#i know I've been kind of quiet on socializing here

[heliosunny]

I've read a manhwa with the plot of MC being in a marriage of convenience with the ML in their first life and they work hard to make it work/feel like an actual marriage but the guy didn't give it much thought so they died and in their second life, the MC just decided to not focus on the guy but that somehow attracted the guy's attention

So that premise with Mydei (or Phainon, I just thought it suited Mydei more) where in reader's first life they had loved him and dedicated their whole being to him but they end up dying so in their second life they were more confrontational and willing to potentially piss off Mydei but that just had the opposite effect on him.

Bonus I guess if he remembers what reader did after a certain time and makes him fall harder (or go full on yan route idm)

Yandere!Mydei x Reader

[Artist]

You had loved him once.

It was a quiet, steady love, the kind built on careful devotion rather than reckless passion. A love that manifested in the way you always reached for his hand in public, in the way you made him pomegranate juice exactly as he liked it, in the way you handled every social obligation so he wouldn’t have to. A love that, despite being arranged, had been genuine on your part.

Mydei, however, had never given you much thought.

Your marriage had been one of convenience, a political arrangement that benefited both parties, nothing more. You knew that. You had known it from the start. But knowing didn’t stop you from hoping, didn’t stop you from trying to be someone he could come to love.

Yet you had tried.

You learned his preferences. You shielded him from trivial nuisances. You defended him against enemies in court. You ensured his home was warm when he returned, even if he never cared whether you were there waiting or not. You gave him everything you had to offer, even as your own needs went unnoticed, unfulfilled.

And then, one day, you died.

It was an illness, slow but inevitable. The kind that ate away at you little by little until there was nothing left to give. You had fought to stay by his side, to live long enough for him to notice you, to care. But as you lay on your deathbed, your body weak, your breath shallow, Mydei had stood beside you with the same unreadable expression he always wore.

“It’s unfortunate” he had said, his voice calm. “But there’s nothing to be done.”

He hadn’t held your hand. Hadn’t begged you to stay. Hadn’t even asked if you were afraid. And so you died, alone in a marriage that had never truly been shared.

But then, against all reason, you awoke again.

A second life. A second chance.

And this time, you wouldn’t waste it on him.

----

The first time you met Mydei again in your new life, he had the same detached expression, but this time, you weren’t the same.

“Oh. It’s you.” he said, mildly surprised.

You stared at him, deadpan. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

He blinked at you, clearly taken aback. In your past life, you would have smiled softly, eager to please. Now, you met his gaze with all the warmth of an ice sculpture.

“You seem different.” he noted, as though observing the weather.

“Yes, well, dying does that to a person.” You crossed your arms. “But don’t worry, I’m not here to cater to your every whim anymore. I have better things to do.”

His brow furrowed slightly, a reaction so subtle you might have missed it if you hadn’t known him so well. It was funny. For the first time, Mydei found himself unsure of how to proceed.

Days turned to weeks, and you continued to avoid him as much as possible. When you couldn’t, you treated him with polite indifference.

“Here, I brought you tea.”

Mydei raised a brow. “Tea?”

“I just grabbed the first thing I saw.” You sipped your own drink with a smirk, watching as he hesitated before taking a sip. No more pomegranate juice, but you made no move to correct it. Let him suffer.

He gave you a long, unreadable look, then quietly finished the tea anyway.

You weren’t sure when it started, but Mydei began seeking you out more often. Not for anything important, just small, meaningless interactions that, in your first life, he would have ignored entirely.

“You’re busy” he observed one day, watching you pour over books in the library.

“You’re perceptive” you deadpanned, not looking up.

“I can help.”

You finally met his gaze, incredulous. “You? Help? With something that doesn’t benefit you?”

“I’m capable of generosity” he replied smoothly.

You scoffed. “Sure. And I’m the Empress of the Universe.”

To your growing unease, Mydei only chuckled, as if thoroughly enjoying the challenge you presented. If he had ignored your love in your past life, he now seemed intent on prying into your every thought in this one.

You weren’t sure which was worse.

What made it all the more complicated was that Mydei had no idea you had already lived and died once before. To him, this was just the first time you had ever looked at him with anything less than quiet admiration. And while he couldn’t understand what had changed, he was undeniably intrigued.

-----

The third prince’s birthday celebration was an unavoidable event. No matter how much you wanted to stay far away from Mydei, you were both expected to attend.

Dressed in formal attire, you entered the grand hall, carefully ignoring Mydei’s presence beside you.

As expected, the noble ladies flocked to him almost immediately, their voices sickly sweet.

“Mydei, you look as composed as ever” one simpered, lightly touching his sleeve. “Surely you must save a dance for me?”

“And me as well” another chimed in. “It’s not often we get to see you at these gatherings.”

You sipped your drink and turned away, uninterested.

Mydei, however, seemed less inclined to entertain them. His gaze flickered to you, watching your utter lack of reaction.

“You’re ignoring me” he murmured, stepping closer.

You didn’t even glance at him. “Congratulations, you’re learning.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if amused. “Are you jealous?”

You turned to him at last, offering the driest look you could muster. “If I had a single grain of salt for every second I cared, I wouldn’t even be able to season a meal.”

He chuckled. And you had the distinct feeling Mydei wasn’t going to let you ignore him forever.

Sensing your chance to leave, you excused yourself quietly and slipped away. You navigated through the bustling crowd until you reached the gardens, where the young third prince stood alone, watching the lanterns flicker above. You wished him a happy birthday, exchanged brief pleasantries before excusing yourself, intent on leaving before anyone noticed. Unbeknownst to you, Mydei had followed—watching from the shadows as you spoke to the young prince with a warmth you had never once given him in this lifetime.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click as you stepped into your quarters, letting out a sigh of relief. The evening had been long. You had done your part, made an appearance, and now you could finally shed the pretense of civility and rest.

You barely had time to unfasten the heavy jewelry weighing on your ears before there was a knock at the door. Your brows furrowed. It was late. Too late for someone to be calling on you unless it was urgent.

Still, you already had a sinking feeling about who it was.

“Enter” you called, bracing yourself.

The door opened, and sure enough, Mydei stepped inside. His usually pristine attire was slightly disheveled, his coat unbuttoned at the collar. But what truly caught your attention was the way he moved, slower, more deliberate, as if something was weighing on him.

He had never been one to drink, and yet, something about him seemed... off.

You sighed. “It’s late, Mydei.”

“You left early” he countered, shutting the door behind him. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—something quiet and simmering beneath the surface. “Without informing me.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to retire for the night” you replied dryly, turning away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I saw you” Mydei interrupted.

You stilled. “Saw me?”

“With the third prince” he clarified, stepping closer. “In the gardens. You seemed… close.”

You exhaled through your nose. “He’s a child, Mydei. I was wishing him a happy birthday.”

“And yet, you looked at him with more warmth than you’ve ever spared me.”

You turned to face him then, brows arching. “Are you jealous?”

Mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied you. He took another step forward, invading your space, forcing you to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact.

“Would it matter if I was?” he asked at last.

You scoffed, stepping back. “No. Because it wouldn’t change anything.”

Mydei was a man of control. To be thrown off balance, to be met with resistance where he once found compliance, was undoubtedly foreign to him.

Good. Let him feel what you had felt all those years.

You turned away, signaling the conversation was over. “Go sleep, Mydei. We have nothing more to discuss.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, finally, he let out a quiet chuckle, a sound devoid of humor. “You truly are different now.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t look back.

Because if you did, you might have noticed the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides. And you might have realized that Mydei was far from willing to let things be.

-----

Over the next few days, Mydei seemed to have an unusual amount of free time. His duties, which once kept him busy, were now seemingly cast aside. Wherever you went, he was there.

It started subtly: walking in step with you through the halls, his presence a quiet shadow. Then it grew bolder. Sitting beside you at meals, his knee brushing against yours and never pulling away. Standing behind you, fingertips grazing the small of your back under the guise of guiding you forward.

You would have ignored it, written it off as coincidence—if not for the way his touch lingered. The way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, as if it were second nature.

One evening, as you sat by the window, lost in thought, you felt it again, his hand, warm and steady, against your shoulder. A familiar presence, yet wholly unfamiliar in its intent.

“You’ve been avoiding me” Mydei murmured.

“I’ve been living my life” you corrected, not looking up.

His fingers curled slightly, almost as if to pull you closer, but he hesitated. “And yet, somehow, I find myself a part of it more than before.”

You turned to him then, meeting his gaze directly. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why that is.”

A smirk ghosted his lips, though his eyes held something heavier. “Oh, I have.”

You had tolerated it long enough. Mydei’s constant presence, his lingering touches, the way he hovered around you as if he had never been indifferent.

The final straw came when he followed you into the private study, an intimate space he had never once stepped foot in before. You slammed the book you were holding onto the table and turned to face him, irritation burning in your chest.

"Enough!" Your voice was firm, unwavering. "What exactly do you want from me, Mydei?"

He arched a brow, unfazed. "I would think that’s obvious."

You scoffed. "Obvious? You ignored me for years, treated our marriage as a mere obligation, and now—now you cling to my side like a shadow. Why?" Your breath hitched slightly, but you pushed forward. "Is it because I no longer chase after you? Because I finally see this marriage for what it is?"

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—something unreadable. He took a step closer, but you raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

"No" you said sharply. "No more. This ends now. I want a divorce."

For the first time since his sudden shift in behavior, Mydei’s expression darkened. "You don’t mean that."

"I do." You met his gaze head-on. "I refuse to stay shackled in a marriage that was never real."

He exhaled slowly, as if reining himself in. "And what makes you think I'll allow it?"

Your fingers clenched into fists. "Because it’s not your decision to make."

"You truly have changed."

You didn’t back down. "And I intend to keep it that way."

His eyes lingered on you, calculating, something darker stirring beneath the surface. Then, as if making a silent decision, he took another step forward.

"Then let's see how far you’re willing to go" he murmured.

-----

Determined to push him into agreeing, you invited Duke Laurent, a respected noble and someone with a clear interest in you, to visit. If Mydei would not agree to divorce out of reason, perhaps jealousy would make him let go.

Just as you began conversing with the duke, Mydei’s arm suddenly snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You stiffened at the public display of intimacy, something he had never once shown before. The duke’s expression remained polite, though there was clear tension in the air.

Mydei leaned in, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. "You think bringing another man here will make me release you?"

He turned his gaze to the duke, his expression composed but lethal. "You see, we are still very much married."

Before you could shove him away, he tilted your chin up and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your lips, just enough to make the moment scandalous.

"Mydei—" You hissed, shoving at his chest, but his grip remained firm.

Then came his final blow, spoken with a smirk against your skin. "If you truly wish to fulfill the divorce, then surely, as tradition dictates, our marriage must bear an heir first. Otherwise, it would be incomplete."

The audacity of it, the sheer arrogance—

Fury surged through you. Without thinking, you leaned in and bit his shoulder, hard enough to make him tense, hard enough to leave a mark through his fine fabric. Just hoping it'll make him let you go. He inhaled sharply, but instead of anger, something else flickered in his gaze. Interest.

His grip on you tightened, fingers pressing into your waist. "How intriguing" he murmured, almost amused. "You’re becoming more and more fascinating."

You could only glare, breathless with anger, as he leaned in even closer. "I’ve decided—I shall never let you alone."

That night, Mydei made his final decision.

You found yourself restless, pacing in your chambers, feeling trapped in a game you never agreed to play. The door creaked open, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

"Leave!" you ordered without looking up.

Instead, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "You asked for a divorce. I gave you my terms," he said smoothly. "But I have a better idea."

You turned, narrowing your eyes. "I don't care for your ideas, Mydei. I want my freedom."

"And I want you," he countered effortlessly, closing the distance between you. "So, it seems we are at an impasse."

He reached out, tracing a hand over your wrist. "You see, I’ve realized something," he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. "I cannot let you go."

"Then you will have to learn."

"No" he whispered, leaning in "I will simply ensure that you never wish to leave."

This was no longer a battle of marriage or freedom.

This was war.

Then, his voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "If you try to run, I will find you. If you seek another, I will ruin them. And if you deny me..." His fingers trailed over your throat, "I will make sure you have nowhere to go but back to me."

"You wouldn’t dare."

"Wouldn’t I?" The smirk on his face only triggered you more. "You forget, my dear, I am not a man who lets go of what is his. And you? You belong to me."

A slow, measured pause before he added, "So fight me if you must. Hate me, struggle, scream. But in the end, you will always return to me. I will make sure of it."

---

Another day passed. Nothing happened. Until-

You were sitting stiffly in your chambers, the weight of Mydei’s last words still pressing against your mind.

Mydei entered, once again without your consent.

A goblet sat before you, filled with deep crimson liquid—the rich, unmistakable hue of pomegranate juice. It was his favorite, something he drank often, something he had tried countless times to get you to enjoy.

“I had the servants prepare this just for you” Mydei said smoothly, swirling the liquid in his own goblet. “It would be such a shame if you ignored my gift.”

You hesitated, glancing at the drink. Something about his tone made you wary, but refusing would only stretch this moment further. You reached for the goblet, only for Mydei to intercept, his fingers ghosting over yours as he picked it up himself.

“Let me.”

His hand cupped your chin, tilting your head slightly. Before you could react, the cool rim of the goblet pressed against your lips, the sweet aroma of pomegranate thick in the air. The moment the liquid touched your tongue, warmth flooded through your body. A strange, numbing sensation curled through your veins, heavy and inescapable. Your limbs felt sluggish, the world turning soft around the edges.

Your breath hitched as your body betrayed you, sinking against the silk sheets.

Through your hazy vision, you saw Mydei standing by the door, watching. His expression was unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Rest well, my dear”

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he moved closer, his fingers brushing against your cheek before he slid into the bed beside you. His arms wrapped around you, firm yet deceptively gentle, caging you against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and in your hazy state, resistance felt… unnecessary.

“You’ll understand soon” he whispered, his breath fanning against your ear. “You don’t need to fight anymore. Just listen to me.”

Your thoughts wavered, slipping further into a fog. Your body felt too heavy to move, your mind too sluggish to argue. His presence, once suffocating, now felt… inevitable.

Through the night, he held you close, his grip never loosening. Each time your thoughts stirred, his voice was there, murmuring soft reassurances, reinforcing his presence, reminding you he was always there.

By the time morning light crept through the curtains, your mind was no longer as sharp as before. The idea of pulling away seemed distant, unnecessary.

He was still here.

His arms remained locked around you, as if this was how it had always been. His breath, slow and even, ghosted against the side of your neck, warm yet oppressive.

“Awake already?” His voice was low, thick with the drowsiness of someone who had slept well.

You swallowed, trying to shift, only to realize just how intimately entangled the two of you were. One of his legs had hooked over yours, anchoring you beneath the weight of him. His fingers, idly tracing over the fabric of your nightclothes, stopped just at your wrist, where his hold subtly tightened.

You were trapped.

“I need to get up” you muttered, voice still hoarse from sleep.

Mydei didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, his arms curled around you more securely, pressing you deeper against his chest. “You don’t, actually,” he murmured. “Stay.”

Something in his voice made your stomach twist. There was no plea, no request, just the quiet certainty of a man who had already decided what would happen.

“I have things to do” you tried again, frustration slipping into your tone. “You can’t just—”

“Can’t I?” Mydei interrupted lazily, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you properly. His hair was slightly tousled, falling over sharp eyes that gleamed with something unreadable. “You haven’t been well. I think it’s best if you rest today.”

“I feel fine” you lied, pushing against his chest.

He caught your wrist easily, his thumb pressing against the rapid beat of your pulse. “Do you?” His smile was slow, knowing. “You still look dazed. You’re warm. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were falling ill.”

Mydei had always been perceptive, dangerously so. And in this moment, with your thoughts still sluggish, you knew you were at a disadvantage.

“Mydei,” you tried to keep your voice steady, “what did you do?��

His grip on your wrist didn’t waver, but his expression softened into something almost… fond.

“I’ve merely helped you see things clearly.” His fingers traced over your knuckles before he lifted your hand, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your palm. His lips curved against your skin. “You always try to run. You make things so difficult for yourself.”

“You drugged me.”

Mydei sighed, tilting his head as if mildly disappointed. “It was just a little something to help you relax. To stop you from making rash decisions.” He leaned in closer, his nose grazing against your cheek before his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “You wouldn’t want to make any rash decisions, would you?”

A surge of unease coursed through you, your body screaming to move—to fight. But your limbs still felt leaden, and Mydei knew it. He had planned for it.

“I thought we had an agreement” you gritted out. “You can’t keep me here like this.”

“What do you mean by 'keep you'? You’re mine, my dear. You always have been.”

Your breath hitched as he finally released your wrist—only to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him properly.

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

----

Visit [2] [2*]

[hxlxnaaa]

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: it's your senior year at the aerospace academy, and over the course of nine months, your connection with caleb shifts from mere classmates and acquaintances to something deeper. but there's one problem—the girl he loves back home.

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: first person pov, non-mc reader, feminine implied reader, some connections to caleb’s 4-star tender moments, angst/hurt + no comfort, kinda long but fast paced

★ 𝐰𝐜: 11.1k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: longest fic i've written yet, go me woot woot :p i wanted to write heartbreak so here it is. pls do not have your therapist bill me, thx! anyways when caleb goes, ‘i wont get a girlfriend’ in stage observer, he sounds kinda down, right? yeah imagine hes thinking about you (the reader) in this as he says that LOL. okay, (try to) enjoy lovelies!! <3

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝!

I never believed I’d let something like this happen to me. 

Yet it crept in quietly, the way all irreversible things do. A shift so subtle I almost missed it, until I was already too deep to turn back.

It was in the lingering glances, in the way the air felt charged in the spaces between us. In the laughter that came too easily, the silences that felt safe, the moments that stretched just a little too long. It was in the way he looked at me; like maybe, for a second, he saw something more.

But love, if you can call it that, isn’t always kind. Sometimes, it’s a quiet war. A battle between logic and longing, between what’s real and what’s only ever been wishful thinking. And when the person you want is still holding onto someone else, someone they can’t seem to let go of, where does that leave you?

I swore I’d keep my balance; though gravity has a mind of its own.

August-

It was breezy, as are most August days in Skyhaven. Fumbling my fingers through my hair, desperately trying to comb through any loose strands from the wind, I tried to make myself look somewhat presentable for my first day of classes. It was senior year, and I wanted to make the most of it for once, as it felt like the past few years had been me barely passing by. 

I sat down in the lecture hall, music blaring through my headphones as I fidgeted nervously with the pen in my hand. It wasn’t long before a figure sat next to me in my peripheral, and I internally groaned.

‘You have this whole ass lecture hall with so many empty seats in this row, and you sit right next to me. Dick.’ I thought to myself.

Seeing the person tap on my desk, I glanced over to notice it was Caleb.

We had crossed paths before, orbiting the same social circles through mutual friends. Our interactions had been fleeting, exchanged pleasantries at gatherings or brief moments of conversation that never really dug beneath the surface.

His lips moved as he spoke but I didn’t hear a word he said over the sound of my music. I pulled one of the speakers off my ear, “What?”

“Well first I said ‘hey, what's up?’, then told you I’m glad to know someone in this class.” Caleb smiled, “But then I realized you weren’t listening.”

His grin was infectious. Then again, everything about him was. Caleb was a campus favorite, and for good reason; his effortless charm and magnetic charisma drew everyone in, leaving them captivated.

I smiled back, “I would’ve listened, I just couldn’t hear you.”

“Shoulda tapped you sooner then.”

We talked as more people trickled in, and conversation with him flowed effortlessly. He was almost unfairly likable, the kind of person who won people over without even trying, it was no wonder he had everyone wrapped around his finger.

“Yeah, I failed this class the first time around, so if I want to graduate this spring, I have to finally retake it,” Caleb sighed, shaking his head. “The Caleb failed a class? No way…” Gasping, I clutched my chest in mock shock. “I had no idea you were even capable of failure, Mr. Perfect.”

His lips twitched into a smile at the nickname, but his eyes betrayed him. He shrugged, “Well, I can do it this time around.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I totally didn’t realize I needed this credit.” I poked his hand resting on his desk with my pen, “We’re in this together.”

The professor was about halfway through the syllabus when Caleb started writing on my notebook. 

Do you have class after this?

I looked over at him, mouthing “No”. Not for a few hours, I wrote back. 

Hangout with me after this then

And that’s how I ended up sitting in the quad with Caleb, with the itchy grass prickling my legs and a sweating can of soda in my hand beneath the warm August sun. Yet Caleb’s presence was still warmer; my cheeks and stomach hurt from laughter, and every giggle of mine only fueled the fire of his jokes. 

As the laughter died down, Caleb leaned back on his hands, squinting up at the sky. “Man, I forgot how nice it is to just sit around like this on campus. No deadlines yet, no stress… just kinda existing.”

I took a sip of my soda, nudging his knee with mine. “You make it sound like you’re constantly suffering.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean, maybe a little. Gotta keep up the ‘Mr. Perfect’ image, right?”

I tilted my head, studying him. For a second, he looked almost… tired. Like there was more he wanted to say but wasn’t sure how.

“You know you don’t have to be perfect all the time, right?” I said, softer now. “You’re allowed to mess up. You’re allowed to breathe.”

He glanced at me, something flickering in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or relief. Then, just as quickly, his signature grin returned. “Good to know I’ve got my personal cheerleader.”

I rolled my eyes, but my smile gave me away. “More like your reality check.”

“Even better.” He bumped his shoulder against mine, before laying down on the ground. The sunlight hit his eyes just right, making them glimmer like polished amethyst. With his brown hair tousled against the grass and his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a hint of skin, it wasn’t hard to see why all the girls fawned over him. When it came to looks, Caleb really did live up to the whole Mr. Perfect thing.

“What about you?” Caleb glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “What’s your kryptonite?”

I raised a brow. “Come again?”

He smirked. “Your weakness. What takes you down every time?”

I pretended to think it over, then shot him a cheeky grin. “Probably failure.”

Caleb let out a soft laugh, propping his head up on his elbow. “Alright, I’m sensing some hypocrisy here.”

“It’s not hypocrisy,” I defended, shrugging. “I just fail to take my own advice.”

He tapped his chin, feigning deep thought. “Mm, no, that just makes you a hypocrite. But hey, at least you’re self-aware, Miss perfect.”

Something between us just clicked, that unspoken feeling when you know you’re going to get along with someone. Nothing about our conversation felt forced, it unfolded with an ease that caught us both off guard. I don’t think either of us saw this coming, but somehow, it just made sense.

And so it continued; messing around with Caleb in class, then hanging out in the quad afterward. Our dynamic quickly shifted from casual acquaintances to good friends as our connection bled beyond the classroom. The progression was almost rapid; natural, but undeniable.

Conversations with him came naturally, filled with dry humor, shared ambition, and the kind of unspoken understanding that made being around each other feel easy. We started saving seats for each other without thinking, sharing notes even when we both knew we hadn’t written anything useful, and lingering just a little longer after class, stretching out the moments before we had to part ways.

Afternoons in the quad turned into grabbing coffee, which turned into late-night study sessions that often had more laughing than actual studying. It wasn’t just that we got along; we started to seek each other out, gravitating toward one another like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

It wasn’t just about sharing space; it was about the way we easily fit into each other’s lives like we had always been meant to.

I found myself opening up in ways I never had before, trusting Caleb with thoughts I usually kept locked away. And in return, he let me see past the carefully constructed walls he had built. 

I learned a lot about Caleb in our time spent together; I learned about his dreams and aspirations, his worries and fears, his home back in Linkon and how much of it still clung to him.

And her.

I learned about her.

MC; the kind of nickname all the cool girls had, lifted from their initials like it had always belonged to them. She was innocent, pretty, just the right balance of book-smart and blissfully unaware. The kind of girl who never had to try too hard because the world seemed to bend in her favor. She was perfect in that way, and maybe that’s why Caleb felt like he had to be perfect, too.

She had been his childhood friend, raised alongside him by his gran, their lives tangled together like roots beneath the same old house.

“She’s your sister?” I had asked, unsure of the dynamic.

Caleb hesitated, something unreadable flickering across his face. “No,” he said finally, his voice careful. “Not really. We just grew up together.”

She was everything to him, the quiet force that shaped him in ways he probably didn’t even realize. Everything he did, every careful step he took, was in her image. And suddenly, it all made sense.

The way Caleb kept people at arm’s length, the reason he didn’t have many real friends at the Academy. It wasn't because he didn’t want them, it was because a part of him was still anchored somewhere else; belonged to someone else.

Once, we had sat on the steps outside one of the buildings, his elbows on his knees, staring out at nothing in particular.

“You never really let people in.” I looked over at him, my statement coming out of nowhere.

He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Was it that obvious?”

“I didn’t get it back then. Thought maybe you just had too many friends to be really close with any of them.”

He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “It wasn’t that,” he admitted. “I just… I already had MC. Growing up the way we did, it was always just us. I guess I never really learned how to need anyone else.”

I glanced at him, but his eyes stayed on the horizon, lost in something I couldn’t see.

“You still do that, you know,” I said. “Keep people just enough away.”

He swallowed hard, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Some habits don’t go away easy.”

“So why am I an exception?”

Caleb exhaled slowly, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because you didn’t try to push your way in. You just… stayed.”

I frowned. “That’s it?”

He shook his head, a small, almost self-conscious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. It’s more than that.” He glanced at me then, something raw in his eyes. “You just understand the way I think, and nobody has before.”

A silence stretched between us, thick with things neither of us knew how to say.

“You make it sound like some big thing,” I murmured. “Like I did something special.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering me. “Maybe you did.”

His words awakened something in me, an ache settling in my chest. A quiet, gnawing feeling that signaled the start of an internal war; one I never really meant to step into, but quickly became hard to ignore. A silent competition I didn’t sign up for, but suddenly felt compelled to win. 

It wasn’t against MC, not even Caleb himself.

But against the undeniable truth that no matter how close we got, I may never be the one he chooses.

September-

I barely notice the shift at first; the way August hands things off to September, smooth and effortless, like they’ve done this a million times before. Like they were always meant to meet. It feels familiar in a way I can’t explain, like stepping into a conversation that’s already halfway finished but somehow still knowing exactly what’s being said. 

Things with Caleb had settled into a familiar rhythm. On campus, we were either together or in class, our days stitched together by shared moments. Being with him was refreshing, like the first warm breeze after a long winter, a quiet promise that brighter days were ahead. Silence with him was never awkward; it was understood. He always seemed to know what I was thinking, what I meant to say, even when I didn’t say it aloud.

I’d known Caleb for a while, but the way we grew close so quickly felt natural, like we’d been moving toward this all along. It was as if there had always been a space in my mind shaped just for him, waiting for the right moment for him to step in.

The cloudy sky above turned dark with the impending storm coming, but in a rush to meet Caleb, I had hardly noticed until I was halfway to his dorm. Cursing to myself, I silently tried to manifest the rain would hold off until I got back to my own dorm later. 

It was movie day; every Friday afternoon after Caleb and I finished with our classes for the day we would have lunch and watch a movie. He was on hosting duty this week, and his dorm was on the other side of campus. If I got caught in this rain, I’d still have a bit of a walk in the storm before I arrived. 

Almost as if laughing at me, the sky cracked with lightning and thunder rumbled, and I heard the pouring of rain before I felt it.

“Shit!” I picked up the pace, my sneakers splashing through puddles forming on the sidewalks as I started to run. Thunder booming in the sky, I mentally prepared to get struck by lightning and hoped I would be eaten by the campus birds before anyone found my body. 

Trying to take a shortcut through the grass was the worst decision I could have made, as I wasn’t even two feet from the sidewalk before I slipped, landing on my back and getting waterboarded by the sky. “Argh!” I screeched, tears of frustration welling in the corners of my eyes. I sat up, glaring at the students staring at me as they passed by with their umbrellas. 

My whole body was drenched by the time I was outside of Caleb’s; my hair, jeans, and sweater caked with mud (and probably a few stray leaves). 

Making my way upstairs, my cheeks were pink from the cold and embarrassment as everyone in the building looked at me with confusion as my clothes and hair dripped all over the floor. 

Caleb swung the door open before I could knock, something he’d do as he watched for me through the peephole in his door. Looking me up and down, the corners of his mouth twitched upward as he coughed, stifling a laugh.

He leaned against his door frame, “What happened here?”

“Shut up.” I pushed past him, annoyed but a bit guilty as I continued to drip all over his floor.

“You look like a sad wet cat,” Caleb patted my wet hair, frowning when he saw I was shivering, “a cold, sad wet cat.”

He started to rummage around the room, going through his drawers and closet, pulling out clothes. Tossing them at me, he pointed to the bathroom, “Go shower, I don’t want you all soppin’ wet on my stuff.”

I glanced at the clothes he handed me; hoodie, sweatpants…his boxers? 

“Um, Caleb-”

He shook his head, “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

Pursing my lips together I nodded, heading into the bathroom. I called out to him, “Caleb, do you have a towel?” 

“Just use the one in there.”

Okay, we were close, but I wasn’t aware we had crossed into this land.

Peeling my clothes from my body, I threw them into a pile in the corner. I nearly moaned when the hot water hit my skin, and basked in the feeling for a bit. I stared at Caleb’s shampoo and body wash, conflicted on if I should actually use them or just try to rinse myself off the best I could.

Feeling the mud and tangles in my hair, I accepted defeat.

By the time I was done, clad in Caleb’s warm clothes with every inch of me smelling like him, it felt like he was smothering me. Like I was enveloped in one of his bear hugs.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and I felt my heart jump a bit. There was something about wearing a boy’s clothes as is, but Caleb’s clothes? 

A bit ago, I had felt the shift before I could name it. 

It’s in the way my eyes flick to my phone more often than before, in the way my chest tightens, just a little, when his name lights up my screen. It’s in the way my pulse stirs when I spot him at our usual spot in the library, twirling a pen between his fingers like he’s been waiting for me. Like he knew I’d show up (and he always did). 

And maybe that’s what unsettles me the most, not just that I notice these things, but that a part of me already expects them. Like I’ve been pavloved.

It was ignorable at first, but it’s become this nagging feeling at the back of my mind. A tugging at my heart. It’s annoying, like a mosquito buzzing in my ear that’s too quick for me to smack it away.

The feeling that I didn’t want to just be friends anymore.

Coming out of the bathroom, Caleb was already sitting on the floor in front of his bed with two cups of tea and food, and my mouth watered when I saw he made my favorite.

He smiled at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You look pretty good in those.”

Heat crept up my neck, and I let out a nervous laugh. “You’re just saying that because I look like you.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Caleb nodded toward the bathroom. “Your hair’s still wet. Grab the towel.”

“It’s fine,” I shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

He raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over his chest. “You already got caught in the rain once. Stay damp any longer, and you’ll catch a cold.” Then, with a cheeky grin, he added, “And I can’t be left alone in class. That’d be tragic.”

Rolling my eyes, I turned on my heel, grabbed the towel, and tossed it at him. “Right, of course. That’s all I am to you, entertainment in class.”

“For sure,” he said smoothly, catching the towel with ease. “Now sit.”

I sat beside him, reaching for the towel, but before I could take it, his hands found my shoulders, gently turning me away. I barely had time to protest before he took the towel himself, carefully running it through my damp hair.

“Caleb, I can do it myself—” I started, trying to shift back, but his grip was steady.

“Shush,” he murmured. “Let me help.”

I could have argued, but the warmth of his touch, the slow, deliberate way he moved, made it impossible to resist. My shoulders relaxed as he worked, the soft scratch of the towel against my scalp lulling me into stillness. Silence settled between us, easy and unspoken, the only sound the steady rhythm of rain tapping against the window. It was peaceful, grounding. For a moment, I let myself sink into it, let myself be cared for.

Before long Caleb tugged on a strand of my hair, “Okay, done.”

“Thank you” I pinched his cheek, his lips curved upwards and his eyes went soft.

“Now, what should we watch?”

“Nothing crazy, I don’t think my brain can function right now after today.”

Caleb laughed, flicking through the movies, before settling on some random cartoon. I sighed dramatically when I took a bite of the food he made, “Caleb, you’ve outdone yourself yet again.”

He looked at me mischievously before stealing a bite, and I punched his shoulder, “You have your own!”

His phone lit up and I saw the name, looking away as he picked it up to respond to the incoming texts.

MC.

A wedge of jealousy crept up my throat. It was our movie time, and here she was, almost on cue.

I always listen—really listen—when he talks about her. About how much she means to him, how she’s one of the only constants in his life. And it stings, sharper than I expect, because I want to be that constant. I don’t say it, of course. Instead, I throw myself deeper into the friendship, as if proving my place will make it true.

I laugh at his jokes a little too hard. Memorize the way he takes his coffee without meaning to. Notice the small things that make him tick, the way his expression shifts when he’s lost in thought, the songs he hums under his breath.

The internal competition I created against her wasn’t intentional, but once I noticed it, everything about it became hard to unsee.

He sets his phone down just as quickly as he picked it up, shooting me an apologetic look. “Sorry, MC just had a question about something.”

‘That stupid question could’ve waited’, I think, irritation curling in my chest. But I shove it down, nudging his shoulder with a forced smile. “S’alright. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, all good.” He settles back into the movie, but I barely hear it now. The feeling of her lingers, clinging to the space between us, and I try to shake it off.

His presence beside me soothes the sting, like a bandage over a wound, and I start to loosen up, letting my head rest against the bed. The warmth of his clothes, the comfort of a full stomach, the quiet rhythm of rain against the window; it all starts to pull me under, drowsiness settling into my bones. My eyelids grow heavy, and I barely register the way Caleb shifts beside me.

“Sleepy?” His voice is soft, almost amused.

I peek one eye open, managing a lazy smile. “A bit.”

Without a word, he moves closer, wrapping an arm around the back of my neck. His hand finds the side of my head, cradling it gently as he guides me to rest against his shoulder. The touch is careful, deliberate, something more than our usual play punches and casual grabs in a crowd. This is different. More intimate.

For a moment, I forgot about the competition. Because my head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, and the slow, absentminded way his fingers trace shapes on my shoulder feels so easy, so natural. He watches the TV like this is nothing new, like having me this close is just the way things are meant to be. And for the first time I let myself believe, just for a second, that maybe he feels the same way about me too.

October-

There's a charge in the air alongside the change in leaves, a quiet pull I feel every time Caleb leans in a little too close or looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.

But then, there’s her.

She’s not here, but she is. Always lingering in the pauses between sentences, in the spaces Caleb leaves open without realizing it. She’s in the way his face softens when he says her name, in the light that sparks behind his eyes when he talks about her. And I hate how it makes me feel; petty, ridiculous, like I’ve stumbled into a battle I was never meant to fight.

I just can’t shake it.

Because lately, there’s been something else. An even bigger shift, subtle, but impossible to ignore. The way his hand lingers a beat too long when he passes me something, like he’s reluctant to let go. The way his gaze finds me, even in a crowded room, like I’m the only person worth looking at. The late-night texts, filled with thoughts that could have waited but never do.

Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m just reading too much into things, seeing what I want to see. But a part of me, deep down, knows he feels this too.

My phone began to ring as I was getting ready for the Senior Gala the Academy holds every year for those graduating in the spring. 

“Yes?” I already know who it is without looking.

Caleb’s voice drifts through the speaker, soft and warm. “Are you almost ready, honey?” The pet name catches me off guard, a shy smile pulling at my lips before I can stop it. He’d started using it recently, and I hadn’t dared to question it out of the fear it would stop.

He was my date tonight (as friends of course), and I was running a little behind.

“I still have to finish my makeup, do my hair, and put on my dress,” I groaned in frustration, “I’m sorry Caleb, I’m trying to go as fast as I can.”

He laughs sweetly, “Well, I’m almost there. I can help you out.”

“Help me…?”

“Yep, Captain Caleb is gonna be there to save the night. See you soon!”

The phone clicks before I can respond, and not a moment later, Caleb is strolling through my door like he owns the place. 

I turned to face him, and my breath caught in my throat. His suit was a deep navy that matched my dress, the rich fabric adorned with his pilot and aviator pins. His hair, tousled yet intentional, framed a face that always felt like home. Caleb stood there composed, sharp but still him; and there was something about the way the badges gleamed against his chest that nearly brought me to my knees.

His gaze sweeps over my desk, taking in the chaos of makeup scattered around, before pausing on my curling iron.

“Is this plugged in?” He picks it up, inspecting it.

“Caleb, you are not putting that anywhere near my head.” I instinctively flinch as he reaches for a lock of my hair.

But he’s quick, his hand firmly grasping the top of my head, holding it still. “I always helped MC with her hair. I know my way around a curling iron.”

The words land harder than he meant, and I can’t help but squint at him, a frown tugging at my lips. He misreads it, thinking I’m questioning him, and gives me a serious look.

“Trust me here.”

I let the assumption hang in the air, letting him believe my discontent is just doubt. I sigh, giving in, “Alright, but if you make me look bad for my Senior Gala, I will hate you forever.”

He starts to section my hair and I raise my brows in approval, ‘Okay, yeah,’ I think, ‘Maybe he does have this’.

Caleb’s touch is gentle as I apply my mascara and lipstick, careful not to mess me up, his hands steady as he moves around me. It doesn’t take long before he pulls back, setting the curling iron down as I finish up with the last touches of my makeup.

“We make a pretty good team, don’t we?” His hands rest on my shoulders as he leans down, chin lightly resting on the top of my head, both of us watching our reflection in the mirror.

I tilt my head, inspecting my hair with a playful smile, running my fingers through a few strands. “I suppose you did an okay job.”

He pinches the bridge of my nose, a mock scowl crossing his face. Laughing, I stand up, reaching for my dress hanging in the closet.

I headed to the bathroom, “I’ll be out in a sec.”

I slipped the dress on, the blue silk molding to my body, the delicate sleeves draping off my shoulders. It was beautiful, I was beautiful; but as I caught my reflection, doubt crept in. Would I look out of place next to Caleb? He was all polished perfection, and I was just… me. Not bad, but not him.

She would look perfect beside him.

‘No.’ I straightened my shoulders. ‘I’m Caleb’s date tonight, not her. He could have asked her, but he didn’t. He chose me. It’s just us.’

Fumbling with the zipper, I let out a frustrated breath before finally pulling the door open. “Caleb, can you help me with this?”

His head snapped up, eyes widening as a flush crept up his cheeks. “Of course.”

Caleb stepped forward, hesitating for just a moment before his fingers brushed against my back. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the cool fabric clinging to my skin. Gently, he gathered the dress, his knuckles ghosting along my spine as he found the zipper.

I held my breath.

Slowly, he pulled it up, the quiet sound of the zipper filling the space between us. With each inch, his fingertips lingered, tracing the curve of my back, sending shivers down my arms. My skin felt hypersensitive, like every nerve was tuned to him and him alone.

When he reached the top, he didn’t step away. Instead, his fingers grazed the nape of my neck, adjusting the fabric, smoothing it into place. His breath was warm against my shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper.

“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

I turned slightly, just enough to catch his gaze. His eyes flickered down to my lips, then back up, as if caught in some silent battle with himself. The air between us was thick, charged, pulling me toward him.

“Thank you,” I said softly, my voice barely steady.

His hand lingered for just a second longer before he finally let go, stepping back, but not too far. Not far at all.

I turned around slowly, my heart pounding as I met his gaze. His eyes traced the length of me, starting at the hem of my dress and lingering as they traveled upward, taking in every detail before finally meeting mine.

Caleb swallowed, his lips parting slightly as if he had something to say but couldn’t quite find the words. Then, as if shaken from a spell, he smiled—soft, almost bashful.

“You look beautiful.”

His voice was quiet, reverent, like he wasn’t just saying it, but feeling it. Like the words weren’t enough to capture what he saw.

Warmth spread through me, creeping up my neck, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. I’d spent so much time wondering if I looked right beside him, if I fit; but now, standing here, bathed in the glow of his gaze, I didn’t feel out of place.

I felt chosen.

“Hold your compliments until you’ve seen the whole look,” I teased, holding up a finger to silence him. “I still need to put on my shoes and pins.”

Caleb smirked. “Need help with those too?”

I rolled my eyes. “I think I can manage strapping on my own heels and pinning a badge to my dress, thanks.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” He plucked my heels off the dresser, twirling them lazily around his finger, his gaze practically daring me to challenge him.

I huffed but gave in, sinking into my chair. “Fine.”

Caleb knelt in front of me, his fingers warm as they wrapped around my ankle, steady but gentle as if I were something delicate. He slipped the first shoe on, fastening the strap with practiced ease.

“I can do most things myself, y’know,” I muttered, though my voice lacked its usual bite.

“I know.” His fingers lingered against my skin for a fraction too long before he reached for the second shoe. “I just like to be helpful.”

But he still wouldn’t look at me when he said it, and something about the way his voice softened made me think he wasn’t just talking about shoes.

I stood as he finished, reaching for my pins amidst the clutter of my desk and fastening them carefully over my heart. Turning to the mirror, I shifted from side to side, checking every angle, making sure everything was just right.

I glanced back at Caleb. “Are you sure I look okay?”

Without hesitation, he took my hand and lifted it into the air. “Twirl. Let me see.”

I spun for him, the silk of my dress catching the light, and when I turned back, there was something bright in his eyes, something warm, something real.

“You look more than okay,” he said, voice sure with conviction. “I promise.”

I held out my pinky. “Pinky promise?”

He grinned, hooking his finger around mine. “Pinky promise.”

“Lock it,” I reminded him, and he chuckled before pressing his thumb against mine, sealing the deal.

His fingers lingered for a second before he gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Now come on, we’re definitely going to be late.”

When we arrived at the gala, it didn’t take long for Caleb to be swept away by a group of guys he often talked to. I lingered around, exchanging polite small talk with a few people I still considered friends. I didn’t see them much anymore, as most of my time was spent with Caleb.

“So, are you two dating?” one of the girls asked, tilting her head. “I thought he was seeing that girl from his hometown… What was her name again?”

“MC.” I said, a little too quickly.

“Right, that’s the one.”

I forced a smile. “No, we’re just good friends.”

But even as I said it, my gaze drifted to where he stood, laughing easily with his own friends, his posture loose and carefree. A quiet ache settled in my chest.

I wanted to be next to him.

But then again, I was; just not in the way they all saw. I knew him in moments no one else did, in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the unspoken gestures and late-night confessions.

And for now, that was enough. It had to be.

I excused myself from the conversation, weaving through the crowd until I reached one of the drink tables. Grabbing a glass, I slipped into the quieter halls, letting the hum of conversation and music fade behind me. The walls were lined with grand, extravagant paintings, each one demanding attention. I paused in front of a few, sipping my drink as I took them in, letting my mind settle.

I wasn’t antisocial, I could hold my own in a room full of people, I just needed a break from the carefully choreographed chaos of the ballroom. 

The rhythmic click of shoes against marble echoed through the quiet hallway, followed by a familiar, soft laugh.

“How did I know I’d find you out here?”

I hummed against the rim of my glass. “Maybe because you can read my mind.”

Caleb shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes I wish I could.” Then, extending his hand toward me, he asked, “Dance with me?”

I glanced at his outstretched palm. “Out here?”

He tilted his head playfully. “Well, my possible mind-reading powers tell me you’d rather not go back in there.”

A slow smile spread across my face as I laced my fingers with his. “I think you might be psychic.”

The distant music from the ballroom barely reached us, muffled and softened by the grand halls, but somehow, that only made the moment feel more intimate. Caleb’s hands found my waist, warm and steady, while mine slipped around the back of his neck.

He guided us into a slow, easy rhythm. I rested my head just below his chin, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his suit.

We moved without words; his breath against my hair was the only thing I could focus on, like everything else had paused around us.

The world outside the two of us faded, the grand chandelier lights dimming, the chatter and laughter of the crowd becoming a distant murmur. All that remained was the softness of the moment, our steps in sync, and the quiet, unspoken connection between us.

I could feel his thumb tracing gentle patterns against my back, the touch soft in a way that wasn’t rushed. There was no need to hurry, no need to speak. We simply existed in this space, suspended between the melody and the quiet.

His fingers moved up to brush a lock of hair behind my ear, the gesture tender, almost shy. I looked up at him, and his eyes held mine, reassuring.

“You feel like home,” he murmured, so quietly I almost thought I imagined it.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Instead, I leaned in a little closer, savoring the rhythm of our slow dance, the feeling of him holding me like this, as if the rest of the world didn’t matter at all.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Caleb tapped my shoulder lightly, pulling away just enough for the space between us to feel suddenly too wide. It wasn’t much, but the shift left a coldness in the air, and I immediately wanted to fall back into him.

“Where are you thinking?” I asked.

He pointed toward the window. “There’s a park across the street. We could go there. Away from all… this.” He gestured vaguely, as if the chaos of the gala was still buzzing around us.

I nodded without hesitation, and soon we found ourselves at the park, sitting on an old, rusty swing set. The contrast was stark; our lavish clothes against the worn, weathered metal, but I didn’t care. My dress snagged on the rust as I sat down, but I was too lost in the quiet to be bothered by it. All I wanted was this moment, the stillness, just the two of us away from everything else.

The night air wrapped around us, cool and still, with only the rhythmic creak of the swings and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees breaking the silence. It felt like we existed in a world separate from everything else, suspended in something fragile, something fleeting.

Caleb leaned back against the chain of his swing, his fingers gripping the metal tightly as he looked at me again. That look—like he could see through me, past all the walls I tried so hard to keep up. My pulse hammered in my chest under his gaze.

“You ever feel like… you don’t know where you stand with someone?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. “Yeah,” he said quietly, but with a certainty that made my stomach twist. “All the time.”

For a second, just a fleeting, breathless second; I wondered if he meant me.

I forced a smile, trying to ease the tension hanging between us. I nudged my swing into his, making it sway slightly. “You have a really good sense of self-restraint,” I teased, the words a shield to keep myself from feeling too much. “It’s almost a talent.”

His lips curved, but it was thin, hollow—there was something sad in it. “Is that a bad thing?”

I tilted my head, watching him. “No… well, maybe. Sometimes, I guess. I think you have a habit of depriving yourself of what you really want.”

Caleb looked down, his boot dragging against the dirt beneath him. “What if I can’t have what I want?” His voice was rougher now, lower. “What if it’s not allowed?”

I reached forward, gripping the chain of his swing, giving it a slight shake to bring his eyes back to mine. “If it’s within your reach, it’s legal, and you’re not hurting anyone, I don’t see a problem.” My breath hitched, and my chest tightened as I spoke. “If I had to guess, you’re trying to convince yourself you can’t have something.”

His exhale was shaky, and a bitter laugh barely escaped him. “Maybe, yeah.”

I saw it then—the decision in his eyes, the surrender.

And then, he moved.

Caleb leaned in first, closing the space between us with a quiet certainty that made my breath catch. I barely had time to react before his lips met mine; soft, warm, real. My fingers clenched around the swing’s chain for balance, but it didn’t matter. My whole world had already tilted.

The kiss started slow, tentative, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Caleb’s hand found my jaw, his fingers brushing my skin, grounding me as he deepened the kiss. There was no hesitation, no pulling away—only the quiet urgency of something inevitable, something long overdue.

I let myself sink into it, forget everything outside this moment. The cold night air, the weight of the past few months, the uncertainty of what came next—it all melted away as Caleb kissed me like he’d been waiting for this as long as I had.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, our foreheads nearly touching, Caleb let out a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle. His thumb brushed over my cheek, lingering there like he was memorizing the feel of me.

His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything—just letting the silence settle between us like something sacred.

I tried to catch my breath, still feeling the warmth of his touch all over me. “I—uh, I didn’t think that was how tonight would go.”

“Me either,” he admitted softly.

I bit my lip, searching for something to say, but my thoughts were still tangled up in the kiss. The taste of him lingered, sweet and unfamiliar, like a song you’d heard once and couldn’t forget. The warmth of his breath was still etched into the space between us, and the silence felt heavy, like it was holding something fragile; something we both weren’t quite ready to name. I felt the words sitting at the edge of my mind, waiting, but they were lost in the echo of his touch, the weight of everything unsaid.

Caleb gently brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his touch so tender it almost felt like he was afraid to break something.

There was a quiet moment, just us sitting there, the air between us charged and delicate. Caleb’s fingers brushed along my wrist, and he gave a small, hesitant laugh.

“Is it weird to say I’m kind of glad we did this here?”

I smiled, the tension easing slightly. “Not at all. There’s something nice about having a moment that’s just ours.”

He glanced up at the dark sky, the stars scattered above us. “Yeah, it’s like we’re in our own little world. Just us.”

I took a deep breath, trying to settle the fluttering in my chest. “Then let’s not rush back. Let’s just stay here for a little longer.”

He grinned, that easy smile of his, and nodded. “I’m in.”

We swayed gently, both of us still lost in the quiet, the stillness of the park and the soft feeling that somehow, things were different now. 

Better.

November-

The moment on the swings stays with me long after it’s over, a quiet echo that pulses in the back of my mind, haunting the spaces between my thoughts. It lingers in the way Caleb reaches for my hand without thinking, in the brief touches we exchange. The kiss, though, that’s the one that lingers the longest; the warmth of him, the certainty that wrapped around me like a promise. 

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t hold back.

I tell myself it was nothing, that it was just a rush, a fleeting spark that will eventually fade with time. 

But it doesn’t. 

Instead, it settles into the corners of me, a quiet undercurrent beneath everything else.

Everything is subtle at first, in the little things. His hand brushing against mine when we walk, his knee grazing mine when we sit side by side, the way his texts come more often now, careful and soft. When we’re together, it feels like we really have built our own little world, a space apart from everything else. And I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, it’s enough.

Though one night, I find him distant. His gaze fixed on his phone, jaw tight like he’s trying to hold something in. He barely speaks, his words sharp and short, his mind somewhere else entirely. I don’t ask, don’t press him for an answer. But I know.

It’s her.

And in that moment, something clicks.

I’m not the only one caught between two worlds. Caleb is, too.

The realization doesn’t ease the ache, it only makes it worse. Because if there’s a choice, I already know who he’ll choose.

Training’s getting harder, and graduation is only a few months away. The exhaustion is catching up to all of us, but I feel as if it's hitting me the hardest. Barely sleeping, too many long nights and even longer days, each one blending into the next until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I can feel my body wearing down, but I keep pushing, because what else is there to do? Let myself stop and think?

Ha.

No.

Caleb notices, though. He’s just as drained as I am, but he’s still there, watching me. He always makes sure I eat, even when I don’t feel like it. Reminds me to drink water when I forget, and always seems to be there after training, hanging around like he’s making sure I don’t collapse right there on the floor.

I try not to let it mean anything, try not to read too much into it. He’s just being a friend, right?

But it’s hard to ignore the way he lingers, the way his eyes flicker with something I can’t quite place when I sway slightly on my feet, too tired to stand straight. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand is there, steady on my arm, holding me like he doesn’t want to let go.

Caleb picked me up from the Academy airport after a training flight. We were supposed to grab lunch, but when his eyes landed on my exhausted form, something in his expression softened.

“Let’s get you home, yeah?” he said, his voice gentle.

I shook my head, trying to shake off the exhaustion. “No, I’m fine. Let’s just go—” But before I could finish, my body betrayed me, and I stumbled forward, barely able to keep myself upright.

Caleb’s hand was there in an instant, steadying me by the shoulder and wrapping his arm around me like he wasn’t letting go. “I think you’d fall asleep in your food and suffocate. When was the last time you slept?”

“Yesterday… no, Tuesday? I don’t really remember.”

I threw on my coat, but Caleb’s gaze was still on me, studying me like he could see right through the act I was trying to put on.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered, glaring at him. “I’m fine. Let’s hurry before we miss the bus.”

Standing outside at the bus stop, I shivered against Caleb's arm around me (that was still trying to hold me up). He asked me about my day, if I had eaten breakfast; simple questions that didn’t require much thinking on my part and patient, non-expectant responses from him. I pressed my body closer into his, trying to soak up his warmth, and maybe even share a bit of my own. 

He looked down at me and chuckled, ruffling my hair, “Just a bit longer, honey.”

And he was right, seconds later the bus pulled up. I was practically bouncing to get inside and out of this weather.

Snatching the window seat, I stuck my tongue out at Caleb as he situated himself next to me. “You’re evil, you know that right.” 

The bus was a welcomed relief from the biting cold outside, the warmth inside wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. My coat was serving as a blanket, and I don’t even remember when I drifted off, but at some point I found myself asleep on Caleb’s shoulder.

I half-awoke to him nudging me gently. “Hey, this is my dorm, let’s get off here.”

Groggily, I shook my head, struggling to form a thought. “No, s’okay, my stop is next…”

He chuckled softly, and I could hear the concern in his voice. “I don’t trust you not to fall back asleep and miss your dorm.” His fingers brushed through my hair to comb the strands away from my eyes, his touch tender as he looked at me. “Just come back up with me. You can sleep there until you’re good to go back.”

I barely had the strength to argue, so I let him lead me, sleepily leaning against him the entire way. By the time we reached his room, I was barely conscious. He helped me take off my coat and shoes, and without a second thought, I crawled onto his bed, curling up into a ball as sleep claimed me again.

When I woke, the world outside was dark, and it took a moment to realize where I was. The blanket was soft against my skin, and I noticed Caleb beside me, his face relaxed in sleep. It was the first time I’d ever seen him look so at ease, so… soft.

I felt a pang of guilt when I noticed the clock beside his bed. It was nearing one in the morning. He probably wanted to sleep, but I had taken over his space.

I started to sit up, but before I could move, an arm wrapped around my waist.

“Where are you going?” Caleb’s voice was thick with sleep, and I froze, my heart skipping a beat as I turned to see him blinking slowly up at me.

“I have to go home,” I murmured, my words barely above a whisper. I reached out, hand instinctively brushing his face, but then I stopped myself and pulled it back.

He toyed with the hem of my t-shirt, and I felt the warmth of his touch spread through me. I could feel myself melting under his proximity. “It’s too late,” he said softly, his voice almost a plea. “Just stay here.”

“Caleb—”

“Or I can walk you home,” he added, his eyes still half-closed, and he stretched as if to get up, but I placed my hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“No, really, it’s okay.”

He smirked a little, still mischievous even through sleep. “You pick. I either walk you home, or you stay here.”

In that moment, the stillness of the night seemed to press in around us, and my heart ached. Caleb was a vice. He was dangerous.

“Okay,” I whispered, my resolve crumbling. “I’ll stay.”

The room is quiet except for Caleb’s steady breathing. The city of Skyhaven hums faintly outside, the night stretching endlessly around us. I’m awake now, but I can’t bring myself to move. Caleb’s hand rests lightly on my waist, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go. It’s nothing, really. Just a small, almost casual touch. 

But it feels like everything. 

It sets my entire body on fire, this little contact. I shouldn’t be here, not like this, not after everything. But I don’t leave. Instead, I sink back down, letting the warmth of the blanket and his presence pull me under.

We don’t speak. There’s nothing to say. No explanations, no excuses—just this fragile moment, suspended in time, hanging between us. Caleb’s breathing evens out again, his grip loosening as sleep pulls him back under. I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of the night. I know this is a mistake. I know when the sun rises, when the reality of the world outside finally settles in, things will go back to how they were.

He’ll wake up, stretch, rub the sleep from his eyes, and we’ll pretend like this never happened. He’ll go back to talking about MC, and whatever this—whatever we—will remain suspended in the realm of “almosts” and “what-ifs.” But for now, in this quiet moment, I close my eyes. I let myself have this, just for tonight. Because even if it means nothing to him, it means everything to me.

Morning comes too quickly.

I stir first, blinking against the soft light filtering through the blinds. For a second, everything feels warm and comforting. Caleb’s steady breathing beside me, the weight of the blanket, the quiet hum of the city waking up outside.

Then, reality crashes back in. I shouldn’t be here. Not like this.

Carefully, I try to slip out from beneath the covers, but the moment I move, Caleb stirs. His grip tightens around my waist, pulling me closer just a little before his eyes flutter open.

He looks at me, caught between sleep and consciousness, and for a second, there’s something in his gaze; a softness that makes my breath catch in my chest. But then, he blinks, and it’s gone.

“You’re awake,” his voice is thick with sleep, raspy, and it twists something inside of me. He doesn’t let go.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I should go.”

Caleb doesn’t respond at first. His fingers absently trace the hem of my sleeve, like he’s thinking, weighing something.

Then, finally—

“You don’t have to.”

It’s quiet. Hesitant. It feels like a confession wrapped in uncertainty.

I swallow hard. “Caleb…”

I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I just know this, this tension, this dangerous line we’re walking, is too much.

He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, and then he looks at me. His expression is unreadable, and it makes my heart clench.

“Look,” he sighs, like this is some sort of explanation. “I know things have been… complicated.”

Complicated. That’s one way to put it.

I scoff and shake my head. “You think?”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And that hurts more than it should. Because I know what I’m doing. I’m falling. I’ve been falling for so long, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to hit the ground.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I whisper, my voice barely steady.

His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Something inside me cracks.

“Then stop making me feel like I’m something you have to choose.”

Silence. And that’s when I know.

He won’t say it, but I already have my answer. Because if I was ever truly an option, I wouldn’t be standing here, begging for clarity.

I nod to myself, standing up. “I need to go.”

This time, he doesn’t stop me.

December-

It hurts, it really hurts. 

My chest aches like it’s been hollowed out, and every breath feels too heavy, too sharp. My body trembles, like it’s trying to hold itself together, but it’s already unraveling. 

Is this what dying feels like? 

Is this death? 

The slow suffocation of something that was once whole? 

Or is this grief?

Endless, suffocating grief—bleeding through my veins, consuming everything I am.

I can’t tell anymore. Only that it hurts. So much. 

I don’t even know who I am anymore. 

I feel like a hollow shell.

January-

The snow falls lightly, dusting the pavement with delicate flakes as I walk across campus. The world feels quiet, wrapped in winter’s cold embrace, but inside me? There’s nothing but noise, a clamor I can’t silence. Just as fast as everything had began, it ended just as quickly. 

I didn’t expect Caleb to reach out. After everything, after the silence between us that’s stretched since November, I thought he’d let the distance settle. Let whatever we had fade into something unspoken, unresolved.

But then I got the text.

can we talk?

And because I’m weak, because no matter how much I want to convince myself I’ve moved on, I know I haven’t, so I agreed.

Now, I’m here, waiting outside the coffee shop, my breath clouding in the cold air. Caleb’s already inside, sitting by the window with his fingers curled around a paper cup. When he sees me, he gives a small, hesitant smile. He looks the same, yet it feels so foreign.

I steel myself and walk inside.

“Hey,” he says when I slide into the seat across from him.

“Hey,” I echo, my voice flat, unreadable.

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything hanging between us.

He exhales, looking down at his coffee. “I hate how things have been between us.”

I don’t say anything, just let him speak.

“I miss you,” he admits, and for a moment, my heart stumbles. But before I can process it, he adds, “I don’t want to lose you, I want us to still be friends.”

Friends.

I should have expected this. Maybe I did. Maybe I’ve just been foolish enough to hope for something else.

I swallow, my fingers tightening around my cup. “Friends.”

He nods, earnest, like he doesn’t realize he’s twisting a knife into my chest. “Yeah. I mean, we were good at that, right? Before things got… complicated.”

Complicated. That word again.

I take a slow breath, trying to force the ache in my chest to quiet. Maybe this is what we need. Maybe being friends, just friends, will hurt less than losing him completely.

So I offer a small smile, one that feels forced but I try to make it real. “Yeah. We were.”

Relief flashes across his face, and something deep inside me tugs painfully. But I ignore it.

We can do this.

We have to.

“Are we okay?” he asks carefully.

I hesitate for a second, just a moment, but then I nod. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

And maybe, if I say it enough times, it’ll start to feel true.

We step outside together, the cold air biting at my skin. We walk side by side, but it’s different now. Less certain, more fragile. But for now, it’s enough. We’re still in each other’s lives. And that has to count for something.

February-

The cold of February feels different this year. It’s sharp, biting at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the way the distance between Caleb and me has settled; thick, suffocating.

We’re friends. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.

But every interaction feels like a shadow of what it used to be. We pass each other on campus, exchanging forced smiles, awkward pleasantries. He texts me sometimes, but the messages are clipped, casual. The playful banter, the inside jokes—we don’t have those anymore.

I’ve gotten good at pretending it doesn’t hurt. I laugh at his jokes when we’re in class together, crack a smile when he waves in passing. I tell myself that being near him, even like this, is better than nothing.

But it isn’t. It isn’t better at all.

One afternoon, after class, Caleb waits for me while I pack my things, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. His eyes meet mine, but they flicker away quickly, like he’s not sure how to look at me anymore.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quieter than it used to be.

I force a smile, but it feels too tight, too stretched.

We walk together, but the silence between us is thick. We’re not really talking anymore. Not like before.

“How’s everything?” I ask, trying to fill the space with something. Anything.

Caleb shrugs, his gaze far off. “Same as usual. You know how it is.”

I don’t know how it is. Not anymore.

“And you?” he asks, almost apologetically, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he pushes too hard.

“I’m good,” I say, too quickly. Too easily. I wish I could say something that would make it sound like we haven’t drifted so far apart. But I can’t.

The truth is, I don’t feel good. Not at all.

The rest of the walk is silent, and when we reach the place where our paths diverge, Caleb gives me a tight, awkward smile.

“Catch you later,” he says, already turning away before I can say anything else.

I watch him walk off, the weight of all the things we never said hanging between us.

It’s painful. But I swallow it down. I have to.

The days pass, and we continue this dance; one of shallow conversations, stiff smiles. Every text feels like a performance. Every interaction, a reminder that we’re no longer who we used to be.

One night, I sit at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen casting a pale light over my face. My phone vibrates on the table beside me. Caleb’s name.

I hesitate before picking it up.

hey, are you free later?

My heart skips a beat, but I force myself to respond.

Yeah, what’s up?

There’s a long pause before his next message.

i was thinking we could grab coffee. but no pressure, just thought it might be nice.

The words “just thought it might be nice” sting more than I expected. It’s so casual, so simple—like the idea of spending time together doesn’t carry any of the weight it used to.

But I can’t back out now. I can’t keep pretending that I’m not still craving his company, even if it’s not the same.

Sure, sounds good.

When we meet at our usual café, the air between us is thick. We talk, but it’s like we’re strangers, circling around the things we used to share so easily. Caleb talks about his classes, and I nod, smile at the right times, but it doesn’t feel like we’re really connecting anymore.

I tell myself it’s fine. This is what we agreed to. That being friends is better than nothing.

And no matter how many times I tell myself I’m over it, no matter how many times I remind myself that this is what I chose; it still hurts.

When we part ways that evening, Caleb gives me a small, almost apologetic smile. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” I reply, throat tight. “See you.”

I watch him leave, and I can’t help but feel like a piece of myself is slowly drifting farther away.

March-

I can’t keep doing this.

April-

The months start to feel like a slow, inevitable slide into something I can’t quite escape. The air has warmed, and the snow is nothing more than a distant memory, but the silence between Caleb and me cuts deeper than any winter chill.

We still see each other every day. We still share the same spaces, the same halls, the same class. But now, we’re nothing more than shadows of what we once were. Just two people who used to mean something to each other, now standing on opposite sides of a wide, unbridgeable gap.

We promised to be friends. We promised we’d make it work. But those promises feel empty now. There’s no joy in our interactions, no spark. Every conversation is forced, every laugh hollow. We’ve become experts at pretending, at wearing the mask of “just friends,” even though neither of us believes it for a second.

I’ve tried to move on, but when I see him, it’s like a miserable cold wave crashing over me. His eyes, once warm and inviting, are distant now; like he’s holding back something I’m not allowed to know. Even though he’s still there, still around, it feels like he’s lightyears away.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, sitting alone in the student lounge, my books spread out in front of me though not really focused on them. My phone buzzes, and I glance down at the message, already knowing who it’s from.

Caleb.

I hesitate before opening it, my fingers lingering over the screen.

i’m outside the library, want to grab coffee?

My heart skips. I want to say yes. 

I want to say yes more than anything. 

But a part of me knows how this will go. Another awkward conversation. Another round of small talk and unspoken feelings.

I’m tired. Tired of pretending things are fine when nothing is fine.

I can’t, sorry.

May-

The day is warm, but there’s a crispness in the air, the kind that signals a transition; between seasons, between chapters, between what was and what will be. The hum of excitement fills the air, the kind only a graduation ceremony can bring. Students in their uniforms mill around the venue, laughter and shouts of celebration ringing through the open space.

I move through the crowd, my diploma and badges in hand, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. I should feel proud, should feel accomplished. And I do, somewhere deep inside. But there’s something else, something heavier, lingering beneath the surface. The kind of feeling I’ve spent the past few months pushing away, convincing myself I’ve moved past.

Then, I see them.

Caleb stands a few feet away, surrounded by the floods of people. I notice he’s staring ahead into the crowd, and a girl comes crashing into him with the kind of ease that twists my stomach; MC.

She leans in, close—too close. And then, as if the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment to shatter the fragile balance I had built, she presses a kiss to his cheek. It’s celebratory, happy, and by the look on Caleb's face, just enough.

The world tilts.

For a second, the sounds around me blur into static, the conversations and cheers fading into the background. The weight of months of restraint, of quiet acceptance, of pretending I was fine, collapses all at once. The carefully built walls around my emotions crack under the force of everything I had tried so desperately to move past.

I thought I had let go. I thought I had made peace with everything that had happened. But in this moment, watching him, watching them, it all comes rushing back. The late nights, the quiet moments, the unspoken words that once sat between us. The way he once looked at me, the way he’s looking at her. The realization that, despite all my efforts, my heart had never truly stopped waiting.

I force my feet to move, to carry me past them, past the reminders of what could have been, of what wasn’t mine to hold onto anymore.

The weight in my chest is suffocating, but I refuse to stop, refuse to break—not here, not now. Because this is supposed to be a celebration, the closing of a chapter, the start of something new.

Maybe in another life, it was never a competition. Maybe in another universe, I don’t have to worry about her. In that world, I am her—running into Caleb’s arms, stealing his hat, and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Yes. In another universe, I am her.

[rosierin]

i used to love him | suna rintarou

synopsis; (y/n) talks about her feelings towards suna, from childhood to current day.

suna's pov here

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

I used to love him.

Not in a way you plan for. It just sort of… happened.

It was cute, honestly. Innocent. Simple. The kind of thing people call puppy love. At least, that’s how I’ve always seen it. Loving him came as easily as breathing, or blinking. It was quiet but constant—something that made the world feel a little brighter. Something worth waking up for. A little secret joy that sat behind everything else, like music playing faintly in the background of a really good day.

I think it started when we were around ten, in elementary school.

We were kids who got along without even trying. The ones who sat in the corner at birthday parties, trading sweets instead of dancing. The kind that didn't need to fit into larger friend groups. We were happy so long as we had each other, perfectly content as just a little duo.

Rin didn’t talk much—still doesn’t, actually.

He was my opposite in every way.

Quiet. Aloof. A little standoffish. I’m pretty sure people called him “the weird kid,” which—yeah, he kind of was. He never really made the effort to make friends. Usually ate alone during lunch. Would rather work solo than in group projects.

I don’t really know why I approached him first… I guess I must’ve found him mysterious or something. Like maybe he was just pretending not to care, and I wanted to see if I could crack it.

I still remember our first proper conversation.

We were sitting next to each other during lunch, and I noticed Pokémon Platinum poking out of his backpack. I’m pretty sure I went into a full-on tangent that day, rambling about how Sinnoh was my favourite region and which Pokémon were criminally underrated.

I always laugh when I think about it. He must’ve been like, “Who the hell is this nutcase and why is she all up in my face?”

But I mean—he couldn't have been that bothered since he sat through the whole thing. Nodded along. Never looked away. Even at the time, I remember being weirdly struck by how good he was at eye contact.

He couldn’t have been that shy, then, I thought.

And clearly he wasn’t as anti-social as everyone said, because after that? We were inseparable. I’m not sure how it happened—though I’m almost certain I planned it—but before long I was going to his house nearly every weekend. We’d play DS together. Have sleepovers. We'd even share a bed.

He wasn’t chatty like me. But that never bothered me. I was more than happy to do enough talking for the both of us. I think even as a kid, I liked his silence. It meant I could ramble about whatever I wanted without worrying if I was being too much.

Rin never made me feel like I was too much.

Never told me to be quiet. Never told me to go away.

And somehow, despite being nothing like me, Rin quickly became my favourite person.

I remember sitting by the school gates before class, tracing patterns into my shoelaces while I waited for him.

Even if he was late.

Especially if he was late.

Even when he was sick, I’d wait for at least an hour, just in case he'd show up. (I sound kinda crazy now that I say it out loud.)

I always gave him the green highlighter. I think I told him it didn’t suit me. Told him it matched his eyes. (It did. I've always like his pretty eyes.)

Everyone called us a duo. Not in a weird way—more like we just made sense together. Wherever one of us went, people expected the other.

And honestly? I liked that.

I liked when teachers asked, “Where’s (y/n)?” or “Where’s Rin?” whenever one of us was missing.

I liked being his other half. Loved being his person.

And maybe that’s where it all started.

In the little things. The small, unnoticed spaces where love begins to grow—before you even have the words for it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I think I really knew when we were around thirteen, in middle school.

I started getting nervous around him—even though I never had before. And for the stupidest reasons, too.

My hands got all fidgety and clammy when we talked. My words jumbled. I noticed how close we sat. I noticed the way our hands brushed when we walked side by side. The way his arm felt warm when it pressed against mine during class. I noticed how much I noticed.

Rin's always been big on eye contact when he talks. It’s something I love now. But at thirteen? It was terrifying. I used to look away when he held my gaze too long, like I was going to combust or something.

It was that kind of crush. The teen rom-com kind. The hair-twirling, feet-kicking, doodling-his-name-in-your-notebook kinda love. Sweet, harmless, a little naïve.

I remember doing some pretty cringe stuff. Like trying to mould myself into his exact type.

If he complimented another girl’s outfit, you better believe I’d show up the next week wearing something eerily similar. Oh—he liked a certain perfume? I ordered it off Amazon that same night.

There was even this one time he mentioned he liked the “sporty girl” archetype in anime. And after that, I wore a ponytail. Every single day. No exceptions. Sometimes I’d even throw on a dad cap on weekends, just to really play the part.

It was embarrassing, honestly. And so painfully obvious. (Even though thirteen-year-old me probably thought I was being subtle.)

And yet, Rin never said a thing. Nothing changed. He never pulled away... but he never leaned closer, either.

I’m almost certain he knew. He had to know. I guess he just didn’t see me that way. Which was totally fine, for the record. No pressure. So I kept smiling. Kept laughing at his jokes. Kept pretending I wasn’t in love with him.

And for the most part? That was fine by me.

I was content loving him quietly. Just appreciating his company. Daydreaming in secret. Hoping, a little—but mostly just accepting whatever it was we had going on.

And eventually… it started to fade.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

We started high school at fifteen. Same school, of course.

Choosing a high school was, at the time, the most stressful decision of my life. I genuinely thought if I made the wrong choice, I’d ruin everything. Like, full meltdown. I cried twice and made it everyone's problem.

(Spoiler alert: it wasn’t that deep.)

I considered just staying local. The town school was fine. Definitely the safer and easier option. But then Rin got scouted by Inarizaki’s volleyball coach, and that was it for me. End of story. Because going to a different school than Rin?

No way. That was... unequivocally, out of the question.

Going to a different school than him wasn’t just unappealing—it was impossible. I’d told him back in middle school that I’d follow him wherever he went, and I meant it. (I don’t think he believed me at the time, but he should’ve known better.)

My parents weren’t too fussed about it. In fact, when I mentioned Rin was going too, they were relieved and said something like, “ Well if Rin’s there, we know you’ll be fine.” Which… fair enough. They trusted him almost as much as I did.

Still, moving to a new region, staying in dorms, living away from home for the first time? It was a lot. I was excited, but also terrified. Everything was new and unfamiliar—new teachers, new routines, new slang I had to Google in secret.

But Rin was still Rin.

Still my person. Still the one I sat next to during orientation. Still the one I went to when I got homesick.

We weren’t just fine. We were solid.

We had different classes, sure. Different schedules at times. But it didn’t matter. We still ate lunch together. Walked back to the dorms together. Watched anime on his laptop together. Nothing between us had really changed. And that alone made everything else feel manageable.

It wasn’t long before I started watching him play.

Volleyball had always looked good on him. His movements were sharp, calculated and effortless. Watching him on the court made me feel oddly proud, even though I had nothing to do with it.

Eventually, I asked to meet the team. I always saw them after practice so I figured, why not? He agreed, of course. Told me they were all "pretty cool".

That’s when I met the Miya twins.

And honestly? My first impression? Pretty 50/50.

I'll let you guess which twin was my favourite.

(Spoiler alert: it wasn't Atsumu.)

Atsumu was loud, cocky, and honestly a little insufferable. He was your typical jock. A frat boy in the making. At least that's what my initial thoughts were. I'd later realize he's far too much of a softie for that kind of debaucherous lifestyle and actually cares about his education.

Osamu, on the other hand, was far easier to talk to. Calmer. Less... in your face. He still teased and was competitive like his brother, but he was a lot more grounded and mature. He actually listened when people spoke. He was a little more serious. A little more thoughtful.

He reminded me of Rin in some ways—same sense of humour, similar "vibe"—but I could tell he was just as hot-blooded than his twin, just better at hiding it.

I liked him straight away.

But Rin? Rin was still the one I looked for.

Still the one I cheered for during practice.

Still the one who made everything feel like home.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By the time we were sixteen, something shifted.

It didn't hit me all at once. Nothing like that. No sudden realisation. It was... more of a slow build.

I think it started when I stopped waiting for him after class. Not because I didn’t want to—but because he stopped expecting me to, I think. We were older now, and maybe I just didn’t know how to ask if he still wanted me there. I think a small part of me was afraid he'd find be overbearing.

So… I found new people to walk with. I sat with the twins more often. Got to know them more. I found out Osamu was a massive foodie and a true sweetheart, and that Atsumu was actually just a massive poser—a big, fat jerk, yes, but one with a big heart for those in his circle. A circle I had somehow managed to weave myself into.

I was starting to learn how to hold my own in a school that didn’t revolve around Rin.

And it wasn’t about replacing him. Oh no—definitely not that.

He was still my safe place. Still the person who knew me best.

But I was starting to feel like… maybe I could be my own person too. I’d always been more of a social butterfly, but ever since I met Rin, my circle had mostly revolved around him. So making new friends felt really nice—refreshing, even.

I got close to the Miya twins pretty fast—faster than Rin did, actually. They were impossible to ignore. Loud, chaotic, but strangely grounding in their own way. Osamu was calm and dependable, with a wicked sense of humour once you earned it. We had our own inside jokes now—mostly at his brother’s expense.

Speaking of the latter—

Things got... strange between us. Well—not strange. But at some point, our bickering didn’t feel like bickering anymore. It felt like something suspiciously close to flirting. He started it, of course.

He was so not my type. Funnily enough, if I had to pick one of the two, it’d be Osamu. So imagine my confusion when I started to realize I had feelings for Atsumu.

I think it’s because he challenged me. Pushed my buttons. Pulled things out of me I didn’t know were there. He made me raise my voice. Made me dig my heels in. Made me fight for my space in a way that was oddly exhilarating.

We were fire and fire. Burned too bright on some days, but we always came back.

He was never quiet like Rin. Never still. Never easy.

But with Atsumu, I didn’t feel like I had to wait.

And maybe that was easier than reaching for someone who never reached back.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

We were seventeen when I realized I wasn’t in love with Rin anymore.

And it didn’t break me. It didn't make me feel particularly sad.

It just… passed. Quietly. Like something I’d outgrown. Like a sweater that didn’t quite fit the same, no matter how much you used to love it.

I still loved him, of course. I don’t think that part ever changed. But it wasn’t the breathless, giddy, daydreamy kind of love anymore. My love had settled into something softer. Like nostalgia. Like home.

Or at least… that’s what I told myself.

We were eighteen when the four of us moved in together. It felt like a natural next step—me, the twins, and Rin. Like starting a new chapter of a story we were all co-writing.

And then came New Year’s Eve.

Rin's house was quiet. The twins were back in Hyōgo. His parents were out. We were alone in his room, lights off, movie forgotten, fireworks going off in the distance like the climax of some cheesy shōjo anime.

And then… he kissed me.

No warning. No build-up. Just—one second we were sitting side by side, and the next, his mouth was on mine.

And I froze. Not because I didn’t want it. Just… because I didn’t understand it.

Because for one awful, beautiful second, it felt like everything came rushing back. Like my feelings had been waiting. Like they’d never really gone away at all.

I kissed him back. I kissed him like I’d always wanted to.

My hands in his hair. Chest pressed to his. His breath in my mouth.

And then his hands slid to my waist. He climbed on top of me. And I let him. I let him kiss me harder. Let him touch me. Let myself get swept up in it—drunk on him. On the weight of his body. The way he whispered my name. The way he called me beautiful like I was truly his to admire.

I think I was panting his name by then. I think I forgot how to think.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that—that’s when the confusion hit.

Because I didn’t know what I was feeling. Didn’t know what he was feeling.

What made him do it? Why now?

Surely not love. He’d never hinted at anything like that before. He’d never looked at me like that. Never touched me like someone who’d been waiting.

So was it lust?

And if it was… That stung. More than I thought it would.

I didn’t feel it that night, though. Not right away. That hurt only came later—once the adrenaline wore off. Once I was lying awake and remembering every second. Every sigh. Every touch.

But in the moment?

I was too busy getting lost in him. Too busy writhing beneath him. Too busy hoping—just for a second—that maybe I was wrong. Maybe it did mean something.

And then I panicked.

Because it was too fast. Too much. Too not us.

And I knew—deep in my gut—that this couldn’t be the way our story played out.

I didn’t want to be a one-night thing for him.

Didn’t want to ruin what we had just because my heart got caught in the crossfire of something he didn’t mean.

So I pulled away.

Didn’t say a word. Just let the moment pass.

And we never talked about it again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I thought maybe he regretted it.

Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Or maybe I’d imagined the whole thing meant more than it did.

It didn't help that he never brought it up. Not once. Still, he never looked at me any differently. But he never asked if I was okay, either.

And yeah… maybe that hurt a little.

Was it embarrassment? Was I a mistake? Was it just lust, some throwaway moment he didn’t want to acknowledge?

I didn’t know. Still don’t.

So I let it go. Buried it deep. Filed it away in that part of my brain labeled: “Don’t think about this unless you want to overthink yourself into insanity.”

I decided to move forward. I started laughing more. Smiling wider. Let myself lean into other people.

I grew closer to Atsumu—not to replace something I lost, but because he was there. Steady in his own chaotic, big-hearted way.

He made me laugh. Gave me hell. Challenged me. Made me feel seen. With him, I never had to guess. Never had to read between the lines or sit with questions I wasn’t brave enough to ask.

(Or at least, that’s what I thought at the time. But that’s a whole other can of worms.)

Sometimes—just sometimes—that night still comes back to me.

His hands. His breath. The way he said my name like it meant something.

And I still don’t know how to feel about it.

It’s probably nothing.

It’s all in the past.

And there's nothing weird about it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

We were nineteen when I started realizing how little I thought about Rin in that way anymore. Like—actually, this time.

Not because I didn’t care. I still care—very much so. I guess I just... stopped expecting anything to happen entirely.

He was still Rin. Still steady. Still there. Still my best friend who I deeply cherish and always will.

But whatever we used to be—whatever I used to feel—it's settled into something quieter. Something softer and easier to carry.

He never brought up that kiss. Not once. Never looked at me differently. Never made it weird. Just… carried on like it hadn’t meant anything. Like we were the same as we’d always been.

And eventually, I guess I believed him and moved on.

Even now, nothing’s really changed.

We’re almost done with college. On the cusp of whatever comes next.

Atsumu and I aren’t a thing. Not really. But there’s something there. A flicker, maybe. Or a fire I’m still figuring out.

I’m happy, though.

No, really—I am!

I’ve got three best friends. A home that feels like mine. Days that make me laugh until my stomach hurts.

Rin’s still a major part of my world. Still close, in that comfortable, familiar way. Still easy to be around. Still my best friend that I'd do anything for.

It’s rare—but sometimes, I wonder if he still thinks about that kiss.

Even rarer—but sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve let it happen.

I wonder if I ever really fell out of love with him… or if I just learned how to live without hoping.

But most days?

Most days, I don’t wonder at all.

Most days, I’m okay.

And that’s more than enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He’s looking at me now.

I smile—out of habit, mostly. But it’s real.

He smiles back, like always.

And for a second, something in my chest stirs. Something old. Something that used to ache.

But it doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s just… there. A quiet flicker of something that once mattered a little more than it does now.

I blink, and it’s gone.

Whatever it was—it’s not ours anymore.

Maybe it never really was.

And maybe I’m okay with that.

I’ve got my little home. My little family. A life that’s messy and chaotic and warm in all the right ways.

I’ve got the twins and their bickering. I’ve got Rin and his quiet, grounding presence.

I’ve got love, just… not the kind I used to dream about.

And honestly?

That feels more than enough.

[violetwifey]

would you spare our poor souls with a pt2 of roommate!vi? 🥺🙏🏻

Eyes Wide Open, Heart Still Sleeping {part two}

Welcome back strawberrieeeeeeeeeees 🍓<3 I hope y'all are doing well! Quite a few asked for a part 2 so I decided to make it (even though I intended for it to be a oneshot 🤭) I pray that I've wrote this part up to your standards. Anyways, enjoy! Also, thank you soooo much for the amount of love my very first story got. I'm genuinely surprised and grateful, always <3

Summary: A night of laughter, sibling squabbles, and unexpected flirtation turns into something deeper when a thunderstorm traps two friends together. As they share a bed and confront their feelings, the walls they've built up start to crumble. With the storm raging outside, Vi must face her fears of rejection, and the reader discovers that maybe they've both been feeling the same way all along.

𝑪𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆

The car ride was silent.

Not the comfortable kind you both shared during late-night study sessions or when rain poured outside, and you decided to stay in, each doing your own thing—Vi with her book, you scrolling through social media.

No, this was the kind of silence that made your skin itch. The kind that made you want to clear your throat just to break it. Anything but this.

Vi slowed to a stop at a red light, her fingers tapping absentmindedly on the wheel. “You okay?” she asked, finally cutting through the tension.

“Huh? Yeah… why?” The question caught you off guard. You had been lost in thought, picking apart the way she had been acting earlier. But now, she was looking at you like you were the one acting strange.

“It’s just… not like you to be this quiet. Every second you’re awake, there’s something coming out of that smart mouth of yours—ow!”

She jerked away, rubbing the spot where you’d swatted her arm.

“Oh, stop being dramatic. It was barely a caress,” you grumbled, crossing your arms and turning to stare out the window.

You heard her scoff under her breath, but you didn’t dignify it with a response. She deserved that one.

By the time you reached the parking lot outside Ekko and Jinx’s place, the silence had settled into something less heavy but still lingering. Vi walked beside you, a gift in one hand, the other swinging loosely at her side.

Then you felt it.

A soft, lingering touch against the back of your hand.

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stay composed, resisting the urge to jerk away—not out of discomfort, but because of the way your heart stuttered in your chest.

You glanced at her, trying to be subtle. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze forward, posture relaxed. No sign of hesitation. No flicker of embarrassment. If she was caught, she didn’t show it.

So you let it slide.

For now.

When you reached the door, Jinx swung it open, her signature toothy grin already in place.

“There you two are! Took you long enough.” She pulled her sister into a hug, pressing a playful kiss to her cheek before turning to you. “Hey there, Yapster.”

You scoffed, hugging her back. “I don’t yap! Why does everyone keep saying that today?” You pulled away, eyes bouncing between the two sisters.

“Because you do, smartass,” Vi quipped.

You rolled your eyes, missing the knowing look Jinx shot between the two of you.

“Okay, okay, I’ll take that,” Jinx said, prying the gift from Vi’s hand. “Now, come meet everyone. You’re the last ones to get here.”

“Oh, I wonder whose fault that is,” Vi teased, nudging your side.

You giggled, shaking your head, and Vi’s soft smile lingered a little longer than usual.

The party was alive with laughter, music, and the occasional crash of something breaking in the distance—most likely Jinx’s doing. You had long since lost track of time, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand, watching as Vi and Jinx got into yet another sibling squabble.

“I swear, you always have to pick a fight over something,” Vi huffed, crossing her arms.

Jinx smirked, standing on the coffee table with an energy drink in one hand. “Me? Oh, no, big sis. I just happen to point out how slow you are in beer pong, and suddenly it’s a fight?”

Vi scoffed. “I’m not slow.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Jinx hopped down, jabbing a finger into Vi’s abs. “All these muscles, and yet you cry over a little loss? Face it, Ms Grumpy, I’m the real champ here.”

Vi raised a brow. “You blew up a toaster last week.”

Ekko groaned, stepping between them before Jinx could lunge. “Alright, break it up, you two. Let’s keep it a party, not a wrestling match.”

Jinx threw her hands up dramatically. “Fine! Vi just loves to kill my fun.”

Vi rolled her eyes, but you didn’t miss the small smile tugging at her lips as Jinx bounced away.

You found yourself watching Vi, studying the way she ran a hand through her hair, muttering to herself. She had that presence—effortlessly cool, with a hint of roughness around the edges. Even when she was bickering with Jinx, even when she was rolling her eyes, there was this undeniable warmth beneath it all.

Your little moment of admiration was cut short when someone slid up beside you.

"Didn’t think I’d see someone as stunning as you at one of Ekko’s chaotic get-togethers," a voice drawled.

You turned, blinking up at a guy you vaguely recognized—one of Ekko’s friends. He had an easy smirk, the kind that suggested he thought he was far more charming than he actually was.

"Uh, thanks?" You chuckled, unsure of what else to say. Compliments weren’t exactly rare, but the way he was leaning in, all confident and self-assured, made something in you stiffen.

"You here with someone?" he asked, tilting his head, eyes scanning you in a way that felt more assessing than admiring.

"Yeah, with Vi—"

"Ah," he cut in smoothly. "But Vi’s not your date, right?"

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard. "I mean, no, but—"

"So you're single." He grinned, like he’d won some kind of jackpot. "Good to know."

You let out a small, awkward laugh, shifting slightly in your seat. "I don’t think that’s really—"

"Here," he grabbed a drink from the table behind him, holding it out to you. "Let me at least get you another drink."

Before you could respond, a familiar arm draped over your shoulder, the weight grounding you instantly.

"Hey," Vi's voice was casual, but there was a distinct edge to it. She gave the guy a tight-lipped smile that was anything but friendly. "Didn’t know Ekko started letting just anyone into these parties."

Ekko’s friend sat up slightly, clearly clocking the tension but playing it off. "Vi, right? Didn’t mean to step on your toes." His gaze flickered between you and her. "Didn’t realize there were toes to step on."

Vi let out a dry chuckle, her fingers idly drumming against your shoulder—calm, controlled, but you could feel the restrained energy beneath. "Oh, there are toes," she said easily. Then she leaned forward just a little, lowering her voice just for him. "And if you don’t back off, they might just land somewhere you won’t like."

The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing. "Alright, alright, no need to get all territorial." He shot you one last glance before standing. "Nice meeting you."

You barely had a second to react before Vi turned her head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "You good?"

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and grinned. "Damn, Vi, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous."

Vi scoffed, finally removing her arm—but not before giving your shoulder a light squeeze. "Pfft. Please." She grabbed a drink from the table and took a sip. "I just hate watching people embarrass themselves."

You hummed knowingly. "Right."

She rolled her eyes, but the tips of her ears? Bright red.

After that, the party picked up again, and you found yourself swept into a mix of games, drinks, and laughter. Vi had eased up, though she still sent a glance or two your way every now and then. Jinx had gotten into an intense arm-wrestling match with Ekko, which ended in them both falling off their chairs.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had this much fun.

But as the night wound down, people started leaving one by one, until eventually, it was just you, Vi, Jinx, and Ekko left.

And then the thunderstorm hit.

“Oh, great,” Jinx sighed, peering outside. “Storm’s rolling in fast.”

Ekko checked his phone. “Yeah, roads are flooding. You guys should just crash here.”

Jinx pointed at you and Vi. “Guest room’s free. You two can share.”

Vi choked. “What?”

“You’ve slept in worse conditions before,” Jinx pointed out. “Don’t be a baby.”

Vi grumbled something under her breath, but she didn’t argue.

The storm raged outside, thunder rolling through the sky as rain pounded against the windows. The power had flickered once, twice, before finally giving out, plunging the house into a dim glow from the emergency lanterns. Jinx, ever the chaotic spirit, had laughed it off before disappearing upstairs with Ekko, leaving you and Vi in the guest room.

You pulled out one of Jinx’s oversized shirts from the dresser, turning away from Vi as you peeled off your dress. A small part of you—okay, maybe not so small—was aware of her standing there, trying so hard not to look.

"Jinx seriously has the worst taste," you muttered, examining the faded, paint-stained shirt before slipping it on.

A beat of silence.

Then, Vi’s voice, strained and just a little too tight: "You’re doing that on purpose."

You turned to her, putting on a show with your doe eyes. "Doing what?"

Vi’s jaw tightened. She looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. "Never mind," she grumbled.

You laughed softly, sliding under the covers. "Well, I’d offer to let you sleep on the floor, but I doubt your ego could handle it."

Vi scoffed, kicking off her boots. "My ego is just fine, thanks." She hesitated for half a second before climbing in beside you, keeping to her side of the bed like there was some kind of invisible barrier between you.

The room settled into a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of rain against the windows. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly, you teased, "You got awfully worked up earlier when that guy was flirting with me."

Vi groaned. "Oh, don’t start."

"Why not?" You turned your head to look at her, catching the way her fingers twitched against the blanket. "It was cute."

Vi huffed out a laugh. "I am not cute."

"Debatable."

A pause. Then, softer, you asked, "Why did it bother you so much?"

Vi exhaled slowly. "Because…" She hesitated. You could practically see the way she was debating with herself, trying to decide if she should say it.

"Because what?" you prompted gently.

Vi turned onto her side, facing you. In the dim glow of the lantern, her eyes were softer than usual—unguarded in a way that made your heart stutter.

"Because it’s you," she admitted, voice low. "And I—" She stopped, shook her head. "I just... I don’t want to lose what we have. I don’t want to mess this up by saying something stupid."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"Vi," you whispered.

She laughed, but it was quiet, almost nervous. "I know. It’s dumb."

"It’s not." You shifted closer, reaching for her hand under the blankets. "It’s really not."

Vi’s fingers curled around yours instinctively, like they belonged there. Like she’d been waiting for this.

"You really have a way of getting under my skin," she muttered.

You grinned. "I try."

She rolled her eyes, but her grip on your hand tightened. "I— I like you. A lot. Probably more than I should."

You felt warmth bloom in your chest. "Good."

Vi blinked. "Good?"

"Yeah," you murmured, squeezing her hand. "Because I like you too, dumbass."

For the first time that night, Vi was speechless. Then, with a huff of laughter, she pulled you closer, pressing her forehead against yours. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

You smiled, closing your eyes. "Nah. I’ll be the reason you live."

And as the storm raged outside, Vi held you just a little tighter, like she finally believed it.

𝔅𝔬𝔫𝔲𝔰 𝔖𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔢:

You felt a soft thud against your back, jerking your body forward. "Vi, what the hell!?" you yelped, spinning around to see her standing there, grinning like a mischievous child with a pillow clutched to her chest.

"C'mon, princess," she teased, raising an eyebrow. "How long are you gonna glue your cute little ass to this bed? Take a break, or you're gonna turn into a stressball. I can already see you balding from the pressure."

You blinked, incredulous. "I’m not balding!"

She waved her hand dismissively, stepping closer and tapping the pillow against your arm like she was ready to declare war. "You look like you could use a distraction." Before you could react, she swung the pillow at your head, knocking your books out of place.

"Violet!" you squealed, jumping out of the bed to avoid the next blow. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

With a loud, playful laugh, she swung again, catching you on the shoulder this time. You couldn’t help but laugh yourself, adrenaline kicking in as you realized you were in the middle of a full-on pillow fight.

You snatched the pillow off the bed and swung it back at her, narrowly missing her face. "You asked for it," you warned, a mischievous glint in your eye.

Vi's eyes lit up, and suddenly she was charging at you like a wild animal, swinging her pillow in all directions. "Oh, I did, huh? You’re gonna regret that, princess." She tackled you back into the bed with a cushion to your stomach, laughing all the while.

You shrieked, trying to wriggle away from her grasp, but she was quicker. The two of you were in full chaos mode now, knocking pillows and papers everywhere as you both fought for dominance.

"Come on, admit it!" Vi teased, tapping you with the pillow like a drum. "You needed a break!"

"Oh, I did," you gasped between giggles, managing to yank the pillow out of her hands. "But not like this!"

You leapt to your feet, holding your pillow up defensively, but Vi wasn’t having it. She grabbed a second pillow from the bed and swung both at you, knocking you off balance. "Gotcha now!" she grinned, her eyes gleaming with victory.

The two of you stumbled back and forth, laughter echoing around the room, until you finally collapsed on the bed, breathless. Vi joined you moments later, dropping her pillow to the floor with a satisfied grin.

"Okay, okay," you said, catching your breath. "You win. You’re insane."

Vi rolled her eyes, flopping back onto the bed beside you. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But you needed to relax, and now look at you—smiling like a doofus."

You gave her a mock glare, but there was no stopping the smile that tugged at your lips. "Fine. I admit it. You’re right."

Vi turned her body to face you. "Good. See? Wasn't so bad, was it?"

You nudged her with your elbow, unable to hold back the laughter. "You're ridiculous," you said, still catching your breath.

But in that moment, with the soft glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the windows and Vi's laugh filling the room, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

"Yeah," she said, a hand coming up to move strands of hair away from your face gently. "But you love me for it." You didn’t even have to answer.

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: Bruce has a 'if you can't beat them, join them' mentality about the tabloids claiming he adopts too many kids- Developing foster homes that are paid for through the Wayne inheritance, personally vetted by the Bats, they're the leaders in the space for child health outcomes and family placement. Insert Danny.

---

Bruce has too much wealth, too many rumors and not enough reach into the abhorrent foster homes around Gotham to improve them. Tim ends up being the one to suggest it- He's the one who buys up their real estate for their safe houses after all- and Bruce is more than ready to pull the metaphorical trigger to get new clean welcoming spaces, Bat-background checked fosters and a new era of adoption in Gotham underway.

He's lobbied the state and the federal government for reforms of course, but this is a project he can micromanage. He spends time with every kid that comes through, talks with all the families that want to adopt and makes sure that these miniature homes are provided only the very best. Alfred personally hires all the staff, and with Barbara more than happy to help relocate the unhoused children she spots while they patrol, the project is a glowing success.

Occasionally, spots in their houses fill up, and those are the weeks were Cass takes on the Cowl of Batman- Bruce Wayne will personally invite a child in need to his home. He always has one of his kids present (they rotate on a pre-determined schedule) and he does his best to try and get them to understand that they deserve the world, have all the potential that anyone else has and can achieve a bright future. That he will personally aid them in their ambitions.

PR goes crazy for it of course, but Bruce and all of his children know its genuine. Almost too genuine, because a betting pool 'WILL THEY BE ADOPTED' regularly circulates between the siblings and the entire JL when someone spends time at the manor. And not just the black-haired, Blue-eyed kids get picked as favored outcomes- but obviously the running joke gets passed around.

It's a Thursday night when Bruce gets the call that the houses have once again filled up, and that there is a child in need of a home. The social worker (he knows her as Marsha and he has flowers planned to be sent on her birthday next week, like he does for all of his employees) (Say micromanaged one more time) explains that the kid is a bit cagey but has opened up with some humor. She explains that he has a few strange... mannerisms. She's not sure what to make of him, a non-gothamite for sure but something is, well, distinctly 'not from around here' about his energy.

Danny arrives at the house, meets Duke and Alfred, and by the time Bruce meets him at the dinner table it seems as though Marsha had it all wrong. This kid was laughing, he was teasing, he was totally playing along like he'd gone through nothing. Bruce is glad he's in high spirits but its just so... so different from all the other children he's taken in.

Bruce re-focuses on the conversation when Duke mentions something flashing, and its the first time that Danny goes quiet. Entirely still.

"...you noticed that?" Danny quietly asks, a bit of disbelief in his tone.

"You don't have a flashlight on or something do you? It was super bright whatever it is that you had in your hand a second ago?" Duke tries to sound chill but he's looking very much not chill. Bruce saw nothing, and that puts him further on edge.

"Look... I uh, I've been though... I've been through a lot lately. And the last lab I was in kind of, messed with me. I'm normally much better at dealing with it all, I promise." Danny sounds nervous, and the room seems to chill.

"Ah shoot, sorry." Danny notices something and frantically apologizes.

"Sorry for what Danny? You've done nothing wrong but I am worried about you- You said you were in a lab?" Bruce is desperately trying to calm him down while not slipping into Batman interrogation mode.

"Uh, yeah, like a lot of labs. It should get warmer in a second, its just cause I startled, I promise."

"You're a meta." Duke speaks softly and with hope in his voice- Danny is looking between them with wide eyes filled with fear.

"I mean I don't technically have the gene-"

"Danny, have you told any of your case workers where you were? Do any authorities know what you've been through?" Bruce needs to know, desperately, that who ever gave this young boy super powers is brought to justice. Danny goes quiet.

"I'm really sorry." He says softly, but he doesn't leave them.

Duke and Bruce try to ask a few more questions but the silence that meets them declares the conversation over, even with Duke admitting he himself is a meta. Danny didn't even look up from his plate. They watch a movie after dinner, and Danny seems to get back to the smile-y happy guy he had been before dinner.

Each of the bat-fam have their own interactions with Danny- And even if they're getting along amazingly, Danny won't open up. He doesn't open up to his provided therapist. Doesn't talk to Alfred. No one knows what's up.

So when Marsha calls Bruce back explaining they now have a spot for Danny and he can move out of the Manor... Bruce replies that he'd like to get started on Adoption paperwork, so long as Danny is fine with it.

---

Turns out, Danny is fine with it. he's both the newest Wayne and their newest case. (And godamnit, his new family is going to avenge him. If only he'd let them try.)

Danny figures out that Duke= Signal early on because of that dinner, and if he's going to keep his parents out of jail, he needs to be as close to the investigation as possible. He knows that he shouldn't protect the Fentons, but he feels the upset in his core at the thought of letting them befall any harm. He has to protect them. Has to protect Jazz and her hiding spot as a mole within their lab. Has to.

Even if it meant lying to his new family who loves him, and who he loves in equal return. Even if it means lying to The Bats.

---

Tabloids go crazy about the black-haired blue-eyed thing of course, but no poll was ever taken by the batfam or the JL who know the whole story.

[amateurvoltaire]

Listen to the post (trust me, it's a long one and I've done my best to read the whole thing out...):

Embroidery, Work, and Women in the 18th Century

One of my resolutions for 2025 was to learn embroidery. Why? Partly because my brain can’t stand still. It needs a dozen hobbies going at once just to keep from falling apart. Also, I like beautiful things. And small, careful stitches on cloth seem beautiful to me.

But more than that, embroidery has always been part of women’s lives. From Helen of Troy to Mary Queen of Scots and beyond, women have picked up the needle, sometimes in peace, sometimes in despair. It has been an art, a pastime, and a sentence.

So let’s talk about embroidery today. More precisely, embroidery in late 18th-century France. What it meant to the rich and the poor, and how it worked, strangely, as both a kind of cage and a kind of release for women of the time.

First of all,  before we start, you need to know that it was everywhere. Truly everywhere. In France, embroidery was a fashionable and expensive way to decorate clothes, furniture, and church vestments. The most elaborate designs showed flowers, landscapes, or scenes from myth, stitched in silk, gold and  silver. Garments like men’s waistcoats or women’s gowns were embroidered by hand, usually by professionals, and filled the wardrobes of the wealthy.

But just because the finished products were aimed at the elite did not mean embroidery itself was limited to them. Quite the opposite. Because the tools were simple  (a needle and some thread) the practice spread through all levels of society. It became, in many ways, the defining domestic craft for women.

Embroidery, or the Quiet Discipline of  the 18th-century Woman

The education of a French woman in the late 18th-century is well summed up by a line from Rousseau’s Émile. Describing the education of Sophie, Émile’s intended, he writes:

“The education of women should be relative to men. To please us, to be useful to us, to make themselves loved and honoured by us, to raise us when we are young, to care for us when we are grown, to advise us, to console us, to make our lives agreeable and sweet, these are the duties of women at all times, and what they should be taught from childhood.” (1)

I could be sarcastic about Rousseau all day, but I will not. This is not about him (2). What matters here is the idea, widely held in 18th-century France, that women’s education was meant to complement male reason with female charm. Rousseau valued obedience, delicacy, and virtue, and considered domestic work the most effective way to instil these traits. Something as thoroughly domestic as sewing or embroidery was seen as both moral instruction and quiet, necessary containment.

So embroidery became central to women’s education, regardless of class, although the reasons shifted depending on social rank. For bourgeois and aristocratic girls, needlework was seen as a form of moral training.

This was not mere theory. Girls’ finishing schools in Paris and provincial cities rigorously taught embroidery alongside catechism and musical instruments.

For upper-class women, it was also a social act. French society in the 18th and 19th centuries was deeply performative. Embroidery became a marker of bien séance (3), a way of displaying virtue while remaining present in social life. The sociability it enabled was no accident. By stitching in company, women carved out a space where they could speak freely, while appearing to live within the boundaries society had drawn for them.

An art form from mother to daughter

Have you ever tried sewing or embroidering from an antique pattern? Especially something from the 18th or 19th century. Even if you manage to find the right thread and cloth, reproducing these old designs can seem almost impossible. Why? Because most surviving patterns from that time are simply terrible. How do we know? Because some still exist.

The Lady’s Magazine (1770–1818) (4) was one of Britain’s most influential women’s periodicals of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. It offered a monthly blend of fiction, poetry, moral essays, fashion reports, biographies, recipes, and notably, embroidery patterns.

The embroidery patterns were usually published as detachable supplements or illustrated plates, intended to embellish clothing and accessories with the flowers and foliage popular in Georgian textile art.

Few of these patterns survive intact, precisely because they were detachable and meant for immediate use. Most were removed, damaged, or simply lost, making intact issues of the magazine incredibly rare. Yet, some do survive. But if you get your hands on one, you'll soon realise there's not much you can actually do with it.

These patterns weren't instructional in the modern sense. They had no step-by-step guides or even a basic materials list. They served more as visual templates, meant to be traced or adapted. But why? Why would editors of a women’s magazine produce such unhelpful patterns?

No, the reason isn’t that the pattern designers and engravers were probably men who disliked women.

The answer is simpler: these patterns weren't poorly designed at all. In fact, they were perfectly adequate for their time, precisely because everyone knew how to sew. The magazine correctly assumed every reader had a basic level of skill.

And yes, I mean every woman. Not just those who went to finishing schools.

For most families, embroidery was a fundamental part of mother-daughter relationships. Mothers taught daughters, grandmothers shared techniques and patterns. This wasn’t purely practical, it was also moral instruction. Embroidery taught patience, neatness, and submission, but also created intimate moments of maternal bonding and a way to preserve memories.

Sampler-making (marquoirs) was especially significant. Girls stitched alphabets, dates, names, or even short verses under the supervision of mothers, schoolmistresses or female adults they looked up to. These samplers served as both educational exercises and personal milestones, often kept or displayed proudly as part of a dowry. Embroidery thus became part of life’s rites of passage. It wasn’t just a useful skill or an idle pastime. It was heritage.

A  male-dominated industry

In Enlightenment imagery, embroidery often stood for feminine leisure and elegance. But it remained, in practice, a skilled and demanding trade linked to luxury consumption, ecclesiastical ornamentation, and court attire. And like most things involving money, it was dominated by men.

Charles-Germain de Saint-Aubin, embroiderer to Louis XVI, published L’Art du Brodeur in 1770. In it, he described a profession regulated by the Parisian guild of embroiderers (jurande des brodeurs). This guild upheld a strict hierarchy: apprentice, journeyman, master. An aspiring embroiderer began with a years-long apprenticeship under a master. Once completed, he could become a journeyman. To rise to the level of master, he had to produce a a masterpiece (chef-d’œuvre) judged by the guild’s existing members. If accepted, he joined their ranks.

The guild maintained control through rules on quality, materials, technique, and design. Workshops were inspected. Violations carried penalties. The guild also limited membership to avoid market saturation. It was a business like any other, and its rules were meant to protect those already inside.

The guild statutes from 1566 allowed a modest space for women. A girl could join the guild through apprenticeship and submit a chef-d’œuvre of her own. Once accepted, she could run a workshop, even if married to someone outside the trade. But this changed. By 1648, the rules had tightened. Only widows or daughters of masters could keep a place in the trade, and only if they remained unmarried. If they remarried outside the guild, they lost their rights. Any master employing them risked a thirty-livre fine.

In short, for most of the 18th century, a woman’s access to the profession depended heavily on her ties to men: her father, her husband, her deceased spouse.

Still, exclusion was never total. A 1723 record shows 307 embroidery masters in Paris, alongside 65 widows who also held the title. A small number of girls were accepted as apprentices. The path was narrow. But it existed.

There was also another path

While the legal one narrowed, the informal one widened, and women took it. The guild’s grip was strong, but demand was stronger. A great deal of embroidery was done outside official structures, and much of that work was carried out by women. Not just isolated housewives earning a few coins in the evening, but networks operating on a larger scale.

In 1750, the police raided embroidery workshops in the faubourg Saint-Antoine (5), a district often outside guild jurisdiction. Among those charged was Louise Pineau, known as veuve Duport. She ran an illegal operation of no fewer than twenty-eight frames and even maintained what authorities called an “embroidery academy.”

But what enraged the guild most was not her scale. It was her success. One of the king’s own embroiderers, Louis-Jacques Balzac, had subcontracted to her a commission for the Dauphin’s ceremonial vest. Her work was so fine, it was nearly indistinguishable from that of the official guild. The same masters who condemned her were secretly hiring her.

This was not an isolated case. The guild explicitly banned subcontracting beyond a master’s own workshop, especially for gold and silver work. But bankruptcy records reveal widespread, illegal subcontracting to women who worked from home. They were paid by the piece. Everything was tracked. Even the gold thread was weighed before and after to prevent theft.

Everyone knew this was happening. But,  as long as it stayed quiet, it was tolerated.

The Path to Female Entrepreneurship

By the 1770s, women were no longer just running hidden workshops. Some began to appear in public as business owners in their own right. One of them was Madame Neuville, later known as veuve Neuville.

She presented herself as a merchant of gold and silver embroidery. Her clients were elite men: military officers, foreign envoys, members of the tribunal du point d’honneur. Her work included ceremonial insignia, ecclesiastical ornament, and embroidered garments worn for status, not comfort.

Neuville ran a dual operation. She had a workshop with salaried staff, but also subcontracted a significant amount of work. Her records show both men and women in her employ, including several widows of guild members. But the payroll tells a familiar story: women were paid nearly half what men earned per hour, even when they did the same work.

Conditions in her workshop were intense. In 1772, detailed logs show the arrival times, total hours worked, and instances of night shifts. The official working day ran from six in the morning to eight at night. But for the women, the hours were often longer, more irregular, and extended into the early morning during periods of high demand.

It was hard, exhausting work for not much money.

One regular worker’s case stands out. In June 1772, over 18 days and three night shifts, she earned 23 livres, 6 sous, and 8 deniers. That was roughly equivalent to what a male day labourer might make in the same period. The sum was modest, but for an unmarried woman, it offered a rare degree of independence. In most other sectors open to them, the chances were worse (7).

Female Labour at the  End of the Ancien Régime

One common misunderstanding about women’s lives in eighteenth-century France is the assumption that they did not work. Lower-class women, before, during, and after the Revolution, did not spend their days serenely raising children and keeping house. Nor were they driven by any self-conscious desire to assert economic independence. They worked because they had no choice.

The issue was never their access to the labour market, but how their labour was valued. Madame Neuville’s pay structure, where women were paid significantly less than men for the same work, was not an exploitative anomaly. It was standard practice. The value of women’s labour was systematically diminished through wage discrimination, occupational segregation, and social invisibility. Even when women’s work was essential to household survival or trade production, it was often treated as supplementary, even incidental.

By the final decades of the Ancien Régime, Paris had at least five all-female guilds, which indicates that women’s participation in economic life was not hidden. It simply wasn’t valued on the same terms as men’s.

In 1776, as part of his broader attempt to modernise the economy, the king’s prime minister, Turgot (7) moved to abolish the guild system. He argued that guilds restricted economic liberty and disproportionately harmed women and their freedom to work. While his reforms failed and guilds were reinstated, his successor included a clause forbidding sex-based discrimination.

The measure had contradictory consequences. It removed formal barriers preventing women from entering male-dominated trades, but it also dismantled the institutional protections on which women’s guilds had relied. In practice, this left women exposed. The protections that had once secured a space for them in the labour market were gone, and male competitors increasingly pushed them aside.

By 1789, as France stood on the edge of revolution, the cahiers de doléances (8) included appeals from women, needleworkers, flower sellers, and others, demanding the reinstatement of their guilds and the exclusive right to their métiers. These were not framed in terms of abstract rights, but in terms of survival and human dignity.

Freedom, But at What Price

The Revolution brought two major changes to the embroidery trade: one economic, the other moral.

Economically, the abolition of the guilds in 1791 under the Le Chapelier Law removed the protections once offered by the embroiderers’ guild. In theory, this made it easier for women to enter the profession. But at the same time as trades were opened more widely, the Revolution also raised a deeper question: should women even have a place in the economic order?

Views ranged from one extreme to the other. On one end, some argued that women should be full participants in work and public life. On the other, many believed they should be confined to the domestic sphere. Most people fell somewhere in between.

Nicolas de Condorcet (9) stood firmly on the side of equality. He called for women to have the same civil and political rights as men, including access to education, participation in public affairs, and the ability to support themselves. In a 1794 letter to his daughter, he urged her to learn a trade so she might “support herself without serving a stranger,” and escape the dependence that, in his view, undermined both dignity and freedom. For Condorcet , the right to work was bound up with the right to self-rule.

Others saw things differently. Pierre-Louis Roederer (10) argued that civil society was built on protecting women from labour, which he considered a burden meant for men. In his eyes, women were destined for domestic life and motherhood. Giving them rights in the economic sphere, he warned, would only unsettle the social order and defy nature.

Roederer’s vision won out. In rhetoric and policy, women were increasingly pushed back into the household.

But rhetoric is one thing, reality another. Women did not disappear from the labour market. They remained central to the Parisian garment trades. Though the guilds were gone, production methods stayed largely the same.

What truly affected embroidery was not ideology, but emigration. Embroidery was a luxury trade, tied to noble wardrobes. As the aristocracy fled, lost their titles, or were imprisoned, demand collapsed. On top of that, ornate fashion came to be seen as anti-revolutionary. The heavy silks and gold thread of the ancien régime gave way to plain whitework.

This collapse in demand hit women hardest. Embroidery and other luxury trades faced mass unemployment. Women scrambled for short-term, piecework contracts, often under male employers. The result was a growing supply of cheap, unprotected female labour. The old belief that women’s work was worth less only deepened.

The Revolutionary government made some effort to respond. The Convention (11) awarded state sewing contracts, mainly for army supplies, and local sections distributed work to seamstresses, prioritising families of enlisted soldiers. For a brief time, some Parisian women had stable, paid employment.

But this didn’t last. By 1795, under the Directory (12), the state withdrew. Private contractors took over. Women’s protests about exploitation were ignored.

What Comes Next?

Embroidery meant many things. It was work, it was teaching, it was discipline. It was done by women who stitched under orders, for money, for their daughters, or simply to stay sane. We’ve followed the needle through eighteenth-century classrooms and parlours, through guilds and illegal workshops, from gold thread to government contracts. Always the same art. Always under different constraints. It was art, labour, education, survival. Sometimes resistance. Often just what had to be done.

Which brings me to what I want to do next.

I’m starting a project: one hundred embroidered portraits of figures from late eighteenth- and nineteenth-century France. A hundred lives. A hundred threads in the fabric of a brutal, brilliant, collapsing world. The portraits won’t be stitched by hand but by machine. I’m a product of the twenty-first century. I like tools. I like toys. I like the meeting point of industry and art.

For each person, I’ll try to reconstruct, as faithfully as possible, who they were, what they did, and what they meant to the world around them.

This isn’t a Wikipedia entry. I’m not making a record. I’m making a story, a kind of chronicle of sorts. The aim is to give something back: their humanity, their contradictions, their texture. To remind us that they were, in fact, people, flawed, vivid, complex, even if they lived and died more than two centuries ago. No heroes. No villains. Just facts, and what can be seen clearly when set in the context of their own time.

The first will be Camille Desmoulins. Because on the 12th of  July 1789, it was he who he climbed onto a table at the Café de Foy (13)  and cried out to the crowd. And from that moment, something irreversible began.

I hope you’ll come with me.

Notes

(1) The original French text: “L’éducation des femmes doit être relative aux hommes. Leur tâche est de nous plaire, de nous être utiles, de nous faire aimer et nous estimer, de nous élever quand nous sommes jeunes, de nous soigner quand nous sommes grands, de nous conseiller, de nous consoler, de rendre notre vie agréable et douce. Voilà les devoirs des femmes dans tous les temps, et ce qu’on doit leur apprendre dès leur enfance.” (Émile, Livre V; original edition 1762).

This passage appears in Book V of Émile, ou De l’éducation, Rousseau’s educational treatise structured as a philosophical novel. The first four books follow the development of an ideal male child, Émile, from infancy to adulthood, shaped according to natural principles. Only in the final book does Rousseau turn to the question of women’s education, in the person of Sophie, Émile’s future wife , and the contrast is stark. Whereas Émile is trained for autonomy, reason, and citizenship, Sophie is shaped entirely in relation to male needs. In effect, Book V naturalises patriarchal domesticity under the guise of Enlightenment pedagogy.

(2)…And because I could rant for pages about him: it’s no accident I’m Amateur Voltaire and not Amateur Rousseau.

(3) Bien séance: A term referring to proper behaviour, decorum, and socially sanctioned conduct, particularly in elite society.

(4) The Lady’s Magazine (1770–1818) was a British publication, but French women’s magazines such as Le Journal des Dames et des Modes (1797–1839) and its short-lived predecessor Cabinet des Modes ou les Modes Nouvelles (1785–1786) also featured embroidery as part of fashionable culture, especially as it related to dress, accessories, and decorative refinement.

(5) Faubourg Saint-Antoine: A historically working-class district on the eastern edge of Paris, known for its artisanal workshops

(6) Turgot: Anne Robert Jacques Turgot (1727–1781), economist and reformist minister under Louis XVI. As intendant of Limoges, he wrote extensively on rural labour and women’s economic roles; as Controller-General, he attempted liberal economic reforms that failed politically but remain ideologically significant.

(7) And yes, I do mean worse. To the despair of anglophone observers like Thomas and Abigail Jefferson, French lower-class women worked. They worked in fields. They hauled water and firewood. They laboured in ways English gentry wives would never imagine. Working in an embroidery workshop was brutal and underpaid — but it wasn’t ploughing in the mud while pregnant.

(8) Cahiers de doléances: Literally “notebooks of grievances.” These were lists of complaints and demands drafted in 1789 by each of the three estates (clergy, nobility, and commoners) in the lead-up to the Estates-General.

(9) Nicolas de Condorcet: Philosopher, mathematician, and, agruably,  early feminist. Author of Sur l’admission des femmes au droit de cité (1790), in which he argues that excluding women from citizenship is a contradiction of revolutionary principles.

(10) Pierre-Louis Roederer: Liberal publicist, member of the National Assembly, but very much against women’s right to work and be educated.

(11) The Convention: The National Convention was the revolutionary government during the Revolution.

(12) The Directory: The post-Terror regime (1795–1799), marked by thermidorian backlash, economic liberalism, and sharp limitations on popular political participation.

(13) Café de Foy: A famous café near the Palais-Royal, known for its revolutionary crowds. Camille Desmoulins delivered his famous call to arms here on 12 July 1789, reportedly standing on a table, pistols in hand.

Sources:

Brian, Isabelle. "La trace de l’ouvrage: les brodeuses dans les archives parisiennes." Bulletin de l’Association des historiens modernistes des universités françaises, no. 43, 2023. DOI: 10.4000/bahmuf.302.

Coffin, Judith G. The Politics of Women’s Work: The Paris Garment Trades, 1750–1915. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996.

Fayolle, Caroline. "Le sens de l’aiguille. Travaux domestiques, genre et citoyenneté (1789–1799)." Cahiers du Genre, no. 53, 2012.

Lilti, Antoine. The World of the Salons: Sociability and Worldliness in Eighteenth-Century Paris. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015.

Offen, Karen. The Woman Question in France, 1400–1870. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017 - Chapter 6

Saint-Aubin, Charles-Germain de. L’Art du brodeur. Paris: Saillant & Nyon; Desaint, 1770. Source: gallica.bnf.fr / Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Thillay, Alain. "La liberté du travail au faubourg Saint-Antoine à l’épreuve des saisies des jurandes parisiennes (1642–1778)." Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine, vol. 44, no. 4, 1997, pp. 634–649. DOI: 10.3406/rhmc.1997.1890.

[orcusnoir]

"You know what I hate?" The Champion asked to no one in particular as he watched over the slow boiling pot of stew.

"Uh... Not having enough spices?" The Captain asked from his seat at the table.

Wild gave a nod. "Not what I was going for, but yes."

"Then what do you hate, Champ?" Wars asked while glancing over to the Vet. Legend was currently trying to stack his fork and knife on top of each other to no avail.

"How do I put this?" Wild tapped his chin in thought.

"As bluntly as you can." Hyrule chimed in.

"Fair enough. Why are certain clothes locked to certain people? It's fucking cloth." Wild complained with a laugh.

At first Wars was going to chide Wild for the language, but... He just couldn't. Wild had a point here.

"FINALLY!" Wind's loud voice startled Wars a bit as the Sailor had been awfully quiet in his seat. "Tetra and I both hate that stupid shit. What do you mean I can't wear heels? I'm trying to feel tall, and Tetra hates heels, and so somebody has to wear them."

"Tell me about it." Wild started. "Zelda let me try on one of her old royal dresses, don't ask how they survived a hundred years, and somebody had issues with that."

The Captain just laughed. Damn those social rules indeed. Wild in a dress wasn't something he was expecting to hear about today, but it was something that he could picture.

And the Champion would rock that dress.

"Heh, I've been thinking those rules were stupid since I knew they existed. So, since I was nine." Time joined the conversation. "I didn't even know what the big deal was back then."

"I'd ask how, but I'm afraid the answer would be too confusing." Twilight said.

"Oh, not at all, I was raised by forest spirits and a giant tree." The Old Man nonchalantly explained. "They didn't have concepts like "male" and "female." So imagine my confusion."

A claim that he made often but never elaborated on. Everyone, besides the Captain and Wind, thought it was a lie or a ruse.

Warriors just laughed, he couldn't help it.

"Oh little Mask and his insisting that he's a tree." Wars felt everyone's eyes turn to him.

Time laughed loudly. "You made that corporals life hell."

"I did not have time for that guy's bullshit. We are in the middle of a fucking war, if the kid says he's a tree then he's a fucking tree." Wars started to lose his composure from all of his laughing.

"What do you mean by "he's a tree"?" Sky asked while scratching his head.

"Again, I was raised by forest spirits." Time explain. "You lot, besides two, think this a lie. It's not."

"Time, your life profoundly confuses me." Sky said. "So they assigned you a tree?"

Time nodded.

"Instead of anything else?"

Another nod.

"Not like a boy tree? Just a tree?"

Another nod. "Two trees, to be exact. But yes."

"Two trees?"

"Maple and oak, to be exact."

Wars just watch the conversation with a grin. Oh, poor Sky. He must be feeling the same confusion that he and the Sailor had during the war.

"I feel so understood." Rulie said with the widest smile imaginable. "I'm just a Fae." He shrugged as the others turned to face him. "Not the legend kind of Fae. I was raised by Fairies."

"Well, now you can be a Fae tree. How lovely." Time stated with a laugh.

"What kinda tree?"

"Hmmm, you and the Captain both have the same one. Pine, and you can have maple too. As a treat."

"A Fae pine and maple tree. Nice."

"Are we just gonna brush over the fact that Wars already has a tree identity?" Legend asked.

"I do too!" Wind but in. "Take a guess, it's so obvious."

"Uh...Palm tree?" Twilight asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Correct!"

"What tree am I then?" Wild asked while seasoning a few cuts of meat.

"Willow." Time and Warriors both spoke at the same time.

"Damn, that was fast."

"You had this conversation before, hadn't you?" Sky asked while keeping his gaze locked to Wars. "So tell us our trees."

"Oh, alright, I'll try to remember all the specifics. It's been a while." Time laughed while tapping his fingers on the table.

"It all reminds me of the Minish. They have leaves instead of trees, though." Four, who had been quietly observing this whole time, finally spoke up.

"Oh, the Kokiri had leaves too. That's a whole other thing."

[dickgraysonsptsd]

Hey, remember me? Idk if you do, but I looked through some of your stuff and you know a lot of what all went down with Devin Grayson's run when it comes to like... Interference from other comic stories and not being able to do what she was planning and also just everything that happened with her and her night wing run.

Can you help me understand what this person who reblogged my post is talking about and how to respond to them/refute their point?

https://www.tumblr.com/titans-thoughts/778916858908884992/the-problem-is-she-also-said-i-never-said-it-was?source=share

hi, i do remember you!! <333 yes, i'm familiar with what this person is talking about. i hope it's okay that i'm answering this publicly because i think this is useful information and context for understanding nw #93 and the 2004 interview this person is paraphrasing.

short answer: she apologized for saying this in 2011 and 2014. grayson saying something harmful one time 21 years ago doesn't negate the points made in that essay.

long answer... content warning for extensive discussion of sexual assault below!

what did devin grayson say about the rape scene she wrote in nightwing (1996) #93?

let's start by looking at the exact text of what grayson said. here is the excerpt from her 2004 comicboards.com interview that this person (and anyone else talking about this subject) is referring to (bold added for emphasis by me):

MSL: Male rape is a topic rarely touched on in comics. Why is it suited to bring it into Nightwing? DEVIN GRAYSON: For the record, I've never used the word “rape,” I just said it was nonconsensual (I know, aren't writers frustrating? *smiles*), but I think Nightwing is suited to cover any topic rooted in human behavior. The Batman characters are unique in that they're not super powered – they're extraordinary people who devote themselves to operating effectively in a very dangerous realm of human existence – crime and injustice and even, very often, mental illness. They are in constant physical danger, to the point that as readers we don't even always respond to that anymore because we assume they'll eventually be okay. I think sometimes it's more rewarding to put them in emotional or social peril of one kind or another, situations which challenge them as people as well as as superheroes. MSL: (Question by dmb1991) Will we be getting a reaction to Dick's rape anytime soon? Ever since it occurred the audience hasn't been privy to NW's thoughts, and I was really hoping you could flesh out that event in Dick's life. and I'm really hopping there will be an educating story to follow. DEVIN GRAYSON: That's very perceptive of you to notice that we lost Dick's narration! That was very intentional – he's so broken down at this point that he's gone quiet inside. I think if you read through issue 100, you'll see some of the response you've been waiting for, but remember, too, that events in superhero comics are often as much allegorical as actual – that is, we're not doing a public service announcement here, we're telling an ongoing, multi-layered story about one individual finding himself at an emotional rock bottom he doesn't know how to fight his way out of.

grayson did not say the act was not rape. she said that she did not use the word rape to describe it and clarified that she personally used "nonconsensual" when talking about it. this is absolutely talking around the issue enough to be a problem (and to qualify as rape apologism, imo--not acknowledging rape as rape IS apologism), but i want to come back to that in a sec.

do i think she spoke poorly here? yes. grayson also thinks that she spoke poorly here and has apologized for basically every line of her responses here over the last 21 years, from not using the word "rape" to talking about rape as something that can be rewarding when used as part of a narrative. her interviews from 2011 and 2014 make it extremely clear that she learned she was wrong for talking about it in this way and apologized profusely for it, even going so far as to apologize for writing the arc at all.

(i personally think there was no reason for her to apologize for writing the arc, but given that people to this day still loudly and passionately claim that writing the arc is proof that grayson loves rape and wanted to rape nightwing, i get why she did publicly apologize for it. people are deeply weird.)

so why, in 2004, would someone not call nightwing (1996) #93 "rape"?

in 2004 in the us, "rape" was legally defined almost exclusively as a female victim being penetrated through force or coercion by a male perpetrator. the us federal government via the fbi to this day still does not consider being forced to penetrate (what tarantula does to nightwing) "rape," which is deeply fucked up. it was only in 2013 that the fbi changed its definition to include male victims in rape statistics at all.

i'm sharing this for some context of what talking about sexual assault and rape was like at the time. it was not incorrect in 2004 for a progressive, educated person to refer to the act of being forced to penetrate a perpetrator as "sexual assault" or as a "nonconsensual sex act" rather than as "rape." i think a lot of people either don't remember or aren't old enough to know how abysmal and evil usamerican culture was about rape in 2004--it was either a punchline, something that happened to a male character's girlfriend to give him angst, or at best a Very Special Episode to Teach An Important Lesson (something that grayson points out wanting to avoid, which i appreciate--rape survivors don't exist to be educational material). we were AWFUL, culturally, about rape. imo that makes grayson's statement in this interview both more hurtful (it sucks badly that a fellow survivor would talk around the issue like that at a time when people were already terrible about it) and also more understandable (being progressive, anti-rape, and pro-survivor at the time still often didn't look great in a 2025 context).

what i think people get massively, critically wrong here is the assumption that because of this one interview line--one line that is very much of its time--devin grayson believed the act she wrote tarantula committing against nightwing was not sexual assault. there's an assumption that because she said this, the arc itself must be written to be titillating, dismissive, trivializing, or to frame the act of rape as not a big deal.

what did devin grayson actually write?

okay. so we've talked about how grayson talked about this run while it was being published in 2004. we've talked about how rape and sexual assault were defined and perceived in 2004. now let's talk about the actual content of the arc and what that means for the broader argument (which people keep insisting on making) that devin grayson thinks it wasn't rape.

i think it's really clear from the tone and writing of the following excerpts of nightwing (1996) #93-94 that grayson was well aware she was writing a traumatic sexual assault arc, and that she was intentionally tying together the trauma of the violation of dick's body (tarantula raping him) with the trauma of being an accomplice to an act that violates his moral code (tarantula killing blockbuster) and the trauma of blockbuster violating his secret identity and using it to kill whoever he can in dick's life. it's violation on top of violation, it's people who want something from dick or blame dick for something taking things from him over and over until he's empty and literally catatonic. it is very, very obviously a dark and serious look at the aftermath of rape.

putting this last bit under a readmore because it's long and includes screencaps of the actual rape scene.

nightwing #93:

above: the beginning of the repetition of "it will never stop"/"it's never gonna stop" that will be continued into the aftermath of the murder and rape.

above: a distinctive red frame is used as dick thinks "never gonna stop... never... stop it... STOP" as he steps away from blockbuster.

we lose dick's narration as soon as catalina shoots blockbuster. the last thing we see him think is "STOP" in distressed lettering. we get dialogue from him again as dick tells catalina not to touch him:

...but we don't hear dick's thoughts or narration again this issue until the final page.

above: the distinctive red frame returns as catalina rapes dick. the last time we saw this frame was in the "STOP" panel, clearly drawing a line between the moment of catalina shooting blockbuster and the act of catalina raping dick.

above: the final page of the issue. dick thinks again, "it's never gonna stop... never gonna stop... never..."

dick is about to enter into a several issue long "relationship" with catalina that overlaps with crossover events. in this arc dick is portrayed as traumatized, sometimes catatonic, and not consenting to being with catalina, who is using him for her own adrenaline high. "it's never gonna stop" will stay relevant because catalina isn't stopping. blockbuster may be dead, but the horror of the situation dick is in is still present. catalina will keep dragging him around like a chewtoy, breaking the code, murdering people, and abusing dick until nightwing (1996) #100 when he turns her (and himself) in for blockbuster's murder.

nightwing #94:

above: dick catatonic on his knees in an alleyway while tarantula is fighting baddies, unable to move or react while he thinks about the gunshot that killed blockbuster. he hardly reacts to a man about to bash him in the head with a baseball bat, lifting his hands up slightly as he thinks about the gunshot, and calling the gunshot (again, the gunshot is tied inextricably to that repetition of "it's never gonna stop" and the final "STOP") worse than the sound of his parents' bodies hitting the ground.

again, we tie the rape to the murder. dick goes from catatonic about the gunshot to flashing back to the rape.

above: catalina takes dick back to a motel room and drops him on the bed. dick doesn't respond to anything she says to him in this scene, instead starting to infodump fixatedly on the gunshot in small italic text. he's not present here. he's dissociating. catalina touches his face gently and stands over him. as dick keeps talking, clearly not responding to her at all, she starts to leave the room.

above: "so if i'd said 'stop,' we would have heard it. heard it and processed it along with the gunshot, simultaneously. 'bang'... 'don't do it, tarantula, STOP!'... bang... stop!... bang..."

as a reader, this is really obviously a rape victim reacting "weirdly" in the aftermath, fixating on the moment that it became real, on odd details, on the "STOP." dick is talking about blockbuster's murder, but he's also talking about catalina raping him.

and now... catalina isn't having fun here. dick isn't her cool crush doing stunts and unintentionally flirting with her, he isn't her trophy, he's a traumatized unmoving mess talking to himself about something she doesn't understand (and doesn't want to understand). so she leaves. this is grayson showing us very directly that catalina is using dick, that she doesn't care about his well-being as much as she does about her own adrenaline rush, and that she doesn't care that what she did to him traumatized him horribly.

now look at the tone of the dialogue when dick is up and about again after catalina returns:

dick: it's epinephrine with a generalized viperid antitoxin. batman developed it as a-- catalina: cool. whatever. dick: no, not "whatever." this is called being prepared, and if you're not, you've got no business taking on a meta-- catalina: where were you, anyway? dick: i... just went out to move the bike. if you leave it out in the open like that, anyone can-- catalina: --follow us? yeah, i noticed. you comin'?

earlier in the run, when dick was acting as a sort-of-mentor to catalina, he would give her these kinds of explanations confidently. now, catalina is cutting him off when he talks. she's demanding to know where he's been. she's cutting him off again, and looming in the doorway ominously as a clear visual sign that she is the villain here--she's the bad guy lurking in the shadows, she's the abusive "girlfriend."

everything about this scene screams that dick is off-kilter, that he's reverting to familiar things--infodumping about a batman-esque subject, trying to be a good mentor--because he's in a crisis and doesn't know what to do. it is SUCH an effective depiction of a rape victim trying to find some stability and normalcy in the aftermath. it is not something that someone who believes they didn't write a rape scene would write.

and that's my 2 cents on "devin grayson said it wasn't rape!!".... i think it was way more than you probably expected/wanted lmao 😭😭😭

[jojaxcola]

So I, like a lot of people, love your mockumentary series. And this is a stretch and probably won't get done for ages but could I use your mockumentaries to write a fanfic? It won't be long or complex, more of an extension to the scenes you've drawn. I'll give credits, don't worry but yeah.

But if I do, I'd love if you answered a few characterisation questions.

I know the farmer filmed some but is any of it not farmer filmed?

Why is the farmer doing this?

Are there any fanon or hcs you used to create characters that I should use too?

Expect more soon + updates

Thank you so much!! I had this in my inbox for a while and I've been thinking for a while about how to answer, because I'm not sure how much I want to give away at this point in the series hehe 👀 but I hope these answers are helpful

I consider the farmer/producer to be the project lead and to be present for everything that's being filmed. While they take on some of their own filming, they have a small crew to handle things like camera work and sound. During the talking head segments, the farmer is the one prompting them with questions as needed

The farmer is still a Joja employee like in the beginning of the game, but not with the same office desk job. Their team has been tasked with filming a documentary series highlighting the happenings of a JojaMart location, and the farmer was the one to propose the relatively new Pelican Town location due to their grandfather's love of Stardew Valley. So they're still a newcomer to the town, but they don't have the farm. I might stay a bit quiet about the farmer's ultimate motivations for this project, though... :)

This one's a bit tricky since I'm not totally sure how to narrow it down hehe. One thing I'll say here is that I altered Sam's work schedule to have him appear in the store more often (since in the game he's only there like six hours a week). I'll also say a little bit about how I like to characterize the main players in the series:

Sam is someone whose cheeriness is partly genuine, but also partly because he needs to be the guy who keeps everyone positive in tough times. It's important to him to make sure everyone feels included and not forgotten. Sam isn't dumb—he's actually very creative and resourceful—but he does tend to rush his thinking and follow bizarre trains of logic. He doesn't like to slow himself down, and when he dwells too much on his thoughts he tends to reach uncomfortable conclusions.

Shane has an extremely low opinion of himself, but keeps himself going at work to provide for Jas and to not be a burden to Marnie. He's easily annoyed and has a tendency to push people away, but he's not completely shut off. He'll accept gifts and other gestures of kindness but doesn't totally understand why he's getting them, or why he even deserves them. He needs significant and repetitive convincing to believe any friendship with him is genuine. Shane believes that life is harsh, and he tends to fixate on difficult truths. Sam's optimism frustrates him, and he sees Sam as a naive little boy who will be eaten alive by the cruelty of reality.

I don't like depicting Morris as cartoonishly evil. I think it's more fun to make him "corporate evil", where his villainy comes from a "socially-acceptable" disregard for the little guy. He'll go on about how the JojaMart personnel are one big family, but he can't even call his employees by their names. He thinks he's above his staff, and he's satisfied by the idea of getting to look down on someone; he views higher-ups as having earned their power, and that looking down on others is just part of that package. Morris loves to project the image of human connection, not because he genuinely believes in it, but because that's what appeals to customers. And he'll do everything he can to convince Pelican Town that Joja is the answer to all of their problems.

I also like to pepper little personal headcanons into the different entries (I like to think Sam is left-handed, so I wrote his notes on his right wrist in no. 5) but I think listing them here would bloat this post :o

Please feel free to ask anything else about the series (or individual scenes), this was really fun to write up! And I can't wait to see what you come up with!! :D

===============

Follow ups to this post (I might make a separate FAQs post if needed):

What has become of the community center? (@happycomputertimetravel): It's still dilapidated. I consider the jojamart series to have the town in the same state as it is at the start of the game (so Kent is still overseas, the bus is still broken, etc.) unless depicted otherwise

[spencewalterreid]

V-day Bouquet

Summary: You'd just spend Valentine's Day alone like always, but why would you when he lives right across the hall?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Category: fluff!

Warning: making out. kinda fade-to-black smut. rated tv-14..? i think?

Word Count: 1.8k

Author's Note: y'all like the pink? I hope you don't like it too much because it is not staying:) I just thought I'd be festive. This is only one of 3 fics I'm gonna do for V-day! The other two will be on my other two blogs; I'm gonna do an Ellie X Reader (probably, almost positively smut) and some destiel! I've never posted fics for either other blogs so I'm excited:) I've been doing a lot of angst and sadder stuff lately so here's some kinda dirty, mostly innocent fluff:) enjoy and remember to REBLOG if you enjoyed it!!

It's Valentine’s day. Your 19th Valentines day all on your own. As always, your plans are riveting: Gilmore Girls, your couch, and a heart-shaped cardboard box bought with your own debit card. Except…

See, there's this guy that moved into your apartment complex.

He's probably taken. You’re sure. You’ve heard him talking on the phone about "cases", so he's either a lawyer or some kind of law enforcement. Either would be impressive given he can't be more than 5 years older than you at the most. Nonetheless, you find yourself wondering how he might react if you brought these chocolates to him. On your way to the checkout, you stop. Turning on your heels, you traipse down the aisles to the card section and find a relatively ambiguous one, then select a bouquet of flowers. You decided on sunflowers. He always looks so tired, you’re sure he could use something cheerful.

***

Spencer sat hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his concentration. The house was quiet, save for the occasional clack of keys and the faint murmur of the TV playing in the background - some cheesy Valentine's Day special that no one was watching.

He had been working for the past few hours, pouring over case files and forensic data, when there’s a knock at the door. He glances up, his eyes jumping between the laptop and the front door as he considers whether to ignore it. He’ s in the middle of something important, after all, but the knock came again, more insistent this time.

Standing up, Spencer makes his way to the door and opens it to find you standing there, looking uncomfortable and nervous. You’re wearing a t-shirt and jeans, your hair a bit disheveled. You look like you’re trying to work up the nerve to say something.

"Can I help you?" Spencer asks bluntly, wanting to get to the point.

You swallow hard, glancing down at the heart-shaped box in your hands before meeting Spencer's gaze. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I've seen you around the complex, and..."

You take a deep, long breath, steel yourself, and continue. "I just think you're really pretty. And you're probably taken, and I'm sorry if that's the case and I just totally overstepped, but you only live once, right? And, like, I was just gonna watch some rom-com or something-"

Spencer blinks slowly as you ramble on, surprised by the unexpected invitation. He knows he should refuse, should tell you that he was too busy for such frivolous activities. But there’s something about your nervousness, your sincerity, that makes him hesitate. It had been a long time since anyone had wanted to spend time with him just for the sake of it. Normally people avoid him, put off by his intensity and social awkwardness.

Against his better judgment, Spencer finds himself considering the offer. "I...I don't know," he says slowly. "I'm pretty busy with work most of the time."

"I get it," you reply quickly. "I totally understand. It's cool, no pressure or anything. I just thought I'd ask."

Spencer is silent for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Alright. Okay." He turns around and does a once-over of his atrociously messy apartment, and against his better judgement, presses the door open further. "Come in.”

Spencer leads the way into the apartment, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure you’re following. The living room is a mess, with stacks of books and papers strewn across every surface. An old couch sat against one wall, covered in blankets and pillows. A box-television stands in the corner, the screen flickering with the near-muted images of a Valentine's Day movie.

"Sorry about the mess," Spencer mutters, grabbing a few of the books off the couch and tossing them onto a nearby chair. "I haven't had much time to clean up lately."

He turns to face you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "So...uh...what did you want to watch?" he asks, trying to make conversation. Small talk is not his forte.

Spencer watches as you look around the apartment, taking in the chaos. He can see the surprise in your eyes, the slight wrinkle of your nose as you try to make sense of the disarray. He knows it’s a lot to take in, but he can’t help feeling a sense of pride at the same time. At least someone was interested in him, even if it was just for a night.

"I don't really have a preference," you say with a shrug. "Whatever you want to watch is fine with me."

Spencer nods, considering the options. He isn’t much of a movie buff, but he does have a few favorites that he likes to watch when he has the time. "How about Pretty Woman? I rented it last weekend but never got around to it," he suggests, grabbing the DVD off a nearby shelf.

A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I love that movie," you say, impressed that someone like Spencer would want to watch that, let alone rent it.

Satisfaction washes over him at your reaction. Maybe this night wouldn't be so bad after all. He pops the DVD into the player and settles onto the couch, patting the spot next to him for you to sit down.

For just a second, fleetingly, you hesitate. He just looks so warm. He’s wearing a crocheted sweater and pajama pants, and his hair is a damn mess. You’re starting to sense a trend. Nonetheless, you trudge over to the piece of furniture and settle in next to him.

"Oh!" You remember the bag in your hand as you go to set it down, then come to your senses and put it in your lap. "I, uh, I got these for you." You first reveal the bouquet of sunflowers, peeking out of the top of the bag. "Sorry, they're a little jostled from the travel."

The boy lights up, grinning as he takes them from your hands. "They're perfect," he hums, delicately pulling the top of the paper back to inspect the petals. "Did you know that if you touch the petals of a flower, it will wither quicker? The oils on your hands are detrimental to the proteins in the petals."

You smile. "Yeah, actually, I did. My cousin told me that when I was little. I got these, too," you continue, handing him the chocolates and card.

He takes both of them, too, after gently laying the flowers down on the only clear spot atop the coffee table. He sets the chocolates on his lap and flips the card open, reading the hurriedly scrawled handwriting on the inside.

Beneath the generic "To someone special... Happy Valentine's Day!":

Pardon my boldness, but you look like you'd make for a pretty damn good Valentine. Be mine?

As you re-read it upside down alongside him, you realize how brazen it really seems.

"I meant, uh. I just meant to be my Valentine," you chuckle. "Not, uhm. Not mine. Sorry, I-"

"It's okay," he interrupts, tracing the handwriting with his fingertips. "I get it. I'll be your Valentine." The card joins the flowers on the table and he gets up. "You can play the movie, I'll just be a moment."

He takes the flowers with him and disappears into the kitchen.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, sinking into the plush fabric and unknotting your hands you don’t remember arranging in such a tense manner. Your gaze holds on the doorway he’d just walked through. How lucky are you?

As the movie starts, Spencer finds himself glancing over at you through the top of the half-wall separating the two rooms, taking in the way you’re watching the screen with rapt attention. He has to admit, it’s nice to have someone to share this with. He isn’t sure how to feel about your abrupt appearance in his apartment, or about having a Valentine for the first time in his life, but he’d like to think he’s glad. After a few moments, he returns with the flowers arranged carefully in a vase. He sets them down gingerly on the coffee table, and when he’s satisfied they’re positioned just right, settles onto the couch.

You must feel bold, because you shift enough for your thigh to touch his.

You get to the point of the movie where the two main characters kiss for the first time, and you say, “I will never forget my first kiss.”

As you’re shaking the smile off your lips, you feel Spencer go rigid next to you. Shit.

“Have you had your first kiss?” No, no, no. Shut up. Would you be fucking quiet for once in your pathetic life? Why would you–

“No,” he replies, voice low and shameful, pulling you out of your miniature spiral.

Your brain quiets and stills, whirring to an abrupt standstill. Even the movie approaches a lull, and you look at him. “Oh.”

When he turns to catch your eyes, it’s made so much worse. His curls fall just perfectly over his eyebrows, and his lips are pursed in thought, and his eyebrows are knitted together, and he–

You’d really like to know what he feels like.

“Do you want to?”

The room is static. You can feel his heartbeat in his thigh against yours, can hear his breaths and almost feel them against your face with how close you are.

He doesn’t reply, but he nods.

He turns the movie down with the remote in his left hand but keeps eye contact as if he were afraid if he broke it, you’d disappear.

You bring your hand up and place it on his cheek.

Seconds pass like hours as he leans in, soft puffs of air against your lips and just as you close your eyes:

Fireworks. Tiny little jolts of energy turn into full-blown explosions, glass shattering and wood splintering.

He’s sweet and warm, but hard and firm at the same time. On instinct, his hands go to tangle in your hair and pull ever-so-slightly at the roots. He lets out a whine, high and delicate. It’s everything in you to keep the hand on his cheek soft.

Your free hand goes to his shoulder, and with absolutely zero confidence and feeling like your heart is about to come up with your lunch, you ask, “Can I get on your lap?”

Again, silence on his end, but his hands drop from your hair in favour of your hips to lift you onto him. Jesus, you were not expecting that level of strength.

Okay, so probably not a lawyer.

Settled on the tops of his thighs, one hand goes right back to your head, but the other goes to the small of your back to pull you into him. As lovely as kissing him is, you wonder…

You break from his lips to trail your mouth down. First the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw, and the second you get to his neck he moans. No more whimpers and whines; this was a guttural, meaning thing.

“Please,” he groans.

Experimentally, you tilt your hips down and notice, quite jarringly, that he is fucking hard.

“Bedroom,” you gasp.

“Yeah.”

---

Let me know if you want a part 2 :)

[the-internets-girlfriend]

Bittersweet Memories: Sticky Situations

George Clarke x Reader (Series)

There was something sweet - until it all fell apart. Years later, a viral video stirs up a past neither of them ever quite let go of. In the city where they both changed, something is quietly rising again.

warnings: soft angst, emotional miscommunication, heartbreak, swearing, slow-burn, alcohol consumption

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series | masterlist | previous part | next part

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Part Three: Sticky Situations (2300+ words)

It's been three days since George walked into my bakery like a ghost from a life I've been trying not to haunt.

Since then, he's been liking all our social media posts - both Instagram and TikTok.

I've ignored it.

Maisie, however, is loving all the attention from customers on our social medias. And, if I'm being honest, so am I. It's taken the bakery to the next level. We've had new faces walk through the door almost every day since, some asking for the viral cake, others just curious to see the place from the videos.

I'm even starting to get a few regulars. I haven't quite mastered remembering orders yet - but I'm working on it. Maisie and I have been practising the phrase 'just the usual?' with full dramatic flair.

There's a young woman named Lily who comes in every Thursday afternoon for a raspberry tart and a hot chocolate. She talks about her loved for Harry Potter and once left me a note on a napkin that said this place feels like Honeydukes.' I nearly cried - carefully picking the napkin up and adding to a wall of reviews we have started.

But early mornings are different.

Early mornings in the bakery are quiet. Peaceful, even - the kind of peace that comes from repetitions. The hiss of the espresso machine, the smell of lemon zest and sugar caramelising in the oven, the hum of the speaker playing a soft low-fi playlist. I've built something here. Slow and steady. No chaos, no unread messages, no train delays or after-parties.

Just me, the batter, and the bench.

People come and go during this time of the morning - but my time in the kitchen is my time. My little sanctuary.

And today in the kitchen there is a cake to be made.

For George's friend, Arthur.

A tall, soft lemon sponge with vanilla bean frosting and curled white chocolate shards down the side. I pipe soft blue lines along the base of the cake - Arthur had written on the form for something that is bright and needs to include blue, and I figured a soft yellow was safe. Calm. Friendly. Uncomplicated.

The finishing touch is a piped 120k on the top, to celebrate whatever milestone they are celebrating. A subscriber count, probably. Or maybe views on something I haven't watched.

I'm halfway through packing the cake into the carrier when Maisie sticks her head into the kitchen eyes wide.

"Arthur's here for pickup. He's with someone else - I think I've seen him on TikTok before."

I smirk, wiping my hands, "just let them know I'll be right out."

Once the cake is secure, I carefully take it in my hands and round the corner just in time to hear the last part of Arthur's sentence to Maisie "- it's just for a couple of mates and hitting a subscriber count."

So I was right.

I carry the cake to the counter and greet Arthur and turn to look to the man beside him - Maisie is right, he does look familiar.

He was tall, dark curls, and his eyes glanced around the bakery with curiosity - eyes skimming the walls, the displays and then finally the cake box.

I notice the movement of his eyes and take the lid off to allow the two guys to peer inside.

"Woah Y/N this looks amazing!" Arthur exclaims, but as Arthur said my name - suddenly his friend looked confused.

"Y/N.." The boy mumbled to himself.

"Yes that would be me." I said with a smile. I turn back to Arthur to attempt to explain the cake and the best serving suggestions but I'm interrupted.

"You look familiar, are you from the area?"

"Isaac..." Arthur warns.

With that name, I recognise I know who he is - his TikTok's often appear on my for you page, and he's been frequenting George's Instagram posts.

"Only for the past couple of years, I'm originally from Hampshire." I reply, understanding why he is now asking the pressing questions - he's trying to solve out if I'm Y/n from George's past.

And my theory is proven when he gives a slow nod in my direction and replies with a sharp, "cool." This causes thoughts to happen as I wonder what George has told his group of friends about me and our shared past.

The conversation ends not too long after I finally am able to explain the cake directions and flavours to the boys, before wishing a good day.

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The bell above the door chimes one final time as the last customer leaves, the dregs of their oat latte still steaming on the windowsill table. Outside, the sun is melting into the skyline, painting the bakery in soft amber light. I wipe down the counter for what feels like the tenth time, even though it's spotless.

Maisie flips the sign to closed and turns to me with a grin that I already don't trust.

"One drink," she says, hands on her hips. "Just one. To celebrate the cake, the TikTok boost, the fact that Lily said we have 'main character cafe energy. Come one. We've earned it."

I sign, but it's already a lost cause.

"You're not going to let me go home, eat pesto pasta, and rewatch The Holiday, are you?"

"Absolutely not. Get changed, bakery girl. We're going out!"

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We end up at The Porterhouse - a pub not too far from the bakery, the kind with mismatched stools, and decent cocktails served in chipped glasses. It's warm and loud, but not unbearable.

We've only just slid into a booth with our drinks - a G&T for Maisie, and a lazy glass of red for me - when I hear it.

The voice.

I freeze before I even look.

Laughter. Familiar. Deep. Followed by a chorus of cheers. And then someone I do recognise - Max - yelling, "to 120 thousands. We're super duper famous now George!" And a second chorus of laughter is heard.

Maisie looks at me over the rim of her glass, already clocking my expression, "you okay?"

I nod too quickly. "Yep. Totally. Fine."

But I don't even need to turn around to know. I can feel it - the unmistakeable presence of George and every single one of his chaotic friends. They're here. In this pub. On this night.

And suddenly the number on Arthur's cake makes sense.

They're here celebrating the Useless Hotline podcast. George and Max just hit 120k subscribers. I remember back to when George and I were together, the podcast was only an idea - just become solidified and he was so excited to share it with Max.

But of course they're here.

Of course he's here.

Maisie leans in. "Do you wanna leave? We can go watch a movie back at mine love?"

I shake my head. "No. We said one drink. And I'm not leaving because he exists. I'm not here for them."

"Damn right you're not," she says, and clinks her glass to mine.

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I spot George before he sees me. He's standing near the bar, pint in hand, wearing that same stupid navy jacket I used to steal, Arthur's there too, animated telling a story. Isaac's doubled over laughing. And more of their group were shared in a conversation or filming.

And then George turns - and his eyes land on me.

For a second, he doesn't move - but he shoots a wink my way and turns back to his friends.

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It becomes a game.

A twisted, high-stakes game of dodge George Clarke - and I'm determined to win.

I've already fake-texted someone twice, strategically walked the long way to the bathroom and changed seats with Maisie to put her between us like a human shield. All while pretending to be totally unbothered.

"I feel like I'm watching a spy thriller," Maisie mutters, smirking behind her second G&T.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, sipping my wine too fast.

Before I know it my glass of wine is gone. I hold the empty glass in the direction of Maisie, "another?"

Maisie gives a small nod but her eyes are elsewhere - elsewhere on a certain brunette she has been eyeing all night.

I take the two empty glass and stand, beginning my journey to the bar.

But then I round the corner by the bar, trying to avoid walking past my past, and I nearly walk straight into Max.

"Oh shit - sorry!" I blurt, grabbing the edge of a high stool for balance.

Max blinks, then breaks into a wide grin, "Y/N?"

"Hey!" I say, too brightly. "Max! Hi!"

We hug awkwardly - the kind of hug of when you haven't seen a friend in a while and have no idea what's happening in their life.

I liked Max. He was of the only friends I met when I was dating George - he was always ready to talk gossip or just be a source to vent to.

He steps back, clearly surprised. "Didn't know you were here."

"Yeah, um - my friend and I are just having a drink. Just a random night out - nothing to do with... you know."

Max raises an eyebrow, amused. "Right. The 120k podcast party?"

I laugh. It sounds fake. "Exactly, and congratulations on that. I've seen a few clips of the podcast and you seem hilarious as usual."

He tilts his head, eyes kind. "Thank you but have you seen George yet?"

I hesitate. Too long.

"...Not really."

Max gives me a look - not pushy, just knowing - and I quickly pivot.

"What about you? How else is life going?"

That gets him talking, thank god. He starts telling me all about his recent interviews and reality TV show he has done - I nod along, adding the occasional laugh.

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I finally reach the polished bar, and alert the bartended of the new order - one G&T and a glass of rose - as the red wine list is starting to taste the same.

The bartender's slow, distracted by another group ordering a tray of shots. I tap my card against the bar, waiting.

And then I feel him.

The weight of someone behind me. The static energy in the air. A scent I recognise as it was once littered on my bedsheets. A heartbeat I know too well.

I don't even have to turn around to know it's him.

"Didn't expect to see you here," George says softly, his voice just above the hum of the pub.

I swallow.

Still facing forward to the bar, I reply, "it's a public space, George."

"Did you make the cake?"

I nod once. "Yeah. Hope you liked it."

"Loved it," George says, "and Max took about a hundred pictures of it before he even cut into it.

I glance sidewards. He's closer than I realised. His eyes are soft. Like he's been looking for me all night. Like he's felt me in the room too.

I force a polite smile. "Good. I'm glad."

He shifts slightly, nervous.

I turn to face him, my breath hitching in the back of my throat at our closeness.

"You've been busy."

I shrug. "The bakery's doing well. We're getting more attention online. Maisie a genius with reels."

"I noticed," he starts, "I've been liking your posts."

My lips tighten. "Yeah. I saw."

He opens his mouth again but shuts it. I tilt my head and he finally says what he is thinking.

"I'm glad you're here."

My eyes widened at the statement - that was the last thing I expected for him to say. He is suddenly showing affection when all I asked for two years ago was that -

Affection.

"I would really love to -"

"George," I cut in, "you don't have to do this."

He falters. "Do what?"

"This," I gesture vaguely between us. "Polite chat. Vague compliments. You don't have to pretend we're just two people who vaguely know each other."

A muscle in his jaw tenses, as my eye water.

"I'm not pretending."

"Really?" I snort, shaking my head. "Because you walked out my life with a simple see you around - and then you walk into my bakery, after years of nothing, said barely anything, and then started liking all my posts like we're - what?"

"I didn't know how else to-"

"You could've messaged."

"I wanted to," he says, voice rising slightly. "I nearly did. A hundred times - "

"Then why didn't you?"

He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Right.

I turn back to the bar just as the bartender finally returns with my drinks.

"Y/N..." George tries again. "I'm not here to make things harder. I didn't even know you'd be here tonight."

"But now that I am, what?" I snap, finally looking at him fully. "You're hoping we just... what? Talk? Rewind? Pretend the last two years were fine?"

His face flickers - guilt, regret, all of it.

"I'm hoping you'll just talk to me. Really talk."

"I can't, George," I say, my voice barely holding steady. "Not here. Not tonight. I came out with Maisie. To not think about you. Just try another time."

He runs a hand through his air, frustrated. "And yet here I am, just ruining everything right?"

I finally take the two glasses in my hands, "you didn't ruin everything Geo. That happened a long time ago - we just couldn't work at that time. We both wanted different things."

He looks like he wants to argue. But I step away before he can.

Back at the booth, Maisie looks up from her phone, "you okay'

I slide the drinks onto the table and exhale. "Nope. But I've had worse nights."

I take a long sip of wine, pretending I can't feel his eyes across the room - burning, questioning, following.

And I pretend it doesn't hurt.

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I'M SORRY GUYS!

Trust me I want them together too - but we got to wait a while first.

And as a big thank you - I went back and edited this part to make for a longer part.

See you next time,

mwah x

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taglist x

@mothersversiononly @whisperturnedecho @lovingaphroditesworld @reidyourpalms @liz140569 @swizzlemynizzle @wherethezoes-at @clarkeyzzz @swiftlyjo @madforgeorge @smzyyx @graceln4 @norrizzandpia @heyitsmefall @oliviaohanessian1 @clarkey4life @dopeysunflowers @hey-there9-its-me @ooostarwarsfandom501st @canyouseethesainz @cheesystylesig @burkayyy

[supernova-stardust]

Bad Idea, Right?

jegulus | explicit minors dni | complete | word count: 9,351

direct sequel to "no one has to know what we do" on ao3

James has waited for months to hear from Regulus since he gave him his number after they hooked up in the ballet studio. He hasn't been able to stop thinking about him. So when he's out with his best friend, Peter, and receives a text from an unknown number, he instantly needs to know if that number belongs to Regulus. He's had a few drinks and before he knows it, he's knocking on Regulus' door begging to go inside.

OR

James Potter is whipped.

***

Based on Bad Idea, Right? by Olivia Rodrigo

Full fic after the break or on ao3

James wasn't sure what he was thinking when Peter had asked him to go out for drinks and he had agreed. Really, he never said yes to going out, let alone to this bar—The Leaky Cauldron—full of shitty IPAs and even shittier music. But here he was, drinking an IPA that tasted more like piss than beer and watching as Peter tried his best to flirt with his third woman of the night. It wasn't that Peter was unattractive or that he was a bad guy, far from it, but he lacked tact. No matter how many times James had tried to help him or played wingman, Peter always managed to fumble his words and come off as a creep, even when James knew he really wasn't. He was still his best friend, regardless of his lack of social skills. James hoped that some day he would find someone willing to look past his nervous flirting and see him for who he really was: a kind-hearted man with very little social finesse. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He attempted to ignore it, preferring to stay present when he was out with his friend, but by the third vibration he said fuck it and dug into his pocket. Peter was preoccupied anyway.

Unknown: is this james? Unknown: it's been a while, so i'm not sure if this is still his number Unknown: sorry in advance if this is the wrong number, i know it's late

James quirked an eyebrow at the messages, his heart racing at the thought of who it could be. Regulus. He was the only one who James had given his number too in quite some time, and if he was honest with himself, he had nearly given up hope to ever hear from him again. Instead of texting, he decided to call the number. He needed to know for sure that it was Regulus on the other side of that unknown number.

The phone rang four times before it was finally answered, a long silence stretching out before James heard a soft "Hello?"

He immediately made his way through the crowd of people towards the back exit, needing a quiet space to speak to the man he hadn't stopped thinking about for months. "Hey, is this Regulus?"

"Depends. Is this still James' number?"

"Yeah. Yes. I've been thinking about you, baby. I had almost given up on ever hearing from you again."

More silence. James began to doubt that he had handled this well. Maybe he was more like Peter than he had realized. 

"I've been thinking about you too, Daddy. Couldn't stop thinking about you, actually."

Fuck. Maybe nothing had changed between them after all. He felt the desperation to see Regulus, to be between his pretty thighs, growing just as strong as that first day he laid eyes on him. He knew in the first moment that he had seen him that he needed to claim him. Needed nothing more than to make Regulus his.

"What took you so long then?"

Regulus hummed. It sounded to him that Regulus was milking the time in an attempt to avoid answering his question. He almost didn't expect a response at all. 

"I needed to be sure that I wanted you again and that I wasn't just dick drunk. Come over?"

James laughed. "I'd love to baby, but I'm drunk drunk."

"Take a cab. I'll text you my address."

"Regulus, I—" James heard the line go dead, Regulus determining that the conversation was over and that James would, in fact, be going over to his place. He wanted to say that he had more self control than to simply show up at Regulus' beck and call, and yet… he knew he wasn't. He knew that Regulus would text him his address and he'd immediately pull up the rideshare app on his phone, entering the address given to him. 

He slid his phone back into his pocket and headed back into the bar in search of Peter. James might have been bailing on him in favor of seeing the guy he'd been fantasizing about since their last meeting, but he'd at least have the decency to tell his best friend that he was leaving early. He looked around until he saw Peter sitting alone at the bar, nursing his drink.

"Hey," James said, sitting down in the stool next to him.

Peter looked up at his voice. "Oh, hey. Wasn't sure where you went."

"Didn't go well, I take it?"

"Nah," Peter shrugged. "She told me she had a boyfriend, but I think she just wanted me to leave her be, so I came over here to grab another drink." He took a generous sip of his beer.

James felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, but he ignored it in favor of consoling his friend. "I doubt you'll find your soulmate in a bar like this anyway, man." He caught the attention of the bartender and ordered another beer. He figured he'd need it to give him a dose of bravery, even if it tasted like piss.

"I doubt it. But a quick fuck in the bathroom would do for now, y'know?"

"Not these bathrooms," James laughed. "They're disgusting. At least up your standards to the alleyway or something."

The bartender smirked as he delivered James' drink. 

"I think I need to head home after this one," James said, raising his drink and nodding toward Peter.

James felt his phone vibrate again and he pulled it out of his pocket, glancing at the push notifications.

Unknown: you're still coming over, right? Unknown: don't ignore me daddy

Peter looked over his shoulder at his phone and laughed. "Home, huh?" He took a sip of his drink. "Who's that?"

"Look, I—"

"It's fine, man. You haven't gotten laid in months now, I think you're due. So, tell me about her."

"Not a her, first off."

"Oh, yeah? Don't let the team find out about that one. They can say all they want that they're accepting, and maybe they are individually, but you know you'd never make it pro if the rumors start in the locker room."

James took a long sip of his piss-beer. "Yeah, I know. We're just friends anyway, it's not a big deal."

They sat in borderline awkward silence for a few minutes, drinking and avoiding touching the subject that Peter had brought up. James knew that Peter didn't have a discriminatory bone in his body, but he also knew that he was right. A desperate part of him wanted to call Regulus his boyfriend and he had to wonder how that would work if he had to keep Regulus a secret. He doubted that someone who was so used to being in the spotlight would feel okay with being a secret behind closed doors.

His phone vibrated on the bar.

Unknown: [unknown sent you one image]

Peter looked down at his phone at the same moment he did and smirked. "Just a friend, huh?"

"Pete, shut the fuck up."

"C'mon, I just wanna see what your friend sent you after asking if you were still coming over."

Unknown: i hope this is tempting enough for you to tell me you're on your way

"Yeah, he's definitely just a friend." Peter laughed. "C'mon then, respond. We both know you're going over."

"I probably won't," James said. He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Peter or himself. "I have an early class tomorrow and then practice."

"Uh huh." Peter downed the remainder of his beer and leveled him a disbelieving look.

James unlocked his phone and opened the text thread. "Fuck." He could barely breathe as he looked at the image Regulus had sent him.

It was a mirror selfie unlike any that James had ever received. Regulus was sitting on the floor in front of a floor length mirror, his back to the mirror as he looked over his shoulder. The phone blocked his face from view, but he could see his artfully tousled black curls, tempting him to thread his fingers there. He sensed that if he could see his face, Regulus' pupils would be blown wide and a blush would be dusting his cheeks. He wore nothing but a black silk robe, pooling around his hips, revealing his bare back but hiding his perfect ass and thighs from view. The pads of his feet were visible, and James could tell from their angle that his legs were parted and his ass was positioned in such a way that if he was there in person, he'd need to get a taste. Fuck.

James: yeah, i'm on my way. lemme say goodbye to my friend and grab an uber.

James saved his number in his contacts, saving him as Baby. He was sure that he was still in Regulus' phone as Daddy, and if he wasn't, he'd be changing that as of tonight.

"So," Peter said, drawing out the 'o' in the word. "Definitely a friend?"

"As far as you're concerned, yeah."

Peter laughed. "I'll see ya tomorrow then, don't show up with any marks you don't want the guys to ask about."

James pulled up the rideshare app on his phone and nodded to his friend as he entered the address Regulus had provided to him into the request. "See ya." He paid out his tab and headed outside to wait.

In the car, he tried to calm his nerves, but it proved to be nearly impossible. The driver had music that he was unfamiliar with blasting and kept yelling over it to ask him questions. He ignored them, feigning being unable to hear over the music. He looked out the window to watch the city pass by rather than attempt to have polite conversation. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket again and dug into his jeans to check the notification. He smiled when he opened the text to see Regulus checking in with him again. After two months of not speaking to each other at all, he felt his stomach flutter at the thought of Regulus being just as anxious to see him. 

Baby: eta?

He decided not to reply to the text. According to the GPS, he was only a few minutes away, and a small part of him wanted to make Regulus feel just a little anxious about not hearing from him. After all, Regulus had taken James' number when they saw each other those months ago and hadn't reached out until now. The least he could do was be patient for a few minutes. James had been patient for months. Regulus should be grateful that James wasn't making him wait to see him on his terms. Or at least, that's what he tried to convince himself. He knew deep down that the moment Regulus had texted him it was all over. James would trip over himself time and time again just for a taste of whatever Regulus gave him.

When the car stopped in front of an apartment building, James hopped out and made his way up the steps to a locked door. He pressed the button that corresponded to the apartment number Regulus had texted him, a loud buzz ringing out around him, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. The door let out a quiet hum and he heard the lock click, indicating that he had been granted entrance. He couldn't help but wonder if Regulus was just as nervous as he was right now—waiting in his apartment at the door, peering out the peephole to see when James would arrive. He hoped that he was.

He finally arrived at the door labeled with the number Regulus had given him and as he lifted his hand to knock, the door flew open. Regulus stood there, draped in the black silk bathrobe that he had been wearing in the photo, looking like a fucking dream. Suddenly, all thoughts of irritation at not being texted sooner vanished. All that mattered was the man in front of him, draped in silk, but as James raked his eyes up those lean legs and the curves of his body, he noticed that Regulus was wearing an irritated scowl.

"Why didn't you text me back?" Regulus snapped, crossing his arms and blocking the entrance to his apartment by leaning against the frame of the doorway.

"I—" James was confused. He had never seen Regulus this cold and dismissive before. Why would him not texting Regulus trigger such a strong response like this? Especially when it had been months since James had heard from him.

"I know you saw the text. Your read receipts are on. So. Why didn't you text me back?"

"I was almost here. Can I come in? I'd rather not do this in the hallway."

"I'm not sure I want you to."

"Baby, come on."

"No." 

The door slammed in his face. Usually, having a door slammed in his face would discourage him, and if it was only about the sex, he'd have a far easier time getting that at the bar that he had come from. But there was just something about Regulus that drew him like a moth to a flame. He listened closely—the door hadn't been locked and he had only heard a few steps away from the door. He let out a breath and rapped his knuckles on the door. 

"Regulus?" he asked through the wooden barrier between them. "I know you can hear me. I'm going to open this door on the count of three. If you don't want me to come in, lock it before then, yeah? I'll leave if the door is locked." 

He didn't hear a response, but he hadn't really expected to. He counted to three and tried the knob. It turned freely in his hand and he pushed the door open to find Regulus standing in the entryway, staring at the floor. Suddenly, he looked so small and fragile to James. He hadn't thought until this very moment about the potential of him being the reason that Regulus would have avoided texting for this long. He knew what Regulus had said—I needed to be sure that I wanted you again and that I wasn't just dick drunk—but when he thought back on their first interaction, he realized what an ass he had been before they had hooked up. He wondered if those words he had said were making Regulus question James' true intentions here. He wondered if those words had made Regulus question his very self-worth.

I don’t date…

Have you ever had a hot quarterback want to fuck you in the dance studio?

…It can stay between us.

And fuck, he wished that he when met Regulus that he asked him on a date instead of casually fucking him in the studio. He had never wanted to date before, but everything about their chemistry had felt life-altering and brain-rewiring. When Regulus had kissed him, he felt like that was the first time he had truly been kissed—like every kiss before then had been to prepare him for how earth-shattering a real kiss would be. 

Every thought that had occupied his mind lately had been about Regulus. When the team had practice at the ballet studio last month, he had hoped beyond hope that Regulus would be the one teaching them again. When it had been a tiny woman with hair so blonde it was nearly white who had greeted him with a bright smile, he had almost felt bad for how coldly he had returned her greeting. He had spent the entirety of class thinking about what he and Regulus had done together in that very same space. When class had ended, he asked the woman—Pandora, he learned—about Regulus. She refused to give him a single detail, saying that if Regulus had wanted him to know anything then he would have reached out. It was obvious to James that the two of them were friends and that she was protecting Regulus, but the realization that Regulus needed to be protected from James because he had been such an asshole hadn't registered in his mind until this very moment.

"Why did you let me inside?" James asked in an attempt to let Regulus admit how he was feeling before James groveled over mere intuition.

Regulus' eyes snapped up, icy silver and full of something that James couldn't quite place. "Why didn't you text me back?" he threw back with venom lacing his tone, avoiding the question.

"Honestly? A few reasons. I was almost here being the main one. But I was also hurt that it took you this long to reach out to me. It made me feel like I had a little bit of the power back, I suppose. I wanted you to squirm for just a few minutes like I did these past couple months. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I let you in because I'm stupid."

James flinched at that. "I think we can both agree that I'm the stupid one out of the two of us and that you're just far too forgiving."

Regulus quirked an eyebrow, his hurt and anger dissolving into something unreadable on his face. "I'm not sure which of us is more self-depreciating."

James gave a small laugh and took a timid step towards Regulus. "That's probably a tie, I'd wager." When Regulus didn't move away, James closed the space between them. "Why did you call me tonight, baby?"

Regulus looked away, a soft blush dusting his cheeks. "I—I just wanted to see you."

"Is that all?" James brushed a stray curl from Regulus' face and tucked it behind his ear. He used the movement to trail his fingers along Regulus' jaw and then with two fingers, tilted his face up so that he was forced to look at James. The blush on his cheeks deepened and it took every ounce of effort on James' part not to kiss him until they were both breathless. "I'm glad you called. I missed you, I couldn't stop thinking about you actually. I even asked your friend, or I assume she's your friend, Pandora? But she refused to tell me anything about how you were or—"

Regulus rose to the balls of his feet and pressed a tentative kiss to James' lips, interrupting his nervous rambling. He pulled back and looked at James, his eyes full of questions he was too afraid to voice, but James knew they were there. He had the same questions swirling in his own mind. 

"Regulus, what are we doing?"

"I'm trying to kiss you. What are you doing, Daddy?" Regulus purred, his voice thick with desire.

Every semblance of control James had over his yearning for Regulus snapped at the use of that damn word. He had never thought he'd be so turned on from someone calling him 'Daddy' but the moment Regulus—the most demanding brat he had ever met—had surrendered control to him and uttered the word, he was done for. And Regulus knew it too, used it to his own advantage, swaying James from having a serious discussion to get him to bend to his every whim. He wondered if Regulus had ever been the one to surrender control to him, really. He hoped to one day be able to make Regulus feel so safe and cherished that he did.

"Fuck, you're gonna be the death of me." James crashed his lips to Regulus' and every part of him felt right. These last few months he had felt like every part of him was slowly coming undone, unraveling at the seams. Even his coach had noticed a difference in practices, making him run more drills and sprints than usual. There was no way that he could continue to go on without Regulus in his life. Every kiss they exchanged felt like coming up for air after nearly drowning. Their tongues explored one another and it was like returning home after far too long away.

Regulus pulled away after what could have been five seconds or five hours, James wasn't sure, but the whine he let out at the loss of contact was embarrassing. Or, would have been embarrassing if he was a proud man. He had just come to the conclusion that he would sacrifice all pride in exchange for even just one more kiss from the man in his arms. 

"Shh," Regulus soothed as he snaked a hand down James' arm and threaded their fingers together. "Come to my room?"

"Anything." James said too quickly.

Regulus quirked an eyebrow. "Anything?" he asked deviously. "You may regret that."

James hummed, pretending to think about the statement. He didn't have to, he knew that Regulus could ask anything of him and he'd do everything in his power to make it happen. "Doubtful. Lead the way, baby."

Regulus took his hand and lead him down a hallway and into an open door. A large bed sat in the middle of the room, draped in black silk and plush cream blankets. Thick forest green drapes were drawn and a floor length mirror that James recognized from the photo Regulus had sent him earlier sat in a corner next to a vanity set. The entire room was the pinnacle of comfort and elegance and felt so very much like Regulus, he couldn't help but to smile. Regulus pulled him into his body and pressed a kiss to his mouth before pushing him backwards towards the edge of the bed.

"Sit," Regulus said. 

"Feeling bossy tonight, baby?" James purred.

"I'm always bossy," Regulus replied as he stepped forward. James opened his legs so he could stand between, reaching out to pull Regulus in close. Regulus hummed and trailed a finger down James' jaw, his eyes hooded and hazy with desire. "You just caught me off guard the first time."

"You seemed to enjoy it all the same," James said. He turned his head towards Regulus' trailing finger and caught it in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit and hollowing out his cheeks as he sucked. He reached up and slid his hands under the silk robe to grab Regulus' ass. 

"Safe words?" Regulus asked, pulling his finger out of James' mouth and looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

"Isn't that my line?"

"Not tonight, Daddy."

James moaned. He couldn't remember a time that he'd ever allowed the roles to be reversed. He always preferred to control the scene, to know everything that would happen, but something about Regulus made him want to relinquish that control. He trusted him, even if he barely knew him. He knew he'd be safe within the walls of this room with him.

"Red means immediately stop, in need of aftercare. Yellow means stop, check in. Green means good to go, please for the love of God, don't stop." Regulus nodded along as James spoke. He gently removed his glasses for him and walked away to place them on the nightstand next to the bed and then returned to his spot between James' knees. James leaned forward into his body and then he felt the sharp sting of a palm on his cheek. 

"I didn't say you could touch me yet," Regulus said coldly as he stepped back, removing James' hands from his body and leaving him sitting alone on the bed fully clothed. "Color?" His voice softened as he checked in.

"Fucking hell," James massaged his cheek. He had never had anyone slap him before, in or out of the bedroom, and it stung in a way he wasn't expecting.

"James, we can't continue if you won't answer me."

"Sorry, yeah, green. I'm green. Never been on this side of it, responding is harder than I thought."

Regulus' eyebrows raised in surprise, his face softening in concern and trepidation. "Let's pause, yeah?"

"I said I was green, baby."

"I know, I know, but—"

"Keep going, please. I'll be so good for you, beg so pretty if that's what you want." James would do anything.

Regulus seemed to be lost in thought for so long, James wasn't sure that he would continue, and then he slipped away once more and walked over to the opposite side of the room where a dresser sat against the wall. He picked up his phone and began to fiddle on it and just when James was about begin to beg, music filled the space around them. Regulus placed his phone down on the dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out a black box. He held the box as he walked back over towards the bed, placed it on the bed behind James, and then slowly strode to the middle of the room to stand in front of James, but just out of reach. He began to slowly untie the silk robe, his long fingers moving with purpose, working the knot in methodical movements that were intended to drive James insane. When the knot was undone, Regulus pulled the silk tie from around his body and threw it at James. He moved his hips to the music the entire time, rolling his body and driving James crazy with want. He could feel his cock quickly thickening in his jeans, becoming uncomfortable with neglect.

As he danced, the robe gaped slightly, giving James all too brief glimpses of Regulus' toned body, his abs flexing with movement, and red lace panties. James' mouth watered, wanting nothing but to tear through the lace and get a taste of what was hidden beneath it. Regulus inched the robe down off of his shoulders and turned his body, arching his back and giving James a show of the silk slowly being removed. He barely caught a glimpse of the red lace cupping Regulus' ass perfectly before his face got covered with the robe being thrown at him. He quickly ripped it off his face and gaped at the view of Regulus swaying his hips as he walked towards him. 

"No touching," Regulus warned as he approached.

James nodded, though he wasn't sure if he could abide by the rule. Regulus crawled onto the bed, nestling his knees on either side of James' body and resting his hands on his shoulders as he began rocking his hips in time with the music. At first, Regulus hovered, avoiding touching James as well, but then he leaned in. He began grinding his hips on James, both of them moaning at the friction. It took every ounce of self control that James had to keep his hips still and his hands firmly placed on the bed as Regulus ground himself on his cock. One of Regulus' hands slid up from James' shoulder and buried itself into James' curls. He gave James a sloppy kiss and when he pulled away, a trail of spit connected them. 

Regulus pushed at James' shoulder and he allowed himself to fall back, laying on the bed with his feet off the edge and staring up at the beautiful man before him. "Fuck, you're gorgeous," he said, unable to stop himself from verbalizing the observation.

"I know, but I think you've seen enough, Daddy." 

James' brows knit together in confusion as Regulus reached forward, grinding his hips into James as he did. James moaned at the friction, the sharp zipper of his jeans digging into his swollen cock and kissing him with a combination of pleasure and pain. He heard Regulus rummaging into something, the box he assumed, and when he sat back he held up a blindfold in question. 

"Fuck," James moaned. "Yeah, okay. Whatever you want, baby. Just… please let me out of my clothes first?"

"Aw, poor Daddy. Fully clothed while his baby is dripping with desire." Regulus placed the blindfold on the bed next to him and dipped his fingers into his panties. James could feel his fingers swirling in the wetness gathered there through his jeans, nearly bucking his hips at the feeling. When Regulus pulled his hand away, his fingers were soaked with his arousal. He sucked his fingers into his own mouth, moaning as he pulled the fingers away and pushed them against his lips as his tongue swirled around them. James groaned and pushed his hips up into Regulus' body, seeking more friction as he watched.

"You're not going to cum until I let you, Daddy." Regulus made quick work of removing James' shirt and then shifted his hips so he had access to James' belt. He made a show of unlatching the belt and sliding the leather through the loops before holding the belt in front of him. "Hands?" 

James looked up at Regulus' face as he held out his hands in offering. He felt Regulus wrap the belt around his wrists, looping the leather confidently, latched the buckle, and then checked the tension with his fingers. Then, Regulus picked up the blindfold and secured it over his eyes, preventing James from both seeing and touching what he most desired.

"Color?"

"Green."

"Good."

He felt the weight of Regulus leave his lap and whined at the loss of him. Left fully alone on the bed, he writhed in need. The loss of his sight was a sensation that heightened all other senses in his body and his leaking and aching cock began to overwhelm all of his nerves. He heard a rustling of fabric and then froze when he felt Regulus' fingers begin to work at the button of his jeans. He unzipped the fly of his jeans tortuously slow and then James felt his jeans being pulled by the loops. He canted his hips to aid in the removal of them and then felt Regulus' hot breath against his cock through the thin material of his boxer briefs. 

"Look at you," Regulus breathed, nuzzling into his aching cock. "So hard for me and I've barely touched you. Leaking and desperate for me."

"Just for you, baby," James said as he thrusted his hips into nothing, seeking friction and finding none. 

"Such a little slut for me," Regulus said. "Sluts don't get to cum though, do they?"

James let out a desperate whine. He could tell from Regulus' voice that he was no longer near his cock and his suspicions were confirmed when he felt the bed dip next to his head. 

"Especially when they lack manners. You can't even beg properly." Regulus continued. "You'll have to work extra hard to cum, Daddy."

James felt Regulus crawling closer and then Regulus was hovering over his mouth, hot pleasure nearly dripping into his mouth. Regulus was so close, he could practically taste him. He let out a whine and lifting his head in an attempt to meet Regulus' body with his mouth, desperate to please.

A rough hand buried into his hair and held him in place. "Mind your manners, Daddy. Ask me nicely to sit on your face. Beg for my cunt, like the needy slut you are."

"Please, baby. Please let me taste you." Every thought had left James' mind, the only thing that mattered was dipping his tongue into Regulus' body. "I'll do anything you say, please, please. Baby, I just need to taste you. Please."

Regulus hummed and released his hand from James' hair. "Maybe you can be trained," he said, mimicking the words that James had said to him just a few short months ago when their roles had been reversed. "If you need to safe word, reach up and tap me three times. Show me, Daddy." James contorted his hands so he could follow the direction given and when Regulus was satisfied that James knew how to get his attention, he lowered himself onto James's face. He let out a loud moan as James dipped his tongue into him, grinding into James' face. James moaned right along with him—unable to see or touch, his senses became overwhelmed with everything that was Regulus. He rocked his hips as he continued to lick and suck and bury himself into Regulus' wet heat. He felt Regulus' breath hitch, aware of every movement the man riding his face made, and then Regulus was cumming. James' mouth flooded with the heady taste of Regulus' orgasm and he continued to lick him through it, relishing in the warm liquid pooling in his mouth. 

"Fuck," Regulus moaned, grinding his hips down into James' face. "I knew we could put that mouth to good use."

James groaned, circling the bundle of nerves at the apex of Regulus' thighs with his tongue, hoping that Regulus knew he agreed with the sentiment. 

"How many times can you make me cum, Daddy?"

James' hips bucked, seeking friction he knew he wouldn't find. He continued to lick and suck at Regulus above him, desperate to please the man riding his face. It didn't take long for Regulus to cum again and as James fucked his tongue into him, he felt Regulus ride the wave of one orgasm right into another, the taste of him sweet in his mouth. His hips were constantly moving of their own accord now, James barely aware of his own body, and wholly focused on Regulus' pleasure. He had decided that if he couldn't feel physical pleasure of his own, then he would tune himself into Regulus'.

"Do you want to cum, Daddy?" Regulus asked the question, but pushed himself so firmly onto James' face that he could hardly breathe, let alone answer. James moaned at the feeling and gave himself earnestly to Regulus for his pleasure, sucking at the nerves and tasting Regulus orgasm again. 

Regulus let out a breathy moan, riding James' face through his orgasm, before he spoke again. "You've been so good for me, keeping that mouth busy to make sure I cum. So, so good. I think you get rewarded for being so well behaved."

When Regulus raised his body from James' face, he whined at the loss. He heard Regulus laugh darkly. "Little slut misses my cunt already?" A finger trailed his body, starting at his neck and working down his chest to a nipple, then pinched. "Answer me."

"Y-yeah. Miss it so much, baby. You taste so good. I could live off that cunt."

"Hmm," Regulus hummed in consideration as he continued to trail his fingers up and down James' torso. "If I let you cum, do you think you'll be able to fuck me and cum inside me after?"

"Inside? Reg—"

"I'm haven't—I'm still clean if you are. I have an IUD. Sorry, uh… Yellow? I shouldn't have brought this up while you're… like this."

Regulus began fiddling with the blindfold and James pulled his head away in a desperate attempt to make Regulus stop. He didn't want to break the scene, he had felt himself slipping into a subspace for the first time and wanted to allow himself to relish at the feeling. "No, baby. Green. I'm good. Better than good. I want that so bad, desperate for it actually."

"James, I'm the one who called the safe word… I have condoms, it's fine—"

"I don't want them, you only called the safe word because you felt like you were coercing me. You're not. I want this. I want you." James was desperate to make Regulus understand that he was fully aware of the decision, that he was truly fine with the decision. He hadn't been with anyone since he and Regulus had hooked up and if he was honest with himself, he didn't want to be with anyone else anyway. He trusted when Regulus said he had birth control and if he didn't… well, he'd even be okay with the consequences of that too. Fuck, Regulus made him feel insane.

He heard Regulus let out a breath, a long stretch of silence weighing heavy between them. Then, he felt a hand rubbing his cock between the thin material of his briefs. He hissed at the contact, his cock neglected for so long it grew hypersensitive. "Well, then you're going to have to answer the question, Daddy. Will you be able fuck me after I get you off?"

Regulus pulled his hand away and James chased his hand with his hips, desperate for the heady mixture of pleasure and pain that was the feather light touch of his hand on his cock. He nodded, shameless in his search for pleasure from the man who held him in the palm of his hand. 

"Words, Daddy. If you won't answer, I'll just have to use one of the toys in that box instead while you lay here, pathetic and needy, listening to me cum all by myself."

"Fuck, baby. Yeah, yes. Please. Can I cum? Can you make me cum?"

"Well," Regulus purred. "Since you asked so sweetly."

James felt his boxers being pulled down from his hips and he shifted his weight to help, his cock sprang free and he hissed at the feeling of the fabric when it brushed against his sensitive skin. Before he had adjusted to his cock free from the confines of his underwear, Regulus had taken him into his mouth, swallowing his entire length in one fluid motion. He pulled back, brushing the flat of his tongue against the underside of his cock, then swirled his tongue around his sensitive tip. Regulus pushed his tongue into the slit, lapping at the pre-cum gathered there, then sucked his cock back into his mouth, taking him all the way to the back of his throat. He continued to bob his head, hollowing his cheeks and sucking before relaxing his throat and taking him impossibly deeper. James moaned, pushing his hips in time with Regulus' movements before he felt himself on the edge of his orgasm. 

"Reg, baby, I'm gonna—" Regulus gripped his thighs and pushed himself down, holding James deep to spill down his throat. James thrust his hips as he felt himself dissolve into pleasure, the hypersensitivity lending itself to a powerful orgasm. He felt Regulus pull away and he whined at the loss of contact. 

Regulus crawled up his body and ripped off the blindfold. James blinked a few times, adjusting his eyes to the light of the room after being deprived for so long. "Hi, baby. You look so pretty with your lips swollen from sucking my cock."

"You have a big mouth for someone who still can't use his hands," Regulus teased. James watched as Regulus reached over him towards the box on the bed. He rustled around until he found what he was looking for and instead of leaning back into James' body, he pushed himself up and away. James stared at his ass as he walked across the room, missing the warmth of his body, but relishing in the view. Regulus dragged a chair from the vanity in front of the bed where James was perched and sat down, propping his feet on the edge of the bed on either side of James' knees with a cherry red vibrator in his hand. 

James sat upright, his legs dangling off the bed, and shifted his body closer to Regulus. "Baby, what are you doing?"

"You're going to watch until you learn to keep your mouth shut." 

"You're really gonna fuck yourself with a vibrator that's my favorite color and expect me to be quiet?"

"If you want to fuck me after, yes." Regulus turned on the vibrator, the hum of the toy filling the space between them. "I am more than happy to fuck myself until I'm satisfied if you decide not to learn your lesson, it won't be me going home with an aching cock."

Regulus leaned back into the chair, opening his legs wider to offer James a perfect view of how soaked he was before he brushed the toy over the sensitive nerves. James whined as Regulus moaned in pleasure, his cock already half hard from the view before him. Regulus pushed the vibrator inside of him and writhed, rocking his hips and crying out in pleasure. James could practically taste the orgasm building inside Regulus already. 

"Baby, you're so fucking pretty, I wish you could see yourself."

"Maybe I was wrong about you," Regulus said between moans, fucking himself on the vibrator without inhibitions. 

James hummed and leaned forward, dropping his bound arms between his knees so he could get himself closer to Regulus. "Wrong about what, baby?"

"Maybe you can't be trained after all." Regulus gasped, arching his back as he rode through another orgasm.

"Probably not," James laughed darkly. "I've never let anyone boss me around before. Give a man a little credit for his efforts? You're irresistible after all."

"Fuck it—" Regulus turned off the vibrator and tossed it on the bed next to James as he lowered his legs. He reached forward and undid the buckle of the belt binding James' arms together and massaged the skin there, ensuring that he hadn't lost any feeling in the limbs. 

James laced his fingers into Regulus' dark curls and pulled him in for a sloppy kiss, his head spinning at the taste of himself on Regulus' lips. "We could still use the toy, you know."

Regulus raised an eyebrow in question, giving James a nonverbal prompt to continue.

"You could keep fucking yourself with that toy, which I loved watching by the way, holy fuck— And I could fuck that tight ass of yours at the same time."

Regulus sat in the chair staring for a moment, seemingly too stunned by the suggestion to speak. 

"If you don't want—"

"I want. I've just… I've never done that before. Both, at the same time."

"I'll make it so good for you, sweetheart." James leaned in for a quick kiss. "Get on the bed for me on all fours, yeah? I'm assuming you've got lube in this box of yours." He leaned back towards the box and rummaged through until he found a bottle of lube. As he searched, he felt the bed shift with Regulus' weight. When he looked back over, he saw Regulus on the bed with his ass in the air, staring at him with a glassy, contented expression. James picked up the discarded vibrator, turned it on, and handed it to Regulus. "Don't stop, baby."

He watched as Regulus adjusted his body so that he could fuck himself on the toy and moaned at the sight. Gripping Regulus' ass, James parted his cheeks and lapped at the ring of muscle while Regulus continued to writhe and moan beneath him. When James had determined that Regulus was thoroughly relaxed, he coated his fingers with lube and gently pushed in one finger. 

"You take me so good, baby. Fuck, it's like you were made for this." He continued to work Regulus open, pushing his finger in and out in time with the way Regulus was moving the vibrator. He coaxed a second finger inside and felt Regulus tense at the change. James used his other hand to rub soothing circles into his ass, whispering sweet words to relax him. "Just breathe, baby. You're doing so good. So good for me."

Regulus preened, relaxing almost instantly at the praise. He pushed his ass into James further, begging for more with his body instead of his words. James continued to work his fingers, opening him gently so that he would continue to relax into the feeling. He knew it would burn when he pushed his third finger in and when he did, he heard Regulus take in a sharp breath, but he didn't tense like he had earlier. Instead, he rocked into his hand, never once faltering in fucking himself with the vibrator. James felt the vibrations up his arm and groaned at the thought of how obscene it was going to feel to be inside of Regulus in just a few short moments. He continued to scissor his fingers, working Regulus open and prepping him to avoid the burn as much as possible. 

"Daddy, if you don't fuck me soon I'm going to lose my mind."

"I just want to make sure you're ready, baby." James moved his fingers slower, teasingly.

Regulus whined, pushing his ass back into James' hand. "Please, I'm fucking ready and you know it."

James hummed, pretending to be deep in thought and stilling his fingers. "I'm not sure you're begging nicely enough, baby."

"Please, Daddy. Please, I need your cock." Regulus arched his back impossibly further, tempting James with such a beautiful view he couldn't resist.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, baby." James pulled his fingers away and slicked his cock with lube before lining himself up at Regulus' entrance. "Remember to use your safe words, baby. If it hurts, pull the vibrator out, okay? It shouldn't hurt, just relax into it."

Regulus nodded.

"Words, baby." James was so close to losing his self control.

"Yes, Daddy. If it hurts, I'll stop. Now for the love of God, please fuck me already."

James laughed darkly and slapped Regulus' ass for the bratty behavior before he began to slowly inch himself inside. Regulus moaned, a needy and wanton thing, and James felt him slow the movement of the vibrator as he pushed himself into his body. The vibrations traveling through Regulus' body into his cock made his breath hitch with pleasure. He paused his movements when he bottomed out, waiting for Regulus to squirm or begin moving the toy again before he fucked into him with reckless abandon. 

"Fucking—Move, James."

James slapped his ass again, not moving an inch. "That's not who I am to you right now, baby. And that's not how you speak to me."

"You're having a real fucking power trip for someone who was tied up a few minutes ago."

"You're having a real fucking power trip for someone who's filled up in every hole." James leaned forward and shoved two fingers in Regulus' mouth, pushing them deep and making Regulus gag from the surprise. When the shock subsided, Regulus moaned and swirled his tongue around. "I'm going to fuck you now and the only thing you're going to say is please and thank you, Daddy."

Regulus nodded around his fingers and James pulled away so he could finally move his hips. His pace was relentless, ignoring the pace that Regulus had set with the toy and fucking into him for nothing but the pursuit of his own pleasure. Regulus moaned and writhed beneath him, pushing his hips back into James in an attempt to keep pace. The vibrator continued to buzz, sending both of them into heightened sensitivity, and James knew that despite his earlier orgasm, he wasn't going to last long. 

"Please," Regulus moaned. His back was shiny with sweat and when he looked over his shoulder at James, he noticed that his usual waves were stuck to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed with pleasure and James nearly came at the sight of him completely undone beneath him. 

"Please, what, baby?" James asked as he continued pounding into him.

"Wanna cum. Want you to cum. Please, Daddy."

"Want me to fill you up, baby?"

Regulus let out a loud moan and James felt his body tense in pleasure.

"Fuck, baby. I've got you, cum for me one more time. I'll give you what you need."

That was all it took for Regulus to become undone and at the feeling of those muscles tightening and relaxing around him, James came hard and fast. He thrusted impossibly deeper inside of Regulus and spilled every drop inside of his body, marveling at the feeling. 

Regulus pulled the toy out of himself and switched off the vibration before chucking it to the side on the bed and going completely limp beneath him. James collapsed on top of him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in close as he turned to his side, spooning Regulus while still inside of him. He didn't want to be apart yet. He needed this closeness after the intensity of what they had just done together. He kissed Regulus' shoulder and hummed a mindless melody to himself, completely sated and satisfied. 

After a few minutes, it was Regulus who broke the silence. "James, you-you're still inside of me and we're disgusting."

"Shh, sweetheart. One more minute." James felt his eyes growing heavy and his cock softening inside of Regulus' body.

"If we stay like this for one more minute, you're gonna fall asleep. We're sticky and gross. I can't sleep like this. Let's shower."

He felt Regulus pulling away and teasingly bit down on his shoulder, earning himself a rare laugh from Regulus, and then Regulus did pull away and James let out a whine. He opened his eyes and while his vision wasn't great without his glasses, it was clear enough to witness the eyeroll reserved just for him. Regulus held out his hand in offering and James groaned as he grabbed it and got up from the bed, allowing Regulus to lead him into the bathroom down the hall.

James watched as Regulus leaned over to adjust the water on the shower, staring at his ass and the evidence of his orgasm dripping out onto his thighs. He stepped closer and brushed a hand along Regulus' upper thigh, trailing up slowly, and gathered the cum leaking from his body onto his fingers. Regulus hitched a breath and leaned in, encouraging James to push his fingers inside of Regulus' ass. 

"Not satisfied?" Regulus asked on a breathy moan.

"More like you make me feel insatiable. Besides, you wanted me to fill you up. Seemed like a waste to have it dripping out of you already." He pumped his fingers a few times before pulling them out and smacking his ass playfully. "Shower's ready, yeah?"

"Hmm? O-oh, yeah." Regulus stepped into the stream of water and James followed right after, letting the warm water soothe his tired muscles. They went through the routine of showering, exchanging sweet kisses and pulling each other close. They washed each other's bodies and hair and James felt like he could cry over the small acts of intimacy that they shared. When they finished, Regulus turned off the water and James toweled him off slowly, methodically. He made sure to touch every part of his body with the plush towel, immediately followed by soft kisses. When Regulus was dry, James wrapped a towel around his own hips and kissed him gently, reverently. Savoring the taste of him on his mouth, he hoped that Regulus would know how precious he was without words.

"It's getting late…" Regulus murmured between kisses.

James kissed him again, pulling his body impossibly closer. "Can I stay?"

"James, listen—"

"If you want to keep this casual, I get it, I just…"

Regulus' brows knit together. "You're the one who said you don't date, James. The shower together was pushing my boundaries of domesticity for a casual hookup."

"I know what I said—"

"Look, it's late—"

"No, let me finish. Please?"

Regulus sighed, pulling away slightly and James shivered at the loss of him. "Fine, but can we put clothes on first?"

"Yeah," James nodded. "Yeah, let's get dressed and have some tea or something."

They padded back to the bedroom in silence and Regulus pulled out clean clothes from his dresser. James picked up his discarded clothing from the floor and winced at the idea of pulling them back onto his body when Regulus wordlessly handed him a pair of sweatpants and a threadbare band tee. 

"They might be a little tight, but that's the closest I've got to your size."

"Thanks, sweetheart." James smiled and pulled the clothes on. Regulus was right that they were a little tighter than he'd usually prefer, but they were still more comfortable than his jeans would have been. He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and placed them back on his face.

Regulus' body was lost in the sea of baggy sweatpants and over-sized tee that he picked for himself and James smiled at the memory of meeting him for the first time and having to pull off so many layers that he lost count. He followed Regulus out of the room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen where he filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove to boil. 

"I—"

"Peppermint?" Regulus asked, effectively stopping James from beginning the conversation he was itching to have. "I also have lavender?"

"Peppermint is fine." He answered. He let the silence draw out between them as Regulus worked to prepare their tea and when he was finally handed a steaming mug, he followed Regulus into the living room and sat next to him on the couch. 

"Okay, now you can finish."

"I want to take you on a date."

Regulus quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. "A date? This coming from the man who said he doesn't date."

"I don't—"

"And yet here you are, asking me for something you don't do?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

James let out a breath, gathering his thoughts and his nerves. "I really like you—"

"You don't know—"

"Let me finish. You said I could finish." James looked at Regulus earnestly, begging him with his eyes to listen to what he had to say before reacting. 

Regulus leaned back into the couch and waved a hand for him to continue. 

"I don't date. I haven't ever wanted to until I met you. And maybe this is fucking crazy, I feel fucking crazy, but I feel like I've known you my entire life. Like I've known you in every life I've ever lived. Like I've loved you in every one of them. And sure, we don't know each other very well here and now, but I feel like I know you. Like I could grow to love you in this lifetime too. Those months where you had my number but didn't reach out? I felt like I was missing a limb I never knew I had before I met you. I didn't seek anyone out in our time apart, I mean— Fuck, the guys on the team made fun of me for not taking home girls when we'd go out like I usually did. For ignoring everyone who threw themselves at me. None of them were you. I don't expect us to just magically fall in love and live happily ever after, but I really want us to give this a real shot." James finally looked up at Regulus. His eyes were red rimmed and tears gathered there, on the precipice of being spilled. "Don't cry, baby, I'm sorry—"

"Do you mean it?" Regulus' voice was small and shaky, like he was afraid to be this vulnerable.

"I do. But I need you to know before you agree to go out with me that we'd have to keep us a secret. At least until after the drafts. I-I really want this, I really want us, but I've been working my entire life to get into the NFL and they're just…"

"You can't be openly queer in football." Regulus said, his voice hollow and empty of emotion. The tears gathered in his eyes rolled down his cheeks and James leaned forward to wipe them away with his thumb.

"Not yet. I can be the first, but I need to get drafted first. I'm willing to be the first, if it means I get to keep you, as long as you know what kind of attention would fall onto you too."

"What kind of attention?"

"The homophobic kind. The picking apart everything about you and your life kind. The transphobic kind, undoubtedly."

Regulus flinched.

"I don't need an answer tonight, it's late and it's a lot to think about—"

"Ask me again."

"Regulus…"

"Ask me again."

"Can I stay the night?"

"Yes, James. I'd love that. But on one condition."

James smiled. "Anything for you."

"You have to take me out to breakfast in the morning. On a date."

"I'd be honored, baby."

[madlori]

Sometimes the delulu IS the solulu.

After some thought, and reading a lot of really insightful thoughts here and on Discord, I think I've reached a conclusion.

I'm going full tinhat. Not in an unhinged way, though.

I don't think this is the end.

I'm not going to count on it. I'm barely going to hope for it. But I am going to...keep an eye out for it.

The one common refrain we've heard from each other is that this did not feel like a permanent breakup. It felt so obviously and blatantly like a setup for Buck to fight for the relationship. It was that "one partner freaks out a bit and the other has to show their commitment" relationship hurdle which is so common it's a trope. In fact, most of us assumed that's just what it was...until those interviews

Now, I do not put Tim Minear up on some kind of pedestal of writerly greatness - far from it. And he did not write this episode, but the plotlines all go through him.

BUT.

He has always been very attached to Tommy as a character and to this relationship. He loves it. He loved red string theory so much that he wrote it into this episode. And I'm about halfway convinced he's in love with Lou but that's beside the point. (I mean, we get it, Tim.)

Tommy's what he always said he wanted to get for Buck. Firefighter, integrated into the 118, yadda yadda, we've been over this a lot. Someone he chooses, someone he works to build something with. Someone who shows up for him. He had Buck SAY in this episode that he'd never felt like this since Abby.

The thread of Tommy wanting a found family like Buck's. The intense settled/caregiving vibe of 8x05. It all felt so...purposeful. And yes, I agree that this could have been done just to punch up the angst for Buck when it ends. But that's not the only explanation.

The many, many comments of wanting to move Buck along in his personal life. Oliver wanting to do settled, domestic storylines with him. Giving Tommy the big hero romcom entrance in that hospital.

And what now? Cycle Buck through another love interest? It's hard to imagine recapturing what he had with Tommy with anybody else, or for the GA to embrace it as much as they did. What little we can see of the GA reaction (because the official socials are weirdly quiet and have not posted) is that they're not happy about this. Tim knows this.

I can buy Tim making some dumb writing decisions but he's not stupid. I find it very hard to swallow that he'd voluntarily toss away all this, and this potential, and what they'd already established, and a pairing/character/actor he loves, for what? For nothing.

So I think that it's not for nothing.

I think the plan IS to reunite them...

...they just don't know when, or how.

For some reason he wants to give it a break for awhile. I don't know why. There could be off-camera reasons. But I think it happened recently. Two weeks ago we got interviews talking about hurdles being overcome, relationships deepening, etc etc. It's a great episode for them, came out of Oliver's mouth. Not important, not consequential - great. And hey, what happened to that very important Bobby conversation where he gave Buck important advice? It wasn't there.

I think a change was made in the last two weeks. And yes, I know the loft stills were dated 9/17.

Two weeks is plenty of time to reshoot one scene, between when those interviews came out and last night. The stills could be from the first time it was shot, in September. Put the guys in the same wardrobe, we'd never know the difference, or that those stills weren't from the scene we actually saw.

OR

The scene was always the one we saw, but was always meant to be temporary, and the change was in how they talked about it in the interviews from last night. That is a simpler explanation, as it doesn't involve reshoots, but it doesn't explain those very incongruous interviews we got two weeks ago that do not match the scene we saw. Now, they have always vagued it up, and talked around things in interviews, but this was an entirely new level of misdirection and outright lying that isn't typical.

I'm really tinhatting it up now, but hey, what have I got to lose? I'm not investing anything in this. It's just...a thought.

If you think the network interfered (I don't, at least not for plot-related reasons, see below) or Oliver demanded the relationship be cut (I don't - I know lots of you are mad at him but I'm not), whatever it was...I just get a vibe. It could be as simple as money. It could be a ratings thing. Honestly? It could be that they've found out they're getting cancelled, and were ordered to cut bait on guest stars. They could be kicking the can down the road to goose ratings for spring when they do bring it back. There are lots of reasons I can think of and probably more that I can't.

I read a thoughtful and reasonable post about how it was more or less a mercy killing to post those interviews - most showrunners like to keep viewers guessing and coming back, so for them to say definitely BT was dead meant it's really, really dead (although how definitive they actually were is another question).

They might be right about that. I don't know.

Or they just might not know themselves. Even if the plan IS to reunite them eventually - if they don't have a plan for how or when, the safest course is to shut it down. No guarantees they can make it work, so play it safe. Oliver and Lou might not be looped in on this.

It's pretty thin. They probably would be, although we have ample evidence of actors not knowing stuff until the last minute. The other option is that they are looped in and are intentionally lying but I think that's very unlikely - although Lou has demonstrated a keen skill in keeping his mouth shut when necessary.

I'm not going to get nuts about this and neither should anybody else. I'm not going to be scouring socials or the internet looking for support or clues. I'm not going to be holding my breath waiting for a sign.

The only thing I'll keep an eye on is how they handle any flirtation or dating Buck does in the near future. How they handle it might be telling.

This is ALL very unlikely, let's be real.

I'm still tinhatting, though. Why not? What have we got to lose?

But if I'm right, I expect that red dodgeball in my inbox toot sweet.

(And Buddie still isn't going canon, btw.)

[pookietv]

the not-so-useless hotline | george clarke

this has been rotting in my drafts for a while but it was a req so i hope you enjoy! may be a little sucky, sorry about that :)

dedicated to both the nonnie who requested and the nonnie who was adorable to me in dms so!!!!

to be honest, you didn't even really know what you had become well known for.

you started on youtube, ended up singing and modelling and vlogging and god knows what else, and you were a little bit of a mystery to the world.

but, nonetheless you had become adored by the internet, and eventually dragged on a podcast by max, who you had met on a brand trip and had grown to quite like, even if you had only seen him a handful of times.

so when you showed up to a little office with worn out computers and a smile on max's face, it did make you giggle to be on the set that you had seen him, and george, who even though you had seen him a lot online, you admittedly knew next to nothing about.

"y/n! hello, welcome!" you were invited in by who you assumed was a manager, who helped you get microphoned up, staying quiet whilst you listened to max and george speak and introduce the podcast whilst you waited on the sidelines for being introduced.

so when you heard the, "okay, send her up for the interview!" and you sat opposite them, your cheeks were a little red from laughing as it felt strange to be sat opposite them in such a corporate setting, even if was all a big joke.

"welcome y/n to your interview at the useless hotline! i'm max, this is george, very important interview today," max joked, and you nodded a little more, laughing and repeating, "very important, yes."

"yeah, i'm so glad to be here, i really need this job!" you joked back, allowing yourself to have a moment looking at george, being your first proper time meeting him. he was quite attractive, put together nicely.

"well, we have very high standards here, although max doesn't reflect that too well," george joked back, and you nodded in a teasingly solemn look.

"well, every company has it's stinker, and i suppose here it's max," you smiled, and max rolled his eyes.

"you bitch! haven't even introduced yourself and you're already mocking me," max grinned.

"oh, sorry, i introduce myself and then mock you?" you teased back.

after being made to make max and george extremely potent alcoholic drinks, and introducing yourself, with a little gossip about music and max's social life, eventually you get questions thrown your way.

"well, we figured we need to talk to you about your dating life, 'cause that's where our clickbait will be," george joked.

"literally! everyone knows you as some maneating mysterious woman going on dates all the time, and we're nosy," max teased, and you rolled your eyes in response.

"i'm not a maneater! jesus, you leave a bad impression max! i would just say i am very picky, that's all. y'know, high standards." you hummed a little as you drank your drink with a small grin.

"oh, come on, you know yourself there has been a cast of rotating rumours of people that the internet thought you might be dating," max urged, and you shrugged a little. "plus, when we went on that bar thing on the latest brand trip you told me about a few of them, so there must be some drama there!" he joked a little more.

"men are just very disappointing creatures, you know? there just hasn't really been one where i've been like, yeah, this person is fun to be around and i would like to be around them a lot of the time, so i'm still single!" i explained with a giggle.

"george is literally always saying something of a similar tune, he is kind of just a picky man," max joked a little, and i grinned and raised my eyebrows at george.

"picky, hm? i suppose i'm a little picky, but i don't think that's necessarily bad, i just think i would love to hold out for someone who is really for me, you know?" i asked him curiously.

"i wouldn't even say i'm picky, i just think... there's a kind of thing, where i'll, you know, find someone where i'm just like, yeah, this feels right," george explained, and i nodded.

"so do you have like.. a type?" max asked me, "george's type always seems to be women who don't like him back." max teased.

"there have definitely been some stinkers in the past but... i mean, i wouldn't even say i have a type, really. i like funny people, and i'd like someone that's taller then me... um, i guess i like facial hair but that's not a dealbreaker if not," i laughed a little awkwardly with a shrug of my shoulders.

"well, i'd say you'd like george but he is exceptionally not funny," max grinned to himself and i rolled my eyes in a giggly way, watching george turn to max.

"because you're just so witty yourself, max,"

the podcast continued, with topics only getting more intrusive and unhinged as we continued, before we got to the point where we were answering asks, and one came up asking george on a date as a plus one to a wedding.

"fuck you! see, everyone comes on the podcast and thirsts over george, but what if you had asked me? i would actually have shown up, how about that!" max huffed whilst george tried not to laugh.

"what, people try and hit on george through the podcast?" you asked, laughing myself.

"yeah, they do, his name is max balegde," george joked.

"they're really scraping the bottom of the barrel if they want george," max grinned, before looking at me, "do you get a lot of the whole randomers asking you out thing? seeing as you're so thirsted over on the internet?"

"i mean, i suppose so, but i don't read too many of them, they just stay in the requests bit of my messages so i don't pay them too much attention," you giggled slightly, shrugging, "though, i do appreciate the compliments, sometimes if i'm just having a really crap day i'll just look through edits of myself. is that narcissistic? maybe it is, but it does make you feel good,"

"max was begging people to make edits of him on one of the podcast episodes so i'm sure you're not too bad," george grinned to you, and you tittered a little at his answer, grinning back at him.

george was pretty attractive, actually.

it had been about a week since the episode of you on the useless hotline had come out: and to say you had been bombarded would be an understatement.

from shipping fan edits to insane tweets, there seemed to be a common theme, the theory that you were dating george.

he had texted you a little, talking about when the podcast was going to come out, and asking you if you had any plans over the weekend, mainly casual talk as he told you funny stories about his roommates, arthur and chris, and occasionally sending you photos of himself pulling faces.

liked by max_balegde, georgeclarkeey and 12,039 others

yourusername: my roommate tried to push me out of a window (but i made her take cute pictures so)

miaxmon: shut up i did not push you!

↳ yourusername: @/miaxmon whatever you say PUSHER

userone: since WHEN did she live with mia ???

↳ yourusername: since she begged me to live with her bc im awesome and sexy and she couldn't live without me (but actually for about six months!)

georgeclarkeey: she should have finished the job

↳ yourusername: smh silly george if she pushed me out the window then who else would the internet ship you with???

↳ georgeclarkeey: someone tolerable hopefully

↳ yourusername: i can see why you got stood up now

you have a new message from @/georgeclarkeey!

georgeclarkeey: now that was just cruel and uncalled for

yourusername: it was honesty which girl would show up for a date with you ???

georgeclarkeey: you hopefully

yourusername: you what???

georgeclarkeey: would you show up on a date with me?

yourusername: only if you said sorry for wanting mia to finish me off and that i am the best :)

georgeclarkeey: i just audibly sighed

georgeclarkeey: you are the best and i am sorry for saying i wanted mia to finish the job

georgeclarkeey: happy?

yourusername: absolutely

yourusername: so, a date?

georgeclarkeey: i was thinking a really tall building with loads of open windows. thoughts?

yourusername: you're sooooo funny george

georgeclarkeey: i know i know i'm hilarious

georgeclarkeey: i was actually thinking we could go to flight club and play darts

yourusername: i will beat you SO bad

georgeclarkeey: can't wait :)

yourusername: anyway, i thought you were really picky about who you go on dates with?

georgeclarkeey: i usually am

georgeclarkeey: i guess you just feel right

yourusername: are you this soppy with all your dates?

georgeclarkeey: well they usually don't show up so you'll be the first, obviously

georgeclarkeey: anyway i thought you were picky as well?

yourusername: okay shut up now george :)

[missarchive]

bed chem 𐙚

elle greenaway

fem!reader

cw; +18 minors dni, kind of dom!reader, multiple orgasms, fingering & oral (elle receiving), tribbing, fade to black smut

wc; around 3k

an; i've been meaning to write for elle for a while and finally got around to it. dt to my lovely @reidsstargirl thank you for being my little proof reader <3

The conference room was silent except for the soft hum of the projector. Crime scene photos flashed on the screen, each more unsettling than the last. Victims frozen in snapshots of terror and tragedy. Couples, always women, always the same methodical precision to their deaths.

Hotch stood at the head of the table, arms crossed. “This unsub is methodical, patient. He takes his time earning the trust of his victims before he strikes. What we know is this: he targets lesbian couples in rural areas. He chooses women who are isolated, who he believes won’t be missed right away.”

The room was heavy with tension. You felt the weight of the case pressing against your chest. The details were chilling, but what made it worse was the pattern. He was escalating, and the longer it took to catch him, the more women would die.

“Given his methods, we believe the only way to stop him is to draw him out,” Hotch continued. His sharp gaze swept over the team. “We need to create a scenario that fits his profile—a couple he can fixate on.”

Your stomach flipped as the implication settled over the room. Before anyone could speak, Elle leaned forward in her chair.

“You’re asking us to go undercover,” she said, her voice steady.

Hotch nodded. “Yes. It’s our best chance to lure him out. He studies his victims carefully. He’ll be watching for any cracks in the facade, so whoever takes this role will need to sell it completely.”

The room was silent for a moment before Elle spoke again, her tone decisive. “I’ll do it.”

You hesitated for half a second before following her lead. “I’ll do it too.”

Hotch’s gaze softened slightly, his approval evident. “Good. Garcia will handle the backstory and setup. You’ll be moving into a rental property in a small town where the unsub has been active. The rest of us will be nearby, but once you’re in position, you’ll be on your own.”

Elle turned to you with a faint smirk as the meeting ended. “Guess we’re partners now.”

“Looks like it,” you replied, trying to ignore the knot of nerves in your stomach.

The rental house was small but cozy, nestled on a quiet street with neighbours who barely glanced your way as you unloaded your bags. It had all the makings of a perfect trap. Garcia had created a backstory that was seamless: photoshopped couple’s photos, social media accounts filled with playful banter, and a fabricated history of moving here for a “fresh start.”

Inside, Elle surveyed the living room, her hands on her hips. “Garcia really thought of everything,” she muttered, gesturing to the picture frames on the mantel. Each one showed the two of you in carefully staged moments—smiling on a picnic, laughing on a couch, holding hands in the park.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “She’s thorough, I’ll give her that.”

Elle glanced at you, her expression softening. “We’re going to need to lean into this. If the unsub’s watching, we have to make this believable.”

“I know,” you said, meeting her gaze. “But let’s be clear—this is just for the case.”

“Obviously,” Elle replied, but something in her tone felt less certain.

The bar was dimly lit, filled with the soft murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses. You and Elle slid into a booth near the back, her hand resting lightly on your arm as you both scanned the room.

“We need to act natural,” she murmured, her lips barely moving as she leaned closer. “What do couples do on dates?”

You smirked, trying to ignore the warmth of her breath against your cheek. “Hold hands, flirt, make each other laugh. Think you can handle that?”

Elle raised a brow, her lips twitching into a small smile. “Watch and learn.”

She laced her fingers with yours, her touch both firm and surprisingly gentle. You felt a jolt of electricity at the contact but forced yourself to focus. Across the room, Morgan and Reid were stationed inconspicuously, their eyes occasionally darting your way.

Elle leaned closer, her voice low. “Smile. You look like you’re about to get audited.”

You laughed softly, her teasing easing some of the tension. “I didn’t realise you were such a comedian.”

“You’d be surprised,” she replied, her eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the world around you seemed to fade.

The unsub appeared not long after—a man who blended seamlessly into the crowd but whose eyes lingered on you and Elle just a moment too long.

“He’s here,” Elle murmured, her hand tightening around yours.

The unsub didn’t approach right away. He watched from the bar, nursing a drink and pretending not to stare. You and Elle had to play your roles perfectly, every glance, every touch calculated but natural.

Elle leaned into you, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered, “He’s watching us. We need to turn it up.”

Your heart pounded as you nodded, your breath hitching slightly when she placed a hand on your thigh. It was nothing overt, but the intimacy of the gesture sent a shiver down your spine.

“Relax,” she said softly, her eyes meeting yours. “Just follow my lead.”

You forced yourself to smile, leaning in closer until your foreheads nearly touched. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, trying to keep the mood light.

Elle’s lips curled into a smirk. “Maybe a little.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she tilted her head and kissed you. It wasn’t a quick peck or a hesitant brush of lips—it was slow, deliberate, and entirely convincing.

Your heart raced as you kissed her back, the line between acting and reality blurring with every passing second. When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, but her composure remained intact.

“He’s biting,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the tension crackling between you.

The unsub finally made his move, approaching your table with a disarming smile. His presence was unsettling, but you and Elle maintained your facade, playing the part of a happy couple caught off guard by a friendly stranger.

Every word, every glance, every touch was a calculated move, a delicate dance to keep the unsub engaged while the rest of the team moved into position.

By the time Morgan and Reid swooped in to make the arrest, your heart was racing for reasons that had little to do with the danger and everything to do with the woman sitting next to you.

The motel room was small and unassuming, its decor an uninspired mix of beige and muted floral patterns. The adrenaline of the night had begun to fade, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made your limbs feel like lead. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at your reflection in the darkened screen of the television.

Your mind raced, replaying the events of the evening: the way Elle had touched your hand, her voice low and warm in your ear as she coached you through the act. And that kiss—God, that kiss. It was supposed to be for the case, to sell the ruse, but the way her lips moved against yours felt too natural, too genuine to be just acting.

You shook your head, trying to dismiss the thought. It was the job, you told yourself. Nothing more.

A knock at the door pulled you from your spiraling thoughts. You hesitated, staring at it as if it might open on its own. Another knock, firmer this time, broke your paralysis.

When you opened the door, Elle stood there, barefoot and dressed in an oversized FBI sweatshirt and loose sweatpants. The harsh glow of the hallway light cast soft shadows across her face, making her look younger, more vulnerable.

“Elle?” you asked, your voice rough from hours of silence.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, her tone soft but edged with something unreadable. “Can I come in?”

You nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. She walked into the room, her movements slower, more deliberate than usual.

She stopped in the center of the room, crossing her arms over her chest as if to shield herself. “I just... needed to talk,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You closed the door behind her, leaning against it. “About the case?”

Elle turned to face you, her eyes meeting yours. For the first time all night, her composure cracked. “No. Not about the case. About us.”

The weight of her words settled between you, thick and heavy. You pushed off the door, moving closer but keeping a cautious distance. “Elle, I—”

She held up a hand, cutting you off. “Let me finish.” She took a deep breath, her hands dropping to her sides. “Tonight… that kiss… it wasn’t just for the case. At least, not for me.”

Your heart skipped a beat, her words catching you off guard. “What do you mean?”

Elle took a step closer, her eyes searching yours. “I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was tonight, maybe it was before, but being with you... pretending to be something we’re not...” She paused, her voice trembling slightly. “It didn’t feel like pretending.”

The air between you crackled with unspoken tension. You wanted to say something, to reassure her, but words failed you.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she continued, her voice stronger now. “And I know it’s complicated. We’re colleagues, we’re supposed to keep things professional, but I can’t ignore this anymore.”

You took a step closer, closing the distance between you until you were standing inches apart. Her eyes flicked to your lips, and you felt your resolve slipping.

“Elle,” you said softly, your voice barely audible. “I felt it too.”

Her breath hitched, and in that moment, the tension that had been building for weeks, maybe months, finally snapped. She reached for you, her hands tentative at first as they settled on your shoulders. You leaned into her touch, your arms wrapping around her waist as her fingers slipped up the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

Her lips were soft against yours, warm and inviting. It felt like coming home, like this was where you belonged. Her tongue darted out, running over the seam of your lips before dipping inside, meeting yours in a sweet kiss.

You deepened the kiss, pulling her closer, feeling the press of her breasts against yours. Her hands slid down your back, pulling you into her as her leg lifted, brushing against your thigh. You felt your pulse quicken, the heat between you building as her lips parted beneath yours.

You broke the kiss, needing air, needing to focus on her, to commit every detail to memory. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her hair a little mussed from your touch. Your eyes drifted down to her breasts, the curves pushing out against the fabric of her bra.

You moved closer, dropping a trail of kisses down her neck as she arched into your touch. You felt her shiver, her fingers digging into your shoulders. Her breath came in short gasps, her body moving against yours.

You caught the edge of her bra between your fingers, pushing it down to reveal her breasts. They were even more beautiful than you imagined, soft and round. Your mouth settled over one peaked nipple, and her hands cupped the back of your head, encouraging you as your tongue circled around her skin.

She tasted sweet, like cherries and honey. Her nipple pebbled beneath your touch, and you sucked it into your mouth, eliciting a soft moan from her lips.

You let out a soft laugh, smiling against her breast. She was so responsive, like her body was made for this, for you.

You trailed your fingers down her stomach, feeling her skin quiver beneath your touch. Her hips jerked, and you chuckled again, loving the way she reacted to your every move.

Your hand slipped beneath her panties, cupping the curve of her ass as you nipped at her breast. Your other hand joined in, sliding over her pussy as you rubbed your thumb over her clit. She gasped, her body jerking beneath your touch.

You felt your own arousal build, your panties growing wet as you imagined the possibilities. Elle was more than you ever could’ve asked for, more than you deserved.

But you were taking it, taking her, taking this moment to make it yours.

Your fingers slipped inside her, feeling her pussy stretch around you as you pumped in and out, your thumb still rubbing circles over her clit.

Her legs started to shake, and you could feel her pussy tightening around your fingers. “Fuck,” she moaned, her nails digging into your shoulder. “Y/N, fuck.”

The feeling of your name on her lips was the hottest thing you’d ever heard. You fucked her harder, feeling her pulse beneath your fingertips. She felt so good, so wet and tight.

Her muscles clenched, and her pussy contracted around your fingers as she came. “Fuck!” she screamed, her hips jerking as she rode out her orgasm. Your fingers stilled inside her, your thumb slowing to a gentle pet before slipping away completely.

You pulled back, giving her a moment to catch her breath before you dropped to your knees in front of her. You hooked a finger around the waistband of her panties, tugging them down over her hips, her thighs, leaving them bunched around her ankles.

Her pussy was even more beautiful than you’d imagined, pink and swollen and dripping wet. You ran your thumb along the slit, feeling your pulse quicken as you dipped it inside.

She let out a little mewl, her hand tangling in your hair. You took it as a good sign and leaned forward, running your tongue along the wet line of her pussy.

She tasted so fucking good, sweet like candy and sharp like citrus. Your mouth moved over her, licking and sucking as you devoured every inch of her. Her hands tightened in your hair, pushing you closer until your nose was buried between her thighs.

She smelled like vanilla and coconut. It made your mouth water, made you want more.

You licked harder, moving in short quick strokes as your tongue flicked over her clit. Her body jerked with every touch, her muscles tensing as she neared her climax.

Your fingers moved, joining your tongue as you fingered her hard.

She came fast, her pussy pulsing around your fingers and tongue as she screamed your name. You let her come down from her high before pulling back, your mouth moving in one last swipe before you stood.

You were covered in her arousal, but you didn’t care. Elle’s eyes were hazy, her cheeks flushed pink as she gazed up at you.

“Y/N,” she said softly.

You didn’t need her to finish the sentence. You knew exactly what she wanted, because you wanted it too.

You stripped her down, removing her dress and bra until she stood before you completely naked. It was a sight you’d never get tired of, all smooth curves and long legs that were just begging to be tangled with yours.

You took your time undressing yourself, teasing her with every movement. Her hands came up, her fingers tracing over the curves of your breasts as you pushed them free from your bra. You dropped the fabric to the floor and stood before her, letting her touch wherever she wanted.

Your body was warm from your exertions, flushed pink and trembling with desire. Elle’s hands roamed over you, feeling your every contour.

You leaned into her touch, wanting it to last forever. Her fingers teased over your nipples, and you bit back a moan.

“I want you,” she whispered, her voice low and raspy.

You didn’t know if she meant she wanted to fuck you or be with you, and for now, you didn’t care because you wanted it all.

You kissed her again, your tongue tangling with hers as you stumbled toward the bed. You fell in a tangled mess of limbs and sheets, laughing and kissing as you fought for dominance.

You pinned her beneath you, your hips settling between her legs. You ground down, rubbing your pussy against hers as you kissed her neck.

“You're so beautiful, Elle,” you groaned, your body already starting to build.

You rubbed faster, your clit aching for friction. Elle’s mouth latched onto your neck, sucking and biting as you rocked over her. You felt her lips wrap around your nipple, sucking it into her mouth, and your vision started to blur.

Your hips moved on their own accord, grinding faster and harder. You were getting close, too close, and you didn’t want it to end.

Elle let out a soft gasp, her hips starting to jerk with her own orgasm. Her mouth found yours again, her tongue dipping inside as you came.

It was like the entire world had exploded in a wave of heat and colour. You couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but Elle and the way her pussy felt against yours.

You rode out your climax, feeling her come against you as well. The feeling of her pulsing against you was almost too much, and you couldn’t help the soft cry that escaped your lips as another orgasm hit you.

You came in waves, clenching and releasing as Elle ground down against you.

You collapsed on top of her, your body trembling with aftershocks as your breathing slowly returned to normal.

Elle’s fingers traced over your spine, petting and soothing you as she held you close. It was comfortable and intimate and everything you wanted from her.

“Y/N?” she murmured softly.

“Stay here tonight?”

You lifted your head, gazing down at her. Her hair was mussed, her face still flushed pink from their exertions. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”

You settled back against her, holding her close as your bodies intertwined. For tonight at least, you’d have her, and that was all that mattered. The rest could wait until tomorrow.

[all-you-need-is-paul-mccartney]

James (Paul McCartney x Fem!Reader)

Find Part II Here

A/N: Hello! I've decided I have to make a chapter fic for Paulie because I'm in love with him. There are gonna be at LEAST 6 chapters in this fic, so there will be plenty more coming! Stick around, like and comment, and let me know if you want to be tagged when I release more chapters of this!

I want to personally thank my editor @strawb3rri-le for helping me make these ideas come into fruition. Literally cannot do this without you <3

Summary: Paul meets a pretty girl in the library one day, and is elated to find out she is oblivious to who he actually is.

This fic is written in third person from Paul's perspective, which is kind of different to how I normally write my x readers, so it might be a little jarring to read at first, but I just wanted to try something a little different :)

WARNINGS: I'm not certain I wrote any curse words in this one, but I'll say there is just to be on the safer side. Mentions of mushrooms/ fungi; not drug-related, but I figured I'd add that because some people don't like them. I use Y/n like 4 times in here around the end it drives me nuts, but it has to happen. I don't think there's much else.

This one is pretty safe, if I could rate it lower I would, but I'll mark it at T just to be on the safe side.

Paul could have watched the heavy raindrops hit the window pane for hours and hours. the grey clouds drifting in the sky above brought nothing but heavy showers to the streets of London that dark afternoon...

But that's not what he came to the library for.

He came here for some peace and quiet.

He wanted to get some more songwriting done, but the apartment didn't seem to be the place for it that day, and everywhere else just appeared to be crawling with girls. As much as Paul liked girls, he didn't want to be noticed, because then his day would have simply consisted of him trying to escape the hoards that would have started chasing after him.

The library felt like it made the most sense. People were there to read, study, keep to themselves; not to socialize with others and be loud. As long as he found a little private area to sit, he knew he wouldn't be bothered at all. He also figured, if he couldn't come up with any song ideas, he had tens of thousands of books to refer to for inspiration.

And that was the situation Paul was in at that moment. He'd been sitting in his little study nook for a while now, just staring blankly at his notebook, or out the window next to him. Usually the words came flowing from his mind, translated by his hand and onto the paper, yet that particular day, nothing seemed to be inspiring him.

He rose to his feet after a while, notebook shoved under his arm as he wandered off into one of the aisles nearest to him. He wasn't looking for any book in particular. Sometimes he'd just pull one off the shelf, flip to a random page, and read a random sentence in the middle of the text. If it seemed to be interesting enough to inspire even a single line in a song, Paul would use it. If not, off to the next book.

He began to do just that, with older books with worn spines, and newer books with colourful covers. Unfortunately, even after the fourth or fifth book he pulled from the aisle he was in, no inspiration seemed to manifest from what he was reading. He sighed as he pushed the book he was holding back into its place on the shelf before he made his way to the next aisle over.

Paul began repeating what he was doing before, reaching for a book, and flipping through the pages. This particular book, he cut three separate times, and not one sentence seemed to draw any kind of innovation for his songwriting.

Once again, Paul shoved the book back onto the shelf. As he stared ahead at all of the different pieces of literature before him, one book in particular seemed to catch his eye. It was green, with gold accents on the bevelling as well as the raised parts of the spine. Without a second thought, he reached up for it, only for his fingers to come into contact with someone else's.

Paul drew his hand back and glanced to his right, where a young woman about his age stood. He held his breath, fully expecting an overreaction from her at his presence.

Instead, she smiled awkwardly at him, her hand also drawn back close to her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were after that one," she explained gently, and Paul blinked, raising a confused eyebrow before looking back to that specific book. After a moment, he pulled it down off the shelf and examined the cover, the golden text embossed into the front cover reading 'Europe's Most Common Mushrooms, and Fungi: A Field Guide'.

"Do you like learning about Mycology as well?" She asked curiously, and Paul's gaze shot up to her face, eyes squinting a little at her question.

He was half confused on what she was honestly asking him, but he was also kind of surprised she wasn't pointing and shouting at the fact that she found a Beatle in public.

"... Mycology?" He asked back sheepishly, and her awkward smile warmed up a little at his question. She pointed at the book cover before responding with another question. "You know, the study of mushrooms, and fungi?"

Paul's eyes dropped back down to the book before cracking it open and flipping to a random page as he was doing with all the others. A beautifully illustrated picture of a mushroom with a porous underside presented itself to the young man, and his eyebrows furrowed at the image.

"That is a Boletus Edulis," she explained quietly to him. "It's a tasty gourmet mushroom found in Europe, as well as in North America."

Paul looked back up to her briefly before returning to the book and flipping to another page, a red capped mushroom with white spots being the next image to catch his eye.

"Ooh, and that one there is an Amanita Muscaria, also known as the Fly Agaric. It received its name back in the day because grinding it up and putting it in window sills and doorways would repel flies from entering your home."

"... You sure know your mushrooms, huh?" Paul asked carefully, rather impressed with the few bits of information provided to him by this stranger.

"It's definitely a good hobby to get into. Nothing beats going out onto the trail and foraging them for dinner." She paused briefly before adding, "I mean... the boletes are fine, but perhaps not the amanitas." 

Paul closed the book up again before taking a final glance at the front cover.

"I'm uh... sort of grabbing books at random, looking for something inspiring. There needn't be a reason to hang onto this if you need it," Paul explained, presenting it to her so she could take it, and her fingers accidentally brushed against his once again as she took it from him.

The graze was so gentle, yet Paul felt his cheeks warm up at the contact. She was awfully pretty, he decided to himself in silence as he watched the look of joy on her face appear when she flipped the book open herself. She stopped on a page containing a drawing of a white mushroom dripping black ink at its edges.

Paul couldn't help but double take the image. To think there was so much about the world he didn't know a thing about... it made him feel so small, and insignificant.

She must have noticed his gaze on the page, and figured she'd teach him about one more specimen. "These ones," she began, with a rather excited exhale, turning the book Paul's way so he could see, "are Shaggy Mane mushrooms. They are edible and good, as long as you haven't consumed alcohol for a few days prior to, and post consumption. Then they'd be quite toxic."

She smiled at the tidbit and looked up to Paul's face, nose crinkling a little. "Isn't that just the neatest thing?"

Paul couldn't believe what he was hearing. He never really thought about mushrooms before. Sure, he'd seen brown and white ones before in the grass, or growing on trees, but there was something about the way she relayed the information with such passion, that just made it so interesting to him. It was unlike anything he ever experienced before.

"... You have a very natural way of describing this sort of stuff," Paul expressed, nodding his head to her positively. "I honestly never realized there were so many different ones."

"Oh, what I've told you doesn't even scratch the surface of the world of Mycology," she explained, the smile only growing on her face, and Paul couldn't help but smile back at her.

"... I should really leave to let you continue on with what you were doing," she said after a moment. "I do appreciate you listening to my ramblings. I know I can sometimes get carried away with this sort of stuff," her smile fell away a little. "Not many really care about fungi, so it's nice to talk about my interests with someone who's willing to listen."

Paul's own smile began to falter, rather upset that such a pleasant conversation, with such a pleasant person, had to end so soon. He hadn't encountered such a normal discussion in so long. Not that a conversation about mushrooms and fungi was normal, but Paul felt it was just so refreshing talking about anything but him and his fame.

"... well, I rather enjoyed what you had to say," he admitted lightly, an undeniable blush flourishing from the woman's cheeks as she appeared to smile again, a little brighter than before.

"Well... thank you, again. You're very kind," she repeated, waving her hand kindly as she turned on her heel and wandered off to the next aisle.

Paul's eyes watched her round the corner, and he stood there in disbelief. There was so much for him to unpack in his thoughts in that very moment.

She had to have been one of the prettiest girls he'd ever seen; minding her own business in a library by herself, and doing something she really enjoyed. Her intelligence on the subject showed through her excited rambling, which Paul could have listened to for much, much longer.

Her voice was so pleasant, happiness apparent in her words as she described every species effortlessly, as if she'd known it all since the day she was born. It left him wanting to hear more from her.

But the cherry on top of all of this, was that she didn't even acknowledge Paul as anything but another human being. Not some big musician with whom she obsessed over just because of his looks. For someone who remained so calm, and pleasant in conversation, Paul was certain she had no clue who he actually was.

And he loved that.

As much as fame brought excitement to his existence, Paul couldn't deny that the concept of a simple, normal life with someone who loved him for him, and not his popularity to the public, was something he seemed to yearn for more often as of late.

He loved the idea of being a nobody, especially to someone he wanted to be somebody to.

He looked over his shoulder to the empty space where that green and gold book once sat, deciding to reach for the one sitting next to it. It happened to be another book on mushrooms and fungi, but it had a lot more words in it than images. He flipped to the middle of the book and read the fist word he saw.

Symbiosis.

He felt dumb staring at the word. He knew there was only one person he could ask to inquire about what it meant. He glanced up through the bookshelves, eyes searching through the gaps of the works to find her.

She only happened to be in the next aisle over, scanning the book titles off the spines above her head carefully, too in her own world to notice Paul's obvious staring through the shelving units. She pulled a book down and read the summary on the back, Paul watching her eyelashes flit lower and lower as she absorbed the words like a sponge in water.

He noticed that as she read, her lips gently mouthed each word, and he soon found himself stuck in a trance. He observed how her tongue poked out between her teeth to mouth words with the letter L, and how her lips would press tightly together as she read words containing B, and M.

Who would have thought, Paul wondered, something so small could be so hypnotizing?

She made a small face of approval to the book before stacking it on top of the green one she was given by him, and she headed over to an empty table in the corner of the room. She faced towards the shelves, back to the wall so she could see the whole library from her spot.

Despite this, as soon as she made herself comfortable, she was solely focussed on the books, and her dominant hand wrote out her notes almost romantically, notebook pages filling effortlessly with information that brought her joy.

Paul was absolutely mesmerized by her movements. Screw the rain, he could have watched her for hours. He couldn't get over the little flick of her wrist when she ended a point, or the wonderful silent motion of her lips reading out the words.

She drove him mad in the best kind of way.

She flipped to the next page in her notebook, and Paul came back down to earth, realizing then just how creepy he must have appeared, standing close to the shelf, and peering through to the other side to watch the woman simply minding her own business from afar.

His shoes felt like they were filled with cement, but he worked up enough courage to slowly move towards her table, opting to stand by a nearby shelf and stare blankly at the spines as to not look so awkward.

What would I even say to her? was the only thought at the forefront of Paul's mind, the black mushroom book still in his hand, one of his fingers wedged between the pages to mark where that silly word was. He knew he was going to ask her about it, but he needed to smoothly segue into it, somehow.

This situation was rather a bother to Paul. He felt conflicted as to why he seemed so nervous about approaching her. He was a flirt, and he loved making girls feel giddy, why would this stranger be any different?

He was close enough that he could have called for her attention, but her focus was faithfully undivided, completely oblivious to Paul standing only fifteen feet away from her, trying to muster up the nerve to say something, anything.

After talking to her for only a minute and a half, and having parted ways for not even five more, Paul found himself deprived of her voice, longing to hear anything roll off her tongue, as long as it were to him. He was pining to have her attention so badly, but standing and admiring her from only a couple of steps away was only going to get him so far.

His palms were sweaty, and he wiped them on his pants haphazardly as he took a deep breath. He took one more second to nod his head positively for motivation, and he stepped out into the open, facing her completely. His heart pounded in his chest, but he pushed himself to take one more step forward. And that happened to be enough for her to notice.

The stranger raised her gaze up to Paul, the look of neutral concentration on her face softening into a pleasant smile.

Just that made Paul weak in the knees.

"Find anything inspiring yet?" She asked him in a friendly tone, eyeing the book in his hand as his thoughts flatlined. He didn't expect her to speak first. On the one hand, he was relieved that it indicated she was okay with talking to him, but on the other, it put him off-script, and now he had to actually use his brain to initiate discussion.

"I uh..." he struggled for a moment, glancing down at the book in his hand, as well.

"If I'm going to be quite honest... you talking about mushrooms so passionately was pretty inspiring. It's all I can think about."

The woman's eyebrows arched in surprise, a gentle dusting of pink spreading over her nose as she took in his words. She toyed her bottom lip between her teeth, and Paul couldn't help but drop his gaze for just a second to admire her mouth.

"You know, I'm really flattered that you said that," she expressed gently. "That means a great deal to me. Thank you."

Paul couldn't even feel his legs now, basking in her praise, as a flower would to the rays of sun on a warm spring day.

"... I couldn't help but grab another book like the one you're reading," he explained, lifting it up to show her, and the apples of her cheeks rounded as she smiled even wider. Paul hadn't ever recalled seeing such a beautiful face before.

"I... I saw a word I don't know. I think you're the only person who can help me." The confession made Paul feel a little self-conscious; he didn't want to seem entirely stupid in front of her, but she really didn't seem the type to make fun of him over something like this, and really damage his ego.

Without a word, she pulled the chair out next to her as a silent indication for Paul to take a seat, and he took the offer graciously. He set his notebook down onto the table, and then opened the book to where his finger marked the page cut. She leaned in a little to peer down at the text, and he pointed to the word, realizing only seconds after just how close she was to him. He could smell the faintness of her body wash, and it made his head swirl.

"... This one." He mumbled, watching her in his peripheral as she read the sentence in her head, and physically mouthing the words as her eyes tracked each letter.

"Ah, symbiosis. It basically means two different organisms are benefitting off each other in some way or another. We would be a good example of this, right now," she offered, tilting her head up to look at Paul, who's ears burned hot at the eye contact, but he kept strong and held it for as long as she wanted to look at him.

"You're keeping me pleasant company, and in return, I'm helping you learn about fungi." He thought her point was going to end there, but she quickly added on, "from a natural standpoint, fungi and trees have a symbiotic relationship. If it weren't for the millions of miles of fungal network underground, connecting all the living organisms together, plants wouldn't be able to communicate to each other, or convert their energy from one to the other to achieve optimal growth."

"So... everything would die without fungi?" Paul asked slowly.

"I believe so," she nodded her head. "They play a role in every step of a plant's life. Take a tree, for example."

She slid the green and gold book over to sit between them, and she flipped through the first few pages until she found a diagram of a tree's life cycle, pointing to the images as she rambled on.

"Fungi help them establish strong roots when they're young. Some fungi actually provide nutrients in the soil for the trees to use as energy to grow tall and strong."

She turned her gaze back to Paul. "Even at the end, if a mother tree is dying, she will begin to use the fungal networks below to disperse her energy to her kin, sacrificing herself so they can grow, instead. They use the networks underground to communicate in their own special way."

The young man appeared to be in a dream-like state, head in his palm as he looked on in favour of her words. But when he noticed she stopped speaking after a while, he blinked, finding she was smiling a little awkwardly again, as if she'd asked him a question.

"Hm?" He asked, propped hand dropping to the table. He felt rather guilty his attention diverted.

"... I'm boring you, aren't I?" There was a hint of sadness in her words, a weak smile at her lips, and Paul shook his head quickly.

"No, no! Believe me, I'm listening." He thought for a beat, face going warm again as he confessed, "I just... I really love the sound of your voice. You have a way with words, and I did get a little distracted by that." The young woman's face fell expressionless, and Paul continued.

"I may be rather daft on the subject, but there's just something in the way you talk about it that makes learning about it so much more enjoyable. Please, don't stop talking."

She opened her mouth to say something, but she shut it as she pondered what to respond to Paul with. Her face was flushed, and she was holding back a grin, which ultimately made Paul a little confident considering he was the one that made her flustered.

"... You probably say that to all of the girls you talk to," she finally replied, eyes casting down to the books to hide her blush, and he couldn't help but bite back a smile of his own.

"Well, none of the other girls I know are quite like you," he stated with poise, eyes still locked in on her, hands clasping together as he noticed her blush deepen, and a smile finally breaking through.

Paul then attempted to downplay such a strong interaction. Despite talking to her the way he wanted to, he didn't want her to be uncomfortable with how forward he felt he was being.

"What does your boyfriend think about your hobbies?" He asked. "He must be so proud, and fascinated by how passionate you are about all of this stuff, surely."

She looked back up to Paul, her smile weakening a little. "Boyfriend? Oh I uh..." she cleared her throat. "I don't... I don't have one of those."

Paul's eyebrows lowered a little. "... As in you just got out of a relationship?" He tried to clarify, to which she shook her head.

"As in I've never really... had one." She had a sheepish look on her face, cheeks now red out of embarrassment rather than flattery. Her response sent Paul's eyebrows shooting up in surprise, to say the least.

"... Never?" He repeated in disbelief. She pressed her lips together in a line tightly, shaking her head once again.

"This," she gestured to the books with her hand, "is my life. It has been my life since my early teenage years. Mushrooms and fungi are... strange, and because I like them, I guess that makes me kind of strange, as well."

Her self-dejecting statement made Paul feel bad. In his mind, someone like her not being taken, though washing the feeling of relief throughout him, didn't add up at all. Not even her fascination in mushrooms made her odd, in his eyes.

"... If it means anything to you, I think you're just absolutely lovely," he said, watching as her lip pressed into a little pout as she regarded his words.

"I'm telling you... every guy out there has no idea what they're missing out on."

Paul desperately wished he could read minds; especially hers. She didn't speak, and Paul assumed that the was simply trying to grasp for some words to say. If he were in her position, he wouldn't have known what to say, either.

"For once in my life, someone has actually made me speechless," she confessed, huffing a sigh as she rubbed one of her cheeks, as if that would have made her blush disappear.

"I want to tell you thank you, but that doesn't feel like nearly enough," she explained. "Honestly, your girlfriend is very lucky to have such a charming boyfriend. You have a way with words, yourself." Her comment made Paul laugh, but only once. Inside his chest, his heart was doing somersaults, but he was trying his hardest to keep his composure.

"What girlfriend?"

The woman gasped at his response. "You lie," she accused, yet Paul knew it was all in good nature by the smile on her face. "Even if you were, with a face like that, there's no way you don't have girls chasing after you all the time."

How the tables have turned, Paul thought; a little excited he found himself in the same spot as her only moments after he made the same mistake. Part of him wanted to respond to her with something witty, like "who says I don't?", but the other part of him didn't want that to arouse any questions that would segue into a conversation regarding his job.

He couldn't risk having her know everything, and fall for the idea of him.

"I guess I just... haven't found the right bird yet." He figured that was another truth he could hold by without entirely lying to this poor woman.

"That's fair. Well, whoever has the pleasure of ending up with you is a very lucky woman, indeed." Paul's cheeks darkened again, the compliment making his fingers feel a little numb. He noticed her eyes drifting to the window above his head before she suddenly closed her books shut.

"The rain's stopped. This has been a rather lovely conversation, but I do apologize. I must be leaving now."

Paul felt his stomach drop, and his mouth fell agape, watching worriedly as she gathered her belongings and rose to her feet.

"What-- you're leaving? Right now?"

He felt the same way he did back in the aisle when she cut the conversation short, full of disappointment that it all had to come to an end again.

"I was on my way to my parents' house before the rain started," she explained with a lopsided smile. "I'm helping my mother prepare for dinner tonight, but the rain was so bad, I figured I'd spend some time in here while I waited for it to die down. And I'm very glad I made that decision."

Paul nodded his head, realizing the last part of what she said alluded to making his acquaintance. He also found he couldn't be upset at such a wonderful gesture of kindness, her going to her parents'. "That is very sweet of you to do that for her," he said gently, standing up as well before she disappeared again.

"Before you go," he started, feeling hot beneath the collar as he tried to gather a little bit more courage to speak, her expecting eyes on him making him rather anxious.

"I would like to keep in contact with you," he paused briefly, "only if you want. I just... I've had a really pleasant time talking with you, and learning about your interests, and I would very much like to do all of this again."

Her cheeks rounded out again as her smile widened a little more-- Paul couldn't get over that damned smile of hers.

"You know... I would like that a lot," she finally answered, glancing down at her notebook before flipping to the last page and ripping it out. She folded it in half, and then tore it at the line, handing Paul one of the halves while she began writing on the other one. Paul watched with a pounding heart as she scratched out her phone number, and he began to do the same.

When they exchanged the papers, Paul examined the number she provided him, and then read the name she printed above it, a smiley face drawn next to it. he tried his best to concealing his excitement within.

"Y/n..." he mumbled thoughtfully, eyes casting back up to look at her. She laughed a little as she flipped the paper in her hand to show Paul, which only contained his phone number.

"That's me, but what am I to call you, exactly?"

This is where Paul found himself in another dilemma. He wanted her to call him Paul, but he also didn't want her putting two and two together if she recognized his name. He didn't want to entirely lie to her, either.

That's when a light bulb went off in his head. He realized the greatest loophole, and solution was staring him right in the face.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Paul reached for the paper again, scribbling his name at the top. But he wasn't using 'Paul'; he decided he was going to use his real first name.

"You can call me James," he explained, handing the paper back to her. She surveyed the name at the top of the paper before looking back up to him.

"Finally, a name to a face," she hummed in content. She then offered a hand out to Paul, to which he took so they could shake and say their farewells.

"It was an absolute pleasure meeting you, James."

It was the first time in a very long time Paul had been called that by anyone. He figured he would have hated the sound of it leaving her lips, but instead, it made his heart flutter. His face felt hot again, and it was apparent y/n could see the flush of his skin, because she smirked a little.

"The pleasure is all mine, Y/n. Please be safe." He finally let go of her hand, waving good bye as she did so as well, turning on her heel once again, and heading to the counter with her books to sign them out.

She slid Paul's phone number into her notebook as she walked away, and Paul just stood there for another moment as he watched her leave. He was was still feeling so many emotions now that he was alone, unable to help himself reaching back down to the piece of paper she gave him. He ran his fingers over her name and smiled a little to himself.

"Y/n..." her name was like a breath of fresh air to him. When he looked back up to catch one more glimpse of her, she was already gone. It made him feel a little empty, but when he noticed she left the black mushroom book for him, he felt just a little warmer inside.

Paul reached for the book, sliding her number into the pages, and deciding he was going to sign it out and try to learn a little on the subject. If they ever planned to meet in the future, he could try and impress her with some of the information he learned.

He didn't end up getting what he was looking for at the library, but he felt he was leaving with something he needed.

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A/A/N: Okay, I hope yous enjoyed that! Part 2 will happen as long as I have people requesting it. I have ideas, I'm just missing supporters<3

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