Your music blaring throughout the surround system in the house as you’re getting ready to go out with your homegirls. A night you needed since being back home. One weekend out of every month, your parents have always planned a getaway with each other, to keep the love alive through the years, so this weekend was your chance to unwind and let loose. Finishing up the last steps of your makeup routine, you sing along to the music checking yourself in the mirror. Hair slicked into a simple high ponytail, short, body con black dress along with your favorite jewelry pieces & heels. Wine glass in hand as you sip to get a head start before the club because you’re definitely not spending boohoo amounts of money on watered down shots. Feeling yourself a bit you take a few cute pictures in your bathroom mirror before leaving your phone and walking down to get more wine. Not hearing your phone of course, your parents call you a few times just to check on you, but because of no answer to calls or texts, your father asks Michael if he could just check the house to make sure you were okay. Michael’s home was only around the corner so it would’ve took him no time getting to you. After filling your glass back up you started dancing your way out the kitchen through to the living room & just a few moments later, the door bell rings and it catches you off guard. Jumping slightly to the sound, you grab the remote to the surround sound system and manually turn the music down just enough. You walk to the door opening it to find Michael standing there. You immediately tense up.
“ Oh . Uh hi Michael, what’s up ? “
“Hi babygirl.. your uh parents wanted me to check on you since you haven’t responded to their texts and calls. I can see why now . “ he says as he scans in the house quickly before shifting his eyes up and down your body.
“Oh shit, my phone is upstairs, I didn’t even hear it go off but um, I’m just fine. “
“Going out ? “
“ I am .. “
“ In .. that ? “ Michael says as he tilts his head, looking you slowly up and down until his eyes meet with yours. Biting the inside of your cheek you quickly respond.
“Yep. Can I help you with anything else Mike?“ you say sharply as he he tightens up a bit, raising his eyebrow at the sudden attitude. He steps closer, almost stepping in the house.
“What’s with all that, have I done something to you ? “
YES. You’ve captivated my mind. All I can think and dream about is you being back in my bed. Tussling in the sheets. Holding me, kissing me… licking me and stuffing me until I can no longer breathe. You thought to yourself. Not being able to come up with the words at the moment you just look up at him as he inches himself closer, making you back up into the house, fully letting him in now. He shuts the door behind him, music still playing. Without even looking he locks the door.
“ Michael please, I’m getting ready to leave. “ you say as you sip your wine, setting it down on the side table. Clicking your heels towards the stairs, he holds your hand, stopping you in your tracks. Sliding his thumb up over your knuckles. Sending you chills at his touch alone.
“You didn’t answer me. What have I done ? “ he asked with concern in his voice, low, raspy. So sexy hearing him this way.
You gulp and shut your eyes as you turn around looking down at him from the first step.
“You’re overstaying your welcome. You’ve checked on me you can go now. “
“ Princess I’m no- “
“ STOP! Just stop Michael. You know what you’re doing. You know I have a boyfriend and this ..“ you say waving your finger between the two of you . “Isn’t going to happen. Not again. “
“Is that right? You love that punk that much ? “
“No just.. “
“Just what babygirl “ he says inching closer to you, traveling his hands up your waist.
“We could never be, Mikey, whatever this is, can NEVER be… and that pains me. “ you say as your eyes start to get watery but you hurried and let his grip go, walking upstairs, sniffing to not cry and mess up your makeup. Before making your way to the top of the stairs, Michael blurts out
“Y/n you’re mine. “ that sentence stopped you dead in your tracks, still not facing him, he starts to make his way up to you.
“ I’ve thought about that night everyday since you left. Not just because of the night we’ve shared but because it was all with you “ he says inching closer and closer to you.
“Stop..“ you whisper more to yourself than out loud.
“ You’ve captivated my mind. And seeing you with that lame of a “ boyfriend “ only made the blood in my veins boil because I meant it when I said you were mine. And I believed you when you said I was yours. “
You turn around to meet him face to face with yours although his height makes him tower you as you look up, lips now inches from one another.
“But I’m not yours “ you say furrowing your eyebrows, not even believing the words that just fell off your lips. Laying his hands on the small of your back, and pulling you close to him so you couldn’t get away this time, he holds you close.
“ I dare you to say that again. “
Looking him deep into his eyes, the thought ran across your mind, just to see where it’d take you. Starting to get wet at the thought of him taking you to ecstasy again, you slick smirked, spreading your lips to say it again.
“ I’m not your- “
Michael takes his freehand, pulling your ponytail down just a little so your lips fell open, instantly crashing his into yours. Hungrily kissing, tongues swapping spit, moans escaping into each other’s mouths. He lifts you up and walks you down the hall to your bedroom, lit up and covered with failed outfits laid out on the bed and floor. Running your fingers through his hair you slide them down to his shirt, lifting up from the middle of his torso and locking your legs around his hips so he can lift his arms, sliding his shirt up and over his head, immediately crashing his lips back into yours. He brings his hands back down to your ass, gripping it hard, making you squeal, shutting your eyes. He sits on your bed, having you on top, still going at it until you pull back from him, easing off his lap, going for your heels but he groans making you looking up at him
“Uh uh.. leave them on “ he says panting, palming himself through his pants, lowkey grinding into himself.
Licking and biting your lip, you go for the thin straps on your dress and slide them off, dragging the dress down slowly until it pooled at your feet, leaving you with your boobs out and in a thin lace thong. Curves shimmering in the body glitter you had put on yourself while getting ready. Waving his finger at you he says “ come here princess.“ you walk over but to his surprise, you slowly drop to your knees never taking your eyes off him, licking his lips he asked “what are you doing?“
“Showing you that I meant you were mine” you say as you unbuttoned his pants, sliding his zipper down and then shimming his pants off as he lifts up to help you. His dick standing straight up in his boxers, flinging out, almost hitting your chin as you were close to him. You take the created hole in his boxers and push it down over his dick, pulling it out and actually seeing it for the first time. Long, girthy and so fucking pretty. After admiring for a minute you look up at him, making sure your big doe eyes met with his. Gathering all the saliva that automatically increased in your mouth you spit slowly onto him and started to stroke him along with the precum that glistened on the tip. Throwing his head back, he starts groaning, biting his lip as you continue to hand work him, tightening your grip up and down his shaft then circling every time you got to the tip. “Fuck babygirl. Keep doing me like that.” Hearing him loving how you were you doing him made you wetter, sliding your fingers over your covered clit, you began to rub slowly. Picking up the pace a little, you brought your lips close, rubbing his tip across your lips before puckering and slipping him between your lips which made his hips jerk into you. “Aw shit! “ he says looking down at you licking and biting his bottom lip. “You look so fucking sexy like this .” He whimpers, making you moan and hum directly on him, speeding up again. Rubbing your clit faster, you start to jerk yourself into satisfaction. Catching you in your act, he starts to eye you. Groaning he takes his dick, and pushes it down out your mouth, releasing a ‘ pop ‘ sound. You open yours eyes looking up at him confused when he says. “ I need my pretty flower spread across my face. Come ride my tongue baby “ as he takes your hand leading you up to his mouth but not before kissing you. Laying flat on his back, you move your panties to the side and creep up to his lips, sitting gently on his face. Him looking up at you from between your thighs, he takes his big hands on your ass and pulls you down so you’re fully engulfing him, flattening out his tongue and making you ride his tongue. Juices instantly start to flow from you as you throw your head back, moaning at his warm tongue, swirling and flicking getting both your clit and your entrance. Riding out this feeling you start to hear your phone ring, not knowing if it’s your homegirls or your parents you let it ring, not giving a fuck who it could be, truthfully.
“Don’t even think about getting up princess” he says lifting you a bit “ I desperately needed a taste . “ he says slamming you back down, making you ride his face harder. Going completely crazy at the feeling he’s giving you, you decided to give it right back. Reaching your hand back, gripping him in your hand & jerking him off, getting him even harder. Both moaning and groaning to the sensation you were giving each other. You yelled out “ oh Mikey, I feel it coming, I’m gonna cum “
“Not yet baby . “ he says lifting you, placing you directly over his dick. You get the memo and adjust yourself to fully take him in. Planting your heeled feet on the bed beside him, you grip his dick while looking at him, sliding his dick over your wet folds and clit. Teasing. Driving him crazy. He takes his hand and smacks your ass making you scream out.
“Sit baby “ he says.
You listen as you line him up perfectly, slowing sliding down, taking him all. Wincing at his size but being fully turned on at how you missed the feeling of him inside of you. Your eyes instantly start to tear up at the pleasure. Concerned, Michael grabs your face and leans you close to him.
“Am I hurting you princess “
“No, you feel amazing baby, I just missed him “ you moan.
He smiles as he wipes the tears from your eyes, leaning up you closer to make out as he angles himself to pump in and out of you. You instantly start to moan. Slamming him down by his chest, you dig your nails into him but not too rough. Placing his hands on your hips as you hold your position, he picks up his pace, repeatedly slamming into you from below, biting his lip at the sight. Your legs begin to give out and when it starts to show, he holds you from under your thighs a little longer before slowly stopping, tapping your legs so you can straddle him again. Holding you in a tight embrace, with his hands snaking up your back, he grips onto your shoulders, repeatedly slamming back into you. Then slows to deep, hard strokes, with your face in the crook of his neck. Both of you moaning in each other’s ears.
“Shit Mikey! Why you doing me like this baby? “ you whined. Your pussy pulsing from the pleasure you were receiving.
“ That mouth got you in trouble. Tell me I’m yours right now “ he says giving you one long, hard stroke making you scream.
“ Fuck! I’m yours Mikey! “ you moaned.
“Your what ?! “ he says slamming into you again.
“I’m yours baby, I’m all yours ! “ you whined, feeling another kind of sensation rising.
“ Don’t ever say you’re not mine again babygirl, i don’t know what i might do. “ he says going back to his previous pace, gripping and slapping your ass. You moan as you start to clench around him when suddenly you squirt on him, clear liquid shooting out a little, you start to ride it out yourself. His breathing hitches as he lets you take control now. Now with a clear coating covering his lower half, you start riding him, rocking your hips vigorously back and forth. Biting his lip he stares up at you.
“Tell me what you feel baby “ he moans out, holding your hips .
“I feel him, I fucking feel him baby “ you moan, bring your hands up to your breasts, pinching your nipples, continuing to rock back and forth.
“ I feel how big he is, FUCK he feels sssoo good! “ you moan out loudly.
“Shit princess your gonna make me fill you up already “
“Please do “ you moan looking him in his eyes, biting your lip.
He looks dead at you, shocked at your response but lowkey loving it.
“That’s too risky my baby “ he groans, looking down at your pussy, engulfing him then back up at you.
“Fuck Mikey, I just want you ! “ you start to speed up as you feel yourself coming to your climax, you switch and start to bounce. “ Oh shit, Mikey I’m coming, I’m comingggg !” You whined.
“ I’m right there with you princess, keep going.” He says grunting, reach his hand up to rub your wet clit. The smacking of both your bodies speeding up as your legs start to buckle above him and letting out the most porniest scream ever. He meets you right where you are and nuts deep inside you. Becoming weak in the knees you, plop down onto him, both breathing heavy and mixing in the sweat from both your bodies. Immediately Michael wraps his arms around your body, lifting you a bit so his dick slowly comes out of you, letting both juices flow out of you then immediately bringing you back down, sinking you into him. Catching your breaths, he says something you never thought you’d ever hear.
“ I love you so much y/n, so much I can’t see life without you in it”
Looking up into his eyes, you kiss his lips, going for a long passionate make out before pulling away saying “ I’m so inlove with you Mikey, I wouldn’t want to be in this life without you. “ you say kissing his lips again. He takes his hands and brings them up your now sweated out ponytail, tracing down to your face, cupping it. Lying in the warm embrace of each other, it slipped your mind that you were suppose to meet up with your friends a while ago.
sy: seriously, don’t underestimate the media again. you didn’t expect it to blow up on the front covers of the uk media, only within a few hours. you’re torn between expressing how you feel the most, to protecting you both from what could happen. is it worth it?
a/n: again it’s not mandatory but if you’d like to leave feedback id really appreciate it ◡̈ and, thank you for all of the love on part1, genuinely had me feeling famous & couldn’t of done it with everybody who’s interacted with it’! hope you enjoy guys<3
warnings: apart from being poorly proofread, kisses and italian, no! (hopefully) no plot holes and part3.. incoming?
-> PART 1 // PART 2 // PART 3
THE PAPER ALONE IS ENOUGH TO MAKE YOU FEEL SICK. back at the palace. its printed, physical and perpetual. unlike if it were online, it could be banished within the algorithm’s abyss with a few taps. but instead, here it sits immutable.
it’s staring at you like an indictment carved into parchment.
“jannik sinner, the most recent wimbledon champion and the man who’s claimed the first italian victory, appeared handsy with the princess of wales whom seemed to appreciate said effort. supporter or date?”
hurl. the once steaming mug of hot chocolate on the dinner table has dulled into something tepid and bitter, untouched for nearly half an hour. it practically congeals with your dread and rots away with each aching swallow you take. much like the food that is supposed finalise the enjoyment of the day, feels like something dead upon arrival.
it feels nothing less than a punch to the face, maybe a tooth loss. though thinking about it, you’d rather that than this.
dammit, jannik. one job to keep our relationship a low profile and you—both, failed.
before you can rip the paper apart with an impulsive tantrum, the honeypolished oak doors open with a thunderous swing; it blows cool air into the room, enough to make you scrape your chair back and shudder. it’s your father, that smile on his face jovial.
upon recognition, you swiftly scrunch the newspaper into a flimsy ball, and although it’s not modest of you—you kick it under the table.
“so! how did you enjoy that match?” he declares, his hands rising in triumph. “i have to say, sinner put up one hell of a fight against a multiple-time grand slam champion.”
your smile is tight. taut as a piano wire. even the mention of his name that used to make butterflies in your stomach swoon, and a grin so wide that made it difficult to hide, now follows a churning nausea feeling.
your nerves could not be more over the place right now.
“yeah—no, it’s up there as one of the best matches i’ve attended,” you nod amuck. “real.. uh, high quality game. yes.”
william takes steps further, settling himself into a chair as he already tucks straight into the food displayed out infront.
“you should come to more games you know,” he straightens and points his fork into the air. “if you enjoy it, why not?”
a phone buzz interrupts your so-one sided conversation, and you quickly find out it’s yours. the screen illuminates up like an emergency flare and speak of the devil.
your father clears his throat. “what did we say about no phones at the dinner table?”
“right, i’m sorry, dad,” your head dips; you brace your hand on the back of the chair, not wanting to really induce into this coming topic of conversation as you shove your phone into your trouser pocket.
“who was it anyway?” he inquires, cutting apart a slice of turkey. “it looked like it said janni—”
“there you are!”
charlotte, as if on cue and one hell of a lifesaver, bursts through the adjoining doorway.
“y/n, i think lady felicity’s assistant rang once or twice,” she trills with perfect dramatics. “something about the national gallery board call a couple hours ago.”
she joins the table, now raking a chair out for herself. “i’d go check it out. you’ll never hear the end of it if you’re late.”
thank god, for her. you send her a look that could pass for both gratitude and panic. as far as things allow, you still seek approval from your dad.
william finishes a sip of his cranberry juice, before turning to you. “well.. proceed. just make sure you come back and eat.”
“right. will d—i mean, yeah of course.”
and just like that, you’re sitting atop the stairs closest to your bedroom, prying your phone from your pocket.
it is jannik. still. relentlessly calling. thats all your phones been doing for the past four minutes: call, call call.
you answer it this time. “jannik?”
“ciao bellissima,” the player hollers. there’s wind on the other end. a muffled cough. “i’ve missed you so much i—ho perso la testa senza di te angel. w—where are you, i feel like i haven’t seen you in.. da secoli, veramente.”
“he—” your voice lowers instinctively, eyes darting behind you. “hey, um, where are you? it sounds like you’re next to a wind turbine.”
“eh.. maybe,” sinner laughs shallowly. “i told darren i was getting some fresh air,” another cough and the noise of tires passing through rain-slick streets filters through the speaker. “i’m on some road..? non lo so. it’s cold, i’m cold.”
you press your index finger to the drum of your left ear in attempt to hear him clearer. “you’ve left the celebration, haven’t you?”
“mmm sì. non mi piaceva più. there were too many people, too much noise. i just miss you.”
your boyfriend sniffs and you swear you hear the tremble in his breath. “i—i just think i messed up. please come get me.” he pleads. “per favore.”
he’s spiraling. muttering nonsense. the same way he does when he’s overtired and overwhelmed but trying his best to hold it together. you’ve only ever seen this side of vulnerability when he has his head in his hands in the locker rooms before a match, or when the adrenaline wears off after a win, and he spews funfacts about pizza over facetime.
not quite as something as personal as this.
“hey, hey. breathe baby, okay? tell me exactly where you are.”
there’s a pause, until, “just near the outside of the um—OWO, in this isolated corner thingy.”
“okay,” you respond, gripping onto the stairway banister. “just stay right there. i’m on my way.”
your thumb taps the red button, and you suck in a long inhale, preparing yourself to run out in the rain for a boy you can’t help but love, even when he’s a clear intoxicated mess.
“i’m assuming you’re not dodging the director of the national gallery.”
your head perks up to find your sister, a gleeful smirk playing at her lips as she eyes up your screen. a once wave of sweat dulls down to a sigh of relief.
“tell lover boy to respect your royal duties,” she muses, gradually climbing the stairs closer to you. “because you’re one headline away from a royal family meeting.”
you draw a hand over your face, emitting a sigh loud enough to shake the walls. “you’ve seen it too?”
“seen it, read it, even liked a few instagram posts about it,” charlotte giggles, sitting next to you. “it’s everywhere y/n.”
after a prolonged silence, “i’ve unplugged the wires of all of the televisions on the house,” she spits out randomly. “so hopefully it can hide the headlines for awhile.”
your eyes widen in shock. “you did?”
charlotte nods. “plus you know mum and dad when it comes to technology. they’re as clueless as a fish on land.”
you stare at her wide-eyed, basically speechless, then embrace her quickly with a hug and peck to the crown of her head.
“almost took me a lifetime but still, it’s done.”
“what would i do without you,” you shake your head. she replies, “probably drowning under the wrath of dad.”
you usher a breathless laugh, half-embarrsed, half-exhausted, pressing your knuckles against your lips.
“well, i ought to go,” you say, watching as she arches her brows in confusion. “i have to help him back to the hotel.”
charlotte makes a small, “ohhhh,” with her mouth before pointing to a cabinet behind. “then i’d change into something less.. pretty. more tragic. there’s a jacket and pair of sneakers in there, use them.”
you smile appreciatively, as she teaches you how to use the back alleyway near the third fire door exit to sneak out without getting caught by guards.
“seriously, thanks for everything charlotte,” you grin, giving her a playful punch to the arm and she pulls a grimace. even you pause for a moment and realise how badly jannik’s casualness has rubbed off on you. “i owe you one.”
she swings her feet, sliding from the step. “anytime. but a pair of chanel flats would be quite nice.”
THE CLOCKS CHURNING TO ALMOST 1AM AT THE PEARLY GREY WATCH, resting snugly on your wrist, so it’s safe to say it’s way past curfew and totally against rules of sneaking out.
technically not sneak. because sneaking would mean committing a violation. this, you argue to yourself, is a rescue mission, sanctioned on behalf of your younger sister that saved you from suffering a migraine and retiring early. it wasn’t a total lie. the stress was pulsating behind your eyes.
with your hood shadowing your face like some sorta antiheroine and your steps cautious but fast, you find yourself at the entry way of the OWO. never in your life have you ran so many miles for your own purpose, for a singular someone.
but maybe that’s the price of loving someone with a spotlight that burns like the sun to a vampire. in both ways; it makes you ponder what living normally would be like. although, what is normality, really? if you could even define it to one sentence. freedom to walk the streets without being chased down by lenses? to cry, kiss or laugh without it being a headline fodder?
you wonder if you’d even recognise ‘normal’ if it tried to shake your hand.
jannik is the first thing you spot. it’s almost ridiculously cruel to have him stand out on the sidewalk with his ginger, stocky hair, a frame that’s tall enough to challenge competition with a giraffe, and distinct foreign curses being borne by the wind.
“god—damn.. knots.”
the sleeves of his blazer all bunched up, and he’s hunched over near a glowing lampost wrestling the tie at his neck as if it were a puzzle designed to frustrate him.
“babe?”
the ginger whips his head over so fast, whiplash is daunting, his eyes wide and feverishly bloodshot. “GAH! chi s—” (who are y—)
you lurch forward, instantly slapping your hand over his mouth. “shhh shhh! it’s me. it’s me!”
his entire body freezes under the warmth of your palm, his shoulders slumping back down and his eyes are back to being clumsily narrowed.
“ah. angelo mio,” sinner slumps relaxedly, his lips stretching into the cutest, dopiest smile. “you came to kidnap me?”
you roll your eyes, helping him to his feet with a reel that almost knocks you over. “that depends. will i have i carry you?”
you sniff and oh god, do you deeply regret it. mistake number one. “jesus jan,” you cough into your sleeve. “what have you been drinking? you’re all over the place!”
“am not,” the italian huffs, lazily scratching his jaw. “uh, simone offered me a drink so.. s—so i took a.. sip.”
“just a sip?”
“sì.”
jannik reaches for you then, one arm looping over your shoulders. he really underestimates how strong you are because when he fully lets his weight go, your knees buckle.
“why didn’t you..” you strain. “ugh, ..you bring your driver?”
“he offered but i told him no,” he sways a finger, his head on a tilt. “i told him i was independent enough to do this on my own.”
“really?” you deadpan. “you call this independent?”
he smiles with such dire pride, as if he really thinks this: being drunk on a sidewalk in the rain and barely able to stand, is a success story.
when you hitch his arm over your shoulder, you don’t expect the journey to the hotel to be this galling. he almost i) drags you both into the road and only do you steer clear, out of fear from literal death; ii) he gets forcibly pushed by the revolving door at the entrance of the hotel for not walking quick enough.
you’ve never been so relieved to be in inside. four walls. as you pass the elevator, you nod politely at a cleaner you can only hope is too tired to question anything. you bump into every wall twice before finally reaching his suite. your back’s screaming, your shoes are soaked, and jannik’s humming a song that definitely doesn’t exist.
it takes the keycard six swipes before it opens.
the italian practically rolls from your shoulders and onto the mattress, in which he groans as he lands on his back with a dramatic “oof.” his limbs are splayed out like a fallen starfish with his curls being mussed, shirt full of wrinkles and slowly becoming untucked.
you laugh quietly under your breath, slipping out of your rain drenched jacket and crouching down beside the bed.
your boyfriend is already itching at the knot of his tie, tugging at it with fumbling fingers and a pout that borders dismal. with a quiet, “let me,” you lean over, brushing his hands away and do it for him.
then, you politely offer to undo the top couple of buttons of his shirt which he gratefully grins to—his collar damp from the walk, sweat and the last drops of champagne that must of missed his mouth.
jannik stays completely silent. he just watches.
“now get some rest jan,” you whisper, finely discarding of his blazer and running your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “you did really well today. you need it.”
he hums something incoherent, eyes blinking slowly. the nickname: jan. it always hits him differently when he’s tired. he pretends to take no notice about it when he’s sober, but now he just smiles like it’s fits better than his actual name.
“th—grazie..”
you drag your hand to the column of his neck, feeling the heat still clinging to his skin. “i’m so proud of you.”
his lips twitch. “you said that earlier.”
“what? but it’s true,” you gently laugh, voice barely above a breath. “i mean it. you were more than amazing today.”
you lean down to leave a kiss at his forehead, ghosting long enough to hope it stays with him when his hangover hits. “i’ll text you in the morning, okay?” with that, you seal your goodbye with a gentle squeeze to his hand, and peel your jacket from the floor.
“wh—what where are you going? you’re leaving?”
he latches his hand around your fingers. “yeah i—i have a bed back home.”
“there’s also a bed right here,” jannik gestures vaguely to the mattress he’s laying on, his speech still very delayed as he’s clearly seconds from passing out.
“please don’t le.. leave bambino,” he adds, his eyes struggling to lodge open. “i’m kind of scared of the dark.”
your heart lurches. you can’t decide whether he’s being deadly serious, or he’s just trying to compel you to be with him for the rest of the night. as much as you want to crawl under those covers and get safely tucked away beneath his arms, the thought of your mother catching you even outside this late makes you wince.
or worse.. george.
“jannik, i cant, i—”
his grip on your hand tightens, and he uses the last ounce of strength he has to refrain you from standing up. “i don’t want to wake up in this bed alone.”
you bite hard onto your lip, eyes flickering hesitantly at the door. “jannik. you’re so drunk.”
“so?” he shrugs, but immediately regrets it because it makes the room spin. “i’m still in love with you.”
you freeze, your fingers stiffening at his palm. what did he just say? “jannik.. what?”
“i said i love you,” sinner repeats, without a blink. it slips out like a secret he doesn’t know he’s telling, like his heart got there before his mouth could stop it. “now c’mere.”
whether those words were intentional or not to make your body pliable, he uses the real last pull of his strength to tuck you beneath him. even so, you don’t even attempt to fight it. possibly mistake number two.
jannik’s eyes are glassy, aimlessly wandering over every feature of your face. the silver moonlight strikes through the wide panels of the windows, highlighting the left side of his face. from this angle, it shows the amber specks in his usual emerald green eyes. his gaze drifts like he’s floating, dazed even, but always comes back to your lips like a magnet.
“cara, you make me feel—” he slurs, mouth agape. “like.. like i won something more than a stupid trophy.”
you swallow hard, smiling as you comb through the tufts of his hair, cradling the back of his head. he’s so beautiful like this. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
that’s when the air between you runs thin because his lips mould against yours, sloppy and hot. the pads of his fingertips slip under your tee, brushing the band of your bra, bringing the coolness of his skin over your ribs. somewhere, a moan erupts from his lips when your tongues clash, like his desire for this stronger than actually doing it right. your hands find the core of his chest, accidently falling into the exposed part of his skin. he’s urging, reeling you in so close until there isn’t a inch of gap, now sucking at your bottom lip as he forgets how to suddenly kiss.
air. you need air. so you pull away, panting for oxygen.
he’s still chasing your lips with a lazy smile though, like you’ve just made his entire year. jannik continues pressing little kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your top lip like he doesn’t know what to do with all the love in his chest, so he gives it away one kiss at a time.
as time passes, as the screeches of cars outside on the street begin to dial down, as the drunken screams of people waltzing in and out of clubs begins to tame—so does your boyfriends breathing.
sinners’s body goes heavy, his head dropping to your collarbone. his hands are still clumsily draped along your waist—your back, whilst he exhales out one last sigh against your neck when you know he’s lost the battle to sleep. between kneading through his hair and rubbing soft circles into his back, do you eventually feel your eyes give way too. your actions pause, as you apathetically stretch your legs out.
clatter.
your foot bumps the remote from the bed. your body judders. squinting, you notice how the tv flickers on with a blinding illumination. it takes you a few moments for your eyes to adjust to the sudden light, but your heart drops to your stomach as you recognise what’s playing.
that one moment at the court.
the new tradition of kissing the patron, jannik’s clear intention to grip your fingers rather than the trophy. the moment he looked at you as if there weren’t millions of people watching.
the headlines makes hell seem like heaven. they scroll across the bottom of the screen.
“PRINCESS AND CHAMPION: A WIMBLEDON LOVE STORY?”
you stare back at it, gulping at the lump that’s been growing in your throat. what are you doing? you shouldn’t be here—
jannik stirs beside you, murmurs your name in his sleep; you smooth your hand back into his curls.
—what if your parents find you here? what if they find out you’re out of the house at this ungodly time? what if, they find out you’re with jannik?
your limbs sit up on instinct. although the palms of your hands are sweating, and your veins are buzzing with an alert to get you the hell out of here, you still unravel carefully around him.
a shaky albeit spooling exhale leaves you, as you peel yourself away. it’s physically painful when you have to pry his grip from your hips, leaving him with his shirt still half unbuttoned, lips pink and a little swollen and one arm still outstretched like he still thinks your there which causes your heart to fracture.
you stealthily tiptoe past the tv, tugging your damp jacket on which was much more of an effort than you’d anticipated, yet your fingers freeze against the door handle.
the urge to glance back at the tv hits you, where it’s now frozen in the frame where jannik was grinning ear-to-ear at you. your mouth waters at the aching purity in his eyes; you notice how obvious it looks now. then, almost as an impulse your gaze lingers back to him on the bed.
“i love you,” he had admitted.
and you didn’t even say it back. your throat constricts, why?
truth be told, you’re scared. scared for what will follow. the words got caught behind fear. behind fear that if you commit so soon and the media draws you two apart, you’ll be left standing on a national stage alone, heart in one hand, shame in the other. as if your heart breaks, the crowd will applause like it’s a performance. you hate that love feels like a liability, the truth like risk and most of all, the cruelness of restraint.
for once, you don’t want to be raised in royalty, because it only feels like captivity. control, contain and comply they tell you.
you pull your hood a little tighter over your head, zipping it up all the way to the base of your neck.
one push, one last sad smile and you’re out.
THE ADRENALINE RUSH JUST FEEDS TO THE HIGH PACE YOU’RE ACCELERATING, your sneakers making loud squelches against each puddle you sprint through.
the palace gates are still locked, but the side entrance isn’t.
you scale it with a kind of desperation only someone raised in courtesy could muster. when your shoes hit in the gravel and you rush past the hedge, your chest is thudding and hands numb from the bite of the cold.
you’re almost halfway through the corridor when you hear it. the sound you disgust the most.
“and what are you doing at this hour.”
not again. that snooty little devil of a brother, it’s almost like he lurks in shadows. the worst has officially happened.
“george, go to bed.”
he raises an eyebrow, his dressing robe smartly folded and his eyes gleaming with mischief. “shouldn’t you be doing the same?”
“shouldn’t you be locked in your room under high security and five locks on your door?” you taunt, quickly climbing the stairs.
“not if i’ve caught someone disobeying the code of conduct.”
you hiss back at him through your teeth, really refraining from yelling. “george, this is none of your business!”
george folds his arms, expression smug as ever. “when it involves using the back alleyway and trudging back at 3am, i’d say it’s exactly my business.”
you both bicker like church mice under cathedral bells: all hushed and hurried until—
footsteps. footsteps that were growing louder.
you both go rigid and swivel on your heel just to see a shadow gaining shape.
shit shit shit.
both of you scramble up the stairs in sync, bolting for opposite for opposite ends of the hallway like it’s second nature. you, dive into your bedroom, pressing your back firmly against your door and turning the lock.
“shit,” you drop your head back into the door, trying to regain a regular breathing pattern, chest heaving with rapid rise and falls. “shit.”
you fumble for your phone in your pocket, soon enough wiping the raindrops from the screen with the sleeve of the once-light grey but now dark, jacket. it reads 2:59am.
deep breath. the adrenaline has very rapidly worn away so you close your eyes. tommorow will come with judgement in glances, unruly hoards of press questions that you won’t want to answer. the taste of shared booze is still lingering on your tongue, your lips still tingling with from a kiss from a guy who makes you forget who you are.
but just for now, in the quiet of your dim bedroom and the quiet symphony of rain splattering against the windows, you carry the ghost of the unbearable ache of knowing you left before telling him you love him too.
one last thought crosses your mind. a stray, warm tear slips down your cheeks and adds to the damp of your jacket. do all royal girls fall in love like this?
Pt. 2 of female reader + violent men trauma × Simon "Ghost" Riley who's too in love to ever get mad at you (but you are the one and only exception)
You couldn't help but chop the vegetables with more strength than necessary as you remembered your supervisor's words from earlier, his hands wandering in places he shouldn't have put them. You had been trying to calm down since you got home because you didn’t want Simon to find out. If he did, he probably would have lost his mind.
There was not much you could do without getting fired or even harassed, and if Simon dared to do something, you knew it would be physical retaliation. It would certainly get him in trouble. To calm yourself, you took a deep breath as you kept preparing dinner for both of you.
It was hard for you to keep it together, and he hadn't even arrived yet. There was rage in your hands, unease in your stomach, and impotence in your chest; so much to feel and no outlet available to let it out. You had to keep it inside, it was the way you had always learned to deal with stuff, especially when it involved men.
As you thought about it, you felt your stomach turning in disgust, but you knew it to be true. You were scared of the slightest conflict with men. You had seen your father shout at your mom, at your siblings, and hit the wall when he became so angry that he could barely contain himself. And you couldn't do anything about it.
If he got drunk and started getting mad over the smallest things, like kicking over his beer by accident, you couldn't confront him. In comparison, you were just a small, inoffensive thing, incapable of protecting others, including yourself. What could you do when you had a big burly man in front of you, face contorted in anger, as he shouted and ranted, or even broke things from the power he yielded?
You jumped on your spot in the kitchen, both plates now filled with the pasta you made, when the apartment door opened. Without turning your back, you looked for the parmesan in one of the kitchen cabinets. Heavy footsteps echoed behind you, approaching you at an unhurried, steady pace.
"Smells like heaven 'round 'ere," Simon said, enclosing your waist from behind you. You tried to relax your body to pretend everything was fine.
"Hope so, I've been cooking for two hours now."
He mumbled into your neck, "Miss me?"
Tears welled up in your eyes, but you faked a chuckle and pulled his hands away.
"No, Mr. Riley. I was hoping you would arrive late, so I could eat all the pasta by myself."
You avoided his gaze by moving the plates on the dining table.
Simon snorted, putting his bag and gear near the entrance.
"As if you could eat the whole thing, Mrs. Riley."
You didn’t answer. Instead, you sat down at the dining table's chair and waited for him to start eating. You sat by his side instead of in front of him, as you usually did, so he couldn't see your eyes water from time to time.
Simon noticed something was off when you stayed quiet even after dinner. You weren't even replying to him in full sentences or words. You just used noncommittal hums here and there, or only nodded and shook your head when necessary. Even though you were trying your best to appear normal, it wasn't easy when all the emotions were flooding inside you. The knot in your throat was making you feel choked the longer you held it in.
When you guys were already in bed, he tried to grab your hand to place you in his lap to cuddle.
"Haven't properly said hello t' me, luvie." When Simon was just about to touch you, you jumped from the bed.
"I need to go to the bathroom," you spat out and ran to the small space just a few meters away. Without thinking about it, you locked the door, but this was a mistake. As soon as Simon heard that, he also jumped off the bed wearing his boxer briefs only.
He already knew something was wrong. You had never locked yourself in the bathroom before. Many thoughts crossed his mind but he tried to calm himself and the fear settling in his stomach.
"Luvie?" he called, gently. "Everything alrigh'?"
You sat down on the floor, back to the wall, as you hugged your knees. It took you a minute to find your voice.
"Yes, I'm fine."
On the other side of the door, Simon frowned. His heart now pounded hard and fast in his chest.
"Are you mad at me? Did I do somethin' wrong, luv? Did I...? Tell me if I fucked up. I swear I didn’t mean it."
Since you didn't answer, Simon walked around the room with his hair in his hands, trying to think if he did something. He couldn't come up with anything, and yet he was starting to breathe quicker than usual, panicking over possibly losing you.
He got closer to the bathroom door again and knocked softly.
"Don't hide there, com' out here to talk, yeah? Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it."
You still didn't answer since you were pressing a hand to your mouth to hold in the sobs, tears already streaming down your face. You realized you were scaring him, making him think that you were going to leave him, that he had done something wrong. And you felt like the worst person in the world.
"Luvie, please answer me, you are makin' me nervous. What ya doing there, huh?"
Not able to hold it anymore, you let out a sob.
"I'm sorry, Si. You did nothing wrong. I'm sorry," you replied while crying. Your voice muffled when reaching your husband's ears.
He sighed with a little relief when you called him by his nickname.
"What's wrong then? Mhm?" Simon asked, pressing his forehead and hands to the white wooden door.
"Nothing, I think I'm sensitive from my period."
"Why lock the bloody door then?"
You hugged yourself, nervous at perhaps making him mad, though that had never happened before.
"I..."
Simon chastised himself for being harsher than usual with you.
"Luvie, listen, I'm right 'ere for you. 'M not going anywhere. Y' know you can tell me anythin', right?"
You sniffed and doubted for a second what to do. He sounded so composed and patient, you just wanted to cry in his arms.
"I don't want you to get mad at me."
He quickly replied, "Remember what I told ya? If I eve' get mad at you or shout at you, the gun's in the drawer. Upper left corner."
"I'm not gonna shoot you, Si."
"Well, you should. Don't deserve nobody to hurt you. You know tha'?"
You wiped the leftover tears from your eyes.
"What if someone did something...?" Simon didn’t let you finish your sentence.
"Do what?" Suddenly, his voice turned hoarse.
"Si, you gotta promise me that you won't get mad."
Simon remained silent for a few seconds, stepping away from the door.
"Depends."
You closed your eyes, realizing the big mistake you made. Now you wouldn't be able to avoid this.
"Si, listen to me."
"Open the door, luvie. Please."
"Not until you listen to me and promise."
He grunted and finally agreed. As you explained from the other side what happened in the morning—how your supervisor said he could help you secure your impending promotion, how he touched your thigh while you were getting coffee, and assured that you didn't care for a little playtime—you could hear nothing except labored breathing. When you finished, you waited for an answer, but none came.
"Si?"
"Need a minute." And you heard his footsteps getting farther away.
You came out of the bathroom and ventured into the living room. He wasn't anywhere inside the house, but you found him easily as you heard a heavy thing plummeting to the floor in the garage. There were noises of heavy wrestling, and as you got closer to the door and pushed in your head, you saw Simon kicking his punching bag. Then, he threw it to the other side of the garage and put his hands on his waist, breathing in the air like a mad man.
"Si?" you called for him, scared.
He turned around, immediately changing his posture and facial expression. He opened his arms to you, so you ran to him and hugged him. Simon pressed your body to his like you were going to run away. He held your head to his shoulder as you let out more tears.
"Don't want you to get in trouble," you pleaded and he soothed you by caressing your back.
"None o' tha'. I won't."
Next day, you went to your job as usual. Your supervisor was there and he had been throwing glances at you here and there. You were surprised, though, when Simon showed up to meet with him.
"Do I know you?" your supervisor asked him.
Simon grinned maliciously with his balaclava on.
"No, but you will." He came up to you and kissed you softly on the lips, whispering, "Luvie, I need ya to close your eyes, and cover your ears, 'kay?"
"Si, don't do this," you tried to say but he shushed you.
"Just move a little further, luv... There you go. Everythin's alrigh', just havin' a nice chat with him."
With no more than a peck on your lips, he turned around and after making sure you did what he said, he showed your supervisor that you have someone to protect you. He wouldn't allow anybody to touch you inappropriately without getting punished. Simon could be many things, and among the list a bad tempered man qualified in it. It was true that you would never be the recipient of his anger, but the rest of the world? They could fuck themselves, and the ones that hurt you in any way? Oh, they just had to wait tight until he could get his hands on them without you watching. Don't want the missus worrying over him.
The kind of hour that still smelled like fog and wet pavement. You were standing behind the counter in your black jeans and long-sleeve, hair a little messy, machine humming to life—when the bell over the door chimed. You frowned. You hadn’t even flipped the “open” sign yet.
He stood there again. Same jacket, same sleepy scowl, same face that looked like it had been up all night thinking about something too heavy to say out loud.
“You should lock your door y’know. It’s dangerous,” he said quietly, voice hoarse with fatigue. A hint of a smirk tugged at his mouth, like he wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
You blinked at him, holding the coffee pot mid-air. “And yet here you are—the danger.”
He gave a small huff, like you’d surprised him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, tilting your head.
He looked away, jaw tightening. “Guess not.”
You softened, just a little. “Alright. Come on. Get behind the counter. If someone walks in they’ll think I’m hosting a sad poetry night.”
He chuckled under his breath but didn’t move far, just came to stand beside you, leaning one elbow on the counter. He smelled like the outside air and a long night of thinking.
“You look so sad,” you murmured, eyes flicking to his profile as you started the espresso.
He watched the steam rise. “I’m fine.”
“Mm,” you said. “That’s what people say when they’re definitely not fine.”
He sighed, ran a hand over his hair, and stretched out the other toward you. “Jean.”
You looked at the offered hand, then up at him. His expression was quiet and open in that way people only get when they’re too tired to hide. You took his hand. It was warm, big, calloused at the base of the fingers. “Okay, Jean,” you said, voice light but gentle. His thumb brushed your palm for a second before he let go.
You poured his coffee, turning to slide it across. “That was a good diversion, by the way.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Introducing yourself,” you said, leaning your hip against the counter. “Why sad?”
He stared at you for a beat, then gave a small, tired smile. “You don’t stop, do you?”
“No.”
He took a sip. “You always this blunt?”
“Only with sleep-deprived men who break into my café before opening hours.”
That earned a quiet laugh, the kind that softened his entire face. You caught it in the corner of your eye and felt something warm flicker in your chest. He stood there a minute longer, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxing. The coffee seemed to help. “You’re not throwing me out?” he asked finally.
“Not today,” you said, glancing at him. “You look like you’d just sit on the curb until I opened anyway.”
He shrugged, smirking a little. “Maybe.”
“At least let me make you a sandwich next time. You look like you live on caffeine and stress.”
Jean looked down at the counter, lips twitching. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is. Trust me. I’ve seen worse addictions.”
That made him laugh again—soft, genuine, the sound echoing in the stillness of the shop.
When he finally left, coffee cup in hand, you caught yourself watching him go through the window, tall, broad-shouldered, still rubbing at his jaw like the world was heavier than it should be.
And outside, he looked back once. Just once. Enough to meet your eyes through the glass before disappearing down the fogged street.
The thing between you and Jean became almost normal—if normal meant getting used to a six-foot-three man with bed hair and a voice that always sounded like he’d just woken up. Every morning, he showed up before the rush. Sometimes he’d still have pillow creases on his cheek, sometimes he’d forget his wallet and have to run back to his car, muttering under his breath.
You never said anything about how you started looking forward to seeing him and how the quiet jingle of the bell made your stomach jump a little. He’d lean on the counter, same way as always, pretending he wasn’t waiting for you to notice him. You pretended you didn’t.
Flirty escalation came easy.
It started with a single word on his cup: “grumpy.”
He looked at it, raised an eyebrow, and said nothing. The next day, you wrote: “still grumpy.”
That earned you the smallest grin—quick, barely there, but you caught it.
Then came doodles. A very ugly horse one day. A tall, stick-thin man holding a coffee cup the next. Your humor was mean but harmless, exactly how you showed affection.
By week three, the cups had become a tradition. Sometimes you’d write something deadpan like: “Professional brooder. Will cry if you run out of milk.”
or “Caffeine dependency: terminal.”
or your favorite, “Horse #001: Known to bite when cornered.”
His reactions were everything. That half-smile that pulled a dimple into his cheek. The little exhale that might have been a laugh. Once, he actually chuckled out loud, shaking his head before muttering, “You’re unbelievable,” under his breath.
Your coworkers adored it. They’d peek when he came in just to see what you’d written that day. Sometimes they even took guesses. “He’s getting a horse again today,” one of them said, “she’s running out of ideas.”
But you never did. You could keep this up forever, the game, the tiny exchanges, the way he leaned a little closer across the counter each morning. You swore the space between you two got smaller every day, like invisible gravity pulling tighter.
And Jean—he had gotten soft.
His voice wasn’t so gruff when he spoke to you anymore. Sometimes, after you handed him his drink, he’d linger. Ask how you were doing. Let his fingers brush yours when he took the cup. His grins weren’t guarded anymore. They were warm. Real.
You’d roll your eyes every time and say, “Don’t get sentimental on me, coffee man.”
He’d grin, low and lazy. “Then stop drawing me like a horse.”
“No promises.”
And for some reason, he looked like he didn’t really want you to stop.
This had been going on for months now—and you both secretly loved it.
The routine had become something unspoken: the teasing, the dry jokes scrawled onto paper cups, the quiet warmth that sat between the sarcasm. Jean showed up every day like clockwork, and every day you found a new way to make him grin that half-shy, half-smug grin that somehow made the early mornings bearable.
So when the doorbell chimed at eleven instead of seven, you almost didn’t believe it. You turned from the espresso machine, ready to fire off some snarky comment and froze.
He looked good. Like, actually rested. His hair was still messy, but in a “didn’t try and still looks unfairly good” kind of way. His jacket was unzipped, shirt a little rumpled, eyes softer than usual.
“Look at you,” you called, hand on your hip. “I thought you died.”
Jean smiled—real, lazy, the kind that made your stomach tighten a bit. “Morning to you too.”
You smirked and lifted one finger, a silent command. “Get over here.”
He obeyed, walking behind the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world, stopping just in front of you. His hand came to rest lightly on the counter beside you, leaning his weight on it. Close enough that you could smell him.
“Who are youuu,” you drawled, stepping up until your fingers brushed his chest. You poked him once. “You look good today. And you smell good too.”
He blinked, amused, mouth curving. “I have two days off.” Then, quieter, teasing, “You think I look good?”
You held his gaze for a second too long. “Mhm.” The corner of your mouth twitched upward. You both knew you were blushing a little, but neither said a word. “You wanna stay here?” you added, voice playful but low. “Just sit and look pretty.”
He laughed under his breath soft and raspy and you let your finger drag slowly up his chest before tapping his nose. He caught your wrist mid-motion, reflexive and gentle.
The contact changed the air between you. His palm was warm against your skin, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist like an accident he didn’t want to correct. You tilted your head, your hand sliding naturally into his as his fingers closed around yours. For a second, the world shrank to the sound of the machines and the space between you.
“You really do smell good,” you murmured. “New cologne?”
He nodded, eyes flicking to your mouth and back.
“Shit,” you said with a small grin, “now I’m out of insults today.”
Jean chuckled, still holding your hand. “Guess I finally won one, huh?”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t move away. “Don’t push your luck, coffee man.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said softly and the way he looked at you right then almost made you forget to breathe.
He’d made himself comfortable that morning—too comfortable.
Jean sat in the little corner behind your counter, one leg stretched out and the other bent over his knee, back resting against the wall like he’d been born to sit there. The sunlight through the window caught in his hair, warm against the lazy way his fingers spun your black sharpie between them.
You were busy up front, taking orders and moving with that unbothered grace he liked so much. There was music playing low, the smell of fresh croissants in the air, and every so often you’d glance back at him—smirk, roll your eyes, and keep going.
You didn’t notice when he started drawing on one of the spare cups. He had your handwriting memorized, your sarcasm, but he’d never shown you that he could draw too—clean, confident lines that made the horse you’d drawn for him weeks ago look like a toddler’s scribble.
He was halfway through sketching a crooked little caricature of you holding a cup labeled “too much sass” when the customer at the counter started flirting.
“Must be hard working here alone all the time,” the guy said, leaning too close. “You always this friendly, or am I getting special treatment?”
Jean’s pen froze. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even move but his jaw tightened. The leg that had been hanging casually over his knee dropped, foot planting on the floor. His gaze locked on the man at the counter. He wasn’t glaring, exactly, but the look carried enough quiet weight to make most people reconsider their life choices.
You caught the faint shift in the air, the way Jean’s expression darkened into something unreadable. You didn’t turn around right away but your smile toward the customer grew just a touch more dangerous.
“I’m friendly with everyone who pays,” you said smoothly, wiping the counter. “You want your coffee, or are you just here to practice bad pickup lines?”
The guy laughed awkwardly, took his cup, and backed off fast.
When the door finally closed behind him, you exhaled and glanced over your shoulder. Jean was still in his spot, elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand like nothing had happened. Except his eyes were still on you.
“You good there, security guard?” you teased lightly, walking over.
He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Just making sure you’re not kidnapped mid-order.”
You laughed under your breath, leaning against the counter beside him. “You know, if you wanted to scare someone off, you could at least say something.”
“I didn’t need to,” he murmured. “He got the message.”
“Yeah, he definitely did,” you said, glancing at the cup he’d been working on. “What’s that?”
Jean turned it toward you, showing off a surprisingly good sketch of your face, sharpie lines clean and confident. Your drawn self was holding a cup labeled “Fuel for sarcasm.”
You blinked, then grinned. “Oh my god, you can actually draw. What the hell.”
He looked faintly embarrassed but smirked anyway. “Guess you’re not the only one with talent around here.”
You reached out, poking the sketch of your face. “You gave me sharper eyebrows. I like it.”
“Figured it fits.”
He said it softly, smiling—small, but so warm it almost knocked you off balance. You laughed quietly, turning to make another coffee just to have something to do with your hands.
Behind you, Jean leaned back again, twirling the sharpie between his fingers, eyes still tracking you, protective in that quiet, steady way that wasn’t loud or jealous but that burned just enough to make your pulse trip.
When the rush finally thinned, the café fell into that soft mid-day lull—the faint hum of the fridge, the smell of baked sugar, sunlight warming the tiles. Jean hadn’t moved much from his corner, still in that chair he’d claimed as his own, sharpie rolling idle between his fingers.
You wiped your hands on a towel and sauntered over, slow on purpose. His leg was still hooked lazily over his knee until you stopped in front of him; then he shifted, letting the leg drop so there was space—an invitation he didn’t say out loud.
You stepped between his knees, leaning in a little, voice light. “So…”
He looked up at you, wary but amused. “So what?”
“You didn’t like that guy earlier,” you said, almost sing-song. “You think I didn’t notice?”
Jean’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t say anything.”
“Didn’t have to.” You reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead with the gentlest motion. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, and for a heartbeat he closed his eyes like he might melt into it. Then your nails traced lightly down across his forehead—just enough pressure to make him look at you again.
“Jealous?” you asked, soft but teasing.
He gave a short laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Why would I be jealous?”
“Mm, maybe because you looked like you were about to throw the espresso machine at him.”
He tilted his head back against the wall, smirking up at you. “You’re imagining things.”
You hummed, leaning closer. “No, I’m very observant. It’s part of my job. I see everything. Including you sulking like a guard dog.”
That made his jaw flex. “I wasn’t sulking.”
“Sure you weren’t.” Your smile widened. “You just glared him into an early grave for fun.”
Jean’s sharpie stilled in his hand. His eyes lifted slowly to yours, the usual soft brown gone darker. “You keep pushing like that, you’re gonna find out what I was actually thinking.”
The words sat between you for a long second, heat curling through the quiet air. You could hear your own pulse. Then you grinned, breaking the tension. “See? That right there? Sounds a lot like jealousy to me.”
He exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh, hand coming up to catch your wrist before you could pull away again. His thumb brushed over the inside of it, slower this time.
“Maybe,” he said finally, voice lower. “Or maybe I just don’t like people who don’t know when to back off.”
You smiled, inching a little closer. “And you do?”
His lips twitched. “Not when it comes to you.”
You stared at each other for a beat too long before the bell over the door jingled again, breaking the moment. You stepped back, heart hammering, while he leaned forward, rubbing a hand over his jaw like nothing happened but the edge of a smile was still there.
By the time the sun dipped low, the café had emptied out, leaving only the faint hum of the fridge and the sound of the broom against the floor. You’d flipped the sign to closed a while ago, but Jean was still there—sitting in his corner like it was his second home.
When you looked up, you nearly choked on a laugh. There were at least twenty cups stacked beside him, all drawn on in neat black sharpie lines. Horses. Stick figures. Tiny coffee cups with sarcastic faces. It was ridiculous—and weirdly sweet.
“You planning to open your own art gallery?” you asked, wiping your hands on a rag.
He leaned back, lips twitching. “Maybe. Think I’ve got a theme going.”
“Oh yeah,” you said, walking closer. “Pretentious café boy chic. It’s powerful.”
He chuckled, then pushed himself to his feet. The movement made his shirt ride up just a little, and you caught yourself staring before you looked away. He stretched, slow, lazy, muscles shifting under soft fabric, before walking toward you.
When he reached the counter, he set one of the cups right in front of you. There was a neat little tic-tac-toe grid drawn on the side, blank and waiting.
You raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? The artistic finale?”
Jean leaned forward on his elbows until you were eye-level. His voice dropped low, smooth but still carrying that dry humor that always gave him away.
“If I win,” he said, “you’re coming home with me, and I’ll cook us something.”
You tilted your head, pretending to think it over. “And if I win?”
He smirked, barely, eyes flicking down to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “We do the same.”
That earned a soft laugh out of you—low and incredulous. “You realize that’s not how bets work, right?”
“Sure it is,” he said, tone steady, teasing but serious underneath. “I’m just guaranteeing the outcome.”
You picked up the cup, turning it between your hands, trying not to smile too wide. “Confident, huh?”
He shrugged, leaning a little closer again, his voice dropping to that easy, tired drawl that always made your stomach twist. “Nah. Just hungry.”
You met his gaze, the corner of your mouth twitching. “For food or for me to lose?”
His smile deepened—soft, genuine, but laced with that quiet heat that had been building between you for weeks. “Guess you’ll find out when you play.”
You laughed, grabbing a sharpie from the counter and uncapping it with a click. “You’re on, coffee man.”
He watched you mark the first X, the faintest grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. The café was quiet but for the scrape of the pen on paper, your knees brushing when you leaned closer over the counter.
Outside, the light was golden, filtering through the window and catching on the fine dust in the air. You could smell his cologne, faint and warm.
By the time you finished your turn, you weren’t sure you remembered whose move it even was.
You held the cup between your palms, thumb brushing over the tic-tac-toe lines. The sharpie smell still clung to it, faint and chemical against the scent of coffee and sugar that always lived in the shop. Jean stood right there in front of you, his arms braced loosely on the counter, that lazy smirk back in place. The kind that said he wasn’t sure whether he was flirting or confessing.
You tilted your head. “Okay, pretty boy,” you said, tapping the cup with your nail. “Tell me how your apartment looks like.”
His brow arched, amused. “You planning your victory dinner already?”
“Obviously. I need to know what I’m walking into if I win. Or, y’know—when I let you win.”
He laughed, soft and low, rubbing the back of his neck before answering. “It’s nothing special. Small place. Couch’s too big for the room, kitchen’s too small for the couch, plants are dying because I forget they exist.”
“That’s tragic,” you said, pretending to gasp. “Hot guy can’t water a fern.”
“Hot guy?” he teased.
You gave him a flat look, then smiled. “You heard me. Keep describing your habitat.”
He chuckled, leaning a little closer, elbows on the counter again. “Fine. Walls are white. There’s a sketchbook on the table that I never put away. Couple of mugs that don’t match. Window faces east—sun hits the couch first thing in the morning.”
Your grin softened into something smaller. “That actually sounds kinda nice.”
He shrugged, looking at you instead of the cup. “Would be better with company.”
The air shifted—warm, quiet. You could hear the clock tick behind you. The game on the cup didn’t matter anymore; you both knew it. “So,” you said lightly, breaking the silence before it swallowed you whole. “If I win, you’re cooking. If you win, you’re… still cooking.”
He smiled, eyes glinting. “Looks that way.”
You reached for the sharpie again, drawing your X right in the center square. “Guess I’d better win then. I want dessert too.”
He laughed under his breath. “Bossy.”
“Confident,” you corrected, sliding the cup toward him. “Your move, Jean.”
He took it, the tips of his fingers brushing yours. His grin turned lazy again, but softer this time. “You can have dessert,” he murmured. “Win or lose.”
You blinked, fighting a smile. “Flirting will not help your odds.”
“Maybe not,” he said, drawing his O in the corner without looking down, “but it’s fun watching you try not to smile.”
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were already warm.
You’d let him win—he knew it, and you knew he knew it.
The stupid tic-tac-toe cup sat between you like some kind of trophy for mutual stubbornness. Jean leaned on his elbows, eyes glinting with amusement, and you tried not to grin too wide.
“I want a revanche,” you said finally, voice low but teasing.
“Mh yeah?” he murmured, gaze sliding down to meet yours.
“Mhm.” You nodded slowly, smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.
He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “And what do I get when you let me win again?”
You crossed your arms, leaning closer. “You’ll lose your dessert.”
That earned a soft laugh, his eyes never leaving yours. “And what do you want,” he asked quietly, “when I’m nice and let you win?”
“A kiss.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, mouth curling into something slower, deeper. “Oh really?” His voice dropped, that low rasp curling right into your spine.
“Maybe two,” you said, trying for calm but smiling anyway. “If you don’t stop being bold.”
He chuckled under his breath, the sound soft and dangerous all at once. Without breaking eye contact, Jean reached for the tic-tac-toe cup, grabbed your sharpie, and scratched a few fast lines onto the grid. He turned the cup toward you with mock ceremony. You’d “won.”
He hummed, low and dramatic. “Well that’s toooo baaaad,” he said, his tone playful but his eyes fixed on you. “I think I have to kiss you now.”
“Oh nooo,” you said, mock horror dripping from every syllable. But the way you both were grinning ruined the act completely.
Then he leaned in.
His hand came up to rest on the counter beside you, the other still holding the cup somewhere near your waist. When his face was close enough that you could feel his breath, his grin softened, something quiet and real sliding in beneath the teasing.
He tilted your chin up with two fingers, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he was still giving you time to change your mind. You didn’t.
The kiss was warm. Gentle at first, then deeper when both your hands came up to cup his face. His skin was rough under your fingertips, his stubble brushing your palms. He kissed you like someone who’d been wanting to for a long time and was finally allowed to.
When you pulled back, the silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was thick and soft and glowing.
Jean’s grin came back first, lazy and a little breathless. “So… do I get the second one for good behavior, or do I have to play another round?”
You laughed quietly, still touching his cheek. “You just want an excuse to cheat again.”
“Maybe.”
“Then I guess you’d better earn it.”
He smiled, small, stupid and happy. “Oh, I will.”
He did take you home that night—like it had been written somewhere long before the tic-tac-toe cup, before the teasing, before the sarcasm that had become your shared language.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just the quiet click of the café door behind you, the city hum outside, and Jean’s soft, “You sure you’re not gonna change your mind halfway there?”
You’d grinned, bumping your shoulder into his as you walked. “Depends. You planning to poison me with whatever you’re cooking?”
He laughed, the sound easy and real. “Not intentionally.”
His apartment fit him—lived-in but not messy. The couch was, indeed, too big for the space. A sketchbook sat open on the table, a few pages of doodles and half-finished faces. The air smelled faintly like coffee and cologne, both familiar enough that it made something warm settle under your ribs.
“Alright, chef,” you said, hopping up onto the counter while he rummaged through cabinets. “What’s the menu?”
He shot you a look over his shoulder. “Pasta. It’s all I trust myself with.”
“Oh wow, how impressive,” you drawled. “What’s next, microwaving soup?”
“Keep talking,” he said, pointing a wooden spoon at you, “and I’ll make you wash dishes.”
You gasped. “You wouldn’t dare. I’m a guest.”
“Guest?” He smirked. “You bullied me into this dinner.”
“Semantics,” you said, waving a hand.
He shook his head, chuckling. The sound filled the little kitchen, easy and warm, and it made something in you go quiet for a moment. Watching him like this—hair pushed back, sleeves rolled up, forehead creased just slightly while he focused—was unfairly nice.
You swung your legs lightly against the cabinet, pretending not to stare. “So this is how you win people over. Pasta and smirks.”
Jean glanced up at you, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “You make it sound manipulative.”
“It absolutely is,” you said, smiling. “You could probably get away with murder if you smiled like that.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “Yeah? Then it’s working.”
You pretended to gasp. “Oh my god, you’re flirting.”
“I’m cooking. Multitasking.”
That earned him a playful kick against his thigh. He caught your ankle gently, steadying your leg with one hand, and didn’t let go right away. The air stilled a little.
“Warm hands,” you said quietly, half a joke, half not.
He smiled, thumb brushing over your ankle before letting go. “Yeah, you said that once.”
You blinked. “You remembered?”
He just shrugged, stirring the sauce like he hadn’t said anything at all.
Dinner wasn’t perfect—too much salt, uneven noodles—but it was yours. You ate leaning against the counter, sharing the same plate because he only had one clean one left, both of you laughing through the awkward clinking of forks.
At some point, he looked at you across the rim of his glass and said, “You’re trouble, you know that?”
You smirked, chin propped on your hand. “That’s the point.”
And he smiled back—soft, stupid, and completely gone for you.
It was just past midnight, the only light coming from the small lamp in the corner. The movie had long ended, and now the two of you were sprawled across his couch in a heap of limbs and warmth.
You were lying between his legs, half on top of him. Your cheek rested on his chest, his arm around your waist, his hand tracing lazy circles over the small of your back, just under the hem of your shirt. His other hand never left your hair, carding through it in slow, absent movements. Every so often, his fingers tangled for a second, and you’d lift your head to glare at him—only to find that lazy grin already waiting for you.
“What?” he’d murmur, voice hoarse from laughing too much earlier.
“Nothing,” you’d say, eyes narrowing playfully. “Just wondering how one person can look this smug doing absolutely nothing.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling under your palm. “Talent.”
You rolled your eyes but stayed where you were, letting your head fall back onto his chest. His heartbeat was slow, steady, a rhythm that seemed to sync perfectly with the soft way he touched you.
After a while, you tilted your head again, chin resting on his sternum so you could look up at him. “You’re perfect,” you said quietly, almost like a secret. Then your eyelids fluttered shut, your voice a whisper. “And you really were my highlight every day for the last seven months.”
Jean’s breath hitched for just a moment. His fingers stilled against your back before moving again, slow and gentle. “Yeah,” he murmured, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. “You too.” He paused, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes. “I think you saved something in me.”
You smiled, your hand sliding up to his collarbone, brushing the edge of his jaw. “You say that like I did something noble.”
“You did,” he said. Then, quieter “You stayed.”
You didn’t have a reply for that, so you leaned forward and kissed him soft, slow, barely there. He smiled into it, catching your bottom lip for half a heartbeat before letting go.
“See?” you murmured. “Perfect.”
He grinned, hand in your hair again, thumb tracing along the curve of your neck. “Keep saying that,” he said, “and I’m never letting you off this couch.”
“Threats already?” you teased, but the laugh that followed was breathy. His thumb traced one more circle against your lower back. “Not a threat,” he said quietly. “Just… a plan.”
You kissed him again before he could finish the thought, both of you laughing softly into it—somewhere between comfort and confession.
The room had gone quiet except for the hum of the city through the windows and the soft sound of your breathing against his chest. You’d both stopped talking a while ago, conversation fading into comfortable silence. Jean’s fingers were still tracing circles against your lower back, his other hand tangled loosely in your hair, thumb brushing now and then over the nape of your neck.
You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. His eyes were half-lidded, the corners soft from exhaustion and something gentler. He caught your gaze, lips quirking. “What?” he murmured.
“Nothing,” you whispered, smiling faintly. “Just… thinking how weird this is.”
He raised a brow. “Weird?”
“Yeah.” You laughed under your breath. “We’ve spent seven months pretending this isn’t a thing, and now I’m halfway on top of you on a couch that’s too small.”
Jean’s grin grew slow. “You complaining?”
“Not even a little,” you said. Your voice turned quieter. “I like this.”
His eyes softened further. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You brushed a hand over his jaw, thumb skimming the corner of his mouth. “I like you.”
His fingers stilled in your hair. He looked at you for a long second, then smiled—nothing smug this time, just warm, almost shy. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice low and steady. “I like you too.”
For a moment neither of you moved. Then he leaned up and pressed a kiss to the edge of your mouth, soft and fleeting. It wasn’t quite a promise, but it felt like one.
You exhaled, forehead against his, the quiet around you stretching comfortably. His hand started moving again at your back, slower now, tracing lazy circles that felt a lot like safety.
“Guess we should figure out what that means,” you murmured.
Jean chuckled, eyes closing. “Tomorrow.”
You smiled. “Tomorrow,” you echoed, settling back against his chest as his arm wrapped tighter around you.
Outside, the city lights blinked through the window, and the night held steady—open, warm, and full of possibilities.
Thinking about a reader with tattoos in hidden places…
You had small tattoos scattered across your body, but only in places that were usually covered up. One on your lower hip, some small ones under your boob, one on your ankle, one on your upper thigh and lastly one on the side of your ass. No one had really seen your tattoos since they never peeked through your outfits. It wasn’t something you thought much about cause you only got the tattoos because you thought they were pretty. Your boyfriend on the other hand thought about it constantly. To him they weren’t just regular tattoos, to him it felt like undiscovered art pieces just for him. He loved when you’d wear tiny shorts that barely covered your upper thighs. They were just the right length for your tattoo to look all pretty on your thigh. He loved when you’d turn to him in only your bra asking what shirt you should wear. Your under boob tattoo looking right back at him. Every time you two would have sex he’d always make sure to kiss all over your tattoos while mumbling compliments about them. He loved when he had you laid down on your back while he was holding one of your legs over his shoulder. Always the leg with the ankle tattoo.In that way he could get a full view of almost every tattoo you had. He felt a sense of pride knowing he was the only one that got to see them. When you’d tiredly lay down on the sofa he’d sit next to you, carefully putting your feet in his lap while rubbing soothing motions all over your tattooed ankle. He’d listen to you ramble on about your day while his gaze was focused on the little art across your ankle. And lastly every time you were in only your panties and a tiny tank top he’d walk up behind you, smirk at the sight of your tattoo placed right on the side of your ass and give a light smack to it before wrapping his arms around you.
“ Such a pretty tattoo”
He’d mumble into your neck. You could feel his smile on your skin.
“ Mhm you always say that”
“ Cause I always think that”
You’d giggle at that. He really loved your tattoos.
Could imagine with anyone🫶🏻
but I usually think about Reo or Toji in this scenario
˖⁺‧₊˚✦ GENRE — comedic fluff short oneshot, comfort, yuri/girls' love (girl x girl), found family
˖⁺‧₊˚✦ SUMMARY — daiwa scarlet, the adorable junior to agnes tachyon and one of your trainees, has called both you and tachyon by parental terms one too many times. you brushed it aside every time, however, thinking it was just her being cute and airheaded, but now seeing her actual parents... yeah, no wonder why she kept mistakenly calling you her parents.
BEFORE YOU READ:
reader will be referred to as "trainer" and "(name)"—poc friendly.
scarlet's parents are fan interpreted with the little information we do know.
tachyon is implied to be 20~ years old.
scarlet uses formalities and calls tachyon "tachyon-san".
tachyon has unspoken maternal instincts and affection thanks to scarlet.
part 2 to this oneshot.
Word count: 5,8k.
< note: author is aware of how naming works in uma musume, but figured it'd be nice to imagine scarlet really did get her name from her father. >
A woman sat at a public restaurant table, her laptop open in front of her as she clicked at the keys. Her animal ears on top of her head flicked with each sound created, the chatter of those around her was silent, tail curled behind out of passerbyers’ way. Her red gaze pierced the screen with many long and difficult words and mathematical equations filling the document. The Umamusume flicked back and forth between tabs, her attention solely on her work.
That was until someone audibly awed in astonishment from behind her; “wow, that seems…really difficult.” She turned her head around, almost as if she was an owl. Her long hair brushed against her shoulders. Behind her was a man in a button down and apron, as well as a tray of what she immediately knew was her lunch—a bowl of salad with a cup of sweetened carrot juice. “Oh, I’m sorry—, I…” He placed the tray down. “Here’s your meal, ma’am.” The man bowed apologetically.
The woman’s lips curled, amused by his pathetic behaviour. “It’s fine, it’s just a simple mathematical theorem that I have to review. If it’s not correct, it’s not a theorem, it would be a conjecture. If it’s a conjecture, then it would have to be reviewed and redone until it’s a theorem. All sorts of disasters can happen if a conjecture is published as a theorem.” The man stood in silence, his brows furrowed in both amazement and confusion. He did not understand a single word coming from this woman’s mouth.
He snapped out his daze, shaking the static thoughts from his head. “So you’re a mathematician then, I take it?”
“What gave you that idea, Einstein?” The Uma sarcastically asked him, causing him to laugh.
“Dumb question, I know…” The man bowed yet again, apologizing for his behaviour, walking off back to do his work. The horse lady’s smile only grew larger, curling her lips as she attempted to hide it, eventually choosing to sip her drink. Flicking her brown tied-back hair behind her, she hunched over into the palm of her hand, reading the document for a fourth time.
She was there for another hour. The waiter walked past her table several times taking orders. Every time, he’d look down at her work, seeing her notes and tabs pile up, and yet she didn’t look the slightest bit stressed. On the other hand, with the Umamusume, she’d glance up at him. Her round cheeks would go from their pale tone—matching the rest of her skin—to a light red whenever the two locked eyed. Him as well.
At the end of her lunch, she packed her laptop and books away, right as he was approaching the table. She gave him a nod as he took her dishes back inside, leaving the two to have finally crossed paths and their stories intertwined.
She visited the next day. Same time, same meal, same laptop before her.
He had work again. Same time, same job, same Umamusume sitting at the same table.
It didn’t take long for his coworkers to catch on to his interest in her. He wasn’t sure if she liked the restaurant or if she was there with a specific purpose, if it was close to somewhere she was going next. Everything about her was a mystery to him, but knew one thing, and that was that she sure loved math…
Through passing comments, the two got to learn about each other some more. They exchanged names, discovering bits and pieces of their personal life, until the man finally broke out the real question…
“Uhm…” The math fanatic looked up from her laptop, seeing the man’s flustered face. “Do you think we could…” He trailed off, placing her usual meal on the table. Her salad was given to her along with a biscuit he claimed was “on the house,” but she was aware he had paid for it himself; aware it was his way of flirting.
The brunette horse lady’s ears flicked in anticipation, awaiting his question. “Yes?”
“Do you think we could exchange numbers…?”
The woman’s lips shifted again, an all too familiar smile on her face—one he had long since gotten used to seeing. He had seen her in papers in regards to her past achievements from her younger days, but never with a smile like that. A booming, gruff voice suddenly yelled his name from the kitchen, “get back to work!”
“Ah! Sorry!!” The man called back. He bowed to the Umamusume, shuffling backwards to retreat to the kitchen, bumping into another chair on the way. The lady chuckled, going back to her important work in silence. The waiter went back to his own thing, avoiding her gaze out of embarrassment. Only when he looked back over at her table an hour later, when he finally had a moment without running all over the place, did he realize that she was gone.
His coworker noticed his sadness. “Cheer up. She’s been here almost every day at this point. She’ll be back.”
“I know… I just asked something stupid again, that’s all…”
“When do you not ask something stupid?”
With a heavy sigh, the waiter trotted over to the table where the woman once sat. He had to admit, she was beautiful. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a thing for her. He picked up her dishes before taking notice of a note underneath the salad bowl she had eaten from. It was only a small thing, easily overlooked, but what caught his attention was the scribbles of numbers written on it. Judging from the specific series of numbers they were, they were far from a math equation—they were her phone number.
The waiter’s heart rate increased, his eyes practically glowing at the chance, only to be brought back to reality at the sound of his name from his boss’ voice again, “Daiwa!!!”
“Sorry sir!! Coming right away!!” He tucked the number into his pocket, practically running back to the kitchen with a skip in his step.
✦✧✦✧
Several years later…
A teen girl, her hair tied back into two long twintails. Her face was confident—brows furrowed, back straight, and steps even.
“Our final racer has finally stepped on to the turf, Oka Sho’s winner and second favourite Umamusume—Daiwa Scarlet!!” Cheers erupted from the stands as the girl walked across the turf to the other racers. Her blue racing costume was ironed out, and her breathing was steady. Her silk stood out with piercing red eyes and moved to look at her rivals before turning to the stands of people
Looking through the crowd, she saw her parents waving at her. With a smile, Scarlet waved back (considering her mother’s appearance was a rare sight), continuing her walk towards the other racers… “Scarlet!” That was until someone called out to her. Looking back, standing at the front, was her as two school peers and her trainer. Her trainer motioned for her to get closer, having something to say to her, so Scarlet did just that. “Do you remember the strategy?”
Her warm orange-red hair bobbed as she nodded with a hum. “Don’t take first straight away. Wait in the second group then start moving forward. Once in first,—.”
“—push forward with all you have, yes, correct.” Her trainer sighed, guilt deep within her eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make you a Triple Tiara Umamusume…”
“It’s okay, Trainer.” Scarlet softly smiled to ease her trainer’s remorse. “The most we can do now is get the second tiara. Besides, I learnt breathing techniques from Tachyon-san, so I should be fine.”
Hearing her name mentioned, the brunette horse girl next to the trainer hummed in confirmation. Reaching her arm out—or more like her sleeve, Tachyon pet Scarlet’s head. “You’re a monster of a horse girl, Scarlet. You’ll do more than fine.” Retracting her hand back, folding her arms so that she could lean on the fence designed to keep the crowd off the track. Tachyon’s tail was tucked between her legs, her sensitivity at a peak thanks to the number of people around her. “Are you sure you don’t want my latest concoction to help you? It should help with your spatial awareness and improve the hamstring’s performance.”
Scarlet shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I won’t mind testing it after I take first place though.”
The trainer turned to look at the science-obsessed Umamusume, a scowl watches on her face as she looked at her in disappointment. “Yes, I don’t want Scarlet collapsing from a failed liver let alone disqualified for having cheated.”
Tachyon laughed aloud, “oh, (Name), you worry too much!”
“Daiwa Scarlet.” A deep, feminine voice spoke to her from next to Tachyon. Another Umamusume, her hair the perfect shade of wine, and an eyepatch decorating her face. Like Tachyon, she stood with her arms folded. Unlike Tachyon, she stood with pride and a smirk forever on her lips. “Just because you didn’t win the Japanese Oaks doesn’t mean you lost either; you just simply couldn’t run the race, the flu having attempted to take another victim. It was truly unfortunate. Prove to the audience that you are still deserving of the Triple Tiara title!”
Rare words of encouragement from her rival’s mentor, Scarlet’s eyes gleamed in pride, feeling confidence surge through her body. “Right!” She looked back at her trainer and her own mentor. “Gimlet’s right. I’ll have to prove to everyone that I’m still a Triple Tiara at heart!” She clutched a hand to her chest. “Vodka won the Derby… So I’ll do my best and become a Double Tiara, at the very least!” With her heart pounding against her chest, Scarlet turned to walk to the gates. “Well, wish me luck, papa, mama!!”
The three blinked in confusion for a moment at her final words.
Scarlet, realizing what she had said, stopped in her tracks, turning around awkwardly. She bowed with an apologetic tone in her voice—something she inherited from her father. “Sorry, I mean... Trainer, Tachyon-san.” She fixed her words, running off to the gates with a deeply red face, blushing from embarrassment of her mistake.
Vodka stood a very small distance away, hearing Scarlet’s mistaken words. “Papa? Mama? What was that about?”
“Mind your own beeswax!! I’m gonna kick your butt and make you cry for forgiveness!!” Scarlet stomped off towards the other races, leaving the dark-haired horse girl baffled. Vodka’s face screamed that she was offended, newfound determination for the race in her heart.
Meanwhile, Gimlet had the same question. She looked over at the trainer and Tachyon, her eye(s) clearly just as confused as Vodka. “Did she call you both mama and papa…?”
“Yes, it’s a cute thing she’s been doing since she met us.” Tachyon chuckled.
“Okay, but why?”
“No clue,” Tachyon responded before turning to look at the “God of Destruction”. “Why? Are you upset that your little Vodka doesn’t call you mama, too?”
“Hah! I would never be upset!” The two glared at each other, their mentee’s rivalry relationship having passed on to the two of them. Before Scarlet and Vodka, Tachyon and Gimlet were acquaintances. They’d see each other in the halls, give one another a nod in acknowledgement, but they never exchanged more than that. When Vodka and Scarlet’s rivalry got more intense, the two started boasting about their student’s achievements—finding reasons to talk about their girls.
(Name) gasped. “They’re starting!” The two looked over at the gates, all of the racers in their starting positions.
The stadium went quiet, before the gates suddenly swung open, all of the horse girls running past at extreme speeds.
The brunette Umamusume mumbled in prayer, her red gaze fixed on her student’s position on the turf. “Three months…” Gimlet looked over at Tachyon from the corner of her eye, thankful the researcher was standing to her left. “She’s been training to run this exact track for three months… She said she refuses to lose the final tiara.”
“What, just like how you lost the final two crowns?”
“And yet I still get called a Triple Crown.” Gimlet squinted, trying to piece together Tachyon’s words. “I didn’t need to win the Derby like you did, and yet I still get called a Triple Crown. I must ask, Gimlet…” She turned, her red eyes wide as she stared directly into Gimlet’s, piercing her soul and shattering what remaining composure she had. “Do they call you a Triple Crown or just a Derby horse?”
Gimlet’s breath shuddered.
Tachyon looked back at the track as they reached halfway, all of the mares still running and Scarlet keeping a good position in fourth place. “She’ll be a Triple Tiara in everyone’s hearts if she can win this—consider it a hunch.”
✦✧✦✧
“Daiwa Scarlet wins!! She makes a perfect comeback, winning the Shuka Sho Tiara by a head!!”
The crowd erupted into cheer, celebrating Scarlet’s Double Tiara, while Tachyon looked over at Gimlet with a smirk on her face.
Meanwhile, Scarlet’s father had jumped out of his seat, yelling about how happy he was at the top of his lungs, causing Scarlet to look over at him in an instant. Her gaze shifted to her mother, seeing her own soft applauds as her head was pinned to her skull—Scarlet aware this was due to the noise and not because she was actually upset. While she never became a Triple Tiara, Scarlet knew for a brief moment that she had solidified herself in horse girl racing history, just like her mother and teacher.
“Daiwa Scarlet has yet to get a placing lower than second! She truly has become a one-of-a-kind Umamusume!!”
She’s made her mama proud.
Eventually, all of those that watched the race filed out of the stadium. Given the race was mid-afternoon, the audience had left to get their own meals—whether it be afternoon snacks or early dinner meals. The girls who ran the race, still wearing their racing costumes, waved off everyone, hearing their promises to return. That night, Daiwa Scarlet would stand in front of everyone on the centre stage. The girl’s heart practically started beating faster in excitement.
“Scarlet!!” The teen girl looked up, hearing a masculine voice to her side. The moment she looked up, she was enveloped in a large hug.
“Ouwah!! Papa, don’t choke me!!”
“Sorry…” That usual pathetically apologetic voice escaped his lips. A soft laugh was heard from behind him, prompting him to turn around and Scarlet’s mother to come into view.
She walked up to Scarlet slowly before wrapping her own arms around her—gently, unlike her father—as she whispered in her ear, “I’m so proud of you…” Tears filled Scarlet’s sharp red eyes, hearing words she so desperately wanted to earn. The woman’s pale hand brushed at her twintails, affectionate words falling from her mouth as she continued praising her daughter. The honor student couldn’t help but flap her tail.
Heeled steps approached the family of three, that annoying voice of Scarlet’s nightmares (given they actually room together) interrupting the sweet moment, “oi, Scarlet, Tachyon, have you seen—...” Vodka cut herself off at the sight of Scarlet’s parents, her brows furrowed as she processed the two figures before her. She apologized quickly, letting out a dry laugh. “You look…very similar to someone else that Scarlet and I know. Again, apologies…” She grabbed Daiwa Scarlet’s shoulder, spinning her around and whispering in her ear. “There is no way that is your mother…”
“I know…”
Daiwa Scarlet’s mother was somehow a splitting image of Agnes Tachyon.
Everything about them was identical; the lazy red eyes, the brown hair with darker tipped ears, and somehow their fashion sense and mannerisms, too. It was as if Vodka had travelled to the future and she was looking at what Tachyon would become—a domesticated slightly more sane mother. Or maybe she’s living in the woman’s past… “I’m so sorry for my rude behaviour, Mrs. Daiwa…”
The older Umamusume placed her hands on her hips, laughing at her daughter’s rival’s behaviour. “Oh, please, Mrs. Daiwa makes me sound elderly. Calling me Bouquet surely sounds a lot better.”
“R…right…”
Bouquet hummed in thought, her eyes looking around the crowds. “Say, Scarlet dear, where is your trainer? I wish to see the woman I’ve entrusted my dearest daughter to, given we haven’t met yet.” Vodka and Scarlet looked at each other, genuine dread in their expressions. If Bouquet were to meet (Name), she’d surely meet Agnes Tachyon, and if those two crossed paths… It would be some trippy “the day after tomorrow’s yesterday” type of moment.
“Scarlet!!” Speak of the devil and thou shall appear. An all too familiar voice called out from behind Daiwa Scarlet, the girl hesitating to turn around. Slender arms wrapped and oversized fabric were suddenly hooked around her neck as Tachyon hugged her from behind. “You did absolutely wonderful out there! You actually had me awestruck—you really didn’t need my latest mixture!”
The brunette Umamusume went quiet, looking up from Scarlet’s shoulder as she came face-to-face with another horse girl. The two stared at each other in silence, allowing the trainer to catch up, Tanino Gimlet trailing behind. “Oya? Pray tell, who is this, Scarlet?” Bouquet held genuine curiosity in her voice, as if blind to the young lady before her. Those around them stared at the two women, their eyes shifting back and forth between them.
Scarlet’s father and her trainer, seeing the resemblance, looked on at their respective romantic partners in pure horror. Both had the same thought process as they stared at the two geniuses:
‘There’s a second Bouquet…’
‘There’s a second Tachyon…’
However, Tanino Gimlet and Vodka stared at Mr. Daiwa and (Name). Like mentor and mentee, they too had the same thought process; only it was not about Bouquet and Tachyon. Vodka turned to look at Gimlet, never having been this confused in her life. “It’s like she’s looking into a freaky mirror that reflects an alternate world of her…”
“A world where she’s a man…”
Vodka looked over at her rival, seeing Scarlet’s orange-red ears tilted in shame. “Did you manifest Tachyon and your trainer? No wonder you call them your parents—they quite literally are just your parents.”
Tachyon stared deeply into Bouquet’s eyes before finally realizing who she was. She threw her hands (sleeves) into the air, excitement gleaming in her eyes. “I know who you are!” ‘You do…?’ The same two words, same question echoed in the other five’s minds. “I use your mathematical theorems when building my electrical equipment! I’ve even seen your pictures in Tracen’s Hall of Fame—you are one crazy runner. Your stories are printed on the school’s walls.”
Bouquet laughed, having been recognized after all of these years. “And you’re that Phantom Triple Crown girl! Despite running one classic race, they call you as such because the two girls who did win the Derby and Kikuka Sho didn’t stand a chance against you. What are the chances of running into you?”
“Well, factoring in the fact I don’t really watch races in person, even then, it’s for specific girls, and I hear from Scarlet you’re normally too busy to make it to her races personally, I’d guess about a 5.7% chance, give or take.”
“Hm, you must not get out much if the number is that low.”
“It would have been lower, but I also factored in the reasoning behind that Scarlet and I share the same trainer at the end of the day. So—.”
“—we would have met at some point, but it was only a small chance we met today.”
“Precisely!”
Bouquet hummed, understanding the logical explanation for the probability number. The two really were identical in every way… If it weren’t for the fact Bouquet is the slightest bit taller and her hair much longer, ending just at her waist while Tachyon’s was cut quite short, the two could have been easily mistaken for identical twins—or worse, clones.
Tachyon covered her mouth, a mischievous grin curling her lips. “I was wondering who raised a unit of an Umamusume. Your Daiwa Scarlet is truly an incredible young girl.”
“Tachyon-san!!” Scarlet huffed, embarrassed by her tutor’s words.
The Tachyon replica (or is Tachyon a Bouquet replica…) laughed at the newfound information on her daughter. “And I was wondering how she managed to stay on top of her classes. You turned her into a wonderful student yourself.”
“Mama!!”
Trainer and Scarlet’s father turned to look at each other, nodding in acknowledgement at their presence. Their partners continued their weird riddle-speaking conversation, the two humans standing to the side, unsure what to do. (Name) broke the silence with a cough. “This is…very awkward.”
“Tell me about it… It’s like looking at a younger version of my wife…”
“Really? To me, it’s like looking at my girlfriend’s future…”
An odd silence enveloped the air around them. Scarlet’s father looked at her trainer, “so I assume that you’re the one training her.”
“Oh, yes! I’m (Name), sir—Mr. Daiwa.” Motioning over to her own brown-haired horse girl, letting out a heavy sigh. “As your wife has already realized, this is Agnes Tachyon. She assists in training Daiwa Scarlet as she’s currently on a racing hiatus.”
While the two pairs conversed with their respective “alternate selves,” Vodka looked over at Scarlet yet again. Her dark brows were furrowed, still feeling as if she had managed to find herself on a completely different planet. “Is this why you call Tachyon and (Name) “mama and papa”? ‘Cause they quite literally—,” she flicked a hand over at their seniors and married couple, repeating her words from before, “—look like your parents.”
Scarlet looked down at the ground in shame. Slowly nodding in confirmation, she responded, “it doesn’t help that Tachyon-san and Trainer are dating, too…” She breathed in sharply. “The amount of times I’ve walked in on Trainer smothering Tachyon-san with affection… It genuinely feels like walking in on your parents, and this doesn’t help.”
Looking over at her daughter’s friends (or more like rival-friend and her other senior), Bouquet sighed, relief filling her tone. “I’m so glad Scarlet has found herself a good group to be around… She’s always struggled with making friends her age and not one of the teachers…” By now, Daiwa Scarlet’s face was flushed in a deep red, her mother continuously spouting about her childhood. “She’s always been more attached to the adults, and I just get so worried that she went and did it again with only making friends with her teachers.”
“Well, it’s more like she’s mainly friends with the senior students…” Vodka grumbled, her sight shifting to her flustered rival in the corner of her eyes.
“A step in the right direction, nonetheless.”
Mr. Daiwa nodded in agreement at his wife’s words about their daughter. “We know we can’t attend all of her races, but we can only hope our support from afar is enough.”
“You’re like a doormat, dear.”
“Oh…”
Bouquet looked over at her husband, a grin on her face. “Well, I suppose we should head off now. Don’t worry, Scarlet sweetie, we’ll be back for your winning live performance tonight.” The uma giggled, grabbing on to the man’s arm as he blushed in embarrassment. Bouquet looked up at her daughter’s trainer, smiling softly. “It was also a pleasure to meet you too, and thank you for looking after our dear Scarlet. She can be a bit of a temperamental girl when she wants to.”
“Mama!!!”
Trainer waved her hand, showing a crooked smile of her own. “It’s fine, Mrs. Bouquet, your daughter has been no trouble at all.”
Scarlet’s mother sighed in relief again, “that’s good. She gets her personality from her grandparents… Well now, it was nice to see you all!” The woman leaned over, kissing her daughter on her forehead as a farewell before turning around. Pulling her husband along with her extreme strength (something she had developed during her time as an athlete), Scarlet’s parents left the scene. They watched and heard as the man’s complaints over her sheer strength fade into the distance, the two walking away together with their arms locked.
Everyone waved them off, albeit some more awkwardly than others. Gimlet stood oddly still and quiet the entire time before finally breaking her own silence, “I’m not crazy, right?” Tachyon turned to look at the wine-red horse girl. “She looked like you. That’s not even one of my exaggerations; she looked identical to you.”
Tachyon blinked. Her red gaze was firmly on the supposed “God” Umamusume. “Well of course she did, I’m not that blind. I found that out years ago.”
Gimlet looked over at the trainer. “And he looked like a male version of you!”
(Name)’s eyes widened at the accusation. “He did?!”
“Yes, it was quite amusing, but I thought you had realized.” The brunette senior Umamusume looked over at girlfriend, pursing her lips in thought. “Although, that now explains why Scarlet mistakenly calls us her parents.” Wrapping her arms around her student’s shoulders, Tachyon engulfed the junior into a large hug. Her messy tail wagged around, a positive feeling coursing through her veins. “Ah, Scarlet! You can continue calling me “mama” all you want!”
“No way!!”
Vodka pointed at Tachyon in complete disbelief. “Why do you seem so casual about this!?”
Tachyon let go of Scarlet, humming in though. She had her arms folded, tapping her feet on the ground. “One in 135 people.” The group looked over at her, every one of them having their brows furrowed at whatever nonsense she started going on about now. “Every one in 135 or so have a “doppelganger,” or something of the like. Even if someone looks identical to you, there’s bound to be one or two attributes in their physiological features that allows you to determine the difference, but they tend to be something small—unnoticeable to the naked eye.”
Nothing was said.
“While Scarlet’s mother and I look identical, she has several features that I do not, such as her physiological DNA allowing her to grow taller, as well as her curvier physique and rhytides—otherwise known wrinkles caused by aging. Although, her thicker body is most likely due to her pregnancy with Scarlet…” Tachyon rambled on about Bouquet before shaking her head. “It appears I have also found myself quite peckish.” Grabbing on to (Name)’s arm, she pulled her girlfriend along with the human trainer being unable to fight back. “Come, Guinea Pig! I must consume my nutrients!”
Tanino Gimlet, Daiwa Scarlet and Vodka watched as the two faded into the crowd, their figures and behaviour being exactly like what Scarlet’s parents did. A super-genius athlete Umamusume with brown hair and red eyes as well as her extremely supportive yet extremely pathetic romantic partner… What were the chances…
✦✧✦✧
Several days had gone by since meeting Scarlet’s parents for the first time, leaving to the scene now where Trainer, Tachyon, and said Double Tiara Uma (or as many still refer to her as a Triple Tiara) in Tachyon’s personal laboratory.
One of the few times where Tachyon wasn’t doing any odd experiments. She was seated on the couch—Café’s couch—tutoring Scarlet for an upcoming exam she had. The two were deep in discussion about one of the questions while (Name) sat at the desk where the brunette senior would normally be sitting, typing away at her laptop. She chimed in occasionally, having majored in biology herself when she was back in school when she was studying to become a trainer, but kept to her trainer duties mainly.
Scarlet tapped her pen on her notebook’s page, thoughts deep in her head as she attempted to figure out the answer. “What is the most important muscle for running…” She hummed, her ears twitching and falling the more she thought. Tachyon was sitting with her legs crossed, sipping her tea as a small slice of cake let off a delicious, sweet aroma. “Uhm… It’s a…trick question?” Scarlet answered despite how unsure she was.
Tachyon nodded in confirmation. “Your body requires five muscles for running, not one, and those muscles are?”
“Hamstring, calf muscles, core muscles, glutes, and…quadriceps…?” Scarlet dragged out the final word, still unsure of her answer.
Tachyon nodded again in confirmation. “Even if one of them had their performance off, your running will change entirely and your form will feel wrongly different. Your body requires those five muscles to run at its best.” Scarlet wrote down Tachyon’s words with eagerness, making sure it was simplified to understand in future.
Tachyon looked over at a glass case, the shelves filled with trophies from the few trainees (Name) looked after, with the new addition of Daiwa Scarlet’s Shuka Sho win. Her gaze moved to another trophy that sat on its lonesome—her own Satsuki Sho win. Unlike Scarlet, Tachyon never got to make that comeback, her hiatus having lasted well over a year now. Trainees only ever have one chance to run the Derby, and she missed hers, that stupid Jungle Pocket rival of hers running and taking home the trophy instead.
Scarlet slammed her pen down, interrupting Tachyon’s less than positive thoughts, an exhausted sigh falling from her lips. “I’m so tired… But, it will all be worth it. I’ll top the exam board yet again!” Scarlet sat up, taking the handle of her own cup of tea between her fingers. She took a sip, tasting the sweet liquid fall into her mouth. “I’ll be running the Queen Elizabeth II Cup next, right, Trainer?”
The woman spun on the chair abruptly, as if shocked by the sudden question. “Ah! Yes. I already have the next month’s regiment planned—, unless, of course, you just wish to relax. You did just have a race…”
The copper-haired Umamusume sat in silence, pondering over the decision, before coming to a conclusion. “I think…I might spend some time with my family.”
“Oh?” Tachyon looked over at her student. “Pray tell, why do you wish to spend time with them?”
“Well… Mama is always busy at work, so she’s rarely home. She already said she will be going overseas again in two weeks, so I think I’ll spend those two weeks with her as much as I can.”
The trainer felt her heart melt at the sincerity of Scarlet’s words. She’s heard her go on rambles—very similar to Tachyon’s—when it came to all her mother achieved. She was a genius Umamusume who had several large titles slip between her fingers. Despite never winning the triple crown, a triple tiara, or even the Derby, she was still known for her high speeds. Stories now all too familiar as it came full circle… “You’re a sweet girl, Scarlet.” It was no wonder she looked up to Tachyon.
The sound of the school bell echoed throughout the school, causing Scarlet to panic. She chugged the last of her tea before quickly packing her things. “Thank you again for tutoring me! I’ll be back after school, okay, mama—!” Scarlet was half way out the door before she stopped in her steps. “Ah, sorry… Tachyon-san, Trainer…” Scarlet walked out of the room in a more stiff manner, embarrassed by her words as she mumbled to herself “that’s not mama, that’s Tachyon-san” continuously down the hall.
Once she was out of earshot, (Name) turned to look at said brunette Umamusume. “Skipping class again?” All Tachyon did was hum, taking a bite out of the cake set in front of her. With a playful singing tone, (Name) replied to the confirmation, “okay, I just don’t want your grades dropping.” Normally a joke that Tachyon would bite back with her own snide remark was now met with silence. The trainer didn’t think too much, telling herself that perhaps the phantom horse girl wanted some quiet.
It would have been understandable given Scarlet’s eccentric personality, and while Tachyon’s thoughts were on her junior, they were for different reasons. She thought long and hard about her. Tachyon wasn’t all familiar with supposedly “loving” parents given hers chose to do a hands-off approach of raising her—supporting her from afar, never getting too close. Like Scarlet’s mother, they were legends in the racing world, but unlike Scarlet’s, they were oddly distant.
Despite her clearly introverted demeanor, Bouquet did seem to love Daiwa Scarlet with her entire heart. It made her feel…weird, in a way.
The imagery in her head suddenly changed, going from thoughts about Scarlet and her mother to Tachyon’s own future. She wasn’t one to care for what would happen, mainly caring for the now. What good is there to worry about what could happen when she could just go through with it. Yet seeing those flashes of possibilities; imagery of a could be; a future that might happen…
Tachyon groaned, stretching her neck after having been hunched for so long, the thoughts coming to an end before it paused on one in particular.
Tachyon had thought she was imagining Bouquet, given their similar appearances, but something inside of her told her that she wasn’t. A silhouette of a brown-haired Umamusume holding a clothed bundle in her arms, a small hand grasping onto the woman’s finger… Something inside Tachyon suddenly felt lighter yet her breath was caught at the back of her throat. It was as if this thought was both right and wrong, something she wanted despite its impracticality—perhaps the opposite, being something that made sense despite it being unwanted.
It caused Agnes Tachyon to start mumbling nonsense to herself, her thoughts running wild with equations and chemical theories. “If I take a sample of my guinea pig’s DNA and alter it just a bit, keeping her overall physiological features yet allowing it to behave as if it was of XY chromosome DNA, then maybe…” She hummed, her eyes occasionally looking at (Name). “No, there’s no guarantee it’d be like Scarlet… But there is the possibility…”
Tachyon’s gaze shifted to her ankle. Despite having long since healed, the bandage remained tight, a constant reminder of the Satsuki Sho outcome.
The silence had become uncomfortable to Tachyon’s girlfriend by now, prompting her to turn the chair around. “Tachyon, are you okay?” She followed her line of sight, eventually falling to look at her ankle as well. “Is it hurting again?
“No, I’m just thinking.”
Excusing the thoughts, Tachyon took another bite out of the cake on the plate, only to look up at her trainer yet again. Despite her hiatus, (Name) never left her side, continuing to support whatever nonsense she had in store. Like a doormat, the trainer allowed the researcher to go wild on her body, taking various samples from saliva to blood, testing various liquified abominations she had created in that very lab.
What an odd trainer she was.
She really was an awful lot like Scarlet’s father—judging from the few stories Scarlet shared about him, someone easily pushed around. Suddenly, the thoughts were back, only more intense this time.
“Guinea Pig, it appears I desire a child similar to little Scarlet now.”
heart — „ not on one knee, but two. both knees pressed to the cold tile, looking up at you with those hazel eyes that had always seen straight through to your soul. his hands had reached for you, circled your waist, pulled you close until his face pressed against your stomach. "
your glass is half empty, but your heart is full. music pulses through the magically expanded tent, fairy lights strung across the ceiling like captured stars. you watch james across the room, his hair just as wild as the day you met him, his smile just as bright. he's talking to sirius, laughing at something his best friend said, and then—as if pulled by some unseen force—his eyes find yours through the crowd.
his gaze softens. seven years together and he still looks at you like you're his favorite constellation in the night sky.
"you're staring again," lily says, nudging you with her elbow. her emerald eyes sparkle with amusement.
"it's my wedding. i'm allowed," you reply, taking another sip of champagne. "besides, have you seen my husband?"
the word still feels strange on your tongue. husband. james potter is your husband.
"only every day for the past decade," lily rolls her eyes. "though i will admit he cleans up nice. even if he couldn't be bothered to tame that bird's nest he calls hair."
"i'd have married someone else if he had," you say, and it's true. james wouldn't be james without the perpetual bedhead, without the crooked glasses and lopsided grin.
marlene mckinnon slides into the seat on your other side, her cheeks flushed from dancing or drinking or both. "there's the blushing bride," she says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "how does it feel to finally make an honest man of james potter?"
"like i've made a terrible mistake," you deadpan, making lily snort into her drink.
"too late now," marlene grins, passing you a shot of something amber and potent-smelling. "might as well enjoy the ride."
you take the shot, wincing at the burn. "where's dorcas?"
"last i saw, teaching frank longbottom how to dance properly. poor alice was looking relieved."
across the room, james excuses himself from sirius and makes his way toward you, navigating through dancing couples and tipsy well-wishers. he moves with that same casual confidence that used to make you want to hex him and kiss him in equal measure.
"there you are," he says when he reaches you, as if you've been lost rather than standing in plain sight. his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing. "miss me?"
"terribly," you deadpan. "these whole five minutes have been excruciating."
"don't mind me," lily says. "i'll just go find remus and leave you two to be disgustingly in love."
"i'll come with," marlene adds, giving you a wink. "save her from the third-wheeling."
james watches them go before turning back to you, tugging you closer until you're pressed against him. "having fun, mrs. potter?"
"that's not my name," you remind him. you'd kept your own.
"worth a shot," he grins, not at all put out. "having fun, then, light of my life? star of my existence? keeper of my—"
you press your finger to his lips. "if you say 'heart' i'm filing for divorce."
"i was going to say 'keeper of my chocolate frog card collection,' actually, which is much more sacred than my heart. you can have a dozen hearts. there's only one mint condition dumbledore from 1968."
this makes you laugh, the sound lost in the music. "yes, i'm having fun. are you?"
"best day of my life," he says, suddenly serious. his hazel eyes, warm behind his glasses, hold yours. "well, second best. best was when you said yes in our kitchen while wearing my quidditch jersey and nothing else."
"james!" you hiss, glancing around, but no one is paying attention to you.
"what? it's true," he shrugs, unrepentant. "you looked like a dream, with your hair all messy and that hangover potion in your hand. knew right then i'd made the right choice."
"you'd already bought the ring," you point out. "four months before, according to sirius."
"seven," james corrects. "bought it seven months before. sirius can't keep a secret for shit."
you blink at him. "seven months? we'd only been living together for—"
"three years, yes. but i knew long before that." james pulls you toward the edge of the dance floor, away from the crush of bodies. "want to get some air?"
you nod, letting him lead you outside the tent. the summer night embraces you, warm and fragrant with flowers from the garden. music drifts through the canvas, muted now. fairy lights dot the garden path, illuminating the way to a small bench beneath an oak tree.
james sits, pulling you down beside him. his thumb traces circles on the back of your hand.
"what did you mean, you knew long before?" you ask.
he smiles, the kind of smile that starts in his eyes. "do you remember centennial park?"
"of course." it was your favorite spot in london, a place you'd often go to read and escape the chaos of the city. "what about it?"
"i saw you there once. before we properly spoke. you were sitting on the grass, reading, and i thought you were the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen."
you stare at him. "what? when was this?"
"summer before sixth year. i was with sirius, visiting his cousin andromeda. we were walking through the park and there you were."
"why didn't you say anything?"
james laughs softly. "because i was sixteen and stupid. i was so afraid of messing it up. after five years of watching you from afar at hogwarts, almost working up the courage a hundred times only to chicken out... sirius would have never let me live it down if i'd frozen again."
you try to remember that summer, try to picture james potter—all gangly limbs and untamable hair—watching you from across a park. "i don't believe you."
"true story. you were wearing a blue sundress. had your hair up in this messy bun thing." his fingers brush against your neck, mimicking the style. "there was a coffee cup next to you—"
"from that little shop on the corner," you finish. "the one with the blueberry scones."
james nods. "i almost went over to talk to you. sirius dared me to. but then someone called your name and you packed up your things and left."
"and then what? you continued pining for me until we finally got together in sixth year?" you tease, remembering how it all changed between you.
"hey," james protests with a soft smile. "it wasn't just pining. i was strategizing."
"strategizing?" you laugh. "is that what you call staring at me across the great hall for five years?"
"it was sophisticated wooing," james insists. "carefully planned and executed."
"you accidentally turned my potions book into a singing toad."
"that was phase one," he says with absolute seriousness. "get your attention."
"by ruining my homework?"
"i never claimed it was a perfect plan." his thumb brushes over your wedding band. "but it worked eventually, didn't it? sixth year, hogsmeade weekend, you finally said yes."
"only because you promised to help me with transfiguration," you remind him.
"details," he waves dismissively. "the point is, you fell for my charm in the end."
something warm unfurls in your chest. "i fell for a lot more than that."
"i'm drunk on love," he says, so earnestly that you can't even tease him for it.
"do you remember that awful yogurt shop?" you ask, changing the subject before you start crying and ruin your makeup. "the one i worked at during summers?"
james groans. "merlin, that place. what was it called? something ridiculous."
"frosty's fantastical frozen yogurt fantasies," you recite. "sixteen flavors and thirty toppings."
"and one very fit employee who wouldn't give me the time of day," james adds.
you roll your eyes. "because you came in every day for two weeks straight and ordered the most complicated combinations possible."
"i was supporting your place of employment!"
"you were being a pest," you correct. "and leaving outrageous tips."
james doesn't deny it. "got your attention though, didn't i?"
"you did," you admit. "but not in the way you hoped. i thought you were this privileged pureblood who'd never worked a day in his life, slumming it in a muggle shop for kicks."
"ouch," james winces. "that bad?"
"worse," you assure him. "i had a whole speech prepared about wealth inequality and the exploitation of service workers."
"what changed your mind?"
you think back to that summer, to james potter in a teal t-shirt leaning against the counter and asking for kiwi-strawberry yogurt with every topping they had. "you came in one day when it was pouring rain. i was the only one working, and this group of kids came in—soaking wet, no money. you bought them all yogurt, but you made it seem like the shop was running a special. so they wouldn't feel like charity cases."
james looks surprised. "you saw that?"
"hard to miss," you say softly. "especially when you left without even ordering anything for yourself. just paid for them and left."
he shrugs, embarrassed. "wasn't a big deal."
"it was to me." you lean in, kiss him softly. "that's when i started to think maybe james potter wasn't so bad after all."
"high praise," he murmurs against your lips.
"don't let it go to your head," you whisper back, but it's too late—it already has. sixteen years old and his ego had been big enough to rival the giant squid.
a burst of laughter erupts from the tent, followed by the unmistakable sound of sirius black's barking laugh.
"we should get back," you say, though you're reluctant to break this moment. "before sirius sends out a search party."
"let him search," james says, pulling you closer. "i'm not done with you yet."
his kisses are familiar now, mapped over years of wanting and having and loving. but they still make your heart race, still make your magic hum beneath your skin.
"i love you," you murmur against his mouth. "even if you are an insufferable prat sometimes."
"i love you too," he says, serious now. "even when you steal the covers and leave your tea bags in the sink."
before you can respond, a voice calls from the tent.
"prongs! get your tongue out of her mouth and get back in here! it's time for speeches!"
james pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. "duty calls."
"who thought it was a good idea to let sirius give a speech?" you groan.
"probably the same person who thought it was a good idea to let him be best man," james replies. "oh wait, that was me."
you stand, smoothing down your dress. james rises beside you, offers his arm with an exaggerated bow.
"shall we, my love?"
"we shall," you say, taking his arm. "but if sirius mentions the time he got caught us the restricted section, i'm hexing both of you."
james laughs, the sound bright in the summer darkness. "deal."
when you re-enter the tent, you find that someone—almost certainly sirius—has transfigured the center of the dance floor into a small stage. there's a microphone stand that looks suspiciously like it was stolen from a muggle karaoke bar, and fairy lights have been arranged to create a spotlight effect.
sirius himself is standing center stage, his long hair pulled back into a messy bun, glass of firewhiskey in hand. he's shed his formal jacket sometime in the past hour, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that wind around his forearms. he looks like a rock star who wandered into a wedding by mistake.
"ah, there they are!" he announces as you and james approach. "our guests of honor, finally decided to join their own party. ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, please welcome mr. and... well, not mrs., because our bride is a modern witch who kept her name, but you get the idea!"
there's applause and cheering as james leads you to your seats at the head table. you notice remus rolling his eyes fondly at sirius's antics, though there's an unmistakable flush to his cheeks as he watches sirius command the room.
"now," sirius continues once you're settled, "as best man, it is my solemn duty to embarrass the groom as thoroughly as possible while still being invited to future family gatherings. so let me tell you all about james fleamont potter, the boy who spent seven years chasing after the same girl..."
you glance at james, who has the grace to look slightly embarrassed but mostly proud.
"for those who weren't there," sirius says, "let me paint you a picture. hogwarts, 1971. a skinny kid with glasses too big for his face and hair that defied multiple gravitational laws sees this girl—" he gestures to you "—getting sorted into ravenclaw. and do you know what this idiot whispers to me?"
the crowd murmurs curiously.
"he says, and i quote, 'i'm going to marry her someday.' first day, mind you. hadn't even spoken to her yet."
there are awws and chuckles throughout the tent. you turn to james with raised eyebrows.
"did you really say that?" you whisper.
james shrugs, looking sheepish. "more or less."
"more or less nothing," sirius interjects, his hearing apparently supernaturally good when it comes to potential embarrassment. "those were your exact words, prongs. followed by 'don't tell her i said that,' which, well... sorry mate, but the statute of limitations on that promise has expired."
more laughter. sirius takes a dramatic sip of his drink.
"for the next five years," he continues, "we all had to endure james's endless pining. and when i say endless, i mean endless. 'do you think she noticed me in class today?' 'should i try to sit near her at dinner?' 'does she hate me or just strongly dislike me?'"
remus stands up then, joining sirius on the small stage. "to be fair," he says into the microphone, "some of his concerns were valid. she did hate him for a while."
you can't help but laugh, because it's true. you'd thought james potter was an arrogant toerag for most of your early hogwarts years.
"i didn't hate him," you call out. "i just thought he was incredibly annoying."
"same difference to a fifteen-year-old boy," remus points out, earning another round of laughter.
sirius slings an arm around remus's shoulders. "moony here was actually the one who finally knocked some sense into james. told him that maybe, just maybe, hexing snape and showing off on the quidditch pitch wasn't the way to a girl's heart."
"shocking concept," remus deadpans.
"revolutionary," sirius agrees. "and yet, somehow, when james finally stopped being a complete prat and started being just a partial prat, something magical happened."
"she agreed to go to hogsmeade with him," remus finishes.
"one date," sirius holds up a finger. "that's all it took. one date, and james came back to the dormitory looking like he'd been confunded. flopped on his bed and just stared at the ceiling for three hours straight. when peter asked how it went, all he could say was 'i'm so fucked.'"
peter, sitting at a nearby table, raises his glass in confirmation. "true story," he calls.
james buries his face in his hands, but you can see him smiling through his fingers.
"and then," sirius continues, eyes gleaming with mischief, "our dear james here decided the best way to impress our lovely bride was to transfigure the great hall ceiling to spell out her name in stars. unfortunately, his spelling was atrocious, and the entire school was treated to—"
"alright, that's enough," james interrupts, standing up. there's laughter rippling through the tent, faces bright with amusement and alcohol. "i think we've all heard quite enough about my teenage idiocy."
"but i haven't gotten to the part about the restricted section yet," sirius protests, winking at you.
you groan, burying your face in your hands as james reaches for his wand with mock threat.
"moving on," sirius says quickly, raising his glass. "in all seriousness—yes, i can be serious occasionally, thank you very much—i've never seen two people more perfectly suited. james, mate, you're my brother in everything but blood, and watching you find someone who loves all of you—even the annoying bits—has been the greatest gift."
james settles back down beside you, his hand finding yours under the table.
"and you," sirius continues, turning to you. "you've not only put up with this idiot, but you've made him better. happier. you've become family to all of us. so here's to both of you, to love that makes sense even when nothing else does, and to whatever invisible thread of fate brought you together. cheers!"
"cheers!" echoes through the tent as everyone raises their glasses.
you turn to james, finding him already looking at you with that soft expression that makes your stomach flip. "did you write that for him?" you whisper.
"didn't have to," james murmurs back. "he means every word."
sirius hands the microphone to remus, who steps forward as sirius steps back, though not before giving remus's hand a squeeze that doesn't escape your notice.
"i'm not quite as good at speechmaking as sirius," remus begins, his voice soft but carrying. "but i've had the unique privilege of watching this relationship unfold from the beginning."
you smile encouragingly at him. quiet, steady remus has always been the one you confided in when james was driving you mad.
"james has been my friend since our first night at hogwarts, when he noticed i was too nervous to sleep and stayed up all night playing exploding snap with me instead." remus's voice holds a note of fond remembrance. "he's loyal to a fault, stubborn as a hippogriff, and has never once made me feel like less because of my... health issues."
there's a subtle shift in the room. only those closest to remus know about his lycanthropy, but everyone respects the discretion.
"what many people don't know," remus continues, "is that our brightest bride here figured out my secret in second year. and instead of running away or telling everyone, she started leaving chocolate on my bed after particularly rough... illnesses."
you feel james's surprised gaze on you. "you never told me that," he whispers.
"wasn't my secret to tell," you whisper back.
"so when james finally wore her down in sixth year," remus says with a small smile, "i wasn't surprised at all. because she's just as kind, just as loyal, and just as stubbornly good as he is. they're a matched set. never seen anyone fall so hard, so fast," he says, smiling. "and never been more glad to be proven wrong when i told him he didn't stand a chance."
he raises his glass. "to james and his wife, who make me believe that even in the darkest times, there's light to be found if you know where to look."
the toast is met with a quieter, more reverent raising of glasses. james squeezes your hand under the table.
lily steps up next, her red hair catching the fairy lights like fire.
"i've known the bride since we were sat in the train to hogwarts together," she begins. "terrified eleven-year-olds pretending we weren't. we became friends bonding over how annoying we found a certain messy-haired boy."
james makes an indignant noise that makes everyone laugh.
lily's speech makes you cry, recounting your friendship from hogwarts days through the war, through heartbreak and triumph. "you told me once you'd never fall for james potter," she reminds you. "said he was too arrogant, too sure of himself."
"he was!" you protest, laughing through tears.
"he still is," lily agrees. "but you love him anyway, and that's what matters."
she talks about late nights in either of your girls' dormitory, about secrets shared and dreams confessed. about the day you came to her dorm from your first date with james, torn between annoyance and attraction. "you said, and i'll never forget this, 'the worst thing about james potter is that he's somehow exactly who i thought he was and nothing like i expected all at once.'"
you'd forgotten that, but hearing lily say it brings the memory rushing back—sitting cross-legged on her bed, confused by how much you'd enjoyed yourself with someone you'd spent years dismissing.
"i asked if you were going to see him again," lily continues, "and you said 'merlin help me, but i think i am.' and here we are, all these years later, and i couldn't be happier to be proven right."
she raises her glass. "to my best friend and the boy who turned out to be worthy of her after all. may your lives together be as full of surprise and wonder as that first date."
peter stands next, visibly nervous but determined. his speech starts haltingly, but gains confidence as he goes.
"i'm not good with words like the others," he admits. "but james has been my friend when a lot of people wouldn't have bothered. he stood up for me, included me, made me feel like i belonged."
he turns to you. "and you never made me feel like i was just tagging along with them. you helped me with my charms homework and never made me feel stupid for asking questions."
his voice grows stronger. "i remember when james came back from asking you to marry him. he looked shell-shocked, like he couldn't believe you'd said yes. sat down on the sofa and just stared at nothing for ten minutes straight. then he looked at us and said 'she's going to be my wife,' like he'd just won the quidditch world cup."
there's a ripple of laughter, and peter smiles, more confident now.
"what i'm trying to say is, you two make sense together. you're both kind to people who don't always deserve it. you both see the best in others. and you both fight for what's right, even when it's hard." his voice wavers slightly. "in dark times, that means everything."
peter's speech is brief, nervous, but sincere. he talks about james's loyalty, about how you've brought out the best in him. "to the happiest couple i know," he finishes, raising his glass.
after the speeches, sirius claps his hands together. "right, enough of the emotional stuff! time for some games!"
you glance at james. "games?" you mouth.
he shrugs, looking equally surprised.
"first up," sirius announces, "the newlywed game! let's see how well these two actually know each other, shall we?"
before you can protest, sirius has conjured two chairs back-to-back in the center of the stage and is beckoning you and james forward.
"come on, lovebirds. don't be shy."
james stands, offering you his hand with a laugh. "shall we show them how it's done?"
with a resigned sigh that can't quite hide your amusement, you follow him to the stage. sirius separates you, sitting you in one chair with your back to james in the other.
"now," sirius says, handing each of you a small chalkboard and chalk, "i'll ask a question, and you both write down your answers. no peeking!"
marlene whoops from the crowd. "make them good questions, black!"
"when and where was your first kiss?" sirius asks.
you smile, writing quickly on your chalkboard. when sirius calls time, you hold up your answer: "astronomy tower, sixth year, after gryffindor beat slytherin."
james's board reads exactly the same, with the addition of "she kissed me first."
"that is not true!" you protest, turning to glare at him. "you kissed me!"
"i was going to," james defends, "but you got impatient and grabbed my tie."
the crowd roars with laughter as you feel your cheeks flush. "that's... that's not how i remember it."
"really?" sirius interjects. "because that's exactly how james described it to us afterward. said it was the best moment of his life."
you turn back to james, who's grinning sheepishly. "i may have embellished slightly when telling the lads. but you did grab my tie."
"moving on," sirius says gleefully. "who said 'i love you' first?"
this time, both your boards read "james," no hesitation.
"after the full moon in march," james's board elaborates. "when you brought hot chocolate to the shack for all of us."
you remember that night—the worry as you waited for the boys to emerge from the forbidden forest, the relief when they appeared, battered but intact. james had pulled you aside, eyes intense, and whispered those three words against your hair.
"correct!" sirius declares. "though disgustingly sappy. next question: what is your partner's most annoying habit?"
you write quickly, trying not to laugh. when sirius calls time, your board reads: "leaves his quidditch gear everywhere, even after i've asked him 500 times to put it away."
james's board reads: "talks during quidditch matches on the wireless."
"i do not!" you protest.
"you absolutely do," james counters. "especially during puddlemere games. 'why would he try that play?' 'the keeper should have seen that coming!' 'merlin's beard, that ref needs glasses!'"
you open your mouth to argue, then close it. he's not wrong.
"i stand by all my commentary," you say instead. "that ref did need glasses."
the game continues, questions ranging from "favorite dessert" (treacle tart for james, chocolate gateau for you, both answered correctly) to "most embarrassing moment".
by the end, you're both laughing so hard you can barely write, and the crowd is thoroughly entertained.
"final question," sirius announces. "when did you know you were in love?"
the tent grows quieter. you bite your lip, thinking, then write your answer carefully. when time is called, sirius has you read yours first.
"when he stood up to his own aunts and uncles about blood purity at christmas dinner, seventh year," you read. "he didn't know i could hear from the hallway. he said he'd rather be disowned than pretend to agree with such backwards thinking. that's when i knew it wasn't just attraction or affection. it was love."
there's a soft murmur through the crowd. james's parents, fleamont and euphemia, exchange proud looks from their table near the front.
"james?" sirius prompts, his voice gentler now.
james clears his throat. "first day of first year," he reads. "when she helped mary macdonald find her way to potions after a slytherin prefect deliberately gave her wrong directions. she was late to her own class to make sure mary got where she needed to go."
you stare at him, speechless. "that's... that's not possible. you didn't even know me then."
"i noticed you," james says simply. "i always noticed you."
there's an "aww" from the crowd that would normally make you roll your eyes, but you're too busy trying not to cry.
"and on that disgustingly sweet note," sirius declares, "i think the newlyweds win their own game! let's give them a round of applause!"
as the applause dies down, sirius changes tack. "now, who's ready for some real fun? it's time for magical musical chairs!"
what follows is possibly the most competitive game of musical chairs ever played, with enchanted chairs that occasionally skitter away from players trying to sit in them. frank longbottom ends up sprawled on the floor when his chair darts left at the last second. alice retaliates by casting a sticking charm on the next chair she approaches, leading to protests of cheating that sirius, as self-appointed referee, promptly ignores.
"there are no rules in love and magical musical chairs!" he declares, twirling his wand to restart the music.
to everyone's surprise, it's remus who emerges victorious, having quietly but effectively outmaneuvered everyone else. when the final chair tries to dart away, he simply casts a gentle freezing charm—not on the chair, but on the floor beneath it, causing the chair to slip and slide right back to him.
"that's my moony," sirius says proudly, slinging an arm around remus's shoulders as he awards him a conjured trophy that sings "we are the champions" when touched.
next comes a game of "pass the potion," where party guests form a circle and pass a mysterious (but harmless) potion around while music plays. when the music stops, whoever is holding the potion must take a sip—resulting in temporary effects ranging from speaking in rhymes (peter, much to his dismay) to sprouting flowers from their ears (minerva mcgonagall, who bears this indignity with remarkable grace).
james gets caught with the potion and ends up with blue hair for thirty minutes, which you assure him brings out his eyes. lily turns briefly invisible except for her floating head, causing widespread alarm until sirius assures everyone the effect is temporary. "probably," he adds under his breath, earning a smack from remus.
the night wears on, the party growing more raucous as inhibitions lower and the music gets louder. you find yourself passed from dance partner to dance partner—twirling with frank, doing an awkward shuffle with peter, being dramatically dipped by sirius while remus shakes his head fondly.
finally, marlene announces it's time for the bouquet toss. "gather round, all you single witches and wizards! let's see who's next down the aisle!"
you stand with your back to the crowd, bouquet of enchanted lilies and forget-me-nots in hand. with a count of three, you toss it over your shoulder.
there's a commotion, and when you turn, you see sirius standing there, bouquet in hand, looking both triumphant and mortified.
"i didn't even mean to catch it!" he protests. "it flew right at me!"
remus is doubled over laughing beside him. "the flowers have spoken, padfoot," he manages between gasps. "better start planning your outfit."
sirius's face cycles through several emotions in rapid succession before settling on amused resignation. "well," he says, "if i must." and then, to everyone's surprise, he drops to one knee in front of remus, bouquet extended dramatically. "moony, light of my life, terror of my full moons, would you do me the honor of making me the second-happiest man at this wedding?"
the tent goes silent. remus stares down at sirius, mouth agape. for a horrible moment, you think sirius has miscalculated, made a joke that's backfired terribly.
but then remus starts to laugh, a full-body laugh that lights up his entire face. "you absolute idiot," he says fondly. "get up."
sirius stays where he is, bouquet still extended. "is that a yes?"
"no, it's not a yes, because that wasn't a real proposal, and i am not accepting a marriage proposal at someone else's wedding, where you're proposing with someone else's bouquet, while half-drunk on firewhiskey," remus says reasonably.
"so it's a 'not yet'?" sirius clarifies, still kneeling.
remus rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "it's a 'ask me properly, when we're alone, preferably when you're sober, and then we'll talk'."
sirius beams, bounding to his feet. "he said we'll talk!" he announces to the crowd. "that's practically a yes from moony!"
the tension breaks, the room erupting in laughter and cheers. sirius sweeps remus into a dramatic kiss that has remus pushing him away, face flushed but smiling.
"sorry about that," remus murmurs as he passes you later. "didn't mean to steal your thunder."
"are you kidding?" you reply. "that was the highlight of the night."
when the party starts to wind down, well after midnight, james finds you chatting with lily and marlene. his hair is even messier than usual, his tie long since abandoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. he looks pleasantly disheveled and entirely too handsome for his own good.
"may i steal my wife for a dance?" he asks, extending his hand to you.
"you may," lily says before you can answer. "we were just leaving to get more drinks anyway."
marlene winks at you as they depart. "don't do anything i wouldn't do."
"that leaves a lot of room for interpretation," you call after her.
james laughs, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. the music has slowed, most guests either departed or engaged in quiet conversations around the edges of the tent. sirius and remus are dancing nearby, foreheads pressed together, talking too softly for anyone else to hear.
"having fun?" james asks, his hand warm on your waist.
"more than i expected," you admit. "though i'm still not sure why we let sirius plan the games portion of the evening."
"because we love him, and he threatened to bring a real-life nundu as his plus-one if we didn't."
you laugh, resting your head on james's shoulder. "he and remus, huh? finally?"
"finally," james agrees. "only took them, what, ten years of pining? amateurs. i had my shit together much faster."
"yes, seven years is very efficient,"
james's hand traces up and down your spine. "thank you," he says after a moment.
"for what?"
"for saying yes. in our kitchen. for giving me a chance all those years ago. for loving me even when i make it difficult."
"you do make it very difficult sometimes," you tease, but your voice catches.
"i know." he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. "but i promise to spend the rest of my life making it worth it."
"it already is," you tell him. "worth it."
you dance in silence for a while, lost in the music and the moment. james's heartbeat steady under your cheek.
"do you believe in fate?" he asks suddenly.
you consider the question. "i don't know. maybe."
"i never used to," he says. "thought it was all rubbish, divination and destiny and all that. but then..."
"then?"
"then i met you. properly talked to you, that day in sixth year when you hexed macnair for bullying that second year. and you looked at me like maybe, just maybe, i wasn't the last person you wanted to see."
you smile at the memory. "you actually stood up for me when slughorn came around the corner."
"of course i did," james says, like there was never any other option. "you were right to hex him. besides, i'd been waiting years for you to look at me with anything other than annoyance."
"but there you were," james continues. "and somehow, out of all the students at hogwarts, we ended up in the same house, partners in transfiguration in sixth year, falling in love despite your best efforts to resist me." he grins. "what are the odds?"
"your persistence wore me down," you quip, but there's no bite to it.
"my irresistible charm you mean," he corrects.
"against all odds," you agree, ignoring his smug look.
"exactly." his fingers trace patterns on your back. "so maybe there is something to it. fate. destiny. some invisible string tying certain souls together across time."
"james potter, secret romantic," you murmur. "who would have thought?"
"only for you," he says. "only ever for you."
the music shifts to another song, slower, more intimate. james draws you impossibly closer.
"happy?" he asks, his breath warm against your hair.
you think about the journey that brought you here. from first year when james potter first noticed you, to a park bench years later, to that pivotal moment in sixth year when everything changed. through a war, through loss and triumph, through everyday moments that built a life.
to a kitchen proposal on new year's day.
the memory washes over you, so vivid you can almost taste the lingering champagne from the night before.
it had been a simple morning. both of you nursing mild hangovers, you in his quidditch jersey that hung to your thighs, him in pajama bottoms with snitches zooming across the fabric. sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows as you made hangover potions.
you'd been reaching for mugs when you turned and found him on the floor.
not on one knee, but two. both knees pressed to the cold tile, looking up at you with those hazel eyes that had always seen straight through to your soul. his hands had reached for you, circled your waist, pulled you close until his face pressed against your stomach.
"james?" your voice had been barely a whisper.
he'd tilted his head back, chin resting against your belly, eyes locked on yours. his hands trembled slightly against your waist.
"i'm not asking," he'd said, voice raw and honest in a way that made your heart stutter. "i'm begging. please be mine forever. please marry me. i've loved you since i was eleven years old. i've wanted this—wanted you—for so long i can't remember what it was like not to love you."
his arms had tightened around you, his face pressing into your stomach again before looking back up. "please," he whispered. "i'll get you a bigger ring if you want, plan a better proposal, anything—just please say yes."
the ring box had been balanced on his thigh, forgotten in his desperation. you'd reached down, touched his face, felt the slight stubble under your palm.
he'd buried his face against you then, shoulders shaking with emotion, before standing and crushing you to him, kissing you like he was drowning and you were air.
that had been the best day of your life.
until today.
"beyond happy," you answer truthfully. "you?"
james potter smiles down at you, that special smile that belongs only to you, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your heart stop.
"complete," he says simply.
and under the stars, invisible threads of fate winding around you both, you dance until the party ends and the rest of your life begins.
