#that one's part of something longer and this one might be too

[maskedbyghost]

You ask, I deliver:

The possessive reader AU, I know neither of them can stand the thought of their partner going to the dentist. Laying back, letting someone else know the interior of that mouth, fingers sliding over soft tissue and mapping out the points of those teeth? Possibly drawing blood that should rightfully be theirs? Someone sedate these two like they’re aggressive cats coming in for a cleaning at the vet.

shoutout to this absolute legend who sent me the idea because you unlocked something unholy in me. READ PART 1 HERE cw: smut, possessive/obsessive behavior, semi-public sex (in a car), unprotected sex..

You drive him to the appointment because he hates doing it alone. Still, honestly, the entire time you’re behind the wheel, you’re gripping it hard enough that you’re surprised it doesn’t just snap in half, because the only thing going through your head is the mental image of some stranger putting their hands in Simon’s mouth, tilting his head back, touching him in places that should be yours, places only you should ever be allowed to know, and the tiny noises he makes when he’s uncomfortable.

You swear to god if you think about it one second longer, you might actually commit a felony.

Simon looks over at you once when you stop at a red light, raises an eyebrow under his cap, and says, “You gonna calm down, sweetheart, or am I gonna have to sedate you this time?”

And you smile at him, all bright and sunny like the most normal girlfriend ever, except you know it’s not right, you can feel it pulling at your mouth wrong, too many teeth showing, a smile you have to force out of yourself before you start growling or crying or both.

Simon just shakes his head a little and mutters, “Terrifying,” under his breath like he thinks you can’t hear him.

At the office, you sit together in those shitty chairs, pretending you’re normal people, and you’re almost holding it together until the door opens and of course it’s a young woman, pretty, smiling, fresh little uniform and shiny name tag and all, and your stomach twists itself into a thousand angry knots because now you’re not just imagining some faceless stranger, you’re staring at the exact woman who’s about to put her hands in Simon’s mouth, who’s about to know the little sounds he makes when he flinches, who's gonna touch him, smell him, see him with his mask off, and you grip the chair so hard you think it might crack.

“Simon Riley?” she calls, all sweet and professional, and Simon stands up, but before he can even move, you grab his wrist like you’re going to drag him back down into the chair and refuse to let him go, and he just gives you this look, this calm, amused, patient look that makes you want to bite him right there in the waiting room.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, like he knows you’re two seconds from throwing yourself at the poor woman and clawing her eyes out, and he squeezes your hand once before he goes, and that’s the only thing that keeps you in your seat.

You sit there staring at the closed door, thinking about all the ways you could ruin this woman’s life if she smiles too much or laughs at one of his stupid little jokes or leans too close or touches him too long, because no one should get to touch him but you, no one should get to see how good he is when he’s soft and quiet and letting someone take care of him, and it’s yours, it’s all supposed to be yours, and god, you’re so far gone you don’t even want to be normal about it anymore.

By the time he comes back out, you’re already halfway to throwing a fit, but he just looks tired and a little dazed from the fluoride, and he’s rubbing his jaw like it’s sore, and that’s all it takes for the switch to flip in your brain, from violent to protective in half a second.

You drag him out into the parking lot without a word, shoving him into the passenger seat and climbing over him before he can even say anything, straddling his lap with your knees pressed into the seat on either side of his hips, grabbing his face in both hands like you’re checking him over for damage even though what you really want is to mark him, make him messy, make him smell like you so no one else ever gets any stupid ideas again.

“She touched you,” you whisper, half accusation, half devastation, pressing your forehead to his while breathing him in so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull the air out of his lungs.

“She wore gloves,” he says, voice low and careful like he’s talking to a crazy person, which, fair, because you are, and it’s not even enough, it’s not even close to enough, because he still let her, still let someone else close, still trusted someone else to take care of him when that’s your job.

You kiss him messy and hard, sliding your hands into his hair, tugging at it just to feel him grunt against your mouth, and then you’re rocking your hips against him, grinding down until you feel him start to stiffen underneath you, until you know he can’t even think straight anymore, and you pull back just enough to pant into his mouth, “Mine. All mine. No one else touches you. No one else gets to even look at you like that.”

Simon’s hands dig into your waist, trying to slow you down, trying to catch his breath, but you’re not having it.

You’re already unbuttoning his jeans with shaky hands, already sinking down onto him with a broken little gasp because you need it, need him inside you, need to erase the memory of someone else touching him, need to make him so messy and ruined that no one else would ever dare think he belonged to anyone but you.

You ride him fast and desperate, muttering broken things against his skin, promises and threats and prayers all tangled together — "you're mine, mine, only mine, gonna mark you up so bad no one'll even think about touching you again, gonna make you come so hard you forget everyone else’s name but mine"

And Simon’s already so wrecked, clinging to you, groaning into your neck, hips stuttering helplessly, and when you bite down on his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise through his hoodie, he spills inside you with a sound so rough and desperate it’s almost a sob.

You don't let up, grinding on him slow and filthy, kissing his throat, his jaw, whispering, "mine, mine, always mine," over and over again until you feel him throb inside you one more time, a second, broken little aftershock you didn’t even know was possible.

And when you finally pull back and look at him, red-faced, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, he just smiles that stupid, wrecked little smile he only ever gives you, and you know you don’t have to say anything else.

Because the way he looks at you — like he belongs to you, like he wants to belong to you — is all the proof you’ll ever need.

-------------------------------------------

fuck me i love them

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate

[narnian-neverlander]

One Night Stands Only [Jason Todd x GN!Reader]

Summary: It’s obvious Jason only has one night stands - right?

Genre: fluff, tiny bit of hurt/comfort

Word Count: 4,6k

Warnings: none

A/N: Came across the DC Valentine’s special again and… yeah. Decided to do sth about it 💁

If you use any of my works for AI I will hunt you down for sport 😬

“You were right, it’s a nice place.” Bernard nods appraisingly, glancing around the newly opened bookstore, little café situated right in the middle. It’s not a new concept by any means, but the high ceilings and big windows allow the little natural light Gotham has to brighten the entire place and the cozy couches and booths scattered between shelves make for a nice and different respite from what the city usually has to offer. Tim hums in approval as he glances over the menu again. “Yeah; quiet, comfy, good coffee selection. I should thank the person who recommended it.”

“And who was that?” Bernard asks over his shoulder before greeting the girl working the counter and placing their order. Tim’s brows immediately furrow. “It was… I heard about it from… Uhm…” The blonde chuckles as he steers his boyfriend towards a nearby table, eyes flicking towards a corner sofa. “You think it might’ve been your brother?” Tim snorts. “Which one?” He receives a gesture at something behind him as an answer and finds Jason sitting on one of the couches a little further back, book propped open in his lap and a few more stacked on the small, round table in front of him and Tim nods. “Okay, sure, that tracks.” Bernard watches over Tim’s shoulder a few moments longer, then a small smile forms on his face. “I mean, yeah, it is a nice place for a date.”

Tim’s head snaps back around so fast it’s comical, a disbelieving, almost scandalized ‘Date?!’ out of his mouth before he can stop it. Sure enough, someone else has joined his brother, just in the process of placing two cups on the table - or trying to anyways; an almost impossible task with the amount of books already occupying the small space. And while he might not be able to hear either of you, he wouldn’t be part of a family of world class detectives if he couldn’t read lips.

‘Okay, should I just get like, a whole teapot now? How long do you plan on being here?’

‘Eh, not long.’

‘Jay, even you can’t read five books at once.’

‘Watch me.’

A cocky grin and an eyebrow waggle, which earns him an eye roll from the mystery person, albeit attached to a fond smile, followed by a shooing motion to scoot further down the sofa and make space, to which he obliges immediately. Tucked into Jason’s side, his arm coming around your shoulders entirely too naturally as both of you go back to your books, seemingly all settled and content to simply be in the other’s presence like this.

Tim turns back to his boyfriend with brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line and fingers tapping his chin in thought - and Bernard knows exactly what that look means. “Tim, switch outta detective mode. Your brother has a date, so what?” But the gears are clearly already turning and not stopping anytime soon. “It’s just… Jason only has one night stands.” It’s a look somewhere between surprise, disbelief and even offense before the blonde speaks up again. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? You don’t know if—“ Tim vehemently shakes his head to interrupt him. “No, no, I mean that’s literally what he told me; what he tells anyone from the family who asks, as far as I’m aware.”

Bernard’s eyes move over to the couch again, simply observing for a few seconds before he shrugs. “Well, one night stands don’t exclude a date. Or maybe he’s changed his mind. People are allowed to do that, you know.” he says with an easy grin right as the little round sensor on their table starts vibrating, indicating their order is ready. He snatches the device up and stands, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder, effectively gaining his attention. “Either way, I don’t think it’s anything for you to lose sleep over. Or any of your business, to be honest. If he is in a relationship and you don’t know, I’m sure he has his reasons.” He grabs the hand Tim has been busy biting the cuticles off of and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Just let it go, detective.”

With that he’s gone to pick up their drinks, meanwhile Tim almost turns his head to look at the couple again, but ultimately decides against it, instead racking his brain for wether or not any of his other siblings ever mentioned Jason having a partner, but nothing comes to mind. Fingers drumming against the table, he’s one spiraling thought away from getting up and going over there to satisfy the annoying itch of curiosity, but then he watches Bernard walk back towards him, a coffee cup in each hand and a happy smile on his face, his own heart skipping a beat at the sight, and he realizes that his boyfriend’s right. It doesn’t matter right now, nor is it any of his business; if this is someone, important to Jason, he would tell them - in his own time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay I had my doubts, but that was pretty good.” Stephanie states as she stretches her arms over her head, following the crowds out of the theater into the big entrance hall. Cass grins and nods enthusiastically in agreement, while Babs only shrugs and hums in thought. “I mean, sure, it was good; solid storytelling, breathtaking visuals, but—“

“I still think the book’s better, though.”

They all know it’s exactly what the redhead was gonna say, but it doesn’t come from her. Even so, the voice is familiar and all three of their heads snap up almost in unison to look for the source.

A joyful laugh, from around the pillar a little ways in front of them, followed by, “That’s the most Jason thing you could’ve said, ya know.”

Now that voice isn’t familiar to any of them, neither is the person who appears in their field of view a second later, hands linked with someone still hidden by the pillar - not that it’s still much of a secret who it is.

“So? It’s still true.”

The soft grin on the stranger’s face morphs into something more mischievous. “Riiight. I’m sure you hated every second of this. That’s why I saw some tears during a scene or two.”

A squeak as the person gets yanked forward, disappearing from sight again; then laughs can be heard accompanied with, “It was dark, you didn’t see shit.”

The three girls exchange glances, all wide eyes and raised brows. Then they watch the couple walk out into the open of the entrance hall, towards the exit, one of Jason’s arm’s wrapped tightly around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Cassandra is the first to shake off the stupor, a soft smile spreading across her face. “They’re cute together.” she signs. “Yeeeaaahhh…” Steph starts, staring at the doors the two had just left through. “Too cute. And definitely too familiar to just be a one night stand.” The wicked grin is a telltale sign of trouble and Barbara pinches the bridge of her nose because it doesn’t bode well for anybody.

“Just leave it alone, Steph.”

“Oh come on!” the blonde complains. “He’s the one who’s been telling us for ages that he doesn’t do relationships and now he’s out here all sweet and cozy and lovey dovey with someone? And you’re not the least bit curious? I say we investigate!”

Barbara levels her with a blank stare. “And you don’t think that might be the exact reason he doesn’t tell us anything?” Stephanie narrows her eyes at the redhead in suspicion. It’s unlike her, unlike Oracle, not to want all the details of a situation. “Did you already know?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“Because you know everything. And wouldn’t you—“

Barbara doesn’t let her finish. “Would you want a date to be interrupted by your siblings just cause they feel like annoying you? Pestering you about your partner? Jason isn’t the most open, conversational person at the best of times; what do you think is gonna happen if he catches onto your little investigation?”

Steph is about to argue back that sure, while there’s some personal entertainment value involved, she just doesn’t like the idea of someone she cares about being with someone she doesn’t know. What if they’re not a good person? What if they end up hurting him? What if—

Her thoughts are interrupted by a hand on her shoulder and she turns to find herself looking straight into Cass’ dark eyes, her expression serious.

“They really like him, don’t meddle.” she signs.

That takes some of the wind out of Stephanie’s sails and she visibly deflates a bit. “You, uh… you could tell, huh?” The black haired girl nods eagerly and Steph runs a hand through her hair in contemplation. People are an open book to Cassandra, without her ever having to have exchanged a single word with them. If she says you’re fine, that you truly like Jason and have no bad intentions, then��� then Steph could leave it alone with an easy conscience. For now, anyways.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you for the assist, Master Richard, but I assure you, while welcome, it was not necessary.”

“It’s fine, Alfred.” Dick reassures while loading the last of the groceries into the back of the car. “I know you can handle the regular grocery shopping just fine, but it’s rare to have that many people at once at the manor; I’m glad to help out.”

The older man gives him a grateful smile in return, then plucks a piece of paper from inside his coat pocket and checks it over. “Oh dear, I do believe I’ve missed something.” he mumbles and hands the list over to Dick. “Master Richard, would you mind looking our current purchase over again, just in case? I’ll be right back.”

He watches Alfred hurry back towards the store, someone else exiting when he’s a few feet away from the entrance. A short exchange, quick thanks presumably, as the person holds the door open for him. Then you steer left, in his general direction and—

Hold on. He wasn’t here when him and Alfred got outta the store a few minutes ago.

The parking lot is situated lower than the actual store, some stairs to his right leading up to the higher level, so Dick takes a few steps backwards and cranes his neck back slightly, a leafless hedge partly blocking his view, but the tall, broad stature clad in a leather jacket and the black and white hair are a dead give away. He’s about to call out, surely his brother just didn’t spot him yet, but someone beats him to it.

“Okay, let’s go home.”

The person who’d just left the store. Most definitely talking to Jason. And you seem more than a little annoyed and exasperated.

Meanwhile his brother looks like he’s trying not to burst out laughing.

“What?” the mystery person barks, eyes narrowed at the tall man suspiciously.

“I know I did not just watch you whack an old lady over the head with a magazine cause she tried to take the steak from you.”

“It was the last one!” you complain and the tension bleeds from Dick’s shoulders as he realizes that this is in no way a serious altercation. “Besides, Constance had it coming, not the first time she tried to pull a stunt like that; she’s a fucking menace to everybody.”

Silence for a few long seconds. Then, “If you laugh right now, I swear to God I’m leaving you out on the street tonight, Todd.”

Jason snorts. “And then who’s gonna make the food you fought so hard to get? Sure as shit not you; last time I left you alone with the stove, I thought Firefly had broken into the apartment.”

Dick watches his brother’s conversation partner huff, arms crossed over your chest in defiance as you stare Jason down - until your shoulders sag in defeat and you break eye contact, because apparently, he’s right. “You’re lucky you’ve got other talents besides just being pretty, you know that?”

Jason takes the bags from you, met with only mild complaints, as he grins. “You think I’m pretty? Aw, thanks, babe.” You roll your eyes at that, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips either way. “Leave the corny flirting to Nightwing, it doesn’t suit you.” And Jason actually has the audacity to scrunch up his face in distaste. “Hey now. I was only teasing you; comparing me to him is a straight up insult, take it back.”

“Make me~” you taunt with a sing-song voice and a mirthful smirk, then take off full speed in the opposite direction, past the store, with Jason hot on your heels not a second later.

And Dick hasn’t seen his little brother wear a smile that big in such a long time, he almost forgets to be offended.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian isn’t sure why he’s even here. It’s not like this has any actual academic value for him.

That’s Chrysaora fuscescens.

Over there, Hippocampus hippocampus.

And that one’s Anguilla dieffenbachii.

He’s studied all these creatures and more before and even if he wouldn’t learn anything new about aquatic dwellers, his father had insisted on him going on this field trip. Something about a chance to ‘improve his social skills’.

Tt.

If that’s the mission he’d been given, he’d succeed. Even if he thought it utterly unnecessary. At least he could do it in the presence of one of the most beautiful creatures on the planet, the mighty—

“Shark! Jason, look, there it is!”

With the level of excitement, one would think it’s coming from a child, but no, it’s very much an adult, standing in front of the big glass tank, in the company of Todd of all people. Damian slows his steps to a halt, coming from one of the smaller side entrances that lead to the huge room, and simply observes from a safe distance.

“Uh huh, I see it. And I feel like now would be a good time to remind you that you have plenty of shark memorabilia and that we’ll simply be walking past the gift shop later.”

An inelegant snort, as the person side eyes him with amusement. “Would now be a good time to remind you that we both know that’s not happening?”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose as he heaves a sigh, but Damian detects no true malice in it. He’s seen him truly irritated, angry - this is nothing of the sort. Fond exasperation, if anything.

“I know they’re nowhere near as dangerous as the media likes to make them out to be,” Jason starts, “but I’m still not sure how you can look at something decidedly dangerous, built for killing, and think it’s… cute.”

The look he receives in return is one Damian can’t quite identify and apparently neither can his brother.

“What?”

“Really? You can’t figure that out?” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head to the side in thought. “Well, I think you should meet my boyfriend, then. Cause ya know, he’s pretty dangerous and rough around the edges, too, and I still think he’s cute.”

Jason mimics your stance as he responds. “Oh, do you now?”

You nod eagerly, grinning ear to ear. “Of course. When he gets up all groggy with a bed head cause he works late? Cute. When he pretends to get annoyed at his best friend cause he called him a silly nickname? Cute. When—“ That’s as far you get, interrupted by your own squeal, as Jason brings one arm around your shoulders to pull you in and smoosh your face against his chest, the other around your waist so you can’t escape. “Yeah, yeah, got it; I think I’ve heard enough about that guy now.”

Meanwhile you’ve managed to gain enough wiggle room to loop your arms around his neck and pull back to look up at him, lopsided, lovesick smile plastered all over your face. “Sorry, I can’t help it sometimes; I love him very much.” And it’s embarrassing, Damian thinks, how fast Jason breaks, all affectionate grin and soft eyes, just because someone is batting their lashes at him. “Well, he’d be a fool not to love you back.”

Damian turns away in disgust right as the couple is about to share a kiss and retreats down the hallway he came from. He’d never taken Todd for a particularly… honorable man, but courting someone he knows to be in a relationship with someone else? That’s a vile breach of trust that he won’t stand for. And, if he bothered to be honest with himself, not something he could actually see Todd engaging in. Despite his many flaws, he’s proven himself a loyal man often enough. But Damian can’t ignore what he heard with his own ears, that would be disregarding incriminating evidence, so he’ll need to have a talk with his father as soon as he gets home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re curled up on the couch book in hand when the front door all but flies open, your boyfriend hurrying inside and immediately locking the door behind him again. Before you even get a chance to greet him, he’s speeding through the rest of the apartment, making sure all the windows are shut tight and locked, too. You’ve put the book away, instead staring at him over the back of the couch with raised, quizzical brows when he comes back down the hallway into the living room, finally kicking off his boots at the entrance and hanging up his jacket. Then he beelines for the sofa, lifting up your legs to make room and plop himself down, settling your legs in his lap before he tips his head back and scrubs his hands over his face with a groan.

“Okay, Jay? I need you to talk to me; what kind of apocalypse should I be preparing for here?”

He doesn’t answer for a few long seconds, simply drops his hands from his face, his fingers coming to draw anxious patterns into your thighs instead. “Yeah, we’re totally busted. They know about you now.” And as miserable as he looks, as much as you know that spending time with his family is often draining and challenging for him, you can’t help the relieved laugh that bubbles up out of your throat, because with they way he’d just put your apartment on complete lockdown, you’d been expecting something - or someone - way worse.

Still chuckling, you grab one of his hands and squeeze. “Sweetheart, your family literally consists of detectives. In my opinion, we’re damn lucky to have even made it this long without them knowing.” He sighs, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I’m not convinced Babs didn’t know before tonight. That woman knows everything.” While you’ve only heard stories and seen some pictures of the redhead, you have absolutely no trouble believing that. “So what happened, anyways?”

He mulls it over for a moment. “Well, I think it started when Damian tried to have me disowned.” You almost choke on nothing but air, a sound somewhere between a snort, a cough and a laugh leaving you. “Okay, you’ve completely lost me, babe.”

“Honestly, I was mostly just surprised I’m even still in the will.” A not so gentle nudge of your foot, an annoyed whine of his name because sure, you’d play along for now. Let him get the jokes and sass out of his system and pretend that you don’t see that the lazy grin he gives you is forced. That you don’t feel one his feet tapping the floor anxiously. That you don’t notice the way his eyes keep flicking towards the window and the door, like he’s expecting them to be kicked down any second now. “Apparently Damian saw us at the aquarium together and somehow assumed I’m your, uh, your mistress? And thought it dishonorable enough to bring up disowning me because of it.” Admittedly, picturing that elicits a real laugh, one you try to hide, but the next part still comes out as more of a wheeze than anything else. “And he just… what? Brought that up casually over dinner?” Jason shrugs. “Basically. Tried to talk my way outta it, but turns out some of the others saw us together, too, and things just spiraled from there.” It’s quiet for only a moment, then you, very much still intent on helping him distract himself from whatever it is that’s truly eating at him, but mixed with just a tad of entertained curiosity now, hit him with, “Well, yeah, makes sense; you have been getting sloppy.” His head shoots up from the back of the couch so fast you’re afraid his neck might snap and he actually looks offended. “How exactly is this my fault?”

“Come on, Jay. First couple of months of this relationship you wouldn’t even leave the house with me. Now? Grocery shopping, the movies, café dates, the aquarium - we’re barely apart, so it really was only a matter of time till they figured it out.” Rolling his eyes, he slides further down his seat and pouts, fully aware that technically you are correct - doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Great, helpful as ever, darling. And what do you, in your infinite wisdom, suggest we do about this now?” You regard him in silence for a moment: how he fiddles with your fingers, the set of his jaw, the furrow in his brows, the way every muscle in his body seems tense.

“Hey…” you murmur gently, interlacing your fingers. “Why do we have to do anything about this? What are you so worried about? I promise not to bite them when I meet them. Unless you want me to.” Careful prodding, still interlaced with humor - to let him know he can talk to you about it, but only if he wants to. He huffs out a quiet laugh, giving your intertwined hands a squeeze. “You can be such a gremlin sometimes, do you know that?” Bringing a hand to your chest in mock offense, you grin at him. “Oh, you do not get to call me a gremlin when you’re the one who consistently feeds me after midnight and gets me plenty wet.” The following eye brow waggle from your side is what breaks him; a full blown, joyful laugh as he shifts, picking you up and depositing you on his lap sideways, his arms encircling your middle, some of the previous tension visibly leaving his face. “See, that’s the exact kinda shit I don’t need you saying around them, cause I’ll never live that down.” Humming in thought, you get comfortable in your new position, resting your head in the crook of his neck. “Sounds like a you problem, though.” It earns you a playful pinch to your sides that has you batting at his arms and hands to try and get him to stop; a fruitless effort of course, but he eventually settles his hands back on your hips. In turn, you place a hand on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat; most definitely too fast for simply fooling around with and teasing you. He’s not just worried, he’s scared, so you decide the time for games is over. “I’m being serious, though, what’s the matter? This isn’t anything you actually need to be concerned over, is it? It’s really not that big of a deal. So what if they know about me? So what if I eventually meet them now; not like it’s gonna change anything between us.” It’s small and if you didn’t know him as well you did, you probably would’ve missed it or written it off as irrelevant: the way he ever so slightly flinches at the last part.

Bingo.

But you don’t push, you know better. You let him get his thoughts in order, shifting restlessly beneath you while he does and let him answer in his own time.

“It’s stupid…”

“It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.”

A sigh, then you feel him rest his cheek on the top of your head.

“I dunno. Being around you is always so… easy. Comforting. Being with them isn’t. It’s complicated and it’s messy and overall just exhausting, most of the time. It’s not all bad, just…” He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to get rid of an onslaught of memories; good or bad, you’re not entirely sure. “I guess I just don’t want them rubbing off on you, is all.” Pulling back to look at him, you find his eyes elsewhere, anywhere but you, desperate to avoid your scrutiny. “In other words, you’re worried your relationship with them, their opinions of you, are gonna affect mine, right?” He still can’t bring himself to look at you when he mumbles, “Basically…”

You shuffle about until you get your legs back under you, straddling him and cupping his face in your palms, running your thumbs along his cheek bones until he willingly brings his unnaturally green eyes back to yours and you feel like your heart might crack at the uncertainty you find there. “You’re forgetting that, aside from you, I’m probably the most stubborn person in this city; once I’ve made up my mind, it’s hard to change it. If anything, you should be worried about me not shutting the fuck up about how amazing and wonderful you are around them.” He scoffs and tries to turn his head out of your hold, but you refuse to let go and press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose instead, effectively stunning him into obedience. “Uh uh, you’re not going anywhere, I’m not finished yet. I’m on your side, okay? Even if it feels like nobody else is. I’m judging you based on my experiences with you, not theirs. And sure, not everything’s been great; you’re not perfect and neither am I, but that’s human. We live and we learn and we fuck up and then we try again. And I know you try, Jason. Every day, I know you’re trying. Trying to navigate a second life you never asked for. Trying to live in a body that never feels right, no matter how much time passes. Trying to mend the bonds with a family that more often than not still sees the ghost of a boy looking back at them, instead of the man you’ve become. Trying to make things better in this city, so that no one has to go through the same things you did. And nothing your family could say or do or show me is ever gonna change what I see with my own eyes.” He’s been silent this entire time, letting you speak, but you watched his shoulders slump, the tension that’s kept him wound up like a spring finally dissipating, and his own hands are now gently holding onto your wrists.

“And what do you see?”

It’s barely above a whisper, so quiet, you almost miss it despite how close you are.

You don’t have all the answers. You don’t actually know what meeting his family is gonna be like, how it might affect your relationship, but this? Oh, this you can answer just fine.

“A man who’s scarred and deeply flawed, but is still trying to do better, to be better. A man who wants to make up for the mistakes he did make, but sometimes nobody cares to listen. A man who, for all his efforts to appear ruthless, is still the most caring person I know. I see a man who, despite life never having been kind to him, retained a kind soul.”

And with the way he’s looking at you right now? Nothing but wonder and admiration and affection written all over his face? How could you not be sure about what you’re gonna say next? Sure that no one, absolutely no one, would ever be able to change your mind about him.

“I see the love of my life.”

[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 4: One night in Barcelona part 1 Other Parts

Word Count: 10K

This ran longer than I originally thought, so Y/N's Barcelona trip will be spilt into 2 parts

You get home and the flat feels too quiet.

Teddy flops on the couch like he’s mourning, and you stand there for a second, jacket half-off, keys still dangling from your fingers, just letting the silence settle.

You make coffee. Scroll half-heartedly through the news. Pretend you’re not checking your phone every three minutes.

She said she’d text.

You trust her.

Still, you check again.

You check your phone too soon. Too often.

Until finally as you park up at the training centre.

Alexia: Landed. Missing Teddy already. You only a little bit.

You laugh under your breath, sharp and surprised, leaning against the car.

You tap your thumb against the screen, smile tugging at your mouth.

You: Teddy’s devastated. Kept looking at the door all morning like you're about to walk back in.

You pause. Then add, softer,

You: I might of been doing the same.

The typing bubble pops up immediately.

Alexia: I've been thinking.

Your stomach flips. Another message follows, almost before you can blink,

Alexia: Come to Barcelona.

You stare at the words.

Simple. Sure. Not a question. An invitation.

You slowly pluck your bag from the boot, heartbeat thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to reach her before you can.

You type slowly, savouring it,

You: You serious?

Alexia: I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. Come see my world. Stay at my place.

You bite your lip, grinning now, stupid, full, real.

You: Say when.

Her reply comes seconds later:

Alexia: Whenever you’re free.

You glance at Georgia, strutting across the carpark to meet you at the exact spot at the exact time she always did. "Hey gorgeous" she grins

You smile. Then you pull up your calendar. Because it’s not just a maybe.

It’s Barcelona. It’s her. You were ignoring the nerves. You were going.

Georgia bumps your shoulder lightly with hers. “So,” she says, voice low enough that it gets lost under the general buzz around you as you walk in the facility. “How were your days off?”

You glance at her. Her expression is innocent. Too innocent.

You squint, breathing out a soft laugh through your nose. “They were good,” you say, keeping it vague, dropping your bag in your cubicle before spinning and heading right back out with her for breakfast.

Georgia hums. Nods. Like she’s accepting the answer. But you’re not an idiot. You know exactly what she’s really asking.

Not how was your rest? Not did you get your legs back under you? But how was it being with her?

You hold a mug toward her gently. She takes it without thinking. It was mindless routine with you both now.

Then she leans in just a little, eyebrow raised.

“Really good?” she murmurs, just for you. You smirk, looking away, pretending to focus on your cup of tea.

“Mind your business, Stanway.”

She chuckles, returning the ball with a light pass. “You’re smiling like a lunatic. Not very subtle.”

You shrug. Try to wipe the grin off your face. You fail. Miserably.

Georgia goes off to look what hot food was on offer, tossing a wink over her shoulder.

You watch her go, still smiling despite yourself, feet rooted in the soft spot, minds already miles away.

Back to rooftop nights and sleepy breakfasts. Back to Uno wars and stolen glances. Back to her.

⚽️

The planning starts that night after she lands back in Barcelona.

You’re lying in bed, Teddy snoring beside you, scrolling mindlessly when your phone buzzes.

Alexia When’s your next free weekend?

You sit up a little straighter immediately.

You: I'll check. Hang on. Trying to look important.

You flick through your calendar — training, matches, travel days. It’s tighter than you’d like. But there's a small window coming up.

You: Have two days off next month. Saturday to Sunday. Could maybe get the Friday night flight too if I’m sneaky and cancel something, but not promising that.

A pause.

Alexia: I have a home game that Saturday. Would you want to... come to the game?

You blink. Heart stuttering a little. She doesn’t say 'watch me play' or 'sit in the stands like a fan.'

She says come to the game. Come be there.

You type slower this time,

You: I’d love to.

Another pause.

Alexia: I’ll get you tickets. And after... we can actually see Barcelona properly on the Sunday when we have more time. Not just the stadium.

You grin.

You: Deal. Tourist Alexia can finally pay me back for Munich.

She sends back an eye-roll emoji.

Alexia: Only if you survive the Estadi.

You laugh, alone in your flat, staring at your screen like it's a map to something bigger than flights and fixtures.

You: I’ll book flights tomorrow.

A few minutes later,

Alexia: I’m excited.

You stare at that word. Read it again. Excited. You lie back against the pillows, heart hammering quietly. It’s happening. You’re going to her. You’re looking at your calendar and counting down the days.

Alexia: When are you coming? I'll put it on my calendar so I don't get booked for anything

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Alexia: Careful. I might not let you leave.

You bite your lip, feeling that same fizzy thrill in your chest you haven’t quite gotten used to — don’t really want to.

You: Dangerous game you're playing, Putellas.

Alexia: I like my chances.

You flip onto your back, staring at the ceiling, trying to fight the stupid grin taking over your face. You start mentally flipping through your calendar, through your training commitments, through flights that might work for that weekend to maximise your hours.

You smile, already typing back the dates you were free

Alexia: One night? That’s it?

You laugh softly into the dark.

You: I have a job, you know.

Alexia: Unacceptable.

You roll your eyes fondly, typing,

You: Tell you what. If you win the match, I’ll stay longer next time.

Her reply comes fast:

Alexia: I better win, then.

You tuck the phone against your chest for a second, feeling everything buzz under your skin, excitement, nerves, all tangled together. You’ve traveled for football your whole life.

But this feels different. Personal. Heavy in the best way.

Your phone buzzes again.

Alexia: Also... bring some Uno cards.

You frown, confused, texting back:

You: Really?? You want to play again?

Alexia: Maybe.

You laugh out loud this time, scaring Teddy half awake.

You: Big words for someone who almost cried over a +4.

You can practically feel her scowl through the screen.

Alexia: Shut up and book your ticket.

You type,

You: On it.

You pause. Then, without thinking too hard, you add,

You: Can’t wait to see you.

No emoji. No joke. Just real. Her reply doesn’t come immediately this time. You wait — heart thudding.

Then:

Alexia: Me neither.

Short. Simple. You turn the screen off, smiling in the dark, already dreaming of Barcelona.

⚽️

You barely remember how to pack when it wasn't to go play football.

Teddy curls up beside you, a warm, comforting weight, but your mind spins — running through every second of the past few days, every laugh, every soft look across Uno cards, every 'can't wait' tucked into your chest like a secret.

Your flight’s early. You don’t mind.

You breeze through security, headphones on, hoodie up, trying to stay calm. But inside, you’re buzzing.

Barcelona.

Her.

You board the plane, squeeze into your seat, and pull your cap low. Pretend to read. Pretend not to check your phone even after you’ve put it on airplane mode.

The whole flight feels longer than it should, even though it's barely two hours.

You stare out the window as the coast of Spain comes into view — glittering like a dream.

Your fingers tap against your thigh the whole descent.

When you finally step off the plane and into the terminal, it's like your lungs remember how to breathe differently — faster. Sharper.

You follow the crowd through the long hallways, baggage signs flashing above your head, the bright hum of early morning travelers all around you.

Your bag’s slung over your shoulder when you turn the last corner toward Arrivals.

And you see her. Alexia.

Leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, hoodie sleeves shoved up over her forearms. Backpack slung over one shoulder like she’s just another student waiting for a friend.

Her eyes are locked on you. Like she didn’t even bother pretending to be casual. Like she’s been standing there, waiting, watching the whole time.

Your stomach flips. You slow your steps without meaning to.

Alexia pushes off the pillar, straightening, a half-smile pulling at her mouth, small, real, slightly smug.

Like she knew this moment would feel like this. You cross the space between you faster than you mean to. And when you reach her, close enough to see the way her lashes catch the light, she grins properly.

“You made it,” she says, voice soft.

You roll your eyes, breathless. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m impressed,” she says, stepping forward just a little closer. “You didn’t get lost.”

“Yet,” you tease, voice cracking slightly under the weight of it all.

She smiles wider. And then, casually, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, she reaches out and plucks at the hem of your hoodie.

Tugging you one step closer. You bump her shoulder with yours, just lightly. And she laughs.

Low. Warm. Full-body. You breathe it in like sunlight.

“Come on,” she says, brushing her fingers lightly over your wrist a fleeting, grounding touch. “Let’s get out of here.”

And you do. Because Barcelona is waiting.

The air outside the terminal is warm already, not heavy, but alive, that salt-crisped breeze that says you’re close to the sea, close to something good.

Alexia leads you to her car, tossing your bag casually into the boot like it’s nothing, like this, you and her is normal now. You slide into the passenger seat.

She slides behind the wheel, shoving her sunglasses back down over her eyes, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other tapping the roof once as she starts the engine.

The city opens around you as she pulls away from the airport highways slipping into narrower streets, buildings pressing in with bright shutters and sun-bleached balconies.

You crack the window. The breeze rushes in carrying roasted coffee and blooming citrus and the deep, endless salt of the Mediterranean.

Alexia glances at you sideways. “You good?” she asks, casual, but her voice tilts at the end a little tentative, a little careful.

You smile. “Better than good.”

That earns you the soft curve of her mouth — the one you’ve already decided is your favourite. She doesn’t rush the drive. Doesn’t throw you into the tourist chaos.

Instead, she peels off onto quieter streets past open squares where kids kick footballs barefoot, past cafés spilling sleepy locals onto sidewalks, past corners where the real Barcelona hums, slower and deeper than any guidebook can touch.

You watch it all, drinking it in, feeling something settle under your ribs.

And you watch her. The way she belongs to this place, not loudly. Not like someone claiming it. Just woven into it. She points casually out the window at one point, a tiny café with peeling turquoise paint and a crooked sign.

“That’s where we’re going,” she says. “Best coffee. No tourists.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How very authentic of you.”

She smirks, taking a turn too fast just to make you grab the door handle. “Hold on, turista.”

You laugh — full and easy — and she laughs too, a little softer, a little closer to the surface now.

When she pulls up outside the café, it’s quiet tucked between two apartment buildings, a few chairs scattered under an awning, a dog sleeping under one of the tables.

Alexia tosses her keys into her pocket and slides her sunglasses up into her hair.

“Come on,” she says, bumping your shoulder lightly with hers as you get out.

Inside, it smells like heaven — bitter espresso, warm bread, oranges.

The woman behind the counter greets Alexia like an old friend. There’s no fanfare. No photos. Just two women smiling, exchanging a few quick words in rapid Catalan you don’t understand.

Alexia orders for you without asking, confident, easy, and you don’t even mind. You sit by the window. The coffee comes. Rich. Dark. Perfect.

You sip. It’s stupidly good. You look at her, eyes wide. She just leans back, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching you. “Told you.”

You smile at her over the rim of your cup.

You finish your coffees slowly, tucked into that quiet café like it’s your own secret corner of the world.

Alexia props her chin on her hand, watching the street outside more than anything else, but every few minutes her eyes flicker back to you, small glances, as if she’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

You finish your drink, wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, and nod toward the door.

“Show me the rest,” you say.

She smiles. Stands. Leaves a few coins on the table like she’s done it a hundred times before. Probably has.

Outside, the city has stretched into full daylight the buildings throwing long, soft shadows, the streets buzzing without rushing.

You fall into step beside her easily. She doesn’t give you a grand tour. She doesn’t point at landmarks or monuments.

Instead, she shows you her Barcelona. The tiny bookstore with more stray cats than people. The cracked football pitch where she played as a kid. The alley where the graffiti changes every month, thick and layered like a living canvas.

You buy fresh fruit from a street stall, two peaches she insists are the best, and she peels hers without breaking the skin once, flicking it into a trash can with the smoothest little motion you’ve ever seen.

You, less gracefully, get juice on your wrist. She laughs. Low. Warm. Private.

You both sit on a low wall by a park, knees brushing sometimes, peeling bites off the peaches and wiping sticky fingers on napkins she dug out of her bag.

There’s no rush. No schedule. At one point, she asks about you — not the headlines, not the football stuff.

Just you. Your favourite meal. Your worst habit. The first song you ever learned the words to.

She listens, really listens, smiling at some answers, laughing at others, tossing the last bite of her peach to a hopeful pigeon that’s been hovering under the bench.

When you get up again, she nudges you lightly with her shoulder. "You walk slow," she teases.

You bump her back, grinning. "Maybe you walk too fast."

She raises a brow, smug. "Or maybe I’m just better at moving forward." you picked up her not so subtle football dig there with her comment.

You roll your eyes but you're laughing, real, unguarded, helpless.

You wander past shuttered bakeries and tiny ceramic shops, past clotheslines stretched across alleys, past motorbikes parked two to a sidewalk.

You stop at a corner to let a delivery truck pass, and when Alexia steps back, her hand brushes yours. Neither of you move it. Not a big thing. Not fingers lacing. Just touch.

You glance over once. She’s already looking at you. Not intense. Not daring. Just there. Fully. Quietly.

You’re sitting together on a low wall just outside another tiny square, the sun pressing down soft and warm, when Alexia glances at her watch and winces slightly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Time to go captain some people?”

She smiles, sheepish. “In a few hours. But...” She hesitates, for half a second, something flickering across her face. Not doubt. Just care “I was thinking…” she says slowly, slipping off the wall and brushing her palms against her jeans. You blink. She shifts her weight, glancing down the street. “I’ll have to leave soon for the game. But I want to show you my place. Get you settled in. Before.”

She shrugs, trying to sound casual. You can hear the not casual tucked underneath it. You stand, brushing the seat of your jeans, smiling. “Lead the way.”

The drive out of the city is short. The streets stretch wider, the buildings breathe out. The hills roll up around you, green and sun-shot and lazy.

When Alexia pulls into a long, private drive, your mouth actually falls open. You can’t help it.

Because her house It’s beautiful.

Sprawling but not obnoxious, modern without feeling cold pale stone and wide windows and the flash of a pool catching the sun in the backyard. Olive trees line one side of the garden, low and heavy with thick leaves.

Alexia cuts the engine, tosses her keys into the console, and glances over at you, grinning when she catches your face. “Bit different to you imagined, huh?”

You scoff. “Bit different to reality, more like.”

She laughs, light and proud.

You follow her up the steps, Teddy would lose his mind here you think, and she pushes open the door with a casual nudge of her shoulder.

Inside, it’s light and clean and lived-in. Photos tucked into shelves. Boots left near the back door. A jacket, Barcelona’s, slung over the kitchen chair.

She shows you around quickly, sweeping hand gestures, half-apologetic about the laundry basket sitting half-full near the stairs.

Kitchen first — huge, bright, glass doors leading out onto a sun-bleached patio where you can see the pool glinting like a promise.

Living room next — low couches, big TV, one of those weird modern fireplaces set into the wall.

Home gym tucked around the back — more trophies and shirts than you can count framed along the hallway toward it.

And upstairs — a guest room that’s bigger than your whole flat, sun pouring across the duvet like an invitation.

She stops outside her own bedroom, hand on the door but not opening it.

“You can um bring your bag up and unpack whenever you want,” she says, thumb tapping the doorframe lightly.

You nod, shouldering your bag tighter, trying to hide the way your heart’s thudding a little harder again. “Thank you” you say, meaning way more than just the tour.

Alexia shrugs, looking at you from under her lashes. “No problem.”

Simple. True. Before either of you can say anything else, her phone buzzes. You see it, the team group chat lighting up the screen.

She grimaces. “Duty calls.”

You grin. “Go.”

She points at you as she backs toward the stairs. “And don’t get lost in my house.”

“No promises,” you call after her, and she laughs, real and full, before disappearing to grab her kit.

You’re left standing there in the middle of her home — her life — the windows open, the pool sparkling, the space around you full of something you hadn’t even let yourself hope for yet.

You’re standing by the front door, bag dropped by your feet, sneakers on, heart thudding lightly against your ribs, not heavy, not anxious.

Just... full.

Alexia’s in her matchday tracksuit now club crest pressed proud over her chest, sleeves tugged down to her knuckles. Hair tied back, boots dangling from one hand.

She’s fidgeting slightly not nervous about the game, you realize. Nervous about leaving you.

You lean against the doorframe, arms folded, smiling at her softly.

“I’ll be fine, you know,” you say, voice low.

She huffs a little, a self-conscious shake of her head. “I know. I just—” She glances out at the driveway where her car is waiting. “I asked Alba to pick you up. My sister.”

You blink, surprised, not at the offer, but at the thought.

“She knows the way into the estadi,” Alexia continues, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Better than most security, honestly.”

You laugh under your breath, warmed by how carefully she’s thought about this.

“She’ll be here soon,” Alexia adds. “I didn’t want you being alone. Didn’t want you... feeling out of place.”

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t.”

She steps closer anyway, like she can’t help it.

And suddenly you’re standing right there. Only inches apart. The soft weight of the moment tugging at both of you.

Her hand brushes your elbow lightly as she grabs the keys she almost forgot.

“Thanks for not making me feel like a tourist,” you say, teasing.

She smiles too, eyes crinkling, and for a second you think she might say something more, something bigger.

But instead, she steps back. Slow. Regretful. You catch the way her fingers brush her thigh once, like she’s resisting the urge to stay, to reach for you again.

“Enjoy the match,” she says, voice a little rough around the edges now.

You nod. “Go win it.”

She smiles once more, soft, sure, and then she’s gone, door swinging gently shut behind her.

You stay there for a second. Just breathing.

⚽️

You’re upstairs when you hear the sound, tyres crunching the driveway gravel, a soft, two-toned beep of a car horn.

You freeze for a second, holding a folded shirt halfway into the guest room dresser.

Alba.

You glance at the clock. Plenty of time still Alexia was never going to leave you rushed.

You drop the rest of your things onto the bed, brushing invisible wrinkles from your jeans, checking yourself once quickly in the mirror without meaning to. Not nervous.

Okay, maybe a little.

You jog lightly down the wide staircase, the open living room yawning out around you. Teddy would love it here, you think again absently. And then the front door swings open.

Alba steps inside like she’s been doing it her whole life, which, you guess, she has, car keys jingling in one hand, sunglasses pushed into the messy bun on her head.

She spots you immediately. And smiles. Big. Not polite. Not stiff. Warm.

“Hey!” she says brightly, tossing the keys into the little bowl by the door. “You must be the famous one.”

You blink, a little stunned. “I—uh—hi,” you manage, stepping forward awkwardly, hand half-extended before you realise you don’t know if she’s a handshake or a hug person.

She decides for you. She tugs you into a quick, friendly hug, no pressure, no hesitation. “I'm Alba," she says as she pulls back, grin wide. "Alexia’s sister. Obviously."

You laugh a little, already relaxing. “Yeah, I figured.”

Alba steps back, scanning you with an exaggeratedly thoughtful look. "You look normal," she teases. "I was expecting someone taller. Intimidating. Maybe with secret agent vibes."

You snort. "Sorry to disappoint."

She waves it off. "Nah. She likes you. That means we like you."

Your cheeks flush hotter than you can control, but Alba barrels on before you can crumble under it.

"We’ve got loads of time before we need to go," she says, glancing at her watch. "She probably just panicked and rushed out without feeding or watering you, didn’t she?"

You laugh, nodding. "Something like that."

Alba grins. "Knew it. She’s useless under pressure when it’s not on a pitch.” She heads toward the kitchen with a flick of her hand, calling over her shoulder, "Come on. Let’s get you a drink."

You follow, heart lighter than it’s been all morning.

Inside the kitchen, Alba pulls two glasses from a cabinet without asking if you want one, just knowing, and pours something cool and golden, sliding one across the counter to you.

"Relax," she says, lifting her glass in a half-toast. "You’re in the circle now."

You clink glasses with her, grinning despite yourself. The circle. Her circle.

And maybe it’s the easy air of Alba, the way you didn't have to think what to say because you couldn't get a word in anyways or the warmth of the house still clinging to your skin, or the fact that Alexia wanted this. But for the first time since you landed, you don’t feel completely overcome with nerves.

⚽️

The car ride is easy.

Alba drives with ease one hand on the wheel, window half-down, sunglasses perched lazily on her head again. Music hums low through the speakers something local, something with a heavy beat that thrums through the seat beneath you.

You sit back, drink in hand, feeling yourself settle into it.

She chats nothing heavy, nothing pointed.

Asks about your German club, your impression of the city so far, whether you’re a coffee person or a tea person. Tells you a ridiculous story about Alexia getting lost on the metro once as a teenager and swearing it was because 'the map lied.'

You laugh real, surprised and Alba smiles like that was exactly the point.

Just treating you like someone welcome. Like a new friend. You’re grateful for it more than you can say. By the time you pull up near the stadium massive, bright, pulsing with early matchday energy, you feel almost ready.

Almost.

Alba flicks the ignition off and slings her bag over her shoulder in one smooth move. “Come on, England,” she says, bumping her hand lightly into your shoulder as you both climb out. “You’re about to see real football.”

You roll your eyes. "Is that what you call it?"

"In Spain, we call it winning." She grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder for half a second before steering you toward the stadium entrance. "Something you don't know here" You couldn't help the laugh and playfully shoved her away from you.

In the stadium. It’s chaos, but controlled chaos.

Fans already filling the stands, scarves flashing in team colours, the buzz of anticipation climbing higher with every step closer to the pitch.

Alba moves through it like a pro nodding at stewards, flashing a lanyard at security, weaving you through the crush of bodies without hesitation.

You barely have time to take it all in before you’re ushered through a side entrance and up a short flight of stairs into a section marked FAMILIA tucked just above pitch level, the view perfect.

Alba leans against the railing, arms folded, surveying the field like she owns it.

You slide into a seat beside her, nerves bubbling lightly in your stomach now..

You glance at your phone once no new messages then tuck it away, just as the first players begin to stream onto the pitch for warm-ups.

Your heart kicks harder. And then. There she is. Alexia. Jogging lightly across the grass, warm-up jacket open, hair bouncing with every step. Focused. Sharp. Beautiful.

You watch her, frozen. You wonder if she’ll see you. If she’ll be too locked in, too professional.

But mid-stretch, mid-conversation with a teammate she glances up toward the stands. Scans. Finds you. Locks eyes.

And even from here you can see the change. The way her shoulders ease. The way her mouth twitches, just barely, into something small and secret and meant only for you.

Your breath catches. She gives you the smallest nod, sharp, barely-there, but it says everything.

I see you. I'm glad you're here.

Alba nudges you with her elbow, smirking slightly. “Good seats, huh?”

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. “The best.”

She just grins wider and turns back to the pitch pretending she hasn’t noticed a thing.

You sit back. Heart racing. Eyes on her.

The game starts quick, faster than you expected, the kind of breakneck pace that makes even the home fans tighten in their seats.

You’re sitting forward almost immediately, elbows on your knees, chin resting in your palms, eyes glued to the pitch.

You spot her instantly. Calm. Sharp. Moving like she’s reading a book no one else has even opened yet.

But even she can’t control everything.

The first twenty minutes are rough passes just a little off, the other team pressing high, forcing mistakes you rarely ever see from this squad. The atmosphere shifts. Not angry. Just… tight.

You don’t even realise you’re gripping the edge of your seat until Alba nudges your arm lightly.

“Relax,” she says, voice low. “It’s early.”

You nod. You try. But your knee’s bouncing before you even know it.

Every time Alexia gets the ball, your heart jumps willing something clean, something brilliant. Sometimes it comes. Sometimes it doesn’t.

The crowd murmurs grow louder as the half wears on frustration crackling in the warm air like static.

And then out of nowhere a turnover. A fast break the other way. And before you can even sit up properly- Goal.

For them. You swear under your breath, heart sinking as the away fans explode somewhere to your right.

Alexia turns immediately, rallying, clapping, calling out instructions, but you see it. The flicker of frustration. The tightness in her jaw.

Halftime whistle blows not long after. You sink back in your seat, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through your hair.

Alba hands you a bottle of water without looking, casual as anything. “You’re more stressed than she is,” she teases, grinning.

You shake your head, half-laugh, half-miserable. “She’s out there,” you mutter, barely loud enough to hear yourself. "I don't do well just watching"

Alba’s smile softens a little. “She’s fine," she says. "Worried about you more than herself, probably.”

You don’t know if she means to say it. If it slips out. But you don’t question it.

You just sit there watching Alexia disappear into the tunnel with her team feeling the beat of your heart pounding against your ribs.

The stands buzz during the break the low rumble of conversation, of half-hearted chants, of fans refuelling hope with overpriced snacks and superstition.

You sit back in your seat, arms folded tight, heart still racing, eyes flickering anxiously down to the tunnel.

Alba stands, stretching lazily. “Beer?” she offers, grinning like she’s not at all concerned.

You blink. Smile, small. Nod. "Yeah. Please. Why not?”

She disappears into the throng of fans, moving with the easy grace of someone who’s navigated this stadium a hundred times.

You lean back, exhale slowly, hands scrubbing over your face.

A few minutes later, she’s back two plastic cups in hand, foamy and golden. She hands you one with a mock salute.

“To surviving first halves,” she jokes.

You clink cups, laughing softly. You both sip, the taste crisp and slightly bitter. After a moment, Alba nudges you again gentle this time.

“So,” she says, settling back into her seat. “Tell me about Teddy. The legend himself.”

You grin, almost immediately pulling out your phone. You swipe to your gallery you definitely have an entire album labeled TEDDY 🐾.

Alba leans in, resting her chin lightly on your shoulder to get a better look.

First up — Teddy in his raincoat. She snorts immediately.

“Diva.”

Swipe.

Teddy covered head-to-paw in mud after a particularly reckless park run. “Rebel,” Alba comments, approvingly.

Swipe.

Teddy asleep under a pile of your hoodies. "Smart," she says. "Knows the value of good real estate."

And then — You both pause on that photo.

You, sprawled across your sofa in grey joggers sporty & rich emblazoned on them and a Calvin Klein sports bra. Teddy is draped directly across your lap, snoring like his life depends on it.

But what really stands out even through the sleepy chaos is you. The toned, defined abs cutting clean down your stomach.

Effortless. Unintentional. Stupidly unfair. You laugh softly, ducking your head, feeling the heat crawl up your neck. "Ignore that," you mutter, reaching to swipe past it.

But Alba leans away, raising an eyebrow dramatically. "You're joking, right?" she teases. Grabbing your phone for apparently a better look, "You’re body's banging"

You freeze for a split second caught off-guard.

Alba catches it, but doesn't push. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t say more. She just grins and tosses the phone lightly back into your lap. "Good abs. Great dog. Terrible self-awareness," she says breezily.

You laugh, genuine and a little helpless, heart thudding unevenly.

Before you can come up with a smart reply, the stadium announcer cuts through the noise. Second half about to start.

The players stream back onto the pitch.

And there, right in the middle of it all, standing tall and steady and looking right toward your section. Game face on. Ready. You tighten your grip on the beer cup. Settle in.

Alba nudges your arm again, voice low. "Relax," she says. "This is where it gets good." You don’t look at her. You don’t need to. Your eyes are locked on her. And you believe it.

The second half kicks off hard.

Barcelona come out different, sharp, coiled, teeth bared like they remembered who they are during that halftime talk.

You’re on the edge of your seat within minutes. The ball zips through midfield faster, the press higher, the tackles sharper. Alexia moves like a storm orchestrating everything, pulling invisible strings with every look, every shout, every touch of the ball.

Five minutes in — Equaliser.

The stadium explodes.

You’re half-standing, one hand fisted in the hem of your hoodie, heart hammering. Alba slaps your back, whooping.

Another ten minutes. Barcelona take the lead.

A sharp finish, clean through the keeper. You shout without thinking, the noise ripping from your throat, swallowed up immediately by the tidal wave of cheers around you. You catch a glimpse of Alexia, fist pumping once, jaw tight, eyes burning.

But it doesn’t stop. Goal after goal. Four, five, six.

You lose track somewhere in the middle the pure chaos of it overwhelming but Alexia is at the heart of all of it, running the game like it’s a private performance just for you.

You swear — swear — she glances up toward the family section after every major play. Not searching for approval. Just checking you're still watching.

And you are. You couldn’t look away if you tried. By the time the seventh goal hits the back of the net, you’re hoarse from shouting, grinning like an idiot, beer long forgotten under your seat.

Alba’s laughing beside you, half-hugging random people in your row, yelling over the din, "We don't do boring games here!"

You laugh too, breathless, exhilarated, feeling like your whole body might lift right off the ground with it.

And finally. In stoppage time. Goal eight.

It’s Alexia who starts it winning a scrappy ball in midfield, slipping it out wide, following the play like she knows exactly where it’s going.

When it curls into the box, she’s there ghosting past defenders, rising up at exactly the right second to bury it in the back of the net with a perfect header.

The stadium detonates. You’re screaming without even realising it, hands in your hair, lungs burning, heart stretched so full it almost hurts.

She lands, stumbling forward, arms wide team piling onto her in celebration. But even then. Even as her teammates swarm her. Alexia looks up.

Straight to your section. Straight to you. You don’t know if she can see you clearly if the distance and the lights blur it all. But you’re standing now, clapping, smiling so hard your face aches, nodding like an idiot.

I see you. I’m here. I’m proud.

The final whistle blows barely a minute later.

The roar of it vibrates through your ribs, through your spine, through your very bones. Barcelona. From 0-1 to 8-1

A massacre. A masterpiece.

You turn to Alba, laughing breathlessly and high fiveing.

⚽️

You and Alba are perched on the low concrete barrier just outside the secured gate, plastic cups of leftover water cradled in your hands, your legs swinging lightly.

The players are slowly filtering out still in their matchday tracksuits, hair damp from showers, energy buzzing higher than the stars overhead.

You spot her immediately. Walking out with a couple of teammates Patri and Mapi both laughing about something you can't hear yet, boots slung over their shoulders, kit bags knocking against their hips.

Your heart lurches. You sit up straighter without meaning to. Alba notices. Smirks to herself. Says nothing.

Alexia spots you, of course she does, and her whole face softens, just for a second. A flicker. A breath.

Then she's steering toward you, casual, playing it cool. Too cool. Patri spots Alba first and waves wildly, jogging the last few steps to pull her into a quick, noisy hug.

"¡Alba!" Patri laughs. "You're always here!"

"Someone's gotta keep you humble," Alba teases back.

Mapi grins at you, sharp and curious, tipping her chin up in hello.

You smile quick, polite feeling about three seconds from vibrating out of your skin.

Alexia stops in front of you just enough distance to be proper, not enough to stop feeling like the whole world narrowed to this moment.

"Hey," she says, low and a little rough from shouting through ninety minutes.

"Hey," you echo, equally useless.

There's a beat just a second where you both hover there, not quite knowing if you should hug or not, not quite knowing where you were with each other just yet.

Then Patri and Mapi sweep the tension aside without even trying.

"So," Patri says, sliding her arm around Alexia’s shoulders easily, "Your the friend she has staying with her, we’ve heard about?"

You blink.

Alexia flushes actually flushes and ducks her head, laughing under her breath.

You open your mouth not even sure what you’re about to say but Mapi cuts in with a wide, playful grin:

"We were worried she made it up."

You laugh properly nerves bursting like soap bubbles in your chest. "Happy to confirm I'm here," you manage, sticking your hand out awkwardly for a shake.

Patri slaps it away and pulls you into a quick, casual hug instead all warmth and no hesitation. "You staying long?" she asks, releasing you.

"Just tonight," you say, glancing at Alexia before you can stop yourself. "Got a game Tuesday"

Alexia catches it. Smiles. Soft, shy. Patri and Mapi share a quick look you’re definitely not meant to catch.

But they don't say anything else just toss a few more jokes Alba’s way, ribbing each other like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You stand there, sipping water, feeling the sticky hum of the stadium still clinging to your skin, Alexia just close enough that you can feel the heat of her. Not touching. Not rushing. Just there.

Exactly where you want to be.

The conversation hums around you for a few more minutes easy laughter, Alba teasing Mapi, Patri swinging her bag around dangerously close to Alexia’s legs until she finally side-steps and gives her a look that could wither a tree.

You stand there, half in the circle, half outside it. Still not totally sure where you fit.

But Alexia stays close.

Close enough that your arms almost brush when she shifts her bag. Close enough that you can feel her thumb tracing idle little circles against the strap of it, like she’s working up to something.

Finally, when Mapi and Patri start peeling away toward their own cars waving, shouting goodbyes over their shoulders. Alexia turns toward you.

Just you. Tugs lightly on the hem of your sleeve with two fingers.

A soft, almost shy little pull. You look up. Meet her eyes. She clears her throat once, quiet. “You wanna ride with me?” she asks, voice low so it doesn’t carry.

Her sunglasses are tucked into the neckline of her tracksuit now. Her hair’s still a little damp at the temples from the match. She looks exhausted and beautiful and like she’s hoping really hoping you’ll say yes.

You smile small, easy. “Yeah,” you say, letting the word land in the space between you. “I’d like that.”

The look she gives you, brief, brilliant, almost boyish in its relief. Hits you low in the chest.

Alba grins as she catches on. “Guess I’ll take my own car then,” she says, exaggeratedly put-out, tossing her keys up and catching them with a smirk.

You flash her a grateful smile. She just winks at you, no real pressure in it, no teasing just welcome to the family.

Alexia leads the way toward her car low, sleek, black against the white glare of the stadium lights.

You fall into step beside her, bag slung over your shoulder, matching her pace without thinking.

Neither of you talks much as you walk. You don’t need to. There’s something thick in the air not tension exactly. Just awareness.

When she unlocks the car with a soft beep, she opens the passenger door first a tiny, stupidly old-fashioned gesture that makes your heart squeeze unexpectedly tight then tosses her own bag into the backseat.

You climb in. Buckle up. She gets in too, pulling the door closed with a soft click that seals the two of you into this small, private world.

The engine purrs to life. She glances over once, quick, like she still can’t quite believe you’re here.

Then she smiles small and secret and pulls away from the stadium, the road unfurling into the quiet Barcelona night ahead of you.

No fanfare. No big words.

Just her hand resting casually on the gearshift, her body loose with tiredness, her energy still somehow drawn toward you like a tide.

The city flickers past in soft blurs streetlights washing gold across the windshield, neon signs blinking sleepy messages you’re too relaxed to translate.

The windows are down. The air is warm. A little salty still from the sea. A little electric from everything that’s still buzzing in your chest.

Alexia drives one-handed, easy and loose, elbow propped casually on the door. The other hand hovers near the gearshift relaxed, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the leather.

You sit quietly beside her, turned slightly toward the window, letting the night wrap around you both. Somewhere along the way, she flips the radio on low volume, something mellow and scratchy and Spanish, the beat soft and old and safe.

You tap your fingers lightly against your thigh, matching the tempo without realising. Alexia notices.

You catch her glancing at you once, just once, a tiny smile ghosting over her lips before she looks back at the road.

Neither of you talks at first.

Not because there’s nothing to say. Because there’s so much to say, and none of it needs to be rushed.

Finally, a few minutes in, Alexia breaks the silence voice rough from the game, softer now. "You really stress-watched the first half, huh?"

You snort under your breath, turning your head to look at her. "You saw that?"

She grins quick and sharp. "Alba sent me a picture."

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. "Traitor."

Alexia laughs low and warm and you swear it vibrates right through your chest. "It was cute," she says after a beat, a little more serious, a little more honest.

You lower your hand, glance at her just in time to catch the way she’s looking at you.

Not teasing. Not playful. Just looking. The kind of look that feels like standing barefoot on the edge of something huge and good and a little terrifying.

You hold it for a second longer than you mean to. Then you clear your throat lightly, breaking the spell before you drown in it. "You didn’t seem stressed," you say, fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. "Out there."

She shrugs, the smallest roll of her shoulders. "I was."

You blink. "Really?"

She nods once, slow. "First half was..." She trails off, searching for the right word. "Messy." She taps the steering wheel lightly with her thumb. "I kept thinking..." she says, quieter now, "what if you flew all this way and I gave you a terrible game?"

Your heart flips over so fast it almost hurts. You stare at her, at the way she’s half-smiling, half-hiding behind the motion of driving.

You reach for words. Find only the truth. "You could’ve lost eight-nil," you say, voice steady. "I still would've been proud."

She glances at you, fast, sharp. Then she looks away, but not before you see it.

The way her mouth curves. The way her fingers tighten slightly around the wheel. The way she breathes out like she’s been holding it in for longer than just tonight.

You let the silence settle again after that. Soft. Easy. Like a promise tucked into the dark. You’re almost back at her place now the city giving way to low walls and olive trees and the wide stretch of private drive.

The tires crunch over the gravel of her driveway, the headlights sweeping across the stone and low olive trees.

She parks with a casual ease, switches the engine off, and the world outside the car drops into a warm hush.

No street noise. No stadium roars.

Just the cicadas buzzing softly in the distance and the thick, heavy stillness of the late Barcelona night. Neither of you moves right away.

You sit there, the car cooling around you, the faint hum of the radio fading into silence.

Alexia finally glances over at you a small, hesitant smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Come on,” she says, voice low, almost a whisper.

You follow her out of the car, bags forgotten for now, the air soft against your skin as you walk side by side up the path. She unlocks the door, swings it open. But she doesn’t head straight inside.

Instead, she jerks her chin toward the side gate, the path that loops around the house toward the garden and the pool beyond.

You hesitate only a second. Then follow.

The patio stones are cool under your sneakers, the pool ahead gleaming softly under the light of the moon. Water still. Perfect.

Alexia drops her keys onto a table, kicks off her shoes without a word, and pads barefoot toward the low wall by the pool.

You slip off yours too, matching her without thinking. She sits, legs swinging slightly, toes brushing the surface of the water.

You sit beside her, a safe inch of space between you. For now.

For a while, you just sit there the house at your back, the whole wide, soft night stretching out in front of you.

Alexia leans back on her hands, head tilted up toward the stars “You’re quiet,” she says after a moment not accusing. Just noticing.

You glance over, smiling faintly. “So are you.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Feels like a quiet kind of night.”

You hum in agreement, letting your own hands fall back onto the stone, palms flat against the cool surface.

You’re close enough now that your arms brush when you breathe in deep enough. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of her, even under the open air.

She tips her head sideways, looking at you out of the corner of her eye. "You want a glass of wine?"

You grin, lazy now. "Always."

She smiles back slow and real and pushes herself up with an easy roll of her shoulders. You follow her inside, barefoot and buzzing.

In the kitchen, she moves easily grabbing a bottle of red from a low shelf, pulling two mismatched glasses from a cupboard. No pretence. No performance. Just home. She pours. Hands you a glass.

You clink them together softly, no words, just the clink and the shared little smile between you.

And then without discussing it you drift back outside, glasses in hand, settling into the deep lounge chairs by the pool.

The stars scatter across the sky like someone spilled silver paint. The air smells like salt and olives and warm stone. You sip your wine.

She leans her head back and sighs long and low and content. You don’t need to talk. Everything important is already humming between you. The kind of night that doesn't ask for anything.

You glance sideways at her once catch the way the light catches her profile, softens her edges, makes her look a little like a dream.

She catches you looking. Raises an eyebrow, amused. "What?" she says, playful.

You just shake your head, smiling into your glass. "Nothing," you say, voice low and warm.

The wine is halfway gone.

The stars hang heavy and low, like they’re closer here, closer because you’re sitting with her, side by side, letting the world fall away.

Alexia leans back in her chair, glass balanced loosely in one hand, head tipped toward the sky.

You mirror her without thinking, lazy, loose, comfortable in a way that sneaks up on you. It’s quiet for a long moment. Then out of nowhere, soft and real. Alexia says. “My dad would’ve liked you.”

You turn your head, startled by the quiet honesty of it. She’s not looking at you eyes still on the stars but you can hear the weight tucked into the words.

“He was the... welcoming type," she says, lips quirking slightly. "Always wanted the house full. People everywhere. Laughter. Even when it was chaos. He would of enjoyed the way you play football”

You smile, picturing it. Her, growing up in a house like that. “He sounds brilliant,” you say, meaning it.

Alexia hums, low in her throat. “He was,” she says simply. Then she’s quiet a second longer, swirling the wine in her glass. “Sometimes I think he’s still here. Just... quieter now.”

You sit with that. The beautiful, impossible hope of it. And you don't rush to fill the silence. You let her have it.

Alexia shifts a little, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “My mami's the boss, though,” she says with a small, teasing smile “Doesn’t matter how old we get. She'll still text me after every match to tell me if I look tired, or if my socks were too low.”

You laugh soft, genuine. “She sounds terrifying."

“She is,” Alexia says, grinning. “In the best way. She's a softy really”

You tuck your feet up onto the chair, glass resting against your knee. “She must be proud of you," you say.

Alexia shrugs, but it’s not dismissive it’s shy. “I think so. She won’t say it much. She’ll just... pack too much food in a bag when I go visit.”

You laugh again, picturing it Alexia, superstar, carrying away plastic containers like a teenager heading to university.

Alexia watches you laugh, her face softening, her eyes catching the moonlight. “What about yours?” she asks.

You shift a little in your seat, glass resting on your knee.

And for a moment, you wonder if you should just tell her the easy version.

But something about the way she’s looking at you — open, steady — makes you want to say the real thing instead.

You swallow lightly.

“It’s... complicated,” you say first, voice quieter.

Alexia tilts her head, waiting. You take a breath.

“My mum and dad had me,” you start, words slow and careful. You pause, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass. “Then my mum had an affair. That’s... how my little sister came along.”

Alexia’s gaze sharpens slightly, not judgmental. Just seeing you. Really seeing.

“They split up after that,” you continue, a half-shrug working up your shoulders. “It wasn’t dramatic no screaming matches, no throwing things. Just... this weird silence. This broken... thing.”

You pick at the hem of your shorts.

You laugh under your breath not bitter, just tired.

“My dad remarried. Had two boys. Something he always wanted”

You set your glass down carefully on the stone, tracing the rim with your finger.

“So now it’s like... I’m caught in the middle. Not fully part of either side. Not really sure where I fit.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, the honesty of it tasting a little raw now that it’s out.

“Sometimes I feel like a guest in both homes," you admit. "Loved, sure. But... still kind of the wrong piece of a jigsaw trying to fit in. Christmases are awkward. Birthdays are even worse, I never celebrate my birthday, can't upset anyone then when I chose the wrong person to spend it with.”

You huff a laugh dry, not bitter.

“I love them,” you say. “All of them. Even when it’s messy. Even when I don’t always know where I... fit.”

You expect it to hang heavy between you that confession. But it doesn’t. It just settles. Softly.

You risk a glance at her, at Alexia, who’s sitting there, still and steady in the warm dark. She doesn’t look uncomfortable. She doesn’t look sorry for you. She just looks... present. Solid.

When you stop talking, when you let the silence fill in the cracks, she doesn’t rush to fix it.

Alexia doesn’t say I’m sorry — thank God — or offer some neat little fix.

She just leans back against the lounge chair, looking up at the stars, she shifts a little closer. Lets her knee bump lightly against yours “Sometimes it’s the messy ones who fight the hardest to love you.”

You blink. Look at her. And feel something pull deep in your chest. You tilt your head, studying her in the moonlight.

“Is that so?” you ask, quieter than you mean to.

She smiles a tiny, soft thing. “So I'm told,” she says.

You both fall silent again. Not uncomfortable. Not unsure. Just... there.

You take a sip of your wine, letting the warmth bloom in your chest, and when you set the glass back down, your hand brushes hers again — this time more deliberate.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice rougher than you mean it to be.

Alexia just smiles small, real, enough. “You’d get along with my Mami, too,” she adds after a beat, a little lighter, nudging your leg with hers. “She’d adopt you instantly. Especially if you bring wine.”

You laugh the sound bubbling up, easing the tightness in your throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You sit there a little longer shoulders brushing, glasses forgotten, the stars turning slowly overhead.

Two kids from broken families for very different reasons, finding something simple in the middle of it all: Each other.

She glances sideways at you, not startled, not nervous, just there.

Present. You breathe out a soft laugh, barely more than a sigh, and tilt your head back, looking up.

The stars are stupidly bright tonight. Like a show meant just for you two.

“I missed this,” Alexia says, voice barely a thread of sound.

You turn your head, curious. “This?”

She nods, eyes still upward. “Quiet. Someone who doesn’t need me to talk all the time. Someone who...” She trails off, searching. “...who just sits.”

You smile, small, knowing. “I can sit,” you say lightly.

Her lips curve. That small, soft grin that always threatens to undo you. “I noticed.”

For a little while, you both just stay like that not speaking, not moving listening to the faint splash of the pool, the occasional flick of a night bird overhead, the rhythm of your own breathing matching hers without even trying.

And then without warning Alexia shifts. Not big. Not dramatic. Just leans ever so slightly sideways her shoulder brushing yours.

Barely there. Barely anything. But it feels like everything. You don’t look at her. You don’t have to. You just sit there side by side, skin to skin, letting the night wrap itself around you like a blanket you both chose to share.

No words. No need. Just the slow, steady thrum of something building, something growing, something that feels inevitable now.

You let your hand slide down the armrest between you not grabbing, not reaching just resting your fingers lightly against the edge, where her hand already lies.

Your pinky brushes hers. Once. Twice. You don’t push it. Neither does she. But you feel the shift.

“Ever feel like you don’t get to just... exist anymore?”

You turn your head, surprised by the sudden vulnerability but you catch the way she’s not really looking for an answer. Not yet.

You let the quiet settle first. Then you nod. “Yeah," you say simply. “All the time.”

Alexia’s breath hitches just a tiny thing like she’s grateful you didn’t make her explain it. She leans her head back again, staring up. “It’s like…” She frowns, searching for the words. “Everywhere you go. Every time you put the kit on. Every post, every match, every minute someone’s filming, or watching, or pulling. Or wanting to question you”

Her voice drops even softer.

“They don’t see you anymore. They just see what they want from you.”

You shift slightly closer, almost without meaning to your knee brushing hers now. You know exactly what she means. Exactly.

You let out a long, slow breath. "Sometimes I feel like I’m made of... tiny pieces," you whisper. "Handed out one by one. For the press. For the fans. For the club. For the national team." You glance at her. "And there’s never enough left over for me. To. Just be me."

Alexia tilts her head, eyes catching yours across the space and it’s not a heavy look. It’s a knowing one. Soft. Shared. "You get it," she says simply.

You nod. "I get it."

She smiles, a small, tired thing, but real. Real in a way you know she doesn’t let many people see. She nudges your pinky with hers just the lightest brush, a tiny anchoring touch. And then she murmurs "Feels different with you, though."

You swallow against the tightness rising in your chest. "Yeah?"

She nods once, sure. “With you, it feels like... I’m still just Alexia.”

She pushes herself up, stretching slowly, arms overhead, her hoodie riding up just slightly over the waistband of her shorts. You catch the glimpse of skin before you can look away.

She smiles down at you slow, sleepy and jerks her head toward the house. “Come on," she says, voice low, a little rough with tiredness. "Before we both fall asleep out here."

You grin and force yourself to your feet, your body feeling heavier, but your heart somehow lighter. You follow her across the patio barefoot, silent the doors left open to let the cool night air slip inside.

The kitchen is dim, the living room bathed in a low, soft glow from a lamp someone forgot to turn off. You both move instinctively now, without talking leaving your empty glasses on the counter, flicking off a few lights as you go.

You reach the hallway together that soft, quiet space that splits toward her room, your guest room, the rest of the house.

You both slow there. Stop.

The hallway light spills between you pale, warm, catching on her hair, the soft edge of her smile.

Alexia leans a shoulder into the wall, hands slipping into the front pocket of her hoodie.

She looks at you. Really looks at you. In a way that makes your stomach flip, slow and certain.

She exhales a little laugh under her breath, shaking her head.

“What?” you whisper, smiling without meaning to.

She shrugs, shy for the first time all night. “Nothing. Just... glad you're here.”

Your chest tightens warm and aching and real. You step a little closer not touching, but close enough to feel it hum between you.

She tilts her head slightly, studying you like she wants to memorise this second. Then she says soft, playful "Sleep well. I’ve got a busy day planned for us tomorrow."

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. "Oh yeah? Am I gonna survive it?"

She grins that beautiful, tired, wicked little grin. "Maybe."

You both stand there for another heartbeat neither of you quite moving yet, neither quite ready to end it.

Her hand brushes yours just barely as she pushes off the wall and steps backward toward her room. "Buenas noches," she says, almost a whisper.

"Goodnight," you whisper back.

And as she disappears down the hallway hoodie sleeves dragging lightly along the wall you’re left standing there, heart thudding, skin buzzing, smile tugging stubbornly at your mouth.

You head into your room, still feeling her everywhere.

[motorsportbarbie13]

Hurricane - Part Four

{“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” “You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. “Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?”}

warnings/notes: emma's mom is a *raging* bitch in this. alcohol consumption (poor coping skills ig) shoutout to my writing therapist @lestapiastrisgirl for always having my back <3 pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (fem oc) word count: 6.6 k (jfc i can't shut UP about these two)

read hurricane on ao3 hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

Late afternoon sunlight spilled in through the floor to ceiling windows as Emma moved through the kitchen. They’d returned from Jeddah just last night, the brutal triple header having stolen so much from both Emma and Max, they had retreated to their bedrooms right after getting home. It had been nearly noon before either of them emerged the next day, with Max coming out first to make breakfast for the both of them. 

Breakfast between the Max and Emma on mornings when they were home had become somewhat of a tradition, a tradition that Emma was quickly becoming attached to. She didn’t allow that thought to full form in her head though. It was too dangerous. Too familiar to admit that she was getting attached to Max on more than a professional level. She didn’t want to admit the way she looked for him whenever she walked into a room. She didn’t want to admit how her heart pounded the entire time Max was in the car on the track and that she couldn’t fully settle until saw the checkered flag after a race and knew he’d be safely in the garage soon. 

Admitting any of that didn’t appeal to Emma at all, so she buried it all so deep down in her chest that there was no way it could ever surface. 

She tried to tell herself it was just kindness and convenience, this little breakfast tradition of theirs. Whoever woke up first would be the one to start the meal and Emma always made sure the fridge was stocked with bacon, eggs, and whatever fruit she thought Max might like that week. They hadn’t been doing it long but it was something that both of them looked forward to, even if neither put words to their feelings. Emma wasn’t willing to examine the fact that maybe Max did it because he wanted to take care of her and that she did it for the same exact reason. 

Shortly after the meal was cleaned up the morning after returning from Jeddah, Max had left in a flurry of athletic gear and gatorade, talking about playing Lando, Carlos, and Charles in a game of padel but that he’d be back in time for dinner and to text him what she wanted him to pick up from the market. 

Emma had drifted about the apartment for an hour or so after Max left, the exhaustion of being away from the only soft place she had to land had seeped deep in her bones somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah. Everything she considered doing sounded like it required too much effort but guilt sat heavy in her chest in response to her desire to just relax. She knew Max wouldn’t mind, her not helping around the house. It wasn’t like the place was a disaster either but her idle hands felt wrong, like if she didn’t do something to productive she was ungrateful for everything Max had already done for her. 

Emma wanted to sit at the piano and play something but even that seemed to be too strenuous that day, her attention span for anything longer than a 15 second TikTok video was completely nonexistent. Emma was never sure how to handle days like this, the days where she was too tired to do much more than get up off the couch or do anything productive. These kinds of days had never been allowed in her home growing up. If you weren’t doing something productive or useful with your downtime, you were lazy. It was a mantra that was hammered into her consciousness so hard that even now, when she hadn’t lived at home for years, the words still haunted her. 

In the end, she had settled down on the couch before flipping through one of the dozens of streaming services Max had access to and settled on an old favorite: West Wing. Emma was half way through the episode where Mrs. Landingham was killed by a drunk driver in her brand new car, the anticipatory tears having started during the opening credits, when her phone buzzed to life. She half expected it to be Max telling her he’d decided to go out to dinner with the boys instead of coming home and that she was on her own for dinner but when she looked at the caller ID, her heart stuttered to a stop. 

MOM

“Of all the days for you to call…” Emma whispered, blowing out a breath. She spent several moments trying to decide if she had the strength to deal with her mother that afternoon. She knew the answer was ‘no’ but she’d been dodging her mom’s calls since before Japan so Emma knew it was time to face the music. 

As if he could sense her distress, Jimmy jumped up on the couch right as she answered, curling himself up into a ball in her lap and bumping her free hand with his head. Emma grinned down at the spotted cat. Max had insisted that Jimmy hated strangers and to not be surprised if he was quite standoffish but Jimmy had been nothing but sweet as sugar to Emma since day one. 

Much like his owner. 

Sliding the button on the screen of her phone, Emma lifted the device to her ear. “Hi Mom!” She tried to sound as happy as possible despite the aching exhaustion pulling at her extremities. 

“Emma, darling, how are you my dear?” The sickly sweet voice of her mother filled her ears, sending anxiety shooting down her spine. 

“I’m good, just trying to relax a bit.” 

“Ah, yes, I’m sure those girls you’re looking after run you quite ragged.” Something in her mother’s tone had Emma sitting up a bit straighter. She hadn’t lived through years of baiting and passive aggressive taunts to not recognize the beginnings of a fight brewing. 

“Well, about that…” Emma started, figuring there was no time like the present to fill her in on what had happened. Maybe her mother would surprise her and be on her side for once. 

“I had the most interesting discussion with Greta down the street this morning!” Her mother interrupts. 

Emma closes her eyes, dragging in a ragged breath. Clearly there was a reason for this call other than a friendly check in. These kinds of calls always came with an agenda set forth by Emma’s mother and Emma’s mother alone. She was helpless against it. The quicker she accepted that Gloria was in control of the call and she ws just alone for the ride, the quicker the call would be over and the sooner she could get back to crying over Mrs. Landingham. 

“Oh?” She asked reluctantly, knowing that this conversation has already been planned in advance and needed no help from Emma to move it along. 

“Yes! She said her and Frans were watching the Formula One race on Sunday evening and she said the funniest thing to me!” 

Emma’s heart stopped. Oh, here we go. 

Without waiting for a response, her mother continues. “She said that she swears she saw you at the race in one of the garages! I told her she must be mistaken because you were supposed to be in Monaco working the nanny job you insisted taking instead of returning to the school like your father and I had advised.” Her tone is light, innocent almost but Emma knows better. 

“Ah…well, Greta wasn’t wrong.” Emma’s stomach churns with anxiety as she fights to find the words. “I was in Jeddah for the race on Sunday.” 

Emma’s mother makes a small noise of surprise, even though Emma is fairly certain the surprise is feigned. “How nice of the family to give you the time off so quickly after starting a job!” She observes. 

Emma knows this is a trap but there’s nothing she can do about it but continue on. “Actually, I don’t work for the Dubois anymore, mom.” 

“Emma Jane Meyer, what are you talking about?” She asks sharply. 

There it was. The facts that her mother had been fishing for plainly stated and out in the open. Emma manages to stifle the heaving sigh she wants to let loose but she knows that’s a dangerous move, especially when her mother is out hunting for reasons to be angry.

 “It just didn’t work out mom, the family weren’t who they presented themselves to be.” 

On the other end of the phone, Emma’s mother makes a disapproving tutting sound that almost certainly was accompanied by a roll of her eyes. “Well then, why aren’t you back home? How are you living in Monaco of all places without a job?” 

“I do have a job, mom.” Emma learned long ago that short answers were the best way to deal with Gloria. 

“Oh!” The genuine surprise at the exclamation has a heavy weight settling itself directly on Emma’s chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. “Well, that’s certainly an improvement on where my mind was going!” God, Gloria was always so supportive. “Well, go on then, what are you doing? Did you find another teaching job that quickly? I’m surprised the family didn’t reach out to the school to let them know of your…record.” 

White hot searing pain slices at Emma’s heart as she sits there, listening to the surprise and backhanded compliments she had always been so intimately acquainted with. Emma can’t let her mom see that she’s gotten to her. She can never show that kind of weakness or she gets eaten alive. 

“Do you remember Victoria’s brother Max? I’m working as his personal assistant.” 

“All those years spent in university and you’re an assistant?” The way her mother says ‘assistant’ makes it sound like Emma was selling her body on the streets for drugs.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma closes her eyes. “It’s a good job mom. Max is busy and he needed the help. I’ve been to Japan, Bahrain, Cyprus and Saudi Arabia in the last three weeks alone. It’s actually a really good opportunity for me.” 

Gloria is silent for a beat, as if she’s struggling to find a chink in Emma’s existence. “He’s that racing car driver, yes?” 

“Yes, mom.” Emma fights the exhaustion that’s begging for her to be impatient and short with her mother because deep down, she knows it wouldn’t change anything anyway. “He drives Formula 1 cars for a living. That’s why Greta and Frans saw me on tv. I attend all the races with him and was watching him from the garage on Sunday.” 

“Well, what do you know about racing cars, Emma Jane?” The question is accusatory, as if she had somehow tricked Max into hiring her too. 

“Nothing, mother.” 

But she knew Max, and that was enough for her to care about something so foreign to her. 

“Then why in the world did he hire you?” 

Emma has to hold the phone away from her face for a moment, staring at the device like it was going to sting her. Why was she even entertaining this?

“I don’t know mother. Max is patient and the work I do is really racing adjacent. I don’t have to know about tire deg and sector times when all I do is manage his inbox and book his travel.” 

“Have you managed to find an apartment then? I’d imagine the Dubois didn’t allow you to stay. Max is certainly able to pay you well.” The speed at which Gloria changes the subject when she runs out of ammunition makes Emma’s head swim. 

“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” 

“You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. 

“Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?” 

“Well, you quit your teaching job with no notice to take a nannying job, which you promptly got fired from and are now shacking up with the man who signs your paychecks! I don’t know if I’d recognize you if I passed you on the street, Emma Jane!” 

“Oh for the love…” Emma whispers more to herself than to Gloria. “I can’t do this anymore.” She continues, louder now so her mother can hear. “When you want to have a clam, adult conversation you know where to find me.” Emma finally snaps, stabbing at the red End button without waiting for a reply. 

The silence that floods the room should feel soothing after the barbed words being exchanged moments before but as Emma leans back into the overstuffed couch, Jimmy managing to be brave enough to climb into her lap again, Emma feels anything but soothed. She had tried so hard to be neutral, to not give into the baiting that she knew was the goal the entire time but once again, she had failed. 

As Emma scratched between Jimmy’s ears, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had finally reaching the breaking point with her mother. 

***

Emma was angry.

Max could hear it. 

It wasn’t sobs or shouting that he heard as he returned from padel later that evening though. No, that wasn’t how Max knew Emma was angry. He knew she was angry because the sound floating out of the apartment was loud and angry, the epitome of heat and anguish in musical form. 

The piece Emma poured over while he quietly set his things down in the kitchen was sharp, short, and exasperated. It’s rough, ragged, and raw, the way Emma was sorting her way though whatever had happened while he’d been gone. As he settled into the living room, he made enough noise so Emma knew that he was back but not enough to distract. 

This had become sort of a routine in the short time she’d been staying with him. In the evenings when they were both relaxing, Emma would sit down at the piano and work through whatever she was feeling that day and Max would quietly sit on the couch or slip into his sim rig on the opposite side of the living room, volume down, so he could race and listen to her music. 

Tonight was different though. He’d never heard her play like this before and the moment he settled on the couch, Jimmy instantly bounding over to him to curl up in his lap, he knew she was working through something that he wanted to be around for. 

While Emma hadn’t been working for him long, and living with him for just a bit longer, the nature of their jobs forced them together for long hours in stressful situations over and over again for weeks on end so Max felt like he’d had a good enough chance to get to know Emma, to be able to read her well. It was sometime in between Japan and Bahrain that Max noticed how she avoided any talk of her parents or her past. If the subject of home came up, she deftly dodged any questions asked of her and even when they were alone, Emma remained quiet and careful. It was almost as if she was walking around afraid to get into trouble despite being incredibly competent at her job and a fully capable adult. 

Max got glimpses of her though, the Emma that tucked herself away behind heavily fortified walls that no one was allowed to breech. On nights like these, nights like the quiet ones they’d had in Cyprus between the races in Bahrain and Jeddah, Max got to know Emma better through how she played the piano. He knew how precious those moments were because in those little glimpses when she let her walls tumble down around her, Max saw her. Saw the hurt, the anger, the rejection but he also saw the hope, the commitment, the passion she had. Emma revealed so much of herself while her fingers danced over the keys when she played while he listened, more than she probably realized. 

It was easy to pick up on the anger radiating off of her body that evening not only because Max knew her but because Max understood the anger. He’d heard it, felt it in his own body time and time again. Knew the hurt of disappointing parents with high expectations. Knew what the anger felt like because he’d dealt with that last week in Jeddah after his penalty on Oscar which had cost him the race. 

He knew she was angry because he recognized the same demons in Emma that he was fighting with on a daily basis. 

The piece ended a few minutes after Max had settled into the couch, the silence blanketing the dimly lit Monaco apartment. Warm yellow lights cast a golden glow over the two of them as Emma sat at the bench for a few moments, flexing her fingers and staring at the sheet music in front of her. 

“You okay over there, Sunshine?” 

Emma’s heart fluttered at the nickname Max had started using in the last few weeks. The nickname she was desperately trying not to like. The breath she filled her lungs with was ragged but getting everything out of her body was so cathartic Emma almost felt steadied. “I think so.” She replied softly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Emma turned to face Max for the first time since she’d sensed him in the living room with her. She appreciated the way he was just loud enough to ensure he didn’t startle her anymore but was never so overtly there that she was distracted. Max is still dressed for padle, although his dark blond hair is still a touch damp, so Emma assumes he had showered at the club. The way his icy blue eyes watch her with a quiet confidence has Emma nodding despite the way she wants to shut down. Vulnerability was never rewarded in her house growing up so opening up to someone like Max was a terrifying prospect. 

Max pats the couch cushion next to him as a grin stretches across his face, rewarding her for her bravery. When she settles down beside him, Emma brings her knees up to her chest before circling her arms around them so she’s tucked into a protected ball.

It takes an amazing feat of strength for Max not to reach out and pull her into his lap. 

“What happened?” He asks quietly when she doesn’t offer up an explanation to the distress still rolling off of her in waves. 

“My mother happened.” She replies lightly, almost as if it’s a joke and it all clicks into place for Max with just those three words. 

Max sits and listens as Emma recounts the entire nightmare story from beginning to end. With each sentence, each quote from her mother, Max’s chest tightens and his blood pressure risees. As Emma tells her story though, she finds herself feeling lighter with each word that passes her lips. She’s never spoken to anyone other than Victoria about her upbringing, about how her parents treated her as an afterthought and a burden. It was never something she liked talking about because talking about it meant making it real. And making it real meant admitting that she was so unlovable that even her own parents didn’t want her. 

With each bit of story she releases, Emma sinks a little bit deeper into Max’s side. He doesn’t notice it at first, neither of them do, but when she tells him how she ended up hanging up on Gloria after she accused her of sleeping with Max, he looks over to see her head nestled gently on his shoulder. His arm goes around her shoulders instinctively, only seeking to comfort her and offer a silent word of thanks for entrusting him with what Max knows is a difficult story to tell. 

After a few moments of silence, Emma rises again and approaches the piano. Max watches curiously as she sits back down on the bench, fingers stretching out for the keys once again. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, does the piano sound better than it did that first day?” He asks, trying to distract from the heavy feeling that hangs in the air still. 

Emma looks at him, head tilted like she’s surprised at the question. “You know what, it is.” She says after a beat. 

Max nods, satisfied grin hitching up at the corner of his mouth. “Good. I asked Charles to send over his piano guy to tune it while we were gone. I’ll let him know you approve.”  

Emma’s mouth drops open a bit at bit of information Max drops on her. “You…what?” 

Max looks at her and shrugs. “You said it was out of tune and so I wanted to fix it for you.” 

“You really are one of a kind, Verstappen.” She says with a shake of her head before turning back to the piano to play Clair de lune, something she knows is one of Max’s favorites. 

***

Max wasn’t sure how he’d done it but after an hour or two of cajoling, he’d gotten Emma to agree to go out with him, and the crew he’d played padle with that afternoon. He knew she needed it, could read it in the way her eyes went stormy and unfocused when she had been attempting to make dinner, the phone call from her mom still digging their cruel talons into her memory. 

Usually Emma fluttered around the kitchen while she was cooking, a quiet confidence radiating off of her while she deftly prepped whatever meal she’d been inspired to make that day. Max found himself sitting at the counter more often than not whenever she was in the kitchen, mesmerized by the way she moved around in the space that usually sat empty and silent, even when he was home. The way she seemed to know exactly what to start prepping, when to put something in the oven or in the pan, what seasonings to use without consulting a recipe most of the time. It was all fascinating to Max, who probably would’ve messed up boiling a pot of water. 

Tonight was different though. 

The pots clattered against each other just a bit louder than normal as she searched for the right one to sear the salmon Max had picked up at the market on his way home. Her movements as she chopped up the lemons for the sauce were stiffer than usual, more forced and stilted, compared to the smooth confidence he was used to from her. 

There weren’t big, body wracking sobs or tears, just quiet tight shoulders and less chatter as she worked to get dinner ready.

 He knew that she needed to get out of her head to escape the constant press of anger and anxiety because he’d been there and knew he’d go there again before the season was finished. Figuring out how to help Emma gave him hope that maybe he’d be able to pull himself out of his own spiral the next time it happened.

So when Max saw that familiar, long distance look in her eye he had called for a night out. She hadn’t been out in weeks, he reasoned, needed a chance to blow off some steam, didn’t she? There had been a quiet flicker of something on her face as Max stood in the kitchen telling her how she’d love Jimmy’z, how Charles and Lando and Carlos had been asking after her earlier that afternoon. She’d tried to argue that she didn’t have anything to wear that would be appropriate for a night out in Monaco but Max hadn’t bought that, insisting that anything she had in her closet would look perfect. 

“I’m not above begging, Sunshine.” Max had crooned as he put the last pan away after washing it by hand.

He didn’t miss the way she blushed at the nickname he’d become accustomed to calling lately.   

“Okay! Fine! You win.” She had laughed eventually, rolling her eyes but Max saw that smile creeping slowly across her face, bright and genuine. “It would be embarrassing to have to tell the boys how you got on your knees in front of me.” 

Max had gone pink at the image Emma’s words conjured in his mind. 

The image of him down on his knees for her was nothing compared to the images that popped into his mind the moment Emma stepped out of her bedroom an hour after agreeing to a night out. Her platinum blonde hair was twisted up in some sort of complicated braid situation creating a crown around of her head. Emma rarely wore her hair completely up but Max considered threatening another begging session to get her to wear it pulled back like that more often. The way it was swept up and out of her face showed off the long lines of her neck in such a dangerous way, Max’s grip on the marble countertop in front of him tightened painfully just looking at her and he hadn’t even gotten past her neck. 

The dangerously short lace dress that hugged curves Max hadn’t been aware she possessed fit her so sinfully well, his mouth ran dry. 

He must have been starting at the Ferrari red dress a little too hard because when Emma got closer, her face clouded with anxiety. “What?” She asked, awkwardly tugging at the spot where the fabric tightened around her hip. “Is it too much?” Emma huffed before dropping the sky high black heels in her hands down on the floor, the shoes clattering noisy against the tiled floor. “I knew it was too much. I’ll go change.” 

Emma made an attempt to turn around and retreat back to her bedroom but was stopped when Max surged forward, hands reaching for her without even thinking. He swore his fingers burned when they found the bare skin of her elbow. “You look good, Em! Perfect for Jimmy’z, I swear.” 

Emma flushed so deeply her cheeks nearly matched the red in her dress. “Yeah?” She murmured, slipping her feet into the heels in front of her. 

Max nods, “Yes, Sunshine. I promise.” 

She doesn’t look totally convinced but enough so that she continues back towards her bedroom. “Okay.” 

“You ready then?” 

He tries not to groan when Emma catches her bottom lip between her teeth, brows pinching together as if she’s already having second thoughts. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She says, nerves evident in the way she shrugs as if she’s not the most gorgeous person Max has ever seen in his entire life. 

“Perfect. Let’s go then.” 

***

Max regretted agreeing to this, he decided shortly after they arrived at Jimmy’z. The moment Lando had spotted Emma across the dance floor, his grin had gotten much too wolfish for Max’s liking. It got even worse as Emma weaved her way across the crowded club with him right behind her, his hand low on her back as he guided her through the crush of bodies. It felt like every single head in the darkened room swiveled in her direction, following her every move as if she were the sun and they were plants reaching towards her warmth. 

“Gentlemen!” Emma greeted, seemingly totally unaware of the effect she was having on every male in the room, including his friends. 

Lando stood first, opening his arms for a hug that Emma freely gave. “You look…” Lando’s gaze raked over Emma’s body and Max had to physically restrain himself from punching the McLaren driver. “Stunning tonight.” 

Emma went pink, ducking her head against the compliment Max knows she’s going to struggle to accept. “Thanks, Lan.” She murmurs and Max’s pulse stutters at the nickname. 

Carlos is Max’s next victim, taking Emma into his arms in a friendly hug but it sits all wrong in Max’s chest just the same. “So glad you agreed to come out with us tonight, Emma.” 

The casual kiss on the cheek Emma gives Carlos has Max seeing red. He clenches his jaw, forcing a tight smile onto his face as Emma’s passed to Charles. 

“You look good in Ferrari red, love. Maybe you should watch the next race from my garage.” Charles says, kissing her on both cheeks before he smirks over at Max’s murderous face. 

“Never going to happen, Charles.” Max grits out as Emma slips into the booth next to Lando. He slides into the booth on her other side, shooting Charles a glare that is meant to be intimidating. 

Charles just grins over his glass as he takes the seat across from the trio, beside Carlos. 

Max ignores it and dips his head towards Emma, the scent of her vanilla and spice perfume wrapping itself around his senses. “Do you want me to get you a drink?” 

Emma shakes her head before pointing towards Lando’s retreating frame, already making a beeline across the room towards the bar. “Lando’s got it, but thanks Max.” She chirps before leaning back into the plush leather booth. 

Max desperately shoves down the white hot sear of jealous that flashes in his chest. He listens quietly as Charles pulls Emma into a conversation he refuses to be a part of, focusing instead on the way her knee keeps touching his ever so casually. Every time he feels the press of her leg against his, he swears his heart stutters to a stop. 

Lando returns quickly, two glasses clutched tightly in his hands. “One double cran for the prettiest girl in Monaco.” He flirts, grinning like a schoolboy when he sees the muscle flutter in Max’s jaw. 

Max knows Lando’s MO. He’s seen it time and time again. He’s all charm and pretty words, designed to get his target to tumble into bed with him. Usually Max just rolls his eyes at his friends antics but with Emma it’s different. He feels…needlessly possessive and for someone who’s always gone out of his way to remain emotionally unavailable and unattached, it’s an unsettling feeling. 

Emma doesn’t belong to you, Max gently reminds himself. She’s his assistant, nothing more. She’s a grown woman who can choose who she wants to spend time with freely. Max just wished it was with him and not his on-track rival.  It was none of his business, truly and as he sat listening to Lando make Emma laugh he repeated that mantra over and over in his head. 

The conversations flows just as easily as the drinks do with the bottle service girls making several visits to the table, refilling the glasses as quickly as they’re drained. Emma is definitely tipsy by the time she finishes her third drink, the light dinner they’d shared a few hours earlier doing nothing to help slow the grip the alcohol has on her mood. Her laughter comes easier, a little louder than usual and she’s leaning into the Lando’s side with every sip that she takes. The way she’s returning Lando’s flirty banter, teasing him with the same energy he’s giving her, has Max’s jaw clenching. 

Suddenly, the DJ starts spinning a more sensual song, one that has Emma swaying back and forth before she downs her latest drink. Lando turns to Emma, a charming grin spreading across his face. “I’ve had enough chatting to last me the rest of the season. Dance with me?” 

He doesn’t even wait for a response before he’s standing and grabbing Emma’s hand. “It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice!” She quips but gets up regardless, following Lando out of the VIP area and onto the dance floor. 

Max watches Emma go, hips swinging back and forth with her hand captured tightly in Lando’s as they disappear into the crowd. His knuckles go white around his gin and tonic watching the McLaren driver turn Emma around on the dance floor, his hands landing low on her hips as he pulls her into him. Her body is loose from the alcohol and she wraps her arms around Lando’s neck as easy as breathing. 

He watched, stony glare on his face, as Emma stepped even closer into Lando’s grasp. Her hips swayed in time to the music that thrummed through Max’s chest. The bass thumping in time to the beat of Lando’s hands exploring all the parts of Emma Max wished were his alone. 

“You’re going to give yourself lockjaw if you keep clenching that hard.” Charles remarks, amused smily kicking up at the corner of his mouth. 

“What?” Max’s eyes dart back towards Charles, mouth thinning into a straight line. 

“You’re trying to kill Lando with those daggers you’re shooting from your eyes.” Carlos observes, taking another sip of his drink, eyes bright with mischief. 

“I don’t know what you two are talking about. They’re just dancing.” 

“Uh huh.” Charles murmurs, though he sounds unconvinced. 

“It’s not like I own her, she’s just my assistant.” 

Charles snorts softly, rolling his eyes. “You haven’t stopped staring at her since you both walked through the door.” 

Max flicks his gaze back to where Lando and Emma still connected in every place that mattered on the dance floor. “She had a rough day, I’m just concerned.” 

“So that’s what we’re calling it these days? Concer? Because it reads more like obsession.” Carlos teases as he turns to watch the couple on the dance floor.  

Max shoots Carlos a look that has him grinning over the rim of his drink, brows rising into his hairline. The three men continue to drink in silence, Max not so subtly watching Lando paw at Emma opening, Charles and Carlos watching their the steam practically pour from their friends ears. 

As the song ends, Lando takes Emma’s hand and leads her back towards the booth. He slides in first, then, with a playful tug on her hand, pulls Emma down onto his lap. Emma laughs, bright and slightly breathless. It’s a sound that Max is used to only hearing when it’s aimed at him. Her eyes flick almost imperceptibly towards Max, a subtle fleeting glance to gauge his reaction. 

Max, jaw still tight, offers no reaction. He can’t. Refuses to give Lando the satisfaction and Emma a clue as to the storm roiling inside him. She’s vulnerable, drunk, and reeling from a difficult fight with her mother, now is not the time nor the place to get into a possessive pissing match with one of his best friends. So instead, he stares ahead, his expression carefully neutral, focusing on the flashing lights across the room as if they held the secrets of the universe. 

Seeing his response, a mischievous glint sparkles in Emma’s eye. She leans in close to Lando, her hand resting lightly on his arm to whisper in his ear, “I wore such a pretty dress just for Max and he’s barely looked at me all night” 

Lando doesn’t have to see her face to know Emma’s practically pouting. 

Normally, she wouldn’t share such a confession with anyone but the alcohol Emma’s consumed that night has her lips loose and her desire for Max ratcheted up a notch. Lando throws his head back, chuckling, his arm tightening around her waist. He didn’t mind being a means to an end for a night, especially if it meant cuddling up with a woman like Emma. 

Max doesn’t hear a single word she says but the sight of her whispering so intimately in Lando’s ear, the easy familiarity of their closeness, sends a primal wave of jealousy surging through his veins. His vision narrowed, the edges blurring a bit as his mind goes wild with speculation on what she could have been whispering in his ear. There was a feral growl building in his chest, a possessive rage that threatened to erupt. Max wanted to yank Emma away from Lando, right up off his lap, throw her over his shoulder and take her home where he fucked her so good she never wanted to look at another man ever again. He wanted to stake his claim. Wipe that sums grin off of his friends face. The causal touch, the shared secret, the blatant disregard for his presence. It was all too much. 

Max was on the verge of losing it and all he could do was sit there and take it.

The night continued on, the music pounding, the conversation blurring into a general hum that resembled a hive of hornets. Emma, despite her earlier energy from earlier, was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol and the emotional rollercoaster of the day. The vibrant energy of the club was beginning to feel like an overwhelmingly heavy warm woolen blanker: too warm and too heavy all over, all at once. 

Max watched from his place in the booth as she disentangled herself from Lando’s comfortable hold, a soft smile on her face. “Thanks for the seat, Lan.” 

Lando grinned up at her, boyish dimples winking up at her from the corner of his mouth. “Anytime, Emmy. Anytime.” 

Emma rolled her eyes at the nickname as her gaze drifted towards Max. He was sitting in the same spot he’d been in all night, still nursing the same drink from earlier. He watched as she took a few wobbly, tired steps to the other side of the table before slipping into the booth beside him. Her perfume, thick with the sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon mixed with the smell of the vodka she’d been drinking that night, flooded Max’s nose. 

“Hi.” She breathed, head coming to rest into the crook of Max’s neck. 

He straightened, surprised by this sudden closeness after a night spent watching Lando paw at her. Max looked down, chin brushing the smooth silk of her hair as he battled the urge to bury his nose in the locks. 

“Everything okay, Sunshine?” He asked, voice gruff. 

Emma scooted closer, so that her thigh was pressed into his and their shoulders were overlapping. “Yeah, I’m just getting a little tired, I think. Everything just kind of hit me all at once.” She gave a small, whiny sigh, burrowing her head even deeper into his neck. 

Max stiffened, knowing that Charles, Carlos and Lando were watching them with curious stares but also realizing Emma was overly uninhibited at the moment. He didn’t want to push her away but he also didn’t want to cause a scene, knowing that both would certainly lead to Emma feeling embarrassed. 

“Can you take me home now?” She asked sleepily. 

Max blinked, his breath catching in the back of his throat. “Home?” 

Emma nodded, eyes fluttering shut despite the loud chaos of the club pulling just beyond their bubble. “Yeah. It’s just…my bed sounds really good right now and I kind of want to cuddle with Jimmy and Sassy before I fall asleep.” 

Max’s heart clenched painfully. 

“Yeah, of course.” He stood slowly, guiding Emma along with him. Her body sagged into his grasp as Emma stumbled a bit. 

“Oops!” She giggled before reaching back to snatch her clutch from the table. “I’m going to pilates at 9am tomorrow, do either of you want to come with me?” She asked Lando and Charles while leaning heavily into Max’s side. 

All three men exchanged glances before nodding, smirks on their faces. “Sure, Emmy.” Lando chuckled, knowing that there was no way Emma would be out of bed anywhere close to 9am. 

“See you guys later.” Max said before slipping his arm around Emma’s waist and turning her towards the door. She was sober enough to make it to the door herself but unsteady on her feet enough that she leaned into Max’s side the entire walk to his car. 

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @martygraciesversion381, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx @mel164 @schumi-angel @myescapefromthislife @supertrashbread @sunny44 @tinystudentblaze-stuff @sarx164 @xoxomansee

[exquisink]

cw. Oral (f receiving), dubious con, stalker ex bf geto

WC. 1K

No matter what, you always find yourself back into his clutches. He makes sure of it.

You have to admit. A part of it is your own fault. He just can’t resist you, and so he has to make it known. For Suguru, the little things matter just as much as the big ones.

And so it starts small. Small enough for you to notice but for others not to make a big deal out of it, convincing you not to let it get to your head too much. 

Little things. Leaving your bedroom door slightly ajar while you’re occupied doing other things for work or class, knowing you left it shut when you turn around to check every so often. He just wants to check to make sure you’re not slacking off, because even if he no longer is an active part of your life, he still feels responsible for you and your success. 

But if he truly thinks that, then shouldn’t he be leaving you alone, you wonder?

Another time is when you go about your… private business. Showering and patting yourself down, applying lotion but you can feel his eyes on you. From where? You don’t know, but you know he’s in the same room because when you twist around, you find something written on the shower door which has been all fogged up from the condensation. 

You look as beautiful as the day we broke up… 

-G.S. 

You should fear for your life, but you don’t. Not because you don’t think he’s going to do anything, but because if he wanted to, he would have by now. But he wants you to think you can play it safe… he wants you to think he won’t stoop to even lower levels.

But you have always known better. That doesn’t mean you have to think ahead. You just decide to wait it out. Because maybe there’s a part of you who enjoys the thrill of him chasing you like this, trying to torment you but you don’t falter, you’re better than that and that probably drives him fucking nuts.

His eyes are trained on you while you’re sleeping. You don’t need to peel your eyes open to know that he’s standing in a far corner of the room looking like a shadow creature of some kind, because he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s always with you. You don’t stir even as he stalks toward you bed, admiring your slumbering form while it’s bathed by the soft glow of the moonlight leaking through the window just above your bedframe. You don’t stir even as he traces the contours of your face and neck and shoulders. Maybe you wear sheer pajamas on purpose so he gets a little peak at everything he’s missing and he’s not afraid to touch.

He observes you for a moment longer, then finally seizes the opportunity, squeezing your swollen tits through the sheer fabric of your baby pink pajamas, thumbs flicking over your nipples. You don’t protest, in fact, you welcome it, because yes there’s a part of you that misses the way he knows your body so well that he doesn’t have to do a lot to get you going but that doesn’t mean he has to know that too. What you are going to allow is him thinking he’s getting away with this.

He kisses between your breasts, prying apart each button to reveal your bare, milky skin to him. He stifles a groan to himself, dragging his tongue down your stomach and stopping just before your shorts which he yanks down to your ankles and slips it right off. A little gasp escapes.his lips when he sees you’re not wearing any underwear, almost as if you knew he was going to steal you away like this. 

He runs his tongue past his lips before closing his mouth over your folds. You don’t react, and he is mentally thanking you for that but he sorely misses your voice and your sweet oohs and aahs while he coos sweet nothings to you. He doesn’t need the label to still do that and you both know it, but it is a nice add on because it’s not like anyone else can deliver the things you need like he can. 

He keeps his mouth glued to your nethers for what feels like hours. It might as well have been because by the time your eyes blink open he’s still at work between your legs, grinning up at you with soaked lips glistening in your juices. 

“Good morning, gorgeous. Don’t worry, I’m far from finished here.”

You don’t have the energy to fight back, and he should consider himself lucky that you don’t, bucking your hips closer to his mouth as he feasts off of you like it is purely for his amusement and indulgence, and obviously it is. He takes pride in the fact that he can still get away with this and you won’t go squealing to your friends or the authorities that your ex still has some kind of power over you. Maybe because you’re always going to allow him in no matter what you think.

Once he nurses a final orgasm out of you out of the countless he’s stolen throughout the night, he kisses between your thighs before finally pulling away, wiping his mouth clean with his sleeve before planting a kiss to the corner of your lips. 

“I’ll be back,” he promises with a wink. You nod dumbly, it’s clear you’re still trying to wake yourself up even after a mindblowing experience like that, something only he can give you and so he gives you some grace. “This is still all mine, isn’t it, gorgeous?”

You nod again. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, “Have a good day, my love. Like I said, I’ll be back for more.”

And so he saunters off, leaving you to recuperate after that. He almost decides against leaving but he knows you have your own obligations to take care of first.

[aureatescars]

Sasha shares that sentiment, his thumb caressing Leon's cheek as he closes his eyes. He can see the longing in bright blue when he blinks them back open, finds the same softness there that settled in his own chest a while ago. But he can see something else there too, the first sparks of an idea of a future, a shared one, one that might promise more of this, more peace...

His thoughts are cut off and Sasha gives a pleased little hum when Leon leans in for a kiss and then quickly surrenders into it when Leon pushes to deepen it. It's all so easy, getting lost in the feeling of Leon's body against his own, letting his mind empty beyond the mere thought of closer, deeper, more.

"Yes, but first..." He breathes heavily against Leon's lips and lets a hand settle on his hips to align their quickly firming lengths. "I want you." He pulls Leon back in, the kiss just as deep as before, still languid at first from lingering fatigue, but it doesn't take long becore their grasps become more firm and they give into their arousal once more. Sasha slides the bathrobe off of Leon's shoulders and lets his hands wander freely, no longer concerned with lingering aches or tension in his muscles and instead entirely preoccupied by Leon's lips against his throat and his hand around his length.

They get carried away again, leaving the sheets rumpled and blankets and pillows in part thrown to the floor in their wake, until they're both overcome by release and left fully entangled and breathless. Sasha uses an undone corner of the sheets to haphazardly wipe them both down before he fishes for the blanket that fell off the bed at some point. He maneuvers it back over their sweat-slicked bodies to ward off the chill of the room and then fits himself close against Leon once again, pressing a kiss into his hair.

They have a few more hours to enjoy this, a little longer to draw strength from the unexpected bond they now share and Sasha selfishly wants to enjoy this little moment in time as long as it lasts.

His hand wanders up and down Leon's back when his lover tucks his head beneath Sasha's chin and the weight of sleep slowly begins to settle over them again. He's already half asleep again, dozing in his bliss when he quietly mumbles something into the soft strands of Leon's hair, barely more than a half-formed thought. "Maybe we can find a bit more time after all this is over." He says in a low voice as he burries closer, already feeling Leon's weight settle heavier against him as well. "This doesn't have to end here."

Sasha turns his face more firmly into the pillow, unhappy with the early morning light stinging in his eyes no matter how much he enjoys taking in Leon's form, even from across the room. How very rude that his lover left him behind before he was aware enough of his surroundings to keep him from climbing out of bed in the first place. Sasha huffs out a breath against the soft fabric of the pillowcase at Leon's question, now peeking at him over the top of the pillow while hugging it closer to his chest, already half set in his decision to go back to sleep.

"Lonely." He says pointedly in answer, his voice little more than a low rasp and muffled against the fabric. He clears his throat and reaches out to pat the space beside him in silent invitation. He is aware it's not what Leon was referring to, but Sasha's never been much of a conversationalist in the morning. For all that's changed in his life, for whoever much he has changed, this at least, has been a constant.

Of course the man he'd decide to take for a lover would then turn out to be a morning person. "Come here." He grumbles, but the smile tugging at his lips reaches his eyes and softens the harshness of his tone when Leon begins to slowly saunter back over. Sasha thinks he must be doing this deliberately, must be adding some flair to the way he walks just to tease him, or maybe Sasha has underestimated just how much Leon's way of moving affects him.

There is something to the way he looks at him now, too. The brightness of his eyes that much more stark when his features aren't pulled into a scowl but rather still soft with the remnants of sleep. Sasha turns unto his back and reaches for him when Leon comes to a halt next to the bed.

It's then that he is forced to take proper stock of how he is feeling. His lower body gives a few rather unpleasant twinges of pain as he moves to adjust the way he is lying there. Muscles work to find a more comfortable position, but that only reminds him of the tenderness he was left with after their... nightly activities when he shifts his legs a little further apart. It does have him wince at first, but frankly despite an almost pleasant soreness and bit of a weakness in his legs he doesn't feel particularly weak nor does he severely ache anywhere either, not even in the way he is used to after dealing with an injury such as his own for years.

Thus, when Leon at last leans over him, now with a shadow of concern darkening his expression in light of Sasha's reaction, Sasha doesn't waste any time pulling him down to the bed, feeling nothing but satisfaction when Leon's weight settles atop of him. Sasha even manages a low chuckle when Leon struggles against his hold before eventually settling between Sasha's legs and propping himself up on his elbows on either side of Sasha's head.

Sasha's hands sneak beneath the fabric of the bathrobe and alight on Leon's hips. He strains his neck a bit to rub their noses together. "I feel fine." He says quietly, lovingly, as he sinks back down, tone of voice more suited for their proximity. "A little sore, but I think that is to be expected after ... well."

It hasn't quite occured to him again just yet that the lack of pain and weakness he feels may be reason for concern in of itself, but right now he is still too caught up in the moment and captivated by the way Leon's expression has yet to become hard to decipher to care about any other implications.

He reaches up to brush a few loose strands of Leon's bangs behind an ear, smiling up at him. "How about you?" His hand moves down the side of Leon's face, and then he slightly tips his chin up, thumb brushing against the faint stubble along his jawline. "Any regrets?"

[ilostthewar]

More Omega!Soap and Omega!Reader thoughts.

So, everyone knows about heats. I think the pre-heat is just as entertaining. Your body is about to go through this hormone driven, intense metabolic change for multiple days. So clearly, the body has to prepare to ensure it’s not gonna keel over. Soap and Reader have vastly different needs during their pre-heats, and it drives everyone crazy. Especially when your heats start to align.

I imagine Johnny is needier than usual. He wants to be around his mates, wants them in his nest, wants to steal the clothes off their back, wants to spend his time with them. He’s also constantly hungry. He’s a big guy, and he needs the energy. He’s constantly moving, wants to wrestle and play fight. Needs an excuse to be moving. The others can handle this fairly well. You can throw Johnny on a fighting mat and then feed him anything as long as it’s protein heavy, and he’s perfectly content. He’s verbal and often simply goes after what he wants.

Reader’s pre-heat needs are a little more subtle. Lots of rest and naps. Has specific preferences about what they will and won’t eat. Needs more space from the pack and any interaction needs to be on their terms. And your nesting behaviors look different. Less collecting and more organizing. Ensuring everything is where it needs to be. And you make your displeasure known, snipping and baring teeth if the others push too hard. It takes the pack a lot longer to adjust to this Omega’s needs, after having Johnny as their only responsibility.

John can be a bit heavy-handed at first. His brain keeps telling him to keep his omega comfy, so it feels like he’s hovering. But he prides himself on how well he keeps his pack, and he wants to take care of you just as well. And Gaz is similar where he’s trying to figure out what you need, but it leads to him overthinking. Johnny has a habit of bulldozing them, so there isn’t as much guessing involved. Hilariously, Ghost is probably the best at handling you. He’a simply accepted that if you need something, you’ll come around, and he understands needing boundaries on touch. So if you only came over for a brief hug or only want to sit beside him for a few minutes, that’s more than fine with him. He’s not one for midday naps, but he does like that when you want to take one you’ll curl up near him.

The biggest problem is truly between Reader and Johnny. Their opposing wants create a funny situation where Johnny is fucking annoying and Reader is doing their best to kill him. Nests are off limits but everything else is fair game. Soap’s favorite are surprise attacks where he’ll lay his full weight in them or haul Reader off their feet and refuse to let go. It’s a lot of goading on Johnny’s part and hissing and cursing from Reader. Soap likes being an asshole about it sometimes, likes it even more when he gets to pin Reader down.

Gaz is the most frequent one to break up these little fights. Ghost tends to watch and simply finds it amusing, might drag Johnny off if he notices him getting too excited. John has a habit of reteaching Johnny how to be nice to his fellow omegas.

[sweet-pea-channie]

Shadows of the Exile - Part 12

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Days after Azriel’s awakening, Y/N is doing her best to help him heal—not just physically, but emotionally. Their quiet nights and soft touches speak volumes, a bond growing in strength and meaning. With every glance, every shared silence, they move closer to each other, building something tender, real, and lasting.

Warnings: slow burn to the point of painful (like "screaming into a pillow at 2am" levels), emotional support, soft!Az, possessive!Az, intense yearning, mutual pining, mentions of recovery, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), praise kink, slight shadow play, soft dom vibes, overstimulation, slight choking, aftercare that feels like a love letter

Word count: 9.4k

A/N: This is it! The last part of my series. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. And there will be one more short part, kinds like an epilogue.

series masterlist

Almost two weeks had passed since Y/N and Azriel had that honest conversation. Back then, Y/N had explained to him calmly and firmly that she wanted to take her time – not out of doubt, but out of respect for his recovery and everything that could grow between them. Azriel had nodded, accepting her decision, even if part of him had wanted nothing more than to have her constantly by his side.

Since then, Y/N had cared for him every day. Her hands rarely healed his wounds, but her presence – her mere nearness – gave him more strength than he would ever admit. Little by little, he got better. By now, he could stand again and, with some help, had moved back into his own room. It was a small step toward normalcy – but also a step away from the quiet, nightly moments with Y/N at his side.

Because they had happened – those nights. Quiet, gentle, full of unspoken longing. Nights when Y/N had silently entered his room without saying a word. When she had simply laid down beside him and held him tightly, as if she could shake off all the heaviness of the past weeks that way. Her breathing had synced with his, her hands had sought – and found – a hold in him. They had kissed, hesitant yet full of feeling. Lips that trembled with restraint but tasted like a promise. But nothing more had happened. And both knew: It was exactly right that way.

Azriel wanted to give her space. Even though every day she didn’t fall asleep beside him felt a little emptier. But he knew: If they had a future, it should be built on trust and patience – not haste.

The others from the Inner Circle – Cassian, Mor, Rhys, Feyre – did their best to be there for him. There was laughter, teasing, and sometimes Feyre spoke of the quiet rumours drifting through the halls. That Azriel and Y/N were mates.

They hadn’t announced it officially. But deep down, everyone already knew. It was there – in the looks, the little touches, the barely perceptible pull between two souls that had already found each other.

Y/N felt it too. Every time her fingers accidentally brushed against his, every time she thought of him at night and wondered if he was thinking of her. She was certain he was. Just as she carried him within her, with every fiber.

And Azriel? He counted the days. Not because he was impatient. But because each day was a step closer to her. And to the life they might soon share.

The day was quiet. The sun hung low over Velaris, casting golden light through the windows that made dust particles dance. Azriel sat on the soft windowsill of his room, leg stretched out, wings loosely spread behind him. He was wearing his dark clothes again, though a bit looser – a sign he was becoming more himself again.

Y/N stood in the doorway. She hadn’t knocked – she rarely did anymore. They no longer needed words to know when their presence was wanted.

“You were out and about a lot today,” Azriel said quietly, without looking at her. But he felt her. Always.

Y/N smiled softly and stepped in. “Just a little fresh air. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He turned his head to her. “You never disturb.”

Silence fell between them. Warm, familiar.

She finally sat next to him on the windowsill, pulling her legs up to her chest. For a moment, neither of them said anything – and yet everything was there. The memory of nights when she had curled up silently beside him. Of kisses that had felt like breaths. Of restraint, even though the closeness roared loudly in their veins.

“I… miss that,” Y/N finally said. Her voice barely more than a whisper. “You. The nights.”

Azriel looked at her, his eyes dark and honest. “Me too.”

Her fingers slowly found his, gently wrapping around them like someone holding a fragile treasure. He closed his hand around hers – firmer than he could have two weeks ago. Firmer, because he knew: He was on his way. Back to himself. To her.

“Will you stay tonight?” he asked, softly, almost shyly.

A short, deep breath – then a nod. “If you want me to.”

“I want nothing more.”

The room was bathed in warm, dim light. The shadows of the furniture lay softly against the walls, while outside, night was falling over Velaris.

Azriel was already lying on the bed, half on his side, a book in his hand – though he was hardly reading. His thoughts were elsewhere – focused on every sound coming from the hallway. On the possibility that Y/N might turn back after all.

Then the door opened. Quietly, as it often did. Y/N stepped in, barefoot, her steps barely audible. In her hand, she carried a cup of steaming tea, which she wordlessly placed on the small nightstand beside him.

“For later,” she murmured.

Azriel gave a faint smile. “Thank you.”

Without saying much more, she slipped onto the other side of the bed. The mattress gave slightly under her weight, and for a moment, they just lay there – separated by a small gap, by restraint, by a quiet tingling beneath their skin.

Then, ever so gently, Y/N moved closer. Her hand brushed across the blanket and finally came to rest on his arm. It was such a small touch – and yet it coursed through Azriel like a quiet storm. He turned a little more toward her, so their faces were nearly aligned.

Her gaze met his. Open, soft, loving.

Azriel lifted his hand and brushed a strand of hair from her face, letting his fingers linger briefly on her cheek. “I love this,” he whispered. “This silence with you. That you’re here.”

Y/N briefly closed her eyes under his touch. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Slowly, she slid even closer, until her forehead rested against his chest, and his arms wrapped around her as if on their own. Not tightly – just enough to make her feel held. Safe. Loved.

Azriel pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, and Y/N responded by intertwining her fingers with his. No rushing. No pressure. Just two hearts beating in the same rhythm.

And so they stayed. In the darkness, in the whisper of the night. Two souls promising each other with every touch: I’m here. And I’m staying.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was filled with everything they didn’t need to say – with closeness, with affection, with the calm of two people who truly knew each other. Not just through words, but through glances, little quirks, years of shared moments.

Y/N lay half on Azriel’s chest, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles over the fabric of his shirt. “Do you remember,” she murmured, “when you snuck into the kitchen three years ago in the middle of the night to steal Cassian’s last chocolate cookie – and I caught you of all people?”

Azriel made a mock-offended face. “It was for everyone!”

“He had his name written on it.”

“In very ugly handwriting, if I may point that out.”

Y/N giggled softly, her head shaking a little on his chest. “You looked at me with that innocent face like you were the victim.”

Azriel chuckled. “You were merciless. Turned me in.”

“I just happened to mention to Cassian that he should look for you in the training room.”

“He called me ‘cookie thief’ for three days.”

“And you deserved it.”

An amused silence settled over them. Then Azriel suddenly raised an eyebrow, his gaze taking on that mischievous glint that always made Y/N laugh and blush at the same time.

“Do you know what I wonder?” he began, all innocence.

Y/N lifted her head slightly. “What?”

“How you managed to live in the same house with me for years… with all my darkness, my baggage… and this damn charm that clearly drove you crazy even back then.”

Y/N stared at him, incredulous, then laughed out loud. “Oh please! Your charm? You could barely talk to me without nervously fiddling with your cloak.”

Azriel grinned. “That was strategy. Seem insecure, gain sympathy – boom, heart won.”

“Is that so,” she murmured, poking his side with her finger. “So you planned to fall in love with me?”

He shrugged, pulling her closer. “No. It just happened. Quietly. Just like you entered my life.”

For a moment, it became quiet again. Her forehead now rested against his collarbone, her breathing calm and steady. But the smile remained – in the corners of her mouth, in his eyes, in the warmth flowing between them.

“I love it when you laugh,” Azriel whispered after a while. “Do that more often.”

“Then give me more reasons to.”

He pressed another kiss to her forehead – longer this time, firmer. And there it was again, that promise that needed no words.

-

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting golden patterns on the floor of the room. It was still early – the stillness of the morning held a calming effect. Azriel slowly awoke, the warmth of Y/N still beside him like a soothing weight on his heart. Her hair lay in soft strands across his pillow, and the familiar scent of tea and lavender lingered in the air.

He carefully lifted a hand, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and watched her for a moment as she was wrapped in light sleep. Her forehead was soft, almost childlike, in the innocence of slumber.

Y/N stirred slightly and then opened her eyes, first slowly, then blinking as the brightness of the morning reached her. For a moment, she was still, looking at Azriel with that gaze that seemed to say everything between them—and more.

“Good morning,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from sleep.

“Morning,” he replied gently, brushing his hand along her arm. “How did you sleep?”

She took a moment, then closed her eyes again and sighed contentedly. “Better than ever before.”

“Good,” he said, his voice calm. “Me too.”

The moment between them was silent, and yet it was loud with unspoken understanding. They knew it was more than just these nights, more than just sharing a bed. It was the beginning of something built on trust, patience, and love. And it felt entirely right.

Y/N eventually turned toward him, her hands finding his and resting softly in them. She didn’t squeeze tightly, but it was enough—enough to show what she couldn’t put into words.

“Azriel,” she whispered, “I’m glad you’re here. That you’re letting me be here.”

He nodded, the warmth of her touch sinking into him. “I’m glad you’re with me. That you trust me.”

The morning passed slowly. No rush. No expectations. Just a delicate, mutual understanding that was alive in every small touch.

Y/N looked at Azriel for a moment, her eyes sparkling in the gentle light of the morning sun. “You really have no idea how beautiful you look just sitting there like that,” she said with a mischievous smile, propping herself lightly on one elbow.

Azriel snorted in amusement, but his gaze was soft, almost shy. “You know how to make a man lose his head, don’t you?”

“Oh, I do,” she replied with a wink, “but I never felt like you needed to work too hard on your charm.”

“And you’d be surprised how much practice I put into it,” he whispered as he turned slightly closer to her.

Y/N laughed and nudged him playfully. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you,” he said with a grin and pulled her a bit closer to give her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

It was a moment full of lightness, one that shed the weight of the past few days and gifted them a sense of normalcy—the feeling that they could simply be together, without rush and without worry.

But then Y/N slowly sat up, her expression becoming more thoughtful. “I still have to go to the House of Wind. There’s something I need to finish there. Something that’s been simmering and should be wrapped up today.”

Azriel nodded, his face showing only a tiny hint of disappointment, but he hid it well. “Of course. I know you’ve got a lot to do.”

“Rhys didn’t assign you anything new, did he?” she asked, with a slightly concerned look.

“No,” said Azriel, shaking his head. “He gave me some documents to revise. Don’t worry, I’ll manage. I can get through the day without you.”

Y/N smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before rising. “I know you can. But I still want to make sure you’re not overdoing it.”

She knelt again beside the bed and leaned carefully over him, her hands gliding gently across his skin to make sure everything was healing well. Her gaze was focused as she looked over the scars and injuries he had carried over the past weeks.

That’s when she noticed a change she hadn’t expected—the nerves that had been damaged during the battle seemed to have fully regenerated. The healing had progressed further than she’d initially thought. A quiet sense of relief washed over her, but she said nothing. It was better not to burden Azriel with it—at least not yet.

“Everything looks good,” she finally said as she pulled her hand back and looked at him with a reassuring smile. “I’ll make sure you get through the day just fine.”

Azriel grinned, even though he noticed the shift in her expression. “If you say it looks good, I trust you.”

Y/N nodded, still with a hint of concern in her eyes, before she finally pulled away from him. “I’ll be back soon. Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Azriel replied, his voice calm and steady. “And you take care of yourself, Y/N. I’ll see you later.”

As Y/N entered the House of Wind, the familiar silence of the building felt like an embrace. She appreciated these moments of solitude, when only the soft rustle of the curtains and the distant chirping of birds could be heard in the air. Her thoughts drifted back to Azriel and the quiet moments they had shared. It was a feeling of safety, of security, that she experienced in his presence—and she knew she couldn’t wish for a better place or a better partner by her side.

As she walked down the corridor, she noticed Cassian standing near a window, lost in thought as he gazed into the distance. When he saw her, he approached with a wide smile.

“Ah, Y/N,” he said, his voice warm and friendly. “How are you? And how’s Azriel?”

Y/N paused for a moment and smiled softly. It still felt a little strange to talk about her connection with Azriel, even though they now knew. But with Cassian, it just felt right.

“We’re doing well. He’s recovering nicely. I… I just wanted to make sure everything at the House of Wind is still running smoothly.”

Cassian nodded in understanding. “Azriel told me you’ve been staying with him most of the time. That’s good—he needs you more than he’ll ever admit.”

“Yes,” Y/N replied quietly, “but it’s not just that. It feels… right. More than I ever could have imagined.”

Cassian looked at her for a moment, then nodded with a knowing smile. “You know, you’re really lucky, Y/N. He’s… a good man. One of the best.”

Y/N looked up, her eyes soft and sincere. “I know. I’ve never once doubted that I couldn’t have anyone better by my side.”

Cassian chuckled softly, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear. But I can also tell you—he feels the same. You’ve given him more than he ever dared hope for.”

“I think… that’s what we’ve given each other,” Y/N said thoughtfully. “The patience, the trust. And yes, maybe even the love.”

Cassian nodded once more before opening the door to one of the rooms used by other members of the Inner Circle. “I’m sure he’ll want to see you again tonight. So, go do what you need to do, Y/N. And if you ever need a break, you know where to find us.”

“Thank you, Cassian,” said Y/N, offering him a brief, grateful smile before stepping into the room.

After Y/N had walked on, Cassian sighed and leaned against the wall for a moment. The scene between him and Y/N had been quiet, but his thoughts kept circling around Azriel’s condition—and around what was growing between him and Y/N. It wasn’t hard to see how connected they already were, even if they hadn’t made it official yet.

When Cassian opened the door he’d been standing before, he found Rhysand and Feyre deep in conversation. Rhys was sitting at a table, one hand resting on a stack of documents, and Feyre, who stood beside him, looked thoughtful, her brow slightly furrowed.

“Come in, Cassian,” Rhys said as he noticed the entrance, without taking his eyes off the papers. “What is it?”

“Y/N just arrived,” Cassian began, now hesitating a bit. “She wanted to get some things done at the House of Wind. But… she seems different.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow and looked at him attentively. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not hard to see,” Cassian continued. “She and Azriel… they’re already really close, and I think that’s only going to deepen over the next few days. She was really open with me about how she feels. And that’s kind of… comforting.”

Rhys smiled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “You know, Cassian, I had a feeling this would happen eventually. But now that you say it, it feels right. It was only a matter of time.”

“It’ll still take a while before they make it official,” Cassian said thoughtfully. “But when I look at the two of them, I don’t think there will be a moment when they need to tell us directly. It’s so obvious in the way they act with each other.”

“I’m glad they finally found each other,” Feyre said quietly. “It’s been a long journey for Azriel, and Y/N really is… the perfect partner for him.”

“I just hope she gives herself the time she needs,” Cassian added. “Azriel still has a lot of healing ahead of him. And Y/N is… she’s everything to him. I don’t think he’d ever really stop fighting, as long as she’s by his side.”

“That’s exactly how it will be,” Rhys confirmed. “But you’re right. We have to make sure Azriel gives himself that time. But he’s a fighter—you know that.”

Feyre gazed thoughtfully out the window as she spoke softly: “It feels kind of perfect, doesn’t it? All these changes, the growth of the Inner Circle, and at the same time, how everyone is finding their place and their love. We’re strong together, and that means supporting one another.”

Cassian nodded and stepped closer, folding his arms. “I’m glad they were able to find that. And that we’re getting to experience all of this together. I think Azriel finally has what he always needed.”

Rhys and Feyre agreed, and for a moment, the room was quiet—a moment of understanding and support for one another.

Azriel sat at the heavy table in the study of the Town House, his eyes focused on the documents Rhys had given him. It wasn’t much work, nothing that truly challenged him, but it was important that he got it done. The rhythm of reading and writing helped him to organize his thoughts, to distract himself from the constant worry about Y/N and his recovery.

But after a while, as the stillness of the house surrounded him, he felt the boredom and the need to move start to rise within him. He sighed and set the pen down, his fingers trailing along the edges of the papers as his thoughts drifted to the empty expanse of the garden outside.

It was a feeling he couldn’t push away. The longing for activity. For training. The feeling of muscular strength and control over his body that he knew so well. A part of him knew it was still too early—he wasn’t fully healed yet, but the silence of the house, the absence of Y/N, made the quiet temptation within him grow stronger.

Without much hesitation, he stood up, walked to the closet where his swords were kept, and reached for one of his preferred blades. The familiar weapon felt good in his hand, the weight a comforting feeling in his palm.

“Just a little training,” he murmured softly to himself as he opened the heavy door and stepped into the garden.

The sun was already higher, but the morning was still fresh, the ground covered in dew. Azriel let the crisp air fill his lungs and felt the wind move through his hair. Then he began to move.

He started with a simple kick, let the sword hum through the air, his movements precise, though still a little slower than usual. But soon he noticed something—something he hadn’t expected. The pain that had often accompanied his training was gone. No pulling in the muscles, no painful tugging at his old scars.

He paused and took a deep breath, looking at the sword now calmly held in his hand. Was it really true? The healing had been faster than he thought. The nerves that had once been damaged now seemed fully healed. The relief that washed over him was almost overwhelming. It was more than just physical healing—it felt as though his inner balance had been restored as well.

A faint smile crept onto his lips. “Feels good to have control again,” he whispered quietly to himself.

He continued the training, this time with more confidence, the movements smoother and quicker. A part of him knew that he would see Y/N again soon, and maybe, just maybe, he would tell her. But for now, he was alone with the feeling of strength that enveloped him as he continued training in the garden, the sword slicing through the air, and he felt more and more like the warrior he had always been.

Azriel was so immersed in his training that he barely noticed how close he had come to the greenhouse he had built for Y/N in the garden. The sword in his hand whooshed through the air, his movements now faster and more precise. But suddenly, he felt the nearness of the house and a sharp sound that pulled him out of his focus.

A pot, standing on a table outside the greenhouse, almost tipped over as he took one step too far in that direction. Reflexively, he reached out, the sword still in his other hand, and caught the pot with a quick motion before it could fall to the ground.

A slight pain shot through his shoulder and arm as he tensed instinctively, but it was nothing serious. Yet as he placed the pot back, he felt a different, much deeper kind of pain—not physical, but something more subtle, more profound.

It was the mating bond. The familiar, almost overwhelming pull that connected him to Y/N. For a moment, he felt a wave of concern wash over him—a feeling that didn’t seem to belong to him. He knew instantly that Y/N had felt something. She had sensed the shock and the restlessness that had just overcome him.

Immediately, he could feel the quiet response through the bond—a kind of question, an inquiry, a silent call from her soul asking about his condition.

Azriel stood there, the sword hilt still in his hand, as he looked at the greenhouse he had built with his own hands for Y/N. The movement, the training, the goal of regaining control over his body was forgotten in that moment. What now occupied him was a much deeper feeling—the mating bond, suddenly pulsing within him.

It had been the moment the pot almost fell. The reflex to catch it had been instinctual, but what truly surprised him was what came after the shock. The connection leading to Y/N began to stir irresistibly, as if he had communicated something to her in that moment without truly meaning to.

He felt her concern, like a gentle yet very clear touch of fear streaming through the bond to him. It was as if she could sense that something was wrong. That he felt overwhelmed, even though the pain had only been a fleeting moment. A feeling of worry that she sent him without words, as if she were watching him at that very moment.

“Y/N…” he whispered, not knowing why, as he broke the silence of the garden. He had never experienced this kind of communication with anyone before—that his feelings, his fears, his pain could flow through this invisible but so powerful bond to her. It was overwhelming and at the same time incredibly beautiful. It was as if he could see through her eyes without actually seeing her, as if her soul gently touched his own.

It took a moment before he realized that the shock he had felt hadn’t stayed only within him. The mating bond responded. She asked if he was alright, even though he hadn’t heard her. It was as if her words, her questions flowed through the space and reached him. She was with him—not physically, but in a way he had never thought possible.

He felt a warm wave of relief spread through him as he conveyed the feeling to her that he was okay. That the shock had only been a brief moment. But there was more. This connection wasn’t just one of physicality or love—it was also one of security. One that made him know that he wasn’t alone in that moment.

“It’s nothing,” he thought loudly, without words, but strong through the bond. “I’m safe. But thank you… thank you for always being there for me.”

He felt her presence flow through him, as if she were in every cell of his body, as if she could understand him not only in the big moments but also in the small, everyday ones. This connection that touched him so deeply was new and overwhelming. It was almost too beautiful to be true. And yet he knew it was real. She was his mate. Someone who would always be by his side, in every little situation, in every fleeting moment.

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment and let himself be overwhelmed by the intensity of the mating bond. It was dangerous, he knew. Too much closeness, too much knowledge that came not just from words but from emotions. But it was also what calmed him. What made him whole. And he couldn’t help but savor the depth of the feeling.

“You are with me,” he finally murmured. “In every second, in every smallest gesture.”

He then decided to end the training. These new feelings, so strong through the bond between them, called for a pause. He wanted to quietly reflect on this change. And maybe… maybe it was time to think more about what this bond meant for the future.

With one last glance at the table, the pot, and the greenhouse he had built for Y/N with so much love, Azriel lowered the sword. The response of the mating bond was clear: he was not alone, and he never would be again.

Hours passed, and the day drew to a close. The room was now bathed in the soft light of dusk as Azriel continued working on the documents Rhys had given him. It was a welcome distraction, but still, the room held a kind of emptiness that he sometimes found hard to bear. The mating bond between him and Y/N was still new and intense—so strong that he could feel her presence even in the quiet moments, even when she wasn’t near.

He heard something moving downstairs, a familiar sound that sharpened his senses. Y/N was back. The quiet rustle of something being moved, a gentle clinking of cups or cutlery. She was back in the house, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing.

A short time later, he heard soft steps coming up the stairs, and then Y/N was suddenly standing in the doorway to his room. In her hands, she held a tray.

“I brought you food,” she said with a smile that revealed more about her intention than she perhaps realized.

Azriel rolled his eyes in annoyance and leaned back. “You can tell Cassian to stop bringing that stuff from that restaurant all the time,” he muttered, a hint of displeasure in his voice. Lately, it had often been the case that Cassian or Rhys brought him food, and Azriel had preferred not to take Y/N’s home-cooked meals unless she felt comfortable doing so. After all, the mating bond would be official if he accepted her affection so directly, and the time wasn’t right yet.

But Y/N just grinned, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. She placed the tray on his desk, where he was still sitting, and leaned forward a bit as if she were sharing a secret with him.

“I don’t think you understood me,” she then said, her voice soft but with a hint of determination. “I brought you food. I made it… for you.”

Azriel looked at her for a moment, stunned, his heart skipping a beat. In her eyes was the truth he hadn’t expected. She hadn’t just brought the food. She had made it herself. And more importantly: she had brought it to him, without the distance he had kept for so long. He felt the mating bond between them suddenly turn into a crackling wire that connected them both.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, almost incredulously, as he tried to gather all his courage to fully open himself to her.

Y/N nodded resolutely, and in that moment, Azriel knew she was ready. It was the moment they had both secretly wished for—the moment the mating bond could finally be fully accepted.

“Yes,” she said with a soft smile, her voice gentle but full of conviction. “I’ve thought about it for a long time. And I think it’s the right time.”

Azriel remained silent for a moment longer, turning over the meaning of her words in his mind as he felt the mating bond in its full depth. It was as if, for a fleeting moment, they could communicate without words, as if their souls were meeting in a delicate exchange. He could feel the peace, the affection, and the hope in her emotions – everything they felt for one another.

A warm smile formed on his lips, and he set the tray down on his table. “I can’t wait to really get to know you,” he murmured, and it sounded less like a promise and more like a revelation.

In that moment, with Y/N’s eyes on him, Azriel knew they had something unique, something beautiful. And this was only the beginning.

Y/N had perched herself on the backrest of Azriel’s chair, legs loosely thrown over the armrest, watching as Azriel took his first bite of food. But barely had he brought the fork to his mouth before letting it fall onto the table, staring at her with an intense look, as though he were forgetting everything else around him.

Y/N knew exactly what that moment meant. The mating bond had been officially accepted, and she felt the pull within Azriel building – the urge to devote himself fully to her. She could practically feel it in the air – the mating frenzy raging inside him. And she knew that now it wasn’t just about their closeness, but also about the wild drive the bond was awakening.

But before he could give in to it, she had something else in mind.

“Azriel,” she said, a touch of firmness in her voice, “you still need to eat. You’re not at a hundred percent yet. You haven’t regained your full strength.”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair, his gaze momentarily impatient. It was hard to hold back now that the bond between them was so palpable. But he knew Y/N was right. He was close to fully recovered, but not quite there. The physical mattered just as much as the emotional.

“Come on, Y/N,” he said, almost charmingly, leaning back with a slightly mischievous smile. “Let’s eat together first. I’m not the only one who needs to satisfy a hunger, you know.”

Y/N laughed softly and shook her head. “You’re impossible, Azriel,” she said, but with a smile that revealed how much she appreciated his words. She knew what he wanted – and she also knew the moment would come when they could fully give in to it. But not now. Not yet, not until he had fully healed.

“You’re eating now,” she repeated, this time with a serious look. “And then we can do whatever we want.”

Azriel looked at her for a moment, the grin fading from his face as a look of appreciation took its place. It wasn’t easy for him to resist the urge to surrender to the bond. But he respected her, respected her wish to take this step together and in peace.

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice calm. “We eat first. After that... the evening is yours.”

Y/N nodded, satisfied with his decision. She had known it would be a hard battle for him, but she trusted that the moment of the mating bond would unfold naturally when the time was right. She didn’t want to force it – she wanted to make sure they were on the right path, together.

And so they ate together, barely speaking, but sharing a silence that only exists between two people standing on the threshold of something greater. It wasn’t just the mating bond they now shared. It was the trust, the connection, growing stronger even in life’s quieter moments.

After they had finished their meal, time seemed to slow. The air around them crackled, charged with a tension Azriel could no longer ignore. The mating bond between him and Y/N was now fully active – and he could feel it in every fiber of his being.

It was more than the urge to touch her, to kiss her, to have her. It was a deep, instinctive desire flooding him. The bond overwhelmed him with feelings and cravings he could no longer suppress. Every thought, every glance Y/N gave him only intensified the sensation.

“Y/N...” Azriel’s voice was rougher than usual as he turned to her, fixing her with a look that betrayed the need now overtaking him. It was the mating frenzy, and it was nothing he could control.

Y/N saw it in his eyes. The need to touch him, to have him all to herself. And though she felt the bond just as strongly, she wasn’t quite ready to surrender to the moment completely. It was a dance between them – a hesitation that was slowly giving way to the pull to lose themselves in this intensity.

“Azriel,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she saw how much he was holding back. “It’s okay...” Her hand reached for him gently, as if to assure him that she felt the same. But she knew they needed a little more time to take that final step.

But Azriel couldn’t wait any longer. The bond had taken hold of him completely, and he felt his thoughts circle only around her. The need to kiss her, to hold her, to make her his was overwhelming.

“I want you... now,” he murmured, his voice deep and broken with desire.

In that moment, everything that had stood between them vanished. The tenderness they had shared only hours ago had now turned into intense heat. Azriel reached for her hand, gently pulled her to him and into his arms.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, the urge to complete the moment becoming almost unbearable.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, the drive to complete this moment almost more than he could take. Azriel pulled Y/N onto his lap with a strong yet gentle tug. In that moment, there was no more doubt about the feelings they had for each other. The mating bond had taken full hold – and nothing they did now could stop this desire.

Y/N sat on his lap, her hands playing with the fabric of his shirt as she looked at him with a teasing smile. She could see the spark in his eyes, the desire blazing within him, and she couldn’t help but tease him a little. She leaned back, her fingers brushing across his chest before gliding up to his neck with a light giggle.

“You seem to be recovering rather quickly,” she said, her voice light and playful. Her lips came dangerously close to his ear as she whispered, “Thought you still needed some time...”

Azriel growled softly, his hands grabbing her waist to pull her closer. The urge to kiss her, to feel her, grew stronger than he had ever imagined. He had wanted her for years, but now that the bond was fully active, he knew he couldn’t keep her close without fully surrendering to her.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he said, his voice rough and full of longing. “And you’re not going to stop me.”

He was done playing. Without another word, he pulled her in and kissed her fiercely, like he had always dreamed of. The kiss was hungry, passionate, as if he were pouring every pent-up emotion and desire he’d ever had for her into this one moment.

Y/N returned the kiss just as intensely, her hands gliding down his back, pulling him even closer. The kiss burned between them, as they lost themselves in each other. The only thing left was the bond between them, amplifying the desire and passion even further. There was no more hesitation, no more holding back – only the unstoppable need to connect with each other.

The kiss didn’t end. It was as if the world around them had disappeared, as if only the two of them existed. Azriel could feel the heat radiating from Y/N, just as unstoppable as the longing that consumed him.

And as he finally pulled away from her lips, he looked deeply into her eyes. The mating bond between them seemed more alive than ever before.

“I’m not waiting any longer,” he said, his voice a rough whisper that made her heart race. “You’re my mate, and that means you’ll always be with me.”

“Then show me what you’ve got,” Y/N breathed, a dangerous glint in her eyes that stole Azriel’s breath.

A low growl vibrated in his chest as he suddenly lifted her up – with such ease, as if she weighed nothing. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, their lips finding each other once more. The kiss was anything but gentle – wild, demanding, as though he were finally taking what he had long craved.

He nearly slammed into the bedroom door, driven by pure desire, but didn’t stop. Every step was determined, his fingers digging into her back, and as they kissed, Y/N gasped against his lips when his hips instinctively pressed against hers. The mating bond felt like fire in their veins.

Upon reaching the bed, he laid her on it – but only for a heartbeat. Azriel ripped his shirt off, his chest heaving with breath, his gaze black with hunger. “Cauldron, you’re driving me insane,” he growled. “I’ve imagined every single night what this would be like. You, beneath me. Belonging only to me.”

Before she could respond, he was over her – his hands already working to undress her, not hastily, but not slowly either. It was like he couldn’t wait to see, to feel, to taste her skin. His fingers slipped under the fabric she wore, slid it off her shoulders and tossed it carelessly beside the bed.

With every inch of bare skin revealed, his lips followed. He kissed her neck, her collarbones, leaving a trail of hot kisses along her chest, his hands anchoring her waist as if he never wanted to let go.

“Goddess, you’re perfect,” he murmured against her skin, tracing her sides, lifting his head to catch her gaze. “I’ve dreamed a thousand times of touching you like this. And now you’re here – my mate, just for me.”

Y/N breathed heavily, her skin trembling beneath his touch. Her hands roamed his chest, his back, the sharp lines of his shoulders, as she writhed beneath him – caught between surrender and impatience.

Azriel paused, just for a second, looking at her as if he might devour her, and then – without warning – he leaned in again and kissed her, deep, wild, unrestrained. Their bodies pressed together, his hands slipping beneath the last fabric she wore as he whispered against her lips:

“Tonight, there’s no turning back. You’re mine. And I’ll make sure you feel it in every damned part of your body.”

He kissed down her stomach, her sides, her thighs – drawing soft, trembling sounds from her. His hands explored her with an obsession, as though he had to prove she was truly there. Every inch of her skin became his favorite discovery. Every sound she made drove him further into madness.

And then he reached the center of her desire.

Azriel spread her thighs wide, letting his hands rest firmly on her inner thighs as he simply looked at her – like a warrior finally entering the sanctuary that had always been destined for him.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself, voice raw with hunger.

His first kiss hit her where she was most sensitive – hot and slow, a single stroke of his tongue that knocked the air from her lungs. She gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets as he continued. His tongue moved in slow circles over her, first gentle, then more intense, more focused, until her whole body trembled beneath him.

He didn’t let her escape. Not even a little. Whenever her hips lifted, whenever she tried to pull away – because it was too much – he pushed her back into the bed, held her down. His shadows curled around her thighs like a second hand, a dark promise: You’re staying right here. You’re going to take this. All of it.

Y/N writhed, her voice shaking, his name breaking from her lips in ever higher tones as Azriel let his tongue slide deeper. Sometimes broad, sometimes pointed. Sometimes slow, sometimes so fast she saw stars.

And as he finally slipped two fingers into her, deep, while his tongue kept playing with her sensitive clit – rhythmic, merciless – she almost screamed. Her entire body tensed as she was about to explode.

"Let go," he murmured against her, vibrating, warm, divine. "Come for me, Y/N. I want to taste you as you break apart."

And that’s exactly what she did. She shattered beneath him, trembling, crying out, his name on her tongue. And Azriel? He didn’t relent. He sucked every drop of pleasure from her, holding her tight until she collapsed, breathless, completely surrendered.

He kissed his way slowly back up her body, letting his tongue glide over her trembling skin until he reached her mouth again.

When he finally leaned over her once more, she placed her hands on his neck and pulled him closer. Their lips met in a wild kiss, an explosion of desire, love, and the deep knowledge that they were now one.

"I love you," she whispered against his mouth, and in that moment, Azriel completely lost control.

With a dark, agonized sound, he pushed her legs further apart, embedding himself between them - not roughly, but firmly. She could feel his erection against her thigh.

Azriel lifted her gaze with two fingers to her chin, his breath hot, his voice a raspy growl. “Say it again.”

Y/N's eyes glowed, but she shivered slightly-not out of fear, but because she knew what was coming next. “I love you.”

A dark fire flared in Azriel's gaze. “Wrong answer.”

He grabbed her wrists, pushing her gently but firmly over her head into the pillow while his body held her, controlling her. “This,” he murmured against her neck, biting, leeching, ”isn't just love. This is madness. This is possession. You have no idea what you've done to me.”

Y/N smiled under his grip - daringly, delightfully. While his lips lost themselves against her skin, she had still managed to take a small piece of freedom. Her fingers, hot and impatient, slid down his torso, brushing over his hard taut chest, his abs, until they reached the waistband of his pants.

A soft sound left Azriel as she slid her hand inside, straight to him. Hard. Ready. And only for her.

Her fingers closed around him, provocatively slow. “I think,” she whispered against his jaw, ”I have a pretty good idea of what I'm going to do to you.”

Azriel froze for a moment - then he growled, deep from his chest, grabbed her hand and pulled it resolutely from his pants before pressing it over her head. Firmer this time. Possessively. His shadows whispered along her wrists, dark and watchful.

“That's not how it works, darling,” he rumbled. “You want to tease me? Then be prepared to suffer the consequences.”

His free arm slid over her body, slowly, almost teasingly - until his hand wandered between her legs again, touching her as if he were testing every single nerve. She squirmed beneath him, intoxicated by his rhythm, his darkness.

“And do you know what beauty is, darling?” His voice was little more than a dark whisper. “I'm going to make you scream my name. Over and over again. So loud that even Rhys will have to think about whether the house is soundproof.”

“You'll have to manage that first, of course,” Y/N teased Azriel, releasing her hands from his grip. She slid her fingernails along his side. Azriel's wings spread a little as goosebumps spread over his body. Y/N smiled at him and let her fingers slide back down to his pants, where she went to work on the lacing to free him from his pants.

Azriel sat on his calves first, taking over the action from Y/N and unzipped his pants before standing up to step out of them. Y/N watched him with dark eyes, biting his lip as he finally removed the last item of clothing.

“But judging by you, that shouldn't be a problem.”

Azriel growled softly, animalistically, lunged at her and kissed her - raw, wild, his control finally broken. Then he lowered himself between her legs and thrust into her all at once - deep, demanding, uncompromising.

She gasped, her back lifted off the bed, and Azriel held her tight, moving with growing intensity, his lips at her ear.

Azriel held her gaze as he continued to move into her - powerfully, deeply, with a precision that made her shiver every time.

“You feel like fucking fire,” he growled against her skin. “And you burn just for me.”

His hands roamed over her body, exploring her greedily, as if he needed to memorize that she was finally his now - quite officially, quite physically, quite emotionally. He straightened up, took her hips firmly in his hands and pulled her towards him, his thrusts now faster, harder, deeper.

Y/N groaned loudly - and Azriel smiled that dark, dangerous smile.

“That's the way I want to hear you. No more holding back, no more hiding.”

He leaned over her again, his hair falling into her face as he kissed her - demanding, almost desperate. Then he whispered against her lips, “Turn around. Now.”

Y/N's heart raced, but she obeyed - on her hands and knees in front of him, presenting her body to him. Azriel placed one hand on her hip, the other on the back of her neck and pressed down gently. “Perfect.”

His gaze slid over her back, over her ass - pure greed in his eyes.

“So many times I've imagined this,” he murmured as his hand stroked her spine. “How you kneel in front of me. How I take you. How you scream when I make you feel so deep you forget your own name.”

He thrust into her again - this time from behind - and it was wild, raw, intense. Y/N clawed at the sheet, losing herself in the waves of pleasure and the feeling of being completely enveloped by him.

Azriel's grip on her hips tightened, his pace merciless. “Who do you belong to, huh?” he groaned between thrusts.

“You!” she cried, ”You, Azriel, only you!”

A dark, satisfied growl rumbled from his chest. “Say it again.”

“I. Am. Yours.”

Azriel leaned over her, pressing his body against her back, his teeth grazing her shoulder as he thrust - slowly now, deeply, agonizingly. “That's right, my mate. You are mine. And you always will be.”

Y/N's body shook, her senses were overwrought, overwhelmed - she was close to breaking, to exploding under his touch. And Azriel felt it. “Come for me,” he breathed against her ear.

With a gasping cry, she broke beneath him - and Azriel followed seconds later, sunk deep into her, his body trembling, his arms wrapped around her as if he would never let her go.

-

Night had fallen over Velaris, silent and heavy, only the soft crackling of the flames in the fireplace filling the room. Y/N lay stretched out in the sheets, her skin still glowing, while Azriel sat beside her - naked, beautiful, those shadows still like a dark veil around him. His chest rose and fell calmly, but his eyes... they flickered. Hot. Hungry.

Y/N's body shook slightly as Azriel leaned over her - his skin still glowing from the first round, his lips gently sliding over her shoulder as his hands held her like a treasure.

“You look like sin itself,” he murmured against her neck, then bit lightly into her skin, right where his marks were still fresh.

Y/N laughed softly, exhausted but fulfilled. “Was that... the part where you don't hold back?”

Azriel pulled back a bit, his gaze slowly sliding over her body, then he leaned forward again - his face right in front of hers. “Oh no,” he whispered harshly. “That was just the beginning.”

Before she could say anything back, he had pushed himself over her and was kissing her again - but now with that electrifying mixture of dominance and tenderness. His tongue demanded access, his hands were already sliding over her hips again, caressing her inner thighs, teasing her, making her tremble once more.

“You're looking at me like you haven't had enough,” Y/N murmured with a grin.

Azriel leaned forward, propping himself up next to her head, his voice a dark, throaty whisper: “Because I'll never get enough of you.”

Then he let his lips glide along her neck, very slowly, further down - over her collarbones, her chest, until he finally settled between her thighs.

His hands spread her gently, but demanding, and his gaze was fixed on her so intensely that she almost felt dizzy.

“I've been dreaming of tasting you right here for too long,” he murmured. “Now every damn second of it is all mine.”

And then... he leaned forward.

The first kiss was soft, almost loving. A gentle caress with his lips that made her gasp. Then his tongue followed - slowly, purposefully. He took his time, exploring her as if she were his religion. Every little sound, every tremor from her only drove him on.

He held her hips tightly, not letting her pull away - not that she wanted him to. He teased her, tasting her, murmuring against her skin, “Gods, you taste so sweet...”

Y/N curled her fingers into the sheets, her back arching as Azriel went deeper - driving her closer to the edge with every movement of his tongue. He knew exactly where to touch her, how to make her quiver.

And when he then slid a finger inside her - slowly, deeply, in sync with his tongue - she gasped, a sound that almost made him growl. “So good for me,” he murmured as she opened herself up, giving herself to him completely. “So beautiful when you break for me.”

And she did break - under his tongue, under his damn will to make her explode right where she was most sensitive.

When she came, clutching tightly around his shoulders, he didn't let up - kept sucking gently while her thighs trembled around him, while her voice breathed his name into the pillow.

Only when she pushed him back slightly, half laughing, half whimpering because she couldn't take it anymore, did Azriel lay back down next to her - with that look. Proud. Possessive. And yet full of love.

“You're addicted,” she whispered breathlessly.

Azriel pulled her onto his lap, kissed her deeply and held her firmly on his lap with his hands on her hips. “No,” he murmured. “I'm fucking lost in you.”

Y/N threw her head back into her neck as she felt Azriel beneath her. “Az...” she whispered pleadingly, ”please...”

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his gaze somber again, his voice rough with desire.

“I want you. Now. Again.”

He grinned, that dangerous, seductive grin. “Good, because I intend to make you feel it even longer this time, my light.”

Slowly, he lifted her up a little and Y/N reached for his penis, positioned herself right over him and let him slide inside her - so deep, so completely that she held her breath.

“Gods, how can you still feel so tight?” he gasped as he moved her back and forth on top of him with his hands.

“Because only you touch me like this,” Y/N whispered breathlessly.

Y/N began to move - slowly but powerfully, each thrust hitting him with an intensity that took his breath away. Her hand moved to his neck, resting there lightly - not roughly, just dominantly. Azriel couldn't help himself and within a few milliseconds, he had turned her over again.

“I want you like this,” he gasped. “All the way under me. All the way with me.”

Y/N wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him even deeper into her. “And I want you like this. Always.”

He kissed her - deeper than ever this time - as their bodies joined again, their souls shining through the bond, pulsing with lust and love. And as they fell together a second time, Azriel held her as if he would never let go.

Their bodies lay tightly intertwined, the sheets tangled around them, the faint echoes of their shared ecstasy still in the air. Azriel had laid his head on Y/N's chest, his wings spread out over the bed, a protective cocoon around them both. Her fingers gently stroked through his dark hair while his arms held her tightly - as if she might otherwise disappear.

Neither of them spoke a word at first. The room was filled with her breathing, her heartbeat, the slowly fading afterglow. It wasn't just physical exhaustion - it was a calm, a deep peace that neither of them had ever felt before.

“I think... I had imagined this a hundred times,” Azriel finally murmured, his voice rough from the effort. “But none of my fantasies come close to this.”

Y/N smiled softly and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “That's because it's real,” she whispered.

He lifted his head slightly to look at her - his golden eyes soft, shining with more than emotion. “You are real. My mate. And you chose me.”

Y/N put a hand to his cheek. “I would choose you again and again, Az.”

He closed his eyes, leaned into her touch, and took a deep breath. “I never thought I deserved this. To...love like this. To be loved.”

“You deserve all of it,” she replied, ”and much more.”

For a moment, they just lay there. Without a word. Just their bond pulsing gently between them - soothing, warm. It felt like home.

Azriel pulled the blanket over them both, kissed her once more - gently, reverently. “Get some sleep,” he murmured. “I'll stay with you.”

“I don't want anything else,” Y/N whispered as her eyes slowly drifted shut and she snuggled deeper into his arms. And Azriel, who usually only lived in the shadows, finally found light - in her.

-

Taglist: @princesssunderworld @tele86 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @rose-girls-world @iluvyewman-blog @gluecksbaerchieee @ireadsstuff

[jude457]

So I’ve been getting a lot of asks lately questioning my characterisation of Inho, and I figured it’s time I just lay it all out. Here’s how I personally interpret his character, and how I view his relationship with Gihun.

To me, Inho is a deeply broken and traumatised person. Not just morally conflicted, but someone who’s spent years building a carefully controlled facade. Underneath the precision and control is someone who harbors a deep resentment for humanity, a philosophy born from intense personal suffering and emotional isolation.

Returning to the Games to become the Frontman wasn’t a power grab—it was a form of emotional self-destruction. A kind of psychological self-harm. He built an identity where he could carry out the unthinkable by pretending it wasn’t really him doing it. He’s compartmentalised so heavily that he views the Frontman and Inho as separate people. A shield. A way to detach from the horrors he’s enforcing. Inho is the man behind the trauma; the Frontman is the role he steps into so he can function within a system that destroyed him. It’s all about control and surviving by suppressing what’s left of his humanity.

His relationship with the VIPs is not one where they are equals or where there is an inkling of respect—far from it. While Il-nam was a peer to them, Inho has always been a player. Player 132. Just another body who survived. To the VIPs, he’s not a partner in their cruelty—he’s a well-dressed dog they keep on a leash. I headcanon their relationship as one that’s exploitative, abusive, and dehumanising. They exert control over him in every way, including sexually, because they don’t see him as a person, just a tool. Just dirt.

And Inho survives that, too, by dissociating. He tells himself it’s happening to the Frontman. That this is the price of keeping them entertained. Keeping them happy. He can endure anything if he keeps believing it isn’t really happening to him.

And then there’s Gihun.

Gihun is the one person who disrupts all of that. He’s proof that pain doesn’t have to rot you from the inside out. That empathy and defiance can survive. Gihun becomes this accidental mirror to Inho’s own buried innocence—something I like to believe Young-il represents. A ghost of who he used to be. The version of him that might have believed in people before everything broke. And without meaning to, Gi-hun speaks to that part of him. Gi-hun becomes the embodiment of an idea Inho no longer believes in: that suffering doesn’t always destroy, that people can still choose kindness in hell.

Which brings me to their relationship.

I love the idea that their dynamic flips post-canon. Gihun, after everything he’s been through, carries this weight of grief and guilt for the people he couldn’t save. He becomes quieter, more guarded. Meanwhile, Inho—freed from the mask—starts to feel again. He’s almost childlike in how he approaches love, like someone experiencing it for the first time. He’s giddy, awkward, overwhelmed. There’s a tenderness to him that he’s terrified to express but desperate to hold onto.

But that tenderness—what Inho starts to feel around Gihun—it terrifies him. Because it’s unfamiliar. It’s fragile. And deep down, he doesn’t believe he deserves it.

Inho is someone who has learned to equate intimacy with danger. Submission, control, violence—those are the currencies he knows. Love? That’s alien. And more than that, it feels like a trap. So as their bond deepens, he does something tragic: he tries to twist it. To make Gi-hun hurt him. To turn their closeness into punishment.

He’ll push. He’ll provoke. He’ll offer himself up not as a man who wants love, but as one who wants to be used. Because that, at least, he understands. That, at least, makes sense in the broken framework he’s built to survive. If Gihun hurts him, then maybe the guilt becomes manageable. Maybe it justifies everything Inho has done. Maybe it makes it easier to believe he can’t be forgiven.

But the tragedy is—Gihun won’t play into that script.

Gihun sees the cracks. He sees the pain beneath the bravado. And even though he’s carrying his own unbearable grief, he refuses to become Inho’s executioner. He won’t give him that out. He doesn’t offer redemption through punishment—but through presence. Through patience. Through refusing to stop seeing him.

He touches Inho with intention, with care. And that’s what makes it so much harder. Because being touched gently doesn’t just feel unfamiliar—it feels dangerous. His body remembers what he worked so hard to forget. Every soft moment risks unearthing something he locked away.

Sometimes Inho flinches at things that aren’t threats. Sometimes he pulls away when he wants nothing more than to lean in. Sometimes Inho weeps and doesn’t know why. Sometimes he shakes under the weight of a kiss. Sometimes he begs without words for it to stop—not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. And that makes it harder than anything. And sometimes—worst of all—he tries to recreate the conditions of his own abuse. He offers himself up like he’s disposable, hoping Gihun will use him. Hurt him. Confirm his worthlessness.

Because if someone like Gihun—someone who has every reason to walk away—can still choose to stay, to try, then maybe Inho has to face the scariest truth of all: that love might not be something he has to earn through suffering. That maybe—just maybe—he’s still capable of being loved as he is.

While I do enjoy reading bottom!Gihun/top!Inho dynamics (and there’s some really great writing out there that explores that side of them in compelling ways), when it comes to how I personally write them, I’ll always lean toward Inho as the bottom.

For me, it’s not just about preference—it’s about what it means for his character.

Inho is someone who’s spent so much of his life exerting control or being controlled in dehumanising, painful ways. His entire existence—especially as the Frontman—has been defined by rigidity, repression, and survival. So when I write him as the one giving up control, it’s not about dominance or submission in a traditional sense—it’s about catharsis.

It’s about him choosing to be vulnerable. About letting someone else take the lead not to hurt him, not to punish him, but to give him something. To care for him. To make him feel good. That, in itself, is radical for someone like him.

To be at the mercy of someone else—not for violence, but for pleasure—is the clearest way I can express how his relationship with Gihun is healing. It’s not about erasing his trauma. It’s about rewriting the narrative. About allowing his body to become a place of comfort, safety, and intimacy again.

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

The second the door shut, he had you pinned against it, mouth claiming yours like you belonged to him. Like he’d been starving for you.

Probably because he has been 🤭

“You always kiss like it’s the last time,” you murmured against his mouth, breathless. “I’m not big on next times,” he replied, voice low, certain, but there was the smallest crack in his armor when it came to you. 

Ah yes, suuuure👀

Candy. That’s what he remembered. Your nipples looked like candy, and Ari had one hell of a sweet tooth at the moment.

Suddenly a sweet tooth, interesting 🤭

Your hips rolled against him, seeking friction, and his cock, heavy and hard, pressed against you, straining through his sweats. You reached for him, sliding your hand inside, fingers curling around the thick weight of him. Damn, you’d forgotten just how big he was. One slow stroke, and you felt him shudder against you. 

🤤🤤🤤

Ari was already fighting for control. Fuck. He couldn’t remember what his plan had been with you, if there’d even been one.

Oh, he is so gone 🤭

When he dropped to his knees and dragged your panties down with his teeth, the sight alone knocked the air from your lungs. You threaded your fingers into his hair, and gave it a firm tug, your voice a rough whisper. “Careful, Ari. I might start thinking you like me.” “I don’t,” he growled, lips brushing your inner thigh, breath hot against your skin. “I just think your pussy deserves a museum wing.”

Two things can be true at the same time 🤷🏻‍♀️

Ari looked up as he handled you. He drew in a breath as your smooth skin gave way to swollen lips that he needed to taste. His thumbs parted you, and the way you trembled under his hands only made him smile.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

Ari wanted you so fucking bad. He’d been thinking about the last time since the last time. His mouth found you, tongue slow at first, savoring the taste, then hungrier, lapping you up like you were the only thing that could satisfy him.

He can truly not hide how whipped he is

He said it into your cunt because he realized that he loved nothing more than watching you cum. He drew back with a growl and watched your body convulse as you bit your lip to keep from saying too much, feeling too much.

🥵🥵🥵

But you let your fingers tangle in his hair after, just for a second.

If I got my hands in his hair I would not just have them there for a second lol

You left scratches. He left marks. Nobody left promises.

Uff

When it was over, he lit a cigarette and offered you one. You took it, not because you smoked, but because it kept your hands from reaching for him.

Fair, I would have trouble with that too

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you said, smoke and denial curling from your lips. “Good,” he replied, not even looking at you. “I’d hate for us to ruin something so perfect by pretending it’s more.”

The lies!

Ari watched you longer than he should’ve. Watched you put your shoes back on, watched you blow him a kiss you didn’t mean before the door clicked shut.

They are lying to themselves and each other, they are truly obsessed with each other

Muse: Two

Muse Preview/Masterlist| Muse: One

Summary: You see Ari's loft. Sort of.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model! Reader

Word count: 1.3 K

A/N: Muse will be a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this the second one. We’re gonna hear from them at least every week. 😏 Big thanks to @princessphilly who basically inspired the premise and has endured me being unhinged in her inbox. She also patiently endures my questionable choices. This AU is tangential to the Peach and Knock You Down verses. If this drabble makes you angry, let me know! I love reblogs, replies, asks and likes. Let me have it! :)

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. The angst starts now. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, dating app life, casual sex, Dominant Ari, size kink, breeding kink, nipple obsession, nipple play, oral sex (f receiving), sex in multiple positions and locations in Ari's loft, protected sex, all lies told, smoking and drinking, one night stand with zero feelings caught (lies!). This is basically porn with a side of angst.

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

His loft was exactly what you expected.

Tribeca.

Concrete floors.

High ceilings. 

Walls of windows that didn’t have curtains because men like Ari don’t mind being seen. 

Shelves lined with art books, half-burnt candles, and sculptures that probably cost more than triple your rent. It smelled like cedarwood and something else you couldn’t place.

Ari let you in without a word.

You didn’t ask for a tour.

Didn’t want conversation

You wanted the undoing.

The second the door shut, he had you pinned against it, mouth claiming yours like you belonged to him.

Like he’d been starving for you.

Like he already knew you’d let him.

Heat roared between you, the hunger devouring pretense. He kissed like a man who knew exactly how it would end: you, ruined and wrecked in his bed.

Or against the wall.

Or anywhere he wanted.

You let him have you. Just enough to make him want more.

“You always kiss like it’s the last time,” you murmured against his mouth, breathless.

“I’m not big on next times,” he replied, voice low, certain, but there was the smallest crack in his armor when it came to you. 

And you felt it. After all, it was already the next time.

His hand found your thigh, his fingers trailing higher, the pad of his thumb pressing into the soft swell of your ass, kneading you like he was mapping the shape of you by touch alone.

When he found the slick heat between your legs, his fingers parted you and cupped you from behind, making you moan into his mouth. That pulled a deep, ragged tone from him too as his tongue swept inside, hungry to taste more.

You nipped at his bottom lip, soothed the sting with a slow, soft lick, and felt his self-control fray beneath your hands.

Ari’s hands moved to your tits, thumbs circling tight peaks through your shirt until you gasped, your body arching into him. He tugged your top up, baring you to the dim light and his hungry eyes.

Candy. That’s what he remembered. Your nipples looked like candy, and Ari had one hell of a sweet tooth at the moment.

He bent his head, took one rigid peak between his lips, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing you with just enough edge to make you gasp, his mouth suckling you until your noises tangled into sharp, breathless whimpers. His free hand teased the other, rolling and pinching, coaxing more and more sounds from you until he switched sides, making you arch into him as you floated on sensation.

Your body responded to him like it had been waiting for this. For him.

Your hips rolled against him, seeking friction, and his cock, heavy and hard, pressed against you, straining through his sweats. You reached for him, sliding your hand inside, fingers curling around the thick weight of him.

Damn, you’d forgotten just how big he was. One slow stroke, and you felt him shudder against you. 

Ari was already fighting for control. Fuck. He couldn’t remember what his plan had been with you, if there’d even been one.

When he dropped to his knees and dragged your panties down with his teeth, the sight alone knocked the air from your lungs. You threaded your fingers into his hair, and gave it a firm tug, your voice a rough whisper.

“Careful, Ari. I might start thinking you like me.”

“I don’t,” he growled, lips brushing your inner thigh, breath hot against your skin. “I just think your pussy deserves a museum wing.”

Ari kneeled in front of you and moved your panties to the side.  

“Fuck!” he exclaimed as your scent surrounded him. He was intoxicated by his need for you and somewhere in the back of his mind, he dimly realized that it wasn’t this way with anyone else. 

Shit.

He pushed your legs apart, and you whimpered, desperate for him.  

"That’s it, Muse," he whispered. "Let me see how pretty you are."

You’d prepped for someone else, some other guy who couldn’t even get you wet with conversation, and bailed on him without a shred of guilt the second Ari replied to your Hey, Big Head text with nothing but his address.

Ari looked up as he handled you. He drew in a breath as your smooth skin gave way to swollen lips that he needed to taste. His thumbs parted you, and the way you trembled under his hands only made him smile.

"Don’t forget to hold on, beautiful. I'm going to take my time until you melt." 

Ari wanted you so fucking bad. He’d been thinking about the last time since the last time. His mouth found you, tongue slow at first, savoring the taste, then hungrier, lapping you up like you were the only thing that could satisfy him.

He slid his tongue over your labia, and you immediately cried out. You were sweet, spicy and so good. He lapped at you again and again, every stroke designed to pull you apart, and when he locked his lips around your clit, the moan that tore from you had his cock twitching in response.

Your hands gripped the wall, breath catching as he ate you like he was trying to collect your essence. And then he held your legs wide with his hands and fucked you with his tongue. Your hands slid into his hair, holding him to you as your slick dripped down his chin. 

With a grunt, he grabbed your ass and lifted you even closer to him, spreading your cheeks slightly so that he could lick at your tighter hole, pleasuring you while his thumb pressed hard on your clit. 

Your breathing went choppy, and your desperate gasps made his cock jump as you ground your hips into his face, begging him not to stop. With his thumb on your clit, he slid a finger deep inside you and curved it until the pad of his finger rubbed over your G-spot.

You flew apart, your body convulsing as the orgasm hit hard. 

Aris blue eyes were looking up at you.

“Yes. Fuck yes.”

He said it into your cunt because he realized that he loved nothing more than watching you cum. He drew back with a growl and watched your body convulse as you bit your lip to keep from saying too much, feeling too much.

But you let your fingers tangle in his hair after, just for a second.

Then you pulled away.

“You done being generous?”

He smirked up at you, chin glistening, absolutely wrecked.

“Not even close.”

—--

The rest of the night was friction and ruin.

He quickly slipped on a condom and then, in one swift stroke, slid into you to the hilt. 

“Fuck. So fucking good.”

Ari drove into you hard, deep, and unrelentingly.

Against the wall.

Bent over the couch.

Spread open on the rug beneath a Rothko you barely noticed.

When he flipped you, fucked you into the floor, left handprints on your ass and bite marks on your shoulder, it was possession. No sweet talk. Just skin and sweat and the kind of claiming you’d pretend to forget.

You left scratches. He left marks. Nobody left promises.

When it was over, he lit a cigarette and offered you one. You took it, not because you smoked, but because it kept your hands from reaching for him.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you said, smoke and denial curling from your lips.

“Good,” he replied, not even looking at you. “I’d hate for us to ruin something so perfect by pretending it’s more.”

You nodded. Stubbed out the cigarette. Pulled on your dress.

“You leaving?”

“You’d rather I stay and talk about feelings? Then yeah, I’m out.”

Ari watched you longer than he should’ve. Watched you put your shoes back on, watched you blow him a kiss you didn’t mean before the door clicked shut.

Outside, the city was colder than you remembered.

Inside, Ari stared at the door, jaw tense, heart louder than he liked to admit.

“Fucking Muse,” he muttered, pouring himself a drink and ignoring every match from that app that popped up on his phone.

None of them were you.

-----

Muse: Three

[charlieg1rl]

(✮⋆˙‬) ─── high tension

lines blur and tension finally snaps, pulling you and jisung into something reckless, heated, and long overdue. in the thick of smoke and low murmurs, nothing feels uncertain anymore—only inevitable.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. charlies note: OKAY this is a long time coming, maybe a months time ? but its finally here !! 4.3k words

warnings : VERY suggestive

back to library | req? yes / no

you never expected to be this familiar with your dealer.

at first, it was just a business arrangement—a text when you needed something, a quick exchange, and then you’d both go on with your lives. han jisung was well-known on campus for two things: having the best weed and being absolutely insufferable. his reputation preceded him. everyone said he was funny, maybe a little too chatty, but reliable. which was all that mattered.

your first deal was simple. a friend had given you his number with nothing but, “jisung’s got the best. just text him.” so, you did.

you: hey. chris gave me your number. jisung: either you’re looking for an existential crisis or some quality bud. which one is it? you: second one. jisung: nice. meet me outside the library in 10.

that was the start of it. nothing special. just a clean transaction. except jisung had a way of making even the most basic interaction feel like an event. “first-time customer discount,” he had said, grinning as he passed you a carefully packed bag. “because i’m generous.” you rolled your eyes but took the deal. and that should’ve been it.

except it wasn’t.

now, somehow, he texts you first.

jisung: yo. got some new stuff. fresh, just for you. discount included, 'cause i'm generous like that. you: are you seriously running a customer loyalty program? jisung: obviously. you’re a vip now.

what started as casual transactions turned into late-night conversations on his beat-up couch, the smell of weed and ramen mixing in the air as he ranted about music and you ranted about life. at first, he was just the guy you went to when you needed to take the edge off. but now? now, he’s showing up at your apartment with food. now, he’s making sure you get home safe from parties. now, he’s your favorite part of the week.

and that’s when you realize: you might be getting addicted. and not to the weed.

it hits you in the middle of a tuesday night when jisung shows up at your door, a plastic bag in one hand and an unlit joint between his lips.

“you look like you need this,” he says by way of greeting, wiggling the bag.

you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “what gave it away?”

“the fact that you texted me three times in the past hour.”

you scoff. “i was just asking questions.”

he steps inside without invitation, already making himself at home as he kicks off his sneakers. “questions like ‘are you awake?’ ‘where are you?’ ‘why do you take so long to reply?’”

“you do take forever to reply.”

jisung plops onto your couch, making himself comfortable. “i was rolling.”

you snort, locking the door behind him. “rolling what?”

“guess.”

you shake your head and drop onto the couch next to him. he pulls out a container of takeout, handing it to you like it’s second nature.

“you brought food?”

“yeah. thought you might need something to soak up the smoke,” he says, finally lighting the joint. he takes a slow drag, then holds it out to you. “want?”

you take it, but don’t smoke just yet. instead, you watch him exhale, the soft glow of the cherry illuminating his face in the dim light of your living room. it’s strangely intimate. more than it should be.

“jisung.”

he turns his head to you, lazily raising a brow. “yeah?”

you hesitate, then take a hit. the smoke burns in your lungs before you release it. “never mind.”

he watches you for a second longer, then smirks. “you sure?”

no. not at all.

the air between you shifts after that night.

jisung still shows up unannounced, still texts you about new strains like he’s running a startup, still steals your leftovers when you’re too high to fight him for them. but now, there’s something else. a tension neither of you fully acknowledge but both of you feel.

it’s in the way he lingers when he hands you a joint, fingers brushing yours for a second too long. in the way his gaze drops to your lips when you inhale, watching the way they part, the way your chest rises and falls. it’s in the way he sits just a little closer, his knee knocking into yours like it’s an accident.

one night, you’re both sprawled on his couch, passing a blunt back and forth as some old-school hip-hop plays in the background. you’re not even sure whose playlist is on anymore.

jisung stretches, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. he catches you looking and grins. “like what you see?”

you scoff, taking the blunt from his fingers. “in your dreams.”

his grin widens. “you are in my dreams.”

your heart stumbles. he says it so casually, like it’s not a big deal. like he’s not just admitted something that makes your stomach twist into knots.

you cover it up with a laugh, exhaling smoke in his direction. “sounds like a personal problem.”

jisung doesn’t respond immediately. instead, he watches you, head tilted like he’s deciding something.

then, suddenly, he leans in.

your breath catches. he’s close—closer than he’s ever been. his eyes flicker to your lips, and for a second, you think he’s actually going to do it.

then, at the last moment, he pulls back with a smirk. “you blinked first.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “you’re an idiot.”

“and yet,” he says, plucking the blunt from your fingers, “you keep me around.”

you don’t have an answer for that. or maybe, you do, but you’re not ready to say it out loud.

without warning, he reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a small packet.

“here,” he says, tossing it into your lap.

you pick it up, eyebrows furrowing as you inspect the package. mango-infused rolling papers.

your lips part in surprise. “what—”

“figured you’d like them,” he interrupts, lighting another joint of his own. “said you liked the smell of mangos once.”

you don’t remember saying that. but he does.

something warm blooms in your chest. you trace the edge of the package with your thumb, an unfamiliar feeling creeping in beneath the usual haze of smoke.

jisung exhales, watching you closely. “you gonna roll one, or just stare at it?”

you shake your head, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “shut up, han.”

he grins. “make me.”

and just like that, the tension coils tighter.

the next few times jisung comes over, the tension keeps building, but it’s always there in the back of your mind: am i imagining this?

at first, it’s subtle. a lingering touch as he passes you a joint. his gaze a little too long when you laugh at something he said. but you’re probably just reading too much into it. after all, he’s han jisung. the guy who makes a joke out of everything, who treats every moment like it’s a bit for his own personal comedy show.

so, when he texts you one evening, “yo, got something new for you tonight. think you’ll like it,” your heart doesn’t skip a beat. it doesn’t, really. except maybe it does.

he shows up late, as usual, with his usual lazy grin and a bag that smells like something distinctly new. but instead of the quick exchange you’ve grown used to, he lingers a little longer at your door this time, his eyes flickering down to your lips.

you clear your throat, feeling heat creep up your neck. “you’re staring.”

“i’m not staring,” he says, but his voice is low, an edge to it you haven’t quite heard before. “just thinking.”

“about what?”

he shrugs but there’s something unspoken between you, something that hangs thick in the air. something you can’t quite place.

“do you ever wonder,” he starts, his fingers brushing yours as he hands you the joint, “if we’re more than what we pretend to be?”

you frown, heart stuttering in your chest. “what do you mean?”

jisung just gives you that smirk. “you tell me.”

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the feeling curling in your stomach. you’re not sure if he’s joking or being serious, and honestly, you don’t want to know. because the thought that he might actually mean something makes you feel something that’s far too complicated to unpack right now.

instead, you change the subject. “you’re an idiot,” you say, taking the joint from him.

he chuckles, but this time it doesn’t feel like the easy, playful laughter you’re used to. there’s something else there. something that makes you doubt yourself even more.

the next night, you're sitting on your couch, the glow of the tv flickering softly, when jisung knocks on the door again. your stomach tightens before you can stop it, the familiar feeling of his presence throwing you off balance.

he steps inside, holding a bottle of wine and that same lazy grin. “you ever smoked with wine?” he asks, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

you raise an eyebrow. “that’s a thing?”

“anything’s a thing if you’re willing to try it,” he shrugs, and his eyes are on you—just a little too long.

and just like that, you’re caught in another moment, wondering if you’ve imagined it all.

you keep your focus on the wine, on the rolling papers, on anything other than the way your heart seems to beat just a little too fast every time he looks at you.

but it’s definitely just in your head. right?

when you’re both sitting on the floor, half a bottle of wine gone, rolling yet another joint, something shifts. your fingers brush as you take the paper from him, and this time, neither of you pull away. it’s not an accident.

jisung’s gaze flickers down to your lips again, and this time, he doesn’t look away. “i think i like this,” he says quietly.

you look up at him, confusion swirling in your chest. “the wine or the company?”

he pauses, his eyes locking onto yours. “both.”

the words linger in the air between you two, heavy and loaded with something you can’t quite name. but you know it’s there, just beneath the surface, waiting.

you laugh, more out of nervousness than anything else. “you’re ridiculous.”

but inside, your heart’s pounding, and the only thing you can think of is the question you’ve been too afraid to ask: is he flirting with me? or am i just imagining it?

the wine’s long gone, and so is the joint you’ve been passing between you two, the air thick with smoke and something else you can’t place. jisung’s on his third one, and you’re starting to feel the warmth spreading through your limbs. but in this moment, something’s different.

for the first time in a while, the haze doesn’t make you forget everything—it sharpens things. your thoughts, your awareness. your feelings.

you’re both sitting a little closer than usual, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes flicker over your face, the way his lips quirk into that teasing grin that’s beginning to feel a little less playful, a little more… personal.

he catches you looking, and for a moment, the space between you feels too small.

you pull the joint back to your lips, your fingers brushing against his again as you do. this time, it’s impossible to pretend it’s an accident.

jisung leans back into the couch, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee. “you ever realize how much clearer everything feels when you’re high?” he asks, looking over at you.

you blink at him, feeling strangely attuned to his presence in the dim light. “clearer?” you repeat, your words coming out a little slower than you intend.

he shrugs, staring up at the ceiling. “yeah. it’s like all the noise in my head clears out, and i can actually think about stuff. like, really think about stuff.” his gaze flickers to you, just briefly. “i guess when you’re high, the sober thoughts don’t seem so hidden anymore.”

you blink again, his words cutting through your own haze. high words and actions are sober thoughts, you realize, the thought hitting you with a strange clarity you hadn’t anticipated.

it’s almost like the high is making the things you both never say, the things you both dance around, impossible to ignore anymore. maybe that’s why the air feels charged, maybe that’s why every time your eyes meet, there’s that pull, like something is about to snap.

“you ever think about stuff, jisung?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. you feel almost nervous now, the blunt between your fingers nothing but a prop for the words you can’t seem to stop from spilling out. “i mean… really think about it.”

he turns his head slowly, catching your gaze with a serious look, his voice dropping low. “yeah,” he says softly. “i think about you.”

the words are simple, but they hit harder than they should. you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. the room feels too warm now, your mind scrambling to process what he’s said. it’s one thing to joke around, but this—this feels different.

you laugh, but it comes out breathless, more to cover the sudden weight of his words than anything else. “you’re such a jerk.”

he smiles, but there’s no teasing in it now. “you think i’m joking?”

the air between you is thick with tension, thick with something that’s become impossible to ignore. the weight of your unspoken thoughts hangs in the air like smoke, swirling and curling around you, suffocating you.

“i don’t know,” you reply honestly, feeling the truth of your own words more than you want to. “i think i might be imagining it.”

jisung doesn’t say anything at first. he just watches you, and for a second, you wonder if maybe he’s reconsidering saying what he just did. but then he leans in slightly, his eyes still locked onto yours, his voice barely a whisper. “i don’t think you are.”

your heart skips a beat, and you look away, suddenly finding the floor incredibly interesting. you wish you could just laugh it off, like you always do with him. but this time, it’s different.

high words and actions are sober thoughts, and right now, you’re both too sober to ignore what’s brewing between you two.

the silence that falls between you both is thick, heavier than any haze that’s filled the room. it’s like the air’s been sucked out, and all that’s left is this palpable tension, the kind that lingers in the space between two people who almost say what they’re really thinking, but don’t quite dare.

jisung shifts on the couch, his body so close to yours now you can feel the warmth radiating off him. it makes the room feel even smaller, more intimate than you’re ready for. you fight the urge to look at him, your eyes glued to the floor, trying to distract yourself with anything that isn’t the way he’s breathing just a little deeper than usual.

“so,” you say, your voice a little higher than it should be, a weak attempt at breaking the silence, “you were saying something about sober thoughts?”

his lips curl into that familiar, cocky grin, the one that usually makes your heart race. but tonight, it’s different. tonight, it feels like he’s just about ready to say something that’ll change everything.

“yeah,” he mutters, eyes still on you, tracing the curve of your cheek with his gaze. “i was thinking… maybe we’re both just too good at pretending we don’t know what’s going on here.”

you’re not sure if it’s the wine, the weed, or maybe just the way his words sink deep into your chest, but you finally meet his gaze. the air crackles between you as his eyes flicker to your lips, then back up to your eyes, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture. your heart skips, and you can’t decide if it’s the anxiety or the adrenaline that’s making your palms sweat.

“pretending?” you repeat, the word hanging in the air like smoke. you know exactly what he’s talking about. the tension—it’s been there for weeks now, building and building with every touch, every glance. but hearing him say it out loud somehow makes it all too real.

“yeah,” jisung says quietly, his voice almost like a confession, “pretending like we don’t know we’re both walking around this whole time pretending we don’t want to… do something about it.”

your pulse quickens, and you can feel the heat rising to your face. you want to respond, but your mind’s a tangled mess of thoughts that don’t seem to make sense. you’re high, but you’ve never felt so aware of everything happening around you—of every little shift in his expression, every tiny change in the way he’s looking at you.

and then, without thinking, without even realizing you’re doing it, you close the space between you. one hand moves to his chest—tentative, unsure—and the other touches his shoulder. your breath hitches in your throat as his gaze drops to your lips again, and just like that, the world seems to slow down.

you’re about to kiss him.

no, you tell yourself, but your body doesn’t listen. you can’t stop it. you don’t want to stop it.

jisung’s breath comes a little faster now, his eyes searching yours, like he’s looking for some kind of permission, some kind of answer to the question neither of you has asked out loud. he leans in just a fraction more, and then he stops, waiting for you to make the move.

you can’t breathe. the tension is unbearable, and you know this could change everything. this could be the moment where everything shifts from playful teasing to something much deeper.

but instead of kissing him, you pull back, just enough to catch your breath. “are we really doing this right now?” your voice cracks, betraying the mix of nerves and excitement swirling inside you.

jisung’s lips twitch in the beginning of a smile, and he leans back against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. “no. we’re just talking about it.”

you blink in confusion. “talking about it?”

“yeah,” he says, his grin widening. “you’re not ready for that, huh?”

your chest tightens, heart racing. you stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s teasing or serious. but the way he’s looking at you now—it’s not the usual cocky, playful look. it’s something deeper. something that makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall but unsure if you should.

“why are you doing this, jisung?” you ask, the question escaping before you can stop it. you need to understand—because you don’t know what’s real anymore, and what’s just the high talking.

he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, he leans forward again, his voice low. “maybe i’m doing this because i can’t stop thinking about you.”

the words hit harder than you expect, a weight settling deep in your chest.

the room is silent again. the weight of the unspoken words hangs in the air, heavy and pregnant with possibility.

and suddenly, it feels like the only thing you can do is lean in again.

this time, you don’t stop.

you kiss him.

it’s tentative at first, a slow, almost unsure press of lips. but then, just like the way the tension between you two has been building for weeks, the kiss deepens. it’s more than just an answer—it’s the release of everything you’ve both been holding back. his hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if trying to close the gap that’s been lingering between you both for far too long.

the warmth of his lips sends a jolt through your body, your heart pounding in your chest. you taste the remnants of the wine on his breath, the faint sweetness mingling with the earthy flavor of the weed. the combination is dizzying, a mix of flavors and sensations that blur everything around you.

and it’s all so natural. it feels right.

you pull away for a second, breathless, to catch your bearings. you’re not sure how to process this, how to make sense of the rush of emotions flooding your chest. but jisung doesn’t give you time to think.

his lips are on yours again, more urgent this time, his hand moving to your waist, pulling you even closer. you let him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. the way he holds you, the way he kisses you—it’s like he’s been waiting for this just as much as you have.

and when he pulls away again, there’s a fire in his eyes, one you haven’t seen before, not like this. his breathing is shallow, and his fingers are grazing the side of your face like he’s still processing the fact that this is real.

“don’t make me regret this,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with desire. there’s a vulnerability in his tone that catches you off guard, a rawness you hadn’t expected from him.

you look up at him, heart in your throat. “i don’t want to regret this either.”

and for a second, it’s like the world stops moving. the weight of everything—of the flirting, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments—crashes down on you. this is the moment where everything changes. where you stop pretending. where you stop running from it.

jisung leans in one more time, and this time, there’s no hesitation. no second thoughts. just the feeling of his lips pressing against yours again, urgent and hungry. it’s a kiss that tells you everything you need to know. that tells you he’s not just playing around anymore.

he’s in this.

and maybe, just maybe, you are too.

the kiss lasts longer this time, slow and deep, the kind that makes everything else fade into the background. the buzzing from the weed, the lingering taste of the wine, the tension that’s been building for weeks—all of it disappears in the space between you two, until there’s nothing left but him and you, tangled together in the moment.

when you finally pull away, both of you gasping for air, you don’t know what comes next. but you know one thing for sure.

this is only the beginning.

the moment his lips meet yours again, it’s not slow anymore. it’s fast, hungry, desperate, as if you’ve both been waiting for this moment for too long and now that it’s here, neither of you can hold back.

his hands are on you—everywhere. one hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer, while the other slips around your waist, pressing your body into his. the heat between you intensifies with each passing second, the softest moan escaping you when his lips find that sweet spot on your neck.

jisung doesn’t let you catch your breath. his lips are insistent against yours, each kiss deeper than the last, until you’re both breathless, the room spinning around you. his tongue brushes against your lips, asking for permission, and you give it, parting your lips for him. the kiss turns hotter, the world shrinking until there’s only him and the feel of his hands roaming your body.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, trying to deepen the kiss as much as you can. it’s messy and frantic, but neither of you seem to care. his lips move with purpose, taking the kiss from soft and slow to urgent and fierce. you feel the heat rise in your chest, your body pressed so tightly against his that you can feel every inch of him, every muscle tensing as he pulls you impossibly closer.

jisung groans into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he pulls you onto his lap without hesitation. your knees settle on either side of his hips, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. the joint—forgotten—smolders in the ashtray beside you, the scent of weed and roses lingering in the thick air between you.

his hands roam, slow and teasing, fingertips grazing the bare skin beneath your hoodie. you shiver, a breathy sigh slipping past your lips when he presses his palms flat against your back, pulling you closer. his lips move against yours, unhurried but deliberate, as if savoring every second.

“you’re high,” you murmur against his mouth, though you don’t pull away.

jisung exhales a laugh, his breath warm against your lips. “and?”

“high words and actions are sober thoughts,” you remind him, voice barely above a whisper.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, dark and heavy with something you can’t name. his thumb brushes over your cheek, then lower, tracing the curve of your lips.

“exactly.”

your breath catches.

the weight of his words settles between you, thick and undeniable. he’s not hiding behind the haze of smoke. not playing it off like a joke. he means it.

and you’re fucked.

because you believe him.

because you want this—sober, high, or anything in between.

his hands slide down your back, settling at your waist as he leans in again, this time slower, deeper, letting the moment stretch, letting the tension snap and coil until all that’s left is you, him, and the quiet hum of something inevitable.

your fingers tangle in his hoodie, gripping tight as you meet him halfway, lips parting, bodies pressing closer, heat pooling between you like a slow burn waiting to ignite.

and this time, neither of you stop.

© charlieg1rl ⋅

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[theskywithin]

If Life Is Asking You to Begin Again, Read This

Before you read this, I just want to say this is something I’m going through right now too. I wrote this as a note to myself, and to anyone else who might be standing at a beginning they didn’t expect. I hope it helps you breathe a little easier. 🌸

Sometimes life does not shatter all at once, it unthreads itself quietly, like a sweater catching on the wrong nail. One small pull. Then another. Until you are standing in a room full of memories, holding the loose yarn of a life that no longer fits.

If you are here, at the edge of an ending you didn’t choose, or standing knee-deep in the wreckage of everything you thought you wanted, breathe. You are not broken. You are not lost. You are simply at the place where becoming asks for your hands.

No one tells you how much courage it takes to rebuild your life after you have already built it once. No one tells you that healing is not the absence of pain, but the willingness to keep walking even with the tender parts exposed.

Starting over isn’t about going backward. It’s about returning to the quiet parts of you that never stopped believing there was more. More mornings that don't ache. More conversations where you don't have to hide. More dreams that feel less like escape, and more like home.

You are not starting from scratch. You are starting from experience, from calloused hands and a wiser heart, from every storm you thought you would never survive and did anyway.

This isn’t the end of your story. It’s just a different chapter, written in a language you are still learning to speak.

Give yourself permission to grieve. Give yourself permission to hope. You can hold both. The endings that hurt. And the beginnings that hum quietly under your skin, waiting for you to notice them.

Not every seed bursts through the soil with a roar. Some grow quietly in the dark for a long, long time. And still , they bloom.

You are not behind. You are not late. You are exactly where your soul chose to be stubborn enough to stay alive.

Trust the small things: the breath that still rises and falls, the heartbeat that keeps choosing yes, the tiny flickers of wanting more even on the days you swear you are done.

If you find yourself beginning again, know this: You are not failing. You are answering a call that your future self will one day thank you for. You are already carrying everything you need. You always have been. The part of you that chose to stay alive will lead you where you belong.

For your brave heart, with love, F.

[whitedarkmoonflower]

When the darkness gets too loud

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female) Canon

Authors note: the requested stalker!Sihtric fic! It took me longer than I thought but it's finally there and I loved writing it. I just hope I did your idea justice and thank you so much for requesting!

Warnings: angst, lots of angst, to some extent selfharm, obsessive behaviour, stalking, blood, violence, guilt, selfdestructive behaviour, happy ending 😅 (thought I need to put it in the warnings so you know what you all are heading into)

Word Count: 10K

Summary: based on this request:

Sooo I wanted to ask for a (Stalker)Sihtric x reader fic, if that's okay. The reader is a florist in the little town Uthred and his boys are staying at. One day she comes across Sihtric and gifts him a flower, because he's looking rather sad (even though she doesn't know him). While it was just a polite gesture of her, Sihtric immediately falls in love. This is due to him not being used to such kindness. But soon his crush turns into an obsession and he uses all his free time to stalk her and watch her every move.

I know it's a bit wild, but I'm tired of Sihtric always being portrayed as this cute innocent boy. I would love, if somebody would write about the mental issues he likely has with such a past.

Sihtric didn’t even turn back to look at Finan, calling after him. He simply couldn't, he just had to get away. He sighed as the sounds of the bustling alehouse got muted behind the sturdy wooden door, but it didn’t stop the noise as he was greeted by the merry chaos of a lively market on the town's main square. Sihtric groaned in frustration, dragging a hand down his face.

Armour stiff with dried blood that wasn’t his, and his right shoulder throbbing from where a man had slammed him into a tree trunk, he dragged his feet down the few wooden steps. It was not the pain that unsettled him. Pain was just part of it, always had been and he was used to not letting it show, not during the battle, not afterward. 

It was the noise, the laughter, the colours and the warmth of a sunny summer day, clashing violently with the screams still echoing in his mind, even now after the battle had ended.

He needed silence. He needed it so desperately that if the noise didn’t stop soon, he was certain his head would split clean in two. Sometimes on days like this he wished he could go back to the dark, wet basement of Dunholm with nothing but peaceful  silence to listen to. 

With a deep sigh he shrugged off that thought, and with no real destination in mind he just let his feet carry him forward, just away from everything. 

It was a good day, the kind of day where the sun warmed but didn’t scorch, where the soft breeze played with loose petals from the flower bundles on your stall and sent them dancing across the market square like tiny, twirling ghosts and people seemed to be smiling more than usual.

Your hands were busy as always. You loved the quiet rhythm of putting flowers together in little gentle clouds of vibrant colour, or the dizzying aroma of wild lavender hitting your nose, while you tied them up in small bunches. 

Most days blurred into each other in a haze of color and soft chatter as people just came and went – locals, travelers, rowdy warriors who never paid much mind to your stall unless they needed something for an apology or a courtship. You smiled at all of them but never too long, never too brightly, you liked staying small, hidden behind the joyful vibrance your hands created.

Which is why you noticed him, not because he spoke to you or came close, but because of the stillness.

He was standing across the square, half in shadow, his shoulders hunched and face contorted as if in pain. At first you thought he might be watching something behind you but no, his eyes, large, piercing and oddly lost, were fixed on the flowers.

Your heart gave a small, uncertain thud at the sight of the handsome but battered warrior. Tall and incredibly well built with raven dark hair braided on the top of the head but falling in loose curls over his broad shoulders he just stood there like he didn’t know what to do with himself, like the world was too loud, too much, and he was bracing for it to fall apart.

His leather armour covered with dark stains, blood, maybe, boots dirty with mud and an axe hanging at his side, he looked like he’d walked straight off a battlefield, but what struck you most was the tiredness in the way he held himself. Tiredness of life itself. 

You glanced down at the blooms in front of you, the daisies you had picked this very morning seemed to smile back at you – bright little things, cheerful and full of spirit.

You didn’t think, you picked one, just one, and stepped out from behind the stall. You had almost reached him when he finally noticed you walking up to him.

“Here,” you said softly, offering the daisy in your outstretched hand. “You look like you could use one today.”

He didn’t flinch, but there was something in the way his jaw tightened, like he had  expected a blow instead of a flower. He stared at it in silence, no words, not even a nod, before he reached out, slow, almost wary, and took it between his rough, blood-stained fingers.

“Have a peaceful day,” you gave him a small smile, unsure what else to do, and turned back to your stall. You had almost reached it as you glanced back over your shoulder, he was still standing there, holding the daisy like it was the most precious thing in the world.

You didn't know his name, didn’t know what he'd been through but something told you that no one had given him a flower before.

It was as if Sihtric’s life had suddenly lit with a thousand candles. You had noticed him and you had been kind to him, just like that, with no reason, no need, no gain.

No one ever gave something for nothing but you had.

That flower, so small, soft, forgettable in anyone else’s hand, had burned itself into him like a brand. It had startled him, the way something so simple could feel like magic beyond words to express. It scared him and he didn’t know what to do with it - that feeling, that light. It was so different from the dark he was used to.

He kept the daisy tucked inside a small leather pouch and checked it every morning and every night. Just to be sure it hadn’t crumbled into nothing while he wasn’t looking. It was withered and wrinkled now, but it was there and somehow, it made the world less sharp, less bloody. The voices from his past didn’t echo quite so loudly when he remembered the curve of your smile, the light in your eyes.

He began to walk the market square more often. Not to speak, he wasn’t ready for that, but to see, to make sure you were real and with each passing day, that light inside him grew, not warm, not soft, but fierce, burning.

It was a strange feeling, unfamiliar and consuming, the sense that something precious and beautiful belonged to him now. And he would not let the world steal it away

“It’s nothing unusual, I’ll just check the market, maybe I’ll find something today,” Sihtric muttered the words to himself like a mantra, repeated so often they had begun to sound true.

He told himself it was just another pass through town with Finan and Osferth, just another errand, just another walk with no real destination. Was it a coincidence that his steps always took him past the flower stall? Of course it was. Just curiosity, that was all. Just something pleasant to look at, something bright and clean and untouched, something other than blades, ale, and Finan’s damned smirking face.

“It’s nothing special,” he murmured under his breath as he watched you but even as the words left his lips, they felt hollow, because deep down, in the quietest part of himself, he knew – he had never seen anything more special, more beautiful in his entire life.

So he just kept watching, from across the square, from behind barrels, from the shadow of a narrow alley that stank of fish and damp stone. He watched your hands tie bundles of lavender, the way your hair slipped loose from the braid when the wind tugged at it. He watched you laugh with an old woman who traded herbs, watched you nod politely at merchants, smile at children.

He watched what made you happy, what made you tilt your head in wonder, who made you laugh and, most importantly – who came too close.

He tracked it all. The way you opened the stall just after sunrise, how you buried your nose in the first bouquet you had tied together and smiled at wild flowers as if they were your best friends. He saw how you always adjusted the sign twice before stepping back to look at it, lips parting in a satisfied smile.

He knew the rhythm of your day. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. 

He noticed the small smear of dirt on your cheek you’d forgotten to wipe away, the way your chest rose and fell gently when you hummed that tune, always the same one, whenever you drifted into thought.

His fists clenched when your cheeks flushed crimson at the bold compliment of some young man who bought a bouquet only to hand it right back to you.

And when the blacksmith’s apprentice let his gaze linger too long on the neckline of your dress, Sihtric’s fingers slid, unbidden, to the hilt of his axe.

And the more he watched the more convinced he was – you were too kind for this cold, cruel world, like a soft, wild flower blooming bright in a desolate meadow, unaware that your beauty will one day become your doom as unworthy hands will come to pluck you. But not if he could prevent it, not if he protected you.

Ribs aching with each breath as the dull pain mixed with the sharp sting of his split lip, Sihtric pushed himself up from the ground and slumped his back against the wall, pulling knees to his chest. The first time he had cried. With his face pressed to the cold, straw-strewn floor and his shoulders trembling, he had tried to stifle the sounds that might give him away as the key turned in the lock with a loud click and his father’s heavy footsteps faded up the stairs, leaving him alone in the blackness of Dunholm’s basement. That was the first and the last time.

Sihtric closed his eyes and listened. Silence. Nothing but silence. So peaceful. He didn’t make a sound, not anymore. He had learned to distinguish the pain from the hurt. Silence didn’t hurt, and neither did darkness. Even his fathers blows didn’t really hurt anymore. 

Slowly, Sihtric uncurled his tightly clenched fist and looked down at it. His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness around him, but he didn’t need to see it. He knew every curve, every dimple, every uneven edge of the small, fragile thing resting in his palm.

 It hurt. More than anything. That disappointed, mocking look in the eyes of that blonde girl from the kitchen had hurt. The way she had tossed aside this little charm he’d carved from bone and strung with a scrap of leather.

Crooked and misshapen, it was meant to be a bird. He had made it for her, even tied a flower to it, picked from the meadow just beyond the walls, though he wasn’t meant to leave the fortress. He knew he'd get a beating for that, but he had snuck out anyway. For her. And she had thrown it to the ground like it was nothing, looking at him with that same coldness, that same silence as everyone else. 

Sihtric fingers found the thin leather strap and ran slowly along its length. It was still intact. Why did it hurt so much? 

Sihtric woke up with a cry and covered in sweat, chest heaving, breath coming too fast, too shallow, like the air was being stolen before it could reach his lungs. The darkness of the room pressed in on him, until even the walls seemed to shift and close in.

His fingers clawed at the furs tangled around him, heart racing and throat tight. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even think.

Sihtric pressed his palm to his chest, as if he could force his lungs to work. It was like drowning, like sinking in a sea of sounds that weren’t there anymore, his father’s rage, the sneers of his half-brother, the angry voice of that elderly women chasing him out of the kitchen as he tried to steal some fresh baked bread, the mocking laugh of that blond girl whose face he couldn’t recall anymore, the sound of a bone charm hitting the floor and the all overarching feeling that he had failed. 

The scream still rang in his ears. Was it his? Was it yours? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember the dream, only the feeling it left behind: that you were gone. That he hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been able to protect you. That someone else had touched you, taken you, ruined the little piece of light he’d been clinging to.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached as panic crawled up his throat like bile. Hair sticking to his sweat covered forehead he pulled his legs to his chest and clutched the small leather pouch around his neck harbouring the remnants of the daisy you had given to him. Desperate and frantic his fingers closed around it. Breathe, just keep breathing. It was still there. 

Not all about it was a dream. Here it was, brittle and crushed inside, but still a reminder that you were real. That your voice had spoken to him, that your fingers had brushed his when you handed him the daisy.

"Have a peaceful day," he repeated your words under his breath over and over, rocking himself back and forth while he was desperately trying to hold on to that one memory, to the ghost of that feeling he could barely touch now, of two gentle hands once rocking him into sleep. Of tears wiped away by someone who had truly loved him… by someone who seemingly had never existed… and yet somehow had… 

Slowly the air started to come easier, his hands began to steady, and he pressed his back to the wall looking up into the ceiling above him. Was he even worthy? Was he worthy of that gentleness, of that warm smile, of that soft touch against his rough, calloused fingers?

Had it actually meant something? It had to be, it had to mean something, because if it didn’t, then what was the point of all this? Of him still being alive? If it hadn’t meant something… then what was left?

Sihtric wanted to speak to you, just a few words, just enough to be sure he hadn’t imagined it all but his voice always stuck in his throat when he got close. 

What would he even say? That he thought about you when the darkness got too loud? That he had nightmares where you disappeared, and he was left clutching nothing but a broken stem of a daisy? 

It was one of those days that looked like all the others – sunlight falling in warm stripes, the market humming with voices and footsteps.

You were standing by your stall, head tilted just slightly, lips curled in that soft smile he’d memorized, but it wasn’t meant for him, it was for another man.

Some young fool with a clean shaved face, neat clothes and shiny boots that looked like they had never seen the road, never touched mud or blood.

Sihtric stood across the square, the crowd a blur between you, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The man leaned in a little closer, saying something and you laughed, bright, easy and carefree. You handed him the small bouquet of flowers, he bowed, took your hand, tilted it to his lips and kissed it. 

Sihtric’s breath left his lungs in a slow, strangled hiss. He knew men like that with smiles hiding hunger, and pretty words like bait. They didn’t see you, they wanted you, wanted your light, your softness, your laugh. Wanted to take it, twist it, own it.

Sihtric shut his eyes but it didn’t help. He still saw you, still saw him following you home, standing too close, fingers gripping your waist. Your voice, warm and soft, and his voice - rough and commanding, in your home, your room. Those polished boots on the floor beside your bed. The sound of flesh snapping against flesh tangled with your quiet sobs.

Sihtric’s hands curled into fists as he shoved the thought down so hard it burned.

You didn’t see the dangers around you, you didn’t understand the way men looked at you. You saw good in everyone, even in him.

That was why he followed the boy home, just to watch, just to check, just to see. Just to be sure.

He didn’t hurt him. Not yet. But gods, he wanted to.

You were sorting bundles of lavender when you felt him there, just on the edge of your awareness. You looked up and found him standing in front of your stall - tall, broad shouldered and handsome, scar running over his right eyebrow and cheek. His dark hair braided neatly, revealing more of his face, which looked younger somehow without the dirt and stubble. 

You smiled, soft and curious. “Hello again.”

He opened his mouth, but then immediately glanced down at his boots, lips pressing into a thin line. You waited patiently until he finally looked up again.

“I, ah…” he began, then reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “I’m not—used to… places like this.”

“Places with flowers?” you teased gently, lips quirking.

A flash of something passed through his eyes, embarrassment, maybe, or uncertainty.

“Places with people like you,” he said.

And just as you felt the heat bloom in your cheeks, his elbow bumped a small pot near the edge of the table. It wobbled once, twice and tipped, shattering on the cobblestones below.

“Oh!” you gasped, stepping around the side. “It’s alright, it happens, wait, let me…”

But he was already on his knees, crouching, broad shoulders hunched like a scolded boy, carefully collecting the broken shards of clay and scooping loose soil back into the remnants of the pot with callused hands.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, brushing his hand as you tried to help him. “Really, it’s just a pot.”

His fingers stilled at the touch, just for a second, then he resumed his quiet cleanup.

“Let me pay for it,” he muttered, reaching into his belt pouch and pressing two coins into your hand before you could protest. “I’ve ruined it.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to do that. It was just an accident.”

“I want to.”

There was a long pause as the two of you stood again, brushing dirt off your hands.

“I’m Sihtric,” he said at last. “I… I just wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” you asked, brows lifting in surprise.

“For the daisy. I mean… I… I don’t know,” he hesitated, words faltering like he hadn’t planned on saying any of them aloud.

You smiled. “It’s good to meet you, Sihtric. I’m glad you stopped by.” You picked another flower from the bucket beside you, holding it out. “Can I offer you another one? You still look like you need it.”

He nodded once, slowly, his fingers fidgeted nervously at the edge of his cloak, but his eyes never left yours.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

“How could I forget?” you said, smiling a little wider.

His mouth parted, as if he meant to say something more, but he didn’t, instead, he returned your smile, took the flower with a kind of reverence, and offered a quiet goodbye before turning and slipping back into the slow-moving current of the square.

You watched him go, heart warm… and a little confused.

There was something about him, something worn and wild, guarded, hidden but something good, too.

And you didn’t know why, but silently, you hoped he’d come back.

It only got worse from there. Sihtric barely slept. And when he did, it was never more than a brief stretch, curled beneath his fur cloak, slumped against a stone wall in some narrow alleyway where he could keep an eye on the entrance to your home.

He saw them everywhere—threats, lurking dangers, shadows with teeth, they were in every man who lingered too long, in every glance that dipped below your neckline, in every smile casted your way, every hand that reached too close.

He studied them, watched their hands, their mouths, their eyes, he memorized the way they moved, the way they looked at you when they thought no one would notice. He watched the way they breathed. And gods, if he could, he would have watched their thoughts.

You didn’t know what the world was like, not really, not the way he knew it. You lived in light, surrounded by petals and colours, by soft people with soft hearts. You didn’t know what it meant to be hunted, what it meant to be a prey, to be broken and discarded, but he knew.

He would never let them touch you, not their hands, not their eyes, not their thoughts. You belonged to peace and happiness, and if he had to cover the road to your door in blood to keep it that way – he would, without hesitation and without guilt.

He was there to protect you. You would be frightened, if you knew how much danger you were in from others, from men who didn't see you the way he did, from ones who saw you as just a pretty, small doll, just something to take. But not him, never him.

He had never wanted to take, he wanted to guard, to keep, to hold, gently, carefully, as if you were the only soft thing the world hadn’t yet ruined. You didn’t need to know what he did, you only needed to feel safe.

That was love. Wasn’t it?

Something had changed. The blacksmith’s boy who used to flirt with you now crossed the square with his head down, avoiding even looking in your direction. 

The young lad from the other town down the road who always brought you apples from his garden when coming in to sell them on the market, once talkative and awkward in a charming way, began to cross the street rather than pass your stall. 

The loud and puffy merchant whose bright grin always made you laugh suddenly had his cart wheel split open one night with a blade so clean, it looked like lightning had struck the wood.

It got more and more quiet around you as customers and passersby seemed to linger less and offer fewer smiles. 

You should have thought it strange, you should have wondered but you never really did. You were too flustered by the handsome warrior that had started visiting your small stall almost every day. 

Never pushy, never overstepping, Sihtric was just there, quiet and watchful, always buying something small, a handful of forget-me-nots or a single marigold just to give them straight back to you. 

Once, he asked what your favorite flower was. You told him you liked thistles – not the prettiest, but they held their own.

“You like things that survive,” he’d said and you laughed as there was surely some truth behind it.

He helped to carry your buckets from the well or fill pots with earth, sometimes he just lingered, listening while you talked about the changing seasons or the birds singing near the river. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it was thoughtful, almost… shy and you began to look forward to those quiet visits. 

Almost without realizing it, the quiet, rough-edged warrior had found his way into your heart and deep down, you hoped his daily visits weren’t just for the flowers.

There was something about the way he looked at the world, like it was always a little too loud, a little too cruel, as though he never expected kindness and didn’t quite know what to do with it when it came.

You had seen it in his eyes, in the way they lingered, searching for something he didn’t know how to ask for. There was a strange kind of sadness in him, pressed into the corners of his mouth and the slope of his shoulders, like he’d spent his whole life bracing for pain.

And sometimes, when you caught him watching you, you wondered if anyone had ever truly loved him, not for his sword, not for his loyalty, not for his coin, but simply for who he was. And in the soft places of your heart, you wanted to be the first.

It happened so fast, you hardly understood what you were seeing at first.

You’d been working since sunrise as you always did and you’d just finished wrapping a bouquet of poppies and yarrow for an older man who had waited patiently.

But the next customer…

You didn’t even catch his name. He was young, in a rush, he tapped his fingers against the table as you worked, muttering under his breath about needing something "quick, just anything, doesn’t matter."

You didn’t mind, you dealt with all sorts but when your hands fumbled slightly tying the ribbon he sighed, maybe a little too sharply. His voice lifted just slightly, not quite rude, but impatient.

Suddenly Sihtric was there.

You hadn’t seen him approach, hadn’t even noticed him in the square that morning. One moment, you were focused on the bouquet, and the next, you heard the scuffle, the rustle of boots and the grunt of impact.

The young man hit the ground hard, dirt smearing his sleeves as he scrambled away from Sihtric’s towering figure.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the man snapped, eyes wide.

Sihtric stood above him, fists clenched, shoulders coiled with fury, his jaw was tight, his breathing shallow. He hadn’t drawn a weapon, but he didn’t need to.

“Sihtric!” you gasped, stepping out from behind the stall. “What are you doing?”

“He spoke to you like you were beneath him,” Sihtric hissed, voice low, somewhat trembling with restraint. “You shouldn’t have to hear that. You don’t deserve it.”

You turned to Sihtric, your heart pounding. “You can’t attack someone just because you didn’t like their tone.”

“He was disrespectful,” Sihtric cut in, too fast. “He didn’t even see you. He looked at you like they all do, like you’re… like you’re something to use. I’ve seen it before.”

“And what?” you asked, voice rising despite yourself. “You thought you’d fix that by knocking him into the dirt?”

“I’ve protected you,” he said suddenly, eyes wide, almost wild. “All this time. You don’t even know the things I’ve stopped before they got close. You should be thankful…”

The world slowed and your chest went tight. “Protected me?”

Sihtric faltered, as if realizing too late what he’d said.

You took a step back. “What do you mean – all this time? And what do you mean by stopped?”

He didn’t answer, just stared, breathing heavily, and slowly, the pieces began to fall into place.

The way customers had started drifting away, the missing faces, the sudden coldness from people you thought even friends, the way the blacksmith’s apprentice avoided your eyes, the silent space that seemed to grow around you like a circle no one dared step into.

“It’s you,” you whispered. “You’ve scared them all off.”

“No,” Sihtric said quickly, shaking his head, voice rising with desperation. “Don’t you see it? They weren’t good for you. They didn’t deserve…”

His hands shot out before you could step back, fingers closing around your arms, way too tight, too firm and controlling, catching you by surprise. His grip bit into your skin like iron, and suddenly, your fear flared to life.

“Let go,” you breathed, panic rising in your chest like a tide.

But he didn’t, his grip only tightened as his eyes searched yours, wild and glassy. “I was protecting you,” he rasped, voice shaking. “I am protecting you.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you struggled against him, trying to pull free. “Sihtric, stop!”

He jerked you closer by your waist.

“No!” you cried, twisting in his grasp as you raised a hand to shove him, slap him, anything to break free from the iron grasp of his hands on your waist, but he caught your wrist mid-air and bent your arm behind your back with a sudden force that made you gasp as the pain shot up your shoulders. 

“Stop!” you screamed but he held you firmly, breath ragged, too far gone to hear reason, his body trembling with restraint he was rapidly losing.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you fought him. “Let go of me!”

And then you kneed him, hard, right into the soft flesh of his groin, he let out a strangled sound, half-snarl, half-choked breath and let go of you as he doubled over.

The world tilted, you were fighting against him so fiercely that the moment his grip loosened your feet lost purchase and you fell hard. Your knees scraped the dirt, your shoulder slammed against the earth, and then your cheek cracked sharply against the edge of a loose stone that split your skin open.

White pain burst across your face, you cried out, clutching your cheek, the blood already trickling through your fingers.

Everything froze, Sihtric stood above you, doubled slightly, one hand braced against his thigh, eyes wide with something between rage and horror as he saw your bleeding face. His mouth opened then closed. He wanted to take a step forward, reaching out to you, but you scrambled back, breath coming in shallow gasps. “Don’t touch me,” you hissed like a wounded animal, nostrils flaring and his arm dropped to his side.

You saw him now, fully and without illusion, the broken and wild man, shaped by violence and loneliness, and need, the real threat, the real danger, and the look on Sihtric’s face said he finally saw it too.

“I thought…” your voice cracked, tears streaming down your cheeks, “I thought you liked me. I thought you cared about me…”

Sihtric opened his mouth, but no words came again.

“All this time…” you choked. “You weren’t protecting me! You were ruining me, you tried to take everything I have. This stall… these flowers… they’re all I have. The people, the little kindnesses, the laughter… You took all that from me. How could you?”

Sihtric reached out again, this time slowly, hesitantly like a man reaching for something sacred and forbidden, face contorted in pain but you flinched, crawling back, avoiding his hand like it burned, as you scrambled to your feet and then you turned and ran. 

The path back to camp was a blur. Sihtric didn’t even remember how he had reached it, only the sound of his own breath and the way it scraped like sand in his throat.

The tents came into view, nestled in the trees just beyond the town’s edge, and Finan’s cheerful voice greeted him from one of the fires, but he didn’t respond. Osferth made a move to raise and go to him, but Finan clasped his hand and shook his head. He knew well that look on Sihtric’s face – the clenched jaw, the distant eyes, hands already twitching toward his weapons. It was not the time to speak with him.

Sihtric didn’t go to the fire, he didn’t speak, didn’t even look at his friends as he walked to the clearing beyond the tree line where the grass was worn, the earth packed firm with hundreds of footsteps.

He shrugged off his cloak, stripped to the tunic beneath, unsheathed his axe, and positioned himself before the thick wooden training post in the centre of the clearing. The first strike was slow, controlled, the second, faster, the third, brutal, putting all his strength into it.

He spun, stepped, slashed against the post like it had wronged him, his blade whistled in the air, his muscles tightening with every movement. The time passed but he continued, his anger spurred him on, not at you but solely at himself. 

Every breath came ragged now as he kept the speed and the pace. Slash. Step back. Squat. Jump. Lunge. Thrust. And then all over again.

You frightened her. Steel clashed against the wooden training post, splintering the grain.

You hurt her.Again, harder this time, the vibration painfully rang up his arm.

She looked at you like you were a monster.

Sihtric drove his blade into the post and ripped it free, sweat dripped down his spine, his shoulder ached from that old bruise reopened by repetition, his ribs and lunges protested with every move and every twist. He embraced the pain, greeted it like an old friend. 

More. Faster. Again. Repeat.

You are a monster, just like your father. 

He trained until the stars crept out behind the trees and the last light of day had vanished behind the horizon, his tunic clung to his skin, soaked through, his chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. His arms ached so badly that the axe slipped from his hand, his fingers refusing to move as he tried to unclench them. With force he pulled them together into a fist.

Blood, his own, slid from a shallow slice at his forearm, he hadn’t even noticed. He didn’t care, he just kept going and as he had lost his axe, he used his fists instead.

He didn’t want to stop, he couldn’t, he had to go to the end because if his body broke, maybe it would silence the voice in his head, the voice that kept shouting at him that he’d destroyed the only good thing that had ever reached for him without fear, without resentment, the voice that whispered: You ruin everything you touch.

The moon was high in the sky when he finally dropped to his knees, panting like he had run a marathon forth and back, with blood covered knuckles and hands shaking from exhaustion, shoulders shaking in silent sobs as the cruel voice in his mind kept echoing over and over: How could you?

It was not enough, he wasn’t broken yet, so as the night crept in and the campfire crackled somewhere behind him, Sihtric found himself dragging his feet back toward the town.

He passed the familiar corners in silence, the square now empty, your stall closed, the flowers tucked away in sleep. He lowered his gaze as he passed it by, shame pulsing beneath his skin, blooming like bruises beneath a blade. 

Here in this very spot you had given him the flower with a smile warmer than the sun. Here in this very spot your blood had painted the dust from his doing, not someone else, not those men he had tried to shelter you from, no, from his own hands.

Laughter drifted out from the alehouse ahead, loud and boisterous. Soldiers, four or five of them, spilled onto the street with mugs still in their hands, their somewhat unsteady movements betraying the amount of ale in their bellies.

They didn’t notice him at first, no one ever did, unless he wanted them to, but tonight, he wanted them to.

He stopped in the center of the road, letting the torchlight catch his silhouette, his presence becoming unavoidable and when one of the men staggered too close, Sihtric didn’t move out of the way, just the opposite, he stepped in his way and bumped heavily into his shoulder. 

The man cursed. “Watch where you’re standing, you filthy Dane rat!”

Sihtric looked up slowly, eyes calm and flat. “Say it again.”

The man blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Another man from the company, taller and broader, stepped forward with a sneer. “What’s the matter, stray dog? You want to start something?”

“No,” Sihtric said, letting his hand fall away from the hilt of his axe. “I want you to or are you too afraid?”

He didn’t swing first, didn’t even lift a fist, didn’t step back, he just stood there, shoulders squared, eyes blank and waiting. The punch came fast, knuckles to jaw, sharp and stunning. Sihtric stumbled, but didn’t fall.

Another came, to his ribs, then his stomach, he doubled slightly, air leaving his lungs in a ragged breath.

The third man hit harder, a boot to the knee and a shove that sent him sprawling to the dirt. He didn’t fight back, he didn’t want to, he let it happen, he took every blow, every insult, every snap of flesh against flesh in silence as he used to so many years ago as though pain might carve the guilt out of him, piece by piece, as though bruises could rewrite the moment you’d looked at him with fear in your eyes, like you detested him with your whole being.

Someone laughed, someone spit, a kick to the ribs, a fist to the mouth, Sihtric tasted blood and welcomed it. It was what he deserved. It was what he understood. Pain and humiliation.

One of the men knelt beside him, grabbing the front of his tunic to drag him up for another strike. Sihtric let his head fall back against the stone wall behind him and laughed, quiet, humorless, broken. It was finally gone. The voice. There was nothing more left, just the silence and the heavy breaths of the drunken men. Silence doesn’t hurt. 

The man released him with a muttered curse and stepped away, the others followed, their interest soured by the strange emptiness in Sihtric’s gaze.

He was alone again, bloodied, aching, breathing in the dust and rot of the street, he lay there for a while, staring at nothing.

He had failed to keep you safe from the world but what was worse – he had failed to keep you safe from himself. 

And this, this was the only kind of forgiveness he understood.

The sky was beginning to pale, touched with the faintest blush of dawn, the world still holding its breath in that beautiful, even serene moment before morning breaks.

You had risen early, as sleep had been impossible. Every time you closed your eyes, Sihtric’s face would return, not the sweet, uncertain one you’d come to know over slow days and quiet glances, but the one from yesterday, with eyes wild and hands like iron claws.

The cut on your cheek ached, and you wanted to pick some marigolds to make a tincture that would make it heal quicker and wouldn’t leave a scar. You opened the doors and let out a quiet cry.

You hadn’t expected to see Sihtric again, not so soon, maybe not ever, but there he was, crouched on your porch, like something left behind by the night, curled in his fur cloak and head resting against the wall.

Your breath caught and for a short moment you just wanted to step over him and run again or shut the door, lock it behind you, and hide in the darkest corner of your own house but then you saw the blood, dried at the corner of his mouth, split along his brow, and the bruises down the side of his jaw, dark, ugly and fresh like he’d let someone use him as a stray doll warriors used to train with.

His knuckles torn raw looked like he had fought with a stone wall

“Sihtric?” you whispered, touching his shoulder lightly.

He stirred, flinching as he lifted his head, and his eyes opened slowly. They were bloodshot and dazed, but still sharp enough to recognize you and the moment he did, he tried to stand, groaning in pain.

“Don’t…” you stepped forward, hands instinctively reaching to support him, but stopping mid-way. “You are hurt. You shouldn’t move. What… what happened to you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just sat back down with a wince and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his face.

“I deserved it,” he said finally.

You knelt beside him. 

“Sihtric… why would you…”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the bruises, to his torn clothes, to the swollen corner of his lip. “This is the only language I understand. Pain. Punishment. It’s what I was raised on. It’s what I know.”

You felt tears perling in the corners of your eyes as you watched him and he turned his face away, as if to see the pity in your eyes was too much. “I… I just… I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”

“Sihtric, you… you must be gone mad. Why did you do this to yourself?”

“Because I ruined the only thing that ever felt real,” he said, words catching in his throat. “And I didn’t know how to live with that.”

He paused and dragged in a ragged breath, trembling slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking up at you. “I’m truly sorry. For everything, for the people I chased off, for trying to control what wasn’t mine, for making you afraid, for hurting you...” he gestured towards the red line on your cheek.

“I didn’t mean to,” Sihtric added, voice cracking. “But I did and I can’t… I can’t take that back.”

You said nothing, just watched him, throat tight, fighting back tears, and you didn’t know what hurt more: the pain of what he’d done, the sight of him so broken, or the dreams you’d once held close now shattered, scattered, and destined never to come true. 

“I won’t bother you again,” he promised. “I swear it. You won’t see me, I won’t come near. I don’t deserve… I never did.”

His shoulders sagged and his head bowed again. “I just needed to say it, before I go.”

You stared at him, crouched and bloodied on your doorstep, and your heart broke in a way you weren't prepared for, not because you loved him still, though some part of you probably did, but because he looked like a boy who had given up, who had finally accepted that he could not be loved, and that knowledge had undone him.

“Sihtric,” you whispered. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He didn’t answer, his shoulders were trembling now, whether from pain or exhaustion or something else, you couldn’t tell.

You couldn’t leave him here like that, you stood up and went back into the house, returning in a moment with a water jug in your hand and some clean rags. You poured some water into a small basin you kept near the door, and dipped the cloth. Without asking, without a word, you knelt in front of him and pressed the cool fabric gently to the blood on his brow.

He winced, but didn’t pull away as you cleaned his face.

“You scared me,” you said softly. “You hurt me, not just by what you did… I trusted you... I let you in.”

His eyes, when they met yours, were raw.

“I know,” he said, and it was more breath than voice. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

You paused, the cloth trembling in your hand as you took his bloodied hand in yours. “But I will.”

His breath hitched.

“I forgive you, Sihtric,” you swallowed, the words almost catching in your throat. “I do. I believe you meant well, I believe you were trying to protect something good in the only way you knew how.”

You gave his hand a gente squeeze, your hands starting to shake even more. “I forgive you but I want you to understand that there is no going back to what we had. I need …,” you paused and looked away, it was too painful to watch his eyes lighten up for a brief moment and then turn bleak again. “I can’t and I need you to leave and not to come back, Sihtric.”

His face crumpled, not with protest, but with understanding, he nodded just once, as if the motion cost him everything. He couldn't tell what hurt more that you wanted him to disappear from your life, he had meant to do it anyway, or that you had just admitted that you both did have something, something he had ruined beyond repair.

He reached into his pouch and took out something small. He hesitated, looking down at his palm – a small bone carved bird with a worn leather strap to it, a bit misshapen as if a child had made it but so beautiful in its simplicity. Sihtric extended his hand towards you, the small thing on his palm.

He didn’t say anything but something in the way he looked at it and then at you, with slowly watering eyes, told you it was precious for him and he was offering it to you as a gift of peace, as a token to seal his promise. You took it, slowly, reverently, afraid of letting it fall, and wrapped your fingers around it, pressing your fist with the small little thing to your chest.

“Alright,” he whispered. “I’ll go.”

He stood slowly, stiff and swaying, but he didn’t ask for help, he didn’t speak again, just looked at you one last time, like he was trying to memorize your face, not as something he wanted, but something he had once been allowed to care for, then he turned and walked, without a single glance back, just quiet footsteps down the stairs and further along the path towards the old and crooked houses of your neighbours, until his hunched frame dissolved in the shadows of the small streets jungle.

You had no idea how much self control Sihtric had needed not to turn back, not to look at you one more time, not to crumble beneath the weight of his own promise. He almost didn’t manage it, almost… And probably for the first time since that one first cold night in Dunholm’s basement, he also didn’t manage to bite back the hot tears, rolling down his cheeks. It hurt. He had almost forgotten how it was. He hadn’t expected the silence ever hurt him so much. The sad silence in your otherwise so lively eyes. 

You stood in the doorway long after he’d disappeared, the rag still in your one hand and your fist with the little bird in it pressed to your chest and even if you didn’t know, even if you didn’t see, your heart strangely raced and ached, not with anger, not even with relief, but with something unresolved, something that still lived in the silence he left behind

Life simply went on, you opened your stall each morning, flowers were arranged, water fetched, ribbons tied. You greeted customers, wrapped stems in linen, smiled when appropriate and people began returning, slowly, cautiously, as though unsure they were allowed to, but they did. 

The air around you felt lighter, easier, but quieter, too. 

Sihtric kept his promise. He did not come back.

Days passed, then a week and another one and with time, the rawness faded, but not entirely. His absence became something you folded into your routine, like the way your fingers adjusted your apron every morning and tucked away a stray hair just in case, or how you always looked up just before midday… and saw no one waiting across the square.

You told yourself it was for the best, you had asked for it, and he had respected it.

And yet, there were moments, brief and uninvited, when you’d catch yourself setting aside a flower without thinking, a daisy or a sprig of mint, and then you’d stare at it for a long time, heart caught in your throat, before shaking your head and brushing the thoughts away.

He was gone and you were safe, that should have been enough.

It was late afternoon when you heard the news, you were trading herbs with an older woman from the east side of town, gently packing her bouquet into a woven basket, when she mentioned it in passing.

“Did you hear? Lord Uhtred and his men are breaking camp at dawn. Off to chase some trouble to the north, they say. Bad timing, a storm’s coming too and not so good for the town. They were good customers, alehouse whores are not the only ones, who’ll miss them…,” she chuckled.

Your hands stilled, gripping the edge of the basket.

“They’re leaving?” you asked.

“Oh, yes, the whole camp’s nearly packed, they’ll be gone by sunrise. People are muttering about some big battle with the Danes.”

You nodded, forced a polite smile on your lips and continued arranging the flowers into the basket, trying not to pay attention to the strange feeling in your chest as if something had shifted, quietly but heavily.

You thanked the lady, you smiled, you turned back to your work, your hands kept busying around, aimlessly rearranging the daisies for the umpteenth time, but your thoughts had already followed him down that path you had told him to walk – out of your life, out of your sight, out of your reach, forever.

And he apparently was – into battle.

Sihtric gripped his sword tighter, sweat sliding down his back and his bare chest. He could barely feel his fingers anymore, the knuckles raw, calloused palms throbbing from the repeated shock of steel meeting steel, his breath came in sharp bursts through clenched teeth, but he didn’t stop.

“Again,” he growled.

Finan, across from him, exhaled sharply through his nose. “Sihtric,” he warned, raising his blade. “You’re bleeding on the grass and weaving like a drunk, that’s enough.”

“Again.”

Finan swore under his breath. “You’re going to collapse before we even get to the battlefield.”

Sihtric lunged anyway, wild and fast and desperate, Finan parried easily, sidestepped, knocked his legs out from under him with one swift motion and Sihtric hit the ground hard, his sword slipping from his grip.

“That’s enough,” Finan snapped. “By God, what’s wrong with you lately?”

Sihtric didn’t answer, he just lay there, breathing hard, staring up at the dimming sky. The weight of exhaustion pressed against him like a tide, and for a moment he thought he might sink into it completely, just close his eyes and drift away, maybe that wouldn’t even be such a bad thing. He hadn’t really slept for weeks now.

Then something shifted at the edge of his vision, he turned his head and froze. Finan followed his gaze and straightened, putting his sword over his shoulder. “Ah,” he murmured under his breath before turning away to leave. “So that’s what this is all about.”

Sihtric didn’t speak, he simply couldn’t, his body ached in every place he'd punished it, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, hollow, splitting pain in his chest. His heart pounded so violently he thought you might hear it from where you stood.

You stepped forward slowly, you didn’t smile but you didn’t look away either and as you came closer, Sihtric pushed himself up onto his knees.

He didn’t know if he should rise, he wasn’t even sure he had the strength left to stand. Why were you here? To hear him apologize again? To say goodbye? To tell him what he already knew, that he was his father’s son, not only by blood, but by the ruin he carried inside himself?

Whatever you had come for, he thought it couldn’t hurt him more than he had already hurt himself. Or could you? Somehow he wasn’t sure anymore. He just waited.

You hadn’t meant to come, not really, but when you had heard the rumors were true that Uhtred and his men would leave by dawn you just found yourself walking the path anyway, as if your feet knew something your mind hadn’t caught up with yet.

You watched him, standing just beyond the edge of the camp, you watched Sihtric sparring in the dying light and it was nothing like you had seen before, it was not for practice, not for sharpness or skill, it looked like punishment.

You watched as Finan knocked him to the ground, again and again, and he raised and kept going until he couldn’t anymore, until he just stayed there, breathing hard, broken beneath the sky.

He suddenly turned his head as if sensing your presence and everything stilled. His eyes widened, not with fear, not even with hope, just… disbelief, like you were a ghost, or a dream, like he didn’t know if he deserved to look.

You stepped forward, slowly as if afraid of what you were about to do, yet one step after another your feet brought you closer to Sihtric, and with each step the full cost of these past weeks became more and more visible. 

He was much thinner, the sharpness of his jaw more pronounced, even hollow beneath his cheekbones with dark lines beneath his eyes. His hair was a tangled mess, half-loose, dark strands matted to his forehead with sweat, his lip was cracked, blood drying at the corner and one of his hands still trembled faintly where it rested on his knee. He looked like a man slowly disappearing, one thread at a time.

You didn’t know what to say, you didn’t even know what you were doing here, you weren’t sure he would dare speak first, but then…

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice barely more than a rasp.

“I wasn’t sure I’d come,” you admitted.

He looked down at the ground. “I kept my word.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t been near the town. I haven’t… followed.” His voice cracked. “I meant it when I said I would stay away. Even if it killed me.”

Your eyes stung, as he looked up again. “But you’re here.”

You nodded, slowly. “I heard you were leaving.”

He swallowed, his eyes searching yours, palms resting on his thighs still kneeling. “I wasn’t expecting you to want to say goodbye.”

You stepped a little closer. “Why not?”

Sihtric shrugged with his shoulders and let out a soft, breathless sound, half a laugh, half a sob, barely there. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered. “Not right now.”

He lowered his gaze. “You look well.”

“And you…, you look like you’re trying to erase yourself from this world.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I never wanted you to hurt yourself, Sihtric. I wanted you to understand.”

“I do,” he said quickly. “I do now. I just… I didn’t know how to be any other way.”

You were quiet for a long moment then you stepped closer, close enough to kneel beside him, not touching, just beside, breathing in the same dusk-dampened air.

He remained still as stone beside you, the muscles in his arm taut beneath the bruises, the dirt, the silence.

You turned to look at him, his face half in shadow, there was a bruise darkening along his cheekbone, a cut on his brow that hadn’t been tended to properly and his chest rose and fell too fast, like he was waiting for something terrible to happen.

Slowly, so slowly it felt like a question, you reached out and touched him, your fingers brushed lightly against his arm, tracing down to his wrist where his skin was rough and calloused, he stiffened, eyes wide, but he didn’t pull away.

You felt the slight tremble in him, the breath he held, like he expected your touch to hurt. With the gentleness of someone handling something fragile, your hand moved higher, over his shoulder, along the line of his collarbone, and then, with the edge of your fingers, you brushed across a faint white scar on his chest, then another one just below the first one, running down to his ribs. 

He gasped, barely audible, like it surprised him. 

You didn’t speak, not yet, your thumb moved in a slow circle over another mark. There were more of them. 

His breath stilled completely.

His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was raw. “Why are you here?”

You looked up to meet his gaze. You were still not sure what to say, you just looked at him not with pity or fear, not anymore. 

“What if… what if I didn’t want to say goodbye?” you asked, almost surprised by your own words. Almost… because deep down you had known it, you had known it as you gifted all your remaining flowers to the children, as you took off your sign from your stall and left it on the table in your house, as you closed the shutters and locked the doors behind you, as you cast your last glance back towards your old, crooked home. 

Sihtric blinked, something broke in his face – not hard, not loud, just a quiet cracking, like water shifting when one dips fingers in it.

“What if,” you continued, your hand still resting lightly on his chest, “I wanted to show you what love looks like… when it isn’t tangled in fear?”

He didn’t speak, he couldn’t, tears welled quietly in his eyes but didn’t fall as he just stared at you, as if you were something he had never seen before, and maybe he hadn’t.

“Love?” he asked suddenly, and there was such raw bitterness in his voice that it made you flinch. “Nobody loves me. And I... I don’t even know how to.” His voice dropped to a broken whisper.

“I do,” you whispered back.

“You don’t have to know anything,” you added, placing your other hand gently on his shoulder. “You just have to want to learn.”

Sihtric’s lips parted, his throat working around words he didn’t know how to shape, instead, slowly, hesitantly, he lifted one hand and placed it over yours where it rested above his heart.

His big, rough palm, scarred and calloused from a lifetime of war, covered your small, soft hand like a protective shield, like armor, as if he was trying, in the only way he knew, to hold something precious without breaking it.

Sihtric’s hand trembled faintly where it rested over yours, as if even that small touch took more courage than swinging a sword, while his eyes searched your face with something scared lingering behind them, a fear to hope.

“What happens now?” he asked, voice so low you barely caught the words.

You looked at him, this battered, broken man who had never been taught how to be soft without hurting, how to be held without fighting, had somehow managed to preserve something deeply human and deeply good within him, like your favourite flower, like a wild thistle, adorned with thorns, so strong and yet so vulnerable, so enduring and yet so admirable.

You lifted your hand from his chest, only to slip it gently along the side of his face, fingertips ghosting over the line of his bruised cheekbone.

“Now,” you said quietly, “you let someone hold you... without fear.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, he didn’t even breathe, just stared at you, like he didn’t dare believe it was real and then, slowly, almost painfully, the tension locked in his body seeped away.

You opened your arms and Sihtric, after a long, shuddering breath, leaned into them.

At first he was stiff, like he didn’t know what to do with himself, his arms hovered awkwardly at your sides, unsure whether he was allowed to touch you in return but when you tucked your head gently against his shoulder, when your hands smoothed over the broad line of his back, he melted.

His body sagged into yours with the heavy weight of someone who had carried too much for too long, his forehead dropped against the crook of your neck and his arms, tentative at first, wrapped around you, then tightened as though anchoring himself to the one and only thing that could steady him in a world he didn’t trust.

You felt him trembling, felt the shaky exhale he let out against your skin, as if some hidden dam inside him had cracked open quietly. You didn’t speak, you just held him, no expectations, no demands, only shelter, steadiness and love. 

And for the first time, Sihtric let himself be held, let himself believe, even if just for a moment, that he was still worthy of this gentleness, still worthy of saving.

[ameliahiatt]

As Metzli returns the embrace, Molly feels a weight fall farther from her heart. The feeling of pulling someone into an embrace at a time like this seems to mean far more than she had ever imagined. To hold someone who just needed to be held.

"Of course I'm sure," she says, "I'm sure in my words. Metzli, I can't lie. I've never been able to. I'm a truther to a fault." Molly's own sister wouldn't tell her everything when she was in high school and then heading off to college. Mostly because she knew Molly wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut when questioned by her parents. "Even if I wanted to front and push you away as some punishment, I couldn't. That's not who I am." Her eyes are full of concern as she looks at them.

"I don't want to kick you out because of something you did out of fear when you were a child." she admits. "I might want to kick you out because I'm fucking terrified of wanting someone again." Tears are streaming down her own face now. "But you endured something that I can't even imagine. And you're still right here." Metzli deserved things too. They deserved love.

And Molly wasn't entirely positive she could provide that. Roger had said as much. In the months leading up to their end he had told her that he no longer felt loved by her. He had told her that she was so wrapped up in her work. She was spending too many late nights at the theatre with god knows who! He knew exactly who. What she didn't know was where he was or who he was with. She was coping with being alone in the only way she knew how. By working.

Maybe she had lost the ability to care for someone who needed to be loved. It had been so many years now. Metzli didn't deserve that. "You deserve so much." She tells them, eyes watching every muscle on their face as foreheads meet again. "I'm broken. I don't know how to come back from someone telling me that they didn't feel loved by me anymore. How do you devote your entire young life to someone only for them to have the audacity to decide how you feel about them while they're fucking someone who was supposed to be one of your best friends?" The words are bitter on her tongue. A part of her regrets them as soon as they're out. She had let go of these feelings. Or she thought she had. Perhaps they were just buried.

"I'm not going to run out on you." she says, voice strong now. "Not over this. You deserve to be held right now. To be heard. I can do that, I'm a good listener. And you just did the same for me." she gives a shrug, tears still streaming down her own face. "I just don't know if I can give you everything you really deserve."

The next time they hear their name, they expect it to be in the form of an angry yell. Followed by a push out the door, and end to the most lovely day Metzli has had since...well, since ever. But Molly pulls them closer than before, into an embrace that feels like the first sense of safety they've ever experienced.

"You--what?" Bewildered, Metzli wraps their arms tightly around Molly, the weight of her body keeping them from falling into a spiral. "Really?" They ask breathlessly, already knowing her answer. Though they're afraid that she's wrong, Metzli is relieved to know what she believes. She isn't, by some miracle, going to run from them.

"Are you sure?" They didn't mean to hurt their mother as they had. After everything she'd done to them, their first instinct was to fear her. It wasn't anger or malice, or anything truly violent. To put it simply, Metzli did not want to be trapped for hours, nursing wounds inflicted by their mother. Fear drove them to act, and it was fear that kept their eyes from looking into Molly's as they pulled away.

"No one knows that either. Just you." They sniffle and massage Molly's back idly, glossy, red eyes trailing up and locking with hers. She looks beautiful and kind, the type of person Metzli thought only existed in movies and dreams. "Does this really not make you want to kick me out? I-I don't understand. You deserve so much, Molly. I would never want to hurt you, but I don't know what I'm doing."

Cautiously, Metzli returns their forehead to Molly's, and they stifle a few sobs to speak. "I want you, I do. You're more than lovely. You're more than wonderful. I just think you should get that in return, and I don't think that's me." What a wild first date. What a wild day in general. How did they dive into the deep end so quickly, and why did it feel okay?

[lesmisshippingshowdown]

Steal-Off 2: just checking in with you....

Hi guys! Hope you are all having a pleasant Sunday :))

First of all, before I hop into the meat of this post, let's have a little update on how our leaderboard has progressed since Friday:

🥇 Éponine/Cosette (168) 🥈 Enjolras/Combeferre (89.1) 🥉 Valjean/Javert (77.9) [+1] 4. Jehan/Montparnasse (77.1) [-1] 5. Éponine/Montparnasse (27.4) 6. Turning Woman #3/Musichetta (21.2) 7. Courfeyrac/Marius (18) 8. Enjolras/Grantaire (15.6) 9. Enjolras/Feuilly (6.6) 10. Combefere/Courfeyrac (5.5) 11= Marius/Cosette (5.3) 11= Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta (5.3) 13. Combeferre/Grantaire (0.7)

Congratulations to Valjean/Javert for narrowly overtaking Jehan/Montparnasse for a provisional place on the Steal-Off Podium!!

Now, to get to the point - we are over halfway through the submission window, 32 different ships are eligible to have works submitted (NOT even counting the theoretically infinite number of ships you could steal for as part of the newcomers' tournament!!) and currently we have only had submissions for five ships, zero of which are new entries. Additionally, of the 25 submissions we've currently received, TWENTY of them (that's 80%!) are for one of two ships - Éponine/Montparnasse or Valjean/Javert.

Now, I MUST stress that I am NOT saying this to criticise or attack Valvert & Montponine nations. On the contrary - I am absolutely THRILLED that these ships' fanbases have gotten so thoroughly into the spirit of Steal-Off 2, and you can all give yourselves a pat on the back!!

However, I would have loved to see this level of participation across a larger number of ships. After all, that's why we announced Steal Off 2 weeks in advance - to give you all time to prepare your works and give us a steady flow of new and exciting content throughout the week!

I might be worrying about nothing - people get busy, some of you might have loads of fanworks in the pipeline that just haven't been submitted yet, there's still 3-ish days left in the Steal-Off, anything can happen. But if I can get to the bottom of any potential causes for what is currently a rather unusual stealer turnout pattern, hopefully we can come up with some solutions that work for everybody!

So, I just wanted to have a quick and low pressure and honest check in with any potential stealers for currently underrepresented Steal Off 2 ships (especially fans of the 19 ships who saw no works submitted during the actual tournament too!) and ask:

(please note there’s no see results option except for the mods; please do not vote unless the question being asked applies to you!)

Your feedback is greatly appreciated - if we get a good idea of what, if any, issues lie in the way of you submitting the steals your OTP deserves then we can take the appropriate steps to make Steal Off 2 a more accessible and inclusive fanwork party for all of the fandom, not just the fans of 2-5 ships who've gotten really rightfully enthusiastic about the whole thing! <3

[caplanbuckybarnes]

The Secret Baby Bump (2/2)

Summary: you didnt think the angel would find ut why you’d left the bunker many months ago

Warnings: pregnancy, hostile castiel

Pairing: female reader x Castiel

Read on ao3!

A/N: i was never going to write a part two of this fic, honestly, i wasn't. but someone must have reblogged it at one point and people have been asking for a part two...so viola!

Read Part One Here!

--

You nodded, a broken little thing, so eager to believe him, to believe that after everything, he would still want you. That he still saw you as part of his family. Your hand trembled as it rested over the swell of your stomach, feeling the child shift inside, as if responding to Castiel’s voice.

He rose slowly from the booth, his trench coat shifting around him like the wings he no longer bore. For a moment, Castiel just stood there, looking at you — no longer with anger, but something far deeper, a heaviness in his gaze that made your chest ache.

Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it, the familiar scent of rain and earth and something wholly him, made your knees weak. You swallowed hard, blinking fast.

"Come on," he murmured, hand ghosting over your lower back as he gently steered you toward the door. "You shouldn't be here."

You glanced back over your shoulder, half-expecting to see Dean storming in through the bar doors, rage in his eyes, or Sam pulling him back by the arm. But the bar just buzzed on, oblivious to the world tilting beneath your feet.

Outside, the air was cool and damp. The streetlights flickered in puddles on the pavement. You shivered, pulling Castiel’s coat tighter around your body, and he noticed — because of course he did.

He stopped you by his car, a beat-up thing he must've borrowed from someone local, and turned to face you fully. His hands lifted, hovering just shy of touching your face, as if he didn’t know if he was allowed.

"I was so angry at you," he confessed, voice low, almost raw. "When I found the letter, I thought..." He swallowed hard. "I thought I’d failed you. That after everything — after Jack — I had become too broken to be loved."

Your heart cracked clean in half at the broken way he said it.

"No, Cas," you breathed, stepping into the space between you. "I left because I loved you too much to ask you to go through it again. I couldn’t lose you too."

A single beat passed between you. Then two.

His hand, steady now, came up to cup your cheek. You leaned into the touch without thinking, like a flower to the sun. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, tender.

"You were never going to lose me," he whispered.

The streetlight above you buzzed, throwing golden light over his messy hair, the tired lines carved deep into his beautiful face. You realized in that moment just how much he had grieved — not just Jack, but you. You saw it now, all of it, in the way he touched you like you might vanish if he blinked too long.

"Come home, Y/N," he said again, firmer now, more sure of himself. "Let me take care of you both."

Tears burned your throat as you nodded again, more desperate this time. Castiel smiled, so faint you almost missed it, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours. A quiet promise passed between you in the small space left.

He kissed you then — slow, reverent, a kiss that tasted of regret and forgiveness and the kind of love that survives even the worst of storms. You clutched the front of his shirt, grounding yourself against him, the life growing inside you fluttering like a second heartbeat between you both.

When he finally pulled back, he opened the car door for you, ever the gentleman. You slid inside, heart pounding wildly in your chest. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, Castiel spared you one more look — a look that said you were his home as much as he was yours.

The engine rumbled to life, and you let yourself believe, just for tonight, that maybe — just maybe — you could have a future after all.

Together.

---

The drive back to the bunker was mostly silent. Castiel's hand rested on the gear shift, close enough that your fingers brushed his knuckles every so often. Neither of you spoke much, but it wasn’t the brittle silence from before — this was something softer. Fragile, yes. But healing.

You stared out the window, the dark Kansas night racing past, heart hammering faster the closer you got.

You could only imagine how Dean would react. His anger when you left had been explosive — understandable, but terrifying. And Sam... Sam, who had always been the softer one, the voice of reason between his brother and the world, even he had seemed betrayed by your sudden disappearance.

When Castiel finally pulled into the garage, your breath caught. The familiar concrete walls loomed in the headlights, the iron door standing like a sentinel between you and whatever reckoning waited inside.

"Are you ready?" Castiel asked quietly, killing the engine.

You nodded, lying through your teeth.

He came around to open your door. His hand lingered at the small of your back as you walked through the garage entrance together. The hallway was blessedly empty, the only sounds your own uneven breathing and Castiel’s measured footsteps.

The low rumble of voices echoed from the war room. You could hear Dean’s gravelly bark and Sam’s quieter, steadier tone. Probably arguing over some hunt.

The moment you and Castiel stepped into view, the conversation died.

Dean was the first to turn. His green eyes widened — a mix of shock and immediate fury flashing across his face like a lightning strike.

Sam, standing by the map table with a tablet in his hand, blinked once, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His mouth opened — then closed.

The room was so silent you could hear the hum of the old fluorescent lights above you.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me," Dean said first, voice low and dangerous.

You flinched without meaning to, but Castiel subtly shifted closer, as if shielding you with his body.

Dean’s fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight. "What the hell is she doing here, Cas? After the way she left—after she—"

"Dean," Castiel said, tone brokering no argument. "Enough."

Sam stepped forward, frowning, his sharp eyes catching the way Castiel stood protectively near you... and then dropping lower, to the way your coat hung strangely around your body, the visible curve beneath.

Realization dawned on him like a slow sunrise.

"Y/N..." Sam said slowly, voice full of something complicated — something that hurt. "You’re pregnant."

Dean’s face twisted in confusion, then sudden understanding. His eyes locked onto yours, the betrayal there so thick it made your knees threaten to give out.

"You left because you’re pregnant?" Dean barked, stepping forward. Castiel tensed instantly, but you lifted a hand — not to stop Dean, but to steady yourself.

"I wasn’t thinking clearly," you said, your voice shaking. "I was scared. After everything we lost... after Jack... I didn’t think it was fair to ask anyone to go through that again."

"You should’ve told us!" Dean snapped, looking like he might punch a wall — or Castiel — or himself. "You think we wouldn’t have—?! Damn it, Y/N!"

Sam’s hand closed around Dean’s shoulder, pulling him back gently. “Dean. Look at her.”

Dean struggled against it for a second. But he did look — and the anger slowly drained from his face, replaced by something much more painful: sadness. Hurt. Wounded loyalty.

"You’re family," Sam said quietly, his words meant for both you and Dean. "You always were. You still are."

Tears stung your eyes, but you forced yourself to hold Dean’s gaze.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, voice cracking. "I thought I was protecting you. Protecting him." You touched your stomach without thinking.

Dean looked away for a long moment, jaw working, nostrils flaring. When he finally spoke again, his voice was rough, like sandpaper.

"You’re a damn idiot," he muttered. But there was no real heat in it anymore. Just grief.

He raked a hand through his hair and blew out a breath so hard his chest heaved.

"Next time you think running away is the answer," Dean said, stepping closer — and to your utter shock, pulling you into a rough, warm hug, "remember you’re not alone, alright?"

The tears you’d been holding back broke free all at once. You clung to him, breathing him in — leather and whiskey and gunpowder and home.

When Dean let you go, Sam was there, pulling you into a gentler hug.

"We missed you," he murmured against your hair. "We’ll figure this out. Together."

Castiel stood nearby, silent but watchful, his eyes full of something almost like awe. As if he couldn’t quite believe this small miracle was unfolding in front of him.

When Sam finally pulled away, Dean clapped Castiel hard on the shoulder.

"You better take care of them," Dean said gruffly. "Or you’ll answer to me."

Castiel only nodded, solemn. "I intend to."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe it.

Maybe family wasn't about doing everything right. Maybe it was about who was still standing beside you after everything went wrong.

And standing here — wrapped in their forgiveness, their fierce love — you realized you hadn't lost your family at all.

You’d only ever been trying to protect it.

--

Life at the bunker had shifted in small, wonderful ways.

Your days weren’t filled with constant hunts and near-death scrambles anymore. Oh, there were still cases — but lately, they were more selective. Sam and Dean both had started taking turns covering for you and Castiel, throwing out phrases like "You need to rest" and "Doctor’s orders" even though the bunker had no on-call medical staff (unless you counted Dean’s dramatic first-aid skills and Sam’s endless stack of outdated anatomy books).

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch in the library now, wearing one of Dean’s ridiculously oversized flannels, a fuzzy blanket around your shoulders, and a heavy book resting on the swell of your stomach. The baby kicked occasionally, little thuds that made you giggle softly each time.

Dean passed by with a plate in his hand — a sandwich piled so high it looked structurally unsound — and slowed when he saw you.

"You need anything?" he asked gruffly, like he wasn’t already carrying a second plate balanced awkwardly on top of his own.

You smiled. "I'm good. Thanks, Dean."

He lingered another second before dropping the extra plate next to you anyway. "Eat. For the kid. Cas says you’re not eating enough."

You laughed quietly. "Cas says that about everything."

Dean smirked. "Yeah, well. Better safe than sorry." His voice went soft in a way it rarely did. "Kid’s gotta come out healthy and ready to kick ass."

At that moment, Sam came into the room, arms full of... baby books. Stack after stack of them. Parenting manuals. Medical journals. How to Swaddle a Baby Without Losing Your Mind.

Dean groaned so loud it echoed. "Sammy, seriously? She’s already got Cas breathing down her neck. You’re gonna scare her into early labor."

Sam ignored him. "Knowledge is power," he said, pushing a pair of reading glasses up the bridge of his nose like the world’s most determined college professor. "You want to be prepared."

"I’ve been prepared," Dean argued, mouth full of sandwich. "Step one: Don't drop it. Step two: Feed it. Step three: Love the hell outta it. Boom. Parenting."

You bit your lip to hide your smile.

Sam set a particularly thick book — What to Expect When You're Expecting a Half-Angel (okay, maybe he made that cover himself) — on the coffee table with a thunk.

"We don’t even know how angel biology works with humans," Sam said, deadly serious. "For all we know, that baby could start glowing, or levitating."

Dean waggled his eyebrows at you. "Sweet. We’ll have a nightlight."

You burst out laughing, a hand on your belly. The baby seemed to approve, giving a happy kick against your ribs.

Castiel wandered in a second later, his trench coat gone, sleeves rolled up, looking more domestic than you ever thought possible. He immediately zeroed in on you, crossing the room with quiet purpose.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked, voice low and earnest. "Dean didn’t overwhelm you, did he?"

Dean threw a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Me? Overwhelm?"

Cas didn't even blink. "Yes."

You shook your head, still smiling. "I’m fine, Cas. Promise."

Satisfied, he perched on the edge of the couch beside you, hand automatically resting on your stomach — protective, tender, like he couldn’t not touch you now.

Sam crouched by the coffee table, flipping open one of his books. "We should start discussing names soon," he said. "You know, before the baby gets here."

Dean plopped onto the armchair, grinning. "I vote for Dean Jr."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It’s not your baby."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, but I’m gonna be the cool uncle."

Sam snorted. "You’re gonna teach him how to hotwire a car before he learns how to walk."

Dean lifted his beer. "You’re damn right I am."

Castiel gave them both a look like a very tired kindergarten teacher.

You reached out, curling your fingers through Cas’s.

"How about we pick names that don’t inspire petty fights?" you suggested gently, voice full of fondness.

Sam, flipping through a page, muttered, "That’s wishful thinking."

Dean just leaned back, kicked his feet up on the coffee table (earning a deadly glare from Cas), and grinned at you.

"Doesn’t matter what name you pick," he said. "That kid’s gonna have three badass uncles who’d burn the world down for him."

You blinked hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

Castiel squeezed your hand. Sam offered a small, warm smile over his book. Dean just watched you, easy and certain, like he’d always be right here.

Home wasn’t a place.

It was this.

This ragtag, broken, beautiful family you’d built together. And for the first time in a long, long time, you knew in your bones: You weren’t alone anymore. You never would be again.