#the number of times I did this is unreal

[transgaysex]

dude laying in bed feels crazy

[revvethasmythh]

my desire to listen to francesca by hozier vs my fear of getting jump scared by the spotify background of an earthworm: fight

[eelliotss]

— Borrowed time, part 3

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“Had you paid a little more attention, you would’ve known I hated the thunder too.”

word count = 5.2k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over 🥺

part 1 | masterlist | part 4

The choir of rain showering down envelops your whole world. Holding yourself close, you hug yourself away from the constant roar of the thunders.

You did not notice the man watching— his gaze lingering on the drenched rag of a person curled up on the roadside.

Another roar tears through the sky, clawing at your chest, sending tremors down your spine. With each shallow breath, you silently pray for the nightmare to be over, to wake up under warm covers in the safety of your own room.

He probably saw the state you’re in—the haziness in your unfocused eyes and the way you blink, once, twice, sluggish and distant. A sigh leaves his lips as he kneels down to your level. With one gloved hand holding his helmet, the other lightly flicks your forehead.

The flick is light—too light for the weight crushing your chest, yet enough to tether you back to reality and bring some focus back into your gaze.

You slowly raise your gaze, meeting his crimson orbs. Unwavering. Sharp. Studying.

His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, not quite concern.

“You look like hell,” he states as he tilts his head, studying you like you’re an amusing puzzle.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your lips tremble, but no words form.

Sylus exhales, slow and deliberate—not quite a sigh, but something close.

“Can you get up?”

Silence. Only the sound of the rain, the low hum of the storm, and the quiver of your breath fill the air.

He clicks his tongue, running a hand through his drenched silver locks before shaking off the excess water. Then, without a word, he drops his helmet onto your head, fingers swift and practiced as he secures the strap beneath you chin

The sudden weight startles you. But before you can react, you’re lifted.

A sharp gasp catches in your throat as his arms hook effortlessly around you, pulling you up from the cold ground and onto the sleek leather seat.

He swings his leg over the bike, boots steady against the pavement. The engine purrs beneath you, low and commanding.

“Hold tight.”

The words are simple. A command. A warning.

Your hands instinctively clutch his waist, gripping the fabric of his jacket. The sudden yank pushes you flush against him.

But through the turmoil of it all—through the howling wind, the biting cold, the chaos swallowing the whole world as you ride through the roads a little too fast—beneath your fingers, beneath the soaked fabric,

he’s warm.

The contrast is sharp. The world untamed, screaming, tearing everything apart. The situation rushes past you, too quick, too unreal.

Through it all, you—fractured, weightless, drowning— hold onto him— steady, unshaken—like he’s the only rope tying you to reality.

•

“What’s your room number?” he asks as the bike comes to a stop and the deep rumble of the engine fades.

By the time you’ve returned to the resort, the campfire is long gone—reduced to nothing but damp coals and the ghost of laughter lingering in the air.

People scattered, rushed towards shelter, their hurried footsteps splashed against puddles. The storm has chased everyone indoors.

Except for you and him.

You’re still clutching onto him, fingers curled around the fabric of his jacket. The lingering warmth of his body beneath your touch feels foreign.

“Well?” Sylus’s voice cuts through the silence.

You blink, realizing you haven’t answered.

Your lips part, allowing a light whisper to leave your lips.

“409.”

Without a word, he starts walking.

Perhaps it’s because you did not want to be left alone in the darkness of the night again, or perhaps it was because the sudden loss of warmth prompted your body to move on its own.

You trail behind him through the dimly lit halls, the faint hum of electricity buzzing through the silence. Water drips from your clothes, leaving a trail behind as you shiver against the cold air-conditioned corridor.

You steal a glance at him. Sylus walks ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, completely unfazed. As if he didn’t just find you curled up on the side of the road, as if you’re not drenched and shaking beside him.

The two of you stop in front of your door.

You fumble for the key card, fingers trembling slightly, though you’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from everything that’s happened tonight.

“Shh, don’t be scared.”

Soft coos seep through the door.

“I’m here, pipsqueak. I’m here.”

Soft giggles follow the gentle whispers.

“You’ve always stayed with me on days like these, holding me just like this whenever there were thunders.” Her voice is small and fragile—like something meant to be cherished, protected.

Your fingers hover the doorknob, frozen in place.

The storm rages on, harmonizing with the soft giggles on the other side of the door.

You stood there paralyzed, your mind too tired to register whatever it is that your heart is going through.

Sylus leans against the doorframe, watching you hesitate. Waiting.

“So? You gonna go in, or are we just standing here all night?” He finally asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

Your lack of response earns slow exhale from him.

Before you can fall any deeper, before you can drown in the ache clawing at your chest—he moves.

His hand wraps around your wrist, firm and unyielding.

You flinch, eyes finally snapping to him.

He doesn’t say anything—just turns, walking, dragging you with him.

Away from the door. Away from them.

“Sylus—“ Your voice is barely above a whisper, but he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t loosen his grip.

And deep down, you were glad he didn’t.

You let the warmth of his hand anchor you, let the storm swallow everything else, and let the laughter behind the doorframe fade into nothing.

•

Sylus doesn’t stop walking until you’re deep inside the quiet halls of the resort, the sound of rain and thunder fading into the background.

His grip finally loosens as he stops in front of a door.

Without looking at you, he pulls out his key card and swipes it. The lock clicks open.

“Get in.” His voice is flat, low—an order, not a request.

You linger by the doorway, water pooling beneath your feet.

Sylus exhales sharply for the nth time that night, raking a hand through damp silver strands, sending droplets scattering to the floor. Then, without warning, he grabs a towel from the bed and throws it at you.

It smacks against your chest, snapping you out of your daze.

“Shower.”

You blink up at him. His crimson eyes don’t waver.

His jaw ticks. Another sigh, this one slower, controlled.

More is tossed at you.

A shirt. A pair of sweatpants. His clothes.

They land in your arms, warm, freshly laundered, carrying the faintest trace of him—clean, sharp, and something unplaceable.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric.

“You’re soaked. You’ll get sick.”

It’s not concern. It’s a fact. A simple statement.

When you still don’t move, he clicks his tongue, tone dipping into something dangerously close to impatience.

“Either you go shower, or I’ll throw you in there myself.”

That finally makes your feet move.

You clutch the clothes tighter against your chest and step past him, disappearing into the bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And only then do you finally exhale.

The warmth of the shower does little to soothe the tightness in your chest, but at the very least, it washes away the lingering cold from the rain, the exhaustion clinging to your skin like a second layer.

When you finally step out, damp hair sticking to your neck, Sylus is exactly where you left him—leaning against the dresser, one knee bent, a towel draped over his head. His silver hair peeks through, darkened by water, stray strands clinging to his forehead. He’s slow with his movements, lazy almost, dragging the towel through his hair before ruffling it out with one hand.

For the first time, you actually look at him. Not just a passing glance, not a flicker of acknowledgement,—but really look.

At the way the dim light carves shadows along his jawline—the cut of his jawline, the slight furrow in his brow, the way droplets trail down his collarbone before vanishing beneath the black tank clinging to his build—damp and unforgiving, outlining lean muscle and sharp edges.

There’s something effortlessly sharp about him, something dangerous in the way he simply carries his frame.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his gaze flickers up, sweeping over you. Unbothered. Knowing. Like he’s caught you staring.

“Like what you see?” his voice drips with lazy amusement.

You blink, heat creeping up your neck before you compose your features.

“What is there to like?”

His smirk deepens, crimson eyes flickering with something teasing.

“You really are a shortcake.” He smugs as his gaze roams your body. “Looks like my clothes are trying to swallow you whole.”

You glance down. The oversized shirt hangs loosely off your shoulders, the hem brushing against your knees. The sweatpants are cinched at the waist, tied hastily to keep them from slipping.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not my fault you’re built like a damn tree.”

Sylus snorts, shaking his head as he runs the towel over his hair one last time before tossing it onto the chair. “Move.”

He brushes past you, the scent of clean linen and faint sandalwood trailing behind him. The door clicks shut a second later, leaving you alone in the room.

For a moment, you simply stand there, staring at the empty space he left behind.

Then, with a slow, heavy breath, you make your way to the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight, soft and warm—a stark contrast to the cold pavement you were curled up on just hours ago.

You sink into it, pulling the blankets over yourself, letting your body finally rest.

But sleep never comes.

Even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs, your mind refuses to quiet.

The storm still lingers beyond the windows, faint rumbles reverberating through the walls. Every moment from tonight replays, over and over again—

The laughter at the campfire.

Caleb’s dismissive jokes.

Caleb’s warmth, his head rested on your lap as the sun sets.

His voice, gentle, whispered—“I’m here, pipsqueak. I’m here.”

And the way the line cut before you could even finish your cry for help.

Your grip on the blanket tightens.

It’s pathetic. How much this hurts. How much he still has a hold on you, even when you know better.

You force yourself to listen to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom, gripping into your own palm like doing so could lull you to sleep.

The blanket feels too heavy. The air, too thick.

You shift onto your side, curling in on yourself, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the ache sitting heavy in your chest.

The shower stops, and a moment later, the bathroom door opens.

Sylus steps out, towel draped around his neck, silver hair still damp, a few strands clinging to his skin. The scent of clean linen and something sharp, something distinctly him, fills the space.

He says nothing, nor does he acknowledge you.

Instead, he crosses the room in that effortless, unhurried way of his, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair before grabbing something from his bag.

You watch from the corner of your eye as he settles into the chair beside the bed, flipping the book open like he’s done this a thousand times before.

Like you’re not lying there, curled up in his clothes, drowning in the silence between you.

Like this is just another one of his quiet nights.

The pages turn, slow and steady, the faint rustle of paper weaving into the distant cries of thunder.

Still, the way the thunder rumbles through the sky, rolling and crackling so close, makes your body tense on instinct. You will your breathing to steady, to calm. But your hands won’t stop trembling.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid.

The sudden change from the steady rhythm of pages turning to the faint tap of his fingers against his phone screen causes your brows to furrow in curiosity. You crack an eye open just enough to see him searching something up. His expression remains as impassive as ever, his crimson gaze flicking across the screen, scanning whatever article he’s pulled up.

Then—without warning—he gets up, grabs your blanket, and yanks it off you.

“H-Hey—!” You barely have time to react before he moves, fast and measured, rolling you over onto the bedspread like you weigh nothing.

“What the hell are you—“

He ignores you. Ignores your flailing arms, ignores your indignant protests, and swiftly tugs the blanket around you, tucking you in so tight you can barely move.

You blink, completely stunned. You stare up at him, utterly dumbfounded, as he looks down at you with a face that is, somehow, completely unbothered.

“What the fuck is this?”

Sylus simply plops back down into his chair, cool as ever.

“It’s what they say helps cats with anxiety attacks.” He gestures vaguely towards his phone. “Something about mimicking the feeling of safety.”

Silence. You blink at him.

Once.

Twice.

His lips twitch—just slightly. “You’re welcome.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“What kind of dumb—this isn’t even��“ You wiggle, struggling against the tight wrap of the blanket. “Sylus, let me out.”

“No.

“Sylus.”

“They say chin scratches can also help calm cats down,” he smirks. “Would you want that too, kitten?”

You open your mouth to retort, but another loud crack of thunder cuts through the room. Your breath hitches before you can stop it.

Silence engulfs the room once more.

He flips to another page in his book.

“Do you hate it that much?” his eyes never leaving the words in front of him. “The thunders.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hating the way your hands still tremble against the blanket.

“No.”

Sylus hums, the sound low, almost skeptical. He flips another page.

“Convincing. Really.”

You would never admit it, but the tight wrap of blanket around you created a protective barrier between you and the world.

Or perhaps it is the steady rhythm of his breathing. The calm, unshaken presence beside you.

Your eyelids grow heavier.

The storm still lingers outside.

But here, in this quiet space, it’s bearable.

And before you realize it—the world turns dark.

•

Your eyes shoot open.

The room is steeped in deep blue, the quiet hum of dawn settling over the world. The storm has long passed, leaving behind only the faint scent of rain lingering in the air.

You instinctively look around, your pulse quickening as the memories of last night rush in like a relentless wave.

The chair beside the bed is empty. The book he was reading is gone.

He isn’t here.

A strange feeling settles in your chest—one you don’t have the energy to name.

You push yourself up, the oversized fabric of his clothes slipping loosely around your frame.

Right. You need to go.

Sliding off the bed, you grab your things, moving as quietly as possible. The last thing you need is anyone seeing you sneaking out of a room that isn’t yours.

The hallways are eerily silent, save for the distant rustle of the ocean breeze slipping through an open window. You slip into your own room unnoticed, the door clicking shut behind you.

MC is still asleep, curled beneath the blankets, her breathing slow and steady.

You exhale, body weighed down with exhaustion as you strip out of Sylus’s clothes, replacing them with your own. The fabric is warm, familiar.

Sliding your phone onto the charger, you finally crawl into bed, slipping under the covers beside MC.

She stirs slightly, shifting at the dip in the mattress, but doesn’t wake.

The silence stretches, the soft rhythm of her breathing lulling you into something close to peace.

You close your eyes.

•

You’re jolted awake by MC’s sudden exclaim.

“Oh my god, Yn!”

Your eyes snap open, the soft haze of sleep vanishing in an instant. MC is hovering over you, her phone clutched tightly in one hand, her brows furrowed in concern.

“Where the hell were you last night?!” she demands, voice a mix of worry and exasperation. “I called you like, a million times! I was this close to going out and looking for you—” She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. “But, you know… how I am with thunders.”

You blink, mind sluggish, body too drained to react.

MC huffs, shoving her phone in your face. “Seriously, Yn. I was worried sick!”

You squint at the screen, barely making out the endless stream of missed calls and texts before you sigh, rubbing a hand down your face.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I—”

What are you even supposed to say?

That you got caught in the rain? That you collapsed on the side of the road? That Sylus found you?

That you spent the night in his room?

Your throat tightens.

MC sighs, finally pulling back. “I swear, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one day.” Her expression softens, the frustration fading into something quieter. “You okay?”

The concern in her voice makes your chest ache.

You force a small smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

MC watches you for a moment before nodding. “Alright. But don’t ever do that again, okay? If something’s wrong, you tell me.”

You nod, though you don’t say anything.

She plops back onto the bed, stretching her arms over her head. “Anyway, we have a long-ass day ahead of us. Let’s get moving before they start filming without us.”

You hum in agreement, pushing yourself up despite the weight still clinging to your limbs.

The moment your feet touch the floor, a faint dizziness creeps in, but you shake it off.

Today is going to be long. You just have to get through it.

MC chatters away as she gets ready, pulling out outfits and rummaging through her bag. She seems to have let go of last night’s worries, and for that, you’re grateful. You don’t have the energy to explain anything right now.

By the time you both leave the room, the sun has fully risen, painting the sky in warm golds and soft blues. The air is fresh, carrying the lingering scent of rain, but the storm from last night feels like a distant memory—like something only you remember.

When you arrive at the set, the atmosphere is already buzzing with energy. Crew members are setting up, actors are going over their lines, and the director is barking out instructions.

MC quickly joins the main cast, slipping into her role with ease, leaving you to find your own place among the side characters.

“Action!”

The day begins.

It’s hectic—far more chaotic than yesterday. Since most of the key scenes are scheduled to be filmed today, there’s barely a moment to breathe between takes.

You go through your role automatically, delivering lines, hitting your marks, going where you’re needed.

And yet, through the commotion, you can feel him.

“Action!”

You can see him in the crowd, practicing and discussing his lines.

You can see him placing his hand on MC’s head, telling her it’s okay she messed up her part.

“Action!”

Every now and then, between takes, you can see the way his eyes land on you, a certain look that you can’t quite place your finger on.

And every now and then, during any short break he can muster, you can see the way he tries to approach you.

But the simple thought of him makes you sick to your stomach.

“Yn—”

You slip away.

“Where were y—”

Someone calls you over before he can finish.

“Why didn’t you pick—”

Another take is called, forcing him back into position.

Every conversation dies before it can even begin, and you make no effort to change that.

You don’t want to face him yet.

You can’t.

“Action!”

Fortunately, the day is kind enough to be relentless, dragging you from scene to scene, making it easier to ignore the weight of his gaze, the questions lingering between you.

But as the hours pass, the sun burns hotter, the air grows heavier, and a dull ache creeps into your skull.

It’s subtle at first, just a faint throbbing behind your eyes.

“Action!”

Your limbs feel heavier, your head foggy, the world tilting ever so slightly.

You swallow, forcing yourself to focus.

It’s nothing. Just exhaustion. Just the heat. Just the fact that you spent last night soaking wet in the cold for hours.

“Action!”

You push through.

A hand reaches for yours.

“Hey—are you oka—“

“I’m fine, Caleb.” You snap, finally turning to face him, snatching your touch away from his.

You look over his shoulder to find MC waving for him.

“MC’s looking for you,” you state, turning away just as quickly.

“You don’t look—“

The set sweeps him away once more.

The heat is unbearable. It sticks to your skin, clings to your lungs, burrows into your skull with a relentless pulse. Every sound around you—voices, instructions, the scuffling of feet on set—blurs into a distant hum.

“Action!”

You should sit down. You should stop.

But you don’t.

You push through, following the motions, forcing your body to move despite the dull, throbbing ache radiating from your temple.

The sun beats down harder.

Your limbs feel heavy. Your vision swims.

Something is wrong.

“Act—“

A sudden shift—the ground tilts beneath you.

The world spirals. Your stomach churns—everything is slipping too fast.

And then—a firm grip catches your wrist.

Through the haze, crimson eyes lock onto yours, sharp and assessing.

You don’t understand how, don’t understand why— but subtly, nearly imperceptibly—the sharpness in his eyes narrows, just slightly.

His grip tightens.

“It’s not called a dance if there’s no one to catch you when you dip,” a teasing smirk crawls up his face.

You narrow your eyes, a frown following closely.

“Let me go,” you demand, pulling your hand from his. To your dismay, he does not budge.

Sylus hums, tilting his head slightly, his crimson eyes flickering with amusement.

“Let you go?” He scoffs lightly. “Sweetheart, you nearly face-planted in front of half the set. If it weren’t for me, you’d be eating sand right now.”

A flush of heat creeps up your neck—whether from frustration or fever, you don’t know.

“But it did look like you were throwing yourself into my arms just now…”

Your jaw tightens. “I wasn’t—“

“You were.” He grins, lazy and insufferable, before tapping his temple. “Don’t worry, I’ll be generous and let you blame it on heat exhaustion. But next time, try asking before you faint dramatically into my arms, yeah?”

A scoff pushes past your lips, hot and irritated. “I didn’t—“

He cuts you off again, eyes narrowing in mock thought. “Actually, should I be offended? You didn’t even call my name. Isn’t that what damsels in distress do?”

He shifts his grip to hook an arm securely around your waist, pulling you closer as your knees wobble.

You slap at his arm. “I can stand just fine.“

“Sure.” He drawls the word out, clearly not convinced. “If by ‘just fine’ you mean ‘barely upright and just one second away from proving me right.’”

Your glare sharpens, pushing his body away from you. However, your body betrays you as your knees struggle to find balance, causing you to lean just slightly into his hold.

Sylus smirks.

“You love proving me right, don’t you?”

You groan. “Just let me go, Sylus.”

Before he can answer, another presence looms in.

“Yn.“

The teasing weight of Sylus’s words vanishes in an instant.

You tense.

The air shifts—sharp, tight, suffocating.

Sylus’s smirk doesn’t falter, but the amusement in his eyes dims, replaced with something much more calculating.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Caleb takes a step forward, his expression unreadable—but his tone isn’t.

“Let go.”

A muscle in Sylus’s jaw twitches as his gaze sweeps over Caleb, the amusement curling at his lips deepening.

“That’s funny,” he muses, low and almost thoughtful.

Caleb’s eyes darken. “I said, let go.”

Sylus tilts his head slightly, gaze dipping back to you.

“Mm.” His voice drops lower, amusement flickering at the edges. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

The tension snaps tight between them—like a drawn blade, waiting to be swung.

You exhale sharply, yanking your wrist away from Sylus. Caleb’s presence itself is enough to push you off the edge, adding the tension between the two and your head splitting in half definitely does not help.

“I’m fine. I can walk. You two have scenes to film—go do that instead of hovering over me,” you mutter, your glare shifting between them.

Neither of them move.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Seriously. I just need some rest. Go.”

Sylus studies you for a beat longer, then— with an infuriating smirk, he raises both his hands in a mock display of surrender.

“Whatever you say, kitten.”

He steps back, turning without another word. But, even if you’ve just known him for a few days, you’re well too accustomed to that glint in his eyes. He’s entertained—like he just witnessed something far more amusing than it should be.

You roll your eyes, turning to leave—only to find Caleb following closely behind.

You stop in your tracks.

“Caleb.”

“You’re sick,” he states simply, as if that explains everything.

You let out an exhausted sigh. “I just need a nap. The sun’s too hot. You have a job to do. Go.”

“I’ll take you to your room.”

You groan. “I don’t need you to—“

“Yn.”

Something in the way he says your name—low, quiet, edged with something almost like a puppy left alone—makes your breath hitch.

You swallow, annoyance and fatigue surfacing your expression.

“Fine. Do whatever you want.”

You start walking. Caleb falls into step beside you, silent. The set bustles behind you, voices and movement filling the space. But between you and Caleb, the silence is louder.

The walk back is slow. The ground beneath you feels unsteady, your legs sluggish with exhaustion. The day had been merciless—your body drained from the heat, the lingering weight of last night clawing at your bones.

“I didn’t,” you murmur.

“You almost did.”

You finally reach your door, the cool AC left running inside brushes away a part of your exhaustion.

The door clicks shut behind you. You turn to face him, arms crossed.

“Alright. You walked me back. You can go now.”

Caleb doesn’t move. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets. “Kicking me out already?” he says with his usual playful tone, a grin plastered on his face.

“Out.”

Caleb sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just—why didn’t you say anything? You looked like you were about to collapse back there.” He slowly approaches you, placing one hand on your forehead and another on his. “You’re burning up.”

A deep frown crawls up your face, annoyance filling your senses. You swat his hand away, taking an unsteady step backwards.

“Get out, Caleb, I want to be alone.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly, taken aback by your response. A soft chuckle slips past his lips—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, okay, I’ll leave. Right after I tuck you in.”

You let out a sharp breath, exasperated, but too drained to argue. Caleb takes a step closer, reaching for the blanket, but you snatch it before he can.

“Caleb—“

“You didn’t answer my calls.” The shift is almost imperceptible. His voice is steady, but there is an edge to it—like he is holding something back. His jaw is tense, something unreadable flashing behind his violet eyes.

Your breath catches for half a second and you grip on the blanket tightens, but you school your expression. “My phone was dead.”

“Where were you last night?” His voice is still too calm. Too measured.

You exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose, exhaustion pressing into your skull. “Caleb—“

“Do you know how long I spent looking for you?” his tone is lighter than it should be, laced with something almost amused—but his eyes, his stance, the slight clench of jaw betray him. “I ran through the rain like a desperate idiot, calling for your name like a lunatic, only for you to act like I don’t exist the next day?”

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s frustrated.

You don’t know what to say to that. Instead, you let out a dry laugh, shaking your head.

“Yeah? That worried? Sure, Caleb. Sure,” you pause. “Do you expect me to be grateful?” sarcasm drips from your words.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” his eyes narrow.

“No? Then what are you saying?” You cross your arms, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Because I remember calling you. I remember my hands shaking so bad I almost dropped my phone. I remember hearing your voice and thinking, ‘finally.’” Your throat tightens. “And then I remember you cutting the line.”

Caleb stares at you, his expression unreadable.

“I was in the middle of god knows where, drenched like a drowning dog, kneeled down on the road next to some fucking dumpster,” you continue, voice shaking despite yourself. “But it wasn’t a great time. You were busy.” A humorless laugh leaves your quivering lips.

His jaws ticks.

“You know how MC is with thunders,” he says, voice quieter now. Almost defensive. “But as soon as she fell asleep— I didn’t think—“

“Exactly.” Your words are barely above a whisper. “You didn’t think. Had you paid a little more attention, you would’ve known I hated the thunder too.”

Something in his face shifts. His breath catches. For the first time since you met him, he looks like he miscalculated.

The silence is thick, suffocating. His gaze lock onto yours, searching—for what you weren’t sure.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, looking away. His hand grips the doorknob, knuckles paling slightly.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I didn’t know.”

A bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

He remains there for a second longer, a shadow of something you can’t quite place flickering behind his eyes. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself, pressing a hand against your temple as a dull ache throbs inside your head.

“I’m very—very—tired,” you continue, voice barely above a breath. “So just… let me rest, Caleb.”

His jaws tightens. He shifts his weight, like he wants to say something—like there’s something sitting heavy on his tongue—but in the end, he exhales through his nose, slow and steady,

His voice, when he finally speaks, is quiet. Strained.

“…Get some rest, then.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. He slowly place his hand on your head, ruffling it softly—the way that has always brought butterflies to your stomach. His violet eyes flicker, scanning you—your unsteady stance, the way you press against your temple, the exhaustion settling deep in your features. Something flashes behind his gaze. But just as quickly, it’s gone.

He takes a step back. Then another.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you one last time—not with amusement, not with his usual lazy charm or playfulness, but with something much quieter. Much heavier.

“Try not to sleep through dinner, shortcake.” His usual grin flickers at the edges, forced, strained, before turning his heel.

Click.

[live-laugh-lenney]

number one fan | george clarke

summary; yn is the biggest supporter at wembley stadium for george during his appearance at the sidemen charity match.

word count; 2.9k

** warnings; slight mention of sex but just pure, sickening fluff. **

just a little something quick, short and sweet to celebrate the charity match - the atmosphere was unreal and i'm so glad to say i was there to witness george scoring his goal at wembley. the best day of my life and i would do it all over again. <33 (i am going to include the day of the charity match in my current WIP fic - bestfriend!george/boyfriend!arthur - so i will go into more detail about this day in that!). let me know what you think. enjoy! x

The atmosphere of Wembley Stadium felt suffocating to YN.

But it was a good kind of suffocating if the word ‘suffocating’ had a positive connotation to it. 

It was electric, filled with so much anticipation, filled with bubbling excitement as people gathered from all over the country, with some travelling from all over the world, to support their favourite content creators in something that would be classed as historic for those in the career path of social media.

The loudness and the intensity of an almost full stadium, as the minutes on the screens ticked by till kick-off, was slightly overwhelming for her and she could feel the familiar feeling of nerves bubbling low in her belly and it felt a little strange for her to have been there for a football match as opposed to a concert. Because the last time she had been there was for a Harry Styles concert during a London heatwave yet, this time, it was a whole different experience. This was Wembley Stadium, the home of English football, and she was eager to experience the unique vibe it offered for the next three hours, ready to soak in every moment. 

It felt even stranger for her to have been there for someone she knew personally. The same someone she got to go home with afterwards and the same someone who (almost) everyone in the stadium had come to see and it gave her a feeling of superiority because she was the lucky one who got to kiss him once she saw him after, who got to take him home, who got to give him a massage as he laid in bed, who got to support him and be known as his number one supporter… she was one step ahead of everyone who had come to see him that day and, deep down, she relished in that feeling.

She’d travelled in with the two Arthur’s, since they were coming from the same part of London together and she didn’t want to travel on her own whilst George travelled in on a coach-load of Youtubers prepped in their kits for the day, feeling at ease knowing she could follow them and have her nerves calmed because they’d make sure to keep her mind free of any panic and anxiety she had about the day. Hearing their nonsense on the tube as they nattered about upcoming Youtube video ideas they were looking forward to filming, chiming in on how she really wanted to participate in a ‘Platform Roulette’ whenever they were next planning one and insisting she’d be able to keep up with the rate they drank at, taking pictures and videos of their day so she could document it all on TikTok and so George could use it in a video because, no doubt, he was going to put out a little something to show his gratitude to the opportunity he was given.

As each seat gained an occupant around her, her eyes dragged slowly from row to row as seats were filling up and she still couldn’t comprehend how she was stood in a box, amongst everyone else’s friends and family as they gathered for the huge event, ready to watch her boyfriend run the length of the pitch for under ninety minutes. Behind her, she was graced with Emily and her partner as well as George’s mum and dad, and she felt a lot more relaxed knowing they felt the same way she did; they were all in this together.

“Say hello to TikTok, lovely,” Emily insisted, holding out her phone in YN’s direction so she could wave and give the camera a shy smile and she graciously obliged, saying the sweetest ‘hello’ before Emily saved the video and put her phone back into her pocket, “I’m taking a page out of George’s book today and filming a little ‘day in the life of watching my baby brother play at Wembley’ and we all know the girlies want to see you.”

“I’m sure they only want to see George,” YN laughed, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose and situating herself a little more comfortably in her chair so she could still have a face-to-face conversation with George’s family but still have an eye on the pitch as they watched the players warm-up on the grass, and Emily shook her head, “I tend not to look at comments from people, really.”

“Well, you should have a little nosey look every now and then. They love you and George together,” she claimed and YN’s cheeks felt like they were hotting up, “besides, I’d have a few choice words for them if they ever choose to upset you. George can handle himself but I’ve got your back,” she gave YN’s cheeks a little pinch with her fingers and grinned at her playfully, “we love you, George loves you, that’s all that matters right?”

YN nodded shyly.

The way his family had welcomed her in, it felt so wholesome in her eyes. How they made her feel part of the family from the moment he took her back to Bristol for a weekend, how they showed interest in her life and asked her questions about her and her own family, how they gave her so much love for someone they’d only just met. Being sat with them, during a milestone that was huge for George and his career, made her feel so warm on the inside.

“Speaking of George,” YN took a glance across to where he was performing the warm-up in front of the crowd before she looked back to his sister,, “I can’t believe we’re here for him.”

“I remember the day he phoned us up and asked us if we wanted to come and watch,” George’s mum chimed in, looking up from her phone, momentarily taking a break from scrolling through some of the pictures she’d already taken that day, “I think his dad nearly had a heart attack when he mentioned he was playing on this pitch.”

“It’s not every day that your son says he’s playing football at a sold-out Wembley stadium,” his dad exclaimed, completely decked out in merchandise that made YN want to cry over because he looked so supportive, “there wasn’t a chance we were missing this.”

YN understood the significance of how much the opportunity meant to George.

The night before, as they bid farewell to each other, she could sense his anxiety and apprehension. The loving embrace they shared in the entryway of her flat, with his bag packed at their feet, was a poignant moment for both of them. George was visibly nervous and nauseous, knowing he would soon be standing on a stage in front of ninety-thousand people, all gathered for a noble cause. Despite his usual outward display of confidence, the jokes he’d make to bring lightheartedness to any room he was in, George confided in YN about his inner turmoil. 

He admitted to shedding tears, overwhelmed by the pressure to perform well and the fear of not measuring up to the expectations of his audience and he likened his feelings to that of 'imposter syndrome', as he prepared to share the stage with the very YouTubers he had idolized in his youth.

At that moment, all George longed for was YN's presence and her growing support. He found solace in her comforting embrace, knowing that her unwavering belief in him would help him overcome his fears and insecurities. As they parted ways that night, YN remained a source of strength and reassurance for George, providing him with the courage he needed to face the challenges that lay ahead.

---

“I just wish you could come with me tonight,” he pouted, eyes glossed over with tears and YN’s heart broke as he stood before her. He looked like a child who was scared to partake in the school play. “I know it’s silly to get so emotional but, I just want to live this moment with you. You’ve been by my side since the beginning of all of this that’s happening in my life. You’ve never let me do things alone, you’ve always held my hand, you’ve always made sure you were there for me.”

“It’s only one night,” she cooed softly, running a hand through his hair and letting her fingers curl in the curls at the back of his head, “I’ll see you in less than 12 hours, you silly boy.”

“I know but I want to live in the moment with you,” he sighed heavily and rolled his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he took an aching swallow, “and I feel so out of place there. Training today, I was amongst the likes of MrBeast and Logan Paul. Speed, as well. It just doesn’t feel right. It feels like I’m checking off a box and that’s the worst way to look at it because they’re my friends.”

“You deserve all of the successes that happen to you, George,” she reminded him and he brought his head back to look at her, her hands cupping his face and he felt comfort in how soft her thumbs felt as they dragged across his cheeks and collected the moisture of his emotions from his skin, “I’m so proud of you, I love you, and I can’t wait to be there tomorrow. Cheering you on with your family, with your friends, with all those fans of yours who have come to watch as you live out your dream.”

“Don’t forget to wear the shirt, will you?”

“Of course not,” she shook her head softly. Her Sidemen FC match shirt, with ‘Clarkey’ written across the back of her shoulders and the number ‘8’ embellished underneath it, was folded up neatly with the rest of her outfit - ripped and baggy jeans and one of George’s zip-up hoodies that she thought would act as some good luck - and she truly felt like she was a WAG and she wondered if this was how Talia, Freya and Faith felt before the first Sidemen match they ever attended. “I’m going to wear it with pride. I don’t think I’ll take it off for a while.”

“What if I take it off for you?”

“Only if you score,” she grinned at him with a glint of cheekiness in her eyes and it was enough to bring a wide, face-splitting grin to his mouth, “seriously. If you score, you can do whatever you want with me when we get back home.”

---

Eighty-eight minutes.

There were two minutes left in the game, two minutes left before chaos ensued as they rushed to get the winner’s podium set up, two minutes left for one of them to gain the winning coal to keep it from a tied eight-all score at the end. To her right was ArthurTV, visibly nervous whilst he chewed on his nails as his knee bounced up and down and occasionally bumped against hers, and to her left was Max, who was oblivious to the heightened atmosphere but had his eyes glued to the players on the pitch and she was certain he was looking for George but, then again, so was she and about half of the fans in Wembley Stadium. 

As the clock ticked down, the anticipation grew palpable, each second feeling like an eternity. The stakes were high, and the pressure was mounting for the players on the field. The outcome of the game would soon be decided, and the tension in the stadium was almost tangible.

A corner kick from Tobi, a poor touch from AngryGinge, and suddenly the stadium erupted into cheers and it took YN a brief moment to realise just who was on the other end of Tobi’s cross into the box.

“Oh, my god!”

Arthur turned to YN as everyone around them stood to their feet with their arms punching the air in excitement as they celebrated the ball going into the back of the net, grabbing her shoulders and giving her an enthusiastic shake whilst her own hands came up to cover her mouth in pure shock, her eyes darting from Arthur’s face to the pitch so she could find George to the screen that showed the moment her boyfriend got the final toe-poke touch of the ball as it crossed the line. A desperate lunge to make sure it didn’t skim the post, to make sure they got the winning goal, to make sure it was nestled deeply into the net as confirmation he’d won the game for Sidemen FC with their nine goals to the AllStars’ eight goals. 

“As if!”

She couldn’t contain the smile that burst from her lips, her vision landing on George as players in all black had surrounded him as they celebrated together, watching as Chris and Will went over to give him a celebratory hug before they joined the rest of their team before they restarted the game. The way he sauntered around the grass with confidence in every step he took, his eyes scanning the crowd to see if he could find where YN was sitting, giving her a wave and blowing a kiss in her direction once he saw her in the far distance.

“If he’s just won that for the Sidemen, my god,” Arthur sat back down in his seat, adjusting the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, “he will not shut up about this now, you realise that?”

“I know,” YN grinned proudly, clapping her hands together and letting them fall to her lap, “but I’m okay with that. I’m so okay with that.”

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Theo brought the ball down in the box at the opposite end and slotted it into the back of the net for his Wembley hattrick, which YN couldn’t fault his incredible attempt and considered him the player most worthy to get the only hattrick of the day, but she felt the knot in her stomach tighten at how George didn’t quite become the hero of the game but still managed to make his mark. 

---

“Well, well, well.”

She turned on her heels, a bottle of beer held tightly in her hands, and she took in George’s appearance - freshly washed hair that had become fluffy and soft now it had naturally dried, the smell of his shower gel and an even stronger smell of his aftershave that he’d spritzed over himself wafted up her nose and she just wanted to devour him in kisses and take him home so she could have him all to herself. He dropped his sports bag down by the table that his family were situated at, using his foot to slide it underneath so it was out of sight for everyone and not so much of a tripping hazard to those in the room, and she placed her drink down on the tabletop so she could wrap her arms around him in a tight hug. His arms sliding around her waist and he held her tightly to his front, hiding his face in the crook of her neck and goosebumps rose upon her skin at the way his moustache and the prickles of his beard tickled at her bare skin.

“I guess I’m taking this off tonight,” he whispered softly into her ear whilst his fingers toyed with the material of the shirt tucked into her jeans yet swallowing her upper body, “did we shake on that? You’re not going back on your word, are you?”

“I was going to let you anyway,” she responded, hands combing through the mullet he had almost perfected and he lifted his head from her neck to take in his surroundings, “you did so good today. I’m so incredibly proud of you.”

The smile on his face seemed permanent.

He could see his dad, pushing through the crowd, with bottles of beer in his hands as he made his way back to their table. He could hear his mum behind him as she ushered his sister and her partner to get ready to bombard him with hugs and kisses as they professed their pride and their love for him. He could see his friends all huddled together in different corners of the room, how all their families were gathered in this space and talking amongst themselves, photos being snapped and vlogs being filmed from all over the place that he’d definitely be showing his face in. 

Yet all his mind would focus on, at that moment, was YN. 

“You can go and wander around, you know? We’ll still be here if you want to go and talk to people,” YN insisted, looking up at him as he scanned the room, his arm tightening around her waist as he pulled her closer to his side, “we don’t mind if you do.”

“No,” he shook his head, looking down at her and pressing a kiss to her forehead, “I spent all day with these guys. I want to savour this moment with you.”

“You’re such a softie,” she laughed, sliding her arm around his middle and giving his hip a squeeze, “I still can’t believe you scored a goal out there today.”

“I knew what was on the line tonight,” he said coolly with a smirk twitching at his lips, and he took a swig of the beer from the bottle his dad had handed him to hide the cocky look that pieced his features together in a lustful way, his eyes turning a devilishly darker shade than normal, “what do say about us leaving early?”

“You don’t want to go out and celebrate with everyone else?”

“Not when we’ve got some celebrating of our own to do.”

[femmeroll]

please could you write sevika dating a ballerina reader??? it can be headcanons (nsfwplss) or a short fic or whatever you like, thank uuu 🩷

i adore this!! thank u for the request my lovely ♡

sevika x ballerina!reader

cw: smut & fluff, hyperfemme reader, butch sevika, oral (r!receiving)

when sevika meets you, it’s like something out of a cheesy rom-com. it’s the middle of a cold, grey winter, and there you are at the bus stop. hair in a tight bun, legs adorned with light pink tights, and a frilly leotard to match. your zip-up jacket doesn’t conceal you at all from the bitter weather.

the second sevika sees you, she starts unzipping her heavy winter coat. the temperature was piercing, but she didn’t care. there was a cute ballerina freezing to death right next to her!

“hey…would you wanna borrow this? it’s way too cold for a light jacket like that, don’t want you to get sick or something.”

and the second you see sevika, light blush on her face with a hand outstretched to offer her jacket, a thousand lightening bolts shock your heart. you don’t yet know who this incredibly kind a wickedly handsome person is, but you know in your gut that you will find out.

you get sevika’s number so that you can ‘meet up’ to give her the coat back.

sevika asks you out after texting back and forth for a few days. she invites you to a cute cafe in town, one of those pretty ones that are covered in plants and vintage art.

you bring her coat to return it, but she insists that you keep it.

she pays for your drink and your pastry without hesitation. sevika is fidgeting with her sleeves the whole time. acting all shy as if she’s some high schooler who’s about to hold hands with a girl for the first time.

the two of you spend a whole afternoon getting to know each other. you learn all about her mechanic job and her two dogs and how she really likes doing crossword puzzles. she learns about how you’re a professional ballerina and you spend all your time at the dance studio.

sevika is so smitten it’s unreal. and when she sees you wearing her jacket when your ready to leave, she knows its game over. her heart can’t take it.

dating sevika is a literal dream. she’ll take you to every rehearsal and be in the front row of every single performance.

after every performance she greets you with a bouquet of flowers and the proudest smile plastered on that handsome face of hers.

“you were amazing as always, baby. i was cheering your name so loud at the end! did you hear?”

sevika will rub your sore feet after you’ve been in point shoes all day. every dancer knows just how fucked up your feet can get from those things. she’ll help you soak them in a salt bath and raise them up while she gently massages the pain away. she’s always gentle with you.

sevika prefers date nights at home. her perfect evening with you includes cooking you dinner, eating with you in the living room while watching a movie, and splitting you open in bed.

on the topic of the bedroom…

the first time having sex with sevika is after dance rehearsal. you come to her apartment exhausted and stressed about an upcoming performance.

while you’re trying to rant to your girlfriend, she gets a little distracted. every inch of your gorgeous body is on display in your tight leotard. and the way your legs are clothed in those sexy tights…she wants to eat you alive.

“…and the choreographer was being ridiculous. my feet were sickled for maybe half a second and-”

“can i help you relax?” sevika interrupts.

she gently grabs your hips with a smirk, peeling the straps of your leotard down.

“so worked up, aren’t you babe? let me make you feel better, please.”

sevika frees you from your tight dance clothes and nearly moans at the sight of your body. bare and needy, and it’s all for her. she gently lays you down on her bed, kisses trailing from your lips and throat to your stomach and thighs.

she licks a long stripe from your hole to your clit, warm tongue sending shockwaves through your veins. she groans at the taste, greedily lapping at your pussy. she can’t get enough of the sweetness of you. and your cunt is nearly drooling over the way she eats you like you’re her last meal.

“god, you taste so damn good,” she growls into you, eyes dark as she pushes her tongue inside you. her nose rubs on your clit with every movement.

you’ve never cum so quickly in your entire life. watching her eat your pussy like a woman starved, the feeling of her hot tongue, her nose on your most sensitive bundle of nerves. it’s no wonder your eyes are rolling back into your skull after only a few minutes.

you clench around her tongue, whimpering out her name as she works you through your orgasm. once you start squirming from overstimulation, she comes up to kiss you.

“that make you feel better, baby?”

[xo100]

hii i have this idea. yn and lando dont know each other yet. yn is driving back from work crashes into lando and his mclaren (small accident nothing big) and lando is mad until he sees her and love at first sight haha and offers to help her with insurance and tries to get her number and shes just confused and doesnt know who he is.

Thank youu in advance.

A Minor Collision, A Major Connection - LN4

*:･ﾟ Summary/request: request by anon as you can read above this!

*:･ﾟ Word count: 2796

masterlist / community / request

౨ৎ

The Friday afternoon sky was draped in golden hues as Y/N tiredly made her way back home after a long, grueling day at work. The office had been a madhouse—endless meetings, deadlines creeping up, and not enough coffee to power through it all. The only thing keeping her going was the thought of collapsing onto her couch and losing herself in a Netflix binge.

Her car, a reliable little sedan, buzzed softly as she cruised down the quiet city streets. She sighed, tuning out the low hum of traffic around her. It was just another day, nothing special. That is, until—

BANG!

Y/N’s heart lurched as her car jerked to the side. She slammed on the brakes, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Her mind raced through what just happened. Did she hit something? Or worse… someone?

Her pulse spiked as she fumbled to unbuckle her seatbelt and threw open the door. But when she stepped out to inspect the damage, the first thing she saw wasn’t a crumpled bumper or a mangled fender. No, it was a sleek, dark blue sports car, glossy and absurdly out of place against the backdrop of regular vehicles. Her little sedan had smacked into the rear of it.

“Great,” she muttered, pushing a hand through her hair. Her car had bumped into what was probably one of the most expensive cars in the city, if not the country.

And standing beside it, inspecting the minor damage with a furrowed brow and an expression that was a blend of frustration and disbelief, was none other than Lando Norris. Though Y/N had no clue who he was. To her, he was just some annoyed guy standing next to his ruined car.

“What were you even doing?!” the man exclaimed, turning towards her with his arms outstretched in exasperation. His voice held a British lilt, his tone more incredulous than angry.

Y/N froze. “I—I didn’t see you! You came out of nowhere!”

“Out of nowhere?” he echoed, shaking his head as he knelt to inspect his McLaren’s bumper. There was a tiny dent, barely noticeable, but to him, it was as if the whole car had been wrecked. He took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself.

Y/N bit her lip, anxiety creeping up her spine. Her mind was a mess—how much was this going to cost her? Could insurance even cover damages on a car that expensive? This whole situation was unreal.

But then something strange happened.

The man, still crouched by the car, lifted his head to look at her properly for the first time. His eyes met hers, and his expression softened. He blinked, standing slowly as if he was trying to process something. His initial frustration seemed to melt away, replaced by a bemused sort of interest.

“Uh… Are you okay?” he asked, his tone much gentler now, his earlier irritation completely gone.

Y/N blinked. Wasn’t he supposed to be mad at her? She had just hit his expensive car, after all. Why was he suddenly acting so… concerned?

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m just… sorry about your car.”

Lando, however, waved her apology away like it was nothing. “Don’t worry about the car. It’s really not that bad.”

Y/N gave him a skeptical look. “Really? Because it looks like I did a number on it.”

He glanced back at the car, then at her, before letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, well, it’s just a car. What matters is that you’re alright.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. This guy was acting way too nice for someone whose luxury car had just been rear-ended. She couldn’t help but feel like there was something off about his sudden shift in mood.

“Okay…” she trailed off awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. “But still, we should probably exchange insurance info. I don’t know how much this is going to cost to fix.”

Lando’s expression brightened at the mention of exchanging information, and for a split second, Y/N swore she saw a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Yeah, sure, insurance,” he replied, reaching for his phone, “but honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. I can handle it on my own. Maybe we can just forget about it? I could… help you out.”

Y/N’s confusion deepened. Help her out? Wasn’t it her fault in the first place? Why was he acting like this was no big deal? And why was he looking at her like that, like he was trying to keep her there longer than necessary?

Lando shifted his weight, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t mean to sound weird, but… do you, uh, live around here?”

“Why?” Y/N asked cautiously, narrowing her eyes at him.

Lando chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. He suddenly felt like a nervous schoolboy, which was ridiculous because he was Lando Norris, F1 driver and world-class athlete, yet here he was fumbling over his words.

“Well, I just thought maybe we could grab a coffee or something. You know, after we sort all this out.”

Y/N blinked at him, utterly bewildered. “Wait. You want to get coffee? With me? After I just hit your car?”

Lando shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Why not? Accidents happen. And… I guess I think you’re kind of cute.”

Her eyes widened. Was this guy for real? She’d just crashed into his sports car and now he was trying to flirt with her?

“Uh… I don’t even know your name,” she said slowly, still trying to wrap her head around the situation.

He grinned, sticking out his hand. “I’m Lando. Lando Norris.”

She stared at his outstretched hand for a moment before taking it hesitantly. “Y/N. And, um… nice to meet you?”

Lando’s smile widened, his earlier frustration completely forgotten as he focused entirely on her. “Nice to meet you too, Y/N. So, about that coffee…”

“I’m sorry, are you seriously asking me out right now?” she asked, a slight laugh escaping her lips. “After I hit your car?”

Lando shrugged again, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. “What can I say? I’m a pretty forgiving guy.”

Y/N shook her head, still half-expecting this whole thing to be some sort of bizarre dream. “Okay, but… you didn’t even get my insurance information yet. Isn’t that why we’re still standing here?”

Lando waved a dismissive hand. “Like I said, it’s really no big deal. I’ll take care of it. Just… let me get your number, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

Now she was really suspicious. “My number?”

He grinned sheepishly. “For the insurance, of course.”

Y/N stared at him, trying to figure out if he was messing with her or if he was actually being serious. She wasn’t sure what was stranger—the fact that he was acting like the accident was nothing or the fact that he seemed more interested in getting her number than fixing his expensive car.

But there was something about him, something oddly charming, even though the whole situation was insane. Maybe it was his easygoing nature or the way he didn’t seem to care about the damage at all. Or maybe it was the way he kept looking at her, like she was the most interesting person he’d met all day.

With a sigh, she reached for her phone. “Fine. But I’m giving you my number strictly for insurance purposes.”

Lando’s grin grew wider, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Strictly insurance purposes. Got it.”

As she handed him her number, Y/N couldn’t help but shake her head in disbelief. What had started as a minor accident was quickly turning into the weirdest encounter of her life.

“Alright,” she said, putting her phone away, “I’ve gotta go. But, um, thanks for not being too mad about the car.”

Lando chuckled, leaning casually against his McLaren. “Like I said, it’s just a car. But you… well, you’re worth more than any car.”

Y/N stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or be weirded out by the line. “Uh, okay. Well… take care.”

As she got back into her car, Lando watched her with a grin still on his face. Maybe the accident wasn’t so bad after all. After all, he’d managed to meet someone who had caught his attention in a way no one else had.

And as Y/N drove away, still shaking her head at the absurdity of it all, she couldn’t help but wonder just what she’d gotten herself into.

-

The weekend had finally arrived, and despite the awkward car crash, Y/N had managed to put it out of her mind. She wasn’t expecting to hear from Lando again. After all, rich guys like him probably had people to take care of things like insurance claims. She figured she’d given him her number for nothing more than a courtesy exchange.

That was, until her phone buzzed the next morning.

She glanced at the screen, eyebrows shooting up at the unknown number. Hesitating for a second, she finally opened the message.

Lando: Hey, it’s Lando. The guy whose car you hit? Not sure if you remember me, but I’ve got some paperwork for insurance and stuff. Thought we could meet up and go over it?

Y/N rolled her eyes, half-amused. It was still weird to her that someone so nonchalant about the accident was bothering to text her. She tapped out a quick response.

Y/N: Yeah, I remember. Where and when?

He replied almost immediately.

Lando: How about that coffee I mentioned? There’s a café in the city, small, chill. We can talk there?

Coffee again? He really wasn’t subtle. Y/N bit her lip, debating. She didn’t have anything to do that afternoon anyway, and she supposed she owed him at least a meeting about the insurance.

So, reluctantly, she agreed.

-

The café Lando had suggested was tucked away on a quiet street corner, its large windows letting in the warm afternoon sun. Y/N pushed open the door, immediately greeted by the rich scent of roasted coffee beans. She scanned the room, expecting Lando to be hidden away somewhere.

Instead, she saw him immediately.

Sitting casually at a table near the window, dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, he waved when he saw her. His face lit up with a boyish grin that made him seem far less intimidating than the guy she’d crashed into just days before.

“Hey,” he greeted as she approached, standing to pull out a chair for her. “You made it.”

“Yeah, well, I figured we should get this insurance stuff sorted,” she replied, sitting down. She couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes lingered on her just a bit longer than necessary.

Lando chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, the insurance thing…”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, folding her arms over her chest. “You did bring the paperwork, right? That’s why we’re here?”

He looked slightly sheepish, then reached into his bag and pulled out a few documents. “Of course. Got everything right here.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but nodded. “Okay, good. Let’s get it over with.”

Lando handed her the papers, but as she scanned them, he leaned back in his chair, watching her with an amused expression. He wasn’t saying anything, but Y/N could practically feel his eyes on her.

Finally, she looked up. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just… you’re very focused. Kind of cute.”

Y/N groaned, shaking her head. “Are you seriously flirting with me right now? This is the second time you’ve done that.”

Lando shrugged, his grin widening. “Can’t help it. You kind of walked into my life by crashing into my car. Feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Or just bad driving.”

“Or that,” he agreed with a laugh.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his easygoing attitude. There was something about him that made it hard to stay annoyed. He had this infectious charm, the kind that made you forget about everything else. She didn’t know much about him, other than his name and the fact that he clearly had a lot of money, but there was something undeniably likable about him.

Still, she wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily.

“So, Lando,” she began, setting the papers down, “what exactly do you do? Because you’ve got a really fancy car, and you act like a guy who’s used to getting what he wants.”

His grin didn’t falter. “You don’t know?”

She shook her head. “No clue. Should I?”

Lando leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Well, I’m a Formula 1 driver. Kind of a big deal in motorsport.”

Y/N stared at him for a moment, processing his words. Then she blinked, completely unfazed. “Okay, so… you’re like a racecar driver?”

He laughed at how nonchalantly she said it. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Huh.” She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. “That explains the car.”

“Explains a lot of things,” he teased, his eyes twinkling. “Still, I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me. It’s kind of refreshing, actually.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Most people know who I am,” he admitted. “It’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t immediately treat me like I’m… you know, famous.”

“Well, lucky for you, I don’t follow racing,” she said with a small smile. “I’m just trying to figure out why a guy like you is wasting time flirting with a girl who wrecked his car.”

Lando leaned forward, his playful expression softening slightly. “Because maybe I like that girl who wrecked my car.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the sudden sincerity in his tone. She wasn’t sure what to make of this whole situation. The flirty banter was one thing, but now it felt like there was something more behind his words. Something genuine.

“I don’t get it,” Y/N said, shaking her head. “We’ve barely talked. You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” Lando replied, his gaze locking with hers. “And I want to get to know more.”

Y/N swallowed, feeling a strange mix of nerves and curiosity. This wasn’t what she’d expected when she agreed to meet him. She thought it would be a quick, awkward conversation about insurance, not… this.

“Lando, I don’t even know if I want to date someone right now,” she admitted, unsure of what else to say.

He nodded, his expression serious. “That’s fair. I’m not asking for anything big. Just… let me take you out sometime. No pressure. If you don’t like it, we’ll call it even, and you never have to see me again.”

Y/N hesitated, searching his face for any sign that he was messing with her. But all she saw was sincerity. He wasn’t being pushy or demanding, just… hopeful.

After a long pause, she finally sighed. “Fine. One date. But if you turn out to be some crazy celebrity playboy, I’m out.”

Lando’s grin returned, brighter than ever. “Deal.”

-

A week later, Y/N found herself walking into a small, intimate restaurant Lando had chosen for their first date. She was nervous, still unsure about the whole thing, but when she saw him waiting at the entrance with that same goofy grin, her nerves eased a little.

The night went better than she could’ve imagined. Lando wasn’t just some cocky racecar driver—he was funny, down-to-earth, and surprisingly sweet. He asked about her job, her hobbies, her favorite books, and genuinely seemed interested in everything she said. By the end of the night, Y/N realized she was actually having fun.

As they left the restaurant, Lando walked her to her car, the same little sedan that had started this whole mess. He turned to her, hands in his pockets, a slightly shy smile on his face.

“So,” he began, “how was it? Am I still in your good books, or are you planning to never see me again?”

Y/N smiled, shaking her head. “You’re still in the good books.”

“Good to know,” Lando replied, relief evident in his voice. “I guess that means I can ask for another date?”

Y/N bit her lip, pretending to think about it. “Yeah, I guess you can.”

Lando’s grin was contagious, and before Y/N knew it, she was smiling too.

And just like that, a minor collision had turned into something unexpected. Something more.

౨ৎ

*:･ﾟ Notes; thank you for reading, love’s! Hope you all enjoyed it! If there is something wrong or need to be edited, let me know! Also hey anon! If you read this, I hope that this is what you had in mind!

[afterglowsainz]

snap out of it | pepe marti

pairing: reader x pepe marti, reader x bf!franco colapinto

summary: pepe has the biggest crush on you, but you’re too into franco to notice

fc: blanca soler

request: here

a/n: for the franco girlies, i’ll write a solo franco fic soon i promise, for the pepe girlies, i’m sorry <3

—

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yourusername somewhere in northern italy… 🧚🏼‍♀️

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username they’re the cutest couple 💍

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username my favorites 💗

liked by yourusername, francolapinto and others

f1 BREAKING: Franco Colapinto to race the remainder of the 2024 season replacing Logan Sargeant for Williams Racing

tagged francolapinto and williamsracing

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username omg what

username this is insaneeee

username so happy for him! 💙

username ohhh i don’t know much about him but hopefully he’ll do good this season

yourusername OMG LETS FUCKING GOOOOO🔥🔥

username someone needs to pr train y/n ASAP 😭

username so happy to see more young drivers getting into f1

francolapinto 💙💙💙

liked by paularon_, pala_montoyaa and others

yourusername not much going on, just my boyfriends last race in formula 2 before jumping to f1 and pepe’s masterclass of a driving

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username y/n back at the paddock omg i manifested this

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babickovaela prettiest girl 💗

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username posted pepe in a photo dump AND praised him in the caption? ohhhh were so back

username no fr since she started dating franco they haven’t been together as much 😔

username maybe cause she has a boyfriend now??? idk priorities change when you start dating someone🤷🏽‍♀️

francolapinto ❤️ (liked by yourusername)

liked by landonorris, yourusername and others

francolapinto first formula 1 weekend: check ✅

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username such a great drive!

username not bad for a rookie 😎

landonorris great drive mate! keep it up👊🏽 (liked by francolapinto)

username congratulations franco 🇦🇷

username can’t wait to see more of him!

yourusername YOU DID SO GOOD

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francolapinto love you💙

username when i go to a franco’s number 1 supporter competition and my opponents are lando and y/n

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yourusername dinner nights🍷 (featuring saucy🌭)

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username ohhh i didn’t know franco was dating a baddie

username a face people would go to war for

username SAUCY <3

username i fear i’m no longer in love with franco but with y/n

username so so gorgeous it’s unreal

francolapinto demasiado hermosa❤️‍🩹 (too beautiful)

yourusername ❤️

username 👆🏽this is too cute but i miss her interactions with pepe

username no cause are they even still friends? they don’t interact with each other anymore 😔

usernameno fr bring back the pepey/n friendship!

pepemartiofficial’s instagram stories

[caption 1: 🥳] [caption 2: 🍾🍾🍾]

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francolapinto always a lovely time in baku 🇦🇿 the place for lovebombing and space❤️‍🩹

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[purplereina11]

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines. What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

When you reached Estadi Johan Cruyff, the atmosphere was electric—every pulse in the stadium throbbed with raw energy. The crowd roared in anticipation, chanting, hoisting banners high, all set to witness another blazing Barcelona masterpiece.

But for you? It was all about one singular presence. You hadn’t come for just the spectacle of the game—you were there for her. Alexia Putellas. With Maya and Liv tagging along, their eyes wide with amusement and intrigue at the public sparking between you and Alexia, the stakes were impossibly high.

"So, how are we feeling?" Liv pressed, nudging you as you sank into your front-row seat—exactly where Alexia had directed you. Wearing a cap to blend in proved futile amidst the contrasting white Nike hoodie chess move blazoned across your chest and cap that screamed for attention. Smartphones thrust in your direction, recording every moment of your bold stance. Front row wasn’t just a seat; it was a declaration.

"Nervous? Excited? Sweating a little?" Liv prodded.

You smirked, a hint of challenge in your eyes. "She’s the one who should be nervous."

Maya scoffed. "You talk as if she isn’t about to go full Ballon d’Or just to impress you."

And you weren’t hidden at all. The crowd’s buzz, with Maya and Liv flanking you from either side, was relentless. Despite your low profile—hood up, hands buried in your jacket pockets—it wasn’t long before gazes locked on you.

Not solely from the crowd.

From her.

The instant Alexia stepped onto the pitch for warm-ups, the atmosphere charged further. Every stretch, every pass, every jog was precise, yet her eyes inevitably wandered toward your section. She knew you were there.

A smug grin curled your lips as you leaned back, relishing the anticipation building just before kickoff.

The game exploded into life, and Alexia was a blur of speed and purpose. From the very first whistle, she was consumed—each move calculated, each touch a masterstroke. Every motion was deliberate as she dominated the midfield with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

You leaned forward, elbows locked on your knees, poisoned with admiration and raw anticipation as she sliced through defenders as if they were mere phantoms.

"Jesus," Maya gasped, half in awe, half in disbelief. "She’s insane."

Liv burst out laughing. "She’s putting on a damn show."

You couldn’t tear your eyes away as Alexia collected a pass at midfield. A single, piercing glance upward, and then—like lightning—she burst into action. Effortlessly, she ghosted past one defender, spun with unreal grace, then twisted her hips to leave the next flailing in empty air.

By the time she stormed into the box, the crowd erupted in a deafening roar. A thunderous strike—top corner, a missile that sent ripples through the net like an explosion. The stadium convulsed with energy. Without a second thought, you sprang to your feet; the shot was seismic. And then, as if electrified by the moment, Alexia turned. She didn’t celebrate immediately. 

Instead, she locked her gaze onto you—a small, impish smirk playing on her lips that screamed, I did that. It cut through you like a jolt. Your heart pounded uncontrollably as you clapped slowly, your applause a mixture of pride and challenge.

Liv whistled beside you. "Oh yeah, that was definitely for you."

Maya teased, nudging you. "Still think she should be the nervous one?"

You sank back into your seat, arms crossed as you feigned cool detachment. And if you thought Alexia’s performance had peaked, you couldn’t have been more mistaken.

For the remainder of the match, she unleashed a barrage of jaw-dropping moves—impossible one-touch passes, laser-accurate through balls, flicks and turns that mocked the bewildered struggles of defenders. It was an onslaught, as if she was playing in a realm where gravity didn’t exist, while everyone else fought a losing battle.

Each spectacular feat was punctuated by a glance thrown in your direction—as if daring you to react, as if stoking the flames of a private duel. And, yes, you were reacting fiercely. But you refused to let her see the depths of your admiration and desire. So you maintained your cool. You smirked when she executed a flawless pass. You nodded when she navigated through chaos. You tilted your head ever so slightly when she caught you staring—a silent conversation woven into the game itself.

And Alexia reveled in it.

As the final minutes neared, a decision formed in your mind. You weren’t going to stay until the final whistle.

Just before full-time, you surged upward, preparing your exit strategy.

Maya’s eyes lit up immediately. "Oh my god, you’re running away."

You grinned wickedly. "Strategic retreat."

Liv snorted. "This is diabolical."

You simply shrugged. "Let her wonder where I went." Let her chase the elusive mystery. Because this game? It was far from over—never even close.

Outside the stadium, you resisted the urge to check your phone. You knew that the moment you did, notifications would flood in—teasing texts from your teammates, maybe even a message from Alexia herself.

Instead, you let the silence build. Let her pace her thoughts. Even as you returned to your place, messages began appearing.

Maya: You’re actually evil.

Liv: Alexia was looking for you after the game lmaooo. She looked pissed.

A smirk tugged at your lips. Then another message popped up.

Alexia: So you left.

Short. Direct. The unimpressed tone practically sizzled through the screen. You paused before replying.

You: Front row or nothing, right? You saw me.

Alexia: I did.

Leaning back against your couch, you savored the rising smirk on your face. She wasn’t done yet.

Alexia: And yet, when I looked again, you weren’t there.

Her irritation was palpable, but so was the thrill—she was still texting you.

You: Had to leave you wanting more.

Alexia: Dangerous game you’re playing.

Your stomach churned with a delicious mix of adrenaline and anticipation. You were relishing every moment. After all, nothing was ever going to happen—at least not the way the game was played on and off the pitch.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared as Alexia composed her response. You held your breath without realizing it.

Alexia: Did you at least enjoy the show?

Your fingers hovered over the screen. Of course you'd enjoyed it—every mesmerising second. But admitting that would shift the power balance too far in her direction.

You: I've seen better.

Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, then reappeared, again. She was crafting her response carefully.

Alexia: Liar.

The single word sent a jolt through you. She saw right through your facade, and that both thrilled and terrified you.

Your phone buzzed again before you could respond.

Alexia: I scored a hat trick for you today. To prove my point.

You hadn't stayed to see the third goal. The realisation hit you like a physical force. She'd continued her rampage even after you'd left—perhaps driven by your absence.

You stared at the screen, the revelation of her hat trick leaving you momentarily speechless. Three goals. For you. The audacity of it made your heart race.

You: Trying to impress me, Putellas?

The response came almost instantly.

Alexia: Did it work?

You bit your lip, considering how to maintain the upper hand in this delicious standoff.

You: Maybe if I'd stayed to see all three.

Alexia: Your loss.

Alexia: Did you at least notice how I don’t just play. I dominate.

Heat rushed to your face. The double meaning wasn't lost on you. You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth had become.

Alexia: You should have stayed.

Something in her tone made your stomach flip. You imagined her face as she typed it—that determined set of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows.

You: Why? So I could watch you take your victory lap?

The response came faster than you anticipated.

Alexia: No. So I could find you afterward.

Your heart stuttered. The directness of her reply left no room for misinterpretation. She'd wanted to see you—to find you in person after the game. You swallowed hard, your fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard.

You: And what would you have done if you found me?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. The anticipation was excruciating.

Alexia: I guess you'll never know.

The challenge in her words was unmistakable. You could almost see her smirking on the other end, confident in her ability to make you regret your early departure.

You: Maybe next time I'll stick around.

Alexia: Maybe next time I'll score four.

A laugh escaped your lips. Her competitive nature was relentless, even in text form.

Your phone buzzed again before you could respond.

Alexia: There's a team celebration tonight at La Mar. Private room.

It wasn't a question or even an invitation—just information dropped casually into your conversation. Your pulse quickened as you considered your options. Going would mean surrendering some ground in this delicate game you were playing. Not going would mean missing an opportunity to see her again.

You: Is that an invitation?

Alexia: Take it however you want.

You bit your lip, weighing your response carefully.

You: Congrats on the hat trick. Truly impressive.

There. A small concession that acknowledged her skill without fully surrendering.

Alexia: You haven't seen impressive yet.

The boldness of her reply sent a rush of heat through your body. This was beyond flirting now—this was a declaration of intent.

You: Careful, Putellas. Your confidence is showing.

Alexia: It's not confidence when it's fact.

A knock at your door startled you from the exchange. You glanced at the time—nearly eleven. Who would be visiting at this hour? With a sigh, you set your phone down and that was this evenings interactions over with when your teammates had arrived with pizza and wine for a self invited movie night at your place.

The next morning greeted you with a whirlwind of chaos. The internet had erupted over your absence during the match's climax. Everywhere you looked, clips of Alexia’s breathtaking goal flooded the digital world, accompanied by heated speculations about the way her eyes had lingered on you after she scored. Twitter threads, TikTok videos, and Instagram comments meticulously picked apart every second of the exchange. Yet, perhaps most compelling was the footage capturing her scanning the stands at the match's end, unmistakably searching for someone.

That someone was you.

And when she failed to spot you, the brief flicker of disappointment that crossed her face? It was a moment the fans relished and replayed.

"Alright, so when’s the wedding?" your coach quipped the moment you stepped onto the practice field.

You groaned, exasperation evident. "Not you too."

Laughter erupted from Liv, Maya, and half of your teammates. Your coach, arms confidently crossed, remained unfazed. "What? It’s all over social media. ‘Alexia Putellas left searching for Barcelona basketball player after stunning performance.’ That’s you, by the way."

You shook your head in denial, picking up a basketball and dribbling it lazily to divert the attention. "She wasn’t searching for me."

Maya, ever perceptive, arched an eyebrow. "Wasn’t she, though?"

You chose to ignore her. However, your coach wasn’t finished. “Invite her to our open training session, she can run some drills.”

You smirked at the thought. "She’d probably crush them."

"That’s what worries me," your coach muttered, a trace of concern in her voice as she shook her head.

Later that day, while scrolling through Instagram, you saw it. A new post. Alexia, mid-game, in full focus. The second photo? A replay of that smirk after her goal.  And the caption?

Always front row

Your eyes widened. You knew exactly what she was doing. The comment section was already going insane.  So, naturally, you had to comment.

@yourusername: Didn’t think you noticed.

@AlexiaPutellas: You should know by now. I notice everything.

Your teammates were going to have a field day with this one. But at this point? You didn’t care. Because this wasn’t just some casual online banter anymore.  This was a full-on game. And neither of you were backing down. The second you hit send on your comment, you knew it was over. Not the game. Not the tension. Over in the sense that you were never going to hear the end of this from your teammates.

Because within minutes, your reply to Alexia’s post had gone viral. Fan accounts were already reposting it, making edits, analysing every single word. People were invested. And Alexia? She was definitely enjoying this.You could tell by the way she waited.

She let your comment marinate for a little while. Let people freak out over the interaction. Let the suspense build. And then her notification popped up.

@alexiaputellas: Pinned your comment.

You stared at your screen.

She pinned it.

Maya was the first to send a message in the lively group chat you shared with the two Americans, with whom you were swiftly forming a close friendship. Her text arrived with the familiar ping that signalled the start of another engaging conversation, and you could almost picture her typing away, her fingers dancing over the screen with excitement.

Maya: Oh, she’s COOKING you now.

Liv: You gonna let her get away with that?

You exhaled slowly.

No, you were not.

You scrolled through Alexia’s tagged photos fans had already clipped your interactions into threads, debates, and ridiculous theories.

And then you saw it. A perfect opportunity. A fan had posted a slowed-down video of Alexia’s goal celebration, zooming in on the exact moment she smirked at you.

Their caption?

She knew EXACTLY what she was doing. This is pure flirting.

So you took your shot. You commented on it with three simple words:

Did she, though?

Not even five minutes later Alexia fired back. You had no idea how she had even see your comment until you checked your replies on your comment and every single one she had been tagged in.

She had found a different clip of the goal, this time, it was a wide-angle shot, clearly showing you standing and reacting in the background. She tagged you in her comment, 

I’d say so.

You almost choked on your drink.

Your teammates, once again, were all over it, but this time Maya stupidly found her way into the teams group chat, engaging the rest of the team into making comments and screenshots galore firing into the chat when some were clueless

Maya: NAH SHE’S ACTUALLY INSANE FOR THIS.

Liv: She just destroyed you in 0.2 seconds lmfaoooo.

Your coach: I don’t know what’s happening, but please don’t start missing layups.

You just stared at your screen, heart racing. Because Alexia wasn’t just matching your energy. She was escalating it.

And now? You had to respond. You took your time, scrolling through your camera roll. And then you found it. A photo from your first game with Barcelona.

You, mid-celebration, number 11 bold on your back.

And the caption you chose, 

11 looks good on me, don’t you think? @alexiaputellas

You hit post.

And you waited.

The world exploded. People lost their minds in the comments. You weren’t sure if Alexia was going to reply immediately or let it sit—let the internet spiral first. But then, a new notification popped up.

Alexiaputellas: Liked your post.

Alexiaputellas: Commented: I prefer it on me.

You actually gasped. Because holy shit.

Liv called you immediately, cackling. "Oh, you’re DONE for."

Maya was losing it in the team group chat. Your coach just sent a 😐 emoji.

But all you could do was stare at Alexia’s comment. Because this? This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was personal.And now, you had to figure out what came next.  

The rush of adrenaline hit you like a well-timed screen, leaving you dizzy with possibilities. Your fingers hovered over the screen, reply options racing through your mind like fast breaks.

Direct message? Too private.

Another comment? Too expected. You opted for something different. Opening your Instagram stories, you snapped a picture of your practice jersey draped over your locker, your name clearly visible.

With steady fingers, you typed: Some things look better in person. Open practice tomorrow, 3PM.

No tag.

No direct mention.

Just an invitation hanging in digital space. Within minutes, your story had been screenshot and circulated across fan accounts.

The basketball facility's social media coordinator messaged you almost immediately. Just a heads up, we've had an unprecedented number of inquiries about tomorrow's open practice. Should we... prepare for something?

You sent back a casual Probably just the usual, knowing full well it was anything but.

That night, sleep evaded you. Your phone continued to buzz with notifications, each one a reminder of the public spectacle unfolding. Maya and Liv had transitioned from teasing to strategy sessions, sending you potential outfit options and suggesting pre-practice hair appointments.

You: This isn't a date

You insisted in the group chat.

Maya: Not yet it isn't.

Liv: Wear the black compression shorts. Trust me.

Morning arrived with your coach calling an emergency team meeting before practice. "I've just received word that we'll have additional security tomorrow," she announced, eyeing you specifically. "Apparently, we're expecting quite a turnout for our humble little practice." The team erupted into knowing laughter and whispers. "I don't care who shows up," your coach continued, "we run drills as normal. We're professionals." She paused, then added with the hint of a smile, "Though perhaps we'll showcase some of our more... impressive plays."

Practice that day was intense, everyone performing as if scouts were watching. You pushed yourself harder than usual, aware that tomorrow carried stakes beyond basketball. Later, as you scrolled through social media, you noticed Alexia had been conspicuously quiet. No response to your story. No new posts. The silence was more nerve-wracking than any reply could have been. Just as you were about to put your phone down for the night, it vibrated with a notification.

Alexiaputellas: Viewed your story.

And then, moments later,

Alexiaputellas: Posted a new story.

You tapped on it immediately. It was a simple image: a clock showing 3:00, with the caption Some invitations are impossible to decline. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was happening.

The next morning dragged endlessly. You spent an embarrassing amount of time on your appearance before reminding yourself that you'd be sweaty and disheveled within minutes of practice anyway. When you arrived at the facility two hours early, the staff was already setting up additional seating.

You nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all, extra seating for a practice that usually drew maybe a dozen die-hard fans and curious tourists. "We've never had this many RSVPs for an open practice," the facility manager explained, looking both stressed and excited. "Social media team is setting up additional cameras too."

"There's media outside," one of the assistant coaches informed you, eyebrows raised. "ESPN, local stations, even some international press."

"You've got to be kidding me," you muttered, Maya sudden voice from behind making you jump.

"This is what happens when two elite athletes flirt publicly," Maya said, appearing beside you with a knowing grin. "The world wants a love story."

"We're not—" you began, but the protest died on your lips. What exactly were you doing? The line between playful banter and genuine interest had blurred somewhere between her goal and your invitation. You nodded, trying to appear casual while your stomach performed Olympic-level gymnastics.

The locker room was unusually quiet when you entered—your teammates all paused mid-conversation, watching you with barely concealed amusement. "So," Maya drawled, "just another Thursday practice, huh?"

You rolled your eyes, pulling your practice jersey over your head. "Can we please act normal today?"

"Define normal," Liv chimed in, "because I just saw three news vans in the parking lot."

Your coach entered, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable. "Listen up, team. Whatever circus is happening outside those doors, in here we're basketball players. Focus on the game." She paused, then added, "That said, management has requested we run some of our more... crowd-pleasing drills."

By 2:30, the facility was humming with activity. The usual trickle of spectators had become a flood. The bleachers filled with fans, students, and—most intimidatingly—media. You kept your eyes averted during warm-ups, concentrating on the familiar rhythm of your dribble, the perfect swish of the net. Your teammates were unusually focused during warm-ups, occasionally stealing glances at the rapidly filling stands. Your coach maintained a facade of normalcy, but you caught her instructing the team to run their most visually impressive drills.

At 2:55, the doors opened for the final wave of spectators. You kept your eyes deliberately fixed on the ball in your hands, refusing to look up despite the increasing murmurs rippling through the crowd.

At precisely 2:58, a ripple of excited murmurs swept through the crowd. You didn't need to look to know what had caused it. Or rather, who.

"Don't look now," Liv whispered as she smirked, "but your girlfriend just walked in with half the FC Barcelona women's team."

"Don't you dare look," Maya whispered as she jogged past you. "Make her wait."

So you didn't.

Through passing drills and shooting exercises, you maintained your focus on the court, on your teammates, on anything but the section of bleachers where you knew she must be sitting. The weight of her gaze felt like a physical touch across your skin.

Coach called for a water break, and Maya nudged you none-too-subtly. "She's in the third row, centre section. Wearing your number." Your hands fumbled the ball, and it bounced away traitorously. When you straightened up after retrieving it, you allowed yourself one quick glance toward the entrance.

Alexia stood there, flanked by several teammates you recognised instantly. She wore casual clothes, jeans and a jacket, but somehow managed to look more put-together than anyone else in the building. Her eyes scanned the court methodically before your eyes connected.

Alexia Putellas, football royalty, casually dressed in a Barcelona basketball t-shirt with your number prominently displayed. When your eyes met, she offered that same smirk from the football match, and raised her water bottle in a small toast.

The gym seemed to hold its collective breath.

You raised your own water bottle in return, allowing yourself a small smile before turning back to your teammates.

"Oh, you're good," Maya approved. "Very cool, very collected."

Coach blew her whistle, signalling the start of a scrimmage. "First team versus second team. Full court, game conditions." As you took your position, your coach passed by with a final instruction: "Show her what you've got." Your coach clapped her hands loudly. "Alright, ladies, let's show our guests what Barcelona basketball is all about!"

The practice session began with standard drills, but there was nothing standard about the energy in the room. Every move you made felt magnified, every successful shot drawing louder cheers than usual. You were hyper-aware of Alexia's presence, feeling her eyes track your movements across the court. The scrimmage began, and something electric took over. You played with a ferocity and precision that surprised even yourself, no-look passes that threaded between defenders, drives to the basket that left the defence scrambling, and shots that seemed to defy gravity before swishing through the net.

During a particularly intense sequence, you stole the ball, dribbled behind your back to evade a defender, and launched into a perfect fast break. As the last defender approached, you executed a spin move that had the crowd gasping, finishing with a layup that even your coach applauded.

You couldn't help it then – you glanced toward Alexia.

She was leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching with an intensity that matched your own. When she caught your eye, she didn't smirk this time. Instead, she offered a slow, appreciative nod that felt more intimate than any verbal compliment. The scrimmage continued, your team pulling ahead as you distributed the ball with precision, finding teammates in perfect position.

In the final minutes, Maya set a screen that freed you at the three-point line. Without hesitation, you received the pass and launched a perfect arc that sailed through the net just as the buzzer sounded. Without thinking, you glanced over. Alexia was on her feet, clapping with genuine appreciation, her teammates beside her looking equally impressed. She was watching you intently, that competitive spark in her eyes that you recognised from her matches.

She gave you a small nod, one athlete acknowledging another's skill, and something about that simple gesture felt more intimate than any flirtatious comment. Coach called for a final water break before the last segment of practice.

As you wiped sweat from your forehead, Liv sidled up beside you. "She hasn't taken her eyes off you once," she whispered. "And I'm pretty sure there are at least three photographers who haven't taken their lenses off either of you."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't suppress your smile. "Let them look."

The final portion of practice was designated for individual skill showcases. When your turn came, you felt a surge of boldness. 

Instead of your usual routine, you incorporated moves you'd been perfecting privately, a crossover that had defenders stumbling, a step-back jumper from well beyond the arc. Each successful demonstration drew appreciative murmurs from the crowd, but you found yourself caring only about one spectator's reaction. As practice wound down, Coach gathered everyone for closing remarks. "Thank you all for coming today. We appreciate the support and hope you enjoyed seeing what these incredible athletes can do." 

Coach called an end to the practice with a satisfied smile. "Cool down and stretches, then you're free to go," she announced, adding under her breath to you, "Nice work today. Funny how motivation works, isn't it?"

As the team dispersed for cool-down exercises, you noticed a small commotion near the bleachers. Several fans had approached Alexia for photos and autographs, which she was graciously providing while her teammates formed a protective semicircle around her.

You deliberately took your time with your stretches, uncertain of the protocol for this unprecedented situation. Was she going to approach you? Should you go to her? The questions buzzed in your mind as you towelled off the sweat from your face.

Part 3

[world-of-aus]

Still In the Frame

Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader

Warning: a pinch of fluff, pinch of angst, a hefty dose of Bucky Barnes.

Author's Note: It's been such a long time since I've written and I fear i may be in over my head here. But alas I will not back down I am getting this story out! i hope you all enjoy this first part, back to my dark cave i goooo!

The doors to TD Garden had opened nearly two hours ago, but you had been here long before that mentally preparing yourself for the adrenaline the night would bring. 

Hoisting your gear bag over your shoulder you move through the arena, tapping your badge against the security scanner, weaving your way through the tunnels that once upon a time had felt too big, too loud, too unreal for a dreamer like yourself. But you had fought to build your name in this industry, long nights of hard work finally earning you a place with the Boston Bruins as their official sports photographer.  

 A second home. 

Dropping your bag behind the rink side media table you unzipped it with practiced ease, laying out your lenses, checking your batteries, running through the quiet rhythm of getting ready.  

Your own pre-game ritual. 

“Hey y/n, I know this is your thing by now but you know you get here early right, you could at least wait until the players are out on the ice warming it up before you show up.” Mark one of the newer videographers was tangled in a cable of wires behind the media table a crooked grin on his lips as he paused his work to watch you set up. “Are you really that afraid you’ll miss the puck drop if you don’t check every setting seven times? It’s you, you never miss” 

You shake your head, smile pulling at your lips as you adjust the strap of your camera around your neck. “While you’re right that I never miss, I also can’t help that I’m thorough Mark, I am a professional. Unlike some people.” you tease. 

He mock-gasps, eyes rolling, Mark was as professional as they came when it came to the wiring of the media board, but if he was going to dish it, he could certainly take it. “Rude,” he huffs, “you just happened to catch me at a bad moment.” 

You didn’t answer, instead lifting your camera and aiming it right at him. Click. He groaned head thrown back. “Now I caught you,” you grin flashing him the display. 

“Oh God y/n delete that, save that film for the players,” he murmurs ducking out of frame to tend to his tangled wires before you can get another shot of him. 

Chuckling to yourself you turn to the ice surveying what will be the background of many of your shots tonight. The arena is glimmering in the warmth of a dozen overhead lights, a Zamboni humming in the distance, stands beginning to fill with anxious fans. While you loved the game, this was the part you loved the most, the calm before the chaos, the quiet just before the thunder of the crowd.  

The calm however was short lived as players began to file onto the ice, like the fans filled the stands. 

Warmup. 

Warmups passed as they always do; in a blur of skates and sticks, high-speed passes, and the clang of a puck against the post. And you captured it all without a second thought tracking the motion through your viewfinder, framing the pre-game like a dance you knew by heart, and you knew it well.  But it was when the players cleared the ice, the lights falling dim for the player introductions that something in the atmosphere began to shift as it always did.

 The announcer’s voice was loud, matching the energy of the arena as his voice boomed over the speakers, the crowd swelling with anticipation as the players' names echoed off the crowded walls. 

“Number 88, Steve Rogers!” 

 

 “Number 63, Sam Wilson!” 

  

“And now, making his official debut with the Boston Bruins -” 

Your camera slipped from your fingers, breath catching in your throat as you took in the image that flashed on the screen above the ice. It couldn't be. 

“Number 14 - Bucky Barnes!” 

Time didn’t just slow - it shattered. 

Your ears rang, your heart skipping a beat in your chest. The roar of the crowd turning hollow, as if your head had been dunked in a tank of ice water, his name spinning in your head, once, twice, like a puck skimming ice - then sinking deep and fast. 

Bucky. 

You hadn’t heard his name aloud in over four years. Not in person. Not like this. 

Your stomach dropped as you gripped the camera like it might anchor you, like the weight of it could hold you still while your world suddenly tipped. 

Four years had apparently not been long enough to convince yourself it hadn’t meant a thing.  

And then he was there; in person stepping onto the ice like he owned it, his stride smooth and familiar. Your brain refused to catch up. It can't be.

And just then, like something cosmic twisted the moment tighter, his eyes found yours. 

Bucky Barnes, four years gone, looked across the rink and found you like he’d known exactly where you’d be. 

The world vanished in a moment. 

Only the ice that separated the two of you remained. 

You should’ve looked away then. Should’ve focused on your job, the game, literally anything else. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. Bucky’s gaze was locked on yours, steady and unflinching, and for the first time in years you forgot how to breathe. The arena came to life around you; players skating, music pounding, lights flashing, but in that single breath of time, none of it mattered. It was just him, you, and the ghost of a promise that still echoed louder than the roar of the crowd. 

Don’t forget me when it happens. 

I couldn’t if I tried. 

You took this time to study him, he looked different now than he did all those years ago. He was sharper around the edges, jaw more defined, shoulders bulked from years in the league. But his eyes, his eyes were the same; ice blue and intense, soft around the corners like he still carried pieces of a boy who used to skate backwards just to make you laugh. 

Click. 

Turning as quickly as you had snapped the photo, you let the camera drop to your chest pretending to mess with your gear, pretending you weren’t on the verge of losing yourself over him again. Your pulse pounded through your fingertips as you toggled with your camera, you could feel it in your throat, your ribs, it was disarming. You exhaled heavily pressing your palm flat against your chest like that would calm it. It didn’t. 

“Y/n,” Mark called over the boards concern in his voice. “You good?” 

You forced a tight smile nodding your head. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” 

“You sure? You look -” 

“I said I’m fine Mark.” 

He held up his hands in surrender as he ducked away, though you could sense his lingering curiosity, he had never seen you waver, not like this. Not wanting to give him more to worry about you turned your back to him, to the ice and took a few grounding breaths. 

Bucky Barnes. 

Here. 

You hadn't seen his name in the pre-game media emails. Hadn’t caught a single whisper about a last-minute roster change. How could you have missed this? Digging your phone out of your coat pocket you unlocked the device to do a quick scan through the league’s news alerts and sure enough, there it was: 

TRADE CONFIRMED: Star winger Bucky Barnes heads to Boston in surprise move just days before season opener. 

How had you missed this? 

The article was dated two days ago. Two days, and no one had uttered a single word. Had the team kept it quiet on purpose? Or had you just been so deep in prep mode that you missed it? You swallowed hard, fingers hovering over the article, but you didn’t tap it open. You didn’t need to read it. You already knew the stats. You knew how good he was. You knew the numbers, the accolades, the goals. The reason behind why he was here, why he had been traded.

What you didn’t know - what you hadn’t dared to think about - was why he hadn' tried harder. Why didn't he try harder to reach you. You’d given him space when he made it, telling yourself he needed time to adjust to the big leagues that you didn’t want to be the one to distract him. That when the time was right for him, and he found himself that he would find you. 

But he never did. 

And now he’s here. 

You curl and uncurl your fingers shaking the digits out as you will yourself not to fall apart. This wasn’t high school. This wasn’t the night you stood outside the rink and watched him drive away with everything he’d ever wanted. 

This was your dream, the one you had chased without him in it. 

And you weren’t going to let a single look crack you open. 

Even if it already had. 

The buzzer pierced the air tearing you from your reverie, the first period beginning in a flash of movement. Stepping into your role like a second skin you moved with it, slipping down the edge of the boards, crouching into position, camera poised and ready. 

It was easier once the puck dropped. The motion, the rhythm, the muscle memory, you let it carry you as you focused on the angles, light, shutter speeds. You caught clean shots of face-offs, passes, hard checks against the glass. And through it all, Bucky moved like a storm just waiting to break. Controlled. Calculated. Focused in a way that pulled your gaze again and again, even when you didn’t mean to follow him. 

Halfway through the period, he stole the puck mid-zone, spun off a defender, and passed it clean to his line mate. The crowd roared. The shot missed, but it didn’t matter. The energy shifted. He was electric. 

And then, he caught your eye again. 

Just a flick of his eyes, right before the play reset. Almost like he wanted to be sure you were still there. Watching. 

Your fingers curled around your camera, you didn’t know what that look meant.

But you felt it down to your bones. 

And by the end of the first period, your entire body was buzzing with something other than adrenaline. 

In the nearly short time, you’d manage to capture nearly three hundred frames already, clean, crisp shots of first-game adrenaline, a few hard hits, and a couple of near-misses that would look perfect on the team’s social media page. You worked through the intermission, head down as you sorted through previews, selecting the best for upload. Your fingers moving, dragging files to folders, checking lighting, adjusting contrast—but none of it felt real. None of it felt normal to you. And you knew why. 

No matter how busy you tried to keep yourself you could feel his eyes on you. 

And he looked at you like he knew. As if no time had passed at all.  

But time had passed. Four years of it. Four years of silence. Four years of building a life without him.  And still, despite the time that passed, you remembered everything about him. 

The curve of his mouth when he smiled. The sound of his laugh when you tried to take his picture mid-fall. The way he laced his fingers through yours when the two of you skated alone that night, his cheeks flushed from cold and something sweeter. 

“Just… don’t forget me when you do.” 

“I promise, no matter how loud it gets out there you’re the only part I’ll never forget.”   

Your throat tightend as you shoved the memory down like it burned. 

“Yo Y/n, you catch that last play?” Benji from the team’s social video crew dropped onto the folding chair beside you, holding a hot dog in one hand and a clipboard in the other. 

“Of course I did Benj,” you said, without looking up from your work “Great puck control. Good chemistry it was a good play.” 

“He’s something, huh?” Benji mumbled around a bite his head tilted towards the ice. “Barnes, I mean. Hell of a pickup.” he said around a mouthful. 

You didn’t answer. 

“He’s gonna be a fan favorite. Like, immediately. We’ve already got two new merch drops planned with his name.” 

“That so?” you questioned voice flat, neutral. 

“Yeah. Honestly surprised you didn’t know he got traded.” Benji nudged your arm. “You’re usually on top of this stuff.” 

“Yeah, well I’ve been busy,” is all you can muster. 

Benji snorts drawing your gaze to him, “well, prepare to be busy with him. Word is the front office wants a full feature – I’m talking photos, interviews, maybe a docuseries down the line. That guy’s a gold mine.” 

You looked down at your camera. The screen still displaying the last photo you’d taken—Bucky mid-turn, looking over his shoulder, eyes aimed squarely at you. You clicked the shutter closed and tucked it into your lap. 

“Hey,” Benji said, noticing your shift. “You, okay?” 

“M’fine Benj.” 

“You sure, you don't like fine.” he tried 

“I said I’m fine.” you repeated as you got to your feet slinging your gear over your shoulder. 

“Alright. Sorry.” He held up both hands, backing off. “Didn’t mean to upset you.” 

You sighed not answering as you moved to walk down the tunnel toward the photo bay, ignoring the nerves spiking beneath your ribs. Your boots echoed along the concrete, each step louder than the last. 

You needed air. Or silence. Or both. 

Instead, you slipped into the Bruins’ media room and sank into your work. It was your safest space; rows of monitors, quiet keystrokes, and the hum of image processors. You worked in silence as you transferred the files to your editing station and let yourself go still for the first time all night. 

And then - you hesitated. 

There it was again. 

That photo. 

Bucky’s face on the screen, sharp and real and heartbreakingly familiar. His expression unreadable, but his eyes.

His eyes saw you. 

You reached out touching the edge of the screen like it might offer clarity, like it might tell you something you didn’t already know. 

“Why now?” you whisper.

You didn’t expect an answer. The screen stayed silent. The room stayed still. 

And in the quiet, something old and aching surfaced, something you’d buried for your own good. 

You had loved him. 

That wasn’t the hard part. 

The hard part was knowing you might still. 

The Bruins won their season opener in overtime. 

The locker room was chaos; shouts and laughter, music blaring, the thud of backs being slapped, skates being kicked off and gloves tossed aside. You stayed in the shadows like you always did, ducking through the edges of celebration to capture the aftermath. The triumph. The sweat. The fire burning in their eyes. 

Your lens stayed steady. 

Your pulse did not. 

You caught a shot of the team crowded around Bucky, slamming hands into his shoulders, shouting praise and calling him a beast. He smiled; wide and unguarded. For a second, it looked like he belonged here. 

And maybe he did. 

But he used to belong to you.

You take the photo and back away before he could see you. He hadn’t looked in your direction since the third period. Maybe you could still fade out of this night without being - 

“Hey hotshot.” 

His voice stopped you cold. 

You turned slowly, heart thudding. 

Bucky stood their in the hallway just outside of the media room, dressed in Bruin's warmups and damp from the post-game shower. A towel slung around his neck. His hair was a little longer than you remembered, curling slightly at the ends. His face held the same structure, only harder. More carved. But his eyes? 

Same. 

Too much. 

Blue and full of something unspoken. 

For a second, neither of you say anything. The world narrowed to the space between the two of you - four years wide, but shrinking fast. 

“Hi Bucky,” you say, voice coming out quieter then you meant. 

“Y/n,” he breathes, like it's the first time he’d been allowed to say your name again. 

Your breath hitches. 

You hated how easily he made you feel sixteen again. Awkward and hopeful and afraid of your own heart. But you weren’t that girl anymore. You had lines now. Boundaries. You had built yourself back from the pieces he left behind. 

You didn’t smile, didn’t move. 

“I didn’t know you were with the team,” he said after a pause, voice gentle, like anything louder might make you run. “I mean, I should’ve figured. Your work’s all over the site. You’ve gotten really good.” 

You blinked. “You didn’t recognize my name?” 

“I did,” he said. “But I didn’t believe it. Thought it might’ve been someone else.” 

His words hang between you. It hurt. It wasn’t fair, but it did. 

“Well,” you said, stepping back. “Now you know.” 

“Y/n - ” 

“Congratulations on the win Bucky.” You turned to go, but his voice stops you. 

“Wait. Please.” You freeze. 

“I didn’t forget you,” he whispers, and the words knock the breath right out of your chest. 

Slowly, you will yourself to face him again. 

His face is earnest. Raw. “That night - before I left, I meant what I said. About not forgetting. I tried to call you. A few times actually. But you never picked up. And then the season started, and things got crazy and I thought, I thought maybe you moved on.” 

You felt the sting behind your eyes, but you blinked it back. “Forgot? I waited, Bucky. I waited for months and all I got was radio silence.” 

“I know,” he said softly. “ I'm sorry, I should’ve tried harder.” 

A beat of silence. 

He looked like he wanted to close the space between the two of you but didn’t. “Can we talk? Not here. Just - sometime. Catch up.” 

Your hands found your camera, gripping it like it might save you. “I - I don’t know.” 

“You don’t have to say yes right now.” he rushes.

You shake your head, sad smile pulling at your lips, “I don’t know if I ever can.” 

Your words silence him.

The hallway feels smaller.

He looks at you like he understands, like he knew what he’s broken. 

And maybe he did. 

Not waiting for his reply you turn on your feet to go, and this time, he doesn't stop you. 

By the time you've made it home, your feet are sore, your back aches, and your head is too loud with everything you hadn’t said. You dropped your gear by the door and kicked off your boots as you padded through to your kitchen. Tea. You needed tea. Something warm to wrap your hands around while you pieced yourself back together. 

Again.

The kettle hissed to life as it heated the water, doing little to block Bucky’s voice still echoing in your ears. 

“I didn’t forget you.” 

Too late. 

You poured the water, letting the tea steep as you took it to the worn armchair in your living room. The walls were lined with framed shots from your last few seasons—mid-air slapshots, slow-motion goal celebrations, players locked in motion like dancers with blades. 

But none of those photos rattled you. 

Only one had. 

You set the mug down as you grab your laptop, plugging in your memory card. The folders from tonight were still there, untouched since the arena. You opened the preview set and flipped through until you found it. 

The shot. 

Bucky turning mid-play, the crowd blurred behind him, eyes locked on the camera. 

On you. 

You stared at the image, heart clenched too tight to ignore. It was a perfect photo, technically flawless. But it wasn’t that that stopped your breath. 

It was the expression on his face. 

Not fierce, like during the rush. Not celebratory. Not focused. 

Just open. 

Like he was still trying to say something you hadn’t let him finish. 

Your fingers hovered over the trackpad; you could delete it. Bury it in your archives. Pretend it didn’t feel like a bruise you hadn’t expected.  Instead, you copy it into a private folder. One you hadn’t touched in a long time. 

You name the file firstlook.jpg. 

Then you shut the laptop pushing the device away from you.

Outside, the city is quiet. The streetlights bleeding soft gold into your apartment, catching on the glass frame above your mantle. One of the only personal photos you kept on display. 

A boy and a girl on a frozen lake, four years ago. He's skating backward, holding her hand. She's laughing, scarf trailing behind her like a ribbon of light. The picture wasn’t perfect. The angle was off, the focus a little soft. 

But the look on her face? 

It said everything. 

You took a long sip of tea, eyes on the past, and let the silence settle around you like snow. 

Maybe Bucky Barnes was back in your life. 

But that didn’t mean you had to let him stay. 

Still. 

That look. 

That stupid, aching look. 

It lingered. 

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Hiiii🫶🏻🫶🏻 May I request #9? I loveeeeeee your work. 💓💓

Hi, anon, ofc! Tysm 💜

This is from my prompt list. Pick a number and send it to my asks 😊

Word count: 926

Warnings: smut

Alexa, play Vanish Into You by Lady Gaga

Lazy morning sex in tangled sheets and sunlight

The sunlight was already creeping through the curtains by the time the two of you awoke, tangled limbs and messy hair making it impossible to tell where your body ended and Hyunjin’s began. Your bare thigh was slung over his hip, his hand resting on your waist, warm and heavy like he belonged there— because he did.

His breath tickled the back of your neck, slow and steady, and you felt the way his fingers slowly flexed against your skin as he began to wake, “Humm… you’re still naked”, he murmured, voice thick with sleep, lips brushing behind your ear, “Best sight to wake up to”.

You laughed softly, stretching under the covers and arching just enough to tease him, pressing your hips back into his, “Oh? And what about the waffles you promised me last night?” “I lied”, he hummed, trailing lazy kisses down your shoulder, “You’re my breakfast now”. You were already melting, a surge of warmth flooding you just from his voice. And when you turned around to face him, his eyes were hungry, mouth curled into a sleepy grin. The way his hair fell messily over his forehead, the soft glow of morning catching the lines of his chest and shoulders— he looked like sin wrapped in sunlight.

Hyunjin kissed you slowly at first, tongue curling against yours, lazy and deep— like he had no intention of getting out of bed for anything other than you. One of his hands slid beneath the covers, finding your hip and pulling you closer with a little growl in his throat. “I could spend all morning right here”, he whispered against your lips, “Inside you, under these sheets, with nothing but the sound of you moaning in my ear”.

You gasped softly when his fingers dipped between your thighs, already warm and wet for him. He groaned at the feeling, rubbing you slowly. “You’re unreal”, he breathed, trailing kisses down your chest, taking his time with your body like he was savoring every inch. “How do you always get so wet for me this fast?” “Maybe I just like when you wake me up like this”, you teased, breath catching when his fingers slipped inside you, slow and curling just right, “Maybe I just like you”.

Hyunjin’s lips found your nipple, sucking gently while his fingers kept stroking inside you, wrist flexing with slow intent. The sheets rustled, heat building between your bodies like a slow burn, “Say it again”, he murmured, “Say you like me while I fuck you with my fingers like this”. You moaned, hips rolling against his hand, “I like it. I like it so much…” “Good”, he groaned, lips brushing your mouth again, “Because I’m not stopping anytime soon”.

But he did, just to climb on top of you, and when he finally slid into you, it was deep and slow like he was carving himself into your bones. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him close, moaning into his neck as he rocked into you with slow, steady thrusts. Every push filled you completely, each one deeper than the last, dragging you closer to the edge. “I love how you cling to me”, he whispered against your lips, forehead resting against yours, “Like your body were made to mine” “You feel too good”, you breathed, nails scratching down his back, thighs trembling around him.

His pace stayed steady but intense, hips grinding just enough to make you gasp each time, sheets slipping down your bodies, exposing skin slick with sweat, “Fuck, you’re taking me so well” he groaned, voice cracked with pleasure. “This is my favorite version of you: naked, messy, moaning my name like it’s the only thing you remember”. You could barely hold on the heat tightening your muscles— everything building slow and heavy and perfect. “Wanna feel you come all around me, baby”, he whispered, kissing your lips again.

And when you did, it was everything— your body arching, nails digging in his skin, eyes fluttering shut as his name spilled from your lips over and over. He didn’t stop. His pace grew deeper, each stroke hitting that sweet spot again and again, making your breath hitch, your fingers curl tighter in the sheets. The sound of skin against skin was addictive, his low groans melting into the rhythm as your body trembled under his. It was overwhelming in the best way— the way he filled you, the way your body clung to his with every thrust, the way it all blurred into something dizzying and desperate and impossibly good.

Your legs tightened around his waist again just as his movements began to falter, rougher now, more frantic— he was chasing the edge he’d been holding back. You gasped his name when he finally let go, hips jerking forward with a deep, guttural moan as he spilled inside you— warm, full, pulsing through you like the final breath of a moment you wanted to last forever.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stayed there just breathing, tangled in each other, lost in the afterglow. “Still want those waffles?”, he asked, breathless and grinning, planting a kiss to your shoulder. You smirked at him, voice sweetly teasing, “Only if we make them after round two”. Hyunjin groaned, burying his face in your neck, “You’re gonna kill me”. You laughed softly, dragging your nails lightly down his back, “What’s wrong? Afraid you won’t survive another round?”. His gaze darkened, voice dropping lower, “Oh, you’ll see, baby… for today’s breakfast, you’re the main course”.

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

Also, I made a playlist with all the songs I recommend on this blog. You can find it here if you're interested in listening 💜

[mocchiixxx]

A Taste of Home

(Wen Junhui (Jun) x Reader) Genre: Fluff, Long-Distance Love, Surprise Visit

Summary: Filming in China has been exhausting for Jun, and he’s starting to feel the strain of being away from home. But just when he needs it most, his girlfriend surprises him with a food truck, bringing not just his favorite comfort food—but also the warmth and love he’s been missing.

Jun slumped in his chair, sighing as the makeup artist fixed the sweat on his forehead. Filming had been intense—long hours, action-packed scenes, and the constant pressure of working alongside a legend like Jackie Chan. He loved every second of it, but exhaustion was starting to creep in.

"Take five, Jun!" the director called out.

Nodding, he stood up, stretching his arms. He reached for his phone out of habit, checking for messages from you. The time difference made it hard to talk often, but you always left him cute voice notes to wake up to.

Just as he was about to reply to your last message, he heard a commotion outside the set.

"Jun-ge! You have a special delivery!"

Confused, he turned toward the source of the noise—only for his heart to stop.

There you were, standing in front of a food truck, waving at him with the biggest grin.

Jun blinked, then blinked again.

Was he hallucinating?

The staff around him cheered as they read the bold letters printed on the truck: "FOR CHINA’S NEXT BIG ACTION STAR—WEN JUNHUI! LOVE, YOUR NUMBER ONE FAN ❤️"

Jun let out a breathless laugh, his body moving before his brain could catch up. Within seconds, he was in front of you, arms wrapping around you tightly.

"You’re really here?" he murmured against your hair, his voice full of disbelief.

You giggled. "Surprise!"

He pulled back slightly, his hands still on your waist. "How? When? Why didn’t you tell me?!"

You tapped his nose playfully. "Because then it wouldn’t be a surprise, dummy."

Jun groaned dramatically before hugging you again. "I can’t believe this. I missed you so much."

"You looked like you needed a break, so…" You gestured toward the food truck. "I brought a little taste of home."

Jun turned to see the staff happily lining up, taking photos of the truck as the workers handed out meals with cute little cat stickers on the packaging. His heart melted when he noticed your handwriting on them.

"Eat well and stay strong, my superstar!"

Jun turned back to you, eyes shining with adoration. "You did all of this for me?"

You rolled your eyes. "No, I did it for Jackie Chan."

Jun burst out laughing before pulling you close, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "You’re unreal."

Jackie Chan himself walked by, chuckling at the scene. "Looks like someone just got a power boost."

Jun grinned, nodding. "The biggest one."

[anniflamma]

hii, i was wondering if you feel discouraged from posting david/jonathan content (or just other stuff you like) because it doesn't gain as much traction as epic content.

it's ok if you don't feel comfortable answering this ask, but i don't want you to feel limited to only one fandom so i just wanted to let you know i miss those guys and will promptly eat up and support anything you decide to post lol

I don't want to say that I feel discouraged from posting more David/Jonathan content, let alone any kind of biblical content, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t felt that way before.

When I posted Ruthlessness, I gained a lot of new subscribers, and to this day, it still feels unreal how many people enjoy my Epic The Musical content. However, that didn’t stop me from continuing work on my À Vostre Bras Vainqueur | David Et Jonathas animatic. When I posted it, I received a number of comments like “What is this gay shit? Do Epic instead,” I deleted them because they did upset me. Sometimes, I get similar comments when posting my shorts on YouTube...

I try to mix up my content. Instead of making only Epic content, I mix in something different in between, like biblical stuff or Slay the Princess, to show ppl that I don’t create the same thing all the time. I’d say it’s gotten better when I diversify my work. And it has been less with those comments lately.

But I genuinely love creating my David/Jonathan or Daniel/Darius content, and I enjoy seeing people’s reactions to it, even if the response is much smaller compared to Epic. I was prepared for the likelihood of pushback and knew it could be discouraging. However, I keep making it because I want to.

[wtfaniii]

Lotus Flower

━━━━━━━━ You were his first and great love, a woman who pretended to be a man to be a warrior and without realizing it you stole the general's heart, he was fascinated with you, your valor and courage were comparable to the fury of a dragon but your beauty similar to a lotus flower, you were unique and although their love blossomed in the wrong place perhaps destiny will give them another chance centuries later, when he sees your face again.

Kim Shin x fem reader¡!

master list¡!

English is not my native language¡¡¡

When you looked at your reflection in the pond you didn't recognize yourself, your hair, once long and silky, was now short and neatly tied back in a ponytail.

Your face, covered in dirt and dried blood, obscured the care you had given your skin before enlisting as a warrior.

¿Why did you do this? You were still questioning yourself, in a moment of impulsiveness, you disobeyed your family, they said you'd only be a pretty face, obedient, quiet, and helpful, but you didn't want that for your future, you didn't want to get married, much less serve your husband.

You wanted more, to read every book in the world, acquire knowledge, and maybe fall in love, like in fairy tales.

You let out a sigh and dipped your hands in the water to take a sip and refresh your face, your body ached from the endless fighting, but you couldn't stop now, you were so close to becoming a great warrior, showing the world that a woman could be strong and beautiful at the same time.

—Soldier, the general requests your immediate presence —a man spoke behind you.

You stood up and deepened your voice to respond.

—Immediately.

General Kim Shin was someone who at first terrified you, you felt that at any moment he could discover you and kill you for infiltrating as someone you definitely weren't but now you believed that he was the only man you could trust in the middle of this entire battlefield.

You wouldn't say it out loud but your heart would skip a beat every time he was near you and complimented you, he didn't know you were a woman, but deep down, you hoped that one day he'd find out and reciprocate your feelings.

You adjusted the heavy armor on your body and went to the tent where the general was.

[...]

Life was monotonous, boring, living nine hundred years had become tedious and although he never expected his supposed girlfriend, he was convinced that one day he would be able to pull the sword from his chest.

He walked through the streets of Seúl, with an umbrella on his head that covered him from the white snow and the coat he was wearing that protected him from the icy wind, he had no direction, he just let his feet guide him to a good destination.

Maybe that thought was planted by God this morning, a slight warning for what was to come.

In front of him, a few kilometers away, he saw you leaving a store with your own bag on your head, you had forgotten the umbrella and the weather had turned against you.

Without thinking much, he approached you and used his umbrella to protect you from the icy snowflakes that fell incessantly from the sky.

—You should cover up or you'll catch a cold —he exclaimed, looking curiously at the name of the place you came from.

"Taekwondo"

He arched an eyebrow and looked down at you.

—Thank you, I thought it would be sunny today, leaving my clothes outside wasn't very smart —You replied with a nervous smile as you looked up and adjusted your bag on your shoulder.

For Shin the world around him stopped abruptly, your eyes, your smile and even your hair were exactly the same as…

He knew that every certain number of years a person was reincarnated with the same face.

But seeing you standing there in front of him made feel so unreal, he wasn't ready, not after so many years even though he always knew there was a chance to see you again, this had caught him off guard.

—¿Why do you look at me like that? —You asked with a raised eyebrow and taking a small step back.

Shin said your name, your old name, how stupid, as if you could remember that time of yesteryear so he wasn't surprised to see the expression of genuine confusion on your face.

—I think you're confusing me —You replied with a tense smile.

—¿Are you a taekwondo teacher? —Him asking to divert the subject, him didn't want to confuse you or make you feel bad, besides, him wasn't even sure that you were really the reincarnation of the woman he fell in love with centuries ago.

Upon receiving your statement, he looked at you once more carefully, was it too much of a coincidence or was it a bad joke from God for putting you in his path once again.

—But this class is only for children from four to twelve years old —You rushed to say awkwardly while maintaining your firm posture despite feeling somewhat intimidated by him strong gaze, you felt strange —Adult classes are held at a different location, at different times, and with a different instructor ¿Are you going to take lessons?

—I have no interest in doing it.

The man's tone of voice made you feel even smaller under his gaze, strange, you never felt that way but somehow you couldn't help having that feeling with this stranger.

—Well... I-I have to go.

But he didn't want you to leave, the feeling that it was really you remained in his head, or rather in his heart, a hunch one might say, ¿What if it was you who drew the sword? ¿Could you even see it? Impossible, you would surely have turned your attention to his chest from the moment he arrived.

—Take the umbrella with you —He said, handing you the umbrella before you left.

You were going to refuse, you didn't want to abuse his chivalry and leave him without protection from the snow but the cold in your hands was stronger than your pride so you took the umbrella, thanked him and turned to leave immediately because you had another commitment and couldn't be late but you stopped a few steps away and saw him again in the same place where you left him.

—¡I promise to return it! —You assured him, bowing again before waving goodbye and continuing on your way.

He watched you walk away silently with his hands in his pocket and inevitably a distant the memory that he shared with you came to mind.

That night he discovered that a woman had pretended to be a man to participate in the battlefield.

You.

He admitted it, you were too convincing, you were smart, strong and cunning but also compassionate and observant.

An attitude that was non-existent among the ranks of his warriors when they were in the middle of a battle.

He still remembered seeing the expression on your face when he confronted you about that lie, there were rules, he respected them most of the time and pretending to be a man to be part of the war was considered high treason, however, he refused to execute you, he kept your secret only because you were one of his best warriors and you were very capable.

You earned him trust and, over time, him heart.

You heard him every night when he needed someone to talk to or the comforting warmth of a hug.

Every time him fought by your side were victorious until one day it wasn't like that, what was a small oversight became a tragedy.

Kim Shin's sword finished off each of his enemies but he was confident, a soldier from the enemy side was going to attack him from behind when he heard your voice alerting him, he immediately reacted but with that small carelessness you had your chest was pierced by a sword

Seeing you fall to your knees with blood pouring from your mouth was an image that remained etched in his mind, he couldn't help you, the only thing he could do was end the life of your murderer but only that, it was a war, there were losses but even with that idea he wasn't prepared to see you die in front of him for saving his life.

Just as he wasn't prepared to see your face again, he truly wanted you to be the reincarnation of his true love.

And if you were, he swore to himself to protect you just as he didn't in your old life.

Sorry for disappearing, but I'm at the end of the semester😭😭

Anyway, I hope you like this. I want to make a fic with this plot but I would do it on Wattpad.😸

[aerinmoriarty]

(the forgotten Masc photoshoots)

I believe Taylor has been through 2 attempts to have a Masc Era, with the first starting to be rolled out in late 2014.

Many of us are familiar with the Wonderland photoshoot. It blessed us with some of the best pics of Boyfriend Taylor we’ve ever received. But what if I told you there were others?

This photoshoot was likely done on Sep or Oct of 2014. You all may remember what else was going on in 2014. Big Sur in March, tons of photo shoots of Taylor and Karlie throughout the year, more instances of them stepping out together. They were inseparable all summer.

Then 1989 releases in Nov with its heavily queercoded lyrics and references in Welcome to NY and New Romantics with their explicit support and acknowledgment for queerness.

And right around the time of the amazing Wonderland photoshoot and the 1989 release, Karlie and Taylor were seemingly stepping out together more officially. Like it is so unreal to me that this:

And these:

All happened the same month. But there are also additional photo shoots that happened around this time, or in Nov of 2014 that show that this was not just a single isolated photoshoot.

There were a couple of more neutral or femme shoots that had more masc shots included:

There were also shoots where the expressions, outfits, etc are either more masculine or heavily queerflagging.

But I especially love this British Vogue fashion shoot Taylor did cause it’s such a callback to the original New Romantics, a movement that started out in the UK.

There are just so many good photos in here and I suspect there are other photoshoot goldmines I have yet to discover. So I highly recommend we all do more research because I think there is a lot of Boyfriend Taylor that has been lost (or at least rendered harder to find over the years). I need to do some deeper digging to see what else I can find. (And I haven’t posted em all here cause of picture limits)

I also know a lot of us are Enbylors or non-bilors or whatever our cutesy short name is, and I do think this coupled with a love of the Lover and Folklore era photoshoots where Taylor was styled in a more androgynous or gender experimental way does support that.

And also just realistically the fact that we now have a number of photoshoots from a number of eras that feature Taylor styled in this way; it definitely supports the case that the Wonderland shoot was NOT a single fluke of a shoot where she was styled wholly by someone else because that’s the way they wanted to see her. There is a continued queering of Taylor’s wardrobe and image that likely was at least approved if not suggested by Taylor’s team, and by Taylor herself.

So if we have all of these shoots in the latter half of 2014, and there was so much hinting that Taylor was lgbtq at this time…

What happened?

Kissgate.

I believe Taylor and Karlie had a very specific, measured plan in place to allow people to get more comfy with the idea they might be together, and Kissgate was too much, too fast, and caused too much backlash. And that caused one or both of them to want to hide again.

Where could we have been now if Kissgate had been lauded and not made into a controversial thing?

[mikeysonly]

3:08AM - Manjiro (Mikey) Sano

♡ pls see a dentist after reading this it’s too sweet. mikey is so CUTE AAAA.

3:08 AM

The glowing numbers on the clock felt like they were mocking him as his stomach let out a growl. He silently fake sobbed to himself.

With ninja like precision, he slipped out of bed, his messy blonde hair sticking out in every direction. “I’ll be quiet,” he whispered to no one but himself. Mission: Pizza.

With socks pulled up halfway to his knees (“the secret to stealth,” he thought smugly), Mikey tiptoed into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and pulled out a cold slice of pizza, holding it up triumphantly like he’d just struck gold. The microwave door creaked as he opened it, and Mikey froze, glancing back toward the bedroom. Nothing. He smirked. This was just too easy.

He tapped in a random time. Four minutes. It sounded like a good number, he guessed. The microwave beeped its confirmation, and Mikey flinched. “Shh!” he hissed at the machine, pressing his finger to the start button.

The low hum of the microwave filled the room as the pizza slowly spun. Mikey stood with his hands on his hips, nodding approvingly.

BEEP.

The pizza was fucking burning.

Mikey panicked. He frantically hit buttons to stop it, but that only made it worse. Each press was met with a BEEP BEEP BEEP!

“Oh, no. No, no, no, SHUT THE HELL UP!” he whisper screamed, slamming his hand against the controls. In his desperation, he yanked open the microwave door.

The hum stopped for a second, and he breathed out in relief. But then, the machine let out an angry WHRRRR! followed by a small spark.

Mikey froze, staring at the microwave like it was a bomb. “Oh… shit.”

Before Mikey could react, he heard her.

Mikey spun around just as Y/N shuffled into the kitchen, eyes half-open. She blinked at him standing there, socks pulled up, holding a steaming slice of pizza in one hand and looking like a child caught red handed.

“I wore socks and everything!” he blurted, waving the scorched pizza defensively like it was Exhibit A in his case.

Y/N looked at him, then at the broken microwave, then back at him. She bit her lip, trying desperately not to laugh. “What the hell did you do?”

“It panicked first, I SWEAR!” Mikey insisted.

Y/N leaned against the counter, shaking her head as laughter bubbled out. “You’re unreal.”

Mikey pouted, taking a defiant bite of his burnt pizza. “You still love me, right?”

“Debatable,” she teased, ruffling his already messy hair.

“Don’t eat that, you moron. I’ll make you something instead.” Y/N laughed, pulling him toward her in a sleepy hug. “You’re such a mess.”

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Not As Planned | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

This story contains themes of sexual assault. If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, please know that support is available. I’ve included resources below to help guide you toward assistance. You are never alone, and there is always hope. Please take care of yourself as you read.

International Sexual Assault Resource Link

Words: ~14,500

Tags/TW: SA, Violence, Trauma, Modern AU, Reader Insert, Female MC, Plus Size MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Muggle Born MC, Post Hogwarts, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Drama, Romance, Jealousy and Longing, Confessions

The low hum of the bar buzzed like a low-grade static in Sebastian’s ears. A smooth jazz ensemble played in the corner, their music rich and sultry, threading through the room like smoke. Golden light bathed the space, casting everything in soft amber hues that made the whole place feel a little unreal. Along the curved bar, bottles of rare liquors glittered like jewels, and the faint scent of citrus and something floral—lavender, maybe—lingered in the air.

It was a far cry from their usual haunts.

Sebastian ran his fingers around the rim of his glass, trailing condensation down to the base. The whiskey in front of him wasn’t his first, and it wouldn’t be his last. Across from him, Ominis sat with the casual poise that came so easily to him, his chin balanced on one hand while his other traced absent patterns along the bar's polished surface. He looked relaxed, though Sebastian knew better. If the subtle flush on his pale cheeks wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the way his lips twitched faintly every time Poppy’s name came up certainly was.

Beside him, Garreth Weasley was anything but subtle. Loud as ever, he laughed and gestured animatedly, mid-story about some disastrous experiment he’d tried at the pub last weekend.

“…and then, right as I’m about to take a sip, she snatches it out of my hand, takes one look at it, and says—and I quote—‘You have a death wish, don’t you?’ Can you imagine? The nerve!” Garreth threw his hands up in mock indignation. “It wasn’t even that bad. Just rum, peach schnapps, absinthe—”

“One day,” Ominis cut in smoothly, tilting his head toward Garreth with the faintest smirk. “You will be tried for your alcoholic war crimes, Weasley.”

Sebastian snorted into his drink, unable to help himself. He'd need both hands to count the number of times Garreth had walked into a bar and pestered the bartender to mix him something absolutely disastrous.

It was a wonder they still got served anywhere.

Garreth scoffed, taking an exaggerated sip of his neon-colored monstrosity. “You just don’t appreciate true genius.”

Ominis arched a brow. “If by ‘genius,’ you mean ‘reckless disregard for the structural integrity of your liver,’ then yes, I'm terribly ungrateful.”

Sebastian smirked, but his attention flickered toward the entrance—again. The girls weren’t even late, not technically, but every passing minute stretched unbearably. He should have been used to this feeling by now, this sharp-edged anticipation curling low in his chest.

He wasn’t. He never was. It was always like this, wasn’t it?

The waiting. The wanting.

Sebastian had spent over a decade orbiting around you, trapped in some endless, torturous loop of almosts—of lingering touches, stolen glances, conversations that danced too close to the edge of something he didn’t dare name. The worst part? It was his own doing. He’d had every opportunity to cross that invisible line, to tell you what he felt, what he ached for, but he never did.

Because once he did, there would be no undoing it.

Meanwhile, everyone else in their group was paired off now. Garreth and Natty had been inseparable since a Ministry event a few years back, and Poppy and Ominis had been as good as married the moment Hogwarts spat them out. Imelda had ended up with Nerida, to the surprise of no one, the two of them making up a formidable duo—one sharp-tongued and reckless, the other quietly cutting.

Sebastian was happy for them. Truly, he was. It was almost sickening how well it had worked out for everyone. They’d all somehow ended up with their Hogwarts sweethearts, riding off into the sunset with picture-perfect endings that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

And then there was him.

The idiot who’d spent 11 years hopelessly in love with his best friend and done absolutely nothing about it.

At first, it had been easier to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. You were best friends. You had always been best friends. Of course you were close. Of course you knew each other better than anyone. So what if you had a habit of leaning against him whenever you were tired, or if you always reached for him first when something made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe? So what if you touched him more than anyone else, if you let your fingers brush his wrist when you passed him a drink or hooked your ankle around his under the table without thinking about it?

It had always been like that. Until one day, it wasn’t. Until one day, when he was 15, he’d looked at you, and his stomach had flipped, and suddenly, every innocent touch, every laugh, every glance, felt different. Felt like something else entirely.

And now? Now he was fucking trapped.

Ominis’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll get wrinkles early if you keep scowling like that.”

Sebastian glanced up, narrowing his eyes at the smirk tugging on Ominis’s mouth. The bastard didn’t even need to see him to read him like an open book.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Sebastian muttered, taking a long sip of his drink.

Ominis didn’t respond, just tipped his head slightly, his expression bordering on smug. He didn’t need to say anything. The unspoken truth hung between them like smoke—Sebastian’s feelings for you were obvious to everyone but you.

Garreth leaned in suddenly, jarring him. “Relax, mate. They’ll show up. Natty wouldn’t miss this for the world, and she’d drag the others along if she had to.” He paused to sip his drink, a mischievous grin spreading over his face. “Although, Poppy’s probably the one making them late. You know how she loves to test Ominis’s patience.”

“More like Natty’s,” Ominis muttered, though there was no heat in it.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and turned toward the door again, restless. The moment stretched, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his glass. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t waiting for you—not like that. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t counting down the seconds until you walked through the door, wasn’t anticipating the sound of your voice, wasn’t wondering what you’d look like tonight, what you’d—

And then the door opened.

And everything else stopped.

Because there you were.

You moved through the room with easy confidence, utterly unaware of the way you were undoing him. That dress—fuck, that dress—it wasn’t something outrageous, wasn’t scandalous or overtly suggestive, but it didn’t need to be. It followed the soft curves of your body, hugged your waist, your plush thighs, the full flare of your hips in a way that made his pulse hammer violently against his ribs. Every step you took made it shift, just enough to tease, just enough to remind him that he should not be thinking about this.

And yet, his mind was already lost to darker places, caught in the dangerous, helpless imagining of how it might feel beneath his fingers. The silky fabric sliding beneath his hands, the warmth of your skin under it. How it would be if he were close enough to touch, to trace the shape of you properly, to press his hands into the softness of your waist and feel the weight of you against him.

His fingers tightened around his glass so hard he swore it might crack.

Garreth chuckled under his breath, clearly entertained, “Good luck tonight, Sallow."

Ominis said nothing, but Sebastian didn’t need to see him smirking to know exactly what was going through his mind.

It was humiliating, really, how easy it was for them to see right through him. And you? You just kept moving, oblivious to the chaos you were leaving in your wake.

Sebastian watched as you approached, your laugh bright and sweet as Natsai caught your hand, spinning you once in an exaggerated flourish as if to show you off. You humored her, swaying playfully, rolling your eyes when Imelda cat-called in approval.

Then, before he could steel himself, before he could brace for the inevitable destruction you always left in your wake, your eyes landed on him again.

And fuck, that smile.

It was warm, unguarded, laced with something soft. The kind of smile that was effortless, unconscious, the kind that made his stomach drop because it meant you were happy to see him. Because you looked at him like he was something good, something familiar and safe, and it tore him to shreds inside.

He forced himself to exhale. To not look like some love-struck fool drowning in you.

“About time,” he said as you sidled up beside him, leaning back against the bar in a way he hoped looked casual.

You rolled your eyes, slipping onto a stool, your shoulder brushing his. “I had to make sure you suffered a little first.”

“You’re a cruel woman.”

“I’m a patient woman,” you corrected, lifting a brow. “I got us on the guest list here weeks ago, so if I have to hear you complain about the wait, I will take my very expensive cocktail and pour it directly into your lap.”

Sebastian huffed, feigning offense. “You wouldn’t.”

You turned, propping your chin on your hand as you looked at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Try me.”

His stomach twisted violently. He didn’t know how you did this—how you made him feel like you could see right through him, like you knew exactly how wrecked he was and were enjoying every moment of it.

He forced himself to focus, to shift his attention somewhere safe.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere safe.

Because now, he was looking at your lips, parted just slightly in a teasing smirk, glossed and inviting and fuck—

He needed another drink. Immediately.

Before he could even flag the bartender down, Garreth leaned into your space with a dramatic sigh his arm wrapped around Natsai's waist. “Seriously though, what took you so long? Sebastian’s been brooding all night.”

You shot him a knowing look. “Has he now?”

Garreth smirked, tipping his glass toward Ominis. “Oh, yeah. Gaunt here tried to warn him about wrinkles.”

You chuckled, leaning slightly into Sebastian’s shoulder in a way that sent a full-body shudder down his spine. “I told you, Seb. Stress is bad for you.”

He tried to smirk, to give you some smart remark, but he knew it wouldn’t come out right. His brain was still lagging on the fact that your body was pressing against his.

Garreth, oblivious as ever, continued rambling. “Honestly, it was embarrassing. I think he almost—”

Sebastian elbowed him sharply, causing Garreth to spill his drink.

Natty, taking pity, pulled him back. “Come on, Garreth. Leave the poor man alone.”

“Fine, fine.” Garreth grinned, clearly not remotely deterred, but let himself be steered away.

Sebastian sighed, dragging a hand through his hair before turning back to you. “So? Was it worth the wait?”

You hummed, taking in the warm, intimate atmosphere, the soft glow of the speakeasy lights. The way the gold hues caught in your eyes nearly killed him.

“Oh, absolutely,” you replied with a smile. "It looks so authentic, like just look at the bar, Seb. The design is almost spot on to the real ones from the Prohibition era—mahogany, brass accents, those exact kind of light fixtures..."

Sebastian tried to focus on your words, really he did.

You were onto talking about speakeasy history now, eyes gleaming with excitement as you gestured toward the dim lighting, the low, rich hum of the jazz band. You’d clearly done your research, and you were rattling off facts with that same enthusiasm you always had for things you loved. It was so endearing. You could make anything sound interesting.

“Well, technically, speakeasies originated during the Prohibition era in America,” you were saying, leaning forward slightly, the low L ight catching in your hair. “They were hidden bars—illegal drinking spots since alcohol was banned. They had secret passwords, hidden entrances, all that. Some were even run by gangsters—people like Al Capone—because bootlegging was so lucrative.”

Sebastian nodded, trying to pay attention, but it was impossible. Because, as much as he loved hearing you nerd out, his brain had zero capacity for historical facts when every single one of your friends had immediately paired off around him.

At the bar, Natty was leaned into Garreth’s side, her hand resting lightly on his chest as he ordered her a drink, his voice dipping into something low and teasing that made her smile. A few feet away, Poppy had sidled up to Ominis, fingers barely brushing against his wrist in that quiet, intimate way they always did. Meanwhile, Imelda and Nerida had wasted no time making themselves comfortable, tucked into a plush booth, heads close together, already lost in each other.

And then there was you. With him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you belonged here, beside him. Like you were his.

Except—you weren’t.

Sebastian swallowed hard, fingers curling around his glass.

It was a cruel fucking thing, this closeness you gave him so easily. Because it wasn’t real, was it? Not really. You were just you. His best friend. Close enough to touch, to tease, to wreck him without even realizing it. But never his.

Never really his.

“…they even had hidden tunnels sometimes,” you continued. “The really fancy ones had hidden rooms, secret staircases, all kinds of tricks. Some of them were in basements, some behind fake storefronts. People had to whisper the password when they got in, which is where the term ‘speakeasy’ comes from.”

Sebastian barely registered what you were saying and you sighed, finally noticing the way he was watching you.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

Sebastian blinked.

“No,” he admitted, because what was the point in lying?

You rolled your eyes, exasperated, but there was no real bite to it.

“Well, at least you’re honest.”

Sebastian smirked. “Always.”

You huffed, clearly unimpressed. “So, what were you thinking about?”

He should have said something teasing, something to deflect, but then you leaned in, just slightly, your head tilting, and Sebastian was drowning.

There was too much warmth in your eyes, too much softness in the way you looked at him, and for one reckless second, he thought maybe. Maybe this wasn’t one-sided. Maybe you knew. Maybe you felt it too.

Sebastian cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away, to wave down the bartender like they might save him.

“Nothing important,” he lied.

You studied him for a beat longer, and then, before you could say another word—

“What can I get for you?”

Mercifully, the bartender appeared, their voice smooth, professional.

Sebastian exhaled and leaned against the bar, grateful for something else to focus on. “Whiskey and Coke.”

The bartender nodded, about to turn away when Sebastian jerked his chin toward you. “And whatever she wants.”

You huffed then rolled your eyes. “I can pay for myself, you know.”

“I know,” Sebastian said, smirking as he propped his elbow against the bar, resting his chin in his hand. “But since I’m clearly suffering through your history lesson, consider it payment.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, suffering, are you?”

“Excruciatingly.”

“Fine,” you sighed, faux exasperation in your tone, turning back to the bartender. “I’ll take the signature cocktail then, since it’s on his dime.”

Sebastian smirked, shaking his head. “Figures.”

The bartender chuckled and disappeared to prepare the drinks, leaving the two of you to settle back into the warmth of the speakeasy’s golden glow.

Sebastian let himself relax, narrowing his eyes slightly. “So? This drink of yours—what’s in it?”

You lifted a brow, amusement flickering across your expression. “Trying to impress me with your knowledge of mixology?”

“Absolutely not.” He snorted. “Just trying to gauge how badly I’m about to regret funding your expensive taste.”

You laughed, the sound warm, easy. “You’ll live. It’s gin with elderflower liqueur, citrus, a little honey, some kind of infused vermouth—oh, and a sprig of rosemary for flair. They call it The Whisper.”

Sebastian snorted. “That’s a lot of effort for a single drink.”

“That’s the whole point of a speakeasy, you loser,” you teased, nudging your shoulder against his. “It’s all about the craft.”

He rolled his eyes but grinned. “And here I thought we were just here to drink.”

“Well, that too.”

Your drinks arrived, and you lifted your cocktail, inspecting it with a satisfied little nod before taking a sip. The moment your lips met the rim of the glass, Sebastian had to fight back another surge of inconvenient thoughts—the gloss on your mouth leaving the faintest sheen against the glass, the way your lashes fluttered slightly as you tasted it, considering the balance of flavors.

“It’s so good,” you told him, swirling the liquid lightly in your glass. “Floral, a little sweet, but not too much.”

Sebastian hummed, sipping his drink as he watched you. “Glad to know my money’s going to a worthy cause.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “You know, you never did answer my question.”

Sebastian blinked. “What question?”

You gave him a look—one that told him you knew he was dodging. “What you were thinking about earlier while you ignored my history lesson.”

His grip on his glass tightened for half a second, but before he could come up with a clever retort to get out of this, a new voice cut in—bright, excited.

“Hey you!”

Poppy.

She appeared out of nowhere, seizing your wrist before you could protest. “Come dance with us!”

Your eyes widened. “Poppy—wait—”

But Poppy was relentless, already tugging you toward the dance floor with surprising strength. “Nope, no arguments! Come on!”

Sebastian watched, amused and relieved, as you shot him a look over your shoulder—half entertained, half exasperated—before you disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the glow of the dance floor, and just like that, you were gone.

A slow, knowing voice hummed beside him.

“She got away from you rather quickly.”

Ominis.

Sebastian scowled. “Don’t start."

The blonde sipped his drink, the picture of smug amusement. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Sebastian shot him a flat look. “You were absolutely going to say something.”

Ominis smirked. “Well, if you insist—”

Sebastian groaned, tossing back a sip of his whiskey and coke before slamming the glass down with a bit more force than necessary. “I don’t. I really, really don’t.”

“You’re in rare form tonight,” Ominis continued, swirling the last of his drink lazily in his glass. “I think I might even pity you.”

Sebastian shot him a glare. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No, but you do need a strategy,” Ominis mused, setting his empty glass down with a soft clink. “Because, at this rate, I fear I’ll be married before you confess to her.”

Sebastian scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you. Took you 8 years to say anything to Poppy.”

Ominis simply smirked. “And yet, here I am, in a committed relationship, while you’re still over here brooding into your drink like a lovesick schoolboy.”

Sebastian groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin’s sake, Ominis.”

“What?” Ominis asked, feigning innocence. “It’s painful watching you, you know. I can hear the longing.”

Sebastian scowled. “I do not long.”

Ominis turned his head toward him, lips curling ever so slightly. “Sebastian. Poppy said you stared at her mouth for a full ten seconds while she was talking about her drink.”

Sebastian flushed, gripping his glass a little too hard. “It wasn’t ten seconds.”

Ominis hummed. “It was.”

Sebastian wanted to slam his forehead into the bar.

This was his own personal hell.

Garreth sauntered over before he could wallow too deeply, plopping onto the stool beside him with a lazy grin. He slung an arm over the bar, casting a glance toward the dance floor.

“Mate, you are so obvious,” Garreth said, sipping his drink. “It’s honestly impressive.”

Sebastian gave him a flat look. “Did you come over just to harass me?”

“Pretty much,” Garreth said cheerfully.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to throw back the rest of his drink.

Garreth followed his gaze toward the dance floor, where you were now laughing at something Natty had said, your body swaying to the rhythm of the music. The warm amber lighting bathed your skin, the movement of the crowd shifting around you in slow, rhythmic waves.

And fuck, you looked good. Too good. Sebastian took another sip of his whiskey, trying to ignore the ache curling in his chest.

“So,” Garreth said, propping his chin in his hand. “What’s the plan?”

Sebastian glanced at him. “What?”

“The plan,” Garreth repeated. “You know—the one where you finally do something about your massive, crushing, soul-consuming love for her?”

Sebastian groaned. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Mate, we have to do this right now,” Garreth said, motioning toward the dance floor. “Because if you don’t do something soon, some other guy will.”

Sebastian stiffened. Because this? This was the one thing he never let himself think about for too long.

For years, he had convinced himself there was time. That things would work out naturally, that you’d both just… fall into place.

It wasn’t as if you had never been with anyone. You had, a few times during school, in the careless, fleeting way that teenagers fell in and out of things. But nothing had ever stuck. Nothing had ever felt like it mattered. And when they ended, Sebastian had always been there.

Your constant.

The one person you always came back to.

It had reassured him, in some selfish, pathetic way. Let him believe that you weren’t really going anywhere. That whatever was between you—whatever was building between you—would always be there, waiting, until you both figured it out.

But then you’d fallen for him.

Your first real, serious boyfriend. The one who had made Sebastian’s life hell for over a year.

He had hated every goddamn second of it. Hated watching you be with someone else, hated the way you had looked at him—like that—like he was yours. Hated seeing another man have what should have been his.

And what had he done? Nothing. Because he hadn’t been brave enough.

He had let it happen. He had let himself smile and nod and pretend to be happy for you. He had let himself sit on the sidelines and watch.

And then, when it was over—when it had all fallen apart—he had been there. Of course, he had. But you never told him what happened, and Sebastian never asked for details. Never pressed, never pried. All he knew was that one day, it was over, and you didn’t talk about it.

And if Sebastian had felt relieved? If some ugly, selfish part of him had thrived in the knowledge that you were single again?

Well. That was between him and the whiskey.

But that was over a year ago now, and Garreth was right.

You were moving forward, and Sebastian no longer had the luxury of time. You weren’t seventeen anymore. You weren’t in school, fumbling through fleeting relationships just for the sake of them. You were a grown woman—beautiful, incredible, desirable—and when you chose someone now, it would be for something real.

Something long-term. Something permanent.

And the idea of someone else—some faceless stranger—walking up to you on the dance floor, flashing you a grin, letting their hands wander over your waist, pulling you close like they had any right—fuck. That alone was bad enough. But the thought of someone keeping you, of some other man being the one you turned to at the end of the day, the one who got to wake up beside you, touch you freely, know you in ways Sebastian never had the chance to—

It made something inside his chest splinter, burn so hot and fierce he swore it might ruin him.

Across from him, Garreth was watching, expression infuriatingly smug.

“So,” he said, lazily swirling the ice in his drink. “How’s that plan coming along?”

Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to groan.

“Garreth.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Garreth grinned. “See, I would, but you’re being so fun to watch right now.”

Sebastian scowled, about to say something sharp and unhelpful, but his tongue turned to lead the moment he caught sight of you again.

You had slowed, your dancing shifting into something softer, something more. Natty had turned away, distracted by Poppy tugging her toward another group, and now you were swaying on your own, hands drifting absently down your sides as if lost in the rhythm. Your body moved without thought, your dress hugging the curves of your hips in ways that sent something dark curling in Sebastian’s stomach.

He watched as your eyes fluttered closed, lost in the music, the soft golden glow of the lights painting your skin in honeyed warmth.

And then, like clockwork, it happened.

Some man—some fucking man—noticed you.

Sebastian saw it before it even began, could feel the exact moment the stranger’s gaze landed on you, lingering.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of polished that came with old money, and he was looking at you like he wanted you.

And you—unaware, oblivious—were still dancing. Still open. Still approachable.

Sebastian’s blood ran hot.

Garreth, always a shit-disturber, let out a low whistle. “Ohhh, this is gonna be good.”

Sebastian didn’t even register him, because the stranger was already moving, crossing the floor toward you with intent, cutting through the slow sway of bodies, an easy grin sliding into place.

Sebastian barely heard Garreth mutter, yep, there it is, before he was already moving.

Not thinking—just moving, standing, glass forgotten, feet carrying him across the floor with single-minded purpose.

The stranger reached you first, but Sebastian wasn’t far behind, and he saw the exact moment the man’s hand started to lift—reaching for you, moving into your space.

And he saw the way you instinctively leaned back, a subtle but unmistakable recoil, your easy smile dimming as you shook your head, declining whatever offer the guy had just made.

And before the bastard could press further—before he could try again—Sebastian was there.

His body cut smoothly between you, stepping into your space so fast and close that you had to tilt your head up in surprise, your eyes widening at him.

The stranger hesitated, thrown off by his sudden arrival, but Sebastian didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t even fucking blink in his direction.

Because you? You were looking at him. And only him.

Your lips parted slightly, something caught between confusion and surprise, but Sebastian didn’t give you a chance to question it.

Sebastian held out a hand.

“Dance with me.”

Not a request. Not a suggestion. A command.

Your brows lifted slightly at the shift in his voice, but you didn’t hesitate. Because of course you didn’t. You trusted him.

Your fingers slid into his, warm and soft, and Sebastian nearly exhaled in relief.

Because just like that, the moment was over.

The stranger lingered for only a second longer before turning away, disappearing into the crowd.

Gone. Good.

Then you sighed—a small, quiet thing, barely noticeable over the music—and glanced up at him, a flicker of something unreadable in your expression.

“Thanks for that,” you murmured, voice lower now, more serious than it had been all night.

Sebastian’s brow furrowed slightly. “For what?”

Your lips pressed together for a second, as if debating whether to say anything. Then, finally:

“That guy was talking to our group earlier, too.”

Sebastian’s grip on your waist tightened, his mood immediately souring. Because how had he not noticed? How had he been sitting at that bar this whole damn time, so hyper-focused on you, so obsessed, and not seen some asshole lurking around you and the other girls? A slow, simmering anger curled in his gut.

“Did he say anything to you?” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be.

You shook your head. “Just… you know.” You made a vague gesture, rolling your eyes slightly. “The usual.”

Sebastian’s jaw flexed. No, he didn’t know. Because he wasn’t you.

He didn’t know what it was like to be someone like you—gorgeous, open, effortlessly magnetic—constantly dealing with men who thought that just because you were kind, just because you smiled, just because you laughed and danced, it meant they had a chance.

It made something dark coil inside him, something ugly. Something possessive.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying—failing—to push it down.

“Did he touch you?” he asked, voice quieter now, lower, but hard.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the edge in his tone.

“No,” you said after a beat, shaking your head.

Sebastian didn’t realize how much tension he had been holding until the word left your mouth. Didn’t realize how furious he had been, how much his hands had itched to grab that bastard by the collar and drag him outside just for thinking he had the right to put his hands on you.

“You don’t have to look like that,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly.

Sebastian raised a brow, his smirk automatic but strained. “Like what?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Like you’re about to storm out of here and commit a felony.”

Sebastian didn’t deny it.

"You should let me fight someone for you at least once," he muttered, only half-joking.

You grinned. "Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?"

"More than you know."

"Violence isn’t the answer, Sallow," you sing-songed.

He smirked. "It’s a good answer, though."

You shook your head, still laughing, still entirely too light while Sebastian was over here barely holding himself together. And then, just to kill him, you leaned in, pressing your forehead lightly against his chest.

"I’m okay, Seb," you murmured.

Just like that, the anger drained from his body. Because if you weren’t upset, if you weren’t shaken, if you were still smiling up at him like this—like he was something good, something safe—then how was he supposed to hold onto his fury?

The song slowed, the deep bass fading into the last lingering notes of the melody. The hum of conversation filled the space again, bodies shifting, moving apart, laughter rising over the murmur of the next song beginning.

Sebastian barely noticed because you were still close—your forehead resting against his chest, your breath warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. And just as easily as you had leaned into him, you pulled back and reached for his hand, fingers sliding against his.

“I need another drink.”

And Sebastian—who would have followed you anywhere, who always had—went without question.

He let you lead him through the crowd, past shifting bodies and hushed conversation, back toward the bar where your friends had gathered, voices raised in lively debate.

Garreth was the first to notice your return, his grin downright wicked as he clocked your joined hands.

“Look who decided to grace us with their presence,” he drawled, handing Sebastian a pint of beer. “Have a nice dance?”

Sebastian ignored him, but you just rolled your eyes, releasing his hand as you slid onto a stool. “I did, actually. What’s all this?”

Nerida, perched beside Imelda, snorted. “They’re making bets on what Poppy has gotten Ominis into this time.”

You blinked. “Where've they gone?”

“She dragged him off about twenty minutes ago,” Imelda said, smirking over the rim of her glass. “Into one of the side rooms.”

Sebastian felt your laughter before he heard it—the way your shoulders shook, the way you leaned slightly into his side, your warmth pressing into him once again.

“Oh no,” you breathed, shaking your head. “Poor Ominis.”

Garreth grinned. “Poor Ominis?” He gestured wildly with his glass. "That man's probably having the time of his bloody life right now! In fact, Natty, I'd be more than happy to—"

Natty cut him off with a sharp look, arching a brow. “Don’t finish that sentence, Weasley.”

Nerida, still nursing her drink, smirked. “So, what are the odds? Did she lure him in with something harmless, or is Ominis about to lose all dignity?”

“Fifteen galleons says he’s getting head at this very second," Imelda said with a grin, tapping her fingers against the bar.

Garreth howled with laughter, nearly spilling his drink. “Oh, Merlin, I wish I had that kind of faith in Poppy, but in public?! I don't know, Mel.”

Natty groaned, covering her face with her hands. “For the love of God—”

Nerida just smirked, tilting her glass toward Imelda. “Bold bet. You really think Poppy’s got it in her?”

Imelda snorted. “Look, I’m just saying—quiet ones are always the freakiest.”

Sebastian choked on his beer.

Garreth, still grinning, wiped at his eyes. “Ten galleons says she is at least getting handsy.”

“Five says he’s just standing there awkwardly while she tells him fun facts about kneazles,” Natty countered, shaking her head.

Sebastian smirked, shaking his head. “I’d put twenty on him hexing us all into oblivion if he knew what was going on right now.”

Garreth cackled. “A safe bet.”

The conversation was rapidly descending into chaos when, right on cue, Ominis’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and unimpressed.

“I hate all of you.”

The group collectively turned to see Ominis standing there, looking thoroughly unimpressed, Poppy at his side looking suspiciously pleased with herself.

Garreth, delighted, clapped his hands together. “There he is! So… how’d it go, lover boy?”

Ominis’s expression darkened. “I will hex you.”

You grinned, still trying to contain your laughter. “Tell us what happened, Omins.”

Ominis’s face went red. Not just a faint flush—fully red, the kind of embarrassment that spelled immediate entertainment for everyone involved. And Poppy, the absolute menace, lifted a hand to her mouth, failing miserably at stifling her laughter.

The group lost it, and Ominis looked like he wanted to die.

Garreth cackled, nearly spilling his drink as he clutched his stomach.

Nerida slammed a hand on the bar, wheezing. “Oh my God."

Imelda, grinning like the devil herself, leaned forward. “Right, then. Who’s paying up the fifteen galleons?”

Ominis exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear to Merlin, if one more person so much as suggests—”

Garreth clapped him on the back, grinning wildly. “So, that’s a no on the getting head, then?”

Ominis’s expression darkened so fast it was almost impressive, but before he could truly commit to murder, Nerida—ever the peacemaker—tilted her head toward the back corner of the bar.

“Alright, alright—before Ominis does something irreversible, who’s up for a round of pool?”

This was met with general agreement—mostly because the alcohol was settling in enough that no one felt like sitting still anymore.

Sebastian, still thoroughly amused, tipped back the rest of his drink before pushing away from the bar, waiting for you to follow.

And you did. Of course you did.

In fact, Sebastian was pleased—very pleased—when you stuck by his side for the rest of the evening.

You could have easily wandered off, flitted between groups, danced again. But instead, you leaned against the table, sipping your drink, laughing at Garreth’s terrible pool skills, rolling your eyes at Imelda’s trash talk, nudging Sebastian with your hip whenever he made a particularly cocky shot.

It was good.

The night stretched on in a golden haze, full of too much laughter, too many drinks, and the kind of warm, buzzing atmosphere that made it far too easy to forget that the outside world existed at all.

Except.

Sebastian noticed—drunkenly, hazily, slowly noticed—that something was off.

It wasn’t obvious, but it was there nonetheless. The girls were still laughing, still drinking, still teasing them mercilessly over every terrible shot at pool. But they weren’t leaving. And that was weird.

Because usually—after enough drinks, after enough games—the girls always migrated. They’d get bored of pool, tired of darts, and drift off to dance, or find a quieter table to sit at and gossip.

But not tonight. Tonight, they were sticking close.

Poppy, usually the first to suggest another round on the dance floor, was still here, sitting comfortably at Ominis's side, chatting animatedly with Natty while Garreth ordered them drinks.

Nerida and Imelda, who normally found excuses to disappear for a bit, were locked in an intense conversation while still staying within view of everyone else.

And you were still beside him.

And maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the way the room had tilted slightly when he stood up earlier. But Sebastian’s brain, slow and sluggish, finally caught up to the creeping thought that had been lurking in the background since you'd danced with him.

Was it because of him? That man from earlier?

Sebastian turned his head slightly, scanning the bar. He hadn’t thought about him in hours, but now that he was... where the hell did he go?

Sebastian’s fingers tightened around his drink, a slow, simmering anger curling back into his gut. Because if you—and the others—had been sticking close all night, had been keeping within reach of them instead of doing what you usually did…

Then what did that mean? Had that bastard scared you?

But then—

“Seb?”

Your voice cut through the haze, your fingers curling around his wrist, tugging lightly. He turned, and whatever dark, brooding thoughts had been creeping into his mind vanished.

Because fuck, you were drunk. Not messy, not too far gone, but just enough. Your eyes were hazy with warmth, your grin lopsided, and when you pulled him slightly closer, there was the faintest slur in your words.

You swayed slightly. “D’you wanna sit? M’legs feel all… floaty.”

And just like that, Sebastian forgot about everything else. The man. The unease. The lingering feeling that something was wrong. Because now? Now he was only looking at you.

You, standing just a little too close, your body warm with alcohol, your hair a little mussed, your expression soft.

You, blinking up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted like you were trying to work through whatever lazy, meandering thought had just slipped into your mind.

Sebastian smirked, setting his drink down. “Those cocktails stronger than you thought?”

You huffed, swaying slightly as you nudged his arm. “So much stronger.”

Sebastian barely bit back a laugh. “Lightweight.”

You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “How dare—”

Sebastian grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulders before you could wobble too much.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, guiding you toward one of the plush loveseats behind the pool table. “Let’s get you off those floaty legs.”

You hummed, leaning into him a little too easily, like it was natural, like this was where you belonged. And fuck, if that wasn’t a dangerous thought.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, guiding you down before sitting beside you, letting his arm rest along the back of the chair, leaving just enough room for you to lean into him if you wanted to.

You let out a small hum, tilting your head back slightly to look at him, eyes half-lidded, hazy with alcohol. Then—out of nowhere—you reached for his hand.

Sebastian blinked, watching, completely dumbfounded, as you grabbed his wrist, pulling his palm toward yours. You pressed your hand flat against his, comparing sizes, your fingers barely reaching the first knuckle of his own.

And you beamed.

“Merlin,” you murmured, like you were discovering something truly profound, flexing your fingers against his. “Why are your hands so big?”

Sebastian swallowed hard, staring at the sight of your palm against his, at the way your much smaller fingers curled slightly around his own.

He barely found his voice. “Dunno. Why are yours so small?”

You giggled, tilting your head at him. “D’you think if I had big hands, I’d be better at pool?”

Sebastian huffed a laugh, his chest tight. “You’re already better than Garreth. No changes necessary.”

You gasped dramatically. “Poor Garreth.”

“He deserves it.”

You snorted, then curled your fingers between his, lacing them loosely together. Just resting there. Just holding. Sebastian nearly blacked out.

You didn’t even seem to realize what you were doing, just looked down at your intertwined hands with an easy, alcohol-softened smile before shifting again, tucking yourself even closer into his side.

“You always smell nice, too."

Always. That meant you’d noticed before. You noticed him.

Sebastian forced himself to clear his throat, trying for something casual—something to keep from absolutely combusting.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “What do I smell like?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Like…” Your brows scrunched slightly, like you were trying to pinpoint it exactly. “Something warm. Like... like… cinnamon. And cloves. And something kind of… smoky? But not in a bad way. Just… cozy.”

Sebastian was about to die. Right here. Right fucking here, in this speakeasy, drunk with you pressed against him, completely unaware that you were absolutely wrecking him. And then, because you weren’t done ruining his life, you sighed. All content and pleased and nestled against his side like you belonged there, like this was normal, like you weren’t setting his entire fucking world on fire.

“And you’re always so warm,” you murmured.

Sebastian’s throat bobbed as he forced something out.

“You cold?” he asked, trying to sound unaffected.

You hummed, nuzzling slightly into his shoulder. “Not anymore.”

Sebastian was dangerously close to losing his mind, and he needed a distraction. Immediately.

“So,” he said, shifting slightly, trying to ignore how easily your body moved with his, “since I did such a terrible job listening last time, how about another speakeasy lesson?”

You perked up instantly, blinking at him in adorable surprise, then huffed, amused. “Oh, so now you’re interested?”

Sebastian smirked. “Figured I should at least pretend to be an attentive student.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly in your seat to face him better—though, in your drunken state, that mostly meant you leaned even more into his side.

“Well,” you began, slipping into a more thoughtful tone, “like I was saying before you zoned out completely, speakeasies got their name because people had to speak easy—keep their voices down so they wouldn’t get caught.”

Sebastian nodded like this was brand new information, even though he vaguely remembered you mentioning it earlier. Meanwhile, you draped your arms over your lap, tilting your head against the back of the loveseat as you spoke, your words a little slower, your thoughts a little more meandering.

“But what’s funny,” you continued, your finger tracing absentminded circles against the fabric of your dress, “is that even though the entire point was secrecy, some speakeasies were huge. Like, big bands, huge dance floors, completely over-the-top. They wanted the allure, the glamour, y’know?”

Sebastian did not know.

Because he was too busy watching the way your lips moved around your words, the way your lashes fluttered when you got lost in a thought, the way your entire body seemed to sway slightly with the rhythm of your own storytelling.

This was not helping his situation.

At all.

“So some of them weren’t hidden?” he asked, if only to remind himself to keep his brain functional.

You shook your head, a little slower than usual. “Not really. Like, technically, you still had to know someone to get in. They had passwords, secret entrances… but everyone knew where they were.”

Sebastian hummed, watching the way you twirled a loose strand of hair around your finger. “So what you’re saying,” he mused, smirking, “is that criminals are just show-offs?”

You snorted, rolling your head to the side to look at him. “That’s what you took from that?”

He grinned. “Am I wrong?”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “No, you’re not wrong, but historically speaking—”

Sebastian could have stayed here forever. You, curled into his side, talking about some random bit of history you’d read in a book. Your voice laced with alcohol, your words a little softer, a little slower, but still so full of excitement. It was so easy. So perfect.

His fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of your dress, twirling the soft material between his fingertips, completely absorbed in the warmth of the moment, in the way you looked at him, in the way—

Then you let out a heavy sigh, shifting against him.

“I need to break the seal,” you muttered, groaning dramatically.

Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown from his thoughts.

You pouted, stretching slightly as you tilted your head toward him. “I have to pee,” you clarified. “And I don’t wanna move.”

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. “That is a tragedy.”

You groaned, snuggling further into the cushions, making no move to actually get up. “Ugh, this sucks. I'm so comfy.”

He nudged you lightly. “Go on, love, I'll be right here when you get back.”

You whined, literally whined, before finally, reluctantly pushing yourself up. You stretched as you stood—your dress shifting dangerously as you straightened yourself—and Sebastian was definitely not looking. Not at the way your dress shifted up the curve of your thighs, not at the way your arms lifted over your head, making every inch of you somehow even more tempting.

Nope.

He was absolutely looking straight ahead, nowhere near you.

But as you turned away—taking slow, slightly unsteady steps—something in his chest twisted. Not the usual ache, the fuck-I’m-in-love-with-her feeling he’d been drowning in all night.

Something else. Something wrong.

He tried to shake it, tried to tell himself it was just the drinks, just his dumb possessive instincts making him hyperaware of you.

But still.

His smirk faltered slightly as he watched you make your way toward the washrooms.

It wasn’t far. Just across the lounge, past a few tables, through a hallway.

But still.

Sebastian shifted in his seat, his foot tapping idly against the floor. You’d be back in a few minutes. Everything was fine.

Except it wasn’t.

Sebastian knew it the second too much time passed.

At first, he kept himself distracted, letting Garreth and Imelda pull him into their bickering over pool shots, letting Ominis make dry, unimpressed comments about their collective lack of skill. Sebastian nursed his drink, felt the warmth of the alcohol hum through his veins, tried to tell himself you were just taking your time.

But then a song ended. And another. And you still weren’t back.

Sebastian’s fingers tapped against the rim of his glass, his brows pinching slightly.

Then he checked the time. And the wrongness that had been sitting, low and uneasy, in his chest all night curled tighter.

He straightened in his seat, setting his drink down, his entire body suddenly too alert.

It was fine. You were fine.

Maybe you’d just gotten distracted. Maybe you were reapplying your lipstick, or fixing your hair, or—

No. No, something was wrong. And suddenly, Sebastian wasn’t drunk anymore.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Just moved, ignoring the way the others glanced at him in mild confusion.

“Be right back,” he muttered, already walking away.

His heart picked up speed as he cut across the bar, past the lounge, weaving through groups of people, gaze sharp as he scanned the room.

The hallway to the washrooms was dimly lit, tucked just slightly away from the main bar, just enough that it made something uncomfortable roll through his stomach.

He stepped into the corridor, his footfalls suddenly too loud in the muffled quiet. The wrongness in his gut went from unease to something razor-sharp.

Where were you?

Sebastian glanced toward the entrance to the women’s washroom, waiting—listening—for any sign of you. Nothing.

His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched at his sides. He turned his head—

And froze.

Just past the corner of the hallway, tucked slightly out of view, a sound. A muffled whimper. Quiet. Shaky. Then a voice. Low. Murmuring. Unfamiliar.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists, he rounded the corner so fast he nearly slammed into the wall, and there you were.

Pressed against a door, your shoulders curled inward, hands shaking as you tried to push him away. Your dress, torn at the strap. That man—his hands on you, gripping your waist, his body too close, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured something low, coaxing, like he was trying to convince you, like you weren’t already crying.

Sebastian’s mind went blank. One second, the bastard was pressed up against you, gripping you like he had any fucking right, and the next—

Crack.

The man hit the opposite wall, hard, eyes blown wide as he let out a stunned, choked gasp, lip split and bleeding.

Sebastian was already on him.

His fist caught the bastard’s shirt, dragging him forward, shoving him so hard the walls rattled.

Sebastian was breathing too fast, seeing too much, his pulse roaring in his ears. The man let out a pained groan, hands grabbing at Sebastian’s wrist.

“Hey—”

Sebastian slammed him back again.

“You think you can touch her?” His voice was low, deadly, his face so close that the bastard flinched.

“She was asking for it,” the man spat, mouth bloody, words slurred. “Didn’t say no, just got shy—”

Sebastian snapped. His fist came down hard—one, two—again—

“How fucking dare you?”

The man gasped, wheezing, hands scrambling to stop him.

Sebastian was going to kill him. Was going to beat him into the fucking floor.

And then a hand. Light. Shaking. Fingers curling around his arm.

“Sebastian?”

Soft. Trembling.

Sebastian’s lungs seized. He turned his head, still breathing hard, still shaking. And fuck—

Tears streaked down your cheeks, your lip trembling, your eyes too wide, too stunned, too afraid.

Sebastian’s stomach dropped. His grip tightened for a breath, then, with a sharp, ragged exhale, he let go.

The man hit the floor hard, scrambling back on his hands, panting, nose crooked.

Sebastian didn’t even look at him. Because you—

You were still standing there, your hands clutching your torn dress, fingers shaking, chest rising too fast, breath uneven.

Sebastian felt sick.

And then voices. Footsteps. A sudden surge of noise as the dim corridor flooded with people.

Sebastian barely turned in time to see Ominis, Garreth, Natty, Imelda, Nerida, Poppy—the whole group—rounding the corner at full speed.

Garreth’s face twisted into something Sebastian had never seen before, his usual easy demeanor vanishing as he took one look at you, then the man on the floor, then Sebastian—still fuming, still shaking, still breathing too fast—and understood immediately.

Natty sucked in a sharp breath.

Nerida froze.

Poppy clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and horrified.

Imelda’s knuckles cracked from how hard she clenched her fists.

And Ominis—

Ominis, usually the calmest among them, took one step forward, and his voice came out cold. “What the fuck happened?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight. You hadn’t moved.

Then another voice, unfamiliar, but undeniably authoritative.

“Out. Now.”

Sebastian turned his head to see the bouncers push through the group.

One of them grabbed the man by the collar, yanking him up by the collar of his shirt. The bastard let out a choked noise.

“You’re done,” the bouncer growled, dragging him toward the exit. “Get the fuck out of here.”

The man spluttered, voice slurred from his split lip. “I—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Sebastian watched. Watched as the man who had his hands on you got ripped away, thrown out like trash, shoved into the night where he fucking belonged.

And yet Sebastian still wasn’t breathing right. Still wasn’t calm. Because you were still shaking, still—

“We’re leaving.”

Ominis.

His voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. Sebastian nodded automatically. They all did.

The group moved quickly, no hesitation, no time for words as they all started toward the door, the bouncers giving them a wide path through the crowd.

Sebastian barely noticed the murmured whispers around them. All he noticed was you. Still silent, still staring down, still breathing too fast.

The cold air outside hit like a shock, cutting through the drunken haze that had lingered over the night.

Sebastian barely felt it, but the moment the chill hit, you shivered violently. Ominis moved instinctively, shrugging off his jacket in one smooth motion.

“Here.” His voice was still tight, still controlled, but softer than before.

But when he stepped forward, offering it—

You flinched. Sharp. Instinctive.

And Sebastian—watching it all unfold—felt something deep inside him break.

Because it wasn’t just anyone you flinched from. It was Ominis. One of your closest friends. The gentlest, kindest, least-threatening person you knew. And if you recoiled from him—

Sebastian swallowed hard, his throat tight as the entire group went silent, the weight of it suffocating.

Ominis stilled, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the fabric of his jacket before he pulled back, his face unreadable, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try again. Just exhaled slowly, fingers twitching once before he let his arms drop to his sides.

Poppy, who had always been the most gentle of them, shifted half a step toward you, lips parted like she wanted to say something—but stopped herself. Because she saw it, too.

You weren’t just shaking. You were wrapped up inside yourself, arms clutched around your middle, shoulders drawn in tight, like you wanted to disappear.

Sebastian’s chest ached. He didn’t know what the fuck to do. Didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t know how to make the world feel safe for you again.

He wanted to grab you, hold you, whisper that he would never let anyone touch you again—but he couldn’t. Because what if you flinched from him, too?

Ominis—always steady, always rational—was the first to move.

"Let's go, we need to get off the main street," he said, voice measured, composed—but there was something else beneath it. Something tightly wound.

No one argued. The group moved as one, huddled close, protective.

Imelda and Nerida flanked either side of you like an unspoken shield, while Natty and Poppy stuck close behind.

Garreth, for once, was silent, his face set in a rare, grim seriousness as he cast sharp glances at every single person still lingering outside the club, as if daring someone to look at you wrong.

And Sebastian stayed right in front of you, hands curled into fists, jaw aching from how tight he had clenched it.

Together, they moved toward the nearest side street, somewhere quieter, somewhere out of the open. Only once they were tucked into the dimly lit alleyway, far from the club and the weight of watching eyes, did Ominis finally speak again.

"Who’s flat is closest?"

"Mine," Sebastian said instantly.

That wasn't technically true.

Natty and Garreth’s place was closer—objectively the better option. If this had been any other night, any other situation, logic would have dictated the choice. But logic didn’t mean shit right now.

Not that anyone protested. Because of course it was going to be Sebastian. Of course he was the one taking you home.

Garreth let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Right. Let’s get you a cab, then."

"Fuck that," Sebastian muttered. "I’ll Apparate."

That stopped everyone in their tracks.

Ominis immediately frowned. "Sebastian, we’re in Muggle London—"

"I don’t give a shit." His voice came out sharp, barely restrained. "I’m not making her sit in some goddamn cab, not after—" He cut himself off, exhaling hard, trying to shove down the fresh wave of anger clawing at his throat.

It was the last thing you needed right now.

The group exchanged uneasy glances.

Apparition was dangerous under the best circumstances—let alone when he was like this, let alone when you were like this. Not to mention, doing magic in a heavily populated Muggle area was risky as hell.

But fuck that. He wasn’t going to make you wait. Wasn’t going to let you sit through some excruciatingly long cab ride, squirming in silence, trapped in a moving metal box.

No. He was getting you out of here. Now.

Natty stepped forward, voice level. "Sebastian."

He clenched his jaw. "Natty, I swear to—"

"Sebastian."

She was stepping in front of you now, her dark eyes steady, sharp, cutting through the thick, suffocating tension like a blade.

Sebastian knew that look.

Natty had always been practical—calm, calculated, always thinking a step ahead. And right now, she was looking at him like she was measuring him, like she was assessing him.

"You're not going anywhere with her," she said, her voice even, "unless she wants to go with you."

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His gut reaction was to be offended. To snap that of course you wanted to go with him, because who else would it be?

But Natty’s expression didn’t change. Didn’t waver. Because this wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about what he thought, what he wanted, what he was sure of. This was about you, and whether you still felt safe with him.

Sebastian swallowed hard. The thought that you might not be wrecked him, made his stomach twist, made his ribs feel like they were caving in.

The idea that you—his everything—might not want to be anywhere near him right now. Might not trust him. Might not even be able to look at him after what had just happened. But if that was what you needed then he wouldn’t fight it. Wouldn’t blame you. Wouldn’t say a damn word.

Sebastian nodded, and Natsai turned to you slowly, her movements deliberate, careful. Her voice softened, but still held its steady, grounding weight.

"Do you want to go with him?"

A moment passed. Sebastian held his breath.

Then you nodded. It was small, barely more than a twitch of your chin, but it was everything.

Sebastian exhaled, something sharp and unbearable unwinding in his chest. He stepped forward, slowly, his movements deliberate, careful.

Held out his hand and waited.

Your fingers trembled, but you reached for him, sliding your palm into loosely into his.

"Ring us when... when you have a minute," Ominis said, his voice level, steady—but heavy. There was something unspoken in it, something Sebastian understood immediately.

Sebastian nodded once. No words. No drawn-out goodbyes. He didn’t have it in him.

Then, without another thought—he turned on the spot, pulling you with him.

The world twisted. The sharp pull of Apparition coiled around his ribs, wrenching them through the dark, until—

Home.

Sebastian’s flat was silent. Dark. The shift from the crowded club to the emptiness of his space was jarring.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was your breathing. Uneven. Shallow. Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, and he didn’t want to let go, but after a second, he forced himself to loosen his grip. A silent offering. A choice. And after a beat, you pulled away.

Sebastian felt it like a wound. The warmth of your skin slipped from his grasp, and the absence of it left something hollow in his chest.

But he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t let it show. Because this wasn’t about him.

He unsure of what to do now, though. How to talk to you, what he was even supposed to say. He felt like he was balancing on the edge of something sharp, a thin, precarious line between giving you space and giving you what you needed—except he didn’t know what you needed.

So, he did the only thing he could think to do.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice hoarse, heavy. “Let's sit you down. Get you comfortable.”

He turned toward the living room, motioning toward the couch as he moved. “I’ll—” He cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “I’ll get you something else to wear.”

But before he could take more than two steps, you shook your head.

Sebastian hesitated. “You don’t—”

“I’ll go with you,” you murmured.

Your voice was quiet. Unsteady. But certain.

Sebastian blinked, thrown off. He didn’t understand. You had to be exhausted, had to be drained, and the couch was right there, waiting.

But you weren’t moving toward it. You were waiting for him. And something in your expression—something small, something subtle—made the words click in his mind.

You didn’t want to be alone.

He swallowed hard then nodded. "Okay, come on.”

When he turned toward his bedroom, you followed.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping inside first, letting you follow at your own pace.

Sebastian’s room was… messy. Books stacked haphazardly on his nightstand, a half-open wardrobe in the corner, a few stray clothes abandoned on the chair near the window.

He ignored it all. Went straight for the dresser.

He rifled through the drawers, trying to find something soft, something comfortable. Something that wouldn’t remind you of tonight, that wouldn’t feel like a weight pressing against your skin.

A worn sweater. Sweatpants. That would work.

He turned, holding them out for you. “Here.”

You hesitated. You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was down, locked on the clothes in his hands like you weren’t sure what to do with them.

He softened his voice. "If you want something else, just say the word.”

Then, quietly, almost too soft to hear.

“Can you... will you help me?”

Sebastian stilled. For a second, he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

Help you?

His first instinct was confusion. You’d flinched from Ominis outside. You hadn’t wanted him near you. Hadn’t wanted to be touched. After what happened, Sebastian had assumed you’d want privacy, that you wouldn’t want to be seen at all.

But then he looked at you, really looked at you, and he understood.

Maybe, right now, this wasn’t about not wanting to be touched. Maybe it was that you didn't want to touch it. Didn’t want to unfasten the dress yourself, didn’t want to peel the fabric from your skin, didn’t want to register the places it had been touched, gripped, pulled by someone who had no fucking right.

Sebastian exhaled, slow and careful, schooling his expression into something even.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Turn around for me?”

You hesitated for a moment, fingers trembling where you clutched the hem of the sweater he’d handed you. But then you did, shifting slightly, your back to him.

Sebastian took a slow step closer, hands hovering just behind your shoulders, giving you the chance to change your mind.

But you didn’t move away.

So he gently, carefully, reached for the zipper at your back.

And fuck, he’d imagined this before. Ten thousand times, maybe more. Peeling the layers off you slowly, seeing what was underneath, watching the fabric slip down the curves of your body. His hands, his, mapping the warmth of your skin as he uncovered inch after inch, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starving for it.

But this—this wasn’t like that.

This was the first time he had ever done this, maybe the only time he ever would if he didn't get his shit together, and the circumstances were so utterly, sickeningly wrong that it made his chest feel hollow.

He wasn’t looking at you with desire. He wasn’t seeing the expanse of your skin the way he would have if things had been different.

Seeing you like this just hurt.

The fabric was still warm from your body, but that wasn’t what made his stomach twist. It was the broken strap, the torn seam, the evidence of what had happened—of what he hadn’t been able to stop sooner.

Slowly, he dragged the zipper down.

The dress loosened, slipping slightly off your shoulders, the weight of it threatening to pull away completely—and for a second, he panicked, his brain scrambling to make sure he wasn’t making this worse for you, that he wasn’t exposing more than you were comfortable with—but you stayed still.

So, with a deep breath and slow, careful movements, he tugged the dress down, guiding it past your arms, your waist, your hips. The fabric slipped easily, pooling at your feet.

His stomach twisted. Seeing it like this—abandoned, discarded—it felt like something sick and wrong. Because that dress had looked so fucking beautiful on you. Had clung to you like a dream, had made him ache. Had made him stare.

And now... now, it was nothing but a reminder of what happened.

“Step out of it, love,” he murmured, voice low and gentle despite the ache in his chest.

You obeyed, lifting one foot, then the other.

Sebastian grabbed the discarded fabric from the floor and tossed it far away—out of sight, across the room, like it didn’t deserve to be near you.

Then he picked up the sweatpants from the bed.

"Step in," he murmured.

You did. The sweater came next.

"Arms up for me."

You obeyed again, and he tugged the sweater over your head, guiding it gently over your arms, down your torso, covering you, shielding you from whatever still lingered on your skin.

The moment it was on, Sebastian exhaled deeply.

"All done."

You let out a breath. A slow, shaky thing. Then, for the first time since entering his flat, you met his gaze.

And Sebastian felt his chest cave in. Because you still looked so shaken. Still looked wrecked. But the difference was, you were here now. Fully.

"Thank you."

Your voice was small. Quiet. But present.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the unbearable ache in his chest. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course.”

You shifted slightly, like you wanted to say something else, but the words didn’t come. Instead, your arms wrapped around yourself, small, like you were still trying to make yourself disappear.

Sebastian’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to touch you. Wanted to reach out, wanted to pull you into his chest and hold you there until the shaking stopped.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

So, instead, he exhaled carefully, ran a hand through his hair, and nodded toward the doorway. “Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Let me make you some tea.”

You blinked at him, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to you. But after a second, you nodded.

So, he turned, leading you back into the dimly lit apartment, moving toward the kitchen. And you followed. Because you still trusted him.

Sebastian pulled open the cabinet and reached for your mug—the oversized one printed with tiny blue flowers, the one you always used when you visited. It had been a birthday gift from him last year, and after unwrapping it, you’d immediately set it in his cupboard and said, This one stays here.

He set it down on the counter and filled the kettle, flipping the switch with the practiced ease of routine. Something about the motion, the normalcy of it, settled the restless tension in his chest.

His hands worked on autopilot—pulling down the tin of loose tea, measuring out just the right amount, stirring in the fixings the way you liked. Far too much sugar and milk for his taste, but he didn’t hesitate, mixing it the exact way you always did.

By the time he turned around and pressed the mug into your hands, steam curling between you, he finally caught the way your fingers trembled as you curled them around the ceramic.

And then—soft, broken, barely above a whisper—

“I’m sorry.”

Sebastian went completely still, something sharp, something furious, coiling in his chest.

“What?”

Your gaze dropped, staring into the depths of your tea. “I—I don’t know. Just for all of this. For ruining your night. For—”

“Don’t.”

He took the mug from your hands, just for a moment, long enough to force you to look at him. His brows furrowed, his mouth tight, like the words physically hurt to say aloud.

“You don’t apologize. Not for this. Not to anyone.”

You swallowed, hard, but you didn’t look away.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he said, voice quieter now, but no less fierce, his grip tightening briefly around the handle of your mug before handing it back. “Not one single fucking bit of it. Do you understand?”

You hesitated, like you weren’t sure you could understand. And fuck, that made something ugly rise in his throat.

Sebastian had never felt anger like this—like something helpless and raging, burning at the back of his skull, at the hollow space in his chest where you had been hurt and he hadn’t been there to stop it.

You sniffled, swiping your sleeve across your eyes, shaking your head like you were mad at yourself. “I should’ve—” Your voice was thick, strained. “I should’ve pushed him away harder. Been more assertive. Asked one of the other girls to come to the bathroom with me, or—or been more aware, or not drank so much, or—”

“Stop.”

You shook your head again, watery, miserable. “I just—”

“No.” His voice was hard, unyielding. “This wasn't your fault, there's no magic combination of things you could have done differently to make someone else not be a fucking piece of shit. It wouldn’t have mattered, because he's still a monster. And you—” His voice softened, just a fraction, his chest aching. “You did nothing wrong.”

You swallowed, throat bobbing.

“It wasn’t even that bad.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened.

You let out a wet, unsteady laugh, shaking your head. “It could’ve been worse. I just— I just froze because of Tyler.”

The second the words were out of your mouth, Sebastian saw it—the way your face froze, the way your lips parted slightly, like you hadn’t meant to say that. Like you wished you could take it back.

But it was too late.

Sebastian’s brain snapped back to a year ago.

The breakup.

How you had shown up at his door, quiet and withdrawn, a forced little smile on your lips as you told him your relationship was over. No details. No explanation. Just done.

How he had asked if you were okay, and you had nodded, too quickly, and said you didn’t want to talk about it.

And he’d let it go. Because you always told him things when you were ready. But now—now he was seeing it, the way your shoulders curled inward, the way you were smaller, like you wanted to disappear.

And something inside him snapped.

What the fuck had happened back then?

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. “Tell me,” he said, voice low, but steady.

You blinked. “What?”

“Tell me what happened. Please.”

You hesitated, curling your hands around the mug like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. “It’s not—” You swallowed, eyes darting away. “It’s not important.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Minimize it.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, but he couldn’t help it. “I need to know, love.”

At the nickname, your fingers tightened around the mug, just slightly. You opened your mouth, then closed it. Sebastian waited.

He’d wait all fucking night if he had to.

And then, finally, you exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. “It was at a party,” you murmured, not looking at him. “I—I don’t know why I froze tonight. It wasn’t even the same. Not really. I just… the moment he grabbed me, I was back there.”

Sebastian hated how softly, how passively you said it. Like it wasn’t something that had haunted you. Like it wasn’t something that still had its fucking claws in you.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t push, because you were still talking, and if you stopped, he didn’t know when you’d let yourself say these words again.

“I told him no,” you whispered. “Tyler. I told him I didn’t want to go upstairs with him, that I was tired. But he kept—” You broke off, shaking your head. “He just kept talking, kept trying to get me to change my mind. And I just—I shut down. I just let him. I didn’t fight, I didn’t—”

Sebastian couldn’t take it anymore.

“I swear to God,” he said, voice hoarse, pained, “if you say you should’ve done something differently, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Your throat bobbed, eyes flicking up to his.

“He was supposed to stop," Sebastian insisted. "That’s it. That’s the only thing that was supposed to happen.”

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. Like no one had ever said it to you so plainly before. And then, finally, you spoke—so softly, so small.

“But I let him.”

Sebastian’s hands curled into fists. “No,” he said, voice firm, unwavering. “You didn’t.”

He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, trying to say the right thing, because fuck, he couldn’t mess this up.

“If someone keeps pushing, keeps coaxing, keeps pulling you in when you’ve already said no—you didn’t let them. They took advantage of you.”

The words sat heavy between you, and Sebastian saw the way they hit you. Your grip on the mug went white-knuckled, a sharp inhale cutting through the air, and then you were crying.

Silent at first—just the shake of your shoulders, just the quiver in your lips. But then your breath shuddered, and your face crumpled, and the first broken sob escaped.

Sebastian stood there, feeling useless. Helpless.

Should he reach for you? Should he give you space? Did you want to be touched, or would it only make things worse? His hands hovered, twitching at his sides, unsure. And fuck, he hated it. Hated not knowing what to do, hated feeling like he was just standing here while you broke apart in front of him.

But then—

You set the mug down too quickly, tea sloshing over the rim, spilling onto the counter, and Sebastian barely had time to react before you collapsed into him.

His breath hitched, his arms automatically wrapping around you as you buried yourself against his chest, shaking, small.

And then he wasn’t thinking anymore. He just held you. Tightly. Protectively.

One arm wrapped firm around your back, the other cradling your head, fingers threading gently into your hair, like maybe if he held you close enough, it would put you back together.

Your fingers fisted into his shirt, and Sebastian closed his eyes, exhaling shakily against the crown of your head.

What the fuck do I say?

What words could he possibly put together that would make any of this better? He quickly realized there were none.

So he didn’t speak.

Didn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless reassurances, didn’t tell you to calm down, didn’t tell you it would be okay. Instead, he just held you, strong and steady, like a wall—one you could press into, lean against, fall apart against.

Your breathing was uneven, shaky against his chest. Each sharp inhale like it was trying to hold back the flood.

Sebastian pressed his cheek to your hair, gentle, careful. “I got you,” he murmured, voice raw. “I got you.”

You let out a sound, a soft, aching thing, half a sob, half relief, as the tension in your shoulders cracked, your weight fully sinking into him, like you’d been trying to hold yourself up all this time and just couldn’t anymore.

“I got you,” he whispered again, like maybe, if he said it enough times, you’d believe him.

You stood there for a long time. You didn’t pull away, and Sebastian didn't let go. He would have stood there all night if you needed him to.

The tea sat abandoned on the counter, growing cold, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the air while the kitchen clock ticked away the minutes.

Your breathing—ragged at first, gasping, uneven— slowly, so slowly, steadied, fading into quiet sniffles. And that was when Sebastian finally moved. Carefully.

He slid one arm under your legs, the other holding you steady against him. “Up we go, love.”

You let out a soft noise of surprise as he scooped you up, pressing your face instinctively against his shoulder.

“You don’t—”

“Shush” he murmured gently, affectionately, and you didn’t fight him as he carried you across the room, lowering you onto the couch.

But the moment he tried to pull back, your fingers tightened in his shirt again.

Sebastian obeyed, sitting down and letting you tuck yourself against him, curling into his chest. His arms wound around you again, warm and solid. His hand moved instinctively to your hair, fingers slipping through the strands, slow, soothing strokes.

It had always been this easy, hadn’t it?

Sebastian wasn’t sure how long you both stayed like that. Long enough that your breathing evened out. Long enough that his own heart stopped pounding with anger and ache.

And then, after a long silence—your voice, quiet, hesitant:

“I’ve been stupid.”

Sebastian’s brows furrowed. “Don’t—”

Your hand shot up, pressing lightly against his mouth, and whatever Sebastian had been about to say died instantly.

His breath caught. His lips parted slightly against your palm, startled, thrown completely off balance. But it wasn’t the touch that had him frozen.

It was your eyes.

Raw. Red-rimmed from crying, but so fucking clear. Like you had figured something out—like whatever had been sitting between you for so long, uncertain and unspoken, was now suddenly blindingly obvious.

“...You know I love you, don't you?”

Sebastian froze.

He did know. At least, sort of.

He’d always known you loved him as your best friend, as your constant, as the one person you always turned to. He had felt it in the way you sought him out first in a crowded room, in the way you always made one too many cups of tea just in case he wanted one. He had seen it in the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, in the way your hand lingered when you touched him.

But he didn't know if you loved him as more.

Of course, he'd imagined your confession the late hours of the night, when exhaustion blurred the edges of his thoughts. In the quiet spaces between glances, in the way his chest always felt too full when you laughed. In the way he always waited for you to arrive at his door.

But he always imagined hearing those words for the first time in a moment of joy, in the golden hush of a summer afternoon, in the warmth of a stolen moment where nothing hurt, nothing felt too heavy.

His throat bobbed. “You—are you saying—”

But the words felt too big, too heavy.

You huffed a laugh, sniffling softly as a stray tear rolled down your cheek. “I was so stupid. Maybe if I had just told you how I felt, if I had just—”

Sebastian cupped your cheek before you could finish your sentence, his palm warm and steady against your tear-streaked skin.

His mind was racing, his chest too full, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something so fierce, so all-consuming, so fucking relieved that it almost hurt.

Because you meant it. You loved him. Not just as his best friend. Not just as his constant. But as something more.

He searched your face, memorizing everything—the way your lashes were still damp, the way your lips parted slightly, the way your breath trembled under his touch.

And fuck, he didn’t know what to say.

He hadn’t been ready for you this moment to happen like this. Not when your voice was still raw from crying. Not when your hands still shook in your lap. Not when he had spent the last hour trying to piece you back together after something that should have never happened. Not when you deserved so much better than this moment.

He couldn't stop his mind from imagining what this would have been like if things had been different.

If tonight had just been another night.

If you had just come over, curled up with him like you always did, nudged your socked feet against his under a blanket, laughed at something stupid on TV. If he had turned to you and just fucking said it, just let it be easy.

But it wasn’t easy.

And yet, his the words left his mouth in a breath, like they had been waiting there, like they had been sitting at the back of his throat for years, clawing at his ribs, aching to be spoken. Because they had.

"Fuck, I love you too."

And the second they were out—

Relief.

Like something had cracked open inside him, something tight and suffocating finally letting go, leaving his chest too light and too full all at once. Because it was the truest thing he had ever said.

But right behind that relief came the guilt, because he should have said it sooner.

He should have said it a thousand times before now—should have said it when you were laughing, when you were happy, when you were light and warm and untouched by pain.

He should have said it last week, when you had fallen asleep on his couch, curled up with his sweater wrapped around you, mumbling something incoherent before sighing in contentment.

He should have said it months ago, when you had grabbed his hand without thinking at the crowded market, weaving through people like you had never once considered not holding onto him.

He should have said it years ago, when you kicked his ass in that very first duel.

Sebastian huffed a humorless laugh, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "God, I wish I’d just told you sooner. Over a bowl of popcorn, some dumb movie playing in the background.” The corners of his mouth twitched, a rueful little smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I imagined it a thousand times—telling you. Watching your eyes light up, seeing you smile like you do when you think I’m being stupid.”

Your lips quivered, the hint of a smile breaking through the tears.

“I wish it had been easy," he said. "Because you deserve easy. You deserve soft and gentle and everything good.”

You leaned into his touch, your hands reaching up to cover his. Your eyes searched his—gentle, knowing, certain.

“Easy’s never really been on brand for us, has it?”

Sebastian blinked, caught off guard for half a second. And then a breathless, broken sound left him, something between a scoff and a laugh, something small and raw and achingly fond.

Because you were right.

Since the very beginning, since the moment you had first collided into his life, it had never been simple. Never straightforward. There had always been something else—a complication, an obstacle, an unsaid feeling caught between glances and lingering touches that neither of you were ever brave enough to name.

You sniffled, wiping at your face with the sleeve of his sweater—the one you were drowning in, and fuck, you were so beautiful even now, despite the weight of the night still lingering in your shoulders.

“Do I wish none of this had happened?” Your voice was quiet, raw. “Of course I do. But fuck, Sebastian, you were there. You're always there." You gave a watery laugh, the smallest, softest thing. "When I'm at my best, when I'm at my worst. It's always been you. And I—"

You exhaled shakily, voice thick with too much. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t there tonight,” your voice dropped to a whisper, eyes locked onto his. “There's no one else I would have gone to. No one else I would have let see me like this. No one else I trust the way I trust you.”

Sebastian’s throat felt tight, his breath coming uneven, chest aching under the weight of realization.

This wasn’t just about tonight. Or last night. Or last week.

It was about every night. Every stolen glance, every quiet moment, every time you had reached for him first. It was in the way you always found him before anyone else, in the way you always chose him, in the way you always trusted him—with the good, with the bad, with everything.

When things went well, when they didn’t, when you needed comfort, when you needed a co-conspirator, when you needed someone to just be there—it had always been him.

It settled into him all at once—the weight of years pressing against his ribs, filling every empty space inside him that had ever questioned what he meant to you.

Because it had always been this. Not a revelation. Not a shift. Not something new.

It had simply always been.

And you must have seen something in his face—the way he looked at you like he wanted to fall apart, because you gave him a small, wobbly smile, something barely there, something hopeful, something real.

“Say something, Sallow," you teased.

Sebastian let out a breathless, unsteady laugh, shaking his head. His eyes burned, his own tears threatening to fall. He let his hands move—one tangling in the fabric at your chest, the other sliding to the nape of your neck.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate, like he was giving you the chance to pull away, like he was making absolutely sure—but your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him in the rest of the way, and then—

Then you kissed him.

It was soft. Hesitant. Testing. Like neither of you could quite believe this was finally happening.

But then Sebastian felt you melt into him, felt the warmth of you, the way your grip on him tightened, the way your lips parted—

And suddenly, it wasn’t hesitant at all.

A soft sound rumbled in Sebastian's throat, something relieved, something grateful, something aching with all the things he had never let himself say, and he kissed you like his life depended on it, because maybe it did. Like he had been waiting for this for years, because he had. Like you were the only fucking thing in the world that mattered, because you were.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync.

Sebastian huffed a soft laugh, his lips brushing yours. "…'bout time, huh?"

You let out a wobbly, teary laugh, nuzzling closer. "About time."

And Sebastian held you—tightly, unshakably, like letting go wasn’t even a possibility, like something fundamental in him wouldn’t allow it.

Because maybe this wasn’t how he had ever imagined this moment. Maybe it wasn’t wrapped in golden light, in laughter, in the warmth of an easy, stolen moment where everything was simple and good.

Maybe he hadn’t gotten to plan for it, hadn’t had the chance to say it first, hadn’t gotten to look at you when you were smiling, when you were happy, and tell you what had been the truth for so damn long.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to be saying I love you in the aftermath of something that had hurt you.

But this was still you. And this was still him. And that was all that mattered.

Because love wasn’t just about the easy moments. It wasn’t just about the days when the sun was shining, when your laughter came freely, when things felt light.

Love was this too—love was holding on, love was being there, love was standing in the wreckage of something awful and saying I’ve got you. I’m here. And I’m not leaving.

Sebastian pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, his grip tight, his fingers curled against the fabric of his own sweater on your frame, holding you close, keeping you safe.

And he knew, with every piece of himself, that he wasn’t letting go.

Not tonight.

Not ever.