#it's so hard to know if you don't get something because you don't have enough context yet

[ghostedgwen]

under that attitude | j.potter

note : I'll have you know it was very funny to take breaks from writing this to create rollercoasters on my roblox theme park tycoon that I managed on the side, I cannot just do one thing lately - at least it was productive

warnings : some angst and a lot of overthinking, pining, misunderstandings (only a bit), two dumb idiots avoiding their feelings, idiots in love, a whole lot of fluff despite the denial

You were always good at keeping secrets - especially the one about your Legilimency. No one could know, because you didn’t have a solid prediction of how the wizarding world would react to that information. But everything changes the day you hear the truth behind his insults - the way his heart stutters when you argue, the desperate, half-terrified way he wants you. 4.9k words

. . . Like, I want you, bless my soul, and I ain't gotta tell him. I think he knows.

Like how most depressing things are, it was worse at night.

The castle breathed in the dark - long, slow sighs that rattled through stone and bone alike - and it was then, in the hush between curfew and dawn, that the voices were loudest. Not aloud. Never aloud. In your head. Flickering, always uninvited.

You leaned against the cold wall outside the Slytherin common room, your head tipped back, eyes closed. The torches burned low, sputtering against damp stone. Somewhere down the passage, you could hear the slow drip of water, the groan of ancient pipes. Familiar sounds.

The other ones - the ones that weren't supposed to exist - you kept locked tight behind your ribs.

You hadn't meant to become a Legilimens. Hadn't studied it, hadn't even known the word when it first happened. It had just. . . started. It started as barely audible whispers at first. At eleven years old, you'd thought everyone heard them - snatches of feeling, flickers of thought that didn't belong to you.

It wasn't until second year, during a Charms duel, that you'd understood: when your opponent raised her wand and spat a hex - and you had already known she was going to - because you had heard her panicked mind scream "Left - aim for her left!" before she ever moved.

You’d dodged without thinking. You won without even expecting an upper-hand thanks to hearing her thoughts and you’d walked back to the Slytherin huddle under curious eyes, your skin cold with the realization that something was wrong.

There were rules about things like this, from everything you have read so far.

Legilimency was dark magic in most people's eyes - an invasion, a violation - a talent reserved for those who couldn't be trusted. Monsters wore polite faces. Mind readers didn't get second chances.

So you told no one. Not even your dormmates, whose secrets you could taste sometimes when they laughed too hard.

And most days, it was fine. Manageable. If you stayed guarded. If you didn't look too closely. It only slipped when people were loud inside - when their feelings boiled over and the world around you blurred at the edges and suddenly their thoughts weren’t behind their teeth anymore, but bleeding out into yours.

You hadn't meant to overhear anyone.

But here, in the long velvet dark of Hogwarts, the mind had no walls.

Potions was a war zone on a good day. On a bad day, when the Gryffindors shared the clasroom with Slytherins, it was mutually assured destruction. Why the professors allow for this inter-house collaboration was beyond you, if there was a house the snakes mildly respect other than themselves - it would be the Ravenclaws.

You sat at your usual table near the back, carefully slicing a bundle of valerian roots, pretending not to notice James Potter throwing glances your way like hexes. He was always known to prank Slytherins, and you were not straying his radar with how you competed on the pitch often.

You anticipated it but still braced yourself for impact.

"Careful, ____," he drawled loud enough for half the room to hear. "Wouldn’t want you brewing up something - oh, I don't know - illegal."

You didn't even flinch, you saw the insult coming a mile away and barely rolled your eyes at how lame it was.

"Touching concern, Potter," you murmured, not looking up. "Planning to report me to the authorities or just desperate for my attention again?"

A few Gryffindors snickered. Lily Evans shot James a warning glare over her cauldron. He ignored it with practiced ease, an amused smile playing at his lips.

He strode closer, arms folded, the portrait of a boy who’d never been told no. Which is funny given how he's very much like a spoiled pureblood heir, only his robe colours were different. 

You neglected to point out how great he would be in your house, he’d thrive alongside the other snot-nosed pureblood brats.

"Just making sure the dark wizard training program’s running on schedule," he said, smirking. "Be a shame if someone as - what's the term? Frighteningly competent - wasn't putting in the hours."

You looked up then, meeting his gaze coolly and that was when it happened.

The world shifted - not outwardly, not visibly - but inside your head, the way it always did when someone's emotions rose too high and their mind got too loud. And James Potter, his mind was practically screaming at you, demanding to be invaded.

James's smirk stayed fixed on his face, not faltering even when your sharp gaze held his - full of mockery and bravado.

But beneath it, like a crack in the ice, you heard:

"Look at her. Smug. Brilliant. Bloody hell, she's so pretty it’s infuriating."

Your knife slipped, slicing too hard through the root. You caught yourself enough for anyone to not notice the stumble - steady hands with no visible flinch - but your heart jumped painfully against your ribs.

Stay calm.

Stay normal.

Outwardly, you quirked a brow. "If you spent half as much time on your coursework as you do worrying about me, Potter, you might actually pass your exams."

More laughter. A few Gryffindors - Sirius Black among them - hooted loud enough to make Slughorn look up from his desk.

James flushed slightly, his smirk faltering before he masked it with exaggerated affront.

You went back to your valerian root, slicing with vicious precision, pretending your ears weren’t ringing with the echo of his mind’s betrayal.

He hated you, he said. You were rivals, he said.

And yet.

"Bloody hell, she's so pretty it’s infuriating."

You didn't even want to think about what else he might be shouting inside that head of his.

You just had to survive the rest of class without cracking first.

The library was supposed to be a safe place - for you. Just you and the books and the quietness, somehow people's thoughts are quieter here. They get too focused that your abilities were not being demanded by their thoughts.

Low voices, scratching quills, sound of parchment - no loud Gryffindor boys itching for a fight. No accidental mind-reading incidents. Just quiet.

Or it should have been.

You hunched over a thick tome on advanced defensive charms, trying and pathetically failing to focus. The words blurred, your mind replaying Potions over and over.

'Look at her. Smug. Brilliant. Bloody hell, she's so pretty it’s infuriating.'

You shook your head sharply.

"No," you muttered under your breath. "No way."

Maybe you'd misheard. There was absolutely no way, the lack of sleep from slaving over N.E.W.T.s and the nearing Gryffindor vs Slytherin Quidditch match was getting to you, taking its toll. You convince yourself that was all.

Maybe James Potter didn't actually think you were. . . that.

You sank lower in your seat, dragging a hand across your face. 

You had rules about this. You never took strong flashes from someone and assumed they were true. Minds were messy, complicated things. Thoughts didn't always mean anything.

Still. You started noticing it.

The next day in Charms, you caught James looking at you across the room, chin propped on his hand, staring. When you met his gaze, he immediately dropped a book on the floor and made a big show of retrieving it.

Later, walking down the corridor between classes, you heard him before you saw him - laughing too loudly with Sirius, knocking shoulders with Peter Pettigrew, and the second he spotted you, his whole posture changed. Straighter. And then, predictably, he opened his mouth.

"Watch it, snake," he called, as you passed.

You rolled your eyes and kept walking, but your fingers twitched at your sides. Because even though his words were full of spite, his mind had been humming loud enough to burn:

"There she is. Merlin, she’s - "

You cut yourself off before the thought fully formed. You didn't want to know.

James Potter was many things - loud, insufferable, reckless - but he couldn't actually like you.

Could he?

You buried yourself deeper into your books, trying to drown out the noise - both outside and inside your head.

But the thing about secrets was: they had a way of refusing to stay quiet for long.

The air still smelled like grass and almost-rain when you cut across the pitch, broom slung lazily over one shoulder.

You’d only come to watch - Slytherin practice had ended hours ago - but somehow you’d found yourself lingering, pretending to study the Gryffindor formations. Pretending not to watch a certain messy-haired idiot loop the sky like he owned it.

You should have left.

You should have.

Boots scuffed behind you. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

"Well, well, well," James Potter's voice drawled, closer than you expected. "Didn't realize Slytherins were so obsessed with Gryffindor athleticism."

You snorted, not bothering to face him yet. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. I was studying your mistakes."

He caught up easily, falling into step beside you as you made for the gates. His hair was still damp from flying, sticking to his forehead. There was a smudge of mud across his cheek, and he grinned like he hadn't a care in the world.

"Sure you were, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt - but your heart stuttered.

Because even before it hit you fully, you could feel it - the swell of emotion, bright and reckless, practically leaking out of him.

And then you heard it:

"If she knew what I really thought of her, I'd die. I'd let her hex me if it meant she'd touch me."

You stumbled.

Just a little. Just enough that you hoped he thought you tripped on the uneven ground.

But inside? There is absolute chaos brewing in you.

You recovered quickly, shooting him a scathing look, but James only laughed - like you were the most amusing thing he'd seen all day. Given the track record of his thoughts, there might be some weight to that.

He ruffled his already-ruined hair and gave you a wink that nearly made you want to hex him on principle.

"Careful, snake. Wouldn't want you falling for me."

You scoffed. "As if."

But your mind was spinning.

Because it was real. All of it - the glances, the smirks, the insults that were less venom and more cover.

James Potter didn’t hate you. He hated how much he wanted you.

The night was unbearably still, the only sound the quiet ripple of the Black Lake against the shore. You sat by the water, your knees drawn up to your chest, staring at the moonlight dancing on the surface. Your breath came in slow, measured patterns, but inside, it was chaos.

You liked coming here to help calm yourself - the sound of the soft ripples of water, the loneliness of it all as the moon shone brightly. Finally, it's quiet - truly quiet.

No person around whose privacy you could invade.

You had never wanted to know what others were thinking. You had never asked for this. But it had happened. You were a Legilimens.

And now, you knew too much.

James Potter likes you. He wants you.

The thought shouldn’t have had the power it did. It shouldn’t have twisted inside you like this, leaving you cold and unsettled. But it did. And you hated yourself for it.

You could still hear his voice, taunting you in Potions, the insults he threw your way. "Dark wizard in training," he'd called you, his words sharp and cruel. But it wasn’t his words that hurt, was it? It was the thoughts beneath them.

"Bloody hell, she's gorgeous when she's angry."

You froze, the echo of those words still too fresh, too sharp.

But you couldn’t tell him. You couldn’t let anyone know as it would open a pandora’s box of undesirables you dared not explore outside the wee hours when your head feels like it might cave in on itself.

Legilimency was a curse. It was rare, dangerous, and feared. Wizards who had been caught using it had been cast out, exiled to live on the fringes of society. Families had been ruined, careers destroyed.

And worse - those who could read minds were feared. There were whispers about what those with the power could do with it. How easily they could manipulate people. Control them.

Or perhaps the articles and books you have read were just laying it on very thick, making a spectacle out of something that was out of what society considered ordinary but you couldn’t risk it.

As a Slytherin, it was in your nature to always preserve yourself. Your well-being came first, so every action is well thought-out for your benefit - including hiding your ability away in shame.

People don't take kindly to having their minds read, the mind is one very powerful thing - a vast vault of secrets. You could very well weaponize people’s thoughts and secrets against them.

You’d keep quiet. Keep pretending you didn’t know. Even if it gnawed at you from the inside. Even if every part of you screamed to just tell him, to confront him, to understand what the hell was going on in that arrogant Gryffindor head of his.

You swallowed hard, standing up and brushing your hands off on your robes. The weight of your secret settled like lead in your chest.

You’ll pretend. You’ll keep it secret. And maybe - just maybe - you’ll survive.

Because that is why the hat sorted you to wear green robes, because you were not the type to grab James Potter by his tie to confront him and demand some explanation for the things he thought about you.

You walked back toward the castle, the darkness wrapping around you like a cloak. The sound of your footsteps on the cobblestone echoed in the quiet night.

The cauldron before you is bubbling with that familiar greenish glow, steam rising like smoke. Your fingers are quick, precise - just the right amount of crushed powdered moonstone, stirred counterclockwise, steady, controlled.

James Potter is sitting across from you, as always, only this time he's making a show of it. His elbows are planted on the table, chin in his palm, eyes fixed on you. And that smug expression. The one that makes your insides twist.

"Look at her. She’s so - "

You shut the thought out. It is your absolute misfortune that he settled on sharing a table with you when the Professor demanded some inter-house collaboration for today’s class due to Dumbledore’s insistence.

It doesn’t matter. You have a potion to finish.

But, of course, James never misses an opportunity to make you hate him just a little bit more - if hate is truly what you have been feeling.

“You’re stealing looks at me, _____. Thinking of what unforgivable to use, eh?”

You barely hear the words, your mind too focused on the process in front of you. But you hear the tone. You always hear the tone. And that’s enough.

You don’t look up from your potion, but the words slide out of your mouth like a reflex, sharp as ever. “What’s your problem, Potter? Can’t keep your mouth shut for one class?”

The words are meant to sting, meant to remind him that this rivalry isn’t just one-sided. But as you snap at him, the air thick with the tension of old wounds, your own mind is buzzing with something far worse.

"Merlin, she smells amazing."

The thought - completely out of nowhere slams into your mind like a train. Your hands falter for a second, a stray drop of essence splashing over the edge of your cauldron. You curse under your breath.

But that’s nothing compared to the way your heart jumps in your chest.

"Stop thinking about her like that, Potter. Just focus."

It’s like his voice is in your head - no, not just his voice. It’s his thoughts. His internal struggle, raw and unfiltered. And it’s all about you, as if all the time spent learning at Hogwarts were useless when all he could think about was you, you, you.

You almost choke. Almost spill the entire potion.

But you don’t. You manage to keep your face cool, eyes fixed on your cauldron. You won’t let him see the effect he’s having on you.

James doesn’t see the way you flinch, the way you want to scream and laugh all at once. He doesn’t know that you can hear every stupid, misguided thought racing through his head.

He’s still talking, probably making fun of you, probably insulting your potion-making technique. But inside, it’s all just a blur of "please don’t notice", how good you smell and "how is she this good at everything?"

You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep pretending you hate him, when his equally-annoying voice spouted compliments and confessions in your head. Like he was right by your ear screaming them.

But you have to. Because you know. You know what he’s thinking. What he really thinks about you. And it’s driving you mad - as much as he is driving himself mad.

"She’s making it look so easy. Stop it, James."

You don’t flinch this time. You just keep your hands steady, your face calm, pretending like none of it’s happening. Pretending like the weight of his thoughts isn’t burning through your skin, making you want to dunk your head into the boiling cauldron.

It’s maddening. And you’re beginning to wonder how much longer you can keep pretending you don’t know.

The Quidditch pitch was alive with energy, the roar of the crowd drowning out all other sounds. Gryffindor versus Slytherin - the match everyone was waiting for, one that had your Quidditch captain on everyone’s rears all semester.

The teams soared high, the Quaffle exchanged between players as they raced towards the goalposts. It was fast, furious, and wildly competitive.

You gripped your broom tightly, eyes locked on the Quaffle as you swerved past a Bludger. You were focused, focused enough that you could almost tune out everything else - everything, except for him.

Merlin, despite the heat and chaos of the match, you could still hear him through them with how absolutely loud he was as if he was projecting his thoughts to you on purpose.

James Potter, the Gryffindor starchaser, was on the opposite team. The moment you locked eyes, he flashed that insufferable grin, like he’d already won. He was always cocky, always loud. But this time, it felt different. There was something in the way he was watching you.

"Watch out, snake!" he shouted, a taunt just loud enough for everyone to hear as you flew past him.

You didn't flinch, too used to the hostility. Instead, you focused on the Quaffle, your eyes scanning for an opening. You threw it, perfect precision, straight through the left hoop. Score. The crowd erupted into cheers, but the sound felt distant compared to the pounding in your ears.

But there it was again. His voice. Not in the air, but inside your head.

"She’s so good at this. Bloody hell, how does she do that?" James’ thoughts interrupted everything, like a crashing wave. "She moves like - like she was born to fly. Makes me want to just - "

You clenched your jaw, trying to force the thoughts out of your head. This was bad. So bad. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t block out the next wave of thoughts that flooded your mind.

"I want to snog her senseless."

It hit you like a jolt to the chest. You had to swallow the sudden rush of heat in your throat. You didn’t dare look at him, not with the intensity of what was going on in his head.

The game was still raging on, but your focus was slipping. You were just trying to keep it together, trying to pretend this was normal - that it didn’t matter that James Potter, the James Potter, was thinking about you like that.

He wasn’t just mocking you any more. His admiration was clear, cutting through every insult and joke. It made everything ultimately worse.

You caught another pass - biting the insides of your cheeks, dodging a Bludger, and went for another shot. But now it wasn’t just about the game. It wasn’t about scoring or winning.

It was about trying to control your emotions - when everything in you wanted to break the rules. To reach out. To tell him what you were hearing.

But you couldn’t.

Because the last thing you needed was for him to find out just how much you felt the same.

You were unsure how to process the realization that not only is James Potter besotted with you, but you liked him back. You, the Slytherin chaser who he exchanged insults with on a daily every Potions class was just as besotted.

It is truly a doomed plot written out for some sick god’s entertainment watching you run around like a headless Hippogriff.

So here you are, ending up yet again in the black lake during wee hours, escaping the castle undetected yet again. It is the only place that could truly calm you down when even your own ehad gets too loud.

Unbeknownst to you was the Gryffindor hiding under an invisibility cloak, watching you. His eyes studied your face that seemed much more softer in the dead of night, how all the frown left you and all that remained was your features all bare.

He felt the strong urge to reach out, but that would reveal the fact he followed you. He noticed you leaving the castle on the map, and out of concern snuck out to follow you under the cloak. He knew the dangers outside the castle walls, he just wanted to make sure you were safe.

He did not expect to invade your privacy as you looked out into the lake like a person who had the entire weight of the world. He wonders just what could be going on inside your mind, wishing he could peer into it and maybe, maybe he could take some of that weight off.

He gripped his wand, feeling defeated. 

He can’t even let you know how much he worries about you, how much he wonders about you - because that would be confronting the fact he has fallen for the enemy. That he would be going against his beliefs.

James Potter is an idiot. And he wanted nothing more than to snog you but instead he always resorts to insults, failing to do right by the bravery prided by his house.

You couldn’t hear his thoughts under the cloak, so you remained unaware of the boy watching you with so much love in his eyes that you were two hopeless idiots dancing around it.

“Merlin,” you breathed out exasperatedly. James Potter is not someone to lose sleep over, you knew that much should be true but nothing is working. No essay on Ancient Runes could distract you enough.

The school year was nearing its end. Despite yourself, you still managed to dodge out of confronting your feelings for one annoyingly-persistent Gryffindor and made it through passing your N.E.W.T.s with flying colours.

You had a decent set of “O” and “E” from your results, not getting anything less than Exceeding Expectations. Your parents are satisfied, not that you have ever failed them. Being a Slytherin is basically being bred for perfection.

Your academics and pureblood duties were already weighing on you but then - 

“Oi, snake!” right.

James Potter is that one itch you can’t quite scratch enough to get rid of. A very handsome itch with a perfect set of teeth, that is. 

“Sod off, Potter,” you roll your eyes as if following a perfected script by now, “I have better shit to do than deal with your childish antics.”

He frowned, something about the way you said it alerted him. There was no bite from that, all he heard was the exhaust from your voice as if you had forced those words out of you. He wanted to ask if you were okay, he thought it.

Before he could ask, you already gave an answer.

“I’m bloody fine,” you scoff. “Since when did you care?”

His frown deepened, impossibly so. He hadn’t asked it yet. You heard his confused pool of thoughts and your mistake began to dawn on you, you look at him, panicked and backed away before he could get another word out.

He must have called out your name, you weren’t sure. So you just made a run for it to avoid whatever he was about to say. 

He ran after you, not bothering to entertain Sirius’ confused inquiry as he watched his best mate chase after a Slytherin. He didn’t think it was anything James needed backup with so he only watched, nudging Remus next to him who also watched.

“What do you think that’s about?” Sirius asked, face unreadable.

Remus let out an amused chuckle. “That, mate, is young love blossoming.”

Sirius gagged, which was the reaction Remus anticipated, wording his phrase that way. “Prongs and that snake?”

“Blimey, you are bloody clueless.”

James had managed to catch up to you before you could turn and see the dungeons common room. Grabbing you by your wrist and pulling you back so you could face him, he called out your name again but your heart was too loud.

“Can you stop running away?” he asked, barely raising his voice. “What’s wrong?”

You turn at him, glaring. Tugging at your wrist to free it but he was not letting you go, you let out an exhausted groan and you only paused when a look of worry painted itself over his features as he watch you struggle out of his grasp.

“____?” he called out, his voice impossibly soft when saying your name that it almost made your knees buckle.

You blink at me. “Say you hate me,” you tell him and you wanted so badly for it to also be echoed in his head.

“What?” he couldn’t explain your actions and it was worrying him beyond belief. You could almost feel your eye twitch at him.

“Say you hate me,” you tug at your wrist, “and mean it, Potter. Fucking say you hate my guts, and also think it in that thick skull of yours.”

“Merlin, ____,” James sounded desperate. “What is going on with you? Lost your wits after N.E.W.T.s?”

You felt unbelievably angry at this moment but it was more directed at yourself than him. Though he thought it was aimed at him, so he threaded carefully. Slowly letting go of your wrist and it dropped limply at your side.

“Yeah, Potter, totally went nuts after the exams so I’m demanding you express your hatred for me,” you remark sarcastically, he did not appreciate it one bit. “Just say it.”

“No,” James replied right away sternly. “You are losing it.”

“How can I not?” You point angrily at him.

“____ - “

“You say one thing and you think another,” there was no going back now as the tears welled up in your eyes, all his confusion left him and all that was left was worry. “I can hear you, your thoughts.”

All the words he knew left him. Jaw slackened, he remained standing in front of you, unable to say anything. All this time, you heard him - how? That doesn’t really matter, his head is now replaying every thought he had of you.

Fucking hell.

Fucking mumbling, bloody hell.

“I didn’t mean to, I know it’s your privacy and I wasn’t going to - “ you cast your eyes down, afraid to see how disgusted he’d look when he realizes what you were confessing. “I couldn’t control it.”

James allowed a beat to pass, just a pregnant pause between you two as the hall remained empty, much to both of your delights. Then finally, he found his voice. He cleared his throat, afraid his voice would crack.

“You mean - you’ve heard all my thoughts about you.”

You managed to smile despite the tension, “Yes, including wanting to snog me senseless,” you saw the smile tug at his lips. You still refused to meet his eyes, “Your mind is very loud. I couldn’t shut it out even if I wanted to.”

James surprised you by what he did next - crossing the gap between you two which you had expected to keep growing until he was impossibly out of reach. Instead he closed in on you, capturing your lips in his and he did right by his words - 

You felt like he was stealing every breath away with how he kissed you like it could explain everything away. You kissed him back, finally allowing yourself to do one brave thing and confront your feelings instead of swallowing it all down.

His arm wrapped around your middle to pull you impossibly closer as he continued making your head lighter and lighter and only when you tapped in surrender did he pull away. You were heaving, breathless as you eyed him all bewildered.

“You -”

James Potter managed a smirk with swollen lips. “Snogged you senseless, didn’t I?”

“You twat.”

end. masterlist

[mixolya]

can i request a fluff with rin where reader wants to put makeup on rin 🥲 it'd be so adorable

ᓚᘏᗢ — rin itoshi: pretty boy !

synopsis: in which you convince your boyfriend to let you do his makeup.

rin itoshi x reader ⭑ fluff / softie!rin (my fav) + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: AHHHH THANK YOUUU ANON i love this request omg

"stay still."

rin exhaled through his nose. "i am still."

"no, you're not. you're blinking like i'm threatening you with a knife."

"that's because you are," he muttered. "a very glittery knife."

you snorted, your free hand curling lightly around his shoulder for balance as you leaned in closer.

"you're such a baby," you whispered, tapping a dot of highlighter on the tip of his nose.

he sighed, long-suffering, dramatic but entirely fake. his hands stayed steady around your waist, fingers draped over your hips like they belonged there, which, to be fair, kind of did.

you were straddling his lap, knees tucked on either side of his thighs, your makeup bag beside you on the couch. rin sat still beneath you, back pressed against the cushions, while you carefully painted stars across his cheekbones with soft brushed and too much love.

you'd asked him as a joke, half a joke. okay, maybe not really a joke at all. just soft and teasing and full of affection. it was a lazy sunday afternoon. his head had been in your lap, your fingers in his hair and something about the way the light caught his face made your chest feel all floaty. so you blurted:

"can i do your makeup?"

you expected a no or a weird look. maybe a kiss on the cheek and a "sounds ridiculous, so no."

instead, rin blinked up at you, yawned once and said, "...okay."

which is how you ended up here, settled on his lap with a brush in one hand and his stupidly perfect face in the other.

"you have really nice eyes, you know," you said quietly, blending shimmer onto his eyelids.

he didn't respond, not out loud at least.

but one of his hands moved, slid up the small of your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades. just resting there.

you pretended not to notice. you definitely noticed.

"why are you even letting me do this?" you asked, laughing softly as you swept a warm blush across his cheeks. "i thought you'd say no and grumble about it for like an hour."

"i don't mind," he said.

"really?"

"you like it."

you froze for a second. just long enough for it to hit your heart directly.

"...you're such a sap," you mumbled.

"don't care." his voice was quieter now, more serious. "i like it when you touch me."

your breath caught. you paused halfway through reaching for lip gloss.

"oh, okay, wow. rude to just say that out loud."

he raised an eyebrow. "you asked."

you stared at him, flustered and probably getting warmer than he already was. he looked annoyingly calm about the whole thing, even with sparkles on his cheeks and the tiniest bit of mascara on his lashes.

"you're lucky you're pretty," you muttered.

"everyone keeps saying that," he deadpanned.

you laughed so hard you almost fell off his lap. your balance tipped, knees slipping and rin's hands flew to your waist, steadying you in that way he always did.

"careful, hm?" he muttered, but there was a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. like watching you be ridiculous warmed something in him he didn't know could be warm.

"thank you... okay, final touch," you whispered, lifting the dior lip gloss he gifted you on valentines day. "pucker up, itoshi."

he rolled his eyes. "never say that again."

"say please," you teased.

he just looked at you, eyes dark but impossibly soft. then, without a word, he leaned in and kissed you. gentle and slow.

"are you done?" he murmured.

you smiled against his mouth.

"yeah," you breathed.

"okay."

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[othernaut]

Without getting into the nuances of human taste with even more detail than has already been wonderfully provided, man - sometimes you want the generic.

One of the major themes of basically every sci-fi situation is alienation: being alone in the great indifferent darkness, being this awkward hairless monkey optimized for running long distances in sub-equatorial grasslands now thrust all willing into a landscape where abstraction is the only means of interaction. This is why all those silly little Star Trek vignettes of people having jazz concerts, poetry recitals, or fancy dinners are also incredibly important - like, sure, you can summon a holo-clone of the greatest jazz musicians in history to put together your dream band, sure, you can eat Christmas Eve mussels and calamari every night, but there it's just alone in your room. It's not an event. The alienation seeps in through the dark corners of your quarters; the solitude has weight.

If you grow up on Earth, or any place where people gather in the same societies they always have, with the same events and random shrimp festivals and kick-ball sports and trivia nights we've always done, then you claw back against that alienation with everything you've got. You know how. You manufacture a sound scientific reason to maintain an arboretum so you can take dates for a walk around the trees. You turn the time the computer glorked out the date as Easter Christmas Pride into a yearly shipwide holiday. You find a way to make the milestones mean something, or you make your own, because otherwise it's just you and the shadow, all of you, uncounted private solitudes eating gourmet chicken with the void.

But what if you grow up in that alienation? What if it's home to you? The weight of that loneliness is as bearable as air pressure. You notice it when it's gone, not when it's there. Maybe you grew up in one of those space stations, drifting like marine snow around the clean whalebone of a parent's duty. Maybe your mom does water testing, maybe you spent your youth bumming around all those graveyard towns that emptied out as soon as the stellar diaspora kicked in. Maybe your parents went through the hard times, the last rabid fight of scarcity, enough to still be thoroughly enchanted with all those utopian conveniences that make effort and want and connection inefficient and unnecessary. Maybe, maybe - the world has infinite ways to pull people apart from each other, infinite upon infinite when expanded to the size of a universe.

Maybe you spent years 7 to 14 on a space station that hosted twelve other juveniles out of a population of seven hundred, and four of those were little kids while the rest were species that don't do adolescence like you did. You kick around vasty promenades alone, staring out at black void and burning gases. You listen to downtuned lo-fi Catholic choral hymns at low volumes while sitting outside of engineering, the sound mixed and merged real-time; your education program subtly switches you onto the Music, Experimental track. You see your moms at night when they burst into your quarters, boiling with complaints about people you've never met and never will. They ask you how your day went, and you say it was fine. They kick on the replicator and ask you what you want for dinner. You have all the options there ever were. You don't know. You don't know.

Twelve years later, your affinity for rhythmic static appreciation resolves into a signal-noise mediator job on an actual planet with plants and everything. Your walk home takes you along a cobbled riverwalk bustling with bars and restaurants. You feel it, the pressure of it, every single time. Sometimes your co-workers take you out for drinks, and you appreciate it, but it's worse inside. Closer. Like a too-tight sweater; like atmospheric pressure. Your birthday - oh dead stars, they took you to a concert, there were hundreds of people there, they watched you and sang at you while you struggled to pop champagne. You walk past. The laughter and conversation follows, pleasant enough. You like that these people are enjoying themselves, the confirmation of it, as you walk up to your dim set of rooms.

You kick on the replicator and wonder what you want for dinner. You've been struggling not to just eat desserts for every meal; the replicator compensates for nutritional content, and that doesn't make it any easier to not just eat soft cookies in perpetuity. You consider noodles. It's not really what you want. It never really is.

If you were honest with yourself, you'd say you want Wafered Gelatin, Citrus Flavor - you know, the square-block ingot of generic sugar substitute that all your co-workers teased you about when you boggled over their homemade cupcakes. You tried ordering it a couple of times. The replicator gave you a bowl of orange Jell-O twice, a yuzu fried mochi trifle once.

What you want is the generic brown soda that came out of the dispensers that you'd drink by the liter while kicking around the upper promenade. What you want is the spicy steak cube skewers that came out identical every time, so much so that you could tell which one you were eating by the pattern of the marbling in your mouth. What you want is Wafered Gelatin, Citrus Flavor, printed out in the dozens and left in little crinkled paper cups on conference tables, the ones you'd sneak into hours after the meetings were over, the tongue-tingling pops of sugar-acid and the impossible texture and the quality of the loneliness in those empty rooms being somehow diffferent than the loneliness everywhere else -

Somewhere down the street, someone pops a champagne cork. The crash of glass shattering, a rousing wave of laughter: it's all right, it's all all right. Nothing's broken. Nothing's wasted. Nothing's lost. Nothing.

What do you want for dinner?

As a side note… I am really annoyed by one thing about Star Trek.

“Replicated food is not as good as real food.”

That’s ridiculous.  In Star Trek, replicator technology is part of the same tech tree as transporters.  Replicated food would be identical to the food it was based on, down to the subatomic level. 

[snail-day]

Second Male Lead Syndrome

Sum: Maybe you don't got this nerdjo!

Nerd! Gojo x Reader x FWB! Geto

Previous // Next Part // Masterlist

WC: 2.4k

TW: Angst, Yearning, Anxiety, love triangle-ish, alcohol references.

a/n: A bit short...but I promise the next one will be longer and fluffy <3

Second Male Lead Syndrome — a tragic but familiar condition. Occurs when the audience falls hopelessly in love with the second male lead. When he's sweet and thoughtful, perhaps a little bit stupid, and still doesn’t get the girl. Not because he didn’t try hard enough. But because he never stood a chance.

Satoru had always laughed at those characters. Thought why waste all that time on a girl who didn’t have their eyes set on you. It would never work out, plenty of fish in the sea, etc.  

Until now.

When the room is dim. Soft, warm lighting flickers against the walls. The playlist he curated for you hums softly in the background, some gentle acoustic loop he’d replayed twenty times to ensure the instrumentals didn’t overpower the mood, mostly to ensure he could still hear your voice. The dice scattered like different colored fallen stars across the table, and everyone is still buzzing from the final boss fight. The victory. And the drinks.

And you’re giggling.

But not at him. Not like how he imagined tonight would go. 

You’re pressed just a little too close to Suguru, your shoulder brushing his. Your knees angled towards his. The sound of your laugh, light and tipsy, spills like wine from your lips as Suguru leans in - voice low, mouth grazing the shell of your ear as he murmurs something only you get to hear. Something that makes you smile like that, he hung the stars. Soft. Genuine.

And how your body leans into his like it’s instinct. Like he's the male lead in your fairy tale.

Satoru feels the punch to the gut. The anxiety and thoughts spiraling.

Perhaps Satoru had poured your drinks a little too strong. Just enough for you to laugh at Suguru’s jokes without overthinking them. So much that you don’t seem to notice how Satoru hasn’t said anything in a while, since the campaign ended. How his throat’s been dry since he saw Suguru press his hand to the small of your back.

That’s fine. He doesn’t drink. He wanted you to have fun. To loosen up. To look at him the way you’re looking at Suguru now - with stars in your eyes, a lazy smile on your lips hanging onto every little word he speaks. 

When Suguru offers to take you home, Satoru nods too quickly. A weird hiccup of a smile jerks across his face. He can’t even stop himself from asking, “Oh - wait, do you two… know each other?”

You blink. Suguru answers first. “Nope. First time meeting tonight.” His voice is light. Easy. Full of lies.

Then why does it feel like you’ve done this a dozen times?

His broad, firm hand rests on your lower waist, as if it’s the normal placement. His lips brush your ear, and you laugh and Satoru just stands there, watching it all happen like some pitiful side character in the background of a romance anime.

Cool. Awesome. Great. Everything is fine. Everything is wonderful. Amazing actually. 

When he leans in to hug you goodbye, you hesitate. Something breaks in his chest. 

Just for a second. But he feels it. The stiffness in your spine. The polite curve of your arms. The awkward way you both move in the same direction and fumble for an angle. It ends up being a weird, lopsided side hug. Like coworkers. Or strangers who once made small talk in a group chat.

Still, your cheek brushes his chest. And his heart, traitorous and loud, slams against his ribs like it’s trying to get to you. He can’t help it. You’ve captured him, maybe without even knowing it.

He remembers earlier. Just the two of you in the kitchen.

You’d gone to grab more cups. He followed. Said something about helping. Maybe even meant it, but mostly, he just wanted to be near you.

And then you turned. Bumped into him with a soft, surprised “oh!” - the rim of the stacked cups hitting his chest, your body brushing his in a way that sent a spark straight through him. His baby blues went wide, snowy lashes fluttering, before his lips moved into a crooked smile as you looked up at him.

And fuck.

The overhead light hit your features just right, soft eyes sparkling, lips parted, cheeks flushed from laughing in the other room. He could see the curve of your throat, the way your breath caught just slightly from the impact, and he froze. His heart stuttered. Stumbled. Something in his chest bloomed. Warm. Stupid, maybe even a little hopeless.

His pale cheeks flushed, a soft red hue blooming across skin that rarely saw the sun. Embarrassment? Or awe, or maybe just the raw gravity of you standing this close? His mouth parted, but no sound came. Not a joke. Not a clever line. Just this aching silence as he tried to remember how to breathe.

He should’ve stepped back.

But god, you were so close. And you were looking at him like you saw him, just for a second. Like maybe you somehow knew how badly he wanted to lift a hand and cradle your face, just to see if you’d lean into it. To see if you’d soften into his touch.

His fingers twitched at his side. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t dare. What if it made you uncomfortable? Instead, he just stood there, letting himself feel it. The burn in his chest. The ache in his spine from holding himself still. The desperate, idiotic hope that you might say something to break the tension. That this moment could mean something.

Instead, he laughed. A little loud. A bit awkward.

��Oops, sorry,” he said, a bit winded, like you hadn’t just knocked the breath out of his lungs.

And you, god, you just smiled. Brushed past him like nothing had happened, cups hugged to your chest, already back in the living room.

He stayed there. Alone. Staring at the space where you’d been. Swallowed hard and wiped his sweaty palms against his pants like that might make the heat in his body disappear. Moving to slowly fan himself.

He’s been replaying that moment ever since, chest tight, fingers aching, wondering if you even noticed how hard he was trying not to touch you.

You say, “thank you.” Pulling him back from his thoughts. Smile at him, a little flushed, a little tipsy. Your voice soft, barely there, and it hits him harder than anything. Something about it feels... personal. Like you're sharing a moment with him, even if it's fleeting. A moment he plans of selfishly keeping for himself.

He watches you go, watches Suguru’s hand fall to your lower back, slipping a little lower to the curve of your bottom when you think no one’s looking.

Satoru’s heart drops, and it feels like it’s stuck somewhere in his throat, aching to escape. He tries to look away, tries to force himself to move, but he can’t stop watching. He’s breaking, and he knows it.

If it were him…

If it were him, he would be so careful with you. He would be the one bringing you to his guest room, making sure you were comfortable, asking if you needed anything. He would keep his distance, respect it, because you’re tipsy, and you shouldn’t make any decisions right now, but damn it, if he had just a little more time with you... He’d do it right. He wouldn’t rush, wouldn’t make you feel anything you didn’t want to feel. He’d just be there.

Imagining it for a second: You on the plush bed. Him nearby in the armchair, a safe distance but close enough that he could feel the warmth of your presence. He could put on a movie, something silly and light. Keep it all casual. But he would be there, just for you.

And maybe you’d look at him like you did Suguru. Maybe you’d laugh with him the way you laughed with Suguru. But maybe... maybe not. Maybe he’s just fooling himself.

Satoru shakes his head, white hair tumbling, breath shaky. He tries to laugh at his own thoughts. But it’s not funny. It hurts, this stupid ache in his chest that he can’t shake. He can't help the sting in his pretty baby blues.

Suguru glances back at him as you both walk down the hall, with a smile that seems to border smug and something else, like he knows something Satoru doesn’t. Acting like he’s already won the girl. Satoru can't help but wave at him. To call out, get home safe!

A laugh escapes under his breath, a dry, bitter sound. Just shut up, Satoru. But it’s like his mind won’t let him stop. It just keeps playing the same damn scene over and over.

He closes the door quietly, pressing his back against it. Lets out a shaky breath as he sinks down to the cold floor, heart still hammering in his chest, and he wonders if you even noticed him at all tonight.

Of course, you didn’t. You barely know him. You might never look at him that way.

But god, he wishes you would. Just once.

Second Male Lead Syndrome, Yeah.

Yeah, that tracks.

Because you were never going to pick the weird, twitchy nerd who overplans events like this and builds NPC backstories with tragic romances just to feel something. You were never going to pick the guy who practices your character intro alone in his room fifteen times, rehearsing the words in front of a mirror, trying to make it sound casual. Trying to sound like someone who knows what they’re doing. The guy who lit a candle because a Reddit post said vanilla makes people feel comforted, and for a second, he thought it might work. Might make you feel a little more at home.

You were always going to pick the one with the guitar. The one with the voice like honey, deep and effortless, who doesn’t have to try. The one whose touch doesn’t tremble when it’s on your arm, whose hands know exactly where to go without hesitation. The one who stands next to you with a calm that makes it look easy.

Satoru, on the other hand, is all scrambled signals. His heart races whenever you look his way, his mind spirals when he hears your laugh, and yet he can’t seem to say anything that makes sense. All he’s good for is stuttering through words, trying to look cool but always coming across as the awkward guy who thinks too much about the wrong things. His white hair falls into his face, messy strands he constantly pushes out of his eyes with the back of his hand, the motion becoming so habitual now as he feels the back of his hand become damp. His glasses slipping down his nose even though he keeps adjusting them, his thumb swiping over the frames in vain. A perfect image of someone who can never quite get it together.

And his heart? God, his heart is still pounding so hard that it’s all he can hear. Every thump is a reminder that he’s falling for someone who will never fall for him.

Why did nobody warn him this could happen?

Warn that his heart will ache in a place he can’t quite reach.

But it's fine. You both were just simply not meant to be. That's how life works, right?

He starts cleaning up, clumsily, awkwardly, trying to do anything to distract himself from the growing ache in his chest. He grabs the dice first, tossing them a little too forcefully into the velvet bag, the clattering sound loud against the quiet. Then the maps, scrunched and crumpled slightly from too many fingers running over them in nervous gestures. Finally, the snack pile looking more like a sad, squashed dragon than something worthy of a group of excited players. It wasn't worthy for someone like you.

He tries not to think about Suguru’s lack of goodbye. Or the way you didn’t look back when you left. The way your smile seemed to fade the moment you turned away from him. He tries, really tries, but his brain keeps betraying him, whispering that you're already slipping further away.

I just wanted to get to know you.

But no matter how hard he tries to focus on folding the papers, stacking the snacks, all he can hear is the quiet thrum of his own voice whispering in his mind:

I was never the main character, was I?

And it hurts, the pull of his heartbeat, the way it feels like he's running in place while you’re already walking away. Like he’s standing still in a world that keeps turning without him.

So for the first time in a long, long while, after the last chip crumb was swept and the candles were blown out, he didn’t stay up to play League. He didn’t refresh Reddit - not even the post he made about you, about how to win the girl. Didn’t pace around the living room rerunning conversations he wished had gone differently.

Instead, he grabbed his worn white teddy, the one no one knows about, the one he keeps tucked behind his pillows, and curled up in a ball on the far side of his bed. No Twitch stream humming in the background. No playlist lulling him into false peace.

Just silence. And stillness.

And somehow, for the first time in weeks, Satoru fell asleep. Not the jittery kind of rest he was used to, where his thoughts wouldn’t stop spiraling, but real sleep. Deep, heavy, and warm.

He didn’t even hear the chime of your message:

Got home safe! Thank you for today <3 I actually… have had a change of plans for Saturday and I was wondering if we could play a game together? Or we can go outside too! Touch grass as the kids say! :) Let me know! Goodnight Toru

Your name lights up his screen. The little heart. The nickname. The open door.

But he’s already dreaming.

Wrapped around a teddy bear and too heartbroken to know that maybe he was the main character after all.

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[luvseisagi]

— not too much, just enough.

ft. michael kaiser x reader. wc. 4k

summary. on endless nights that feel like drowning in your own mind, you know michael kaiser is the only one who truly understands. content. gn!reader, no pronouns used. established relationship. hurt/comfort, toxic relationship turned healthy. mentions of emotional manipulation and gaslighting. kaiser had a redemption arc (so ooc because hes super sweet). reader is dealing with mental health issues —depression, anxiety, self harm in a way (nothing explicit) + has avoidant attachment style. other than that, i think it could even be fluff. author's note. i had an episode and i was sad as fuck so i wrote this cause the only character i think would really understand it is kaiser since he's had it even worse. so yeah. here you have !

𝜗𝜚 english isnt my first language, so any corrections or advice are highly appreciated, as well as feedback (please) ! enjoy

the room is dark, the air so hot its difficult to breath, yet so cold it chills you even under the pile of blankets. the blinds are still up, window cracked open, but it's past midnight. no moon tonight, so nothing but the faint light of your phone screen on the bedside table illuminates the closed space.

you’re sitting on your bed, back against the wall, legs crossed. your pajamas stick to your skin, uncomfortable, but you have no strength left in your body to change clothes, too drained to move or even adjust the blankets over you.

you tried to sleep, because you feel exhausted, but your mind doesn't seem to want to cooperate. your eyes are wide open, and from where you are sitting, you can see all the notifications on your phone —a reminder of all the messages you’ve been ignoring.

today's been a rough day, but you don't even know why. you didn't do anything. didn't even leave the house, or your room —not today, not the whole week. so why do you feel exhausted? why does it feel like the worst day of your life, if nothing happened at all?

you did nothing but rot in bed for hours, gathering the very little strength you had left to drag yourself to the bathroom, splash some water on your face and eat whatever you could find in the kitchen that didn't get you nauseous just from the smell. and even that had been a struggle.

you are not fine. 

actually, you haven't been fine for a long time now. however, u are able to ignore it most of the time —your busy everyday life has you distracted enough to avoid the dark thoughts, usually. but there are times when it’s just too much.

when everything's too much is when you feel absolutely nothing.

you always say you are a pretty logical person. it's one of the things you like about yourself: always taking in every perspective, always finding rational answers for your emotions. that's why these episodes hit so hard —they don’t make sense. you can’t even grasp them, can’t analyze something you can't understand. it drives you crazy. it makes you want to cry.

it chains you to your bed for hours, for days and even weeks —when silence becomes too loud is when your mind can't quiet down.

and still, all you feel is emptiness. 

a soft knock on the door is the first sound to fill your room in days. it startles you, and you flinch.

"are you there?" 

the voice on the other side of the door is low and sweet, almost honey in the way it slides so easily from under your door to the edge of your bed. 

your throat feels dry for not speaking for days. 

there's no answer from you. you can't grasp even a trace of your voice.

"i'm coming in, okay?" 

you don't say anything, but he doesn't need you to reply. the door opens, and your boyfriend enters the room.

"hi, love. i've brought you dinner, in case you’re hungry. and water too." 

you can only watch him in silence as he walks in, setting his bag down on your desk —the food is there, you assume, given the smell. 

you swallow, but at least you don't feel the urge to throw up. the way your stomach growls, you're pretty sure hunger won this time over anxiety.

“here."

he hands you a bottle of water after opening it for you. is cold, and it calms the itch on your skin for a moment.

"thank you." you manage to mumble, avoiding his gaze. 

he's seen you in so many ways —completely naked, just waking up, ugly sobbing, and sick and feverish —but for some reason, embarrassment gathers on your cheeks when he sees you like this.

it's not that you don't look good. it's that you look vulnerable, and broken —and you hate it.

you manage to take a sip of water.

"wanna talk?" he asks then, sitting beside you on the bed.

there are no sheets, the pillow is on the floor, and you have nothing but the blankets over you and other things you didn't care to set aside scattered on the bare mattress —your headphones, the phone charger, the laptop with no battery because you didn't want to get up to plug it in. one of his hoodies is there too, wrinkled and tear-stained. you had taken it off in a heat attack that had left you choking on air last night. or maybe this morning. you are not sure.

one of his hands goes to your arm then, and caresses your skin softly. that brings you back to reality.

"i don’t know." you tell him, answering his question. "i mean, i can talk. but i don’t know what to say. i don’t know why this is happening.”

he stays silent. meanwhile, the tips of his fingers run down your arm until they reach your wrist. then they stop —he waits for you to be the one to grab his hand.

you do it immediately, but when he squeezes it to confirm you that he’s there and he’s not going anywhere, you flinch.

kaiser raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. his gaze shifts down to your hand, and, even though he knows what he’s going to see, he feels his chest swell with worry at the sight. he sighs quietly.

“love…”

“i know. i’m sorry, i… i didn’t…”

you try to let go of his hand, but he’s grabbing it firmly —enough strength to keep you from letting go, enough gentleness to avoid hurting you.

so you pull your knees up and bury your face between them. short flashes of pain run through your whole hand when kaiser brushes your knuckles with the tip of his fingers, skin red and purple throbbing under his touch.

it’s not the first time you do this, nor the first time he’s found you like this —alone in your room, gaze lost in the darkness, purple knuckles covered with dry blood and traces of a red stain on your wall. you swallow, a wave of shame flooding your throat, chest and stomach. 

you don’t know how to excuse yourself, how to justify that pain is the only way for you to feel alive, like you’re still there, sometimes. —when reality is so distorted you need something, anything, to anchor you to reality. 

luckily, you boyfriend doesn’t feel the need to say anything. he just holds your hand, and brings his other hand to your cheek. slowly, his fingertips caress your cheek, index and thumb holding your chin delicately. he tilts your head up slightly, and waits for you to look at him.

when you lift your eyes to meet his, you feel your whole soul breaking.

michael kaiser’s beauty is breathtaking, and right now, the sadness in the depth of his blue eyes knocks all the air out of your lungs. 

and that hurts even harder than saying anything.

because you can deal with him scolding you —you’d just nod, fake that you’re listening, and start a new day as if nothing had happened—, you can deal with him telling you he’s disappointed, that you shouldn’t do this to yourself, or whatever people would say after finding out about it.

but he doesn’t do that. he just holds your gaze, eyes locked on yours while he caresses your cheek with his fingers. and then he places a gentle kiss on your dry lips.

a salty tear forms on your low eyelashes, which releases it on michael’s hand. a crystal-clear drop runs down the back of his hand, his wrist, and ends up spilling onto the blanket.

he kisses your cheeks, now wet with your silent crying, and your heart shatters just a little more.

kaiser knows more about pain than anyone in this world —and you know it. even so, he thinks nothing could ever be as painful as watching you cry in front of him.

if someone told you that you’d be in this situation a year ago, you would have called them crazy. your relationship with kaiser had been complicated from the start —the flirting and the teasing were fun until real feelings got involved, and neither of you knew how to manage them. becoming an actual couple and learning how to love each other had been a very long, thorny journey.

at first, he loved you so much it pleased you —he was sweet, thoughtful, gentle. he brought you flowers after your shifts, welcomed you home with dinner and very expensive wine, wrapped you in his velvety robe at night and covered your body with kisses.

you weren’t really dating, but everyone in your lives thought you would end up in a relationship sooner or later. the few times a month that you could see each other, due to your schedules, were truly the best days of the week —like coming back to a five star hotel where you could fully relax and empty your mind.

but a five star hotel, even though beautiful, is not a home. the exclusivity becomes boring after a while, when it stops feeling like a gift and becomes something that’s just there. all the time.

you started to lose interest, and he realized it pretty quickly.

so he loved you even harder —loved you so much, it scared you. 

kaiser became obsessed with you, needy for your attention —throughout his life, he had been used to being the one in charge of the relationship. the one his partners depended on, although it was him who really needed them. and he had never had a problem with using the worst, most toxic traits known to humanity to practically force them to stay with him, convincing them that, without him, they would be lost forever.

you weren’t like that.

if he didn’t reply to your text for a couple of hours but post on social media, you would ignore him for a few days. if he told you he was hanging out with other people, reminding you on purpose that you weren’t dating yet to make you jealous, you would just answer with a “fine, have fun” and show him you didn’t really care. if he canceled your plans at the last minute, you would just take a walk alone and send him some pictures.

so he tried the opposite approach, but the result was the same —when he tried to shower you with affection, buy you presents, take you on expensive dates or just cancel his whole agenda to spend the entire day with you —you’d tell him he was being a bit too much and you needed space.

none of his old methods were working on you —not the intense lover behavior, which was supposed to make you fall irremediably hard for him, nor the avoidant partner traits, which technically would make you crawl back to him, begging for at least a bit of his attention.

he was stunned. he was confused, and, before he could realize it —he was the one who needed you so badly it could kill him.

and it seemed like it didn’t bother you at all.

of course, that wasn’t true, but his behavior had been driving you mad, and since you didn’t know how to react to his unconditional love on some days and apparent indifference on others, you just tried to convince yourself that you didn’t actually care about him. 

oh, but you did care about him.

for the almost four first months you had been going on dates, hanging out, and really like a couple, kaiser had completely fallen in love. and you knew it, but you were still not sure —not about loving him, really, because that you did. 

even if you didn’t really want to, after getting to know him better and seeing his most vulnerable, broken side —a few weeks ago, following a very heated argument that ended in angry cries and bitter kisses—, you could not not love him. 

but you were not really sure you could give him the kind of love he deserved.

walking away was easy at first —it wasn’t the first time you had done it. you tended to run away from everything, anything that started feeling important for you. from everyone who started loving you too much —which was exactly what michael was doing.

you usually made it look like you didn’t care at all, but it wasn’t exactly that —you were terrified. scared of being liked and not being enough, scared of loving too much and ending up hurt.

frightened of being known by someone —really, deeply known— and being so repulsive on the inside, no one could ever love you after that.

so you pushed him away. constantly. when he sent bouquets of flowers and when he invited you to germany, when he hugged you from behind or tried to hold your hand. 

when he started calling and texting you daily because you hadn’t shown any sign of life for a whole week.

you remember it vividly, it was about six months ago —the first time he saw you the same way you are now. 

kaiser showed up in your apartment after five days with no response. and, truthfully, he had learned to give you your space —especially lately, when you seemed to be stressed by even the slightest physical contact. however, when he asked your friends, they didn’t know anything about you either, and you lived alone, so he was really worried about you.

so, he showed up at your door, with a lot of questions on his tongue and a single blue rose on his hand.

kaiser kissed you as a greeting that day, on the cheek, a salty kiss that stained his lips forever —it was the first day he tasted your tears. then he asked, he asked so many things you can’t even remember them all. and, at first, you didn’t even try to answer —but then he sat next to you on the same bed you are now, and words started spilling from your mouth. even you were surprised to be able to explain something not even your own mind could understand.

later, when he gave you the rose, you had tried to blame the blood in your hands on its thorns. and yet, instead of feeling repulsed, kaiser had kissed each of your fingers —each of your bruises, each of the wounds still bleeding. 

and then he cleaned the red stains in the wall, helped you make the bed and raised the blinds on your window to let the pink sun rays of the sunset enter your room.

he asked to stay the night, and you let him. then, for the first time, he told you about his past. 

the last memory you have of that night, is your fingertips wiping away his tears softly, both hiding from the world under the freshly made sheets —and your lips muttering a very sincere, though slightly shaky, i love you over his mouth.

and you were still terrified, but he made it look a little bit easier. not loving him, exactly —but letting him kiss you back, and tell you he loved you too.

your relationship got better after that —it got official, actually. there were still arguments from time to time, and some nights weren’t easy —but you were learning to be together. to be there, at least.

and what is love if not that?

because he had exploded against you a few more times, screaming at you, belittling you, slamming doors and blaming you for things you didn't even know about. and you had stayed there, rational mind intact and a hand he could hold onto when reality hit him and he finally collapsed in front of you. you didn’t go. you never left him alone.

and you’d had three more episodes like the one you’re having now since that day, ignoring him and the world, hiding in your room and even seriously considering breaking up with him, thinking yourself undeserving of his care —and after each of them, kaiser had stayed there, eyes sad and kisses that reminded you that he would never stop loving you. he would never leave you.

neither of you left when yours wasn’t really love, but obsession, and need, and pent-up trauma. neither of you ran. instead, you stayed. you worked. you held on, not to what it was, but to what it could become.

and slowly, it did —a little purer, a little more beautiful—and much more fragile, too.

so here you are now, for the fourth time —weak, vulnerable and broken. your boyfriend looking at you as if he were watching the most precious thing in his life fall to pieces in front of his eyes, and he could do nothing about it.

kaiser places one last kiss on your cheek, then decides it’s time to help you feel a little bit better.

“listen, love, we are gonna do the following:” he says, gently pulling you by the hand that's holding his, forcing you to stand up. “first, we are going to take a shower —i’ll help you wash your hair and dry it afterward. then, we’ll put on clean pajamas, and i’ll change the sheets of your bed while you have dinner —brought your favorites for you to choose from. after that, we can watch a movie, or sleep, or talk, if you want. is that fine for you?” 

you nod, slowly, and the blue of his eyes shines softly as he looks at you. then he gently kisses your hairline, as if reminding you he’s going to be there for every step —he’s still as obsessed with kissing you as the first day.

so you walk together to the cramped bathroom in your apartment, still holding hands, and he helps you take off your clothes tenderly —delicately, as if scared of breaking you if he’s to harsh, but firmly, for you to know that he’s there if you need to break on your own.

then he takes off his own clothes and the two of you step into the shower, barely large enough for two people. you stand still as the water soaks your hair, trails down your skin. you let yourself open your eyes and look directly at him. 

blonde, irregular strands of wet hair stick to the sides of his face, blue tips brushing his chin. his skin is pale, but soft, and the rain of the shower slips over his muscles, traces the silhouette of the blue rose on his neck, down his arm. his gaze is still intense, but he smiles softly at you.

he looks like a sacred image, too surreal to be standing before you —you try to reach for it.

your hand goes to his cheek, little bit flushed from the warm water. you trace his features with your fingertips —the curve of his chin, the corner of his lips, the tip of his nose, the tattooed red line under both his eyes. 

michael kaiser is very much real, standing in front of you.

still, you can’t help but think you’re in presence of something blessed, something divine, as you watch the round water drops rest between his eyelashes. when he blinks and they fall, it looks as if he’s crying. 

but it is you, you realize, the one who’s crying, when he brings the shampoo to your head and starts washing your hair slowly, it’s your tears falling from your eyes as he massages your neck, your shoulders and you waist when he spreads the gel all over your body. 

you don’t say anything at all during the whole process —but your body leans into every stroke, like it’s slowly surrending to the touch of love.

after the shower, kaiser takes turns drying your hair and his, and he lets you braid the long blue strands of the back of his head absentmindedly while he brushes yours. 

time moves quickly after that —at least, faster than it has during this whole week. you watch him as you have small bites of the food he brought you, now a little more talkative than before, dressed in the clean clothes that smell like his fabric softener —as he changes the sheets on your bed and cleans up the mess your room had become.

the room has aired out while you were showering. the window is now closed, and the blinds are down. all the light, instead of coming from your phone —now turned off and forgotten on the nightstand, at least for tonight— comes from the starry lights hanging on the wall over your bed.

now it looks a little more like your room and a little less like a pit of despair.

your boyfriend has changed clothes too. he's no longer wearing his street clothes —which he's neatly stored in his space of your closet— but the silk robe he usually leaves at your house. his blond hair is pulled back in a half-updo at the nape of his neck, unruly blue strands sticking out. he's also put on his glasses —the ones he used to avoid wearing, but never forgets now since you told him you like how they look on him.

the air doesn’t feel heavy anymore. it’s warm, you think, as you let him wrap you in the freshly made blanket next to him. it’s comfortable, now that he’s here.

“so?” he asks, and then kisses your neck, and your chin, and your nose. you let out a soft giggle, and he feels his chest explode with affection for you “what’s it gonna be? movie, talk, sleep? or any other ideas?”

you smile faintly, and you snuggle up against him. his arms now surround your waist, his chest serving as your pillow. you can feel the rhythm of his pulse on your cheek.

“can we just stay like this for a while?” you whisper, voice small, almost unsure —but soft in a way it hadn’t been for days.

kaiser chuckles under his breath, and kisses the top of your head.

“that’s exactly the plan i was thinking about, love,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair, “wish granted.”

you laugh —a small, sleepy laugh that feels almost foreign to your own ears after the week you’ve had. but it’s real, and it makes kaiser’s hold around you tighten just a little.

there’s no need to talk anymore. no need for a movie or to pretend everything’s okay. the only thing that matters right now is the weight of his hand resting gently on your back, the warmth of his body against yours, the quiet rhythm of your breathing finally syncing in peace.

and, a few minutes later, when you ask to yourself why is he so kind to you —how does he know exactly what you need, just the way you need it— you remember that first night you spent crying together, curled up on your bed —when he emptied himself in front of you, confessing everything he had never told anyone out loud.

you open one eye, and you shift your gaze to the desk, where you find a single blue rose in a fine, clear glass vase. then you understand it —he knows, because he’s had it even worse. and he would never allow someone he loves, someone who loves him, go through the same thing he did.

kaiser is asleep behind you, wrapping you in between his arms as if scared of letting you go. 

but you don’t feel the need to run away anymore. you draw a faint, calm smile for the first time in the week, and snuggle up against him. then you kiss his hand, that's softly resting close to your neck —he’s not trying to hold you down, just hold you close. 

for the first time in a while, neither of you feels like too much —just enough, for each other.

masterlist.

pls lmk what u think in the comments, reblogging, through messages, asks or wtv!! feedback is important to me in these first posts and i'd appreciate it a lot 🤲🏼

﹫luvseisagi, may 2025.

[canirove]

Pedri Imagine | two

Author's note: This is something kind of short I got inspired to write after seeing the pic of Pedri and Eric I'm using in the header, though in my head it was with someone else instead of a girl, and that version of this imagine will be going up later today 👀 Hope you like it, and thank you for reading! 💜

Little summary: Pedri and you have had a crush on each other for a while, but neither of you have been brave enough to ask the other out until…

Masterlist

“Look at her, bro. Isn't she like the most beautiful woman you've ever seen?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? C'mon, Pedri. Look at her. Look at that smile.”

“Eric, did you just sigh?” Pedri chuckles.

“How not to” he sighs again, his eyes fixed on Flick’s translator. 

She had only been working for the club for a few months, but basically everyone in the team had a crush on her. Pedri included. Though unlike everyone else, who had already tried to make a move on her, he had done nothing because he was too shy even if he felt there was some kind of connection between them. 

For example, every time she has caught him looking at her, instead of rolling her eyes and telling him to mind his business or focus on training like she does with the others, she smiles at him, making him feel funny things in his stomach. One time she even winked at him, catching him so by surprise that he tripped with the ball he was playing with and ended up on the floor, his teammates teasing him about his fall for a week. And while with them she gets all serious when they try to joke with her during training, usually telling them that she is there to work, with him it is completely different. Pretty often it is her the one joking with him or teasing him about something, both of them laughing together and having what he would call, a moment. 

So there definitely is something between, but what? He doesn't know.

“Do you think she would say yes to going out with me?”

“What?” Pedri says, trying to stop looking at the way she's biting her lip while reading some papers. He has noticed that she does it when she is focused on something, and he can't help but find it extremely sexy. More than once he's imagined how it would be to bite her lip while kissing her, which is something he should not be thinking about a coworker, but…

“If I ask her to go out on a date with me, do you think she will say yes?”

“She's made it very clear she isn't interested in any player, Eric. That she's here to work, nothing else.”

“I know. But just because she's said no to the others doesn't mean she will say it to me too, you know? Besides, what if she's just playing hard to catch?”

“Doesn't look like something she would do, to be honest.”

“And how do you know, uh? Are you bffs with her now?” Eric says with a teasing smile.

“No” Pedri replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Are you sure? Because I've seen you talking and laughing together, and you seem to get along quite well. Are you hiding something from us, Pedri?”

“Something like what?” he says, trying to act normal while praying for his cheeks to not turn bright red.

“I don't know. Maybe she ignores us all because she's interested in you. Because you two are seeing each other in secret.”

“Don't be stupid, Eric” Pedri laughs. “I don't like her and she doesn't like me. We are just friendly because we work together, and the relationship I have with her is the same I have with everyone from the staff.”

“If you say so…”

“Yes, I do. So stop imagining things.”

“Ok, ok…” he says. “But if there isn't anything going on between you two, then you won't mind if I go and ask her out, will you?”

“No, I won't” Pedri says. Though he does mind. Because if for some reason she says yes, they go out and things work out between them, seeing one of his best friends dating the girl he likes won't be easy. At all. 

“Then I'm gonna go shoot my shot. Wish me luck, bro” Eric says, getting up from the cooler where they both were sitting.

“Good luck” Pedri mutters while hating himself. Why can't he be as brave as Eric and be the one asking her out? Why does he have to be such a coward? Why… “Urgh” he groans, picking a ball to have something to focus on that isn't Eric and what he is about to do.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“Is Flick's handwriting that bad?” 

“Uh?” I say, looking up from the papers I was reading.

“That” Eric says, pointing at them. “Did the gaffer write it?”

“I did.”

“Wait, you did? You can't understand your own writing?” he says, trying his best to not laugh.

“I can't, no” I sigh.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, well. Can I help you with something?”

“You definitely can” Eric smiles. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“I… yes. Why?”

“Well, a friend of mine just opened a new restaurant and he has been asking me to go pay him a visit, so I was wondering if you would like to come check it with me.”

“Eric, are you asking me to go on a date with you?” I say, arching an eyebrow.

“I am, yes.”

“Oh, wow” I laugh. “That was a very confident answer, you know? I've liked it. The others usually start mumbling when I ask them.”

“The others aren't me” he shrugs. “So, would you like to accompany me to my friend’s restaurant? We can first have a drink and then have dinner.”

“I…” I say, looking past him at where Pedri is. If only he was the one asking me out… 

Since I started working for Barcelona, basically everyone in the team has tried to make a move with me. Everyone but him, the one I have a connection with. The one I like and that sometimes makes me feel and especially behave like a teenager around her crush. Like when I tease him just to have his attention and make him laugh or smile. 

Because he's cute and hot all at the same time, nice, funny, hearing him talk with that Canarian accent of his makes me swoon, we get along quite well, are comfortable with and around each other… Though maybe not as comfortable as I think since he doesn't seem to care about Eric asking me out, something he definitely knows is happening because I saw them talking together and looking my way before he came. So maybe I should stop wasting my time waiting for him and just say yes to one of the other boys since he doesn't seem to care. Or be the one asking him out. We are in the 21st century, I don't have to wait for a man to do it. I can do it myself. I…

“You…” Eric says, bringing me back to the real world.

“Ok.”

“What?”

“I'll go on a date with you” I say, not quite believing the words that are leaving my mouth.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really. We can meet tomorrow after training, first go have that drink and then dinner. Though you are driving, your car is nicer than mine.”

“Yes, of course! Great” he smiles. “Great! Tomorrow after training, then?”

“Tomorrow after training” I repeat, more to myself than him.

“Cool. Ok” Eric says, his smile even wider as he walks back to join the others. To join Pedri, who quickly looks away when he notices I am looking at him. 

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“God, Eric. Do you really need to wear so much perfume?”

“Of course I do. I must look my best for my date” he smiles.

“Smelling as if you've showered in perfume isn't looking your best.”

“If you are jealous just say it, Pedro” he smirks.

“I'm not jealous” Pedri replies, focusing on tying up his shoes. But he is. Of course he is jealous. 

To his surprise and everyone's in the changing room, she had said yes to going out with Eric. And judging by what he had been implying while telling the others about his date, he was planning on also ending the night with her. So if she had already said yes to going out with him, who says she would not also say yes to… to… 

“Enjoy your night” Pedri says, picking up his things to stop thinking about her and Eric together. “And don't be a dick. She doesn't deserve it.”

“I will behave, bro. I promise you” he says while putting on even more perfume, making Pedri roll his eyes before leaving the changing room. 

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“Oh, shit!” I say after bumping into someone. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, don't worry. I… Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You look beautiful” Pedri says.

“Thank you” I reply, focusing on adjusting my dress to not look at him and at the way he is checking me out. Why did I have to cross paths with him on my way to meet with Eric? Why couldn't it be someone else? 

“Does wearing perfume give you a headache?”

“What?” I say, the oddity of his question making me look at him. Since it is Friday and they don't play until Sunday, he hasn't shaved yet and… God. He looks so good. Someone should keep all the razors away from him.

“I just left Eric back in the changing room showering himself in perfume. I'm pretty sure I can smell it on myself too” he chuckles. “So if it is something that bothers you…”

“I think I'll survive.”

“Oh. Ok. Then I… Umm…” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Enjoy your date. He's a great guy.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah… umm… Bye” he says, walking past me. 

“Pedri, wait.”

“Yes?” he says behind me.

“Eric… Eric is a great guy even if he showers himself in perfume, you are right. But he… he isn't you.”

“He… what?”

“I wish it was you the one taking me on a date tonight” I blurt out, still giving my back to him.

“What?”

“That I…” I say, taking a deep breath before turning around to look at him. “I wish it was you, Pedri. I wish I was going out on a date with you, not Eric. Because I…” like you. Those are the words I would have said if he hadn't suddenly closed the space between us and was kissing me, his hands cupping my face. Because he is kissing me. Pedri is kissing me and… “Did you just bite my lip?” 

“I… sorry” he says as his cheeks turn bright red and I try my best to not smile at the sight of them. Blushed Pedri, either during games or because of his shyness, is one of my favourite things in the world. “I just… I got carried away, I… I'm very sorry.”

“No, no, it's ok. But now I'm gonna have to bite you back” I smirk. “I've been thinking about doing it since the day I met you.”

“What?”

“You have very kissable and biteable lips, Pedri.”

“Oh… ummm… Glad to know we have something in common” he says, the tiniest of smirks showing on his face. “Because your lips also are very kissable and biteable, you know?”

“Kind of guessed it since you just kissed me and bite me” I chuckle. “But I think we have more things than that in common, you know?”

“We do?”

“Yep” I nod. “Fancy finding out about them all while having dinner?”

“Having dinner… as in a date?”

“Yes. A date. Another thing I have been wanting to do for a long time.”

“And another thing we have in common” he chuckles. “Though I haven't been as brave as you.”

“It doesn't matter who asked who. What matters is that it is happening. Shall we?” I say, putting some space between us and offering him my hand. 

“Let's go” Pedri smiles as he takes it. “But wait. What about Eric and your date with him?”

“I'll text him telling him that I'm not feeling well and I have to cancel, don't worry.”

“Ok… I just hope he doesn't get mad at me when he finds out the truth. He's one of my best friends.”

“I'm sure he won't" I say. "Because don't ask why... but I have the feeling everything is going to be alright.” 

And the thing is… that I wasn't wrong. Because as we would find out months later when we make it official that we are dating, there had been someone watching everything that had happened between me and Pedri on that corridor. Someone who had only asked me to go on a date with him hoping it would make Pedri and I stop being cowards and finally make a move. Someone who was smiling from ear to ear as he watched us hold hands and leave to go on our first date. 

Someone, who wasn't other than Eric.

[daylightmidnights]

Okayyyyyy I'm finally freeeee. Now I can rant about this masterpiece as much as I want.

First late me start with...... NIALL AND PHOEBE ??? Fuck yes! I'd have loved Niall to cause Harry some trouble but since Harry seems to trust him enough to appoint him as the main guard, he's not a threat. Plus I've come to the conclusion that I kinda like him so I wouldn't want him to suffer from anymore jealousy right now (not saying I wouldn't love for him to be jealous in future tho 👀). Anyway I am happy for Phoebe, she's the sweetest and deserves everything she wants. She and Niall would get married and have 10 kids and they'd play with Harry and yn's kids and then two of them would fall in love with each other and then you can write a story about that (excuse me...got carried away).

And I want to see Niall being goofy with her infront of yn. I want them three to be friends aaahhhhh I'm such a whore for good unlikely friendships. Like it's so mind boggling when you think about it. Yn being lower class and Phoebe and Niall technically being upper class than her but she's gonna be the queen and both of them gives her so much respect without a question about her social position. But now she's above everyone else and yn's just trying to exist with that fact. She's still the same at her core though so it must be so hard for her to adjust in this setting. All of this must be so fascinating to her in a way. Yeah I just want her to say 'fuck it' and be best buddies with Phoebe and Niall and like play chess with them or something on the bedroom floor lmao

And her first kiss was Lane? Bloody LANE? Eeesshhh I'd have wanted someone from their slum or something who had a crush on her and someone she kind of liked to be her first kiss. But Lane does seem perfect. Because not only is he her closest friend but Harry also kinda doesn't like him? So when he learns that his royal smug ass wasn't her first kiss he's gonna lose his shit and when he learns that stupid LANE was her first kiss he might have to take 10 days long cold bath to cool himself down. Hope we get to see his reaction to this information. Pretty please?

But as much as I want king Harry to suffer I'm starting to like him. I loved him in this chapter. Loved hiw sincere he was with that whole situation. He went and brought them back to the castle himself. And kinda felt guilty? That she and her family had to go through that despite it being his responsibility to take care of her and her family. And I have to admit that even I didn't like the disrespect towards him by Lord Mayor. What was that guy thinking? Harry is THE KING. Do you have no fear for your life Mr Mayor? Your stupidity made me go "Yes Harry go and behead him and I will hand you the sword" and I don't like being violent Mr Mayor. Leave my girl alone. She doesn't deserve all this shit. You people don't like her she knows that but she is still trying to be nice and fit in. She's taking those fucking etiquette class even though Harry gave her choice not to. She's trying okay? Leave her be. Hate that guy hate him hate him hate him

And god forbid if he does something with the brooch I'm gonna kill him myself (and I don't like violence so this is serious to me). Because that's Harry's mother's brooch that he gave to his wife-to-be, someone who he selected just to mess with his people? HELLO? IT'S HIS MOTHER'S!!! This is a big deal. Why isn't she freaking out more? Does she not understand the gravity of this? He's giving you his mother's things, his mother, probably the only person he truly loved and cherished. It's gotta be a big, huge deal.

Poor Harry lost his mother so young. Seems like his father mistreated her. No wonder he is like this. He probably hated his father. I'm sure of one thing though, he won't be like his father. He won't use yn as he pleases, won't neglect her or mistreat her. He already cares for her very much and even though the purpose of bringing her into this was not so great he's still looking out for her, protecting her and sees her as his queen. I'm pretty sure once he actually falls in love with her, he's gonna be a soft warm cuddly whiney mess when they're together alone. And I can't wait for that day. He's gonna cherish her.

The bath scene was very sexy and I loved that he was commanding but not forcing her to do anything. Even when he teaches her things or challenges her beliefs regarding God or her fear, he doesn't push his opinion on her. He tells her things and lets her decide for herself. Which I think is very wise and thoughtful. And it works too. She makes her own decision about what she wants. It's a progress. He is so keen on enlightening her about various things. I hope he teaches her more about other things too. About their kingdom and politics and other stuff. He also said he's gonna take her with him next time. She's probably never travelled anywhere before. So maybe they can explore place together when they go somewhere.

And last but NOT FUCKING THE LEAST.....they finally KISSED. Yessssssss!!!! Bet Harry was all drunk on her lips afterwards. Couldn't think straight, only wanting to kiss her again. Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh I'm dizzy thinking about it. And they're gonna share his bed from now on. Can't wait to see what happens when they're sleeping next to each other. I don't think I can wait for the next chapter. Give me now! Gimme gimme gimme!!!!!!

I wish I could get inside your brain and see what's gonna happen next. This world you created has sucked me in and now I can't get out of it and don't want to. I don't want this to end. I'd love 100 chapters of this. Thank you so much Guru. This is so so good. Your writing is so good I can't even explain. Waiting for it gets tough but it's always worth it. Every chapter so far has been incredible 🤌

I love this so much. I love you so much more. Thank you for all you do. You're absolutely amazing! ❤️

[3] It's Good to Be King | mean king!harry

MAIN MASTERLIST

Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.

Ch. 3 Word Count: 8,749

Ch. 3 Warning: Harsh physical treatment, descriptions of extreme poverty, discrimination, humiliation, some light petting, inspection kink (light), corruption kink, mention of parental death (let me know if I missed any!)

It's Good to Be King Masterlist

. .

Y/n had learned that the king had been called away to tend to a minor land ownership dispute in a village that was a day's ride away. He'd be gone for five days as long as there were no unexpected postponements.

When Phoebe told her, Y/n couldn't pinpoint exactly why she felt so wistful. She knew he was a cold, bad-mannered person, so she shouldn't have expected him to speak to her about his departure beforehand. But to feel the tight stretch in her chest that he didn't tell her himself… that was perplexing.

Their interactions over the last few weeks she'd been at the castle had been not more than fleeting. They'd had dinner together a few times, and one evening he went to her room with a gift for her. He didn't let her open it while he was present, but before he left, he placed his hand on her hip when she was wearing only her chemise and said, "This, I much prefer. I shall have another fig tart sent to you this evening."

He squeezed at her skin, his fingers indenting into her newly very slightly softer hip. She understood him to mean the small bit of weight she'd put on was what he preferred.

The gift he left her was a beautiful gold brooch bearing the kingdom's royal coat of arms carved into the center, adorned with sparkling purple, red, and amber jewels. On the back, it was engraved with the name of Harry's deceased mother, the late Queen.

She forced a smile as Phoebe poured hot, fragrant Ceylon into her teacup. "He'll be gone five days? The wedding ceremony is in two weeks. Let's hope nothing delays their return."

"Two weeks already is it?" Phoebe said, lifting the porcelain lid from her breakfast platter. "Are you scared?"

She nodded. "Yes. But I've no choice. My family finally has everything they've ever wanted here. My sister, Dell, cried last week when she tasted the citrus soufflé we all had for dessert. I can't do anything to ruin this. Even if he is the devil."

A dashing devil.

"I believe he's fond of you. He's a cad, but I've seen him look at you when you're not paying attention. Everyone has."

Y/n smiled down at her plate. She only pretended not to be paying attention, but she knew his gaze on the curve of her neck and brushing at her lips when she'd look the other direction. Crude, maybe, but he did show her something about her body she'd not soon forget.

In fact, it had come quite in handy once her bedroom was quiet and she was settled into her down blankets with a book full of wanton stories in her lap. The guilt she'd felt the first few times she'd reenacted what he'd shown her soon turned into a craving she daydreamed of at the most inappropriate times.

Just as then, while Phoebe stood by watching as she ate her breakfast.

"Have you eaten?" Y/n asked.

"Not yet."

"Would you like a biscuit with butter?" Y/n placed a biscuit on a small dish and gestured at the chair across from her for Phoebe to sit.

"It's meant for you, Y/n."

"Of course it's meant for me, but I'd like you to have some. You're my friend. Please, sit with me."

Phoebe offered a gentle smile and pulled the chair out to sit. "Thank you."

Y/n had begun offering some of her food to Phoebe during the mornings when no one else was around. Her friend always denied the initial offer but eventually wound up giving in. In fact, it seemed to be easier to get her to sit with Y/n by the day.

She'd also begun taking etiquette classes twice each week in preparation for the wedding and being seen in public with the king. The council advised that she needed the extra work. Harry left it up to Y/n whether or not she'd like to go. She decided to take the classes but quickly regretted that choice. The governess was harsh and easily angered.

Y/n had the feeling that her teacher didn't like her one bit, despite her best efforts to charm her. In fact, she got the idea that not many appreciated her presence in the castle at all. So she often preferred to stay in her room or her sisters'.

"Have you ever kissed a boy before?" Phoebe asked as she dotted the edge of her lip with her napkin.

"I have. But it was just with a friend because I was curious. And only once."

"Was it Lane? The one you told me about who likes his drink?"

She nodded. "Yes. But I'm sure he liked it more than I did. What about you?"

Phoebe smiled shyly and looked behind herself toward the door, as if anyone could hear them through the heavy, solid wood. "I might have last night…"

Y/n sat her fork down and leaned forward. "What do you mean? With whom?"

"You swear to not tell anyone?"

"Phoebe, you know I would never tell anyone your secrets. Was it Niall? It was Niall, wasn't it?"

The look on her friend's face when she spoke the name of the guard told Y/n everything she needed to know. She'd had a suspicion about the pair a couple of weeks prior when she spotted Niall winking at the girl, and the way her face shaded in pink was a clue as to how she felt about it.

A sudden knock on the door had both girls looking at one another in surprise. Phoebe quickly stood and walked toward the door with Y/n right behind. When she pulled the door open, there, standing in her doorway, was the Lord Mayor, and two men with him.

"Miss Y/n Y/l/n, you will come with us at once," he said, looking behind Phoebe at the queen-to-be.

"What is this about? Is the king okay?" Y/n asked, placing her hand over the broach he'd given her.

"You and your family are not welcome here in the castle any longer."

"What? I don't understand! Is there not—"

One of the men stepped in, pushing Phoebe to the side, and grabbed Y/n roughly by her arm. "Come!"

As she was pulled away from her room, the new guard, Niall, stopped the procession before they got too far. "Halt!"

"Move out of my way at once, guard!"

"My loyalty lies with the king and his orders. Unhand Her Majesty at once!"

"The King's duties fall on me when he's away. This is my command. Move to the side."

"Then you leave me no choice but to send word to King Styles to notify him of your trespass."

Y/n felt her arm yanked as she was dragged down the stairs. She screamed when another set of hands was on her middle, pushing, and then she spotted her sisters, parents, and grandmother already near the entrance, surrounded by men.

"Let me go! You needn't grab at me!" The men didn't listen. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, she was pushed until her knees and hands hit the stone floor just off the carpet. But she had barely a moment to take a breath when she was again being grabbed and hauled upward until she was standing next to her mother.

The Lord Mayor stepped in front of her and reached forward. Y/n gasped when she felt him yank at her dress and then realized he'd pulled the brooch off. "Take them away."

Niall called out before Y/n and her family were directed to load into the horse cart that had been waiting for them at the front of the castle. "King Styles will receive word tomorrow. Do not fear, madam."

Two guards hung on the sides of the cart, and a driver at the front controlled the two horses pulling it, as Y/n and her family clung to the wooden benches inside so they didn't fall. People stood and watched as the cart was pulled out of the castle gates and toward the slums of their overcrowded rookery.

"What's happened, Y/n? What did you do?" Her mother bellowed dramatically.

"I don't know what happened. This wasn't the king's orders."

"Those men were atrocious. Grabbed my toast right from my hand!"

The townsfolk were staring, laughing, and some spat as they passed them by. She was far less worried about her family's reputation than she was about the rude behavior of the middle and noble classes. Y/n may never hold influence or power, but she was a human, and she deserved fundamental decency. She'd always believed everyone did.

Until then. Those people mocking her were the lowest of the low.

Being carted out of the castle in a buggy meant for livestock had been done on purpose. It was meant to be a spectacle. It was meant to humiliate. But it only made her angry. For the first time since she'd met the king, she understood him, in part. Understood his need to cause a stir and disrupt the comfortably spoiled bourgeoisie. Now she understood why he didn't like any of them.

. .

"Your Majesty, I have an urgent message from the main castle guard. Y/n Y/l/n and her family have been removed from the castle without your permission. The Lord Mayor took it upon himself to act as regent in your stead and made the decision to banish them from the castle grounds. Your presence is requested at once to deal with the matter."

Harry had never been so furious in all his life. He'd led an army in war and dealt with enemy soldiers who spat in his face, and had never been treated with such a lack of respect as this. He'd only been gone for two days, and already he had his own men conspiring behind his back. It was in direct defiance of Harry, and that just would not do.

He had no choice but to abandon his purpose and return right away. The land dispute matter could wait. Taking care of the Lord Mayor and everyone involved could not. He bid farewell to his company and left the moment he mounted his steed with his men in tow.

A day's ride across the expanse of Thornekeep and the surrounding villages was tiresome. Harry had been looking forward to more rest before he was to return, but now he had to forgo the gin and the hearty meal that was being prepared for him so he could deal with the unruly cast of characters he'd left in charge of the castle in his stead.

If he'd been a hair more cruel than he was, he would have forced the horses to push through until exhaustion. But he relied on the steeds to safely give him transport, and rest was necessary for the animals, just as it was for him and his men.

And as upset as he was about being disrespected, he was more concerned about Y/n than anything. She was his responsibility, and it was no secret that she and her family were not happily welcomed into their new roles. But he certainly hadn't expected this.

The following day, when he arrived to town just outside the castle, it felt as though everyone suddenly retreated back into their homes. As if even the townspeople knew they'd done something wrong. The vendors and workers averted their gazes.

Pointing in the direction of the town square near where the Lord Mayor lived, Harry looked at two of his men who were riding with him. "The Lord Mayor, go and collect him. Bring him to the private chambers closet off the long gallery. Make him stay there and wait for me. You," he said as he looked at Fred, "Get the covered stagecoach and have Alfred drive it directly to Y/n's home. We will be bringing them back to the castle at once."

Harry and the guard traveling with him rode deeper into the town, where the slums sprawled with wet, muddy roads, buckets filled with slop, decrepit living quarters, and street drunkards. There, the people stared intently. They stopped in their tracks and watched as the king rode by on his healthy, strong steed, with his armoured guard behind him. It was the first time he'd ever gone into the rookeries, where the poor lived and worked (if they could find work).

"You, sir!" Harry shouted at a man carrying what looked to be a heavy sack over his shoulder. The man stopped and narrowed his eyes at the king. "Can you tell me in which direction Y/n Y/l/n lives?"

"Oy…" The man dropped the sack at his feet and looked around himself. "I know 'o no such name."

"She's a woman of 20. Has a father called Peter and her mother Lettice."

"Peter and Lettice… Peter Y/l/n…" He rubbed at his chin and chewed the inside of his cheek. "I might know it."

Harry sighed. He knew the spiel. The man was expecting some kind of payment for information. Directing his horse to step closer to the man, Harry looked down at him with a frown and could smell the stench coming from him. "If you know it, tell me then. If you do, I'll let you continue on your journey unharmed."

The man shrugged. It was worth a shot. "Across from the mill. There's a graveyard at the top o'the lane. Four or five tenements down. B'be careful o'the pigs. They've not eaten."

The smell, as Harry traveled deeper into the overcrowded and filthy streets, was almost unbearable. Every five or ten yards was a bucket overflowing with excrement. He'd always known these places existed, but to see it with his own eyes (and to smell it)… he was appalled. The kind of squalor the destitutes lived in was barbarous.

When they arrived at the rundown tenement across from the mill, Harry jumped from the horse and gave the lead to his guard before sloshing through the filth to step up onto the rotted boards of the platform. He knocked on the door with the loose frame and stepped back as someone opened it up right away.

"Who's that?" The old woman stumbled back a couple of steps and clutched her hand over her heart. "The king! The king is here!"

"M'lady, I'm looking for the Y/l/n family. Are they here in this tenement?" Harry held the door open and stepped inside. The main room was dingy and damp and smelled of stale food and unwashed bodies.

"By god!" The woman sat down on the benchtop and inhaled deeply like she'd been given the scare of her life. "The king is here!"

A young man came down the stairs and looked from Harry to the old woman. "We can 'ear ya! Enough!" The man removed his floppy hat and lowered his head. "Your Highness. To what do we owen'ya th'honor?"

"I'm looking for the Y/l/n family. I've heard they live here."

"Right y'are. Lemme find 'em."

Harry scraped his eyes around the space, and while it wasn't as filthy as things appeared from outside, it was unfit for any human. The woman gasped as she pushed herself to stand and mumbled something he couldn't hear, nor did he care much. She seemed to be half out of it, gin drunk perhaps.

The ceiling was caved in at the side of the common area, where it appeared there was some kind of unworking, rusted stove. The wooden floors were soft under his feet, and the walls stained with moisture.

"King Harry?"

He turned quickly when he heard Y/n's voice. She made her way down the stairs, followed by her three younger sisters. "Y/n. I've come for you and your family. I received word about the situation and came as quickly as I could."

She clasped her hands behind her back and nodded. "Yes. It was humiliating. But we're used to being treated as such."

"You and your family are to gather your things quickly. A carriage will be around soon to bring you back to the castle."

"We were told we were not welcome there."

"The Lord Mayor will be dealt with forthwith. But what he says is irrelevant. My word is final. You will come back to the castle, and we are to proceed as before."

Y/n nodded slowly and motioned for her sisters to go back up to their quarters. "That is fine. Would you like to come up?"

She could see it in his posture and the expression on his face that he was not well in that room. The stench could get to anyone, but at least in the small space where they lived, it was tidy and much less foul. So he followed behind her up to their floor, and she let him into their room.

And it was indeed just a room. Pallets of cloth and feather, and straw were strewn over the floor where he assumed they slept. In the corner was a bench piled with random things: cups, bowls, sacks, a couple of books, a lantern, a tin of fish. In another corner, there was a tin bucket full of charred things, the wall behind it black from soot. He imagined it was their source of heat, like a fireplace.

Lettice and Peter were already standing in wait, their faces like those of young children awaiting permission to play with their new things. They bowed their heads. "Your Majesty," Peter said.

"Nan," Y/n said softly as she bent down to put her hand on her grandmother's shoulder. She'd been sitting in a chair, asleep. The old woman startled and looked at Y/n like she was some kind of horrible intruder.

"Nan, look…" Y/n motioned toward Harry, and the old woman blinked her eyes slowly.

"We're saved? He's come for us. Thank heavens!"

There weren't many things to gather. Harry hadn't imagined their living space as such. He figured a multi-room flat, nothing extravagant, but at least a home with space to cook and use the WC. But there was none of that. No running water, no private space, and no comfortable things to lie upon at night. How could anyone live like that? And that there were seven people all crammed into that room? He couldn't imagine it.

There was a double knock on the door before it was opened. Everyone turned to look as a young man stepped inside. "What's this then? It's true!" He grinned at Y/n and then lowered his head. "Your Majesty."

Y/n stepped in next to the man and put her hand on his arm. "This is my good friend Lane. He was there with me, the day you came to me."

Harry looked the dirty fellow up and down. "Yes, I remember Lane."

He watched his wife-to-be whisper something to the young man, and then Lane turned to look at her with a brief nod as he ran his hand over her wrist. There was no time to challenge what had just happened or to ask what was said and why someone else was touching her like that when Alfred had finally arrived with the covered carriage.

Once Y/n and her family were loaded into the carriage, Harry and his guard led the way back to the castle. He'd seen a lot of things in his life, but he had not been prepared to see the rookeries up close like that. He'd seen the outskirts of impoverished neighborhoods in other kingdoms and towns and but never in his own. Shock might be too heavy of a word for the way it made him feel, but it was close.

He ordered three footmen to take Y/n's family to their quarters and give them whatever they would like to eat (as well as draw each of them a bath) while he went with Y/n and Phoebe to bring her to his chambers. "You'll stay in my room from here on. Your room will still be open for you, but I'm not satisfied for you to be there all night alone."

Y/n was still struggling to wrap her mind around the events of the last few days. Niall had told her to expect the king to come and get her, but she doubted that he really would. She imagined it was easier for the king to take a more suitable wife. A woman used to that life with a higher status. Someone the proletariat would prefer.

She was thankful that he did, though. She'd gotten used to some of the small luxuries (and big) that the royal castle afforded them all. Mostly, she missed her privacy and the comfy bed.

"Have her wardrobe brought over, a warm bath drawn, and whatever she'd like to eat," Harry said to Phoebe, who quickly got to work.

Y/n kept quiet as she watched the king open up his balcony and drape the lace curtains to the side before he poured two glasses of gin and handed her one.

He gulped his portion in one go as she sniffed her glass. "Go on. Drink it. You need it more than I do. Feel free to have as much as you like."

"Thank you."

"You should not have to thank me. This should never have happened. I will deal with the Lord Mayor and see what kind of punishment the council allows. I just ask that if you leave this room, have Phoebe and Niall with you."

She nodded. "Of course."

"I've made arrangements for a formal announcement of our engagement. Day after tomorrow, we will have a public appearance to announce to the whole of the kingdom that you will be the Queen Consort. No one can then deny that I've selected my wife, as it seems they've all done."

He paced toward the open balcony and put his hands on his hips. "I will be gone til late. I have much to do. Please use my room as if it were your own."

Y/n eyed the bed and then shifted her gaze back to the king as he stepped toward his door. "I'm grateful that you came to get us. I'm indebted to you, My Lord."

He sniffed and looked down at his feet, hand on the knob the door. "Yes. You are."

. .

Y/n woke up to the sound of pouring water. Slowly opening her eyes, she found Harry sitting next to the fire, sipping hot tea and reading something intently as a man stood over the large tub in the king's room. She couldn't remember when she'd fallen asleep, but it wasn't long after her warm bath and the big meal she'd eaten.

She wasn't sure what to think exactly. The last few days had been quite dramatic and unusual, then with the king barging into their meager home to bring them back to the castle... He'd returned for her when he didn't need to. He had no allegiance to her or her family, so it was a bit of a surprise that he seemed so insistent that she come back with him.

"My Lord. Your bath is ready."

The king looked toward the man and pushed himself up from his chair. "You are dismissed."

Y/n blinked and watched as the man left the room, and Harry stepped toward the bath to touch the water. He looked tired. She wondered what time he'd returned to the room. When he began to remove his clothes, she thought to look away, imagining he didn't realize she was already awake.

But she remained still and kept her eyes on his frame until he was stark naked, despite her internal scolding to look away. The urge to keep watching was much stronger than her polite reasoning to avert her eyes. His body appeared to be that of a hard worker, with solid muscle and a sturdy build. It had never been a doubt in her mind that he was well-formed, and now she had proof as she watched flexing, dense muscles as he stepped into his tub.

"You may join me, if you like."

His voice startled her. She hadn't realized he was aware that she was awake, watching him. Pushing herself to sit up, she pulled the blanket to cover her state of undress. He'd seen her before in just a chemise, but she still had the sense that it was wrong to bare herself to any man like that.

"Don't be shy with me. I've already tasted and smelled the juice of your quim and you've just seen me naked. Come."

Y/n gulped at the memory of Harry's hands on her body as she let out uncontrollable noises when he'd touched her. Then the aftermath of the forbidden shame as she watched him taste her offering. The lingering thought of the way he'd jutted his pink tongue out to lick at his fingers had her surging with heat.

"My King… It's improper—"

"Now don't start with that again. I say what's proper and what's not, and you disobeying me is improper."

Slowly, she moved the cover from herself and slid her legs to the edge of the bed. Harry had not yet looked in her direction, which she was thankful for as she wrapped her arms over the thin material that clung to her breasts and stepped closer until she was just next to the tub.

He looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and the fatigue in them was evident. "Well, if you're not going to join me, at least sit." He patted the wide stone ledge of the tub as he kept his eyes on her.

Trying her best not to stare into the water, she shifted her gaze toward the fire and sat down where the king had told her. His broad chest rose and fell tiredly as he stretched his strong arms along the top of the tub. She looked down at his fingers, the distance of only 7 or 8 barleycorns away from her thigh. So close he could touch if he stretched his middle finger toward her.

"I didn't foresee the kind of difficulty I'd encounter in keeping you. I knew some would disagree with my choice, but to have been interrupted in my work and so blatantly disrespected… We will not be making that mistake again."

"I'm sorry, it was—"

"Stop." He spoke loudly, his voice carrying a harsh edge. "Do not apologize for concerns you did not create. I have chosen you, and that's final. The Lord Mayor will have to come to terms with his punishment, just as I will have to come to terms with my lapse in judgment. I take responsibility for that egregious failure. But I'm not happy about it."

Y/n kept quiet. She'd seen the king raging mad the moment he stepped into the castle the evening prior, and while that anger had not been directed at her, she felt it as if it were. So part of her still felt like she'd done something wrong. And it was becoming clear to her now that her place as queen was not going to be an easy one. She was not beloved by the kingdom. She was a disgrace to the monarch and tradition.

"Next time I have to take leave, you'll come with me. I don't believe we have any choice in the matter. You're my responsibility."

She gently placed her palm down on the cool stone and watched as he dragged a cloth over his chest. "When do you leave next?"

"Not until after we're wed. And once you become pregnant, all of my duties away from the castle must be delegated to someone I trust. We can't risk anyone trying to hurt you again."

As he wetted his skin and wrung out the damp cloth, she glanced over his shoulder and up his neck to his structured jawline. She imagined his babies would be very pretty. The out-of-place thought surprised her.

"I wish I weren't such a burden, My King."

He dipped the rag into the water and looked up at her as he leaned forward. "You're my burden. I chose it. I bear it. It's what I want. I could very well pick another who's more suitable. Easier. More docile. But I don't want that. I want you."

It wasn't romantic. Not at all. So why did her heart skip a beat when he'd said it? He'd admitted she was a burden. She was not easy, and she was not docile.

"I'm trying to be more docile. I'll learn."

He waved his arm as water dripped from his skin. "No. My mother tried to be compliant and docile, and look where it got her. The moment she surrendered her will was the moment she was sentenced to death."

Shaking her head in confusion, Y/n leaned forward and dipped a finger into the warm water. "What do you mean? The queen died from consumption. That was what we were all told."

"And she would still be alive today if she had kept a grip on her spirit. But she allowed my father to take it from her. He took her charm, her wit, and her will. Consumption took her because she allowed herself to surrender. It was her death sentence."

She had wanted to run her hand over his back in a soothing gesture, but she thought better of it. It was possible he was no longer mourning the loss of his mother and that he wouldn't want her touch even if he was. The queen had been gone for many years.

"I loathe to bring this up right now, but I feel it's important to say. I'm worried that the brooch you gave me, the one that belonged to the queen, is gone. The Lord Mayor took it from me when he removed me from the castle."

Harry's face darkened as he turned to look toward the door. "Did he now? If it's gone, he will pay a heavy price in the form of losing his title. That's theft and punishable by law. But I have a feeling it's still in his possession. I will have it back to you by tomorrow, and if not, I will buy you a new one."

"I'm very grateful to you, My King. You returned so quickly. My sisters are very happy here."

He looked at her face, and his irises burned a trail down the front of her chemise. "And you? Are you happy here?"

She looked down at her lack of clothes and shifted forward so that her breasts were less visible under the thin fabric. "I am. We all are. My family and I."

"Here…" He held his hand toward her, the wet cloth in his palm. She took the rag from him, and he repositioned himself so his back was facing her. Y/n understood that he was requesting her to take the cloth to his back to help him wash.

She hesitantly moved her hand toward his back, as if touching him would set her to flame. But once the damp rag was pressed into his shoulder, he sighed, and she realized that touching him wouldn't hurt her at all. It had been silly to think it would. Running it across his back, she noted the smooth skin and firm muscle that defined his sturdy figure. Plunging the cloth down into the water along his spine, she allowed herself to take him in. The backs of his arms and neck, the curve of his shoulder, and the breadth of his frame…

"If you joined me in the tub, this would be much easier."

It was true. If she were sitting behind him in the water, she'd have easier access to him, but that would require her to remove her garment. When she didn't answer, Harry turned to look at her as he leaned back into the tub until his shoulder was pressed into her thigh. "Keep going."

"Your back is hidden. I can't reach—"

"Then here." He took her hand with the cloth and pulled it over his chest. The new angle of him, his back to her as she leaned forward and slowly ran the rag along the solid muscle of his pectorals, felt quite salacious. But she continued wiping and cleaning him. When he leaned his head back against her thigh, she gasped and paused her motions.

He laughed, his eyes closed. "Oh, mouse… Calm yourself."

She slowly began to rub over the skin of his chest as she looked down at his face. His features were tranquil as he moaned, the lower she dipped the rag. She had no intentions of dragging it too low, but he seemed to be enjoying it as she ran it over his stomach.

Glancing down further, she could make out something dark between his legs, and then the member attached to him as it swayed with the water's movement. It was indecent of her to be looking, but her curiosity was acute. And besides, she'd seen it before already. She knew what he looked like, and right then, it seemed so harmless as it was distorted beneath the surface of the water.

"Lower."

Y/n blinked, casting her sight back to his face. She hesitated to bring the cloth lower against him, but figured she didn't need to go that low. There were other areas she could clean, other spots she could run the rag against. So she leaned in further and wiped down to his hip and the top of his thigh.

He let out a breathy groan and spread his legs the slightest. "Good."

She smiled at the praise. She was doing something right for once. Trailing the cloth to his other hip and down to the top of his thigh, he rocked his hips upward and moaned. When he turned his head, rolling it over her thigh, she felt his warm breath sneaking under the cloth of her chemise.

The moment was entirely too intimate. Harry was quite amenable in that moment, and the way he had used her thigh as a pillow felt sweet. Something about how tired he seemed and the way his eyelids were closed as he puffed out shallow breaths made her body heat. She didn't understand why she was responding to him that way.

But then he lifted an arm out of the water and reached behind himself, his hand pressed over her thigh, and then he squeezed as he moved his palm up to her hip. Her light colored chemise wetted under his touch, and she could see her skin coming through the damp material. She watched as his thumb gently ran along the bend of her thigh.

"My Lord…" She didn't know what she was to say, but she knew she had to say something. Anything… "You're getting my clothes wet."

"Then take them off."

She swallowed and lifted the rag away from him. "That's—"

"Improper? Is that what you were going to say?" Harry pushed himself from his spot in the tub and turned to look at her directly.

He pulled at her hip and grinned as she dropped the rag into the tub and gasped. She loved how it felt to have his hands on her, but she was too embarrassed to admit it as she writhed away from him and stood from the tub to step away.

The King leaned forward against the tub, his elbows on the spot she'd been sitting. "Where are you going?"

"I'm… You're the devil!" She said as her body thrummed with wanton heat.

He let out a loud laugh and felt something slick under his palm. Looking down to the stone, he stitched his brows together and drew a finger through the moisture before he brought it up to sniff. He dropped his mouth open in surprise as he looked at her. "Little mouse… This is not water. Come here at once and let me see."

"No." She looked away from him as she clutched the back of her chemise. She knew very well what it was, she just hadn't expected it to seep through the linen down to the stone. She'd only recently begun to understand the mechanics of how her body reacted to being aroused ever since Harry showed her the way she could make herself feel.

"Yes." He spoke firmly, his green eyes boring into her body as her chest heaved. "Come here and we'll take care of this for you. Now I see why you're so pent up. You need a release, don't you? It's been a hard few days for you."

She shook her head and looked down at her bare feet. She was doing everything she could to be a good girl, to do the right thing by God. But the king, whom she was certain was the devil himself, tempting her, made it unimaginably hard to keep righteous.

"Have you been taking good care of your little leaky spout like I showed you?"

She let out a wobbly noise and closed her eyes to pretend that question had never been uttered.

"I think you have. You very much enjoyed it when I showed you how to touch your little coo. Has it been good? I'm sure you were unable to whilst back at your tenement, but certainly you know well the kind of joy it brings when you have privacy."

She swallowed, the sound clicking loudly in the room. "No."

"Yes. Come here."

Opening her eyes, she let her sight trail over his arms and his face as he leaned into the tub so casually. Like what he was saying wasn't unscrupulous. He was so well-favored in looks that it almost wasn't fair. How was she to remain a proper lady?

"Was it me you thought of when you touched yourself?"

Shaking her head, she quickly glanced away. It was hard to maintain eye contact when she was lying.

"No? Then Lane? Your friend? You thought of him?"

Setting her eyes back on his, she shook her head. "No! Of course not!"

He smiled. "You don't fancy him then?"

"Never. Not like that."

"What about me? Do you fancy me, Y/n? Be honest. I can already tell when you're not being forthright. You can't even look me in the eye when you answer falsely."

Her skin felt like she'd fallen into a patch of stinging nettles as he kept his eyes on her. He'd figured out her little signal. She was no good at lying. But she didn't want him to have the satisfaction of knowing how he made her feel deep down.

"I want you here now. Come sit or I'll get out and force you to."

Still clutching the back of her chemise, she stepped forward slowly until she was next to the tub. Harry reached up for her hip and pulled. "Sit."

Y/n placed her hands down on the ledge and sat, but Harry pulled at her again until her legs were in the water and the bottom of her chemise was wet. Her heart was galloping in her chest as he placed his hands on her thighs. "You're going to be my wife. Yes?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"That's right. You're mine. So when I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it for me. I don't ask much of you, Y/n," he spoke as he ran his hands up and down her thighs, then hooked his thumbs under the hem of the material and brought it upward to her mid-thigh. "You needn't worry much about anyone else asking you to do something. Just me. Yes?"

She nodded again and watched as his thumbs pushed upward under the chemise over her skin and she thought she would faint.

"What did you eat last night?"

"Uhh… roasted potatoes and cream, salted fish, bread and butter, apples."

He smiled at her as he paused his hands at the top of her thigh, and she felt her whole body flush in embarrassment. If he lowered his sight and peeked, he'd see her full quim she was sure.

"Good. You're eating well. And you slept well too, I presume?"

She nodded, trying to keep still so he didn't conclude how much she was affected by his hands on her.

"You like this."

Blinking, she turned her sight to the table with the water pitcher without answering.

He laughed softly and ran his thumbs along the curve of her thigh where it met her hip. "That's a yes. And what about this?"

She felt his fingers press into the flesh at the inside of her thigh as he pulled and spread her legs. She looked down quickly and sucked in a sharp inhale at the sight. It was lewd for him to see her like that. And yet… She was curious.

"Keep going?" He looked up at her, an eyebrow raised.

"I don't know…" She gulped.

"You don't know? Then, how about I just keep going until you say stop? Yes?"

She nodded. "Okay."

He shifted his gaze further down to her privy parts, and she closed her eyes when she felt his thumb slide against her crease. He hissed, gripping her thigh harshly as he inspected her bits and moved in closer to get a better look.

"Very pretty, little mouse." She felt his thumb slip down further and softly massage until there was a little intrusion. She opened her eyes and watched as the tip of his thumb disappeared into her hole.

Snapping her thighs closed, Harry shot his eyes back up to her and removed his fingers. "Stop?"

It hadn't hurt her, but it was the embarrassment that had her shying from his touch. "I… I don't know. It's… not right."

"What's not right? The way a man and woman enjoy one another? Is that what's not right? Why would God go through the trouble of making humans with parts that can find pleasure in touch?"

"I think it's just meant for the sacrament of marriage."

"So, stop, then?"

She looked down at her legs dangling into the water and wished she were more bold like the girls she'd read about in her stories. The ones who'd found their lovers before they were wed and allowed themselves the indulgence of pleasure.

Harry gently wrapped his fingers around the space just above her ankle. "Look at me, mouse."

She looked into his green eyes and felt like she was being torn apart by her conscience. She'd never wanted to give in to her carnal pleasure as much as she did with Harry. And she never imagined that a man like him would defend her honor more than once. He was crude and undisciplined, but there was something tender, just for her, underneath the cold and pompous performance.

"Do you know why your little coo gets all wet like this, if not for the enjoyment of the act? It's human nature. It's how we were made. You do not need to be shy with me. If you want it, you can have it. As you've seen before, God will not smite you for such a thing as this."

The skin on her ankle where his hand was gripped felt warm, and it sent a wave of wicked craving through her insides. She wanted to reach toward him and push the curl from his forehead and slide her finger down his prominent nose over his plush pink lips just to see what he'd feel like under her fingertips. She wished she were brave enough to slip into the tub with him and fall into the temptuous ways of a dauntless woman.

He released her ankle and stood from the water, his strong, denuded body wet and dripping before her. She glanced only briefly at the organ hung heavy at her eye level before tilting her head back to look up at him. He bent as he took her chin in his hand. "What is it that you want? Tell me now."

She shook her head. "I don't know. I'm confused."

He puffed out a laugh and let go of her chin before he stepped from the tub. "Aren't we all, Y/n? No one really has the answers. Everyone is confused. You just have to learn to speak up for what you want most and hope that it wasn't the bad choice. No one can guide you but yourself."

She turned to watch as he pulled a robe over his body and walked toward his balcony. What did she want most? What if it was the bad choice?

Pulling her legs from the water, she stepped from the tub and guardedly followed behind him, the bottom half of her chemise soaked, which sent a chill over her heated skin. She stopped at the balcony door and coasted her eyes over the view of the castle garden with its fountains and tall trees. In the late spring, it would be a lovely place to stroll through, she thought. Harry was leaned into the stone railing, the tips of his curls in his damp hair already drying from the cool air whisping through it.

He was the sort of man who women whispered about. Both because he had such a rakishly handsome face (and form) and because he had the most brutish devil-may-care attitude. It made him quite a fascinating attraction. But the current of care he had for her underneath his thoughtless exterior was what drew Y/n's curiosity the most.

"You may do with me as you please. Make the decision for me. I won't say no." It took everything in her to spit the words out.

He turned and placed an elbow over the stone to lean into as he looked at her, his head cocked to the side as if she were a peculiar creature. "That does not please me. Indeed, I do not like being told no, but even worse is when I'm told yes and it's a lie."

"Then yes. I want to know. I may as well learn. Not just to please you but to discover my own pleasure."

Pushing himself from the stone, he blinked in surprise, a ghost of a smile turning the edge of his lip upward. "Then tell me what it is you want. Speak plainly."

She glanced behind her at the bed and then back at the king. "I'll… I could lie on the bed, and you could touch me again. Maybe…" She looked down and felt every atom of her being light up with scorching embers. "I'd like to feel your kiss."

She hadn't even noticed that he'd stepped in front of her until she saw his bare feet standing before her. Lifting her head upward to meet his gaze, she could have melted from the warmth on his face. "I haven't kissed you yet, have I?"

Harry placed his wide palm on her frozen cheek, and she closed her eyes. He hadn't kissed her, but the tender touch had her skin sizzling and her heart racing. "You haven't yet kissed me. No."

Blinking her eyes open to look at him again, she watched his irises smooth across her features and drag over her lips slowly as his thumb slid down her cheekbone. "Then we must remedy that mistake."

She'd been kissed before. Lane had been drunk, and she gave in to his persistent bickering to shut him up and to sate her own curiosity. It was hard and dry and smelled of gin and ale and sweat. It hadn't been what she imagined a kiss should be.

So, when Harry nudged his nose against hers, and she felt his hand soft on her hip, she knew it before he'd even closed the gap between their lips, that this would be the kind of kiss she'd always daydreamed of.

She felt his breath over her lips, and his fingers squeezed her skin as his thumb dragged gently at her temple before he pressed his smooth mouth to hers, and the noise of her doubt was silenced. She hadn't even realized that her hands were clutched over the fabric of his robe at his chest, like he would drift away as if in a dream if she didn't hang on tight.

He opened and closed his lips around hers in soft, careful motions, and she stepped closer, beckoned by the pull of his hand at her side. She parted her lips to mimic how he was kissing her, and he moaned into her mouth. She had no time to be startled by the moan and that it signified his delectation, when she felt the wet tip of his tongue lave over her bottom lip before he pulled it into his mouth gently.

Oh god! She was wrong about everything! He didn't need to confess an undying love or obsession that was not there. He only needed to kiss her for her body and her mind to relent to him. It was delicate and confident, prurient and genteel… it was bewitching.

Did one truly not need the magical bounds of love to bloom in rapture from a kiss? Her skin and her blood and the nails on her fingers and toes were all vibrating with the kind of sensation that she always assumed only happened when a soul had found the one it was predestined to.

His hand slowly pushed away from her face and wound to the back of her head as his other reached across her lower back until she was flush against his chest. Her heart fluttered so rapidly at her brazen reach, her hands moving upward of their own accord until she'd pushed her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Even with the chilled wind whipping over her thinly clothed frame, her blood burned hot. If he took her then and laid her in his bed and claimed her virginity, she thought she'd not say no. Because what was this? Why was the subtle unanchoring of her morals and her posture on right and wrong suddenly categorized as a lie and a truth? The thick veil of deception was quickly trampled by just a kiss. What else would she soon uncover?

When he parted from her, he did not remove his hands, but he set his gaze against hers with a soft wonder that carried over to his features. Slowly, she pulled her fingers from his hair and placed her palms on his shoulders, all in silence. Was he in awe just as she was? Surely not.

But his delicate touch at the back of her neck was an homage to something profoundly affectionate. It had all been unexpected. Perhaps even for him.

"I have much to do today, else I'd remain here with you. It's nearly ten, breakfast will be served promptly. We'll call for Phoebe to help you dress and begin your day."

He stepped away, and it was then that Y/n could feel the harsh wind cutting through the linen to her flesh. She stood, confounded, as she watched the king walk back into his room to dress himself. Frozen in her spot, she let her mind wander to her childhood when she used to play pretend that her prince had found her. He'd sweep her up, take her away, and they'd fall madly in love and rule the kingdom together. Was it something she'd somehow foreseen, or was it just the silly imagination of every young girl who wished for something better?

Confounded, maybe, but Y/n was armed with a new awareness, a definite truth that she hadn't been privy to before. That even those who mean well can tell a lie, and truth can be found in the most unexpected ways. It was an awakening for her to see the way her heart could soar, as if God himself had elicited it. And right then, her heart was in flight like a bird that knew the way it must go with an instinct that directed its path. It was not God that guided the way. It was her.

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[you-little-arsonist]

ok so if anyone wants them, here are some buddie fics that have mutual masturbation and/or phone sex in them (don't look at me), idk these are probably pretty well known but i'm still making my way through all of them. they are all complete and they're all rated E because well. also CHECK THE TAGS because i didn't write them all out here!

Your place is where I'd rather be instead by mickeysmyheart/ @mickeysmyheart (3.5k)

The next thing Eddie does, short circuits Buck's brain. Eddie takes his shirt by the bottom and pulls it up and over his head, keeping it bunched up and putting it to the side on the counter. Eddie is now shirtless. He’s shirtless in his kitchen. Oh. OR Buck teaches Eddie how to make lasagna over FaceTime when Eddie gets his shirt dirty and has to take it off and it alters Buck's brain chemistry.

Last night, you called on accident by mickeysmyheart/ @mickeysmyheart (8.3k)

Buck goes back to his bag and pulls out Eddie’s black tank top. He brings it up to his nose and inhales— he can tell himself it means nothing later. He moans on his exhale. Holy fuck. OR The one where Buck finds one of Eddie's tank tops in their locker and takes it home & in El Paso, Eddie brought one of Buck's LAFD shirts with him. You know the GIF.

Kiss me through the phone by mickeysmyheart/ @mickeysmyheart (2.6k)

Buck finds himself sitting up in bed— his back against his pillows— phone close to his ear. His heart is beating like crazy— both of theirs are. “That something you want, Eddie?” Buck says in a low, deep voice. “Want me to tell you how often I’ve thought about getting down on my knees for you?” Eddie’s breath hitches. That’s all it took for Eddie’s dick to get hard as fuck— twitching with the need to be touched. “Jesus, Buck,” Eddie moans out as he reaches his free hand into his briefs, touching himself. OR Buck is bored and Eddie can't sleep so the two end up having phone/video sex

to have and to hold (platonically and heterosexually) by teenytinytomlinson/ @littlefreakbuckley (21.2k)

So in the middle of Eddie’s dining room, with his brain to mouth filter non-existent (as per usual), Buck blurts out, “Marry me.” Eddie sits straight up, looking at him with eyes wide as saucers. “Excuse me?” “W-well, just think about it. If we get married I can add you and Chris to my insurance policy and that solves your problem.” Eddie’s mouth forms a perfect little ‘o’. Buck waits patiently for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. When the ground doesn’t do as he’d hoped he realizes he has to say something else. “Obviously, w-we don’t have to,” he’s quick to assure. “But if we did it would be platonic, of course, because you’re straight and–” he pauses, praying for another rogue stroke of lightning. Anything to put him out of his misery right now. “-and like I know that I’m bi now, but this wouldn’t be like that y’know? It would just be two friends helping each other out.” He’s rambling, the words won’t stop tumbling out. “Like a friends with benefits type situation! E-except you know not those kinds of benefits! Like actual benefits! Health and dental.” or, Eddie is moving to Texas, losing his insurance, and marrying Buck all very heterosexually and platonically.

A Phone Call Away by Ironkissedfanfics/ @ironkissedmage (5.7k)

Buck had his apartment to himself for the first time in months, so of course he had to take advantage of such a lovely opportunity to get off without fear of anyone hearing him. It's just his luck that he butt dials someone while he's fingers deep in himself. And he's just not sure if it's a blessing or a curse that it's Eddie he called.

while i think of you by markofalover/ @markofalover (4.2k)

Just Buck speaking, apparently, is enough to get him hard. His brain starts hurting. Like he’s guzzled down a Big Gulp sized Icee in the summertime. …or, Eddie slowly loses his mind and has phone sex about it.

anyway those are some of the best ones, please tag me if you guys know of more like this! and thank you to all these authors, you are truly doing the lord's work

[c4tluver02]

full machine

wc: 1.3k

summary: Steve is finding it hard to make it up to you, seemingly making things worse. What could he do to make it up to you?

warnings: none! angst , hurt , slow burn ;)

a/n: eee i am so glad u guys liked the first fic !!!! i am also doing a tag list so pls lmk if u want to be tagged for the third part :D

part 1, part 2, part 3

I'll heal eventually, but faster if you're next to me. ♫

Two weeks have come and gone since Steve had last seen you. Normally you take a week and a half to two weeks to return the film… Not that Steve kept track or anything. But he was waiting for you. He needed to talk to you about your last visit and hopefully explain himself. 

A few days after it all happened Robin was back with Steve at Family Video and he told her everything that had happened. The way you so graciously offered to help him, to the way you left like there was some bomb that Steve didn’t know about. It was just another thing he had to deal with, one more dent in his beat up armor. Which when he really took time to think about it maybe he was saving you. It felt like a waste of a charity case for you to spend all this time to get to know him when there's nothing to stay for. You were worth more than that– you deserve more than having to deal with all the trauma he has or listening to how hard it is putting on a brave face for the kids. 

So a rehearsed speech is what felt safe. A simple way of telling you to run and don't look back but in a way that wouldn't hurt you any further. It was killing two birds with one stone really, you wouldn't be stuck with him and he wouldn't feel devastated when you left. A full proof plan. 

– 

Although Steve would have appreciated a day or two more to think over his plan but here you were the next day. Waiting at the counter in the prettiest sundress Steve thinks he's ever seen. Your hair is curled perfectly and the closer he gets to the counter the more he can smell your perfume– so sweet and warm. 

“Hi, you're back!” It comes out casual but Steve's heart is thumping so loud he worries if you could hear it. 

“Yeah I have a movie to return.” You say sliding it across the counter to him. The barely there smile you gave did nothing to heal him. 

Steve wants to blame the lack of time he had to prepare for how he stands there just looking at you. The day he normally waits for is now here and it isn't going how it's supposed to. Your big smile is nowhere to be found and the laugh that makes his dreaded thoughts go away isn't heard.

“Y’look real pretty.” He's typing the movie into the system, not even looking at you as he says it but you know it's sincere. Everything about Steve is sincere, you've never known him to think too little about someone. 

You’re unable to stop your cheeks flushing at the complement. “Thanks, I’m about to go on a date.” 

Steve thinks he could have gotten whiplash at how fast he just turned his head to look at you. Here you are in his store all dolled up for someone else. He must have done something dreadfully awful in his past life to deserve this. 

“A date huh? With who?” The tape is long forgotten and Steve has his arms holding himself up on the counter in case the answer wipes him out completely. 

“A guy I met at the pool.” You feel like you're in the police station with a bright light on you. The interrogation feeling completely uncalled for after he was the one who turned you down. 

Steves thankful he was holding himself up, the thought of you in a bathing suit and some guy snatching you up was good enough to make him feel sick. He knows how men work. He's a man for crying out loud. He’ll use you for a hook up and you’ll feel even worse and because of Steve's stupid screw up you won't come to him for help. 

“Y’sure that he's not some douche that wants a hookup?” Steve asks, tilting his head to the side. He just wants you to rethink this, maybe stay with him and talk things through. You’ll leave happier and Steve will feel better. 

But if looks could kill he’d be dead on spot. “Thanks for your concern Steve but despite what you may think, guys actually like me and want to go out with me. So if I'm all good I've gotta go.” You grab your bag and head towards the door before he even has time to respond. It's quick and painful like someone shot him, the wound would be felt for weeks. 

–

And Steve was right. He had gotten no sleep, his nightmares were long and horrific. Nothing was helping him and there was no one he could turn to. The dark bags under his eyes were matching evidence of it. Robin came over one day to try to help but nothing came of it. If he could talk to you now he’d explain everything. That the kids come crying to him 6 out of 7 days of the week, Jonathan and Nancy use him as a dating advice counselor more than a friend, Robin needs reassurance that she's not messing Vickie up with her night terrors. It's all too much and Steve doesn't know where you’d fit into it. Why’d you even want to fit into it? He’s been doing it for years and still doesn't have a hang of it, the notion of you leaving from the first sight of wreckage would be the thing that ends Steve.  

An idea Robin had was to take all the kids to get ice cream to ‘get his mind right’ as she put it. So he made it happen, sure it was 11pm on a Saturday night but if anyone knows that no one sleeps it’s Steve. All the kids were down to come out and enjoy a nice free ice cream night. It was getting hotter and even though the sun was long gone the ice cream still melted fast. 

“You look awful.” Mike says licking his ice cream from the cone. Steve asked for them all to get cups in hopes his car isn't ruined but none of them did so they are finishing it outside. 

“I know. I haven't left my place in days.” Normally Steve wouldn't let the kids even see him like this let alone tell them how depressed he's been. 

“You ever think about just going to her place and saying you're sorry?” Now it’s Dustin asking but the ice cream is leaking through the bottom of the cone getting all over his shoes. 

“Where do you think between all this I just got her address?” Steve asks, rolling his eyes. Maybe children wasn't the best to bring this up to. 

“Well you have her address in your system, you have it for anyone who rents movies.” Max adds. 

“That sounds very stalkerish.” Okay yeah this definitely isn't something he should be talking about with the kids. 

“What you need is a big gesture to show her you care. Going out of your way to her is the type of thing that will at the very least get you a conversation with her.” Dustin says. He’s not wrong. Unless you pretend to not hear the doorbell ring or the knock on the door a conversation would definitely be in order. 

The conversion ends there and Steve drops each kid off at their house. Not wanting them to be out too late, there's still hope to save their sleep schedule. 

He wants to call Rob to see if this is just a case of Steve being around kids too much or if she thinks this could actually work. Either way he knows she won't judge him for it but it's too late to ask now. Just something that will have to be held off for tomorrow when she finally sees him at work. Maybe, hopefully, tonight instead of seeing the Creel house in his dreams, he'll see you.

tag list: @ahead-fullofdreams

[watchingblsnowandforever]

Heesu in Class 2: A personal reminder why I watch queer media

As always I am super late to the party

I recently binged Heesu in Class 2, and I've read a lot of posts about it on here, both positive and negative.

All I need to say or will say has probably already been said in the posts I'm going to reference (notes at the end), but I still wanted to make this post because I watched the series on a whim, but it hit really close to home.

Before we go any further, some things that I need to point out: I have not read the webtoon (I started it after watching the show) and this post is going to have personal takes that might not resonate with everyone. Also, this is only my second meta analysis post, and I haven't watched very many BLs to truly comment on the nature of BL or queer media of a particular kind (though I try to maintain diversity in what I watch), so if I say something incorrect, I'm always open to constructive criticism.

Firstly, as a queer person who'd been in high school not so long ago, I could really relate to the characters and the narrative.

I had an unrequited crush on a really close friend. I never confessed. To this day, I think about the what ifs. Using Heesu's words, I had used up all my feelings for her so I got over her, but maybe confessing when I had the chance would have given me the closure too.

So when I saw that the story started with Heesu having feelings for his best friend that might or might not be returned, I was instantly hooked.

Secondly, the narrative is much more than it seems, and every single scene has a purpose, a meaning, a layer that might just go unseen if you don't know to look for it.

The het narratives are important. Did it frustrate me? To no end. Did I actually consider for a short period to put this show on hold? Heck yeah. Did I finally understand why the het narrative was important to highlight the queer one? Yes.

Let us take the het plot lines one by one.

Chan Yeong and Ji Yu. The most important, the most highlighted. This is a very common story in high school. Girl likes boy, boy likes her back, and they date. I had a lot of friends with boyfriends in school (I attended an all girls school) and I see even more het couples in college. Every single time, it reminds me of what I cannot have. I can't be too close with my partner (if I were to have one), I cannot publicly show affection that goes beyond friendship, I cannot sleep on their shoulders, I cannot laugh over lunch together, I cannot go on dates. That was the same for this show. In Class 2 bolds and underlines het privilege, putting it side by side with the internal struggles Heesu has to go through.

Ho Sik. How het people can be open with their affections, but also how beauty standards play out. One girl thought he was ugly even though he worked really hard to make her a whole ass scarf, while another girl found him cute enough to pursue him even from afar.

Hee Sin. Her repeated confessions. I relate from experience when she says that when she has feelings for someone she can't help but confess, and even if she faces rejection, and dramatically mopes around till her next crush, it helps her move forward. Quite a while after I had feelings for them and even gotten over them, I confessed to a few people. Fortunately, all of them took it in stride, one of them told me she used to have a crush on me too, one was really happy and wanted to know more even though I told her my feelings for her were very short-lived, and the third person is still my friend. And confessing to people does make them happy. Unfortunately, not a lot of queer people have the freedom or confidence to do it. There are just so many things that could go wrong. Especially when the person you like is a close friend, it's incredibly hard. But in the end, her confession gets her a boyfriend, one who was in a relationship at that too. Miracles do happen.

Hee Jae. Her arc shows how easily a comfortable relationship can shift into a toxic one. I don't know how to put what I think about this relationship into words, but it's explained really well in @soypim's post (notes, reference #8).

Hee Jeong. Her story tells us to jump, to take the leap, to prioritize one's own self and dreams. Initially she was afraid to go abroad and study even when she wanted to; this fear may have stemmed from worry about her siblings (also an arc about eldest daughters), or fear from going to live in a completely unknown milieu. But Heesu's words act as a catalyst, and she is ready to take this step. Through her relationship, Heesu is also shown how a friendship doesn't have to end when one person confesses, that despite being in a relationship and breaking up and not seeing each other in a long time, Hee Jeong was still friends with her partner/best friend.

And finally, let's talk about the queer narrative.

I loved the conflict resolution. I loved how Heesu got to be angry at Seung Won. I've seen a lot of BLs, especially Thai BLs, where the lead just sort of forgives the romantic lead for playing with their feelings, and I really do not like that. I love that they cleared that, that Seung Won actually confessed, loud and clear.

They might not have kissed, but boy do I love them.

Personally, I think the scene where Heesu confesses to Chan Yeong is very realistic. I have been lucky to have queer or ally classmates, but I have seen when an indirect reference to a person not being heterosexual confused someone, and they didn't really even understand how it could be. Chan Yeong's parental pressures and expectations were also very relatable, as an Asian only child.

When Chan Yeong called Heesu to the tennis court and hit him with balls, I understood where he was coming from. I'm glad he took the time to process what he'd been told and very clearly told his friend his actual thoughts on the matter. I was glad to realize he values their friendship more than Heesu had given him credit for.

How Heesu in Class 2 was a personal reminder why I watch queer media. I feel like after watching all the BLs I have, I developed certain expectations from what I want from a 'BL'. This show reminded me that at the end of the day, I'm just another queer person searching for queer narratives not only for catharsis through fictional characters, but also to hold on to hope about queer stories. This show reminded me of my high school days and every moment was so real. I lived this show, I could see it unfolding in real time, and that made me really giddy. I want to watch more shows like these.

Finally, some moments that stuck with me in no particular order:

When Heesu saw Hee Jeong coming in late and told her to do what she wanted to, that he'd always support her.

When Heesu came out to Hee Sin. Hee Sin was visibly trying to come up with the best reply, but she handled it well.

When Heesu learns Sweong Won has two moms and he thinks "at least he won't hate me for who I am" I almost cried.

The tennis court scene.

The hand holding scene. I absolutely adored it. I want more scenes of boys giggling over holding hands.

Notes and references Posts that inspired this one (so sorry for the long list of tags 😭):

@alien-ally (post)

@bengiyo (post)

@dramalove247 (post 1 & post 2)

@jackandjoker (post)

@lurkingshan (post)

@nabi-unveiled (post)

@neuroticbookworm (post)

@soypim (post)

@wanderlust-in-my-soul (post)

and this critique by @my-rose-tinted-glasses

MY GOD this took me so long (I've been here for almost 3 hours) my eyes are dead my laptop is cursing me out.

Anygays, I really hoped y'all liked and enjoyed this!

If you read all the way till here thank you so much I love you <3

Remember to hydrate and eat properly, and here's a cupcake for you 🧁

[siri-ike]

By hooking each bat up to a neural monitor during some of these interactions, the bats were able to learn some of the potential causes for their reactions.

Most people experienced dramatically hightened levels of dopamine and slight decrease in serotonin. The dopamine made people feel intensely about him, and the lack of serotonin gave people a negative experience.

This prompted two hypotheses. If someone already has low dopamine, will they still have a reaction? and if someone has high serotonin, will the reaction be better?

The first would be easy to test. Just have Nightwing stop taking his Ritalin for a while and have them meet.

Result: it wasn't great. Dick was all over the place, and it was hard to tell whether he was put off or not.

Conclusion: Dick has been relying on Ritalin since he was 6 years old, and therefore cannot be expected to function without it.

The second test was more difficult. No one in this family has an abundance of serotonin. So, instead, they went the other way. Find someone who's used to having low serotonin.

Luckily for them, they had the perfect teammate for the job.

Garfield Logan, aka Beast Boy. His undiagnosed depression and ADHD make him the perfect candidate.

On a related note, Damian refused to get tested for either.

The whole plan had raised concerns. Such as "How do you know he has "undiagnosed" depression and ADHD?" And "Batman, try not to send 9 year olds into potentially dangerous situations challenge" and of course Tim's favorite: "What do you mean his parents agreed to this for a small fee? Do we need to call CPS?" But none of those concerns mattered as much as getting answers.

*kzzt* "Red Robin calling Beast Boy, come in Beast Boy."

"Beast Boy responding, target is in sight." Gar said mere inches from the boy staring right at him. "I could almost touch him." He places a hand directly on his face. "I am now touching him."

"Gar, we talked about this." Nightwing butted in. "Don't just touch peoples faces. You don't know if they could bite."

Gar, without removing his hand, asked. "Do you bite?"

The boy didn't answer, he more just blubbered. It was gross. Gar pulled his hand away, and a solid web of bright green snot clung to them both. "That doesn't look like a healthy color." Gar held the goo up to his own face to compare. "Nothing should look like this." He couldn't keep in his laughter as he said that. It was enough to put a smile on the older boys face.

"Who are you?" He finally rasped.

"I'm Gar. It's short for Garfield. I'm one of the Teen Titans." Gar proclaimed proudly.

"You're a teenager?"

Shoot, he saw right through his clever ruse. "Well, no. I, I'm not a Teen Titan yet. I just live at the tower for now because my family is being investigated, and my mom thinks I can't keep a secret." Gar wiped the discusting slime all over his bright purple suit. "She thinks I'm going to tell everyone that my dad isn't allowed near any minors"

"Oh." The boy looked concerned in a much too knowing way for Dicks liking. "I'm Danny." Said Danny.

*kzzt* "Take him to the shelter."

"There's a safe house nearby. It has food and everything. You can live there now because Batman and Red Robin wanna fix your spooky pheromones or something." Gar beamed as though delivering the best of news.

"Ok." Danny hesitated but decided to follow. Sneakily, he latched onto Gars' hand, who only smiled in return. It had been months since anyone let him touch them.

The test was a success. Now, they had two people who could interact with the teen. One of whom didn't trigger Batmans fight or flight. This way, they can keep tabs on him 24/7.

Dick sent Zatana their data just incase Tim's "vibes proof barrier producing belt" or Vpbpb (pronounced as a fart noise) didn't work.

Ever since the portal accident, Danny has always seemed a bit… off, to other people. But even before that, he’d always been seen as a bit of a weird kid. The people of Amity Park were, even at the start, a bit used to it.

The people of Gotham, however, were not.

If anything, they were the opposite. Living in the ‘city of crime’ had built within them keen survival instincts. Instincts that went on full blast in the halfa’s vicinity.

Most simply avoided him. Homeless shelters turned him away. Jobs, even the less than legal ones, hesitated to hire him. Sometimes people would even call the cops if he stuck around in any one place for too long.

Not even the city’s mysterious vigilantes trusted him. He sometimes caught glimpses of their masked eyes following him from the shadows. Watching. Waiting for him to show his true colors.

Or maybe he was just hallucinating. He couldn’t be entirely sure. He didn’t dare transform and risk bringing down further suspicion on himself, nor could he ask anyone to corroborate for what he saw either. So instead, he just curled further in on himself. Surreptitiously using his powers to steal the bare necessities for himself and avoiding everyone.

Not even during the worst of the anti-ghost sentiment in Amity had Danny felt so alone.

[itsnesss]

𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐝 | george russell × fem!reader

summary | you’re struggling to move on from george. his memories haunt you, and you pray to forget him

warnings | heartbreak and emotional pain, breakup, distress and vulnerability

word count | 1.2 k

🖇️ sctw album 🖇️ more gr63

The silence is almost palpable, like a heavy cloak covering the room. You're sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in your hands, but with no energy to do anything with it. The screen flickers before your eyes, a mix of notifications that used to grab your attention just days ago, but now they feel empty.

Your mind can't help but keep returning to the same image, to the same face that's become your torment. George. You've tried everything: distractions, going out with friends, playing music, but every corner of the house seems filled with him, as if his presence never really left.

It's so ironic how something that seemed perfect fell apart so quickly. You had believed it was true love. You had believed it was meant to be forever. But now, the echo of his voice still lingers in every corner of your mind, like a reminder of what was and what no longer is.

The hours drag by mercilessly, and you’re still trapped in a storm of emotions, unsure how to let go. One thought keeps repeating over and over in your head: Why does it have to be so hard?

You close your eyes for a moment, seeking some peace amid the chaos inside. The shadows of the afternoon filter through the curtains, tinting the room with a grey hue. You lie back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The white walls seem to close in slowly, but no matter how hard you try, you can't make the memories disappear.

"Dear God," you whisper softly, the song you heard that morning in the car still echoing in your mind. You don't know if you're really praying or just talking to fill the emptiness. All you know is that it hurts, and that's the only way you can express it. "Take his kiss right out of my brain. Take the pleasure out of my pain."

It's ironic, isn't it? How his love burned you from the inside, how it made you feel alive in such an intense way, and at the same time, it left you empty. Every kiss, every touch, now ghosts that linger in your mind. How is it possible that you still want him, that you still feel his absence like a weight on your chest? The contradiction is unbearable.

The memories aren't easy to let go of, not even after everything that happened. You had tried to convince yourself that it was over, that there was no going back. But you can't let go. Every time you close your eyes, you see his face, you hear his laughter, you remember how he told you he loved you. And even though you know that reality no longer exists, his shadow remains, as if he's still close to you.

"Dear God," you repeat, the words almost a broken prayer. "Get his handprint out of my back. Take amazing out of our sex. Take away the way I still might want to."

Your hands tremble as you speak those words, as if you're purging something you can't let go of. You want to forget everything you shared, but you don't know how. Because, even though it hurts, you still want him. It's not easy to erase the marks someone has left on you, especially when that person was so important to you.

In a sudden impulse, you get up and look out the window. The light of the sunset tints the city with golden hues, but you can't enjoy the view. All you see is George’s face, his laughter, the way he looked at you as if you were the most important thing in his world. But that doesn't matter now. Those memories, though beautiful, are no longer enough to keep him in your life.

You sit back down on the bed, hugging yourself, seeking comfort in an embrace that only you can give. But the emptiness remains, and all you feel is a sharp pain that doesn't fade. How do you forget someone who made you feel so alive, so complete? How do you move on when all you want is for that person to come back?

Just when you're about to give up, you hear a sound at the door. It's soft, almost imperceptible, but enough to make your heart race. You don't dare to look, but you know what it means. George is here. There's no doubt. You know that, even if you don't call him, he'll always know when you need him.

You get up and head toward the door, feeling a knot form in your stomach. When you open it, you find him. George, standing in the doorway, his gaze hesitant, as if he doesn't know how to begin. The air between the two of you feels thick, charged with everything that went unsaid. The question, the one that's always there, is hanging between you: Why?

He looks you in the eyes, and for a moment, he seems like he's going to speak, but then he stops. The silence that follows is almost unbearable. You, unable to contain yourself, speak first.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, but you know those words can't undo the damage. They can't erase what happened between you two. "I know this is hard for both of us..."

"But I don’t know what to do anymore, George," you say, your voice breaking. “I still love you, but I can’t keep living in this pain. I want to let you go, but I don’t know how to do it.”

He seems to falter a little, his gaze dropping to the floor as he processes what you've just said. He knows it too. You both do. There's no way to recover what once was. Your relationship has crumbled like a house of cards, and there's no rebuilding it. But the emotions don’t disappear so easily.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, the words full of regret. “But I still want you too. And it breaks my heart seeing how this is tearing us apart. I know we need space, but... how do you let go of something that still hurts so much?”

The words hang in the air. You know. There's no turning back, no magic fix. You both have to let go. And even though you still want him,you know it's what you both need. It's what's best for both of you.

You step back, letting the tears fall uncontrollably. You know it's not a final goodbye, but it's a necessary one. A goodbye that comes with the promise of moving forward, even if the road is painful.

He watches you, but he doesn't try to stop you. He knows this is your decision. "I'm sorry for everything," he says softly, before turning to leave. And when the door closes behind him, you're left alone in the room, finally understanding that what you shared was beautiful, but sometimes, the most beautiful things are also the most painful.

"Dear God," you whisper once more, but this time, the words don't feel so empty. "Take away the way I still might want to."

And so, though the pain doesn't fade immediately, something inside you begins to heal. You know that, little by little, you’ll let go of the memories. And while it will always take time, at least the first step has been taken.

tags | @ebkitty

[aphrosheir]

>>> Red Hair, Red Wine, Red Handed Pt. 3 <<<

[A/N: Last part, darlings! I hope you enjoyed!]

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

"So... Melissa and I kind of got into a fight earlier."

After a couple of hours, a whole barrage of shit hitting the fan, and a handful of longing stares while they were sure that the other wasn't looking, (Y/N) and Melissa arrived at the penultimate task of cleaning up.

"Y'know, I used to spend my Christmas with my family."

The shorter woman's ears perked up, sneaking a glance at the woman who seemed all too preoccupied by the rug on her hands, wiping down the rest of the grease on the counter top.

"I—yeah, same." (Y/N) admits with a soft sigh. "I hope we didn't ruin your plans this year though?"

She shook her head, red curls shifting slightly, "I stopped comin' after the divorce. Didn't need to give my ma and Kirsten Marie any more ammunition than they already do."

Just then, Melissa's mood seemed to have shifted. Something akin to joy, relief, or being hopeful, radiating off the small smile tugging at her lips. "I think we're actually done, (Y/N)."

"Yeah! I think my kitchen got its fair dose of lovin' today. I don't go in here as much as I used to. Being on a teacher's salary and all, you cross fresh produce and hot meals off your list."

"You tell me," Melissa chuckled. "But, it's been nice to cook with someone for a change. These gabortz can't usually be allowed in the kitchen without full parental supervision."

"Usually, my dad and I are the ones bustling around the kitchen. But, lately he's been busy and all." (Y/N) nodded solemnly as she put her utensils in their proper bin, grabbing a glass of wine and a bottle to share with the redhead. "Says I got to find my own kitchen bud since I'm all grown."

"Please, couldn't even get my ex Joe to step foot in the kitchen unless it's for a beer," she says as she graciously accepts the finely aged Sauvignon that (Y/N) handed her.

"What, with a woman like you? If that were me, I'd be sittin' at the counter tops, mopping the ceiling if it meant getting to spend time with you."

"That guy was a real dud, you know." she mutters, raising her glass to Melissa. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say your taste was non-existent."

"I wouldn't say so." Melissa swirled the wine in her glass, staring at the red mark she had left on the rim. Then she gulped it back like she was trying to swallow something sharper.

Meanwhile, (Y/N) had already downed her liquid courage, looking like she was planning on something more than pre-gaming. "I'm just saying, if it were me, I'd even learn how to tackle and do a touchdown thingy. All for you, Schemmenti."

"Calm it, shortstack. Wouldn't want you hurting yourself," Melissa quipped with a laugh—sharp enough to cut. "Cut the BS. It’s just you an’ me."

"It's true, though." (Y/N) stared hard at her fourth glass of wine, clearly a little more drunk than sober.

And those words? Well, they sounded a bit too true to Melissa's liking.

"Alright, enough," she said, her voice dropping to that dangerous tone that tells (Y/N) that she's toeing the line between being fucked senseless or half-beaten to death by the woman in front of her.

Right now, (Y/N) couldn't care less and happily skipped over that line. "Enough? Enough of what?"

"You don't gotta pretend with me. Ain't no friends here to laugh at your cute little jokes, an' I sure as hell won't be your practice target for the next girl you decide to fall for."

"I meant what I said Melissa."

(Y/N) shot back her fifth glass with conviction.

"That's the thing! You don't know what you're saying."

Melissa followed suit, slamming the glass down soon after, almost breaking it on the marble top.

"What does that mean," she whispered, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes.

"You're a sweet little thing who's drunk on too much wine and shit like 13 Going on 30, thinkin' that love is just a little fairytale wish come true. Well, you won't find that here, because in the fairy tale, I'm the Wicked fuckin' Witch that everyone wants dead!"

"Melissa, I’m young. Not stupid." (Y/N)'s voice was quiet, steady. "And I’m not blind either. I see someone worth loving."

Melissa stepped closer. Too close. She snatched the bottle from (Y/N)’s hand, drained what was left like it burned.

"Yeah? Well, that's what Joe thought too."

"Well, I'm not Joe."

Melissa laughed again, but this time it stuck in her throat. She stared hard at (Y/N), red-rimmed eyes wide, chest heaving.

"Exactly, (Y/N)," she whispered, voice cracking for real now.

"You're not. 'Cause you actually make me feel like it's real."

It's 8 pm, the party revs up. The plan is in order. Barbara and Ava are in their places. Gerald has arrived a few minutes ago and is quite confused as to why his wife's 30-something, white co-worker is talking his head off about types of wines. O'shon is setting up the karaoke machine, Abbott-proofing it to prevent the Great Mic Blackout of 2024 from happening again. Gregory and Janine are talking to Melissa and (Y/N). And Mr. Santa Johnson Claus is getting his holiday glee awn.

"We are gathered here today, loved ones," Barbara starts, tone pointed. It makes Gerald's eyebrows knit.

"Did I... Did I do something wrong?"

"To celebrate the birth of our beloved saviour, Jesus. He who lived amongst us and died for our sins."

Barbara continues, voice steady but with the faint tremble of unhinged resolve, “And in His spirit, we come together to reflect on love, forgiveness… and the courage it takes to stop being cowards about our feelings."

Gerald blinks. "Dear. What is happening?"

Ava steps forward, taking the microphone from Barbara's hands. "Alright, Abbott family! Who's ready to get their game on?"

Cheers erupt from the room.

"First, we shall enjoy a dinner, prepared by (Y/N)—our host—and our local Italian, Melissa. Would the both of you please step forward so we can applaud your hard-work properly."

"I don't think that's necessary, Ava. And plus, you all brought your own dishes, right? We are all to celebrate here."

"Yeah, yeah," Melissa raises her eyebrows with no trace of glee on her face, "Get on with it, Ava!"

Gregory huffs, clearly frustrated. "That's strike one. I just—why can’t these two follow one simple direction," he shrieks.

Jacob takes the lead on the second plan, "Alright, party people! The dance floor is now open."

"Trust me. You cannot go wrong with a little boogie."

"Operation Happy Feet, Happy Lips is a go," Ava whispers as she is hitting the shopping cart to the Cha Cha Slide. She electric slides up to (Y/N) to pull her into the dance circle.

"Criss cross~" the speaker booms as Barbara shuffles behind Melissa.

"I don't see you criss crossing, Melissa," she reminds her in a sing-songy voice, her honey voice laced with poison as she coaxes the redhead deeper into the makeshift dance floor.

"Damn. Barb can criss cross. Her cha cha is real smooth." Ava brags to the camera.

"Cha cha real smooth~"

Thud.

The record scratches. Everyone is frozen. (Y/N) is basically making out with the floor.

"Ouch."

"Damn it, alright," Melissa's voice carries through the living room, sharp and pissed. "That's enough cha-chaing for now."

She waves everyone off the middle of the living room as Jacob and Janine immediately carry their friend over to the couch.

Janine and Jacob are on either side of (Y/N), who now has a pillow under her head and a cold peas bag on her forehead.

"It’s okay, you just—uh—really committed to that slide." Janine comforted her.

"Did the floor kiss me back?"

"Unfortunately."

"If I hear “criss cross” one more time, I’m going to criss cross my way into therapy. The floor was freshly waxed! (Y/N) went down like a white girl in a horror movie." Jacob rants.

Barbara storms off the dance floor towards Ava who is still dancing in the corner with zero self-awareness. She is sweaty, and her lips are smudged. This is not the Barbara Howard everyone knows, and certainly not the Barbara Howard they'd want to meet.

"I blame Jacob. She took over the mission and turned it into a 2016 flashmob. Tragic."

"I told you not to let her lead! The boy couldn’t direct traffic at a four-way stop!"

"Strike two."

Jacob is now close to crying.

"I am... So tired. My perfect Christmas plan has been hijacked. Nothing is where it should be. I cannot take this anymore. Everything has gone wrong."

"Up next, (Y/N) versus Melissa!" Janine declares with the energy of a game show host.

"Okay, I've figured it out!" she beams, turning to the camera like she’s cracked a government code. "Everyone's been forcing the two of them to go to each other—but why would I do that, when they basically jump at each other's throats when they're arguing?"

"This is the final round of charades," Janine explains, clipboard in hand. "Teams are tied. Ava has been disqualified for cheating—"

"I wasn't cheating!" Ava shouts from the couch, mid-sip of someone else's cider.

The entire group turns slowly to stare directly into the camera.

"Alright, Mr. Johnson, start the timer in 3, 2, 1—go!"

"What just happened?"

"Hey, it's polish, not Polish, (Y/N)," Jacob argues. "Tell her, Mel!"

"Eh... No. It's Polish. Capital, see?" Melissa flips the card around. "My fault."

"The world is doomed. Melissa just apologised. Well, not really. But she admitted it was her fault? Instead of punching (Y/N)? This is strike three. Barbara is about to snap."

Everyone is buzzing, from the alcohol? From the anger? From the exhaustion? Who knows.

Barbara clinks her wine glass, a strange calm washing over the dishevelled woman. “Everyone, settle down. It’s time for the Secret Santa exchange.”

"If I get socks from any of y'all's broke asses, I'm burning this house down." Ava groans.

(Y/N) looks at her with fear, "Please, don't."

They gather around the tree. The large stack of gifts standing beneath the tree with pride.

"I shall go first," Barbara states, picking out a small box from the pile, wrapped neatly with a golden bow on top. "This is for a person that I deeply admired, especially as I've seen her persevere today."

"This gift is for Ava Coleman."

Slowly, Ava reaches out for the box, shock filling her from the woman's words. She tore the wrapping off carefully, opening the box, and revealing a custom journal.

A maroon principal logbook, AC embossed in gold, and a sticky note reading: "You might not be the glue of this school, but you are the glitter. Keep shining."

"Barbara. You didn't."

"I did, Principal Coleman."

"Well, in that case. It's a good thing that I got you too, right?"

"Oh, dear."

Ava pulls out a large box from underneath the piles, almost dropping it a couple of times before setting it down in front of Barbara. "Heh. Open it!"

A plush robe that feels expensive, masks of various kinds, teas, serums, crystals, scented candles, and other relaxation items that felt almost all too much. And in the corner of a box is a pad of "Ava-Vouchers".

It read stubs like: One hour no nonsense from me, tea time, TEA time, no one is allowed to interrupt Barbara for this period, etc.

"Ava, this is truly too much." Barbara, for the first time today, smiled genuinely.

"No, Barbara. I am too much. This is the least I could do, because I know you stressed after havin' to handle all our crazy behinds!"

"That is true."

The rest of the gift giving had proceeded smoothly, the tension in the room finally dialing down.

Janine got Gregory who gifted him a white hoodie with her lipstick marks all over. Gregory wore it the whole night. The first day of school. The second day. And then the day after that till the day before laundry day.

Gregory got Gerald. Man to man, a gold watch that matched Barbara's. "I hope I can be a great husband like you someday."

O'shon received Ava's favourite perfume on a man from Gerald—data from Barbara, of course, and an advice to always stick by your woman, even when they've gone cray-cray.

He then took the weirdly shaped gift under the tree to give to Mr. Johnson, producing a taxidermy squirrel with a mustache and a monocle, affectionately named Mr. Davis and rightfully placed on his desk.

"Huh," Melissa lets out a dry chuckle. "So, you rigged this whole thing, didn't you?"

Ava and Barbara react violently to the accusatory finger being pointed their way, Ava looking offended while simultaneously trying to hold back a furious and distraught Barbara from murdering her best friend in cold blood during Christmas.

"What do you mean?" Barbara asks, voice dangerously low.

"Me and (Y/N) are the last two ones," she sticks her tongue to her cheek. "We got each other. What a coincidence, seeing as all y'all knew that we liked each other and decided to meddle like it's some middle school dance."

Barbara took a deep breath and raised a finger, "Yes, I have meddled—"

The redhead threw her hands up, "I knew it! Unbelievable, Barbara."

“Let me finish, woman. Or so help me, I will sin on the day of the birth of the Lord's son.”

"Honestly, Barbara for principal." Ava shrugs.

“I have meddled today more than I have ever wanted in my entire life. I climbed and fell off a ladder. I destroyed countless amounts of Christmas decor— may the Lord forgive me. I was coerced into ruining my perfectly non-sticky and non-hard sweet potato pie—" she glares at Ava. "—because you two are about as emotionally intelligent as this piece of tissue! You baboons can’t string together a sentence that wasn’t dipped in fear and sarcasm.”

Melissa and (Y/N) stared at Barbara, who has now gotten right in Melissa's face.

“Don’t you know I’ve blamed myself? Every time your heart breaks, mine does, too. I’m your best friend, Melissa. And I’ll be damned if I let you throw away the one person who actually looks at you like you hung the Christmas star just because you think beer and running away from your problems will solve it.”

“I have risked my dignity. My morals. My sanity. We all have!"

They stare at the exhausted faces of their co-workers, pity settling deep in their stomachs.

"It's a good thing that Ava actually took the initiative—which is more than I could say for either of you two—and gave me the push I needed to scream at your face to just kiss already! If that’s so wrong, so be it. But this is what friends do."

Melissa is teary-eyed, staring at Barbara in awe and respect. But through her tears, she had managed to let out a laugh. A genuine one.

Beside her, (Y/N) grinned at the two of them, clearly endeared at Barbara's speech.

"I love you, Barb." Melissa choked out.

"Have I finally gone insane in my pre-frontal cortex?" Barbara stares at the camera.

"But, seriously? Kiss already? We already did, ya gabortz!"

The scene cuts back to earlier that day, a few minutes of charged silence after their fight.

It was clear as day to (Y/N) that no words would satisfy the redhead. That the looks that she gave her—one that made her feel holy, something that she'd gladly worship, even if it meant her damnation. That would only light the flame further inside Melissa.

So, she did what came next to her clouded mind.

A soft and gentle hand behind her neck, just enough for Melissa to pull away if she had wanted to. Slow and deliberate, and a slight pause just as their lips were about to meet.

It wasn't hesitation, no. It was a silent promise that (Y/N) intended to keep.

And then, they kissed. Simple as that.

Stubborn as they may be, love finds a way.

Melissa kissed back with hunger and fear and want. She tasted wine and something terrifyingly real. Something she didn’t know how to name yet—but she craved it. She needed it. And when breath finally became necessary, she pulled back with a reluctant gasp.

"(Y/N)."

"Yes?"

"You don't know what you've just done."

"I don't. But I intend to find out."

A pause.

"Are you sure about this? 'Cause you break my heart, I'm breaking your knees, dolcezza."

"I'm damn sure, mi amore."

"Then kiss me again, you gabortz."

So, they kissed once. Twice. A couple more times. Who's counting, really?

"You... Kissed."

"Yep. Maybe we're not as stupid and emotionally unavailable as you thought we were."

"I guess not." Barbara says, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. "But why were you avoiding each other?"

"I guess we just... Got freaked out? But we did talk it out, and yeah." (Y/N) chuckles, "So, can we go back to giving our gifts? I really cannot wait to show you—"

"Slow your roll, dolcezza. I'm going first."

"But—"

Melissa's lips land on (Y/N), and it immediately shuts her up. "No buts."

[panelshowsource]

That Robbie Williams post reminded me something I heard a few days ago: I was listening to a podcast, and they discussed who the most famous British people are who are not known to Americans, like the discourse about Robbie Williams when his film came out. I'm British, so I would be interested in your opinion as an American. Who do you think is the most famous British person that very few Americans know?

this is such a fun question!

i feel like my answer 10–15 years ago may be different to now! like, in 2005, it wouldn't have been crazy to say michael barrymore, you know? so i'm going to try and compromise by sticking to my pov as a mid 90s baby and young millennial

i thought long and hard......and......i'm gonna say......ant and dec. that's my final answer. they have been such a constant in the british television industry for 30+ years that every single person of every single age demographic has at some point encountered them, and they're still quite in demand and relevant. i get that these days people may prefer to see claudia winkleman, alison hammond, whatever, this isn't a convo about being beloved but about being FAMOUS—and does anyone in the uk not know ant and dec? because i cannot impress upon you how unknown they are in the states, like absolute and complete nobodies i'm sorry 😭 i genuinely think the only way an american would have come across them is from a viral BGT clip, and even then ant and dec are not the focus of those clips so they just don't register at all. isn't that wild?

my other top contendor was noel edmonds (+ mr blobby), but i felt like he was too much of a throwback since he's pretty irrelevant now. still, if i'm doing my top 5–10, he'd still be in it, and i'd also mention terry wogan, parky, des o'connor, phil and holly (many americans will know the "if my grandmother had wheels she would have been a bike" clip but have no idea where it's from or who the people in it are, so imo it doesn't count as 'knowing' them cuz it's nothing more than a meme), peter kay, lee evans, and a fictional character like phil mitchell, pat butcher, or delboy. i am sorry to agree that take that members like robbie williams and gary barlow certainly qualify as well!

i do understand sports can be a major blindspot for americans — especially football (soccer), snooker, and darts — but there are enough americans who will follow these sports that i don't think the relevant figures win over some of the other people i listed. like, bobby charlton, wayne rooney, ronnie o'sullivan, dennis taylor, eric bristow, i could go on—very unknown in the united states overall, yes, but well known by the select few americans who care about these things. that said, the disparity in the fame a top footballer experiences in the uk vs here is probably the biggest disparity in this whole convo

i didn't really get into politicians (and by extension someone like david dimbleby or moira stuart?), feels like a cheat code to this game

i hope that was fun for any of my british followers to read! hahahaha i genuinely could name so many people because of course british news, entertainment, and sports are a unique culture that does not cross over nearly as much as we assume it does! but these are the people who seem to me to be the most widely recognised in the uk who i guarantee you no americans know

[tinycurlyfry]

I mean most wbk characters fight without the conversation and connection philosophy... Why is Sakura the only one who should win with that method not by feats. Doesn't they author love his mc to be the strongest and shine like the others? Sigh!

I would say a part of why there's more emphasis on it with Sakura than the other characters, is because Sakura's definitely positioned to be the person Umemiya thinks will take on his will and protect and care for the Furin he has created with the other upperclassmen.

This isn't to say that the other side character don't or are incapable of also understanding and applying Umemiya's philosophy in their fights, but Sakura mirrors so much of Umemiya. There are definitely a number of characters in Wind Breaker who came to Furin because they admire and want to also take on the mantle that Furin stands for. Others join Furin to rebel against what's trying to hold them down or oppressively change who they are; who won't accept certain aspects of who they are because of their own agendas or beliefs. But a number of these people aren't actually seeking to be The Top Dog. Not everyone who wants to fight to protect the town wants to be the person leading Furin. And there is a lot of potential dangers/issues with those who DO seek to be at the top, and have the power that comes with leadership. That's why so many Furin people, ESPECIALLY the upperclassmen, were wary of Sakura coming in and enrolling in Furin as someone from outside of town, even more so when he starts spouting that he wants to take the top spot.

Take Sugishita for example= The narrative even shines a light on the fact that shouldn't it be Sugishita who is shooting to become Furin's top spot when he's an upperclassman? Sugishita ABSOLUTELY hangs off of every word Umemiya says and admires what the guy stands for. But, Sugishita wants a low-key, peaceful life. He wants to be left alone and sleep most of the day. Sugishita struggles with connecting with his fellow classmates, let alone his opponents or those who stand against what Umemiya believes in. The upperclassmen adore and are rooting for Sugishita, but they know he wouldn't want to take Umemiya's spot.

Nirei too. Nirei is valued and supported by his classmtes. He deserves a place amidst their ranks because he has such drive and will to put everything he is into Furin's cause. But Nirei's not a leader. Not everyone is meant to be a leader. Nirei doesn't want to be a leader- he wants to be someone who lifts someone he finds worthy for that position (Sakura) TO the top spot. It's kind of hard to have a fight last long enough to be a conversation when when you don't know how to fight. He's learning how to fight (and doing an amazing job! I'm always so happy to see Nirei get a chance to show how far he's coming along in also holding his own in a fight!) but that's not going to be enough for Furin and Makochi when threats come knocking on their door.

To not just let emotions take over and instead make an effort to understand the other person- it's hard! It's not something that comes naturally to most people. But it surprisingly comes naturally to Sakura. Sakura is hungry for connections, he wants to understand people better because he assumed everyone was the same in the past and realized that that's not the case. And it definitely comes naturally to Umemiya. However, I wouldn't go so far as to say no one else fights with this philosophy in mind. The freshman characters are green newbies. They've got the spirit, they're putting their effort behind Umemiya and Sakura and all of what Furin stands for, but they're a little too inexperienced to actually internalize Umemiya's style. Who has had the experience and has been a part of Umemiya's fight to make his dream a reality? The four kings. Specifically, Tsubaki and Hiragi immediately come to mind so I'll talk about their fights/conversations!

Tsubaki rolls up to the fight against Gravel with a number of (anger-fueled) assumptions and very much acting out of his protectiveness of Shizuka.

Even still, Tsubaki wants their fight to be a dialogue. He's still applies Umemiya's philosophy in this fight, even after calling Suzuri his 'prey' and clearly being pissed off about Gravel trying to break down Suzuki and take her away from this life she's found with her sister Tsubaki and the guys of Roppo-Ichiza.

Tsubaki makes his stance known. That fighting to protect the things you love makes you stronger. It doesn't matter what it is- if it's important to you, if it makes you happy- then it is worth fighting for. Tsubaki doesn't get angry when Suzuri calls him insane when he says that loving makeup makes him stronger. He instead says 'okay let me prove it to you. Let me show you my strength' (my god I love the energy in the "Let me show you just what you're scoffing at" panel. Tsubaki you absolute ICON! Queen Shit!)

It's a push and pull; a back and forth between them as they fight. Tsubaki eventually says to Suzuri that 'Yes, of course I can't possibly understand the suffering and pain you've had to go through'. It's a hard thing to truly and fully understand another person. But that doesn't mean that a person isn't allowed to also feel in pain and having a hard time. Tsubaki doesn't know what it's like to have to struggle with starvation, and Suzuri doesn't know what it's like to have to choose between pretending to be someone you're not, to cover up your interest or risk being attacked and assaulted because other people want to decide for you how you should be and what you should like. You could say Suzuri has it worse than Tsubaki, but it doesn't mean Suzuri has the right to rip Suzuki from the happiness and family she has found.

Leading up where Tsubaki admits they made wrong assumptions about Suzuri and are sorry for doing so, but also calling out Suzuri on the irony that he says he has nothing- can't waste time or effort on anything that's not directly tied to food/survival- when clearly he also is fighting for his friends.

Now, as it was even said in the manga- Tsubaki and the Roppo-Ichiza can't fix all their problems. They can't make sure everyone has what they need. But, they can do everything that they can to help. It wasn't Tsubaki's physical strength that was important in this fight, but instead it was his kindness. That he wanted to know why Suzuri was doing all of this. He didn't attack Suzuri in a rage or tell Suzuri he had something he needed to learn from Tsubaki. Tsubaki ended this fight by saying "I see you're suffering and I want to know what I can do to help." THAT and fighting in order to stay true to himself and protect those he cares about, is what makes Tsubaki strong. That's why Tsubaki is one of Umemiya's four kings.

Next let's talk about Hiragi's fight with Banjo. Now, Hiragi was far more in a rage than Tsubaki. That much is clear. He is just as protective of Kaji and Tsubaki is of Suzuki, but lets his fury win more than Tsubaki does. This may also be because of the sadomasochistic person Banjo is versus Suzuri, who has a more compassionate core. Endo and Takiishi pissed the fuck out of Umemiya in this arc too. Anger takes over sometimes. That is also a part of being human. But, I would stand by that Hiragi STILL tries to see Banjo's perspective. The chapter where he starts fighting Banjo is still called a 'dance', just like when Tsubaki fought Suzuri. He doesn't treat Banjo in this fight the same way Suo does against Kanuma. He doesn't patronize, toy or make fun of Banjo. He gives Banjo an admission, what small understanding he has of Banjo's...insane perspective, that fighting can be thrilling. That you can be addicted to the adrenaline. He acknowledges that Banjo is right that when people are fighting, someone is going to get hurt. The FASCINATING thing is that Banjo also sees fighting as a way to connect with others. But Hiragi recognizes that Banjo doesn't.... realize that not everyone gets the same pleasure out of fighting and Banjo doesn't know when to STOP.

Hear me out- I think this is similar to Sakura telling Endo he'll visit him. I don't think Sakura likes Endo and I DEFINITELY know Hiragi doesn't like Banjo. But, Banjo feels connected to other through fighting. Hiragi is going a certain length to make sure Banjo doesn't feel isolated, while at the same time telling him to leave the other people at Furin THE FUCK ALONE (Especially not to go anywhere near Kaji again I'm sure). He tells Banjo directly to his face that Banjo disgusts him, but he doesn't tell Banjo not to seek making that connection with others. Not to seek that high. But because doesn't have self control, because Banjo can't even tell when he's going too far- Until Banjo can understand how other people feel he should find Hiragi to fight. Hiragi is saying he will do something that he dislikes for Banjo. Yes, it's for the sake of whoever else Banjo would pick a fight with instead, but it is still a promise of connection, it is still an exchange nonetheless.

I would say the author loves Sakura for the same reason why he has everyone else love Sakura. Because Sakura is an incredibly kind and compassionate person who wants to put his whole being into helping others. He wants to protect the people who extended kindness and acceptance to him. Sakura is a scared kid who comes from a past full of pain and rejection and isolation, and is taking those steps towards healing. He's getting close to becoming someone that Sakura himself can feel proud of. Someone who is not just strong physically, someone who doesn't even have to win every fight- he's fought so hard his whole life already. So long as he doesn't give up- neither on himself nor in protecting Furin- there is nothing more he needs to do. He can just be himself for the first time in his life and that will be enough. His strength comes from his heart, a heart that is already full of compassion and kindness. A heart that he already has. Physical strength is something he'll get with time and experience, but it is sticking to his heart that'll make him even stronger. A little sappy and cliché? Sure, but that doesn't necessarily make it a bad message or story to impart on the audience. I think Nii Satoru means for this to be a story about human connections, and personally values that more than the fights themselves.

But also. I think Sakura shines. You're welcome to your own opinion, but I personally think he looks pretty damn cool in his fights~

[amirawrah]

✩ Styled by me

with JULES KOUNDE ✩ smau

.🤎.

synopsis: You’re a stylist. He’s a footballer. It started with a fitting but between the way Jules looks in your clothes and the way he talks like he’s been waiting to meet you, the line between work and something real gets harder to hold.

smau • face claim: amy okoli

a/n: GUYS I USED 3 WHOLE DAYS TO MAKE THIS, I WAS STRESSING WITH THE TWITTER STUFF. and finding the pictures were also really hard!! also i edited and made all of these by myself so please show some love, hopefully you guys like this. also this is my first main smau anyways enjoy!!

.🤎.

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y/nthestylist

liked by voguemagazine, jkeey4, wisdm and 670K others

@y/nthestylist: First fitting with the always dapper @jkeey4

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@jkeey4: Dapper’s a big word…

@y/nthestylist: I said what i said

@coutureinggirl: Not y’all linking up… my fashion and football worlds colliding 🙌🏾

@f1isformula1: remember when she styled lewis hamilton back in 2023 for the GQ men of the year party, those pieces were to good.

@clubfashion: I can already tell this collab is about to have the tunnel fits on LOCK. Respect. 👏🏽

@jujuonthebeat: You better tag the brands when the final pics drop because I’m TAKING NOTES.

@islowkeyseinstine: I don't know why but i'm saving this post for future “how it started” edits 😭

@iwannabejulesbabymama: Theres nothing in this post thats giving that tho

@mysunshinejuley: yea like jules has to be single

@koundedaily: dude he dosen't know you

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@jkeey4 posted a new story

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@tochumine: He could’ve just said “thanks” but nah…

@bbgthatlovesfashion: Soooo this is a styling session or the beginning of a Wattpad fic or sum?

@y/nthestylist: reacted ❤️ to your story

@y/nthestylist: Greatest? Don’t gas me this early in the week come on

@jkeey4: Real ones get their flowers early in the week too, no?

@y/nthestylist: The flowers were beautiful. Thank you, truly. Unexpected but very appreciated.

@jkeey4: You deserve beautiful things. Simple as that❤️.

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─── SHORT BLURB

Since that first fitting, Jules had been trying to ask you out.

Not in a pushy way. No pressure. No drama. Just small things — soft, consistent signals — like he was leaving the door open for you whenever you felt ready to walk through it.

After that session, he posted the mirror selfie in your styled fit, tagged you in every Story like a badge of pride, and casually dropped compliments that hovered between professional and personal.

“Real ones get their flowers early in the week too, no?” That’s what he wrote the first time he sent flowers to your place — a low, gorgeous arrangement in deep plum, cream, and gold. Understated, elegant. Like he’d studied your taste without asking.

You stared at them in your kitchen for three hours before texting him

He’d asked you to dinner that week. A simple “you pick the spot” kind of text.

And you… dodged it. Politely. You always did.

“I don’t go out with clients.” It was your shield. Firm, well-rehearsed.

But the real reason sat heavier in your chest. You weren’t used to nice. Not like this. Not from someone who made being fine look effortless.

Not from someone who looked at you the way Jules did — like he saw past the layers. Like he wanted to.

“He’s cute,” you admitted once, alone in your bathroom mirror. “But scary cute.” Not in a red flag way. In a this could mean something kind of way. That was the terrifying part.

He never pressed. But he didn’t back down either.

Another fitting. Another bouquet.

“Still not backing down?” you asked, arms crossed but smiling as he leaned against the rack of new-season jackets.

“Not unless you want me to.” His voice was calm. “But I figured… you style people to feel their best. Maybe someone should try giving that back to you.”

And the way he said it?

You didn’t answer right away.

Because your heart did. And that was enough for now.

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britishgq

liked by y/nthestylist, jkeey4, footballwagstea and 720K others

@britishgq: Look who showed up and showed out at the [Fashion for Future] charity gala tonight 👀. @jkeey4 and @ynthestylist — both styled to absolute perfection. Fashion with a cause never looked so sharp. #GQEvents #StyleWatch #FashionForFuture #Cute

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@someonesusername: nah gq didn’t have to tag them both like that 😭 they KNOW what they’re doing

@footballwagstea: Jules and the stylist being at the same gala, probably styled by each other, smiling like that? come ON.

@ilovemen: you’re telling me this man showed up in a look she probably pulled and they didn’t arrive together??? sure.

@ynandjulesfanpage: this is their red carpet debut idc.

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⸻ SHORT BLURB

The interviews faded into background noise, and now you were inside the marble hall of the gala, cocktail in hand, pretending not to feel his eyes on you.

But you felt them.

Jules had walked in wearing a fit you had curated — effortlessly sharp and smooth tailoring with subtle texture. You hadn’t told him you’d be there. He hadn’t told you either. But somehow, both of you showed up dressed like you knew the other would be watching.

And he was watching.

From across the room, leaning against a velvet-draped bar, he was doing that thing again — that quiet, confident stare like he already knew something you hadn’t admitted to yourself yet.

When he crossed the room to you, his smile was a little smug, but soft at the edges.

“You always pull up like this?” he asked, eyes traveling from the structured lines of your dress to your gold cuffs.

“Only when I know someone might show up,” you replied, trying to keep your voice even.

He grinned.

“Okay, so let’s stop playing,” he said, inching just slightly closer. “Can I take you out? Not for fittings. Not for press. Just private... you and me.”

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t slick or rehearsed. Just real.

You opened your mouth to give the usual line, the one you’d practiced: I don’t go out with clients.

But your heart… betrayed you. It had decided before your logic did.

So instead, you smiled and said:

“Okay.”

The surprise on his face was brief — then replaced by something warmer. A spark. Like his patience had been rewarded.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just nodded once, like he was locking the moment into memory.

“Good,” he said, eyes on yours. “Took you long enough.”

───────────────────────────────y/nthestylist

liked by voguemagazine, jkeey4, lewishamilton and 670K others

@ynthestylist: Still thinking about last night — honored to be part of the Fashion for Future charity gala surrounded by vision, purpose, and incredible style. I always say it’s about more than clothes. It’s about presence. Showing up, standing tall, and letting the details speak for you. And some details? Speak louder than words.

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@jkeey4: You’re not slick with that caption😂

@y/nthestylist: 😂😂

@koundefanupdates: 'Some details speak louder than words' OH SHE’S FLIRTING FLIRTING 😭

@lovergirl: Don’t be shy, tag your +1 👀

@caprisunjunkie2: i know jules is somewhere refreshing this post like 😍

@koundecore: jules was NOT smiling like that for no reason i fear…

───────────────────────────────jkeey4

liked by y/mnthestylist, aurelientchm, davidalaba and 800K others

@jkeey4: A good cause, a better night. Styled sharp, felt sharper. Appreciate the team behind the scenes that always makes it look easy @yourhandle. @davidalaba

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@ynthestylist: the real ones make the work effortless 🤝🏾

@davidalaba: my guy❤️

@koundefanupdates34: he really tagged her again… y’all don’t see the slow rollout? WAKE UP

@coreiscoring: so we all saw the way he looked at her in the GQ clip right??

@frenchiesiluv: You tagging her in every fit now? yeah… love is in the details.

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voguemagazine and britishvogue

liked by y/nthestylist, jkeey4, pharrell and 17,670K others

@voguemagazine and @britishvogue: From dressing Europe’s elite footballers to crafting red carpet moments with precision and heart, y/n is the tastemaker the world didn’t know it needed—until now. In her first Vogue cover story, the London-based stylist opens up about fearlessness, style as language, and joining forces with image architect Law Roach for a Met Gala partnership that’s rewriting the rules of fashion fantasy.

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@y/nmainfan: Finally getting the recognition she deserves! Been watching her eat

@l/nbaby: From behind the scenes to the COVER? Nah, she is amazing truly

@louis4vuttion: Y’all realize she’s the reason your fav footballer looks like a Dior campaign now? Put some respect

@fashionbiggirl: THEE stylist. THEE visionary. And a Met Gala collab with Law? Unstoppable.

@koundedaily: if jules doesn’t comment something romantic we ride at dawn.

────────────────────────────────────────── www.vogue.com

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────────────────────────────────────────── SHORT BLURB

The sheets are a mess, the air is thick with the glow of what just happened, and the window is cracked open just enough for London’s cool air to sneak in and chill the sweat on your bare shoulder.

Jules is lying beside you, his chest rising slow and steady, arm tucked behind his head like he’s trying to memorize the ceiling. His other hand finds yourss between the sheets and plays with your fingers, almost shy again now that the adrenaline is gone.

“You’re on the cover of Vogue,” he says, voice low, like he still doesn’t believe it.

You laughs softly and hide your face in his chest. “You’ve told me that like four times.”

“Well, I’m still processing,” he says, kissing your forehead. “That’s not small. It’s not even big. It’s... massive.”

You smiles, tracing slow circles on his chest. “You’re part of that, you know. You believed in me when I was still pretending I didn’t want anyone close.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “but you’re the one who did it.”

They lie there like that for a while, limbs tangled, skin still warm. It’s the kind of silence that feels like safety.

Then he shifts slightly. “I fly back tomorrow.”

You don’t answer right away. You knows what that means—Barcelona. His world. The matches, the focus, the rhythm of a life your still adjusting to aligning with.

Jules keeps going. “Game on Sunday. I want you there.”

You lifts her head, eyes finding his. “Yeah?”

“I came here for you. To celebrate you,” he says, brushing hair out of your face. “I want you there when I walk out.”

There’s no overthinking this time. No hesitation. Not when it’s him.

You nods. “I’ll be there.”

He smiles so softly it almost breaks you. “Good. I play better when you’re watching.”

You leans in, press your lips to his shoulder, then laughs. “Is that your way of asking me to be your good luck charm?”

He grins. “You’ve always been that. Just didn’t know it yet.”

────────────────────────────────────────── www.youtube.com

Step inside the eclectic, refined, and boundary-pushing closet of fashion’s newest powerhouse stylist. From custom runway pieces to vintage treasures and one-of-one football tunnel fits, [Your Name] takes us through her most personal collection yet. #VogueClosetTour

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@y/nthestylist posted a new story

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@koundedaily234: I KNOW JULES LOOKED UP AT LEAST ONCE TO FIND YOU. I KNOW IT.

@spongebobsgirl: the ‘i’m just here watching football’ energy is killing me when we ALL know it’s for one man only.

@thisiswhatslayinglookslike: Woke up. Ate breakfast. Sat pretty at her man’s match. That’s a day well spent tbh.

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hotfootballtea

liked by fcbarcelonawags, koundedaily, randomperson1 and 1M others

@hotfootballtea: Stylist sweetheart [Your Name] was spotted in Barcelona with none other than Jules Koundé. Sources say the vibes were real friendly — hugs included. Styling session? Romance brewing? Or just two fashion lovers on a stroll?

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@y/nkounde: I don’t know who needs to hear this but they’re already dating and just not telling us.

@randomperson1: I’m unwell

@bubbleguppies5: The hand placement. the lean. the smile.

@koundedaily: Their aura together is dangerous. he’s glowing. SHE’S glowing. idk what’s in the air but i want it too.

@ilovethenotbook: I SWEAR we’re watching this love story unfold in real time and it’s actually so soft 😭

@peaxceandfree: Calling it now: they’re gonna do a shoot for GQ Couples next year and it’s going to destroy the internet.

────────────────────────────────────────── SHORT BLURB

The hotel room smelled like steam and vanilla sented soap, the windows fogged just a little despite the AC humming quietly in the background. You sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the flood of paparazzi shots now circling the internet. You and Jules, on the street. Hugging. Laughing. Way too close for just styling clients.

You sat at the foot of the bed, wrapped in white cotton, your damp legs stretched out in front of you, scrolling through your phone. The pap pics were everywhere now.

You tilted your head, the corners of your lips lifting. You should care. The internet was already spiraling into fan theories and soft launches. But right now? You really didn’t.

Behind you, the bathroom door creaked open. Steam curled into the room before Jules stepped out, towel slung low around his waist, droplets still clinging to his chest like they didn’t want to let go. He rubbed a hand through his locs, pushing them back as his eyes flicked to you.

“You’re trending,” you said, not even pretending not to look.

He smirked. “We’re trending.”

You arched a brow. “Don’t get cute.”

“Bit late for that,” he muttered, walking over slowly. He didn’t rush. Jules never did — he moved like he knew the air shifted with him.

He stood in front of you now, warm and still damp, his hand grazing your shoulder as he peered at your phone screen.

“Nice angle,” he murmured, nodding at a photo of the two of you hugging — his arm slung low around your waist, your face tilted up to him. “They caught my good side.”

You let out a low laugh. “You don’t have a bad side.”

He didn’t move away. Instead, he reached out, thumb brushing gently along your jaw. “You okay with it?”

“With what?”

“This,” he said quietly. “Being seen with me.”

You met his eyes — soft brown, steady. Even with the glint of charm, there was something serious behind the question. Not just about photos or rumors. About this. About you and him.

You nodded, slow and sure. “I’m okay.”

His hand slipped down, fingers brushing yours. “Good,” he said, voice low. “Because I’m not trying to hide you.”

You looked up at him — at his soaked locs and golden skin, the heat in his eyes and the softness in his smile — and for the first time, you let yourself lean into it.

“I wasn’t hiding,” you whispered, reaching for his hand. “Just figuring it out.”

“Still figuring it out?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You smiled. “A little less now.”

The space between you disappeared, the noise of the world falling away. In that moment, it was just two towels, warm skin, and everything unspoken finally starting to make sense.

───────────────────────────────jkeey4

liked by y/nthestylist, aurelientchm, wisdm and 1M others

@jkeey4: Bits & pieces. Good days. Better company.

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@y/nthestylist: You’re lucky I look cute or I’d sue.

@jkeey4: I'd post more 🤎

@ilovefrench3men: Don’t be shy @jkeey4 tag her again 😭

@julsmyman: she’s pretty, I get it.

@koundedaily: Slide 2. SLIDE. 2. Everyone shut up

@ynkounde: i mean we called it.

@champgnhoney: yes we did.

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