#rather than bring it up in a conversation

[reignpage]

Physics Tutor!Nanami

Conservation of momentum: if it's just us we can remain at a constant

Content: Friday night party, we're nearing the end y'all, mixed content of angst and fluff, a little sexual action but only if you squint Word Count: 3k Guide

“Nanami, seriously, you’re a grown man,” you mutter, a little annoyed. 

This isn’t how you expected to spend to your Friday night, wrangling a six-foot-tall man into his home but your ex-physics tutor came to a frat party and you had actually drank with him. Now you’re facing the consequences. 

Earlier in the night, the sight of Nanami in his cute blue sweater, sitting awkwardly as he eyed the couple making out next to him with disgust, was enough to warrant a heart attack. You had offered to drink with him in the garden, to take care of him so he could let loose. For an hour or two, you drank a couple shots, relishing the cool breeze which kept your head screwed tight as you sat beside him.

Gojo had passed by, wriggling his eyebrows at you and making lewd movements with his hands. That hadn’t gone by unnoticed by Nanami, who grew quiet. You thought maybe he was tired, maybe he wanted to go home, and when you suggested you part ways, he gripped your wrist. 

“No, don’t go with him,” he slurred. 

You didn’t have plans to go with your friend, you were just going to turn in for the night too, but as you looked at the man you’ve been madly in love with for months and saw his ruffled hair, slightly askew glasses, fogging up from the heat his face was producing, and the flush brightening his cheeks, you realised that there was nowhere else you’d rather be. 

So, you stayed, sitting on the garden sofa with him. There were a couple other people loitering around, but none really paid any attention, everyone too immersed in their own conversations and lives to notice the two of you in the corner, thighs pressed together and shoulder brushing once in a while. 

His heat was permeating, tickling your side, and you couldn't help yourself, you leaned in close, the alcohol in your system made it so effortless to just let his gravitation pull bring you closer. If he noticed, he didn't say a thing.

You made small talk, discussing lectures and assignments. It was easy to talk to Nanami; other people were always so eager to prove themselves academically superior, never really listening to what you had to say, but rather looking for weak points to attack. It was never a conversation and instead a battlefield. And when you complained to your friends, they never seemed to understand.

With him, however, he listened more than he talked. Always. He hummed and nodded, mulling and considering your words carefully like what you had to say was just as important as anything an esteemed lecturer was teaching. With him, you felt like equals. Which was insane because he was Nanami Kento, and you were just the girl he had to tutor.

"I hate that bald Professor!" You groaned. "He's so boring."

He chuckled, adjusting his glasses. "He is rather monotonous, I must admit. You aren't the first student to complain and likely will not be the last."

"Yeah, I bet. But I honestly just don't think he should be a lecturer. I'd probably be a better one than him."

Meeting your gaze, you see the crinkle in the corners of his eyes, the way they soften as they roam your face, stopping by your smile. His fingers twitch on the empty shot glass, skimming the rim just a little before he affirms, "I have no doubts you would be; I can't imagine anyone finding you boring."

Passing each other shot glasses, you'd sip and chat. Nothing about the elephant in the room, not about your confessions, about the odd tension permeating the relationship, certainly not about why he showed up to the party, or why he had become flirtatious. Perhaps it was cowardice that held you both back. Maybe it was the enjoyment of simply existing beside each other, not as classmates, not as tutor and student, and not as two people whose feelings have gotten all tied up.

But as just Nanami and y/n.

Eventually, you both ceased your chattering. Settling to watch the other partygoers or the stars twinkling. Once in a while, he'd point to a star and tell you about its story, and you'd sit entranced by his voice --it's so steady, so smooth and clear, you could listen to it for hours. And when he talked to you of astronomy and gravity and quantum mechanics and the probability of time travel, you thought he should be a lecturer. You'd attend every class, every seminar, and never complain.

"How do you know so much about stars? We don't get taught about constellations."

He lifted one shoulder. "I work at the Eden Observatory part-time."

It was so quintessentially Nanami you didn't question it even though you were bursting to ask. He would have given you all the answers you sought, you're sure by the way he gazes at you expectantly.

Silence passed by, comfortable and soothing. You had no idea what time it was, didn’t care enough to reach forward to get your phone from the table, and neither did Nanami. You thought maybe he was nodding off but when you peered up at him, he was looking down. 

At your hand. 

“C-can I hold it?” 

His voice was gravelly, a hesitation that you’d never heard from him. The way he was gazing down at your hand, limp on your lap, like it was precious, like it was made of glass, and he could be beheaded for daring to even look, made your stomach feel weird. It was the very feeling you had been trying to bury for weeks. 

It was dangerous. You’d been working so hard to walk away and he was erasing the line, stretching out his arms to invite you back over. Unwise was what letting him do as he pleased would be, and yet, you found yourself nodding. And when his own hands, warm and large, wrapped around one of yours, you couldn’t fight back the shiver that ran through you. 

He was holding you so softly, in a way no one ever has, and you could only gulp. It was as if you had entered enemy territory, foreign and riddled with land mines that could go off and blow everything up if you so as much as made the wrong step. When his thumb grazed your knuckles, your heart skipped a beat. 

“Nanami,” you began but his hand squeezed yours and you shut up.

Your ex-physics tutor was still staring at your hand, marvelling at the soft skin, his glasses slide down his nose just a little bit, and you had to push it up with your free hand. That caught his attention, as if remembering there was a person attached to the hand he was holding so carefully. 

Clearing his throat, he shook his head, clearly trying to get his bearings. “Y/n, please rethink your decision to drop out.”

“I can’t.” You pulled your hand out of his like it burned. And then you looked away, crossing your arms so you wouldn’t be tempted. “This is for the best.”

“No. You were doing so well, even Professor Yaga had said so.”

With a sigh, you turned back to him, finding his blush endearing. The longer you stared the more it threatened your defences. You couldn’t let him talk you out of it, your sister you could fight off, even Gojo, but not Nanami. Not when every word that came out of his mouth sounded like the Gospel, like undeniable, irrefutable facts. 

Standing, you brushed invisible dust off your skirt and looked anywhere but at him. Unsteady, you asserted, “Nanami, I’ll take you back.”

He shook his head, strands of his hair falling over his forehead, obscuring his vision. You brushed them off, so lush under your palm, and he looked up at you like you were an angel -- mouth slightly parted, he blew air in the space between you, eyes slightly glossy as he watched you. 

“You’re so beautiful, you know?” He whispered, and then added, his brows furrowing, softening his gaze even further, “It hurts to look at you.”

You staggered back, arms falling to your sides as you gaped at him. You didn’t understand what that meant, what he was trying to say, nor why your heart was clenching so painfully, like someone had reached in and squeezed. 

“Maybe you can get your roommate to take you,” you whispered breathlessly.

Nanami shook his head once more, standing up too. His trousers were all crinkled and when he got to his feet he swayed slightly. You rushed over to his side, letting him lean against you. He was heavy, even as he carried most of his weight, and he smelled amazing. Clean, fresh and sweet. It reminded you of a bakery, just after closing, with the scent of butter and vanilla lingering in the air. 

“No, Haibara’s with his sister.” 

You both began walking, ignoring the staring and whistling people were throwing at you as they noticed both of your existence then. Some girls pointed to Nanami, no doubt recognising him from the List. They whispered amongst themselves, blushing and roving his body. You urged him to walk faster.

“Hey, hey, where are you two lovebirds going?” An irritating voice shouted. “You know my rules about fucking in the house. You have to pay a fee.”

Rolling your eyes, you informed him, “I’m taking Nanami home, he’s a little out of it.”

Gojo scanned your ex-tutor’s face, really looking at him and realising you were right. Suddenly, his grin dropped, and he was nodding to the front door. “Alright, I’ll drive. You seem out of it too.”

And just before you all left through the front door, he yelled to his deputy, “Don’t let the place burn down, it's a pain to deal with.”

The car ride to Nanami’s place passed in another relative silence, both of you in the back as you strapped him in, and your friend hummed to the songs on the radio, drumming his fingers. As obnoxious as Gojo could be, there were these rare moments of maturity and wisdom that people didn't see. But you did. You and Suguru, and these were the very moments that reminded you, no matter what, you would always find a home with him.

Parked, you unbuckled your seatbelt, reaching over the slightly light-headed man and unbuckled him too. His hand brushed your hair, gently, always so gentle. You refused to look at him.

“Let me know if you need a ride back,” Gojo threw at you, going on his phone as you fought to get your ex-tutor out, ignoring the glares you were directing towards him. His helpfulness had reached its max, clearly.

“No, she’s staying with me,” Nanami croaked. He slammed the door a little harder than necessary and you winced. Pointing a finger at Gojo through the rolled down window, he slurred, “You can go.”

Not taking any offence whatsoever, the frat president grinned and winked at you. “Alright, have fun, babes. Wrap it before you tap it. Or not. I'm pretty ready to be a fun uncle.”

And then he was driving off, leaving you crumpling under the weight of your responsibility with your jaw on the floor. That prick. Oh, you were so going to make him pay. 

By some miracle, you made it up to his floor with Nanami's jumbled directions, and now here you are, muttering irritated complaints about how clumsy this grown man is despite his age and wisdom.

“Seriously? Nanami, I told you to get it before we reach your door!”

You’re watching Nanami dig through his pockets for his keys, pink tinting the tip of his ears, either with embarrassment or with the warmth of the alcohol. He’s fumbling, muttering curses under his breath as he struggles, clumsy fingers catching on each other. You groan and swat his hands away, trying to get a feel for his keys through his trousers instead. 

This is not your first time dealing with drunk men. But it is your first time with a man as adorable as he is, unfortunately.

“Are you mad at me?”

Glancing up, you look at him, exasperated and unprepared for the pout on his face. His glasses are slanted again, and you have no free hands to push them back up — one hand is already holding him up and the other is buried in his pocket searching for his keys and trying to get past the lip balm in there. 

"No, Nanami. I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed." You hate that you sound just like your mother, but someone has to be the responsible one. You just never thought it'd ever be you.

He winces. “Please, be careful.”

“Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Nanami flushes harder, the tips of his ears matching and he avoids eye contact, stilling your wrist with a firm hand. “No, you didn’t. It’s just…”

You follow his gaze, both of you looking down and seeing something that shouldn’t be happening. You blink, cartoon character style. This is so very bad. 

Taking a deep breath, you pull the keys out and mutter weakly, “Found it.”

Once you’re inside, you pull Nanami with you, eyeing his place and appreciating the cleanliness; your place is not nearly as tidy as his. But you do see a messy arrangement of papers on his table. You can imagine a busy Nanami, sitting on the sofa, going over the papers and reading out loud under his breath. You smile.

“Alright, big guy. Where’s your room?”

“Buy me dinner first,” he chuckles to himself. He slumps down on the sofa, the leather creaking under his weight and he shrugs off his sweater, the shirt underneath riding up to reveal his abs. You look away. 

Oh, so the man has jokes. 

You’re fighting the urge to walk away and with a shaky breath, full of frustration, you very calmly say, “Nanami, it’s late, sweetheart. You’re going to need to go to bed, okay?”

Then he’s smiling up at you, a gummy smile that’s so dopey you can’t help but smile with him. 

“I like that.” He tilts his head at you. “I like when you call me sweetheart. Do it again.”

Counting to ten, you try again, “Okay, Nanami. I’ll call you sweetheart when you get in bed. It’s a reward.”

He mouths it back, tasting the word and that seems to resonate with him. Raising a hand out, he’s urging you to help him up and so you step forward, ready to bear his weight again, but then you’re being yanked down, and the world turns upside down. 

Nanami’s pinned you to the sofa, leaning over you with a fierce look in his eyes. Gone is the nerdy lightweight, and in his place is the man you’ve caught glimpses of. The one that furrows his brown in a stern scolding, that scribbles frantically on his papers and argues with the professors. Suddenly, he no longer looks his age and instead, appears not as a clumsy college student, but rather as a man. 

The kind of man that could command the attention of an entire room. 

“You did this to me,” he gestures to his hard on, the very same one you’ve been avoiding staring too long at. “Take responsibility, won’t you, darling?”

You choke on your own saliva. What the fuck?

Shaking your head, you remind yourself, he’s drunk, you’re no longer his student, and you’ve been a pain in his ass the entire time. Don’t take anything he says whilst under the influence to heart. It’s just chemicals in his brain. Just a biological urge. It means nothing. 

“Nanami, you’re drunk, let’s drink some water, okay?”

“Four shots is barely anything. I might be a lightweight, but I’m tipsy at most,” he scoffs. Leaning down, he grazes your cheek with his nose, inhaling deep with a groan. “You always smell so good.”

He might claim to be sober enough, but you’re not convinced. Sure, you can’t deny that you want him, but you don’t want him like this; you don’t want to be wanted because the alcohol has clouded his judgment. You want to be seen, as you are and not just another warm body to pass the time. 

Slowly, gently and with as much patience as you can muster, you nudge his head from your neck, and say, “You need to let me go, Nanami.”

“No.”

“Nanami.”

“I don’t want you to leave me.” That gravelly voice is back, the one weighed down by some inner turmoil you aren’t privy to, and you can only bite your lip when he presses a tender kiss at the crook of your neck. “I want you any way you’ll let me.”

You’re tearing up. It might be because he’s whispering it right by your ear or because his words sound so sincere, but you feel your bottom lip quiver. This isn’t how the night was supposed to go; you wanted to let loose and forget everything by partying life away, but now you’re practically cuddling with your physics tutor. Ex physics tutor.

Despite being a little out of it and shaking with some unknown emotion, he isn’t suffocating you with his weight. He’s holding himself up in a plank, inhaling your scent and fighting off your weak pushes. 

“Please, Nanami. Let’s talk about this tomorrow, okay?”

“You promise?” He lifts his head, lashes fluttering as he searches your features for any hint of deception. “You’re not going to avoid me?”

You shake your head, and he sighs, smiling. 

“Good, because I really don’t like it when you do that.”

And then he’s pushing off. A cool breeze brushes past you and you’re shivering from the sudden loss of warmth. Nanami disappears into a room you’re assuming is his and you go to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When you enter his room, he’s only in his boxers, climbing into bed. 

He lifts the cover up and pats the empty space beside him, grumbling, “Come on, I’m cold.”

You sigh, ripping the cover from his hands and tuck him in. “No, Nanami. I’m not sleeping with you. I’m going now so I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Almost breaking out into laughter at the scowl that graces his face, you have to distract yourself by pulling his glasses off and folding them onto his bedside table. Like this, he looks so youthful. No longer frowning over data variables or anomalistic lab results, he’s just lying peacefully. 

"You aren't better off taking a different course. You work well under my tutelage. Grant me the opportunity to change your mind about everything. Let me show you I didn't mean the things I said," he pleads, eyes flutterings shut.

Hesitant, you say, "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Nanami."

"Just one chance, y/n. Don't cross this off simply because we reached a bump. You trusted my guidance before, trust me now."

You don't know what exactly he's referring to and you're too scared to ask. All you can do is watch sincerity, a raw kind of pleading, swirl in his vibrant eyes. He has you in his palms and he doesn't even realise.

"Okay."

He’s fast asleep when you leave. 

You don’t bother Gojo for a ride back to your home, you texted him your sister's picking you up. She might be asleep by now but you'll wake her up anyways, so you can tell her about everything that's happened and ask for her two cents, because you think Nanami practically confessed his feelings for you. But that doesn’t make sense with all that’s unfolded, right?

How could he possibly like a girl like you?

You’re loud, boisterous, air-headed, and not the kind of girl one takes home to their mother. He deserves a girl that’s as smart, as put together, and mature and wise as he is. Deserves one that hasn’t been tainted by bad decision and nightmares.

Sighing again — you’ve been doing a lot of that lately — you walk home, in the dark, fighting the urge to look back. And as the night’s chill prick your skin, you wonder how Nanami will feel in the morning. 

Embarrassment, shame, humiliation?

Whatever it’ll be, you just hope it isn’t regret. 

You have enough of that for the both of you.

[tryxyhijinks]

Pratchett had some words about this:

O: You’re quite a writer. You’ve a gift for language, you’re a deft hand at plotting, and your books seem to have an enormous amount of attention to detail put into them. You’re so good you could write anything. Why write fantasy?

Pratchett: I had a decent lunch, and I’m feeling quite amiable. That’s why you’re still alive. I think you’d have to explain to me why you’ve asked that question.

O: It’s a rather ghettoized genre.

P: This is true. I cannot speak for the US, where I merely sort of sell okay. But in the UK I think every book— I think I’ve done twenty in the series— since the fourth book, every one has been one the top ten national bestsellers, either as hardcover or paperback, and quite often as both. Twelve or thirteen have been number one. I’ve done six juveniles, all of those have nevertheless crossed over to the adult bestseller list. On one occasion I had the adult best seller, the paperback best-seller in a different title, and a third book on the juvenile bestseller list. Now tell me again that this is a ghettoized genre.

O: It’s certainly regarded as less than serious fiction.

P: (Sighs) Without a shadow of a doubt, the first fiction ever recounted was fantasy. Guys sitting around the campfire— Was it you who wrote the review? I thought I recognized it— Guys sitting around the campfire telling each other stories about the gods who made lightning, and stuff like that. They did not tell one another literary stories. They did not complain about difficulties of male menopause while being a junior lecturer on some midwestern college campus. Fantasy is without a shadow of a doubt the ur-literature, the spring from which all other literature has flown. Up to a few hundred years ago no one would have disagreed with this, because most stories were, in some sense, fantasy. Back in the middle ages, people wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing in Death as a character who would have a role to play in the story. Echoes of this can be seen in Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, which hark back to a much earlier type of storytelling. The epic of Gilgamesh is one of the earliest works of literature, and by the standard we would apply now— a big muscular guys with swords and certain godlike connections— That’s fantasy. The national literature of Finland, the Kalevala. Beowulf in England. I cannot pronounce Bahaghvad-Gita but the Indian one, you know what I mean. The national literature, the one that underpins everything else, is by the standards that we apply now, a work of fantasy.

Now I don’t know what you’d consider the national literature of America, but if the words Moby Dick are inching their way towards this conversation, whatever else it was, it was also a work of fantasy. Fantasy is kind of a plasma in which other things can be carried. I don’t think this is a ghetto. This is, fantasy is, almost a sea in which other genres swim. Now it may be that there has developed in the last couple of hundred years a subset of fantasy which merely uses a different icongraphy, and that is, if you like, the serious literature, the Booker Prize contender. Fantasy can be serious literature. Fantasy has often been serious literature. You have to fairly dense to think that Gulliver’s Travels is only a story about a guy having a real fun time among big people and little people and horses and stuff like that. What the book was about was something else. Fantasy can carry quite a serious burden, and so can humor. So what you’re saying is, strip away the trolls and the dwarves and things and put everyone into modern dress, get them to agonize a bit, mention Virginia Woolf a few times, and there! Hey! I’ve got a serious novel. But you don’t actually have to do that.

(Pauses) That was a bloody good answer, though I say it myself.

my creative writing prof also HATES fantasy. as in if she asks for an example of symbolism in a book, and you give something from a fantasy novel, she’ll ask for an example from a “non-commercial book” instead.

I dunno man, people can have preferences, but the second you discount the artistic merit of sci fi and fantasy I stop taking your opinion seriously. and there’s such a big culture in Canada of only valuing literary fiction, to the point where one of our biggest authors, Margaret Atwood, refused for a while to classify her books as sci fi or fantasy. she said they were “speculative fiction”, which is entirely separate and very highbrow (sarcasm).

and I could go on about how Octavia Butler and Ursula Le Guin wrote books every bit as intellectual (and honestly, even more so) than their literary counterparts, but I am also an enjoyer of schlock!! I think there’s artistic merit in animorphs, and in isekais where a japanese schoolgirl reincarnates into a magical spider who has to level up like it’s a video game! it’s like with everything, you can’t draw a clean line that separates ‘art’ from ‘non-art’ or even ‘lesser art’, and pretending you can do so just makes you look ignorant and goofy. in my opinion.

[tsuyalovebot]

don't make me wait forever.

pairing: xia yi zhou / caleb x reader (love and deepspace)

cw: sfw. semi-prominent reader characterization (spoiled, occasional use of she/her pronouns, referred to as a "little sister" once). kisses. casual touches. throat holding (both by reader and by caleb). use of "older brother" to address caleb (not by reader). pipsqueak as a term of endearment. reader wears makeup. some spoilers from tender moments, memoria, and bond story. caleb typical warnings (manipulation if you squint).

wc: roughly 3-4k words. unnecessary word vomit.

author's note: a man who yearns is a man who EARNS. hi, it's me again! i had an idea and had to bring it to life. enjoy! ( ^ -. ^ )

Caleb wasn't lying when he said he spoiled you too much as children.

You didn't quite get it at first—he was nothing but sweet with the occasional menace during childhood, sure, but he didn't spoil you spoil you.

You were leaning into his chest, eyes closed while listening to the TV in the background as his large arm wraps itself around your waist. Tucking you against him, feeling his lips against the crown of your head.

"I baby you too much," he sighed, a mellow cheeriness beneath his words.

"And yet, you sound so happy over it," you grumbled. Sleep is so close yet so far, and you'd been squirming around in search of the closest boarding gate. His touch delicate as he pulled you onto his lap.

You snuggled closer on instinct. Picking up on the faint smell of sandalwood and something finer, richer. There was movement on your back, Caleb's palm stroking up and down, while the other held you by the back of your neck like an infant.

"I spoiled you, too."

You frowned, looked at him blearily. "Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh." He pushed your head back onto his shoulder. "Go to sleep."

Sure, Caleb took extensive measures to ensure your comfortable upbringing with him. But you weren't spoiled.

Right?

But you go on your first date with someone that isn't him, and it kind of hits. Making an offhanded comment about how the water temperature was more cold than warm—you asked for room temp—doesn't result in your date immediately requesting another glass or them buying you bottled water from the convenience store across the restaurant.

Instead, you're told, "they probably forgot, it's fine" and the date continues. You watch the condensation form on your glass quietly. Every rational droplet is speaking to your acrid gut feeling—it's just water. It'll be room temperature eventually.

Later on, your date messages you. They asked if you got home safely, all the while you'd been drinking a glass of lukewarm water in Caleb's dining room. You pressed block once you heard his familiar, curious voice asking how the date went.

"It was meh." And you asked for another glass.

Another time, you'd been hanging out with old high school friends as a simple gathering. Though, you hadn't expected that it would lead to seemingly endless anecdotes in relation to you. Over fruit smoothies and café pastries, they'd all been exchanging stories once the conversation turns over to yourself in high school.

"Remember when she would always ask us to do stuff?" One girl laughed, cutting into her french toast.

Another cleared her throat, exaggerating her voice into a falsetto, "hey, can you get me a bun from the cafeteria? Oh, there's no more? Then, a banana milk and whatever pastry they have."

It earned a crackle of laughter along the table of five people. You, the object of discussion, smiling at the head of the table. Rather awkwardly, too, as you sipped on your drink.

"You forgot to add on the "you can do that at least, right?" at the end!"

"Oh, oh, the sulking too, if you don't do it!"

"She'd always complain about our fans, too."

"Oh my God, yeah. "Why does your fan battery run out so quickly? Did you not charge it?" Like, hello?"

One of the girls face you amidst the active exchange, grinning. Despite the recollection of your nature in the past, they weren't mad. Simply taking the entertainment value in it.

"Don't worry," and she said your name, placing a hand over yours on the table.

"You've got an older brother, right? It may have been annoying, but we're friends. You were like, our little sister."

A muscle in your jaw ticked. His face popped up in your face and you wanna punch him, despite him being nowhere near you at the time of this event. But, you laughed and nodded; acquiescing to her reassurance was easier this way.

It slipped out once more when you go out for movies with Tara. It's the same theater you and Caleb always frequented before. You already swiped your card for payment of movie food, and had besn walking to the screening room.

"Tara, can you check the bucket? Make sure it has enough butter on it?"

"Hm? Okay," she replied. While you scrolled on your phone, you heard the plastic lid of the bucket pop open.

"Seems good to me. You check."

When you move your attention over to the bucket, you're met with mediocre-looking buttered popcorn. The golden syrup of butter scattered over the pieces. You frowned. Since when were they so shy about buttering literal corn?

You stopped walking, brows furrowed. "It's so... pale. Let's go back and ask for more, I didn't pay for that."

"Huh? Oh, okay?" You didn't really register Tara's confused tone of voice until after you had a spat with the person at the popcorn station.

It was some moody teen probably working minimum wage. He was scowling while you talked about the butter portioning.

He sneered, "over some popcorn? Really? Were you that spoiled as a kid?"

It winded you. Tara was pulling at your arm, seeming to try and hold you back despite you being frozen. The manager came out once the commotion seems to stop, only because you were gobsmacked.

He'd been apologizing profusely to you and Tara upon recognizing you both as hunters; his eyes had landed on you with so much familiarity. He's probably been working here for a decade or so. Long enough to have previously seen you and Caleb at movie screenings.

Tara's at the butter dispenser of the self-service station—something they closed over half a decade ago apparently, but frantically opened for today, coincidentally—with you behind her when she finally spoke

She was a bit bewildered, but it was easy to pick up the lighthearted tone. "I didn't take you for the pampered type. That was the normal amount of butter on popcorn for most places."

You shook your head. "No, it wasn't. I was a regular here in the past. Every time we got a bucket of popcorn, they were always so generous with the salted butter."

"By yourself?"

"No, with my friend."

There'd been a pause between you two. She pressed the lid back into place and begun shaking it, the popcorn rattling. Then, she turned to you, like she knew something that you didn't.

"And you never once thought this friend scared the employees into putting extra butter for you back then?"

It always went back to him.

Whenever you'd go to a colleague's place and bore holes into the crooked cuts of the apple slices on a plate, you found yourself recalling Caleb's expert cuts. These ones weren't even red delicious apples.

You're a bit peeved when the food from the monthly catering service at the Association doesn't taste the same way that Caleb makes it, even though the food is the same kind and recipe.

Your next trip to Skyhaven is definitely highly anticipated. You're been exhausted and haggard for the past few days. It only amplifies as the day stretches on, grimacing when Caleb opens the door. He's surprised to see you, panting and sweaty in his white tanktop. Fresh from a workout, most likely. It makes you a bit, a tiny bit, mad.

"Pipsqueak? What's the occasion?"

"You," you hiss, releasing your hold on your suitcases. You kick off your shoes as you push your way into his place, pointing an accusing finger to his chest.

Caleb's confused. It's clear in the furrow of his brow and frantic blinking that his synapses are doing rapid fire checking of what today is, what he's said or done recently, what stores are on sale, and what snacks you need.

Despite being the one who said he himself spoiled you, he clearly has no idea how it's manifested in your life, and it pisses you off even more.

"I'm the occasion?" He squawks, confused. "It's too early for my birthday—"

"You and your stupid past self. I should have your head on a stake," you bark, slamming your fists onto his pecs, pushing him further into his own home.

He laughs a bit, still completely in the dark, but his voice gets a bit more pitchy.

He leans down, cranes his gargantuan ass down to your height. It's polite. You know this, he's done it countless times. But your gut speaks to you. You're going to throttle him.

"Huh? What did I do?"

"You piss me off!"

His face softens with concern. His hands come up, ghosting over yours. He murmurs your name—

Then you're gripping him by the neck. You get to drink in the way his eyes widen to saucers as your fingers delicately wrap around his throat, palms on either side. You don't squeeze, and instead, aggressively shake him. "Pipsqueak?"

"You spoiled me!" You shriek, voice shrill with accusation.

Frustration, the buildup from the past couple of weeks comes to full fruition in this very moment. It's only for a split second that you see realization dawn on Caleb's face before you continue yelling.

"I relied on others to get me snacks because of you, I complain over batteries because of you, now I want specific water temperatures, I can't stand pale popcorn because you demanded extra butter, I'm picky over food—"

"Hey—"

"Don't you hey me, mister!" You jut your finger up at his face, and he shuts his mouth instantly. "I'm like this, because of you!"

You don't miss the glitter of mirth in those stupidly ethereal eyes of his, and it's wholly unreal how your anger amplifies when you notice his twitching lips. He found this funny.

"You're laughing?" You whisper, low and indignant. You squeeze his throat, feel his breath pass under the skin. Adrenaline riveting and real in the low thrum of your heartbeat.

"I'm here, devastated over the effect of your stupid actions on my life, and you're laughing?"

"Devastated?" Caleb echoes. The idiot sounded delighted over this. Like he was finding a great deal of validation in your admission.

A grin quirks his lips into its signature, charming curve, and he's leaning down into you some more. One of his hands sliding over yours with a gentleness only he could emulate. Your resolve stutters, and he's quick to take advantage of that.

"Oh, please, pipsqueak." He chuckles. "That's not true and you know it."

His fingers gently slide between the gaps of yours, making room for himself and filling the emptiness. Effectively peeling them away from his throat, and doing the same to the other hand. You relent, letting your arms hang loosely at your sides.

Caleb's still smiling when he takes a step forward, crowding your space now. It doesn't register that he's cornered you until your back is flat to the closed door and you're surrounded by him and everything about him.

The very man who's fed you every granule, acquainted you with the taste of having the world at your every whim. A charged zap runs up the base of your spine when he lifts your chin.

"If you were really devastated, you'd have come here cryin' instead. You'd be on your knees, weepin' over how I've ruined you. Not yelling and screaming and accusing me," he coos, sickly sweet. His thumb rubbing below your lower lip.

"Are you done? Do you feel better after getting it all off your chest?"

His gaze feels abysmal. Two pools of an oceanic depth, spatial and intergalactic and beyond your comprehension. Hungry.

Something darker lurks there. That one look that flickers in and out of conversations whenever you're close to him, or when the topic tilts into something that you know you shouldn't be touching. Like he's satiated, but still craving more and more. You feel small under it every time.

"Even a kid knows how to manipulate their guardian into givin' them what they want."

The double meaning, one of comparing you to an immature brat, isn't lost on you. Heat crawls up your skin as your cheeks round with the scrunch of your nose. Ready to retaliate with equal venom, even if his words weren't inherently insulting.

But, before you even could, the expression on his face stops you in your tracks.

It's like looking at the colonel. Caleb cocks his head to the side, expression clinically cold. "When someone is speaking, we?"

He stares. He's waiting for a response, you realize.

You finish his sentence, pacified. "We listen."

"Good. Seems you still have the manners I taught you."

Your face heats up.

That stupidly patient smile on his lips was grating on your nerves, far more than any revelation of his ingrained presence in your every action, thought, word, and emotion.

His thumb is soon pressed flush to your lips. He isn't prying it open like he did before, instead rubbing the pad of his thumb along your lips, caressing the divot of your cupid's bow. He's playing with the glossy texture and film of your lippie, smearing it past the corner of your lips.

The first thing you want to do is push him away. Shove him, hard, and make space between the two of you so that your train of thought could return. Yet, the softness that decorates his grape-colored irises was making you hesitate. He's an annoying guy, someone who gets on your nerves, with featherlight caresses and an admiration so sincere.

Rouge stains the pad of his digit when he draws it back. He's curious, his gaze thoughtful as he examines the pigment. Then, you're watching as he lifts it to his mouth with a deliberate kiss. Lashes fluttering over his cheekbones.

When he drops his hand, the scarlet pigment is smeared over his lips like a brand.

You're burning alive. You reach up, immediately trying to wipe it from his lips. "You—"

"Weirdo? I know." Caleb catches your hand with ease, beaming with half-lidded eyes. "Buuut, you're just as weird as me for lettin' me do that, y'know."

He's making a point. You're going to gut him alive, you think to yourself. In stealing an indirect kiss from you, he's replicating every scenario you've ever bared yourself to him. How easy it is, to melt in one's earnest wonder and affection, unable to say no.

In an attempt to regain your composure, you scowl with all the feigned vitriol you could muster. "You're even weirder for condoning my every action."

He cocks his head, like he was reloading a couple memories from the past. The countless times he let you get away with things.

"It's... not that easy for me, pipsqueak."

"Yes, it is." You huff and free your hand from his grip. Settling your palms flat over his chest, fingers curling into the stretchy fabric. "Telling me no couldn't have been that hard."

"Yeah?" He teases. "You think it's that simple for me?"

"Grandma could handle me."

Caleb deadpans at your mention of her, his face relaxing into something like bemusement.

"If Gran or I took away your stuffed animal to clean it, you'd kick and scream and cry. If I denied you of your favorite food or a candy apple, you'd say you hate me."

You blink. That wasn't the response you were expecting. All of a sudden, you feel like someone's wiped your mind of everything you've ever known, and redefined your recollections of childhood. Embarrassment crawls up your face in burning streaks.

"Gran could handle you?" He repeats, shakes his head with a sad look.

There's a pained aspect to his current physiognomy, the furrow of his brow, the deepened set of his mouth. "That's because it's her. Of course, she wouldn't mind your cries. But I did."

He crouches, and for a moment, it was as if he was falling. The sunlight filtered in through the glass of the door behind your head, catching on the nutty brown strands of his hair. Cradling his head against the junction of your neck and shoulder, hiding away his face.

"I didn't want you to hate me." He admits, the words fanned over your throat. You inhale deeply, and his familiar scent invades your senses. You hope that stupid central organ wasn't too loud, or else he'd hear the beating of your pulse working double time.

Caleb's a constant in your life. He was a pillar, from youth 'til now, that never failed to offer you assistance regardless of the circumstances. You knew him to be reliable, persistent, generous. Perhaps it plays into the way he's coated your teeth in sugar, nipping at your enamel in a thick film that tastes of sweetness.

Yet seeing him like this, frustrated and amused and annoyed—it was unfounded.

"I didn't know much." The vulnerability was low yet blaring. "I just knew I didn't want you to hate me. I knew I loved seeing you happy. And if I denied you, you weren't happy."

It's too black and white. So childish and simplified. It's an easygoing description of his feelings toward you during early youth, one that could easily be swallowed up and consumed by the nasty nature of the world.

Yet, you card your fingers through his hair. Press your lips to his temple all the same, and listen to his utterances.

Your bottom lip is jutting out before you can stop yourself. And in spite of his own admissions, the uncomfortable nakedness that comes with it, you mumble a pointed, "you made me high maintenance."

"You're only figurin' that out now?" He snickers against your skin and the subsequent vibrations make you jump. "Pipsqueak, everyone's known you're high maintenance."

You protest, "that's not true."

"Yes," he says, amused. "It is."

Peeling away from your neck, Caleb's face is less grave now. Relief floods your senses and you cup his face, smoothing over the corners of his lip to wipe away the frowns. There's a weight behind you that isn't the door, his palm a welcome touch as his fingers splay over the small of your back.

His other hand resting on the side of your throat, fingers resting on your nape and thumb rubbing the ridge of your jaw. The motion is soothing, and you close your eyes to memorize its rhythm.

"Even if you're high maintenance, I'm the one who caused it. Allegedly."

You bristle and your eyes fly open, "allegedly? There's proof—"

"Ah-ah."

Caleb's brows are raised on his forehead as you pipe down, amused by how quick you were to correct your behavior.

"Much better. As I was saying."

Despite the extra firmness to his voice, his touch on you was nothing short of gentle. Like your body was carved from marble, reinforced by a fragile porcelain, he does that thing where he tilts your head with the hand on your neck. His thumb rubbing your earlobe.

But the most violating part had to be those intense, smoldering eyes that beheld you with utmost priority. How did you ever think he didn't care for you?

Caleb's tone of voice is chiding. "You're high maintenance because of me, and that makes you mine to maintain."

He's talking down to you. Treating you like one would to a child learning how to tie their shoelaces, his voice chiseled with the vines of condescension. Heartbeat speeding in your chest, distinguishing your heartbeat from your rampant thoughts became far more difficult.

The little smile that's on his lips seems manic. Far away, distant, as you slide your hands over his pecs. A shudder ripples over your skin.

"After all, it's my fault for making sure you're comfortable. It's my fault for prioritizing you above all else, as children and as adults." He starts, chillingly calm. He shakes his head to himself with a deep sigh, and tilts your head back against the door. Examining you with an unblinking, almost detached visage. Yet, his words were anything but, thick with emotion.

You breathe slow, torturous inhales and exhales, feeling Caleb's hand wrap itself around your throat. Alarms ring out in the back of your mind—loud, incessant, disturbing, yet you close your eyes and let him hold you there.

He won't hurt you. He never would, intentionally.

Quietly, like a forbidden fruit to not be consumed or heard, he mutters, "it's my fault for wantin' nothing but the best for you, because it's what you deserve. Nothing less."

Oh, you breathe out.

There's absolutely no pressure to the way he holds your neck. His palm wasn't against the column of your throat, instead, the pads of his thick digits were clasping the skin with a touch so invisible it almost felt nonexistent. When you swallow, the flexed skin presses itself up to his touch.

"Do you really want me to take it back?" Caleb asks, breaking the momentary silence and taking you out of your thoughts.

You blank out for a moment too long. "What?"

"You came over to let me know I've spoiled you beyond reversing repair, without wantin' me to change?"

Why did you come over? Why did you decide to come up to Skyhaven one day, literally days away from your regular times of visiting him? Over something like this? Literal outdated information that you've only recently discovered.

Why? You don't know, but you're rushing to speak, holding onto his top. "That's not what I—"

"It's not what you what?"

He tilts his head down toward you and every coherent thought exits your headspace instantly. God, his eyes. They're darker now. Frustration brimming in the burning fuchscia, the indigo of his irises all-consuming.

"I can stop pamperin' you starting today." He offers.

The surfacing ache in your chest is abrupt, disruptive.

"Starting today, I won't buy your favorite snacks. I won't ever pat your head again. I'll leave you to fend for yourself in every fast food line, and you can get your own stuff when we go shopping. You can even do your shopping alone. Is that what you want?"

No. No, it's not what you want, but how do you express that? An entity, so puissant and arresting, is crawling up your esophagus, scraping at the backs of your teeth, trying to pry your mouth open, and wail its truth into the minimal distance between you and Caleb. It's an ugly feeling, one stripping you down to your base needs.

Pain bleeds into his expression, his eyes only softening as a thought crosses his mind. "Are you gonna tell me you don't need me again?"

"Caleb, no," you manage.

"If not, then what's the problem? It's too late. If I've ruined you, you've destroyed me."

You destroyed him? When? You've never... When have you ever—?

Your chagrin spikes in time with your bewilderment. "I never did anything like that."

Caleb peered into your eyes. Your soul. Questioning, a bit disbelieving. Like he can't really believe your own blindness. An incredulous laugh slipping through his nose when he realizes you weren't lying.

He takes a step forward. You're fully sandwiched between him and the door now, and one of his arms come up to rest above you on the surface. "Caleb–"

"I can't go through the grocery store without thinking of what you want for dinner." He admits, the revelation so tender and tied with candor. Your words die on your tongue and dissolve.

"I can't do my laundry anymore unless it's with your brand of fabric softener, since it reminds me of you. Every time I try on a new jacket, I wonder how it would look good on you."

The information comes pouring out of him like a geyser. And his voice is full of nothing but love. You press your hands to his chest with more force, but he won't budge. Your ears are scalding and you're avoiding his gaze now, his face.

"You dedicated a journal to me. You came to every basketball game." Caleb laughs, breathless. A little in awe of you, so full of adoration. "You always visited Skyhaven when I moved out. You pretended to be my girlfriend. You didn't want me to get a girlfriend. You kissed me at my graduation."

He stutters over himself at the end, sighing deeply and it's making your stomach do flips. "God, you kissed me."

Really? You're burning. Did he have to bring that up?

He's pulling you out of your thoughts yet again, using his hold on your yielding neck to find your gaze once more. You could crumble into ashes right now. In fact, you hoped the floor underneath you would just swallow you whole and leave nothing behind for Caleb to dissect.

"You're think you're spoiled, pipsqueak?" Another laugh, and it's mixed with raspy agony and disbelief, shining in his stare. "I'm rotten."

In Caleb's home, you never really heard much commotion. Simply the low hum of the television in the background, the living room a few paces away. Yet, your heartbeat was the soundtrack to his life, and he's made it his favorite ringtone.

You could feel his own racing heart under your palm. He looks defeated now, conflicted. Oh, Caleb.

"You never wanted me to take it back." He says it to himself. Like he's trying to get himself to believe it.

"You just wanted reassurance that I'd never leave you, no matter how coddled you are."

The heart that's thudding rapidly against your ribcage was so fickle, so naïve. It might jump out of your throat at this rate—God, Caleb could probably feel your pulse like this.

Your mind's racing. There's only one way you could resolve this rift formed from these series of revelations and confessions. You weren't going to lose him again. He has no right to leave after this.

"You're so quiet now. Don't tell me you're thinkin' of runnin' away, pipsqueak." His voice is lighter, more in jest now. The first sign of distance, denial.

You clasp his wrist, and whisper, "I'll take responsibility."

"What?"

"I'll take responsibility. For ruining you. In exchange, take responsibility for me too." You declare, louder. You sound more sure.

He's blinking at you now. Then, his brows furrow and a bewildered laugh leaves him. Before he could reply, you push forward, not allowing him any time to recover.

"I'm in your hands now, aren't I? You said so yourself. You did this to me. I did this to you. I'm yours to deal with."

You wind your arms around his neck, hearing how his breaths stutter and feeling his hand leave your throat. You're on your tippy toes, pulling him down so you could settle back against the door, feeling his grip settle over your waist. It's a lovely sensation. One so right. It cements your resolve.

"The only ones who can handle us are each other. Nobody else."

You don't know what you're saying anymore.

But you know you like the rising determination, you like whatever this is. You like the hope that swims in his gaze. The fear that's within them, terrified of this being one of your pranks. It wasn't; you'll prove it to hom.

"You can't make all these promises and leave me alone," You speak in a hushed tone, finality thick in the waver of your voice. You're leaning in before you can stop yourself and whispering, "I won't let you."

You can't help but feel like whatever game you two are playing now, you've lost. He's won yet again. Yet it doesn't quite feel like a loss this time around, not when Caleb's face is smoothing out into one of relief. One of contentment as he closes the distance.

The breath that fans over your mouth is hot and his voice is full of yearning, "I never planned on it."

[00valentina-writes00]

✞⛧ Tangled Hearts ✞⛧

Warnings: smut eventually, friends to lovers, jealousy, emotional angst, sexual tension, intoxication, brief mentions of exes

Word count: 17.4k

You sit on the edge of Vi’s bed, absently petting Mr. Warhammer the Third, her sleek, tabby cat who purrs contentedly in your lap. His warm body rests peacefully, his little paws kneading the blanket, oblivious to the fact that you are not really paying attention to him. Not fully, anyway.

Your eyes drift over to Vi, sprawled casually on her bed, her legs spread out and one arm propped behind her head, looking more like the rebel she’s always been than the woman you’re increasingly falling for. It’s not that you’ve just noticed her, but tonight there’s something different. Maybe it’s her hair—dyed black now, with pink tips, but it’s more than that. The way the darkness of it highlights her sharp jawline, the intensity of her gray eyes, the muscle of her frame shifting as she leans over to grab something from the side of her bed.

Her whole appearance hits you like a punch to the gut, and it makes your heart flutter in a way that it definitely shouldn’t. You’re supposed to be her friend, not whatever this weird, confusing mess is becoming inside you.

“What’s got you so quiet?” Vi’s voice cuts through your thoughts, pulling your gaze to her. You force yourself to meet her eyes, even though you’d rather sink into the bed and hide the heat flooding your cheeks. Vi’s expression is laced with amusement, that trademark smirk curling her lips. “Not used to me looking this good, huh?”

You laugh, trying to keep it light, but your words come out a little too breathless. “I never said that.”

Vi arches an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Her piercing gaze narrows as she props herself up on her elbows, leaning forward in that cocky, challenging way that’s become so familiar over the years. “Oh, really?” she teases, voice thick with mischief. “So, if I’m so hot, what’s got your eyes all wide and dumbfounded? Cat got your tongue?”

You try to smile, but it falters just a bit as you lower your gaze back to Mr. Warhammer, who shifts his weight, unaware of the storm brewing inside you. “Nothing,” you mutter, suddenly very interested in petting the cat just a little harder than necessary.

Vi lets out a light laugh, sitting up and swinging her legs off the side of the bed. The motion brings her closer to you, and you have to fight the urge to retreat. You can smell her—leather, sweat, a faint hint of something sweet—and it’s like a punch to your senses. You’re drowning in the scent, the way her presence fills the room, and it’s all you can do to keep your focus on the cat, not on her, not on the way your heart beats faster.

“Well, don’t get all shy on me now,” she says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. The contact is light, but it’s enough to make your pulse spike. “What’s the deal? Come on, spill.”

“I’m just tired,” you mutter, hoping it’ll put an end to the conversation before you accidentally tell her how you really feel, how you’ve been fighting it for months now. You know it’s not just the changes in her appearance, not just the way she looks tonight. It’s everything—her strength, her wit, the way she’s always been there for you, even when she didn’t have to be. You can’t keep pretending you’re not falling for her. It’s getting harder every day.

The silence that follows stretches on for a few beats too long. You feel her stare at you, as if she knows you’re hiding something, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she picks up her phone, scrolling through it absently as you continue to pet the cat, trying to steady your breathing.

When the evening wears on, you realize you’ve been sitting there for hours. Your mind is racing too fast, and the weight of your feelings feels heavier with every second. But Vi doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy with whatever’s on her phone. A few times, you catch her glancing at you from the corner of your eye, but every time you meet her gaze, she quickly looks away, her expression unreadable.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there when she speaks again, her voice softer, almost nonchalant. “You wanna crash here tonight? I’m not really feeling like going out anymore.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’d expected to head back to your place, maybe watch a movie, but the offer sounds… different. A little too inviting. You can feel your stomach twist, but you nod anyway. “Yeah, sure. I don’t mind.”

She pushes herself off the bed and stretches, the movement so fluid, so effortless, that it almost knocks the wind out of you. “Alright,” she says, her voice low and husky. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab a blanket or something.”

You stand up, not fully thinking, and shake your head. “I can just sleep on the couch, Vi. It’s fine.”

Vi stops mid-step, turning to look at you with a raised eyebrow. “The hell you will,” she mutters under her breath, more to herself than to you. Then, she gestures to her bed. “You’re crashing in here. No arguments. You always get cold on the couch anyway.”

You want to protest, to tell her she doesn’t have to do this, but the words get stuck in your throat as she heads back toward the bed, flicking the lights off. The room goes dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. You can hear the soft rustle of sheets as Vi settles down on her side of the bed, leaving just enough space for you.

Your heart races again. You can feel the heat from her body, even from the distance, and you know you’re not going to get any sleep tonight. Not when she’s this close.

“Come on,” she calls softly, her voice a little less harsh now, more inviting than ever before. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you want me to, that is.”

Your pulse spikes at the teasing undertone, but you try to laugh it off as you lie on the bed beside her, keeping a safe distance between you and her body. You try to keep your breathing steady, to ignore the way your chest tightens when her body shifts closer to yours, brushing against your side.

You’re acutely aware of her warmth, the quiet hum of her presence beside you. It’s like your skin is on fire, and you don’t know how to put it out. You’re afraid to even move, afraid of what might happen if you do, if you let yourself feel what you know is there.

You’re both quiet for a few minutes, the soft sound of Vi’s breathing filling the space between you. It’s calm. Comfortable. But it’s not enough to quiet the noise in your head.

You can’t stop thinking about how her body feels next to yours, the way her fingers brush against your skin when she shifts to find a more comfortable position. You’re not sure when it happens, but somehow, her arm ends up draped across your waist, pulling you a little closer to her.

Your breath catches in your throat, your body stiffening at the contact. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make any teasing comments. She just pulls you closer, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it feels so right. So damn right. But the longer you lie there, the more you realize that it feels like you’ve crossed a line. You don’t know what this is, or what it’s going to be, but you know one thing for sure—this feeling, this closeness, this heat… it’s not something you can ignore anymore.

You close your eyes, pretending to sleep, but your thoughts race. Vi is here. In your arms. In your bed. And you’re not sure what happens next.

But for tonight, you let yourself savor the closeness. Let yourself feel her heartbeat against yours, and the way her body rises and falls with each breath. For tonight, you let yourself pretend it’s enough.

—-

The water cascaded over your body, hot and soothing, as you leaned against the cool tile wall of the shower. Last night had been… something. You and Vi had stayed up late, talking and laughing, her raspy voice filling the room as she recounted some wild story from her past. She’d been so close, her scent—musky with a hint of sweat and leather—lingering in the air. How her muscular arm brushing against yours, you’d felt your heart race in a way you hadn’t expected.

You hadn’t meant to think about it now. You were just trying to wash away the remnants of the night, the way her laughter had made your stomach flutter, the way her sharp gray eyes had softened when she looked at you. But as the water ran down your skin, your hand unconsciously drifted lower. It was innocent at first, just your fingertips grazing your thighs as you lathered up. But then your mind wandered back to that moment—the way Vi’s hand had rested on the bed, her fingers so close to yours.

What if she’d reached for you?

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and your hand stilled. You shouldn’t. This was just a shower. But the heat of the water, the way your skin tingled, it was too much. Your fingers brushed against your clit, and you gasped, the sound echoing off the tiles. This is wrong, you thought, but your body didn’t care. Your fingers circled slowly, teasing, as you imagined it was Vi’s hand instead of yours.

Vi’s rough, calloused hands, though battle-hardened, always seemed so gentle when she touched you casually—when she’d brush your hair out of your face or adjust your scarf. You could almost feel her touch now, your fingers mimicking the way hers might move. Slow, deliberate, savoring every second.

You pressed your forehead against the wall, your breath hitching as you slipped a finger inside yourself, your body arching into the sensation. God, what would Vi do? You could picture her, her sharp eyes darkening with desire, her pink-tipped hair damp from the shower. She’d kiss you first, deep and hungry, her hands gripping your hips as she pressed you against the wall. She’d take her time, exploring every inch of you, her lips trailing down your neck, your chest, until—

“Fuck,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water. Your fingers moved faster now, curling inside you as your thumb pressed against your clit. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to escape. Vi would make you scream. She’d want to hear every sound, see every reaction, as she worked you with those skilled hands.

You imagined her voice, low and husky, whispering in your ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I’ve wanted this for so long.” The mental image of her saying those words sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and your knees nearly buckled. You pressed your free hand against the wall for support, your hips rocking into your hand as you chased the sensation.

It wasn’t enough. You needed more. You added another finger, the stretch making you gasp. Your other hand slid up to your breast, pinching your nipple as you imagined it was Vi’s mouth instead, her tongue flicking against you, her teeth grazing your skin. She’d be so focused, so deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours as she—

“Damn it, Vi,” you moaned, your voice breaking as the waves of pleasure started to build. You could almost feel her breath against your neck, her lips brushing your skin as she whispered your name. “Come for me, baby. Let me see you fall apart.”

The words, real or imagined, pushed you over the edge. Your body tensed, and you cried out, the sound swallowed by the steam-filled air. Your fingers worked you through it, the pleasure washing over you in waves as your legs trembled.

When you finally came down, your breathing ragged, you slumped against the wall, the water still pouring over you. Your heart was racing, your body still humming with the aftermath.

You were head over heels. And just masturbated to the thought of your best friend. Great.

—-

The night air is crisp and buzzing with the energy of the city. Neon lights flicker in the distance as you and Vi make your way down the uneven sidewalks, her arm brushing against yours as you walk. She’s laughing, her voice bright and carefree as she pulls you from one bar to the next. Her steps are easy, confident, the weight of her presence radiating in every step. Her outfit is casual but still somehow dangerous, the red leather jacket she wears hugging her frame, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the inked lines of her forearms. Her hair is still that messy blend of black and pink, the tips now faded into a pastel hue.

You catch yourself stealing glances at her, watching the way she moves, the way her confidence pulses like electricity, and you find yourself wishing—more than anything—that you could just be normal about this. About her.

But you can’t. You’ve been through this before, all the longing and frustration that comes with having feelings for someone you know you shouldn’t. Vi’s tough, rough around the edges, cocky and self-assured. She’s the last person you’d expect to break your heart, but here you are—feeling it all the same.

“So, I ran into Caitlyn today,” Vi says casually as the two of you slip into a dimly lit bar. The place is packed with the usual crowd—drunken laughter, clinking glasses, the low hum of conversations mixing with the music.

You don’t know why it hits you so hard. She’s mentioned Caitlyn before—of course she has. But tonight, it feels different. There’s a hint of something in her voice, something that tugs at you like a tight knot in your chest. She doesn’t look at you when she speaks, her eyes scanning the bar for a place to sit, but you catch the faint edge of longing in her voice, the small shift in her posture.

“Really?” you manage to say, your voice thick as you take a sip from your drink, the burn of alcohol doing nothing to numb the growing ache in your stomach.

Vi flops down into a booth, tossing her jacket over the back. She shrugs, her smile still playful but tinged with something more. “Yeah. Just ran into her on the street. She looked… good.” She lets out a soft chuckle, glancing at you. “You know how she is. Always perfect. Always put together.”

You force a laugh, though it feels brittle in your chest. “Yeah, I know how she is.”

Vi doesn’t miss the shift in your expression. Her gaze sharpens, but she doesn’t push. Not yet. “Anyway,” she continues, picking up her drink, “she asked how I’ve been. It’s been a while, y’know? I think she wanted to know if I was still pissed off at her.”

“Are you?” The question slips out before you can stop it. You feel your heart rate pick up, a spike of jealousy curling in your gut as you look at her, searching her face for an answer you don’t want to hear.

Vi’s eyes meet yours, steady and unflinching, but there’s something there��a flicker of vulnerability she doesn’t often show. “I was,” she admits, her voice quiet, softer than you’ve heard in a while. “But I think… I think I’m over it now. It was a long time ago, and I was angry, you know? Things just got fucked up, and I couldn’t see past that.”

You nod, taking another drink, swallowing your emotions down. It’s funny how easily she can say these things, how casually she speaks of the past, while every word she says feels like a punch to the gut. You want to ask about Caitlyn—about what happened between them, why it ended, if there’s still something there—but you can’t bring yourself to do it. The words stick in your throat, tangled up with everything you’re trying to hide.

Vi continues, her voice drifting between the clink of glasses and the chatter around you. “She was a good person. You know that. Just… not the right person for me. She was always the calm one, the one who had everything figured out. And I was… well, I was a mess. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I didn’t know how to handle her.”

You wince, your stomach twisting as you hear her words. You can’t stop the feeling of jealousy, the sudden sting in your chest. It’s like someone’s twisting a knife between your ribs, and it’s all you can do to keep it from showing on your face.

“She was everything I wasn’t,” Vi adds, her eyes downcast, a slight frown tugging at her lips. “But I didn’t know how to be that. I wanted to be better for her, but… I couldn’t be. And she deserved better than that.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. You don’t know what to say, how to make sense of the mess of emotions swirling inside you. You want to tell her that you would never think she’s a mess. You want to say that you’d take her as she is, all of her flaws and edges, that you don’t need her to change. But instead, you stay silent, trying to force the bitterness down.

Vi’s eyes flicker to you, catching the look in your eyes. She tilts her head slightly, narrowing her gaze. “You okay? You look kinda… off tonight.”

You force a smile, hoping it doesn’t come across too weak. “I’m fine. Just thinking about… stuff.”

She stares at you for a moment, before her lips curl into a small smile. “You sure? Because you’re not exactly the best at hiding when something’s bugging you.”

You want to tell her, but you can’t. You can’t let her know how much it hurts, how much you’re fighting this feeling that’s growing inside you—how much you’re starting to care for her in ways you shouldn’t. You look down at your drink, swirling the liquid around in your glass. “Yeah, just… tired, I guess.”

Vi watches you for a moment longer, then shrugs, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Alright. Just don’t bottle it up, yeah? I’m here if you need to talk. About anything.”

You nod, but it doesn’t feel like enough. The weight of her words lingers in the air between you, heavy and thick, and you can’t help but wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on. If she can feel the shift in the atmosphere, the way you’re both slowly slipping into dangerous territory.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of drinks, laughter, and the faint buzz of the crowd around you. Vi seems to be enjoying herself, but you’re stuck, lost in your own head, your thoughts constantly drifting back to Caitlyn, to the way Vi talked about her with that small, wistful look in her eyes. You can’t help but wonder if there’s a part of her that still wants her back. A part of her that’s never really let go.

By the time you find yourselves leaving the bar, the night air is cooler, the streets quieter. Vi keeps a hand on your back as you walk, a familiar gesture that calms the storm brewing in your chest. You try not to read too much into it, to push back against the warmth spreading through you as her touch lingers.

The walk home is comfortable, though the silence between you is charged with unspoken words. You’re still processing everything she said, still trying to make sense of the confusing mix of emotions building inside you. Part of you wants to confront her, to ask about Caitlyn and what she meant when she said all of that—but another part of you knows that asking will only hurt more.

When you get back to her place, you stand in the hallway for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Vi looks at you, her gray eyes soft in the dim light of the hallway. She reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, her touch light, almost tentative. “You good?” she asks again, the concern in her voice clearer now.

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”

Vi studies you for a moment, her expression unreadable, and then she nods. “Alright, get some rest. We’ll talk more later if you want.”

You don’t know what you want. You don’t know what this is anymore. But for now, you simply nod, letting the confusion of the night hang in the air, unresolved.

Vi pulls you into a hug, and you let yourself sink into it, feeling her warmth, the steady beat of her heart against yours. The scent of leather and sweat wraps around you.

—-

You can’t stop thinking about it. The words, the tone, the way Vi mentioned Caitlyn so casually, like it didn’t matter, but to you—it felt like a punch to the gut. Every time you close your eyes, her voice echoes in your head, and no matter how many distractions you try to bury yourself in, that dull ache doesn’t fade. It lingers like an unwelcome guest, gnawing at you.

The next few days, you find yourself avoiding Vi’s calls.

At first, it’s just a little thing. A missed call here, a text left unanswered there. You tell yourself it’s nothing; that you’re just busy, that you need space to sort out your thoughts. But deep down, you know the truth. It’s not that simple.

You’re hurt. Not because of anything Vi did directly, but because of the way she spoke about Caitlyn. The way her words slipped through her lips like they were just another part of the past—no big deal. But it was a big deal. And now, all of a sudden, you feel like you’re standing on shaky ground, wondering where you even fit into the equation.

You can’t stand the thought of confronting her about it. Not now. Not when everything feels so fragile. And so, you shut her out. You put your phone on Do Not Disturb, hoping it’ll ease the tension in your chest, hoping it’ll stop the nagging voice that tells you you’re making a mistake.

But every time you see her name flash across the screen, the same guilt twists in your stomach. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re doing something wrong, that you’re hurting her. You’ve been avoiding her, and now she’s probably wondering what’s going on. But the thought of answering her call makes your palms sweat, your throat tighten.

She deserves to know. But you don’t know how to explain it without sounding pathetic or—worse—jealous. And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t want to show her that side of you.

You spend the next couple of days lost in a haze of half-hearted distractions. You keep busy at work, telling yourself that you’re handling it, that it’s fine. That everything’s fine. But the quiet moments—the moments when you’re alone, scrolling through your phone, wishing you didn’t feel this way—they’re the hardest.

Vi’s calls pile up. Her name pops up on your screen with an alarming frequency. The notifications buzz against your thoughts, but you keep pushing them aside, telling yourself you just need more time. Time to figure out your emotions. Time to breathe.

By the third day, it’s unbearable. You’re staring at your phone, the screen dimly glowing in the dark of your room. Vi’s name appears again. The missed calls, the unanswered texts, they all sit like a pile of bricks on your chest. You tell yourself it’s the last one. You’ll call her back after this, explain yourself.

But you don’t. You let it ring until it cuts off.

You toss your phone aside, the weight of your own avoidance crushing down on you. You want to pick it up. You want to apologize, to explain how you’re feeling, to confess that you’re scared. But you don’t. And in that silence, all you hear is your own mind—replaying the conversation from the bar over and over, the hurt mixing with confusion. You’re not even sure what you want from her. Maybe you’re just scared.

Maybe you’re just scared of losing her.

It’s hard to admit. You’ve never been one to shy away from confrontation, but this—this is different. Vi is different. She’s rough and tough and loud and brash, but you’ve always known there was something more beneath that surface. Something vulnerable, something real. And the way she talked about Caitlyn—it shattered the image you’d built in your mind.

You know she’s not perfect. You’ve seen the cracks, the way she hides behind her bravado, how easily her smile fades when she’s alone with her thoughts. You’ve seen the guilt she carries. You’ve seen the fear in her eyes when she thinks she’s lost someone. But this—the mention of Caitlyn—made you realize how little you truly knew about her. It made you feel like you were standing on the outside, looking in.

The quiet of the room is suffocating. You can almost hear the sound of her voice, asking where you’ve been, why you haven’t been answering. The image of her standing there, a little worried, maybe frustrated, pulls at your heartstrings, but you don’t call her back. Not yet.

When you do finally text her, it’s a half-hearted attempt to break the silence.

“Sorry, been busy.”

It’s a lie. You both know it. But it’s the only thing you can manage. You don’t know how else to explain it without sounding foolish. Without sounding like you’re overreacting.

Vi’s response comes quickly, as if she’s been waiting for it. You almost feel guilty for making her wait.

“Busy, huh?” The text is light, playful, but you can read between the lines. You can tell she’s trying to hide the concern, trying to make it sound like it doesn’t matter, when you know it does.

“Everything alright?” she asks.

You stare at the screen for a long time, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. What do you even say to that? You’re not sure what’s wrong, only that something inside you is screaming that this isn’t right. That you shouldn’t be ignoring her. That you should be honest with her.

But it’s not that simple.

You’re not sure you can handle her reaction, not sure you’re ready to hear what she might say. Maybe she’ll brush it off, maybe she’ll get angry. Maybe you’re just overthinking it, as usual. Maybe she’ll realize you’re not as strong as you’ve made yourself out to be. You can’t stand the thought of her seeing you weak, seeing you vulnerable.

So, you text back instead of calling. “Yeah. Just needed some space.”

You want to kick yourself as soon as the words leave your fingertips. It sounds so evasive, so cowardly. You know it’s not enough, that it’s not the truth. But you send it anyway, too scared to say what you really feel.

Her reply is quick, but it’s different this time. There’s no joking, no playful tone.

“You sure? You’ve been kinda distant. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want you to shut me out, okay?”

You stare at the words, feeling a lump form in your throat. You know she’s trying to keep it light, trying to make sure you don’t shut her down completely, but it doesn’t work. Not this time. Not when you’re already so closed off.

You try to breathe, try to push the panic back down. You want to answer her, want to tell her that you’re just figuring things out, that it’s not her fault. But the words don’t come.

You’re scared of how she’ll react. Scared of her asking about Caitlyn. Scared that she’ll realize how much it hurts to hear her talk about her past.

You let the text sit there for a while, the silence between you growing louder with every passing second. The longer you wait, the more the pressure builds, and you can feel yourself slipping away from her, inch by inch. You know she doesn’t deserve this, and yet you’re doing it anyway. You’re pushing her away.

You try to distract yourself with something else—anything else—but the weight of the situation follows you like a shadow. You can’t escape it. You can’t escape her.

And all you want to do is reach out, to apologize, to fix the mess you’ve created. But you can’t seem to bring yourself to do it.

—-

The tunnel is small, a forgotten relic of a time when the city was less crowded, less dangerous. The walls are damp, with faint graffiti marking the passage of time. The air smells like rust and mildew, but to you, it’s home. You’ve sat here with Vi countless times, the two of you passing around a joint, talking about everything and nothing. The dim light from the outside world doesn’t penetrate here, and you find comfort in the shadows.

You’re waiting for her, leaning against the cool concrete wall, hands shoved deep into your pockets. You’re not sure why you chose this spot tonight, of all places. Maybe it’s because it’s quiet, away from the distractions, away from the noise of the world and the chaos that always seems to follow Vi wherever she goes. Maybe it’s because it feels like the only place you can breathe right now.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t need to check it to know it’s her. Vi’s calls have been relentless these past few days, and you’ve ignored every single one. You’re still not sure how to face her after everything that happened, but you can’t keep avoiding her. The guilt weighs heavily on your chest, and the thought of losing her over something as stupid as your own insecurities makes your stomach turn.

A shadow falls across the entrance of the tunnel, and you look up, your heart skipping a beat when you see her. Vi’s silhouette is outlined by the dim light from outside, and she steps into the tunnel with her usual swagger, that confident, cocky walk that makes her seem invincible. She’s dressed as always—her leather jacket, those worn boots, and her loose pants that hang low on her hips. Her hair, with its black and pink tips, falls messily around her face, and the right side is shaved as usual, giving her a sharp, edgy look.

“Yo, you actually showed up,” Vi says with a grin, her light gray eyes sparkling with amusement. She leans against the wall, just a few feet away from you, and for a moment, the tension in the air dissipates. Her gaze shifts to the space beside you, the small gap between your bodies, before she pulls out a small bag from her jacket pocket.

You can feel the weight of her presence next to you, even though there’s nothing physical separating the two of you. Her energy, her confidence, everything about her pulls you in. The tension you’ve been holding onto since that night—since you shut her out—begins to loosen as she opens the bag and pulls out a small joint.

“Smoke?” she offers, her voice a little softer than usual. You hesitate for a moment, but then you nod, grateful for the distraction. You take the joint from her, fingers brushing lightly against hers, and you can’t help but notice how warm she feels. Her touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but she doesn’t pull away, and neither do you.

You bring the joint to your lips and take a deep drag. The smoke fills your lungs, a temporary escape from the whirlwind of thoughts racing through your mind. As you exhale, the warmth spreads through your chest, and for a brief moment, you forget about everything else.

Vi takes the joint back and takes a slow drag herself, her eyes half-lidded as she watches you. “How’ve you been?” she asks, her tone casual, but there’s a subtle undercurrent of concern in her voice.

You shrug, not trusting your own voice yet. “Same old,” you reply, forcing a small smile. It feels like a lie, but you’re not ready to unload all your feelings. Not yet.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but she doesn’t press you further. Instead, she takes another drag and then passes the joint back to you. “I’ve been doing alright,” she says, her voice a little quieter now. “Been keeping busy.”

The air between you is comfortable, but there’s something unspoken hanging between you two. It’s like both of you know that this conversation is inevitable—that you can’t keep ignoring what happened, what’s been simmering under the surface for days.

You take another drag from the joint, your fingers trembling slightly as you pass it back to her. “Vi…” Your voice is barely a whisper, and she looks at you, eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing the shift in the air.

She leans in a little closer, her shoulder brushing against yours. The closeness feels electric, like the static between you two is building, and you can’t ignore it. Not anymore. It’s all you can feel, the heat of her skin next to yours, the rhythmic beat of your heart pulsing in your chest, louder and louder.

“Yeah?” she asks, her voice softer now, almost hesitant.

You bite your lip, your heart racing in your chest. “I—I’ve been thinking about stuff.” The words feel like they’re stuck in your throat, heavy and hard to say. “About us.”

Vi’s expression shifts, and for the first time, she looks a little uncertain. It’s brief, but it’s there. She shifts so that her body faces yours, her eyes searching yours for answers. “Us?” Her tone is quiet, like she’s waiting for you to finish.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice trembling just a little. You want to tell her everything, everything that’s been swirling in your mind. “I’ve been avoiding you, and I don’t know why,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I guess I’m just… scared.”

Vi doesn’t say anything at first. She just watches you, her light gray eyes searching your face for the truth. The night feels heavier now, the air thick with the tension between you two. You’re sitting so close, your shoulders brushing with every shift of your bodies. Her scent, a mix of leather and something sweet, fills your senses, and it makes your pulse quicken.

“You don’t have to be scared of me, babe,” she says finally, her voice low and sincere. You wince at the causal usual of “babe”. She reaches out, her hand finding yours, fingers intertwining in a familiar gesture that sends a spark through your veins. “I get it. You’ve got your own stuff to work through. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

You can feel the warmth of her hand in yours, the pressure of her fingers against yours grounding you, reminding you that she’s still here, still with you. And for the first time in days, you let yourself relax, just a little.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. The words are out before you can stop them, and you realize how true they are the second they leave your lips. You’re afraid of what this might mean, of what might happen if you let yourself get too close to her, so you added on. “You’re my best friend, you know?”

Vi’s expression softens, and she squeezes your hand tighter. “You won’t lose me,” she says firmly. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you push me away.”

You look at her, her face so close to yours now, and for a moment, everything else fades into the background. It’s just the two of you in the dark tunnel, the quiet whispers between you, and the weight of everything unsaid. The pull between you is undeniable now, stronger than before.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. You’re not sure if it’s the weed, or the vulnerability in her eyes, but you feel like grabbing her and kissing her in this damnned tunnel.

Vi leans in just a little closer, her lips brushing your ear as she speaks. “No need to apologize. Just… don’t shut me out again. I’m not gonna leave you, alright?”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, and you nod, your heart pounding in your chest.

—-

You wake up with a start, your body tangled in the sheets, the dim light from the morning creeping in through the cracks in your curtains. Your head is heavy, groggy from the sleep you just dragged yourself out of, but the feeling in your chest is even heavier. You groan softly, your fingers pressing to your temples as you try to gather your bearings. The remnants of the dream you just woke from flood back to you in vivid flashes.

It was her—Vi. It always is.

You shift in your bed, the warmth of your body flushed against the sheets as if they can provide some comfort to your burning skin. But it’s not the heat of the room that has you feeling like you’re on fire. It’s the aftereffects of the dream—how she touched you, how her hands felt like they belonged on your body, like the world would make sense if you just let her pull you in closer. In the dream, she was soft, her fingers trailing across your skin with care, her eyes dark with something you couldn’t place but felt like it was meant for you. The dream felt so real, the tension, the pull between you two—it was electric, intoxicating, and now, your heart is pounding with the echo of it.

You pull the sheets off your body, the cool air of your room brushing against your hot skin. You sit up, running your hands through your tangled hair, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. God, I can’t believe I let that happen, you think to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut. You try to steady yourself, but there’s an ache in your chest that won’t go away.

It’s just a dream, right?

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. It’s more than a crush now. You can feel it in the way your body still aches, the way your chest tightens when you think of her, the way you can’t seem to get her out of your mind no matter how hard you try. Vi, with her sharp gaze and that way she walks like she owns the world—she’s always been close, always been a presence in your life. But lately, it’s something more. It’s a longing that you can’t shake off.

It’s just a damn dream, right? you repeat to yourself, but the words feel hollow. The ache in your chest doesn’t let up, doesn’t fade like it should. You stand up from the bed, your feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, your head still foggy but clearer now that you’re awake. You move to the window, pushing back the curtains and letting the sunlight stream into the room. You try to ground yourself in reality, trying to shake the remnants of the dream that cling to your skin like a second layer.

But the truth is, you can’t. Because deep down, you know it’s not just a dream. It’s real.

You let out a breath, running your hands over your face. This is ridiculous, you tell yourself. But no matter how many times you try to talk yourself out of it, the feeling doesn’t go away. The ache in your chest, the heat in your veins when you think of her—it’s undeniable.

You take a few more deep breaths, trying to calm your racing thoughts. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling you from your thoughts. You reach for it, hoping for a distraction, but your stomach drops when you see the name on the screen.

Vi.

Your heart skips a beat, and for a moment, you’re paralyzed. You know that this is the moment when everything could change. You could ignore her, pretend that things are still the same, or you could be honest, but God you’re not sure you’re ready for that. You glance at the message, the words simple but heavy in their own way.

“You up?”

You let out a soft breath, glancing at the phone for a moment longer. You want to text her back, but the words don’t come. Instead, you slide the phone into your pocket and get dressed, moving like a robot through the motions. You pull on your clothes—jeans and a simple shirt—your fingers shaking slightly as you go. The dream still lingers, clouding your mind, and you try to focus on something—anything—that isn’t Vi.

But as you finish getting ready, you can’t help but wonder if this will be the day everything changes. The day you have to confront what’s been bubbling under the surface for so long. You don’t want to think about it, but you know you can’t avoid it forever. Not when Vi keeps showing up, not when the pull between you two is growing stronger.

As you step outside, the morning air is crisp against your skin. You breathe it in, hoping the fresh air will clear your head, but you know it won’t. Because the only thing that fills your thoughts is her. Vi, with her piercing gray eyes and that way she walks like she’s always on the move, always in control.

You head to the usual spot, the alley where you and Vi always meet. It’s quiet this morning, the sound of distant footsteps and traffic the only noise that fills the air. You wait, shifting on your feet, trying to focus on anything other than the way your heart is racing. You feel like you’re on the edge of something—something big—and you’re not sure if you’re ready for it.

It’s then that you hear it. Her voice.

“Yo, you out here?” Vi’s voice is rough, familiar, and when you turn around, she’s standing there, leaning against the wall, looking as effortlessly cool as always. Her hair is messy, the black and pink strands falling over her face, and she’s wearing that red leather jacket that always seems to make her look untouchable.

For a moment, you just stare at her, taking her in, your breath catching in your throat. She’s exactly the same and yet, everything about her feels different today. The pull between you two is undeniable now, and you can feel it in your chest, like a magnet drawing you in.

“Hey,” you say, your voice betraying the way your body feels—hot, tight, and anxious all at once.

She raises an eyebrow, pushing off the wall and stepping closer to you. Her light gray eyes scan your face, and you know she’s noticed the way you’re acting. She always notices everything. “You alright? You look like you’ve been hit with something.”

You nod quickly, trying to play it off. “Yeah, just… woke up a little weird, that’s all.”

Vi doesn’t seem convinced. She studies you for a moment longer, her gaze lingering on you in that way she does when she’s trying to figure you out. The tension in the air grows thicker, and you can feel your heart beat faster with every second that passes. You can’t hide from her, not when she’s looking at you like that.

“You sure?” she asks, her voice low, concern lacing her words.

For a moment, you want to open up to her, tell her everything that’s been building up inside you. Tell her about the dream, about the way your heart races when she’s near, about how you can’t seem to get her out of your head. But the words stick in your throat, and instead of saying what you really feel, you offer her a nervous smile.

“Yeah, just a little… off, that’s all,” you say, but even as you say it, you know she doesn’t buy it.

She steps closer, her presence overwhelming in the best and worst ways. You can feel the heat of her body near yours, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The world around you disappears, and there’s only Vi, with her sharp eyes and the way she makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

“Don’t hide shit from me,” she says quietly, her voice firm but tender at the same time. “If something’s going on, you tell me.”

You swallow hard, your chest tightening. The words are right there, sitting on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. But you hold back, still too scared to confront what’s been bubbling inside you for so long.

Instead, you take a step back, your heart pounding in your chest, and force a smile. “I’m good, really.”

Vi watches you for a moment longer, her eyes piercing through you, before she lets out a soft sigh. “Alright. But you’re not fooling me.”

You don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending. The ache in your chest only grows stronger as she stands there, so close to you, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like a thick fog.

And you know, deep down, that you won’t be able to hide from her forever.

—-

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind where the world feels like it’s moving in slow motion. The air is warm with the fading sun, and yet you find yourself standing in front of an old, worn-out Walmart, the fluorescent lights flickering above you. The place is almost empty, save for a few stray shoppers meandering down the aisles. It’s not much, really—just a place to kill time. But as you glance over at Vi, your heart stirs in ways it shouldn’t.

She’s grinning at you like she knows exactly what she’s about to drag you into. “You ready for this?” she asks, her light gray eyes gleaming with mischief. Her voice is playful, teasing, and it sends a thrill through your chest.

“Ready for what, exactly?” you ask, unsure of what she’s getting at, but you can already tell that trouble is on the horizon. You glance around at the dilapidated shelves and faded signs. It’s not the kind of place you’d expect to cause chaos, but with Vi, it feels like anything is possible.

With a smirk, she grabs your hand and pulls you inside. “Trust me,” she says, her grip firm and comforting, “I’ve got ideas.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing through the aisles, and for a moment, you feel like teenagers again, back when things were simpler. The weight of everything between you two—the unspoken tension, the aching longing you’ve been trying so hard to push down—feels a million miles away. All that matters right now is the pure, chaotic energy Vi brings to every moment. You follow her, your heart beating just a little faster than it should, and your mind pushing aside any thoughts of what lies beyond this carefree moment.

The first aisle she drags you to is the toy section, and without a word, she picks up a rubber chicken and throws it at you. You catch it, laughing despite yourself, and before you can protest, she grabs another one and flings it at you. “Fight me for it,” she teases, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

It’s absurd, ridiculous even, but you’re both laughing like you don’t have a care in the world. Vi is all sharp edges and rough-around-the-edges charm, but when she smiles like this, like the weight of the world doesn’t exist, you can’t help but fall for her all over again. There’s something so disarming about her, the way she pulls you into her orbit without even trying. You find yourself doing whatever she says, caught up in the moment, lost in the easy laughter between you two.

You toss the rubber chicken back at her, but instead of catching it, she lets it bounce off her face, still laughing like a kid. You watch her, her sharp features softened by the carefree smile that tugs at her lips. Her eyes—normally so intense—are soft now, sparkling with unfiltered joy. You almost forget just how protective and serious she can be, how that edge she carries is always there, just beneath the surface. In moments like this, it’s easy to pretend you’re not walking on a knife’s edge, balancing between friendship and something much more.

Vi grabs a set of silly string, spraying it all over you with a wild laugh, her hair bouncing with every movement. You retaliate with a can of your own, spraying her right in the face, but she doesn’t care—she’s having too much fun. The bright colors of the string cling to her skin, adding to the wildness of her already chaotic look. You can’t help but watch her as she wipes the string from her face, grinning like she’s won some kind of victory. She’s radiant, untouchable in the way she moves through the world, but in these small moments, when it’s just the two of you, she’s completely yours. And for a heartbeat, it feels like maybe you’re hers, too.

You take a step closer, the playful tension still humming between you, and you reach for another can of silly string. The cans are cheap, and the store is almost deserted, so you feel free to let loose, to let your guard down. It’s like you’ve been given a license to act like a fool, and with Vi here, you can’t resist. You spray her again, and this time, she retaliates, tackling you in the most unexpected way, pulling you down to the floor with her.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, tangled on the aisle floor, laughing and trying to catch your breath. You’re so close you can feel the heat of her body pressed against yours, her breath quick and uneven from laughter. You feel her hand slip under your waist, your heartbeat racing in a way that has nothing to do with the ridiculousness of the situation. There’s an undercurrent of something more, something deeper, that you can’t ignore.

Vi looks down at you, her eyes flashing with something you can’t quite place. Her usual cocky grin is replaced by something softer, something that has your heart thumping in your chest. “You alright, babe?” she asks, her voice low and teasing, but there’s an edge to it now, something a little more intimate than before.

You nod, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through your body at her touch, at the way she calls you “babe” without hesitation. It’s just a nickname, a playful one at that, but the way she says it makes your heart flutter in ways it shouldn’t. She doesn’t seem to notice the way your breath hitches, though. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. Either way, her smile deepens as she pulls herself off you and extends a hand to help you up. You take it, your fingers brushing together for a second longer than necessary.

The moment lingers between you, the distance closing between your bodies, and you can’t help but think how easy it would be to lean in, to feel the soft warmth of her lips against yours. But you pull back, unsure if you’re ready for that, unsure if you should even want it.

“C’mon, let’s go find something else to ruin,” she says, the hint of mischief back in her voice. She’s already moving, and you follow her like a moth to a flame. You both start heading down the next aisle, but the whole time, the quiet hum of your heartbeats fills your ears, a constant reminder that something between you two is changing.

Vi stops at a shelf filled with cheap sunglasses, tossing a pair at you with a grin. You catch them, adjusting the frames as she grabs a pair for herself. “We look ridiculous,” she says, inspecting herself in a nearby mirror, “but it’s fun.”

You chuckle, adjusting the shades on your face, still feeling the odd fluttering in your chest. “You look ridiculous,” you tease, though you know full well you look just as silly in the mirrored reflection.

But it’s not the sunglasses that are making you feel strange. It’s the way she’s looking at you, the way she tilts her head, her gray eyes locking with yours in that knowing way that makes your pulse race. The way she stands so close to you, like she’s ready to pull you into the chaos at any moment, like she already owns you.

And for the first time, it occurs to you that maybe she does.

You feel your breath catch, and your heart pounds louder in your chest. You want to say something, do something, but the words are stuck in your throat. You want to tell her how much this means, how much she means, but you’re scared of what will happen if you do. Scared that you’ll ruin this easy camaraderie between you two, scared that she doesn’t feel the same way.

Vi doesn’t give you time to think about it. Instead, she grabs your wrist and pulls you down another aisle, causing a small crash as you knock a stack of boxes off a shelf. But it’s too late to worry about that now. You’re just caught up in the pull of her, caught up in her laughter, in her world.

And for one fleeting moment, you let yourself be completely, utterly lost in it.

—-

The room is quiet, save for the soft murmur of Bluey’s theme song playing from Vi’s TV. The screen lights up in hues of blue and orange, casting a gentle glow across the room. The air smells faintly of popcorn—salt and butter mixing together in that nostalgic way that makes you feel like a kid again, content and safe in the comfort of something simple. But the weight of the moment isn’t lost on you, and every breath you take seems to pull you deeper into the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind.

You and Vi are sitting side by side on her bed, your knees brushing against hers as you both share the bowl of popcorn. You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting like this, but the clock on the wall says it’s late, though neither of you seem to mind. The show is light, fun, the kind of thing that doesn’t require much thought. But your attention is far from the cartoon in front of you. Instead, it’s on her—on the way she laughs softly, the way her light gray eyes shimmer with amusement, the way her lips curl into a grin that makes your heart thud a little harder.

You steal a glance at her, trying to be subtle, but you can’t help yourself. She’s sitting so close that you can feel the warmth of her body, smell the faint hint of leather from her jacket mixed with the earthy scent of her skin. She looks… different here. Softer. Less guarded. In the light, her features seem to soften—those sharp eyes, always so full of fire and determination, are now lighter, warmer. She looks like she’s at ease, like she’s just a regular person, and not the tough, cocky woman you know so well. It’s a side of her you’ve seen glimpses of before, but never quite this clearly.

Vi glances over at you, catching your gaze before you can look away. A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and she raises an eyebrow, her eyes dancing with curiosity. “What?” she asks, her voice light but with a hint of teasing underneath.

You quickly avert your gaze, focusing on the popcorn in your lap, though you can’t shake the warmth creeping up your neck. You try to play it off, reaching for another handful of popcorn. “Nothing,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the fluttering in your chest. “Just… enjoying the show.”

She doesn’t buy it, of course. Vi always knows when something’s up with you. She’s perceptive like that, and even now, you can feel her gaze on you, watching you carefully. But she doesn’t press further, for now. Instead, she picks up a piece of popcorn, holding it between her fingers and offering it to you with a small smirk.

“Wanna share?” she asks, her voice teasing but oddly tender.

You take the popcorn from her fingers, your hand brushing against hers in the process. The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt through your body, and you can’t help but notice how your heart skips a beat. You want to say something, but your throat feels tight, your words caught somewhere between your heart and your mind.

Vi’s eyes flicker over to you again, this time a little more intense, the playful gleam in her gaze shifting to something deeper. She turns her body just slightly, angling herself toward you, and the small shift in her posture makes your breath hitch. The space between you feels charged now, more than just the physical proximity. Her presence is overwhelming in the best way possible, like everything else in the room fades when she’s near. And you can’t help but wonder if she feels the same.

You try to focus on the popcorn, on the way the kernels crunch between your fingers, but your mind is too consumed with the thoughts of her. The way her fingers curl around the bowl, the way her breath comes a little faster when she laughs, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. It’s impossible not to notice how stunning she is, how powerful and beautiful, even in these quiet moments where she’s just… herself.

You take another glance at her. The way her black hair tumbles around her face, the pink tips adding a playful touch to her rugged, battle-worn look. She doesn’t seem like someone who should be sitting on a bed with you, sharing popcorn, watching a kids’ show. She seems like someone who belongs on the frontlines, someone who’s seen too much and fought too hard to ever be this relaxed.

But here she is, with you. And it feels like something has shifted between the two of you, something that neither of you have said aloud, but it’s there, hanging in the air. The tension, thick and palpable, pulls at your chest, at your very soul, and you wonder if Vi feels it too. You wonder if she notices the way your pulse quickens whenever she’s close, or how your body leans toward hers without even thinking.

You know you should say something, but the words feel like they’re trapped, caught in the web of your thoughts. How could you possibly tell her what’s going on in your mind? That you’re afraid to cross that line, to ruin everything by admitting just how much you want her, need her, in a way that goes beyond friendship. How could you admit that you feel something deeper than the playful banter, deeper than the way she always makes you laugh, deeper than the simple touches that leave your heart racing?

You reach for more popcorn, your hands trembling slightly, though you try to hide it. But Vi notices, of course she does. She always does.

“You alright?” she asks, her voice softer now, the teasing edge gone, replaced by something a little more serious. Her eyes are fixed on you, studying you, and for a second, you think she might see right through you, might know exactly what you’re thinking.

You nod, forcing a smile, but it feels stiff. “Yeah, just… tired,” you lie, though it’s not entirely untrue. You are exhausted, in more ways than one. “I’m good.”

Vi doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she leans back against the headboard, stretching her legs out beside you. She turns her attention back to the TV, but you can tell she’s not really watching it anymore. She’s too focused on you, on the subtle shifts in your mood, the way you’ve pulled away just a little bit.

You can feel the space between you widen, and it feels like a chasm you’re afraid to cross. You want to reach out, to pull her closer, to feel the warmth of her body pressed against yours, but you’re scared. Scared of what that might mean. Scared of how it might change everything between you two.

The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, as you both sit there, the room filled with nothing but the hum of the TV and the quiet rustle of the popcorn bowl between you. You can’t help but wonder if she feels the same way, if she’s been thinking about this moment as much as you have.

And then, as if on cue, she shifts again, moving closer to you, her knee brushing against yours. Her body leans just a little more into yours, and the touch is electric. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat, as your heart thuds in your chest. This close, you can feel the heat radiating off her, the tension building between you two like an unspoken promise.

Vi glances at you from the corner of her eye, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “You sure you’re okay?” she asks again, this time her voice barely above a whisper. It’s the first time tonight that she’s sounded so… uncertain, like she’s waiting for you to say something, to give her a sign.

You swallow hard, fighting to keep your composure, but the truth is, you can’t. You’re not okay. Not when she’s so close, when her presence fills the space between you, and the urge to reach out, to touch her, to feel her lips on yours, is nearly overwhelming. Every fiber of your being is screaming for you to close the distance, to pull her closer and let go of the fear that’s holding you back.

But you don’t. You stay still, your body aching with the need to reach out but frozen by uncertainty. What if this moment shatters everything? What if it changes the way she sees you? You want more than just friendship, but are you brave enough to take that leap?

Vi’s eyes flicker to you again, and in that moment, everything goes quiet. There’s a softness in her gaze now, a vulnerability that’s rarely there. She’s waiting. For you. And for the first time in your life, you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something beautiful, something terrifying, and you have to decide whether you’re ready to jump.

You just don’t know if you are.

—-

The room is dim, the only light coming from the flickering screen of Vi’s phone. The warmth of the room is a strange contrast to the cool air drifting in from the cracked window, and the quiet hum of the night seems to pull you into a strange, peaceful fog. The two of you are sitting on her bed, a bottle of liquor half-empty between you, the world around you feeling hazy and distant. The buzz from the alcohol dances through your veins, making everything feel a little more vivid, a little more intense, than it usually does.

Vi’s laugh cuts through the air, a low, throaty sound that makes your heart race. The way her eyes glint with mischief, her lips curled in that familiar smirk—it all feels so comfortable, so easy. The tension that usually lingers between the two of you is gone, replaced by something lighter, something that makes you feel like you could just let go. And, in this moment, you do.

You can’t quite place the feeling that’s slowly building inside of you—the warm flutter in your chest that only intensifies the closer you get to Vi. You’ve been here with her before, laughing and joking, but tonight feels different. There’s something in the way she looks at you, in the way her hand rests casually on your knee, as if she’s comfortable with the proximity.

The two of you are sprawled out on her bed, the screen of her phone showing some Twitch streamer’s antics, but neither of you are really watching. The distance between you feels too small, your shoulders brushing every time either of you shifts. And for some reason, it feels electric. It feels like you’re both walking a tightrope, and you’re not sure which direction the fall will come from.

Vi leans in closer, nudging you lightly with her shoulder, a playful grin spreading across her face. “You’ve been staring at me all night,” she teases, her voice slurred just enough that it doesn’t quite sound like the sharp, cocky tone she usually uses. She’s a little drunk, and you’re not far behind. But still, her presence is overwhelming in the best way possible, and the alcohol only makes the desire to touch her, to be close to her, more unbearable.

You laugh, nervously, though your breath hitches in your throat. “I wasn’t staring,” you reply, your words a little more hesitant than usual, and you know she can see right through you. The way your chest tightens, the way your heartbeat speeds up whenever she’s near. She knows, even if you’re not ready to admit it.

Vi raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing you, and before you can say anything else, she moves closer, her body inching toward yours until she’s right beside you. You can feel her breath against your skin, and the proximity is enough to make your pulse race. The distance between you is nonexistent, and you wonder if she can feel it too. The way your body is leaning into hers without thinking, the way your legs are tangled beneath the blanket, making it all feel like an impossible puzzle you can’t quite figure out.

And then, before you can even process it, your face is inches from hers. Her eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, time seems to slow. Your heart skips a beat, your throat tightens, and the world falls away. It’s just the two of you, in this small room, under the dim light of her phone.

Your hand reaches out almost involuntarily, fingers brushing against the side of her face, and you feel the heat of her skin against your fingertips. Her breath hitches as your thumb brushes along her jaw, the touch so light, so tender that it almost feels like an apology for everything unsaid between you two. But when her gaze softens, and her lips part just slightly, you can’t help it anymore.

You lean in.

The moment your lips meet, everything disappears. The awkwardness, the tension, the uncertainty—it all vanishes in an instant. It’s just you and Vi, your lips meeting in a soft kiss that deepens almost immediately, as if neither of you can wait to feel each other. Her hand is in your hair, tugging you closer, and you feel her body shift as she presses herself against you, the warmth of her skin burning through your clothes.

You can taste the faint hint of alcohol on her lips, the salty sweetness of the drink you shared earlier. But it’s more than that—it’s her. The way her lips mold against yours, the way she moves with such ease, like she’s always known how to be close to you, even when neither of you had the courage to admit it.

Her kiss is slow, deliberate, like she’s savoring every moment, and for the first time, you feel completely at ease. The world outside this room doesn’t exist. There’s no danger, no guilt, no fear. Just the two of you, tangled in each other, with nothing but the warmth of her body and the rhythm of her kiss to keep you grounded.

Your hands move without thinking, your fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, as if you can’t get enough of her. And she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she deepens the kiss, her breath ragged against your lips, her chest pressed firmly against yours. You can feel the weight of her body, the strength in her arms, the way her muscles tense as she pulls you closer, as if afraid to let you go.

It’s a feeling you can’t describe, something raw and overwhelming, and for the first time, you let yourself embrace it. You let yourself feel the way your heart pounds in your chest, the way your body responds to hers, the way everything in you seems to be drawn to her.

The kiss seems to go on forever, and yet, it’s over in an instant. You pull away slowly, both of you breathless, your forehead resting against hers as you try to steady your racing heart. The room feels unbearably quiet now, the weight of what just happened pressing down on you.

Vi’s eyes are half-lidded, her lips slightly swollen from the kiss, and there’s a look on her face—something soft, something that you’ve never seen before. It’s vulnerability, something she doesn’t show easily, especially not when she’s in control, when she’s being the strong, tough woman that everyone knows. But right now, with her body pressed against yours, her chest rising and falling with each breath, she’s letting you see her.

You can barely catch your breath before Vi suddenly breaks the silence with a nervous laugh, her hand running through her messy hair. Her eyes are wide, and the playful glint is back, though it’s tinged with an awkwardness you haven’t seen before.

“Holy shit,” she says, a nervous chuckle escaping her lips. “Uh, well, that wasn’t exactly what I expected… but hey, best friends do stuff like that, right?”

Your stomach drops, the weight of her words hitting you like a punch to the gut. Best friends. You can feel your cheeks burning as you pull back, your heart sinking into your stomach. The room suddenly feels a lot colder, the connection you just shared slipping through your fingers like sand.

You can’t help the way your heart aches, the disappointment settling in your chest. You try to laugh it off, but the sound is hollow. “Yeah,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. “Best friends.”

Vi, noticing your sudden change, scrambles for a way to lighten the moment. She gives you a soft smile, though it’s tinged with that all-too-familiar defensiveness, like she’s trying to hide behind the bravado she wears like armor. “Hey, come on. It’s cool, alright? We’re fine. Nothing weird here. We’re just… having fun, yeah?”

You nod, though it feels like your heart is a little heavier than it was before. Vi, ever the fighter, is already laughing it off, the awkwardness of the moment fading as she slips back into her usual confident self. You can see the way her eyes dance with the mischief that always seems to follow her, but it doesn’t quite reach you the way it usually does.

“Just don’t get all weird about it,” she teases, poking your side lightly, her grin returning. “You’re my best friend. Nothing more, nothing less. Right?”

You smile weakly, the warmth in her touch not quite able to erase the knot in your chest. But you push it down, letting the tension slip away, telling yourself it’s alright. Because that’s what you do, right? You laugh it off, and pretend that nothing’s changed.

—-

The light creeping in through the window is soft, casting muted shadows across the room. You’re lying in Vi’s bed, the sheets tangled around your legs, her scent still lingering in the air. Her presence, warm and comforting just a few hours ago, now feels suffocating. The memories of last night swirl in your mind like a storm, each flash of the kiss a wave crashing against the shore of your thoughts.

Your stomach twists with a mixture of guilt and longing, and you can’t seem to find the right words to explain what happened, to make sense of it all. The kiss—her lips, soft and insistent, pulling you closer, deeper—lingers like an echo you can’t shake. But the moment it ended, so did the easy flow of everything between you two. Vi had laughed awkwardly, as if trying to pretend it didn’t mean something, didn’t matter. She had called you her best friend. Nothing more. That stung worse than you expected.

You slip out of bed slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. You can feel the coolness of the floor beneath your bare feet, the weight of the situation pressing down on your chest. It’s easier to slip away now, to run from whatever this is, whatever you’ve created. You don’t know if it’s real, and that terrifies you.

The room is still dark enough that Vi’s absence doesn’t seem so strange, but as you stand there, looking down at the sheets crumpled from where she had slept beside you, a part of you wants to stay. A part of you wants to crawl back into her arms, bury yourself in the warmth of her embrace, forget about the harshness of reality. But you know that’s not what you need right now.

You move toward the door, your heart thudding in your chest. It’s a mess of confusion. The memories of last night feel so vivid, so intense, but you can’t seem to tie them to the person you thought you knew. You don’t want to lose her as a friend. You can’t bear the idea of losing that part of her, of ruining everything you’ve built. So you do the one thing you can—leave.

You don’t make a sound as you pull the door open, stepping out into the hallway with quiet determination. You hear the distant hum of the city outside, the faint sounds of the streets that don’t seem to care about the storm raging inside you. You don’t look back. You can’t. If you do, you might just turn around and fall back into her arms, but right now, you’re not sure that’s what’s best.

The walk home feels longer than it should. Each step echoes in your ears, a reminder that you’re running, running from something you’re too scared to confront. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and your heart skips a beat when you see Vi’s name on the screen. She’s asking why you’re not there, why you left without a word. You want to respond, but the words catch in your throat, too heavy to say. Instead, you leave her on read.

You don’t know why you can’t just be honest with her, why the thought of talking to her—of confronting the kiss, the emotions swirling around you—feels impossible. Maybe it’s the fear of ruining everything you have, of letting this small spark of something more burn too brightly and turn to ash. Or maybe it’s the fear of hearing her say something that will break you, a confirmation that she’s never felt the same way, that it was just a fluke, an accident.

By the time you reach your place, the silence of your apartment is deafening. The weight of your decision settles over you like a thick fog, and you drop your keys on the counter with a soft clink. You stare at your phone, the screen showing Vi’s name again, another text blinking up at you.

You sit down on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest as you try to steady your breathing. There’s no easy way to do this, to fix what you’ve broken by running. The space between you and Vi feels so wide now, and you don’t know how to bridge it. How do you go back to being just friends after what you shared? How do you unfeel what you felt last night?

Your phone buzzes again, and you can’t ignore it anymore. Vi’s text is simple, but it’s enough to make your chest tighten: Please just talk to me. I’m worried about you.

You stare at it, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. There’s so much you want to say, so many things that are stuck inside you, but you can’t seem to find the words. How do you tell her that last night, everything changed? That the kiss—her lips on yours—felt like it meant more than either of you were ready to admit?

And yet, despite your fear, despite the confusion, you find yourself typing a response. It’s brief, almost too simple, but it’s all you can manage for now: I just need some space. I’m sorry.

You hit send, your heart sinking as you do. The second the message leaves your phone, you regret it. The words feel like a rejection, like you’re pushing her away when all you really want is to be closer to her. But it’s too late now.

You lay back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling as the silence presses in around you. You should be asleep, but your mind won’t shut off. Every time you close your eyes, you see her—the way her eyes softened after the kiss, the way she held you close. And then you see the look on her face when she laughed it off, when she called you her best friend. You can’t escape the memory, can’t make it go away.

Your phone buzzes again, and this time, it’s a call. Vi’s name lights up the screen, and you hesitate. You know you should pick up. You know she’s probably worried, maybe even hurt. But you’re scared. You’re scared that if you hear her voice, you’ll fall apart. So you don’t answer.

Minutes turn into hours, and still, the phone sits there, buzzing intermittently with her calls and messages. You can’t seem to bring yourself to look at them, to respond. It’s easier to let the silence continue, to let the confusion settle in. But deep down, you know this isn’t the answer. You know that avoiding her, running from the conversation, is only making things worse.

Eventually, you do pick up your phone. You don’t know why, but you can’t stop yourself. The screen shows another text from Vi, and this one is different. She’s not angry or demanding. It’s simple. I miss you, babe. I just want you to be okay.

The words hit you like a ton of bricks, and suddenly, the floodgates open. The tears come without warning, and you bury your face in your hands, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. You want to be okay. You want to be close to her, to feel that warmth again, but you’re scared. You’re scared of ruining everything.

The flood of emotions threatens to swallow you whole, the weight of the situation pressing down harder with each passing second. The text from Vi, so simple yet so loaded, sends your heart into a tumultuous spiral. You want to run to her, to collapse into her arms and let her make it all feel right again. But the fear, that gnawing fear of what might happen if you do, holds you back.

You sit there, your phone still warm in your hand, staring at the message like it might hold the answers you’re desperately searching for. Your heart aches, torn between the longing to be near her and the paralyzing fear that being vulnerable with her could ruin everything.

You’ve never been good with this kind of thing—feelings, intimacy, the unspoken things that linger in the quiet moments between two people. But Vi? She’s always been different. And now, it feels like the space between you two has become an insurmountable distance, a chasm you’re too scared to cross.

And so, you stay there, in the silence of your apartment, battling with yourself, with the ghost of last night’s kiss and the fear of what it might have meant. You want to reach out, to bridge the gap, but you’re not sure how to.

Eventually, the tears stop, but the ache remains. You’re left alone with the weight of your decision and the overwhelming uncertainty of where you go from here.

And as the night stretches on, you realize one thing for certain: no matter what happens next, things will never be the same.

—-

Vi’s fist slams into the wall, the impact reverberating through her knuckles, and the old brick groans beneath her rage. She doesn’t give a damn about the pain, the bruising on her hand. It doesn’t matter. What matters is you. What you did. What you didn’t do.

She stands there, seething, her body trembling with the force of her anger. Her gray eyes, which usually radiate with defiance and determination, are now lit with a burning fury, barely contained. Her breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps, and the tension in her chest feels like it’s about to explode.

You kissed her. You kissed her, and then you left.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Vi runs her hand through her hair, her pink-tipped locks falling messily around her face. The motion is sharp, frantic, as if she can’t decide whether to tear at her own hair or rip through the world to find you. Her mind spins in a thousand different directions, and she can’t quiet the storm inside her. She thought it meant something, but now she’s second-guessing everything.

She’s angry. No, more than that. She’s fucking furious.

The way you looked at her last night—soft, vulnerable—wasn’t the same as the usual playful jabs or sarcastic remarks. No, there had been something else there. And when you kissed her, it felt real, undeniable, like it had been building for weeks, months even. But the second the kiss ended, everything changed. You pulled back, and she had tried to pretend it hadn’t mattered. She had laughed, trying to shrug it off. She called you her best friend—nothing more—but the words felt like they’d been ripped from her throat, forced and jagged. She tried to brush it off. She tried to pretend it didn’t shake her, but now… now she can’t ignore it.

You left without a word. She doesn’t even know where you went.

Every nerve in her body screams to find you. The cold anger in her veins pushes her forward, every step filled with purpose, each moment more suffocating than the last. The city is a labyrinth, but for Vi, it’s nothing more than a playground when she’s pissed. She doesn’t care if she’s tearing through the streets like a madwoman, searching for you like she’s on a damn hunt. She needs answers. Needs to know why you ran. What the hell you’re playing at.

“Where the fuck are you?” she mutters under her breath, frustration bubbling up with each passing second.

Her knuckles crack against the worn leather of her gloves as she walks, fists clenching and unclenching, the angry pulse of her heartbeat setting the rhythm. She’s too wound up. Too restless. Too furious to think straight. And every step feels like it’s driving her closer to the edge. It’s ridiculous, really. She’s not some lovesick idiot. No. That’s not who she is. But the fact that you, of all people, could just vanish like that without even explaining yourself—it makes her want to tear something apart.

She reaches for her phone and checks it again—no new messages from you. The cold, lifeless screen mocks her, and she curses under her breath, throwing the phone back into her pocket as if it’s the one thing standing between her and getting her hands on you. You could’ve at least answered her damn texts. It’s the least you could’ve done after what happened.

You kissed her. And she kissed you back. So what the hell is going on now? Did it mean anything to you? Or was it some kind of sick joke?

Her anger is eating away at her, gnawing at her insides. But there’s more, too—there’s something heavier, darker, buried beneath the surface. A gnawing ache in her chest that she doesn’t want to deal with. She can’t—doesn’t—want to feel it. But it’s there. And it won’t go away.

She’s frustrated. She’s confused. And most of all, she’s hurt. Hurt that you could just leave without a word, without an explanation. After everything, you just walk away, leaving her to try and make sense of it all.

Her heart pounds against her ribcage as she picks up the pace, moving through the alleys and streets with purpose. She doesn’t care if she looks like a lunatic. She’s done being patient. Done playing it cool. No more waiting for you to come around. If you want to avoid her, if you want to run, then fine. But she’s going to find you. She’s going to get her answers, whether you like it or not.

She reaches the place she knows you’re staying—your apartment, the one you always return to when you need some space. It’s quiet when she arrives, too quiet, and for a moment, she stands there, her chest heaving, her fists still clenched tightly at her sides. The tension in her body is palpable, every muscle coiled as she stares at the door, feeling the weight of the decision hanging over her.

What if you’re not even there? What if you’re avoiding her this badly?

But then she shakes it off. She doesn’t care. She’s done being left in the dark. She needs answers. And she’s going to get them.

With a forceful shove, she knocks on the door, loud enough to rattle the frame. Her body is practically vibrating with anger, and she doesn’t wait for a response.

“Open up,” she growls, the words barely restrained as she pounds her fist against the wood again.

Her voice is a mixture of anger and desperation, the need for clarity spilling out in waves. The silence that follows is deafening, and for a second, she wonders if you’re really hiding from her. But then, she hears it—the sound of movement inside, soft but distinct. Her heart skips a beat.

The door swings open, and she’s met with the sight of you, standing there in your pajamas, looking tired, maybe even a little guilty, and she can’t stand it.

Without wasting another second, Vi steps inside, her body language fierce and unwavering. Her gray eyes lock onto yours, burning with intensity.

—-

You didn’t expect this. Not like this. The sharp knock at your door pulls you from the haze of your thoughts, your mind still spinning from everything that’s happened over the last few hours. You don’t even know why you’re still awake. Maybe it’s the guilt that won’t let you rest. Maybe it’s the fear of what’s coming next.

But when you open the door, there she is—Vi. Standing in front of you, her chest rising and falling with every labored breath, her face flushed with the heat of her anger. You don’t even have a chance to process the sight before she’s storming past you, not waiting for an invitation. You stand there, frozen for a moment, before shutting the door behind her.

Her presence is overwhelming, like a storm ready to break. You can feel the tension radiating off her, every muscle in her body coiled with frustration. You open your mouth to say something, but she cuts you off, her voice sharp and raw, almost desperate.

“Do you regret it?” she demands, her gray eyes piercing into yours with a mix of hurt and fury. “Do you regret kissing me?”

The question hangs in the air, heavier than anything you’ve felt before. Your chest tightens, and you open your mouth, but the words don’t come. How can they? You don’t regret it. Not at all. But you can’t bring yourself to say it. Not like this. Not with the way things are between you now.

You shake your head, the action almost automatic. You don’t regret it. You can’t regret it. Not when every part of you still burns with the memory of her lips on yours. You want to tell her that. You want to tell her everything, but something keeps you quiet.

The silence stretches between you two, thick and heavy, until it feels like it’s suffocating you both. Vi’s jaw clenches, her fists tightening at her sides, and for a moment, you think she might explode. But then, without warning, she’s in your space, her hand grabbing the collar of your shirt and pulling you toward her. You don’t have time to brace yourself before her lips crash into yours, fierce and demanding.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s raw, desperate, everything you’ve been trying to push away, everything you’ve been denying. The kiss is an explosion, a collision of everything unsaid, every feeling you’ve kept buried under layers of confusion and fear. Her mouth moves against yours like she’s trying to consume you, to make sure you understand that this—this kiss—isn’t just a mistake. It’s something real.

You try to pull away, but she follows you, pressing you back against the wall. Her hands are everywhere—on your face, your shoulders, your back—gripping you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear again. And you can’t help it. You can’t stop yourself from giving in. Her touch is fire, burning away the doubt, the hesitation. All you want is her, in this moment, with all the weight of everything between you finally crashing down in the most intense way possible.

You return the kiss with just as much urgency, your hands sliding up her back, feeling the tense muscles beneath her jacket. You pull her closer, your chest pressing against hers, every inch of space between you disappearing as if it was never meant to be there in the first place.

When she pulls away, you’re both gasping for air, your lips still tingling from the intensity of the kiss. Vi’s gray eyes search your face, and for the first time, you see something different in them. Something more vulnerable, something more than just anger.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The silence between you two now feels different—softer, like there’s an understanding you’ve both been too afraid to confront until now.

You reach up, brushing a strand of pink-tipped hair behind her ear, your fingers lingering there for a second too long. “Vi…” The word slips out before you can stop it. You don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

She looks at you, her expression unreadable, but you can feel the tension still hanging in the air. She leans in, her lips brushing against your forehead, a fleeting touch that feels so much more meaningful than the kiss you just shared.

“You can’t just run away from this,” she murmurs, her voice low, almost broken. “You can’t keep doing this.”

You want to respond. You want to explain everything, to tell her how scared you are, how confused you’ve been. But the words catch in your throat. Maybe you don’t have the answers yet. Maybe you’re not ready for this.

But as Vi pulls you back into her arms, you know one thing for sure. You don’t want to run anymore. Vi pushes you towards the couch in your living room and you willingly let your body fall upon the soft surface.

“I’ve always thought about fucking you on this couch,” she muttered, her voice low and rough, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. You could feel yourself grow wet as she pressed her body against yours, her breath hot against your neck.

Before you could respond, her lips were on yours, kissing you with a hunger that made your knees weak. It was messy, desperate, and so fucking perfect. Her tongue slipped into your mouth, and you moaned softly, your hands gripping the fabric of her leather jacket.

She broke the kiss just long enough to mutter, “I can’t pretend that I don’t want you anymore.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of years of repressed desire.

You pressed a hand over her mouth, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. “Wait… just… wait a moment,” you breathed, your voice trembling.

Vi froze, her eyes searching yours for a moment before she nodded, giving you the space you needed.

“You said that we were just friends,” you reminded her, your voice soft but accusing.

She smirked, her trademark cockiness shining through even in this moment. “I lied, dumbass,” she muttered, her voice dripping with amusement.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” she mocked, her lips curling into a grin before she kissed you again, harder this time. Her hands moved to your shirt, yanking it up and over your head in one swift motion. Your bra followed soon after, her fingers fumbling with the clasp before she tossed it aside.

“Always knew you had a rack,” she murmured, her voice dark and teasing as her hands ran along your sides, up to your breasts. She kneaded the soft flesh, her rough fingers sending shivers down your spine. “Better than I imagined,” she added, her lips grazing your collarbone.

Her hands moved lower, fumbling with the button of your pants. You stopped her with a hand on her wrist, and she groaned in frustration.

“Wait—” you started, your voice breathless.

“Are you fucking kidding—” she interrupted, her brows furrowing in annoyance.

“No, just… you too, asshole,” you pouted, motioning to her jacket and shirt. She rolled her eyes but obliged, sliding her jacket off, pulling her shirt off in one fluid motion, followed by her sports bra. Her muscular torso was on full display, her tattoos and scars telling the story of a life lived hard and fast.

Then she was back on you, her lips crashing into yours as she pulled your pants down the rest of the way. Her hands roamed over your body, tracing every curve as if she were memorizing you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she murmured, her voice soft but filled with awe. Her hand traced up your bare thigh, her fingers brushing against the damp fabric of your panties.

You gasped as her fingers rubbed against you, your body trembling with anticipation.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” she promised, her voice low and rough as she hooked a finger under the waistband of your panties, pulling them to the side.

Her fingers pressed into your tight hole, and you both groaned at the sensation. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” she muttered, her voice dripping with desire as she started to pump her fingers in and out of you.

“Vi…” you whined, your hips bucking against her hand.

She added another finger, scissoring you open as her thumb circled your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, your thighs tensing as your orgasm built.

But before you could cum, she pulled her fingers out of you, leaving you gasping and desperate. Her hands moved to her pants, and she quickly shimmied out of them, along with her boxers.

She moved back over you, guiding your legs around her hips with a soft murmur and a kiss to your lips. Her hips started rolling against yours, her wetness sliding against your own, creating a delicious friction that made you moan softly.

Vi’s head dropped to your shoulder, her lips nipping at your skin as her hips moved faster, more powerful. You could feel your impending orgasm building, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Oh fuck, Vi…” you moaned, your nails digging into her lower back as she ground against you.

Her hips spasmed locking themselves against yours, and you felt her cum just as you did, your bodies trembling together as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

She collapsed on top of you, her head resting on your bare breasts as you caught your breath. Your hand combed through her hair, your body still tingling from the intensity of it all.

—-

You wake slowly, the first rays of light filtering through the small gap in the curtains. The world outside is still and quiet, but inside the room, everything feels alive. You take a deep breath, your chest rising and falling with the soft exhale, and then you turn your head to the side. The sight beside you makes your heart skip a beat.

Vi.

She’s lying next to you, her body sprawled out across the bed in an almost unrestrained way, as though she doesn’t care that her shirtless form is exposed. The sheets barely cover her, and the few strands of pink-tipped hair that frame her face seem to glow in the early morning light. Her breathing is slow and steady, the rise and fall of her chest giving you a sense of peace that you didn’t know you needed.

Vi’s muscular build is even more striking in the soft light, the way her shoulders roll with each breath, the tattoos that adorn her arms and back reflecting the history of the battles she’s fought. Her body is both a weapon and a sanctuary—a paradox you’ve come to understand better over the last few weeks. She may be fierce and volatile on the outside, but here, lying next to you, she is nothing but raw vulnerability.

You trace the curve of her shoulder with your eyes, following the path of scars that tell stories of a life lived on the edge. The scar on her right brow, the small one on her lip—those marks are part of her, woven into her being like the tattoos on her arms. And despite the roughness of her appearance, the very essence of her—her soul—shines through in the softness of the moment.

It’s strange to think how much has changed in such a short time. Only a few weeks ago, everything between you felt like a battlefield, a constant push and pull of emotions that neither of you fully understood. But now… now, everything feels different. The world outside might be the same, but you’re not the same. You’ve crossed a line you never thought you’d cross, and you’ve done it together.

Your hand instinctively reaches for her, brushing against the warm skin of her back. Vi shifts slightly, her muscles tightening before relaxing again, and you can’t help but smile. Even in her sleep, she’s protective, aware of your presence in a way that feels both comforting and overwhelming.

You gently lift the edge of the blanket, your fingers skimming her smooth skin as you move closer. She stirs for a moment, her gray eyes flickering open briefly before they close again, settling back into the comfort of sleep. You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should wake her, but then you remind yourself that this—this moment—is yours too.

The sound of her soft breathing is the only noise in the room, and you can’t help but feel the weight of the past few weeks lifting off your shoulders. The confusion, the arguments, the painful realizations—it’s all behind you now. You’ve made it through, and you’re stronger for it.

Her body shifts slightly, her hand instinctively finding yours in the small space between you. It’s a simple act, but it means everything. You squeeze her hand softly, and her fingers curl around yours, pulling you closer to her.

“Hey,” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep, and for a moment, you’re afraid she might be upset about something. But when she opens her eyes fully and looks at you, you see the warmth there. The same warmth you’ve been craving for weeks. “You awake?” she asks, her voice still rough but tender, like the gentle hum of a quiet morning.

You nod, your lips curving into a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Vi shifts again, now facing you fully. The sheets fall lower, exposing more of her bare skin, and your gaze lingers, unable to resist the pull of her beauty. The way her muscles ripple as she moves, the way her eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race—she’s perfect in every way.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. “You know that, right?”

You swallow, feeling the weight of her words settle deep in your chest. “I’m glad I’m here too,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth, more than anything. Because even in the chaos, even in the moments of doubt and fear, being here with her feels like where you were always meant to be.

Vi’s eyes soften, her expression shifting from the fierce, cocky confidence she usually wears to something more tender. It’s a vulnerability you’ve come to cherish, something you know she doesn’t show to just anyone. And in this moment, it’s all for you.

You lean in, pressing your lips to hers in a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no urgency, no rush. It’s just you and her, the quiet of the morning, and the warmth between you that feels like it could last forever. Her lips are soft, tender—everything you need. The kiss deepens, slow and unhurried, as if you’re savoring every second of it. You let yourself get lost in her, in the feel of her body against yours, in the way she responds to you like she’s just as desperate for this connection as you are.

When you pull away, both of you are breathless, a soft laugh escaping Vi’s lips as she rests her forehead against yours. “You’re trouble, you know that?” she says, her voice teasing but gentle.

You smile, the sound of her laugh filling you with a warmth you’ve never quite known. “You’re not exactly an angel yourself,” you reply, running your fingers through her messy hair, the pink-tipped strands brushing against your skin.

Vi grins, her bright blue eyes flashing with mischief. “True. But I’m your trouble now.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of excitement and certainty flooding your veins. She’s right. She’s yours now, and nothing will ever take that away from you.

She pulls you closer, her arms wrapping around your waist as she buries her face in your neck, her breath warm against your skin. “Stay with me,” she murmurs. “Don’t leave.”

You smile, feeling the weight of her words settle in your heart. You’re not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper back, your hand gently rubbing her back, feeling the solid muscles there, the scars, the tattoos—all the pieces of her that have shaped her into the person she is today. The person you love.

She lets out a contented sigh, her body relaxing against yours as she closes her eyes once again. You follow suit, pulling her closer, letting the steady beat of her heart against yours lull you into a state of peace.

You’re not sure how long you lie there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the outside world fading away. But in this moment, with Vi beside you, everything feels right. The past is behind you, and the future is something you’ll face together.

There’s no more confusion, no more doubt. Just you and her, the start of something new.

And as you drift off to sleep, the last thought that runs through your mind is how perfect it all feels.

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 27 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series

day one: a secret admirer

ᰔ pairing: pre-outbreak joel miller x reader

ᰔ summary: you are new to the neighborhood, and you've become friends with your neighbors— a spunky little girl and her reserved father. before long, you notice mr. miller has taken to you more than you realize. when a letter with no address ends up in your mail box, you get down to the bottom of it.

ᰔ author's note: sooo excited to do this!!! i've never done a writing challenge like this, and i've been looking for something to spark my creativity again. it's a bit short, and i'm still rusty. it's been a long time since i've written on here, so please let me know how i can improve! enjoy! ♡

ᰔ content warning: pre-outbreak. young sarah miller. young single father joel miller. fluff. slightly domestic.

"Dad! Do we have envelopes?"

"Why do you need an envelope? You mailin' a check?" Joel looks up from the morning paper. He isn't sure if he's heard Sarah right, yet she stands in front of him with a folded piece of paper and a sweet smile. 

"I'm dropping off a letter. Please, Dad, I just need one," Sarah rolls her eyes. Ever since she's turned twelve, the eye rolling has become a constant. It drives Joel up a wall, but he'd be blue in the face before she stops. It has to run its course, whether he likes it or not. 

"They're in the desk drawer," Joel sighs. He picks up the newspaper again after he takes a sip of his coffee. Whatever she's up to, he's sure he'll find out soon enough. 

Sarah mutters a thanks as she leaves the room. She waits until he's reading again before she shoves the letter into the envelope. With a quick glance back, she knows it's now or never. 

"I'm going to the mailbox! Be right back!" 

Before Joel could ask any other questions, Sarah is already out the door and headed towards your mailbox. Your car is parked in the driveway, but there's no sign of you outside. Perfect.

A few quick strides later, and Sarah is shoving the envelope in your mailbox. She pulls the little red tab up before she scampers away. As she walks, she prays you see it sooner rather than later.

Luck is in her favor, considering you're walking out to check your mailbox as she closes the front door. You notice the red tab and your heart stutters. It's been a couple of months since you moved into the neighborhood, and homesickness has gotten to you. You've been checking the mail in hopes of any news from home, or something to tie you back. Anything to ease the ache that's settled in your bones.

You open the mailbox, immediately confused by the top letter. It has no information on the front which makes you a bit nervous. If it's ended up in here, it must be from someone who knows you- a very short list. 

Instead of bringing it inside, you open it right at the mailbox. The bills and junk mail are shoved back in the box before you open it. 

"Hi,

This is Joel, your neighbor on the right. The one with the girl, Sarah. I would like to take you on a date. Call me."

You read it over, a bit skeptical that someone is pulling a prank on either you or Joel. Part of you wonders if it is Joel, but you highly doubt he's writing letters to his neighbor in a glittery purple pen. The few times you've had a conversation with Joel- beyond a quick hello or a wave as you both leave for work- he's been very direct. Never one to beat around the bush, which you admire. 

The other part of you knows it's more likely that Sarah's behind this. The idea of her writing this has you smiling. She's a smart one, and you know Joel will have his hands full as she grows up. You've talked to her enough to hear how smart she is. That being said, she'll need to learn how to cover her tracks and try to avoid pretty gel pens when writing like her father.

With the letter in hand, you head next door and knock. From your spot, you can hear some back and forth before the door finally opens. Before you stands the supposed author in question, a bit confused when he sees you.

"Hi, darlin'. You okay? You don't usually come knockin' this early." Joel gives you a kind smile. One that you've thought of more than one. 

Admittedly, you do have a small crush on Joel. He always makes it a point to help you with groceries, or even mow your lawn if you're too busy to get around to it. All without you having to ask or mention it. The goodness of his heart, you suppose. His consideration makes your head spin- along with how devilishly handsome he is. You've been known to stare when he's outside without a shirt on, working on some house project he's tasked himself with. 

"Good morning, Joel. Sorry to bother you, but I got this letter and I wanted to just verify that you wrote it." You hand him the letter with a slight chuckle. He looks just as confused as you were a few moments ago. As he reads, his face shifts. It's a mix between disbelief and mortification. 

"That girl," Joel mutters under his breath. He rubs his forehead as he tries to come up with something to say. Before he can say anything, you pipe up.

"While I'll never be the one to judge your pen choice, I have a feeling someone else in your house may be the culprit."

Joel chuckles, unable to stop himself. It's both from how funny he finds you while also in disbelief at the situation. He nods and folds the paper back up. 

"I'm sorry about that. I knew something was up when she asked for an envelope this morning. Kid's gonna be the death of me, one of these days," he sighs. Your good humor eases the tension in his muscles. Everything about you does, but he lets that thought die out as you cross your arms over your chest. 

"Well, can you stay alive long enough for us to go on the date? I know it was her idea but I'll admit, I was excited to see you asked me out..." You glance away, a smile on your lips. When you look back at Joel, the tips of his ears are pink and he looks to be at a loss for words.

"I, I've been meanin' to ask you," he admits. "I guess Sarah overheard me talkin' to Tommy. Just didn't think she'd do something about it." Joel finally smiles. It's warm and a bit humorous. Leave it to his daughter to push him in the right direction.

"I'm glad she did. You free tomorrow night?" You ask, taking the letter out of his hands. You want it for safe keeping, in hopes that one day you'll pull it out and remember how you and Joel went on your first date. Just the idea has your heart hammering.

"Yeah, yeah," Joel finally nods after a beat of silence. "I'm off work for the next few days." He knows he should be the one asking you out, but he won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

"You workin' today?" You tilt your head, a curious look in your eyes as you look Joel over. If your attraction to him had been a question before, all the confirmation he needs is standing right in front of him.

"Not today, no." Joel can feel his chest constrict, his mouth suddenly dry. The look on your face shifts into something he's only imagined in the middle of the night, his hand down his pajama pants and mind full of you.

"Well, if you find yourself with some free time today, I'll be next door. Bye, Joel." You shoot him a wink before you saunter away from his front door. Even without looking, you know his eyes are on you. From a distance, you can hear him call for Sarah that he has to run to the neighbor's house for a bit.

Yeah, Joel definitely has some free time today.

[rayhalloffame]

Carmen Berzatto x reader

Carmy gives you some help when hosting a dinner party

The phone is propped up on the kitchen counter, Carmen’s calm voice coming through the speakers. It’s a recording of him preparing a dish that you’re replicating for some friends who will be joining you at your apartment tonight. It’s not that you can’t cook, you just need very specific instructions, and visual aids always help. Carmen prepared this dish at The Bear last week for family, just so he could make the tutorial for you. He even stocked your pantry with the proper ingredients.

You’re stirring the pot on the stove, and you swear you only glanced away for 2 seconds but when you look up, Carmen is dicing an onion and the pot has a lid on it. “There’s onions in this?” you wonder aloud. You remove the sauce to a cool burner so you can catch up. You send a picture of the diced onions to Carm when you’re done. The vegetable is just shy of a dice but you’re not as swift with the knife as Carmy is.

To: Bear

are these small enough that anne won’t notice? she hates onions

You return to the video to address the contents in the pot. On screen, Carmen collects the onion on his knife, removes the lid of the pot, and dumps the dice in. You’re ready to follow suit but when you glance inside the stainless steel, what was once smooth and buttery looks chunky with split oil and water. You take a picture and send it just as Carmen responds to your initial text.

From: Bear

should be ok

Then a FaceTime call comes through from him. His brow is creased so deep it might leave a permanent indent. “What’d ya do?” He’s looking very closely at his screen though you haven’t flipped the camera yet. You huff, sitting the phone back on the counter while you try to will the mixture into coming together. “Lemme see,” Carmen interrupts your vigorous mixing.

Reluctantly, you pick the phone up and reverse the camera to show the traitorous sauce. “I left it for like 3 minutes max, Carm,” you whine.

“Oh, baby,” he sighs, scrubs at his forehead with his hand. He looks over his shoulder at what you remember is an engagement party that booked out the restaurant into the early evening. “I’ll cook,” he says when he looks back at the screen.

You flip the camera back to yourself and give him a puzzled look. “You’re there until at least 7. I know you’re making a late appearance but I don’t want you to have to cook after your long day.” You set the phone on the spice rack that hangs near the stove so he can see you and the food. “Just tell me how to fix it.”

Carmen laughs through his nose. “There’s no fixing that.” He chuckles again at the glare you send him through the screen. “I would love nothing more than to make dinner for our friends. Just put out a charcuterie board or somethin’ until I get there.” He watches you tilt your head in contemplation, still mixing the sauce futilely. When you relent with a sigh he gives you a lopsided grin. “Did well, baby. See ya in a bit.”

Hours later you’re sat with your friends in the living room, chatting and laughing over meats and cheese. Despite the very welcomed presence of your loved ones, you can’t help but focus on Carmen, towel thrown over his shoulder and arms flexing while he works in the kitchen. He contributes to conversations every now and again, laughing to himself when someone says anything particularly funny. You gravitate towards him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind where he stands at the stove. “Food’s almost done,” he comments.

You hum, press a kiss to his shoulder. “Thanks for this.”

Carmen dips a spoon in the pot and blows on it before bringing it to your mouth to taste. You hum in satisfaction. “Course, angel.” He moves his body sideways and breaks the circle of your arms to wrap a bicep over your shoulder and tug you into him. He kisses the crown of your head then shoos you from the kitchen. The food is done soon, and you let Carmy pretend the flush in his cheeks is from the wine, rather than the shy pride from everyone singing his praises.

[breelandwalker]

Thank you for elaborating! I appreciate the clarification. (And I appreciate you taking a somewhat more civil tone with me than with your comments section. Frustration I can understand, but it does behoove us to be patient with each other in order to encourage meaningful discourse.)

I do think this is a discussion worth having, partly because you bring up some valid points with regard to making distinctions between witchcraft practices from New Age pseudoscience and junk theories, and partly because this is an excellent object lesson on the need to move past our own opinions and egos when dealing with the broader witchcraft community, particularly because it's not a monolith. (What community is, right?)

I agree that using the term "energy" in reference to one's life force or the power behind magical workings or the shared vibrations of a group in ritual or the broader music of the cosmos may be an oversimplification. But in terms of accessibility, it's a nice, simple word and a concept that just about everyone understands, regardless of the context. This can be especially useful when you're having a conversation with practitioners from various paths and traditions who have slightly different ways of doing things.

True, it gets bounced around in New Age speak quite frequently, but to say that reduces or nullifies its' value in witchcraft spaces sounds rather like giving up on a perfectly good word. After all, there are plenty of terms that exist in witchcraft that are also (obnoxiously) overused by New Agers. How many "clearing" or "cleansing" videos have we all rolled our eyes at on the socials? And yet, clearing and cleansing are still vital concepts in witchcraft, though they generally don't refer to dodgy medicinal practices. All this to say, the co-opting of a word by New Agers (or worse) only diminishes its' value in witchcraft spaces if we let it.

As for terms like "witchy" and "baby witch," there's a certain amount of seriousness involved with witchcraft, it's true. You do have to take the craft seriously if you want to make progress and you do have to grow as a person in order to do so successfully. But there's also a point when growth requires us to stop taking everything so deadly serious, including ourselves. There are lessons to be learned from play and silliness and shedding the trappings of ego and self-consciousness.

"Witchy" has entered the common lexicon in a playful way that allows witchcraft and witchcraft-adjacent things to be more accessible to the non-witching public. Accessibility leads to acceptance and we could use all the help on that front that we can get. Is it a slightly unserious word? Sure. But is there really anything wrong with being unserious? And does that really matter when the people who are attracted to it might go on to more serious investigation?

The same with "baby witch" - perhaps it is limiting or infantilizing, but it's accessible as an entry point for some people, and with time and guidance, they will outgrow it. (From a personal standpoint, I'm seeing it used less often than it was even a few years ago, mostly in spaces where discussion groups and non-judgmental communication are strong, though a steady replacement has yet to be found.)

Also, in terms of public image and respect, I highly doubt that the existence of terms like "witchy" and "baby witch" will make much difference in the minds of people and parties who would never respect our community or take it seriously anyway. If hundreds of books published by respected scholars and and religious recognition by the state couldn't make them take witches seriously, nothing will.

And on that note, let's move on to Wicca.

Gerald Gardner was not solely responsible for the creation of Wicca. He died before its' official inception and others who had been in his circle took up the movement. One might mention such notables as Doreen Valiente, who we have to thank for MUCH of what constituted the roots of Wicca in its' first officially incorporated iteration. Furthermore, the religion hasn't even been around for a full century and yet it has already evolved enough to have its' first schism and has changed with the times more readily than some other religions I could name.

To say that no one should practice Wicca because people involved in its' creation and evolution have been problematic is like saying that no one should be a Christian because of the Crusades. I'm not sure how the broader public is expected to treat the witchcraft community with seriousness and respect when some of us can't even seem muster the maturity to respect other witches when it comes to differences of religion or relative levels of experience or commitment.

While I can respect and agree with your personal preference to not use certain terms or follow certain paths, I might suggest having more conversations with witches whose traditions differ from yours. You'd be surprised how much we can learn from each other when the need to be Right or Superior is left at the door in favor of open communication and understanding. And I speak as someone who has BEEN THERE. There are enough forces in the world seeking to divide us without our own judgmental tendencies or poor attitudes furthering the problem.

Anyway, thank you again for taking the time to respond (and to read this wall of text my brain spat out in response, I appreciate your forbearance). Best of luck on the path!

Witchcraft vocabulary I’m surprised is still used in 2025:

- Witchy

- Magick

- Energy

- Karma

- The Goddess™️

- G slur

- Baby witch

[strawberryflavoredvenum]

Creepypasta insecurities

Toby

🩷his tics(duh)

He isn't as bothered by it as he used to be but every once in a while, he'll get a particularly noticeable one and others will look at him. He hates when people he isn't close with brings them up.

🩷 Sometimes he worries that he is being annoying. Sometimes he actually is being annoying. He is a lot more talkative now that he's been a proxy for a while. He isn't used to socializing so he doesn't always understands social cues. He has the tendency to overshare or interrupt people.

🩷His muzzle leaves a red mark on the bridge of his nose and he hates it. Luckily other proxies don't see him without it for very long. Just to eat or around bed time.

Jeff

🩷He is not the most hygienic person and he hopes it's not noticeable. He wears axe but that makes it so much worse. One time someone left old spice at his door anonymously. It made him feel really bad but he did use it.

🩷Jeff doesn't feel much shame. Mostly because he chooses to block out any memory of his past. Liu is a constant reminder of what happened and though he does love his brother, it's hard to be around him sometimes.

🩷When Sally first met him she cried. He laughed at the time but he still thinks about it and feels bad. It made him feel bad, especially when Sally wasn't scared of most of the other killers.

🩷He has big hands and long fingers. Sometimes they feel out of place and he doesn't know where to put them. He did trex arms as a kid but it was corrected by his parents. Now he just puts them in his hoodie pockets.

Lj

🩷His arms are much too long for his body. It's useful when killing people but they get in the way sometimes.

🩷He is also much much bigger than the other proxies. That combined with his clown aesthetic makes him stand out a lot. He feels out of place.

Ej

🩷 Sometimes his eyes drip onto things or people. Other proxies do not take kindly to it and reactions have ranged from annoyance to aggression. He keeps his personal space.

🩷Jack isn't shy but he is a reserved guy. He doesn't get too personal with most of the proxies. It's not that he doesn't want to talk more, but he doesn't know what to say. By the time he comes up with a response to one topic, the conversation has moved on already.

Nina

🩷 The whole 'jeff obsession' is so embarrassing to her now. She moves on from one obsession to the next pretty quickly. Now that she thinks about it, Jeff isn't even that cool. She likes to pretend that it never happened.

🩷She has an unstable sense of identity. Switching from one aesthetic to the next, much like her obsessions. It seemed to come so easily to everyone else.

Ben

🩷Others do not take him seriously. It's not something that Ben just feels, it's the truth. Despite how much he contributes to the team, he isn't given the same respect. He doesn't want to just be comic relief. (he makes sure none of them end up on the internet/news. He helps wipe their images and records so they aren't found. He can also spy through screens and get valuable info.)

🩷He is much older than Sally, yet they are constantly made to hang out. He gets that Sally needs supervision but he doesn't get why he has to be the all-day babysitter. It's not that he doesn't like Sally, but he rather have peers his own age. (I hc him as an older kid. Like 12-13 or something. I'm not that into Ben drowned so maybe this isn't accurate.)

Helen

🩷 He has a small and lanky build. Not particularly tall either. He is one of the weaker creepypastas and it bothers him sometimes. It also makes him feel less safe being around everyone else.

[carpenoctxrn]

Gentlemen (Yandere!Ominis x fem!reader)

Prompt: Ominis Gaunt has been courting you however he has been taking things slow. To the point most people think you guys are besties. So when the Yule ball is approaching in a week and he still hasnt asked you out, you decide to go with someone else. Telling Ominis that maybe him and you weren’t meant to work out.

Part 1/2

——-

The Yule ball was a tradition. To the girl seating next to Ominis Gaunt in potion however it was a dreadful and pitiful wait. He had been courting her since their 6th year. Now they are in their 7th year.

Whenever someone would ask Ominis if he was her girlfriend he would reply with a “I am courting her.” No explanation, just a plain simple response before he would walk away from the conversation.

Their relationship was one of friendship so awkwardness never lingered. She cherished moments she was with him, either doing something or doing nothing.

But now as she saw Imelda and Poppy laughing and giggling at each other while sneaking kisses when the professor wasn’t looking she felt hurt. Poppy had taken Imelda out for a ride on Highwing. She had prepared a beautiful spread for them, a picnic on the mountains. She also made sure to bring Imelda’s broomstick so she could practice a bit. At night when they laid under the stars Poppy had asked Imelda to the Yule Ball. The Slytherin girl obviously said yes.

What stung her wasn’t her friends' relationship but rather that they began courting three months ago and made it official that day. Whereas she has been courting Ominis for almost two years now.

While other couples kissed the most all they did was hold hands. If they spent the night together they wouldn’t snuggle like most couples did, he’d insist on sleeping on the floor.

Ominis felt her next to him but knew she was million miles away, he placed his hands on her hands. An action that was and is comforting but now feels as if a mockery.

“What are you thinking about, love?” He asked her quietly as he ducked his head towards her.

“Us.” She replied softly, as she turned attention away from the lecture and looked at the boy next to her.

“What about us?” He asked as his thumbs made circles on her hand.

“I don’t think we’re meant to be more than friends.” She said as she pulled her hands from him.

Ominis felt the world crash around him. The dull voice of the professor was replaced by the echoes of her words. Before he could ask her what she meant, to ask for clarity, she had stood up getting ready to go to the library to study for Astronomy.

“Let’s talk about it.” Ominis said, as he grabbed her hand firmly and led her outside the classroom in a secluded corridor.

The hallway was dark and cold. Much to how Ominis felt as she explained how they lacked intimacy. How she loves him in a way she can’t explain but feels as if Ominis is not ready to make the next step. She spoke of how much Ominis made her crave his touch and she wished that maybe one day they would be together but now was not that day.

All the while she spoke Ominis had to control himself before he busted out laughing. He had taken things slow because she always raved about how much she would like to be courted. How she wanted to be shown that she wasn’t an objection of lust but also love.

Ominis truly thought he was doing what she wanted. But he was not going to stop his darling from doing what she wanted. No he was going to let her make that mistake of thinking she can leave him. But she will realize soon she never can.

She left him with a hug saying he’ll always be her friend, Ominis smiled as he whispered “Always.”

She said bye to him before walking to the library. He would usually walk with her towards the library before he’d go to his next class, charms. But today he felt as if he could be late a few minutes or miss it completely.

He took the alternate route to the library avoiding her completely, but as he entered the library his wand told him where she was. Tucked in the corner as she did her notes. Probably from potions. However his wand showed there was a boy next to her. He hid by the long book shelves behind her. Obscuring him from her view.

“Thank you Amit for the notes. I was a bit distracted today by Potions.” She confessed her peachy tone becoming dull at the end.

So she misses me already.

Ominis smirked as he listened in pretending to be reading a book.

“If I may ask, what had gotten you so distracted my friend.” Amit asked in his usual cheery tone.

My? My?! He has no right to call her my. She isn’t hers.

His hand clutched the book too hard as his eye furrowed too much. He knew what Amit was going to do. Actually he knew what all the boys in Hogwarts would do. But they can’t. Because she’s his.

“I - I broke up with Ominis.” She stuttered softly.

“Oh I’m sorry my friend, may I offer a hug?” Amit spoke kindly.

She nodded as she accepted his hug. His hugs made her feel as if she was hugging a brother, a family member. She definitely had a bond with Amit but it was more like siblings than anything.

To Ominis it was absurd. The first man who found out she was single and they are already trying to court her.

“Thank you.”

“You always have a hug waiting for you with me.”

“May I also get a hug, friend?” Natty had spoken from behind them.

“Natty yes you can” The sulking girl replied with a smile as she leaped into her best friend.

“I was comforting her, she has broken up with Ominis.” Amit clarified with a sad smile.

“Well they weren’t dating so it wasn’t much of a break up.” Natty justified.

“I guess you’re right.” She agreed with a small amount of disbelief.

“So who will you go to the Yule ball with?” Amit asked only to feel a kick from Natty.

Alerting him that his questions were stupid and unwarranted.

“I don’t know.” She said softly.

“Why don’t you and Amit go?” Natty offered.

Silence surrounded the group as Ominis registered what happened.

She can’t go with him.

She’s supposed to be with me.

It’s just a stupid dance but she still needs to be with me.

How else will she see I’m meant for her.

It’s too soon to even consider it.

As his mind spiraled he didn’t miss it when she said “Yes, that sounds pleasant.”

The three friends decided to go outside to study. Leaving Ominis behind as he scowled all the way to Charms arriving late. He ignored the professor's warning and when Sebastian asked him why he is late.

“It’s really sweet of you to let me borrow your boyfriend for the dance.” She said, Natty looked shocked and Amit looked shy.

Amit and Natty had been dating for a year. They courted for three months before they made it official. It was all in secrecy so as to not upset Natty’s mother. Not even telling thier own housemates or best friends.

Amit and Natty both looked at eachother, as if they got caught. Which they did.

“Don’t worry your secret's safe with me.” She said giving both Amit a nudge and Natty a wink.

——

It was now the time for the Yule ball. Ominis was besides himself when he was by himself. His mind would wonder at the betrayal of the women he loved. He felt guilty for not giving her what she wanted; she would ask to kiss him or to cuddle with him but he’d refuse.

His thoughts twist like a tight coil, each one digging deeper into his mind.

He had been patient. A gentleman. He had told himself that was the right thing to do. But now, as the night of the Yule Ball unfolds without her by his side, his restraint tastes like poison.

She left him because he was taking it slow. Because he wasn’t a regular man who took what he wanted. And now? Now she would be twirling in someone else’s arms, smiling in the way that used to be for him alone. The thought burns, searing through his ribs like a hot brand.

He grips his wand tighter.

If she had wanted him to be selfish, to take what belonged to him; what would she say if he did it now? If he found her, pulled her close, and whispered into her ear that she was his? Would she fight him, or would she melt into him the way he always imagined?

He never wanted to frighten her. Never wanted to let the hunger in his blood spill over. But she had left him no choice.

Because the truth is, he had been a gentleman for her. And without her, he had no reason to be one at all.

Masterlist

Dun dun daaa

Okay this is part 1 the second part will come up eventually.

Dividers by @pommecita

[ectonurites]

Do you think the use of Ariana was made to prop up timber in the valentine's day special.

And on another note what do you think of the lack off explicit callbacks to tim/steph but callbacks with ariana.

i mean like you have a valentine's day story with tim and stephanie shows up and you mention tim having many gf's in the past but choosing callbakcs and explicit references to ariana but not steph when she shows up.

really hope they don't start doing where any callbacks to tim's romances are his past minor gf's and not steph and pretend they are just friends with no romantic history

"Do you think the use of Ariana was made to prop up timber in the valentine's day special."

I think Ariana was definitely used as a prop to tell this story with little consideration given to her as an individual—the author uses Ariana's family's deli restaurant as a setting and uses her past relationship to Tim as a way to connect things but doesn't actually have her do anything else in the story. Except, well, mention Tim & Bernard's relationship.

Now, to be fair, there really are times in stories (especially short ones as part of an anthology like this) where you just need a throwaway character to do something for a moment for the sake of moving the plot along. Acting like every single character who shows up in a story needs to be Super Important And Fleshed Out In That Specific Story is unrealistic and frankly ridiculous.

But but but but... a character who was once a prominent love interest & supporting character for one of the leads you are writing about isn't the same as a nameless throwaway, you know? Especially when you're mentioning that connection specifically—of her being Tim's first girlfriend (rather than it just being a wordless cameo or something) in a story that’s premise hinges on Tim having dating experience.

Ariana is a character who hasn't appeared since like 1999, so pulling her out of the woodwork to be used for one panel while also... needing to make a huge logic leap with her to make it even work—something the writer felt fine with just explaining as having happened off-panel—is really frustrating and annoying. I'm talking, of course, about Ari just suddenly knowing Tim's identity as Robin. You know, the root of most challenges that they faced in their relationship because he couldn't be honest with her about it. Yeah that's just no big deal now, apparently.

That's what pisses me off about this the most—bringing her back only to brush off the sources of conflict between her and Tim and make everything all okie dokie in a completely unearned way. Now to be clear: I don't think it's a bad thing for Ariana to be like, nice about Tim & Bernard being together now—especially because in her last speaking appearance before this that I'm aware of [Robin #66], the two of them had cleared some air on still wanting to be friends even though they're no longer dating. But I do think using her one speech bubble of dialogue to mention how she 'owes' him and Bernard a dinner feels off.

If there were like... an actual conversation between Ari & Tim and during that she said something nice about Tim & Bernard/something about being happy for him, then I don't think it'd feel so weird. And I will say, this is a short story so I get there not being the page space to resolve Tim & Ari's history in a story that's not about that, I really do. But this is the first time she's shown up in about 25 years! Using her in a story and having a big reveal like Tim's identity and not touching on any of that but making sure you do use her single dialogue bubble to mention her ‘owing’ Tim & to mention the relationship btwn Tim & his current love interest??? That just feels weeeird!!!!!!

It feels like her purpose in this story was largely to show a lack of conflict in Tim's current life and that everyone around him is super enthusiastically pro Tim being with Bernard, without actually considering much about her as a character. Which… again, this story isn’t about her, it’s about Tim & Damian… but… it’s still just frustrating when this isn’t a character we can just go read some other book published in the last two decades to see her actually get used well in, this is a character we very well may not see for another 25 years after this.

"And on another note what do you think of the lack off explicit callbacks to tim/steph but callbacks with ariana. i mean like you have a valentine's day story with tim and stephanie shows up and you mention tim having many gf's in the past but choosing callbakcs and explicit references to ariana but not steph when she shows up. really hope they don't start doing where any callbacks to tim's romances are his past minor gf's and not steph and pretend they are just friends with no romantic history"

Yeah I think that also felt a little weird too. This definitely would have been a time that made sense to bring up their history—but also this story was just weird in regards to Steph overall (with Damian's 'Stephanie is too female' line as to why he couldn't ask her for girl advice...?) so I dunno if it's something to think of as a larger trend or if this was more just that particular writer being weird.

Considering the writer also (in the post I already linked earlier) said this about Tim's past love interests—"I figure Tim probably carried some guilt re: his relationship with Ariana, but less with his other love interests?"—I really feel like he just doesn't have a great grasp on Tim's previous relationships at all. Tim is like the fucking poster child for 'feels guilty about everything he's done ever'.

To act like he's not wracked with near-equal levels of guilt about how pretty much all of his past relationships (esp with civilians) went is nuts. Ariana is not the one I would single out from that bunch as somehow him feeling more guilty about than the rest (the only real justification for that I could think of is if you were to explore his guilt over him starting to have feelings for Steph while he & Ari were still together but from the way the rest of that writer's interaction is talking solely about Robin-identity related stuff, I don't think that's what he had in mind?). What about Zo who he ashamedly broke up with over the phone, feeling as if he'd already let her down too many times? What about Tam who he let think her father was dead for days because even though she knew he was a superhero he still couldn’t fully let her in which caused the slow building relationship between them to explode? Tim and Ari actually had a civil face-to-face break up at school and talked in a friendly way afterwards! Not to say he shouldn't feel guilt there with her because there are reasons he should, but acting like it's somehow a higher level of guilt than he’d have with the others is just odd.

Anyway that's getting a bit off topic. But yes, while I'm very much so not opposed to the idea of Tim's previous girlfriends getting to be referenced/come back in some fashion, I do also hope that it doesn't mean Tim & Steph's history will get thrown to the side. And I'd hope that if they do get to come back, they'd actually get to be... characters, who have dynamics with other characters, rather than just cardboard cutouts there to say one nice thing and then fade back into comic limbo for the rest of eternity.

[museincarnate]

Tater's subtle attempt at seeking reassurance from her companions would be met with both of them softly placing a thumb against her palm, and massaging little circles around the surface of her hand; equal unease resting within them, despite their kept composures. Like her, they were still relatively new to the other cultures of even their own kind, across the universe; uncertainties, as of late, leaving them rather guarded whenever something new came up.

When Tater began following Alaria, however, and offered a response pertaining to the sights of the architecture and nature of the other planets, the iridescent-haired Saiyaness remained rather focused and quiet, as if her focus was primarily to escape the hearing range of just enough people to hold an honest, thorough conversation. As for Tater's near-stumble, Shuen and Torno were right behind her, to catch her and keep her from losing her balance too much; their own gazes darting around, as if they were expecting something to happen.

By the time that Tater was allowed the time to inquire further about the rather important question at hand, however, they'd passed through enough of the residential district to reach a rather secluded home that looked more well-off than some others that were seen on the way through. During the Little Rabbit's inquiry, Alaria had already begun knocking on the door of the home, while her gaze remained on the Lagomorph, as well as her Saiyan friends. It seemed like Alaria wasted no time in her endeavors, even going so far as to forego much discussion about the sights of the planet itself. So much for being a good tour guide, though it likely felt like even the Empress appointed her to the role for that very reason.

"As far as the empire is concerned, no. Even suggesting such a thing is grounds for punishment to some degree. Though, I'm sure that the Empress gave me the duty of providing you with the answers you're looking for, so... Yes, she does." She'd knock on the door again, this time a bit more harshly, as her gaze darted around the area yet again. Had the circumstances been different, perhaps Torno, Tater and Shuen would've been able to take in the culture of the planet more blissfully. "You have visitors."

"I heard you the first time you knocked!" A voice came from within the home, as the voice sounded feminine and not annoyed, but rather excited; mere seconds passing before the door swung open, and arms wrapped around the neck of the tour guide, before the resident finally stepped out far enough to greet the Earth Representative, as well as her powerful allies.

Messy, violet-hued hair hid royal black roots just enough to convince most others that she was a mere commoner, while a scar over her right eye gave indication that she'd been in a scuffle or two, or suffered a nasty fall of some kind; her slightly youthful appearance, for a Saiyan, placing her age around her early twenties, if not exactly twenty years old. When she'd come into the immediate sight of Alaria, however, Alaria's face seemed to soften, as a genuine smile etched itself on her features.

"I don't get visitors often, so this is a nice surprise. I can already guess who you two are, since you're not exactly unpopular across the sects." She'd point playfully at both Torno and Shuen, almost teasing at the notion that their reputations made it impossible for them to be unknown, even to strangers who they'd never met before. "What about you, though?" She'd step closer to the Little Rabbit, as her tail casually swayed, and she leaned from side to side. "What's your name? Why'd Alaria bring you here?"

Even if Scallia seemed unable to acknowledge Tater's understanding of how occupied she was, at the time of their arrival, the faintest of hums would be heard escaping the Empress, as she rejoined the aforementioned officials in their rather important conversation. All the same, the ruler seemed to rather like the Little Rabbit, from the brief interactions they'd had since meeting at the emergency council.

Alaria's immediate response to the Lagomorph's inquiry about extreme views would be a slight, suspicious shifting of her gaze around the room they occupied; eyeing the officials, and even the Empress herself, before snapping her attention back to the Earth Representative. By then, however, Tater had already mentioned wanting to see the sights, which seemed to put a rather unnatural smile on the face of the appointed tour guide. If Alaria was so trusted by the Empress, she was certainly acting rather shady.

"Believe it or not, the residential district is quite a hidden gem for sightseeing. It's quite a ways away from the imperial palace, but it's much closer to the natural life and wilderness of the planet, if you enjoy that sort of thing." Suddenly, Alaria would step past Tater and her Saiyan allies, who were by that point giving each other rather confused and curious glances; leading them outside the palace walls, before quickly turning around to face them again. When she did so, a rather stern and careful expression was etched on her features.

"There are quite a few views and beliefs in our culture that could cause unrest, to answer your first question. To ask, let alone answer within the walls of the palace, however, would draw the suspicion of officials of all branches of the empire. What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave your lips to reach anyone's ears, got it?" When she was given any sort of confirmation of understanding from Tater, while Torno and Shuen had already slowly nodded, Alaria would turn again, to begin leading them through the residential district; the trio having passed statues of previous emperors and empresses before reaching the aforementioned region. There was still quite a bit of space that allowed for only their ears to hear what the Saiyaness was about to share with them, so she managed to mind her volume.

"You must understand that with an empire, comes the right to rule among descendants and family members of the current ruler. Empress Scallia's family, like the other royals in the other sects, has led our people for countless generations, without fail. Heirs, brothers and sisters, and cousins ruled when an emperor or empress met an untimely death." She'd clear her throat, before turning her gaze slightly towards Tater, even if she was behind the iridescent-haired woman. "In Empress Scallia's case, however, she has no living relatives, nor a legitimate child to take her place, should she meet a sudden end. As you can imagine, illegitimate heirs born out of, say... Traditional, wedded means would cause controversy and unrest, should they be named as a potential next-in-line ruler."

Was she suddenly walking faster, as they approached a more populated region of the residential district? It certainly seemed that way, as the beauty around them in the form of architecture and plant life both paralleled the controlled, colorful chaos that was the imperial palace's busyness. If Tater had more questions to ask, she'd likely have to do so while keeping close to Alaria, as to not draw too much attention.

[kawhh]

dark trevor starts getting obsessive even before you guys start dating. you’re still in the talking stage, still trying to decide if this is something you both want, but trevor knows he’s going to make you his no matter what.

he’s used to sharing girls with his friends, used to laughing and joking about it when they would all go out to parties and look for a girl they could pass around between them.

with you though, he’s biting back snarky comments just seeing you in the same proximity as other people, leaned towards them in a conversation rather than paying attention to him. and him only.

the first time you guys kiss, trevor makes sure his friends are there to see it, there to see him stake his claim on you as he wraps a hand around your waist in a possessive grip. you belong to trevor, even if you’re not on the same wavelength as him just yet

His friends think it's your fault he's acting snappy. Your fault that he's withdrawing, becoming more.. manic.

One minute he's the life of the party, they're double penn'ing girls weekly, sharing a girl between them into the morning and now he won't even look at anyone else?

He's been on one date with you. They knew about it, he can't shut his mouth. The minute you matched with him they knew about it. They heard him raving about you, how he insisted on bringing you to the next party.

Based on what usually happens, they assume he's bringing you for the usual reason instead of them having to worry about finding someone.

You'll both turn up, one of them will grab your ass - it's pointless wasting time waiting to warm you up if you're here for this specific reason.

They've never seen this look in Trevor's eyes. It's pure anger. A flash of hate. His grip on their wrist is bruising. They're concerned.

What the fuck have you done to him? Are you threatening him? He's never once looked at any of them that way.

Last week he was the one doing it first? You're clearly bad for him.

They don't understand how obsessive he is about you not finding out what he's done before you. He doesn't want that in your head. You'll think he's a fuckboy. Won't want to even try and start a relationship with him.

The thought of them even thinking they can do the usual to you makes him feel sick. The thought of them touching your innocent skin, the thought of them bending you over, ruining you? He's taking a risk bringing you here but he doesn't want to leave you alone.

All night they're trying to separate you. One of them trying to drag you into a conversation while another friend physically drags Trevor off, asking you to get a drink for them - they can tell you're innocent enough to not catch on and that he won't lash out in front of you.

They're just concerned. Not realizing that they're making him more angry.

He's forced to sit down by them? He's keeping a tight grip on you, almost clawing at you in desperation. Keeping you as close as physically possible.

He doesn't hesitate to grip your chin, laying a bruising kiss on you, eyes narrowing as he stares them down.

You're his. Not theirs. Only his. He's the best option for you.

[modernquackfare]

Hello, how are you? If you're taking requests could you please write this one. Its been cooking in my brain since christmas.

Its a bit funny, angsty with lots of misunderstanding. So basically, Ghost has a civilian wife he never told the taskforce because he's overprotective. Now they are in deployment and simon is downright a pain in the ass with a permanent chub in his paints.

Soap or Gaz thinks he's like that due to being sexually frustrated and enlist a not so new recruit who have been with them for like six months, to get rid of simon's problem and it doesn't hurt that the recruit has a crush on Ghost.

The last day of deployment and they make the operation seduce ghost on when its so happens to be bring your family to base day and the taskforce finds out about wife!reader.

Could you please write this, i know its a bit long and complicated. Thank you❤️❤️

A/N: This was an awesome idea to write and think about! Thank you for the request :) i kinda did a little bit of head hopping here, sorry, and i hope it doesnt take away from the enjoyment of reading TT

Ghost x Wife!reader

•◌•◌•★•◌•◌•

This really isn't Ghost's scene anymore. A dim and dusty dive bar, considered upscale in comparison to The Foxhole back on base. Every surface slick with polished wood, torn cushions under his thighs, and the smell of a deep laugh lingering in every corner. At the very least, they serve drink that isn't watery beer or tequila that tastes like paint.

It's not the bar itself, per se, that he's lost his taste for—but rather the hand that shakes his shoulder away from his glass, leading to an arm that leads to the Scottish pain in his ass.

"Her over there," Soap nudges, blithely unaware of his own pointing finger. "Thas' gotta be yer type, aye? C'mon, throw us a bone here, or we’ll need to start huntin' for the perfect lad for you instead."

"Don't start, Johnny," Ghost grunts, his unoccupied hand dusting the air in dismissal.

Gaz leans in, warm gaze turned to the very woman sitting at the bar just feet away. None of them can quite recall her name, but hers is a bit of a familiar face. A smile in the hall, or accidental eye contact in the briefing room. One of a hundred others, Ghost bitterly notes, adjusting the fit of his trousers under the table.

Is it too much to hope for a quiet night out, with nothing but a bourbon to nurse and a silent curse at Ghost's own decision to persist in this line of work? It's been on his mind lately, that decision of his. He could have settled, found himself some kind of security gig or the deed to a run down warehouse he can turn into a gym. Found himself his very own Rocky Balboa to lead to victory—or something.

"If you won't do it, I will," Gaz quips, pushing himself out of the booth and striding on over to Miss Solitude at the bar. The woman turns, gaze flicking from Gaz, to their table, and then back to Gaz.

Soap shakes his head. "Right in there, like a bloody rat up a drainpipe. You’ve gotta be quicker than that, LT. No need to be shy, you just buy her a bevvy and get to talkin'."

"Was never a chance to begin with."

"Like hell there wasn't."

The conversation is finalized with a scoff and flicking hand, as if Ghost meant to shoo away a buzzing fly. Might as well be.

***

If it wasn't the long showers, it was how distracted he was behaving lately. If not that, then it definitely came down to the absolute wallop Ghost landed on Soap a week or more later during their hand-to-hand combat training. Something has the lieutenant in the trenches of his own mind—and if only to preserve the unbruised quality of his own skin, Soap recruits Gaz in his efforts to get Ghost laid.

Gaz snickers behind his hand when Soap first suggests the idea. "You sure that's the problem here? It's not like—"

"Just think about it, Gaz," Soap insists, gesturing as if presenting to a row of investors. "He's never spent a night anywhere but in his own bloody room. Like he's some kind of old man who needs to be in bed before nine. I mean, look at him."

The two turn to watch Ghost in his spot by the wall, gazing into a gooey custard bun he's torn in half. He squeezes it, shoves one half back into its wrapper, and stuffs it into his pocket.

Gaz whistles softly. "It's like watching a big cat pace in a cage."

"Aye, I know. And I have a plan to fix it." Soap then gestures across the firing range, to a certain figure clutching a pistol in two hands. Liora, her name is? Something like that.

Raising an eyebrow, Gaz tilts his head. "What, with her? Girl from the bar? She was nice when I talked with her, but she's already got her eyes on someone else already. Not sure who, but she's practically taken, mate."

"Never say never," Soap winks nonetheless, gesturing lightly as Liora lays down her gun. He then shrugs suggestively, beginning his trek towards her. "Lt's a silver tuna, being all masked up and sour as he is. Given the chance, well—"

"I'm sure," Gaz sighs, tinged with light amusement. "Go on, then. Go ask her."

***

As it turns out, Soap and Gaz have half their job done for them. Liora, as quiet as she is, and largely suspicious about her two superiors' intentions, eventually reveals that her affinity for this mystery man does, in fact, lead back to Ghost. Akin to a schoolgirl, she's got a crush. A fierce one.

In between missions, while Ghost is tapping away at a laptop and twitching in his seat, Gaz nudges Liora into delivering him some coffee. If not that, Soap pushes her into volunteering during training to spar with him. All the while, she tries to hold his gaze a little longer, let her hand linger just a little more. This time in particular, Soap and Gaz giggle across the room like children with a toy car, watching as Liora gathers up her courage to tell Ghost a joke.

"Soap said you liked jokes," she shrugs. "So...why did the soldier bring a ladder to the training ground?"

"Mmh, why?" Ghost mumbles, half attentive to her words.

Liora cluelessly sits beside him, half a giggle in her voice. "To join the high ranks." It coaxes an amused huff out of him—and nothing more.

***

How could Ghost find anything funny these days? The tension is up to his ears, racing through every vein. And his wife, God, his poor wife back home has no idea what's in store for her once this damned deployment is over. You sent him a lovely little video from the shower this morning to try to ease the pain of being away for so long. A sweet gesture in intention, but all it's done is exacerbate the ache in his loins and tongue for a familiar feel and taste, to hold you in his arms and sink steadily into you or press you to the wall as he takes what he needs from your soft, pliable body.

Ghost grunts. Damn his mind. He's the very farthest thing from a professional when it comes to you. Liora—or so the others call that girl—is gone by the time he's come to his senses, replaced by Soap, who pounds a closed fist against his back in greeting. "Hopeless, brother. You're hopeless."

"Piss off, Johnny."

"You keep squirmin' like your gear's riding up," He sighs, hands on his hips. "Still cannae wrap ma head 'round why you won't just give her a shot."

Ghost glares up at him, attention diverted from his work. "You been puttin' her up to this?"

"She's nae faking, Ghost. C'mon. Give the poor lass a chance. C'mon, ma pride's hingin' on this, mate." Soap grabs hold of his shoulder and shakes it around, moving him like a damn joystick. "Go on, you wee bawbag, at least give her the time o' day."

"14:32, you muppet."

Soap leaves it at that with a laugh, swaggering off elsewhere as Ghost counts down the hours until he can retreat to the privacy of his room and fist his cock to your little videos until it hurts.

***

The end of his deployment. Never a sweeter day there's been—aside from your wedding, perhaps. Ghost is shedding layers in his room, yanking off his fatigues in exchange for civvies, just as the creaking sound of his unlocked bedroom door sounds out. You're here. Normally, Ghost saves you any kind of journey and just heads home alone—but the impatience is getting to his fevered brain. Besides, you could do with a little break from the house.

He turns to face you. "Oh, I've been on the brink of murdering—"

Ghost's words come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Liora, rather than you, standing in the doorway of his room. This is a dangerous situation for her, invading on a superior's privacy without a clear go-head. Not to mention rude in it of itself. He drops his shirt, suddenly aware of his own half-dress. No one but his wife sees him like this, tattooed sleeve bared, boots off and nothing but a face mask to hide his identity.

He doesn't speak, thinking his cold stare would do the job for him, as it tends to, but clueless Liora steps forward in a rush of misplaced confidence. "Just wanted to say goodbye," she whispers, her hand reaching out to stroke his arm. It makes his skin tingle in all the worst ways. "Guess I'll have to find a new sparring partner for now, sir. Hope they can take hits as well as you."

Does she not see it, he wonders. How he dodges her touch and exhales a sigh of indifference. Poor girl. She's got a lot to learn.

His indifference, nonetheless, does not deter her. Liora trails her hand up his shoulders, far too intimate for a girl who is little more than an acquaintance. But curse his speed, failing him at the most crucial of times—the door opens again, and of course, you walk in as Ghost has a hand on Liora's wrist. Unclear to you whether he meant to push it away or pull it closer. Ghost releases his grip and mutters a sharp, "leave us," to the girl, before facing his beloved wife.

There you stand, as pretty as the day he met you, gaze flitting from a mortified Liora—now leaving the room—to your husband. Ghost stalks closer, brown eyes softening at the sight of you. "Was waiting for you, love."

"You needed company to wait for me?" You ask, arms crossing before your chest. That sting of instinctual fear and possessiveness, the tight curling ache in your gut that clenches at the thought of being deceived and abandoned by the once you love most—you can't ignore it. Logic attempts to unfurl its spindly talons, telling you that it would make no sense for Ghost to have called some girl into his room just as his wife makes her way up to see him. But what was she doing in his room? Pawing at him, as if it were her place to do so?

Ghost's gaze falls fondly upon you, warm and uncharacteristically tired. "Didn't ask for her to come in. She helped herself."

"Really?" you huff, treading forward to stop before him. "Didn't look like it, Si."

"Doesn't have to," He grunts back. "You trust me."

It's true. You know the kind of man he is, and it isn't a cheating fool that takes what he has for granted. God knows he wouldn't risk losing more after everything he's already lost. Especially not you, the light of his shadowy life. Your arms fall to your sides, and you sigh. "She must have had real guts, then. Coming into your room, trying to...what was it she wanted, anyway?" Feeling the tension siphon from the room, Ghost returns to packing, laying haphazardly folded shirts into his last duffel and grunting a noncommittal sound. "Fuck if I know. 'M pretty sure it's Soap and Gaz's doing, though. They've been insisting on me giving her a chance. Poor tossers got another thing comin'." You laugh as you take a seat beside his bag, glancing around the room. Impersonal decor, as always. Ghost has always been a private person, even within the confines of privacy. Hell, his closest friends don't even know you exist. It used to make you suspicious, being his secret girlfriend back in the day. Now, though, the secrecy is natural, comforting even.

"I don't suppose you'd be up to ending that streak, would you?" You suggest, leaning over his bag.

Ghost can only sigh, the deepest gust of breath he's ever held. May God smite him where he stands if he ever says no to you.

***

Gaz, mouth agape, glances over at the Scot beside him. "A wife?"

Ghost, inevitably, agreed to let the two of them meet you. That makes three other people out of the entire base that knows of your existence—the third being Price. You wave, albeit a little shyly, and smile in greeting the numpties that Ghost has spoken so much about. Good guys, if a bit foolish. "That's me."

"Creepin' Jesus," Soap grimaces, in all of his discomfort and mild embarrassment, "Didnae ken you had a wife, Lt. Couldnae have told me that before I started nudging that other poor lass into trying to get a ride outta you?"

Flicking his head up in satisfaction, Ghost chuckles. "Teach you a lesson, you children. I think you owe my missus an apology." "Ach, sorry ma'am," Gaz concedes, while Soap follows with a similarly apologetic smile.

"You've got a bonnie one, Lt. Save some for the rest of us, eh?" "Not happening. What the hell made you think that was a good idea?"

Soap glances over at him, eyebrows raised. "What, setting you up? You needed a ride, man, you were fair uptight and tense all the time. Almost put a window in my face wi' that fist o' yours."

It evokes another breathy laugh from you, drawing your husband's loving gaze before it trails back to Soap and Gaz. "Right. But that's my business, isn't it?"

"Thanks for trying to help him out anyway," You cut in, nodding your head politely to their happy smirks. "I'm sure he needed it, even if he does do his best not to show it."

Your words earn you a stern gaze—but nothing you couldn't handle. Let Ghost direct that energy into something else. Something fun that you have a few ideas for.

Soap and Gaz bid their goodbyes to Ghost before walking off, audibly muttering, "how the hell did that sour old bastard get such a sweet wife?" Or something along those lines. Regardless, you turn your attention to your dear, suffering husband with a tricky smirk. "So. You've been having some difficulties lately? Anything I could help with? If you're not expected to be somewhere else within the next hour or so, that is."

It coaxes a deep chuckle out of your husband, who's already sliding his hand 'round your waist down to the curve of your ass, gently squeezing. Nobody's around to see, anyhow. Ghost whispers into your reddening ear. "I think we'll be needing more than an hour, sweet thing." •◌•◌•★•◌•◌•

Request Archive

[callsign-songbird]

Tw: mental health? Description of a wound, breakup, implied alcoholism and ptst. I didn't proofread this, read at your own risk

It's better this way. It had to be. Soap's thumb hovered over your profile, hesitating for a moment before clicking on in. A year. An entire year since he had let you go. John could still remember the tears in your eyes, tears he had caused. He could still remember your smile. The sound of your laugh haunted his waking and sleeping hours. But it was better like this.

A bubble popped up at the bottom asking if he would like to continue talking to this profile, making his lower lip quiver for a moment before he steeled himself and hit continue. You had unfriended him. Not blocked, but unfriended. It stung, but he understood.

He had never been good for you. So gorgeous, so perfect, everything good that the world had to offer compiled into one person, one person who had managed to love a mongrel like him. Despite how often he was deployed, how often his demons pushed him to isolate and take comfort at the bottom of a bottle rather than in your arms. He scrolled for hours, reading back through your conversations that had gone untouched for an entire year. He hadn't let himself open these messages, too afraid to do something stupid and risk hurting you again.

No matter how much his heart ached, how many tears stung his eyes, how full of hollow agony he was he would never risk hurting you. Not again. He wasn't an idiot. Leaving you had been easy at the time, a logical thing. At the time, he had been setting you free, trying not to be selfish. She could never give you everything you gave him. She could never give you the time, the emotional vulnerability, the love that you deserved and showered him abundantly with.

You had been so perfect. Which is why he had to let you go. He had to let you be happy.

So why, an entire year later, did it feel like there was a hole in his life where you had been? Why did his apartment in Glasgow feel so barren without your presence to light it up and bring warmth to the drab space, a presence that had long since faded without a trace to be found.

Memories were all he had left of you, and God how they haunted him. The linen wrapped around his knuckles and shattered mirror in his bathroom were enough to attest to that. But it hadn't been enough. The pain hadn't been enough.

Everyone knew it. The way to distract from pain was with more pain. But it didn't matter how many fights he picked on base, how many serrated blades to shoulder he took, no matter how many times Price chewed him out, it was never enough to come close to distracting him from more than hollow spot in his chest.

Where his heart used to be didn't feel empty anymore. He had long moved past that. It felt like there was a festering wound where his heart should have been. It felt like he was rotting from the inside out. Puss running through his veins, maggots eating through flesh and muscle, bones splintering like rotten wood, mushrooms sprouting in his lungs and from his eyes. All metaphorical, of course, but just as real as the pain of knowing that he could never have you again.

It was better this way. Repeated like a mantra as he threw his phone across the room, listening to the small thing crack against the drywall and bounce on the carpet before leaving him once again in the silence of the room where the only noise was his labored breathing as he slowly spiraled, loosing touch with time yet never seeming to lose touch with reality, with the reality of the life that he had brought upon himself.

It was better this way.

[stxrfclls]

nerina  only  rolls  her  eyes,  she's  not  going  to  continue  to  argue  when  alina  is  right,  but  nor  will  she  let  the  conversation  continue  when  she's  wrong.  love  was  such  a  foreign  concept  to  the  dragomirs,  she  wasn't  sure  how  to  manage  it  nor  navigate.  the  relationships  with  her  siblings  alone  was  enough  to  prove  that,  estranged  or  mended  but  never  perfected.  she  and  alina  may  be  closer  now,  but  their  inability  to  have  a  healthy  relationship  in  their  childhoods  was  only  another  tally  in  the  category  of  a  broken  home  and  incomplete  heart.  nerina  lets  her  sisters  words  settle  in  her  mind,  beginning  to  reply  before  she  hears  daxton's  name.  she  sighs,  wishing  to  be  angry  but  she  can't.  alina  has  to  be  careful  due  to  her  position,  but  nerina  hopes  this  is  also  because  she  simply  cares  for  her  sister.  no,  she  knows  that  to  be  true.  "  daxton  also  said  i  should  not  be  worried  about  you  with  cedrian.  "  admits  the  younger  dragomir.  she'd  cornered  the  spymaster  and  demanded  facts,  worried  for  her  sister  and  pushing  into  the  relationship  he  held  with  alina.  she  had  no  regrets,  she  suspected  neither  did  alina.  but  having  her  approval  was  important,  she  couldn't  be  with  someone  her  sister  didn't  like.  "  no,  i  think  you  two  need  to  meet  alone.  "  any  man  who  could  not  withstand  alina  on  their  own  feet  wasn't  strong  enough  to  deal  with  the  summer  pirate.  she  had  no  doubt  alistair  could  handle  himself.  "  another  who  is  tethered  to  his  own  court,  no  less.  "

"  need  i  remind  you  my  ship  is  home  to  heathens  and  immature  fae  alike  ?  "  parrots  the  younger  summer  lady.  she  doesn't  stick  her  tongue  out  though,  even  if  she  wants  to.  a  nod,  "  next  time  i  sail  i  shall  send  for  you,  drag  you  to  take  the  long  way  to  the  day  court  with  me.  "  since  now  they  both  had  reason  to  visit.  if  only  they  had  portals,  it  would  be  far  too  good  of  an  addition  in  their  world.  perhaps  one  day,  the  magic  was  rewriting  all  they  thought  they  knew.  "  talk  to  them,  lina.  get  to  know  them.  you  won't  go  in  expecting  them  to  call  you  mom,  just  be  yourself  plus  a  little  sweeter.  "  the  latter  is  a  bit  of  a  tease,  she  knows  that  alina  is  capable  of  being  softer  around  children.  look  at  how  she  is  with  her  own  sister  as  compared  to  other  members  of  their  court.  "  then  it  is  settled,  we  shall  make  it  a  date.  "  even  if  she  were  more  pirate  than  lady  most  of  her  life,  nerina  actually  adored  children.  a  shrug,  the  summer  lady  doesn't  want  to  argue,  but  she  needs  her  point  to  be  heard.  "  when  he's  able,  but  that  is  far  less  than  now.  it's  still  something  i  am  happy  to  do.  "  because  she'd  rather  be  with  him,  and  she  knew  her  sister  could  figure  it  out.  nerina's  nose  wrinkles,  she  can't  really  explain  why,  but  the  reaction  is  had  all  the  same.  "  i  agree,  and  she's  always  been  the  most  innocent  of  all  of  us.  "  something  that  made  being  an  emissary  difficult.  ner  also  wondered  what  her  sister  was  doing  with  the  high  lord  of  this  court,  a  feeling  in  her  bones  she  does  not  bring  up  now.  she'd  seen  them  at  the  festival,  chose  to  leave  it  be  for  now  until  jules  spoke  up.  if  she  ever  did.  "  i  think  we  both  have  a  lot  to  think  about  lina,  because  we  both  deserve  happiness  even  with  the  bits  our  father  ruined.  "

END.

"you, indeed, are." truly with dragomirs as a whole, save for lavinia perhaps, the matters of heart was in essence the blinding leading the blind. alina could advise her sister on almost anything, save for affairs of the heart. it had taken the high lady far too long to allow herself to admit she had developed feelings for cedrian, and then some to realize she loves him. still, she holds the belief that ner understood these feelings far better than her elder sister ever could. for the younger fae, it was fear of falling and not having it reciprocated - that was far more frightening. "what matters is what comes with such hubris. i also believe you've discovered that as well with him." she met the younger dragomir's gaze, with her softened ones, "he does. and at the risk of you being cross with me, i had daxton look into him." she pauses, "i don't discredit your judgement, but you know well me enough that i would pry into anyone who wishes to be involved with my siblings. your commander is a good man." while ner does not admit to her feelings directly, alina had surmised enough, if her sister hadn't fallen for him, she was beginning to. ner knew what her commander meant to her, only that she struggled to admit it out loud to herself. "if he's sincere , then he has no reason to fear me. you may watch if you wish." there was mirth dancing in the high lady's gaze. "it's a curious look on you, becoming - never tethering yourself, not even to our home, but now to another."

"need i remind you're also a captain, and such antics are beneath you." alina knew that would simply earn her another eye roll. the jest falls wayside as ner returns the sentiments, and the elder simply allows herself to relish in the warmth that evaded her for so long concerning her sibling. "as am i." she dares to hope that when they returned home, the hallways of adriata palace would not be silent, they would be filled with the vibrant chatters of her siblings. "perhaps when time permits, i may be able to." how often had she wondered what it would be like to sail the seas past adriata with ner? ner's request of revealing her feels to the day high lord was ever daunting, "i will consider it." a response to soothe her sister's worry. "children are more observant then we give them credit for, i don't wish for them to think i am inserting myself into their lives. you forget i have not been around children, not even our younger siblings, i scarcely was able to hold them as toddlers or play with them as children." it was one of those times it was a stinging reminder how much she missed out with her own siblings. ner's offer has her take a beat of pause, grateful that the other was keen on this, "i would like that, and they will like meeting you." that she had no doubt of, they would find ner far more palatable than alina. she wouldn't deny she did wish to meet them, each time ced spoke of them, it was as if she knew them without ever meeting them. "he would travel with you as he's able, and i have no qualms in making sacrifices for him, without compromising my duties." how was she to explain, she does not wish for ced to do so for her? " thank you. i fear jules is far too distracted." in an emissary it was concerning, given their situation. there is relief that for now, ner drops the subject, and it was not her questions that bothered in her any form, it was that alina was even far more afraid than her sister thought her capable. alina also knew, she could not avoid having a frank discussion with cedrian for long now. "i will say this, i am taking all of your wise words into consideration as you are with mine. i do not know of love, but i read others well, so, i know, alistair will not break your heart."

[bigskydreaming]

Imagine if you were a gay or bi man who tried a certain firefighter show because of all the attention it was getting for one of its mains having a later in life bi awakening.....and between seasons you ventured into its fandom in search of material to tide you over til the next one. And you're greeted by a deluge of posts and fics that are just cheerfully homophobic towards one half of the newly out bi character's canon relationship on the basis of 'well he's not the RIGHT gay guy' and pushing the idea that actually its fine to cheat on him because Reasons and he's sexually predacious based on......behind the scenes implications people have divined like they're reading fucking tea leaves.

But don't get it twisted....this fandom, like all fandoms, really cares about representation!

Sorry not sorry, but we really need to kill this idea that fandoms are welcoming and inviting and inherently progressive when they're frequently insular and reductive as fuck. Every single fandom I've been in has had major trends of people doubling down on their own headcanons and fanon interpretations of the characters and willfully enacting trends aimed at running off people who like the 'wrong' characters (usually characters marginalized along one or multiple axes), like the characters in the 'wrong ways' or other bullshit.

Scott is a Bad Friend fics overtaking Teen Wolf fandom was not incidental, it was a FEATURE of the fandom, because the vast majority of that fandom did not want to share its space with anyone who had the nerve to like its main character. Survivors complaining about or criticizing the prevalance of rape fics in a certain fandom has in my experience always led to a reactionary UPTICK in those fics, with gems like 'this character can, will, must be raped' in the tags making it crystal clear that some of these fics exist because how fucking DARE anyone try and push forth a narrative not agreed upon by Fandom Main.

I could cite examples for so many other fandoms, with the commonalities always being that vast majorities in these fandoms are explicitly reacting defensively to being asked to be more mindful of fandom trends revolving around or exacerbating racism, homophobia, transphobia, rape or abuse apologia, ableism, etc....

With the most prolific fucking rallying cry across countless fandoms being "No the fuck we will NOT be doing that," because lolololol.....

Fandom is an inherently progressive space, didn't you hear?