atlasthegreatest

[atlasthegreatest]

Dunno if tumblr ate my ask, but did you get my request for headcanons of black-cat!manon and spiderman!reader?

Yeah, I did get your request! :)

[atlasthegreatest]

[atlasthegreatest]

The Hollow Hours / Zatanna Zatara x Gender Neutral Wayne! Reader

Years after drifting apart without ever confessing their true feelings, Y/n Wayne and Zatanna Zatara reunite at a lavish gala hosted by a mutual friend. Both are now in committed relationships, but the moment they see each other again, long-buried feelings rise to the surface. Amid polite conversations and forced smiles, they find themselves drawn together in private, unable to resist the weight of their shared history.

Word count: 3547

Warnings: Cheating (I don’t condone it. But oh, well… it’s for the plot). Angst. Friends to strangers to lovers (?). Mutual pinning.

A/n: Long time no see you all… miss me?

The ballroom glittered with too many chandeliers, too much laughter, and too much wine. It was the kind of celebration Gotham’s elite threw not out of joy, but out of tradition—a charity masquerading as a masquerade. And yet, beneath the sheen of gold masks and designer gowns, the air hung heavy with unspoken histories.

Y/n Wayne stood near the balcony doors, sipping something cold and sparkling, pretending to listen to their current girlfriend discuss something about art installations in Paris. But they weren’t hearing her. Not anymore.

Because across the room, framed by violet light and velvet shadows, stood Zatanna Zatara.

She wore midnight, the dress looked sewn from the remnants of stars, her dark hair pinned elegantly back with strands falling like whispers along her cheek. Her laughter hadn’t changed. Neither had the way her eyes searched a room like it might be a trick.

And the moment she saw them—really saw them—it was as though the world narrowed to a single breath.

Y/n didn’t smile. Neither did Zatanna.

They stared, that familiar ache pressing against old ribs like an echo that had never left.

It had been eight years.

Eight years since the two of them sat on the Wayne Manor rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, Gotham lights blinking below like soft fireflies. Zatanna had leaned into Y/n’s shoulder, fingers brushing theirs. Y/n had told her a joke to hide the fact that they were dying to kiss her.

Neither of them ever said anything.

Not when Zatanna left for Shadowcrest.

Not when Y/n started dating someone else.

Not even when the magician sent them a birthday card written in backwards script with no return address.

————————

They didn’t seek each other out that night. Not exactly.

But somehow, both of their significant others got swept into separate conversations, and the crowd thinned enough to leave them alone in a corner of the garden, beneath the creeping shadows of ivy and marble statues.

Y/n wasn’t sure who spoke first.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” they said, voice quieter than it should have been.

Zatanna gave a soft laugh. “I could say the same, Wayne.”

The way she said their last name—half teasing, half mourning—made something inside Y/n flinch.

“Still playing the heir?” Zatanna asked gently, stepping closer.

“Still running from ghosts?”

That earned a slight smile from the magician, tired around the edges. “Not anymore.”

There was a silence, then. The kind filled with the weight of years. With words never spoken and moments avoided because they’d be too painful to feel.

Zatanna’s voice dropped. “You look good.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Zatanna exhaled sharply. Her eyes searched Y/n’s face like they didn’t trust what they saw. Like she wasn’t sure if this was some illusion cast by her own longing.

“I’m with someone,” Y/n said suddenly. They weren’t sure why. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was a warning.

The black haired woman nodded. “So am I.”

Neither of them moved.

“You ever think…” Zatanna’s voice cracked slightly. “If we had just—back then…”

Y/n swallowed. “I think about it too often.”

Their confession hung between them, fragile and trembling.

“God,” Zatanna whispered, stepping even closer. “It would’ve ruined us.”

“Maybe,” Y/n agreed. “But it also might’ve saved us.”

Y/n didn’t know who reached first. They just knew that their hand was in Zatanna’s that her breath was against their neck, that her lips were so close to theirs they could taste magic in the air.

Y/n kissed her.

And it wasn’t gentle.

It was years of silence, buried glances, and longing masked as banter. It was everything they hadn’t said crashing into one stolen moment beneath the garden’s shadows. Zatanna’s hands fisted in Y/n’s suit. Their hands tangled in her dark hair. The kiss was desperate and soft all at once, like they were both trying to remember and forget.

Y/n pressed the magician back against the stone wall. She let them.

Zatanna’s lips moved against Y/n’s like she’d memorized them in a dream. And when her nails scratched their back beneath their jacket, Y/n gasped her name like a prayer.

Still, it didn’t go further than that.

Not because Y/n didn’t want to. God, they did. Zatanna did too—her eyes were blown wide, mouth swollen from their kiss, hands trembling.

But she pulled away first. And it nearly broke them both.

Zatanna touched her lips like they’d betrayed her.

“We can’t,” she said hoarsely.

“I know.”

“But I want to.”

“I know.”

The magician stepped back, her hands falling to her sides, helpless. “What the hell do we do with this now?”

Y/n looked down at their shoes, then back at her, their heart hanging out of their chest like an open wound.

“I don’t know,” the Wayne heir said. “But it’s not going away.”

Zatanna nodded once, sharply. As if she’d made a decision.

Then, without another word, she turned and disappeared through the hedges—leaving them in the garden, surrounded by roses and regret.

Y/n stood there until their champagne went warm.

Back inside the party, their girlfriend asked where they’d gone.

Y/n smiled, told her they had needed air, and tried to pretend they weren’t still tasting the woman they never stopped loving.

Far across the ballroom, Zatanna’s boyfriend kissed her cheek.

She smiled too.

But it didn’t reach her eyes.

————————

The hours after the party passed like glass beneath bare feet—silent, sharp, and utterly unforgiving.

Y/n didn’t sleep.

They lay beside their girlfriend, her breathing steady, a warm arm slung across their chest, grounding them in a life that had always felt… nearly enough. But Y/n’s eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling, haunted by the taste of Zatanna’s mouth and the sound of their name whispered against her teeth.

She’d said it like it hurt.

And maybe it did.

Zatanna had left early. Y/n’d seen her slip out of the ballroom in a blur of dark silk and shame, brushing past well-wishers and photographers like they were ghosts. Her boyfriend didn’t even notice for twenty minutes.

She never said goodbye.

But Y/n hadn’t expected her to.

By morning, Y/n found themselves on the manor’s rooftop. The same place where it had all begun. The same damn ledge where they’d almost told Zatanna the truth years ago.

You make me feel like I could stop pretending.

Y/n didn’t say it then. They still hadn’t.

The sun was just starting to bleed into the sky when their phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Y/n knew better than to ignore it.

[1 New Message]

I’m not okay.

Please don’t answer. I just needed you to know that.

— Z

Y/n’s throat tightened. They stared at the message until the light of day fully broke over Gotham. Then, because they were a coward, they didn’t reply.

————————

Meanwhile, across the city, Zatanna sat cross-legged in her Shadowcrest study, the air thick with incantation and grief.

Books floated open, snapped shut. Candles burned down to their stubs.

She hadn’t meant to message Y/n.

She’d written and erased it a dozen times. Had even tried a forgetting spell on herself—Exire memoriam. But it hadn’t worked.

Because what she felt for Y/n wasn’t a memory. It was alive. Breathing. Crashing against her ribs like waves made of guilt and desire.

And worse, she couldn’t stop touching her lips like they still belonged to them.

Zatanna thought of Y/n’s hands on her waist. The sound they made when her mouth met theirs.

She should have pulled away sooner. She should have never gone into that garden. She should have never let herself believe, even for a moment, that Y/n might still love her the way she never stopped loving them

Her boyfriend knocked softly at the study door. Zatanna muttered a cloaking spell.

She didn’t want him to see the tears.

—————————

The next time Y/n saw her was four days later.

Another function. Another mask.

This one smaller—held in a gallery owned by a family friend. Gotham’s elite again. Too much perfume, too little sincerity.

Y/n tried not to look for the magician. But their body did it anyway. Instinct. Muscle memory. Hope.

And there she was.

Black pantsuit. No dress this time. Hair swept back like armor. And her boyfriend on her arm, laughing at something a guest said.

She looked radiant.

She looked devastated.

When their eyes met, Y/n didn’t smile.

Neither did Zatanna.

Just like before.

But something passed between them anyway—an ache, a longing, a thousand words trapped in the cage of silence.

Zatanna slipped away to the hallway not ten minutes later.

And Y/n followed without a thought.

The gallery’s back corridors were quiet and half-lit, lined with sculpture and dust.

Y/n found her standing beside a marble bust, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Zatanna didn’t turn when they approached.

“You weren’t supposed to follow,” she murmured.

“I never could help myself.”

That earned a weak, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That makes two of us.”

There was a long silence.

Then, without looking at them, Zatanna asked, “Why didn’t we ever say it?”

Y/n swallowed. “Because we were afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That it would change everything.”

Zatanna turned to Y/n, slowly. Her expression was tired, raw, but still, beautiful.

“It changed anyway,” she whispered.

Y/n’s hand brushed hers. Just a graze. Just enough to feel her pulse jump beneath their fingers.

“I still love you,” they said.

It broke the air like glass.

Zatanna exhaled sharply. One hand went to her mouth.

“I know,” she said. “God, I know.”

Y/n stepped closer. The heat between them felt unbearable now. A storm barely contained.

“But I’m with him,” she whispered.

“And I’m with her.”

They were standing too close. Breathing too hard. Drowning in each other.

“I hate this,” Zatanna confessed.

“So do I.”

Their fingers curled together anyway.

They didn’t kiss.

Not this time.

But Zatanna rested her forehead against Y/n’s and closed her eyes. And it hurt more than anything.

After a while, the magician pulled away. No more words. Just a look that said don’t follow me this time.

Y/n didn’t.

Because they both knew the next time might ruin them completely.

————————

Wayne Manor was quiet the night it almost happened.

Too quiet, for a place that usually buzzed with a fewd roaming around the manor, security, or at the very least, the soft hum of a world always moving.

But that night, Gotham was snowed in. The roads were glass. The city paused for once. And Y/n was alone in the manor—until Zatanna arrived.

She hadn’t called ahead. She never did.

Y/n found her sitting cross-legged on their bedroom floor, tossing cards from her sleeve into the air, letting them fall like snowflakes onto the rug.

“You could’ve used the front door,” they said, leaning against the doorway.

“I like the theatrics,” the Zatara woman replied without looking up. “And besides, I missed you.”That last part was quieter.

Y/n walked in, shutting the door behind them. Zatanna looked up.

She was twenty-four then. Y/n, twenty-five. Still close. Still tangled up in everything but the truth.

Y/n sat beside her. Shoulder to shoulder. Like always.

“You could’ve gone anywhere tonight,” they said.

“I didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

The words hung between them like fog.

Zatanna smelled like jasmine and burnt candle wax—soft and familiar. Her fingers toyed with the edge of a card.

Y/n’s heart was loud in their chest. She had to hear it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Zatanna said after a long silence, eyes focused on nothing in particular.

“Dangerous,” they teased, but their voice trembled slightly.

Zatanna smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I don’t know how long I can keep pretending,” she said.

Y/n stared at her. “Pretending what?”

Zatanna looked at Y/n then.

Really looked.

Her eyes were glassy in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Her lips parted, the words already forming—

“I—”

Y/n reached out without meaning to. Their hand brushed hers. And Zatanna didn’t pull away.

But then Y/n’s phone buzzed.

It was nothing—just a Wayne Enterprise board alert.

Still, it was enough.

The moment snapped like a branch underfoot.

Zatanna pulled her hand back gently, folded her legs beneath her, and gave Y/n a smile so fragile they wanted to shatter it.

“Never mind,” she said softly. “It’s nothing.”

Y/n didn’t press. They didn’t chase.

They were afraid—afraid of what it would mean to cross that line. Afraid they’d lose her. Afraid that the woman didn’t mean it the way they did.

Y/n laughed. God, they laughed to cover it.

And that night, Zatanna left before sunrise.

Present Day

Y/n sits in their study now, fingers absently flipping through an old deck of cards Zatanna gave them that winter.

They still smell like her magic. Still bent where she held them too tightly that night.

And Y/n remember the way she looked at them—so close to the truth it burned.

Y/n close their eyes, let the memory settle.

Then their phone buzzes again.

This time, it’s not a message.

It’s a photo.

Sent by an unknown number.

Of them and Zatanna standing far too close in the corridor. Her forehead against theirs. Their hand brushing hers.

No words. But enough to kill everything they’ve tried to protect.

A pit forms in Y/n’s stomach.

And suddenly, all the years they spent pretending are falling apart.

Y/n didn’t sleep. Again.

The photo was all over the tabloids by morning.

It wasn’t explicit. But it didn’t need to be.

The composition alone said too much: the way their bodies leaned into each other, the intimacy of Zatanna’s forehead pressed to theirs, their hand grazing her fingers. There was no kiss—but there didn’t have to be one. The truth hung in the space between their bodies like gravity.

The caption on one site read:

“Old Flame Rekindled?”

Another was crueler:

“Wayne & Zatara: Behind Their Lovers’ Backs?”

Y/n didn’t answer their phone. They didn’t go into the office. They didn’t leave your bedroom when Alfred knocked for the hundredth time.

Y/n just stared at the screen, waiting for her girlfriend to say something. When she finally did, it wasn’t a scream. It was worse.

“I knew,” the woman said quietly, from across the room. “I’ve always known.”

Y/n looked up. Their mouth opened. No words came.

The blonde woman stood perfectly still, arms folded, trying to hold herself together like a person bracing for an impact that had already come.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s always been her.”

Y/n didn’t lie.

They couldn’t. Not anymore.

“…Yes.”

The blonde woman nodded. Just once. And then she turned and walked out of the room—leaving Y/n in silence so thick they nearly drowned in it.

Across the city, in Shadowcrest, Zatanna was burning.

Not literally. Not yet.

But something inside her felt scorched.

Her boyfriend didn’t confront her right away. He simply left the newspaper on the kitchen table—folded open to the photo. Then walked out without a word.

And for a long time, she just stood there.

Staring at the image of herself looking at Y/n like they were the beginning and end of everything.

Zatanna knew she should feel shame. Guilt. Regret.

But what she felt most of all was relief—and then immediate self-loathing for that relief.

Because finally, finally, the truth was out.

And it had destroyed everything.

————————

Three days passed.

No calls. No texts.

Only fallout.

The press calmed down, but Y/n’s circles were smaller now. People watched them differently. There were whispers at events. But they didn't care about it.

They didn’t fight it. Y/n let them hate them. It was easier than hating themselves.

But the hardest part—the cruelest part—was not hearing from Zatanna at all.

Y/n told themselves it was for the best. That space was needed. That this silence meant discipline, not distance.

But they were wrong.

Because Zatanna wasn’t staying away out of strength.

She was staying away because she didn’t trust herself around them anymore.

———————-

One week later.

Y/n found her at the Gotham Conservatory.

It was late—past closing—and the gardens were empty. Only soft lights glowed across the marble paths, and a light rain misted down from the sky.

Zatanna stood beneath the dome of the central atrium, facing the pond. Her arms were wrapped around herself like a shield.

Y/n didn’t speak as they approached.

Zatanna turned slowly.

Y/n hadn’t seen her cry in years.

But her mascara was smudged. Her eyes were raw. Her lips trembled.

“I hurt him,” the magician said. “I broke someone who loved me.”

Y/n nodded. “Me too.”

Zatanna looked away, voice cracking. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“I know.”

“I wanted us to be brave. Years ago. When it would’ve mattered.”

Y/n’s hands itched to reach for her, but they didn’t.

“We weren’t ready,” they said. “Back then.”

“And now?”

Y/n swallowed. “Now we’re paying the price for not choosing each other when we had the chance.”

A breath hitched in Zatanna’s throat.

“Do you still love me?” she asked, barely a whisper.

Y/n didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Zatanna closed her eyes.

And then—finally—she stepped forward.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

But sure.

She slipped her hand into Y/n like it had always belonged there.

“I’m not asking you to fix it,” she whispered.

“Then what are you asking?”

“Just…” the dark-haired woman looked up. “Don’t let me go this time.”

Y/n pulled Zatanna into their arms, holding her like the world had already ended and she was the only thing left worth saving.

And for a long, quiet moment, that’s all they did.

Y/n held her.

Because love wasn’t always clean. It wasn’t always right.

But it was real.

And sometimes, real was all they had left.

Bonus Chapter:

Three months later, everything was… quieter.

Not perfect. Not simple. But quieter.

Y/n had stepped away from the Wayne Enterprise for a while. Public appearances were sparse. Headlines moved on—as they always do. Something newer, shinier, more scandalous eventually stole the spotlight.

Y/n and Zatanna moved into a loft above a dusty old theater on the edge of Gotham. One she’d inherited years ago and never used. The magician joked that it was haunted. Y/n didn’t mind.

Haunted or not—It was theirs.

The two of them spent most mornings in silence. Not because there was nothing to say, but because they didn’t have to speak anymore. Zatanna liked reading on the windowsill while Y/n worked through reports and letters in a chair across from her. Some days she’d cook. Other days, they’d order something and pretend they cooked it.

There were no illusions now. No pretending.

Just… this.

Just trying.

———————

It rained that Sunday.

Soft and warm, the kind of rain that makes the city feel clean, for once.

Y/n found the magician in the little kitchen, barefoot and wearing one of their old sweaters, stirring honey into a chipped mug of tea. Her hair was in a loose braid over one shoulder. Zatanna hadn’t noticed them come in yet.

Y/n leaned in the doorway, watching her.

God, they’d loved her so long it ached.

Zatanna turned, smiling softly when she saw Y/n. But there was something heavy behind her eyes—always was, lately.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

Y/n shook their head. “You?”

Zatanna held out the mug. Y/n took it from her, their fingers brushing.

“No nightmares last night,” she said. “That’s something.”

It was. Y/n nodded.

There had been a lot of those in the beginning. Dreams where her ex cried in her arms. Where their ex looked at them like a stranger. Where the two of them were back at that garden party, again and again, about to kiss—and never did.

Some nights Zatanna woke up in tears. Others, Y/n did. But lately, the nightmares have come less often. And when they did, they held each other through them without asking for explanations.

Y/n took a sip of tea and wrapped their free arm around Zatanna’s waist.

“I don’t want to pretend we’re healed,” she murmured against Y/n’s chest.

“We’re not,” Y/n replied. “But we’re honest.”

Zatanna nodded into their shirt. Her fingers curled around Y/n’s sleeve.

“I keep thinking about all the time we lost.”

“I do too.”

“I hated you for a while,” Zatanna confessed. “For not choosing me. Even if I never told you.”

Y/n ran their fingers slowly through the dark-haired woman’s hair. “I hated myself more than you ever could.”

There was a pause.

And then Zatanna looked up at them, eyes soft but certain. “But I don’t hate you now.”

Y/n kissed her forehead. Let their lips linger there.

The rain tapped against the glass. The scent of honey and lavender drifted between them.

Y/n didn’t need to ask if Zatanna still loved them.

She showed them every day—in the way she reached for their hand without thinking, in the softness that bloomed between the silences, in the way she let herself rest near them for the first time in years.

Y/n kissed Zatanna’s temple again. Then her cheek. Then her lips—gentle, grounding, true.

No fire this time. No stolen moment in a garden. Just home.

When Zatanna pulled back, she looked at Y/n with a smile that held sorrow and joy in equal measure.

“You know,” she said quietly, “if I had to burn my whole life down just to get here…”

Y/n met her eyes. “It was worth it?”

Zatanna didn’t answer right away. She just leaned her head against Y/n’s chest and whispered, “You were always worth it.”

[atlasthegreatest]

I really need perv manon and kara x fem reader

Like i imagine this trio having a Ph account where they post but it's mostly Lara and Manon so one day they make reader join one of theur video that is called "Tutorial how to finger a lady" or something like that and is basically Lara who 'teaches' Manon how to finger reader and they mostly take turns on reader and tease them by stopping exactly when reader is close or just keep going because they know reader is shy and wont moan on camera so they tease her

Please

No.

[atlasthegreatest]

Mine / Daniela Avanzini x Gender Neutral! Reader

Daniela had a habit of stealing her partners shirts, liking how big they looked on her. But when Y/n tried to steal one of their girlfriend shirt to get back at her, they didn’t knew how much it would affect her.

Warnings: Slightly suggestive. Possessive Daniela. Fluff. Established relationship.

Word count: 1186

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!

It had become a running joke between Y/n and Daniela—how she had slowly, sneakily stolen nearly all of their comfiest oversized shirts.

It started with a faded band tee that mysteriously vanished one night and reappeared on her Instagram story two days later. Then it was Y/n’s university hoodie, favorite flannel, and even that sleep shirt they swore nobody else wanted. Daniela would just grin when confronted, swimming in fabric, sleeves drooping past her hands, and say, “What’s yours is mine, right?”

Y/n didn’t mind. If anything, it was kind of cute. Okay, really cute.

But today, they decided to get even.

The sun filtered in through the bedroom window as Y/n rifled through Daniela’s closet, finally pulling out a tight, cropped tee with a rhinestoned butterfly on the front. Y/n was not Daniela’s size—but that was the point. The shirt clung to their chest, their midriff fully exposed, and the sleeves barely reached their biceps. Y/n looked at themselves in the mirror, smirked, and called out: “Revenge is served.”

When Y/n stepped into the kitchen where Daniela was eating cereal at the counter, she choked.

“Is that my shirt?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Sure is,” they said smugly, spinning dramatically. “You’ve taken all my clothes. I figured I’d borrow one of yours.”

Daniela stood, mouth slightly open as she took Y/n in. Her expression shifted—first shocked, then amused, then… possessive.

“You’re not going outside like that,” she said flatly, stalking over.

Y/n blinked. “Why not? You go out in my clothes all the time.”

“Yeah, but your clothes don’t turn heads like this.” Her eyes raked over her partner before narrowing. “Absolutely not. Nope. Mine.”

Y/n grinned. “Getting jealous, Avanzini?”

The Latina woman crossed her arms and tilted her head, stepping into Y/n’s space with that smug smirk they knew too well. “Maybe. Maybe I don’t want people checking out my partner in my shirt looking like they just walked off a fashion thirst trap.”

Y/n leaned forward, brushing their nose against hers. “So what, I stay home?”

“No,” she said, curling a hand around Y/n’s waist. “You wear something less distracting. Or I’m not letting you out of the apartment. At least not until I’ve had my turn admiring.”

Y/n laughed as she leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to their cheek. Then another, just under their jaw.

Y/n may not have won the shirt war—but judging by Daniela’s flustered glare and tight grip on their hips, they won something.

Daniela wasn’t playing around.

Y/n tried slipping past her, still in the too-tight butterfly crop top, but her reflexes kicked in. One second they were reaching for their keys, the next the Latina had one arm around their waist and the other tugging down the hem of the shirt as if that would somehow make it less revealing.

“Daniela,” Y/n laughed, trying not to trip over the woman as she herded them away from the door like a flustered sheepdog. “It’s not that serious.”

“Oh, it’s serious,” she said. “There’s a breeze out there. You’re going to catch a cold. Or worse, attention.”

“I always catch attention with you around,” Y/n teased, giving her a wink. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

The Latina woman narrowed her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not jealous,” she insisted, even as she fumbled to hand Y/n one of their shirts from the laundry basket. “I’m… territorial.”

Y/n snorted. “Right. And this shirt is your territory?”

“No,” Daniela said, pulling them closer by the waistband of the tiny crop top. “You are.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the teasing faded, replaced by a quiet warmth between the two of them. Daniela’s fingers brushed their side gently. “You look hot,” she admitted, soft now, lips brushing their temple. “Too hot. I don’t want to have to fight people at brunch.”

Y/n leaned into her, their forehead resting against hers. “So I change?”

Daniela shrugged, still close. “Or we stay in.”

Y/n laughed, pushing her lightly. “You’re the worst.”

“But I’m yours,” she said with a grin, walking off with Y/n’s keys in one hand and their pride in the other.

And when Y/n finally gave in and changed, Daniela wore that tiny butterfly shirt around the apartment the rest of the day just to rub it in—looking unfairly good, humming to herself, and reminding them again and again that two could play the possessive game.

Y/n just wasn't sure if they wanted to anymore… because she always won.

Bonus Chapter:

Later that evening, with a takeout order half-eaten on the kitchen counter and music playing softly from their shared speaker, Y/n found Daniela curled up on the couch—still wearing their hoodie and her victorious butterfly crop top underneath, peeking out when she stretched.

Y/n walked in holding two mugs of tea, watching her flick through a playlist, her curls messy and her makeup long worn off. The tension from earlier—the playful tug-of-war, the jealous teasing—had melted into something quieter. Something that hummed under their skin.

“Okay, fine,” Y/n said, handing her a mug, “you win the shirt war.”

Daniela smirked. “Obviously.”

Y/n slid in next to her, wrapping an arm lazily around her shoulder as she leaned in, resting her cheek against them. For a while, it was just the soft clink of mugs, her humming faintly to an SZA song, and their hand tracing the curve of her shoulder over the fabric that used to be theirs.

“I liked seeing you in it,” Daniela said quietly, not looking at them. “Too much, probably. That’s why I freaked out.”

Y/n tilted their head toward her. “Too much?”

Daniela looked up at them, eyes tired but soft. “I know I joke about being possessive, but… when I saw you like that, wearing my stuff, looking like—” she laughed breathily, shaking her head, “—like you, it kind of hit me. How stupid in love I am.”

Y/n’s heart thudded.

“And also,” she added with a grin, “I didn’t want to spend the whole day glaring at people staring at you.”

“So the solution,” Y/n said, setting down their mug, “is to keep me indoors?”

“Exactly,” Daniela said, looping her arms around Y/n’s neck and pulling them in.

Y/n’s lips met hers like muscle memory—soft, warm, certain. One kiss turned into two. Then three. Soon, the hoodie and butterfly shirt were somewhere on the floor, replaced by her laughter against Y/n’s skin and their hands gently tracing the path of her ribs.

Time slowed in the amber light of their apartment. No teasing, no games—just warmth, whispers, and the hush of love that had long since stopped being casual. When they pulled the blanket around both of them later, tangled and flushed, Daniela whispered, “Don’t think this means I won’t steal your shirts again.”

Y/n grinned, brushing her curls back. “You can have them. Just don’t be surprised if I keep the next one you leave behind.”

Daniela kissed their collarbone. “Deal.”

And in the quiet afterward, she fell asleep with her hand on Y/n’s chest, her shirt long forgotten, and her heart laid bare.

[atlasthegreatest]

Where the Smoke Rises / Natalie Scatorccio x Sibling! Gender Neutral Reader

Headcanons about being Natalie’s sibling.

Warnings: Slight angst. Mentions of death.

Word count: 3625

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Hope you enjoy it!

— How was their relationship as siblings? —

Pre-crash (teen timeline):

Y/n and Natalie had that “us vs. everybody” bond, especially against adults who judged them or teachers who didn’t bother to look past their rough edges. Natalie always acted like she was the older, tougher sibling (even if Y/n was older by a year or two).

Natalie taught Y/n how to throw a punch properly when they were both too young. Y/n was her sparring buddy, but they were also the one who patched her up after she got into fights.

They have matching tattoos — probably something simple like little stars or a quote only the two understand — that they got one night after a long, emotional conversation about how they're “all each other’s got.”

Natalie tries to act like the “cool” sibling but Y/n knows she’s secretly so sentimental. They'd catch her keeping old birthday cards they gave her, drawings they made as kids, little things like that.

Even though Natalie acts like she doesn’t care about anything, she is weirdly overprotective of her sibling. If someone even looked at them wrong in high school, she was ready to fight about it.

Different coping styles:

When things got bad at home, Natalie would lash out — fighting, drinking, sneaking out. Y/n tended to withdraw — getting quiet, and shutting down. Despite that, they always found their way back to each other. Natalie would throw rocks at Y/n's window or shove snacks under their bedroom door to make them smile.

Y/n and Natalie have their secret language of inside jokes, glares, and tiny gestures. One look from her across a crowded room and they know exactly what she’s thinking.

Despite her rough exterior, Natalie constantly encourages Y/n to go after what they want and not let anyone control them. She never wants them to feel trapped the way she sometimes does.

Natalie will always, always tell Y/n she’s proud of them — even if she doesn’t say it to their face. Sometimes she’ll leave Y/n notes or just shove a little gift at them without explanation.

Words aren’t their thing with each other. It’s more about the looks, the nudges, the shared cigarettes, or sitting silently together when one of them is spiraling.

Instead of compliments, Natalie shows love through teasing insults — “You’re an idiot, but you’re my idiot,” she’d mutter, ruffling Y/n's hair roughly, then immediately pretending she didn’t.

Post-crash ( adult timeline):

Y/n's one of the only people who got through to Natalie after she got home — they never pushed too hard, but they never left her alone either. Natalie might have saved them from fights and chaos, but Y/n saved her by reminding her she still had something to live for.

When it gets bad, when Natalie can’t sleep or the nightmares are too much, she’ll call them — and sometimes all she says is, “Can you just… stay on the line?” No talking. Just breathing. Just not being alone.

After everything that happened out there in the Canadian wilderness, Natalie didn't need to explain her nightmares to Y/n. When the panic attacks hitted, Y/n didn't ask questions — they just sit closer to her, helping her breath slow and steady until the worst of it passes.

Sometimes they crash on each other’s couches without a word. Just being near someone who understands without needing to talk is a comfort neither of them knew they needed.

 Some days Natalie talks, some days she doesn’t. Y/n never force it. Just being there — reading in the same room, cleaning up quietly, existing without expectations — is the greatest gift they gave each other.

Every once in a while, after a bad night, Natalie will mumble half-asleep things like, “Sorry for everything,” and Y/n would just squeeze her hand back. She doesn’t need forgiveness. And they never blamed her.

 Getting Natalie to go to therapy, even if she sits with her arms crossed and scoffs the whole time. Celebrating when she makes it a whole week sober. Reminding her that healing isn’t linear and that she’s still worthy of good things.

Y/n's the one person who fiercely guards Natalie’s rare moments of happiness — dragging her away from toxic people, reminding her she’s allowed to walk away from pain instead of running toward it.

And no matter how bad things get — the drugs, the trauma, the mistakes — Natalie would die for Y/n without blinking. And they’d do the exact same for her.

— How was their dynamic as siblings? —

Pre-crash ( teen timeline):

The other Yellowjackets knew Y/n as “Natalie’s sibling” — meaning they were automatically seen as reckless, and slightly dangerous. Taissa would smirk whenever she saw Y/n and Natalie together, calling them “the trouble twins.”

Shauna thought Y/n was weirdly sweet, even if they hung out with the rougher crowd.

Jackie was a little awkward around Y/n — they didn’t play the social games she thrived on.

Van treated them like an honorary teammate even if they weren’t officially part of the team.

Lottie would only exchange polite nods with Y/n when they found each other around at the parties or the school hall. (And maybe exchange a little more than that behind the bleachers after school hours)

And Misty... well, later on, she would be way too obsessed with the idea of being part of Natalie and Y/n's bond and would often try (and fail) to insert herself.

Always covering for each other

 Natalie once took the blame when Y/n got caught shoplifting. Another time, Y/n lied to Coach Martinez about why she missed practice. Neither of them ever talked about these sacrifices — they were just understood.

The plane crash:

 If Y/n was stranded with them, Natalie’s first instinct would have been “Where’s my sibling?”

Natalie would have immediately gone into survival mode to keep her sibling safe — even before thinking about herself. She’d secretly ration food to make sure Y/n had enough, even if it meant she starved a little.

Post-crash (adult timeline):

Still co-dependent, but healthier (mostly)

 Natalie still texts Y/n random nonsense at 2am — a blurry photo of a gas station sandwich, a single word like “bored” — and Y/n always responds. Y/n's her lifeline, and Natalie's theirs.

Y/n being the one who believes in Natalie:

When she relapses or spirals, they're the one who says, “You can come home.” No judgment. Just love.

 Even if home is just a crappy apartment with a broken couch and some old movie DVDs, it’s safe because it’s theirs.

 If Natalie’s falling apart, Y/n would show up. No judgment. If Y/n's the one struggling, she’ll awkwardly shove a cup of coffee into their hand and grumble, “Don’t make it a thing, okay?” (They made it into a thing.)

Slowly, they create tiny rituals together — cooking shitty boxed mac and cheese while half-joking about being “gourmet chefs,” watching dumb TV shows late at night, playing old songs they both loved before everything went wrong.

 They’ll drive out to nowhere, blasting old grunge albums, singing badly on purpose. They’ll eat crappy fast food in the parking lot and laugh about how they somehow survived it all.

If one of them falls, the other pulls them back up

No matter how messy, no matter how ugly — Natalie always shows up for Y/n. And they always show up for her.

Because at the end of the day:

“You’re my family,” Natalie said in a rare soft moment. “The only one who never left.”

Bonus Headcanons:

(Teen timeline):

They teased each other about crushes all the time

If Natalie caught Y/n staring at someone during a party, she’d nudge them with her elbow and whisper, “You drooling or what?”

If she started acting awkward around someone (maybe Travis or someone else), Y/n would grin and say stuff like, “Should I start planning the wedding or what?”

She would deny everything — shoving them lightly and muttering, “Shut up idiot,” but her ears would go pink.

If Y/n had a crush, Natalie would act way too invested. She’d “casually” (very obviously) push Y/n toward them at parties, saying stupid things like, “Oh hey, Lottie, did you know Y/n is single and has a working brain?”

It was mortifying. But it was her version of love.

 Late night after shitty days, they’d sneak out, share a smoke behind the bleachers or at some random overpass, and talk about everything and nothing.

Defending each other from gossip

When rumors flew around school about Natalie, Y/n always defended her — even if it got them into fights.

  And if anyone said anything nasty about Y/n? Natalie would be in their face instantly, fists clenched.

  If one of them got into a fight (physical or verbal), the other had to back them up — no questions asked. Even if they knew they were being stupid, they would dealt with it after the fight was over.

Y/n and Natalie had a burnt CD (and later a mixtape) filled with songs that only made sense to the two of them — grunge, punk, sad indie tracks, even a few terrible pop songs they both swore they hated but secretly loved.

They both kept a hidden box of “emergency supplies” under their bed — old cash, cigarettes, cheap jewelry, crumpled notes with escape plans if things got really bad at home.

They never used it, but just having it made them both feel a little safer

(Adult timeline):

Still teasing

They still tease each other about crushes and dating, but it’s less chaotic, and more careful — like they both know how fragile happiness can be.

“So who’s the poor soul you’re scaring off this time?” Natalie would ask with a lazy grin, kicking her boots up on Y/n's coffee table.

“Better than your taste. You dated a guy who thought Radiohead was a brand of headphones,” they’d fire back.

Natalie is secretly overprotective of Y/n's partner:

 If Y/n started dating someone, Natalie gives them the scariest, most intense stare when she meets them — daring them to hurt her sibling.

Afterward, she shrugs and says, “Gotta make sure they’re not a complete asshole,” like it’s no big deal.

 If either of them starts a new relationship, or even just flirts with someone and it goes well, they celebrate in their messed-up, half-functional way — grabbing takeout, watching horror movies, toasting with cheap soda or beer.

After losing so much in the wilderness, Y/n and Natalie never say goodbye. ( If Y/n was on the crash)

 It’s always “See you soon,” “Talk later,” “Stay alive,” — even if it’s just hanging up the phone.

Y/n always knew Natalie lived like someone who was borrowed from death. She laughed too loudly, loved too recklessly, and dared life to take her almost every day. And deep down, some part of Y/n was always bracing for the day it would.

When it happens, it doesn’t feel real at first. The world feels wrong — too loud, too sharp, like someone ripped the oxygen out of the room but forgot to tell the sun to stop shining.

 Y/n kept reaching for their phone to text her stupid things — “Just saw a dog that looks like you,” “Remember that one time we stole the school’s mascot?” — and every time, their stomach twists when they remember there’s no one on the other end anymore.

The last message they had from her was something stupid and small —

“Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not a badass. Love you, idiot.”

 Y/n saved it. They listen to it over and over until it feels like Natalie’s sitting next to them again, flipping them off with a grin.

At her funeral, Y/n didn’t make a speech. They just sit in the back, middle finger tucked into their palm like Natalie used to do, and dare anyone to tell them how to grieve her.

They keep her alive quietly

Singing along (badly) to the songs she loved when they’re driving alone.

Lighting a cigarette on bad days, even though they quit, and blowing the smoke to the stars.

Telling the truth too bluntly sometimes because Natalie would’ve wanted them to.

Y/n talks to her sometimes.

 “You would’ve hated this party,” they mutter under their breath.

 “I could really use you here right now,” they would whisper on the loneliest nights.

And sometimes, when the wind moves just right or the song on the radio hits too perfectly, it feels like Natalie's answering.

Extra bonus:

Natalie used to steal flowers from people’s yards and leave them on Y/n's windowsill when they were sad. She never admitted it was her.

They both had matching shitty stick-and-poke tattoos done by one of Natalie’s sketchy friends. They’re barely legible, but at the time, they both swear they were badass.

Y/n and Natalie once made a pact as kids that if neither of them made it out of New Jersey alive, they’d haunt their childhood home together like “the most annoying ghost siblings ever.”

Natalie keeps a crumpled, old photo of the two of them as little kids, even when she acts like she doesn’t care about sentimental stuff. It’s tucked away in a jacket pocket or wallet, worn from being touched too often.

[atlasthegreatest]

ᴄʀᴀᴡʟɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ

pairing. bratty!slytherin!sophia x quidditchplayer!gryffindor!reader

warning. mentions of alcohol. curses. and a bit of kisses. i think.

a/n. pls bear with me. its my first time writing. :') part 2 is up!

You were bored out of your damn mind, and the fact that the annual Quidditch Cup was only weeks away did absolutely nothing to help.

As Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain, you were supposed to be focused, fired up, strategic. Instead, you were just bored.

You’d been in the library for nearly three hours, and at this point, you were aimlessly sketching out plays with your quill, dragging it across just to litter the parchment with Quidditch formations and crossed-out plays.

Until a familiar, grating voice cut through your thoughts.

“Oh, sweet Salazar! Look who's swapped their broom for a book. Can’t you stop thinking about Quidditch for once?”

You snapped out of your reverie, jaw tightening. That squeaky, shrill tone could only belong to one person. Sophia Laforteza. The ever-annoying, ever-bratty Slytherin who had somehow been assigned to this godforsaken group project with you.

Her voice never failed to make you want to rip your hair out.

“And can’t you lower your voice for once?” you hissed, glancing nervously toward Madam Pince’s desk. If the library’s vulture-like guardian heard Sophia screeching again, you’d both be thrown out faster than a rogue Bludger.

“For Merlin’s sake, Laforteza,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “You’re making my ears bleed.”

“And you’re making my blood boil,” she shot back, dramatically flicking her perfectly styled hair over her shoulder. Her green-painted nails glinted in the light, long and sharp enough to make you think of snakes.

Typical.

“I’m so telling Professor Binns that you didn’t even lift your calloused, dirty fingers to help with this assignment,” she huffed, flipping through a textbook as if she’d been doing all the work.

You smirked, leaning back with that all-too-familiar cocky grin, like a boy who’d just thought of a very inappropriate joke.

“Oh, you wouldn’t imagine what these dirty hands could do?”

Her quill froze mid-sentence.

Sophia turned her head slowly, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted in disbelief. You could practically see the scandalized gears turning in her head. And for a second, you swore she looked flustered but that was probably wishful thinking.

“You are disgusting,” she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

You only laughed, peeking over at the shared parchment covered in her perfect penmanship. Judging by how little she'd actually written, it was going to take at least two more hours to finish this godforsaken History of Magic project.

“I already told you,” you muttered, scribbling something half-useful just to fill the space, “if we just focused on Muggles, you wouldn’t be bitching right now. You’d be lounging in your mess of a common room, probably bragging about your new designer hand bag or something with your other bitchy friends, because we would’ve been done by now.”

Sophia rolled her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time. “Like I’d give a damn about Muggles. Dark magic shaped Hogwarts history! I'm just finding it a bit difficult to—”

“—To find something different? Yeah, because it’s always dark magic this, dark magic that. You Slytherins think so highly of yourselves, FYI, dark magic has shaped Hogwarts history in a bad way. If you actually wanted to be original, you'd lower that inflated ego for five minutes and listen to me.”

Her green scarf slipped slightly from her shoulder as she adjusted it with a huff, the signature Slytherin silver threading catching the light.

“Why must you Gryffindors be so damn boastful?” she snapped, nose crinkling in annoyance. “Fine. Muggles it is. But only because you wouldn’t cooperate if I pushed for dark magic.”

You leaned back in your chair with a satisfied grin, quill twirling between your fingers. “Admit it. I’m right.”

“I’d rather swallow a Fanged Flyer,” she muttered.

“You’re welcome.”

She didn’t answer, but the slight tug at the corner of her lips almost made you forget that you were supposed to hate each other.

“Catch up, Sophia! We’re going to miss the match!” Daniela squealed in excitement, her footsteps echoing as they practically skipped down the hallway.

Or rather, Daniela only did, since Sophia didn’t like breaking a sweat or wasting energy on anything that might tire her out. Even the thought of a few beads of sweat sent her into a mini fit.

“You know,” Sophia muttered, dragging her feet, “actually, you might want to go ahead. Lara’s waiting for me in the common room. We’ve got some work to do.” She quickly came up with the first excuse that popped into her head.

Daniela arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “I might just do that—only if you can come up with a better lie.” She leaned in with a roll of her Slytherin-colored eyes. “Shut up, Sophia. Just Apparate to the pitch, or something. Lara already told me she’d be there too, watching the game.”

Sophia let out an exasperated sigh, muttering under her breath. “Oh, for the love of the Dark Lord…”

"Plus… don’t you want to see your crush? Heard Y/N’s absolutely annihilating it against Hufflepuff today.”

“My crush?” Sophia smirked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “More like I’d love to crush their head. And for the last time, stop with the rumors, Dani. I hate that Gryffindor .”

Dani raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the teasing. “It’s not a rumor, Soph. Just something I’ve observed—and trust me, it’s hard to miss with the way you’re always glaring at Y/N during matches.”

Sophia rolled her eyes, but before she could respond, someone down the hall waved at her. “Hey, Sophia!” they called, but she didn’t even spare a glance, strutting past them with her usual air of superiority.

How dare they greet her? They were just a pair of common wizards, nothing special. Meanwhile, she was THE Sophia Laforteza, descendant of one of the Sacred 28, a Slytherin legend. She didn’t have time for pleasantries, especially not with people who weren’t worth her attention.

Dani snickered, crossing her arms. “See? That’s how hard it is to get your attention. You wouldn’t even acknowledge someone saying hi, but with Y/N? You can’t even stop glaring.”

Sophia shot Dani a dark look, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “And don’t you think I glare at her because I hate her?” She asked like stating the obvious.

An amused smile tugging at Daniela's lips, “Oh, I know you glare at her. And if I’m being honest, that’s just your way of giving her all your attention.”

Even more irritated now, Sophia made up her mind. There was absolutely no way she was going to that bloody Quidditch match. Daniela could throw the biggest fit in the world for all she cared. She did not have a crush on Y/N.

Y/N savored her glory: 200 to 20. Gryffindor had completely obliterated Hufflepuff, and she stood on the second floor of the common room, overlooking the sea of red and gold as her housemates chanted her name. MVP of today’s game. With a smug smirk tugging at her lips, she thought, Yeah… I could get used to a few more parties like this.

The afterparty was in full swing. She and her friends had basically invited the entire year, and now students from all houses were packed into the Gryffindor common room—dancing, laughing, and sipping from cups laced with smuggled Firewhisky.

“Hail Y/N for beating those arses of a house called Hufflepuff!” Megan screamed from below, half-dancing, half-stumbling through the crowd. Everyone laughed and cheered, including the Hufflepuffs who are so drunk they could barely register what the orange-haired had shouted. Megan was loud on a regular day, add a few drinks, and she was practically a human megaphone. You could probably hear her from three floors up.

Thankfully, Manon, ever the genius of their chaotic little friend group, had already cast Muffliato. As bold as they were, Gryffindors through and through, none of them wanted to risk an earful from Professor McGonagall if the noise spilled beyond the portrait hole.

Manon approached her smug friend, handing her a drink that was probably twice as strong as the last. Why? Well, they were Gryffindors. They liked it strong like that. 

“The tournament’s only just begun and we’re already throwing the year’s wildest party,” Manon said with a laugh, flashing her perfect pearl-white teeth. “Honestly, kind of a Slytherin move.”

Her smile could charm half the student body, and it often did. But not Y/N. She merely raised an eyebrow, unfazed as always.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Y/N scoffed, swirling the firewhisky in her cup. “We wouldn’t want to be associated with the likes of them, now, would we?”

Manon didn’t reply immediately. She just gave a knowing hum, eyes flickering past Y/N’s shoulder. “Funny you say that..”

From your view, your brown eyes caught a glint of green near the portrait pole. But not just any green. That green. Silk scarves and robes that probably cost more than yours and Manon’s whole lives combined, intimidating expressions and that aura that scream we’re better than you and we know it. 

The infamous trio had finally arrived. 

Lara, already looking unimpressed with the playlist. Daniela, waving to someone like she wasn’t crashing enemy territory. And right in the middle: Sophia LaForteza, arms crossed and gaze sharp, like she’d rather be hexed than be in a room full of celebrating Gryffindors.

You sipped again, slower this time.

“Well, speak of the bloody devil,” you muttered, eyes locked at the certain Slytherin who was looking down on everybody with utter disdain. But somehow, people still made space without her asking, like she was kind of royalty. Well not really kind of. She was royalty. 

And yet she still looked pissed to be there. And for some reason that intrigued you. 

You didn’t even realize you were already making your way through the crowd, drink still in hand. Manon’s voice trailing behind you. 

“Didn’t wanna be associated, huh.” She laughed knowingly as she head her way to the other side, entertaining other students. 

You stopped just in front of her, leaning against the red and gold pillar with a nonchalant smirk. Offering your firewhisky, you half-expected a grimace or a quick rejection. Instead, to your surprise, she took the glass and chugged it down in one smooth motion.

Sophia’s eyes flashed as she set the empty glass down with an ease that made you pause. The girl had no hesitation.

You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Well, well, LaForteza. Here I was thinking you were above all this noise. Yet, here you are, crashing the Gryffindor afterparty. Didn’t feel like being a queen tonight?”

Sophia’s gaze flickered, but there was something else in it now, something more raw than the usual indifference. She liked the burn in her chest, the firewhisky coursing through her veins. Just exactly what she needed tonight.

It wasn’t that she was bored—not entirely, but the stress was eating at her. The weight of everything back at Slytherin, her family, the pressure… sometimes, a drink was the only thing that helped drown it all out.

She was actually thankful for you, in a way. No need to go to the drink table and mingle with the rest of the students. You’d brought it right to her, and it was a damn good drink. The last thing she wanted was to be around more people approaching her who doesn't know their place.

She tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “And here I was thinking you were above all this celebration noise. Your first time winning?”

You shrugged nonchalantly, unfazed by her jab. “First time winning? Please. I think I might need to invite you to one of my games. You must’ve missed more than I thought if you think this is a first.”

Your eyes shifted to one of the lower years you had invited to the party, someone you and your friends liked to send on errands.

“Oi, kid! Pass me two more cups! One for me, and the other for the princess here,” you called out, eyes glinting with mischief as you nodded toward Sophia. “Wouldn’t want royalty leaving the party early now, would we?”

“U-uhh… of course not, Y/N.” The younger student looked at you, wide-eyed clearly starstruck, then hesitantly offered a shy smile in Sophia’s direction. But Sophia, still disinterested, just rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed by both the kid’s awe and even more by your smug theatrics.

"You Gryffindors really do have a knack for being so loudly arrogant, no? Like if you save the day, you’d want the whole world to throw a parade in your name,” Sophia scoffed, taking the new drink from your hand.

She eyed you over the rim of her cup, her gaze razor-sharp and unblinking. You took a sharp breath, caught off guard by how intense the eye contact suddenly felt—like she was reading every motive behind your smirk.

You cleared your throat, doing your best to play it cool despite how her stare was already crawling under your skin.

“Who wouldn’t want the spotlight?” you quipped, flashing a grin. “It’s kind of like when a girl’s screaming my name in bed. Why keep it quiet when you can let the whole castle know who’s winning?" You laughed.

Sophia didn’t know why. Maybe it was your cocky tone or that maddening grin, but something about you just got under her skin. With a dramatic roll of her eyes and a sharp swig of her drink, she turned on her pointy, green heels, already set on walking away from whatever this was.

But before she could get far, your fingers wrapped gently around her wrist.

“Wait—what? You’re leaving already?” you asked, genuine confusion flickering across your face. “Was it something I said?”

Your teasing faltered for a beat, replaced by something unreadable, like you hadn’t actually expected her to walk away.

Sophia froze. Not because of your hold, but because of your stupidly irritating question. She scoffed, snatching your drink from your hand without warning and taking a sip, her eyes never leaving yours. Her glossy lips left a faint mark on the rim of your red plastic cup, and somehow, that tiny, thoughtless act shifted something inside you.

The nerve. The audacity. The way she could steal your drink, challenge you with a single stare, and still make it feel like you were the one off balance.

"You talk like that and then act surprised that someone walks away?" she said coolly, though there was an obvious tint of annoyance in her voice.

Oh, so that’s it. Was she jealous? That you just casually mentioned your bed escapades?

"Talk like what, LaForteza?" you shot back, your confusion quickly turning into a playful smirk. You leaned in just enough, watching her closely, almost daring her to admit whatever was making her so irritated.

Sophia’s eyes narrowed, and for a split second, she looked like she was trying to decide whether to hex you or kiss you, or maybe both.

But then, she paused, her jaw tightening, clearly weighing her options. There was a flicker of something—maybe annoyance, maybe something else—across her features before she quickly masked it with a cold expression.

She took another sip of your drink, which was now probably hers, her voice laced with sarcasm as she responded, “Please, don’t flatter yourself. I couldn’t care less about whatever you do behind closed doors. But keep it down. Not everyone’s interested in hearing about it.”

You took a step closer, smirking as you leaned in just slightly. “I wouldn’t want them to anyway,” you said, her voice lower now, the playful edge still there, but with something more intense beneath it. “I just want you to pay attention, LaForteza. That’s all.”

Your gaze flickered to Sophia's lips for a brief moment before meeting her eyes again, the tension thickening between you two. Everyone at the party who noticed the silent standoff between the two powerhouses of Hogwarts dared not come any closer. The air around you seemed to pulse with unspoken words, and it was as if the entire room held its breath, aware of the electricity crackling in the space between you. It was obvious to anyone paying attention, this wasn’t just another verbal sparring match.

"What, cat got your tongue?" You teased. Snatching your drink back and taking a sip exactly from where the Slytherin had left her lipstick mark.

Sophia followed your actions with her eyes, suddenly feeling hot. And she abhorred feeling hot. But why was this different? Why didn't she mind this at all?

"I'm not the one running my mouth."

"Oh, yeah? Prove it then, princess."

Sophia raised an eyebrow, but you could see the tension tightening in her jaw. You smirked, expecting her to retort, to snap back like she always did. But instead, before you could even react, her lips were suddenly on yours. It was unexpected, and for a moment, you froze, completely caught off guard by the softness and heat of her kiss.

She pulled back just as quickly, eyes narrowed, but there was no mistaking the hint of something unspoken lingering in the air between you two.

"Don't act so surprised, I can play your game, too." Her voice was hushed enough just for the both of you to hear. Yet it was laced with challenge.

You observed how her eyes were now hooded with lust, her usual composure unraveling, and how her thick, glossy lips were slightly parted from the kiss you two just shared. She looked so damn irresistible in that moment, like every challenge she'd ever thrown your way had led to this exact point. The sharp, undeniable magnetism between you two made your head spin.

Merlin's beard, kill me now… You cursed under your breath, your pulse racing as you fought the urge to close the distance even more. But you couldn’t help it—the way she was looking at you, like she was daring you to do something, ignited something deep inside.

Finally, you closed the distance between you two once again but this time you deepened it even more. Your kiss was nothing like the playful teasing before. It was strong, harsh, and passionate. The two of you wanting to dominate.

She gripped the back of your neck like she was claiming territory, nails digging just enough to make you grin into the kiss. You responded in kind, hands confidently sliding down to lift her leg, anchoring it against your waist with practiced ease. The movement made her gasp, and that alone felt like a win.

Sophia kissed like she argued: sharp, challenging, and with no intention of backing down. She bit at your lower lip, a bratty kind of defiance in the way she tilted her chin, daring you to lose control. But you kissed her like you played Quidditch: cocky, calculated, and always a step ahead. You swallowed her challenge with a smirk, deepening the kiss until her bravado cracked, just slightly.

She tried to pull away, to regain upper hand, but you were already chasing her lips again, murmuring against them, “What’s wrong, LaForteza? Thought you could keep up.”

Her answer was another tug at your collar, another press of her mouth against yours, fiercer this time like she’d rather die than let you have the last word.

“I’ll show you how to keep up. Bring me to your room.”

And just like that the game has changed.

[atlasthegreatest]

I was going to upload a Natalie Scatorccio x Reader “Headcanons” now but Tumblr just went and deleted it from my drafts. Now I'll need to write everything —again— from scratch.

I'll post it tomorrow…

[atlasthegreatest]

right where you left me ˎˊ˗

pairing ˎˊ˗ manon bannerman x ex!reader about ˎˊ˗ Manon couldn’t let go—not really. While you lived like you’d never been happier, she convinced herself it was all an act. Desperate for a second chance, she threw an anonymous party just to see you again. But nothing could have prepared her for what she found. genre ˎˊ˗ ex lovers. angst. cw ˎˊ˗ kissing. wc ˎˊ˗ 1.3k words tune in ˎˊ˗ party 4 u - charli xcx a/n ˎˊ˗ this song is all over my fyp especially the outro, so why not make a imagine for it and the song is very manon vibes! thank you tiktok for the party 4 u edits 🙏

She Never Moved On

Manon had known heartbreak.

It clung to her in the quietest moments, in the soft, aching spaces between breaths, in the way she stared at the ceiling late into the night with her chest hollowed out by grief. It was in the way she still flinched at the buzz of her phone, still half-hoping—half-dreading—that your name would light up the screen. It was the cruel hope that stitched itself into every corner of her, the kind that refused to die, no matter how many times reality tried to smother it.

She told her friends she was fine. She smiled until her cheeks hurt, laughed too loudly at jokes that weren't funny, posted sun-drenched selfies where the light caught her just right, hoping—no, begging—the world to believe it.

But in the dark, when the noise faded and there was nothing left but the sound of her own heart beating far too loud in her ears, the truth rose up like a tide she could no longer outrun.

She wasn't over you.

Not even close.

You, though?

You looked like you’d never even known heartbreak.

You smiled brighter now, laughed deeper. You danced in the arms of strangers without a care, posed in sunlit photos that she stumbled across when she wasn’t even looking. Friends mentioned you in passing, casual and unthinking—Oh, did you see them at the beach? Looked like they were having the time of their life!—and every word hit her like a slap she hadn’t braced for.

You seemed lighter. Free.

And Manon hated herself for wishing you weren’t.

For months, she lied to herself with careful precision. She whispered that you were just pretending. That the smiles were hollow, that your laughter cracked under the surface if only she could hear it properly. That somewhere, deep down, you missed her just as much. That you had to.

Because if you didn’t?

If you had really moved on?

Then what was she still holding onto?

The idea came on a sleepless night, when the loneliness felt unbearable and desperation tasted bitter in her mouth.

She would throw a party. Something extravagant and anonymous, draped in velvet shadows and glittering lights. She would rent out a club, scatter invitations like seeds on the wind, and pray that you would come. A Gatsby moment—tragic, grand, hopelessly romantic.

She told herself it wasn’t about you. That she just wanted to throw a party for once, live a little, feel alive again.

But even as she designed the night—the music, the lights, the whispered invitations—she knew the truth.

This wasn’t for her.

It was for you.

It was always for you.

The club throbbed with bass so heavy it vibrated through her bones. Blue and violet lights cut through the darkness, making the crowd a sea of faceless silhouettes, bodies moving together in a tidal rhythm.

Manon stood just inside the door, frozen for a heartbeat too long, feeling the weight of her own hope crash down on her.

You were here.

Somewhere.

She could feel it like a current running under her skin.

Her heels clicked against the marble as she moved through the crowd, heart hammering in her chest like it wanted out. Her dress clung to her like a second skin, but it wasn't vanity that made her straighten her shoulders and set her jaw.

It was hope.

Find me, she begged silently. See me.

But the music swallowed her words.

And then—

Through the crowd, she saw you.

Soft pink lights pooled around you, making your skin glow, your smile sparkle. You were laughing, tipping your head back in that familiar way that made her chest ache.

But you weren’t alone.

There was someone with you—a girl, pretty and confident, her hands locked around your waist like she belonged there.

And before Manon could move, before she could even breathe, you leaned down.

Kissed her.

Slow, sure, easy.

Like you meant it.

Like you hadn’t even thought twice about it.

Manon felt the room tilt, the music bending into something sharp and broken. The bassline echoed in her skull like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers anymore.

The world blurred.

The crowd spun.

And she just stood there, rooted to the floor, invisible in a sea of strangers.

You didn’t see her.

You didn’t even look.

You have moved on.

And you hadn’t been acting.

All these months she had clung to the fantasy that somewhere, hidden behind your smiles and your new life, you were still hurting the way she was.

But no.

It was only her.

Still bleeding.

Still drowning.

Still reaching for a ghost that didn’t even know she was there.

She stumbled back through the crowd, the lights streaking into messy trails across her vision. Her throat burned, but she didn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. Not here. Not where anyone could see her fall apart.

Around her, the party raged on.

The music roared.

The laughter soared.

And she, she was nothing more than a phantom, drifting through the wreckage of her own desperate hope.

She should leave.

She should pull herself together, fix her makeup in the bathroom mirror, and pretend this night never happened.

But her feet wouldn’t move.

She stood by the bar, gripping the counter until her knuckles went white, the room spinning around her.

The DJ switched songs, a glittering, heartbreaking synthwave bleeding into the night.

I only threw this party for you, the lyrics whispered, again and again, slicing her open.

Manon closed her eyes.

Swayed slightly.

"I only threw this party for you," she whispered to herself, her voice lost in the noise.

But you didn’t hear her.

You didn’t know.

You didn’t even care.

Time blurred after that.

Maybe she stayed an hour. Maybe it was ten minutes.

She didn’t know.

All she knew was the cold hollowness inside her as she finally turned and pushed her way toward the exit, each step heavier than the last.

The night air hit her like a slap, sharp and cold against her flushed cheeks. She sucked in a breath, steadying herself against the brick wall outside the club.

The city moved around her, alive and indifferent. Cars hissed past. Laughter floated from nearby alleys. Somewhere, a siren wailed.

And Manon stood there, wrapped in her too-thin jacket, feeling more alone than she ever had before.

She thought heartbreak was something you survived.

That one day, it would scab over, become a scar you could trace with your fingers and say, I lived through that.

But maybe some wounds didn’t heal.

Maybe they just became part of you.

Maybe they were stitched into your skin, your bones, your blood.

Permanent.

She pulled out her phone without thinking, scrolling through her gallery. There you were, smiling up at her from the small screen—frozen in time, untouched by the wreckage.

Her thumb hovered over the photos.

Delete them, her mind whispered. Let go.

But her heart, stubborn and stupid, ached at the thought.

So she just tucked the phone away again, too much of a coward to cut the last thread tying her to you.

The walk home was a blur.

Her heels clicked on the pavement, her breath puffed out in small, ragged clouds, and she thought about all the ways she had tried to move on.

The jokes.

The parties.

The late-night hookups she never stayed for.

None of it had worked.

Because it had never been about forgetting you.

It had always been about finding pieces of you in other people.

And no one ever measured up.

No one ever felt like home.

She reached her apartment, fumbled with her keys, and stepped inside.

The silence hit her harder than the music ever had.

She dropped her purse, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed onto the couch, burying her face in her hands.

The party was over.

The dream was over.

You had moved on.

And her?

She was still here.

Still loving you in the ruins you left behind.

[atlasthegreatest]

- Fam out #7

Sophia Laforteza x reader  

“The dinner with has finally arrived, and it's time to find out who Evie is! Luckily, your girlfriend is always by your side” 

Genre – fluff        warnings - none 

Now playing – Rude, by MAGIC! 

“can i have your daughter for the rest of my life?” 

"You're right. This is bad."  

Manon's girlfriend was the first to speak. After you told everyone that Yoonchae had a girlfriend, silence settled over the room. You freaking out, Sophia rolling her eyes at every word that came out of your mouth and each of the girls in the living room giving you their own reactions to this information.   

Yoonchae wasn't present at the small reunion you called. And now, you wondered what the girl was doing.   

“Babe.” Manon patted her girlfriend's belly, scolding her. Knowing that she was only saying that to make you feel crazier.  

“What?” Her girlfriend asked, laughing. "We don't know this girl. She could be a criminal! A drug dealer who will put Yoonchae in the middle of her business!"  

You widened your eyes, looking at Sophia as if to ask if this was a possibility, causing the woman to deny it and snort, before putting her hands on her head in a sign of despair. Sophia had been struggling with all your outbursts ever since the maknae dropped the bombshell in both your laps. At first she thought your concern for Yoonchae was cute, but now it was starting to get on her nerves.  

“Baby, Yoonchae's girlfriend is not a drug dealer.” Sophia said, looking at you as she stroked the messy strands of hair on your head, before looking at Manon's girlfriend with a frown. “Eve is just a seventeen-year-old girl.”  

“You don't know how today's teenagers think...” Manon's girlfriend continued.  

"All right, that's it. You're grounded! Go wait in my room!" Manon pointed to the stairs. The brunette's voice was authoritative and made her girlfriend wince slightly, before standing up.   

Megan and her girlfriend were laughing at the whole situation, as was Lara's girlfriend, who got a little nip from the Indien girl. Only to discover that she was trying to hold in her laughter too.   

“ Grounding?” Daniela's girlfriend asked sarcastically, receiving a middle finger from the girl who was now climbing the stairs.   

“Do you want to join her?” Daniela asked, making her girlfriend wipe the smile off her face and shake her head negatively.   

"Sorry. I'm trying to deal with her hyperactivity." Manon explained before letting the conversation continue.   

“Look, guys, I know it seems a bit weird to have Yoonchip dating, but it was bound to happen at some point.” You groaned in disappointment at your girlfriend's words. “She's growing up and we can't protect her from everything forever.” Another groan of disapproval. “All we can do is guide her and hope that this girl is really nice.” You groaned again in disapproval.   

This time you really managed to get your girlfriend's attention.   

“All right, if you do that one more time you'll be waiting upstairs with Manon's girlfriend!”   

Turning off the lights in the bathroom, you walked towards your bed, the house was silent and you were still thinking about the conversation you had with the girls earlier. At the same time as you thought you were overreacting, you swore that you just didn't want Yoonchae to get hurt.   

You knew more than anyone how cruel first love can be, how exciting and scary. You've had your own experience, and you've struggled a lot to really have a love like the one you have with Sophia. You just don't want things to go wrong for Yoonchae like they did for you.   

Walking over to the bed, you pulled back the blanket, lying down on the right side of the bed - you always slept on this side, because your girlfriend didn't like sleeping near the door. Sighing, you leaned your head against Sophia's shoulder, the woman reading what she always read before going to bed.  

“Do you think I'm exaggerating?” You asked as you kissed the Filipina's shoulder.   

“I think you're worrying too much.” Putting down the book, Sophia grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles. “Yoonchae is smart, she knows how to take care of herself.”   

“She's still just a child to me...”   

"I think she'll always be just a child to all of us, Mahal. But we have to face the fact that she's growing up."  

You nodded, kissing Sophia's shoulder again before you heard a light knock on the door to your room.   

After a little “Come in” from Sophia, the topic of the moment poked his head into the room. The typical little smile on her face.   

“I just came to say good night...”  

The Korean girl looked shy, almost as if she were tiptoeing around, avoiding starting a conversation she didn't want to or even giving you another heart attack.   

Sighing, you sat up properly on the bed, patting the space between you and Sophia with your hand. With a shy smile on her face, Yoonchae approached, crawling on the soft mattress until she was sitting between you and your girlfriend. 

“Sorry about my reaction before, Yoonchip...” You began, attracting curious looks not only from the maknae, but also from your girlfriend. "I guess I got too overprotective with you. I just don't want you to go through the same things I did."  

Yoonchae's gaze was compassionate, as if she completely understood your point. Meanwhile, Sophia looked at you in confusion, she knew that you hadn't had good experiences with love before, but at no point did she associate this with your protectiveness towards Yoonchae.   

“All right, I understand.” Yoonchae said, taking your hand in hers. "But I promise, Evie is great! She's not an idiot and I certainly wouldn't be with her if she was one."  

Smiling, you ran your thumb over the back of the girl's hand. Sophia just watched the whole interaction between the two of you, stroking Yoonchae's hair. "I know you don't. You're too smart not to notice if something's wrong."   

Laughing, you and the girls let a comfortable silence fall between you. The mood quickly became more relaxed as the guarded words were spoken.   

"Look, how about you invite Evie for dinner tomorrow? Then we can get to know her once and for all..."   

"REALLY? That would be great!" The girl perked up, jumping out of bed as she ran towards the door. "I'll text her and tell her everything. I love you!"  

The door closed with a satisfying click, Yoonchae probably running towards her room, texting Evie. Meanwhile, the woman next to you looked at you with admiration.   

“I'm so proud of you.” Sophia said, pulling you close so that she could lie on your chest.   

“It was the right thing to do.” You reply, stroking Sophia's hair before closing your eyes, breathing in relief at having resolved the tension between you and Yoonchae.   

“You're going to be a wonderful mother, you know that?” Sophia's words made you open your eyes, only to see that the woman was already looking at you with passionate eyes. “I can't wait to have a family with you.”  

Reaching out, your fingertips brushed against Sophia's chin, pulling the Filipina closer until your lips touched. The kiss was slow, tender and passionate. The idea of starting a family always left your hearts beating at a much faster pace than normal.  

“I'm going to be the happiest woman in the world when that happens!” 

“How do I look?” You asked Sophia for the second time.   

The woman - who was standing in front of the mirror, putting on her earrings - rolled her eyes with a smile, before finally turning towards you, grabbing the collar of your shirt and pulling you into a quick kiss. The sensation of her gloss on your lips made you want more than a lip seal.   

“You look beautiful!” The Filipina said, loosening your shirt and smoothing out the places crumpled by her grip. “You seem to be more nervous than Yoonchae.”  

As if on cue, the younger girl came into the room like a hurricane.  

“HOW DO I LOOK?”   

Laughing, Sophia glanced between the two of you, before turning once more to the dressing table mirror. “Wow, you two really could be mother and daughter...”  

“You look beautiful.” You said, ignoring your girlfriend's comment. “Relax, she'll find you beautiful anyway.”   

The sound of the doorbell ringing made Yoonchae's heart race again, fearing that her girlfriend had finally arrived. She knew that Evie was punctual, so she went downstairs as quickly as possible.   

“DON'T RUN ON THE STAIRS!”  

You nodded. God save your future children from Sophia's screams.   

Yoonchae, meanwhile, opened the door, slightly out of breath. Her smile faded as soon as she saw the scene in front of the house. Manon's girlfriend's arms around Evie's shoulders as she said something nonsensical to the girl - who by now looked pretty bored. The girls were all behind the pair, huddled by the door touching up their make-up or fixing their hair.   

“Hi Yoonchip, look who we found by practically ringing the doorbell.” Manon's girlfriend entered, dragging Evie along with her, not before winking at the maknae.   

“Baby, leave the girl alone!” Manon said, coming in right after.   

“Hey girl.” Daniela's girlfriend was the next to enter. A backpack on her back and the smell of smoke permeating her clothes.   

"God, where were you? In a barbecue?" Yoonchae complained, turning away from the woman as she let her into the house. 

“She's just come off a shift at work.” Daniela explained, smiling at her girlfriend as she watched her all dirty.  

"First, get that look off your face. That's disgusting." Yoonchae said, looking at the Latina like she was insane. "And you, use the bathroom in the guest room. You can change there too."  

“I love you, Yoonchip.” The woman said, coming forward to hug the maknae.  

“HEY!” Yoonchae shouted, pulling away from the woman with her hands raised, putting distance between the two. “Save that mess for Dani.”  

Laughing, the firewoman climbed the stairs. Yoonchae just watched as Daniela followed her girlfriend. Mumbling something about helping her with her clothes. As the Latina walked up the stairs, you walked down, looking at the woman with a confused look as she seemed a little too excited - at least for someone who was just going to help her girlfriend with her clothes.  

“Hey, you guys are here.” You said, seeing Megan and Lara with their girlfriends. “Nothing from the special guest?”  

"She's already arrived. Manon's girlfriend is stuck on her." Megan's girlfriend said, laughing as she was accompanied by Lara's girlfriend.  

“Poor girl.” You said. “All right, how about you go and rescue your girlfriend and I'll take care of the door.”  

Yoonchae nodded, heading towards the kitchen, but not before whispering a “thank you” to you.  

"Have you finally come to terms with all this? Lara was the first to ask. All the girls watched you sigh and shrug.  

“Well, it was bound to happen at some point.”  

Dinner went well, as far as that was possible. After Sophia finished getting ready and Daniela and her girlfriend came downstairs flushed and panting, you finally started dinner. The conversation didn't flow as much, an awkward silence settled in at times, causing Sophia to start a conversation - which would soon end, making the silence take over again.  

"All right. I don't think anyone will ask, so I'll be the brave one here!" Manon's girlfriend began, causing everyone at the table to turn their heads attentively towards her. "How did you two meet? Like, since when does Yoonchae have time to get to know someone?"  

Yoonchae opened her mouth, only to close it again, not knowing what to say. All eyes were on her and she hated it.  

“We met at school.” Evie was the first to speak. “We did a project together.”  

The girl's hand grabbed Yoonchae's under the table. Hearing her girlfriend's breathing calm down, Evelyn calmed down along with her.  

“Like in the movies, cool.”  

“Awn, how cute.” Megan said, looking at her girlfriend.  

“ Really cute.” The actress agreed.  

“We weren't that close.” Yoonchae began. "But... Evie defended me from some people who were laughing at me."  

You dropped your fork, making the loud clinking of cutlery with plate echo through the house. “Were you getting bullying?  

” “It wasn't bullying.” Yoonchae tried.  

“Yes, it was.” Evie retorted. Evie retorted.  

“All right, maybe it was a little bit...”  

“Yoonchip, why didn't you tell us?” Sophia asked. Reaching across your chair to stroke your back, knowing that you would probably be uncomfortable with this situation.  

" Well. It didn't last long. And Evie sorted it out."  

The table fell silent. Evelyn poked at the piece of chicken on her plate with her fork, squeezing her girlfriend's hand under the table. The girls were standing around, watching the strangely maternal interaction between you and the girls.  

“Thank you for protecting her.” You were the first to speak. Directing your gaze at Evie. The girl giving you a - genuine - tight-lipped smile.  

“Always.” 

“So, now we have another teenager dating,” you said, lying on the bed while you waited for Sophia to come out of the bathroom.  

The girls had already gone home, Yoonchae would be sleeping at the Kats' tonight, so when dinner was over and you'd finished washing all the evening's dishes, you went upstairs and waited patiently for your girlfriend to come out of the bathroom.  

“Isn't it strange how we're all dating at the same time?” You rambled on, staring at the bathroom door, as if Sophia were there.  

You could hear the woman grumbling from time to time. You just assumed she was doing her nightly skincare, and chose not to slip into the bathroom with her.  

"Dinner was nice. Maybe you could do it again." You heard a small murmur of agreement coming from the bathroom. "God, it's a good thing we don't have another child. I don't think I could handle another teenager starting to date."  

Hearing the bathroom door open, you looked towards the sound. You swore you might faint.  

Sophia, your girlfriend, stood there in the sexiest lingerie you'd ever seen in your life. The teasing smile on her face told you that she had gotten exactly the reaction she wanted from you. The glossy sages drawing your attention to her lips and the bra making you mesmerized. You honestly looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

Walking towards the bed, Sophia climbed on top of you, taking her place on your lap. Taking your hands only to guide them to her waist.  

"You know, Mahal. If we make it tough enough, maybe a few years down the line we'll have another teenager in the house."  

“We can test it!” 

it's almost 3 AM here. I'm dead

drink water and be safe,

xoxo, spider.

[atlasthegreatest]

Fireflies and Wild Blooms / Charlotte Matthews x Female Reader

At a sleepy summer camp tucked deep in the woods, Charlotte Matthews spends her days as a counselor surrounded by laughter, sun-warmed docks, and late-night bonfires. She isn’t looking for anything — until she meets Y/n Harrington, the older counselor who feels like the first breath of fresh air after a long winter.

Warnings: None. Summer Camp AU.

Word count: 2623

Camp Hollow Pines was the kind of place that looked like it had been pulled from a postcard — sprawling forests, a sapphire lake, cabins nestled between crooked trees, and the scent of pine and burnt marshmallows baked into the air.

Y/n Harrington had been coming here for years — a veteran counselor, tall and composed, with that kind of quiet confidence that made kids listen without yelling and made other counselors feel steadier just by standing near her. They always put her in the toughest bunks, knowing she could handle anything.

This year, the Yellowjackets girls had signed on as a group, taking counselor jobs before their senior year. They were loud, chaotic, funny — and completely inseparable.

And among them was Charlotte Matthews.

She wasn’t loud like Natalie or effortlessly cool like Taissa. She moved like the woods — soft and sure. She wore her shirts knotted at the waist, hair tied back in messy braids, and she always smelled faintly of lavender and bug spray. Kids loved her. She’d whisper to crying campers at night until they fell asleep or braid flowers into their hair before campfire songs.

Y/n tried not to notice her too much.

She tried not to notice how the tall brunette looked at her during morning meetings like she was trying to figure something out.

Or how her name sounded different when she said it — gentler somehow.

But it was hard.

Especially as summer stretched on.

——————-

It started with chores. Y/n was cleaning out the mess hall pantry when the brunette appeared beside her, sleeves rolled up and hands already reaching for the cans.

“You always do everything alone,” she said, not accusing. Just noticing.

Y/n gave her a small smile.

“Force of habit.”

Charlotte paused, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe you don’t have to.”

From then on, she kept showing up.

Helping stack oars after canoeing.

Sneaking iced tea from the staff fridge.

Sitting next to Y/n during campfire singalongs, always just close enough that their knees brushed.

It became a pattern, unspoken but certain.

There were nights when the heat lingered late into the evening, and they’d all gather by the lake. Natalie and Van played guitar badly, singing even worse. Jackie complained about mosquitoes to Shauna— who was helping some kids with their smores. Taissa led the kids in ghost stories. Misty manned the s’mores station with obsessive glee.

Y/n sat on the log bench, a little apart, watching the flames flicker and the stars prick the sky.

And Charlotte?

Charlotte always found her way to her.

One night, she handed Y/n a half-burnt marshmallow sandwiched between graham crackers. Her fingers lingered on the older girl’s.

“You always take care of everyone,” she said.“Someone should take care of you, too.”

Y/n didn’t answer. But her heart did — loud and clear.

——————-

It wasn’t sudden.

It was glances shared across the arts & crafts table.

It was Y/n’s hand brushing hers when reaching for the bug spray.

It was Charlotte tucking a daisy behind Y/n’s ear before heading to the flagpole.

It was Jackie elbowing the older girl during cabin inspections and whispering, “You and Lottie, huh?”

It was Van calling out, “You’re blushing, Matthews!” during kitchen duty.

It was Misty saying too loudly, “You two are always together,” while Natalie rolled her eyes and said, “Maybe because they like each other, genius.”

It was soft. Quiet. A slow bloom.

One late afternoon, when the sky was syrupy and orange, and the kids were off at archery, Y/n found Charlotte sitting under the old willow tree by the dock. Her eyes were closed, the breeze teasing her hair, and her journal was open on her lap.

Y/n approached without saying anything.

The brunette looked up and smiled.

“You always find me here.”

“Force of habit,” the older girl echoed from earlier.

Y/n sat beside the brunette, legs stretched out, her shoulder brushing hers.

“I like being near you,” Charlotte said simply, eyes still on the lake.

It was so quiet that even the trees held their breath.

“And I like you,” she added, softer this time, as if saying it out loud made it real.

Y/n turned to her, heartbeat thundering loud in her chest.

Charlotte looked nervous — like someone brave in every way but this one.

So Y/n reached out, her pinky finding hers, and said, “Me too.”

And the brunette exhaled, laughing quietly, in that way, people do when the weight they’ve been carrying suddenly disappears.

They stayed there until the sun dipped below the trees.

Not rushing.

Not needing to.

Just two people falling — slowly, surely — in the middle of a summer where everything felt a little more alive.

——————-

After that evening under the willow tree, something shifted.

Not all at once. Not in any way they could point to. But there was a new kind of gravity between Y/n and Charlotte — gentle and sure like a river slowly carving its path.

They still did their jobs. Y/n still woke at sunrise to the bell clanging across the camp, still herded muddy kids through breakfast and canoe practice. Still sat through endless counselor meetings where Van made jokes and Misty took way too many notes.

But now, there were stolen glances when they passed each other in the mess hall.

Brushes of hands when handing over life jackets at the docks.

A silent language built in the spaces between the noise of camp.

One afternoon, Taissa and Shauna organized a massive capture-the-flag tournament. Y/n was drafted as a “team leader” (read: glorified referee), while Charlotte — after much pleading from the campers — ended up leading the Red Team.

Watching her laugh as she plotted elaborate battle strategies with ten-year-olds made the older girl’s chest ache, in the best way.

At one point during a chaotic scramble near the woods, Charlotte slipped past her, grinning wildly, her hand catching hers just for a second — a tug, a tease, before she disappeared behind a tree.

And Y/n stood there like an idiot, grinning, long after she was gone.

Later that night, the two of them were on campfire duty, staying behind after the kids had been herded to bed. The embers glowed low and the stars spilled across the sky like sugar.

Charlotte sat cross-legged on the ground, poking the ashes with a stick. Y/n sat beside her, elbows resting on her jeans-clad knees.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

It was easy like that now — the silence between them comfortable, like worn-in denim.

Finally, the brunette said, “This summer feels…different.”

Y/n glanced at her. Charlotte’s face was lit softly by the firelight, all shadow and gold.

“Because of us?” she asked.

The brunette nodded, tucking a stray braid behind her ear. “I didn’t think I could ever feel something like this. Not again.”

Y/n knew what she meant without needing the details. Some things were better understood without words.

Y/n shifted closer, carefully, giving Charlotte the chance to pull away. She didn’t. Instead, the brunette tilted her head against Y/n’s shoulder, a sigh escaping her like she’d been holding it in all day.

They stayed like that until the fire was nothing but a memory.

——————-

The days grew shorter, but the heat still clung stubbornly. And sometimes, the other girls gave the two a hard time.

Like Van, throwing a stick at them during counselor free swim: “Just kiss her already!”

Or Natalie, during kitchen duty, muttering to Misty: “They’re so obvious it’s painful.”

And then Jackie, less subtle, during arts & crafts: “We’re betting on when you two will make it official. Don’t make me lose twenty bucks.”

Even Taissa, who usually rolled her eyes at the drama, grinned one afternoon and said, “About time you found someone good, Lott.”

Charlotte would just blush and duck her head.

Y/n could only chuckle and shake her head.

But secretly?

She loved that they noticed.

She loved that it wasn’t hidden.

And she loved Charlotte.

Y/n didn’t say it — not yet — but it lived inside her now, bright and certain.

———————

One evening, as a late summer storm rolled in, all the kids were herded into the rec hall for movie night. Y/n and Charlotte found themselves on the old worn-out couches pushed together in the back, half-watching The Sandlot flicker across the projector screen.

At some point, without thinking, Y/n draped her arm along the back of the couch behind the brunette. Charlotte leaned into her, fitting there like she’d been made for it.

Y/n looked down at her — the way the screen’s light caught her cheekbones, the way she bit her bottom lip when she was trying not to laugh — and her heart stuttered.

Maybe it was the storm outside.

Maybe it was the slow build of all the moments leading up to this one.

Maybe it was just time.

Y/n leaned in, slow enough that Charlotte could have pulled away. She didn’t.

Y/n’s lips brushed hers — feather-light — a question, not a demand.

And Charlotte answered by tilting her chin up, kissing the older girl back, soft and sure.

When they finally pulled away, Charlotte's forehead rested against Y/n’s, and she whispered, almost giddy:

“I was hoping you’d do that.”

Y/n laughed, low and breathless.

“Me too.”

Outside, the storm raged, lightning flashing silver across the windows.

Inside, Y/n and Charlotte held each other in the soft dark, and nothing else mattered.

——————-

The last week of camp always felt a little like watching the sunset — beautiful, but heavy in Y/n’s chest, knowing it couldn’t last forever.

The kids started counting down the days, leaving goodbye notes in each other’s cubbies, friendship bracelets piling up on wrists like armor against change. The other counselors were already talking about plans for the fall — classes, sports, senior year, maybe keeping in touch.

And Y/n?

Y/n was thinking about Charlotte.

The way she leaned into her side when they watched the lake at dusk.

The way she always saved her the last orange popsicle.

The way her brown eyes softened when they landed on her like she was the calm in her storm.

They hadn’t talked about what happened next.

Not really.

But the clock was ticking, and they could both hear it.

One evening, with only a few days left, the camp threw a “Bonfire Bash” — a tradition. All the kids wore glow sticks and the counselors helped roast s’mores while music echoed through the trees.

Y/n stood by the firepit, handing out marshmallows and laughing with Jackie and Natalie while Misty awkwardly taught kids a line dance she made up. Charlotte was across the fire, helping tie shoes and rebraid a girl’s hair that had come loose mid-run while talking something to Shauna and Taissa.

She glanced up.

Y/n met her eyes.

And Charlotte smiled.

It didn’t matter how many times she did that.

It still made Y/n’s heart trip over itself.

——————

Later, when most of the kids were tucked in and the fire was embers again, Charlotte found the older girl sitting on the dock, her legs dangling over the water. Y/n heard her footsteps before she saw her — soft, deliberate, always a little grounded even when the rest of the world spun too fast.

“You okay?” The brunette asked, settling beside the older girl.

“Yeah,” Y/n said, looking out at the lake. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Y/n hesitated then looked at the girl at her side. “All of it. You. Me. What happens next.”

Charlotte drew her knees up to her chest, watching the moon ripple across the water.

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” she admitted. “It’s been…a long time since I let someone in like this. I wasn’t sure I could again.”

Y/n reached over, lacing her fingers with Charlotte’s.

“I don’t want this to be just a summer thing,” the older girl said, voice low but sure. “Not with you.”

Charlotte's eyes met hers — warm, a little glassy.

“I don’t either,” she said, almost like a vow.

The brunette leaned in then, slow and steady, and kissed Y/n — soft, familiar now, like coming home. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against Y/n’s again, their hands still entwined.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispered.

And Y/n believed her.

——————-

On the last full day of camp, Y/n and Charlotte snuck away during free hour.

They ended up under the willow tree — the same one where it all began. Charlotte lay back in the grass, the sunlight spilling through the leaves, her hair fanned out like a halo.

Y/n stretched out beside her, one arm behind her head, the other resting against the brunette’s.

“I’m gonna miss this place,” Charlotte said, eyes closed.

“Me too.”

The brunette opened one eye, glancing over at the older girl. “But I’m not gonna miss you,” she added.

Y/n arched a brow. “No?”

Charlotte shook her head, smiling. “Because I plan on seeing you all the time.”

Y/n laughed, quietly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Coffee dates. Study breaks. Maybe you’ll teach me how to do real push-ups since you’re better at everything.”

Y/n snorted. “Clearly.”

And Charlotte grinned, then reached for Y/n’s hand again.

It was still strange, still new, but also — somehow — the most natural thing in the world.

When the buses rolled in the next morning and the kids clung to each other crying, when duffels were tossed onto the pavement and camp began to dissolve like a sandcastle under waves, Charlotte found Y/n one last time before leaving.

The brunette stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to the older girl’s cheek, quick and soft.

Then she whispered, just loud enough for Y/n to hear: “I’ll see you soon.”

Y/n watched her walk away, her chest tight but full. Because she knew Charlotte meant it.

And for once in her life, goodbye didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the beginning of something real.

Bonus chapter:

Fall came fast. The leaves turned gold and rust. The air got sharper, crisper. Life picked back up — classes, jobs, the noise of the world. But in the quiet pockets of it, there was Charlotte.

Phone calls at night, her voice soft and tired but hers.

Little texts during the day — pictures of the sky, a new coffee she tried, a quote she thought Y/n would like.

Weekend meetups halfway between their towns, huddled in old diners or walking through crunchy leaves in sleepy parks.

It wasn’t perfect — sometimes life pulled them in different directions — but Charlotte was steady in a way Y/n hadn’t known she needed.

And Y/n? Y/n made sure Charlotte knew she wasn’t alone anymore.

——————-

One chilly Saturday in November, Charlotte came to visit her.

Y/n met her at the train station, her small backpack slung over one shoulder, a beanie tugged low over her ears. Charlotte spotted her instantly and grinned, practically running the last few steps.

Y/n caught her, arms wrapping around her instinctively, Charlotte’s cold nose nuzzling into her neck.

“I missed you,” the brunette mumbled.

Y/n squeezed her tighter. “Missed you more.”

Charlotte pulled back just enough to kiss her — right there, in front of everyone — quick and sure like she couldn’t wait another second.

They didn’t care who saw.

The whole world could’ve stopped right there and they wouldn’t have noticed.

—————-

The two of them spent the day bundled up in old jackets, wandering in Y/n’s town.

Charlotte made fun of Y/n’s terrible latte order.

Y/n teased the brunette for getting lost in a bookstore for an hour.

And then Charlotte tried to win the older girl a stupid stuffed bear at a street fair booth — and failed — but Y/n bought it for her anyway, because her smile when she held it was worth it.

That night, after a movie and cheap takeout, they lay tangled together on Y/n’s couch, an old blanket thrown over them both.

Charlotte’s head rested on Y/n’s chest, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the older girl’s arm.

Y/n’s heart beat slow and steady under the girl’s touch.

“Feels like camp,” the brunette said quietly.

Y/n looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Warm.” Charlotte tilted her head up to meet Y/n’s eyes. “Safe.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, and she kissed the brunette’s forehead, lingering there.

“You’re my home too,” she whispered.

[atlasthegreatest]

Where the Quiet Lives / Charlotte Matthews x Farmer! Female Reader

After being rescued from the wilderness, Charlotte Matthews is placed in a psychiatric hospital by her well-off, emotionally distant parents. When she’s finally released, they send her to stay in the countryside to keep her out of sight—out of the news, out of their lives. That’s where she meets Y/n Bennett— a tall, strong, and quiet woman who lives on a remote farm, working as a beekeeper and farmer.

Warnings: None. Slow burn.

Word count: 3955

A/n: I started watching Yellowjacket a few days ago and completely fell in love with Lottie (I mean, come on… look at her big brown eyes! Who wouldn't fall in love with them?)

The air smelled like clover and smoke when Charlotte stepped out of the car. The sun was low, casting honey-colored light over the fields, and her parents didn’t linger. They barely looked at her. Just a short, stiff hug from her mother, then the car door shut, and they were gone.

She stood there with her duffel bag in hand, watching dust settle behind their tires. The farmhouse was modest, a bit weather-worn, with ivy curling up the side and bees humming somewhere nearby. A fence bordered the property, and golden rows of crops rolled into the distance. It was quiet in a way that made Charlotte feel like she’d stepped into a dream.

Then she saw her.

Y/n was standing a few yards away, tall and still as an old tree, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her overalls were faded, her hands stained with soil, hair tucked messily under a bandana. She didn’t smile, not exactly—but her eyes were kind. Soft. Steady.

Charlotte’s first thought was that the woman looked like she belonged to the earth. Her second thought was that she was the first person who hadn’t looked at her like she was breakable.

“Hi,” she said. Her voice felt small. Out of practice.

Y/n nodded, slow and deliberate. “Charlotte, right?”

The tall brunette nodded.

Y/n gestured toward the porch with a slight tilt of her head. “You’ll be staying in the room upstairs. I figured you’d want time to settle in.”

No interrogation. No tiptoeing. “No, How are you feeling, Lottie? Do you still see things?” Just a simple offer, grounded in silence.

Charlotte followed the tall woman inside, the wooden boards creaking under her steps. The house was cool and smelled faintly of honey and lavender. Everything felt… rooted. Like this place wasn’t rushing anywhere.

“You can help with the hives in the morning,” Y/n said once she dropped her bag by the bed. “If you’re up for it.”

“I’d like that.”

Y/n nodded again like she believed her.

———————

The first few days were a rhythm of quiet work and softer mornings. Y/n didn’t ask her about the hospital. Y/n didn’t bring up the crash. And Y/n didn’t pry when she flinched at the sound of distant thunder or when her hands shook while pouring tea.

Instead, the tall woman handed her gloves when it was time to check the hives. Y/n taught her how to move slowly, and how bees didn’t fear her if she was calm. Charlotte never realized how soothing the buzz of life could be. She liked watching Y/n work—how she handled every frame like it was sacred.

“You don’t talk much,” the tall brunette said one afternoon, brushing a honey-streaked strand of hair from her cheek.

Y/n gave a small shrug. “Words don’t always help.”

Charlotte looked at the other woman for a long time. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “They really don’t.”

———————

Weeks passed.

Y/n noticed how the brunette started humming when she fed the chickens. How she lingered outside during golden hour, closing her eyes like the sun was something she missed more than anything. How she’d steal glances at her when she thought she wasn’t looking.

Y/n started setting aside her favorite tea in the mornings. And in return, Charlotte started placing fresh-picked lavender on her windowsill.

One evening, when the sky was blushing with the last light of day, Y/n found the brunette out near the hives. She wasn’t wearing gloves. Just standing barefoot in the grass, letting the bees dance around her hands.

“They’re not afraid of me,” Charlotte whispered, voice tinged with awe. “It’s like… they know I’m not dangerous anymore.”

Y/n stepped beside her, careful not to disturb the moment.

“I don’t think you ever were,” she said softly.

Lottie turned to look at the taller woman then, eyes wide and open in a way Y/n hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Hopeful. A little lost.

Y/n didn’t say anything else. Just reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind the brunette’s ear.

Charlotte didn’t flinch.

She leaned into her touch.

And for the first time in a long time, Charlotte Matthews believed maybe she could be more than what the world tried to make of her.

———————-

Charlotte started waking up earlier.

At first, it was from the nightmares—shadows from a life she no longer talked about. But after a while, it wasn’t fear that pulled her out of bed. It was the promise of routine, of stillness, of something real.

It was Y/n Bennett.

She’d find her out in the field, tall and silent in the morning fog, silhouetted against rows of dew-soaked crops. Sometimes she’d already be tending the beehives, moving with a kind of grace she didn’t associate with strength. Charlotte liked how the woman didn’t break the silence just to fill it. She let it breathe.

Some mornings, Charlotte would sit on the back steps with a cup of tea Y/n had left for her. She’d watch as the woman moved among the hives with bare forearms and a slow, steady rhythm. Y/n always seemed unbothered by the sting of the world.

Maybe that’s what drew her to Y/n—how nothing rattled her, not even her.

The first time Y/n touched her by accident, it was so casual she nearly cried.

Y/n was reaching for a crate of wildflower seedlings in the greenhouse. She’d gone to grab one too, and their hands brushed. Her skin tingled like a struck chord. Y/n didn’t pull away—just looked at her, warm and steady—and kept moving.

No fear. No questions. No pity.

That night, she stood on the porch long after Y/n had gone inside, watching fireflies drift lazily through the grass. The moon hung low, heavy and yellow.

The tall woman had left a jar of lavender honey on her nightstand with a note in her messy, minimal handwriting:

Try it on toast. Good for sleep.

Charlotte smiled at it for far too long.

———————

Some days were harder. There were mornings when Charlotte couldn’t look at herself in the mirror. She still heard the forest sometimes—in her head, in her bones. She hated how easily silence could turn into memory.

But on those days, Y/n seemed to know. She wouldn’t say anything, but she’d place her tea on the railing instead of the kitchen counter, so she wouldn’t have to come in. Or she’d let her work in the greenhouse alone, trusting that solitude would settle her.

Y/n made space for her without vanishing. That mattered more than anything.

And Charlotte found herself watching the tall woman more than she meant to—watching how the sunlight made her skin glow golden when she worked in the field, or how her voice, low and gravelly, could coax nervous animals into calm.

Y/n Bennett was strength without force. Softness without weakness. And everything she hadn’t known she needed.

———————

It wasn’t until the thunderstorm that she saw Y/n shake.

The wind picked up fast, and the sky cracked open with a vengeance. Y/n was moving the hives under cover, fast but careful. Charlotte ran out to help, already soaked, her braid clinging to her neck.

A bolt of lightning struck close—too close—and for a split second, Y/n’s breath hitched. She flinched.

Charlotte saw it. The way Y/n’s hands trembled just barely. How her jaw clenched, like she was keeping something in.

Without thinking, she reached for Y/n’s arm.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m here.”

Y/n blinked down at her—rain dripping from her lashes, her broad shoulders rising with each slow breath—and nodded.

It was the first time she leaned into Charlotte’s touch.

After the hives were safe, they both stood on the porch, soaked and shivering. Charlotte handed her a towel. Y/n draped her over the brunette's shoulders instead.

“You did good,” she murmured.

“So did you,” Charlotte replied.

Neither of them moved for a while. The air smelled like ozone and damp earth. Charlotte’s shoulder brushed against Y/n’s arm.

It was such a small thing, but her heart ached with how big it felt.

That night, Y/n left the porch light on for her.

Charlotte left a beeswax candle outside Y/n’s door with a tiny pressed flower sealed into the wax.

Neither of them said anything about it the next morning.

But when their fingers lingered a little longer as Y/n passed her the gloves, Charlotte noticed.

And when her smile reached her eyes for the first time in weeks, Y/n noticed too.

And it was the most beautiful smile she had ever seen.

———————-

Charlotte didn’t talk much about her parents.

Y/n never asked. She didn’t need to.

Y/n saw it in the way she’d stiffened when a car rolled down the gravel road. In the way Charlotte hesitated before placing anything of hers on shared shelves, like she didn’t quite believe she was allowed to leave fingerprints here. Or in the way, her fingers twitched at the sound of a phone ringing.

The brunette never got calls. But she checked the receiver sometimes anyway as if bracing herself.

The garden bloomed late that season. A soft rebellion against the usual rhythm of things.

Charlotte spent more time in it than anywhere else, hands in the soil, hair braided back in loose patterns she barely remembered learning. Y/n sometimes finds her kneeling between rows of carrots, humming quietly, eyes closed like she is praying or remembering. The brunette told her once that the air tasted cleaner here—less like judgment, more like second chances.

Y/n didn’t know what the brunette had been told about herself before she came here. But she knew how long it had taken Charlotte to meet her eyes without flinching. How she still apologized when she dropped a spoon, bumped her arm, or took up space.

Y/n wanted to shake whoever made Charlotte feel like she had to be sorry for existing.

But instead, she kept showing up. Quietly. Steadily. Like gravity.

———————-

One afternoon, Y/n came in from mending a fence with her shoulder bruised and a gash across her knuckles. Nothing serious, but Charlotte caught her wrist before she could wave it off.

“Sit,” the brunette said, more command than suggestion. Y/n raised a brow. But Charlotte stared her down. “Don’t make me get salt water.”

Y/n quickly sat down.

Charlotte cleaned her hand with practiced care—gentle but focused. Her touch was light, but her eyes were sharp, searching for pain Y/n wouldn’t admit to. The brunette didn’t look away when she looked at her. Didn’t smile, either.

But her thumb lingered a beat too long against Y/n’s palm. She wrapped the bandage slowly, almost delicately. When she was done, she didn’t move away.

“You should take better care of yourself,” Charlotte murmured.

Y/n tilted her head slightly. “You are.”

The brunette blinked. A small intake of breath.

Her hand stayed wrapped around Y/n’s wrist a moment longer, then let go.

The silence that followed was thick—not uncomfortable, but charged. They both sat there on the back steps, Charlotte’s fingers still warm against Y/n’s skin even after she pulled away.

That evening, a letter arrived.

Y/n found it half-buried in the kitchen drawer. Unopened. No name on the envelope, just careful handwriting and a return address in the city.

Y/n didn’t ask. She didn’t mention it.

But the next morning, Y/n found the brunette by the greenhouse with that same envelope in her lap, unopened. Her face was unreadable. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the paper.

The brunette didn’t notice her until she knelt beside her in the grass.

Charlotte glanced up, surprised. “I wasn’t—”

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” Y/n said quietly.

Charlotte’s eyes flicked back down to the letter. “They think they still have some say. Like… if they write the right words, it’ll undo everything.”

Y/n didn’t respond right away. Just let the wind carry her breath.

“They sent me away,” the brunette added, voice low. “Not because they thought it would help. But because I embarrassed them. Because I scared them. And now they act like I’m healed, like I’m fixed, but they haven’t changed. They’re just… quiet about it now.”

Y/n’s jaw tightened, but her voice stayed even. “They don’t know you.”

Charlotte turned to the tall woman. There was something raw in her gaze, something trembling just beneath the surface. “Do you?”

The question could’ve been sharp. Defensive. But it wasn’t. It was honest.

Y/n reached out and gently brushed a stray curl behind her ear.

“I’m trying to,” she said. “And I think you’re letting me.”

Charlotte didn’t say anything. Just leaned into Y/n’s hand—barely, barely. A soft pressure, like a whisper against her palm.

And then she nodded. Once.

That night, Charlotte left the envelope in the fireplace.

Y/n didn’t ask her what it said.

But she sat beside Charlotte as the flames took it apart.

The next morning, Charlotte touched her back as she passed in the kitchen. Just a hand pressed lightly between Y/n’s shoulder blades. A thank-you. A question. A tether.

Y/n didn’t say anything. Just placed a warm cup of tea in her hands and let the moment be what it was.

———————

Y/n always knew Charlotte was observant—she noticed bees before they stung, clouds before they gathered, and tension before they spoke.

But it was different now. Charlotte wasn’t just watching the world; she was learning how to belong to it again.

And more and more, she watched Y/n.

Sometimes when Y/n was chopping vegetables or carrying firewood, Charlotte would glance up from her place by the stove or from across the porch and look at the tall woman like she was still trying to believe she was real. Like she couldn’t quite wrap her head around someone who existed without expectation or performance.

Y/n never pushed. She never chased. She just let her come closer, one step at a time.

The first time Charlotte touched Y/n’s hand intentionally, it was barely anything at all.

They were sitting together on the porch, watching fireflies bloom in the tall grass. The cicadas were loud, the sky bruised with twilight, and Charlotte’s knee was already pressed close to Y/n’s. Then, quietly, carefully, her pinky hooked around Y/n’s index finger.

Not holding.

Just touching.

Y/n didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

Y/n let her stay.

And that tiny tether between their hands held more weight than any kiss Charlotte had ever been given.

———————-

It became a rhythm—unspoken but growing.

Charlotte brought Y/n wildflowers tucked into her tool belt.

Y/n left honey-dipped shortbread on the brunette’s pillow when she had hard nights.

Charlotte stood closer when she didn’t know what to say.

Y/n brushed the dirt from the brunette’s cheek without asking.

And one night, without warning, Charlotte followed Y/n outside after dinner, barefoot, hair still damp from her bath. The air smelled like turned soil and cool smoke.

“I didn’t used to like quiet,” she said suddenly, standing beside Y/n under the stars. “I thought if I stopped talking, the thoughts would win.”

Y/n didn’t speak. Just waited.

“But now… here, with you… it’s like the quiet has a heartbeat. It doesn’t drown me. It grounds me.”

Y/n turned slightly, meeting the brunette’s gaze. Charlotte’s eyes were glassy, but she wasn’t crying. She looked… full. Like something inside her had finally unclenched.

Y/n didn’t reach for her. She didn’t have to.

Charlotte stepped forward first, tucking her head against the woman’s chest, arms wrapping around her waist. Small. Needing.

And Y/n—taller, broader—folded around the brunette like a shield. Like she’d been made to hold her and nothing else.

Charlotte didn’t say anything else. But her breath slowed against Y/n’s skin, syncing with her. Steady. Real.

They stood there a long time, listening to the soft hum of the bees asleep in their hives. The rustle of wind. The echo of a world she was learning to believe in again.

————————-

Charlotte started sleeping better after that.

Y/n would find her curled on the old couch by the fire some mornings, one of her flannels clutched in her hands. Y/n never asked how it got there. She just made tea, left it on the table, and sat beside the sleeping brunette until she woke.

And when she did, she always smiled—soft, sleepy, almost shy.

And eventually, Charlotte stopped flinching at her happiness.

But some nights, when the wind howled too loud or the air got too still, she’d come to find Y/n.

The brunette would knock once, then step into her room with a hesitant look. Y/n would simply open her blanket without a word. Charlotte would curl in, close but not quite touching, until her breathing calmed.

One night, Y/n woke to find Charlotte’s hand against her back. Not shaking. Not clinging.

Just there.

Y/n covered it with hers.

And the brunette didn’t pull away.

———————-

Charlotte Matthews didn’t fall in love like a spark.

She fell like sunrise—slow, glowing, certain.

And Y/n, calm and steady as the earth beneath her, never asked her to hurry.

Y/n just kept the porch light on. And she kept coming home.

Bonus Chapter:

The heat came early that morning. Heavy and thick, hanging in the air like a held breath.

By noon, the garden was asleep beneath the sun, and even the bees grew sluggish, their lazy hums drifting like honey through the stillness. The world shimmered gold and sweat-slicked. Too warm for work. Too warm for thought.

Y/n found Charlotte sitting in the shade beside the chicken coop, a wide-brimmed straw hat tilted over her face and a glass of water balanced against her chest. Her skin glistened faintly in the sunlight. Her shirt clung to her back.

The tall woman tilted her head toward the distant tree line and said, “Lake?”

The brunette peeked up from beneath the hat, squinting. “There’s a lake?”

Y/nsmirked. “There’s a perfect lake.”

————————

It wasn’t far. Down a narrow path through the trees, past old fences and fallen logs, where the air smelled like pine needles and cool moss. The moment the tree cover thickened, the heat softened, and Charlotte visibly relaxed.

Y/n watched her out of the corner of her eye. The brunette was walking barefoot now, the heels of her feet dusted with dry earth. Her braid had started to come undone, and a curl clung to the edge of her jaw.

The lake appeared suddenly through the trees, still and shining, tucked in the arms of a horseshoe of cliffs. The sun lit it like glass, making it look almost unreal.

Charlotte exhaled softly like the sight had knocked something loose in her chest.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Y/n only nodded. But her eyes stayed on the brunette in front of her.

She then peeled off her shirt and stepped into the shallows first, wading knee-deep before turning back to look at the brunette.

Charlotte stood by the edge, her fingers nervously gripping the hem of her dress. “I didn’t bring anything to swim in.”

Y/n’s gaze didn’t linger—didn’t wander. Just steady. Warm.

“You can borrow mine. Or go in like this. No pressure.”

Charlotte studied the tall woman for a moment, then glanced down at her clothes. Finally, with a quiet breath, she pulled the dress over her head and stepped into the water wearing her camisole and shorts. She looked softer in the light—smaller, somehow. But not fragile. Never fragile.

Y/n turned away when the brunette waded in, giving her space. But she heard her gasp softly as the water reached her thighs.

“Cold?” she asked, glancing back.

“A little.” Charlotte grinned. “But it feels good.”

They both drifted further in, the cool wrapping around their bodies like silk. Birds called overhead. Leaves rustled in the wind. The water carried their shadows like secrets.

Charlotte floated for a while, face turned to the sky. Then, eventually, she swam back to Y/n, treading water quietly.

Their shoulders brushed.

But neither of them moved away.

Charlotte looked at the tall woman by her side then—really looked. The sun caught the water droplets on her skin, lighting them like stars. Her breath hitched just slightly.

Y/n met her gaze, still and steady, and she didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

The quiet between them was charged, delicate, trembling with possibility.

Charlotte swallowed, blinking once. “Why do you always make it feel so safe?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n reached up slowly, carefully, tucking a wet curl behind her ear.

“Because I want you to stay.”

It wasn’t a confession.

It was a promise.

Charlotte’s lips parted. Her eyes didn’t move from Y/n’s.

She swayed forward slightly—just a breath—and then stopped.

Waiting.

Y/n didn’t rush. She leaned in, slow enough that the brunette could change her mind, pull away, laugh it off.

But Charlotte didn’t.

Y/n’s nose brushed hers first, and Charlotte exhaled shakily.

And then Y/n’s lips met hers—lightly, softly. No urgency. No demand.

Just warmth. Just her.

And Charlotte kissed her back like she’d been waiting to breathe for years.

———————-

They stayed in the water long after the sun dipped behind the trees. Floating close. Shoulders touching. Smiles pulled at their mouths every time they looked at each other.

No words. Just looks.

And a quiet, deep knowing:

Something had changed.

Something had begun.

The walk back from the lake was quieter than usual.

Not awkward. Just full.

Charlotte walked beside Y/n with her dress still damp, sticking faintly to her legs, hair down and dripping onto her shoulders. She looked more undone than Y/n had ever seen her—flushed from the sun, skin glowing, eyes soft and unreadable.

She didn’t speak, and neither did Y/n. Every so often, their fingers would brush as they walked. The first time, Charlotte stiffened. The second time, she didn’t. The third time, she held on.

Not fully. Not quite. Just her pinky wrapped around Y/n’s again, a quiet echo of the first time Charlotte let herself touch her. But this time, there was no hesitation.

Only choice.

Only her choosing Y/n.

———————-

By the time they reached the farmhouse, the sun had melted into gold along the tree line, and the shadows stretched long across the porch. Lottie paused at the top step, looking out over the field.

“Everything looks different,” she murmured. “Like it’s… softer.”

Y/n stepped beside her, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“It’s not the farm,” she said. “It’s you.”

Charlotte didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, the silence wrapping around them both like a warm blanket.

Then, she turned toward Y/n. And for a moment, the tall woman thought the brunette might kiss her again.

But instead, Charlotte reached out and touched the center of Y/n’s chest, right over her heartbeat.

“I don’t want to rush this,” she said.

Y/n nodded once. “We won’t.”

Charlotte’s eyes flickered to Y/n’s lips. Then back to her eyes. “Okay.”

They stood like that until the sky turned dark and the crickets started singing. Charlotte left her hand there the whole time. Not moving. Not letting go.

That night, she didn’t knock.

Charlotte just slipped into Y/n’s room and stood in the doorway, holding one of the beeswax candles she liked to keep by her bed.

Y/n looked up from her book, and the brunette didn’t say anything. Just stared at Y/n with that wide, searching look she wore when she was thinking too many things at once.

“I kept waiting for it to feel like a dream,” she said. “But it doesn’t. You’re still here.”

Y/n nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Charlotte took a slow step forward. Then another.

And when she reached the edge of the bed, she knelt and rested her head against Y/n’s knee.

Y/n didn’t move. She just set her book aside and gently ran her fingers through the brunette’s hair.

“You make the world feel quiet,” Charlotte whispered.

Y/n smiled, even if the brunette couldn’t see it.

“You make it feel like it matters,” she said back.

Charlotte stayed there until her breathing slowed. Y/n didn’t speak again. She didn’t have to.

When the brunette finally crawled into bed beside Y/n, she didn’t ask for space. Charlotte curled against Y/n’s side, slid one leg over hers, and pressed her cheek to her collarbone as if she belonged there.

And in that moment, Y/n realized something.

She wasn’t saving her.

She wasn't healing her.

Charlotte was just choosing her.

And Y/n was choosing her back.

Over and over again.

[atlasthegreatest]

A Page-Turner Meeting / Hermione Granger x Female Reader

While in line at Flourish and Blotts, Y/n Callahan and Hermione Granger get into a heated debate about their favorite books.

Warnings: None. Post- Second Wizarding War Au.

Word count: 1919.

The line at Flourish and Blotts was long—unreasonably long, considering it was a quiet Saturday afternoon. Y/n shifted her weight from one foot to the other, arms full of carefully selected books, when the girl in front of her turned slightly, giving her a view of the novel tucked under her arm.

“Pride and Prejudice?” she teased, with a smirk. “Bit of a cliché, don’t you think?”

The girl turned fully then, and Y/n blinked. Hermione Granger. The Hermione Granger. War hero, brilliant witch, and—if the rumors were true—an absolute menace in academic discussions. She raised an eyebrow at the other woman, eyes flashing.

“It’s a classic,” she replied coolly. “Its influence on literature and the female voice is immeasurable.”

Y/n grinned. “I’m not denying that. I just think Jane Eyre was more… emotionally intelligent. Deeper character work. Stronger internal conflict.”

That did it.

“I cannot believe you’re defending Rochester,” Hermione said, stepping forward like the line didn’t exist. “He lied to her. He gaslit her. There is nothing noble about keeping your wife in the attic.”

“Okay, but at least Jane had her agency,” Y/n countered. “She left when she found out. Elizabeth spent half the book judging Darcy for things she didn’t even ask about.”

“She had every right to,” Hermione said, indignant now, and kind of… adorable. Her cheeks were pink, curls bouncing slightly as she leaned into the debate. “He insulted her at their first meeting.”

Y/n chuckled, tilting her head. “So this is how you flirt, huh? Literary combat?”

“I’m not flirting,” Hermione said too quickly.

“Then I must be reading between the lines.”

The woman’s lips twitched like she was trying not to smile. The cashier finally called, “Next!” but Hermione barely moved until Y/n nodded toward the register.

“Looks like it’s your turn, Austen Avenger.”

The curly-haired woman shot Y/n a glare—but a playful one. As she stepped up and handed over her stack of books, she leaned toward the taller woman slightly and whispered, with the intensity of someone quoting a battle plan:

“It’s not over.”

Y/n grinned at her back, watching the set of her shoulders, the determined line of her jaw.

When she turned to leave, Y/n stepped forward quickly. “Wait,” she said, catching her arm gently. “If we’re continuing this… debate, I think I’ll need your number.”

Hermione paused, studying the other woman for a second, then pulled a quill from her bag with precise elegance. She scribbled on Y/n’s receipt with a tiny smile.

“For the debate,” she said firmly, but her eyes sparkled. “And maybe coffee. If you can handle losing.”

Y/n watched her walk out, her heart thumping somewhere near her throat.

It wasn’t just a debate.

It was the best argument she’d ever had.

———————-

The little café tucked between Diagon Alley and Muggle London was Hermione’s choice. Cozy, intellectual, full of mismatched chairs and shelves lined with secondhand books. Of course, it was. She was already seated when Y/n walked in, cross-legged in a chair by the window, nursing a cappuccino, and surrounded by at least three books.

Y/n slid into the seat across from her, offering a grin. “Let me guess—you brought sources?”

Hermione glanced up with a smirk, one brow raised in quiet challenge. “I like to be prepared.”

“Prepared to lose?” Y/n asked, setting down her cup.

“I don’t lose debates,” the curly-haired woman said primly, then gestured to a weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice. “But I’m open to listening to misguided opinions.”

Y/n snorted, trying very hard not to let the flutter in her chest show. She was already in too deep—and it had only been three texts and one “looking forward to it” from the woman in front of her.

The conversation began light—banter about character arcs, historical context, the power of female autonomy in both novels—but somewhere between Y/n’s second coffee and Hermione’s third citation of literary criticism, things shifted.

“You know,” Y/n said quietly, resting her chin on her hand, “I think what I admire in Jane Eyre is how hard she fights for her self-worth. She’s so sure she deserves to be treated right. That she’s enough.”

Hermione’s teasing expression softened. “That’s fair,” she admitted. “I suppose I like Elizabeth because she makes mistakes. She’s flawed, but she learns. She challenges people. Especially the ones who think they know better than her.”

“Do you relate to her?”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the question. She looked down at her cup, fingers tracing the rim.

“Maybe,” she said. “It’s hard to let your guard down when people expect you to always be right.”

That was new.

Y/n leaned in slightly, voice lower now. “You don’t have to be right with me.”

The curly-haired woman looked up at that, eyes wide, surprised. Vulnerable.

“And here I thought you just wanted to argue.”

Y/n smiled. “I wanted a reason to talk to you.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Hermione’s eyes lingered on Y/n’s face, thoughtful.

“Maybe,” she said at last, “we don’t have to finish the debate.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Is that Hermione Granger suggesting a truce?”

“I’m suggesting,” Hermione said slowly, “that there are more interesting things we could be doing with our time.”

Like what? Y/n nearly asked, but the curly-haired woman’s gaze dropped to her lips for just a fraction of a second and it shut her brain down completely.

Y/n cleared her throat, heart hammering. “So… next time, dinner instead of books?”

Hermione smiled, small and warm and dangerous. “Only if we can fight about poetry.”

Y/n laughed. “Deal.”

——————

It had been three dates.

Three increasingly flirtatious, dangerously bookish dates.

And Y/n wasn’t even sure when it had happened—but somehow, the debates had stopped being about winning and started being about the excuse. An excuse to stay close. To meet again. To see Hermione’s smile when she made a good point, or groan when she out-quoted her.

Tonight was different, though.

Y/n was on the floor of Hermione’s flat—surrounded by pillows, parchment, and an absurd number of half-open poetry collections. The curly-haired woman sat cross-legged across from her, barefoot in sweatpants and an oversized Hogwarts alumni sweatshirt that nearly swallowed her. Her curls were wild, pulled into a messy bun that had long since given up trying to stay in place.

They’d both agreed—no novels tonight. Just poetry. And wine.

“You can’t seriously prefer Keats over Neruda,” Y/n said, mock-offended, raising her glass. “Neruda writes like he’s bleeding onto the page.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “And Keats writes like he’s tasting every word. There’s passion in that too—just quieter. More aching than burning.”

Y/n blinked at her, her teasing smile faltering just a little. Hermione’s voice had dropped, warm and rich, and the way she was looking at her—like she was the poetry she was defending—made her breath catch.

Hermione noticed.

The air shifted.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. The space between them stretched, then narrowed, then crackled.

Y/n set her glass down. “Okay. Read me one,” she said, softer now. “One that you love.”

Hermione hesitated, then reached for a worn collection of Keats and flipped through it carefully. When she spoke, it wasn’t in her usual, confident voice. It was slower. Intentional. Like she was offering something she didn’t usually let people see.

“I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.”

She looked up at Y/n as the last word fell into silence.

Y/n swallowed. “That’s not fair,” she whispered.

The curly-haired woman tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because now I want to kiss you, and I don’t think that quote’s gonna help me win this argument.”

Hermione’s lips curved into a barely-there smile. She crawled forward just slightly, knees brushing Y/n’s, eyes fixed on her mouth. “Maybe we call it a draw.”

Y/n leaned in. “Maybe we call it something better.”

And then Hermione kissed her.

Softly at first—like she wasn’t sure Y/n was real. Like she’d been thinking about it for far too long. Hermione fingers curled around Y/n’s wrist gently, grounding herself. Y/n kissed her back, one hand slipping into her curls, the other pressing against her back, pulling her closer until there wasn’t space for hesitation anymore.

When the curly-haired woman finally pulled back, breathless, cheeks pink, she laughed under her breath. “So much for debating poetry.”

Y/n grinned. “I’d say we just wrote some.”

Hermione leaned her forehead against Y/n’s, eyes closed. “And I thought you were just flirting to win.”

“I was flirting,” Y/n murmured. “But I think I lost the second you smiled at me in that bookshop.”

The curly-haired woman looked up at her, eyes soft and shining. “Good.”

They stayed there, tangled in pillows, unread poems at their feet and unwritten ones between them, knowing this was just the first chapter of something that no novel could quite capture.

Bonus Chapter:

The morning after their kiss, Y/n didn’t leave Hermione’s flat until nearly noon.

Not because anything had happened—not like that—but because Hermione had made tea, and they’d both ended up on her couch, legs tangled, quietly reading from the same poetry book as if the kiss had unlocked a new, softer version of the two of them. No pretense. No witty comebacks. Just… calm.

Y/n was halfway through a cup of slightly over-steeped Earl Grey when Hermione spoke.

“You know,” she said without looking up, “I thought you were annoying the first time we met.”

Y/n grinned. “That’s fair. I was flirting shamelessly.”

“You challenged Austen in front of me,” the curly-haired woman said, finally turning to face Y/n, mock-scandalized. “That’s practically a declaration of war.”

“And yet, here we are. Peace talks and tea.”

Hermione shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it—you like impossible.”

That earned the tall woman a cushion to the face. Y/n caught it mid-air, tossed it back gently, and before she could speak again, something near her bookshelf popped—a sharp, bright little burst of pink sparks. They both turned.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at her wand on the nearby side table.

“I haven’t even touched it today,” she muttered, getting up to investigate.

Y/n followed. “Does it usually… spark like that?”

“No,” Hermione said carefully. “Wands don’t usually react unless there’s a sudden emotional… shift.”

They exchanged a glance.

“I swear I didn’t hex it,” Y/n said quietly, suddenly unsure if her presence—or the kiss, or the very real feelings creeping in—had somehow triggered a magical reaction.

Hermione looked at her for a long moment.

Then she did something unexpected.

She reached out, took Y/n’s hand, and placed it gently over hers.

The wand sparked again—this time gold.

Not chaotic.

Warm.

“It’s responding to intention,” the curly-haired woman said, her voice soft. “And connection.”

Y/n blinked. “Is it… normal for a wand to pick up on feelings?”

Hermione nodded. “Not unheard of. But rare.”

Y/n looked down at their joined hands. Then up at her.

“I like rare things,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione’s breath caught. And for a second, Y/n thought she might kiss her again.

But instead, the curly-haired woman rested her forehead against hers, smiling. “You’re dangerous.”

“And you’re still judging me for Brontë.”

“Always.”

The wand sparked one more time beside them—flickers of soft gold lighting up the room like tiny stars.

It didn’t matter what story brought them here. Austen, Brontë, or Keats. Because somehow, they’d stumbled into their narrative—one written slowly, carefully, with dog-eared chapters and pages pressed full of unspoken feelings.

And this?

This was only the beginning.

[atlasthegreatest]

Aftertaste / Caitlyn Kiramman x Gender Neutral Reader

In the heart of Piltover, Y/n Silverscale— a renowned chef runs the elite restaurant Éclat, commanding respect and fear from their kitchen staff. But the pressure skyrockets when Caitlyn Kiramman— Piltover’s most feared food critic arrives unannounced for a review.

Warnings: None.

Word count: 2085

A/n: Ponytail Caitlyn is just so *chefs kiss*.

The golden glow of evening bathed Piltover in warm hues as the dinner rush began. Inside Éclat, one of the most talked-about restaurants in the upper district, the kitchen was a frenzy of clattering pans, shouted commands, and the hiss of sauces meeting hot pans. At the center of it all stood Y/n Silverscale, the owner and head chef—a calm storm in a sea of chaos, sleeves rolled to the elbows and eyes sharp as their carving knife.

This was their domain. Y/n didn’t just run Éclat—they breathed it. Every detail, every dish, every garnish bore their signature. Their staff respected them, feared them, and loved them. But tonight, the tension had a different flavor.

The front-of-house manager, a young man— Ezreal, rushed into the kitchen, pale and wide-eyed.

“She’s here,” he whispered, like he was announcing a natural disaster.

Y/n didn’t have to ask who.

Caitlyn Kiramman. Piltover’s most infamous food critic. Razor-tongued, merciless, and brilliant. Her reviews could make or break a business. And most recently? She’d become a regular subject of hushed conversations, panicked glances—and Y/n’s morning coffee.

Because they were married to her.

And no one in their staff knew.

Y/n cleaned their hands slowly, ignoring the sudden silence that fell over the kitchen as the front doors opened. Their heart beat a little faster, but they refused to show it. Y/n stepped into the dining room, their coat flowing behind them like a general walking into battle.

The woman sat at her table like a throne, dressed in a sleek navy coat and gloves she was already removing with the precision that made lesser chefs quake. Her hair was up, her expression unreadable, and her blue eyes scanned the room like a sniper choosing her mark.

She didn’t look up as the chef approached.

“Mrs. Kiramman,” Y/n said, cool and professional. “A surprise to have you tonight.”

Bright blue eyes finally met Y/n’s grey ones—glinting with that infuriating edge that made critics and criminals alike tremble.

“Head Chef,” she said. “I’d heard this place had potential. I thought I’d see if the rumors were true.”

Y/n smiled, but it didn’t touch their eyes. “You’re always welcome, of course. I trust you’ll find the food… acceptable.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Let’s hope so. The last place I reviewed tried to poison me with mediocrity.”

Around the room, waitstaff visibly flinched.

“I’ll send out the tasting menu,” Y/n replied, tone like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Compliments of the house.”

“I’ll judge that for myself.”

The exchange ended with the tension of a pistol duel. Y/n walked back to the kitchen with grace, but their crew was staring like they’d just thrown down with a war general.

“…You’re going to cook for her?” their sous-chef whispered.

“I cook for every guest,” Y/n said. “She just happens to be more fun.”

Hours passed with anxious eyes and whispered prayers. Dishes were sent out—delicate courses that combined art with fire, balance with passion. And yet every time a plate was cleared from Caitlyn’s table, she said nothing.

Until dessert.

She motioned for Y/n.

The entire dining room held its breath.

The chef approached slowly. Caitlyn’s expression was unreadable. Her plate was empty.

“Well?” Y/n asked.

The Kiramman took her time dabbing her lips with a napkin. “Do you want the truth?”

“I married you. I’m used to it.”

A twitch at the corner of her mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

“You’re bold,” Caitlyn murmured. “That amuse-bouche was unnecessarily risky.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Barely. And the fish course was overconfident. I could taste the ego.”

“You’re the one who taught me to aim high.”

“Your plating has improved.”

“You always said I was messy.”

“You are,” Caitlyn said smoothly, then leaned just a little closer. “But this mess tastes like victory.”

Silence.

Then she smiled.

The room nearly fainted.

She stood, slow and theatrical, her heels clicking like a countdown. She left a sealed envelope on the table.

“I’ll let you read the review in the morning,” Caitlyn said over her shoulder. “Try not to cry.”

Y/n crossed their arms, watching her go with a smirk. “I’ll cry when you admit you liked it.”

The Kiramman paused at the door, turned slightly, and said with deliberate calm:

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Gasps. GASPING. Forks dropping. A glass shattered in the back.

By the time she vanished into the Piltover night, the restaurant was stunned into silence.

Y/n turned back to their staff, completely unbothered. “Clean up the dessert station.”

“…YOU’RE MARRIED TO CAITLYN KIRAMMAN?!” Ezreal screamed.

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “You think I’d survive that critique if I wasn’t?”

And just like that, they went back to their kitchen, leaving behind a legend and a trail of whispering mouths.

The war had been delicious.

———————-

The door to their private quarters above the restaurant clicked shut behind them.

Y/n let their back hit it gently, exhaling a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding all night. The silence wrapped around them like a warm, familiar coat. Downstairs, the staff was probably still whispering, dissecting the fact that their terrifying boss was not only married—but married to Piltover’s most feared critic.

They’d expected the fallout. They hadn’t expected how much they’d enjoy it.

The scent of burnt caramel and rose syrup still clung to their clothes, but before Y/n could move to change, a voice broke the silence.

“You left the wine unfinished.”

They looked up.

Caitlyn was already sitting on the small couch in their living room, legs crossed, her coat hanging off the armrest. Her gloves were off, hands folded in her lap like a queen in her private court.

“Let me guess,” Y/n said, unbuttoning their jacket. “The mousse saved me.”

The woman tilted her head, pretending to ponder. “The mousse flirted with saving you. You? You were teetering on the edge the entire evening.”

The chef scoffed and walked past her to the small bar in the corner. “You really can’t turn it off, can you?”

“I’m married to a chef,” Caitlyn said with a dry smile. “You think I’m going to stop holding you accountable now?”

Y/n poured two glasses of wine and handed their wife one, brushing their fingers along hers. Caitlyn held the glass but didn’t drink.

“You knew this would cause a scene,” they said quietly. “Coming in like that. In full critic mode. You wanted to rattle them.”

“I wanted to rattle you,” Caitlyn admitted.

Y/n’s brows rose.

“You’ve been comfortable lately,” the woman continued, sipping her wine at last. “Too comfortable. A little fire keeps the edge sharp. You forget who you married, darling.”

Y/n chuckled and sank onto the couch beside her. “You think I cook better when I’m mad at you?”

“I think you cook best when you want to prove something to me.”

The Kiramman shifted slightly, closer now. “And tonight, you reminded me why I married you.”

Y/n set their glass down and turned to her fully. “You reminded me why I don’t let you in my restaurant.”

Caitlyn's eyes glittered. “Admit it. You love the chaos.”

The chef leaned in, voice low. “I love you. Chaos and all.”

The tension, electric all night, shifted. It wasn’t sharp anymore. It melted—slow, warm, and thick like honey.

“I wasn’t lying about the review,” Caitlyn said. “You’ll read it in the morning.”

“Is it brutal?”

She smirked. “It’s… honest.”

Y/n groaned. “So yes.”

Caitlyn’s fingers slid under the chef’s collar, tugging them gently toward her. “But it ends with this sentence: ‘The chef’s food is almost as dangerous as their attitude—and somehow, I keep going back for more.’”

Y/n stared at her, trying to suppress a grin.

“That’s practically affectionate.”

The Kiramman raised a brow. “Don’t get used to it.”

Y/n kissed her then—slow, simmering, the kind of kiss that made all the earlier tension worth it. Caitlyn kissed them back with the same intensity, hands curling into their shirt.

When they broke apart, slightly breathless, she whispered against Y/n’s lips:

“Next time, I want a private table. No audience.”

Y/n grinned. “Afraid they’ll see you complimenting me again?”

“No,” Caitlyn said, brushing their cheek with her thumb. “I just want to remind you who really owns that kitchen.”

Y/n laughed. “We’ll see about that, Mrs. Kiramman.”

And in the quiet afterward, Y/n thought: no review could capture the complexity of her. Of them. Of this sharp, complicated, absolutely delicious love they shared.

The critic and the chef. Fire meeting steel.

And neither is willing to yield.

Bonus Chapter:

The sunlight slipped through gauzy curtains, spilling golden light across the sheets. Y/n stirred slightly, half-awake, the warm weight of an arm draped over their waist and the unmistakable scent of jasmine and gunpowder in the air.

Caitlyn.

She always smelled like a contradiction—clean and wild, refined and dangerous.

Y/n opened their eyes to find her already awake, lying beside them on her side, one hand propping up her head as she watched them with an infuriating smirk.

“Good morning, chef,” Caitlyn said, voice low and teasing.

“Do you always stare at people while they sleep?” Y/n grumbled, blinking against the light.

“Only the ones who burn their scallops and then try to seduce me into forgetting.”

The chef groaned and buried their face in the pillow. “That scallop was perfect and you know it.”

The Kiramman chuckled. “It was passable.”

Y/n peeked out from under the pillow, arching a brow. “And yet you still moaned like it was a religious experience.”

“I was under duress,” Caitlyn said with mock severity. “You practically weaponized the beurre blanc.”

Y/n reached over and swatted her with a pillow. Caitlyn laughed—really laughed—and grabbed their wrist, pulling them in for a quick kiss.

“Come on,” she said, already sliding out of bed. “Your review’s probably up by now.”

Y/n groaned. “Must we ruin such a lovely morning?”

“It’s tradition,” Caitlyn called over her shoulder, already halfway to the kitchenette. “I destroy you in public, and then you make me coffee. That’s how we keep the marriage alive.”

Y/n pulled a t-shirt over their head and followed their wife, finding her perched on a stool at the kitchen island, already sipping from a cup she made herself—which was a rare admission of how badly she wanted to see their reaction.

Y/n opened the Piltover Herald on their tablet. The review sat at the top of the food column:

“A Night at Éclat” by Caitlyn Kiramman.

Their jaw clenched before they even started reading. Caitlyn noticed.

“Relax,” she said. “I only burned you a little.”

Y/n scrolled through the opening paragraph. Sharp, precise—her usual tone. A few digs. A few compliments so backhanded they were practically slaps. Then:

“There are chefs who cook to please the public. And there are chefs who cook like every meal is a duel at dawn. The latter are dangerous—and thrilling. And none more so than the tyrant behind Éclat’s kitchen.”

The chef looked up at their wife. “Tyrant?”

The Kiramman sipped her coffee with no shame. “Affectionate tyrant.”

Y/n kept reading.

“Each course was a punch disguised as a kiss. The flavors were layered with tension. Each plate dared me to flinch first. I didn’t.”

“But the chef did something rare that night—they left a piece of themselves on every plate. Not ego. Not desperation. Honesty. And it tasted like fire meeting tenderness in a waltz of bitter and sweet.”

By the end of it, Y/n’s jaw had relaxed. Just a bit.

Caitlyn tilted her head. “Well?”

They didn’t speak.

She leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Did I go too easy on you?”

Y/n closed the tablet and set it down slowly like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Then they reached for Caitlyn’s waist and pulled her in close.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful,” they muttered against her skin.

“And you’re lucky you can cook,” Caitlyn whispered back, a smile curling against the chef’s cheek. “Or I’d have destroyed you.”

She kissed Y/n’s temple, and for once, it was soft. No challenge. No game. Just Caitlyn.

Then:

“You’re still making me breakfast, though. My review made you famous. It’s only fair.”

Y/n sighed and pulled away, dragging themselves toward the stove. “How do you want your eggs, Your Highness?”

The Kiramman smirked. “Dangerous.”

Y/n looked back at her, hair mussed from sleep, the queen of critics sipping her coffee like she owned the world—and they realized they’d never win an argument with her.

But at least they got to feed her.

And maybe, just maybe… that was victory enough.

[atlasthegreatest]

Boardwalks and Confessions / Sophia Laforteza x Male Reader

During a late-night Monopoly game, Sophia and her childhood best friend— Y/n accidentally confess their feelings for each other, turning years of friendship into the start of something more.

Warnings: None. Childhood friends to lovers. Fluff.

Word count: 1184

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!

It was almost 2:43 a.m., and the living room floor looked like a Monopoly battlefield—fake money scattered, hotels abandoned mid-strategy, snacks slowly dwindling as the hours ticked by. The soft hum of lo-fi music drifted from a speaker, blending with the occasional burst of laughter.

Sophia sat cross-legged, hoodie sleeves pushed up as she squinted at the board in exaggerated concentration. “There’s no way you’re putting a hotel on Boardwalk again. That’s a war crime.”

Y/n grinned, flicking a peanut at her. “That’s capitalism, baby.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. That smile—the same one Y/n had grown up seeing every time she beat him at Mario Kart, every time he brought her candy when she was sad, every time she laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe.

Even with years of friendship under his belt, it still made his heart skip. It always had.

“Okay,” the Filipino woman said, stretching, “so you’re trying to bankrupt me again. Good to know. What else is new?”

Y/n leaned back on his elbows, eyes lazily scanning the dim room before they landed on her. Sophia looked cozy—familiar. Beautiful in the kind of way that didn’t need effort. “I missed this,” he said quietly.

Sophia glanced up. “What? Losing to me?”

“No.” Y/n let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… just being around you. Like this. I miss it every time you leave for shows or I get caught up with work. It’s weird not having you around.”

Sophia’s eyes softened. “I know. I miss you too, dummy.”

Y/n hesitated, the words burning at the edge of his throat. Then, all at once, they slipped free.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since we were like… fourteen.”

Silence.

Sophia blinked. The dice slipped from her fingers. “…What?”

Y/n panicked. “Not in a creepy way! I mean—I’ve always just kind of… felt something. You’ve always been there. And I guess I realized I don’t want to imagine a version of my life without you in it.”

Sophia stared at the man— her best friend, stunned for a heartbeat. Then, suddenly—blushing, hiding her face behind her hands—she groaned.

“You idiot,” she mumbled. “You’re seriously telling me this now?”

Y/n’s stomach twisted. “I—yeah? Wait, why—?”

The Filipino woman peeked at him through her fingers, cheeks flushed. “Because I’ve liked you too. For ages. I just thought you didn’t feel the same.”

Y/n blinked. “Wait. Really?”

Sophia laughed, voice light and a little shy. “Yes! You’ve always been my favorite person. I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“I think,” Y/n said, scooting closer, “we might have just upgraded it.”

Sophia smiled, and the Monopoly board lay forgotten as the space between them disappeared.

“Finally,” she whispered. “Took you long enough.”

And somewhere between passing Go and falling asleep under a shared blanket, Y/n realized that loving Sophia Laforteza had never really been a secret—it had just taken the right quiet night to say it out loud.

———————-

The board was half-forgotten now, wedged between a throw pillow and a crumpled snack bag. Y/n and Sophia were still sitting side by side, knees brushing lightly under the blanket they’d eventually tugged over both their legs. The warmth between them wasn’t just from the throw—it was from something softer, quieter. Familiar, yet newly electric.

Sophia leaned her head on Y/n’s shoulder, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything. The soft hum of the lo-fi track was replaced by the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional rustle of the wind outside.

“I keep thinking this is some fever dream,” she murmured. “That I’ll wake up and you’ll still be trying to trade me for the railroads.”

Y/n laughed under his breath. “I think I’d trade the railroads for one more smile like that.”

Sophia turned her face into the man’s hoodie, clearly flustered. “Stop. You’re not allowed to be smooth now.”

“I’m serious,” Y/n said, tilting his head slightly to nudge hers. “I was always waiting for the right moment. Just… didn’t expect it to be over Monopoly and gummy worms.”

“Honestly, that’s kind of perfect,” Sophia said, pulling back enough to look at Y/n properly. Her voice dropped to a quiet hum. “Feels like us.”

Y/n smiled, fingers brushing hers under the blanket. “So… what now?”

Sophia leaned in, her nose nearly brushing his. “Now,” she whispered, “we play another round. But if you bankrupt me again, I’m breaking up with you immediately.”

Y/n snorted. “Deal.”

A beat passed. Then she kissed him—soft, warm, a little giddy. Like she’d been waiting forever and wasn’t in a rush to stop now.

And as they reset the Monopoly board for round two, they couldn’t stop smiling.

Love had always been in the little things between the two.

Now, it just had a name.

Bonus chapter:

Sophia stirred first.

The soft glow of morning crept through the half-drawn curtains, scattering golden light across the living room floor. A crumpled Monopoly board lay abandoned on the rug, game pieces strewn like glittering confetti around two empty mugs and an overturned bowl of popcorn. The couch cushions were barely keeping shape under the weight of two tangled bodies—hers and Y/n’s.

She blinked sleepily, warmth blooming in her chest as she took in the sight of Y/n, still fast asleep, arms loosely wrapped around a throw pillow he’d stolen from her somewhere around 4AM. Her cheeks flushed with memory—the accidental confession, the way your voice had cracked ever so slightly when you said “I‘ve been in love with you since we were fourteen”, and the stunned silence that followed… before her whispered “Me too.”

Sophia smiled to herself.

Y/n stirred a moment later, blinking at her, disoriented but soft-eyed. “Morning,” he murmured.

“Morning,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “Still mad I crushed you with Park Place?”

Y/n groaned, burying his face into the pillow. “I let you win.”

Sophia arched a brow. “You mortgaged your soul halfway through the game, don’t lie.”

The two of them dissolved into laughter, easy and familiar. But as the laughter faded, a calm quiet settled again.

“So…” Y/n said hesitantly, “About last night.”

Sophia reached over and placed her hand over his. “Still real. Still me. Still you,” she said. “Unless you regret it?”

Y/n shook his head instantly, eyes locking with hers. “Not even close.”

There was a moment—just the two of them, the hum of the morning, the distant sound of the Katseye girls yelling over breakfast in the kitchen on the other side of the room—and then Sophia leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Y/n’s cheek. “Then we take it slow,” she said. “But no more secrets.”

“Deal,” Y/n said, grinning.

“Also,” The Filipino woman added with a playful glint, “you’re helping me clean up this disaster zone of a living room.”

Y/n groaned again, but there was no hiding the smile on his face as he followed her into the kitchen, hearts lighter, hands brushing. Everything felt different—but also, finally, right.

[atlasthegreatest]

A New Sky / Supergirl x Grayson!Female Reader

After years under the control of the Court of Owls, Y/n Grayson escapes and reunites with her brother, joining the Batfamily as Owlgirl. Though free, she struggles to adjust to a normal life, feeling like an outsider among people who grew up in the light. Just as she begins to withdraw again, she meets Supergirl. Their connection is instant—quiet, honest, and unlike anything she’s known. As they start spending time together, both in and out of costume, Y/n slowly finds comfort in Kara’s presence. For the first time, she begins to believe she can build a life of her own—under a new sky.

Warnings: None. Fluff.

Word count: 2667

A/n: Sequel to “The Fly Of The Owl”. This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!

Leaving Gotham wasn’t an easy decision.

Y/n Grayson had spent so long in its shadows, fighting for a place that never truly felt like hers. The Batfamily had accepted her, but there was always a weight, a distance—something unspoken that kept her feeling like an outsider. Even with Dick by her side, even with Bruce’s quiet approval, she could never quite shake the feeling that she was still something foreign, something different.

But with Kara, everything felt… lighter.

It wasn’t just the way Kara looked at her, like she wasn’t defined by the past she carried. It wasn’t just the way Kara held her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was the way Kara made her believe she could be more than the person Gotham had shaped her into.

And so, she chose.

Y/n chose to follow Kara to Metropolis. To step out of the darkness and into the sky.

The moment she told Dick, she could see the emotions flicker across his face—shock, concern, understanding, and then something deeper, something bittersweet.

“You’re leaving Gotham?” he asked, voice quiet, careful.

Y/n nodded. “Not forever. I just… I need to try something different.”

Dick exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “With Kara.” It wasn’t a question.

“She asked me to be her partner,” Y/n admitted. “And… I think I want that.”

For a long moment, Dick just studied his twin. Then, a small smile pulled at his lips. “You think you want that?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Okay, fine. I do want that.”

Dick’s smile grew, though there was still a hint of sadness in his eyes. “You know, you’re always gonna have a place here. No matter what.”

“I know,” Y/n said, and for the first time in a long time, she truly believed it.

——————-

Telling Bruce was… another story.

He didn’t react at first. He just stood there, silent and unreadable, like he always was. But Y/n knew him well enough now to see the shift—the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled just slightly.

“When do you leave?” was all he asked.

“Soon,” Y/n answered, hesitant. “I wanted to tell you first.”

A long pause. Then: “Metropolis is different from Gotham.”

“I know.”

More silence. Then Bruce finally met her gaze. “Kara is a good ally. And a good person.”

It wasn’t exactly approval, but it wasn’t rejection either.

“I trust her,” Y/n said softly.

Bruce nodded, and for a brief second, Y/n thought he might say something more—something fatherly, something reassuring. But instead, he just gave her a small nod before turning away, his version of acceptance.

——————-

Clark took the news much easier than Bruce.

“Welcome to Metropolis, then,” he had said with a grin, clapping Y/n on the back as if she were already part of the family.

Lois had simply raised an eyebrow, smirked, and muttered something about “Kara finally making a move.”

Kara turned bright red. Y/n tried (and failed) to hide her smirk.

——————-

Their first patrol together was nothing like Gotham.

Instead of lurking in the shadows, Y/n moved through the sky, leaping between rooftops while Kara floated effortlessly beside her. It was strange at first, operating in a city where she wasn’t hiding in darkness, where she wasn’t waiting for something to go wrong. But Kara made it feel easy—like it was something natural, something fun.

“You’re smiling,” Kara teased as they landed on a rooftop overlooking the city.

Y/n blinked, realizing that she was. “Weird, huh?”

Kara chuckled, stepping closer. “Not weird. Just… nice.”

Y/n hummed, glancing out at the skyline. “It’s different.”

“Good different?”

She looked at Kara then, at the way the city lights reflected in her blue eyes, at the warmth in her expression.

“Yeah,” Y/n murmured. “Good different.”

Kara’s hand brushed against hers—gentle, tentative, but there. And Y/n didn’t pull away.

Instead, she intertwined their fingers.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t running.

She was flying.

——————

The first few weeks in Metropolis were… strange.

Not in a bad way—just different. In Gotham, everything was heavy. The air, the shadows, the weight of the past pressing down on her shoulders. But in Metropolis, it was like she could breathe again. The city was brighter, the people looked up instead of over their shoulders, and for the first time in years, she wasn’t constantly waiting for an attack in the dark.

But adjusting wasn’t easy.

Y/n Grayson had spent her whole life in the shadows. She was the shadow. Silent, precise, unseen. Metropolis didn’t operate that way. The people here weren’t afraid of their heroes. They cheered for them. They looked them in the eye instead of whispering their names in fear. Y/n wasn’t used to that.

She wasn’t used to waving at civilians instead of disappearing before they noticed her.

She wasn’t used to people thanking her.

She wasn’t used to Kara grinning at her after every mission, like she was proud of her just for being here.

It was overwhelming.

And yet, it was the first time she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

“You’re overthinking.”

Y/n looked up from the rooftop ledge she had been perched on. Kara stood behind her, arms crossed, wearing that knowing smirk that always managed to disarm her.

“I do that a lot,” she muttered.

Kara hummed, walking over to sit beside her. “I know. It’s kinda cute.”

Y/n snorted. “You think overthinking is cute?”

Kara grinned. “I think you’re cute.”

That shut the Grayson up pretty fast.

Kara chuckled at her reaction before leaning back on her palms, gazing out at the city. “You’re doing great, you know.”

Y/n sighed. “I feel… off-balance. Like I’m supposed to be operating in the shadows, but now everyone sees me.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Kara pointed out.

“It’s weird.”

Kara nudged her playfully. “You are weird.”

Y/n shot her a flat look, but Kara just smiled, bright and teasing. “Okay, but seriously—Metropolis is different, yeah, but you’re not alone in figuring it out. You’ve got me.”

Y/n hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

And she did.

Because with Kara, everything felt a little easier. A little lighter.

——————

Dick called often, checking in even when he pretended not to be.

“How’s Metropolis treating you?” he asked one night over the phone.

“Less crime, more people trying to take selfies with me,” Y/n replied dryly.

Dick laughed. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

There was a pause. Then, softer: “Are you happy?”

Y/n blinked. The question caught her off guard.

Happy…

She hadn’t really thought about it, not in so many words. She was still adjusting, still finding her footing, still learning how to be here. But when she thought about Kara—about the way she made everything feel a little warmer, a little easier—the answer wasn’t as complicated as she expected.

“…Yeah,” she admitted. “I think I am.”

——————

It wasn’t official. Not yet.

But there was something unspoken between them, something that had been growing since that first meeting in Gotham. It was in the way Kara always found a reason to be close, in the way Y/n never pulled away. It was in the small moments—the lingering glances, the quiet conversations on rooftops, the way Kara’s hand always found hers.

It was in the way Y/n let her.

Because with Kara, for the first time, she wasn’t afraid of being seen.

She wanted to be seen.

And maybe, just maybe, she had finally found home—not in a city, not in the shadows, but in the girl beside her.

The first time Kara kissed her, it was nothing like she expected.

Y/n Grayson had spent years preparing for the worst in every situation. She had been trained to anticipate every possible attack, to expect pain before pleasure, to always assume something could go wrong.

But nothing about this moment felt wrong.

It was soft.

Kara had been rambling—something about how Y/n had handled a hostage situation perfectly earlier that night, how she was so proud of her, how she knew she’d fit in here. Y/n hadn’t even been listening to the words, too focused on the warmth in Kara’s voice, on how close she had gotten. And then, suddenly—

Silence.

A flicker of hesitation in Kara’s expression.

And then, lips pressing against hers—gentle, uncertain, but real.

For the first time in her life, Y/n Grayson didn’t overthink.

She melted into the kiss without hesitation, one hand reaching out to grip the front of Kara’s suit like she was afraid she’d float away.

When they finally pulled apart, Kara looked just as surprised as Y/n felt.

“Oh,” Kara breathed, blinking.

Y/n swallowed, still gripping Kara’s suit. “Was that—”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then Kara let out a breathless little laugh, tilting her head. “You’re not punching me, so I’m gonna assume you don’t not want this?”

Y/n huffed a laugh. “That’s a really complicated way of asking if I like you.”

Kara’s grin turned smug. “Well, do you?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but her fingers curled a little tighter into Kara’s suit, grounding herself. She let the corner of her lips twitch upward.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I do.”

——————

Telling the Batfamily was awkward.

Not because they disapproved—if anything, Dick had been expecting it.

“So,” Dick had said over the comms during one of their rare check-ins. “You and Kara, huh?”

Y/n, perched on a rooftop in Metropolis, narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Uh, one—because I know you. Two—because Kara told Clark, who told Bruce, who definitely already knew, and three—because you’re absolutely terrible at hiding it.”

Y/n groaned. “Of course, Bruce knew.”

“He’s Batman,” Dick reminded her. “He knows everything.”

There was a long pause. Then Dick’s voice softened. “You’re happy?”

Y/n exhaled. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I think I am.”

Dick hummed. “Then I’m happy for you, sis.”

——————-

Clark was less subtle.

“Welcome to the family,” he had said with a grin, clapping Y/n on the back hard enough to almost knock her forward.

Y/n blinked. “Was I not part of the family before?”

Lois, standing beside him, smirked. “Not officially. Now you’re stuck with us.”

Y/n side-eyed Kara, who just shrugged, trying to hide a smile.

“They’re a little much,” Kara admitted.

Y/n huffed a small laugh. “I can handle ‘a little much.’”

——————-

Life with Kara wasn’t perfect.

Y/n still had nightmares sometimes. She still flinched when people moved too fast in her peripheral vision. She still hesitated before accepting kindness, like it was something fragile that could disappear.

But Kara never disappeared.

She was always there, solid and warm and real. She never pushed when Y/n needed space, but she was always there when she needed her.

She never let her slip too far into the dark.

And that was something Y/n never realized she needed—not until now.

One night, after a quiet patrol, they ended up on the highest rooftop in Metropolis, gazing out at the skyline.

Kara turned to her, smiling. “Do you ever think about how weird this is?”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“All of it,” Kara said, gesturing vaguely. “You, me. Gotham’s shadow girl and Metropolis’ sunniest alien. It shouldn’t work, but it does.”

Y/n smirked. “Are you overthinking now?”

Kara nudged her playfully. “Maybe a little.”

Y/n hummed, glancing at the skyline. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

Y/n turned back to her, eyes steady. “Gravity doesn’t apply to us.”

Kara blinked, tilting her head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I spent my whole life thinking I belonged in the dark. That I had no choice but to stay grounded there.” The Grayson exhaled, gaze softening. “Then you showed me that I didn’t have to.”

Kara’s expression shifted—something warmer, something softer.

“You don’t have to,” Kara murmured. “You never did.”

Y/n swallowed, then smirked slightly. “Well. Took you long enough to tell me.”

Kara rolled her eyes, but her grin was bright. She shifted closer, brushing their fingers together.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep reminding you.”

And Y/n let her.

Bonus Chapter:

Metropolis at night held an unexpected magic. The city’s lights shimmered like distant stars, and on a rooftop overlooking the skyline, Y/n and Kara found a quiet sanctuary away from the bustle of heroics and expectations.

After another long day of patrolling and thwarting petty crimes, the two heroes sought refuge on one of Metropolis’s highest rooftops. The air was cool, carrying with it a gentle reminder that even amidst constant activity, there was a peaceful silence waiting to be discovered.

“Sometimes, I forget how quiet it can be,” Kara mused, leaning against the ledge with her gaze lost in the distant horizon. Her tone was soft—a contrast to her usual exuberance.

Y/n sat beside her, the wind teasing the edges of her dark hair as she traced patterns in the condensation on the glass barrier. “I used to think that silence was dangerous,” she admitted. “A sign that something was lurking. But here, it’s just… calm.”

For a long moment, they sat together, sharing the comfort of the night. Their families had gradually come to accept, and even embrace, the union that defied so many expectations. Dick’s late-night check-ins now carried a tone of playful teasing and proud encouragement, while Bruce’s silent nods of approval had grown more frequent over time. In Metropolis, Clark’s boisterous welcome and Lois’s teasing quips had already woven Y/n into their fold. And though Gotham’s Batfamily was still adjusting, Dick’s steadfast support had made the distance between worlds seem less daunting.

A light chime on their communicator signaled a message from Kara’s father, Jor-El, a reminder of the legacy that Kara carried and a gentle acknowledgment of the new ties forming between their worlds. Kara glanced at her phone, a smile tugging at her lips. “They say there’s a meteor shower tonight,” she said, eyes twinkling with excitement. “I thought it might be the perfect excuse to celebrate…us.”

Y/n arched an eyebrow. “Us? Since when do we need an excuse?”

Kara laughed softly, the sound mingling with the whispering wind. “Maybe we don’t. But tonight feels like a good night to appreciate the little miracles.”

With that, they decided to leave their rooftop sanctuary and venture out to a quiet park known for its unobstructed view of the skies. As they walked hand in hand, the conversation meandered from light banter about how Y/n’s tactical boots always made the best impressions on rocky paths to deeper confessions about the shadows that still sometimes haunted her dreams. Kara listened to her warm presence a steady counterbalance to the lingering doubts that Y/n wrestled with.

Later, lying on a blanket spread out beneath the open sky, they watched the meteor shower begin—a cascade of fleeting light against the velvet night. Kara’s head rested on Y/n’s chest, and for a while, neither spoke. The universe, in all its sprawling wonder, seemed to sing a quiet hymn of renewal.

“You know,” Y/n finally whispered, “I never thought I’d find a place where the past and the future could merge so peacefully.”

Kara squeezed her hand gently. “We’re creating our own constellations. Every moment, every star—they’re reminders that no matter where we come from, or what shadows we’ve faced, we can always shine together.”

At that moment, under a sky ablaze with light, Y/n felt the remnants of her past—once a tool of darkness—transforming into the very substance of hope. With Kara beside her, the heaviness of old scars and old doubts began to feel like distant echoes against the promise of a new horizon.

As the night deepened, the couple stayed on that blanket, sharing stories, dreams, and gentle laughter. The meteor shower served not just as a spectacular show but as a metaphor for their journey: brilliant bursts of beauty emerging from darkness, fleeting yet eternal in memory.

In the glow of those shooting stars, they knew that together, they could navigate any sky—be it shadowed or luminous—and find home in the ever-changing tapestry of life.

[atlasthegreatest]

Crossing Lines / Ning Yizhou x Gender Neutral! Reader

In the dead of night, Y/n Nakamura—a highly skilled secret agent—is on a mission to retrieve classified intel from a covert facility. Everything is going smoothly until they realize they’re not the only ones after the prize. Ning Yizhou, a spy from a rival agency, is already inside, her own objective mirroring theirs. Old tension crackled between them. Their history is complicated—former allies on one mission, enemies on the next, always walking a fine line between rivalry and something more dangerous.

Word count: 4611

Warnings: Secret Agent Au. Gun violence. Blood.

A/n: This one was requested by an anon. The gender wasn't specified so, the gender is neutral. Enjoy it!

The city hummed with neon lights and the distant murmur of passing cars, but for Y/n Nakamura, the world had narrowed to the soft click of their gun’s safety being flicked off. They crouched in the shadows of a rooftop, watching the target building below—a high-rise filled with criminals who thought they were untouchable. The secret agent had been tracking them for weeks, waiting for the right moment to strike.

And yet, despite their precision, their instincts screamed that something was off.

Then they saw her.

Ning Yizhou.

She moved like a shadow, slipping past the security with effortless grace. Her figure was clad in sleek tactical gear, and even from a distance, they could see the sharp gleam of her knife tucked against her thigh. Y/n should have expected this. If they were on this mission, it only made sense that she was too. Different agency. Same target.

Same unresolved history.

Y/n’s fingers tightened around the trigger of their gun before they exhaled sharply and lowered it. A confrontation here would be reckless, and they knew better than to let emotions interfere. But Ning had always been a complication.

Y/n hadn’t seen her in months. The last time had been in Prague, in a hotel room still thick with adrenaline and regret. They had fought side by side, as they always did when their agencies’ interests aligned. But something had changed that night—words had been spoken in the heat of the moment, truths they weren’t ready to face. And then, just like always, they had parted ways.

Now, here she was again, a ghost from the past.

As the woman reached the rooftop, she stilled. Her body language told Y/n everything—they weren’t the only ones who had noticed the other’s presence. Slowly, she turned her head, and even under the dim city lights, her eyes found theirs.

A slow smirk curled her lips. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Y/n stepped out of the shadows, keeping their stance neutral, but Ning knew them too well to be fooled. Her smirk didn’t fade, but there was something else in her gaze—something sharp, cautious.

“Should have figured they’d send you,” they muttered.

The Chinese woman tilted her head. “Same to you.”

There was a beat of silence, charged with everything unspoken between them. They could pretend this was just another mission, another unfortunate run-in. But they both knew better.

“Are we doing this the hard way?” she asked, fingers brushing against her knife. “Or are we pretending to play nice?”

Y/n’s jaw tightened. “That depends. Are you going to get in my way?”

Ning’s smile didn’t waver, but they saw the flicker of something in her eyes. “Depends,” she echoed. “Are you still afraid of what happens when we’re on the same side?”

Y/n’s breath hitched for half a second—so brief that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Ning Yizhou wasn’t most people.

Before they could answer, a distant explosion rumbled through the city, and both secret agents snapped into action. Instinct took over, years of training overriding whatever emotions still lingered between them.

For now, the mission came first.

But later?

Later, Y/n wasn’t sure they could keep running from her.

———————-

The explosion rattled the rooftop beneath their feet, sending a plume of fire and smoke into the night sky. A second later, the alarms from the high-rise blared to life, filling the air with sharp, piercing urgency.

Y/n moved without thinking. Instinct kicked in—secure higher ground, assess the situation, and find an exit. But before they could act, Ning grabbed their wrist, her grip firm but not forceful.

“That wasn’t us,” she said, eyes scanning the chaos below.

Y/n knew what she meant. Neither of them had placed charges. Which meant someone else had. Someone who didn’t want either of them to complete their mission.

“Backup?” Y/n asked, though they already knew the answer.

The woman gave a dry laugh. “If I had backup, you’d be tied to a chair by now.”

That was probably true. Her agency didn’t take chances, and if they knew Y/n was there, they wouldn’t hesitate to remove them from the equation. But if her team wasn’t behind the explosion, and theirs wasn’t either, then—

“Third party,” they muttered, glancing at the burning floors below. “Someone’s trying to erase evidence.”

Ning let go of their wrist, but the ghost of her touch lingered longer than it should have. Y/n ignored it. They had to.

Instead, Y/n focused on the mission. The explosion had compromised the building, but if there were survivors inside—witnesses, assets, loose ends—they needed to move fast.

Ning seemed to come to the same conclusion. Without a word, she pulled a grappling hook from her belt and fired it at the nearest intact floor. The cable latched on with a solid thunk, and she glanced back at them.

“You coming or not?”

Y/n hesitated. Working with her was never the problem. It was everything else—the moments between the mission, the way she looked at them like she could see past the mask they wore, the history that refused to die.

But the fire below roared louder, and hesitation wasn’t an option.

Y/n grabbed onto her harness just as the woman kicked off the ledge, sending both of them swinging down into the shattered window of the high-rise.

Glass crunched beneath their boots as Y/n landed, rolling into a defensive stance. The heat from the explosion was intense, the air thick with smoke and dust. Y/n could hear distant voices—frantic, desperate. Survivors.

Ning pulled her mask over her mouth. “I’ll take the east wing. You go west.”

A simple plan. A temporary truce.

But as Y/n watched her disappear into the flames, they couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just another mission.

It was the beginning of something they weren’t ready to face.

———————-

The building groaned under the weight of fire and destruction, steel beams bending as the flames licked higher. Every breath tasted of smoke and ash, but Y/n pushed forward, scanning the wreckage for any sign of survivors.

Their earpiece crackled. “Found one,” Ning’s voice came through, slightly muffled but still sharp. “Female, mid-thirties, unconscious. What about you?”

Y/n glanced around, stepping over debris. A soft cough caught their attention.

“Got a live one,” they replied, kneeling beside a young man pinned under a collapsed beam. His face was streaked with soot, his breaths shallow. “Hang in there,” they muttered, reaching for the emergency lift device strapped to their belt.

The building shuddered again, and from the east wing, Y/n heard a sharp curse over the comms. Then gunfire.

“Yizhou?” Y/n secured the injured man with one arm, the other hand flying to their earpiece.

No response.

Damn it.

Y/n activated the lift, sending the survivor up toward the rooftop where extraction teams—theirs, hers, someone’s—would pick them up. Then they drew their gun and sprinted toward the sound of the shots.

Smoke clouded the corridors, but Y/n moved fast, weaving through the broken remains of what had once been an opulent office floor. They found her near a collapsed stairwell, crouched behind a desk, exchanging fire with two masked operatives.

“Friends of yours?” Y/n called out, firing a shot that sent one of them scrambling for cover.

The Chinese didn’t look away from her target. “No. But they’re trying to kill me, so I’m guessing they’re not yours either.”

Y/n cursed under their breath. A third party was here. Someone who wanted everyone dead—witnesses, agents, all of them.

Y/n moved without thinking, covering Ning as she reloaded. It was seamless, like old times—before everything between them had gotten so complicated.

“You trust me?” The woman asked suddenly, still focused on the enemy.

It was a dangerous question. And it came at the worst possible time.

But they answered anyway.

“Always.”

The woman nodded once. “Then cover me.”

Without hesitation, Y/n unleashed a volley of bullets, forcing the enemy back. Ning took the opening, darting forward with inhuman speed. Her knife flashed in the dim light, and in seconds, the fight was over.

The silence that followed was thick with tension, broken only by the distant roar of flames.

Y/n exhaled, lowering their gun. “Next time, warn me before you pull something like that.”

Ning turned to them, lips quirking up in a smirk, but her eyes were unreadable. “What, you worried about me?”

Y/n didn’t answer. Because they were worried. Always had been.

And that was the problem.

Before either of them could say another word, their earpiece crackled again. This time, it wasn’t Ning’s voice—it was Y/n’s handler.

“Abort the mission. Now. New intel—this was a trap.”

Y/n stomach dropped. A trap? For who?

Then, almost as if in response, a sniper shot rang out from the rooftop across the street.

Neither of the agents hesitated. Y/n tackled Ning just as the bullet grazed where she had been standing, the two of them crashing hard onto the floor.

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of Y/n’s heart pounding. Their body was half-draped over the Chinese woman, their hands braced on either side of her head.

Her breath was uneven, her gaze locked onto theirs. And in that moment, with a fire burning around them and an unknown enemy closing in, the mission didn’t matter anymore.

Only she did.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

————————

Y/n didn’t move. And neither did Ning.

For a second—just one—the world narrowed to the space between them. The heat of the fire, the distant gunfire, the chaos outside—it all blurred. All that was left was Ning Yizhou beneath them, her dark eyes searching theirs, her lips parted slightly as if she was about to say something.

Then she shoved them off.

“Sniper,” she reminded them, her voice sharp but not unkind. “We need to move.”

Y/n rolled onto their feet, scanning the rooftops through the smoke. Whoever had taken that shot wasn’t just sending a warning. They were hunting.

Ning pressed a finger to her earpiece. “Command, I need an evac now. The building’s compromised, and we have an unknown hostile.”

Y/n’s own earpiece buzzed to life.

“Stand down,” their handler ordered. “Do not extract with her.”

Y/n’s stomach tightened. Of course. Their agency had always been cautious about field agents getting too involved with outsiders—even when those outsiders were as skilled as Ning Yizhou.

Y/n heard the unspoken warning in their handler’s tone. She is not one of us. Do not trust her.

But that was the thing. Y/n did trust her. Maybe more than they should.

Y/n turned to the woman, whose own expression had gone unreadable. “Let me guess,” she said, her voice light but laced with something darker. “Your bosses don’t want us working together.”

“Not exactly,” they admitted.

The Chinese woman smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Figures. Guess that means we should split up before—”

Another bullet whizzed past, forcing both of them to dive for cover. A second later, a grappling hook latched onto the ledge above. The sniper wasn’t working alone. They were coming in fast.

No more time to argue.

Y/n grabbed Ning’s wrist. “Forget the orders. We get out together.”

For a brief moment, Ning hesitated. It was unlike her—she was always decisive, always one step ahead. But then, just as quickly, her fingers tightened around Y/n’s.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if we die, I’m haunting you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Y/n shot back.

The woman rolled her eyes but didn’t let go.

Together, they ran.

————————-

The extraction was a disaster.

They made it to the emergency stairwell just as another explosion rocked the building. The fire was spreading too fast, cutting off their original escape route. Their agencies had both sent separate evac teams, but they were too deep inside to reach either without a fight.

And then there was the sniper.

Whoever they were, they weren’t just a hired gun. They were a professional—like them. Someone who knew how they moved, how they thought. Every exit they considered, they had already anticipated.

Y/n and Ning barely avoided the next shot as they burst onto an open balcony.

“Any brilliant ideas?” The woman panted.

Y/n scanned the skyline. Just across from them, on the neighboring rooftop, a transport drone hovered, likely meant for one of the survivors they had sent up earlier. It wasn’t ideal, but—

“I see that look,” Ning said warily.

Y/n grabbed her hand again. “Jump.”

She blinked. “Excuse me—”

But Y/n was already moving, pulling her toward the ledge. The sniper fired again, the bullet hitting the railing just as the two of them leaped.

For a terrifying moment, the city spun beneath them—lights, fire, smoke, all blurring together. Then Y/n’s hands found the edge of the drone, fingers gripping tight as it jerked under the sudden weight.

Ning landed beside them, cursing under her breath.

“You are insane,” she hissed.

“You’re welcome,” they shot back.

The Chinese huffed, but a small smirk tugged at her lips. “Fine. But next time? I get to be the reckless one.”

Y/n didn’t argue. Because deep down, they knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

And that was what scared them the most.

The drone wobbled under the weight of both of them, hovering precariously over the burning city. It wasn’t built for passengers—especially not two field agents in full gear—but they had no other options. The moment they hesitated, they’d be dead.

As the wind howled past, Ning reached into her belt and pulled out a small device, pressing it against the drone’s control panel.

“Tell me that’s not an override,” Y/n said.

She grinned. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

Y/n sighed, gripping the drone’s side. “Your agency is going to love this.”

“They’ll get over it.”

The drone jolted forward suddenly, responding to Ning’s override, and shot toward the outskirts of the city, away from the burning building and the sniper’s line of sight.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The city lights stretched beneath them, the chaos of the mission left behind—for now. Y/n took the opportunity to glance at Ning. She was leaning back slightly, head tilted toward the sky, but her grip on the drone was tight. She looked calm, but they knew her too well.

“Your arm,” Y/n said, nodding toward where blood seeped through her sleeve.

The woman followed their gaze, then let out a soft tsk. “Ah. Guess they got a lucky shot.”

Y/n frowned. “How bad?”

Ning shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Just grazed. I’ll live.”

That didn’t mean Y/n liked it.

The woman must have caught the way their expression darkened because she smirked, nudging them lightly with her elbow. “What, worried about me?”

Y/n didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they reached into their gear, pulling out a small bandage. “Hold still,” they muttered.

Ning blinked but let them take her arm, watching quietly as Y/n wrapped the wound with quick, practiced movements.

“You know,” she murmured after a moment, “this is the part where you remind me we’re still technically on opposite sides.”

Y/n finished tying off the bandage, meeting her gaze. “Are we?”

The words hung between them, heavier than they should have been.

They were on opposite sides—different agencies, different agendas. They’d spent years running into each other on missions, sometimes working together, sometimes against. But somehow, they always found themselves here. Caught in the in-between.

Ning’s lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something. But then—

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

The drone’s warning system blared, and before either of them could react, the engine sputtered. The override had worked too well—the drone was failing.

“Hold on!” Ning yelled.

The machine lurched, tilting violently. Y/n barely had time to grab the woman before the drone gave out completely, plummeting toward the rooftop below.

The last thing they heard was the rush of wind—

And then impact.

————————-

Pain. That was the first thing they registered.

It wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough to remind them that they’d just fallen from the sky.

Y/n groaned, pushing themselves up on shaky arms. They had landed hard against a rooftop, their body protesting as they moved. But the first thing they did wasn’t check their injuries.

It was looking for the Yizhou woman.

She was a few feet away, lying on her back, staring up at the sky. For a terrifying second, Y/n thought she wasn’t breathing—

Then she let out a short, breathless laugh.

“That,” she panted, “was the worst landing ever.”

Relief flooded through them, though they masked it with a groan as they sat up. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

Ning turned her head toward them, still lying flat on her back. “You good?”

Y/n rolled their shoulder, wincing slightly. “Been worse.”

Ning propped herself up on one elbow, glancing at them. “You always say that.”

Y/n met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

Before they could respond, their earpiece crackled to life.

“Agent, report.”

Their handler. Y/n hesitated, then pressed a hand to their comm. “I’m alive.”

There was a pause. Then—“And the other operative?”

Y/n’s eyes flickered to Ning. She was watching them closely, waiting for their answer.

They exhaled. “Gone.”

Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

Their handler sighed as if expecting that answer. “Understood. Get back to base for debriefing. We’ll discuss next steps.”

The line went dead.

Y/n looked at the woman. “Your agency?”

Ning tapped her earpiece. “Radio silence. Pretty sure they’re pissed.”

“So what now?”

The woman smirked. “You tell me. You’re the one who insisted we stick together.”

Y/n shook their head. “I said we get out together. That doesn’t mean—”

The Yizhou woman took a step closer, cutting off their words with a knowing glance. “Doesn’t mean what?”

Y/n swallowed. They were too close—too aware of the way her gaze lingered, the way their heart was still racing from the fall, from the mission, from her.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

They were supposed to leave. To let this be another mission, another moment where they parted ways and pretended none of it mattered.

But Y/n was running out of excuses.

And from the way Ning was looking at them now, she knew it too.

—————————

The city stretched below, humming with life despite the chaos you had just escaped. But up here, on this abandoned rooftop, it felt like Y/n Nakamura and Ning Yizhou were the only two people left in the world.

She hadn’t moved. Neither had them.

Too close. Too quiet.

Y/n needed to say something—to break whatever this was before it became something they couldn’t walk away from.

“I should go,” they said, voice steadier than they expected.

Ning raised an eyebrow. “Should,” she repeated, tilting her head slightly. “But you won’t.”

Y/n exhaled slowly. “Yizhou—”

“I’ll make it easy for you.” She took a step back, giving them space. “Go. Walk away.”

It was a challenge. One Y/n should have taken.

But they didn’t move.

The woman let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “See? You never do.”

She wasn’t wrong. No matter how many times Y/n told themselves this—she—was a complication they couldn’t afford, they never left when they should have.

Just like now.

Ning’s smirk softened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. “What are we doing?” she asked, quieter this time.

Y/n didn’t have an answer.

Because if they were being honest, this wasn’t just about tonight. It wasn’t just about this mission or the countless ones before it where they had crossed paths.

It was about all the times they had almost let themselves get too close. The stolen moments between assignments, the split-second decisions where they had chosen her over the job.

The way Ning looked at them now—like she was waiting for them to admit what they both already knew.

Y/n’s hands clenched at their sides. “This isn’t a good idea.”

The Chinese woman hummed, considering. “Probably not.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, in a move so quick Y/n barely had time to react, she reached into their jacket and pulled out their phone.

“Ning!” Y/n grabbed for it, but the woman danced out of reach, smirking as she typed something.

A second later, their device buzzed.

The Yizhou tossed it back to them. “My number. In case you decide to stop lying to yourself.”

Y/n stared at the screen, her name flashing back at them.

When they looked up, she was already walking toward the edge of the rooftop. A moment later, she activated her own grappling hook, preparing to disappear into the night.

“You should stop making me your problem,” Y/n called after her, though there was no heat in their voice.

The woman turned slightly, silhouetted against the city lights.

“Too late for that,” she said.

Then she was gone.

And Y/n was left standing there, phone in hand, knowing damn well they weren’t going to delete her number.

Because no matter how many times they told themselves this wasn’t supposed to happen—

It already had.

Bonus Chapter:

Days passed. Then weeks.

Y/n told themselves they wouldn’t use the number.

The secret agent had gone on with business as usual—missions, debriefings, pretending like nothing had changed. Their agency never brought up the last mission again, though they could tell they weren’t happy about it. Not because of the sniper, or the botched extraction—no. It was because they had let her slip away.

They didn’t trust her. And they didn’t trust them around her.

And maybe they were right.

Because despite everything, they were standing outside a dimly lit bar in a city halfway across the world, their thumb hovering over a single message on their phone.

Are you in town?

It was a bad idea. The worst idea.

But they hit send anyway.

————————

The bar was quiet, tucked away from the main streets, the kind of place only people in their line of work knew about. Dim lights, hushed conversations, an air of unspoken agreements.

Y/n had just ordered a drink when they felt it—a shift in the air, a presence sliding into the seat next to them.

“You must be desperate,” Ning murmured, her voice smooth as ever. “Breaking all your little rules just to see me.”

Y/n didn’t turn immediately, taking a sip from their glass instead. “You came.”

The woman let out a soft chuckle. “Of course I did.”

Now they turned. And there she was, Ning Yizhou, bathed in the low glow of neon lights, watching them with that familiar mix of amusement and something deeper—something more dangerous.

“You’re reckless,” they muttered.

Ning smirked. “And you’re predictable.”

She reached for Y/n’s drink, stealing a sip before setting it back down. “So,” she continued, “what is it this time? Another mission? A warning? Or did you just miss me?”

Y/n hesitated. They could have lied. They probably should have.

But instead, they sighed. “I don’t know.”

The woman’s expression flickered, just for a second.

Then she leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down Y/n’s spine. “You do.”

And she was right.

Because here they were, after everything, sitting beside her in a bar like old habits weren’t impossible to break. Like they hadn’t spent the past few weeks telling themselves this was a mistake.

And the Yizhou woman—she knew it, too.

She tilted her head. “Tell me one thing.”

Y/n swallowed. “What?”

Her gaze held theirs, unwavering. “What happens if I kiss you right now?”

Y/n’s breath caught.

It wasn’t the first time she had teased them, pushed them just enough to see if they’d finally break. But this time—

This time, Y/n wasn’t sure if they wanted to hold back.

Because they were tired. Of fighting this. Of pretending it didn’t mean anything.

So when they spoke, their voice was quieter than before.

“You’ll make things worse.”

The Chinese woman’s lips curved. “Good.”

And before they could stop themselves, before they could think of the consequences—

They kissed her first.

The moment their lips met hers, everything they had been holding back, everything they’d been telling themselves—don’t cross that line—shattered.

There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just a sudden rush of heat, of need that they both couldn’t deny.

For a second, everything was quiet. The world outside the bar, the city, the chaos of your respective lives—all of it faded into the background.

Ning’s hands found their shoulders, pulling them closer. Y/n didn’t fight it. The kiss was urgent, more intense than they had ever imagined, a dangerous spark igniting between them both.

The Yizhou woman pulled away first, just enough to breathe. Her lips were slightly swollen, her eyes darkened with something that matched the wild beat of Y/n’s heart.

“Bad idea,” she murmured, but her voice was filled with a challenge, not regret.

Y/n laughed, low and hoarse. “Tell me about it.”

The woman smirked, her thumb brushing across their jawline. “You think we can stop at just one kiss?”

Y/n’s breath hitched at her words. Was that what this was? Just one kiss? Was it enough?

No. Not even close.

Y/n leaned in again, this time slower, letting the anticipation stretch between them. The world around them didn’t matter anymore. Only her.

When they finally pulled away, Y/n didn’t know how much time had passed. All they knew was that their body ached with wanting more, and Ning Yizhou was just as caught in it as they were.

“This is dangerous,” they said, their voice thick with the weight of what had just happened.

“Nothing’s ever safe when we’re involved.” Ning’s words were quiet but firm, her expression unreadable as she stared at them. “We’re both spies. We live in danger every day. So, what’s a kiss or two? Maybe more?”

The air between them shifted, charged with the tension of something that was no longer just a mission.

Y/n didn’t know what to say to that. They were already too far gone. There was no going back now.

The woman was right, though. This was dangerous. They were already tangled in something they couldn’t walk away from. And yet, Y/n couldn’t bring themselves to regret it.

“Why are you doing this?” they asked, their voice barely above a whisper. “We’re enemies. Different agencies. Different priorities.”

“Because you want this,” the Yizhou woman replied, her gaze locking onto Y/n’s, so intense that it sent a shiver down their spine. “Because no matter how many rules we break, no matter how many times we’re told not to trust each other—there’s something here we can’t deny. Something we’ve both been ignoring for too long.”

She was right. They both had been ignoring it.

But they weren’t sure how to handle it now. How to navigate this new territory.

Y/n took a deep breath, struggling to find clarity amidst the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside them. “What happens now?”

Ning gave them a small—almost sad— smile. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Her fingers brushed against Y/n’s, the touch gentle, almost soothing. “I don’t know the answer, but for now…” She trailed off, leaning in just enough to rest her forehead against theirs. “For now, let’s not think about the consequences. Let’s just be.”

Y/n closed their eyes, letting the silence stretch between them. For the first time in a long time, they didn’t feel like they had to make a decision.

Maybe consequences were waiting for both of them. Maybe there was a price to pay for crossing this line. But right now, in this moment, all that mattered was the feeling of her close to them, the warmth between them, and the possibility of something that could change everything.

“Alright,” Y/n said quietly, finally letting themselves believe that maybe—just maybe—it was worth it.

“Let’s just be.”