#but i only know something like two lines and a half from it

[norrisradio]

SMALL TALK

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / “you’re my best friend” / and you knew what it was / he is in love” + “Morning, his place / burnt toast, Sunday / you keep his shirt / he keeps his word” - Taylor Swift, You Are In Love

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.7K ᝰ GENRE: strangers-to-friends-to-????, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and other disasters, oscar piastri is a man on a mission ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: my first time dabbling in some mixed media (feat. texts, voice notes, and facetimes)! not entirely happy with it but hopefully it makes sense // sorry for disappearing i am back now i swear ꨄ requested by @princesspiastri007 !

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Oscar Piastri ruins your life in a bakery line on a Tuesday.

You’re clutching your paper cup like a lifeline, half-hypnotized by the scent of cardamom buns and the threadbare sweater slung over your frame — navy, elbow-patched, fraying at the seams. It was your dad’s. Maybe even his dad’s. Handed down like a secret. You only wear it on soft days. The kinds that ask for warmth and not much else.

Then someone knocks into you from behind, and the tea goes flying.

A sharp breath. The hiss of liquid on wool.

You freeze. He freezes.

“Shit — God, I’m so sorry.”

The voice is breathless and kind of pretty. You look up, prepared to launch into an eloquent string of swears, but the apology is already in his face. He looks young. Startled. Dimples carved into his cheeks like a question mark.  A lanky frame, messy hair, and a voice that sounds like Sunday morning. And behind him, some tall blonde girl in sunglasses (who you’ll later learn is Hattie, his sister) gives a wince-laugh and says, “Nice one, Oz.”

You look down. The sweater is ruined.

“That’s not just a sweater,” you whisper, throat tight. And somehow, that matters more than yelling.

The stranger — Oscar, apparently — blinks. “Wait — wait, is it special? Oh God. Please let me fix it.”

That’s how it starts: a burnt-sugar Tuesday and a ruined heirloom.

He buys you another tea. Apologizes twenty-seven times. Offers you his hoodie while you shiver on the bakery bench. It smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy, like a life that doesn’t belong to you. When you say he doesn’t need to do anything else, he frowns like you’ve insulted him.

“No. I swear — I’ll find a way to replace it.”

You scoff. “What, are you gonna time travel to the '80s?”

He grins. “Not quite. But I travel a lot. I’ll find one like it. You’ll see.”

It’s a joke. You think it’s a joke.

Until he’s in Spain two weeks later, and you get a photo of a sweater from a vintage shop in Barcelona:

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image] from: +61 *** *** *** Closer? Still hunting.

Then he’s in Canada. Silverstone. Budapest. Portugal.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image - a blurry photo of a sweater, tagged €35 ] from: +61 *** *** *** Found a jumper in Lisbon. Not quite the right navy, but it has the elbow patches.

to: +61 *** *** *** you don’t have to keep doing this, yk 

from: +61 *** *** *** I know. I want to.

Each time, a picture. A patch. A different shade of blue. An “Almost.” 

You hadn’t expected it to become a thing.

You hadn’t expected him to become a thing.

But there’s a moment, three weeks later, when you're eating leftover curry on the floor of your apartment and your phone lights up with a voice memo. You hesitate. Press play.

Hey. I know it’s probably stupid but I found one in Tokyo today that kinda reminded me of the shape of yours. Didn’t get it though. The color was off. But I thought about you.

There’s a pause. You can hear wind. Traffic. And then:

Anyway. Just wanted to say hi.

You play it twice. Then a third time.

You don’t respond for an hour because you don’t know how to say, you’ve been living in my head since Tuesday.

The voice memos turn into calls. Almost by accident at first. One missed message becomes a call back, and before you know it, you’re dialing his number like muscle memory.

You start calling him after work, when the sky is the color of chamomile tea and the streets hum with the soft ache of winding down. He answers from hotel rooms, his voice low and warm, surrounded by the soft rustle of sheets or the faint murmur of unfamiliar cities outside his window. Sometimes you hear the buzz of neon. The clatter of luggage. The echo of a TV in the next room.

It becomes routine. Sacred, even. A ritual made of static and silence and shared space.

He listens when you talk about your family, about the sweater, about how you’ve always had trouble letting go of things that feel like home. Your voice goes soft when you tell him how your dad used to wear it on cold Sunday mornings, how it always smelled faintly of espresso and cedar. How you kept it on the back of your chair even after he passed.

There’s a pause.

And then: “That makes sense,” Oscar says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. “You feel... anchored. Even when everything else isn’t.”

You blink.

No one’s ever put it like that before.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or tell him that he’s the first person in months who hasn’t made you feel like you’re too much. Too sentimental. Too attached to the past.

Instead, you murmur, “I like the sound of that.”

“Of what?”

“Being anchored.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his smile through the phone. That small, secret one you’ve learned to hear in the silence between words.

And when you hang up, well past midnight, your chest is full of something unfamiliar.

Melbourne - 00:42 / Sao Paulo - 11:42

Oscar’s face is sideways on your screen. He’s lying on a hotel bed, hair a mess, thumb under his cheek like he fell asleep on his own hand.

“I’ve seen twenty sweaters today,” he mumbles. “All of them were wrong.”

You smile, half-asleep yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m determined.”

“Obsessed, maybe.”

He grins. “That too.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

You whisper, “Why does it matter so much?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language only you speak.

“I think,” he says slowly, “because it mattered to you.”

Melbourne - 10:48 / Monza - 02:48

I found a vendor near the paddock today who hand-knits sweaters. Said she doesn’t repeat patterns but she can make something inspired by yours. I asked her how long it’d take. She said six months. I told her I’d wait.

There’s a long pause.

I don’t think this is about the sweater anymore. 

The FaceTimes start to stretch longer.  Past midnight. Into morning. Sometimes you wake up to a dead phone, his face still ghosting your dreams. He tells you what the gravel in Bahrain smells like. You tell him about your mother’s lasagna recipe. He starts sending you pictures of things that have nothing to do with sweaters.

The sea. His breakfast. A dog in the crowd with a bandana that says Team Oscar. His knees pressed up against the seat in a too-small plane.

You start recognizing hotel ceilings. The texture of his voice when he’s tired. The sound of his toothbrush.

You don’t talk about what it is. But you know.

You fall asleep with your phone tipped sideways, face half offscreen, mouth slack. Oscar snaps a screenshot once (you find it later in a photo dump he sends, sandwiched between two blurry shots of the Monza pitlane and one of a knitwear rack in Milan).

You’re in bed, face crinkled into your pillow.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 4 Images] from: +61 *** *** *** I like this one best. 

Melbourne - 03:23 / Abu Dhabi 21:23

from: +61 *** *** *** You awake?

You blink at the screen, the dim glow of your phone painting soft light across your face.

You shouldn’t be awake. You weren’t. Not really.

to: +61 *** *** *** only if you need me to be 

from: +61 *** *** *** always. 

You stare at it for a beat too long. Something in your chest tightens.

No FaceTime this time. Just voice. Just the warmth of him spilling through the speaker like something secret.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. Like he’d been pacing. Like he still is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice scratchy with sleep.

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

Then: “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then he sighs, and it sounds like the beginning of a confession.

“I was at dinner. Team stuff. Everyone talking, laughing, and it was fine. It was good. But then I thought of something you said — about how your dad used to cut his toast diagonally, like it made it taste better.”

You laugh, soft. “Because it does.”

He smiles. You can hear it. But then his voice shifts. Warmer. Quieter.

“And I wanted to tell you. Just that. Just... share that moment with you. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to call. Even though it was nothing. Even though it was everything.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your blanket. “Oscar-”

He exhales, quiet static against your cheek. “It just– it made me realize something.” 

You hear him shift again, maybe run a hand through his hair. When he speaks next, his voice is quieter. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he says it — it’s not casual. Not flippant. It lands somewhere low in your chest, blooming slow and steady.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you already knew. You’d known for a while now, tucked in the space between time zones and half-laughed voicemails. In the way your day doesn’t feel finished until you’ve heard his voice.

Still, you make a soft sound into the receiver. “I know,” you say, because anything more might break it.

He breathes out a laugh. You can hear him relax, like he was bracing for something bigger.

“I should let you sleep.”

“You should.”

But neither of you hang up.

You don’t say anything else that night. Just let the silence stretch between you like soft thread, pulled taut. Your hand stays curled around the phone long after the call ends, thumb brushing the screen like it might still be warm from his voice. 

And later, when you’re making toast in his kitchen for the first time and burn it so badly the alarm goes off, you both laugh like idiots, wheezing and barefoot. 

You keep his hoodie. He lets you. You wear it when he’s gone. You send him a photo of it hanging beside the ruined sweater, like they’re twin relics of something that matters now. 

He keeps his word. 

He never finds the same sweater. 

But somehow, you stop minding.

Oscar can’t look at a knit sweater without thinking of you, and maybe that’s the best kind of curse—a soft one, stitched with love, pulling him home.

[colouredbyd]

The Boy Is Mine

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader

Summary: you’re quiet by nature, content in the background—until someone pushes too far. When a girl flirts with Remus, something shifts. With one kiss and a quiet claim, you remind everyone exactly who he ( and Sirius) belong to.

Warnings: possessiveness, jealousy, strong language, suggestive content, heated kiss, and public displays of affection.

Word count: 3.4k

Authors note: i need both Remus and Sirius at the same damn time.

masterlist

You’ve never been the loudest in the room.

You don’t need to be. Not when Sirius is tossing his head back laughing beside you, all glittering chaos and charm, or when Remus leans in close, voice low and deliberate, like every word he says is meant only for you.

They fill the space so effortlessly—Sirius with his magnetic presence, Remus with his quiet gravity—and you find yourself fitting between them like a breath between heartbeats. Steady, constant and soft.

You like watching more than speaking. Not out of shyness exactly, but because you enjoy observing—feeling everything. It’s the way Remus’s thumb circles over your knee under the table without him even realizing. The way Sirius always saves you the last bite, even when he swears he won’t. You don’t need to be loud to be loved here.

They know you. They’ve always known you.

Sirius, who pulls you into the middle of the common room and spins you in dizzy circles until you’re breathless with laughter. Remus, who presses his nose into your hair when the world feels too sharp and mumbles poetry against your skin. 

Between the two of them, you’ve never had to shout to be heard. They listen in the silence. They love you in the quiet.

But sometimes, even the quiet hums with something fierce.

And today, it’s starting to burn.

The loud music thumps through the walls, pulsing in your veins, but all you can hear is Remus’s voice rising above the chatter of the party. He’s talking to a girl, one whose name doesn’t matter.

because you’re already irritated.

Sirius is speaking beside you—his voice low and animated, probably bantering with James about something as thrillingly idiotic as who cheated in the last round of Exploding Snap—but the words barely register. They fade into the background like the bass of the music humming through the party, the way laughter spills and drips from every corner of the Gryffindor common room like syrup.

You’re curled up beside him on the leather couch, soft and familiar, half draped across his lap like you belong there, because you do. His palm is warm against your skin, fingers lazy as they trace circles over your thigh, an unconscious kind of touch that says mine without needing the word.

But your attention isn’t on Sirius.

It’s fixed—razor sharp and unblinking—on the girl across the room.

She’s all lip gloss and bright laughter, the kind of girl who doesn’t walk into a room so much as glitter through it. Her blouse is buttoned just low enough to draw the eye, her skirt just short enough to be a statement. She leans in closer to Remus like she’s in a slow-motion daydream, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she giggles at something he said.

Except Remus isn’t laughing.

He’s smiling, but you know that smile. It’s the strained one. The tight-lipped, please-don’t-make-this-weird smile he gives when someone crosses the line and he’s too damn kind to push them away.

And she—well. She’s not backing off.

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass. Not enough to shatter it, but enough to feel it, to ground yourself before the rising tide inside you gets too high. The jealousy doesn’t burn. No, it doesn’t scream or sputter like some childish tantrum. It’s quiet. Sharp. Ice in your veins, snow behind your ribs. It’s precise.

You watch her touch his arm, watch her eyes flutter and her voice pitch just so. You watch Remus stand there with all that quiet discomfort in his shoulders and all that unnecessary politeness keeping him rooted in place.

And something inside you shifts.

You’re not the loud one at these parties. You’re not the girl who shouts or struts or demands. You’re the one who stays curled up in the lap of a boy with stardust in his smile, sipping your drink while the chaos unfurls around you. You’re the calm in their storm, the softness they return to.

But not tonight.

Because tonight, someone is trying to touch what’s yours.

And whether Remus knows it yet or not, whether that girl ever figures out just how royally she’s miscalculated, one thing is already certain.

You are about to stop being the quiet one.

“Moony’s got his fan club going tonight, huh?” Sirius says, his tone casual, his fingers playing with a loose thread on the hem of your sleeve. “I swear, every time he talks to a girl, she looks like she’s ready to devour him.”

You hum, an absent sound, not really acknowledging him. Your gaze stays fixed on Remus and that damn girl, the way she’s tossing her hair back and laughing too loudly.

“You okay, dove?” His voice drops a little, his fingers tracing the line of your spine with a slow, deliberate motion.

You want to lie. You want to say it’s fine, that you’re just tired or distracted, but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead, you give a small shake of your head, the fluttering in your chest too strong to ignore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, a little too quickly. “Just… thinking.”

Sirius’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. He knows you well enough to sense when you need space, but tonight, there’s something different. The energy in the room feels electric, like it’s just waiting for a spark.

Remus laughs again from across the room, and this time, the girl reaches up to touch his arm, her fingers trailing lightly along his sleeve. The sight, the sound, the way her body leans just a little too close to his, sends a pang of something sharp through you. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch her lean in, her lips too close to his ear as she whispers something.

Your fingers grip the edge of the couch, your nails digging into the fabric. You feel like you’re going to snap at any moment, and you’re so sick of it.

Sirius seems to notice the shift in the air. His hand halts on your back, and he turns his head toward Remus and the girl, then back to you. His expression softens, understanding settling in. He leans forward, his voice low as he speaks, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

“Love, I think we’ve reached a new level here,” he says, voice laced with something almost teasing. “You’ve been staring at him for ages now.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep the fluttering in your chest under control. “I’m not staring,” you say, but even you can hear the edge in your voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? ‘Cause I think you’ve definitely been staring. You want me to go over there and break it up?”

“No,” you snap, a little too quickly, and then you freeze, realizing just how harsh you sound. You soften your tone, but the words still feel like they’re cutting you open. “I… I don’t know.”

Sirius doesn’t push you, but he watches you carefully, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You shift uncomfortably, your gaze returning to Remus and the girl. It’s like a magnet pulling you in, the way she laughs again, her hand resting on his shoulder now, fingers tracing the outline of his collarbone.

The thought makes you want to scream.

You watch the girl lean in closer, her breath light against his ear as she says something you can’t hear, but you can see it in the way her lashes flutter and her lips curl. It’s an obvious flirtation, the kind of thing that would make anyone else swoon, but you just feel your stomach twist in knots. Remus gives a tight, polite smile, the one he always does when he’s too kind to be rude, but you know that smile too well. It’s a mask, a shield, and you can see right through it. He’s uncomfortable, but he doesn’t stop her.

The touch lingers. And Remus—sweet, gentle, infuriating Remus—doesn’t stop her.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t step back. He doesn’t even glance in your direction.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Maybe he’s just being polite. Maybe he’s too soft-spoken for his own good. Maybe he thinks you don’t mind, that you’re tucked up on the couch beside Sirius, warm and safe and unbothered. Maybe he’s forgotten that while you may be quiet, you’re not blind.

But oh, you care.

You care enough that your drink is forgotten in your hand, the condensation sliding over your fingers like cold sweat. You care enough that your jaw clenches tight, the muscle ticking with a quiet fury that pulses behind your ribs. There’s a pressure building in your chest, a weight that has nothing to do with insecurity and everything to do with possession.

You’ve always known what’s yours.

And Remus?

He is yours.

The room around you begins to blur, voices fading into background noise, like someone’s turned the volume down on the rest of the party. The flickering firelight, the chatter of students, the low buzz of magical music—all of it dulls. All you can see is the way she’s looking at him, lips parted in a practiced little smile, eyes batting as if she’s never had to work hard for attention in her life.

You hear her laugh—sharp and high and entirely insincere—and it cuts through you like a blade. Remus chuckles along with her, and it’s that sound, that soft little sound of his, that makes something in your spine snap straight. His eyes catch the light just right, that familiar glint of mischief and charm you’ve seen a thousand times when he’s teasing you softly beneath the covers, and it stings more than you’d like to admit.

And suddenly, you are no longer the quiet girl curled in the corner.

You are no longer the soft one who waits patiently for your boys to come home to you.

You are standing up, not with a shout or a dramatic flourish, but with a kind of cold certainty, like the sea deciding to rise. Sirius shifts beside you instinctively, his hand brushing your back as he senses the change in the air, his voice dipping with curiosity.

“Love?” he says quietly, brows raising. “Everything alright?”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

Because your eyes are still locked on the girl in the too-tight blouse and the too-pretty smile and the entirely wrong assumption that she has any right to touch your Remus like she belongs there.

She doesn’t.

And she’s about to learn exactly why.

It never felt like you needed to compete for Remus’s attention. He had always been yours in that quiet, unspoken way—his careful gestures, the soft smiles he gave you when no one was looking, the way he always made sure you were okay, even when you didn’t ask. You had a bond, something deeper than words. But now, watching him allow her to invade that space, something inside you snaps.

She’s leaning into him like he’s already hers, one manicured hand lingering on his forearm, like she doesn’t see the slight pullback in his posture. Like she doesn’t notice the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sirius’s hand slips off your thigh, stunned. “Where’re you going?”

“To get what’s mine.” you say, and your voice is soft, sultry, but it slices through the noise like a blade.

James chokes on his drink. Lily turns, eyebrows lifting as she watches you stalk forward, hips swaying, jumper slouching off one bare shoulder. You hear someone mutter, “Bloody hell.” and you don’t even need to look to know Marlene is probably grinning like a wolf.

The girl is still touching Remus. Still laughing.

You don’t give her the chance to speak. You don’t give him a moment to explain, or to blink, or to pretend he doesn’t feel the air shift as you close the distance between you like a storm cloaked in silk.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of his jumper, curl tightly into the soft wool, and tug. Hard. Hard enough that he stumbles forward, just one step, just enough to crash into your gravity.

His eyes find yours, startled and wide, and for a heartbeat he forgets where he is. The party, the music, the girl whose perfume is still clinging to the air around him—all of it vanishes the moment your lips catch his.

It is not a kiss built from politeness or affection. It is not the kind of thing meant for privacy or delicacy.

This kiss is war.

It’s bruising and slow and devastating, like a spell whispered in the middle of a battlefield. Your hand tangles in his curls and tugs, just enough to make him gasp into your mouth. Your other hand slides down to his belt, fingers brushing over the buckle, teasing with the lightest hint of promise. You tilt your head to deepen it, your lips parting just slightly, just enough to taste him.

He groans, low and helpless, the sound caught between your mouths, and you smile against him, smug and sinful.

When you finally pull away, his lips are pink and glistening and parted like he’s about to say something but hasn’t figured out what language he speaks anymore. His hands are still hovering at your hips, and his chest is rising with uneven breath, eyes clouded with something that’s definitely not confusion.

You turn to the girl, and she looks like she’s just witnessed something religious and blasphemous at the same time. Her mouth is hanging open. Her expression is frozen in that awkward no-man’s-land between horror and disbelief.

“Oh,” you say sweetly, voice thick with honey and venom, “were you still talking? Only he seems a bit busy now.”

She blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it. You don’t give her time to think. You trail your fingers down the front of Remus’s chest, slowly, like you’re remembering the way his body feels under your hands and enjoying every second of it. You play with the collar of his shirt, letting your nails drag across the fabric, soft and sure.

Your eyes never leave hers.

“I mean,” you go on, voice quieter now, conversational in a way that is somehow even more intimidating, “I don’t blame you. Honestly. Look at him. He’s got that whole clever boy thing going on, right? The kind of boy who knows all the answers in class and still somehow makes you want to climb into his lap and ruin his concentration. And don’t even get me started on that body—tall and lean and unfair, and the scars…” you let your fingers trail over his chest again, nails teasing the fabric, “Body built like a sin under those clothes, too bad only me and Sirius get to see it though.” 

A grin spreads across your face, wide and wicked like a cheshire cat.

Remus lets out a sound that’s definitely not family friendly and buries his face in your neck for a second, either to breathe you in or to hide the fact that he might actually combust.

James lets out a strangled sound from across the room. “What the actual hell is going on?”

Lily is watching with wide, fascinated eyes, looking between you and the girl like she’s witnessing a lioness dismantle a bunny in slow motion. Marlene, from her spot near the fireplace, raises her drink in silent toast and mutters, “Finally.”

You lean in close to Remus, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear. “But here’s the thing,” you whisper, just loud enough for the girl to still hear. 

“He’s mine.”

Then you pull back and look her dead in the eye, your gaze soft but lethal.

“And I don’t share.”

The girl blinks once. Twice. Then turns with all the grace of someone trying not to run.

Remus just stares at you for a long moment, breathless, hands still planted on your waist like he’s afraid to let go in case the earth tilts and he floats away.

“What the hell just happened?” he asks, voice low, rough, and wrecked.

Sirius appears beside you like smoke, sliding his arm around your waist as he grins like you’ve hung the bloody stars for him.

The girl’s mouth parts, clearly searching for a clever retort, something sharp or self-righteous or maybe even pathetic to claw her dignity back from the floor where you left it. But the words never come. Her lips tremble like she’s buffering. You don’t give her the chance to reboot.

Instead, with calm that borders on cruelty, you turn back to Remus and brush your lips against the corner of his mouth. Not a full kiss this time, but something quieter, more dangerous. A period at the end of a sentence she was never invited to read. 

You feel the way he freezes for just a moment, breath hitching as your fingers slide up to rest at the base of his throat, just enough pressure to remind him—and everyone watching—exactly who he belongs to.

The common room is stunned into silence. Even the portrait hole seems to creak softer, like the whole castle is holding its breath.

And then James, bless his nosy little soul, practically falls off the arm of the couch. He stares at you with something like religious awe, eyes as wide as Galleons, hand clutching his drink like a lifeline.

“That,” he says reverently, voice cracking with disbelief, “was the hottest thing I have ever witnessed. And I saw Sirius in a crop top once.”

Sirius doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s unaffected. He slumps back against the couch, one hand dragging through his hair like he’s trying to keep his brain from melting. His grin is crooked and wild, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

“Merlin’s tits,” he says, almost reverent. “I think I’m in love. Again.”

Lily, sitting upright with her legs crossed like she’s hosting a panel discussion, blinks slowly. Her jaw is slightly ajar, her drink forgotten on the floor.

“Did she just… flirt and threaten simultaneously?” she asks, clearly reevaluating everything she thought she knew about you.

Marlene doesn’t even bother to hide her grin. She claps once, loud and delighted, and leans forward with sparkling eyes.

“Oh, I love her,” she announces with glee. “Someone give that girl a crown and a throne and maybe a leather corset. She just out-Slytherined the entire House.”

You don’t look away from Remus. He’s still breathless, a little dazed, his lips parted like he’s forgotten how to speak. His hands are at your waist now, gripping softly like he needs to touch you just to make sure you’re real.

You lean in, voice velvet-sweet, and say, “Now Remmy, were you going to let her keep touching you or should I start hexing?”

Sirius, meanwhile, is leaning back like a man thoroughly entertained, one arm draped across Remus’ shoulder with a love-sick gaze in his eyes.

Remus just blinks for a moment, his mouth parted, completely undone. Then a sound escapes him, surprised and delighted, something between a laugh and a groan, like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him in the best way.

“I think I’m in love with you all over again,” he says, a little dazed.

And then Sirius leans over, as if conjured by the heat of the moment, slipping in behind you like gravity itself gave him no choice. His hands slide over your hips, warm and certain, like they’ve always belonged there. He leans in until his mouth brushes your neck, breath hot and voice lower than sin.

“That,” he murmurs, lips grazing your skin, “was art. You’ve officially ruined me. I’ll never recover.”

You shrug, casual as anything, but your pulse is thundering and your eyes are glowing and the adrenaline is still singing in your bones like an aria. “Good,” you say simply, and it lands like a spell.

The common room hasn’t even recovered. Conversations haven’t resumed. Heads are still tilted in your direction like they’re not quite sure what just happened, if they witnessed a declaration or a detonation. And maybe it was both. You were the quiet girl. The sweet one. The one with gentle touches and soft smiles who moved like a secret in a room full of noise.

But tonight? Tonight, they watched you stand like you were carved from something divine, watched you kiss Remus like he was yours and always had been, watched you claim your place not as an afterthought, but as a force of nature wrapped in wool and confidence.

And Remus? He’s still holding your waist like he might never let go. Sirius looks like he’d fight anyone who even breathes in your direction the wrong way.

Together, they look ready to tear the world apart if it means keeping you. And somehow, the quiet girl has become the storm they’d die for

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which this is the before of how the rest of our lives came to be

The job offer came in the middle of a thunderstorm.

You were sitting cross-legged on your apartment floor, your camera bag half-zipped and a box of leftover takeout balanced on your lap. The email lit up your phone like a beacon:

“Official Photographer – UConn Women’s Basketball”

You stared at it, reread it three times, then blinked slowly as realization hit. It was a season-long contract. Full-time. Steady.

And a complete godsend.

By the end of the week, you were on campus, badge clipped to your jacket, nervous and clutching your DSLR like a lifeline.

You weren’t a stranger to sports photography, but UConn was different. Bigger. Brighter. More intense. More… watched.

Especially with a superstar like Paige Bueckers on the team.

You’d seen her in highlight reels, on magazine covers. She had a presence, even from a distance. But meeting her in person?

That was something else.

The gym buzzed with activity as the team stretched across the hardwood, sneakers squeaking and basketballs thudding against polished floors. You weaved between benches and chairs, raising your camera, finding angles.

And then she ran through your frame — tall, blonde, a wide grin on her face as she crashed into a layup line and completely ruined your perfect shot.

“Seriously?” you muttered, dropping your camera with an exasperated huff.

The blonde jogged over with a sheepish smile. “My bad! Totally didn’t see you there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m wearing a neon orange vest.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, not even pretending to be innocent. “Definitely saw you and still ran through anyway.”

You laughed, despite yourself. “So you’re just causing chaos on purpose?”

“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.” She extended her hand. “Paige.”

You shook it. “I know.”

Something passed between you — something warm, unspoken.

“I’m Y/N,” you added.

She grinned. “Welcome to the team.”

You decided to go out with your friends one night to celebrate your new job and one thing led to another, you wake up in a random dorm, naked under the sheets.

The nausea started subtly. A twist in your gut here, a weird aversion to coffee there. You thought it was stress. Or nerves. Maybe both.

Until one night, after a long day of shooting edits, you came home, sat down on your couch… and couldn’t stop crying.

No reason. Just waves of emotion crashing over you like a flood.

You chalked it up to burnout.

Until you missed your period.

Twice.

Panic settled into your bones like a chill. A drugstore pregnancy test confirmed what you already feared — two pink lines, bright and clear.

You were pregnant.

And completely, utterly alone.

You didn’t tell anyone. Not yet.

You threw yourself into work instead. Shooting every practice, every media day. Keeping your head down. Ignoring the fatigue, the nausea, the way your jeans started fitting just a little tighter.

But it caught up to you.

It was during a particularly brutal practice. You crouched near the sideline, camera in hand, already feeling queasy. The sound of sneakers and whistles surrounded you in a haze.

Then everything tilted. Your stomach churned.

You barely made it to a trash can before vomiting.

Everything stopped. Voices faded. And then a gentle hand settled on your back.

“Hey. Hey, you okay?”

You looked up, flushed and humiliated, only to see Paige crouched beside you, concern etched into every line of her face.

“I—yeah. I’m fine. Probably just something I ate.”

She didn’t move. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You were. You hated that she could see that.

“Come on,” she murmured, slipping an arm under yours. “Let’s get you to the bench.”

You let her help you sit, and she knelt in front of you, bottle of water in hand.

“Want me to call someone?” she asked.

You shook your head quickly. “No. Please, don’t. I’m okay.”

She watched you for a long moment before sighing. “Alright. But I’m staying here. Just in case.”

She sat beside you for the rest of practice. Quiet. Steady. A warm presence.

You didn’t realize how much you needed that.

A few weeks later, you’re sitting on your bed, unable to fall asleep. You called the hospital two days ago to schedule an ultrasound and now you’re nervous, scared and alone.

Well… not really alone. Paige has somewhat been a constant in your life since you got sick that one time during practice.

So, you called her in the middle of the night, knowing she was most likely asleep, but two rings later, the phone picks up.

“Hello?” A sleepy voice answers.

You hesitate. “Hey, Paige.”

“Y/N?” Paige its up from her bed, a bit more awake now. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Uh, well, remember when you told me that I could call you up for anything?”

“Yeah, of course. You good ma?”

“Can you come over?”

“Already on my way.”

Ten minutes later, you hear a knock on your door. Opening it to reveal a tired looking Paige in pajama pants, hoodie, and glasses.

“You doing okay?” she asks, stepping into your apartment and settling herself on your couch.

“Not really.” 

She could tell you were nervous so she gestures for you to sit next to her.

“What’s wrong?”

You can’t bring yourself to say it, so you take the stick out of your jacket pocket and silently hand it to her. 

“Is this…” you mindlessly nod, tears forming in your eyes.

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

She instantly brings you into her arms, making your break down.

“It’s alright mama. I got you. I always got you.”

The day of your appointment, Paige picked you up bright and early. The car was filled with comfortable silence from the two of you, music playing low in the background.

“You nervous?” she asked as you sat in the waiting room.

“Terrified,” you admitted.

She didn’t say anything. Just reached over and took your hand.

When the screen lit up in the dark exam room, and the faint flicker of a heartbeat appeared, something inside you cracked wide open.

You looked over to find Paige staring at the monitor with wide eyes, her lips parted, something reverent on her face.

“You’re not alone in this,” she whispered.

You didn’t let go of her hand the rest of the day.

After that, she barely left your side.

Weeks turned into months.

Paige started walking you home when you were too tired to drive. She kept saltines in her bag just in case. If you were working late in the photo lab, she’d show up with food..

Pregnancy cravings were no joke.

One night at 11:46 PM, you texted her. You: “I NEED pickles and a Frosty. If I don’t have them, I might cry.”

Fourteen minutes later, your door buzzed.

She stood there in pajama pants and a hoodie, holding a Wendy’s bag in one hand and a jar of pickles in the other.

“You’re insane,” you told her, laughing through your tears.

She winked. “No, I’m just really invested in this whole co-pilot role.”

You ate together on the couch, TV playing some old rom-com neither of you paid attention to.

As you entered your second trimester, your body grew heavier, slower. Everything ached.

Paige never complained.

She adjusted her class schedule to walk you home. Slept over more often. Always on the couch, though… until the night you fell asleep with your head on her shoulder, and neither of you moved.

That was the night it shifted.

It wasn’t said. Just… understood.

The space between you? It was gone.

She became your person — quietly, without fanfare.

One evening, you found her sitting in the nursery, folding onesies and humming.

She looked up. “You’re not scared, are you?”

You sat beside her. “Terrified.”

She reached for your hand. “Me too. But we’re doing this together.”

The UConn team threw you the most wonderfully chaotic baby shower imaginable.

There were balloons in every corner, streamers tangled in door frames, and a massive cake that read “Welcome, Mini Huskie!” Nika brought five tubs of different ice creams like it was a taste-test competition. Azzi cried during her speech, her voice cracking halfway through as she tried to talk about how loved this baby already was.

But the biggest moment of the day was still to come.

A week earlier, after the ultrasound appointment, you and Paige had been handed an envelope with the gender inside. Instead of opening it yourselves, Paige had smiled at you, then turned to Azzi and handed it over.

“Don’t open it yet,” Paige warned with a playful but serious look. “You get to plan something. Just make it special.”

Azzi grinned like she’d just been handed the keys to a kingdom.

And now, at the shower—turned gender reveal—everyone gathered around in the backyard as Azzi stood next to a giant balloon, a pin in her hand and a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You ready?” she asked, looking at both you and Paige.

You clutched Paige’s hand tighter, your heart racing. She gave your hand a squeeze back, her thumb gently stroking over your knuckles.

“Go for it,” you breathed.

Azzi popped the balloon—and a shower of pink confetti exploded into the air.

You froze. So did Paige.

Then you both looked at each other at the same time.

“A girl,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

Paige blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold it together, but her smile was wide and trembling. She reached out and wrapped both arms around you, burying her face into the side of your neck.

“A daughter,” she whispered. “We’re having a daughter.”

Your eyes welled up, and you couldn’t even pretend to hold back the tears. Around you, the team was cheering, confetti still drifting down, but it all faded into the background. All you could feel was Paige’s arms, her breath against your skin, the quiet way she held you like everything in her world had just found its place.

And later, when the chaos had mellowed and it was time for toasts, Paige stood up and the room quieted immediately.

“I know she isn’t biologically mine,” she said gently. “And I wasn’t there at the very beginning. But I’ve been here—and I’m not going anywhere.”

Your heart clenched.

“She’s ours,” Paige continued, eyes finding yours. “She belongs to Y/N, but she’s mine too. I’ll be there for every sleepless night, every first step, every scraped knee and birthday candle.”

You cried.

And when Paige leaned in and kissed your cheek, you held onto her like letting go might somehow break the spell.

The next weekend, your living room was a maze of cardboard boxes, rogue screws, and one very determined Paige Bueckers sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a tiny Allen wrench like it was a weapon of war.

“This can’t be legal,” she muttered, eyeing the thick instruction manual like it had personally offended her. “There’s... forty-seven steps. Who designs a crib with forty-seven steps?”

You watched from the couch, hand resting over your bump, trying not to laugh too hard because it made your back hurt. Paige had her hair tied back in a little bun and was wearing an old UConn hoodie already stained with sweat and smudged wood glue. One of the side panels was leaning awkwardly against the wall, while the rest of the crib parts looked like they’d been laid out by someone with no grasp of logic or gravity.

“Need help?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, lifting a board and promptly dropping one of the screws under the couch. “I’ve got this. I’m not just a basketball player. I am a builder of dreams.”

You snorted. “You’re not even a builder of IKEA furniture.”

“That’s rude,” she muttered. “And also fair.”

You smiled as you watched her work. It was clumsy, awkward, and completely endearing. She squinted at the pieces, sometimes holding two up together and whispering, “Are you guys soulmates or just coworkers?” At one point she called Nika for backup, but hung up after two minutes when Nika started laughing too hard to give any actual advice.

Eventually, Paige managed to attach three pieces together in what might have been the base of the crib. She sat back with a proud little grin, wiping sweat from her forehead and breathing like she’d just played four quarters and an overtime.

“Look at that,” she said. “Our baby’s gonna sleep right here.”

She leaned forward then, pressing her palm against the growing curve of your belly. Her voice dropped to a quiet murmur.

“You hear that, little one? I’m building this with my own two hands. Well... mostly. Your mom’s laughing at me, but she knows I’m trying.”

You felt it immediately—how soft her voice had gotten, how her eyes never left your belly as she spoke again.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” Paige whispered. “You’re not even here yet, and I already love you so much. I hope you like basketball. But if not, that’s cool too. We’ll figure it out together.”

She smiled, then leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your belly.

Your throat tightened. Completely out of nowhere, the emotion hit you like a wave. Tears welled up as you stared at her—this girl who had stumbled her way into your life and your heart, and now, somehow, was falling just as in love with your daughter as you were.

“You okay?” she asked, noticing your face.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yeah. Just... you’re gonna be such a good mom.”

Paige blinked, like she was trying not to cry now. She crawled over to you, cradling your face in both hands before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“We’re gonna be good moms,” she said. “All three of us—we’re already a team.”

It was late. The moon hung low outside your apartment window. Your swollen ankles were propped on a pillow. Paige was sitting on the floor, organizing diapers by size.

She looked up suddenly.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

You blinked.

“Wait—no. I know I’m in love with you. I don’t know when it happened,” she continued. “Somewhere between the first ultrasound and the Frosty at midnight. But I am. And I don’t want to pretend I’m not.”

Your breath caught.

You moved to sit up, heart racing.

“And I know it’s messy,” she added. “That this isn’t the way people usually fall in love. But I’m not people. I’m me. And you’re you. And I love you.”

You smiled softly, eyes welling.

“I love you too, Paige.”

She blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded.

She stood, crossed to the couch, and cupped your face gently.

And when she kissed you, everything fell into place.

You didn’t think labor would start while watching The Princess Diaries.

But, as Julie Andrews was mid-speech about Genovia, a sharp pain gripped your abdomen, and your half-eaten bowl of popcorn slipped from your lap to the floor.

“Paige…” you whispered.

She was already up from the couch, rushing to your side, eyes wide. “What? What’s wrong?”

You grabbed her hand. “I think… I think it’s time.”

The calm, collected version of Paige you’d grown to love completely dissolved into a whirlwind of nervous scrambling — tripping over her own shoes, grabbing the hospital bag and phone, calling the Uber and trying to put your slippers on at the same time.

But the entire ride, she held your hand. Her thumb ran over your knuckles in a rhythm as steady as her breathing — not for herself, but for you.

And even through the pain, even through the panic, you felt safe.

It had been nearly fourteen hours of labor. Pain, sweat, tears, and a depth of exhaustion you didn’t know a body could feel. But when the final push came and you heard that first cry — that sweet, powerful cry — everything else faded to silence.

Your chest heaved. Your hands shook. Your heart was somewhere between your ribs and the ceiling.

Then they laid her on your chest.

Small. Warm. Red-cheeked and crying.

You stared at her, stunned by how something so little could take up every corner of your soul at once.

And beside you, Paige was crying just as hard — her hand clutching yours, her forehead pressed to your temple as she whispered, “You did it. You did so good, baby. She’s here. She’s really here.”

You looked down at the perfect little face pressed against your skin. The tiny lashes. The way her mouth curled like she was trying to figure the world out already.

“She’s… she’s everything,” you breathed.

“She’s ours,” Paige whispered, brushing a kiss across your temple.

The nurse came by to clean and weigh her, and even for the minute she was gone from your arms, it felt like a piece of your chest went with her. Paige didn’t take her eyes off the bassinet, standing at your side, hand still wrapped around yours.

When she was swaddled and returned to you, Paige sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out with the gentlest touch.

Her finger brushed your daughter's cheek.

“I still can’t believe she’s real.”

“She feels like a dream,” you whispered.

There was a long pause, the kind that settled deep into the air around you. Paige’s eyes didn’t move from your daughter.

“So, I’ve been thinking… Emma.”

You turned your head to her.

“Emma?” you repeated.

She smiled, slow and sure. “Yeah. Emma Bueckers.”

Your heart caught in your throat.

Your gaze dropped to the baby again. Emma. It fit her. Strong, soft, quietly powerful.

“She looks like an Emma,” you murmured, then smiled. “Emma Bueckers. Yeah… I like that.”

Paige reached up to push your hair from your face, thumb gently brushing along your cheekbone. 

Her voice came even softer this time, “Hopefully… that could be your name too. One day?”

You blinked, heart skipping as you looked up at her.

She was serious.

The warmth in her eyes, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her fingers lingered just below your jaw — it was all there, raw and open.

“What are you saying, Paige?”

She exhaled, then let out the smallest laugh — nervous, but full of love. “I’m saying… I want this forever. You. Her. All of it. I want to be the one who holds you at the end of every day. The one who changes diapers with you, and buys too many matching baby socks, and brings you snacks during every late-night feeding.”

You let out a breathy laugh, heart thudding.

“I know we didn’t plan this,” she continued, eyes shining. “But this feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’ve known since that night I built the crib — when you were sitting on the floor with one hand on your belly and a screwdriver in the other, trying to take over building for me — that I was already yours.”

You stared at her for a long moment. This woman who had gone from your friend to your safe place. The one who carried you through every bout of morning sickness, who whispered to your belly every night, who held you like you were something precious.

Now she was holding your baby, and asking to hold your heart, too.

Tears welled in your eyes. “I want that too. I want all of it. You, me, Emma… forever.”

Paige leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow and full of everything that words couldn’t say.

“I don’t have a ring yet,” she whispered against your lips. “I want to do it right. But I couldn’t leave that room without telling you. Without… hoping.”

“You didn’t need a ring,” you whispered. “You already gave me everything.”

Emma stirred in your arms, letting out the tiniest sigh — like she could sense the weight of the moment.

You both looked down at her, your foreheads touching.

“So… Emma Bueckers,” you said softly. “And maybe soon… we’ll all have the same name.”

Paige’s smile broke open with emotion, tears falling freely now. “God, I love you.”

You kissed her again, arms curled around your daughter, and for a moment the entire world fit into one small hospital room.

Azzi was the first to show up.

She brought a huge pink balloon bouquet and teared up the second she saw the baby in your arms.

“Okay, I didn’t think I’d cry this fast,” she sniffled, laughing through the tears. “She’s… she’s beautiful.”

“She’s perfect,” Paige whispered proudly, standing behind you with her hands on your shoulders.

Nika barged in ten minutes later with a camera and matching mother-daughter socks. “This baby’s gonna be dripped out before she even walks!”

Aubrey came with homemade muffins. Geno brought a stuffed Husky and gave you both a rare but heartfelt hug.

And in the quiet lull between visitors, Paige reached into the bassinet and gently scooped Emma into her arms. You watched her cradle her like she’d done it for years, her voice soft.

“You’ve got so many people who love you, little one,” she whispered. “But I’m your number one. Always.”

You smiled through the haze of sleep deprivation and aching muscles.

“You mean we’re her number ones.”

Paige grinned. “Right. Sorry. She’s got two MVPs.”

Then she kissed Emma’s tiny forehead, and softly murmured, “Can’t wait to marry your mom someday.”

“You’ve got a good team here,” Geno said softly, patting Paige on the back and giving your shoulder a squeeze. “And now you’ve got one more.”

But it was Azzi who lingered after the others had left. She rocked Emma slowly, humming to her in the late afternoon light filtering through the window.

You exchanged a glance with Paige, and without speaking, you both knew it was the right moment.

“Azzi,” you said gently.

She looked up.

“We want you to be her godmother,” Paige said, voice a little thick.

Azzi blinked, visibly stunned. “Wait—me?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “You’ve always been family.”

Azzi’s eyes welled up again. “I’d be honored.”

Emma cooed softly in her arms.

“Guess that’s a yes from her too,” Paige smiled.

It was a strange thing — leaving the hospital.

You expected a bigger moment, maybe. Something cinematic. But in reality, it was a flurry of paperwork, soft murmurs from nurses, and Paige fumbling with the car seat like it was made of quantum physics. She finally got Emma clicked in, though not without wiping her eyes first.

“I just… can’t believe they’re letting us take her home,” she whispered as she looked at your daughter. “Like… we’re trusted with this tiny person?”

You laughed softly from the passenger seat. “Paige, you built an entire crib from scratch and kept me upright through eight months of pregnancy. I think we’re good.”

She reached over to squeeze your hand, eyes warm. “I still don’t believe this is real.”

The apartment looked the same. It smelled faintly of the lavender candle Paige had insisted on lighting before heading to the hospital. But something had shifted. Everything felt quieter. More fragile. More sacred.

Emma’s first night home was soft and slow.

You held her against your chest as Paige fussed with the temperature of the room, checking the baby monitor for the fifth time.

“She’s not even in the crib yet,” you teased, watching her.

“Doesn’t matter,” Paige muttered. “I just want everything perfect.”

“You already are.”

She turned and gave you the softest look. “You’re tired. You sleep. I’ll stay up with her.”

And she did.

You woke up hours later and found Paige asleep in the rocking chair, Emma on her chest, both of them out cold. The moonlight spilling through the window made the whole scene glow.

You didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the doorframe and let the image burn into your memory.

The first bath happened days later, and it was… chaotic.

Paige read the instructions on the baby bath three times. You were in charge of the temperature, towel, and Emma’s post-bath outfit, which Paige insisted be the “bunny one with the ears.”

Emma screamed the whole time.

“She hates this,” Paige said in a mild panic, cradling your slippery, red-faced daughter like she was made of glass.

“She doesn’t hate it,” you laughed. “She just doesn’t know what’s happening.”

“But her face—!”

“She’s fine. You’re doing great.”

Paige looked up at you, wet curls falling into her eyes. “I’ve played in front of thousands of people. Won important games. But nothing has ever been this stressful.”

“Welcome to parenthood,” you said, grinning.

Later, Emma finally calmed down in Paige’s arms, wrapped in her bunny towel, little fists curled against her chest. You both sat on the couch in silence, breathing her in.

“I never thought this would be my life,” Paige whispered, brushing her thumb along Emma’s cheek. “And I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Nights became a rhythm.

2 a.m. was Emma’s favorite time to wake.

You’d hear the soft cries before your eyes were even open, and somehow Paige was always up before you, already halfway to the bassinet.

She’d come back with the baby cradled against her chest, humming under her breath. Sometimes she’d hand her to you, sometimes she’d just sit on the bed, legs crossed, whispering sweet nothings to Emma’s tiny face.

“You don’t even flinch anymore,” you said one night as she handed Emma over for her feeding.

“I think I just listen for her even in my dreams,” Paige replied, settling beside you. “She’s in my bones now.”

You looked at her over your daughter’s head, completely and utterly in awe.

“God, I love you,” you whispered.

She smiled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I’m gonna marry you, you know.”

“You already said that.”

“I meant it.”

Two weeks in, Paige started making notes.

They were small things — scribbled phrases in a notebook she kept beside the couch. You caught glimpses sometimes when you walked by: ring ideas, favorite moments, speech draft?

You never asked. She never said. But you knew.

She was planning.

One afternoon, as Emma napped in the bassinet and sunlight pooled across the living room rug, Paige curled up beside you on the couch. You had your head on her shoulder, her arm around your waist, her other hand resting lightly on your thigh.

“I think she’s going to have your smile,” you whispered.

Paige hummed. “I think she already has your attitude.”

You chuckled softly. “We’re doomed.”

“She’s perfect.”

A pause.

“You both are.”

You turned your head, brushing your nose against her jaw.

“You okay?”

She nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah. I just… I’ve never had something so good before. So real. It’s terrifying.”

You reached for her hand. “It’s not going anywhere.”

“I know.” She paused, then leaned in and pressed her lips to your temple. “And I’m not wasting any time pretending I don’t want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

The day that everything was going to change for the better started with a video call.

Paige was bouncing Emma in one arm, pacing the living room in worn sweats and a messy bun, while your soft humming filtered in from the kitchen. She had that look in her eyes — distant, thoughtful — like her brain was running miles faster than her feet.

She’d been thinking about it for days.

Then she opened her contacts and hit Azzi’s name.

It rang once. Twice.

“Yo,” Azzi’s voice came through, grinning immediately when she saw Emma. “There’s my goddaughter! Look at her chubby cheeks — hey, mama!”

Emma blinked sleepily at the screen, half-interested, half-dozing.

Paige smiled, kissed the top of her head, and shifted to cradle her against her chest. “She just ate. She’s in a milk coma.”

Azzi laughed. “What’s up? You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“I haven’t,” Paige admitted. “But that’s not why I called.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Everything okay?”

Paige hesitated. Then exhaled and moved to sit on the edge of the couch. Emma stayed snuggled to her chest, her tiny hand gripping Paige’s shirt.

“I need your help with something.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Basketball-related?”

“No. Bigger.”

Azzi sat up straighter. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m gonna propose.”

Azzi blinked. “To—wait, to—to her?”

Paige just smiled.

A slow, soft grin spread across Azzi’s face, full of warmth and surprise. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Paige whispered. “I’m in love with her. I’ve been in love with her. She gave me this family. I’ve never felt more like myself than I do when I’m with her. When I’m with them.”

Azzi let out a breath, visibly moved. “Paige, that’s… God. That’s everything.”

“I want it to be perfect,” Paige said, her voice quiet. “I want her to know — without a doubt — that this isn’t just something I fell into. That I chose her. I chose Emma. And I’ll choose them both for the rest of my life.”

Azzi was quiet for a beat.

“Okay, well now I’m crying at eight a.m., thanks.”

Paige laughed. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s beautiful,” Azzi said, swiping under her eyes. “She’s gonna say yes. You know that, right?”

“I think so.”

Azzi gave her a look. “Paige.”

“I hope so.”

“She looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Paige smiled down at Emma. “I think Emma’s got her wrapped around her finger more than I do.”

“Both of you do.”

There was a long pause. Azzi leaned forward on her screen.

“Alright. So what’s the vibe? Big romantic gesture? Quiet and intimate? Flash mob with the team dressed as roses?”

Paige snorted. “Absolutely not that last one.”

“Fine, party pooper.”

“I want something that feels like us.” Paige looked up again. “You’ve known me longer than anyone. Help me think.”

Azzi grinned. “Okay. What’s your shortlist?”

“I’ve got… a few ideas.”

She pulled out her phone and opened a note she’d been working on secretly. Azzi watched as Paige scrolled.

Recreate the night we built the crib — but actually finish it this time, then propose in the nursery.

Take her back to UConn, rent the gym, propose where we first met.

Picnic at the lake by our place. Emma in a little onesie. Paige gives her the ring to hand over.

Quiet night at home. Candlelight. Just us. Nothing else needed.

Azzi read the list quietly.

“They’re all good,” she said. “But number three? That one’s got me.”

Paige looked up. “You think so?”

“You’ve always been your softest when you’re with her and Emma outside. When it’s just you two in your bubble. I’ve seen it.” Azzi smiled. “And can you imagine the look on her face when Emma toddles over with the ring box? She’ll melt.”

Paige sighed, smiling like she could already see it.

“She’s gonna lose it.”

“She’s gonna sob, and then say yes, and then probably tackle you,” Azzi said. “And I’m gonna cry again, even if it’s on FaceTime.”

“You'll be the first to know,” Paige promised.

Azzi laughed. “Damn right I will.”

Later that night, Paige lay beside you in bed, watching as you fed Emma under the soft glow of the nightlight. Your robe was slipping off one shoulder, your hair a little messy, and your smile was so full of love it made her heart ache.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

Paige reached over, brushing a thumb against your wrist.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

You tilted your head. “What brought that on?”

She leaned in, kissed your shoulder, and whispered, “You’ll see.”

It took Paige weeks to find the right ring.

Azzi had come through with the jeweler recommendation — a Black-owned custom shop in Dallas that specialized in timeless, understated pieces. Paige didn’t want flash. She didn’t want anything over-the-top. She wanted you.

Simple. Elegant. Something that would glint under sunlight when you held Emma. Something that would feel like her heart had been shaped into metal and slipped onto your finger.

It was a gold band, warm and soft, with a single diamond in the center and two tiny emeralds on either side — one for you, one for Emma.

When she picked it up, she couldn’t stop staring at it. The box sat in her hoodie pocket every day after that. Just… waiting.

At the time of the big day, Paige woke up early.

The light in the bedroom was pale, barely brushing the sheets. You were still asleep, hair fanned across the pillow, lips parted softly. Emma was in the bassinet nearby, snuggled up with her favorite plush bunny.

Paige slipped out of bed like it was a sacred act, careful not to wake either of you. She kissed both foreheads on her way out of the room and tiptoed to the nursery.

That’s where the onesie was hidden.

It was custom, of course. She’d had it made after talking to Azzi. Cream-colored cotton, soft as clouds, with little gold script across the front.

Paige changed Emma into it slowly, whispering to her the whole time. “You ready to help me do something big, baby girl? You’re gonna be part of something so special today.”

Emma giggled, like she understood. Paige pressed her forehead to her daughter’s and exhaled.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

It was the same lake you’d picnicked at when Emma was just a few weeks old — the one where you’d laid in Paige’s lap, watching the ripples move across the water while she fed you strawberries and rubbed your back.

This time, Paige set up early.

A soft checkered blanket. A woven basket full of your favorites — pastries from your favorite coffee spot, the baby’s bottles, little pink tulips tucked into a mason jar. A speaker sat tucked into the grass, set to a playlist Paige had made for this exact moment.

It was perfect.

Then Paige sent you a text.

hey baby. bring emma and come meet me by the lake? we’re having breakfast together. dress comfy <3

You read it in the kitchen, sipping your tea, and smiled. “She’s up to something,” you mumbled.

Emma blinked up at you from her stroller.

You didn’t realize until you pushed her toward the lake, walking down the grassy hill and saw Paige standing near the edge of the blanket, heart in her throat — that something was different.

Paige took Emma from the stroller, holding her in a way so she’s facing you. That’s when you saw the onesie.

“Marry Mama?”

You stopped mid-step.

And then your eyes lifted to Paige.

She was smiling, but her lips were trembling. Her hands were already reaching for the small velvet box in her pocket. “Surprise,” she said softly.

You stared at Emma. Then back at Paige. “Oh my God.”

Paige stepped forward slowly. “I wanted to do this right. I wanted you to remember this moment for the rest of your life. Because I will.”

You blinked fast, tears rushing up before you could stop them.

“I know this hasn’t been a typical love story. I know we weren’t expecting any of this — but you,” she said, voice catching, “you gave me everything I never knew I needed.”

You covered your mouth, breath shaky.

“You let me love you through all of it — through the fear and the unknown, through swollen feet and late-night cravings and sleep-deprived chaos — and every single day I’ve spent with you, I’ve only wanted one thing... more.”

She dropped to one knee, Em laying against her chest, holding the ring box open in her shaking hands.

“I want to be your wife. I want to be Emma’s mom forever. I want to spend every boring Tuesday and messy Sunday morning beside you. I want all of it. You. Her. Us.”

You sobbed, stepping forward, completely overwhelmed.

“Will you marry me?”

You nodded before you could even speak.

Then you dropped to your knees in front of her and cupped her face between your hands, laughing through the tears.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yes, yes. God, Paige, of course I’ll marry you.”

She kissed you before she even got the ring on.

It was messy and salty and perfect. Emma babbled at you both, kicking her feet in her little onesie like she’d planned it herself.

When Paige finally slipped the ring onto your finger, your hands were still trembling. “It’s so beautiful,” you whispered, staring at it.

“So are you,” she said, voice full of awe.

That night, back home, you lay on the couch with your head in Paige’s lap, Emma asleep on your chest, and the ring glinting in the soft golden light of the TV.

“You know,” you whispered, “I think Emma might be magic.”

Paige smiled. “She made a lot of things possible.”

You turned your hand, admiring the ring again. “Did Azzi help you plan this?”

“She’s the one who made me realize how sure I was.”

“I’m glad she did.”

Paige leaned down and kissed your temple.

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

“You already feel like home.”

[vinnyvamppp]

please give us the viltrumite reader 🥺👉👈

"I’ll Breed You Into Loyalty"

A/N: SO! There have been some drastic changes. You guys know I like to keep things in character, having Mark JUST meet an enemy and fuck them two seconds later didn't sit right. This is "The Uncharted Assignment." Reworked.

Synopsis: Lines blur between battle and bedroom, loyalty and lust, love and war. Mark has to face a question worse than betrayal: What if the only person who understands him is the one destined to destroy him?

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tention, Emotional Whiplash, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Fuckbuddies to???, Post Omni-Man Canon DIvergence, HEAVY Porn w Plot, “If you leave me, I’ll chase you” Energy, Hair Pulling, Accidental Choking, Mark Being Overwhelmed But TRYING, Breeding Kink, Powerplay, Overstim, Biting, Hate Sex, Post-Sex Guilt, Emotional Attachment.

"Why do I hate that I'm into you?"

Mark Grayson x Viltrumite!Fem!Reader

WC: 2.6k

You weren’t born to be seen.

You were bred in silence—on a deep-core training outpost orbiting a red dwarf. The Empire called it Caldera, where the most cunning of your kind were honed like blades—not to fight but to corrupt. No brute force. No grand displays. Just pressure, precision, and patience. You weren’t a soldier. You were a whisper wrapped in steel.

And when Omni-Man disappeared—defected, disgraced—Earth became the Empire’s bleeding wound. They sent you not to destroy it. They sent you to turn it in. More importantly… they sent you to turn him. Mark Grayson, the half-human, half-Viltrumite, who's entirely too stubborn for his own good. You were told he was unstable. Emotional. Susceptible to influence through connection.

You didn’t expect him to be… kind, funny, or infuriating. You didn’t expect to like him. That was mistake number one.

You arrived after Bulletproof disappeared—filed as MIA after a solo recon gone wrong in interdimensional space. There was nobody. No footage. Just static and red.

You weren’t directly responsible. Not… really. The Empire made sure someone else pulled that trigger. Your hands were clean. Clean enough for Cecil to greenlight your placement on the Guardians of the Globe. They needed strength, speed, control—and you delivered. No questions asked. You did everything right. Controlled your accent. Monitored your energy output. Let your victories look hard-won.

And Mark liked you. Too fast. Too easily. You trained together. Patrolled together. Laughed, sometimes. He teased you for never taking your coffee with sugar. You called him a "softhearted liability." He would walk you to your quarters after sparring in a sparking silence. Somewhere between the jabs and near-death experiences, it started to feel… easy. ... Comfortable. That was mistake number two.

The storm had rolled in fast. Static buzzed over the Guardian comms, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the crack of bone under your knuckles. You slammed the alien’s face into the rooftop again—cratered it. His blood was dark purple, sticky on your palm. "Stop!" Mark’s voice cut through the rain. You didn’t, no, not until the alien stopped twitching.

You stood, chest heaving. Blood. Rain. Guilt—hushed beneath something sharper, colder. He landed behind you with a wet slap of boots on concrete. "He was already down," he said. "He wasn’t moving."

"He was still breathing," you replied, voice flat. "That doesn’t mean you kill him!" You turned. His eyes—wide, hurt, angry—searched your face like he didn’t recognize it. Maybe he didn’t. You didn’t even know if you did. "He would’ve killed you," you said.

"You don’t know that." You stepped closer, now inches from him. "I do." There was something in your tone—something too sure and cold. His jaw clenched. “That’s not how we do things.” You don't respond. You can't. You’re staring down at the crater you left behind—purple blood pooling in the cracks—and for a moment, you feel the leash slipping. The one you’ve held tight since arrival. The one that tells you to pretend to be human… almost for his sake.

We. The word hung in the air, heavier than the storm.

You held his gaze, and let a bit of the mask crack. “Maybe I’m not like the rest of you.” Something was menacing in your delivery. Or even the way a faint smirk fought the edges of your lips as you basked in his confused and furious expression. And then you left him, soaked in the rain and conflicted. That was mistake number three. This was getting tiring. Time to pivot your strategy.

Guardians Headquarters, it was late. You’re in the med bay. Minimal wounds, just some surface bruising. You don’t bother dressing them, you don’t need to. But routine is good, it keeps your hands busy while your thoughts spiral.

He slams the door open. “What the hell was that tonight?” You don’t flinch. He’s pacing already, wet hair matted to his forehead. Eyes red, not from crying, but from rage. His voice cracks just enough to sting. “You don’t just kill people, no matter what you’ve been through.”

“I saved your life.”

“You executed someone on a rooftop!”

Silence...

He’s panting like he just finished a sprint. You watch him. Carefully. Like you were trained to. Like he’s a variable—something dangerous. “Why?” he finally asks, voice lower now. “Why do you do things like that?”

You let out a breath, slow, measured, despite the circumstances. This is the moment. The file called for phased exposure. Let the truth out slowly. But you’re too tired to lie right now. Too tired to lie to yourself like you wouldn’t slaughter everyone here given their retaliation. Just... rip off the band-aid. So you look him in the eyes. “Because I’m not human, Mark.” He stiffens.

“...What?”

“I’m a Viltrumite.”

The room seems to suck in on itself. The weight of respective heritages is palpable. Comms static hums in the background like a heartbeat, its sound causing your ears to ring. He doesn’t speak but rather stares. “They sent me here after your father left,” you say. “To finish what he couldn’t. Not by force. By logic, persuasion, and connection. Through you.” Your eyes scrutinized his very being, anticipating an outburst… one that never came.

“You used me?” His voice is quiet now, almost too quiet. You nod. “At first.” He turns away from you like looking at you physically hurts him. “Why tell me now?”

“Because I think you’re smart enough to understand the truth. Earth is tearing itself apart. You feel it too. You’ve always felt it.”

“You sound just like him.”

“He was right about the outcome,” you snap. “Not the method. We can do better. You and I—we could shape something that lasts. Together.” He whirls around, gaze narrowing. “You’re out of your mind. I don’t even know who you are right now!”

“Then give me a child.” Silence. Heavy. Like gravity has doubled in the room. “What the hell did you just say?” You step toward him, slowly. Not with threat, but promise. “If you won’t take your place, give me someone who will. I’ll raise them the way you should’ve been raised. Strong. Focused. Loyal to the cause.”

You don’t mean it. Not entirely, anyway. But it’s the only way you know how to force a decision. To make him feel something besides hate. And then—like you asked for it—he grabs your arm. “You don’t get to manipulate me like that.”

“Then stop me.”

And he kisses you. It’s angry, teeth clashing, utterly control-less, and chaotic. The kind of kiss that means nothing and everything. The kind you’ll regret later but crave more of anyway. And when he pulls away, breath ragged, you’re both trembling for different reasons.

“You don’t want to be like him,” you whisper. “Then stop pushing me,” he fires back. The silence that follows isn’t peace. It’s war in slow motion.

“You were my friend,” he says now, voice hoarse. “You acted like you were my friend.”

“It wasn’t an act.”

“Then what was it?” His voice breaks again. “What were you doing? Setting me up? Studying me?”

“Understanding you,” you say quietly. “Trying to see if you were salvageable.” He flinches. Your expression doesn’t change. That hurts more. “I hate this,” he says. “Then walk away.” He looks at you, and everything in his face says he wants to. That he should. That he knows what happens if he doesn’t. His voice cracks. “I hate that you still make sense to me,” he says. “Even after everything.”

“You hate that I remind you of what you are.”

“No,” he says, stepping in. “I hate that part of me wants to believe you. That part of me still—"

“Still what?”

“Still wants you.”

There it is. The words he swore he’d never say. The silence that follows is sharp enough to bleed. “Say it again,” you whisper. He’s shaking his head. “Say it.” His brows knit upwards. “I want you,” he says, too quickly. Too honest. “And I hate that I do. I hate you for doing this to me.” You step forward. "Then punish me."

That stuns him, and he stares at you, breathing growing shallow. “You think this is a game?”

“I think you want to know what it’s like to stop pretending. Just once.” He grabs your wrist and you let him, but he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t twist—just holds it, trembling. “I could never trust you again.”

“I don’t want your trust.”

“Then what do you want?” You lean in—lips a breath away from his, eyes sharp and conflicted. “Take a wild guess, Grayson.”

And then he kisses you again. Not violently this time. Not to punish. But like he’s drowning in everything he’s tried to suppress—grief, lust, confusion, the hollow ache of missing something that never really belonged to him in the first place. He spent months undoing his father's ruin, just for his efforts to unravel like silk.

Your mouth opens beneath his, heat pouring between you like fire through the fractured glass. His grip on your wrist tightens— again, just enough to tell you he’s trying to keep control. But he's failing and fast.

You push him. He stumbles back, and hits the wall with a grunt, but doesn’t fall. His eyes burn as you follow, shoulders squared, every inch of you predatory. “You always this easy to provoke?” you whisper. “I told you to stop talking,” he mutters and grabs your face like he’s trying to shut you up with his mouth again.

You let him. His hands caging you in, every action like a curse.

He kisses like he fights��too emotional. Too much heart. You bite his lip, hard enough to taste copper, and he groans into your mouth. That same sound you’ve heard in battle. That same frustration. That same need. He couldn’t stop even if he tried, his emotions sharp like a blade that pierced him with every kiss. 

Your hand slides to the back of his costume, unzipping it as it drips down his torso. Dragging your nails down the curve of his ribs, he gasps. You feel his body flinch, but not in fear. In anticipation. “You want to hate me?” you whisper against his throat. “Then earn it.” He growls. Actually growls. “You don’t get to control everything.”

“Try and stop me.” And suddenly you’re moving again—he’s lifting you like you weigh nothing, slamming your back against the wall. You grin, teeth bared. “There’s the Viltrumite,” you murmur. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

He drops you—not gently—onto the nearby cot, climbing over you, breathing hard, eyes wild. You wrap your legs around his hips without hesitation. The friction is instant, and delicious as he desperately bucks into your clothed sex.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he yanks your suit down to your waist, exposing your skin to air and heat and the sting of too much touch at once. His fingers immediately paw at exposed flesh and the swell of your breasts. You strip him fast, palms dragging down over his chest, and his stomach, until he gasps when you grip him.

He’s hard already. Of course, he is. Your fingers slither down his pelvis, tantalizing, almost. Digits firmly wrapping around his cock— palm warm enough to make him twitch.

His tip is flushed, deeper in color, and sensitive enough that he contracts when you apply just a little pressure. He's long. Uncut. There's something intimate about it. The way his foreskin shifts when you stroke him— tight, smooth, responsive— makes it easy to tease, and even easier to control as his abs trembled from the sensation. You open your mouth to speak, and he silences you. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

His gaze lowers to where your moist, velvety cunt beckoned him. A sanctuary of pure, unadulterated bliss. Its arousal nearly glistening enough to see his reflection. And once he finally gets a taste, rubbing the head against your labia… He’s in shambles as he hurriedly presses into you.

You cry out—not in pain, not even surprise—It's because he’s thick. It stretches you open with a slow, delicious ache, the kind that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with a low, desperate moan.

You feel every vein, every pulse of heat. When he thrusts, it’s like being filled to your limit AND then some. Perfectly overwhelming. The fact that you’re both half-feral and half-clinging to each other like this was inevitable. His hips rear back— lips pursed together as shaky breaths were all he could muster through restraint. Dragging through gummy, creamy walls—

He thrusts hard. Deep. Controlled, at first. But it doesn’t last, never does. You meet him thrust for thrust, dragging your nails down his back, pulling him in harder. You bite his shoulder, and he whimpers— teeth gritted— sweat sliding down his temple.

He pummels harder, faster, fingers curling tighter in your hair. When he pulls, your head tips back, exposing your throat—and he bites you there. You gasp, ridges clenching around him, and that nearly ends him. “God, you’re insane,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. 

“So are you. You just wear it better.” Your hand drifts between you, finding the right rhythm amongst your clit— clamping in tandem with the tight circles. Then your tongue comes to caress the shell of his ear before nipping it. He gasps again—shudders, actually—and you smirk. “Sensitive?” you tease, pumping slowly just to watch his face twist. “You’re not gonna win this.”

“I already have.” You roll your hips just right and he chokes on a curse—his body stuttering. You squeeze him tighter, feel the way his breath hitched. He’s close.

You whisper, “Come on then, Mark. Show me how much you hate me.” And he sure does. His hands locked around your wrists, yanking them above your head as his hips thrust savagely into yours, but you still bucked up against him, and ground your teeth against a moan. Every movement was a battle. His strength against your will, your cunning against his need.

With a final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, hand in your hair, mouth crushed against your neck. He shakes as he spills inside you, his breath ragged, his moan caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief. But you’re still not done.

You flip him—actually, flip him—and he barely catches himself as you straddle his hips and sink back down. He grabs your thighs, trying to slow you, but you ride him with practiced ease. Raw. Overstimulated. And borderline masochistic. He stutters, trying to formulate a sentence. “You—”

“Me,” you finish for him. “You want me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

His head falls back onto the mattress, jaw slackening with groans that border on pain and pleasure. A salacious squelch echoes between you— his cock already creamy from cum and slick, coating your sex in his scent. The way his shape drags along your walls in just the right way to make your toes curl, hips roll, and back arch. Every grind, every stroke that presses deep and nudges that spot inside you that sends sparks flying.

"You like testing me, huh? Keep pushing, and I’ll show you what happens when I stop holding back." He groans, trying to save face. His muscles began aching to match your momentum. Hips pistoning upwards with the slightest swivel, tip threatening to kiss your cervix and then some.

His thrusts stutter, and his dick and balls throbbing as if about to spill again at any moment. Your fingers dig into his rippling abdomen. Shared growls and his barely coherent mumbles fill the gap of silence. "Give me your worst; I’ll give it back double." You grit as he attempts to regain control, maintaining what little is left of his dignity.

In one sharp buck of his hips, he throws you off rhythm. You gasp, hand slipping off him. He grabs your waist, flips you again, and slams you down onto the mattress, his face inches from yours. He grinds deep, hips rolling with vicious intent, pushing deeper than before—almost too much—but never enough. A crack splintered the wall as the cot rocked, metal bending and crumbling debris falling on deaf ears.

Your noses brush and your eyes lock. His breathing's ragged. He kisses you softly—just once—before his hips slam into you again, knocking the breath from your lungs. He grinds against your ass before slamming back into you, hands gripping your hips, your waist, and your throat again when you try to rise up. “Stay down,” he hisses. “Let me feel you.”

"Is this the part where I beg you not to stop?" You’d never say it out loud, but it’s the best you’ve ever had. And he doesn’t even know it. You can't tell if this is the best or worst decision you've made in your life. "You’re so good at pretending you don’t care. Let’s see how long that lasts." He mumbles.

"Tell yourself you're in control. It won’t save you. Every time you touch me, you forget who the real threat is."

Every thrust dragged a strangled moan from his kiss-bitten lips. You pushed back against him, chasing his hips with every drag— daring him to lose control before you did. He was frantic. His conflicted gaze fixed upon you as his thrusts grew ragged. There was no rhythm; it was his senses being overwhelmed by pleasure.

You two moved harmoniously, but hatred colored every kiss, bite, and thrust, chasing the definitions your relationship had. It was wanting. It was revenge. It was need. It was loving. It was a simmering war. And it terrified him.

Your orgasm hits harder than you expect. It's fast and vision-blurring, your whole body clenching around him, your back bowing, a broken moan ripping from your throat as you ride it out. Your cunt contracts shivers rippling down your spine with each pulse. You scream for him. For everything he makes you feel. For everything you can’t stop craving.

“Mark—oh—fuck—Mark—”

He’s not far behind. You feel him losing rhythm, losing control, and his grip is tight. His warm lips trailed down your nape, your spine, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach. His thrusts weren’t trying to dominate you anymore; they were begging you to stay. To change your mind.

“Can I—” he asks, unable to control it the first time. "Tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Please."

“Inside,” you whisper. “I want to feel it again.”

He chokes on your name as he erupts into you—deep, rasped, utterly broken. His final sigh was reminiscent of a cry, his body locking up on him. Beaded sweat from his forehead dampening your back, as he loses his fucking mind. The padded surface beneath you dips as his toes curl into the mattress.

He watches, stunned. Almost disappointed in himself as cum sloppily drizzles from your cunt. He collapses on top of you; muscled bodies coated in a sheen that mixes with his, both of you panting in silence.

And this happens. Again. And again. And again.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs.

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it.”

“Then stop coming back.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand finds yours in the sheets. He squeezes once. Then let's go.

The worst part wasn’t the way he touched you, like he hated you. It was the way he touched you, like he loved you anyway.

He would pretend this world and you aren't breaking him. And you would forever be curious as to why he won't let it. Sooner or later, fate would come and ruin what could’ve been. His heart had danced with yours, and even then, anger filled it. So why… why does he still lie beside you? Why does it feel as though no battle has been won?

God, you’re insufferable.

A/N: There are some aspects similar to the old draft. (It sounded so formal LMFAO, the way I wrote when just starting was…. Hm.) anyway, hope the five people who requested this, enjoyed.

[chipthekeeper]

Today I had the displeasure of reading the words “we get it vel is sad and gay can we move on” and several other similarly ridiculous things on twitter a website not to be named, so I spent my whole 45 minute drive home just absolutely fuming with the need to defend my girl. Most of you know I've already done this in a broad sense before (defending her as a character and as half of a complicated relationship on her appreciation Friday), but let me focus in on what we’ve gotten from Vel so far in season two for now. Because yeah, it might not have been exactly what I was hoping to see, but it’s meaningful as hell and Faye is doing a fucking incredible job and deserves to be applauded for it.

Look. Even if all she was doing was being sad and gay, I would be here for that. You know this. Those are two of my most favorite qualities of her. But let’s not pretend that all she’s doing is “mourning her gay situationship” and forget why we’re seeing her in this arc in the first place. She’s Mon’s cousin and closest confidant, and she’s Chandrilan. Stuck between these two facts is a conflict for Vel. She HAS to be at this three-day-long heteronormative child wedding from hell because someone she loves needs her support, but she hates every second of it. She hates this place, these people, this culture, probably even the clothes on her back. She looks uncomfortable just about every second she’s on screen in this arc, ESPECIALLY in the third episode.

See?

Something you may or may not have noticed – even I didn’t really register it until I started thinking about all of this because watching three fucking episodes all in one night made them all blur together – but Vel DOESN’T ACTUALLY SAY A WORD IN THE THIRD EPISODE. She has no lines. Vel’s extreme stress and discomfort are conveyed only through Faye’s body language and facial expressions. To complain about this and cry about her only being “sad and gay” is a huge discredit to the performance and I simply won’t stand for it.

Like yes, she’s sad and gay but why can’t we take a second to think about what that means? Look at her circumstances, even leaving out the Cinta of it all for a second. This is a person who must have realized at a very young age that she was not only different but very likely going to either live a completely miserable life or be a disappointment to her very wealthy family and her society at large, and being back here in the middle of it all for an occasion like this hurts fucking deeply even if it’s a weird tradition and she wants no part in it. I can tell you this for a fact because I have fucking lived it. As a gay person, I have no desire whatsoever to take part in a traditional religious marriage or wedding ceremony like the one my sister had a couple years ago, but being at her wedding and the party that followed was overwhelming and painful because I spent so much time thinking something along the lines of “even if I had someone in my life to do this with, these same people – my family – would never celebrate my love this way.”

Now, is that what Vel’s thinking about as she stands next to the other unmarried women (i.e. teenage children) watching her niece’s first dance with her new husband? Perhaps not. But the way she breaks down after seeing Cinta sure looked an awful lot like how I looked sitting outside in the dark and the rain, drunk as I’ve ever been, while my sister’s reception carried on behind me.

And this, to me in particular, is what’s so great about Vel as a character – as a STAR WARS character – and why I will never ever complain about seeing her be “sad and gay.” For the first time ever in my favorite franchise, I get to see myself so clearly. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s also fiercely supportive of her family (the part she likes, anyway) – she takes Mon’s hand in support when she needs it, and she seems ready to snap at Kleya for even being around and creating the possibility of trouble at this function. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s on the front line of a fucking rebellion. Just because you don’t see it in this arc because that’s not where the story is focused doesn’t mean that’s not still true, and we’ll see that again come next week I’m sure.

I don’t really know how to wrap this up, but the point is if you’re tired of what’s happening with Vel in this show, you’re probably not paying enough attention. I want more of her and more for her to do as much as anybody (that’s a lie, I want it SO MUCH FUCKING MORE THAN ANYBODY, fucking try me), but there’s already a whole ocean of her character to explore with just what we have, if you only bother to stop and consider it.

[marvelseries19]

RETURN TO YOU

Chapter Four - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: You’re finally found. After years lost and alone, a faint signal is enough to bring someone to your island. You're brought home, weak, scared, and unsure if it’s real.

A/N: Finally, the moment you've been waiting for. I'm not entirely sure if this should be the end. I kinda have more ideas to tell, but maybe I'll post those as like one-shots or something. I wanted to thank you guys for letting me know that you liked it. I don't think I've ever had this much engagement on my fics. I really appreciate the love this one has had.

On another note, in the last chapter, I asked if you read this, and by this, I meant these messages, I leave here, not the chapter. So, once more, do you guys read these messages?? Also, as always, any questions, requests, ideas, and feedback are all welcome. Enjoy :)

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries and such.

Word count: 4.4k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The low hum of the SHIELD operations room barely registered as Maria Hill leaned over the dim console. The soft, rhythmic blinking on the screen in front of her was steady, consistent — unmistakable. A signal. Faint, primitive, but deliberate. Her fingers flew across the keys as she opened a secure channel.

"Get me Director Fury," she said, her voice low but urgent.

The line crackled before his voice came through, rough and clipped. "What have you got?"

Maria didn’t look away from the screen. "A signal. Old-school. Someone stripped a Quinjet transponder and spliced it into basic field tech. It’s broadcasting on an early SHIELD frequency — nothing sophisticated, but it’s clean. Repeating."

"That’s a long shot," Fury replied.

"Not if it’s her," Maria said, and there was something unshakable in her tone. "And I believe it is."

There was a pause. She could almost hear him weighing it in silence. Her eyes stayed on the blinking pattern, steady as a heartbeat.

"It’s the captain."

Fury’s silence stretched again — longer this time, heavier.

"You always did trust her instincts more than anyone else," he said eventually.

"She earned that trust," Maria murmured. And she remembered — the smoke, the fire, the chaos.

Kandahar.

—

The sky was dust-streaked and orange, gunfire painting the air in bursts. Agents scattered, wounded, shouting. No one had orders. The comms were fried. And then you appeared — ash-streaked, limping, blood on her sleeve, and calm in her eyes.

“We lost comms!” someone had yelled. “Do we pull back?! Where’s the fallback point?!”

Maria remembered how you didn’t hesitate. She remembered the way you moved — forward, always forward — as if gravity bent toward your conviction.

"With me," you said. That was all.

Two words.

And twenty agents followed you without looking back.

Maria hadn’t said it aloud that day — but someone else had. A younger recruit, clutching his rifle and running to keep up: “Captain’s got us.”

The name stuck.

—

Maria exhaled softly, her eyes never leaving the console. "She pulled twenty agents out that night. Half of them wouldn’t be here without her," she said quietly.

"Is she still alive, Hill?" Fury asked.

"She sent that signal," Maria replied. "I know it's her, and that’s all I need to know."

"Take a team," Fury ordered. "Get her back."

Maria was already on her feet. "Already working on it."

She shut the console off, leaving the weak, blinking signal behind — but only for a moment.

She would follow it. All the way to the end.

—

The quinjet dipped below the clouds like a shadow cutting through the sky, its engines whisper-quiet over the dense canopy below. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting streaks of gold and fire across the endless stretch of green.

Maria stood near the loading ramp, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon as if she could will the trees to part and reveal a miracle.

She’d barely slept on the flight over, fingers tight around the datapad that showed the narrowing coordinates. Each pass of the satellite brought them closer. Each sweep of the low-band signal narrowed the window.

Still, it felt like a dream.

Three years. Three years with no trace. Three years of dead ends, quiet funerals, and trying to help Natasha through a grief Maria shared but didn’t dare speak aloud.

And now this.

A single echo. A half-broken signal from a beacon no one was supposed to remember how to use.

She hadn’t told Natasha. Couldn't. Not yet.

Hope, Maria had learned, was dangerous when it burned too bright. And she wouldn’t be the one to light it unless she was sure. She had seen firsthand what it did to her friend , how it tore her apart each time a lead turned out to be false. Maria needed more than a faint signal to give Natasha false hope.

The quinjet hovered over the narrowed location, nestled between cliffs and jungle, and the team fast-roped down in practiced silence. Maria followed, landing with a solid thud against the uneven earth.

It was still. Too still. But the readings didn’t lie. Someone was here.

She signaled for the group to split. “Fan out. Sweep the perimeter. Eyes sharp. Weapons down unless you see a threat.”

A chorus of affirmatives crackled through comms.

They moved.

Not far away, tucked in the hollow between two rocks and overgrowth, you stirred.

The sound had been faint — a low thrum, like distant thunder.

It came again, closer this time.

You sat up slowly, your body protesting every movement. Your limbs ached. Your head spun. Your skin had taken on the leathery feel of too much sun and too little water. The weakened body you lived in now barely resembled the one that once trained at SHIELD’s academy. The one that flew the quinjet with quiet confidence. The one that could disappear without leaving a trace.

You had survived. But barely.

You blinked hard, pressing your fingers to your ears.

Voices.

Were those voices?

You crouched low, instinct taking over even as your knees buckled beneath you. The sound of boots brushing leaves. A sharp rustle of brush being moved aside. You bit the inside of your cheek.

It’s nothing. You’ve imagined things before. You’d seen shadows become people. Branches become outstretched hands.

But the voices were growing louder now. Clearer.

“Check the cliffside—Hill’s got east.” “There’s a trail here—looks like something’s been walking through.” “Signal strength increasing. It’s close.”

No. No, that was real. That wasn’t just your mind trying to comfort you again. That was real.

Still, your body didn’t move. Not yet.

You sat frozen, heart pounding, as footsteps closed in.

And then—

“Hey!” a voice called. Not a hallucination. Sharp. Solid. Commanding. “I’ve got something—!”

Then another voice. Lower. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Stand down, it’s her—God—” The foliage parted, and there she was.

Maria.

Your mind couldn’t process it all at once. She was wearing tactical black, hair pulled back, eyes scanning like she didn’t dare believe what she was seeing.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything—but nothing came out.

Maria dropped to her knees, her voice thick and trembling. “Hey, hey—it's okay. It's me. I’ve got you.”

You blinked again, too weak to flinch as her hands gently framed your face.

Her breath caught. “Jesus… you’re really here.”

You tried to speak, lips cracked, throat dry. Only a rasp escaped.

Maria shook her head, a soft curse under her breath. She slipped an arm around your shoulders, guiding a canteen to your lips. “Don’t talk. Just drink.”

The water stung going down, but you drank like you hadn’t in days.

Because you hadn't. Rainwater could only last for so long.

Maria kept holding you, one hand steadying the canteen, the other pressed lightly against your back as if reassuring herself that you were solid. Real. Not another ghost.

And then she whispered, almost like she didn’t want anyone else to hear, "I'm so sorry it took this long.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You didn’t want to cry. Not yet. Not when it felt like the moment could vanish if you blinked.

But Maria didn’t rush. She stayed there with you in the dirt, surrounded by jungle, brushing a hand gently through your tangled hair.

“You’re safe now,” she said softly. “We’re taking you home. I’m gonna make sure of that. And I’ll tell her—I’ll tell Natasha.”

You didn’t know if it was the relief or her voice, but that’s when the sob broke free.

And Maria, strong as ever, just held you tighter.

The team moved quickly once they found her.

You were conscious, your body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline as they guided you through the undergrowth. The sight of the quinjet waiting on the shore hit you harder than expected.

Your steps faltered.

The air caught in your throat.

It looked almost exactly like yours—the one that went down in flames, the one that left you stranded and alone. Your chest tightened, breath hitching, muscles locking up as memories flashed behind your eyes. Fire. Smoke. The sound of metal tearing. The impact.

You stopped walking.

“Hey,” Maria’s voice was calm and soft. She stepped in front of you, eyes steady, hand gentle on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re taking you home.”

You shook your head weakly, barely audible when you said, “I can’t… I can’t get on that thing. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” Maria cut in, her voice rough with emotion. “After what you’ve been through, it makes perfect sense.”

Your eyes were glassy, full of apology and fear you couldn’t quite name. “I want to go. I just… I can’t.”

Maria glanced at the medic nearby, nodding once.

“We’ll help you sleep through the ride, okay?” she said, already crouching down with her. “No pain. No panic. You’ll wake up at the medical facility. Safe. I promise.”

You gave her the faintest nod, your fingers still gripping Maria’s sleeve like an anchor.

Maria stayed close as the medic prepped the injection, gently brushing damp hair back from your forehead. “You did so good, alright? You held on. We’ve got you now.”

The sedative took hold quickly, easing your breathing as your eyes fluttered shut. Maria caught you carefully as she slumped forward, guiding her into the medic’s arms and onto the stretcher.

And as the engines spun up and the quinjet lifted into the sky, Maria sat beside you, phone already in her hand, staring down at Natasha’s name on the screen.

It was time.

The quinjet hummed around her, steady and familiar. Maria sat strapped in beside the stretcher, her eyes drifting to you every few seconds — as if making sure she was still there, still breathing, still real.

You looked so small.

So fragile.

And it shook Maria more than she wanted to admit. This woman, who once sparred with her until both of them limped off the mat laughing… This woman who had stood beside her through firefights and missions no one else could have survived… Now she lies wrapped in blankets, sedated, ribs visible under her skin, lips cracked from dehydration.

Maria swallowed hard. She stared at the screen for a long second before finally pressing the contact.

The call connected after two rings.

“Maria?” Natasha’s voice came out sharp, tight. Tired. Like she’d been running or not sleeping again. “Is something wrong?”

Maria’s breath caught. “Natasha…”

Something in her tone made Natasha go completely still on the other end.

“We found her,” Maria said softly.

Silence.

“I need you to meet me at the SHIELD medical facility in New York. We’re bringing her in now. She's alive, Nat. She's—she's not in good shape, but she’s alive.”

Natasha didn’t answer at first. Just a breath — hitched, broken — and then, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve got her right here with me.” Maria looked over again, lowering her voice instinctively. “She held on. Three years, and she never gave up.”

There was a long pause. When Natasha spoke again, her voice cracked.

“I’ll be there.”

—

The city blurred past the tinted windows of the SUV, but Natasha barely saw any of it.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Every red light felt like a personal attack. Every second that passed without her at that facility made her heart pound harder in her chest.

You were alive.

Alive.

It didn’t feel real.

She had imagined this moment too many times — always in dreams, in cruel fantasies her mind would conjure when sleep finally took her. But this wasn’t a dream. Maria had called her. Maria had sounded shaken. That never happened.

Alive.

Natasha’s breath caught again, her throat tight with something she couldn’t name — hope, disbelief, fear. She didn’t even realize tears had started to run down her cheeks until they hit her jaw. She didn’t wipe them away.

Three years.

Three years of not knowing. Of waking up and reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Of closing her eyes and hearing your laugh, only for silence to greet her. Of rage. Of grief so heavy it felt like a second skin.

And now… you were back.

But at what cost?

She kept replaying Maria’s voice in her head. Not in good shape. Those four words sliced deeper than anything else. Natasha had seen the aftermath of war. She had seen what being stranded did to a person, physically and mentally.

What if you didn’t remember her? What if the pain of those years had buried the part of you that knew her name? What if the reunion she’d dreamed of — clung to — was nothing like the reality waiting for her?

The driver turned sharply, and Natasha gritted her teeth, leaning forward.

“How much longer?”

“Five minutes, ma’am.”

Not fast enough.

She closed her eyes. Forced herself to breathe. One hand unconsciously reached for the ring still looped through the chain around her neck — your ring — warm now from her skin.

She didn’t know what she’d find when she walked into that facility.

But for the first time in three years… she had something to walk toward.

You.

—

The quinjet touched down with a soft thud on the rooftop pad of the SHIELD medical facility.

Before the engines had fully powered down, the med team was already waiting — gurney prepped, portable monitors ready, gloved hands reaching for the ramp before it even dropped.

Maria stood to the side, out of the way but not detached. Her jaw was clenched, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if holding herself together. She hadn’t said much since the sedation. Only that she’d call Natasha again once they landed. But she didn’t need to. The call had already been made. Natasha would be here soon. She knew it.

The second the hatch opened, the team surged forward.

You were still unconscious — sedated, peaceful in the worst way. Your skin looked pale under the harsh facility lights, your body far too light as they transferred you to the gurney. The bruises, the cuts, the ribs pressing too close to the surface — it was all too visible now.

Monitors were clipped to your finger, an oxygen mask gently pressed to your face, and soft commands echoing between the medics: “Get her on fluids, stat.” “We need a CBC and a full metabolic panel.” “Chest X-ray, abdominal ultrasound.” “She’s dehydrated; start with normal saline, keep it slow.”

The medics disappeared down the hall with you, swift and practiced, the sound of their shoes a controlled blur of movement.

Natasha had just stepped into the hallway when she saw them roll the gurney past.

She stopped mid-step.

Time halted.

You.

There. Real.

But not awake. Not smiling. Not whole.

Her hand went to the wall to steady herself. Her breath left her in a sharp, silent exhale. She couldn’t move.

Maria stepped in beside her, watching the hallway where the doors had just swung closed behind the gurney. “She’s stable. Vitals are holding. They’ll take care of her.”

Natasha didn’t speak. Her eyes hadn’t moved from that door.

A nurse came around the corner holding something small and delicate in a gloved hand. She looked between them before gently addressing Natasha.

“She was wearing this,” she said softly, offering the chain.

Natasha reached out slowly, her hand trembling as she took it.

Your ring. Still looped through the chain she gave you three years ago.

She held it tightly in her fist, pressing it to her lips like a prayer.

Maria watched her quietly. “She survived,” she whispered, more to herself than to Natasha. “She actually survived.”

Natasha’s voice cracked when she finally spoke, low and hoarse. “She wasn’t supposed to.”

Down the hallway, machines beeped. Doors swung. A medical team did everything they could to stabilize you — rehydrate, monitor, and evaluate. You didn’t stir, but you were alive.

That was all that mattered.

For now.

It felt like hours.

The sterile hallway never changed, but Natasha hadn't moved from that same spot. She leaned forward in the plastic chair, elbows on her knees, fingers still curled around the chain holding your ring. The weight of it was nothing — and everything.

Maria had stayed close, pacing occasionally, making a few quiet calls, but mostly giving Natasha space. There were no words left to say.

Finally, a doctor emerged from behind the double doors. He looked tired but calm.

“She’s stable. Fluids are working, and her bloodwork came back cleaner than we expected. Malnourished, yes. Exhausted, definitely. But no infection, no internal injuries beyond the obvious bruising, and a few injuries that didn't heal properly, but nothing to worry about. We sedated her gently. She might wake up soon.”

Natasha stood the moment the doctor nodded toward the room. “Can I see her?”

“Yes. Just for a few minutes, and keep it quiet. She’s been through a lot.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She was already moving.

—

The room was dim and quiet, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound. You were there, lying so still under the soft white sheets, a faint oxygen tube at your nose, IVs at your side.

Natasha stopped at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t ready. She’d pictured this moment a hundred different ways over the past three years. None of them came close.

You looked like you and not like you — thinner, paler, yet tanned, your hair longer and tangled in places, and skin marked with sun and wear. But it was you.

Carefully, Natasha stepped closer, lowering herself into the chair beside your bed. She didn’t speak. She just watched. Studied your face. Every part of her wanted to reach out — but she couldn’t bring herself to disturb the fragile stillness.

She opened her hand. The ring glinted dully in the light.

“I never stopped wearing it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Never took it off. Not once.”

Her fingers curled gently around your hand, the one not bound by tape and tubing. You were warm. Not cold. Not gone.

“I should’ve been with you,” she whispered. “I should’ve—”

But she couldn’t finish.

Her breath caught, and for the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff let her shoulders fall and her head bow beside the woman she never stopped loving.

She stayed like that. Until the rhythm of your heart monitor seemed to slow into something steadier. Familiar.

Until maybe — just maybe — she felt your fingers twitch beneath her own.

Natasha’s eyes remained fixed on you, but her mind had drifted. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there, nor how many times she had muttered those quiet, broken words — promises, apologies, confessions — to the room, to the air, to you.

The weight of everything she hadn’t said was finally crashing down on her, more than she could have prepared for. The years without you, the months of pretending she could go on without even knowing where you were, the guilt that had gnawed at her every waking moment, the hopelessness she buried deeper each day. It had always felt like she was waiting for something — waiting for the call, the news, anything that would bring you back into her world. She couldn’t breathe without the thought of you, couldn’t focus on anything with your absence hanging like a shadow.

But here you were, lying in front of her, fragile and yet still alive.

Alive.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the ring, the very symbol of everything she’d almost lost forever. The years had worn away at its luster, but it still gleamed, faintly — a promise. She had thought she’d never see you again. She thought she’d have to carry this unfulfilled promise forever.

And yet, here you were.

Her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let fall. She wasn’t going to cry. She couldn’t. Not here, not now, when you needed her more than ever.

"I promised you I’d come for you," she whispered, her voice rough. "I promised."

She held the ring in her hand as if it could reach you — as if it could bridge the gap between her pain and your absence. She was scared, more than she cared to admit. Scared of how you might feel when you woke up. Scared of what you might remember. Scared of how fragile this moment was — of how fragile you were.

Her hand moved slowly to the side of your bed. She didn’t want to disturb you, but she couldn’t stop herself. The need to be close to you was overwhelming. The need to feel that connection — that spark of life that had once been so familiar, so undeniable between you.

“I couldn’t live without you,” Natasha whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I won’t let you go again.”

For a moment, she simply sat there, eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of your breath. The world outside the room seemed distant and cold — nothing mattered except the space between her and you, the fragile space that had once been filled with shared laughter, quiet mornings, and stolen moments.

The steady beep of the heart monitor seemed to echo in her mind, a reminder that you were here, that you were real, that you were alive. But what was left for the two of you now? Could things be the same after all that had happened? Natasha didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn't—wouldn't— let you slip away again.

The door creaked softly, and Maria stepped in, her expression quiet but understanding. Natasha didn’t look up. She didn’t want anyone else in this moment, but Maria’s presence was a grounding force — a reminder that Natasha hadn’t been completely alone through all of this.

“She’s going to be okay,” Maria said, her voice gentle but firm. “She’s a fighter, Nat.”

Natasha didn’t respond, her eyes never leaving you. She wasn’t ready for anyone’s reassurance. Not yet.

Maria waited for a moment, then sighed softly. “I’ll give you some time. Just… don’t do this alone. Not again.”

But Natasha didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how to explain the ache in her chest, the heaviness that had been there for years. There was no way to put it into words.

She only nodded silently, her gaze never wavering from your sleeping form. And in that silence, Natasha finally let herself hope again. Not just for your safety, but for something more. Something she had almost forgotten how to believe in.

She wasn’t alone anymore. Neither of them was.

—

The first thing you felt was the weight of your own body. The heaviness of skin and bone sinking into the sterile softness of hospital sheets. The dull ache beneath the surface of everything. But more than that, it was the quiet hum of machines, the faint beeping of a heart monitor, and the sterile scent of antiseptic that confirmed it — you weren’t on the island anymore.

You were safe.

That realization alone felt unreal.

Your eyelids fluttered, the light above muted through lashes you struggled to lift. The world came back to you in pieces — sound, then shape, then color. The sharp clarity of a cold IV line in your hand. The warmth of a blanket pulled up to your chest. The dull echo of a familiar voice.

It was the last one that made your heart stutter.

Natasha.

She was sitting beside you. Tired. Still. Her posture held together by force alone, like she hadn’t moved in hours — maybe longer. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her entire body leaned ever so slightly toward you, as if afraid you’d vanish if she didn’t stay close.

You blinked slowly, and her eyes found yours in an instant.

The breath she let out was shaky. You saw it — the moment she shattered just a little more but also held herself together just enough to stay strong for you.

“…hey,” she whispered. Her voice was raw, barely a sound at all. But her eyes were full — of grief, of relief, of everything she hadn’t dared let herself feel until now. “You’re here.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. You tried again — your voice rasped and cracked, dry and weak.

“…Hi,” you whispered.

Tears welled up in her eyes immediately. Natasha leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, her hand brushing your arm like she needed to touch you to believe this was real. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. Maybe years.

“I didn’t think…” you started, the words struggling to form.

“I know,” she said, voice tight. “Me neither.”

Your eyes darted around, and that’s when you saw it — sitting on the table beside a vase of white flowers, looking oddly solemn in the sterile light — was Red. Your Red. The coconut you once talked to when you were losing hope, when your voice was the only one on that island. Someone had even propped it up with a little folded towel beneath it like a throne.

You stared at it, blinking again, and then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.

“Red made it?”

“Maria made sure of it,” Natasha said with a hint of a smile, though her voice was still breaking. “Said she’d have murdered her entire team if they left him behind. Apparently you muttered its name after they sedated you.”

Your throat burned. Everything hurt. But Natasha’s presence eased something inside of you that had been coiled tight for years. She looked at you like she was scared you’d disappear if she blinked. And you looked at her like she was the first warmth you’d felt in forever.

You reached for her hand, slowly, shakily. She took it before your fingers even fully stretched toward her.

“You waited,” you said softly.

“I would’ve waited forever,” Natasha whispered back.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full — of all the words you didn’t need to say, of the pain that was finally beginning to thaw, of the bond between you that had never broken, even after everything.

Even after all this time.

You closed your eyes again, not to sleep — just to rest. Just to breathe. Just to be.

With her hand in yours and Red by your side, for the first time in a long time… you believed everything might be okay.

----

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127 @ima-gi--na-tion @sunny-poe @artemisarroxvolkov @hotcocoandonuts @scarletsstarlets @splatashaswife

[purplereina11]

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 3: 36 hours in Munich Other Parts

Word Count: 8k

⚽️

You’re in the locker room, post-session. Freshly changed but, pulse still settling, water bottle half-drunk and rolling somewhere near your bench. Everyone’s moving slow — stretches, recovery gear, shower queues. Typical post-training lull.

But you’re pacing already packing away, quicker than normal, you normally linger for longer. You sit finally. Jacket half-zipped. Legs twitchy, breath short, heart doing sprints while your teammates are winding down.

You check your phone for the sixth time in two minutes. Still nothing. Still soon.

“Alright,” a voice cuts through behind you. “Who is it?”

You look toward the voice. Georgia. Leaning against the wall, towel over her shoulder, one brow cocked. You blink. “What?”

“You’re all… shifty.” She waves a vague circle around you. “Nicely-dressed, hair down. You keep checking your phone like it's gonna grow lips.”

You try to brush it off. “It’s nothing.”

Georgia doesn’t even flinch. “Liar. Spill it.”

You stare at her for a second. You weren’t going to tell anyone. But something about her tone — casual but not cruel — makes your chest loosen. And you need to say it out loud. Just once.

You sigh, grab your other boot, and sit. “She’s flying in.”

Georgia pauses. “She?” You assumed Beth would of blabbed by now.

You swallow. “Alexia.”

That name lands like a stone in a calm pool. Georgia blinks once. “Putellas?”

“Yeah.”

She’s staring now. Like full-body-turn, jaw-slightly-dropped, towel-falling-off-the-shoulder staring. “For… ?” she tries.

You sigh a hand going through your freshly washed hair. “For a day.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “As in…”

You shrug, but you can’t help the way your face warms. “Yeah. As in that. She followed me after the home game against Barca, after the away game, that's when she first started DM'ing me" You smile at Georgia's mouth hanging open.

"Saying what?"

"Football stuff mainly, about the games, but after the last game at Wembley, she asked if she could come here to see me. I said yes.”

Georgia whistles low. “Bloody hell. You’re actually—” she stops herself. “Wait. Are you nervous?”

You nod, fast and helpless. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

She laughs, loud and bright. “You scored a free kick at Wembley in front of ninety thousand, but you’re sweating because the Queen of Barcelona herself is flying in for a sleepover?”

You put your hand out, "You say it like they're not both just as equally massive" You groan, head in hands. “Why did I tell you.”

Georgia grins. “Because you needed to.” She slaps your back once, warm and steady. “She’ll have a nice time I'm sure. And you're interesting when your social battery is full. Just don’t overthink it.” You look up. Georgia’s still smiling — not teasing now. Just sure. “Go get the girl from the airport,” she says. “Don't over think it, just take it for what it is, it's her idea to come here so let her lead what it is"

You roll your eyes. But you’re nodding too. Because yeah — it’s real now. She’s coming. And you have to be ready.

“Meado knows about mine and Alexia’s conversations, she doesn’t know about her coming. If you know, you need to freak out about this when I’m gone”

⚽️

The car is parked just beyond the pickup loop, engine idling low. Your hoodie’s half-zipped, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other drumming nervously against your thigh. You’ve been here twenty minutes early, but you’d never admit it.

Your phone lights up with a text.

Alexia: Just got my bag. Coming out now.

You swallow hard.

You glance in the rearview mirror, tug at your hair, check your reflection. You don’t even know why — it’s her, you’ve already been through matches and mud and bruises together — but somehow, this is different.

It’s real. And quiet. And outside the lines. The terminal doors slide open again. A few people walk out. Not her. Another group. Still not. Your fingers tap faster.

Then there she is. Alexia. Dressed in all black, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, duffel bag over her shoulder. She walks out calm, casual, that familiar captain’s posture in every step. But her eyes are already searching.

And the second she sees you, they soften. You watch her approach through the windshield, heart thudding so hard you’re sure she’ll hear it before she even opens the door.

She pulls it open and slides into the passenger seat with that impossible grace, dropping her bag between her feet. You look at her.

She looks at you. And for a second, neither of you says a thing.

“Hey,” you breathe, voice barely above the hum of the engine.

“Hey,” she says back, softer.

You both smile. It’s awkward and perfect and so much. “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” you say as you pull out into traffic.

She leans back in the seat, eyes still on you. “I told you,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want to miss you.”

The city rolls past in a blur of grey and gold. Low sunlight spills across the dashboard, and the soft thrum of music — something wordless and warm — fills the quiet between you.

You’re both a little awkward. Not painfully so. Just… cautiously new.

It’s strange, this version of her — in your passenger seat, seatbelt clicking into place, fingers drumming lightly on her thigh. She’s looking out the window, but keeps glancing at you when she thinks you won’t notice.

You notice. “Airport was easy, then?” you ask, just to fill the silence.

She nods. “Very. One person tried to sneak a photo. But I gave them the look.”

You smirk. “The full ‘Putellas Death Glare’?”

“Level three only,” she says, mock serious. “Mild warning.”

You laugh under your breath, relaxing a little. Her accent’s thicker in person, softer in a car. You don’t know why that makes your stomach twist the way it does.

She glances at you again, a little longer this time. “It’s weird,” she murmurs. “Hearing you talk without a crowd around us.”

You smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

You make it through another light, and the silence stretches — still easy, but expectant.

Then suddenly — you freeze. “Oh shit.”

Alexia blinks. “What?”

You wince. “I forgot to tell you something kind of… important.”

She turns in her seat, curious. “What did you forget?”

You drum your fingers on the wheel. “I have a dog.”

Alexia blinks again. Then a slow smile tugs at her lips. “That’s what you forgot?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, already cringing. “I just—I meant to tell you. I’m not one of those people who spring dogs on people. He’s sweet. I swear.”

She’s laughing now — full, rich, effortless. “You make it sound like you’ve got a bear waiting at the door.”

“He’s just… enthusiastic,” you say, biting your lip. “His name’s Teddy.”

Alexia tilts her head, teasing. “Named after?”

“Teddy bear. Don’t judge me.”

She holds up both hands. “No judgment. But I can’t believe you didn’t lead with that.”

You glance at her. “Still time to turn around, you know.”

She smiles wider, looking straight ahead again. “I came here to see you,” she says softly. “Teddy’s just a bonus.”

And just like that, the nerves quiet. Just a little.

⚽️

You pull into the parking spot in the street, heart suddenly faster than it was on the pitch at Wembley.

Alexia’s quiet beside you, seatbelt undone, hands folded in her lap. But you feel her eyes on you as you kill the engine and sit for a second longer than necessary.

“This is it,” you say, finally, looking up at your loft apartment on the third floor

She nods. “Cute street.”

You grin. “Cute flat.”

She smirks. “Cute dog?”

You shoot her a look. “He’s trying his best.”

You both laugh as you get out. The early evening air is cool, the sky dipping into that soft lilac blue. You grab her small bag from the boot, and as you unlock the door, you hesitate.

“He might bark.”

“I can handle it,” she says, smiling.

You push the door open. It takes exactly one second.

Teddy barrels around the corner, all paws and excitement, nails tapping on the floor like a drumroll. His tail is going wild, and he’s already launching toward you when he spots the new presence behind you.

Alexia steps in, closing the door behind her. Teddy freezes. Then bolts straight for her.

You open your mouth to intervene—“Teddy, no!”—but before you can, Alexia’s already crouching down, calm and soft.

“Hola, precioso,” she murmurs, holding out a hand. And Teddy melts.

Tail wagging, head pressing into her palm, tongue ready for her cheek like she’s his long-lost soulmate.

You blink. “Well,” you mutter, “traitor.”

Alexia looks up at you, grinning as she scratches behind his ears. “He has taste,” she says. “Clearly.”

You lean against the doorframe, watching her — hair falling into her face, Teddy now rolling onto his back like he’s never known loyalty — and something in your chest settles. Warms.

Alexia stands, finally, brushing dog fur from her knees.

“Welcome to Germany,” you say, quieter now.

She doesn’t look away when she answers. “Thanks,” she says. “It already feels like a good idea.”

And for the first time all day, you believe you can relax. Because she’s here. This is just the beginning.

You toe off your shoes by the door, glance back to find Alexia standing just inside, Teddy still sniffing reverently at her shoes like he’s found royalty. Her bag’s at her feet, her jacket draped over her arm.

You clear your throat. “Right—um. Tour.”

She smiles like she’s already charmed. “I’m ready.”

You lead her into the main space — open-plan living room and kitchen. The walls are clean, but lived-in. A few photos on a shelf — one of the squad after a cup match, another of you and Beth pulling stupid faces at the camera. A soft throw blanket is half-fallen off the back of the couch. A candle you forgot you lit earlier is still flickering on the coffee table.

“This is the, uh—living-slash-existing space,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Teddy thinks it belongs to him.”

Teddy immediately hops onto the couch, circles twice, and settles like you’ve just proven his point. Alexia grins.

You lead her into the kitchen, flicking on the under-counter light. “I don’t cook much, but the kettle works. Coffee pods are in here.” You tap a cupboard. “Mugs — there.”

She opens it, scans the shelves. “All mismatched.”

You shrug. “I collect them. Kind of.”

“I like it,” she says, softly. “It feels like someone lives here.”

You duck your head, smiling.

You show her the bathroom next — small, clean, stocked with too many hair ties and one towel you warn her not to use because it’s definitely Teddy’s now.

And then the hallway. Two doors.

“That one’s mine,” you say, thumb over your shoulder. “The other’s yours while you’re here.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Just peeks inside. A double bed, made neatly. Fresh towels folded at the foot.

She steps inside. Smiles softly looking around more.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t want it to feel weird.”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “It feels like you thought about it.”

“I did,” you admit.

It slips out quieter than you mean it to, but you don’t take it back.

Alexia meets your eyes. “Thank you. For having me.”

You nod toward the room. “Make yourself at home, yeah? My place is your place.”

She steps a little closer. Not much. Just enough that you feel her presence like a hum. “I already feel at home,” she says.

And the way she says it. It makes your chest ache. In the best way. You raise your eyes when they moved away from hers, "I'll um, leave you to unpack" you take a step back, "Teddy" you call, he appears around the foot of the bed, "Come" you give Alexia one final look and you walk back down the hallway.

She smiled opening her bag as she heard you chatting away to Teddy about getting him some treats, asking for various tricks from him.

⚽️

You tried to cook. You really did. But somewhere between boiling the pasta and burning the garlic, you gave up and ordered takeaway. Alexia didn’t mind. In fact, she looked almost relieved.

Now you’re both curled up on the couch, watching a show on a streaming app neither of you are paying attention to, warm plates in your laps and the soft, flickering glow of your fairy lights stretching across the ceiling.

She’s in one of your hoodies now. You hadn’t meant to offer it — just handed it over without thinking when she mentioned how cold planes make her feel.

It swallows her in all the right ways.

Teddy’s curled at your feet. Loyal again. For now.

“Okay,” she says mid-bite, glancing at you. “I need to know something.”

You look over, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “What?”

She gestures with her fork. “Do you actually like this pasta place, or is it just close?”

You fake a gasp. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” she says, trying to hide her smile. “I just—your face when you handed it to me said, ‘This is the best I’ve got, but I know it’s not the best in the world.’”

You laugh. “Alright, yeah. It’s proximity-based love.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Respect.”

The TV plays something forgettable in the background — neither of you are really watching it. The kind of background noise that just fills in the edges of something far more focused. Like the way she’s sitting. One leg folded beneath her, turned just slightly toward you. Or the way you’re watching her mouth more than listening to her words.

She puts her plate down on the coffee table, wipes her hands, then leans back. “You were nervous,” she says suddenly.

You blink. “When?”

“Earlier. At the airport. In the car.”

You roll your eyes. “Was it that obvious?”

She smiles, soft and real. “A little.”

You look down at your plate, then back at her. “I just… didn’t want it to feel weird.”

Alexia tilts her head slightly. “It doesn’t. You make it easy.”

That catches you off guard. You blink once, then set your plate down too. The silence stretches. But it’s not awkward. It’s warm. “I’m glad you came,” you say.

She leans her head back against the couch, eyes on you now in that slow, deliberate way she does everything. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” she says.

Alexia is fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie — pulling at the hem with her thumb like she doesn’t realise she’s doing it. She’s not really looking at you. Not often. Just quick glances. Then back down. Then away.

You’re talking about random things. Easy things. Football. Training. Travel. Things you are confident you have in common.

She tells you about a weird airport coffee she had in Zurich. You tell her about the time Teddy accidentally got locked in your bathroom for 20 minutes and emerged looking personally betrayed.

And every now and then, there’s a pause that lasts a little longer than it should. But neither of you fill it. You just let it be. Eventually, you nudge your leg gently against hers. “You’re quiet.”

Alexia shifts. “Am I?”

You smile. “A little. For someone who just flew here to hang out with me.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. It’s barely there. “I’m just…” She trails off. Shrugs. “I’m not good at this part.”

You tilt your head. “What part?”

She stares at the coffee table like it’s got answers. “The talking part.” You wait. She finally looks at you — really looks. “I know how to show up to a match,” she says, voice low. “How to lead. How to win. That makes sense to me. But this?” She gestures between you. “This is…” She doesn’t finish.

You finish it for her. “New.”

She nods. And for a second, you think maybe she’s going to stand up, shift away, hide behind something safe. But she doesn’t. She just sits there. Awkward. Present. Willing.

You offer a small, understanding smile. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

She exhales, a little lighter now. “Good. Because I didn’t bring a tactics board.”

You both laugh. Softly. Easily. She doesn’t say anything else for a while — just leans back again, arms crossed over her chest now, head tilted slightly in your direction.

Eventually, she mumbles, almost like it’s for herself, “I’m glad I came too.” You nudge her foot with yours, with a gentle smile.

Alexia’s sitting sideways on the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out slightly, your hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. You’re close, but not quite touching.

The conversation’s slowed to a hum — soft music talk, playlists, half-confessions about guilty pleasure songs. She mentions a Catalan band you’ve never heard of, and while she’s scrolling through her phone to find a song, your eyes drift downward.

And then you see it. A couple of faint lines on her knee. Pale, clean, but unmistakable. The scar. You pause. Not out of shock — you knew. You remember the coverage, the months out, the comeback.

But seeing it? That’s different. It’s not just a story now. It’s her. She notices your eyes drop. And for the first time all night, she goes still.

“Yeah,” she says softly, not quite looking at you. “That’s… that.”

You meet her eyes again. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide. But there’s something guarded in her voice. Like she’s used to people staring at it, asking about it, expecting something from it. You don’t ask. You just nod once, gentle. “Looks like strength,” you say, matter-of-fact.

Alexia’s brow furrows, unsure if you’re serious. But you are. She shifts slightly — not closer, but more open somehow. Her hand moves instinctively toward her knee, fingers grazing the scar once, like she’s reminding herself it’s still there.

“Sometimes it feels like I left a part of myself in there,” she murmurs. “The version of me from before.”

You let that hang. Then, quietly, “The version of you now scored against me. Twice.”

She huffs a breath. “Only one actually went in.”

“Still counts.”

She glances at you — and her smile is tired, genuine, laced with something like gratitude. Not for the words. For the way you didn’t try to fix it. Just saw it. And stayed.

The playlist she queued has faded into a quiet acoustic hum — soft, wordless, like it knows it shouldn’t interrupt. The light in the room has gone warm and low, one lamp casting golden arcs over her face as she leans back into the couch, knee still bent, hand still ghosting near the scar.

You don’t speak. You wait. And eventually — slowly — she does.

“I didn’t think I’d come back,” she says, voice low, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it’s easier not to look at you. “Not really.”

You blink, still, letting her keep control of it.

“Everyone kept saying I would. That I’d be fine. That I was strong, that I’d be back in a year. But inside…” She swallows. “I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t even feel whole. I felt… like I’d been cut out of myself.”

You shift just slightly. Not closer — not yet. But enough to let her know, I’m here. She breathes, slow.

“I’d watch games and feel like I didn’t belong anymore. Like I’d already been replaced. And I didn’t want anyone to know how scared I was because… I’m not supposed to be scared. I’m her, you know?” She finally looks at you now. “La Reina” You meet her eyes, steady. She adds, barely audible, “But I felt like glass.”

The words hang in the room — fragile, but not broken. You nod once. Then say the only thing you really believe in this moment. “I think you’re better now.”

Her brow pulls, confused. “What?”

You lean back, resting your head on the couch, looking up like she did. “You’re smarter. Sharper. Your passes don’t just thread — they cut. You’ve got control most people don’t even understand. And there’s a weight to the way you move now, like you know exactly what it costs to step back onto the pitch.”

You turn your head to her again.

“I’ve watched you before. Really watched you. You were always brilliant. But now?” You shrug. “You’re something else.”

Alexia stares at you, mouth parted slightly — like no one’s ever said it that way. Not like that. Not to her. She doesn’t say thank you. She just shifts — this time closer. Not dramatic. Just enough. Her shoulder brushes yours. Her knee bumps your thigh. And she lets out a breath that sounds a little like relief. “Thank you,” she murmurs eventually, eyes back on the scar. And then, softer: “I’ve never said that stuff out loud.”

You nod. “I know.” The quiet returns — not heavy this time. Comfortable. Like something sacred just happened, and you both know it.

She’s close now. Arm resting lightly against yours. Your hoodie sleeves bunching at her wrists. The scar still visible — but no longer raw. You glance down at her, the way her gaze has softened since she spoke, how her edges feel less guarded, like your living room gave her permission she didn’t even know she needed.

You swallow once. Think. Then speak. “You know… when I moved to Germany, people said it was career suicide.”

Alexia turns her head slightly, brows faintly drawn. Listening now. Not out of politeness. Intention. You stare ahead.

“Agents stopped calling. Interviews dried up. One coach — someone I used to really trust — told me I’d disappear. That I’d ‘fade out quietly.’” You huff a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “I hadn’t even unpacked yet.”

Alexia is silent. Not interrupting. Just there.

“I’d scroll through social media and see all the squad updates, the camps, the conversations I wasn’t in anymore. And I thought… maybe they’re right. Maybe I peaked.”

You pause. Swallow.

“I started believing it. Like I was a mistake that was just waiting to happen.”

Alexia shifts slightly, her arm pressing into yours, grounding you.

“But then,” you continue, voice quieter now, “I played. I worked. And I kept showing up. And slowly… something changed. Not in them. In me.”

Alexia tilts her head. You glance at her.

“I stopped playing to prove people wrong,” you say. “And I started playing like they didn’t get a say.”

There’s a pause. And then—so soft you almost miss it—she says, “I noticed.”

You look at her. She’s watching you now — full on. Not blinking. Not shrinking. And when she speaks again, it’s steady.

“You didn’t disappear. You became better.”

You smile, but there’s a knot in your throat. Because you know she means it. And you never expected to hear it from her. Alexia leans her head back against the couch, her body still relaxed but her voice dipped low again.

“I know what that doubt feels like,” she says. “And I know how heavy it is to prove yourself to people who already made up their minds.”

You nod. “It’s exhausting.”

She murmurs, “And lonely.”

The room goes quiet again. But this time? Not lonely. Just two people sitting in a space neither of you were sure existed — honest, open, real. No spotlight. No pressure. Just you and her. And the ache you’ve both come back from.

⚽️

It’s late.

So late the playlist stopped a while ago. So late the city outside your windows feels like it’s on mute. You both stretch at almost the same time — that lazy, reluctant movement that means okay, maybe we should sleep but neither of you want to break the quiet just yet.

You stand first. Alexia follows. She’s still in your hoodie, tugging it down slightly, bare feet padding across the floor as you walk her to the guest room — side by side in a hush that feels warmer than anything words could’ve done.

You pause at the door.

She turns to face you, one hand on the doorframe. Her hair’s a little messy now, eyes slightly glassy with exhaustion. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and almost shy.

“Thanks for tonight.”

You smile, slow. “Thanks for coming.”

She nods, then looks down like she might say something else. But she doesn’t. You step back slightly, hands in your hoodie pockets, eyes flicking to hers.

“Goodnight, Alexia.”

She looks up at that. And for a second — just one second — the look on her face says everything else she didn’t say. Then she nods, once. Barely a smile. But it reaches her eyes. “Goodnight.”

She slips into the room. You don’t linger. Just turn toward your own — quiet footsteps down the short hall. You push the door open and Teddy. Right there, already curled up in the middle of your bed. One eye open, tail thumping lazily against the duvet like, about time.

You smile, rubbing the back of your neck as you sit on the edge of the bed. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You pick it up.

Alexia: Sleep well. You talk less than I thought you would. I liked it.

You stare at the message for a second, then type back:

You: You talk more than I thought you would. I liked it too.

Teddy sighs dramatically. You laugh under your breath. Then switch off the light. And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep not needing to prove anything. Because she’s here. And you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

⚽️

You wake to the smell of coffee. And the distinct sound of Teddy betraying you. You roll out of bed, hair a mess, hoodie tugged low over your hands, padding barefoot into the kitchen where—There she is.

Alexia.

Still in your hoodie. One sock on, one foot bare. Mug in hand, eyes still puffy with sleep, standing at your counter while Teddy leans against her legs like he’s never loved anyone else.

She glances up when you walk in, and her smile is soft. Unbrushed. Unfiltered. Real.

“Morning,” she says, voice husky.

You squint. “How’d you find the biscuits?”

She holds up the mug in salute. “I’m elite. And you left a post-it that said ‘left cupboard, top shelf, if teddy won't leave you alone'.”

You grin. “I knew past-me had potential.”

She turns back to the counter, pouring more water into the kettle, while Teddy attempts to wedge himself between her and the cabinets, tail sweeping the floor like a metronome.

“You realise he’s using you,” you say, grabbing a clean mug.

“He can use me all he wants,” she says, reaching down to scratch his ears. “He’s warm.”

You watch her — the way her fingers slide under Teddy’s collar, the way her mouth twitches when he tries to climb into her actual lap. It’s not a moment. Not a capital-letter Event. But something in your chest aches anyway.

Because she looks right here.

You grab the eggs, start cracking them into the pan. She pulls down two plates without being asked. Neither of you talks much. Just a few sleepy comments, heads bumping once as you both reach for the cutlery drawer.

When you sit across from her at the little kitchen table — plates steaming, dog underfoot — she catches your eye as you tuck your leg up under you. She doesn’t look away. Not for a while.

You hold it. You hold her. And the smile she gives you. It says I see this. I feel it. I’m here.

After breakfast, you throw a hoodie over your tee, pull on your trainers, and rattle Teddy’s lead. He loses his mind, of course — spinning, barking, pawing at the door like it personally wronged him.

“You wanna come?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at Alexia.

She shrugs. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She throws on a coat of yours on hook, slips into her trainers, and follows you out the door — hair tied up, sleeves rolled down, sunglasses perched on her head like she forgot the sun lives here too despite the cold.

You walk through quiet neighbourhood streets, Teddy darting side to side, nose in every hedge. You and her? Side by side. Not touching. Not saying much. But every now and then, you catch her watching you. And when you glance back— She doesn’t look away.

You loop around the quiet end of the park, the noise of the street fading behind you, and find your bench — tucked under a tree just starting to bloom, a little weathered, sun-warmed. Teddy bounds ahead, lead dropped loose in your hand, tail sweeping in wide arcs like a painter’s brush.

Alexia sits first, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying not to take up space but still wants to stay close. You drop beside her, leg stretched long, hands resting over your thighs.

For a while, you both just sit. Watching Teddy. Letting the quiet settle.

Then Alexia speaks, voice dry. “You really weren’t kidding about him being enthusiastic.”

You glance at her. She’s staring at Teddy, who’s currently rolling in something deeply questionable on the grass. You sigh.

“Yeah but he’s loyal.. until someone has better snacks anyway.”

She snorts. “I didn’t even have snacks.”

“Exactly,” you say, nudging her foot with yours. “He’s just shallow.”

She smirks, then leans back a little, adjusting the sleeves of your coat again. “He’s got taste, though. He likes me.”

You raise a brow. “Are you calling yourself a snack?”

“I’m not denying it.”

You laugh — sharp, sudden, surprised. And it makes her smile wider “You’ve got this whole mysterious captain thing,” you say, squinting at her. “But secretly, you’re kind of cocky.”

She tilts her head, smug. “Only when I’m right.” You roll your eyes, but your grin’s too soft to mean it. There’s a pause. Then, more gently “I like this,” she says, not looking at you now — just forward, at the dog, at the path.

You shift, the warmth of her words settling low in your ribs. “This?” you echo.

She nods. “The quiet. You. Teddy. This bench.” She pauses, then smirks again. “Even your coat.”

You laugh, quieter this time. “You make it look better than I do.”

“I know.” She meets your eyes then. And the silence that follows doesn't last long until you're leaning into each other laughing about it.

You clear your throat, picking at a thread on your sleeve, when the little old lady that you see everyday was eyeing you with annoyance, "So, um… are you always like this when you’re off the pitch?”

Alexia blinks. “Like what?”

You shrug. “A bit smug. Surprisingly funny. Secretly soft.”

She narrows her eyes, mock offended. “Secretly?”

You smirk. “I mean, the brand is very serious captain with cheekbones that could cut glass.”

Alexia hums. “Cheekbones and a scar. Very dramatic.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re one trench coat away from being a Bond villain.” That gets a real laugh — full-bodied and sudden. She leans her head back against the bench, still smiling.

Then, “You make this easy,” she says, softer now. “Being here.”

You glance at her. And for a second, it’s all there again — the pitch, the free kick, the weight of it all.

But here, it’s light. You bump your knee gently against hers. “I’m glad you came, Alexia.” She doesn’t look away this time.

“I am too.”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, glancing sideways at her — Alexia, sitting there so casually now, one foot tucked beneath her, face tilted toward the sun like she’s been here a dozen times instead of just once.

You reach down to pat Teddy’s back as he wanders close.

Then glance at her.

“Do you like clichés?”

She lifts a brow. “What kind of question is that?”

You shrug, casual. “Like, romantic comedies. Grand gestures. Saying the same dumb things everyone else does. Standing on famous streets pretending you’re having an authentic experience.”

Alexia leans back, lips twitching. “You’re stalling.”

You grin. “Maybe.”

She squints at you now, playful. “Okay. Ask me properly.”

You turn toward her fully, arms folded over your chest like you’re about to deliver something serious.

“Would you like to do all the ridiculously cliché tourist things in Munich with me today?”

Alexia’s head tips slightly to the side, considering.

You keep going.

“I mean the whole deal — the Marienplatz selfie. Pretending to care about the Glockenspiel. Giant pretzels. A walk through the Englischer Garten where I’ll tell you lies about German history I definitely make up.”

Her smile creeps in slowly — then fully.

“I want lederhosen photos.”

You gasp, dramatically. “That’s advanced cliché.”

“I’m committed.”

You laugh. “God help us.”

She leans in slightly. “Only if you wear them too.”

You groan. “I’ve made a mistake.”

“You offered.”

You hold her gaze for a second, heart kicking a little louder now beneath all the lightness.

And she’s still smiling.

But there’s something genuine behind it.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long time, she’s just saying yes to a day that doesn’t come with pressure, or cameras, or expectations.

Just you.

She nudges your knee with hers. “So? We going or what?”

You whistle for Teddy. “Marienplatz, prepare yourself.”

⚽️

You start with Marienplatz. Because of course you do.

The crowds are already gathering under the watchful clock of the Neues Rathaus, phones out and necks craning toward the tower. You know the Glockenspiel starts at eleven. You’ve seen it a dozen times. It’s slow. It’s slightly underwhelming. But you still pretend like it’s sacred.

“People clap after this?” Alexia murmurs beside you, watching a small bronze knight rotate in a slow, juddering circle.

“Every time,” you whisper back. “It’s powerful.”

She gives you the driest look you’ve ever seen and it almost takes you out.

You snap a selfie right there — her unimpressed expression next to your exaggerated awe. It’s perfect. You don't even check it before saving.

From there it’s Viktualienmarkt — where you insist on finding the most absurdly oversized pretzel possible. Alexia watches you barter with a vendor and somehow ends up paying instead. She splits it with you anyway. You walk through the stalls like locals, even though you're both definitely not.

You buy her a little pin shaped like a beer stein. You stick it to her jacket pocket. “Souvenir,” she says.

You end up in the Englischer Garten by early afternoon, the kind of place where the trees stretch wide and people picnic like they’ve got nowhere else to be. Teddy loses his mind over a pigeon and nearly pulls Alexia into a fountain.

You don’t let that one go quietly. “Two time Ballon D'or, and you still couldn’t hold the line.”

“It was a very fast pigeon.”

You laugh until you’re leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder, catching your breath while Teddy runs victory laps around you both.

At the beer garden, you sit under the shade of chestnut trees, and Alexia orders something she can’t pronounce while you pretend to translate and definitely make it worse.

She tries white sausage and doesn’t hide her reaction.

You raise a brow. “Too real?”

“I can mark out midfielders. I can’t defend this texture.”

You toast anyway.

Later, you wander without purpose — through side streets with painted shutters and ivy-streaked balconies, past musicians playing under archways and little kids holding balloon strings tight to their wrists. Alexia keeps her sunglasses low on her nose, watching it all.

“I get why you like it here,” she says.

You glance over. “Yeah?”

She nods, then adds softly, “You fit here.”

It sticks.

You end up near the river as golden hour starts to take the edge off the buildings. There’s a stone ledge overlooking the water. You sit. She leans back on her hands, face turned to the sky.

“Okay,” she says finally. “This was... fun.”

You grin. “You sound surprised.”

“I am. I didn’t think cliché could feel like this.”

“Like what?”

She glances at you. Her expression doesn’t change much — but her voice does. “Easy.”

You don’t say anything for a second. Just smile. Then bump her knee gently with yours. “Think we earned ice cream?”

She tilts her head. “Is that part of the cliché package?”

“Obviously.”

You walk back into the city with cones in hand, Teddy leading the way again, tail wagging like a metronome keeping time with your steps.

And somewhere along that walk — maybe crossing a street, or brushing hands as you trade bites of each other’s flavours — something soft settles between you.

Not tension. Not expectation. Just understanding.

⚽️

You swing by the flat first — the front door barely closed before Teddy flops dramatically across the hallway floor like he’s survived something immense.

Alexia kneels down beside him, ruffles behind his ears, and says, “You’ll be alright without us.”

He sighs like he won’t.

You both change quickly — nothing fancy, just different hoodies, fresh faces, the kind of casual that looks better on her than it has any right to.

The bar you pick is a local one — tucked into a side street off the main square, part wine bar, part café, part 'we might have regulars but we won’t pretend to know your name unless you want us to.'

You take the corner table. The lights are soft and golden, the walls cluttered with mismatched frames and shelves of wine bottles. You order a bottle of white you’ve had before — one you hope she’ll like — and a snack board that arrives faster than expected: warm bread, cheese, olives, salted almonds.

She looks around, impressed. “You bring all your international friends here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Only the ones who knock me out the champions league.”

“Fair,” she says, hiding a smile behind her glass.

You’ve barely had a sip before you reach into your bag and pull out a battered Uno deck.

Alexia blinks. “You brought cards?”

“They have them as you walk in. I’m competitive,” you say, shrugging. “And brave.”

She laughs once, short and sharp. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I’ve already accepted that.” You deal. And it begins.

It starts civil. Friendly. Smirks over skips. Light jabs when she stacks draw twos. You both pick at the snack board between plays, hands brushing occasionally as you reach for the same olive.

But by the second game, It’s personal.

She slams down a reverse like it’s a tactical sub in a final. You pull a draw four from your hoodie pocket like a weapon of war. She narrows her eyes. You lift your brows, mock-innocent.

It’s deadly serious. It’s ridiculous. And you’re both grinning like you haven’t stopped since this morning.

The bar starts to fill in slowly, but your little corner stays quiet — like a bubble you haven’t noticed growing around you. Just you, her, your wine glasses catching the light, and a stack of discarded cards that tells a very messy, very entertaining story.

Somewhere between games, you pause — mid-sip, watching her draw her hand.

“Are you always like this?” you ask. “Lowkey evil under all that calm?”

She looks up, unbothered. “Only when provoked.”

You laugh, leaning back. “Remind me not to cross you again.”

She smirks, eyes flicking up at you over her cards. “You already did,” she says, laying down a wild card.

The round ends. She wins.

You groan dramatically and throw your cards onto the table. She raises her hands in mock celebration, then quietly steals another piece of cheese from your side of the board.

“You know,” she says casually, chewing, “This might be the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

You blink. She doesn’t look up right away — just flips the deck over and starts reshuffling it absentmindedly.

But you’re watching her. And there’s no doubt in your mind. She means it.

⚽️

The walk home from the bar is slow. No rush. No real conversation either. Just a lot of little smiles. Shoulders brushing sometimes. The city quieter now — streetlights pooling in soft circles at your feet.

When you reach your building, you both slip inside quietly, Teddy greeting you at the door with a sleepy grumble and a thump of his tail.

You toe off your shoes, hang your jacket, glance over at her — and then, impulsively:

“Wanna see something stupid?”

Alexia blinks. “Not usually the way someone convinces me to follow them, but… sure.”

You grin.

You lead her through the flat — past the living room, into your bedroom. Teddy hops onto the bed like he’s reclaiming his kingdom. You move to the window — the one you always leave cracked just a little — and unlatch it the rest of the way.

You glance back at her.

She’s standing with her arms folded, watching you like she’s bracing for something truly ridiculous.

You duck out first — onto the sloped bit of roofing just beyond the window, socks scraping softly against the tiles. You crouch low, then stand carefully, balancing with practiced ease.

You turn and beckon. Alexia just stares. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

She steps closer, looks out.

The drop’s not that bad. 22 feet, maybe. But the tiles are slick with dew, and there’s no railing, no barrier, no sensible adult supervision.

“This is wildly unsafe,” she mutters.

You just smile. “Come on. I’m not gonna let you fall.”

She glares at you, muttering something in Catalan that sounds very judgmental. But you can see it — the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s not really mad.

She’s just concerned. Which somehow only makes it better.

After a few more seconds of muttering under her breath, she sighs dramatically, steps up onto the ledge, and eases herself through the window with surprising grace — a little unsteady at first, reaching for your hand instinctively.

You catch it. Steady her. “See?” you say, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Easy.”

“Still stupid,” she mutters.

But she doesn’t pull away. You lead her a few steps up — careful, slow — until you both settle onto the slightly flatter part of the roof, side by side, legs pulled up to your chest..

She finally looks up the whole city stretches out in front of her.

The rooftops curve into the skyline, lights twinkling like fallen stars. The dark river cuts a lazy path through the buildings. A few stray sirens whine in the distance, but mostly it’s just quiet. Wide and open and impossibly still.

Alexia exhales — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. The corners of her mouth lift. And whatever worry she had before melts off her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says, voice lighter now. “Maybe it’s worth the risk.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Told you.”

You sit like that for a long time — no rush, no plan. Just the two of you, the city breathing around you, your hands close enough to touch if you dared.

Every now and then, you glance over and catch her watching the lights, the horizon, the night itself like she’s letting herself believe she could belong to something this simple.

The climb back in through the window is quieter than the climb out.

Alexia moves slower now, heavy with the kind of tired that comes after a day full of laughter and nowhere to be but here. She drops softly into your bedroom, feet padding across the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands again.

You follow behind, closing the window gently behind you.

Teddy’s already curled up on the bed, barely lifting his head to acknowledge your return. He gives Alexia one approving thump of the tail. You’re not sure if it’s for coming back safely or for still being here.

You rub at the back of your neck, eyes a little hazy, wine long gone.

Alexia stands in the doorway to the guest room now, hand on the frame. Her expression is soft — not sleepy exactly, just settled.

She looks at you. And it hits again — this moment. How simple it is. How much it means. You lean against the wall across from her, arms crossed loosely, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“I’ll make sure you don’t miss your flight in the morning,” you say.

She smirks faintly. “You better.”

“I’ll set three alarms.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Four.”

You laugh, quiet and tired. “Pushy.”

She shrugs. “Punctual.”

The pause that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Of all the things neither of you are saying right now. But it’s okay. You already said so much.

She shifts slightly, head tilting. “Today was…”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

You step forward, and without thinking, you pull her into a light hug — not long, not heavy, but enough. Enough to feel the warmth of her hoodie, the steady beat of her breath, the soft slide of her hand as it rests briefly on the back of your head.

You pull back just a little. She’s still close. “Goodnight, Alexia.”

Her eyes flicker — tired and unreadable, but warmer now “Goodnight.”

She steps into the guest room and closes the door behind her with a gentle click. You exhale.

Teddy stretches across your bed with a groan like he just ran the city.

You flick off the hallway light, pad back into your room, and crawl beneath the covers.

The room is dark now. But your chest is full. And your alarms are definitely set. Tomorrow she leaves.

⚽️

The alarms buzz you awake just after six.

Teddy barely lifts his head as you stumble into the kitchen, yawning, the world outside still caught between night and day.

Alexia’s already up. You find her sitting on the edge of the couch, tying her sneakers — hair messy, hoodie slung loose over her frame, backpack by her feet.

She looks up when you walk in, and there’s a small, tired smile waiting for you. “Morning,” she says, voice thick with sleep.

You hum a reply, rubbing your eyes. Neither of you rush.

You load Teddy into the backseat. He whines a little, sensing something is different. The drive to the airport is quiet — warm coffee cups in the holders, the radio playing something soft neither of you bother to change.

She leans her forehead against the window once, watching the fields blur into concrete. When you pull up to Departures, you leave the car idling, glancing over at her.

She’s already unbuckling her seatbelt, but neither of you move right away.

The city is waking up outside. You’re wide awake here. Alexia shifts in her seat to face you. “This was…” She trails off, the words sticking again.

You smile, small. “Yeah. It was.”

She fiddles with the ring on her finger.

You grip the steering wheel lightly. “You’ll make your flight.”

She nods. “Thanks for not letting me oversleep.”

You bump your shoulder against hers gently. “Thanks for making it hard to say goodbye.”

That gets a real smile — tired, fond, a little crooked. She opens the door, stepping out into the sharp morning air. You get out too.

You meet her around the back of the car — not rushed, not dramatic. Just standing there, with a sea of taxis and early travelers moving around you like another current you’re not ready to step into yet.

She shoulders her bag. You jam your hands into your hoodie pockets.

Then — simply — she steps closer. You think she might hug you. You think you might need her to.

But instead, she reaches up — slow, careful — and hooks one finger lightly around your hoodie drawstring. Tugs it once. Soft. Playful.

“Text me when you get home,” you say, even though you’re already sure she will.

Alexia nods. “You too.”

And then — because she knows when to let things stay perfect — she turns and walks toward the entrance. You watch her weave through the doors. She doesn’t look back. Not until she’s just inside, bag slung over one shoulder, ticket in hand. Then she does. Just once.

She finds you through the glass — through the crowd and the noise and the press of the world. She smiles. Small. Sure. Enough.

You lift a hand. She does too. Then she’s gone, swallowed into the current of the airport.

You stand there a moment longer, breath fogging in the chill, Teddy’s nose nudging your hand.

You pat his head. Then you climb back into the car. And drive home, to grab a few more hours of sleep before training.

[birdofwildness]

୨୧✧˚Secret smokes

୨୧✧˚Tom Riddle

summary:: reader's father invites professor Riddle over. He doesn't know his Well behaved daughter is dating her professor.

warnings:: professor x student, age gap, filthy af smut lmao, 18+

The classroom breathed in shadows. Dust motes wandered lazily through the golden afternoon light, as if time itself hesitated to pass through these walls — reluctant to disturb the stillness that had settled over desks ink-stained and solemn.

Y/N sat motionless, eyes fixed on the half-filled parchment before her, though their mind drifted far from words and wandwork. There was a weight in the air — not from the lesson, but from him. From the way he moved between rows like a thought that wouldn’t let go, silent and precise, all darkness and deliberation.

Tom Riddle did not speak often, but when he did, the room listened as though the walls themselves leaned closer.

“Time,” he said at last, his voice smooth and quiet, like the first drop of ink on clean parchment. “Essays. Leave them here.”

The scrape of chairs followed — the familiar shuffling of escape. A soft murmur of relief. But not for Y/N.

As she rose to leave, hand brushing the cool wood of the desk, his voice reached her again. Lower this time. Private.

“Miss Y/L/N,” he said, his tone carved from curiosity and something harder. “Remain.”

The door sighed shut behind the last departing student. Silence, again — but a different kind now. Closer. More intimate.

Y/N turned, slowly, like someone called back by name in a dream.

He stood with the elegance of a blade resting on its edge, one hand resting lightly on the desk, the other folded beneath it — posture relaxed, yet coiled.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She didn’t answer immediately. The word avoiding was too deliberate. Too sharp.

She leaned back against the door after closing it behind her, her fingers still resting on the brass handle, as if measuring the weight of the silence before her.

“I’ve been breathing,” she said at last. “That’s not the same.”

Tom’s gaze flickered to her face, then back to the shadows between them. He didn’t move. He never did when he held the advantage.

“And yet,” he said quietly, “you look like someone who’s been holding her breath for days.”

She crossed the room slowly, not in surrender, not in defiance, but in something more dangerous: knowing. The kind of knowing that only exists between two people who’ve spent nights unraveling each other in silence and in heat, and who’ve learned to fear what follows the morning.

“You want something,” she said, stopping just beyond reach. “You always do.”

Tom didn’t deny it. Instead, with the slow, precise motion of someone revealing a move long prepared, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a single envelope.

The parchment was heavy, elegant. Ministry seal. Her father’s signature in unmistakable, impatient strokes.

He held it out to her as if it were nothing more than a passing curiosity.

She took it without a word, fingers brushing his — brief contact, deliberate tension. Her eyes scanned the contents, each line tightening something inside her chest.

Dinner. A formal invitation. Her father, all formality and veiled curiosity, inviting Tom Riddle to their home like he was just another promising young man and not the living embodiment of all the unspoken things she could never admit out loud.

“‘I would be honoured to receive you this Thursday at seven. I believe we have much to discuss,’” she read aloud, voice flat.

Riddle watched her — not smug, not triumphant. Just quiet. As if waiting for her to catch up to something he already knew.

She turned the letter in her hands, once, twice, then looked up. “Why?”

A single word, precise, level. But beneath it, a hundred unspoken questions.

Tom tilted his head slightly. “Why what?”

“Why did he invite you?” she asked, sharper now. “My father doesn’t do polite gestures.”

“No,” Tom agreed. “But Horace Slughorn does.”

The name landed between them like a dropped stone.

Her fingers tightened on the parchment. “Slughorn.”

“Who else?” Tom’s voice was smooth, unhurried. “He collects people. And when he can’t keep them, he introduces them to others who might.”

Her father.

The realization clicked into place like a lock turning, and Tom saw it—saw the moment she understood.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, only watched him — carefully, quietly. Then a corner of her mouth curved upward. Not a full smile. Just the beginning of one.

“You’re nervous.”

Tom blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re doing that thing with your thumb again.”

He looked down without meaning to — his thumb pressed just slightly against the side of his index finger, a motion so small it was almost nothing. But not to her.

She grinned, all wicked amusement now. “You want to impress him.”

“I want access,” he corrected.

“Which means,” she said, tilting her head, “you want to impress him.”

He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

She touched his collar, adjusting it like she had every right to. “Don’t talk too much. He hates people who sound like they’re proving something.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I am proving something.”

“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “That’s why you have to act like you’re not.”

A pause. Her voice softened, but only a little: “And don’t smile unless you mean it. He’ll know.”

He looked down at her, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Are you trying to help me or sabotage me?”

She leaned in, lips just near his ear.

“Who says I can’t do both?”

Tom let his gaze linger on her face a moment longer, then said, “And what’s he like? Your father.”

She let out a dry breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re asking me now?”

He said nothing — just waited.

She stepped back, arms loosely crossed, as if needing distance from her own answer.

“What do you think?” she said. “He’s exactly what you’d expect from a blood supremacist Slytherin who clawed his way up the Ministry like it was his birthright.”

“Charming,” Tom murmured.

“Oh, he is,” she said, sarcasm curling at the edge of her voice. “In that cold, immaculate, politically untouchable sort of way. He speaks in veiled threats and thinks compassion is a weakness you beat out of children by age twelve.”

Tom tilted his head slightly. “So you’re saying we’ll get along.”

She met his gaze. “I’m saying he’ll recognize you. Even if he doesn’t know what you are, he’ll know that you are.”

He smiled, slow and sharp. “I’ll take that as encouragement.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her — softened, despite herself.

“You would,” she muttered, stepping closer. “You always do.”

Tom didn’t move away. His smile faded into something quieter, something less practiced.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. She reached up — a small, almost absent motion — and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Her hand lingered just long enough to mean something.

Then she leaned in and kissed him — not hungry, not dramatic. Just warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that wasn’t asking for anything, only marking the space between them as theirs.

When she pulled back, she said, “Don’t be charming tonight. Be dangerous.”

He looked at her, the ghost of a smirk returning. “Darling, I never stopped.”

...

The dining room was exactly what Tom had expected. Dark wood. Crystal decanters. A silence so carefully maintained, it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.

Her father sat at the head of the table, back straight as a blade. Not a single hair out of place. Not a single expression wasted. He looked at Tom as one might examine an antique wand—valuable, but potentially volatile.

Y/N sat to the side, in quiet observation, glass untouched. She wore nothing expressive, and yet she seemed to burn brighter than the candles.

“Tom,” her father began, voice low and steady, “Slughorn speaks of you often. I must admit, I was curious.”

Tom inclined his head with just the right degree of humility. “That’s generous of him. Professor Slughorn has always had an eye for talent.”

Her father gave the barest nod, the kind that said: And I’ll decide for myself if he was right.

They spoke of inconsequential things first — the rise and fall of this or that department, a new magical regulation Tom pretended to be concerned with. But every word was a test. Every smile a blade.

“You seem quite... forward-thinking for one so young,” her father said, sipping his wine.

“I don’t see much use in looking backward,” Tom replied. “History only teaches what happens when people lack vision.”

Her father smiled — faint, almost approving. “Indeed.”

Y/N said nothing. But she watched Tom closely, like someone watching a storm from behind glass.

At one point, Tom caught her eye. Just for a second.

She raised her brow, subtle, amused.

You're enjoying this, it said.

And maybe he was.

Her father set down his glass with the precision of someone who disliked unnecessary movement.

“And how is she in your class, Mr. Riddle?” he asked, voice casual in the way a dagger might be considered a decorative accessory. “I assume she participates.”

Tom didn’t even glance at her. “She’s exceptional,” he said, smooth and immediate. “Sharp. Focused. Rarely distracted by the trivial.”

Y/N gave him a sideways look, one brow lifted just slightly. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But your father might be.”

Her father didn’t react — not outwardly. He turned his gaze to her instead. “I expect excellence, you know that.”

Y/N leaned forward just enough to meet his eyes. “And yet you never ask me how I’m doing. Just whether I’m performing.”

The room stilled. A pause, long and deliberate.

Tom spoke then, softly: “She’s not just performing, sir. She’s outpacing most of the class.”

Another silence — deeper now. Not awkward. Just heavy.

Her father nodded, but it wasn’t praise. It was acknowledgment. “Good.”

Y/N picked up her wine, sipped it slowly, and said, “You don’t have to worry. He trains us well.”

Riddle’s mouth twitched — a flicker of amusement. Her father didn’t catch it. Or chose not to.

The conversation had drifted back to policy — some dull bureaucratic reshuffling that neither of them had any real interest in.

Y/N didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Instead, her hand moved — slow, deliberate — beneath the linen of the tablecloth, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of Tom’s trousers. Just resting, at first. Casual. Almost dismissible.

Tom stiffened the slightest degree — a flicker, nothing more. His jaw tightened as he turned his wineglass slowly between his fingers, saying something polite about international Floo network regulations.

Her hand moved upward. Barely an inch.

He glanced at her, just once, from the corner of his eye — a look that said, Now? Really?

She didn’t look back at him. Didn’t even smile.

Another inch.

He inhaled through his nose, a breath so soft it wouldn’t register to anyone else — except maybe her father, who had spent a lifetime reading the smallest changes in men’s composure.

But Tom didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop talking. He just gave her a look — one raised brow, mouth set in that tight, don’t test me line.

And still, she moved higher.

He placed his hand — calmly, purposefully — over hers, halting her progress. Squeezed once. A warning. A promise.

She finally looked at him then, eyes bright with something between mischief and triumph.

Dinner ended not with dessert, but with dismissal. Her father folded his napkin with military precision, then stood.

“Riddle,” he said, voice crisp, “join me for a cigarette.”

It wasn’t a question.

Then, to Y/N, sharp and final: “Bed. Now.”

She opened her mouth — not to protest, but to say something, anything — but Tom caught her gaze, gave the barest shake of his head. Not here.

She lingered a second too long, then rose. Her footsteps were quiet as she left, but her presence clung to the room like perfume.

The terrace was cold and dark, lit only by two hovering orbs of enchanted light. Her father took out a silver case, offered it silently. Tom accepted, wordless.

The first inhale came with silence. The second with smoke. The third, finally, with words.

Her father spoke without looking at him. “You have plans.”

Tom exhaled slowly. “Of course.”

“Big ones, I assume.”

“I don’t bother with the small kind.”

That earned him a small grunt of approval. Or recognition. Hard to say.

“What field?” the man asked, flicking ash into the dark. “Ministry? Academia? Power like yours doesn’t stay long in classrooms.”

Tom’s gaze lingered on the horizon. “Classrooms are useful. People don’t watch you closely when they think you’re just a teacher.”

“And when they start watching?”

Tom smiled faintly. “Then I’ll already be somewhere else.”

A beat.

“You don’t want a post. You want position.”

Tom turned to him now, face calm. “I want reach. I want leverage. I want freedom.”

“Freedom?” the man repeated. “Strange word, coming from someone who follows so many rules so precisely.”

Tom met his eyes. “Rules are tools. You don’t smash a door if you can unlock it.”

A long silence followed. Not uncomfortable — just heavy with understanding.

The old MAN tapped the end of his cigarette against the iron railing, eyes never leaving the night.

“And legacy?” he asked. “Do you care for that sort of thing?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He watched the glow at the end of his cigarette dim, then reignite.

“Legacy is inevitable,” he said. “If you're worth remembering.”

“But some prefer to shape what they leave behind.”

Tom glanced at him. “You mean heirs.”

The man didn’t deny it. “You’ve built the mind. Built the name. Eventually, you’ll need the line.”

“So,” her father said, eyes on the darkness beyond the terrace rail, “is there a girl already?”

Tom didn’t look at him. “Pardon?”

“You’re young,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Sharp. Ambitious. Someone in your position—well. People will want to attach themselves.”

“I imagine they will,” Tom said calmly.

“And have you let anyone?”

A long pause followed — not of hesitation, but of deliberation. Then:

“No.”

Her father studied him, a sliver of smoke curling between his fingers. “Strange. A man with your... charisma.”

Tom allowed himself a smile. “Charm and attachment are rarely the same thing.”

“Do you plan to marry?”

“Eventually. If it’s useful.”

...

She climbed the stairs slower than usual. Not because she was tired — far from it. Her pulse was annoyingly loud in her ears, and her skin prickled with a kind of static that refused to settle.

He’s staying.

That thought had been repeating itself like a spell ever since her father had mentioned the guest room. Just one word — guest — but said with such clipped finality, as though it meant nothing.

But it did.

Because the guest room was next to hers. Just a few quiet steps away, separated by nothing but old plaster walls and a hallway that creaked in two places.

She opened her door and closed it behind her gently, then leaned back against it for a moment, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Her room was the same as always — books half-stacked on the desk, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the windowsill, bed not quite made. But it felt different. Like it was holding its breath, too.

She moved with too much purpose, adjusting nothing and everything — smoothing the coverlet, brushing invisible dust from her vanity, catching her own reflection and looking away too fast.

She sat on the edge of the bed, then stood. Sat again.

He’ll come up soon.

Of course he would. Tom didn’t leave things half-finished. Especially not her.

She crossed the room in measured steps, fingers grazing over the wardrobe’s handles before pulling it open.

The cool air inside touched her skin as she reached for the nightgown she hadn’t worn in months — silk, pale, almost translucent where the light hit it just right. It was too delicate for sleep, and too deliberate for coincidence. But tonight wasn’t about sleep. Not really.

She held it up for a moment, watching how it swayed slightly in her hands. Then slipped it on.

The fabric slid over her shoulders like a whisper. She shivered — not from the cold, but from the knowing. The weight of intention.

She let her hair down next, the pins clinking softly into her palm one by one. The mirror caught her eyes, then her mouth — a tilt of something there, amusement or anticipation, she wasn’t sure.

She dabbed a little perfume on her wrists. Not her usual one — something sharper, older. The kind that lingered.

Then she turned down the lamp. Not out — never out — but low enough that the shadows could settle, stretch. Wrap the room in something softer.

She sat again, this time near the window, one leg folded under her, the other bare foot grazing the floor.

And waited.

Not idly. Not passively.

She waited the way a flame does — steady, quiet, and entirely ready to burn.

The hallway creaked once. Then silence again — too perfect to be natural.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

Then: the softest brush of knuckles against wood. No knock. Just a touch.

Her door opened a fraction, slowly, deliberately — not waiting for permission.

Tom stepped inside like the shadows were holding the door for him.

His jacket was gone. The sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows, exposing the lines of his forearms — precise, composed, and somehow more intimate than anything else about him. His eyes swept over her, pausing at the curve of her knee, the drape of the silk.

He didn’t speak. Just closed the door behind him.

“I thought you’d take longer,” she said, voice low, barely carrying.

“I didn’t want to,” he replied.

He moved closer, not hurried, but with certainty. His presence filled the room long before he reached her.

“I see you got ready for bed,” he said, glancing down at the nightgown, a smile ghosting over his mouth.

“Didn’t plan to sleep.” Her gaze didn’t leave his. “Did you?”

He stopped just before her — close enough for the air to shift, for the quiet to catch fire between them.

“No,” he said. “I came to ruin that plan.”

She stood slowly, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her legs. He didn’t step back. He never did.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. No words. Just breath and space and the heavy, aching pull between them.

Then her hand came up — fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, barely touching. She wasn’t pulling him closer.

She didn’t need to.

He leaned in. Not hungrily, not urgently — but with that terrifying precision of his, as if he'd calculated the exact degree of heat in the air between them.

And kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t brutal either. It was measured — the way one tests the strength of a lock before breaking it. His lips pressed to hers, slow, sure, and utterly in control. But there was tension beneath it — like something barely held back.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He deepened the kiss then — just a little. Enough to taste the edge of what he wanted. Enough to tell her he could take more. Would. When he chose to.

When they broke apart, his mouth lingered close, breath warm against her cheek.

“I’ve had to pretend all night,” he murmured, voice low and sharp. “Don’t make me pretend in here.”

"You don't have to." She pushed herself up onto tip toes, giving him a light kiss. You needed him.

He was hungry, lust overwhelming him. He kissed her back,intense. His hand found her hip, keeping her close. He pushed her back slowly against the bed, both of them falling into a heap. She watched him kick his loafers off and strip off his shirt before he climbed above her.

Tom slid her gown down, his eyes flicking over her. As he pulled it up he let out a small exhale astounded by her body.

His mouth lowered, a trail of small kisses forming along her breasts. His jaw rubbed against her nipple, causing you to let out a small gasp.

"You gonna let daddy down there know your professor is fucking you?" He murmured against her skin.

"Fuck you,Tom"

"You already did." He smiled in a wicked way.

then he dipped his head lower, kissing lightly over her chest and stomach, down to her hip.

She pushed his head down between her thighs, opening her legs up to him. He wanted to make her beg.

He let his tongue reach out, slowly gliding through her folds and she pushed her hips up, desperate for more. He worked slowly, wanting to taste her, like the first time. He found her clit, pressing himself against it momentarily as she gasped.

"Please, Tommy"

"You okay sweetheart,I heard you gasp" Came a noise from outside.

Fuck,fuck, fuck. She though.

"Answer him,doll" his voice vibrated.

"Everything's fine,thanks dad" She muttered. Then an answer came the last time. "Okay,good night."

She settled back into his touch as his hand found her hip, pushing her back against the bed. His other hand came up to her pussy, his middle finger slowly pushed into her entrance. She let out a small moan."Don't say anything about what just happened with my dad"

His finger found a rhythm, as he added another, filling her up. Tom lowered his mouth back to her clit. A small suck of it lifted her hips up from the bed. "Do I look like I want to talk about your damn father?"

His fingers curled into her, as he sucked on her clit again. His tongue came back to lick against her folds. He enjoyed her whines.

As he sucked against her clit for the final time, her orgasm washed over her.

She sank back into the bed. He kissed her lightly.

[gay-dorito-dust]

hiii booo, can i request anything with vergil where vergil is chilling and reader suddenly come in the room and cuddle him, and just telling him how much they love him and he gets all vulnerable and let them do because I NEED HIM TO BE LOVED AND ADORED AND HUGGED 😤

(i love you btw <3)

Of course you can my beloved, anything for you, literally. (I love you too sweetheart, forever and always 🥰😍😘)

You knew Vergil’s makeshift study was meant for him and him alone. No one else was allowed in, but Dante claimed you had privilege to walk into his brother’s study without getting stabbed, or how Nero basically got told to leave through a well crafted glare upon his father’s face.

You? You could walk in there and Vergil would wordlessly shift himself a little so that there was room for you to sit next to him while he reads; which is exactly what happened the second you walked into his study, smiling as you saw the sliver of space reserved only for you as the half demon merely continued his reading, but it was obvious that his body was more relaxed and his gaze lost it’s natural intimidation as the perfect blue eyes of his looked at you over the book.

He almost look expectant, like he wanted something from you and for a second you were left confused, wondering if you had completely missed something. Only to remember that you had unknowingly formed a routine within his head whenever you entered his study -whether it was wanted or unwanted- and you couldn’t help but laugh as you moved over towards him to hold his face in your hands. ‘Hello my beloved.’ You said softly as you kiss his forehead, feeling him purr under your touch.

‘Sorry for the intrusion but I felt a little lonely without you while your cooped up here.’ You add as you pulled your hands away from his face, just to see that he was still very much keeping you within his line of sight, even as you sat down next to him on the surprisingly good two person sofa he had found in a undisclosed location.

‘You do know the reason I stay here, correct?’ He asks raising a brow and you only pout back at him as you reached to kiss his cheek, seeing his guard effectively crumble as you allow your head to rest upon his shoulder.

‘I do.’ You start, tracing the patterns of his jacket, loving how even the shade of blue belonged to him and only him, you couldn’t see a shade of the damn colour without thinking of your blue half demon; so much to the point where you had made it a thing to buy him objects the same shade of blue as his eyes, much to his confusion until you told him the reason that you’ve done so, then all of a sudden his cheeks and tips of his ears were red as beetroot and his eyes were looking at anything but you.

Only for the trinkets you bought him to be found decorating his study a week later, something you didn’t address outright but the look upon Vergil’s face as he saw you looking told you all you needed to know.

A favourite memory of yours regarding him being anything but what the stories you’ve heard of him present him as. Yet to you Vergil was a man who had been lost for a long, long time, been through too much and was crafted into a different man because of it. He was someone that craved power from an all too human need to protect. So you do everything in your own power to show that he was loved and respected, despite everything he’s done, he was deeply loved even if he didn’t see it but you did since you were one of them.

‘However you never said anything about me when I come in here.’ You tell him with a shrug. ‘That and I don’t like you being in here alone, no one should ever be alone even if you’re doing something like reading.’ Vergil knew you weren’t exactly talking about reading, yet he didn’t pry and was glad that you didn’t nor say it out loud, he still was learning that it was okay to lean on another person; this person being you but he’s a stubborn as a half demon could be, and that was extremely but he was starting to see the benefits of having someone in his corner with blinding faith in him.

‘What if I like being alone to read, has that thought crossed your mind?’ Vergil asks.

‘It has,’ you replied, ‘multiple times but my statement still stands, no one should be alone. So you’re stuck with me unfortunately.’ You smile as you kiss his cheek again, now practically cuddling his arm close to your chest with your cheek squished to his shoulder still, leeching off of his human warmth. You did cuddle his devil trigger once and were left cold as fuck, but you couldn’t move as you had made too much progress with Vergil, only just to move away because you were cold but it was undeniably worth it.

Vergil scoffs, a small, missable smile breaking across his face. ‘Unfortunately.’ He says as though the word was hilarious to him. ‘Is it really unfortunate fate if I have become…fond of you and the memories you’ve given me?’ He gives you a sideway glance before looking upon the window sill of his study. ‘I know you’re aware that your gifts have been scattered throughout my study ever since you said it was too dull.’

‘Don’t forget lifeless and in desperate need of personality.’ You added, smiling as you gazed at the trinkets that you’ve noticed were kept clean of dust as the windowsill they sat upon, almost as if Vergil kept them that way for a reason, whatever the reason was it was bound to warm your heart regardless if he ever said it or not; his actions were more than enough to understand.

Vergil hums. ‘I wasn’t exactly impressed with you that day.’

‘I could tell, you were glaring daggers into my head that day.’ You said as you recalled the day where you first stepped into his study, unannounced no less, while he had only looked at you from over his book with a guarded gaze as he tried to deduce what you were about. ‘But I’m glad you took my advice sooner or later.’ You added as Vergil hums again.

‘It adds life to an empty space, reminding it of the things it could have if it opened up to the aspect of allowing life to shine light on the darker spots.’ He says and you knew he wasn’t talking about how empty the study use to be before it was filled to the brim with his shelves of books, or how the window sills were filled with your silly trinkets and funny looking plushies you’ve won him from arcades.

It indeed was indeed filled to the brim with life, but when you thought of it the way that he did, then it was made all the more beautiful as the study was once a place that had nothing, left abandoned with nothing of value to show it’s purpose. Yet it had found it’s purpose when Vergil claimed it as his own, filling it with his minimal possessions in the form of books, only to have more purpose as you added your own touch to the place overtime.

The study was a room you and Vergil created together at your own pace, at your own time, content with the existence of the other as long as they didn’t collide too much. Yet soon enough neither you nor Vergil could envision the study without your trinkets on the window sill accompanying the shelves of books when both of you weren’t there to fill the air with conversation.

‘The light can’t touch everything,’ you told him, ‘it can’t reach certain corners but it can learn to accommodate with knowing it can’t brighten every darkened corner and love them anyway.’ You finished as you look at him, loving everything about him, even his darkened corners of his being that your light may not be able to touch and you were more than okay with that.

Vergil looks at you to read your face, read your every expression as all he could see was truth and honesty staring back at him, holding his intense gaze with all the genuine love you had for him as well as unwavering patience for when he was ready to ever say such an emotionally charged words. ‘Even if I slip back into questionable habits? Do things that many would never forgive?’ He asks softly.

‘Even then.’ You replied confidently as you lifted the hand that wasn’t holding his book -since he mainly did that one handedly while the other rested on Yamato’s hilt- and kiss the back of it several times, unbothered by the callouses that kissed your palm with equal affection. ‘Even then.’ You repeated softer this time as you felt Vergil rest his head against your own, a low purr emitting from the back of his throat that made you smile as you nuzzle him in response.

Vergil allows to bookmark where he was at within the story he held within his hand, before resting it on the table next to the sofa, right next to the small trinket you had bought him that he had somewhat favouritism towards; a small blue crow.

[qinche-cvmslvt]

Forbidden

Content Warning: NSFW, SMUT, DRAMA, ROMANCE, AGE GAP RELATIONSHIP, PROFESSOR SYLUS, XAVIER, RAFAYEL, SEXUAL AND EMOTIONAL TENSION,

Tag List: @ikesimpleton @aneertawrites @rorel1a @aikonecrosis @daddysyluslittlekitten @mcdepressed290 @harutogfr @floofycookie @nchant6dkitty @roselynviee @zozoparsnips

A/N: One-sided love is quiet. Rejection isn’t.

Chapter 6: Good Girl

The library was soaked in golden yellow. Sunlight poured through cathedral-high windows, cascading in sheets of amber that painted the carpet and carved shelves in honeyed light. Dust danced in the air, weightless, slow, like stars falling in reverse. It wasn’t quiet in the way a sanctuary is. It was the silence of a held breath, of something waiting to crack open. Books lined the walls like sentinels, their spines worn and whispering secrets. Every corner hummed with the ghosts of a thousand unread words.

You sat near the back, buried in the shadows of tall shelves, in a seat no one ever noticed unless they were looking for escape. Your fingers rested on the open page of a textbook long forgotten. You hadn’t moved in minutes, but inside? Inside, you were feral. Thoughts snarled, memories clawed, and beneath your stillness, something darker paced in circles.

You could still feel the closet. The stifling heat. The smell of cedar and skin. The rasp of Sylus’ breath ghosting over your neck like sin made audible. And his voice. God, his voice, fractured and low, like the sound a man makes when he’s trying not to fall to his knees. That sound lived under your skin now. You pressed your thighs together beneath the table—subtle, desperate. A frictionless ache. You shifted in your seat, slow enough to make guilt blink, to make decency hold its tongue. Your skin still bore the imprint of where he’d held you. Not with force. With restraint and somewhere beneath the tangled roots of guilt and want? There was a hunger. Vicious and coiled like a predator in the dark, silently waiting.

You didn’t hear Xavier’s approach until a second coffee appeared beside your elbow. The steam curled upward like a spell being cast.

“Didn’t know if you’d eaten,” he murmured, that signature half-smile breaking soft across his face. The kind of smile that didn’t demand anything, it simply offered. “Figured caffeine was safe.”

You blinked, tearing your thoughts from shadows. “Thanks.” It came out breathier than you meant. Laced in something you hadn’t named yet.

Your fingers brushed his as you reached for the cup. His skin was warm and familiar. Yours? They trembled. Just a flutter. A pulse betraying the chaos beneath. He either didn’t notice or spared you the mercy of pretending not to.

Then he sat beside you. Not too close but close enough for the air between you to shift. His knee brushed yours beneath the table. A quiet collision. You didn’t move. Didn’t lean in either. Your pulse fluttered wildly. Like a bird trapped behind your ribs, unsure whether to stay caged or fly full force into the coming storm.

You sat like that still and guarded for a minute. Then two. The quiet between you wasn’t warm, wasn’t cold either. It was that rare kind of silence that only blooms when someone’s fighting the war of whether to speak. A tension with no sharp edges, but too thick to breathe through.

“So…” His voice finally broke the air like a pebble skimming glass. “The dance.”

Your chest cinched tight. You stared down into your coffee, hoping it might offer an escape, a distraction, anything. It didn’t. Just swirling heat and reflection.

“I’m not trying to pressure you,” he said gently, words weighed in careful pauses. “But it’s tomorrow and I’d like to know.”

You nodded once. “I haven’t decided yet.”

It was a truth but not the truth at the same time. Because you had decided. You decided the moment Sylus’ breath dragged across your throat, the moment his voice, that voice, sank into your skin like sin incarnate. No other voice reached that deep. No one else ever made your spine listen.

Xavier’s fingers tapped the tabletop in soft, uneven rhythms. “Okay,” he said, but the sound didn’t carry the shape of okay. It was flat and hollow. Then silence again, only this time it felt sharper. Sharper because he was about to aim it. “It’s not just about the dance, is it?”

You stilled. The air thickened like fog in your throat. Your eyes met his and there it was, not accusation and not anger. Just that quiet knowing that cuts deeper than anything loud. “I know there’s something else,” he said, voice low, coaxing. “Something you’re not telling me.”

Your lips parted. But nothing came out

“I’m not asking for the whole truth,” he said, his voice gentle, but firm in the way it held its ground. “I just want to know where I stand.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The slight curve of his shoulders, drawn in like a man bracing for the weight of something unsaid. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, not because he was pretending, but because he was hoping. There was an edge of vulnerability there. Raw and open. He was offering you something solid. A place to land. To be safe. To be held.

But you didn’t want safety. You wanted to be wrecked. Utterly, spectacularly undone. “I care about you,” you said and it wasn’t a lie. You meant it with your whole fractured heart.

He nodded, but not in acceptance. It was more like preparation. “But?” His voice was barely a breath. A tremble in the space between two truths.

Your grip tightened around the cup. Your pulse throbbed in your fingers. “But I’m not sure I have room for someone who makes sense.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was slow. Heavy. Like the sea drawing back after kissing the shore, taking something fragile with it. A goodbye that hadn’t been spoken yet but was already understood. He nodded again, slower this time. Then reached out, his hand crossing the table like a lifeline. His palm settled over yours. Steady and warm. His thumb brushed along your knuckles, just once. It didn’t ask for anything. It stayed.

“I’m not trying to be perfect,” he said, voice soft but sure. “I just want to be something real.”

And that—That shattered something inside you. Because Sylus? He wasn’t real. Not like Xavier was. Sylus was shadow and heat and need. A whisper pressed against your neck in the dark. He was the part of you that wanted to burn instead of bloom. He was everything forbidden, everything that looked at you like you were the only soul capable of tearing him apart.

You blinked hard. Looked down at your joined hands. The contrast of them, the quiet, grounded realness of his skin against yours. It made your breath catch. Your pulse thundered in your throat, loud and uneven. Because your body stood at the edge of a cliff, pulled between gravity… and wildfire

Then, footsteps. Slow and confident. “Am I interrupting something tender?” That voice. Smooth and lazy. Velvet wrapped around a knife.

Rafayel didn’t walk, he prowled. He appeared at the end of the table, cast in sunlight like something celestial dipped in mischief. His violet hair shimmered under the windows, his tie half-untied like it had never been properly knotted to begin with. His eyes, pink and blue, like cyanide coated candy, locked onto yours like he already knew what page your thoughts were stuck on. He didn’t need an invitation. He never did.

“I was going to ask if either of you wanted to help hang lights after school,” he said, his tone light, lounging against the chair like it owed him rent. “But I see you’re both… entangled.”

The way he said it wasn’t teasing. Not really. It was layered and intentional. A soft finger tracing the edge of a blade and when his gaze dropped to the place where Xavier’s hand still covered yours.He smiled.

No, he smirked. The kind of smirk that curled at the edges like smoke, like sin. Not because he was amused. Because he knew and he liked knowing

Xavier shifted beside you. Subtle but his spine straightened just enough to draw a line. Rafayel tilted his head. “Cutie,” he said, the nickname curling around you like heat, “you look flushed. Everything okay?”

You wanted to laugh or lie, or run. Anything but sit there and let him pull the silence out of you like it was a thread wrapped around your throat.

“Just tired,” you said, your voice barely audible.

“Mmm,” Rafayel hummed. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Xavier’s voice came next. Gentle but edged. “Did you need something?”

Rafayel didn’t even blink. “Just company. Quiet makes me anxious.” Then, softer to you, only you, “Especially when people’s thoughts are loud enough to rattle the shelves.”

The air around the table tightened like a noose. Xavier didn’t notice but Rafayel saw everything. The way your knees pressed together. The way your eyes flicked toward the window like you could jump through it and escape.

“You going to the dance, cutie?” Rafayel’s voice dripped like warm syrup, lazy and luxurious. His gaze landed on you, eyes glittering with mischief, voice feather-light but you could feel the weight behind it. “Or still deciding?”

You barely had a breath to respond before Xavier answered for you. “I asked her to be my date.”

And there it was. The shift. It didn’t crash in with thunder. It cracked the air like ice breaking beneath silk. Rafayel’s smirk didn’t falter. Not even a twitch. But his eyes—oh, his eyes changed. That glint? No longer playful. Sharper now. Like a predator realizing its prey had been touched.

“That’s sweet,” he said. Smooth and polished. His words coated in sugar. Then came the sting. His gaze pinned you like a butterfly in glass, and he added, “Though… she doesn’t look like someone who’s decided.”

It wasn’t just a jab. It was an incision. A blade slipped between ribs, expert, effortless. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He just let the silence curl around his words like smoke, and watched as the truth sat heavy on your skin. Because he wasn’t asking if you’d decided. He was telling you that he could see you hadn’t.

Xavier didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silence around him was sharp enough to draw blood. His shoulders had gone taut, tension coiled beneath his skin like a wire pulled too tight. He was watching you now, closely. Not with suspicion. With study. Like he was reading you the way he read books. Line by line. Page by page. Careful, patient… Waiting for the moment the truth slipped between the lines.

Rafayel leaned in. Elbows on the table. Posture loose, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of playing fair. His expression was lazy but his voice, God, his voice… It slid across the table like silk over glass. Smooth. Cold. Dangerous in how softly it landed.

“You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think there’s someone else in your head.” Each word low and precise. A secret whispered against your throat. “Someone who doesn’t fit. Someone who’s not supposed to be there.”

You stopped breathing. Just stopped. Your blood turned to ice in your veins. Your hands stilled. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it was trying to be caught. Like it knew it was seen.

Rafayel didn’t press further. Not yet. He just let the moment hang, suspended, charged like the air before a lightning strike. Then his eyes flicked down to your lips. Slow. Intentional. “Should I guess who it is?”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence. It was a confession. Xavier pulled his hand away slowly. Like it hurt. His body shifted back just enough to leave a gap between you where warmth used to be. You didn’t move. Didn’t chase. Didn’t deny it either.

Rafayel leaned back in his chair. And for once, his smirk softened. “I was just playing,” he said, quiet now. “But… maybe I hit too close.”

The words didn’t shout but they burned. Xavier stood. His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t tremble but it fractured something delicate in the space between all three of you. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

He didn’t look back. Didn’t slam a chair. Didn’t sigh. He just left and somehow that quiet exit hurt more than any door ever could. You stared at the table. At the empty space where his hand had been, still warm. Still ghosting your skin. Your chest felt hollow. Like your ribs had turned to glass and your lungs forgot how to fill.

Your thoughts were screaming and uncoordinated. Crashing into one another like waves fighting for shore. And Rafayel? He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t say, “I told you so.”

He just looked at you. Really looked. Like he saw the war raging behind your eyes and couldn’t decide whether to pity you? Or savor the carnage?

“Rough day, huh?” Soft. Almost kind. But it landed like an open palm against a bruise.

You stood too fast. Your chair scraped like an accusation. “I need to—”

“Go?” He finished it for you. Not cruel. Just… knowing. “Yeah. You probably should.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t thank him. Didn’t dare breathe until you were out the door, lungs clawing for air that didn’t taste like regret and then, you were moving. Chasing after a boy who had only ever been kind and who now… looked at you like he wasn’t sure who you were anymore.

The hall was cooler than the library, lined with trophy cases and dusty sunlight. But the air? Still thick. Still tight in your lungs. You walked fast, too fast, shoes echoing off the linoleum like guilt chasing you down.

You spotted Xavier by the vending machines. His back was to you, hands in his jacket pockets, head tilted like he was trying to focus on the humming humdrum of carbonation and choices. But he wasn’t. His shoulders were too stiff. His jaw was too tight.

“Xavier,” you called out, breath catching on the syllables.

He didn’t turn. Not right away. You stepped closer. “Please.”

When he turned, it wasn’t anger in his eyes. It was worse. It was knowing.

“Is it him?” His voice wasn’t accusing. It was defeated. “Rafayel?”

The breath punched out of you. “What?”

He looked away, laughed once, a quiet, bitter sound that didn’t suit his mouth. “You don’t have to lie. I saw how he looked at you. How you… let him.”

“It’s not—” your throat closed around the rest. Because how could you say it wasn’t Rafayel, when you couldn’t even say who it really was?

Xavier’s eyes flicked back to yours. Blue. Clear and hurting. “You flinched when I touched you. You didn’t even look at me when he started talking.”

“I was overwhelmed—”

“No. You were somewhere else.”

That stopped you. Because he wasn’t wrong. You hadn’t been in that library. Not fully. Not when you could still feel the echo of breath at your neck. Not when Sylus’ voice still clung to the inside of your ribs like it belonged there. Xavier leaned against the vending machine, arms folding. He looked tired. “I’ve seen you get flustered. Embarrassed. Shy. But that? That wasn’t any of those.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I know you,” he said, and his voice went quieter. “I’ve known you for years. I know what it looks like when you like someone.”

You swallowed hard. Your hands were fists at your sides.

“I thought…” He didn’t finish. Just looked at you, searching. “I thought maybe this time, I could be the thing that made sense for you.”

“You do make sense,” you said, too fast. Too broken.

He didn’t smile. “But I’m not the thing you want.”

You couldn’t answer that. Not honestly and he knew it. His shoulders sagged slightly. Just enough to make him look like he was carrying something heavy. “I’m not mad,” he murmured. “I just—I wish I’d mattered more.”

Your chest cracked. “You do matter—”

“Not enough,” he said softly. Then, after a pause, “You’re always chasing something that’s going to burn you.”

You didn’t deny it, you couldn’t. Because Sylus was fire and you’d already stepped too close. Xavier stepped away from the vending machine. “Whatever it is… whoever it is… I hope he’s worth the ashes.”

Then he walked past you. One quiet step at a time and you didn’t stop him. Because you didn’t know how to choose someone whose name you couldn’t even say aloud. Not yet

~

The classroom didn’t feel like a classroom anymore. Not after the library. Not after Xavier’s voice cracking in the quiet. Not after the disappointment in his eyes, the kind that didn’t burn, but bruised. You stepped inside on legs still humming with shame. Still sticky with guilt. Still marked by want.

The air was too clean. Lemon-scented cleaner and cheap pine polish. The kind that tried to erase what happened the hour before but the taste of it was still on your tongue. The tremble in your wrist where Xavier had let go. The burn between your thighs where Sylus had never even touched.

You hated yourself for being here. For sitting down in that front-row seat. For letting your notebook fall open to blank pages that wouldn’t be filled. For aching, for aching, for him when your heart should still be with the boy who offered you coffee, not cages. And then you felt it. That heat. That invisible tether. That wordless, breathless pull. You didn’t have to look up to know he was already watching you.

Professor Sylus stood at the front of the room, pen in hand, eyes unreadable but heavy and weighted. Like they’d been waiting for you and when your gazes met, just for a second, your stomach dropped and the war inside you began again. He looked away first but it was already too late. Your chest was too tight. Your skin too warm and your mouth too dry.

You turned your eyes to your desk. Pretended your hands weren’t clenched. Pretended your thoughts weren’t screaming his name and Xavier’s in the same breath. The rest of the class filtered in. A blur of noise and motion. Chairs dragged, zippers opened, paper shuffled. It was all so normal but nothing inside you felt normal anymore.

“Today,” Sylus said, his voice a blade drawn clean across your nerves, “we’re discussing tragic restraint.”

Your breath caught. Of course. Of fucking course. He moved to the board, scrawling the date. The pen squeaked with pressure. Then the quote appeared in sharp black ink, written like a wound:

“And what is a cage, if not love with nowhere to go?”

Your spine locked. Your pulse echoed in your ears. The words sank like lead. You wanted to look away but you didn’t. He turned back to the class. His eyes didn’t find yours again. Not directly but every word he spoke reached you anyway. Clipped, controlled and careful. Like he was holding back the same way you were. Like he was bleeding just as slow.

You should’ve been thinking about Xavier. About his hand on yours. About the hope in his voice when he asked you to choose him but all you could think about was how Sylus had almost begged, how his breath had broken on your throat, and how your body had betrayed you.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run. You wanted him to say your name again like it was a confession. You hated and loved it. Feared what it meant.

He started reading aloud. The passage was from something old. Something sharp. About forbidden love and bodies kept apart by law, by fear, by morality. You didn’t hear most of it. You only heard him. His voice wasn’t just words. It was memory. It was the supply closet. It was, I can’t. It was, If I touch you… you’ll never forget it.

Your thighs pressed tight under the desk. Your hands curled into fists. You tried to focus on the page, but the words swam, blurred, dissolved and then. He moved. Slow and deliberate. Stalking the rows like a storm pretending to be a breeze. Each step made you flinch. Each breath felt like a countdown. When he stopped beside your desk, again, your lungs forgot how to fill.

He didn’t look at you. Just pointed to your notes. “You missed something,” he said. Low, controlled and wrecked.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t even nod. Your hand just trembled where it hovered over your page. He leaned down. Not a touch. Not a whisper. But God his presence was a flame. His chest brushed your shoulder. His cologne, spiced, expensive, and undeniably him, filled your throat. His mouth came dangerously close to your ear.

And your thoughts were gone. Your legs trembled. Your thighs clenched tighter. Your mind screamed Xavier Xavier Xavier but your body only remembered the way Sylus had said please like it wasn’t a plea but a warning.

“Underline that line,” he whispered. Not a suggestion. Not a prompt. A command. Which you obeyed. Your fingers fumbled over the page. Your knuckles white. The pen dragged too deep and tore the paper at the corner.

“Good girl.”

Your body stilled, the breath squeezed from your lungs. Those two whispered words sending a jolt of liquid heat straight between your thighs. He stood straight again, and the air that rushed in behind him was colder than it should’ve been.

You didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Because if you did, you weren’t sure what would break first, your guilt, or your restraint.

The lesson moved on but you didn’t. Your body stayed frozen. Your pulse stayed fast and your mind stayed trapped between two boys and one impossible choice. When the bell finally rang, you didn’t feel relieved. You felt hollow. Because no one touched you. But you’ve never felt more undone.

[ijustwannabecool]

Two Seats Apart

Harry Styles x Reader

Summary... You’ve never spoken. Not once. But for eight months, he’s sat two seats away on the 8:42 train, and somehow—he feels familiar. Then one day, he leaves behind his journal. And in it? You. Now, everything is about to change.

Trigger Warnings: None—just soft, warm feelings and lots of eye contact

A/N: For anyone who’s ever fallen in love with the possibility of a stranger. I hope you guys enjoy this ordinary!Harry fic. Let me know what you guys think. If you like it please comment and leave me feedback. As always, requests are open :) Have a beautiful day today.

If you like this fic please reblog, leave a comment, and leave a like.

Happy reading.

You don’t know his name. You’ve never heard his voice. But you know the shape of him in your periphery better than most things. The curve of his shoulder in a wool coat. The way his fingers hover just above the page before he writes, like he’s asking permission from the paper first.

You know he likes chamomile tea. That he reads fiction—literary, sometimes thrillers—and switches to poetry on Fridays. You once caught the title of a collection, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared: The Sun and Her Flowers. It surprised you.

So did the small flower doodles that lined the edge of one page you accidentally glimpsed when he turned it too far.

For eight months now, he’s been two seats apart on the 8:42 train into the city. Not beside you. Never that bold. But not across the aisle either. Close enough to hear the soft scratch of his pen. Far enough to remain a mystery.

You’ve never spoken. But in a strange, quiet way… he feels familiar.

There are days when your eyes meet by accident in the window’s reflection. Days when he offers his seat to someone else—always with a soft smile, a quiet nod, never words. Days when you wonder if he notices you too.

And days when you know for certain that he does. Like today.

——

You started taking the 8:42 because it was the only time your nerves settled.

After the move. After the breakup. After the kind of year that left you cracked in quiet places.

The earlier train was too hectic. The later one too full of people who’d already had too much coffee and not enough patience. But the 8:42? It felt still. A breath between worlds.

The job you commuted to—children’s publishing—was both a dream and a challenge. Quiet offices, messy manuscripts, and your favorite part: stories that reminded you to believe in magic again.

And somewhere between chapter submissions and deadline emails… you noticed him.

——

The rain had been half-hearted all morning. The kind that misted instead of poured. Still, it clung to your hair and coat as you stepped onto the platform, coffee in one hand, umbrella folded under your arm.

You saw him immediately.

He was already on the train, leaned against the window with his eyes closed, earphones in. The collar of his coat was turned up, curls damp against his forehead. His lips moved ever so slightly, like he was mouthing lyrics. Or words he hadn’t yet written.

You took your seat. Your usual one. Three rows down, two seats across.

And the routine began. Train lurches. Announcements drone. The rhythm of the tracks settles in.

You steal a glance. Just one. Maybe two.

He’s awake now, journal open on his lap. His pen glides across the page like it knows where it’s going. Like it’s been here before.

You wish you had that certainty.

Your stop nears faster than usual. Time, for all its consistency, seems to bend when he's around.

You stand, tucking your book into your tote, adjusting your coat. The train begins to slow, that familiar squeak of brakes signaling the end of another almost-meeting.

You glance toward him one last time before the doors hiss open.

He’s looking out the window.

He never looks at you.

——

It’s not until the train is pulling away behind you that you realize it.

He left something behind.

You see it through the glass—his journal, still nestled into the space between the seat and the window. Half-covered, half-forgotten. Your heart does something funny, like it’s tripping over itself.

You could leave it. You should. But curiosity wraps around your ankles like a tide.

You step back into the station. You wait until the next round of boarding is done. And then you slip back onto the train, now mostly empty, and walk quietly to where he always sits.

The journal is still there. Still open. Still warm from where he’d been.

You pause.

Then you slide it toward you.

The page is filled with handwriting—messy but beautiful, slanted slightly right, like it’s always leaning forward. There’s a sketch of something in the margin. A coffee cup. A scarf. Your scarf.

Your breath catches.

You read the words slowly, carefully, like they might disappear if you blink too fast.

She always chooses the same seat. Three rows down. Across from me. The green scarf. The way she hums sometimes, too softly for anyone but me to notice. The way she looks up when the train crosses the bridge, like the river might finally answer her questions. I want to say hello. But I don’t want to ruin the silence. The silence where she exists most beautifully.

You stare.

This can’t be about you. It couldn’t.

And yet…

Tucked into the spine, almost hidden, is a smaller piece of paper. A note, folded twice. You unfold it with shaking fingers.

If you’re reading this, then I forgot my journal. And that probably means this was meant to happen. I’ve been writing about you for months. I thought I’d keep it all to myself. But now… maybe tomorrow, I’ll say hello. – H.

Your hand clamps over your mouth. Your heart? A mess of thunder and flutter. Your brain? Useless. Spinning.

You fold the note and place it carefully back between the pages. You press the journal to your chest, unsure whether to scream or cry or laugh.

You know one thing, though—one absolutely certain thing:

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

——

He doesn’t mean to leave it.

The journal. The damn journal.

He realizes it too late—two stops too far, heart plummeting somewhere around the back of his throat. He’s halfway to the café, rain curling at the collar of his coat, when he freezes mid-step.

“Shit.”

People move around him, umbrellas clashing, shoes scuffing against wet pavement. But his world is suddenly still. Loud with panic.

He left it on the seat.

His mind replays it on loop. The way he’d tucked it under his arm, distracted by the last line he’d written. The way his fingers lingered too long on the note he tore from the back. The way he looked—really looked—at you for the first time that morning. Not through the glass. Not sideways.

You were laughing at something on your phone. Hair falling forward, scarf bunched under your chin, lips pressed together like you were trying not to smile too much.

He wonders if you were laughing at something someone sent you. He hopes, stupidly, that it wasn’t a boyfriend. (He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’s lying.)

The thought that you might find the journal makes him nauseous. And exhilarated.

Because he wrote about you.

God, he wrote about you.

And now you know.

——

The journal is still in your bag.

You haven’t opened it again. Haven’t dared to read more than that note. Haven’t let your mind spiral into the million different ways this could go wrong—or right.

You don’t know what to expect when you board the train the next morning. If he’ll be there. If he’ll look at you. If he’ll speak.

But when the 8:42 rolls in, and you step into your usual carriage, there he is.

Two seats away.

Except this time, he’s not writing.

He’s watching you.

The look in his eyes is gentle. Hesitant. A question wrapped in hope.

You meet his gaze.

And for the first time, you smile.

You slide into your seat, fingers curled around the edge of the tote where his journal sits. He looks down, then back up, lips parting as if to say something—but he doesn’t.

The silence stretches. Not awkward. Not empty.

Just full.

At the next stop, a folded piece of paper lands in your lap.

You glance up. He’s facing forward, pretending he didn’t just pass you a note like a boy in a school hallway.

You unfold it slowly.

I know this is insane. I didn’t mean to leave it behind. But then again… maybe I did. Maybe I just didn’t want to hold it all alone anymore. You don’t have to say anything. Just… if you don’t want me to write again, don’t reply. But if you do... if you’re even a little curious—leave a note on the seat tomorrow morning. I’ll wait for it. I’ll wait for you. – H.

You read it twice. Then again. Then tuck it gently into your pocket.

And you don’t hesitate.

——

That night, you stay up later than usual. The lamp on your bedside table glows soft and golden, and the words come quicker than you expected.

You don’t try to sound clever. Or poetic. Or perfect.

You just… write.

I don’t know why I noticed you first. Maybe it was the way you always offer your seat. Or how you tap your fingers to some rhythm I’ll never hear. I don’t know what this is. But I think I’d like to find out. I’ll leave this here. Same time. Same seat. – Y/N

——

The next morning, he boards the train earlier than usual.

Heart racing. Hands in his pockets. Hope coiled like a spring inside his chest.

And there it is.

A folded note. Sitting exactly where you promised.

He exhales.

Something loosens in his chest.

He reads your words three times before daring to smile.

You replied.

You replied.

He spends the entire ride writing back.

——

That week becomes a blur of letters.

Tiny pieces of folded paper, slipped under armrests. Descriptions of favorite songs, dreams too big to say out loud, little anecdotes that feel like secrets.

He tells you about his love for rainy mornings and black-and-white films.

You tell him how you once cried in public because a stranger sang your favorite song and it felt like magic.

He says he used to play music, but doesn’t anymore.

You ask why. He doesn’t answer—yet.

The words pile up. So do the feelings.

You start dressing with him in mind. He begins saving you a seat—closer now. One row apart.

And still, not a single word is spoken aloud.

Until Friday.

The train is late. People are restless. You’re standing by the door, heart thudding.

Then you feel it—his presence. His warmth behind you.

You turn.

He’s holding a note, but not offering it.

Instead, his voice breaks the quiet.

“Hi.”

You blink. He smiles. Soft, crooked, unsure.

“I figured it was time,” he says, voice low. “To actually say it.”

Your breath catches. “Hi,” you say back.

And for the first time, it’s not paper holding your words.

——

You’ve spent weeks reading his thoughts like stolen poetry. Now you’re sitting beside him for the first time, and you can’t think of a single thing to say.

He’s real. He’s right here. And he smells like cedarwood and morning rain.

Your knees are almost touching. His hand rests on the journal in his lap, thumb tracing over the edge of the leather cover. Yours are clutched tightly around a paper cup of tea you barely remember buying. Everything is too loud inside your head and too quiet between you.

“So,” he says, a little nervous, “we’re talking now.”

You smile. “We are.”

He chuckles softly. “Not as romantic as ink and paper, is it?”

“No,” you admit. “But it’s nice. Different nice.”

The pause that follows is soft. Not awkward. Just full. Familiar.

You glance at him. “Harry,” you say gently, tasting the name for the first time in your mouth. “That is your name, right? H?”

He smiles—warm, bashful, with that little dimple like a comma at the end of his grin.

“It is. Harry Styles. And yours is…?”

You tilt your head. “You mean you’ve been writing about me for months and didn’t know my name?”

He bites back a laugh. “I didn’t want to assume. Figured if you ever wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

You offer your hand. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

He takes it. Holds it gently, like it’s fragile or sacred. “Hi, Y/N.”

Your heart does something stupid and syrupy.

“Hi, Harry.”

——

He’s never been more terrified than in the moment your fingers touched his.

Because now it’s real.

This girl—the one he watched from two seats away for almost a year, the one who unknowingly filled his journal and his mornings and his mind—is holding his hand. Saying his name. Smiling like maybe she’s felt it too.

He doesn’t want to scare you. Doesn’t want to rush this. But he also doesn’t want to go back to silence.

So he says the thing he’s been thinking for days now.

“Would it be too forward if I asked to walk you to wherever you're going after this?”

Y/N looks down at their still-joined hands and shrugs, playful. “That depends.”

“On?”

She glances up. “If you’ll keep writing me letters.”

Harry grins. “Even if we talk?”

“Especially if we talk.”

He nods. “Deal.”

——

The rest of the ride feels like a blur. A blur wrapped in slow smiles, shy glances, and questions like tiny paper cranes unfolding between you.

He asks about your favorite breakfast. You tell him about your obsession with bookstore cafés. He lights up when you mention poetry. You light up when he says he used to sing.

He tells you he stopped because life got loud and messy and he didn’t know how to make room for it anymore.

You tell him maybe he didn’t have to make room—maybe the music was always still in him.

He goes quiet then. But not because he’s uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. As if something you said tugged on an invisible thread deep inside him.

When the train slows into the city, neither of you stands right away.

People move around you. Rush. Push. The world spins.

But you two? You sit in the stillness. And you stay there until the carriage empties.

——

You walk together to the end of the platform. He’s close enough that your scarf brushes his wrist, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to take your hand again. You kind of hope he does.

When you reach the stairs, you stop.

“This is me,” you say, nodding toward the east exit.

He points in the opposite direction. “And I’m that way.”

A beat passes. Then another.

You rock gently on your heels. “Well…”

“Wait,” he says, a little breathless. “I—can I see you again?”

Your eyebrows lift, teasing. “We see each other every morning.”

“You know what I mean.”

Your smile softens. “Yeah. I do.”

And then you lean in—just enough to kiss his cheek. It’s featherlight, a brush of a promise.

“I’ll be two seats apart tomorrow,” you whisper. “Unless you want to sit next to me.”

You walk away before he can answer, scarf trailing behind you like punctuation at the end of a beautiful sentence.

And behind you, you know—without looking—that he’s smiling.

Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like the story is just beginning.

——

Epilogue: One Month Later

The train feels different now.

There’s laughter where silence used to be. Shared playlists through split earbuds. Hands brushing, then holding. Notes still passed, still folded, still filled with little thoughts—because some habits are worth keeping.

Y/N reads today’s one while sipping tea:

I used to think my favorite part of the commute was the quiet. But then you looked at me, and now it’s the part where you smile. – H.

She tucks the note into the back of her journal—the one he bought her last week, soft-bound and navy, with her initials stamped in the corner.

And then she looks over at him.

He’s already watching her. Of course he is.

She leans her head on his shoulder.

And this time, there are no seats between them.

The End.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this story. Let me know your feedback.

[absdollievu]

Taken with ease

Cowgirl!abby x bucklebunny!reader

You wake slowly, the kind of morning where sleep clings to you like warm sheets and soft light filters through the gauzy curtains. For a long moment, you don’t move—just lie there, listening to the distant hum of the wind brushing against the cabin and the soft creak of old floorboards as the house settles into the day.

Next to you, Dina Woodward lets out a sigh, shifting slightly under the covers. Her arm is draped across her eyes, dark curls spilling across her pillow in every direction. She’s still half-asleep, but when you shift to sit up, she groans in protest.

“You’re not seriously getting up already,” she mumbles.

“I want coffee,” you say with a quiet smile, stretching the sleep from your limbs.

Dina lets out a soft grunt, but there’s a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re lucky I love you, or I’d throw a pillow at you for being this functional before 9 a.m.”

The two of you make your way into the kitchen, still dressed in oversized tees and pajama shorts. The cabin’s old wood paneling glows in the morning sun, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee wraps around you like a promise. You start pulling ingredients from the fridge—eggs, bacon, bread for toast—while Dina takes over the coffee maker, pouring two mugs without needing to ask how you like yours.

As the skillet begins to sizzle and the radio hums softly with classic country tunes, Dina leans against the counter and looks at you thoughtfully.

“So, tomorrow night,” she says, sipping from her mug. “Still thinking about going to that old cowboy bar? The one out by the highway with the crooked neon sign and the mechanical bull that probably violates a dozen safety codes?”

You grin. “That’s the one.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You sure you’re ready for that level of chaos? You know someone’s gonna try and drag you into line dancing.”

You give her a playful nudge. “Isn’t that the whole point? Bad dancing, strong drinks, cowboy hats—sounds like a good time to me.”

Dina smirks. “Alright. I’m in. But only if you promise not to let me sing karaoke again.”

“No promises.”

The two of you laugh, and the rest of breakfast unfolds in that easy rhythm you’ve built over years of friendship—unspoken understanding, shared jokes, and the kind of comfort that feels like home.

Later, you both throw on jeans and hoodies, stepping outside with your travel mugs in hand. The sun is climbing higher now, casting golden light over the fields, and the scent of pine drifts lazily through the air. As you reach the edge of the porch, a familiar voice calls out.

“Well now, this is a sight for sore eyes.”

You turn and see her—Abby Anderson, leaning casually against the railing of the cabin next door, arms crossed over her chest, that usual smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. She’s dressed in worn jeans and a tank top that shows off strong arms dusted with road dirt and sun. Her hair’s a bit wild, like she just came back from a ride, and her hazel eyes are fixed squarely on you.

“Morning, Abby,” you say, trying not to sound as flustered as you suddenly feel.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you two this early,” she says, gaze still steady on yours. “Headed somewhere?”

“Just grabbing coffee from the café,” you answer.

Abby nods, then takes a step down from the porch, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. “You planning on showing up to that cowboy club tomorrow night?”

You hesitate only for a second. “Yeah. I think I will.”

Something changes in her expression—subtle, but unmistakable. A spark of something playful, edged with interest.

“Well,” she says, tipping her hat slightly with a grin that could undo a lesser person, “guess I’ll see you there then, buckle bunny.”

Your heart skips a beat.

She gives you one last look, then turns back toward her cabin, boots crunching softly across the gravel. Dina raises her eyebrows at you as you both start walking toward the truck.

“Did she just call you ‘buckle bunny’?” she asks, barely containing her amusement.

You try to hide your smile behind your coffee cup. “She did.”

Dina nudges your arm. “Well then. Tomorrow night just got a lot more interesting.”

And despite yourself, you can’t help but agree.

⸻

And there you were, the next night. You stand in front of the mirror, three different outfits laid out across your bed and a growing sense of dread bubbling in your chest. Boots or heels? Denim or leather? Casual cute or full-on cowgirl?

Jesse and Ellie are already on their way, Dina’s yelling from the bathroom that her eyeliner’s uneven, and time is slipping through your fingers like sand.

You try one last look—a black fitted tank, worn denim shorts, a belt with a silver buckle you kind of love, and your go-to boots. It feels right. You tug on a denim jacket, swipe on lip gloss, and try to quiet the nerves fluttering in your chest. Ready or not, it’s time.

⸻

The bar is alive with music, neon lights flickering over wood-paneled walls and a floor packed with boots scuffing against sawdust. There’s laughter, the clink of glasses, a haze of cigarette smoke curling near the rafters, and you are two shots deep, limbs loose, heart light.

You’re on the dance floor with Dina, your favorite song starting to pulse through the speakers like it was summoned just for you.

“What you gonna do with all that junk…”

You gasp and grin, instantly energized. “Oh my god, Dina—it’s My Humps!”

She laughs and grabs your hand. “You better not hold back now.”

And you don’t. You let yourself go—arms moving, hips swaying, mouthing every word like you’ve known this song your whole life (because, let’s be honest, you have). The world blurs into lights and laughter and bass thumping through your chest. You dance like it’s the only thing that matters.

And then, in the middle of all the motion, you catch her.

Abby.

Leaning against the far wall in the shadows, drink in hand, one boot crossed casually over the other. Her hat’s tipped low, and her eyes—fixed entirely on you—burn through the noise like a quiet secret. She’s watching you like you’re the only thing worth seeing in the room, the kind of look you read about in novels but never really believed in.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just watches you dance like you’ve painted yourself in color in a world that forgot what it meant to feel alive.

And it steals your breath more than the music ever could.

You hold Abby’s gaze for a moment longer than you should. Long enough to feel it—heat blooming beneath your skin, your heart thudding a little too fast for someone just dancing to a Black Eyed Peas song. There’s something about the way she looks at you—like she already knows what you’re thinking, like she’s reading every breath you take.

You break the eye contact.

You turn back to Dina, trying to laugh it off, but she catches it instantly—the shift in your energy, the way your smile falters for just a second.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, leaning in so you can hear her over the music.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t need to.

She glances over your shoulder, then smirks. “Ah. Got it.”

You follow her eyes and know exactly what—or who—she sees.

Dina nudges you gently. “You got this one,” she says, already backing away, leaving you in the center of the dance floor with your pulse in your throat.

You don’t have to look. You feel her presence before you see her—boots on the floor, the shift in air, the soft clink of ice in her glass.

And then Abby is in front of you.

Up close, her eyes are more golden than hazel under the low bar lights, and her smile—slow, crooked, intentional—hits like a warm breeze before a storm.

“You always dance like that,” she says, voice low and teasing, “or am I just lucky to catch the live performance?”

You raise an eyebrow, meeting her gaze. “Depends. You always watch from the shadows, or is that just your thing?”

She laughs, rich and unhurried, taking a sip from her drink. “Guilty. But in my defense… you kinda make it hard not to stare.”

You feel your face flush, but you hold your ground. “That your move? Lurk near a wall and wait for someone to start dancing?”

“Nah,” she says, tilting her head, eyes trailing down, then back up. “Only when that someone’s got moves like yours.”

You laugh, trying to play it cool, even as your chest flutters like it’s got something to prove.

“Well,” you say, stepping a little closer, “guess I should ask if you’re planning on watching all night… or if you’re gonna do something about it.”

That smile of hers shifts—turns sharper, hungrier. She doesn’t answer right away. Just finishes the last of her drink and sets the glass on the nearest table without taking her eyes off you.

Then she steps in, close enough that you feel the warmth of her voice at your ear.

“That depends, buckle bunny,” she murmurs. “You ready for a real dance?”

Your heart skips. The bar, the music, the crowd—they all blur into background noise the second Abby leans in and says those words.

You ready for a real dance?

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes,” you breathe, steady.

A flicker of something deeper crosses her face—approval, maybe, or satisfaction, like she’d been hoping you’d say that all along. Then, with an easy, practiced motion, Abby reaches up and pulls her hat off, slow and deliberate.

She steps even closer and sets it gently on your head, fingers brushing along your hairline. It’s the kind of touch that’s soft enough to be polite but lingers just long enough to be dangerous. Her gaze holds yours the whole time.

“There,” she says, voice dropping lower, more private. “Now you look the part.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your breath’s caught somewhere between your chest and throat, tangled up in the way she’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists in this place full of noise and motion.

Then she offers you her hand.

You take it.

Abby pulls you toward the edge of the dance floor—not the center where people are loud and wild, but off to the side, where the lighting’s softer, the shadows stretch longer, and the rhythm of the music slows just enough to let the tension breathe.

Her hands find your waist like she’s done it before, like your body belongs there in the space between her arms. You settle your hands on her shoulders, fingers brushing against muscle and worn cotton.

Neither of you says anything for a beat. The music pulses low, a new song rolling in—slower now, something with a sultry guitar and a drumbeat like a heartbeat.

And then you start to move.

She leads with confidence but no pressure, guiding you gently, letting you feel the rhythm before pushing it further. You match her step for step, the two of you moving like you’ve danced together before in some dream neither of you remembers fully.

The hat’s a little too big, but it feels right on your head.

Abby leans in, her mouth close to your ear, her breath warm against your skin. “Careful,” she murmurs. “I might not want it back.”

You smile, slow and sure this time.

“Then come get it.”

⸻

You don’t know how long you’ve been dancing—could be minutes, could be longer—but time doesn’t move the same when Abby Anderson is holding you like this.

The song hums low, bass slow and sultry, threaded with steel guitar and the kind of lyrics that melt like honey under heat. Abby’s hand is steady at your waist, her other brushing the edge of your lower back, just enough to remind you she’s there, guiding you, grounding you.

And still—leaving space for you to move. To choose.

You lean in, just slightly. Not because she’s pulling you, but because it feels natural, inevitable.

“You really dance like this with everyone?” you ask, voice low, teasing.

Abby huffs a quiet laugh against your cheek. “Only when they wear my hat.”

You feel the corners of your mouth twitch up, can’t help it. The hat sits crooked on your head now, tilted from the way you’re moving, your bodies swaying slow and close in the dark-lit corner of the bar. You don’t fix it.

She smells like cedarwood and whiskey, and there’s a faint trace of something like campfire smoke clinging to her shirt. It hits you suddenly, how intimate this moment is—not loud or messy like the rest of the bar, but quiet, deliberate. A kind of closeness you don’t stumble into by accident.

The music dips low again, drums steady like footfalls in dirt, and Abby leans in closer, her voice barely louder than the beat.

“You know, I almost didn’t come tonight,” she says, her thumb brushing against your hip in a slow circle. “Didn’t think it’d be worth it.”

You glance up at her, heart beating louder than the music now. “And now?”

Her eyes find yours—no smirk this time, no teasing. Just something honest.

“Now I’m thinking it might’ve been the smartest decision I’ve made in a long time.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Because your hands tighten ever so slightly at her shoulders. Because your bodies are so close now that you feel her heart beating in sync with yours. Because this moment—the sway, the silence, the weight of her attention—it speaks louder than anything either of you could say.

You keep dancing. Slower now.

And for the first time that night, it feels like the rest of the bar fades completely away.

⸻

The music eventually fades, but your bodies don’t separate right away. There’s a pause—an unspoken beat where neither of you quite wants to let go. When Abby finally steps back, her hand trails from your waist slowly, like she’s reluctant to lose the contact.

She looks at you with that same half-smile you’re starting to realize means more than it lets on.

“Come on,” she says softly, “you earned a drink after that.”

You nod, heart still thudding in your chest, and follow her off the floor.

The bar’s louder now, more people filling in, but she leads you through the crowd like she’s done it a hundred times—confident, unbothered. You settle into a quiet booth in the corner, away from the crush of voices and lights. Abby flags down a server and orders a whiskey for herself. You go with something a little sweeter. The first few sips settle your nerves, the burn of the alcohol grounding you.

For a while, you talk.

Not just flirty throwaways this time—real talk. You learn she helps manage a working ranch just outside town. Long days, early mornings, more mud than glamour. She tells you about growing up in a house where silence meant safety, and how she found peace not in people, but in places that gave her space to breathe.

You listen. You really listen. And when it’s your turn, she does the same.

It’s strange, how easy it is with her. You didn’t expect that. Abby’s the kind of person who walks into a room and takes up space without trying, but here—across from you, drink in hand, hat abandoned on the table—she feels present in a way that’s rare.

She glances at you over the rim of her glass. “Didn’t think I’d be sitting here tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow. “No?”

“Nah,” she says, a soft smile curling at her lips. “I thought I’d show up, maybe get a drink, head out early. But then you danced like that. Kinda changed the plan.”

You shake your head, smiling, trying to play it off. “You really don’t turn it off, do you?”

Abby leans forward, forearms resting on the table, voice lower now. “Not when I’m trying to get your number.”

There it is again—that pull. That magnetic, self-assured charm that somehow doesn’t feel like a performance.

You pull your phone out and slide it toward her.

She takes it without hesitation, types in her number, then looks up at you. “I’m not the text-you-twice type,” she says. “So if you’re interested, don’t wait.”

You don’t look away. “Who said I was gonna wait at all?”

Abby’s smile deepens, and for a second, it feels like the whole bar fades behind her again. The noise, the crowd, the drinks—none of it matters.

Just this table. Just this look. Just her.

And your phone buzzing gently in your hand with her contact now saved:

Abby Anderson — don’t play it safe.

⸻

Part 2??

[tiredandsapphic]

LETDOWN

pairing ꩜ adult!lottie matthews x fem!reader headcanons summary ꩜ lottie whose cursed and blessed with loving you, whose time is running out (totally inspired by van) an ꩜ angst! i listened to too much radiohead writing this

꩜ when you show up to the commune with the others, helping find nat, lottie immediately knows. you don’t look sick—but that’s the worst part. you look better than you used to, stronger.

꩜ eventually you break, probably in some heated argument between you and lottie. you only break when she speaks so shakily, the poor girl from years ago resurfacing— “you don’t get to do that, you don’t get to come here and leave again.”

꩜ it’s bitter, but emotional fights aren’t uncommon. it’s old muscle memory, two broken girls who never learned to speak without bleeding. lottie’s words are always your weakness, “you don’t get to martyr yourself now, not with me. not again.” or when you insist you came to say goodbye—“don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare say goodbye to me.”

꩜ lottie tries so so hard to be strong, for you. she doesn’t cry in front of you, she just assures you. but the minute shes alone? she crumbles. she slips out of bed when you’re fast asleep, wraps a blanket around herself and walks to the garden barefoot. she crouches down in the dirt and weeps. silent. grieving. mouth pressed into her sleeve keep any sounds from reaching you.

꩜ some nights you find her, her absence too heavy in bed. you’ll find her outside praying to the moon, the stars, whatever will listen. you always hold her, cry with her. “i don’t want to be strong. i want to be selfish. i want to beg you to stay.” she will admit, and you’ll just assure her you’re here, right now, in that moment. you have to pretend her emotions don’t hurt more than your actual illness.

꩜ you’re annoyingly independent. most days you bring her tea, you make her food, you help around the commune without her help. she tries to sit you down, but you insist she lets you live rather than just survive.

꩜ she loves to take control—especially when you’re too tired or weak do anything but whimper. you're stretched out on the bed when she kisses lower and lower. her words are soft against your skin “let me take care of you,” and god, she makes you come so gently. slowly. like shes drawing the pain out of you with every pass of her tongue, every roll of her fingers.

꩜ you, cold? all the time. it could be sweltering out and you’re a human burrito in bed. layers of stolen hoodies and comfy blankets. lottie loves it. she’ll happily pull you into her lap. you’ll press your freezing feet or fingers against her and laugh when she squeals.

꩜ you ramble about a bucket list at random times. half of it is genuine the other half pretty much nonsense. she doesn’t tell you but she keeps a little journal of your ramblings. some however aren’t as light hearted— “i want to live long enough to see you get laugh lines.”

꩜ when things start getting worse, you start getting worse, lottie holds you tighter and closer at night. she kisses you more, dances barefoot in the garden with you more, and perhaps prays to it a little more. she insists youre not getting weaker, youre just softening. like dusk.

꩜ the night it happens, shes holding you in the garden, under the stars, your favourite place. it’s quiet. she knows. you know. lottie doesn’t scream, she just holds you tighter, rocks you in her arms and kisses your hair until you’re gone, entirely.

꩜ when you’re gone, she breaks. she lets herself fall apart, knowing she promised you that she'd build something new with what’s left. she knows you're still with her, physical absence and all. she even does some of the things left on your silly bucket list she wrote down.

꩜ perhaps some of your past teammates visit her, support her. tai just looks at her like shes looking into mirror, a soft understanding.

꩜ she spends a lot of time praying to you now, as if you're a goddess or deity. something holy and lost. she dreams of you, constantly, like a soft haunting.

꩜ your music plays in her home, anything that reminds her of you. something physical to keep you tethered. she lets ‘landslide’ by fleetwood mac echo like a prayer.

[wingedhallows]

band au!nat!!!!

𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 band! nat scatorccio x reader / 0.9k words ⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 none ⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 OKAY!! this was fun to write, tbh. thank u for the request !!

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

You're not exactly sure what makes you say yes. Maybe it’s the way Natalie Scatorccio stumbles over her words, twisting the sleeve of her hoodie in her fingers, chewing at the corner of her lip like she's terrified you might laugh at her.

Maybe it’s the way her eyes, usually so sharp and electric, go soft and flickering when she asks if you want to come watch them practice.

Either way, here you are — standing outside Shauna's house, clutching your jacket a little tighter around yourself, your breath fogging in the cool evening air.

Music leaks through the walls — a messy, pulsing thud of a bassline and the distant crack of drums. You take a breath and knock

The door swings open almost immediately, and there she is.

Natalie.

Her blonde hair is half tucked under a beanie, a guitar strap slung over one shoulder, her Doc Martens untied and scuffed at the toes. She looks like every garage-band daydream you’ve ever had, and somehow, she still looks nervous.

"Hey," she says, voice a little breathless, like she’s sprinted to answer. "You came."

You smile, warmth blooming under your skin. "You invited me."

"Yeah," she says, blinking like she can't quite believe it worked. Then, rubbing the back of her neck, "Uh, c'mon in. We're just getting started."

Shauna waves at you from the living room — her bass resting against her hip — and Van gives a two-finger salute from behind the drum kit. Misty’s fiddling with some wires near the amps, her glasses slipping down her nose. It’s chaotic, a little out of tune, and somehow... perfect.

Natalie leads you over to the ratty couch shoved against the far wall. "You can, uh, sit here. It's not like, super clean, but..."

You plop down with a grin, not caring at all. "Looks great to me."

The practice kicks off messy, a little loud and a lot passionate. Covers, half-songs, Shauna and Van arguing over the tempo while Misty insists she can "totally make a fog machine work if someone lets her try."

But then — after about an hour, once the chaos settles into a loose kind of rhythm — Nat catches your eye across the room. She gives a little nod, almost like she’s working up the courage to jump off a cliff.

"This one’s... new," she says, voice a little scratchy, turning the mic stand toward her, knuckles whitening around the neck of her guitar. "I kinda... wrote it." Her gaze flickers to you for a heartbeat and away again. "Uh, it’s for someone."

Your heart trips over itself, warmth blooms in your chest.

She strums once, adjusting the tuning with a twist of her fingers. Then again, a softer, sweeter sound filling the room.

The song unfolds like something secret — slow and a little rough at the edges, her voice threading through the chords with a raw, unpolished kind of beauty. The lyrics aren't complicated. They're simple, honest, like she’s peeled them straight out of her chest. Little lines about stolen glances and wanting to say something but never quite finding the right moment. About how sometimes the best thing you can do is hope that person notices you back.

And even though Natalie never once looks directly at you while she sings — keeps her gaze stubbornly fixed on the fraying rug beneath her boots — you know.

It’s for you.

The world outside the living room slips away, melting into the background until there’s only her voice, her guitar, and the weight of something new and trembling between you.

When the last chord fades, there’s a beat of silence. Even Van doesn’t immediately crack a joke.

Nat mumbles something about "working on the bridge still" and ducks her head, cheeks visibly pink even from across the room.

Practice wraps not long after. Shauna bails to drive her sister somewhere, Misty declares she’s "engineering the fog machine for next time," and Van winks at you before sauntering out with her drumsticks tucked in her back pocket.

Which leaves you and Natalie.

She hovers by the door, picking at the hem of her hoodie, her hair falling into her eyes. "Thanks for... uh... coming. I know we’re kinda — messy."

You stand up, heart still doing somersaults from the song. You step closer, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "It was perfect."

Natalie swallows hard, her throat bobbing. "I, uh — that song — it was... for you."

Her voice is so quiet you barely catch it. She finally looks at you, really looks at you, and for once there isn’t any armor there. No smartass grin or cocky shrug. Just her, wide open and waiting.

You smile, so full you think you might burst, and before you can overthink it — before you can let yourself chicken out — you lean in and press a kiss to her cheek.

Warm and quick and a little shy.

Nat goes stock-still. You can feel the way she holds her breath, like even breathing might shatter the moment.

When you pull back, her face is bright red and she looks absolutely, beautifully wrecked.

"I’ll see you at your next show," you say softly, smiling.

Natalie blinks at you, dazed, and then grins — the kind of grin that makes you feel like you could float all the way home.

"Yeah," she says, voice cracking a little. "Definitely."

You step out into the night, the door swinging shut behind you, your heart beating to the rhythm of a song that’s written just for you.

[ayrtonswnna]

⠀⠀WHOSE NIGHTMARE? max verstappen smut

⠀⠀⠀⠀(not updated) masterlist⠀⠀⠀⠀drop a request!

wc: 3,1K. MDNI — enemies to lovers, except they're on the same team and she's been trying to find her way into his bed for long enough. it's more than she expected.

max verstappen x lienne giffoni (female!rb driver)

warnings: FILTHY SMUT, unprotected sex (that's fiction!!! be safe irl yall!!!!) p in v, slight fingering, almost crossing the consent line but it doesn't (slightly), no aftercare at all, rough!max, mean!max and all of that, spanking, kinda brat!character but she doesn't live up to that title — she's a bitch anyways, an introduction to the sinful part because i like the thrill, oscar piastri as a special guest — NOT in bed. if i missed something, let me know.

"What do I have to lose?"

Lienne stares down the car ahead — identical to hers, just a few meters in front. The gap is closing. The angle to the kerb? Perfect. The radio call came unexpected.

A perfect P1 in only her fourth Formula 1 race. By overtaking her own teammate.

"Your damn mind, Lienne. We're on Plan A."

Plan A and Plan B are wrapped around that P1 car. Her engineer knows her instincts — and knows she’ll ignore rules if it means a win. So, the reminder comes quick.

They all knew what they were signing up for when they brought her in — straight from Formula 2, fiery temper, allergic to losing.

And then they paired her with Max Verstappen. What could go wrong?

Well, it seems like there's something wrong by his following radio message;

"Has she lost her mind? What is she doing?"

The pit wall’s a mess of confused engineers and frantic glances. They all know how this ends. A bomb, just waiting.

"We're working on it, Max. Keep the pace up."

"Lienne, secure the podium and spare the car. P1 and P2 for the team. Bring it home."

The third-place car’s way behind. There’s a lap and a half left. All Lienne has on her mind is victory.

"Copy, Lienne?"

"Yeah, copy. P1 and P2. Congratulate Max on his second place for me, please."

After that, nothing anyone says matters. Not Hannah. Not Horner. The girl in the RB20 is going full throttle — and she's about to race her own teammate.

When Red Bull signed her, everyone understood: she wouldn’t play nice. She wasn't here to bow or obey. She was here to win. But, yeah, Max didn’t expect her to take it from him.

"What the fuck?! What in the actual fuck is she doing? Mate, what the fuck?"

"Calm down, Max. We're working on it."

Truth is, the team knows just as little as he does. Lienne’s gone rogue. Max can’t catch her now.

She’s not racing for the team anymore — she’s racing him. And he’s losing.

Two laps of chaos. The engineers go quiet. She's done. Probably fired. That’s all the paddock can talk about.

When the race ends, there’s no celebration. Not from her because at least she knows there's no mood for that. She follows the steps, does what’s required. Nothing more.

The cool-down room is hell.

"You're lucky if you ever race again," Max growls, sitting far away, face red and tight with fury.

She smiles. Smiles. Like it’s all a game. Like it’s not eating him alive.

"This sport was too easy for you," she shrugs. "I'm what you needed to improve."

She says it looking him dead in the eye. Like she didn’t just ignore every team order. Like she didn’t blow up the race plan.

How can someone so small be so reckless?

"I need you out of my way. That’s what I need." Max forgets everyone’s watching. "You fucked up. Bad."

"Did I?" Her lashes flutter. The P1 cap on her head is tilted like a crown. "Or did you finally lose the throne, Max Verstappen? Someone finally put you on your knees. Thank God! It was getting boring."

She even bites her lip.

God, he wants to shut her up.

"Shut the fuck up."

Nothing else. The screen replays her final overtake. The third driver — McLaren — walks in. Max says nothing. His mind races.

Lienne keeps smiling, chatting with Oscar like she didn’t just cause a storm. Sweat clings to her skin, stray curls stuck to her neck. She's a tease in every way.

And Max hates her for it.

"What a race," Oscar offers, trying to cut the tension. "Did you guys plan this?"

"No… All freestyle," Lienne grins, leaning back. "That’s how you do it, you see? Just one lesson: you see Max, you overtake Max. Then you win over Max."

She’s taunting him. On purpose. She always does this.

Max doesn’t even feel guilty for what he’s thinking.

Lienne needs someone to fuck the attitude out of her.

"Just that easy," the Australian laughs nervously. "Weird as hell though. What was the actual plan?"

"The plan was what we had until lap 47. Everything else was unprofessionalism," Max explains coldly. "Lienne went rogue."

"Max! Don’t be so hard on yourself!" she chimes in, voice syrupy with sarcasm. "Losing to me isn’t unprofessional. It’s just life! Everyone loses sometimes."

Just then, someone enters to bring them to the podium. Lienne is the first out, last into the champagne spray. Oscar tries to ease the mood — but he won’t be in Red Bull’s driver's room later.

"You think this is a joke? That you do whatever the fuck you want, and laugh it off later?"

Lienne turns, halfway out of her fireproofs, expression innocent. Almost too innocent.

"I think I’m hilarious." She shrugs again. That damn shrug. "I’m not doing whatever I want, Max. I’m doing what pisses you off. And now you’re mad. That’s on you."

He steps closer. Her lack of reaction just stokes the fire. She’s still peeling off the rest of her gear, casual like she’s in her own bedroom.

"You broke team rules."

"I broke your rules. Big difference." Her lips move slowly, deliberately. Hair wild, eyes locked on his.

"The rules are mine because I win. You can’t compete with me, Lienne. It’s all fun until you’re out of your seat."

"You talk too much." She sighs, still calm. "You need a catchphrase or something. Bit more punch."

She’s standing there in just her sports bra beneath the fireproofs, still holding the fabric. She always walks around like this — why does it feel different now?

"And you need to lose that attitude. But do I go around saying it all the time? No, I don’t."

Her eyes flicker to his lips. Back up again. A smirk. "Yeah, bet. Not much of a man now, huh? Guess you're only Mad Max when there's no competition."

If she’d said this years ago, maybe it would’ve gotten in his head. But Max matured. Now he only thinks one thing.

He’s going to fuck the attitude out of her.

"What do you want, Lienne? What’s the point of this scene? You want something, just say it."

Oh, he’s right. She wants something she won’t ask for.

This isn’t new. They’ve shared drinks before. Caught each other looking. The tension’s always been there. It was getting only easier to ignite it.

"I want you to go fuck yourself." She’s leaning into it now. "I’m not one to ask."

"Yeah. I know."

It’s like a fuse. Electric. He watches her, sweaty, flushed, half undressed, and—

She turns. Big mistake.

Two steps. His hand wraps around her wrist, turns her around, pins her between him and the wall.

No more words.

Then it’s her back hitting the wall of her driver’s room, and Max’s body pinning her there like a slammed door.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s all teeth and tongue and months of restrained tension breaking open like a snapped DRS flap. Their mouths crash together, hot and furious, her hands grabbing at his half-unzipped race suit, tugging until the sleeves tied at his waist fall loose.

Max doesn’t pause — not even a second — before his fingers find the zipper of her own suit and drag it down with single-minded intent. Fireproofs cling to her hips, damp with sweat, her chest heaving against him as his mouth trails hot down her neck.

"You really have to fuck your way into my dick, huh?" he growls, hand sliding down over her belly. "You could’ve just asked."

"I got some good points out of that," she throws back, smug as hell, lips brushing his jaw.

The laugh that slips out of him is low, dark, humorless. Her voice is too loud — and they both know it. The walls are thin, the paddock is just beyond the door, and they’re both still suited like they just stepped off the track.

Max grips her face, palm firm across her jaw, and shoves her back against the wall again.

“Keep your voice down,” he snaps. “You want the entire grid to hear how wet you are for me?”

She opens her mouth to talk back — always does — but he cuts her off with another kiss, brutal and fast. One hand tugs her fireproofs and suit down her thighs, the other keeps her face right where he wants it.

And she moans. Loud.

Max pulls back, furious, breath ragged. “I said quiet.”

Then comes the slap.

Not hard — but sharp. A sting across her cheek that silences her instantly, eyes wide, lips parted. Max stares her down, jaw tight.

“That help you listen?” he asks, voice rough like gravel.

She nods, lips already swelling, eyes flickering from his to the door, as if remembering just where they are. But she still can’t keep her mouth shut — not when he drags his fingers between her legs and finds her already slick.

"Fuck, Max—" it's half on purpose, like she's just not even trying to hold back.

She's trying to push. And she gets it, just as it worked on track.

Another slap. This time lighter, but it makes her shiver.

“Don’t make me gag you with your own fireproofs,” he mutters, free hand dragging up her thigh. “You want something in your mouth? Ask.”

He grins. Hands wrapping around her waist, pushing closer as she gasps.

Right on cue, his mouth moves to hers again —sloppier, slower. His tongue claiming the dominance he couldn’t keep on track.

She’s still barely out of her suit when he spins her around again, this time not for a kiss but to shove her front-first against the wall. Her breath hitches — not out of fear, but pure thrill — cheek pressed to the cool surface, arms pinned above her head by one of his hands.

“Still feeling cocky, little miss champion?” he growls low into her ear, his free hand already dragging her sports bra up over her chest.

Her voice is a purr. “Still feeling threatened, old man?”

Wrong answer.

The sharp smack lands on her ass now — loud, rough, enough to make her jolt. Her laugh is breathy, but she doesn’t apologize. Not even close.

Max’s fingers dig into her hips, dragging her against him until she feels how hard he is through his jeans. “I warned you. I told you to shut the fuck up.”

“And I told you I’m not one to ask.”

Another smack, harder. This time she gasps — not just from the sting but because his hand doesn’t leave. It palms her ass, then dips down between her thighs, two fingers rubbing over the fabric of her underwear like he’s mocking how wet she is already.

“For someone who talks so much, your pussy’s saying the opposite.” His voice is a rasp. Dark. Dangerous. “You like pushing me, huh? You like seeing how far you can go until I ruin you.”

She turns her head slightly, lips curled in a dare. “Do your worst.”

That’s all it takes.

In seconds, her underwear is down around her thighs and he’s sinking to his knees behind her, tongue already dragging through her folds like he’s starved. No warning, no buildup. Just wet, messy licks that make her knees buckle and her bratty confidence start to shake.

“Oh—fuck, Max—”

It's in the way her hips shift against him, chasing the friction. Max makes a sound low in his throat, mutters something in Dutch, and then he’s got her leg hiked up, her suit crumpled at her ankles, and his own fireproofs tugged just low enough.

No teasing. No time. They barely got to foreplay.

He pushes into her like he owns her — and maybe he does, in this moment. Her nails scrape across the thin fabric clinging to his back, her mouth open in a gasp he doesn’t let her release. His hand covers her mouth, thumb dragging across her cheek where the sting of his slap still lingers.

“You’re gonna take it all, quiet like a good girl,” he grits out, thrusts hard enough that her back hits the wall again with a dull thud.

She’s shaking already, muffled sounds lost beneath his palm, eyes rolled back.

“This what you wanted?” he hisses, hips snapping into her. “You think you can play games on track and walk away like I won’t ever get my payback?”

She nods — frantic, still — like she was using her words to say "yes, I think I can play whatever I want to and walk away like you won't ever get payback" and that only makes him go harder. Every stroke rougher, more desperate. The heat between them, the sweat, the scent of rubber and engine oil still clinging to their suits — it’s filthy and fast and perfect.

It's when she clenches; he knew he wasn't going to let it end so quickly. She feels the emptiness as he steps back, hands holding her waist and giving it no time as he turns her around.

He doesn’t even wait for her legs to steady. Just scoops her up like she weighs nothing and drops her onto the narrow couch shoved against the wall of her driver’s room. She barely has time to catch her breath before he’s pushing her down on her knees, fireproofs and suit still tangled around her thighs, cheek pressed into the cushion.

"Ass up," Max orders, voice hoarse, not even trying to hide how wrecked he is.

And she gives it to him — fast, eager, already moaning again as he grabs her hips and drags her back against him. No slow build this time. Just a brutal thrust that knocks the air out of her lungs, followed by another and another until she’s choking on the force of it, clawing at the armrest like it’ll save her.

“Max—” she tries, barely a whimper, “I—I can’t—”

He slaps her ass, hard. “Yes, you fucking can.”

Her whole body jolts. Then another slap. Then he’s driving into her with such relentless rhythm that the couch legs start to squeak against the floor.

“You wanna talk about lap times now?” he pants, one hand sliding up her spine to grab her hair and yank her head back. “Still think you’re faster?”

She’s babbling. Words that aren’t words, her mind wrecked, legs trembling, cheeks stained with spit and tears. And she’s still trying to fuck back into him — helpless, addicted, gone.

“Too much,” she sobs, voice muffled in the cushions.

Max doesn’t stop. Not even close.

“That’s the fucking point.”

He presses her down fully, body blanketing hers, cock still buried deep. His mouth finds her ear, hot breath and sweat and growled Dutch curling over her skin.

“I’m gonna keep going until your voice breaks,” he swears, “and then maybe I’ll let you cum again.”

Her hands scrabble at the cushions, searching for something to hold onto. But there’s nothing — no mercy, no control, no stopping.

Only Max. And everything he’s willing to take.

“You wanna play queen of the grid? Fine.” He's all the way in; then all the way out. Then in again. Strong, relentless. “But right now you’re just a cock-drunk brat who needs to be put in her place.”

And then he’s inside her — all at once, no mercy, no gentleness. She cries out, legs fighting not to give up as he starts to fuck into her like he’s trying to fuck the memory of the race out of both of them.

She claws at the couch, trying to meet his pace but he’s faster. Rougher. Unforgiving. Her moans get louder, messier — every thrust knocking the air out of her lungs until all she can do is whimper and beg.

“Too much?” he taunts, even as he pounds into her harder, grounding his hands into her hips. “Thought you could handle anything, Lienne. Thought you were tough.”

“Fuck—Max, I—”

Her orgasm hits hard, tearing through her like lightning — but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow, fingers deep down her skin as he holds her in place. His hand finds her throat, pressing lightly as he fucks her through it, her body already shaking under him.

“One,” he mutters. “That’s one. I’m not done.”

She tries to protest, but it’s all breath and no sound. She doesn't want to, in fact. That's what Lienne was looking for ever since the first pet-peeve.

“Come on,” he hisses, thrusts brutal now. “You wanted to be better than me? Take it. Take every fucking inch.”

Another orgasm builds too fast — she’s too sensitive, too overwhelmed — but it hits anyway, making her sob and convulse, tears falling freely now.

She comes hard, a trembling mess pinned under him, her voice caught in the back of her throat as she tries to cry out but only manages a broken gasp. Max's hand is still over her mouth, smothering every sound she makes, letting her fall apart in silence. Her thighs shake violently, knees barely holding her weight on the couch as he fucks her through the last wave, giving her no pause, no break. Just relentless.

"Shhh," he hisses against her neck, breath rough and hot. "Don't wake the whole paddock just because you can’t take it."

Lienne sobs into his palm, guttural and muffled, her entire body twitching beneath him. She's ruined — properly wrecked. But even now, even collapsed, she tries to arch back into him, chasing something more she doesn’t even have words for.

He grinds in, deep and slow, once, twice, enough to hear her whimper again, and then pulls out without warning. She slumps forward, arms buckling, face pressed into the couch cushion as she pants through the comedown.

Max stands behind her, calmly pulling his race suit back up like nothing happened, smoothing the fireproofs over his chest, fixing the waistband like he's not leaving her there dripping and ruined.

He leans over, close enough to brush his mouth near her ear.

"Maybe now you’ll put some respect on my name."

She turns her head slightly, mascara smudged, lips raw and swollen, breath still shaky — and she laughs.

A weak, wrecked, absolutely shameless laugh.

"In your dreams, Verstappen."

Max grins, dark and crooked.

"Yeah. Thought so."

And then he’s gone. No towel. No aftercare. No parting words. Just the soft sound of the door closing behind him, leaving her to fix herself, knees weak and thighs shaking, wrecked and unbothered — because she’ll never give him that satisfaction.

⠀⠀ʚïɞ ayrtonswnna, 2025.

[yougavemeyourheartyouknow]

The frat party (baby daddy AU: College days prequels)

Baby daddy Masterlist

Not proofread. Mentions of Alcohol, cursing

Word count: 880

—

It took you about three weeks after your first day at college to get invited to a frat party, you’d consider that pretty good since for the most part you keep to yourself. Your roommate got invited from some guy in her lit class, you couldn’t remember his name though, something with a P???

You promised to yourself you’d put yourself more out there socially in college, and so far it was working! Though that doesn’t mean that you almost turned around and b-lined it back home when you saw somebody already taking a nap on the front lawn of the frat house, if Mj wasn’t basically strong holding your arm with hers you definitely would. It took her five minutes outside and another three in the doorway to convince you to just stay for only a few hours. She didn’t want to come alone and she wanted an excuse to see this guy outside of class. You’d be doing her a favor and that’s what friends do, so you agreed.

You both hung around the kitchen for a bit, nursing some cheap ass beer that you were going to abandon on the counter and not return to it when you got the chance. After maybe half an hour Peter, or as you dubbed him “guy from English” finally appeared, he was really friendly, a bit of a chatterbox but you can see why Mj would find him cute. He wasn’t really your personal type though, you’d want someone with darker hair, maybe a bit taller, a bit more buff, maybe-

“Oh! Hey- Miguel!” You blinked out of your thoughts, when Peter waved someone over from behind you, only to be met with the guy who sat next to you during the first day of your statistics class. “Miguel this is Mj and her friend-I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.” You go to answer but Miguel beat you to the chase. You had to clench your bottle a bit tighter to keep yourself from smiling too enthusiastically. “You two know each other?” Peter asked with a head tilt.

“Um, we both have Mr,Peterson for Statistics. We sat next to each other on the first day.” You answered, before sneaking a glance at him, covering it by taking a sip of your drink. You hadn’t been able to interact much outside of sharing the occasional note through text though, since you both haven’t been able to sit next to each other since not for the lack of trying though.

“Ohhh yeah I think Miguel’s mentioned you before.” Peter blurted out, before receiving a light glare from the other male. “You guys share notes right?” He continued, making it seem like that all he mentioned.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s tired of me always bugging him. I swear Mr, Peterson talks like a million words per minute.” You laughed, your cheeks flesh from the cheap alcohol and the humidity of all the bodies in a two story house.

“No, don’t worry about it.” Miguel he assured you with a head shake. “I’m sure half the class has the same notes anyways.”

—

You were actually enjoying yourself, you had expected to stay maybe an hour tops. But it’s probably because you had someone else to talk to while Mj and Peter kept sneaking off to “grab another drink” for ten minutes before coming back empty handed.

As the night went on, the more crowded the first floor got. It was a bit much, so you four plus a few more people snuck into one of the rooms upstairs with a half empty bottle of Tito’s. It went from passing the bottle around in a circle to the bottle on the ground. You weren’t really sure how spin the bottle got started but at least it no one’s landed on you yet.

You were sitting between Peter and a random blond girl. You couldn’t help but feel the way your heart pounded as you moved onto your knees to reach the bottle, giving it a good spin. It felt like you were watching the bottle spin forever, if you were in a coming of age movie this is when the camera would go into slow motion and the sound of your heartbeat would overtake the muffled sound of Uncle ACE from Blood Orange playing from downstairs. You had barely noticed when it had stopped, pointing in the opposite direction of you. Eyes slowly moving up until they locked with dark brown.

Shit.

“No way you got Miguel!” Peter laughed, making you look back and shoot him a glare. Mj moved over to hit him lightly on the arm, as you slowly crawled over until you were in front of him.

“Sorry.” You whispered to Miguel, before slowly moving in. He almost wanted to reply with “it’s okay” but he didn’t have the chance to. Eyes fluttering shut as your soft lips met his.

Wow, they're a good kisser.

The kiss wasn’t too long, a few seconds at most, though you’re sure you might be overthinking it, you didn’t want it to last too long. So you pulled away, eyes still closed just long enough to not notice the way his lips followed in an attempt to keep the contact just a bit longer.

—

Heyyy… how y’all doing….

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