#the answer to that is of course that yesterday i was looking at pictures of baby spiders on instagram and one of them was bright yellow

[biblicalhorror]

Had a dream last night that I got bit by a yellow garden spider and I was so worried I was gonna die but then I woke up and googled it and it turns out they have paralyzing venom but it's not harmful to humans. so today I will be dressing in yellow to honor the dream spider I think

[natsaffection]

Redline. pt 6 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!Racing!Driver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), 18+! MINORS DNI! sexual tension, trauma, violence, crashs

Word count: 12,1k

A/N: Okay…a really great time has now come to an end. I want to thank everyone who interacted with the fic, it literally blew up so much, I never expected it. I gained so many new people here and some lovely anons because of it, and I’m truly grateful. Thank you!

I hope I made the ending worthy of the story (even though Tumblr shortened it due to the word limit). I really hope it doesn’t feel too rushed. 🫶🏼🍾

Part 5

1 Month later

You were lying in Natasha’s bed scrolling through your phone, half-awake when the articles started popping up.

Romanoff’s Favorite – The Relationship Between Natasha and Her Rising Star.

Not Just Business? Photos Capture Natasha Romanoff’s Rare Smile at Y/N’s Victory.

More Than Just Racing? The Paddock Buzzes Over Y/N and Natasha’s Dynamic.

Your stomach twisted. It wasn’t new that people speculated about you and Natasha. The media was always looking for a story. Always waiting for something to tear apart.

But this? This was the first time they had proof. There were pictures.. Natasha, standing with the team, a champagne glass in hand, watching you on the podium. Natasha, smiling. Actually smiling. Natasha, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Your breath caught. Oh, fuck…

“You’re up early.”

You nearly jumped at the sound of Natasha’s voice. She was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, still in the loose sweats she wore when she wasn’t dressed to terrify the entire paddock.

“Did you see this?” you blurted out, shoving your phone in her direction.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, stepping closer to take the device from your hand. She scanned the articles, lips pressing into a thin line. “Of course they’d make a story out of this.” she muttered.

“This is bad..” you groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “The press conference today is going to be a fucking disaster.”

Natasha hummed. Then, to your absolute horror, she smirked. “What?” you demanded.

She tilted her head slightly, tossing your phone onto the bed before leaning in closer, so close that you could feel her breath against your cheek. “You’re nervous.” she murmured, clearly amused.

“Of course I am, Natasha, this is a mess-”She cut you off with a chuckle, straightening up. “Let them talk.”

Your stomach flipped. She wasn’t worried. She wasn’t freaking out. She was enjoying this.

“You’re not serious..”

Natasha shrugged. “It’s inevitable. They were always going to figure it out.”

You blinked. “Figure what out?”

Her smirk widened, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned towards the door, pausing just long enough to glance at you over her shoulder.

“Get dressed. We have a press conference.”

The room was buzzing with anticipation by the time you stepped in. Cameras flashed, reporters murmured among themselves, and the air carried the weight of a dozen unanswered questions. The energy was different today, sharper, more expectant. You knew exactly why.

Natasha walked beside you, her presence as commanding as ever, a steady force in the chaos. Dressed in her usual sleek suit, she radiated an untouchable authority, but there was something else today. Something in the way she moved, the way her gaze flickered across the room before settling on you.

She was prepared. Always. But this wasn’t just about the race anymore. You took your seat, adjusting the mic in front of you, your fingers brushing over the cold surface as the press officer nodded for the first question.

A journalist from Racing Line leaned forward, eyes sharp with intrigue. “Y/n, first of all, congratulations on your win yesterday. A phenomenal drive. But beyond that, there’s been a lot of talk about your dynamic with your team principal.”

He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Care to comment on the pictures circulating? Romanoff looking unusually pleased with your performance?”

You clenched your jaw, pulse spiking. Of course. The photos had been everywhere this morning. Natasha, standing at the pit wall, watching you with a look that was unmistakably soft. For her, at least. And then on the podium, the way she’d lingered, the rare glimpse of a smile.

Natasha’s presence beside you remained steady. No reaction. Just sharp focus, like she was calculating every possible outcome of this moment. You exhaled slowly, forcing a small smirk as you leaned forward. “I think any team principal would be happy when their driver wins.” you said, voice level, playful even. “It’s kind of their job.”

A few chuckles echoed through the room, but the journalist wasn’t backing down. “True, but this seemed more personal. Some might say.. more invested than usual.”

You barely had time to process it before Natasha spoke. “If you’re implying that I don’t take every win personally, then you clearly don’t know me.” she said coolly, her gaze locking onto the journalist with a pointed sharpness. “I push my drivers to win. That’s my job. Y/n delivers. That’s hers.”

The response was effortless, perfectly calculated to dismiss any rumors while still standing firm. But you knew her too well now. The way her fingers tapped lightly against her leg under the table, the slight tick in her jaw, it was irritation masked under absolute control.

Another journalist jumped in. “Y/n, this season has been a defining one for you, but given your history with crashes and the challenges you’ve faced, do you ever feel like you still have something to prove?”

Your stomach twisted at the question, but you didn’t let it show. You straightened, fingers flexing against the table. “Every driver on this grid has something to prove. That’s why we’re here. But if you’re asking if I doubt myself? No. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I did.”

The room went still for a second, the weight of your words settling before another voice cut in. “Natasha, you’ve worked with some of the best drivers in the sport. Where does Y/n rank among them?”

Your breath caught. Oh. That was a trap. Natasha didn’t play favorites. Ever. Her entire brand of leadership was built on ruthlessness, on absolute control, on never showing anything that could be perceived as bias. But then, she turned her head slightly, eyes locking with yours, just for a fraction of a second.

“She fights harder than most..” Natasha said finally, voice even, measured. But there was something in her tone, something more. “And no. She hasn’t finished proving herself yet.”

The tension in the room shifted. You weren’t sure if anyone else caught the unspoken weight behind her words. But you did. The questions continued, each one sharp, some pressing about the championship fight, others about your rivalry with Walker, about strategy, about what came next. You answered, playing the game, maintaining your composure, even when the topic of your previous crash came up again.

By the time you made it back to the team’s facility, you barely managed to get your stuff done before heading straight for Natasha’s office, needing to breathe, to think, and the moment you stepped inside, she was already there.

Natasha stood near her desk, arms crossed, watching you. The way her eyes scanned you, calm, assessing made your stomach twist. She had felt it. She had seen it.

“What’s wrong?”

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “It’s just..They talked like they know anything!”

“They don’t.”

You huffed, pacing the room. “But they think they do! They’re making this entire thing into some huge scandal, ‘Natasha Romanoff smiles? Must be because of Y/N L/N-

Natasha smirked slightly. “It’s not entirely false.”

You froze mid-step, whipping around to face her. “Natasha.”

She shrugged, completely unbothered. “What?”

Your frustration only grew. “How are you so calm about this? You know what people are saying-”

“I don’t care what people are saying.” Her voice was steady, unwavering. You stared at her, jaw tight, hands clenched at your sides. “Well, I do.”

Silence stretched between you till Natasha moved. One second, she was standing by her desk, and the next, she was right in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from her.

“You do?” she murmured, voice dropping. You swallowed hard. She tilted her head slightly, studying you, her gaze flickering to your lips for just a second before locking back onto your eyes. “What exactly is it that’s bothering you?”

Your breath hitched. “The attention?” she continued, her voice softer now. “The rumors? Or the fact that they might be right?”

Your stomach twisted, your body betraying you with the way your pulse spiked. She saw it. Of course, she saw it. Her fingers brushed against your wrist, light, teasing, but enough to make you shiver.

“I..” You didn’t know what you were going to say. Didn’t get the chance to find out. Because Natasha took another step forward, crowding into your space, her presence consuming, her scent, leather and something unmistakably her wrapping around you like a trap you didn’t want to escape.

“Tell me.” she murmured, her breath brushing against your cheek. You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. You could lie. You should lie. But you didn’t. Instead, you whispered, “I don’t know what this is..”

Natasha’s lips curved into a smirk, but her eyes softened just enough that your chest ached. “You will.” And then she kissed you. Slow. Purposeful. Like she had decided. Like she had always known. And for once, you stopped thinking.

Race 22

The moment you crossed the finish line, your grip on the steering wheel tightened. P2. Not the win, but damn close. And after the chaos of the rain, the battle with Walker, and the near spin that nearly sent you into the barriers, you’d take it.

“P2, Y/n! Well done!” Your race engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, but there was something else beneath it. A small pause.

Then Natasha. “Good job, Y/n.” her voice was controlled, professional, but you swore there was something more. A flicker of pride just under the surface. “You handled the conditions well.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, a slow grin tugging at your lips as you leaned back against the seat, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. P2. The points were crucial, but more than that? Your parents were here today.

You knew exactly where they were standing in the paddock, right at the edge, watching from behind the barriers. Your dad had always been more subtle with his pride, but you could imagine the small nod of approval he was giving right now. Your mother, on the other hand, had probably been clutching his arm the entire race, barely breathing each time you overtook.

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head as you pulled into the pit lane, the sound of the crowd still roaring around you. The podium celebration was nothing short of euphoric. The champagne bottle was cold against your palm, the pressure inside ready to burst. You popped it, aiming the spray at the crowd, the golden bubbles soaking into your race suit as you laughed, high off the victory, the energy, the moment.

Walker was there, of course. You could feel his presence, could practically sense his frustration at not clinching the championship today. It fueled you. And then, the press again. It happened fast. The podium celebrations ended, and before you could even get a second to breathe, the paparazzi descended.

“Y/N! P2 today, how do you feel after that battle with Walker?”

You expected the questions. You were prepared for them. You kept walking, still riding the high, your team’s mechanics clapping you on the back as you moved toward the garage.

“Were you worried about the rain conditions?”

“Your spin almost cost you the podium- what was going through your mind?”

You answered, giving them just enough without revealing too much, your voice still buzzing with the rush of the race.

“The next race is at Silverstone. Your Silverstone. Are you ready for that?”

You froze. The air in your lungs thinned, and suddenly, the roaring of the crowd, the flashing cameras, the overwhelming everything..felt too loud. The wreckage. The fire. It slammed into you all at once. You blinked hard, forced the memories down, and made yourself breathe. Your voice, when it came, was calm. Controlled. “It’s just another race.”

A lie. But one the world didn’t need to know. You started moving again, Natasha keeping pace beside you, her presence unwavering. She didn’t say anything, but you felt her watching. And when the press had finally been left behind, when the cameras were no longer in your face, when it was just you and her walking toward the garage, she finally spoke.

“You okay?”

You nodded, too quickly. “Yeah, let’s go.” Her silence was sharp. Calculating. You knew she didn’t believe you.

The road stretched ahead in quiet darkness, the soft hum of the engine filling the air. The city lights flickered past the windows, casting brief flashes of neon against your skin. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still damp, the reflections of streetlights shimmering on the slick asphalt. You barely noticed. Your mind was elsewhere.

Silverstone.

Every corner. Every turn. Every shadow of the past that lurked beneath the floodlights of that track. You could see it. Feel it.

The way the car had snapped away from you in that fraction of a second, how the wall had rushed toward you. The helplessness, the terror. The excruciating pain that had followed. The fire. The pressure of the seatbelts locking you in place as you fought to stay conscious. The memories clawed at the edges of your mind, threatening to pull you under.

Would it feel the same next weekend? Would you hesitate when you reached that same turn? Would you flinch- You didn’t get to spiral too far before a hand suddenly waved something in front of your face.

A phone.

You blinked, snapping back into the present. The scent of Natasha’s car, the low music playing through the speakers, the woman herself sitting beside you with an expectant look.

“Order food.” Natasha instructed, smirking slightly. You furrowed your brows, still trying to shake off the ghosts of your past thoughts. “What?”

Natasha waved the phone again. “Food. You know, the thing we eat to survive?”

“Right..” you muttered, grabbing the device and pulling up the app. You scrolled through options, selecting your usual choices, though your mind was still distant. It wasn’t until you reached the address confirmation screen that you hesitated.

“Nat…” you said slowly, glancing toward her. “This isn’t the track. Where are we going?”

Natasha’s smirk widened as she turned onto a quieter road, one that led away from the team facilities and the usual places you stayed.

“My place.” she answered simply.

You stilled. Natasha’s home. You had spent countless nights together, hotels, at Natasha’s track, but never at Natasha’s place. It was private. Personal. Hers.

You swallowed. “Your place?”

“That’s what I said.”

You could feel your heart beating a little faster. Natasha flicked you a knowing glance, clearly sensing the shift in your demeanor. Then, with a devilish smirk, she added, “Relax, printsessa. If you’re thinking about it, I wouldn’t have bothered ordering food.”

Your face heated instantly. “I-I was not thinking about..!”

Natasha let out a low, amused chuckle, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. “Sure you weren’t.” You groaned, slumping back into your seat. God, this woman.

When you arrived, Natasha pulled into the private driveway of a sleek, modern home tucked behind high walls and tall trees. The moment you stepped inside, you were hit with a sense of quiet intimacy.

The place was hers. Clean, organized, yet undeniably lived-in. The walls were lined with dark wooden shelves, books and old records stacked neatly. But what caught your attention the most were the photos.

One by the entrance, Natasha in her racing suit, helmet under her arm, a victorious smirk on her face. Another by the bookshelf, her with her family, a rare moment of unguarded happiness shining in her eyes. A framed picture of her and another driver, a teammate from years ago, grinning with champagne in hand. You took it all in, feeling something warm settle in your chest. This was Natasha’s life. The parts she didn’t show to just anyone.

“You gonna stand there all night?”

You turned to find Natasha leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that same infuriatingly attractive smirk.

“Just looking…” you murmured.

Natasha’s expression softened. “I don’t let just anyone in here, you know.”

Yeah, you knew. Your eyes met, and the air between you shifted. The teasing edge faded, replaced by something warmer. Deeper.

Natasha pushed off the counter and stepped toward you, slow and deliberate. You tilted your head up, your breath hitching slightly as Natasha’s fingers brushed against your jaw.

The kiss started soft, gentle, unrushed. But as soon as your hands found Natasha’s waist, pulling her closer, the heat between you ignited. Natasha’s hands were firm, sliding against your waist, gripping just enough to make your stomach tighten with anticipation. The kiss deepened, needier, hungrier. Your fingers tangled into Natasha’s jacket, pulling her in-

The doorbell rang, and you both froze. Natasha exhaled through her nose, dropping her forehead against your shoulder. “Are you kidding me?”

You laughed breathlessly, still gripping her jacket. “Food’s here.”

Natasha groaned but finally pulled away, muttering something about terrible timing as she went to get the food.

You sat on the couch, food spread between you, the glow of warm light casting soft shadows on the walls. The tension between you had shifted, not gone, but different now. It simmered beneath the surface, intertwined with something softer, more vulnerable.

Natasha watched you pick at your food, your fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of the takeout container. You weren’t fully present, still lost in thought.

“Talk to me.” Natasha said quietly, resting her arm against the back of the couch.

You hesitated, then exhaled, setting your food aside. “It’s just…”

Natasha said nothing, just watching and waiting. “It’s not just another race..” you continued. “I know I should be past it by now, but… I don’t know…”

“You don’t just ‘get past’ something like that.” Natasha interrupted gently.

You huffed a soft laugh. “You’d think nearly dying would be enough for me to quit racing.”

Natasha tilted her head. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah…” Natasha reached out, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. Her fingers lingered a second longer than necessary, her touch soft. “Because it’s who you are. You’re not afraid of fighting for what you want.”

You met her eyes, something settling in your chest. Then Natasha smirked. “And for the record? You’ll be fine. I’ll be there the whole time.”

You let out a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“Happy to help.”

The tension had lightened, but it still buzzed beneath the surface, the kind of pull that never really went away between you. Then, in one smooth, calculated move, you climbed onto Natasha’s lap. Enough with depression.

Natasha raised a brow, but didn’t move, didn’t protest, just watched. You settled yourself, your legs bracketing Natasha’s hips, your hands pressing lightly against the older woman’s shoulders.

“Thought you were nervous.” Natasha murmured, tilting her head up slightly, amusement flickering in her green eyes.

You smirked. “Maybe you’re just really good at distracting me.”

Natasha exhaled slowly, her fingers instinctively settling against your waist. “Mm. And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” Natasha asked, voice low, teasing, her hands barely moving, just resting there, warm and steady. You leaned in slightly, your lips just close enough to brush against Natasha’s ear. “Distracting myself.”

Your voice was soft, sultry..a promise and a challenge all at once. Natasha exhaled, her grip tightening just the slightest bit. But she didn’t move to take control. No..she was going to let you play your game.

And you took your time. You let your fingertips graze down Natasha’s arms, featherlight, teasing, slow. You leaned in again, pressing an almost nonexistent kiss just below Natasha’s jawline, barely there, just enough to make Natasha’s breath hitch, before pulling back again with an innocent expression.

Natasha smirked, tilting her head. “You’re dangerous, printsessa.”

You smiled, shifting just enough that you could feel the reaction you were pulling from Natasha. A slow, deliberate roll of your hips, just a fraction of movement, but it was enough to make Natasha’s jaw tighten. She was watching. Letting you put on a show. Not stopping you. Not rushing you.

You ran a hand up Natasha’s chest, fingers lingering at the collar of her shirt. You played with the fabric for a second before leaning down, just close enough that your lips barely brushed.

Natasha wasn’t chasing. Not yet. You smirked. “Something wrong, boss?”

Natasha exhaled slowly, her control almost infuriating. “Not at all.”

A challenge. You leaned down again, pressing a slow, unhurried kiss to the corner of Natasha’s mouth, not quite giving in.

Natasha’s grip on you tightened just slightly. You were playing with fire now. You kissed along Natasha’s jaw, soft, teasing, dragging it out. You could feel Natasha’s patience thinning, the way her breath was a little heavier, the way her fingers dug just slightly into your hips.

You smirked against her skin. You were winning. Or at least you thought you were, until Natasha’s hands suddenly shifted, flipping your positions in one swift move. Now, you were on your back against the couch, Natasha leaning over you, hands braced on either side of your head.

You swallowed. Your heart stuttered and Natasha smirked. “You think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing?”

You licked your lips, looking up at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about..”

Natasha leaned in, not kissing you, just hovering, watching. Watching your breath hitch, watching you squirm just slightly under her gaze.

“I let you have your fun..” Natasha murmured. “Now, it’s my turn.”

You barely had time to react before Natasha’s lips finally crashed into yours. This time, there was no hesitation. Natasha kissed you like she was claiming you, like she was making up for every second you had made her wait. It was deep, hungry.

Her hands moved, no longer still, no longer restrained. One gripping your waist, the other sliding up your back, pulling you in as close as possible.

You exhaled sharply, your fingers digging into Natasha’s shoulders, trying to keep up. You had started the game. But Natasha was the one finishing it. You barely noticed the way Natasha’s lips moved lower, kissing along your jaw, trailing down just enough to make your toes curl.

Until..The phone rang.

The sound cut through the moment like a blade. You both froze, Natasha’s lips still pressed against your skin. You groaned. “Nooo!!”

Natasha let out a low chuckle against your collarbone before pressing a quick kiss there and pulling back. She reached for the phone, but you grabbed her wrist, shaking your head. “No. It can wait.”

Natasha smirked. “Impatient?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t start something you’re not going to finish!”

The phone rang again. Natasha sighed, glancing at the screen. She smirked, then, a knowing, smug little smile.

“Oh, this one can’t wait.” she murmured, amusement flickering in her gaze.

You frowned, still breathless. “Why?”

Natasha picked up the call, holding you in place. “Because, it’s for you.” she murmured against your lips before answering.

Here voice was low, calm, businesslike..echoed from the hallway as she wrapped up whatever conversation had interrupted you. You barely registered the words, still feeling the ghost of Natasha’s hands on your skin, the heat that had been building, building, building before that damn phone had stolen her attention away. The soft sound of the phone being set down made you glance toward the doorway.

Natasha was back.

She stood at the edge of the dimly lit living room, watching. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without a word, Natasha moved. She crossed the room with the same quiet, predatory grace that made her dangerous both on and off the track. Unrushed and in control.

You barely had time to process it before Natasha was climbing over you, bracing her weight on the couch, her hands framing your face, her knee pressing just enough between your legs. The breath hitched in your throat.

Natasha smirked. “Now.” she murmured, her voice like velvet and steel, “where were we?” And this time, nothing stopped her from finishing what she started.

—

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the sheets. You stirred, feeling the warmth of the bed beneath you, the soreness that came with exactly how last night had gone. A lazy, satisfied smile curled on your lips as you stretched, fingers reaching for the familiar presence beside you-

Only to find empty sheets. You cracked one eye open, frowning slightly. Natasha’s side of the bed was cool. She had been up for a while. You groaned, rolling onto your stomach, letting yourself melt into the mattress for a moment longer before you finally forced yourself upright. Your muscles ached in the best way, your body still humming from the night before.

That’s when you saw her. Natasha stood near the dresser, already fully dressed, the perfect picture of composure. She fastened the last button of her team-issued shirt, the usual red and black livery fitted perfectly to her frame, like the night before hadn’t just happened.

You huffed, your voice still rough with sleep. “You really have a habit of getting up and leaving.”

Natasha glanced over, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “I didn’t leave.” she countered smoothly.

You raised a brow. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up. Feels the same.”

Natasha chuckled, stepping closer. She leaned down, one hand braced against the mattress, the other tilting your chin up so your eyes met.

“I finished what I started, didn’t I?” she murmured, her tone edged with amusement.

Heat flashed through you at the memory. Natasha took full advantage of your silence, pressing a brief but thorough kiss to your lips before pulling back, still smirking.

“Come on..” she said, straightening. “We have to leave.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the pillow. “Too earlyyy..”

Natasha nudged the blanket off of you, ignoring the way you tried to pull it back up. “It’s not early, you just don’t want to get up.”

You peeked up at her, eyes playful, teasing. “And whose fault is that?”

Natasha only tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “Mine, obviously.”

You rolled onto your back with a sigh. “Where are we even going?”

Natasha simply grabbed her phone, checked something quickly, then looked at you. “You’ll see.”

You sat in the passenger seat, your fingers curled into your lap, your gaze fixed out the window as the world passed by in a blur of muted colors. The closer you got, the more the tension coiled in your chest, wrapping tight around your ribs.

You had already seen it. From a distance. The track. The place where it happened. Even from far away, it stood like a specter in the distance, a shadow of something you had never fully escaped. The floodlights, the sharp turns you once knew like the back of your hand, the long straights that had once filled your veins with nothing but adrenaline.

But now..now, it was different. You hadn’t set foot here since the crash. Since you had nearly lost everything. Your chest tightened. The closer you got, the harder it became to breathe, the air suddenly too thick, too heavy. Your fingers curled against your thigh, your body going rigid as the memories threatened to surface.

Natasha sensed it. Of course she did. Without a word, she slowed the car, pulling over to the side of the empty road leading toward the track’s private entrance. The engine idled in the quiet, but she didn’t move to keep driving.

Instead, she turned her head. “Hey.”

You exhaled shakily, keeping your eyes forward. Natasha didn’t push. She just watched, her voice low, steady. Grounding.

“Look at me.”

You hesitated, your pulse still hammering. But you turned. And there it was. The thing that always managed to steady you no matter how loud the world got. Her eyes. Green. Certain. Unshaken. Like there was not a single doubt in her mind.

“You’re safe.” Natasha said softly, reaching over, her fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

You swallowed. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Natasha challenged gently, her fingers tightening just slightly. “Because you’re acting like you’re back in that car two years ago.”

You pressed your lips together, inhaling sharply through your nose. The older woman’s thumb traced slow circles against your skin, her voice unwavering. “You already won this battle, Detka. You made it out.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling. “I thought I was past this. I hate it.”

“You will be.” Natasha assured. “But not by running from it.”

Silence settled between you, thick, heavy. But Natasha waited. She always did. And eventually, you nodded. Natasha studied you for another beat, then, without another word, she put the car back in gear and drove.

The entrance to the track loomed closer. Your fingers curled against your knee again, but you kept your breathing steady. Inhaling, exhaling. The gates opened as Natasha pulled through, leading into the pit lane, the vast emptiness of the track stretching out before you.

She stopped the car near the garage. For a second, neither of you moved. Then, Natasha unbuckled her seatbelt, stepping out. You watched as she rounded the car, her movements unhurried, purposeful. When Natasha reached your door, she opened it, the cool air from outside slipping in. And then, she stepped back.

She didn’t say anything. Just tilted her head slightly, gesturing to the driver’s seat. Your heart stuttered. You looked at Natasha, eyes wide, uncertain. But Natasha’s gaze didn’t waver.

You took a slow breath as you slid into the driver’s seat, fingers wrapping around the wheel. It felt familiar. The weight of it, the smooth material beneath your hands..it should have been comforting.

But it wasn’t. Not here. Not on this track.

Natasha shut the door behind you. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t have to. She simply slid into the passenger seat, settling in like this was any other drive. Like this wasn’t the place where everything fell apart.

You swallowed, shifting the car into gear. You started slow. The track was eerily quiet, so unlike the last time you had been here. No roaring engines, no deafening crowd, no radio crackling in your ear. Just the low hum of the car beneath you, the whisper of tires on asphalt.

But you already felt it. The weight. The pull of the past creeping in. Every turn was one you had memorized. Your body still knew the angles, the braking points, the racing line that had once been second nature to you. But then, The trees. They appeared in the distance. And you knew. You knew what was coming.

The curve.

Your breath caught, your grip on the wheel tightening. Far before you even reached it, you saw it. You saw everything. The way the road bent, the familiar angle of the wall. You saw the moment your car had lost control, the sickening snap of the tires, the helpless spin.

You saw fire. And suddenly, it wasn’t just memories. The beep of machines. The sterile scent of antiseptic. Pain. A deep, agonizing pain that wrapped around your body like it would never leave. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the voices. Your parents. You couldn’t open your eyes fully, but you heard them.

“Will she walk again?” Your mother’s voice, raw, desperate.

A pause. Too long. Then, the doctor’s voice, flat, measured, carefully spoken like he was trying not to shatter them completely.

“We don’t know yet.”

Not a real answer. Not the one they wanted. Silence. Your father, his voice quieter, heavier. “You mean she might n-not?”

Another pause. “We can’t say never. But the spinal damage, the nerve trauma, her body went through extreme conditions. It will be a long recovery. She may regain movement, but returning to full functionality? To racing?” He shook his head. “It’s unlikely.”

You wanted to scream. You weren’t a body. You weren’t something to assess. You were here. You could hear them. You could feel the pain, the weight of your own broken body on the hospital bed. But you couldn’t move.

Your mother’s breath hitched. “S-She just turned twenty-one..” she whispered. “She..she’s supposed to have her whole life ahead of her!! Her career. Her dreams. You’re saying that’s just- gone-“

“You’ll race again!” It wasn’t a doctor. It wasn’t your father. It was Natasha. Her voice was sharp, unwavering. Unshaken. You gasped, staggering back into reality. You blinked rapidly, hands trembling at your sides. The track was still there. The sky was still open, the wind still cool against your skin. You weren’t in that hospital bed. You weren’t trapped. You were here. Alive. Walking. Racing. And..Natasha was here, too.

You blinked rapidly, gasping as reality slammed back into you, but it wasn’t enough. The car felt too small, too tight. The air too thick. You needed to get out. Now.

Before Natasha could say anything else, you ripped off your seatbelt and shoved open the door. The rush of cool air hit you as you stumbled out, barely keeping your balance as you walked away, fast.

Your boots scraped against the asphalt as you stopped a few feet from the car, your back turned to the curve. You placed your hands on your knees, trying to breathe, trying to focus on the present, but the past kept clawing at you.

You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t, not yet. But you heard Natasha’s breath as she stepped closer, heard the patience in her voice as she spoke.

“You’re not there anymore, Y/n.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “I..know.”

Natasha didn’t correct you, didn’t push you to turn around just yet. Instead, she took another step, coming close enough that your arms nearly brushed.

“You think this track is what almost killed you.” Natasha murmured. “But it’s not.”

You closed your eyes, your breath shaky. “You made it out.” Natasha continued. “You fought. You survived. And now…”

You felt the warmth of Natasha’s fingers grazing against yours. “You came back.”

Your chest tightened. You exhaled. Slowly, cautiously, you turned around. And this time, You didn’t look away. The fear was still there, pressing against your ribs. The memories still whispered in the back of your mind. But they weren’t pulling you under anymore. They weren’t controlling you.

“Go finish your round.”

You glanced back at the curve. Then at Natasha. She just raised a brow, her smile soft, knowing. Like she already knew your answer. You inhaled deeply. And then, you nodded.

Without a word, Natasha gestured back toward the car. And this time, you got back in. You settled into the driver’s seat, your hands firm on the wheel. Your pulse still pounded, but this time, it wasn’t from fear.

It was from something else. Determination. Natasha shut the door beside you and leaned in slightly through the open window. “You good?”

You exhaled slowly, your grip tightening. “Yeah.” Natasha studied you for a beat, green eyes sharp, assessing. Then, without another word, she stepped back. You pressed your foot to the accelerator.

The car moved. The track stretched ahead, the tires gliding smoothly over the asphalt as you built up speed. The engine hummed beneath you, steady and strong, your hands guiding the car as if it was an extension of yourself.

And then, the curve. It came into view, and for a split second, you felt the flicker of hesitation, the whisper of memories trying to crawl back in. But you didn’t let them. Not this time. Your body knew what to do. You adjusted the wheel, keeping your line smooth. You hit the apex.

And you took it cleanly. No fear. No ghosts. Just racing. As you exited the turn, your heartbeat steadied. Your breathing evened. And for the first time since the crash, it felt like yours again. The track. The moment. The control. You slowed as you reached the pit lane, pulling up where Natasha stood waiting. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers flexing against the wheel.

“Again.”

You blinked, catching your breath. “What?”

“Do another lap.” Natasha said, tilting her head. “This time, without stopping.”

You gripped the wheel and pressed your foot to the accelerator, feeling the car respond instantly. The low growl of the engine vibrated through your chest as you sped down the straight, the track stretching endlessly in front of you.

This time, it felt different. This time, there was no fear clawing at your throat. No weight pressing on your chest. No ghosts chasing you. Only you. And the car. Natasha’s words echoed in the back of your mind.

“Again. This time, without stopping.”

So you did. The corners came faster now, the rhythm of the track flowing beneath your fingertips. You moved through each turn with precision, your body and mind in sync, your breathing controlled. Like you had never left. And then, the curve.

It came up ahead, just like before. But this time, you didn’t brace for impact. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t freeze. You just took it. Clean. Smooth. Fast. You barely registered the moment you exited the turn. Because suddenly, it didn’t feel like a monster in the dark. It was just a turn.. Just a part of the track. And you had taken it like you were born for it.

You exhaled, gripping the wheel tighter as you pushed forward. One more sector. One more straight. The finish line appeared before you, this time, not a symbol of survival, but of victory. You crossed it at full speed. And for the first time in years, you felt free. The car rolled to a stop. The sudden silence was almost deafening, the echoes of the lap still buzzing in your ears.

Your hands were still on the wheel. Your heart was still pounding. But you weren’t shaking anymore. You exhaled, letting your head fall back against the seat for just a second before finally pulling yourself together. You pushed the door open, stepping out, the cool air hitting your flushed skin. You turned, and before you could even speak, Natasha was there.

Close and proud. There was no teasing remark. No smug comment. Just a look. A look that said everything. You swallowed, your throat thick. “I did it.”

Natasha’s smirk softened. “You did.”

You blinked up at her, your chest still rising and falling with the weight of everything that had just happened. Natasha studied you for a moment, and, without warning, she reached forward.

Her hands cupped your face, pulling you in. And she kissed you. Slow. Deep. Unrushed. Not like the night before, not with heat, not with hunger. But with something else. Something heavier.

Something that tasted like pride. Like relief. Like I knew you could do it. When you finally pulled apart, Natasha rested her forehead against yours, exhaling softly. “That’s my brave girl.” she murmured. You smiled, breathless. And for the first time in two years, you really believed it.

Race 23

The paddock was alive with the chaotic energy of race day. Engines roaring in the distance, mechanics scrambling over last-minute checks, media teams swarming in every direction. The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating. But you? You had drowned it all out. Headphones in. Music blasting.

Your fingers tapped against your thigh in rhythm with the beat as you leaned against the side of the garage, eyes closed, trying to steady yourself.

Silverstone.

The track where everything almost ended. You had studied the turns, visualized every sector, forced yourself to relive the crash over and over until it didn’t hold power over you anymore.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. Natasha stood just a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes trained on you, her gaze calculating, unreadable. She was watching. And she wasn’t letting anyone interfere. Every few minutes, someone tried. Engineers, strategists, team personnel, all waiting to talk to you.

To brief you. To check in. To discuss last-minute adjustments. And every single time, Natasha stopped them. One sharp glance. One curt shake of her head. Not now. She wasn’t letting anyone break your focus. She’d made sure everything was in place. That all your data was locked in. That your team was prepped.

That you were untouchable. Until he appeared. “Still seeing the wall in your sleep?”

Your entire body went still. The music still played, but you weren’t listening anymore. Your breath hitched, hands clenching into fists. And that was when Natasha turned.

She saw the way your body stiffened. She saw your reaction. And in less than a second, she was on him. She grabbed him by the front of his race suit, shoved him backwards against the garage wall, the force of it making his head jolt.

Hard. His smirk vanished. Natasha leaned in, her voice a razor-sharp whisper. “I should have done this the moment you put her in the wall last time.”

Walker tried to mask the fear flickering in his eyes, but Natasha saw it. And she fed off it. She tightened her grip, voice deadly calm.

“You think you’re clever?” she murmured. “You think you can get in her head?”

Walker swallowed. “Romanoff-”

“I am not one of these fucking PR reps who’s going to slap you on the wrist and tell you to play nice.” Her nails dug into his race suit, jaw clenching.

Walker scoffed. “You’re losing it..”

Natasha’s lips curled into something dark. “I haven’t even started.”

Cameras were on them. Photographers had gathered outside the garage. Whispers spread like wildfire. But Natasha didn’t care. She was seething. Yelena was the first to try to pull her back. “Nat.” Her voice was sharp. “Let it go.”

But Natasha wasn’t letting go. Not yet. Not until he understood. Not until he felt what she had felt. Not until he knew, without a doubt- That if he touched you again, if he even so much as breathed the wrong way in your direction— She would end him.

“Stay the fuck away from her.”

The second you and Natasha stepped into the privacy of the team garage, the noise of the paddock muffled behind the heavy doors, the weight of what had just happened came crashing down on both of you.

Her jaw was tight, eyes burning with residual fury, her breath coming in short, sharp exhales. She was holding back. Holding everything in. Because she had lost control. And Natasha Romanoff never lost control. The second the doors shut behind you, she yanked her arm free, running a hand through her hair.

You had never seen her like this. Not like this. She had always been calm, sharp, precise. Every move calculated, every emotion locked down.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Yelena threw her hands up, her Russian accent thick with frustration. “Are you trying to get suspended before the championship? Or, I don’t know, arrested?”

Natasha didn’t react. She just stood there, silent. Yelena scoffed, shaking her head. “Jesus, Natasha.”

Then she turned to you, eyes scanning you up and down. “And you.” she muttered, gesturing vaguely. “Why the hell are you letting her act like your attack dog?”

You blinked. “I- what?”

“You know she would burn the entire paddock down for you, right?” Yelena said bluntly. “Like, full villain origin story.”

Natasha sighed. “Yelena.”

Yelena ignored her. “You have her wrapped around your little driver finger.”

Your face heated. Natasha shot her sister a warning glare. “I will kill you.”

Yelena smirked. “See? She’s in denial.”

You bit back a laugh, rubbing your face. “Can we focus on the fact that the media just saw that?”

Yelena shrugged. “Oh, yeah, you’re screwed.”

You groaned. Natasha ran a hand over her face. “How bad is it?”

Yelena pulled out her phone and tilted the screen toward you.

BREAKING NEWS: ROMANOFF EXPLODES ON WALKER IN PRE-RACE CONFRONTATION!

“Natasha Romanoff LOSES CONTROL—DRAMA before the final races!”

“TENSION RISES: WALKER VS. L/N, BUT IS ROMANOFF THE REAL FIGHT?”

Before you could say something, Your parents stepped in and Natasha’s blood ran cold. She recognized them instantly. She had met your parents once before, but this? This was different. Your father’s eyes flickered to the scene again behind him, the cameras, the tension, the way Walker was still adjusting his suit, trying to shake off the encounter.

And then? He turned back to you. He searched your face for a moment. And then, he sighed, shaking his head with a small, tired smile. “You never did back down from a fight, did you?”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t realize you had been holding it until then. And for the first time that day, You let out a laugh. Your father stepped forward and pulled you into a hug. And suddenly? You weren’t a racing driver. You weren’t the girl who had just been shoved into the spotlight again.

You weren’t the girl who had almost died here last time. You were just his daughter. And God, you had missed this. When he pulled back, he placed both hands on your shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. And he believed you. Your mother was next. She didn’t hug you. She didn’t smile. But she stepped forward. And that, alone, was enough.

“I still hate this.” The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t judgmental. They were just honest. You exhaled, nodding. “I know.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “But.”

Your heart stuttered. “But I also know how much you love it.”

She looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time since your accident, she saw the joy in your eyes instead of the scars. And when she spoke again, it was softer. “Just promise me you’ll be careful this time.”

Your throat tightened. But you nodded. “I promise.”

Natasha had been standing just a few feet away. She had given you space. But now? She stepped closer, until she was by your side. Your father looked at her. Then at you. And then? A slow smirk. “Romanoff causing trouble for you?”

You let out a soft laugh. And Natasha? For the first time since she nearly killed Walker, her lips twitched into something close to a smile.

“She does that.” And for the first time, your mother didn’t argue. She just sighed. “Then I guess you two are a good match.”

The roar of the crowd was deafening as you sat in your cockpit, hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Even through your helmet, you could hear the thunderous energy of the fans, the commentators hyping up the moment.

“After years of fighting her way back, Y/N L/N is back at Silverstone, the very track that nearly ended her career. And now, she has a chance to take another victory here.”

“The nerves must be unreal. This is the track of her nightmare.”

You exhaled sharply, steadying yourself. This wasn’t just any race. This was Silverstone. The last stepping stone before the championship. And even more than that, it was the race. The one that left scars on your body, that nearly stole everything from you.

Your fingers twitched against the steering wheel, tension coiling in your chest. A voice crackled through the radio.

“Radio check.”

It was Natasha. Firm, steady. The only anchor keeping you from drowning in your own thoughts. You pressed the button on the wheel, your voice tight. “Copy.”

A pause. “You good?”

Your throat was dry. “I don’t know.”

Another pause. Then, softer. “Breathe, Detka. I’m right here with you.”

The Russian curled around you, grounding you. It wasn’t something she used often, only in moments like these, when she knew you needed something solid to hold onto. You inhaled deeply. Held it. Exhaled slowly.

“Just another race.” Natasha murmured, voice smooth. “Just another grid. Just another set of lights. You know what to do.”

You clenched your jaw, nodding slightly. “I know.” But before you could settle into that thought-Walker. He was right in-front of you, P1 on the grid, his presence a venomous reminder that he was still in the fight. You caught a glimpse of him over the halo of your car, his smug expression barely visible under his helmet. Even from here, you knew he was going to make this difficult.

A tap on your helmet made you turn your head, Yelena. She crouched beside your car, her green eyes searching yours. “You ready?”

You scoffed. “Yes.”

She grinned. “Good. Now go kick his ass.”

You smirked, shaking your head. “That’s the plan.”

Natasha’s voice cut through the comms again. “Grid up.”

You pulled your visor down, locked in, fingers twitching on the wheel. This was it. “Let’s hunt.”

Five red lights flickered overhead.

Five… Four… Three…

Your breath caught in your throat.

Two… One…

The world held still.

Lights out.

The explosion of sound and movement was immediate. Engines howled, tires screeched, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air as the pack lunged forward. Your reflexes kicked in, instincts sharper than thought.

“Nice start.” Natasha’s voice was smooth over the radio. “Hold it, don’t rush.”

Turn 1 was pure carnage. Cars dove aggressively, desperate to gain positions before the field settled. You barely had time to process before reacting, threading through the chaos.

Lap 3 emerging worked perfectly.

Lap 7 Box stop. Your team executed flawlessly, barely 2.4 seconds before they released you back into the fray.

“Perfect stop.” Natasha praised, her voice low in your ear.

Lap 10 Walker was directly in front of you, his car a flashing red target in your sights.

“Don’t rush it.” Natasha warned, already anticipating your aggression. “You’ll get him.”

Lap 18. Your breath stilled. The curve. The very turn that had nearly taken your life was right in front of you.

Your fingers clenched around the wheel. Flashes of the past crept in, the moment you lost control. The helpless spin. The wall rushing toward you. The sound of metal crushing.

Your vision blurred for half a second. Terror curled its fingers around your throat. “Breathe.” Natasha’s voice was softer now, private. Just for you. “You’re in control.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Let it go, Y/n.” Natasha coaxed. “This track doesn’t own you anymore. You own it.”

Your breath hitched. The car rocketed toward the turn. This was it. You committed. Full throttle. The car hugged the track, smooth, controlled, perfect. No oversteer. No panic. No fear. A single tear slipped down your cheek. You did it. The pit wall erupted. Mechanics cheered, Yelena whooped in celebration.

Lap 20 You held firm, but he was defending every inch.

Lap 25 Final lap.

He lunged, reckless, aggressive. But you knew him. You baited him into Turn 6, letting him think he had the overtake. At the last second, you switched lines, cutting back perfectly. The move was flawless. You heard the frustration in Walker’s engine as he locked up behind you.

And then, the checkered flag.

“Y/N L/N WINS AT SILVERSTONE!”

Your vision blurred, heart slamming against your ribs. The radio exploded. Shouts. Cheers. Yelena screaming. “You did it.”

You exhaled sharply, swallowing the lump in your throat. You did it.. The car rolled into the pit lane. The moment you stopped, you ripped off the wheel, launching yourself out of the cockpit. A sea of bodies swallowed you, mechanics, engineers, your team, screaming, shaking you, holding you.

Natasha stood at the pit wall, arms crossed, her lips twitching at the corners. And for the first time, in front of the entire world, She smiled. And in that moment, you knew. You weren’t just fighting for yourself anymore. You were fighting for her.

And fuck..You were going to win this championship.

——

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but when you walked into the team’s headquarters the morning after Silverstone, still buzzing from the victory, you were met with something entirely unfamiliar. Silence. No scheduled briefings. No physical drills. No mechanical debriefs. Just a single message on your phone.

“Meet me at the hangar. Be ready.”

You arrived at the hangar, dressed in your usual training gear, expecting something, anything, resembling a preparation session. But instead, Natasha was standing next to a private jet, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, watching you approach.

Your brows furrowed. “What’s this?”

She smirked. “Your final week of training.”

You stared at her. “What does that mean?”

She pushed off the frame, stepping closer, voice softer now. “You’ve pushed yourself hard enough, detka. Now, you rest. You reset.”

You blinked. “And you’re deciding that for me?”

She arched a brow, tilting her head. “Do you trust me?”

Your heart clenched at the sincerity in her voice. You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yes. I do.”

Her smirk returned, this time softer. “Then get in the plane.”

You followed, still confused but knowing better than to question her now. The flight was peaceful. No talk of racing, no debriefs, just the soft hum of the jet’s engines. You sat beside her, fingers drumming idly against your thigh. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Natasha didn’t look up from her tablet, scrolling through something unreadable. “Nope.”

You huffed, shifting in your seat. “You know, normal people discuss things like this.”

She smirked but still didn’t look up. “And since when have we been normal?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back into the plush seat. “Fair point.”

The destination remained a mystery until you landed. When you stepped out of the jet and into the warm, sea-salted air, your breath hitched. A private villa. Hidden away, far from the chaos of the racing world.

“You brought me to an island?” you asked incredulously.

Natasha just grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “You needed a reset.”

You blinked. “And your idea of resetting is a literal paradise?”

She glanced at you over her shoulder, smirking. “Would you rather be back at the track?”

You scoffed. “No. Absolutely not.”

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head. “Then shut up and enjoy it.”

For the first time in months, you woke up without an alarm. Without the weight of race strategy meetings, without the looming stress of upcoming battles. Instead, you woke up to the soft rustling of waves, the distant call of seagulls, and the scent of coffee drifting through the open villa.

And her. Natasha was sitting on the patio, her laptop open on the table, a cup of coffee in hand, her eyes flicking between the screen and the ocean. You leaned against the doorframe, watching her, arms crossing over your chest. “Do you ever stop working?”

She hummed, tilting her head in your direction but not looking away from the screen. “Do you ever stop overthinking?”

You scoffed, stepping closer. “Touché.”

She finally looked up, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Coffee?”

You nodded, sitting down across from her. The moment you took the first sip, you exhaled, the warmth spreading through you. “Okay. Maybe this was a good idea.”

Natasha chuckled. “Told you.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the waves providing a soothing backdrop. After a moment, Natasha leaned back, closing her laptop. “How are you feeling about Abu Dhabi?”

You hesitated, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t know.”

She didn’t push. Just watched. Waited. You sighed, setting the coffee down. “I feel ready, but also… it feels different now. Everything does.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Because of the championship?”

You swallowed. “Because of you.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. A beat of silence. Natasha’s expression didn’t change immediately, but there was something in her eyes, something soft, something unreadable. You looked away, suddenly nervous. “I mean—”

“I know.”

You met her gaze again. She exhaled slowly, like she was choosing her words carefully. “I feel it too.”

The confession was quiet. Almost vulnerable. Your breath caught. “Natasha-”

She shook her head, a small smile ghosting her lips. “Not yet. Not before the final race.”

Your chest tightened, but you understood. This..whatever this was, was too big to unpack before the championship was decided. But that didn’t stop you from reaching across the table, from sliding your fingers over hers. And Natasha didn’t stop you either.

The week passed in a haze of quiet moments. Soft touches. Unspoken words. Natasha never pushed you to talk about the race, never brought up Walker, never made you think about anything except being here.

But the night before you left for Abu Dhabi, everything shifted. You stood on the balcony, staring at the ocean, lost in thought. You felt her presence before she spoke. “You’re thinking again.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t help it.”

She moved beside you, resting her arms against the railing. “Tell me.”

You swallowed. “What if I lose?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “You won’t.”

You turned your head toward her, searching her face. “How can you be so sure?”

Natasha met your gaze, eyes burning with something fierce. “Because I know you.”

A pause. “And you’re mine.”

Your breath hitched. She turned toward you fully now, stepping closer. The tension between you snapped taut, electricity crackling in the space between. She lifted a hand, fingers brushing against your jaw. “And I don’t lose, dorogaya.”

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. And this time, this time, there were no interruptions. Her lips were on yours before you could even process it, warm, insistent, desperate. You melted into her, hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing more, needing everything.

The final race was tomorrow. The world was watching. The championship was on the line. But right now? Right now, the only thing that mattered was her. The atmosphere was electric.

Final Race

The Yas Marina Circuit in Abu Dhabi was alive with tension, the air buzzing with anticipation. Fans crowded the grandstands, waving banners, their cheers blending into the deafening roar of engines warming up in the pit lane. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting golden hues over the track, the last race of the season set to unfold under the lights.

This was it. The championship decider.

You stood in the garage, your fireproof suit already zipped up, helmet in hand, heart pounding in your chest. You had never felt this level of pressure before—every decision, every overtake, every second would determine whether you would leave this track as a world champion.

“Welcome to the final race of the season, the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix! And what a season it has been! It all comes down to this, two contenders, one final battle, and the championship on the line!”

“That’s right! Y/N L/N and Walker have been at war all season, and now, after 23 grueling races, it all leads to this moment. Whoever finishes ahead tonight will be crowned the world champion!”

The camera feed cut to Walker, standing a few garages down, already locked in conversation with his engineers. You caught his gaze for a split second, and he smirked, giving you a mocking two-finger salute.

Your jaw clenched. Natasha, who had been standing beside you, caught the interaction immediately. “Ignore him.” Her voice was firm but steady, grounding you. “He wants to get in your head. Don’t let him.” You exhaled sharply, nodding.

The pre-race ceremony was grand. Fireworks lit up the sky, and the national anthem echoed across the circuit as drivers lined up for introductions. Cameras panned across each contender, zooming in on your face as the commentators continued hyping the moment.

“This is the most anticipated title fight in years. The young challenger versus the reigning champion. Y/N L/N has defied all odds this season, recovering from injury, fighting back from setbacks, and proving she belongs at the top.”

“And let’s not forget the woman behind her success, Natasha Romanoff, the enigmatic and ruthless team principal who rebuilt this team from the ground up. This isn’t just a battle between drivers, it’s a war between philosophies, between two teams that have fought tooth and nail to get here.”

As your name was called, the crowd erupted in cheers. Your stomach twisted with nerves, but you forced a steady breath. Then, Natasha’s hand found your lower back, just for a second, a silent reminder.

“You’re ready for this.” she murmured, barely audible over the noise. You swallowed hard, nodding.

The camera moved to Walker, his confident grin plastered across the screens. He thrived under the spotlight, waving dramatically at the crowd. The moment passed quickly, and soon, you were making your way to the car, slipping into the cockpit for the final time this season.

The formation lap was tense. The weight of the championship sat heavy on your shoulders as you weaved through the turns, warming up the tires, getting a feel for the grip under the lights. Natasha’s voice came through the radio. “Alright, Y/n. This is it. We’ve prepared for this moment all season. You know what to do.”

You exhaled. “I do.”

A pause. Then, softer “I’m proud of you.” Your chest tightened, your grip firming around the wheel. “Let’s win this.”

This was it. The moment everything had been building toward. The last race of the season. The championship on the line. The crowd was deafening, their cheers vibrating through the grandstands, but inside the cockpit, it was just you, the machine, and the voice in your ear.

“Radio check.”

You exhaled, adjusting your grip on the wheel. “Loud and clear.”

A pause. Then, her voice softened, just slightly. “You’ve fought too hard to let this slip away. Start strong. Control the pace. And bring it home.”

Your heart pounded. Natasha had never been this soft over the radio before a race. It settled something in your chest.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Lights out.

The engine screamed as you launched off the line, your tires gripping perfectly, carrying you smoothly into the first corner. You held your position, P1. Exactly where you needed to be.

Walker was right behind you.

Lap 5

Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms. “He’s pushing early. Don’t let him dictate your race. You control this.”

You kept your breathing steady. “Copy.” Walker was testing you, feinting a move on the inside, but you covered the line perfectly.

Lap 10

“Box, box.”

You dove into the pits, your crew flawless. 2.3 seconds. You rejoined the track in P3, behind two drivers who hadn’t pitted yet. Walker followed, just seconds behind.

“Cold tires. Build them up. He’s going to attack.”

Lap 15

Chaos. Two cars behind you collided violently. A massive impact. Debris scattered across the track. One car spun into the barriers at high speed.

“Safety car.”

Your grip on the wheel tightened. Your eyes flicked to the mirrors. “Are they okay?” Your voice was sharp, urgent.

A long pause. Then, “Both drivers are out of the car. Medics are on them.”

You let out a shaky breath. The race was neutralized. But the tension didn’t fade. Natasha cut in, voice steady. Grounding.

“Don’t think about it. This isn’t your past. This is your present. This is your win.”

You nodded to yourself. You were not the same driver who crashed before.You were stronger. Smarter. Better.

Lap 20

The safety car pulled in. The race was back on. You timed the restart perfectly. Walker was right there, trying to lunge up the inside, but you blocked him cleanly. He was getting desperate.

And then, Lap 27.

He made his move. Too aggressive. Too reckless. Your rear tire was clipped. The car twitched violently. Your breath stopped. For a second, you felt it happening again. The Silverstone crash. The helpless spin. Your lungs locked. Natasha’s voice was calm, urgent.

“You’ve got it. You’re in control.”

You held it. You corrected, stabilized the car. Walker was still pushing. Still desperate. “Don’t let him rattle you. You have him.” Natasha’s voice was sharp.

Lap 35

Final one. Walker lunged forward. He was too aggressive. He clipped the curb badly. His car twitched. Your eyes widened. He lost it. His car slid sideways, full speed into the barriers. A brutal impact. Carbon fiber shattered. Metal twisted.

The crowd gasped. Your lungs locked. Your voice broke through the radio. “Is he okay?!”

Silence. Then, Yelena’s voice. “He’s moving. Medical is there.”

Natasha followed, controlled but tight. “Stay focused.”

Your eyes flicked up. The finish line was ahead. One more corner. You had done it.. The realization hit you all at once. You erupted in a scream. “YEEEESSSS!” Your hands trembled on the wheel as you crossed the line, the weight of everything crashing over you.

You had won.

Not just the race. Not just the championship. You had won yourself back. The sound of your own screams of victory echoed in your ears, blending with the deafening cheers from the crowd, the roaring engines, the overwhelming rush of adrenaline that flooded every inch of your body.

Through the radio, your team was exploding with excitement, voices overlapping, Yelena’s unhinged screaming, engineers shouting your name—everyone losing their minds.

And then, Natasha. But this time, her voice wasn’t just professional. It wasn’t just the sharp, controlled guidance of your team principal. This time, she laughed. A real, genuine laugh, the sound crackling through your earpiece, warm and unfiltered.

“Jesus, Y/n, you’re insane.”

You let out a breathless laugh in return, blinking back the sting of emotion. “I fucking did it...”

Her voice softened, low, proud. “Yes, you did.” The realization hit you like a freight train. You were the world champion.

The second you parked the car, you ripped off the wheel, unstrapping yourself as fast as possible. Before your brain could even catch up, you were climbing out of the cockpit, the weight of everything crashing into you.

They were everywhere. Your mechanics swarmed you, hands grabbing your suit, shaking you, hugging you, their cheers ringing out in celebration. Tears burned at the edges of your vision. This was real. You were on top of the world.

You hugged every mechanic who got to you, arms wrapping around engineers, feeling every ounce of their pride, their joy, their belief in you. But then, your eyes flickered up. And there she was.

Standing just beyond the chaos, arms relaxed, her lips curled into a rare, small smile, her green eyes locked onto you. And that’s when you felt it. The sting of emotions rising too fast, too sharp, the sheer weight of this moment overwhelming.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your legs were moving. You ran. Straight to her. Natasha barely had time to react before you crashed into her arms. She caught you effortlessly, her hands gripping tight, holding you like she had no intention of letting go.

Your breath was ragged, your heart hammering against your ribs. You buried your face in her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her, leather, champagne, and something unmistakably her. You felt her laugh, the softest thing, as her hand slid to the back of your head, holding you close. And then, before your brain could even fully process what was happening, Natasha leaned back slightly, just enough to tilt your chin up, her eyes flickering between yours, searching.

And then, she kissed you. Right there. In front of everyone. The crowd erupted. The cameras flashed. The team roared. And none of it mattered. Because Natasha Romanoff was kissing you. Not rushed. Not hidden. Real. Raw. Completely, unapologetically hers. You melted into it, your hands gripping her suit, pulling her closer, desperate to feel every inch of this moment.

When she pulled back, her forehead pressed against yours, her breath warm against your lips. And then, she finally whispered it.

“I love you.”

You blinked, your chest tightening painfully. She had never said it before. Not once. Not when she held you after long, exhausting nights. Not when she whispered Russian against your skin. Not when her hands traced over your scars like they were sacred.

But here..in front of the world..she did. And fuck, you had never loved her more. Your fingers curled into the fabric of her race suit, your voice shaking as you whispered back.

“I love you, too.”

She smiled, a real, genuine, unguarded smile. And just as the cameras continued flashing, just as the team lost their minds, she pulled you in for another kiss. Because now, you were champions. Together.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as you made your way through the pit lane, your body still buzzing with pure, unfiltered adrenaline. Every muscle ached, every heartbeat pounded against your ribs, but none of it mattered.

You had won the fucking championship.

As you walked toward the podium, your crew and engineers lined up, cheering, clapping, some even grabbing your shoulders, shaking you with pure joy. The mechanics who had spent countless hours perfecting your car, the engineers who had studied your every move, your team, your family.

You grinned at them all, shaking hands, hugging anyone who reached for you. But then, your eyes flickered forward. Natasha Standing just beyond the team with your parents, arms crossed, her stance effortlessly composed as always. But this time, her green eyes weren’t filled with sharp calculation. They weren’t focused on data, strategy, or performance.

They were on you. And for the first time, in front of thousands of cameras, in front of the world, Natasha let herself smile. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t obvious. But to you, it was everything.

She lifted a glass of champagne, a silent toast from where she stood, her expression laced with something you’d never seen from her before, not in front of the cameras. Pride. Pure, unguarded, unmistakable pride.

Your chest tightened painfully. She was proud of you. And that? That made your throat burn more than anything. Before you could even begin to process it, an official gently tapped your arm, ushering you toward the podium. The crowd erupted as you took the steps, standing in the middle, on the highest platform. The place only one person got to stand. The champion’s place. Your team principal’s place. Natasha’s place.

Your breathing hitched as you stood there, the weight of it finally crashing over you. You had done it. Walker was a few steps below you, his expression tight, controlled. He wasn’t looking at you. Good. He didn’t matter anymore. Because this moment? This was yours.

The anthem played, the flags waved, and you felt the world shift beneath you. The bottles were handed over, the anticipation buzzing through the air. You grabbed yours, shaking it violently before popping the cork, the liquid bursting forward like a dam breaking.

And then, chaos. You turned the bottle, drenching the second-place finisher, who cursed but laughed, retaliating immediately. The third-place driver joined in, and suddenly, it was an all-out war of champagne and celebration. The golden liquid soaked your race suit, your hair, your skin. But you didn’t care. You laughed, heart soaring, the feeling unlike anything else in the world.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe. Let yourself feel it. You had climbed back from hell, from the crash that nearly ended your career, from the doubts, the nightmares, the whispers behind your back. And now? Now you were at the top.

Your eyes instinctively flickered past the cameras, past the roaring crowd. Straight to her. Natasha was still standing there, watching, her glass still in hand, her lips curled just slightly.

And this time, she lifted it higher. The acknowledgment. The silent toast. The unspoken message. Your vision blurred for half a second, but you blinked it away. And then? You did something you hadn’t planned. Something natural. You lifted your own bottle in return, mirroring her.

A toast. To the one person who had been there through it all. To Natasha fucking Romanoff.

The second you stepped down from the podium, the cameras swarmed. Questions flew at you from every direction, reporters desperate for the first statement from the new world champion.

You barely had time to process them.

“Y/n, how does it feel-”

“What a comeback! What do you have to say to your doubters-”

“What does this mean for your future-”

The questions were a blur. Your mind was still racing, your body still buzzing from the victory. “Alright, that’s enough.”

The reporters stilled. You turned, heart skipping a beat. Natasha was right there, her body angled just slightly in front of yours, the presence of a shield, a protector. And just like that, the questions stopped. Because when Natasha Romanoff spoke, people listened. She glanced over at you, her green eyes softer now, just for you.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

You nodded, exhaling softly, letting her take your hand, your fucking hand, right there, in front of everyone. The world had no idea what had just changed. But you did. And that? That was all that mattered.

The End.

-

-

-

🏷️ TAGLIST: @l0nelyish @ayrtonwilbury @ima-gi--na-tion @whatthesnoodle @blackswanxzn @ivyasproperty @seventeen-x @wandanatlov3r @nebthetautora @casquinhaa @veroeuqin @1234mockingjay @artemisarroxvolkov @natashasmuse @cactuslover2600

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Self-On Kode with Jaehyun ⋆⭒˚.⋆

idol!Jaehyun x f!famous!reader

summary: you and Jaehyun are paired up for an interview. You should know what texting your boyfriend is like, right?

(cw: f!reader, famous!reader)

"Hi," Jaehyun greets the camera, "this is the perfect opportunity to catch up on some music." He settles into the plush pink chair while he fits the headphones over his ears.

His music begins to play while you enter the set and greet the camera which prevents him from hearing who his mystery partner might be. You pop your earbuds in and explain your screen name, "I chose Cupid because I like to set my friends up and help them in their relationships."

The camera cuts to Jaehyun who stares blankly at the camera, "I choose Valentine, because I was born on Valentine's day."

You settle into the chair and make yourself comfortable while your partner for the video begins messaging you. Whoever it is is very proper, uses all the right punctuation and is straightforward. Your eyes widen at the camera, speaking through the music playing through your earbuds, "is this an old man? Am I texting someone's grandpa?"

The staff bursts out laughing and you decide to text your exact question. Jaehyun's eyes widen and he can feel his ears heat in embarrassment beneath the head phones. He texts back with a slight pout on his face, "No, I'm not a grandpa."

You text back and forth for a while, talking about your hobbies, your MBTI, and just trying to make small talk. When you make a joke he doesn't respond with any laughs or emojis, when you try to make more conversation, he responds with short answers. You lean back in your chair, with a huff, "this person is not very fun. It has to be an old man. He doesn’t get any of my jokes!”

The staff prompts you both to send a picture of your home screens. You had recently updated it knowing that you were doing the interview and you and Jaehyun liked to keep your relationship private. Yes, it was known and public, but that didn't mean you were both open to sharing every little aspect, or really any details. Maybe one day you would both be open to sharing everything, but that day was not today.

You quickly take a screenshot of your screen which happens to be a couple folders of your apps and a widget of some picture you had found on Pinterest against the background of some flowers outside your favorite cafe.

Jaehyun perks up a little bit, "I think this looks familiar. I recognize the chairs and words on the wall, even though I can't really see it. Maybe it's one of the members?"

You study the picture sent to you with your brows furrowed as you zoom in and study the apps and the picture, "this looks so familiar to me. It looks like a restaurant in Jeju I was at a few weeks ago, I could be wrong. Let me ask."

The staff struggles to muffle their laughs at yours and Jaehyun's joint confusion. Of course, the pictures looked familiar to each of you, you were together, and had been to these places together.

You continue to text back and forth for a while, finally getting somewhere when he starts to show a little more personality and send some memes in response to your texts. He seemed to be a pretty funny guy, ultimately making you decide it was not an old man you were texting, just someone more proper and maybe old-er.

When it comes time to have you both send your recent food orders, Jaehyun pouts and furrows his brows as he studies the recent orders you'd sent him. There were 3 recent orders, 2 were for 2 people, and the last one was for a larger group. The orders looked familiar, one order for pizza and the other for ramen. It was food he had recently eaten and as hard as he tried to remember he couldn't remember who he had eaten the food with. His schedule had been so packed lately, everything was jumbled up in his head. "It has to be one of my members," he decides out loud.

You study the screenshot sent by "Valentine" while biting your lip, one of the orders was what you had eaten yesterday. A small voice in the back of your head was telling you it was your boyfriend, but he told you he was doing talk shows and variety shows today. This wasn't considered either right? Does he really text like this and you’ve never noticed? Surely, you know what your own boyfriend texts like, right?

You both continue chatting and whoever it is makes you laugh pretty hard at some points when your partner says something stupid or sends a dumb meme. You laugh especially loud, choking on your spit when he sends you a drawing of what he thinks you look like.

You have tears in your eyes and warm cheeks as you stare at a poor drawing of what looks like a boy, freckles, huge eyes, big smile. Your eyes dart from the screen of your phone to the lens of the camera, “wh- he thinks I’m a boy? This doesn’t even look like a person who actually exists!”

Jaehyun on his own side bursts out laughing after zooming in and looking at every detail of the picture, “there are wrinkles on this drawings face. And it’s bald. He thinks I’m an old man, so weird.”

As the time winds to an end you look at the staff behind the camera, somewhat shocked and saddened by the end. "Time flew by!" you scrunch up your face as you think, "I don't think I have a really good read on who it is. I think it's a man that's older than me and probably someone in the music industry since he related to so much. Maybe he's a dancer or producer of some kind."

On the other side Jaehyun is set on who he thinks it is, "it's one of my members, I know it. I think it's Jungwoo or Haechan."

You both stand and turn to face your partners. Upon catching sight of Jaehyun, you immediately scream and run behind the set laughing while screaming, "you told me you had variety shows today! Go home!"

Jaehyun bursts out laughing, hunched over as his cheeks flush, "you didn't tell me either! Get back here!"

Your voice comes out loudly paired with your surprised and embarrassed laughter, "No! I'm so humilated!"

The staff manages to get you both together for the ending conversation. The cameras start filming and you smack Jaehyun's forearm lightly, "you are a horrible texter."

"What did I even say?" He laughs in shock.

"I never realized how boring you are through words, you text like an old man."

Jaehyun answers the staff as they ask how you both possible couldn't pick up on each other through the texts. Jaehyun looks at the camera while he answers, his hand holding yours beneath the tall table, "I think texting is so boring and annoying. We call each other or video call. If we open our messages we use voice notes, we very rarely actually text each other.

You squeeze his hand under the table, eyeing him with a mischievous look, “who did you think I was? You thought I was a boy, who did you have in mind?”

Jaehyun rubs his free hand over his face, already regretting his guess, “before I tell you, you have to understand my thinking. Jeno and Chenle did one of these interviews together so I just figured it could be another member. I thought you were Jungwoo or Haechan.”

You guffaw, a shocked laugh leaving you as you pull your phone out and pull up the drawing he had sent you, “this is what Jungwoo or Haechan look like to you?”

“I’m not an artist! Well, not that kind of artist, but I think it’s pretty good. I even added teeth in the smile.”

“Babe, that’s creepy.”

“Who knew you were such an art critic all of a sudden?” He playfully asks with a bobble of his head.

The staff subtly tell you both to wrap it up, reminding you to take a selfie before ending the video. You catch the cues and smile at Jaehyun, “we’ve been together for a while now but I feel like I learned a lot about you today. You text like an old man, you can’t draw, and you have a horrible memory.”

“Hey! You didn’t know who I was either! The food orders didn’t give anything away?”

“We’re talking about this later,” you decide to reply as you lift your phone to take a selfie.

“Wait, lift it to this angle,” Jaehyun instructs as he gently moves your arm.

“Wow, so bossy,” you mumble jokingly as you snap the picture.

The screen goes black with the selfie of you and Jaehyun with matching bright smiles on your faces as yours and Jaehyun’s laugh transition into the ending of the video.

[otakubimbo]

Sick Days

Sylus x MC!Reader

Sylus couldn't get in contact with you and he knew that being a hunter was a dangerous job but what you had wasn't an injury to your body per say. It was an injury to your immune system. AKA Sylus taking care of you when you're very very sick

OB: Hi I started writing this while i had covid back in august and I'm working on clearing out all of my old fic drafts so bear with me on any other updates

masterlist

A groan escapes your lips as you forcefully peel your eyes open. Your throat hurts, your head hurts, your body hurts, everything hurts. It took you a bit to register that the banging wasn’t in your head, but it was at your front door. Every cell in your body screaming at you to stay in your bed, but the knocking just wouldn’t stop.

As you sit up out of bed, your head immediately spins from the sudden motion.

“Fuck,” you attempt to steady yourself before fully getting out of bed, but it was hard. You tried to take a deep breath but that just caused you to have a coughing fit. The burn in your throat and chest is almost unbearable. The toll of whatever sickness you had had a harsher effect on your body than you thought. Initially, you assumed you could have just slept off whatever it was but now you were so sure.

Slowly, you struggle your way to the front door, blanket securely wrapped around you since you were freezing. Eventually, you get your door open as you glare at a well-dressed chest, your eyes racking up to see the owner of said chest. It was, of course, Sylus.

“Well, hello there, kitten. Nice to finally see you.” He smirks down at you for just a moment before noticing the state you were in, gently pushing you back to enter your space, closing the door behind him.

“What are you doing here Sylus?” You ask, your voice is scratchy and hoarse.  Sylus brow creases as he gives you a once over.

“Mephesto claims you haven’t left your house in two days, and you haven’t been answering my messages or phone calls.” He says as he raises a hand to your forehead to gauge your temperature. You swat his hand away as you realize what he was saying. Two days? You haven’t left for two days??? You were just at work yesterday when you got sent home, right? Holding your hand out, you request him to hand you his phone which he does with no complaint. Ignoring the picture of the two of you as his lock screen and notice that in fact it had been two entire days since you had been home. You shove his phone back into his hand and shuffle back to your room to look for your phone. There it sat on your nightstand, still on the charger, opening it up to see several messages and missed calls from Sylus of course but some from Luke and Kieran, a few from Jenna and Tara telling you to get well soon, along with a few from Rafayel, Xavier, and Zayne.

“I-“ you stutter as you sit down on your bed, “ I guess I’ve been in and out of sleep this whole time.” You say with a frown, attempting to rub the pain out of your head. As you go through the numerous texts, a coughing fit erupts making Sylus run over to rub your back. He tries to soothe you as your fit dies, rubbing your back gently as you calm down, taking the blanket from around you, pushing you to lay down and tucking you in. You hadn’t even realized that you were truly TUCKED in until Sylus is running a hand over your cheek and you can’t move.

“Let me out Sylus” You struggle from how tightly he tucked you in, but you didn’t have any real strength in you to get out.

“No can do, kitten. You’re sick and I’ll just have to take care of you.” He puts his hand on your forehead to truly check your temperature. You were burning up and it took everything in Sylus to keep a neutral face, he was worried about you. He had originally thought, you had just buried yourself in work again but seeing you in this state does something to his heart that he doesn’t like. You were such a strong woman and now where you were, weak and frail and not from any wanderer just from what was probably the common cold.  

“I’ll be fine, I can take care of myself.” You refute, struggling yet again but not putting up much of a fight. Theres a slight twitch in Sylus expression as he watches you.

“Please” Sylus voice comes out just above a whisper and you stop moving. It caught you off guard and you stopped fighting. “Thank you, so stubborn” he kisses the top of your head as you scoff.

You hadn’t even realized that you were falling asleep until you were being woken up by Sylus gently.

“What’s going on” you look around confused as you attempt to sit up, Sylus grabs your arm helping you as a rag falls off the top of your head.

“You have to eat something Kitten.” Sylus states as he grabs a bowl of some type of soup putting the spoon up to your mouth. You take a sip of it without complaint, it soothes but hurts your throat at the same time causing a groan to come out of your mouth. Sylus inhales a deep breath, gripping the spoon harder. You weren’t getting better, if anything it seemed like you were getting worse. Your skin was getting pale, your temperature wasn’t going down, and all you were doing was sleeping and while you were sleeping you were shaking. You were in cold sweat; he had to change the rag on your head almost every thirty minutes.

“It hurts, Sy” You grimace after you try to swallow another spoon full of soap. Your voice was so weak, you looked so frail, it was literally breaking his heart to see you like this.

Sylus puts down the bowl, “Just lay down sweetie.” He helps you get back under the covers and before he can even get back with another towel for your head, you’re asleep.

Now Sylus was a prideful man for sure, but for you, for you he would do anything, for you he would put aside his pride. He knew he couldn’t just call any sort of doctor because of the aether core in your heart, so he knew he had to call your doctor, Doctor Zayne. But oh, did he hate Dr.Zayne, YOUR Dr.Zayne. Sylus just knew that man was in love with you, your childhood friend who spent his life becoming a heart surgeon and then being your personal doctor. Tsk, he’s heard of the whole childhood friends to lover’s trope, he wasn’t a dumb man. He wasn’t dumb, but he was desperate, and he needed you to get better. It had already been a full day since he had been in your place, and you just kept getting worse. Begrudgingly he picked up your phone and did what he had to do.  

You don’t remember much in your sick haze. It was hard to even distinguish what was really going on or what was part of your fever dreams. You lucidly remember Sylus waking you up to give you soup and take medicine. You think you remember Zayne coming in which would make sense, he is your doctor, but you also remember Xavier? Maybe you weren’t particularly sure, it wouldn’t really make sense for him to be there, but you were sure you remembered seeing him.

Eventually, you gain a full sense of consciousness. Surprisingly, your body doesn’t ache like it has been and there isn’t an immense pressure in your head. You attempt to sit up when you notice a hand holding onto your arm, and attached to the hand was Sylus. A soft smile spreads on your face as you see him sitting most likely uncomfortably in a chair next to your bed. His head was laid beside you and his hand grasping onto your arm. You had no clue had long he had been there or how long he had been taking care of you. The pill bottles, half eaten soup and cups of water you don’t remember drinking or taking had to have come from somewhere and it wasn’t you.

“Ah, I see the kitten has finally stirred from her hibernation.” Sylus exhausted face meets your curious eyes.

“Yeah, I’m feeling much better.”  You say with a yawn and a stretch. The gaze he is giving you makes you feel small, causing you to turn away from him, “thank you”

His hand reaches out to grab your chin gently, “You had me worried, sweetie. You had a respiratory infection and pneumonia. What would have happened to you if I wouldn’t have come?” His jaw is set tight and you don’t think you would ever see the feared Onychinus leader looking scared. He was scared, scared he was going to lose you…...again.

“…… I’m sorry but you took care of me and I’m fine now. Yeah?” You say turning your head out of his hands in more embarrassment as you busy yourself with straightening out your night stand. As you pick up the bottle of pills, you notice you see that Zayne prescribed these. You glance between the bottle and then at Sylus.

He scoffs before taking the bottle from your hand, putting it back down “Well of course I had to reach out to your doctor. Your fever wouldn’t go down.”

“But you hate Zayne?”  You questioned as you tilt your head in a way that was way too cute for Sylus.

“I do not hate the doctor. I just don’t like how friendly he is with you on the occasion.” He scoffs at the giggle you let out, “And I’m aware that you are childhood friends, but the man should have some boundaries”

That makes you laugh even harder, not THE Sylus Quin talking about boundaries. He wouldn’t know a boundary if it shot him in the heart. It was sweet, he was being so sweet.

“Yeah, I thought seeing him was just a fever dream I was having actually. Funny enough, I thought I also saw my friend Xavier here.”

The noise that leaves Sylus had you holding back the biggest laugh that you could possibly muster. So in fact you had not imagine Xavier, he had actually been there and surprisingly Sylus let him in.

“Another one of your ‘friends’ who needs to work on their boundaries. He came over in the middle of the night questioning about your whereabouts after sending you NUMEROUS texts and phone calls. He was insistent on seeing you or he would have gotten your little hunter association involved and I didn’t think you would want that.” He groans with this cute pout on his face. “It seems you have a lot of these type of ‘friends’ who lack any type of boundaries. You should work on that sweetie.”

You reach out to grab his face making him look at you, his gaze softened when he saw your face “Thank you for taking care of me, Sy.”

He grabs your hand a places a small kiss upon the back of it, “Of course Kitten”

[reavesluv]

Cameras

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x influencer fem!reader.

Summary: You and Paige are big figures in the internet, Paige just came out to the world as a lesbian and you’ve always been open about your sexuality. So your managers got a plan.

Fake dating + she plays hard to get

Part 1. “The Meeting.”

notes: inspired on drake’s song!

and have you seen those pictures of paige 🤭 i’m in love

“Hey Y/N, too busy?” Lena, your lovely and loyal manager asks.

“Not at all, everything alright?” You answer.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Yeah? what is it?”

“You know who Paige Bueckers is?”

“Oh sure do, she’s hot as hell” You laugh, answering. “What about her?”

“You know she just came out?”

“You mean she likes girls?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, that’s good for her, what’s so important about it?”

“That– uh…her manager, Louis, he contacted me yesterday.”

“Like for what?”

A big silence falls between you two, thick and uncomfortable.

“Would you mind dating Paige?” Lena asks, looking away.

“There’s no way!” You say, putting a hand in front of you in a stop sign.

Standing in front of the internet’s desire, the girl everyone likes, everyone knows, everyone wants. It was definitely not for the weak, and you were weak.

“How do you guys even know each other?” Paige asked his manager, Louis, about the fact that he knows Lena.

“Well…We might have dated in high-school.” He answers.

“Bruh.” You say, rolling your eyes.

“So what now? I have to date Paige because you want to?” You say.

“It’s not because we want to. Think about it, Paige just came out and she’s such an icon right now, and you Y/N, everyone loves you, so imagine how much money you could make by being together?” Lena says.

“That’s definitely not how it works!” Paige answers.

“Yeah, it’s not happening.” You answer her.

A silence washed all over the room where the four of you were.

“People are not gonna believe it, she’ll be too lucky to date me.” You say, pretending to mind the idea.

“Oh please, don’t flatter yourself, i’m way hotter than you” Paige says. “People are not gonna believe you got to date me!”

You laugh, looking at her big blue eyes. She was gorgeous, and the last thing you would do was saying no to the plan.

Paige eventually said yes, because for some reason, your eyes gave her exactly what she was looking for…reassurance.

“You just came out and you look way gayer than i do.” You say, sitting at her side in the restaurant, everything planned by Louis and Lena, of course.

“Of course i do, you’re such a delicate flower, you look like you love dick” Paige says.

“You’re so fucking annoying.” You answer.

“Well you’re re gonna have to pretend that you love me.”

That made you nervous, cause it was true. You had to pretend that you loved her, even though you were already letting your heart open up a little bit.

“You two, look away and pretend this is not happening.” Louis says, smiling, like he was proud of you two for being there.

he took the picture, and minutes later it was posted. Your and Paige’s life, had been officially changed.

“Congrats girls, you’re officially dating.” He says.

You and Paige look at the picture, and then you smile softly at her.

“You look like a star, but only on camera” You say, trying to make everything feel a little bit more comfortable between the two of you, trying to break the ice.

“You’re so mean, i hope you’re not planning on me falling in love with you, cause you’re never gonna get it.” Paige laughs.

You laughed too, and when you both stopped, you looked at her again.

“I like how your hair looks like that.” you tell her.

“Thanks.” She says, softly raising a brow at you like she doesn’t believe you a thing. “You’re trying to make me like you?”

“I guess we have to, don’t we?”

She laughs, and smiles back at you.

“This’ll be pretty fun.” she says to you, fixing your hair.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

I was just listening to the song to be honest😹

[nicka-nell]

How they act when they have a crush on you

Pairing: Atsumu x, Suna x, Kuroo x, Ushijima x, Daichi x, Hinata x, Iwaizumi x, Oikawa x reader

Warning: fluff, mdni

Part 1 | Part 2 (end)

A total bully. Constantly in teasing mode.

Whether it’s in class and he throws little paper balls at your head, pulls your hair while you’re tying your shoes in the gym, or “borrows” your homework to copy it and give you your notebook back with a scrabbly drawing next to your exercises.

Atsumu takes every free opportunity to pick on you, thinking that you take it as a form of pleasant affection.

You’re chatting with some friends in sports class when you get hit in the back of the head with a ball. It wasn’t a powerful throw. In fact, you barely felt it, but you know immediately who the ball came from when you turn around with a grim expression and see the wide-grinning blond Miya brother running towards you. “Sorry sweetheart. But ya were standing in my throwing lane.” he grins and picks up the ball. Oh, how you’d love to hit him in the face with the ball.

After school you just want to go home, the umbrella is already open as it is pouring like hell, when you feel two strong hands snatching the umbrella from your hands. “Hey sweetheart, I’m sure ya won’t have a problem if I borrow the umbrella, will ya?” Atsumu smirks at you again, already holding the umbrella in his hands so that he doesn’t get wet. You’re next to him, but half your body still gets wet as you try to take the umbrella away from him. “Hey, I’m a damn superb athlete. Can’t risk it to get sick,” he complains, putting his arm around your shoulders and pulling you towards him so that you don’t get completely wet. You walk home together for quite a while until Atsumu leads in the opposite direction to his own home. With your umbrella, of course. You can prepare yourself to arrive home soaked and chilled. Awesome.

Atsumu would never think of telling you that he has a crush on you. He assumes that you already know this and that you also have feelings for him, but are too shy to tell him.

When a guy invited you out for ice cream and you agreed, Atsumu complained to Osamu. Osamu first had to make it clear to him that you two are definitely not a couple and that you certainly don’t assume that he has feelings for you, because Atsumu is also just an asshole towards you.

Atsumu interrupts you sulking while you’re eating ice cream with the guy, completely ignores this dude and tells you that you shouldn’t eat ice cream with other guys because he likes you and it annoys him when you do things with other guys who aren’t him.

Suna is probably more of a secret, very laid-back admirer who takes things rather slowly.

He doesn’t behave any differently towards you in everyday life. That’s why it’s not obvious to outsiders that he has feelings for you. Even for you.

You’re in the same circle of friends. He’s not particularly jealous when you talk to other men. Possibly also because he knows exactly what he has to offer and is convinced of himself to a healthy degree.

But after a while, you notice that he’s more interested in you. He always likes your pictures on social media. Sometimes he comments on them with emojis. A fiery heart, or a smiley looking mischievously to the side, or even a smiley with heart eyes. Sometimes he also speaks to you directly about your pictures.

Rarely does he tease you.

“Saw your picture yesterday. Looked good,” he says calmly, his legs up against the wall as he lies on his back on the bed, his head hanging off the edge of it as he looks at his phone in his hands. You’re sitting on the floor with your back against his bed, still finishing up a few things for your group work for school, when you look sideways at him. “Thank you, that was with Tsumu. We played CoD,” you answer him. “A game date?” he replies with an almost arrogant look, still scanning you from his casual position as you shake your head and roll your eyes. Suna wouldn’t admit it, but deep down, he’s glad you denied his question.

Your free classes are for learning. But sometimes you use them to just relax, chat or do nothing. While one or two of you are studying in the school's common room, you approach Suna, who is sitting on a bench with Atsumu and Osamu. Both boys are looking at Suna’s phone, who’s playing a game, when you approach him and ask curiously what he’s doing. All three boys look at you before Suna grabs your hand and casually pulls you onto his lap while resting his head on your shoulder. His hands are around your waist while his phone is in his hands in front of you. “It’s a new mobile game that came out. It’s based on a webtoon,” he answers, still focused on his phone.

Suna would probably confess his feelings to you first. However, his confession is rather spontaneous.

For example, in a store when you buy some fruit sticks on the way back home and he also pays for your stick. Outside, you tell him that he didn’t have to do that and that you can pay for it yourself, but out of the blue, he just tells you that he did it because he likes you. “So what does it matter? I did it because I like you. So bad?”

Like Atsumu, Kuroo is someone who would tease you to get your attention. But not in that childish way with paper balls in your hair.

But at the same time, Kuroo would also help you and is very attentive.

In sports class, you are currently learning the basics of basketball - how to dribble, make a lay-up and so on - before your sports teacher tells you to practice on your own for the next 30 minutes. Kuroo grins at you and throws you the ball. “Do you think you can beat me in a one-on-one?” he smirks, knowing full well that you can’t. Nevertheless, you accept his challenge, start to play and quickly lose the ball. “You need to be less stiff. Try to move with the ball. And... try to keep the ball at about waist height when you dribble,” Kuroo says as he dribbles past you to make a smooth 3-pointer. 

You’re sitting on a bench in the shadows during your break. It’s a hot summer day and you just want to get somewhere where there’s air conditioning. “You should drink more. It’s pretty hot today and you’re not an oryx antelope that can go without water for long,” says Kuroo, who suddenly stands next to you at the bench and holds out a small bottle of water.

He always acts so tough around others, but he cares about the people who are important to him.

Would he tell you that he has feelings for you? Probably not, but at some point you would notice it yourself and ask him casually. 

If you asked him about it, he’d start off by rambling and beating around the bush, but then eventually admit to having feelings for you.

Ushijima would probably behave the same way towards you as he usually does. At least that’s what he thinks.

But you can actually see him looking in your direction from time to time and subconsciously observing you.

He also subconsciously thinks of you, asking Tendou, for example, whether he could imagine that you might also like certain things.

In class, you are all already in the classroom waiting for the teacher, while you talk to Semi about the new shop next to the school and Tendou tries to tell Ushijima about the latest manga he has read. Tendou quickly realizes that Ushijima isn’t paying any attention to him, but that his gaze is instead wandering toward you and Semi. “Wakatoshi? Were you even listening to me?” Ushijima barely visibly flinches, noticing that his thoughts were somewhere else when he looks over at Tendou again. “Can you lend me the magazine? They always have such interesting promotions on the last page,” he says, completely forgotten that his attention was still on you earlier. Unlike Tendou, who purses his lips and narrows his eyes.

“Uhhh, tell me, did you watch the new K-Drama series? The one with the lawyers and the forensic scientist? Mmmh, the lawyer’s secretary is sooo cute!” Tendou chants as he walks with Ushijima towards the gym for training. “No. Do you think Y/n would like the series? She likes watching these things, doesn’t she?” Ushijima asks dryly, not realizing that he’s only thinking about you again. “Mmm, I don’t know, maybe you two should watch the series,” Tendou replies, hoping to finally get a little more out of Ushijima, but he doesn’t respond to his statement anymore.

It would take so long for Ushijima to realize that he has feelings for you. Whether he finds out on his own, because he realizes that this rapid heartbeat is not because of his “suddenly worsening condition”, or because Tendou gives him a few clues to think about his feelings for you.

However, Ushijima would tell you as soon as he recognized it for himself. But not with a bouquet of flowers and a romantic dinner.

No, he would simply ask you at the next opportunity, if you were interested in him, because he is pretty sure that his interest in you goes beyond friendship. Not caring if you were alone or around friends during his confession.

Sawamura is a little gentleman. He would show his kind of affection through small things. The typical “act of kindness”.

Whether it’s opening the door, holding your school bag while you put on your jacket, or simply walking home together, even if it means a ten-minute diversions for him.

“Ah damn...” you curse quietly as you sit in your seat in the classroom and realise that you’ve forgotten your pencil case at home. “Dai-“ you’re turning around to ask Sawamura if he can lend you a pencil only to see him holding one out to you already, with a slight smile on his face. “Thank you.” You whisper quietly and turn back to the front.

You’re on your way home after a pretty exhausting day at school. All of you stayed a little longer in the school library today to study for your final exams. So it’s already dark when you go home and you’re upset about not bringing a jacket. “Here. Next time you should remember to pack something warm. You never know when it might rain and the temperature could drop,” Sawamura says calmly, holding out the jacket he wears for volleyball training. He himself is still wearing his school uniform jacket. After all, he doesn’t want to catch a cold. You gratefully accept the sports jacket and put it over your shoulders. Sawamura wouldn’t admit it, but he wouldn’t mind if you forgot your jacket next time as well, and wore his instead, because seeing you in his way too big jacket somehow makes his heart beat faster.

Sawamura would think long and hard about whether to confess his feelings to you, because he wouldn’t want to ruin the friendship between you. But in the end, he would be the one to confess his feelings to you first, in the hope that you would return them.

Unlike Ushijima, however, he would do it at a moment that suits him. For example, when the two of you are alone, on the way home together, in a quiet and laid-back environment and a relaxed atmosphere.

Hinata is so clumsy and although he tries to hide his feelings a little bit and keep them under control, even a blind man would understand how much he has a crush on you.

As soon as you enter the room, he gets all nervous and his vocabulary suddenly shrinks so much that it feels like it only consists of 30 words.

Even if Hinata appeared nervous towards you, he would never be someone who would tease you or have a cheeky remark on his lips. Nor would he ignore you. He would also be the cheerful and friendly whirlwind towards you, just a little awkward. He would try to support you, even if it was just carrying the bench in the gym together with you.

“H-hi,” Hinata stutters and turns away, glowing red in the face, as you smile at him and greet him too. “I’ve brought water for myself,” he says with a smile and holds out a water bottle to you. You give him an irritated look, but then giggle. “For you? Yes, that’s nice, but why are you giving it to me?” you ask and notice Hinata blushing again. He’s probably embarrassed right now. But you think it’s cute. “Eh, I mean for you. You. I’ve got my bottle here! See? It’s even full!” he says and reaches for the bottle in the side of his bag, wanting to shake it to show you that it’s full. But instead, he presses down on the bottle and splashes the water on his face. You giggle, but reach into your own gym bag and pull out a small towel to put on Hinata’s wet head so he can dry off. A gesture that is probably too much for his nerves right now.

Tired after his hard and long volleyball training with Kageyama, Hinata is just about to get on his bike and ride home when he sees you sitting at the bus stop in the dark. A little confused, he asks you what you are still doing here at this time of night when you tell him that you missed your bus."Then come on, I’ll drive you home!" he says with a cheerful smile and you don’t even have the chance to say no. Because you’re already sitting on the front of his handlebars while he pedals his bike and takes you home. He doesn’t seem to care that you live in the opposite direction to him and that it will take him even longer to get home, thanks to you. “Hold on tight, the Shouyou taxi is fast as lightning,” he says with a grin and drives you home.

With Hinata, it’s a fifty-fifty chance whether he confesses his feelings to you or not. Either he confesses them to you, but then because he babbles and the words just fall out of him with nervousness, or you tell him at some point that you have feelings for him.

If you are the one who confesses his feelings first, you can literally watch a fuse burn out in his head and how he is completely overwhelmed until he realizes what you have just told him.

Iwaizumi is similar to Sawamura. He would also shine through his act of kindness. Even if he would try to hide it coolly.

However, Iwaizumi also has a protective and slightly jealous side, especially when Oikawa gets the idea to flirt with you. He doesn’t like it when you feel uncomfortable or when other guys get too close to you.

“You shouldn’t carry such heavy things. You’ll damage your back,” Iwaizumi grumbles, before taking the bag with all the water bottles for the volleyball team from you and hanging it over his shoulder. “Hajime... I’m not five anymore... I can carry the bag by myself.” You answer him with a sigh. He’s a bit like your mum... far too caring. The only thing missing now is that he shouts after you in the morning to always bring a jacket so that you don’t freeze in the summer when it’s thirty degrees… “Never mind, I’ll carry the bag now...” he replies casually and turns his head away from you, but the tips of his reddish ears betray his coolness.

“Uuuhh my favorite manager is back” grins Oikawa, who runs up to you and hugs you as if you were best friends, but quickly lets go of you when he is hit in the back of the head with a ball. “Hey Shittykawa, leave her alone. We’re here to train, not to flirt with women. Especially not with our manager, you idiot!” Iwaizumi yells annoyed and approaches you both, while Oikawa tries to hide behind you. “Not my face, not my face!” Oikawa begs from behind you, leaning his head against your back. Iwaizumi tries to pull him away from you as the coach calls everyone together and demands their attention.

Iwaizumi would definitely be the first to tell you that he has feelings for you. But also alone, not in front of all your friends.

He would pull you aside, casually ask if you had a moment and just before he confessed his feelings to you. His tough determination would leave him and he would scratch the back of his neck until he got the words out almost sulkily, not looking you in the eye at first, before repeating his words with more determination, this time looking at you.

Oikawa would try to win your attention with every second.

Whether it’s in class because he offers to answer difficult questions and flaunts the answer to make himself look smart and strong in front of you, or whether it’s in training when he scores 5 points only with his serves.

Even your teacher doesn’t call you by name as often as Oikawa does when he wants your attention.

He also doesn’t like it when he sees you with other guys. He always pushes his way in between your conversations and tries to be close to you.

“Oh hey, Y/n-chan, what are you talking about right now?” he asks with feigned curiosity, his arms draped over your shoulders as he stares darkly into the eyes of the young guy in front of you. “Oh eh, we were talking about the new movie that airs tomorrow,” you reply, looking back over your shoulder at Oikawa, who suddenly looks at you with a smile, the dark expression completely gone. “A movie? Shall we go together?” He’s not really in the mood for the cinema, but if it means this guy leaves and Oikawa can spend more time with you, it’s a win-win.

Oikawa walks out of the changing room with a big grin on his face. Freshly showered and in everyday clothes after his team won the game against a neighboring team. “Did you see how many points I scored in that game? It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he asks, totally full of himself, as he puts his arm over your shoulders and pulls you closer to him. “Yes... you really scored a lot of points. But Hajime was also really-“, ”Iwa-chan could only score so many points because I’m the best setter. Right? You saw that, didn’t you? How I pass the ball into Iwa-chan’s hand?" he interrupts you, almost as if it annoys him that you were about to praise his best friend. With a sigh, you just chuckle. “Mhh yes, that’s right. You’re really great.” you answer him and watch as his eyes sparkle even brighter and he happily presses you against his chest. “I knew you only had eyes for me, little birdy.”

Since Oikawa assumes that every woman likes him anyway, he also expects you to like him. Would he tell you that he has feelings for you? Maybe.

The fact that you two are always doing so much together and that he’s like a clingy puppy somehow blurs the line between friendship and relationship.

At some point, when a guy had asked for your number, Oikawa had then shouted loudly that the guy should leave his girlfriend alone. You looked at him in confusion and there was a brief, awkward silence until you asked him if by any chance he had feelings for you.

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

My Head in Your Hands

It was late evening in Heartslabyul dorm and Cater was doing your makeup. There was no special occasion, you had simply said you liked how he did his and he offered to do yours as well.

At one point during the interaction, he had waved his hand off to the side dramatically as a way of emphasizing a point he was making. He was busy looking back at his phone to make sure it was recording (he was making a video out of him doing your makeup) when he felt it. A soft weight on his palm.

It took him a moment to realize what the weight was: your chin. There you were with your head rested on his palm and a sweet smile on your face. He thought his heart started beating for a moment, but he quickly did what he could to regain his composure. "What are you doing?" His voice came out a bit shakier than he had hoped.

You look at him strangely for a moment before sitting back up "Riiight. That's a trend from my world. Sorry Cay-Cay-"

The moment the word 'trend' leaves your mouth his eyes light up. Before you can finish your sentence, he's demanding you explain this trend to him.

The next day, as you're walking past the Pop Music Club's clubroom, cater calls to you to join him and Kalim. You walk into the room as you have nothing better to do only to be ambushed by Kalim.

"Cater showed me that video where you did that hand thing! You said it was a trend from your world?"

It takes you a moment to catch your breath after getting the soul scared out of you, but when you do you answer "Uhm. . .yeah."

"Can we do that trend too?!"

You're stunned for a moment. Looking over to Cater, he only offers you a shrug. "Sure?"

Kalim grins wider somehow and hugs you excitedly. He softly takes your hand and places his head on it with the widest grin in the world.

Before you can make a comment, he hands you his phone to take the picture with. With a sigh you extend your arm and smile gently before taking the picture.

"Thanks, Prefect! I'll make sure to send the picture to you later!"

That evening as you're relaxing in Ramshackle you hear a knock on the window. At first you brush it off as the wind since you're on the second floor, but there it is again.

Nervously, you throw your legs over the edge of the bed and creep towards the window. With one motion, you tear open the curtains. There's nothing there.

"Boo"

You shriek and nearly fall over, being saved from your fall by a certain mischievous fae. "Lilia!"

All he offers in response in a chuckle and a wink.

"What are you doing here?" You finally sigh

"Cater told me earlier about your escapades in the Pop Music Club today and the moment you two shared yesterday and I simply could not miss out!"

"So you decided to nearly scare me to death and break into my dorm?"

"Break in is such a strong term. I prefer 'indulge in a surprise visit.'"

You have to hold back a groan at his response. "So, what do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious, My Dear? I'd like to take a photo with you!"

"That's it?"

"That's it," he confirms.

"Alright, fine."

Lilia pulls you into a hug before spinning the two of you around in the air. He finally sets you down, getting a chuckle from your dizzy state "Your hand, Dear."

"My hand?"

"Of course! Don't you think I'd look just adorable nuzzled up in your hand?"

A sigh escapes your lips, but it's accompanied by a small smile. You extend your hand and, true to his word, Lilia does indeed nuzzle into your hand. Just as you're about to grab your phone to take the picture, he shakes his head and points to his phone floating in the air.

"Smile for the camera, Dearie!"

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[sunflower1experiment]

Poppy (Risks Prequel)

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Offering those poppy flowers as a treaty, it was cruel, but he assumed you wouldn’t do anything naive again…but to have them thrown at his face. Well, he was amused honestly, again…he held no grudges.

Flowers? He actually got you flowers, he seemed so proud of himself too, the irony to him being proud of something for once. "Poppy flowers?"

The scientist nods as if to expect your reaction of overjoy with his gestures of affectionate labors, it honestly made the tension in the room heighten while he still held the flowers. After the argument yesterday?

==

"Harley they are just children! They shouldn't be doing adult stuff! Just grab some criminals or people who could be dying- something!"

It made Harley scoff, for you to even suggest that kind of idea all the while they had such an amazing opportunity to create bigger bodies and more toys accessible or simply create life! Naive, very naive. "Elliot Ludwig was able to save his daughter, we should..."

"No, Elliot created Poppy! We don't know if- the accident...You can't hurt them. Please Harley, you already hurt prototype and Theo." He looks back at your pleading gaze, but you didn't understand the bigger picture here. "Everything I do, I'm doing for Playtime."

"No you're not! You only care for fame, money and proving those other scientists wrong." You look away and hug yourself, backing up when he tries to hold your face. "Please listen when I tell you this, my dear."

"What is there to listen to?"

"You simply don't understand, you're too sentimental. They're just orphans-"

"Sawyer- I was an orphan! You all knew that! Elliot hired me so I can work with the children! Not hurt them!" You push him aside after your outburst, walking away with anger boiling inside you.

==

Such outbursts shouldn't happen again, he gently pushes the poppies in your hand. "I'm sorry my dear, I should have considered your feelings through all of this. That is why I'm sending you-"

You move away and drop the flowers, "Don't try to insult my intelligence, what did you do to them."

"Who...." There was an unbearable moment of silence between you two, Harley wanted to believe that you didn't mean them. "Experiment...1322...?"

"NO! Kevin, Jack and Matthew!" You shove him again, now letting angry tears fall down from your already red puffy eyes. "You told me you wouldn't hurt them! I told you! They were just babies! Why are they working with those bastards who laugh at their pain!?"

Harley hugs your shaken form, listening to you sob against his chest, and he understood why Leith said he shouldn't have gotten so attached to you. "You're too emotional for this project....We have to send you back."

"......Why? Because Pierre said so?"

"My dear, you're simply, a threat to...myself and this project." You move from him after he says that.

"You had the audacity to give me these flowers. Knowing you ruined any chance of us ever clicking."

Harley groans then he starts yelling, "What can I do!? Huh? I loved you! Yet your face shows revulsion! You cannot handle the fact that I wish to play scientist for one second-"

"A scientist wouldn't harm others for his selfish needs! If you really love me, you'd stop hurting the children! Stop being such a damn fool!" The man just slams his hand down, you flinch, and he stares you in the eyes afterwards.

"What I'm doing is something your sentimental mind cannot understand...I've entertained your silly emotions long enough, you are dismissed and forbidden from seeing the children and the bigger toys... I know what you say to them. 'Stay brave' 'Stay strong' 'Don't let revenge be your only way to push forward' or my favorite 'You deserve better'. Do you think I enjoy being cruel?"

At first, you didn't answer his question, yet when he got close and caressed your cheek. His eyes meet yours and he could see the fear in your eyes, the anger that follows after and then the utter despair. "Of course you do, I love you, but you do not hold such regards because you think I'm cruel."

When the discussion ends, you left in silence. Stella walks over and tries to reach out, you simply pull your hand away when she does, not wanting to spare her a glance. "When things go to hell, I won't be here to clean his mess or comfort him.."

CW, slight NSFW// Minors do not interact.

Naked bodies, kissing, small forms of affection, arguments and slight signs of emotional abuse

(It's how I depict Harley Sawyer, he seems like the one who desires affirmation and gratification but will deny such affections when he feels he failed, knows he failed or can sense disappointment from others)

All those years you both spent together, when you first met it was of course a form a normalcy, curt talks, exchanging ideas and then experimenting on ways to help the toys become more marketable.

Then he made the first move and got declined, it was a simple decline that didn't affect him at first but then he asked again when you both became more comfortable. That was about five months later, you accepted. Then explained to him your reasoning for declining him, "I wasn't really sure what dynamic we had so I wasn't planning on risking our jobs."

You get it, and he was well enthralled with the idea of having a better half so you both hit it off well, chattering, talking about dreams. Sometimes you both would spend time over each other's homes, he lived in a nice house, it was obvious he really caters to his work in his spare time.

Meanwhile you enjoyed your comfortable apartment life, housing isn't cheap and at the moment you were comfortable with a couch, two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen lounge room with a tv. Harley didn't mind either, in fact he ended up spending the night.

He was, simply enamored with you, your touches, his hands intertwining with yours the way you'd lean into his touch. Even when all you both did was admire each other's bodies, there was something about it from Harley that made you feel special.

When you made breakfast, he'd hug you with his tall frame looming over your frame even if you both were tall or if you were short, he was somehow finding a way to hug you by the waist. He kisses your cheek, jaw and then neck before leaning on you, it was comfortable.

While at work you both barely showed affection, he did find random ways to be caring, covering the corners of desks for example. Then you'd return the favor by grabbing him coffee, his favorite being a cappuccino latte with cream and brown sugar. Simple work partner stuff, but he had an ego, showing off his works, you'd nod in approval and then show him ways to do better.

While his ego was there, he still listened to you, but you'd tell him to take credit for it because you knew he could repay you later. A single chaste kiss on the lips or more if he was really thankful, it honestly bemused you how this so called "doctor" scientist was so fascinated by anatomy when it came to intimacy.

"Explain this to me, I recently tried to handle prototype, but he simply wouldn't cooperate. So I gave him a shock." Harley watches you freeze, ".....Harley you bought him to life, you...it's amazing but you cannot just hurt him for not bending to your will."

Harley scowls at your warning, "Spare me the sentiments, the prototype is nothing but a machine experiment."

You grab the file and leave to go see this prototype. "I'll talk to him"

When you opened the door and spoke with the prototype you at first thought it'd be terrifying but...this creature was simply scared and confused. Smart too, your gentle voice eased its weary hand. Then you point to the glass, it taps to signal its knowing knowledge of the see through glass. "I'll try to tell him to stop with the electrocution, okay?"

"dO nOt wOrRy mX- you simply want to help your= lOveR coRrect?"

You nod slowly, blinking in shock. "How did you..."

"yOuR eyes dilated when i uSeD h1s vO1ce."

Manipulative, just like Harley in a strange way...

When you leave the room, Harley was leaning against the wall. He then left in silence, "Harley...." You reach but he moves away, "Come on, you know I love your work-"

"Yet you hate how I handle it right?"

you sigh, of course Sawyer is offended. "No, I simply want you to not be cruel to them. You can depict what I mean however you want, you'll just hurt your own feelings that way."

He scoffs out a chuckle, "Of course, to think I actually let my guard down." You pause then hold his hand.

"Hey...." Harly pauses, not looking back to hide his knowing smirk before he turns with a tired sad gaze. "I'm sorry, you can visit mine and we can have some comfort food okay...?"

He nods then caresses your face, "Thanks for taking the risk for me hun, I'm sorry if I upset you.." he nods again, accepting your apology. When it should be him apologizing to you!

Next

[fandomfablesunleashed]

Threads of Us

Zayne x reader

Summary: After a heated argument about Zayne’s constant overworking, hurtful words are exchanged, but the tension eventually gives way to heartfelt reconciliation and a deeper understanding between him and the reader.

Words: 2.1k

Notes: This was requested:

I really want to read some good hurt/comfort between reader and Zayne. I feel like they would argue about him working all the time (since he's a doctor) and some hurtful stuff would be said, but they would work it out later.

I had to give it a go. Turned even longer than I originally expected.

Really hope you like it, anon! 😊

English is not my first language

Masterlist

You slammed the cabinet shut, a little harder than you intended, the harsh crack of wood against metal punctuating through the silence. The plates rattled, but you didn’t care. He was late. Again. Another cold dinner, left to sit untouched, another evening spent alone in this empty apartment. 

Then, the faintest echo of the front door clicking shut, signaling Zayne’s return. He slipped in like a ghost, and given how little you’d seen him lately, he might as well have been one.

“You’re late.”

The words weren’t loud, but they cut, sharp and direct. You didn’t need to raise your voice. You didn’t even need to look at him. You could already picture him, the lines beneath his eyes deeper than yesterday. He'd have the perfect, reasonable explanation. One that, no matter how sincere, would do little to erase the distance between you.

Zayne exhaled, slow, and tired. “I got caught in surgery. I couldn’t just walk out.”

“I’m not asking you to walk out of an OR,” you snapped, spinning to face him. “I’m asking you to show up for me once in a while. Is that really so much to ask?”

Silence. Then he muttered, “You knew what I did when you got involved with me.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. “Right,” you said, your voice cracking, brittle like glass on the edge of shattering. “So this is just… how it is now? Me eating dinner alone and you coming home when I’m already in bed?”

“I save lives.” His tone was icy now. Defensive. “I don’t get the luxury of clocking out at five.”

“And I don’t get the luxury of having you, do I?”

The room went quiet. Too quiet. Your chest ached.

Zayne looked away first, his gaze fading, as if the weight of the words had already broken something inside him.

“What do you want me to do?” He asked, his voice tight with frustration. “Abandon my patients? Just walk away so you’re not lonely for a few hours?”

“You don’t even see it, do you?” Your voice trembled, fury and heartbreak colliding in your chest. “You come home like this is some hotel, and I’m just here. Waiting around like some goddamn afterthought.”

Zayne didn’t answer. He just muttered, “I’m not doing this right now,” and brushed past you, already halfway gone.

“No, of course you’re not,” you shot back. “You never do it. You bury yourself in work, like it’s some shield, and then look at me like I’m the one being unreasonable for needing more than the five exhausted minutes you toss at me in between your work and sleep.”

He stopped. Turned. His eyes were dark, hard. Nothing you have seen before. “This is who I am,” he said, each word clipped and controlled, just like him. “I can’t shut it off. People die if I don’t show up.”

“And I die a little every time you don’t show up for me!” you screamed, the words ripping out of you like they’d been waiting in your chest for months.

That landed. You saw it—something splintering behind his eyes, a crack in his perfectly maintained composure. But he didn’t speak.

You stared at him, chest heaving, eyes burning. “I don’t want to be in love with a man who only shows up when it’s already too late.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

And then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the room.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, a quiet sound that felt impossibly loud. Zayne braced both hands on the edge of the sink, head bowed, chest tight. The silence in here was different. It echoed off the tiles, coiled around his ribs, pressing in like guilt had found a body and wrapped itself around his.

He looked up slowly, eyes dragging to the mirror, and met his reflection.

Red-rimmed eyes stared back. A jawline shadowed with more than just a five o'clock stubble—exhaustion had carved itself into every feature. This was the face of someone who once knew how to balance life and love. Someone who used to come home to you and mean it.

Now?

Now, he barely recognized the man staring back at him.

Your words looped in his head:

“I die a little every time you don’t show up for me”

Zayne squeezed his eyes shut.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. God, he cared so much it hurt. But he didn’t know how to fix it. The hospital needed him. His patients needed him. You needed him.

That’s where everything started to unravel. Because in trying to be everything for everyone, he was slowly becoming nothing to you.

He exhaled, shaky and uneven, and pressed his knuckles to his mouth as if he could shove the emotion back down. His shoulders trembled—just once—but he caught it before it could become something more. He couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not now. Not ever.

But maybe…

Maybe that was the problem.

He needed you. Not in the casual, passing way people say it. He needed you. He needed the way you looked at him like he was still human, even on the days he forgot how to be one.

But even he knew that needing someone wasn’t the same as choosing them.

He had to choose you. Over the hospital. Over his fear. Over everything. 

Like you deserved.

You sat down on the edge of the couch, but your body didn’t really settle. Your leg bounced. Your fingers twisted in your sleeves. The apartment felt even empty now.

Like you were.

You could hear the distant creak of the bathroom door closing, and somehow that made it worse. You hadn’t meant to explode. Not like that. But the words had come out like a dam breaking. Loud and messy and soaked in things you hadn’t said until they’d turned sharp. Too sharp.

He’d looked so tired. Soul-tired. Like the weight of responsibilities he carried had seeped into his bones and made a home there.

And you hated it. Hated that even now, with all that weariness etched into him and knowing that he did not mean to hurt you in any way, part of you still wanted to scream. That stubborn, aching piece of your heart that hadn’t gone silent, that still burned with resentment and unmet needs.

It hadn’t shut up. Not even now. Not even when you wished it would.

“You knew what you were signing up for.”

But that didn’t make it hurt any less. And it didn’t change the truth. You still wanted more. Needed more. More of him, not just the fragments he handed you after the world had already taken the best parts. More than what was left over at the end of his too-long, too-heavy days.

Your anger had flared like a match—burning fast and bright—but guilt was the slow smoke that lingered. Thick and choking.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, as if you could hold the pieces together, as if that would calm the pounding in your chest. It felt so unfair. Wanting something so simple. His presence, his time, his attention and yet knowing the cost of it. Knowing that every moment you asked for was a moment he might not give to someone who needed him to save their life.

 And still, the ache didn’t go away.

Because even if it made you feel selfish, even if the guilt tangled with your longing, you couldn’t stop needing more.

You closed your eyes.

“I don’t want to be in love with a man who only shows up when it’s already too late.”

God. That wasn’t acceptable. That was cruel.

Because he was trying, wasn’t he? Showing up when he could. Leaving pieces of himself in that hospital day after day, then dragging what was left of him back home to you.

You sighed, hands running down your face, ashamed of the heat that had filled your voice earlier. Ashamed that you’d made him feel like the villain when he wasn’t. Not really.

And now he was in the bathroom, probably thinking he’d failed you in every way that mattered.

You didn’t know how to fix this. But you knew you couldn’t just sit out here and pretend silence would do it for you.

You stood up. Took a breath.

Then you padded slowly toward the bathroom door—heart in your throat, guilt in your chest, love still burning underneath it all.

You raised your hand to knock.

You paused with your hand just inches from the bathroom door.

A moment passed. Then two.

You almost turned back. Almost convinced yourself it could wait until morning. But then the door opened.

And there he was, caught mid-step, about to leave. He froze when he saw you standing there. Surprise danced across his face, quickly swallowed by something heavier.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at you.

And in that look was everything he hadn’t said—exhaustion, overwhelming and raw; apology, quiet and aching; and something else, too. Something that looked an awful lot like fear.

Fear that he was losing you.

Fear that maybe he already had.

Your heart cracked.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered before he could say a word. “What I said… I didn’t mean it like that. I just… God, I miss you. And I hate how much I miss you even when you're right here.”

He let out a shaky breath. His head dropped.

“I know,” he said, voice hoarse. “I know you miss me. I miss you too. More than you probably think.” Then softer, almost broken: “I’m scared I’m becoming someone who doesn’t deserve you.”

You reached for him.

“No,” you said, fierce through the tears in your eyes. “You’re not. Zayne, you’re not a bad person for doing what you do. I just… some days, I don’t know how to live in the space between needing you and not wanting to take anything from you.”

“I want to give it,” he said. His voice cracked. So unlike him. “I just don’t know how to be enough for everyone. And I think the one person I keep failing the most is you.”

Your breath hitched. His forehead touched yours, and his hands trembled as they found your waist, pulling you close like he was afraid you’d slip away mid-sentence.

“I don’t want you to carry this alone,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I also don’t want to lose me in the process of waiting for scraps.”

“I don’t want to give you scraps,” he said, and you felt the warm drops of tears hit your cheek.

You pressed your forehead harder against his, arms around him like an anchor, like you could tether both of you to this one fragile moment. This tranquil, broken, desperate moment felt like the beginning of something healing.

“I’ll do better,” he murmured, the words gentle but certain, like a vow spoken not just to you but to himself. “Not just try—do.”

“I’ll meet you there,” you said, pulling him into a full embrace. His arms wrapped around you tight, like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

For the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t hurt.

It was subtle at first. Little things. Small changes you both made, like the way he stopped checking his phone every ten seconds when he walked through the door, or how you started planning actual plans instead of just waiting for him to show up.

Weeks later, things were different.

Tonight, it was a Friday. Zayne was finally off for the weekend, and in what felt like forever, there was no rushed goodbye, no half-eaten dinner cooling on the table. Just the two of you, curled up on the couch, the gentle hum of your favorite playlist filling the space.

“I didn’t realize how much I was missing,” he said, each word chosen with care. “How much I was losing until it almost slipped away. You. Us.”

You shifted, turning toward him so you could see his face, the sincerity in his eyes mirroring your own. “I’m sorry for the way I acted,” you responded. “I know it wasn’t all on you. I was angry because I needed more, but I wasn’t giving you space to show up for me, not really.”

Zayne shook his head slowly, his fingers finding yours, threading through them like muscle memory. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

 “You had every right to be angry. I wasn’t showing up. I was too busy being a doctor that I forgot how to be… well, me. How to be the person you needed.”

You leaned in, your forehead almost touching his, voice barely above a whisper, but the truth behind it was eternal, carved deep into the very core of you.

“You are always what I need.”

[woso-dreamzzz]

Sunshine's Halloween

Mapi León x Ingrid Engen x Child!Reader

Summary: The sixteenth of my Halloween-centric fics

Ingrid smiles fondly over the rim of her coffee mug, leaning against the door frame as Mapi zips up your sunflower costume.

The petals frame your face as Mapi drops a kiss to the very tip of your nose.

It's so sweet and so domestic and Ingrid's heart swells at the scene, especially when Bagheera comes wandering over to rub her cheeks against your legs.

"Looking good," Mapi says, grinning as she lays another kiss onto your nose," And we're all ready to go."

"No, we're not," You giggle," Mama's still drinking her coffee! We can't leave if Mama hasn't finished her coffee!"

Ingrid grins down at her drink.

"Oh, silly me!" Mapi laughs," That's right, we can't leave without Mama finishing her coffee or she'll turn into a monster!"

You giggle as Mapi tickles your tummy.

"Go and say goodbye to the birds," She says, nudging you towards your room," And when you come back, Mama will have finished."

Mapi's only half right of course because Ingrid makes the point of still having some dregs left in the mug by the time you come back, fresh from kissing your birds goodbye.

But it's not much longer to wait and soon you're wandering into the locker room with your little flower Halloween bucket.

"Trick-or-Treat!" You call out, giggling as the girls coo over your cool, new costume.

"Yeah," Mapi teases," Load it up! We're feasting tonight!"

"No, we're not," Ingrid cuts in with an eye roll," Because we're demonstrating healthy eating, remember?"

"Kill joy."

"What was that?"

"Just...er...muttering about how much I love and adore you!"

"Uh-huh, sure."

You're not listening to the bickering of your mothers though as your aunties drop sweeties into your bucket under your watchful eyes.

You wait.

They look back at you.

"It's your turn!" You tell them in exasperation," Trick-or-Treat for you!"

For a moment, no one says anything. Maybe in shock or maybe in them being doubtful that you have sweets to give them back.

But, finally, your auntie Frido speaks.

"Trick-or-Treat?"

You grin at her, rummaging around in your coat pocket for a moment to fish out a polaroid picture of her you took yesterday. You hand it to her, absolutely beaming.

"Treat!" You answer, giggling as Frido stares at her 'treat' with a fond smile.

"Thank you, y/n," Frido says, dropping a soft kiss onto your cheek," But you didn't have to get us anything."

"But it's nice," You reply with a little giggle," Because everyone deserves treats!"

Frido glances at Ingrid. "I swear, what are you teaching this girl? She's just so sweet."

Ingrid smiles down at you, eyes following after you as you wander around handing out your photos in return for sweets.

Mapi's holding your bucket, her gleeful smile just getting wider and wider as it gets fuller and fuller and Ingrid already knows that Mapi's the one that she's going to have to fight to not gorge herself tonight.

You don't seem to care about the sweets at all, looking like you only view them as a way to hand out the cute pictures you took yesterday at trainin.

"Mapi," Ingrid says in warning," You know you're not allowed to eat all of those tonight, right?"

"What? Why not?"

"Well, mostly because they're not yours and because you'll make yourself sick."

"I can deal with it!"

"And if you eat sweets then our daughter wants to eat sweets and if she eats sweets, she'll feel sad that Bagheera and her birds aren't eating sweets and then she'll give them sweets. So I'll have you and her and the animals on a sugar high. No one is having sweets tonight. Except for me."

"What? Why?!"

"Because I know about moderation," Ingrid says with a grin, kissing Mapi's pouty lips," And because I know there's sweets in there that neither you or Sunshine will eat."

"Well...I..."

"Go and get our daughter," Ingrid says fondly," Before she talks Alexia's ear off."

Both of your mothers turn to look at how you're sitting on your Tia Ale's lap.

"And this one is of you and your baby Mija when you brought her to practice. She's smiling because I think she's happy that you're her Mami."

Alexia's bottom lip trembles and her face washes with emotion and Mapi's kind of worried she's going to burst into tears over such a sweet gesture with Mija asleep in the carrier placed in Alexia's cubby.

"Come here, Sunshine," Mapi calls," Let's leave your Tia Ale with her Mija, huh? I think the staff have more sweeties for you to collect."

[iceunhie]

voicelines about you: as their lover !

featuring: imbibitor lunae, jing yuan, gepard. (+ jingliu and kafka)

notes: headcanons! some might be ooc HELP. i couldn't resist writing for hsr man… also jingliu and kafka sneak bc mmm i love morally questionable women 🤩. gn!reader. reader is not trailblazer. some fluff, some angst (?) kinda. reblogs are very much appreciated!

Imbibitor Lunae (Danheng IL)

About [Name]: They're one of the few people who's never condemned me for Danfeng's sins, nor ever tried to get me to own up to them. Their presence is very comforting to me. My lover? *coughs* Y-yes, they are.

About [Name]: Selfies Aside from March, [Name] always seems to ask me to take photos with their camera. Hm? No, I don't really mind. If it makes them feel happy, then that's enough reason for me to agree.

About [Name]: Photo Albums [Name] made an Express photo album with March yesterday. Yeah, pictures of our adventures and memories, according to them. It's in the Data Bank, so just ask me if you want to take a look at it.

Gepard Landau

About [Name]: [Name] is the most amazing individual I've met. Their determination and their will to pursue their goals to the fullest… I'm proud to call them my lover. Oh, ah… Was that too forward?

About [Name]: Lending a Hand Oftentimes, Serval asks [Name] to help her carry some things for her workshop. Although the times I get to personally help out are rare due to my duties, I still make it a point to support them by asking the Silvermane Guards to keep an eye out for them and help carry my sister's things for them if it's too heavy. Of course. They're always my top priority.

About Serval: Nagging Every time Serval stops by my post, it usually means [Name]'s run into some difficulties, which I try to help them out in. While her telling me about my lover's state is greatly appreciated, she always nags and teases me being a fool for them and… *sigh* No, it's alright, really. I'm thankful that my sister cares about [Name] and goes out of her way to talk to them for me. Still, I do hope her nagging would decrease next time.

Jing Yuan

About [Name]: Hm? [Name]? Yes, they're indeed my lover. Hehe, now that you've brought them up, I should go look for them. I'm afraid I've grown so used to the feeling of laying my head on their lap that no other pillow can suffice. Ah, what a predicament…

About [Name]: Spending Time Together While I do enjoy dozing off, [Name] makes a point to let me rest at a more appropriate place, instead of at the Seat of The Divine Foresight, buried under a mountain of paperwork. Oftentimes, I do as they say, but when I'm not and just craving their presence… Heh, now that's another matter entirely.

(BONUS! - Yanqing's Voiceline) About [Name]: Oh, [Name]? They always give me some extra allowance for buying swords, buying me sweets and food I like… Of course I won't say no to that! Sometimes, them being with me when I'm being scolded by the General for my expenses helps a lot. Probably because they're the only one the General can't say no to.

Jingliu

About [Name]: ….Do you really think you have the right to know about them? This is a warning. Try to ask again and perhaps you'll be faced with the end of my blade as my answer.

About [Name]: Soothed The whispers of the marastruck, succumbing to the Abundance… They are the only one able to calm the storm of my thoughts. For that, I am grateful for their patience and their kindness.

(BONUS 2! - Jing Yuan's Voiceline) About Name: While Master's current state is one of irreparable damage, at the very least… She has someone to hold onto while she grapples with the curse of mara. Even if I don't quite believe she's the Jingliu I knew from before, I know that her feelings for [Name] are sincere. I just hope she doesn't end up hurting them in the process.

Kafka

About [Name]: Aha, now thats a question I didn't expect to hear from you. My lover? Yes, [Name] is that to me. I very much enjoy their love and affection, you know. Even if it isn't on the script, I'd still mention them. Quite romantic of me, no?

About [Name]: Trophy They always, always chide me about me ruining my velvet coats when we finish up a script. What's wrong with a little blood? I keep most of them as trophies. There's one I'm especially fond of, too. They think it's rather embarassing that I keep the coat from the time they got injured on the job. Although the stains have long since turnt black, there's still a faint scent of iron in it. Hm? What do I mean by that? Heh, let's just say I don't take any harm coming to [Name] lightly. While they call it a reminder of their lack of caution, I'd rather call it a little show of my affection~

About [Name]: Destiny's Course Elio refused to tell me about what my future with them would be, saying that the path in that choice is quite difficult to discern, and I think it's for the best. I suppose if [Name] decided to leave the Stellaron Hunters, hm, would locking them up till they can't leave me anymore suffice….? Haha, just kidding. I wouldn't let them leave in the first place.

© 𝐌𝐇𝐈𝐈𝐄𝐄𝐄 : do not repost, copy, or plagiarize my work.

[jassy2uall]

– I'd Never Forget Our Anniversary (pt.2)

Billie Eilish x fem!reader

“You can't believe your girlfriend forgot your anniversary”

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

You’ve lost track of time—hours might have passed as you kept driving. The thought keeps circling in your mind: your girlfriend forgot your anniversary. How could she? Do I really mean that little to her?

“For someone who prides herself on remembering dates, she somehow forgot the one that mattered most,” you laughed bitterly to yourself.

You wiped away the tears with the hand that wasn’t gripping the wheel, your vision still blurred with frustration. Then, your phone buzzed.

Finally. She was calling.

But you didn’t answer. It was too late, and you were too angry to talk to her. The only thing that was on your mind right now was getting home.

*******

Billie’s stomach twisted as she stared at the screen. The missed calls. The unread messages.

Why are you at the restaurant?

She was supposed to be here—with her. Not waiting alone. Not blowing up her phone, wondering where she was.

Something was wrong.

The room was alive with laughter, music, and the sounds of their friends celebrating, but it all faded into the background. Billie couldn’t focus. Her hands tightened around her phone as she sent another text.

Where are you? I’m getting really worried, love.

Hello? Y/N?

Still nothing.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

“Billie, what’s wrong?” Ava’s voice finally broke through the haze.

She barely registered her friend’s concerned expression as Nat chimed in. “Yeah, why do you look so down?”

Ava just shrugged, but Billie ignored them, her mind racing. She lifted her head, scanning the room. “Have you guys heard from Y/N?”

One by one, her friends shook their heads.

Billie turned to Zoe, clinging to hope. “You?”

Zoe hesitated, thinking. “The last time I talked to her was yesterday. She sounded really excited about something.”

Billie’s brow furrowed. “Excited? About what?”

Zoe shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe she was putting something together for your anniversary tomorrow.”

Nat’s eyes widened. “Oh my gosh! I totally forgot—your anniversary is tomorrow!” He grinned. “What do you have planned?”

“I’m taking her to her favorite restaurant,” Billie replied, a trace of pride in her voice. “And she’s always wanted to go on a hot air balloon, so I’m surprising her with that too.” For a moment, her smile lit up her face as she pictured all the plans for tomorrow—until a wave of panic crashed over her.

“But none of that matters right now because I have no idea where she is,” she said, anxiety creeping into her tone. “We’re supposed to be all set for tomorrow, and I can’t even think straight.”

“Okay, calm down,” Zoe said, stepping closer. “I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.”

“Do you guys share locations?” Ava asked suddenly. Billie froze as realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Of course they did. She smacked her forehead. “I’m so stupid,” she muttered, quickly pulling out her phone to check.

Her brows furrowed as she stared at the screen. “Why… is she at home?” she mumbled.

“She’s home?” Ava asked, confusion clear in her voice. “I thought she was coming over here.”

“Me too,” Nat added, exchanging a worried glance with the others.

Billie’s mind raced. “I don’t know,” she muttered. Then, turning to Ava, she asked, “Hey, do you mind if I leave earlier than planned?” Her voice carried a mix of guilt and worry.

Ava nodded immediately. “Of course. I hope she’s okay.”

“Same,” Nat echoed. Then, with a half-smirk, he added, “And if she is, I’m definitely gonna get on her for missing out.”

Billie managed a small smile at the joke, but her concern overpowered any lightheartedness. Grabbing her things, she rushed outside and slid into her Porsche. With her heart pounding, she sped off toward home, desperate to find you.

Twenty minutes later, Billie pulled into the driveway, parking right beside your black Mercedes. She barely took a second to turn off the engine before jumping out, her heart hammering in her chest.

As she approached the front door, she fished her key out of her pocket—something you had both agreed on when you moved in together. She didn’t hesitate to unlock the door, pushing it open.

“Babe?” she called out, stepping inside. Silence greeted her.

Her brows furrowed. She knew you were here—your car was outside, and your location showed home. Billie walked through the house, checking the living room, the bedroom, and even the guest rooms. Nothing.

Her eyes landed on your purse and car keys sitting on the kitchen counter. She wouldn’t go anywhere without these.

Then, it clicked.

The garage.

Billie turned on her heel and made her way there, pushing open the door to find you in the indoor gym, running on the treadmill. AirPods in, music blasting, your focus locked straight ahead. You were drenched in sweat, completely in your own world.

Billie exhaled sharply, both relieved and annoyed. After all the worry, all the panic, you were right here—ignoring her.

She crossed her arms and stepped closer. “Seriously?” she said loud enough to be heard over your music.

You didn’t even flinch. Or at least, that’s what Billie thought. But she caught the slight glance you gave her out of the corner of your eye. You knew she was there. And yet, you kept running, acting like she wasn’t.

Billie clenched her jaw. Oh, so that’s how you wanna play it?

Without a second thought, she reached over and hit the stop button on the treadmill. The sudden change nearly made you stumble, forcing you to grab the handles for balance. With an irritated sigh, you yanked out your AirPods and turned to face her.

“What the hell, Billie?” you snapped.

“What the hell me?” she shot back, eyes narrowing. “I’ve been calling you, texting you, freaking out—and you were here the whole time?”

You grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from your face. “Yup.”

Billie scoffed. “So you just ignored me?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, kinda sucks, doesn’t it?”

Her brows knitted together. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You tossed the towel onto the bench and crossed your arms. “It means, Billie, that I waited for you. I sat at our restaurant, waiting. Calling. Wondering why you weren’t there.”

Billie blinked. “Wait—what?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Our anniversary, Billie,” you said flatly. “I thought you forgot, so I left.”

Billie’s heart dropped. “Wait… no. No, I didn’t forget,” she said quickly. “I had everything planned for tomorrow. The restaurant, the hot air balloon—I wanted it to be a surprise. Besides, I thought we both agreed this morning we were going to go to Ava’s surprise birthday party tonight at her house with the band and our friends remember?

“Wait, what?” The last part caught you off guard—not about Eva’s birthday or the fact that she just revealed what she had planned for your anniversary.

“What did you just say?”

Billie looked at you confused. “I thought we were going to go to Ava’s house tonight that’s what we talked about this morning.”

You took one of your AirPods out. Confusion all over your face.

“That’s not what I was talking about this morning, Bills.” I was talking about our anniversary.

Now Billie was confused.

“Did you just say our anniversary is tomorrow?” You asked her slowly.

She nodded her head. “Yeah.”

You paused, taking the other AirPod out and reaching for your water that was sitting on top of the bars of the treadmill.

Billie took your reaction surprised.

“No, babe are anniversary is today,” you said surely. Wasn’t it?

Billie looked even more confused at you.

“No, mama our anniversary is tomorrow,” she said seriously. You completely paused shaking your head. She had to be joking but then again she wouldn’t joke about something so serious as your anniversary. You stepped back a bit. Trying to process what was going on.

There’s no way you got the date wrong.

Your grip tightened around the water bottle as you stared at Billie, your heart pounding. “No… no way,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Our anniversary is today, Billie. December 9th.”

Billie’s brows furrowed, her expression unreadable. “Babe, no. It’s tomorrow. December 10th.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but the panic was already creeping in. “You’re messing with me.”

“I swear I’m not,” Billie said, stepping closer. “It’s always been December 10th. That’s the day we made things official. Remember?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but suddenly, doubt started to settle in. Wasn’t it December 9th? You were sure it was. But now, looking at Billie, so certain… your confidence wavered.

“No,” you whispered to yourself, unable to believe what Billie had just said. You pulled your phone from your waistband and started scrolling through your camera roll, frantically searching for the proof you needed to confirm you were right. Your finger swiped over the screen until it landed on the photo—the one you’d taken the night you officially became a couple. Your eyes focused on the date on the screen, your breath catching in your throat.

That night, Billie had asked you to be her girlfriend after your third date. It had been late when you both got back, laughing and talking for hours. You’d lost track of time, and then Billie had asked, right at midnight, making it officially the next day. December 10th. Your anniversary.

Billie glanced at your phone, her lips curving into a soft chuckle. “Baby…” she said gently.

You blinked, staring at the date, then back at Billie. “No way.”

Billie bit her lip, trying—and failing—to suppress her laughter. “Oh my God... you really thought it was today?”

Your stomach twisted with embarrassment. “I—no, I—” You quickly covered your face with your hands, mortified. “This can’t be happening.”

Billie grinned as she stepped closer, gently pulling your hands away from your face. “So, let me get this straight,” she teased. “You ignored all my calls, left the party, spent the whole night thinking I forgot our anniversary… and it’s actually tomorrow?”

You groaned, burying your face in her chest. “Shut up.”

Billie’s laughter softened, and she pulled back to hold your face in her hands. “I’m sorry, love,” she murmured, kissing your forehead. “But, hey, look on the bright side.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “What bright side?”

Billie smirked. “You get to celebrate twice.”

You groaned, giving her a playful shove. “You better make tomorrow worth it, rockstar.”

Billie’s grin widened. “Oh, don’t worry, mama. I will.”

“By the way,” Billie said, pulling you closer by your waist, settling you into her arms. “What did you get me?”

You sighed, rolling your eyes playfully. Might as well tell her now since she spilled the beans about her plans. “Well, besides the dinner at your favorite place…” you joked. “I got you your favorite flowers, jewelry, some more baggy pants, and oversized shirts you love. And also,” you said, a little nervous, “I wrote you a poem.”

Billie’s eyes widened. “You did?” she gasped. “Where is it?” She immediately started to make a move, trying to run and grab it.

You stopped her with a grin. “It’s hidden somewhere, and you’re going to read it tomorrow, since today isn’t what I thought it was.”

She pouted dramatically, her lower lip sticking out. “But I wanna read it now.”

You shook your head. “Tomorrow.”

Billie leaned back into you, embracing you again and kissing your forehead softly. You couldn’t help but feel a mix of embarrassment and excitement bubbling inside you. Tomorrow was going to be perfect—now you were sure of it.

“Just so you know,” Billie said, looking down at you with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

You looked up, curious to hear what she was about to say.

“I’m telling Finneas about this tomorrow,” she said, barely containing her laughter.

Your eyes widened. “No,” you gasped, immediately jumping up to chase after her as she ran back inside. “You can’t!”

But Billie was already gone, laughing as she darted through the door. “Yes I can!” she called back over her shoulder, the sound of her laughter ringing out as you sprinted after her.

You shook your head, laughing too, knowing you’d never live this down. “I’m going to get you for that!”

End of pt. 2

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

Author's Note: The next part is coming soon!!! Let me breathe 😩

[mandalhoerian]

(6) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3

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note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose. 

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop. 

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense. 

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

                    Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

[izzih22]

you should do a oneshot of paige’s reaction to seeing azzi’s draft outfit👀

Everything She’s Ever Wanted

Note: how does that one TikTok go… Two bad bitches at the same damn time?😂

Paige Bueckers didn’t get nervous often. Big games, big crowds—those didn’t shake her. But tonight?

Tonight was different.

The WNBA Draft was supposed to be her moment. Everyone knew she’d be the number one pick, and everyone had been asking her how it felt. But Paige had barely been able to focus. Because it wasn’t just her night—it was their night.

Azzi.

She checked her phone again—no new messages. Azzi had gone back to her room to get ready nearly an hour ago, and Paige was starting to wonder if she’d died trying to get her lashes on straight. She huffed out a breath, pacing their shared hotel suite, adjusting her rings for the third time in five minutes.

Then she heard it.

The door creaked open softly. Paige turned, expecting some casual entrance, maybe a rushed apology about taking too long. But what she got—

What she got completely knocked the air from her lungs.

Azzi stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light of the hallway behind her. The black dress clung to her like a second skin—elegant, sleek, the kind of dress that looked like it had been designed for only one person. It dipped low, revealing enough chest to make Paige blink, hard. But it wasn’t just the dress.

Her hair.

Azzi had straightened it.

For the first time since her prom.

Paige’s heart twisted.

She remembered that night like it was yesterday—the way she had smiled for pictures with Azzi earlier in the day, careful to avoid lingering touches in front of their friends. The way she had watched, silent and burning, as someone else picked Azzi up for the dance. Her girlfriend. Taken by someone else because they weren’t allowed to be public back then. Because they were scared.

She’d told herself it didn’t matter. But it had. God, it had.

And now?

Now Azzi stood in front of her, radiant and powerful, straight hair tucked behind her ears, a soft nude lip and lashes that made her dark eyes somehow even more intense. No date tonight. No hiding. Just them.

Paige didn’t realize she’d stepped forward until she was standing just inches away, jaw slack, hands trembling at her sides.

“You’re…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “You’re unreal.”

Azzi smiled, slow and knowing. “You like?”

“I can’t even answer that without sounding feral,” Paige muttered, eyes raking down the length of her body, the dress dipping just low enough and hugging just right.

Azzi laughed softly, brushing invisible lint off Paige’s chest. “You clean up nice too, superstar.”

Paige’s fingers twitched at her sides. God, she wanted to touch her. She wanted to feel every inch the dress teased. Her palms ached to trail down Azzi’s back, her waist, to rest possessively on her hips. But her makeup. The cameras. The rules they’d made for themselves—private, not a secret, but still… careful.

Azzi leaned in, whispering, “You’re staring.”

“Of course I’m staring. Have you seen you?” Paige exhaled. “You haven’t worn your hair like this since prom.”

Azzi nodded, and something flickered in her eyes. “Yeah. Thought maybe it was time.”

Paige didn’t say anything. She just looked at her—really looked at her.

“You were so beautiful that night,” she said finally. “And I couldn’t tell anyone you were mine. Couldn’t even touch you like I wanted.”

Azzi’s gaze softened. “But tonight?”

Paige took a shaky breath, brushing the back of her knuckles along the curve of Azzi’s waist—barely a whisper of a touch. She stepped in just a little closer, until their bodies nearly touched.

“Tonight, I’m taking you to the draft,” she murmured, her voice low and intimate. “As mine.”

Azzi’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Her hands slid up to rest lightly on Paige’s lapels, fixing her collar with a gentleness that made Paige’s heart swell.

Then there was a beat of silence, charged and soft. Paige’s gaze dropped to Azzi’s lips, perfectly glossed. She leaned in instinctively, but paused just before contact.

“I wanna kiss you,” she whispered, “but I don’t wanna ruin your makeup.”

Azzi’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Then don’t ruin it.”

So Paige didn’t.

She tilted her head and brushed her lips just beneath Azzi’s jawline instead, warm and lingering. A sigh slipped from Azzi’s mouth, quiet and breathy.

Paige’s hands slid lower again, dragging gently down the sides of the dress, across her waist, her hips, her thighs. The silk was smooth under her palms, but it was Azzi’s body that stole her breath—soft and strong, all curves and comfort and home.

“You’re gonna be the most beautiful one there,” Paige murmured against her skin. “And I’m not gonna survive it.”

Azzi laughed, flush creeping down her chest. “You really like the dress?”

“I want to burn every other black dress you’ve ever worn so this is the only one that exists.”

Another laugh, fuller this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

Paige kissed her collarbone. “You love it.”

“I do.”

They stood like that for a moment longer—wrapped in a hush of something sacred, something steady. Paige pulled away slowly, her thumb tracing one last path along Azzi’s side.

“You ready to go?” she asked, quieter now.

Azzi nodded, reaching for Paige’s hand. “Only if we go together.”

The cameras flashed as they walked into the venue side by side.

They didn’t hold hands.

But the way Paige looked at Azzi—hungry and proud and in love—was louder than any public display.

And later, when the lights dimmed and the world applauded her name as the first overall pick, Paige didn’t look at the cameras.

She looked at Azzi.

Because that was the only dream she’d ever really wanted to come true.

[namism]

Hi! Can I request a Zoro x reader who's mihawks daughter, I think it would be a funny scenario bc he would have to get his approval first lol

with wine, zoro | roronoa zoro

➳ categories: canonverse, female reader

➳ word count: 1.9k

➳ summary: Who knew that the mysterious Dracule Mihawk had a daughter? Zoro certainly didn't, but now that he's fallen head over heels for her, he supposes he has to do something quickly.

➳ notes: i adore this request! this is by far the one fic of mine that i would proudly reread without cringing because it's funny 😭

➳ cross-posted on ao3

"Psst!"

Zoro looks to his left. Slowly, Perona floats past him with her stuffed animal Kumashi in one hand, the other holding her parasol.

"Where were you last night?" she asks.

Zoro ignores her and goes back to whatever he was working on.

"Were you outside again?" Persistent as ever, Perona floats in front of him and blocks his line of sight. "You must have visited that girl from the tower!"

"How do you know her?" Zoro snaps. Perona smiles to herself smugly.

"A-ha! I knew it! You and that girl are together, aren't you? You disappear so often, I can't believe I hadn't caught on until yesterday!"

Zoro grumbles under his breath. Walking past her, he asks Perona what she's bothering him for, to which she replies with her uniquely annoying laugh, one that Zoro has heard too many times over the course of the eight months they've been together on Kuraigana Island. Her Hollows fly around her as she bursts into a fit, bearing an expression of mockery on their translucent faces.

"Just bothering you," she answers. Zoro picks up the weights he was lifting moments ago and proceeds to ignore her again, but she continues to pester him. "What is she to you? A friend? A girlfriend?"

Zoro huffs in annoyance. "Why do you bother?"

"Because this island is boooring!"

"Find something to work on," he suggests.

It's Perona's turn to show her annoyance. Hovering over Zoro, she extends her arms and spreads out her fingers toward him.

"Negative Ho—!"

"She's a friend!" Zoro yells in panic. Perona stops her Hollow attack with a flick of a finger. "She's... special... can you get those stupid ghosts away from my face?"

"Wow. You aren't as unemotional as I thought." Blinking rapidly, Perona's hands fall to her waist. Zoro always seemed withdrawn like Mihawk, so she never pictured him as the type of guy to hold any romantic feelings for anyone.

A light blush coats Zoro's cheeks. He looks away shyly but composes himself apace. He can't be vulnerable in front of Perona—she would tease him for ages.

Perona has different plans, though. She would tease him if it were about anything else, but she's smack dab in the middle of nowhere, and her boredom convinces her to be more considerate than pesky. Besides, she's been annoying toward Zoro enough. It's time to compensate.

Using her powers, she conjures a Special Hollow and orders it to pick the swordsman in its mouth. Zoro drops his sword and flails his arms around helplessly. With a manic laugh, Perona flies to the castle with the Hollow trailing after her.

"Let's get you a girlfriend!"

Zoro didn't know what to expect when Perona dragged him back to Mihawk's shady castle, but the events that transpired were definitely not in his top 5 guesses.

Perona held him at gunpoint—just her Negative Hollows, really—and told him to list all the things he likes about you. When that didn't work because Zoro was too flustered to speak, she concocted the perfect plan that is guaranteed to win your heart over, should he execute it properly.

Right now, Zoro stands in front of you with his hands crossed over his chest. It's the morning of the plan's execution, but facing you brings him back to the first time he stepped foot in your dwelling.

Ever since he and Perona were teleported to Kuraigana Island eight months ago, he found himself exploring (or rather, getting lost around) the island that apparently housed Dracule Mihawk's residence. He lives in the abandoned castle of the now fallen Muggy Kingdom that stands in the middle of the dense forests, just a few kilometers away from a lone tower nestled in between the trees.

When Zoro explored (got lost) too far, he scouted the tower and found you there, sleeping peacefully. You shot up from your bed in panic and used your swords to attack, but Zoro had backed you into a corner. Afraid, you begged him for your life and proved your innocence.

Zoro had no business with a random girl he met on a random Tuesday, who was stuck in a random tower on a random island he was magicked into. Yet you eventually charmed him with your abilities, earning his trust and respect to a degree close to acquaintances. As time went by, you started getting flirtatious that crossed the line of "just friends," leading Zoro to feel a mutual fondness for you that he couldn't quite communicate.

That leads him to his current predicament. As he waits for your reply to his quiet confession, he prepares himself for what's to come.

"It doesn't take one to figure out that I'm fond of you, too," you tell him with a soft smile. "However, you have to ask someone first."

Zoro isn't surprised by your reciprocity, but he's surprised by the latter. Whose consent does he have to ask for?

"Who is it?"

"My father."

Zoro furrows his brows.

"You live alone."

"Well, yes! I live alone in the tower."

Suddenly, the front door of your home is kicked open. You turn on your heel to greet the visitor, while Zoro watches intently.

Mihawk appears at the doorway.

"Good morning, love. Sorry for my entrance. Are you in the middle of something?"

You run over to the man and help him with the bags of groceries in his arms. Hauling them over to the kitchen counter, you invite him inside the building.

"We were, but it's just Zoro. No big deal."

Mihawk looks at the swordsman, one eyebrow raising in curiosity at his presence.

Meanwhile, Zoro tries to understand what's happening. The fact that you know Mihawk isn't shocking since you've lived on the island your whole life, but being called 'love'? Zoro doesn't mean to be possessive, but he has a problem with that.

"I guess my student has become acquainted with my daughter," says Mihawk nonchalantly before helping you unpack your groceries.

At that moment, Zoro wishes to be eaten alive by the island mandrills.

What. The. Fuck. He thinks. Daughter?!

"Daughter?!" he repeats aloud.

"Mm-hmm! I don't live in the castle. This tower is far better than that ominous place." You hum to yourself. Looking at Mihawk, you grin sheepishly. "Sorry, Father."

"Doesn't matter. Your absence gave the ghost girl a room to her liking."

Nearby, Zoro hears a faint gasp.

Clasping your hands together, you approach Zoro slowly. You look at him with sincerity in your eyes, a look that has Zoro going crazy.

"Well, my father is here. Would you like to ask him now?"

But the admission of your relationship to Mihawk, his master, is far crazier. Zoro doesn't have the time to be wooed in by your cuteness because he feels like an idiot for not having caught on to this fact much earlier.

Your swordsmanship, your demeanor, your aptitude for many other things—Zoro understands it now. There is no questioning your abilities when you had genetically inherited them from someone. You're Mihawk's daughter, and you had always been.

"Is something the matter?" you ask softly.

Zoro loses the color on his face. He feels dizzy.

Floating right outside the tower's open window, Perona makes a face of surprise as she eavesdrops on the conversation.

"Shoot," she cusses quietly before flying away.

"I can't remember the last time I've witnessed anything more devastating than falling for your master's daughter," Perona ponders aloud, causing Zoro to glare at her as he nearly hyperventilates. "Calm down! We can do something about it!"

Zoro grits his teeth at Perona's poor attempt to cheer him up. Coming from the ghost girl who knows nothing but to attack people with her depressive powers, her optimism is anything but helpful.

"You said you spied on her a few times in the past. Did you not know this?!" Zoro shouts.

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't intrude enough!" Perona yells back. "You didn't even bother asking your girlfriend what her full name was! Ugh, you tire me out—you're unbelievable!"

After Perona fled the scene, Zoro followed in horror. He looked too disturbed that you offered to escort him back to the castle so that he could take a deep breath and process the situation. However, Zoro excused himself and instead ran down the spiral steps of your tower, disappearing into the forest that led him back to the castle.

Having reunited with Perona in her bedroom (that was apparently yours before she teleported to the island), Zoro admits that she has the right to insult him. Zoro never asked for your family name, and you never told him about it either. He thought you were an orphan since you had always lived alone, and it wasn't rare for people in the Grand Line to be secretive of their family.

Still, he feels like an idiot. Despite looking different from your father (you must have taken after your mother in appearance), you're incredibly trained with a sword, and you have a familiar aura around you. Zoro should have connected the dots together and theorized that you're Mihawk's daughter, but it's too late for that now.

He isn't mad by all means, but he curses the old man for not even telling him. He's been living under his roof for the past eight months, for goodness' sake!

Perona floats in front of him, twirling her hair.

"What are you going to do now?" she asks.

Zoro doesn't respond. He's clueless.

"Me either," she says. She flies around the room, thinking to herself. "Well, only a coward would accept defeat in courting a woman. Get back there and ask for her father's blessing!"

Zoro clenches his fists, his nails digging into the palms of his hands.

"Help me with something."

Many hours later, Mihawk comes back from his day visit at your tower. Tired from today's events, he decides to lock himself in his bedroom and take some time reading the newspaper over a glass of wine. To his dismay, he seems to have run out.

Thus, he immerses himself in the newspaper, wine-less, thinking it's good to cut down on the liquor for a while. In the middle of it, a knock sounds on his door, followed by a soft clink of glass. Mihawk waits for a minute to pass before standing up from his seat and peeking out the door to investigate the sound.

Whoever had knocked is now long gone. Instead, there sits by his foot a bottle of unopened wine and a piece of parchment. Mihawk collects the items and retreats to his bedroom.

He opens the bottle and pours himself a drink. Then, he settles back in his armchair and finishes the newspaper before picking up the parchment.

"A letter," he says to himself. He reads.

Thank you for taking me under your wing.

I'm sorry for running out earlier. I like her, and I stand by that.

Have this for now.

With wine, Zoro

Mihawk drops the letter on his lap and takes another sip. He laughs to himself.

The next day, he calls Zoro to his room as he reads the daily newspaper with careful sips of the gifted wine. As Zoro speaks, having swallowed his pride another time in front of the man, Mihawk leans back into his chair, seemingly pleased.

With wine or not, he was going to give his permission anyway.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

17: THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Summary: Bucky and you attend Sarah’s wedding together, the perfect picture of a couple— at least to those watching. But between stolen glances, unresolved tension, and a flirtatious stranger, the lines between real and pretend start to blur.

Warnings: Mutual pining & jealousy, emotional tension & unresolved feelings, fake dating, light angst with a hint of fluff, a touch of possessiveness from Bucky

Word Count: 4374

There was a soft rustle of fabric and the faint sound of a zipper was short lived, interrupted by a groan, your groan. You stepped out of the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to smooth your hands over the pale pink chiffon of your gown. Bucky had his back to you, fiddling with the cufflinks on his crisp white shirt. He was muttering angrily under his breath.

“Umm, Bucky?” you called out softly.

He turned to face you, and his jaw dropped. His whole world seemed to fade away for a moment as he took in your appearance. The gown’s floral pattern and layered ruffles gave you an ethereal quality, almost like you were a fairy from a mythical story. The cheeky cutouts at the waist revealed just enough skin to make his chest tighten, and the dramatic shoulder accents reminded him of delicate fairy wings.

“You look… wow,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

You blushed, the pink on your cheeks deeper than the color of your dress. “Thanks,” you murmured, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the intensity of his gaze. “Do you mind?” You turned, pulling your hair over your shoulder to show him your half done up zipper on the back of the dress.

“Of course,” he answered, taking a quick step over to you. His hands brushed the skin on your back lightly as he attempted to pinch the mechanism between his large fingers.

He was so close to you, close enough that you could feel his warm breath against your neck. The tip of his forefinger grazed your back as he pulled up the zipper, oh so slowly, like he wanted to take his time, savoring the briefest moment of contact. You bit down on your lip to stop the whimper that threatened to escape your lips.

Finally he stepped back, and you turned your head in time to catch him admiring your figure.

“You’re stunning,” he added quietly, lips curling into a small but genuine smile.

You smiled back, somehow the warmth in his expression eased the tension you’d been feeling since you’d woken up. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” you said teasingly, gesturing to his suit. The three-piece navy suit fit him perfectly, the color bringing out the icy blue of his eyes. The navy flowers on your dress matched his outfit perfectly, making you look like the perfect couple.

Bucky held up his wrists with a sheepish grin. “I guess I’d look better if I could figure out these damn cufflinks.”

You laughed softly, holding out your hand to take them from him. “Here, let me,” you offered, taking his wrist in your other hand.

You could feel his eyes on you as you nimbly buttoned the cuff links through the holes on his sleeves. It took all your willpower to not look up at him.

“All done,” you said, stepping back.

“Thanks,” he answered gruffly, clearing his throat when the word came out in a hoarse rasp. “Thank you.” He tried again, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing.

The moment of silence hung between you, maybe for a beat too long, because the nervous energy inside you felt the need to break it. “So, Bucky… what was the deal with you and Sam yesterday? You just seemed different when you came back.”

Your question took him by surprise, and you could visibly see his shoulders stiffen. So much for being a seasoned soldier— you could see the blank screen in his eyes as he scrambled for an answer. He should have expected you to ask. Of course, you would. You always saw right through him, your sharp eyes picking up things that others didn’t. And normally, he admired that about you. But right now? He hated it.

He hated this— hated keeping things from you.

He forced himself to relax, to hide his stress. He had been trying so hard to be more open, to let someone in, to take off that mask of stoicism and sarcasm. During one of his therapy sessions, Dr. Raynor had told him that one of the ways to rebuild his life was to trust. “Pick someone, just one,” she had said. “Put your trust in them and let them in.”

What he hadn’t told you— what he couldn’t tell you— was that he’d picked you.

It hadn’t been an easy decision— it hadn’t been a decision at all, but somewhere along the way it had just happened. For years, his life had been an endless string of manipulations and betrayals. Trust wasn’t necessarily difficult— it was dangerous. But somehow you made it feel… easier. With you, there was no judgement, no fear. You didn’t look at him like he was broken or an irredeemable monster. You also didn’t let him wallow in self-pity either, your quick wit and sass rivaling his sarcasm in ways that made him smile effortlessly. It was no easy feat. 

But right now? He couldn’t tell you the truth. And it was harder than he expected.

“Nothing big,” he said finally, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “Sam doing the Cap thing… as usual.”

The lie— even if it was one of omission— tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Really?” you asked, searching his face for answers. “This kinda thing doesn’t usually bother you so much.”

Bucky shrugged, his heart pounding. He licked his lips— when had they become so dry? “HYDRA’s always been a bit of a sore spot.”

You nodded slowly. His answer made sense, but it didn’t feel like it was the whole truth, but you didn’t push. He was different since you’d been intimate— quiet and distant in a way that you hated.

Had you done something wrong? Was this just his way of telling you he regretted what happened?

Anxiously, you toyed with the ruffles on your dress as you tried to come up with something to say. “Okay… well I’m here if you need m-... to talk,” you offered.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But really, it’s fine. Nothing to worry about.”

There was that wall he put up. It seemed taller than it had been before.

You forced a small smile. “Sure?” you asked, your voice filled with sadness.

“Sure,” he repeated.

“It’s not about—”

Your words were cut off by the sound of distant church bells and Bucky looked down at his watch. 

“We should probably get going. Don’t want to be late to the ceremony.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, brushing off the lingering awkwardness as best as you could. “Sarah would kill us if we were late.”

The moment you arrived at the Wilson residence, Bucky was the perfect gentleman— from opening the car door for you to being the perfect escort. The path was lined with lanterns, their soft glow leading the way to the family’s transformed backyard. You walked arm-in-arm toward the marquee, your steps falling into the perfect rhythm.

The enormous white marquee was in the center of the yard, adorned by strings of flowers, soft fabrics and lines of twinkling fairy lights. There were rows of wooden chairs, dressed with multicolored ribbons, all facing a small altar where the ceremony would take place. 

Bucky let out a low whistle under his breath. “It’s like something out of a movie,” he murmured appreciatively.

You smiled at his reaction. “Sarah and Dante really outdid themselves, huh?”

People were starting to gather behind you which was clearly making Bucky uncomfortable.

“Shall we grab some seats?” you suggested.

Bucky nodded. “How about down here?” He pointed to some seats about five rows back from the front.

“Looks good,” you agreed, leading the way into the row and sitting down.

Bucky sat down beside you, immediately draping his arm over the back of your chair, a hint of possessiveness in his demeanor. But when you looked up at his face, his eyes were busy scanning the crowd. You followed his line of vision and noticed him staring at Sam and Torres, a furrow on his brow.

“Bucky?” you called softly.

His head snapped back toward you, his expression briefly startled, before softening. “Yeah?”

“You okay?” you asked, noticing Sam scurry away.

Bucky sighed softly but he gave you a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah. Just… taking it all in. Never been to a wedding before.”

Before you could respond, the harpist started strumming the soft notes of the wedding march, drawing everyone’s attention to the aisle. Cass and AJ appeared from the back, leading the procession. Each of them carried a small box on plush pillows with such an air of importance and pride that a small ripple of laughter flowed through the crowd. They were followed by the maid of honor and the best man, faces glowing with excitement.

When Sam appeared at the top of the aisle with Sarah on his arm, the guests collectively rose to their feet and a hush fell over the marquee. Sarah looked radiant, her dress flowing behind her like it was a part of her. Sam’s usual bravado was replaced with a look of tenderness as he escorted his sister, his eyes damp with emotion.

Bucky shifted beside you, his eyes fixed on Sarah with something that looked like— was it longing? Admiration? You weren’t quite sure.

“Doesn’t she look incredible?” you whispered.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmured. His gaze lingered on Sarah for a moment longer but when he glanced back at you, there was a small, almost bashful smile on his face.

Sarah and Dante’s vows were moving, the words a simple promise filled with sincerity. The oath they pledged in front of their loved ones resonated with everyone present, leaving no heart untouched. By the time they sealed their promises with a kiss, there wasn’t a dry eye in the audience.

The kiss at the end of the ceremony was met with joyous applause that echoed around the marquee and the newlyweds led the procession back down the aisle, both beaming with happiness. The guests followed, the vibe changing from one of reverence to jubilance as everyone moved towards the reception area.

You and Bucky remained seated for a moment to let the crowd disperse before following.

“So, how you feeling about your first wedding?” you asked.

Bucky leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees and looked down at his hands, his expression contemplative. “That was…” His voice trailed off, not quite able to find the words to express his emotions.

“A lot?”

Bucky stared at the altar, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Yeah,” he laughed softly. “But it’s nice. Seeing something so… pure. Two people just— choosing each other.”

“Ah, the pinnacle of romance: picking one person to tolerate for the rest of your life.”

“You really believe that?”

You shrugged. “The closest I’ve ever felt to someone is literally a fake relationship, so what do I know?”

Before Bucky could respond, a voice called out from behind you. "Hey, you two! Why’re you hiding back here?"

You turned to see Sam bouncing over to you, his grin wide enough to rival the Cheshire Cat. He gestured towards the reception area where you could hear laughter and music already filtering through. “Come on, the party’s just getting started. And there’s food. You don’t want to miss the food.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but stood, offering his hand to help you up. “Guess we’d better not keep the Captain waiting.”

You snorted and Sam smirked, clapping Bucky on the back as the three of you walked toward the reception area. “Damn right. Besides, you’re gonna need all the energy when we get to the dancing.”

You giggled softly, looking around Sam at Bucky.

"Don’t hold your breath," Bucky muttered.

Sam glanced over at you with a look of mischief in his glowing brown eyes.

You were greeted by a wave of laughter the moment you stepped out from under the marquee. Sam was immediately grabbed by two older women who wanted to pinch his cheeks and grab a selfie with “Cap.”

You and Bucky chuckled and went off to find your dinner table. He stayed close by your side, his hand brushing lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asked, leaning in slightly so you could hear him over the chatter.

You nodded and reached for the back of your chair, but then hesitated. “I think I’m going to grab a drink first. You want anything?”

He shook his head, his eyes scanning the crowd like he was already cataloging potential escape routes. “I’ll hold the fort here.”

You smiled, slipping away toward the bar. It felt like you needed a private moment to reflect on your feelings. You leaned over and ordered a sparkling water.

“Good choice,” the man beside you said, holding up his own glass of water. “A little hydration before diving back in is the key to surviving these things.”

You glanced over to find the source of the velvety voice and were almost bowled over the effortlessly dashing stranger. His presence exuded charm and warmth— the perfect mix of debonair and approachable and his tailored suit fit his athletic frame in a show stopping manner. You were surprised you hadn’t noticed him before now.

“Derek,” he said, offering his hand. “Friend of the groom. And you are?”

“Y/N,” you replied, shaking his hand.

His handshake was warm and firm, and without trying corners of his mouth lifted into a smile that made your chest flutter.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said smoothly, leaning casually against the bar. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over you in an appraising way that didn’t make you feel at all uncomfortable. “Now tell me— how’d Dante manage to keep a friend like you hidden from the rest of us?”

“Maybe because I’m not one of his friends. I’m just here to make the bride’s side look good.”

“Well you’re doing a bang up job.”

You blushed hard while your tongue stumbled over your next words. “So, Derek, how do you know Dante?”

“College. Don’t get to see him as much as I’d like. But I figured that I couldn’t let him tie the knot without me supervising the whole process, you know?”

You laughed softly, the warmth in Derek’s voice making it hard not to smile. “Supervising, huh? I’m sure he couldn’t have done it without you.”

He gave you a dazzling grin, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth. “Exactly. Someone had to make sure he didn’t forget the rings or trip up walking down the aisle.” 

You snorted softly. “Oh really, because I distinctly remember two very handsome young ring bearers walking down the aisle and you certainly don’t bear any resemblance to the best man… so… were you supervising from the sidelines?”

Derek let out a deep rumbling laugh at your sarcastic response. “Oh ho, you caught me. I’m definitely more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. Gotta make sure everything looks effortless while I keep the chaos in check.”

“Oh, of course,” you teased. “The unsung hero of the wedding. How very noble of you.”

“Exactly!” He gave you a wink and a widening grin that made you weak at the knees. “And speaking of chaos, I’m glad I made it over here before someone else got to you. Couldn’t risk letting the best guest at this party get scooped up before I had the chance to introduce myself.”

Somehow talking to Derek was easy, the flirtatious banter wasn’t stressful, it didn’t leave you wondering about his intentions. But your mind kept flicking back to the man you’d left sitting at the table.

Meanwhile, from across the room, Bucky had not taken his eyes off you since you’d left to get a drink. At first, he was content to watch you from a distance, but this changed quickly as he saw Derek approach you. He didn’t like the man’s posture, the way he leaned in. He didn’t like the way you laughed at what he said. Bucky could tell your laughter was real, even from where he sat, and it made his insides squirm uncomfortably.

He didn’t even realize he was moving until he was halfway across the dance floor. His fists clenched and jaw tight, he moved with such speed that he was turning heads of the people he passed.

“Y/N,” Bucky cut into the conversation, his voice low and calm but the authority it projected gave you chills.

“Bucky!” you cried, startled by his presence. “I didn’t see you there.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, eyes ping ponging between you and Bucky. “And you are?”

“Her date,” Bucky answered flatly, his pointed gaze locked on Derek’s, as if daring him to challenge the claim.

Derek’s easy smile faltered slightly but returned just as quickly. “Ah, my mistake,” he said, raising his glass in surrender. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.” He turned to you and said, “Should have known someone as beautiful as you couldn’t be single.”

Bucky’s lips were pressed into a thin like, his stance taut, as if he was waiting for Derek to make a wrong move.

But Derek was wise enough to know when to move on. He chuckled, charming smile still intact. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” he said, giving you a final nod and a hint of a wink. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

As he walked away, the lingering glance he gave you sent a flush across your cheeks and you wondered what it would be like if you could have told him the truth. But your view was blocked by Bucky, who turned to face you.

You turned to face him, your eyes narrowed with irritation. “Was that really necessary?”

“He was flirting with you,” Bucky snapped.

“So?” you countered, folding your arms across your chest. “Is that a crime?”

Bucky looked away for a second, his breath hitching as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to say that he wanted. He took a deep breath and the words came tumbling out. “I didn’t like… the way he was looking at you,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, not knowing how to respond. But a sudden flare of anger washed over you, all the mixed signals you’d felt since you’d had sex made you snap. “Are you sure it was about him? Or for everyone else watching? Gotta keep up appearances for the sake of this… whatever this is.”

Bucky took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours and for a moment the intensity in his eyes made you feel a little dizzy. But then just as quickly he looked away, his face unreadable. He took a step back. “I’ll let you get back to your drink,” he said flatly.

You watched him walk away, confusion and frustration swirling around inside of you. He paused for a moment, head dipping as though he might turn back— a flicker of hope rose in your chest— but then he continued walking, sitting down at the table, leaving you feeling lost and alone.

He pulled out his chair and sat down, his eyes firmly fixed on the glass of water in front of him. You turned back to the bar with a shaky breath. “Can I get a glass of wine, please?” you asked the bartender in a quiet voice.

The bartender handed you the glass and you wrapped your fingers around the stem, taking a small sip and letting the fruity flavor try to distract you from the storm of emotions threatening to engulf you.

By the time you returned to the table, the waiters were moving between the seats, placing elegant plates of food in front of the guests. Bucky didn’t even look up as you approached, his focus seemingly on the flickering candles at the center of the table. You slipped into your seat, glancing up at him briefly, hoping for some kind of acknowledgement, but there was nothing. The warmth you normally felt being beside him was replaced by a feeling of emptiness, even more so when you were surrounded by the lively hum of dinner conversation around you. Sighing sadly, you picked at your food without any real appetite.

As the waiters finally began clearing the plates, Sam dropped into the chair beside you, his signature grin plastered all over his face.

“Trouble in paradise?” he teased.

“What?” you asked, caught off guard by Sam’s astuteness.

Beside you, Bucky’s head turned to Sam, his blue eyes glared at his friend.

“Oh, relax, Tin Man,” Sam teased, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying— you two look like you could use a little pick-me-up. And by that, I mean dancing.”

“Dancing?” You blinked at him.

“Yeah,” Sam grinned. “Come on, man.” He leant across the table to engage with Bucky, “You’re not gonna dance with this fairy princess? Careful— Derek Morgan’s got his eye on her. Better not let him sweep her off on a valiant steed.”

Your cheeks flushed at the mention of Derek and you snuck a peek at Bucky, whose expression had darkened enough to make the observant Sam chuckle.

“Alright, alright,” Sam said, standing up and shuffling over to Bucky. He clapped his friend over the shoulder. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. One dance, Buck. That’s all it takes.” He winked at you before sauntering off, his laughter trailing behind him.

Sam certainly had a way of raising people’s spirits and you turned to Bucky with a smile. “Trust me, there will be no riding off into the sunset on a horse.”

Bucky looked at you, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “No?”

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “No. I’m very allergic to horses.”

For the first time since you’d left the marquee, you saw his shoulders relax. He leaned back in his chair and huffed out a small laugh, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “Guess we’d better stick to something safer, then,” he said, holding out his hand.

You took his hand and the two of you moved towards the dance floor, just in time for the band to change their song to something slow. Hesitantly, Bucky placed his hand around your waist and pulled you close. You placed your hand in his vibranium palm and let him guide you slowly through a few steps, eventually daring to spin you, just as he had done in your apartment.

This time you landed back in his embrace with more grace and poise making you look up at him with a delighted smile. He looked back down at you fondly.

“Not bad, Princess.”

You huffed softly, but didn’t stop smiling, letting him pull you closer. After a few more steps, he leaned down to you.

“You want to say ‘I told you so,’ don’t you?”

The sound of laughter bubbled out of you. It was uncontrollable, and you found yourself burying your face in his chest to muffle the fit of merriment. The memory of the two of you in your apartment, combined with his dry humor, made it impossible to keep a straight face.

Bucky chuckled, the deep rumble vibrating through his chest. “What’s so funny, Princess?” he asked.

You looked up at him, eyes bright with amusement. “I’m just remembering your whole ‘I don’t dance’ mantra. I seem to recollect a bunch of grumbling about how this was a waste of time.”

He smirked and gave you a wink before spinning you effortlessly, his grip on you steadying. “Guess it wasn’t a complete waste.”

You landed back in his arms with confidence. “Ya think?” you teased, rolling your eyes.

His smirk widened, and his hand tightened slightly at your waist, pulling you closer. “Yeah, you definitely needed the practice. Besides…” His voice dropped slightly, taking on a softer edge. “Turns out I didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would.”

You smiled back at him with the same softness he was showing you and you fell into a comfortable silence, the quiet rhythm of the music guiding your movements as you swayed together. For a while you were lost in the moment.

But of course, you couldn’t leave it untouched.

“What did I do?” you blurted out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Was sleeping with me really such a mistake?”

Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise, the question hanging in the air between you. You felt him tense under your touch.  “What?” His voice was quick, almost urgent. “No!”

You shook your head, sighing and pulling away so it was easier to see his face more clearly. “You don’t have to do this, Bucky,” you said softly, your voice filled with sadness. “It’s just fake. We don’t have to keep pretending.”

“This isn’t fake to me,” he said, his words quiet but firm, his hand caressed your cheek softly.

But it was the intensity in his eyes that made the world around you fall away. The chatter and music, the people dancing around you at the reception faded into the background and all you could do was stare up at him, searching his face for the truth.

Bucky pulled you back close to him, holding you like he would never let you go. The second you broke eye contact, his expression shifted— his smile faltered and the twinkle of happiness in his eyes waned as the reality of his situation came crashing back to him. The mission— the secret he was keeping lurked in the shadows, threatening to take you from him.

“Bucky…” you whispered, tilting your head up against his chest.

He looked down slowly, his eyes filled with tenderness. Wordlessly, his hand slipped around your neck and cradled the back of your head. Nothing else in the world existed when his lips met yours. The kiss was breathtaking— soft and unhurried, but carried the weight off all the unspoken feelings that neither of you had had the courage to say out loud. 

When the kiss eventually ended, he rested his forehead against yours, your breath mingling in the quiet space between you.

“Not fake,” he murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “Not to me.”

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