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iplayghoul · 1 year ago

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𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞

pairing:: onyankopon x reader

wc:: 2.6k

warnings:: umm starts off as soft sex, they get a lil crazy (my fault), tongue sucking, squirting, cunnilingus all that. nothing too crazy. using 'mama' and 'ma', reader has braids and acrylics.

note:: heyy.. how yall doin 😅 work below the cut.. dont beat my ass

“You remind me of the sun, ony’,” you mumble, cheek pressed against his bare bicep with your head resting soft against the picnic blanket as you look up at the night sky. He's like the sun to you. “mm, yeah What– does that mean, pretty?” His voice is deep… just above a whisper and in your peripheral vision you see him looking at you but your eyes are fixated on the stars above. “I dunno, your skin is always so warm when I feel cold but– I gravitate towards you all the time. Like all the other stars do. You exude something… mmph, what m’ I saying rightnow.” You fumble, chuckling lightly at your lack of words.

“do you believe in destiny? like ‘written in the stars’ n’ shit? Hm?” Onyankopon speaks up, you feel an emotion behind his tone you can't quite describe. It sounded like… uncertainty, insecurity. “Well, you know how my exes were… I'd like to think those were just unfortunate circumstances that I'm tryna grow from, baby. I don't wanna think the universe puts us through that on purpose… y'know?” You sit up, pretty little night dress falling down to cover your thighs. Your hands holding you up as you look around the night sky. The full moon tonight facilitated an impromptu shoving of a picnic blanket onto the balcony, warm glasses of chai tea emptied and hot in your bellies as you laid together to watch the moon.

Onyankopon rests his head with his hands behind his head, admiring you. He clears his throat, “I love you. Y'know that?”, “I do know that, you know I love you too?” You look at him over your shoulder before turning over and pressing your palms onto his stomach, he groans in faux pain. “Mhm,” He purrs, sitting up to clasp your hands in his own, tugging you onto his lap. “I know that, mama,” the moon was so bright. It illuminated the darkness around you both on the balcony and glimmered in his eyes. You stare. His moistened lips glistening in the light, you scoot closer to him. Chest pressed against your breasts and he sits handsomely, basking in your gaze and touch. Pretty white french tip acrylic nails with bow decor caresses his neck, scratching the back his neck and playing with his ears. Ony’ shivers lightly.

“Why you touchin’ on me like that, hm?” He bites back a smile when u tug at his earlobe. “Gimme a kiss,” You murmur, lips sealed by the clasp of his against yours. He pecks your lips several more times, Onyankopon really liked the texture of your lip gloss on his lips. Hands drag down his chest, following the tiny lines of his wife-beater: twirling the drawstring of his sweats.

“Do you wanna–”

“No,” Your eyes meet his, and Ony’ watches you as kind as ever, with his stupid handsome face. “No, baby,” He kisses his teeth, “Not g'na fuck you out here. Not on the balcony,” his cheeks deepen with dimples as he offers you a low chuckle.

“‘M not asking you to fuck me.” You roll your eyes teasingly,”And what's wrong with out here . . . we got blankets and pillows, s'comfy baby,” He's offered a sweet smile, the lavender rubber bands on your braces reminded him of the colours of the night, so he looks up at the sky.

The moon colours dusted blue and purple hues onto the clouds that bordered it. Reflecting and sparkling in your eyes and your face. Shit . . .

“What I'm asking, is that you make love to me, Ony’,” You whisper, resting your head in his neck. Onyankopon sucks a deep breath in between his teeth. “Grab some f'them pillows.” He uttered.

Ony’ scoots forward, shamelessly staring at your ass as you bunched up the pillows scattered across the balcony and stuffing them behind where he previously sat, blankets included and teacups pushed far aside. “Lay back right there,” , “Mkay . . . ,” You whisper, eyes flickering to his position while he only eyes you, fixing your braids behind your ears and tucking yourself comfortably back into the mound of pillows and blankets. “Mhm, pull it up,” Onyankopon turned to you and gave your night dress a light tug, eyes still focused everywhere else but your own.

You shuffled, clutching the little thing up above your hips, pretty panties scrunched up between your legs . . . you wore some random ones with rainbows on it. “Take it off, ma’,” Onyankopon ordered, his mouth muffled by the hand on his chin, finger pressing into his lips while he watched you. Gingerly, you hook your acrylics beneath the band slipping the panties off. Flustered, your legs remained snapped shut, though your puffy cunt still pushed itself out, feeling tickled and tingly at the touch of the cold air. It was the type of wind that blew before a cozy storm. And you nibble on your bottom lip. Ony’ grabs your knees, prying them apart. He watched how the moonshine glistened against your pussy.

He pushed your legs back ‘till your knees brushed the blankets behind you, “Ony’ don't stare,” a grumble escaped you, body warm. He hummed. Leaning down, Ony’ spread your pussy further with his thumbs before offering your clit a kiss. You gasp softly, expecting the upcoming stimulation anxiously, wishing he could just skip this part n’ pull his dick out. You drop your head back into the pillows, eyes to the stars and moon when you feel Onyankopon's tongue swirl over your hole before dipping in gently. He likes to take his time. He does this a few more times and you whine, eyes falling shut when you feel him drag his tongue over your clit. Then, he's going in; he's licking up n’ down your cunt, sucking your clit into his mouth n’ tugging it to let it snap back into your pussy. You moan freely, thick into the air. The clouds above moved with the wind and suddenly the moon sent glows onto your face, so much so that you opened your teary eyes to see what was so bright on your face.

Onyankopon groans vibrations into your pussy when he sees your face, overcome with pleasure under the moonshine. He dips his face into you, licking circles about your cunt, kissing and suckling, and spitting, and slipping his tongue deep in you. “Ony’, Ony’ c'mon,” You whine, hands dancing behind his neck, pushing his face deeper into your cunt when you feel your clit throb hard. He makes circles around your clit, kissing it and once sucking it into his mouth. “Right there, right there,” You ache when he tilts his head and tongues a spot of your clit and you start grinding your body into his face. He thinks he might suffocate in the best way possible. Little glossy pearls of tears glide down the sides of your cheeks and tickle your ear. Head pressing back into the pillows when the rest of your body arches forward to Ony's mouth. You spread your legs so wide and they stiffened, all you feel is his tongue around your clit now pushing out undisturbed by your folds and you grab your braids tight. He stuffs two fingers inside you while maintaining his motions on your clit, sloppily fucking them into you, twisting them with each stroke and you think your ears are actually ringing. With it, you let out a sob and squeal, “Fuck! Fuck, oh-my-god, Ony–,” then it was silence, “Breath, mama, breathe,” Ony groaned, and suddenly you were gasping for air, cumming hard.

Your lips were quivering, feeling somewhat numb while Ony’ offered you some slow calming strokes with his fingers as you mellowed down. “Shit, you still want s’m cock after that?” He gave your clit a final kiss, seeing your bleary eyes as you sniffle and sigh. Your legs ached when you tried to move, closing them slowly. “Gimme a minute,” you pout and flop your head back down into the pillows, collecting yourself a bit, eyes blinking wearily. “S’ sensitive, m’ sorry,” Ony’ only re-fluffs some of the blankets and pillows that were now pushed askew, lifting your lower body by your legs while he pushed them back beneath you.

“Chill out,” He whispered, shifting to lay beside you and look at the sky. “S’ finna rain soon,” He announced,”Mhm, yeah,” You push your legs out, throwing your arms above you for a big stretch, squeezing your thighs tight to block your exposed pussy from the cold air. “Want head?” you peep at Ony’ who rests his hands behind his head. He shakes his head ‘no’ and stretches. You observe him and openly stare at his hard dick printing out of his sweats. Leaning forward, you rub, ever so gently, along the shaft while he watched you.

“‘Kay, get over right here,” Ony’ sat up moving from his spot, gesturing for you to situate yourself there with a quickness and brushing your hand off him. You huff, teasing, and pull your night dress back down as you crawl on your hands and knees to the pillows. Lay on your back and braids adjusted, Ony grabs your night dress, tugging it back up your body and kissing his teeth. “Keep playin’,” He gives your ass a playful smack and you giggle.

Grabbing your ankles, Onyankopon pushes your legs all the way back. What you'd like to call, ‘knee headphones’ the way they were in line with your ears. Some traces of creamy white release cooled under the air, clit puffing out and hole aching to be stimulated again. Ony’ adjusts himself above you, leaning close and tugging his sweats down, letting his pretty, dark dick fall out and slap your thigh. Fuck, you might cry. Little beads of pre-cum dripped from the tip, he was already girthy, yet his cock got thicker and meatier towards the center of the shaft. “Y'gonna go slow?” Ony lines up, pressing his tip into you and smiles,”Yea, mama, i’mma go slow,” He sinks and drawls out a long, ”Fuck.”

His heavy hand grips your thighs, pressing you down into the pillows. Onyankopon adjusts himself over you, letting his weight hold you down while he all but throbs in you. Legs now thrown over his shoulders and dark brown eyes staring deep into your own, fighting your weighted eyelids. “Bet’ not run, ma',” Onyankopon observes your face, licking his lips and giving you a quick peck, he resists indulging you when you pout and instead kisses about your damp cheeks and neck. “Oh-my-god,” you squeal when he begins to lift his hips out of you.

Onyankopon's hands cage your head, and the closeness leaves you nowhere to grab; thus your hands are left to mindlessly flop back onto the pillows. Nice and easy . . . proper n’ slow, he begins to rock his hips into you, “Why you suckin’ me in like that, mama?” He groans low. Ony’ let's his forehead rest on yours while the tip of his dick nudges the spongy mound inside you. “Ony’ your fuckin’ dick,” you whimper, “W’ssup wit’ it, huh?”, Onyankopon pressed his lips to yours in a wet kiss, grinning when he sees your pretty little eyes welling with tears. “Deeper–,” a sniffle, “Want it– deeper, shiiiit,” And he gives you just that, digging his fat dick deeper with each antagonizing stroke. Your cleavage bounces beneath your chin with each thwack of his hips into yours, tits having been firmly mushed into Ony's chest and you feel like you're gaping. Thighs burning n’ cunt stretching as he slowly builds the well in your tummy to milk you. “Mhm, watchu’ wanted?” You only groan and bite your lips, eyes screwed shut as you lay limp on the pillows getting fucked. Onyankopon gives your cheek a few slaps, “Answer me ‘fore I stop, don't play,” You force your eyes open and see Ony's eyes locked on yours. Brows furrowed and mouth ajar, that pussy felt fuckin’ good. “Yea, s’ what I wanted– daddy, fuck,” You let out a bratty sob when sloppily fucks into you faster before slowing again.

“Stick y'tongue out,” Onyankopon hums lowly, and you're not sure if you can focus on anything besides the smack of his hips and the squelching coming from his cock. You still comply, tongue lolling out from your mouth with heavy breathes. Ony’s dick throbs inside you, and he slurps your tongue into his mouth, suckling on it before locking your lips to his, tongue massaging yours. “Takin’ that fuckin’ dick, mhm,” His lips glide over your cheeks, fucking into you with fervor. He mumbles a chant of, “Shit, shit, shit,” pummeling you with his cock, reaching depths in your cunt you hadn't even discovered before. Ony’ seemed determined on knocking the fucking wind out of you and stuffing your swollen, little pussy full of dick. “Oh–,” wails escaping your lips, “Ohmygod unh, f– daddy, fuck,” you continue to mewl.

Your hands frantically grasp any and everything, your braids, Onyankopon's back, your ankles, the pillows; entire body gyrating as he fucks you. Onyankopon tongues your neck, licking about your ear, kissing your cheek. Your cunt feels sticky, s’ sloppy and warm and your entire body feels hot all over. Your eyes roll back and he's got you so trapped under him getting pounded that you can't even arch up into him. Cunt remaining spread at just the right angle and makes your legs quiver. Onyankopon let's out a tight groan and you feel the curve of his cock digging you hard. “G'nna make me fuckin’ cum. Squeezin’ on me like that, mama.” His sharp words muttered right into the shell of your ear making you clench hard. “Mu'fuckin’, sloppy pussy,” He lifts off you and pushes your legs above your head, crossing your ankles as he holds them together for leverage.

“N– Oh, no,no,no, Onya–!” you uttered out with gasps at the new angle. “Take it, take it, take it,” Ony’ murmured. Just like that, warmth squirted out of your cunt, dripping down his abdominals and pooling right between you where the hilt of his cock slapped into your folds as he kept drilling himself into you. “Mmmmph,” You can't help but cry and moan, cheeks feeling a bit warm with embarrassment yet it's overcome by the exponential throbbing of your clit. Your hand started tapping the pillows, shaking as you tried to tap out of whatever Ony’ was serving you right now. “C'mon,” He whispered, “I gotchu’.” It's like he senses it, thumbing your clit lightly.

“Need it! Need– it, daddy, shit,” You peer up at him.

“I know you do, baby, give it to me,” His commands echoes in your head, over and over. You're gasping, body jiggling off the pillows and slapping back up into his, “‘M . . . fuck, daddy,” sobbing and failing at formulating your words.

“‘M cumming, I'm cumming, oh my god.”

Your hips stiffen up and with each pelting thrust Ony’ cussed above you; a harsh wind blows and you think the coldness against your hot body makes you gush all over his cock while he cums alot. You blink the tears out of your eyes when Onyankopon fucks your cum mixture back into you a couple more times, before pulling out quick to avoid you being too sore and pained for him to move then plopping beside you on the pillows. Your legs fall carelessly below and all you hear besides silence are his harsh breaths and his deep voice asking you something you can't yet register, your clits throbbing too hard.

The moon really did look pretty tonight. Onyankopon does remind you of the sun. Shit, you felt like you were sitting among the fuckin’ stars.

#﹒﹒﹒💗 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦: 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 💌 𓂃 !#onyankopon x reader #attack on titan smut #aot smut #onyankopon #ony x reader #onyankopon smut #aot onyankopon #onyankopon snk #onyankopon x black y/n #onyankapon #onyankopon x you #attack on titan

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odileeclipse · 20 days ago

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In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 30

<<<Previous Next>>>

You leaned over the table with an intensity that rivaled pre-exam week, ink smudged on your fingertips and the edge of your sleeve. Parchment covered in hasty scrawl sat in front of you, each paragraph dripping with formal logic, magical ethics, a dash of heartfelt plea, and a surprising amount of literary flourish.

You slid the page toward Chai Latte Cookie first. “Alright. I need you to… Chai-ify it. Make it poetic or profound or something.”

Chai, practically vibrating with glee, took the parchment in both hands. “Oh, yes. Let me just elevate this rhetoric.”

She pulled a quill from behind her ear like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. “I’m going to add a line about the transformation of truth through form. And maybe a metaphor about moonlight as mutable identity.”

Hazelnut Biscotti stared at her. “Do you even know what that means?”

“No,” Chai said, flourishing her quill. “But it sounds so convincing.”

You chuckled as she scribbled. “Make sure it still sounds like me though. I don’t want him to think I was possessed mid-sentence.”

Chai looked up with a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it your voice. Just slightly more dramatic.”

After she was satisfied, you passed the updated version across the table to Earl Grey Cookie.

He scanned it with surgical precision, eyes flicking left to right, pausing only to make corrections with his fountain pen that seemed designed to make every edit sting with dignity.

“Your thesis is strong,” he murmured. “But tighten the second paragraph. You’re leaning too much into emotional leverage. Balance it with academic precedent.”

“You say that like he isn’t already emotionally compromised,” you muttered.

Earl didn’t look up. “All the more reason to prove you’re serious.”

He handed it off with a final flick. “The final paragraph is surprisingly elegant. That must’ve been Chai.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, twirling a strand of her hair.

Then it was Hazelnut’s turn.

You slid the parchment over, watching as he read through it at a pace both cautious and skeptical. He frowned at a few spots but said nothing until the end.

Finally, he leaned back and scratched his chin. “Alright… it’s convincing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Hazelnut shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but if someone handed me a scroll like this, I’d be too impressed to say no. It’s half spell theory, half love letter to magical curiosity.”

“That’s the vibe I was going for,” you said, relieved.

Earl nodded. “Then I’d say it’s ready.”

You looked down at the page revised, refined, and full of lines like

Let this transformation not be a spectacle, but a symbol that even truth, immutable and enduring, has the capacity for grace in change.

…Yeah. You were definitely not getting out of this without compromising some dignity.

Chai grinned. “So… when are you giving it to him?”

You swallowed.

“Tomorrow.”

Your friends exchanged glances.

“Stars help him,” Hazelnut said dryly.

“Stars help you,” Chai added, practically glowing. “Because if he says yes… I need to be there.”

You covered your face with both hands, already regretting everything.

But also?

Kind of excited.

You peeked through your fingers, face still buried in your hands, and muttered, “I think he’d be a lot less convinced if there were an audience.”

Chai immediately gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “You’re not going to let me witness history?”

“Do you want him to say yes or turn into mist and vanish?” you deadpanned, lifting your head.

Hazelnut Biscotti chuckled. “They have a point.”

“Exactly!” You gestured toward him. “If I walk in there with all three of you breathing down his neck from the doorway, he’s going to think it’s a prank or some kind of social experiment.”

Earl Grey sipped his tea calmly. “It is a social experiment. But your hypothesis requires solitude.”

Chai groaned dramatically. “Fine. But if he does it if you have to tell me everything.”

“I will write a report. With citations.”

Chai brightened instantly. “Deal.”

Hazelnut smirked. “Just don’t die from embarrassment when you hand it to him.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed into a line. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take… for science.”

Earl Grey tilted his head. “And unhinged curiosity.”

“And possibly love,” Chai added with a wink.

You groaned. “I hate it here.”

They all laughed, and Chai nudged your arm affectionately, you couldn’t help but smile again, nervous, yes, but genuinely excited.

Because the scroll in your bag might just be your most ambitious experiment yet. You twirled your spoon slowly in your cup, watching the last of the honey swirl into your tea before lifting your gaze, more hesitant than before.

The parchment containing your “essay” sat folded neatly in your bag, safe and final. But the laughter had settled, and the buzz of the dining hall had faded into the quiet hum of content students and clinking cutlery. For a moment, your thoughts shifted somewhere else somewhere more uncertain.

“…Hey,” you said softly, glancing around the table. “Can I ask something kind of serious?”

Chai leaned forward immediately. “Of course.”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked up mid-sip, nodding once.

But your eyes turned to Earl Grey Cookie.

“Do you think this is… love?” you asked carefully. “And I don’t mean that in a sad way I’m not trying to self-deprecate. I just… I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”

Earl Grey froze mid-reach for his napkin, caught completely off guard for what might’ve been the first time ever.

You continued before he could speak. “I mean, how do you know if it’s too soon? Like, maybe it’s just care. Or affection. Or something like love but not really it.”

He stared at you, brows furrowing slightly not in judgment, but in rare, genuine contemplation.

You gestured vaguely in the air, trying to explain. “I’m not unhappy. We’re… partners now, I think. He hasn’t said anything overly poetic since, which is weirdly comforting. It’s not grand gestures or dramatic confessions, just… quiet. Natural. Like we’re two close friends who occasionally kiss and study theory together. And that feels normal. But should it?”

The table was silent now your friends watching, not with pity, but with care. No one laughed or brushed it off.

“I just… don’t know if it’s supposed to feel like more. Or maybe it’s supposed to feel like this. Like something calm. Familiar. Comfortable. And I don’t know if that’s love or something else.”

You turned back to Earl Grey, eyes steady. “You always give me the most concise answers. So. Do you know what love feels like?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he set his napkin aside.

“I think,” he said, voice softer than usual, “that love doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it grows in quiet hours and shared routines. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s gentle. But in all its forms, it’s not about how much it feels like something.”

He looked at you directly.

“It’s about whether it makes you more yourself. Whether you feel safer, more curious, more seen. Not just when it’s easy, but also when it’s hard. When you're not at your best. If someone still chooses to understand you in those moments, even when it would be easier not to… that might be love.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly.

Earl leaned back again, adjusting his sleeve. “But even then, love is not static. It changes. Grows. What it feels like now may not be what it feels like in a year.”

Chai exhaled, leaning her chin on her palm. “That was… beautiful.”

Hazelnut frowned a little. “I mean, yeah. I guess I agree.”

You sat there, letting his words settle in the space between your ribs.

Not an answer. But maybe something better.

A starting point. You stared at Earl Grey Cookie, the words he had just spoken echoing in your chest like a soft chime struck in the heart of a quiet cathedral. For a moment, you forgot to breathe.

“Earl…” you murmured, eyes wide, “how did you word that so beautifully?”

He didn’t meet your gaze.

Instead, he stared off slightly to the side, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, a distant look creeping into his normally unreadable expression. The tea in his cup had long since cooled, but his fingers remained wrapped around it like a tether to the present.

“…I thought once I felt it,” he said, his voice low not quite guarded, but measured.

Not for your sake.

For his.

You felt your heart still, your own breath quieter now as his words unraveled something more vulnerable than you had expected.

“Of course love changes,” he continued, almost to himself. “That’s what makes it so impossible to define. It grows, recedes, reshapes… But I know what it is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

Chai, for once, didn’t fill the space with teasing. She just watched him with the same awe-struck softness you felt creeping into your own chest.

Hazelnut Biscotti lowered his gaze slightly, respectful.

You didn’t ask who it had been. You didn’t have to. Somewhere between the distance in his voice and the strength in his words… you knew the answer wasn’t meant to be named.

It just was.

And that was enough.

You smiled gently at him, not pressing further.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded once, composed again, the moment sealed away behind his usual mask but not gone.

Not forgotten.

And somehow… it made the question in your heart feel a little less impossible. The conversation had drifted, as all good ones did softly, like mist curling away from morning tea.

No dramatic shifts. No clean cuts between topics or time. Just shared laughter, the slow stacking of empty plates, the warmth of familiarity, and the comfort of being surrounded by those who knew when to speak and when to simply be.

Somewhere between Earl Grey’s quiet reflection and Hazelnut’s reluctant second dessert, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the dining hall’s stone archways. The air had taken on that dimmer, cooler quality that meant class hours had long passed, and free time had become scarce once more.

The anticipation of tomorrow left a sour taste in your mouth. You didn’t think anything bad would come out of it but who knows. The next day was like any other and the hours seemed to slip away from you. Even during lunch, you were absent, caught up in your thoughts that seemed endless. Of course, that didn’t go unnoticed by your friends, which is why Chai insisted they drop you off with the sage himself. Something about ‘Knights can’t go without their steeds”.

And now, here you were.

The halls of the Scholar’s Wing were quiet again, washed in lantern light and the faint rustling of ancient banners. You stood before the carved door you knew too well, parchment scroll clutched in both hands like it was sacred, dangerous, or perhaps… deeply personal.

Chai Latte Cookie bounced on her heels beside you, practically glowing. “Okay, so remember shoulders back, voice steady, don’t crumple the scroll in panic”

“I won’t,” you muttered, eyes locked on the door. “Probably.”

Hazelnut Biscotti raised an eyebrow. “If he doesn’t agree, I’ll eat the dining hall’s jelly meatloaf for a week.”

Earl Grey Cookie offered a dignified nod. “You’ve edited it thoroughly. It’s a compelling argument.”

Chai smiled softly, squeezing your arm. “And it’s very you. If he says no… it’s not because it’s not good. It just means he’s being cryptic and annoying. You’ve got this.”

You took a slow breath, nodding. “Right.”

This wasn’t just an essay.

It was your most current fascination with him. One that started with curiosity, twisted into wonder, and now shimmered somewhere on the horizon between truth and vulnerability.

You weren’t sure what he’d say.

But you were ready to find out.

You turned toward the door.

Looked towards your friends for courage.

And knocked three times.

You heard his voice from the other side of the door smooth, composed, as always.

“Come in.”

You stepped through the threshold before your nerves had the chance to revolt, before your heart could second-guess the weight of the scroll in your hands or the practiced way you had folded it three times to make it feel more formal than it was. You moved past the threshold, into the warm glow of parchment and starlight that always seemed to fill his office.

Shadow Milk Cookie looked up from his notes, one hand still curled around a quill, the other resting near an open book. His gaze lifted to you, curious but not unkind his expression expectant.

But before he could say anything, you moved.

With every ounce of the determination your friends had just poured into you, you strode forward and held out the scroll between both hands.

He blinked.

Your expression was steady. Unflinching.

Like you were handing him something that could very well decide the future of magic itself.

He set his quill down with slow precision and took the scroll from your hands. The parchment barely made a sound between your fingers, but in your chest, your heart thudded like it echoed across stone halls.

Then, without a word, you turned on your heel.

And marched to the chair across from his desk.

But instead of sitting, you bent down and grabbed the legs of the chair with both hands.

You began to drag.

The wood groaned in protest as you struggled to maneuver it around the polished corner of the desk and just as you were halfway through gritting your teeth and about to commit to dragging it all the way-

It moved.

Soundlessly. Cleanly. As though the stone beneath it had turned to air.

You blinked. Your hands hovered in the air for a moment before you looked up.

Shadow Milk Cookie stood beside his desk now, parchment scroll in one hand, a long-suffering sigh escaping through his nose.

He didn’t say a word.

You offered a grin and settled into the chair now neatly aligned beside his, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Thank you. You're getting faster at that.”

“I was trying to save the floor.”

“I was trying to make a point,” you replied, folding your hands with faux dignity. “That this is a co-investigator level interaction.”

He arched a brow, gaze lowering to the scroll.

You nudged him slightly with your elbow. “Now read it carefully. Every word. Analyze it like it’s critical spell theory. This is very important.”

He looked at you again, eyes narrowing slightly with a glimmer of suspicion. “For science, I assume?”

“Exactly,” you said solemnly. “For science.”

He exhaled softly.

Then, without another word, he began to unroll the scroll.

You sat beside him, doing your best to appear calm, collected, and completely unaware of the fact that you were sitting next to the most unreadable person in the entire Academy with a ticking time bomb of magical curiosity in his hands.

This was fine.

You were fine.

You just… might pass out a little.

But for science? Worth it. You folded your hands in your lap to stop yourself from fidgeting, but it didn’t help much. Your knee still bounced the smallest bit, your shoulders tense despite your best efforts.

There was something deeply embarrassing about having someone read your work always had been. Even when it wasn’t personal.

Even when it was just a simple analysis on mana circuits or historical transmutations, there was always that flicker of vulnerability. That tiny voice whispering, What if it’s not good enough? What if they think it’s silly?

But this?

This wasn’t just coursework.

This was you asking the Sage of Truth to shapeshift.

This was every spiraling thought and late-night curiosity packed neatly into metaphors, magic theory, and if you were being honest at least two and a half emotionally compromised flourishes courtesy of Chai Latte Cookie.

And he was reading it.

Right next to you.

His eyes moved slowly down the page, calm and steady. His posture unchanged, expression unreadable. Not a twitch of an eyebrow. Not a quirk of his lips. Just the soft rustle of parchment as he unrolled a bit more, and the occasional pause that made your heart leap into your throat.

You tried to steal a glance at his face just a peek.

But there was nothing.

Not disapproval. Not amusement. Just… silence.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud your own thoughts were. Every second felt like it stretched too long, too wide.

Still, you waited.

Because despite the silence, despite the burn of embarrassment crawling up your neck… you wanted him to see it.

Because this wasn’t just for science.

This was yours.

And right now, that had to be enough. You waited.

Not the impatient kind of waiting, the fidgeting, time-checking, foot-tapping sort but the quiet, breath-held kind. The kind of stillness that only happened when something delicate was unfolding, and you didn’t want to move in case it shattered.

You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat as he reached the end of the scroll. His eyes lingered on the final line Chai’s idea, something about “truth reshaping itself not to deceive, but to reveal what curiosity dares to ask.” It felt too dramatic when you wrote it. It still did now.

And then he looked at you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just regarded you with that steady, deep gaze mismatched eyes so calm they made the silence feel like part of the conversation.

You braced yourself.

“This is…” He paused, folding the parchment carefully with deliberate hands. “Remarkably structured.”

You blinked. “Wait structured?” You knew it was but to hear it from him was another thing.

“A logical progression. Efficient use of magical precedent. Clear intent.” He placed the scroll down on the desk with reverence, as though it were a thesis submitted to a higher council.

You stared at him, unblinking. “That’s all you got from it?”

He turned to you fully now, his expression softening just slightly.

“And charming,” he added.

Your heart skipped.

“I did read every word. Including the parts where you tried to convince me this was purely academic,” he said, lips curling just faintly.

You opened your mouth to object but he held up a hand.

“No need to deny it. I appreciate the effort. And the… scholarly fervor.” He leaned back a little in his chair, gaze thoughtful. “You’ve always been curious. But this kind of curiosity is… different. More personal.”

You looked down, fingers twitching in your lap. “Well, yeah. I guess… I just wanted to see. To know. It’s not like I’d publish a paper on it or anything.”

“I know,” he said gently. “And I am not dismissing the request.”

Your head snapped up. “Wait, really?”

His smile was small. But it was real.

“I’m merely considering my terms.”

You gawked. “Terms?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Surely, you didn’t expect something like this to be without cost.”

You blinked. “Are you saying I have to pay you to shapeshift?”

“Not in gold,” he mused. “But perhaps in kind. One trade of curiosity for another.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You huffed, slouching in your seat. “I can’t believe you’re making this into a negotiation.”

He raised a brow. “It’s what scholars do.”

You exhaled sharply… but a smile tugged at the corner of your lips despite yourself.

“Fine,” you said. “But I want it noted that this began with you withholding cosmic-level shapeshifting powers and me just wanting to observe.”

“And now,” he said softly, “we’re here. At the edge of something new.”

You stared at him for a long, quiet beat.

And, just beneath your breath, you said, “I can live with that.”

You leaned in a little, eyes narrowing not with suspicion, but with the kind of sharpened curiosity that always surfaced when he dangled something just out of reach. It was like he’d placed a rare tome on the top shelf and was waiting to see if you’d dare climb for it.

“…Alright,” you said, voice low but certain. “What are your terms?”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked almost too pleased. Not smug. Not condescending. Just… quietly, profoundly satisfied, like he’d known you would ask from the moment you handed him the scroll.

He folded his hands atop the parchment, his expression measured but still touched with that unreadable warmth that always seemed to creep in when he thought you weren’t looking.

“My terms,” he repeated slowly, “are quite simple.”

You raised a brow. “Simple for you or for me?”

He inclined his head, ignoring the jab entirely.

“One; You must allow me to ask a question of equal weight.”

You blinked. “That’s… vague.”

“Precisely,” he said, tone maddeningly light. “You may not know when I’ll ask. Or what it will be.”

“So you’re setting a trap.”

“I’m offering balance.”

You gave him a long look. “Fine. One mysterious, possibly ominous question to be determined later. What else?”

“Two…” He reached for a quill, idly spinning it between his fingers. “You must promise not to run.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Why would I run?”

He glanced at you not with teasing, not with challenge. Just… something steadier. Something deeper.

“Because,” he said softly, “when truth is given form, it often changes the one who sought it.”

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest tightened just a little.

Still, you nodded. “Okay. I won’t run.”

He considered you, as if weighing whether to believe you.

Then, slowly, he nodded once in return.

“That’s it?” you asked, your voice quiet now. “Just those two things?”

“Is that not enough?”

You hesitated then exhaled.

“…No. It’s fair.”

He said nothing for a moment.

Then leaned in just slightly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then the terms are accepted.”

And somewhere, beneath all the words exchanged between you, a quiet agreement settled. Not signed in ink or blood but in trust.

And maybe something a little closer to wonder. You stared at him, your curiosity prickling again, even sharper now that you’d agreed to his cryptic little bargain.

“…What is it you wish to know?” you asked, voice steady but soft. “If I’m agreeing to answer one question of equal weight… then what is it you’re so eager to ask?”

You expected him to deflect. Maybe lean back in his chair, say something evasive like in time or you’ll know when it matters. Maybe arch a brow and smirk like he so often did when you wandered too close to truths he wasn’t ready to name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you.

And then

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

That stopped you.

You blinked. “You… don’t know?”

He shook his head, slow and honest. “Not yet. But I will.”

You tilted your head, wary. “That’s a little unnerving.”

“I could lie,” he offered, lips curling slightly.

“Please don’t. You’re the last person I need lying to me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

You sat back, the weight of that truth settling into your chest like something warm and strangely grounding. There was no game here. No dramatic setup. Just honesty clear, rare, and a little too vulnerable if you thought about it for too long.

You looked down at your hands, thumbs brushing over each other.

“And when you do figure out the question?”

“I’ll ask it.”

“And I’ll have to answer.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

You met his gaze again, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “I hope it’s something good.”

“It will be,” he said, and somehow it felt like a promise not of comfort or safety, but of knowing. Of being seen in a way that went past observation and into belief.

You nodded once.

And sat there beside him, heart full of stars and questions. You rested your elbow on the desk, cheek in your hand, still watching him carefully half wary, half fascinated. The scroll between you was no longer just a scroll. It was a pact. One sealed with curiosity and trust, and maybe a little too much emotional investment for your comfort.

“…So,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “does that mean I’ll only get to see you shapeshift after you ask your mysterious life-altering question?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took his time of course he did fingers trailing lightly along the edge of the parchment, as if rereading your words in silence.

You waited, trying not to fidget.

Eventually, he spoke, voice calm. “That depends.”

“On?”

His eyes met yours, something unreadable flickering behind them.

“On whether I think you’re ready to see me like that.”

Your breath hitched.

“…Like what?” you asked, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.

He tilted his head, gaze unwavering. “As something unfamiliar. As something outside the image you’ve grown used to.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the gravity in his tone.

“I don’t want to unsettle you,” he added, more gently now. “That’s not the point of this. You asked out of curiosity. But if I do this, if I show you a version of myself that’s entirely unlike what you’ve known… I want you to understand it’s still me. That the truth doesn’t vanish just because the form changes.”

You swallowed, your voice barely audible. “I would still know you.”

He watched you a moment longer, as if searching for the depth of your certainty.

Then, finally, he nodded. “Then no. You will not have to wait until I ask the question.”

Your heart fluttered.

“But,” he added, with a glint of amusement now dancing at the edges of his lips, “I reserve the right to make you wait just long enough to drive you mildly mad.”

You groaned, slumping forward with your forehead on the desk. “I knew there was a catch.”

His chuckle rippled through the air like warm silk.

And somehow, the idea of waiting didn’t seem so terrible after all. You lifted your head off the desk just enough to glare at him, squinting like you were trying to set his robes on fire with sheer willpower.

“You’re being unfair,” you declared, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I put together a well-researched, carefully-worded, academically sound paper with citations, by the way and you’re going to tease me? After all that?”

Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, simply raised an eyebrow, lips threatening the faintest smirk. “You also included a metaphor about truth wearing earrings.”

“Poetic license!” you snapped. “Chai said it was evocative.”

“It was certainly something.”

You groaned, slumping dramatically back into your seat with your arms folded. “I deserve better.”

He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You believe scholarly diligence should be rewarded with spectacle.”

“Yes,” you grumbled. “I believe me being very nice, very respectful, and putting my soul into that scroll means I should absolutely get to see you shapeshift, like, today. Or now. Or, better yet yesterday.”

He watched you silently for a moment, a trace of that fond, unreadable amusement still hovering in his eyes.

“You truly are relentless when you want something,” he said finally.

“I’m a scholar,” you said, lifting your chin. “It’s my job to question the universe. And also… you.”

“Then you’ve succeeded.” He set the scroll aside, folding his hands. “The universe is duly questioned.”

“And?”

“And I never said no,” he murmured, voice low and deliberately maddening.

You narrowed your eyes. “You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You let out another sigh and leaned back against the chair, arms still crossed. “I’m going to file an academic grievance.”

“I’ll be sure to grade it personally.”

You shot him a look, but you were already smiling again, despite yourself.

Because as much as he was teasing you he hadn’t said no.

And that, more than anything, meant it was only a matter of time. You glanced sideways at him, still slouched in your chair, your arms crossed in a dramatic show of indignation. But after a beat after the laughter had softened and his smirk still lingered you let the question slip.

“…What if we run out of time?”

You said it lightly, jokingly, like it was just another thing to throw into the endless back-and-forth between you. Like you were still riding the high of teasing him. Like it didn’t matter.

But he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

The silence that followed was subtle, but immediate.

He turned his head toward you fully now, the low golden lamplight casting a soft shadow across the edge of his face. His expression wasn’t unreadable not this time. It was something else.

Still.

Quiet.

Serious.

“Then I will regret,” he said slowly, “not showing you sooner.”

Your breath caught, the shift in atmosphere pulling the words right out of your chest. The weight of his voice was different now, not sharp, not heavy, but true. Like something ancient being spoken for the first time in a very long time.

“I may live longer,” he went on, his gaze unwavering, “but that doesn’t mean I am exempt from time. Or from what it takes.”

You sat up straighter.

“…Takes?”

He nodded once. “Patience. Intention. Restraint. All things I wield because I have to because I must maintain control. Because if I give in to every impulse, then I become no different than the truths I’ve warned others about: overwhelming. Dangerous. Absolute.”

You swallowed.

He looked down briefly, folding his hands together again. “But if I ever did run out of time… I would rather be remembered by you as known, than as a mystery you never had the chance to understand.”

The quiet between you stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was reverent.

You blinked slowly, the weight of his words settling in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.

“…You’re not a mystery,” you said softly.

He looked at you.

“Not to me,” you added, quieter now. “Not anymore.” This of course was a lie but it felt right to say.

He exhaled slowly, gaze warm and distant at once. “Then perhaps time is not the thing we should fear.”

You stared at him for a moment longer, unsure of what to say. What could be said, really?

So instead, you whispered “Then don’t wait too long.” The weight of the moment lingered in the air between you soft, thick, impossible to ignore.

His words still echoed in your chest. “Then I will regret not showing you sooner.” And the way he said it not with drama, but with sincerity lodged somewhere too close to your heart for comfort.

Which was exactly why you did what you always did.

You reached over, grabbed the scroll you’d painstakingly written and edited with your friends’ help, and waved it in the air dramatically.

“Well,” you said, voice suddenly bright, “if you do run out of time, I’m keeping this and publishing it under ‘Unfulfilled Magical Requests and the Tragedy of Teasing Professors.’ Subtitle; Why Saying ‘Maybe’ Is Emotional Warfare.”

He blinked, visibly caught off guard for a second not at the words, but at the sharp shift.

And then, as expected, he exhaled a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. Barely there. But real.

Your tone only got more theatrical. “I’ll submit it to the Academy archive. It’ll become required reading in Magical Ethics courses. You’ll go down in history as the Sage of Selective Silence.”

He arched a brow, amused again, watching you with that knowing gaze of his the one that always saw a little too much.

“You always do this,” he murmured, not unkindly.

You froze mid-rant. “Do what?”

“When emotions get too close.” He tilted his head, gently, like he was observing you the way one observes the stars curious, fascinated, never quite needing to name what they are.

“You run. Not with your feet. But with your words.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Fumbled. “I… I don’t run. I sidestep. Gracefully.”

He gave you that faint, insufferable smile. “You deflect.”

You threw your arms up. “Okay, fine, I deflect. But I do it charmingly.”

“And with purpose,” he said softly. “I’m not blaming you.”

That shut you up again.

Just for a second.

You looked away, hands lowering to your lap.

“I just…” you mumbled, “I’m not always sure how to hold things like that. The big stuff. It doesn’t sit right in my chest. It… gets too quiet. Too real. So if I make it lighter, I can breathe again.”

There was no judgment in his silence.

Only understanding.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, “before I show you.”

You looked up.

“Before I shift,” he clarified. “So that you’re not caught by something too heavy.”

You smiled, soft and crooked. “See? That’s why you’re the best mentor-slash-possibly-more-than-that-but-we’re-still-not-labelling-it.”

He chuckled under his breath.

And just like that, the weight in the room eased dissolved into something warmer, lighter.

Exactly how you liked it. He let the quiet linger a moment longer, eyes still on you not dissecting, not calculating, just… aware. Then, with a soft exhale, he leaned back slightly and tapped a nearby stack of parchment with the edge of his finger, drawing the moment to a gentle close.

“But,” he said, voice smoothing back into his usual scholar’s tone cool, calm, gently chiding, “as much as I enjoy doing nothing with you…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks. So romantic.”

He ignored the comment entirely. “...Your academics come first.”

You groaned, already slumping in your seat. “Nooooo.”

“Yes,” he said with a little more firmness now. “Your finals are approaching. You will need to revise elemental stabilization matrices, temporal layering, and the ethics of magical application Professor Almond Custard’s section in particular will be weighed heavily.”

You tried to groan louder, but he continued smoothly.

“You should also be prepared to interpret dream-sequence transcriptions and disprove flawed magical constructs. There will be case studies. And likely, one open-ended essay.”

“Can’t I just write about how emotionally repressed you are and pass with extra credit?” you muttered under your breath.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you can do so with proper citations.”

You let your head thunk against the back of the chair dramatically. “I miss when this was about shapeshifting.”

He smirked. “This is about preparing you for the world beyond me.”

You blinked, then squinted at him. “That… sounded way more ominous than you meant it to.”

He gave a small, amused nod. “Possibly.”

Still half-draped across the chair, you sighed loudly but turned your head to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Fine. Academics first.”

His voice softened just slightly again, enough to make it linger. “Always.”

You looked away, smiling faintly.

Always… but maybe not forever. And just like that, the mood shifted not in the jarring way, but with the smooth precision of turning a page in a very familiar book.

He began going over the foundational elements again: temporal layering and how unstable weaves behave when disrupted by external magical sources, the difference between intention-led spellcraft and reflexive casting, how to analyze illusory magic without being misled by form.

You sat up straighter, less slouch and more scholar now, drawn into the rhythm of it. It wasn’t like lecture. It was quieter. Closer. The kind of exchange where your thoughts could unravel safely where you could be wrong, get messy, ask without embarrassment.

He would correct you, sure, but never harshly.

You got through the key points on stabilizing enchantments, and you were halfway through the philosophy behind magical ethics debating the fine line between intention and consequence when something in your brain clicked into place.

“Oh! Wait!” you straightened suddenly, eyes brightening. “That reminds me of something Almond Custard said last week during lecture, about layered intention in temporal folds! I thought it was going to be boring, but it wasn’t it was actually kind of brilliant”

He paused mid-note, already familiar with your tone. “Go on.”

“Okay, so,” you said, already talking with your hands, “he was going on about the theory that when you perform a time-anchored spell, the intent you embed in it doesn't just affect the spell in that moment, it actually reverberates backward into the framework of the spell. It influences how the spell began forming even before you consciously made it! Isn’t that wild? Like, magic reaching backwards through your own process of thought!”

You barely registered that he’d stopped writing and was now watching you just listening.

“So technically, that means spells are always a little bit alive, right? Not just in how they act, but in how they echo. Which also made me think, what about spells that go wrong because the caster’s intent wasn’t stable to begin with? Not because they didn’t mean to do it right, but because their emotions were split? Can you even fix that if it’s embedded into the foundation of the magic before you even consciously realize it?”

You leaned forward, completely lost in your own spiraling fascination now. “And then I wondered does that mean if someone has really conflicting emotions, they’re always casting unstable magic? And what if the magic responds by changing in ways we don’t even detect because the system we use to measure it doesn’t account for the emotional resonance inp”

“You memorized all of this?” he asked, quietly.

You blinked mid-ramble, realizing you hadn’t taken a breath in quite some time. “Uh. Yeah? Sort of. Not intentionally. I just thought it was really cool, and I kept thinking about it, and then suddenly I was writing notes in the margin of my spellbook and-”

He nodded slowly.

You hesitated, glancing at him.

He was smiling.

Not his usual, teasing sort of smile. Not even the fond one he sometimes wore when you said something accidentally poetic.

This was softer. Subtler.

So you took a breath. Sat back.

And kept going. You didn’t mean to keep going.

You really didn’t.

But once the words started, once the thought had begun to spill forward, there was no stopping it. The idea kept unraveling, tugging at every half-formed theory you’d scribbled in the margins of your notebook, every late-night thought you hadn’t been able to let go of. And he just sat there, quietly, without so much as a breath of interruption.

“-and I mean, if magical intention does retroactively shape a spell’s formation, then that would explain why some spells collapse even when the mechanics are perfect, right? Because the caster isn’t emotionally consistent. So the spell reflects that instability, and maybe that’s why certain enchantments degrade faster in emotionally charged environments especially in collaborative spellcasting! Because two people means two layers of intent, and if they’re not aligned, then the foundation is compromised before it even stabilizes-"

You paused only to breathe, your hands gesturing in sweeping arcs as your brain tumbled faster than your words could follow.

"and what if that’s why ancient spells needed entire rituals to stabilize emotional intent? Like, not just precision of word or motion, but the actual state of the person casting. They knew it, right? That the heart informs the spell just as much as the incantation? What if that’s what we’re missing in modern instruction-”

You stopped.

Not because you’d run out of thoughts, stars, you had so many more but because you finally noticed the silence again. The kind that meant you were being watched, and not just watched, but heard.

You turned.

He hadn’t moved.

Shadow Milk Cookie sat beside you, one arm resting on the desk, the other relaxed in his lap. His expression wasn’t the usual calm, unreadable veil you’d grown used to.

He looked…

Content.

Not the fleeting contentment that came from a good book or a solved problem. No, it was something deeper. Something that settled quietly into the space between you. As if he had been waiting not for you to stop talking, but simply to be there while you did.

Not once had he tried to redirect you. Not once had he told you to focus or stay on topic.

He had let you speak. Let you spill, without judgment, without impatience. Just listened, as though every spiraling tangent was worthy of his time.

And when your voice finally trailed off, breathless and wide-eyed, he simply said “You’ve thought about this deeply.”

You flushed, suddenly self-conscious now that the adrenaline had burned off. “yeah. Sorry. I know I talk too much sometimes. When something gets stuck in my head, it stays there until I-”

“I know.”

You blinked.

He looked at you again, gaze unwavering.

“And I’m glad you shared it with me.”

The words hit soft, but true like all his truths did. Not loud. Not showy.

But deep enough to echo.

And for a moment, you forgot the embarrassment entirely.

Because being heard like that?

That felt like magic too. You shifted in your seat, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the desk as your thoughts, still fired up from your last tangent, began to circle back to something else you hadn’t planned on bringing up. You hesitated but only for a second.

“So… um.” You glanced at him. “Not that I was looking for your papers specifically, but I-sort of ran into a few. On purpose.”

His brow lifted slightly. “On purpose?”

“Not in a weird way!” you said quickly. “I just… yours were the most detailed. They cited things no one else did, and you reference primary sources everyone else avoids because they’re obscure or out of translation. So I kind of... leaned toward them. That’s all.”

He said nothing, but the corners of his mouth tugged in the faintest way that suggested he was either amused, flattered, or both.

You cleared your throat and pushed forward. “One of them the one on emotionally synchronized casting you mentioned that intention and magical efficiency increase when the spellcaster’s emotional state aligns with the elemental resonance of the spell being cast. I wanted to ask what you meant in the part where you talked about ‘harmonic temperance as a conduit of magical fidelity’ because I kind of get it, but also kind of didn’t. I think you were saying the more regulated the emotion, the stronger the anchor, but…”

You trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling. “That’s a fair interpretation. But it’s less about regulation and more about clarity. If you’re angry and know you’re angry, and the spell is born of that emotion, it’s clearer than if you’re conflicted and trying to hide that anger while casting.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “Right. That makes sense. And I actually tried it.”

He blinked. “You what?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I tried using the same spell basic levitation but in different moods. I kept everything else consistent. Stance, intent, recitation speed. But one time I did it while I was really upset. Another time when I was focused. Another time when I was… not thrilled but not miserable. Just a little sad.”

He stared at you now, expression unreadable again but in the way that meant he was definitely reading everything.

“And I know I probably shouldn’t have,” you added quickly, panic creeping into your tone as you waved your hands. “I mean, I know it’s unstable casting while upset is basically asking for backlash. I didn’t do anything dangerous, I swear! But I just… wanted to see. I kept it small. Nothing got flung across the room! Just… you know. Some unexpected hover-jitters.”

You winced. “I forgot I didn’t want to tell you.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I mean, I know you’re going to say it was reckless and dumb and you’d be right but-”

“I’m not angry.”

You froze mid-babble.

“…You’re not?”

He shook his head, voice calm. “Curious. And mildly exasperated.”

You exhaled in relief. “Oh. That’s fine.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“I’ve lived with exasperation before. I can handle that.”

He let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk as he studied you.

“You shouldn’t test unstable casting conditions without supervision,” he said, “but your observation was not without merit. And your control, evidently, was sufficient.”

“…So you’re not going to scold me?”

“Oh, I absolutely will.” His voice was sharp, but his expression softened again. “But later. For now…”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Tell me what else you found.”

And just like that, you forgot you were supposed to be nervous.

Because there was something about the way he said it quiet, steady, and open that reminded you this wasn’t just your curiosity anymore.

It was shared.

So you did.

You told him everything. Of course, it didn’t last.

The moment the last of your excited words trailed off, the Sage of Truth went perfectly still. Too still.

You knew that stillness. You recognized it.

It was the calm before the storm, not the shouting kind, but the quieter, more dangerous kind. The kind that came with controlled words and an expression that said, You’re lucky I like you, because otherwise this would be a formal disciplinary hearing.

He closed the parchment he had been idly referencing, set it aside, and laced his fingers together on the desk in front of him.

“I want to be very clear,” he began, his voice calm too calm. “You’re telling me you willingly cast spells while emotionally compromised. Alone. Repeatedly. Without consulting anyone. Without recording your safeguards. Without a controlled environment. And without protective wards.”

You blinked. “...Okay when you say it like that-”

“Because that is exactly how I’m going to say it,” he interrupted, expression firm. “Do you know how many recorded magical accidents come from spells cast in a state of emotional instability?”

You slumped slightly. “Yes.”

“Do you know how often those spells backfire in ways that don’t harm the caster, but others around them?”

“Yes.”

“Then why-”

“I had wards!” you insisted. “Not strong ones, but I was careful! I picked a classroom no one was using! I triple-checked the threshold sigils!”

He gave you that look again the one that felt like he was peeling back every layer of your argument in silence.

And you did what you always did when confronted by well-earned disappointment.

You tuned him out.

Not fully. Not rudely. You just… let your focus drift. You knew the consequences. You knew it had been risky. You weren’t proud of it. You didn’t regret it either, but you knew it wasn’t something he could condone.

Still, as he went on listing magical theory, emotional resonance thresholds, the dangers of internal misalignment you found yourself staring at the edge of his desk, at the way his fingers moved when he spoke, the way his voice dipped not with anger, but worry.

That’s what stung most.

The fact that beneath the precise scolding and the well-structured warnings, what you heard clearest was: you could have been hurt.

“…And if anything had gone wrong,” he said, at last finishing, “do you think I would have forgiven myself?”

Your head lifted at that, a little startled.

He hadn’t raised his voice. But the weight behind those words that got your attention.

You blinked slowly.

“…No,” you said, a little quieter. “I guess not.”

His shoulders eased slightly, just enough to suggest he hadn’t even realized they’d tensed.

He looked at you. And now his tone was soft. Controlled. But not cold.

“Next time,” he said, “you don’t do it alone.”

You nodded, subdued now, guilt settling in with a quiet sort of ache. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose like you’d aged him a century.

You offered a tentative smile. “You done?”

“For now.”

You smirked faintly. “You sure?”

“I could assign a research essay on magical misfires.”

You gasped. “Cruelty.”

He didn’t smile.

But his eyes did. You had barely begun to relax sinking ever so slightly into your chair with that tentative sense of okay, he’s done, I survived when you heard him shift.

Not a dramatic shift.

Just a quiet repositioning of his posture, the slight realignment of his spine, the way he folded his hands again with renewed purpose.

Oh no.

You straightened instantly. “Wait there’s more?”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

You groaned. “But you just said-”

“I said I was done for now. That ‘now’ has passed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already on a roll.

“You treat magic like it’s something pliable,” he said calmly. “Something that will always bend around your curiosity. But it doesn’t bend. Not without cost. The difference between exploration and recklessness lies in preparation. You know better.”

You winced slightly, eyes darting away. “It was just levitation-”

“It could have been anything.”

You sighed and leaned your cheek on your hand, muttering under your breath, “Truth doesn’t punish the seeker for being curious. It simply demands they be prepared.”

He paused.

A long pause.

You slowly looked up at him.

His expression was flat. Deadpan.

“…Did you just quote me at me?” he asked.

You tried very hard not to smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

You gave him your best innocent blink. “You’re the one who said it.”

“And you’re using it to dodge accountability.”

“I’m using it to highlight that I was seeking knowledge with intention and poetic integrity.”

He stared at you.

You gave him a small, helpless shrug. “For science?”

“...You are infuriating,” he said, and somehow despite the words his voice was so fond it made your stomach flip.

You grinned. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“I keep hoping it won’t be,” he muttered.

And then, because you were shameless: “You said hope was an enduring trait of scholars.”

He gave a slow exhale, leaned back in his chair, and covered his face with one hand.

“…Stars preserve me.” You watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, fingers pressed lightly to his temple like you were the cause of every headache he’d ever had past, present, and hypothetical future. The silence stretched long enough that you dared to hope.

“...So,” you said, lifting your chin, daring to test the waters, “are you done lecturing me now?”

His hand dropped.

He gave you a look. The kind that should’ve turned you to stone if magical eye-rolling were a real curse. “No,” he said flatly.

You groaned. “Come on-”

But he was already on his feet, pacing behind his desk now not dramatically, not angrily. Just with that purposeful stride he got when his thoughts were lining up like dominoes ready to fall.

“You cast unsupervised magic while emotionally compromised,” he began, holding up one finger. “In an unsecured setting,” another finger “without proper safeguards or documentation-”

“I had thresholds-”

“without proper safeguards,” he repeated, louder this time, “and you withheld that information from me until it accidentally slipped during a completely unrelated tangent.”

You huffed. “I wasn’t trying to hide it! I just… didn’t want to hear the lecture!”

“Then why would you remind me to keep going?” he demanded, clearly bewildered by your logic.

“Because I thought we reached the natural conclusion!”

“There is no natural conclusion when you treat magic like an emotional experiment and use yourself as the test subject!”

“I was safe!”

“You were lucky!” His voice was sharper now, not loud but edged. It cut more because it wasn’t fury. It was something closer to fear, pressed down into composure. “Luck is not a framework. It is not a shield. It is not something I want you relying on. You-”

He stopped.

Just for a moment.

Then, much quieter, under his breath but loud enough for you to hear:

“Stars, I could’ve lost you.”

You froze.

But he didn’t let the weight linger this time.

He turned back toward you, more composed now, drawing in a breath that steadied him like it had steadied you so many times before.

“I’m lecturing you,” he said, “because I care.”

He crossed his arms, the motion calm, firm. “Because you’re not just a scholar. You’re my scholar. And if anything happened to you because of something preventable because you pushed too far, too fast, without thinking I wouldn’t just be furious. I would be devastated.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because he wasn’t being dramatic. Or manipulative. Or even theatrical.

He was being honest.

And that somehow hurt more than any scolding could have.

“…Okay,” you said softly, after a beat.

And you meant it this time.

He watched you for a moment longer, his jaw tight but slowly, his shoulders eased.

Still, he wasn’t quite done.

“You’ll come to me next time,” he said, voice even. “If you want to experiment. If something upsets you. If you need supervision. Or help. Or… anything.”

You nodded again, smaller. “I will.”

He exhaled.

Then sat back down beside you.

“…Good.”

And for a few seconds, neither of you said a word.

You just sat there. Both a little overwhelmed. Both still holding onto the edges of something fragile. The rest of the tutoring session passed with a kind of soft, deliberate quiet.

You returned to the notes event manipulation, cross-channel mana resonance, comparative theory between willed enchantments and reflexive charmcraft. Nothing too complicated. Nothing too simple. Just enough to fill the space between you, to let things settle without pressing too hard on what had just been said.

He explained things clearly, as he always did. You asked your questions, less playful now, but no less curious. He corrected your diagrams with gentle precision, sometimes conjuring a flicker of light to demonstrate, other times just guiding your hand across the page.

It all felt normal.

Mostly.

But not entirely.

The echoes of his words from earlier still clung to the edges of your awareness. Not in a sharp or stinging way but like the faint warmth of a fire that had already burned through its most dangerous heat. That lingering feeling of something having mattered.

And you knew he felt it too.

Because even though he returned to his composed rhythm, he didn’t move quite the same. He sat a little closer than usual. Watched you a little longer between your thoughts. And when your brow furrowed at one particularly dense passage, his hand came to rest gently on the edge of your parchment steadying, grounding without comment.

By the time you reached the end of the session, you’d covered more than you expected to. You’d understood more than you thought you would.

And yet, underneath it all, that earlier moment still pulsed.

As if some invisible line between you had been redrawn.

Not a boundary crossed.

But something acknowledged.

As you gathered your notes and slid them back into your bag, he said nothing but you could feel his gaze on you again.

You glanced up at him, offering a small, tired smile.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said quietly.

He inclined his head. “And I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and looked toward the door. Then back to him.

“I guess we’re even.”

He didn’t smile, not really.

But the look he gave you then the soft glint in his eyes, the way his head tilted just so, like he was considering something precious was more than enough.

“Until next time,” he murmured.

You nodded once.

And left with more than just your notes. By the time you made it to dinner, the smell of baked cheese rolls and grilled rosemary vegetables hit you like a sigh of relief.

The hall was already buzzing with familiar chatter, forks clinking, laughter echoing between rows of stone pillars and there, in your usual corner, sat your friends. Chai Latte Cookie was already waving frantically the moment she spotted you, nearly knocking over her cup of tea in the process.

“You’re late,” she said the moment you dropped into the seat beside her. “We were this close to staging a recovery mission. Again.”

Earl Grey Cookie looked up from his notes, though his expression betrayed only mild concern. “You missed the raspberry lemonade. It went fast.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, across from you, handed you a roll before you even asked. “Rough tutoring session?” You sighed, resting your arms on the table. “You have no idea.”

A/N So apparently this didn't get posted I clicked post now yesterday night but I checked my page and it's not there... So late upload MY BAD GUYS

also I just want to note there is no reason why mc would run my thinking for why I did that is just because he's making sure to cover all his bases because quite honestly the reasoning he provides isn't great if I'm being honest.

Also just completed my first work week woohoo!!!

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

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eriace · 25 days ago

Text

choke on your smoothie ; endo yamato

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which y/n teases endo yamato one too many times, and his silent jealousy turns into an accidental confession. ↷ endo yamato ; windbreaker

↳ an order of iced chai latte + hot chocolate from anonymous in the comeback cafe event !

IF YAMATO ROLLED his eyes any harder, they’d fly out of his head and hit the gym wall.

“You’re flirting again.”

Y/n blinked, halfway through laughing at a joke Taiga made (that, frankly, wasn’t even that funny). She turned toward Yamato, who was leaning against the vending machine with his arms crossed and his usual resting-scowl face set to maximum brooding.

“I’m talking,” she said pointedly. “There’s a difference.”

“You laughed like it was funny.”

“It was kind of funny.”

“It was not.”

Yamato cracked open a sports drink like it had personally offended him. Across the courtyard, Taiga gave Y/n a wink and wandered off, whistling. Yamato’s grip on the bottle tightened.

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound mad.”

“This is my voice.”

“Your angry voice.”

He glared at her. She smiled sweetly, which somehow only made him more irritable. It wasn’t like he cared or anything. He just didn’t like how much Taiga smiled at her. Or how much she smiled back.

He didn’t care. Not at all.

She tilted her head, looking at him curiously.

“You okay? Need me to get you a new punching bag? Or maybe a therapist?”

“I don’t need therapy.”

“Everyone in Bofurin needs therapy.”

“Especially you,” he muttered.

Y/n gasped, placing a hand on her heart. “Rude!”

He turned away with a huff, slamming the vending machine shut. It gave a sad little beep in protest. Y/n followed after him, skipping a little to keep up.

“You know,” she said lightly, “if you keep acting like this, people might think you’re jealous.”

Yamato stopped walking. “…I’m not.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not!” He turned to her, ears slightly red. “Why would I be jealous of some guy who doesn’t even know how to block properly?”

“So you were watching.”

“I watch everything. I’m observant.”

“You were glaring at him like he keyed your bike.”

“I just don’t like his face.”

Y/n grinned. “Or maybe you just like mine?”

Dead silence.

Yamato froze like his brain just blue-screened.

“…What?”

Her eyes widened. “…Wait. Did I say that out loud?”

He blinked. “You like me?”

“Uh—NO—I MEAN—MAYBE—SHUT UP.” She tried to backpedal, but Yamato was staring at her like she’d just hit him in the head with a skateboard and he wasn’t sure whether to be mad or impressed.

And then—

“Good.”

“Huh?!”

He scratched his cheek, turning his gaze away. “…Because I like you too.”

Y/n stared. “Are you serious?”

“You said it first,” he muttered. “You can’t take it back now.”

She let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re such a child.”

“You like this child,” he shot back.

“Unfortunately,” she grumbled, though she was smiling way too hard for someone pretending to be annoyed.

They stood there on the sunlit sidewalk outside the school gates, trying not to grin, trying not to combust.

“You’re still jealous,” Y/n teased.

“Am not.”

“You literally growled when he offered me a smoothie.”

“He got you the wrong flavor.”

“It was strawberry.”

“I heard you say you like mango last week.”

She blinked. “…You remember my smoothie preference?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re so whipped.”

“Keep talking and I’ll block you on everything.”

“You’d miss me in five minutes.”

“…Two.”

And maybe Yamato didn’t say sweet things outright—but the way he offered to walk her home, the way he shoved his jacket at her when the wind picked up, and the way he bought two mango smoothies the next day and tossed one at her without a word?

Yeah. He didn’t have to say it.

She already knew.

#yamato endo #yamato endo x reader #yamato x reader #endo x reader #yamato endo windbreaker #windbreaker yamato endo #wind breaker x you #wind breaker #wind breaker x y/n #wind breaker x reader #windbreaker #windbreaker x reader

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puck-luck · 2 months ago

Note

might i request a chai latte with whipped cream for jack hughes please? (sub jack trope pretty please!)

feeling a little feral over this one. had to end it where i did before i turned into a whole animal.

You have to give it to him– retroactively speaking, Jack has been such a good boy. You wanted to see how far you could push him today and he hasn’t broken yet.

He’s slinged up, one arm already out of commission. You’d been generous when you decided to leave Jack’s other arm free, often opting for tying it out of the way since he’s so prone to trying to take more than he deserves. Its place is on your thigh, crossed over your body and keeping your legs securely over his lap.

You’re both fully clothed, joggers and a sweatshirt on Jack since the straps of the sling bother his bare skin, whereas you’re in some booty shorts and a big t-shirt. You’re in the early stages of this, planning to make Jack beg for everything more he needs. His day of edging starts with begging for a kiss.

Your cold fingers have already dipped below his waistband. They’re warming up against the soft, often hidden skin of his abdomen and Jack has relaxed visibly because of their proximity to his cock. He has absolute certainty that you’ll touch him when it’s the proper time. It’s taken a while for Jack to accept that you know what’s best here, that you’re the one who will think through every action, motion, or play. Now that he has, he’s utter putty in your hands.

There’s a hand in his hair, scratching his scalp and playing with his brown waves. He’s breathing steadily, steadily enough that an outsider might think that he’s asleep, but you can tell he isn’t. While his hand remains on your thigh, it has started to mirror your touch.

You’d be lying if you said the gentle caress wasn’t tempting you to start doing more, but you hold steadfast.

Whenever you stop moving your hand in his hair, Jack nudges you with his head like a cat. He wants you to keep moving and eventually, he’s pulled you close enough that your body is cradled into his side. It’s the perfect set-up, with Jack designing his own infuriating trap to fall into, given that all you have to do to kiss him is tilt your chin up.

You lift your head enough that your lips brush his, a fleeting pass, just enough for Jack to know that it wasn’t the wind interrupting this impromptu cuddle session. Sometimes he just needs you close, especially when he’s freshly injured, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get to have fun with you as well. He needs both in his life. It’s a little twisted, but you want to keep him in this liminal space for as long as you can before he bursts. You love when Jack whines. You love when he needs more. At the same time, you love when Jack is soft like this.

The softness is reflected in his hazy, sleepy eyes when his pretty lashes flutter open and he looks at you. His drunken need for you shines in the curve of his bottom lip, dropping slightly in reaction to your kiss. He looks like he wants to say something, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth, so he settles for looking at you instead.

Drawing a beg from him might be harder than you think, but you’re persistent. You bide your time. You wait for him to relax into your touch again, sliding your hand over his waist as you twirl a strand of hair around your finger. It’s then that you slot your lips with his and give him a taste of something more real.

When you pull away, his head follows yours. His eyes are still closed, lips pursed and head tilted to the side, feeling the phantom touch you left behind.

His eyes open with a bit more alertness behind them this time. Jack looks at you and licks his bottom lip. His fingers are twitching on your thigh, pads of his digits pressing into your bare skin in an effort to either steel himself or encourage you to come even closer.

Your hand beneath his sweatshirt passes his ribcage and your thumb swipes over his nipple.

Jack straightens slightly, breathing through his mouth. You ghost your lips over his again, the space between your mouths teeming with wrought energy, but you don’t close it. When Jack attempts to, you shift back.

The first time, he’s confused.

The second, his eyebrows furrow.

By the third, he’s full-on frowning and trying to chase you down.

You remove your hand from beneath his sweatshirt and place your dainty, manicured hand on Jack’s neck. Your thumb is on one side of his Adam’s apple, three fingers on the other, pinkie resting on his clavicle. You tilt your head to the side and watch Jack freeze, feel his throat bob under your fingertips.

The haze in his eyes is back and his gaze is locked on your lips. As it should be.

#1 year of puck-luck!#andy writes anything🍄#jack hughes #jack hughes smut #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes blurb #jh blurb #jh86 #jh is a sub. he wants to be a dom. so bad. but he is destined to be a sub.

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screechingdefendorpuppy-blog · 3 months ago

Text

My Dearest Sevika..

some more of my Hcs for Marine!Sevika and wife reader. added these as reblogs but wanted to post as their own so more people could find it and enjoy.

Bonus cuz I keeping day dreaming

• she send you a polaroid where she is wearing her new scarf along with her uniform.

• once you witness a police raid at your neighbors house and you wrote her about it. She devours that entry to the journal imagining how you would tell her. Giving it more of a dramatic flare spilling some of your chai.

• you send her a recent photo of you and buck (your dog). She keeps it on her at all times right along with the very first photo you sent her when yall started dating. Its a lil faded but she cant get herself to part with it.

• her squad always tease her when she gets her care package. All in good fun! However they will give her space so she can enjoy reading the journal.

•she always shares the baked goods with them. And some gossip that you tell her about.

•your journal entries have made the distance between you bearable. Unbeknownst to you, your entries not only keeps her moral high but the whole squads as well.

And the angst starts now!

• you are currently writing an entry in your journal to sevika telling her about daily life, Your class shenanigans and your new next door neighbors and their mute daughter.

•how you babysit her while they have their weekly date night and she is teaching you sign to be able to communicate better

•You are so into writing you dont notice the car that park in the curb. Or the two soldiers that step out of it.

• suddenly the sunlight is interrupted by a shadow making you look up and come face to face with…Ran

• you first notice the sling on her arm and the scratches on her face. Shes in uniform and…. You breath stops, your pulse takes over your senses

•Rans lips move but its doesnt make any sense.. convoy…extraction….ambush… Sevika.

•Its a good thing you were already sitting cuz you are sure that your legs would’ve given out.

• Captain Sevika has been declared KIA.

(Small Time skip)

• you feel empty, just like the casket that was buried two months ago.

• the journal has since stayed untouched.

•two months of tears, of pain from an invisible wound. Two months of trying to sleep in a bed that feels way to big and cold. A house to big and cold.

•your neighbors jinx and ekko keep an eye on you daily. Coming over with isha for family dinner every night since the funeral.

•its been hard but you are trying to move forward. To be the resilient woman Sevika had fallen in love with.

•but it was hard, not been able to talk to her, to see her, to hear her. Was taking a toll on you

• till one Friday you hear a knock at the door at mid day.

•you open it to reveal isha brandishing her medal and trophy for her school science project.

• she runs inside signing away excited to tell you all about it.

•you smile as you follow along to her story about the fair and how her experiment went off without a hitch.

• finally isha finishes her rambling looking at you with pride. Then you watch as her expression falls into a shy look but s small smile still present.

• “can we…” she stops mid sign second guessing herself

• "can we what hun?" You ask her encouraging her to tell you.

•she takes a deep breath before she signs… “can we tell sevika about it?”

• your heart stops “ t-tell sev…(you clear your throat) tell sevi about your science fair?”

• isha nods her head and looks at you waiting.

• tear prickle your eyes but you smile. They fall down your cheeks as you look at the lil girl and say “I think thats a great Idea.”

• after retrieving the journal you both walk over to the dining table and sit side by side.

• you open the journal to an empty page and poise yourself ready to write for the first time in two months. In that moment you start what you call your road to healing as you start your entry with three simple words.

“My Dearest Sevika….”

#sevika x reader #sevika arcane #sevika #arcane #sevika x y/n #sevika x you #arcane sevika #My dearest Sevika

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starsinthesky5 · 4 months ago

Note

hi archhhh 💘 i have a yail blurb ask for you (?)

what is it like when joe and singer!reader get to have an off day together? do they sleep in, have a morning routine? are they catching up on a favorite t.v. show or going for a peaceful drive? i’d love to hear anything and everything about them just being 🥹 existing as normal people outside of their exciting and hectic careers!

off-days || joe burrow x reader

description: ask sums it up! a blurb all about their off days and normal couple activities :)

a/n: sorry it took me so long to finish is chai <3 ilysm and ty for this ask! i was working on this here and there for like 2 weeks but here we gooo

also for clarification, the YAIL fics are in second person whereas the ask blurbs are in third person but, since i started writing YAIL in second person, these ask blurbs will jump around with the pronoun usage :) think of it as me describing you and joe, or if you want, her and joe. up to you <33

word count: 6.8k

series: you are in love

warnings: language, suggestive references (?)

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

off days are non-negotiable for them.

with both of their careers being so demanding and intense, it’s easy to get caught up in the relentless grind. before they met, neither of them really knew how to slow down. relaxation and leisure were afterthoughts—things they’d get to someday, when the work was done.

but the work was never done.

their shared mindset had always been the same: if you want to be the best, you keep pushing—no matter what. winners don’t rest. (if they ever got matching tattoos, they’d definitely get that inked on their wrists).

and to some extent, that was true. but the reality was, pushing past their limits came at a cost. burnout. anxiety. stress. and in joe’s case—injuries. the relentless pursuit of greatness took its toll, and when all the blood, sweat, and tears didn’t pay off, it stung even worse. for him, it was the agony of losing—of seeing the bigger picture blur instead of sharpen. for her, it was the crushing weight of feeling unseen, of pouring her soul into her music only for it to feel like it wasn’t resonating the way she needed it to.

and when those moments hit, when the sacrifices felt too great and the setbacks too heavy, the lack of rest caught up with them.

they constantly talked about how tiring it all was, how much they loved what they did, but the work that went into it was so draining to the point where sometimes they questioned if it was all worth it. after that conversation, they had a realization that they needed to take a minute to breathe. they helped each other understand that none of it would be worth it if they weren’t mentally and physically at ease. that you can’t be the best version of yourself if you’re not feeling your best.

so after this, they slowly learned to take the off days seriously—not as wasted time, but as necessary time.

time to recharge. time to just be.

and there were plenty of ways for them to do so…

baking & cooking

they love to bake together! she loves, and i mean loves to bake joe a pumpkin roulade with ginger buttercream. it’s one of her specialties as well. anyone lucky enough to get a taste of this dessert, made from her by scratch, would remember the taste for days to come. she’d bring this dessert to thanksgivings, friend gatherings, and even for the guys in the lockeroom. they would ask, and ask, and ask joe when the next time she’d bring some around was. that’s just how good it was. usually it was her victory monday treat for them, but she squeezed in some for birthdays and well…whenever her phone would start blowing up with messages from his friends.

fortunately for joe, he never had to wait for his favorite dessert. he got to have her…i mean it, the dessert, whenever he wanted ;) she loved to see that satisfied grin on his face after the first bite, the first taste of his childhood in dessert form.

when they bake together, they stick to the classics and make cookies. simple enough for joey’s mind and delicious enough to satisfy their sweet cravings. they’d get all cozy in their most lazy-sunday clothes, standing at the counter together, teasing and laughing while they prepared a variety of cookies from oatmeal (her fav) to chai cookies (his fav).

they’d steal bites of cookie dough when the other wasn’t looking, fingers sneaking into the mixing bowl, only to be caught red-handed and met with playful swats and breathless giggles. joe always pretended to be innocent, flashing that boyish grin of his, but she knew better—especially when he would wrap his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder, murmuring, “just one more taste, baby,” before stealing another bite straight from her fingers.

it wasn’t just about the baking, though. it was the way he lingered beside her, hands brushing, bodies melding together effortlessly in their homey kitchen. it was the way he’d sneak a kiss when she was distracted measuring flour, or how he’d take over stirring the dough just so he could slide in closer, feeling the warmth of her body against his.

in moments like these, their stardom, their fame, their reputations, it would all melt away. here, in this kitchen, they were just an ordinary couple spending quality time together. just two hopelessly in love individuals being sweeter than the cookies they loaded inside the oven.

when the cookies were finally out of the oven, they’d curl up on the couch, plates balanced on their laps, stealing bites and feeding each other between soft murmurs of “these are so good,” and “i think we outdid ourselves this time,”. and if joe happened to catch a crumb at the corner of her mouth? well, he’d take his time brushing it away—with his thumb, his lips, or a slow, lingering kiss, because he could never resist an excuse to taste her.

and it wasn’t always just cookies or pumpkin roulade. they’d bake, or attempt to bake anything their hearts desired. cakes, pies, muffins, danishes, tarts, you name it. just put them on the great british baking show already. although, i think joe would flip out if they hated on the way he would sometimes ignore how you would need to prep the dry and wet ingredients separately. to him, it didn’t matter because it was all getting mixed together anyway, why should he waste time making sure the flour and sugar mixture was “powdery enough”.

as for cooking, they try to make a few new dishes each off-day together. usually a different cuisine too. last week was indian, and they made this delicious butter chicken with homemade garlic naan and tandoori chicken tikka kabobs. when joe sent a photo to his chef, he couldn’t believe that the same man who burnt french toast the first time he made it—had made this impressive meal without any professional help. but what Joe didn’t tell him, is that she led most of the cooking. she usually always did. he’s way too scared that he’ll mess the food up, burn the house down, or somehow give her food poisoning. which is why he lets his lovely girlfriend order him around, telling him what to marinate, what to chop, what to stir, what not to add.

and you know what? he’s completely fine with that. he’ll follow her around like a lost puppy to the ends of the earth if he needed to.

—

as they work on plating their scrumptious meal, joe nudged her playfully with his hip, nearly making her drop the serving spoon. “you’re getting cocky in the kitchen, burrow,” she teases, setting the dish down and turning to him with a smirk.

he grins, reaching for her waist to tug her in closer. “i think i deserve a little credit, don’t you? i only needed your help, like, ten times tonight,”.

“more like twenty,” she corrects, giggling when he dramatically clutches his chest like she just stabbed him.

“okay, rude,” he says, leaning in so their noses nearly brush. “you weren’t complaining when i was kneading that dough, though. seemed like you liked watching me work with my hands.”

cocky joe. classic.

he wasn’t lying to be honest. no matter what he was doing with his hands—gripping a football, kneading dough, kneading her bare skin—she was transfixed by the dexterity and skills of arguably one of his best features.

her breath hitches slightly, but she recovers from the reaction quickly, narrowing her eyes as she pushes him away with a laugh. “oh, shut up and sit down,”.

he smirks, letting her shove him back but not before he catches her wrist, his fingers curling around it just enough to make her breath hitch again. “make me,” he challenges, voice filled with dangerous intent.

she rolls her eyes, gently yanking her hand away, but the heat lingering on her skin betrays her. “god, you’re so impossible, joe,”.

“and yet, you love me sooo,” he quips, finally settling into the barstool, looking way too satisfied with himself.

she turns back to the counter, reaching for the rolling pin, but not before shooting him a playful glare. “debatable.”.

joe leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter, eyes locked on her with that same smug expression. “mm. you weren’t saying that last night when you were nibbling on my earlobe, begging me to let you…you know,”.

her hands freeze mid-motion, fingers tightening around the handle as heat rushes to her cheeks. she looks like a deer caught in headlights, and the way his lips twitch into a slow, knowing smirk only makes it worse. joe and his cheeky, unfiltered mouth—always throwing out shameless comments like they were casual conversation, leaving her flustered no matter how many times he did it.

she exhales sharply, composing herself as she shakes her head with a laugh. “i really should’ve put more salt in your cookies,”.

his grin widens, dimples deepening as he tilts his head. “you wouldn’t dare,”.

“oh, I would,” she counters, pointing the rolling pin at him in warning.

Joe leans in a little closer, voice dropping to a murmur. “but then I wouldn’t be as sweet when I kiss you later,”.

she gasps, whipping the rolling pin at him—not to hit, just to scare—but he laughs, dodging it easily, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“i swear to god, joe—,”.

“you love me,” he interrupts, still grinning like he’s won something.

and damn, she did.

t.v.

when they’re not baking or cooking, you can almost always find them curled up on the couch, wrapped in blankets, watching the trashiest reality tv shows they can find. at first, joe showed resistance to the world of reality tv, claiming how this was the reason as to why the population of america was slowly becoming stupider and stupider. but then one night, she was watching her favorite guilty pleasure of all time while he was sitting at the dining table working on some film stuff, only half-listening as she gasped, shouted at the screen, and occasionally muttered insults under her breath. love island usa, season 6 was the reason for her outbursts, and as much as joe tried to ignore it, he found himself glancing up more and more often, trying to piece together what the hell was going on.

then came the moment that changed everything.

“are you kidding me?” she shrieked, nearly launching off the couch. “liv chose rob, and now leah’s single? she totally swooped in on her man like it’s been two seconds! what the actual fuck is happening and why is nobody doing anything!”.

joe blinked, his pen hovering over his notes. “wait…what?”.

“oh, now you care?” she shot back, spinning to face him with fire in her eyes. “no, no, no. go back to your very important football things, joe. i wouldn’t want to distract you with reality tv garbage,”.

he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before giving in. “okay, just explain it real quick. i wanna know why you’re mad,”.

and that was it. the beginning of the end.

because the second she started ranting—breaking down the drama, the betrayals, the absolute clownery of it all—joe was hooked. he acted like he was just listening to humor her, but by the next episode, he was sitting next to her. by the episode after that, he was throwing in his own commentary.

now? well, now he’s the one pausing the TV so he can go on a rant about how dumb these guys are. “babe, there is no way she actually likes him,” joe scoffs, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth as they watch the latest episode. “she’s playing the game,”.

she hums in agreement, snuggling closer into his side. “oh, for sure. you saw the way she was looking at miguel before she got picked in the recoupling. she’s gonna dump kendall the second they get out of there. i see right through you, nicole,”.

joe shakes his head, eyes glued to the screen as one of the guys delivers another overly rehearsed speech. “man, how do people fall for this? it’s so obvious that they’re all just horny as fuck, are physically attracted to the person they think is the hottest, but ultimately stay with the ‘safe pick’ just in hopes that they’d make it to the end because america likes a power couple and not the couple who eye fuck each other all day,”.

she smirks, glancing up at him. “you say that but you’re the guy who’s been yelling at the tv for the past hour,”.

he glares at her playfully before stealing some of her popcorn. “whatever. i’m just matching your energy. this is still stupid as hell but i’m invested,”.

“mhm, sure,” she teases, nudging him. “you literally gasped when andrea walked in as the bombshell. you loveeeee the drama. invested? more like ass glued to couch every night for an hour and a half,”.

joe groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “it was shocking, don’t lie. she was all up on rob right infront of leah. like leah? c’mon babe. and he was enjoying every second of it. what a dick,”.

“exactly! and don’t even get me started on the casa amor mess that they started doing a few seasons ago. it’s about to be so fucking messy this time around,” she adds, eyes widening. “you know those boys are gonna be on damage control the second they walk back into the villa with there wannabe insta models hanging off their arms,”.

joe lets out a long sigh, shaking his head. “man, the producers are evil for the shit they spew on these kinds of shows. like this is probably so damaging for the contestants,”.

she giggles, reaching for the remote to start the next episode. “i know, but just admit…you love the drama,”.

joe leans back against the couch, wrapping an arm around her. “...fine. but if we’re watching this, you better not complain when i make you watch game of thrones later,”.

when joe found out she had never seen game of thrones, he looked at her like she had personally offended him. it was so bad. he literally had to go get some fresh air on the patio after her confession.

god, he’s such a drama queen.

“you’re joking,” he said, blinking at her in disbelief like she had just confessed to a murder.

she shook her head, trying not to laugh at how dramatic he was being. “nope. never seen a single episode,”.

joe ran a hand through his hair, looking absolutely distraught. “baby, this is the best piece of visual media ever created. like, ever,”.

“that’s what you said about the dark knight,” she teased.

“okay, well, that’s also true,” he said, still reeling from the information. “but game of thrones is different. it’s a cultural phenomenon. i…i can’t believe you’ve never watched it,”.

so, naturally, he made her start from season one, episode one, and they spent the next few weeks binging the entire series. and, to joe’s absolute delight, she lowkey loved it. sure, she complained about the amount of war scenes, and she definitely wasn’t thrilled about how the last season turned out, “they did daenerys so dirty,” she huffed.

but overall?

she was obsessed.

and she hated it.

of course, she got her revenge when she caught joe secretly enjoying gilmore girls with her. at first, he acted like he wasn’t paying attention. he’d sit on the couch, scrolling through his phone while she had it on in the background. but then, slowly, he started asking questions.

“so, who’s this jess guy? why does he look so smug?”.

“wait, why is everyone mad at rory? what did she do?”.

“oh, this dean dude suckkkkks. i mean, why the fuck is he getting mad at her for not being able to say ‘i love you’? she should break up with him. if she can’t say it that means she doesn’t feel it,”.

before she knew it, joe was fully invested in gilmore girls just as she was with game of thrones. he had opinions on all the characters and it was so freaking adorable because this was so not his domain. “emily gilmore is ruthless, but lowkey iconic,” he admitted once. and he definitely had a soft spot for luke. i mean, who doesn’t? “luke is so misunderstood. him and lorelei make perfect sense, i need them to get together like…now,” he’d ramble, and the sight of him so immersed in something she enjoyed made her heart skip a beat.

aside from their individual guilty pleasures, they had plenty of shows they loved watching together—the office, spongebob (which joe swore was peak comedy), true crime documentaries, stranger things, and currently, the white lotus and suits.

oh, and don’t even get them started on their marvel movie marathons. those were mandatory. no excuses, if, ands, or buts. although, they were close to being on the chopping block because one time, he caught her looking at steve a little too…lovingly.

“that’s america’s ass joe. don’t take this from me,” she waved off while turning her attention back to her first love while her true love looked at her like a neglected piece of candy at the bottom of the halloween candy bucket.

but ultimately, you’d find them both glued to the screen, no matter how many times they’d watched the same superhero movie over and over again or which secret childhood crush of hers was on the screen. their shared love for marvel was one of the first things they bonded on the second time they hung out—dinner in soho post july 4th celebration.

the fact that she had this hidden nerd side to her was one of the most attractive things to him. she came off as so polished, rich but genuine, and diamond-like. but inside? a total nerd with a soft heart that geeked out over everything and anything imaginable.

it was adorable.

peaceful drives

some of their best off-day moments happened on those peaceful evening drives.

sometimes, there wasn’t a destination. just them, the hum of the engine, and the open road stretching ahead. she’d have her feet propped up on the dash, joe’s hand resting on her thigh as he absentmindedly traced circles on her skin. the windows were cracked just enough to let the breeze in, and the playlist they curated together—filled with everything from 90s r&b to soft love songs—played quietly in the background.

other nights, they had a mission. ice cream. there was this little spot, tucked away on the outskirts of town, that they swore had the best homemade flavors. she’d always get something fruity, while joe stuck with classic dairy free chocolate chip cookie dough. they’d sit in the car, parked under the glow of a streetlamp, sharing bites and laughing over whatever ridiculous thing came to their minds.

but her favorite drives? the ones where joe took her to his quiet place. the lookout point. a secluded clearing, just outside the city, where the sky stretched wide and the stars shone brighter than anywhere else.

“i used to come here all the time when i needed to clear my head,” he admitted one night, leaning against the hood of the car with her tucked against his side.

she looked up at him, then at the endless sky above them, the stars mirroring the look in his eyes. “and now?”.

he glanced down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “now, i just bring you here when i want a perfect night,”.

because this wasn’t just any place to him anymore. it was their place. the spot where he first told her about his dreams, where he let her see the parts of him he kept hidden from the world. and most importantly, the place where he asked her to be his girlfriend. “i knew that night,” he murmured, tracing his fingers along her wrist. “knew that i wanted you to be mine. couldn’t imagine doing life with anyone else,”.

she smiled, tightening her hold around him. “good thing i said yes, huh?”.

he laughed softly, pressing his lips against her temple. “best decision you ever made, if i do say so myself,”.

they’d lay back against the grass, her head leaning against his side. both of them staring up at the stars, thinking about how they found each other in the midst of the chaos of the universe. like two stars in the extensive, endless galaxy, they had been pulled toward each other by some unseen force, their paths crossing at the perfect moment.

the stars above them seemed to shimmer a little brighter, as if reflecting the spark between them. the world had felt so large, so overwhelming at times, but here, in this quiet moment, everything made sense.

they were like constellations that had been drawn together by fate, their bond a connection written in the stars. in the grand scheme of everything, they were just two tiny dots in the cosmos, but together, they created something beautiful—something infinite, like the galaxy that stretched above them, full of mysteries and promises yet to unfold.

that place used to be his safe space, but now, his safe space had become her. the feeling he would get when he’d come back there, with her, made him realize he’d truly won at life, he was right where he needed to be.

everything he had ever wanted was right there beside him, under the stars.

weed (duh)— not in season though

sometimes, after a long week, they just needed something to take the edge off. nothing crazy—just a little something to help them unwind. joe, of course, looked ridiculously good while smoking, the way his fingers held the joint so effortlessly, the slow drag, the way his lips wrapped around it. she swore he did it on purpose, especially when he’d exhale, head tilted back, a lazy smirk playing on his lips when he caught her staring.

“you like watching me, don’t you?” he teased one night, passing it to her.

she rolled her eyes but took a second too long to respond, too distracted by how unfairly attractive he looked. “shut up,” she muttered, waving him off.

but she wasn’t really a smoker. never had been. which is why joe—because he was thoughtful like that—went out of his way to find the best fruity edibles money could buy. something just strong enough to relax her but not enough to make her feel like she was floating off the earth.

“try this one, baby,” he had said, holding up a little pink gummy. “it won’t hit you too hard, i promise,”.

and he was right. twenty minutes later, she was curled up on his lap, giggling at absolutely nothing while joe ran his fingers up and down her back, just watching her with that soft, adoring look. “i love you,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

she snorted, her giggles bubbling up like a fountain. “you’re like…really good at making me feel like a queen,” she murmured, her words dragging out a little more than usual. her fingers traced random patterns on his chest, completely losing track of where she started and where she ended.

joe, his head tilted back against the couch, let out a chuckle, his voice slow and thick with the high. “nah, baby, you make me feel like.. like a king,” he grinned lazily, reaching for another gummy, his hand moving in exaggerated slowness. “like...a king who has the most beautiful queen, ya know?”.

“oh my god," she giggled again, her eyes going wide. "did you just…did you just say you’re a king?" she leaned in, squinting at him like she was solving a mystery. “you’re, like, a royal or something?”.

joe just stared at her for a beat, lips twitching as if he was deep in thought. “yep. royal...that’s me,” he nodded seriously, his tone way too dramatic for the situation. “king joe. ruler of the couch, prince of snack foods, master of…this.” he gestured wildly around them, making everything sound so important.

she laughed so hard she almost fell off his lap, clutching onto him for support. “oh my god, we’re so high,” she gasped between giggles, “this is amazingg,”.

joe snickered, his hand lightly rubbing her back, his touch lazy but somehow still rhythmic. “i know, right? we’re, like...we’re so high, the stars probably think we’re floating with them,” he paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “are the stars high? do they even know how high they are? like, are they high?”.

“oh my god," she breathed, eyes wide, "i’m gonna have to go to space and ask them. they probably have, like, a whole planet of edibles.” she grinned, completely lost in the idea. “i bet they smoke meteors,”.

“meteors!” joe echoed, his voice a little too loud, his excitement making him sit up straighter. “that’s it! that’s what we need—meteor weed. it’s out of this world.” he paused, his hand on her cheek, his eyes soft and amused. “you’re so cute when you’re high, you know that? i wanna put you in my pocket and carry you around everywhere,”.

she sighed, practically melting into him. “shut up, i’m already in your lap,” she mumbled, but it was affectionate, a goofy smile spreading across her face. “you’re gonna have to get a bigger pocket to fit me, though,”.

“don’t worry,” joe smirked, pressing a lazy kiss to her lips, “i got the biggest pocket,”.

gardening

gardening became their thing—well, mostly hers, but joe was more than happy to help. he liked watching her work, liked how focused she got when she was tending to her plants, her hands in the dirt, her hair tied back, a little smudge of soil on her cheek that he never told her about because he thought it was cute.

his house, his backyard—it had never looked this full of life. all her doing. once upon a time, it was just a plain, well-kept lawn, but now? now there were raised beds overflowing with fresh herbs and vegetables, flower beds bursting with color, vines creeping up the frame she insisted they build together.

“it just needed some love, joe,” she had said, planting a kiss to his cheek before turning back to her garden, her little paradise.

and sure, he might not have been the most knowledgeable gardener, but he did have one favorite plant.

“ms. pepper pot,” he had proudly declared one afternoon, pointing to a thriving bell pepper plant. “because she gave us nine orange bell peppers, and, well—,”.

she nearly fell over laughing. “joe, you did not just name our plant ms. pepper pot,”.

“i absolutely did.” he crossed his arms, nodding in satisfaction. “she’s special. she deserves a name,”.

and just like that, ms. pepper pot became a staple in their little backyard garden, and joe—whether he’d admit it or not—got a little too invested in her progress.

he even started taking photos of her. like i’m talking week by week progress to make sure there was nothing wrong with her growth because he was just so damn proud of those juicy peppers. he’d even be out there alone sometimes, admiring all the work they’d put into making this house feel like a home.

joe also surprisingly found solace in being out there with the plants. something about being with nature, away from the screens and the chaos inside, was healing for him. like he could just exist out there with the shrubs and greenery.

be one with the plants, as he liked to say.

sometimes, joe would even go as far as making her a custom bouquet with flowers from their garden. when he had the time, he looked up a beginners tutorial on how to arrange one, ordered all the necessary things to properly cut and trim the flowers, and got down to business.

and to both of their surprise, joe was actually pretty good at it.

it was those damn hands.

their versions of nights in on off days

self-care nights were her specialty.

she took them seriously, too—candles lit, soothing music playing, and a whole lineup of skincare products ready to go. joe had been skeptical the first time, grumbling about how he didn’t need a face mask, but she knew how to wear him down.

“just trust me, babe,” she had said sweetly, already smoothing the cool mask over his skin before he could protest further.

now, it was routine. she’d get him all cute—plush headband to keep his hair out of his face, a fluffy robe that he pretended to hate but secretly loved, even a little eyebrow shaping because “joe, just let me clean them up a little, you’ll thank me later,”.

“this is embarrassing,” he muttered once, sitting there with a clay mask drying on his face.

“this is self-care,” she corrected, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “and you love it,”.

he just huffed—but he didn’t deny it.

he didn’t deny it because, deep down, he knew she was right. even if he acted like it was the most ridiculous thing ever, he secretly loved these nights—loved the way she took care of him, the way she made him feel pampered in a way he never expected. and the little things, like the plush headband and the robe, made him feel...comforted.

“yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched into a small smile. “i don’t know how you talk me into this every time,”.

oh, please. he’d once again, follow her around like a lost puppy till the end of time if needed. he’s never saying no to her and that signature pouty face she’d sport around him. she doesn’t need to talk him into shit.

“it’s a gift,” she teased, grinning as she applied a layer of lotion to his hands with the utmost precision. “you’re lucky. most guys don’t get this kind of treatment,”.

he raised an eyebrow. “you mean torture,” he quipped, but the softness in his voice gave him away. he was more than content, especially when she moved closer to adjust the robe around his shoulders, brushing her fingers along his arm like it was second nature.

“whatever you say, baby,” she smiled, smoothing his brow with a little more care. “we’re just getting started,”.

he sighed dramatically, his head falling back against the bed frame, clay mask cracking a little in the process. “at least this part’s not too bad,” he muttered, but his eyes were half-closed in relaxation. “it’s actually…kinda nice. i’ll admit it,”.

she smiled and kissed the tip of his nose. “see? i told you you’d love it,” she teased lightly, brushing some more lotion but over his neck now. “next time, no complaints. just let me do my thing,”.

“yeah, yeah,” he mumbled again, but there was a softness in his tone now, a warmth in the way he looked at her. “you’re lucky you make it so...worth it,”. she laughed, content in the quiet, in the way they fit together perfectly, even in moments like this.

game nights were his specialty.

the moment they settled into their usual gaming spot, it was on. the couch, covered with snacks and blankets, became their battleground. joe was all in, the competitive fire in his eyes burning brighter with every game they played—whether it was mario kart, smash bros, or fifa. any game where he could wipe the floor with her? he was all about it.

“baby, do you ever let me win?” she groaned one night, tossing her controller aside dramatically after another crushing loss in smash bros.

joe leaned back on the couch, smirking with that way too confident look on his face. “Nope,” he said smugly, like he’d been born with a controller in his hand. “you’ve gotta earn it,”.

"wow," she huffed, folding her arms over her chest. “what happened to happy wife, happy life?”.

“we’re not married,” he reminded her, nudging her thigh with his foot, making her flinch. “but you know, close enough,”. she shot him a playful glare, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “small details. you treat me like wifey,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

his grin widened, and before she could react, he pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her waist, making her feel that familiar warmth of his embrace. “fine,” he said. “one free win next game just to make wifey feel better about her skills,”.

“oh, how generous,” she teased back, looping her arms around his neck, their faces just inches apart. “guess i’ll just have to practice more to beat you fair and square, huh?”.

his smirk deepened, a mischievous glint in his eye. “i’d like to see you try,” he said, his voice playful and a little taunting. he nudged the controller closer to her hands, his fingers brushing hers as he did. “but good luck with that, babe,”.

she laughed, the tension between them crackling with flirtation as she settled back in his lap, her gaze locked on the screen. “oh, it’s on now,” she said, the determination in her voice completely at odds with how comfortable she was nestled in his arms.

the game resumed, but their playful banter and his occasional teasing made every win and loss feel like it didn’t really matter. what mattered was that they were together—competitive, cute, and perfectly in sync in their little world.

morning routine tid bits

on their off-days, they take their time when they wake up. no alarms, set time to roll out of bed, or any early morning priorities to attend to. joe’s football body clock does cause his eye to flutter open around 6, but she quietly lulls him back to slumber if he tries to get up. also because she was not about to lose her human body pillow before 9 am.

once they do wake up, they tend to cuddle in bed for at least 20-25 minutes. just time for lazy morning kisses, skin to skin time, giggling over the dreams they had during their sleep, the usual.

they’d take turns freshening up in the bathroom, sometimes together when they felt extra clingy in the morning. joe was always the last one out, but it wasn’t because of his infamous superman curl—it was because of the skincare routine she had roped him into once they started dating.

at first, he’d grumbled, calling it “too much” and “a waste of time.” but she’d been so sweet about it, and over time, he couldn’t deny how good it made him feel. he’d become surprisingly dedicated, even if he still made fun of it in his own way.

“you know,” she’d tease from the bedroom, hearing the sounds of him in the bathroom, “you’re lucky you look cute with all that stuff on your face,”.

“i’m so happy you noticed, babe,” he’d call back sarcastically, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “this is my super secret routine for glowing skin. you should try it sometime,”.

“oh, i do try it,” she’d reply, laughing. “but your skin’s, like, way softer than mine now,”.

he’d roll his eyes in the mirror, even though she couldn’t see it, pretending to be annoyed but secretly pleased. “whatever, i’m just doing it for you. don’t get any ideas,”.

“too late,” she’d say, winking at herself in the full-body mirror diagonal from the bed.

when he finally emerged, his skin glowing, she’d grin at him. “well? am i seeing the benefits of this routine?”.

joe would lean against the doorframe, looking like he was pretending to be casual but secretly loving the attention. “yeah, yeah, you’re welcome,” he’d say, ruffling his hair. “i’m basically a skincare guru now,”.

“a very cute skincare guru,” she’d add, walking over and pressing a kiss to his cheek, her fingers lingering there just a moment longer than necessary. he’d smile, pretending to be indifferent but totally melting under her touch.

for breakfast, sometimes their chef was around, and sometimes he wasn’t. joe still stuck to his football diet on his off-days (unless it was off-season) so if his chef didn’t prepare something ahead of time, which abided to his nutrition and protein intake, then she would. or he would. or they both would.

she lovvvveddd her toasted everything bagels with avocado & herb cream cheese, side of turkey bacon, and whatever smoothie joe had whipped up for her because he was an absolute pro at it. he made sure that she got her protein intake, either from the food or from the smoothie. her health was one of his biggest priorities and he’d do anything to make sure her mind and body were both right.

his breakfasts were…quite large. i mean, he is a 6'4" football player after all. the spread would include eggs, turkey bacon, toast, sometimes pancakes if he was feeling extra hungry, and a massive bowl of fruit—he always made sure to add some green stuff in there, like spinach or avocado, because “gotta get my nutrients, babe,”.

she always found it adorable how seriously he took his food, especially in the mornings. he’d sit down at the table with that satisfied grin, eyeing his plate like it was a trophy he’d just earned.

“you know, most people don’t need this much food for breakfast,” she’d tease, leaning on the counter as she sipped her smoothie, watching him go to town on his third serving of scrambled eggs.

joe just grinned, wiping a bit of egg off his lip, his eyes glinting with playful mischief. “it’s a necessity,” he’d say with a shrug, leaning back in his chair. “you’re lucky to be witnessing greatness at work.”

“greatness, huh?” she raised an eyebrow, chuckling. “looks more like gluttony to me,”.

he’d just laugh, shaking his head. “hey, you’re the one who bakes me cookies and pies. i’m just making sure i can fit in my uniform at practice and have enough weight on me to prevent damage,”.

she grinned, rolling her eyes. “yeah, well, maybe don’t eat like you’re training for a marathon. i still have to live with you,” she teased, pushing his plate toward him for the fifth time.

“hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” joe smirked, taking a bite of his avocado toast. “besides, i gotta keep my energy up to beat you in smash bros later,”.

“we’ll see about that,” she replied, already planning her revenge in their next game. but for now, she couldn’t help but smile at how he was so comfortable with himself—huge breakfast and all. it was just one of those little things that made him so him.

after breakfast and a little morning news recap—because they both hated being unaware of what was happening in the world around them—they’d head out for their morning walk around the neighborhood, sometimes even down by the river.

joe would grab her hand as they walked, fingers intertwined with a natural ease, his long stride keeping them moving at a steady pace while she stayed close, content just to be in his presence. the mornings were still cool, the sun barely starting to break through the sky, and they’d chat about anything and everything—lighthearted conversations about what was on their minds, or sometimes just comfortable silence, the kind that made the world feel like it was just the two of them.

“you think the river’s any lower today?” she’d ask, peeking down at the flowing water as they passed the familiar path. the river had always been something she loved to check on during their walks, the way the water changed from day to day, shifting and moving with the weather.

joe would shrug, squeezing her hand gently. “probably,” he’d say, glancing over at her with that soft, lazy smile that always seemed to make her heart skip a beat. “we could walk down there and see, if you want,”.

sometimes they did, taking the small detour toward the water, the quiet rush of the river mixing with the sound of their footsteps on the gravel path. joe would slip an arm around her waist as they reached the bank, the soft breeze tousling his hair, and they’d stand there together for a moment, watching the water flow by.

“feels like we’ve been here a million times,” she’d comment, leaning into him, her head resting on his shoulder as they both watched the sunlight catch the river’s surface.

“yeah,” joe would agree, his voice a little quieter than usual, the calm of the morning settling over him. “and yet, it always feels like the first time. always feels new with you,”.

she’d smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “we’ve got our second spot,” she’d murmur, the words holding an unspoken promise of more mornings like this.

more quiet moments shared together.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #yail asks #yail #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fic

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mrspiastri · 2 months ago

Text

✩ feels like P1 🏆

pairing: oscar piastri x desi!reader

cw: fluff, mentions of australia 2025 (😔)

wc: 4k words

an: based on this lovely request, and in honour of osc being the wdc leader 😁😁😁😁😁

Oscar had just begun his third season in Formula 1, and he was more pumped than anyone could imagine. He had the fastest car, the best strategies, the quickest team, and most importantly the most valuable teammate.

To anyone else, it would have been simple to see that he would win the WDC this year, however Oscar Piastri was everything but overconfident.

He knew he wanted this year to be perfect, from start to finish, he wanted to win all 24 races if possible, and win all the sprints, and start on pole for every single race.

Unfortunately, he had some tough competition, and he knew better than to relax. He spent the first two weeks of winter break shuttling from Bahrain to Woking, and after that flew straight to Melbourne, to spend the holidays with his family.

Of course, Y/N had opted to fly to Australia in advance, so she could wait for Oscar, and also because she wanted to spend time with the family. They welcomed her with open arms, as they always did.

She spent her summer days relaxing on the beaches in St. Kilda, and making sure she didn’t get bit by a spider. However, she still missed her boyfriend.

The very boyfriend who was Facetiming her from his hotel room in Bahrain.

“You know Osc, with the amount you call me, someone would think you’re going through withdrawals,” She commented as she snuggled into the sheets of Oscar’s childhood bedroom, the same room she loved because it showed her what her boyfriend was like before they met.

“Very funny, God forbid I miss my own girlfriend.” Oscar grumbled as he laid back on the bed, hair damp from a shower— with what, according to Y/N, seemed to be a towel around his waist.

“Did you call just to be dramatic?”

“No… I called because I miss you. Like, really miss you. Like, I physically cannot sleep on this hotel pillow because it doesn’t smell like you. And it’s too quiet. And I tried making chai with the tea bags in the hotel room and it tasted sad.”

Y/N tried her hardest to stifle her grin, as she pouted in sadness on his behalf. “Oh, you poor baby.”

“I am a poor baby, and I need you to do that thing you do where you scratch behind my ear when I’m half-asleep.”

“That reminds me, I did the same thing to Basil today, and she was asleep in less than a minute!” Y/N giggled as she informed her only slightly amused boyfriend.

“Are you telling me I’m no different than a dog?”

“No, but if the shoe fits…”

“That’s it I’m ending the call,” Oscar couldn’t hide the smile on his face as he pretended to be mad at Y/N.

“Aww come on Osc, let me see you when you’re all freshly washed. The no-shirt look is really doing it for me.”

“You’re such a perv sometimes, you know that.”

She only laughed in response, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Your shirt’s really nice, that green looks good on you,” he commented.

“I should hope it looks good, it’s yours.”

Oscar’s eyes widen, and he squints them a bit to really focus on the details of her clothing.

“What? I only have like three t-shirts I own, the white one, the black one, and my maroon one. Not counting my McLaren kit.”

“Yeah you idiot, it’s from the home race collection. The folks at OP81 merch sent a package over to your Mum’s house.”

He sat up straighter, eyes relaxing as he let himself admire how she looked on his screen.

“Well, show me how it looks,” he requested, bossy as ever.

“I already did, you just saw it.” Y/N interjected.

“Give me a proper look, with the whole twirl and everything.”

Y/N groaned in mock annoyance.

“Only if you say please.”

A sigh.

“Please.”

“No, say it properly, the whole sentence.”

“Please, show me the outfit.”

“Noo! Say it properly, like you mean it!”

Another sigh, longer this time.

“Please darling, show me your outfit.”

“Alright, since you asked so nicely. And wipe that smirk off your face, Piastri.”

Y/N stood up, balancing her phone carefully so Oscar could get a full view. With an exaggerated sigh, she did a slow twirl.

“There,” she said. “Happy?”

Oscar’s grin spread across his face. “Extremely. You look unfairly good in my stuff.”

“I know,” she replied, flopping back onto the bed. “It’s a gift.”

She tugged the hem of the shirt down over her bare thighs as she got comfortable again.

Oscar narrowed his eyes a bit. “Are you even wearing shorts?”

Raising a brow, she gave him a smug look. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Y/N,” he warned.

She burst into laughter. “Relax, I am.”

Oscar leaned back against the hotel headboard, arms crossed, lips twitching in amusement. “Still unfair. I leave for two days and suddenly you’re raiding my wardrobe like it’s your birthright.”

“To be fair,” she said, “I only took one shirt. And it’s not raiding if we live together.”

“It’s raiding when you steal the best-looking one.”

“You’d rather I take the ugly one?”

“No. I’d rather you wear it when I’m there to appreciate it properly.”

She smirked, settling back into her pillow and letting the phone rest on her stomach.

“You’re being dramatic again.”

“You knew what you were doing,” Oscar accused, eyes narrowing playfully. “Answering my FaceTime like that, casually pretending you didn’t know it was my shirt.”

“Caught red-handed.”

“You’re evil.”

“Whatever,” she said, “you still miss me like crazy.”

Oscar groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “So much it’s actually embarrassing. Travelling anywhere sucks when you’re not with me.”

“You say that like you’re not there driving one of the fastest cars on the planet.”

“Yeah, and still nothing tops coming home and finding you in my shirt, hair all messy, acting like it’s just another Tuesday.”

She blinked, a little caught off guard by how warm his voice had gotten. He had his ways of making her feel special,

without even realising what he was doing.

“Oscar…”

He shrugged, quieter now. “Just saying. Save that shirt for when I get back, yeah?”

She smiled, teasing again. “Only if you have the best lap times.”

“Wow. Blackmail.”

“Motivation.”

He laughed, eyes lingering on her a second longer before nodding.

“Deal.”

🪻🪻🪻

The house was unusually quiet.

Even with the buzz of Oscar’s family around, his mum fussing with teacups, his sisters glancing occasionally at the shows playing on the television, there was a stillness in the air. No one spoke much. The energy was muted, heavy in a way only a home crowd disappointment could bring.

Oscar had finished P9. Not bad, considering his slippage in the grass. But not what he or the country had hoped for, not after a weekend that had started so strong.

He was still at the track, locked in media obligations and debriefs, and Y/N could already imagine the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders.

She stood up from the couch, tugging her sleeves down over her hands. “I’m gonna make something. He’s probably not eaten properly.”

Nicole looked up. “That’s a good idea, darling. What were you thinking?”

“Khichdi,” Y/N said, already heading toward the kitchen. “It’s what I usually make when he’s drained. He likes it more than he’ll admit.”

Nicole smiled softly, rinsing out her mug and moving aside so Y/N could work. “Something warm and simple sounds perfect.”

She knew his comfort foods by heart now.

Not toasties or chips or anything overly greasy, no, not tonight. He needed warmth. Reassurance. Something that felt like being wrapped in a hug.

So she went with what he always asked for on days he was sick or just tired of the world: khichdi. Soft rice and lentils, simmered with ghee, turmeric, a little cumin, and a side of spiced potatoes the way he liked them.

It was also the simplest thing she could make quickly, since the excitement of race week didn’t let them go grocery shopping for fancy ingredients.

Y/N pulled her hair into a ponytail, washed her hands, and opened the pantry. She moved quickly, finding the rice, the lentils, the spices; already laying them out on the counter.

Hattie padded into the kitchen and perched on a stool. “Do you need help? Or moral support? I’m very good at taste-testing.”

Y/N chuckled, setting the dal to soak. “You can peel the potatoes.”

“On it,” Hattie said, dragging a chopping board toward her and grabbing a peeler. “Oscar’s going to cry when he sees this. Bet on it.”

While the dal and rice soaked, Y/N got a pan going with ghee, mustard seeds, a few curry leaves, all of which she had picked up from her own stash brought over from home. The smell began to fill the room, earthy and warm.

Nicole drifted over and leaned against the counter, watching her with quiet admiration. “He’s really lucky, you know.”

Y/N smiled without looking up. “I think I’m the lucky one. He puts up with me.”

Nicole scoffed. “You’re cooking for him and putting up with his post-race sulking. That’s love.”

As the khichdi began to simmer, she threw in turmeric, a bit of grated ginger, salt, and cumin. She stirred slowly, letting it thicken, the grains softening into the kind of texture that wrapped around you like a blanket. Meanwhile, Hattie finished the potatoes and helped toss them in oil and spices, sliding them into the oven with a grin.

“Do I get a Michelin star now?” Hattie asked.

“You get points for not setting anything on fire,” Y/N teased.

Nicole pulled out a couple of plates and laid them out on the table as the final touches came together.

By the time the front door opened and the sound of Oscar’s keys hit the bowl by the entrance, the kitchen was filled with the golden scent of comfort and home.

The khichdi was ready, the potatoes crispy at the edges, and the quiet heaviness of the house had softened just a bit, thanks to turmeric, ghee, and the shared rhythm of care.

Oscar stepped inside as she was dishing out his portion. He looked exhausted. The weight of the day clung to him like a second skin. His cap was low over his forehead, eyes duller than usual.

He blinked as he stepped into the kitchen.

“You cooked?” His voice was rough, caught somewhere between surprise and something else. Something softer.

Y/N smiled, placing the bowl on the table. “Of course I did. You look like you need a hug and a hot meal.”

Nicole gave him a kiss on the cheek as she passed, and Hattie patted his back before stealing one of the roasted potatoes off his plate.

“Khichdi?” he asked, eyes fixed on the bowl.

“Yeah,” Y/N said, gently. “And potatoes. Sit. Eat.”

Oscar closed the gap between them in two quick steps and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder. He smelled like the track, sweat, heat; and now like home.

“You’re the best part of this whole weekend,” he murmured against her neck.

Y/N kissed the side of his head and squeezed him tighter.

“You’ll get the win here one day. You know that, right?”

He didn’t answer right away, just held her like he needed to remember what grounding felt like.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“And until then,” she whispered, “you’ve got a girl who’ll keep your tummy full and your ego in check.”

He huffed a laugh, finally pulling back just enough to look at her properly.

“God, I love you.”

She smiled. “I know. Now eat before your food gets cold.”

He tugged her into one last hug before taking his seat, already reaching for his spoon with a familiar sort of hunger.

As she sat down beside him, Oscar laced their fingers under the table.

🪻🪻🪻

The only things audible were low hum of the fridge, the occasional swishing of the dishwasher, and the soft clink of cutlery as Oscar finished off the last of the potatoes directly from the tray.

Y/N was curled up on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, the same oversized green OP81 shirt falling lazily off one shoulder. Her hair was still in that loose bun, a little messier now from the steam of cooking and leaning against the cushions.

Oscar walked in with two mugs of hot chocolate, handing her one before sinking beside her. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, brow quirking.

“You know,” he said, “I just realised something.”

She looked over at him with mock suspicion. “That’s never a good sign.”

He ignored her, gesturing toward her shirt. “That’s the same one you wore when we were on call. The FaceTime from Bahrain.”

Y/N glanced down at herself, trying to fight the smile tugging at her lips. “Is it?”

“You knew it was,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You’re so annoying.”

She sipped her tea innocently. “I just like the colour.”

Oscar gave her a knowing look, then leaned in a bit closer, his voice dropping to something gentler. “You look really cute in it.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed just a little, but she tilted her head, keeping up her act. “Just cute?”

He gave a low hum, setting his mug down on the coffee table.

“No,” he said simply, his eyes scanning over her. “You look really good in my clothes. They look way too hot on you.”

Y/N’s smirk faltered for half a second, and she looked away, half-hiding behind her mug. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“Am I?” he asked, nudging her foot with his. “You think I forgot the way you sat there on call, pretending like you didn’t know it was my shirt, driving me absolutely insane right after a shower?”

She laughed, lowering her mug. “Hey I was too busy admiring the view you were showing me, besides I thought you needed motivation.”

Oscar leaned back, arm stretched out along the back of the couch, fingertips barely brushing her shoulder.

“I don’t need motivation,” he said softly. “I just need to come home to this. To you.”

That time, her smile dropped for real, replaced with something quieter, something warm.

“Good,” she murmured, setting her tea aside and curling into his side, “because I’m not giving your shirts back.”

Oscar rested his cheek against the top of her head, letting out a quiet breath.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

🪻🪻🪻

Oscar sat still, one arm around Y/N, the other resting limply on his lap. Her head was tucked beneath his chin now, breathing slow, and her fingers absently tracing little circles over the fabric of his hoodie.

Outside, the street was quiet. Melbourne’s chaos had finally settled. Inside, the only thing louder than the ticking clock in the hallway was his own thoughts.

P9.

It had stung more than he expected.

He’d pushed, taken risks, held his breath more times than he could count. The home crowd, the roar in Turn 1, the endless pressure of this weekend. He wanted a podium. He wanted more than points. And when he crossed the line, all he felt was this dull, aching hollowness.

Because he wanted to win, for the team, for the fans, for his family.

For her.

Oscar closed his eyes briefly. He remembered the sound of God Save The King echoing as Lando stepped up to the top step. The taste of disappointment, how it clung to the back of his throat during interviews. The polite claps. The fake smile. The crushing feeling of not being good enough on the one track that felt like home.

But then he came home.

And she had made him khichdi.

Warm, soft, comforting. Just like her.

She didn’t try to fix it with words. She didn’t tell him he should be proud or that P9 was still good. She just handed him a plate and looked at him like he wasn’t a result. Like he wasn’t someone the world measured in lap times.

He glanced down at her again, heart clenching a little.

Y/N. With her soft hair and stolen shirts and quiet affection. The way she could command a kitchen but still act coy when he told her she looked good. How she knew exactly what to say, and more importantly, when not to say anything at all.

She’d rooted herself into his life so naturally, so completely, that he couldn’t remember what comfort looked like without her in it.

It wasn’t just that she made things better.

It was that she was the better.

🪻🪻🪻

Y/N was rambling about a movie she’d half-watched on the flight back to Melbourne. Something about a chaotic rom-com with bad pacing and good outfits. She talked with her hands when she was animated, her eyes lighting up even though she clearly didn’t care that much about the plot.

Oscar barely registered the words. His eyes were fixed on her mouth, the soft curve of her lips, the way she bit the inside of her cheek while trying to remember an actor’s name. She was glowing in the low, warm light of the living room, sitting cross-legged on the couch like she had belonged there forever.

And it hit him, like a crash he couldn’t brace for.

He loved her. Fully. Wildly. In a way that went straight to the pit of his stomach and made it hard to breathe. It wasn’t a slow build. It was immediate. Overwhelming. Undeniable.

And he couldn’t hold it back.

She was mid-sentence, something about the main character making a terrible decision; when he leaned in, cupping her jaw gently, eyes searching hers for only a heartbeat before he kissed her.

It was soft at first, just the brush of his mouth against hers. She stilled, surprised, hands caught in the air between them. But then he pressed in closer, kissing her properly. Deeper. Like he needed it. Like he’d been holding it back for days, weeks, maybe longer.

His hand slipped to the back of her neck, thumb brushing behind her ear as he tilted his head, letting the kiss turn warmer, fuller. She melted into him easily, fingers fisting the fabric of his t-shirt, lips parting under his as the kiss grew heavier. Hungrier.

Her breath hitched when he pulled her closer, one knee shifting so their bodies aligned more naturally. He kissed her like he was telling her everything he couldn’t yet say. With so much care it ached. With so much want it left her dizzy.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, forehead resting against hers, both of them catching their breath.

She blinked at him, dazed. “What was that for?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her. Really looked. Eyes soft, lips swollen from the kiss, cheeks slightly flushed.

“Marry me.”

Everything in the room seemed to freeze. Her breath caught. Her fingers, still clinging to the front of his t-shirt, went limp.

She blinked. “What?”

Oscar leaned back just slightly, eyes still holding hers, but a crooked, sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his lips now. “Not now,” he clarified quickly, his thumb brushing over her wrist in slow reassurance. “I mean… eventually. Not this second, not tomorrow. But, marry me. Someday.”

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it again. She didn’t know what to say. Her brain was moving too fast, heart thudding loud in her ears.

He rushed on, gentle but urgent, as if trying to give her all the space in the world while still holding her close.

“I know it sounds insane, I do. And I didn’t plan to say it tonight, I swear. I just…” He exhaled, voice softening. “I love you so much it actually hurts. I didn’t even care that I came P9 today, not after seeing you. And when I kissed you just now, I couldn’t stop thinking how I wanted to keep coming home to you for the rest of my life. That’s all. That’s it.”

Y/N’s lips parted again, and this time, a small breath of laughter slipped out; shaky, surprised, but full of warmth. Her eyes glittered, tears threatening to rise, and she shook her head in disbelief.

“You’re such a dramatic loser,” she whispered, smiling through it.

Oscar grinned. “I know. But I meant every word.”

She leaned forward again, pressing her forehead to his, the tips of their noses brushing.

“You love me,” she said softly, like she was testing the weight of it.

“I do.”

“And you want to marry me.”

“Desperately.”

Y/N’s smile turned into a quiet laugh, and her hands slid up his chest slowly, curling around the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Someday, I’ll marry you.”

Oscar’s eyes fluttered shut, and he exhaled in quiet relief, arms wrapping around her waist as he pulled her in again.

🪻🪻🪻

Later that night, the house had gone quiet. Oscar’s family had all turned in for the night, leaving only the soft hum of the city outside and the rustle of blankets as the two of them settled into bed.

Y/N was already curled under the duvet, still wearing his shirt, like it had always belonged to her. Oscar joined her a moment later, flicking off the bedside lamp, the room now lit only by the soft glow from the hallway.

He slipped under the covers, letting out a sigh as he stretched out beside her. After a moment, he shifted closer, tugging her into his chest with one arm thrown lazily around her waist.

She hummed, tucking her face into the curve of his neck. “You’re clingy tonight.”

“I’m traumatised,” he muttered, voice muffled in her hair.

She laughed quietly. “You’ll win in Shanghai, I promise.”

Oscar grinned against her. “I better, or I might get fired.”

A moment of comfortable silence passed. Then Oscar sat up slightly and peeled his shirt off with one smooth motion, tossing it off the side of the bed.

Y/N raised a brow in the dark, lips twitching.

“Oh? And what’s this about?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“It’s hot,” he said simply, lying back down and pulling her into him again. “And I sleep shirtless. You know that.”

“Convenient excuse,” she teased, fingers tracing lightly over his now bare chest. “What if I get hot too?”

Before she could reply, he was already sliding his hands up under the hem of the shirt she wore—his shirt—fingers warm and familiar. She let out a small gasp, half surprised and half amused, as he smoothly tugged it over her head and tossed it aside to join his on the floor.

Now she sat in just her bra, blinking at him in the low light. “Oscar!”

He was grinning shamelessly. “What? You said you might get hot.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You said yes to marrying me, get used to it,” he reminded her smugly, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Regretting it already.”

“Liar.”

Y/N sighed dramatically, then nestled into his side, her bare shoulder against his warm skin.

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, holding her close again. This time, no more teasing, just comfort. Just quiet. Just them.

Wrapped up in each other, skin warm under soft sheets, hearts still thudding from everything they'd said, and everything that was still to come.

And for the first time in days, Oscar slept like he hadn’t finished P9.

He slept like he’d already won.

No cheers, no champagne, no trophy this time; but for now, this was enough.

this was written while i was blasting my clairo playlist so please excuse the excessive yearning in this. also oscar piastri wdc 2025, spread the word. and as always you can request a prompt from my list if you liked this!

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x y/n #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x reader #f1 fluff #f1 x reader #f1 driver x reader #op81 #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 requests #oscar piastri requests

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