#They had to have had this conversation before

[hanasnx]

ᯓ★ “ NEED A FRIEND YOU CAN FUCK, I CAN BE THAT ” — clark kent.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ✉️ | dc comics. NOTES: i haven’t seen this movie yet so unfortunately i don’t know much about his characterization other than the trailer content. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ explicit sexual content ノ size difference ノ david!clark has huge dick syndrome ノ mentions of reader having hair ノ trying out the mating press position ノ talking you through it ノ allusions to pussy eating ノ p in v ノ unprotected sex ノ emphasis on eye contact.

“Clark… I don’t know about this…” you hedge, twisting the tip of your nail between the narrow space in your biting teeth. As your confidence wanes, a large and soothing hand smooths down from your shoulder to your arm. The calluses scratch you in a most pleasant way, and it relaxes some of the tense in your shoulders. You peer up at him uneasily, searching for reassurance as he adjusts to stand on his knees, rearranging your body when he tugs you down by your hips until you’re settled deep into the pillows of the bed. You sit pretty for him, the little nighty you had on having ridden up to show him what’s underneath. At the sight of it again, his tongue rolls between his lips.

“Just… keep your eyes on me.” he calms you, his fist coming to rest next to you on the mattress, and it dips with his weight as he fixes to hover over you. He’s so close to you now, blanketing you under his large body and the urge to capture his lips in a kiss from muscle memory is conveyed by the jut of your neck, reaching for him. Coolly, he lifts his chin to dodge it, making sure he knows you’re focusing. “Remember what we talked about?” It’s an instruction to relay it, and your feet curl to fiddle with your toes in your socks, your fingers mirroring them in a nervous habit. You glance down, biting onto your lower lip, only to meet his gaze and be pacified by the kindness in his eyes. You tilt your head to your shoulder, staring at him lovingly.

“Mhm.” you respond and nod obediently, your hair tickling your skin. “‘Stay still.’” you parrot, and when his face breaks out in a grin, you mimic it.

“No, no, that was before.” he chuckles, inclining over to peck you on your hair for such a cute mistake. Instead, his eyes darken from the recollection as he holds your gaze, and you feel warm in your chest. You had been squirming too much when his mouth was on you earlier, layering open kisses on your wet heat to help you loosen up. Even when he locked his arms around your thighs, you couldn’t help but try to fight him, he didn’t even budge. Instructing you was necessary to remind you to be good for him, otherwise you’d still be trying to run from your own orgasm. He reiterates the other conversation, “Gotta try to stay relaxed. Deep breaths. Can you do that for me?” You make a show of thinking for a second, but end it with another nod all the same. At your permission, he begins to enact the position you’d be talking about before—the one you’ve never gotten to do with him. “It’ll be like last time, okay?” he talks you through it as he kneels to maneuver you again, and the loss of his body heat makes you shiver. “We’re gonna let you get used to it first.” One leg is raised to hook your ankle on his shoulder. “Let’s start with one.”

In a burst of confidence, you cry, “Both!” and Clark looks at you crooked, wearing questioning brows and a little smirk that affirms your decision. “Do both.” you repeat, lifting your other leg with a point of your toes to reach his shoulder. His palm catches it, and takes it the rest of the way, settling both of your feet on either side of his neck. His hips push out, and your eyes flicker to his hard abdomen feeding into his v-line, that trail of pubic hair leading to the bulge in his pants.

Carefully, he stretches you out, folding you in half as he crawls back on top of you until your knees have hooked properly onto his shoulders. You squeak at the sensation of the bands in your thighs now taut, “Feeling okay, duchess? Need to start with something different?” he asks, you can hear the concern in his whisper, and feel his breath fan your cheek.

“No, I’m okay, I’m okay.” you insist, your eyes falling closed until he peppers kisses onto your jawline. Your lashes flutter open when you remember what he said. Keep your eyes on me… “I want you, Clark. I really do.”

“I’m not even in yet and I can already hear your little heartbeat. Are you sure?” he speaks through latching his mouth onto your neck, tasting your pulse on his tongue. He ends the suck with a wet pop, and you wiggle your hips with need at his frustrating stalling. “We can go back to what we were doing before. I don’t mind.” He certainly eats your pussy like he doesn’t mind, but right now you need something a little harder.

“Mhm. Please. Please?” Your brows skew into something pathetic, the way he’s talking to you has you twitching around nothing, and you feel his grin against your neck.

He rears to meet your eyes, a gentle hand coming to brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “yeah, let’s try it. Just keep talking to me, okay? Don’t try to be brave.” Something about eye contact and the sound of undoing his pants makes you flood, watching him with your hazy bedroom gaze as he grips the base to feed into you. His tip brushes your clit and you suck in through your teeth with a hiss. Clumsily, it searches for the give, and your hips chase it even though your tailbone is suspended in air right now. As he sinks the head in, you both inhale, and you witness the twitch in his eye as his pupils darken, buttering your insides with pre as he gently ruts into you with just an inch.

You reach for him, fingers tangle in his hair, and you clutch onto him as you ride out the sting of being stretched. “More,” you tell him breathlessly, “more, Clark…” The way you’re looking at him, the way his name pours from your parted lips like sex, his jaw slacks as he starts shoving in for his sake more than yours. You just feel so good. Warm and soft, he can’t help but beg for your heat to be wrapped around more of him. You moan in anguish, your back arching off the bed as just half of him hurts. He scolds himself for acting like a dog, pulling out enough for you to notice. “No!” you whine, desperation clear on your tongue, your grip releases him to grab onto the loose waistband of his pants hanging off his hips. You use the fabric as handlebars, yanking him toward you. You’ve got no hope of overpowering him, but it’s enough to show him what you want. “Please, Clarkie, please—“

Your feet bob in suspense as he forces more of himself in, sinking an inch away from the hilt as the last of your resolve melts, as if he’s battering you open with each stroke. Keeping your eyes on him is too much when your eyes can’t focus, lazing into the back of your head as he hits that spongy spot inside you perfectly at this angle. “It’s… so deep. It’s so deep, you’re so deep…” you babble, your chest jumping as he sheathes all the way in over and over again. Sweetly, he lands on his elbows, freeing his hands to cradle your head. Noises fill the room, skin smacks skin, grunts escaping his nose, your pretty lofty moans. It’s a symphony. A love letter from body to body. You ache and drool around his cock lodged so deep up your guts you can feel him in your throat.

“You look so beautiful like this…” Clark manages to say through his efforts, and he feels tremors build in your legs. “What’d you call this position again?”

“M-“ you stutter, “mating press.”

“That’s right. A mating press.”

@HANASNX 2025 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

[that-one-girl2020]

Hey, I was wondering if you could do a skit about what were the Saja Boys fighting about and what Jinu and Rumi were talking about, because I really want to know.

Interlude

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader

A/N: Sorry getting around to this one took a little bit, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with it until I started writing it. This takes during part 5! Rumi and Jinu’s conversation happens before the start of the part and the fight between the guys happens during the Idol Awards. Rumi and Jinu’s song is still Rumi and Jinu’s song, just with some edits.

Synopsis: What happened between Rumi and Jinu before the Idol Awards without the romantic undertone? What fight did the boys stage as part of their plan?

CW: Self mutilation (only mention), toxic parenting (thanks Celine), arguing.

Word Count: 2,024

Master List

(Reminder: Baby = Jum, Romance = Chungae, Mystery = Hyeon, Abby = Kwan)

What did Rumi and Jinu talk about?

“Okay, sooo…” Rumi drawled as she joined Jinu. The two had agreed to meet up the night before the Idol Awards to discuss Jinu’s answer. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why does the bird wear a tiny hat?” She raised an eyebrow curiously at the three-eyed magpie perched atop its blue tiger friend.

“I made it for the tiger, but the bird keeps taking it,” Jinu explained, looking at said bird. Sussie only narrow its eyes at the two, daring them to try and take the hat from him.

Rumi and Jinu chuckled. She was surprised at how easy it was to get along with Jinu when she looked past his surface. Yeah, his appearance had flustered her at first, but he was just an ordinary guy.

“So, about tomorrow, have you thought about my proposal?”

Jinu’s face became solemn. “Look, I want to believe in your crazy plan, but I don’t think I’m the one to help you.” His mind was stuck on thoughts of you. The soft moments the two of you shared together. The self-inflicted marks you had on your arms from scratching at your patterns. He was conflicted. If he actually helped Rumi with her plan, would that help you or would it just trap you into a life of never fully accepting yourself if your patterns didn’t disappear? But if he went through with his own plan, would you hate him?

Rumi’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “Actually, you already have.” Jinu looked at her curiously. “I spent my whole life keeping this secret, this shame of what I am, and the more I hid this shame, the more it grew and grew until it started to destroy the one thing that gave me a purpose, my voice.”

Jinu listened to her quietly. He was frustrated on your behalf. Rumi spoke with no regard for you or what you were going through by also having to hide this part of yourself. But he couldn’t change the way Rumi felt about her situation.

“But since I’ve met you, and the more I talk to you, become friends with you, I don’t understand it, but somehow, my voice has healed,” Rumi went on.

Jinu listened as she sang.

“I tried to hide but something broke~ I tried to sing, couldn't hit the note~ The words kept catching in my throat~ I tried to smile, I was suffocating though~ But here with you, I can finally breathe~ You say you're no good, but you're good for me~ I've been hoping to change, now I know we can change~ But I won't if you're not by my side~”

There were flaws in her song, holes that made something inside Jinu ache. Rumi was still blinded by illusions. A reality that she wanted but wasn’t hers. And he ached because he was the source of Rumi’s comfort when it came to accepting a part of herself that you shared. It shouldn’t be him there, it should be you. Why couldn’t Rumi just talk to you? Why couldn’t Rumi see that you were hurting?

“Why does it feel right every time I let you in?~ Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?~ All the secrets that keep me in chains, and~ All the damage that might make me dangerous~ You got a dark side, guess you're not the only one~ What if we both tried fighting what we're running from?~ We can't fix it if we never face it~ What if we find a way to escape it?~”

Jinu kept back, keeping his distance from Rumi as she sang of false hope. ‘Escape it’? Escape a part of him that makes him who he is? He doesn’t always like that part of him, but it's still exactly that. A part of him. He couldn’t be so naive as to want to escape it. But he could feel the genuine emotions Rumi was putting into her words, her desire for a friendship like this. Someone who can understand her and see all of her without judgement. And Jinu wanted that too.

“We could be free, free~ We can't fix it if we never face it~ Let the past be the past 'til it's weightless~”

He just didn’t think he would be getting the non-judgemental relationship he wanted from Rumi. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want her friendship. So he opened up a little bit, let a crack shine through to his true self.

“Ooh, time goes by, and I lose perspective~ Yeah, hope only hurts, so I just forget it~ But she’s breaking through all the dark in me when I thought that nobody could~ And she’s waking up all these parts of me that I thought were buried for good~”

You. He told Rumi about you, vague as it was. The girl that reminded him what its like to be human. To care. To love.

“Between imposter and this monster, I been lost inside my head~ Ain't no choice when all these voices keep me pointing towards no end~ It's just easy when I'm with her, no one sees me the way she does~ I don't trust it, but I want to, I keep coming back to~”

And Rumi smiled with understanding. Because she had people like that too. People she wanted to be better for, to be able to open herself up to fully. She and Jinu really were a lot alike.

“Why does it feel right every time I let you in?~ Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?~ We can't fix it if we never face it~ What if we find a way to escape it?~”

The two sang together, voicing their similar hope and wish. To be free to love the people that they do. For all of them to be seen and accepted whole heartedly. No secrets. No lies.

“We could be free, free~ We can't fix it if we never face it~ Let the past be the past 'til it's weightless~”

The two felt like they were floating. Like they could share the deepest parts of them and the other would only accept it with open arms. Like they had known each other for years instead of just a few weeks.

“Oh, so take my hand, it's open (Free, free)~ What if we heal what's broken? (Free, free)~”

The two friends took each other’s hands. If the whole world fell apart and they lost everyone else, at least they would still have each other. Because Jinu knew the dark secrets that Rumi kept hidden from everybody else. And Rumi knew the light hopes that Jinu kept hidden from the world.

“I tried to hide but something broke~ I couldn't sing, but you give me hope~ We can't fix it if we never face it~ Let the past be the past 'til it's weightless~”

The two stood in silence for a moment, Rumi shocked at how strong her voice felt as she sang with Jinu, and Jinu shocked at how quiet his head was. That hadn’t happened around anyone except…you. “I…I don’t hear his voice,” Jinu admitted in his shock. “I’ll make sure the Saja Boys lose tomorrow.”

Rumi’s lips twitched up in a small smile, “Then we’ll both win.” Rumi looked down in consideration, tempted to leave without asking but her curiosity got the best of her. “Who is she?”

Jinu blinked, “Huh?”

Rumi jokingly rolled her eyes. “Who is she?” She repeated. “The girl you mentioned when we were singing?”

Jinu startled, his back straightening as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He hadn’t really thought that one through. “Oh, uh, a girl, just a girl I met, uh, during one of our performances. She…she just sees and accepts all of me,” Jinu told her, a blush on his cheeks.

Rumi was tempted to ask if this girl knew about them being demons but she couldn’t help but internally coo at how bashful Jinu was about this girl he obviously liked. She must be really special. “I’m happy for you, Jinu. If it all goes to plan, you should ask her out.”

Jinu chuckled, “Yeah, only when you finally ask out those two girls.”

Rumi spluttered, her face turning red, “Ah, no, we’re just friends!”

Jinu smirked, crossing his arms smugly, “But you knew exactly what girls I was talking about, didn’t you?”

Rumi only stuttered more, feeling caught, “No, just, they, they’re—ugh, just shut up. You’re so annoying sometimes.” She turned on her heel to leave. She desperately wanted to end this conversation. “Bye Jinu.”

Jinu couldn’t help but want to tell her the truth. About his past. He wanted this friendship with her to be genuine, to share who he really was. “Rumi, wait. I…”

Rumi looked at him expectantly.

“I…” He couldn’t do it. “I can’t wait to see you on that stage tomorrow.”

For you, he would betray Gwi Ma. He couldn’t be selfish. This way, you could live a happy life.

But then, as Rumi left, Gwi Ma summoned him to remind Jinu of the type of person he really was.

~~~

What were the boys fighting about during the Idol Awards?

The boys were tense. They had passed the Huntr/x girls earlier. Their skin crawled with the urge to do something. Just last night, you had been crying on their couch, in their arms, singing to them in your sweet voice about how you had been shoved into a mold that didn’t fit you. And those girls had played a role in it.

But they had to stick to the plan.

The five of them were in their dressing room, ready for their cue. The air was tense. The five of them knew the next part of the plan that had to happen, they had to come up with an excuse not to perform. They had discussed it earlier and decided to stage a fight between them. But it would only be believable if it was about a real topic. None of them wanted to start it.

“Jinu,” Kwan began, a frown on his lips and a furrow in his brow. “Are you really friends with Rumi? The girl who played a direct part in ruining (Y/n)’s life?”

Okay, so they were going with this topic. The other Saja Boys hadn’t gotten to know Rumi like Jinu had so there were definitely…opinions about her.

“You don’t know her, and yeah, she’s not perfect, but she is my friend,” Jinu rebutted.

“Sure, a friend who doesn’t deserve the sister she has,” Jum added fuel to the spark of agitation.

“It’s not like we deserve her either,” Hyeon crossed his arms, saying what they all had been thinking for a while.

Chungae bristled, “That’s not for us to decide, that’s up to her.”

”You know what choice she’ll make, she’s too good for us,” Jinu reminded them all bitterly.

“She is, but this isn’t the way to protect her,” Chungae scowled.

”Then how do you suggest we protect her, huh?!” Jinu burst out. “Please, I’d love to hear some other ideas!”

“This whole thing was your idea, don’t tell us you're tapping out now!” The five devolved into spitting vitriol at each other, whatever came to mind first.

“I’m not letting us all be sealed away, away from her!”

“Well, how do you think this is gonna end?! We’re on different sides!”

“What, and you wanna leave her alone with all these people?!”

A stage hand tried to get their attention, “Boys, you're on in two minutes!”

They continued.

“How are we supposed to protect her, love her when all we do is break everything we touch?!”

“All we can do is our best for her!”

“Our best is never good enough, look where it got us!”

“This is the best we can do for her?! Betraying her and throwing her to the wolves?!”

The stage hand turned to another, “Change of schedule, go and tell Huntr/x that they’re going on.”

Mission success. They separated to ‘get some air.’ The next stage of their plan commenced.

Outtakes:

*Later*

You: *earnestly concerned* “So…what did you guys argue about?”

The Saja Simps: *not wanting to tell you they argued about not being deserving of you* “Uhhh…”

Jinu: “Global warming.”

Chungae: “Nail polish colors.”

Hyeon: “Cats or dogs.”

Kwan: “Is water wet.”

Jum: “The meaning of life.”

You: “…”

You: “Okay, don’t tell me then.”

…

*Meanwhile, with Polytr/x*

Mira: “Why are you so close with Jinu…?”

Zoey: “Yeah, you two are oddly close for someone you’ve known for a few weeks.”

Rumi: “Uhhh…we bonded over our mutual dislike for a side of ourselves and sang about our emotions…?”

Mira and Zoey: *Gasp* “You sang an emotionally revealing and trauma bonding song with Jinu before us?!”

…

Taglist: @brights-place @itmechaosartist @reni502 @chin-chii @cultish-corner @enerofairy @mama-m1na @akariis4snowball @gremlinartstudio @shynotded @shadowmoonlight0604 @omgsuperstarg @neigesprincess @sleep-7372 @hurts-my-brain @kiwibackie @gh0stied3ath @naysha140 @theferretkids @lelantyuu @sexyindependentdowntospendit @hornehlittleweeblet2 @moonymoo1 @moochiwoochi @cheolright @crescent-z @prorpy @mey-archive @cami1qx @nerdalicios @xxsadlovexx @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @blackheart34 @anonymousewrites @scarletrosesposts @justanindiangirl12 @beexboo @tatsuri-zomushiki @call-me-nyxx @queenofviolenceandnerds @randomfan218-blog @jaybbygrl @unholycheesesnack @ocean-mochi @iviorienne @confusedparticle @otakusimp1 @nosbaby07 @fries11 @ri-eveowe @1950schick @libdarkheart @yourjustassaneasiamx @the-bookish-artist @anduinandwrathionlover @eternallyrosyfire @lysira340 @lansy-4 @strayharmony943 @maximumtrashchild @bleufu1 @minepugs @valeriele3 @arieslucy @nisarelle @suzieq1948374 @esposamultifandom

[lillilybells]

Hello, could you please do a reaction of Damian Wayne being defeated by his girlfriend in a fight.😄

Reluctant pride✧₊⁺

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing|damian wayne x reader (feat. the batfamily)

summary|when Damian learns you don’t know self defense he vows to nullify that, the plan goes a little too well.

word count|1157

warnings|minor mentions of trafficking, robbery, sparring? Teenage love.

notes|expansion on the family dinner! series, not sure this is what you asked for anon but hope you like it<3

masterlist

It all started when Damian found out you didn’t know any form of self-defense. He’d been reaching for a batarang mid-conversation when you casually admitted you’d never even thrown a punch before. His hand froze mid-air.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” you replied nervously with a half-smile. “Why?”

He blinked. “You live in Gotham. A young girl who roams around alone. And you don’t know how to defend yourself?” His tone was flat, but his eyes were wide in disbelief.

“Okay, well, now you’re just embarrassing me.”

“I’m embarrassed for you.” He crossed his arms. “You’re lucky the entire criminal underworld hasn’t taken turns trying to rob you blind.”

You huffed, “Not everyone’s born with a katana in their crib, Damian.”

That earned a small smirk, but it didn’t stop him from dragging you into training the very next day.

At first, it had been sweet, almost fun. He was patient, flirty—fixing your stance with gentle hands, teasing you with slow sparring and praise. But it didn’t last.

“If you're going to do this,” he’d told you one day, voice colder, “we’re doing it right.”

From then on, he’d started treating you like he did his actual sparring partners—calculated, relentless, no shortcuts. You understood why. He wanted you safe. But god, did he pick the worst days.

Today was one of them.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

You’d woken up late, skipped breakfast, and dragged yourself through a full day of school hell only to end up—sweaty, tired, and starving—on the padded mats of the Batcave.

“Again,” he said, stepping back into position. His hair was tousled, his jaw already pink from where you'd grazed it earlier. “Your left side's open.”

“Maybe that’s because I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” you muttered, getting up.

“I told you to eat before training.”

“I told you today was a bad day.”

He rolled his eyes. “Criminals don’t take rest days.”

“And my boyfriend apparently doesn’t take hints.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Tt. You’re holding back. You always hold back when you get close to landing a hit.”

You swallowed, wiping your brow. Maybe it was subconscious. Maybe some part of you just couldn’t hurt him, even when he told you to try. But today? You didn’t have the patience for that part of you.

“You have to hit harder. Meaner. A trafficker won’t care that you’re tired. They’ll gut you the second you hesitate.”

That stung more than it should’ve.

So the next round, you stopped pulling punches.

You moved on instinct—fueled by the frustration of your day and the weight of being underestimated. You ducked under his punch, pivoted, then caught him with a quick elbow to the ribs that made him grunt. He smirked.

“Better. Again.”

You came at him with a combo—a jab, fake right hook, then a sweep. He dodged the hook, but the sweep caught him slightly off balance. That was your window. You surged up behind him, wrapped one arm tight around his neck and planted your foot behind his knee, collapsing his stance. With a final push, you twisted and slammed him to the mat, straddling his back as he groaned.

Your breathing was ragged, adrenaline buzzing in your chest. You blinked, staring down at him in disbelief.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Damian’s face was partially smushed into the mat. He let out a slow exhale. “You actually took me down.”

There was a mix of pride, irritation, and grudging admiration in his voice.

“I did…” You smiled wide, still straddling him, and smacked your hands on his back. “I really did!”

He turned his head slightly to grin at you. “You pulled my hair, too. That was low.”

“All’s fair in love and hand-to-hand combat.”

But in a single fluid move, Damian twisted under you and reversed the position, flipping you onto your back and pinning you beneath him with his forearm lightly pressed to your shoulder.

“Next lesson,” he said with a smug smirk, “never let your guard down.”

You stared up at him, eyes wide, heart pounding—both from the fight and the weight of his body on yours.

“…I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He smirked, brushing a piece of hair off your cheek. “But I’m proud of you.”

Bonus: batfamily reaction;

You and Damian weren’t planning to tell anyone.

But that didn’t matter. The Batcave had eyes everywhere.

Literally. There were cameras in the sparring room. You didn’t know that, but they did.

It started subtly at dinner the next night. Everyone was pretending to eat like normal—well, as normal as they could get—until Tim grinned into his glass of water.

“So, Damian,” he said oh-so-casually. “Feeling sore?”

Damian froze mid-bite, fork hovering halfway to his mouth. His eye twitched. “No. Why?”

“No reason,” Tim said, too quickly. Duke tried to smother a laugh with his napkin.

Jason smirked over his burger. “You sure, kid? You’ve been walking like you lost a fight.”

“I didn’t lose,” Damian hissed, glaring at him.

Dick leaned forward, blue eyes wide with mock concern. “Oh no… did something happen in the training room? Like, I don’t know… did someone get thrown to the mat?”

You tried to hide your smile, shrinking into your seat beside Damian. You were so sure he hadn’t told them.

Damian gritted his teeth. “Who told you?”

“Alfred,” Cass said flatly, without looking up from her plate.

“Alfred doesn’t gossip!” you gasped.

“He doesn’t. He just shows us the surveillance footage,” Duke said cheerfully.

“Hey, no shame. I respect it. Not many people can take down the Damian Wayne.” Jason mocked.

“Especially not someone who's barely had three weeks of training,” Tim added, grinning.

“You’re all insufferable,” Damian muttered, stabbing his food.

Bruce, who’d been silent this whole time, finally looked up from the head of the table. “Form was solid,” he said simply.

Damian blinked. “You watched it too?”

“Of course,” Bruce said. “The reversal she pulled was effective. Her stance could use some work on the follow-through, but otherwise—well done.”

You beamed like your crush just agreed to go out with you. “Thanks, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” he corrected you without looking up from his file.

Dick whistled. “Damn. You got B to give you a compliment?”

Damian let out a heavy sigh. “Can we please talk about something else?”

Cass smiled faintly. “You’re just embarrassed.”

“I am not embarrassed.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we rewatched the footage?” Tim offered, already pulling up his tablet.

You shot Damian an apologetic look. “love you.”

He grumbled, cheeks faintly pink. “Tt. I suppose it was impressive.”

Jason leaned over, “keep going— maybe one day she’d be able to take me down”

“You’d never land a hit, Todd.”

“Guess we’ll see. Hey, (name), up for another round?”

Damian stood immediately.

“She’s not sparring with you.”

Everyone broke into laughter.

[yasministration]

humiliated - harry potter

wolfstar!daughter au summary: when harry gets overstimulated from the feeling of the shirt clinging onto his skin whilst he's helping his dad with chores outside, he forgets a very crucial detail before deciding to take it off. wc: 1k cw: suggestive themes

The sun was searing hot, Harry’s skin going slick with sweat as he helped his dad set up the dinner table outside. He didn’t want to complain about the mundane chore, but it was only midday, and dinner was in many, many hours from now. So Harry didn’t understand why they had to do this when the sun was at its strongest.

“This chair is broken. Could you replace it with another one from the shed please Harry?” Harry nodded at his dad’s request, reaching to take the wooden chair from him. Harry huffed, forearms flexing as he folded the chair back up, before making his way into the shed. Reaching for the nearest chair, Harry made sure it wasn’t damaged before joining James again.

Harry put his hands on his hips, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back to take a short break. In the distance, he heard his dad asking something of him, but Harry was running too hot to understand what he was saying, shirt clinging to his skin uncomfortably.

“Sorry, hold on.” Harry mumbled, tone probably more snappy than he intended. James’s eyebrows shot up at his son’s tone, but his face quickly contorted into one of understanding when Harry pulled his t-shirt off. If it were appropriate, Harry would have stripped out of his jeans too. “Right, what did you say?” Harry asked, wiping the sweat off his skin using his discarded garment.

“Do you think we should move the table closer to the lake? Or keep it near the house?”

“It might be nice near the lake. Since most of the Weasleys have never been here before.” James nodded at Harry’s words, patting his pockets to feel around for his wand. Missing. “Well, help me carry the tables over there.”

Harry instantly regretted his decision, but he obeyed anyway, turning around to walk over to the other end of the wooden table.

A loud laugh had him spinning around again to meet his dad’s eyes. James’s face was both amused and shocked, his mouth contorted into a wide smile. “What?”

“Jesus, Harry. You’d think you were attacked by a mountain lion.”

“What are you on about?”

“I’m on about the state of your back.” Harry’s face instantly went red, and he brought a hand to the back of his neck as he chuckled nervously. “I forgot about that.”

James laughed loudly, jerking his chin towards the table. The smile didn’t leave his face as he and Harry carried down the table closer to the lake. Harry avoided his dad’s eyes the entire time, hoping he wouldn’t tell your parents anything. Your parents, a.k.a, his dad's best friends. After all, it was only last night that you’d given Harry these angry scratches on his back. He didn’t know if your nails were extra long or if he’s just been rougher on you than usual, but he felt the pain across his skin the second he woke up, and now, as sweat seeped over the broken skin.

It took a few minutes of painful silence for Harry and James to transport all the outdoor furniture to their designated place. James clasped a hand on Harry’s sweaty shoulder when they were done, and Harry winced in pain at the sharp sting on the fresh marks, but didn’t dare to say a word as they returned indoors.

The two men entered the house just in time for Lily to walk into the living room. “I was just coming to check up on you guys. Are you done?”

Lily didn’t receive an answer to her question, her husband immediately changing the topic of conversation. “Lily Potter, take a look at your son’s back.” “Dad.” Lily furrowed her eyebrows, walking closer to Harry. She put a hand on her son’s shoulder, encouraging him to turn around slightly. She gasped loudly.

“You better get dressed before Sirius and Remus come to help if you want to keep your life, Harry.” Harry’s face went impossibly darker at the comment, and he miserably hid his back from his mum. “I know, I know. I was planning on getting ready now.”

Harry’s face morphed into one of panic as another voice entered the room, calling out from the kitchen. He didn’t know you were already here. “Alright, everything’s in the oven. I was thinking of getting started on chopping the vegetables for the salad while you get-oh, hey!”

“Hi.” Harry’s voice shook as he greeted you. You cleared your throat, licking your lips as your eyes shot between him and his dad, who was smiling a little too widely for your liking. You took in Harry’s appearance, noting the way his cheeks were rosy – beyond the heat – and how his eyes seemed to flit away from yours every couple of seconds.

“You look humiliated.” You told him, eyebrows raising slowly. “Oh, she doesn’t know. You don’t know.” James was elated, breaking into another fit of laughter. “Oh, Harry, show her.” Harry sighed deeply, only following his dad’s plea due to the look of confusion on your face.

“Oh my god, Harry! I’m so, oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Harry smiled softly at your words, watching as you sped towards him, arms extended, but not touching him. Oh, you looked so guilty. Harry cupped your face in his hands, shaking his head at you. “It’s okay, I, it’s okay.” I like it, he tried telling you with his eyes. You huffed, shrugging your shoulders as you whispered “It’s never been this bad.”

Harry grinned now, completely forgetting his parents were in the room. He dipped his face down, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”

“We have arrived!” Harry’s head shot up, eyes widening in panic, and he immediately took off, sprinting in the direction of the stairs. The door to his room slammed shut, and only a second later, your dads entered the living room, carrying grocery bags in each hand.

“What was that about?” Asked Remus, turning his head in the direction that Harry had disappeared in. You shrugged, shaking your head. “No idea.”

“Alright… Lily, do you need any help in the kitchen.” From behind Remus, Sirius’s eyes went wide and he shook his head. “Oh no, Rem. You’re not stepping foot in that kitchen. Go help James with the big boy chores.”

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[ceesimz]

despair in the departure lounge

everybody's had an airport crush at least once in their life.

You weren’t one for flying. Definitely not.

It just didn’t make sense to you how a tin can that heavy could glide through the clouds like it was nothing. And for food to be prepared on it somehow? It was enough to send shivers down your spine at the mere thought of it. 

Over time, though, you found a solution that worked for you. A ritual, of sorts.

Drink just enough to take the edge off, to toe the line of sober and tipsy, but not so much that anyone would notice. Enough to smile politely and not manically, enough to walk in a straight (ish) line– otherwise known as, to you, the sweet spot between functional and thoughtless.

Hence, being posted up in the airline lounge at London Heathrow, a chilled glass of wine – hopefully the first of several – on the table in front of you. You had practically moved in; armchair claimed, bags unzipped haphazardly for no reason, phone charging desperately, and other varieties of personal debris scattered across the area around. And yet, you still had two hours to go until your flight, thanks to some biblical rain as well as a threat of more to come.

Just what you needed to ease your nerves.

So you started drinking your wine, nervous sips large enough to give you heartburn before you even begin walking to your gate when the time finally comes. Or if. 

The lounge was fairly quiet, but that only added to your unease really. Nothing but the clink of steel against ceramic and the muffled murmur of countless languages. Everyone around you looked important in their formal outfits to your… tracksuit. You were the picture of nerves, entire demeanour screaming ‘I don’t know how I ended up here’, though that was the least of your concerns. No, instead, you couldn’t concentrate on anything but the looming threat of your imminent demise in that dreaded tin can you were soon to embark on. An airborne death trap, one could call it.

You finished your first glass concerningly quick, and an ever-so-polite lounge employee came along to whisk it away the moment you placed the empty glass back on the table. You offered an attempt, at least, of a smile, though it probably looked quite pained, before ducking your head in embarrassment as you reached into your bag. Your goal in mind? Trying to feign confidence along with your liquid courage, and that was with a book. Everyone with a book in their hand at an airport always seemed so effortless in their travel, so you’d brought it as some kind of keepsake of those you’d seen before, hoping it might have the same effect on you as it did them.

It was more of an obligation than a belief it would calm you, really. And besides, the destination you were heading to wasn’t exactly the sort you packed books for.

Ibiza.

Honestly. Even months on from RSVP’ing a hesitant yes to your friend’s birthday weekend, you still kicked yourself for accepting the offer. A weekend of alcohol and partying and, the part you dreaded the most, hangovers. You really weren’t sure what part of Ibiza was supposed to be fun.

Outside the low-key lounge, the airport had that same distant hum as the party towns of Ibiza, bustling like it always did as Europe’s busiest; inside, however, was a different story. It was calm, slow-moving, worlds apart from the chaos outside the glass doors. Quiet too, save for the occasional burst of foreign conversations and the battering of fingers against laptop keyboards. 

All you did was watch, observe. It was the only part of airports you genuinely liked. The people, the endless stream of strangers coming and going, each with a whole life outside the terminal. It made you feel small and insignificant, in a way. Like your own life was on pause as you moved from one country to another with hundreds of other lives, also momentarily on pause. 

You just didn’t expect that little bubble of people-watching to be broken by one person you hadn’t yet noticed.

“Excu-” A woman interrupted herself with an unsure clearance of her throat. “Excuse me?”

Nor were you expecting such a jaw-droppingly attractive face behind the voice either.

She spoke delicate English, an accent there you couldn’t quite identify. Internally, you challenged yourself to see how long it’d take you to figure it out.

“Hi! Can I help you?”

You looked at this woman properly, and found her to be decked head-to-toe in Nike gear, aside from the fairly extravagant sunglasses perched on the top of her head even though there was literally no reason to bring them to London. The weather, initially, was always underwhelming. And there were so many people of fame and notoriety in London that there wasn’t any reason at all for someone as similarly insignificant as you to try and blend in. 

Not that she wasn’t physically insignificant (quite the opposite, really) but rather, everyone that ended up in London thought they were someone. When as a matter of fact they were just another person on the tube.

“Um, can I, uh, use your- your… ugh. No sé cómo se dice en inglés.” She muttered the last part to herself, and your challenge was abruptly over. Spanish. “Cargador de móvil?” 

You stared blankly at her. Half out of misunderstanding, half out of awe.

Her eyes–

“Sorry, eh, that?”

You snapped out of your daze and followed her line of sight when she gestured to something.

“Ohh! My phone charger?” 

The relieved smile she replied with was far too dazzling for the simple task of overcoming a language barrier. Then, she held her phone up, clicking the on switch a couple times before dropping her arm to her side with a sigh.

“Gone. It will not turn on.” The brunette woman declared with a disappointed shake of her head, a dramatic thing for what was merely a common mishap.

“Gone?” You teased, unplugging your phone which had a sufficient amount of charge for now, and handing it to her.

“Yes, and I need to do a call.” She explained as she plugged her phone in and the Apple logo came up a second later. “Thank you. It is important.”

“Sit, if you’d like. You don’t have to stand for it. I won’t listen in, I promise.” 

You grinned at her, which she met with one of her own, if not a little sheepish on her behalf. Then, she sat down in the armchair opposite, slumping back into it and expecting at least the slightest bounce back.

It did not. 

A noise, some sort of cross between a grunt and a high-pitched squeal or surprise, left her lips that had you desperately attempting to stifle your laughter.

“Not very comfortable, are they?” You commented, to which she threw you an unimpressed but light look. 

“These are… really bad.” 

There was a comical amount of concern in her voice, matched by the frown to her eyebrows as she shifted to try and find a bearable position in the chair. It caused the laughter to bubble out of you, a sound that halted her in her search and caught her by surprise. Her eyebrows dug themself out of their pit and shot up her forehead, one leg crossing over the other whilst you let out a breath of amusement and rubbed a hand over your face. 

“You pay so much for a ticket, a little extra for the lounge, and they don't even bother putting at least a tiny bit of cushion in their cushions.” She chuckled a few times herself, though her gaze was still hung up on your face, a small sense of disbelief settling within her.

“Pero…” She began with a cheeky smirk. In her pause, the same lounge employee from earlier placed a significantly large glass of wine on the table between you. “They bring wine. Very big.” 

“Don’t judge me, I’m a nervous passenger.” You grumbled, reaching desperately for it and taking a sip. 

The smirk didn't leave her face as she watched you drink, eyes conveying something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Until her phone screen lit up with life again, and she reached for it instantly. Her fingers tapped away at it, a small concentrated scowl on her face, before raising the device to her ear. 

You assumed, since she looked like a rather important person with her Louis Vuitton duffle bag and expensive sunglasses, that she was taking an equally important phone call, which would explain the dire need for a phone charger. The real outcome, however, was actually a pleasant surprise. And a tad funny.

“Hola, mami.” 

Unfortunately, you couldn't help the humoured smirk on your face, something she noticed mid-sentence and waved you off at, with a raise of her eyebrows again for good measure. 

The unknown woman slipped into something that sounded similar to Spanish but not quite, though it was far too fast for you to make an ounce of sense to it. You also said you wouldn't eavesdrop, which you were trying not to do, but the way she addressed her mother with such softness and admiration in her tone, it was hard not to concentrate on how endearing she was.

In an attempt to not do exactly that, you turned your attention back to the book on your lap. Except, you were a hundred or so pages into it and could hardly remember the title of it, nevermind the story itself. Still, you began reading it for the first time since stepping into the lounge, all whilst the woman across from you continued speaking in a quiet, gentle tone that was all too distracting. 

Your eyes trailed along every letter on the page in front of you, re-reading every paragraph three times over before moving on out of boredom. You weren’t retaining a single bit of it. Not with the way she spoke across from you. Letting out shy chuckles every so often, thumb twisting the ring on her middle finger of the same hand as she spoke. Continuously addressing her mother with unparalleled levels of adoration. It was special. 

You had no idea what she was saying, but it felt like an invasion of her privacy. So you tried not to do that, tried your best to remind yourself that anybody could be attractive on a second glass of wine and stressed like hell with the burden of travelling. Simple things like talking to one’s mother is something many people would find charming, and your situation of being stranded in an airport was just a case of… exceptional circumstances. Everybody gets airport crushes, and this was simply a bit of Stockholm syndrome. 

But that’s the thing with airports. They’re the one place you can meet someone for five minutes and remember them forever, or not at all. It was nothing more than a waiting room, in the end. Nothing here was real.

“Sí, mami, et truco quan aterri... I t’escric abans d’enlairar-me... Sí, mami. T’estimo... T’estimo molt, molt... Fins ara... Adéu. Adéu.”

You could imagine the voice on the other side of the call, that of a mother full of love for her daughter and the endless demands that never wilt with age. The woman welcomed them with only an amused smile and more words you couldn’t make sense of but could imagine their importance all the same. She tapped away at her phone for a little while longer, and you ‘returned’ to your book.

That time, you actually managed to read a few pages, before being interrupted once more.

“I am hungry. You want… Do you want anything too?” She wondered politely.

“No, I’m fine with my very big wine, thank you.” You replied with a smile, and she grinned in amusement before walking away, grin not faltering the slightest bit as she went. 

As you cast your eyes back down to your lap, you felt a sudden heat to your cheeks. A heat that you guessed probably had a red and pink tinge to it. A blush you had no business to blush. Well shit.

You stole a quick glance over to where she stood at the bar, one knuckle tapping on the wood top as she spoke to the person behind it. A bottle of beer was placed in front of her, its cap flicking off and performing a wobbling spin before settling. She took a swig and, upon the feeling of somebody watching her, turned to glance around the room.

Her eyes landed on you. The wondering stare lasted only a few seconds, but it felt so much longer. You saw the corner of her lips quirk up, and that same blush returned again, until the odd moment was broken when the person serving her placed a tray down. She lingered on you for just another second before turning away again. You did the same. 

Not ten seconds later she came strolling back over like nothing had happened, bar the smugness to her body language as she sat down much more elegantly this time. Her food of choice, nachos. Along with a bottle of beer.

You don’t know what it was about her, but you couldn’t help yourself. It felt strangely natural with her, even though you didn’t even know her name.

“Nachos and beer? At 2pm?” 

She paused, tortilla mid-way to her lips, mouth agape.

“You have wine. Right there.” She blinked. She got you with that one.

“I told you, I’m a nervous flyer. What’s your reason?” You retorted, reaching out to take a nacho from the tray. She watched your every movement with a glint in her eye.

“I do not have a lot of free time this summer, I have to make… make the most of my free time. Airports are made for beer.” She reached for her bottle as she spoke, taking a swig from it in a way that was far too alluring in such an un-alluring scenario. Delayed flights. Bad weather. 2pm. London Heathrow, for heaven’s sake.

“I’ll let you off then.” You stated, to which you were met with a raised eyebrow in response. 

The silence between you lasted all of a few minutes. You read your book, and she let her eyes wander around the room, foot bouncing restlessly, as she ate and drank. Every so often, she would let out a hum, whether it was contentment or curiosity, you weren’t sure. But it was a habit of hers that had you fighting back a smile and distracted from your book, again.

So when she asked about that very thing, you were a little… hopeless.

“What are you reading?” 

You glanced at her, then away, like you’d been caught out. The woman laughed quietly.

“I am not much of a reader, actually. This is the first time I’ve brought a book to travel, or just picked up a book in a while. I literally couldn’t tell you anything about it.” You admitted with a sheepish shake of your head, and she laughed more.

“You, you need to go back to school again, I think.”

You laughed with her then, your reaction only humouring her further, and before you knew it, the pair of you were in fits of it in the middle of the lounge. A few unimpressed stares were directed your way, but you were completely oblivious. It was a delirious moment, one where, for a minute or two, you weren’t worried about your flight or dreading the days ahead of you. You were just… present. Something that was rare for you, and once the dust had settled and she went back to her beer, it left a feeling of warmth in your chest. Just an echo, but it was there. And god, was it welcomed.

In that lull, your phone buzzed with a text. It was from a friend you were meeting in Ibiza– a single screenshot of a page that was… entirely in Spanish. You couldn’t gauge a single word of it. There was a pretty picture of some cliffs and ocean waves crashing against them above the words, but that didn’t help a thing. Perhaps you did need to go back to school.

“Hey, you’re Spanish, right?” 

Again, she just stared at you. You swore, that time when she blinked, her eyes weren’t even in sync as they did it, she was that perplexed by your question.

“Sí.” She answered with a mischievous lilt to her tone that had you rolling your eyes.

“Can you help me with this? I don’t understand a word of it.” 

She leaned forward in her seat, as did you, when you turned your phone screen so that she could see it. She let out a noise of approval, nodding her head twice like she was impressed.

“It is a booking form for a boat trip. You are going to Ibiza?” You nodded, and she hummed once more. “I like Ibiza.”

“Ugh, you’re one of those people.”

Her nose scrunched in confusion, and it was so distracting you almost missed her next words.

“What do you mean by that?” She said, almost defensively, and you realised how terrible it came across.

“One of those people that act like Ibiza is heaven on earth. It’s hell. It’s full of drunk British people, I can just go to a pub to experience that.” 

“No, no no no. You have been to the wrong places, heard bad things. Ibiza is better than that.” She responded, like she was single-handedly in charge of the island’s PR. “They have good boat trips, good food, quiet towns. Not just drunk British people. The beach clubs are good, but it is more than that. Your boat trip will be good, I have been on that one before.” 

Not that you paid an ounce of attention to what she was saying about Ibiza’s advantages, that was. There were much more interesting things to concentrate on, like the expressive hand gestures and facial expressions that went along with her rambling. You still didn’t know her name.

“Okay, Miss Ibiza. Do I get to know your name or shall I just call you that?” With another shake of her head, she chuckled under her breath again.

“Alexia.” 

You replied with your own name, and Alexia paused, as if weighing something up. Then, she smiled coyly, grabbed her bottle of beer, and shuffled forward to the edge of her seat so she could reach forward. You met her halfway, picking up your wine glass and raising it to hers.

“To… delayed flights and departure lounges.” She hummed, again.

“Y… es un placer conocerte.” Her smile turned into a smirk before your very eyes, and it was a quick development that nearly stole your breath from right under you.

If you lingered on it for too long, you feared you might have blushed again. So you moved on.

“Where are you flying to, Alexia?” 

Just the mere sound of you saying her name flustered her slightly. Nevermind the way you looked at her over the rim of your glass and felt it land somewhere low in her stomach, having to remind herself to stay composed after it.

“Home.” Nothing more than that. She was a little infuriating, you were beginning to learn.

“And where is home?” She inhaled deeply and tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Guess.” 

Really?

“Umm… Madrid?” 

Her face fell.

You’d never seen such despair on someone’s face before. Your heart stopped for a second– not from anything romantic and exciting, but from utter fear.

“Ay. No. Never.” Alexia answered dramatically, and you couldn’t help but laugh. When you did, it sounded like she started mumbling a prayer under her breath, and it just amused you more. “Barcelona is my home. Not Madrid.”

“You told me to guess, so I just went for the capital. How was I supposed to know?” You argued your case, though she was still deep in her anguish.

“Do I look like I am from Madrid?” She asked with genuine worry. You weren’t to know for sure, but you don’t think yet more laughter was the answer she was looking for. “I am serious!”

The quiver of her lips as she fought off a smile said the opposite, but you were none the wiser to the cause of it being the soft spot she had for hearing you laugh.

She couldn’t recall a more refreshing encounter than this one with you for quite some time in her life. You didn’t know her, didn’t expect anything of her. Didn’t ask for any favours in return like a signed shirt or a video message or something of the sort. You just… welcomed a stranger with open arms and let her be. Made her laugh too. Even if you did unknowingly mistake her for a Madrilena.

For her, nowadays, the smallest gestures meant the world to her. Even if they were given in an airport lounge where, in less than an hour, she’d have to say goodbye to you. The idea that that might be for good was gut-wrenching in ways she didn’t understand. 

Something her mother had taught her though, was that things that made her happy didn’t have to make sense to her or anyone else at all. She learnt that the hard way during her injury; having to find joy in learning to walk again as an adult felt like an impossible task, until she had to do it for the second time after the second surgery. Since then, the little things, what others might deem unimportant and simple, were everything. And her mother had never been wrong before with her advice, so perhaps there was something that could be done with her current situation.

How strange it was to feel something so deep and infinite in a place built around departures.

“Well, what on earth pulled you away from the beautiful weather there to the rain here?” 

It was easy talking to you, and that might have been the thing she adored most about the random encounter. Thank god for the terrible battery life longevity on Apple phones.

“A concert. My favourite artist. I came with a friend but she changed her decision last night for…” Her eyebrows pressed down into a frown again. “Eh, what is that word? People say it now, uh… not a relationship, but-”

“A situationship.” You supplied with a teasing glance.

“Sí, that.” She grimaced. “I don’t know what is happening between them two. Not my business.”

Thankfully for Alexia, you moved the conversation on from situationships, and instead started talking about just… anything and everything. From the concert she attended – she was a huge Beyoncé fan, apparently – to your favourite kind of wine and her favourite kind of beer, where to find the best paella in Ibiza, and even to the deepest topics like favourite colours and whether you believed in fate or destiny. Either of the two would do for you both, you found.

You didn’t make a dent in your second glass of wine– it stayed right where it was when you put it down after toasting with Alexia. You didn’t need it. Something about her company was calming, and grounding. You didn’t people-watch, you could hardly tear your attention away from her. And that felt like something quite important in its subtlety. You stopped watching the people around you the second she caught your eye. 

Her phone still sat on charge between you, her empty tray of nachos was collected, though nothing changed for an hour straight. You both stayed, you chatted, you laughed. You shared quiet moments, stealing glances when one checked their phone or simply looked around the room. Never before had you had a run-in like it with a stranger, but as time went on, that description didn’t fit for her. Or for you.

Neither of you knew what it was or what it would be. Whether it would be anything at all, and that was terrifying, for some reason. More terrifying than your flight or a weekend in Ibiza. Her smile, one of solitude that conveyed a life full of motion and noise but not always company, was so inviting. Yet left you with too many questions than you had the time to ask. 

There was no handbook on situations like this, just the daunting task of figuring things out for yourselves. So many possibilities and roads to take, such little chance for success in a place full of fleeting moments.

Alexia couldn’t bear it, perhaps more than you. Not just the leaving, even though that was a terrible thought. It was the acknowledgment that it had been something special between you both, something sacred, even if it had no name, and that it might never happen to her again. She had no idea how you’d unravelled her so softly in such a silent, unlikely way. Somehow, you had reached a part of her most people never did. Not unless they’d known her for years, or had known exactly what points to strike because of rumours and secrets passed between people unworthy of those parts of her. In an airport, of all places. Just her luck really.

She tried not to let it show, but you rattled her in a particular way that she knew would haunt her later. Unless she did something about it. 

You weren’t supposed to mean anything, as per the stupid underlying societal rules set for scenarios like this. They were described as fleeting for a reason. She wanted more time, she wanted to stay and talk, she wanted to sit in that godforsaken chair forever. Not to make sense of it, she wasn’t sure if she ever could, but just to sit with you. 

To stay in that little pocket of time where nothing was expected of her and everything felt oddly possible. But flights don’t wait, not like in the movies, and she had a summer of football calling her name.

Her gate was called whilst you were in the bathroom. And she wasn’t one for being late, even in one-in-a-billion situations like this.

She put on her backpack, slung her duffle bag over her shoulder. Then paused. Reached into the front pocket of her bag to search for two things, only coming up with one. Her eyes glanced over the table and had to settle for her next best bet. So she grabbed it, clicked her pen to life, and scribbled as well as she could on the thin tissue. Fortunately enough for her, her handwriting didn’t come out half as bad as she worried it would. 

The second you rounded the corner of the bathroom corridor and saw her with her bags in hand, your heart stopped for a second. Your breath hitched, knees went weak, all those terribly cliche things. You rushed over like she could disappear at any moment.

“Your gate got called?” You asked, slightly breathless, as soon as you got close enough. She nodded solemnly, a tight, pursed lip smile on her face as she did so. “Oh. Well, I guess… you have to go then.” 

Your shoulders were tense again, carrying twice the weight then they did the whole time Alexia had been with you, and your hands fidgeted where they were clasped in front of you like you were anxious again. Alexia assumed it was your flying nerves coming back to bite you again now that your distraction was leaving. 

But as she spoke, a single sentence of advice, it was like her subconscious knew the real reason you were acting like that.

“The worst part is always before you leave.” 

You had no reply for that. It sat there between you for a couple quiet moments, before you were winded with the double meaning of it. Alexia must have realised too, judging by the sudden, sharp exhale she let out a second after. 

You weren’t sure what to do then, so Alexia decided for you once more. Her arms lifted and opened for you to walk into, which was exactly what you did. It was a hug that lasted far too long for a first meeting, but it was an embrace that suffocated you wholly in a way you weren’t sure was possible. Though, with her, it didn’t surprise you. There was something about her, and it killed you that you didn’t have enough time to figure out what it was.

“I never usually talk to strangers like this, you know.” She murmured into your ear before pulling away.

She stepped back the slightest bit and readjusted the bag that hung off her shoulder. It took a while for your brain to kick into gear again, but when it did, Alexia could see in your eyes that you were about to tease her once more. How she had come to recognise the signs so quickly, after just one meeting, she had no idea.

“Well, you only spoke to me for my phone charger, so that still applies.” She chuckled that same sweet sound you liked, her heart too sore to make it anything more than that. You softened. “Thank you for talking to this stranger though. You took my mind off my flight rather than me sitting here, rocking back and forth anxiously for two hours. It’s been… nice getting to know you.” 

Alexia swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. She wasn’t about to cry, not quite that, but there were enough emotions swirling inside her for her to have to force them down.

“You are nice to know.” She landed on, internally grimacing at how odd it sounded. 

Until you blushed again, like you had so many times since she first came over to you. It struck her heart once more, but it was something she was rather smug about. She grinned, and it made you blush harder, so you ducked your head to try and hide it. She laughed. Freely and carelessly, and it was the most delightful sound you’d ever heard. Naturally, that meant it had to be ruined when her gate was called once more.

There was a brief (because it had to be) period of silence between you after that, where you just gazed at one another. Trying to memorise the other’s face for the daydreams that would follow you both everywhere once Alexia eventually left. You weren’t sure what could be said to make things easier, yet she tried anyway.

“This is just an airport thing, right?” 

It might have sounded harsh, like the exact reminder you didn’t want. But she said it sarcastically, as if to try and make light of a moment that was so dark for you both. You laughed, because there was nothing else you could do. Alexia gave a sad smile that you mirrored when your laughter died down. She held your gaze for a bit longer, before stepping around you and leaving your sight. 

The ink-dotted napkin she slipped into your bag without your knowledge said otherwise to her last words for you. All departures lead somewhere, after all.

—

just a lil something i came up with whilst listening to this song and dissociating on the drive home from the gym a week back😋 hope you enjoyed it, do let me know your thoughts if you have any <3

[ikeu05]

SUGAR, HONEY ✮ SEXY BABY

𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 。 where your boyfriend's mother suggests to get ribbed condoms because you only deserve luxury

✸ jungwon x fem!reader 2.2k suggestive / smut ( mdni ) established relationship! au ୨୧ protected sex ( applause cheering clapping ) mentions of crying / tears p in v wooooo

yn peeled off her sweater, now warm from the apartment heat, and tossed it on the bed, left in just her bra as she bent down to grab the top she wore the previous day, just before jungwon decided she was staying over. and before his mother decided to fly in from korea to surprise him with a visit!

she had just slipped one arm through when the door creaked open. jungwon stepped in, drying his hands on a dish towel, only to pause immediately at the sight.

he leaned against the frame, eyebrows raised. “well, damn.”

she didn’t flinch—just glanced at him over her shoulder with a smirk. “you walked in on purpose.”

“maybe.” he dropped the towel carelessly onto the dresser and crossed the room to her, slow and deliberate.

his hands found her waist first, warm against her bare skin as he pulled her into him from behind, his lips brushing over her shoulder lightly. “so,” he murmured, voice low and amused, “what do you think?”

“about what?” she asked, but her breath hitched when his fingers slid just under the waistband of her sweatpants.

he grinned, kissing the side of her neck now. “about testing out those condoms my mom apparently recommends.”

she let out a soft laugh, pressing back slightly against him. “you’re insane.” she recalled the rather interesting conversation at breakfast, his mother praising their relationship and hoping they were staying safe with whatever.

“i hope you kids are using protection! make sure they’re ribbed, won. she deserves luxury.”

“i’m curious,” he said, mouthing at her jaw now. “i mean, ribbed for luxury? that sounds like an experience.”

she turned in his arms slowly, her shirt still only halfway on, hands pressed against his chest now. “i mean she did she she wanted grandkids after fifty..”

“exactly!” he pecked her lips, a lewd sound echoing in their ears. “and we’re just… stress testing the theory,” he replied with a grin, ducking down to kiss her again—this time deeper, slower.

she kissed him back for a long moment, her fingers curling into his shirt.

then she pulled back slightly, eyes gleaming. “we have an hour before lunch.”

he raised an eyebrow. “that’s plenty of time.”

“and you have exactly five minutes to lock the door.”

he was already moving. “baby, i’ll deadbolt it.”

jungwon practically tripped over his own feet as he backed toward the door, spinning the lock with a sharp click, then turning the deadbolt for good measure. “there,” he said, voice low and a little breathless already. “no interruptions. unless my mom somehow drills a hole through the wall in the next ten minutes.”

yn was still standing by the bed, shirt hanging off one arm, cheeks flushed but eyes alight with mischief. “you better hope she doesn’t. you’ll never recover.”

he stalked toward her again, slower this time, letting his eyes drag over her figure—bare waist, soft curves, the lace of her bra peeking under the half-draped shirt. “too late,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around her again. “already ruined for life.”

she hummed, tilting her head up to meet his mouth as he kissed her again—deeper this time, slower. his hands slid along her spine, fingers pressing gently into the small of her back as he pressed her to him.

“you always get like this when your mom leaves,” she teased against his lips.

“you always look like this when you’re trying to leave.”

he didn’t even bother asking anymore—his hands moved with certainty, slipping her shirt fully off and tossing it behind him somewhere. her hands curled around his hoodie, tugging it up, and he raised his arms to let her pull it off in one fluid motion. she took a second, palms resting on his chest, fingers tracing over his skin as she looked up at him.

“i can’t believe your mom said that,” she murmured, smiling against his jaw. “i’ll never look her in the eye again.”

“i think it made you like her even more.”

“i already liked her. now i just know she has zero filter.”

“she’s right, though,” he whispered, hands gliding down her hips. “we are adults. and we should be responsible.”

she grinned, nipping his lower lip. “so responsible.”

he stepped back just slightly, only to reach into the drawer next to his bed, rifling through with one hand until he pulled out a small box.

he held it up, smirking. “look what i picked up after breakfast.”

she raised an eyebrow. “you really went out and bought them?”

“hey, i’m nothing if not obedient,” he said, tossing the box onto the bed and reaching for her again. “besides, it felt… poetic.”

“you mean horny.”

he laughed, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her easily onto the bed, her legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. “that too.”

they kissed again, slower now—no rush despite the ticking clock. his fingers brushed along her bare waist, her skin soft and warm under his touch. she tugged at his waistband playfully, murmuring into his mouth, “you’ve got twenty minutes before we have to act like we weren’t doing this.”

“i only need ten,” he replied smugly.

she pulled back, laughing breathlessly. “you better not.”

he kissed her again—smirking, warm, greedy. “then i’ll go slow.”

her breath hitched as his lips moved along her jaw, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world—even though they very much did not. but that was always the thing with jungwon. even when the clock was ticking, even when plans were made or people were waiting, he had this way of making her feel like nothing else existed except her. like she was the only thing in the room worth slowing down for.

“ten minutes, huh?” she murmured, fingers curling around the hem of his sweats. “you talk a big game, wonnie.”

he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, breath warm on her lips. “it’s not the length that matters, baby,” he said, grinning wickedly, “it’s the intention.”

she rolls them over with a laugh, climbing on top of him in one smooth motion. “you’re so annoying.”

“and yet…” he let his hands settle on her thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of her shorts. “you’re still here. practically undressed.”

“you caught me mid-change!” she defended, eyes sparkling.

he raised a brow, hands sliding higher. “and yet… you haven’t moved to finish changing.”

her smile faltered into something softer, more dangerous. “maybe i was waiting for an excuse.”

“oh?” he sat up slightly, bringing them chest to chest, her legs now straddling his lap. “and what excuse did you need, huh?”

“you,” she whispered.

that shut him up for a moment.

he kissed her again, slower this time, as if trying to memorise her mouth all over again—every soft sound she made, every shift in her breathing. she melted into it, arms looping around his neck, pressing close. one of his hands gripped her thigh while the other slid up her back, fingers ghosting over the clasp of her bra.

“you’re really not gonna make it to lunch on time if you keep kissing me like that,” she murmured, teasing.

he smiled against her skin. “worth it.”

her bra came off with a quiet flick of his fingers, tossed somewhere behind him as she sucked in a breath. his mouth moved down, kissing along her collarbone, down the curve of her chest, tongue flicking teasingly over her nipple as she gasped.

she bent down to kiss him again, hips rolling into his, body arching as her nails dug lightly into his shoulders.

her hands moved slowly to his biceps, nails digging through his toned muscles as his mouth kissed a burning trail down her chest. her head tilted back, lips parted in a soft gasp when his teeth grazed lightly against her skin—playful but purposeful, like he knew exactly where to bite to get her squirming.

“wonnie,” she whispered, the word barely a sound but weighted with need. her fingers curled in his hair, tugging gently.

he hummed in response, low in his throat, lips brushing the curve just below her breast before finally making his way back up. he hovered above her now, eyes dark and focused, his smirk faded into something deeper—hungrier.

“i love when you say my name like that,” he muttered, kissing the corner of her mouth. “all soft. all breathy.”

she arched up into him with a quiet laugh, hands sliding down his stomach. “you love yourself too much.”

“i love you too much,” he corrected, catching her mouth in another kiss—this one longer, his tongue brushing against hers, slow and claiming. “that’s the problem.”

she felt like she could drown in him. the heat of his body against hers, the pressure of his weight, the way his touch was never rushed even when they were on a deadline. he kissed like he had all the time in the world, like she was worth every second of it.

she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, her voice low. “i want you.”

he breathed out a soft curse, his forehead pressing to hers. “yeah?”

she nodded, fingers already tugging at the waistband of his sweats. “now.”

his mouth was on her again before she could say anything else, lips dragging down her neck, teeth scraping lightly over her pulse point as his hand dipped beneath her waistband, sliding over the lace between her thighs. she gasped, hips jerking into his palm, and he groaned at the feeling of her—already warm, already wet, already unraveling for him.

“fuck,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to her collarbone. “you do things to me, baby.”

she let out a quiet whimper, back arching. “then do something about it.”

that was all the permission he needed.

in one swift motion, he pulled off her shorts and underwear, tossing them somewhere onto the floor with everything else. his own sweats followed quickly after, the thin foil packet already torn open and ready. he slid the condom on with practiced ease, his hands steady even as his breath came short and rough.

when he leaned over her again, he took a second—just one—fingers brushing her cheek.

“you sure?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing over the apple of her cheek, flushed from excitement now.

she nodded, pulling him down for another kiss. “always.”

his fingers toyed with her slick for a second, middle finger running down her slit, both of them groaning at the feeling. he held her open, pushing into her slow—so slow it almost hurt. her breath hitched, hands fisting the sheets beside her. he kissed her through it, murmuring soft nothings against her lips, her jaw, her shoulder.

“relax, baby,” he whispered, one hand on her hip, the other gripping her thigh. “i’ve got you.”

and he did.

he moved slow at first, letting her adjust, letting her feel every inch of him. her legs wrapped tighter around him, hips rising to meet his as her breath quickened. his name fell from her lips again and again—sometimes in soft whimpers, sometimes in broken gasps, always full of want.

“look at me,” he murmured, voice rough as he rocked into her. “i wanna see your face when i’m inside you.”

her eyes fluttered open, lashes wet with tears she didn’t realise had built from the overwhelming closeness. he kissed her again—slow, deep—and the rhythm between them became something heavier, something that hummed beneath their skin.

their bodies moved in sync, a messy tangle of skin and limbs, gasps and whispers filling the room like a quiet storm. he slid one hand between them, thumb circling over her, and she cried out, her back arching completely off the mattress. he took advantage immediately, mouth latching onto her nipple, sucking gently it made her eyes roll back.

“i—jungwon,” she gasped, hands clutching at his back. “i’m—”

“i know, baby,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers. “come for me, baby.”

she did—eyes squeezed shut, body trembling around him as a rush of warmth and pleasure tore through her. he cursed again, breath stuttering, following her right after with a deep groan, his body shuddering as he spilled into the condom.

the room was quiet except for their ragged breathing. the afternoon sunlight spilled through the curtains, golden and soft, dancing along their tangled limbs. he collapsed onto her for a moment, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

after a few moments, he shifted, kissing her shoulder and pulling out gently, careful not to let the moment crash too hard.

yn let out a quiet laugh, dazed and flushed. “so…”

he looked up, brow raised, a lazy grin on his lips. “still mad that my mom's staying two months?”

she groaned, dragging a pillow over her face. “she’s never letting this go.”

“she better not,” he said, tossing the used condom into the bin and collapsing beside her. “she’ll take all the credit.”

she turned to face him, cheeks red, voice barely a whisper. “you think she heard us?”

he just smirked, pulling her in close again. “i hope so.”

she slapped his chest—lightly.

he caught her wrist, kissed her palm, then held her hand against his heart. “ten minutes,” he said smugly.

yn rolled her eyes. “yeah, yeah.”

but she was already smiling.

nessie 🗯️ i <3 jungwon smut IAAJHJ need him rlly bad actually like i don't even think it's the hair anymore ....

tag𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 drop a comment down or send me an ASK to be a part of my taglist <3

[sabxynsweet]

yessss another jealous!sweetheart reader pls

sweetheart!reader gets jealous again (w situationship!mattheo)

sweetheart!reader getting jealous pre-situationship here !! thank you for your request & also other anon for the request <3

"Mattheo and the new girl." "Mattheo and the new girl." "Mattheo and the new girl."

You’re pretty sure you’re four minutes away from flinging one of your shoes at someone’s head because every scatter of conversation or chatter of gossip today has included this phrase. "Mattheo and the new girl".

Ever since a brand new Slytherin joined Hogwarts.

You spent the entire day ignoring the pitying looks people gave you in the hallways and the shared whispers you were not apart of.

It’s not like you could actually ask him about it, even if you worked up the courage to, because you haven't really seen much of Mattheo today.

It's a Tuesday, which means you don't share any classes with him.

You woke up late, leading to you skipping breakfast and you had intended to miss lunch, anyway, due to a project.

When that project ended sooner then expected, though, you walked into the great hall and there she was - the new girl - at the Slytherin table sitting next to Mattheo while laughing with his friends.

Even Pansy was laughing with her - you'd hate to admit it but that hurt just a little bit more.

So, like you typically do, you ignore the problem and run away from your fears - that everyone is right and Mattheo has simply just become bored of you now, moving on to the next cooler girl.

You only wish he had the decency to tell you.

You ignore Mattheo at lunch, hiding in the crowd of the Hufflepuff table. You grip your pen extra tight during classes when you think about him and her. You tap your shoes incessantly against the wood floors at the prospect of losing him.

When your final class ends, you're ready to go back to your dorm to listen to music while hysterically crying yourself to sleep.

But of course Mattheo couldn't even let you have that because when you open your locker, you find a note on a pink heart post-it. One that was most certainly yours to begin with.

Sweetheart,

movie night in my dorm later

MR

He had not only stolen your stack of post-it notes but also broke into your locker. You frown in confusion at the "date".

He's being very normal, does he think you haven't heard yet?

You scold yourself internally for getting excited about the idea of seeing him after an entire Mattheo-less day.

We're mad at him. You remind yourself.

You roll your eyes, shoving your books, stationary and the note into your bag before slamming your locker door shut. Lacking the softness you normally hold.

You practically storm your way to the Slytherin common room, your heels clicking loudly against the floor.

When the door opens before you, you hear them before you see them.

Right in front of you is Mattheo and the new girl talking about something. You swear if looks could kill they'd both be somewhere even the dark lord couldn't find them.

The door slams behind you, getting the attention of the two of them.

When her eyes fix on you, you’re prepared to fight.

You hands grip onto each other and you try not to get intimidated by how much taller she is, or how scary she looks.

It's okay. You took, like, one martial arts class. You can fight her.

She walks over to you slowly, her eyes running over you - like she's studying you.

You cower slightly. You expect a punch or confrontation. At the very least a very mean sneer that will make you sob. Oh, God, what if you sob in front of the entire Slytherin common room again.

But instead of all those things, her face breaks into a wolfish grin - one that replicates Mattheo’s.

“Hello.” She practically purrs. You tilt your head in confusion.

The girl resembles someone, with her ebony black hair and dark emerald eyes but you can't really place your finger on it.

She continues in your direction and your eyes flicker to Mattheo who’s just watching with amusement and crossed arms.

She gently takes a hold of your tie, examining it. “What’s a pretty Hufflepuff like you doing in a snakes’ den, hmm?” She says, your eyes widen.

Your lips part to say something but nothing comes out, this is not what you expected.

“Alright, Diane, that’s enough.” He says, he walks towards the two of you swiftly before wrapping his arms around you protectively. Diane rolls her eyes.

You look up at Mattheo with wide eyes filled with confusion, you expect his eyes to be angrier - or maybe just equally as confused as yours - but instead the ends of his lips curl into the smallest of amused smiles.

“Sweetheart, meet Diane Lestrange.”

Your brows furrow. “Lestrange as in…”

“His cousin.” She finishes for you with a smug grin.

Oh. Oh. The resemblance clicks in your head finally. Though she looks very different from Mattheo on a whole, they certainly have very similar features, or at the very least they have the same energy.

You breathe out a soft breath before quickly snapping into your usual self, you smile sweetly before extending your hand out.

“I’m-“ She shakes her head before you can introduce yourself.

“No need for introductions, everyone here has told me quite enough about you.” Diane waves you off before giving a pointed look at Mattheo who simply shrugs unapologetically. You tilt your head.

“Though, I can understand why." She smirks again, staring you down, "I didn’t know someone so sweet could exist but, clearly, I was mistaken."

She makes a move to kiss your hand but Mattheo quickly drags you behind him.

“Easy, Diane, this one’s mine.” His tone is soft enough, knowing she wouldn't actually make a move on you but stern enough that she backs down.

She pouts. “Fine.”

She winks at you one last time before moving away to flirt with someone else, you guessed.

Mattheo turns to you fully now.

“Hi Baby.” He mumbles, in the low tone he only really used with you.

“Hi.” You say, warming up to him again. “Diane seems nice."

He smirks as you fumble through your sentence. "You didn't tell me your cousin was transferring - well, you never told me you had a cousin.”

“She’s not transferring. She’s here for the week - exchange program.” You hum in acknowledgment.

“You know, I missed you today.” He says, brushing a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “I hardly got to see you.”

“I missed you too.” You say.

You pray that he doesn’t realise you were avoiding him the entire day but when the slightest trace of a smirk forms on his face, you pray he doesn’t bring it up.

He snorts. “Don’t even, you were avoiding me all day.”

“I was not!”

“You so were and you know why.”

You cross your arms, playing difficult.

“Why?”

“Come on, Sweetheart, I saw the look in your eyes earlier at lunch. You were totally jealous.”

"I was not jealous." You insist, before adding, "You saw me at lunch?"

"You're easy to spot." You didn't need to know that he looked up every time the door swung open, hoping it was you, or that he saved his fruit cup for you in case you came back.

He chuckles. "My jealous girl." He teases.

You swat his hand away, he laughs.

He cups your head, leaning in to whisper in your ear, a small grin forming on his face.

"You know." He mumbles, in that low tone again that makes your knees weak, "You have no reason to be jealous, ever."

"I am so hopelessly, tragically, yours."

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls @fayezasstuff @glittervame @wxnterwidow333 @thalibaby @cminoko @blainea98 @randomfanpage @megzz-x @peterparkerspersonalplaything @kiessecretcove @kiesrepostarchive

[mrspiastri]

✩ angel baby ?? 👼

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, a little bit more fluff, tiny bit angsty nothing tooo bad

wc: 2.9k words

an: IM BACK BITCHES, based on this req!

When this debate had started, you could not remember, but now you were trying your best to not show how red your face looked as you laughed along with the rest of the table.

It was a regular post-race dinner, and Carlos was talking about how he couldn’t think of dating a fan of his.

“I just don’t think I could. I mean, what if they only like me for the fame, you know?”

You didn’t think much of it until your own boyfriend chimed in.

“Me too; it would weird me out, y’know?”

Now, you should have probably mentioned this to Lando at some point during the beginning of your relationship. But to be fair, he never asked, and you’d also only been dating for 8 months—so is it really such a crime to have not told him? You’d never found the chance to tell him you were a major fan of his prior to you meeting.

Of course, you recognised him when you first met—which was at a dinner party hosted in his honour for the company you worked at, who happened to be one of McLaren’s sponsors.

You internally tried your best to not lose your mind when you saw him, choosing to hide with your colleagues as they teased you for how worked up you seemed.

But what you hadn’t expected was for him to walk over to you with two flutes of champagne and then spend the entire night in conversation, with him even sneaking out early with you to get gelato and walk you home.

Ever the gentleman, he made sure to get you home safe and even waited till you reached your apartment—but not before getting your number and a promise that you’d meet him for lunch the next day.

You didn’t sleep a wink that night, too overwhelmed at the idea of going out to lunch with maybe your favourite male celebrity. And if there was a mini helmet of his from Silverstone 2024 on your bedside table, that was nobody’s business but your own.

Okay, maybe you weren’t a psycho stalker fangirl or whatever, but you did know your way around the fandom. You could list all his wins in chronological order, his podiums at each circuit, and could claim to be an owner of at least 4 (!) ln4 hoodies.

You never really admitted you used to be a fan because it was plainly embarrassing. Not to mention, it wasn’t like you actively hid it; you just didn’t care enough to remember.

Now, however, with him talking about not dating a fan, you couldn’t help but sip your wine a bit nervously as you nodded along. It was safe to say you and Lando were still in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, but honestly neither of you ever thought it would stop.

To say you were enamoured by each other was an understatement, especially with the man completely wrapped around your finger—you could ask him for the world, and he’d show up with it and the stars too.

But with this new revelation, you weren’t sure how to really bring up the topic.

🪻🪻🪻

The next morning, after Lando woke you up to the scent of eggs frying and coffee being brewed, you decided to bring your line of questioning forward. He placed your plate in front of you along with your morning latte, and in that moment you tried to bring up last night’s conversation as nonchalantly as possible.

“So, last night was kind of silly, huh?’

“Whaddya mean?” He replied through a mouthful of toast.

"You know, the whole 'I’d never date a fan' thing you and Carlos were talking about. ” You took a sip as you tried to not make eye contact.

“How was that silly?”

“Like, it’s a bit childish, no? What’s wrong with being with a fan?”

“It’s just weird; like, how do I know you’re not with me because of the fame and all that?” Lando argued.

You didn’t have a response to that without sounding weird for arguing over the subject, so you let it go.

Lando, however, didn’t.

He didn’t think much of it at first. He had just shrugged and continued eating, too focused on trying not to burn his tongue on the eggs he insisted on making for you every Saturday morning.

He found it kind of funny at first. The way you suddenly seemed defensive over the topic. He didn’t think too much of it in the moment, but after he kissed your cheek and cleared your plate, he caught himself thinking about it again as he stood at the sink, running water over your empty mug.

But later, while you were out on the balcony, curled up with your laptop and replying to emails, Lando stood in the kitchen drying a mug and thinking about what you’d said.

He played the memory back in his head more times than he’d admit, narrowing in on the way you fidgeted with your coffee spoon, how you didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t like it when you looked unsure, especially not around him.

Still, life carried on. He flew off to another race weekend while you stayed back to finish a big work presentation, and your FaceTime calls stayed as sappy and full of inside jokes as ever. If anything, he only missed you more.

He didn’t bring up the fan thing again, not when he had you smiling sleepily at him over a video call at 1 am, wrapped in your fluffy robe with your hair still damp from a shower.

He didn’t even think about it when you sent him a care package to his hotel, with snacks and vitamins and a small note that said “you got this, superstar.” He even found himself re-reading that note like a lovesick idiot while sitting in the team garage between sessions.

You, on the other hand, were doing your absolute best not to spiral. The guilt wasn’t huge, but it was persistent, like a little pebble in your shoe. You’d been such a fan, not just a casual “oh yeah, he’s a good driver” kind of fan.

You were active on Twitter, defending him to the death, posting edits of him and liking every one of his photos that came on your timeline.

But you’d changed; that version of you had been real, but so was this one. The same girl who had Lando's toothbrush in her bathroom and who knew exactly how he liked his tea. You weren’t faking anything.

Still, something about admitting the truth just felt risky. What if he took it the wrong way? What if he thought the whole relationship was some long game, like you’d schemed your way into his life?

So you didn’t tell him. And time passed.

You watched more races, cheered from the sidelines or from the hotel room, always with your heart in your throat. You memorised his travel schedule better than your own. You kissed him good luck in the mornings and held him close at night when he was too tired to speak. And Lando just fell harder.

Every time he saw you waiting for him in the paddock, holding out your arms for a hug and smiling like he was the only one in the world, he swore he’d never get used to it. He was so gone for you.

🪻🪻🪻

“Don’t you get bored of me always talking about racing?” Lando questioned you as you shared a bowl of popcorn while watching some of his racing clips. He liked doing that sometimes; it was a way for him to check his mistakes while also being able to observe his victories.

“If I were bored of racing, I don’t think I’d be in a relationship with a racing driver, now would I?” You quipped, flicking his forehead affectionately.

He simply smiled at you, one of his signature cheesy grins, as he laid his head down on your lap.

You softly brushed your fingers through his curls, at the risk of him whining about you messing with the products he spent 20 minutes applying this morning.

The two of you were fixated on the screen, your eyes concentrated on his car zooming down the straights.

“Wait, which race are we watching again?” He questioned as he reached for the remote.

“Monaco 2022”. You replied deftly, popping a few kernels into your mouth.

Lando had a slightly amused look on his face, not expecting you to be so engrossed, but happy nonetheless.

“God, this one still makes me nervous,” you muttered, watching a particularly intense on-track battle.

Lando looked over at you, eyebrows raised. “Still?”

You froze. “I mean, it was a good race. Real classic, y’know?”

“You watched this live?”

You tried to smile casually. “Sure. With some friends.”

His eyes narrowed just a bit, suspicious but intrigued. “Wait, how do you even remember this overtake?”

You shrugged. “I guess I was into racing.”

“You were a fan.” He said it slowly, like the idea was just now clicking into place. “Of me.”

You didn’t say anything. Just pulled the blanket up higher and stared at the screen, hoping he’d move on. But he turned to face you fully, grinning now.

“No way. Wait, no. You were. That’s why you brought it up over breakfast months ago. You were embarrassed.”

“I wasn’t,” you mumbled, cheeks heating up. “I just didn’t think it was relevant.”

“You little liar!”

“I’m not!”

“Then why did you hide it?”

You shook your head, but the words were already rising in your throat. “I didn’t tell you because—I was scared.”

He frowned, tilting his head. “Scared of what?”

You played with the edge of the blanket between your fingers, not looking at him. “That you’d think I was with you for the wrong reasons. That I was just some fan trying to get her five minutes of attention or—or chasing after your money or your name or the whole WAG circus. I didn’t want you to look at me and wonder if it was all fake.”

Lando was quiet for a moment.

You could feel your heart in your ears.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you continued quickly, cheeks hot. “But you said you couldn’t date a fan, and it just stuck with me. I didn’t want to risk it. Things were too good. You were too good. I didn’t want to lose you over something so embarrassing.”

“You really thought I’d leave you over that?”

You tried to smile, but it faltered. “I just didn’t want you to think I was one of those people.”

Lando let out a breath, shaking his head. “God, you think so little of me.”

The words hit you like a slap, but before you could say anything, he reached for you. Gently, he pulled you over and settled you into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs as he held you close. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, like he needed to anchor you to him.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice steady now, no trace of laughter left. “I don’t care if you used to have posters of me on your wall. I don’t care if you knew all my stats or made edits or wrote fanfiction; for all I know. None of that matters. Youmatter. What we have now matters.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you stayed quiet.

“I know you,” he whispered, fingertips tracing soft circles against your back. “You don’t care about the spotlight. You hate the cameras. You’ve never once bragged about us on social media or cared about being seen. You’re not here for the parties or the designer tags or the lifestyle. You’re here for me. And I see that every day.”

Your hands slid up to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the small scar on the bridge of his nose. He looked so serious, so impossibly sincere, it made your chest ache.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” you said softly. “I just didn’t want to ruin anything.”

He was still holding you, still cradling you in his lap like you were made of glass and something he’d never let slip through his fingers again. His hands were warm against your back, one resting at the base of your spine and the other slowly running up and down the curve of your side like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I mean it,” he said again, voice low and sure, brushing his nose against yours. “I don’t care if you knew every stat I ever had. I don’t care if you had a shrine of mini helmets or screamed every time I got on the podium. You could’ve painted your walls neon yellow, and I’d still think you’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met.”

Your heart squeezed. “I didn’t paint my walls, but I did have a sticker on my laptop.”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes lighting up, but it was full of love now; that kind of warm, weightless love that made your skin feel sun-kissed even in the dim light of the living room.

“You’re ridiculous,” he whispered, and then leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours.

“And you’re in love with someone who once told off a stranger on Twitter for calling you overrated,” you whispered back.

“I am so in love with her,” he said with a grin that made your stomach flip.

Then he kissed you.

Slow at first, like he had all the time in the world, his lips brushing over yours in a way that made your heart stutter and your breath catch. He kissed you like it was something he hadn’t done in a while, like he was rediscovering you. His thumb traced your cheek, his hand sliding into your hair, holding you close without crowding you.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

All the fear you’d carried, all the silly embarrassment, melted into the way he tasted—a little like the popcorn he’d eaten earlier, a little like the mints he always kept in his pocket. It was soft and familiar and brand new all at once.

He pulled back only slightly, his nose brushing yours again. “You’re mine, yeah?”

You nodded, eyes a little glossy, mouth still tingling. “Always.”

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand slid up your back, pulling you closer, like even this much space between you was too much. You could feel the way he smiled into it, could feel the quiet little sigh he let out like he’d finally exhaled after holding his breath for months.

You curled your fingers in his hair and kissed him harder, laughing softly against his mouth when he let out a quiet, dazed ‘fuck’ under his breath.

All was well, until—

“Wait, you were on Twitter?”

“…Maybe,” you mumbled.

His eyes lit up. “Oh my god. You did. You tweeted about me. Find them. Show me.”

“I’m not showing you anything.”

Lando was already rolling off the couch and grabbing your phone. “C'mon. You have to. Please. I’ll never ask you for anything else in my life.”

“Maybe”, you mumbled.

His eyes lit up. “Oh my god. You did. You tweeted about me. Find them. Show me.”

“I’m not showing you anything.”

Lando was already rolling off the couch and grabbing your phone. “C'mon, you have to! Please. I’ll never ask you for anything else in my life.”

“That’s a lie, and you know it.”

“Okay, but this time I’m serious.”

Sighing dramatically, but secretly already giggling to yourself, you reached for your own phone. You opened the app and scrolled for a moment before finding it. The long-forgotten fan account: locked, dusty, and inactive for over two years.

You held it out wordlessly.

Lando took it, eager.

And then immediately burst into laughter.

“@ln4everangelbaby?! Are you kidding me?”

You snatched it back. “I was seventeen when I made that, Lando.”

He was already breathless, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “No, wait. I need a minute. Angel baby? What was that even supposed to mean?”

You covered your face with your hands. “You had these really cute photo from your debut year, and someone called you that on Tumblr, and I thought it was cute, okay?”

“Oh my god.” He leaned back, shaking with laughter. “This is better than I could have ever imagined.”

He tried to scroll, but the account was locked, and you weren’t about to log in and let him dig through the archives of your cringe era.

“Let me read some tweets,” he begged, tugging at your sleeve like a child.

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll buy you dinner every night forever.”

“You already do that anyway.”

“I’ll take you to the Maldives for a week.”

“You’re kidding.”

But his face remained unmoved, completely serious.

“Make it two weeks.”

He hesitated. “Ten days.”

“Twelve.”

“Deal.”

You unlocked the account with the kind of grim resolve one might have before jumping into shark-infested waters and handed it back.

He kept reading out tweets in dramatic fashion, doing voices, quoting your old replies to trolls, and fake-crying when he got to a heartfelt race reaction.

You just curled up smaller and smaller on the couch, your face buried in a pillow while Lando had the time of his life dragging you, groaning occasionally at particular posts you didn’t even remember making.

When he finally calmed down, he tossed the phone gently onto the coffee table and pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I think this might be my favourite thing about you.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “My terrible teenage Twitter?”

He smiled. “No. That you loved me then, even when I was just some kid in a fast car. And you love me now, even when I’m an idiot who makes fun of your old username.”

“You really can’t let that go, can you?”

“Angel baby,” he whispered, laughing again, and you groaned and buried your face into his chest as he wrapped his arms tighter around you.

DID U GUYS MISS ME (the only answer is yes) i missed writing so much im so happy i could put this out :DD enjoy! and im so sorry it’s so short i just am so drained with my first sem in college ! :(

[misctf]

Raised Right

Eric jogged up the steps of his family's sprawling estate, sweat glistening on his toned body as he finished his daily run. He couldn't help but wonder what his Uncle Rick's car was doing outside though. His deadbeat uncle was always around asking for cash. And as he passed his father's office, he could overhead their conversation.

"…I'm telling you Jack, I need this loan. Things have been tough since I lost my job," came the whiny voice of his uncle Rick. Eric rolled his eyes.

"Rick, we've been over this. I can't just keep bailing you out," his father responded sternly.

Eric peeked through the cracked door. As always, Rick's greasy hair and stained wife-beater contrasted sharply with his father's crisp button-down shirt and pressed slacks.

"You always were a selfish prick, Jack!" Rick spat, jabbing a finger at his brother. "Too good to help out your own flesh and blood."

"Hey Dad, Uncle Rick," Eric greeted casually as he strolled into the study, not bothering to knock. He knew how much it grated Uncle Rick to see him.

"Oh well if it isn't the golden boy." Rick muttered.

Jack sighed heavily, "Rick, I wish I could help, but right now I need to focus on securing Eric's future. If you had a son, I'm sure you'd be able to understand."

Eric smirked- he loved hearing about his place as heir to the family fortune. But his smirk faded as Rick spoke again.

"Please Jack, I'm desperate here," Rick begged, "It's not for me, it's for Jace. That damn fool got into another fight downtown and now the legal fees are piling up. What kind of father would I be if I let him rot in jail?"

The words echoed in Eric's ears strangely, like they held some unseen power.

"Who's Jace?" Eric mumbled, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Again?" His father sighed, "How many times is your kid going to get into trouble?"

Eric's thoughts raced. Since when did Uncle Rick have a kid?

"Hey, I don't..." Eric's breath caught in his throat as he felt a strange tingling sensation spreading across his chest.

To his shock, he watched as his pecs began to swell and expand, packing on solid muscle at an alarming rate. The skin stretched taut as his pectorals grew heavier, more defined. Dark hairs sprouted along his newly thickened chest, forming a sparse trail down to his abs.

"What the hell…" Eric gasped, reaching up to touch his rapidly changing torso.

His fingers sank into the firm, rounded muscle as it continued to develop before his eyes. Biceps and triceps ballooned in size, his arms covered in a sheen of sweet. Even his core thickened, packing on with muscle and fat.

"I don't… I don't feel so good," Eric slurred.

"He didn't start it, I swear! Those bastards jumped him. My boy was just defending himself."

Eric stared transfixed at his arms as dark lines began to snake across his skin, slowly taking shape. The tattoos spread like living shadows, wrapping around his biceps and disappearing beneath the bulging muscles of his forearms. Swirling designs of skulls, flames, and twisted letters emerged, covering every inch.

"Holy shit," Eric breathed, flexing his arms to watch the fresh ink ripple over his swelling biceps. The tattoos made him look harder, grittier - a far cry from his usual preppy appearance, "No..."

A sudden urge for nicotine hit Eric like a freight train. His jaw clenched as he fought the unfamiliar craving, hands twitching at his sides. When did he start smoking?

"I gotta… I need a cig," Eric grunted, his voice deeper and rougher than before. He looked down at his hands, noticing how much larger and rougher they appeared, knuckles scarred and dirty under the nails.

"I don't get it, I never smoked before…" Eric mumbled, mind hazy and sluggish. Thinking hurt, like wading through mud.

"I've heard that before." Jack remarked, "Jace is always just a bystander, never his fault. Really?"

"Don't you dare judge my son! Jace is a good kid, he just fell in with the wrong crowd. With your help, I can get him back on track!"

Meanwhile, Eric's stubble thickened and spread, shadowing his jawline. Wrinkles etched themselves into the corners of his eyes and mouth, aging him several years.

"Nah, that ain't right," Eric slurred, his words clumsy and slow. "I'm… I'm supposed to be… shit, what was I supposed to be doin' again?"

Jack shook his head, "Enabling him won't help, Rick. Jace needs to learn responsibility, not have you clean up his messes."

"And what, let him rot in prison? He's still my son!" Rick shot back heatedly. "With your money, we could get him a good lawyer, maybe even get the charges dismissed. Don't you want to help family?"

Eric stumbled, catching himself against the wall as a wave of dizziness washed over him. His reflection in a nearby mirror showed a stranger staring back - a burly, tattooed man with a scruffy beard and a vacant expression. Panic rose in his throat as the realization hit him.

"This ain't right," Eric croaked, voice gravelly with fear. "I'm… I'm not supposed to be like this. I'm Eric, I'm…" He trailed off, mind blanking. The name 'Jace' flickered at the edges of his consciousness but he couldn't quite grasp it.

He winced at the acrid scent of motor oil and cigarettes that clung to his skin, mingling with the musk of sweat and masculinity. Calluses roughened his palms and fingertips. Memories of his job as a mechanic flashing before his eyes.

"Come on Jack, have a heart. Jace is all I've got left. I can't lose him too."

Jack sighed, "Rick… Fine, if I had a son, I'd probably be begging too."

Eric's stomach churned with unease as he felt the weight of the cigarettes in his pocket, the phantom taste of smoke on his tongue. Memories that weren't his own flickered through his mind - greasy hands twisting wrenches, the roar of engines, the sting of fists connecting with flesh.

"No, no, no," Eric chanted under his breath, backing away from the mirror. He bumped into a chair, nearly knocking it over in his confusion. "This ain't real, this ain't fuckin' real…"

"Heh, there's my boy!" Rick's gruff voice cut through the haze, jolting Eric upright. "Jace, you okay? Ya look a little green around the gills."

Eric flinched at the sound of his uncle's voice, the name 'Jace' echoing in his aching skull. He forced his heavy eyelids open, blinking blearily up at Rick's concerned face. The older man's features swam in and out of focus, distorted by the sheen of tears gathering in Eric's eyes.

"D-Dad?" Eric rasped, the word foreign on his tongue. "I… I dunno what's happenin'. Somethin's wrong with me, somethin's all fucked up in my head…"

Rick's weathered face creased with worry as he placed a calloused hand on Eric's shoulder, steadying him. "Easy there, son. You're just havin' a rough go of it, that's all. Them lawyers got ya all stressed out 'bout the trial."

"I… I ain't supposed to be like this," Eric mumbled, voice thick with confusion and growing panic. "I'm supposed to be… shit, I can't remember. It's all jumbled up in here."

"Aw hell, Jace. You're just takin' a real hard hit right now, that's all. Them fancy law books and all that courtroom bullshit, it's enough to rattle anyone's cage." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping one out and holding it out to Eric. "Here, take a drag. Might settle your nerves a bit."

Eric stared at the offered cigarette, a war raging inside him. Every instinct screamed that this wasn't right, that he shouldn't, but the craving gnawed at him, insistent and overwhelming. With trembling fingers, he took the cigarette, bringing it to his lips.

"I… I don't…" Eric started to protest, but the words died in his throat as he inhaled deeply, the acrid smoke filling his lungs.

The last vestiges of confusion melted away as the nicotine flooded his system, and he exhaled a long stream of smoke with a low groan.

"Fuck, that's the stuff," Jace groaned as the nicotine hit his system, muscles relaxing almost instantly, "Shit, my head's clearer already." His attention turned towards Jack, "Hey, uh, Thanks a lot Uncle Jack for helpin' us out here," Jace drawled, stubbing out the cigarette on the sole of his work boot. "Much appreciated, ya know? Means the world to us."

Jack sighed, "Last time, Jace."

"Yeah, yeah. I gotcha, uncle. Won't forget it." Jace stood up straight, cracking his neck. He followed his dad out of the big house, the weight of his new reality settling on his broad shoulders. The door closed behind them with a definitive click.

He climbed into the passenger seat, the worn leather creaking under his bulk. As Rick fired up the engine, Jace glanced back at the imposing house receding in the side mirror, a silent goodbye to the life he once knew. The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear - he was Jace now, through and through. And he could really go for another cig.

[ontherunnt]

Touch starved Ghost

pairing: ghost x reader

wc: 649

warnings: none!

It was every bit of a surprise to him as it was to you. 

Ghost had been with people before, obviously. He had a past of his own, before the military, and had indulged in his fair share of one-night stands while serving. He thought he knew his way around it—how to pick up on cues, when to approach you, how to not sound like a total moron whenever it came to having a conversation.

He’d been wrong. 

Everything about you put him outside his comfort zone. You were chatty where he was quiet, open where he was reserved, and touchy where he was reluctant. That’d been the hardest one—how much physical contact seemed to matter to you. 

It wasn’t that you wanted a full PDA whenever you saw each other, but you seemed to reach out to him at all times—a squeeze of his arm while you walked past him, a pat on his shoulder when you left a room, poking at his ribs whenever he shut down like he usually did. You were always respectful of his space whenever he asked for it, even when he could tell you were dying to close the gap between you. 

Which is why it’d caught you by surprise when, like a flip had switched, this mountain of a man now seemed to be the one who couldn’t get enough of you. You gave him space, and in return he looked at you like a lost puppy. You respected his boundaries, which, later on, Ghost would realize was the exact opposite of what he’d wanted.

Ghost now felt like the very air in his lungs was useless unless you were close enough he could touch. 

It didn’t matter if he’d just come back from an op, sweaty, covered in grime and blood, and exhausted beyond what should be humanly possible. He’d sit through debrief like a man forced to sit through his death sentence verdict until he could leave the building to find you. He knew you’d be in his room—it was yours at this point, given how often you’d sleep there against all military protocol. 

He’d find you on his bed, a book on your legs and a frown on your face, clearly disgruntled at whatever you were reading. You barely got a word out before he slipped out of his mask and gear like it weighed him down, and you had only a second to place the book on the side before this six-foot-something man crumpled between your legs like a puppet with loose strings. 

You smiled at the unbelievable sight. His head fell on your stomach while his arms wrapped around your lower back. He hummed something that didn’t sound coherent when you ran slow fingers through his hair, the other hand going down his back, between his shoulder blades. 

“Rough op?” you asked, tone laced with amusement as careful fingers threaded through blond locks. 

He grunted in return, nuzzling against your stomach without bothering to form a sentence that could be understood. His palm flattened against the small of your back, so tenderly no one would’ve believed this man had a kill-count somewhere in the three digits. You rubbed your thumb gently over his hairline, smiling when you could physically see him let his guard down. 

When he spoke, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips. 

“You better not stop,” he muttered under his breath, eyes closed, cheek still pressed to your stomach. 

You chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief. “That an order, Lieutenant?”

The corners of his lips tugged upwards, something he never thought would come naturally to him. He cracked one eye open to look up at you, and the sight almost undid you. “Please?”

You couldn’t reply with words—instead, you smiled to yourself and moved your hands through his hair, thoroughly amused by the soft grunts that escaped his throat with every movement. 

[kurage3833]

Like most girls (gender neutral) I used to be someone who chronically said "I'm sorry". Once I stumbled upon the "women stop apologizing" discourse about a decade ago in high school, I got curious about where I got from and why. Of course it was from the women in my family, and gender/partriarchy theory was helpful at the time to break out of the habit.

Now, with more distance, I've thought about my own subconscious reasons for saying sorry the way I did, and why it feels ickier to say and hear it as an adult. Usually, I was worried about what the struggling person thought of me as they disclosed their suffering, and if I might have had a part in it. Or perhaps I had some hidden responsibility, and I wanted to anticipate that responsibility before someone got mad at me. Sometimes I was desperately seeking reassurance for my own unique pain from their suffering.

As a chaplain, my goal is to remind my patients of their humanity -- their sense of hope, meaning, and connection. Usually this is achieved through some sort of attuned mirroring through listening/conversation/prayer. Like most counseling-adjacent professions, this requires putting my own behaviors under a microscope and asking the question: how might my pain be impeding this ethic. Most of my "I'm sorry"s in the past were motivated by how I was feeling, not about the person's pain that I was witnessing.

With practice, I've integrated "I'm sorry" back into my lexicon, with particular attention to my motive and tone. Usually it involves emphasizing the sorry part of the phrase if I'm responding to someone's suffering, and the I'm part of the phrase if I want to take responsibility. Regardless, I'm sorry should never be offered with the expectation of reciprocal reassurance.

Not everyone's a rhetoric and tone robot like me so go drink and be merry, but rest assured I am taking these measures to plot your demise. Sorry not sorry.

i actually get a bit annoyed with people who get a bit annoyed when people say “sorry” in response to their bad news. “why are you apologizing you didn’t do anything :/” like okay well a) you don’t know that and actually yes i am the secret architect of all your woes and have been this whole time, way to refuse to acknowledge a woman (gender neutral)’s accomplishments. and b) we’re both fluent english speakers so you know perfectly well that “sorry” isn’t always an apology and is very commonly used as an expression of general regret or sympathy. not in this case, because i have been your secret nemesis for years, meticulously plotting your every misery, but, like, in general

[reiderwriter]

The Rebound

Plot: Rossi recommends a book binding service to get Spencer to stop complaining about his broken book. Maybe you can fix more than just the broken spine of his book. Warnings: None, fluff. I will preface this with I know the bare minimum about actual book binding though, unfortunately! ㅠㅠ A/N: I'M BACK! Did you miss me? Unfortunately I lost any belief I had in love for a while there, but I found myself thinking about this little fluff idea for a while, and couldn't get it out of my head so I had to write it. It's been almost two years since I began writing, and I decided I want to put this first as a hobby at least once a week, so you will hopefully be hearing from me more often as well. I got a lot of inspiration from the request box too, so thank you to everyone who requested <3 Enjoy~

To say that Spencer had taken this book everywhere would be an understatement. The tattered heap of papers could probably be legally recognized as a member of the BAU the amount of case hours it had seen. It probably had a degree or two of its own as well. 

Spencer always justified it in one way or another. It was in Russian and he needed to practice. It was an incredible book. His mother gave it to him as a child, and she still recognized it sometimes, so he had to take it when he visited her. It was just a really good book. 

In short, over the years it had been through a lot.

It had seen gunshots, stabbings, a drug addiction, multiple spills and drops from high areas, and yes, probably some book eating insects at some point, but it still stood the test of time. 

Until, ironically, a prison sentence meant it hadn’t been cracked open in months and it had decided to disintegrate overnight. 

Spencer had spent the best part of his first week back at the BAU grumbling about it that it was beginning to disintegrate his team mates nerves. Yes, they were all sympathetic to the struggles of the newly free man, but there was really only so much Russian literature one could take before losing it. And for the members of the BAU, that was pretty much none. 

“Kid, why don’t you just go out and buy a new copy. Same words, same meaning, same book, just without the bullet holes,” Rossi sighed, trying to effectively end the same conversation he’d been having for the last 6 days straight. 

“It’s a rare copy, it was published in the 50s. You of all people should know they don’t make books the same way anymore, Rossi.” 

“Me? Of all people? How flattering, Spencer.” 

“No-” the man sighed, jogging to catch up with the still prime older man as he walked brusquely down the hallway. “I just mean that as a fellow enjoyer of literature, that you would share my appreciation for…”

“The elderly?” 

“Antiques. Come on Rossi, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Spencer sighed again. 

“I just don’t want to buy another copy.” 

Rossi stopped his march finally, letting Spencer catch up with him as he finally turned around and gave his last suggestion. 

“Then you just have to get it fixed, Spencer.” 

He shut the door to his office behind him before the open door could invite any other literary debates to his doorstop, but he did put the kid out of his misery later over text. 

“I had a collection of Joy’s articles bound by this company for Christmas last year as a gift. Local business, give them a call.”

A week later, a free enough day rolled around, and Spencer - ever willing to avoid technology at all costs - decided that going to the shop's location and hoping for an on-sight consult would work. He assumed people still talked to each other. 

You definitely still talked to people. 

When you could see them, hear them and knew they were there. But you also liked to work with a set of large headphones drowning out the world, and everyone else had gone home for the day, so to say that you screamed when you saw the 6 foot something slenderman out of the corner of your eye was an understatement. 

“FUCK!” You screamed, clutching at your heart that you thought was definitely still having an attack of its own. You weren’t sure if this was what fight or flight felt like, but you were quickly disappointed to find that your own trigger reaction was ‘fuck.’

“I’m sorry, the door was open, I assumed…” Spencer started, holding his hand up to show he wasn’t a threat, even if he’d spent the last phase of his life being just that to a lot of people. 

“Yeah..yeah… sorry, heart still racing, I’ll be with you in just a second.

You made a mental note of not listening to any more horror audiobooks while at work and pulled a smile back onto your face. 

“Welcome to The Rebound, I guess,” you said, coming around the counter to greet the man. “Are you here to pick up or deliver a package?”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably as he stood before speaking. 

“Actually neither. I was hoping for a consultation? I need a book rebound.” 

You let out a sigh so loud you almost felt bad for the man. “Okay, so thank god you’re not a serial killer.”

You tried to laugh off the joke, but the man’s eyes bugged out of his head as he scrambled for something. 

“Oh, no, sorry, I’m out of practice with this I guess,” he laughed a little, doing absolutely nothing to dissipate the awkward tension as he pulled out his FBI creds.

“Huh. FBI. Would you hold it against me if I said I feel a little bit less safe again?”

“Considering I spent that last few months in prison, not at all.” 

You laughed again and then stopped again as you saw he wasn’t laughing. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little off-putting?” you asked, completely innocently as you grabbed your coffee mug, leaning back on your work counter. 

“Many, many times,” he smiled, finally relaxing. 

“Wonderful. So what can I do for you today, Mr….?”

“Doctor.”

“Perfect. What can I do for you today Mr. Doctor?” 

He smiled shyly again, and you finally took the lull in conversation to look him over again. He was maybe a few years older than you, but he still looked young. Every item he wore seemed like it came fresh from a copy of Grandpa’s Weekly, or whatever Vogue was doing in Men’s fashion in the 50s, which almost made it annoying how well it draped on him. His hair was brown, and curled cutely around his face in a very ‘needs a haircut’ way, but you almost appreciated that more. 

He was handsome. 

“Fuck.” you thought again, realizing that the man had been talking for the last few seconds as you’d oggled him anyway. 

“Fuck?” He repeated. “I mean, I know it’s in bad condition, but I didn’t think it’d be that hard…” His eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at the book you now only just noticed was in his hands. 

“Sorry, no that’s not what I meant!” You scrambled, combing your hair back roughly in your hands, and clipping it in place before walking back closer to him.

He even smells fucking good, you grumbled to yourself as you held out your hands for your next project. 

“I’ve had it for about 25 years now, and it was definitely second hand when I got it, so…” 

“So you want me to resuscitate it. Cool. Let me take a look at it quickly.” 

You gently pried the book from the pouting man's hands and took it back to your work station as he played with his fingers, and you found yourself bumping into pieces of furniture you’d practically grown up with. 

“So, Mr. Doctor, is there any specific damage you want us to take care of?” You asked as you forced your attention onto the book. “Missing pages, rips, that kind of- Is this in Russian?”

“It’s Dostoyevsky. There’s no missing pages, but there are a lot of tears around a third up on the pages,” he blinked, pointing a single finger at the edge of the page, where there were in fact small tears. 

Ignoring that his fingers were also somehow attractive, you grabbed your glasses from the top of your shirt and pushed them onto your face and up your nose, getting closer to take a better look. 

“These are pretty even across all the pages, how did you even manage that?” you laughed, flicking the pages as you searched for any particular mildew marks or signs of wear. 

“Gunshot,” he said with such practiced nonchalance that you almost accepted it as a regular answer. Almost.

“WHAT?” You said looking up, noticing a beat too late that Mister Doctor was also leaning over the book, as if scared to let it out of his sight.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing in his sight was now you, as you’d come up so passionately you found yourselves nose to nose, a breath the only thing between you. 

You felt the heat in your cheeks, just as you saw it in his, before you hastily looked back down to the book. 

He straightened and looked away, taking a deep breath. 

“I work for the FBI, remember.” 

“I’m sorry, I assumed you were in a paperwork-diplomacy-tax-evasion department, not a pew-pew-bang-bang department.” 

“You know I think those are the official titles, but we usually just call my team the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m a profiler.”

“Huh. Do I get three guesses which Dostoyevsky this is?”

“Wouldn’t most of his works fit in this scenario?”

“Touche, Mr. Doctor. Touche.” 

You finished up your consultation on the book, which, gunshot aside, wasn’t in bad shape for a book over half a century old. You carefully catalogued the book's information in your system, and then turned back to him. 

“As I assume Mr. Doctor isn’t your real name, can I try again at asking what it is? No sarcasm this time, and I promise that my hands aren’t crossed behind my back currently.” 

“Spencer Reid.” 

“And the Doctor part was real, or have I been out-maneuvered?”

“If a PhD is real, then yes. Three times over.” 

You took another look at him again and then smiled widely as his breath caught in his throat.

“Doctor Reid, you look like the exact kind of person that would have three PhD’s. Congratulations, you’ve worked hard.” 

Unable to respond to the sudden kindness, Spencer returned a tight smile of his own before taking a shaky breath to steady himself. 

“Okay, so luckily we can fix the damage on this copy for you. We can try and salvage some of the cover details as well, but it will need a new spine, which usually means a complete overhaul of the cover. Do you have any specific design in mind, or would you like something similar?” 

“As close as you can get it, please.” 

“Of course. Now about the binding. Would you like it tight, or a little looser so it reads easier, like a floppy paperback?” 

“Loose is good for me. I read it pretty regularly.” 

“I mean this in the nicest way possible: I can tell,” you said, looking up from your computer again for the minute. “Between us, these are always my favorite projects, but I’m never allowed to work on them because I always want to keep the books at the end.” 

Spencer smiled at that, picturing you pouting handing over his book finally when it was done, refusing to let it go. There was something playfully childish about you that he found endearing. 

Endearing? He cleared his throat again before he found himself in further trouble. 

“Please don’t steal my book,” he requested in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in slightly dangerously. 

“Don’t you worry about that Mr Doctor,” you said, smiling at him. “I have absolutely no impure intentions for your book whatsoever.” 

Spencer wanted to bury the disappointed feeling that popped up in the pit of his stomach at that moment. You were talking about the book, and this was a business transaction, and really he’d only just gotten out of prison, so he most likely didn’t need to feel disappointed by anything at all, whatsoever. 

“I, myself, cannot read Russian,” you smiled at him, handing him the receipt and guiding him back to the door he’d so innocently walked through about an hour earlier. 

Just as Spencer was feeling relieved - relieved? - and ready to move on from this exciting albeit distracting visit in his day, you spoke again. 

“So you’ll just have to read it to me if I get very attached.”

Clutching the receipt in his hand, and soon to realize that you’d scribbled your phone number on it in a hail mary, Spencer smiled to himself and made a mental note of thanking Rossi the next day. 

Even if the other man wouldn’t appreciate the new topic of conversation that Spencer would find himself unable to escape for a while. You.

[unabashegirl]

Tethered {h.s}

A slow-burning night in Milan turns into something unforgettable when a designer’s assistant and a world-famous artist realize neither of them wants to say goodbye.

Author’s note: This one’s soft, slow, and a little bit starry-eyed — I really loved writing it. Thank you for reading, and as always, your reblogs and comments mean the world to me. 💌 Let me know what you think!

‼️ This fic contains explicit sexual content (18+). Please read responsibly. ‼️

📌 word count -> 8.7K

📌 Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

Harry sat at the end of the long dinner table, half-hidden behind the rim of his wine glass. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above him like a sky of artificial stars, casting shadows that danced over porcelain plates and untouched amuse-bouches. The clinking of forks, the murmurs of conversation in a blur of Italian and French, the low pulse of music in the background—it all felt a touch too loud.

He shouldn’t have come.

He’d flown to Milan for the show, slipped in through the back entrance, nodded politely from the front row, applauded when expected. That had been enough. He’d already planned to slip away quietly, return to the countryside villa in Tuscany where the stone walls were thick, and no one cared what he wore or who he was.

But Alessandro had insisted.

“Just the after party,” he’d said, eyes alight, hands on Harry’s shoulders in a way that left no room for protest. “You’ll vanish tomorrow, tesoro, but tonight? Tonight, you shine.”

And now here he was—boxed into a corner seat, a soft-spoken model chattering beside him about a gallery in Berlin, while the man across the table lit a cigarette without asking. Smoke curled toward the ceiling and Harry breathed it in, sharp and chemical and grounding.

He let his eyes wander.

Golden people. Gold-touched lives. Everyone so sure of themselves, so hungry for attention. Cameras flashed in the corner where someone was pretending not to pose. It was beautiful and hollow and exhausting.

His fingers drummed against the stem of his glass.

“Do you hate it that much?”

The voice cut through his thoughts. Soft, amused, female. Different.

He turned slightly and found you leaning toward him, chin propped on your hand, watching him like you’d been doing it for a while.

“Excuse me?” he said, the edge of his accent curling around the words.

“The party,” you said, lips twitching. “You look like you’d rather be hit by a car than finish that wine.”

He let out a short laugh, dry and surprised.

“You’re not wrong.”

You smiled—tilted and knowing—and lifted your own glass toward him in mock salute. “Cheers to being held hostage by fashion royalty.”

“Cheers,” he muttered, clinking your glass with his before taking a sip he didn’t want.

“Let me guess,” you went on, “you got talked into this by someone you couldn’t say no to.”

He gave you a slow look. “That obvious?”

“Only to the other prisoners.”

He should have noticed her earlier.

Not because she was loud or glittering or trying to be seen—quite the opposite, in fact. She was still, poised, like the eye of a storm. Not the kind of stunning that shouted. The kind that crept up on you slowly, then all at once, like an ache in your chest you only noticed when it was too late.

Her dress was simple. Black, maybe navy, with thin straps and a low back. Nothing flashy—yet it hugged her in a way that made his throat tighten. Her skin glowed under the soft chandelier light, and her hair was pinned up with a few loose strands curling against her neck. She wore no jewelry, except for a thin gold ring on her middle finger and a watch that looked vintage.

Harry blinked. How had he missed her?

He was usually more observant than this. But then again, he’d spent the first half of the night counting down the seconds until he could leave.

Now he found himself leaning in, just slightly.

“You work for Alessandro?” he asked, voice low, suddenly curious. Genuinely curious.

Her eyes, ringed with a subtle sweep of liner, flicked up to meet his. “Mm. Assistant designer.”

“Dream job?”

She tilted her head. “It was.”

Something about the way she said it made him pause.

“And now?”

“Now I’d kill for a glass of water, a hot shower, and a bed that isn’t covered in tulle and half-finished sketches.” She smiled, not bitter—just tired. “But yes. Still the dream.”

He huffed a soft breath of a laugh through his nose. “So, what—you didn’t want to be here either?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Please. I came straight from backstage. I’ve been in four-inch heels since six in the morning. I didn’t even know this dinner was happening until someone shoved a change of clothes at me and said, ‘Smile, you’re going to dinner with celebrities.’”

Harry grinned. “I’m honored.”

“You should be.” She took another sip of wine, then set the glass down and leaned her cheek into her palm again, eyes on him. “But I still would’ve rather gone home.”

He let his eyes linger on her face now, less guarded than before. There was a smudge of fatigue beneath her left eye, just beneath the makeup. Her lipstick had worn off in the center. Her posture was relaxed, casual in the way only people who don’t care to impress can be.

It was disarming.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I think I finally found someone at this table I don’t want to strangle.”

A soft laugh slipped from her lips, not practiced like the others he’d heard tonight. Real.

“Careful,” she said, eyes dancing. “That almost sounded like flirting.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Almost?”

“You’ll have to try harder, Styles.”

And for the first time all evening, he didn’t want to leave.

They stayed there for hours.

The party thinned out slowly, the glamorous slipping away in pairs and groups, laughter trailing like perfume in their wake. Alessandro blew Harry a kiss across the table before disappearing with someone whose name Harry didn’t catch.

But she stayed.

And so did he.

They talked. About the collection. About the chaos backstage. About their favorite places in Italy—hers, a tiny coastal town she refused to name, as if sharing it would make it too real.

He told her he was tired. Not just tonight, but lately. Tired of being watched. Of being on. Of people calling his name who didn’t know him at all.

She didn’t pity him. She just nodded, like she understood something deeper than he’d said aloud.

At some point, her shoes came off. She tucked her legs beneath her on the velvet banquette, wine forgotten, chin resting on her hand again. Her lipstick had vanished entirely, and the pins in her hair were starting to fall. There was a thread coming loose at the hem of her dress, and she didn’t seem to care.

She was stunning. Devastating, even.

He didn’t flirt. Not really. The mood had changed. Something softer had settled in the space between them—something quieter than attraction, heavier than curiosity. He didn’t want to charm her. He just wanted to keep her talking.

But then her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, sighed. “I’ve got an 8 a.m. fitting. I should—”

“Yeah,” he said, though he didn’t mean it.

She slipped her shoes back on, slow and reluctant, then stood and smoothed her dress. He stood, too, just to feel a little less like a fool.

She reached for her coat, but he caught it first and held it out for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she slid her arms into the sleeves.

There was a moment. A brief one. She turned to face him, eyes flicking up to meet his, her breath caught halfway through some unspoken sentence. She looked like she was going to say something more.

But she didn’t.

“Goodnight, Harry,” was all she said instead.

He watched her walk out of the private room and through the ornate archway until she disappeared completely.

He didn’t ask for her number.

And the moment passed.

He was supposed to leave Milan the next morning.

Supposed to escape to the quiet hills of Tuscany, to sun-drenched stone walls and good wine and solitude. That had been the plan.

But now—now all he could see was the curve of her smile under chandelier light. The faintest crease in her brow when she talked about working too hard. The tiny scar on her wrist she hadn’t noticed him noticing. The way she looked at him like she saw him, not the version of him everyone else paraded around.

He couldn’t get her out of his head.

And it drove him mad.

By noon, he’d canceled his flight.

The next morning, Harry sat on the edge of the hotel bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the half-packed suitcase in front of him.

She hadn’t even told him her name.

He didn’t know why that bothered him most. Maybe because it made the whole thing feel like a dream—unreal, hazy around the edges. Like if he blinked too long, he’d forget the sound of her laugh. The way she’d looked at him across the table, unfazed and uninterested in everything except the conversation between them.

He picked up his phone before he could talk himself out of it.

“Alessandro” answered on the second ring.

“Tesoro,” he said in that theatrical lilt that meant he hadn’t looked at the caller ID but assumed it was someone who owed him something. “If this is about last night, I—”

“It’s Harry.”

A beat.

“Ah. Mio caro. You survived.”

“Barely.” Harry exhaled, thumb rubbing against the hem of his T-shirt. “Listen. Can I—can I come by the atelier?”

Alessandro paused. “Why?”

“I just…” He hesitated, then chose honesty. “I met someone. I think she works with you.”

That caught his attention.

“Oh,” Alessandro said, drawing the word out with interest now. “La ragazza. You mean the one with the tired eyes and the sharp tongue?”

Harry’s lips twitched despite himself. “That’s the one.”

“Mmm. She’s good. Too good for us, really. Always trying to fix everything. Always working too hard.” He clicked his tongue. “You want me to give you her number?”

Harry hesitated. “No. I’ll just… drop by. If that’s okay.”

There was a pause on the line. Then Alessandro said, suddenly enthusiastic, “Actually, it’s perfect. I’ve got a few pieces I want to try out. I need a body that photographs like sin.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but smiled. “That’s a yes, then?”

“Come in after lunch. But don’t distract my staff, capito?”

Harry ended the call, stomach churning with something too restless to name.

The atelier smelled like steam, fabric glue, and espresso.

When Harry walked through the glass double doors, heads turned instantly. Conversations stuttered mid-sentence. A model standing near the sewing station almost dropped her coffee. One of the interns gasped audibly and clutched a pin cushion to her chest like a shield.

Harry was used to being stared at. But this felt different—more intimate. Like they hadn’t expected him here, in this space. And truthfully, he hadn’t expected it either.

He wore wide-leg black trousers and a soft ivory button-down left slightly open at the chest. The fabric fluttered as he walked, breezy and effortless. His sunglasses were tucked into the collar. His sleeves rolled up messily to his elbows. Tattoos peeked through like secrets.

He looked like someone who didn’t belong in a workspace—but owned it anyway.

“Dio santo,”Alessandro’s voice echoed from the back of the room. “Someone tell me I didn’t die and go to heaven.”

Harry turned just as his friend appeared dramatically from behind a curtain of unfinished muslin, arms open wide.

“Still so dramatic,” Harry drawled.

“And yet you’re the one walking into my atelier dressed like a poet who fucks.”

Harry barked out a laugh. A few interns nearby did too, before pretending to be horrified with themselves.

Alessandro clapped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him in for a kiss on both cheeks. “You look good. Tired. But good.”

“Long night.”

“Was she that good?” Alessandro winked, already walking him toward the back of the studio. “Come. I’ll make you a coffee. You can tell me everything—slowly, and with descriptions.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Alessandro turned around so fast his oversized rings clicked against each other.

“You what?”

“I talked to her. That’s it.”

“And now you’re here, stalking her at work?”

Harry gave him a look. “Not stalking.”

“Obsessing?”

“…Maybe.”

Alessandro beamed, pleased. “You really are a poet.”

They passed bolts of fabric, mannequins mid-draped, and models half-dressed for fittings. A few assistants whispered and turned away quickly when Harry caught their eye. The space was loud but focused—everyone moving, measuring, correcting, perfecting.

When they reached the back office, Harry paused.

His eyes had caught something.

It was on the worktable—half-buried under fabric swatches, loose sketches, and someone’s espresso cup. A sheet of paper with sharp pencil strokes and smudged charcoal, clearly drawn quickly. Instinctively.

A sketch

Of him.

It wasn’t perfect—his jaw was too sharp, and the slope of his nose exaggerated—but it was him. The shirt he’d worn last night. The curve of his hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. The thoughtful tilt of his head.

It was him, seen through someone else’s eyes.

“She did that?” he asked quietly.

Alessandro leaned in, raised a brow, then laughed. “Dio. She said she couldn’t sleep.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second. He just kept looking.

She’d shaded the eyes last. It was the only part of the sketch untouched by smudges. Carefully defined. Focused.

As if she’d started drawing a stranger and ended up sketching someone she couldn’t look away from.

“You’re in trouble,” Alessandro murmured, watching him.

Harry didn’t argue.

The sketch sat between them like it had a heartbeat.

Harry’s fingers hovered just above the edge of the paper, not touching, not daring to. It felt too personal—like reading a diary he hadn’t been meant to find.

“She sees things,” he murmured, voice lower now.

Alessandro leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching him with interest. “Mmhmm. That’s what makes her so good. She notices what others miss. Details. Stillness.”

Harry swallowed. His gaze lingered on the slope of the sketch’s neck, the way she’d captured the slight tilt of his head. He hadn’t even known he’d sat like that. Had she been watching him the whole time?

“I have to go back to Tuscany,” he said after a long silence.

Alessandro sighed, almost theatrically. “Always running away to your Tuscan hills. You and your romantic recluse act.”

“I need the quiet.”

“And yet… here you are,” he said, gesturing loosely to the sketch, to the space between them filled with something unsaid. “Chasing the girl who kept you talking all night.”

Harry didn’t deny it.

“I want to know her,” he said, soft but firm. “But how do I ask her that? It’s Milan Fashion Week. She’s working herself into the ground. Everyone wants something from someone here.”

Alessandro tilted his head. “And what would you want from her?”

Harry exhaled slowly. “A name. A real conversation. Not the kind that disappears when the wine wears off.”

His friend studied him for a moment. Then, instead of teasing, he said with rare quiet, “Then wait. Let her breathe. You’re not the only one who hasn’t stopped moving.”

Harry gave him a look. “You’re unusually wise today.”

“I’ve been moisturized, well-fed, and slightly tipsy since nine a.m. I’m glowing with clarity.”

Harry huffed a laugh, leaning back slightly, eyes still on the sketch.

The rest of the atelier buzzed around them, models being pinned into half-finished garments, music humming low, scissors snipping in rhythm. But in this small corner of it all, time felt still.

Harry didn’t know her name.

But he knew how she saw the world. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever had someone look at him like that before.

Y/N pushed the atelier door open with her shoulder, arms full of garment bags, phone pressed to her ear, and a headache blooming just behind her right temple.

“No, I didn’t forget the zippers,” she hissed into the phone. “I reminded Martina three times—yes, okay, I’ll check again. I’m literally walking in right now—”

She stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-sentence.

The call disconnected without her even realizing it.

He was there.

Standing near the back of the room, in soft sunlight streaming through the tall windows, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows, one hand lazily tucked into the pocket of his black trousers.

Harry Styles.

From the dinner party.

From the night that hadn’t left her mind since she’d walked away from it.

He was staring at something on the table. Her table.

No—her sketch.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

For a second, the atelier faded. The sewing machines, the models rehearsing runway turns, the steady hum of caffeine-fueled assistants. It all went still.

He looked up slowly. Like he’d felt her walk in.

His eyes met hers across the room. And for a second, neither of them moved.

Then Alessandro appeared beside him with a dramatic little flourish, voice ringing across the floor.

“Amore! You’re late. He’s been waiting.”

“Waiting?” Her voice came out softer than she meant, throat still tight.

Alessandro grinned. “Yes. For you.”

Her stomach flipped.

Harry straightened but didn’t come closer. He didn’t speak yet, either. Just watched her. His expression unreadable, but his eyes were soft. Curious. A little uncertain. The same way they’d looked across the dinner table the night before, in the quiet lull between laughter and the end of something unfinished.

Y/N crossed the floor carefully, trying not to trip over herself—or her thoughts.

She stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth. Close enough to see that he was holding the sketch now.

The paper looked delicate in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d…” she started, then stopped. “I didn’t know you were still in Milan.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be,” he said.

“And now?”

His eyes met hers again. Calm. Clear.

“I changed my plans.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. The atelier felt too loud. The moment too quiet.

Then he held out the sketch to her.

“I don’t usually let people see me like this,” he said. “But you already have.”

Y/N stared at him, pulse fluttering wildly in her chest.

Somewhere near them, Alessandro sighed and muttered, “I swear to God, if you two don’t kiss by Friday, I’m firing someone.”

Neither of them laughed.

They were still staring.

Waiting.

Y/N felt heat creep up the back of her neck.

It was ridiculous—blushing, at her big age, in the middle of Milan Fashion Week, in front of Harry Styles holding her sketch like it meant something.

But he was looking at her like it did.

His eyes dipped back down to the page, then up again, and she knew—knew—he recognized the vulnerability in it. Not just his likeness. Her gaze. How she’d seen him.

She didn’t know how to explain that. Or if she even wanted to.

“Scusate!” Alessandro called out, breaking the tension with the subtlety of a cannon blast. “Enough of the romantic staring. We have clothes to fit and muses to dress!”

Y/N blinked, startled.

Alessandro waved dramatically toward a nearby rack. “The garments for Harry are there—adjustment pile. I need you to help him try them on. And be gentle, he bruises like a peach.”

“I do not,” Harry said mildly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Go on, go on,” Alessandro pushed, already turning on his heel like he had six more crises to attend to. “Take him to the blue room. Away from the nosy eyes and gossiping mouths.”

Y/N hesitated, then moved toward the rack, pulling out the few pieces with Harry’s name labeled in chalk on the tags. When she turned, he was already beside her.

“Blue room?” he asked, voice low and warm.

She nodded, trying to play it cool. “This way.”

They walked together down the hallway—past racks of sequins and silk, assistants threading needles, interns whispering in corners. She could feel the glances, but no one dared say anything with Harry next to her.

She opened the door to the blue room—a fitting space draped in soft navy velvet, with tall antique mirrors, gold hooks on the walls, and a plush settee in the corner.

It was quiet.

Safe.

She set the clothes on a nearby stool, then turned to him, still blushing but trying not to show it.

“I can step out if you want to change.”

He shook his head gently. “Only if you want to.”

Y/N hesitated—long enough for the air to grow heavier between them.

Then she crossed to the wall and busied herself with unzipping one of the garment bags.

Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of fabric, the click of buttons.

Neither of them said a word.

But the silence wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

Of everything they hadn’t said the night before.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the garment bag even after the zipper was all the way down.

She could hear him behind her—slow, unhurried movements as he peeled off his shirt. Fabric slipping from skin. The rustle of trousers. A belt unlooped.

She swallowed and cleared her throat lightly. “We’ll start with the navy wool suit. Alessandro’s trying to decide between that and the double-breasted.”

“Which one’s yours?” Harry asked, voice low and casual, but something in it tugged.

She turned to face him and felt her breath hitch for half a second.

He stood in just his boxers, toned and freckled and barefoot on the velvet carpet. His tattoos looked darker in this light, ink swimming across golden skin. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tease—just looked at her like he wanted to know the answer.

She held out the navy jacket first.

“That one,” she said. “I adjusted the silhouette last week. Softer at the waist. You’re broader than the model who fit it originally.”

Harry stepped forward, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up slightly.

She lifted the jacket, letting him slide his arms into it. He moved slowly, watching her face the whole time. When she reached to smooth the fabric at his shoulders, her fingers brushed the warm curve of his neck.

He didn’t flinch.

Neither did she.

Her hands trailed down to the lapels, tugging gently, then smoothing them flat. She could feel his breath now. Could smell whatever cologne clung faintly to his skin—clean and woodsy and a little sinful.

“Too tight?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he said. “Feels good.”

She glanced up and met his eyes—greener than they had any right to be, soft at the edges.

He didn’t look away.

“Pants next,” she said, trying to gather the tension and place it somewhere more manageable—like professionalism. But her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the waistband of the trousers and held them out.

He stepped closer to take them, and when his fingers brushed hers, it was brief.

But not forgettable.

He turned, and stepped into the trousers. She waited, staring down at her hands as if they might do something stupid on their own.

When he turned back, the pants hung too low at the hips.

“Come here,” she murmured, reaching for a box of pins on the small table nearby. “I need to mark the waist.”

He stepped toward her again, and she knelt slightly, fingers brushing the waistband, folding the fabric gently before pinning it.

His breath caught when her hand brushed the sharp line of his hip.

She looked up at him—so close now her breath stirred the fabric of his shirt.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He looked down at her, lips parted.

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “Not really.”

The pin hovered in her fingers, forgotten.

Her fingers still rested lightly against the waistband of his trousers, pin tucked into the fabric but forgotten.

Harry was looking down at her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her face. Not in a performative way. Not like a man used to getting what he wanted. More like someone who had stumbled into something unexpected—and didn’t want to move too fast and ruin it.

Y/N swallowed.

She was still crouched just enough to be level with his chest, close enough to feel his body heat roll off of him in quiet waves.

“Not really?” she repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry let out a slow breath through his nose.

“I thought I’d forget you when I left that dinner.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

He wasn’t smiling.

“I told myself it was just the wine. The lighting. The moment,” he said, voice soft and steady. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not for one second.”

The pin slipped from her hand, landing soundlessly on the carpet between them.

Her hand remained against the fold of his trousers, unmoving.

“I don’t even know your name,” he added, like it physically pained him to admit it.

She blinked slowly. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—delicate around the edges.

“Y/N.”

His lips parted. He said it once, just to feel it. Like a secret he’d been dying to be told.

“Y/N,” he repeated. “You said goodnight like you didn’t want me to follow.”

“I didn’t,” she murmured. “Because I didn’t think you would.”

Silence bloomed again, thick and real.

She stood slowly, rising to meet him.

Now they were eye to eye.

The pinned waistband rested between them. Her hands hovered, unsure whether to stay or fall away. But he didn’t move. Didn’t break eye contact.

“You still leaving for Tuscany?” she asked quietly.

He studied her for a long moment. Then, with a small breath:

“Not yet.”

And somehow, that said everything.

Before either of them could say another word—before Harry could reach for her, or she could step back and figure out what to do with the storm suddenly curling in her chest—the door burst open.

“Dio mio, do I have to do everything myself—”

Alessandro froze in the doorway, a bolt of silk slung dramatically over one arm, an iPad in the other, sunglasses still perched on top of his head like a crown.

He blinked at the scene in front of him.

Y/N standing a breath away from Harry, her hands still near his waist. Harry staring at her like she held every answer to questions he hadn’t known he was asking.

Alessandro’s gaze flicked to the fallen pin on the floor. To the tension thick enough to cut with his shears.

“Oh,” he said simply. “Oh.”

Harry stepped back a little, but not far. His fingers grazed the hem of the jacket, suddenly all too aware of how exposed he still was.

Y/N blinked fast, like she’d been yanked out of a dream.

Alessandro didn’t even pretend to hide his smirk. “Should I… come back later? Or bring champagne and officiate?”

Y/N flushed. “I was just pinning the trousers.”

“Of course you were,” he said with a dramatic wink. “And I’m just here for the invisible lining specifications.”

Harry cleared his throat. “You needed something?”

“Oh yes!” Alessandro snapped back into motion, waving the iPad like it held state secrets. “The double-breasted. We need to compare it with the navy one. And also—press people are asking if you’re still in Milan and where you are. I told them you were having a moment of spiritual clarity and couldn’t be disturbed.

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

“Anytime, tesoro mio.”

Y/N was already bending to retrieve the pin, carefully smoothing her features back into neutral.

But something had shifted.

Harry saw it in the way her hands moved more slowly now. The way she didn’t quite meet his eyes.

And he hated that they’d been interrupted.

Alessandro handed over the second jacket, still talking, oblivious to the invisible thread still pulling tight between the two of them.

But Harry knew.

So did she.

The rest of the fitting passed in a blur.

Y/N did her job—focused, efficient, eyes trained on fabric, not him. But Harry felt her in every moment. In the way her hand brushed his sleeve when she adjusted the shoulder seam. In the way she quietly handed him a glass of water while Alessandro chattered away about lapels and runways. In the way she never quite looked at him the same after that moment in the blue room.

By mid-afternoon, the atelier had thinned out. Models gone. Garments tagged and bagged. Lights dimmer now, casting warm amber shadows across the floor.

Harry stood near the back hallway, one hand in his pocket, the other idly playing with a pin she’d left behind on a table.

He heard her before he saw her.

Her steps were softer now. Slower. Less hurried.

She turned the corner and froze, a tote slung over one shoulder, her phone in hand.

“You’re still here?” she asked softly.

He looked up. “Didn’t feel like leaving.”

A beat passed.

Then: “You always this persistent?”

Harry tilted his head, lips curling. “Only when I’m interested.”

She leaned against the wall across from him, the distance between them quiet and humming. The hum of two people who hadn’t let go of the moment, even after the door had slammed open and the world had resumed spinning.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she said.

“I wasn’t expecting you last night.”

Her eyes flicked up. Met his. Steadier this time.

He took a small step closer.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “About not being able to forget you.”

She exhaled slowly, as if trying to keep her chest from shaking. “Why me?”

Harry looked at her like it was obvious.

“Because you didn’t try to be anything you’re not. Not last night. Not today. And because I liked the way you looked at me.”

She blinked.

“That sketch,” he said quietly.

Her throat bobbed.

“I didn’t think you’d ever see it.”

“I don’t think I was supposed to,” he added. “But I’m glad I did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was weighty.

Soft.

Important.

Y/N shifted slightly, hugging her tote tighter to her shoulder.

“I’m not good at this,” she admitted. “Whatever this is.”

Harry smiled. “Neither am I.”

Another beat.

Then she said, voice quieter than before, “I get off at eight.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

She shrugged. “There’s a café two blocks down. No cameras. Good pastries. Better wine.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll be there.”

She turned to go, then paused, glancing back once over her shoulder.

“Wear something less poetic.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “No promises.”

And just like the night before, she walked away.

But this time, he had her name.

And a place to find her.

The café sat on a quiet side street tucked behind an ivy-covered wall, the kind of place that didn’t bother with signs or menus in English. Inside, it smelled like espresso, warm bread, and rain-soaked stone.

Harry got there first.

He chose a table near the window—half-shadowed, half-lit by the amber glow of a single pendant lamp above. The table was small. Intimate. Like the whole place was built to protect secrets.

He wore a dark sweater this time. Hair tousled, sleeves pushed up, rings clinking gently as he turned his wine glass between his fingers. He hadn’t touched the drink.

He was waiting.

At 8:04, the door creaked open.

Y/N stepped in, cheeks flushed from the chill outside, her coat slightly damp at the shoulders. She looked like she didn’t belong in the curated dimness of Milan’s fashion scene. She looked like something real walking into a dream.

He stood as she approached.

“You came,” he said quietly.

“You waited,” she replied, slipping her coat off and draping it on the back of the chair. “That’s rare.”

He sat. Watched her settle in. She wore a soft grey sweater, sleeves too long, the neckline a little stretched. Bare-faced, tired, beautiful.

“I wanted to see you like this,” he said, almost without meaning to. “When you’re not working. Not running.”

She tilted her head. “And what do you see?”

Harry considered her for a long moment. “Someone I want to keep learning.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was warm.

Grounded.

The waitress brought them wine, then disappeared like she knew better than to linger.

They talked. About nothing and everything. Favorite songs. Childhood cities. Her first sketch that got noticed. His first panic attack on tour. The kind of conversation that skipped small talk entirely and went straight to the parts people usually hide.

By the time they finished the second glass, the café had emptied out.

A bell chimed quietly as someone left. It was just them now, shadows long, voices low.

Y/N looked down at her glass, fingers tracing the rim. “This feels like a mistake,” she whispered.

Harry’s brows pulled together. “Why?”

“Because it feels too easy. And nothing good in my life has ever felt easy.”

He reached across the table, hand brushing hers. Slowly. Not to hold it. Just to be near.

“Maybe this time it’s not a trick,” he said. “Maybe it’s just… timing.”

She looked up at him.

And for once, she didn’t look away.

Her hand turned, gently curling around his. The touch was light, like a promise not to rush.

He stood then, still holding her gaze, and walked around to her side of the table.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, but not nervous.

He reached for her—slowly, giving her time.

And when she didn’t stop him, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Careful. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her ear. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, then eased into his like they’d been waiting all day. All week.

It didn’t last long.

But it said everything.

When they pulled apart, her eyes were still closed for a beat longer than his.

“You’re not going to disappear after this, are you?” she whispered.

He smiled, thumb still against her skin.

“No,” he said. “Not this time.”

The has changed everything.

But there was no dramatic shift. No confession. No morning spent tangled in bedsheets. Just a quiet parting in front of the café, a lingering glance, a smile that meant this isn’t over, and the warmth of his hand briefly resting on her back as he helped her into her coat.

But after that, something softened between them.

It began with messages.

Late at night. Between fittings and castings. Between hotel rooms and crowded trams.

H: Still thinking about that lemon tart you didn’t let me try.

Y/N: You could’ve asked instead of staring at it like a Victorian orphan.

H: Are you always this mean to people you kiss?

Y/N: Only the ones who show up in perfect lighting and ruin my concentration.

Then, it became time.

Shared quietly. Without labels. Without plans.

She stopped being surprised when he’d show up at the atelier with espresso and fresh cornetti.

He stopped being surprised when she showed up at his flat on a Wednesday night, hair in a bun, sketchbook under her arm, and no explanation at all.

It became a rhythm.

Late dinners in his temporary apartment—sometimes pasta, sometimes toast, sometimes nothing but red wine and stolen bites of chocolate. They’d sit on the floor with the windows open, music low, the city humming below.

She’d draw while he played her records. He’d watch her from the couch, fascinated by the way her mouth twisted when she concentrated, how her hands smudged graphite across her cheek.

He never kissed her again—not yet.

But he wanted to.

Every time she leaned close to show him a sketch.

Every time she laughed and touched his knee like it was nothing.

Every time she fell asleep beside him on the sofa, curled in his hoodie, toes tucked under his thigh, trusting him completely.

One night, they sat together on the balcony, shoulders brushing, a blanket wrapped loosely around both of them.

It had started to rain—just lightly, Milan glistening below.

She was quiet. Tired. Her cheek resting on his shoulder. The kind of tired that wasn’t just physical, but lived-in. The kind that came from carrying too much alone.

Harry didn’t speak.

He just let her be there.

With him.

He reached for her hand eventually, sliding his fingers between hers without looking down.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she said, voice low and unguarded, “I’m not used to this.”

He turned his head, brushing his lips to her hair.

“To what?”

“This,” she murmured. “The quiet. The kindness. The… waiting.”

Harry gave her hand the gentlest squeeze.

“I’m not in a rush,” he said.

And he meant it.

Because the truth was, he wanted to wait.

He wanted to stay in this moment.

Where nothing had to be said.

Where the kiss still lingered, unspoken.

Where the closeness meant more than anything they could’ve done in a single night.

It started with a headline.

She didn’t even see it first—Martina did, shoving her phone in Y/N’s face as they passed bolts of silk in the atelier’s back corridor.

“Who’s Milan’s Mystery Muse? Harry Styles Spotted Leaving Hidden Flat Night After Night.”

Below it: grainy, zoomed-in photos. A hand that could be hers. A blur of her coat. The outline of Harry’s profile as he stepped into the building’s side entrance.

“Is this you?” Martina asked, wide-eyed.

Y/N stared, heart dropping into her stomach.

Alessandro appeared minutes later, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, iPad under one arm, espresso in hand. His usual chaotic energy was buzzing on a different frequency now—less flamboyant, more serious.

“I told you to be careful,” he said quietly, pulling her aside.

“I was.”

“Not careful enough. They always find you, cara. Especially when the man you’re seeing has a face made for Vogue covers and half the world on alert.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a second.

“It’s just gossip,” she said. “There’s nothing confirmed.”

“Exactly. Which means they’ll dig deeper.”

Alessandro sighed and placed his espresso down with too much force. “I can’t have drama around the show right now. I love him, but if this leaks further—if they start naming names—you will be the one who pays for it. Not him.”

She knew he was right.

That night, she didn’t go to Harry’s apartment.

She didn’t answer his text.

Or the one after that.

H: Did I do something wrong?

H: Is this about the article? I can make it go away.

H: Say something, yeah?

It wasn’t until the following evening that she finally gave in.

The city was loud outside. Her thoughts louder.

She stood outside his apartment building for ten full minutes before buzzing up.

When the door finally opened, he stood there barefoot, in joggers and a threadbare hoodie, curls pushed back from his face, tired written across his eyes.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Not until she stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind her.

Then: “They found us.”

Harry didn’t look surprised. “They always do.”

“I didn’t sign up for that.”

“I know.”

“I work here,” she said. “In this world. I can’t afford to be the reason people talk. Not like that.”

Harry crossed the room slowly, voice steady but quiet. “You think I don’t know that?”

She blinked, stunned by the flicker of pain in his expression.

“I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length for exactly this reason,” he said. “But then you showed up. And for the first time in a long time… I didn’t want to.”

Silence bloomed between them again.

Then—softly:

“I missed you last night.”

Her chest ached.

“I was scared,” she admitted. “I still am.”

He stepped closer.

“Then stay scared with me,” he said gently. “I’ll wait. I’ll protect it. I won’t let them turn it into something it’s not.”

She looked up at him.

“I told you that I don’t know how to do this.”

Harry gave a soft smile. “We don’t have to know. We just have to keep choosing it.”

Another long beat.

Then, finally, her hand reached for his.

Their fingers laced together. Solid. Sure.

He didn’t kiss her right away — just looked at her like he was taking a photograph. Something in his expression said, This is the moment I’ll think about when you’re not here.

She stepped into his space, heart slamming behind her ribs.

“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said again — softer this time. Like a plea. “Stay. Just tonight.”

The walk to the couch felt like crossing into something irreversible. Neither rushed. Neither said a word.

When he finally kissed her, it wasn’t hesitant. It was slow but certain. Like he knew now — that she wanted him just as much, that she wasn’t going to disappear again.

Their mouths moved like they’d been made for this rhythm. Her hands curled behind his neck, into his hair, pulling him closer. His lips dragged down the column of her throat, over the hinge of her jaw.

He groaned softly against her skin. “You always smell this good?”

She smiled against his cheek. “Maybe you’re just obsessed.”

“God help me,” he muttered, mouth pressed to her collarbone. “I think I am.”

They sank into the couch in a tangle of limbs, heat blooming between them like a spark finally catching. His hands moved with reverence, palms splaying wide over her sides, thumbs brushing beneath the curve of her breasts as if asking, Can I?

She nodded. “Touch me, Harry.”

His breath caught.

He pushed her shirt up, dragging it over her head in one slow motion. She wore no bra. His lips parted like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Jesus Christ.”

She flushed — and not from modesty. From the way he was looking at her. Like her body was art, something rare and unspeakably precious.

“Come here,” she whispered, pulling him in again.

His mouth latched to her breast with a groan, hand cupping the other as his tongue circled her nipple slowly, then suckled. She gasped, arching into his touch, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Fuck,” she whimpered. “That feels…”

“Yeah?” he asked, voice thick, mouth hot against her skin. “Tell me.”

She grabbed his hand, slid it down the slope of her belly, into the waistband of her jeans.

“Want your fingers.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to hers as he popped the button open. “Yeah darlin’? Been thinking about this?”

“All week,” she admitted, breathless.

He kissed her hard, groaning into her mouth as he pushed her jeans down, tugging her panties along with them. She kicked them off without grace.

His hand found her again — bare now, soft and slick and so warm.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. “You’re soaked.”

She jerked in his grip when he dragged two fingers through her folds, teasing over her clit.

“Harry—”

“Shhh,” he soothed, kissing her jaw. “Let me make you feel good. I want to know what you sound like when you fall apart.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as his fingers slid inside — not rushed, just deep. Full. Familiar, but so much better like this.

He fucked her slow with his hand, thumb circling her clit in just the right way, his mouth on her neck, whispering praise between every shaky breath.

“You’re perfect like this, d’you know that? So fucking beautiful, so tight around me…”

Her thighs trembled. “I’m close—oh my god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come for me, baby. Come on, let me see it.”

She shattered in his arms with a gasp, legs clenching, hips bucking into his hand.

He didn’t pull away until she whimpered from the sensitivity.

Then he kissed her — deep, open-mouthed, like he was starving.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers. “Need it so bad.”

She reached down, palm brushing over his bulge through his boxers. “Then take me.”

He didn’t move for a moment — just looked at her like she’d handed him something he didn’t deserve.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Harry. I want all of you.”

That broke him.

“Condom?” she asked softly, already reaching for her bag.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, voice tight, kissing her jaw as he stood long enough to grab a condom from his wallet, yanking his boxers down, cock flushed and leaking, so hard it looked painful, “Been carrying one around like an idiot. Just in case.”

She laughed—quiet and breathless.

She sat up, breath catching as she watched him roll it on. “Jesus.”

Harry laughed, low and wrecked. “Don’t look at me like that or this’ll be over too fast.”

He climbed back over her, kissing her lips, her jaw, her throat.

“Tell me how you like it,” he whispered against her skin. “Tell me what feels good.”

“I don’t care,” she gasped. “Just—want to feel you.”

He nudged at her entrance, pushed in slow — so fucking slow — and cursed as her body stretched around him, taking him inch by inch.

“You’re—fuck—you feel unreal.”

Her hands fumbled for him, needing to hold something as he bottomed out.

They stilled together, both breathing hard.

Then he began to move.

Rhythmic, smooth, dragging every ounce of pleasure out of every stroke. She whimpered beneath him, gripping his arms, nails biting into his skin.

“Faster,” she whispered.

“You sure?”

“Yes, god—Harry—please—”

He obeyed.

The sound of skin on skin filled the room, along with her moans, his low grunts, the sharp edge of his voice every time he said her name like a prayer.

She pulled him down, kissing him desperately. “Don’t stop. I’m—shit—I’m gonna—”

He reached between them, thumb circling her clit again, and she came with a sob, clenched around him so tight he had to stop moving for a second.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

“Got you,” he groaned, thrusting once, twice more before spilling into the condom, his body going rigid above her, head bowed, hair falling into his face.

When he collapsed beside her, he pulled her into his arms immediately, breath still uneven.

They stayed that way for minutes — nothing but skin and breath and warmth.

She pressed a kiss to his chest.

“I think we just broke the world,” she whispered.

Harry laughed, hoarse and happy. “I’d do it again.”

Y/N woke slowly.

Not to an alarm. Not to the click of her heels across the tiled hallway of the atelier. Not to the dull ache behind her eyes from lack of sleep or too much wine.

But to warmth.

Soft sheets. The smell of Harry’s skin. Her cheek pressed to his chest, his arm curled securely around her back, his fingers tangled in her hair like he hadn’t let go all night.

She blinked, heart heavy with something she didn’t know how to name yet.

Harry was still asleep — or half-asleep, at least. His breathing was slow, steady. His lips slightly parted. The corners of his mouth curled just enough that she could tell his dreams weren’t bad.

She watched him for a long moment.

The room was bright now. Morning light poured in through the slatted blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the hardwood floor. His coat was still draped over the armchair where she’d thrown it. One of her earrings glinted on the floor. Her clothes were in a heap by the couch.

They’d never made it to the bed.

She smiled to herself.

Carefully, she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to get a better look at him. The angles of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the tiny pink scratch near his shoulder she hadn’t remembered leaving.

Her heart ached. In the good way.

Harry stirred, lashes fluttering open.

She expected something groggy, a mumble, a sleepy blink. But his eyes found hers almost instantly.

Like he’d already known she was there.

“Morning,” he rasped.

She bit back a smile. “Morning.”

He stretched beneath her, groaning softly. “What time is it?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

His hand slid down to the small of her back, palm spreading wide, warm and grounding.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

They stared at each other.

There was no rush between them. No awkward tension. Just a stretch of silence that felt more like understanding than anything else.

Y/N broke first. “Last night…”

Harry raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think I can go back to pretending it didn’t mean something.”

He studied her carefully. “You thought I could?”

“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. “You’re used to this. The press, the afterparties, the camera flashes. I’m just… me.”

“You think that matters?”

She looked down. “It should.”

Harry reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’ve had a lot of people in my life,” he said quietly. “People who wanted things from me. People who stayed as long as the lights were bright.”

She looked up again.

“But you?” His thumb brushed her cheek. “You were gonna disappear. Not because you didn’t care, but because you did. Because you were scared. And you still showed up anyway.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said, voice cracking. “I wanted to go back to my apartment. I wanted to shut the world out.”

“But you didn’t.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Harry exhaled, like something in his chest had been unknotted.

“Then stay,” he said.

She stilled. “What?”

“I don’t mean just today.” His eyes locked with hers. “I mean… stay. With me.”

Her heart was thudding now — a steady, pounding rhythm in her ribs.

“I’ll go back to Tuscany,” he said. “We can lie low if we have to. Or stay in Milan, if you want that. You don’t have to give anything up that you’re not ready to. But if you are… if you’re willing…”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. Their noses brushed. Their breaths synced.

“I’d leave it all behind,” she whispered. “I’d walk away from everything if it meant I could wake up like this everyday.”

Harry closed his eyes, pulling her closer.

“Then let’s not waste another fucking second.”

She laughed — breathless and warm and a little teary.

“Okay.”

And just like that, without fanfare or declarations, something between them clicked into permanence.

Not a fairytale.

But a beginning.

Let me know what you think

[n0cturnalp1g]

Night Shift: 7:00AM

Summary: Two night gremlins surfaced into the daylight to help out. Characters: Attending!Female Reader (Sunshine) x Jack Abbot. Dana Evans. Samira Mohan. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch Word Count: 1363 Chapter Warnings: None

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

7:00AM 4th July 2025

“Should I be worried about allowing night gremlins into my dayshift?”

Your smile grew as you wrapped your arm around Dana’s waist and she hugged you right back. Charge Nurse Dana Evans was like the older sister you never had and when you learned about the lack of staff for the day, you knew you would help whatever ways you can.

“You should be more worried about Mr. Pill Popper over there.” Jack Abbot muttered under his breath and immediately earned himself a slap on the chest from you. “What?”

“Jack, that’s not nice!” You scolded, eyes darting to where Frank was at Bay 6, already deep into reviewing the charts for the patient with irregular heartbeat. “Don’t be cruel to him, he’s already been through so much already.” You requested.

And that was all it took. A sigh and a nod, Nightshift Senior Attending Dr. Jack Abbot was agreeing (relenting) with you.

“Sorry.” He muttered accepting the thermos of coffee from you before making his way to his first patient for the day.

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment. You worry about him, more than he wants you to. It’s not just any old worry you’ve used to. But it was the fact of what the day meant for him. 4th of July meant something to Jack once. But after losing too much of himself and the people he once cared for, the day was the worst of all the worst days he could be working. It was like deja vu all over again for you.

“Will he be alright?” Dana asked, leaning her arms against the nurse station, her own eyes following you as you still had your eyes on Jack. When he turned and caught you starting, he smiled, his usual playful smile before winking and sticking his tongue out.

“He will be.” You reassured her, finally turning back to look at Dana, a knowing look already on her face. “He wants to be.”

“So you and him?” She wiggled her brows, and the all too familiar smile already on her face.

“Don’t make it weird, Evans. It’s only been six months.” You muttered, finally pulling one of the tablets to review a patient’s order.

“But a little birdy told me someone’s already moved in with him.” Dana grinned and grew bigger now.

“Fucking Shen,” You muttered under your breath before finally relenting and looking back at Dana. “Yes! We’ve been officially dating for six months, did a month of just going out and having a nightcap before that.”

“Look at you melting the stone cold heart of that night gremlin.”

“He’s good to me.” You admitted. “Best damn thing to ever happen to me.” As the words left your tongue, it was the truth that you knew all too well. You’ve experienced worse, endured worse, yet here you were finally picked up all the pieces and that grumpy old man with a police scanner as white noise was making your life better than what you had before.

“He better. If I found out he even hurts a single hair from your head, I’ll bring the whole arsenal with him–I might even involve Robby into this.”

At the mention of the man, the smile momentarily faded from your lips before you put on a more tense smile. You wished Dana didn’t see it, you didn’t want to deal with the past you’ve tried too hard to bury, to protect yourself.

“We don’t need to involve the Chief here, I can handle Jack myself.” You muttered.

“Still can’t understand how he allowed you to move to the nightshift after Pittfest.” She shook her head. “He already lost too much in his corner after that night, can’t understand how he could let go of his second-in-command.”

“Don’t let Frank hear that or he’ll pout.” You redirected immediately wishing to steer the conversation away from Robby.

At the sound of your name, a genuine smile already formed on your face as you turned and was met with Dr. Samira Mohan, third-year medical resident and the doctor you see yourself most in since she stepped foot in the Pitt.

“Nice to see you’re up and running, Samira.” You greeted her.

“Heard the Sun was back and wanted to make sure I had my fix before she returned right back to the night.” she grinned and you allowed her to pulled you into a hug.

With Dana as an older sister, Samira was always like a little sister to you. For all the faults and chaos in the world, all she ever wanted was to make it a better place at her own pace–and nothing was wrong with that whatsoever.

“You being good to Dana while I was gone?” You playfully asked.

“She’s getting faster.” Dana commented, her attention back to the computer and the phone she was holding.

“Slow and steady wins the race.” You winked at her before your eyes turned to the Ambulance bay and your breath caught at the sudden arrival.

Robby. In the flesh.

But the most damning part was the fact that you no longer felt the ache you once constantly had every single time you looked at him during handovers. It was fading further and further until it was now just this lingering memory of what you once had with him that you’ve come to accept will never be ever again.

“Hi Chief.” You tried your best to put on a smile.

“Doctor.” His voice was clipped as his attention moved towards the patient board, already filling in before their very eyes.

“Gloria’s looking for you, Robby.” Dana reminded him.

“Again?” He groaned, eyes moving right back to you then towards Jack. “Can’t we offer Gloria the night gremlins for the weekly spanking?”

“Don’t pull us into your bullshift, Robby.” Jack called out from the other bay. “It’s not our problem if dayshift’s satisfaction rating dropped and ours rose.”

You refused to meet his eyes for that one. Knowing fully well the double meaning behind Jack’s words. You know what it means and you do not wish to be part of said conversation on the one day you’ve thought of helping out.

“Let’s do our rounds, Dr. Mohan?” You turned right back to Samira, a smile returning right back to normal as you followed her away from the nurse station.

You refused to look back, knowing perfectly well who was looking right through you. You had patients to look after, you had Jack to watch over. You no longer had the time for him.

~

“One of these days you need to tell me what made Sunny walk away.” Dana sighed, making Robby finally look right back at Dana, whose eyes were squarely on him.

“I don’t know.” He knew. But he was too much of a coward to admit it to anyone–especially Dana.

“Come on Cap, of course you know.” She leaned closer to him. “You know Jack is right, Sunshine is the best doctor we ever got here in the Pitt. We don’t call her Sunshine for nothin’. She gives and she gives and expects nothing in return. That doesn’t change after just one day.”

“It was the Pittfest.” He lied instead.

“Bullshit. She’s worked on a handful of mass shootings worse than the Fest. It’s been ten months now, but I could still remember those eyes looking so empty and dead when we were all headed out for the day. She didn’t even join you and the crew in the Park.”

“Something I can’t fix.” The words slipped and Dana’s eyes narrowed and the frown falling from her lips because of it.

“I get it.” She nodded, returning back to the computer. But those three words held so much weight and it almost made Robby break more than anything. Dana was always a confidant, but even she had been shielded from what had happened that night.

Maybe Robby feared that she would take your side, or maybe it was because he feared having someone else tell him that he was wrong. But he didn’t need that right now.

“Got an incoming Fireworks accident in 4 minutes, today’s gonna be bloody. God help us all.”

[elleaitch22]

Love on Fire

Chapter 11: Through Smoke and Frosting

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: The last scene may make you cry, but I’m hoping it doesn’t. This is my favorite chapter so far! Hope you love it!! xx Elle

Warnings: Character death, anxiety

Word Count: 5.6k words

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Week 14:

“Az?” Paige called as she walked in the house. It was 7:30 in the morning, and she was just getting off her shift at the fire station.

She didn’t get a reply, only heard the shower running. She put her shoes on the rack and padded into the kitchen, smiling at the lemon-poppyseed muffins on the counter.

Everything had gone back to normal in the past couple of weeks. Instead of buying desserts that correlated with the size of the twins, Azzi was baking them. Which meant one thing.

Azzi was happy.

She had made it through her first trimester. She didn’t have to get injections in her hip every night. She wasn’t throwing up or feeling nauseous all day. Her energy levels had gone back up. The genetic testing came back clear. Everything was going the way it was supposed to.

She was comfortable enough to let herself get fully attached to her babies.

When Paige would come back from picking up Azzi’s late-night craving, she would stand by the door and listen to Azzi whispering things to her bump.

This morning, she walked in to see Azzi in pink sweats and a sports bra. She was turned to the side, hands running over her bump slowly. Paige smiled at the soft expression on her face.

“Good morning, Mama.”

Brown eyes met hers in the mirror and the smile on Azzi’s face stretched. “Good morning, Paigey.” Her hand rubbed her stomach. “I missed you this morning. Made some muffins.”

She crossed the room, eyes dropping to the small, tanned bump. It was almost weird seeing her newly popped belly. “Can I say good morning?” Paige questioned.

Azzi turned to her fully and poked her stomach out. Paige lowered herself down. “Good morning, Bear.” She said with a kiss on the mound. “Good morning, Bean.” Another kiss pushed into the skin. “You guys are the sizes of lemons now. You’re probably sucking your thumb, but you have to stop if you want a smile as pretty as your mom’s.”

Azzi inhaled as blue eyes peered up at her through her lashes.

“I hope you look just like her. You’ll be just as pretty, just as kind, just as smart. You’ll be just as perfect. Make sure you’re nice to her today. She’s the best.”

The rest of Paige’s talk with the babies was too quiet for Azzi to hear, so she just stood there watching the woman she loved having a one-sided conversation with her belly. She brushed her hands through blonde hair, still damp from her shower at the firehouse.

She didn’t know how Paige did it. Always made her feel safe, seen, wanted, and cherished without making her feel like she owed her anything in return. Letting Azzi stay with her. Every whisper to Bean and Bear. Each treat she brought Azzi in the middle of the night. Everything she did took up a bigger space in Azzi’s heart.

Paige whispered a prayer into her skin, asking for health and protection for the coming months.

The blonde let her hands rest on the swell of Azzi’s stomach. It was moments like this that stung the most – a teaser of the life she wanted. Azzi was becoming a mom. And she was doing it without Paige. She got to touch her belly, talk to the twins whenever she wanted. She wished she could press kisses all over her stomach, fall asleep with her head resting over belly. She wished she could tell Azzi how much she loved her. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

But in all of her envy, she was also eternally grateful for moments like these that filled her chest with warmth and love and a little ache.

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Week 15:

The night before Father’s Day, Paige and Azzi played around in the kitchen.

Well, Paige played, and Azzi was putting a cake together.

“Paige,” She warned, piping bag in hand.

Paige’s grin was soft and warm as she watched Azzi lean toward the countertop. Exhaustion was all over her face, but she still glowed. She didn’t know how Azzi managed to look so tired but still so flawless.

Azzi’s belly was out in her crop top and sweat shorts. And it bounced every time she laughed, which Paige found hilarious. So, she continued to poke her best friend, trying to make her giggle.

“Paige, seriously. I’m tired and in pain. I just wanna finish putting this cake together so we can go to bed.” She pouted; frustration clear in her voice.

The woman took two steps back quickly. “What hurts, Az?” All the playfulness in her actions gone. Her hands hovered. She wished she could take every ache from her – help smooth those lines on her forehead.

Azzi sighed, slowly straightening. “Just round ligament pain. Can’t do anything about it.” She mumbled.

She rolled her shoulders back and focused on the cake again.. All she had to do was place the burn layer and add a shell border around it. Then, she could put the cake in the fridge and finally go to sleep.

It was Market Saturday, so Azzi had spent Thursday and Friday making extra desserts. And her entire Saturday was spent on her feet, selling cakes to new customers. All she wanted to do was bury herself in the blankets that smelled like Paige and sleep.

Right after she placed the “Happy Father’s Day, Papa!” wafer paper, large hands wrapped around the bottom of her belly.

“Blondie…” She said, sternly.

“Wait, just let me.” Paige started, hands cupping the bottom of her belly. “I read about it. They said I could help relieve some of the pain if you lean back into me,” Azzi absentmindedly did so. “And let me hold the weight for you.” And she lifted.

Azzi didn’t expect the embrace to feel that good. All the tension trapped in her pelvis just disappeared at once.

“Oh.” And Azzi blushed deeply at the sound that had just come out of her mouth – a little bit of a moan, a little bit of a groan, entirely embarrassing. Her knees nearly buckled. Paige tightened her arms instinctively. “Oh my God. That feels amazing.”

Paige tucked her head of Azzi’s shoulder, kissing her cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting, Mama?”

“The blogs say it’s normal, and rest is one of the only things that will help. But with Market this week, I knew I’d be on my feet more, and that it’d just hurt until I could chill.” She leaned almost all of her bodyweight onto Paige, and it felt wonderful.

The firefighter hummed. “Well, we can start doing this every day before bed, as long as I’m home.” She didn’t move. “I’d carry all of it for you, Az. Forever, if you’d let me.”

Azzi lifted her head quickly, “Really?”  She grinned when she felt Paige nod into her neck. “You’re the best person I know, Madison.”

They stayed like that. For a few minutes that felt like hours. Just two people in the soft light of the kitchen, the scent of frosting, in the cloud of love that neither could speak aloud.

Azzi wanted to say it. Wanted to tell her that she was so in love with her. But she couldn’t. Instead, she just let Paige hold her. And for now, that would have to be enough.

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Father’s Day was uncharacteristically hot. And Azzi was already moody in the heat before she got pregnant. Today was even worse.

All week, she’d been loving the fact that she looked visibly pregnant. But she didn’t realize it was because she only went places where people already knew she was pregnant. The ladies at the bakery gushed over the roundness of her bump, and Azzi was happy about it.

But today, she was going to the Bueckers’s home, and if she didn’t pick the right outfit, everyone would know before they could even see the pregnancy reveal cake she had worked so hard on.

She was overjoyed with the outfit she had picked. She was matching with Paige, which was low key one of her favorite things to do. She wore a thin chambray shirt over a cream bodysuit, while Paige wore the same top and loose cream shorts.

Which was great, but then she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the way out.

“I can’t go there like this!” She exclaimed, looking to her best friend incredulously.

Paige hadn’t really been paying attention to how obvious the bump looked. Mainly because she was mildly obsessed with staring at it, but also because she’d spent four hours clearing up a major car accident. She got off shift two and a half hours after she was supposed to, so instead of taking a three-hour nap when she got home, she slept for thirty minutes.

“What’s wrong with your fit? You look cute, Az.” She mumbled tiredly.

Azzi looked down at her outfit, then back up to her best friend. “They’re gonna know before I tell them if I show up like this.” She controlled the pout that desperately wanted to spread across her lips. “Just gimme ten minutes so I can find something else.”

She rushed back into Paige’s room, stepping into the closet. In hindsight, the bodysuit would be annoying because she was peeing every twenty minutes it took. Her five minutes to roll the tight fabric over her body.

She landed on an outfit just as casual and just as matchy – light-washed, baggy overall shorts and a cream tank top. Azzi decided to leave one strap down to loosen the stretch across her belly. Now instead of looking pregnant, she just looked full.

Paige was dozing on the bench by the door when Azzi came back out.

“P, why don’t you let me drive today?” She questioned lowly.

Blue eyes popped open, sparkling like always, but a veil of exhaustion dulling the shine a bit. “You’ve been the passenger princess since junior year, Az.” She stood and stretched.

“Yeah, except when you tore your ACL senior year. Or when you got that concussion from that one fire.” Azzi said, brushing her fingers over blonde strands. She smiled softly as Paige unconsciously relaxed into her hand. “You’re exhausted, Paige. Let me drive, just for today.”

Azzi flashed her puppy dog face, and Paige didn’t stand a chance. The next second, the cake was on the floor in the back seat, and Paige was already reclined and dozing off.

Thirty minutes later, Azzi pulled in behind Drew’s Camaro. She reached over and cupped one cheek. “Wake up, Paigey. We’re here.” She said lowly, brushing her thumb over the skin.

Paige groaned, eyes blinking open slowly. “I can’t wait to go to bed.” She grumbled.

“We can leave whenever you’re ready.” Azzi muttered.

Paige huffed, climbing out of the truck, walking to the other side to help Azzi out. She held the cake box in front of her belly as an added layer of protection.

When they walked in, Azzi made sure to lean forward as she hugged everyone so nobody could feel the press of her stomach against their abdomen.

Bob had requested a barbecue for his holiday, and Azzi was grateful. One of her biggest cravings had been burgers. And watermelon. And corn. And mac and cheese. She almost cried at the spread on the patio table.

The dinner was filled with conversations about the WNBA season, the upcoming NBA draft, and everything Drew would be doing to prepare for his last season of college hoops.

“Wherever you go this summer, just make sure you got a place to train.” Paige around a sausage dog.

“I will,” he started. “You gotta do runs with me at least twice though.” He negotiated.

Paige nodded with a smirk. “Alright, but I’m only playing the 1 or the 2; my knee’s been bothering me.”

“Gotchu.” Drew said, moving closer. He lowered his voice before speaking again. “You know what’s been bothering me? The heart eyes you and Azzi have been giving each other since high school.”

Paige scoffed, but moved closer to hear her brother better. “Drew, c’mon bro.”

He rolled his eyes, “No, you come on. You’ve been in love with her forever, and you have to know she loves you too.”

“She’s trying to have a baby, Drew. Her hormones are all over the place, man. I don’t want her to get with me out of pity or because her emotions are crazy.” She gritted out through clenched teeth. “After she has her kid, then I’ll tell her. I’ve already waiting this long. A little while longer won’t hurt.”

Before Drew could enlighten her with more advice, Azzi called out for her.

“Can you help me get the dessert?” She asked, smug smile on her face.

Paige grinned, following her into the air conditioning. “It’s hot as shit out there. How you feeling?” She questioned.

“I’m excited to tell them!” She slid the cake out of the box, as Paige searched the drawers for a lighter. “So I’m going to bring him the cake and light the wafer paper on fire, and you’ll record, right?” She asked.

“Yeah. And I’ll make sure to get pops and Katie’s reactions.” She pulled her into a side hug, pushing a kiss into her temple. “You ready for everyone to know?”

Azzi smiled softly at her bump. “Yeah. I’ve been waiting to tell them forever.”

They walked out together, Azzi holding the lighter under the cake board.

“Happy Father’s Day, Pops!” Paige hugged him tightly before moving to the other side of the table. She pulled her phone out as Azzi placed the cake in front of him.

He glanced at the cake, reading the words before looking at her, eyes wide.

“I saw this TikTok trend where you use edible paper as a cake topper and burn it to show something under it.” She swallowed her nerves down. “I wanted to try it out, so I hope you don’t mind being the guinea pig.”

He chuckled, eyes already misty. “Of course not, Azzi.”

Her hand trembled slightly as she struck the lighter. Just seven months ago, she hadn’t been given the chance to tell Bob and Katie about the life growing inside of her. And now she would finally get to share with the people she loved.

“Happy Father’s Day, Papa.” She grinned, touching the flame to the wafer paper.

Paige and Azzi held their breath as each millimeter of paper burned away.

“YOU’RE PREGNANT?!” Katie screeched, pulling Azzi into a tight hug.

Bob gasped, looking from the cake to the women. “Twins?” He breathed, tears flowing.

At her nod, the backyard erupted into cheers.

Paige’s smile grew, never wavered. But a small part of her wished she was allowed to cry too. Not for the babies; she was over the moon about them. But for the woman she loved, standing just out of reach.

While her parents fussed over Azzi and the babies, Drew came to wrap Paige in an embrace. “You better tell her soon, so your name goes on the birth certificates.” He whispered in her ear.

“Bro,” Paige punched him in the side. “Shut up.”

“Nah for real though,” He started. “I’m excited for y’all. Hopefully this will give you the final push to get together.”

Mari came over next, “So does this mean you’re going to tell her how much you love her?” She nudged Paige playfully.

“Why’s it always on me?” Paige sucked her teeth. “Why can’t Azzi tell me.”

Drew’s girlfriend shot her a look. “She’s growing two humans, Paige. She doesn’t have to do anything else.”

“Hey! Be nice to her!” Azzi called across the table. “Paige is the only reason I’ve survived the last four months.”

Drew cackled. “You better stand up for your woman, Azzi!”

Everyone was buzzing with joy. Making gender reveal, baby shower, and holiday plans. Mari and Drew took turns making baby jokes. Bob cried every time he looked at Azzi. Katie went through nursery themes.

In all the joy and chaos, Paige and Azzi’s eyes still found each other – love, elation, and relief shining in their eyes.

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Week 17:

Azzi’s family had purchased cruise tickets for Tim’s Christmas present, and the crew was in the Bahamas when Father’s Day rolled around.

So, she caught up with them after they got back. She hosted a dinner at her (Paige’s) house with all of her dad’s favorites.

While Paige entertained Jon and Jose in the living room, Azzi pulled her parents to the dining room to talk.

“I just wanted to apologize to you both.” She said, tears already welling in her eyes.

Katie reached out, grabbing one of Azzi’s hands. “No, baby, we’re sorry. I should’ve trusted you. Supported you.” Azzi shook her head, “No, I should’ve.” She sniffed.

“We know how much thought you put into everything.” Tim started, “You’re the most indecisive person I know, so I know you didn’t make that decision lightly.” He chuckled.

“Yes, and you’ll be a wonderful mother, Az.” Katie squeezed her hand. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be alone like me. You have us in the same city.”

Tim nodded, “And Paige, Katie, and Bob. Drew and his girl.”

“Thank you for understanding – apologizing.” Azzi smiled. “I shouldn’t have told you about the miscarriage like that.”

“Oh honey, you were grieving.” Katie whimpered. “No one can tell you how to feel when you’re grieving like that.”

Tim pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry we weren’t there. Sorry you didn’t feel safe enough to come to us for support.” He paused. “We’ve missed you, baby girl.”

“We love you, and we respect you in however you would like to move forward.” Katie cam behind Azzi and wrapped her arms around the pair. She pressed a kiss into Azzi’s curls.

“Of course I forgive you!” She mumbled into her father’s chest. She pulled back a bit. “I love you.”

When the trio walked back into the living room, Paige could see the weight lifted off Azzi’s shoulders.

She looked back to Jon and Jose. “Come on, so we can eat.”

This time, dinner wasn’t tense at all. Everyone was laughing, telling jokes, catching each other up on the last few months.

“We’re thinking about going on another cruise in December, Azzi. Christmas on a beach sounds amazing.” Katie beamed.

Azzi straightened, she was planning on telling them about the babies later. “I’ll have to see – if I’m pregnant, I don’t think I’ll be able to go.” She was tense, like she was waiting for bad news.

“That’s fine, just let us know. We’d be more than happy to stay in Virginia if that’s what you need.” Time shrugged, shoving more shrimp lo mein into his mouth.

Azzi exhaled, happy that it didn’t turn into a big deal. “Oh, definitely!” She smiled.

For dessert, Azzi had prepared homemade fortune cookies. She even wrote little messages on tiny slips of paper before she made them.

Katie gasped, “Noni and Poppy?” She pressed the paper to her chest, eyes darting to Azzi’s abdomen. “How far along are you? When are you due?” Her blue eyes shined.

“Times two?” Tim shouted, standing quickly.

He rounded the table and scooped Azzi into a hug in three steps.

“Twins!” Jon and Jose exclaimed simultaneously.

She laughed loudly, overjoyed that everyone she loved knew.

“Yes. Twins!” She grinned. “I’m seventeen weeks and five days. I’m due in early December.”

Katie blinked fast, tears falling, hand still clutching the fortune. “You’re going to be an amazing mom.”

Azzi sat down slowly, one hand resting on her stomach without thinking. Paige caught her eye from across the table, and for a long second, the rest of the world faded. Just the two of them smiley softly at each other.

For the first time, the warmth and peace in Azzi’s heart felt like it might last.

She blinked quickly and smiled widely. “Okay, who wants seconds?”

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Week 18:

Paige had been reading the parenting blogs again. There was a certain way her body locked up when she read about something she and Azzi hadn’t considered yet.

“What is it?” Azzi didn’t even look up from her book, just sighed, content to let Paige keep rubbing the tension out of her calves.

“You ever thought about getting a new place?” She asked.

Azzi’s brows furrowed and she sat up straighter. “Why?” She asked, voice serious now.

“Not like that, Az.” Paige responded, tightening her grip on her legs. “It’s just that there are only two spare bedrooms, and I wanted to keep one as the guest room.”

The brunette exhaled deeply. “I just assumed they’d share for a while.” She shrugged. “They won’t need their own rooms until they’re like five.” She settled back into the couch.

“But what about schools?” Paige continued. “You know the ones nearby are shitty.”

Azzi giggled. “Relax, Blondie. They won’t have to go to school for years. We got time.”

It was quiet for a few minutes. Paige had gone back to tapping on her phone, probably finding more things to worry about.

“But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll put my place up for rent and start saving for a down payment.” Azzi sighed. She hated making Paige feel like her concerns weren’t valid or appreciated. “That you for making sure we’re taken care of.”

The blonde smiled softly, eyes still on her screen. “I’m just letting you know, if I find something with a big yard and good schools, I’m putting this place on the market.”

Her comment sent Azzi into a fit of giggles. “Where are you gonna live though?”

“Excuse me?” Paige questioned, offended. “I’m gonna live with you, Az. We already discussed this. I’m with you for all of it.”

There was a softer, more serious air in the room.

“But what about when some girl comes along and you fall head over heels for her. I’m gonna be left with a mortgage that’s too high and a mountain of bills.” Azzi tried to smile, but it was something she’d always dreaded.

Eventually, Paige was going to fall for someone else, like really fall for them, and their friendship would be pushed to the back burner.

Paige put her phone down and pulled the book from Azzi’s grip.

“I need you to listen to me and believe me when I say that no one could ever make me leave you. You and those babies are the most important things in this world. I promise I’ll never leave you, Az.”

Her blue eyes were sharp as she spoke. Azzi knew she was serious, but she also knew love could hit you when you least expected it. That sometimes, people left, even when they meant to stay.

Paige must have seen the hesitation in her face, because those blue orbs softened. She reached for Azzi’s hand, head bowed to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

“You’re not a responsibility to me. I’m not doing this because you’re just my best friend.” Paige said quietly. “You’re my home.”

Azzi exhaled slowly, chest still tight. She couldn’t tell Paige she believed her, not yet.

But she still let Paige pull her into her side. Let her pull a blanket over both of them. Let Paige show her how she felt.

And even though it wasn’t everything she wanted, it was enough for now.

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Week 20:

The day of the gender reveal was chaotic. Paige was supposed to be home by 8 to help her and their moms set up their backyard for the party.

Azzi had initially planned a simple reveal at the bakery where everyone would come by after closing. They would all bite into a cupcake at the same time and then go home.

But the two Katies refused to let that happened. They made invitations and told everyone to come in pajamas to go with the theme of “twinkle, twinkle little stars, who we wonder what you are”, which annoyed the pregnant woman. Pajamas weren’t made to be worn outside, but she couldn’t go against the two older women.

When Paige hadn’t shown up at 8, Azzi assumed she stopped to get breakfast before coming home.

When Paige hadn’t shown up at 9, Azzi assumed she was on a call that was running over.

When Paige hadn’t shown up at 10, Azzi checked her location. And when it showed she was at the fire station, she knew she was on a call.

When Paige hadn’t shown up at 11, Azzi called Station 22 to try to get information. There was a structure fire, but the firefighter who stayed at the station had no updates.

When Paige hadn’t shown up at 12, Katie and Katie took over to occupy the guests while they waited for Paige to come home.

It was 2:00 when the food had been eaten and everyone had been waiting for the big reveal. Everyone had tried to encourage Azzi to do the reveal without Paige, but she refused.

“Paige has been here for everything. I’m not doing this without her.” She said sternly.

Around three, everyone started the leave, and Azzi was finally able to turn the news on.

Apparently, a warehouse fire started at 6:30, right before Azzi was supposed to be able to come home. When the firefighters arrived on scene, they tried to contain the flames, but their spread. Part of the building collapsed, and some firefighters were trapped. The fire was finally contained at two, but flames were still burning.

Paige turned the tv off, deciding to take a shower and wait for Paige at the station.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Azzi didn’t know how long she spent at the station. She paced in front of the building, too much nervous energy to sit down. The butterflies in her stomach would come and go, never really settling down.

She knew how dangerous structure fires were. During fire school, Paige would quiz herself about the different kinds of structure fires. Warehouses that had plastics and fuels could burn much longer than other structures. It would take even longer with hot spots or flare-ups.

The sidewalk cooled and the sky turned to cotton candy. And Azzi still waited outside.

When the last light finally dipped below the horizon, Azzi went inside to wait by the door. Paige would kill her if she was outside at in the dark.

She was counting herself down from another panic attack when the dingy white tiles on the firehouse floor were bathed in red light.

Her head popped up.

She didn’t hear any sirens.

She knew what that meant.

Lights with no sirens meant someone wasn’t making it home.

Azzi couldn’t breathe. It was almost like she was outside of her own body.

She knew her hands were shaking, but she couldn’t feel it. Somehow, she’d managed to make it back outside without tripping over her feet.

The butterflies in her belly had come back, full force.

She watched the trucks pull into the lot, hands trembling on her belly.

As soon as they came to a stop, one of the squad engine doors opened.

And Azzi sobbed in relief.

“Paige!” She cried. She floated over to her, arms opening wide.

But Paige took a step back, wincing at the wounded sound that fell from Azzi’s lips.

“You can’t touch me yet, Mama. Tons of chemicals from the smoke. It’s not safe for the babies.” She said, voice kind, but tired.

Azzi’s lip wobbled. “Just wanna hug you. I was so scared.” She wimpered.

“I’m know, Az.” She said. All she wanted to do what hold Azzi, ask her how the party went, and sleep. “Lemme take off my gear, get you a mask, and we can go home. Does that sound okay?”

Azzi nodded sadly, walking over to Paige’s truck.

The other firefighters get Azzi head nods and silent greetings, fatigue obvious.

Only a couple of minutes passed before she saw Paige coming out with her duffel and a white mask in her hands.

“I know you hate these, but I won’t get in the car with you if you don’t have it on the right way.” Paige mumbled, handing her the mask and opening the passenger door.

The ride home was quiet, SZA playing lowly in the background. Azzi just looked at Paige. There was soot on her face and flakes in her hair, but she was still just as beautiful as she always was.

Those butterflies were back in her abdomen again.

“Lost a trainee tonight.” Paige muttered as they entered their neighborhood. “She never fucking listened, and we lost her tonight because of it.” She huffed. “I told her to stay on my six, and she walked off instead.” She threw the truck in park and sighed. “By the time I turned to check, she was on the other side of the room we were sweeping. Couple seconds later, the ceiling came down.”

Azzi wanted to reach out, to hold her. But her hand paused before she could touch her.

“Come on, Paigey. Let’s get you a shower, some food, and some sleep. Yeah?” She asked softly.

Paige trailed after her slowly. Azzi pulled out the comfiest boxers and hoodie she could find and went to start the shower.

Those damn butterflies were back, and she hadn’t even been thinking about Paige this time.

A couple minute later, Paige’s voice called out. “Az, can you come in with me?”

She climbed in behind Paige, rounded belly making it a tight squeeze.

“We need a bigger tub.” She muttered, tipping Paige’s head for the water to soak her hair.

Paige hummed. “You planning on being in here with me a lot, huh?”

Azzi smacked her in the stomach, ignoring her question and the way she wanted to shout and beg to shower with her every night.

She was gentle as she washed the taller woman’s hair. She gentle cleaned the soot from her face and tension for her body while the conditioner sat in her hair.

After suds and conditioner drained, Azzi stepped closer, wrapping her arms around the woman tightly.

Both women could feel every part of their bodies pressing into each other. But it wasn’t sexual, it was comfort – the comfort of being seen by someone who loved you.

“I was so scared when you didn’t come home – when you didn’t call.” Azzi said, eyes filling with tears. “I learned about the fire on the news. Remembered what you said about those kinds of fires.” Her tears mixed with the water flowing down their bodies.

Paige pressed a kiss into her forehead. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Mama.”

“Then the truck came back without the sirens.” She sobbed. “I thought it was you, Paige.”

“I’m sorry. I’m right here, Az.” One hand held Azzi’s head close, while the other rubbed big circles into her back.

Azzi just gripped her tighter. “I love you so much Paige, please don’t ever leave me. I was so scared.” She cried.

“I love you too, Azzi. I’ll never leave you, I promise.”

They stood under the stream of water until it ran cold.

After they were toweled off and heading to bed, Paige was preparing to talk to the twins like she did every night. Then, she remembered something.

“So, what are Bean and Bear? Boys, girls, or both?” She looked up at Azzi.

The butterflies started again, hadn’t really stopped since Paige had been around.

“Oh, we didn’t find out. Couldn’t do it without you.” She muttered.

Paige sat on her knees quickly. “What?” All exhaustion evaporated from her voice. “Where’s the cake?”

“The kitchen.” Azzi said with a giggle. She already started sitting up, knowing that Paige wasn’t going to sleep without knowing.

The cake was on the island, exactly where their moms left it. Two wine glasses sat next to the cake, ready to reveal the biggest secret of the day.

Azzi set the camera up, choosing the film the moment for everyone who came to support this afternoon.

She spoke first. “I’m your mom, and I think you’re both boys.” She grinned.

Paige nudged her with her hip. “And I’m your Paigey. Excuse our appearances, we just got out of the shower. I had a really big fire today. But we had these cute outfits planned to figure out what you guys are.” She laughed. “Anyway, I’m your Paigey, and I think your Mama’s wrong. I think you’re one of each.”

“Whatever.” Azzi rolled her eyes, grabbing her glass and passing one to Paige.

“Okay, look at me, Mama. We push down and look on three, yeah?” Paige said.

Brown eyes locked on blue.

Flutters erupted in Azzi’s belly.

 “These butterflies have been coming and going all day. And I’m not even nervous.” She giggled.

“You sure they’re not kicking?” Paige quirked an eyebrow up. “You’re 20 weeks, Az.”

“Hmm.” Azzi hummed quietly. “You’re probably right. It’s happened a lot today, but now, it’s every time you talk.”

Paige’s eyes softened and shined, “They know my voice.” The apples of her cheeks were pink with the realization.

“Of course they do. You’re their Paigey.” Azzi smiled softly.

The blonde shook her head. “C’mon, let’s do this before I start crying.”

“Okay. Push.”

The glass clinks against the cake board.

“One,” Azzi counted.

“Two,” Paige breathed.

Then together, “Three.”

Azzi gasped, holding her glass to Paige’s face. “Purple!” She breathed.

“One of each,” Paige smiled. “Just like I said,” She finished cockily.

They forgot to stop the video.

They just stood there, breathless, wine glasses sticky with frosting. Eyes going from the purple smeared in the glasses and each other’s eyes, wet with tears.

“They’re really coming.” Azzi said, voice thick with awe. “A son and a daughter.”

Paige reached up, brushing a thumb across Azzi’s cheek, swiping at a tear. “Bean and Bear.” She murmured.

She knelt silently, palm warm against Azzi’s belly. Paige lowered her voice, just for the twins. “Your mom is the bravest person I know. You picked the best one.”

Neither said anything more. The camera kept rolling. The cake sat between them, split neatly in half.

Outside, the sky darkened to velvet. Inside, they stood in bare feet and boxers, hearts racing. Not saying it yet. But feeling it.

And even though they weren’t saying it yet, the love was already louder than words.

[deadpoetskin]

DADDY, YOU DUMMY

SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes. None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship. And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader, Original Female Character TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers

🜼 :: i am not very familiar with the canon material, please forgive me. i just got into this fandom recently cause of the edits with the bubble guppies songs—you know what i’m talking about—but i can't resist writing when i get an idea. i did read up the lore as much as i can so i hope that's enough of a crash course.

🜼 :: i really wanted to introduce the reader this chapter but it was getting loo long and i hate to end it short but i had to. next chapter, for sure

🜼 :: lemme know if you wanna be tagged for part two

Wayne Manor was not the kind of place where surprises went over well.

Bruce liked his routines. Alfred had his cleaning system optimized down to a science. And the Batkids—well, chaos followed them often, but even they liked their chaos scheduled. So when a child appeared out of nowhere, no one was quite sure what protocol applied.

It was just past nine in the evening when the silence in the Wayne Manor dining room was fractured.

The long dining table was actually being used—not for mission briefings or post-patrol first aid, but for something bordering on domestic. Plates were half-full, conversations across the table—mild teasing, half-finished stories, arguments over who had the worst form on a grappling hook. Damian sat near the end, posture too straight, silently judging every word coming out his brothers' mouths. Jason occasionally grinned, the scar near his mouth twitching with each bite of sarcasm. And Dick, ever the glue of the family, kept the mood light.

It was a rare moment having all—most—of the kids over for dinner. The kind of gathering that only happened a handful of times a year. 

But peace never lasted long with the Waynes.

The lights flickered—just once—then the air shifted. A stillness that felt charged. Like the hush before a thunderclap, or the space between heartbeats when something goes wrong.

And then—she was just there.

No door opened. No footsteps. No warning.

She appeared near the head of the table, close to the dining room door. Dressed in a red dress and a black cardigan, ponytailed, carrying a small black bag, and hugging a Red Robin plush. She blinked wide, curious eyes up at the room full of people staring back at her like she was a time bomb.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft and light. “Please don’t tell Mommy.”

A beat.

The little girl’s lip wobbled.

And then she burst into tears.

Damian tensed, already halfway into a defensive stance. Jason blinked like he’d forgotten how his eyes worked. Bruce looked vaguely horrified. 

It was Dick who stepped forward, calm through the rising confusion. He crouched low, arms open, and scooped her up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, gently rocking her. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

The sobs quieted, just a little. Enough to breathe. Enough for the shock to start setting in.

Twenty minutes later, the rest of the family was assembled in the drawing room. Bruce, Jason, Damian, and Dick were all watching the small girl now wrapped in a blanket on the couch, holding a juice box and kicking her feet. The Red Robin plush she carried now sat beside her like a silent bodyguard.

Bruce stood in front of the fireplace, arms folded, eyes fixed and unreadable. Damian leaned against the far wall near the door, keeping his distance. Dick sat on the armrest beside her, elbow on his knee, one hand propping up his chin. Jason had taken to standing behind the couch, watching the child with intrigue. 

“I didn’t just hallucinate that, right? She just appeared?” Jason finally asked, cutting through the silence. “Like—poof?”

“No alarms or sensors were triggered,�� Bruce said, frowning slightly. “One moment the room was empty. Next, she was standing right here.”

Dick let out a low whistle. “She’s tiny. Like, what—three?”

“Four,” the girl corrected, holding up four fingers with mild exasperation. “And I’m not tiny. You’re just giant, Uncle Dickie.”

Dick blinked, taken slightly aback. “Uncle Dickie?”

Jason snorted from behind the couch, grinning. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

“She knows you, Grayson,” Damian muttered, his eyes narrowing.

Before anyone could respond, the little girl rolled her eyes with theatrical flair.

“Uncle Dami, you dummy,” she said, completely unfazed by his glare. “Of course I know Uncle Dickie.”

The room stilled for a breath.

Jason choked on a laugh. “Did she just—?”

Damian’s jaw twitched. “I am no one’s uncle.”

The child gave him a judging look, like she’d heard this line before. “Yes, you are. You’re my grumpy Uncle Dami”

Jason doubled over, wheezing. “This kid’s killing me.”

Damian glared, but it had less bite than usual—more confusion than fury.

Bruce, meanwhile, hadn’t moved from his place by the fireplace, but his gaze had sharpened. He was watching the girl closely now. Familiar. Intimate. Confident in the truth of every word she says.

“What's your name?” he asked, voice low.

The girl gave him a patient, very unimpressed look.

The girl huffed and crossed her arms. “Grampa, you’re also a dummy,” she said, frowning with all the authority a four-year-old could muster. “You already know me.”

A few seconds passed. Nobody moved. 

She paused, blinking at them like they were the ones being ridiculous.

Then she pointed to herself with both thumbs and declared with exasperated pride—

“I’m your granddaughter,” she said. “Duh.”

“I’m Georgina Drake” She beamed. “But you always just call me Gia.”

The room fell silent.

“Drake,” Jason echoed. “As in…?”

“As in Tim.” Bruce confirmed, voice steady and low.

Across the room, Damian looked as if someone had insulted him personally.

“No,” he said immediately, folding his arms. “Impossible. Drake doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”

“Could be a prank,” Dick offered, though his tone was more tentative now. “Or a clone. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve seen.”

“I’m not a clone!” she said primly, chin lifting in defiance. “I’m a princess, like Mommy.”

Jason raised a brow. “Okay, princess. Who’s your mom?”

Before she could answer, her head turned—eyes catching on movement by the door.

Tim had just stepped into the room, phone in hand, brows drawn in confusion at the unusually quiet gathering.

The girl’s face lit up.

“Daddy!” she squealed, voice echoing off the walls as she launched herself off the couch like a missile.

Tim was late. Naturally.

He'd been held up in a meeting at WE and was still reading the message from Dick—

come home now. emergency

—when he stepped into the room, still in his blazer, earbuds in, looking confused. 

“Hey. Got your text. What’s the emergency—?”

Then he saw the child.

And the child saw him.

With an ear-splitting squeal, Gia launched herself across the room with terrifying speed. 

“Daddy!”

Tim had precisely two seconds to process that before she crashed into his legs, arms wrapping around his knees like she’d known him her whole life.

He froze.

Every pair of eyes in the room turned to him.

Tim looked down. She clung to him like a koala, babbling in excitement with enough energy to make his brain short-circuit.

“I missed you!” she chirped. “You were gone forever! I thought maybe you got lost—Uncle Bart said you do that sometimes—but we told Mommy we’d be back before dinner so you can't get lost!”

Tim stood frozen, blinking. “What.”

“But then Uncle Bart had to go too” she went on, not missing a beat, “‘cause Mr. Jon called him on the commy thing and he told me, ‘Don’t touch anything, Arti, not even a little bit!’ and I didn’t, ‘cause I was being super good.”

She paused, looking up at him, pouting and looking guilty. “But then I got kinda bored… and I maybe touched the glowy thingy just a little bit. And it was really shiny! And then—poof!”

She flung her hands out like fireworks, eyes wide.

“And then I blinked and I was here with Uncle and Grandpa and they’re being weird and dummies and Uncle Damian is grumpy—again.” She rolled her eyes like that was the most annoying part of her day.

Then she looked back at Tim and grinned, soft and warm, like everything was finally right again.

“But it’s okay now!” she said, with absolute certainty. “’Cause you’re here.”

Tim’s jaw slackened. No words came out.

He looked like his entire operating system had crashed. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Breath caught somewhere in his chest. His hands hung uselessly at his sides as he stared at the tiny girl still hugging his legs like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Tim looked to Bruce, looking for answers. “What the hell is going on?”

“Her name’s Gia,” Dick supplied, still perched on the arm of the couch, grinning like this was the best thing that had happened all month.

“Congrats, Replacement. She’s yours.” Jason said, far too casually, visibly trying not to burst into laughter at the sight of Tim—speechless, wide-eyed, completely out of his depth.

“She says she’s yours,” Damian corrected with a scowl, arms still folded. “We haven’t confirmed anything yet.”

“She’s—she’s mine?” Tim sputtered. “I don’t—wha—what?”

“She does have your eyes,” Bruce said mildly from his place near the fireplace.

Before Tim could respond—or fall over—Gia’s expression shifted.

Her eyes flicked past him to the doorway, searching. “But where’s Mommy?” she asked softly, her voice losing some of its earlier bounce. Her smile faltered just a little. “Is she outside?”

The room stilled. That single question cut through the noise like a blade. 

Tim’s heart stopped. “Mommy?”

She looked at him, confused. “Yeah,” she said. “My mommy. Where’s Mommy?”

Tim swallowed hard. “What’s your mommy’s name?”

Gia scrunched her nose. “You know her.”

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, lowering himself to her level, his blazer wrinkling at the knees. “I don’t think I do.”

Around them, the room held its breath.

Her eyes stayed locked on him, her little face scrunching even more like she didn’t understand why he was asking such a silly question. “Yes, you do,” she said with the kind of unshakable confidence only a child could carry. “She’s my mommy. And she’s your favorite person.”

Tim’s breath hitched. Behind her, Jason made a sound—half laugh, half breath—but didn’t speak.

“Sweetheart, can you tell me her name?” Tim tried again. “Can you tell me what she looks like?”

Gia tilted her head, like he was playing a very weird game she’s still not understanding. He could see her small brain working behind her eyes, wondering why her Daddy was being so weird tonight.

“Is she not here yet?” Her brows furrowed. “But Mommy said don’t be late for dinner.”

Tim swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak carefully. Softly. “Sweetheart… I don’t know who your mommy is.”

She only blinked at him, like he’d just said the sky was green. Her mouth opened, then closed again. 

“Yes, you do,” she insisted, but the certainty in her voice wavered. “She kisses you on the cheek every single time you go to work with Grampa. And she gets mad when you don’t sleep. And she calls you ‘Timothy’ when you’re in trouble.”

“And she does your ties for you,” She continued, rambling, “because you always get distracted when you’re talking and then you mess it up. And she always says, ‘Come here, dummy,’ and fixes it.”

The room had gone completely quiet. Even the shadows in the room felt still. The fireplace crackled softly. A phone pinged once in the background but no one looked away.

“You know Mommy, Daddy. She—she’s gonna be mad if you say you don’t.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Tim’s heart shattered. “Hey, hey, no,” he said quickly, reaching for her hands, small and shaking. “She’s not gonna be mad. No one’s mad.”

But she wasn’t listening—not really. Her eyes darted around the room—searching for her mother in every corner, every shadow. She saw the people she knew—Grandpa, Uncle Jay, Uncle Dickie, even grumpy Uncle Dami—but not Mommy.

“Mommy always says,” she mumbled through hiccuping breaths and tears that have begun to flow down her cheeks, “that you’re really smart, and you forget stuff that’s not important…”

Her tiny shoulders shook.

“…but you never forget me and Mommy.”

Tim’s chest tightened. The world was closing in—what was going on—too fast, too much. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to breathe.

“Daddy, you dummy,” she whispered, and it broke him. “You can’t forget Mommy.”

And that was it. She crumpled, falling into him fully, sobbing now with hiccuping breaths and clenched little fists. She pressed her face to his hand holding hers and cried like her whole world had gone sideways. 

Tim didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know how to hold her. He didn’t know if he should.

But his arms moved anyway, instinct more than thought, wrapping around her small frame and pulling her in tight. Her weight, so light and yet overwhelming, settled against him like she belonged there.

His throat burned. He opened his mouth, and he whispered the only thing he could think of, even though it was a lie.

“I’m sorry, baby.” His voice trembled. “Daddy’s only joking. Of course I know Mommy”

She sniffled once. Lifted her head from his chest just enough to look him in the face. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes red and shining, but there was a flicker of hope in them now—small, but it made her eyes bright again.

“…You do?”

Tim hesitated. And in that half-second, he hated himself.

“Yeah,” he lied again, smiling through the crack in his heart. “Of course I do.”

She stared at him for a moment longer. Then let out a tiny, hiccupy breath and buried her face in his shirt again.

“Daddy, you dummy,” she whimpered, pouting into his chest. “I’m telling Mommy you’re a meanie.”

That nearly undid him.

A broken laugh caught in his throat, and it sounded more like a gasp. He hugged her closer, eyes squeezed shut.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You should. She might yell at me, though”

“She’ll ground you,” Gia  mumbled, and though she was still hiccuping, there was a smile in her voice now. “No phone time.”

Tim let out another shaky breath. “Brutal.”

Her little arms curled tighter around his neck.

“You better say sorry,” she said seriously, one last sniffle escaping.

Tim’s laugh broke through this time. “Daddy’s sorry, baby.”

Behind them, no one spoke.

Tim held Gia a little closer.

He didn’t know her mother. Didn’t remember having a daughter.

But the child in his arms believed in him.

So he kept holding her.

Gia had cried herself to sleep.

Alfred had taken her from Tim the moment they realized she was too tired to stay upright. He’d carried her gently past the quiet hallway and into the sanctuary of Tim’s bedroom. The others hadn’t followed.

Now she lay in Tim’s room, small and still, her arms wrapped tight around the Red Robin plush like it was armor. She was asleep within minutes, curled into the center of the bed like she belonged there. Her cheeks were blotchy, her breathing soft and uneven from exhaustion. 

Down by the drawing room, the heavy silence left behind still lingered. 

They didn’t know what to make of her. Neither did Tim. He didn’t know who she really was. He didn’t know who her mother was. Didn’t even know how she got here. 

And still didn’t know why she called him “Daddy”.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting shadows over wood and marble. Tim, seated, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fingers locked together. Focused. Trying to make sense of the impossible.

Dick was the one who broke the silence.

“You didn’t see her when she appeared,” he said gently. “One second the room was empty. Then, she was just there.”

“No alarms,” Jason added. “No signs of breach. Nada. It was like she’d teleported.”

Tim’s brows pulled together. “No signs of a Zeta Beam?”

“Possible.” Bruce said. “Highly likely considering she mentioned Bart earlier.”

“Gia said,” Dick began, “that he told her not to touch the ‘glowy thing’. Then she blinked and ended up here.”

Tim’s mouth felt dry. “And she knew all of you?”

“By name,” Damian grumbled.

Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “She could be a clone. We can’t rule that out.”

Jason raised a brow. “She said before that she wasn’t.”

“We can’t assume she’s telling the truth. Not yet.” Bruce said, voice firm.

“She’s a child.” Jason shot back. “A weird one, sure, ‘cause she didn’t even flinch when the Demon Spawn glared at her, but still a child.”

“Children can lie,” Damian said coolly, arms still folded. “Especially when taught to.”

Jason scoffed. “She’s four,” he said, throwing a hand in the air. “You’re telling me a four-year-old can lie well enough to fool us? All of us? At the same time?”

Damian didn’t flinch. “Age doesn’t guarantee innocence.”

“She could be telling the truth,” Tim said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “We need… something. Something to believe her.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What kind of proof could a four-year-old have?” Dick asked, frowning. “Crayon drawings? An imaginary friend who vouches for her?”

Damian didn’t miss a beat. “The kind that bleeds,” he said coldly. “DNA. Unquestionable data.”

Jason grimaced. “Jesus, demon spawn. She’s not a threat.”

Damian turned to him. “She could be. And if she is, we don’t have the luxury of sentiment. You think just because she calls you ‘Uncle,’ that makes her real? We don’t know what she is.”

“She’s a kid,” Jason snapped, pushing off from the wall. “She cried when Tim said he didn’t know her mom. You think that was a performance?”

Tim flinched.

“We’ll run the tests,” Bruce's voice cut in. “Alfred’s already prepared the labs. We’ll have answers by morning.”

Jason muttered something under his breath.

Dick leaned back in his seat, eyes flitting towards Tim. “If she is… that means you and someone else—”

“Don’t,” Tim said flatly. His voice was too raw for argument. “Not yet.”

Tim wasn’t able to sleep. 

He barely sleeps on a regular day—too much on his mind, too much to do, and not enough hours to do it. But tonight, there wasn’t even the illusion of rest.

Not with the child’s words echoing in his head.

Tim sat in the corner chair of his room, one leg folded under him, fingers wrapped around a now-cold mug of coffee. He’d changed out of his dress shirt hours ago. He hadn’t turned the lights on. He didn’t dare.

In the middle of the bed, Gia was still asleep—hands curled around the Red Robin plush like it was her most precious thing. She hasn’t stirred much. Her tiny form was buried in the blankets, hair messy, mouth slightly open in the softness of sleep. One of her feet had slipped out from under the comforter and now peeked over the edge, small toes wiggling with a dream.

The clock on his nightstand glowed past 3:00 AM. 

Still no word on the DNA.

Tim hadn’t expected results until breakfast but every minute that passed in silence stretched the knot in his chest tighter.

He kept stealing glances at the child in his bed.

She looked so safe. 

Like she belonged there.

The sun was rising by the time something happened.

There was light peeking through the windows—thin and gray, the kind of morning only Gotham could manage. It cast long shadows across the floor, faint gold lining the edges of the curtains, the dresser, the empty coffee mug cooling on the table beside him.

Tim hadn’t moved.

His back ached. His eyes burned. But he didn’t move.

The soft click of the door made Tim lift his head.

Alfred stepped in, silent as ever, a man who had crossed thresholds in this house with worse news in the past—but somehow, tonight felt heavier. He held a single envelope in one hand, the edges crisp.

Tim straightened in the chair, setting the untouched coffee aside. He didn’t ask. Didn’t breathe.

Alfred looked at him with something that wasn’t quite pity, but close enough to make his stomach turn.

He offered the envelope forward.

Tim took it, hands slower than they should’ve been.

It had already been opened. 

Of course it had. Bruce wouldn’t wait for him. Not with stakes like these.

He stared at it for a long moment.

He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe a warning. A delay. A chance to prepare himself for the answer.

He didn’t get one.

His eyes dropped to the top of the first page. A simple heading:

WAYNE BIOTECH Genetic Identity Verification Report Report ID: WE-FSD-PAT-22341 Requested By: Bruce Wayne Analysis Type: Paternity – DNA Comparison Subject Information Child: Georgina Drake Alleged Father: Timothy Jackson Drake

His eyes skimmed the paper to the only line that mattered.

Probability of Paternity: 99.997%

The paper crumpled slightly at his tight grip.

Alfred didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The bed creaked softly behind him as Gia shifted in her sleep, clutching her Red Robin plush a little tighter.

The world didn’t shatter or explode.

It just shifted.

He still didn’t know how the hell she got here. He still didn’t know who the mother was. But now he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

She wasn’t lying.

She really is his daughter.

He swallowed hard. “What did Bruce say?” he asked, voice barely audible.

Alfred stood a few steps away, hands folded neatly in front of him. “He read the report. Twice.”

“And?”

A pause. Then:

“He did order secondary testing. Just to confirm. The result was the same.”

Tim let out a short, humorless breath. “That sounds about right.”

“Does the rest of the family know?” he asked after a beat.

“Master Richard saw the report with Master Bruce.”  Alfred replied gently. “Master Damian is pretending not to care. Master Jason had opted to not stay at the manor, he’ll likely find out later today”

Tim dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. “This isn’t real. It can’t be. I mean—it is. The test says it is. But how?”

He looked over at Gia again—her face half-buried in the pillow, tiny fingers still curled tight in the plush’s arm. Her lashes fluttered with sleep, mouth slightly open.

She looked so at peace. Unlike the anxiety he was feeling 

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“I imagine no one does,” Alfred replied. “Not at the beginning. But you’re not alone, Master Timothy.”

ARCHIVE PART TWO

🜼 :: @jenjubili

divider: @enchanthings