dedeinthewild

[dedeinthewild]

so, this blog has just turned one and you know well I watch sports because I enjoy them and not just because I find players to be hot.

but hell, I was trying to write a fluff about cata coll and all I can think about is the furthest thing from fluff

help me 🧍🏽‍♀️

[dedeinthewild]

Loved your new Alexia fic ❤️

thank you so much! I love when you all give me feedbacks... writing it was a whole experience to say the least, because writing about two women is so confusing and I always ended up mistaking them for each other... however I'm still quite proud of it!

let me know if I should write more, and place some requests for woso (fluff, the smut isn't up to requests)

thanks again! x

[dedeinthewild]

alexia putellas x reader, friends to lovers

~ “Y pensé que verte desnuda tendría este efecto en mí, pero esto es aún mejor.”

summary : Sharing a villa can end up in the most fortunate of surprises, with a nice little piece of clothing appearing in her suitcase and Alexia finding it instead of the charger. And that evening was charged for sure...

The heat in Mexico wasn’t the same as Barcelona’s. It was heavier, lazier, like it wanted to wrap itself around you and keep you still. And it completed the way the air brushed lightly against the skin, and the pale sand clung to the beach towels, contrasting with the crystalline ocean water.

Alexia had worked for the first two days, attending the partners’ and sponsors’ events before she let herself fully enjoy the resort buffet and the lounge chair by the infinity pool, sunglasses perched on her nose and a glass of some almost frozen drink in hand. Often, she left for photoshoots and ended up staying for weeks in those places, enjoying the holidays that her job offered her between the Women’s Euros and the new season with Barcelona. And the thing she always did was invite the same person to spend those days with her.

They spent hours walking on the beach, finding places to explore at their destinations, with the midfielder keeping her eyes only on her and the coconut water. She spent the weeks wearing a pair of loose pants and a bra, and occasionally pulled out dresses that fit her body like they’d been painted on, catching the attention of many at the resort. She lost track of what day of the week it was, with everything blending together into slabs of tropical fruit, afternoons on the seashore where the Spaniard dragged her along, and evenings when they let themselves go to the music or to small strolls through little street markets where the locals offered foods nobody could pronounce.

And yet, through all of it, they never really talked about what they were to each other. Friends? Sure. More than friends? Definitely. But neither of them dared to give it a name.

But after a week in the sun, one evening Mexico itself decided to give the two of them a little push.

As every evening, they had showered one after the other, and Alexia was sitting just outside the large wooden doors of the villa where they were staying, the pool reflecting the late-afternoon light. It was still early for dinner, and the girl still in the bathroom had plenty of time to get ready before the Spaniard would stand up and pull her away by the hand. All the doors and windows were ajar, so the distant music could already be heard, and the ocean breeze teased them gently.

“Ale,” she called from the bathroom, turning toward Alexia. “Can you grab my charger? It should be in the small blue pouch on your left.”

The footballer rose from her safe spot by the pool, entering with heavy steps and digging into the other girl’s suitcase as if it were second nature, feeling a familiar warmth at seeing their things together.

“Small pouch… vale… oh.”

From the bathroom, the other couldn’t see the small smile that spread over her face, accompanied by a little sound of surprise and then a low chuckle. Lifting her eyes to the mirror, she saw Alexia standing in the archway that separated the bedroom from the bathroom, hair still damp and eyes that looked like they had found something interesting. She was holding something small, black, and sheer, letting it slip through her fingers. A nightgown. No — not just a nightgown. Lingerie. The kind with delicate lace along the hem and thin straps that promised nothing was left to the imagination.

“That’s so not mine,” said the girl, her hands full of hair foam, still wrapped in the robe she had put on after her shower.

Alexia raised an eyebrow, opening the garment as if to inspect it, holding it by a strap between her thumb and forefinger, an almost arrogant grin on her face. “No?”

As much as she knew the girl in front of her, that fine, elegant piece of lingerie probably wasn’t hers — but something told her that maybe she had finally realized where things were heading between them and had decided to surprise her.

“No,” she repeated firmly. “I don’t… wear things like that.”

“Maybe you should.”

The girl turned, looking the footballer in the eye after wiping her hands on the robe, her hair styled meticulously into waves that Alexia knew like the back of her hand.

“I’m serious, Alexia. I didn’t buy that.”

“Then it just… walked into your suitcase?”

“You know what I feel like right now? Like when TSA stops someone at the airport and they say, ‘I swear, I have no idea how that got in my bag.’” She crossed her arms, leaning her hips against the sink.

The Spaniard was amused, watching her face as if trying to decide whether she was telling the truth, that faintly inquisitive, piercing look still in her eyes, dressed in the pants she had chosen that evening and one of her favorite tops, which showed the tattoos across her back. Her mind filled with the image of that nightie on the girl’s body in the soft light of the moment.

“I won’t confiscate it. Whoever put it there has excellent taste,” she said gently, her voice thickened by her Spanish accent.

“Stop looking at it,” the other muttered.

But Alexia leaned back against the wall, running a hand through her hair as she hung the garment where the towels usually went, leaving behind a silent challenge she’d love to see answered.

“You said it’s not yours, so you have nothing to lose. Humor me.”

And there was something in the way she said it — half dare, half promise — that made the girl’s skin tingle as she tried to dry her hair, shaking her head without much conviction.

“Quiero verte con él.” Her voice had dropped as she finally turned to leave the villa, leaving her in peace in the bathroom, a sly smile still on her lips. And the Spanish had landed exactly where Alexia knew it would. She’d known for months that when she spoke to her in that tone — casual, warm, a little commanding — it made her feel things she would never admit out loud.

So the girl calmly dried her hair as every evening, with unusual delicacy in treating the small curls that formed, humming some tune stuck in her head. The nightie stared at her as though there was unfinished business between them, hanging on the dark wall like a piece of art. She thought about it, her gaze shifting between her reflection in the mirror and the fabric Alexia had held moments earlier like a treasure. And she decided to call her best friend, placing the phone on the sink with a video call running, moistening her lips as she thought about what to do.

“Why do you look like you’re about to confess to a crime?” Her practically-sister’s tired face popped up on the screen, eyebrows instantly lifting.

“I wish. This is worse,” she muttered, lifting her hands to show the sheer nightie dangling from them.

“Oh… ohhh.” The girl on the other side of the world grinned like a wolf. “And let me guess, you didn’t buy it.”

“Someone must have put it in my suitcase, and Alexia found it,” she stammered, words tripping over themselves.

“Wait. Alexia Putellas wants you to put on that? Honey, you are living my dream and you don’t even know it.”

She didn’t know what to do, torn between actually putting it on and seeing how the footballer would react, and leaving it there until the end of the trip when she’d have to stuff it back into her suitcase.

“I don’t even know how to wear it. Bra? No bra? Is it supposed to cover anything? These straps — what do they even do?”

“First of all, absolutely no bra. That’s the point. Second, put it on and let me see.”

She lifted the nightie, trying to figure out whether she should follow her friend’s advice, assessing its coverage and how to put it on.

“I’m not getting naked on FaceTime,” she groaned.

“You’re totally doing this live.”

At first, it felt almost ridiculous — untangling the thin straps, trying to figure out which loop went where. Her hands fumbled, not because it was difficult, but because her pulse was already racing. The fabric slid over her head in a whisper, cooler than her skin, like dipping her fingers into still water. She shivered automatically, even though the room was warm. When the thin fabric settled, it didn’t weigh like normal clothes. It floated. The hem brushed her thighs in the lightest touch, so insubstantial she kept wanting to tug it down, make sure it was still there. She became acutely aware of every place the lace touched her — the scalloped edge over her chest, the way it cupped and traced without truly covering, the faint tickle where the hem kissed the tops of her legs.

Without a bra, she felt exposed in a way that wasn’t just physical — like someone had peeled away a layer she usually hid behind. The sheer fabric didn’t disguise her body; it hinted at it, outlining without fully revealing, which somehow made it worse. Or better. She couldn’t decide.

She turned in the mirror and caught the low swoop of the back — bare skin framed by slim crisscross straps. The sight made her stomach twist. It didn’t feel like wearing sleepwear. It felt like wearing a question you weren’t sure you wanted answered.

She felt silly, nervous, self-conscious. But beneath that, there was a spark — that restless little current that came from knowing Alexia was waiting in the other room, almost expecting to see her like this. It made her heartbeat pound against her ribs, part fear, part anticipation. Her mouth was dry, but her skin was buzzing. And that was the problem. She didn’t know if she was more afraid of her reaction being too much… or not enough.

“Ohhh, okay, that’s illegal.”

“It’s see-through!” she hissed, her little soft curls falling down her back gracefully.

“Yes. That’s the idea. And your legs—oh my god—turn around, let me see the back. The straps are perfection.”

“Too much,” she muttered.

“Not enough,” her best friend countered instantly. “You’re going out there right now.”

“What if I—”

“You are going to get her for good. And you are not chickening out. Go. Before the moment passes.”

The girl blew her a kiss, holding the phone in her hand with a timid, nervous smile. Her friend caught the kiss with one hand.

“Love you, and good luck — though I think you’ll need it far less than you seem to think. Now go.” They smiled once more before the girl who shared a villa with a Ballon d’Or winner ended the call, sighing, trying not to rip the nightie off and retreat into her robe.

She looked at herself one last time in the mirror before leaving the bathroom, seeing that the Spaniard had spared her the stress of figuring out how to walk out to show her, because she caught sight of her as she rummaged through her backpack. Her hair had dried a little but she still had the same relaxed air she’d carried through the vacation, lost in her thoughts. The area was quiet, the only sound the clinking of objects, until she lifted her eyes to the familiar footsteps of the girl she had brought to Mexico. The words she was about to say died on her lips, strangled by the sight.

Her gaze skimmed over the fabric, taking in every inch of lace and mesh against her skin. She couldn’t hide the way her eyes darkened slightly, her breath catching in her chest.

“Estás preciosa… demasiado preciosa para quedarte ahí tan lejos.”

(You’re gorgeous… far too gorgeous to stay over there.)

Every now and then, Alexia forgot her English when she was around her. And during those vacation days, the girl had to arm herself with patience and intuition to understand her, because even though the footballer was improving, there were more words she missed than ones she got right.

The Spaniard took a step forward, her hands in her pockets, motioning for the other to turn around for her.

She obeyed, turning slowly while glancing at her out of the corner of her eye, thinking about how Alexia never failed to make her feel beautiful and special, even when in that moment she felt terribly bare. Then she took a few hesitant steps toward the midfielder, locking eyes with her as if to say she would be the only person for whom she would ever wear something like this. With each step she took, her pulse pounded harder, every inch closer tightening the thrill in both their chests.

When they were close enough, the Spaniard’s fingers lifted slightly, brushing lightly along her arm, just as the fabric of the nightie did. But with more thought.

"Eso… eso es lo que quería." (That… that’s what I wanted.)

Alexia’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile as she leaned back against the wall. They were so close they seemed like two pieces of a puzzle waiting to be put together, the younger woman standing between the footballer’s knees, one of Alexia’s large hands intertwining with her smaller one. The Spaniard’s other hand pressed firmly at the small of her back, pulling her against her body. Her eyes lifted, meeting the pair in front of her.

“Y pensé que verte desnuda tendría este efecto en mí, pero esto es aún mejor.” (And I thought seeing you naked would have this effect on me, but this is even better.)

The girl let a little smile escape against the Barça captain’s lips, who had kissed her lightly, almost testing what would happen if she deepened it, while the palm trees shaded the pool outside, reminding them the afternoon was ending.

Her lips moved softly against hers, the kiss almost exploratory at first, a tentative tease. But quickly, it shifted into something hungrier, more urgent. The hand on her back tightened, pulling her closer. Her body pressed firmly into the one shielded only by the nightie — solid muscle and warm skin, radiating heat in waves. Kissing Alexia was an experience of its own, and the way she cupped the side of her head while her tongue slipped into her mouth made them both feel like they could pass out, especially as her free hand traced up her back to brush over the silky straps. As the kiss deepened, her touch grew more demanding, more possessive. Her hand in the younger woman’s hair tugged gently at the strands, angling her head the way she wanted. Her other hand followed the straps, fingers teasing along the sensitive skin there.

"Dios, he querido tocarte así durante tanto tiempo." (God, I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so long.)

“Then why did you never do it?”

Alexia wet her lips, placing both hands on the girl’s hips.

“Because I’ve been waiting,” she said, “esperando a que me dejes.” (Waiting for you to let me.)

But the girl had always thought someone like the footballer — who lived riding the wave of success that came from doing what she loved — would never see her as anything more than the fun friend she brought everywhere, the one everyone knew as her better half.

The Spaniard stepped forward, guiding her backwards toward the bed, where she laid her down gently, her hands tracing the full line of her legs, lifting the hem of the nightie, the fabric bunching at her hipbones.

Her lips returned to the girl’s, the kiss scorching and demanding. She knew exactly how she wanted to kiss her, and made it clear in the way her tongue moved into her mouth with certainty. The one caged between her arms sighed softly, lost to time, her only thought being Alexia above her, covering her like a warm, exploring blanket. Her hands were everywhere at once, leaving trails of fire as she explored each inch. Alexia’s mouth moved to her neck, lingering at the spot that made her breath hitch, grazing the delicate skin before biting softly — a sweet promise of more. She was in control; every touch, every kiss was hers to give.

The girl in the nightie felt the press of the footballer’s thumbs on her hipbones through the fabric, sighing into her ear as though she couldn’t breathe any other way.

"¿Puedo tocarte? Bien, quiero decir." (Can I touch you? Properly, I mean.)

Alexia had pulled back slightly, still drawing lazy circles on her hips, the pressure just firm enough to make her shiver. She was waiting for permission, her beautiful face caught in the most breathtaking of situations.

“Yes, Ale, yes.” The girl moistened her lips, feeling the midfielder’s touch grow certain, no longer tentative, as her palms traced the lines of the nightie, flattening against her skin through the fabric. She moved almost reverently, as if memorizing every curve and contour. Her hand hooked into the sides of the girl’s panties, while her breath spilled from perfect lips that had long since abandoned English.

Lace slipped down her thighs, and she sighed at Alexia’s gentle, firm touch. Her eyes flicked up to the footballer’s face, watching her take her time.

"No te suelto." (I’m not letting you go.)

One of the Spaniard’s hands skimmed up her body, stopping just below her sternum, fingers intertwining with hers. The moment stole every word from her lips; she melted under the midfielder’s hands, who anchored her to the bed, towering above with knees planted on either side of her thigh. The nightie shifted with each movement, delicate straps sliding slightly as Alexia explored her — never rushing, never hesitating. Her fingers found a slow, deliberate rhythm, exploring gently. She read every flicker of reaction, her gaze locked on her face, searching for any hint of pleasure or discomfort. Her expression was one of intense focus and raw want, her eyes darkened and lips curled into a faint smirk, satisfied at how much she was affecting her.

Friends? Drop it.

She murmured between breaths:

“Mírame.” (Look at me.)

Alexia could hear every question racing through her head, and she already had the answers written on her lips. Practice. Attention. And big, sure hands.

Her touch grew more demanding as she noticed the girl’s breaths becoming erratic, lips pressed together to keep herself grounded. Alexia was teasing, confident, and god — she was hell of a woman. Like a vision of dark, fiery intensity. The same as on the pitch.

She looked up at her from that angle, so close the girl could feel the words against her skin, and it was dizzying — that mix of playful control and raw desire. Then she grasped a fistful of the nightie, capturing her lips again in a deeper kiss, reminding her where they were. Every kiss matched the weight of her body pressing down, every touch paired with a word that wrapped around the younger woman just as tightly.

“Amor,” she breathed against her lips, feeling the girl’s legs beginning to close a little around her knee.

The word landed low in her stomach, sending another rush through her, and when Alexia’s lips trailed down her body, she realized she didn’t just want to hear her voice in Spanish — she needed it, every word wrapping tighter around her. Her mouth found the softest parts of her with unhurried precision, and the first sweep of her tongue drew out a sound she hadn’t meant to release.

She still clutched Alexia’s hand, fingers tightening as she gripped a handful of the nightie. Her pace was patient, savoring — every move calculated to keep her lingering on the edge. Her hands steadied her hips when they tried to rise. She alternated between long, slow strokes and quick bursts that made her fingers curl in Alexia’s.

The Spanish kept coming — low, murmured praises between breaths, soft commands that wrapped around her just as much as the midfielder’s hands did.

“No pares… dámelo.” (Don’t hold back… give it to me.)

The midfielder said it with the most infuriating grin. She wiped her lips on the shirt she had tossed aside earlier, forgotten in a corner of the bed that watched them silently. Her parted lips, the soft pants of her breath, and the damp hair falling over tattooed shoulders were enough to make the girl shudder again after that powerful first wave. Her body pressed fully into hers now, heat against heat, showing just how much she wanted this — wanted her.

The girl’s hands reached for the footballer’s waist, undoing the button of her jeans, the nightie long gone, leaving nothing between them. Alexia chuckled, a low rumble in her throat, amused by how quickly her friend’s forgotten shyness had vanished.

It was just a matter of time before their hips started moving in sync, as if the rhythm itself was pulling them both under. There was no real plan — just instinct. Her kisses turned deeper, messier, the girl's hands clutching at Alexia's tattooed muscles as she led her straight to perdition. She threw her head back, baring her neck, her hair falling down her back as she moved perfectly, her hand glued to the girl's knee. The heat was building fast, their breaths growing shallow, their closeness making every nerve flare to life. Alexia's jaw tensed as she moistened her lips, loving the sight of the one beneath her, and she started moving slower, creating twice the friction.

It hit them both at the same time — a rush so sharp it was almost overwhelming, their hips stuttering against each other’s hands, bodies arching, everything wound tight before breaking apart in waves. The Spanish captain laughed breathlessly, clearly proud of what she had achieved in such little time, pressing a kiss to the other girl’s temple as she leaned down on her arms and elbows, caging her in.

“Creo que acabamos de romper un mio récord.” (I think we just broke a record of mine.)

Even the slightest move from her made the younger one squirm, and God, the footballer was enjoying it. The girl’s fingertips dug into the perfect curve of her lower back, as if to press her more into herself. The first roll of Alexia’s hips pulled a sharp sound from her lips, and she grinned like she had been waiting for it. She knew that, for many, something like that was new — and giving that girl two rounds of it was the least she could do. And no fingers, no tongue could ever mimic that.

The girl in the nightie was completely at her mercy now, trapped there, but her hands were driving Alexia wild.

“No juegues conmigo… así pierdo la cabeza.” (Don’t play with me… I lose my mind like this.)

She smiled against the Spaniard’s lips, feeling worn out but still chasing more, as if Alexia wasn’t getting anywhere near tired. She had the stamina of a footballer who played like there was no tomorrow, who led her team to countless victories, no matter where or which league they were in.

The midfielder was good — there was no denying it. She kept guiding her, showing her how to move, how to learn from her, and the way she spoke Spanish — never saying anything outright dirty — was enough to send her over the edge. And they finished. Again. Again. Again.

Always shifting subtly to change the sensation, never once catching the hint that it was getting late and they should have been heading to dinner. Alexia would roll onto her back, admiring the way the nightie’s straps would slip onto her arms, grazing her skin as she moved. How the fabric shaded different areas each time, leaving nothing to her imagination but adding a layer of mystery that drove her absolutely crazy.

“Tenemos que irnos…” (We have to go...)

Alexia said, running a hand through her hair as she checked her watch just after giving the girl one last time, her tone not even bothering to hide how unhappy she was to let go.

“Aunque… debo decir… te ves demasiado bien después de todo esto.” (Although… I have to say… you look way too good after all this.)

She kissed her again before offering her a hand, helping her to the bathroom so she could get herself together for dinner. A smirk stamped on her face. And the marks of the other’s nails tracing across her tattoos.

“¿Estáis convencida de lo que somos ahora?” (Are you convinced of what we are now?)

soo, a study vacation in england during the euros opened my eyes to women's football even more than before. I had been watching the italian league for some years, and I knew barça femeni from the matches in champions league but my interest spiked a lot after the euros. However, this is my first attempt at publishing smut, as the poll I had put up a few months ago ended up in you preferring I sticked to fluff... it's not proofread, and it's the result of me falling in love with a girl and realizing I can write wlw imagines as well... (not proofread, google translated spanish and english's not my first language so bear with me)

[dedeinthewild]

you’re back! i’m so excited for new fandom fics but i hope there will still be an occasional prema fic 🩷

-🥐

obviously! I just had the most massive creativity block, and I felt like I didn't know how to write anymore... my prema fics are still going strong, and I would be so grateful if you placed some requests!

thank you for your support pastry anon ❤️

[dedeinthewild]

planning to come back with an alexia putellas smut... any thoughts? and also, I can't live without a friends to lovers trope so...

[dedeinthewild]

lando norris x reader, no labels

-“This is not what we agreed to tonight.”

summary : they didn't wanna go to that party, and they hated the idea of all the small talk and boring initiatives there always was among the guests. So a plan was made up, but it wasn't followed in the end.

The most exclusive villas in Monaco were scattered across the hillside like diamonds on the expensive necklaces worn by women—each one more dazzling than the last, as if someone had decided to light up the rocks themselves.

It was that moment when the air turned just a little warmer, with a taste of salt, smoke, and the citrus growing along the roads. If you stood still enough, you could hear the sea—no longer roaring, now dark and gentle—whispering in the distance.

The roads leading to those homes were nearly as majestic as the destinations themselves, lined with cypress trees that curved sinuously, mimicking the arch of a dancer’s bare back as she moved to music.

The kind of music that promised special cocktails and people desperate for recognition—for their wildly expensive and occasionally scandalous lives.

But the calm shattered easily—by a laugh, or the hum of bass escaping the ballroom to greet arriving guests at the gates, still kilometers away from the villa.

And then the McLaren tore through it, slicing the evening open with its sleek, dark silhouette—as if it had been built for moments like this—gliding through the trees before settling into a pristine corner of the lot.

The door opened like a wing, revealing Lando—curls, clever eyes, bracelets stacked on his wrist as though the Richard Mille didn’t already make a statement on its own.

He looked at the villa like it had insulted him, keys and phone in hand, shirt undone at the chest, and a face that clearly wished he were already home.

“Fucking Max,” he muttered under his breath.

He leaned back against the McLaren, unlocking his phone to text a half-hearted excuse to the host and start crafting an exit strategy, lungs full of Monaco’s damp, sea-salted air.

But before he could hit send, light footsteps distracted him. He lifted his sharp eyes from the screen and spotted someone at the far end of the long driveway.

A figure walking toward him in a dress that looked like it had been sewn onto her body—shimmering subtly in the light, in a silky, deep chocolate brown that whispered with every step. One shoulder bare, the twisted strap kissing the top of her arm and drawing attention to her collarbones and the faint freckles dusted across them, like they were ready to slip off.

The fabric ruched gently along her sides, tapering to her ankles and revealing heels far removed from the ones he was used to seeing her wear.

It looked like she had rehearsed her walk in a mirror—and yet her eyes told him she felt ridiculous, even as she smiled at him in that sweet way of hers, hugged by the masterpiece she was wearing.

“Of course you’re here,” her crystal-clear voice said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lando laughed, folding his arms across his chest, studying her like a question he didn’t yet know the answer to. “Didn’t you say you were skipping this circus?”

She had been invited by a guy she’d met around the paddock—a type who didn’t flaunt his experience or wealth, who treated her like a friend, not just another plus-one people often mistook her for when she wasn’t working.

And even though she hadn’t exactly said yes, she showed up out of courtesy. Part of her sweet, thoughtful nature.

“Didn’t you say you were flying to Geneva?”

He smiled, that effortless, magnetic kind that disarmed even the most biting sarcasm. He glanced toward the villa, his jaw flexing now and then—highlighting the sharp lines of his face.

“Okay, you got me. But I made it very clear I’m only here for ten minutes. Say hi, get out.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Lando licked his lips, pushing away from the car just as someone cannonballed into the pool overlooking the gulf. Then he offered his arm.

She slipped her hand around his bicep—warm fingers, a loose, shy grip—as the music swelled and they headed into a night that had every potential to end in disaster.

Inside, to speak of diamonds would’ve been an understatement. The floors were polished black marble, the air rich with the scent of expensive taste, and the music was a happy marriage between pop hits from ten years ago and the kind of house tracks people pretend not to love.

Loud enough to kill your thoughts, but not your conversations.

The champagne flutes were topped off before they ever emptied, waiters smiling as they poured the golden liquid into hands of every shape and kind, absorbing fragments of every overheard conversation.

The Formula One driver was lounging on a sofa, listening intently to a friend-of-a-friend talk about building luxury yachts for billionaires who liked to disappear now and then, while she found herself in front of a friendly model who kept pitching ridiculous fashion brands she was allegedly signed to.

And then the cavalry arrived—shots of hard liquor passed around by a waiter who clearly enjoyed watching people’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Come on. It’s tradition. When offered vodka, you don’t ask questions,” Lando whispered into her ear, turning her toward him with that smirk that, in any other moment, would’ve infuriated her.

Their glasses clinked, and the vodka burned its way down. Sharp. Clean. Too easy. The kind of first drink that made you smile and forget the chill on your shoulders.

And suddenly, the party was floating again—conversation to conversation, people pulling them apart and pushing them back together like tides.

They got lost for a bit. She was chatting with a group near the pool—someone offered cigars, others tried to pitch a startup, mistaking her for the daughter of an old friend who had just graduated from the Sorbonne.

The patio glowed with its own light. And though the music felt distant, her palm was sweating around something a model had shoved into it. Her eyes drifted over the crowd, faces floating through the night like they owned the place.

A voice—low, accented, deliberate—cut through the noise.

“You are not like them,” he said, amused.

He was tall, in a perfectly tailored suit, a spray of gray at the temples lending him that lived-in charm that drove half the women insane. No tie, no ring. His accent hinted at Eastern Europe, but softened by years of Swiss banks and yacht summers in Saint-Tropez.

“Is that your opening line?” she asked, caught off guard.

“No. My opening line was going to be about your eyes. But then I saw you watching everyone like a bored anthropologist.”

“Guess I forgot to bring my brand deal tonight.”

“So… not a model?” he smiled, sipping his whiskey and stroking his perfectly kept beard.

“God, no.”

She let the silence stretch, imagining the confusion on his face.

“I just like to stand behind a camera. That’s all.”

“Formula One?”

He asked, she nodded—standing there, elegant without trying, thinking of the adrenaline and how, in that sport, things could go wrong in a second. How the danger stripped everyone of pretense and left only the desire to reach the top of the world.

“Interesting.”

“What, not what you expected from someone in overpriced heels and a fancy dress?”

“You know people are looking at you, and yet you stand like you wish they wouldn’t.”

She raised her eyebrows, surprised again, setting her glass down and running a hand through her soft, natural waves.

“You’re observant for someone who probably owns five oil fields.”

The businessman leaned in like he was about to reveal a secret that could get them both killed—if this were an action movie, and not real life.

“Three. But I sold one for a vineyard.”

She didn’t turn when she felt fingers brush her wrist—gentle, not interrupting, but reminding her of something very specific.

Someone had slid in beside her, sniffed at her drink, and leaned against the column behind her, arms crossed in playful defiance.

“Sorry, am I interrupting your adoption papers?”

She smiled, amused.

“You’re just in time. He was about to offer me shares in a yacht.”

“She’s sharp. Don’t lose her in this chaos,” the man laughed, eyes warm with appreciation.

“I’m working on it.”

This time, Lando had taken her hand with a disarming ease, the alcohol now fully steering them both—quieting the questions. He led her through the crowd like it had always been the plan.

The man raised his glass as they disappeared into the tide of bodies, watching the pilot’s broad shoulders and her delicate skin melt into the dancefloor.

The lights had dimmed further, if possible. Purple beams cut through the haze—the mix of breath, heat, and mid-June humidity.

The small talk was gone. There was only rhythm now. The kind you don’t dance to—you dance inside of.

Lando’s hand was still in hers as he brought her dead center, without asking if she wanted to—because he didn’t need to.

“Told you I’d find you,” he smiled, turning over his shoulder as the crowd gave them room.

The crowd swallowed them whole—some showing off their best moves, others simply existing in the throb of the music, everyone leaning into someone.

Lando’s smile was lazy and devastating. She hesitated, her hand halfway between his and his shoulder, eyes scanning all the chaos.

“They’re so drunk, they’d forget their own names if they weren’t tagged on Instagram.”

She laughed.

And that sound ran through his veins like adrenaline.

Then he watched her move. Slowly, at first—letting the music sink into her bones and hips—while Lando stayed close enough to keep the pull between them taut. His hands hovered around her, waiting for gravity to do the rest.

He knew she was letting go.

The vodka, the heat of the crowd—it had stripped away the hesitation she’d carried in with her.

“You’re kind of incredible when you let go.”

One of the British driver’s large hands found her waist, the other coasting up her spine, locking her into the rhythm—hot, fluid, with barely a breath between them.

They moved like they’d done this before, like they weren’t supposed to, but couldn’t stop.

“This is not what we agreed to tonight.”

Her lips shimmered under the colored lights, as did her lightly made-up eyes—just enough to accentuate delicate, striking features.

“Yeah, but have you seen us?”

She rolled her eyes, grinning from ear to ear as she felt his breath skim across her mask, the slight hitch in it when her hips rolled slower—deeper.

Lando raised her arm, guiding it around his strong neck, holding her close like some predator might steal her away—despite how perfectly in sync they were.

“…Just let the rhythm guide us.”

They were halfway between laughter and fire, mouthing lyrics between breaths, their lips nearly brushing.

He studied her like something brand new, the charming façade flickering with something else.

Desire. Maybe disbelief.

“Who are you right now?”

The next song dropped with a beat that shook the room, and they let it take them—no words.

She turned, back to him, and his hands cemented on her hips, guiding her movements with his—subtle, certain.

She leaned in, feeling him tense.

His grip tightened as he muttered something under his breath she couldn’t quite catch—but it made her smirk.

The crowd shifted, but never touched them—as if there was something too electric about their presence.

If it had been another night, at a smaller party, someone would’ve said something. Snapped a photo. Whispered.

But there were hundreds here. Too drunk to recall their last sentence. Too distracted to see what was happening.

Another song struck like lightning—pulsing like a heartbeat turned inside out.

Lando felt it in her spine, in her ribs.

And then—he moved.

His hands slid higher, fingers threading through the ends of her natural hair, gathering it gently into his palm. Not yanking. Just holding—like it was something precious. Like it was something he’d wanted to do for a long time.

“You don’t even realize, do you?”

“What?”

His lips grazed the shell of her ear.

“How fucking dangerous you are when you stop pretending you’re invisible.”

And then he did it.

He kissed her bare shoulder.

Not rushed. Not shy. The kind of kiss that makes everything inside you stop. Soft, warm, deliberate. Pressed right where her shoulder met her neck, his thumb stroking her spine, his fingers tangled in her hair like he needed the anchor.

Her eyes closed—before she could stop them.

Breath sharp. Now they were eye to eye. Breath to breath.

Bodies still moving around them. But they may as well have been shadows.

He brought her back to the music—his hand at her lower back—moving like no one was watching but as if everyone should have been.

She mouthed her favorite lyrics against his jaw, and he laughed—every time—a real, breathless laugh.

“You keep doing that, and I swear—”

“And what?”

“I’ll carry you out of here.”

Lando leaned in, forehead against hers, his eyes fluttering shut like he was grounding himself—like he was seconds away from crossing the line.

This wasn’t flirting anymore.

This was the edge. Where things tip. Where play turns into something dangerous. Where every breath and touch thickens the air, and nothing after can be undone.

And neither of them seemed to care.

Because the party would end. The lights would come on.

But in that moment, with the beat in their blood, the heat of the room around them, his hands on her skin and her name on his lips—

They were diamonds. They were shadows dancing.

wrote this in an absolute creative rush and I don't even know if it makes sense, but I always love trying to picture Lando's duality treating you all... let me know!

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[dedeinthewild]

ominis gaunt x reader, friends to lovers

- “And what kind of legacy do you want to leave?”

summary : The wizarding world is facing again a threat that comes from the Gaunt family, and the last descendant desperately wants to probe the connection she has with some special individuals from the bloodline

The Hogwarts library had been a faithful companion to the young Slytherin, who, for several weeks now, had been sitting on the threadbare carpet of the genealogy section. She rested one arm on a stack of books about magical bloodlines, tucked in a quiet corner that no one had yet disturbed—not at such odd hours.

She had thick hair, so soft it seemed the result of a spell, and a pair of eyes that spoke of someone who knew how to hide without really hiding, remaining invisible in plain sight. Hermione had spoken to her a few times, when she had found her late at night still immersed in her reading, eyes tired and wand holding up her hair in a loose bun.

She had always watched her from afar, with that Slytherin crest on her chest, often wondering about her study methods or why she spent evenings alone in that library section, analyzing countless family trees.

One night, just before Christmas break, the Gryffindor had picked up a few books, leafed through the parchment pages, and placed them next to the other girl’s legs, smiling at her with her usual gentle manner.

Her name was ______ Marlowe, the same as a distant aunt, and perhaps, even if she wasn’t the physical embodiment of dawn with all the mystery that clung to her, Hermione would learn to know her as such.

“You’re not really a Marlowe, are you?”

The Slytherin looked up from the book she was examining, legs crossed on the floor and back slightly hunched, as if to protect the precious information written on those pages.

“That’s a strange accusation to make, Granger.”

“You don’t just happen to be researching the Gaunts the same week the Prophet leaks the families associated with Lord Voldemort. And you don’t hover near the Restricted Section unless you’re looking for something... dangerous or buried.”

______ knew full well how sharp Hermione’s mind and words could be, and she was clearly impressed. So she looked at her, lips curling into a faint smile that a trained eye might recognize, and pulled the wand from her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders.

“You really don’t stop, do you?”

She made room beside her, shifting several books to her right, inviting the younger Gryffindor to sit on the same worn carpet.

“No. Not when it matters.” Hermione replied, wrapped in her handmade sweater, the sweet scent of her hair making the Slytherin smile slightly.

She turned a few pages, stopping at the chapter on the Gaunt family bloodline—the one from which Voldemort himself descended—pausing at a now-faded branch, full of sons, grandchildren, and cousins who had disgraced the great family name and distanced themselves from its dark-arts-centered core.

“My real name’s _____ Gaunt. My mother changed it to Marlowe when we moved to Wales. Said it would be safer. Fewer whispers. Fewer broken windows.”

Hermione’s eyes quickly scanned the family tree, imprinting the tiny portraits that accompanied the elegant names into her mind, passing over the unfamiliar faces until she reached the recognizable expression of Tom Riddle, the Dark Wizard who was now gripping the magical world in fear.

“Your mother is Voldemort’s daughter?”

The Slytherin’s finger rested on the portrait of Mira Gaunt. A pair of emerald-green eyes, very different from Tom’s dark ones, and long chestnut hair that closely resembled the girl sitting on the floor.

“No. His half-sister. Merope had another child after Tom. Born in secret, far from Little Hangleton. It was never supposed to be known.”

Merope Gaunt, like others in her family, had been cast out of the bloodline after breaking the marriage rules they upheld, fleeing from the abuse of her brothers and father, hoping that her son’s life—and then the unexpected Mira’s—could be better than her own.

“And you’ve known this the whole time?”

The girl only shrugged slightly, her soft hair falling over her shoulders as she ran a hand through it, eyes fixed on a point ahead of her.

“You learn to survive your family name. Quietly. I wanted nothing to do with the bloodline until I found... never mind.”

Hermione frowned, glancing at the notebook between them, filled with transcriptions and colored notes where _____ had tried to piece together her research.

There were some drawings, a few receipts from Ollivanders—likely referencing the unique moment when that distant aunt and other family members had chosen their wands—and the happy smile of someone entering the old man’s shop for the first time.

“Until you found what?” asked the Gryffindor, curious.

The Slytherin handed her the notebook, opening it about halfway to the first document she’d found in the attic of their small home in Wales, tucked away in a sealed drawer no one had ever let her open.

“Letters. Hidden in a sealed drawer at my great-grandmother’s cottage. From someone named Ominis Gaunt, late 1800s. Apparently the younger brother of some of the worst in our bloodline. He was a Parselmouth, like Salazar himself. And he was... different.”

Hermione searched for Ominis’s name on the Gaunt family tree, scanning the faces and fates intertwined with dark magic until she reached a defined portrait, one with a nearly sad expression. It was likely drawn when he was their age, before his break with the family, still bearing the youthful features of someone in their prime.

He was blond, like half the family, and had a pair of vacant eyes, so light they looked like threads of memory before being poured into a Pensieve.

“He hated what the family stood for. He was blind, but he saw more clearly than any of them. After something called the Scriptorium Incident, he refused to carry on the legacy. He writes in one of the letters, ‘I will not father sons who whisper in the dark to walls made of bone and lies.’”

_____ flipped through the pages to the excerpt in question, showing it to Hermione while putting away a few loose notes.

“The Scriptorium... there are records of it deep under the castle. A place where Salazar hid secrets. Tom Riddle found it once.” Hermione said, her voice revealing how bright and gifted a young witch she was.

“Ominis found it too. But it broke him.”

She took out a single piece of parchment—the only one she had kept from Ominis’s letters—unfolding it carefully and placing it in Hermione’s hands as the candles in the library began to go out, leaving them in a comfortable dimness. The kind the Slytherin loved, when she searched for answers in books and memorized, doing what she did best: Studying. Understanding.

“But I’ve made my choice. She reminds me of what I could be—who I almost became before I touched that cursed place beneath the dungeons. Her name will not be tarnished by mine. I will not see her again. O.”

“Is that ‘she’ a relative of yours?” asked Hermione, moved by the raw, honest words of the Slytherin boy who had lived a century before them, always in the shadow of his surname, trying not to be defined by it. But the girl hadn’t found any trace of her—or her name. Not in books, not in her grandmother’s or great-grandmother’s memories, and not in the archives she searched.

She had no idea who she was. Or who Ominis had left behind like that, walking away to prevent what haunted him from dimming her light too.

“He talks about her as though she was a Patronus.” said the Gryffindor, her voice full of emotion as she read the letters, feeling as though she were violating an important, intimate part of the blind boy’s soul—erased from many genealogical records, but not from Hogwarts’ library.

“She was. To him. I think he wrote these so he wouldn’t forget what he nearly destroyed.” said _____, emotion in her voice as her eyes drifted past the curly-haired girl beside her, rereading those words for the millionth time, which felt more and more familiar and profound.

“She believed in things that didn’t give her any power back. Justice. Mercy. Him.” she added, handing Hermione another note, reading part of it aloud, her handwriting in stark contrast to the Gaunt boy’s:

“I think she knew what she was giving up that day. What I would abandon that day. I wonder if I’ll ever be brave enough to find her again.”

The Slytherin gathered all the papers, reorganizing them and tucking them into the notebook along with the notes she’d taken that evening, feeling relieved to finally talk about something like this with someone after months of silent research and deafening discoveries.

She couldn’t talk to her mother, who would be furious if she knew she’d opened the forbidden drawers of their house, nor to her grandmother, with whom the topic of their bloodline was strictly off limits.

“He never names her. But every time you talk about what magic should be—not what it can do, but what it mustn’t—you remind me of how he wrote about her. That unshakable moral spine,” she added with a laugh, turning toward the Gryffindor, who responded with a sweet smile.

The Undercroft of the school of Witchcraft and Wizardry felt like it was trying to suffocate them, full of traces of ancient magic and symbols they had tried to decipher together—before the third member of their trio chose to stay behind, either to keep watch or protect them from a possible attack.

The braziers along the stone walls waited to be lit, and the carved serpents along the edges watched Ominis as if expecting something from him—as if to remind him that he was one of them, and there would be no escaping it.

He heard her step slightly away, rise on her toes. And he didn’t need working eyes to know what she was doing. She had lifted her hand, removing the wand holding up her hair, letting it fall down her back, with that familiar scent that never made him feel alone, trying to light the braziers.

Then she stepped back beside him, elbow to elbow, guiding him through the labyrinth of ruined, forgotten walls beneath the castle, hidden from sight.

Now and then, Ominis would stop, as if he could sense something—some vibration she could not feel—and he’d take a piece of parchment, pocketing it as though he knew exactly what it said, tracing the handwriting like it had been carved behind his eyelids.

But suddenly, the fire turned green, and Ominis’s Parseltongue would not let them pass through the door that whispered—screamed—like the lips carved into it were trying to flee in pain.

That door demanded suffering. That’s how Noctua died. And how everyone before her had.

Because you could not pass through it alone.

The boy had started trembling, his ears ringing, as if he were trapped in a nightmare he begged to wake up from, and to do so, he needed someone who saw it all the way he did. He knew it had to be done. But he couldn’t do it.

“Then we’ll sit here and wait for the walls to close in.”

The girl took a few steps toward him, seeing how the pain twisted his face like a master, and she raised a hand, as if the ceiling above them weren’t threatening to collapse if they hesitated even a moment longer. She touched his cheek first with her fingertips, gently, then rested her whole hand there, as she often did. He leaned into her touch, closing his empty eyes for a moment. But in that moment, he was so hurt, so terrified, that those eyes seemed full. Full of something he didn’t want. His name. His blood. His family.

“Then let them crush us. That would be mercy compared to what this place demands.”

“Ominis—”

“Cast it on me, if it must be done. Let me be the one to bear it. I’ve had it done to me before. It’ll be easier than—”

“No, it won’t. And don’t pretend this is noble.”

“You don’t understand. I need it to be me. If I do this to you—if I say the words—” his voice faltered “—I’ll hear your scream in my sleep forever. Just like I hear my brother’s laughter. Just like I hear Noctua’s voice when she told me she thought she had found a way for us to be different. For this place to be nothing more than a dusty cupboard.”

He frantically reached into his pocket as she lit her wand to read better, gently pulling his hands away from her face, as if to convince him even more that it had to be him. As if she were stepping back to let him do what had to be done.

Ominis’s hands were full of forgotten scraps of parchment—some smudged with ash, others faded—but the handwriting was elegant despite everything. The same way he remembered his aunt’s.

“These were hers. Noctua’s. I collected every page I could find. She was trying to save us. She died for that belief.”

He let all the scraps fall to the ground, his stomach clenching, breath catching in his throat like a violin that couldn’t stop playing, as if the whole story depended on a single solo.

“You are trying too.”

“No. Not for the Gaunts. Not for Slytherin. I’m trying to save myself. Because when I’m with you—when I hear you speak like her—I think maybe I can be something different. Someone worth surviving.”

He drew his wand, placing it against his chest with a trembling hand, his empty eyes fixed on her, heavy with the weight of his words. She knew exactly what was about to happen. And what she was forcing Ominis to do. What she was making him lose, surrender.

“Please. Cast it on me. Let me bear it. Let me earn back my own name,” he asked one final time.

“You’re not your name, Ominis.”

She knelt, gathering every piece of parchment—every piece of Noctua that had spilled onto the floor. She folded them neatly in her hand, just as she knew Ominis would, and slipped them into his pocket.

“You’re her echo. And if there’s even a scrap of her in you… then I trust you to hold the wand. Even for this.”

The walls continued to close in, the air thinning, the ceiling trembling, and the relief carving above the door glowing red.

“Don’t ask me.”

“I’m not asking. I’m giving it to you. My choice. My trust. My name, if it helps,” she said, wrapping her hand and his around the handle of his wand. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t stand against the connection between them, nor what this cursed place demanded of him.

She stepped back, took a deep breath. And Ominis trembled one last time, wielding his wand like it was a part of him that longed to be severed.

Then everything lit up red. Blood red, pouring from his hands and reflected in his hollow eyes. A red that wrapped around the girl, a scream that tore through both of them. A pain they would never forget as she collapsed to the ground, her face contorting, head thrown back. And he let the wand fall, kneeling beside her as the red chains wrapped around her body, devouring her as dark magic always did.

“You don’t know what it feels like. The Cruciatus—it rips. It breaks something in you, not just in the person it’s cast on.” “I’ve felt what it does to a person. I’ve heard the soul split open. I will not put that on you.” “I want to walk away from this place. From everything our family built on cruelty.” “If I do this, I will never forgive myself.”

The air between them fractured into something made of pain and magic. Ominis was completely adrift in his thoughts, while the melody of the girl’s screams seemed to sing the very words he had spoken, and the ones his family had said when he refused to cast any curse. And then her screams became his. And then, once more, the castle’s piano melody—playing for years without ceasing, not even when the magical world bowed under the weight of endless tragedies. But then that red light, which had filled his eyes with something he never wanted, returned to being her caress.

He was barely standing. Ominis couldn’t see how pale she was, or hear how shallow her breathing had become, nor taste the blood she felt in her mouth that made her believe she was losing her mind. But he could tell she was alive.

“Then let me forgive you,” she whispered, just before Sebastian ran toward them and helped her up, lifting her in his arms.

Hermione and the Slytherin girl had met in the library for several weeks after first studying the Gaunt family bloodline together, searching through every book and archive for something about that Ominis and the girl he had let go—choosing guilt over the possibility of love. Just like every Gaunt before him.

“This was them. Ominis and the girl he never names. It’s the only photo left. It was hidden under the floorboards, wrapped in anti-fade charms that mostly failed,” said ______, handing the Gryffindor girl a small, damaged photo. In it, the young Parselmouth didn’t need to hold his wand to navigate the Hogwarts grounds. All he needed was to hold the girl’s hand. She smiled, even with her back to the camera, her wand tying her hair.

“He didn’t need magic to find his way.”

“What happened to her?”

“Sometimes I wonder if they ran away after finishing school, if they built some little cottage in the highlands and made a family. So that Ominis could laugh like he does in this photo.”

That girl felt a strong connection to those two—as if an invisible thread tied her to that distant relative so much like herself, as if Noctua had started something, Ominis had carried it forward, and she was the one meant to rewrite it all.

“Maybe they did,” Hermione smiled.

There was a breeze rustling the tall grass, and the hills stood soft and gentle. Ominis sat at a desk, the green shutters of the small cottage where he lived slightly open, covering the view he couldn’t see of the garden and the pond outside the room. He was older now, nearing forty, but still wore the elegant clothes he had brought from his Hogwarts years. His wand, resting atop a pile of parchment, listened to him like a faithful companion.

“My dearest— There are moments still, between waking and sleep, where I see Noctua’s eyes in yours. That quiet bravery. The way you challenge me with gentleness, never cruelty. I sometimes wonder if the Gaunt line should have ended long before me. If the rot was too deep. But then I hear your voice in the garden, talking to the hedgehogs you pretend not to feed. And I remember. Blood is not destiny. You taught me that. Noctua tried to—but you showed me.”

He paused, breathing in the sound of tea being made in the kitchen, and a clear voice pretending to speak to the teacups, which pretended not to listen.

“I want to bury my family’s legacy so deep that our children will never feel it pressing on their shoulders. Sometimes, when I dream, I hear a small voice call me father. And I do not flinch.”

He folded the parchment carefully, smoothing every crease, memorizing every word before stacking it with the others in a living archive that had outlived the dark shadow tainting the Gaunt blood. And no longer saw red light fill his eyes with something he didn’t want.

“You always write more when it’s raining.”

Ominis smiled without turning, choosing instead to throw open the window and its green shutters, hearing the rain pouring outside and tapping on the surface of the little pond.

“I write more when you’re not in the room.”

He spoke to her of legacy. Of what Noctua had wanted to leave behind. And how she would’ve probably loved her.

“And what kind of legacy do you want to leave?”

“You.”

She smiled, letting her hair fall over her shoulders the way he loved, with that scent that never made him feel lost, as she stepped toward him and sat on the wide desk.

“I want the Gaunt name to mean something better. Not blood purity. Not cruelty. Just… healing. You’ve already started that, you know.”

“And what would we name them, these hypothetical children of ours?”

“Alma Gaunt. Imagine that.”

No magic cut the air. No curse was cast. Only something that healed all the pain, the screams, and the echoing words.

Hermione sat on the arched window ledge of the school, just back from Christmas break, and the Slytherin girl entered with a smile stretching from ear to ear, refreshed, her notebook in hand. As if they were inseparable. As if something new lay inside.

“And did he ever find her again?” asked the Gryffindor girl, curious.

“He never needed to. She’d stayed the whole time.”

soo, goodnight everyone! I'm honestly the proudest I've ever been for a fic, and so I think this is worth reading even if you don't play hogwarts legacy or if you aren't familiar with the wizarding world. I understand that maybe the jumps could be quite disorientating, but I like the way they fit with the whole vibe and the way the game is built. Ominis is a deep character, and writing for him has been a blast. Show him some love!

[dedeinthewild]

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[dedeinthewild]

george weasley x reader, friends to lovers

- “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”

summary : it's like they can't function without that little interaction, the one that infuriates Snape but makes McGonagall smile at the sight. They're never distracting, and they work obnoxiously well together.

Sixth Year had welcomed them with open arms — with breakfasts in the Great Hall now turned into a refuge for stressed-out students, and hours lost in the library over pumpkin juice and ink-smudged notes.

Autumn had swept in with it the rising expectations of the professors, all preparing their students for the NEWTs they’d sharpen the following year. And so everyone had started wandering the corridors smelling faintly of scorched lavender from Potions class, reading letters from home while poking at dinner.

But there was something different in the air that year. Maybe it was the feeling of nearing the end of their Hogwarts days, or maybe the taste of freedoms they’d longed for ever since the Sorting Hat had first been lowered onto their heads.

That day, students were standing before Professor Snape, listening as he explained the use of new ingredients they'd cultivated during Herbology. He handed each of them a new textbook to keep. His black hair framed an expression even more sour than usual — the one he wore whenever Gryffindors were paired with Slytherins for the practical part of the lesson.

His eyes, predictably, drifted to the back of the classroom, to the same sight he’d been met with for years. George Weasley was standing there, spinning a quill between his fingers, while his loyal partner in green had her head gently resting against his arm — her usual place.

As if — be it summer or winter, whether they'd just witnessed a girl being petrified or the latest prank from that ever-famous Gryffindor trio — they always ended up there. On the shiniest tile of the Potions classroom floor, her voice low and steady as she explained the diagrams Snape had handed out at the start of class.

George always kept an eye on Snape. She, meanwhile, was already memorizing the measurements of each ingredient, with that soft smile she wore whenever something truly captured her interest.

She loved Potions. Or maybe — she loved every class, really.

They’d made it through the winter wrapped in their robes, and now the dungeons were warming with spring's return — that heady, reckless warmth that made you want to spill out onto the grounds, maybe even wander past Hagrid’s hut just because.

But Snape’s dramatics anchored them all to the floor. And he kept watching the way George and the Slytherin girl worked together — now seated, elbows brushing.

She was peeling a root. George was copying her notes, gripping his quill between thumb and forefinger, the other hand flat on the parchment to keep it still. When they moved to the brewing, George rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, stirring with a focus he had never once shown in Snape’s classroom. She had once again leaned lightly against his arm, reading instructions with a lock of hair slipping past her nose.

“Miss ____,” Snape drawled, voice dry as bone. “I presume Mr. Weasley is now your official emotional support twin?”

She didn’t look up, simply poured a vial of extract into the potion.

“Must I remind you that your role in this classroom is not decorative?”

“No, sir.”

Her voice was calm, respectful, measured. When she stood upright again, shoulders square, nobody noticed the way George took half a step closer — just enough to read over her shoulder again.

Around them, caldrons hissed and spit. One group’s potion billowed black smoke; another had achieved a murky green sludge. But beneath Snape’s ever-watchful eye, the pair — the pair he least tolerated — had brewed something perfectly clear, subtle, and steady.

They had met in third year, back when they'd started chatting in the hallway outside Transfiguration. Sometimes they’d trade chocolate frogs, sometimes just keep each other company between lessons — him with his half-muttered jokes, her with that crystalline laugh that rang through even the quietest corners of the castle.

By fourth year, they were hiding behind stone arches after mischief with Fred, then reappearing like nothing happened — her returning to being the straight-A student no one really knew, because there was always someone louder, someone flashier. But with George, she never had to be the best. She didn’t even have to prove she could be.

He handed her ink before she could ask. Waited for her by the common room door when he knew her day had been long, just to walk her down to the wooden bridge and sit there in silence until dinner.

“If your proximity to Mr. Weasley is required for his comprehension,” Snape said now, placing a hand on her shoulder as she adjusted the flame beneath the caldron, “I suggest you consider tutoring him outside of scheduled class hours.”

“I’m not tutoring him,” she replied, unshaken. She’d grown used to Snape’s tone — the way he never quite accepted that George was improving in his classroom. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Snape squinted at George through the veil of his black hair, as if he’d just caught him stealing dittany from his personal stores.

George, for his part, was silently slicing the last root, movements precise, mouth set in quiet focus.

Their sides touched — her stirring, him cutting — a small, easy closeness that spoke more than words ever could.

“Remarkable,” Snape murmured. “He’s learned something. And yet your elbow appears permanently fused to his arm.”

George didn’t even look up. His knife slid cleanly through the root.

Snape leaned in slightly, head between theirs.

“You may not be speaking,” he said coolly, “but some distractions, Mr. Weasley, are visible rather than audible. You take up more space than your marks suggest you deserve.”

The class reeked of burnt lavender, and yet the air was warmer than usual. The lesson ended — at last — and Snape made his final lap around the classroom.

He declared another group’s cloudy, oversteeped potion the best of the lot. Not theirs — even though he knew it was superior, flawless in technique and result.

He gave ten house points to a pair of Slytherins whose work didn’t hold a candle to theirs.

That evening, on the bench in the quiet courtyard, they laughed over it all — at Snape’s face, at his comments, at how he just couldn’t stand the fact that they worked better together than any student pairing he’d ever tried to engineer.

“And you, if you plan to succeed in this subject—” she imitated, dramatically, “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”

The sun hung lazily above them, catching on the edges of the grass that George was fiddling with in one hand.

He lay almost fully stretched out on the lawn, nose scrunched, smiling lazily as he pretended to reread her notes.

She sat upright beside him, head tucked against the curve of his shoulder and chest — because that was always where she ended up.

And he never moved.

“You reckon,” she added, “Snape keeps a personal diary of all the ways he wants to sabotage our friendship?”

“With headings and bullet points.”

She picked a few little flowers from the grass, pressing them between the pages of her book, while George had abandoned the notebook beside them and closed his eyes.

“Daily entries,” she insisted.

“‘April tenth: Miss _____ smiled at Weasley again. Points deducted on principle.’”

And the Slytherin burst into that crystalline laughter—the one that had brightened George’s days ever since he handed her one of his creepy crawlies during Divination class a few years back. He looked at her, hands folded behind his head, lips parted in amusement.

“He probably cries into his robes.”

“We’re his worst nightmare,” she said, turning to rest her chin on the boy’s chest, her face tilted slightly, lit by the lazy sun that had begun to signal the arrival of evening—when fireflies flickered and seventh years dashed off toward Hogsmeade.

“And each other’s favorite person,” replied the redhead, reaching out to affectionately tap her nose, with no awkward pause, knowing how easy it was for them to spend time like this—without the heavy questions that might make things complicated.

“D’you think McGonagall finds us annoying, too?”

“She gives us house points when she thinks no one’s watching.”

George grabbed the notebook again, mumbling something about her handwriting being illegible, which earned him another smile from her and a delightfully witty comeback.

Still full of pumpkin juice and the delicious treats that always appeared on the Great Hall tables in the morning, they’d headed to Transfiguration class, where tall windows cast soft morning light across their faces. George had arrived first, walking casually, a bluish glint masking his freckles as he slid into their usual seat—always at the back, far right, behind Fred and Lee, who were certainly going to be late.

As usual, he laid down his parchment and quill on the desk, fiddling with the cap of the ink bottle while Professor McGonagall prepared the lesson behind her desk. She arrived a bit later, delayed by a Hufflepuff girl who’d asked her for help with a Herbology assignment that would otherwise have interfered with Quidditch. The light catching her face came in gold tones from the lower part of the windows, and she lingered at the doorway to grab a few more parchments before sitting beside the redhead. The usual scent of burnt lavender from the dungeons had been replaced by the warm aroma of wood and ink in the Gryffindor head’s classroom—but what hadn’t changed was how close the two of them always sat.

“Excellent, Miss ______” said the professor, her voice kind.

The Slytherin had just transfigured a matchstick into a silver pin under George’s attentive gaze, as he observed closely, memorizing everything she did even though she never had to turn to see him do it. When she noticed McGonagall standing in front of her, she paused for a second, moving slightly away from George, but the professor raised her hand slightly, as if to say not to worry, her glasses low on her nose.

“Mr. Weasley,” she added, “you seem to be concentrating harder in my class than you ever have before.”

“Suppose I’ve upgraded my seat, Professor.”

McGonagall had grown used to scanning her classroom, catching boys testing their wands and girls adjusting their hair when students from other houses entered. Most always sat in the same spots, forming patterns they assumed she didn’t notice—but her gaze often landed on that last row in the back-right corner.

Y/L/N and Weasley. They didn’t talk loudly or whisper like the others; they gave each other their full attention, absorbing one another. Perhaps McGonagall had been the first to notice how they always gravitated toward the same anchor point, their little corner.

And when the girl rested her head on the arm of the boy—so much taller and broader than her—it was never out of exhaustion or flirtation like others who slouched or bumped shoulders teasingly. She simply leaned on his shoulder, and neither of them ever seemed to mind. George never got distracted, even though he had never once paid attention with Fred. He didn’t look down at her or get lost in her—he just made sure she was comfortable, jotting down a few notes here and there. They had never been distracting—and never would be. But they were always noticeable.

“Five points to Gryffindor and Slytherin,” she said, “for correct technique… and improved discipline.”

George smiled as he watched her walk away. And let himself toss out a small joke that made the girl next to him laugh.

“Do you think she’s going soft in her old age?”

She handed him another parchment, amused. Every point their houses earned came directly out of Snape’s tally, who seemed increasingly unable to stomach watching one of his best Slytherin students bond so effortlessly with a Gryffindor—worse, a Weasley. He’d say she was competent, while George was just an accessory—and that his classroom was no stage for duets. All while George’s pinky wrapped gently around hers. And in all those times she handed him her quill, knowing exactly what he needed—or when he saved her from disaster, knowing she was brilliant but also hilariously clumsy—

George was improving, in all those evenings around the Gryffindor table, which had half-adopted her, one arm draped around her shoulders and his eyes on the napkin she used to explain things during the most random moments. And everyone saw the house points rising, despite Snape’s best efforts. And McGonagall was secretly pleased, her rare smile quietly revealing it.

By summer, they found themselves once again in the dungeons of the castle, the scent of potions embedded in their memories, cauldrons bubbling, students anxious over the final Potions class before their seventh year. In the very back—where the shadows couldn’t reach—two figures stood behind their workstation, shoulders nearly touching as if silently reminding each other that they worked better together than alone. Their table was perfectly organized, ingredients balanced with care, and a shared checklist sat between them—half in her writing, half in his unexpectedly neat script.

The potion they had to brew was the hardest of sixth year—so complex that a single extra stir could curdle the entire mixture.

Most students had already given up. A Ravenclaw girl declared her defeat after spilling a foul-smelling mess on the stone floor, while a few Gryffindors muttered frantically about smoke and whether they’d added the right amount of feathers. Through the chaos, Snape’s voice cut like a crow through storm clouds over the Black Lake.

Meanwhile, she and George didn’t need to speak.

He lit the fire; she checked the temperature with the back of her hand, consulting the list while the Gryffindor ground moonstone in the mortar. And the most remarkable part? They hadn’t rehearsed this potion. Not once.

His movements blended with hers like they’d done it a thousand times before. Three clockwise stirs, she added an ingredient, one counterclockwise stir, five seconds of stillness—then repeat. The potion began to glow with a pearly shimmer and its unmistakable scent filled the air. She glanced up at George, breaking free from their shared rhythm, just as his lips curled into a small smile.

The classroom had quieted. Even Snape’s sighs were audible now. Everyone else had given up. Lee had been the last, his hand trembling when he saw the professor approach.

When Snape finally stood in front of their desk—the one he loathed most—they didn’t even look up. Their potion spoke for itself, releasing soft, perfect-colored puffs just as the textbook described, no trace of cloudiness.

For once, there was no mistake. Nothing to criticize.

“I assume,” Snape said at last, his voice like steel cooled in oil, “that Miss ______ brewed this alone. Mr. Weasley’s hands appear clean, for once.”

They didn’t answer. George picked up the final vial and poured it into the potion without a trace of tension, while she checked the temperature with unmatched precision. And that’s when Snape saw it. The perfect timing. The shared glances. The subtle nods, exchanged like silent cues.

“Is there a reason,” he continued, quieter now, “that the two of you insist on treating this classroom as if it were… a coordinated ballet?”

At that, they finally looked up. Matching, quietly confident smiles on their young faces.

The potion was complete. There was nothing left to say.

As Snape walked away, she rested her head on George’s arm, and he drew a line through the last step of the recipe. Once again, they had worked beautifully—in silence.

That evening, they returned to their usual spot on the grass, backs against the bench. Fred had joined them, watching as she scribbled something into a notebook and handed it to George.

“What in Merlin’s name was that today?”

They laughed, and George crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to lean against him. And she did—this time looking up at the boy’s smile. At the soft freckles on his nose. The ones she’d come to love all summer long at the Burrow.

“I think he didn’t know what to do with us,” she said. “No insults left. No points to take.”

funfact: the first complete fanfic I've written on wattpad was about George, and writing this imagine was like reconnecting with middle school me

[dedeinthewild]

I desperately need some barça femeni (ona batlle, alexia putellas, sydney schertenleib...) x reader fic rec

(pls help a girl who just wants to read good fics, then maybe I'll gift you some of mine)

[dedeinthewild]

someone made me notice that the first fic I've written here was a paul aron x reader, and it was about a wedding, and that the lando x reader that everyone loved is kinda its glow up...

[dedeinthewild]

andy herrera x reader, captain x tenant

-“You scare the hell out of me,”

summary : Andy's undergoing a divorce and a rough part of her career, but she has Maya by her side, who has always dreamed of a day where they could talk about women together

Seattle was coming out of a difficult pandemic, one that had shut down the city for a long time and kept the Station 19 firefighters away from their loved ones for a while. But finally, things were opening up. They could go out again, back behind the counter at Joe’s for a good drink after long and exhausting shifts, once again accepting free drinks and going out without any masks. That night, Station 19 had gone to the bar to have some fun, fresh off battling a massive fire in the south part of the city, where four or five other crews had joined Station 23, which was leading the operation. It had quickly escalated to a level three, and it took the firefighters several hours to bring it under control, with the teams without ladder trucks staying behind to do the final checks once the hoses were shut off.

Andy, in particular, needed a drink and to clear her head of the thousands of thoughts weighing her down even more lately. She had signed the divorce papers, and the lawyer had delivered them to Robert, who was still opposing her decision, being of a very different opinion about their marriage.

They had sat at the bar, seeing that almost all the tables were taken, even the pool tables were filled with familiar faces. Maya had been the first to order, leaning back and handing a shot glass filled to the brim to the other lieutenant of their station. The familiar smell of fries and beer tickled everyone’s nose, and between drinks they grabbed a handful of peanuts and threw darts, betting a week of laundry duty or the next day's breakfast. The tequila burned down Andy’s throat, sharp and hot, making her frown and throw her head back before slamming the glass onto the bar, while Maya smirked, taking in the familiar Joe’s atmosphere.

And in the middle of all those people, near a pool table, Herrera saw someone. Maybe it was the light above her head, or the shirt she was wearing that showed off strong arms and a few tattoos—whatever it was, Andy couldn’t be mistaken.

“Shit,” she muttered, licking her lips, still tasting of lemon.

“You’ve got the thousand-yard stare,” Bishop smiled, letting down her hair and running her hands through it to mess it up, scanning the crowd for whoever had made her friend change so suddenly.

The captain of Station 23 was leaning against a table, a glass in hand, while her crew played darts and had fun together. She was wearing a black shirt that highlighted her jeans, which held the keys to the Mustang they had seen parked outside the bar, along with a keychain showing her rank and station.

“God, she’s cool,” said Maya, glancing at Herrera.

And she was right. Andy was staring right at her.

“Is that gay panic, Andy?” she teased, already a few drinks in, her jacket abandoned on the stool between them. “You’re terrified because it’s new. You’re freaking out because you don’t know what the hell to do with it.”

Theo Ruiz handed the captain a set of darts, and the two lieutenants from Station 19 watched her tie up her hair as she handed her drink to one of the other firefighters, eyes locked on the target.

“You don’t have to be smooth. You just have to be real. And desperate,” the blonde shrugged, handing Andy another shot.

“Oh, trust me, I’m desperate. I’m the least cool person here right now,” the other woman replied, burning from both the new feeling and the fact that she was about to finalize things with her husband.

“Don’t even think she’s into women. I mean, come on—she’s the captain. She’s got that whole ‘I’m in charge’ thing going on. I don’t think she’s the type,” Andy thought, stuck on the way the woman was throwing darts, surprising her team, who were high-fiving and wide-eyed. Sometimes she turned her back to the dartboard before throwing, or tossed them without even looking, even using her non-dominant hand. And when she missed, she’d lick her lips before laughing.

“Oh, honey. That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve got a little gay radar—and it’s blinking red, loud and clear,” said Maya, turning to lean her arms on the bar and gesturing at the Station 23 group for the bartender, leaving a few dollar bills.

One of the waitresses delivered the drink to the captain, who looked up and found Herrera’s eyes through the crowd, while Bishop, with her back to her, smirked in satisfaction. Then she left her crew at the dartboard, patted Ruiz on the arm, said goodbye, and made her way through the crowd, greeting some doctors she knew and dodging middle-aged men looking for company that night. She headed toward them.

“Thanks for the drink. Maya’s got good taste,” she said, sitting on the stool next to Herrera, looking at both lieutenants. She knew exactly what they were doing.

“Yeah, well… Maya’s got a lot of good ideas tonight,” replied Pruitt’s daughter, downing another shot of tequila, watching the captain fiddle with one of Joe’s coasters.

“I told you I’ve got a little gay radar. It’s never wrong,” the blonde whispered, as the captain walked back to her team, a hand in her jeans pocket and the proud stance of someone who flawlessly led a team of men.

“If you want to get the captain worked up, Theo can do something about that, they’re like tied at the hip,” Vic laughed.

Andy felt completely thrown by the feelings the captain stirred in her, and felt guilty just thinking this might be her way of getting back at Robert for his demotion. She was trying to figure out how it was even possible for her to feel something for a woman—let alone for a captain who had repeatedly told her she couldn’t stand her recklessness and lack of caution.

Since Maya had been demoted to lieutenant and Beckett left in command of the station, the department chief had given command of multi-station operations to Station 23, replacing the role that Station 19 had held for years. When Herrera found out, she was disappointed, angry that it was all happening because of her husband and a decision that Bishop had made—a right one, at that—but she soon understood why. Beckett’s leadership would never compare to the captain of Station 23.

A gas leak had caused an explosion in one of the skyscrapers near a previous call location, collapsing much of the building and sending thick plumes of smoke into the air. Station 19 rushed to the scene, talking to dispatch over the radios, trying to figure out who was already there—but when they arrived, the Station 23 helmets stood out among the civilians and injured, who some colleagues were already helping. At the front of the formation was the captain, standing tall and straight, one hand gripping the radio, her helmet covering her head, her last name printed on the back. She was barking orders, while her crew moved with perfect coordination—getting hoses, axes, flashlights, and tanks ready—asking the other two crews on-site to assess risks for Station 19, which was about to enter.

“Second floor stairwell’s compromised. We're rerouting evac through west fire escape. Squad 23—sweep east. Squad 19, support ventilation,” the captain’s voice rang out strong, while Beckett got lost in his useless checklist.

On the third floor there was movement, and Squad 36 was relaying the location of victims they couldn’t get out before Gibson and Hughes could finish ventilation due to poor visibility.

“That wing’s unstable. Collapse risk is rising. Hold perimeter,” she said into the radio, while on the back of the building, small explosions kept sparking new primary fires, worsening the situation quickly.

For all the firefighters inside, it felt like descending into hell, the heat swelling their skin even under the suits, and the oxygen tanks could only do so much against the thick wall of smoke. The building’s metalwork groaned, as if warning the captain what to do. Her eyes stayed fixed on the third floor and the chaos unfolding there, her hand still on the radio.

“Gibson, Hughes—status?”

The lieutenant paused his axe for a second to catch his breath.

“Ventilation in progress, roof’s compromised. Hughes is cutting on the east stairwell, two more minutes max.”

“Don’t trust that roof. If it shifts, pull out. That’s an order.”

The captain turned, eyes on the remaining Station 19 members, handing oxygen tanks to Miller, who looked eager to get in and “play.”

“Cap, we’ve got six civilians unconscious on ten. One’s critical, trapped under a steel support. EMS is setting triage on Fourth and Pine. We need hands,” crackled the radio, as one of Squad 36’s guys came down the stairs with the update.

The red flames kept roaring on the upper floors, worsening the smoke, until ventilation was finally done, allowing the new arrivals to get in and rescue the trapped civilians.

“Montgomery, you’re point with 36. Take Warren, grab the stair chair and extrication gear. Go now. That floor’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” she commanded with an authority the crew had only seen from the very best captains—ones with decades more experience.

The building continued to creak under the weight of the upper floors, destroyed by the initial blasts, as the first crews began to exit with injured victims, tanks nearly empty, faces contorted from heat and effort.

The captain raised her hand, opening the radio channel.

“All stations—ventilation’s clearing on levels six through eight. 19, you move in on my go. Ten seconds. Herrera, take your team up the west stairwell. You lead the search. Don’t go rogue. You go together. You come out together.”

Herrera, making her way through destroyed doors and piles of highly flammable paperwork, heard the captain’s words, took a deep breath, and hauled the extrication gear behind her to help those trapped under the debris.

“You got it, Cap.”

The captain could hear the lieutenant smiling through the radio—and she hated how much she loved Andy’s reckless passion for everything she did, how she lived for what she was raised to do. So she stood there, in the middle of all the fire trucks and ladders, while the police held back reporters and the smell of smoke tickled her nose. She looked like a queen on a perfect, deadly chessboard.

“Let’s bring them home, people. Go. Now.”

Inside the skyscraper, the flames were alive, devouring walls as if they’d never existed while the firefighters walked in steady, focused, axes in hand, with Miller and Cutler bringing up the rear, checking the building’s stability at every step.

“I’m seeing blistering along the north corridor. Ceiling’s sweating—might be a drop soon. We’re moving fast,” Herrera updated the captain in command.

Dozens of terrified people were still trapped as the floors threatened to give way, groaning with sounds that would haunt those poor workers for the rest of their lives. Ceiling panels crashed down on the backs of the Squad 19 guys, who were trying to shield those who couldn’t walk or were so deep in shock they were nearly paralyzed—until Miller kicked things off, throwing one of the victims over his shoulder.

“Get out now. Floor thirteen just flared. You’ve got a two-minute window before that roof comes down,” ordered the captain, following a radio call from Warren, who had found an alternate way out.

“Copy, Cap. We’re moving. But the stairs—damn it—they’re gone. Fire’s crawling up them like it knows we’re here,” replied Lieutenant Herrera.

“Go east.”

The sirens screamed as the upper floors kept collapsing onto each other, and the firefighters raced down the stairs, trying to ignore that voice in their heads telling them they could be the next to fall. Meanwhile, dozens of paramedics worked through the chaos of people sobbing, searching for loved ones or colleagues they'd spent every day with. But Squad 19 always made it out.

Through a rear door, Miller ran to the captain’s side and laid a wounded man on the asphalt. Cutler and Bishop followed, then finally Herrera. Of course, she was the last one out—her legs shaking from adrenaline and exhaustion—making a beeline toward the commanding officer, who stood stiff-jawed with worry for the teams still inside, fighting the flames with the ladder trucks.

“You scare the hell out of me, Herrera,” she said, catching her as she collapsed. Andy let herself fall into her arms, pulling off her mask with the last of her strength, her breathing ragged and her face smudged with ash.

“Good. Means you’re still breathing.”

When the fire was finally out and all teams returned to the station, dirty and drained, the best choice seemed to be just collapsing right there on the bay floor. While the men showered, Bishop and Herrera sat back-to-back on the floor, sweat drying on their brows, the smell of smoke still making them wrinkle their noses.

“So… you and Captain ‘Do-Not-Breach’ were really in sync today.”

“She gave the order. I followed it.”

“Mmhmm. Right after you almost kicked down a fire door.”

That afternoon, the Latina had wanted to break down the stairwell door and enter the floor before it was properly ventilated, but she'd listened to the captain’s orders—going against what everyone expected from her.

“I didn’t kick it down. I was reading the scene. And she knew I would wait. She trusted me to wait. That’s the difference.”

“And you loved that she trusted you.”

Maya sat up, crossing her legs.

“You weren’t just following her lead. You were mirroring her. You sounded like her. Moved like her.”

Andy loved dancing on the line—balancing authority and being good at her job with the instinct to let herself go. She had fire in her blood, the very thing that had gotten her where she was, and she never missed a chance to show it.

Station 23 and Station 19 worked together on a dozen calls in the following weeks. Car crashes, more fires, roads collapsing from the heat—and Squad 19 seemed to follow the new captain’s lead like it was second nature. That woman was everything the other female firefighters in Seattle aimed to be: confident, precise, competent. And the way she asserted her authority while uniting different teams was truly admirable.

One morning, the already open bay door of Station 19 revealed a figure stepping inside with her hands in her pockets, boots polished, walking like someone who’d come bearing news—hard to read. Her hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, each step echoing through the station, where the crew was cleaning equipment and taking stock of the ambulance and firetruck while Montgomery cooked lunch for both A and B shifts.

Andy knew why she was there. And she knew that once she walked out, the battalion chief would be waiting for her.

“Station 19. Thanks for letting me drop by.” Everyone followed her into the kitchen, where she remained standing, hands in her pockets, feet planted firmly on the ground.

“What brings you here, Cap?” asked Miller, popping a handful of chips into his mouth and wiping his hands on a towel Gibson had left on the table.

“As many of you know, the battalion chief wants a reorganization after the latest events, and he asked me to handle it.”

Andy shouldn’t have gone into the chief’s office. She shouldn’t have spoken to him so bluntly. But she had—and it cost her: a transfer, the disappointment of her team, and her marriage.

“Lieutenant Herrera will be transferred to Station 23, effective immediately,” she announced, looking straight at the Latina, who glanced down at the salad she was preparing, her wavy hair tied back in a ponytail, her face clear.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this,” she said, setting the bowl down and leaning back against the counter behind her. “I worked my ass off here. I built this with my team. With Maya. With Jack. With Vic. This place is mine.”

Everyone else stared at her, faces filled with sadness and frustration at the thought of losing Andy after everything they'd been through together. Montgomery stirred the pot like he could pour his anger into it. Sullivan remained silent, eyes locked on Herrera as if to silently admit his guilt. The others sat quietly at the table.

“And that’s why I fought to take you myself. Because if Dixon was going to move you, I wasn’t about to let him send you off to some broken battalion to fade away under a captain who doesn’t know what they’ve got.”

Everyone was taken aback by the captain’s words. She didn’t seem to be on Dixon’s side. She knew that pulling the lieutenant from Station 19 was wrong and petty, and far from fair.

“You’ll walk in already having earned my respect,” she reassured her once more.

They all looked at her with respect—something Station 19 hadn’t felt much from leadership lately, leadership that seemed to forget all the people throwing themselves into fires without knowing if they’d make it out. Then Ben stepped away from the wall and added another chair to the table.

“Do you still need lunch?” he asked with a kind, grateful smile.

The captain looked at them, her gaze lingering on Herrera. Andy was angry, confused, but so deeply in love with her job that she was determined to prove she’d make it—no matter what.

She nodded, a soft smile crossing her face.

So the captain sat down, adjusting her watch, waiting for Montgomery to bring the pot to the table, letting everyone else serve themselves first before doing so herself—keeping her place as a leader.

“You keep eating here, Captain, we’re gonna start expecting Yelp reviews,” joked Maya, sitting to her left.

“Three stars. No dessert. Slightly aggressive eye contact from the blonde.”

The whole table laughed, digging into the pasta and hoping the alarm wouldn’t go off mid-bite—again.

The other lieutenant of Station 19, the one who’d always claimed to have the best gaydar, started a conversation, partly to lighten the mood and partly to get to know the woman in front of them.

“It’s kind of… magnetic. I mean, not that kind of magnetic. Unless… I mean, it could be. Not that I’m— I’m saying you have range, Captain,” she rambled, twirling a forkful of spaghetti, glancing across at Herrera, who had finished eating, leaned back in her chair, and crossed her arms.

“You’re trying to figure out if I date women.”

Maya raised her eyebrows, surprised the captain had picked up on it so fast—and was being so chill about it.

“I was trying to be subtle.”

“You failed.”

Miller and Gibson exchanged glances, while Hughes froze mid-bite, wondering if the captain was offended by the curiosity from the former Station 19 boss—something that could strain their relationship with Station 23 and jeopardize Maya’s chance at a timely promotion.

But the captain laughed. Clear and genuine, brushing a hand through her hair.

“You really believe I belong with you?”

Herrera had decided to follow the Station 23 captain back to her station, using the excuse that she wanted to check out how much space she’d have for her things. Walking alone together gave them a chance to talk. Seattle was sunny that day, and the short sleeves of their uniforms did little to keep them cool.

“I do,” she sighed, looking straight ahead. “And I want you to walk into 23 exactly as you are. Let them adjust to you. I’ll make sure they do.”

“You scare the hell out of me,” the Latina smiled.

“That’s how I know we’ll work well together.”

[dedeinthewild]

seems like I have a huge thing for people who tilt their head back, chin up, and put the most infuriating smirk on their faces

[dedeinthewild]

lando norris x reader, no labels

-“Oh my god. You did cut it.”

summary : the fluff isn't here anymore, no more unruly curls on the back of his neck. She has a mission, and while Lando keeps falling for her, so do his fans.

Home tasted like the sausage rolls eaten on the grandstand chairs at Silverstone, and the clouds looming over the track, forcing them into cozy hoodies in a vain attempt to warm up a bit. It knew about stepping onto the track with no real goal—just to let her have some fun, to bring her along while he did a few laps ahead of the upcoming British Grand Prix, after a few weeks spent apart because of their schedules.

Some said she was the female version of him. The clothes, probably once hanging in Lando’s wardrobe; the way she adjusted her hair—not the pilot’s curls, but her own, soft and feathery; the way she burst out laughing at something silly and couldn't stop clutching her stomach for a while. It might’ve been annoying, how alike they were—if it hadn’t been so spot-on. And over time, they’d become a duo people loved: Lando always wanting her around whenever they were filming something for Quadrant, bringing her from behind the camera—with her sweet smile—into the spotlight, something she still wasn’t quite used to.

That time, the Brit had convinced her to go for a spin on the track with him, in the two-seater that the team had prepped just for the occasion—almost identical to the car he raced in during the season. And so she ended up stuck in one of the circuit’s garages.

She was wearing one of Lando’s old race suits, patched up along the ribs and probably stitched by his grandmother, while the helmet in her hands had been handed to her by his dad, who’d spent the past few days rummaging through the attic of their countryside house looking for one that would fit her. He’d found one Lando had used at the start of his career, his name stitched in white along the jawline, standing out against the blue shell.

Home knew about that, too. The bright lights in the garage, team members explaining what would happen and handing her forms to sign, insisting on taking some pictures, while she braided her hair at the nape of her neck and tucked it into the old suit.

“Sure you’re ready for this?” the Brit asked, running his fingers over the fabric she was wearing, like he was reliving old memories in that suit—chasing a dream that now sat squarely in his hands.

“What, sitting still and trusting you with my life? Seems overdue,” she smiled, watching as he avoided her gaze, lost in the scent of rain and the familiarity of the moment.

“I’ve driven you before,” he looked up at her, one of his signature smirks on his face as he grabbed the helmets, handing her the older one. The mechanics were already prepping the harnesses to help them into the car.

“You’re literally paid to drive,” she teased, as he slipped the helmet onto her head, waiting for her curious eyes to peek out from the visor, his large hands on either side.

They’d done hot laps together before, and far riskier things on regular roads—but this was the first time he’d take someone like her in the car that carried him across the world, that in many ways made him the Lando Norris. And he knew she hadn’t quite processed yet that she was about to ride in a Formula 1 car, but he could see in her eyes—and in her slightly trembling hands—that she was nearly as excited as he was.

Lando got in first, mechanics making sure he was strapped in tight and clicking the steering wheel into place, then Adam offered a hand to the girl. She paused in front of the driver, not missing their little tradition they did every time he drove. A small fist bump—his rougher, worn hand meeting her smaller, softer one. So familiar.

“If you need anything, I’m right behind you,” she joked, before climbing into the cockpit behind him. A team member gave her a last-minute rundown of the buttons in front of her and the lap Lando would take, while another tightened her belts.

“You good?” the driver asked once he got the green light to exit the garage, pressing the radio button with his thumb. The engine already roared as photographers snapped a few shots—not that she noticed, too caught up in the scent of the garage and the feeling of being inside that car.

“For now, yeah,” her smile could be heard in her voice.

“Right. Got it. So no screaming when I hit 300, yeah?”

“If I scream, it’s because you’re doing that little laugh after every apex. You sound like a cartoon villain every time we’re in a car together,” she answered, her voice slightly muffled by the radio. Engineers on the pit wall laughed, knowing exactly how true that was, as Lando finally aligned with the pit lane exit.

“How is it that I’ve been in your car on actual roads, and I still feel less safe right now?” she asked, grinning as he started to accelerate toward the first corner, hands firm on the wheel as he did his thing.

“Because on the road, I’m chill.”

The first lap was a thrill—just a taste of what he could really do. She started picking up on his moves before he even turned the wheel or feathered the brakes to perfect a line. Lando wasn’t one for radio chatter—unless he was winning or fighting for crucial points—but when it came to talking to her, he was all ears. She let out a few “woah”s here and there, especially in the high-speed corners, and when she took her eyes off the road ahead to look around, realizing how different the view was from the driver’s seat compared to what you saw on TV.

“Still alive?” Lando was clearly having the time of his life, knowing that—even if she’d scold him later—she loved seeing him like this.

“And thriving,” she replied, lost in the feel of the suit against her skin, the gloves too big on her hands, their helmets cutting through the cold Silverstone air that was slowly beginning to clear.

“Welcome to my office.”

“You’re so smug. I can hear you smirking,” she laughed into the radio, eyes focused ahead, the green helmet of the driver slightly blocking her view.

“Maybe I am.” That little smirk was always on his face, and the fact that she knew it was there made him smile even more.

“Do your engineers know you do this little smirk thing while pulling Gs?”

“Laughs, smirks—what are you up to?” Lando asked as he entered Copse. “But I’m glad you noticed.”

The nerves of the first few laps had given way to the kind of adrenaline the driver thrived on—and now, it was running through her veins too. The engineers were grinning back in the garage, quickly learning to love her energy almost as much as Lando did. Adam Norris sat nearby, more and more surprised by how different his son was when she was around.

“Okay, this might be the coolest thing I’ve ever done. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“I’m telling everyone. Immediately.” He teased, flooring it down the straight.

“Why do you look so pleased with yourself right now?”

Hearing her on the radio transported him to a place where he could imagine her voice during every race—after a perfect pit stop, a flawed strategy, urging him on or grounding him after a mistake.

“It’s a talent,” Lando laughed.

Corner after corner, straight after straight, those two didn’t seem inclined to stop. The Brit gestured with his head at the seating he’d had installed to create his own little fan section, and explained how to use Silverstone’s curbs to beat the competition. As they passed the pit wall, engineers spoke into the radio, while mechanics sat on the concrete beside the track, watching them fly by, knowing full well what those two were feeling in their seats.

After a few more laps than planned, Lando finally pulled into the pit lane, stopping the car in front of the garage. He unbuckled himself and jumped out first, telling the crew he’d handle the rest. He knelt to meet her at eye level, lifting his visor to look directly into her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and that smile beneath her helmet couldn’t be hidden. He gave a gentle pat right where his name was embroidered on her headgear.

Then he helped her out of the car, standing in front of her once they were both on the ground, unfastening the strap under her chin with those large hands of his and lifting off the helmet more gently than he’d braked all afternoon.

She sat down on one of the stools in the garage, next to Adam, who handed them both steaming cups of hot chocolate while the team packed up the car and chatted with the two of them.

But when Lando took off his own helmet, she gasped.

Not because the balaclava had left marks on his cheeks that made his light eyes pop, or because that smirk of his made him look even more impossibly handsome than usual. But because something was missing.

“Wait a second. Hold on. Did you—did you cut your hair?”

Lando raised his eyebrows, watching her look him over like a detective who knew she had the right suspect.

“…What?” he asked, confused. “Wait, wait. Are you telling me you saw me yesterday and didn’t even notice?”

“The curls. The mullet. My entire personality. Gone. And you didn’t say a thing.” She lifted her chin, mock offended like it truly wounded her.

“Oh my god. You did cut it.”

The driver looked over at his dad, crossing his arms.

“She finally sees me. After twenty-four hours of being... normal-haired.”

“I swear you had it yesterday! Didn’t you?!” She was laughing now—the kind of laugh he loved, the one that scrunched up her eyes and puffed her cheeks before she doubled over, clutching her stomach.

“Did I though?”

“Yes! I would’ve noticed if it was gone! I love that stupid thing, I talk about it all the time—how did I not—this is a conspiracy.”

Lando and that girl brought who they were with them wherever they went—a burst of fresh air that not everyone had noticed yet.

“You didn’t say a single thing. Not even a raised eyebrow.” He laughed now too, the fake-offended act falling away as he stepped closer to her, still holding his helmet in one hand.

“I’m grieving, Norris. Let me process.”

“You’re the one who didn’t even notice.” He ruffled her hair, grinning.

“Don’t you throw that back at me.”

She loved the British guy’s haircut.

The way his curls poked out from under the balaclava when he was getting ready for the podium, how they brushed against the collars of white shirts at events, or how they simply added coolness to him, making everyone talk about that irreverent mullet.

And Lando was amused by the fact that she had known him for years—before the haircut—but was now turning it into a national debate.

And Max liked that. A lot.

So, a few weeks later, when the British Grand Prix rolled around on the Queen of Motorsport’s summer calendar, he took advantage of the fanbase she had built up—thanks to a few smiles and her talent as a photographer—and the new content coming to the Quadrant channel to start a petition to bring the mullet back.

She had arrived at the circuit with Max and Pietra, while the driver headed to the paddock early that morning for briefings. She got ready to carry around one of the team’s cameras to film what the other British guy had asked her to do. Removing her paddock pass from around her neck and hooking it to a belt loop on her jeans to blend in better with the fans she’d be talking to, she headed into the fan zone and up into the stands to chat, flashing a friendly, disarming smile to everyone she met.

Pietra joined her after a while to help with filming, and the two of them ended up looking like just a normal pair of friends trying to capture memories and hang out with fellow fans—carefully hiding their true mission and the Quadrant stickers on the mic and camera.

Their first “victim” was a little boy on his dad’s shoulders, holding a red toy car and wearing a Ferrari cap, humming a song while waiting for the feeder series driver interviews to start in the fan zone.

And there they were, enjoying the rare good weather at Silverstone, moving from stand to stand, looking for people to interview for the video and soaking in the atmosphere outside the paddock and garages.

"Hey there, can I ask you a fun question? Who’s this guy?" she asked, pushing her sunglasses up to keep her hair off her face.

“He drives the orange car. Number four,” the boy answered, tilting his head slightly as if wondering how she didn’t know, trying to give her as much info as possible without revealing who he was rooting for.

“You nailed it! And… did he look cooler with the curls?” Pietra laughed, knowing full well that as soon as the first interview started, her friend couldn’t resist bringing up the mullet.

“I liked the curls. He looked faster.” The little boy looked almost scared of betraying his favorite team by suggesting that McLaren’s curly-haired driver might have been quicker, and his terrified expression made the two girls smile.

“You might be my favorite person today.”

“You too, you have a Lightning McQueen tee,” he smiled, pointing to her shirt with the famous Pixar car on the front and back, making her melt under the sun.

They strolled around some more, looking for people to talk to, enjoying the rare English sunshine, while rivers of fans showed support for all the teams and drivers, each living and breathing their shared passion.

“All right, you three look suspiciously like you know too much about motorsport,” the girl said, spotting a trio of girls sitting on the grass, hands in their hair, a blanket laid out beneath them with flags and signs scattered everywhere.

“That’s... probably accurate,” laughed the first girl, sitting up cross-legged and inviting her to join them.

“Dangerous territory. Who’s your current F1 favourite?”

“Charles for chaos. Oscar for calm. Lando for… the vibes,” said the second girl, resting her chin on her knees, dressed in an unmistakably McLaren orange shirt.

“Specific. I like it.”

“He’s actually a crazy good racer once you get past the memes,” the trio explained.

“Also the only driver who can turn a haircut into a cultural movement,” added the last girl, leaning on the first while stringing colorful beads onto a fishing line with a sweet smile.

She, in turn, pretended to be confused and not understand what they were talking about, while Pietra was clearly having the time of her life, still not quite believing Max had come up with this idea—and that her friend had actually agreed to go through with it.

“You know exactly what we’re talking about. We want the mullet back,” said the second girl, dead serious.

“Your words, not mine,” Lando’s friend laughed.

Pietra and the girl took a little break, lying back on the grass and chatting for a while, accepting a few friendship bracelets from the trio they’d just interviewed, while nearby Max Verstappen fans were shouting as the drivers cycled around the track waving to the crowd.

They eventually returned to the fan zone, passing through the parking lot and park surrounding the circuit, chatting with other fans—some with families, others with friends.

“All right, I’m going to guess your favorite driver just based on vibes… is it Lando?”

“Yeah. He’s fast. And funny,” replied a teenage boy leaning against a lamppost, adjusting his blonde fringe and revealing striking blue eyes he had probably inherited from his mom standing beside him.

“Solid combo. What’s your favorite track?”

“Spa. But also Silverstone. I like the corners.”

“Maggotts and Becketts?” she asked, smiling.

“Oh, the snake! I love how fast they go through there.”

The boy’s little brother held a gorgeous poster asking Lewis Hamilton to sign his mini helmet, and she found it so heartwarming to see. After all, she still hadn’t quite gotten used to being by Lando’s side with an all-access pass to the garage whenever she wanted.

“You’ve got a proper fan here,” she told their mom.

“They know more than I did at their age,” the woman replied, making the girl raise her eyebrows and imagine just how fashionable this mom must’ve been back in the day.

“Did you like when Lando had long hair?” she asked the younger brother, leaning on another post and holding out the mic.

“He looked like one of those racers from movies. Unstoppable.”

She nodded, feeling satisfied.

As she wandered through the crowds, she heard it all—Ferrari couples complaining about poor results, young fans cheering for their favorite drivers, people snapping photos to hold onto the memory of that day.

“You’ve seen it all, huh?” she laughed, chatting with two elderly gentlemen in vintage merch from the early 2000s, still just as passionate about the sport as when they first watched it together.

“Still love the sport. The strategy, the chaos, the tire gambling.”

Then two girls, with their boyfriends in tow, came up to her, eyes wide in recognition, ditching the food stand line they were in—clearly sacrificing any chance of lunch before nightfall just to talk to her.

“No freaking way. Is that her? Like—her her?!” “the power she holds.”

“You’re talking like I’m Beyoncé,” she laughed, turning to hug them, listening as they introduced themselves, wondering what exactly made her so beloved by Lando’s fans—and others—when she was just a regular person who hated the spotlight.

“You’re basically his left arm. I don’t know why you’re even pretending to be undercover,” one of them said, as the guys chuckled behind her.

“You’re literally half the reason I watch Quadrant. Like, he’s funny, sure—but you’re the one who roasts him right,” added the other.

“They say if you’re not at every race, he drives weird. They literally have spreadsheets,” said one of the guys, shaking her hand, a Mercedes cap shielding him from the sun as he gazed out at Silverstone.

“You have spreadsheets?” she asked, shocked, while Pietra nearly cried with laughter—realizing Max’s plan had backfired and there would be more footage to delete than keep. Even the entrance of the GB3 drivers on stage didn’t distract anyone from her.

“Oh my god, you’re even prettier in person. Lando’s taste is insane,” more fans chimed in, making her raise an eyebrow and rethink every life choice, unsure whether to be flattered or terrified by how many people recognized her despite her best efforts.

One of the last fans she met was wearing an epic T-shirt with Lando’s mullet-face and the words “let him cook” in bold. She complimented him on the choice and asked if she could have one. She was in her element—even if she hated the attention—because she was surrounded by people just as passionate as she was, at one of the most iconic tracks on the F1 calendar, stepping out of her comfort zone and showing how fun and friendly she could be.

“You’re like if serotonin had a voice.”

“What’s the most dramatic moment you’ve had at a race weekend?” a girl asked, as she tucked her hands into her jeans pockets, chatting like it was nothing—trying to forget just how many people now recognized her.

“Once I told Lando he couldn’t have ice cream before quali, and he glared at me like I’d cancelled Christmas,” she smiled, thinking of the one thing she could safely share with fans without starting a media storm.

“Remind me never to argue strategy with you,” a guy laughed, fist-bumping her, well aware of how much she knew about the sport.

“You know, I always thought he was the motorsport nerd. But you’re the one who told him to brake earlier into Turn 9 last year, right?” asked the same girl, recalling the hot lap she and Lando had done in a McLaren road car in Miami the year before.

“Gotta keep the man alive somehow.”

“It’s like being the guardian of a very chaotic, very fast golden retriever,” she grinned, and soon after, she and Pietra headed back to the paddock, laughing about every line fans had said to her, as the Portuguese girl looked at her friend’s shocked, pale face—now split by the most beautiful smile.

Max and Lando were sitting in the McLaren motorhome, two bottles of sparkling water and some snacks in front of them. The driver wore a black sweater, arms crossed, watching his friend like he was analyzing whatever plan was brewing in his head.

“What’s with the smirk? Did you win a staring contest with your cat or something?”

“No, I just had a brilliant idea.”

“Last time you said that, I ended up duct-taped to a sim seat,” Lando replied, skeptically watching the people passing by outside, occasionally waving at familiar faces and checking his phone for messages.

“You know how people still won’t shut up about your mullet?”

“It’s been months. I cut it. I moved on. Even she did. Society should too,” he laughed.

“What if she—” Max gestured, pouring them both some water as music played from the speakers behind them, “—went undercover and asked fans about you… and the mullet?”

“Everyone would think she’s gone rogue. Or she’d end up in a meme compilation.”

Max nodded, confirming that was exactly the point—watching as Lando’s expression softened the moment she was mentioned.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“She’s got the charm. She’ll survive.”

And just then, walking down the path Lando had been watching, the girl and Pietra appeared, the Portuguese girl still laughing, her friend walking like a runway model while clearly still processing what had just happened, hands in her pockets, sunglasses in her hair.

“I need to lie down,” she said as they joined the guys, dragging over two chairs to the table.

“Your people are feral,” she said, dumping all the signs, bracelets, and the T-shirt she’d asked for onto the table as she collapsed into the chair. Lando laughed, reading the slogans.

“Yeah but… you had fun, didn’t you?”

“I got offered snacks. And stickers.”

“…do you think I should grow it back for Monza?” he asked, giving her that look—the one all the girls had mentioned, the one that made her smile every time. The slight head tilt, direct eye contact, then that big hand ruffling her hair.

“Make it count,” she sighed, reaching over to put one of the bracelets on his wrist. “They really do love you, you know.”

“Only if I’ve got you out there making me look cool.”

“You don’t need me for that,” she laughed as he playfully nudged her shoulder.

“You know, the mullet kind of made you look like trouble.”

“Maybe. But you never stayed away.”

“I physically needed to mess it up. This fade just doesn’t cut it.”

this is long... but that doesn't mean I like it, so please give me your feedbacks about it! School's been draining me again but I need to write, and ideas keep coming to knock at my door

[dedeinthewild]

lando norris x reader, early stages

-“Come on, Mr. McLaren. No Mrs., but definitely a sports car,”

summary : he bought the tickets "for her." she wore his shirt. tate sang sports car. he knew all the words. but no, he definitely doesn’t stream her on spotify.

As soon as they got in the car, she had connected her phone and, while Lando drove toward the arena, she sang along to every song on her playlist, wearing that rugby shirt she’d stolen from him and flashing the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

Even if he would never admit it, the idea of going to that concert had been his. After talking to other drivers and some friends, he found out about the tour of the singer she always talked about—and he hadn’t hesitated to go back to Monaco, set his laptop on the table, and buy two tickets.

Lando had always pretended—with his usual smug arrogance—that the trending pop music of the moment was way beneath his musical tastes, never missing a chance to remind her of that.

“That’s lame white girl music,” he’d tease her while she slid on her blue light glasses and sat next to him, peeking at everything he was doing on screen.

But deep down, he liked it.

Just like he liked when his team texted him after the release of her new album, so full of imagery about a boy so handsome he was almost dangerous, driving a sports car that seemed just a little too much like him.

Then would come a cheeky comment, a few lyrics whistled intentionally in the paddock, but he’d never really considered going to one of her concerts—mostly to avoid worsening his groupie situation. They’d probably sell their souls to see him in the crowd at something like that.

But she had been enough.

She had chosen to wear one of the old merch t-shirts she found in his apartment in Monaco and had left all the decisions to him, barely hiding her excitement at the idea of flashing those tickets at the entrance of The O2 Arena.

“Tate McRae,” he let the singer’s name roll off his lips as they queued for the parking spot he’d reserved, his right hand on the lower part of the steering wheel, elbow resting out the window, soaking in the early summer breeze of London.

“Yes,” she replied, unable to hold back a smile as she looked out at the arena, nervously running a hand through her soft, fragrant hair.

“Maybe I should’ve brought tissues,” he said, giving her one of his signature infuriating smirks, while the car engine rumbled in idle, waiting to finally be parked.

“No,” she shot back, “but you should’ve brought a mirror.” Teasing him, knowing full well how he secretly loved those songs like they’d been written just for him—in every lyric and chorus, like they were soaked in the same scent he sprayed on himself just to watch her wrinkle her nose.

“What?” he feigned innocence, following the car ahead.

She shook her head playfully, already feeling the adrenaline of what she knew would be a special night—the kind of thrill that comes from seeing the artist you listen to every morning in the car, every afternoon walk, every evening while cooking.

Lando was good at pretending he didn’t care, like he’d done all this just to make her happy. As if he didn’t know their photos would be all over the internet in two hours, and a night that felt like a dream for them would become one for thousands of fans too.

Once inside, they realized how massive the arena was—it had even hosted the F1 pre-season gala earlier that year, where he’d been one of twenty stars, standing on the very stage where Tate would soon perform. The standing area was already packed, while some sections of seats were still waiting for people to arrive, stuck in London’s nightly traffic.

Thanks to one of his contacts, Lando had bought some of the priciest tickets, in a separate section that gave them the thrill of the crowd but with seats and a near front-row view—just as Charles had suggested after attending another popstar’s tour.

“Still time to leave,” he whispered in her ear, standing behind her with his hands in the pockets of the jeans he’d chosen, his shoulders straight in a black shirt that clung to his torso in a way that could easily be considered illegal.

“Still time to admit you secretly stream her on your Spotify,” she grinned, turning to him, catching the way he couldn’t wipe off that teasing little smirk he reserved for when he was winding her up—or realizing how easily he could charm whoever stood in front of him.

“Only ‘cause you made me a playlist,” he shot back, thinking of the long summer drives in his Audi, aimless, with the playlist he made almost blowing the speakers.

“Because I knew you’d relate.”

“To what? Being emotionally damaged and hot?” he laughed, adjusting the mullet he’d grown back after months of clean fades—on her gentle request, the same girl who had dragged him to the place where everyone wanted him to be.

“Exactly,” she said, grinning, as the tech crew finished setting the stage. The lighting matched the album colors—orange and soft neon—which lit up her face as she wore that same color.

He was curious, cautious, already tapping a rhythm on his thigh.

It was one of those moments girls dream about—sending outfit pics to friends, burning every second of a moment into memory instead of a phone video. Some were already sitting, phones in hand, while others kept their hands on their girlfriends’ shoulders, softly singing along to the pre-show songs. And some—like Lando—just stole the scene.

But that was the last thing he wanted. Because even if he loved attention, tonight was for her—even if he wouldn’t admit it. She had told him many times she’d never been to a concert before, or that she’d missed out on tickets. So this one—it was her concert.

“She’s not even out yet—”

The entire arena erupted into a scream that made her wrinkle her nose, tilting her head slightly toward Lando, who had rested his chin on her shoulder, scanning the crowd—spotting a few actors and footballers, but not caring much.

“That’s the point,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “Pre-scream.”

“You dragged me here for this?” he complained, grinning wider than she’d ever seen.

“You’re going to love it,” she laughed, shooting him a sideways glance, “even if it’s just lame white girl music.”

As the lights dimmed, he stood straight, his arm brushing hers as they looked at the wave of teens and girls with glittered cheeks and hairdos that had clearly taken hours.

It was hot, but the frenzy felt like cold air breathing down their necks, a thrill buzzing with anticipation.

Tate’s first songs rang out, met with the crowd’s loud approval. Lando vibed to the bass, hands in pockets, his wristband contrasting against his tan forearm, opposite his Richard Mille watch. He watched her sing every word, wearing his shirt tucked into her pants, with that wide smile showing she was having the time of her life—likely something she’d talk about for months.

And it made him smile too. Until the tension crept in—the weight of their undefined situation.

They’d been “something” for months now—joking like old friends, then flirting with an undertone they never named. Their “friendly” outings had him wearing his nicest shirts and asking for as many paddock passes as possible just to have her travel with him.

When Sports Car came on, his chest was lightly pressed against her back, hands high enough to graze her waist but not touch, his eyes fixed on the stage from above, savoring every word sung by the crowd.

It was his song now. Everyone said so.

"I think you know what this is I think you wanna uh No, you ain't got no Mrs. Oh, but you got a sports car"

He smiled—that smug, charming grin that somehow never made him unlikeable—as he stood there, muscles peeking through his shirt, those piercing green eyes glowing even more under the lights.

As the show went on, she realized the joy of being there was now sharing space with the awareness that she was there with Lando Norris—and with every word Tate sang, he claimed a little more of her space without ever feeling intrusive.

“Oh, don’t start,” he said as the beat dropped, chin slightly lifted.

“Come on, Mr. McLaren. No Mrs., but definitely a sports car,” she teased, biting her lip to hide a grin full of tension and butterflies. Lando was so close—to her, and no one else. And he never missed a chance to tease her.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. She’s good.”

She turned, savoring those five minutes that marked the last third of the concert—time had flown between lights and confetti.

His chain lay against his collarbones, creating a crease in his shirt that highlighted his chest and arms—always growing stronger from the effort he poured into reaching the top of his career.

He looked down at her, eyes locked, the kind of smile she wanted to steal right off his face. His skin smooth from the shave he remembered to do that morning—when she woke him up with the smell of pancakes.

“Maybe it’s the company,” he added, finally making her melt.

"I just want your two hands on me at all times, baby If you let go (I want your two hands) Better put 'em right back, fast Want your two hands on me like my life needs savin' Let 'em all know (I want your two hands) Can you do it like that? Yeah"

Lando had embraced the vibe—singing with her, helping a few girls take pictures with the venue behind them, showing that sweet, kind side of him she adored so much.

He looked fully in his element—hands up, taking photos for people, handing phones back gently, then leaning against the barricades and moving with the beat. Watching her like she wasn’t just some beautiful girl, but his.

“Think you can handle that?” he teased again, quoting the lyrics as she leaned closer, their elbows touching, trading warmth and that faint London humidity that kissed their skin.

“That’s a challenge?” she replied, her usual blush hidden by the pink lights.

Lando looked at his hands, licking his lips.

"Dear God, take his kiss right out of my brain Take the pleasure out of my pain Take the way he'd used to say I love you Dear God, get his imprint out of my bed Take away the way I still might want to"

She pulled out her phone and started a new note, jotting down all the songs that caught Lando’s attention the most. He watched her, amused—and in a way, thankful he came with her, doing one of his press-friendly fashion moves and giving her a perfect night.

“What are you doing?”

“Making you a playlist with a horrible title,” she smiled, like the song they’d just heard hadn’t been full of innuendos.

“You’re horrible,” he laughed, taking her hand, still leaning on the barricade.

“And yet you love me.”

Lando paused, looked into her eyes, then slightly down at her lips, still a little damp from singing—but instead of thinking about kissing them, he focused on that happy smile.

“I might,” he said softly. “You make it really hard not to.”

He didn’t let go of her hand. Not when the concert ended, as they took a few photos and joined in chanting for the singer before she left the stage. Not even as people started filing out, chasing a bit of fresh air after the heat of the night.

When she was ready to go and turn the night into a memory, he started walking toward the exit, her smaller hand still in his large driver’s hand—the one she’d always wanted to hold but never dared to, afraid it would ruin things.

Her eyes were locked on him, on how confidently he walked, the black shirt hugging his back and hinting at the return of that mullet that made him look even more stylish than he already was. How he’d turn and glance at her, pointing out small details they’d missed, keeping her close in the gentlest, most genuine way.

He stroked her palm. He knew she was behind him. That everyone knew he was there. That the gorgeous, seemingly unattainable Formula 1 driver—the one everyone said Tate McRae’s songs were about—had come to her concert. And he’d come with a girl.

“You’re kind of the hot boyfriend everyone wants right now,” she said once outside, as he sat on a concrete cylinder, arms resting on his knees with that post-concert calm she’d always dreamed of. Some girls walked past, still singing, snapping their final photos.

“Kind of?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Well, I’m still deciding,” she smirked, as he placed his hands on her waist and pulled her closer, locking eyes with her again.

“Decide now,” he said, wetting his lips. “You dragged me here just to roast me with pop music. And now you’re getting soft on me?”

“You liked the pop music.”

“I loved it.”

“And the lyrics?” she asked, burying her hands in his hair, still stunned that someone so impossibly handsome could be so impossibly hers.

“Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a country concert.”

She rolled her eyes.

Knowing it was just the first of many concerts. And the start of a beautiful, messy, perfect unfolding.

guess whose birthday is it? if your lucky guess was me, then yeah, I'll gift you this little lando x reader 'cause you were right! I have been pondering for days if I should get tickets to tate or not, and the obvious answer is that I should but I've spent way too much lately...

[dedeinthewild]

Me: *wants to read the exact story im writing rn*

Also me: *realises i have to write it first* well fuck *hands on hips*