coffeehurricanes

[coffeehurricanes]

love on track ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

you wish, of course, that you could have accounted for yuki tsunoda. (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.)

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x graduate student!reader. ꔮ word count: 5.4k. ꔮ includes: romance. profanity. reader is studying something statistics-adjacent, a bit of numbers talk, isack is a plot device again, idiots in love. highly recommended that you read love at first flight before this one! ꔮ commentary box: the tsunodaradio yuki transportation verse expands! writing this sequel to my first ever yuki fic as a birthday gift for the man, the myth, the legend 🚆 without further ado.. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ take a chance with me, niki. oh shit...are we in love?, the valley. ? (who do you think of), any name's okay. me & you, honne & tom misch. maybe?, radi. happy accidents, saint motel.

The statistical probability of running into a stranger twice in your lifetime depends on a range of variables. 

There’s location to consider. Frequency of interaction. Shared activities or interests. The probability may be low, but it is never zero. Even a 1 in 100,000 chance is still a chance. 

So, in some ways, are you really that surprised to find a familiar face on this train? 

It’s your second trip to Japan. The first one had gone by in a blur, and that was why you came back. You hadn’t felt like you were able to sufficiently enjoy yourself and you figured a country as beautiful as this one deserved a little more respect. A longer stay. More touristy commitments. 

The Sunrise Izumo Express gave you that chance. A sleeper train route of 12 hours, boasting Pinterest-worthy views of the country’s mountains and lakes within the range of Tokyo to Izumo. You had timed your vacation specifically around the snowy season. 

Do you wish you could have gotten a private room on the train? Of course. 

Did you cheap out a bit so you could buy more wagyu? Definitely. 

You find yourself on the top berth of a double-deck sleeper. It’s not much. Curtains for privacy, a reading light, an overhead fan. A barely-there wooden separator will keep you from being shoulder-to-shoulder with whoever sits—or lays—next to you. 

As you squeeze yourself into the small space, you try to think of comparably positive experiences. It feels like… summer camp. Sure. That’ll work. 

The train is set to depart at 10 PM on the dot. You glance at your watch. Half past nine, and the space next to yours is still empty. If you’re lucky, it will stay that way. 

Unfortunately, luck has never been as good to you as numbers have. 

At approximately 9:22 PM, the Familiar Stranger climbs on to the berth next to yours. He grunts when his head hits the top of the train. He falls onto the thin mattress with an incoherent cuss. You offer him a rueful smile. 

He grins back.

Then does a double take. 

“Wait,” he says, words garbled with an accent you can’t quite place yet. “I know you.” 

You nearly start sprouting numbers about this being only your second time in Japan, about the low likelihood of you recognizing anyone in this foreign land. You hold back just enough to evenly say, “I don’t think so.” 

“No, no,” the stranger insists. “I know you. I know you from somewhere.” 

The thought is laughable. You’re a tourist, for God’s sake. Nobody—most especially the person you’re supposed to sit-slash-sleep next to for the next 12 hours—should know you. 

Despite your growing irritation, you stand your ground. “I’m sorry,” you say firmly,, “but I think you have the wrong girl.” 

You try to pull the curtain close. The stranger’s hand darts out, stopping you at the very last moment. You’re already contemplating how to flag a conductor down for potential harassment. 

The man opposite you opens his mouth, ready to push, when a voice rings out. “Hadjar? Is something wrong?”

Your head snaps up. 

Again, we go back to the plain and simple fact: 1 in 100,000 is still a chance. Today, that 0.001 percent glares up at you like a neon sign in a dive bar. Bright, oppressive, unavoidable. 

Yuki Tsunoda is standing at the foot of your bunk.

He looks a little different than you remember. To be fair, it’s been over half a year.

Six months ago, on your first flight to Japan—your first flight ever—happenstance had put you in the seat next to Yuki. You chatted. Fell asleep on each other.

Held hands throughout turbulence. 

And, at the end of it all, he had slipped you his number on a scrap of tissue, asking for the statistical probability of a text. 

“You,” Yuki chokes out, eyes widening almost comically. 

He says your name afterwards, and you wince. He doesn’t say it like a curse or an insult. It comes out more like a suspension of disbelief, like he’s just seen someone come back from the dead. At this rate, maybe he has. 

“Airplane crush!” the stranger next to you—Hadjar, right, that’d been his name—announces triumphantly. “You are Yuki’s airplane crush!”

That doesn’t help. At all. 

Yuki shoots Hadjar a withering glare before turning back to look at you. “What are you doing here?” Yuki demands. He’s gripping the edges of the bunk so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. 

“Vacationing,” you say defensively. “What are you doing here?” 

“This is literally my home country!”

“I mean,” you stammer, “this is the cheapest option on this train. Couldn’t you, like, afford a compartment or something?!”

“Yuki insisted on the regular seats,” Hadjar interjects. “He wants me to get the authentic Japan experience.” 

Oddly enough, it’s the way Hadjar says those two words—regular and experience—that finally clues you to his accent. French. Your seatmate is French. 

You have bigger fish to fry, though, because Yuki is still staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Before you can decide if you should apologize or brush the whole thing off, Hadjar is already making an executive decision that is determinedly bad for everybody’s welfare. 

“Let’s switch, Yuki!” Hadjar says, enthusiastic in the way only a wingman could be. “I will take the bottom bunk!”

No, you mean to say, but you don’t know how you’d manage that without sounding rude. Yuki has a little less tact. He immediately tries to refuse, stuttering words like don’t and Isack and I am going to kill you.

Hadjar only gathers his things and begins to scramble away, completely ignoring Yuki’s protests. Hadjar even throws you a conspiratorial wink over his shoulder, like he’s doing you a favor. Like your heart hasn’t sunk to your ass at the prospect of what the next 12 hours is going to be. 

You hear them bickering below you, just out of sight. Low voices, curt exchanges. A lot of the hissing seems to be coming from Yuki. 

You lay down on your side, facing away from the berth that’s either going to be an overzealous Frenchman or a guy you ghosted after a long-haul flight. You find yourself facing what seems to be an elderly Japanese woman, already setting up her nighttime skincare routine. It’s not the worst of sights. 

The bunk you’re pointedly trying to avoid creaks under the weight of a body. You hold your breath, lying in wait. And then—

“Why didn’t you text me?” 

You have to give it to Yuki. Getting the hard question out of the way, right off the bat, is admirable. 

You keep on holding your breath. Maybe if you don’t move an inch, he’ll leave you alone. Wishful thinking. 

“I know you’re still awake,” Yuki says, tone caught halfway between amusement and exasperation. “The train has just left the station.” 

With a sigh, you turn. Yuki is seated upright, leaning against the window. You hate to admit it, but he’s still as attractive as you remember. The mop of black hair, the faint five o’clock shadow.

In the dimming lights of the train, you zero in on things you hadn’t noticed before. His stack of chrome jewelry, his designer wristwatch, his muscles rippling with every small movement he makes. 

You blink. Woah. Where did that last thought come from? 

Anyway. 

You clear your throat. He speaks up again, his gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the berth across from him. 

“I gave you my number,” he says matter-of-factly. 

You sit up, leaning your own back against the window. This doesn’t feel like a conversation to have while you’re curled up over the mattress, ready for sleep. Now both you and Yuki are glaring into the distance if it’ll mean you don’t have to look at each other. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually be waiting for a text,” you confess as you pick at a loose strand of the train-issued blanket.  

When you found out who Yuki was—really was—it made no sense to act on the number entrusted to you. On the plane, he had just been a nice seatmate who you thought you could spin into a story. A tidbit for future Two Truths and a Lie games. 

But then you landed in Tokyo, and you found out he was a racecar driver, and suddenly reaching out to him was out of the cards. 

“Besides,” you add, aiming for levity, “I’m pretty sure you do that all the time.” 

“Do what?” 

“Give out your number.” 

A beat. One long enough to make you realize your mistake before Yuki points it out himself.

“I don’t,” he says, voice so soft and hurt that you can only pray, with every fibre of your being, that the ground might swallow you whole. 

It doesn’t. You reach for the second best thing. “I’m sorry,” you say sincerely, turning your head so you’re looking straight at Yuki. 

To your surprise, he mimics the move. You’re both looking at each other as the train rumbles out of Tokyo station, starting what will undoubtedly be a long journey.

“Are you sorry for not texting?” Yuki asks, and it strikes you what kind of person he is.

You recognize the lightheartedness in his tone. He’s probably still offended, but he’s trying to tease you right now. Trying to make light of the situation. 

“I’m sorry for assuming you have bitches in every city,” you offer in return. 

Yuki laughs. It’s a bark of a surprise sound, jolted out of him like he hadn’t expected it. But you had. You had wanted to get that exact reaction out of him.

It eases some of the tension in his shoulders, makes him look at you with a little less of the flight instinct. It’s not absolution just yet; you know you’re not out of the dog house. 

But you decide you’ll take it. This small win, this break in the surface pressure. What was the statistical probability of having another 12 hours with Yuki ahead of you? 

The very least you could do was try and make it tolerable. 

You had a plan.

This whole thing about sleeping during the first hour and waking up for the sunrise. You had stayed up during the day for it, eager to make sure you wouldn’t miss anything that would justify the trip or the price tag on it.

But you don’t realize how difficult it is to fall asleep here.

It doesn’t even have anything to do with Yuki. Okay, well, that’s a lie. It’s not entirely about Yuki. He’s part of the reason, though he’s mostly out of your hair as he tries to feign interest in whatever manga he’s reading.

Your shared history—or lack thereof—exists in the negligible space between you. He’s so close that you can hear the music leaking through his AirPods.

You’re intent on falling asleep. On keeping your back turned to Yuki, fixed instead on the snoozing grandma across you.

Someone is snoring like a chainsaw below you. Hadjar, probably.

Yuki steals the thoughts right out of your head. “You’re lucky you’re not next to him,” he says dryly, making you jump a bit. 

You’re still hopeful you’ll fall asleep, so you stay curled up in your bunk as the train hurtles past the sights of Japan. It’s too dark to see anything but shadows of buildings and trees.

“Does he snore like that all the time?” you ask quietly, not wanting to wake up the woman next to you.

“Unfortunately,” Yuki chirps from behind you. “I’m a bit jealous. He’s the type to fall asleep anywhere, at any time.”

“Are you two teammates?”

There’s a moment’s pause. “You know, I thought you would be a little more invested in F1 after getting a driver’s number,” he says, that hint of amusement back in his tone. 

A snort of laughter escapes you. Your F1-obsessed best friend had gone ballistic over the knowledge you sat next to Yuki the entire flight; you withheld the fact his number was now in your phone, knowing full well that it would become a whole thing. 

Maybe you had resisted the urge to Google ‘Yuki Tsunoda’ once or twice. Maybe you were a little more tuned in with your best friend’s ramblings over the championship standings. But it was never enough to truly get you into the sport, to see what all the hype was about.

Besides— “You told me you were a chauffeur,” you point out, still speaking to the divider. 

“You assumed I was a chauffeur,” he amends. “It was too funny to deny.”

“You could have corrected me.”

He pauses. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Would it have changed anything? If I told you I drove cars in circles?”

Well, when he puts it that way. You try to think of what that plane ride would have looked like if you knew from the get-go that he was a racecar driver, that he was revered in a sport you didn’t really understand. You like to think you might’ve just rattled off more car statistics—effectively scaring him off. 

But would it have changed anything, like the way you catalogued his laugh, the way you blushed when he flirted with you, the way you napped in his side like it was somewhere you belong? 

“No,” you say quietly. “Probably not.”

“Exactly.” The way Yuki says the word is loaded with implication. He sounds smug and sad all at once.

You try to unpack it, try to make sense of it the same way that you navigate numbers. But there is no equation to this, no logic. This is emotion, and sentiment, and the held breath of a situation neither of you thought you would be in.

After a beat too long, you hear him ask, voice softer now, “Is that why?”  

“Why—what?”

“Why you didn’t text me.”

He’s asking if it’s because he lied. Because he omitted facts of the story, twisted the narrative like he was hoping to make the medicine go down easier. 

You knew from the get-go that some white lies were being told. That was always the case with strangers, anyway. You could be whoever you wanted to be for a few precious hours, cosplay as an ideal self or somebody even far worse. You figured it was always going to be black and white with chance encounters like the one you shared. 

You weren’t meant to find each other again. Except Yuki had wanted to, maybe, with his stunt of his scribbled-down phone number, and you decide you can at least afford him a little bit of honesty. 

“Kind of,” you breathe. Him lying about being a chauffeur was only partly the reason why you never reached out. 

He picks up on the hesitance almost immediately. “There’s more to it?”

A corner of your lip twitches upwards. Yuki doesn’t see, and so you let the little smile tug. Just for a second. Just enough.

“There’s always more to it,” you say vaguely. 

“Come on, then,” he urges. “We’ve got time.”

You laugh. Soundlessly, because you don’t want to bother any other passengers. Your shoulders shake all the same as you try to dismiss him with a firm, “Good night, Yuki.”

You’re still not looking at Yuki, but you can hear the grin on his face when he says good night back.

You dream of race cars made of sushi, cherry blossoms with numbered petals, and the sound of Yuki’s smile.

When you wake up to the gentle vibrations of your phone alarm, you’re surprised to find Yuki is still seated upright. 

He has his back to the window, his eyes still trained to his phone. It’s attached to a power bank now, and he’s scrolling through what seems to be the same manga he had been reading earlier. You glance at your phone—confirming you had about seven hours of sleep—before properly curling in on yourself to look to Yuki. 

“You didn’t sleep?” you ask, voice raspy with drowsiness. 

He looks up from his phone, offers you a one-shouldered shrug. “Nah,” he says, though he doesn’t really go on to explain why. 

You try to wipe out the bleariness in your eyes. With a yawn and a pathetic excuse for a stretch, you roll over. A pinkish dawn is beginning to creep in outside the train window.

You left no part of your itinerary up to chance, so you’d noted everything from the time of the day’s sunrise to which berths had the best view. 

You wish, of course, that you could have accounted for Yuki Tsunoda. Yuki, who pockets his earbuds and locks his phone. Yuki, who awkwardly maneuvers so that he’s lying down on the bunk next to yours.

Yuki, who just outright copies you. Stomach flat to the thin mattress, gaze fixed on the countryside roaring past. You’re not about to escape him, you realize. Not today.  

“Do you have another race in Japan?” You hear yourself ask. Your voice is still pitched low, not wanting to rouse the other passengers who are all still getting up themselves. “Is that why you’re here?”

“There’s only one Japan race per season,” Yuki answers patiently. “The season just ended.”

“Ah.”

So, that time you’d seen him—that had been his only home race. You don’t know how any of the sport works, and it’s beginning to frustrate you a bit. Was it just a matter of who finished first? Did he have to drive any particular way? Were him and Hadjar in the same car or something? 

All those questions seem inconsequential to the one on the tip of your tongue. You stammer through it, not wanting to ask Did you win as much as, “Did you… do well?”

A flicker of an expression on his face seems to indicate the topic is a touchy one. But your question fully sinks into him, and he does that thing again. The one where he’s not-quite smiling; the corners of his mouth, lifting just so. 

“I drove safe,” he says, and it nearly takes the wind out of you. 

“That’s good,” you manage. 

And, just in case you forgot, he adds, “Because you told me to.”

Your parting words, blurted out in place of goodbye. Yuki, turning in the line of moving people on the plane, with damning hope on his face. When you had called his name, he had probably thought you might say something else. Ask for his number, maybe. 

Instead, you’d just said Drive safe, and now the words haunt you. 

“You’re just saying that,” you groan, burying your face in one hand. You’re trying to hide the way your own expression has betrayed you, the way you’ve cracked a grin. 

Peeking through your fingers, you see the way that Yuki has started to beam. It crinkles the crow’s feet on his face, shows off a gap between his two front teeth. He keeps his eyes on the scenery even as he glows like the day that’s just about to begin. 

“You’re right,” he agrees, words measured and slow. “Guess I just wanted to see you smile.” 

Outside, dawn breaks. You lift your head, your chin over your folded arms, to watch it happen. 

The December snow blankets Japan’s countryside in sheets of white, reflecting the orange and the yellow of the rising sun. It’s a stunning panorama, a postcard for halcyon days. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of words that could probably describe just how breathtaking the view is. 

All that comes out of you is a dazed murmur of “Pretty.” 

In your peripheral vision, you see Yuki stealing a glance at you. You hadn’t grown up on a diet of romantic comedies, hadn’t read fanfiction or watched as much TV as you might have liked. So how could you have known?

How could you have known he would respond, voice barley above a whisper—like he’s saying it to himself—”Yeah. Pretty,” while still looking at you? 

How was your heart supposed to stand a chance?

“Talk numbers with me.” 

You glance up from the Japanese city maps spread open on your lap. Yuki has abandoned his manga-reading and has also abandoned feigning disinterest in you. 

“Numbers?” you repeat dumbly.

“Numbers,” he confirms. 

You’re a little surprised he remembers. In hindsight, he’s remembered everything else; your obsession with statistics was probably much more defining than, say, the last thing you’d said to him.

“What kind of numbers?” you ask. A little defensive, a little suspicious. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “How much of Japan uses trains?” 

“69 million people daily,” you answer instinctively, knee-jerk in your admission. 

“69. Nice.” 

“Seriously?” 

Yuki shrugs, something glinting in his eyes as he continues to sit cross-legged across from you. You try not to mistake the glimmer for affection. “What else?” he prompts. 

You blow a strand of hair out of your face. “I don’t know what you want to hear,” you shoot back, a hint of annoyance finding home in your tone. “The railway system operates around 26,000 trains daily. You have great punctuality rates. Average delay of just 1.6 minutes per train. The model share’s at 72.2 percent, and—why are you laughing?” 

“I’m not laughing,” Yuki says in between laughter. 

You resist the urge to chuck a map at him. You only glare, waiting for him to calm down before you speak. “You asked for the numbers, man,” you grumble. 

Surely you can’t be blamed for sounding a little hurt. You’re not about to get into it with Yuki Tsunoda, of all people, but there’s a lot of history behind the sting. Years of getting made fun of for different interests. Grating laughter, scraped knees, side eyes.

Yuki sobers instantly. “I’m not… not laughing at you,” he offers apologetically, pulling his criss-crossed legs a little tighter around his body. 

The skeptical look on your face urges him to go on. “It makes me happy,” he says, “hearing you talk about numbers.” 

“It’s just me nerding out,” you deadpan. 

“It’s you lighting up,” he interjects. “It’s a good look.” 

“What is this, Yuki?” 

Record scratch. Freeze frame. Yuki stares at you, unblinking, unmoving. You stare back. The train chugs along. Your words hang in delicate balance. You wish, for a moment, that the maps in your hands could guide you through the next four hours, looming over you like a guillotine. 

“What’s what?” he asks. It’s his turn to sound wary, to try and build up walls. 

You chip at them anyway. “What are you doing?” you press.

“I’m talking with you.” 

“You’re flirting with me.” 

“I am,” he agrees without missing a beat. “I thought I’ve made it very clear that I’m interested in you.” 

“Why?” Your fingers are curled around the paper maps; your voice, surprisingly level amid the din of noise in the train car. “Why want someone you barely even know?” 

Yuki opens his mouth. 

“Yukino!”

Hadjar’s head pops up at the foot of the berth. He has a shit-eating grin on his face, which means he’s probably blissfully unaware of what he just interrupted. “I am going to try the noodle vending machine,” the Frenchman announces excitedly. “Coming with?” 

The moment between you and Yuki goes flat like a soda left out for too long. You glance away, angling your face back towards the window. The views are all still stunning, but the pang in your chest makes them feel a little less enjoyable. 

Yuki’s gaze lingers on you. When he finds nothing he can cling to, he gives a jerky nod to Hadjar and reaches for his wallet. 

As he steps down from the top bunk, ready to follow his friend to the mythical vending machine, Yuki calls out a question that jolts you out of your moping. 

“Do you know the statistical probability of love at first sight?” 

You look back at him. There’s no teasing on his face now. There’s nothing there but the serious set of his jaw, the purse of his lips that makes your heart thump, thump, thump beneath your ribs. It’s the kind of look you imagine he would sport before getting behind a wheel. 

“1 in 5 people,” he answers for you. “I looked it up the moment we got off our flight.” 

You’re half expecting Yuki to spend the last couple of hours with Hadjar. Out of sight, out of mind. Running from what was probably a love confession, all things considered. 

To his credit, Yuki doesn’t hide. He comes back an hour later, sure, but he still comes back. Climbs up the berth, settles into the bunk next to yours. 

Suddenly, it all feels so insufficient. The sheer curtain you could pull between you. The sorry excuse for a wooden divider that barely comes up to your knees. The one hour you have left to figure out what to do. 

What you want. 

You’re gnawing your lower lip, pretending to be very interested in the quaint prefectures flying by. Yuki, whether he’s conscious or not, mimics your stance again. 

For a couple of beats, all you two do is stare out the window. Then, simultaneously—

Your voice is remorseful; Yuki’s, contemplative. “I’m sorry.” 

You both start. You both laugh. It’s an awkward sound, but it makes things a little easier. 

“You first,” you say, and Yuki concedes without resistance. 

“I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” he says. “You don’t owe me anything. I—I don’t know much, just that I left that plane really hoping to hear from you.”

There’s a twinge in your chest, put there by the sincerity in Yuki’s words. “I know,” you say, and he shoots you a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Do you know how bad I was?” 

“How bad?” 

“I spent an entire night looking up academic conferences in Tokyo.” He laughs, self-deprecating but unyielding. It’s just a fact to him, just a story being pressed into your palm. “I tried to find the one you might be at.” 

But it’s not just a fact or a story to you. You try to imagine Yuki, folded over in some Tokyo hotel, scrolling through SNS  page after page of conferences in hopes of finding you. Finding you. “That’s crazy,” you say through the ringing in your ears.  

“Well, I’ve always been a little crazy,” he says casually, as if he hasn’t just tilted your world on its axis. 

The conversation lulls as the train speakers crackle. There’s an announcement, first, in Japanese, then heavily accented English. We will be arriving at Izumo station in thirty minutes. 

A ticking time bomb. Half an hour of honesty.

“Your turn,” Yuki urges gently. Like he, too, might detonate the time bomb by dissecting what’s still unsaid between you two. “What are you sorry for?” 

A lot of things, you think, but you decide on the most glaring one. “That I didn’t text.” 

Yuki doesn’t smile, but it’s a close thing. Something on his face seems to ask, We’re still stuck on that?

You are, very much so. You’ll be stuck on it until it’s out of your system, until Yuki understands.

“Are you about to tell me why you didn’t?” he challenges. 

You hedge him with a taunt. “If you ask nicely.” 

He chuckles. It sounds far too fond to be mistaken for anything outside affection. You’re not expecting him to actually take you up on it; you half-pray he lets it go. Because what business did Yuki Tsunoda have begging you for—

“Please.” 

There’s no shame on his face. Just an earnest sort of thing, a reverence you don’t deserve. It makes you burn from the inside. 

Yuki is asking you. Not commanding, not demanding. Asking, testing, seeing how much you’ll give and how much you’ll hold back.

And maybe you’re tired of holding back.

You take a deep breath. Steel your nerves.

“It’s not because I found out you’re Japan’s golden child,” you mumble. “It’s—it’s the numbers.” 

“The numbers.” You feel the tips of your ears flare at the way Yuki repeats the words. That heady mix of amusement, confusion, disappointment. Here we go again, he’s probably thinking, because he knows you but doesn’t know you.

He knows you enough to recognize that numbers matter to you, but he doesn’t know what numbers you’re talking about just yet. 

So you let him fucking know. 

Inhale. 

“40% of couples in long-distance relationships break up,” you blurt out, ignoring the way his eyes widen imperceptibly. “Usually, they already start seeing cracks four months in—” 

He says your name as a low laugh escapes him. That burns, too. How your name sounds on his lips. How you’ve liked the sound of it since that very first time, months and months ago.

You go on, “—and I looked it up too. Love at first sight has happened to about 60% of people. That may seem like a big number, but the results are inconclusive—”

He says your name again. A little more perplexed, this time.

You ignore him again. Breathless, red-faced, with your heart at your damn feet, you keep going. “—and I don’t know how to do this,” you say, that damn helplessness rearing its head. “Numbers don’t hurt you. People do. I don’t want us to end up as a statistic in some grad student’s study about why Formula One drivers can’t date.” 

Exhale.

He stares at you. You stare at him. Japan flies by; the world spins on. 

The time bomb ticks, ticks, ticks. 

His next words are a statement, not a question. “You didn’t text me.” 

It’s your turn to look at him like he’s beating a dead horse. “We’ve established that,” you say dryly. 

“That means the statistical probability of you texting me was zero,” he says before you’ve even finished your sentence. “Is that right?” 

You wince. There’s a lot of things you could say about hypotheses, about sample sizes, about his gross misuse of the term ‘probability’, but you’ll let him have this. It’s a callback to the scribbled note, the one you answered with your silence. 

“Right,” you respond.

He changes the whole equation with his next question. “How much of you wanted to text me?” he asks, his eyes a little wild, his hands clenched into fists in his lap.

Because this—this is the question that mattered. 

Not why didn’t you text, not what would have happened if I had. He’s asking about the nights you spent staring at the newly saved contact, about the moments you typed out something only to hit backspace. That Google search you made about How to text first. That one evening you got drunk and contemplated outright calling, just to see if he would pick. 

Countless variables. Endless numbers. 

How much of you wanted to text Yuki?

“A hundred percent,” you answer, and he melts. 

Not in an obvious way. His shoulders slouch forward; his hands stop fidgeting. He takes in a shaky breath, the sound of it rattling in his chest, and then he stares straight at you like it’s the last time he’s going to get to do it. 

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he confesses. Your heart damn near stops in your chest.

“What’s stopping you?” 

If it’s a matter of distance, you’ll close it. You’ll climb into his bunk and kiss him senseless if you have to. You mean to say all that, except Yuki’s laughing, his head thrown back and his brow scrunched, and you don’t want to miss a moment of that joy. 

You watch. You wait. You crack a grin when he manages, voice tinged with frustration, “Fucking Isack had me trying all these crazy ramen flavors. I think you deserve more than a garlic-flavored kiss.” 

And now you’re giggling, too, because Hadjar had tried to set you up but was also ultimately the one blocking your paths. You and Yuki probably look insane—weathering this laughing fit as the overhead speaker announces you’ll be at the end station shortly. 

You have an itinerary. Plans. Bookings. You’re not about to rearrange that for Yuki, just as much as you don’t want him to ditch his friend for your sake. You give the boy the next best thing. 

“Okay,” you say. “Next time, then.” 

Yuki chokes on air mid-laugh. “Next time?” he repeats, and, oh. 

The hope in his tone is enough to make you think garlic-flavored first kiss be damned. You’ll do it. You just want to see if his smile tastes as good as it looks, as good as it sounds.

You hold yourself back. Barely. 

You’ll take your chances instead. Any chance you have with Yuki—no matter how small it may be—you’ll take it. 

You fish out your phone from your pocket. Yuki watches, bewildered, until you show him your screen. A text, sent mere seconds ago, starting a conversation thread with a contact named Yuki 🐮✈️🚗—

next time. ⛐

[coffeehurricanes]

love at first flight ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

what would yuki tsunoda be doing in economy, anyway?

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x graduate student!reader. ꔮ word count: 5.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, fluff. profanity, mention of food, death (as a joke), flying-induced anxiety, reader is studying something statistics-adjacent. isack makes an appearance. loosely inspired by the statistical probability of love at first sight. ꔮ commentary box: tsunoda debut on tsunodaradio RAAAH 🦅🇯🇵 this is shamelessly inspired by the 2024 video of yuki flying economy. ilysb, my environmentally friendly king (lol). 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ kaiju no hanauta, vaundy. good company, sos. make a move, lawrence. shut up, greyson chance. drive safe, rich brian. call me up, daydreamers.

edited to add: read the sequel, love on track, here! 🚞

“You know, statistically, there’s a 0.10 fatality rate in commercial aviation.”

On the other end of the phone, your best friend sighs. It’s not particularly reassuring. 

“This isn’t a joke,” you hiss, panic rising in the back of your throat like bile. You weave through the LAX with your boarding pass clenched in your free hand. “What if this is one of those flights?” 

“It won’t be.” Your best friend’s tone is firm and no-nonsense. You would be appeased, but then, she goes on to give the most terrible platitude known to man: “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” 

The answer to that question turns out to be a seat transfer. 

You’re standing to the side of the plane aisle, red-faced and mortified over a mishap that was beyond your control to begin with. Your seat— the one you spent an absurd amount of time picking out— was broken. 

In your head, you’re already cussing out United Airlines and whichever higher power has it out for you. Outwardly, though, you stay perfectly calm as the flight attendant tries to find you a comparable seat.

“These are the only remaining options,” the attendant notes, perfectly apologetic as she leads you further down the row. 

An aisle and middle seat in a row of three. Your fingers flex around the straps of your hand-carry duffel bag. You’re already mentally drafting the strongly-worded review you’ll be writing for United. 

“I’ll take the aisle,” you say stiffly. “Thank you.” 

The attendant gives you a pitiful smile and promises you extra snacks later. It pales in comparison to the window seat you had originally booked, but you’ll take the small concession. 

You settle into your new seat with a heavy exhale. The nonstop flight is 12 hours long— barring any hitches— and so the only thing you can pray for is that whoever sits adjacent to you doesn’t have a crying baby or anything of that sort. 

The Universe gives you that, at least. 

“22T?”

You look up. The stranger isn’t talking to you, you realize; he’s more of mumbling to himself. You can appreciate that he’s dressed for comfort. A black sweatshirt with the Red Bull logo and a pair of washed out denim jeans. He has a headset hanging around his neck, too, indicating a readiness to spend the entire flight dead to the world around him. 

You must stare for too long, because you end up meeting the stranger’s gaze. He looks like he’s around your age, which is the exact type of story that would have your best friend squealing in your ear. 

It’s not that type of story. At least that’s what you want to believe. 

You give the stranger a tight-lipped smile. He nods in acknowledgement as he takes his seat. You turn back to your personal television, silently grateful that there’s an empty seat between the two of you. 

And it could end there, could just be your run-of-the-mill long-haul that’s largely uneventful, but you’re so obvious. 

You thought you weren’t. You thought you were blending in, acting completely normal. You’re not quite sure what gives it away, though it can be anything from the mindless nail-biting to your knee bouncing up and down.

It takes everything in you not to jump in your seat when the stranger addresses you. “First time?” he asks, the amusement evident underneath his heavily accented English. 

A sheepish grin tugs at your lips. You force your knee to still, your eyes flicking around the plane that’s slowly filling up. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “You?” 

It’s a stupid question, you realize later. Everything about the stranger showed that he was prepared for this— his easy countenance, the neck pillow he had in his hand. At the moment, though, he takes your query in stride. 

“Nah,” he says. “I’ve traveled quite a bit.” 

You nod absentmindedly; your attention is divided. The aisle is mostly clear by now with the exception of flight attendants marching up and down to check if everyone has their seatbelts on. 

“Will it be your first time in Japan?” 

You’re jolted to realize that the stranger is still conversing with you. He’s focused on his personal television, but he’s making small talk that would throw you off otherwise. 

As it is, though, you’ll take any diversion you can get. “It will be,” you respond, “my first time in Japan, I mean.”

Although you can only see the side of the stranger’s face, you catch a hint of a smile. “It’s a very beautiful country. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” he says benevolently. 

A closer look at his features gives you some idea of his ethnicity. You take a gamble. “Where are you from in Japan?” you ask. 

The stranger hums thoughtfully. It strikes you as odd, initially, until you realize he’s probably contemplating how much information he should give out. He caves anyway. “Sagamihara city, in Kanagawa prefecture.” 

“Ah.” 

“You’ve never heard of it, have you?” 

“... Sorry.” 

When the stranger laughs, you have a fleeting thought. He’s attractive, you think, with the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“Didn’t expect you to know it,” he says. “It’s a pretty small place.” 

You wish you could offer better conversation to this polite stranger. You really do.

But the plane’s engine has rumbled to life, and you feel the vibrations to your fingertips. The flight attendants are going through the standard safety procedures— no smoking, staying seated while the fasten seatbelt sign is on— and you listen like your life depends on it. 

Even the demonstration demands all your attention. You watch like a hawk as an attendant shows off how to use the air masks and flotation devices. The attendant is bored because this is a routine she’s done hundreds of times before, and all the other passengers are disinterested as well. They ignore the attendant, shutting off their phones and examining the in-flight magazines. 

You never look away. In your peripheral, you think the stranger might be shooting you bemused glances. You could be imagining it, though, so you don’t point it out. 

When you grab the laminated safety instructions from the seat pocket in front of you— intent to review it, like there’s some kind of in-flight test to prepare for— the stranger actually has the audacity to laugh. 

“Sorry,” he huffs when you glance at him. “I’ve never seen anyone actually read one of those things before.” 

“Better safe than sorry,” you say dryly, but a corner of your lip has twitched into a smile. 

The stranger leans over the empty seat between you, his seat belt straining against his middle. You resist the urge to nag him about sitting back. 

“So,” he starts, “what’s your deal?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I could have probably worded that better.” 

“Probably.” 

He shoots you a grin and amends, “Why are you heading to Tokyo?” 

The plane is starting to push back from the gate. You feel your stomach lurch, and your hands instinctively wrap around the armrests. 

There are numbers swimming in your head. 53% of aircraft accidents are attributed to pilot errors. There were 1,417 aviation crashes in 2024. 80% of all aviation accidents— 

“Hey.” 

The stranger’s voice is gentler, now. 

“I asked you a question.” He’s teasing, but there’s something almost kind underneath the mischief. You could cry with how grateful you feel for him in that moment. The realization that he’s trying to distract you. 

“An academic conference,” you manage. “I’m presenting something.” 

He lets out a low, impressed whistle. The plane picks up speed, barreling down the runway with a rush of noise. You’re tipped back into your seat as momentum beats out gravity, but the stranger stays surprisingly steady. 

His gaze on you stays, too. It encourages you to keep talking, to babble about your dissertation as the plane tilts backward. 

The plane’s wheels give a final bounce. Your breath catches in your throat when you realize you’re aloft, the change in pressure making your ears pop. 

The stranger, seeing the discomfort that crosses your expression, fishes for something in his pocket. “Should’ve offered this earlier,” he says, extending his hand to you. 

A packet of chewing gum. You take one wordlessly, and the two of you simultaneously pop a stick into your mouths. The pressure in your ear clears surprisingly fast. 

“Thanks—,” you start, faltering when you realize you don’t have a name to address the stranger by. 

There’s a flicker of something on his expression. Something you can’t quite place. It’s a mix of surprise and suspicion, softened by what looks a lot like relief. 

“Yuki,” he offers. “You can call me Yuki.” 

to: bestie 🤞 connected to in-flight wifi! wahooo! no untoward incidents at takeoff (got transferred tho, will explain everything later) but it’s too soon to say shit. 11hrs to go. stop jinxing me pls. from: bestie 🤞 LFGGG!!! Sorry you didn’t get your window seat bae ;( I hope you’re at least next to someone HAWT  to: bestie 🤞 ahahaha… about that… from: bestie 🤞 DON’T PLAY WITH ME RN.  to: bestie 🤞 he’s okay looking. he looks about as old as me. he was nice during takeoff and he has juicy fruit gum. that’s it tho.  to: bestie 🤞 do NOT say anything about this being like an emily henry book. from: bestie 🤞 THIS IS EXACLTY LIKE AN EMILY HENRY BOOK to: bestie 🤞 what did i say??? from: bestie 🤞 🤷 Your message came in late!! from: bestie 🤞 SOOOOO??? WHO IS HE to: bestie 🤞 his name is yuki.  from: bestie 🤞 Yuki????????????????????? from: bestie 🤞 What does he look like??????????????? to: bestie 🤞 japanese. from: bestie 🤞 No SHIT Sherlock to: bestie 🤞 why.  from: bestie 🤞 Can you ask him what he does for a living  to: bestie 🤞 why??? from: bestie 🤞 Do it for MEEE pls!!! This is life or death actually  from: bestie 🤞 And b let’s be real. I know you and I know you wanna know too 👀 Don’tcha

You do. Of course you do. 

But conversation with Yuki died a natural death when the seatbelt sign clicked off, forcing you to think of the perfect way to accomplish your best friend’s absurd request. 

The snack trolley offers you an opportunity.  

When the attendants go around peddling the vouchsafed flight snacks— a sad-looking bag of trail mix— Yuki catches the look on your face. He barks out a laugh as he tears into his own pack. 

“This is one of the better ones,” he tells you, popping a handful of the granola and dried fruit into his mouth. He chews through them with impressive speed, waiting until his mouth is no longer full before he adds, “I was once on a flight where the only snack was cheese spread and crackers.” 

“No way.” 

“Yes way.” 

Before Yuki can pop his headphones back on, your mind whirrs with potential segues. The words are past your lips before you can think of them. 

“You said you travel quite a bit,” you blurt out. 

Yuki’s eyebrows arch upward. “I said that over an hour ago.” 

“Yeah, well,” you stammer, “you still said it, didn’t you?” 

He snorts, the sound edged with amusement. For what it’s worth, he looks willing to indulge you. You push on, “What job do you have, then?” 

There it is again. The expression you weren’t quite able to nail earlier. He seems doubtful of your intentions, but when you don’t waver, he bites. 

“I drive,” he says, like it’s the most obvious, simple thing in the world. 

You blink once. Twice. “You— drive?” you repeat. 

“Yes.” Yuki almost smiles. It looks more like a smirk. “I’m a driver.” 

“Like a chauffeur?” 

Now that wipes the grin right off Yuki’s face. He stares at you like your words had been the equivalent of a record scratch, and then he laughs. 

It’s interesting, just how much you can learn about a person in an hour. You file away this little fact, too. Yuki, who throws his head back when he’s really laughing, his body shaking with mirth. The sound isn’t loud, isn’t the type that might have the person in the next aisle complaining, but it still fills you with an odd sense of triumph. 

“I guess you could say that,” he manages once his laughing fit has died down.

“In that case—” You gesture to his sweatshirt. “That makes sense.” 

He glances down at the Red Bull logo. His lips twist into another barely-there simper as he prods you, “What does that even mean?” 

“I don’t know. I always supposed drivers were one of Red Bull’s target audiences.” 

“Really.” 

“Really. 42% of energy drink consumers enjoy Red Bull. I’m not surprised you’re part of that.” 

Yuki gives a slight shake of his head. You wince, as if realizing you’re doing it again— spewing out numbers unprompted, trying to get percentages to clarify something that doesn’t really demand an explanation. 

Except he doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t poke fun at the habit. In fact, he sounds a touch awed as he muses, “You really like your stats, huh?” 

You raise your shoulders in a shrug. “Numbers are good.” The words sound weak even to you, so you double down. “They’re reliable and they give you a good picture of something.” 

“Numbers don’t lie,” he says. 

The statement is surprisingly profound. “Numbers don’t lie,” you echo, a pleased smile of your own beginning to break on your face. 

Yuki watches it, watches you, before seeming to make a decision. “This is— this is a bit hard.” 

You don’t have to wait too long to see what he means. In the next moment, he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and half-standing in a jerky motion. He carefully maneuvers towards you, landing heavily on the empty seat that had separated the two of you for the past hour and a half. 

Yuki doesn’t strap himself in yet. He just tilts his head to one side, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “I have questions about your dissertation.” His voice is surprisingly quieter even though he’s bridged the distance. You have to lean in a bit to hear him. “If you’ll entertain me, that is.” 

Something in your chest lurches; it feels a lot like how the plane had bounced during takeoff. “It’s a lot of numbers,” you say lamely. 

He looks unfazed. “What? You don’t think a chauffeur can handle data and statistics?” he teases as he absent mindedly toys with the buckle and retractor resting on his thigh. 

This wasn’t the plan. You had hoped to spend your first ever plane ride watching a movie, maybe reading a book. Snapping photos of cumulonimbus clouds and complaining to your best friend the entire time about one thing or the other. 

Instead, you find yourself telling Yuki, “Ask away, then.” 

He clicks his seatbelt into place.

to: bestie 🤞 [Sent an image.]  to: bestie 🤞 meal time.  from: bestie 🤞 Yum yum yummm  from: bestie 🤞 Speaking of yum 🤤…  to: bestie 🤞 have some tact pls. he’s a chauffeur.  from: bestie 🤞 Oh.  to: bestie 🤞 oh?  from: bestie 🤞 Are you SURE that’s what he said to: bestie 🤞 yes??? from: bestie 🤞 Okay okay I’ll stoppp  from: bestie 🤞 What would yuki tsunoda be doing in economy anyway LMAO  to: bestie 🤞 who?  from: bestie 🤞 Do you remember the tate mcrae tiktoks I sent u  to: bestie 🤞 ohhh. that lando guy. from: bestie 🤞 My loml 🧡🧡🧡 but yes, there’s a yuki on the grid to: bestie 🤞 you’re delusional.  from: bestie 🤞 I hope you choke on ur dry ass airplane food actually❤️Love ya!

“Have you been driving for long?” 

Yuki pauses halfway into devouring his mid-flight sandwich. For the past two hours or so, the stream of conversation between the two of you has flowed rather easily. But it’s also mostly been about you— Yuki asking all the right questions to have you going on 15-minute rants. 

Some of it tangented the moment that food started getting served. You find it hard to believe that you’re already hour four in the air. 

Eight more hours to go.

You might as well try to get to know Yuki, too. 

“About— four years, give or take?” he responds after a beat, as if he’d needed to do some mental math. “I started in 2021.” 

“How did you get into it?” 

“I always knew I wanted to.” 

“Be a chauffeur?” 

You realize immediately just how snooty you sound. “I’m sorry,” you say in the next breath, horrified at your indiscretion. “That was— uncalled for.” 

Gracefully, Yuki doesn’t look offended. He’s got a lopsided grin on his face, like the blunder has amused him. He finishes off his sandwich before putting you out of your misery. 

“Driving,” he clarifies. “I’ve always known I would do something with driving.” 

You perk up a bit in your seat. “Why is that?”

He hesitates, his lips quirking to one side as he— once again— seems to contemplate just how honest he should be. You make a mental note to take his words with a grain of salt. 

“Have you ever heard of kart racing?” he says. 

There’s a glint in his eyes that tells you this, at least, won’t be a lie. 

It’s his turn to talk. You don’t think he notices, but every so often he’ll use a Japanese word or phrase that you don’t understand. You make no effort to ask for clarification. It’s enough for you to see the sheer enthusiasm radiating off him as he tells you about karting as a child, and how he’d even done things under big names like Honda. 

“I can’t believe you started karting at age four,” you say, half-teasing and half-awed.

He gives a vague hand gesture that attempts to communicate nonchalance, but he looks far too smug to pull it off. “Driving has always been a part of me,” he concludes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be without it.” 

It’s a commitment you recognize. You’re just about to ask something else about him being a racing kart kid when your conversation is interrupted. 

“Yuki.” 

Even if it’s just Yuki being called, you can’t help but glance as well. There’s a guy hovering on Yuki's side of the aisle, eyeing the two of you with mild interest. 

“We figured out the seating problem,” the newcomer tells Yuki. His English is accented, too. You think it might be French. “You can move up to the front now, if you like.” 

“It’s not the ‘front’, Hadjar,” Yuki shoots as he leans back into his seat. He addresses Hadjar with an easy air; you gleam that they’re probably friends. “It’s ‘first class’.” 

“Front, first class, whatever.” Hadjar gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’ve got your seat.” 

“Only took you four hours,” Yuki grumbles, and you laugh under your breath. 

The soft sound seems to remind Yuki of your presence. His gaze flicks over to you, and he tenses a bit. A full second ticks by. And then another. And then— 

Hadjar clears his throat. “Any time now, Yukino.” 

You had seen how different it was in first class. More space, better seats. The food would probably be nicer, too. You busy yourself with your personal television, trying to keep at bay the slight swell of disappointment in your chest at losing your seatmate. 

Except Yuki doesn’t move. 

“I think I’m good, man,” Yuki says to Hadjar. 

Yuki, too, is pointedly avoiding looking at you. He’s trying to be casual about passing up his first-class upgrade, about the way Hadjar is snickering. 

You can’t ignore the way your pulse stutters. The way it damn near stops when Yuki says, his voice so deliberately even, “I’ve got pretty good company right here.” 

to: bestie 🤞 okay, fine from: bestie 🤞 ??? to: bestie 🤞 he’s hot.  from: bestie 🤞 EXACTLYYYYYYY from: bestie 🤞 I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THESE 🙏🙏🙏 to: bestie 🤞 be normal. i’m just appreciating him ok. from: bestie 🤞 Wtvr you say LOVERGIRL  from: bestie 🤞 WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?! to: bestie 🤞 ? nothing. watching a movie from: bestie 🤞 okayyyy movie date  from: bestie 🤞 mile high club 🔜 to: bestie 🤞 this conversation is over. 

It occurs to you that you could probably just search it up. 

If you really, really wanted to scratch the itch of whoever the hell ‘Yuki Tsunoda’ was— you could just Google it. The in-flight WiFi was working swimmingly. It’d take one search, and you’d confirm whether the guy to your left has been lying to you or not. 

In the end, you find that you don’t really care. 

The cabin lights have been dimmed. When you crane your neck to check the few windows, all you see is inky darkness. 

“We’re probably still over the Pacific,” Yuki says. 

He pitches his voice lower, probably out of respect for the snoozing passengers in the rows you’re sandwiched between. You’re left with no choice but to lean into his personal space. 

Your knee presses into Yuki’s. 

You don’t apologize. 

He doesn’t pull away.

The warm overhead glow of the seatbelt sign is your only source of light. Yuki’s dark hair falls into his eyes, but you have a feeling he’s still watching you with that scrutinizing gaze of his. It’s like he’s holding his breath; for what, you’re not sure. 

“How do you feel about the ocean?” you ask, because there’s five more hours before you’re in Tokyo and you never have to see this man ever again. 

You figure you could be anyone you want to be. You could be honest; you could lie your ass off. You could ask all the hard-hitting questions and come away unscathed, knowing this was a one-off in a liminal space that barely even feels real. 

Yuki’s lips quirk to one side. He seems to be thinking the same thing. This is a safe place to land, a one-act play.

“I hate it,” he answers without missing a beat. “Sharks.” 

You have to tamp back a laugh. “Sharks?” 

“They’re evil and scary.” 

“There’s only a five-year average of six unprovoked, shark-related fatalities per year.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Cows are worse.” 

“Cows?” Yuki’s eyebrows knit together. “Like— mooo?” 

“Like mooo,” you say solemnly. “Cows kill about 22 people per year in the United States alone.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“Right?” 

“You’re—” Yuki falters with a shake of his head, as if he’s banishing the thought that had just come to his mind. 

You can’t have that. Playfully, you knock your knee against Yuki’s. “Don’t back out on me now,” you jab. “I’m…?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. You see the moment he decides fuck it, the way his eyes flash and he just pushes out the words that’d been at the tip of his tongue. 

“You’re cute,” he says, “when you talk numbers.” 

This time, you can’t fight the laugh that escapes you. It’s a little too loud; the person in the seat in front of you actually twists around to glare at you. You mumble an apology and lean in closer to Yuki, who doesn’t protest the way you’re practically leaning on his arm rest. 

“‘Cute’ isn’t usually the word people would use to describe my nerdiness,” you joke, even though your palms suddenly feel a lot more clammy than it did a couple of minutes ago. 

Yuki shrugs, feigning coolness. “I was actually going to go for ‘hot’,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, “but I didn’t want to scare you off.” 

It occurs to you that this is flirting. Yuki’s hitting on you, throwing the ball in your court, and it’s your turn to say something just as smooth. 

But then the plane jolts, straining your seatbelt against your form. Your fingers immediately find purchase at your armrest as the overhead seatbelt light blinks on. 

“Ah, fuck,” Yuki grunts as he sinks back into his seat. “Turbulence.” 

You would consider it a bit of a saving grace, if it weren’t for the forceful jolts that make you feel like your heart is in your throat. You know it’s not something to worry about— the pilots are trained professionals, after all— but the numbers all still glaring in your mind, like neon signs in their own right. 

A breathing exercise. You should do a breathing exercise, you think. Or think happy thoughts. You squeeze your eyes shut as the turbulence rocks the plane a little more forcefully, jostling everyone on this flight.

Think about your itinerary in Japan, about a little Yuki go-karting, about sharks and cows, about— 

There’s a hand on top of yours. 

The neon signs in your head fizzle out. 

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t have to. 

Yuki doesn’t say anything either. He just carefully, slowly strokes your white-knuckled grip with his thumb. His palm is surprisingly warm, and it grounds you enough to remind you, Right. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.  

You don’t know how long the turbulence lasts. It ends, by the Universe’s grace. You hear it first— the seatbelt light switching off. 

It’s your turn to hold your breath. 

You’re scared to move, scared to open your eyes. You think that if you do either, you’ll have to face the gentleness of Yuki’s touch, the kindness you don’t know what to do with. You’re scared he’ll stop, pull away, if you look at him.

And so you keep your eyes closed, and you keep on doing your breathing exercises despite the steady rise and fall of your chest. 

And Yuki keeps on holding your hand. 

You don’t know when you fall asleep, but you do. It’s a fitful sort of rest borne from the crash and burn of adrenaline. You stir some two hours later with a crick in your neck, your hand still under Yuki’s, and your head lolling against his shoulder. 

The moment you realize how closely you’d gravitated to him during your nap, you’re peeling away from his side. He rouses as you do, his hands rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

Yuki is heavy-lidded as he offers you a hint of a smile. “What for?” he prods, his voice raspy with sleep. 

You’re not sure, you realize. You’re sorry for falling asleep on him. You’re sorry for letting him hold your hand. 

You’re sorry this flight will have to end.

You shrug.

“Then don’t,” Yuki says with surprising firmness. “Don’t apologize.” 

His fingers twitch like they’re itching to reach out again. But he doesn’t, and so you only nod in response. 

“What should I eat when I get to Tokyo?” you ask for the lack of a better thing to start with, and Yuki lights up like it’s a question he was born to answer. 

from: bestie 🤞 YOU’RE LANDING SOOOONNNNNN <333  from: bestie 🤞 Congratulations on surviving your first flight my darling dearest 🧑‍✈️ to: bestie 🤞 💋 love ya. going on airplane mode. i’ll text once i’m omw to my hotel.  from: bestie 🤞 Please do!! from: bestie 🤞 Don’t forget to give your seatmate a little goodbye kiss :)  to: bestie 🤞 do you want to die.  from: bestie 🤞 💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Landing is infinitely worse than takeoff. 

As the plane begins to descend, you fight down the vague brush of panic. Not so much for the landing itself, but for what begins and ends because of it. You wrap your hands back around your armrests, your gaze fixed firmly on the personal television charting the flight’s progress. 

Yuki doesn’t say anything. You realize you don’t know what type of person he is, not really. Would he joke around with you, if you were more than just two people stuck next to each other on an eight hour flight? Would he comfort you; would he tease you? 

You’re struck with a sudden thought. A question you’d been meaning to ask. Now or never, it seems. 

“Why didn’t you move up to first class?” you ask suddenly. 

Yuki lets out a sound— something between a chuckle and a groan. He answers your question with one of his own. “Have you been thinking of that this entire time?” 

“Not the entire time,” you shoot back. 

He clicks his tongue. For a moment, you’re sure he’ll field the question, but he gives in. What does he have to lose, anyway, when you’re landing in less than 15 minutes? 

“You’re good company.” The way he says it— like it’s as certain as the numbers you keep count of. 

It’s that. The same thing he told Hadjar. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

There are worse ways for this story to end, you decide, as you give a low hum of approval and brace for impact. 

“You were pretty good company, too,” you say. 

You’re sure that the two of you haven’t been entirely honest with each other this flight— the illusion of choice, of reinvention, just a little too alluring to ignore— but you hope Yuki knows that much, that one, is true.

So many first-time fliers have had terror stories about their experience, about the people with them. This was not one such case. 

You don’t want to be sappy about it. You don’t have to, really. Not when Yuki is fighting back a smile, his own hands resting at his arm rests.

Your elbows squeeze against each other as the plane’s wheels hit the ground, and you take it as the last ‘accidental’ touch you’ll ever get from this virtual stranger. 

This funny, handsome, kind stranger. 

You wish you were the type of person to ask for someone’s Instagram handle, to secure a phone number. Instead, you’re the type to duck your head and avoid Yuki’s gaze as he takes a suspiciously long amount of time packing up his own things. 

He stands up to go as you linger in your own seat, middlingly tugging at the duffel bag underneath the seat in front of you. 

Don’t say goodbye, you nearly say. I’m not good at those. 

“Thank you for flying with Yuki Air,” he says instead, doing a poor imitation of the pilot. “We hope you enjoy your stay in Japan!” 

You laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. He tacks on something you don’t understand, something in Japanese— sabishiku narimasu ne— but you don’t have the time to ask for a translation. 

“I’m going to go meet up with my friends.” He shoulders his backpack, eyeing the slow-moving aisle on his end. “Don’t forget my food advice.” 

He had been particular about the must-get dishes. “Motsunabe and seafood pasta,” you say, and he nods with approval. 

A final smile. That’s all he offers you as he starts to step away. 

Yuki didn’t seem to like goodbyes much, either. 

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your duffel bag. 

“Hey, Yuki!”

He’s already a couple of paces away, but his head whips around to look back at you. There’s something on his expression; it looks a lot like hope. He’s stuck in the line, though, and you know you can’t stall for too long.

“Drive safe,” you blurt out, immediately feeling stupid about those being your parting words. 

You have no idea. You have no idea just how perfect it is, how there’s no phrase that would have left a better impression.

“I will,” he says with that treacherous, treacherous smile. 

And then he’s gone. 

Approximately 27 minutes later, you’re in the back of a cab staring slack-jawed at a billboard for the upcoming Japanese Grand Prix. Front and center, the country’s home driver. 

The boy you’d sat next to for 12 hours. 

You do the only logical thing. You call your best friend to apologize and say she was, in fact, not delusional. 

She’s screaming in your ear as you rummage through your duffel bag in search of your printed out hotel booking. 

“I can’t believe you were next to Yuki fucking Tsunoda,” your best friend screeches, “and nothing came out of it!”

“Ha-ha,” you say dryly. “You know I’ve got, like, zero game, right?”

“Don’t give me that! You could totally pull if you tried!”

Your best friend is caught between extolling your virtues and catching you up on Yuki’s lore as a driver when you find your booking. You pull it out— 

Except it’s not your booking. It’s one of the tissues from the in-flight meal. It’s a bit crumpled and torn at the edges, but your eyes focus on something else instead. 

Handwriting. Scratchy and shaky, like the person who had been scribbling couldn’t do it properly. Maybe because they had a head on their shoulder. 

There’s a string of numbers, and then a note: 

What’s the statistical probability of me getting a text? 

-YT ⛐

[coffeehurricanes]

GHOST PIRATE *ੈ✩‧₊˚ h. haddock x reader

summary : snotlout mocking you for your eye scar might unintentionally be the best thing that could have happened to you.

word count : 7.3k words

tags : fluff, rtte!hiccup, fem!reader, friends to something more, awkward romance, falling-down-and-getting-catched cliché, first kisses, getting caught, reader has a scar on her right eye which she covers, reader is like gothi's assistant, reader isn't adept at social situations, reader is quite oblivious, one throwaway sex joke at the end, snotlout's a little aggressive but when is he not, no use of y/n or (name)

author's note : why are there such a shortage of rtte hiccup x reader's MAN i am thirsty for some :(( anyway, this was fun writing, rtte hiccup is my roman empire dreamworks did not need to make him that fine

Having that scar over your eye had always made you insecure. It wasn't just because it looked horrible, there were other reasons for that. One of them being that it was a reminder that your face wouldn't look that same again, always having that ugly patch.

The other grounds for it were the way that Vikings—also known as (pardon the bluntness) meatheads with a hard comprehension for being. . . particularly emotionally adept—didn't know how to mask their emotions, and that the only expression that would grace their face when they see you was always in pitiful smiles, and more often than not, thinly masked disgust.

You would think that now that Berkian's learned to be in peace with literal Dragons, they'd also learn to be more emotionally sensitive, but you'd guess wrong.

But going back to Dragons. Those big, ferocious creatures had always made you antsy. Especially when you were younger—with all the ghost-stories that the kids would always rumor around, and the dead-man's tales that the older people in Berk would sing about in the Great Hall, it had given you the chills. You were all too scared by them.

Maybe a bit too scared.

A bit too scared that when you were mature enough—mature being sixteen years old—to be ordered to fight them off in one of their ambushes before they were domesticated, all those anecdotes and tales fled back to you, making your legs tremble then go stiff.

With the opening you had given it, one of the vicious reptiles had tried to bite your face clean off. Without Gothi's help—or more like her trusty staff and her good swing—you were sure you would've died.

But still, after all these years, you aren't too sure if that was a good thing. Now you're left with a wound that would never go away, a timeless reminder that you were frightened, and you didn't do anything to protect yourself.

A unaging memento of weakness.

It was all too much for a teenager like yourself, always being perceived as a poor soul, seen as an unfortunate example for Vikings that not thinking fast enough would wind up to look like you.

So, you did what all teenagers do when they didn't want to confront something—you hide it away. And that's exactly why you're wearing an eyepatch, well—a makeshift one, thanks to Gothi, who made you a simple cloth eyepatch. Gods bless her soul.

You looked more like an injured survivor, but it was better than people seeing you like you were some kind of weirdo—as if walking around with an eyepatch wasn't any less weird, but the Vikings found it less odd.

But still, jeers from your age group didn't cease. They lessened, but the subject topic of their jokes had shifted. From you being too weak of a Viking—if you could still call yourself a Viking—to being name called as a pirate. All of it just made you more inclined to stay inside.

Well, it was better than being mocked as weak, so you take that as a win.

And that's how it's currently been now, with you in the Great Hall, and with your exceptionally unfortunate luck, the only table vacant being next to a group of teenagers.

Oh, It's those Dragon Riders.

You haven't seen them in a while—you've presumed it was because they were busy at some place that you overheard them calling Dragon's Edge. But even with the lengthened time of not seeing them, you still remembered their names. They probably didn't know yours, but you didn't mind.

You were never really close to them, not that you bothered to be close—you didn't ever see yourself being in their circle, but you had hoped they didn't have the same reactions to you like the others when they notice you eating at the table next to theirs.

You wished they didn't sense your presence; or more specifically your eyepatch concealing your scar, but when they did notice, their hushed dialogue—is it still called hushed dialogue if you're talking this loudly?—had shifted to you, and who you were.

"She's pretty odd, when I first saw her, I thought she was supposed to be a pirate." You had heard Snotlout's voice boom from their friend's table next to your empty one. Even without looking at the Viking, you could already tell from the dripping ignorance in his voice that he was smiling, as if he was proud that he had called you that.

You didn't care enough to turn your head, just continuing to shovel food in your mouth, but you had heard a clear thonk! of wood hitting something metalic—you'd presume a mug making hard contact with his helmet.

"Ow." The boy whined.

"Sorry, my arm cramped." Astrid had apologized, with the tone of not being apologetic at all.

"Snotlout." You had heard Hiccup's voice warn his cousin. Even if Hiccup tried to warn him, it would be fruitless, because you knew Vikings like Snotlout—and Vikings like him didn't stop with just warnings. But still, the gesture had still made you smile.

"What? It's just strange, y'know? She barely talks too, like some kind of ghost."

"Snotlout, drop it." Now Astrid was trying to make him stop. You wanted to thank her for that, but maybe not now.

"What if she's some kind of ghost pirate? Like, haunting our village." Ruffnut commented.

"I heard that you could ward off ghosts with salt," Tuffnut had added.

"Ooo, does it work with ghost pirates too?" Her twin had asked, curious.

"We'll have to test it out, like an experiment." The blonde boy had raised a finger, as if to look more academically inclined.

"Okay, guys, I don't think—" Hiccup's voice had seemed nervous, but he didn't get to finish.

"Cool, let's try it." The blonde girl had entertained. The twins had gotten the salt from a bowl, a handful in both their fists, ready to lob it at you.

This time, you were actually amused enough to look at their table, observing each face, but not letting a word out.

Somewhat surprised that you had looked at them, the two Vikings had tried to cover up their mischief, one of them putting the salt in their mouth, and the other throwing it behind them, evidently covering Fishlegs and Hiccup in a good sprinkle of seasoning.

You were quite confused—more so, a bit peeved that Snotlout was talking about you like that, but you didn't pay attention to it too much. Turning back to your food, they seemed to match your actions as well—but not with Snotlout getting the last word in, albeit a little bit whispered, but not enough to be quiet.

"See? I'm just saying; no talking, no expression—Ghost behavior, I tell you." Snotlout leaned into the table to whisper, but it really did seem futile with that loud mouth of his.

Not wanting to hear any more of his or anyone else’s slight mockery, you stood up, the long bench chair you were sitting on skidding as you push out of your sitting position and walking out the Great Hall, but not before burning a glare at the teens.

You really didn’t mean to scowl at the whole table, you were only going to throw a dirty look at Snotlout.

It genuinely wasn't your intention to, especially with how the other teens had done nothing remotely wrong—some even trying to halt the discussion—but with just one eye as your vision, you couldn't help but just look at them all with a stink eye.

But you didn't care anymore, you just wanted to get away. You went to the Great Hall to eat for Thor's sake, not to be gossiped about like a spectacle. Stomping off to the exit, you didn't care enough to hear the scolding Snotlout and The Twins—but mainly just the sable-haired Viking—had to hear.

"Great job with that, Snotlout. Now she stormed off," Astrid chided.

"What did I do?"

"I think we should apologize, or one of us at least." Fishlegs meekly let out, finally speaking after the girl had walked out on all of them. All the while that this was happening, Ruffnut seemed to be spewing out the salt she'd hidden in her mouth at the side of the table, trying to blow raspberries to remove all of the saline taste from her mouth.

Astrid had looked to Hiccup, with them locking eyes. She had silently gestured for him, nodded to the door and her eyebrows raising, basically saying 'Dude, this is your chance, c'mon'. The brunet Viking had quickly understood, slightly nodding.

"Pretty sure you're right Fishlegs. I think I should catch up with her guys, she seemed pretty upset." Hiccup had already started to get up from his seat, starting to jog to the large door of the Great Hall.

They had watched him speed-walk away, hoping that he could reach her before he loses sight of her. The Dragon Riders had gone back to eating, with The Twins still trying to goof around, throwing their food at each other, and Fishlegs reading while scooping food to his mouth.

"I still don't understand what I said wrong," Snotlout had muttered, pushing his soup around in his bowl.

"Snotlout, I swear if you don't stop talking, I will hit you harder with my mug." Astrid threatened, who was right next to him.

"I thought you said that was an accident?"

"Keep talking and my fist will accidentally punch you."

You were speed walking with a tired expression on your face. You didn't even get to eat a lot of your food. Why did you have to storm off like that? You've endured much more scathing insults, but you suppose it hurt more that they were talking about you literally on the next table over. Now you're hungry and annoyed.

Just great.

You had almost made it to the ascending stairs, the way to Gothi's hut. You were about to go up before you heard someone try to call you, paired with the sound of quick pattering steps and the clanking of metal hitting the ground.

You presumed that it was Hiccup, since no one really had a metal leg in Berk, and that distinct voice he had that singled him out from the other Vikings. You looked over your shoulder before turning your whole body, seeing him catch up with you before putting his hands on his knees in exhaustion.

"Hey! Wait a sec—wow you can walk really fast," He uttered between breaths.

". . . Uh, hi?" You were entirely unsure of what to say. You'd never been in this type of situation before.

He had dusted his knees off and stood normally, his exhaustion finally subsiding, he waved awkwardly.

"Hey there, I wanted to apologize—Snotlout's just, he's the type of guy that just. . . says things, y'know? Don't take it too seriously," He shrugged.

"Don't be sorry, it's fine," You waved him off, dismissed his apology, and turned back to walk up the stairs. But your ascension up had been paused, especially with what Hiccup said.

"No, it's not, actually. Please just let me apologize about him, 'cause I know he won't."

"I assure you, it's fine." You insisted, but it genuinely wasn't. But you didn't want someone trying to apologize to you for someone else's actions.

You had tried to walk up quicker, but he seemed just fine matching your pace.

"At least just— let me accompany you up to Gothi's hut, as an apology of sorts. . .? Please?" Hiccup seemed to be unsure in what he was saying, you were 100 times confident that he didn't plan what he was saying to you, just blurting out what came to his mind to stop you from leaving him in the dust.

You found it amusing, so you allowed it. Now, he was walking with you up to Gothi's.

But what you didn't find amusing—was him trying to make small talk. The other people at Berk never really tried making dialogue with you, but maybe that's also your fault, with how jaded and distant you seemed from them. The only time they ever talked to you was to voice their concerns about their health and ask you to help them.

So now here you were, trying to reply as normal as possible to Hiccup's questions.

"Are you uh— hurt anywhere?"

"Huh?" Your steps slowed, with Hiccup matching yours.

Then you understood what he meant. He was asking if you were injured because you were going up to Gothi's. Your steps had paced normal again, with Hiccup trying to match your steps.

"Ooh, no. I'm just her assistant. . . I think so? It's not official, but it's kind of like that, I guess. I take care of the hurt patients who come up here if she's away."

"Oh, that's cool."

"Uh-huh. . ." You replied, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

"You stay up there a lot, right? I don't see you a lot anymore." He smiled a little.

Anymore?

You didn't want to interrupt this casual dialogue, so you reply normally.

"Uh, yeah, I— I do. I pretty much moved all my stuff there so the others wouldn't see me much. Surprisingly, not everyone wants to see this," You pointed at your eyepatch.

"Really?" Hiccup listened, the way he looked so focused on you made you want to say things even more.

"Yeah, who knew? I guess not everyone wants to see a hideous scar when they go on to do their morning jobs. Crazy, right?" Your sarcasm was dripping from your voice, but you went on even more.

"It's not even exposed anymore, I covered it, but they're still weirded out. I'm pretty sure this time they're the weird ones at this point." Your arms had raised in action, expressive as ever.

Hiccup's hums of agreement and gentle smile had spurred you on even more to rant. You weren't sure what it was—maybe it's because finally someone had wanted to listen and look at you like a normal person, not some pitiful weak Viking.

"Might as well just bandage my whole face so they don't see me. I think I should change my eyepatch if they're still feeling odd about me, maybe that's it, I dunno. . . I don't really have the skill for it, though." You had shrugged.

"But I swear, if they still look at me funny when I do wear something else, I think I'll just give up and accept my title as a ghost pirate and haunt our village—just like your friends were saying." You looked at him, concluding your rant. Hiccup softly chuckled at your attempt at a joke, and it made you heart smile.

You both were almost at your mentor's porch when he went silent, as if he was thinking of something. Just a couple of steps left, and you were there. You were pretty satisfied with how you both weren't speaking, just a soft, gentle tranquility accompanying both of you.

But then, Hiccup had piped up.

"Well. . . If you were, let's just say, hypothetically; you had the chance to change it, what would it look like?"

You were puzzled by the random question. Was he trying to entertain you? You looked at him, and looked away in thought, before going back to look at green observant eyes.

"Well hypothetically speaking; I guess I'd make it out of leather with something to cushion it inside? That way it wouldn't really hurt on my skin." You had mused, your steps slowing as you had made it to the last step of your mentor's stairs.

"And maybe some kind of design on it? I feel like it would look nice if I put our tribe's insignia, I'm not sure, but maybe just something. . ." Your eyebrows furrowed in focus, your thumb rubbing against the pads of your fingers, a habit that helped you to think.

"Nice-looking, I guess. Maybe it'd take attention away from. . . Yeah." Your body went lax, feeling kind of shy. You realized you were getting too into it, remembering it was just a hypothetical question.

"Well, I'll be sure to remember that." He didn't seem mind one bit, that you went on a whole speech, and just smiled back at your timid stature. You didn't know what he meant by what he said, but you smiled back at him anyway.

You had made it to the top. He had paused a step before you, now slightly looking up at you. You had turned around, fiddling with your hands.

"So. . ." You didn't really know what to say next. See you around? Does this make us friends? Your apology's accepted? You weren't really prepared to being put in a social situation like this. Well, you weren't prepared for any social situation for that, with how little you talked with others, but anyway.

Thankfully, Hiccup had spoke, because you were sure if you had enough silence, you'd just end up saying something silly.

"I'll see you, around then. . .?" He had gone up the last step so he could be at your height, and rubbed the nape of his neck, waiting for your reply.

"Uhm— yeah! Thank you, by the way— for the. . . Coming with me, I— I guess," You sputtered, but had recovered, a soft grin with crinkled eyes lay on your face.

"I'll be going now. . . Yep," You pointed behind you and started to walk backwards, hopefully reaching Gothi's door. But that plan would fall flat when you tripped over some stray bottle that had fallen from the table.

"Woah!"

The split second you had before you fell you saw from your peripheral that if you stumbled just a little bit more, you'd fall off the tower.

Just incredible, what a way to go.

You closed your eyes, ready for the impact of the air hitting you as you fall down, but you were surprised to feel a weight jump on you, tackling you to inches away from to edge.

"Umph!" Hiccup's voice had jolted out.

You open your eyes in caution; to see Hiccup lying on you, his head tucked in your neck. You were close—a little too close. You can smell his scent, the way his breathing pattern was heavy from lunging at you, his hair which seemed messy and unkempt from flying, but he still managed to make it look good.

"Gothi should really add a safety railing," He mumbled into your neck. It gave you goosebumps.

You expected yourself to be weirded out, but you weren't. You were just flustered, now thinking about it. Hiccup practically glomped you—yes, to safety, but that wasn't the point—and you were both stuck in this position, with the Dragon Rider still lying on you.

You supposed he felt how tense you were—assuming you felt odd in the position you were in and tried to prop himself up with his hand.

"Oh! Yeah sorry," Unintentionally, he had grabbed your waist in support, maybe a wee bit hard, earning him a surprised oh! from you.

Realizing his mistake, he let go immediately, as if he had touched a hot furnace. But given that it was his only means of support to give him balance, him letting go had consequently made him fall onto you again, his head almost meeting yours, but missing.

But what didn't miss though, was his lips falling onto your cheek. It felt surreal, something you've never experienced—a kiss, happening literally right before your eyes. Accidental, yes, but it still made you blush furiously. But it seems as if he didn't notice, or chose not to, picking your comfort first.

"Oh Thor, sorry about that, let me just," Hiccup tried to get up again, his hand already trying to prop itself on the floor, but you stopped him, grabbing his forearm.

"No, just— just stay still. I'll move instead." He nodded bashfully at your request, you guess he also felt nervous feeling the gravity of the position you're in.

You nudged his leg with your own, so he could move it up, and then you maneuvered yourself out.

You both stand up, dusting yourself off while he fixed his tunic that went askew when he was laying on you.

"She really should add a railing," You reply.

"Yeah,"

Again, a calm silence had covered you both, a lingering of eyes at each other, observing the latter.

You didn't want to keep him longer, maybe he was busy. So, you sent him off.

"Now this is officially 'i'll see you later'." You threw finger guns at him as you shyly grinned and waved, the gestures reciprocated by the brunet Viking, before you went into Gothi's hut, the last glimpse of him walking down the stairs before you closed the door.

You smile to yourself as you look at the door, before leaning your head on it. You placed a delicate hand on your right cheek, where his lips had accidentally placed themselves on.

First kiss. Cheek kiss, yeah, but who cares?

Your smile grew wide as you quietly chuckled. If anyone saw you right now, they'd probably think you were being weird—well, weirder. But you were in the comforting silence of Gothi's hut, with no one to perceive you.

Turning around, you swear you has actually jumped out of your skin, your joyous expression replaced with one of shock.

"GAH! Gothi, you. . ." You clenched your heart, before trying to even your heartbeat.

"Really need to make a sound so I know you're there. I almost died," Your hand had dropped back down. You were exaggerating clearly, Gothi knew that as well, rolling her eyes. She had gotten off the stool she was on and nodded to the door, walking up to you.

Having enough time spent with the old woman, you already knew she was gesturing for you to ask what happened out there.

"Oh, I just tripped over a bottle, I almost fell down the tower, y'know? Hiccup was there with me too; he was apologizing for something Snotlout did." You had explained, a smile had graced your face when you brought the Dragon Rider up.

"I didn't want him to apologize, but he insisted, so he accompanied me up here. So, back to me falling—He helped me so I wouldn't fall from the tower, he practically lunged at me. He's pretty. . . nice. He's got a nice smile, too. I haven't seen him or the others in a while, it was a nice change. Anyway," You had walked over to the shelf of books the hut had, trying to find a book on botany to brush up your knowledge. You were trying to focus, looking at the titles on the spines of the books, before you felt Gothi stare at you, a knowing stare paired with a growing smile as if she was teasing you.

You looked back to meet her gaze and smiled innocently.

"Okay, What?" You had giggled, as if you didn't know. But you knew she was teasing you. Maybe you really shouldn't have talked about him like you were crushing on him.

Not that you weren't.

Gothi raised her eyebrow, still grinning at her assistant, not believing it for a second.

"He's just a friend, Gothi—a passerby, even. Nothing more." You concluded, busying yourself with actually finding the book, and you eventually did. Pulling the book out with a swift motion before going to a vacant chair on her dining table, opening to a random page to read with the book close to your face, trying to remain as unaffected as possible.

Gothi had seemed let it go, coming up to her student and patting her head, a comforting habit they had grown to enjoy in the comfort of her home.

The Viking healer had gone up the stairs, supposedly to feed the Terrible Terrors. Once she was out of your peripheral vision, you had leaned back on the back of the seat, book covering a quarter of your face as you looked up to the ceiling.

What the Thor just happened?

You tried to recall the latest events that had occurred with the brunet boy, looking back to the most memorable parts—well, most memorable to you.

You replay the moment where you both had accidentally were on the floor, especially the events after that. Your cheeks were going flush as you naturally smiled, the book being your cover, your eyes closing as you replay the moment.

He seemed like someone you'd like to be seeing more often. What was it about him that made you so. . . allured? You only had one meeting together, but why did you feel so pulled to him?

Was it because this was one of the only normal conversations that someone had treated you like a human being? No, you already felt like that with Gothi, but it was something else.

You wouldn't deny that Hiccup was. . . For a lack of better words, an attractive dude. He grew in well, his height really elevating him, paired with his babyface growing more chiseled, evolving him from a cute and charming boy who was also quite handsome.

But just because you liked him now for that, doesn't mean you didn't have a crush on him before. It was before every one had actually believed in him.

You'd watch from afar as he courageously proven his worth, showing that he is so much more than what the village painted him to be. He was. . . really cute back then too. And the way he was sarcastic and witty, you liked that as well. You would never tell him back then about it, and you probably never tell him now.

Sighing into the book, you shake your head in disapproval.

What am I thinking? I need to read this, not think about him like some kind of lovesick yak.

You sit upright now, actually retaining the information of the contents in the book, but not before putting an imaginary tab in your thoughts to revisit the subject about the brunet Viking.

"Gothi told me you needed my help?" You stick your head in first, peeking inside before going in fully. Walking into the Blacksmith's Shop, you saw Hiccup, working away at some new invention for him and Toothless.

He had turned to you, his eyes slightly crinkling with a satisfied smile.

"Yeah, I do," He walked some steps to where the tools had been stored, and pulled out something you couldn't tell what it was, his body covering the tool.

He faced you again, before speaking.

"C'mere." He spoke quickly, now unraveling the hidden object—a measuring tape.

Huh?

"What? Hiccup, what are you doing?" You asked, tiredness coating your voice, crossing your arms and tilting you head slightly.

"I need to measure you. Now, come here." He beckoned again, gesturing to you to come closer. He had put more pressure in the command, but smiling gently to not look like he was trying to be domineering—not to say you didn't like it.

You had rolled your eyes playfully, dropping your arms and marching up to him, a little too close, your chest just mere inches apart.

But he didn't tell you to step back.

"Measure me for what?" You shrugged in confusion, but he didn't answer your question, he just gave you another request.

"Stay still, okay?" Without another beat, he hovers both arms on your shoulders. If his arms were a little lower, placed on the curve of your shoulder. But you wouldn't mind. You imagined that they looked like they would fit there. As if it was in its rightful place.

Fiddling with the measuring tape to get the right side, he instinctively leaned into the side, hovering over your face. You observed him, your eyes following his face as he was working, a little too observed—you'd say yourself, noticing the scattered freckles kissed on his face, the small cut a few inches under his lips.

You never noticed he had a scar on his chin; it looked quite cute.

A little shocked—more like flustered—you had lifted your head an inch, as a means to back away. He noticed, halting his movements and looking you in the eyes.

Locking eyes with his, those eyes. Oh, his eyes. They enraptured you; like the gentle breath of the air hitting your skin, the viridescent irises, dull like olives, yet alluring as much.

His gaze was on you, before grazing over your features—the way your cheeks were flushed presumably from the heat of the Blacksmith's Shop, the slow fluttering of your eyelashes as you blinked as if you were being cautious, and then your lips.

It was only for a brief moment, but as you saw his eyes glance down, your lips parted in bewilderment. He seems to have caught on, blinking quickly, slightly pursing his lips in struggle, and turning his head back to the job at hand.

The soft material of the measuring tape had wrapped around the circumference of your head, Hiccup looking as if he took a mental note, before changing the angle of the measuring tape, diagonally over your head, from the side of your head all the way to under your ear.

After finishing, he lets go of the measuring tape, and his arms drop down to his sides.

"Well. . .?" You tilted your head slightly, your arms crossing once more. It was a pass at him, as if to reignite your previous questions, hoping he understood the memo.

Rest assured he did not understand the memo.

"Well, that was it. Thanks." Shooting you a soft smile, before turning around to put what he was using back to its rightful place, before looking at you with a grin.

If Hiccup wasn't so charmingly cute with the sheepish simper of his and if he was just like all the other Vikings, you would have hit him with the closest thing in your vicinity.

Ignore the first part of your thought, you weren't supposed to be thinking about that right now.

Instead of going for the gruesome part of that pondering, you close your eyes in slight irritation.

"So, let me get this straight; you order Gothi to call me, you lie and say that you needed my help, make me walk all the way down the stairs, just to measure me?"

"Okay, I know it sounds bad right now—" Hiccups quick to defend himself, his hands raising as if to show innocence.

"More like weird, but sure," You add.

"But I swear," His arms extend to you, grabbing your shoulders delicately. It felt nice, being treated like that from him.

"It will make sense tomorrow." He squeezed your shoulders in assurance, hoping you'd believe him. It didn't make you believe him, more like make your brain short circuit that would force you to say the only thing you knew how to.

"Just trust me, okay?" He looked like a puppy, asking its owner to pet him. He looked genuine, as if he wasn't capable of treating you brashly, only carefully.

Not being able for your mind to process anything else but him clutching you on each side, combined with the way his eyes kissed your gaze, you replied with an unfocused agreement.

"O— Okay," You smile at his kind eyes, his own lips reciprocating.

And that's where it ended. You didn't really remember exiting the shop, or walking back, just laying yourself on the bed, the cushion of your pillow the only thing bringing you out of your trance.

You still couldn't understand why he brought you all the way down just to measure your head, but you didn't want to complain—nope, scratch that. You didn't have the mind to complain.

Maybe it's 'cause of your teenage brain, the hormones in your mind thinking about boys, the most decent one out of them, your head full of him even when he wasn't there. Yes, just science, definitely because of that.

But then your thought floats back to the previous events; his gaze on yours, looking at your facial features, before going to your lips, then going back again to his work, slightly flushed on his cheeks from the heat of the Forge.

You smile at the thought.

Yep, just hormones.

"Just keep having your eyes— uh, eye closed," Hiccup had almost tripped over himself trying to drag you up the stairs with your vision blocked, especially since you were just walking aimlessly in the direction he was leading you to.

"If this is something stupid again and you're measuring my arm's next, Hiccup, I will throw something at you." Your one hand was still covering you left eye, with the other holding his hand.

That snark from you didn't earn an eyeroll from him, but a soft chuckle.

"I promise it's not,"

You wanted to smile, the feeling of his fingertips brushing against yours felt sparking, and the way he squeezed them when in assurance that he was still there made you melt, but you didn't want to focus on that right now.

"Okay, we're here." You feel the terrain under your feet change, the stone clacking on your boots now turning soft, dampened. You suppose he took you inside somewhere.

"That was good, but we're going to have to go up the stairs again, okay?"

Getting tired of this whole charade, you finally let down your hand.

"Okay, Hiccup, what are we. . ."

That was as far as you could get in your sentence, your attention now focused on the location you were in.

It seemed to be the Chief's hut, where Hiccup and Stoick reside, and you were at the front of the stairs. You've never been in here, but with the small bits and pieces you've seen from the moment the door was wide open, you could pinpoint that he had took you here.

"No wait I—" He had panicked, the other hand that was free going behind him.

"Why are we here. . .?" You questioned as you looked at him, and then the hand behind his back.

"And what's behind you?" You tilted your head, trying to take a peek at what he was hiding, but he just shuffled back to hide it more.

"Nothing, my hand's just cramping, y'know. . .?" He laughed, and that was definitely what made you believe he was lying, your face going deadpan.

"Hiccup." Your tone had gone into a warning, arms crossed, and your eyebrow raised.

Looking at you once more to check if there was a sliver of a chance that you'd let it go, he sighed, his shoulders dropping. He slowly let his hand out, with something in his fist.

"It was supposed to be a surprise in my room where it's private, but I guess it still is secluded here."

He opened his palm and presented it to you.

An eyepatch. It was crafted from leather, a nice sleek brown color, with a star-like embossing, reminding you of the stars of a compass. Turning the eyepatch around, you see a soft fabric, supposed to cushion around the eyepatch to prevent harsh rubbing on the skin. You turned it around and examined it more as he talked again.

"I tried to make it to what you wanted—"

You lifted your head and looked at him, then to the side in thought as you recalled what he was talking about. He was listening that time. He was taking account of your ideas, and he was actually listening to you.

You were silent and turned your eyes back at him as he explained more.

"If you don't— If you don't like it. . . I can make it again," He mistook your silence for disgust, and rubbed his arm in nervousness.

"Hiccup, no," You stepped closer to him, and took both his hands in yours, the eyepatch forgotten about as you held it between his hands.

"I like it." Your grin grew as his face had started to contort into relief.

"Y— You do?" He was smiling now, and that just made you giggle.

"Yes, I do!" You couldn't contain what you felt, and clutched his hands in yours in assurance, earning you a small kiss of red on his cheeks as he smiled back.

"I like it so much, I could kiss— kiss you. . ." Your joyous face had contorted into horror, your eyes avoiding his immediately, with your voice weakening at the last part when you realize what you just said.

Hiccup's face had also matched yours, but not horror, with shock. Like something he could've never expected came out of your mouth.

"What?" He uttered. His face was unreadable, but that just made you all the more upset.

"Sorry, that was. . . weird. I'll go, " You dismissed yourself quickly and had immediately let go of the hold of his hands, but he had immediately snatched them back in his grasp.

The unexpected action had made your troubled face look to him, and you were surprised to see his painted with worry and panic.

"Don't go, okay? I wouldn't. . ." He hesitated with his choice of words, making you curious.

"You wouldn't. . .?" You waited for him to say what he wanted patiently, but what he said made your shoulders go lax, relieved.

"I said I wouldn't. . . mind," He mumbled the last word, but you heard it loud and clear. It felt confusing, but you were happy nonetheless trying to put the pieces together.

He wouldn't mind. . . Kissing you?

It gave your stomach literal flutters, as if multiple Night Terrors had taken refuge in there, flying about.

You didn't want to assume, you wanted him to say it.

"What?" You acted oblivious, a smile gracing your face.

"I said I wouldn't mind," He muttered it with more confidence, but still with a tad bit of hesitance.

"You. . . Wouldn't mind what?" Your eyebrows furrowed in faux confusion.

He sighed in slight irritation, but he felt like he was being teased this time.

"Do I really have to say it all, out loud?" He said with deadpan, and you nodded eagerly, the mask of confusion pulled off.

He held your hands and pulled you closer, his eyes meeting your gaze. He understood now that you were just acting confused.

"I wouldn't mind you kissing me, okay?" He smiled, and you mirrored him, slightly laughing and nodding.

"You get it now? I even said it all out loud for you—"

He was cut off, the feeling of your lips on his had made his voice die in his throat, with his eyes fluttering close. You didn't plan it, but the way he looked in the light of the nearby crackling fire had graced his had made him look so. . . Kissable. You couldn't help it.

You stayed in that position for a few seconds, before you pulled away, his hands still intertwined with yours.

"I get it now, crystal clear." You taunted, a grin and a small breathy chuckle leaving you.

But he didn't reply, only a smile expressing that he was as happy as you. Before you could say anything else, he pulled you in again. One hand leaving yours to cradle your cheek.

This kiss lasted longer, and you both pulled away only mere inches to see each other. The way you both looked ecstatic, your grins and crinkled eyes looking at each other, as if you could stay with him forever.

But this moment didn't last forever, with the door suddenly bursting open, revealing Hiccup's burly, large, and intimidating father, Stoick and seeing the rather incriminating position you both were put in.

You immediately pulled away from each other, as if you both were the same polarity of a magnet, trying to cover yourselves up and salvage what was left of both your dignities.

"So, thanks Hiccup for. . . Helping me with that—" Dusting yourselves off as you went to the door to exit, Hiccup trailing behind you.

"Yeah, it's fine, it wasn't a big deal—" He waved you off.

"I really should go now, I think Gothi's calling me right about now. . . Oh, hi Chief, didn't see you there. . .!" You quickly greet, your pitch going a bit higher as you scurry out of the space between the Chief and the doorway.

Stoick had greeted you, a gruff 'Hello' sufficing and finally moving so his son could follow you up to the porch of the door, watching the whole scene unravel.

You had started walking away, but not before looking back and waving goodbye.

"Uhm— goodbye, Hiccup," You smiled as you waved, your cheeks flushed from the embarrassment and the heat of the moment that had just happened.

Hiccup wasn't looking too good either, his freckled face slightly kissed with red, his grin a little dopey, weakly waving back.

You had made it far enough from the hut that you were alone with your thoughts.

What just happened?

You couldn't comprehend where a lot of it came from, but you knew one thing, and it made you giddy;

This was the blooming start of something new between you two.

BONUS ⋆˚✿˖°

Today was one of the best days of Hiccup's life—he kissed you, the girl he had a crush on his whole teenage life, and you like him. You actually liked him back.

And not just being one of the best days of his life, but some of the rarest; as the patriarch of the household, Stoick the Vast, had surprisingly ate with his son at supper.

The dinner table was filled with wood clunking against each other and mouth's chewing, not wanting to address the large Bewilderbeast in the room, until it was interrupted by Stoick's rough voice.

"So, how's your girlfriend son?"

Hiccup had choked on the soup that was in his mouth, coughing quite violently.

"Dad— that wasn't— We aren't—" Hiccup tried to let out his defense, but the soup still in his throat had made it all the more harder, punching his chest to speak properly.

"It's okay, son, I understand," Stoick had put a hand in defeat.

"You're at the right age already, and I shouldn't stop you," His father shrugged, and Hiccup didn't have the energy to defend himself anymore, just letting his old man talk all he wanted to until it ended.

But what his father said next made him jump up to talk, immediately wanting this to end.

"But I guess it's time I should teach you this now son," He put a hand on his son's shoulder in affirmation.

"About fornication— or birds and the bees, whatever they call it now," He finished.

Yep, Hiccup might just implode inside right now.

He groaned and covered his ears.

"Okay, Dad, it's fine—"

"I know it won't happen, son— You're a responsible, young Viking, but all the more reason to tell you. What if something happens?" His father ignored his pleas as he shrugged.

"Okay, Dad, I think you should stop." Now covering his eyes, because he cannot believe what is actually happening right now, he lets out a big sigh as he gives up, letting his father rant about being 'safe' and knowing the 'responsibility' of their actions.

He thought of something else to let his mind wander, and it eventually led to you. He smiled under his hands, but it wasn't enough to drown out his father's lecture.

"But I know when you do, you'd be a great parent, son—" Hiccup cut his father off, groaning at him.

"Oh, Dad. . ." A tired tone lacing his voice.

But he didn't mind, because all of this happened because you kissed him. And he wouldn't take it for anything else.

Well, maybe exclude the 'birds and the bees' talk he already knew well about.

He was a teenager, after all.

lmao W for stoick tryna teach hiccup about safe sex lol, anyway hope you enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it :3

tell me if you liked it in the comments, i love getting replies on my work ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

anyway, peace out guys 𖹭.ᐟ

[coffeehurricanes]

feel you | lando norris social media au

pairing: lando norris x fem blind!reader

a long awaited reveal is more than meets the eye

MASTERLIST | LANDO NORRIS MASTERLIST

kymillman

liked by user3, user4 and 45,281 others

kymillman: a new pup in the paddock … and they belong to this mystery woman? she’s been seen in and around the mclaren hospitality so could she been the super secret girlfriend of one lando norris!

view all comments

user5: …. that’s it?

user6: yeah i’m kinda underwhelmed after this long of a soft launch

user7: does he know he’s lando norris? that he could get anyone he wants?

user8: well isn’t this comment section a barrel of laughs

user9: people on the internet be normal about f1 drivers challenge (failed)

user10: i mean she’s brave as fuck in my opinion because the way people are insane about him, oh i know her DMs will be horrifying

user11: also - yall actually don’t know these f1 drivers you know? your opinions on their love lives actually have no impact whatsoever

user12: shush you’re making too much sense for them

user13: hiding behind a bush i think she looks cute!

user14: also they’re clearly somewhat serious if they have a dog together

user15: i mean i wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been together a lot longer than we think - he knows some of his fans are crazy, it would make sense if he waited to show her off

user16: i feel so bad for them honestly

user17: since no one else is saying it… stunning!

user18: seriously how did he get her?

user19: maybe the lando norris charm does really work?

user20: as much as those sunglasses slay… did she take them off at any point this weekend?

user21: not as far as i have seen with like the broadcast and fanpage posts

user22: does this rub anyone else the wrong way?

user23: no i think it’s real snobby to not even take your sunglasses off to greet your boyfriend and his family

user24: also the way she just walked past everyone in the paddock, like not even turning her head to acknowledge fans or workers ???

user25: ugh i thought lando had gotten better with his love choices

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, oscarpiastri and 182,943 others

tagged: lando

yourusername: finally decided to turn up to ‘bring your gf to work day’

view all comments

user26: SLAY

user27: ohhh the unseen pics of lando… we’re being fed

user28: i need her to unleash the files

lando: love you baby

yourusername: i love you too !!!!

lando: i promise i’ll be out of this boring debrief soon…

yourusername: how boring can it be? you won?

lando: any room without you bores me

yourusername: oh!

yourusername: i’m sat next to your momma, she can see all of these comments

lando: whoops! eh, they’ve heard worse

yourusername: just hurry up, peaches is getting sleepy

lando: anything for my two girls

user29: they’re so stinking cute

user30: her being with his family constantly + peaches… how long have they actually been together

user31: well we can defo deduce that she’s been to the norris family home plenty of times

user32: too many times by the sound of it, poor cisca

carlossainz55: why have i been deprived of my peaches time?

yourusername: she’s been working mister - not everything is about you :P

carlossainz55: god forbid a guy wants to cuddle the cutest dog in the world

charles_leclerc: you are no longer welcome back in the ferrari garage

yourusername: but i am?

charles_leclerc: can peaches teach leo to actually listen to me please ???

lando: she’s not a miracle worker…

user33: is she ever gonna take those damn sunglasses off?

user34: ZERO respect for those around her

user35: and those comments about peaches 'working' ... omg reeks of those girls who claim emotional support animals because they think the rules don't apply to them

user36: yeah something weird is going on here

lando

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55 and 1,094,388 others

tagged: yourusername

lando: weekends like this

view all comments

user39: the fucking sunglasses… yall are going to have to sedate me

user40: it’s a crime to be stylish now guys

user41: god a girl gets with an athlete and all of a sudden they’re ‘stylish’

yourusername: bestest weekend ever!

yourusername: after your race wins of course

lando: nice save there

yourusername: i didn’t save anything, you know i love being with you when you win

lando: and i love seeing your beautiful face when i get out of the car

lando: and the fact that you get all up in my sweat

yourusername: dude…

lando: sorry, it just slipped out after hiding for so long

yourusername: worth it in the end though

lando: anything is worth it for you

user42: yeah there’s something wrong with this girl

user43: “being with you” instead of you know watching him race… way to expose you’re with him for one reason and one reason only

user44: ding ding ding gold digger alert

user45: imagine being that desperate for a person and still being rude as fuck to his family/coworkers - not even taking off sunglasses or making eye contact

yourusername: omfg you people are pissing me the fuck off

yourusername: I’M BLIND?

yourusername: i prefer to wear sunglasses in new environments?

yourusername: take ‘be kind’ out of your bio because as soon as someone doesn’t conform to what you think lando deserves you are so fucking hateful

oscarpiastri: FUCKING FINALLY

oscarpiastri: obviously i wanted you to share your business but i was so ready to fight the people in these comment sections

lando: awwwww osc so protective

alexalbon: he’s not the only one

alexalbon: coming for y/n was bad enough but PEACHES AS WELL?

yourusername: the jobless hate to see a working girl

lando: oop.

user46: YALL ARE SO FUCKING DUMB

user47: peaches being a guide dog makes so much sense and the sunglasses thing was such a non controversy to like normal people ?

user48: y/n should’ve been allowed to shoot yall idc

mclarenf1

liked by oscarpiastri, adamnorris and 1,754,034 others

tagged: lando & yourusername

mclarenf1: look who’s back in the garage! y/n always has a unique race day experience, due to her visual impairment, y/n cann’ watch the race but she sure knows what’s going on! instead of having the commentary in her headset, she has the noise of lando’s car. based on the sound of the engine, upshifts, downshifts and braking, y/n knows exactly where he is on the track!

view all comments

user49: so she’s basically a superhero is what you’re telling me

user50: imagine being so in love with a boy you learn the sounds of his engine i can’t

lando: erm actually she loved the sport before she loved me

yourusername: but i love you even more now

lando: i know you do because you learnt the sounds of the … MCL36 for me

yourusername: guilty!

user51: THEY’VE BEEN TOGETHER THAT LONG?

user52: oh so they’re locked in for life?

lando: 100%

yourusername: we threw away the key a long time ago

maxverstappen1: this is so freaking cute

lando: you’ve known the whole time?

lando: you helped teach y/n to do this

maxverstappen1: still cute as fuck

yourusername: not as cute when i hear a big whack to the side from a certain red bull

maxverstappen1: just because I think yall are cute doesn’t mean I’m gonna give lando a break

user53: i’ve known about this couple for a couple weeks and i would already die for them

user54: they’ve raised the bar FAR too much for the remaining dating pool

user55: the men or women on hinge would NEVER do something like that for me

user56: yall speaking all about this like y/n isn’t moving mountains for lando… wtf does he do for her?

yourusername: not that i need to prove that he’s a good boyfriend to you guys but he does way more than you all think, including learning braille and completely rearranging any rooms i go into for optimal movement

user57: this comment just shot me in the face

yourusername: thank you guys for being the loveliest ever!!!

mclarenf1: anything for our no 1 fan

yourusername: not this peaches erasure

mclarenf1: i think she only likes us because everyone keeps slipping her treats…

lando: STOP BRIBING MY DAUGHTER

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, georgerussell63 and 406,345 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername: my beautiful boy shot by me (yes i know he’s beautiful, a man with a soul like his has to be)

view all comments

user61: user61 found dead, cause of death: this post

user62: the way this is not dramatic at all lol

georgerussell63: you sure you want to be stuck with … that?

yourusername: i don’t like your tone mr russell

georgerussell63: does lando … have a soul?

yourusername: you’ve got ten seconds to delete that tweet before i strangle you

yourusername: and don’t think peaches won’t lead me to you

georgerussell63: bullying george russell… you people are made for each other

lando: ‘you people’? i’ll put you in the barriers

user63: i love how all of the photos are clearly taken by y/n because they’re slightly off centre

user64: omg i didn’t notice… if you go through loads of his old posts they all look like this :0

user65: they’re so in love

alexalbon: oh how i remember coaching lando to ask you out - how times fly

lando: when you’re having fun!

alexalbon: i was having fun, you were a trainwreck

lando: no i was SMOOTH

yourusername: you did your best

lando: but i didn’t even stutter?

yourusername: i could hear you shuffling constantly and wiping your hands on your trousers…

lando: but you love me now so WHO CARES

yourusername: yes i do!

lando: you what?

yourusername: i love you

lando: i love you tooooooooooooo

user66: they’re parents for real

user67: can’t believe some people wanted them to break up over SUNGLASSES

user68: at least there’s silence in these comment sections now

oscarpiastri: as much as i love you guys… y/n can you turn off the feature that reads the texts from lando aloud in my vicinity

yourusername: how was i meant to know what he wrote?

oscarpiastri: i’m not blaming you i’m blaming hIM

lando: my bad… winning makes me horny

yourusername: just winning?

lando: any you too. mainly you. just you

yourusername: HEHEHEHEHEHEHe

oscarpiastri: free me omg

fin.

note: AHHHHHHH I HOPE THIS IS FUN !!!

[coffeehurricanes]

damsel in distress

alfie buttle x fem reader

summary: you’re scared of spiders and alfie is the designated spider capturer

materlist | main masterlist

The living room was warm from the linger of the hot day that had slowly drifted away, and the soft buzz of the TV murmured lowly in the background filling the silence of the grotto.

You were curled into the corner of Alfie’s worn sofa with a blanket draped you’re your lap as you scrolled aimlessly through your phone. The Grotto felt peaceful on nights like this, your boyfriend having wandered off for a shower ten minutes ago, leaving the bathroom door open wide so he could shout random thoughts at you over the sound of running water.

You glanced up from your phone for a second as your eyes caught a flicker of movement near the armchair across the room. Something skittering low across the floor, too fast and too leggy for your liking.

You shot up straight, heart immediately racingm “No,” you whispered to yourself, “No, no, no.”

You bravely tiptoed over to where the spec had ran to and peek under the chair, already knowing you’d regret it.

And there it was. The biggest spider you had ever seen. It had to be the size of your hand and it was just sitting there.

You let out a yelp, a little louder than you had intended. Realistically, could’ve been classed as a scream from the sheer volume and panic that echoed through the grotto.

Not even a full minute passed by before Alfie tumbled into the room, water still dripping from his hair, a towel barely hanging on to his hips.

“What? What?! Are you alright? What happened?”

You were already on the sofa, standing on the arm, one hand pointing frantically toward the armchair like it’s on fire, “There’s a spider! Under the chair! It’s huge! Alf, I’m not kidding, it’s fucking massive!”

He paused, still panting slightly from the run, eyes darting to where you’re pointing and he just laughed. An amused, loud, and unhelpful laugh.

“You screamed like you were getting murdered, twat,” he commented, a stupid grin taking place on his face as he walked over to take a look, “It’s just a spider.”

“Just a spider?” you shrieked, “It’s monstrous! It has a face. It looked straight at me.”

He snorted, wandering over to the kitchen for a moment before returning with a glass and a bit of card, “Yeah, alright. I’ll save you. Try not to pass out.”

He crouched beside the chair, muttering something under his breath about you being a drama queen and how it was more scared of you than you were of it – to which you just rolled your eyes – and he carefully scooped the spider with the glass sliding the card underneath with slow precision.

You watched with wide eyes, still standing on the sofa as if another spider was gonna appear from under the sofa.

“See? Easy.” He straightened up with the glass in hand, the spider visible inside it.

You saw the cogs turning in his head and then the bastard took a few steps toward you, holding the glass out like an offering.

You screamed again, hitting your head on the slopped ceiling nearly falling off the arm of the sofa.

“Alfie! Stop it! I will actually kill you!”

He was full-on belly laughing now, the towel around his hips slipping down slightly as he doubles over, still holding the cup far away from himself but close enough to make you feel personally victimised.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be nice,” he managed through his laughter, finally heading toward the front door, “You’re cute when you’re scared.”

You glared at him, clutching a pillow to your chest for emotional support as you sat back down.

He opened the door gently setting the spider free before turning back to you, smirking as he closes the door behind him, “It’s gone. Crisis averted.”

“Tell your towel to hang on tighter next time you come running to save me,” you muttered, still glaring at him, grabbing your phone off the coffee table.

He raised a teasing eyebrow, “Jealous of the spider now, are we?”

You took the pillow from your lap and threw it at him which he caught effortlessly with a soft laugh.

taglist: @jamiekluivert @roc-haze @whisperturnedecho @graceln4 @dopeysunflowers @super-gay-for-u @bethorwhateverr @livvymd @lilyyxoii @4ngelrealm @kiyoomology @canyouseethesainz @happyclifford @golden-hoax @tatumrileyslover @madforgeorge @wherethezoes-at @themdera @xlovergirlx @smzyyx @bowielovesyou @pretendyoucantseeme @elhotchner @duolingofanaccount @pookietv @ooostarwarsfandom501st @triplefrontierbabe @formulaal @artvscvntymullet

requested by: @graceln4

[coffeehurricanes]

need ABs reaction to the current boyfriend trend on tiktok

“hi guys, today we’re going that new couples challenge going about tiktok, so i’m here with my current boyfriend, alfie,” you placed a hand on his arm and chest, acting nonchalant while he pulled a questionable face, his features squinting in thought as you pretended to reach for fake props. “current?”

you looked at the screen, playing stupid. “what?”

“what did you just say?”

“i said i’m here with my current boyfriend, alfie. i said your name?”

“what’s current boyfriend mean?” he looked at you, brows furrowed, the embodiment of confusion.

“current boyfriend, you’re my current boyfriend. currently, as of now.”

“is this a wind me up?”

“how is that wrong?! you’re my current boyfriend are you not?” you gave him attitude back.

“you’re saying it like i’m your boyfriend for just a little while, what’d you mean?!”

“you’re ruining my video, i was trying to do something fun—”

“i don’t care! don’t fucking say current boyfriend, just say boyfriend?!” he said, turning back to the camera, fixing his hair you tried so hard not to break, just looking up at him silently while he got so unbelievably pissy, you honestly didn’t expect it, you expected him to clock it as a prank, if not be completely oblivious to the keyword. “does that mean you’re gonna have another one by the summer or—?”

“—i don’t know why it’s such a big deal—” you continued, starting to break character, but alfie even cut you off before you could.

“think about it! how would you feel if i said ‘oh guys i’m just here with my current girlfriend’, how would you react? you’d start world war three on me!” he ranted, turning his back on the camera again. “introduce you to people like ‘oh my current girlfriend, y/n’, are you tapped?”

when he looked at you, you smiled, and his eyes scanned your face for the reason, but he just paused, “are you actually winding me up—you are, this is the joke isn’t it,” he looked to your phone screen, face flat, totally unimpressed.

you threw your arms around him and hung off him like he was a tree, kissing his cheek apologetically, half-laughing, “HAHA! one–nillll. and you all think i’m crazy. got youuu,” you kissed his face as he tried to pull you off. “love my current boyfriend.”

“you’re a fuckin’ spanner.”

[coffeehurricanes]

Wanna Be Yours | F.W

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: helping a younger student resulted in you and the first-year walking into a prank not meant for you, and as you do so, you catch Fred's attention. the next day he tries to apologise with another prank and it backfires, but this only resulted in him falling even harder for you, he just knew wanted to be yours.

Warnings/tags: hufflepuff!reader (well it suits anyone really :D), love at first sight, he fell first and HARD, fred needs you so bad, pranks gone wrong, teasing, fluffy and cute, fred's a simp a/n: inspired by "Wanna be Yours by Arctic Monkeys"

———

The courtyard was alive with the soft hum of spring—branches swaying in the breeze, birds chirping from the castle walls, and a few students milling about on the cobblestones. Fred crouched behind a large stone pillar, his mischievous grin matching the one plastered across his twin’s face.

Huddled in a corner, the four of them—Fred, George, Lee and Oliver, were planning a revenge prank on Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy for their obnoxious antics during the Quidditch match earlier.

“Are you sure about this?” Oliver Wood asked, trying to sound stern but failing as he bit back a chuckle.

Malfoy had spent most of the game taunting Harry, and Flint’s borderline dirty play had cost Gryffindor two near-goals. That didn’t sit well with Fred and George, so what better way to get back at them than with a prank.

“Hundred percent.” Fred said, smirking as he held up a pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. “Alright, we rig this near the tree. As soon as they walk by, poof! Total chaos. Then, George, you release the Dungbombs—”

“Already got ‘em primed,” George said, patting his pocket with a devilish grin.

“Don't forget the slime and feathers!” Lee added, holding up a jar of fluorescent green goop in one hand, and a bag of feathers in the other.

Oliver, who had reluctantly joined but couldn’t resist some payback, frowned. “Let’s make sure they’re the only ones who get caught in this mess though, yeah?”

“Relax Wood,” Fred said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a foolproof plan. Nothing can go wrong.”

“Trust us,” George said, “We’ve calculated everything.”

“Right,” Lee affirmed, “It's simple charm, a bit of instant darkness powder, and—bam! Feathers, slime, and a nice little puff of stink powder for good measure.”

George cackled, clapping his twin on the back. “Beautiful. They’ll be too busy cleaning slime and plucking feathers off their robes to bother us for weeks.”

“That's what they deserve for acting like twits during the match.” Lee chimed in. "S'pose they do deserve it." Oliver chuckled, his reluctance turning into enthusiasm.

The trap was simple but effective: a hidden tripwire enchanted to release darkness powder, then a rain of slime and feathers from above, followed by the dungbombs. All they had to do now was wait for their targets. "Now, they're supposed to walk pass here any moment..." Fred told the others, as the four of them watched eagerly.

Fred’s eyes glinted as he nodded toward the enchanted tripwire stretched across the cobblestones, ready to unleash chaos on Flint and Malfoy the moment they stepped on it.

Everything was perfect. Until it wasn't.

From behind a stone archway, you appeared with a small Ravenclaw first-year in tow.

It wasn’t Malfoy or Flint who walked into the courtyard first.

It was you.

You were laughing softly, your eyes crinkling with warmth as you guided a nervous-looking first-year Ravenclaw girl who clutched her books tightly to their chest. The poor kid had taken a wrong turn, and you volunteered to show her the way to the library.

In your arms, you helped carry some of her load, making it easier for the first-year.

“Don’t worry,” you were saying, your voice kind and steady. “The library isn’t far. Just through the next hall and up the staircase."

Fred’s eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. He didn’t hear anything else. It was like the world had narrowed to just you—the way your hair caught the sunlight, the easy grace in your step, and the way your smile seemed to light up the entire courtyard.

How had he not noticed you before?

“Is Fred broken?” George whispered to Lee.

“Looks like it. Never seen him go this quiet before,” Lee replied, smirking.

Oliver elbowed Fred, snapping him out of his trance. “Mate, you’re staring.”

“Shut up,” Fred muttered, his eyes never leaving you.

"Who is she?..." He continued, holding true to Oliver's statement.

“Who?” Lee asked, following his gaze. He snorted when he saw you. “Her? Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Fred.”

Fred didn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you but he was quickly snapped out of his trance as you approached the tree.

Oh shit. "Not the tree, don't walk past the tree..." He muttered to himself, hoping you would somehow magically hear him.

It was no use. Disaster struck.

You were met with instant darkness, coughing slightly as the powder released a thick fog around you and the first year.

Before you could grasp the full situation, a torrent of green slime and feathers rained down from above, coating you and the first-year from head to toe. The Dungbombs exploded seconds later, filling the courtyard with an awful stench.

The first-year yelped, clutching her books as the slime dripped down her robes. You froze for a moment, stunned, before shaking your head with a soft laugh.

Fred winced, guilt twisting in his chest.

“Oops,” George muttered, though he didn’t sound all that sorry.

Lee burst out laughing, "Merlin, did we just traumatise a first year?!"

“Poor kid,” Oliver said, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Fred, however, barely heard them. He was too busy watching you. Instead of panicking or getting angry, you crouched down immediately, brushing feathers off the first-year’s face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you said gently, your voice soothing. “It’s just a bit of slime and feathers. Another tip, beware of silly pranks, it's all part and parcel of the Hogwarts culture." You comfort the kid, trying to lighten the situation by laughing softly, "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

The first-year nodded, her lower lip trembling, and you smiled, guiding her toward a nearby fountain.

Fred couldn’t stop staring. He didn't know who you were, but he did know this, he wanted to be yours.

You were covered in slime and feathers, an absolute mess, yet you still looked radiant.

There was something about the way you put the first-year first, your patience and kindness shining through, that made his heart thud in the best way.

You helped her cleaned as much as you could off her robes, murmuring reassurances the entire time before chanting, "Scourgify!", instantly her robes were as good as new.

Only after she was cleaned up did you finally turn your attention to yourself. With the help of the cleaning spell, the feathers were out of your hair and the slime off your sleeves in no time.

“Merlin! Fred, you’ve got it bad,” Lee said, smirking.

“Oh, leave him,” George teased. “He’s clearly in love.” Fred’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t care. For once, he was speechless.

“How come I’ve never noticed her before?” The red head murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He was certain he would’ve remembered someone like you. “Maybe because you’re too busy pranking people,” Oliver said dryly. "Who is she?" Fred asked, ignoring Oliver's remark. "Seen her around a couple of times, especially in the library, she's in Ron's year." Oliver hummed, watching as you conversed with the first-year.

“That explains it,” George quipped. “She’s too smart to bother with Fred’s idiocy.”

Fred scowled, but his gaze remained fixed on you. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself, and he felt like everyone had disappeared, you were the only one in sight, to him.

He knew he had to make this right. He needed an excuse to approach you. Right! An apology. And of course, he had to impress you.

The Ravenclaw girl finally gave a small laugh as you finished off explaining the pranking culture at Hogwarts. “Thank you, I-..I think I know my way to the library from here now.” she said softly before hurrying off. ___

The next day, Fred had a plan. A proper one.

Breakfast in the Great Hall hummed with the usual morning chaos: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional bursts of laughter from each houses' table.

Fred stood at the entrance, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably. In his hands, he clutched a bouquet of enchanted flowers—slime-free this time—that were charmed to sing a cheerful apology tune when presented.

He wiped his palm against his robes for what felt like the hundredth time. “This is foolproof,” Fred muttered under his breath.

“You say that every time,” George pointed out, his tone dripping with amusement. He nudged Lee, who was barely containing his laughter. “What do you reckon? Will he get through two words before tripping over himself?”

“Five Galleons says he’ll combust,” Lee said, grinning.

“Will you two shut it?” Fred snapped, though the tips of his ears turned red. “This is serious.”

“Serious,” George repeated, mocking Fred’s tone. “You’re holding a singing bouquet, mate. Nothing about this screams ‘serious.’”

“Just watch,” Fred said, his voice low but determined.

That’s when you walked in, and Fred’s stomach flipped.

You were laughing as you entered, your head tilted toward one of your friends. That laugh—light, carefree, and far too distracting—was etched into Fred’s memory, playing on a loop since the previous day.

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your smile. You were radiant.

Fred’s heart thumped in his chest as he stepped forward, the bouquet held out like a peace offering. “Hey!” he called, catching your attention.

You turned to him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Yes?” you said, the corners of your mouth quirking up into a curious smile. What did he want from you?

Fred grinned, his confidence teetering on the edge of unraveling. “Listen, about yesterday—”

But before he could finish, the bouquet let out a sudden pop. A puff of pink smoke erupted, followed by an earsplittingly off-key version of “I’m Sorry About The Slime” that echoed through the Great Hall.

Fred barely had time to react before the bouquet detonated in a second burst, showering him in glitter and knocking him flat on his back.

The Hall erupted into laughter.

Fred groaned, staring at the enchanted ceiling, which now looked even farther away than usual. He could hear George’s loud, obnoxious cackling somewhere to his left.

“Five Galleons,” Lee said smugly.

Fred grimaced, but before he could even begin to think about recovering, a familiar voice broke through the laughter.

“Guess I’m not the only casualty this time.”

Fred turned his head, blinking in disbelief. You had flopped down beside him, lying flat on your back on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Glitter sparkled in your hair, and your grin was wide and unapologetic.

“What are you doing?” Fred asked, his voice caught somewhere between bewilderment and awe.

“Making sure you’re not the only one who looks ridiculous,” you replied, shrugging as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s only fair.”

Fred let out a breathless laugh, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “You’re mental.” But he loved it.

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back, glancing at him with a teasing smile.

From across the Hall, George shouted, “Right on, Romeooo!!” His voice was exaggerated and dramatic, and Fred could practically feel the heat rising in his face.

“Oi shut it, George!” Fred yelled, though his tone lacked bite.

You laughed again, and Fred swore his heart might actually burst. “You’ve got quite the fan club,” you said, gesturing toward the group of students, particularly, Fred's 'boys', who were now openly watching the scene unfold and chortling.

“They’re a bunch of idiots,” Fred muttered, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who’s usually so good at pranks, this was a spectacular disaster.”

Fred groaned, running a hand through his now glitter-covered hair. “Tell me about it.”

“But,” you added, your voice softening, “I appreciate the effort and the apology.”

Fred looked at you, his heart stuttering. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I think you pull off the glitter look better than anyone else here.”

Fred laughed, the sound loud and genuine, and for a moment, the rest of the hall faded away. “I reckon you pull it off better than I do.”

“Why thank you, it's actually my dream to be covered in glitter. Shining as bright as a quidditch trophy is the goal." You joked, but Fred smiled warmly.

You do shine bright, he thought.

As you stood up, you reached out a hand to help him up. Fred took it without hesitation, warmth spreading through him at the simple gesture.

“Come on, glitter boy,” you said, your tone teasing but fond. “Let’s get you sitting somewhere before you injure yourself again.”

Fred let you lead him to a bench at the side of the hall, his hand still tingling from where yours had been.

As you both sat down, he turned to face you, his usual confidence returning in a slow, steady wave, “I’m Fred, by the way."

You laughed, tucking a strand of glitter-dusted hair behind your ear. “I know. You and George are kind of hard to miss.”

Fred’s grin widened, his chest fluttering at the sound of your laugh. “Yeah? Well, you’re kind of hard to forget...uh?" As if on cue, you told him your name. "Y/N." You smiled. "Y/N..." He repeated back, how fitting, a pretty name for a pretty girl.

Your eyes softened, and for a moment, you studied Fred's features. He did the same, glancing at your lips occasionally.

You'd always seen him from afar, to you he was just a prankster, a jokester, busy with his schemes, you'd never thought you'd actually come face to face with him.

But now that you did, you saw him in a different light, almost.

“If this is how you usually apologise,” you said, your voice light again, “I’m scared to see what happens when you’re not sorry.”

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. “Stick around, and I’ll show you.”

You leaned back slightly, your smile lingering. “I just might.”

And in that moment, Fred knew—he didn’t just want to impress you. He wanted you, all of you, your wit, your laughter, your sparkling eyes.

He just wanted to be yours.

[coffeehurricanes]

NEVER GO NEAR A MALFOY| D.M

Summary: You were taught to never go near a Malfoy, ever. But how could you? He's very much unavoidable.

wc: 1.1k+

cw: potter!reader x draco, reader is twins w harry, au where voldy doesn't exist, jily is alive, kinda unsupportive james, reader and james fight.

A/N: I can't stop with the potter!reader x draco fics.😔

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Your parents only ever gave you and Harry one command before your very first year at Hogwarts. Not “study hard,” not “stay out of trouble,” not even “stick together.” No. It was a singular warning, sharp and unwavering, as you stood on Platform 9¾ with your trunks at your feet and nerves buzzing under your skin.

James Potter crouched in front of you, eyebrows furrowed beneath his messy hair, and pointed at both of you as if branding the rule into your very soul.

“You do not go near a Malfoy,” he said with finality. “Ever,” Lily echoed, folding her arms across her chest.

You and Harry glanced at each other, unsure whether to laugh or panic. But neither of you asked questions. You didn’t have to. Their faces were carved from stone—resolute, nostalgic, and more than a little haunted.

So you promised.

And for the first few years, you kept that promise.

⸻

You were now heavily making out with Draco Malfoy.

Pressed against the stone wall behind the library, hidden in the shadows, you felt his fingers tangle in your hair as his lips moved hungrily against yours. Your heart pounded like it always did when he touched you—half from the thrill, half from the guilt.

You broke the one rule your parents gave you. And you broke it over and over again.

You didn’t mean to fall for Draco Malfoy. You really didn’t. He was cold and smug, always armed with some sharp-tongued remark. But there was something about him that you couldn’t shake—something that got under your skin.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Or the way he softened, just slightly, when you were alone. Maybe it was the fact that he saw you when so few people did.

Whatever it was, you fell. Hard.

The worst part? You didn’t regret it.

Your relationship wasn’t born from passion—it was born from quiet. From shared detentions, lingering glances, sarcastic bickering that slowly melted into warmth.

It started in fifth year, during a late-night prefect patrol, when you caught Draco staring up at the stars through one of the Astronomy Tower windows.

“I thought you didn’t care about anything that wasn’t gold or pureblood,” you had teased.

“I don’t,” he’d replied, smirking. Then, after a pause:

“Except maybe this.”

He never said what “this” meant. But he didn’t have to.

You kept it hidden. For nearly a year, you and Draco became masters of secrecy. Carefully choreographed exits, notes passed in books, fleeting touches under desks. No one suspected a thing. Not your friends. Not Harry. Not your parents.

Until the day the secret fell apart.

It started with a storm.

You and Draco had snuck off to the boathouse, hoping to escape the castle for an hour. The rain came fast, wind howling against the windows. You lit your wand and wrapped yourselves in a conjured blanket, curled together on the old wooden bench. He kissed you, slow and soft, the way he always did when he was trying not to say something out loud.

And then—click.

You both froze.

In the doorway stood Colin Creevey, camera in hand, eyes wide.

“Colin,” you said, your voice weak. “You can’t—please don’t—”

But he was already running. Already shouting your name and Draco’s down the corridor.

By the time you returned to the castle, the damage was done.

You walked into the Great Hall for dinner and the noise immediately dipped into silence. Dozens of heads turned. Murmurs passed like wildfire through the room.

“Potter’s daughter and Malfoy?”

“James Potter’s going to kill him.”

“Bloody hell, are they serious?”

You held Draco’s hand anyway.

Even though Ron gawked at you like you’d lost your mind. Even though Hermione looked at you like she was calculating seventeen different ways your life was about to fall apart.

Even Harry, sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table, stood up and walked out the moment you sat down.

He didn't talk to you for a month.

You were dreading the Easter holidays.

The moment you stepped off the train at King’s Cross, the pit in your stomach grew heavier. Your parents were waiting by the barrier, smiling—until they saw you walking hand-in-hand with Draco Malfoy.

James’s smile vanished.

Lily blinked like she was sure she was seeing things.

“Draco,” you said carefully, “maybe I’ll see you later—”

But James was already storming forward.

“Is this a joke?” he snapped. “Please tell me this is some Slytherin dare.”

“Dad—”

“No, no, no, don’t Dad me—you promised. You promised us!”

“I didn’t plan this—”

“Damn right you didn’t!” James shouted, voice cracking. “He’s a Malfoy! Do you have any idea what that family stands for?”

Draco, to his credit, didn’t say a word. He just nodded once at James, then looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, and disappeared into the crowd.

Back home, the air was thick with silence.

Lily sat across from you at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. James paced by the fireplace like a storm cloud.

“I knew you’d rebel eventually,” James muttered. “But I didn’t think you’d break our one rule.”

“I’m not rebelling,” you said. “I’m in love with him.”

The room froze.

Lily’s eyes softened. “Sweetheart…”

“He’s not Lucius,” you said, voice shaking. “He’s not cruel. He’s not obsessed with bloodlines. He’s nothing like the stories you told us.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” James asked, quieter now. “What if he hurts you?”

“Then he hurts me,” you said. “But at least it’s my choice.”

That night, you lay in your old bed, staring up at the enchanted ceiling James had painted for you when you were little—charmed to mirror the sky above Godric’s Hollow. Stars blinked back at you as your heart twisted with everything left unsaid.

You reached under your bed and pulled out the small, rectangular piece of enchanted slate. A matching one sat in Draco’s room at the Manor. You’d created them together last year in secret—a charmed chalkboard where whatever you wrote appeared on the other’s board in real time. Just one more way to stay close without being caught.

You held the chalk in your hand for a long moment, unsure what to say. But then, your fingers moved instinctively.

Are you still there?

A few seconds passed.

Then, slowly, a response appeared, the words etching themselves across the slate in Draco’s neat, angular handwriting:

I’m still here. If you still want me.

Your breath caught.

You smiled softly, heart aching with everything you felt and everything you chose.

You pressed the chalk to the board again.

Always.

You were told to never go near a Malfoy. But you did.

And now?

You’re not going back.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[coffeehurricanes]

Complain Here, Complain There | D.M

Summary: You had a talent for endless complaining—fortunately, someone always seemed to have the full-time job of fixing whatever you whined about.

slytherin!reader x draco

part 2 (kinda) here

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

You were dramatic. Or at least, that’s what everyone always said.

But honestly, was it that unreasonable to complain when your shoes pinched your feet so badly you were pretty sure your toes were permanently damaged?

“I swear,” you huffed one evening in the common room, dramatically flopping into a chair and kicking off your battered shoes, “these are cursed. Walking around Hogwarts is like a medieval torture device.”

Your friends, used to your tirades, just laughed and kept chatting, not paying much attention.

But the next morning, something unexpected happened.

Sitting neatly on your bed was a box—wrapped in elegant silver paper, tied with a green ribbon. Your brows furrowed in confusion. Tucked under the bow was a small note, written in clean, slightly slanted handwriting:

“For your poor, tortured toes.”

No name. No hint of who sent it.

Cautiously, you opened the box—and your eyes widened. Inside was a pair of gorgeous shoes: soft, sturdy, and—when you tried them on—shockingly comfortable. Like walking on clouds.

You stormed down to the common room, holding the box high. “Okay, which one of you is my secret shoe fairy?”

Blank stares. Shrugs. Smirks. Everyone swore they knew nothing.

Strange.

And it didn’t stop there.

A few days later, you were crammed into the library, wedged into a tiny spot between two first-years, scowling at your overflowing notes. You muttered under your breath, “The library is always packed during exam season. I can never get my spot. Honestly, what’s the point?”

You didn’t expect anything to happen.

But the very next day, when you walked into the library, you nearly dropped your books in shock. In the far corner—a place you’d never noticed before—was a little tucked-away alcove. It was empty, despite the crowded room, and set up with plush cushions, soft lighting, and a perfectly organized desk.

Floating just above the table was a tiny enchanted sign that read:

“Reserved for annoying overachievers only. (who is mostly known as Y/N)”

Your eyes darted around, but no one seemed to be watching.

Later that week, after losing your hair tie for the third time in a single afternoon, you huffed loudly, “I keep losing my hair ties. It’s like they disappear into thin air. I’m cursed.”

You didn’t expect anything.

But the next morning, you found a little velvet pouch sitting right on your pillow. Inside were enchanted hair ties—smooth, shiny, and softly shimmering with magic.

The note?

“No excuses for messy hair now.”

At this point, your friends were obsessed with the mystery. “You’ve definitely got a secret admirer,” one of them said, grinning. “Come on, who wouldn’t like you?”

You’d laughed it off, but secretly… your heart was starting to race every time something new appeared.

Then, after a long day of running between classes and study sessions, chilled to the bone and completely exhausted, you slumped onto a bench in the corridor, groaning, “I never have time to get tea between classes. I’m going to shrivel up and die at this rate.”

And later that day, as you pulled out your books in class, you blinked down in surprise. Sitting snug in your bag was a self-heating mug—warm and steaming with your exact favorite tea.

The note?

“Can’t have you dehydrated now, can we?”

It was driving you crazy. Every complaint, every little offhand comment—you were starting to realize someone was listening. Really listening. And fixing things in ways that made your chest ache and your stomach flip.

But no one admitted a thing.

Then one night, sitting by the fire after a long day, you sighed without thinking. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I care about any of this. It’s not like any boy actually likes me.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that makes you look up, because something shifts.

And there he was—Draco Malfoy. Leaning casually against the wall nearby, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. His arms were crossed, and for once, his usual smirk was gone.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and careful, “for once, I can’t exactly fix that with a note.”

Your heart stumbled. “Wait… what?”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, rubbing the back of his neck—a surprisingly shy gesture. “It’s been me,” he admitted quietly. “The shoes. The library spot. The tea. All of it.”

You stared, stunned. “You?”

He nodded, meeting your eyes head-on now. “You never stop complaining,” he said with a tiny, teasing smile, “and I guess… I just wanted to make things better. Because I—” He hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. “Because I like you. I’ve liked you for… a while.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding, piecing together every note, every gift, every quiet, thoughtful act.

“Draco…” you breathed, stepping a little closer.

He shrugged, eyes flicking down. “So… I was hoping I finally fixed that last complaint.”

You grinned, your heart completely full now. “Hmm… not quite yet.”

His brows lifted. “No?”

You smiled, soft and sure. “I think a kiss might do the trick.”

For a split second, Draco looked stunned. And then he leaned in, catching your lips in a kiss that was gentle at first—almost careful—but quickly deepened, full of all the quiet feelings he’d been hiding for so long.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling—a real, warm, genuine smile, eyes shining.

“There,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Fixed.”

And for once… you had absolutely nothing left to complain about.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[coffeehurricanes]

"Jealous Much?" | D.M

Potter!reader x Draco Malfoy

Summary: You receive a letter with a gift every week, and your brother Harry and his friends won’t stop teasing you about a “mystery admirer.” Little does he know, the sender is the last person he’d ever expect.

A/N: I'm currently in love with potter!reader x draco scenarios. ♡

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It started about a month ago—a quiet little mystery that became your favorite part of the week.

Every Friday morning, just as the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clinking silverware, a sleek, pale-gray owl swooped down gracefully and landed in front of you. It was never late. And it always brought something thoughtful—something that made your heart race just a little.

The first gift had been a delicate silver charm bracelet, simple but elegant, with a tiny serpent dangling from the chain. The note attached was written in tidy script:

“Something subtle… to keep me close, even when I’m not there.”

The second week, it was a small box of enchanted chocolates—each one shaped like a star, and when you bit into them, they whispered things like, “You’re beautiful,” and “Thinking of you.” The letter that time said:

“A little sweetness to match yours. Don’t share them with Weasley.”

You had giggled at that one, earning a curious look from Harry across the table.

Week three, it was a pressed flower—some kind of rare, deep purple bloom you’d never seen before—enchanted so it would never wilt. The note was shorter that time, but no less meaningful:

“Even something rare and beautiful pales next to you.”

And today? As the owl landed gracefully in front of you, heads turned, and Harry, who had already caught on to the pattern, raised his eyebrows with exaggerated interest. You untied the small parcel and unfolded the parchment first.

It read:

“Meet me tonight. Same place. P.S. You look stunning when you smile at my letters.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you unwrapped the gift—a silver locket. When you clicked it open, inside was a tiny photo of you (one you didn’t even remember being taken) smiling down at something out of frame. Opposite it was a moving image of Draco, eyes soft and a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. Your heart squeezed.

“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows. “This is getting serious now. A locket? You have to tell me who it is.”

Ron and Hermione both looked up, curious and amused, but Harry was the most relentless.

“I’m guessing—hmm—Ernie Macmillan.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the locket carefully into your pocket. “Nope.”

“Michael Corner?”

“Wrong again.”

“Hmm…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Zabini? He’s smooth.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lockhart?!” Harry gasped suddenly, eyes wide with mock horror. “Is it Lockhart? You can tell me!”

“Harry!” you squeaked, swatting at him, your face burning as you laughed.

“Look at her blush!” Harry crowed. “It’s Lockhart. Case closed.”

Ron groaned. “Please, no one wants to think about that.”

That night, you slipped out like usual, heart thudding as you made your way through the secret passage to your hidden meeting spot. And sure enough, there was Draco, already waiting, arms crossed, expression… stormy.

You frowned. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first, just glared down at the ground. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to be brooding even more than usual.

“Draco?” you pressed, stepping closer.

Finally, he huffed and muttered, “If your brother keeps talking about other boys, I swear I’m going to hex him into next week.”

You blinked, startled—then burst out laughing. “That’s why you’re sulking?”

Draco scowled but didn’t deny it. “It’s annoying. All day, it’s been Corner this and Zabini that—and Lockhart?! Are you kidding me? I should’ve hexed Potter right then and there.”

You giggled, sliding your arms around his waist. “Jealous, much?”

“Maybe.” Draco didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were sharp but softened when you reached up to brush his hair back.

“You know it’s only ever you, right?”

That earned a rare, genuine smile. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted to let go.

“Let them guess,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s more fun that way.”

“As long as you remember who you belong to,” Draco murmured, smirking now, possessive but playful.

You laughed, pecking his lips. “Always.”

⸻

The following Friday, you thought maybe things would settle down. But oh, how wrong you were.

The owl swooped in as usual—but this time, it carried a huge box. Bigger than any gift so far. You stared as it dropped the package in front of you with a graceful thud.

“Oh, this is serious now,” Harry announced, eyes lighting up as he grabbed the box before you could. “Come on, let’s see what lover boy sent this time.”

You groaned, but Hermione and Ron were already leaning in curiously, and of course, the Weasley twins—never ones to miss out on teasing—slid onto the bench with identical grins.

Harry opened the box dramatically—and all five of them gasped.

Inside was the most stunning gown you’d ever seen: emerald-green silk, shimmering faintly, clearly enchanted, with intricate embroidery that looked too expensive to even touch. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Holy—” Fred began.

“—bloody hell,” George finished.

“Is that designer?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.

Harry held it up, gaping. “This must’ve cost a fortune! Okay, okay, this is big money. We need to think. Who’s rich enough to pull this off?”

You tried to grab it back, face burning. “Harry, stop—”

“Theodore Nott?” Harry guessed first.

“Nope.”

“Mclaggen?”

“Wrong.”

“Zabini?” Hermione chimed in, clearly entertained now.

“Montague?” Fred suggested, holding the dress up to himself with a wink. “If it is, tell him I want one too.”

“Ohhh,” George added dramatically, “I bet it’s one of those international students. Super rich.”

You groaned, hiding your face. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Fred and George shared a look and started chanting, “She’s getting married! She’s getting married!”

“I am NOT—!"

And then it happened.

A sudden clatter of footsteps, sharp and purposeful, echoed across the Great Hall. Everyone turned—and your stomach dropped.

Draco Malfoy was storming across the room, eyes locked on you, face like thunder.

The table fell dead silent.

“Uh… why’s Malfoy coming over here?” Ron muttered nervously.

Draco didn’t stop until he was standing right behind Harry, towering over him with his arms crossed and that deadly glare fixed in place.

“I’m the one who bought the dress, Potter,” Draco announced, his voice cool but sharp, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “Not the cheap students you’re rattling off like some pathetic guessing game."

Silence.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Fred dropped his fork. Hermione blinked like she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Draco turned to you then, gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ll look stunning in it, by the way.”

Harry's eyes widen even more, practically bulging out of his eye sockets, as Draco leans in to kiss your forehead.

And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out, his cloak following behind him.

There was a beat of stunned silence… and then chaos.

“MALFOY?!” Harry exploded, whipping around to stare at you. “You’re dating MALFOY?!”

Fred and George howled with laughter, practically falling off the bench.

“Ohhh, this is gold,” George gasped between wheezes.

“Best reveal ever,” Fred agreed, wiping tears from his eyes.

Ron just looked horrified, and Hermione… Hermione slowly closed her book, gave you a look, and said, “I knew it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “…Well. I guess the mystery’s solved.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

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[coffeehurricanes]

WORSE THAN VERITASERUM! | H.P

Summary: Something went wrong while you and Harry were brewing Veritaserum—the potion you created now causes you to read each other’s minds.

Word Count: 900+

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It was another day of potions class. This time, instead of dreading every lesson, you were quite excited to attend, because it wasn't gloomy, greasy-haired Snape teaching potions anymore.

The classroom was slowly starting to fill up as you sat down. Professor Slughorn soon followed, wearing a cheeky grin on his face.

"Today, we will be making Veritaserum! Would anyone tell me what—" before he could continue, Granger immediately raised her hand.

"Sir, Veritaserum is a potent truth serum. A few drops are enough to cause the drinker to reveal their innermost secrets, even those they may not be aware of. It's odorless, colorless, and tasteless, making it easily concealed in drinks.”

Slughorn beamed. “Spot on, Miss Granger! Ten points to Gryffindor.”

You tucked your quill behind your ear, glancing around as he gestured to the instructions now appearing in silver script across the chalkboard.

“Pair up, everyone! You’ll be brewing the base today—no accidental truth-telling just yet!” he chuckled.

You were just looking around when—

“Mind if I join you?”

You glanced up. Harry Potter stood beside your desk, that boyishly shy smile on his face, his messy hair sticking up in every direction like it always did.

“Oh—sure! Yeah, go ahead.” You shifted over to give him space, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.

Harry took the seat beside you, setting his textbook and ingredients down. You tried to focus on measuring out the root of valerian, but your arm brushed his and suddenly your brain wasn’t working right.

Halfway through preparing the bicorn horn, both of you reached for it at the same time.

“Oh—sorry—”

“No, you go—”

The jar tipped.

A bit too much of the powder dumped in.

The potion hissed. A strange pop! sounded from the cauldron, and a faint puff of purplish smoke swirled directly into both your faces.

You blinked. Harry coughed.

And then—

“Blimey, she’s pretty up close. No, shut up, Potter—focus. You’ve only been obsessed with her since third year, no big deal.”

You froze as you slowly look at him.

Harry stiffened beside you.

“Wait. She heard that. SHE HEARD THAT—oh no. Oh no. She can hear me—can I hear her?!”

“Holy Merlin, he likes me? Wait, don’t think anything stupid. Don’t think about how nice his arms look when he rolls up his sleeves. DON’T THINK ABOUT—ugh, too late.”

Harry choked on air. “My arms?!”

You slapped your hands over your mouth. “That wasn’t out loud!”

“I know!” he groaned. “This is going to kill me. Or make me cocky. Honestly, maybe both.”

You scowled. “He’s smug. Why is smug so attractive on him?”

Harry grinned, victorious. “Stop that!”

“I can’t help it, I’ve been bottling up these emotions for years, Potter! YEARS.” you whisper yelled.

“Okay, okay, truce,” he said quickly, hands raised. “Let’s try not to think too hard.”

You both went silent.

For exactly two seconds.

“Her eyes are unreal. Like… how does anyone focus when she looks at you like that?”

“His smile is unfair. He should come with a warning label. Or a fan club. I’d be in it. Wait. That’s weird.”

You both groaned in unison.

“This is worse than Veritaserum,” you muttered.

“Way worse. At least Veritaserum doesn’t broadcast your every embarrassing thought.” Harry ranted.

You glanced up at him, cheeks burning.

“She'd be the president of that fan club.”

“Stop talking! You’re making this worse!” You scold.

“I’m not talking—you’re in my head, remember?”

You glared at him, cheeks burning.

He smirked. “She’s cute when she’s mad. Ugh. No. Don’t think that. She heard that.”

“I heard that!”

He looked mortified. “Yeah, I know. It’s a nightmare. A dream and a nightmare. A dreammare?”

You buried your face in your hands.

“Oh my God. I can’t believe I used to fantasize about this. Actual real-life Harry Potter noticing me. And now here we are—brain-melding during potions.”

Harry tilted his head. “She used to fantasize about me? Wait. Is she serious? Am I dreaming?”

You peeked through your fingers, lips twitching.

“And he smells so good. Why does he smell good?! It’s not fair. I wasn’t prepared for the olfactory part of this trauma.”

Harry looked scandalized. “My smell?! What even—?”

“I don’t know, it’s like—cedarwood and Quidditch and… and a boy.”

He burst into laughter. “I smell like a boy? That’s descriptive.”

“You smell like handsome boy, okay?! Leave me alone!”

He leaned closer, chin resting in his palm, eyes twinkling. “I think I could get used to hearing what you really think.”

You gaped at him. “Don’t get cocky!”

“Too late.”

You groaned. “This is so unfair. I spent years being subtle. I was a mystery. I had mystique.”

“Yeah, and now I know you think about my arms and my smell and want to join my fan club.”

You glared. “You want me in your fan club.”

“Damn right, I do.”

There was a beat.

A small, soft silence beneath the chaos of other cauldrons bubbling and parchment rustling. A glance that lingered longer than it should’ve.

And then Harry's voice, quieter in your mind now, came again:

“Okay. But seriously. Now that I know she likes me back…”

He caught your eye and grinned softly.

"Maybe now she’ll finally let me take her to Hogsmeade.”

You blinked. “Are you… asking?”

Harry's breath hitched "Yes."

"Unless she thinks that’s lame.”

You smiled shyly. “It isn't, but I never thought you'd be the shy one here.”

“Only with you.”

And somehow, despite the chaos, the lingering smoke, and the fact that Seamus' cauldron had just exploded across the room, you realized something:

"This might be the best Potions class I've ever had."

"This might be the best Potions class I've ever had."

You both looked surprised for a moment, then burst into laughter.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[coffeehurricanes]

odd one out {draco malfoy x reader}

Words: 11.3k

Summary: You’re known as the only Weasley without magic. Draco Malfoy has always taken great pleasure in teasing you for this, and you have always been ready with a retort. Your bickering with the Malfoy boy has gone on for years, but is it all done in bad blood?

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - i can’t stop writing for Harry Potter and that’s really just what you’re all gonna have to put up with. 

—

 You don’t want to be here.

   You don’t belong here, as you’ve been reminded a grand number of times throughout your seventeen years of living. To these people, you are nothing more than the unlucky one, a mistake. To these people, you are weaker.

    The halls of Hogwarts aren’t exactly unfamiliar to you, despite being the only person in your household who never properly attended. You’ve been here many times throughout your life, visiting sick family members, accompanying your parents when they don’t trust you enough to leave you at the Burrow. 

    It’s your twin brother, Ron, who is in need now.

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[coffeehurricanes]

Point Of View

☆ Pairing: Draco Malfoy x reader

☆ Word Count: 3183

☆ Summary: A composition of moments in time in which Hermione comes to the realization that Draco Malfoy is in love with somebody else.

☆ Warnings: This is NOT dramione. It can be seen as angst or fluff depending on your point of view. There is smut but it’s bad so be aware of that.

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[coffeehurricanes]

ink stains

synopsis: soulmate au in which every mark that appears on your body also appears on your soulmate’s body including, as you discover one day, drawings. Needless to say you’re determined to make your soulmate smile, even if you haven’t found them yet.

pairing: George Weasley x ravenclaw!reader

warnings: none

a/n: Hi I’m late to the party but @thoseofgreatambition is doing a soulmate theme night and I’m a ho for soumate au’s so hopefully mine is decent enough lol also I may or may not be writing one for fred too but it’s taking me ages so 

tagging: @the-hufflepuff-of-221b

~~~~~~

When you were six years old you woke up one morning to dark stains splattered all over your face and arms. You were confused and quickly grew panicked, absolutely positive that you had contracted Dragon Pox overnight. It had taken an hour for your dad to calm you down enough so he could explain with a small grin that your soulmate must’ve spilled an inkwell on themselves. 

“What do you mean?” You had asked with wide, curious eyes.

“Well,” Your dad had reached for the bedside table and picked up a quil. “Everybody has a soulmate, Y/N. One day you start being able to see the marks that appear on your soulmate’s body, permanent or temporary. For you, that day happens to be today.” He dipped the quil in a well filled with bright blue ink and handed it to you. “Why don’t you give it a try? Write your soulmate a message.”

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[coffeehurricanes]

technicolor (f.w.)

prompt request by anon: it is said that when you meet your soulmate, you will know because the world that you knew in black and white would turn technicolor. during a harmless game of spin the bottle, you didn’t expect your soulmate to be revealed to you.

warnings: drinking, mentions of eating, mild language

pairing: fred weasley x fem! gryffindor reader

word count: 5.3k

The power of true love was life altering in your world. Literally. The world was painted in shades of blacks, whites, and grays. It always was for those who hadn’t met their true love, their soulmate, their one and only. It was said on the occasion that you had kissed your soulmate, the world before you would erupt into vibrant color. People spent their whole lives, searching for the person who brought color to them. 

Living in a dull, colorless world was mundane to say the least, but it was all you knew. The idea of living in a world of color was an exciting thought to say the least, but in a way it scared you. Suddenly the world as you knew it changing abruptly before your eyes because you had met someone that destiny created for you? It was a scary thought. But in your head, you had nothing to worry about. You didn’t plan on meeting your soulmate any time soon. 

Or so you thought.

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[coffeehurricanes]

HIS LITTLE SONGBIRD| S.B.

Hello lovely, I don’t know how I did it, but I somehow accidently deleted the ask for this- I remembered the gist of it though. 

🖋 - Sirius Black soulmate au blurb for @sheraayasher 

Pairing: Sirius x Reader- no pronouns used

Warnings: None

Summary: Soulmates can hear each other when they’re singing and Sirius Black has found himself a little songbird.

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[coffeehurricanes]

THE GREENHOUSE EFFECT | D.M

Summary: When you're paired with Draco Malfoy for Herbology, you expected eye-rolls and dead plants. But, you don’t expect that the most sudden pairings bloom the brightest.

wc: 1.7k+

cw: Hufflepuff!reader x draco. FLUFF! FLUFF! FLUFF!, a very pouty reader who loves and names her plants.

A/N: Alright you got me. I made up some of the plants mentioned cause I got lazy going through all the canon plants in hp. I LOVE LOVE LOVE HUFFLEPUFF!READERS! 💞

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

You’d witnessed many botanical tragedies during your years in Hogwarts’ greenhouses—Mandrakes shrieking their way into fainting fits, Puffapods misfiring into clouds of spores, even a Dungbomb incident involving a Fanged Geranium with a grudge and poor aim—but nothing, not even that, prepared you for the quiet devastation that was Draco Malfoy trying to care for magical plants.

“This one’s supposed to be droopy, right?” Draco asked one chilly morning, holding up a miserable-looking Flitterbloom, his face in lost confusion. The plant sagged from his gloved fingers like a limp dishcloth, the edges tinged with black rot, its once vibrant fronds now hanging as though in mourning.

Professor Sprout audibly gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “No, Mr. Malfoy, it most certainly is not supposed to look like that! That poor dear is drowning in water it didn’t ask for!”

You bit down on your smile, valiantly trying not to laugh. You really did try. But the look on Draco’s face—offended, a little baffled, and thoroughly disgusted—was too much. Your shoulders shook with suppressed giggles, and Professor Sprout caught your eye with a hopeful glint.

“Y/N,” she said, a little too sweetly, “would you mind pairing up with Mr. Malfoy for the rest of the term? He could use someone with your… patience.”

You blinked, unsure whether you were being punished or knighted. “You want me to help him?”

“I don’t need help,” Draco snapped, standing straighter.

“You do,” you and Sprout said at the same time, your voices perfectly overlapped. Your eyes met. She looked vindicated. Draco looked betrayed.

And that was how you became Draco Malfoy’s unofficial plant handler.

⸻

You wore flowers like armor. Always. In your hair—violets carefully tucked into your braid, a daisy behind your ear, sprigs of baby's breath pinned like secrets. Your jumpers often had tiny embroidered petals curling down the sleeves or buttons shaped like blooming buds. When people asked, you just smiled like the flowers had chosen you that morning and not the other way around. Flowers were a part of you, just like freckles were a part of others.

“Is there a reason you always dress like a sentient meadow?” Draco asked once, squinting as you buttoned up a coat stitched with little yellow marigolds that seemed to flutter when you moved.

“It’s for luck,” you said serenely, smoothing a daffodil-shaped pin at your collar. “And it makes the plants feel at home.”

He stared like you’d just offered him a slice of moonlight for breakfast. “You think the plants care what you’re wearing?”

You tilted your head, genuinely perplexed. “You don’t?”

The first incident came swiftly. You’d barely begun working together when he attempted to nudge a Puffapod into blooming. One gentle poke was all it needed—delicate, respectful. Draco prodded it like it owed him an explanation, and it exploded in a soft-pink mushroom cloud of pollen.

You stood in stunned silence, covered in fuzz, bits of petal clinging to your braid like confetti. You tried not to pout. You really did. But you ended up cross-legged on the floor, mournfully collecting the petals and whispering soft apologies.

“She just needed patience,” you murmured, fingers brushing the frayed bloom. “A bit of kindness.”

Draco sneezed and looked utterly unconvinced. “It was a plant. Not a therapy client.”

“She had a name,” you said sharply, shooting him a glare. “Lulu.”

He gave you a flat look. “You named the Puffapod?”

You met his gaze with unflinching sincerity. “I would've told you her name if you didn't blow up her sister Lala earlier this year.

He sighed. "yeah... because plants have siblings."

The next week, he crushed a Bubotuber in a moment of casual irritation. One second he was ranting about someone stealing his socks, the next he squeezed the bulb like it had personally offended him. It responded by erupting in a burst of thick, greenish goo. Draco’s shriek of horror echoed off the greenhouse walls.

“You strangled her,” you said disappointed, trying not to frown as you dabbed away goo with a Moondew sprig.

“I barely touched it!”

“You manhandled her like she owed you money.”

“It attacked me!”

“She was terrified.”

He stumbled back, covered in yellow-green sludge. “Of what? My refined bone structure?”

You crouched next to the limp plant, wand raised, murmuring a soft charm. “Of being misunderstood. She’s very shy.”

Draco groaned. “Merlin help me. Not again.”

“She has a name,” you said firmly. “Matilda.”

“Of course she does.”

With a flick of your wand and a quiet word, Matilda shivered back to life, wiggling slightly in your palm. You leaned in and whispered something that made her glow faintly. She’d forgiven him. Barely.

“She’s a menace,” he muttered.

“She’s sensitive,” you corrected, stroking her stem.

Draco stared at you like he was trying to decide if this was some elaborate Hufflepuff prank. You smiled serenely and tucked a fallen blossom behind your ear.

By the fourth week, Draco had managed to offend a Flutterfern, enrage a Shrivelfig, and traumatize a Fanged Geranium into permanent wilt. The final straw came when he took pruning shears to a Venomous Tentacula like he was avenging a personal vendetta. It lashed out in protest, its tendrils flailing before curling in on themselves, whimpering.

You didn’t speak to him for the next twenty minutes.

Instead, you crouched beside the wounded plant, gently gathering its injured tendrils in your hands. You rocked slightly, whispering something ancient and low—more lullaby than incantation. Slowly, the Tentacula calmed. Its color returned in hesitant pulses. One vine curled around your wrist, tentative and grateful.

“You’ve got to be doing this on purpose,” Draco muttered from the other side of the greenhouse. “No one’s that bad at plants unless they’re cursed. Or a Gryffindor.”

You glanced up, your voice dry. “You think I’d hex my own greenhouse just to make you look bad?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “With great pleasure.”

You dusted soil from your cheek with a dramatic flourish. “I’m petty, Malfoy. Not suicidal.”

He eyed you, then your boots. “You’ve got roses on your socks.”

“They’re embroidered,” you replied, lifting your foot slightly to show him. “Climbing roses. Very resilient. A bit clingy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”

You grinned. “Like you.”

His ears turned pink.

The sixth time was different. He didn’t kill the plant. He merely terrified it.

A small Mandrake sat trembling on its roots while Draco hovered uncertainly nearby, brow furrowed, tongue between his teeth in sheer concentration, wondering how the hell did you manage to stop a mandrake from crying. You watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, trying not to interfere.

“If you’re going to loom like that,” Draco muttered, glancing sideways, “you might as well do it yourself.”

“I’m observing,” you said proudly. “You’re improving. That Mandrake hasn’t flinched in at least two minutes.”

“It keeps looking at me.”

“you mean, He. Well, duh he has eyes. Of course he's looking at you.”

“Judgmentally.”

“That’s a compliment,” you said. “He doesn’t usually acknowledge people he dislikes.”

Draco scowled, but the Mandrake remained intact. Which, for him, was practically a miracle. When he wasn’t looking, you snuck the plant a leaf treat. It quivered happily.

Later that afternoon, while you adjusted the angle of a sunlamp for your Asphodel, you sensed Draco stepping beside you. He didn’t say anything at first, just hovered—an odd, uncertain weight in the air. Then his voice came, softer than usual.

“You missed a spot.”

You turned, confused, just as he reached out. His thumb brushed a smudge of soil from your cheek, lingering a second too long. You froze.

The world narrowed. You forgot the cold, the damp, the faint buzzing of Pixie-flies overhead. For one suspended breath, it was just you, him, and the inch of air between your faces.

He cleared his throat abruptly and pulled his hand back. “You had… dirt. On your face.”

“Oh.” You touched the spot instinctively. “Thanks.”

He turned away, cheeks faintly pink. You didn’t say anything. Your heart was too loud.

⸻

All term, you’d been tending to a single Moonlily in the corner of Greenhouse Three. Once silver-bright, it had withered into something curled and gray, like it had forgotten what light felt like. Every class, you brought it a fresh blossom, whispered to it like an old friend. “I’m still here,” you told it. “Come back when you’re ready.”

Draco never asked about it. But he noticed. You caught him glancing at it when he thought you weren’t looking. Watching the way you cared.

And then came the last day of term.

Most students had left for the holidays. Snow pressed against the greenhouse windows, and frost dusted the vines in glittering white. You were alone, brushing a light dusting of ice from the soil, when you heard the sound of footsteps.

Draco.

He looked a little windblown, hair tousled, scarf half-untied. In one gloved hand, he held something fragile. Small. Pale.

A pot with a single marigold.

Its stem was crooked. Its petals trembled. But it was alive.

“I, uh… Professor Sprout helped,” he said quickly, almost defensive. “A bit. Mostly she just stopped me from killing it.”

You stared, lips parting. He shifted, awkward.

“It’s not perfect,” he said.

You reached out and took it gently, your fingers brushing his. The flower quivered in your palm like it knew who had grown it.

“It’s exquisite.” you whispered.

His shoulders sagged, some tightness easing in his jaw. “I... It reminded me of you. It's bright and... pretty. Very, pretty.”

You stepped closer.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick with something you didn’t dare name. “I love it.”

And then, without thinking, you kissed him.

It was soft, tentative—dirt-smudged noses, cold fingers brushing warm cheeks, and the quiet, sweet hush of something just beginning. He tasted of peppermint tea and the kind of wonder that comes only after you’ve stopped pretending not to care.

Behind you, something stirred.

You turned as the Moonlily—the one you’d nurtured all term—gave a shiver, then slowly unfurled. Its silver petals caught the moonlight and glowed like a promise, blooming with the kind of gentle pride only magic, patience, and love can grow.

Draco stared, wide-eyed. “Was that... because of us?”

You clutched the flower he'd given you to your chest, heart fluttering. “She’s been waiting. I think... she felt it.”

He looked at you, the usual edge in his voice softened into awe. “You’re completely mad.”

You grinned, breathless. “You still think the plants don’t notice?”

And then, for the first time all term, Draco Malfoy laughed—really laughed. It spilled into the greenhouse like sunlight after rain, warm and unexpected.

“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe they do.”

You reached up and tucked the crooked little flower he’d grown into your braid, letting it nestle behind your ear like it had always belonged there.

“Then they’ve clearly been paying more attention than you have.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!