#in a world where every day i struggle to find things to look forward to. at least i have jeopardy masters | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

merakiui · 11 days

Text

promising young man.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, one-sided student/teacher relationship, obsession, dark thoughts, jealousy, delusion, brief descriptions of blood/gore, violence, death, murder, brief nsfw note - riddle's perfect world comes crashing down with the arrival of foreign exchange student azul ashengrotto.

He meets him in Intro to Psych.

Azul Ashengrotto struggles to parse English, but he’s dressed like a businessman with his pressed suit and leather Oxfords. The only thing that reveals his status as a student is the black backpack he carries to class. Riddle’s seen him around campus a handful of times. It’s hard to miss him when he seems to throw himself into social circles with practiced grace.

This is the first time he’s ever had class with him, though, and so now he gets to see him in a classroom setting. There isn’t much about him that immediately strikes Riddle as odd. He’s well-dressed and prompt with a polite tongue. Every time he speaks in his thick accent, the one that just commands admiration and attention, that tiny Italian flag pinned to the strap of his bag becomes even more apparent.

Riddle’s not sure what he’s doing in this class. Perhaps he’s aiming to study law as well. He’d hoped to find more people with similar academic hobbies and interests and, while he’s yet to form any lasting bonds, he’s been wondering what sort of person Azul is.

On the first day of class, he introduced himself with confidence: “Buongiorno, amici. I am Azul. I look forward to the year with all of you.”

Though the structure and pronunciation of English proved awkward in his mouth, that didn’t stop him from opening himself to others. He’s friendly and outgoing, always welcoming conversation when it’s thrown his way. Riddle finds it impressive. If he were in Azul’s shoes, he’s certain he’d feel just a little lost attending school in a new country, far from home, surrounded by people who speak a completely different language. But Azul is resourceful, a dab hand at communication despite the barrier in vernacular. Perhaps that’s where his charm comes from.

Riddle thought the two of them might get along.

But then Azul proved academically formidable, and then you began to pick his brain after class, during time that was specifically reserved for Riddle so that he could discuss psychology with you.

So now Riddle sits in his seat, impatiently awaiting his chance.

“The law over in here is fascinating,” Azul says, leaning closer as you show him something on the desktop computer.

“What’s it like where you’re from?”

“Mm. How to explain… The law is…”

“It follows a civil law tradition,” Riddle pipes up, casually flipping a page in his textbook. He does it for show. He’s aware it probably makes him look like an arrogant know-it-all.

You peek past the screen at him. “Oh! Riddle, you’re still here. Hello!”

He hums, warming under your gaze. “I always am.”

“What was it you were saying about the Italian legal system?”

Azul stares at him. An unhappy frown tightens on his face.

Uplifted with pride, swimming in the clouds, Riddle elaborates: “I’ve only just started researching it, but it’s very interesting. In the realm of criminal law, trials are often led by judges or a select few to form a panel unlike the juries we have here. Of course you’ll find differences everywhere. All countries have justice systems and law enforcement. Still, it’s fascinating to compare and contrast the fine details.”

From across the room, Azul’s stink eye has never been more obvious.

“Ah, that’s right. I’ve heard a few things regarding the way cases are handled over there. From what you know, Azul, would you say the system is harsher here than it is there, or is it the other way around?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Azul says, and that polite mask of his slips for a second. “I’ve never done crime.”

Riddle snaps his book shut and rises from his seat. “Let’s hope not. You’ve a promising career ahead of you.” He smiles sweetly at Azul like he’s particularly stupid.

Azul tracks him as he packs his belongings away and strides towards the door. His brilliant blue eyes are dark. “Ci fai o ci sei?” he mutters, clicking his tongue discreetly. “Rompipalle…”

Riddle will later learn these are slang phrases. He’ll learn a lot of things later—things he thought he’d never need to learn.

Thinking it a joke, you laugh and wave your hand about dismissively. “Aren’t you going to stay, Riddle? I watched the first episode of that podcast you recommended.”

Riddle perks up at that. “You watched it?”

“This past weekend, yes. It’s a riveting series. They really dig deep into the facets of a criminal.”

“Don’t they just?” He hugs his textbook close to his chest, nearly vibrating out of his skin. Finally, the moment he’s been waiting for—an opportunity to speak with you. “I’m amazed at how much time and research goes into each episode, and they always treat each case with tact. It deserves so much praise.”

Azul glances between the two of you. Riddle is sick with satisfaction. Once more, his blue hues land on him.

“You like criminals?”

“Not in that way, of course not.” Riddle shakes his head. What a preposterous assumption. “I find their minds to be exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.”

Azul blinks back at him, owlish. He doesn’t seem to grasp most of what Riddle’s just said.

“In short, I think they’re a fine learning experience.”

“An experience? Non capisco.”

“For those wishing to pursue a career in criminal justice or law. Think of it like watching a tape from a criminal investigation. It’s important to study the interview techniques and tactics utilized by detectives to understand what’s most successful in gathering a proper confession.”

Azul nods along. “Ah, capisco.”

“We’ll cover things like that later in the semester. Don’t feel so overwhelmed, Azul.”

“I’m not. I learn as I go. Grazie, Professor. You’re very kind.”

“I’m happy to help. If you ever need anything, my office hours are on that sheet I gave you. I had a colleague of mine translate the syllabus for you. If you have any questions or need accommodations of any kind, let me know.”

“I will.” He fixes the strap of his backpack and, after bidding you a final farewell, stalks past Riddle out the door. His footsteps echo down the hall until eventually they’re no more.

“Riddle, if you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you.”

“Of course. Anything,” he says hastily, his heart stumbling in his ribs.

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you help Azul out? I notice he struggles taking notes during lectures. If you’d be willing to share your notes with me so that I can get them translated, that would be great.”

Riddle doesn’t want to share, but this is an opportunity to be praised in spades. “I’d be glad to. I’ll scan and email them after each class.”

“Thanks, Riddle. Your notes have always been so organized. This is a huge help. I’m sure Azul will be just as grateful.”

I’m not doing it for him, he thinks, bitter and envious.

But he just smiles, standing a little taller when you compliment him.

Your notes have always been so organized.

What is he getting so territorial for? He’s had you for four classes in past years. Azul’s only known you for a few measly weeks. That’s nothing compared to the special bond you have with him.

Riddle isn’t worried.

1 September, 20XX.

Dear Diary,

(Name) Rosehearts has quite the lovely ring to it. Far more musical than that of (Name) Ashengrotto. I’m almost certain he sits there in class, silently drooling over Professor. Just last week, he took my seat at the front. The gall to do such a thing! Can you imagine? He must know that seat is the best for getting a perfect view of Professor. It’s childish to bicker over seating arrangements and I refuse to stoop to his level. That said, the seat is mine. Professor’s time is mine.

I’ve deigned to share my notes, but only because Professor put such faith in my abilities by personally asking me. Even though it’s foolish, I’m tempted to sabotage the notes so that Azul will have incorrect study material. But that would be unfair and an infraction upon all that I stand for when it comes to academic fairness. Thus, I’ve refrained from doing anything of that sort. I’m certain Professor would disapprove.

It makes me happy to know Professor listens to the podcast I recommended. I wish we could discuss it at length, but Azul is always there and he takes up so much of what little time there is. It’s infuriating. I wish he would just drop out of the class. That way it will be just Professor and me, as it was intended.

Perhaps he will once the coursework comes knocking.

Sincerely,

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle slumps forward over his desk and combs his hands through his hair.

“That rotten Azul…” he sneers, his face scrunching into something sour. “He’s always monopolizing your time… Does he not realize how important it is to me—how much I look forward to talking to you? And you smile at him… You look at him with those sweet eyes of yours and he’s completely undeserving of such treatment! It never does anyone any good to be greedy, yet there he is…”

He inhales deeply, holds it for a few seconds, and then exhales.

What am I supposed to do? How can I make this right again?

Azul isn’t breaking any rules. It’s not a crime to seek you out for conversation after each class ends. But therein lies the issue. There is nothing wrong with that. It would be wrong if, say, there was an illicit exchange between the both of you. Like a taboo relationship of sorts…

Riddle startles in his seat, his eyes blown wide.

Azul isn’t having a secret affair with you, is he? Not that it could be considered cheating when you’re not yet married (and Riddle intends to keep it that way). He has a plan. When he graduates, there will be no formal barriers holding him back from starting a relationship with you. He can email you freely without the need to circle back to academics. He can invite you for tea or coffee and the two of you can chat about things that aren’t school, and it won’t be weird or overstepping boundaries. Because he won’t be your student anymore. He’ll be Riddle, your former student. And former students have better odds than current students, do they not?

He’s thought it out carefully. He was raised to be responsible, to do everything right.

And though he’s thought of it in passing—considered what might happen if he were to try to play at being a seductive siren—he’d never truly act on such folly. But Azul… It isn’t too impossible to theorize he might be sleeping with you for a better grade. What if he’s forced you into it? What if he has some sort of wicked blackmail? What if you’re holed up in your office every day, scared for your career, while Azul bends you over the desk and uses that boyish charm of his, that silky-smooth accent, to coax the sweetest of sounds from—

Riddle shakes himself free of that thought. He’s not going to imagine it any further. He doesn’t need to be plagued with graphic imagery, gross as it may be.

Even though he chases the fantasy from his brain, it returns to poke at him. He gazes at his lap, noticing the substantial strain in his pajamas, and groans.

It would be easier if he wasn’t where he is now. Logically, he’s aware he doesn’t have much of a chance. Neither does Azul. Unless he’s sleeping with you in secret. Then he has a chance. But he’s not. He can’t. That’s against the rules.

And even if he was, it wouldn’t be very fair for him to do the very thing Riddle’s abstained from.

His hand closes around his dick. He feels pitiful as he pumps himself to scandalous visions.

It’s not fair.

He should have a chance. In a perfect world, he’d have you. He’s earned this, hasn’t he? He’s worked so hard. So why isn’t he allowed to have you?

It’s not fair.

Why does Azul get to relish in your attention when Riddle’s left alone in the shadows? Why can’t you look at him like you used to? Why can’t you praise him for knowing all the answers? Why can’t you tell him good work when he does just that? Why must you coddle Azul? Riddle thinks he can speak perfect English. He’s just playing it up to look weak and pathetic—to garner your sympathy!

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

He’s the good one. The one with perfect marks. The one with perfect attendance. The one every professor holds in high regard.

Riddle squeezes himself and sucks in a breath through grit teeth.

He’s not funny like Azul. He doesn’t have that awkward charm Azul has. He can’t speak another language fluently. He’s never traveled out of the country. He thinks he knows everything, but he only knows so much.

He can fascinate you with the intricacies of his mind, each fold primed for education, but Azul can do better because he has social experience.

Riddle can’t believe it. He, of all people, is jealous of someone.

Cum oozes from his dick and coats his fingers in a pearly-white. It isn’t satisfying.

Right then, he thinks his world would be better if Azul stayed in Italy.

Or maybe it would be better if Azul wasn’t in his world at all.

On his way out of class, Riddle stops Azul in an empty corridor.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

He blinks back, oblivious. And then he smiles, revealing a row of perfect teeth. “What I’m doing?”

Riddle won’t say it. He can’t. Because then he’d be admitting the truth Azul’s trying to pry from his heart, whether that’s his intention or not.

“You know very well what you’re doing.”

A silent head tilt is his reply.

His temper is nearing its boiling point. It’s been on a low simmer ever since Azul first bewitched you, and it’s threatening to spill over.

“I see the way you and Professor look at each other during class. You may think it discreet, but I know.” Riddle folds his arms over his chest, feeling very proud of himself for successfully playing Sherlock. “I can tell there’s nothing formal about it. So how long has this been going on? How long have you been flouting the rules?”

Azul stares at him. His shoulders shake with his chuckle. “You’re funny.”

Riddle startles. His accent—

“I’m here to learn just as you are. What I do outside of the classroom is none of your business, so it would please me greatly if you could stop prying.”

His eyes narrow into vicious slits. “If you lay a hand on—”

“Oh, I’ve done more than that.” Azul smooths the nonexistent wrinkles in his sweater vest. The same brand of sweater vest that Riddle wears. “But you have no proof. The courts here will want that, won’t they? Or is it harsher here? Will you need to peer inside Professor to see for yourself? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never committed a crime.”

Disgust pools in his stomach. He feels like he could vomit, and it isn’t because he’s appalled by the conspiracy Azul’s proposed. It’s because he should’ve been the one to do it if it was that easy. Instead, he musters a mean glare.

“Who are you, Ashengrotto? What do you want?”

“I’m just a student like you. I want to learn lots from Professor.” He brushes past Riddle, his voice a melodious hum. “And some things can’t be taught in the classroom.”

Riddle opens his mouth to let the angry tirade fall, but he chokes on the words. There’s so much he wants to say, but all of it will come out accusatory. And that’s where Azul has him pinned. It’s all baseless accusation.

He doesn’t want to believe it. Surely you wouldn’t… It’s impossible! An academic and social infringement! It’s wrong!

It should’ve been him.

Later that evening, cooped up in his room, Riddle scrawls furious lines in his diary: He’s a liar. A cheat. An embarrassment to this institution. I should be the one who holds Professor. I should be there in Azul’s place. I’ve worked so hard. I deserve it. I’ve earned it!

He can’t let this madness go on any longer. He won’t tolerate it.

Looking at it logically, Riddle has illustrated the negatives and the positives in his notebook.

If Azul’s insinuations are true, then all Riddle needs is valid evidence. Unfortunately, that would mean you might lose your job given the circumstances. If it’s consensual, both of you are equally at fault. If it’s not, Riddle hopes Azul will burn in a terrible blaze.

But if you do happen to lose your job, it would relieve some of the weight burdening his situation. He could start a real relationship with you. It’s plausible! Perhaps not very realistic, but there’s always a shred of hope to be found in misfortune.

Riddle wonders if he should just ask you and save himself the headache.

He gazes sidelong at Azul, who has since claimed that seat for his own, and chances a glance at his open notes.

That’s Riddle’s handwriting.

He’s sure of it. That’s his handwriting. He writes his notes in cursive. He writes in a perfect, elegant slant. His letters always connect. There’s no denying it; that’s his handwriting on the page.

A disturbing thought crosses his mind: Has Azul been practicing my handwriting?

It sounds impossibly silly. Who would devote so much time to something so witlessly fraudulent? Riddle wracks his brain for a reasonable explanation. Why would he need to practice someone else’s handwriting? Riddle could understand if Azul struggled to write in English. Most of his work is submitted in his native language. You allow this exception even though Riddle finds it unfair. Maybe it’s because you treat Azul’s work like it’s something special, and you jump through all of these hoops just to get it translated. Why can’t you treat his work with that same amount of care?

Riddle drags his pen along the page, scribbling mindlessly. Why is he doing that? He has nothing to gain from writing like me.

But then Riddle realizes the notebook is the same as his. The same color, in fact. He wonders when Azul purchased a new one. Did he purchase a new one, or has he always had this one?

Riddle looks down at his notebook.

That’s Azul’s handwriting.

He blinks twice and rubs frantically at his eyes. When he looks back at Azul’s notebook, it’s to a page filled with Azul’s stylish scrawl.

Have I…been copying him this entire time?

No, surely not! He would never plagiarize. That’s one of the biggest sins of academia. He couldn’t live with himself if he did that!

Besides, he’s not the copycat. It’s Azul in his sweater vest, boasting the same writing implements as Riddle, using the same brand of notebook. Riddle’s not copying him. It’s Azul. It must be.

It can’t be Riddle. He’d never do such a thing.

After class, you call Riddle up to your desk. He hesitates, his heart thrumming wildly, and shuffles over.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Riddle, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.” You withdraw last week’s assignment from a folder and set it down. “You wrote this, did you not?”

Riddle scans the typed document. “I did, yes.”

“May I ask if the Italian was intentional?”

“The Italian?” he parrots, confused. “I don’t understand what—”

In between brilliantly articulated paragraphs, he’s sprinkled in Italian words and phrases.

He coughs out a rattled laugh. “I must have been studying it for another assignment before I did yours. I…can’t believe this happened. It was fully unintentional. I’m very sorry.”

His face is flushed cherry-red. He’s never felt more humiliated.

“It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to ask. It definitely confused me.” You take the paper from him, smiling that understanding smile he loves so much. But then, rather intrusively, he wonders how many times those soft-looking lips have been on Azul, wrapped around him, sending him to cloud nine… “I actually asked Azul to translate it for me. He said all of it was written correctly. You must be very adept in your Italian.”

“I… I suppose I am,” he answers after a tense minute.

His brain is swirling like sediment stirred up on the ocean floor. When did I pick up Italian? I’m not taking any language courses this semester. I don’t even own an Italian dictionary… Just what in the world is happening?

“Ah, you don’t have to look so pale! It’s not going to affect your grade. I only wanted to fulfill this nagging curiosity of mine. Thank you for all the good work you do.”

Riddle nods mechanically. When you ask if he has time to stick around and discuss more psychology podcasts, he shakes his head and mumbles a feeble excuse.

He tears through his desk and all of the drawers in his room in search of it. If it’s not there, he can relax. If it’s not there, he can chalk it up to stress. If it’s not there—

It’s tucked away in his bookshelf. A little pocket dictionary. English to Italian. And it’s been bookmarked and annotated.

Riddle pulls it from the shelf in a baffled daze. When did he get his hands on this? More importantly, when did he read through it? In a hurry, he empties the contents of his backpack and flips a few pages in his notebook.

His notes from class. Dated for today. Written in Azul’s script. And at the top of the page, an exact copy of his signature, a name that isn’t Riddle’s: Azul Ashengrotto.

Riddle peers at his trembling hands. He flexes his fingers, curls them into a fist and then unfurls them.

He seizes his psychology textbook next and skims the chapter index in search of an answer. He lands on it. Page 371. Dissociation.

Two minutes into a phone call with Trey, he’s asked a simple question: “Are you speaking with an accent?”

Riddle bristles. “Of course I’m not. Of…course I am not,” he says, sounding the words out. His brow furrows. Why does my tongue feel so clumsy in my mouth? “I’ve always spoken this way, have I not?”

“I can’t say. I mean, come on, Riddle. You’ve gotta be pulling my leg.”

“You know very well I don’t pull legs, Trey.”

“You told me buongiorno when I picked up.”

“I did not!” he snaps, scandalized. “I said good morning as I always do.” And then he pauses. “I… I did say good morning, didn’t I?”

Trey’s silence is answer enough.

Riddle sucks in a sharp breath. Neither of them says anything.

Eventually, Trey speaks. “Do you want me to come up there? I could bring you a tart or…something. You sound…tired.” He chooses his words carefully. “Silly question, I know, but I’ve gotta ask. You’re not overworking yourself?”

“No, not at all.”

“And you’re getting enough sleep? What about food?”

Riddle frowns even though Trey isn’t there to see it. “I’m fine, Trey. Midterms are coming up. I’ve got to focus. I refuse to fail.”

Again, the other end is quiet. A minute later, Trey says, “Do you have time this weekend?”

“This weekend?” Riddle flips his planner open to this week. “I do.”

“All right. Is it cool if I visit?”

Riddle almost declines, so it surprises both him and Trey when he replies with, “Please.”

“I’ll be there,” he promises, and the call ends before Riddle can say grazie.

Trey brings six strawberry tarts. Riddle shares three with him over tea at the campus café.

“So what’s up?” Trey points his fork at Riddle. “You sound like yourself, but you don’t seem…fine.”

Riddle chews thoughtfully. He can’t confide in Trey because Trey wouldn’t understand. Because he’d apply Trey Logic to everything, and Trey Logic is almost always sensible. Riddle doesn’t want to hear it.

“I submitted an assignment in Italian,” he says instead, casually, as if it’s not a big deal.

Trey looks at him like he’s grown a third eye. “Since when do you know Italian?”

“I dabble.”

Trey laughs. Upon seeing Riddle’s serious expression, the humor sticks in his throat. “Oh, you meant that. Well. That’s…good then? If it’s for a foreign language course—”

“It was for psychology.”

“You…wrote in Italian…for a psychology assignment?” he reiterates, attempting to parse it. He drags his fork through his cut of tart, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Why?”

“I couldn’t say. It perplexed me to no end when I realized it. My professor thought it was curious.”

“It is. I mean, you don’t find that just a little…unusual?”

Riddle stares at him over the rim of his teacup.

Trey tries again. “Was the Italian correct, at least? It wasn’t all nonsense?”

He nods. “It was as if I was translating and switching between words. Like using the Italian word in place of an English word.”

“Huh…”

“It’s not very impressive. I can do much better than that.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities. I’m just…trying to understand why.”

Riddle smiles. “Why not? I think it’s very good to study another language. It opens more doors for opportunity, and it’s a challenge that proves rewarding in the end.”

“Is that it?”

“Precisely.”

The conversation comes to an abrupt halt there. Trey changes the subject. They chat the afternoon away.

Later, Riddle returns to his diary.

He writes an entire entry in perfect Italian. Workbooks pile up on his desk; he’s not sure when they got there. He’s filling them out so fast his hand gains new calluses.

Azul visits your office around the same time Riddle used to. Now it’s Riddle who trails after him, hoping to catch him in the middle of a nefarious scheme. He’s not sure he’s ready for whatever he might learn, but he swallows his rage and carries on.

Azul turns just as Riddle ducks around the corner, perfectly out of sight. He waits until he hears the tell-tale click of those pristine Oxfords against linoleum before continuing. Azul walks right past your office and then he’s gone. Looking both ways, Riddle creeps further down the hall.

Where is he?

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whirls around, startled, and is about to unleash verbal tyranny when he stops short. You stand there, looking positively puzzled.

“Are you looking for something, Riddle?”

“No… I—” He cuts himself off. “Actually, I was hoping I might discuss something with you. The final project.”

“Oh, of course! Did you come earlier? I stepped out of my office for a second. Sorry if my absence had you looking all over.”

Riddle falls into step with you. “It’s quite all right.”

He’s not sure what he hopes to find by sitting in front of your desk, gazing at the familiar interior of your office. He manages to get through all of the questions you ask him regarding the final project.

“I have too many ideas,” he lies, “and I’d like assistance in narrowing the topics down to one.”

He glances slyly at the floor. Would Azul be bold enough to hide a voice recorder or a camera somewhere? Or is there something of Azul’s left in here? A cheeky means of marking his territory, maybe?

Riddle turns up empty.

He stalls the conversation expertly for ten more minutes. During that time, he can’t locate anything from his semi-thorough observations.

Maybe it’s hidden in your desk. Maybe there’s nothing at all.

No. No, there has to be something.

He thanks you for your help and, shouldering his backpack, leaves.

Just as he turns down the hall, Azul steps into his path.

“Your mind is exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.” He snickers like a devil. Riddle wants to punch him. “So many ideas. Where do you have the space for all of that?”

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

“Oh, is that so?” Azul taps at his phone and then turns the screen towards Riddle. There’s a picture of him in the hall, looking awfully disoriented. “It’s not very polite to stalk now, is it, amico?”

Riddle narrows his eyes. “How easily that accent comes. Almost like flipping a switch.”

“Non capisco.”

“You should know you’re going to ruin your life and Professor’s.”

“I’m not.” He smiles cryptically. “You’re going to ruin it for me.”

Fed up with his attempt at mind chess, Riddle stalks past him in a huff.

You walk into class five minutes late, disheveled and breathless. You’re babbling about a meeting that ran late, but Riddle can’t trust that.

Meetings don’t end in frazzled hair and crooked ties.

What’s even more damning, perhaps, is when Azul Never-Late-to-Class Ashengrotto walks in fifteen minutes after you. He sits in the seat beside Riddle. There’s not a hair out of place on his person. Except there is. The glass face of his luxury wristwatch is smudged with a fingerprint.

Riddle wonders what forensics would have to say about that.

He phases in and out of focus during the lecture. He can’t stop searching you for fine details. He can’t stop questioning Azul’s presence beside him.

How dare you? he thinks. How dare you defile my professor? What makes you think you have the right to do such a thing when I’ve been working hard all this time? When I’ve been nothing but perfect…

He glances at his notebook. A single phrase has been scrawled over and over, so manically that the lines loop and overlap in angry criss-crosses. Lo voglio morto.

At the end of class, Riddle catches Azul in the hall.

“I would like to review with you for our upcoming midterm.”

“What an honor.”

Riddle hums. “Let’s compare our notes tonight. You can stop by my room after dinner.”

Azul grins like he can read through Riddle. Like he’s in on a joke Riddle’s not privy to.

“I would be happy to study alongside you,” he says, his accent thick.

Riddle imagines a rope around his neck. A rope of thorns and barbed wire, pressing into his jugular until, inevitably, it severs his head clean off.

Azul arrives on time. He really does feel like an echo of Riddle. Same school supplies. Same notebooks. Same fashion style. Same manner of writing.

Riddle shuts and locks the door behind him. He doesn’t waste time waltzing around the subject.

“You’re the reason Professor was late today.”

“You’re mistaken. I simply lost track of the time.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what is? I had nothing to do with Professor’s tardiness. If it bothers you so much, why not tell Professor to be more conscious of the time?”

Riddle grits his teeth. He’s sick of this. Sick of these mind games. Sick of all this mental chess.

Sick of the fact that he gets to have you when you should have been Riddle’s from the start!

“You’re a liar! Do you know the gravity of your actions—the severe consequences that’ll undoubtedly befall Professor? Do you know you’re jeopardizing a brilliant mind all for your own immature fun?”

Azul holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Those are harsh accusations. They could ruin my life, you know.”

“Oh, like that’s such an issue.” Riddle scowls.

“Your room is quite nice, I must say.” Azul looks around, his hands in his pockets. He spies the many Italian workbooks lining Riddle’s shelf, and a slimy smirk pulls at his lips. “Imitatore,” he marvels, his eyes bright with an eerie sort of joy. As if he’s just discovered a particularly filthy secret and can’t wait to tell someone.

“If it isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

“And what makes you think Professor would ever entertain you?” Azul rounds on him, still smiling. “Professor loves me most. There was never any room for you.”

Riddle hears the distant crackle of something fraying. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? All I did was take your best characteristics and make them even better. Italian lovers are a romanticized ideal abroad. You were never an option, let alone a consideration.”

How dare you. How dare you. How dare you!

Azul steps towards the door. “Addio. Le mie condoglianze.”

That something inside Riddle finally snaps, and with it goes his restraint. He grabs Azul’s wrist and yanks him to the floor. There’s a struggle for survival. During the scuffle, Azul claws at Riddle’s arm and face. Riddle kicks him down. And then his fingers wrap around his psychology textbook—all 800-something pages, a hardcover—and he brings it down, brutal like a guillotine.

“How dare you walk away in the middle of a conversation!” he berates, lips curled in a monstrous sneer. “How dare you touch what isn’t yours—what you didn’t earn!”

He thinks he sees a real smile on Azul’s face, but in the midst of blind rage he can’t tell.

He sees red. He feels red. It splatters his room in a mess of broken bone and pulpy gore. It flecks his face, warm and thick and soupy.

It all ends with Intro to Psych.

Riddle is bathed in blue light, afloat on a chaotic sea.

Distantly, in the back of his mind, he can hear his mother in hysterics: What have you done?! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done—the future you’ve so carelessly thrown away?! All of my hard work?! Do you realize what you’ve done?!

And he does.

If there’s anything Riddle has ever been one-hundred-percent certain of in his life, it’s this. He sits on the steps to his dormitory, battered and bloodied, and bites into the strawberry tart clutched between crimson-stained fingers.

Despite the crisp autumn air, he feels warm.

An officer approaches him just as he’s licking his fingers clean of strawberry and blood.

He holds his arms out before the woman can say anything. He already knows what comes next.

Riddle has always wondered what criminals think and feel in the aftermath of grisly crimes. He can’t feel much of anything other than hollow relief. Maybe that’s just the adrenaline snuffing logical thought and remorse. He thinks everything and nothing all at once. He’s sure he’ll feel it all come crashing down when he’s sat in the station for questioning and then the reality of his actions will seep in, awakening him from a vile, murderous dream.

Right now, he isn’t concerned with that.

You lived filthy and you died just the same, Riddle thinks as he’s led to a police car. And now there’s no part of you Professor will ever want.

#happy very belated birthday rido <3 #yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle rosehearts x reader #yandere riddle x reader #yandere riddle #tw: student teacher relationship #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: blood #tw: violence

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abyssruler · 2 years

Text

cupid’s chokehold

pairing/s: cyno, diluc, scaramouche x gn!reader

summary: it’s simple, really. one moment you’re laughing, the light of the sun brightening your features, and the next his heart is beating out of his chest, face warm and breaths short, an almost pleasant twist to his gut when you lean close. you look at him with fondness dancing in your eyes, and he realizes, oh, he might just be in love. or — the moment they find out they love you.

note: this is really just an excuse to write diluc being whipped, also this was supposed to include childe heizou and xiao but i lost motivation so here ya go!

CYNO

He finds it hard to believe that you’d be so incapable of writing a simple essay. You once admitted to him how you only got accepted into the Akademiya through sheer luck, but he didn’t believe it then. The Akademiya is known for its strict rules and thorough examination of every student it takes on.

But seeing you struggling not to plagiarize an essay is truly pushing his patience. He’s not one to snap or bark out harsh words to those undeserving of it — and he can think of no one more undeserving of his wrath than you — but it is frustrating to watch you stumble even at the easiest of assignments.

“I think I’ve got it! Oh, I made a little mistake on the spelling there, but this is the one that’ll blow my professors away! Cyno, can you proofread this for me?”

He’ll tell you later that he didn’t mean it, and you’ll accept it without hesitation with an accepting smile — but right now, the searing sun made worse by the humid weather makes a short fuse even for the most patient of saints.

“If you can’t do something so simple, then I see no point in partaking in this fruitless endeavor. The Akademiya is harsh and has no room for error, you would be better off leaving than continue struggling futilely.”

He didn’t mean to come off so harsh, as if he’s belittling all your hard work and effort and telling you that you don’t belong in the Akademiya. But the damage has been done, and your hopeful look turns into shock at his outburst, retreating into yourself and quickly retracting the paper you’d been in the middle of handing out to him. Your face closes off, clutching your essay close to your chest and darting your eyes anywhere but his general direction.

“Sorry,” you say, awkward and fumbling, resolutely not meeting his eyes, “For being annoying, among other things.” Then, you rise to your feet abruptly. He can see the way your fingers are clenched tightly at your paper, tight enough to wrinkle the edges such that he knows you’ll regret later for ruining yet another paper. “I won’t bother you again.”

Your voice is uncharacteristically quiet, almost sounding choked off. You turn and give him a brief glimpse of your face, and he realizes that you’re on the verge of tears.

He catches your arm just before you can take a step forward. “Wait.”

You freeze, muscles tensing beneath his touch. He instantly releases you after he feels how uncomfortable it must have made you. The silence between you is so tangible he can almost see it permeating the air, cloying and thick and utterly unwelcome.

He parts his mouth a few times, going through every possible scenario where he says the wrong thing that pushes you to the edge and makes you hate him forever. The mere thought is enough to steal him of his breath. No, he can’t have that, can’t bear the thought of a world where you aren’t there greeting him brightly in the morning and being so shameless as you fall into step beside him despite his rank and engage him in idle chitchat. He doesn’t think he’s ever told you before, but he looks forward to that part of his day the most.

After what seems like eons of standing in silence, he finally speaks. But what comes out of his mouth isn’t the apology he rehearsed in his head.

“Why did the bike fall over?”

You turn to him with an almost incredulous look, eyes wide with unshed tears that he berates himself for. Then, hesitantly, you ask, “…Why?”

The response comes naturally to him, years of reading through his notes and making them himself has all but ingrained such information in his mind.

“Because it was two tired,” he delivers this with a straight face, tone flat and completely at odds with the nature of his joke.

You stare at him for a moment, lips parted in surprise at the sudden joke. He sees your grip on your paper loosen, shoulders relaxing, mouth twisting into something he can’t quite discern, and then—

“Pft.” It starts out small, quiet as you bring a hand to cover your mouth, before it dissolves into a full blown laugh, the kind that has your shoulders shaking and eyes closed, head tilted back and the sound of your laughter filling his ears. He’s never considered that laughs could produce such pleasant sounds, so it comes as a surprise when yours makes something in him want to lean forward to hear more. Or perhaps it’s just you.

The light from the sun bounces off your skin, making your expression all the more radiant.

And Cyno? Cyno doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a mesmerizing sight before.

You’ve never laughed at his jokes, or rather, he’s never seen fit to tell you any of them, seeing as you’ve always been so at ease around him that telling a joke was never necessary. He’ll have to rectify that, he thinks, watching the way your mouth curves up in a smile, eyes dancing with mirth as you finally meet his eyes.

And he’s suddenly struck by the thought of how much he likes seeing you like this — hair mussed from the wind, exhilaration lining your lips, breaths short from laughing too hard, and gazing at him in delight.

And maybe he’s overthinking things too much, maybe the pounding of his heart and the sudden intake of breath is a result of something else, but he wants to believe it’s because of you.

Later, he’ll come up with a proper apology, something a little less joking and a little more serious. But right now, you’re looking at him like he’s the only person in the world, and that’s all that matters.

DILUC

The sun is particularly hot today, bordering on sweltering, but still, you insist on accompanying him in this menial task of picking grapes.

Diluc has always preferred solitude since he came of age, doing things alone and being lost in his thoughts have become things that he finds strangely pleasant, almost calming. But you’ve never been one to settle in silence, always needing to voice your thoughts and fill the room with chatter about all sorts of topics. It’s something he should dislike, all things considered due to his preference for quietness, but you, he finds, have always been an exception to what he considers the norm.

He wonders why.

“And just then, a hilichurl comes out of nowhere and starts throwing rocks at me — rocks! They have crossbows and shields and those battering things, but that one chose to use rocks to attack me! It’s like he thought I wasn’t even worth the effort!”

He idly plucks a group of ripe grapes from a vine, listening to you retell your encounter with a hilichurl that led to you discovering its camp that held a precious chest, only to open it and find nothing but cabbages. You bemoan how it was a total waste of effort, all that fighting just for a few pieces of vegetables you don’t even like.

A small, amused smile flits its way into his lips. It doesn’t escape your notice.

“So you think my suffering is funny, huh?” You narrow your eyes at him.

He turns away and briefly considers the merits of admitting to smiling, not at your plight, but at the various inflections in your tone as you regaled him with your story and the little laughs you let out when you got to a funny part and the way you looked at him with a smile so wide it crinkled the corners of your eyes, reflecting the light from the sun in its near-blinding intensity.

When he turns back to face you, he’s met with fingers on his lips and something small and round being pushed into his mouth. His teeth bites down into it, tender and sweet. A grape, he realizes, meeting mischievous eyes set upon a face that’s full of promises for future teasings and pranks.

The pads of your fingers are soft against his lips. His eyes wander against his will, landing on your lips twisted into a smirk, and his mind conjures an impossibly dangerous thought. Perhaps your lips would feel softer against his.

And then heat is creeping up his skin, searing red across his neck that reaches his cheeks and stops at the tips of his ears.

It’s nothing ostentatious. Not like the stories told in books where they meet each other’s eyes across the room and falter as their hearts beat as one, where they meet in the carnage of a battlefield, offering each other’s hands and knowing without a doubt that they will only ever have their backs for each other until the day they die. It’s not even one where he holds your hand and feels the way his heart leaps at the contact as he realizes what it might mean.

But this is still as meaningful, still as beautiful, suspended in time and carved in stone upon his memories until the winds of time erode it away.

A gentle breeze blows past you, and he catches the barest hint of a scent that consumes his mind and fills it with thoughts of nothing but you and your fingers lingering on his lips and how he’s never wanted to kiss a person more than he does now.

And oh, oh.

It’s a fanciful thought, but he imagines if his life were to become a book, then it should be one with an ending that intertwines with yours.

He considers that, for such a book, it would begin like this — the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Diluc Ragnvindr is in love.

SCARAMOUCHE

If Scaramouche were the kind to think thoughts that would have him put below the pedestal he’s placed himself at, he’d think there must be something wrong with him.

“Did you really think you could have defeated those monsters all on your own? You’re lucky I was nearby, otherwise you’d be nothing but a bloody splatter on the ground.” His words are as harsh as ever, carrying that biting tone that’s labeled him unapproachable and unlikeable to most anyone — that is, most anyone who isn’t you.

He doesn’t understand you, the reasoning behind your actions and words and generally everything about you that makes you so infuriating. It grates at him, not knowing something, especially when that something pertains to you. Though why that would even matter is beyond him.

You smile at him, a sheepish little thing, utterly unrepentant and unaware of the possible consequences your actions could have brought. Not that he cares if anything happens to you. He’d just rather not deal with the trouble of handling your papers should you die under his service.

(That was, admittedly, a very weak argument that he’ll chastise himself for later. A Harbinger would have more pressing work to do than handle every paperwork about a dead subordinate. Not that the fact about him handling your papers upon your death was untrue, only that it’s only your paper among his countless other subordinates who’ve died that he’ll bother doing.)

Your mask fell off somewhere in the middle of that rather pathetic fight. It’s a breach of protocol to not be wearing your mask while on duty, but Scaramouche chooses to ignore that particular rule. He’s a Harbinger, he’s the one who decides the rules. Having to order you to go fetch your mask to put it back on would be a waste of time and effort. Much more efficient to simply speak this way, he reasons. It’s most definitely not because he wants to see your eyes and the myriad of emotions that pass through them. And even if it is, it’s only a way for him to better read your expressions and discern whether you’re lying or not. He can’t have anyone betraying him the Fatui.

“I apologize, my lord. It seems I’m still unaccustomed to my new uniform.” Your voice carries a sort of lilt to it that makes it more tolerable than most people he’s ever spoken to. It’s not a compliment, lest his mind go against him and begin creating false narratives, it’s an observation rooted in fact. The sky is blue, the stars are false, and your voice isn’t unpleasant to listen to.

He does frown at your explanation. “Unaccustomed? It’s hardly that different from your previous uniform.” He would know, of course, he spent hours watching you in it. Not that he was watching you simply for the sake of watching, no, never, he was merely criticizing your choice of color scheme and the scuff marks and dried blood that never quite went away no matter how many times you washed it. You’ve complained to him enough times about it in a way that no subordinate should to their lord, but he was in a good mood then, so he let it slide… among countless other things he let slide.

You pull at the collar of your uniform. “It’s a bit constricting. I think they may have gotten my measurements wrong—”

He scoffs, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. “And you didn’t think to tell me? What use would I have for a recruit who can’t even move properly because of a tight uniform?”

“Well, you did tell me not to bother you anymore with my inane concerns, so I figured you wouldn’t want to hear about this…my lord.” The last part is added almost as an afterthought. He decides to let it slide.

He does recall something along those lines, sometime when he was in a foul mood and had no patience for your presence and the contradictions it brought in his behavior. He remembers being lost and dumbfounded the next day when you turned to leave after giving your report instead of lounging on his office’s couch and telling him about your day and the gossip you recently heard. He hadn’t actually meant for you to stop talking to him, but he was too proud to say so to you, which resulted in a week of silence on both parties. It was completely unbearable, but Scaramouche would sooner cut his own head off than admit it.

“Fine. You’re allowed to speak such drivel to me again, since you clearly can’t function without any sort of assistance from me.” It’s easy to twist the situation as if you’re the one who’s been dying to talk to him normally again instead of the other way around.

You laugh beneath your breath, something bordering on a giggle — a giggle, of all things. The last time someone had the audacity to giggle in his presence was…was a long time ago. Something he won’t dwell in.

“If you insist, my lord,” you say, an almost teasing twinkle in your eyes, and Scaramouche has never been more grateful exasperated that you aren’t wearing a mask. Who do you think you are to show such an emotion like happiness in front of him?

He’ll let it slide though. Just this once.

“Let’s return to the camp. I don’t want to be seen any longer with you looking the state you are now.” He deliberately ignores the fact that people will only see the two of you together once you’re back and not at this lone clearing. You turn to place your mask back on and he lets you. Wouldn’t do much good to have others see your face and plot whatever nefarious schemes their minds will cook up, like talking to you or, gods forbid, flirting with you—

And then he stops, completely frozen in place and unable to hide that shock that bleeds through his carefully crafted mask. He’s lucky you’re standing behind him, otherwise he’d have to kill you for seeing him in such a state. Not that he believes he’ll be able to go through with it, but the thought is needed though not necessarily appreciated.

He turns to you after he’s gotten ahold of his expression, eyes scanning your features and, with an almost sickening lurch in his stomach, finds that you’re not exactly unpleasant to look at.

Your hand reaches out for his arm with worry, and he nearly reels his hand back at the sheer audacity you have for assuming he is someone who needs worrying for but—but.

He rather likes the feeling of your fingers brushing against his skin.

So he lets you close your hand around his arm and look at him with through a mask he knows harbors a concerned look behind it. He nearly laughs at the notion of someone being concerned for him, but alas, you’re such an anomaly that even he can’t bring himself to mock even the worst trait you possess.

You are truly the most vexing person he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Perhaps if you keep touching him like this, he’ll let that one slide too.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #cyno x reader #genshin cyno x reader #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #gn reader #serious x airhead

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cursingtoji · 1 year

Text

ᥫ᭡ — EXECUTIVE AFFAIRS: In a cutthroat world of boardroom battles and power struggles, you must navigate ambition , corporate intrigue, and unexpected love affairs.

✧ PRELUDE

— contents: CEO!reader, construction worker!Toji, lawyer!Nanami, therapist!Geto, ex-husband!Gojo; power imbalance, sexual frustration, manipulation, use of 'darling', 'baby', 'dear' & 'boss', 4k words, on-going series

— note: osha is the occupational safety and health administration agency in the USA, even tho i'm not american seems easier to just say osha (also a fun word to pronunce)

A young man opens the rear door of the Jaguar as soon as your driver stops by the construction site, “This way ma’am” you accept his hand, touching the cement with your stiletto first before getting out of the vehicle.

As scheduled you are heading to a meeting with the architect responsible for this particular project, a big one. Normally the CEO wouldn’t be involved in such routine visits like this, but you definitely don’t want to be like the previous CEO, who barely stepped out of his office for anything.

Besides, you have to make a good impression with the other directors that would be there today as well, and what better way to do that if not going to the construction site yourself, even though you clearly do not belong there given the way your heel wobbled as soon as it touched the uneven ground.

“Excuse me, miss” you’re stopped by a man twice your size — horizontally and almost vertically — extending a white helmet in your direction, “I’m sure that hair costed a lot and you don’t wanna cover it, but every person on site, even the ladies, ‘gotta wear it.”

You stand a bit shocked at the man addressing you like it’s not your last name on his uniform.

“Mr. Fushiguro, I should inform you that it’s your CEO you’re talking to” the boy beside you speaks up, he’s wearing a white helmet and the unknown man a yellow one.

“Great, so you are able to afford the OSHA fine if they decide today is a good day for inspection, but I’d rather not have another pointless safety training just ‘cause no one had the balls to tell you to protect your pretty ‘lil head” his expression doesn’t change a bit with the new information. You find that respectable, especially having so many people stuttering when talking to you.

If you were to say that you don’t get even a little bit amused by people being nervous in your presence Nanami would have to warn you about perjury.

It’s quite a change to have a blue collar employee sticking to the rules and not batting an eye when the highest possible authority of the company is standing right in front of him, especially when that someone looks like he just got out of a sexy construction men calendar… not that you have ever seen one of those. That’s just what you think they might look like, plus that scar only adds up to fantasy.

You clean your throat, “I appreciate your work ethic, Mr. Fushiguro” you repeat the name so you won’t forget, “I wasn’t aware of the rules” you side-look the young man beside you who’s now staring at his own feet embarrassed since it was his duty to inform you.

“Call me Toji” you take the helmet and put it on, “By the way, you’re supposed to wear trousers too and… literally anything but that” he points with his chin to your high heels thinking how that alone was a safety hazard not just on a construction site. Toji leans closer “but I’ll let it slide, ‘cause you have quite beautiful legs.”

You are left mouth agape, internally appreciating that he didn’t say that out loud — after all being sexualized when you are trying to impose respect would require you to put a show and fire the man — but also makes you question if he was straight forward with you because of his work ethics or because he does not respect you as his superior.

Not that you wouldn’t let him do disrespectful things to you, but still!

You’re taken to where the rest of the directors are, they’re easy to spot — a bunch of men in suits that clearly don’t belong to the place — surrounding a table with the blue prints. They greet you and you realize this is the first time you see all of them around a table and not sitting, poor guys must be dying for a room with AC right now.

It’s not like you belonged there either, with your tailor made beige suit that had a pencil skirt instead of the newly-discovered-necessary trousers and how-the-fuck-you-thought-that-was-a-good-idea high heels. But in your own defense you did visit a lot of construction sites when you first started at the company all those years ago and that’s much more than the white collar men in front of you can say.

The main architect starts to give you all an status of the project being interrupted by the senior engineer every few minutes, the last one clearly thinking he’s better than the first even though neither of them lifts a finger in this ground.

Your sight is drawn to the man that scolded you before, while the architect is pointing to something on top of the construction and everyone else is shielding their eyes from the sun to find it, you’re looking straight ahead to Toji who’s currently lifting an apparently very heavy sack of cement on his shoulder and taking it all across the site. God, he’s strong.

His handsome face shines with sweat, you’re sure the wife beater he has on also violates some OSHA code, but who would be crazy enough to report that? Not you for sure, the view is worth the OSHA fine.

Especially when he drops the sack with a grunt and uses the shirt to wipe his face, revealing a torso you’re sure Michelangelo would die to use as inspiration to sculpt into marble then having people saying ‘whoa that’s real art’.

You wonder if someone would scream at you for touching that piece of art.

Unfortunately you don’t expect to get caught ogling by the subject himself. So the best thing you can do is find whatever the architect is pointing to and pretend to pay attention like you should have from the beginning instead of eye fucking one of your employees.

“Hey, boss” you hear on your way out of the site and back to your cozy office where you wouldn’t get your ankle broken that easily. You turn around and see Toji catwalking his way to you.

“Technically I'm out of the hazard zone, mr. Fushiguro” you justify your lack of a helmet which you ditched a few seconds ago.

“Toji” he corrects you, taking his own helmet off “and I’m not this uptight, unlike some people here today” he mutters the last part looking behind him to some of the directors that seemed to be looking for tiny errors on the project so they could fix it and justify being there.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“I’m pretty sure you're being robbed.”

“What?” you look around, “What do you mean?”

“You’re paying for double the stuff that’s actually being delivered” he took a sheet of folded paper out of his pants, you reach for it but he pulls it back, “I have proof and I can say names.”

“Did you say that to your field supervisor?”

“Please, who do ya think it’s signin’ under this?” he rolls his eyes.

“So you came to the CEO instead? You’re going behind some big backs here, sir.”

“Look, miss, I want a promotion, I know a lot of big shots will go down for this and I’m the only one capable of handling the people here. Besides I stand by what I said before, no one has the guts to do this so I’m taking a big risk and I deserve compensation” he hands back the paper and this time he let you take it. You stare into his deep green eyes suspiciously, the man has the looks of a fantasy villain with his sharp features and dark eyelashes, you're not entirely sure if you should believe him.

“Give your number to my assistant, we’ll schedule a meeting in the office, you tell me everything you know and I see what I can do about it.”

“In the office? Didn’t know you allowed commonores in your castle” he smirks.

“Only the pretty ones” you wink and his smile grows wider.

“How long have you known about this?” Nanami questions.

“Not even 24 hours” you sit on your white couch signing for him to take the seat in front of you.

Your lawyer does that thing you find really hot where he unbuttons the coat of his five digit worth suit before sitting down. You admire Nanami’s elegance while he roams his eyes through the paper, he has a vest between the coat and the dress shirt. Navy blue suits him so well, matches his eyes. He makes you think every man should wear vests, but of course not every man can pull it off. Honestly, you find it hard to believe there's anything Nanami can’t pull off, but you haven't seen your lawyer without a suit… ever.

Maybe he looks bad with a plain T-shirt?

No way.

Perhaps with an overall and cowboy hat?

Mmm the image makes you wanna ride something.

What about emo hair, eyeliner and a band tee?

No, you can’t imagine Kento with emo hair, no chance he had a rebellious phase except if his parents wanted him to be a surgeon and he became the best lawyer in the city just to piss them off.

“I’m glad you came to me first, but we’ll need to involve auditing and probably internal affairs. That’ll probably put the project on hold for some weeks, also I’ll need more evidence than this” he shook the one paper sheet that was merely a quotation of supplies even you could understand is way too much for a single building.

“I got the guy for that, say the word and Yuuta will arrange a meeting” you pointed to your assistant sitting outside.

“Tell me, dear” he put the sheet aside, taking that posture that intimidated you a bit, “A blue collar worker just saw your pretty self on the site and handed criminal evidence? Just like that?”

You open your mouth, thinking what to say that won’t sound like you are being taken advantage of, and failing.

“Oh darling” he says a bit too condescendingly for someone that technically works for you, “Thought I told you about being too naive” he leans on the couch, making himself comfortable like you’re about to have The Talk.

“Kento, is not like that” you cross your arms defensively, “He said he wants a promotion, how risky that would be?”

“Thought you would say that” he takes his phone and hands it to you, “So I did my own little research.”

“What’s this?” you find yourself looking at a picture of the man you met yesterday.

Only now you could see tiny numbers behind him indicating his height and he held a plaque with his name. He looks way younger, still very handsome, you wonder how popular he used to be in his youth, with a face like that and the implication he was arrested was enough to make every girl’s bad-boy-dream come true.

“What was he accused of?” you ask out of curiosity.

“Not relevant, also sealed records” he breaks eye contact and that’s enough for you to understand he actually knows it and he did not get this information by any legal means.

“So what? The man got a bit of trouble with the law when he was young” you shrug, remembering even your ex husband had a little rich boy “criminal” file, if you can even call the dumb shit he did outta spite for his parents an actual crime.

“HR will find out about this, then you’re going to have to justify why you’re recommending a filled man for a managing position.”

“And I’ll tell them he actually found out about a theft scheme and whatever public-pissing crime he did will surely be overlooked.”

“Darling, you have to start thinking about your image, we’ve been through that before” he tilts his head.

“You don’t like my image?” you question playfully twirling your hair, Nanami smiles for a brief second.

“You know what I mean: your image towards the board, you barely made the votes necessary to be where you are today.”

Indeed, you owned the company and no one could take that away, but the CEO position needed to be voted and you only got the necessary votes because your ex-husband had the strongest voting rights and part of the divorce agreement was that he voted for you, so his, plus a few more other members of the board's votes and you made chief executive officer.

“Fine, then write a contract, he tells everything including testify if he has to in exchange of the supervisor position and I’ll pitch it to the board before any decisions are made” you uncross your arms raising from your seat.

Bringing the board into the conversation made you nervous, most of them don't like you and you’ve been trying to prove yourself for months. Even though you worked your ass off way before marrying the owner all they saw was a hurt ex-wife making pretend.

“Atta girl” Nanami raises too, buttoning his coat back and placing his hands on your tense shoulders. Nanami smells like what you think it should be every handsome lawyer's trademark scent, cause damn that smell would make you sign anything he gives you.

“Don’t worry much, you’re doing great” he presses a bit and you melt.

“Take me out to lunch?” you pout.

“I would love to” he lets go of your shoulder, “Unfortunately I have a hearing, but I'll be back for that meeting soon, okay?”

You sigh in defeat, getting even a few minutes of Nanami’s time for yourself is as hard as it can get, only a corruption scheme to get him to come to your office in such short notice.

“Ma’am” Yuuta says from the speakerphone, “Your ex-husband is calling” you groan, throwing your head back.

Of course he would want to interrupt your moment with Nanami.

“I can get you a restriction order” your lawyer offers jokily (or not).

Aside from being the company's lawyer, Nanami Kento was also your divorce attorney, which you managed to get only after agreeing to give him your company's account if he managed to land you the CEO position. Like everything in this merciless corporate world, it was give and take, you got what you wanted – not surprisingly so, afterall Nanami, even though is not a divorce specialist, is the best. Still, you like to think of him being more than another contractor of yours.

“I appreciate the offering” you smile tiredly, Nanami kisses your hand like the gentleman he is before leaving your office, “Yuuta, I’ll take him– it. I’ll take the call” you sit back behind your desk massaging your temple “Put him through.”

“Hello, beautiful” he greets over the speakerphone in that always so cheerful tone.

“Satoru, what do you want?”

“No chit-chat? It’s the least you could do for me after I gave you the company” entitled as always…

“You didn’t give it to me, you gave it up for the rest of your assets” you remind, already sick of this same discussion over and over.

When the divorce was officially on the table you told Kento exactly what you wanted: the company. The one thing you knew your ex husband would hate to lose, but also didn’t love as much as his lifestyle – which would be brutally affected if you decided to go for the 50% you were entitled to.

So through a carefully written agreement you accepted way less than you were owed in the form of full ownership of the respected construction company and title of chief executive officer.

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other. How have you been?”

“Fine. Just tell me what you want, I actually take this job seriously and have important things to do.”

Oh god, he would tease you so bad if he knew about the corruption scheme, and the worst part is that, eventually, he will know. Gojo has ears everywhere around here.

“Nanami” he says simply. You start to look around your office, wondering if he has cameras there.

“You… want… Nanami?”

“Yes, beautiful” he confirms slowly like he's talking to a kid that has just learned the alphabet.

“Why? You know what? Nevermind, I don't want to know. No, you can’t have him” you lean on your chair, denying Gojo gives you great satisfaction.

“It’s not for any bullshit reason, alright?”

“I don’t care, Satoru. Besides, I don’t own Kento, you can approach him anytime” you smile knowing he would never be able to do that without you.

“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” condescension drips from your phone and onto your desk, “He won’t represent me even if I run for president.”

“So you need legal representation? You’re not calling me from jail, are you Satoru?” you mirror his condescending tone, surely he can hear the smile in your voice.

“Thought you didn't care, or would you bail me out? Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t have the money for that” he laughs, arguing was never a thing with him, he would mock you and find a way to make you doubt your accusations. Gaslighting is it? “I’ll give it a shot, just so you know, but this is a great opportunity for you to ask something in return.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Think about it, baby, I’m sure there's plenty of things I can do for you” his tone is lower, more seductive.

“Doubt it” you roll your eyes hearing his chuckle.

“Yeah? When was the last time you had–”

You hang up.

Then sigh loudly and press the button to talk to Yuuta.

“Yes, ma’am?” you scrunch your nose, still not used to being called that, Nanami said you should let your sweet assistant call you ma'am or madam at least in front of others since you could use the recognition of your authority.

“Please put Geto on the line.”

“Certainly” you wait, stepping out of your heels and digging your toes on the fluff carpet under the table.

“Hi, doc” you salute your psychologist.

“Sugar, I told you there’s no need to address me like that, hurts my feelings” his honeyed voice is everything you need to hear in such stressful times.

“It does? Maybe you should see a therapist to talk about that, I have a great recommendation” you can’t help but smile like a little girl when talking to him, being playful is a way to cope with your harmless crush.

“Just great?”

“He’s the best, I can assure you” he laughs, “Do you have a few minutes?”

“For you, absolutely” your face warms up then you remember the subject of the call and cools down again.

“It’s Satoru.”

‘It’s always Satoru’ Geto thinks.

“He just called wanting something, I told him no and he made that same old joke about me not having money” you huffed.

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Helpless? I don't know, he must think I’m poor now or something” which is ridiculous, you’re not nearly close to his patrimony as you used to when you were married but what you have is still fuckload more than what it takes to be considered poor.

“He’s trying to remind you of what you lost when you left him, this is just another manipulation technique, my love. Don’t let him get in your head” you need this as a mantra to hear every time your ex-husband calls, “Did he bring up sex this time?”

“No, but he was about to.”

“And what did you say?”

“Hanged up” you hear him snorting.

“Well, that can work on the phone, but what if you were talking face to face? What would you have done?”

Geto knows a lot about you. Obviously since you pay him to listen while you ramble and complain. Still, feels overwhelming having someone recalling your previous actions, especially the ones you're not exactly proud of.

“Tell him to shut up, throw a stapler on him, call security, threaten him with a restriction order.”

“Would you really?” Geto likes to take a joke you make and dig on that.

“Well, probably not the last two…”

“Have you been looking up restriction orders?”

“No, that was a joke my lawyer made early. A restriction order would be too… bureaucratic? Also unnecessary, afterall Satoru he never physically hurt me or threatened to.”

“That would be a good way of making him leave you alone for a while since you're not able to fully detach from him” you sat up.

“That's not true! I’ve been doing everything by myself lately, don't even have time to think about him! I’m detached, doc.”

“Wanna know what I think you would have done if he made that sexual comment face to face with you?” you gulp and Geto takes your silence as consent to continue, “I think you would let him go forward with it.”

You make an offended sound but don't fight his statement, “And what would happen next?” he tones the question like a professor trying to make the class complete a sentence, you keep your head down and mouth shut, “You would’ve let him sweet talk you into sleeping with him again.”

“You don't know that” you murmur.

“It’s a pattern, love. This is how abusive husbands keep their wives from leaving them or even telling anyone about the abuse. They use sex to make them think how good it is to be with them despite everything else.”

“Satoru was not abusive.” you defend your ex-husband firmly, “And I already left him!” you defend yourself less firmly.

“And he still thinks he can have you back! You know why?”

“Because I’m a catch that he shouldn’t have cheated?” Geto stays quiet for a few seconds and you feel a lump in your throat forming. The comment was supposed to sound more like a joke but you're still too hurt for that , clearly.

“That as well, but you really think he regrets it?”

“He seemed pretty sorry in the divorce mediation” you murmur recalling his lost-puppy expression.

“The meeting where he signed a paper that would make him lose his company and his wife? Gee I wonder why” the little sarcastic remark made you smile and shake your head, your psychologist using sarcasm against you is quite funny, “My point is, if you really want to be independent from him you ‘gotta stop letting yourself be attracted back like a magnet” you let his words sink in hearing some papers being ruffled on his side.

“I’m giving you homework.”

“Oh no…”

“Find your sexuality by yourself, you can watch porn, masturbate or even better: have sex with someone. Anyone but Satoru, because right now that’s what he’s using to control you.”

“Geto, I don’t know about this. Porn is too gross, masturbation is too ineffective and sex is too…” you trail off.

“Vulnerable?” he completes.

“I guess…”

“It’s been a few months since you last slept with Satoru, right? What’re you feeling?”

“What do you mean?” you rub your face.

“You know what I mean” he's strict and you let out a long sigh.

“I feel frustrated, sometimes stressed and distracted” all caused by the men you have to deal with including the handsome psychologist putting some sense in you. Not exactly what you wanted him to put in, but oh well…

“Exactly, in your current state it’s only a matter of time until you end up on his bed. You gotta decide if you are willing to: find porn that is not gross, masturbate more effectively or let yourself relax and be vulnerable.”

Is easy to like Geto Suguru, he’s handsome, has a sweet voice, he listens without interrupting (manterrupting is a big no-no for this job thankfully). Though sometimes it’s easy to hate him too, you have to remember he's saying what you need to hear not what you want to, even if your ears could use some tickling from time to time.

“Still with me?” he asks after you remain quiet.

“Yes, doc” he says your name in a warning tone, “Sorry, Suguru.”

“All good for our appointment next week?”

“Hm” your thoughts go to the newly found out corruption scheme that will need your attention the following days, “I’ll ask Yuuta to confirm with your secretary alright?”

“Whatever works best for you, love.”

“Bye, Suguru.”

“Don’t forget your homework.”

🏷️ @rinntvrou @sakurasimppp @sad-darksoul — to be tagged in future works of this series please comment “@ me” in this post.

note: i’m not sure if tickle the ears is a known term worldwide but means “saying or suggesting things to please even if untrue”. also i have some big plans for kinktober so next chapter might take a little while to be posted, let me know your thoughts <3

#jjk x reader #jjk smut #gojo x reader #toji x reader #geto x reader #nanami x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk series #jjk x you

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letters-to-lgbt-kids · 3 months

Text

My dear lgbt+ kids,

You don’t need a skincare beauty routine at all if you don’t want one.

Of course you need to wash your face at least semi-regularly, just like you need to wash the rest of your body (for hygiene and health - washing germs, sweat and dirt off), and you need to put on sunscreen at least on days where you’ll be outside and there’s an UV index of 3 or higher (for skin cancer prevention). But apart from that? You don’t really NEED to do anything at all.

Certain beauty influencers and companies will try hard to tell you otherwise but, really, you will not die, the world will not implode, the birds will not stop singing.

Or in slightly more realistic worries: You can live a fulfilling life and be a whole adult, even if you never become the kind of person who religiously does ten steps of skincare every morning.

You won’t even necessarily have horribly-looking skin without a skincare routine. („horrible“ is a very subjective term when it comes to beauty anyway, and much of what we are taught to think of as horrible is simply the beauty industry pushing a beauty standard that is purposefully unreachable, so you’ll keep buying their products). Think about it: for every person who swears by their 25-step-routine, you’ll find someone who swears by their nothing-but-sunscreen routine - and they’ll both have beautiful skin. Clearly, healthy skin isn’t achieved by any one specific product or routine, otherwise there wouldn’t be that many different products or routines being promoted!

All this is not to say that routines are meaningless. Many people find something in their skincare routine that actually has little to do with skin: regular routines provide stability and comfort. It can be a beautiful moment of calmness before you start the day. Doing the same thing before bedtime every night can help your brain switch into sleep mode more easily. Skincare can be a good way to integrate some pleasant touch and sensory experiences into your daily life. Skincare (different ingredients and what they do etc.) can be a fascinating topic to learn about. Trying a new product can be something exciting to look forward to. And so on, and so forth!

But none of that changes the simple truth: if you don’t want to have a skincare routine, it’s okay to just not have one. No matter if it’s something like “I’d like one, I just don’t have the energy/ motivation/ headspace/ money/ freedom to build one right now” or “I struggle too much with forming reliable habits to stick to one routine for a longer time” or “Skincare makes me uncomfortable because of gender dysphoria/ sensory overload/ etc.” or if it’s just “I don’t feel like it” or “I find skincare boring” - it’s okay to not have a routine. Use your sunscreen when necessary and call it a day. You’ll be fine.

With all my love,

Your Tumblr Dad

#lgbt #lgbt+

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aerynwrites · 1 year

Note

Thank you for writing these, they are fantastic! Could you do one where Tav is doubting her abilities and is overwhelmed with the responsibility of fighting the netherbrain? Halsin would be there to stand with her and remind her of her strength, bravery, and growth. And kiss her too, because of course.

Not Alone

Halsin x Reader

A/N: thank you for the request friend! I hope this is what you wanted - I had fun writing this Bc wouldn’t we ALL be overwhelmed with that??

Word count: 1k

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, feeling overwhelmed, emotional hurt comfort, kissing, fluff.

It seemed to come out of nowhere.

The desperate squeeze of your chest. The burning tears behind your eyes. Shaking hands, narrowed vision, the inability to breath or think straight.

The sadness and grief and anxiety and…fear.

It all comes crashing down one unsuspecting evening, as the moon hovers high in the sky, trying and failing to comfort you with her pale light as you rush from your tent.

Worry about waking your companions doesn’t even cross your mind as you stumble from camp and into the surrounding wilderness, tears blinding you.

Gods, it’s too much.

The tadpoles, your friends' personal quests, the absolute, the guardian in your dreams…they all haunt you. Drain you constantly through the day and even now - where sleep used to be a respite - even your dreams are no longer your own.

A stray rock catches the toe of your shoe and suddenly you're acutely aware of the world around you once more. The rushing of air past you as you crash to the ground and the pain in your knees as you land. The dirt and grass beneath your fingers as you dig desperately into the earth. The wetness on your cheeks, and finally the broken sob that bursts from your lips.

You want to scream, and you just about let it out when something falls against your shoulder. However, the only sound that comes out is a strangled gasp as you turn to find the intruder.

Halsin, your druid companion turned lover - crouches before you, concern drawing his brows together and thinning his lips.

“Are you alright?” He asks, voice gentle amidst the roaring turmoil of your mind. “I saw you rush from camp as I was returning and you seemed…troubled.”

Shaking your head you turn away from him, shame bubbling up in your chest. That forever cracking facade of a leader, pushing forward once more.

“I’m fine.”

You try to sound firm, but the words come out broken and choked around the lump lodged in your throat.

Halsin says nothing for a moment, instead moving to sit beside you in silence, staring out into the wilderness ahead.

You try to control your emotions, try to pull yourself together, but the tears just won’t. Stop.

“Even the strongest of leaders feel the weight of what they take on.” Halsin finally says. “No one can carry it alone forever.”

“I never asked to be a leader,” you respond, voice as empty as you feel.

More tears come forward ushering out all the thoughts you’ve been holding in your mind. The things you’ve been hiding, trying to keep everyone happy.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you whisper, finally looking over to the druid from where you sit on your knees. “I just wanted to find a cure for these things in our heads and every solution has been a dead end o-or an avenue to something worse!” The words spill from your lips in shaky breaths.

“And on top of all that I have to stand by and watch as my companions, my friends struggle too. Astarion and his past with Cazador, never feeling free - yearning for escape. Gale and Shadowheart trapped by a goddess. Karlach being told she is literally damned to hell. And then you -“ you gesture vaguely to the man next to you. “Bearing the weight of the shadow curse and Thaniels well being…”

Slowly, with each word it seems the tears start to stop. Or dry up. You’re not sure which. But as you continue to speak it’s as if a tiny miniscule weight is lifted. You finally turn to face Halsin, who just gazes at you patiently, concern evident in his eyes.

“I don’t say this to make it seem like I don’t want to bear these things. They are my friends and you-“ you reach out to take his hand in yours, appreciating the comforting squeeze he gives you. “I love you. I want to help you and everyone back at camp but it’s just-“

“Too much to bear alone.”

Halsin completes your thoughts exactly, and before you can speak he’s gathering you up in his arms. You melt into his embrace, surrounded by the warmth and safety you’ve come to crave from the man holding you.

“I don’t know how you did it for so long.” You admit, arms moving to wrap around him. “And for centuries no less. How did you bear it? The responsibility.”

Halsin holds you tighter. “Admittedly, at first I did not bear it well,” he tells you. “I felt much like you do now, overwhelmed by others burdens and the decisions that were mine to make everyday. Constantly worried if the path I was leading the grove down was the right one.”

Gently, Halsin separates from you, just enough that he can see your face.

“So…what did you do? How did you keep it all from tearing you apart?”

Halsin smiles then, a tiny pained thing - as if seeing you go through what he has, hurts him as well.

A calloused hand comes to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing away residual sticky tears.

“I learned to share my burdens with those around me. With my family, my friends. And they were happy to assist me, just as I know those surrounding you will lend you their aid as well.”

You open your mouth to speak but Halsin cuts you off with a quick press of his lips against yours, retreating to press another one to each cheek.

“These are not your burdens to hold alone, my love,” he assures you, eyes searching your own. “You are strong and brave, but let us help you. Lean on me as I have you.”

His words bring on a whole new wave of tears, but instead of sadness all you feel is overwhelming relief and comfort. Halsins arms tighten around you as you press into him, head resting against his chest.

“Thank you,” you whisper, not having the words to express your gratitude.

Pressing a kiss to the top of your head, Halsin rubs a soothing hand up your back.

“Anything for you, my heart.” Reaching up, he runs gentle fingers through your hair. “Would you like to return to camp?”

Taking a deep breath, you shake your head, relishing in the peace and quiet nature provides in this moment. The night is cool, and the gentle breeze rustles the grass and trees as the moon above gazes down on you both.

“I’d like to stay here for a little longer if that’s alright.”

“We can stay as long as you’d like,” he smiles.

And with that promise, you feel the last tendrils of dread slip from your mind.

You’re not alone. And that’s what matters most.

#halsin x reader #bg3 x reader #bg3 halsin #bg3 #Baldurs gate 3 #Baldurs gate #halsin #request #ask box

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its-time-to-write · 1 year

Note

hi i love your work.

can i get touch deprived reader with jamie or roy

you totally can! It just comes at the low, low cost of way more words than you bargained for. Fair warning, Jamie isn’t even introduced for a good solid chunk of the first half. I also have been touch deprived so this is based on personal experience lol.

I feel like I let this get away from me in the same way the Vienna fic got away from me😂

sinking into your worn out mattress

It’s the same routine every day.

Wake up, get dressed, go to work, come home, make dinner, fall asleep, repeat.

It’s not a bad thing, necessarily. You’re nothing if not efficient, maximizing your time to the best of your abilities. It’s not the most glamorous thing in the world, but you enjoy it. You’re lucky enough to be working on your supervision hours under a renowned psychologist, Dr. Fieldstone in London, and it’s paid. Over half the people in your cohort are struggling through unpaid internships and juggling a second job just so they can make ends meet. You’re all propelled forward by the promise of better pay as soon as it’s all over, dreaming of the days you can own your own practice.

You’re not even sure how you landed this internship, as Dr. Fieldstone rarely ever takes on interns. (She’d tell you later it’s because she saw the same potential her supervisor saw in her.) But you have it, and you’re now assisting her in her on-location therapy to various sports teams. You’d been at a rugby club for a few months, but now it’s time to move on. Dr. Fieldstone was asked to come back to a previous club and although she’d never admit it, you know it was her favorite group to work with. It’s the only club who’s picture is on her desk. It makes you smile every time you see her surrounded by a rowdy-looking group of footballers and two very American coaches. She had said that the one with the mustache was no longer at the club, but the bearded one still was along with the angry looking man to the side and the short, grey-haired man.

You’ve seen the photo so many times that you have everyone’s faces memorized. You’re secretly excited to meet the team that made Dr. Sharon (in her colleagues’ words,) loosen up.

You weren’t friends, with Dr. Sharon, never once dropping the “doctor,” that preceded her name, but she would occasionally swing by your standard housing with a bottle of wine after a particularly difficult day.

“This job can be emotionally draining,” she’d say. “I always wished I had someone there for me at the beginning.”

She rarely smiled or showed outward affection, but you understood that this was her way of saying she cared.

But now you’re packing up your flat into your car, and headed to your new quarters in Richmond, London.

—

It’s apparent that Dr. Sharon has a strong connection with the players. There are a small few who allow you to run each session, most preferring to stick with who they know. Your days are mostly filled with analyses and treatment plans, with about two real session a week, one with Rojas, D and Maas, J. You don’t even sit in with Dr. Sharon much anymore, as the thought of an observer makes some of the players uncomfortable.

It’s stressing you out.

How are you supposed to fulfill your hours when you can’t even get consistent sessions?

Dr. Sharon, in her limited kindness, refers you to a friend of hers in town.

“She runs a small practice and works mostly with women. You’ll be able to keep your housing and fulfill your hours. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

You look at her. “Right,” you reply, “because you’re going to have so much time to help me out between all the things you’ve got going on.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Listen. Since you’re not my intern, I can become your therapist. I’ll even give you a discounted rate since you’re still interning. We’ll set up weekly sessions. You’ll be fine.”

You’re still not sure. Dr. Sharon can see the apprehension in your face. “Alright,” she says. “If you schedule our sessions in the evening and cook dinner, I’ll do it for free. It’ll be informal, one therapist to another.”

That’s big. She rarely does anything for free. In a moment of boldness, you say that to her face.

She cracks the tiniest smile. “It’s possible that I’ve grown fond of you. And even more possible that I’m addicted to your cooking.”

Huh. You suppose miracles do still happen.

—

Sharon is over for dinner for the third time in a week, and you’re suspicious that she might actually enjoy spending time with you. You’re laughing about some stupid story that happened during a natural environment observation (it involved a slip n slide, an obscene amount of shaving cream, and footballs being thrown at players heads) when out of nowhere you feel tears slipping down your face.

“Oh my gosh” you say while maybe laughing, maybe crying, “I think I’m broken.”

Sharon (she insisted you drop the “doctor,”) asks, “Are you alright?” and you shrug while you begin full-on sobbing.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you say between gasps. “What the actual heck.”

At that, Sharon grins. You’re retaining some element of your humor, despite actually crying.

“Just go on and fucking swear already,” she says. “I think we’re past a truly professional relationship.”

You shake your head. “No!” you say. “No, my mum wouldn’t like it.” Fresh tears start to fall at the mention of your mum. Sharon is actually concerned now.

“I’m not sure you’re alright,” she says, and you shoot her a no duh look. “Let’s discuss what might be the root of your issue. Have you been feeling differently lately?”

You’re wiping your eyes and trying so hard to get it together. You’re not even sure what your problem is. You were pretty sure you were doing fine, but you think back to your week. It had been pretty standard, nothing out of the ordinary. You shake your head.

“There is nothing too small to mention. Anything out of your usual routine? Physical discomfort, emotionally-draining sessions?” Sharon asks.

“No,” you reply, tears almost under control. “Wait. Yes.”

Sharon looks at you expectantly. “God, this is going to sound dumb.”

She reaches out to pat your hand. “There’s no such thing as too dumb,” she says in her therapist voice.

The gesture is so much like something a sister would do.

“Right,” you say. “Ok. My, um, the insides of my elbows like, hurt? They just feel weird, I don’t know. It started two weeks ago I think and usually I can just pinch them and it’s fine, but that’s the only thing I can think of, I guess.”

Sharon has gone full therapist, and is giving you an analytical look. “Hm,” she says. “Tell me more.”

You shrug. “There’s not much to tell. It’s not like painful, it just feels weird. I hug my pillow when I sleep and that also helps. Um, I push up my sleeves so they go around my elbows and the pressure helps.”

She asks, “When was the last time you saw a friend?” and you can’t think why this is relevant. But you also can’t remember.

“Probably since before I moved,” you say.

“And when was the last time you saw your family?”

You begin to see where she’s going.

“God,” you groan. “I’m an idiot.”

Sharon laughs. “Do you see why it’s so difficult for therapists to self-diagnose? We’re so busy trying to save the world that we forget to save ourselves.”

“But it’s so stupid,” you say. “It’s like, one of the most basic forms of self-care.”

Sharon shrugs. “Touch-starvation is a real thing. It manifests itself in different ways and apparently yours manifests itself in your elbows.”

It’s so ridiculous that you laugh. She does too, and reaches out to squeeze your arm. “I’ll be more mindful of it,” she says. “In the meantime, you need to find yourself some friends. Some people your own age. I’m prescribing you at least two nights out a week.”

You knit your eyebrows together. “I don’t even know where I would go. Or how to meet people. Or what to say!”

“That’s the problem with us therapists,” Sharon says. “We’re really best in a clinical setting. Shouldn’t be let out of the house, really. How about this; next time Richmond has some group event, you come. They’re a rowdy bunch, around your age, too. It’s an incredibly healthy environment, and you’ll be easily accepted. It will be a nice gateway to having a social life. There’s a match this weekend and they’re almost guaranteed a win, so keep your calendar open.”

You open your mouth to protest but Sharon holds up a hand. “I’m prescribing this as your mentor, not as your friend. It will be a healthy change of pace, I promise.”

—

Seeing AFC Richmond in person and off the pitch is like an out-of-body experience.

You’re putting names to familiar faces, and getting a crash course on their personalities.

You know Dani and Jan Maas from your short stint as their counselor, and they’ve taken it upon themselves to introduce you to everyone else. Dani is holding your elbow to guide you around to all sorts of people, and you can physically feel the serotonin production in your brain.

You meet Higgins and his wife, the hosts of this barbecue as well as some of their children. It’s hard to miss them because they keep coming up to shoot Dani and Jan with nerf guns. They’re weirdly prepared, pulling out their own from thin air.

“Don’t worry,” Jan says, “We’ll defend you.”

It’s very much like a large family gathering. You meet Richard, who kisses your hand and comments on your beauty. Zoreaux, who smiles and asks if you want anything to drink. Bumbercatch, who asks if you can read minds. And finally, Roy and Keeley who are standing in the kitchen and definitely were not kissing right before you walked in.

“This is one of our coaches,” Dani beams. “He and Keeley are very much in love, but they will not admit to each other, least of all themselves.”

Roy says, “Oi!” while Keeley blushes. Jan shrugs.

“It’s true,” he says. “There is no point in dancing around it.”

“Fuck off!” says Roy, and Jan and Dani are saved from certain death by head-butt as Keeley steps between them and says, “It’s nice to meet you! We’re so glad you could come,” and wraps you in a tight hug.

She’s small, but she’s strong. You have trouble breathing for a moment in the best possible way.

“Heard you work for Dr. Sharon,” she says. “That’s got to be fucking difficult.”

You laugh. “Yeah, but not in the way you’d think,” you say. “I’d already sold my soul to my education long before I met her. She’s actually trying to help me get it back.”

Keeley grins. “Is that why you’re here then? To reinstate your soul?”

You’re cut off from replying by the appearance of someone new. This one is in Sharon’s picture too, standing in the middle slightly to the left and smiling with the tip of his tongue sticking out. You always thought he seemed like one who looked so happy and carefree because he actively chose to be that way.

“Who’s reinstatin’ their soul?” he asks, squeezing in between Dani and Keeley.

“This one here,” Keeley replies. “You met her yet? She’s Dr. Fieldstone’s protégé.”

“Oh,” you say. “No. Not really. I was just doing my internship with her, but I had to move because…” you hesitate.

“Because no one wanted to talk to her except me and Jan,” Dani helpfully fills in.

Jan adds, “They were all intimidated by the fact that she is close to their age and so beautiful, as well stuck in their ways of having Dr. Sharon. Only Dani and I were willing to give her a chance, and she actually helped me through some important life decisions.”

You had? It hadn’t seemed that way at the time. You feel less crappy about your time at Nelson Road, though. It wasn’t like they didn’t like you, they just preferred to stick with what they know. That, you can understand.

“Mint,” Jamie says. “So you ain’t the team’s shrink anymore?”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Fucking observant, you are. She hasn’t been around in fucking ages.”

Jamie shrugs. “I was just checking!” he says defensively.

You smile. “It’s alright,” you say. “I’m sure you’re busy, and there’s always a lot of people coming and going.”

That seems to surprise Jamie. Almost as if he isn’t used to people defending him. You file his reaction away in your brain, adding it to your collection of knowledge about the football team that made Sharon zip across England for.

—

It’s been two and a half hours, and you’ve have more food and laughter than you’ve had in ages. Dani and Jan Maas had left your circle in the kitchen a while ago, fulfilling their promise to chase around the youngest Higgins boys as well as Roy’s niece Phoebe, and another girl who’s name you didn’t catch. Sam has joined your group now, and he and Jamie are funny together in a way that reminds you of your brothers. They’re constantly ragging on each other, teasing Roy, and throwing things.

Jamie, it seems, is the comedian of the group. You can tell he’s showing off, presumably because there’s a new face. When it’s time to eat, he says, “Stick with me, love, that way you don’t get stuck next to some uncultured animal,” even though Sharon is there and you’d be fine to sit with any of the boys.

But, he’s already grabbed your hand and is pulling you to a spot near Roy and Keeley as Sharon looks on with an amused expression. You send her a single pleading glance (although you’re not sure what you’re pleading for) and she just gives you a shooing motion. She’s happy to sit with Rebecca and her boyfriend. And someone who’s name you’re pretty sure is Coach Beard.

Ever the gentleman, Jamie pulls out your chair for you before settling into his own. There are tables all throughout the house and a few in the front yard, and you’re glad he picked one outside. It’s a little cloudy, but nice weather.

And god, there are people. People who are talking to you, hugging you, tapping you on the arm and holding your hand, even if it is just to make sure you don’t get separated in the stampede to find seating. Your arms aren’t even a little sore, and you can feel Sharon’s observing eyes on you. You know for a fact she’s going to have a lot to say next time you have dinner, but for now all you can think about is the way Jamie’s arm is pressed against yours, as he leans in to explain a football term that Roy just used to threaten Jamie with.

—

You’re not sure how long this party is supposed to last, but it’s three hours later and there is no sign of stopping. The sun is just barely starting to dip, and time has lost all meaning. You don’t know if the meal you ate was supposed to be lunch or dinner but it doesn’t matter because you’re so full that you can barely make room for the pile of desserts that Mrs. Higgins has pulled out.

You’ve moved inside now, since Jamie pulled you through the dessert line saying, “You have to come with me, so I can put my dessert on your plate. That way grandad can’t have a fit.” You understand that “grandad” is Roy.

You’re smart enough to notice that Jamie’s hand is in yours at every opportunity he can find, and that he’s still holding it even though you’ve finished your dessert and are flopped on a couch inside. He’s absentmindedly rubbing circles with his thumb as you chatter on about nothing.

“Oi,” he says, when you’ve lapsed into silence, “is this alright?”

You’re not sure what he means until he holds up your still-intertwined hands.

“Keeley says I’m more touchy than most. Don’t want to fuckin’ weird you out or some shit.”

You smile. “You’re fine. It’s actually really nice.” You decide to leave it at that. No point in explaining touch-deprivation to the cute footballer you just met. Talk about oversharing.

Jamie smiles back, a real one that lights up his whole face.

“Mint,” he says.

—

“Jamie’s romantically interested in you,” says Sharon’s voice through the phone.

“How do you know that?” you ask. It’s the morning after the Higgins party and you only have a 2pm session. Sharon texted you to call her as soon as you woke up, so you do and she drops a bombshell on the first ring. You doubt Jamie would have told her this himself, as Dr. Fieldstone isn’t one to break a confidence.

“Basic body language,” she replies. “Repeated physical contact, the way his body was angled toward yours all day, the fact that he went out of his way to make you smile. All classic markers of romantic attraction. Any trained therapist should be able to pick up on it.”

What she means is, you’re a trained therapist. You should be picking up on it.

“There’s no way,” you say, but it comes out more doubtful than you’d hoped.

“Right,” says Sharon, “there’s no way. In the same way that there’s no way I’m only mentoring you because I see myself in you.”

“Oh,” you reply weakly, because that’s a lot to unpack.

“Oh,” she mimics. “Right. Well. I’ve got to go. Make sure you remember the mental exercises I gave you. Therapists need to take care of their minds too.”

You say thanks and hang up.

Oh.

—

You’re home again from your session, and you are tired. It was mentally exhausting and all you can think about are the pair of sweatpants in the drawer by your bed and the box of pizza that should be at your flat in fifteen-to-twenty minutes. That was about thirteen minutes ago, and you’ve just been puttering about since placing the call and changing out of work clothes.

There’s a knock on the door and you say a quiet yes, before hurrying to answer. You open the door to two people on your doorstep instead of one.

“This your pizza?” the delivery boy asks. You nod, thank him, and hand him the money. He’s gone so you acknowledge the other person in front of you.

“How’d you know where I live?”

Jamie shrugs. “Asked Dr. Fieldstone. She isn’t as scary as she looks.”

“And why are you here?”

You place the pizza down on the small table in your entryway. It hasn’t escaped your notice that Jamie is practically standing in your doorframe now, inches away from you.

He wraps his hands in the front of his shirt. “Isaac was telling me about body science,” he says. “Been teaching me how to read people and shit based on how they move.”

You nod. Body language. Yeah, you know a thing or two about that.

“Anyway, he said you thought I was proper fit. Which is good, because I think you’re proper fit. But, just in case he were wrong, I thought I’d come over and give you a chance to tell me.”

His left hand is on the doorframe now, and you can see the top of his tattoo peeking out from under his bright orange hoodie. There is exactly one inch between you two as he slants his body toward yours.

“You can tell me to bugger off, if you want,” he murmurs. “Won’t hurt my feelings.”

You don’t say anything, just stand on your toes the tiniest bit so he has better access to your mouth.

You can feel his breath when he pulls away.

“Oh,” he says, “I didn’t come here for sex. Me mum raised a gentleman. I’d buy you a coupla dinners first.”

“Shut up and kiss me already, Tartt,” you say, and he’s grinning, free hand cupping the back of your head.

—

You think that’s probably the fastest you’ve ever gotten into a relationship.

“Labels are important, babe,” Jamie had said that night. “How else will you know if food is poisonous?”

You’re pretty sure he’s talking about checking for allergens, but you don’t correct him. You’re on your couch watching a movie with his arm around your shoulders. He’s playing with strands of your hair and it’s strange that you’re this comfortable with a boy you just met yesterday.

Because he is a boy. You’re the same age, but you feel impossibly, inadequately young. He plays it off as youthful exuberance, and you’re sure it’s an advantage on the pitch. Your age doesn’t feel like an advantage to you, but you can’t change it so you might as well just deal with what you’ve got.

You can be professional in the morning, but right now you’ve got a cute, fit boy who thinks you’re cute and fit and so far has not given off red flags. You’re extra alert ever since your call with Sharon, trying to pick up on every subtlety, but you stop trying as soon as Jamie rolls up a piece of pizza like a burrito and tries to fit it all in his mouth. You know that Sharon would have been the first to tell you if this was a bad idea, and the fact that she even told you Jamie was interested is basically like her giving her blessing.

Jamie leaves too soon, but he does so with your number in his phone and the promise of “a proper date,” as soon as you both can manage.

—

“A proper date,” turned into two proper dates, then three, then four, then seeing each other steadily throughout the weeks, then your first sleepover after the third week. Your skin was all tingly when Jamie invited you over to his for dinner, telling you he was going to cook for you. You knew exactly what was going to happen that night and made sure you were prepared.

You dressed nice, in clothes that gave him easy access to your skin underneath.

“Am I rushing this?” you had asked Sharon the day before. “I’m asking you as my mentor. Am I being an idiot?”

Sharon had taken a moment to consider before answering. “You’re smart for your age. And wise beyond your years. I don’t think you’re being an idiot. We can’t let our work consume us, no matter how important it is. You’re a brilliant therapist. You’re always giving yourself away to those around you. You deserve something for yourself, and you know how to pick a good one.”

You hugged her for those words. She seemed startled, but accepted it. You didn’t think life could get much better.

You were wrong. You discovered life could be so much better the moment Jamie’s hand slid under your skirt and you were kicking off your shoes on the way up the stairs.

“Stay,” he whispered when you were done. “It’s fuckin’ late anyway. You can use my shower and wear one of my shirts. I have an extra toothbrush. I fucking hate sleeping alone.”

So you’re in one of his t-shirts and your underwear, arms wrapped around Jamie’s waist.

You think what am I doing? but Jamie presses a soft, sleepy kiss to your temple and you think maybe you’re doing something right.

—

It’s been a hell of a week. You’re swamped, Jamie’s always at training, and neither of you have been able to make the time to see the other in days. Your inner arms are sore again, and your dinners with Sharon have been short and extremely clinical in a way you desperately need. However, once-a-week therapy is not enough to get rid of the feeling you have, and you wake up throughout the night holding your pillow as if it were Jamie.

You’ve gotten used to having his hand in yours, your head on his shoulder, knees touching and arms wrapped tight around your body. Having it taken away is worse than before, because at least then you didn’t really know what you were missing. Now, you feel as if you’re going to die unless someone does something, even if it’s just a high-five.

You’re sitting at your kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest as you review case notes. Your food has gone cold because all you can do is cry. You’re so tired and so lonely and it shouldn’t be this way, but it is and you’re just over it. There’s a knock at the door so you wipe your eyes and answer it, hoping you look normal.

It’s Jamie.

The moment you register who it is, you’re launching yourself into his arms, wrapping around him like a spider monkey. He laughs. “Hello to you too,” he says, spinning you around. He stops when he feels you shaking in his arms.

“Oi,” he says, frowning a little, “you alright, love?”

He can feel tears on his neck.

“Babe,” he says, “did something happen at work?”

You shake your head, face still buried into the crook of his neck. “I just missed you,” you croak, voice muffled.

Jamie chuckles at that. You’re lucky he’s strong, because he’s able to carry you to the couch like it’s nothing, kicking the door shut behind him without losing his balance. He settles with you in his arms, rubbing a pattern on your back.

“It’s alright, love, I’m here,” he says, and you’ve never been more grateful for the fact that he calls you love more than your actual name. It’s like he’s always reminding you how he feels about you.

You just hold him tighter, letting the terrible feeling you had all week fade away. When it’s mostly gone, you pull away so you can look him in the face.

“I- I have this thing,” you say. Jamie looks concerned.

“Are you dyin’?” he asks.

“No!” you reply. “No, I’m not dying. I have- I’m touch-deprived. I let it get really bad sometimes and then I can physically feel it. You can look it up, it’s a real thing.” You don’t know why you feel the need to defend yourself. Jamie’s just looking at you, all quiet seriousness.

“That what it’s called?” he asks. “I know what you mean. Fucking had it two years ago. Used to egg Roy on just so he’d push me around and the lads’d have to hold me back. Wasn’t near me mum anymore, so I didn’t have anyone to hug me or anything. Sounds dumb, but… I just needed someone to touch me. Like if they didn’t, it meant I didn’t exist. Fucking mental.”

“Mental,” you agree.

Jamie smiles. “You’re the fucking best, you know that?” he asks. “I’m never bored when I’m with you. Came over to see if you wanted to watch a movie or play video games.”

He’s stroking your cheek with one hand, other still wrapped around your back.

You smile back. “I really, really love you Jamie Tartt. I’ll play video games, I just don’t want to play FIFA.”

Jamie’s smile drops. “Shit,” he says, and you think it’s because you don’t want to play his favorite video game. “You weren’t supposed to say it first, I was. I was gonna tell you tonight anyway.”

“It’s not a big deal, babe,” you say.

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s a big fuckin’ deal. Now I’ve got to make it up to you.”

“No you don’t,” you say.

“Yes I do,” he replies. “I’m gonna tell you every fucking day how much I love you. I’ll drive home early from away games just to hug you. I want you to always feel like you have the love you deserve.”

You’re at a loss for words.

“Cat got your tongue, don’t it?” Jamie asks cheekily. “Not a problem, babe. I know how to get it back.”

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

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the-modern-typewriter · 1 year

Note

Love your writing! An idea, if you like it: villain finds out that their lover is actually their hero nemesis. Villain leverages this in their confrontations by threatening the hero's lover--ie their own secret identity. Basically a villain using their intimate knowledge of their lover to gain an advantage.

Part of them knew it was wrong to enjoy their lover like this - jaw clenched in steely determination, eyes wide and bright with an intoxicating combination of terror and bravery.

That part was drowned out entirely by the bit of them that stepped giddying closer, smoothing their palms down the desperate thump of the hero's chest. The horror of it.

"You think I didn't know?" the villain murmured. "About your little love affair?"

"If you lay so much as a hand on them-"

"-You'll what?"

The hero looked so protective, so willing to do absolutely anything for them. The hero's jaw clenched further; an animal baring of teeth. They took the villain's hands off them and squeezed, hard enough to hurt.

"Perhaps I'll reconsider my policy on murder."

The villain laughed, at that. It wasn't really funny so much as, yet again, giddying. When it was just the two of them alone, their lover was the gentlest person alive. Good and kind and oh so sweet. Seeing the person in front of them...

"Sexy," the villain purred.

The hero shoved them back.

The villain bit on their lip, unable to help it as they considered the hero. "What do you think your love would think of the blood on your hands?"

"If it keeps them safe, it's worth it."

"Oh?"

The hero's gaze raked over them, searching for an open. Futile, really. Their love was not a killer. The villain would never push them to that. Still.

"Alright, alright," the villain pretended at grace, stepping forward again. They scooped the hero's fists in their hands and pressed a half-mocking kiss to their knuckles. "Easy, tiger. We both know I'm more interested in you."

The hero's hands twitched, but they didn't pull away.

"Just stand down and get out of my way and I'll have no reason to hunt them down."

They imagined detailed ransom videos. They wanted to see what the hero looked like when they heard them screaming, praying, begging for mercy. Patience. They could see the hero's fury and their despair and their love most of all.

All the love they struggled to express when it was just the two of them, as if fighting villains was more important.

"I tell you this," the hero said, "and next time you threaten them again, ask for something else."

"Before you think about killing me, please bear in minds that I've put in fail safes should I die. Ruining your love being one of them."

The hero swallowed. They seemed to be trying to decide if that was true or not.

"I know so many of their secrets," the villain confessed, "everything that would ruin their comfortable life with you, every dark and dirty thing that they would hate the world to see. I don't have to hurt them to hurt them, my dearest hero."

"Don't call me that," the hero snapped.

But the villain knew they'd won.

The hero hadn't pulled back and they hadn't lashed out, not physically. They were always fine with a threat to themselves, but this?

The villain almost hadn't thought they could have so much power.

They never wanted to let it go.

But, they never wanted to let the hero go either. They never wanted to wake up one day to a world where someone else had hurt them, when they were already gone.

"Stand down," the villain whispered. "And you can be so very happy."

And, at least for a little while, the hero did.

#hero x villain #villain x hero #heroes and villains #villains and heroes #writing #story #secret identity #ficlet #villain #hero

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im-sleepdeprived · 2 months

Text

Seasonal • Pt. 4

pairing: peter parker x reader

summary: inspired by the taylor swift song ‘peter’ where you and peter discover just how hard it is to hold on to something from your past, no mater how much you love each other

a/n: you guys i hate it here, like i actually just want them to make out already, also to the person who commented a couple chapters ago saying they wanted to see peter’s pov, this is for u

warnings: awful descriptions of photography (im not a photographer im so sorry pls lets all just ignore it), reader just straight up dipping in every situation, jealous pete lmao, reader trying to be mad, also i made peter super hot, like, more hot than usual (i was ovulating) ok bye

masterlist, read part 1, part 2, part 3

Peter had always known he would be with you. It was only a matter of when. When would he get the balls to act on his never-ending crush?

For a minute there, he had you. He felt like he owned the world. You wanted him, you loved him, and he thought the wait was finally over. This was the moment all the other moments in his life had led to.

He’d never told you (nor will he ever) but he’d never done a project on astronomy. That night you’d helped with his wounds after he’d crashed on your fire escape (the night he was hurt and all he had wanted was to see a familiar face, and his first thought was you), the night you’d told him you had a special interest in stars, he’d went home and stayed up all night to learn everything he could about them.

After doing that for several days, he took a night off patrolling to swing around the whole city (and a little further, if he were being honest) to find the perfect spot for your little stargazing date.

He just wanted everything to be perfect for you, always. It was why he used to wake up an hour earlier every day before school and grab you a cup of your favorite coffee from your favorite cafe. It was why he made sure to pay extra attention in your least favorite classes, the ones you struggled with the most, so he could help you with your homework and notes because he knew you’d need it. It was why he tied your shoelaces every time they came undone and you just ignored it. He held open every door, he cooked sometimes (though poorly), and he randomly bought you flowers and left you little notes everywhere.

All he wanted was for you to be completely happy. Which is why he had to end things. Every part of his heart disagreed, every inch of his bones disagreed. But he knew the reality of the situation, and he couldn’t do that to you.

Peter couldn’t leave you stuck in a dorm room, missing out on parties or hang outs with your friends, waiting for him to call. He couldn’t be the reason your phone was stuck in your face 24/7, worrying about him. He couldn’t have you staying up till 3AM waiting for him to send you a text telling you he was okay, that patrolling that night had gone well. Even if it hadn’t.

College was so important to you. You’d tried to downplay it to him but he knew how much you were looking forward to this, and he couldn’t be the one to take away from that experience.

He didn’t transfer back here for you.

Or at least, that’s what he spent countless hours and sleepless nights trying to convince himself. New York was his home, it needed him, it needed Spider-Man, May was getting older, he should be close to her, Columbia was a great school, it was his first choice. The fact that you went there was just a perk.

Or a con.

He wasn't sure anymore because seeing you here, in front of him for the first time in years, it left him breathless.

Peter was always a romantic, though he’d be loathe to admit it. He wanted that one true love, he wanted someone to come home to and talk about his day with, and afterwards he would listen to theirs. He wanted late night talks, early morning confessions. Dancing in the kitchen while food cooked on the stove, getting so lost in each other’s eyes that it almost burns. And he genuinely thought you two would find your way back to each other somehow, because he’d known since he was a little boy it would always be you.

But now he’s started to wonder if just because it would always be you, that might not mean he would actually get to have you.

Because there’s a man beside you.

He’s holding your waist.

And you’re not pushing him away.

“Ace?” Asked the man (who looked nothing like Peter, by the way, and it was driving him insane). Now Peter never considered himself a violent person. As a preteen and an early teenager, he’d been puny and weak, but even after he’d became Spider-Man he never liked to resort to violence unless absolutely necessary. But right that moment, he felt an inexplicable, almost primal rage he’d never felt before. And he wanted to punch this man in the face. Yeah, that sounded like it could help.

“Yeah,” you laughed. “Old nickname.”

The man beside just narrowed his eyes slightly, which didn’t help Peter’s urge to sock him in the face. He watched as his grip around you tightened and the man pulled you in closer, almost possessively. “Introduce me babe.”

Babe? Was this guy for real?

“Oh right,” you shook your head slightly and let out another slightly too high-pitched laugh and Peter almost felt bad for putting you in such an awkward position. “James, this is Peter. He’s an old friend of mine from high school. Peter, this is James. My boyfriend.”

Peter’s heart sank. He shouldn’t have been surprised, and he wasn’t. He could tell by the way James was holding you, the way he called you babe (which was tacky in Peter’s opinion. You deserved something a little more special than ‘babe’ ugh) but hearing you say it? He was afraid he might blackout.

He hadn’t expected you to go celibate or anything, but damn. Hearing you call someone else your boyfriend fucked with him in ways he’d never experienced.

He could see the shock in your eyes, the disbelief as you stared at him as if you couldn’t really trust yourself to see what you were seeing.

“So…how’ve you been?” He asked casually, as if his heart wasn’t racing out of his chest right then, and he knew yours was doing the same.

Your brows furrowed, “I—I’m good, wait,” you scoffed and closed your eyes tightly before opening them again. “What are you doing here Peter?”

Right. You didn’t know. Fair enough, he hadn’t told anyone until everything was already set in stone. “I just transferred in this semester. I go here now.”

And if he thought your eyes couldn’t get any wider, he was wrong. He almost thought that they’d fall out of your head.

“What?!”

The shock was written all over your face, but…there was something else, something he couldn’t quite place. After years of knowing you, it was concerning to him that he might not be able to read you as well as he used to.

Peter wasn’t sure what kind of reaction, exactly, he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. He tried his best to only stare at you because he really didn’t want to look at fucking James right now. “Yeah,” he cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, “it just…felt right. Thought I belonged here.” His voice was quiet because he wasn’t even sure if that was true anymore. Was this right? Did he belong here anymore?

You stood perfectly still, no emotion on your face, and he wished more than anything he could read your mind right then. James looked back and forth between the two of you before he lightly tapped your hip, making peter’s heart churn, “I think we should get going, we’re gonna be late.”

He watched you look up at him, dazed, “Oh right, yeah, we should go. Bye Peter,” you didn’t even look at him as you said it, turning around and leaning into James’ hold as you walked away.

Yeah, this definitely wasn’t how he expected this to go.

“You wanna talk about that?”

You scoffed. “Not really, no.”

“So he’s an ex,” James replied, and it wasn’t a question. You trudged forward, feeling an uncomfortable tightness in your chest. Almost two years. Almost a whole two years where you’d imagined countless scenarios of how your reunion would go, but you’d never imagined he’d ambush you on your college campus, claiming that he’d transferred, while you were walking around campus with your current boyfriend.

You inhaled deeply. “Yeah, and I have no clue what he’s doing here.” You’d never really told him about Peter, it just hadn’t come up. If you had to refer to him while sharing a story, it was always as an ‘old friend’ or ‘neighbor from across the hall’. You’d never liked calling him an ‘ex’.

“Well I do,” you looked up at him questioningly. “He transferred this semester, obviously.” You huffed out a laugh and tried to focus on your footsteps. Just keeping walking forward, you thought. God, not even a full 5 minutes together and it’s like he’s completely thrown you off.

“Where’d he go before?”

He didn’t know anything. You were so used to the people in your life being so involved with you and Peter, already knowing everything, knowing when and where to bring him up after the breakup (usually trying not to bring him up at all for your sake) and you guessed that’s why you’d never told James about him, it was nice to have someone who didn’t know everything there was to know about you and your past. This way, you’d get to unveil those things at your own pace.

“He went to Duke.”

James whistled. “Good school,” he admitted, and you nodded. It was a good school. It was a great school that was 8 hours 27 minutes and 36 seconds, which is how far away Peter was supposed to be. But he wasn’t. He was here, attending the same school you were, the same school he was originally supposed to attend. With you.

“He seems cool enough, maybe we’ll see him around.” You wanted to give James credit for how cool he was trying to be about this.

“Maybe,” you forced a smile. You wondered just how much you’d be seeing him around and just what that meant.

“Pete you have no right to be upset about this,” May said, shaking her head on the other side of the phone.

“Don’t you think I know that,” he groaned and clutched the phone tighter to his ear as he walked around campus. It had been a couple of days since your little interaction and it had been on his mind since it happened. He couldn’t stop thinking about you. “And I’m not upset! I’m just…surprised.”

“What were you expecting?” May asked.

“Not him, thats for damn sure,” he mumbled grumpily. Truthfully, James had never done anything to make Peter hate him, he might even be an okay guy, but that wasn’t for Peter to find out because he was dead set on hating his guts, valid reasoning or not.

“Pete he’s not that bad,” his aunt tried to reason. “He’s actually an okay guy, he’s sweet and—”

“She deserves more than okay! And what about—wait a minute…have you met him?”

The line was quiet for a moment, confirming his suspicions. Peter scoffed just as May said, “it’s not like that! He came over during winter break and I happened to run into him. I spent a few hours at their apartment and—I don’t have to explain myself to you! Look Peter,” May sighed and he could picture her rubbing her temple the way she usually did when he got a little too much for her sometimes, “you broke up with her, you stopped reaching out, and you were the one who chose not to see her during your winter break,” she scolded through the phone and Peter felt his whole body flush with shame and guilt. He had done those things and there was no denying it, but while he might’ve considered them the only options at the time, god did he regret all of it after seeing you with that guy.

“I know,” he admitted in a low voice, “I did fuck up, and we can talk about that later but I’ve gotta go for now, May, bye.”

“Bye, Pete,” she replied, “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he hung up and stared at the door in front of him. After your first meeting, he wasn’t sure if this was as good an idea he had built it up to be in his head.

Too late, he thought, and pushed open the door too the newsroom.

“Hey, Peter right?” A redhead approached him with a bright smile on her face.

“Yeah that’s me,” he shrugged his backpack higher onto his shoulder and held out a hand.

“Alyssa, I’m the editor,” she said as she accepted his handshake, “I cannot tell you what a jam you’ve gotten us out of, really we’ve never run this low on members. Usually, we’re fighting them off with a stick, but apparently there aren’t too many people into photography right about now.”

“Oh hey, no problem. I saw the notice in the newsletter,” he shrugged, “thought I’d try something new.”

“Well, I really appreciate that Peter, I saw the photos you sent me, they’re amazing. Honestly, if the ones you submit for the paper are half as good, we’re going to be perfect.”

“Thanks Alyssa,” he always appreciated when people spoke well about his photography. You were always his biggest fan when it came to his interests and hobbies. You knew everything about him, from big to small, and yet you never belittled any part. He wondered if you had any clue how much that had meant to him. In a world where people praised Spider-Man for being the strong willed hero he was while simultaneously berating Peter for…well everything, you did the opposite. You loved him, every part. From the boy who went out to fight crime almost every free hour he could get, to that same boy who would sit on your bedroom floor and do physics homework with you and was crazy good at it.

He felt a sudden nervous feeling overtake him at the thought of seeing you again in the newsroom. He knew you were on the paper, duh, but when he’d seen the notice that the news team was in need of an extra photographer to two this season, he’d thought it a good opportunity. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with you, or spending time with you. Of course not.

Alyssa walked him around, introduced him to some of the people there, the other photographers (only one, at present, his name was Ryan. Apparently there was a shortage of people willing to take photos for the paper this semester), and by the end of his mini tour he couldn’t deny the small amount of relief at not seeing you…and yet at the same time…disappointment. Maybe you just weren’t in today.

He spoke to soon.

Stopping back at the front of the room, Alyssa turned to him again, “Well, I think that’s most of the people, at least, who are in today. Y’know, it’s pretty slow for start of the semester—” Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, obviously distracted by something. Peter watched her face light up before she said, “Oh! Looks like I was wrong,” she beckoned someone to come closer. Peter could feel the vibe shift in the room. “Peter, this is Y/N!”

Peter turned and could see the exact moment you faltered. Clearly, Alyssa didn’t. Nor did she notice the not-so-subtle looks you were throwing her way. “Y/N this is Peter, he one of our new photographers.”

To make things even better, James chose right then to walk in. “And this is James!”

James came to stand right beside you, taking up a stance much similar to the one he had during their first meeting, except this time his arms draped over your shoulder and tugged you into him.

“Oh, we’ve met. Patrick, right?”

Peter definitely didn’t like this guy.

“Peter,” Alyssa corrected, “I was just introducing him to Y/N, he’s a part of the photography team.”

“Oh I don’t think they need much of an introduction.” James remarked. You winced. Peter wanted to punch him. Poor Alyssa was growing more confused by the second.

“So…have you two met as well?” She tried.

“Lyss do you remember when I told you about Peter from high school?” You trailed off at the end, hoping she’s catch it on her own.

Alyssa snorted, “You mean the dick who broke up with you on graduation? Yeah I remember—” she gasped and looked at Peter, then back at you.

You nodded. Alyssa couldn’t keep the shock off of her face. Finally, James spoke up, “And as lovely as this has been, we should really get to work.” Peter watched as he pulled you away to a pair of desks on the other side of the room. He watched you take a seat at one, James at the other, and he wondered if this was how you’d met him. Did you like him because he attractive? Funny? What about him had caught your attention in the first place? And then the worst thought of all, did you love him? Peter repressed a shudder, he couldn’t handle that right now, or maybe ever.

He turned back to Alyssa, who had been standing quietly beside him since her earlier remark about him (rightfully so, he had been a dick), “So where should I set up?” He lifted his backpack on his shoulder for emphasis.

Wordlessly and wide-eyed, Alyssa pointed to an empty desk. It was two desks across from yours.

This was going to be interesting.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your Peter was here! In Columbia! Joining the paper!”

It hadn’t taken your roommate long to find some (shitty) excuse to drag you out to the hall to give you the talking-off you were expecting. “I can go in there and fire him right now!” She was flexing her powers as the new editor.

Lyss had made abrupt climb to editor at the end of last semester. Brandon had resigned to take some time to himself while he applied to grad schools all over the country and went through the trials and tribulations that was senior year of undergrad and honestly, you couldn’t have thought of anyone better to take him place. You’d all gone out to celebrate, the whole news staff, but the two of you and James had had your own little celebration at your apartment later that night.

“I’m sorry! It’s just been so hectic! You’re so busy all the time, you’re barely home, and honestly I didn’t really believe it at first. And he’s not my Peter,” you scoffed, “he’s just Peter.”

Lyss snorted, “Y/N there’s no way you could possibly think I’m too busy to hear about all this, this is huge! Tell me everything!” She exclaimed eagerly. “When’d you first run into him? How did James know? Did you tell him? Oh my god, what did he say?”

“Calm down girl,” you held up both hands. “I ran into him a couple days ago, James was with me, and he was actually super cool about it!”

Lyss gave you a look. “What?” You asked confused.

“Now, what exactly had you thinking he was cool about it? ‘Cause that was not the vibe I was getting in there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Patrick? Please,” she giggled, “that was totally on purpose, of course he remembered his name. And the way he had his arm around you?”

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair, “This is all so crazy. I don’t know what hell he’s doing back here.”

Lyss perked up, “My offer to fire him still stands babe! Just say the word and poof,” she made a gesture with her hands, making you laugh.

“We both know can’t actually do that. We’re running low enough on photographers as it is, you can’t just fire a perfectly good one.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, “I can always grab a camera and try my hardest. I always thought I’d be great at photography.”

You grinned, walking back towards the door to the newsroom, Lyss following beside you, “Oh yeah? How come?”

“I don’t know,” she frowned, “that was a total fucking lie, I’ve never thought twice about photography. But I probably could do it! If it came down to it.”

You laughed as you entered, but one of the other writers quickly interrupted it “Alyssa, we need your help with this layout.”

Lyss looked at you smiling, “Duty calls, this isn’t over.”

You smiled, “Go. We’ll talk later.”

As she walked off, you made your way to your desk, avoiding any eye contact with Peter. It was just your luck he got sat right across from you. You briefly wondered if Alyssa’s editor could get him moved. You’d have to bring this up with her later.

A file dropped on your desk, causing you to look up. James stood above you, smirking and successfully blocking your view of Peter (if you were trying to look over at him, which you weren’t). You wondered it he’d done that on purpose. “Those copies you were looking for,” he proclaimed, pointing towards the file, “fresh out the printer.

Shit. You had completely forgotten about these with everything and you needed them to finalize the current article you were working on. Smiling, you gushed jokingly, “My hero, thank you so much!”

James’ smirk grew as he placed his hands on his hips dramatically. “Just call me your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

You were about to laugh until you heard a scoff come from behind him. Your smile fell from your face and you watched James’ expression change as he turned to see Peter. “Something funny man?”

“No,” Peter replied, not even bothering to look up from his computer. That was until he let his eyes meet yours. It was barely a second, but it was long enough for James to notice.

James stood perfectly still in his spot in front of your desk before silently walking over to his and taking a seat without another look at either of you.

You tried to get him to look at you so you could silently apologize or something, but he wouldn’t budge.

You weren’t sure how this was going to work.

You swiped your hair out of your face as you walked out of the lecture hall, your shoes echoing on the hard-tile floor. Stepping out of the building, you took a deep breath. You’d had a long day and you couldn’t wait to get to your apartment and crash on the couch. You weren’t even sure if you could make it to your room. You’d try to get in a nap before you were supposed to meet up with James tonight. The two of you had been busier lately and you’d felt bad about everything going on with Peter, so you tried to set aside some time just for you and him. It was going to be a low-key night, just the two of you ordering in, maybe watching a movie, you thought it was much needed.

Your breath caught in your throat when you saw Peter leaning against the wall of the building adjacent to the one you just exited. The photography building. You hadn’t seen him recently. Even at the newsroom, it seemed the two of you had different schedules lately.

You kept your head down, hoping he wouldn’t notice you.

“Hey Ace! Wait up.”

Clearly, you wouldn’t be so lucky.

You paused, not even bothering to pretend like you hadn’t heard him. It was Peter, you knew him better than you knew yourself, he would’ve just chased after you.

You took in his appearance as he walked up to you. You hadn’t really given yourself the chance before, with James around and everything…Peter had changed. You could see it now clearer than ever. He moved with a confidence in himself and with his body he hadn’t possessed before. And he looked buffer.

Peter had told you how after the bite, everything had changed, his senses, his appearance, and while he had definitely been strong before…now there was visible muscle to back it up. You suspected than even if he tried to hide under baggy sweaters like he did back in high school, it wouldn’t work. But something told you that this new Peter was done hiding.

Gone was the scrawny little kid you’d known your entire childhood and before you stood a handsome young man who would’ve left that same little kid awestruck. “Been hitting up the gym?” You asked once he was close enough to hear.

Peter chuckled, “Yeah, actually. I started back in freshman year, it helped clear my mind off everything.”

How someone could possibly juggle classes, homework, super hero work, workouts, and manage to eat, sleep, and drink, you’d never know. But if anyone could do it it was Peter.

“May and I were talking.” Safe bet to start with May, you thought. “She was asking about you, said its been a while since she’s seen you.”

“Mhm,” you agreed, a little confused as to where he was going with this, “I haven’t been home in a bit, but we’ve texted.”

“Oh yeah, that’s nice!” Peter reached to scratch the back of his neck, a nervous tic of his you knew all too well. “If you wanted you, could come over for dinner with us sometime. She’d love to have you.”

“Umm…” was he serious right now? “Thanks Peter, but my schedule’s kinda packed right now. I’ve got like three essays due and I have a big article coming up soon, so I’ll have to pass. Tell May I miss her too though.”

“Oh, the competition, right? That’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. You know about it?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I think I heard Alyssa mention it and you having something to do with it. Congratulations, by the way, I heard it’s a pretty big deal.”

You grinned, “It is. Front page big deal. I’m excited.” You admitted.

Peter smiled, so genuine you could see those crinkles form beside his eyes. You remembered how you used to trace them with your fingers. “All your writing belongs on the front page, if you ask me.”

You blushed. He couldn’t just say things like that, not anymore. “Thanks, but you haven’t even read any of it yet.” You hadn’t had a piece published since he’d arrived here, he couldn’t have read any of your work yet.

“That’s not true,” he said simply, with no further elaboration.

Your phone rang, cutting off your conversation. Reaching into your pocket, you pulled it out to see James’ name flashing across your screen. You held up a finger to Peter and walked a few paces away before answering.

“Hey!”

“Hey babe, so listen, Nash just broke up with his girl and we thought we’d take him on a barhop to cheer him up. I’m picking you up at 10.”

Your brows furrowed. Barhopping did not sound like something you wanted to do tonight, or ever. And didn’t you already have plans? “Um, weren’t we supposed to hang out tonight?”

“Oh pfft, that wasn’t anything special, we were just going to order takeout. So 10?” Oh. You’d beg to differ, him and his friends always found an excuse to get absolutely plastered at least once a week, and the two of you had barely seen each other. At first you’d thought he was a little upset with you because of the whole Peter thing but now…you wondered if he even cared.

You cleared your throat, rubbing the palm of your empty hand on your shirt. When had you gotten sweaty? “No I think I’m good. I have some stuff to work on, but you have fun though! I’ll keep the door unlocked tonight.” It wouldn’t be the first time you’d nursed a drunk and incoherent James (and terribly hungover in the morning)

“Damn, you sure?”

You hummed in response.

“Kay, bye.”

“Bye.”

You shoved your phone back into your pocket. At least now you could take as long as you wanted with your nap.

“Is he always like that?”You jumped. You had completely forgotten Peter was still there, and now he was stepping closer to you, taking back the distance you’d put between you to answer your phone call.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your boyf—James, is he always like that? Partying, getting drunk, barhopping?” Right…Peter wasn’t just Peter. He was also Spider-Man, which meant he’d just heard everything. As if this day couldn’t get fucking better. You didn’t need your ex-boyfriend judging your current one, he had no right.

“No.” You frowned. “So what if he likes to party sometimes? Isn’t that what college is about?”

“I’m not attacking him Ace. I guess I was just wondering how the two of you got together when you’re so different. I mean, even to someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do, it doesn’t take me to figure out barhopping isn’t your scene.”

“Well maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” you snapped back, “not anymore at least.”

Peter paused, a look of hurt flashing across his features, as if that were something he hadn’t even considered. A small part of you relished in it, in him knowing things had changed since the last time you’d seen each other, and he couldn’t just ignore that. No amount of pretending would fill in that gap.

“Goodbye Peter.” You didn’t want to talk about James with him anymore than you already had.

“The invitation still stands,” he blurted. You gave him a weird look. “To dinner,” he explained, “the invitation still stands. I meant what I said, May would love to have you over, and so would I. So if you’ve ever got the time…” he trailed off.

You couldn’t help the soft smile that graced your face. Only Peter could switch your moods so fast, and you had no doubt he meant it about the dinner, just like you had no doubt he would also completely understand if you ignored his offer altogether.

“Thank you Petey, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thank you Petey,”

God he’d bet you didn’t realize it, that the nickname had just rolled off your tongue. You probably hadn’t thought twice about, he, however, certainly had. In fact, the moment hadn’t left his mind. You’d given him a smile so sincere, he would’ve given you anything you asked for just to keep you looking at him like that. And paired with the nickname? He was done for.

He had sat outside the English building in hopes of finally getting to see you again. He was starting to believe he must be a masochist, because every time he saw you it felt like a punch to the gut. Was it possible for someone to get more beautiful by the second? But he couldn’t help it, he was drawn to you, always had been and always will be.

The worst of it was when you were with James. God, just thinking the name made his entire mood sour. But seeing the only girl he’d ever loved with someone else made him want to punch something (someone; and that someone was James). And hearing that phone call you’d had with him only further pissed him off. How the hell could he even think to ask you to go barhopping, if he knew you at all he would know that you would much rather prefer a quiet night at home. And it seemed that was exactly what you had planned, before that douchebag cancelled to go out with his friend.

He had been out patrolling most of the evening and well into the night. Now he was on his way home, it had been a quiet night so he thought he might as well retire early. He could always come back out if need be. That was one of the greater things about college, more freedom, a more flexible schedule, unlike high school.

Just as he was swinging his way back home, he caught sight of a familiar figure lounging on a fire escape. You were home. Peter hadn’t really spoken to you since he’d caught you walking of class. You’d see each other around, but there was nothing more than brief moments of eye contact.

You looked peaceful, reading silently as a soft light filtered through your window. He was going to change that.

He landed softly a couple stories above you. Flipping over, he shot out a web and caught himself so he was hanging upside down. Slowly, he lowered himself until he his head was almost brushing the floor of your fire escape. “How’s it hanging?”

You shrieked, dropping your book in fright. Now, Peter would never want to actually scare you, but he couldn’t help messing around every now and then.

“What the fuck Peter,” you hissed, one hand resting on your heart as you breathed heavily. Peter righted himself and landed completely in one smooth motion.

He swiped off his mask and grinned. “I thought it was funny.”

You whacked him with your book.

Peter threw his arms up and cowered slightly, “Mercy! Mercy!”

“Shut up!” You laughed softly, “Someone might hear you.”

He put arms down and fixed you with a serious expression, “Did you or did you not just scream a couple of seconds ago?”

You whacked him with your book again.

Peter was cackling like a madman at this point and it didn’t take long before you were joining him. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, laughing together on your fire escape, a place ripe with memories of your life together before.

“What’re you doing here?” You asked once you’d calmed down and caught your breath again.

“I was swinging back home when I saw you out here reading. Thought I’d stop by and say hey.”

“Or give me a heart attack,” you murmured.

He laughed again, “Sorry about that.”

“No you’re not,” you rolled your eyes but your smile escaped. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, grinning. This was nice, so nice.

You fell into a soft silence, neither of you wanting to break the comfortable atmosphere you’d created. You decided to speak up, but so did he.

“I wanted to—”

“Ace I—”

You looked at him and held back a laugh. He shook his head softly and smiled. Settling down across from you, Peter stretched his legs out (longer than they were before, and taking up more space, he almost didn’t fit), and he pointed towards you, “You first.”

“Fine. I wanted to say sorry for snapping at you so much since you’ve been back. Its just been…” you fidgeted with your hands and bit your lip, “weird.”

His heart fell a little bit, why in the world would you be apologizing? “Ace, you don’t need to apologize for a thing, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. I’m sorry Ace, I know its weird, I know you had no warning when I just popped back into your life, and I know it’s weird.” He nudged your leg with his and smiled, “Hell I’m lucky your even talking to me right now.”

You narrowed your eyes, “Well it’s not like you gave me much of a choice, you cornered me on my own fire escape!”

He laughed. “True, I guess.” Peter added a dramatic sigh before his next sentence, hoping to hide how nervous he actually felt, “I could always go if you want me to.”

“No,” you said softly, “I don’t mind.”

Peter felt like doing a happy dance.

“What’re you doing home?” He asked. He knew you had your own apartment near campus (with Alyssa, he’d learned. He quickly, learned how close you two were, he was glad you had a friend like that.) and he couldn’t think of a specific reason you’d be home.

“My mom bought some new furniture and she asked me to come help her put it together. I figured I’d just spend the night.”

“Oh? I thought she was banned from shopping?”

“She was! Until she wasn’t.” You laughed out loud, making Peter laugh as well.

The night went on like that, you and Peter sharing simple conversation. You avoided touching on the touchier subjects for now. You weren’t exactly ignoring them, both of you knew they were there, sitting beside you as you conversed, waiting to be picked apart and discussed at length. It just seemed that the two of you had silently reached an agreement, that for now, you’d enjoy whatever peace you’d found. Because at the end of the day, first and foremost, you two had been friends. The bigger things could come later.

It had been a week since that night on your fire escape wand you were actually starting to think you could handle Peter being back. Seeing him around had been brief lately, you suspected he was finally getting settled in his classes and his life here, but when you did see him it was easier. Less tension-filled. Unless James was around, that made it harder.

You were laying on the couch in your living room, Lyss laying opposite you, both your legs meeting in the middle. The two of you were watching Pride & Prejudice (the 2005 one, of course, because no one really cared about the 1995 series) while a bowl of popcorn lay half-eaten on the coffee table in front of you.

You reached out and grabbed a handful of popcorn, “Kiera Knightley is so fine.”

“Tell me about it, oh my god,” Lyss exclaimed, dramatically fanning herself. “I watched ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ when I was younger, I’ve never been the same since.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Peter and I watched them all together during one of our summer breaks, and that scene with her and Orlando Bloom had me practically drooling.” You giggled.

“Speaking of Peter,” the way she said it had you thinking she’d been dying to bring this subject up, “how’s that going?”

“Um…good. Well, better, I guess is the right word. Things are going better than the first few times I saw him around but of course there’s still that weirdness.”

“God, I still cant get over how crazy it is that he just randomly pops up here, outta nowhere!” You’d always talked about Peter with Lyss, you’d told her your history with him long before he’d shown up, but now she could finally put a face to the name.

“You’re telling me,” you snorted. “I saw him when I went back home last week,” you shook your head, “we talked on my fire escape like we used to. It was almost unreal.”

“Weren’t you guys no contact since winter break of freshman year?” She asked.

You hummed in confirmation and she whistled. “So he hasn’t given you some grand love proposal, has he?”

You choked on a laugh, “No. Of course not.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged casually, “you don’t transfer to the school you know your ex-girlfriend attends, join the paper you know she’s on, and hang out on her fire escape where you hung out when you were together unless you still have feelings.”

Frowning, you popped some more popcorn your mouth. You didn’t want to believe Peter still had feelings for you, it would make everything so much harder.of course, there was something there, and if you were being honest, there probably always would be. You were each other’s first loves and that didn’t just disappear into thin air.

But Peter had left you, and you had a boyfriend now. Everything else was irrelevant.

Lyss leaned over and poked your cheek, “Don’t pout, I was only kidding. Sorta.”

“I know,” you said, shooting her a smile.

“Stop thinking about him and start think about the killer article you’re going to write me about tomorrow.” She shot you a wink.

Right. The competition was tomorrow. And you were going with James.

“OH! Hand clench scene!” Lyss jumped up, tearing you away from your thoughts.

Peter had left you, and you had a boyfriend now. Everything else was irrelevant.

Tomorrow should make a great distraction.

The venue was beautiful. You made your way around, stopping to appreciate every photograph, taking in all the details of the art hanging on every inch of the walls. You loved it.

You looked up at James and grinned, “Do you get it now?”

He smiled and shook his head, “To be honest with you, nah.” He smirked at you, “But I’m here with the prettiest girl in the whole school, so what does it matter?”

You flushed and looked down at the empty notepad in your hands, by the end of the night it was probably going to be full. You were going to walk around taking notes of all the unique pieces, but the biggest part of your job today would be later, when they announce the winners. There were three runner ups and then, of course, the first place winner. You’d be speaking to all of them tonight, longer with the winner.

Just as you’d told James, this thing had a dress code. He had gone for a navy jacket with a white button down underneath, and a pair of white slacks. You were wearing a pretty black dress that fell to just below your knees; it had a soft tulle layer that swished as you walked and floral embroidery that ran along the whole thing, the green of the vines and soft pink of the flowers popping out with the darker undertone. You felt good about tonight, really good. Alyssa had chosen to give you this big piece of news and you weren’t going to let her down.

You walked around the venue hand-in-hand with James, getting familiar with the art and the artists, stopping by to compliment a few that really popped out to you. Your favorite so far was a stunning picture taken by a girl named Macy, she’d captured of Bow Bridge at Central Park. She’d used some kind of vintage camera giving the photo an ethereal, elegant, romantic feel to it, with the flowers on the bushes, the green of the scenery, and the golden glow on the bridge and the people walking upon it and boating on the waters beneath it, if it was up to you this would definitely be picked as first place.

You’d tried to get James to see the same beauty you saw in the picture, the almost fantastical vibe of it, looking more like a painting than reality, but he hadn’t understood, claiming it was ‘just a picture of the park’ leaving you more than a little disappointed. Maybe some people really just didn’t understand art.

“Think we’ve seen almost everything,” you murmured to James as you looked around to see if there was a place you hadn’t been yet.

“Actually, there’s a few on the other side of that wall we haven’t seen yet,” he pointed, “been seeing lots of people come in and out of there. I think one of the winners might be there.”

“Oh my gosh I completely missed that part, thanks!” You leaned up and pecked his cheek, making him grin. “Anytime babe.”

That would be your last happy moment of the night.

You walked through the photos slowly and marveled at how, when it came to art, everyone truly had their own style. Each piece had a tag beside it, conveying the name of the work and the name of the photographer. Though most of the presenters liked to hover near their piece in case anyone had questions or wanted to know more, it was easier this way for the judges to get the information they needed.

You were talking to someone about their picture when James nudged you. “Is that Peter?”

He pointed to your left, and you saw the side-profile of Peter talking to someone with his arms crossed. Peter was here? Well, it did make sense, he was a photographer after all. This was more than his scene.

“He’s probably here to get pictures for the paper,” you shrugged.

James held your hand a little tighter as the two of you walked through some more photos. “Alright, this is getting boring,” James sighed heavily.

“Really?” you frowned, “I really like it. I think its fun.”

He eyed you, “You already got the article babe, you don’t have to put on an act anymore.”

You laughed lightly, but you weren’t really finding this funny, “I’m not acting! Did you see ‘love in the air’? I don’t think I’ve ever seen something more beautiful.” That was the name of the piece you’d loved, and you had to say, it was accurate. It was like looking through rose-tinted-glasses, finding the lovely in everything.

“The one of the park?” James rolled his eyes, “it’s Central Park, there’s nothing special about it.” You were opening your mouth to argue when he cut you off, “They’re just photos, babe. Now, when are they gonna announce the winners so we can get outta here?”

You frowned and looked down at your watch. There was only about half an hour until winners were announced. You were going to write down something in your notepad when you heard James mutter a curse under his breath and come to a stop beside you, his hand going limp in yours.

“What? What is it—” you looked up to see what had gotten him and you really wished you hadn’t. In front of you hung a piece you hadn’t seen before, this particular photograph, or photographs as it was more of a collage, had something none of the other ones didn’t…you.

“Who…?” But it was no use because you knew who, and so did James.

Neither of you needed to look at the tag to know who the contestant was, but you did anyway.

‘Seasonal’

By: Peter Parker

It was a bright, colorful, collage conveying the changes of the seasons. One corner had bounds of snowflakes and different clips of snowy fields and icicles, stretching out to merge with the corner opposite of it, summer. Bright blue waves, soft tufts of sand. Both corner melted down the sides of the poster board to create spring, which was full of beautiful, soft colored flowers, sprouting up as if just given life. The project was beautiful, you had to admit. You’d known Peter had a knack for photography but all these photos, the dedication to this project, was extremely admirable. There had to be hundreds of photos, cut up, some bigger than others, and perfectly arranged with each other to create this harmonic view of nature, all taken by him,

But the problem was the center. Autumn. Which was you. It took up the middle body of the collage, it was dead center. Unlike the other seasons, this one didn’t have multiple photos bringing it together, it was the key piece, all the others worked to make this one shine.

That picture Peter had taken of you in Central Park, the one where he’d gotten you to lay on a pile of leaves, made you laugh so he could capture the perfect shot. You’d forgotten about it, honestly, you weren’t even sure if you’d seen it after it was taken. But now, here it was, over two years later, submitted in a fucking photography competition.

“What do you think?” You weren’t sure how long you were there, staring at that photo of yourself, it could’ve been hours, days even, before that heart-wrenchingly familiar voice.

You turned around quickly, coming face to face with Peter, who was looking at you with a heavy expression. You had seen him earlier when James pointed him out, but it was from across a crowded room and you’d only seen his side. He towered over you now, in a black button down, with black slacks and a black belt. You knew you shouldn’t even be thinking it, but he looked good. His shirt fit him perfectly, hugging him in all the right places, and he had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his thick forearms. It wasn’t until he crossed them over his chest and looked at you expectantly that you realized you were staring and he was waiting on an answer.

Before you could give it to him, James spoke up, “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve.” His voice was low and angrier than you’d ever heard it, causing alarm bells to go off in your head. Peter didn’t bother even acknowledging him, his eyes were solely on you, and that seemed to piss him off even more.

“You think this shit’s funny?” James growled.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Peter rolled his eyes.

You stood shell-shocked in your place, unsure of what to do. “That’s it,” James said, “I’ve had enough of your bullshit.” He stepped forward suddenly, making you jump into action.

“Stop it,” you hissed, but he wasn’t listening, walking from your side right up to Peter.

His previous remarks had gained the attention from the small groups of people who were close enough to hear them.

“Take it down,” he said as he got up in Peter’s face. Peter, to his credit, didn’t budge an inch. In fact, he was looking at James as if he were nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing past. James stood at least a couple inches taller than Peter, and yet he wasn’t the most intimidating one here, not by a mile.

“No, but I’d be happy to take you down,” with a damn smile on his face. You wanted to slap them both.

“You little—”

“Enough!” You stepped in, throwing your arm between them and holding it against James’ chest. You weren’t going to sit there and let them throw hands at an event like this, especially not over you.

Peter sucked in a breath, eyeing the arm you had strapped across James’ front in a feeble attempt to hold him back. Something unreadable shone in his eyes, and his jaw ticked as he met your glare.

“You are not doing this here,” you said in a hard voice, refusing to look at Peter anymore and instead staring up at James. His face was stone and his eyes were set on Peter, whose eyes were set on you.

It was like some crazy triangle or something.

A part of you wondered what a photo of this particular moment would look like. You imagined it would be named something like ‘Lovers Quarrel’. Finally, after what felt like forever, James’ gaze finally slid down toward you. He worked his jaw for a moment before stepping back. “I need to get some air,” he mumbled. Without bothering another glance at either of you, he turned and headed for the exit.

You stood in place, eyes stuck on his retreating figure, when you heard Peter scoff. “Can you believe that guy?”

Rage flew through your blood. “Excuse me?”

“Oh come on Ace,” but his voice didn’t sound as sure as before and you could’ve laughed at the thought of him thinking you’d agree with him, “you know I didn’t start that.”

It was your turn to scoff, “Maybe not, but you didn’t hesitate to tell him how you’d take him down.”

“Well what was I supposed to do?” He asked weakly. All that confidence and haughtiness from earlier was gone, standing before you was just Peter. But you were starting to think you didn’t know Peter anymore. What you’d said to him before, about him not knowing you anymore, you’d said mostly to hurt him. But now…you wondered if there were more truth to your words than you realized.

Sometimes there were moments like that night on your fire escape and it was like things had never changed, he’d never moved hundreds of miles away and the two of you were back just hanging out, the oldest of friends. Two people who knew each other better than anyone else ever would.

And then there were moments like tonight.

You eyed him curiously, disappointment all over your features. You knew he hadn’t liked James but for him to genuinely partake in a fight…

“I don’t know Peter. I don’t know you anymore.” And you turned to walk in the same direction you’d seen James headed to before, but not before you glimpsed the hurt on Peter’s face.

Stepping out the doors, you were hit with a warm breeze and the sound of New York traffic. Shuddering at the sudden change of temperature (the venue had the AC on blast, stepping outside felt like a warm hug) you looked around for James. You caught him leaning against the side of the building with a hand running through his hair.

“Hey,” you said softly, approaching on light feet as you moved to the same wall, leaning right across from him.

“Hey,” he deadpanned, not meeting your eyes.

Your heart swelled with guilt. You didn’t know why; you knew you shouldn’t feel guilty, you didn’t do anything wrong and you had no clue Peter was going to do that, or be here at all. But he just looked so angry right now and you couldn’t help feeling like it was sort of your fault.

“I’m sorry.” You wanted something, anything. Anything other than that cold look in his eyes. You wanted him to tell you it wasn’t your fault, that he wasn’t angry, not at you, just at the situation.

He didn’t do any of that.

After a few seconds and still no answer you raised a hand to brush away the pieces of hair that had fallen into his face in a way you thought would comfort him, but that only had him swerving to avoid your touch as if your hand were made of fire.

You retracted it, your heart swelling with hurt. Ouch. Okay, so maybe he was mad at you. “James…” you trailed off. You weren’t sure what to say, you were afraid the slightest thing would set him off even more.

He shook his head, jaw so clenched you were afraid it would snap. “No,” he ran a hand over his face, “Nah, I can’t do this.”

“Do what?” You asked exasperated, “I don’t understand, what’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal?” He sneered with venom in his voice, and you regretted saying anything at all. “The big deal is—” he cut himself off with a harsh laugh, “Honestly Y/N, if you don’t see it you’re even more blind than I thought.”

Just then, a noise sounded from inside the venue. Microphone feedback. The awards were about to be handed out. You could hear one of the judges introducing himself. You stared at James wordlessly. You didn’t want to go inside and leave things like this but you also didn’t see how you could say or do anything that would fix it.

“James, I swear I had no idea about that,” you cleared your throat, willing your voice not to break, “I didn’t even know he’d be here.”

He wouldn’t even look at you, nodding and staring out onto the street, and that felt like an even bigger hurt. Why wouldn’t he just listen? As if he’d willed it with his eyes, a car pulled up to the curb right in front of you, tearing your gaze away from him for a moment. James walked away from you, hand settling on the handle of the backseat door and realization hit you hard, cold, and fast.

He hadn’t been waiting for you to follow him, to talk things out and make things right again. He’d just been waiting for his ride.

Without even bothering another look your way, “Good luck with your fucking article.”

I don’t know you anymore.

It was the only thing that had been running through his brain since the last syllable had rolled off of your tongue.

How could you say that? How could you even think it? Did you seriously believe that? Did you truly think that he was so different from the boy you once loved, the boy you’d dreamed of a future with, a shared future?

His head was buzzing with thoughts about you and what you’d said when he felt hands on his shoulders pushing him. Looking around, he realized everyone was staring at him. The hands on his shoulders were pushing him forward.

“Go, Peter,” someone beside him whispered, one of the other photographers from the paper, Ryan, who’d been standing beside him in the crowd, he realized, “you won!”

Right. He’d been so focused on you that he’d completely forgotten where he was for a moment. Shortly after you’d walked away from him, the award ceremony had begun. He didn’t even remember walking over here, or the introductions, or any other people being awarded

He wordlessly made his way onto the stage, vaguely recalled shaking someone’s hand, being handed something, a ribbon maybe? He didn’t know, he didn’t know anything except he was on stage, everyone was clapping for him, and he was looking for you.

The closest thing he could find was the photograph of you, also on the stage, sitting in the first place slot beside him. This was wrong, it was all wrong, and it was his fault. You were so excited for this article, you’d told him as much and he could see it, and he’d never wanted to ruin it for you.

To his side stood a petite blond girl, looking to be around his age, hovering close to another photograph. It was a lovely, romantic photo of Central Park. He recalled seeing it earlier as he was roaming around the venue checking out the other pieces. It had caught his attention because it reminded him of you.

It made his heart deflate even more.

More chatter ensued, followed by more applause and Peter tried his best not to look so uncomfortable (May had repeatedly informed him he always looked like he was about to be sick when he was too stressed, and he didn’t want anyone thinking he was about to vomit all over his newly awarded first-prize-winning piece and all the other winners).

At this point, he couldn’t wait for his cue to get off this godforsaken stage so he could find you and apologize. It was the least he could do but hopefully it would make things at least a little better.

“What do you say Mr. Parker?”

He whipped his head toward the speaker. Todd Kravinski, the man running this whole thing, the same one who’d called him up here earlier and handed him the ribbon (and a check, apparently, but Peter hadn’t realized that until after) had asked him something and he’d completely missed it.

“I—I’m sorry sir, what was that?”

Mr. Kravinski chuckled, and Peter let out a forced laugh. “C’mere kid, they’re gonna wanna get your picture, and maybe a little statement for the paper.” His stomach lurched at that last part. You were going to be taking his statement for the paper. You were going to be the one who described his piece and take the pictures he taken and turn them into words. Selfishly, he couldn’t wait to hear what you thought.

Peter walked instructed to stand near his piece, hold up his ribbon and check, and smile. He was paraded around, forced into handshakes, shoving out smiles until the corners of his mouth and his cheeks ached, and patted on the back more times than he could count. And yet all he could think about was you.

It wasn’t until the parading around was coming to an end that he looked up from some stranger congratulating him and caught your eye, standing a few steps back, talking to Lewis, he was third runner-up and they’d been standing beside each other earlier on the stage. Peter swore his whole body froze when he saw you, every time he caught your eye it felt like the two of you were sharing a whole conversation no one else was privy to, even now after being gone for almost 2 whole years, he could feel that familiar warmth, the sensual tug of that bond the two of you would only ever share with each other. And it was so familiar, so soft, so wholly you and him, he could’ve cried.

But then you looked away. And he could’ve cried for completely different reasons.

He made quick work of excusing himself from his current conversation and walked over to where you were chatting up Lewis, writing down things in a small notepad. He found you so incredibly adorable standing there, biting your lip in concentration as you scribbled down something she’d just told you, careful not to miss any details.

“Hey Lewis,” he approached the two of you, your head shooting up at the familiar voice, “Congrats on runner-up, your piece was amazing.”

They shook hands with each other, “You too man, congrats. That was one hell of a collage.”

“Thanks, hey do you mind if I steal Y/N away for a bit? I’ve been meaning to speak with her.”

“Not at all, I think we’re pretty much done here.” Lewis looked at you to confirm you’d gotten all you need. Peter could tell you very much wanted to protest and he caught your subtle glance down at your notepad. It didn’t take a genius to know you were pondering what other questions you might’ve missed that could keep you from being alone with Peter, but it seemed you couldn’t find anything because you ended up giving Lewis a tight-lipped smile.

“Thanks for talking with me. I loved your photo, and congratulations again.”

“Thank you. can’t wait to read it,” Lewis replied, walking off with a wink in your direction.

You immediately looked down, refusing to meet Peter’s eyes after Lewis turned his back, instead taking a enormous interest in your shoes.

Peter cleared his throat, “Ace, can we talk?”

“Talk about what?” You finally looked up. Peter was fluent in all things Y/N, yet he knew that he didn’t need to be to see the unhappiness etched on your features. Your countenance was all hard lines and and furrowed brows and—were your eyes red? Had you been crying?

“Seriously Peter, what do you wanna talk about? The part where you entered into a competition you knew damn well I’d be covering, the part where you entered and won using a picture of me without telling me, the part where you tried to pick a fight with my boyfriend about it, or the part where you tried to get me to side with you?”

“Ace, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for things to go down the way they did,” he tried helplessly. He didn’t want to argue with you, mostly because he’d never cared for it, even when you were together, but also because he didn’t want to feel any worse.

You sniffled and it felt like a kick to the gut. His thought from earlier resurfaced, and this time it was because he was completely fluent in you that he knew you hadn’t cried yet. Between whatever had happened when you’d left to find James and now, you’d gotten upset but you hadn’t cried and it was breaking him to see you trying so hard to keep that composure.

“Well they did,” you replied quietly, avoiding his gaze once more as you crossed your arms and looked to the side.

All Peter really wanted to do was pry your arms open, break the protective stance you’d taken up, and pull you into a bone-crushing hug that was much need by the both of you if you asked him. But he couldn’t do that. “I’m so sorry Ace. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You’ve done enough.” He wasn’t really expecting you to accept his offer, but the rejection still hurt.

“Well, what about with the article? How can I help with that?” He hadn’t let himself think it but he was excited about the extra time with you that came with first place. Maybe there was a silver lining in all this.

“Thanks but no.” Maybe not. “Actually, I—I should go.”

He wanted to speak up. He wanted to protest. He wanted you. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t have any of the things he wanted and the same thought kept floating through his head:

It’s all my fault.

The leaves rustled around you as you walked, the breeze carried with it a certain smell you could only find on the streets of New York during this time of year. You were on the brink of summer, the nature around you was peaking. The flowers were fully bloomed, the grass a delicious shade of green, birds chirped merrily, and you felt like shit.

You and James hadn’t talked since he’d left last night after the whole thing with Peter. You’d sent texts, called multiple times, left voicemails most of those times, you weren’t quite sure what else there was to do. You should probably go to his place. Maybe you should’ve even gone last night, but…you weren’t up for it yet. Not then and not now.

And then there was Peter.

Stupid, annoying, confusing, infuriating, Peter Parker.

Leaving last night was a stupid idea. You were already there, you should’ve asked him a few quick questions and got it over with. Now you’d have to make time to see him, and you weren’t sure how that would go over with James, article or not.

It had felt like your heart had short-circuited when you’d seen that photo on the wall. How long had he planned that? Obviously he was aware you were going to see it…what had he thought your reaction would be? What had he thought James’ reaction would be? He probably hadn’t thought of James at all, if you were being honest with yourself.

It still felt crazy to think he was back in the city. You’d seen the news reports of Spider-Man once again in New York. The first one had popped up the same day you’d ran into him. You caught yourself thinking about him often as you walked around campus, knowing he was there somewhere as well, walking those same grounds (or swinging maybe). It was weird. It was weird working with him on the paper and yet…there was something when you were with Peter, something you hadn’t felt in almost 2 years. Something a part of you knew, deep down, that you would never feel with anyone else.

“Funny seeing you here.” You’d know that voice absolutely anywhere. It was how you’d first discovered him as Spider-Man, after all.

You turned, coming face-to-face with Peter. He was in a dark grey t-shirt that fit him like a glove, dark washed jeans, and a beat up pair of converse he’d had since you’d known him. He looked every bit the boy you once knew, only less boy and more man now. That was another change you hadn’t gotten used to.

“Is it?” You asked, because something in his tone told you he’d expected to find you here.

“No,” he shook his head, “I remembered you always came for walks here when you were having a rough time and after everything that happened last night…lucky guess.”

Stupid, annoying, confusing, infuriating, Peter Parker.

Of course, he knew where to find you. “You always were a genius.” You said as you continued to walk slowly, Peter picking up pace to stride beside you.

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, to figure you out. I know you Ace, no matter what, I’ll always know you.”

James doesn’t know you, he never would’ve known where to find you and you weren’t even sure he’d bother looking—

No, you had to stop that. Comparing the two of them wasn’t going to get you anywhere except all stuck in your head. Peter wasn’t yours, not anymore, no matter how well he knew you. He’d made sure of that.

“Well did you want something?” You weren’t exactly being pleasant, but you also couldn’t bring yourself to care. You couldn’t believe you’d apologized to him for being ‘snappy’ because right now all you could think was how much he deserved it.

He stopped his walking and grabbed your elbow, stopping you as well, “I know I was a dick last night, hell, I know I’ve been a dick to you far before last night, but I wanna make it up to you if you’ll let me. I care about you Ace. I always will.”

You didn’t care about me when you ghosted me, you didn’t care about me when you stood me up on winter break, you didn’t care about me when you left me and moved all the way to North Carolina—

That wasn’t going to do anything but make you miserable, and even more snappy. You sucked in a deep breath. He was here. Might as well get what you needed from him, right?

“I’m gonna need to ask you a few questions, y’know, just basic stuff. For the article.”

Peter grinned as if that was exactly what he was hoping you’d say. “Yeah, yeah sure. Of course, anything.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was so ready and willing to give you everything you asked for, you were sure if you demanded he hand you his wallet, he wouldn’t object.

You pulled out your notepad and pen from your tote bag, extremely grateful you always kept them on hand. Flipping open to a new page, you clicked your pen, flipped your hair over your shoulder, and cleared your throat, “Social security number, date of birth, and the last thing you ate in full detail?”

Peter choked out a laugh, “Um, okay. I don’t have it memorized, August 10th 2001, and a medium toasted bagel with extra cream cheese, no seasoning.”

“No seasoning?” You asked, scrunching up your nose in disgust. “What, so you just like plain, boring bagels like an old man?”

“Hey,” he jumped to his own defense, “no hating on plain bagels! They’re like the vanilla ice cream of the bagel world, classic. You can never go wrong with a plain bagel. It can never be too much, it can never be too little. It’s just right.”

You snorted, “Alright, keep it in your pants Parker, I think I’ve heard enough. Plain bagels rock.”

“Damn right they do,” he deadpanned.

Chuckling, you remembered something. “Oh my god, are you talking about the bagels from the little cafe next to the library?”

“Yeah! You know it?”

“Know it? Oh my god I practically moved in there during finals week. Have you tried their muffins? You would love them. I know you always hated when muffins are baked too dry because—”

“It’s like eating sand.” You both said in unison. You stared up at him, but he was already looking at you. He had this look in his eyes that was so wholly Peter, you almost couldn’t stand it. It took everything in you but you broke eye contact, clearing your throat before you continued speaking, “So um—tell about your photograph. What was the inspiration behind it? Why did you choose that piece?”

“Photography is often about telling a story, or at least part of it, and this piece…it means a lot to me.” You held your breath as he spoke. “I love the feeling of the picture, or rather, pictures. My piece tells a story about nature. I tried to show the beauty in all aspects of it, and while doing that, I tried to tell a story of my own.”

You tried your hardest not too think to hard about what he was saying. Which was hard considering you were literally the fucking center of this piece he was speaking of. “Your piece was a very well laid-out collage, how long did it take you to put it together?”

“Um,” he scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar it felt like your heart was crying, “well I joined pretty last minute, so about a week, but I was cramming the whole time.”

You went quiet for a few minutes before coming up with your next question. “Was that your first choice? The piece I mean.” It wasn’t really relevant to the article but…you were curious.

“I was going to do something with constellations,” he admitted.

Oh. Thank god he didn’t. You might’ve lost your mind.

“But those are harder to catch on camera, and I entered last minute,” he finished. “Plus,” he added, looking up at the clear blue morning sky, “my favorites are mostly visible during autumn.”

You felt like your heart was going to stop. So much history, so many unspoken things between the two of you. A part of you swore you could feel the tension wrapping itself around you and tightening, making it harder and harder to breathe the more time you spent with him.

You don’t know how long the two of you walked in silence before he finally spoke up again, his voice hoarser than it was a few moments ago. “I thought of you every night you know.” You didn’t need to ask to know what he was talking about. “You could see them more clearly over there, the stars, and I thought of you every time. Not just because of the stars but…they were just a bigger reminder.”

“Peter—”

“You never did tell me what you thought of it. The collage.”

You paused. You weren’t sure what you thought of it. Objectively it was a great piece, beautiful, maybe one of his best works. It had won first place for a reason. But how the hell were you supposed to be objective about any of this? “I—I think it was well-deserving of its award.”

He let out a small chuckle, “Seriously Ace? Save that kinda talk for the article, tell me the truth.”

You paused, trying to figure out the right words. Taking in a deep breath, you said, “It was beautiful Pete, even if it was a little weird just seeing myself like that. I think it might be one of the most creative and beautiful things you’ve created. I understand what you mean,” gentler now, “about the feelings and the story and everything…I think you portrayed that really well.”

It went quiet between the two of you again and you wondered if you shouldn’t have said that. You were about to make up another question but he beat you to it, “I kept trying to convince myself that I wasn’t coming back here for you, that I didn’t have any expectations for us and that this whole transfer was completely irrelevant to how we ended things but that isn’t true. And I always knew it deep down, but I hit me like a bag of bricks when I saw you again.”

This couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be really saying all this, you had to be dreaming. You had a boyfriend, Peter broke up with you, he didn’t want you any more. Right? He couldn’t just come here after not talking to you for over a year and claim he transferred schools because of you. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t get to just dump all that on you.

“You were doing fine over there Peter, I heard everything. You had amazing grades, you were winning awards. You basically owned that school. So why’d you come back?”

“Okay, well you’re kinda over exaggerating. It wasn’t that great.”

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes, “Don’t give me that bullshit, yeah it was. It was everything you were wishing it would be.”

“No it wasn’t!” He burst out, hands running through his hair. “I tried to enjoy it Ace, I really did. But I couldn’t.” He looked at you with a pained expression. “I should’ve been having the time of my life, because yeah, in theory, it was everything I could’ve wished for. But I couldn’t enjoy a goddamn thing knowing you were over here, living a whole life I wasn’t a part of. Being away from you killed me Ace, everything I said to you on graduation? That shit ripped my fucking heart out. I didn’t want it anymore than you did.”

Tears collected in his waterline and you felt a lump in your throat. Were you finally getting the explanation you’d dreamed and hoped for over and over? Why did you feel so nauseous? “I probably wanted it less, if I’m being honest,” he laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I hated it over there Ace, not a second went by where you weren’t on my mind, not a night went by where you weren’t in my dreams. I know this is probably the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard but you need to believe me, I thought I was doing what was right that day on graduation. I really, truly thought that you would be happier if I did that. Not at first maybe, but eventually.” His voice got quieter and he sounded so raw, so emotional, you almost burst into sobs, “And that’s all I’ve ever wanted, I just want you to be happy Y/N.”

You swore you felt your heart split in half. Peter never called you by your name. Not since that night on your fire escape when you’d patched him up after a rough night of being Spider-Man and he first bestowed upon you his personal title, claiming that it ‘just suited you’.

You froze. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint what you were feeling, but it was a lot. “I—I have,” you cleared your throat to keep your voice from breaking, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Ace, wait, please.”

But you didn’t. This time, you were the one who ran away.

‘seasonal’ taglist: @keira-kaz2y5 @imafangirlofeverything @lov3vivian

@starsformiles @rkivesfilm

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ramu-ego · 2 years

Note

I hope the requests are open, if not ignore..

But hear me out!!

The boys as tiddie suckers ??? I just know some of them would non stop.😭

and have a wonderful day, sweetie. I love your work so much ! <3

(nsfw) TIDDY BOYS :: xfemdom!Reader

can confirm yes yes yes we have some tiddy obsessed men here ♡ -askbox open cw: fem!Reader, dom!Reader, aged up, nursging/nipple play/etc, sexual content, subbier content in Ego's, unedited word count: sloppy headcanons character(s): Isagi Yoichi, Itoshi Rin, Ego Jinpachi, Kenyu Yukimiya, Nagi Seishiro

DNI :: minors, blank blogs + m!Reader blogs

one word; OBSESSED

your tits are the reason for breathing as far as he's concerned and Isagi has no problem reminding you of that daily if not hourly - schedules permitting

size doesn't matter he's a nipple man anyways

hours can be lost to them which he happily relinquishes his free time to worship your chest

squeezing, groping and licking every inch of your tiddy while he lays on his tummy kicking his feet like a happy little school girl

adores your nipples

cannot stress this enough your nipples are where he'll wrap his lips around them for hours on end

nursing, licking and the occasional bite (nothing a thump to the head won't fix)

pretty sure his mother weened him too early with how hard he'll go with his nursing kink

swears nothing in the world turns him on like your tits and it's true

9times out of 10 he's rutting into the bed mindlessly while he's nursing only to end up in a gooey puddle of his own cum from simply nursing on your tits while you play with his hair

sucking on your tits while he's inside you expect Isagi to loose his mind like a good boy

shy tit sucker

not because he sees anything wrong with it, just, shy about how much he wants to do it

your tits are constantly on his mind which frankly is unacceptable but the only remedy for his plagued thoughts?

that's right, planting himself face first in your boobs!

100% stress reliever for him but he's too dense to connect the dots and often times thinks his obsession with your tits is a vice

a vice that he inevitably gives into almost daily but it's cute to watch his internal struggle the second you walk around barless/shirtless

stares all the time it's so obvious

will blatantly tell you he's not looking at them only to come over five minutes later and put his face in them

the fattiest part of your tit is his favorite

loves the mouth feel of it and sometimes you have to remind him to explore other parts of your tit instead of just sucking on the squishiest part like a dumb calf

pls why is he this smart yet so obtuse sometimes

once he finds your nipples it's game over his lips aren't going anywhere but your clothes sure are

they're there for him to look at and touch all he wants so why would he ever invest in something as dumb as stress balls

nothing compares to his fingers diligently dimpling the fat of your breast while he massages them mindlessly going about his work

extremely handsy and perhaps a little possessive

your tits are his favorite thing and Ego sees no qualms in making the most of his love for them of course

and with fingers like that who would complain

plucking at your nipples, rolling them between his fingers until your squirming and then just pulling you back into his lap to reaffirm you can get up when he's done

Ego wanted a bigger office chair so he could accommodate you sitting in his lap and damn well he's going to get that bigger office chair for exactly that

if it's been an extra stressful day full of idiots expect his mouth to be preoccupied by what he explains is the best stress relief right under fucking

sucking on your tits of course!

mouthful, face buried in your tit for as long as he wants with a tongue as dexterous and attentive as his fingers; Ego's going to be down here a while so might as well get comfortable

bonus his hair is super soft and pettable so don't forget to pet him like a good boy

another shy tiddy sucker

but he's not as forward with his vice as say some other strikers

he's thinking about your tits 24/7

but who can blame him when they just feel so good in his hands and Kenyu couldn't live another day without the thought of getting his mouth on you

it's cute though, when he tries to control his little impulses

tries so hard but mommy knows best for a reason

the second you brush up against him Kenyu is struggling to keep his composure without making a fool of himself

but his foolish side is so cute!

take it upon yourself to force his face into your tits and watch him give into his greedy little needs like a true egoist

loves loves loves to feel them against his face

laying on your chest, nuzzling and the occasional motorboat when he gets a little excited, he just can't help it they're so warm and soft!

different levels of neediness with this one

sometimes rubbing his cheek against you while you pet his hair and hold him is more than enough

other times Kenyu won't be interrupted by even the end of the world if his lips finally find their home around your nipple

he's not very shy after you extend the invitation to let him play with your tits and good luck getting him off before he's had his fill

default nursing kink

default mommy kink

these are his factory standard settings and there is no getting rid of them

Nagi sees no issue with using your tits as his gaming pillow or even a reason why it might be inconvenient to have him sucking on them while also trying to play videogames

spoiler he drools at this angle....a lot

an obscene amount of nonsexual touching is just a given with him

hand down the shirt groping to find your tit until he's got his hands on it

then it's like an almost full body sigh like he's got his security blanket

yes you should just buy that extra large shirt bc all 6'2" of him is going to attempt to crawl into it to be closer

has a favorite boob, it's your left one, because it's closest to your heart

and yes he thinks this is just top tier romantic to love the boob above your heart

expect him to fall asleep with boob in his mouth, to sleep with boob in his hand and as just a general rule have some form of contact with your boobs whenever possible

and yes...Reo knows how obsessed with your boobs Nagi is

no thanks to Nagi

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iridiss · 1 year

Text

Garroth growing up in a blood family that doesn’t treat him with any love, so as a kid he wishes so hard for the destined, perfect love of his life to come and save him, whisking him away like a knight in shining armor, to a life where he’s truly loved, and it’s that escapism in fantasy that he’s constantly using to cope and keep himself sane growing up

He dreams of the day someone will love him, unconditionally and truly, and though he doesn’t really know what that’ll look like yet, it’s something that he just knows intrinsically in his heart and yearns for desperately. He’s a big lover, he’s super empathetic and sensitive, he has a big heart, especially as a kid. Whenever he falls for anyone, he falls HARD, but he can’t seem to find anyone who would love him back as much as he loves them (especially since people keep seeing him as The Prince and not lovey little Garroth)

Then Garroth being forced to marry a woman he had never loved and barely even met before. Marriage being used as a giant weapon to forever seal him into the horrific life as heir to the throne, as one of the permanent pieces of this broken and abusive monarchical system, when marriage and love was supposed to be one thing that got him out, and it breaks him so much that he abandons everything and runs away. If no perfect and magical knight in shining armor will save him, then he’ll do it himself, alone.

And then he meets the most romantic knight in the world.

Laurance is so extremely homoerotic and suggestive and flirtatious with him all the time, even in canon, especially in canon

Laurance loves LOUDLY and a LOT, he’s very honest and up-front about all the emotions in his heart, and when he falls in love with someone (as opposed to falling in surface-level lust with someone) he falls HARD, but unlike Garroth, he is NOT shy about it lol

Laurance sending love and affection Garroth’s way in droves, and Garroth being utterly confused and clueless about it, because no one has ever spoken to him this way, hell, I don’t think his sheltered Princely blood has even SEEN any other person talk this way. Like Laurance just honestly and bluntly telling him “Hey big guy, I think you’re hot and cute as fuck, we should fuck on the beach right here, whaddya say?” like how is his brain going to compute that, he’s never even SEEN an affectionate relationship before, let alone seen someone be so clear and forward about it

And Laurance is honest and means every word he says, he’s not trying to play or trick Garroth. At one point Garroth thinks he is and gets super suspicious of him, but then Laurance laughs and denies it so casually and easily, and now Garroth is lost again

He literally meets the most affectionate person ever. He’s honest and upfront about his affections, he’s patient enough to give Garroth all the time in the world, he’s emotionally intelligent enough to know why he’s struggling so much with his gestures, and he’ll just patiently stand there and watch him while he has an existential crisis trying to figure out what love even means after Laurance gave him a bouquet of hand-picked flowers. Trust Issues Garroth would eventually try to accept all these kind things Laurance says about him, rather than deny the compliments and insist he’s all the things Zane and his father called him as a child. He leans into the affections, and Garroth learning how love actually works, as the very man he dreamed of as a child holds his face in his hands, and does not mock or beat or hurt him, but kisses him on the cheek instead.

Garroth learning how to love from Laurance’s unconditional and obnoxious affections, slowly becoming less and less afraid of it, until he embraces it completely and starts to give Laurance So Very Much Loving in return like he was always capable of doing. And Laurance is perfectly capable of handling the immense amount of affection, he finds it exciting actually

And though I don’t think homophobia is a thing that exists in this fantasy world, I think it’s also thematically perfect that Laurance is the exact kind of person that Garroth’s parents would HATE having as a son-in-law. Laurance’s rebellious pride is perfect for that role of breaking Garroth free of the abusive strings of his evil monarchical family and learning how to love himself instead

#MCD #aphmau #aphmau fanfiction #aphmau headcanons #minecraft diaries #mcd garroth #MCD Laurance #garrance #MCD garrance #laurance zvahl #garroth ro'meave #garroth romeave #Garroth x Laurance #aphmau mcd #fan headcanons #your honor they’re in love #there’s no way around it #IridisWrites

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maple-the-awesome · 1 year

Text

When Another Finds Out About His Crush Part 1/3

Part 2 || Part 3

Pairings: Four, Hyrule, Legend x GN Reader

Overview: What happens when someone else in the Chain finds out about his feelings towards you?

��Zelda Masterlist 💙 Fandom Masterlist

How is it that today has been so peaceful? Seriously, when was the last time the group got a chance to breathe for a second, let alone actually take a moment to enjoy themselves like normal Hylians who don't have to constantly deal with the weight of the world upon their shoulders?

Maybe it's because of the last battle which left most of them pretty battered - too battered to dive head first back into another hoard of monsters right away. Perhaps the Old Man finally got tired of their constant whining and bickering which had grown in volume over the course of the last few days, leading him to pacify them with a quick break. It's probably a combination of those two things, but whatever the true reasoning for this blessing, Four plans to enjoy it - at least he's trying his best to.

He won't complain. It's nice getting to sit here in the sun, enjoying its warm beams that pair sweetly with the cool breeze that carries itself up from the spring where the majority of his traveling partners currently splash around, their joyful cheers making all sound right with the world. Of course, this scene of an early summer would be so much better if not broken every few seconds by Four's sneezing.

His nose is probably red and eyes possibly a bit puffy, but he tries not to care. He's too focused - too distracted with the many thoughts running through his head to begin fussing over some mild allergies.

'Loop over that...Now tie here...'

'Maybe we should've chosen different flowers -'

'- No. We can't admit defeat to a stupid flower. We're seeing this through, damn it!'

'I wasn't suggesting that we give up. Only that we reevaluate our clearly flawed plan. This field is filled with flowers. We can take our pick.'

'Ooo, I like the poppies over there! Let's use those!'

'No! Poppies aren't good enough. Must I remind you why we're using daisies in the first place?!'

Four sighs heavily, his hands collapsing to his lap. The tangled flowers resting in his touch are a pathetic excuse for a 'craft'. If anything, they look no different from flowers that have been tugged from the ground then tossed around in a bag for a few shakes. It's rather shameful considering how long the minish took to teach him the careful art of weaving flower stems together. Are some watching him now, shaking their heads in confusion as to how someone can be struggling to this extent? Of course, it would be easier if he switched to practically any flower other than daisies, but he's committed to seeing this through as is, no changes.

Four's harsh thoughts only break away temporarily when noticing the wolf that saunters through the meadow towards him, likely chased away from the cold shadows that have begun casting over his former resting place closer to the spring. Over here in the sun it’s much warmer, so there’s no surprise when the wolf invites himself to sit next to Four, giving a curious look to the flowers on his lap that asks the question without words being needed.

"I'm trying to make a crown," Four answers, lifting the string of stems up with one finger to let the wolf get a closer look which he does by leaning forward and taking a sniff. To him, the craft is impressive, looking far more detailed and put together compared to the flower crowns he's personally made with the children of his village, although it's clear that the Smith is having trouble accepting his own talent by the way he leans his cheek against the palm of his hand with a huff.

"Normally I can make them pretty quickly with fewer mistakes or tears in the stems and petals, but today I just can't get it right. No matter how many times I attempt one, it never looks good enough," Four explains further, his words drawing Wolfie's eyes to the several drafted flower crowns abandoned off to the hero's side. Then suddenly, the wolf's attention is drawn back to Four with a start when he sneezes loudly.

Sniffing, he gives the slightly startled animal a pitiful look, "...Oh, and it doesn't help that I'm allergic to daisies..."

Wolfie tilts his head to the patch of poppies growing no more than two feet away from them.

"No, I can't...Daisies are easiest to make flower crowns with. They, um, have longer stems."

Woflie tilts his head further, showing doubt over Four's claim, yet in this form, it's not like he can truly call him out. All he can do is make himself comfortable, lying down among the tall grass where he can bare witness to the poor smith's torture as he goes back to weaving flowers into a circle, the only interruption to the silence between them being his repetitive sneezes and eventually a pair of footsteps approaching from the spring.

"Hey, we're missing you down at the water! Whatcha doing all the way up here by your lonesome?" It's no surprise that you're wearing a smile - Alright, it might've been a surprise a few hours ago when all you did was scowl or pout about your aching feet, but ever since Time allowed the group a break, you've been nothing but smiles and rainbows, a look Four prefers on you due to how contagious your enjoy never fails to be.

Immediately upon looking up, a smile pulls at his own lips and all of his muddled thoughts wash away into one. Even his voice is light as a feather without giving you any hint to his prior irritation; a complete contrast to how he had been seconds ago when Wolfie first joined him, "I'm not the biggest swimmer and even if I were, that scream Sky gave when jumping in was enough to convince me of my decision to stay up here."

"Yeah, it's ice water, but hey, anything beats sore feet at this point," You place your hands on your hips with a chuckle, sparing a quick glance back at the rest of the boys before your attention returns to Four, "Making flower crowns, I see?"

He nods, fiddling with the one in his hand which he seems to stare at for some time (truly it was only a few seconds for anyone except himself) before he holds the craft up towards you, "...I thought you'd like one."

"Really? For me?" The bashful smile he wears is easily missed as you awe over the flowers, delicately running your fingers over each petal. Like Wolfie, you see none of the flaws Four concerns himself with. Instead, you see a beautiful collection of near perfect daisies (only a few petals missing here and there) all weaved together in a strong pattern that keeps them from falling apart, "Oh, this is incredible…Wow, you truly are a talent to behold, aren’t you Smithy?"

He officially blushes, rubbing the back of his head with a wide smile he tries to maintain, "I can't take all the credit. I learned from the minish."

"You're too modest," You shake your head in mock annoyance, although the delight in your eyes never fades as you look over the flowers some more, "You know, daisies are actually my favorite, too."

"You don't say," Four picks at the petals on his lap, trying to act as casual as possible, "What a coincidence..."

You open your mouth to say something else, however you don't get the chance when a shout is suddenly heard from the spring followed by a loud splash. Four would've been curious to see what the commotion was, but he's currently in too much of a daze to follow where Wolfie and you look. Surely it's not that important judging on your calm sigh anyways.

"Aaand I'm pretty sure that's the sound of Vet drowning the Captain. Seeing as I would like Time to keep giving us breaks in the future, I should probably go handle everything before he comes back," As disappointed as Four is to hear you’ll be leaving him so soon, he forgets all about that feeling when you place your flower crown on top of his head, your hands hovering there as you give him a gentle smile. He could’ve sworn he even felt your breath blow against his face given your close proximity, but maybe that was just the optimistic side of him, "Keep this safe for me, please? I’d hate for your hard work to get ruined."

"Uhhh...Y-Yeah. Yeah, I'll protect it with my life."

"Thanks. Now if you two will excuse me…" After patting Wolfie’s head goodbye and winking to them both, you race back down to the spring, shouting something to the other boys with a fierce tone that is the exact opposite to how sweetly you always speak to Four. He might've had a little nerve to either fear you or admire your anger (which can be kinda hot), although he merely sighs lovingly in distracted thought he only leaves when happening to catch that knowing stare Wolfie is giving him in the corner of his eyes. Now, wolf or not, Four can once again understand exactly what that type of smug look means without words.

Pushing Wolfie away halfheartedly, he huffs, "Don't say anything and we'll be even."

"Do you think you could teach me how to cook this dish?"

Pour Four nearly chokes on his own spit when the question meets his ears. Teach Hyrule to cook? Now he knows all of his fellow heroes come equipped with many talents, but surely there's a line to be drawn!

Of course, Wild has a much milder reaction to this 'challenge', in fact, he's actually happy to be granted something to do seeing as he's been grounded to camp after his latest 'stunt', as Twilight referred to it. So, raising his attention up from the supplies he’s been taking inventory of, he glances over the wobbly handwriting on the paper that Hyrule holds out towards him, the Traveler trying not to look either too hopeful or too nervous.

"...I mean, I'm willing to teach you to cook, but are you sure you want this recipe? It’s not intended for beginners...Not to mention we might not have all the ingredients..." Taking the paper into his own hands and whispering to himself in thought distracts him from Hyrule's gulp, "We might be better off trying something else -"

"- No!" Hyrule bites his lip when Four and Wild's gazes jump to him, clearly surprised by his tone. Shifting on his feet, Hyrule tries to clear his throat as a poor attempt at acting 'natural', "I, uh, would really like to try this recipe. It sounded pretty good when the baker explained it, plus we've been traveling for so long and it's not everyday that we get to try something like it - Oh! And I already have all the ingredients. 'bought them in the last town we went to."

Hyrule hopes he isn’t coming off as too pushy or, in the worst case scenario, desperate. This plan is nerve wracking as it is, thus the last thing he needs is anyone asking questions, after all, he already had a close call when you caught him leaving that bakery during your stay in town.

When you saw him leave without buying anything, you assumed he was being rupee-cautious and offered to buy him something sweet if that was what his heart desired. You’re kind like that, always keeping an eye on him and doing your best to hype him up as being just as worthy of the hero’s title as everyone else. That’s why he couldn’t possibly have told you then that you’re what his heart desires most. No, that would’ve been too weird and cliche, even he knows that. You deserve a better confession (whenever he finds the courage for that), but in the meantime, he can at least show you his gratitude through gifts which is why he currently stands here mentally praying for Wild’s help; he’s his only hope at this point!

The Champion looks inside the pouch Hyrule had quite literally tossed at him, the Smith also sneaking a peek from over his shoulder. Comparing the written ingredients to those in the pouch, they confirm that everything is there (surprisingly no weird foods that Hyrule somehow manages to find).

"...Well, the Traveler's right about one thing: we don't usually get a chance to eat sweets on the road, not to mention everyone's been a bit stressed since our last battle. Maybe a treat would be a good way to lift spirits," Four suggests, although the words feel as if they must be pushed through his teeth. Already, his stomach tosses and turns in memory of the last 'dish' Hyrule made which resulted in seven of the ten heroes getting food poisoning and Hyrule receiving a permanent ban from the kitchen ever since.

Wild hums in thought then, to Hyrule's joy, nods and hands him back the recipe, "Alright. Let's get started."

Thinking back to it now, the request seemed so easy to him. Unlike the others who usually see their lives flash before their eyes at the thought of Hyrule's cooking, Wild has actually enjoyed most of his meals including the one that made nearly everyone sick, his only complaint being the need for less salt (a critique that was drowned by out Wind's over the top gagging). With that said, he saw no issue with helping the Traveler complete the desired recipe, however it's always possible for someone to come around to reason, it just took a lot of smoke and heaving, but come around nevertheless.

One minute everything was cooking as it should with a wonderful aroma filling the camp. All Wild did was turn his back. It was only seconds - that's it, seconds - before the cooking pot exploded into a puff of smoke and sparks. Since then, it's been utter havoc which is normally the word everyone else uses whenever Wild and Hyrule get paired, but today, Wild's admitting it himself. Is this usually how stressed Twilight feels?! If so, then he's sorry! He doesn't have time to actually apologize and will most likely forget by the time he sees his mentor again, but dear Hylia, he's sorry!

It's by the grace of the goddesses that no one comes running back to camp to find the scene that would await them if they did: Wild and Hyrule working together to frantically stomp out the flames before they reach any supplies or burn down the entire forest. Even then, evidence of their crimes remains in the form of charred grass and the coat of soot that covers Hyrule's face, stretching his bangs to the sky as his eyes carry a certain daze to them. Maybe now that he's literally had his work blow in his face, he can finally admit that his cooking might not be the best in the group's.

"What did you do?!"

"I didn't do anything!" Hyrule meets Wild's shout, however he soon falters and pokes his fingers together innocently with a mumble, "...I thought you said that monster parts can give dishes effects..."

“Yeah, some…” Wild's face drops, his eyes wide with realization yet he still finds himself asking with a hint of fear to his voice, "What did you add?"

"..."

"Please don't tell me..."

"...Red chuchu jelly..."

"Dear Hylia!"

"I was curious to see what effect it would have!"

“It blows up! That’s the effect it has!”

"Do I even want to know what's going on here?"

Oh Goddesses, please kill him now...Hyrule had hoped if anyone, it would be the Old Man or maybe even the Captain who came running back to scold them, but you? Oh, you’re the last person he wanted to see this!

To be fair, you still aren't as bad as one of the stricter adults who would’ve immediately accessed the situation and started handing out punishments. Instead, you plan to let them plead their case. Actually, you don't even look that angry, mainly confused and tired as you stand at the edge of camp, arms crossed with an expression that's anything except amused (probably because you had the unfortunate fate of being one of the seven who got food poisoning from Hyrule's last ‘cooking’ attempt).

Before either boy can begin explaining themselves, you sniff the air and immediately scrunch your nose as a reaction to the awful smell that burns it. Hyrule swears you even gag, although it's hard to tell because of how fast you shoot a hand up to cover the whole lower part of your face.

"What in Hylia's name were you trying to make? It smells like bokoblin guts!"

Hyrule shrinks even further into his embarrassment, "...It was supposed to be a fruit cake..."

"A fruit cake?"

"Hyrule wanted to learn how to cook and had the recipe for one. It just...didn't go as planned," Wild rubs the back of his neck, sparing a pitiful glance at the smoldering gunk that sticks to the cooking pot. It'll be a pain to clean later, that's for sure.

"Obviously,” You roll your eyes followed by a frown as you look to the cooking pot yourself with more sympathy than pity, "...But it’s a shame. I love fruit cake."

Wild blinks, his eyes shifting from you to Hyrule as the gears inside his head begin to turn. Meanwhile Hyrule tries to clear away the soot from his face with a quick drag of his sleeve, however he only makes matters worse by smearing it, "I'm sorry. I really wanted it to turn out right for you, but…I guess I should’ve just bought a cake at that bakery, huh? …I’m not cut out for cooking myself…”

Your frown remains as does that look of sympathy. Stepping forward, you take your canteen from your hip and dump a little water over the very edge of your cloak. By the time it's properly soaked, you're standing in front of Hyrule and using the cloth to wipe away the scoot from his face. Your attempts are far more successful than his, getting most of the gray off at the cost of your clock taking on the shade itself, not that you show any care.

"I'm sure you'll get the hang of it some day, 'rule. It's something that requires practice and patience. After all, I'm sure Wild wasn't as good of a cook from the start as he is now.”

"Umm -"

"- Shush."

And with that, Wild immediately puts his hand down with a pout.

"Start out with some simple dishes first, then whenever you get the basic skills of cooking down, I'll teach you how to properly make fruit cake. How about that?"

Hyrule's eyes nearly sparkle at the offer. Sure, Wild is his partner in crime when it comes to getting into unnecessary trouble, however he'd much rather have you as his cooking partner (and maybe his partner in everything else, too, if he can one day get that far). That's likely why he nods too quickly, his bangs still being stuck upright which prevents them from bobbing with the movement for once.

You chuckle at his excitement and go to leave camp to return to whatever you had been doing before, although you do stop to ruffle his hair, reminding him to wash it when he gets a chance (words he doesn't hear because he’s too busy obsessing over the feeling of your hand running through his hair).

"You know -" Hyrule jolts out of his trance, cheeks red at the realization that he had forgotten all about Wild who stands with most his wait shifted to the side, arms crossed and a smirk pulling at his lips, "- Usually when you like someone, the best thing to do is to try not poisoning them."

"I-I wasn't - That's not what I -"

"- We still have some ingredients left over. Let's start from the top," Wild merely shakes off Hyrule’s rambling, something the Traveler is thankful for as he begins to trail after his friend back to the cooking pot, however he stops dead in his tracks when Wild suddenly spins around to point a wooden spoon at him, "BUT, no more adding anything that isn't in the recipe when I turn my back or else I'm warning (Y/n) that they'll have to be doing all the cooking in your relationship…Hylia knows I can’t afford getting in trouble again with Twilight...”

Hyrule gulps and nods more timidly than he had with you, "W-Will do."

This was a mistake and the worst part is that Legend knew it before he even committed to the decision. He knew it would be a bad idea to 'invite' nine others into his home, even if it was to be a temporary trip, yet he opened the doors to mayhem anyway.

He blames his own tiredness, if anything. He didn't really feel like presenting a good argument as to why everyone should remain outside, which would've been especially difficult to pull off given the blazing sun above. No one wanted to just ‘wait outside’, not when their curiosity was overflowing at the thought of all the cool things the Vet must be hiding inside his home. So ever so foolishly, he let them in, underestimating the exact extent of annoyance he'd be instantly cursing himself with.

"Don't touch that!"

"Get away from there!"

"Hey, those are delicate! Put them down!"

"No, I am not playing any music! I'm just here to switch out my weapons. Just - STOP SHIFTING THROUGH MY STUFF! HAVEN’T YOU EVER HEARD OF SOMETHING CALLED ‘PRIVACY’?!"

"...You can borrow that if you want."

Surely some of the heroes snapped their necks by how quickly they turned towards Legend, surprised to hear him speak in a tone not laced with vexation nor raised in a shout. Actually, his words are rather soft - soft for him, at least.

Even you're surprised, although it's not for the same reason as the others. Hearing the Vet's voice behind you, you practically leaped out of your skin and prepared yourself for the same harsh scolding as everyone else has received, so it takes you a second to process what he had really said instead.

You blink once then twice (the rest of the group does, too) before glancing down at the ring you have pinched between your fingers. There's a small chest filled with them in front of you, each somehow different from the other whether that's because of the color of the band or the types of gems decorating them. Of course, you only planned on looking over them with your eyes, not wanting to disrespect Legend's privacy (and not wanting to be shouted at either), but that was before one ring in particular caught your eye. Your interest couldn't be tamed at that point, leading you to pick up the piece of jewelry for closer inspection which lands you in your current situation.

Turning to face Legend, who only boredly glances at the ring in your hand before going back to his own business, you open your mouth to say something - perhaps ask if he's serious because you most definitely misheard, right? He's going to let you borrow something of his? After getting so peeved about everyone else simply touching his stuff? You aim to be safe and confirm permission, yet the question doesn't have a chance to leave your lips before someone else beats you to it:

"What?! How come they get to take something? I wanna ring!" It's Wind and his objection makes sense seeing as he had just been looking over the same jewelry box moments ago only for Legend to swat his hands away. He isn't the only one to see the hypocrisy either.

"Can I borrow this?" Wild asks, holding up a boomerang with a hopeful smile that nearly distracts from the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

"No, you can't!" Legend hisses, quick to rip his tornado rod out of Warrior's hands while he's at it much to the Captain's offense.

"Oh come on! What makes (Y/n) so special, eh?!"

"They're responsible," Legend dismisses stubbornly with a wave of his hand as he turns his back to them again. The others merely roll their eyes in annoyance, Warrior mumbling something under his breath that sounded a lot like 'simp' much to Legend's frustration, but before he can bite back, he mostly forgets all about them when you finally get a chance to speak up for yourself.

"You're sure it's no trouble?"

Legends fears he might have stared at you a bit too long - not that you would've noticed seeing as you keep your eyes focused on the ring you fiddle with. Despite how much you try to act neutral as to not get your hopes up, there's a giddy joy to your eyes at the thought of getting to keep this ring even if just for a little while, after all, it's so beautifully crafted and the red rubies attached to the golden band remind you of Legend in a way you'd prefer not to explain in front of everyone else, let alone with him present.

"...Yeah, it's no problem," He looks away quickly, blowing some air which fixes his bangs out of his view. If anyone were to spend more time studying his behavior (Hylia forbid it), they might notice how awfully red his face has suddenly gotten, "...Just don't lose it."

Truthfully, he doesn't care. If it were just the two of you, he'd actually tell you to keep it since he has plenty of rings anyways, not to mention it would give him some peace of mind for you to always have a protection ring handy, but he can't risk saying that here. The others are already questioning him too much and the last thing he needs is either Wild or Warrior picking up on the hint. Maybe he’ll just wait for when you try to return the ring so that he can play it off better by simply pushing it back towards you and giving some excuse like ‘I didn’t even miss it’ or ‘I actually don’t need any more junk now that I think about it’. You wouldn’t suspect a thing then nor would anyone who overhears.

"Thank you! I promise to take really good care of it!" At last, you take no shame in letting your delight show and waste no more time sliding the ring over your finger.

Legend just nods, burning through all of his willpower to not keep stealing glances your way. Fortunately, it doesn't take him much longer to locate the weapons of his desire, allowing him to finally herd everyone out of his house while continuing to deny their requests to borrow some items for themselves. Hyrule is the last straggler, something Legend originally wouldn't have thought much of since the Traveler isn't one to usually cause him trouble, although there's a first time for everything as it would seem.

"Congrats on the engagement," It's such a smug comment to come from someone who looks nothing but innocent as he saunters by, in fact it takes Legend's brain several seconds of spinning before he understands the implication and with it, his confusion instantly melts into a mix of fury and embarrassment (which one is at the head could be anyone's guess).

"T-They asked and I have plenty of rings, so there was no point in me turning them down! It's not an 'engagement'!"

Hyrule merely chuckles in the face of Legend's anger, "Don't worry. I won't say anything."

Legend huffs, taking it upon himself to push Hyrule towards the exit so that he can sooner leave this mess behind, however before he can begin to feel too comfortable, the Traveler speaks up again while casually picking up a gauntlet off the nearby table Legend leads them by, "This is cool.”

Legend glares; a deadly look Hyrule once again meets with too much innocence - mocked innocence, the Vet is now convinced - nothing but an act!

"You know, it would be a shame if someone like Warrior or Wild realized why you only do nice things for (Y/n). If they connect the dots for themselves -"

"- You can borrow it," Legend cuts Hyrule off in a hurry, pushing the gauntlet into his hands while shoving him out the door, "But I want it back in one week, you hear? That's all the time you've bought yourself with, you rat!"

#linked universe #link x reader #linked universe x reader #lu four x reader #lu hyrule x reader #lu legend x reader #legend of zelda #reader insert #x reader

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