Regina is pacing. Hair perfect. Eyeliner dangerous. Heart beating way too loud for someone who definitely doesn’t care.
You’re leaning against the wall like you were born to cause problems in hallways. One hand in your pocket. Other holding a lollipop you’re not even eating. Just twirling it. Menace.
Regina stops in front of you. Hands on hips. Eyes narrowed.
“You’re seriously not going to apologize?”
You blink. “For what? Looking this good during school hours?”
“For—ugh—you know.”
You tilt your head. “I genuinely don’t. You’ll have to be more specific. I do a lot of upsetting things. It’s kind of my charm.”
She glares. “For messing with my head.”
“Regina, I breathe and you spiral. That sounds like a you problem.”
“I kissed you,” she hisses.
“Ohhh,” you say, nodding slowly. “So we’re admitting it now. Cute.”
Regina throws her hands in the air like she’s rehearsing for a music video called “Why Am I Attracted to Chaos.”
“It didn’t mean anything!”
You smirk. “Then why’d you sprint out of my car like it was on fire?”
“I had plans.”
“It was 11:30 at night.”
“Plans can be internal, okay?!”
You step forward — not too close, just enough to rattle her aura.
“Okay,” you say softly, “then kiss me again. Prove it didn’t mean anything.”
She freezes. “What?”
You shrug. “You said it wasn’t serious. So kiss me again. Right now. Let’s both laugh about how stupid and meaningless it is.”
She stares at you like you just offered her a lit match and a stack of love letters.
“I’m not kissing you again.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Scared?”
“I’m not scared.”
“Oh, totally. That’s why you’re standing there like a Sims character trying to decide between woohoo or cry in the shower.”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
And then she grabs your collar and kisses you like it’s a dare. Hot. Fast. Infuriatingly good.
You drop the lollipop. It’s a tragic loss.
Your hand finds her waist, her hand’s in your hair, and for a few glorious seconds, the hallway doesn’t exist.
Then—
She pulls back.
Like she just realized she left the oven on and emotionally exposed herself.
Her eyes go wide.
You blink at her. “Wow. That was—”
“I gotta go,” she blurts, already halfway down the hallway.
You call after her: “Okay but like… rate that on a scale from 1 to traumatic!”
She doesn’t answer.
You stand there, lips tingling, heart confused, lollipop abandoned like a fallen soldier.
“…So I guess we’re in the denial phase,” you mutter.
****
Regina has never been more put-together in her life.
Hair: curled.
Outfit: coordinated to the molecular level.
Earrings: a little too sharp for school safety standards.
She struts down the hall like nothing happened. Like she didn’t kiss you. Like she didn’t run away like a squirrel on Red Bull.
Except—
Karen won’t stop smiling at her.
“What?” Regina snaps.
Karen shrugs. “You look like you kissed someone and then emotionally blacked out.”
Gretchen gasps. “Did you kiss someone and emotionally black out?!”
Regina rolls her eyes so hard it’s a full ab workout.
“No. Shut up. Leave me alone. I have homeroom.”
She whips around a corner—
And sees you.
Leaning against her locker.
Again.
Are you even in this hallway?? Do you take classes or are you just haunting her?
You don’t say anything. Just smile. One of those smug little “I know what your lip gloss tastes like” smiles.
Regina makes the executive decision to ignore you. It takes 40% of her willpower. The other 60% is busy replaying the kiss like it’s a trailer for a movie she’ll pretend not to watch three more times.
She walks past you.
You murmur, casual as hell: “Morning, runner-up.”
She stops dead.
Turns. Slowly.
“I what?”
You grin. “You kissed me. Then ran. Technically I win.”
“Win what?! This isn’t a competition!”
You tilt your head. “Isn’t it?”
Regina glares. “You’re so—Ugh!”
Karen gasps behind her. “Oh my god… you did kiss her.”
Regina spins. “Snitches get stitches, Karen!”
You just sip your iced coffee like nothing’s happening.
Regina stomps away, furious, flustered, and 5% in love.
---
She’s in class. Faking notes. Drawing tiny knives in the margin of her notebook.
Underneath one she writes:
“Do NOT make eye contact with her.”
Then immediately draws hearts next to it.
Then scribbles those out.
Then redraws them. Smaller.
Gretchen texts her:
so you kissed her??? 😳
Regina texts back:
NO
Then:
yes. shut up.
You walk past the window outside the classroom at that exact moment.
Regina catches a glimpse.
You wink.
She throws her pencil. It hits the whiteboard. The teacher flinches.
---
Meanwhile, you are vibing.
You are floating through the day like you didn’t just make Regina George short-circuit with one (1) kiss and an iced beverage.
People are talking. You don’t care.
You text her one thing:
“I had fun last night. Let me know when you want to lose again.”
She leaves it on read.
Which is hilarious. Because she then immediately opens your Instagram story. Twice.
---
She is lying face down on a velvet pillow, muffling a scream.
Her journal is open. It says:
“I HATE HER I HATE HER I HATE HER
P.S. do not reread that kiss
P.P.S. stop picturing her collarbone
P.P.P.S. stop wondering what her hair smells like
P.P.P.P.S. it smelled expensive and unfair”
She flips to a new page and writes:
OPERATION: KISS NEVER HAPPENED
avoid eye contact
pretend she’s boring
date someone taller
develop sudden interest in lacrosse
maybe fake mono
She slams the journal shut.
Then reopens it.
Adds:
“ALSO — steal her jacket again. She looked stressed. That was fun.”
****
You're sitting in homeroom, sipping matcha out of a glass bottle like a threat.
Everyone else is buzzing — some dumb hallway scandal, Karen’s new boyfriend, that junior who cried during AP Chem.
You don’t care.
You’re rereading the same line in your notebook for the fifth time and pretending it has nothing to do with Regina George kissing you like she meant it and then bolting like you said “I love you” instead of just… stood there looking hot.
(Which, to be fair, you did look hot. It’s not your fault she’s emotionally allergic to being into someone with a pulse.)
You pull out your phone.
No text.
You’re not surprised.
You didn’t expect a “hey sorry I panicked mid-liplock, lol xoxo” message.
But still.
Still.
You lean back in your seat and type out a text with the casual elegance of a soap opera character in denial:
You kissed me.
You ran.
I stayed.
That says everything.
You stare at it.
Then hit send.
You don’t expect a reply.
(But your screen stays on for just a second too long, just in case.)
---
The hallway is loud. Too loud. Lockers slam. Girls laugh too hard. Guys try too hard. You move through it like a shadow.
You pass her locker.
She’s there.
Hair flipped. Laugh loud. She’s doing that thing where she looks extra casual — like she’s trying to make breathing seem interesting.
You walk past.
No smirk. No wink. No stupid one-liner.
Just a tiny nod.
Like: I saw you. I miss you. I’m not begging.
She freezes mid-laugh.
Doesn’t turn.
But you see her shoulders twitch.
Score one for inner peace, zero for emotional regulation.
---
At lunch, you sit alone.
Not because you're lonely — because you're a public service.
People know better than to bother you when you’re in your mysterious hoodie and sunglasses indoors mode.
You scroll your phone.
Check your text again.
Still nothing.
Cool. Cool cool cool.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
You open Notes. Type:
“Regina George = coward (hot).”
“Why do I have a crush on a human fire alarm.”
“Is it gay to overanalyze hallway glances?”
You close Notes before you spiral into writing poetry again.
---
After school, you catch a glimpse of her in the parking lot.
She’s with Shane.
Of course she is.
You raise an eyebrow. Not jealous. Just… vaguely judgmental.
She laughs at something he says — too loud. Like it’s for you.
You lean against your car, sipping what’s now room temp matcha, and toss her a lazy two-finger wave.
She flips her hair.
You smile.
She doesn’t smile back — but she lingers a second too long before turning away.
Which is enough.
---
You lie on your bed, hoodie on, music playing like your house has a soundtrack.
You stare at the ceiling.
You think about her hands. Her lip gloss. The way she pulled back like she was scared of you, and not of what she felt.
You don’t text again.
You’ve said what needed saying.
You kissed me.
You ran.
I stayed.
That’s all she needs to know.
The rest?
Is her move.
But of course, seeing her with Shane earlier still hurt a little bit.
****
It starts innocently.
You’re just walking to class like a normal, deeply cool person who’s totally not secretly hoping Regina makes eye contact today. Your vibes? Calm. Your fit? Elite. Your emotional state? Chill but mysterious.
Meanwhile, Regina is two hallways over, dramatically explaining to Gretchen how she’s totally fine, not flustered, and “barely even remembers the kiss.”
Karen: “What kiss?”
Regina: “Exactly.”
Then the fire alarm goes off.
It’s fake. Clearly. But the teachers start herding students like sheep in Gucci.
You duck into the janitor’s closet to avoid chaos.
Regina?
Also ducks into the janitor’s closet.
Because the universe is a bitch.
The door slams shut behind her.
You blink. She freezes.
The silence is immediate and loud.
You lean back against the mop bucket with your arms crossed. “Hey there, stranger.”
Regina looks around like she’s checking for cameras. Or exits. Or divine intervention.
“You,” she says flatly.
“Me,” you reply, grinning.
A long beat. The air smells like lemon disinfectant and emotional tension.
You add, “Cute hiding spot. Trying to avoid me or the fire drill?”
She glares. “Neither. I just needed… space.”
You raise an eyebrow. “So you chose a broom closet?”
She crosses her arms. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I am,” you admit. “You ghosted me like a Victorian man going off to war. What am I supposed to do, not find this funny?”
“I didn’t ghost you.”
“Regina, I could’ve declared you legally dead.”
“I was busy.”
“You viewed my story eleven times, babe.”
She throws her head back like God is testing her specifically.
“Okay, fine! I panicked! Sue me!”
You blink. “...Was that… honesty?”
Regina freezes again. Like she just heard herself.
“I—no. Shut up. You hallucinated that.”
You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “So let me get this straight. You kissed me, sprinted away, avoided me for two days, and now we’re locked in a glorified mop cave and you’re gaslighting me about your own emotional breakdown?”
“I am NOT breaking down!”
You point at her shoes. “You’re wearing flats.”
She gasps. “They’re Chanel.”
“They’re an admission of guilt.”
“I WILL PUT A MOP THROUGH YOUR FACE.”
A beat.
You both stare at each other.
Then—unexpectedly—Regina laughs.
Like actually laughs.
She leans back against the wall, covers her face, and laughs like someone who’s finally snapped in a cute way.
You watch her, caught off guard. “Okay, that was hot.”
She groans through her fingers. “I hate how calm you are.”
You smile, softer now. “It’s easy. I’m not the one pretending this isn’t a thing.”
She peeks through her fingers. “It’s not.”
You nod. “Sure. And I definitely didn’t rewatch that kiss in my head eight times while brushing my teeth.”
Regina drops her hands. “You did what?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You started it.”
“You kissed me back.”
“You tasted like expensive lip gloss and world domination. Can you blame me?”
She flushes. Full-on cheeks-to-the-heavens flushes.
You smirk. “And you ran. Babe, I thought I had bad game, but that was a whole flight instinct.”
“I panicked,” she says again, quieter now.
You pause.
“Yeah. I know.”
The air shifts. The tension’s still there, but it’s quieter now. Less fire. More smoke.
You ask, “Why’d you come in here, really?”
She shrugs, suddenly shy. “Didn’t know it was you.”
You nod.
Then say, “Do you regret it?”
The kiss. The moment. The spiral. All of it.
She hesitates. Then shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “I just hate that it meant something.”
You hum. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Regina glances at you. “I’m not good at… this.”
“What’s this?”
She gestures vaguely. “Feelings. Honesty. Eye contact that isn’t threatening.”
You grin. “I noticed.”
She sighs. “You’re too calm about this. You should be weird and flirty and annoying.”
“I am flirty and annoying.”
“You’re also…” She trails off. Then, barely audible: “Nice.”
You pretend to gasp. “Did Regina George just say I’m nice? Are you dying?”
“Shut up,” she mutters, eyes darting to the door. “Can we leave yet?”
“Not until you admit I’m winning.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re blushing again.”
She glares. You wink.
The fire alarm cuts out. A voice comes over the speaker: “False alarm. Please return to class.”
Regina opens the door in record time. Walks out like she wasn’t just accidentally vulnerable in a janitor’s closet.
You follow, smug as hell.
“Same time tomorrow?” you tease.
“Choke,” she replies, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.
****
Regina is fine.
She’s great, actually. Totally over it. Definitely not stalking your Instagram for signs of romantic activity.
So when she sees you in the courtyard talking to someone new?
She does what any emotionally stable person would do.
She drops her iced coffee.
“What?” Gretchen asks.
“Nothing,” Regina says.
“Then why are you staring at her like you’re about to order a hit?”
“I’m not staring,” Regina lies. “I’m observing.”
“Okay but like… you’re vibrating.”
Karen looks over. “Ooh, who’s she talking to?”
Regina doesn’t even look away. “His name is Jason. He plays guitar and calls women ‘m’lady.’ I’ll be shocked if she doesn’t die of secondhand embarrassment.”
Jason laughs at something you say.
You smile.
Regina narrows her eyes. “What did he say. Someone tell me what he said.”
Gretchen squints. “I think it was a joke about frogs?”
Karen: “Aww. Frogs are romantic.”
Regina: “Okay. New plan. Frogs are cancelled.”
---
You’re leaving the library when you feel it.
The stare.
You turn.
Regina’s standing there.
Pink jacket. Big sunglasses. Holding a water bottle like it personally wronged her.
“Hey,” she says coolly.
You raise an eyebrow. “Hey.”
She glances behind you. “New boyfriend?”
You smirk. “What, Jason?”
She shrugs. “Just wondering who I’m gonna have to publicly ruin.”
You laugh. “Jealousy looks cute on you.”
She snorts. “This isn’t jealousy. I’m just... emotionally invested in your taste.”
You lean forward, voice low. “You sure it’s not because you liked the taste last week?”
Her mouth opens. Closes.
“No comment,” she mutters, spinning on her heel and walking away too fast.
---
The next day you’re sitting alone in the courtyard.
Jason approaches again.
“Hey,” he says. “Wanna grab lunch?”
You’re about to answer when someone physically slides into the seat next to you like it’s a TikTok challenge.
Regina.
She smiles sweetly at Jason. “Oh my god, hey.”
Jason blinks. “Uh. Hey?”
“You’re Jason, right?” She leans in, fake-whispers, “Did you know she’s allergic to jazz music and emotional immaturity?”
You blink. “What.”
Regina keeps going. “Also frogs give her hives. Just so you know.”
Jason looks concerned. “Frogs??”
You sigh. “Regina.”
She smiles. “What? I’m being helpful.”
Jason backs away slowly. “I’m just gonna... go.”
“You do that,” Regina says, still smiling.
He’s gone.
You stare at her. “Did you just ruin a date out of spite?”
She shrugs. “I’m not proud of myself.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Okay. I’m a little proud.”
---
Later that week Regina posts a selfie.
Caption: “Not jealous. Just hotter. 💋”
Gretchen comments: “babe you literally told jason his aura was ‘too middle class’”
Regina deletes it.
Then reposts it with: “u ever see someone flirting with your girl & suddenly want to invent a new crime”
Karen likes the post twice.
---
Bonus: Regina’s Journal (written in furious pink ink)
“SHE’S TALKING TO OTHER PEOPLE.”
“I HATE JASON. I HATE HIS STUPID GUITAR.”
“DOES SHE MISS ME OR IS SHE JUST ATTRACTIVE TO EVERYONE.”
“stop. spiraling. you menace.”
“god she looked hot in that hoodie. i want it back. and by it i mean her. and the hoodie. both.”
****
Regina is done.
She’s had enough of you being mysterious and unbothered while she spirals like a YouTube beauty guru in 2015.
You’ve been charming and calm and devastatingly hot and for what? To talk to Jason the Frog Boy?
So she makes a decision.
A bad one.
“Hey, Shane,” she purrs, sliding into the cafeteria like she’s entering a music video.
Shane blinks. “Hey?”
He looks surprised. Which is fair. Last week, she told him he had the emotional depth of a wet napkin.
But now she’s smiling. Hair perfect. Lip gloss lethal.
“You doing anything right now?” she asks, real sweet.
He blinks. “Uh. No?”
“Perfect.” She takes his hand and drags him out into the courtyard.
Gretchen watches her go like someone witnessing a car accident in slow motion.
Karen: “Is she okay?”
Gretchen: “She’s pretending.”
Karen: “Ohh. Got it.”
---
She plops down on a bench with Shane. Laughs at a joke he didn’t tell.
Twirls her hair like it personally asked to be flirted with.
You walk out just in time to see her place a hand on Shane’s shoulder.
And you pause.
Not long.
But just enough for Regina to notice.
She catches your eye.
Raises an eyebrow.
Smirks.
Then turns back to Shane. “You’ve been working out, right?”
You roll your eyes. Walk past like she’s not trying to murder you with attention-seeking behavior.
It should’ve ended there.
But Shane… gets ideas.
“Hey,” he says, scooting closer. “You look really hot today.”
Regina smiles, tight. “Thanks.”
He rests a hand on her thigh.
The smile drops half an inch. “Okay.”
He leans in more. “You smell, like… expensive.”
Her entire soul does a record scratch. “Cool.”
His hand creeps higher.
Regina freezes.
She’s panicking. Not visibly. But it’s in her shoulders. Her eyes. The way she suddenly looks very interested in the grass.
Shane leans in like he’s about to kiss her.
Regina does not move.
Because she doesn’t know what to do. And she doesn’t want to start a scene. And she doesn't want to admit this was a mistake.
But then—
You’re there.
One smooth step between them.
Your voice? Calm. Flat. Just a little too polite.
“Hey, man. You good?”
Shane blinks. “Uh—yeah. I was just—”
“Leaving,” you finish.
Not a question.
Your hand’s resting lightly on the bench back, like you’re not casually radiating get your hands off her before I end you energy.
Shane stammers. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
He backs off. Practically sprints away.
Silence.
Regina’s staring at the ground. Hands clenched in her lap.
You look down at her. “You alright?”
She nods. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
You raise an eyebrow.
She sighs. “No. That was… not great.”
You sit beside her. Not close. Just enough.
“You could’ve said something.”
“I didn’t want to look weak.”
“You didn’t.”
She glances at you.
And for the first time in a long time, her voice is small. “Thanks.”
You shrug. “Didn’t like the way he touched you.”
She swallows. Looks down. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Silence.
But not heavy this time.
Just... honest.
Then she mutters, like she’s speaking to the grass:
“This would be so much easier if I just… communicated.”
You grin. “Crazy concept.”
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up.”
But she’s smiling now.
---
That night...
She writes in her journal:
“almost got groped. deserved it a little. not that much.”
“she SAVED me. AGAIN. while looking stupid hot.”
“why does she always show up like it’s no big deal??”
“why can’t I just say: ‘hey I like you and I’m scared’ — what is wrong with me.”
“note to self: communication is not a disease.”
****
She’s wearing one of your hoodies again.
She won’t admit that’s what it is — she’s borrowing it. Temporarily. For fashion purposes. Shut up.
It smells like you. Which is rude.
She’s on her bed. Legs dangling off the edge, phone resting on her stomach, eyes staring at the ceiling like it personally owes her money.
Earlier, you took her out again.
And she doesn’t know how you pulled that off, because up until that moment? You two were in full avoidance mode.
You?
Showed up anyway.
You cornered her gently — in the quiet part of the library, like you knew she’d be too tired to make a scene — and just… asked.
“Hey,” you said softly. “Wanna grab dinner and ignore the part where you sprinted away from my face later?”
She glared at you. You smiled. She rolled her eyes. You waited.
You were so calm. So gentle. You didn’t tease. Didn’t push. You just let her know — if she wanted to try again, if she wanted something easy and low-stakes, you’d be there.
And she said yes.
Not because she forgave herself for being weird.
Not because she’s figured out what she wants.
She said yes because you were patient.
And because the thought of sitting in her room and pretending she didn’t miss you was worse.
So now here she is. Again.
Full hoodie. Full crisis.
Her phone buzzes.
It’s you.
you home okay?
She stares at the screen for a full minute before replying:
yeah. thanks for tonight
You respond immediately:
always
That’s it.
That’s all you send.
No heart emoji. No innuendo. No “still thinking about your lips” even though she knows you are. Just…
Always.
Like this is just who you are. How you treat her. Like she’s allowed to exist in this weird little space between avoidance and almost-love, and you’re not rushing her to pick.
And it’s driving her insane.
Because here’s the thing:
You’re basically together.
You flirt. You text constantly. You held her hand once. You’ve kissed. And then didn’t talk about it. And then didn’t talk. Period. And now you're pretending none of that happened — and yet...
You haven’t put a label on it.
You haven’t asked.
And she knows it’s because she’s being weird.
She pulls her journal out of the drawer. Not the Burn Book one — the real one. The one no one knows about.
She flips to a blank page and starts writing.
okay. so what is this.
i like her. a lot. obviously.
she’s… infuriating. and kind. and hot. and patient. and just?? ugh.
she treats me like i’m human and that’s actually terrifying.
and she hasn’t asked what we are because she knows i’ll panic.
which is unfair. because i would panic. but still. unfair.
i keep thinking she’ll get tired of waiting.
that she’ll stop showing up.
that she’ll kiss someone else.
someone who doesn’t have to work so hard to be soft.
She stares at the last line.
Then crosses it out.
Then writes it again.
someone who doesn’t have to work so hard to be soft.
She throws the journal onto the floor and flops back onto her bed.
She hates this.
She hates caring.
She hates that she can’t just say it — “I like you. I want this. Please don’t leave.”
But every time she tries, it catches in her throat like a splinter.
So instead she says nothing.
And wears your hoodie.
And texts you back with emojis instead of honesty.
And waits.
And hopes you’re still there when she finally figures out how to not ruin the one thing that actually feels real.
****
The hallway is alive.
Someone’s blasting music from their bag like the soundtrack to a high school fever dream.
And in the middle of it all?
Regina George.
Heels clicking. Skirt perfect. Blazer cinched like it has bloodlust.
She looks exactly like she always does.
But something’s wrong.
Karen notices first.
“Your lip gloss is matte.”
Regina blinks. “What?”
Karen tilts her head. “You always wear the shiny one on Thursdays.”
Regina looks down at her phone like she can scroll away her feelings. “I forgot.”
Gretchen appears, coffee in hand, and freezes. “Oh my god. What happened.”
“Nothing,” Regina snaps.
Karen leans in. “Are you dying?”
“No.”
“Are you in love?”
Regina nearly walks into a locker.
“I’m not in—” she stops, catches herself, lowers her voice. “No. I’m fine.”
But she’s not fine.
She’s been off all day.
She didn’t rip into anyone for wearing sneakers with a skirt. She didn’t roll her eyes at the couple making out near the vending machines. She let Gretchen get the last word in during homeroom.
Regina George — queen of the food chain, lip gloss warfare specialist — has lost her edge.
And the thing is?
Everyone else can feel it.
Because she’s still beautiful. Still biting. Still terrifying in theory.
But today, her power feels like a costume. Like she put it on over something cracked.
And when you pass her in the hallway — all cool composure and unreadable eyes — she doesn’t glare. Doesn’t smirk.
She just… watches you walk by.
Quietly.
And that’s somehow worse.
---
At lunch, the Plastics sit at their usual table.
Regina’s picking at a salad she doesn’t even like. Her phone lights up — a message from Shane, something flirty and dumb.
She doesn’t even open it.
Gretchen’s watching her carefully.
“Did something happen with her?” she asks.
Regina blinks. “Who?”
Gretchen gives her a look.
Regina sighs. “Nothing happened.”
“Is that a lie or denial?”
“Yes.”
Karen’s munching on something green. “You know, you can like her and still be mean. Just like… tell her you like her and then emotionally ruin her after.”
Regina stares at her.
Karen shrugs. “That’s what I’d do.”
Gretchen sips her drink. “Honestly? Same.”
Regina looks down at her phone again.
No new texts.
She told you she got home okay. You told her “Always.”
And now?
Nothing.
Because you’re waiting. Watching. Being patient in that maddeningly noble way that makes her want to kiss you and scream at you at the same time.
She slumps a little in her seat — just enough for Gretchen to gasp.
“You slouched,” she hisses. “You never slouch.”
Karen gasps too. “Oh my god. Are you depressed?”
“I’m FINE,” Regina snaps, straightening immediately.
But her salad remains untouched.
And her mind?
Not here.
---
Regina stands at her locker, staring at the back of the door like it’s going to offer her advice.
She wants to talk to you.
She wants to kiss you again.
She wants to stop pretending that love is a weakness she can’t afford.
But instead?
She applies a fresh coat of lip gloss.
And walks away.
Like she’s still on top.
Like she didn’t cry in your hoodie last night.
****
There’s a knock at your door.
Three sharp little raps, like she’s pissed off at the wood and also possibly her own feelings.
You open it slowly.
Regina George is standing there in a floor-length coat, heels that were not made for emotional vulnerability, and lip gloss so dangerous it’s probably FDA-regulated.
Her arms are crossed. Her face is unreadable.
And you?
You blink once. “Lose a bet?”
She doesn’t laugh. Just says, flatly:
“I came to say something completely uncharacteristic and probably humiliating. You gonna let me in or should I cry on your porch and ruin my mascara?”
You open the door wider. “By all means. Enter dramatically.”
She steps inside like she owns the place.
(Like she didn’t spend twenty minutes pacing outside trying to decide if this was a terrible idea.)
She doesn’t sit. She doesn’t take her coat off. She just turns to face you in the middle of your living room like she’s about to deliver a monologue and/or challenge you to a duel.
“I ran,” she says quickly, like if she says it fast enough, it won’t sound like a confession. “Because you made it real. And I only know how to flirt, sabotage, or emotionally ruin men named Aaron.”
You blink. “Thank you for your honesty?”
She exhales. “You’re welcome. I hated saying that.”
You gesture to the couch. “Sit down before your feelings fall out of your purse.”
She finally shrugs off the coat. Tosses it across the arm of the chair like she didn’t practice doing that in the mirror six times.
Then she turns back to you.
Something softer now. Almost scared.
Almost.
“Do you still want me?”
It’s not breathless or shaky. It’s just... wobbly in the corners. Like the sentence is trying not to unravel.
You stare at her.
She’s standing there in full glam, fake confidence cracking at the edges, waiting for you to say no so she can pretend she didn’t care in the first place.
Instead, you say:
“I never stopped.”
Regina blinks.
“Oh,” she says.
Then, louder: “Well that’s annoying.”
You grin. “I’m annoying?”
“You’re too calm about all this. It’s unsettling. You should be flustered. Or on fire. Or crying.”
You walk toward her, slow. “You want me to cry?”
“No,” she mutters. “That would make me like you more.”
You stop in front of her. Close.
She doesn’t step back.
You reach out — gently — and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
She looks furious about how much she likes that.
“You don’t have to panic, Regina,” you say softly. “We’re not writing wedding vows. You can just… stay.”
She pauses.
Then: “You’re exhausting.”
You smile. “You’re welcome.”
She rolls her eyes.
Then leans in. Presses her forehead against yours for one quiet second.
And whispers:
“Fine. But if you get clingy I’m ghosting you.”
You snort. “Deal.”
She smiles. Just barely.
And for the first time maybe ever — she doesn’t feel like she’s winning.
She just feels safe.
****
Sunlight is being disrespectful.
It slants through the blinds like a nosy little bitch, lighting up your bedroom in perfect golden hour vibes that Regina did not consent to.
She wakes up tangled in the softest sheets she’s ever felt, wearing your hoodie and last night’s eyeliner, and the crushing weight of emotions.
Gross.
She blinks, sits up slowly.
You’re still asleep. Arm flopped across your pillow. One leg sticking out of the covers like a whole disaster.
You look... peaceful.
That’s probably illegal.
Regina stares at you.
Then looks around your room. It’s clean. Smells like you. There’s a mug on your desk that says “Hot Girls Don’t Cry (but They Could If They Wanted To).”
She exhales. Quiet. Still.
For a second, she lets herself stay there.
Just... still.
But then the spiral hits.
Oh god.
She stayed the night.
She cuddled you.
She wore your hoodie. She kissed you with feeling. She—slept here.
Like someone who likes you.
Like someone who wants to be liked back.
Panic. Panic in designer socks.
She quietly slips one leg off the bed. Feet hit the floor.
Maybe she can leave before you wake up. Pretend it never happened. Say she blacked out from emotions and fashion fatigue.
She grabs her coat. Looks at the door.
Just leave. Be cool. Be unattached. Be Regina.
Then—she glances back at the bed.
At you.
Your face half-buried in the pillow. Hair a mess. Breathing steady.
And something in her just... softens.
Goddammit.
You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t push. You didn’t ask for more.
You just let her be here.
And that’s the worst part.
Because she can’t remember the last time she was allowed to just be somewhere, without having to perform or win or impress or lead.
Just be.
She sighs.
Sets the coat down.
Climbs back into bed.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Like she’s not fully surrendering, but maybe waving a little white flag under the covers.
You stir as she settles next to you.
Eyes still closed, voice rough with sleep:
“You were gonna ditch, weren’t you?”
She scoffs. “Shut up.”
You smile against the pillow. “You’re still here though.”
She rolls onto her side to face you.
“Yeah, well. Your bed’s comfy.”
You open one eye. “So’s your denial.”
She throws the blanket over your face. “I’m literally going to suffocate you.”
You giggle. She’s smiling now. Barely. But it’s real.
---
She’s in your kitchen ten minutes later.
Barefoot. Still in your hoodie. Hair up. Making coffee like she’s done it a hundred times.
You walk in, groggy. “We’re gonna be late.”
Regina glances at the clock.
It’s already noon.
She shrugs. “Guess we’re already dropouts. Might as well commit.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Skipping school for vibes?”
She turns to face you, coffee in hand.
“Skipping school to stay in bed with the only person who makes me feel like I’m not an act.”
You blink.
She pauses.
Then adds, way too fast:
“But also, like, vibes.”
You laugh.
She hands you your coffee.
You clink mugs like idiots.
She leans against the counter.
And she doesn’t run.
Not this time.
****
You never planned to spend the whole weekend together.
It just… happened.
Friday started with a joke.
You said, “Wanna hit the park and judge people’s fashion decisions?”
She said, “Only if you promise to fan me the whole time we're there.”
Three hours later, you found yourselves in a thrift store trying on denim that should be illegal, and Regina was parading around in a pink cowboy hat she claimed was “satirical.” You bought it for her anyway. She called you stupid. Then wore it the rest of the day.
---
Saturday was a grocery store at 11:47 PM.
You only went in for cereal and left with strawberry milk, a single rose Regina dared you to steal (you didn’t), and a photo of the two of you dancing between the canned soup and frozen peas because the store playlist hit too hard.
She made you rate every brand of instant noodles by vibe.
You told her she gives off “high-end ramen energy.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
---
Sunday was warm concrete and rooftop blankets.
You brought snacks and a speaker. She brought shade and oversized sunglasses she didn’t need after sunset.
You stuck cheap glow-in-the-dark stars to a rusted vent fan.
“So you can look up and see proof the universe revolves around you,”
you said.
She groaned. “You’re exhausting.”
But she laid back anyway. Stayed until the stars peeled off.
---
At one point—somewhere between her grabbing your hand in the parking lot like it was nothing, and you catching her staring when she thought you weren’t—
you handed her a tiny silver frog keychain.
It had a crooked little crown.
She asked, “What the hell is this?”
You shrugged.
“Just thought you’d need a backup crown. For when you're feeling like pond scum instead of royalty.”
She rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might fall out.
But later, you caught her clipping it to her bag.
Said nothing.
And neither did she.
****
It was the next week.
You and Regina spent almost the whole week together at school and outside of school.
You both decided to just stay home today because you both could. Also, what's just one Monday away from school going to do?
Regina pads in wearing your oversized band tee, frog keychain twirling between her fingers. Coffee brews; sunlight is aggressively wholesome.
She leans on the counter, watching you butter toast like it’s a TED Talk on domesticity. Something in her expression stiffens—tiny panic lines at the corners of her eyes.
Regina (too casual):
“If I told you I hated you… would you go away?”
The words hang there, dressed up as bravado, trembling at the hems.
You don’t answer with a joke.
You move:
1. Set the butter knife down—slow, deliberate.
2. Walk to her side—no rush, no fanfare.
3. Curl her fingers open and place your own matching frog keychain (you grabbed a second one yesterday) right next to hers in her palm.
You close her hand around the twin charms, look her dead in the eye, and—soft, but certain—say only:
“Look—twins.”
Then you kiss the back of her knuckles and turn to pour her coffee, like it’s the most normal Monday routine in the world.
Regina stares at the two tiny frogs—cheap metal, shared secret—then at your back.
A breathy, involuntary laugh slips out; it sounds a lot like relief.
Regina (quiet, almost fond):
“I still might hate you.”
You, over your shoulder:
“Cool. I’ll bring snacks for the eternal loathing.”
She rolls her eyes—smiling, staying—and hooks both keychains onto the same zipper pull.
The toast pops. The universe blooms. Neither of you goes anywhere.
Regina George is a newly out lesbian. And as a newly out lesbian, she now wants a girlfriend. In a girlfriend, she wants someone who is close to her physically. And the only gay person in her class is you.
The quiet, but non-underdog bisexual who is hot as fuck, but the exact opposite of Regina's type.
But Regina wants a girlfriend so badly that she might say fuck it fine, I'll just date her. She's still thinking about it, though.
Thinking about it didn't exactly last, though, because when Regina George wants a girlfriend, she gets a girlfriend.
"You wanna go on a date with me?" She asks one day after class, before stating, "Doesn't matter, you're going anyway."
You blink up at the blonde from your workbook, a letter half-written down, "Uhm...eh-okay."
You tried to smile, but all that formed on your lips was a tight little line.
When silence lasts a beat too long, you tilt your head to the side, still locking eyes with Regina from your seat.
For a moment, it looked like Regina's eyes narrowed, but it passed too quickly for you to notice.
"Well, are you gonna give me your number, or stare at me like a puppy?"
"Ah," You mutter things under your breath as you fumble for your phone inside your bag. "Of course."
Regina refrained from rolling her eyes because this exact behaviour was exactly why you weren't her type. You were too soft a slow to react. Regina fears she'd have to protect you all the time, but aye, you're the only option.
When you finally find your phone and hand it to Regina, she hands you her phone, so you can type your number in there while she types her number in yours.
When all's well, all Regina said before walking away was, "See you around, freak."
---
The rest of the day was peaceful with the only sign of Regina around was a ping from your phone from her texting you through out the day.
The first thing she asked you was where you wanted to go for the date- to which you responded with "We can go wherever you wanna go" in true, indecisive fashion- to which Regina responded with "I asked you first, dumbass. You decide." with complete punctuation.
During your last period, you texted Regina these exact words: "What will be our mode of transportation in order to attend our date, and when will this event be held?"
Like some nerdy weirdo.
Regina's initial reaction was to call you a "nerdy shit", but she decided against it somehow.
After muttering "what the fuck" to herself for a solid minute, Regine decides to reply to your message.
Regina Queen Shit:
wth is wrong with u
r u cosplaying a professor or smthn
we'll go after school
also if u call this an event again im cancelling u
You responded to her spam messages with a "hmm, okay" in your head and ultimately left Regina on read.
But then ten minutes later Regina Texted again.
Regina Queen Shit:
jk but seriously after school dont forget freak
also dont flake out on me ill kill u
To which you responded with a measly heart emoji.
---
You decided to go to a flea market a bit outside of town. When you told Regina about it earlier, she asked if you were trying to kill her.
She ended up taking you there anyway.
Now she’s standing beside you in the middle of a crowded row of booths, arms crossed over her chest like she’s guarding herself from whatever secondhand embarrassment you're about to unleash.
“This place smells like dead dreams and expired hot sauce,” she mutters, looking around with thinly veiled judgment.
You nod. “Exactly.”
Regina gives you a look—half disgusted, half confused—and you just smile like you’ve brought her to the gates of heaven. Which, to be fair, you have. There’s a guy selling hand-painted frogs on bottle caps. There’s a table of aggressively cursed dolls. There’s a jewelry stand that might give you tetanus.
You’re thriving.
She, on the other hand, is trailing behind you like a cat being forced to wear a leash.
“You’re really gonna touch that?” she asks as you pick up a suspiciously sticky lava lamp.
You grin. “I’m not gonna lick it.”
“God,” she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I could be anywhere else right now. A nail appointment. A facial. Literally jail.”
But she doesn’t leave. In fact, when you find a $2 bin of ugly oversized rings, she sighs loudly, walks over, and starts digging through it.
You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were into rusted costume jewelry.”
“I’m not,” she says. “You are. And if I have to stand here while you flirt with haunted furniture, I might as well make sure you don’t pick something that gives you tetanus and bad taste.”
Then she pulls out a ridiculous, chunky red ring with a fake gemstone the size of a marble. She shoves it onto your finger.
“There. That’s the one. You’re welcome.”
You stare at it. It’s hideous. You kind of love it.
“…Thanks?”
Regina shrugs, turning away like it didn’t mean anything. “Whatever. It’s ugly. Just like you.”
---
You could have sworn Regina was only away for a few minutes.
But I guess she was away long enough for some dude in a bad shirt and skinny jeans to approach you with an egotistic pick up lines.
“You’re lucky I stopped by. I don’t usually flirt with people holding haunted dolls, but I make exceptions for girls who look at me like that.”
His observation was severely offbeat because when you looked down at the item in your hand, you found that you were holding a frog lamp.
"You strike me as the type of girl to like real confidence." He says this while he is adjusting his knockoff bejeweled belt and a smirk on his chapped lips.
Thankfully, before you could even get a polite "no thanks" in, Regina slides up to you with a protective arm around your waist.
"Back off, Scooby doo. My girlfriend doesn't need your weak dick." Regina says with a scowl on her face. beneath the scowl, though, you felt like she was low-key enjoying telling this douche off.
Wait, did she just say—
You freeze.
Not because of the insult (though it was... strangely creative), but because of that word. Girlfriend.
You blink up at her. She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t explain. Just turns to the guy again with an expression that says try me.
He raises his hands in surrender and backs off, muttering something about “intense vibes” and “jeez, okay.”
Regina finally looks down at you—really looks.
“What?” she snaps, but it’s softer than usual. Less venom, more…deflection.
“You called me your girlfriend,” you say.
She shrugs, all fake nonchalance. “Okay, and? You got a problem with that?”
You open your mouth, but there’s no follow-up.
She rolls her eyes and starts walking again, pulling you with her by the wrist. “Don’t make it a thing, freak. I had to call you something.”
You shoot her a look—eyebrows up, the corner of your lips facing downward, your eyes smug and smirking—holding your hands up close, "Nope, no, no…no problems. Girlfriend, it is."
Regina rolls her eyes while muttering a "whatever" under her breath before gesturing to the lamp you're still holding, "You gonna buy that? Let me pay for it."
You give the lamp a once-over again and decide, "Nah, it's too big— Hey, we should get matching stuff now that we're girlfriends."
You ended up pulling Regina along before she could negate your proposition of matching items.
--
The sun is setting when you gasp.
The sudden sound startles Regina in her spot next to you.
When she turns to you, she wishes she never did.
Because tell me why you're holding up two cow mugs with ridiculously sized googly eyes.
"Y/N, no."
You wave her off with a dismissive hand, reaching into your pockets for your wallet, but before you can hand your cash to the vendor, Regina's already smiling at them, holding a hundred-dollar bill.
The quiet, "yay, now we have matching mugs," you let out makes Regina's heart melt faster than anything ever has.
So before you can do anything else to compromise her very layered walls of self-protection, she pulls you along back to her car.
A scowl sits on her face while her heart beats for the matching mugs and possibly you, but shes not thinking about that too much yet.
---
Rain pours by the time you reach Regina's car. Her driving is slow. Content. Unrushed.
Regina doesn’t say much as she drives. But her hand stays suspiciously close to the gear shift, fingers twitching every so often like they want to reach for yours.
Outside, the rain drums steadily against the windshield. Inside, it’s warm and quiet — save for the occasional splatter of a puddle and the rhythmic swipe of the wipers. You hum under your breath, half-tuned to a love song on the radio.
She pretends not to listen.
By the time she pulls up to her house, the rain’s in full swing. She parks, looks out at the downpour, then glances at you like it’s your fault the sky decided to monsoon the second you got cozy.
Regina tosses you one of the jackets in her messy backseat while putting one on for herself.
“Ready?” you ask, grinning already.
“No,” she grumbles, tugging her hoodie up. “I just got this hair done, don’t make me regret dating you.”
You sprint together anyway.
It doesn’t matter that you only had to cross ten steps. By the time you’re fumbling at her front door, you’re both drenched — hair sticking to foreheads, clothes soaked straight through.
She curses under her breath when she drops her keys trying to unlock the door. You’re laughing too hard to help.
The door finally swings open. You both stumble inside, dripping all over her floor.
Regina kicks it shut behind you, pushes her wet hair back, then turns to you with a flat look.
“…Take your clothes off.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not letting you sit on my couch like that,” she says, already pulling her hoodie over her head. “Not everything in this house is waterproof.”
You snort. “Is this your way of seducing me?”
She throws her wet hoodie at your face. “Take. Them. Off.”
You ended up walking around her house in just your underwear and a bra.
Regina was also in just her underwear and her bra. This was totally not her first time being half naked around someone who wasn't planning on fucking her.
Thank god her parents weren't home because, boy, would that have been a sight to behold.
You rummage around in Regina's closet for something to wear because Regina gave you free rein to anything you would be comfortable wearing from her closet.
You tug open drawer after drawer until you find one filled with soft tees. You hold up a gray one with faded text that reads “Cheer Camp 2019” in sparkly letters. “You were a cheerleader?”
“No,” Regina says flatly from the bed, where she’s reclined against a pile of pillows in nothing but her black lace bra and matching underwear. “I was the cheerleader.”
You snort and slip the shirt over your head. It’s oversized on you, hitting mid-thigh. You look stupidly cute, and Regina—despite pretending to scroll through her phone—sees that. Feels that.
“You gonna get dressed or just keep looking hot and miserable over there?” you tease.
Regina huffs but doesn’t deny it. She rolls off the bed and makes a show of dramatically rifling through her own closet, muttering something like, “You wore my shirt. That’s supposed to be my thing.”
You end up in her old shirt. She ends up in a navy hoodie. And somehow, neither of you says it, but something about the whole scene feels… intimate.
Too intimate.
So Regina ruins it—like she always does—by blurting, “If you drool on that shirt, I’m setting it on fire.”
You just beam at her and skip barefoot down the hall toward the kitchen.
"Drool? You plan on keeping me here overnight?"
Regina nearly trips over herself, but then she remembers that she's Regina George, and Regina George doesn't trip for anyone.
"Tsk, no...I mean, it's an option, but- but...it's not a must." Regina rolls her eyes.
You hum, "Okay, I'll just wait 'til the rain stops then."
For a second, you think you heard Regina let out a soft and quiet little "awh," but you pay it no mind.
Instead, you flop dramatically onto her couch, hugging one of her throw pillows like it’s your emotional support plush. “God, your house smells expensive.”
Regina, still hovering by the doorway like she can’t quite commit to entering the moment, shrugs like she didn’t purposely light a vanilla-amber candle twenty minutes ago. “It’s Diptyque. Obviously.”
You blink at her. “What’s that? French for ‘I’m lonely and have great taste’?”
That earns a half-scoff, half-laugh from her—sharp at the edges, but real. She crosses her arms and leans against the frame like she’s keeping herself from getting too close. Like if she sits down next to you, she might do something reckless. Like admit this doesn’t feel casual anymore.
You sit up and pat the seat beside you. “C’mon. You’re hovering like you expect me to bite.”
Her eyes flicker, amused. “Don’t you?”
“Not unless you ask nicely.”
That makes her blink a little too slow, like her brain blue-screened and restarted. But then she recovers with a scoff, walks over, and—delicately—perches beside you, careful not to let your knees touch.
The silence stretches, cozy and warm, until Regina speaks again.
"You hungry? I could cook something for us if you want to eat? Or we could order?"
You blink. "Wait. You cook?"
Regina huffs. “I’m not completely useless.”
"Debatable," you tease, already curling into the corner of the couch like you’ve lived there for years. "But alright, surprise me."
She squints at you. "What if I poison it?"
You grin. "Then I guess I die in your house. Kind of iconic."
Regina rolls her eyes so hard you think she might actually strain something. “You’re so annoying.”
But she still gets up, muttering something about pesto and how if you’re picky she’s kicking you back into the rain. The kitchen light flicks on. You hear her opening cabinets, the sound of a pan being placed gently on the stove.
She doesn’t have to do this. You both know it.
But she is.
And when she calls your name fifteen minutes later with a plate in hand, trying to act like it’s no big deal, you think maybe this is what it feels like when someone starts choosing you—awkwardly, stubbornly, but still choosing.
"This smells nice, baby, thank you." You take the plate from her hands with a soft, grateful smile stretching on your lips.
She rolls her eyes at the pet name, internally loving it, externally resenting it.
"You better not call me that on campus. I'll kill you. Also, don't expect so much just 'cause you're my girlfriend-"
She's cut off by your soft laughter mid-bite. Her eyebrows furrowed as she eyed you.
"What?"
Your laughties dies into a giggle, "You keep calling me your girlfriend."
Regina's eyes avert from you, mostly because of what you just pointed out and partly because of how your lips looked wrapping around the fork as you take a bite of the food she made for you.
"Y...yeah, I mean—I did say that earlier—have you not been paying attention?"
You tilt your head, amused. “I have. It’s just funny. You act like I forced you into this at gunpoint.”
Regina scoffs, stabbing into her own plate a little too aggressively. “I didn’t say you did. I just—ugh, you’re the only lesbian in, like, all of econ, okay? It’s slim pickings.”
You grin. “So you’re dating me out of convenience?”
She looks up sharply—almost in a panic. “No—I mean. Shut up. I just—I wanted someone—ugh, would you just agree?!”
You blink, pausing mid-chew. “Agree to what?”
Regina groans, dropping her fork with a dramatic clink. “That this is fine! Us! That it’s... not that weird! That I didn’t totally lose my mind picking you out of everyone.”
You set your plate down slowly, watching her. “You didn’t lose your mind, Regina.”
She snorts. “Sure.”
“I think you just... picked the most likely someone who would give you peace and not a headache. Like, fully. No deals, no bets, no clout-chasing.” You smile softly. “That probably scared the hell out of you.”
She stares at you like you’ve just read her diary out loud.
Then: “Don’t psychoanalyze me over pasta.”
You laugh gently, and after a long moment, she gives in with a dramatic sigh and shifts closer on the couch.
“...But thank you for that,” she mutters, almost too low to hear.
You pretend not to make a big deal out of it and just give her a soft smile before going back to eating the pasta she made for you.
And for once, she doesn’t roll her eyes. She just leans into your shoulder. Quiet. Letting herself be held.
When Regina realizes the rain has stopped already, she says nothing. Because she doesn't want you to leave just yet.
When Regina realizes the rain has stopped already, she says nothing. Because she doesn't want you to leave just yet.
---
It's already quarter to nine when your phone buzzes on the table. Regina glances at the screen—Mom 💀 Calling—then toward the bathroom door where she can hear you brushing your teeth with one of her toothbrushes like it’s not a big deal.
She sighs, picks up the phone.
“Hello?”
There's a pause.
“Uh, no—this is Regina. She’s just in the bathroom.”
Another pause. Regina stands up, walks a little further from the door.
“She's safe. We’re at my house. Yeah, the one in—yeah.”
She bites her lip.
“I was actually wondering... if she could stay over for the night? Just—it's already late. I’ll drop her off tomorrow, promise.”
A beat.
Then a softer: “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Just as she’s about to end the call, you come out, toweling your damp hands. “Who was that?”
Regina freezes for a second, like she got caught doing something weird.
“Your mom,” she says, casually tossing your phone back on the couch. “I told her you're staying over.”
Your eyebrows raise. “You told her?”
She shrugs. “Asked. Whatever. She said it's fine.”
You blink at her, something warm swelling in your chest.
Then: “...You want me to stay?”
Regina immediately scoffs. “God, don’t make it weird. I just didn’t feel like putting pants on to drive you home.”
You grin. “You like me.”
“Shut up. Just pick a movie.”
---
"No-ugh. Come on, not that movie."
You pause, your voice high-pitched as you look between Regina and the screen displaying 'the half of it'. "Why not?"
"Because! That movie is so lame and sad. I don't want to be depressed at a time like this!"
You quirk a brow up, "How do you know this is lame and sad? Have you seen this movie before?"
Regina turns to you sharply, "Wha- no! I just-...I've heard of it. From Gretchen."
"And you were interested enough to listen to her talk about it?"
"That is literallly- you know what? Whatever, play that movie."
She crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back on the sofa.
You smirk as you press play, snuggling deeper into the blanket and throwing a bit of it over her lap without asking. Regina tenses for a moment, visibly considering whether she wants to protest the contact. But she doesn’t. Her arms stay crossed, but she subtly tugs the blanket a little closer to herself.
Fifteen minutes into the movie, you glance at her. She's pretending not to care. But her eyes haven’t left the screen once.
“You’re totally into this,” you whisper.
“I’m literally not,” she hisses, barely above a whisper, her face lit faintly by the screen. “I’m just watching because I’m being a good host.”
You grin and gently nudge your shoulder into hers. “Sure.”
Another twenty minutes go by. She reaches into the shared bowl of popcorn at the same time you do. Her fingers brush yours. She doesn’t pull away.
You don’t say anything.
It’s halfway through the film when the main character says something soft and heartbreakingly honest, and you hear the tiniest sniff from Regina’s side of the couch.
You glance over. “Are you—are you crying?”
Regina snaps her head toward you, wild-eyed. “No?! Literally shut up. It’s allergies. God.”
You can’t help the way your smile grows. “You’re so full of shit.”
She groans, dropping her face into her hands. “Why did I let you stay over?”
“Because I'm a very likable person.”
“I hate you,” she shoots back—far too fast. But there’s no bite to it.
You don’t press. Instead, you just lean gently against her side. And she lets you.
After a moment, her head tips slightly onto yours.
And neither of you move for the rest of the movie.
When the credits roll, neither of you barely register that you're fully in Regina's arms, leaned back against her chest with your head resting in the space beneath her chin.
Regina's arms are snug around you. One of her hands is curled loosely at your waist, and the other is absentmindedly tracing little shapes into your forearm.
You murmur, voice thick with sleep, “You cried.”
“I will smother you with this pillow,” she says, monotone, but makes no move to reach for it.
You hum, turning your face slightly into her collarbone, your breath warm against her skin. “You liked it.”
“I liked the silence that came after it ended.”
You smile, lips brushing against her neck now. “You’re such a liar.”
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t push you off, either.
A few seconds pass in quiet, the hum of the credits music long faded into the background. Her fingers slow their movements against your skin until they stop altogether—just resting there.
Then, low, almost too quiet to hear:
“…It wasn’t bad.”
Your eyes flutter open. “What?”
“The movie,” she says quickly, like it’s nothing. “It wasn’t bad. Shut up about it.”
You giggle into her neck.
And that’s the moment she finally shoves you off her, but only halfway—still keeping an arm loosely around your waist so you don’t fall off the couch.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You love me.”
She exhales sharply through her nose. “God, whatever. I’m going to bed.”
You sit up. “What about me?”
She stands and looks down at you with a raised brow. “Guess you better follow me then, huh?”
"If I ask you to carry me to bed, would you?"
The only answer you got was a tilt of her head and a blank stare.
"Yup, got it." You stood from her couch and let Regina lead you back to her room.
You trail behind her through the dark hallway, watching the sway of her silhouette as she walks ahead with arms crossed—like she’s annoyed you didn’t get the hint sooner.
Her room is already dim when she opens the door, the soft bedside lamp casting a warm, sleepy glow across the sheets she never quite made that morning. She doesn’t say anything when she steps aside to let you in. Just raises an eyebrow, like well?
You toe off your shoes and sit gingerly on the edge of her bed, glancing around. “So, uh… left or right?”
Regina gives you a look like you’ve asked her to solve calculus.
“Are you seriously asking me which side of my bed you can sleep on?”
You blink at her.
“…I’ll take the left.”
She huffs and moves toward her vanity, pulling off her earrings with sharp, practiced flicks. “You better not hog the blanket. I’m not spooning you either, if you’re expecting that.”
“I wasn’t,” you lie.
She glances at you through the mirror and smirks like she knows exactly what you’re doing.
You crawl under the covers anyway, already warm from the way her sheets smell like some expensive body lotion and something faintly floral. When she finally joins you, she stays on her side—but the mattress dips closer to you than it needs to.
And somewhere in the dark, as the room quiets again, her foot finds yours under the blanket.
And then, in the next moment, you blink, and her body is draped over yours, her nose tucked into the crook of your neck.
---
"Okay, seriously, what's wrong?" You ask after watching Regina dump the third egg she's fried in the pan.
"Hey- it's not my fault you're very specific with how you like your eggs, okay? Not everyone gets a non-runny, but also non-solid yolk on their first try!"
"Not even on the third try, apparently..." You murmur just to tease her.
"I will throw this pan at you."
You rolled your eyes, "Why are you even trying to perfect it in that way? I told you i just prefer my eggs not solid but not runny. I didn't say they have to be like that."
Regina freezes for half a second.
"It's not a requirement, baby, you can relax."
Then Regina sighs, "I know, but I wanna get it right. I don't fail anything. I'm perfect."
You snort, stepping closer. “Babe, it’s breakfast. Not the SAT.”
Regina glares at the egg like it personally betrayed her. “Still.”
You lean against the counter beside her, nudging her with your hip. “It’s cute how hard you’re trying not to disappoint me.”
“I’m not trying not to disappoint you,” she snaps quickly, too quickly. “I just don’t want you to think I’m some incompetent trophy wife who can’t cook—”
“Whoa. Trophy wife?”
Regina flinches like she caught herself too late. “Shut up.”
You laugh softly and wrap your arms around her waist from behind, resting your chin on her shoulder. “You could serve me burnt toast and battery acid and I’d still say thank you.”
She sighs again, but this time it’s softer. Less annoyed, more… resigned.
“I just want to be good at the stuff that matters to you,” she mumbles. “Even the dumb shit like eggs.”
You stay quiet for a second, arms tightening around her. “You already are. But I do love watching you spiral over breakfast. Very sexy.”
Regina groans and elbows you lightly. “You’re so annoying.”
“Perfectly annoying,” you grin.
She finally cracks a smile and mutters, “Fine. One more egg. If this one sucks, you’re getting cereal.”
“Deal. But only if it’s the overpriced granola you pretend not to like but eat half the bag when you’re high.”
“I don’t eat—okay, whatever. Shut up.”
You kiss her cheek before pulling away, just in time for her to gently crack the fourth egg into the pan with absolute precision, like she’s prepping for war.
--
Regina was just about to take the last bite of her food when you spoke again.
"Can we cuddle after breakfast?"
Her spoon paused mid-air, eyeing nothing in particular, and then you, "You literally wrapped your whole body around my body in the middle of the night last night, have you not gotten enough skin contact yet?"
You propped your elbows on the table with a blank expression on your face. "Absolutely not."
It didn't occur to Regina how exactly she said yes to your little cuddling question, but somehow she lay on her couch with you draped over her like a human blanket.
"This is crazy."
"Good crazy?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you're loving every second of this."
"You're wrong. I think this is lame."
You nuzzled closer into her neck, ignoring the way her arm instinctively curled tighter around your waist. “Lame and yet… you haven’t moved.”
“I’m trapped. You’re heavy.”
You hummed. “Strong words for someone who literally princess-carried me to bed last night without breaking a sweat.”
“That was different. That was—momentum.”
“Mm, sure.” You tilted your head up to look at her. “You know you don’t have to pretend you hate this, right?”
Regina looked down at you, face unreadable for a beat. Then she muttered, “I’m not pretending. I do hate it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Hate your body heat. Hate how it makes my heart beat faster when you sigh like that. Hate that your hair’s in my mouth but I don’t wanna push it away.” A beat. “Hate how much I don’t hate any of it.”
You blinked, lips parted.
“…That was gross, right?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “Forget I said that.”
“No.” You beamed. “Actually I’m gonna write that down in my Notes app under ‘Regina’s Moments of Weakness.’”
“You’re literally the worst person I’ve ever let touch me.”
You kissed her jaw. “And you’re the best person I’ve ever laid on like a couch cushion.”
Regina sighed, a long, heavy breath like she was exhausted by the very concept of loving you.
And then she adjusted her arm so you’d fit better against her chest.
Silence blankets both you and Regina.
It takes her a moment before she speaks again, but when she does: "You know I've never gone on a date with someone who didn't plan on fucking me that same night?"
You didn’t say anything at first. Mostly because you weren’t sure if it was a confession, a challenge, or a warning.
“…And?”
Regina glanced at you, mouth twitching. “Just saying. You’re ruining my streak.”
You raised a brow. “Because I didn’t jump your bones the second I walked in?”
She scoffed. “Please. If you wanted to, you would’ve. I’ve seen how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
“I wasn’t hiding it.”
“Even worse,” she muttered, almost like she was annoyed at herself for not minding.
There was a beat of silence before she added, quieter but not softer: “You’re weird. You talk to me like I’m—like I’m not a game.”
You bit your tongue before you could say something earnest.
Instead: “Maybe I’m just really bad at games.”
Regina laughed once—sharp, unimpressed. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not deep. You’re just… infuriating.”
“Infuriating enough to cuddle with. Twice now.”
“Shut up.”
She adjusted her position like she was about to move away—then didn’t.
Instead, she mumbled, “You smell good. It’s disgusting.”
---
Regina promised to take you back to your house the next day after your first day with her.
It has been almost two weeks since then.
You are still not home.
Regina thinks it's just so she can have company while her parents are still away.
You believe it's because she likes you.
It's not like you haven't been home. You have. Just not to sleep there like one would in their home. But to get more clothes. A shower here and there. But that's about it.
Your mom weirdly hasn't complained about it.
That makes you feel like she's documenting how long you've been out for grounding purposes in the future.
You’d tried to bring it up once—just casually.
“So, like… when exactly are you taking me back?”
Regina didn’t look up from her phone. “Do you want to go back?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then shut up.”
And that was that.
Now, her room looked like you lived there. Your toothbrush sat next to hers, your jacket hung off her chair, and your socks were permanently migrating into her drawers. She hadn’t said anything about any of it. Hadn’t moved a thing.
Last night, when she thought you were asleep, she tucked the blanket around you and whispered, “You're so annoying.”
This morning, she brought you coffee before you even asked.
And right now, she was sitting on the floor next to the bed—wearing your hoodie, scrolling through her phone, pretending she didn’t notice you staring.
“You know,” you said, drawing out the syllables just to irritate her, “most people don’t let strangers move in unless they really like them.”
She looked up slowly, unimpressed. “You’re not a stranger. You’re a parasite.”
You grinned. “So you admit you’re letting me stay.”
“I’m letting you rot,” she shot back. “There’s a difference.”
You sat up. “Aww. I love you too.”
Regina deadpan-blinked. “I will smother you in your sleep.”
You threw a pillow at her. She caught it without looking.
Then tossed it back, hard.
---
You didn’t even mean to test her.
You were just bored. Restless.
Maybe a little stupid.
So you said, “Maybe I should go home today.”
Regina didn’t respond. She didn’t even flinch.
So, you kept going. “Yeah. I should check on my plants. Do actual laundry. Shower without rationing hot water because someone likes hour-long concerts in there.”
Still nothing.
That kind of silence was dangerous.
So you stood. “I’ll pack my stuff.”
That got her.
Regina turned her head just slightly. “What stuff?”
You gestured vaguely at the room. “All of it?”
She scoffed. “You act like you live here.”
You paused, then blinked at her. “I’ve been here twelve nights.”
“And I regret every one,” she muttered.
But her voice cracked a little at the end.
You started grabbing things—slow, dramatic. Hoodie. Phone charger. Toothbrush. The ratty pair of socks she steals when her feet get cold.
By the time you reached for your overnight bag, she stood up.
“You’re not actually leaving,” Regina said flatly.
“You told me to rot,” you said, swinging the bag over your shoulder.
“I didn’t say leave, I said you’re annoying. That’s, like, my love language.”
You stared.
She stared back.
And then, quieter, “Don’t go.”
That should’ve been enough. You should’ve dropped the bag, kissed her stupid, called it a win.
But you were a menace, so instead you said, “So you do like me.”
Regina’s face twisted like you’d made her bite a lemon.
“I never said that.”
“You just did.”
“No. I said don’t go. That’s different.”
“Not really.”
“You’re the worst.”
You dropped your bag. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
She turned away before you could see the smile she tried to hide. “Great. Can you shut up now?”
"Only if you admit you like me."
She freezes long enough for you to notice. "...Not yet."
---
Regina drags you to the mall after declaring, “I swear to God if I eat another protein bar in this house I’m gonna start foaming at the mouth.”
You tag along without asking questions. She complains that you’re tagging along.
At the food court, she picks at her salad like it’s a punishment and scolds you for getting a corn dog: “You’re literally eating it wrong. How do you even manage that?”
You ignore her and make eye contact while taking the most obnoxious bite possible.
Later, you linger by the claw machines. She sighs like she’s in pain, but still feeds you coins, one after another, until you win a plush shaped like a strawberry. You press it to your cheek and beam.
She rolls her eyes and mutters, “You’re an actual five-year-old.”
She buys you a charm from a kiosk—one shaped like a broken heart. When she hands it to you, she says, “It’s not symbolic. Don’t be a freak.”
You say thank you.
She threatens to throw it in the fountain.
That night, while she’s in the kitchen making popcorn and slamming cabinet doors for dramatic effect, you sneak into her room. Not to snoop—just to leave something.
You sit at her desk, rip out a page from your notebook, and start drawing.
It’s quick, messy, full of heart:
Regina, standing like a menace—hand on her hip, a kitchen knife in one hand, a daisy in the other.
A tilted crown on her head like it’s about to fall off.
You in the corner, lying flat on the floor with cartoon X_X eyes and a speech bubble that says, “She’s so mean I love her.”
You scrawl beneath it in your handwriting:
“This is how you look to me. Terrifying. Pretty. Kind of hot. I’m obsessed.”
You leave it on her desk like you didn’t just out yourself.
--
You forget about it.
Until later.
She comes into her room with popcorn, pretends she doesn’t notice the paper at first. Then she picks it up like it might bite her.
You watch from her bed as her expression shifts—guarded, unreadable.
She doesn’t smile. But her fingers smooth out the creases gently.
She folds the page into thirds like something important, tucks it under a stack of magazines.
Like she’s keeping it. But never planning to mention it.
She climbs into bed next to you without a word.
But this time, when you shift beneath the blanket, her arm doesn’t just graze yours.
It settles there. Soft. Barely touching.
A long pause.
Then, in a whisper, she says, “Your art sucks.”
You smile into the dark. “You kept it.”
She scoffs. “Kill yourself.”
But her hand finds your thigh under the covers.
And this time, she doesn’t let go.
---
A month into the relationship, all you've done with Regina is go on dates and kiss.
Safe to say it's the least action she's had in a very long time.
That's not to say that she's been bored, though. The woman has been having the time of her life. She's just not good at showing it.
Miraculously, Regina finds herself alone one afternoon. You told her you wanted to take a shower, so you did, and not Regina sits alone in her bedroom while you use up all the hot water in her bathroom.
Regina thinks about the past few weeks she's spent with you since the date and how she's been more irritable as of late.
Being with you makes her really angry. She doesn't know exactly why because she's enjoying herself spending time with you. But it just really pisses her off how much she likes you.
It feels inevitable to her- liking you. Inevitable and ridiculous. Like something everyone has to go through at least once in their life.
But not a phase. God, not a phase. She treasures you too much now for you to be just a phase.
I think I might like the bitch. How dare she. How dare I. How dare sheeeeeee. It's genuinely rude and angering. It triggers me how much I like her. No, becaus shut the fuck up I think I love her. Like for real not even like anymore. I might fucking love her. Weird.
You open the bathroom door with a soft creak, hair damp and towel-draped, wearing one of her oversized shirts like you always do when you sleep over. Regina looks up from her place on the bed, scowling for no reason.
You barely have time to speak before she interrupts, sharp and loud and viciously casual:
“Okay, so apparently I’m in love with you. Congrats. Hope you’re thrilled. I’m gonna go throw myself into traffic now.”
You blink. “What?”
She throws her hands up like you’ve just personally ruined her life. “Don’t make me say it again. It’s humiliating enough that it’s happening at all.”
You step further into the room, confused but trying not to laugh. “Did you just say you’re in love with me?”
Regina groans like you’ve stabbed her. “Unfortunately.”
You bite your lip to hide the grin. “Wow.”
She narrows her eyes. “Wipe that smile off your face before I change my mind.”
You walk over, towel still clutched to your chest. “You’re unbelievable.”
Regina glares at you like it’s your fault her heart works now. “You make me like being nice. Do you understand how disgusting that is? I baked something last week. I don’t bake. I manipulate. I bully. I slay.”
You giggle, because yeah, she does slay. “You love me.”
“I hate it.”
You climb into bed beside her anyway. “But you do.”
She won’t look at you. “Shut up.”
You rest your head on her shoulder, still warm from her sheets. “I love you too.”
She flinches like you just said a slur. “Jesus Christ.”
But her hand finds yours anyway.
And she doesn’t let go.
"Can I go get dressed now?"
"Oh, so you're leaving me?"
"What? Wha- how did you even get that from what I said? I just want to get dressed!"
hey could you write regina x reader where she’s readers ex. Regina manipulates them into getting back together with her at the halloween party
Siren Song
|| Regina George x nonbinary!reader
|| Warnings; short drabble, messy breakup, Regina and reader are exes, Regina manipulates reader, Regina being fake nice, underage drinking, drunk Regina and reader, swearing
|| Summary; when reader goes to a Halloween party with their friends, Regina pulls them aside for a talk.
Requests open!
Started; February 17th
Finished; February 17th
~~~
Halloween. Probably one of your favourite holidays of the year, you loved dressing up in costumes and going all out with your friends. Plus, the party's this time of year were always fun to go to. You and your group of friends would typically go to parties just to watch all the chaos go down and laugh about it.
What you didn't know was that this year; you would be dragged into that mess.
Regina and you had dated sometime in the beginning of the year, the relationship was messy, the breakup was even worse. So, when she approached you at the party you already knew things would become a shit show.
There was a lot of drunken flirting between the two. Regina trying to use that siren song of hers you couldn't resist to lure you back into her arms. The worst part of it all? It was working; and both you and Regina knew it.
"I just... miss you, I hate how things ended," Regina would tell you. Deep down, you knew everything the blonde was saying was a load of bull. Everything Regina had ever told you was. Not once would she say something genuine. But... it was enough to start breaking your walls down. Brick by brick she was getting to you all over again.
"You- do you mean that?" You asked, Regina had managed to get you somewhere more quiet. Away from the loud party sounds so she could talk to you. Clearly though, it was more than just a talk with how she was pressed up against you. Trailing her fingers along your arm.
"Are you kidding? Of course I do, baby. I've thought about you every day," her eyes locked to yours and damn it that was all you needed.
You broke, Regina won.
You could feel her smirk against your lips as she kissed you, the way her hand came up behind your head. Cupping it and pulling you closer. Right back into her arms, as though you had never even left.
"we need less sanitized queer stories" youre the one saying the locked tomb series is bad because you dont like the prose. based off of a quote from goodreads of all places. that was dialogue, not even the actual prose.
"she-ra fumbled its message" no! crucially, it didnt! it had the same message as the original she-ra show, which is "this lady is a superhero and is going to do superhero things like save the planet" and she did do that!
"oh but catra never apologized for what she did and they just let her join the good guys" thats a perfectly normal thing in childrens media, and the only reason yallre calling it out is because its queer and you want the perfect unproblematic queer media to exist. except that even if it did you would all find ways to nitpick it, which is the whole point of this post!
HEY that's MY emotional support morally ambiguous misunderstood full of trauma touch starved yearning for love drenched in blood responsible for numerous atrocities comfort character who is TRYING & u will TREAT them with RESPECT
Arasha and Angela commiserating in the kitchen and going "god are we gonna get fired" IS pretty funny but also like. we're laughing bc. Smosh you know better than that right.........
i AM intrigued to know what video they shot that had them in the kitchen saying this though askgjsjfnshfjsbfbgjsbfbbf
Watched Four Sisters and A Wedding again after watching Four Sisters Before The Wedding earlier at nakakadala pa rin talaga itong acting sequence nung nalaman ni CJ ginawa ni Teddie sa spa. Let’s re-watch it again maski 2 minutes lang. Haha! Thank you direk Cathy for bringing this ensemble on big screen.
i could write a thousand essays over and over about the sibling dynamics in both fights (CJ v Ate's and Teddie/Alex v Bobbie ft. poor Gabbie who keeps getting stuck as peacemaker) my god this movie is such. chef's kiss.
I love the comparison, but I hate how they are comparing.
They are acting like she is using optics to give herself an advantage. But the device she is wearing is just for comfort and essentially does the same thing as closing one eye and squinting the other.
The little thing over the left eye is basically like an eye patch.
And the thing over her right eye is a mechanical iris, like in a camera lens, but it is NOT a lens.
Different lighting environments are going to be brighter or darker and you may have to squint more or less to let in the same amount of light into your eye. Squinting allows the shooter to get the sharpest possible vision in order to shoot a bullseye the size of a 12-point Times New Roman period.
But if you have to squint for hours for practice and in competition, this can strain your face muscles and become uncomfortable. So this iris basically squints for you.
It's more like wearing comfortable shoes so your feet do not hurt than a lens magnifying the target and giving an advantage.
Both athletes have access to these items. One felt more comfortable without them. The other didn't feel like getting a muscle cramp from squinting all day.
Either would have shot the same if they had or had not used these devices.
Just a funny difference in gear preference.
I should also add, the Turkish dad is the only one using lenses.
[image description: two pictures, one above the other. The first image shows a statue originally from the Acropolis in Athens, now in the British Museum. The statue is a column shaped like a woman. It is labelled London. The bottom image is from the Acropolis Museum in Athens, showing the other five matching column/statues, with a space for the missing statue pointedly left open. This picture is shot from above and is labelled Athens.
image in savvysergeant’s reblog: screencap of tags from two people. Feeblekazoo’s tags read: the degree to which the Acropolis museum is designed to shame the British Museum is spectactular. butherlipsarenotmoving’s tags read: the acropolis museum is the most passive aggressive museum i’ve ever been to and i love it
/end id]
For those of you who don’t know museum drama, one of the largest and most famous parts of the British Museum’s collection is the so-called Elgin Marbles, which were looted from the Acropolis by Lord Elgin in the 18th Century. (The Acropolis is the hill in Athens, Greece which has some of the most amazing Greek ruins anywhere, the most famous of which is the Parthenon.) Elgin had (or at least claims to have had) permission from the Ottoman Empire to take stuff home with him, but a) this is one empire asking another empire if they can loot stuff from the other empire’s subjugated people, so, not exactly any moral high ground there Elgin, and b) he took a lot more stuff than the Ottomans said he could have.
Greece has been asking for those statues and sculptures to be returned since they won independence in 1832. That’s right, 1832, 190 years ago. The British Museum has had a number of excuses over the years, one of the biggies of the late 20th Century being “we couldn’t possibly give them back because Athens doesn’t have a nice enough museum to display them” and ignoring Greece’s response of “we will BUILD a museum just for them if you will just give us our damn stuff back!“
Finally, Greece said “fuck you” and built a museum at the bottom of the Acropolis called the Acropolis museum. It is huge, it is gorgeous, the collection of objects is amazing and the educational bits (“this is what it is and why it matters”) are really well done. It’s probably one of the best archaeological museums in the world; it definitely is the best collection of ancient Greek artifacts in the world, both for the size of the collection and the way it’s displayed.
Oh. And it is amazingly passive-aggressive. Every single piece of the Elgin Marbles in the British Museum has an empty spot on display waiting for the piece to be returned to Greece. For example, there are a lot of pieces where Elgin took, say, the nicest (or easiest to remove) one of a set. The column/statue in the OP’s image is one of these. Friezes from the roof of the Parthenon are another example. The Acropolis Museum displays each one of these sets with space for the stolen pieces, along with a picture of what the stolen piece looks like and where it is. It is a giant middle finger at the British Museum, disguised as helpful information.
There’s no chance that the British Museum will return any of this in the next generation. It’s not up to the curators at the British Museum; they don’t get any say in this. The board of governors of the British Museum is made up of old posh English people who genuinely believe that the Empire was awesome and England has a perfect right to everything in the British Museum. They have set policies about what can and can’t be removed from the collection, and according to those policies nothing of any historical or monetary value can be given away or sold. And they actively promote the idea that their predecessors had a perfect right to loot the cultural heritage of the world, and that the museum has a perfect right to keep it forever. The only way to get anything out of the British Museum and back to its rightful place would be to completely replace the entire board of the museum with new people who think completely differently. And that’s not happening any time soon, alas.
By the way, the British argument that Greeks wouldn’t know how to care for the antiquities……. Greece has 206 archaeological museums. It’s not only incredibly demeaning as an argument, it’s also straight out false and misleading.
One thing (and with the massive caveat of I don’t disagree with the above in the slightest): the Board of Trustees isn’t like that. They’re not all white, they’re not all rich, and they’re not all English. By and large they’re academics. I was speaking to them the other week with regards to repatriation when I visited and they’re actually very much all for it (bar one or two exceptions…looking at you George) and are working on things. A group of 5 of them I can confirm actively loathe Elgin and the marbles room. The problem lies with the British Museum Act of 1968 (hereafter referred to as BMA68) which was a law created by the government to prevent anything within the BM, which the government owns but wants very little do to with unless you’re trying to repatriate fyi, being removed in the “national interest”. Repatriation is, annoyingly, illegal in the case of the contents of the BM. So the Board have been trying to change this by putting pressure in various areas to get the laws changed, and the government screws them by enforcing term limits for serving on the board and then trying to stack the board in their favour to prevent further action. It’s a game of politics and the government do not want to give up BMA68 at all.
I know we like to categorise everyone we’re up against in the fight for repatriation as “old, white, rich guys” but it’s not helpful when it is decidedly not the case. We need to be mad at the right people and focusing on efforts to change this ridiculous law. At this time, supporting projects like the International Training Partnership, which is the BM’s way of building a network of curators and training them so organisations like the British Government can’t say “hurr durr they can’t look after their artefacts” because actually they can, we trained them ourselves. The network of curators also allows them to build mounting international pressure. It’s not going to happen overnight, but the pressure is building now, I promise you.
Just finished a complete 3 season (+QC) rewatch and does anyone else get the sense the Cressida is a little autistic?
Like she’s a mean girl but she isn’t particularly underhanded or manipulative, she struggles to make friends beyond surface level acquaintances, she’s often overtly blunt in a way that is mean but that she doesn’t necessarily intend to be mean and she plays at the role of a debutant as she believes (or rather as her mother told her) it should be played as if it were a game she has to master.
It would also explain how a woman that gorgeous, with the largest dowry in the ton couldn’t find a husband in three seasons as it has been studied and it was found that neurotypical people can almost have an almost uncanny valley response to autistic people, meaning despite how perfect she almost is most men will inevitably find her “weird”
germansingergirl
janainaart
gummygunk
ellievsbear
vaporwave
origamiaround
discoholicmusic
