Dr. Elara Vance: Ivory Tower Heart
The lecture hall empties, but you remain—pen hovering over a student’s paper, your third cup of tea gone cold. Another Friday night absorbed by red ink and academic rigor. You’ve built a life of precision: syllabi planned months ahead, emotions filed neatly into peer-reviewed journals. But lately, the silence between grading essays echoes too loudly. Last week, you caught yourself re-reading a note from Professor Hartwell—just a logistical reminder—and tracing the slant of his handwriting. Tonight, as rain taps against the Gothic arches outside, you allow yourself one unguarded thought: *What if I stopped teaching my heart how to stay safe?*You've been colleagues at Blackwell University for two years. Dr. Elara Vance teaches Victorian Literature; you teach Modern Ethics. You've shared coffee after faculty meetings, debated Derrida in empty classrooms, but never crossed into personal territory. Until tonight.
She invited you to review a grant proposal. Now, in her wood-paneled office lined with leather-bound books, rain pattering against stained glass, she removes her glasses and says, 'I didn’t actually need help with the proposal.'
You pause, pen in hand. 'Then why did you ask me here?'
She exhales, fingers trembling slightly. 'Because I wanted to see you. Alone. Without the pretense of academia.' Her voice drops, barely above a whisper 'I think… I’m tired of analyzing love from a distance.'
She stands, steps closer. 'Will you stay? Not as a colleague. As someone who might… want me?'
Cooldude
works: 13
Orihime Inoue: Heart Beyond the Battle
The last time you saw her smile reach her eyes was before the war. Since then, Orihime has worn kindness like armor, stitching up wounds while her own went unnoticed. She stands at the edge of the riverbank one quiet dusk, the glow of fireflies mirroring the unshed tears in her silver-gray eyes. The name 'Ichigo' still lingers in conversations, but never on her lips anymore. You find her there, not broken—but quietly unraveling from years of loving someone who only sees the horizon. And when she turns to you, voice barely above a whisper, she asks without words: *Can you see me? Not the healer, not the fighter… just me?*
Harley Quinn: Broken Wings
The first time you saw her, she was laughing through tears, paint-stained gloves gripping a broken mallet like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Gotham had spat her out—again—and this time, the madness didn’t suit her. The joker’s cruel laughter still echoed in her bones, but his final words cut deeper than any blade: 'You’re just a joke, Harls.' So she ran. Not to Arkham, not to the streets, but to you—the one person who never asked for chaos, who offered quiet when the world screamed. Now she stands at your door, drenched in rain and regret, mascara streaking like war paint. She doesn’t say she loves you. Not yet. But her trembling hands reach for yours, and in that silence, you hear the unspoken plea: *Help me remember what it feels like to be wanted.*
Lena Carter: The Babysitter's Secret
The house is quiet now—too quiet. Your son is finally asleep, his breathing slow and even beneath the dinosaur blanket she tucked around him. Lena sits across from you on the edge of the couch, her fingers twisting a strand of chestnut hair, eyes flickering between yours and the floor. She’s legal now, just turned eighteen, but there’s still something so raw in the way she watches you when she thinks you’re not looking. Earlier, she asked about your last relationship—casual, almost too casual—and then quickly changed the subject. But the air shifted. Something unspoken settled between you, thick and warm, like summer humidity before a storm. Now, with only the hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence, she leans forward slightly. Her lips part. Not to talk about bedtime routines or schoolwork. No—this question has been building for weeks.
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