✨Laura✨

I simp for way too many fictional characters

[fangirl-dot-com]

2023 Season

Chapter 1 - Wishful Thinking

Chapter 2 - Where do I sign?

Chapter 3 - Head out the Window

Chapter 4 - They Call Me Kid

Chapter 5 - Put it into Speed Drive

Chapter 6 - It's Happening! Everyone Stay Calm!

Chapter 7 - Family Dinner

Chapter 8 - May the Odds be Ever in Your Favor

Chapter 9 - Life is a Highway

Chapter 10 - See ya next year Vegas

Chapter 11 - One Last Time

Chapter 12 - So This is Christmas (WAR IS OVER)

[penpenpompom]

Masterlist

Hi cuties!!

This is going to be my masterlist for all of my writing - obvi it is very empty right now but i'm hoping it will start to fill up over the next couple of months.

Right now I intend to write for Jack Abbot, Michael Robinavitch and Brendon Park from The Pitt, Joel Miller from TLOU and also probably Sammy Bryant from Southland bc I love that man.

Please do not feed my work into Ai!!

Second part of my Brendon Park fic is out now!!

Currently working on pt3 of my Brendon fic!!

The Pitt:

Brendon Park

If I can Dream Chapter 1 - The first market Chapter 2 - Late nights and Early mornings Chapter 3 -

Lighthouse (smau!)

Part one

Part two

Part Three

Part four

Jack Abbot

Quiet moments

Michael Robinavitch

We almost broke up again last night

Other:

Joel Miller

Sammy Bryant

[anyaawrites]

thank god for a mini mic

macklin celebrini x reader

word count: 7,790

description: after you and macklin lost touch after school, it’s a surprise when a tiktok reunites you two

°°°°°

you’re walking through the city with your sister sofia. you have an iced coffee in one hand and shopping bags in the other; you’re arguing about where to have lunch.

“no, sof—if we are getting tacos, we should go to that place on seventh avenue.”

“but that’s a twenty minute walk.”

“it is worth it, though.”

before she can even object, a grinning guy with a tiny microphone suddenly appears in front of you. you and sofia freeze.

“hi, i’m mikey. i’m filming a quick question for tiktok. can i ask you something?”

you shrug. “sure.”

mikey holds out the microphone, while one of his friends holds up a phone.

“who is the most famous person in your contacts?”

“what?” you ask, laughing.

the guy chuckles slightly at your stunned reaction.

“the most famous person in your contacts,” he repeats.

you look at him, thinking. who among the people you know is famous? you start frantically running through names in your mind. none of your relatives, none of your current friends or classmates…no. and then, it suddenly hits you.

“oh!”

mikey perks up. “oh?”

you point at him, recalling. “macklin celebrini. i guess.”

his eyes widen, and he laughs, a bit surprised.

“you guess?”

“well, that is assuming he hasn’t changed his phone number since high school.”

mikey looks at you. his friend with the camera is looks at you. sofia looks at you with a knowing smile. it gradually dawns on you: perhaps they were expecting a completely different answer.

“wait.” mikey says, leaning closer to you. “did you go to the same school as macklin celebrini? from the sharks?”

“oh, yeah.” you shrug. “we both played hockey.”

mikey looks shocked. “seriously?”

“yeah. not on the same team, of course. but we did a lot of the same things.”

sofia snorts beside you, because she knows you’re trying to downplay it as much as possible.

“so, you really knew him?” mikey asks.

“yeah.”

“and what was he like?”

you pause for a moment, trying to reconcile the person you knew with the image you have seen in his few interviews. honestly, he seems the same.

“good. a really humble guy,” you reply.

“…is that it?” mikey asks, glancing at the camera; he clearly expected to hear more.

you laugh. “i don’t know. he was just mack.”

mikey clearly is not thrilled with that answer— it’s unlikely to generate the kind of views he was hoping for. you pause to think, carefully choosing your words.

“we’d run into each other at hockey-related events sometimes. you know, parties, team gatherings. we’d ride the same buses to tournaments. he was a funny guy.”

the interviewer raises an eyebrow. “funny?”

“yeah.” you pause, smiling at the memory. “one time he spent the entire two-hour bus ride trying to convince half the team that anteaters do not exist.”

mikey bursts out laughing.

“no way.”

“seriously,” you giggle.

after a couple more questions, mikey thanks you and moves on. about thirty seconds later, the conversation slips your mind.

°°°°°

three days later, the video is posted. a day after that, it’s everywhere. “hockey tiktok” picks it up. then sharks fans see it. and right after, macklin celebrini’s personal fans stumble upon it. the video is flooded with comments.

wait she knows mack???

THE BUS STORY — IM SOBBING

i desperately need more stories about mack from his high school days

“he was just mack” that is so damn cute

of course, there are always people who write nasty things out of envy, but this is the internet— so who really cares? they don’t even know you.

you watch the video, laugh at how ridiculous you look, hit “like”, and keep scrolling. after all, nothing special really happened.

what matters far more is this: a week goes by, you’re lying on the couch after work with some reality show playing on tv, and suddenly your phone vibrates. You glance at the message preview.

unknown number

you’re tempted to just ignore the message. it’s probably spam. but curiosity gets the better of you — what if it’s a discount code or some great deal? that would be cool. still, that is not really the point— and it wouldn’t have been anything special anyway. you open the message and immediately straighten up.

unknown (maybe: mack)

hey, it’s mack!

you blink in confusion. what the fuck? you read it again: “hey, it’s mack!” no last name, no explanation. just mack— well, of course. he doesn’t need to add a surname or explain anything. he knows, and you know.

a second message comes through.

unknown (maybe: mack)

can’t believe i still have your number, lol

but i saw the tiktok and decided to check in on you. i know it’s been a while, but i was wondering what you’re up to these days?

how’s your knee? are you still skating?

that last message makes your chest tighten a little. of all the things he could’ve asked about, he remembered that— the very injury that derailed your life. years have passed. years. and yet, somehow, mack still remembers. then the phone pings again.

and another thing, anteaters still can’t possibly be real

you burst out laughing— and suddenly you’re sixteen again. memories surface that you haven’t thought about in years— as if someone had opened a dusty box at the back of the closet.

°°°°°

back then, everyone in shattuck knew one another. how could it be otherwise when there were so few kids in the school? that was especially true within the hockey community there. the teams knew each other well, since you spent practically all your time at the rink. if you weren’t playing yourself, you were watching others play. when mack’s team was on the ice, you’d sit in the stands with your own teammates; and when your team played, you’d usually spot him somewhere in the crowd.

you remember that tournament weekend when you sat side by side watching another team play, neither of you caring who won. you just joked about the way the announcer butchered the players’ names.

“do you think he’s doing that on purpose?” you whispered to mack.

“totally. or maybe he lost a fantasy football bet and this is his punishment.” he laughed.

you laughed too, and then— when he botched a name particularly badly— you both couldn’t contain yourselves and nearly fell out of the stands. but that was just mack: always chatting, always making someone laugh. and he always found a way to make those long tournament days fly by.

and then came the state tournament. and everything changed. even now, nearly four years later, the memories remain just as vivid and sharp— as if your brain had recorded everything in high definition. you remember the crowd, the noise, the excitement fluttering in your chest. you remember spotting familiar faces in the stands during warm-ups: parents, the whole family, friends, players from other teams. you even remember seeing mack and a few other guys sitting together. they had come to watch, of course— just as they always did.

the game itself had blurred into a shapeless haze— until a specific moment, that one defining instant. one second you were chasing the puck along the boards, and the next, someone slammed into you. it was a dirty hit— late and dangerous. you remember the impact itself and the way your skate caught awkwardly. then, the unnatural way your knee twisted. and the pain— instant, blinding pain. you remember crying out before you could stop yourself, clutching your leg as tears sprang to your eyes. You knew right away: something was wrong. for a moment, everything around you seemed to go quiet— the only sound was the pounding of your own heart echoing in your ears.

then chaos erupted: teammates shouting, someone trying to pick a fight, coaches vaulting over the boards, referees rushing toward you. it was all happening at once, and cutting through that chaos was a searing, terrible pain.

at the hospital, the worst fears were confirmed: you had completely torn your acl and your mcl. your season was over, and with it, your hopes for a future in hockey crumbled. instead of the national tournament, you faced surgeries and a long recovery process. you remember looking at the doctor as he explained it all— it was as if he were speaking a foreign language. hockey had always been a part of your life, and now it was gone.

the next few days were among the hardest. everyone tried to support you— coaches, teammates, family, and friends. then, one afternoon, there was a knock at the door. your mom opened it, and suddenly mack and two other guys from the team appeared in the living room with a huge bag of snacks.

after that, they stopped by more than once— just to check in on you and share funny stories from the rink, so you wouldn’t feel like you were completely out of the loop with the team.

but then life sped up. people grew busy, and schedules became increasingly packed. mack moved away— first to boston for university, then to san jose. you kept meaning to get in touch with him. to be honest, he probably meant to as well. but months turned into years— that’s just how life goes.

°°°°°

now you sit on the couch, staring at messages from macklin. and even though everything around you has changed, he remains exactly the same.

you seem to stare at the keyboard for an eternity: how do you even answer this? how do you fit years of your life into a single message? how do you explain that your knee healed, but something else— something else never did? after all, physically, you’re fine. doctors cleared you to return to skating years ago; the scars have faded, and your strength has returned. but the part of you deep inside remembers it all. the sound of your knee snapping, the pain, the looks on your teammates’ faces. the realization that your hockey career was over. yet you don’t tell him any of that. can you really dump all that on him in the very first conversation you’ve had in years?

so instead, you write something simpler, something lighter. something that is still true— just not the whole truth.

you

i’m doing great! my knee has completely healed; there are no issues anymore.

okay, maybe that’s a lie. not a lie. just not entirely accurate.

you

i’m in college now, and i really love it!

i watch your games! it’s still so strange seeing you on tv

but i’m truly proud of you, mack

you pause to reread what you’ve written. then you remember there’s something else you can add.

you

honestly, i wouldn’t have expected anything else from you

a notification pops up almost immediately indicating that mack is typing, though the message itself doesn’t appear right away. you smile, waiting for his reply. apparently, even nhl players sometimes sit there staring at their keyboards, trying to figure out what to write. finally, your phone vibrates.

mack

that’s really nice of you to say

but i’m even happier that you’re doing well

it’s also funny that you find it strange seeing me on tv because i sometimes still feel like i’m 16 and back at shattuck

you laugh out loud. the conversation flows naturally and easily from there. it’s unhurried— you just share news, reminisce about school and former teammates, people you haven’t seen in years.

mack

remember that time owen accidentally locked himself in the sports equipment closet?

this makes you laugh heavily again. it feels like you’re back in high school.

later, lying in bed after the exchange of messages has finally died down, you read through them again. one message, in particular, holds your attention.

mack

but i’m even happier that you’re doing well

so simple— and so like mack. sincere and kind; it’s something he might have said back then, in the past.

you lock your phone and set it on the nightstand. thoughts are still swirling in your mind— all circling back to that one question you never answered. “are you still skating?”

it weighs heavily on your heart. this is a hard truth to accept. you haven’t skated since the injury. but you tried. you would lace up your skates and step onto the ice. yet, suddenly, it was as if you were transported back to the state championship, and all the memories came flooding back at once. you breathing would grow ragged, a tightness would grip your chest, and in the end, you would have to sit down, take off your skates, and simply admit it: you couldn’t do it.

maybe someday you’ll tell macklin about this. but not tonight. tonight, you can just be happy. happy that a silly tiktok video led to this, and that after all these years, he hadn’t forgotten. happy that the funny kid who used to sit by you on the bus somehow became an nhl player without losing the qualities that truly mattered.

°°°°°

the next day, you’re sitting in the student center between classes when your phone vibrates. you smile: lately only one person texts you this often.

mack

okay, i have a question

you

okay???

the typing indicator appears and then instantly vanishes. it’s as if you can see him hesitating and wavering. finally, your phone vibrates again.

mack

i had a thought— feel free to say so if it’s weird

and you can totally say no— no problem at all

seriously, no pressure, nothing like that

you

mack, what are you talking about lol

a few seconds pass.

mack

we’re playing in minnesota in a couple of days

and i was thinking maybe you’d want to meet up before the game?

you know, grab a coffee, have lunch, or something like that?

just hang out in person

you stomach does a flip, and before you can even reply, he sends another message.

mack

if this doesn’t seem weird…

you don’t even have to think about it: you want to see him. you want to know if he’s still the same, want to hear his laughter in person again. you want to see a friend.

you

mack, it’s not weird at all

i’d love to meet up

he replies so quickly that it’s clear that he’s been waiting for your message the whole time.

mack

great

i was worried it would sound weird

but that’s really great

°°°°°

in less than an hour, you’ll be seeing mack in person— for the first time in years. you’d think you’d be nervous. you imagined spending the whole morning agonizing over your outfit, your stomach tied in knots. but instead, you’re filled with anticipation and feel surprisingly calm. once you’re ready, you send mack a text.

you

is practice over yet?

a reply comes a few minutes later.

mack

almost

coach is talking

a couple of minutes pass.

mack

still talking

you “like” his message. another one comes in.

mack

save me, please

you laugh.

you

meet me here when ur done

you send him the café’s address. it’s one of your favorite spots— a small, quiet, and cozy place in the city. Great coffee, delicious pastries, and a peaceful atmosphere— no need to worry about being bothered.

mack

perfect

see you soon :)

and across the twin cities, practice has officially wrapped up. unfortunately for his teammates, mack has lost the ability to act normally. he bolts off the bench, tears off his gear, shoves it into his bag, and immediately rushes to the showers. he is simply impossible to deal with. his teammates watch the scene unfold, torn between amusement and annoyance. finally, tyler’s patience snaps.

“look, man… you need to chill out,” he says as mack looks up from his phone.

“i am chill.”

sam snorts, and will has to stifle a chuckle with a cough.

“i’m serious,” mack says, sounding almost offended.

“mack,” toff says, his tone serious now.

“what?”

“you’re vibrating. take a deep breath.”

the next twenty minutes go even worse— if that’s even possible. mack stands in front the mirror, messing with his hair. he fusses with it for about five minutes without getting anywhere, until will finally loses his patience.

“god, let me help.” will reaches for mack’s head, but mack immediately bats his hand away.

“no.”

“i’m helping.”

“no.”

“my hair is objectively better than yours.”

“exactly.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” will asks, picking up on the tone.

“it means: keep your hands off me.”

will looks offended. dickie nearly falls off the bench laughing.

then comes the agony of choosing an outfit. first, he pulls on a gray sharks hoodie and walks over to the mirror. he frowns at his reflection and takes it off. he goes back to his gear bag and pulls out the teal sharks hoodie. he stares at it for a long time before trying it on, glancing in the mirror, and immediately taking it off.

“mack. just pick a hoodie and relax.” groans sam, tired of watching the fuss.

macklin sighs. “it just doesn’t look right.”

“why?” will asks.

toff answers before mack can. “he doesn't want to look like he’s showing off the nhl logo.”

mack feels his face flush; tyler hit the nail on the head.

“ohhhh.” will, sam, and misa chorus.

“no,” mack says, tossing the hoodie aside. “i’ll just wear a t-shirt.”

“macklin, it’s forty degrees out there,” tyler says; and he feels like shaking the kid to snap some sense into him.

“it’s fine, i’ll survive.”

five minutes later, he’s already in an uber, constantly glancing at his phone and rereading your messages. years have passed, and he’s nervous— even though it seems ridiculous, because it’s you. it’s just you. so why is there a fluttering in his chest?

the café turned out to be exactly as you had described it to him: cozy, quiet, and small, filled with the aroma of fresh pastries. when macklin walks in, a bell chimes above the door. he spots you immediately: you sitting in a corner booth by the window, studying the menu and tapping your fingers against the table. he recognizes the habit— a nervous tic he had completely forgotten about. and suddenly, it feels as though no time has passed at all. he remembers it all. he recalls weekends of the tournament, where you would sit beside him on the bus or between games, doing the very same thing— constantly tapping your fingers on whatever surface was within reach.

for a moment, he simply stands there looking at you— at how achingly familiar you seem. you’ve grown older— that’s obvious. you’ve changed a little. but it’s still you. and before he can even begin to process the moment, you look up. your eyes meet instantly, the tapping of your fingers stops, and your face lights up with a smile. suddenly, a strange feeling washes over mack: it’s as if he’s sixteen again, walking not into a coffee shop, but onto an ice rink. and it’s feels as though the years that have passed since then have simply vanished.

you rise from your chair as he approaches you.

“mack,” you say, smiling gently.

he smiles back immediately at the sound of your voice. “hi.”

for a second, you both stand motionless, grinning like idiots and unsure of what to do next. then mack opens his arms— and suddenly, everything becomes simple. you step forward and hug him. it isn’t one of those awkward half-hugs people exchange when they’re no longer sure how well they know each other. it’s a real, familiar embrace— as if those intervening years had never happened. the only difference is that he’s bigger now. much bigger. as you pull away, you have to tilt your head back a little further than before. his shoulders are broader, his arms more powerful— a year and a half of strength training in the nhl has clearly paid off. but he’s still the same mack: the same green eyes, the same freckles across his nose, the same smile. he’s just gotten a little bigger.

you order drinks and head back to your table. you ask about traveling for games, his teammates, rookie life, and how he’s liking san jose. mack answers with that same modesty that always drove you crazy.

“it’s cool.”

you stare at him blankly. “‘cool’?”

he shrugs.

“mack, you were the number one overall pick. and that’s all you have to say?”

“what else am i supposed to say?”

“i don’t know… maybe acknowledge just how incredible it is?” you say, only half-joking.

he laughs. “i just got lucky.”

you groan in protest. “mack, it is not luck. you worked hard, you’re dedicated. you don’t have to be so modest.”

mack just grins. eventually, the conversation shifts to you.

“what are you studying?” mack asks, leaning closer across the table, genuinely interested.

you immediately perk up. “film and photography.”

his eyebrows go up. “really?” when you nod, he adds, “that’s awesome!”

you smile. “i really love it.”

he asks for more details, and you launch into an enthusiastic explanation, gesturing animatedly. you talk about the beauty of the cinematography, how a single shot can either save a film or ruin it, and how directors know how to create the right emotional mood through visuals. mack listens intently— as always.

“whose work do you like best?” mack asks.

“luca guadagnino’s.”

mack nods, though he clearly has no idea who that is.

you laugh. “you have no idea who he is, do you?”

“yeah.” mack smiles.

“at least you’re honest.”

“always.”

you shake your head and smile. “i like christopher nolan, too. he makes beautiful films.”

“oh, i know him!”

for the next ten minutes, you talk about what you’ve learned regarding cinematography, lighting, and composition. mack asks questions, nods, and makes it clear that he’s truly listening. you mention that you’d like to shoot movies— if you get lucky— or, if that doesn’t work out, perhaps get into sports film and photography. mack just smiles the whole time.

and then comes the question. the very one you’d hoped he wouldn’t ask— the kind that was easier to dodge over text.

macklin takes a sip of coffee, sets his mug on the table, and looks at you gently. “so… do you still skate?”

your heart sinks. you look down at your coffee, meeting his gaze right now feels like an impossible task. you could lie— say yes, you skate sometimes. you could change the subject. but mack would realize you were dodging the question. so, you simply sigh and tell the truth.

“no,” you admit quietly. he remains silent and simply waits, giving you space, because he understands there is more to it. you swallow hard. “my knee has healed.”

“i know.”

“physically, i’m fine.”

mack’s expression softens; he suddenly realizes that the issue isn’t really about the knee at all.

you take a shaky breath. “i tried to get back on the ice for the first time last year.” his eyes widen— stunned by how much time has passed since the injury— but he remains silent. “i even managed to put on my skates and make it to the ice, but the moment the blade touched the surface…” you shake your head, as if trying to shake off the memory. “i had a panic attack. it was like i was right back there, in that moment. and i could hear myself screaming.”

the admission feels awkward, laying bare your vulnerability and emotional pain. but now it’s out in the open. his expression shifts slightly, yet there is no pity in it, only sadness and empathy.

“i know it sounds silly,” you say, rubbing your eyes, even though you aren’t crying.

“not at all.”

“i think it is.”

before you can look away again, macklin reaches across the table and gently places his hand over yours. he doesn’t hold your hand, he simply touches it, reassuringly.

“not at all.”

his green eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment, you’re flustered. not because of the touch itself, but because of how natural it feels. years ago, it wouldn’t have mattered at all: you’d ridden the bus shoulder-to-shoulder so many times that physical contact had become second nature. but now— after so much time, when you’ve essentially become strangers— the sensation feels so familiar. strange, perhaps, but certainly not unpleasant. you hold his gaze a moment longer before looking back down at your drink. and yet, somehow, for the first time since you started talking about it, you don’t feel awkward. you just feel tired. you’re so tired of carrying this burden and pretending it doesn’t affect you. tired of acting as if you’ve fully recovered and moved on.

after a moment of silence, mack pulls his hand away and looks at his coffee. then, quietly, he says, “you know what i remember most about that day?”

you shake your head. “what?”

he doesn’t answer right away, he just exhales slowly. “how helpless i felt.”

the words take your breath away. “what?”

“i was in the stands.” he gives a slight shrug. “i remember how hard you fell… and how everyone sprang into action. Your teammates, the coaches, the trainers— they all rushed toward you.” he looks you straight in the eye again. “but there was nothing i could do. all i could do was sit there and watch as they took you off the ice.”

you look at him. “i didn’t know that.”

he smiles faintly. “well, i never told you.” another pause. “i remember walking back to the hotel that night, thinking… ‘she’s going to be so mad that she can’t play…’.” he chuckles softly.

you smile a little, too.

“i knew hockey was everything to you.” the smile fades from his face. “and hearing that you still can’t get out on the ice… it sucks.”

simple, sincere, classic macklin.

“and i’m so sorry you had to carry that burden alone.”

you don’t answer right away, simply letting mack’s words hang in the air between you. honestly, you aren’t even sure there is something to say to that. instead, you just sit in comfortable silence. outside the cafè window, people stroll by, at a nearby table someone is laughing, a barista calls out a name to announce a drink is ready— life goes on.

finally, you slowly exhale. “i don’t know if i’ll ever put on skates again.”

the words slip out on their own— you hadn’t intended to say them aloud. mack doesn’t rush to object, he simply studies you intently.

“i don’t know either,” he says at last, and you look up at him. “but i hope that one day, the rink won’t just remind you of that terrible day… i hope it will remind you of everything that came before, too.”

a lump rises in your throat. for the past few years, hockey and skating have been associated only with pain, loss, and fear. but before that… there were bus rides and early-morning practices set to loud music, inside jokes, state championships, friends, mack. your whole childhood.

you swallow the lump in your throat. “i’d really like that.”

macklin smiles. “me too.”

the conversation dies down for a moment before mack suddenly slaps his hands on the table. “anyway.”

you blink at him. “…anyway?”

he shrugs. “i’m changing the subject. we earned this.” he leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “will almost got us kicked out of our hotel in seattle.”

you cover your mouth in shock, letting out a laugh. “what did he do?”

“he forgot the room key.”

“and? how did that lead to you almost getting kicked out?”

“no, that wasn’t it.” you raise an eyebrow and wait for him to go on. “he climbed onto someone else’s balcony.”

your jaw drops. “he did what?”

“he thought it was our room. but he was mistaken.”

you burst out laughing. “mack!”

“hey! i know it’s crazy— don’t look at me like that!” mack says defensively.

“what was he thinking?”

“nothing.”

“okay, but what happened? did he get caught?”

“well, the poor couple staying in that room thought they were being robbed.”

you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “mack, no!”

“yeah. security came running, and will was trying to explain that we were staying there. and then toff had to go downstairs in flip-flops to convince security we were actually there with the hockey team.”

you wipe away tears from your eyes. “i can’t believe it. you guys are just unbelievable.”

“yeah, will, mostly,” mack corrects.

“but you share a hotel room with him,” you point out.

“every day i ask myself if i made the right choice.”

“oh, come on.”

“nah… it’s actually pretty fun with him. but don’t tell him i said that,” mack admits.

“i knew it! no promises, though.”

he gasps theatrically and presses his palm to his chest.

“i fly all the way across the country to minnesota just to see you…”

“really? just for me? and not because you have a hockey game or something like that, right?”

“of course not. just for you.”

“right.” you laugh and shake your head.

he smiles. “i missed this.”

the words are so quiet you barely catch them. you tilt your head to the side, questioningly.

he looks down at his nearly empty glass. “…just talking. i missed this.”

a warm feeling spreads through you. “yeah. i missed it too.”

mack glances out the window, and his eyes go wide. “shit.”

“what is it?” you ask.

mack checks the time on his phone. “i’ve got a game.” he jumps up so abruptly that he bumps the table. “i need to be at the rink.”

you laugh. “i was wondering when you had to leave.”

“it completely slipped my mind.”

“you forgot you have a game in four hours?”

“well, i’m not really running late yet. i just need to get back to the hotel. i got a little distracted here.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” you smile.

“that’s exactly how i meant it.”

now you stand up, too. “i should probably let you go.”

“yeah.” he nods.

yet neither of you rushes toward the door. a pause settles in; you both want to say something but don’t know what. you don’t want this to end. finally, mack rubs the back of his neck.

“so…” He looks almost embarrassed. “if you already have plans or anything, just totally ignore this, but…” his gaze drops to the floor for a second. “are you coming to the game tonight?”

for a moment, you’re caught off guard, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. he notices your reaction.

“it’s fine if you can’t.” he adds hastily. “it’s just that i’d…” he pauses, then— almost as if he’s forcing himself to finish before he loses his nerve— he says, “i’d really like it if you did.”

there’s no pressure, no attempt to make you feel guilty, just honesty. he is admitting he’d like to look up from the ice during warm-ups and see a familiar face.

you look at him for a moment. at those same green eyes, that same gummy smile, that same boy who used to save a seat for you.

“i’d like that too,” you say quietly.

the smile spreading across mack’s face is so wide and radiant that he looks like a sixteen-year-old again.

“really?”

you laugh. “really.”

he checks his phone again. “all right, i really have to go. but i’ll save a ticket for you. i’ll leave it at the front office.”

you nod, and he heads toward the exit, then disappears into the cold minneapolis day.

°°°°°

back home, you realize you have no idea what to wear to the game. after all, you do not own any sharks gear. you stand in front of your closet, weighing your options.

you have a wild jersey with fleury’s name on the back— a real classic. you are in minnesota, after all.

then, while sorting through your clothes— dresses, old hoodies— you see something tucked away in the very back corner: an old ssm hockey team hoodie. you pull it out. the fabric is faded and the cuffs are a bit worn— it looks like it’s been sitting there forever. but you smile, mack had one just like it, they were issued to every player on the team. you wonder if he still has his.

you pull on the hoodie, and a second later, you throw a wild jersey over the top. one glance in the mirror— perfect. you grab your bag and head out the door.

your ticket is waiting at the box office— exactly as macklin said. you give the attendant your name, and she hands you an envelope. after thanking her, you step aside and open it. your eyes widen in amazement when you see the seat assignment. front row.

you laugh in shock. “no way.”

you immediately pull out your phone, intending to text mack, but then you remember he’s getting ready for an nhl game and surely has more important things to do. so, you just shake your head.

“total nonsense,” you mutter, heading toward your seat.

you sit down, and suddenly a wave of mild nervousness washes over you. it’s not because of the game— though you do hope the sharks win, despite the wild logo on your chest— but because he might spot you here. still, that's silly, he’d almost certainly be nothing but excited.

the arena around you gradually fills with people, the music grows louder, and the teams take the ice for warm-ups. your eyes immediately find mack. you recognize his skating style even from a distance. he’s holding his stick, skating laps with that effortless stride you’ve seen before. you watch him for just a few seconds when suddenly he glances your way. it lasts only a moment before he skates on— but then he whips his head back around, as if he can’t believe his eyes.

you laugh at the priceless look on his face. his eyebrows shoot up, and a wide grin spreads across his features.

you smile, wave, and mouth the word, “hi!”

he laughs and heads toward the glass separating him from you. then his gaze falls on your jersey, and he looks at you with mock disappointment. but when you lift the jersey to reveal the shattuck hoodie underneath, his expression changes again. now he’s smiling differently, more softly.

you let go of the wild jersey, and it drops back into place. mack shoots you another wounded look.

he leans closer to the glass, practically shouting to be heard over the crowd noise and music. “i need to get you one of my jerseys. i think you’d look a lot better in one.”

you feel heat rush to your face, but before you can reply, a teammate shoves mack on the shoulder, pulling him away for practice. but as he skates off, mack glances back at you, still smiling.

by the time warm-ups are winding down, you’re smiling so wide your cheeks actually ache. you aren’t thinking at all about what you’ve gone through before— only about the game, only about watching mack. and the rink no longer feels like a place where you lost something. you’re enjoying yourself again.

warm-ups end, and mack skates past your section one last time. he gives the glass a light tap with the blade of his stick right in front of you. you smile back at him.

“i do like the hoodie.” he shouts.

you smile and nod in agreement. then he heads into the tunnel with his team, and you remain looking out at the open ice, waiting for the game to start.

°°°°°

after the game ends in a sharks victory, you follow the arena staff’s directions and head toward the area reserved for players’ friends and family. you walk down the tunnel, still buzzing with the intense energy of the game.

stepping into the room, you nearly freeze in your tracks. it’s packed with nhl players. wild players you’ve watched on tv since childhood, spurgeon, kaprizov and— holy fucking— fleury. for a moment, you’re stunned, but then you remember why you’re here. for mack.

you look around, but he is not here yet, so you wait. you try your best not to stare at the players around you. you don’t do a very good job of it, but who could blame you?

the door opens again, and suddenly you don’t care who else is in the room— because mack is walking in. his hair is still damp from the shower, and his face is flushed. he scans the room and spots you. ignoring everyone else, he heads straight for you. you smile as he stops right in front of you.

“i’m so glad you came,” he breathes, hugging you.

you smile, a bit mischievously, and reply, “that’s what she said.”

mack’s arms let go of you. he pulls back with a completely deadpan expression, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“oh my god! i can’t believe you. are you twelve?” he asks, trying not to laugh.

you burst into laughter, nearly doubling over.

“i made my way over here, i was so kind… and this is how you treat me?”

“mack, i know, i know. but you walked right into it and i couldn’t resist.”

he shakes his head, laughing. “i can’t believe you.”

“you should have known better.”

“well, i didn’t think you’d say that!”

“it’s your fault, macklin.”

he laughs again, but then the mocking note vanishes, and his expression softens, turning warm. “but seriously… i’m glad you’re here.”

“i know. me too.”

his gaze warms, but before he can say anything else, someone calls out to him.

“mack? where the hell…”

you both turn to see will scanning the room. his eyes land on mack, shift to you, then back to mack— and a slow smirk spreads across the blond’s face. he walks over.

“oh.”

mack groans. “don’t.”

“i didn’t say anything,” will says, feigning offense.

“you were about to.”

“no. i was just looking,” will smiles. “anyway, the bus leaves in twenty minutes.”

mack nods. “i know.”

will shifts his gaze from you to mack again. and then, because he seems unable to help himself…

“so, this is the famous girl from tiktok.”

you laugh, while mack looks embarrassed.

“will,” mack groans.

“by the way, i showed him that tiktok. i’m the reason we’re here.” will says proudly.

“that’s debatable,” mack counters.

“i reunited the two of you,” will says, ignoring mack.

“you made fun of me for a whole week.”

“both things can be true at the same time.”

you laugh again, giving mack a gentle pat on the shoulder. finally, will turns to you.

“it’s really nice to finally meet you.”

“you too. mack has told me a lot about you. mostly about your hotel antics.” you say, with a mischievous smile.

will laughs, then looks back at mack. “alright, we really have to go.”

mack nods. “give me a second.”

he turns to you as will steps aside. his expression has turned a little more serious now.

“so… i wanted to give you something. come with me.”

you follow him down the hallway to the visitors’ locker room, trying to move quickly since time is short. mack peeks inside first to make sure no one is there, then swings the door open. you follow him in. he walks over to his locker, rummages through his bag, and pulls out a teal jersey.

you look at the name printed on the back— his name.

“mack…”

he holds the jersey out to you, offering it gently. “it’s for you. i told you we needed to get you out of that wild one.”

you take it carefully. “is this the one you played in tonight?” you ask.

“no. definitely not a game-worn one. it’s clean,” he says with a laugh.

you laugh, despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “thank god. because i wouldn’t take your sweaty jersey.”

“fair enough.” he laughs.

you unfold it and look at his name. proof that he made it. he made it beyond shattuck, made it to the pros. your eyes begin to sting, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the touching nature of the gesture or because of what you’ve lost. maybe it’s a bit of both. you quickly look down, and macklin notices.

“hey.”

you shake your head. “i’m fine.”

he doesn’t believe you— you know that. he tilts his head cautiously, trying to catch your eye.

“you know… i always thought that one day i’d get one with your name on it.”

you look up at him, your eyes still brimming with tears. “i missed you so much.” the words escape your lips before you can hold them back. mack freezes.

now the whole day makes sense— the way everything just fell into place so easily. you hadn’t just missed an old school friend; you had missed mack. you missed that friendship— missed the person who knew you from before everything changed.

mack’s expression softens. “i missed you, too. i saw that tiktok— and suddenly, i was…” he trails off, chuckling softly. “i don’t know. it all just came flooding back.”

you smile through your tears. “me too.”

mack takes a step closer and hugs you again. you immediately hug him back, no longer caring that you’re crying. you missed him. fuck, you really missed him. and only after losing him did you realize what a huge part of your life he occupied.

the locker room door opens.

“mack!” will says loudly.

you pull away from macklin. will points to the analog clock on the wall.

“we’ve got to go.”

mack nods. “alright.”

“no, right now.”

“i know.”

“the bus is leaving soon, and if you miss it, you’ll have to walk back to the hotel.”

“got it.” mack laughs.

will starts backing away. “two minutes.”

mack looks at you again. “i’m not going to lose you again.”

you just look at him.

“i mean it,” he adds. his green eyes are steady. “i won’t let you disappear from my life again.

“mack…” your breath catches in your throat.

“i don’t think i’ll get this lucky twice.”

a shout immediately rings out from the hallway, “that wasn’t luck!”

mack closes his eyes and sighs heavily. you laugh as will sticks his head back into the room.

“it was all thanks to my doomscrolling on tiktok.”

mack turns toward him. “will.”

“just saying.”

“will, get out of here.”

“i reunited you two. you’re welcome.” and will immediately ducks back out the door.

mack laughs and shakes his head.

“he’ll never let you forget that.” you laugh.

“yeah.”

“but he’s right, in a way, you owe it to him.” you smile.

“maybe.” mack sighs. “but i still take credit for texting you.

you laugh again. “fair enough.”

macklin pulls you into a final embrace— tighter than before.

“i’ll text when i get to the hotel,” he says.

“okay.”

“and you better text me too.”

“i will.”

“promise?”

you nod. “i promise.”

he smiles and finally lets you go. you walk out of the building with him and watch as he boards the bus. as you gaze after him, a pang of emotion strikes you at the thought that you might have lived out the rest of your life without getting this back— without getting him back.

and judging by the way he keeps glancing back at you as he climbs onto the bus, and settling into his window seat, he realizes it too.

°°°°°

BONUS:

will smith is the first of his teammates to stumble upon the tiktok video. he’s sitting in the locker room after the morning skate, fresh out of the shower, waiting for macklin. mack takes forever to shower, so will has nothing to do but scroll through his feed. and scroll and scroll. then he comes across a video captioned: “MACKLIN CELEBRINI??” naturally, will stops to watch.

the video already has a couple of hundred thousand views and thousands of comments. half of them say things like:

“she knows macklin????”

“GIRL EXPLAINNNN”

“i need all the details”

will immediately closes the comments and watches the video. the interviewer asks, “who’s the most famous person in your contacts?” will expects to see the question put to some influencer, or, say, an obscure musician. but then the camera pans to you— a girl he has never seen before and whom mack has certainly never mentioned. and you answer casually:

“oh! macklin celebrini, i guess. unless he has changed his number since high school.”

will stops leaning against the wall of his stall and straightens up. the video plays on. you talk about hockey, parties, tournaments, and bus rides. at first, will is convinced you’re lying— maybe just trying to grab your fifteen minutes of fame. after all, why wouldn’t mack have ever mentioned some girl from high school who had his number? fortunately, the answer to all of will’s questions emerges from the showers at just the right moment.

macklin walks over to his spot on the bench— he’s still soaking wet. will wants to get annoyed, since mack is going to drip water all over his shit, but there are more important things at hand. will shoves his phone right in mack’s face, the video keeps playing on loop.

“do you know this girl?”

macklin blinks in surprise. “what girl?”

“watch the video!”

mack leans forward as the interviewer talks about the opening. then the camera cuts to you. the dark-haired man squints at the screen, furrowing his brows. then he raises them in surprise when you say, “macklin celebrini, i guess.”

mack’s eyes go wide. “what the fuck?”

will smirks. “THAT’S WHAT I SAID.”

as you tell the story, mack’s eyes are glued to the screen. a story about hockey. about the time mack tried to convince everyone that anteaters were made up. mack bursts out laughing.

“oh, my god.” he manages to say through the laughter.

“you actually did that?” will asks, incredulously.

“yeah.”

“why?”

“i don’t know. just for a laugh? we were fifteen.”

will just stares at him, wide-eyed. “that is so weird, man.”

mack, however, barely hears that, as he is once again staring at the phone will is still holding in front of him. will watches as he recalls every story you’ve told, watching his expression shift into something unnervingly tender.

finally, will gives mack a light nudge on the shoulder and puts the phone away. “well?”

mack looks at him. “well, what?”

“do you really know her?”

“yeah.” the answer comes instantly.

[bleedingmetalarm]

Masterlist

Hi everyone, and welcome and questions feel free to ask

Disclaimer: Most of my work contains adult theme that may not be suitable for all readers. All of my works have content warnings, so please check them out before you read my work.

I'm currently working on a series but if you like my style and want me to write something, send an ask!!

⋆｡°✩ ongoing fics ✩°｡⋆

Legacy Weapon - Active pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader | The new avengers x fem!reder (coworkers)

Disclaimer Prologue Chapter 1 ^ Rewrite Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

[bleedingmetalarm]

Legacy Weapon - Chapter 1

This is the first chapter of the rewrite, it combines the teaser and part 1. its not made to be an exact copy so if you've read the original you'll notice a few differences, so please do tell me what you think!! 💙

Content warning: Mentions of childhood trauma, parental abuse, child experimentation, Hydra, government experimentation, medical abuse, emotional distress, PTSD, dissociation/coping mechanisms, coercion, weaponization, identity struggles, moral ambiguity, and themes of control and autonomy.

This chapter deals with heavy themes involving the exploitation of a child and the long-term emotional impact of trauma. Please read with care.

No graphic violence or explicit descriptions of abuse — this chapter focuses on the character’s emotional response, the process of opening up about her past, and themes of trust, recovery, and vulnerability.

WC: 1452

pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader | The new avengers x fem!reder (coworkers)

Masterlist

Prologue | Chapter 2

It had been a month since Bob went ballistic on us. A month since Bucky and I moved into the Stark—

The New Avengers Tower.

I still wasn't used to calling it that.

When we moved in, I got my old room back. The same room I used to hide in while Tony's parties shook the walls and alcohol flowed like water.

I stood in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee when Bucky walked in, grabbing the mug out of my hand and drinking from it.

“James-” 

He didn't even apologize. Just looked at me like I was the strange one for objecting. Unfortunately, it was normal.

The rest of the team poured in slowly into the kitchen, most of them in silence but I genuinely think Walker has never been quiet a day in his life. 

“So, you gonna tell us how you got the serum or are we just supposed to blindly trust you?”

Whatever stupid joke I was making died before it reached the end of my sentence. “What?” I asked

“How did you get the serum?”

“Now, why would I tell you that? You know the important part, Walker. Got the serum at 14 and puberty enhanced the effects” 

John wasn’t satisfied with that answer and Bucky noticed. 

Bucky's expression changed for half a second, something mild, something easy to ignore, something nobody else would have noticed.

I did.

“Stand down, Walker. No need to push”

“James, I don’t need saving from Walker”

“Hey-”

“I know, but he needs to stand down”

I finished my coffee and went to my room, Bucky hesitated before following me to the room.

“You have to tell them eventually” Bucky says carefully, walking on eggshells as he speaks out.

“And tell them what, James?” I look at him “the truth” Bucky replies coldly.

“You know I can't,” I say, running my hands through my hair. “How do I begin to explain that my own father tested me until he found a serum that worked and sent me out into the field like a killing machine, James? How do I explain that?” pacing around the room, knowing he’s right, but not finding the way to say it.

“Just like you did with me, doll.” Bucky says softly, standing in front of me to stop my pacing.

“James, it’s not the same”

“It’s exactly the same” he bites back "They're your team now."

"Buck—"

"No. Listen to me. They trust you. They walk into fights knowing you'll be there. You gotta give them the chance to do the same."

“James, it’s not that simple. I told you mid-healing in Wakanda, where we cried more than talked, not during team bonding ice breakers” I finally sat at the edge of my bed, Bucky crouched down in front of me holding my hands. “I like this team, Buck, I don’t want to lose this because I couldn’t keep my emotions in check”

“And you’re not gonna, but you need to tell them, or it’s gonna bite you in the ass” Bucky says softly, looking at me dearly. His thumbs brush over my knuckles, grounding me like he always does.

I don't know when that became normal.

Bucky stayed until my breathing evened out, until I stopped pacing the room like I was trying to outrun my own thoughts.

But he couldn't make the decision for me.

So I did what I always did when I didn't know what to do.

I worked. And I stayed in my room the rest of the day. Working on liaison emails, trying to find some sense of normalcy after moving into this forsaken tower again. I did what I usually do, drowned in work, just this time around Buck would walk with lunch and dinner as I worked tirelessly on my computer. There’s a lot to do when you're fighting for your rights and others like you. 

I stared at the glow of my computer screen, the same sentence on the same document for the last ten minutes.

I wasn't tired.

I wasn't even close.

The elevator hummed quietly on its way to the sublevels. A loud reminder that I was the only one still awake. 

As I approached the training center I heard punches making contact, “Can’t sleep?” I asked. 

“Yeah, seems you can’t either” John replied back. “Nah, not really. Mind if I join you?”

I slipped the gloves on, tightening the straps with my teeth before raising my hands.

John didn't wait for a signal.

His first jab came quick, testing.

I leaned back just enough for it to skim past my nose before answering with a hook to his ribs. He absorbed it with a grunt and came back with a cross that forced me to duck.

"You pull your punches," he observed.

"So do you."

"Not usually."

"Congratulations."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

We circled each other again.

John had military precision. Every strike had a purpose, every step measured. Mine looked messier, almost improvised, but years of fighting people bigger than me had taught me one thing—unpredictability was its own weapon.

He feinted high.

I fell for it.

His glove tapped my shoulder before I could recover.

"Point to Walker," he said.

"Oh, don't get cocky."

I answered with a quick combination to his torso that had him taking two steps back.

"There she is," he laughed, shaking out his arms.

"For someone who claims not to be competitive, you're awfully smug."

"I never said I wasn't competitive."

We reset, the room falling quiet again except for gloves meeting leather and shoes squeaking across the mats.

After another exchange, John lowered his guard just enough to catch his breath.

"...I'm sorry," he says.

“What for?”

“Being so insistent with the origin of your serum.”

“It’s okay, it's just a bit of a sensitive topic.”

I threw a straight punch toward his jaw. He caught my wrist instead of dodging, held it for half a second, then let go. We both knew either of us could've hit harder. 

“Val called you a legacy, what did she mean by that?”

John threw another jab.

I ducked beneath a hook, pivoted behind him, and tapped his shoulder with my glove. 

I breathed out a laugh, “That she’s insane.”

John actually laughed at that, “yeah, but besides that.”

I sighed, no use hiding now “That my father’s an asshole.”

I rolled my sleeves up to cool off, exposing the faded constellation of scars that climbed both arms.

John's eyes dropped to them.

I didn't bother pulling the fabric back down.

I lowered my hands for a moment, rolling my shoulders while John bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. He didn't press. He just waited. It was the first time all day someone had given me the space to answer instead of demanding one. 

Then I continued.

“I’m my father’s legacy in Hydra, proof that the super serum could be better, and evolve over time.”

John hesitated just long enough for my fist to connect with his ribs.

Neither of us acknowledged the hit.

"His hypothesis was that a younger subject would continue adapting to the serum throughout puberty." I flexed my hand inside the glove. “He turned out to be right”

“Are you telling me your life story or reading a mission report?”

I laugh, “its easier to explain that way”

John's expression softened. I blame his softness on being a dad.

“It shouldn't be.”

The words caught me off guard.

For a second, I forgot to keep moving.

He took the opening, his glove tapping my shoulder before stepping back instead of following through.

“I wasn't trying to pry,” he said quietly. “I just... wanted to know who I was trusting. Who I'd be walking into fights with.”

I nodded.

“I know.”

Silence settled between us again, broken only by our breathing.

“I was eight when he started drawing blood.”

The words came before I could stop them.

“He said it was for research.” I swallowed. “By age twelve, he'd stopped calling me his daughter.”

John didn't interrupt.

“He called me Subject One.”

The room suddenly felt colder.

I pulled my sleeves back down, hiding the scars beneath the fabric again.

“I think we're done for tonight.”

John didn't argue.

As I reached the door, he spoke again.

“I trust you.”

I looked back over my shoulder.

“You didn't have to tell me any of that.”

I managed the smallest smile.

“I know.”

When I stepped back into the hallway, the tower was still asleep.

For the first time in years...

One other person knew.

Maybe Buck had been right.

Maybe carrying it alone had always been the hardest part.

[fadedbiebz]

a new avengers

part 1 | part 3 ?

character presentation | masterlist

warning: 14 years old!reader, none, bit of angst? EXPLOSION

resumery: you're a poor girl (sorry boys) from the Queens, you have no idea of what is happening to you, the avengers came save you from your nightmare

autor note: boringgg

The apartment building had been evacuated in less than four minutes.

Firefighters blocked the street.

Police cars lined the sidewalks.

Neighbors stood behind the barricades in pajamas, whispering to one another.

"Gas explosion?"

"No..."

"I saw the windows break by themselves."

"There was a little girl living up there."

"She's still inside."

High above them...

Your apartment continued shaking.

Furniture slammed against the ceiling before dropping back down.

The pipes screamed.

Every light flickered.

Inside...

You were curled into the corner beside your bed, your knees pressed tightly against your chest.

"Please..."

You whispered it over and over.

"Please stop..."

Another wave of pain exploded behind your eyes.

You cried out.

The room answered.

Every object around you lifted into the air again.

Plates.

Books.

The mattress.

Even the old refrigerator groaned as it tore away from the wall.

"I don't want this!"

Your voice cracked.

The energy burst outward.

Every window exploded.

Glass rained onto the empty street below.

You covered your ears.

"I'm sorry..."

No one answered.

Halfway across Queens...

A Quinjet landed.

Before its wheels had fully touched the ground, Tony was already walking down the ramp.

Steve followed close behind.

Bruce.

Natasha.

Clint.

Sam.

Wanda.

Peter hurried after them.

He recognized the neighborhood immediately.

"...This is my block."

Tony looked over.

"You know this area?"

Peter nodded.

"I've patrolled here."

He frowned as he stared up at your building.

"I've never seen power readings like that."

Tony hadn't either.

FRIDAY's voice echoed through everyone's earpieces.

"Warning. Energy levels continue rising. Structural collapse predicted within five minutes."

Steve didn't hesitate.

"We're going in."

The stairwell looked like a war zone.

Chunks of concrete covered every landing.

Sprinkler pipes had burst.

Water poured down the stairs.

Peter fired a web to stabilize a cracked section of ceiling before it could collapse.

"Fourth floor!"

Tony called.

"They're coming from the fourth floor!"

Another pulse shook the building.

Bruce grabbed the railing to steady himself.

"What kind of power does this?"

Nobody answered.

Because nobody knew.

You didn't hear them coming.

You barely heard anything anymore.

The pounding inside your skull drowned everything else out.

Your nose was bleeding.

Tiny drops landed on your hoodie.

"I'm dying..."

You whispered through tears.

"I know I am..."

You reached for another bottle of painkillers lying on the floor.

Empty.

Just like the last one.

There were dozens scattered around the apartment.

Different brands.

Different medicines.

Different promises.

None had worked.

You stared at the empty bottle in your hand.

"I did everything..."

Another sob escaped.

"I bought everything..."

The bottle slipped from your fingers.

It floated before hitting the floor.

Your breathing became ragged.

The room shook harder.

Tony stopped outside apartment 4B.

The metal door had bent outward as if something inside had tried to push it open.

"...Ready?"

Steve nodded.

Peter swallowed.

Tony blasted the lock.

The door swung inward.

Everyone froze.

The apartment was...

Tiny.

Smaller than any of them expected.

The wallpaper peeled from the walls.

Water dripped from the ceiling.

There was no television.

No couch.

Just an old mattress.

A folding chair.

A tiny kitchen.

And medicine.

Everywhere.

Empty bottles covered the counter.

Receipts littered the floor.

Bruce crouched beside one.

Cold medicine.

Painkillers.

Fever reducers.

Vitamin supplements.

Months' worth.

His expression changed.

"Tony..."

"I see them."

Then...

They saw you.

You were tucked into the far corner beneath the window.

Fourteen years old.

Much smaller than any of them expected.

Your oversized hoodie hung from your shoulders.

Your face was pale.

Dark circles rested beneath your eyes.

Blood trickled slowly from your nose.

You looked...

Terrified.

Steve carefully lowered his shield.

"Hey."

You looked up so quickly your head spun.

There were strangers in your apartment.

Men in armor.

A man carrying a shield.

Someone with a bow.

You immediately scrambled backward.

"No."

Your voice shook.

"Don't come closer."

Peter slowly removed his mask.

"It's okay."

"No!"

The room trembled again.

Tony immediately held out both hands.

"We're not here to hurt you."

"I didn't do anything!"

Another pulse.

The ceiling cracked.

Concrete dust rained down.

"I didn't mean to!"

Bruce noticed something.

You weren't controlling the energy.

You were reacting to your emotions.

Fear.

Every burst followed panic.

Every crack followed tears.

He looked toward Wanda.

She had noticed too.

"It's tied to her nervous system."

Bruce nodded.

"She's not attacking."

"She's overwhelmed."

You tried to stand.

Your legs gave out.

Everything hurt.

You looked around desperately.

"I'm sorry."

The words came out automatically.

"I'll pay for it."

Tony blinked.

"What?"

"The windows..."

Your breathing hitched.

"The landlord..."

You looked at the shattered apartment.

"I'll fix it."

Steve's heart broke.

"You don't have to worry about that."

"I do!"

You almost shouted.

"I always have to!"

Silence.

Nobody moved.

Because fourteen-year-olds weren't supposed to say things like that.

Bruce spoke softly.

"Sweetheart..."

You immediately interrupted.

"I'm not sick on purpose."

His eyebrows furrowed.

"What?"

You looked down.

"I took the medicine."

You pointed weakly toward the bottles.

"I took all of it."

Your voice trembled.

"It didn't work."

Another tear slid down your cheek.

"I don't want to die."

The apartment became completely silent.

Peter stared at the bottles.

There had to be thirty.

Maybe forty.

Tony slowly crouched until he was closer to your eye level.

"Who told you you were dying?"

"No one."

You sniffled.

"But..."

You gestured weakly.

"The headaches."

"The lights."

"The shaking."

Your voice cracked.

"I thought I had something in my brain."

Bruce's face fell.

"You thought you were sick."

You nodded.

"So I kept buying medicine."

Peter quietly looked around the apartment.

There wasn't much food.

A stale loaf of bread.

Instant noodles.

Half a jar of peanut butter.

The medicine had cost more than the groceries.

His chest tightened.

Steve glanced around.

"Where are your parents?"

The question slipped out before anyone could stop it.

You froze.

Then quietly answered...

"I don't have any."

The words landed heavily.

Tony looked up.

"What do you mean?"

"I..."

You stared at the floor.

"My mom died two years ago."

A long pause.

"My dad..."

You shrugged.

"I don't know."

Peter felt his stomach twist.

Steve spoke carefully.

"So..."

"You live here?"

You nodded once.

"By yourself."

Nobody said a word.

Because they all knew what that meant.

The overdue bills stacked on the counter.

The worn-out clothes.

The empty refrigerator.

The medicine bottles.

The exhaustion in your eyes.

Everything suddenly made sense.

Not because you were lazy.

Not because you were careless.

Because you were a child...

Trying to survive alone.

Tony slowly stood.

His jaw clenched.

Not at you.

At the world.

FRIDAY's voice broke the silence.

"Warning. Energy spike imminent."

Bruce looked toward you.

Your breathing was speeding up again.

"No..."

You whispered.

"It hurts..."

The air inside the apartment began vibrating.

Every loose object lifted once more.

Peter instinctively stepped forward.

"Hey."

You looked at him through blurry eyes.

He recognized that look.

Fear.

He'd seen it in the mirror after the spider bite.

"You aren't dying."

Your lip trembled.

"I promise."

"I don't believe you."

"I know."

He nodded gently.

"I didn't believe anyone either."

You frowned.

"What?"

He pulled off one glove.

Held up his hand.

Then let it stick effortlessly to the wall beside him.

Your eyes widened.

"...You..."

"I woke up one morning climbing my bedroom ceiling."

For the first time since they'd arrived...

The room stopped shaking.

Just a little.

Peter smiled softly.

"I thought something was wrong with me too."

You stared at him.

"I wasn't sick."

Neither are you."

A tiny, uncertain hope flickered across your face.

The energy surrounding the apartment weakened.

Just enough...

For everyone to finally breathe.

To be continued...

　　　　　　☘︎　[ tag list ]

　　　　　　✧　[ Masterlist ]

　　　　　　୨୧　[ Rules ]

taglist:@angelonthewallsofversailles, @summerwrittenbitch @heartchaeii @harrysbitches @thegirlulike @naiiiima @inutheangel @cupiidy

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Breakdown, Post-No Way Home, Grief, Mentions of Injuries, Nudity (Non-Explicit), Fluff, Established Relationship

Summary → After seeing Ned and MJ move on, Peter comes home shattered, where your quiet embrace reminds him he's still loved and never alone.

A/N : This was written before Brand New Day released.

The rain of New York City always had a way of drumming a rhythmic beat against the grime-streaked window of Peter Parker’s apartment. It was a tiny, cramped space near the Empire State University campus—just enough room for a sagging bed, a cluttered desk overflowing with circuit boards and textbooks, and a makeshift kitchen setup. But tonight, the ambient noise of the city and the soft hum of the old refrigerator were completely eclipsed by the quiet rhythm of your breathing.

You were completely asleep, buried beneath a tangle of dark, worn blankets. The radiator clicked and hissed in the corner, throwing just enough warmth into the drafty room that you had kicked the heavy comforter down, lying completely bare underneath the soft top sheet. Your skin caught the faint, amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting soft shadows across your shoulders and the gentle curve of your back.

To anyone else, this room was a forgotten corner of a loud, uncaring city. To Peter, it was the only sanctuary he had left in the entire world.

He had met you at ESU, a casual collision of dropped notebooks and shared exhaustion in the library during midterms. What started as quiet studying evolved into coffee runs, which turned into late-night walks, which inevitably turned into something Peter hadn’t thought he’d ever be allowed to have again: love. You didn't like your loud, inconsiderate dormmate who blasted music at three in the morning, so you had gradually drifted into his space. Your toothbrush was in his cracked ceramic mug; your favorite oversized sweaters hung over his single chair.

On your six-month anniversary, trembling and terrified that the truth would drive you away or put you in danger, he had sat you down on this very bed and told you everything. He told you about the bite, the responsibilities, the mask, and the ghosts of a past that a spell had erased from everyone else's minds but his own. You hadn't run. You had just held his face, kissed his eyelids, and told him you weren't going anywhere.

But tonight, the weight of those ghosts was crushing him.

Peter had slipped out for a late-night patrol after you fell asleep, leaving the warmth of your body for the biting chill of the midnight air. It had been a routine night—a few broken up carjackings, a mugging stopped in an alleyway—leaving him with nothing more than a bruised rib and a shallow cut along his cheekbone. Nothing big. Nothing he couldn't handle.

But it wasn't the physical toll that brought him to his knees. It was what he had seen on the roof of a coffee shop near the center of town.

He had been perched on a brick ledge, mask pulled up just past his nose to catch his breath, when he saw them. Ned and MJ. They were laughing under the awning of a late-night diner, vibrant and full of life, completely untouched by the darkness that constantly hovered over Peter's shoulders. They were happy. They were safe.

And there was someone else with them. Another guy, laughing at a joke Ned made, casually resting his hand on MJ's waist. MJ didn't pull away. She smiled up at him, a bright, easy smile that Peter used to know by heart. She had changed. Her hair was styled differently, her laugh carried a different cadence, and the space Peter once occupied in her life was seamlessly, completely filled. The universe had moved on without him, leaving him behind like a ghost haunting the periphery of a life he used to own.

Now, Peter sat on the edge of the mattress, the dark fabric of his Spider-Man suit pulled down to his waist, leaving his scarred, lean torso bare to the cold air of the room. His mask was clutched tightly in one hand, dangling toward the floor.

He was slumped forward, the exact picture of absolute, bone-deep exhaustion. His elbows rested on his knees, and he slowly raised a hand, burying his face in his palm, pressing his fingers against his eyes as if he could physically push the images of his past life out of his head. The silence of the apartment was deafening, amplified by the heavy ache in his chest. He felt entirely invisible, a shadow scraping by on the margins of a city that demanded everything from him and gave back nothing but bruises.

The shift in the mattress was subtle, but Peter’s heightened senses caught it instantly.

Behind him, you stirred. The rustle of the sheets signaled your transition from a deep sleep back into reality. You blinked against the dim light, your eyes adjusting to the silhouette of the man sitting on the edge of your shared bed.

"Pete?" you murmured, your voice a soft, raspy whisper that carried the heavy weight of sleep.

When he didn't answer right away, too locked inside his own head, you sat up. The blanket slipped entirely from your body, pooling at your hips, leaving your chest completely bare to the cool air of the apartment. You didn't care. Your focus was entirely on the tense, trembling line of his shoulders.

Moving instinctively, you slid across the mattress until you were directly behind him. You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your bare chest firmly against the hot, tense muscles of his back. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, your warm breath fanning across his collarbone, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder.

"You ok?" you asked, the words muffled against his skin, thick with sleep but laced with an undeniable, protective tenderness.

The moment your skin touched his, a visible tremor ran through Peter’s spine. The icy wall of isolation he had built around himself over the last few hours instantly began to thaw. The contrast of your soft, bare skin against his calloused hands and bruised back was an immediate grounding wire to reality.

"I'm ok," Peter whispered, his voice thick, cracking slightly under the weight of emotions he was trying desperately to suppress. He immediately reached down, his rough hands wrapping securely around your wrists, holding your arms tightly against his waist as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Don't be sorry," you mumbled, kissing the tense muscle where his neck met his shoulder. "Never be sorry."

Peter didn't want to be a burden, but the sheer gravity of his loneliness was too much to carry alone tonight. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his body within the circle of your arms. He caught the edge of the blanket, pulling it loosely over your shoulders to shield you from the chill, before reaching down and lifting you entirely into his lap.

You let out a soft, contented sigh, shifting your weight easily as he pulled you against him. You straddled his thighs, your bare legs wrapping around his waist, your chest pressed flat against his heartbeat.

He looked up at you then, and in the dim amber light, you could see the faint purple bruising along his jawline and the profound, aching sadness swimming in his brown eyes. He looked so young, yet so impossibly tired.

Peter leaned up, his lips finding yours in a quiet, unhurried kiss. It wasn't fueled by passion or urgency, but by a desperate, silent need for reassurance. He kissed you to remind himself that he was alive, that he was real, and that he was loved. You responded softly, parting your lips just enough to welcome him, your hands moving up to cup his jaw, your thumbs gently tracing the edge of his new bruise.

When he pulled back, he didn't go far. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing his forehead against your collarbone. He took a deep, shuddering breath, breathing in the scent of your skin, the cheap lavender soap you used, and the comforting warmth of the bed. He just held you, his arms locked around your waist, his fingers digging slightly into your back as he grounded himself in the reality of your presence.

"They're doing so well," Peter whispered into your skin, the confession finally tearing its way out of his throat. He didn't need to name them; you knew exactly who he meant. "I saw them tonight. They're happy. She's... she's with someone else. And they don't know me. They looked right through the mask like I was just another part of the city."

You felt the sharp pang of sympathy in your chest, your heart aching for the boy who had sacrificed his entire identity to keep the people he loved safe. You tightened your hold on him, running your fingers through his messy, damp curls, gently massaging his scalp to ease the tension locking up his frame.

"I know, Pete," you whispered softly, your chin resting on the top of his head as you rocked him slightly on the edge of the bed. "I know it hurts. It's okay for it to hurt."

"Sometimes I feel like I'm just a ghost," he admitted, his voice cracking completely, a single tear escaping his eye and wetting your collarbone. "Like Peter Parker doesn't actually exist anymore. Like I'm just a suit that swings between buildings."

You pulled back just enough to force him to look at you. You took his face in both of your hands, making him meet your gaze in the dark room.

"Look at me," you commanded gently, your voice steady and fiercely certain. "You are not a ghost. You are Peter Parker. You are the boy who helps me with my physics homework, the guy who hoards old tech parts under the bed, and the most fiercely loving person I have ever met in my life. They might not remember, but I know you. I see you. Every single part of you."

Peter looked at you, his eyes scanning your face, finding absolute truth in your expression. The crushing weight on his chest didn't vanish—it never truly would—but the burden suddenly felt manageable. He wasn't entirely alone in the dark anymore.

He leaned forward again, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing finally slowing down to match the steady, calm rhythm of your own.

"Thank you," he breathed, his hands smoothing over your bare back, pulling you so close there was no space left between you. "Stay right here?"

"Always," you whispered against his lips, pulling the blanket tight around both of your shoulders as the rain continued to wash over the city outside, leaving the two of you safe in the quiet sanctuary you had built together.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪

Tags:

@sir-this-is-a-wendys @amarawayne @words-to-accomplish-something @moniffazictress11 @love-hs28 @lightgreysoul @desiredwebs @peterparkersgirlfriend1 @user77091025 @jennaang @anonymousprettygirl @dayastarkorwtvr @cherriies-snake @imobsessedzs @theonlymads1 @moqnqr @cheriip1estarblog @tramm123jjj @deadangelswings @azerbennettwarnerriorson007 @hoax-of-light @rlanar @cinammom-krunch @manifestingandrewgarfield

[starl1ghtgr4yson]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀spare keys

Finishing eight or nine? Tell me, what's the perfect time? Told you I'll be waiting Hiding from the rainfall….

☆ summary: living in a drafty nyc apartment is hard enough, but watching your exhausted but cute across-the-hall neighbor practically pass out on his own doormat is worse. what starts as a simple plate of warm muffins quickly spirals into a late-night routine as peter parker begins slipping through your door at 2:00 am. but it’s fine, I mean, the two of you won’t fall in love? Right?

part 1

part 2

Taglist:

[starl1ghtgr4yson]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ SPARE KEYS

series m.list.

this is part 1

summary: when your exhausted across-the-hall neighbor practically passes out on his own doormat, you decide to step in with a fresh batch of warm muffins. what starts as a simple, neighborly act of kindness quickly turns into an invitation for peter to escape his freezing hallway and sit on your couch and maybe even sleep on your bed!

The radiator in the hallway of apartment 4B was emitting a high-pitched, metallic hiss that had been echoing down the corridor since roughly mid-November, but at six in the morning on a Tuesday, you were entirely convinced it was doing it just to spite you.

You pulled your fleece robe a little tighter around your shoulders, clutching your mug of coffee like a lifeline as you nudged your front door open to grab your parcel. That was when you nearly tripped directly over the pair of beaten-up, scuffed Converse sitting haphazardly in front of the door across from yours.

Peter. Of course it was Peter.

He was currently pressed flat against his own front door, forehead resting against the peeling wood, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his dark hair sticking up in three different directions like he’d slept on it completely wrong—or hadn't slept at all. He was wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt that looked two sizes too big, muttering something incoherent under his breath while his hands blindly dug through the front pocket of his worn denim jacket.

"Lose something, Parker?" you asked softly, leaning your shoulder against your doorframe and taking a slow sip of coffee.

Peter flinched, jumping about three inches off the worn carpet before spinning around so fast he nearly dropped his bag. His wide brown eyes locked onto yours, his cheeks instantly flushing a deep, dusty pink that spread all the way to the tips of his ears.

"Oh! Hey," he stammered, his voice doing a little octave-jump that he tried and failed to cover up with a fake cough. "Hi. Good morning. I mean—yeah. A little bit. My, um, my keys. I think I dropped them somewhere between here and the library. Or near the subway. It's... it's a whole thing."

He let out a breathy, nervous laugh, running a hand through his messy curls and only making them stick up worse. Beneath his right eye was a dark, purplish bruise that definitely hadn't been there when you saw him taking out the trash two nights ago, and his dark circles were so pronounced he looked like he’d been running a marathon in his sleep.

You raised an eyebrow, nodding toward his face. "Rough night with whatever late shift you're pulling these days?"

"Oh, yeah," Peter said instantly, nodding a little too fast, his hands flying into his pockets. "Yeah, super rough. Just... lots of night shifts. Lots of running around the city. You know how it is." He offered a weak, lopsided smile that was so painfully endearing it made your chest ache just a little bit.

You looked at him for a long moment—this quiet, ridiculously sweet guy who lived on dry cereal, stumbled through the hallway like a newborn giraffe, and looked like a stiff breeze might blow him clear across the East River. You'd exchanged polite head-nods by the mailboxes for a month, but seeing him practically vibrating with exhaustion was the last straw.

"Stay right there," you said gently.

You turned back into your apartment, setting your coffee mug on the small table by the entrance. From your kitchen counter, you grabbed a plastic Tupperware container filled with hot, freshly made blueberry muffins you’d baked the night before, along with a bright yellow sticky note.

When you stepped back into the hallway, Peter was still standing there, watching you with that earnest, slightly bewildered expression he always had whenever you talked to him.

"Here," you said, holding out the container.

He blinked down at it, his jaw dropping slightly. "Wait, are these... did you make these?"

"Muffins. Real food. Not Pop-Tarts," you specified, tapping the sticky note affixed to the snap-on lid, where you’d written 'Eat at least two before 10 AM or I'm taking them back' in black sharpie. "And since you're locked out, you're coming in to sit on my couch while I call the super to let you in. I'm not watching you freeze in the hallway."

Peter stared at the container like it was made of solid gold, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I—wow. Okay. Thank you," he murmured, his voice dropping into something impossibly soft. "You really don't have to do that, y'know. I feel like I'm bothering you."

"You're not bothering anyone, Peter, you look like you're about to pass out on the welcome mat," you teased gently, stepping back to hold your front door open for him. "In. Now."

Peter looked at you, his dark eyes shining with something so sweet and raw it made your heart do a strange little flip. A genuine, radiant little smile broke across his face, dimples showing through as he stepped over your threshold.

He carefully kicked off his muddy sneakers by the entryway, toeing them into a neat little pile beside the rug as if he were afraid of leaving a speck of dirt on your floor. His oversized sweatshirt practically swallowed him whole as he walked into your living room, his shoulders hunched slightly in that hesitant, careful way he always carried himself.

"Sorry about my... everything," Peter apologized softly, gesturing vaguely toward his hair, his torn jeans, and his general state of disarray. "I promise I don't usually look like I got dragged behind a bus."

"Could've fooled me," you laughed, walking past him into the kitchen to grab a second coffee mug. "Sit down, Parker. You're making me nervous standing there like a statue."

He hovered by the edge of your couch for a second before carefully sitting down on the far end, placing his worn backpack on the floor by his feet. He set the Tupperware container on his lap, cradling it in his hands like it was precious cargo.

While you poured a fresh cup of coffee, you listened to the quiet rustle of the plastic lid popping open behind you. When you turned around to hand him the mug, Peter was already halfway through a blueberry muffin, his cheeks puffed out slightly as he chewed. He caught you watching him and froze mid-bite, his eyes widening in mortification as he tried to swallow quickly.

"Sorry," he squeaked, his face flushing crimson once again. "They're just—wow. They're really good."

"Take a breath, it's fine," you smiled, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch. "I made them so someone would actually eat them. My apartment usually smells like stale coffee and old radiator heat, so baking keeps me sane."

Peter took a slow sip of the coffee you handed him, his shoulders visibly dropping an inch as the warmth hit him. He leaned back against the cushions, letting out a long, quiet exhale that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for days.

"You have no idea," he murmured, looking down at the mug in his hands with a faint, melancholic little smile. "I don't... I mean, I haven't had a home-cooked thing in a really long time. It's really nice of you."

"Well, you live right across the hall," you said gently, nudging his knee with yours. "So if you ever get sick of microwave dinners, you know where to find real food."

Peter looked up at you, his wide brown eyes searching your face. The tension in his jaw softened completely, and for the first time since he'd stumbled into the hallway, he looked genuinely relaxed.

"I might take you up on that," he said softly, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "As long as you let me pay you back somehow. I can... I don't know, fix your sink? Help you carry heavy stuff? I'm surprisingly good at carrying heavy stuff."

"Deal," you laughed. "Now finish your muffin while I go hunt down Mr. Henderson for your spare key."

As you stood up and headed for the door, you looked back over your shoulder. Peter was leaning back against your sofa cushions, sipping his coffee, looking warmer and more at peace than you'd ever seen him. The heavy silence of his solitary apartment was gone, replaced by the quiet, comfortable warmth of yours—and as you stepped out into the chilly hallway, you realized you were already looking forward to the next time he knocked on your door.

It happened a lot sooner than you expected.

Three days after the muffin incident, you heard it.

It was nearly two in the morning. You were curled up on the edge of your couch in a faded t-shirt and sweatpants, halfway through a late-night movie with the volume turned down low, when two soft, incredibly hesitant taps sounded against your front door.

Knock. Knock.

It wasn't the loud, heavy bang of Mr. Henderson doing his landlord rounds, nor was it the sharp rap of a delivery driver. It was quiet. Almost shy.

You paused the TV, pulling your fleece blanket off your legs as you padded over to the door in your socks. You slid the chain lock back and pulled the door open, expecting to see an empty hallway or maybe a stray package left on the floor.

Instead, you found Peter.

He was leaning heavily against your doorframe, one hand clutching a plastic grocery bag and the other holding a half-eaten bag of convenience store pretzels. His oversized gray hoodie was soaked through at the shoulders from the cold drizzle falling over the city, his dark curls plastered messily to his forehead. He looked like a stray dog that had spent three hours standing in the rain.

When the door swung open, Peter winced slightly at the sudden spill of yellow light from your entryway, looking up with wide, apologetic brown eyes.

"Hey," he rasped, his voice doing a tiny, embarrassing squeak before he cleared his throat. "Um. Hi. I'm... I saw your living room light on from under the door, and I—I really hope I'm not disturbing you, I can totally just go back across the hall—"

"Peter, it's two in the morning," you interrupted gently, taking in the way he was vibrating with nervous energy. "What are you doing?"

"Right. Yeah. Sorry," he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck with a wet hand, leaving his curls even more chaotic. "I just... I brought back your Tupperware. Wash—washed it. In the sink. With soap. TWICE."

He held up the plastic container like a peace offering. It was spotless, stacked neatly inside a plastic bodega bag alongside a slightly squished paper sack.

"You knocked on my door at two AM to return a plastic bowl?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Peter flushed, his cheeks going bright red despite how cold he looked. "No! Well, yes, but—okay, no. I also got those little cinnamon pastries from the bakery down on 4th? The ones you said you liked when we were talking by the mailboxes last week? I was... working late near there. And I thought, y'know, if you were awake..."

He trailed off, looking so ridiculously earnest and completely exhausted that any annoyance you could have had evaporated instantly. But as he tried to shift his bag, he accidentally bumped his elbow against your doorframe.

In a classic Peter move, he panicked, tried to catch the paper sack, lost his balance, and somehow managed to trip over his own wet shoelaces—pinwheeling his arms in slow motion before catching himself with one hand on your entryway wall.

He froze, face-to-face with you, his wide brown eyes practically dinner plates.

"...I meant to do that," Peter squeaked softly. "It was... a tactical entry."

You stared at him for three full seconds before breaking into a laugh, leaning against the open door. "A tactical entry, Parker?"

"Yeah. Extremely stealthy," he muttered, slowly standing up straight and tucking his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, his face burning a shade of red that put stoplights to shame. "Anyway. Cinnamon pastries?"

You let out a soft sigh, swinging the door wide open. "Get in here, dork. Before you trip into the hallway radiator."

Peter let out a breathy, relieved laugh as he stepped over the threshold, carefully kicking off his soaking wet sneakers.

"I'm really sorry," he murmured softly as you took the grocery bag from his hands and guided him toward the kitchen counter. "I didn't mean to burst in like a circus act."

"I told you," you said, reaching into the cupboard to pull out two mugs for hot chocolate. "It’s fine! You can come whenever."

Peter sat down on the high stool by your counter, his shoulders slumping as he finally let himself relax. As he set the box of cinnamon pastries between you two

And just like that, the 2:00 AM knock became a habit.

It didn't happen every night—some evenings Peter’s apartment across the hall stayed completely silent, the dark gap under his door giving away that he was either out late or finally getting a full eight hours of sleep. But whenever your living room light cast a soft yellow glow into the hallway past midnight, two quiet, rhythmically awkward taps would inevitably follow.

Tap-tap.

By week three, you stopped asking why he was up. You just unlocked the door, swung it open, and stepped aside to let the cool draft of night air and the scent of rain or city smog drift in behind him.

Peter’s routine was always the same: he’d kick off his scuffed sneakers by the mat, murmur a quiet, flustered "Hey, sorry if I'm late," and wander straight over to your kitchen counter like a giant, soft-hearted stray cat.

In return, your routine shifted to accommodate him. You bought the extra-large loaf of bread at the corner bodega instead of the small one. You kept a fresh jar of peanut butter in the pantry that was strictly reserved for his late-night sandwich craving, and you learned that if you handed him a mug of chamomile tea, he’d drink it without realizing it was meant to make him sleepy.

"You know," you said one Thursday around 1:45 AM, leaning against the counter while Peter sat on the high stool, aggressively spreading peanut butter onto a slice of toast, "most neighbors just exchange polite nods by the trash chute."

Peter paused mid-swipe, the butter knife hovering in the air as his dark brown eyes snapped up to yours. A tiny smear of peanut butter had somehow already found its way onto his thumb.

"I—I mean, we can do that!" he offered quickly, his voice doing that familiar, anxious little jump. "If this is too much! I can definitely be a trash-chute-only guy. I just... you had the good tea, and my apartment smells like old radiator dust, but I can totally—"

"Peter," you laughed, reaching out to gently nudge his arm. "Relax. I like having you here."

Peter melted instantly, the nervous tension draining out of his shoulders so fast he practically deflated into his oversized sweatshirt. "Oh. Okay. Good. Because... yeah. I really like being here, too."

He took a bite of his toast, chewing thoughtfully while looking around your cozy, warm kitchen. Without fail, within twenty minutes of eating whatever food you put in front of him, the heavy fatigue Peter carried around all day would catch up to him.

By 2:15 AM, he was usually slumping sideways on your couch.

"I'm awake," Peter declared sleepily from under the fleece blanket you’d tossed over him, his eyes already heavy and half-lidded. "I'm just... testing the lumbar support."

"Right. Lumbar support," you hummed, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and turning the TV volume down to a quiet whisper. "You're free to go sleep in your actual bed across the hall, you know."

"Too far," he mumbled into the cushion, his voice thick with sleep. "Way too many steps..."

Within two minutes, his breathing evened out into a steady, quiet rhythm.

You sat there in the dim glow of the television, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His curly hair was a wild, unruly mess against your sofa pillows, and for the first time all day, his face looked completely smoothed of stress.

You reached out, gently tugging the edge of the blanket up over his shoulders. Peter made a soft, contented little hum in his sleep, turning his face slightly toward the warmth of your apartment, utterly unaware of how naturally he’d woven himself into your life—or how quickly you were falling for the boy across the hall.

It started with a tiny, ridiculous realization on a Tuesday night.

You were sitting on your couch, reading a book, when you caught yourself glancing over at the front door for the third time in ten minutes. The clock on the microwave read 1:48 AM. Your door was locked, chain slid into place, and you were literally sitting there waiting for those two awkward taps so you could get up and let him in.

You looked down at the brass lock, then at the empty space on the kitchen counter where you’d already set out his peanut butter and a fresh mug.

This is stupid, you thought, a small smile tugging at your lips.

You stood up, walked over to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, slid the chain back, and simply left the handle unlatched.

At 2:04 AM, the doorknob turned.

The door swung open just a few inches, revealing Peter standing in the dim hallway light. He had his hand raised, fingers curled into a knuckle, entirely frozen mid-knock. He stared at the slightly open door, then at you sitting on the couch, his brow furrowing in instant, high-alert confusion.

"Um," Peter stammered, stepping inside on tiptoe like he was walking through a minefield. He gently shut the door behind him, his wide brown eyes darting toward the lock. "Hey. So... your door was unlocked."

"I know," you said, not looking up from your book. "I unlocked it."

Peter blinked, hovering by the entryway rug with his sneakers half-unlaced. "Did... did the lock break? Because I can fix it! I have tools. Well, I have a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, but I can fix it right now so nobody sneaks in—"

"Peter," you laughed, finally setting your book down. "The door is unlocked for you."

He stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth staying slightly open. "For... me?"

"You come over every night," you pointed out, gesturing to the kitchen stool that had basically become his official seat. "You knock, I get up, I open the door, you apologize for being late, and then you eat my food. We can just skip the middle part."

Peter’s face went through a rapid series of expressions: utter bewilderment, intense fluster, and then a slow, deep flush of red that started at his neck and burned all the way to his forehead.

"I—you... you left your door unlocked... for me?" he repeated, his voice dropping an octave into pure, disbelieving awe.

"Unless you'd rather stand in the drafty hall and knock twice every single night," you teased.

Peter stood there for a long moment, looking at the unlocked door, then back at you. Something exceedingly soft and overwhelmed settled in his eyes. He swallowed hard, a breathless, beaming little smile slowly spreading across his face, bringing out those deep dimples.

"No," he murmured, his voice impossibly tender as he kicked off his shoes and walked over to the kitchen. "No, I... I really like the unlocked door.

[lomlmarvel]

Among Thieves (Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader)

Chapter 16: "The Call"

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

Word count: What begins as a late-night delivery of pizza and beer quickly becomes something neither you nor Bucky is ready to define. But as old feelings resurface and a cryptic phone call leads to a dangerous discovery, the two of you fall effortlessly back into familiar roles: partners, friends, and perhaps something quietly becoming more.

Summary: 3k

Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter

By the time you made it back home, the city had settled into its quieter rhythm.

Traffic still hummed below your apartment windows. Neon signs reflected off rain-darkened pavement. Somewhere down the block, a saxophone echoed between brick buildings.

Normally, after nights like tonight, you would've gone straight upstairs. Taken your heels off. Answered emails until two in the morning. Pretended you weren't thinking.

Instead, you drove another thirty minutes. You weren't entirely sure why. Maybe because the conversation had ended too soon. Maybe because you hadn't realized how much you'd missed simply talking to him.

Maybe because, after three years of carefully measured distance, you didn't want tonight to end yet.

You exited the car outside his building. Stared at the entrance for a long moment.

"This is ridiculous," you muttered to yourself. You climbed out anyway.

The elevator ride suddenly felt much longer than it should have. Outside his apartment, your finger hovered over the doorbell. You pressed it once. Immediately you wondered if this had been a terrible idea. 

Before you could convince yourself to leave, the door opened. 

Bucky blinked. "...Hey." 

The surprise on his face softened almost immediately into something warmer. "I wasn't expecting company."

You smiled. "I gathered."

His eyes lingered for just a second longer than they probably should have. "...This is a nice surprise."

He said it so naturally that he didn't seem to realize he'd admitted it out loud.

Your stomach did a tiny, inconvenient flip. "...Good."

He wore gray sweatpants and a white ribbed tank top, his dark hair slightly damp as though he'd showered not long ago.

Your eyes instinctively dropped. His left sleeve hung empty. His vibranium arm rested on a counter near the kitchen island.

For a split second, seeing him without it felt strangely intimate. Like you'd accidentally walked into a room you weren't supposed to see.

He noticed where your eyes had gone. "I take it off at home."

You looked back up quickly. "Sorry."

"What?"

"I wasn't trying to stare."

"I've been stared at for ninety years." His mouth lifted. "I'm getting pretty good at telling the difference."

You blinked. "There are different kinds?"

"Oh." He leaned casually against the doorway. "There's horrified." He held up one finger. "Curious." Another. "And then..." His eyebrow lifted. "...whatever that was."

Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No?"

"No." 

He smiled. "...Good."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I was hoping you weren't horrified."

Silence. Then his expression shifted. Concern. "Everything okay?"

You realized how strange this must look. Showing up unannounced. Late. At his apartment.

"Yeah." You laughed awkwardly. "Nothing's wrong."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

He waited. 

You rubbed the back of your neck. "I just..."

God, this sounded ridiculous now that you had to say it out loud. "I figured..."

He tilted his head.

"...you'd probably spend the rest of the night reading those packets."

He sighed. "I was."

"I brought beer." You lifted the paper bag. "And emergency pizza."

He stared. Then laughed. "You drove all the way to Brooklyn..." He looked from the pizza back to you. "...for me?"

The question came quietly. Almost surprised.

You shrugged. "I figured congressional paperwork looked lonely."

He smiled. "I think it was me you were worried about."

You tried to look innocent. "I plead the Fifth."

"So..." His grin widened. "...You were."

He stepped aside. "I don't think anyone's ever shown up at my apartment with pizza before."

"They should."

"They should." He agreed with you, "...Makes me feel popular."

You smiled. "Don't get used to it."

"No?"

"No. You'll start expecting visitors."

He tilted his head. "I was actually thinking...I could."

Your heart skipped.

"...Expect you."

Silence. Then— He cleared his throat. "...To bring pizza."

You laughed. "There it is."

"What?"

"The save."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mhm."

He gestured inside. "Come on."

His apartment surprised you. You'd expected less personality. Instead, it felt unmistakably Bucky. Simple. Clean. Warm.

Bookshelves lined one wall, packed tighter than seemed possible with history books, political biographies, philosophy texts, psychology, veterans' memoirs, and several novels with folded corners.

A record player sat beside the window. Three potted plants somehow managed to stay alive. The couch looked genuinely lived in.

He watched you quietly as you took everything in. The books. The records. The plants.

"...You're judging me."

You looked over. "I am not."

"You've been looking around for two minutes."

"I'm observing."

"Oh." He folded his arms. "We're still calling it that?"

You smiled. "I learned from the best."

He laughed. "I regret teaching you."

"No. You really don't."

"...No."

The kitchen looked like a crime scene. Folders. Congressional reports. Legal briefs. Handwritten notes. An open pizza box. Half a bottle of hot sauce. And somehow, pizza grease decorating at least four government documents.

Bucky followed your gaze. "I already know." He reached for the nearest folder. "I'm cleaning it."

"You've got marinara on federal paperwork."

"It builds character."

"It builds evidence."

He groaned. "I knew letting you in here was a mistake."

You laughed as you rescued one of the folders before another grease stain claimed it.

He moved beside you, hurriedly stacking papers into something resembling organized chaos. "I swear it wasn't like this earlier."

"Oh? So the paperwork attacked first?"

"It multiplied."

You looked around dramatically. "I've seen Hydra bases with better filing systems."

"Low blow."

"You walked right into it."

"I invited you in."

"You did."

"...I was hoping you'd be nicer."

You smiled sweetly. "You hoped wrong."

His shoulder bumped yours as he reached for another folder. Neither of you moved.

"You know..." He kept sorting papers. "...Most people pretend to be impressed when they come over."

"Should I compliment the marinara?"

"I was thinking the record collection."

"Oh." You nodded thoughtfully. "It is impressive."

His eyebrow lifted. "...Really?"

"No." You smiled. "The marinara's doing most of the work."

He laughed again. "You enjoy this."

"Making fun of you? Mhm." You looked up. "More than I probably should."

He looked at you. Really looked. "Good." 

The answer was almost too quick. Because… "I enjoy making you smile."

Silence. The room suddenly felt much smaller.

He blinked. Apparently just realizing he'd said that aloud. "That's..." He scratched the back of his neck. "Probably not something coworkers say."

Your smile softened. "Probably not." You looked back up from the document in your hand. “Good thing we've never been very good at being just coworkers."

Neither of you spoke. Neither corrected it. Because somewhere along the way, that had quietly become true.

A comfortable silence settled over the apartment as another hour quietly slipped away. Neither of you noticed. Somewhere along the way, the investigation had become secondary.

You sat cross-legged atop one of the barstools at the kitchen island while Bucky leaned against the opposite side of the counter, sleeves pushed to his forearms, another congressional report spread open between the two of you.

Empty beer bottles slowly collected beside highlighted pages.

Every few minutes one of you leaned closer. "What do you think about this?"

"He contradicts himself."

"No." You tapped another paragraph. "Look at the dates."

His eyes followed your finger. "...You're right."

"I know."

He looked up with a small grin. "You enjoy this a little too much."

"I earned it."

"You did."

Another page. Another note. Another quiet debate.

"This contract shouldn't exist."

"It shouldn't."

"...Unless." You reached across him, grabbing another report before he could. "Unless they rewrote the committee after the election."

Bucky paused. His eyes moved between the documents. Then back to you.

"...How'd you catch that?"

You shrugged. "I've spent too many years reading government paperwork."

"No." He shook his head. "You read people."

"What?"

"You don't just read reports." He tapped the folder lightly. "You read who's lying."

Heat crept into your cheeks. "I don't know about that."

"I do." He answered so matter-of-factly it almost caught you off guard. "I've watched you do it."

The compliment lingered between you longer than either of you expected.

You smiled down at the paperwork. "...Careful."

"What?"

"You keep complimenting me."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "I'm making an observation."

You laughed. "There he is."

"There who is?"

"Mr. Hotshot Barnes."

He groaned softly. "You’re still on about that?"

"Yes" You laughed again.

He found himself smiling simply because you were.

At some point he noticed you subtly shifting on the stool. Crossing your legs. Uncrossing them. Adjusting the fabric of your evening gown for what had to be the tenth time.

He glanced toward the clock. Then back to you. "...Hang on."

You looked up. "What?"

He disappeared down the hallway before you could ask another question.

A minute later he returned carrying a folded gray hoodie and a pair of navy sweatpants.

He held them out. "You look uncomfortable."

You blinked. "I—"

He looked at the dress. "I can't imagine that's any fun to sit in for three hours."

You looked down at yourself. The fitted gown suddenly felt much tighter now that he'd mentioned it.

"I don't exactly keep spare clothes in my car."

"I figured." He gave the bundle a small shake. "They're clean."

You smiled. "...You're lending me your clothes?"

"They'll survive."

"You realize these are going to swallow me."

He looked you over thoughtfully. A slow smile spread across his face. "...Probably."

You narrowed your eyes. "Was that the point?"

"No." A beat. "...Mostly."

You laughed. "I thought gentlemen weren't supposed to tease women."

"We're also supposed to make sure they're comfortable."

He answered it so naturally that neither of you realized how old-fashioned it sounded until after he'd finished.

He blinked. "That came out sounding older than I meant."

You smiled. "I kind of liked it."

His expression softened. "...Yeah?"

"Yeah." You took the clothes from his hands. Your fingers brushed briefly against his. "Thank you."

He nodded once. "My room's down the hall."

You paused. "...You're just going to trust me in there?"

He folded his arms. "I've seen you read my classified files."

“And?”

"I’m hoping you won’t snoop"

"I won’t."

Another one of those easy smiles. "I was hoping you'd say that."

You disappeared down the hallway.

The apartment suddenly became very quiet. Bucky found himself looking toward the closed bedroom door. He smiled to himself before shaking his head. Ridiculous.

In the 40s, he had invited girls into his apartment without thinking twice. One woman carrying pizza somehow made him nervous.

A few minutes later you stepped back into the kitchen. The sleeves of his hoodie disappeared past your hands. The sweatpants pooled around your ankles until you'd rolled them twice. You looked impossibly comfortable.

Bucky stared for half a second too long. 

"...Well." You looked down at yourself. 

"What?" He looked innocent. 

"I was right."

"About what?"

"They're too big." You laughed. "I warned you."

"No." He smiled. "I think they suit you."

Your heart stumbled. "You flirting again, Barnes?"

He rested both hands against the counter. This time, he didn't deny it. 

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...Maybe a little."

For a moment, neither of you looked away.

Then you smiled. "...Good."

Something warm settled quietly between the two of you. Not the nervous uncertainty that had followed his accidental flirting in Louisiana. This was different.

Bucky Barnes wasn't stumbling into old habits anymore. He was choosing them. And for the first time in a very long time, he found himself hoping they made one particular woman smile.

Outside, Brooklyn had fallen almost completely silent. Inside, it felt strangely peaceful. Then, Bucky’s phone vibrated across the countertop.

Unknown Number. The room went quiet. He frowned. Nobody with good news ever called this late.

He glanced at you once before answering. "Barnes."

Silence. Then, his expression changed. His voice softened.

"...Hello?" A familiar voice came through the speaker. "It's Mel."

Bucky straightened immediately. "Mel."

The surprise in his voice made you look up from the papers.

"Hi."

You quietly slid off the stool and wandered closer, careful not to interrupt.

"I'm glad you called."

Mel hesitated. "I know you're still...new to Washington. I wanted maybe..." She laughed awkwardly. "To network."

A smile tugged at the corner of Bucky's mouth. "Right. Network."

You folded your arms, already amused. Congressman Barnes. Terrible liar.

"So, uh," she asked gently, "how do you feel about your new job?"

Another pause.

He looked around his apartment. At the congressional reports. The cold pizza. The beer bottles. Then at you.

"Oh..." He sighed dramatically. "It’s great. I love it."

You snorted quietly. He shot you a look. You pretended to study one of the folders instead.

The conversation relaxed. 

Then Mel grew quiet again. "It's not ancient history, you know? I was in high school when the aliens came. And the Avengers.”

Bucky leaned against the counter. "High school, huh?" He paused, “I was like 90” 

This earned a laugh from Mel. You smiled too. 

"It's a bit strange. That it's all over now, isn't it?" Her voice softened. “I mean, the Avengers are gone. No one else is coming to save the day.” 

You watched Bucky's expression change. A long silence followed. The apartment felt suddenly smaller. Bucky looked toward the window overlooking Brooklyn.

"Maybe..." He spoke carefully. "we could be the people who are coming.”

You watched him as he said it. He wasn't trying to recruit her. He believed it.

"Mel." His voice became quieter. "Just come and testify against her."

Her voice was quiet too, “You really must not know my boss.”

"We'll protect you."

You saw it the instant everything shifted. Mel didn't answer. Not right away.

When she finally spoke, her voice sounded almost sad. "Can you?"

Bucky frowned. "What?"

"You say we'll protect you." Another pause. "Is that coming from the rookie congressman who hasn’t gotten a bill passed?"

His jaw tightened.

"Or..." The silence lingered. "...the Winter Soldier?"

The words landed like a punch. You saw him freeze. Not because she'd called him that. Because she was asking him something he'd spent years asking himself. Who are you now?

He swallowed. “Come on, Mel. Just give me something.” 

The room fell silent. Bucky closed his eyes for half a second. Mel didn't respond.

Instead, she asked something unexpected. "You can track my phone, can't you?"

Bucky blinked. "I..." He looked toward you instinctively. "...technically. But I don't do that. Not anymore."

The last two words carried decades of history. Not anymore.

Another silence. Then—

"Thank you, Congressman. Have a great night."

Click. The line went dead. The apartment became impossibly quiet.

Bucky slowly lowered the phone. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared at the dark screen as if the answer might somehow still be hiding there.

"I think..." His voice was barely above a whisper. "...I just lost her."

You watched him for a long moment. The Winter Soldier would've already been searching rooftops. Bucky simply looked defeated.

You stepped beside him. "No."

He looked over.

"You didn't."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"I know." You nodded toward the phone still resting in his hand. "Because you're thinking like you."

"...I'm always thinking like me."

"No." A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "You're thinking like Bucky Barnes."

He looked even more confused. "...Isn't that supposed to be a good thing?"

"It is." You laughed softly. "But Mel doesn't know Bucky Barnes." Another pause. "She knows Congressman Barnes. The Winter Soldier."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

You folded your arms. "Think about everything she actually said."

He replayed the conversation silently. Then shook his head. "I told her I don't track people anymore."

"I know."

"...So why tell me to track her phone?"

You smiled. "There you go."

"What?"

"You almost got there."

He frowned harder. "I hate when you do that."

"Do what?"

"The cryptic teacher thing."

You grinned. "It's fun."

"It isn't."

"It is."

He sighed dramatically. "You know..." He pointed toward you. "...you're impossible."

"And yet..." You shrugged innocently. "...you invited me in."

A reluctant smile appeared. "...Fair."

You reached over, gently tapping the phone in his hand. "Bucky."

His attention returned immediately.

"She didn't ask whether you could track her phone." You paused. "She told you..." Your smile softened. "...that you could."

The realization came slowly. Then all at once. 

His eyes widened. "...She wanted me to."

"Exactly."

"She couldn't ask directly."

"So she made sure you'd figure it out."

He looked down at the phone again. Then back at you. "...How do you always know what people mean?"

You smiled, "You know..." You laughed softly, shaking your head. "...you're lucky you're cute."

The words escaped before you had time to stop them.

Silence. Your own eyes widened. Did...Did I just say that?

Bucky stared. For exactly one heartbeat.

Then a slow grin spread across his face. "...Cute?"

You looked away immediately. "I meant—"

"Oh, no." His voice carried the faintest trace of old Brooklyn confidence. "I'm pretty sure I heard 'cute.'"

"I was talking about your personality."

"You've seen my personality."

"I have."

"And?"

You sighed dramatically. "...It's improving."

He laughed. "A minute ago I was cute."

"A minute ago you were confused." You tried to roll your eyes.

"I'm still confused."

"I know." You turned your attention back to a document you didn’t even know you still had. 

"You staying with cute?"

You looked back at him. His smile had become impossible to ignore.

You rolled your eyes. "Don't push your luck, Barnes."

He tilted his head. "So that's not a no."

You pointed toward the door to hide your own smile. "You're insufferable."

"And yet..." He reached for his keys. "...you still brought me pizza."

You couldn't help laughing. "You really are impossible."

"So I've been told." He slipped the phone into his pocket. His expression settled. Not into the Winter Soldier. Into Bucky. Confident. Certain.

He looked back at you. "Let's go save her."

You smiled. "There he is."

"What?"

"The guy she was hoping would figure it out."

He held the apartment door open for you without thinking. After you. The gesture was so automatic, so deeply ingrained, neither of you commented on it.

You smiled anyway as you stepped past him. Some habits, you thought, were worth keeping.

The door clicked shut behind you. Neither of you hesitated again.

Tags: @draincleaner0

[moulinrougemo]

amongst it all — # michael olise masterlist

michael olise x psychologist!reader

# synopsis: When rising football star Michael Olise suffers a devastating knee injury just at the beginning of the season, the club makes one petition. Along with rehabilitation, Michael must work with the club’s psychologist upon his return to action. The problem? They can’t stand each other. As months of working pushes them together, their mutual resentment gives way to understanding, blurring the lines between professionalism and the silly thing that comes after friendship; love.

# warnings: nsfw, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, arguments, alcohol, angst

# wc: 48.9k

— # chapters

introduction

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty one

twenty two

twenty three

twenty four

twenty five

twenty six

twenty seven

twenty eight

twenty nine

thirty

thirty one

epilogue

acknowledgements

@ moulinrougemo

[moulinrougemo]

epilogue — # the end

michael olise x psychologist!reader

— # amongst it all masterlist

# warnings: nsfw, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, arguments, alcohol, angst

# wc: 1,8k

# mia’s note: im literally about to log off stop. with extra love, mia.

s: When rising football star Michael Olise suffers a devastating knee injury just at the beginning of the season, the club makes one petition. Along with rehabilitation, Michael must work with the club's psychologist upon his return to action. The problem? They can't stand each other. As months of working pushes them together, their mutual resentment gives way to understanding, blurring the lines between professionalism and the silly thing that comes after friendship; love.

masterlist

one year later

If someone had asked Michael a year ago what love looked like, he honestly wouldn’t have been able to even respond. He would say that he didn’t really give a shit.

But now he did give a shit. Now he had it, and Ii looked remarkably ordinary.

It looked like standing barefoot in the kitchen at seven in the morning, trying to convince the coffee machine to work while Y/N wandered sleepily into the room wearing one of his hoodies.

Her hair was still slightly messy from sleep.

She’d stop beside him without saying a word, wrap both arms around his waist, and rest her forehead between his shoulder blades.

Michael would smile automatically. “Good morning.”

“Mhm.”

“You awake?”

“No.”

He’d reach behind himself, finding one of her hands and intertwining their fingers.

The coffee machine would beep triumphantly.

“There we go.”

She would steal the first sip from his mug before he’d even picked it up. He would watch her with feign disappointment.

“That was my coffee.”

She’d smile over the rim of the mug. “Oh, well.”

Leaving the apartment together had become its own little ritual. Michael always forgot something. Every single morning.

By the time they reached Säbener Straße, everyone had already accepted that Michael and Y/N arrived together.

Nobody commented anymore. Nobody stared. It had become another part of the morning.

They weren’t lousy. They didn’t hold hands at work, or even kiss. Because Michael wasn’t like that, and Y/N had grown to learn she wasn’t like that either.

They liked keeping that comfort and touch in the comfort of their home, it made them look up to going home so much more.

Some traditions never disappeared.

Michael still bought coffee. Every morning. Only now, he walked straight into Y/N’s office instead of waiting outside. Instead of even asking for permission.

He placed her cup on the desk before taking the chair opposite. “I think this one’s yours.”

She looked at the cups. “How can you tell?”

“I wrote your name on it.”

She picked it up. The side of the cup read ‘mine (apparently)’

She looked up. “Apparently?”

“You steal mine at least twice a week.”

She reached across the desk and stole another sip from his. “There.”

“Y/N.”

“I’m just making sure yours tastes alright.”

Lunch was somehow louder than it had been a year earlier.

Mostly because Jamal had discovered a new hobby, creating entirely unnecessary betting pools.

“I’m just saying,” he announced dramatically to the table, “someone around this club is definitely hiding a relationship.”

Raul didn’t even look up from his lunch. “You’ve been saying that for three months.”

“There he go. Do you ever shut up?”

Manuel frowned. “No, but he’s right.”

“I don’t know why you’re siding with him now, you weirdo.”

Michael exchanged a quick glance with Y/N. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

Jamal pointed his fork accusingly. “I’ve narrowed it down.”

Raul sighed. “Have you?”

“It’s either…” he counted dramatically on his fingers. “The nutritionist that wears the quarter zips.”

“No.”

“The academy analyst.”

“No.”

“Or one of the physios.”

“Yeah, and then Linda and Manuel are dating too.”

Linda, who had just sat down beside Raul, nearly choked on her water. Everyone looked toward her.

She coughed quickly. “Wrong pipe.”

Jamal nodded sympathetically. “It happens.”

Michael had to look away before he laughed. Jamal pointed triumphantly. “See? They know something.”

Raul calmly took another bite of his lunch. “I’m begging you to let this investigation go.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Yeah, you definitely never shut up.”

Manuel muttered under his breath. “I’m beginning to understand why detectives retire early.”

Jamal ignored him completely. “I’m telling you…” he leaned across the table. “…love is in the air.”

Linda quietly stared at her plate and Y/N caught her eye. But when she did, Linda looked away almost immediately.

Y/N blinked, and then very slowly, she looked toward Manuel. He was suddenly very interested in his pasta. And when Y/N looked back at Linda, she refused to meet her eyes.

A tiny smile tugged at Y/N’s lips.

The workday ended the way most of them did. Slowly.

Players drifted toward the parking lot in small groups, conversations carrying down the hallways long after training had finished. Staff packed laptops into bags, wished each other goodnight, and promised to finish reports “tomorrow,” knowing perfectly well they wouldn’t.

Y/N closed the final file on her desk and stretched her arms above her head. Michael looked up from the chair he’d inevitably claimed as his own.

“Done?”

“Finally.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

She smiled, slipping her laptop into her bag. “Ready?”

Michael stood, patting his pockets. “Hang on.”

She laughed immediately. “What did you forget?”

“My jacket.”

“You’ve been wearing it all day.”

“No,” he frowned. “I left it in the medical wing.”

She folded her arms. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“From me.”

“And Raul.”

“And yourself.”

They headed down the corridor together, shoulders brushing every few steps without either of them noticing anymore.

The building had quieted considerably.

Only a few lights remained on.

The medical wing was almost empty. Michael pushed open the door, immediately spotting his jacket hanging over the back of one of the treatment chairs.

“There. I told you.”

He pulled the jacket on, still smiling to himself. As they stepped back into the corridor, voices floated toward them from around the corner.

“Someone’s going to see.”

Linda.

Michael and Y/N looked at each other.

A second voice answered. “We’re the only ones left.”

Manuel.

Y/N tilted her head. “Were they—”

“I think they were.”

Curiosity won far quicker than either of them cared to admit.

Quietly, they edged toward the corner.

Michael peeked first. Then immediately looked back at Y/N with eyes slightly wider than before.

“You need to see this.”

She leaned around him.

And there they were. Linda stood with her back lightly against the wall, laughing into another kiss as Manuel cupped her face with one hand.

It wasn’t hurried. Or secretive. It looked practiced. Like this had been happening for quite a while.

Y/N blinked once. “Since when?”

Michael whispered back. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Before either of them could retreat, “What are you two doing?”

They both jumped.

Jamal. Of course it was Jamal. He stood in the middle of the corridor carrying a football under one arm and looking thoroughly confused.

Michael pointed frantically behind him. “Shh.”

“Why?”

“Just—”

Naturally, Jamal leaned around the corner. “What are we—”

He stopped. His mouth slowly fell open.

Manuel noticed first, and then Linda followed his gaze.

The second she saw the small audience that had somehow assembled, she buried her face against Manuel’s shoulder.

“Oh, no.”

Nobody spoke. Not for several glorious seconds.

Then another set of footsteps approached. Raul. He rounded the corner carrying a clipboard and a protein shake.

He looked at Michael, Y/N, Jamal, Linda, Manuel.

He blinked once. “No. I refuse.”

Jamal pointed dramatically at Manuel as though he’d just solved an international mystery.

“I KNEW IT!”

Manuel looked at him flatly. “No, you didn’t.”

“I ABSOLUTELY KNEW IT! I HAD A SYSTEM!”

Y/N was already laughing too hard to breathe properly.

Raul slowly looked toward the floor. “I should’ve studied accounting.”

Manuel looked at Linda. “I don’t care. I love you, my baby.”

She peeked up at him. “You’re so odd to me.”

“I like the toxicity.”

Jamal suddenly gasped.

“So…”

Everyone turned toward him cautiously.

“WHO kissed WHO first?”

Linda looked away as Manuel smiled to himself.

“Oh,” Jamal pointed dramatically. “IT WAS MANUEL.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You smiled.”

“I smile all the time.”

“So…” he paced slowly in front of Linda and Manuel with all the confidence in the world. “It started after physical therapy.”

“No.”

“Before Christmas.”

“No.”

“The coffee machine.”

“What?”

“The coffee machine brought you together.”

Linda laughed despite herself. “What are you talking about?”

Raul looked exhausted. “He gotta go.”

Jamal continued pacing. “You accidentally reached for the same coffee cup.”

“No.”

“Your hands touched.”

“No.”

“You looked into each other’s eyes.”

“No.”

“So I was wrong about the coffee machine,” Jamal admitted. “But I was right about love.”

Michael clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “You were, bro.”

The corridor filled with laughter. The kind that echoed off familiar walls and lingered long after the jokes had ended.

Eventually, they all began making their way toward the parking lot together.

Jamal, naturally, walked backwards in front of Linda and Manuel.

“So…”

“No.”

“Just one question.”

“No.”

“Did you hold hands first?”

“Jamal.”

“Who said ‘I love you’ first?”

“Jamal.”

“Was there a first kiss spreadsheet?”

“Jamal.”

“Okay, okay.”

A beat. “Hypothetically—”

“Jamal.”

Michael leaned over to Y/N. “They’re never going to know peace again.”

She smiled. “Neither did we.”

Ahead of them, Raul was pretending he had absolutely no connection to the group walking several feet behind him.

“I don’t know those people,” he muttered to himself.

Vincent, who had just stepped out of the building carrying his briefcase, watched the scene unfold.

Jamal was still interrogating Linda. Manuel had surrendered entirely. Raul looked ready to retire. Michael and Y/N walked quietly at the back, laughing to themselves with their hands brushing.

The evening air was cool as they reached the parking lot. The same parking lot where, a year earlier, two people had spent countless evenings inventing excuses to delay saying goodbye.

Now, there were no excuses. Only plans.

“What do you want for dinner?” Y/N asked.

Michael pretended to think. “You.”

She stared at him. “That was almost smooth.”

“Almost?”

“You ruined it.”

“How?”

“You answered too quickly.”

He tried again. “What do you want for dinner?”

She smiled. “That’s much better.”

He opened the passenger door for her.

She leaned up and kissed his cheek before getting in. “You’re learning.”

“I’ve had a good teacher.”

She smiled as she settled into her seat. Michael closed the door gently before walking around to the driver’s side.

As the engine started, Jamal’s voice echoed across the parking lot one last time.

“I’M STILL NOT CONVINCED ABOUT THE COFFEE MACHINE THEORY!”

Linda groaned. Manuel laughed. Raul kept walking.

Michael looked over at Y/N. She was already looking back at him. He reached across the center console and she took his hand without a second thought.

A year ago, they had believed love was something they had to search for. Something hidden in perfect timing, impossible choices, and the courage to say the right words.

They had been wrong. Love had been there all along.

In shared coffees. In familiar corridors. In quiet walks to the parking lot. In the people who had slowly become family.

And in the certainty that, no matter how ordinary tomorrow looked, they would be walking into it together.

The End.

—. # taglist

@kmaryb @dreamygirl19 @giabesito @auroramontrose @chbq2 @peoniepaww @whenlovesaround @strangegirlnamedbea @swalala7 @bellasssdiary @jasswil8 @hoddystark @random34674 @lipaluuu

[moulinrougemo]

trente — # what comes after

michael olise x psychologist!reader

— # amongst it all masterlist

# warnings: nsfw, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, arguments, alcohol, angst

# wc: 2,7k

# mia’s note: i’ll post the last of this in a few hours, okay? i’ve just been so busy!! i remember i wrote this while listening to earth angel by marvin berry. it’s so cute guys listen to it. it honestly does feel a bit weird to end this story because it literally took me MONTHS to write and i never even knew if id post it or not. if i choose the route i initially wrote then there’s only ONE chapter left. it makes me feel so incredibly happy that you guys like it, and it’s so bittersweet to be so close to the end like this! i hope michael and y/n stay in your hearts like they will forever stay in mine. with sooo much love, mia.

s: When rising football star Michael Olise suffers a devastating knee injury just at the beginning of the season, the club makes one petition. Along with rehabilitation, Michael must work with the club's psychologist upon his return to action. The problem? They can't stand each other. As months of working pushes them together, their mutual resentment gives way to understanding, blurring the lines between professionalism and the silly thing that comes after friendship; love.

masterlist

Michael barely slept.

Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself back in the reception area.

The envelope. The handshake. Congratulations.

By three in the morning, he’d given up trying.

He lay staring at the ceiling of his apartment, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside his window, wondering how something could hurt so much when nothing had actually happened.

She wasn’t gone yet. She was probably still asleep in her own apartment.

Probably planning her day. Probably making lists. Probably preparing to start the next chapter of the life she’d worked so hard to build.

The thought should have made him proud. Instead, it hollowed him out.

He could see what his mornings would look like without her.

No coffee waiting outside her office. No excuses to stop by the psychology wing. No quiet conversations after training. No familiar footsteps matching his pace toward the parking lot.

The routines that had slipped so naturally into his life would simply end.

He turned onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut.

He had spent months learning how to play through pain. Nobody had taught him how to live with this.

Y/N, on the other hand, slept more peacefully than she had in days.

When she arrived at the facility just after eight, there was an unfamiliar lightness in her chest.

The decision was made.

She greeted the receptionist with her usual smile. Stopped by Linda’s office to return a folder she’d borrowed. Made herself a coffee.

Everything felt normal in the warmest, most beautiful kind of way.

She smiled to herself.

Maybe that was how she’d known she’d made the right choice. Because nothing about today felt like the beginning of an ending.

It simply felt like another morning.

Michael arrived forty minutes later.

He spotted her almost immediately. She was standing near the coffee machine with Linda, laughing at something neither of them could quite finish saying before laughing again.

She looked happy.

His chest tightened. Maybe she’d always known what she wanted. Maybe he had only been the one struggling to let go.

He looked away before she could notice him.

The morning passed in scattered pieces. Every now and then, he’d catch sight of Y/N across the building.

Walking down a corridor with a stack of files. Talking to Raul outside the treatment rooms. Laughing when Jamal dramatically complained about having to complete another recovery session.

Each glimpse felt strangely precious. As though he were trying to memorize someone before they disappeared.

Just after lunch, he found himself outside Vincent’s office. His hand rested against the door before he knocked.

“Come in.”

Vincent looked up from the reports spread across his desk. “You alright?”

Michael closed the door behind him. “I… can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

He remained standing. Maybe because sitting down would make this conversation feel too real.

“I know she’s leaving.”

Vincent’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. “Who?”

Michael gave a tired smile. “You know who.”

Silence settled between them.

Vincent folded his hands together. “What makes you think that?”

“I saw the representative yesterday. The envelope. The congratulations. I just…” he swallowed. “…I wanted to ask if she’ll still be here after today.”

Vincent studied him for a long moment.

There was something almost heartbreaking about the way Michael asked. Because it was still in that quiet, shy natural Michael kind of way. Like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask that question but still did it cause he wanted to.

Instead of answering immediately, Vincent asked. “Why?”

Michael looked down at the floor.

Because he loved her. Because somewhere between rehabilitation exercises and bad coffee, she’d become home. Because every version of tomorrow he’d imagined had somehow included her in it.

“I have something I need to tell her.”

Vincent leaned back in his chair. “What is it you want to tell her?”

Michael closed his eyes. “Something… just something.”

Vincent didn’t look surprised. “Then you should tell her.”

Michael nodded once. “I know.” I should’ve done it sooner.”

“Perhaps,” Vincent smiled gently. “But sooner isn’t an option anymore.”

Michael let out a slow breath. “No. It isn’t.”

The afternoon drifted toward evening.

One by one, players left the training centre. Staff packed away laptops. The building gradually emptied until only the occasional voice echoed through the corridors.

Michael stood alone outside the changing rooms.

His heartbeat was impossibly loud.

He looked down at his watch. She usually finished around now. He knew that because he’d spent months unconsciously timing his own day around hers.

His phone buzzed.

jamal

where are you??

we’re ordering dinner

Michael stared at it for a second before typing back.

you guys go ahead

i’ll meet you another time

jamal

👀

He shook his head despite himself. Some things would never change.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Then he started walking toward the psychology wing.

Each step felt strangely calm. He didn’t think everything would work out. He’d finally accepted that it might not.

She might still leave. She might thank him kindly. She might tell him she’d never felt the same. She might walk away.

None of that mattered anymore. What mattered was that she knew.

He reached the end of the corridor. Her office door stood open, warm evening sunlight spilled across the wooden floor inside.

She was there. Standing by the window, carefully placing the last of her files back onto the shelf.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

He watched her for only a second. Then very gently knocked against the open door.

She turned.

The moment their eyes met, she smiled. The same small, familiar smile she’d given him a hundred times before.

“Hi.”

He smiled back. “Hi.”

Finally, Michael took a slow breath. “Do you have a minute?”

She looked at him curiously. “Always.”

He nodded. His heart hammered against his ribs.

He’d rehearsed this conversation all night. Every sentence. Every possibility.

Now he couldn’t remember a single word.

“I…” he laughed quietly at himself. “I’m going to need you to be patient with me.”

Her smile softened immediately. “I can do that.”

Michael looked down briefly before meeting her eyes again. “I don’t know how to say this properly.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do,” is voice trembled for the first time. “Because if I don’t say it now…” he shook his head. “…I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”

Y/N’s smile slowly faded.

The first words finally left his lips.

“I’ve spent the last week trying to convince myself that loving you meant helping you leave,” he swallowed. “I don’t think I believe that anymore.”

The room fell perfectly still.

Outside, somewhere far across the training grounds, the sprinklers hissed to life.

Neither of them heard them. Not really.

Because nothing beyond that office mattered anymore.

The room fell perfectly still. Y/N stood where she was, her fingers still resting against the edge of the bookshelf.

Michael looked at her like a man who had finally stopped running.

“I’ve spent the last week trying to convince myself that loving you meant helping you leave,” his voice was barely above a whisper. “I thought… if I really loved you…” he laughed quietly, shaking his head. “…then I had no right to ask you to stay.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She opened her mouth to speak, but he gently interrupted.

“Please. If I stop now… I don’t think I’ll ever finish.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

He took a slow breath. “I’ve replayed that conversation outside your office a hundred times. ‘Congratulations on the job.’ I told myself I was doing the right thing. I kept thinking…” his eyes drifted toward the window for a brief moment. “…if I make this easier for you, then maybe leaving won’t hurt so much.”

A sad smile crossed his face. “I didn’t realize…” his gaze returned to hers. “…the only person I was making it easier for was myself.”

Y/N frowned softly. “What do you mean?”

“Because if I never told you…” he swallowed. “…then I could always pretend I never had the chance.”

Silence.

“But I did have the chance. So many of them. The coffees. The walks. The evenings when we’d stand in the parking lot talking until one of us remembered we were supposed to go home,” a shaky breath escaped him. “I wasted every single one.”

“You didn’t waste them.”

“No?”

She shook her head slowly. “They mattered to me too.”

The words almost undid him. He closed his eyes for the briefest second before continuing. “Yesterday…” his voice caught. “I saw you. The representative. The envelope. The handshake.‘Congratulations,’” he looked down at the floor.

“I thought…” his laugh broke halfway through. “I thought that was it.”

Y/N’s expression changed instantly. “Oh…”

Michael nodded. “I spent all night convincing myself that the last thing you’d ever remember me saying was…” he smiled bitterly “‘Congratulations.’ I couldn’t…” he shook his head. “I couldn’t let that be the end.”

He looked back at her. His eyes were brighter now, though he wasn’t crying.

“So if you leave tomorrow…” he paused. “I’ll still tell you this,” another breath. “I love you.”

The words settled gently between them. No grand music. No dramatic interruption. Just three words that had been waiting months to be spoken.

“I don’t know exactly when it happened. I just know that somewhere between arguing with you every Tuesday…”

A tiny smile tugged at Y/N’s lips.

“…And pretending I only came to your office because I happened to be walking past…”

She laughed softly through the tears gathering in her eyes.

“…You became my favorite part of every day.”

His voice trembled. “I stopped measuring recovery by how quickly I could get back onto the pitch. I started measuring it by whether I could make it to your office before you’d finished your coffee.”

A tear finally escaped down Y/N’s cheek.

He took one hesitant step closer. “I know you’ve made your decision. I’m not asking you to change it. I’m not asking you to stay. I just…” his eyes searched hers. “…needed you to know that I love you. And that wherever you go, I’ll always be grateful that I met you.”

The office fell silent once more. Y/N didn’t speak immediately. She couldn’t.

Because for the past week she’d mourned a future that, somehow, had only existed inside her own fears.

A small, watery laugh escaped her.

Michael frowned. “What?”

She wiped quickly beneath one eye. “You idiot.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

She laughed again, the sound breaking around the tears she could no longer stop. “You beautiful, selfless idiot.”

He stared at her. Completely lost.

“You thought…” she shook her head in disbelief. “You really thought I accepted it.”

“I saw—”

“I know what you saw.”

She stepped toward her desk, opened the top drawer, and carefully pulled out a copy of the letter she’d kept for her records.

She walked back over and held it out.

Michael looked at it uncertainly. “What is…?”

“Read it.”

He lowered his eyes. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears.

The first few lines blurred before finally settling into focus.

After careful consideration…

His eyes moved further down the page.

…I have made the difficult decision to respectfully decline your generous offer…

He stopped breathing. He looked up so quickly she almost laughed again.

“You…” his voice barely worked. “You turned it down?”

She nodded. “This morning.”

He stared at her. “No.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have,” his expression wasn’t relieved. It was horrified. “You can’t do that because of me.”

She crossed the remaining distance between them. “Michael.”

“You’ve worked for this since you were nineteen.”

“I know.”

“You can’t give that up because—”

Y/N interrupted him. “I didn’t.”

He stopped.

She smiled sadly. “You still don’t understand.”

She took the letter from his hands and folded it carefully. “When I was nineteen…” she looked down at the familiar signature near the bottom of the page. “I thought success had one shape. One title. One destination. I thought that if I ever got offered that job…” she smiled faintly. “…I’d say yes before they even finished the sentence.”

She looked around her office. At the overflowing bookshelf. The plant Linda constantly reminded her to water. The footballs covered in academy players’ signatures. The whiteboard. The stack of handwritten thank-you notes tucked into a corner of her shelf.

Then, she looked back at him. “But nineteen year old me didn’t know this place. She didn’t know Vincent. She didn’t know Raul or Linda. Or Jamal and Manuel constantly interrupting my sessions because they ‘just had one quick question.’”

Michael smiled despite himself. A tiny one.

She stepped even closer. “She didn’t know the version of me that exists here,” her voice softened. “She didn’t know I’d wake up excited to come to work. She didn’t know that somewhere along the way… this stopped being the place that would help me reach my dream,” she smiled through fresh tears. “It became the dream.”

Michael’s throat tightened.

“And yes…” she reached for his hand. “…you are part of that,” she intertwined their fingers. “But you’re not the reason I stayed. I stayed because this…” she glanced around the room one last time. “…is the life I want,” her eyes found his again. “You are someone I love inside that life. You are not the life itself.”

For a moment Michael just looked at her. He’d spent days terrified that she had sacrificed everything for him.

Now he understood, she hadn’t chosen him over her dreams. She had realized he had become part of the dream she’d built.

Relief hit him so suddenly he laughed. A quiet, disbelieving laugh.

She laughed too. “I can’t believe we spent a week doing this.”

“I know.”

“I was miserable.”

“So was I.”

“You called me ‘Congratulations on the job.’”

“You called me ‘Nothing.’”

“I hated that.”

“I know.”

They smiled at each other. Neither could quite believe the conversation was over.

After a long moment, Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “So…”

She tilted her head. “So?”

“I had something else I wanted to ask.”

A smile spread slowly across her face. “I thought you might.”

His ears turned faintly pink. “I’ve imagined asking this approximately two hundred times.”

“Only two hundred?”

“I stopped counting.”

She laughed. He looked at her with the same tenderness he’d carried quietly for months.

“Can I kiss you?”

Her eyes softened. The question was so wonderfully, unmistakably Michael.

Always giving her the choice. Always making sure.

She nodded. “You can.”

He stepped forward carefully, as though afraid the moment might disappear if he moved too quickly.

One hand rose to cup her cheek. Warm and gentle. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, catching the tear she’d forgotten was still there.

“You’ve been crying,” he whispered.

“So have you.”

He smiled. “Fair.”

When their lips finally met, the kiss was impossibly soft. Tentative for only a heartbeat, then certain.

It wasn’t filled with urgency. It was filled with relief. Weeks of silence dissolved into something quiet and warm.

When they finally pulled apart, neither moved very far. Michael rested his forehead against hers again, laughing softly.

“I should’ve done that months ago.”

She smiled. “You did do it months ago. Many times. It just wasn’t like this.”

“I rehearsed that confession.”

“I know.”

His eyes widened. “You knew?”

She grinned. “You had approximately twelve different speeches written on your face every time I saw you.”

He groaned. “I was that obvious?”

“Painfully.”

He covered his face with one hand. “I’ve never been so embarrassed.”

She gently pulled his hand away. “I’ve never been so happy.”

Silence settled around them once more.

Outside, the last of the evening sunlight slipped behind the training grounds.

Y/N glanced toward the open office door.

Then back at him. “Walk me to the parking lot?”

He smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

They stepped into the corridor together. Michael instinctively began reaching for her hand.

Halfway there, he hesitated. A habit born from months of stopping himself.

Y/N noticed. Without a word, she closed the small distance herself and slipped her fingers between his.

He looked down at their joined hands.

She smiled. “See?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to stop anymore.”

He smiled so warmly it reached his eyes.

Together, they walked down the corridor that had once been filled with everything they were too afraid to say.

Tonight neither of them had anything left to hide.

—. # taglist

@kmaryb @dreamygirl19 @giabesito @auroramontrose @chbq2 @peoniepaww @whenlovesaround @strangegirlnamedbea @swalala7 @bellasssdiary @jasswil8 @hoddystark @random34674 @lipaluuu

[moulinrougemo]

vingt-huit — # easy to leave

michael olise x psychologist!reader

— # amongst it all masterlist

# warnings: nsfw, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, arguments, alcohol, angst

# wc: 2,2k

# mia’s note: what if i post all of the remaining chapters today… with sooo much love, mia.

s: When rising football star Michael Olise suffers a devastating knee injury just at the beginning of the season, the club makes one petition. Along with rehabilitation, Michael must work with the club's psychologist upon his return to action. The problem? They can't stand each other. As months of working pushes them together, their mutual resentment gives way to understanding, blurring the lines between professionalism and the silly thing that comes after friendship; love.

masterlist

Monday mornings had always followed the same rhythm.

The first players filtered into the facility while the sky was still deciding whether to become day. Someone was always late. Someone else was always carrying too many coffees. Music leaked faintly from changing rooms before training had even begun, interrupted every few minutes by laughter echoing through otherwise quiet corridors.

Nothing about this Monday was different. Michael parked his car in the same space he always did.

The training centre sat a short walk away, the familiar glass catching the pale morning light.

His feet moved before his thoughts did.

The route was automatic now. Past reception. Down the corridor. Turn left. Gym.

“Morning,” one of the physios nodded as Michael walked past.

“Morning.”

“You look awake for once.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

The physio laughed. Michael managed the smallest smile before continuing toward the changing rooms.

Routine. Everything was routine. Exactly the same. Exactly as it should be.

He finished changing and headed back into the corridor. Halfway to the gym his steps slowed. His eyes settled, almost instinctively, on the corridor leading toward the psychology offices.

Quiet and empty.

He stood there for barely a second before continuing.

Y/N arrived twenty minutes later. She smiled at reception, wished the security guard good morning, stopped briefly to thank one of the academy coaches for returning a notebook she’d accidentally left in a meeting room on Friday.

Everything looked exactly as it always had.

She unlocked her office, placed her bag beside her desk, and opened the blinds.

Morning sunlight spilled across the room.

The folder containing the offer remained inside her bag.

She left it there. Instead, she opened her laptop. Anything that required enough concentration to keep her thoughts occupied.

Someone knocked gently against the already open door.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Linda stepped inside carrying two coffees.

“I made yours.”

Y/N accepted it with a grateful smile. “You really don’t trust me to make my own anymore.”

“I trust you,” Linda sat opposite her desk. “I don’t trust you to remember.”

Y/N looked down at the cup. “Fair.”

They shared a quiet laugh.

For a few minutes they spoke only about work. But then, as Linda stood to leave, she hesitated. “The federation’s still giving you time?”

Y/N nodded. “Until tonight.”

Linda smiled gently. “I’m glad.”

Before Y/N could respond, Linda added. “I don’t want you to leave,” she paused. “I want you to choose without feeling rushed.”

Y/N smiled softly. “Thank you.”

After Linda disappeared down the corridor, silence settled once more.

She wrapped both hands around the coffee. It was still almost too hot to drink.

Without thinking, she glanced toward the doorway. The movement was so automatic she barely noticed herself doing it.

Normally, around this time, he would step in and lean against the frame without saying anything at all. Without knocking.

Occasionally he’d appear holding another coffee because he’d decided hers “looked depressing.” Also without knocking.

There was never a reason. He just stopped by. This time, however, the doorway remained empty.

She looked back at her screen. Read the same sentence three times. None of the words stayed in her head.

Training began. Whistles cut sharply through the cool morning air.

Inside the gym, Michael moved through rehabilitation drills with mechanical precision.

Raul watched quietly from across the room. “You’ve increased your pace.”

Michael looked up. “Too much?”

“No,” Raul frowned slightly. “Just wondering why you’re suddenly trying to finish everything five minutes early.”

Michael shrugged. “No reason.”

“Hm,” Raul wrote something down on his clipboard. “There usually is.”

The cafeteria buzzed with conversation, trays clattering softly against tables while players drifted between groups.

Michael collected his food and Jamal waved him over.

Conversation flowed easily around. Michael contributed where he could. Laughed once, shook his head at one particularly terrible joke.

From the outside nothing seemed unusual.

Until Jamal looked around the room. “Where’s Y/N?”

The question slipped out so casually no one thought twice about it.

Michael’s fork paused for the briefest moment.

Manuel shrugged. “Probably working.”

“Again?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Someone changed the subject and the conversation continued, but Michael finished eating without tasting any of it.

Two floors above them, Y/N sat alone at her desk. A container of pasta rested unopened beside her laptop.

She’d intended to eat. Instead, she found herself staring absently at a report she’d stopped reading several minutes earlier.

Her phone buzzed.

raul

lunch??

She stared at the message.

Usually, she’d answer. Usually, she’d walk downstairs.

Usually, she knew exactly who would already be sitting at that table.

Her thumbs hovered over the screen.

ive got paperwork to finish

maybe tomorrow

She hit send before she could change her mind.

By late afternoon, Michael had convinced himself he’d almost made it through the day.

No awkward conversations. No accidental run-ins. No reopening wounds that hadn’t had time to heal.

Maybe this was easier. Maybe distance really was kinder.

He wasn’t sure about that, because he did miss her a lot. He obviously wasn’t satisfied with having her only as his friend, but at least that way he had her.

He stepped out of the gym, towel slung over one shoulder, still toweling damp hair from his forehead as he walked.

His attention stayed fixed on the floor. He didn’t notice the figure approaching from the opposite direction until they were only a few steps apart.

Both of them stopped at the exact same time.

Y/N. A folder hugged lightly against her chest.

The corridor suddenly felt much narrower than it really was.

“Hi,” her voice was quiet. As though she wasn’t entirely sure whether she still had the right to greet him the way she used to.

Michael looked at her. “Hi.”

The silence that followed was unfamiliar.

The kind that only existed between two people who had once found conversation effortless.

She offered a small smile but it faded almost immediately.

“I should…” she gestured vaguely toward the offices. “I’ve got another report.”

He nodded. “So do I.”

He didn’t. She knew he didn’t.

Neither of them called the other out.

He wanted to ask how she was. If she’d eaten, if she was getting those headaches she got when she stared at the computer for too long.

“See you.”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

The hardest part wasn’t the argument anymore. It was pretending they no longer knew how to exist inside each other’s days.

Tuesday arrived no differently than Monday had. The same hurried footsteps echoing along polished corridors as staff filtered into meetings before the first team even stepped onto the training pitches.

Y/N buried herself in work. It was easier that way.

Every hour was scheduled before it had the chance to become empty. Recovery sessions with academy players. Meetings with the medical department. Reports that had sat unfinished for weeks suddenly became urgent enough to deserve her full attention.

If she kept moving, she didn’t have to think.

She was halfway through a discussion with one of the physiotherapists when Vincent appeared at the doorway.

“Have you got a minute?”

She looked up immediately. “Of course.”

The physio excused himself, offering Y/N an encouraging smile before slipping into the corridor.

Vincent waited until the door clicked shut and then he walked inside, but he didn’t sit this time. Instead, he remained standing near the window overlooking the training pitches.

“The federation called again this morning.”

Her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. “I thought they might.”

“They’re hoping for an answer soon. Are you alright?”

She nodded. “I know. I still haven’t decided.”

“I didn’t ask if you had. I asked if you’re alright.”

The question caught her off guard.

She laughed quietly. “I’ve become predictable.”

“No,” he smiled gently. “You’ve become quieter.”

Her eyes drifted toward the window. Players were beginning another drill outside, tiny figures moving across immaculate green grass.

“When I was nineteen…” she spoke so softly she almost sounded as though she were talking to herself. “…I wrote down a list.”

Vincent remained silent.

“Everything I wanted to accomplish before I turned thirty,” a faint smile touched her lips. “It was ridiculously ambitious.”

“I’m sure.”

“I wanted to work in elite football,” she counted absentmindedly on her fingers. “I wanted to travel. Eventually…” her smile grew smaller. “…I wrote that I wanted to work for the national programme.”

Vincent listened.

“I remember thinking…” she laughed once under her breath. “…if I could do that, I’d know I’d made it.”

“And now?”

She looked down at her hands. “Now I don’t know why it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would.”

Vincent followed her gaze toward the pitches. “Sometimes the dreams we have at nineteen belong to the person we were at nineteen.”

She frowned thoughtfully.

“And sometimes…” he continued. “…we spend so much time chasing them that we don’t notice we’ve built a life we never planned for, and it feels better than the one we used to want.”

Built a life. The phrase stayed with her through every session that afternoon.

She found herself looking around her office differently. The bookshelf she’d assembled herself. The small plant Linda insisted she kept forgetting to water. The whiteboard crowded with notes from players she’d worked with over the past two seasons. Crowded mostly with little doodles and notes from Michael himself.

Little pieces of a life she’d never expected to love.

Elsewhere in the building, Michael was finishing rehabilitation. Raul watched him complete the final set before making a note on his clipboard.

“You’re almost there.”

Michael straightened, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. “So I’ve heard.”

Raul studied him for a second. “You don’t sound excited.”

“I am.”

“You’ve said about six words all morning.”

“I’m conserving energy.”

Raul laughed. “For what?”

“I don’t know.”

Raul let the silence settle. Then he clapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Go shower. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Michael nodded before heading toward the changing rooms.

He’d almost reached the corner when someone’s voice drifted faintly through the open doorway of one of the nearby offices.

“Have you made a decision?”

Michael’s steps faltered. He hadn’t meant to listen, e certainly hadn’t meant to stop. But he did. Only for a second.

Y/N’s voice answered from somewhere inside the room. “Not yet.”

Quiet.

Tired.

There was another pause.

Michael couldn’t hear the other person’s response. He didn’t stay long enough to try. He continued walking before either of them noticed he was there.

Not yet. The words echoed strangely inside his chest. He wasn’t sure whether they brought relief or dread.

Later that afternoon, Y/N crossed the rehabilitation wing on her way back from a meeting. Inside, several players were finishing the last of their recovery work.

She had no intention of looking, but her eyes found him anyway.

Michael stood near one of the resistance machines while Jamal animatedly attempted to explain something involving an exercise band that had somehow snapped and hit Manuel across the shoulder.

She didn’t step inside, didn’t interrupt.

And by the time Michael glanced toward the doorway a moment later, she was already gone.

The training centre had almost emptied by the time Y/N finally shut her laptop.

Outside, the corridors had grown noticeably quieter.

Evening sunlight spilled through the long windows, painting warm streaks across the polished floors. She gathered her notebook, slipped the offer letter back into her bag.

The hallway looked empty, but it wasn’t.

She looked up and found Michael. He’d slowed at exactly the same moment she did.

Neither of them had expected this.

“Hi,” his voice was almost tentative.

She offered the smallest smile. “Hi.”

They stood only a few feet apart.

He noticed the tiredness beneath her eyes. She noticed he looked droopier than he usually did.

Neither mentioned it.

“I heard…” he began. But then stopped. “…Nothing.”

A tiny line formed between her brows. “You were going to ask me something.”

He looked down at the keys turning slowly between his fingers. “I shouldn’t.”

“Michael.”

He closed his hand around the keys. His knuckles whitened slightly.

“Have you decided?”

There it was. The question neither of them had been able to stop thinking about.

She looked down at her bag.

The folder rested inside it. Unsigned. Waiting.

“Not yet.”

He nodded once.

“So…” she searched his face. “…that’s it?”

His eyes lifted to hers. “What else should I say?”

She didn’t know. She only knew she wanted him to say something. Anything.

To tell her not to go.

Tell her this matters.

Tell her he’ll miss her.

Instead, she heard herself whisper. “Nothing.”

She hated the word the instant it left her mouth.

Michael held her gaze for another second. He looked as though he wanted to say something too.

His lips parted, hen closed again. “Goodnight.”

He stepped around her.

Y/N stood perfectly still. She listened to his footsteps grow quieter, to then disappear altogether.

Only after he was gone did she let out a slow breath.

He wasn’t asking her to stay. He wasn’t telling her she’d be making a mistake. He wasn’t giving her a reason to hesitate.

He was making it easy to leave. And that hurt far more than if he’d begged her not to.

Down the corridor, hidden just beyond the turn, Michael paused.

Tomorrow, one choice would change everything.

—. # taglist

@kmaryb @dreamygirl19 @giabesito @auroramontrose @chbq2 @peoniepaww @whenlovesaround @strangegirlnamedbea @swalala7 @bellasssdiary @jasswil8 @hoddystark @random34674

[meels7478]

bombshell

Harriet and Floss settle in for their nightly Love Island fix, only to discover that the villa is much closer to camp than they ever imagined.

882 words

au masterlist

The common room was unusually full for a Wednesday evening.

Someone had managed to claim the television before dinner, and by the time everyone drifted back with mugs of tea and bowls of cereal, the sofas had filled up surprisingly quickly. A few of the football boys had settled around the pool table, while others wandered in and out of the kitchen in search of dessert.

Harriet and I had far more important plans.

"Hurry up," Harriet whispered dramatically as I returned from making tea. "It's starting."

"I was gone for thirty seconds."

"Exactly. Thirty precious seconds."

I rolled my eyes, handing her a mug before dropping onto the sofa beside her. We'd somehow convinced Freya and Lily to join us, although neither of them seemed nearly as invested as we were.

The familiar Love Island theme music filled the room.

Harriet clapped her hands together.

"Oh, this is going to be good."

Across the room, Jordan looked over from the pool table.

"Please tell me we're not actually watching this."

Harriet didn't even glance up.

"We absolutely are."

"I've never understood the appeal."

"You don't have to understand it," I replied. "You just have to appreciate greatness."

Jordan looked horrified.

"It's people sitting around talking."

"Exactly."

"That's literally all they do."

"And yet here we are."

A few more football boys wandered over, drawn in more by curiosity than genuine interest. Anthony sat down in the armchair opposite, Bukayo claimed the floor with a cushion and Elliot appeared a minute later carrying what looked like enough popcorn to feed the entire squad.

"What have we walked into?" Bukayo asked.

Harriet looked at him as though he'd just insulted her family.

"Culture."

"It's reality TV."

"It's Love Island."

"Difference?"

"A massive one."

Anthony laughed quietly.

"I'm assuming you two watch every episode."

"Every single one," Harriet answered proudly.

"Without fail," I added.

The episode had barely started before questions began flying across the room.

"Who's she with?"

"Why's everyone booing him?"

"Hang on... weren't they together yesterday?"

Harriet paused the episode with a dramatic sigh.

"Right."

She pointed at the screen like a teacher preparing a lesson.

"We're starting from the beginning."

For the next ten minutes, the football boys received what was possibly the most passionate recap in television history. Harriet explained every couple, every argument and every betrayal with the seriousness of someone analysing match footage, while I occasionally interrupted to correct details she had conveniently left out.

"No, because you've skipped the entire Casa Amor situation."

"I'm getting there."

"You've missed vital context."

"There is too much context."

"There is never too much context."

Anthony sat back in his chair, watching us with an amused smile.

"You've both thought about this far too much."

"We've invested weeks of our lives," Harriet replied. "You can't expect us not to care."

Jordan looked genuinely baffled.

"I still don't understand why anyone would willingly watch people argue about who kissed who."

"Because it's entertaining."

"It's exhausting."

"It's brilliant."

Elliot, who had remained suspiciously quiet throughout the whole conversation, reached into the popcorn bowl.

"This is exactly why I don't tell people my brother went on it."

Harriet froze.

"So did I," I said at exactly the same time.

The room went silent.

Elliot looked up.

"What?"

I stared at him.

"...Your brother."

"Yeah?"

"Your brother."

He frowned.

"Will."

Harriet slowly turned towards me.

"No."

I looked back at her.

"No."

Elliot's confusion only deepened.

"What?"

"You mean..." Harriet began carefully, "...Will Anderson?"

"Yeah."

"The Will Anderson?"

He blinked.

"How many do you think there are?"

I felt my jaw drop.

"Oh my God."

Harriet grabbed my arm.

"Oh my God."

"The one with Uma?"

"THE one with Uma!"

Elliot burst out laughing.

"I knew that reaction was coming."

"You never told us!" Harriet exclaimed.

"You never asked."

"You are literally related to Will and Uma."

"I'm related to Will."

"Same difference."

"It is absolutely not the same difference."

Harriet was already pulling her phone out of her pocket.

"I need photographic evidence."

"I promise you," Elliot laughed, "he's still my brother whether you Google him or not."

Anthony looked between the three of us, completely lost.

"Am I missing something?"

"Yes," Harriet and I replied in perfect unison.

"Massively."

For the next fifteen minutes, Elliot reluctantly answered every question we could think of. What had it been like watching the show? Had he met Uma? Were the family group chats completely chaotic? Had Will always been like that? Every answer seemed to create three more questions.

"I've never seen anyone this excited," Anthony admitted quietly, leaning across towards me.

I smiled.

"You've just witnessed every girl's dream conversation."

"I'm beginning to understand."

By the end of the episode, the football boys were somehow discussing bombshells and recouplings as though they'd been watching all season, Jordan had confidently declared himself an expert despite understanding almost nothing, and Elliot had officially sworn never to mention his brother again.

As everyone eventually wandered upstairs for the night, Harriet looked across at me with complete satisfaction.

"Best episode yet."

I nodded.

"And it wasn't even because of the villa."

[meels7478]

finding routine

anthony gordon x england hockey player au

As camp settles into a comfortable routine, breakfasts, walks between sessions and quiet evenings in the common room begin turning strangers into genuine friends

2.1k words

au masterlist

7:30am

By the fourth morning, camp had already settled into a rhythm.

Breakfast was at half past seven. Training started at nine. Lunch was always busy, afternoons disappeared in a blur of meetings and recovery, and by the evening everyone somehow found themselves back in the common room before wandering upstairs to bed.

It had only been a few days, but it already felt normal.

I wandered into the dining hall with Harriet, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes as we joined the queue for breakfast. Around us, the room buzzed with the same familiar sounds it had every morning. Coffee machines hissed in the background, cutlery clinked against plates and conversations drifted between tables as people compared training schedules or complained about how sore they were.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to those Yo-Yo tests," Harriet said, stretching one shoulder before reaching for a plate. "My legs still hate me."

"You say that every year."

"Because every year they're awful."

"They're supposed to be."

"I know," she sighed dramatically. "I just don't have to like them."

We filled our plates in comfortable silence, adding far more fruit than either of us probably needed before making our way through the dining hall. Without really thinking about it, my eyes scanned the room for a familiar table.

"They're over there," Harriet said casually, nodding towards the windows.

I followed her gaze.

Bukayo was halfway through what looked like his second bowl of cereal, gesturing animatedly as he told a story I couldn't hear from across the room. Anthony sat beside him, listening with the same quiet smile I'd started noticing more often over the last couple of days. Morgan was shaking his head, clearly unconvinced by whatever Bukayo was saying.

It hadn't even crossed my mind to sit anywhere else.

"Morning," Bukayo called as we reached the table. "Perfect timing. Morgan's accusing me of making this whole story up."

Morgan looked at us expectantly.

"He says he once convinced his Year Six teacher he was allergic to cross-country."

"I never said allergic."

"You implied it."

"I implied I physically couldn't run."

"Which wasn't true."

"It felt true."

Harriet pulled out the chair beside him. "I'm with Morgan."

"Thank you," Morgan said.

Bukayo looked at me. "Floss?"

"I think you're both missing the important question."

"And what's that?"

"Did it work?"

A grin spread across his face.

"For one week."

Harriet let out a disappointed laugh.

"I've backed the wrong side."

"I told you," Bukayo said triumphantly.

I slid into the empty chair opposite Anthony, setting my mug on the table.

"You've started something now."

"I usually do."

Anthony looked up from his breakfast.

"I can believe that."

It caught me off guard.

Not because of what he'd said, but because he'd said it at all.

A few days ago, he probably wouldn't have joined the conversation. Now the comment came so naturally that nobody even paused to acknowledge it.

I smiled across the table.

"He's getting brave."

"I've spent enough time around you lot," Anthony replied, taking another bite of toast. "I figured I had to start defending myself."

Bukayo nodded approvingly.

"See? Character development."

"I think that's the first funny thing you've ever said," Harriet told Anthony.

"I'll take that."

The conversation rolled on as breakfast usually did, jumping from one completely unrelated topic to another. Before long we were debating which sport had the earliest starts, whether pineapple belonged on pizza and why the coffee machine only seemed to break whenever Jordan wanted one.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realised something.

None of us had chosen these seats.

Nobody had suggested sitting together.

At some point over the last few days, this had simply become our table.

8:15am

The walk from the dining hall to the training pitches had become almost as much a part of the routine as breakfast itself. Every morning, clusters of athletes spilled out onto the pathways at roughly the same time, coffee cups in hand, hoodies zipped up against the cool Staffordshire air. Some conversations lasted only a few minutes before teams split off in different directions, while others carried all the way to the changing rooms.

Our little group always seemed to end up together.

Nobody ever suggested it. It just happened.

Bukayo walked a few steps ahead with Harriet, passionately arguing that cereal should be eaten at any time of day, while Anthony and I followed behind at a more relaxed pace. The conversation drifted comfortably between us, never feeling like either of us had to fill the silence.

"My brothers would agree with him," I said, nodding towards Bukayo. "There was a phase where one of them ate Weetabix for dinner every night."

Anthony laughed. "How many brothers have you got again?"

"Four. Three older and one younger."

He looked at me with genuine sympathy.

"That explains a lot."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"I imagine you had to fight to get a word in."

"I still do."

He smiled. "I'm one of three."

"Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"That also explains a lot."

He frowned, amused.

"What does?"

"You're very patient."

"I don't know if my brothers would agree."

"I bet they would."

Before he had a chance to reply, Bukayo slowed his pace and looked back over his shoulder.

"Are you two coming, or have you started your own walking club back there?"

"We're coming," I called, laughing as Anthony shook his head.

"We're never going to hear the end of that, are we?"

"Definitely not."

Without either of us realising it, we'd already fallen into step again as we crossed the final stretch towards the training pitches. It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but it no longer felt as though we were making conversation because we happened to be in the same place.

It was simply becoming part of the day.

7:30pm

The common room had quickly become my favourite place to end the day. Nobody ever organised it, but after dinner everyone naturally drifted there, drawn in by the promise of comfortable sofas and nowhere else they needed to be. The television played quietly in the background, though hardly anyone seemed interested in it. A game of pool had claimed one corner of the room, someone was shuffling a deck of cards near the windows, and every few minutes laughter erupted from the kitchen as another group discovered whatever snacks had been left behind.

I had claimed the far end of one of the sofas, curled beneath a blanket with a novel resting open on my lap. I wasn't getting much reading done. Every time I reached the bottom of the page, another conversation nearby caught my attention, and before I knew it I'd forgotten everything I'd just read.

"You're definitely not on that chapter anymore."

I looked up to find Anthony standing beside the sofa, a bottle of water in one hand and the faintest smile on his face.

"What makes you say that?"

"You've turned the same page three times."

I glanced down at the book and laughed.

"I've been caught."

"I was wondering how long it'd take you to notice."

He nodded towards the empty armchair opposite me. When I gestured for him to sit, he dropped into it with a tired sigh, resting his elbows on the armrests as he looked around the room.

"It's weird how quickly this has become normal," he said after a moment.

"What has?"

"All of this." He motioned vaguely around the common room. "A week ago none of us knew each other. Now it feels like everyone ends up in here every night."

I smiled because I'd been thinking exactly the same thing.

"I know. It already feels strange imagining everyone eating separately."

Across the room, Jordan celebrated potting a ball on the pool table as though he'd just scored a ninety-third minute winner. Declan's groan carried across the room a second later, followed by at least three people telling Jordan to calm down.

Anthony shook his head.

"He celebrates everything."

"I've noticed."

"He celebrated finding a clean towel this morning."

I laughed.

"That sounds about right."

"He'll celebrate anything if there's an audience."

"I feel like Harriet's exactly the same."

He looked genuinely surprised.

"Really?"

"Oh, absolutely. She acts all sensible until there's any sort of competition, then she becomes unbearable."

"I'd pay to watch those two on opposite teams."

"They'd both claim the referee was against them."

We sat watching the latest disagreement unfold around the pool table, both of us trying not to laugh as Jordan attempted to explain why the black ball had somehow been in the wrong place.

After a few moments I closed my book properly and set it beside me.

"Right, I've got a question."

Anthony looked over.

"Go on."

"What's one thing people always assume about footballers that's completely wrong?"

He thought about it for a second before answering.

"That we're all obsessed with football all the time."

"You mean you're not?"

"I love it," he said, smiling, "but I don't go home and watch four matches every night."

"I don't know. I thought you all slept in full kit."

He laughed properly at that.

"Only on special occasions."

"I knew it."

"What about hockey players?" he asked. "What's the biggest misconception?"

I pretended to think.

"That we're sensible."

His eyebrows lifted.

"You're not convincing me otherwise."

"Exactly."

Before I could elaborate, Bukayo wandered over carrying an almost empty bowl of popcorn.

"There you are," he said, dropping onto the sofa beside me without waiting for an invitation. "Morgan's trying to convince everyone he could beat Harriet in a fitness test."

Anthony looked at me.

"He's brave."

"He's delusional," I replied.

Almost as if she'd heard her name, Harriet appeared from the kitchen balancing two mugs of hot chocolate. She handed one to me before settling into the space Bukayo had made beside me, immediately looking between the three of us.

"What have I missed?"

"Morgan thinks he's fitter than you."

She took a slow sip of her drink.

"That's adorable."

"I'm serious!" Morgan called from the other side of the room.

"No, you're not," Harriet shouted back. "You're just confident."

Laughter spread across the room as Morgan launched into an enthusiastic defence of himself, dragging half the football team into the argument. Before long everyone had an opinion, stories were flying across the room about the morning's training, somebody had produced a packet of biscuits from somewhere, and the conversation drifted from one ridiculous topic to another without ever really settling.

At some point I noticed my book was still sitting exactly where I'd left it.

I hadn't read another page all evening, and for once, I didn't mind in the slightest.

10:45pm

The corridor was noticeably quieter by the time everyone finally started calling it a night.

Doors opened and closed one after another as people peeled away in twos and threes, offering sleepy goodnights before disappearing into their rooms. Somewhere further down the hall someone was still laughing loudly enough that it echoed off the walls, quickly followed by a chorus of shushing that only made them laugh harder.

I had just escaped Harriet's room after what was supposed to have been a "quick chat" that somehow turned into nearly an hour when another door opened a few rooms down.

Anthony stepped out of Bukayo's room at the same time I pulled mine shut behind me.

He spotted me almost immediately.

"You survived?"

"Barely," I replied, smiling. "Harriet and Freya started debating whether cereal counts as soup."

He looked genuinely confused.

"...What?"

"Exactly."

He laughed, falling into step beside me as we headed down the corridor.

"I've just spent forty-five minutes listening to Bukayo explain why he thinks he'd win Love Island."

I turned to look at him.

"Please tell me nobody agreed."

"Not one person."

"I've suddenly got a lot more respect for Morgan."

"He was trying to convince him otherwise."

"Wasted effort."

We walked the rest of the way at an unhurried pace, the conversation drifting effortlessly from one ridiculous story to another. There was no awkwardness anymore and no pressure to keep talking. Every now and then one of us would remember something that had happened during the day, laugh about it for a minute or two, and then let the silence settle again.

We reached my room first.

"Well," I said, pulling my key card from my pocket, "I'll see you at breakfast."

"If Jordan hasn't already eaten everything."

"He'll definitely have eaten everything."

Anthony smiled.

"Night, Floss."

"Night, Anthony."

I stepped inside, waiting until I heard his footsteps continue down the corridor before closing the door behind me.

It had been a completely ordinary conversation.

For some reason, it was the one I'd smiled about the most all day.

[melogoated]

⌗ FILE 002 — DAMAGE CONTROL

the one the record masterlist

If you don’t tell your story,

someone else will finish writing it for you.

synopsis after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, Michael’s team hires you to manage the fallout. there’s only one problem though : your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.

warnings black!fem!reader, no use of y/n, publicist!reader, reader is kinda funny, Michael talks ! enemies-ish to lovers, mentions of paternity allegations, online harassment & media scrutiny.

wordcount I still dk

a/n I feel like the chapters are too long, what do you think ? Idk

JULY 25TH, 2026 — 13 : 50 PM

“THAT SCREENSHOT WAS POSTED THREE DAYS AFTER THE PHOTO.” Said someone from your team. You were starting to get pissed off. Everything blurred together, nothing was coordinated. Places, dates, people : every piece existed, but none of them fit together to create a credible timeline.

That’s what pissed you off the most.

Because you were good at that. That was your job.

You had solved messier stories than this.

But this one refused to make sense.

And you hated that.

“No it wasn’t.” Another voice immediately cut in. “It was reposted three days later. The original is older.”

“Can you prove it ?”

“I’m trying.”

You exhaled quietly through your nose.

The familiar scent of coffee, printer ink and whiteboard markers lingered in the room. Every wall seemed to disappear behind printed screenshots, articles, tweets and photographs taped side by side. Your office no longer looked like an office.

It looked like a crime scene. Your fingers tightened around the red marker resting in your hand. Everything was there.

Dates.

Names.

Screenshots.

Articles.

Interviews.

Photographs.

Yet none of it fit together.

You stared at the timeline spread across the oversized whiteboard.

2021 bled into 2022. Arrows connected dates that no longer made sense.

Red question marks covered the board.

New ones written hastily underneath. It looked messy. So messy.

And you hated messy.

Your job wasn’t just putting out fires. It was understanding them. Finding where they started. Following every spark before it became impossible to contain.

But this one…refused to cooperate.

Every answer uncovered another contradiction.

Every date created another question.

Every screenshot seemed to tell a different version of the same story.

You stepped closer to the board, your eyes scanning every inch of it again.

The dates.

The cities.

The names.

The photographs.

The tweets.

Nothing.

Your jaw tightened. “Find the original post,” you said without looking away from the board.

“Already on it.”

“Cross-check every repost.”

“Okay.”

“I want timestamps, not estimates.”

Chairs rolled backwards.

Keyboards clacked faster.

Someone picked up the phone.

Another disappeared out of the office with a laptop tucked under their arm.

Nobody questioned your instructions.

They never did.

You uncapped the red marker again.

Hesitated.

Then lowered it.

For the first time that afternoon… You didn’t know what to write. Your eyes wandered back across the board. Something was missing. Something was wrong.

Someone wasn’t telling the whole story.

You just didn’t know who.

“We’re missing something.”

Before you could say anything else, the knocking sound that erupted made you and everyone turn towards the door.

“Yeah ?”

The door opened almost immediately.

You didn’t look up.

“Give me two sec—”

Your words died halfway through the sentence.

Michael stood in the doorway.

One hand still resting on the handle.

A plain black hoodie sat comfortably over his shoulders, the hood pushed back, paired with loose dark trousers and clean white trainers. Nothing about him screamed professional footballer today. If anything, he still looked like someone trying very hard not to be recognised.

His gaze travelled across the room.

Slowly.

From the whiteboard.

To the stacks of printed articles.

To your team.

Then finally to you.

“Hi.”

“You’re early.”

He glanced briefly at the clock on the wall behind you before looking back at you.

“I know.”

You frowned.

“Is everything okay ?”

A small shrug.

“I didn’t want to be late twice.”

You weren’t expecting that from him. It wasn’t an apology. Not really. But it was probably the closest thing you were going to get.

“Well,” You cleared your throat, setting the marker down on the tray beneath the whiteboard. “Come in.”

He quietly closed the door behind him.

You watched him for a second.

The first time you’d met him, he’d walked into your office like someone who expected the room to adjust around him.

But today it was different.

Today he hesitated.

Barely.

But enough for you to notice.

His eyes drifted back to the whiteboard. His eyebrows knitted together almost instantly. It was like his own face stared back at him from nearly every corner of the board.

It was strange.

Seeing your life reduced to paper.

“What’s all this ?”

You followed his gaze.

“That’s you. Sit down.”

“Looks a bit dramatic.”

“Because it is.”

You uncapped your marker and pointed to the board.

“Walk me through it.”

“Through what ? The story ?”

“The timeline, Michael.”

MICHAEL STUDIES THE BOARD. That a was a weird thing to do. It felt wrong. Studying game strategy, that he could do. Concentrate on how to circle his opponents, that he could do. But this ? Study himself and a part of his life he wished happened differently, that was something else.

Football made sense.

There were rules.

Space.

Movement.

Cause and effect.

This didn’t. It felt like watching strangers explain his own life to him. And he didn’t particularly like it.

That made him stay silent for two minutes.

Then he pointed something out on you board.

“That’s wrong.”

The room went quiet. Your assistant looked up. So did you.

“So is that.”

He pointed again. “And that date.”

You slowly turned towards him.

“Excuse me ?”

“That picture wasn’t taken in March.”

“It wasn’t ?”

“No.”

“When ?”

“February.”

You stared at him for a second. Then erased the date. Hard enough for the squeak to make everyone look up.

“Okay.”

You wrote.

“February.”

You stepped back. “Anything else ?” you asked, looking back at him.

He scanned the board again.

“That article says we hadn’t spoken in April.”

You nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“Correct.”

“It’s not.”

Your marker froze.

“When did you speak ?”

“April.”

“How many times ?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know ?”

“A few.”

You sighed.

“Michael.”

“What ?”

“A few isn’t a timeline.”

YOUR BOARD WAS A MESS. But this time, you liked what you were looking at. It wasn’t perfect yet, but the timeline finally started to look like something coherent. Something believable.

You drew another line across the board.

“So…”

You looked back at him.

“Spain.”

He nodded.

“Spain.”

“In February.”

“Yeah.”

“And after Spain…” you checked your notes again.

“I got nothing.”

Michael frowned.

“What do you mean nothing ?”

“What ?”

“There was Milan.”

Silence. Your marker slowly lowered.

“There was what ?” Said your assistant, already closing her laptop.

You hopped for his own good that this was a joke.

“…Milan ?”

“Yeah.”

“When ?”

He only shrugged for what seemed to be the twelfth time today.

“Couple weeks later.”

Nobody said anything. Your assistant blinked. You blinked.

“So there was a whole trip to Milan ?”

Michael looked at him.

“Yeah.”

You closed your notebook. Very carefully.

“Why,” You smiled. The brightest smile ever.

“Why am I only hearing about Milan now ?”

“You didn’t ask.”

One of your coworkers physically turned away. Pretending not to witness whatever was about to happen.

You rubbed your temple.

“No.”

You inhaled.

“Michael.”

He looked at you.

“I shouldn’t have to know what questions to ask.”

He stayed silent.

“If we’re doing this…” You gestured toward the board. “I need everything.”

“I told you everything you wanted me to say.”

“No.” You shook your head. “You answered everything. Big difference.”

He wanted to shrug. He wanted to get smart with you so bad. But for whatever reason, the only thing that seemed to go up his lips were the word sorry.

An apology.

And he didn’t even know why.

Because that was the truth, you didn’t ask. Nobody did.

But of course he said nothing. However, what you saw was his shoulders going down a bit.

Just a bit.

And he saw it.

THE ROOM SETTLED AGAIN. You stepped away from the whiteboard, placing the red marker onto the tray with a quiet click.

“Okay.”

Everyone looked at you. You crossed your arms. “I think we have enough.”

Your assistant frowned.

“Enough for what ?”

“To stop chasing every rumour.”

You reached for a stack of printed articles and dropped them onto the conference table. “They’re doing our job for us.”

Michael looked up. “What do you mean ?” He quietly asked.

You flipped through the articles.

“Every headline is trying to answer the same question.”

You held one up.

“IS MICHAEL OLISE HIDING A SECRET ?”

Another.

“THE TIMELINE DOESN’T ADD UP.”

Another.

“WHAT REALLY HAPPENED ?”

You placed them back down.

“They’re building a narrative.”

Everyone stayed silent, waiting for you to continue.

“So are we.”

Michael watched you. You walked back toward the board.

With one swipe of your hand, you circled three screenshots. “We ignore these.”

One of your colleagues raised an eyebrow.

“They have almost three million views.”

“I know.”

“Shouldn’t we respond ?”

“No.”

“Why ?”

“Because they’re emotional. We’re rational.”

The room got quiet again.

You picked up another article.

“This.”

You pinned it back onto the board.

“We prepare for.”

Michael frowned.

“Why ?”

You looked at him.

“The internet gets bored.” You pointed at the screenshots. “People react.”

Then you tapped the article.

“Journalists investigate.”

You made a pause.

“One disappears in twenty-four hours.”

Another pause.

“The other follows you for months.”

You uncapped the marker again.

“This interview.”

Circle.

“If they ask about it,”

Another circle.

“you answer.”

“This picture ?”

Circle.

“You don’t bring it up unless they do.”

“What about the comments ?” Michael asked.

You didn’t even look at him. “We don’t fight comments.”

“You just leave them ?”

“We outlive them.” You finally turned around. “The goal isn’t convincing everyone you’re innocent.”

You let the sentence settle.

“It’s making sure the people who matter still trust you.”

And for the first time since he’d walked in, Michael didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t shrug.

He simply watched.

You noticed.

Not because he said anything.

Because he had stopped looking at the board. He was looking at you. Not with suspicion. Not with annoyance.

With curiosity.

As though he was trying to understand how your brain worked. You turned back to the board before your thoughts lingered too long.

You capped the marker, crossing the room to make your way towards him.

Since he was sitting, you got yourself down to his level : eye to eye.

“Listen to me carefully.”

Michael looked at you.

“From this point forward,”

You held his gaze.

“You do exactly what I tell you to do.”

He stayed silent.

“You speak when I tell you to speak.”

“You stay quiet when I tell you to stay quiet.”

“You don’t post.”

“You don’t delete anything.”

“You don’t like.”

“You don’t repost.”

“You don’t reply.”

“If you even think about opening your Notes app to write a statement,”

You make a pause.

“You call me first.”

Michael stared at you.

“Seriously ?”

“Dead serious.”

“And if I don’t ?”

There he was again. Testing you.

“Then you’re on your own.”

You were so bossy. This was new. For now Michael didn’t know if he liked it or if he was simply intrigued by you.

Everyone stayed silent again. For a second, neither of you moved. Then you finally stepped back, giving him enough room to stand.

Michael was ready to push himself to his feet.

He expected the meeting to be over.

Instead, nobody moved.

Your assistant was already gathering the scattered papers across the conference table. Another colleague quietly peeled screenshots off the whiteboard.

Someone uncapped a fresh marker.

Like this wasn’t over.

Like this was only the beginning.

Michael frowned slightly.

“Do you ever go home ?”

Nobody answered. But your assistant looked up first.

Then at you. “Coffee ?”

You didn’t even look away from the board.

“No.” You answered Michael’s question while nodding to your assistant.

“You’ve had,” she checked her watch, “five already.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re—”

“I’m fine.”

She sighed.

“She’s not.” The other woman whispered. Michael’s eyes shifted toward her.

The room stayed oddly quiet.

Like everyone had heard this conversation before.

Another coworker walked past carrying two folders.

“She slept here Tuesday.”

Your head snapped up.

“I absolutely did not.”

“You literally did.”

“I took a nap.”

“For three hours.”

“That’s called sleeping.”

“I was working.”

“You were unconscious.”

A third voice joined in from somewhere near the printer.

“We had to put a blanket on you.”

Michael blinked.

“A blanket is mad.” He whispered.

“I hate all of you.” You laughed quietly. Someone slid a fresh coffee onto your desk anyway. Without asking. Without saying a word. You reached for it automatically.

“Thanks.”

Michael watched the exchange in silence. Nobody treated you like their boss just then. They treated you almost like family. People who had watched you work yourself into the ground often enough to know exactly when you were reaching your limit.

“Are you all staging an intervention ?” You asked when handed a water bottle.

“In the nicest way possible.”

“Rude...” you rolled your eyes.

Michael found himself watching the interaction a second longer than he meant to.

They looked after you.

The same way you had spent the last two hours looking after him.

You clapped your hands once.

“Right.”

The room immediately looked back at you.

“Before we call it a day.”

Your eyes landed on Michael.

“One last thing.”

His stomach sank.

“What ?”

You ignored him. “Stand up.”

Michael frowned. What was this about ?

“Why ?”

“Stand up.”

He didn’t move. You raised an eyebrow.

“Please.”

A beat.

Then he reluctantly pushed himself to his feet.

You grabbed a pen from the conference table, holding it up like a microphone.

“Congratulations.”

Michael stared at you.

“You’ve just scored the winning goal.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve walked out of the stadium.”

“Okay.”

“A journalist stops you.”

You held the pen a little closer. “‘Michael, there’s been a lot of speculation surrounding your personal life. Do you have anything you’d like to say ?’”

You smiled politely.

“Go.”

Silence.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Your assistant discreetly started the timer on her phone.

“No.”

You blinked.

“No ?”

Michael nodded once. “No.”

You looked around the room. “Did he just say no ?”

One of your coworkers glanced at the timer.

“Nineteen seconds.”

“Nineteen ? That’s a shame.”

“It took him nineteen seconds.”

You slowly looked back at Michael. “It took you nineteen seconds to say one word.”

He frowned. He did exactly what you’ve told him, and it still wasn’t enough ? “You said answer. I did.”

“I said answer.”

“That was an answer.”

“No.”

“It literally was.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Again.”

Michael sighed.

You held the imaginary microphone up once more.

“‘Michael, have the allegations affected your performances on the pitch ?’”

He answered immediately this time.

“No.”

A beat. Again.

“Expand.”

“They haven’t.”

“Expand.”

“They haven’t affected my performances.”

“Michael.”

“What ?” He almost looked like this was amusing.

“You’re speaking like every word costs you money.”

A quiet snort came from somewhere behind you.

Michael shot the culprit a look. “I answered.”

“Barely.”

Another pause. You looked at him for a long second. “Have you ever had media training ?”

He shrugged.

“They wanted me to.”

“Who ?”

“Crystal Palace.”

“And ?”

“I didn’t go.”

“You skipped it ?”

“I didn’t think I needed it. I handle myself pretty good.”

The room fell silent. Your assistant slowly lowered her laptop. One coworker physically leaned back in his chair. You simply stared at Michael.

“Right.”

You reached for your planner.

Michael frowned.

“What are you doing ?”

You flipped through a few pages.

“Monday.”

“What about Monday ?”

“Ten a.m.”

“Why ?”

You looked up. “Because apparently,” you shut the planner with a quiet snap. “We’re starting from the beginning.”

Michael already didn’t like where this was going.

“What beginning ?”

You smiled. “Media training. I’ll train you.”

“No.”

“Monday.”

“I’m not doing media training.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not.”

You scribbled something onto the page anyway. “See you Monday, Michael.”

“I said I’m not coming.”

You finally looked back at him. For the first time that afternoon you smiled.

A real one.

“Don’t be late, Michael.”

GO BACK TO FILE 001 — FILE 003 PENDING

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