smile, "What an honor! What's next, I get taken to the Dollar Tree?"

Laughter bounced off the small walls as the two of you were terribly unfunny and it was mutually known. It didn't stop you two from laughing at the stupidity of it. The laughter endured for a moment or two before it died down.

"But really," Patrick started to pull himself together, "I did miss you. Y'know how Art is these days, and Tashi only wants to talk about fucking tennis..." He stepped closer to you, close enough for his hand to slightly caress your free arm. "You're honestly my only friend right now..."

You laugh awkwardly, eyes darting everywhere from his own. Patrick was looking at you, you knew it, but if you looked now you wouldn't be responsible for what you would do after. Self-control was one of the better traits you'd taken from Tashi—you stepped away from his touch and smiled thinly.

"Oh come on Patrick," The shitty tile of your bathroom floor seemed more and more interesting as the seconds passed, "Tashi's just trying to help you." You knew what he was referring to as Tashi complained of Patrick's inability to listen to criticism.

Patrick scoffed at this and rolled his eyes, regardless didn't reply. He dropped the subject, realizing ages ago you'd always choose to defend Tashi over anyone else. He shifted back to his original plan.

"Okay, that's whatever, would you like to go out tonight then?" He asked, his original jovial tone returning, and suddenly like that, everything was okay. The bizarre tension was gone and you could meet his gaze with a knowing face.

"I'll think about it." That answer seemed good enough for Patrick, you witnessed a cheesy exclamation and a terrible fist pump to follow. You sighed at his absurdity but it finally got him out of your doorway as he sauntered back out to your room.

"Great! I'll see you at 8 tonight," He announced, walking toward the door and out the door before he could hear your faint, "Patrick I don't-"

It was suddenly silent in your dorm again. Which, you were grateful for as it meant now you had time to concentrate; you could possibly continue your new 15-step life plan of isolation and become the second-best tennis-female player of all time, Tashi would be the first. Or get black-out drunk tonight and forget all about everything. Each option was very crucial.

A few hours of homework later, you had determined two things like you had done a week ago. One, yes you did need to get black-out drunk, Two, you had to make more male friends that weren't your best friend's boyfriend or said boyfriend's best friend.

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The club was hot and sweaty, it felt as if it'd swallow you whole with the number of people who crowded around you. Dancing, grinding, touching. You hadn't drunk enough alcohol for you to start to enjoy this feeling so off to the bar you went. Patrick followed in tandem, keeping a good trail on you as he was the "designated driver", though you were sure that both of you were going home in a taxi that night.

Patrick ordered a round of 10 shots of assorted types of strong-smelling alcohol and smiled at you, though the smile made you queasy. It exactly mirrored Tashi's smile when she forced you to do shit.

"My favorite girl, pick your poison," The brunette snickered, taking in the blank features that had taken over. "Unless you're a pussy."

"Oh, I'm a pussy?" You raised your eyebrow in defiance, "Please, Patrick, watch and learn." Mirroring his confident smirk, you picked up one random shot and took it back. Then another, and another, and another... Soon there were only 3 shots left for your friend and your tongue started to go numb. The boy laughed at your efforts and followed your lead by taking the rest of the shots.

Shortly, you were on the dance floor, the colored lights seemed so much more welcoming and the touch of strangers felt like a blaze. You drunkenly danced with Patrick, spinning and moving against each other, hands above the waist for both of you as it felt anything but personal. Occasionally you two would make eye contact for too long and would just erupt in giggles and he'd take you for another spin. Patrick knew how to have fun and pulled you along for the ride.

During some Nelly Furtado song, you'd finally gotten fatigued of the club after who knows how long of dancing, drinking, and other illicit activities that involved a certain plant. You tugged at Patrick's collar of his shirt and he stopped his movement.

"Patrick," You slurred, "I wanna go home.." He looked down at your figure and nodded his head. Patrick led you off of the dance floor and finally outside of the club. You clutched onto his shirt on the walk to the car, which honestly felt like miles. Patrick filled the air with little comments about the people who had filled the club and it made you giggle. Though, as drunk as you were anything could've made you laugh.

"Yes! The car!" The grip on his shirt tightened as you through one of your hands in the air in celebration, "I'm so fuckinggg... tired.." You dragged out your constants as you both made your way to the car. Ultimately, it was more like Patrick was walking and you slanted onto him, trotting along.

"Mhm," Patrick hummed, he'd kept one hand on your waist but you hadn't really noticed it. There were many things you didn't notice in your inebriated state.

Patrick, luckily, hadn't drunk as much as you and was sober enough to drive you home. You laid your head comfortably on the window as you observed the blackened city and yellowed road soar past you. It was serene, you and Patrick. It was the first time in the past week you felt a smidge above the bare minimum. Your head was hazy and everything felt so miniature; boxed in.

The ride home was rather reserved, with no one speaking other than you drunkenly giving him directions to your dorm. Eventually, after he had to call Tashi, he stopped in front of the building.

"We're here, Sleeping Beauty," Patrick murmured quietly, slightly nudging you with his hand. When you responded with a groan, he sighed and got out of the car. You perked up a bit and lazily followed his figure until he opened the door. The lack of movement signaled to Patrick that he would be the one to get you out of this car.

Patrick heaved you out of your seat, to your disdain, and he held you close as he closed the passenger door behind you. Your face was squashed in the curve of his neck. He smelt like really lovely cologne and sweat.

Looking up at him, Patrick met your gaze with his own and smiled, "Hi." You smiled back, "Hey.." His hand stayed trained on your waist and you felt that warmth. The fervor you felt that night in the hotel room. It pooled deep inside of you, and it made the stupid smile on your face grow even wider.

"What are you smiling at?" Patrick grinned at your behavior and his hand that had been unlocking the door moved up to cup your cheek. Both of you stood there under the cloak of the night sky, staring foolishly at one another. He softly said your name, "What are you smiling at, pretty girl?"

The tone of his voice was something you'd never be able to interpret in your lifetime. Forgotten among memories and the intoxication, you thought about what led to the position you were in years later, and next to that night in the hotel room, this seemed to be another flick to the dominos collapsing.

Patrick didn't wait for your response, his lips were already on yours. He felt needy in this kiss, it was long and passionate. Your eyes were clenched shut, the euphoria you felt from being so out of it momentarily leaving your body to replace it with stone-cold regret. The kiss was split when you finally pushed one hand to his chest.

"Patrick?" You muttered, "What the fuck?" Patrick's air sobered at your words. He looked at you, the mere panic very visible on his face. Had he fucked up?

"What?" The brunette laughed humorously, "Did I, erm..." He was searching through his lexicon to say anything that could save whatever the hell just happened.

The shame began to quickly devour you, a sickish feeling overtaking your senses. Whatever just happened mortified you to no extent. You staggered back from Patrick, finally meeting his frenzied eyes.

Your eyes started to gloss over and you cried. Tears fell freely down your face as you felt the humiliation slap you in the face. All of it. The humiliation of Art not even liking you, Tashi's carelessness this week, and then this. The culmination of the efforts from the four of you, kissing your best friend's boyfriend. Or rather he kissed you, but what was the true distinction?

"What the fuck Patrick!?" You roughly wiped the tears that continued to fall, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Patrick said nothing, only stared, so similar to his best friend.

"Jesus... The both of you!" You barked, "The both of you two fucking astound me." Your words were sharp and cutting bore into Patrick, apparently, that's what got him.

"What," His voice trailed off as his demeanor only heightened in puzzlement, "What do you mean both?"

"You and your fuck-face friend, that's who!" Your words blended together, as unfortunately, you were still pretty shit-faced. "You and Art fucking around with my head..."

Patrick tensed, "Art's fucking with your head?"

"Yes!" You replied, throwing your hands out in anger, "He's still in love with your girlfriend, and decided to fuck me on the side!"

Patrick's eyebrows raised, he knew Art was trying to manipulate the situation by trying to break him and Tashi apart but he didn't know that you were weaved in here too.

"That's... fucked up." He attempted to comfort you, very awkwardly.

"Yes, it is fucked up Patrick, almost as fucked up as you kissing me." You shot back venomously, narrowing your eyes at him. Patrick went quiet for a beat. He looked at you, looked away, and back at you. He seemed to be deliberating something.

"There's nothing fucked up about it," He finally answered, "I wanted to."

An involuntary gasp slipped from your lips. Your face contorted. "What?"

"I want you."

It felt like a gallon of cold water splashed on you. You stumbled back even further from the boy, your expression no longer confused but mortified.

Thundering down the sidewalk, you callously ran to where you didn't know. You heard Patirck's calls after you but they didn't matter. It wasn't as if he ran after you. The haze from everything that had happened still lingered as you ran. The thoughts bombarded your mind aimlessly, wondering what Patrick meant or what he might say to Tashi.

Tashi...

You'd raced so far that you were there at her dorm, which was seated right next to the tennis courts. Vision hazy, you tumbled into the building. It felt dingy and humid and walking through the corridors you tripped about six times and fully fallen over 3; that didn't stop you though from your destination.

By the grace of god, you handled yourself well enough to place three ordered knocks on Tashi's door, then slump to the floor with a deep sigh. Honestly, you didn't expect her to open the door. You didn't know what time it was but it was late enough into the night (or the early hours of the morning), that the rest of the world was silent.

Everything went silent for a moment as you stared at that wooden door. You focused on a dent in the door itself, right near the handle. You were so immersed in the indentation that you didn't notice the door hinged open.

"Well, well, well... look who it is," Tashi stared down at you with a slight smile. There she was.

"Tashi!" Your mood was instantly lifted at her company and smiled right back. The nastiness, the dread, and the remorse were lifted instantly once you saw her. She let out a sigh once she saw your state— your outfit was skimpy, mascara and eyeliner were smeared all over your face, and you looked like you'd cried a river.

"Christ," She sighed out your name, "Can't you have a good night?"

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♬·

You and Tashi lay on her bed peacefully, and you exchanged no sentiments in those moments. She'd washed you up from your sordid state and now she was tracing designs in the curve of your hip. Tashi laid her chin on your head and you nestled on her collarbone. This was a frequent situation for either of you, as, during tournaments during your adolescent year, nights were spent braiding each other's hair, swapping secrets with smiles, and just being girls.

"So, are we going to talk about it?" Tashi hummed, staring out into her own cluttered room. Smiling like a fool you replied, "Talk about what?"

"Art, he told me about what happened." She continued, her hand moved from your hip to your hair. Tashi threaded her fingers through it gently and you let out a giggle.

"Pfft, Art.. that stupid, dumb blonde," Laughter filled the room, and you drew your head away from Tashi to meet her. "He's just stupid, that's all."

Tashi held back her own laughter at your intoxicated words, "I see.." You nodded in confirmation and laid back down cuddled back in. "Well, I just wanted you to know that this week I wasn't trying to avoid you," She resumed, "Art just told me about your emotional state, and knowing you, I know you like space."

You hoisted your head again and sneered, "You'd believe that twink?" Tashi giggled and rolled her eyes, "I don't think you can say that anymore," She spoke your name in a scold, "But, yes I did, he's pretty fucking convincing you know."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... Convincing my ASS," Your eyebrows drew together in irritation at the mention of the boy, "He's stupid, just like the other one.."

Dead air obscured the room again, the only sound being you and Tashi's breathing. The warmth you'd felt from the alcohol returned again, but it felt different. It didn't feel as murky or slowing, it felt good. Yet, the disgrace from earlier was still in the back of your mind. You knew the next day would hold so much bullshit for you and your friend depending on Patrick's efforts or if Art decided to tell Tashi whatever Patrick would recount to him. The involvement of the two boys had made everything so muddled.

"Tashi,"

"Hm?"

"Promise me you'll love me forever?" You asked quietly, finally breaking the tranquility. The voice you had dawned felt foreign to you, it was desperate, vulnerable. Tashi pulled herself away from you to meet your eyes. Her deep sharp eyes scrutinized you with an unreadable gaze.

"What do you mean?" She asked, trying to laugh it off with a dry chuckle.

"I said what I meant," You slurred in reply, a pout, "Will you love me forever?"

Tashi scoffed, "I'm not fucking Mother Theresa," She said your name with a mocking edge. "You're my best friend, I..." Tashi stopped to carefully phrase her words so you could understand in your blitzed condition. "I like you more than any other person on planet Earth."

Your pout formed into a frown, and you stayed silent. Tashi then exhaled wearily, knowing she'd hurt your feelings but didn't say anything. It was a staring contest that you wouldn't win. Tashi did like you a lot, more than she liked her family, friends, and her boyfriend. But she wasn't good at pretending—she couldn't pretend she loved more than one thing. She loved one thing, and one thing only; Tennis.

"Then I'll love you enough for the both of us." That response caught Tashi off guard and she blanked. "I'll love you seeds and all, Tashi Duncan." The announcement of your love for her wasn't on the list of things Tashi thought she would've heard tonight. A nervousness overtook her but you didn't notice, you just stared in determination.

"Seeds and all?" Tashi questioned, her demeanor shifted to something a bit fainter, similar to yours.

"Yes, Tashi, seeds and all," You said it as if it was the most common thing in the world and laid back down. A sudden wave of exhaustion had washed over you, it was so easy to fall asleep. Despite this, Tashi stayed awake and watched you. It wasn't uncommon for you to say sappy shit and for Tashi to combat it with banter, but this felt more amorous; for the first time in the girl's life, she felt confused.

Tashi glanced back down at your sleeping figure. You looked so peaceful and pretty. An involuntary grin graced her features as she lay next to you. Her face was inches away from your own, bringing her hand to brush away some stray pieces of your hair to simply stare at you.

"I love you too," The girl muttered your name, kissing the apple of your cheek, turning around to her side of the bed, and falling into a slumber soon after. Tashi had assumed you were sleeping and wouldn't remember it even if you weren't. But, unfortunately for her, you had heard.

Tashi Duncan loved you.

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♬·

𝘾𝙄𝙉𝘾𝙄𝙉𝙉𝘼𝙏𝙄, 𝙊𝙃𝙄𝙊, 2011

𝘊𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪 𝘖𝘱𝘦𝘯

The hotel bar's music softly played through the speakers, setting a particular homely affection amid the room. A few people were there, tennis players and normal patrons alike, drinking or crying over their loss today. Cincinnati, Ohio was one of the last stops any of these players had of making it to the US Open but unfortunately, they didn't make the cut.

You on the other hand? The 15-step plan was in motion but this time you'd be first. Going pro three years ago was one of the best decisions you'd made, in your life. The dream was cradled in the palm of your hand. Young, beautiful, determined, the brands just ate you up.

Being sponsored by Nike, doing commercials for popular products, and selling out was pretty amicable. The celebrity that came with it was a sweet taste that you sunk your teeth in. People shouted your name on the street and begged for your signature, they wanted you. The only downside was that now and again you'd have to see him.

God, You thought, when was the last time I heard this song... Instead of nursing your drink, you glanced around the room, observing the players. You recognized some from previous competitions and some you'd played today. Suddenly, noticing how everyone had someone to talk to, it was exposing to be the lone person at the bar. At 23 and no man, for now, was a smidge uncomfortable.

So why were you holding her hand?

Is that the way we stand?

Were you lying all the time?

Was it just a game to you...

While scanning the room, you saw her, sitting there with her computer propped up and sporting a shorter hairstyle. A jolt surged through you, you'd seen enough of her today, and you swiveled your head back forward. Another bad move, there he was. The blonde shaggy curls bedazzled you when he strolled in. Art Donaldson walked through the room and the world stopped turning.

Art walked into the bar in search of something. He just didn't know what. For the past few weeks since the Atlanta Open, he'd been on edge; for what he didn't really know. The looming task of the US Open had been teasing him for years, but he was young. He had time to play and win it, this year might just be his year. Though that's what he told himself. The US Open was what he was worried about. Yes, nothing more, nothing less, and absolutely not about certain brunettes.

Art made eye contact with you for a split second. A look flashed across both of your faces, both with varying feelings. Art's face showed an emotion of enchantment, like seeing a rare jewel. You looked like you swallowed sour milk. You shifted your gaze away from him and back to your drink. The alcohol stung your nose.

But I'm in so deep

You know I'm such a fool for you

You got me wrapped around your finger...

Do you have to let it linger?

A shiver strained through you, wondering if the universe was truly trying to get you to buy 30 mg of fentanyl and a bottle of vodka. Art you were used to, both of you were established and young tennis players, it was foretold the two of you would cross paths after that day. Every time it did happen there were formalities exchanged between you two, and then you'd take 4 shots of the choice of alcohol that night and cry.

Art peeked back at you once more before back on his path to Tashi. She was perfect, he had known that fact since the day he met her. Shoved on the pedestal, his fiance typed stormily at her computer, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl.

A smile grazed his face, "Hey," He sat down across from her. Tashi barely acknowledged him with a nod. Art sighed and tapped on the rim of her computer, "Hey Tashi..."

Tashi exhaled and lips thinned, "Hi, what's up?" She curtly replied, "I'm working right now on our deal with Nike," Art's confidence slightly buckled under her glare and apparent annoyance with him.

"Oh, well, nothing..." He trailed off with his smile being replaced with a slight pout, unfortunately for Art, this irritated the coach more. "Well, then get out of my face. You have a game tomorrow," She articulated concisely instructed him with a tone a mother would use, "A game you need to win."

Art straightened up a bit, winning was important, he knew that but he missed Tashi. His paranoia surely wasn't helping her curtness as of recently, but he was still relegating it to US Open nerves. He just needed to win and it'd be fine. "Okay," He agreed, "I'll see you upstairs?" The blonde was met with a quick nod, the sound of typing only emitted.

"I love you."

"I know."

Art left the table with a sullen expression on his features, but you didn't know that. Now you were focused on what type of wood the table was, to avoid thinking about when was the last time the three of you were in the same room. Maybe it's maple.... Your thoughts were soon cut off by a buzz from your phone. The iPhone 4 buzzed madly in your pocket and you pulled it out.

It was some random number you didn't have on your phone.

415-xxx-xxxx

𝘏𝘪, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘵, 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬.

𝘔𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 3𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳.

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦.

𝘖𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺.

A miniature smile begged to come onto your features, even texting you could hear the way he'd talk with his comforting, careful diction. But then the meaning of the message settled deep inside you. He wanted to meet you up? Why? Confusion replaced the thick nostalgia as the cogs in your head started to work. It confused you, but you were intrigued. Plus, what was the worst that could happen?

212-xxx-xxxx

𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘪'𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♬·

Idily standing in the dingy ice room, you'd start contemplating your life choices. Specifically, the ones that led you to this moment. Why did you approve of this? Why did you go to that fucking bar? You're not even supposed to drink the day before a game. Oh, that's right, you remembered, Patrick Zweig.

♬☆♬☆♬☆

Earlier that day...

The cooling feeling of the concrete against your back felt like pertinent compensation after a day of sprinting around in the sun. You'd finally made it to the semi-finals after dominating through the bracket, some you'd played against during earlier tournaments, others were just painless to beat and move on to the following one. Nonetheless, the girl you'd just played had given you a run for your money. Not because she was good, but because you were distracted.

Tashi Duncan, coach of the FAMOUS Art Donaldson, observed your match. You'd noticed her when perusing the stands after the first game when you were looking for your friend who had come to cheer you on. Seeing her was the biggest mistake of your game, serve after serve it'd either be out or barely touched the net. It was utterly embarrassing and you'd lost the second game by 15 love. When it was the break you'd skimmed only to find her gone.

It pissed you off. Who the fuck does she think she is? You clenched your water bottle angrily, your knuckles shy of a shade lighter than normal skin tone. The spite of Tashi leaving your game (or so you thought) had lit that flame that you doused years ago. The flame of insecurity produced by Tashi Duncan.

You were relentless against the girl, hitting the ball with your full strength each and every time. An intense volley had occurred in the middle of the game, so intense that your opponent fell face forward in an attempt to catch the shot (she did not). The stadium was silent other than the loud sounds of your grunts and anger. It was hotter than the concrete you played on but just as hard. It pissed you off so much that when you won, instead of your normal self-indulgent bow, you smashed your racquet to the floor and a roar. The crowd scarfed it down, hailing you as a passionate and beautiful player, tenacious against competition.

In all honesty, you just wanted to go home and cry, but you were hustled off the court to where you are now. Stranded in the hallway and lying in your muddled emotions. It was now the men's bracket, but you didn't plan on watching anyone. Particularly Donaldson. Yet, trying to make it out of the vacant hallway, a familiar face entered your vision.

"There's the golden girl!" No words in a dictionary could express the face you made at that moment.

"Oh my..." You muttered under your breath, turning around to see Patrick Zwieg, in all of his sleazy glory. "What in the ever-loving fuck are you doing here Patrick?"

Patrick laughed with faux hurt, "Aw, aren't you just a ball of sunshine!" He tried to get closer to you but you edged back. He gauged your expression and sighed, "And here I thought you'd be happy to see me..."

You scoffed in disgust, "Christ Patrick, seeing you is like seeing a dog with cancer, it should be put down already." The brunette's lips pulled into a smirk, he crossed his arms and gave an irksome look.

"Well, I'm not a dog," He corrected, "I'm a cat and we got 9 lives." An exasperated sigh left your lips, your eyes meeting his with a tiredness. After the mind-fuck of seeing Tashi, you had no bandwidth for Patrick's bitchiness.

"I don't fucking care, Patrick," You hissed, finally starting back on your walk. Patrick started to slightly slip from his confidence, he hadn't expected this. He usually was able to keep you around for a good banter but you'd genuinely just stopped it this time. To keep you from going he snatched your forearm, keeping you from going any further.

Your glare deepened, "Let me go!" He didn't budge and kept you in place, although you started struggling to try and escape his strong grasp.

Patrick spoke your name calmly, "I just want to talk..." He sounded like he was talking to a feral cat. Grunting and now starting to whine, you struggled in an attempt to get away from him and this conversation. "About what? How you fucked over my best-" You stopped yourself, the word 'friend' died on the tip of your tongue. You two weren't friends, you hadn't been for years. Patrick caught this moment of vulnerability and used this.

"Friend? Please, she left you once you got better," He goaded with a sinister grin, "She couldn't stand that you could play and she couldn't."

The struggle became relentless as you started to shout for 'help' but it was useless. You were isolated. The best you'd gotten was dragging Patrick an inch or two across the floor, no escape was foreseen. A thin line formed on your lips as you glared.

"Shut up Patrick, don't fucking project your bullshit with Art on me,' You spat venomously, "He won, you're fucking losing, so what?"

Patrick chuckled drily, "Won what? The match? In case you forgot I won that-"

"NO!" You cut him off with a shout, "God no Patrick, he won at life. He's getting married to the girl you, and only you Patrick, lost because you're a dipshit." Face contorted into one of pure hatred for the man in front of you, and his hold finally slackened for you to draw your arm back.

Patrick rolled his eyes, "Newsflash, I slept with the girl I lost like.." He stopped speaking to count on his fingers, "Three weeks ago!" A triumphant and smug smirk graced his features.

"Great, so you can add home-wrecker to your tennis accolades?" You raised a brow and scoffed again, "You astonish me Zweig, you really do."

Patrick's grin didn't budge, "I aim to please," He did feel quite pleased with himself, and was even more pleased because he confidently believed you were jealous. Jealous that Tashi Duncan slept with him again and you didn't. He was sorely mistaken.

A heavy breath was taken in and you became focused. You knew exactly what you wanted to say to him, "Patrick, you may've fucking one that on match, let's say a battle." You began harshly, "But you didn't win the war, Art did."

Coming closer to Patrick to look him square in the eye, "Art is going to marry Tashi, he won. He will continue to win and be remembered." Patrick clenched his fists to try and calm himself, your words cutting in like serrated blades, "Who will you be Patrick?"

The question echoed throughout Patrick's mind, but you didn't waste time on his reply. Quickly, you stormed away after and resolved that the finest thing to do was to drink this moment away.

♬☆♬☆

A disgusted exclamation softly left your lips as you remembered that instant from today. Patrick always knew how to rile you up, to push your buttons until they'd break. At this point, you thought he enjoyed pissing you off. However, your internal monologuing was cut off by approaching footsteps. Darting up from the checkered carpeted floor, the blonde approached.

Art felt his palms begin to sweat when he saw your languid figure up against the vending machine. You looked so effortlessly beautiful to him, even when looking like you wanted to kill him. He sauntered into the small corridor and shut the door behind him.

Then, he pivoted around to face you. A hush swallowed both of you. It had been the first time you two were alone in around 3 years, at least. Art looked nervous meanwhile you looked disinterested.

"So?" You asked expectantly, "What did you need to talk about?" Art uncoiled and bit his lip. What did he want to talk about again..?

"Oh uhm.." He stuttered, "Hi, so..." Art desperately combed his mind for an answer, "I just saw you and I..." He coughed awkwardly and shifted his weight, "I just wanted to know how you were."

You took a deep breath and then let out a sigh, "Great, so you wanted to waste my time?" Art visibly flinched at your response and his lips twitched in apprehension.

"No, I just missed you," He asserted quickly, trying to meet your tone. Art's deep blue eyes met your own and something tugged at your heartstrings. "We both missed you."

"We?" A wiry laugh echoed in the room, "I don't think Tashi misses me, Arthur, but a cute way of guilt-tripping me." You cooed mockingly with a smirk. A sour expression fell across Art's countenance at the use of his full government name.

Sighing, he leaned against the wall and; after a beat spoke, "We watched your name today," Art stared at you intensely, "You were good, but what fucked you up during the second game?"

You clenched your fists, annoyed that he had been there too. "I don't know, it's called none-ya."

"What's none-ya?" He asked, confused by your retort.

"None of ya fucking business, Donaldson," You shot, "We aren't friends, we don't have tea parties and talk about fucking tennis."

"Well," Art started calmly, holding himself together, "Why don't we talk about anything but tennis?" You smiled fakly at his offer and stepped toward him, the height difference not really being too big, close enough to meet eye to eye.

"Then why the hell are we talking, Art, if we're not talking tennis?"

Art was silenced by your reply and stared down at the floor. He understood why you were acting the way you were, you were hurt. Aching. He would be too if he were in your shoes. The boy knew it wasn't him that should be talking to you. If anything would be solved between you and him, it'd first have to be solved between you and his fiance.

So, he looked back up at you, "I don't know why are we still talking?" The way Art said your name triggered some deep-buried emotions you had killed many years ago along with your insecurities. It was the seductive, whiny nature of Art Donaldson that kept you awake during the hard, lonely nights and right now it was your reality.

The space between you two was barely existent, lips almost touching... Your phone buzzed. The moment was ruined instantly and you quickly plucked out your phone. It was your coach, texting you verbatim to 'GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP, NOW!' with five angry emojis.

Art's eyes searched your movements as you read the message. He was so intent on solving or fixing things with you tonight that he hadn't acknowledged that other outside forces could interfere. When he saw you play today and then back at the bar? It fell into place for him, he just had to have you again. He had to. He deserved it right?

You shoved Art aside and opened the door, focused on now going to sleep and preparing for your game tomorrow. Simply put, you didn't have time for stupid boys like Art Donaldson who wanted to play tennis with two balls. It was ineffective.

But, just as you were down the hallway he shouted, "Tashi misses you!" You ignored him, "She told me to tell you."

"Tell her," Turning around so he could directly hear you, "Tell her that she can go fuck herself, and," You had stopped speaking, storming off to right in front of the man, "Go fuck yourself too." It was easy to snatch the collar of his old grey hoodie and capture him in a kiss.

The clash of lips was a brutish one, Art being caught off guard and you kissing forcefully as if he was the last thing on earth. His hands traveled to your jaw and let you take control of the kiss.

It was a longer one, almost juvenile, letting yourself clash teeth or slightly push up against him. You finally pulled away, his bottom lip sliding through your teeth slowly, keeping eye contact while it bounced back in place.

The both of you were flushed a deep crimson, now both frustrated and sexually frustrated you let out an exclamation of anger and strode furiously down the hall, into the stairway.

There left was Art, his attempts hopeless and now he was alone. His hand shakily rose to his lips where you had just been. Fingers gently grazing his lip before letting out a shaky sigh. It'd been forever since he'd been caught so off-guard, it shook him inside. You always did, pushing his own buttons instead of yours. Art was always susceptible to your touch and words.

Yet, frowned when he thought of the way you had spoken to him tonight. You had become so jaded, so much more.. mean. It reminded him of how Tashi used to talk back at Stanford. Before the injury. How confident she was, somehow more than now, and how she had the world at the tips of her fingers. Art silently wished he'd handled that day differently than he did. But, deep down, he knew he didn't. Art got what he wanted at the end of the day, wasn't that beautiful?

ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

Hi! I really hope you guys liked this chapter, I really wanted to explore the character dynamics more and just flesh out the relationships. It'll get spicy, trusttt!

Please like or comment!! I would love to hear what y'all think or want for the plot, you guys were literally so, so nice in the last part!

Thank you for reading <3

🇹​​🇦​​🇬​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​:

@jackierose902109

@bloodyrevengedbullets

@ssababe

@skylerwhitwyo

[clover-the-awesomest]

hey hey guess what I have an easy fix for u 😊

do nothing with it for months and then come back to it and then scrap the whole thing and start over again but this time without any motivation or recent experience in writing and a longing for even more perfection so you just end up sitting there in front of your Google docs wondering where you went wrong in life and why you can’t even write a single sentence without getting pissed and deleted all your progress again and again and again

rinse and repeat 😎

Working on The Arc of Lord Hater, and admittedly having a super difficult time with it -.___.-

He’s not easy for me to connect to, and despite having such solid ideas, execution has been a nightmare. Sometimes writing is really hard :/

[puffleyia]

Dear Diary || Cedric Diggory

Cedric Diggory x fem!reader || 5.2k words, fluff-ish, banter and awkward confessions !

Reader and Ced are both seventh years and Ced is head boy!

Warnings: slow and sappy smut, unprotected p-in-v, clothed sex , first times !!!

Summary: Cedric finds your diary, what's the worst that could happen?

---------

Cedric was idly perusing the shelves of the library on one fine afternoon, if the wads of homework given and expected to be completed by the end of the Easter holidays were not taken into account. He sought for some books that he could use as reference for his essay in History of Magic, a particularly tricky one, on famous and historical duels.

Though, his initial intentions were long forgotten as he noticed something. His attention was drawn to a small, forgotten notebook left on one of the study tables. He looked around to see if any sign of the owner was around. Once the coast was clear, he took it as a go-signal. Carefully, he picked it up with curiosity as he examined the notebook.

The cover was brown, its material being that of leather. It had a few tears, but it looked okay enough to be passed as a choice of style. It is decorated with intricate golden patterns on it, engraved with small jewels for design. The bottom was labelled with your name handwritten on, and the pages seemed to be slightly tarnished. He assumed you had kept it for a couple years or so. 

But what was most intriguing was that it had been padlocked shut. He figured out that it was no ordinary notebook, probably a diary of sorts, piquing his interest.

As much as he knows not to stick his nose in things he is not supposed to, he couldn’t help but feel interested in what was not supposed to be of his concern. He was not going to tell anyone what’s inside, nor was he going to judge— it is not like you would know either if he did look through it. 

But, he supposed a little peak would not hurt, right? He is going to give it back the next time he sees you, anyway. 

Though, it was locked… It is nothing a simple alohomora charm could not fix. He pulled out his wand and pointed it towards the lock. He gave it a flick, chanting the spell out quietly. The padlock fell on the floor with a dull thud. He picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket, to seal it up afterwards to conceal any trace of him ever snooping around.

He flipped through the pages, becoming increasingly fascinated with what he read, some even dating back to seven years. Family issues, random stuff about life at Hogwarts, such as rants about homework, housemates and whatnot. The first thirty pages was about you mainly figuring out things back then as a first year, and a bunch of things you were astonished to discover. 

It was really what your typical teenage girl would write; little things such as that cat you tried to pet in the first year that turned out to be Professor McGonagall, hallway crushes, that time you snuck in the restricted area of the library, so on— and the mundaneness of everyday life. It was pretty much a bunch of stuff about what goes on during your days. 

When he got to the fourth year, he started seeing his name being brought up occasionally— he of course, stopped on those pages to read them— interested in what your perspective on him was. He started with the first page mentioning him:

DEAR DIARY,

I met this guy named Cedric Diggory. He’s popular, tall and good-looking too.. 

He helped me out with my herbology homework. I was really struggling, good thing he stepped in. Though, maybe I was too busy staring at him to really pay attention to what he was teaching me. (Well, who can blame me???)

I know so many girls who would kill to have that happen to them. Wonder what got me so lucky today, maybe those Lumos Lucksweets I ate last night that I got from Honeydukes during Halloween.

I always thought he was cute, though I always felt too intimidated to approach him. Hopefully we can become friends. 

He felt a bit surprised, a faint blush tainting his cheeks as he smiled softly. He would be oblivious if he didn’t know he was sought after by both women and men, albeit it still doesn’t make him any less flustered.  You were one of his friends, yes, but he had never stopped to think that you thought of him in that way. You didn’t make it obvious either.

He mostly skimmed through its pages, but stopped to read whenever he saw his name brought up– about how you talked about each of your interactions; “Cedric helped me with…” “Cedric and I went out to…” “I think I like him..” Cedric this, Cedric that. 

You like him. Or liked him. It only clicked with him now, though he would have to keep reading if he wanted to know if you still felt the same. (Because he definitely did.) Be that as it may, he still definitely had no idea on how to confess. Plus, it was too late to turn back any time now. He continued to leaf through its contents.

But it was not until he got to last year’s pages that some things really stuck out. At first it was about wanting to kiss him on the cheek as you sat beside him in the library whilst you two studied for your transfiguration exam. Then the next time you talked about it being on the lips. 

You even went into detail how you thought his lips would feel, then it was about how you so badly wanted to make out with him after you watched him after his quidditch practice because in your words, not his–

He looked so hot.

The more he read through, the material written within progressively escalated. Soon, it was about how you felt guilty by using the thought of him as a means to get off. 

Now I feel guilty. Yes, I know– it is wrong of me to finger myself at the thought of my really really really hot friend who I also happen to have a crush on, no I’m not being sarcastic, yes, it was just once. Just this ONCE, I got carried away… Oh Merlin, I’m so sorry, Cedric.

He actually found it quite adorable how you were apologising in a diary. He was also extremely flustered at this point, a little bit horny and at the same time, confused. He nonetheless continued, reading several entries about how you admitted to having several fantasies of you being fucked by Cedric, what you think he would be like in bed, yada yada yada. 

You admit throughout several logs that what was supposed to be a one-time thing, turned into nightly endeavours filled with a big ounce of shame afterwards. 

Once he felt content, he got the padlock and clicked it back in place as if nothing ever happened, and took it with him as he went on his way. He figured it was best that he give it back the next time he ran into you. 

Aside from that, his day passed by quite like any ordinary one, though he hadn’t seen you at all. On his way down to the Great Hall, he caught a glimpse of you walking whilst talking to some of your friends– though you quickly disappeared into the crowd of students flocking towards the hall for dinner.

Afterwards, most students are headed towards the library or their respective common rooms, Cedric ought to do the same. 

Meanwhile you were searching every nook and cranny of everywhere you had been within the entire day, searching for that damned diary since the afternoon. You had traced back your steps to the beginning of the day, starting off with the common rooms, the great hall, then you had snuck into the several classrooms you were in earlier. In the potions dungeon, you were almost caught by Snape, you hid in time (you pride yourself on being an absolute pro at hide and seek) and just by the skin of your teeth.

You would stop at nothing until you actually find it, the thought of someone else getting your diary sends shivers down your spine. You just hope if someone did, they’d have enough of a sense of privacy and decency not to look through it. If this keeps up, You would have to be looking throughout the entire night and without being caught at that. 

You doubt any of the staff would actually care about finding it if you had simply asked. You had tried that once when you lost one of your textbooks, you managed to find it, no thanks to anyone but yourself.  And you would think if you would ask any of your professors, they’d probably say (the textbook) was miles more important than some journal with sentimental value.

Before you knew it, you were definitely up past curfew hours. Currently in the library, you were looking everywhere– on and under each of the chairs and tables, the shelves, you were seriously considering going to check the restricted section if you were not able to find it here. Perhaps the librarian thought it was a book, too. You froze in your place as you heard footsteps other than yours echoing as someone entered the library.

–

Cedric was doing his rounds and surprisingly, tonight was not that half-bad. No pesky students loitering around, so far that is. Currently surveying the corridors, classrooms– he is now heading towards the library, hearing faint shuffling noises coming from the sound of it. So it was not a quiet night after all, he thought. He placed his bets on who he thought it was this time, and the lot of students who regularly snuck out was not much to choose from anyway.

Though, he was completely wrong this time. It was you. He flashes you a grin, nearly forgetting his duties as Head Boy to supposedly escort you back to your dorm since it was late hour. He could also give your diary back while he was at it, he was getting tired of having to cling on to it just at the chance he would run into you. But he had thought to strike up a conversation first, because why not?

“Hey,” Cedric greeted you, approaching you slowly. “Hi,” you gulped and said awkwardly. You interrupt him before he could even say a word, “I-I know what this looks like,” you stammer, figuring out the right words to say as you try reasoning with him. “It sounds like a ridiculous thing to ask of you, I know– but don’t tell anyone,” as you speak, you’re also in plenty of disbelief that the literal head boy of all people would give you leeway for sneaking out like thi. Even if he is your friend, and even if it were just once.

“And why shouldn’t I?” He said so casually, as if you two were having a normal conversation; as if he were not on patrol at all and he hadn’t caught you outside your dormitory past the given curfew. He also knew damn well why, it was just fun eliciting a reaction from you. He was of course going to eventually give it back. “It’s so late, you should at least be in your common room around this time, you know?” He points out as well.

“Well, for one, I’ve been a good student this year, this is the only time I snuck out.. And, I have a reason for sneaking out–! It’s not for anything bad, I promise, it’s just I’ve been looking for my damn diary the entire day.. I must’ve lost it somewhere– look, I swear I’ll go back to the dorms right now if you please, please, don’t tell me out to anybody.” 

You begged him, clasping your hands together for dramatic effect as you gave him those puppy eyes you use whenever you wanted something from him. (Such as when you begged him to buy whatever you wanted when you two went to Zonko’s that one time. P.S. It worked.)

“You mean this thing?” he said slyly. As he pulled out your diary, he gave a look of mischievousness. He watched as your eyebrows raise up, a look of relief plastered on your face as you sigh. You walk towards him, extending out your arms as you make grabby hands. “Oh, yes! Yes, that’s the one, now if you could just give it back–” then, that’s when you get cut off. 

“Ah, ah, now wait just a moment,” he said, raising the arm with your diary in his hand so you couldn’t reach it. “I’ll let you off, and I’ll give it back if,” taking a deep breath before he spoke again, wondering if he should really be doing this. It was now or never. “You give me a kiss.”

He found it really amusing as a blush formed on your face, completely flustered as your eyes widened in a look with a mix of shock and disbelief. You had stopped grabbing for your diary, as you opened your mouth to say something, but you were rendered completely speechless. Was this just a dream? Surely it was, it was too good to be true…

“Ha, ha. Very funny, Cedric,” you fake-laugh, your tone being fully sarcastic. Seeing if he is just playing around with you. “No way in hell I would,” you add, just in case he really was joking. (Maybe you have slight trust issues.) “Just give it back.” Despite that, he looked dead serious. He stared you down, not breaking eye contact, making you gulp nervously. “Please?”

“Oh, come on,” he says as his voice drops, sounding more sultry. “I’m not gonna do anything unless you let me, but I know you want to.” His eyes observe your lips. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t touch you at all since you hadn’t given your consent yet. He kept his hands to himself, letting his body language do the talking. 

“Now what makes you say that?” You squint your eyes as you give a questioning look at him, acting, or trying to at least, unaffected. You still had your guard up, because seriously, what was up with this guy today? 

“Now, why’re you acting like you don’t want it? Hmm?” He smirked, “Could make all those fantasies of yours in that little book come true, you know.”

You looked mortified, as if you had seen a ghost. The last bits of your dignity withered away, long gone at this point. You wanted to shrivel up and sob in a corner out of pure humiliation. He read your diary. “No way, you read it!?” You slap his arm as you cover your face in sheer embarrassment. “Privacy exists, you know–!” Cedric let out a guttural laugh, unable consistently to keep up his flirty demeanour. “Hey, better me than anyone else, right? Besides,” he leaned on one of the bookshelves.

“I like you.”

If you thought you couldn’t get any redder, you were awfully wrong. You didn’t know what to say, as you practically threw yourself at him in an embrace. “I like you too…” you said, your voice muffled as your face was buried in his chest. “This is so embarrassing.”

He wasted no time in hugging you back, his arms wrapped around you. It was like you put on a warm blanket. You two stayed like that for a while, enjoying eachothers company. The moment of silence was interrupted as he said, “I should probably ask properly.” You look up at him, waiting for what he has to say. “Will you be my girlfriend?” He finally says.

“What do you think?” A rhetorical question.

“I need a yes or no, not a ‘what do you think’.”

“If you actually read my diary, you already have your answer.”

“Well then, it’s official,” he smiles. “Can I get that kiss now?” He says impatiently. You waste no time, tipping on your toes as you press your lips against his, placing your hands on his broad shoulders. He wraps his hands around your waist, pushing you softly against a bookcase. It was chaste and passionate, as your lips intertwined as you two kissed in a slow rhythm. 

You pull away, catching your breath. “By the way, this doesn’t mean I forgive you for reading my diary,” you blurt out, Cedric chuckling at that.

Before you knew it, he was grabbing your wrist and leading you to his dorm room. It was clear to the both of you where this situation was going. As you walked together, your heart raced in anticipation, a mix of excitement and nervousness flooded your senses. You both stopped in your tracks as you reached a portrait, that of Helena Ravenclaw’s. He mumbled the password and the portrait swung open, walking in whilst ducking his head over the small entrance and motioning you to come in as well. 

You assumed this was the heads’ common room, it was circular and decorated quite lavishly. If it were not for Cedric, you would have taken more time to admire the interior. It was definitely plenty grand compared to the regular ones. Though, you quickly were grounded back into the situation as he led you to his dorm– Head Boy’s–completely away from prying eyes. Oh, bless Cedric for being head boy and whoever decided that heads should have their own room. 

He slams the door shut behind you two, pinning you to it. Tension flooded the room, it was practically suffocating. He wastes no time, cupping your chin as he tilts your head slightly upward to make you look at him. He leaned in for a second kiss, your lips puzzle together once more. His hand interlocked with yours tightly as he held it up against the door panel, keeping you in place. 

It was not as innocent as it was the first time, in fact quite the opposite– amorous. It was far from perfect, given both of you were not experienced. All your knowledge came from things such as muggle films, you think.

You remembered how they opened their mouths slightly, imitating what you saw in fiction. You slowly gaped open your mouth, Cedric immediately getting the hint as he slid his tongue inside. You both attempted to swirl each other's tongues together, yet it was more clashing your tongues together with no rhythm whatsoever, in hoping something just works. Though it didn't make it any less hot, if anything, it was more.

It was awfully sappier than one would might like, but you two were both (not-so hopeless anymore) romantics. Perhaps it was the entire three years of obliviousness and pining for each other being poured into this moment. Though, given what you two are about to do, it is a bit fast for an official relationship. Well, yeah, as much as you just got together.. You both couldn’t help it nor wait anymore, not wanting to waste any more time, not after so many years with your feelings going unsaid. 

He took heavier breaths, grabbing ahold of your waist as he pressed himself closer against you. You both flushed, a bit embarrassed and nervousness surging through your veins as you gasped when his half-chubbed dick pressed against just above your groin. You couldn’t deny– you felt scared, a bit hesitant but you knew you wanted this more than anything. 

While you still kissed, you both toed off your shoes and made a beeline for the bed (a sad attempt). Because your senses of navigation clearly dwindled, not a care in the world but each other. You two accidentally bumped into one of the small tables, knocking down some of the books that lay on them. “Oops,” Cedric said lightheartedly. Pulling the both of you out of the moment momentarily, you two laughed and just chalked it up to fixing it later.

Finally reaching the four-poster (which was a lot bigger than the regular ones), even if it were a few feet away from where you two initially were, it was quite the journey. Cedric, who was the one leading out of the two of you, practically tripped you both into bed as he rested atop you. “Ced!” You squealed, “you’re crushing me!” light-heartedly, you say, as you jab at his chest playfully, in an attempt to push him off. 

“Well..not my problem, princess,” he laughed as he buried his face into your neck. Sucking and nipping at the flesh, leaving red marks on you as he placed a kiss on each one to seal them afterwards. “May I…?” He says, his hand trailing up to grab onto the hem of your tie, ready to pull it off. You give him a small, silent nod. He takes his time with you, as if he were unwrapping a huge present. 

He begins by pulling off your tie, discarding the article of clothing to a random corner of the room. The same goes for your robes, sweater, dress shirt…all long gone and forgotten. You were merely left with your undergarments and skirt on, as well as your socks. He stops dead in his tracks, taking a step back as he takes the sight of you in.

“I forgot to tell you how beautiful you are.” He says each word clear as day– you’ve never heard anyone more confident in your life. You blush profusely, hands covering your face to conceal it. “I’ll die from those compliments before you actually start doing anything, you know?” You babble, too florid to think of words to form. 

He trails his hand, leading it down to your underwear, tugging down at the hem of it as to pull them off. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, though not a hint of apology in his voice. You mutter something about him not being forgiven, ouch, so now he has two things he is yet to be forgiven for. He just smiles innocently back at you, lips all pouty as you pretend to sulk about it. (Obviously jokingly) When in fact, you wallow in the praise.

He leans into your ear as his hands now teasing at your folds, you let out a soft moan at his touch. “Guess I’ll have to make it up to you, huh?” He says in a low, gravelly voice. Which had absolutely no right to sound that hot. “Please, Ced,” you say, trying not to sound like you were begging for it. “Wait,” he stops, getting up and begins to rummage through his drawer, looking for something. You look at him quizzically, wondering what he is doing and looking slightly disappointed at the loss of sensation.

After a few more seconds, he pulls out a small vial of a clear flaxen liquid and examines it before walking back to you. “Um, I’m really sorry, d’you think this’ll do?” He shows you the vial, which you had assumed to be a natural oil of sorts. “I, er, don’t have any lube.” He says awkwardly. “I mean, if you’re not comfortable we don’t have to–” You cut him off immediately, quickly divulging that, “No, no, we– we can. I’m fine with it.” Okay, you definitely sounded a bit desperate. He nods, uncorking the vial as he coats his fingers with a fair amount.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says, prodding two fingers at your pussy. “Just– just tell me if it hurts, okay? Tap my shoulder two times if you can’t speak.” You nod, and with that, he eases in slowly his fingers, your breath hitching as you feel his fingers slip inside you. It feels uncomfortable, causing you to shift in your position slightly. Cedric quickly stops inching his fingers inside as he asks if you’re okay. You tell him that you’re fine and to keep going, assuring yourself and him that it is normal. Hopefully you’ll get used to the feeling. 

He continues, eventually now fully inside you. “Let me know when, um, I can move them, okay?” He says caringly, not an inch of attention wavering away from you. After a bit, you give him the go-signal to move and he starts dragging his fingers out of you, albeit slowly, and pushing them back inside. He watches you attentively, carefully studying your expressions, your body language– His erection was straining against his pants at this point, begging to be freed, but of course he wanted to make sure you were thoroughly prepared. 

“Ah, Ced, mhh, maybe if you curl your fingers a–ah bit–” you moan, still feeling a slight discomfort and pain, though pleasure slowly seeps through. “Like this?” He says, as he curls his fingers inside you, moving in and out with languid strokes. You let out a particular wince, though you nodded in approval. “Yes, just like that– ah,”

It was not anything you were not used to, though you always felt guilty whenever you did such things to yourself. Especially if your only barrier to privacy is the curtains on your four-poster. Though it took a bit of adjusting, because Cedric’s fingers were no doubt bigger than yours. You feel your stomach curling, the feeling of release catching on to you. Cedric must have had a sixth sense, or really good observational skills (perhaps all that astronomy paid off.) because he pulled his fingers out of you the moment you were about to. You whine instinctively in response.

Before you knew it, he was getting rid of his sweater, taking off his tie and unbuttoning his dress shirt, tossing the apparel in the same corner where your clothes went, though leaving his unbuttoned shirt on. You watched his every movement intently, feeling yourself getting wet at the sight of him undressing. He is tall, lean, and burly– has a good build from all that quidditch. Amen for that. 

Your eyes begin to linger down to his trousers, and a very obvious bulge that you can’t help but stare at. He continues by unzipping his fly, though not pulling down his pants. He tugged at his grey boxers just enough to release his cock from its confines, coating it with a light layer of the oil he had used earlier. You could not help but stare, your pupils dilated, clouding your eyes darkly with arousal. He crawls in between your legs as he now hovers atop you. He aligned his cock, tip pressing into the folds of your pussy. 

“M’nervous,” you mumble, almost nonsensically, though Cedric understood what you had tried to say. He leans in, placing a kiss on your forehead as he gently caresses your cheek, “If you’re feeling pressured, we don’t have to, y’know. We can just… Stop here, we can continue another time if you’d like, when you’re ready.” He says softly, warmth naturally oozing through his voice like honey, sweet and assuring. 

“No,” you say, quiet but firmly. “I want to.” 

“Then we will, just tell me when you’re ready. I’ll be gentle.” He says, and his words make all your worries slowly ebb away. You feel safe with Cedric. You press your hips down onto his dick ever so slightly, letting the tip slide in. You gasp at the foreign feeling, nervous to fully take it all in. He notices, and as well lets out a soft moan, asking if he has permission to continue. You breathily say a yes, and that’s when he unhurriedly starts to push inside you.

It feels completely new, slightly painful with a twinge of pleasure. You shut your eyes, wincing at the sensation. Cedric examines your expressions as he inches in, checking for any signs of discomfort. He stops for a moment to ask if you’re okay, noticing your brows knitting together with your eyes shut. You assure him you’re fine, and tell him to keep going.

Eventually, he bottoms out inside you, though he doesn’t move immediately. You two just sit there for a good minute or two, kissing softly as your lips move in unison. Pulling away, panting as you say, “m-move, please,”

And who is Cedric to deny you of that? He began moving his hips slowly and shallowly, not wanting you to take too much at once. You also started getting a bit used to the feeling, though it was still mostly new to you. It didn’t feel as painful as it did, moaning in pleasure as he moved his hips. 

He then pulled out his cock, teasing you, and easing back in steadily, causing you to moan wantonly out loud. His thrusts still slow, but begin to get deeper as he holds your legs open. He was vocal too, nothing short of chanting your name and praising you in a gravelly voice, groaning and grunting ruggedly as he fucked his cock far into you. 

“You’re such a good girl f’me,” he pants, both of you moaning as he rocked his dick back into you with a particularly deep thrust. While the discomfort still remained, you grew more accustomed to the feeling of gratification that grew increasingly.“Ha– ah, harder, Ced,” you say, gasping in between your words. He did nothing shy of it, but not anything that he felt like would be too much for you.

“Merlin, y’feel so good,” he says huskily, moving his hips rhythmically slow, hard and deep as you’re reduced into a moaning mess. Your arms flail to the side of your head, grasping on the sheets as you arch your back. You were mumbling nonsensically, and Cedric laughed breathily as he told you how cute you were. He could only barely make out what seemed to be an I love you. “I love you too, princess,” he groans as he leans in and leaves a few more marks on your collarbone and neck.

You splay your hands onto his back. Digging your nails into his skin, leaving marks of your own though unintentionally. You drag your nails down his broad back, grabbing onto him as he knocks the wind out of you with each thrust.

You feel a fire pooling low in your abdomen, as well as the heightening sense of arousal as Cedric kept thrusting inside you. You feel your pussy tighten around him, “Mmh, Ced, I think I’m gonna–!” You squeal, Cedric grabs your hips and quickened his pace by a bit. “Go on, sweetheart.” He says low, letting his breath into your ear, moving down to kiss your neck. Reaching your limit, you feel your orgasm ripple through you.

Cedric kept going, though you could tell he was close, too– his thrusts growing sloppy as the echo of skin to skin and moans  from the both of you filled the room. His hips jerked a few more times as he finally sheathed fully and deep into you, as you two let out a long, drawn out moan as he was spilling his load inside your pussy. 

Clenching around his cock greedily, it’s as if you were going to wring him dry. You feel the way his cock pulses as he cums in you, a white ring pooling around the base of his cock with your mixed juices as it trickles down your folds. 

He collapses atop you, letting his head rest between your breasts as he’s still inside you. You two lay like that for a while, basking in the silence of the afterglow. You suddenly interrupt as you say, “Okay, maybe I forgive you..” 

He smiles and scoffs at that. Eventually, he pulls out and lays beside you, cuddling you from behind as you two exchange ‘I love you’s’ as you two drift off into sleep.

[alltheirdamn]

Killing Me Softly | (Joel Miller x teacher!f!reader)

Chap. 1 : Your Name

Series Summary: You've nursed a broken heart for two years. ‘Love’ felt like a foreign term, but maybe it wasn’t so far out of reach. Chap. 1 Summary: When you catch the eye of your students' dad at a school dance, he starts showing up everywhere. Rating: 18+ MDNI (for the future smut) Word Count: 6.8k Warnings: pre-outbreak AU, age gap (joel is 36 reader is 27), no smut (yet), sexual tension, flirting, pining, mentions of alcohol, language, angst, reader's last name is 'Smith' for no other purpose than the fact she is a teacher A/N: This will definitely be a slow-burn fic, so please hang tight!! Tropes include: second chance at love, strangers to lovers, secret relationship, etc. I'm actually so excited about this one, so I hope you guys stick around to see where it goes :')

Masterlist

PROLOGUE

You never thought you’d be the girl sitting at the steps of an abandoned altar with your wedding dress covered in mud from the rain.

 Just minutes before you were supposed to take your first steps down the aisle, your fiancé fled. You watched the blur of his suit in the distance as he ran through the rain and left your family and friends in shock. Motionless at the back of the rows of chairs, you dropped your bouquet and stood in heartbreaking silence as the cords of the violins faded into the air. Your parents and siblings swarmed around you, trying to break the paralysis that kept your eyes locked on the vacant spot under the archway and steps of what would have been the place you said your vows. You still had them in your hand; the words scribbled neatly on a folded paper torn from your journal. You’d never get the chance to say those words aloud; he never would have deserved them, anyway. 

The ring sat heavily on your finger now as you watched it glisten under the pelting rain. Your dress clung to your body in layers of silk and lace, a taunting reminder of who you had become for a man unworthy of your love and devotion. 

Five years together, all stripped away in a matter of minutes. 

You’d never love again. 

“Everyone’s gotta do it,” Maria sighed as she stood at the student drop-off with you.

By ‘it,’ she meant chaperoning the father-daughter dance later in the week, which you seriously wanted no part of. You had been through enough school dances in your three years working at the middle school, and you were tired of watching pre-teens grinding on each other to god-awful music. You had better things to do with your Friday nights, like sitting on the couch with a pint of ice cream and a horror movie playing in the background—you’d sworn off rom-coms long ago.

“Yeah, I know,” you grumbled, waving another line of kids across the road. 

You watched as they trudged across the crosswalk with their backpacks slung over their shoulders, eyes bright and broad at the realization school was over for the day. If only they were that chipper in class, maybe you’d have an easier time teaching them how to write three-point essays. 

Maria chirped goodbye to each one as they passed, her cheeks pinched with a fake smile only you could recognize. You knew she loved the kids but loved the final school bell even more. You, on the other hand, hated it. The end of school was just another reminder that you’d go back to an empty home and an empty life. 

Two years had passed since Bennett ran from your wedding ceremony—two years without closure or an answer. By the time you had pieced yourself together and returned home from the would-have-been ceremony, his things were gone, and the house filled with the ghost of his presence. Your in-laws went radio silent, avoiding all calls and emails from you until they eventually moved out of state and changed numbers. The hours leading up to the ceremony would forever be a mystery as to why he left, and you would spend the rest of your life fighting for an answer as to why you weren’t good enough to love. 

Dragging you from your thoughts, Maria bumped you with her hip, giving you a concerned look. You shook away the memories and returned her stare with a fake smile you had mastered over the last two years. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had genuinely smiled or laughed without feeling the force of a facade washing over you. Concealing the pain of it all made it easier; maybe if you believed you were okay, you’d start feeling okay. But you never did. Not even the countless hours of therapy had helped reconcile the person you once were. Bennett had left and taken every vulnerable part of you with him, leaving nothing but a raw and broken shell in his wake. 

“You’re doing it again,” Maria scolded. 

“Doing what?” You asked, already aware of the answer.

“Wallowing. You really should get back out there again.”

You focused on the next grouping of kids setting out to cross the street, your hand instinctively coming up to hold the passing cars at a standstill. You plastered on a fake smile as they waved goodbye to you, and you glanced back at Maria once they finally stepped foot on the next sidewalk.

“I’m not interested,” you stated. “I’m fine on my own.”

Her eyebrow lifted as if challenging your blasé response. Your answer always remained the same, yet Maria relentlessly attempted to change your mind.

“You’ve got to at least try. What if there’s already someone out there just waiting for you?”

“Maria, I promise no one is waiting for me.”

“I wish you’d just give it a shot. You deserve to be happy.”

You had heard that phrase often over the last couple of years; a pitying tone always accompanied the words. People loved to soothe you with words that held no weight or purpose. You learned to nod along to their sympathies and turn a deaf ear to their suggestions of what you deserved. 

The final round of kids made their way toward the line of parents waiting in their cars, and you followed Maria back to your classrooms to clean up before leaving for the day. Her words stuck with you on the quiet drive home; the radio wasn’t enough to drown out that taunting voice in your head reminding you that you’d never be enough. 

Your single-story house was nestled into an older neighborhood of Austin, only a handful of miles from the middle school. You’d argue that the house was the best thing to come out of the failed engagement; its personality stood firm against the other houses with a vibrant shade of blue painted over its wooden panels and wrap-around porch. You spent the last few months sprucing up the front yard, planting rose bushes and trees to liven up the house. It hadn’t fixed all your problems but pacified them temporarily as you dirtied your hands in the soil. 

It became second nature to shut your garage immediately after putting your car in park. You didn’t want the typical neighborly interactions or shallow conversations. You were content with living between closed doors and drawn curtains. The less of an interaction with the world, the better. 

Dropping your purse and work bag on the kitchen counter, you sunk onto a barstool, staring blankly at the fridge and knowing all too well there was hardly anything inside it. You’d settle for another frozen meal and glass of wine, a typical meal these days to satisfy a hunger you no longer had. Despite the colorful kitchen cabinets, the mustard yellow couch in the living room, and the obscure wallpaper…your life was dull. How could one person suck out all the energy from another human being? How could pain last this long? 

You stabbed a fork into the TV dinner meal before you and wondered if you’d ever feel happy again. 

**

You managed to survive another week of teaching, only to now be standing in the shadows of the school gymnasium, nursing an overly sweet fruit punch. The PTA had done a decent job of turning the space into a somewhat realistic dance floor: string lights hung corner to corner of the ceiling, a DJ booth in the center of the basketball court, and colorful balloons circled the air. You spotted a few of your students dancing with their fathers, their eyes squeezed shut from their too-wide smiles and bubbling laughter. A foreign ache in your chest reminded you how you would have had a father-daughter dance at your wedding. Your father even took it upon himself to brush up on dance lessons to sway you across the floor to some overly emotional song. As corny as it was, you had been looking forward to that moment throughout your engagement. 

“Look who got all dolled up!” Maria hollered as she strolled over, fruit punch in hand.

“I would hardly call this dolled up,” you said, tugging at the hem of your dress.

You only had a handful of dresses in your closet, this particular one being a flowy black cocktail dress with a halter top and ruffled skirt. It was barely passing the school dress code, so you decided to pair it with a low kitten heel to try and deter the admin’s scrutiny. You did, however, spend a little more time than usual on your makeup and hair, hoping if you looked pretty, then maybe you’d feel it, too.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Maria sighed.

“You look great,” you said, sidestepping her lecture.

Maria had chosen a plum floor-length maxi dress decorated with embroidered blue flowers. Her curly hair was pinned in a bun, and several sparkly barrettes were clipped to the side. Her makeup was no different from usual: a rosy red lip and simple mascara with a hint of blush on her cheeks. 

“Really, Maria. You do.”

“Well, thank you,” she blushed, looking back toward the room full of bodies dancing.

Your eyes followed hers, settling on the duos as they swayed to a slow song. Every father was dressed up in some sort of button-up or the occasional suit except for one—the same one who happened to be twirling around your student, Sarah Miller. You nudged Maria, pointing secretly at them with a questioning glance.

“Is that her dad?” You asked.

He wore a basic cotton T-shirt, jeans, and dirty work boots. There was barely any thought behind his appearance as if he had rolled up to the school right after a long shift at work, forgoing any effort or care. Some part of you hated him for it. The least he could do was get dressed up for a silly school dance, especially when Sarah wore a lavender tulle dress that complimented her olive skin tone. 

“Yup,” Maria elongated the word. “That’s Joel Miller.”

“Sure looks like he doesn’t care to be here,” you grumbled.

Maria barked a laugh, looking at you through narrowed eyes.

“As opposed to you?” She questioned. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you bitching about this dance all week long?”

“Well, at least I put some effort into my looks tonight,” you defended.

You glanced back at Sarah, seeing her father twirl her one last time. You caught a glimpse of his face for the first time in the flow of his movements. Messy dark curls framed his head, curling in every which way as if he’d run his hand through them a million times. Even from a distance, you could see the patchy beard and short mustache covering the lower half of his face, alongside the several creases around his eyes as he smiled.  And his eyes… They looked like big brown saucers under the lights, reflecting a genuine softness as he watched his daughter dance. 

And then they snapped up to meet your gaze through the crowd as if you had silently called out to him. Everything slowed around you for a moment as he studied you from afar, his eyes drifting down your body and back up with a hint of a smile teasing his lips. A rush of heat crawled up your neck, and you broke the eye contact between you. Maria cleared her throat beside you, tearing you away from the man holding your sincere interest. 

“What was that?” Maria chirped. 

You shook your head, glancing between her curious face and the dancefloor. Joel had since moved on, steering Sarah toward the refreshment table. He never once looked back at you, which left you unexplainably disappointed. For a moment in time, someone looked at you and saw you. 

“I–I don’t know,” you stuttered. “Probably nothing.”

“It looked like something.”

You turned to face Maria, a scowl twisting up your lips entirely. You were tired of her pushing nonexistent things on you, and that’s what this was— nonexistent. Whatever moment between you and Joel had gone as quickly as it came. You were done with the night and standing among so many cheerful people. You couldn’t stand it any longer. 

“I think I’m going to take off,” you announced, placing your half-drunk fruit punch on the table behind you. 

Maria was defeated, knowing you'd still leave no matter what she said. Stalking out of the gymnasium, you grabbed your purse from the teacher's booth and booked it to your car with your heels in your hands. You carefully walked along the sidewalk toward your car, catching a conversation drifting through the wind between the other vehicles. 

“...Dad, you promised we’d watch movies tomorrow!”

“I know, sweetheart, but Uncle Tommy needs help on the job sight.”

You hid between two cars, listening to their voices bounce back and forth. It wasn’t until you peeked out to see the two figures that you realized it was Sarah and her father, Joel. For fucks sake. You tiptoed around the car's bumper beside you, attempting to make a getaway before either of them saw you. You must have done a terrible job because Sarah called your name as you edged closer to your car.

“Miss Smith!”

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself. 

With your purse in one hand and heels in the other, you turned toward them with your rehearsed fake smile. Sarah was standing beside her dad—Joel—a small smile shining up at you. You knew her usual upbeat personality in class, always laughing and joking with other kids. She was an A+ student, too, and her work showcased her smartness. But in her father's shadow, a distinct sadness clouded her eyes. 

“Hello, Sarah! How did you like the dance?” You asked. 

“It was really fun,” she grinned, forcing her smile wider. You saw through it. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Joel cleared his throat, extending a large hand toward you. You blinked at his open palm, afraid of making that same startling eye contact as you had in the gymnasium. Shuffling your purse into your other hand, you took his into yours, focusing on the warmth of his grip crawling up your skin. His fingers dwarfed your own, tightening around your hand until you were forced to look up finally. 

“S’nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Smith,” he said, his thick Southern accent shining through.

“Miss Smith,” you corrected. It was hard to hide the bitterness in the statement. 

“Miss Smith,” he echoed. “I’m Joel, Sarah’s dad.”

His eyes still hadn’t left yours, their piercing stare making you shiver despite the September humidity. You pulled your hand away, overly aware of how his fingers lingered a moment too long. Shifting your weight from one leg to another, you were starting to feel the asphalt dig into the soles of your feet. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Miller,” you replied.

“Joel,” he insisted.

You nodded politely, giving him another faltering smile. Hauling your purse over your shoulder, you said a soft goodbye to them and bolted to your car. In the confines of the driver's seat, you rested your head against the wheel, inhaling deeply as you steadied the nerves inside your body. Why did such a simple interaction light up your body with emotions you had spent so long suppressing? And why did Joel’s smile haunt you even when your eyes were shut?

Forcing your keys into the ignition, you tore out of the school parking lot and back to the confines of your tiny blue home. 

The weekends were usually filled with nothing more than grading papers and lesson planning. The coffee beside you on the kitchen counter had gone cold hours ago as the morning sunlight faded into the afternoon. Through tired eyes, you glanced up at the oven clock: 2 pm. You needed a break from reading through piles of essays, and your fridge desperately required replenishing. Grabbing your keys off the counter, you forfeited any plans of changing out of your sweat set and headed to the supermarket.

The packed parking lot and crowded store were daunting reminders of why you typically decided to leave your fridge vacant. But as you pushed your shopping cart down each aisle, you had no choice but to comply with your basic human needs and stock up on miscellaneous food you would want throughout the week. Rounding down the next aisle, your eyes caught on a tall figure standing in front of the bakery section, his face scrutinizing every cake in the display case. Shit. 

You tried—and failed—to maneuver your way into the next aisle, somehow crashing into an older woman’s cart, forcing her carton of eggs to fall and smash onto the linoleum floor.

“Dammit,” you hissed, crouching down to try and help them clean up the shattered eggshells.

“S’alright, sweetheart,” she assured. “I’ll just holler for a worker to come clean it up.”

“No, I—I can help,” you stammered, fingers still running over the broken yolks spreading across the floor.

“Miss Smith?” You heard a deep voice above you.

Your head snapped up to see Joel standing above you; his forehead creased with concern. The woman you had crashed into was already down the next aisle looking for a store employee, leaving you alone with a mess you had caused. Joel crouched beside you, his hands folding over yours to slow your frantic cleaning.

“It’s alright, I got it!” You snapped, pulling your hands back.

“Just tryna’ help,” he said. “That’s all.”

“It’s my fault. I can fix it.” 

You had said those words to yourself many times before, and never once did they prove true. 

“Someone will come and clean this up; you ain’t gotta do all that,” Joel said softly. “C’mon.”

He offered a hand, which you took reluctantly, leaving you both standing awkwardly in front of the mess. You shifted your gaze downward, too afraid to meet those deep brown eyes that had plagued you the night before. 

“Hey,” Joel said in a soft tone. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

You huffed a sigh, gripping the handles of your cart to start moving. Today was going downhill rapidly, and you only wanted to go home and hole yourself away…like you always did.

“I, uh, was tryna’ pick out a birthday cake,” he rambled. “S’my birthday tomorrow, and Sarah wants to make sure I have a cake, ya’know? Any ideas on what she might like? I’m not sure if y’all ever have parties at school with sweets and all that.”

Your eyes snapped to his, a scowl forming on your face. Sarah’s dad was asking you what she liked? He was proving to be worse and worse by the second. But you were her teacher and needed to hold your tongue.

“I’m sure she’ll enjoy anything,” you said, a tight smile forming. “Happy birthday, Mr. Miller.”

His eyebrows furrowed together, clearly seeing through the mask you put on. It was infuriating how easily he had wove his way through your bloodstream, even in just twenty-four hours. 

“Joel,” he insisted. “You don’t need to do all that formal stuff.”

“I kind of do,” you laughed. “You’re my students’ father; that’s how I’m supposed to address you.”

“S’all I’m sayin’ is that you’re free to call me Joel. No harm in it.”

There was a lot of harm in it. 

You didn’t know what else to say, so you dipped your head to say goodbye and pushed your cart past him. You weren’t being the kindest nor the most respectful person, but your anger was at a low simmer. Any longer around him, and you might explode. You weren’t used to someone getting under your skin like he was. And the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying. You couldn’t understand why you reacted so strongly. 

“Miss Smith!” Joel called, catching up as you moved down the next aisle.

You inhaled and stopped walking, mustering another fake smile to appease him. He gripped the side of your cart with a large hand, a simple gesture to keep you firmly in place. Clearly, he decided when the conversation was over.

“Yes, Mr. Miller?”

“Did I do somethin’ to upset you? ‘Cause I swear, I didn’t mean anything inappropriate by what I said back there. 

“No, no, you’re fine,” you lied. “Just having a bad day, that's all.” That wasn’t a lie.

Joel ran a hand over his neck, studying you quietly for a moment. Something about the atmosphere around him was intoxicating and so fucking dangerous. 

“Well, I’m sorry ‘bout that. Guess I was just tryna’ make small talk, and clearly, I ain’t doin’ a good job.”

“It’s fine—no need for apologies. I hope the cake and birthday celebration go well. I’m sure Sarah will tell me all about it on Monday.”

His eyes shifted over you again, lingering on your lips, set in a firm smile. You tried your best to hide the shiver that ran up your back as he drank you in. 

“Y’probably think I’m a terrible dad, huh?” He sighed.

“What?” You blinked away the thoughts swarming your head.

“I mean, I know you probably heard us arguin’ last night, and I’m out here asking her teacher what her favorite kind of cake is. You ain’t gotta be polite about it. I know I’m not doin’ the best job,” he confessed.

“Mr. Miller, I don’t think that at all. I just think maybe asking your wife would be more helpful than asking me.”

That garnered a laugh from him, a genuine and sincere laugh.

“Never had a wife to begin with. Sarah’s mom left us when she was only a year old,” he explained. “Been doin’ it all on my own.”

“Oh.” Dammit, you really were a bitch. 

“Trust me, I get it. I could do a better job, bein’ a dad and all that. I’m tryin’.”

“I think you’re doing just fine,” you said. “I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

He brushed it off, replacing the sad look cresting his eyes with a lopsided grin. You wanted to hate it, but your body reacted traitorously. You felt the softness in his gaze crawl over you, slowly replacing the anger coursing through your veins with something else…something you hadn’t felt in a long time. No one had looked at you that way since—well, since Bennett. Even if Joel was only being friendly, you were drawn to the charm he exuded. Dangerous, you reminded yourself.

“Anyway,” he continued. “I won’t hold ya’ up any longer. I hope your day gets better, Miss Smith.”

“Thank you,” you replied. “And Happy birthday, again.”

Joel’s eyes settled on your lips again as you talked, and you felt your cheeks warm under his gaze. His eyes flicked back up to yours, a flash of something behind them, and you were ready to bolt. He muttered a thank you and left you standing in a vacant aisle, your hands still covered in egg yolks and your mind reeling.

It was hard to maintain your good mood once Monday rolled around. Seeing Sarah sitting in class was an unwelcome reminder of your interaction with Joel on Saturday, and you had to refrain from overstepping boundaries and asking about his birthday. She didn’t need to know you cared, even though you struggled not to care. You wondered what kind of cake he decided on, how old he turned if he blushed when she sang Happy Birthday. Every thought burned a hole in your head that you tried to patch up and forget. 

The final bell rang for the day, and the kids began to pack up in a rush. You straightened out the papers lining your desk, avoiding eye contact with Sarah as she slung her backpack over her shoulders and lined up to leave. Grabbing your whistle and bottle of water, you followed them toward the front gates, taking your usual place alongside Maria—who was overly chipper for a Monday.

“Soooo,” she prodded. “How was your weekend?”

“Uneventful,” you lied, walking with her to the crosswalk. 

“You really need to go out and have fun! You’re young, and you need to enjoy your 20s!” She exasperated. 

“Maria, I’m 27,” you groaned. “My 20s are practically over.”

She folded her arms over her chest, leveling you with a heavy glare. Maria was in her late 40’s and clearly exuded a motherly-type attitude. You shifted your focus to the kids crossing the road, watching as they reunited with their parents. 

“We go out on Wednesdays for Happy Hour! Join us this week,” she suggested.

“I don’t know,” you sighed.

“Come on!” Maria pressed. “If you hate it, I’ll never ask you to go out with us again.”

There was no point in arguing with her, so you relented and agreed to one night out. A few drinks and hours of mindless conversation could be good for you. It would be better than sitting in front of the TV with a bland meal and another glass of wine.

You managed to evade all thoughts of Joel somehow the next two days, putting all your time and energy into prepping your students for their first test of the year. Lesson planning and preparation took up your free period and late evenings, leaving you little room to think about those brown eyes and disarming smile. It was Wednesday evening, and you were knee-deep in your closet, trying to find an outfit for Happy Hour. You had changed at least five times, discarding every top and skirt onto your bedroom floor. Eventually, you gave up, settling on tight jeans, a flowy red blouse, and black flats. You left your hair in wavy curls over your shoulders and simple makeup to balance everything out. 

The group took their Happy Hour rituals to a local dive bar on the outskirts of town, a row of motorcycles and trucks lining the entrance. You felt a bit out of place walking into a smoke-hazed bar, with the patron's wandering eyes crawling over you, but you quickly picked out the huddle of teachers in the corner laughing over a round of beers. They welcomed you with bright smiles and hellos, offering to buy your first drink. After about an hour and a few drinks, you felt warm and far more relaxed. Conversations about quarterly goals and admin meetings flowed over the table, each teacher complaining about something. You chimed in when necessary, keeping quiet when you had nothing to contribute. You were on your fourth beer when the girls around you started whispering low about a group of men entering the bar. You stole a peek over your shoulder, eyes settling on the last person you wanted to see. 

Joel Miller.

He had on his usual simple work attire, the fabric of his cotton shirt stretched out over his broad chest. His neck was tanned, most likely from working outdoors, and his hair was just as unruly as you remembered. The man beside him, shorter but with similar features, clapped Joel on the back and steered him towards the bar. You lowered your head, taking a longer gulp of your drink to try and steady your nerves. Of all fucking places, he had to be here. 

“He’s just so handsome, isn’t he?” Maria nudged you, tossing back a look towards Joel.

You shrugged, feigning disinterest. Joel was handsome, but no one needed to know how you felt. Because what you felt was very, very confusing. 

“He’s my students’ father, Maria.”

She rolled her eyes, swirling the contents of her drinks before taking a sip. 

“Okay, and? There’s nothing inappropriate about dating a student’s parent.”

“Yes, there is,” you snapped. “And I’m not even considering dating him.”

“But you think he’s attractive,” she stated.

You didn’t want to respond to that, knowing the warmth in your cheeks was already enough of a giveaway. If you shrunk far enough into yourself, you might go unrecognized the rest of the night.

Maria thankfully dropped the subject, returning to the conversation around the table. After another hour, the ladies started to trickle out of the bar and home for the night. You, on the other hand, still had to wait a bit longer until the alcohol phased out of your body. Which meant you were sitting alone in the same space as Joel. You could feel his eyes on your back the longer you sat there, and to your detriment, decided to steal a glance over your shoulder. Joel’s eyes raked over your body, returning your stare with a soft, welcoming smile. Shit.

You watched as he slipped off the barstool, waltzing towards you with a beer clasped in his large hand. You tried so hard not to notice his thick fingers wrapped around the bottle, and you most definitely tried not to think of what his fingers would feel like inside—

“Miss Smith,” he greeted, silencing your awful thoughts.

“Mr. Miller,” you said.

“Are all these formalities necessary in a bar?” he teased. 

“A couple of drinks won’t change my mind.”

Joel slid into the seat beside you without an invitation, his arm brushing against yours as he settled into the stool. It was instinct to flinch away, afraid of the reaction his touch would cause to your body. 

“What will change your mind?” he pressed, keeping a steady gaze on you.

“Nothing,” you shrugged, deciding to change the subject. “How was your birthday?”

Joel ran a hand through his hair, that stupid lopsided grin forming on his lips. 

“Can’t say I love gettin’ old, but celebratin’ was sure nice.”

“And how old are you, Mr. Miller?”

“Ripe age of thirty-six, Miss Smith,” he grinned. 

“What cake did you choose?” you asked, watching him take a long sip of his beer. 

“Vanilla. Everyone’s gotta love vanilla, right?” 

Was he… flirting with you? 

You’d blame your following response on the beers coursing through your bloodstream, but truthfully, you just wanted to play along, even only for a moment. 

“Hmm, I don’t know. I don’t always love vanilla, Mr. Miller.”

Joel’s eyes darkened, falling to your lips as you took another drink. It was bold and stupid of you to say that, but at this point, you didn’t care. 

“What other flavors do you like?” 

He leaned forward in his chair, his thigh pressing against yours. The heat of his body and the smell of smoke on his clothes was a dangerous combination for your self-restraint.  

“I have a few guilty pleasure flavors,” you smirked.

Joel’s hand damn near crushed the bottle when you said those words, his entire body tensing beside you. You couldn’t care at that moment about how you spoke; the drinks started speaking for themselves. You hadn’t dared to flirt with a man since Bennett left, too afraid of what falling in love again might do to you. But, for some reason, flirting with Joel felt so simple. He was older than you, and maybe that piqued your interest, knowing he was far more mature than anyone else you had considered. 

“Indulge me, Miss Smith,” he whispered. 

“I think I’ll leave it a mystery,” you whispered in return. “I’ve already said too much as it is.”

“I reckon you ain’t said enough,” he countered. 

Heat flared through your neck and face as he leaned in closer, his face only inches from yours. This had gone too far. You had broken any rules you had previously set in place, and now you were dancing on a fragile line between professionalism and indecency. 

Glancing at the clock above the bar, you watched as the hands ticked closer to midnight. Just like in the fairytales, your time was up. Back to reality. 

“It’s getting late,” you started. “I should get home.”

Joel’s demeanor shifted, and his grin faltered as he watched you rise from the barstool. He brushed his hand over your arm, barring you from walking away. 

“Not real sure if you should be drivin’ home yet, Miss Smith. Y’had a few drinks tonight,” Joel protested.

“How do you know? Were you watching me?”

“Gotta make sure my daughter's teacher is safe. Who else’s gonna make sure she gets straight A’s?” 

He was trying to make light of the situation, but you knew better. You knew he had been watching you since he had arrived; his attention had never been on his group of friends. 

“I assure you, I’m fine,” you argued. “You go enjoy your night with your friends, Mr. Miller.”

Joel’s brows furrowed as he considered you. His hand still lingered on your arm, thick fingers flexing against your skin. You glanced between his hand and his eyes, trying to make sense of his intentions. This was far past a coincidental run-in; this was a strange desire out of reach. 

“Can I drive you home at least?” He asked. 

“I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“Can I at least drive behind you to make sure you make it alright?” He offered.

You looked back toward the bar, seeing the man he walked in with staring at you with an apparent scowl.

“I don’t think that’s fair to your friend,” you said.

Joel peered around you and huffed loudly. 

“That’s my brother, Tommy. S’all good, he’s probably ready to hit the road, too.”

“He doesn’t look too happy.”

“He’s fine,” Joel grumbled.

Tommy noticed you both staring at him and decided to join the mix. He walked up with a grin despite the scowl he had just worn and extended his hand to you.

“I’m Tommy. Joel’s brother.”

“Hi, I’m Sarah’s teacher.” You gave him a quick shake and tried to sidestep to leave.

“Wait!” Joel called out.

“I’m okay, Mr. Miller,” you tossed over your shoulder. “Be safe tonight.”

You made a beeline for the door, hoping to escape him before he reeled you back in. You let yourself float in his atmosphere for too long, testing the waters you knew were off-limits. There was still an alcohol-induced haze lingering in your head, but the sooner you could leave, the better. Tomorrow would come with a headache and a post-drunken clarity to put you back on the right track. You needed to steer clear of Joel before you slipped up and allowed another man inside the walls you built. 

You attempted to retrieve your keys from your purse, only to fumble them out of your hands and onto the dirt ground of the parking lot. 

“Fuck,” you groaned.

As you bent to pick them up, footsteps crunching on the ground grew closer. You already knew who it was.

“Miss Smith,” Joel’s voice sounded pained. 

“I’m fine!” you shouted, whipping your head around to find him nearly toe-to-toe with you. 

The moonlight above you illuminated his brown eyes, which darkened the longer he looked down at you. You shrunk away, letting your body hit the driver's side of your door while Joel stepped closer. 

“Please. You shouldn’t be drivin’ right now. Lettin’ you leave like this wouldn’t be right of me.”

Your only focus was on his lips as he talked. The plushness of his lips enticed you, leaving you imagining how soft they’d feel pressed against yours. Your control was slipping, and the alcohol was pulsing faster in your veins. 

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” You wondered aloud. 

Joel looked at you like he knew the layers of the question. He knew what battle you were fighting inside and saw the fear plastered on your face.

“No,” he whispered softly.

Your eyes bounced between his eyes and his lips, trying to grasp the moment's weight. You needed to be firm and say no; your future self would thank you for it. Gripping your keys, you exhaled and turned towards your car door. 

“Have a good night, Mr. Miller,” you tossed over your shoulder. 

The warmth of his body pressed against your back, the smell of smoke and liquor wrapping around you and enveloping you in a cocoon of temptation. Joel’s hands reached around to grab your keys from your shaking hand, dangling them between you and the car. 

“M’taking you home, Miss Smith. Ain’t gonna argue anymore,” he said as his mouth fell to the shell of your ear. 

“I’m—.”

“Don’t,” he interjected. “Go to my truck.”

He had the exact tone you did when you reprimanded your students, but the deep rasp of his accent made it all the more inviting. You didn’t want to listen to his demands, but you were getting nowhere successfully. Joel sidestepped to free you of the cage he had you in, watching you intently as you sulked to his truck. It wasn’t hard to know which one it was; only a few cars were left, and the truck exuded the same masculinity as the owner. 

“What about my car?” You protested, folding your arms across your body as you leaned against the truck. 

“I’ll give Tommy the keys,” he said. “He’ll drive it behind us.”

You were about to ramble another slew of protests when Joel yanked the passenger side door open and tilted his head toward the interior. 

“Get in.”

His tone left little room for arguing, so you did as he said without another word. Despite the anger radiating off his body, Joel shut the door softly before heading back into the bar. 

You fidgeted with the seatbelt, the press of it against your chest not strong enough to stabilize the rhythm of your heartbeat. You were in his truck, meaning you’d be alone with him for the next several minutes. It was enough to force a roll of nausea through your stomach. Leaning your head against the window, you watched him reemerge from the bar with Tommy in tow. There was a clear expression of annoyance etched on Tommy’s face, all at the cost of your own stubbornness. 

Joel tossed him the keys to your car before rounding the truck's hood and climbing into the driver’s seat. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, so you kept your eyes on the road as it blurred past with each passing mile. 

“Where do you live?” he asked, passing through another vacant green light. 

You rambled off your address, still keeping your gaze steady on the streetlights as they passed by your window. He didn’t attempt to make small talk after that, and the silence settled onto you like a heavy blanket. Your control of consciousness was slipping the longer you sat beside him, but you willed yourself awake. The streets started to become familiar, and you shifted in your seat. Taking a risk, you looked at Joel, finding him white-knuckling the wheel with his jaw clenched. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I—I don’t go out and drink normally. I should have just stayed home tonight.”

“S’okay,” he said, glancing at you. “Just don’t get why you’re so stubborn about askin’ for help. First at the supermarket and now at the bar. I don’t get it.”

A rush of tears stung your eyes, and you quickly looked away, trying to blink them back before he noticed. Joel’s hand fell onto your thigh, sending a jolt of shock through your body. You wanted to shy away from it, but there was no use in fighting at this point; you were already failing miserably. 

“Hey,” he prodded. “Shit, I’m sorry. Don’t cry, alright?”

You swiped away the tears running from your eyes, schooling your emotions back into a state of numbness. Your little blue house came into view, and you pointed a tired finger toward it to guide him in the right direction. 

“This is me,” you sniffled. 

“Big ol’ house, Miss Smith. Y’live here alone?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Miller.”

“I really wish you’d stop callin’ me that,” he sighed, parking his car at your home's fence.

“It’s all formalities.”

“Yeah, I know. I just think after tonight, we’re far past all them formalities and shit.”

Your hand lingered on the door handle as you took one last look at him. Joel’s eyes looked over you with a softness you didn’t deserve. You deserve to be happy. Maria’s words rang out in your head the longer you stared at him. ‘Happy’ was a foreign word to you now, out of reach and out of your control.

“Can I just know one thing?” He asked. 

You nodded, your fingers wrapped around the door handle.

“What’s your name?”

Blame the alcohol…blame your vulnerability…but you told him.

[1d1195]

Most I

Read Most here | ~3.9k words

From me: I've been watching sad Instagram reels to feel something so I wanted to just write those feelings out.

Warnings: angsty af. Like you're gonna be sad in this part. It's only some fluff and a lot of love, but it's a lot of angst. Just like an absolute ton of it. Also you're supposed to envision Harry as a firefighter so you have to deal with that at the same time.

Summary: She was his soulmate when he didn’t believe in them. He was the love of her life–the one she planned to write about. But was soulmates going to be enough?

“Hi baby,” her giggle was infectious. The kind of laugh that sounded like music and felt like sunshine. He didn’t even need to see her to know there was a smile on her face. The very same smile that had been his favorite one to see since they were young. Only recently did it turn into the one that he loved so much. Well, at least he could admit how much he loved it openly. It made his own smile appear; just knowing when he turned around, he was going to see those pretty lips, her straight teeth (although when he envisioned it, he still remembered it before she had braces; teeth just slightly crooked at the cutest angle—but he would never tell her that). The word baby was for him. She was in his heart. So completely, so wholly. He loved the way the word baby sounded in her voice. How it left her smiling lips. He had dreamed about it for ages. Since he was old enough to name that she really was his crush.

But in the end, he didn’t even have to tell her he liked the name baby. It was just the one she chose.

Like she knew that’s what he wanted.

“Hey kitten,” he chuckled, smiling over his shoulder as she approached. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. She nuzzled her face against his back. His shirt smelled so intoxicatingly good—like him. He was warm, perfect. He continued his conversation with Niall. Resting his hand on top of hers, settled on the front of his stomach, right above his belt. She stayed glued to him. Niall hardly paid any attention to her. Not in a mean way, of course; no, she was simply there because she was supposed to be. She was a permanent fixture—no, an extension of Harry’s body. When she wasn’t around, it was the first thing anyone asked. Where was she? Was she okay? She liked to be thought of as a package deal. Even her mom, for all her faults, always wondered where Harry was when he wasn’t there. It was like he was the oxygen in the air and when he wasn’t around it was hard for her to breathe.

She loved Harry. She was so in love with him, she thought you could take a sample of her blood and find love for him in the cells at a molecular level. Loved him beyond description. She didn’t think it was possible to love someone that much until she did. It was the stuff of dreams and romance novels. Every time he looked at her, she was overcome with the feeling like he never wanted to stop looking at her.

Harry truly was in love with her. Astronomically in love with her. He thought he would need to create a new unit of measurement just to explain how vast and deeply he loved her. But there wasn’t any justice for it. He simply loved her. Like his life depended on it. He loved her more than he could describe. More than anyone could ever really witness.

He encouraged all her dreams and ambitions throughout the years. When she wanted to be an astronaut he stayed up until three in the morning researching workout routines for them to practice in his backyard so he could help train her for a life on the space station. The week she wanted to be a baker was spent experimenting with flour and sugar. Failing miserably when they set the smoke alarm off so many times that his mum insisted that they take a break.

But it was her writing that he encouraged more than anything else.

He didn’t care what she chose to write. He read it all. Essays, articles, love stories, a grocery list turned into poetry when it came from her pen. He bought her notebooks upon notebooks for birthdays and Christmases. When she was feeling upset, he never brought her flowers; a new pen and notebook, that was all she needed.

People who didn’t know them well, said they were crazy. Falling in love at a young age like that. It wasn’t a good idea. Harry was going to leave for college a year before her and it seemed doomed before it started. But to her it didn’t matter. Because each of those notebooks that Harry never opened without her permission, never strayed from the page she let him read, all were inscribed on the inside front cover with a heart she had drawn and written their two names inside. Like she was going to write their very future into existence.

Yes, Harry loved her, but it was more than that. There wasn’t anyone sweeter. No one was prettier—inside or out. Her kindness was so touching he couldn’t believe someone like her was in love with him some days. It seemed unfair. If there was a perfect person, it was Harry. She was sure.

Harry didn’t believe in soulmates. But whatever she was and how she fit into his life, he was certain it was as close to a soulmate as he would ever get.

So finally, when Harry was finally exhausted from waiting, the day before his last year of school started—before he would be going off and applying to universities, he needed her to know. “You know I’m in love with you, right?” He asked, point-blank.

She smiled.

That gorgeous, perfect smile that melted him right to his core.

“Yes,” she whispered, and she opened one of the notebooks that were stacked beside her bed, all the ones from over the years that she had hidden exactly what she wanted on the inside front cover. “I know.”

Harry saw the hearts, their names.

She was his soulmate. Whether he liked it or not.

So, when they held hands in the school hallways, went to astronomy class together, and sat so close to one another at lunch and in study hall, no one really paid any mind to them. It seemed like most everyone already thought they were a couple, so their adorableness didn’t change how anyone perceived one another. No one noticed how in love Harry was with her because it seemed like nothing had changed at all.

No one cared that she loved Harry with every piece of her heart. Every part of her mind and soul because it seemed like she always had.

Well. 

Almost everyone.

*

Their love wasn’t without fault. Harry worried about the future, if she would grow tired of him because he wanted nothing more than to live in this town of theirs, the place where he met the love of his life and take care of it in thanks for bringing her to him.

“I can write from anywhere, Harry,” she reminded him. “Actually, I would go nowhere to be with you,” she smiled. It was corny. A poem she would probably jot down later before she fell asleep.

“Y’would go nowhere,” he repeated. That dimpled smile of his made her heartbeat twice as fast. His hands slid around her waist. It nearly made her shiver even though it wasn’t the first time he touched her, and it wouldn’t be the last.

She nodded; her hands linked behind his neck. His forehead pressed to hers and he brushed the tip of his nose against hers. His mouth felt like a magnet, and he was going to draw her in whether she wanted to be drawn in or not (but she did—oh, did she want). “Nowhere with you seems like heaven.”

“When y’write your first poetry book, are y’gonna dedicate it to me?”

She nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Yeah? Y’really gonna dedicate it t’nobody?”

“You’re not a nobody,” she rolled her eyes.

“M’not going anywhere. M’jus’ a nobody from nowhere.”

“Harry,” she giggled. “You’re not a nobody... this isn’t nowhere. You’re... everywhere. And you’ll always be my somebody,” she promised. 

Her lips were touching his. Not quite kissing, but as she nodded, they brushed in a half-kiss that she didn’t have enough words to adequately describe the feeling and how it would put any full kiss written by any other author to shame. “Think I want t’have your body all t’myself,” he pulled her closer, somehow. His body was so warm and when he smiled, his mouth curved upwards made her lips follow his. She couldn’t take it a moment longer. She sank into the kiss, feeling like the oxygen was almost too pure for her. Leaving her breathless but wanting more of it all the same.

He was her first kiss, her first poem, her first love, and her first everything. There wasn’t an inch of skin that hadn’t been touched by him. So really, the poems, the stories, the writing came naturally. Harry was her muse. There was nothing else to do but write.

*

But her own insecurities in her writing abilities and her appearance made her nervous that she would hold Harry back. 

Harry wanted to be a firefighter for their sweet little town; and she wasn’t oblivious, he had the body for it. She joked with him that he was going to sell thousands of dollars’ worth of calendars when the time came. “Are y’going t’be the one buying thousands of dollars’ worth of calendars?” He chuckled.

“Obviously,” she rolled her eyes. He kissed every inch of her face until she giggled more and more.

“Kitten?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“M’gonna buy thousands of dollars’ worth of y’books.”

“With my calendar money?”

He tickled her until she squealed.

Harry was beautiful. More beautiful than she felt on most days, and it pained her sometimes to look in the mirror. But it always seemed like Harry knew when those days hit her hardest. “Do y’know you are the most beautiful person I know?” He whispered to her, as if it were a secret. But he would have shouted it from the rooftops. He showed all their friends the pictures he had taken of her and put them in their group chat and reminded them to tell her how pretty she looked. It made her giggle and shy from the attention. He would brush his fingers along her cheek, “So, so pretty,” he reminded her. “Should be illegal t’look at you for this long. Hogging all your beauty t’myself.”

But they always reassured one another that this was it. She was his soulmate—even when he didn’t believe in them. He was the love of her life—the one she planned to write about until she couldn’t physically write anymore.

It helped that people like Eleanor, Louis, Niall, Sarah, and Mitch, all assured her too that no one loved anyone as much as Harry loved her. Everyone loved them together. It wasn’t close to the amount they loved each other, but it was a good amount—one that suggested everyone knew they were meant for each other.

Almost everyone.

*

Lauren was the same year as she was. She was popular, smart, insanely beautiful. In another dimension, she was sure Harry was meant to be with Lauren. But they were a good pair. Lauren was kind and almost always worked with her on school projects. Arguably one of her closest friends outside her main group of friends she shared with Harry.

When they were out and about, Harry watched out for the girls in the group nearly as much as he watched out for the girl that made his heart stutter. He kept spare hair ties around his wrist for when drinking at parties got to be too much and he worried their hair would fall into the toilet. “Harry, can you come get Lo and I?” She asked once Harry picked up at the other end. It was Harry’s least favorite kind of call. The kind he knew Lauren had dragged her to a party that was too much. It made his heartbeat faster, worried beyond belief until he saw that sweet smile holding her friend’s hair back as she threw up in the bushes. “Can you help me get her into bed?” Of course he would. He would do anything she asked.

Harry noticed the way Lauren’s grip tightened around his neck as he held her and carefully placed her into bed. Out of the kindness of his heart, he ignored it. For Lauren’s sake, for his sake, and of course the sake of the pretty girl whose concern for her friend grew as she gathered items needed to cure a hangover. 

*

Lauren was in love with Harry. Had been for years. But it couldn’t even come close to her and her love for Harry. Not in any way, shape, or form. Lauren adored her friend, because how could she not? She was too sweet for words. But there was a part of her, a gnawing, growing part of her that wanted her friend out of the picture. She told herself all she needed was a chance, but it didn’t seem doable. They were inseparable. There was no way she could tear them apart. It was impossible.

Or was it?

*

“Harry?” Lauren asked. She was smiling at her phone again. The way she always did when Harry texted her. During the week, it was a little hard to see one another—even though Harry was commuting to the local university just a half hour drive away and they were still in town. So, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays were meant for dates and kisses and being so obsessed with one another, it would probably make anyone want to throw up.

Especially if they were jealous.

“Yeah, he’s out early. Wanted to know if we needed anything for our study session.”

Lauren felt a crack in her plan. They were really too sweet. Both of them.

“Do you ever… worry about Harry?” Lauren asked. 

She frowned. “Yeah, like every day.”

“No,” Lauren felt a stab of hatred for herself as she pressed. Of course, her friend would say something sickeningly kind like that. Of course, she worried about Harry. “No like… him at university.”

“What do you mean?” She asked innocently. The innocence in her voice was sincere. Genuinely asking her friend what she meant. Worry coated her face. Was there something she missed? Should she have been worrying about Harry more?

“Uh… just… forget it,” Lauren shook her head. “It’s stupid.”

That was going to be the end of it. If it was, maybe Harry would have fared better. Maybe it wouldn’t have led to this horrible moment. Left wondering and aching and wishing.

But she was nothing if not the best and most fantastic friend of all.

“Lo, are you sure? You seem… nervous.”

So, she continued. Planted the tiny seed of doubt. “It’s just… Harry’s been with you his whole life and he’s made it well known he won’t be leaving. So, do you ever feel like you should… let him be free to experience more? I don’t know… I just… I think I would worry if it were me.”

That was all it took.

The self-doubt was so easy. It made so much sense coming from her mouth. Harry did deserve more. She thought that on a regular normal day.

Staying close to home wasn’t going to make Harry’s life any richer. He wasn’t staying in a dorm. He wasn’t going to be studying abroad or anything like that. A degree in psychology to help as much as he humanly could. Training to be a firefighter the moment he finished his degree. He would love his life and living here. 

But what if he deserved more?

*

Harry’s house was like her second home. She rarely knocked—only if she was unsure if anyone was home. If the car was in the driveway, she made her way in.

Except today. Because today, Anne’s porch didn’t feel like home. The steps that made her trip and fall on Halloween when Harry tended to her like he planned on being a doctor. It solidified   the picture that he would be a fireman, an amazing one at that. But he would have been great at anything he set his mind to. The flower garden where she and Harry found a bird’s nest after a bad storm. The study sessions and poems that she scribbled on the porch where Anne would bring them lemonade and cookies.

It was one of her favorite places on earth.

But it wasn’t today.

She knocked.

Harry pulled the door out of the way. “Hey baby,” he pecked her cheek, oblivious to everything she felt and how she sounded. He was in his own happy world. Nothing was wrong. He wasn’t told that she was less when Harry needed more. He didn’t notice she knocked. That she hadn’t toed over the threshold. “How was school and work? Are y’tired?”

“Harry,” she whispered.

“I was thinking we could order in and watch a movie.”

It’s not fair.

“Harry,” she repeated.

“I think pizza—oh we had pizza two days ago. Maybe Chinese?”

It’s. Not. Fair.

“Harry.”

Finally, he noticed she hadn’t moved much beyond the doorway while he was rushing about. He turned to her finally. Noting her crestfallen face, the way her eyes were bloodshot, and she refused to look him in the eye.

“Hey, kitten,” he frowned and moved toward her. “S’matter, love?” He asked. “Did y’have a bad day? See a sad video?”

It pained her to no end that he knew her so well that a sad video could have been the culprit for her sadness on a normal day. But this wasn’t a normal day. This was the day she was going to break her own heart.

“I uh…” she swiped at her eye.

“Kitten, baby,” he cooed and reached for her arm gently, but she pulled away. “Hey, what—”

“I think I’m gonna…” her throat hurt. Like the words were burning her esophagus like they weren’t supposed to come out. “I want to go away,” she whispered. That was at least in part true. She did want to go away. Far, far away so she wouldn’t feel the hurt like she was in that moment. “For school.”

There was a pang of frustration that went through him. Not because he was mad at her. No, he was going to miss her, that was it. But her success, her happiness, all of it was more important than a few hundred miles. Or even thousands. Harry sighed, wiped a hand over his face, and nodded. It would be hard. Long distance would be really hard. “Alright, yeah. Course, baby. Whatever’s best for y’education.”

She shook her head trying to talk herself out of saying it. Or maybe into saying it. It seemed so wrong. So awful. It wasn’t worth it. All this hurt. She hadn’t even started really. She could stop right then. But she looked at him. Looked at his kind, worried face. The way he looked at her when she had a stomachache or a headache. When she smacked her head on the corner of a table she was cleaning under or when she fell off her bike when she was young. “It’s… it’s really far away, Harry,” she reminded him. Maybe she wouldn’t have to say it. Wouldn’t have to do the hard part. He would just know, he would agree.

“Yeah… yeah, it is. But s’okay,” it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Just a minor hiccup. “I’ll come t’you every weekend. And there will be holidays. M’sure your mum will want y’home and—”

His poor heart. He’s got no idea I’m about to ruin everything.

“Harry,” she swallowed. “It’s… it’s too far,” it wasn’t even a whisper.

Harry frowning was her least favorite thing. It made it all so much harder. “Too far for what, kitten?” He asked almost rhetorically.

Her inhale of breath was shaky. Like it was hurting her to breathe. Everything hurt. Every inch of her body. Like she had been hit by a car or had fallen from a tree. It wasn’t fair. Harry was oxygen. He always had been for as long as she had known him. Now it was hurting her to be in the same room as him. “For us,” she croaked.

It felt like the whole world had shifted. Flipped on its axis. He remembered hearing about it in their astronomy class. She was sitting right beside him. He wanted to ask her if she remembered because it wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was supposed to happen gradually, in hundreds of thousands of years. No one was supposed to notice. But Harry did. He noticed immediately.

He scoffed and looked at her like she was insane. Like it was a mean joke. She wasn’t mean so where had this come from? The tears were a nice touch. Realistic even. It felt terrible to look at her in such a way, but surely it was only the natural reaction when someone he loved just caused the magnetic field to flip the entire globe. “Baby, what are y’saying?” He asked. It didn’t really make sense and so his only option was to question her. She covered her mouth releasing a sob that he hadn’t ever heard come from her mouth. Not when her childhood dog died. Not when her mom got in a scary car accident and started losing her mind just enough to make her anxious and worried. Not when she got a terrible grade on her math test or hurt her ankle in soccer. There wasn’t a moment he could compare it to. There was no grief she had ever felt that elicited such a sound. Harry reached for her again, instinctively, his hand touching her upper arm. She flinched. Like it stung.

Like it hurt.

In hindsight, it was the last time he touched her, and she flinched away.

“Baby,” his throat felt tight. Nothing in his brain was connecting—the pattern wasn’t something he had encountered before. She didn’t flinch at his touch. The words didn’t make sense. Not from her mouth. What did any of that mean? “Kitten…”

“I’m sorry Harry. It’s too much. We’re too young and…” she took a heaving breath. One that shook her whole body. The only thing Harry could think about was holding her. It didn’t matter that his heart was splintering into pieces. She was in pain, and he wanted to cure it and he wanted to hold her to do it. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry,” she left the doorway without another word. Not a single touch, nor kiss. When was the last time he kissed her? Oh, he was so lucky his class finished early, and it was the night before. A goodnight kiss when everything was happy and wonderful. He had an early day. So, he told her he loved her and went to bed. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Like the world had tipped and opened a blackhole to this terrible dimension.

“Harry?” Anne asked, coming from the kitchen. He was staring at the door. Where the love of his life had previously stood. Harry was only 19, but he was never surer of how she fit in his life. “Are you alright?”

“No, not at all,” he croaked, and the tears flooded his vision and down his face. There was nothing else to be said.

--

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[siggiedraws]

Sonic is fundamentally unrelatable and unrealistic - and that's a good thing

I want to address a common sentiment in the fandom that I've seen countless times over the years - the idea that Sonic should be more humanlike. Specifically, the idea that Sonic should have more human traits, such as anxiety or insecurities, that make him emotionally vulnerable in some way.

I have always felt that this sentiment strips away what I love about Sonic so much—that it goes against his character as someone who is meant to be inspirational rather than relatable. From the bottom of my heart, I truly believe that making Sonic more relatable ruins his appeal and misses the entire point of what role he is meant to fulfill. Sonic being the way he is, an inhuman being that is extremely strong and unyielding mentally and emotionally, makes him an inspirational character that is appealing outside of the realm of relatability.

Please note that I am discussing Game Sonic for this essay, not any versions of Sonic from spinoff media.

(Special thanks to @blurredblu for helping me write this essay!)

Relatability =/= likeability

First, it is important to define "relatability" for the rest of the essay, as what is seen as relatable can vary across countless different cultures and lifestyles.

In this case, we are discussing facets of the human psyche. Traits such as emotional vulnerability, insecurity, or trauma are traits seen as humanlike because they imitate the depth of the human mind. They come across more realistic, and thus relatable to people in real life who have generally gone through emotional hardships.

Relatability is also considered with the implied audience in mind, according to Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses.

If relatability were somehow a goal of craft, then the question should be: How can a writer go about trying to make a piece of fiction relatable? If we mean “relatable” as sharing a reader’s experience, the first place to go is audience. We must always ask: Relatable to whom? Which brings us back to the elephant in the room—to call a manuscript “relatable” is really to make a claim about who the audience is or should be.

When writing relatability in fiction, what is important to recognize is who the target audience is. Sonic is a character that was initially created to appeal to a wide target audience, not only meant for young boys but for girls, women, and an older age range in general. When it comes to marketability however, Sonic is almost always advertised towards children, and this demographic is the most pertinent when we look at versions of Sonic written with relatability as a goal. With this idea of the target audience in mind, a character who is portrayed as young and having a childish temperament would be more relatable. The Paramount Sonic movies are a great example of a version of Sonic explicitly written to be relatable to the target demographic on a broad level, heavily influenced by the culture that the movies derive from: specifically a middle-class, suburban, small-town vision of American life. Sonic is portrayed as dependent, inexperienced, and abiding by a nuclear family structure who idolises many elements of American popular culture, such as Keanu Reeves or Marvel/DC superhero comics. Compare this to the games, where Sonic is shown to be self-supporting, wise, and living life as an unfettered vagabond, all without a trace of any pop culture utterances.

In other words, Sonic was created to be the height of unrelatability to his target audience.

It is not lost on me that the prevalent desire for Sonic to behave realistically ties into the idea that the goal of crafting a good character is to emulate realistic human characteristics. A character's relatability is what allows audiences to connect with the character, which is considered unequivocally a good thing.

What is forgotten in this rudimentary line of thinking is that characters in media need to fulfill a role. Characters are not people like you or me, but fictional creations made to serve a particular purpose. There needs to be thought put into what narrative role the character fulfills and why they are portrayed a certain way to the audience. Hence, there must be a reason for the relatability, instead of employing it haphazardly.

To quote Craft in the Real World once more:

"readers’ expectations for fiction are created by their previous experiences with fiction—in other words, by culture."

The desire for Sonic to be relatable can be attributed to people recognizing pervasive tropes present in their previous experiences with fiction, internalizing these commonalities as the correct way to write good stories, and assigning these to Sonic as a result. While I can understand the logic behind this thinking, it is crucial we don't limit our appraisal of media by saying a protagonist ought to abide by a certain limitation, when it's the breaking of rules, however rigid they are, that allow for different methods of storytelling. Sonic breaks the so-called rule that a protagonist must be relatable, and it's this unrelatability that enhances and strengthens the narrative in many Sonic games. In other words, writing Sonic in a relatable way can be a way to write him; that does not mean it is the only or correct way to do so.

We should bear in mind that there are usually financial incentives to cast characters as mentally or emotionally relatable to audiences. To create a protagonist that appeals to all audiences to maximize revenue, the solution is typically to make them broadly relatable. While this can be a successful formula, it is important to not apply it to media indiscriminately. If a myriad of works all prioritise having characters be relatable over what makes them unique, you may end up sacrificing creative integrity for the sake of following a trend. In Sonic's case, you would lose the inimitable appeal that makes him stand out. While relatability can be valuable in certain contexts, it should not dominate all other considerations of writing a character, especially when it is done for the purposes of profitability as opposed to earnestly conveying a character to, ultimately, tell a story.

What makes Sonic stand out

What, then, makes Sonic stand out as a character? His inhuman mental fortitude. In a wide and varied cast of characters such as the Sonic cast, each with their own unique emotional struggles, Sonic stands out as the sole character with no struggle. He has no weak point, no Achilles' heel. Though he is weak to water, that is only a physical weakness. Mentally, he is too strong for anything to affect him long-term.

As stated before, characters are designed to serve specific creative purposes. In Sonic's case, his striking mental resilience is to highlight other messages and characters in the story. This is because Sonic usually plays the guiding or support role in his stories. He is not the sole focus. There is always at least a second character that the story focuses on to highlight that character's problems and struggles, and how that character ends up overcoming that conflict, often with Sonic's help.

With all this in mind, would Sonic stories be improved if Sonic was, instead, a human-like character with human flaws and insecurities? Or would this muddy his core concept and require all Sonic stories to be changed unrecognizably to fit this new, different character?

Sonic has no backstory - and that's a good thing

Understand that this section is not an attack on backstories in general. For the most part, backstories provide insight into a character's motivations and personality. They are effective in accomplishing what they were meant to do - creating characters that are meant to be realistic.

Sonic is not meant to be realistic.

Yuji Naka once stated the reason behind Sonic's lack of a backstory in an interview: if you uncover all the mysteries, then the character will become uninteresting.

Very little information of Sonic's backstory has been revealed. We know that he is from Christmas Island (same interview link as above) and it is implied in the Sonic 1 manual that he and Eggman already know each other and have been regularly tussling before the events of the first game. These are vague and unspecific details that are not brought up in Sonic games at all, and for good reason.

Distance is required to portray a character who you are meant to be separate from rather than analogous to. Maintaining a certain level of mystery around Sonic creates intrigue, as a question is begged but never answered or even brought up in Sonic stories. This is because Sonic's backstory has no relevance on the narrative and delving into it is not necessary.

Sonic's motivations are simple and straightforward. He likes to run and go on adventures because it's fun. He likes to help people not out of some heroic obligation but because he wants to do what he feels is right. There is no need for a backstory to explain Sonic's motivations when they are plainly presented to you in such an uncomplicated manner, and what's on the face of it is just wholly what it is.

Sonic is also a character that remains static rather than having a major character arc. While he can grow when it comes to things that don't affect his overall character, such as Sonic learning and overcoming Shadow's Chaos Control technique in Sonic Adventure 2, he has no emotional conflict to overcome. He has been a fully realized character since the beginning of the franchise.

Compare this to a character like Tails, whose character arc is about him being bullied for his two tails in the past and being inspired by Sonic to be more confident in himself, as communicated in the Sonic 2 manual and his Sonic Adventure campaign. Divulging Tails' backstory is necessary for the improvement of Tails' circumstances and confidence levels to be effectively communicated in the story.

Fictional characters are narrative devices created to tell a story. They are not real. Again, there must be narrative reasons for them to be the way they are.

Providing Sonic's backstory would serve no narrative purpose—none that would serve the themes his stories and character are meant to serve, at any rate.

Sonic has no trauma - and that's a good thing

Upon analyzing Sonic's character in the games for so long, it has become astoundingly clear to me that Sonic does not have an ounce of mental trauma from everything he has been through. This should not be seen as a bad thing, but rather a well-thought-out and deliberate decision that serves to reinforce the role his character serves.

In the face of situations that would be considered stressful or traumatic to the average person, Sonic remains unfazed and even excited. There are countless examples of this: Sonic jumping from a plane with nothing but shrapnel to use as a surfboard in Sonic Adventure 2; Sonic expressing excitement that he's near an active volcano spewing lava in '06; Sonic exuberantly grinding over pits of lava in Black Knight; Sonic burning up with excitement at the prospect of dangerous stakes in Team Sonic Racing while everyone else seems to be concerned.

For Sonic, danger and near-death experiences are not a source of emotional struggle, but rather a source of fulfilment and joy. He lives life on the edge; the excitement of diving off of a plane or nearly falling into lava only fuels his love for life.

Additionally, Sonic also enjoys the simpler pleasures of life. Exploring the world. Reading books. Going on relaxing vacations. Racing through open fields. Life is one big adventure and Sonic is having a blast living it.

The idea of Sonic having some kind of secret, hidden trauma that he hides under the guise of a fake smile can be a fun fanon trope, but, for the purposes of canon and official Sonic stories, there are clear reasons why they should stay as fanon. If Sonic had trauma, it would undermine his unrelatability and make no sense given his role in his stories. Tropes such as Hurt/Comfort and Angst are ubiquitous when it comes to fandom culture, and this could be a case of those tropes appearing in the Sonic fandom simply due to the nature of fandom itself. Enjoying fanon in and of itself is all well and good, but advocating for it in canon will homogenize it by stripping away what is unique about the media we love.

In the end, there is no reason to believe that Sonic pretends or does not behave genuinely when it comes to expressing his true emotions. Sonic simply has nothing dark inside of his heart to hide. This is confirmed in Unleashed, where Sonic's heart is strong enough to resist the negative emotional forces of Dark Gaia without him even realizing. The subconscious nature of the action combined with his humility even leads him to initially think it to be Chip's doing. His heart is so strong and so pure that it is incorruptible by negative forces. This shows how Sonic's resolve is effortless and practically baked into who he is.

Sonic's internal strength is completely unconscious on Sonic's part. He doesn't actively try to be the way he is. He just is.

Sonic doesn't cry - you get the idea

It has become a hot topic in the fanbase in recent years that Sega once provided a revision note for Sonic to not express excessive emotion such as outwardly crying or sobbing.

This idea has generally been met with hostility and aversion from fans. However, this negative reaction has always confused me, and I hope to offer a different perspective to the issue.

Why does Sonic need to cry?

Let's expand on this argument for fairness' sake. A common rebuttal grants that Sonic doesn't usually cry. But in extremely emotionally difficult situations, such as loss or mourning, Sonic should cry because it is only natural to cry in such a situation.

Again, I want to challenge this notion. We could approach it from the angle of human psychology and behaviour—it is far from the case that everyone cries in response to severe adversity, belatedly or otherwise—but instead I want to explore this with respect to the narrative angle we have covered so far. Specifically, with respect to the idea that characters, unlike you or me, are designed and portrayed with certain purposes in mind.

Why would it be natural for Sonic to cry?

To help understand Sonic's handling of loss, let's analyze four examples from the series of Sonic losing someone.

In Sonic Adventure 2, Sonic stays strong and composed right after Shadow's presumed death, paying respect to his fallen ally.

In Sonic Unleashed, after Chip leaves him, Sonic takes a deep breath before moving forward with a smile on his face.

In Sonic Battle, Sonic is desperate for Emerl to live and expresses this openly.

In Sonic '06, Sonic expresses a great amount of despair when Elise dies in an explosion aboard the Egg Carrier.

It is clear from the outset that Sonic is not an uncaring individual - he wouldn't do all the selfless things he does if not because he didn't care about people. He also still feels strong emotion at losing those close to him, but he handles those emotions with a great deal of fortitude. In Adventure 2 and Unleashed, his reaction is more subdued, while in Battle and '06, it's clear that Sonic is upset and isn't afraid to show it. The difference could be due to that in the prior examples, Sonic watched them die in front of his eyes, while in the latter examples, they were already gone by the time we see Sonic's reaction.

Nevertheless, Sonic feels emotion. It is only because he does not express himself in an adequately typical way that this idea is met with so much outrage and pushback. Because Sonic does not cry, and because an expected response in certain scenarios would be to cry, it is perceived as a writing mistake that must be fixed. Sonic is perceived as a bad character because he does not fit into a rigid box of socially acceptable expressiveness.

But why is Sonic acting outside the norm necessarily a bad thing? The fact that Sonic can go through such hard situations and remain positive is a testament to his strength. The fact he doesn't cry makes him come across as superhuman when it comes to mental fortitude. That is not a mistake of his character that needs "fixing." That is the entire point.

The animosity towards the idea of Sonic not crying, that he must express himself a specific way, a distinctly normal and humanlike way, is stirred from the irrational, yet sadly common, leap in logic that Sonic must behave and experience life like you or me.

There is an irony, too, to how localised this demand of realism is of Sonic. I've seen no outrage demanding that he spill blood or break bones like us. But, apparently, he must shed tears to be a good character. Sonic is superhumanly resilient while running, or fighting, or taking on the miraculous powers of the Chaos Emeralds. Chaos is power and power is enriched by the heart. Sonic's is shown to be one of the strongest and purest out there, one that moves ever on from and through the pain of loss, grief, and tragedy. Isn't it bizarre, then, that this is considered a defect to him?

The messaging of Sonic

Sonic's core concept as an inspirational character must be maintained because it is key to the emotional messaging of nearly every single Sonic game.

Right from the very first game, you play as a plucky little hedgehog, fighting against the tyranny of Eggman's industrialization threatening to destroy all life on the planet.

Sonic is small and unassuming. But he fights anyways, determined to stop Eggman. And he does.

This concept remains throughout the franchise. Sonic always remains steadfast in the face of great adversity. From Sonic CD's "You Can Do Anything" vocal theme telling the player to believe in themselves to simple yet motivational phrases—ones that Sonic himself has given to the likes of more normal characters such as Elise: "If you have time to worry, then run!"

There is even a quote on the Japanese box art of Sonic & Knuckles comparing Sonic to the Sun, the far and unreachable star in space that our entire galaxy revolves around.

We look up at the Sun like how we look up to Sonic.

As brought up earlier, Sonic is the antithesis of relatability to his target audience, children.

This is because he is meant to inspire children.

The fact that Sonic remains so popular and successful to this day is undeniable proof that relatability is far from a necessary ingredient for likeable characters. Given the fact that Sonic is such a strong-willed character, that he fights endlessly against adversity with a smile on his face, that he always gives positive words of encouragement, is it any wonder why he is so popular with children? Sonic is a wonderful role model that promotes living life to the fullest. Sonic is deceptively wise, seeming to know simple yet effective solutions to every problem. Sonic encourages you to chase your dreams, to stay strong through hard times, to enjoy life.

Sonic is a friend who is always there for you.

Not only does Sonic provide guidance to characters, he provides guidance in the real world as we navigate our lives and the trials and tribulations that come with them. Each character that presents a problem is the character we are meant to connect with, and Sonic is who we strive to be.

CONCLUSION

I do not hold any grudge against relatable characters. I love them, just as I love all kinds of different characters in all kinds of media.

I believe that coexistence is possible. I believe that you can praise a character for their relatability and realism, just as you can praise a character for being the antithesis of both of those things, and these do not have to be contradicting principles for one to have. It all depends on a character's narrative function and how their character traits – both relatable and unrelatable – serve the story that is being told.

Sonic the Hedgehog is a character whose role in the narrative is to inspire and guide other characters. From a Doylist perspective, he represents the prominent, all-embracing messaging about staying strong and positive despite all odds, inspiring and guiding his target audience.

Every decision put into Sonic's character traits serve his role perfectly. Of course this extraordinary character does not behave like you or I do. Why would he? That's simply not his nature; a gust of wind in the breeze, moving endlessly all throughout the world. A pure and positive heart who has achieved the innate desire of all humankind in a way that we will never truly understand, free from the burdens of human nature. Freedom.

Sonic is unrelatable and unrealistic. And he is an amazing character.