#i never expected to like this series so much

[hwaslayer]

vivrant thing (jwy) | three.

—SPOTIFY PLAYLIST / SERIES MASTERLIST

—SUMMARY: after getting into a little accident, wooyoung decides to do his sister a favor by pretending to be your date at the company summer party. as soon as the night ends, wooyoung would go back to his usual routine of hanging out with his boys, keeping his distance from committed relationships and being a typical brother to jiwoo. except, the favor comes with more than what wooyoung expects and he finds you occupying his mind more than usual. 

—PAIRING: jung wooyoung x f. reader

—GENRE: (18+ - minors dni) bestfriend’s brother au | fluff, angst, smut

—WORD COUNT: 6.6k

—CHAPTER CONTENT / WARNINGS: cussing, implied sexual content/mature language, dinner w/ yeosang!, feelings are laid out oof, alcohol consumption & slight intoxication, a bit more of jiwoo vs. wooyoung, use of pet names (princess, love, baby girl, baby), lots and lots of kissing, making out, mentions of marking, some dry humping, unprotected sex, slow sweet sex??, wooyoung pulls out 🫢

So, you agree to the dinner with Yeosang but you don't expect how terrible it ends up playing out.

At first, it starts off well.

It felt like dinner wouldn't be so bad, and you enjoyed seeing Yeosang being his usual self from the car ride up to the restaurant. When he pulls into a spot in the parking lot and helps you out of the car, there is a bit of a difference in Yeosang's attitude. He slides his hand into yours as he leads the way into the restaurant and as much as you adore your bestfriend, it feels incredibly unnatural. 

It surely doesn't feel like Wooyoung's, but you shouldn't be thinking about that right now.

He continues to loosely hold your hand until the host brings you to a table near the back end of the restaurant. You didn't think tonight's dinner would be so fancy, but you were in your business casual attire straight out of work; it ended up working out well in the end. You scoot into the booth, with Yeosang on the other side. He immediately orders a bottle of white wine, which isn't really to your liking as you've learned, but you'll make do with what you have— especially to get through this dinner.

You order appetizers along with your main courses, indulging in good conversation with Yeosang as he tells you work updates and how he's being dragged to this really important meeting over the weekend with the board of directors by his team lead. 

It's all good. It's all fun and casual, until it isn't.

Meanwhile, Jiwoo stops by her brother's apartment to drop off some sushi from his favorite Japanese restaurant. It's her way of saying 'thank you' without actually having to say it out loud.

"What now?" Wooyoung swings his door open to see his sister standing there with a bag of food.

"Hi to you, too." She drops it on his kitchen counter. "Bought you food from Sushi Kashiwa." 

"Aw, just say it." He pretends to pout while she gives him a disgusted look and unties the bag.

"No. Besides, I bought myself some food and am gonna enjoy it right here." She lays out the containers and grabs her own. "My friends decided to leave me out of a very important dinner tonight."

"What are you talking about?" He pops open the lid to his sushi container and wastes no time digging in.

"Y/N went to dinner with Yeosang. I guess to talk about stuff going on between them, I don't know." Wooyoung pauses mid-chew, the statement hitting him right in his gut. He's not sure why he's sad— maybe he's right after all. Maybe this just ended up being a temporary one night thing that would eventually wash away.

Sucks it doesn't necessarily feel that way for Wooyoung.

He can't assume, though. Hopefully, you're talking to Yeosang and giving him the honest 'i think we should just stay friends' talk instead of the 'let's just see where this goes' talk. He'd appreciate the universe if it could give him this one thing; he'll stop running his parents' last nerve and will never look at a booty ever again.

Maybe.

"Oh." Is all Wooyoung says before stuffing another piece into his mouth. "Why would you even be there, Jiwoo? That doesn't concern you."

"Anything with my friends concerns me."

"Let them talk it out without your loud, nosey ass interrupting." She rolls her eyes, scrolling through her phone as she also continues to eat.

"I haven't gotten any new texts from her. I wonder if it's going well. Maybe they're gonna explore this after all."

"Who says?" Wooyoung responds a little too quickly, a little too sharply, for his liking. His sister doesn't seem to catch on, though. That's great.

"I dunno, beats me. I'm just taking all angles into consideration."

"Stop projecting. She seemed to be pretty set on her decision at the party."

"You never know." She says in a sing-song tone that irks Wooyoung a little more than usual this evening. "You're right, though. She is set on her decision. I just hope he takes it well." She sets her phone aside. "Anyway. How'd you like the party?"

"Gotta admit, it was fun."

"You really looked like Y/N's date. I had a few people ask me if you two were dating."

"Uh, I mean I was her date? And why would they ask when I already told them yes?" He jokes, just to push his sister's buttons.

"No way." Jiwoo continues to eat away at her food, texting Hongjoong in the midst of it. "Y/N is too good for you."

"No one is too good for anyone. Don't speak on shit you don't know."

"I know her!"

"And I know her, too!"

"I know her the best." Wooyoung rolls his eyes.

"Still doesn't mean you know everything about her."

"Ew, why are you getting so defensive tonight?" He shakes his head, feeling the irritation within him grow the more Jiwoo presses it. He knows he isn't the best man to walk this Earth, but he also knows he'd be good to you. Good for you. He's been thinking about it a lot and he hates that he is— none of this makes sense to him, but he knows he'd be good.

"Don't you have to go see Hongjoong?"

"Once he's off, yeah." Jiwoo sips on her water. "What're you doing tonight? Getting into more shit with Choi San?"

"No, he's actually visiting his parents."

"Hm." She hums. "No booty call coming over?"

"No. Even if there was, you would not be getting that information." She scoffs.

"Grow up, Wooyoung."

"Grow up, Wooyoung." He mocks her. "Says the one who made the wild claim based off of nothing."

"You're so annoying." She tosses her sushi container into his trash before washing her cup of water. Despite their usual bickering, Jiwoo stays for a bit longer until Hongjoong texts her and lets her know he's finally off of work after putting in some overtime. Jiwoo helps tidy up Wooyoung's space before she's waving goodbye [aka flipping him off] and slamming his door shut. Wooyoung plops back onto his couch with the remainder of his food resting on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. He goes through your texts, wondering if he should say anything or keep silent. He smiles to himself when he sees the pictures you've passed along from the photographer. He sees you've posted the picture with him on your Instagram and it tugs at his heart because not only do you rarely use Instagram, but you took that opportunity to post your pictures from the party— including the one where you've got your hand resting on his chest while he has an arm around you. He was happy to see you happy and comfortable. Having fun. 

You glowed. 

He'll never forget it.

—OLD TEXTS

you: hi! they uploaded the pics from the party!

you: *sends a group of pics at once*

wooyoung: yo goddamn!? we look good!

wooyoung: you look so pretty. 😍

you: 😀 stop !!

wooyoung: i'm so serious, good LORD. 😮‍💨

you: i'm blocking you.....

wooyoung: woah now, hey i'm kiddddding....

wooyoung: not really! but don't block me! i just can't help it!

you: you're too much 😂

wooyoung: can i post these?

you: go for it!

wooyoung: thank you ☺️

He sighs as he reaches the end of the thread.

He won't say anything. He'll let this unfold as it should, but it doesn't mean he can't be sad about it. Cause he sure as hell is and he's a bit anxious. Hopefully, you'll tell Yeosang the truth. Hopefully, you won't force yourself into anything you don't want or feel uncomfortable with.

As for you, the dinner really takes its turn for the worse after you and Yeosang eat away at your main meals, a pregnant silence falling between you two after a good hour of just talking and yapping away about life. You already knew it was coming at this point, you were just hoping you'd buy a little more time [as if you could put it off even more]. 

"So." He says awkwardly to cut the silence.

"Mhm?"

"Did you really enjoy the party?"

"I did. Did you?"

"Yeah. I just—" He looks at you with his head cocked to the side. "I was just surprised seeing you with Wooyoung." You pause before poking at your pasta and taking a small bite. 

"Oh yeah, it was relatively last minute."

"Jiwoo's plan?"

"Why do you say that? Do you genuinely think Wooyoung wouldn't go with me?" You ask, a little offended at the way he sounds cause even though it was clearly planned and arranged, the insinuation from Yeosang doesn't hurt any less. 

"No, not like that— I'm sorry, it came out of nowhere and caught me off guard. That's all." You cock a brow up. 

"It just happened that way. Wooyoung wanted to go and I wanted to go in the end." Is all you respond with, chugging your second glass of wine before pouring yourself more. You really don't like the taste of this white wine either, but you'll take it cause it's better than sitting here without an ounce of alcohol to push you through. Give you more courage to finish the evening on a decent note, to be honest. "I had a really fun time, regardless."

"I saw." He pauses. "I wish you would've at least told me instead of showing up like that." 

"I'm sorry."

"I think it's time for me to be honest and stop watching from the sidelines because I.. really like you, Y/N." His shoulders droop just as he sets his fork and knife down neatly onto the plate. You take the last bite of your meal before sipping on more wine to wash it down.

"I should have told you, but I didn't want to hurt you. Even if I did tell you, it wouldn't have changed anything."

"It wouldn't? Why wouldn't it have changed anything? I thought we might've had a chance." He's confused. He looks like he was expecting a completely different outcome, and that might've been your fault for not telling him right away. But, the moment is here now and you know you can't push it off any longer.

"No. I just.. I just can't, Yeo. I'm sorry." You barely get yourself to respond out of fear. You knew Yeosang wasn't the type to react— if anything, he'd be the most understanding. Though, it doesn't change the fact that you were still scared. You felt bad. You didn't want to hurt him, and you wanted to avoid this confrontation as much as possible even though you knew you needed to face it sooner than later. "I truthfully think we're good with where we're at, and I don't think we should mess that up. I love the way we are as good friends, bestfriends, and that's how I've always seen us." You can see the disappointment growing on his face every second, but he's trying hard to keep it under wraps while he briefly waves the waitress down for the check.

"C-can I ask? You can be honest." You silently nod. "Is it Wooyoung?" You shake your head.

"It was never about Wooyoung. Just us. Well, me. You're amazing, and you deserve the best. You deserve someone who is sure about you and who will reciprocate those feelings to no end. I'm sorry that I can't be that person, but at the same time, I know I can be your friend just like I always have been. That's what I can give you, and I hope you understand." You tell him softly. "I'm sorry." You repeat, feeling the tears brimming your bottom lids. "I should've opened up earlier. I really hope this doesn't change things between us."

"It won't, but I hope you understand it'll take me some time to move past it. I'm sorry for assuming or for— yeah." He shakes his thoughts away.

"Take all the time you need." He gives you a tiny, toothless smile.

"Anyway." Yeosang signs off on the receipt before tucking his card back into his wallet and standing. "Let's get you home."

"Okay." You shimmy out of the booth to head out of the restaurant. This time, Yeosang doesn't hold your hand. In fact, he trails behind you, keeping at a safe distance. You can immediately see the change— how stiff and awkward he's become. You don't blame him for it; he's hurting and you know he needs his space more than anything. 

You can't wait to get home.

The ride is fucking awful. It's the most quiet you've seen Yeosang. The most closed-off and serious he's ever been towards you. His hand is clutching the wheel tightly, but the music is comforting enough to fill the void. You continue to look out of the passenger's window, keeping to yourself until Yeosang asks about your plans for the rest of the weekend. There isn't much going on for you, so that conversation dies quickly. Luckily for you, Yeosang is about to pull up to your street. He stops the car by your building, shifting the gear to park before helping you out of the car. You give him a small, sympathetic smile before pulling him into a hug— giving his back a gentle rub.

"Sleep well, alright? I'll see you next week."

"You too." With that, he walks off, waiting until you at least unlock and crack your door open. When you get a whiff of your candle that you lit up earlier in the morning, you realize you don't really wanna stay home right now; to sulk, to drown in your thoughts alone, to have to listen to the loudness in a quiet space. So, you shut the door again, head back down the steps and walk to the convenience store nearby. You grab a bottle of yogurt soju, along with your favorite chips and strawberry cheesecake ice cream bar— plopping yourself down onto one of the tables right outside the store. You're quick to crack open the bottle and drink away, also eating away at the chips since you didn't feel incredibly satisfied with the dinner earlier. It might've just been all the emotions and tension in the air, but anywho, the chips and the soju taste better than ever. Sooner or later, you find yourself tipsier, cheeks lit on fire, hands clammy; barely hitting the halfway point with the soju bottle. You lazily scroll through your phone as you begin to eat away at the ice cream bar, revisiting those party pictures.

You wonder what Wooyoung is doing, but you shouldn't be thinking about that right now.

"Ugh." You whine and pout to yourself, pulling up your texts to see if Jiwoo can come to your rescue. You opted for listing Jiwoo and Wooyoung as Jung 1 and Jung 2 to keep it easy and simple; except, it obviously doesn't work well in this case when you accidentally pull up the text with Jung 2 instead of Jung 1 while you wipe away at the tears that suddenly begin to stream down your cheeks.

you: oof .... that dinner was kinda awful i feel terrible

you: kinda?! not even kinda it WAS awfullll

you: i'm sitting outside of our fav convenience store by my olace

you: eating strawberry cheesecake ice cfream!!

you: jiwooooooo

you: jung 1!!!!

Wooyoung furrows his brows at the constant dinging of his phone, unsure of who the hell could be blowing up his phone right now. He even sits for a minute, wondering if there's anybody he's pissed off in the last few days [besides his sister].

"Hm." He hums when he comes up with nothing, nobody. He picks up the phone and scrolls through the previews, chuckling to himself when he sees your name pop up on the screen. Clearly by accident.

you: jiwoo jung 1 pls help come to my rescue it was not good! idk if yeo n i will be friens still ☹️☹️☹️

wooyoung: sorry to break it to you sweetheart, but this is jung 2. 😙

wooyoung: also i won't hold it against you that i've been slotted as number 2 when i should be number 1 esp after the party. 🫤 but it's cool or whatever......

You squint at the brightness of your phone, slowly eating away at your strawberry cheesecake ice cream bar. You almost drop the damn thing when you realize you've actually been blowing up the wrong phone, horrified it had to be Wooyoung, too.

He must think you're a gem, truly.

He does, though. In a very good, non-sarcastic way.

you: omggg i'm so sorry wooyoung jung 2 ☹️

you: i mean jung 1 technically

wooyoung: lol no worries, don't be sorry. you okay?

you: yes but no?

wooyoung: stay put.

You cock a brow up in confusion, wondering if Wooyoung was telling you to stay put because he was on his way or because he just needed you to get yourself together. You listen anyway, sitting on the little chair outside of the convenience store, silently eating away at your ice cream with your phone lit on your lap. You completely forget about texting Jiwoo amidst all of this, assuming she's busy anyway. The wind is slowly picking up, cooling the tip of your nose and surface of your cheeks— settling the heat from the soju.  You shiver and run a hand down your arm, hoping the wind slows in between its waves. You continue to mindlessly scroll through your phone, even picking up your game of Wordle for the day. Just as you get lost in thought, a car parks in a spot in between your building and the convenience store. You look up as you bite into the last of your ice cream bar, hearing the muffled bass from the music in the car. Wooyoung steps out in a grey hoodie and matching sweats, a black beanie on his head. He approaches you with a small smile with his hands dug deep into his pockets, crouching to your level as he continues to look at you.

"W-Wooyoung." You hiccup as you sit on the bench, setting your trash down next to you. Wooyoung gives you a small smile, thumb wiping away at your tears.

"Wanna tell me why you've been out here eating ice cream alone?" He eyes your snacks of choice. "And.. a half bottle of soju and chips? I thought you had dinner with Yeosang."

"I did, and it was terrible and sad." You sniff. "Well, not the food. I just couldn't enjoy it as much. I even tried to drink that bitter white wine he ordered just to get me through."

"And you're drinking soju now? Really must have been that bad."

"Bad bad." You pout and he laughs.

"I'm sorry." He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze before patting it. "Come on, let's get you home." He stands, holding out his hand. You gladly take it in yours, his thumb swiping over your knuckles in an attempt to try and warm it up. He grabs the soju and the chips in his other, leading the way to your building. He quietly heads up the steps, stepping aside and letting go of your hand to let you open your door. When you step back into the warmth of your studio, you instantly kick off your shoes and slip into your slippers—lighting up your candle to bring more heat into the room.

"I'm gonna set your chips and soju aside." Wooyoung says, tightly tying your chips close so it doesn't get stale before setting your bottle of soju aside in the fridge.

"Thank you." You set your bag down and let out a sigh.

"Glad I was able to get you home safely." He chuckles a bit, jingling his keys in his hand. You don't want Wooyoung to leave, especially after he made the effort to get dressed and come to your rescue.

"Wooyoung?" He cocks a brow up when you turn to face him. "Can you stay?" He takes a moment before he nods, unsure how he could turn you down with you looking up at him that way. 

So innocently. So delicately. Eyes yearning for company you can be comforted with, need to be comforted with.

"Yeah, of course. As long as you're okay with me poking around and making some food." You giggle and nod.

"Go for it." You grab your pajamas. "I'm gonna take a quick shower. Feel free to get comfortable and flip through the channels." You turn on the TV for him before shutting yourself within the bathroom walls to shower and get comfy for the evening. 

As you shower and get ready for bed that evening, you hear Wooyoung humming and singing a Blackstreet song to himself in your kitchen. After brushing your teeth, you finish up the last of your skincare routine before heading back outside.

"Finally." Wooyoung turns over his shoulder and quickly scans you from head to toe. "I was getting lonely."

"I didn't even take that long."

"It was long. You and Jiwoo take the longest showers known to man." He frowns a bit, making you giggle to yourself. You plop on your couch, now in your oversized crewneck and pajama pants. You're no longer tipsy, probably a little too sober for your liking especially knowing Wooyoung is in your studio. You do find his company comforting, though. You feel bad he had to come and rescue you, but you'd rather be here than anywhere else after that dinner with Yeosang. You tuck your legs to your chest, flipping through the tv channels only to land on Kiki's Delivery Service. It's already 20 minutes in, but it doesn't bother you knowing the movie so well. Wooyoung is still going through your stash of food, pulling out a bowl of jajangmyeon. While he waits for the hot water to properly cook the noodles, he dices up some pickled radish and some cucumbers, and quickly boils two eggs to perfection. When the noodles are done, he sets everything into the bowl neatly before grabbing a cold water bottle and plopping onto the couch next to you.

"What'd you do today?" You look at him just as he starts digging into the bowl.

"Work. Then Jiwoo came earlier in the night with some food from my favorite Japanese spot."

"Sushi Kashiwa?"

"Aw, you know?" Wooyoung smirks.

"Because Jiwoo has mentioned it one too many times." You chuckle. "That's cute, though."

"She only did it cause she was waiting for Hongjoong to get out of work. And to kiss my ass about the party."

"And because she loves you." He fake shivers.

"Ew. Please don't say that again." He looks at you and you snort. "Want a bite? I made it for us to share in case you were still hungry." He edges his chopsticks your way, watching as you shake your head in response.

"I'm good. Thank you though, Woo."

"Suit yourself, princess. I whipped up a good one." You laugh, settling into the couch as you continue to watch the movie. Wooyoung catches you slipping your sleeves over your palms in his peripherals and although he's pretty warm and cozy in your studio, you must still feel cold. He hurriedly slurps up the remaining of the noodles before gulping the entirety of his water bottle down. He lets out a noise that makes you laugh, kicking his head back in satisfaction. "Damn, that was good."

"Glad you enjoyed." You poke his arm and he smiles. "Is this movie okay with you?"

"Yeah, of course. Can never go wrong with Studio Ghibli movies. Unless, you're down to watch something scary?"

"Never." 

"Why not? I'm here."

"But, whatever scary movie we'll watch, it'll live in my head for the next few days and you won't be here."

"I could be, you just have to call me and I'll come. Like tonight."

"Wooyoung." You pout. "Today's was an accident."

"So, you didn't want me to come? That's funny, cause I didn't see another text from you after I told you to stay put, baby girl." He smirks and you shake your head shyly.

"I'm sorry." You continue to fiddle with your sleeves.

"Don't be. I'm just teasing, I wanted to come."

"Thank you. I needed it." You finally manage to let out as you look at him and scooch a little closer. He gives you a tiny smile before shifting his attention back to the TV, the both of you engaging in small talk about the characters here and there.

At some point, Wooyoung subtly inches in and closes off any gaps, quietly slipping his arm behind you. You silently chuckle to yourself when you see him playing it off, acting as if he hadn't done anything to get closer to you. But, the whole thing feels.. nice. It feels safe. It feels warm. Wooyoung really isn't expecting anything out of this— he is testing the waters to see how comfortable you'd be with him, but that's truly it. That's the intention. Just to make you feel comfortable and better after tonight's dinner. He definitely wasn't expecting you to lean your head against him, snuggling up to him as closely as possible. 

"You okay? Comfortable?" He asks softly. You look up at him and nod, settling back into your position on him.

"Mhm. You're warm." He laughs a bit when he hears that, keeping you close. As the movie continues with the both of you watching silently, you find yourself shifting in your position; arm fully coming around Wooyoung's torso. He doesn't mind one bit. As a matter of fact, he loves that you've gotten comfortable enough to do so.

He drops his arm down from the edge of the couch, holding you from behind as the movie continues to play. He gently rubs at your side before his hand falls to your hips. You feel Wooyoung's hand gently squeeze at it before sneaking right underneath your sweater. You freeze, but more so because you're surprised by his touch— not because you don't want him to be right where he is.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I don't know. I just feel bad." You say, eyes still on the TV ahead while you slowly began to relax in his hold.

"You were honest with him, right?" Wooyoung asks as a simple way to poke for more information and get you to open up about dinner. "Wanna tell me how the dinner went?" He traces faint, soft circles on your bare side.

"I was, and I guess that's why I feel bad. It started off fine. We went to the restaurant and we were talking as we always do. Random topics, jokes, going on about life updates. It went downhill when we got our food. It was quiet for a little bit and I knew he was thinking about what to say or how to say it." You pause. "He asked if I enjoyed the party. I said yes, then he asked if it was Jiwoo's plan." Wooyoung cocks a brow.

"What'd you say?"

"I got kinda defensive." You sigh, leaving out the whole moment of you asking Yeo if he thought Wooyoung wouldn't genuinely go to a party with you. "But anyway, I said you wanted to go.. and so did I. And I had a fun time with you."

"Atta girl." He laughs a bit. "And then?"

"He apologized and said he just wished I told him instead of surprisingly showing up. Then.. he laid it out. Said he had feelings for me and couldn't watch on the sidelines anymore. He felt like there could've been a chance, which was probably my fault for keeping that door open for too long." You sit up and face him, Wooyoung's arm still lazily holding you from behind. "I told him that even if I told him about the party beforehand, it wouldn't have changed anything because I couldn't. I liked us the way we were and that we were good as bestfriends. He deserved someone who was sure of him and who could reciprocate his feelings wholeheartedly."

"Then, you didn't do anything wrong, Y/N." You shrug before subconsciously grabbing a piece of lint on Wooyoung's hoodie and flicking it off. 

"He asked something else."

"Which was?"

"He asked if this was about you, a-and I said no." You avoid eye contact and lick your lips out of nervousness. 

"I see." Wooyoung smiles a bit before shifting up in his seat to get closer to you. He leans his cheek onto the palm of his hand, his arm that was behind you is now on the back of the couch— elbow resting on the edge. "Why can't you look at me?" He smirks teasingly.

"I am." You look at him for a minute before shifting your eyes elsewhere in the living room. 

"Was it really not about me, hm?" He hums, brushing the hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. "You can tell me, love." He tries to pull you closer by the hand, and you let him.

"Can I?" His eyes quickly shift to the way you play around with his fingers.

"Course."

"Maybe it was."

"Just maybe?" He looks at your lips. "You think that's why you feel bad?" Brief pause. "That you might actually have feelings for me and you couldn't tell him that part?"

"Maybe." You repeat, his lips only inches away from yours. "Isn't that kinda silly?"

"No? I still don't think you did anything wrong, Y/N."

"Really, Woo?" There you go asking him so sweetly again. It's at this point when Wooyoung feels like he can no longer contain himself because you're giving him the answer he had been looking for; straight on a silver platter. 

"Mhm. As far as I know, you were honest when it came to him. What's between us is our business and not his." He says, his tone just barely above a whisper. You don't really know what comes over you, maybe you did have a little bit of liquid courage still running through your veins especially cause what happens next catches you slightly off-guard. You're so sure about your feelings for him, but unsure about Wooyoung's and how he even feels. This could all be a game that he plays, something he does with other women even if he says it isn't.

Guess it doesn't matter much right now. Can't, anyways.

Within the next second, you find yourself initiating the first kiss with Wooyoung; a kiss that feels long overdue. You lean forward and press your lips against his own soft, plump lips, quickly pulling back to get ready and apologize—

But, he doesn't let you. 

He chases after you.

He cups your cheeks and brings you back, thumb gently caressing the surface of your cheek. You haven't kissed someone like this in awhile, but with Wooyoung, it feels.. right. 

Everything about Wooyoung feels right and natural.

He tries to take it slow with you, even when you crawl onto his lap and wrap your arms around him. The kiss becomes more heated, lips bruising from the rising intensity, hunger. Wooyoung slowly slips his tongue in, and hearing a small whimper from you in response only has him gripping your hips harder.

He quickly learns he likes kissing you.

"Been waiting to do this." He says against your lips.

"Have you?" You ask, your tone filled with lust as you continue to peck him with small, repeated kisses.

"Just didn't wanna scare you away."

"You wouldn't have."

"Have to be extra careful with you, baby. You aren't just anybody." The pet name rolls off his tongue so easily that it makes your head tilt back as the desire builds. He continues to hold you close as you slowly roll your hips against him, Wooyoung now kissing your jaw before gently sucking and licking on the surface of your neck;

The column, your throat.

You feel him come to the base and suck a little harder, and you're hoping it doesn't leave much of a mark. If it does, it doesn't fucking matter to you right now— nothing does. Because all you want is for Wooyoung to devour you. To give you everything, to ruin you so good.

"Is this okay? I don't wanna do anything you're not comfortable with—"

"Keep going, Wooyoung. Please." You cut him off. It takes a second for Wooyoung to register your pleading, that 'please' being the one thing that flips his switch. It's not only a want, but a heavy craving. He's got some sort of eagerness to show you just what you've been missing.

"Hold onto me." He says, lifting you with ease as he carries you over to your bed and plops you onto the mattress. He slowly crawls over you, his warm, large hands now cascading up your sweatshirt. Your breathing hitches when he reaches just above your rib cage, and Wooyoung stops when he feels your body tense in his grip. "You sure you're okay?" He presses a kiss to your forehead, down to your nose, your lips. He looks you in the eye with slight concern, afraid of scaring you. The last thing he wants you to think is that he's purely using you for other reasons— when it's definitely more than that.

Wooyoung wants to show you, in case he's bad at voicing his feelings. Cause he can be, clearly. But, he could at least show you and take care of you properly.

"I am."

"You trust me, yeah?" You swallow the lump in your throat as you nod, continuing to keep contact with Wooyoung. "I'll take care of you as long as you let me."

"I want you to." This time, Wooyoung dips forward to lock you into another deep, fervent kiss. His hands are finally roaming further up; Wooyoung letting out a low groan when he finds out you're braless. His thumb swipes over your hardened nipple, tongues fighting for dominance while your hands are tangled in the ends of his hair. You toss his beanie off just as he starts to tug your crewneck over your head and you follow suit with his hoodie. He nibbles on your jaw just before sucking harshly on the skin of your neck. His hand travels down and slips into your pajama pants, fingers delicately rubbing at your clothed pussy that sends a million jolts down your spine. You twitch in response, and Wooyoung can't help but chuckle against your neck.

"So reactive." He teases.

"It's been awhile, Woo."

"And? That's fine, baby. Told you I'd take good care of you." He raises himself slightly to watch your reaction in real-time. "Does that feel good?" He asks, close to a whisper. 

"Yes." You bite your bottom lip and shut your eyes, sighing in satisfaction.

"God. Can feel how wet you are already." Wooyoung feels himself getting painfully hard against your thigh, imagining how tight you are. He doesn't wanna waste another moment, and he thinks he'll lose it if he isn't inside of you within the next few seconds. "Let's take this off, hm?" He hums, hands already tugging your panties and pajama pants down. "Do you have a condom?"

"Don't need it. I'm on the pill." 

"You're sure? I'm clean, but I'll do whatever you're okay with. Just say the word." He asks again to be extra sure.

"I am, I'm sure." You nod eagerly. The pill was mainly to help regulate your heavy, irregular periods, but you'd say you do appreciate it a little more now for this particular reason.

"You're so hot, jesus fucking christ." Wooyoung doesn't say anything else before he's keenly kissing you again, hastily getting out of his sweats. 

Sooner or later, the rest of Wooyoung's clothes are joining yours on the floor; Wooyoung not wasting any seconds reattaching his lips to yours after slipping them off. 

Wooyoung pauses when he sees you fixed on his length— eyes hazy and full of desire. It's giving Wooyoung the biggest fucking ego boost, but that's not important. He strokes himself a few times before lining up with your entrance. He slowly eases himself in, the both of you letting out lewd moans as you both adjust to the feeling. You're tightly wrapped around him and Wooyoung has to keep his composure as he buries himself deep to the hilt. Wooyoung keeps his pace slow and steady; forehead pressed against yours as he thrusts into you. It's nothing rushed, everything about it is slow— so tender, so careful. 

So safe.

"Wooyoung." You moan his name and his brain short-circuits every time you say it the way you do. On top of that, your little whimpers are doing a number on him, but he's trying to keep it together for awhile longer. 

"Doing so well for me, love." He gently bites your chin just as he slightly picks up his pace. He hovers a bit, lips coming back up to meet you in a sweet kiss. He holds it for a minute longer, tongue swiping over your lips as he rolls his hips into you. 

It's intimate. 

It's deep. 

It's raw. 

It's nothing he'd do to his booty calls, no. Everything about those moments are forced and rushed, the end goal having to nut as quickly as possible and get them the hell out of his space.

With you, he's loving every second. He wants to relish in the way your walls feel around him, wants to relish in the way your fingers thread through his hair, wants to relish in the way you kiss him so slowly, so passionately. Like every kiss holds the answers to the universe and you're afraid you'll miss a single detail.

He rests his nose, lips, against your cheek just as he releases a shaky breath, still taking his time as he works his way with you. He comes down to your neck and leaves feathery pecks against the surface while his body is pressed flushed against yours. He turns his head and you've fully wrapped your arms around him. The pace is perfect, with Wooyoung working his hips in circular motions just to hit you in all the right places. He praises you as you continue to moan for him, pretty little mewls slipping from your lips while he tells you how captivating, how angelic, you are for him.

How perfect you are for him.

You find your hips have a mind of their own, working to match Wooyoung's movements. You feel the pleasure building quick at your core, and you know it won't take long from there.

"Wooyoung— just like that, please—oh my god." You sob. While he continues to expertly thrust into you and keep you close, the friction against him causes the coil within you to snap harshly, nails digging deep into Wooyoung's shoulders while he thrusts harder, a bit rougher, to meet his high. 

"F-fuck, baby. I'm about to—" He moans a little louder when he feels you clench a few times around him from the aftershock, quickly pulling out and releasing onto your pussy and abdomen. "Shit—fuck." He pants, finally coming back down from euphoria to see how mesmerizing you look splayed out beneath him; white ribbons of cum painted on your skin. He's completely enamored by you. "Mm'sorry babygirl, let's get you cleaned up." You giggle and shake your head.

"Please, it's fine. Stop looking, you're making me shy again."

"Don't be. You look beautiful." He laughs, slipping on his boxers. "Let me clean you up." He runs to your bathroom to grab some wipes, doing a light jog to clean you up well. You grab your panties and your crewneck after he's done— throwing them on and snuggling under your covers. You fully expect Wooyoung to get dressed and leave [which would suck], but he doesn't. You quietly watch as he shuts off your TV and the lights, going to the bathroom for a quick wash up. Afterwards, he immediately slips underneath your covers right next to you, pulling you onto his chest.

"You're staying?"

"Why wouldn't I?" He chuckles. "C'mere." He pulls you closer. "Sleepy?"

"Incredibly." He smiles.

"I put in some work, huh?"

"Wooyoung." You pout, lightly smacking his chest.

"I'm just joking." He subtly bites his lip. "Can I have one more kiss before we sleep?" You lean up and peck him on the lips a few times, with Wooyoung holding the last kiss before pulling away. "Goodnight, pretty girl."

"Goodnight." You mumble, falling asleep within seconds as you cuddle snuggly against him. Because with Wooyoung, it feels.. right.

Everything about Wooyoung feels right and natural.

—TAGLIST: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @heyitsmetonid @ldysmfrst @intaksfav @wooyoungsbrat @hyukssunflower @yunhoswrldddd

[kyri45]

✨ShadowPeach Bio Parents Bio AU Q&A! 20/09✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

@funnybadger868 ha chiesto:wait so if mk can hear macaques past can he hear wukongs for example the circlet and the spell

Yeah he could. It's now just a matter of if he wants to use this power ever again

@cryptic-theseus ha chiesto:you're paying for my therapy btw, the bill is on the way

Blame it on the gay monkies not me. It's bc of them that my life is ruined/hj

@ayrza ha chiesto:Hey!I have an important question, where do you get your sources for the AU👉🏻👈🏻p? I mean, I just recently entered the LMK fandom and I see that there are parts that are not mentioned much in the series and it frustrates me because I feel like I only watch the anime but I'm missing the manga 🫠I love your art and your work, it's amazing 🫰🏻✨

Hi! Well I' finishing to read Journey to the West (im at chapter 80) and if I need extra info or just check I go to the fandom wiki.

@feyqueen91 feyqueen91 ha chiesto:A question for your Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU (btw, I just saw your recent post for More Than A Successor Arc & I thought something light hearted was needed to even out the Angst), is Macaque able to summon something like what Red Son did with the Samadhi Sprite, and he teaches MK to do it too?

Wait what exactly? I haven't understood what you meant by sprite.

@og-glitch-punk ha chiesto: Honestly I expect this to be hidden but i also love your work on both comics, keep it up!! I forgot their names but dude- how would the lotus prince and our moon chef feels about wukong and Macaque being MK's parents? HELL. WHAT ABOUT THE TRIO? YELLOW TUSK, PENG AND THE LOIN (CANT REMMEBER HIS NAME EVEN IF HE IS TECHNICALLY DEAD/GONE). Hell even this chaotic snake man may even use MK to his advantage with the fact he is the child of Wukong and Macaque. So many possibilities and guesses, so many twists and turns we will never know bro

Oh he absolutely woud. Also about the others. They would probably act like protective aunt/uncles to that poor traumatised boy.

@thenerdnico ha chiesto:Oh my GODS that last bio dad's chapter broke me, your expressions are always amazing. I'm going to assume that at the end of Wukong's and Macaque's fight, Wukong realised Macaque wasn't moving and ran up to him, and ended up sobbing and screaming when he realised he was dead??? If that is the case, do you think MK listened to it long enough to hear that as well?

Oh for angst reason yes. He did.

@shadowpeachera ha chiesto:AHHHH YOUR SHADOWPEACH BIO AU IS SOO GOOD!!!! I SCREAMED AT THE LAST UPDATE!!! I have a question though. You know in the series i think season 3 epsiode 5 where Wukong goes into a deep mystic monkey meditation, yeah. Well i was wondering if Mk has ever tried that but got disrupted and lost his memories or started acting strange infront of his monkey parents. It would be hilarious i can imagine him shouting, “TUDI, TUDI!”KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK, no pressure though! HAVE A GOOD DAY!

Lmaooo ok ok I don't think I'll go witha small amnesia arc in the AU but this doeß sound adorable.

@sakuralotus03 ha chiesto:It will probably be quite heavy, but I suggest that after Wukong saw the monkey like that he had a huge attack of guilt and anxiety and ended up injuring his left eye with his claws

Poor baby!! Nono don't worry his eye is fine.

@raylamoongirl ha chiesto:question for macaque: what was the hardest thing to teach Mk?Lmk bio parents Q&A

Mmmm so they tried really hard to teach him shadow teleportation, but he seems to not be able to do it.

@lmkobsessedmoth ha chiesto:For the Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU What if macaque and wukong go on a date and wukong doesn’t know it’s a date because he’s as dense as the rock he hatched out of

He truly would be. May the gods give him a clue or smt otherwise we wont end up nowhere here

Anonimo ha chiesto:Hey!I love your Shadowpeach bio Parent's AU But I Wonder,Does Wukong and Macaque already dance together before?

Danced??? I think so?? When they still were lovers friends I think (i think i m missing something)

Anonimo ha chiesto:I am on my knees, heart giving out, HOW IS BABY MK SO CUTE AND SHADOWPEACH SO ALLERGIC TO JUST KISSING ALREADY LIKE COME ON YOU TWO Anonimo ha chiesto:When I read the other part where swk and mac where talking about wanting MK to view them as parents at first I thought swk was proposing having another kid with Mac and I went “WOAH HEY- HOLD UP FOR A SECOND THERE U NEED TO GET UR SHT TOGETHER FIRST” and thank god it wasn’t that I thought swk was JUMPING AND ACCELERATING THEIR PROGRESS LMAOOOSo I’m actually glad they are taking baby steps, they need them

This slowburn is gonna be so slow-burning you all are gonna die when they actually kiss (will they kiss? Oh that's just for me to know ahah)

Anonimo ha chiesto:Since macaque is called mama by mk does that mean macaque is like a mother figure to mk in your au mama macaque is adorable and he gives off motherly in his character

Anonimo ha chiesto:Whos mom if there is considered a mom by MK or only dads? Is it Wu or Mac? My headcanons is Wukong basically the mom cuz he gives off mom and dad vibes together and Macaque just gives off dad vibes to me

He gives more motherly vibes, yes (Mamacaque and DadWukong forever)

Anonimo ha chiesto:Hi in you bio parent au for monkie kid how were monkey king and macaque as teenagers when they had a good relationship were like they a romantic couple or had secret crushes on each other and never told each other or were they just friends love this au it's amazing

Oh I think they were definitely lovers once. And that makes their past and what happened even more tragic honestly.

@ayrza ha chiesto:I don't know who is more adorable: Baby MK or Macaque and Wukong blushingPsd. I love your AU and your art 💖

Both. Both is good

@diamondwolf23 ha chiesto:THOSE TWO BETTER KISSSSSSSSSSS-I’m gonna miss Baby Mk ;-

Me too. Me too.

Anonimo ha chiesto:You could say Wukong is a...... simpian?(like simian but yknow >>)

LMAO YES

@scififeather21 ha chiesto:You can't believe how much I love your Shadowpeach AU comic series that last part made me grin so much. Mostly because my husband and I have done that exact thing when our kids were small babies and the looks and smiles were the same too. OMG it such a nice thing to see after a long day at work yesterday. :)

THAT'S THE- SWEETEST THING?????? LIKE IM SO GLAD I WAS ABLE TO MAKE IT A SIMILAR EXPERIENCE???? TO HEAR IT'S THE SAME THAT HAPPENED TO YOU IS THE SWEETEST THING EVER

@snsp6 ha chiesto:I love ur bio dads au! I wanted to ask what would happen if smth similar to the baby mk incident happened to the immortal monkeys.Like either they were de-aged to their youth or had an amnesia rules type of situation!(I am in love w the world building in this!!! And ur art is delectable!)

I don't thing the world would be ready for non-reformed Wukong#like-#not really reformed but the guy killed so many people bc of impulsiveness#until he learned that murder is not fine

Anonimo ha chiesto: This might be a stupid question, but for your bio parents, AU is MK just always in his monkey form, or is this just how he permanently looks now?

He's on his monkey form when he trains / stays at the weekends at FFM or when he friendly duels/train with Mei and Red Son.On weekdays he's constantly in his human form

@meisawkwardashecc ha chiesto:Is Wukong potentially shorter than Macaque? 👀🥺Avatar

Yes

@miraclecactus ha chiesto:Can you show us what's going on in the Freenoodles house? I'm looking forward to knowing how they manage to calm MK down :( Puedes mostrarnos que es lo que sucede en la casa de Freenoodles? Estoy ansiosa de conocer como ellos manejan el como calmar a MK :(

They used Wukong and Mac advices until he feel asleep.

Anonimo ha chiesto:I like how Wukong asks Macaque how he knows MK won't hate him after this. Like my guy, you literally killed Macaque, and he still hangs around I think he knows a thing or two

True. Although let Wukong be the dumbass he is.

alizardonfire ha chiesto:I love the idea of macaque being wukongs *rock* if that makes sense? It gives so much character to him.

Aaaahh ty! Yeah I feel like he's pretty good at understanding when he s just out of his mind and bring him back to earth.

Anonimo ha chiesto:If this isn't to much spoiler will the next lmk comic be angsty

This will be answered too late but I will always warn you in advance if there s angst coming.

Anonimo ha chiesto:I love your art! Lighthearted question since your about to bring the pain- do you think Mac and Wu fight over who gets to be little spoon/big spoon or are both of them 100% happy with Mac as big spoon and Wu as little spoon every night

So as for now, they are good with Wukong being the little spoon. Both bc Wukong is the the one who constantly craves for touch amd bc Macaque feels more comfortable in a position of "control" let's say. He can decide how much closer or not to get to Wukong.

Then in the future they would be more comfortable to switch (and the bicker about who should be the big or small)

@sallyvanna ha chiesto:HAIII FIRST OF ALL I LOVE YOUR BIO PARENT AU it makes my day every time I see a new page postedI was just wondering, why was macaque kinda nervous when he summoned rumble and savage? He was like 'ah shit I didn't want that-' 👀

It was because the kid would be afraid of them! Of course he wouldn't. But I guess Macaque still feels like his powers are a threat to him.

@redwrathroit ha chiesto:Hey, note this is something you can completely ignore but I wanted to know if you had a ref sheet for your monkey Bois, I'd love to take a try and drawing them plus I had made an Oc character of my own but I did it once and then art block hit me like a train and said; nah, never again. So it would really help me out if you have a ref, if not ignore this and have a nice day/night

Unfortunately I don't. I have a lot of panels where you can see them full body in various stances though.

Anonimo ha chiesto:Wukong being the little spoon is too cute, he spends years being the big spoon platonically to everyone that someone finally gave him what was needed, to be protected instead of being the protector

Yesss he iss!!!!!!

@froggyofdeath ha chiesto:Question abt Shadowpeach bio parents! Sooo, who kills the spiders, who screaming abt them, who the one who picks it up and try to scare the screaming one?🫠✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️☕️☕️☕️☕️

Mk is screaming, Wukong picks it up, Macaque kills it.

Anonimo ha chiesto:Can we see exactly when they decided to prepare the courtnapping room? Like when exactly did they know oh we need to prepare that our son has apparently followed in our footsteps

Unfortunately in this AU for now I don't plan tp draw a full spicynoodle arc as well. There will be moments for the ship as well but more like extras and side stories.

Anonimo ha chiesto:Your shadowpeach bio au reminds me of something..... I remember you saying to someone that they should Read a Son of Two Dad's. Have you read the entire thing? and the sequel?

Yes I did! Also the sequel, but i think it s in hiatus.

Anonimo ha chiesto:In you newest update for the shadowpeach parent au, that one scene of Macaque looking at Wukong as MK holds his finger kind of reminds me those flashback scenes in movies of the dead lover/wife that is looking at the main character from under a flowing blanket. I have no clue why but the image popped up in my head when I read that part of the comic lmao

I bet when they are back together they will re-create this exact image eventually

Anonimo ha chiesto:I love that Macaque is initiating contact with Wukong. Hugging him, holding his hands, cuddling with him. It makes my heart melt 🥹🥰 And Wukong is giving him opportunities to do so

He is opening the door for Mac to come closer, so that it's his choice how much he can get closer. The last thing Wukong wants is to rush things or do something that would make him more uncomfortable.

Anonimo ha chiesto:Omg! I love your art especially your shadowpeach parent bio au, it's adorable! Although I'm terrified for the next page. Anyway, my question is, why won't you let the monkey trio breathe from the trauma? 😅🥹

Bc apparently chat asked for it

[itgirldraco]

do you have any fic recs?

yes!! so many!! please check the tags for each!

all time favorites:

way down we go: an absolute classic. werewolf harry, chronically ill utterly miserable draco, post-war in small town america. enemies to lovers slowburn with protective harry and hopelessly gay draco.

in hopes that you may drown: SO much of my art is based on this author's harry and draco. such a lovely fic. post-war, draco raising delphi and absolutely perfecting the stressed yoga mom vibe. harry is instantly smitten.

in our blood: about haunted houses, parenthood and growing to care for each other. I love this one.

you'll still find stone: arranged marriage. draco expects the worst and harry is an absolute sweetheart. angst but so heartwarming. (mind the tags!!)

ANYTHING by corvetteclaire! their blood link and in the mirror series are severely underrated and genuinely took my breath away. some of my favorite writing and plots.

inside grey eyes: so so beautiful. quite dark and yet exceptionally hopeful. all about draco's recovery from a nightmare situation and harry's unending support. (mind the tags!!)

anything by tessa crowley!! an absolute gem in the fandom with an impressive variety of works.

the mirror of ecidyrue series: perfection.

in your arms, rests my world: “You make me feel safe, Potter. You keep me safe.” yeah..yeah. (mind the tags!!)

anything by toxik_angel tbh..one of my favorites is infairitance even though it’s incomplete; fairy draco is a game changer

oxytocin: angst, angst, angst, and so much cuddling. slowburn in the best way possible.

Soup-pocalypse and The Great Curry Cataclysm: i read this some time ago but i remember adoring it.

Diffraction Patterns (I Don't Know How to Forget You): another incredible old read .

everything by beloved @rockingrobin69 !! this is one my favorites ever i never stop thinking about it

fluff/humor:

manlet: PLEASE read this one! so so cute and adorable and hilarious ft sweet giant harry and tiny angry draco and wickedly funny narcissa. will definitely open your eyes to small draco.

screw you: extremely funny and extremely hot.

like a star across my sky: SUCH a good fic! feels like a romcom.

title of their sex tape: as funny as it sounds.

flirt: really sweet. disaster flirty draco and awkward yet charmed harry.

married to a brute (ongoing): genius and hilarious

smut:

it beats me black and blue: absolute perfection. no notes.

let me roll it: so delicious. clueless mess draco and grumpy harry who hates everyone except draco.

his little something: size difference excellence

scenes of surrender: a combination of smut, love, recovery and caretaking

a perfect fit: hung harry and size queen draco

come up for air: veela draco

fawning for you: harry is completely obsessed with draco's videos. very cute, muggle setting.

burning the ground: creature fic

ongoing/other faves:

one elephant at a time (ongoing): i recommend this fic to EVERYONE. genuinely incredible. think yellow wallpaper, jane eyre, crush by richard siken, and the author mentions being inspired by my dark vanessa as well. so essentially a modern romance with a dark gothic backstory. every single sentence in this fic stands out to me. every characterization, every conversation, is just so honest and genuine. also!! draco has a cat called lady di!! and he loves to wear earrings! (mind the tags!!)

within the hollow crown: more of pre-drarry tbh. such an interesting plot!! harry grudgingly cares for an increasingly spiraling draco who is except under close and constant watch by the dark lord-every second of his sixth year. currently has an ongoing sequel.

imperfection (ongoing): another fic by robin! and another of my all time favorites, so so lovingly written and so tragic and lovely and heartbreaking. really digs into draco's psych and his manic mindset and constant spiral BUT there is light at the end of the tunnel and so much love surrounding him even though it's hard for him to see it. (mind the tags!!)

saviour series (ongoing): wouldn't necessarily call this drarry? more of a stockholm syndrome gothic novel type of fic but i recommend it all the same. the writing is truly extraordinary and the pacing is incredible. will leave you breathless. part one is complete. (mind the tags!!)

perspective series (ongoing): the original books with alpha harry, omega draco in gryffindor, and an adorable friendship dynamic between the golden trio and draco. really sweet, and super interesting. no romance as of yet but there are little moments.

tales of the potters: very interesting take on the arranged marriage trope! i recommend all of this author's works; they have a gorgeous way with words and their work really brings harry and draco to life.

the veiled boy (ongoing): one of the most intriguing recent fics i've read. really delves into character dynamics in such a realistic and refreshing way and draco is so endearing in it. every chapter has gorgeous illustrations.

never in extremity: reread this one recently. equal parts heartbreaking and heartwarming. (mind the tags!!)

[kingkat12]

hickeys (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, mentions of sex, softcore-y smut, tw!bullying, Roman using his powers for no good, he's being so weird about virgin!reader, angsty fluff lol

summary: after having sacrificed your friendship with Letha for Roman's limited understanding of love and affection, you suddenly learn the consequences of your actions...

word count: 7,406 (you know me, not sorry anymore)

a/n: this is part 4 of my series seven minutes in heaven! click here to read; part 1, part 2, part 3! enjoy!!!<33

Roman had a hickey right on the side of his throat. Thankfully, I knew who gave him that one-- me.

It dawned on me that I had never seen him with one before. Despite how easy it was for me to get lost in the feelings of joy, finding a sense of pride at being the only one allowed to do that to him, I remembered Roman hadn't always been open to these sorts of things. He had warmed up to it gradually, with everything starting as a small incident at my place a week ago.

We had been splayed out on my bed, my face buried in his chest as I took a casual mid-day nap on top of him. It had become a habit-- Roman would come over, we'd bicker about something, then make out for about an hour until he decided to take his smoke break on my balcony. But today was different; the both of us had just finished a rather hard math test, so we were absolutely spent by the time we hit my bed. Roman didn't even have the energy to smoke, and seeing how tired he was, I decided to be bold and cuddle up to him; however, I hadn't expected us to fall asleep like this.

Weirdly enough, he didn't resist my advances. He'd usually start feeling uncomfortable as he wasn't used to affection like this, but today, Roman had his arms around me as I laid with my head on top of his chest. I had been a little embarrassed to wake up to the sight of a tiny puddle of my drool on his sweater, and I tapped the spot with my fingers as though that would make it go away.

Roman awoke, groggy. He let out a low grunt as he raised his head, trying to get a look at what I was doing. "Is that what I think it is?--"

"No," My words barely came out louder than a whisper, now covering the spot with my palm as I looked up at him with a soft smile. "Did you sleep well?"

Roman, being the stubborn asshole he was, didn't even register my question. "Did you drool on me?"

Oh God, this was mortifying. I figured he'd find out anyway; I slowly removed my hand from the spot, sliding off him. "Sorry..." As I rolled over, my back against the bed, I could only sigh. Being Roman's unofficial official girlfriend was hard, especially now that I didn't have any friends to discuss it with. 

However, there were moments where the hardships were worth it. Moments like these ones, where Roman now flipped over and unexpectedly snuggled up to me, his face hiding in the crook of my neck. "I've never been drooled on like that before," he said, his words muffled in my hair. "This is my favourite sweater."

With wary movements, I brought one hand up to his brown locks, gently stroking through them. I wasn't sure what the next sound from Roman was, but the closest thing would be a purr. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, my other hand running up and down his broad back. "Want me to buy you a new one?"

Roman huffed; "Don't be stupid. I'll just leave it in the washer here if you don't mind," 

"The washer?" My hands froze, no longer ghosting over his skin with gentle touches. "It will dry up in a second, Roman, get yourself together. And even worse, I might get the urge to wear it if you leave it here." I immediately regretted that joke the second it slipped past my lips-- in hopes of brushing over it, scared he'd climb off me and go back to being his usual self, I resumed running my fingers through his hair and up his back.

To my surprise, Roman didn't react much. The only thing I could notice was a rather shaky breath against my neck, almost as though he had just had a really tempting thought. Eventually, he spoke; "It wouldn't fit you very well,"

I did my best to shrug, although that was hard to do with someone on top of me. "That's not the premise," I huffed. "People usually wear each others' stuff when they're into one another. It's a cute thing."

"... So you'd want me to leave my sweater here?" Roman eventually propped himself up on his elbows, meeting my gaze. "Why? It's not like you'd be able to wear it anywhere."

It was in moments like these that I realized how little Roman actually knew about girls. He was supposedly very good in bed, but with feelings and affection? He was like a very aggressive puppy with gorgeous fur-- some men you simply have to train to be soft. "I'd wear it at home," I said, reaching out to brush his messed up hair away from his green eyes. "Especially when it's stormy outside and I'm doing my homework."

Something about my words seemed to be leaving small cracks in Roman's shell-- had I not been so observant, I wouldn't have noticed the way his pupils dilated or the way his features softened as he looked at me. "Would it be a one-way thing?" he asked; was I imagining things, or did he sound shy? "You get my sweater, and I get..."  Roman propped himself up further, taking a quick glance around my room. It didn't take long before his eyes landed on the plain, black hair ties on my nightstand, and he wasted no time reaching for two in one go. "I get these."

Seeing him so serious about this exchange was too funny-- I couldn't help the giggle building in my chest, suppressing a rather obnoxious laugh. "Yeah, I think that's smart," I murmured, stroking my thumb over his cheek. "Your hair is getting a little long... Would probably make your life easier."

Roman rolled his eyes, huffing. "It's not exactly like you have anything else lying around here!"

There was no way in hell I was about to tell him that my room was this clean because I had predicted he'd come over. "Okay, but it still works," I reached for his hand, taking the ties into my palm before rolling them over his fingers, watching as the rubber bands now sat comfortably at his wrist. "There you go!" I exclaimed, beaming up at a rather perplexed Roman. "Sweater, please."

It took a few seconds for him to react-- his eyes fixated on the black rubber ties around his wrist, and before I knew it, I saw slivers of pink appearing on his cheeks. I had never seen him react to anything like this before, and I had no idea why Roman was suddenly unmistakably blushing. "Fuck," he breathed. "That's cute." 

To hide his blush, he quickly wried his sweater off his body, throwing it away on a chair nearby before burying his face in the crook of my neck again, putting his whole weight back on me. "Promise to use it for dirty stuff too," he grumbled, probably to save face, before pressing a kiss to my neck. 

I was happy Roman didn't see how brightly I was smiling-- I would've been told off immediately, and he'd most likely retract right back into his shell. It was unusual for him to accept any sort of affection, and I wondered whether he had let anyone this close before. The more I got to know Roman, the more he was sleepy and babbling around me, I realized that I had to gradually ease physical kindness into his life to make our weird whatever-ship work. 

The whatever-ship I had sacrificed everything for.

And I would've spiraled deeper into thoughts about it, but the sudden pressure I felt against my neck made me snap out of it-- I realized he was giving me a rather hefty hickey, a familiar tingling sensation coursing its way through my body. I let out a satisfied sigh, my fingers burying themselves deeper into Roman's hair as he moved elsewhere on my neck to make a second one. "These will go well with the sweater," he purred against my skin.

I held back a shiver-- The hate I had once felt for him had quickly turned into whatever this was. All I knew, was that it felt good enough to distract me from the guilt that kept gnawing at me after betraying Letha the way I did. ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The next day at school actually marked a month since the last time Letha and I had spoken on the bleachers. A month of staring at her longingly from afar like a kicked puppy and asking our mutual friends how she was. It didn't take long before they all heard what had happened between Roman and I, and they suddenly became Letha's friends only.

I didn't know how lonely I would be after I chose Roman, and it was slowly breaking my heart. Being blacklisted by nearly all the girls at school was tough, to say the least. 

So as I rummaged around my locker, getting ready for my next class, I didn't expect Letha to approach. There was no way I could imagine she'd do that, especially after the way she had been denying all my attempts of reconciliation. But here she was, blonde hair styled to perfection, and her green, stern eyes meeting mine the second I closed my locker door.

I stared right back, at a loss for words despite opening my mouth to speak. 

Letha cleared her throat, pressing her books tightly against her chest. "It's been a month," she tried, something about her softening with the weight of her words. "I think I might be ready to... talk."

My heart jumped up like never before, immediately thrown into a feeling of ecstatic victory. "What?" I squeaked, unable to stop my beaming look of joy. "Are you serious?" 

Letha shrugged, biting the inside of her cheek to suppress her smile. "I think it's time to try, at least?--" Her words came to a halt the second I turned to face her fully, and her green eyes immediately found my neck. 

My hair had moved to behind my shoulders as I turned around, revealing the hickeys I had tried my best to cover with setting powder and foundation. It didn't take long before Letha's softening look became one of horror as she took a step back, clearly repulsed.

I immediately went into panic, piecing it together. "No, Letha, wait!--"

There was no stopping Letha before she turned on her heel, bolting down the corridor with heavy steps. 

I turned back towards my locker, pressing my forehead against it. There was no way in hell I'd let everyone see me cry in public again. It felt as though Letha had dug her hand into my chest and ripped out my heart, now squeezing it until it finally popped. My breath hitched as I stepped away from the locker, sniffling as I felt a sob build.

Just as I was about to leave and get to class somehow, the familiar scent of cinnamon entered my system. "What did Letha want?" Roman asked, his hands tucked into his pockets as he approached. His brows were drawn together in a disapproving look as he watched Letha disappear down the hallway in unmatched hurry, and I got a good glance at him when I finally turned around to face him. How long had he been watching me from afar?

Roman's glare quickly faded away when his attention shifted and he noticed the way my eyes had glossed over. His whole tough look disappeared within a sliver of a second, and I was unsure whether he noticed it himself. "... Nothing good, I see?"

I shied away from his gaze, my eyes darting down to my shoes. "She wanted to make up all until she saw... well," To demonstrate, I turned a little, showing Roman the once blank canvas which was now covered in about six hickeys that I counted last night. It was clear to me that my attempt at hiding them had failed.

Roman could only sigh, an infuriating grin now spreading across his face. "I'm going to say sorry now, but know that I don't fully mean it because... the sight of you like this is so damn hot," He leaned down, pressing his lips against my forehead as he took my face into his hands. I couldn't help but notice that he was still wearing my two black rubber bands just as my breath hitched at the loving gesture.

Something about the kiss made my heart skip, but another part was ripping at me; Roman clearly cared more about the fact that he had marked me than how upset I was. I hummed in response, not knowing what else to say before much later; "Don't do that,"

"Do what?"

"Don't kiss me like that," I mumbled, pressing my back against my locker to make as much space between us as possible. "Just... Don't." 

Roman's first reaction was on display with a stunned expression, up until his brows drew together in what I could only read as annoyance. "Fine," he said, teeth gritted. His hands fell down at his sides, trying to save face as he took a step away from me; "I'm just trying to make you feel a little better, it's not that fucking deep." In true Godfrey fashion, he also proceeded to storm down the hallway, clearly flustered after being shut down.

I had to take a long breath-- this was a lot to take in for one day. Roman being in denial about his feelings also didn't help much. I wanted to run after him, grab his hand and tell him that he could do absolutely whatever he wanted with me, that I'd love for him to kiss me like that once more, but I knew I couldn't.

It was hard to believe how badly I had fallen for a guy who could barely regulate his own feelings. Someone who insisted on making it apparent to everyone that I was his without actually wanting to put a name to it. I let out a sigh, watching Roman get further and further away. Something told me I maybe should've followed him, at least asked him whether he wanted to come to my place later and sleep next to each other, but my plans quickly fell apart when I witnessed the one thing I hated seeing most in the world.

In the midst of his angry storm-off, Roman managed to turn his head to allow for his eyes to follow a girl with an exceptionally short skirt passing him by. 

I wanted to throw up-- the hungry look in his eyes made me nauseous. Everything about Roman looking at someone in the way he usually looked at me made me want to burst into tears all over again. 

No matter what I felt for him, one thing would never change; I hated Roman Godfrey. I hated him and the way he made me feel like a stomped bug. Hated the way he'd look at me after he'd make me cum around his fingers, the way he'd stroke my hair away from my forehead with the gentlest touch as I fell asleep, and the way he'd insist on driving me everywhere just to spend some extra time together.

I hated him. I hated this feeling, and especially what it had done to me, my friendships, and my reputation.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

... Thoughts of my reputation went out the window now that Roman was back in my bed. Nothing suggestive, of course-- he was currently half asleep next to me. Even more heartwarming, was the fact that he still wore my two hair ties around his wrist, and I could get a proper look at him now that he was resting. I loved this feeling; we were both wearing the items we had exchanged.

"It looks good on you," he mumbled, tugging me closer with the arm he had around me. "My sweater. I thought I would hate seeing you in it, but it's not so bad."

My body was halfway on top of his, and I couldn't help but giggle as he pressed me closer to his chest. "Why did you think you'd hate it?" I adored the feeling of being completely engulfed in Roman-- the lingering scent of his perfume stuck to the gigantic sweater I was in, and his big arms around me made all my pain feel worth it. 

All up until Roman hummed, eyes still closed as his hands raked through my hair; "You wearing my stuff makes it real... Like you're mine. I don't know whether I want that responsibility,"

I could only sigh, unsure whether I should let my heart sink just yet. Sometimes, it was best to dig around in Roman's mud of a brain before settling for the version he wanted me to believe. "So you would be okay if I was with someone else?"

Roman opened one eye, glancing down at me as he raised a brow. "Are you with someone else?"

"... No,"

"Would you want to be?"

What an odd question; one he didn't need to know the truth of. "Would you care if I did?"

Roman opened his second eye, now scouring my face to check for cracks in my facade. Something told me he wasn't buying it, but that he wasn't about to take any chances. Eventually, he scoffed, rolling his eyes before closing them again; "Fuck off,"

"Fuck off yourself," I mumbled, burying my face in the crook of his neck. I tried to dull out the fact that his arm automatically wrapped itself tighter around me before I spoke once more; "Answer the question."

"Why?" Roman shifted, pulling my whole body on top of his, letting out a satisfied sigh now that all of my weight was laid on him. "It's a stupid question. Why can't we just enjoy this moment?"

He had a point, sure-- I just didn't deem it enough. "I hope you remember that I have a lot on the line here," I placed my hands next to his head, pushing myself up to get a proper look at him. Roman eventually opened his big, green eyes, and they quickly rounded out as they met mine. Everything about looking into his eyes made me want to squeal and pepper him with kisses; this was dangerous territory. I knew had to pull myself together; "I have, like... zero friends because of this. Because I chose you. And you not wanting to take on that responsibility or whatever it was that you called it, makes me feel like crap. You make me feel like crap." 

It was clear that Roman was holding his breath without thinking about it. He stared up at me, unsure what to say; "... All the time?"

"What?"

"Do I make you feel like crap all the time?"

That was certainly a way to spin it-- taken aback, I furrowed my brows as I pondered the question. "Not... all the time, no,"

Roman hummed; he seemed content with that answer. "I know you're upset about the whole Letha thing," he said, his big hands traveling down to grab at my hips as he shifted me to sit in his lap. "I also see that I'm not exactly helping the situation, but... you can't keep blaming me for your decision."

"... Okay," His request was simple enough-- I was ready to adhere to his wishes. "But then you have to say it out loud."

"Say what?"

"That you like me,"

I watched as Roman's eyes widened, his grip on my hips tightening. His whole body tensed up, unsure whether to speak or not. It was clear that he was conflicted about how to tread forward, and I held my breath the second his plush lips parted. Roman sat up, his back now supported by my headboard. Like this, I was sat in his lap with my arms draped around his neck, and he connected our foreheads with a sigh. Roman's words eventually came out like a slow, warm whisper; "I don't know what I feel," 

It felt as though my heart had lodged itself into my throat-- what? I was about to start arguing with him, cursing him out for dragging me through the mud for nothing, all until Roman suddenly reached for my hand. He placed my palm over his heart, his eyes finding mine as he steadied his breathing. "I don't know what I feel," he echoed. "But I know that looking at you makes my heart beat faster. Feel how hard it's going?" He pressed my hand further up against his chest, something about his touch giving away the sincere nature of this gesture. I hadn't seen Roman doing anything this romantic before, and everything was practically perfect all up until he opened his dumb teenage mouth; "I'm serious. It usually only beats like this when I look at pictures of Sydney Sweeney in a swimsuit."

That's it-- I groaned and ripped my hand out of his grip. "Okay, that's enough. You need to leave, it's almost midnight," In an attempt to climb off him, I almost made it out of his lap before his hands grabbed my hips once more, forcing me back down as I yelped. My eyes widened as they met Roman's, watching his signature smirk spread across his lips. 

"Where do you think you're going in my sweater?" he purred, suppressing a chuckle. "My sweater, my rules. Give me a kiss before I leave, at least."

I huffed as I snaked my arms around his neck, feeling his hot breath against my lips. "And why should I kiss you?"

"Because you want to?" Roman didn't care to try to suppress his grin, gently nudging my nose with his as his grip on my waist tightened. His voice dropped, getting airy as he whispered against my lips; "You want to so bad."

Everything about him made the butterflies in my stomach flutter-- it didn't help that his hair was tousled in a classic heartbreaker look, along with how ridiculously soft his lips suddenly looked. 

Roman definitely noticed the reddening of my cheeks, concluding why I had gone mute. "Don't be like that," he teased, not doing a good job with hiding his amusement. "Just kiss me first, for once. Have you noticed that you never initiate anything?"

I held my breath-- "I just... don't know what I'm doing," My confession was unexpected, but it felt nice to get it off my chest. "I don't want you to think I'm clueless."

"But you are?" Roman's chuckle was one of mischief as his hands shamelessly trailed down my body, now grabbing my ass as he pushed me closer to him. "It's not a bad thing. Just means I can program you to my liking."

I didn't even act as though I wanted his hands off of me, giving in to his antics. Something about the way he was holding me made me feel awfully warm-- maybe it was time to take off the sweater? "Tell me what you like, then," I purred, putting my hands on his chest. I figured that if I had gone down this route, I'd continue my path with conviction. 

Roman's smirk only grew, letting out a breathy laugh against my lips as he gave my ass a firm squeeze. "That's my girl," he cooed. "We'll start simple." He nudged his nose against mine once more, his lips parting before his words came out in a hot whisper against mine; "Kiss me."

His words were too alluring to deny-- I leaned forward, my hands carefully laying against his broad shoulder as I kissed him. A sigh of satisfaction escaped Roman, who immediately dug his hands into the flesh of my behind to tug me closer. Everything about the way he was reacting to me reminded me of our first date, and the way he had held and kissed me in the alley when we were hiding from Letha. 

The kiss was slow, almost lazy; something about the moonlight hitting us was making it more intense. It mostly consisted of small, loving pecks, and many pauses to simply smile against one another. I wondered whether he had ever kissed anyone like this before, with a softness I didn't see in him very often. 

It was hard to believe that this was the same guy that had me running around scared for him to prick me with needles. The only thing pricking me right now was the hardening of Roman's cock beneath me. With every twitch, every time his hands dug into my hips in an attempt to grind me against him, I could only grin into the kiss. There wasn't exactly anything sexual about this kiss, but he would always get hard from the smallest little things-- I couldn't help but find pride in it. At least this was another confirmation that he wanted me.

Roman eventually grew frustrated, now trying to rut up against me just for any sort of friction. With that, I grabbed the headboard, raising myself with my knees so that he wouldn't succeed. As he groaned, I had to bite down on my growing smile; the look on his gorgeous face was too damn thrilling.

Roman's eyes were round, his chest sinking with a shaky exhale as a rosy flush lingered in his cheeks. "Anything," he breathed. "Just give me anything. I'll take it."

"Anything?" I wasn't quite sure what he was getting at; "What do you mean?"

His hands grabbed at my waist, signalizing that he wanted me to sit down on his arousal once more-- perhaps that felt like a relief in itself? Roman stared up at me through his brows, his fingers digging into my flesh. "I'm not asking you for sex. I'm being nice. So I'm saying I'll take anything you'll give me... Even the smallest thing," He leaned forward, pressing a wet kiss against my neck which had me losing my breath within seconds, now whispering against my skin; "Just touch me." Roman's needy kisses trailed up my neck, jaw, and cheeks until his breath was hot against my ear. "However you want. Don't be shy, try it out."

Something told me that Roman was secretly into me being a virgin, after all this time of making fun of me for it. However, I wasn't about to say no to the opportunity to explore with the Roman Godfrey, and I eventually sat back down on his arousal, my cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red at the sound of his muffled grunt. 

My hands went up into his soft hair, pressing a kiss against his temple as my fingers stroked through his locks. "There's one thing I might want to try..."

Roman turned to nip at my jaw, his hands traveling back down to my ass. "Go for it,"

I didn't want to give him time to change his mind; my hand in his hair tightened, pulling him away from me with an unexpected roughness. I was about to apologize until I noticed the way Roman closed his eyes, and the way his lips parted in what looked like pleasure. It suddenly dawned on me that he might be the type to like a little pain, not only cause it. However, I wasn't ready to explore that at the moment-- I had another thought to attend to. 

Roman's head lolled back against the headboard as I leaned down to kiss his neck, and it was clear to me that he was enjoying himself. It was only when his fingers dug themselves back into the flesh of my behind that I got the confidence to pull through with my original plan; I sucked down on a particular spot, hard enough to leave a mark.

I didn't need to see his face to know that Roman's eyes were wide open with the realization of what was happening. I was ready for him to push me away, tell me off, tell me to stop-- but his arms only wrapped around me, pulling me closer in a swift motion that had me grinding up against his hard cock, and Roman let out a sigh of pleasure as he let himself be marked with a blooming hickey. 

Something told me I had to be somewhat special for him to allow me to do such a thing, and it quickly dawned on me that I had never felt this happy with anyone before, despite his shortcomings. 

I liked Roman more than I had ever liked anyone before, and I had an inkling that he felt the same. Who knew something so simple could feel so incredibly good?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Knowing I had Roman wrapped around my finger, despite him not being able to properly say it out loud, had me floating around in my own little bubble. Everything concerning Letha suddenly felt irrelevant, and it wasn't taking up as much space in my mind as before. All I could think about was the way Roman had smiled at me as he passed me in the hall, the red hickey on the side of his neck peeking out past his shirt. The cherry on top of it were the two hair ties he still wore around his wrist-- he was enjoying this, wasn't he?

However, I was yanked back into the absolute shitshow I had caused for myself concerning my girlfriends later that same day.

My previous friends had never done anything more than glare at me from across the hall. Maybe the occasional overdramatic huff when they passed me, an extra eye-roll my way, and so I did my best to not pay it any mind. 

Which is why I was so shocked when the proceeding followed. 

It didn't bother me to sit alone at lunch-- not anymore, at least. I wasn't about to reach out to Roman to ask where he was and whether I could join him either; but just as I picked up my phone, ready put away my nerves and text him, my gaze was diverted from the screen and to the three girls that sat down in front of me.

I held my breath, my eyes widening with the realization that my previous best friends were staring at me with the nastiest looks I had probably ever seen.

Oh no.

Breathing deeply, I did my best to harden my gaze and keep my guard up. "What do you want, Jasmine?" I asked, putting my phone down on the table as I stared down the girl in the middle. Jasmine was the one I had liked the least in our friend group, and I wasn't surprised that she was the one to take action-- the rest of the girls always followed her like dogs, and it had always made me sick; especially now that they were sititng by her like docile animals.

Jasmine cleared her throat, leaning further over the table in an attempt to intimidate me; "We're just here to make you aware of something,"

"Which is...?"

Taken aback by my lack of reaction, Jasmine's eye twitched just slightly as the girls next to her grew more and more uncomfortable. "Letha told me what she saw on your neck this morning. And sitting this close to you, I see it too... Do you not understand how it makes you look?"

There was no way for me to hold back my sarcasm; "How does it make me look? Do indulge, Jas," I couldn't even hold back my grimace at this point. "Why does it even matter to you?"

Jasmine's eye twitched once more, and she slammed her hands against the table with a loud thud. "What upsets Letha, upsets me! I'm just glad I found out what kind of person you truly are, and it brings me immense joy to realize everyone is starting to catch on to the truth as well!"

Despite how hard I attempted to stay neutral, unaffected, and unfazed, I couldn't do anything about the way my heart sunk. I couldn't even muster up anything to counter Jasmine's words, taken aback by the bluntness of my previous friend.

"Letha really wanted to reconcile, do you know that?" Jasmine continued, an evil snicker building in her throat. "But it's fucking disgusting that you walk around like you're proud to be fucking Roman Godfrey, especially when you know how much you've hurt her. Fucking traitor!"

Before I could protest, she reached for my phone which I had left unattended. There was barely any time to pry it out of Jasmine's hands before she stood up and smashed it into the table, the rest of her posse scurrying away from the table before the pieces of glass could hit them. I didn't have to look to know that the whole cafeteria was watching this scene play out; it was only when I heard gasps coming from around us that I truly realized the extent of what had happened.

As the glass from my phone had bounced off the table, the sharp pieces flying in every direction, I had covered my face with my hands. So, when I slowly pried them away from my eyes, turning them around to identify where the stinging of my skin was coming from, my eyes fell on the three pieces of glass lodged into the back of my hands. It wasn't too deep, not enough to scar or cause real damage, but damn-- it burned like crazy. 

With tears in my eyes, I watched as Jasmine snickered, clearly unaffected by the fact that she had caused me physical harm; "We're ready to make your life a living hell," she hissed. "That'll show you. Fucking whore."

Something inside me broke. Usually, I would've fought back, I would've said something-- but I froze. Completely. I had never felt anything like this, the mix of both physical and mental pain turning me to stone.

Fuck. Was this truly how everyone saw me? Nothing more than one of Roman's countless whores?

I knew this would haunt me for the following weeks to come, and I couldn't fight the way my mind shut down. The need to get away overcame me; with shaky steps, I got up from my table, realizing I was about to leave school despite the day not being finished. 

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I had avoided Roman like the plague for the rest of the day-- I was almost as broken as my phone. I held the pieces in my hands under the dim lights of my desk in my room, nudging the glass around on the table. My phone had completely shattered, now just a heap of technology I held onto for the sake of nostalgia in a deep state of shock.

I kept glancing at my hands, my fingers ghosting over the three thin cuts that had parted my skin. They were thankfully not that grotesque to look at, and I was quite sure I could play it off as a scratch from a particularly large cat if anyone asked. 

Or... so I hoped. 

I wondered whether Letha knew about what had happened. Did she condone it? Had she been the one who ordered Jasmine and her gang to mess with me? Everything about this situation made my head spin-- Choosing Roman might've been the wrong decision. I kept thinking about an alternative universe in which I had never asked him to kiss me in the first place, or one where I had told Letha about my feelings for her cousin before it was too late.

It dawned on me that I had mostly likely made the wrong choice-- how was I supposed to deal with this?

Just as I was about to toss the remnants of my phone into the nearby bin, I heard a few knocks at my window which made me turn towards the sound. There he was, the last rays of today's sunlight making the bronze hues in his hair shine through; Roman tapped against the glass once more, eyes round with an emotion I couldn't piece together from afar.

I walked towards the window and opened it, leaning against the frame as I spoke; "What are you doing here?" My tone was sharper than expected-- seeing him didn't exactly make me feel any better.

"You haven't answered my messages," Roman didn't seem to be in a hurry about getting off my roof, making himself comfortable by sitting down by the window. "All day. Radio silence. I'm not really used to that from you, so... just checking to see whether you're having a stroke or something."

I did my best not to roll my eyes; "A stroke?"

"I don't know?" Roman shrugged, his green eyes never leaving mine. "What other explanation is there for a girl not answering me?"

I grimaced as I watched his expression. It was impossible to push down the intense feelings of frustration when I looked at him, all my love for him manifesting back to its usual hate-- I wouldn't have been in this situation if I hadn't met him. This was technically just as much his fault as mine. 

Why did he look so confused? It suddenly hit me that he was being dead serious; he didn't get it at all. He genuinely couldn't find another reason for my absence. "Oh," was what I managed to say, clearing my throat as I sat down on the window sill. "Have you not heard?" 

Roman blinked twice, clearly lost as he looked up at me. "Heard what?"

My eyes darted down to my hands, which I had covered with the sleeves of Roman's sweater without even thinking about it. "I thought everyone would be talking about it," I mumbled. "I guess that's a relief, then."

"What are you talking about?" The green of his eyes nearly swallowed me, and I found a tiny trace of genuine concern behind them, so miniscule I could barely notice it. "What happened?"

I wanted to disappear into a heap of nothing; it was so embarrassing that I had let this happen. My pride was definitely trying to choke the life out of me. "My phone broke," I breathed, automatically reaching for the hem of the sweatshirt out of nervous habit-- I felt my cheeks flush, nervous to be revisiting the moment that had haunted me all day.

Roman's brows furrowed, unsure how to react; "You made it sound like something really bad had happened. I could buy you a new one, no problem," He watched me pick at the sweatshirt, now reaching out for my hands to stop my destructive fidgeting.

I let out the breath I had been holding the second our fingers intertwined, feeling the roughness of his hands against mine. My eyes rested on the black hair ties he still wore around his wrist, a blooming warmth igniting in my chest and wading through all my anger. I was so swept up in the moment, comforted by the way he squeezed my hands twice, that I didn't catch the moment the sleeves of the sweater bunched up and revealed the cuts on the back of my hands. "You don't need to buy me a new phone, don't be ridiculous," I said, watching a single strand of his brown hair slowly fall over his eyes as he glanced down. "I'd feel bad--"

"What's this?" Roman's grip around my hands tightened, now bringing them up to his face. 

It felt as though my breath had gotten lodged in my throat as I watched Roman's widening green eyes scan the surface of my hands. His brows drew together once more, thumbs swiping over the unhealed wounds. The touch made me hiss, attempting to get out of his grip, but to no avail. "It's the neighbour's cat," I tried. "I bent down to pet it, and--"

"This is not from a cat," Roman's gaze darted up to meet mine, suddenly a lot more intense than usual. "I'll ask you again, what happened?"

I tried to squirm out of his hold once more; "It's not important, Roman... Forget it, please. Actually, I'm going to have to ask you to leave--"

"Tell me,"

"No, seriously, drop it! Can't you just go?!--"

Roman's grip around my hands tightened further, almost to the point of making me wince. "Tell me," His pupils widened at an eerie rate, transfixed on mine. It felt as though his words were echoing through my head, and it didn't take long before I suddenly felt as though my inner monologue froze over.

And before I knew it, my mouth had a mind of its own; "They broke my phone,"

"Who?"

I really, really tried to fight it. Getting Roman involved in this drama was certainly not ideal, and I did my best to push away the urge to tell him; why was it so strong, all of a sudden? It almost felt as though he was controlling my mind, but it was ridiculous to even think so-- that was obviously impossible. Right? 

I eventually got around to answering; "Jasmine," 

"... Who?" Roman was beginning to sound like a really confused owl.

"Jasmine," I echoed. "Letha's friend. She brought a few girls over to my table and smashed my phone. Called me a whore."

Roman was silent for a few seconds, his face going unnaturally blank. "These cuts are from your phone?"

"Yeah,"

"And she did it because you're with me?"

"... Yeah," Did he just insinuate that we were together? I held my breath, unsure why my mouth wasn't adhering to my orders-- I so desperately wanted to point it out, but I physically couldn't. What on earth was happening?

Roman hummed, his grip around my hands loosening. "What else did she say?"

I blinked several times in an attempt to get out of the trance-like state I found myself in, but nothing seemed to be working as long as Roman's gaze was locked on me. "She said she's gonna make my life a living hell," As I sniffled, I realized tears were pooling in my eyes. I squeezed them shut, shaking my head to try to snap out of it once more. "I- It's fine, though." It dawned on me that the trick was to not look at him-- I finally started feeling like myself again. "I just need to talk to Letha and check out the options for a truce, or whatever."

As I dared to open my eyes, I watched his blank face. Something about the lack of reaction was unsettling, on the border of uncomfortable, and it almost made me want to squirm. It was in this silence that a thick, red drop of blood suddenly made its way down Roman's nose, and he didn't react when it met his lips. It was almost as though he had frozen to his place on my roof, and I couldn't remember the last time he had blinked.

My eyes widened, concern filling my body. "You're bleeding," I breathed, trying to get my hands out of his. "Let me get something for you, Roman, it's gonna run down to your shirt!--"

Abruptly, he got up with a quickness I hadn't seen in him before, still not saying a word. Suddenly, I couldn't help but notice it-- the hickey on the right side of his throat. One he wasn't even trying to cover up. Despite how much Roman kept denying wanting to be with me, here he was, getting up to do God knows what whilst quite literally baring my mark on his skin.

I watched him, my brows drawing together in complete and utter confusion. "Roman?" Calling out his name didn't seem to do anything; he let the stream of blood run down his chin, now dripping down onto his shirt. I could only look up at him, unsure why he was acting like this.

Finally, Roman spoke; "Living hell, you say?" His voice was low, threatening-- it was suddenly clear to me that he had gotten a very dark idea.

These sorts of proclamations coming from a guy who had an affinity for pricking girls with needles genuinely concerned me. I got up from the window sill, ready to climb out onto the roof to join him. "Come on, Roman, let's just talk!--"

It was as though he was on auto-control, rushing to the edge of the roof before turning around to climb down. My heart beat hard in my chest as I nearly lunged out of my window, hoping to reach him in time. "Hey, where are you going?!" 

I didn't make it-- Roman had already managed to land on the grass beneath him, his long limbs an apparent advantage, and he was now storming down my lawn towards his car. 

"Roman!" I yelled, crouching down on the edge of my roof; this was definitely not looking good. My mind kept racing as I gave up trying to catch up to him, burying my face in my hands. 

I was screwed. I was so screwed. 

(a/n: check out part 1, part 2, and part 3 if you haven't!! thank you for reading, more to come!!<33)

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 7,252 (oof, this one got long!) Pairing: Negan Smith x Reader Reader pronouns: largely unspecified (but Negan does refer to reader as doll and darling which could be considered more feminine terms of endearment) Warnings: language haha, frightening scenarios, references to past violence Summary: Months have now passed since Y/N began taking on Negan as a "project" and the reader suggests an even longer run outside the walls. A/N: This is part of a series! Find all the parts on the Negan Master List. Previous Part here! “It’s been months,” you said. “There hasn’t been a single time that I’ve felt unsafe, and both of you know I never let my guard down.”

Daryl was leaning up against the wall beside the door, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was serious but largely unreadable. Michonne leaned forward on the table, considering your words.

“We need to think long-term here. Are we just going to keep him locked up forever? Or is there some version of this where he gets out and either integrates as much as possible or—or goes on his way?”

Michonne sighed and shook her head. “I’m not sure any of us have the answer to that yet,” she said.

“I know. I still don’t,” you said. “I’m not sure what the future looks like for him, but I know we have to do more than just letting him out to pick tomatoes every once in a while. So, that’s what I’m doing. And with you two stuck here dealing with the wall and the kids—and the pantry and medical supplies starting to run low, well… let’s kill two birds with one stone.”

Daryl sighed and straightened up. “I ain’t gonna say I like it, but I trust ya and I’ve seen your judgment play out too many times to doubt it. If ya think it’ll be alrigh’, then—well, ‘m good with it. But ya gotta show us exactly where you’ll be and when to expect ya back in case we need to come lookin’.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll mark it all on the map. We should be able to make it out and back in a single long day. Leave early. Get back late.”

“And no weapons for him unless it’s an absolute emergency,” Michonne emphasized.

“Of course,” you agreed.

“Alright,” Michonne nodded. “When will you go?”

“Tomorrow,” you said. “I’ll get everything ready today.”

“I’ll walk ya out,” Daryl drawled, watching as you grabbed your bag and shouldered it. “Listen—” he started.

You looked over at him and smiled, already knowing you were about to get a worried Daryl Dixon lecture. “Mhm?” you prompted him.

“The hell are ya smirkin’ about?” he growled, his brow furrowing.

“Nothing,” you laughed. “Go ahead.”

“Well—if somethin’ happens out there… if it comes down to you or him…” he trailed off.

Your brow furrowed deeply now to match his. “It won’t,” you said seriously.

He shifted anxiously. “But if it does…”

“Daryl. It’s not going to,” you insisted.

He relented and nodded, chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Okay. C’mere.” He pulled you into a hug and you smiled as he folded you up against him. “I just want ya to be safe, is all.” “I know. I will,” you agreed.

He nodded, pulling back. “Wish I could go with ya… I’d feel better about it.”

“I know. But it’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

“You’re shitting me, right?” Negan said, his breakfast still in his hand, not a single bite taken.

You stared at him and then let out a dry laugh. “That’s not exactly the reaction I was expecting,” you said.

“Well, shit. I mean… a real scavenging trip? That’s what you’re saying?” Negan said. He ran a hand back through his hair and stood, pacing a tight circle in his cell. “Who else is going?”

You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why? Someone specific you want me to invite? Want me to ask your old pal Gabriel? Or wait—Eugene?”

He laughed but looked vaguely shocked. “Well, I’m sorry but I’m just—a little fuckin’ surprised, doll.” You’d eased some on scolding Negan for the pet names over the last few weeks and generally just ignored them now unless it was something really egregious. (You’d nearly hit him for calling you ‘princess’ one day, so he had at least not tried that again.) He seemed to enjoy taking full advantage of you turning a deaf ear to them now. “Just you and me? Out there?” he clarified.

“You and I have already been out there alone how many times, hmm? I don’t see why this should be any different,” you said, digging around in your pack.

“Well, it’s farther. I mean, farther for you to get help if—”

You straightened up and fixed a skeptical gaze on him. “If what? If you suddenly decide to attempt to murder me? Attack me? Steal the car and leave me out there? I’ll still be armed and you won’t. Besides, I’ve been through more shit out there than—”

He laughed again. “I was just gonna say in case any number of bad fuckin’ things happens out there. And we both know that they do.”

“Yeah. You used to be one of those bad things, remember?” you shot back quickly. He sighed at your deflection and you couldn’t help but laughing. “I am having to sell this harder to you than I did to Michonne and Daryl. What is going on? What are you worried about?”

“I’m not worried! Although, it would be fuckin’ nice to have something to defend myself with in case of the dead or unexpected assholes…”

“ ‘Unexpected Assholes’?” you repeated. “What is that, your one man play?” you quipped. “Let me guess—you’ll be playing yourself.”

Negan couldn’t resist a hearty laugh at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s good. You’re fuckin’ hilarious as usual, doll.” But he looked serious again the next moment. “Anyway, about me having some way to defend myself…”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” you said lazily. “I’ll let you have, like, a stick if you want,” you smirked. He only stared back at you. “I told you that I’ll protect you! You think I’m just gonna let a walker wander up and bite you?” There was a thick silence for a moment where he just stared back at you.

“I’m not worried about one walker. I’m worried about all the random, rogue shit that can happen out there.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to trust me! Do you not want to go or what?” you pressed him, perplexed at his reaction.

He paused, drew in a deep breath, and let it out. Then that damn smirk showed back up on his face, sending his hazel eyes sparkling. “Are you asking if I want to go spend some quality time alone with you? Just the two of us? No one to interrupt… Completely at your mercy for whatever you may decide to do with me… or to me…”

You rolled your eyes, catching onto his tone immediately. “That could include killing you,” you cautioned him, eliciting a low laugh from him. You hated that the deep gravel of it gave you goosebumps. You did your best to ignore it.

“I don’t know… I’m starting to think this is just a ploy to get away with me where nobody can easily interrupt us,” Negan said. “I mean, shit. No need hide your true intentions from me,” he grinned. “I am absolutely 110% on board with that. Use me all you want, doll,” he grinned, now gripping the bars of his cell door. “God, I’d love to be fuckin’ used by you.”

You crossed your arms and fixed a stern look on him, hoping that your face wasn’t flushing bright red. You cleared your throat. “Sounds more like wishful thinking on your part. It’s a scavenging run, Negan, not a fucking romantic getaway,” you said.

“Are you sure you said that right? I think you meant romantic fucking getaway. Emphasis on the—”

“Negan! Stop! I will cancel this whole thing! Jesus Christ!”

That shit-eating grin was still on his face and he laughed again, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Alright, alright. I’m done. I think…”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. “Scavenging. Run.” you repeated.

“Yeah, we’ll see, doll. We’ll see. So, where are we going exactly?”

You forged ahead, ignoring his last comments in favor of moving on. “There are some old houses and other structures we’ve only ever done a cursory search of. Probably not going to make a huge score but there’s always something left behind, something hidden. But who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky,” you said.

“Fuck me, I’d love to get lucky…” he laughed again.

“Negan!” you exclaimed again.

“Alright! I’m sorry,” he chuckled.

“So, are you in?” you asked, slightly exasperated.

The two of you were separated by only the iron bars and a small buffer of space, hardly a foot. He was still smiling at you and you hated that the thought that he was handsome flickered through your mind. It wasn’t the first time you’d thought it—but the thought always surprised you, like it came from somewhere outside of yourself, not by your conjuration alone. “Fuck yes, I’m in,” he answered, interrupting your thoughts.

“You promise to listen to everything I say? If I tell you to run, if I tell you to hide—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I promise,” he said, smiling. “If I don’t, you’ll shoot me in the fuckin’ knee or some shit. Can we skip the pep talk?”

You gave him a stern look but unlocked his cell and tossed him the spare pack you’d brought. You dug into your own bag and handed him some supplies, including some outerwear. He tucked them into his bag and looked up at you expectantly. “Where to, warden?”

You rolled your eyes again but couldn’t help the tiniest smirk. “Car is right outside. Let’s get going. The sun is starting to come up and it could be a long day.”

“Great. Can I drive?” he quipped, shouldering his bag. You only shot him a look that made him laugh again, but he saw the slight curve at the corners of your mouth.

The drive to the crumbling ruins of the neighborhood was slow, but uneventful. The sun was up and filtering through the trees overhead as you and Negan climbed out and started toward the buildings. You were quiet, focused, and Negan couldn’t help admiring your efficiency and care as you went about your mission.

The two of you stopped at the edge of the crumbling street, concealed in some taller brush. The street was overgrown with weeds and lined with dilapidated houses. It was almost eerily quiet.

“Alright,” you breathed quietly. “We’ll go building by building, down one side and back up the other. Pay attention to signs of walkers or people,” you said softly, gripping the straps of your pack. “Follow my lead and stay close.”

“You got it,” Negan replied, slipping his hands into his pockets as he followed alongside you toward the first house. “I gotta say, it is really uncomfortable being out here without a damn weapon. More so here than in the woods,” he commented, his eyes shifting around to study the other buildings, scrutinizing for a sign of movement. “I feel like I’m naked,” he said.

“I guarantee—” You paused to tap on the wall of the house the two of you were standing beside, listening for anything inside. “You’re not. If you were naked, I would not be this fuckin’ calm, Negan,” you said, half-distracted.

He chuckled and licked his bottom lip, smirking.

“What?” you asked, cocking an eyebrow at you.

“I don’t think that sounded how you meant it to sound,” he laughed.

Your cheeks flushed. “Oh, shut up. You know what I meant!”

“Your brain is saying one thing but your lips are sayin’ another, darlin’,” he teased you.

You rolled your eyes and pulled the front door open, stepping cautiously inside. The smell was of mildew and stagnant air as you stepped inside. A heavy layer of dust and dirt coated everything; overturned furniture, books standing or tipped over on shelves, a stately chair still positioned in front of the fireplace. Somewhere deeper in the house, water was dripping. You had your gun out and started clearing the lower floors. Negan ghosted behind you.

You made for the staircase to check the upstairs when there was a soft thump overhead. Your eyes and Negan’s went to the ceiling.

“Alright… maybe someone is home after all,” he commented, giving you a concerned look.

“It’s gotta be a walker,” you said. “Maybe an animal.” You proceeded cautiously toward the staircase.

“Hey,” Negan said softly. “Be careful.”

You turned and looked at him for a long moment before you started up the stairs. He seemed genuinely on edge, worried. He stayed right on your heels as you climbed the steps, the muscle in his jaw tensed as his teeth clenched together.

You cleared two bedrooms and finally came to a closed door at the end of the hall. As the floor creaked under your boots, there was the sound of more movement behind the door. You reached for the door knob, gun ready in your other hand. You took a deep breath and quickly turned it shoving the door open and aiming the muzzle of your pistol inside.

An opossum let out an angry hiss and then scrambled up and out of a broken window. It had been rooting around in some debris on the floor. A huge sigh of relief escaped you and Negan watched your shoulders sag. You laughed a little as you turned to look back at Negan. He gave you a relieved look.

“I gotta be honest,” he said. “I fuckin’ hate this shit. I feel completely helpless without something to use if something bad happens. What am I supposed to do if you need help?”

You gave him a somewhat sympathetic look, thinking about how it would feel to be in his place—the unknown behind every locked door with no knife, no gun… completely vulnerable and reliant on someone who was essentially his jailor. “Well,” you said. “I have a feeling if something really did go wrong, you’d figure something out.”

He considered your words for a moment. “Yeah. I hope so.” He thought about what he would do. What if they ran into some bad men? Bad people? What would he really do if you were in danger? He didn’t have to think hard to know the answer. Anything. He’d do anything he needed to. The thought seemed to dig deep into the center of his chest and sit there, heavy. “So, now what? House is clear.”

You holstered your gun again. “Now, we search. See if there’s anything left. A lot of people hid things, right after. There’s always something left behind. You take the upstairs. I’ll go through the downstairs.”

Negan nodded his agreement and turned back to the trashed bathroom, the sound of your steps fading away down the staircase. He searched every room, every cabinet, every closet, under beds, under loose floorboards, but came away with nothing of interest except for half a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. He headed downstairs where he could hear you rummaging around in the living room. “Hey,” he greeted you, stepping over the threshold. You were standing completely frozen now at the shelves, looking down at something. “Y/N?” he said again. You still didn’t seem to have heard him. He wandered closer. “Find something?”

You startled a little and turned to look at him, a picture frame in your hand. “Oh. No, not really. You?”

“Half a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I stuck it in my pack.” He nodded toward the frame. “What’s that?”

You looked down at it again. “It’s nothing. It’s just this—this family portrait. I wonder if they lived here—” you said thoughtfully. Your voice seemed to drift away a little. “Or what happened to them, you know? Did they make it? Were they ever safe again after the outbreak?”

Negan looked on with a thoughtful expression, his dark brows furrowed over his eyes. He nodded and moved closer to get a better view of the photo behind the cracked glass. He smiled at it, chuckling a little. “Hmm. Mom, Dad, and three kids. A perfect nuclear family,” he said.

“Looks like the 90s,” you laughed. “Check out the clothes.”

“Yeah, they probably went down to JCPenney to take advantage of the fancy photography studio,” Negan remarked. “Dad looks like an accountant, doesn’t he?”

“Mmm, I’m getting more of a bank manager vibe. Mom probably stayed at home when the kids were little and then goes back to work as a teacher once the youngest is in kindergarten,” you replied, now smiling a little too.

Negan ran a hand back through his hair thoughtfully and cocked his head. “You know—I was a teacher,” he said suddenly. “I’ve never really told anyone that since things went to shit. Kind of lessens the mystique,” he laughed dryly.

Your eyes snapped over to his face, one of your eyebrows arching gracefully with the question on your face. He laughed again. “Yeah, I know… hard to believe, right? How could such an asshole be a teacher?” he said.

A slight wince flickered across your face for a brief second at his words, as if you didn’t like the way he’d talked about himself. But that couldn’t be right… “What did you teach?”

“I was a high school P.E. teacher,” he said. “Coached some of the school teams too. Basketball. Football.”

“P.E.?” you repeated. “And you’re not even going to make a ‘physical education’ joke?” you teased him. “Wow. Are you feeling okay?”

He laughed lightly. “You beat me to it,” he said. He glanced back at the picture and sighed. “Should we get going? Lots of buildings to search,” he said.

You nodded and stared down at the picture for another moment.

“What’re you doing?” Negan asked, watching you take the back off the picture frame. You fumbled with the backing and then removed the family photo from the damaged frame.

“I just—feel like someone should remember them, you know?”

Negan’s gaze was fixed on you, flickering over your face. There was something so soft in it at that moment that you felt slightly unbalanced. You distracted yourself by bending to slip the photo into your pack. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said gently.

You deflected, laughing as you shouldered your pack again. “Oh, you’ve got no idea,” you said sarcastically, again ignoring the heat in your face. “Come on.”

The two of you went on, searching each home and several stores, working your way down the block and partway up the next. You’d managed some good finds, including a hidden cellar that clearly had belonged to a survivalist type (who had apparently “opted out” and his corpse still watched over the hidden entrance). You’d have to make a few trips to the car in order to get all the supplies and gear back, or otherwise figure out a way to get the car in through the overgrown side road. The two of you piled the finds in a safe place in one of the rooms on the main floor, stacking Rubbermaid tubs full of helpful items in neat piles.

“Fuck me,” Negan sighed, setting the last one on top. “Well, when you’re right, you’re fuckin’ right, doll. There’s always somethin’ left behind.”

You wiped at the sweat near your hairline. “Yeah,” you sighed. “Not bad.” You had a satisfied smile on your face. It felt good to do something concrete that would help people back home. You glanced out the window, assessing the light outside. It’d taken quite some time to get things moved up from the cellar and you wondered if you should keep searching the rest of the houses or call it a day. “I think it’s starting to get late,” you said, remarking mainly on the way the light already seemed like it was fading.

“Mmm,” Negan hummed, going to the front bay window and looking out. His eyes had been searching the street all day, vigilant, as if waiting for some psychos to suddenly burst out of one of the houses. But the only signs of inhabitation or squatting you’d found were clearly from long before, now covered in dust and debris or otherwise moldering in damp corners or on top of filthy mattresses. Now, as you were busy drinking from your canteen, Negan’s shifting suddenly stopped. “Hey, doll—I’m no meteorologist, but those clouds look like bad fuckin’ news.” It had been overcast all day, but you could tell by the tone of his voice that this was something else.

You capped your canteen and went to the front door, your brow now furrowed heavily to match his. You pulled the door open and peered at the sky. Ominous didn’t even begin to cover it. There was not a sniff of wind at the moment and the air seemed to hum with electricity. Negan appeared next to you in the doorway, squinting at the low and heavy sky.

“I’m pretty sure when the sky turns fuckin’ green, there’s some bad shit coming,” he said. He glanced over at you.

“Shit,” you swore under your breath. “Yeah. Yeah, green sky is… tornado weather. Fuck,” you muttered, glancing back at the pile of supplies.

“What do you want to do?” Negan asked.

You sighed, pushing a hand back through your hair. “Even if we head back to the car now, we probably can’t outrun that… the old highway is FUBAR in some places. It’s not like we can drive 60 mph all the way back to Alexandria. And that would mean leaving all these supplies here.” As if on cue, the complete stillness in the air broke as a rushing wind approached like a tidal wave, creaking and cracking in the trees and swirling dust and dried leaves across the open ground until it reached the two of you standing on the porch. Your hair lifted and blew back from your face.

“I’ll ask you again,” Negan said, speaking louder now over the roar of the wind, “what do you want to do?”

You hesitated, glancing from him back to the quickly approaching menacing clouds. The little light left was fading fast. “Fuck,” you muttered again. “I—I think we’re better off weathering it here than in a car out there,” you said.

“I definitely agree with that,” Negan said.

“Once the storm clears, maybe then we can try to get the car in here and load up the supplies and get home. We’ll be delayed a bit longer than expected but—I think it’s the best move. Hopefully, we’re just stuck a couple more hours.”

Negan nodded. “Alright. Where are we holing up? Because this shit is about to kick the fuck off,” he said, surveying the street again.

“Here is as good a place as any,” you said. “There’s a basement and almost all the windows are intact or boarded up. Come on. Let’s get inside.”

Negan followed you in and shut the door on the wind. Your eyes were already on him when he turned around again. He was trying to decode your expression but it was largely unreadable. He unshouldered his pack and set it on the floor, taking a seat on the stairs across from where you were now leaning up against the wall. The ambient light from outside was quickly waning and before long you could hear raindrops start to pound the roof. They increased in size and then seemed to be blowing across the roof in waves of water.

You could hear the huge cottonwood trees creaking and cracking in the wind. You tried to peer out through the boarded slats over the window to see if they were dropping branches but it was too dark. Behind you, Negan pulled out a flashlight from his pack and clicked it on. It had grown extremely dark with the heavy storm clouds gathering and unleashing the torrents of rain. You were still standing right by the window, looking out, when he spoke again.

“Hey, maybe we should move away from the windows, doll,” Negan said, worried. He didn’t like how close you were standing to all that glass, even if it was mostly boarded over. His voice was deep and resonant in the space between you with just the raging background noise outside.

“Yeah. Maybe,” you said. You bent to grab your pack when you suddenly heard a loud thud against the side of the house. You straightened up, your eyes widening. Negan had heard it too, his eyes were narrowed, ears strained, listening. It was difficult to hear anything over the storm.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice breathy. “Some debris blowing against the house?” you asked.

Negan shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, standing from his place on the steps and going to the doorway of the room the sound had seemed to come from. The roaring storm seemed to reach new extremes. The wind sounded like a train bearing down on the little dilapidated structure the two of you were sheltering in. Rain and hail lashed the siding and the roof. There was another thud from outside, this time on the window.

“There. Again,” you said, anxiously pacing toward Negan to stare into the room. His flashlight was still on. Another thud, and then another. You squinted, trying to distinguish anything through the boarded windows but it was too dark. Then, a flash of lightning shot the sky outside with blinding white and you couldn’t help the soft gasp that left you at what it illuminated.

“What?” Negan asked urgently.

You couldn’t speak. You just reached for the flashlight. Negan looked down as your hand landed on top of his. He could feel you trembling slightly and for a moment he was so shocked by your touch that he didn’t understand what you were doing. With your gentle grip, you directed the yellow beam of the light slowly to the window. As it came to rest between two of the boards and shone through the glass, Negan registered that there were walkers clawing to get in, rotting faces pressed to the glass, bloody fingertips, snapping teeth. Dozens. “Ho-ly fuck!” he exclaimed, jerking the flashlight off the window and quickly shutting it off. You and Negan stood in the dark for a moment, neither of you moving, now keenly aware of the pounding noise and dull thuds on the exterior of the house, cutting through the wind and rain. Were you imagining it or was the pounding increasing, getting louder? More frequent? Negan could hear your breath beside him in the dark. “Well, that shit was straight out of a fuckin’ horror movie,” he remarked in a low voice.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. “Where the fuck did they come from? It sounds like we’re surrounded.”

“I don’t fuckin’ know. Seems like they rolled in with the storm.”

“Maybe they can feel the barometric pressure changes or something. It’s almost like a migration,” you commented, feeling your heart rate and breathing finally start to slow down after the shock of discovering the herd.

Negan chuckled beside you and you heard him shift. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Eugene?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Okay… so, now we just have the storm of the century and a fucking herd to deal with. Great. Okay… let’s think…”

Negan finally clicked his flashlight on again but kept it pointed at the floor. “This place seems sturdy but maybe we should barricade ourselves better.”

You glanced toward the basement where you’d discovered the hidden cellar. Your eyes next drifted toward the stack of supplies. “Basement is pretty much ready to barricade thanks to that dead survivalist guy, but if they do break in we could be trapped down there for fuck-knows how long.”

“Not sure we have any better options. We don’t want to be upstairs either. We’re sure as shit not going out on the roof in this if they get in and if there is a fucking tornado and we're on the top floor—” Negan broke off.

“Yeah,” you agreed, nodding. You dug into your own pack and pulled out a headlamp, quickly turning it on dimly. “Grab some of these. They have food and medical supplies, some other gear and odds and ends,” you said, grabbing one of the many Rubbermaid containers and heading toward the stairs down to the basement.

“Man, I’m so glad we carried all this shit up here,” Negan joked, picking up a stack of two big containers.

“Sorry. Next time I’ll consult my crystal ball,” you quipped, but right then there was the sound of shattering glass and the storm and the growling got slightly louder. One of the windows in the next room had broken. Negan could see hands and fingers reaching in around the boards.

“Let’s go. Downstairs,” he urged you, his voice intense and thick with concern.

You started down, but shot back at him over your shoulder. “Aren’t I the one in charge here?”

“I don’t see you disagreeing with that idea,” Negan said, setting his containers down beside yours. “Stay here. I’ll go grab a couple more boxes,” he said.

“Whoa. Me stay here? What is this? You don’t even have a weapon!” you argued.

He gave you an exasperated look. “Fine. Then by all means, come with me, darlin’!” He turned and rushed back up the stairs and you had to hurry after him, one hand on your knife in its sheath.

“Negan,” you snapped at him in a low voice as you rounded the doorway back onto the main floor. But he wasn’t by the supplies. You glanced around and could see the dim glow of his light in the next room, the one where the walkers had broken a window. Rain and the occasional hailstone were puddling under the window among the shards of glass. “What the fuck?” You nearly collided with each other when he turned around and started back toward the door. “What are you doing?! Put that down!” you growled.

He had an iron fireplace poker in his hand. That’s what he’d been doing in this room, grabbing it from the set of fireplace tools. “Don’t you think this qualifies as kind of a capital “E” emergency?” he argued.

You stared at him, intense, your chest heaving, and to your annoyance, he smiled at you.

“Goddamn. You look fuckin’ hot as shit when you’re pissed off! I mean, you’re always hot but ho-ly shit! I'm scared and suddenly all tingly downtown!”

Your hand went purposefully to your knife again and you stared him down. “I said. Put it. The fuck. Down.”

“Doll, just hear me out—”

“Negan.”

Another crack and the sound of shattering glass behind him and you saw more arms reaching through between the boards of another window. “Okay, we don’t have time for this right now. You can stab me or whatever downstairs,” he said. He breezed past you and grabbed a couple more boxes of supplies. You had no choice but to begrudgingly follow after him.

He turned, straightening up as he heard your boots hitting the bottom steps, and he opened his mouth to say something, but you were already on him before he could get even a syllable out.

You kicked him hard on the inside of one of his thighs and he dropped sideways onto his knee. The poker dropped from his hand and rang out on the cement floor. You kicked it away and it slid into the far wall with a harsh scraping sound. Your knife was unsheathed and pointed at the base of his throat before he knew what was happening. To your amazement, once he recovered from his pained grimaces, he fucking smiled again.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me right now?” he asked in a low, gruff voice.

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me. When I brought you out here, you said you would listen to every fucking thing I told you to do. This is your one single second chance. Next time you fuck up, it’ll be my knife going into your thigh instead of my boot. Got it?”

He gulped, still on one knee at the point of your knife and still, to your annoyance, vaguely smiling. “Oh, I got it,” he responded, his eyebrows lifting.

“Good,” you said, backing off and letting him stand up. “Now, go pick up the fucking poker. I’m gonna lock up the door…”

“Wait‚ what?” Negan laughed, still rubbing at his leg where you’d kicked him. “After all that, you’re letting me have it?”

“Yes,” you said. “This does roughly qualify as an emergency. Or at least, the border of one. But those kinds of decisions? They’re not yours to make, Negan. You’re not the one in charge here.”

He looked both stunned and amused. “That is becoming more and more clear every fuckin’ day,” he said softly, looking at you with some expression you couldn’t completely discern.

You gave him a perplexed look and then headed up the stairs to seal up the door. There were heavy brackets on the back of the reinforced door (thank you, dead survivalist man) and you spotted a thick board leaning up against the railing. Once you’d closed and locked it, you heaved up the heavy wooden slat and dropped it into place in the brackets, adding extra security in case the walkers did get inside and try to push through. As you removed your hand hastily to head back downstairs, a jagged corner on one of the metal brackets sliced into your palm. You jerked it back and stared as a long crimson gash began to leak fat drops of blood onto the steps below you. You pulled in a hiss of breath through your teeth. “Great,” you sighed, cradling it in the other hand and trotting back down. Overhead, you could hear the storm still raging, but as a low hum now.

Negan stood up from his seat on one of the containers of supplies as soon as he saw you. A concerning amount of shockingly red blood was dripping off your hand and onto the floor. “What happened?” he asked, moving closer as you attempted to dig into your pack with your other hand, blood now running down your forearm. “Jesus, let me help you!” He grabbed your pack away and dug around inside until he found a small kit with spare bits of cloth for bandaging, some gauze pads, and a few other assorted odds and ends for first aid. “Wait, I’ve got that alcohol in my pack. We should clean it up first.”

“It’ll be fine,” you argued, pulling off your headlamp and watching as Negan clicked on a lantern he’d found in one of the boxes.

“Would you let me help you with this at least? Can I? Please? I’m asking permission now,” he joked, shooting you a goading expression.

You cocked your head at him and tried to look annoyed, but you conceded, taking a seat on a plastic container across from him.

Negan dug out the alcohol and poured a generous amount out onto your palm. You gritted your teeth together at the burn and winced. “Sorry,” he said, pressing a gauze pad down over it, holding it gently on his own hand now. “But better than an infection, right?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, feeling strangely on edge with your hand in his.

Negan used some of the long, clean strips of cloth to bandage it up and hold the gauze in place, tying it securely but gently before relinquishing his hold on you. “Should have the doc take a look at that when we get back,” he said. “Pretty deep. Might need some stitches on that one.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” you said, finally sighing as you suddenly realized how tired you were. Now that you felt more secure and safe, a strange thing with Negan sitting a mere foot away from you with no dividing bars between, the adrenaline had run out. Exhaustion was starting to set in. You took stock of the space. Your eyes wandered from the door into the hidden cellar where you’d found most of the supplies, back to the corpse of the survivalist in the far corner, over to the boxes next to Negan.

He was putting the first aid stuff back into your pack when his fingers nudged something and he paused; a thick stack of glossy photos. He pulled them out, curious. On top was the first one, the one in the very first house that the two of you had talked about, but there were more along with it now—many more. He flipped through a couple until you noticed and shifted where you were sitting. His hazel eyes lifted up to your face. “These are all from today?” he asked.

You nodded and tried to clear the sudden lump in your throat.

“You kept them? All of them?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He sighed, shaking his head vaguely, and thumbed through more; families on vacations, some guy holding a big fish, a young couple smiling in front of the Statue of Liberty, babies and kids and dogs and cats, an elderly couple posing in front of a studio background.

Your voice suddenly cut into him. “Did you ever stop to think that every person you put under your bat, they probably had photos like this? Were in photos like this?” you said suddenly. A particularly loud rumble of thunder boomed and rolled, as if on cue. Your eyes, clear and steady and striking even in the low glow of the lantern, felt like they were seeing straight into his core.

He frowned. The lines on his face seemed to become more pronounced, and he almost cringed. “No,” he answered honestly, the gravel in his voice heavy and gritty. “I didn’t think about it at all, most of the time. I think that was a lot of what I was doing. Not thinking. I know that's a shit fuckin' excuse. It's not an excuse... but I didn’t—want to think about the hard stuff.”

You were curious, interested, and felt that same vulnerability he seemed to be giving you more and more rolling off him in waves. “Like what?”

He gave you a sad smile. You could hear the wind whistling above you and the pounding of the rain. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

But now you were the one to back away, ducking your head, avoiding his eyes. Negan saw that there was hurt there, deep hurt. “I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” you murmured, fiddling with the bandage on your palm. “I mean, I’m not…”

“Hey, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Negan replied, “you don’t owe me a damn thing. But can I tell you somethin’, doll?” He hesitated for a moment. “I—I like you. You kicked the shit out of me and held a knife to my throat about ten minutes ago and I still really like you. Genuinely. As a person, as a badass, as a—”

“Negan—” you interrupted him.

“If I had to be trapped in a basement with a corpse, a tornado and herd outside, I can’t think of another person I’d rather be stuck with,” he said.

“Negan—” you tried again.

“No, listen to me. I’m trying to tell you—”

“You don’t like me, okay? You just feel that way because I’m the only person who really talks to you, who spends time with you, who brings you your meals, and looks after some fraction of your well-being. It’s like—it’s like trauma bonding, okay? That’s all it is.”

“No. It’s not just that. See Gabe was doin’ all that same shit and I still didn’t fuckin’ like him… I mean, not as much as I like you.”

As usual, when what you were feeling was becoming overwhelming, too many thoughts, too many emotions, you deflected with humor. “I’m cuter than Gabriel.”

Negan laughed and this time the sound was warm and almost comforting. “Yeah. No argument there…”

You allowed yourself a half-smile and then sighed, rubbing your hands over your face. “Fuck, I’m tired. What a long fucking day…”

“There are those sleeping bags in one of these boxes I think,” Negan said, starting to pull at the lids.

You laughed. “I can’t sleep,” you said.

“Why not?”

“Besides the insane storm outside and the horde? Uhh… I don’t know, you?” you offered, your tone a little sardonic.

But Negan’s face was perfectly serious. “The storm and the horde—can’t do shit about those companions and I agree that they are crappy house guests, but they’re not fuckin’ goin’ anywhere soon from what I can hear. That’s not changing whether you’re asleep or awake. As for me—” he tilted his head and gave you an appraising look, “I do not want to hurt you. And I won’t. And I’m not running away with the dickhole party outside so, you may as well catch some shut-eye. I’ll keep watch.”

You considered him for a long moment but finally shook your head. “No. No, I can’t sleep now…”

Negan sighed and rested the fireplace poker across his knees. “Well, then I’d say it’s going to be a long night… Got any ideas about how to pass the time?”

The mischievous sparkle came back into his eyes and you shot him a stern look that was apparently not enough of a deterrent. “Don’t—”

“We still do have those sleeping bags. I can think of some activities for a makeshift bed that don’t involve actual sleep.”

“Negan, there’s literally a corpse in the corner and a horde outside and that’s where your mind goes?”

He laughed. “Can you blame me? I’ve been in jail for, how long now? Five, six years? And trust me, Gabey Baby wasn’t giving me any action.” He paused at the look on your face, laughing again. “Come on, doll. I’m just kidding. Though it would help pass the time, you deserve far better than a sleeping bag on a dirty basement floor.”

“With a dead guy watching,” you added.

“With a dead guy watching,” he repeated, scratching absently at the stubble on his face. “That is pretty fuckin’ metal though,” he smirked.

“Negan, saying that I deserve better than that is really saying nothing. Anyone deserves better than that,” you sighed, standing up and pacing. “So yeah. I’d say it’s going to be a long night.”

[thirtysomethingloser92]

1. If It Makes You Happy, It Can't Be That Bad.

Mini-series based off Cherry Lips. Summary: One night with world famous Remy Lebeau turns into something neither one of you expected. Warnings: Smut, Daddy Kinks, Bondage, Spanking, Choking, Threesomes (Amongst so much more), angst, fluff, romance. Chapter Warning: Light Phone Sex. Taglist: bontensbabygirl

“Funny thing,” you began with a playful smile, lounging comfortably on your bed as your phone screen lit up with the familiar face of Remy LeBeau. His signature smirk was already in place, as if he could anticipate exactly where you were going with this. His dark eyes glinted with mischief as he looked up from the notebook he'd been scribbling in, his fingers still idly strumming the strings of his guitar.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” he drawled, his Cajun accent thick and smooth, like honeyed whiskey.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a grin. “So, I was doing my weekly grocery run, you know, minding my own business,” you teased, dragging the moment out just to toy with him a little. Remy leaned in closer to the camera, clearly intrigued, though the playful glint in his eyes said he probably already had an idea of what was coming.

“Mhm,  sounds serious,” he said, placing the guitar aside on the hotel bed behind him. The faint sound of fans screaming outside his window made you chuckle. He might’ve been sitting across the world in a luxurious hotel suite, but right now, it felt like he was right in the room with you.

“Oh, it is,” you continued, your grin widening as you held up a finger, signaling for him to wait. “Hold on.”

You kicked off the blankets that had been wrapped around you, crawling across your bed to reach the nightstand. The movement made the oversized shirt you were wearing ride up slightly, revealing the sliver of underwear underneath. You caught the flicker of Remy’s gaze over the screen, his eyes briefly tracking your movements before a knowing smile tugged at his lips.

When you sat back down, you held up a glossy gossip magazine, flipping it around to show him the cover. “Look what I found,” you announced triumphantly. There, plastered across the front page in bold letters, was the headline: Sexiest Man Alive: Remy LeBeau, accompanied by a smoldering picture of him leaning on his famous guitar, his tousled hair and sharp jawline doing most of the work.

“Oh, fuck…” Remy groaned, leaning back in his chair and dragging his hands over his face in a dramatic display of exasperation. He shook his head before peeking at you from between his fingers, that ever-present smile never really leaving his face. “How did I know you were gonna bring that one up?”

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “Because you know I enjoy stirring you up,” you replied, flipping through the pages of the magazine. “I mean, come on, ‘Sexiest Man Alive’? That’s a bold title.” You paused, then added with a playful glint in your eye, “Personally, I thought it would’ve been Chris Evans this year.”

Remy let out a low chuckle, his smirk growing wider. “Always keepin’ me humble, huh?”

You looked up from the magazine and arched an eyebrow. “Well, someone’s got to! I can practically hear the screams of your fans outside your hotel room,” you teased, motioning to the background noise that was impossible to ignore. “Bet they’re giving you an even bigger head than usual.”

Remy’s grin turned mischievous, and without missing a beat, he leaned closer to the camera and said, “Funny, don’t recall you ever complainin’ ‘bout my head before.”

Your face instantly flushed at the double entendre, eyes widening in surprise. You looked away, shaking your head as you tried to regain your composure.

He laughed, the sound deep and rich, clearly enjoying how easily he could fluster you.

You looked back at him through the screen, shooting him a mock glare, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. “Yeah, okay, fine. You got me,” you muttered, flipping the magazine closed and tossing it aside with a huff. “But I’m still not letting you get away with that.”

Remy leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head in a relaxed, almost cocky posture. “Oh, cher, I’m countin’ on it.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth spreading through your chest betrayed the effect his teasing had on you. Even with half the world between you, Remy had a way of making the distance feel small, of making you feel like you were the only person he cared about in that moment—despite the dozens of fans clamoring for his attention outside his hotel room.

“Well,” you sighed dramatically, “I guess it’s my job to keep you grounded, what with all the ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ nonsense going to your head.”

He winked at you, his voice lower now, almost a purr. “Y’ do a damn fine job of it, cher.”

Your heart fluttered at the compliment, but you quickly masked it with a smirk. “Good. Someone has to keep you in check, after all.”

Remy’s eyes softened for a moment, the teasing tone fading just slightly as he gazed at you through the screen. “Ain’t no one else I’d rather have doin’ it.”

You felt your cheeks warm again, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. For a second, you forgot about the magazine, the fans, and the fact that you were on opposite sides of the world. It was just you and Remy, sharing a quiet moment in the midst of the chaos that surrounded his life.

“Well,” you said softly, leaning a little closer to the camera, “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Remy’s smile turned gentle, his eyes never leaving yours. “You should.” He reached back behind him and grabbed the guitar again. Remy’s fingers danced effortlessly across the strings of his guitar, the soft strumming filling the quiet space between you. You watched him through the screen, your eyes following the familiar way his hands moved, coaxing out a melody that seemed to wrap around you like a warm embrace. Every now and again he’d grimace, pausing and scratching something out in front of him before starting again. The sound was soothing, intimate, and in moments like this, it was easy to forget that this wasn’t just any man. This was Remy LeBeau—a world-renowned musician, adored by millions, and somehow, inexplicably, a part of your life.

You pulled your blanket tighter around you, cocooning yourself in its warmth as you curled in further on your bed. The soft glow of your phone illuminated your face, but the rest of the room was dim, casting everything in soft shadows. You’d been doing this for weeks now—late-night calls, quiet moments shared through screens, and sometimes, stolen words that felt like secrets between you and him. But it still felt surreal, like you were living in someone else’s life.

Had it really only been four months since he had walked into your world?

You thought back to the night it all began, the memory still fresh in your mind despite the whirlwind that followed. It was supposed to be an ordinary night—well, ordinary if you didn’t count the fact that your ex had just left you for the woman he’d been cheating on you with. You’d gone to the concert hoping to escape, to drown out the hurt with music and a few too many drinks. But then, in a moment of anger and impulse, you’d poured your drink over him right there in the middle of the crowd.

That should have been the end of it. A mortifying moment you’d regret later. But then you looked up, towards the stage, and there was—Remy LeBeau, larger than life,  looking right at you through the chaos with that same stupid smirk on his face that he was wearing now.

He’d invited you backstage, and that’s where everything changed. What was meant to be a brief encounter turned into the most intense night of your life.

You could still feel the weight of his hands, the heat of his body pressed against yours in that dressing room. It had been raw and passionate, the kind of thing that left you breathless and reeling. You’d never experienced anything like it. The way he met you in the middle with every demand, he made sure that you knew ultimately, you were in charge no matter what happened. It took almost two full weeks for his handprint to leave your ass and the bruises from his fingers to leave your hips. And when it was over, when you were both spent and you were trying to get dressed, he’d looked at you with those piercing eyes and asked for your number.

You never expected him to actually text you. Not Remy LeBeau, the man who had his pick of anyone in the world. But when his message appeared on your phone the next morning—You get home safe?—you’d stared at it for what felt like hours, unsure of how to respond. How were you supposed to talk to someone like him? Someone whose face was on billboards and magazine covers, whose name trended on social media every other day?

Every reply you typed out felt wrong, too casual or too eager, like you were trying too hard. Eventually, after hours of overthinking, you’d sent a simple Yeah, thanks. It was embarrassing how much you agonized over those two words, but somehow, that small exchange turned into more.

It was Remy who had suggested the coffee date before he left for Europe. You still remembered the way he’d asked, almost too casually, as if he wasn’t one of the most famous men in the world making a simple offer to grab coffee. But then, that was Remy—effortlessly cool, as if fame was just something that hovered around him, not something he actively sought.

The café he’d chosen was tucked away in a narrow alley, hidden from the bustling city streets, a place only locals would know. It wasn’t the kind of spot that would attract paparazzi or the curious eyes of fans, and that made it perfect. The little bell above the door had chimed when you walked in, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla from the pastries behind the counter. There weren’t many people inside, just a couple of elderly patrons and a barista working quietly behind the counter.

You spotted him immediately, sitting in a corner, his back to the wall. He looked different in daylight, softer somehow. His usual rockstar edge was muted, replaced by something more relaxed, more real. He wasn’t wearing his signature leather jacket, just a simple sweater that clung to his lean frame, and his hair was tousled in a way that looked less deliberate than usual.

He smiled when he saw you, that slow, lazy grin that had undone you so easily the night before. “Cher,” he greeted, his voice low and warm, like a secret meant just for you.

You smiled back, a little nervous but trying to play it cool. “Hey.”

His security detail was nearby, but they were discreet, standing by the entrance, blending in with the ambiance of the café. For all intents and purposes, it felt like you and Remy were the only two people in the world.

You slipped into the seat across from him, the small table between you making the space feel more intimate than it had any right to. A steaming cup of coffee was already waiting for you. You took a sip, and for a moment, you let the warmth of the coffee and the coziness of the café settle your nerves.

The conversation started easily, like it always did with Remy. He had a way of making you feel comfortable, as if there wasn’t an ocean of difference between your worlds. He asked about your day, your work, and for the first time in a while, you found yourself talking about normal things—things that had nothing to do with the whirlwind of his fame. You talked about your favorite books, the places you liked to go when you needed to clear your head, the little things that made up your life.

And then, as the conversation naturally drifted back to the night before, his voice grew softer, more intimate. “You know,” he said, his eyes on you, “last night….I don’t meet a lot of people who can match me like that.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You felt your heart skip a beat, but you didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“I meant what I said,” he added, his gaze never wavering. “I want you to come with me.”

He let that statement linger for a moment before leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. “Six months,” he repeated, his voice low but firm, as if the offer was something solid, tangible. “Come with me to Europe. We’ll travel, see the world. You can leave all this behind for a while.”

Your mind raced. Even though he’d made the same offer last night, hearing it again in the light of day felt different. More real. Last night, in the heat of the moment, it had been easy to brush it off as something said in the throes of passion. But now, with the sun streaming through the café windows and the world feeling far more grounded, it felt like an impossible choice.

You looked at him, studying the way his eyes held yours, serious and unwavering. He was offering you something that most people would kill for—a chance to escape, to see the world with him, to live a life you’d only ever dreamed about. It was tempting, so tempting that for a brief, fleeting moment, you let yourself imagine it. Traveling across Europe, waking up in different cities, spending nights wrapped in each other’s arms with no responsibilities, no worries. Just the two of you.

But then reality came crashing back in.

You had a life here. A job, bills, responsibilities that couldn’t just be put on hold for six months. And the idea of being followed by paparazzi, of having your every move scrutinized, wasn’t exactly appealing either. The thought of being thrust into his world—the world of bright lights, flashing cameras, and constant attention—made your stomach twist with anxiety.

“I—” You hesitated, unsure of how to put all of that into words. “I don’t think I can.”

His expression didn’t falter, but you saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping absently on the table. “Why not?” he asked, his voice still soft, but with a hint of something else—maybe frustration, maybe hurt. “You scared?”

You shook your head, though a part of you wondered if he was right. “It’s not that, it’s just…” You sighed, trying to find the right words. “I have a life here. A job, bills to pay. I can’t just drop everything and follow you around the world.”

He nodded slowly, as if he understood, but his eyes still held that intensity. “I get it, cher. But I’m not askin’ you to disappear forever. It’s just six months. You could take a break, live a little, see the world with me.” His voice softened, almost pleading now. “You don’t have to worry ‘bout money. I’ll take care of everything.”

You swallowed hard, torn between the desire to take the leap and the overwhelming sense of responsibility that weighed you down. “It’s not that simple,” you whispered.

Remy leaned back in his seat, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup, his eyes never leaving yours. The soft murmur of the café around you faded into the background, leaving just the two of you in this intimate bubble. He had a way of doing that—making the world shrink down to just him, making you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

He glanced out the window for a moment, watching as the late afternoon light filtered in through the glass, casting golden shadows across the table. Then, without looking back at you, he spoke, his voice low, carrying the weight of the conversation you’d both had the night before.

“You remember what we talked ‘bout last night?” he murmured, his tone softer now, more serious.

You nodded, your mind drifting back to the previous evening, when you’d both let your guards down a little more than usual. The memory of it was still fresh—the way you’d both spoken honestly, the way he’d peeled back the layers of charm and showmanship for a moment, revealing something raw, something real.

He had said it then, the words coming out in that smooth, deliberate way of his, but with an undercurrent of vulnerability you hadn’t expected.

“Ain’t easy findin’ someone who matches y’r crazy, cher,” he had said, his eyes fixed on yours, even as his tone remained casual. “Most people, they don’t wanna go there. They don’t wanna dive deep into the wild parts of themselves—or y’. They wanna keep it safe, keep it easy.”

You remembered the way you’d nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle in your chest like a weight. “Exactly,” you’d agreed, your voice a little quieter, a little more thoughtful than usual. “It’s like… they want the thrill, but not the risk. They want the passion without the storm that comes with it.”

For a moment, the two of you had sat there in silence, the air between you thick with unspoken understanding. And then Remy had let out that low, knowing chuckle, shaking his head as if the whole thing was some cosmic joke he was all too familiar with.

“Yeah, well,” he had said, his tone threaded with both amusement and something darker—something that hinted at past disappointments, at scars that hadn’t quite healed. “I ain’t met anyone yet who could handle my storm. Ain’t found no one who could match me, not all the way.”

He had paused then, his eyes lingering on yours, and for a moment, the lazy smirk that usually played on his lips returned. But this time, there had been something different behind it, something more serious. More real.

“That is… until tonight,” he had finished, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that had made your heart skip a beat.

Now, sitting across from him in the quiet café, you could feel the echo of those words reverberating between you. Remy was watching you closely, his dark eyes searching yours, as if trying to read the thoughts you weren’t quite ready to say aloud.

He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, his expression softening in a way that made the moment feel even more intimate. “Cher,” he began, his voice quieter now, almost tentative in a way that surprised you, “I know you got reasons to stay. I get it. But I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout forever. I’m just askin’ for a chance. Six months... No strings if y’ don’t want ‘em. Just you and me, seein’ where it goes.”

You met his gaze, your heart tightening in your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to take that leap. God, you wanted it more than you could admit. But the reality of it—leaving everything behind, stepping into his world, a world that was so different from your own—was terrifying. And maybe, in the quietest part of your heart, you were afraid of what might happen if you couldn’t keep up with his storm.

“I…” You hesitated, your voice catching in your throat. You didn’t want to hurt him, but you couldn’t ignore the practicalities of your life. “Remy, I can’t just pack up and leave like that. I’ve got a job. Responsibilities. I can’t just… drop everything.”

His eyes softened, and you could see the flicker of disappointment there, though he hid it well behind that easy charm of his. “I know, cher,” he said quietly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of the table. “I ain’t gonna push y’. I just…” He trailed off, as if searching for the right words, before locking eyes with you again. “Look, if y’ can’t come with me, I get it. But would y’ mind if I called y’? Maybe we could keep in touch, yeah?”

You blinked, a little surprised by the sincerity in his request. For all his confidence, there was something almost vulnerable in the way he asked, like he wasn’t just offering you an escape from your life, but hoping to keep some kind of connection alive between you. As if he didn’t want you to slip away completely, even if you couldn’t be by his side.

The thought of hearing his voice, of staying connected, even from a distance, made your heart ache in a way you hadn’t expected. Despite the whirlwind of emotions you were feeling, despite all the reasons you knew it was crazy, you found yourself nodding.

“Yeah,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “I’d like that.”

Remy’s lips curled into a slow smile, the kind that always made you feel like you were the only person in the world. “Good,” he murmured, his voice warm and rich with something you couldn’t quite name. “I’ll call y’ then, cher. And who knows? Maybe after a few weeks of hearin’ my voice, you might start to miss me enough to change y’r mind.”

You chuckled, shaking your head, but there was a warmth in your chest now, a flicker of something that felt dangerously close to hope. “We’ll see,” you replied, your voice teasing but gentle.

The tension that had been hanging in the air between you seemed to ease, and for the rest of the conversation, things felt lighter, easier. You talked about music, about his upcoming tour, about anything that didn’t carry the weight of decisions and life-altering choices. But that connection—the one that had been lingering between you since the night before—was still there, humming quietly beneath the surface.

When it was time to leave, Remy stood up, pulling his sunglasses on with that effortless grace that always made him seem larger than life. He gave you one last look, his smile soft, his voice low. “Take care of y’self, cher. I’ll call y’.”

You nodded, your heart doing strange, unsteady things in your chest. “You too.”

And then, with one last glance, he turned and walked out of the café, his security trailing behind him. You watched him go, the door swinging shut behind him, and for a long moment, you just sat there, staring at the empty seat across from you.

It wasn’t until you reached for your phone and saw his name still sitting in your messages that you realized you were already waiting for his call.

And so, here you were, four months later, wrapped in blankets and watching him strum his guitar through a video call. The soft, melodic chords floated through the speakers, filling your room with warmth, as if he were right there beside you. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him, lost in the music. It was moments like these that felt so intimate, so personal, that you forgot for a second who he was to the rest of the world—Remy LeBeau, the rockstar. To you, right now, he was just Remy, the man who somehow made you feel like you were the only person that mattered.

But things hadn’t always been so simple.

The first few weeks after that night at the concert had been a blur of conflicting emotions. You’d tried telling yourself that this was nothing more than a fling, a brief distraction to help you move past the betrayal of your ex. You had convinced yourself that you could keep it casual, that it was just fun—a wild story you’d look back on one day and laugh about. But Remy? He had a way of making it impossible to keep your distance.

It started with the phone calls, almost every night. At first, they were lighthearted, teasing, filled with playful banter and flirtation. He’d call after a show, his voice still buzzing with adrenaline, and tell you about the crowd, the energy, the chaos of it all. You’d listen, intrigued, laughing when he’d slip into stories about the wild things he’d seen on tour. But then, as the night wore on and the conversation slowed, there came a shift. His voice would drop to that familiar low timbre that sent shivers down your spine, and suddenly it wasn’t just words you were exchanging anymore.

The first time it happened, you hadn’t expected it. It was late, and your conversation had drifted, like it often did, into the easy, comfortable rhythm you’d fallen into over the past few weeks. You were talking about nothing in particular, just the small details of your day, the way the moon looked outside your window—big and full, casting a pale glow across your room—or how his hotel room was too cold even though it was the middle of summer. He grumbled lightly about the AC, about how it never seemed to work right, and you had laughed, teasing him about his preference for luxury despite his grungy rockstar persona.

It was familiar, relaxed, the way you talked most nights. There was always an underlying tension, of course—a kind of charged energy that lingered between the words, between the silences—but you’d gotten used to it. It was part of the dynamic you shared, the playful flirtation that never seemed to cross a line.

But then, something shifted.

You didn’t notice it right away. Not at first. You were too lost in the comfort of his voice, in the way it wrapped around you, warm and easy, making you feel like you weren’t alone in your bed, but curled up next to him, sharing the same space. But then his tone changed, just slightly—a subtle drop in pitch, a softness that wasn’t there before.

“What are y’ wearin’ right now, cher?” he asked, his voice suddenly low, intimate, like a dark velvet caress that sent a shiver down your spine.

You blinked, surprised, letting out a breathy laugh, unsure of whether he was joking or not. “What?” you asked, your voice light, trying to play it off even though your heart had already started to race.

He didn’t laugh. Instead, you heard the faintest sound of his breath on the other end of the line, slow and measured. “You heard me,” he murmured, his words edged with a playful challenge. “Tell me what y’r wearin’. I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout you all night, and I can’t get the image out of my head.”

Your heart was pounding now, heat rising to your cheeks. You hesitated, unsure of how to respond, your mind racing. You weren’t used to this kind of attention—at least, not like this. Not from him. There had always been this tension between you, this pull, but he’d never crossed that line after that one night you both shared.

And yet… the way he said it, the way his voice curled around the words, made it impossible to ignore the desire that was already stirring inside you. It was as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you, as if he could feel the way your breath hitched, the way your body tensed in anticipation. You could hear the smile in his tone, the teasing edge that both excited and unnerved you.

You hesitated for a moment longer, but then you found yourself answering, your voice quieter now, a little breathless. “Just… a t-shirt,” you murmured, feeling shy despite the fact that he couldn’t see you. “And, um… nothing else.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and you could almost hear the way his breath caught, the low sound of approval that hummed in his chest. “Mmm, that’s what I thought,” he drawled, his voice a slow, seductive rhythm. “I knew y’d be layin’ there, all soft and warm. Bet y’r lookin’ real pretty right now, cher.”

Your pulse quickened, heat blooming in your chest, spreading down to your core. The way he spoke to you—so direct, so sure of himself—was intoxicating. There was no hesitation in his words, no uncertainty. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to pull you in, and you found yourself powerless to resist.

“Remy...” you whispered, unsure if you were trying to slow things down or encourage him to keep going.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound warm and rough, sending another shiver through you. “You like it when I say y’r name like that, don’t y’?” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower. “I can hear it in y’r voice, cher. You’re gettin’ all worked up, just from hearin’ me talk.”

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry, your body reacting to his words in ways you couldn’t control. He was right, of course. You could feel the way your body was responding, the way your skin was heating up, the way your thighs pressed together beneath the blankets. It was ridiculous, really, how much power he had over you, even from thousands of miles away. And yet… you didn’t want him to stop.

“Tell me what y’r doin’ right now,” he coaxed, his voice soft, soothing, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be asking you this. “Are y’ touchin’ y’rself already? Or are y’ waitin’ for me to tell y’ what to do?”

Your breath caught again, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. But then you realized he wasn’t asking for permission. He was drawing you in, coaxing you into a space where nothing else mattered but his voice and the way it made you feel. It was like he was right there with you, his words tracing over your skin, lighting you up from the inside out.

You closed your eyes, sinking deeper into the warmth of your bed, letting yourself get lost in the moment. “I’m waiting,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he heard you. You could hear the way his breath hitched slightly, the satisfaction in his next words.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice a low, throaty purr that sent a wave of heat straight through you. “Now, I want you to take that hand of yours and slide it down... nice and slow. I want y’ to feel every inch of yourself, cher. Like it’s me touchin’ you.”

Your breath quickened, your body responding to the command before you even had time to think about it. You could feel the heat pooling low in your belly, your skin tingling with anticipation as you did as he asked, your hand moving slowly beneath the blankets, your fingers brushing against the soft skin of your thigh.

He continued to speak, his voice guiding you, coaxing you further, his words like a slow burn that ignited something deep within you. And before you knew it, you were completely wrapped up in him, in the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line, in the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred, something precious.

It was intoxicating, the way he made you feel so desired, so wanted, even from hundreds of miles away. It was as if the distance between you didn’t exist, as if he were right there beside you, his hands on your body, his lips at your ear, whispering every sinful thought that crossed his mind.  And you wanted it.  You wanted more.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of breathless whispers, of quiet moans and soft gasps, of his voice guiding you through every wave of pleasure. And when it was over, when you were both spent and quiet, he stayed with you on the line, his voice soft and soothing as he murmured sweet things into the phone, grounding you, bringing you back down from the high.

“Y’r somethin’ else, cher,” he had whispered, his voice warm and full of affection now, as if the heat of the moment had given way to a deeper intimacy. “I can’t wait to see y’ again. Gonna make sure I take my time with y’ next time we’re together.”

You smiled, your heart still racing, though there was a different kind of warmth in your chest now. “I can’t wait either,” you whispered back, feeling a little shy despite everything that had just happened.

And after it was over, after the heat and frenzy of it had passed, he’d stay on the line with you, his voice softening as he asked about your day, about your life. He’d talk about the things he wanted to do with you when he saw you again—places he wanted to take you, moments he wanted to share. And though the words were often filled with playful flirtation, there was an undercurrent of something deeper, something that left you wondering if it was more than just a casual fling for him, too.

But for all the passion, for all the heat, there remained that same phrase, echoing in your mind every time you spoke to him: We’ll just see where it goes. He had said it so many times, always with that teasing smile, as if the future was something neither of you could—or should—try to predict.

And yet, the more time you spent talking to him, the harder it became to keep your walls up. At first, you had tried to convince yourself that it was just physical, that it was the thrill of being wanted by someone like him. But the truth was, Remy had a way of getting under your skin. It wasn’t just the phone sex, though that certainly had its hold on you—leaving you breathless and aching for more, night after night. No, it was the way he spoke to you afterward, the way he asked questions and actually listened to your answers, the way he remembered the small details about your life that you hadn’t even realized you’d shared.

He had a way of making you feel wanted, even when he was thousands of miles away. And that scared you.

Because how could you possibly let yourself fall for someone like him? Someone whose life was a whirlwind of fame, fortune, and endless attention. Someone who could have anyone, anywhere, yet somehow was choosing to spend his nights strumming his guitar and talking to you. It didn’t make sense. You weren’t naïve—you knew the kind of life someone like Remy led. The constant travel, the adoring fans, the temptations of a rockstar’s world. And you… well, you were just a small part of that. Weren’t you?

A part of you wanted to believe that maybe it could be something more. That maybe, for all his charm and effortless cool, Remy was looking for something real. Something deeper. But the other part of you—the part that had been burned before, the part that had learned to be cautious—was terrified. You’d been hurt before. You knew what it felt like to open yourself up, only to be left shattered in the end. You’d built these walls for a reason, after all. You couldn’t afford to let yourself get hurt again.

But as you sat there, watching him through the screen, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings of his guitar, you felt your heart ache with the familiar pull of emotion. The way he looked at you—his brow furrowed in concentration as he lost himself in the music—it was like you were the only thing grounding him, the only thing keeping him anchored in the chaos of his life. And that made it so much harder to keep your distance.

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” Remy’s voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. His eyes were on you again, sharp and curious, as if he could sense the shift in your mood.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to answer. How could you possibly put all of this into words? The swirl of emotions, the fear, the longing. But then you smiled softly, shaking your head. “Nothing,” you lied, your voice gentle. “Just… enjoying the music.”

His lips curled into that familiar, lazy grin, the one that always made your heart skip a beat. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “’Cause I’m playin’ this just for you, cher.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and for a brief moment, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just a passing fling. That maybe it was something more. Something real.

You sighed softly, snuggling deeper into your blankets, the warmth of the music and his voice lulling you into a comfortable, if bittersweet, peace. You didn’t know what the future held. You didn’t know if this thing with Remy was destined to burn out as quickly as it had begun, or if it could turn into something lasting.

All you knew was that the more time you spent with him—whether it was through the phone, through late-night video calls, or in that breathless space between passion and vulnerability—the harder it became to guard your heart.

“You look tired,” you commented, your voice soft and muffled as you lay half-buried in your pillow, your body wrapped in the comforting warmth of your blankets. The glow of your phone screen illuminated your face, casting a soft light over the room, but all you could focus on was him—Remy, sitting there on the other end of the video call, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

He paused, his gaze meeting yours through the screen, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he let out a soft chuckle, his lips curling into a familiar, crooked smile. “I am,” he admitted, running a hand through his tousled hair. “But as you always tell me, there’s no rest for the wicked.”

You smiled at that, a small, tired smile of your own, remembering how often you had teased him about his relentless schedule, about how he never seemed to stop moving. You licked your lips, your voice softening with concern. “You should get some sleep, Remy. Have you slept at all?” you asked, the worry clear in your tone.

He shook his head, his smile fading just slightly as he leaned back in his chair, his body visibly tense, though he tried to hide it. “Nah,” he said with a shrug, as if it were no big deal. “I’ve got to be up in a few hours anyway. Some interview with one of those late-night talk show things.” He watched as you shifted deeper inside your covers, your face barely visible now except for the soft glow of your eyes on the screen. His expression softened, and there was something else there too—something more vulnerable, more real. “But I wanted to run something by you anyway.”

Your interest piqued at that, and you pushed yourself up a little, propping your chin on your hand, your sleepy eyes fixing on him through the screen. “What is it?” you asked, your curiosity laced with a hint of anticipation.

Remy hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering away from the camera as if he were gathering his thoughts, or maybe his courage. Then, with a quiet sigh, he looked back at you, the familiar teasing smile slipping back onto his lips, though there was a softness behind it. “We’ve got a few days off, and I was thinkin’...” He paused, his voice trailing off for a beat before he continued, “I was gonna fly there and come see y’.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you felt a small smile tug at the corners of your lips, the kind you couldn’t suppress even if you tried. It was one thing to talk to him on the phone every night, to share your moments through a screen—but the thought of him being here, in person, made something flutter inside your chest. You tried to keep your voice calm, but there was no hiding the excitement that slipped through. “For how many days?” you asked, though you already knew that his schedule probably wouldn’t allow for much.

He laughed softly, the sound warm and familiar, though there was a trace of weariness behind it. “Like… one and a half,” he said, shaking his head as if the idea itself was ridiculous. “Not much, I know. But I’d make the most of it.” His voice was playful, but there was a sincerity in his eyes that made your heart ache a little. “Wha’dya think?”

And then, suddenly, he went quiet. For a moment, the playful energy drained from his expression, replaced by something more cautious, more unsure. It was rare to see him like this—Remy, who was always so confident, so effortlessly charming. But now, he looked almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how you’d react, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d want him to come at all.

The silence stretched between you, and you could feel the weight of his question hanging in the air. He was waiting for your answer, and for once, it felt like more than just a casual suggestion. There was something deeper behind it, something that made your chest tighten with both excitement and fear.

You let out a soft breath, your smile widening as you looked at him, your heart already knowing the answer before your mind could catch up. “I think,” you said slowly, your voice warm and teasing, “that you should come for a visit.”

For a split second, relief flashed across his face, followed by that familiar grin—the one that always made your heart skip a beat. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice lighter now, the tension melting away. “Even if it’s just for a day and a half?”

“Even if it’s just for a day and a half,” you confirmed, your voice soft but sure. “I’ll take whatever time I can get.”

He smiled at that, a genuine, almost boyish smile that made him look younger, softer. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and full of warmth. “’Cause I’ve been missin’ you, cher. More than I should, probably.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest, a mixture of happiness and something else—something deeper that you weren’t quite ready to name yet. “I’ve missed you too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, but you knew he heard you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the unspoken things that neither of you were ready to put into words just yet. But it was enough—just knowing that he wanted to see you, that he was willing to fly across the country just to spend a day and a half with you. It was enough to make you feel like maybe—just maybe—this thing between you was more than just a passing fling.

“Alright,” he said after a while, his voice soft but filled with a kind of determination. “I’ll book the flight tomorrow. And when I get there, I’m gonna make sure I make up for lost time.”

You smiled, your heart full as you snuggled deeper into your blankets. “I’ll hold you to that, LeBeau.”

“You better,” he teased, his grin widening. But as you both fell into a comfortable silence again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you—that this wasn’t just another night of playful banter and teasing promises.  This was real.  This was something more.

A lazy smile crossed your face as you shifted slightly under your blankets, your phone propped up against your pillow. “So, where’re we gonna meet?” you asked, your voice light, teasing, though part of you was genuinely curious. The thought of seeing him in person again, after all the late-night calls and whispered conversations, sent a thrill through you that you couldn’t quite suppress.

Remy leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly in that way they always did when he was thinking, the faintest hint of mischief already dancing behind them. He shrugged casually, his lips curling into a smirk as he stretched his arms behind his head. “We’ll figure it out,” he drawled, his voice smooth, that lazy Southern charm dripping from every word. “But I think we both know it don’t really matter where we meet, cher.” His gaze lingered on you through the screen, his eyes dark and intent. “It’s what happens after that, that’ll count.”

You felt a soft flutter in your chest at his words, warmth spreading through your body as your smile grew wider. You gave a small shrug, pretending to think it over for a moment. “Well, there’s not a lot to do around here,” you teased, your voice light but your mind already wandering to what could happen when you were finally in the same space again, without a screen between you.

Remy’s smirk deepened, his eyes flashing with a hint of something darker, something more playful. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that always made your heart race. “Y’r makin’ it sound like I’m gonna let you leave the hotel while I’m in town,” he murmured, his words slow and deliberate, each one sending a shiver down your spine.

Your breath caught for a moment, heat rising to your cheeks as you tried to suppress the grin that was threatening to break across your face. But it was no use. You leaned closer to the camera, your voice dropping to a soft, teasing whisper. “Is that a promise?” you asked, your heart pounding in your chest, though you kept your tone playful.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, and you could hear the unspoken promise in it. “Oh, it’s more than a promise, cher.” His voice was velvet, the kind of smooth that wrapped around you and pulled you in, leaving you breathless. “I’ve got… some ideas. Things I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout. Things I’ve been wantin’ to try.” He paused, letting the words linger in the air between you, his eyes watching you closely through the screen, gauging your reaction.

Your skin tingled at the suggestion, your pulse quickening with the anticipation that was building between you. You could feel the heat rising in your body, the way his words sent a thrill of excitement racing through you. It was the way he said it—so casual, so confident, like he already knew exactly what he wanted to do with you, and exactly how he was going to make it happen.

“Oh?” you breathed, your voice soft as you bit your lip, trying to play it cool even though your mind was already racing with possibilities. “Care to elaborate?”

Remy’s eyes darkened, his smirk widening as he leaned even closer to the camera, his face filling the screen. His voice dropped another octave, his words coming out slow and deliberate, each one sending a fresh wave of heat through you. “Let’s just say,” he began, his tone smooth, teasing, “I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout how much I wanna take my time with you, cher. How much I wanna make up for all the nights we’ve spent apart.” He paused, his gaze intense, his voice softening even further. “I’ve got plans. And I promise y’... you won’t be leavin’ that bed anytime soon.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath catching at his words. The way he said it, the way he looked at you through the screen—it was like he wasn’t just speaking about physical intimacy, but something deeper, something that made your skin tingle and your mind spin with possibilities. It was as if he was telling you that this wasn’t just about passion, but about the connection you’d been building, the intimacy that had grown between you, even from a distance.

You swallowed, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended. “You’ve really thought this through, huh?”

His grin softened, though the intensity in his gaze didn’t waver. “Oh, I’ve had plenty of time to think about it,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Every night we’ve talked, every time I’ve heard your voice, I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout what I’d do when I finally got y’ in front of me again. And believe me, cher, I plan on takin’ my time.”

You shivered at his words, your entire body reacting to the promise in them, the way his voice curled around the syllables like a caress. The idea of finally being with him, of feeling his touch, of experiencing all the things he had hinted at during your late-night conversations—it was almost too much to think about.

But it wasn’t just the physical that drew you to him. It was the way he made you feel seen, the way he could shift from playful flirtation to something more serious, more intimate, without missing a beat. It was the way he spoke to you as if you were the only person in the world, the way he made you feel wanted, desired, in a way that went beyond just attraction.

And now, with the promise of seeing him again so close, you could feel that pull between you growing stronger, the anticipation building like a current of electricity that you couldn’t ignore.

You smiled, your voice soft as you replied, “Well… I guess I’ll just have to clear my schedule then.”

Remy chuckled, the sound low and rich, sending another shiver down your spine. “Good,” he murmured, his voice full of affection, though there was still that teasing edge beneath it. “’Cause once I get there, cher, I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

You grinned, your heart full as you curled deeper into your blankets. “I’m counting on it.”

And as you both fell into a comfortable silence, the weight of his words lingering in the air between you, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of warmth, of excitement, mixed with just a hint of nervousness. Because this wasn’t just another phone call, another night of teasing and playful banter. This was real. He was coming to see you. And when he arrived, everything between you would change.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel scared. You felt ready. <><><><>

Remy sat quietly, just watching you. The dim light from your phone screen illuminated your face, casting a soft glow over your features as you lay nestled under the covers. Your eyelids were heavy with sleep, but you were still trying to hold on to the conversation, your voice fading in and out with exhaustion. The day had clearly worn you down, and he could see it in the way your body slowly gave in, sinking deeper into the bed, your breathing becoming slower, more rhythmic.

He should’ve told you to go to sleep, to rest, but selfishly, he didn’t want to end the moment. He wanted to stay here, with you, for just a little longer.

There was something about these late-night (Or early morning for him) calls that always left him feeling unsettled—but not in a bad way. There was something about you that made him feel… different. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, you had become more than just a voice on the other end of the line. You’d become a part of his day, a part of his routine. And, more dangerously, a part of his thoughts.

And that scared him more than anything else.

He sighed softly, his gaze still lingering on you as he reached for his guitar. His fingers found the strings instinctively, the familiar weight of the instrument settling in his lap like it always did.

He began to strum softly, the opening chords filling the quiet space between you. You recognized the song immediately—of course you did. He could see it in the way your face softened, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips as your eyes fluttered closed. This was one of your songs, one of those tracks you’d both talked about at length during long, late-night conversations. There was something about it that resonated with both of you, something unspoken and shared.

He hadn’t sung this song in a long time, and now, with you lying there, on the verge of sleep, the meaning behind the lyrics hit him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know how to navigate this. He wasn’t used to caring this much. He wasn’t used to letting someone in, especially someone like you—someone who didn’t fit into the chaos of his world.

You didn’t care about the fame. In fact, you hated it. He knew that about you. You’d talked about it before, how the idea of paparazzi, cameras, and flashing lights made your skin crawl. You were the kind of person who valued your solitude, your quiet life. You loved your little apartment with the garden bed out front, where you grew herbs and flowers, tending to them like they were your own private escape from the world. You’d once joked about the crack in the ceiling that drove you nuts, how you’d planned to fix it yourself, but never got around to it. It had become an inside joke between you, the crack that you swore had "character" and "personality."

You liked your anonymity. You liked being able to walk down the street without anyone noticing you, without anyone caring. You had your own space, your own life, and you cherished it.

And that’s where the problem was.

Remy’s life was the complete opposite. His world was all flashing lights, screaming fans, and relentless attention. There was no hiding, no escaping the cameras or the constant buzz of people wanting something from him. He couldn’t disappear into the background, couldn’t just enjoy a quiet moment in a small apartment without the risk of someone snapping a photo or leaking details to the press. His life wasn’t built for the kind of peace you cherished.

And that terrified him. Because how could he ask you to be a part of that? How could he drag you into the chaos of his world when he knew how much you valued your privacy, your independence? Remy felt the familiar tug in his chest. He knew that his feelings for you had already grown deeper than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but it had. You’d become important to him, in a way that scared him because it made him vulnerable.

He watched you as your breathing slowed, your body sinking deeper into the mattress. You were asleep now, completely relaxed, your face so peaceful, so content. And yet, you still wore that small, faint smile, the one that made his heart ache in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

But that thought—the thought of pulling away, of protecting himself from the heartbreak that could come with letting you in—came with its own set of problems. Because the truth was, he didn’t want to pull back. He didn’t want to protect himself.

He didn’t want to lose this. He didn’t want to lose you.

His fingers moved effortlessly over the strings, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. He thought about all the times you’d joked about your quiet life, about how you loved your little apartment, your garden, your anonymity. And as much as he loved hearing you talk about it, a part of him always felt a pang of guilt. Because if this—whatever this was between you—kept growing, he knew he’d be pulling you into a world that was the opposite of everything you valued.

For a long time, he just sat there, watching you sleep, his thoughts a tangled mess of emotions he wasn’t sure how to handle. He hadn’t planned for this. He hadn’t planned for you. But now, you were here, in his life, and he couldn’t imagine it without you.

But how could he move forward? How could he let himself care about you the way he wanted to, knowing that his life would inevitably pull you into the spotlight, into a world you didn’t want to be a part of? The more he thought about it, the more he realized just how complicated things could become.

Yet, every time he considered pulling back, distancing himself to protect both of you from the chaos and the heartbreak, he hesitated.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want to lose you.

He didn’t know the answer yet. He didn’t know how to make this work, how to bridge the gap between his world and yours. But as he looked at you now, sleeping peacefully with that faint smile still lingering on your lips, one thing was clear: he wasn’t ready to let you go.

And before he could stop himself, he whispered the opening line of the song, barely loud enough for even him to hear

"So lately, been wonderin'... Who will be there to take my place…When I’m gone….You’ll need love….to light the shadows on your face…"

[raayllum]

Invert Life and Death Theory

Yesterday, the fandom received two season seven synopses that detail similar mysterious concepts:

The stakes have never been higher as Aaravos and Claudia are on the warpath, determined to destroy the Cosmic Order and invert life and death. With the world’s fate on the line, our heroes must be ready to sacrifice everything to save it.

As Aaravos and Claudia seek to destroy the Cosmic Order and invert life and death, our heroes must be literally ready to sacrifice anything and everything love and believe in to save the world!

I will touch on the 'sacrifice' portion likely here, and then further in another meta that was actually already sitting in my drafts about it (as we've known for a while that S7's main theme is sacrifice, even if I didn't expect it to be so blatantly spelled out in the summaries). But I digress.

Aaravos (and Claudia) want to destroy the Cosmic Order. They want to invert life and death, to turn it upside down (much like Aaravos' chest star I might imagine). Presumably this is to make the Cosmic Order mortal-mortal so that they can be permanently killed and Aaravos can have his proper revenge. He might also be working towards trying to reassemble Leola's spirit somehow.

But what is that attempted inversion going to look like? Well... It does contextualize the weird consistent emphasis his plans have had on the Moon and Sun specifically:

And we might finally know why:

Sun and Moon, Life and Death

In previous posts, I'd speculated there was more than just politics or revenge at stake in Aaravos seemingly killing Luna Tenebris and Queen Aditi 300 years ago. Of course the in-story explanation that's most obvious is that he wanted political instability, which I think is certainly true.

However, thus far there's not really a Reason in-text that it had to be those two. Why not another Earth dragon instead, or a Tidebound king? Throughout the series the elves that have gotten the most focus and worldbuilding have routinely been Moonshadow and Sunfire elves, and it didn't really have to be. And of course we could get into the weeds and say that Earth could've been associated with Life and Sun with death, etc etc. but the point stands that I think this series long focus on Moonshadow and Sunfire elves/philosophies in addition to Aditi and Luna Tenebris' deaths/disappearances makes a lot of sense if Sun = Life and Moon = Death, and these are the things that Aaravos wishes to invert upside down.

The fact that this reflective relationship between Sun and Moon possibly ties into Aaravos being in a mirror, characters having shadow selves running around in the narrative, and the emphasis on mirrored images in the dark magic dreams we see also makes sense.

Aaravos already toppled the Sun Forge and thereby Sun Primal on his way through to the Storm Spire. Going back to the Moon Nexus in S6 was a welcome callback to Through the Moon, but the Moon Nexus specifically having a portal between life and death... reminding us of that location because it's going to play a much bigger role next season (potentially like other characters, like Aanya) could be on the table. In taking Lux Aurea, Aaravos got the corrupted Sun staff after all.

Speaking of which, let's talk about

Rayla and Claudia

I don't think I have to explain why or routinely how Rayla is associated with the Moon as a Moonshadow elf. Secretive yet open, caught between love and duty, life and death, truth and lies, light and dark, Rayla embodies all this and more. Callum has also asked for her to be his Death if push comes to shove and he's possessed again, but she's also what has saved him in S6 from said threat of possession (and likely will again). This isn't to say that Aaravos needs a Moon arcanum and is going to take Rayla's (though I suppose he could), I think the likelier outcome is corrupting the Moon Nexus (and hence why you animate/rig Lujanne, Allen, and a new Phoe-Phoe design under your software at all). But it does mean I think Rayla will be a mirror to Claudia / whatever is happening with the Moon Nexus as a way to manipulate Callum, per usual.

Conversely, Claudia has wielded the corrupted Sun staff — a literally corrupted light that represents dark magic to her outright in S6, and one that she uses as a literal and metaphorical crutch — since season three, only occasionally using her father's staff with Viren only using the Sun staff for the Hearts of Cinder spell. She's a sun that's already been eclipsed by Aaravos, by death, in more ways than one. Someone who's walked a continually bloodier, darker path the further the show has gone on.

If and when Claudia gives up dark magic, she'll be 'restored' as the Sun — uncorrupted, bolstered by the truth ("Careful, if you tell the truth you will lose her"), shining brightly again. In the meantime, though, if Claudia is brought home in parallel with Callum being saved from dark magic corruption in S6, I think someone else will be Claudia's 'sun'. So let's talk about it.

Trials and Tests of Love

While we might see more — I could see Karim getting a trial on a technicality in S7 — as it stands now we see three former trials in the series. The first is in S4 among the Sunfire elves with Lucia, who ruined a sacred ritual by putting out a light, and is declared not innocent but worthy of life over death. Then we see Leola, who despite being truly innocent is condemned to death by the Star/First Elves and is made into nothing more than a light star known as Leola's Last Wish. Finally, we're going to seemingly have Rayla, whose actions did lead to the death of her troupe of Moonshadow assassins in the Silvergrove.

Just like with starlight vs moonlight vs sunlight with the Celestial elves, and Astrid + star magic creatures like Sir Sparklepuff in particular....

AARAVOS: Otherwise the sun will rise, and you will not.

We see this pattern of sun, star, and moon again with the trials alongside ideas of mercy, innocence, and concepts of paying the price.

Meanwhile, in season six, both Claudia and Callum were searching for their deep truths. Their path. Callum found his in Rayla and accepted it wholeheartedly. Claudia thought she'd find hers in Viren ("I'll look at him and I'll know / I need him to show me the right path"), but found only his body and the prison he left behind. Of course, the main reason that Viren died in season six was that he wanted to save Katolis, and more than that, he wanted to save his son.

She said that this was my home, and that my brother and I needed each other.

If Claudia is an eclipsed sun, a form of life turned death, than Soren is the uncorrupted version of the sun, ready and willing to guide her back if she'll just give him the chance. And in going back to Katolis, in sparing/saving Soren, Viren did help give Claudia what she needed in order to find her true path some day, too: a life with her brother and Terry at her side.

Claudia's first real test of love in the series was whether to choose the egg — the world, her father's wishes — over the safety and wellbeing of her family — her brother. She made the right choice.

I'm here.

It'd make sense if one of her final tests of love was a similar trial — maybe even if Callum under possession/Aaravos' control hurts Soren ("Oh I've been stabbed by the stab-prince!") — and Claudia once again chooses her brother over everything, just as he chooses for and fights for her. She ultimately chooses life over death, reflecting the massive change in herself and her character arc.

Likewise, Rayla being a Moonshadow elf saved from death ("I leapt to my certain death, but you spread your wings and you saved me" / "Finnegrin was going to kill you, I didn't have a choice") from Callum means breaking his promise, yes.

However, it also frees her up from needing to be an assassin and therefore from needing to behave like she's "already dead" or that Callum is. The possession/corruption would be a fate worse than death / metaphorical to literal death and rather than delivering either, Rayla would save him in turn. Like Claudia, she chooses life over death, symbolizing the same turning point. Callum, meanwhile, could get the Moon arcanum by realizing he has dark and light inside him; this may not mean a total blank slate (idk if they'd repeat that) from corruption, but a way to permanently throw off Aaravos' control of him regardless.

Life, over death.

Life and death working in harmony under principles of justice, mercy, and compassion.

Conclusion

This is more of rambling "notes on top of all this" place than a proper conclusion, but just a summary of stuff / some speculation for later:

Aaravos needed Moon and Sun stuff specifically from Luna Tenebris and Queen Aditi and that's why he killed them

Aaravos is going to successfully make the Cosmic Council mortal, even if that means making himself mortal.

This makes him more powerful than the Council and they may have reason to ally with our main team in order to take down Aaravos and/or be destroyed themselves

Rayla as Moon and Claudia as Sun reflect both life and death, but each will likely choose life over death; for Rayla this is about a certainty, for Claudia it's more up in the air if she'll have her redemption arc yet (I could see it getting pushed further to arc 3).

I think it'd be really nice if the inversion of life and death had broad implications meant some characters got to say goodbye, like Callum and Ez having a moment with Harrow and/or Sarai

And I think that's about it! What do you think inverting life and death may mean?

[reyreadersblog]

ALRIGHT Y'ALL MADE ME DO IT!!!

My unpopular tig/tgg opinions!!

FIRST!

These are MY opinions and i'm allowed to have my own thoughts on certian things, just as you are, okay..? Just wanna..get this out of way, i know everyone is respectful in this fandombut still.

1. this is something that should NOT be an upopular opinion. AVERY IS THE MAIN CHARACTER FOR A REASON. okay? She is a girlboss, and she needs more appretiation, cus literally search up tig on tt rn. Everybody and their cat named Stewie is talking about Grayson and Jameson? WHAT ABOUT MY MG AVERY? And if you see any post about her, it's probably a hate vid about how Avery should've kept the money...SHUT UP. Read what she said carefully..."no one deserves that kind of power.." and then think about it deeply.

2. I DO NOT WANT TIG TO TURN INTO A TV SERIES (or even a movie). i can't name all the reasons 'cus then the the list would be endless. First of all, i know, I JUST KNOW, they'll choose the worst cast ever. And even if they find the most accurate cast for the Hawthorne brother i will still be dissapointed, because the images of them i have in my head...THEY'LL NEVER TOP EM. second of all, they will leave out important moments, just as simple as it sounds, and trust me they will, just like they do with most of the live adaptations of books. Third of all, SHIP WARS!!! I phisically can't with ship war, like I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF EM IN THE PAST WHEN THE BOOKS WERE STILL COMING OUT. And just the thought of Averygrayson shipper saying "yeah Avery and jameson were endgame in the books but they might change it in the movie..." GIVES ME NIGHTMARES. and overall, not everything needs a live adaptation yk? sometimes things just have to stay the way they are.

3. ...this is a bit contrevertial.and i don't want to sound like a hater since i've said this a multiple times before but Rohan's pov was my least favourite in the grandest games. Purely bcs whatever Savannah and Rohan had going on...don't get me wrong, i like Savannah (even tho she did and said some fucked up things) and Rohan, SEPERATLY. But them being together...idk man, they were too..."booktokish" for my liking, yk? and i do love banter and teasing, but they were like basic "i like you but i like winning more" "couple". Not to mention they were so random...like where did they come from? I remember when we first saw Sav and Rohan having the same symbols on their cards i was very excited, i expected a different dynamic between them...PLUS THE WHOLE GAME THEY JUST WANTED TO FUCK💀

4. Hating Alisa Ortega and loving Grayson Hawthorne is CRAZYYY, and i'm saying this bcs they're pretty similar in different ways. And the thing is people are mad at Alisa for "saying mean words to Libby" (she was literally doing her job, you would understand if you were at her place) MEANWHILE GRAYSON LITERALLY THREATENED A HEIRESS! (sayin this as a Gray stan) *sigh* y'all are something else🤦🏻‍♀️.

5. Ohh...this one is risky...BUT CAN Y'ALL STOP ACTING LIKE JAMESON IS BLAMELESS?? all i see is Grayson slander, AND I UNDERSTAND, he fucked up, but saying "Jameson was so much better than Grayson" is a lie, at least for me. (He was better for Avery tho) he fs made mistakes that fandoms chooses to ignore. Like lets not act like treating Avery like a toy wasn't wrong. Lets not act like him blaming Grayson for everything wasn't wrong. Let's not act like him reminding Grayson of Emily's death wasn't wrong. And i know that later on both him and Grayson had a great character development, but still, i've never seen anyone talk about this.

6. This isn't about tig. But LIKING JLBS WORK AND BEING HER FAN DOESN'T MEAN YOU'RE GLAZING HER💀 (talking about an argument i had a while ago...) like is it so hard for your brain to understand that it's called having an opinion. Idc if it's JLB or any other author, okay? Like i've read almost every Jlb's books and i love them, AND i also publicly talk about how much iblove her work, does that mean i'm glazing her? UHM NO WTF💀.

7. LET. PEOPLE. HAVE. PREFRENCE. (I'm talking about ships btw) . Someone prefers LyraGray over Averyjameson, and that's okay. Someone loves Averyjameson the most, and that's also okay, someone likes Libbynash more then Xandermax, AND THAT IS ALSO OKAY.

I'll probably do part 2, i have more to say i'm just really tired rn.

Also it's not proof read so sorry if there are many mistakes.

[saintsenara]

THE AUDIENCE CLAMOURS FOR YOUR VOLMIONE TAKE!!!!!!!!! In all seriousness the curiously is piqued tenfold by the fact that you go hard to bat for the other two voldemort/golden trio ships

i've definitely been putting this one off, anon, but it's hermione's birthday, and since the requests have kept coming...

maybe i have to grit my teeth and get through it.

i am, like my good pal @yorickofyore, broadly a tomione/volmione disliker - which is a spoiler for what follows. there are - obviously - huge numbers of people who are not, and they may sit happily in their ecosystem while i flop around photosynthesising in mine.

and the reason why i don't like tomione/volmione is right there in the last three screenshots: it relies - like several other hermione pairings, snamione and sirimione chief among them - on a portrayal of hermione's intellectual expression which bears absolutely no relation to how this is written in canon.

across all seven books in the series, hermione's intellect primarily manifests itself in a sincerely impressive ability to retain and repeat information [very usually verbatim from the source she got it from]. she is able to use this ability to retain information to understand the theoretical components of magic in a way neither harry nor ron ever manage, and she is then able to apply this retention - that is, to repeat the information she has acquired - of knowledge to the performance of magic which is [often considerably] ahead of her expected level both in terms of the hogwarts curriculum and in terms of what would be seen as the median ability of an adult witch or wizard.

but hermione is never shown - at any point in canon - to be a particularly radical, creative, or experimental thinker.

she places an enormous amount of intellectual trust in disciplinary authority - not only in the respect she has for following textbooks and teachers to the letter [hence why she won't attempt any of the modifications in the half-blood prince's textbook, she thinks it's offensive that they contradict the "official" peer-reviewed and sanctioned instructions] but also in her agreement with the gatekeeping imposed by the state and/or its authorities on academic inquiry.

[hence her disliking the invented spells in the half-blood prince's textbook because they're not ministry approved, or her easing her discomfort at having read the books from which voldemort learned to make a horcrux by insisting - undoubtedly correctly - that dumbledore wanted her to do it and she therefore has the permission of an intellectual authority].

she's immediately mistrustful of anything she can't find [something she regards as] an empirical source for - which is why harry's mental connection with voldemort frightens her so much, or why she thinks that harry's lost his mind when he begins to insist the deathly hallows are real and important, or, most famously, why she thinks divination is bullshit.

she's never shown to be able to synthesise her knowledge [she never answers questions in class in her own words, she always goes massively over word limits], or to use it in ways which are considerably removed from its typical application.

[the protean charm on the da coins, for example - the magic she's using is sophisticated, and is being applied in a way which wouldn't necessarily be classroom-sanctioned, since she's using it to defy umbridge, but the evidence of canon is that it's not magic which is being used in a way which is removed from the spell's original purpose. terry boot is impressed because he's looking at a flawless execution of newt-level magic by a sixteen-year-old, rather than because hermione is using that magic in an unusual way. the same is true of the polyjuice potion - it's impressive because she brews it flawlessly aged thirteen.]

this is a very logical, rational, and scientific approach to learning - and one which the series, which tends to take a dim view of anything which deviates too far from the status quo, views extremely positively - and it is intelligence. i know some people think that when i say this about hermione i'm saying that she isn't clever - or that i'm saying she's less clever than the characters [all of whom are male] that the series permits to be "brilliant" - but that's not the case. hermione is clearly extremely clever - and her logical, empirical, careful approach comes in clutch for the trio throughout the series, right from philosopher's stone. her intellectual expression just isn't the only way intelligence can manifest itself - and it isn't an intellectual expression which will automatically mesh with another very clever person's approach.

which is to say... lord voldemort, both as a teen and an adult, is - intellectually - the complete opposite of hermione.

he is someone - as he tells us - who thinks of magic as a creative force he has every right to shape as he sees fit, something whose boundaries he has the inherent right to smash through. he rejects disciplinary authority [his loathing of dumbledore - as an adult, at least - is because he thinks that dumbledore is a petty-minded gatekeeper who attempts to repress the dark arts - magic, snape tells us, which is inherently ever-changing, unfixed, mutating - because he's afraid of them and their refusal to be neatly contained in disciplinary boxes; his appeal to slughorn's authority is purely a manipulation technique]. he is an adaptor and inventor, and he uses magic in ways which radically deviate from its intended purpose.

and so the common "teen tom riddle and hermione are at school together" trope that they'd both get off on being academic rivals is, in my view, impossible to justify while keeping either of them remotely canon-coherent. she's going to think he's a cunt. he's going to think she's irrelevant.

indeed, i genuinely think the most likely scenario if the two are at school together is that the teen voldemort wouldn't be able to pick hermione out of a line-up - not least because she has very little to offer him when it comes to his plans for world domination.

when it comes to those he's "nice" to, the teenage tom riddle targets the socially prominent, rich, and influential, whom he can use parasitically to his own ends.

he's happy, undoubtedly, to have minions who are less useful to him from a social-advancement perspective, but who come in handy as pawns in his schemes - as dumbledore puts it, "the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty" - but this is the only thing he sees them as. hermione has a capacity for cruelty he would undoubtedly see potential in [even if he would probably be wary of her "run and tell teacher" vibe], but as someone who does his bidding only, rather than anyone for whom he's willing to fake [or, indeed, to actually feel] any degree of mutual affection.

and i do think this - in and of itself - is interesting. hermione is someone - as i've said elsewhere - who has a tendency towards blind loyalty, which often causes her to accept people she likes and/or respects treating her cruelly [something we see in canon particularly in how she reacts to snape's behaviour towards her]. she's also someone who is incredibly deferential to authority, fairly naive, convinced she's always right, convinced she's not irrational, superstitious, or emotionally-driven, and capable of pretty egregious cruelty in pursuit of being rational and correct.

or, in other words, she's very easy for a flesh-and-blood voldemort to manipulate.

[she's not at risk from a horcrux because she's possessed of the empirical fact that they can't hurt you if you don't let them get emotionally close to you, which impacts how she behaves around the locket.]

on the rare occasions when i've enjoyed fics with this pairing, then, they've tended to be ones which actually acknowledge this - and which have hermione completely destroyed by a voldemort [usually in adult form] who has never cared one iota about her, all because she was convinced she'd be far too clever to fall for his tricks.

[my rec: enigma by devdevlin.]

and this is the main way my view of tomione/volmione deviates from my view of tomarrymort or ronmort - i don't think there's any circumstance where it can ever work as something mutual, whereas the entire point of tomarrymort is that the relationship is something voldemort perceives as equal, and ronmort sees the dark lord running headfirst into ron's ability to disarm and confuse him by possessing a crumb of emotional intelligence. i don't think voldemort would hate hermione - or even be particularly irritated by her - but nor do i think he'd find anything about her interesting enough to make him want to keep her around for any longer than she was useful.

but - like so many hermione pairings - the default in tomione/volmione tends to be "omg, hermione is so hot, brilliant, and fascinating that [insert man here] becomes completely obsessed with her". whether the story leads to voldemort becoming a better person or hermione going over to the dark side, the way the pairing is written always assumes that hermione is someone voldemort would consider [often very quickly] important to him [even in circumstances where she is a prisoner]. only very rarely do fics ever explore the much more canon-justifiable - and, in my view, much more interesting - idea that voldemort is somebody hermione could and would consider important, while he wouldn't give a single fuck about her.

[neither of them give a shit about dead rabbits though. it's the only thing they have in common.]

[senditcolton]

hiiiiiii my beautiful friend!!! I’m sure I speak for a lot of us when I say that I would love a check in on we’re a bad idea matty—whatever that means for you and where you vision they are now! (request 1 of ???)

- @comphy-and-cozy

Who Are We to Fight the Alchemy?

a/n: i will gladly write anything for this universe because i love it so much and i will happily write anything for you @comphy-and-cozy. if you couldn't tell from the title, a Taylor Swift mashup inspired the final part of this series so it's only fitting that a Taylor Swift mashup inspired this fic.

Word Count: 3.7k Warnings: brother's teammate, references to alcohol consumption, but mostly just pure romantic fluff!!!

Things change.

It was a statement that brought pain and heartache. But it was also a statement that sometimes brought about such joy and happiness. You were thankful to say that in the past year, the latter was more applicable to your life.

The amount of change that you had experienced felt astronomical whenever you sat down and tried to quantify it. In just a few short months, you went from being miserable in Los Angeles, trying to get over a man that broke your heart and left you reeling to being happy back in New York City and coupled with that same man. A man who had changed even more than you could’ve ever imagined.

Matt Martin used to be a bad idea. Last summer, when the two of you reconnected, he was a surprise. Now, you could safely say that he was one of the best things in your life.

It was jarring at first. There was a part of you that was still distrustful, remembering who he used to be: someone who wanted you to himself but never wanted to claim you. But that summer night, he proved how much he had changed and how much he wanted you. Completely. And he had continued to prove it every day afterwards.

That wasn’t to say the transition was easy. There was a lot of bridges to cross: emotionally, physically, metaphorically. It took a while for you to believe that Matt meant what he said and what he did; that it wasn’t all just an overcorrection brought on by guilt or that it wasn’t just another elaborate ploy to get his hooks back into you. But the one thing that convinced you was how patient Matt was. He understood your reservations, took responsibility for how he treated you, and gave you as much space as you needed to process – even if that space was thousands of miles.

You went back to Los Angeles. Mostly for realistic reasons, like your job and your lease. But you would be lying if you didn’t think of it as a test for Matt; to see if he would wait for you, to see if he still wanted you.

And he did, in every single way.

That was enough for you to take the final leap, move back to New York, and fully commit to being his, the way he was ready to commit to being yours.

That was six months ago. Now, you were Matt Martin’s girl.

It was a massive mind-blowing change, one that you never expected. You had wished for it when you were younger, the massive crush you had on your brother’s teammate making you a fool. You desired it that winter you went to a bar with your brother and ended up leaving with Matt. You craved it every moment, during the stretch of hookups and illicit meetings after charity galas and nights out and engagement parties. You resigned that fantasy when you left for Los Angeles. You tried to banish the dream from your mind while you were underneath California’s sun.

But when you saw him again at Scotty and Emily’s wedding, the fantasy of being his resurfaced. Only this time, it wasn’t just something that you wanted. Matt wanted it just as much, if not more. And now, it was no longer a dream. It was your reality.

You were his. He was yours. Something that everyone in your life knew.

You had told your brother Scotty and sister-in-law Emily shortly after the two of you became ‘official’ and were happily surprised when they seemed okay with it. You were sure that their reaction would’ve been much different if they knew the entire timeline of your relationship with Matt Martin (something you were unsure if you would ever tell them). Your friends from college knew, although they were more skeptical, having known part of the tryst you and Matt had shared. Eventually, the news spread to the whole of the New York Islanders, as well as their wives and girlfriends, who welcomed you into a whole new world, one that you never experienced when you were just Scotty’s sister.

But the person that knew before anyone else did was Mat Barzal; the person who knew the entire history of you and Matt Martin and the only person who had one foot in each of your worlds. He was the most supportive of the change, a fact that was slightly surprising but not at all that shocking when you thought about it. You even sometimes thanked him, for giving you both the necessary push that allowed you to reconnect.

While everyone in you and Matt’s personal circles knew, you hadn’t – quote unquote – gone public with your relationship. The gossip blogs had deduced that Matt Martin may have been taken off the market but there was nothing confirmed by you or Matt or anyone else. Whenever you went to Islanders games or appeared in pictures with the other WAGs, you were still known as Scotty’s sister. There was never an implication that you were something more.

And when the New York Islanders had clinched their spot in the playoffs and the discussion of the ever-important WAG jacket began, you told Matt and the girls that you weren’t going to wear his last name on your back; a boundary that Matt respected and the girls playfully ignored. Something that you realized when you were invited to the ‘jacket reveal’ party (out of principle, of course) and had a large package placed on your lap.

In the moment, you were a little annoyed at them for ignoring your wishes, even though you knew that they did it with the best intentions. But now, in the friends and family box at UBS Arena, the jacket wrapped around your frame and your hands clasped in Lyla and Emily’s, you were happy that they did.

It was game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals after all. And the New York Islanders were less than five minutes and one goal away from reaching the peak of the mountain.

Your gaze is glued to the ice, your knuckles turning almost as white as the surface that the Islanders and the Jets were zipping across. You felt as if your breathing stopped every time Winnipeg entered the zone, also vying for that single goal that would bring the Cup to Canada instead. You flinch as Mark Scheifele took a shot at the net, your muscles only slightly relaxing when Ilya made the save. The Jets manage to secure the puck and throw it to back to the point where Josh Morrisey waits. Morrisey attempts to pass to his teammate Vilardi, but a miscommunication causes the puck to bounce off his skate instead.

The black disc sits in the expanse ice until someone scoops it up. And you can’t stop the screams of his name that escape your mouth as Matt Martin skates down the ice, his focus on the net in front of him, a Vezina trophy winning goalie between him and the deciding goal.

The puck flies off his stick and you swear you can feel the entirety of UBS Arena holding its breath. Until the rising shot sails by Connor Hellebuyck’s blocker and hits the netting. Then the arena seems to explode.

The goal horn coupled with the cheers from seventeen thousand people is deafening. However, it all seems like background noise to the way you’re screaming, your pure excitement not even muffled by the pile of bodies that rush over to hug you. You swear you can feel tears in your eyes as the girls pull away, your gaze connecting with the giant screen hanging over the ice as you watch Matt skate by the benches, receiving aggressively excited fist bumps and helmet pats from his teammates.

The reality that there was still two minutes left in the game washes over everyone quickly, the seasoned fans realizing that while things change quickly in life, they can change even quicker in hockey. But as the clock counts down, the nervous energy slowly transforming into that of pure excitement, your eyes scan the arena to find the number 17.

You see him on the bench, his body almost draped over the side as the Islanders hold the puck against the boards, the seconds dwindling down.

Three. Two. One.

The sound of the final buzzer almost makes your knees drop out from under you, your body wanting to collapse in pure relief. You don’t have the opportunity to because before you can blink, Lyla is gripping your shoulders, shaking you with pure joy.

“They fucking did it!!!” she screams in your face and you can do nothing except pull her into a bear-hug as the excitement from the girls, the fans, the players, the coaches, everyone fills the arena. Your eyes flick up to the Jumbotron to see the mass of blue jerseys surrounding the net as the team embraces.

You watch content as the traditionally handshake line happens, your eyes forever glued to Matt as he skates around, occasionally being pummeled with hugs and cheers befitting the game-winning goal scorer. The Conn Smythe trophy is brought out and you hug Lyla tight, cheering almost as loudly as she did when Mathew is announced as the winner.

When the Stanley Cup is brought out, you think it’s a miracle that you can even hear the commissioner over the sound of cheering – a noise that only becomes louder when Anders lifts the trophy over his head.

The girls slowly start filtering out, bustling to get down to the ice but you wait until Matt gets the Cup handed off to him, not wanting to miss the moment he holds the greatest trophy in all of sports for the first time. If you thought there were tears in your eyes when he scored or when the final buzzer went off, there was no denying their presence now as you watch Matt skate around the ice with the silver chalice held proudly over his head.

You feel Emily gently tug at your hand, pulling your attention away from the celebration and pulling you into the hallway and down into the bowels of UBS Arena. The ice is almost blinding as you walk out onto it, your arm linked in Lyla’s. She quickly abandons you when she spies Barzy, running towards him and enveloping him in a massive loving embrace, leaving you to catch up.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Conn Smythe winner,” you tease as you walk up to him, his arm securely wrapped around Lyla’s waist. His grin is wide as he pulls you into a hug. “Congrats Barzy. You deserve it.”

“Thank you,” he mutters to you, letting you go as you step back. You watch his eyes glance over your frame, registering the material wrapped around your torso. “Nice jacket.”

You laugh, the joy in your eyes reflected in his – your insanely supportive best friend.

“Have you seen him yet?” Mat asks, his question causing your eyes to dart around the arena.

“Not yet, but I’m sure he’s getting interviewed or something. I’ll just congratulate Scotty while I wait.”

“Does he know? About this?” he says, gesturing to your body. You reply with a playful shake of your head and Barzy whistles. “This will surely be a night he’ll remember forever.”

You giggle, Mat’s statement not even close to an exaggeration, even without the innuendo that one could easily attach. You give him a quick wave as you wander away, taking a moment to spy Emily standing next to Scotty and your parents. You run up to him, head butting him in the chest in greeting – a ritual that started when you were younger that the two of you continued to this day. Scotty embraces you, smiling as he takes in the moment.

You are laughing with your family when you feel the weight of someone’s gaze attaching to your frame. It is a slow turn of your head until your eyes connect with the ocean blue irises of Matt. You can see his chest rising in heavy breaths, the adrenaline of the moment still buzzing through his body. But the thing that nearly stops your heart is his expression; a mixture of shock and wonder so clearly painted on his face.

You smile, your attention falling completely from your family as you drift away, walking slowly towards him. He coasts up to you and you’re still unsure if his disbelief is related to winning the Cup or to the sight of his last name on your back until he stops in front of you.

“What – ” he begins to say, his hands reaching out to trace down your arms, fingers gliding over the material. His almost hesitance makes you giggle, a smile pulling at his lips in response.

“Surprised?” you laugh, before twirling slowly, the weight of Matt’s gaze raking across your frame undeniable. “It looks good on me, don’t you think?”

The confirmation Matt gives isn’t verbal at first. Instead, he simply lifts you into his arms, your legs instinctively hook around his hips. One of his hands flies into your hair and tugs you forward until your lips press together. The energy and excitement that had been sparking around the arena seems to funnel directly into the kiss. The way your body was buzzing had nothing to do with the glasses of white wine that you had consumed in the past hour and everything to do with the feeling of Matt’s lips against yours.

He finally breaks the kiss and sets you down on the ice, keeping you wrapped in his arms as he stares at you with just as much reverence as he looked at the Stanley Cup.

“You look fucking fantastic,” he mutters and you can’t stop the laugh at the bluntness of his statement.

“I thought I should dress up for you,” you muse, your hand lifting to brush away a few of the sweat-soaked stands of hair from his forehead.

“Glad you did. I think you were my lucky charm.”

“If that’s so, then why didn’t you sweep every series?” you tease, the joke falling from your lips.

“Because the universe needed to know that you were mine.”

The seriousness of his words has you pausing, your eyes looking into his, seeing the sincerity and relief reflecting in his pupils. You realized the gravity of the situation. What you were wearing… it wasn’t just a jacket with his last name sewn between your shoulder blades. It was a confirmation to him, to the team, to the fans, to the world that you were his, even after everything that lead the two of you to this moment.

It was a symbol of your commitment, your trust, your love. It was a public declaration that you were his. Completely.

You could never resist the pull of him, even before this moment, and you certainly can’t stop it now as you lean in and press your lips against his again in a kiss that was just as – if not more – passionate as the last.

“I think I’ve been yours long before I put this jacket on,” you whisper to him, your quiet confession clearly heard as Matt pulls you impossibly tighter against his body.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he replies, a remark that he has made a dozen times before and one that you never tired of hearing. You step back, the playful smirk appearing on your lips.

“Even now? After you scored the goal that made you a Stanley Cup champion?”

“There’s absolutely no comparison,” he asserts, lifting your chin to kiss you again.

Things change, that much was true. They morph and transform, get created and destroyed. What you and Matt shared had shifted more than you could possibly imagine. But it had changed for the better. The connection you two shared was the purest form of alchemy; taking something sordid and turning it into pure gold.  

tagging the "we're a bad idea" babes: @texanstarslove @smileysvech @laurenairay @dissonannce @cowboybarzy @cellythefloshie @provokedgoalie @m00nlightdelights @tkachvkmatthew @cixrosie @alwaysclassyeagle @geospatialharmony

[roachfun]

This is probably a wild thing to get but your “Gojo should stay dead” post has got my unmedicated ass vibrating.

(I’ve only read jjk0, besides that literally all of my exposure has been via 3 video essays and fanfic… I basically got into the series backwards and tbh it’s an interesting experience…)

And tbh I agree with you more than not. Even though the view I have of the character is so fucking warped because jjk fanfic is too the gills filled with smut.

Because what I’ve gathered from the video essays and the few bits of fanfics that actually tried getting into his mind… is that the man is gd tired.

A god complex the size of the sun, that’s only ever been challenged once by one of the few people he ever formed a genuine connection with, and it was challenged as that person was leaving him. That incident may have motivated him to change, but that change was predominantly if not exclusively external, he didn’t really do much self reflection.

After Geto left, Gojo did better (became a teacher, warding Megumi, not letting Yuta be executed) but he didn’t work on being better (god complex, recklessness, belief that his way is the only way with no real consideration for the effects those decisions have on others)

He’s selfish, arrogant, and reckless, he doesn’t seem to take much of anything seriously and that may be a persona (again, I haven’t actually read jjk yet… the ending of mha did the characters, narrative, and audience so gd dirty I need to know how jjk ends so I set my expectations accordingly) but I can very much see this man never really developing his sense of empathy because he never really had any stakes… like he has some understanding, but the god complex and the fact people around him constantly reinforce it… he can’t put himself in other people’s shoes, there’s a detachment from reality that would read as delusional for anybody else, but he has spent his entire life being told he is the strongest with nothing ever being able to prove him wrong.

Than on the flip side of that god complex, honestly for a good while, and still sorta kinda… to me he reads as passively suicidal. (I know “Word of God” can be controversial regarding character analysis because of its absence in the base text) but the fact Gege’s rough rundown of Gojo’s daily schedule was basically “he sleeps for about 3 hours and spends the rest of his time working, his sweet tooth is actually somewhat practical as he uses sugar as a stimulant.” That’s not good for your noggin. Add the isolation caused by his status and his god complex, I see him coming to the conclusion that the only way he should die, is in battle.

And he did! Even if wasn’t in the “final sacrifice that ensures he becomes a legend” sort of way I think he would’ve hoped for.

But that also felt… right? (Certainly not fair, Gege openly admitting he kills off fan favorites for the shock value does dampen the possible emotional impact that could’ve been achieved… but I digress)

Every time Gojo fights, and I mean properly fights, he’s smiling, it’s a game to him, a chance to show off, to assert his dominance and reaffirm his status… so him dying so suddenly that his legs are still standing as his upper half falls to the floor, he’s lying there choking on his own blood as he bleeds out and Sukuna saying it “cleared his skies” (weird phrasing, but I think that’s a cultural/translation thing) it could’ve been a gut punch of a tragedy that amped up the stakes of the final conflict! The protagonists’ trump card is gone in a handful of panels and a flick of the wrist! He’s bleeding out on the ground as the big bad seems to reach a moment of genuine inner peace! But the backtracking and Gege’s history lessened that significantly

tbh I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that Shonen Jump had something to do with it… the motivations for Gege’s writing choices are questionable to me (it feels spiteful and cheap) but they’ve been consistent until now, what changed?

Anyway it is… 5:45 am… I should be asleep, but I’m here vomiting character analysis based on partial information in your inbox… I hope you have a good day/night/whatever is appropriate for when you receive this

I hate that you had me read all that, but I couldn't agree more with most that you said (except maybe where you call him selfish and I lowk think geges killing system is fair and I like it a lot but🤷).

Anyways, I don't know how to really respond to this since you basically did all the talking lol (plus I'm tired from reading all that and just got out of school).

I do have a question tho. how did you start with jjk0??? Like how does something like that happen. Also you haven't watched the anime or anything😭???

Anyways, thanks for dropping this essay on me have a good day/night or life in case we never speak🩵

[bullet-prooflove]

"And I told everybody I was fine for a whole damn year" with Scola, please? Obviously make it 2 years

Tagging: @kmc1989 @trublu2u @district447 @stelacole @abby-splace

Companion piece:

This Ain't Goodbye - Stuart and you make the decision to divorce due to the revelation about his son.

Every Inch Of You (NSFW) - You and Stuart spend the night together after two years apart.

Escapee - You and Stuart are reunited when a face from your past escapes from prison.

It’s past midnight and you’re sitting inside a safe house, deep in the suburbs staring at the Sylvester Stallone’s frozen features on the TV in front of you because you are positive you can hear someone tip toeing in the hallway outside your assigned bedroom.

It’s a second later you hear Stuart’s light rap on the door. It opens to reveal the man himself standing there in a navy blue t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms. You remember the nights where he wore nothing but black Calvin Klein boxers that clung to him in a way that was almost unholy.

Having a son has changed your ex-husband in ways you never could have imagined. After watching his interactions with Jack you can see he’s softer these days, more patient. There’s a joy in him that you know you never could have given him, even if you had stayed together and Jack hadn’t come along.

You expected it to hurt more, being around the two of them but instead of pain you’re plagued by a sense of wistfulness. You made the right decision by leaving. Your guilt and your bitterness over your condition wouldn’t have created a healthy environment for Jack to step into and he needed support at the time, he needed love and stability. You would have only brought turbulence.

“Can’t sleep?” You ask Stuart and he shakes his head as he leans in the doorway, unwillingly to cross some unseen boundary. Even now he’s thinking of you, of the stress this situation must be causing you. “Wanna watch Tulsa King with me?”

“Is it as bad as it sounds?” He asks as he steps over the threshold, watching as you shift the pillows against the headboard for him.

“It’s pretty fun.” You tell him, resetting the series to the first episode.

“Under the sheets?” He questions, gesturing at the quilt. “Or over?”

You know what he’s really asking.

Do you want me close? Or do you need space?

“I don’t mind.” You tell him honestly.

He climbs under the sheets with you, his shoulder bumping against yours and you’re taken back to last night, the two of you tangled up in one another in a hotel room before he’d received that phone call telling him he needed to leave. You know he must be thinking about it too from the way he unconsciously plays with his ring finger.

“It doesn’t hurt-” You find yourself saying into the space between you. “-seeing you with Jack. I thought it would but it doesn’t.”

“I worried.” He admits, tilting his head so he can study your features. “About what it would do to you being cooped up like this with us. I half expected to find you climbing out the window because you couldn’t take it anymore.”

You laugh then because it’s certainly something you would have considered in the past.

“The old Sasha definitely would have.” You tell him the edges of your mouth tipping up into a smile. “But this Sasha, the one that’s had time and therapy to deal with her issues, not so much. Besides I’m getting too old to shimmy down drainpipes.”

It’s his turn to laugh and you’ve forgotten just how much you love that sound.

“Did it help?” He asks you, rolling into his side and you mirror his posture so the two of you are face to face. “Taking some space, getting some distance?”

“It did.” You tell him as you prop you head up on the pillow. “I wasn’t as focused on the problem, I could look at it objectively in a way I couldn’t when I was here in New York.”

Stuart nods his head in understanding, before he reaches out and tucks an errant strand of hair back behind your ear.

“I’ve told everyone that I was fine for the past two years.” He tells you, his thumb tracing over the blush of your cheek. “And then you walked back into my life and I realised I wasn’t, not really. I was just existing but I wasn’t actually living. I was just being what he needed because I had to be, my life became about him because the rest of it… it’s empty.”

You understand exactly what he means. You’ve enjoyed every single one of your new experiences over the past few years but there’s still this void inside of you, this space that can only be filled by the man who lies across from you.

“I’m back in New York now.” You tell him, your lips brushing over his pulse point as you clasp his palm to your cheek. “They offered me a position setting up a training hub here in the city so maybe we could try again, see where that leads us.”

He smiles then and the expression on his handsome features, it just lights up your entire world even after all these years.

“Oh Sasha.” He whispers as he leans in close, his lips brushing over yours. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

Stuart? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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[crispywizardtale]

[moonkhao]

EST SUPHA as PO and WILLIAM JAKRAPATR as THAMEin Thame - Po ・HEART THAT SKIPS A BEAT (2024ISH)

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[<==PREV PAGES] [NEXT PAGE==>(not out yet.wait a year.or maybe more.imagine.]

saw alot of comments on prev pages; saying 'i HATE that mean teacher! im gonna FIGHT HIM!!' & i LOVE the energy!! it WOULD be nice. to have that catharsis. but the story of young tidestrider is Not one of catharsis. it is a story of being so small and so special and sucking so bad.

[sticks-and-souls]

Anakin & Letting Go

I always found it to be a little skeptical that Anakin could become a force ghost after it took Yoda, Qui Gon, and Obi-Wan learning and training how to do it, and I always thought “really? Anakin? Finding that level of peace and letting go?” But after this episode, seeing the care and lesson that he imparts upon Ahsoka that he learned so painfully, I understand it from him so much better. Vader was so stuck in his complete self-hatred that he allowed nobody who had known him before as Anakin to reach him (most notably Obi-Wan and Ahsoka) because of the overwhelming extent of his shame. It took his son, who had never known him and yet who still stood before him and believed in him, loved him, sacrificed himself for him, to call Anakin back from the depths of Vader. And this Anakin, let everything go to save his son and to allow his son to save him.

And it felt so impactful to get to see this mature post-Vader Anakin reaching out to Ahsoka to teach her this very hard-earned lesson that he took the very hard road to get. Because she has Vader in her. She is everything Anakin taught her, and we saw the behaviors that led Anakin to becoming Vader—the fear of losing his most cherished relationships—reaching out of Anakin very early in the clone wars (and before) and the two of them are both very aware that he imparted those lessons on her. And then we've seen across this season—and overtly in her clone wars flashbacks—that she believes she is inextricable from these traits.

I’ve always loved Anakin as a fictional character, getting to see his earnestness, his flawedness, and his intensity (to borrow Huyang’s very accurate adjective), but this episode brought a level of humanity to him that has moved me so deeply. Life is HARD, loss gets forced on all of us no matter what, and the lessons that we learn through mistakes that we made can be extremely painful because acknowledging and taking responsibility for hurting people is actually really painful for humans (not owning up to our actions is the emotionally easier choice and George Lucas has stated time and again that the Dark Side is about taking the short-term easier choices). But it ultimately means that learning from your mistakes is an actual choice you have to MAKE. And this is the core of Anakin’s lesson. He is teaching Ahsoka that she has to choose which lessons he has taught her that she will live by, but more than that, that she is empowered to be able to choose. Yes, she has everything that he taught her—the good and the bad—but she is not condemned to live out all of the lessons. 

And the beauty of it isn't just the lesson, but that Anakin gets to be the one to teach it to her. The betrayal that she experienced in discovering his fall, the taintedness that she has been portraying that she feels about herself, gets specifically addressed because if he figured it out, then she definitely can too. If he is more than just Vader, then she is too. And THAT is what the "Is that what this is about?" line is actually about. It's so so important that we get to see pre-Vader, Vader, and post-Vader across her vision because the point is that yes, Vader is a part of him, and that brilliant shot of the two of them glaring Sith eyes across the blade at each other did it's job in conveying that Ahsoka is capable of that darkness too, but you are not only the darkness. You get to choose. ("You're more than [death and destruction] because I'm more than that"). And more to the point, you have to choose. Because if you don't specifically choose to fight the dark, then you're ultimately choosing to fall into it. "Fight or die."

So for Anakin to be able to reach out to her one more time, to be able to love her the way he, as Vader, had refused to the last time when they met on Malachor, and to open with “you’re never too old to learn”, because god if he didn’t learn that the hard way too. And to be able to pass on to Ahsoka how to actually let go because he himself had only just finally been able to learn it as well, feels so powerful and poignant.

And that look of pride and wistful sadness that he gives her at the end? That both she and Luke were able to learn so quickly what took him so long? And that maybe, he may have helped save her from the worst traits that he imbued upon her? That’s him having let go of his own shame. He feels grief, he feels guilt—we can see it on his face—but what has happened has happened and he has accepted that, and finally learned that letting go doesn't mean it didn't happen, it means it doesn't have to define your actions going forward.

And finally, it’s also him letting go of ahsoka. By teaching her that she will choose her destiny, he has to accept that he cannot control it either. And he has. “There’s hope for you yet.” 

So yeah, Anakin learned to let go, and getting to see him here, in this headspace of acceptance and peace, practicing and understanding what it means to be a Jedi, was so unexpectedly cathartic and revelatory for me as viewer.