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nxlx96 · 6 months ago

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The Boy Saviour - Oscar Piastri x Reader (she/her)

Hi, this is my first time writing x reader, and the idea came to me at 3am a few nights ago while i was trying to sleep and hasn't left me live ever since. This is also my first time posting on tumblr so bear the simple format.

Trigger Warning: Non-consensual drug use, as in, reader gets roofied in a bar (Not by any named character nor any of the drivers, so rest assured on that sense). There is also recreational alcohol consumption and a bit of off-camera violence.

WC: 8381

Also, this is more of a pre-slash story rather than a romantic one. That's all I have to say, I'll shut up and let you read.

Please let me know what you think!

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Post race driver parties are not an uncommon thing, although it is much more frequent in the European leg of the season; when everyone is in the same country or near enough they don’t care for a few hours of commute -Today's crowd was composed of Charles, Oscar, Max, Lando, Alex, George, Pierre, Carlos and as a star guest, Daniel-. These parties were often the perfect way to try and unwind from the pressure of the season and to smooth out whatever incidents happened on track. A few passive aggressive interchanges, three shots and everyone’s usually back to laughing and buzzing along.

Tonight they had followed Charles’ recommendation and gone to a club in the more residential area of Monaco, away from the yacht club and the casino. It was still tightly packed with people dancing on the dancefloor and the bar was busy as the drinks kept on coming, but the people there didn't care much for them and they were able to enjoy themselves without worrying about having too many eyes on them.

They had a booth in the second floor alcove, allowing them an almost full view of the dance floor if anyone cared to look down, but they were too busy roughhousing and laughing. She’d gotten used to it, of course, having grown as a girl in motorsports it’s simply part of the package. But sometimes she still needed a break when they were behaving like that, because while they recognise her as a proper rival, a true competitor despite gender bias, being drunk they sometimes forget they have size and strength to their favour while having their fun, and their brawling and heavy shoulder slaps felt a tiny bit too annoying while tipsy. Overwhelming.

So she excuses herself to the bar, shaking the glass that now only tinkers with half melted ice cubes. She gets a few nods and a stray thumbs up but the chatter continues like before.

The layout of the club had the bar as the centerpiece gemstone, the first thing you see when you come though the main entrance across from the massive dance floor. The dance floor’s design is full of different height platforms, similar to those at Jimmy Z. Their booth on the second floor has a perfect view of all the first floor, except for the public entrance, which is right underneath it.

Coming down the stairs, she followed the platforms' paths that led her to the bar once again, choosing a stool to sit and wait for the bartenders to take her order.

On the wall to her left, the DJ booth rises itself over all the platforms in its own little block, colored lights sprouting from the base towards the right of it, in the corner between the bar and the DJ there is the smaller door they were escorted through, directly from the parking lot behind the establishment. On the opposite wall there's a hallway that leads to what she assumes are the bathrooms, judging by the long queue of women she can see standing in the hallway.

A tap on the countertop brings her attention back. The bartender asks for her order in French, and her basic understanding of the language allows her to order a raspberry mojito without spluttering too much. A sweet enough concoction to help smooth out the straight Vodka shots they downed back at the table.

In no time, a new clear plastic cup was placed in front of her. A tall cup full to the brim with rum and sparkly water. A mix of raspberry puree, lemon and mint sitting at the bottom. She grabs the straw and starts mixing the cocktail, but the ice floating on top, and the decorative mint leaves that float at the top threaten to overflow the cup when she does, so she has to take another bitter sip of almost pure liquor before actually enjoying the sweetness.

She rested her elbow on the bartop and her chin in her hand, alternating between swaying to the music, looking at the bartenders preparing fancy and complicated cocktails and looking around the crowd dancing on the floor. It wasn’t exactly a quiet place, but it did provide respite from the boys’ rowdiness. Occasionally there would be people who sat in the barstools next to her. Some of them made some sort of small talk while waiting for their drinks to be ready, but no one lingered in her space for too long, allowing her to unwind on her own.

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭

As a woman in life, you learn to know when to follow your instincts. Call it bad omen, gut feeling or sixth sense. Sometimes you subconsciously register danger before you see or hear something. In this case, she felt a tight coil in her stomach -looking back it might have been more of a natural reaction than not a bad omen-, her adrenaline spiked like she’d been in the car after miraculously avoiding a collision. Her hands trembled a bit as she sneakily tried to look around. There was a couple at the bar two seats to her right, too engrossed in each other to be the source of panic. As she swiped to the other side, her hand caught the straw of her cup, pulling it from inside. She tried to catch it but it rolled over the edge of the bartop, falling to the ground.

Fucking breathe!

Straw forgotten, she grabbed the cup and twisted around in her stool, swiping the room with her gaze. To her other side there was a group of friends rowdily chatting, no different from the drivers’ table upstairs. He made eye contact with one of them, a guy not participating in the conversation. He seemed embarrassed to have been caught staring as he turned red and avoided eye contact. Too shy, too far away, probably not that either. She started scanning the crowd on the dancefloor with her heart almost at her throat.

Without a straw, she was left to swirl the whole cup to stir its contents. No one in the vicinity was particularly close to her bubble, or paying special attention to her, but the sensation didn’t go away. Some movement from the group at her side made her tense up, but it was a small part of them that walked towards the dancefloor. Shy boy included. The ones left at the bar were immersed in conversation, crowding together to hear themselves over the music. So she relaxed again.

She’d been tilting the drink to her lips when she finally realised that her nearly melted ice cubes had sunk to the bottom of the cup, and the whole thing looked cloudy. Her heart stopped in her throat, closing her airways.

I’ve been drugged.

The realisation sinks in, but it feels unreal.

Is this really happening to me?

The glass is on her lips, and she tilts it back, but keeps her mouth sealed; knowing that whoever did it must be keeping an eye on her. Her jaw is clenched so hard it’s almost difficult to breathe. Her first instinct is to throw the whole thing on the ground, but it’s less than half full now. Whatever they put in it has been in her system for long enough. Her next thought is to notify the bartenders, but she hesitates before turning around. There had been no one near enough on her side of the bar to get close to her drink, and she’d kept her hand over it at all moments; but of course the rim was wide and there were gaps between her fingers where someone could have dumped something in. For now the bartenders are also suspicious. Twisting her arm, she sets the drink on the table behind her; uncaring now to leave it unsupervised.

The damage has already been done anyway. She figures.

Her heart rate does nothing to slow down, and her thoughts do not help at all. She is in imminent danger with no way out. She’d left her purse at the booth upstairs, and doesn’t have her phone at hand. She looks up in the direction of their table. Under the strobing lights she can see the crowd of drivers has dwindled down. She can distinguish Alex, George, Carlos, Max and Lando sitting up there; the rest of them might be somewhere in the dancefloor. The idea of trying to get the attention of the guys up there was also discarded, since it will alert her assailant too, and she has no guarantee it’ll get the guys’ attention. Trying to find the others in the crowd sounds just as impossible a task as to find a needle in a haystack.

Her hands shake. The safest alternative that comes to her mind is to run to the women’s bathroom. The crowd queuing in the halfway has reduced, and the hallway looks dark; but it’s her best shot.

Over the corner of her eye something catches her attention. A white button up shit that looks almost fluorescent under the black lights. The figure skirts around the dancefloor, following almost the same path she took to get to the bar, but it’s clear his destination is not the same, since he doesn’t slow down and seems to be aiming for the bathrooms instead.

“Oscar!” She yells before she realises. It might have sounded a bit too strangled, a bit too panicked, but it catches his attention. She’s reaching a hand out to him, and he extends his arm for her to grab as he gets close to her stool.

“Oh hey,” He looks sort of confused, and she doesn’t blame him. They do gravitate to the same groups, But they’re not particularly close friends, so her calling out feels awkward for both of them. “Didn’t realise you came here.” He gestures awkwardly to the bar, but she’s too relieved to have found a safe person she doesn’t even hear what he’s saying.

She jumps from the stool, holding onto his wrist. “Come dance with me!”

He hesitates “... You know I’m not-” She’s still not listening, she hesitates between abandoning her cup at the bar, but grabs it at the last second and turns back to him.

“Just one song, come on!”

“I was going to-” He tries again, but this time she digs her nails into his skin, and desperately tugs him with a trembling hand. He doesn’t put any more resistance, simply trailing behind her as she tries to find a pocket of space for them among the moving bodies. As she walks she feels her blood rushing to her head. She’s feeling too tipsy and woozy for the amount of alcohol she’s consumed; and whatever hopes the whole thing had been in her head crumble like sandcastles at the sensation of her bambi legs. But she has her way out caught in a deathgrip by the wrist, she can still get out unscathed.

As soon as she finds space for them, she stops and turns around to face him, getting close in his space to be heard over the loud music. She wraps Oscar’s arm she’d been tugging on, around her waist, in hopes he can hold her up in case her legs give out and wraps hers around his body too.

She can feel Oscar’s hand in her back, blindly trying to find a patch of fabric to settle on top of. His avoidance of the naked skin of her back settles a minute worry in her mind. Yes, he is a man. Yes, she would probably feel more comfortable coming to her own teammate for help. But Oscar is still safe, he won’t take advantage of her. He is safety.

“Are you sober?” Is the first thing that comes out of her mouth once they’ve settled their positions and start to loosely sway to the beat of whatever song is playing.

Oscar is looking more and more confused at the sudden serious tone of her voice and the way it contradicts the easy smile on her face. She’s still acting up like nothing’s wrong. “Uhh yeah, I came in my car.”

Oscar you blessed man.

“Great! I need you to take me to the hospital right now.” Oscar freezes completely and she tries to keep the easy smile on her face. “Someone put something in my drink and I think I’m going to pass out soon.” His face does something complicated, and one of his hands tries to go for the cup on her hand, but she moves it out of his path, tripping over her own heel in the process. He catches her before she can stumble.

“Why are you still-?” He looks tense in a way she hasn’t seen him many times, he instantly understood the seriousness the situation entails. She’s so glad he believed her, a worry she hadn’t even processed having.

Her confidence starts waving, there is not much time to explain and her voice shakes as she tries to fill him in. “You have to take it- I- I don’t know what they put in- The doctor can… I don’t know-” She feels like she's twelve again, trying to explain to her mother that she accidentally broke her favourite mirror and cut her hand. “They can analyse it or whatever,” she finishes lamely.

She can see it more clearly now, he’s not just tense, he’s angry. At her or on her behalf? She doesn’t know him well enough to be able to tell the difference.

“You’re so…” Careless. Irresponsible. Stupid. Her eyes fill with tears and he feels like a scolded child. “... smart.” He says instead, not following the script in her mind.

“I kno- Wait what?” He shakes his head, moving past the topic. His voice holds urgency now.

“Do you know who did it?” He’s looking past her, scanning the crowd behind her.

“No I- There was no one near except the bartenders… I-I didn’t know if they- A-and I didn’t know who to ask for help!” She sniffs, and clears her throat, swallowing around the tightness in her throat.

He notices her trying to maintain her composure, and smoothes out his expression. “It’s alright. You found me, and I will help you, okay?” In a very unlike-himself moment he wraps his arms closer to her, holding her in a loose hug. Maybe it’s the relief that comes from Oscar’s reassurance that makes her body relax, loosen up. She takes the moment to really get a deep breath, trying to regulate her heart rate, knowing an accelerated heartbeat will only speed the effect of the drug. The music is already hard to hear even with how the deep base thrums in her bones. She lets her head fall forward onto his shoulder and Oscar’s arms tighten around her like a vice, but when she stays standing up he relaxes. “Let’s get you out of here, yeah?” She’s pretty sure she just gave him a small heart attack, but she can’t really find the strength to apologize, so she simply takes another deep breath, this time taking in the smell of his cologne, and nods her head.

She steps back, trying to maintain balance on the small heels of her shoes, and allows Oscar to grab her arm to guide them through the crowd. It’s a bit scary, how fast she seems to be falling under the effects. What would she have done had Oscar not been there?

Oscar is aggressively polite as he makes a path for them towards the exit, loudly excusing them as he pushes through. She walks behind him, gaze set on his broad shoulders. They’re almost out of the crowd when she feels a hand closing in on her arm. She flinches and removes her arm before they can grasp her, and steps even closer to Oscar, almost stepping on his heels. “Oscar-” She manages in a squeaky voice, but he must hear her because he holds together and broathens his stride. The hands do not follow, only shoulder bumps as they make their way though.

They get out the doors in no time. The space outside is deserted, late enough that everyone is either at home asleep or inside the club. Oscar turns to her, scans her and points toward the side street that she assumes would lead them around the building towards the private parking lot. “My car’s this way.” She briefly looks back to the doors, but they stay closed so she nods. Maybe the hand was her imagination, or a simple accidental brush of a hand.

Her steps are still mostly steady but Oscar still keeps a hand on her left forearm, the warmth from his hand is a stark contrast to the cold air of the Monegasque night. The sweat that had layered over her body is cooling off rapidly as they round the building and by the time they’ve walked the length of the side street and caught sight of the actual parking lot, shivers have started to rack her up.

Oscar briefly lets go of her arm to fish the keys from his pocket and she instantly misses the warmth. Now untethered she slows her walking, paying a bit more attention to where she’s placing her feet. He clicks off the alarm and the navy blue McLaren Artura at the other end blinks its lights at them. “There’s our ride.” Oscar is smiling as he looks back, extending his arm for her again, but his eyes stray over her shoulder and the expression freezes in his face.

A hand wraps on the arm that Oscar hadn’t been holding and it feels nothing like the Australian's careful and grounding hold. It burns as it takes a bruising hold of her and tugs her to the side. She stumbles with the force of it, body already feeling too close to a ragdoll to comfort. Her voice is strong but not steady as she demands, “Let me go.” She tries to back away from the foreign body, but her ankle gives up and twists painfully. She stumbles but holds her stance and tries to push away from the nasal french voice speaking at her in a sultry voice. The arm that had been trying to push away from the tall man gets caught from the wrist. The drink sloshes and some of it spills over her fingers and onto her dress.

Just as he’s starting to use his weight against her, a body steps in between them. She collides with Oscar’s shoulder a bit, but her right arm is freed, and she pulls it back towards her. “Get your fucking hands off.” She has never heard him sound so angry. His accent has deepened like she’s never heard before. But he is still gentle as he wraps a hand firmly on her left arm. She can feel him pulling the guy’s hand and prying his fingers open to release her. She uses his back to support herself as she helps pull her arm free from those thick fingers.

Once freed she stumbles back again, but the Aussie has a firm hold on her and keeps her upright. The guy tries to go around Oscar to get her again, and over the driver’s shoulder she looks at his face for the first time as Oscar pushes firmly with his forearm to keep him away. Tan complexion, prince-y dark hair and a well groomed beard.

In any other circumstance she would have said he was attractive, but now she can only feel nauseous at the fake nonchalant smile the guy is sporting. With her muddled brain she half understands he’s trying to excuse this as a misunderstanding. He catches the words ‘friend’, ‘together’, ‘mine’ and ‘drunk’. She has no idea if Oscar even understands what the guy is saying, but he seems set on getting him away from her.

After a more forceful shove that makes the assailant stumble back, Oscar looks over his shoulder and lets go of her, pushing her towards the parking lot. “Get in the car.”

She nods dumbly as she turns in the direction where the lights flashed earlier. The parking lot is only mildly illuminated, but it’s enough for her to be able to locate the Artura among the other luxury cars parked there. There are more confrontation sounds coming from behind, and what sounds very much like a hit, but she doesn’t look back. All her attention and remaining brain power is going to try to reach the car at the end of the parking lot. Her right ankle throbs painfully with each step, and the uneven terrain makes it three times harder, because when the fuck did the pavement turn to gravel?

She leans on a pink Porshe 911 as her legs buckle, the McLaren is right there. There’s the sound of another car starting up, more yelling but she’s already rounding it from behind towards the passenger door. The sound of angry screeching tyres spinning out without traction in the gravel grinds her head and the pain in her ankle is too much; her right leg gives out completely, the other one follows shortly and she’s going down. She tries to drag her hand on the car to find a purchase on something but there’s nothing other than the squeak of her sweaty hand on the polished paint. Her knees take the brunt of the impact, and it stings.

The angry car has sped off, and she’s pretty sure she hears it clip the wall of the sidestreet. She takes a deep breath and lets herself fall seated against the car, knees to her chest, back to the door. Dumly, she notes that the cup still has some liquid on it, its red is just as dark in the low light as the small pinpricks of blood on her knees.

She registers footsteps getting closer to her, and for a second her heart rate speeds up again until she hears her name called by a worried Australian. She bangs her head against the door, willing herself to keep her eyes open as she answers back. Oscar’s footsteps speed up and in no time he’s kneeling in front of her, warm hands on her biceps as he looks over her body. He brings a hand to remove stray pieces of hair from her face and she can see a hint of blood on his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Oscar cannot believe his ears. “How am- Are you forreal?” An incredulous chuckle escapes him because this girl, shivering on the floor with scraped knees and blown out pupils, who almost got kidnapped by a stranger in a foreign country, is more worried about him than about herself. He shakes his head and wipes his knuckles, showing her the unbroken skin. “I’m alright, see?” Her eyes scan his hand for a second too long before nodding. Her head bobs in a sleepy manner, and he knows he has to hurry. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” She’s breathing heavily, but Oscar can’t be sure if it’s an after effect of whatever drug the asshole put in her drink or the exertion of the situation. “My ankle hurts,” He looks down at her feet, still clad in heeled slippers with a complicated ribbon. Neither of her feet looks particularly swollen or bruised for now. “I’m scared…” Her voice is much softer, almost a whisper, but in the emptiness of the parking lot at night, it almost seems to echo.

He grabs her arms again, rubbing up and down “It’s okay, it’s over now.” She keeps shivering under his arms and Oscar doesn’t know if it’s the cold or shock starting to settle in, “Can you walk?”

Her eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head in a terribly adorable gesture, “Walk where?”

“We need to get you into the car”

“But-” She slaps the back of her hand against the car, “I’m here”

Oscar can’t suppress the smile, “Yeah, but unless you’re planning on driving, we need to get you around the passenger side.”

“... Fuck.”

“Force of habit, yeah.” He grabs onto her forearms. Her skin feels cold and sticky with dried sweat. “Come on, let’s get you up.” She pulls alongside him, but as soon as her right foot is firm on the ground, she makes a face and he takes more of her weight as she falters, her other leg not cooperating much.

“Oscar” The slugginess in her voice makes the R in his name sound much breathier. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“Alright, well-” He bends down and swipes her legs off the floor, holding her in a princess's carry. She makes a strangled sound and her arms come to grab at his shoulders. The cup tilts dangerously but she rights it just in time. “Much easier this way.” He makes his way over to the passenger seat and bends his knees to open up the door, depositing her in the seat. “Ah look!” Wedged right in between the seat and the door, is a hoodie he’d abandoned maybe a few days ago. He pulls it and sets it on her lap, taking the cup from her hand. “Think you can get it on by yourself?”

“Mm-hm”

“‘kay, you do that while I figure out where to keep this.” He closes the door and rounds the car again to his seat, looking around the small space to find a safe place to place it without spilling what little liquid remains on it. As his companion wrestles with the fabric, she kicks an abandoned water bottle. “Bingo.” He leans down to grab it. A small shake reveals to still have stale water he poured out of the window before pouring in the remaining cocktail into it. He screws the lid back on and keeps the cup too, just in case. He drops both items in the footrest of the passenger before looking at the occupant. She’s relaxed into the seat, and her eyes are closed. Fear creeps in for a second, “Ready to go?”

thumbs-upHe gets a thumbs up in response. Still conscious it seems. He reaches over and pulls her seatbelt on, knowing he will ignore all speed limits to the hospital. After a second of consideration, he shakes her arm until she’s blinking up at him. “Try to stay awake, yeah?” He grabs his phone, to call Lando. It hasn’t been longer than 10 minutes since he left their table, but he needs someone to call the police on the guy, and let Lando know he needs to get a new ride. He looks at his companion, she’s looking at his phone as it rings in his lap. “If you feel like throwing up let me know, yeah?” He says as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“m’not throwing up.” Her angry eyebrows are back.

“Okay, then you can help me explain to Lando-” Just then, the Brit’s voice comes through the car speakers.

“Heeellooo? Mate did you get lost on your way back or what?” He’s half yelling to hear himself over the music. It’s a miracle he even heard his phone ring.

“No, I’m taking the Alpine princess to the hospital.” He sneaks a look at her as he accelerates down the narrow monaco streets. She’s still awake, biting her lip as Lando processes the words.

“You what! What happened!? The fuck Oscah?”

He’s about to start explaining, but she speaks up “Some guy spiked my drink, I found Oscar and he got me out.” He has to keep his eyes on the road, but he can see out of the corner of his eye how she cuddles up into the seat. “I’m alright… Pinky promise.”

“Lando, listen, I need you to get Charles to call the police.” The traffic light up ahead has turned yellow, but Oscar doesn’t slow down. It’s the middle of the night and there are no other cars around, so he floors it right as it turns red. “I’ll give you a description, and his license plate. I need you to report him to authorities.”

“Fuck.” He says, eloquently. “Yeah I-” There’s a bit of silence from him, but the music is still humming loudly in the background. “I think I see Charles upstairs, I’ll go get him now.” Oscar can hear him speaking to someone, but it’s muffled like he lowered the phone. Almost a full two minutes later he speaks up again. “Kay, got Charles and Pierre here. They want to know if you’re really okay, sprout?”

Oscar is slowing down for a curve. Because as much as he would love to go as fast as during the actual race, he doesn’t know these streets as well, so he has to be careful. The silence stretches for too long, and as he turns to look at her again, he finds her completely asleep.

“Shit, she passed out.” He presses harder on the gas pedal, Lando curses too. “He tried to grab her when we were getting to the parking lot. She twisted her ankle and scraped her knees, but other than that, she’s physically alright.” Streets and buildings blur as he speeds by. “Asshole was as tall as George or Alex. Lanky and tan. Dark hair, beard. I broke his nose, and probably his cheekbone before he ran away.” As he approaches a speed bump, he throws his hand over her chest to prevent her from flying around.

This time it’s a new voice, Charles “He took off running?”

“No, in a car. Porsche 911 Turbo S, Dark green.”

“Did you get the license plate?”

Of course I did, who do you think I am?

“M3T9. He busted a backlight as he drove off, if that helps.”

“I will get on it, do not worry he will not get away.” Despite the noise, Oscar can hear how dark Charles’ voice becomes, and he remembers that Charles is a very prominent figure here; the prince of Monaco who is friends with the actual prince of Monaco.

“I’ll leave you to take care of him, then.”

“Yes yes, I will get him. You just get the petite poupée to the doctors, yes?” He has no idea what that means but it sounds like an affectionate nickname.

Oscar nods to himself in the car, “We’re already here, she’ll be alright” He can see the URGENCES sign of the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace. He eases his foot off the pedal, as he turns into the mostly empty parking lot.

“Keep us updated!”

“Will do.”

The call disconnects and he’s left to pick a parking space that isn’t reserved for ambulances. Once he’s turned everything off, he turns to her and shakes her arm, calling her name to try and wake her up, but it’s futile. She’s breathing deeply, sound asleep. He rounds the car and opens her door. He leans over her legs to grab the bottle and scoop under her knees and in the process he discovers she did not manage to get both her arms though the sleeves of his hoodie, and that her right is still tangled inside. He almost huffs a laugh at that. Almost.

Picking her up again feels different than when he did it 10 minutes ago, because her body is too lax, too malleable. This time she makes no sound when he hoists her up, and her head lulls back, stretching her neck over the arm he has under her shoulders. She looks and feels like a ragdoll in his arms as he stands up and uses his elbow to drag the door down and closed; he quietly seethes at the thought of her being like this in the hands of such a vermin.

How anyone could find such an unresponsive body attractive is a question he doesn’t even want to think of. Instead he stops to adjust her neck, letting her head rest on his collarbone instead of the previous uncomfortable position and fixes the hood over her head to cover up her face. It is the middle of the night, but he has learnt that every wall has eyes and that everything can and will be posted online. He has nothing to hide his face with, but protecting her identity in a moment of such vulnerability is his only priority in his mind after getting her help.

He’s careful of pushing the doors with his shoulder. The reception is empty except for the receptionist behind the desk. He sighs inwardly at that. The woman looks up and stands up immediately upon his arrival at the desk, his French skills are nonexistent, so he wholeheartedly hopes she understands English. “We were at a club and someone put drugs in her drink.” The woman nods once, so Oscar takes that as a sign that she does and continues. “She passed out in the car while driving here, like five minutes ago.” He’s not as oblivious as to think he looks innocent holding a dead looking girl, and the face of the woman, carefully stoic, sets his nerves on fire.

“Did she say what was put in it or who did it?”

“No, but she asked me to bring what was left of the drink, because she said you could analyse it to treat her,” He sets the bottle on the counter and hikes her up in his arms. “She’d thought it was one of the bartenders, but as we were getting to the car the guy came and tried to take her by force.” He omits the part where he punched him and instead lets his trump card subtly show. “My friend Charles has already called the police to report the assault.” Despite how common it is, the name must register in her mind, because she makes a double take, between Oscar’s face and the face half hidden in his chest. “Please help her,”

“Of course we will help.” She shakes her head like the thought of them refusing attention was a personal offence. She presses a button behind the counter and rounds the desk to take a better look at the girl in his arms. She produces a penlight from a pocket and gestures towards her. Oscar twists to allow her to get closer. “How long ago did she consume the drink?”

“Uh…” The nurse opens one of her eyelids and flashes her light, studying pupil reaction. “I have no idea, she found me around 15 or 20 minutes ago, she’d already realised by then and didn’t drink the rest of it, but I don’t know how long it was.” He can hear footsteps from behind, another nurse is coming from the personal hallway. “She started shivering too, but I don't know if it was cold or shock. I gave her my hoodie and it has stopped now, at least.”

The woman nods, and as the new nurse comes closer, she starts -hopefully- translating what he’s said in rapid French. It’s like watching Charles, Pierre and Lance gossip during drivers’ parade. The bottle is handed too, and when the exchange ends, the new nurse takes a cursory look, stops at Oscar’s face and mumbles something back before continuing their path towards the next hallway.

“We will get a room set up for her, do you want me to bring a wheelchair in the meantime?”

“No, I’m alright.” She’s deadweight, but not as heavy as Oscar would have imagined, he’s also trained enough during his life, he can hold a few more minutes. The receptionist goes back around the desk and starts asking questions about her for what Oscar assumes is a registry sheet. A new concern sparks in his mind, and he accidentally interrupts one of her questions with his own request. “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to stay with her, but could you at least make sure she doesn’t get a male doctor?”

Her serious and stoic facade falls at that, and for a second she reminds Oscar of his own mum. “I’ll make sure of that, and I do think you might be able to stay with her. It’ll help her to see a familiar face waking up.” She gives him a reluctant smile and resumes asking if he knows her blood type.

The other nurse comes back just as they’re finishing, and leads him to a room where they’ll be treating her. As he lowers her from his arm, he remembers to mention a detail he’d forgotten. “Hey, uh- Her ankle… She said it hurt, and might have twisted it.”

The nurse nods, and answers in a much more prominent accent. “We will take x-ray of it. Your hand is okay?”

Oscar looks back to his hand. There’s redness on his knuckles and a bruise is starting to form around the bones, but he flexes his fingers a couple of times and it only stings a bit. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Okay, now you wait outside, I call when ready, yes?”

“Yeah, thank you.”

He closes the door behind him and walks to a nearby bench, using the time to update Lando via text. In return he gets told that Charles stormed off the bar, Pierre, Carlos and Daniel in tow. The rest of them are deciding how to carpool home; and that everyone will keep the situation under wraps, including whoever Charles has contacted. He says that Alex will be stopping by the hospital soon, to drop off her forgotten bag and phone and whatever else she’s left at their table.

The receptionist nurse passes by Oscar in the way to her room and lets him know they’ll take her for an x-ray; and that after that, he might wait inside her room if he wishes, in turn he lets her know he will jump out for a second because another friend will bring her stuff from the bar. The woman nods and gives him the number of the room they will take her after the x-ray for him to come back.

His phone rings just as they’re rolling her bed out. He only catches a glimpse of an IV line connected to her arm before they wheel her down the corridor, he too turns away.

Alex is waiting with his emergency lights on. When he sees him come out of the doors, he gives him a tired smile. Oscar leans against the door and they stay in silence for a while. It’s colder out now, or at least it feels like that now that adrenaline is no longer coursing through him. The light sweat he’d worked up earlier is drying cold against his back. He raps his knuckles against the blue paint of Alex’s car, bringing the Thai’s attention to his bruised hand.

“I heard you broke his nose?” Alex’s tone is teasing, if maybe a bit impressed.

“Got a couple hits, yeah.” Oscar closes his fist, the skin tightens over his bones. The memory of a bone cracking under them probably shouldn’t feel as satisfactory as it did. “Should’ve done more.”

It comes much more bitterly than he’d expected, and Alex places a hand over his wrist, patting him “You did more than any of us, don’t beat yourself up.” He reaches to the passenger seat and pulls a small handbag and Oscar spots a jacket hung behind the seat. “You cold?” Alex must have seen his eyes stray, and as he pulls it from its perch Oscar notices the Williams logo on it.

“Nah mate, I’d rather be cold.”

“Ah, come on I can’t let the boy saviour freeze tonight.”

“No, no, never in a million years you’ll catch me wearing Williams merch,” He grabs the handbag and steps away when Alex tries to push the jacket into his arms too. They’re both laughing as the jacket falls to the ground and Alex is left half hanging off his window to grab it. Oscar watches him struggle for a second or five before deciding to have mercy; so he grabs the jacket and stuffs it in Alex’s face, turns on his back and starts walking back to the doors so he can’t attempt to hand it to him again.

“Oscar!” Alex calls between fabric and laughter, and Oscar turns just in time to catch a juice bottle headed straight to his face. A second one follows right after, he fumbles with it since both his hands are occupied, but he manages not to drop it, Alex snaps his fingers in faux frustration at that. “Take care of her!” He says as he starts his car again.

“Will do, mate.” He watches as Alex drives away until his tailgate lights disappear behind a wall, just then he turns back into the hospital. As he makes his way back, he rearranges the stuff in his hands; he holds the purse under his arm since it doesn’t have any straps, and studies the bottles. Alex had gotten orange and apple.

Which one would she prefer?

He has no idea, really. He always sees her drinking either water, isotonic drinks, or energy drinks. Apples or oranges? There is a new receptionist at the desk, and when Oscar rattles the new room number, he is directed to the elevators with instructions to the second floor where lower grade emergencies are treated.

He only has to wait around 10 more minutes before she’s wheeled back in. The initial receptionist seems to be the one assigned to her, as she is the one that stays and explains to Oscar that there isn’t any fracture in the ankle. It seems like just her soft tissue was affected and she’ll get by with wearing a brace and sports tape for a few days. The lower half of her body is covered by the sheets while his hoodie covers the rest. One of the sleeves has been pushed up to make space for the IV, and Oscar can see that her foot is resting on a couple of pillows to keep it raised. Her shoes are in a little cubby under the bed, cubby to which he adds her purse.

He gets told there isn’t much they can do about the drug except keep her hydrated and let her body work it though, because it has already been absorbed by her bloodstream, along with the alcohol she’d consumed. But that the sample analysis revealed it to be non-threatening, it’ll just leave her with a nasty hangover. Despite the slight pessimistic tone, the information leaves him relieved, and he relaxes into the chair he’d sat to wait. He thanks the nurse and watches as a new person in different colored scrubs, carefully and efficiently wraps her ankle in neon blue sports tape.

Before long, he’s left alone with her, with instructions of pressing the call button if anything happens, but to try and rest because it could be hours before she wakes.

He tries to keep himself busy whilst keeping an eye on her. He messages Charles with the name of the drug that was put onto the drink, and the only answer he gets is a demon emoji, a fist emoji, hands clapping and another fist. Confused, he simply reacts with a thumbs up. He updates those who have messaged him to ask about her condition, but doesn’t go further than that. He settles on drinking the orange juice, and leaves the apple one in the bedside table next to her bed, scrolls through social media for a while and checks up on her again, but it has been a long and eventful day, and when his eyelids become too heavy, he doesn't fight them very hard.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Waking up feels like a heavy G crash. There's a pounding in her head that goes at the same tempo as her heart, and it takes conscious effort to take a deep breath. There's a slight throbbing on her bicep, on the wrist of the opposite arm and a sharper throb on her right foot.

She's laying sideways in a soft enough bed and there is little light from what she can see through her eyelids.

But it doesn't smell like her bed at all.

Instead there's the smell of a different laundry detergent, artificial minty eucalyptus shampoo and a herbal mix. It smells distinctly like men, and the unfamiliarity of it makes her heart race, worsening the pounding of her head.

There's a blank in her memory when she tries to remember the previous night. She knows she was going out with some of the Monaco based drivers, and that she'd abandoned the table at some point. That's where everything starts to get fuzzy.

There are flashes.

A body close to hers in the dancefloor. The cold air outside the club. Falling into the gravel. Hands roughly grabbing at her, and a french accent. Falling asleep in a car.

Panic really does settle in at this point, and tears blurry her vision when she opens her eyes; but the room is nothing like she expects it to be. She's in a single bed, and there is a heart monitor that is displaying her rabbiting heartbeat. A saline drip that is halfway empty connected to the back of her hand.

A hospital?

The light is warm and dimmed, seemingly coming from a lamp behind her. She looks down at herself and finds a hoodie that is not hers, and totally is the source of the smells; but looking under it’s collar reveals the same dress she wore last night.

She slowly turns her head, still wary of the raging headache. The overhead lights are off, and her foot is propped on a pillow under the blankets. She wiggles her toes and twists her ankle. A sharp pain sparks, but it's not unbearable.

The other side of the room is half hidden by the glare of the lamp that makes her blink before her eyes adjust to the light.

A figure is sitting in a chair, sound asleep and covered with a blanket identical to hers. Oscar’s arms are crossed across his chest and his neck looks like it will hurt when he wakes up.

More memories rush to her mind as she turns fully to that side; Lando's voice over the speakers of the car, Oscar's worried face in the dancefloor, his broad back as he pushed another man from her. The light is low, but she can see a bruise forming on the hand where Oscar is holding a half full bottle of juice.

Slowly, she registers the smell of stale car and something so uniquely Oscar that brings tears back to her eyes.

“Oscar?” Her voice is low, croaky and shaky, full of tears when she speaks. But the reaction is immediate, he's awake in a second. His head snaps back into the right orientation and he clutches the bottle in his hand. Maybe she should feel guilty for waking him up, but that is a too complicated emotion to think of right now, instead there is a pool of relief as he meets her eyes, and an immense amount of trust as he whispers her name and detangles himself from the blanket to get close.

“You're okay, you're okay.” It's obvious he doesn't know what to do about tears, his hands move around uselessly and he looks so constipated it's almost funny. “Are you hurt anywhere? I can- I can call a nurse?” His hand finally decides to hover over a call button at the side of her bed, but she claps hers over his instead, and attempts to dry her face with the other.

“No, it's okay. I'm- I'm okay,” She hiccups again, and his other hand comes to rub up and down her arm; an action that also feels familiar and warm. “Thank you, Oscar.” Her voice is still choked up, but very earnest. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes right back.

“You don't have to thank me,” She wipes her eyes again and looks back up at him, he's giving her a half smile that pushes a dimple into existence. It's such an adorable new discovery that she can't help the rush of emotions that comes. She lets go of his hand and sits up to pull him into a hug.

“The fuck you mean i don't have to thank you!?” It sounds half muffled against the fabric of his white shirt. “You saved my fucking life, Oscar” His hands come to wrap around her back and tears spring up again at the thought of what could have been. “He could've-”

“Shhh, let's not think about that, yeah? You're alright and that's what matters.” His hands rub circles between her shoulders, “Charles took care of everything else.”

“What’s that mean?” She sniffs, trying to keep the tears from soaking up his shirt.

“I have absolutely no idea, but he knows people who can hide his crimes, I'm not worried about him.” I'm worried about you, “How are you feeling?”

She takes another deep breath. The smell of eucalyptus and laundry detergent is stronger when it comes from the source. She lets go and wipes her face again with the sleeve of her -his- hoodie. “My head hurts and my ankle stings, but I'm alright,” Thanks to you. “I just feel very hungover.”

“Here,” She hears the shake of liquid, and upon removing her hands, Oscar's is offering an unopened bottle of apple juice. “Alex got us these.”

She grabs it and pouts at him, “It's my favourite. Thank you.” The last line comes out more charged than intended, but that's alright because she doesn't think she'll be able to stop thanking him anytime soon.

Oscar simply smiles like he knows, he lightly shakes his head and starts filling her in on what happened after she “fell asleep” as he says. She has no idea what time it is, but there is no rush right now, she's safe and in good hands, and when sleep starts lapping at her feet, she lets herself be swiped by the tide because she trusts Oscar to be there when she wakes up again.

The end.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

well, if you got here, i want to thank you for reading this the whole way through. as i said earlier, this came to me at 3 am and did not leave my head again, so i had to bring it to life. i hope you enjoyed despite the slightly dark topic.

from my research, i learned that not some drugs are undetectable to the naked eye, so always be aware of your drinks and who is close to you. i hope this story stays as a fictional thing and that none of you ever have to deal with something like that.

taka care and thank you again for reading!

Love,

Nini.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic

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hufflepuffsthunderdome · 6 months ago

Text

Why Him? (Part Three)

Teen!Schlatt x gn!reader <-P. Two P. One P. Four-> Summary: Teen!Schlatt so badly wants to take you to formal, but can't find the nerve to do so. He misses his chance and struggles to deal with thinking about you with someone else. Warnings: Angst, panic attacks, violence, kinda gross talk about reader in a suggestive way A/N: we're jumping back in time for this one! It'll make more sense the timeline in the next part. I was gonna post one big hella long one but people were asking for the next part so I broke it up! Gotta feed ya'll. I’m also dumb and originally had Alex’s name during the fight instead of Pete so sorry for any confusion! Thank you anon!

"Do you think you'll ask them?" Alex asks Schlatt as the pair pack up their baseball gear after practice. It has been a topic that Schlatt had been dreading, but the season had arrived and the talks of the formal were inevitable. Already, at practice some of the team had been bragging; Josh and Tom had already asked their long term partners, while Joey was annoyed his girlfriend was pissed at him for not asking them. The rest of the guys had been brainstorming ideas between drills, of who to ask and how to ask them. Until now, Schlatt had managed to dodge the question.

"Ask who, what?" He asks, feeling his cheeks begin to flush already as he undoes his laces, avoiding Alex's eye as he hears him chuckle beside him.

"Dude come on," Alex laughs, "Y/N. Are you gonna ask them to the dance?"

His breathe catches in his throat as he pauses his movement, glancing over at Alex briefly before looking down again, "why would I do that?"

"Stop being a dick," Alex laughs as he stands up and slings his bag over his shoulder, leaning against the dugout cage, "everyone knows you want to."

"Me?" Schlatt forces a laugh as he kicks his cleats off and shoves them into his bag, "ask them?"

Alex just stares at him when Schlatt rises, tossing his bag over his shoulder and shoving hands in his hoodie pocket as he shrinks into himself under Alex's knowing gaze. He's giving Schlatt the most incredulous look, like he's suddenly sprouted another head. "Isn't it a bit pathetic?" Schlatt sighs when Alex's stare remains locked on him, "to ask your best friend to the formal?"

"Not when you're in love with them," Alex says, acting like it's the most casual thing in the world even as Schlatt feels the air leave his lungs. "Cause dude you gotta know how many people are lining up to ask them."

"Actually?" Schlatt asks, pausing in his tracks and chewing the inside of his cheek as he feels his stomach churn at the idea, "who?"

"Me for starters," Alex says as he makes his way to the drivers side of his car, laughing and unlocking the door when Schlatt glares at him, "you're getting real worked up for someone who doesn't wanna take them."

"I fucking hate you," Schlatt groans as he tosses his shit in Alex's back seat, "just fucking tell me who."

"Amy, John, that guy from maths with the mullet, Beth S and P, Matheo, Pete -"

"Pete?!" Schlatt asks, his brain finally firing back up as it recovers from the list of names Alex threw at him. He hates the feeling that settles in his stomach at the mere thought of other people wanting you, he hates the things it makes him admit to himself. "Pete wants to ask Y/N?"

Alex nods and begins to talk as he starts the car, but the noise is drowned out by the ringing in Schlatt's ears. He has a complicated friendship with Pete, the pair barely coexisting more often than not, only associating because of baseball. It's not personal, the pair just don't get on, managing to get under each others skin at every occasion possible, even when they don't mean to.

He's not an idiot, he knows how hot you are. Even on days when he's forcing himself to believe he's not in love with you, he can be objective when he says you're hot. He's grossly aware of the stares you get in the hallway, the looks people give you as you walk together. It confuses him, the jealous feeling he gets when he sees people talk about you. It confuses him just as much as it does when he hears another rumor of you turning down another date offer.

He lets it fill him with a false sense of hope, that maybe, just maybe, you're holding out for him to finally make a move. It's a hope he lets settle deep in his chest when he's thinking about you late at night, only to feel it vanish when his nerves get the best of him when he sees you next.

This conversation with Alex has brought him some slight peace. Part of him is glad that people know he's into you; as much as it fills him with dread he hopes that means people may back off for a while to give him a chance to grow some balls and ask you first.

That peace is crushed when he remembers the deadline he's under. he only has 6 weeks till the dance. You can't wait forever.

Pete certainly won't wait forever.

"Dude," Schlatt says to Alex as he takes a deep shaky breath, "you gotta help me ask them man."

---

That was 3 weeks ago. He's tried countless times since then and each time he chickens out. Alex is on his ass almost every day, he cares more about the two of you getting together than Schlatt does at this point.

He stares down at his friend, looking like he's gonna puke as he rests his head on his knees. Alex has been a great friend to Schlatt, and to you throughout the years, but god right now he wanted to kill both of you, "this is getting fucking sad dude."

Schlatt swipes a fist out at Alex's leg who jumps and nudges Schlatt's hand away as he picks up his bag, "hey! Don't take it out on me dude I've been rooting for you."

"I wanna die," Schlatt groans as he leans his head back and looks up at Alex, cringing when the bell goes and the sound of footsteps fill the halls.

You had English last period, on the other side of the school, which gave him a little bit of time to calm himself down as he hid in the flurry of students making their way towards the exit. You always met up after school, even when he had his free period he would hang back and wait for you. He just can't turn down that sad look on your face.

Alex hears his name being called across the hall and turns away briefly, "you'll be fine dude, today's the day I can tell."

Schlatt nods as he looks up at Alex, his friends reasurance surprisngly calming his nerves, "today's the day."

With a promise to talk after baseball practice this afternoon, Alex joins the sea of students that slowly disperse while Schlatt stays rooted to his spot. Slowly, the hallway empties until it's just him left, waiting for you.

He can hear his heart in his ears, beating loudly and agressively with how nervous he is. He reaches into his bag and digs around, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding when his hand meets fluff. He pulls the teddy bear out of his bag and smiles slightly to himself as he reasures himself that it will go well. Today's the day.

He can't help but imagine the grin that will spread across your face when he asks you, the beaming smile and the squeal of excitement that'll slip past your plush lips as you nod.

He wants to feel you jump into his arms as you agree to go with him, holding him tight as you let him wrap his arms around you, telling him how excited you are to go. He wants to walk out of school, holding your hand as you smile happily up at him as you hug the stupid bear he bought you close to your chest, telling him how happy he's made you.

He wants to see that stupid bear in your locker for the rest of the year, or maybe on your bed when he comes to hang out. It will be so different after today, the thought makes his heart race. He'll finally be able to hold you, tell you how much he loves you. You'll finally be his.

"Jay!" your excited voice calls from down the hallway as he hears your footsteps running towards him. He scrambles to quickly shove the bear in his bag as he turns to look over at you, your voice breaking him away from his fantasies. You're beaming at him as you practically skip down the hallway, stopping in front of him as you jump and squeal excitedly.

He laughs as he watches your excitement, your joy infectious as he grins up at you. Your hair is bouncing wildly around your face as you jump, messenger bag rattling around at your side, you look so happy right now. God he hopes he'll make you happier. "What's got you so excited?"

You stop jumping and let out a dreamy sigh as you sink down onto the floor next to him, your legs melting under you as you slide down the wall, leaning your head back against it, "you'll never guess what finally happened?"

Oh fuck.

"What?" he asks, his smile falling as he looks at you. He can't even pretend to be excited anymore. You don't need to answer, he knows already. It's all you've been wishing for for weeks.

"Pete asked me to formal."

He feels sick.

"Pete?" he asks, almost spits the word from his lips as he looks at you, watching your excited smile as you nod happily, oblivious to the pain he's feeling. You've just so innocently and unknowingly, with your excited news, ripped out and stepped on his heart, and looked like an angel while doing it.

He stands up suddenly, the hallway suddenly feeling suffocating as he looks around frantically. Are the walls spinning or is it all in his head? "Pete?" he repeats as he stares down at you, eyes unfocused as he watches the smile fall from your lips.

You look up at him, confused at his lack of excitement and his abrupt movement, "yeah Pete?" you repeat, "you play baseball-"

"I know who he is," he spits as he cuts you off, clenching and unclenching his hands at his side as he sees your confused look turn to one of surprise, "why are you going with Pete?"

You stand up as you look up at Schlatt, taking in his tense body and furrowed brows, "well who else was I meant to go with?"

"Me."

You both fall silent as your face morphs to one of surprise, while his turns to one of shock. You just stare at each other, unsure what to say as you take in his words. He looks at you, mouth parted as he begs his brain to say something, anything to fix his stupidity.

But he doesn't he just stares there dumbly, as he feels his chest tighten. He feels like he can't breathe as he turns towards the exit, his feet feeling numb under him as they begin to move on total auto pilot as he focuses all of his energy on keeping it together.

He feels bile rise in his throat, tears rim his eyes as he walks away from you. He wants to scream. At you, at Pete, at Alex, at himself. At anyone nearby. He doesn't care who, he just needs to get it out.

He hears you rush after him, the noise of your confused, sad voice cutting through the static in his brain, "Schlatt? Where are you going?"

That's all that does it, as the dam breaks and he lets out shaky, panting breaths as he feels hot tears fall down his face. God he's so fucking stupid.

"I'm late for practice," he calls back, swallowing hard as he hopes you don't notice emotion thick on his tongue as he pushes through the school exit and out towards the baseball field. That stupid teddy bear feels like lead in his bag.

---

"Walk," his coach calls out again, for the 6th time today as Schlatt pitches another dud at their practice. He can feel the stares of his team on him as he digs his cleats into the ground.

"Can we take a water break?" one of his teammates asks their coach, and Schlatt's mitt is hitting the ground before he even hears a confirmation. He kicks the fence as he makes his way to the dugout, burying his head in his hands the second he sits down. He feels the suffocating presence of his teammates as they approach, a few of them knowing better than to get involved.

"What's up with you dude?" Alex says as he sits next to him, as he looks at his friend with a mix of confusion and concern, "I thought you'd be excited. did things not go well-"

"I'm just out of it today," Schlatt interrupts before Alex can mention your name, letting out a shaky breath as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes, hating the way his teammates gazes burn into him, "today was not the day".

"Bit slow today are we Schlatt?" a sarcastic voice laughs as it gets closer to the dugout. Schlatt opens his eyes to see pete walking up to him, with a shit eating grin on his face.

"Fuck off."

Pete lets out a mocking laugh, "now now, we don't want Y/N finding out about any bad behavior do we?" he says as though he's scolding a child, smug and sarcastic as Schlatt just glares at him

Alex's eyes widen in realisation as he stands up to put some space between the two boys, "oh shit."

All Schlatt can do is sit there, skin vibrating with anger as he rings his hands in his lap. How did this smug prick fool you into saying yes? You're sweet and friendly and giving. Everything that Pete's not. Everything that he's not.

You're too good for either of them.

"Did you honestly expect them to just wait for you?" he laughs as he pushes Alex to the side, getting up in Schlatt's face, riding high from this win he can hold over the taller boys head, "a fine piece of ass like that?"

"Alright stop that now -" Alex says, trying to keep the peace and pull Pete away from the bench. As much as he didn't want to make these issues worse he wasn't about to hide that he hated Pete. He certainly wasn't gonna let him talk to or about either of his friends that way.

"Like come on, as if they would've said yes anyway."

"They would've," Schlatt says, getting up and taking a step towards Pete, towering over the boy who still stands his ground, "you just got their first."

"You're delusional man," Pete laughs as he roughly shoves Schlatt, "what you think some flowers was gonna convince them that you're anything more than a lost puppy who follows them around?"

Schlatt's face heats up as his intimidating stand over Pete faulters slightly. Pete just grins at Schlatt, turning and walking out of the dugout, "don't worry, I'll take care of her," he says suggestively, turning to smirk back at Schlatt, "I'll send you some pictures if you like?"

That's all it takes for Schlatt to see red.

In an instant he's on Pete, shoving the boy to the ground as he pounces on him, "say that again," Schlatt snarled, his voice a low growl, his fists closing tightly around the collar of Pete’s shirt as he shoves him into the ground, "say that about them one more time."

Pete coughed, trying to push Schlatt off as he feels the air leave his lungs as he connects harshly with the ground. He pushes against Schlatt who just shoves him back down harder, Pete’s head colliding with the fence of the dugout.

His fist collided with Pete’s jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the now silent field. Pete groaned but barely had a second to recover before another blow landed, then another. Schlatt was relentless, rage pulsing through every hit, fist colliding with Pete’s face each time as he gripped his shirt tightly.

He didn't want to think about that, any of it. He hated the thought of Pete taking you to the dance, getting to even see you let alone touch you. You deserve someone who'll treat you right, not taunt your friend with the idea of suggestive pictures of you. Not someone who's currently beating up your date either, he think's as his knuckles keep colliding with Pete.

"You don’t get to talk about her like that!" Schlatt bellowed between punches, his voice raw and ragged. Pete tried to shove him off, but he was too weak, too dazed. Blood smeared across his cheek, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Schlatt, stop!" A voice finally broke through the chaos. A strong pair of arms yanked him back, dragging him off Pete. He thrashed against the grip, breath heaving, vision blurred with rage and unshed tears. His couch shoves him back on the bench, shooting him a hard glare as he tells everyone to back up, going to tend to Pete.

Schlatt falls apart when he sits down, shaking with pent up rage and anger as he feels himself begin to cry for the second time today.

What was wrong with him?

---

Thought you all might be interested 🥰 @jellybell92 @olive823 @schlattandcompany @imgayandvoreethatsall

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mikkomacko · 6 months ago

Text

Suspect Gone Wrong

A little Mob Nico blurb inspired by @angelinethompson 🫶

____________________________________________

“Where’s Nico?”

You turn to the open patio door, smiling at Jack standing there, hair damp from a shower and the clothes he slept in last night thrown back on.

“Went on his morning run.” You reply, looking back out towards the yard where Moose is roaming around. Pawing at the fresh soil you and Alex spread throughout the flower beds, nose twitching and sniffing. Nico always tries to take the poor things on runs with him, spend some father-puppy time together but Moose isn’t a running dog. He’s get him down the block maybe and then have to carry the giant pup back to the house.

So he stays with you, who also hates running.

“Lame,” Jack comments, joining you on the top porch step. You watch Moose mosey around the yard, note the budding trees and sprouting flowers that are growing with the warmer temperatures. Jack scrolls through his phone for a moment, then turns to you.

“Wanna make a TikTok?”

~~~~

Giggling, you aim the camera at Jack. He’s stretching out his muscles in a low lunge, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and you hit record, nodding for him to go.

He springs into a jog, you following him and trying to hold the phone steady. “Suspect’s biggest fear is getting something in his eye.”

Jack stops, turning to look at you wide eyed. “I can’t do eyedrops!” He defends, and you pause to switch places with him. You run this time, ducking around the bare branches of the backyard trees.

“Suspect treats her dog like he’s her son and it’s really scary.”

“Hey!” You laugh, already grabbing at the phone. Jack chuckles, getting into place and you hit record.

“Suspect got his license taken away by his boss and now has to passenger princess with his baby brother.”

His face immediately turns red, excuses falling from his mouth that you can’t hear over your own laughing. Jack ends up just ripping the phone from your hands, grumbling for you to go.

“Suspect went to an Ivy League school but gets love dumb every time her boyfriend is around.”

You bust out laughing, not at all taking Jack’s jab seriously but by the way he just grumbles at you, you think the intention was to bug you. Hesitantly, you swap places, thinking carefully about your words.

“Suspect has a longer hair care routine than me.”

Jack doesn’t laugh, but he smirks proudly, tousling his messy hair with a wink at the camera. “Worth every penny, now hand it over.”

You guys switch again. “Suspects whole personality is her boyfriend.”

“It is not!” You argue, pointing at him. “I have a dog too!”

Jack snickers, swapping with you again and you bristle. Any feelings of sympathy or playing nice has quickly faded.

“Suspect has a boy crush on my boyfriend and copies everything he does.”

Jack gapes, the two of you exchanging heated glares as you hand off the phone.

“Suspect doesn’t even have a real job but sleeps like she pays the bills.”

That ticks you off even more, anger and offense growing between you two with each role reversal.

“Suspect will give drinks to five girls every night and still end up going home alone with his baby brother.”

“Suspect gets one drink in her and is bending over in public for her boyfriend!”

“Suspect says he’s 5’11 but is actually 5’9 and a half!”

“Suspect has one friend and it’s because he gets paid to follow her around!”

You falter, heart hammering painfully in your chest and almost immediately tears sting at your eyes. Staring at Jack, the wicked gleam in his eye slowly fades as he realizes you’ve got wet eyes and your cheeks and neck have turned a splotchy red.

“Wait, no-“

“S’fine,” you cut in, yanking your phone from his hand and locking it. Then you turn, hastily crossing the yard to head back inside. You can hear Jack yelling after you, scrambling to keep up and Moose rises from his slumber on the porch as you near.

You duck into the house, Moose growling behind you and you hear Jack mutter a “damn dog.” But he doesn’t follow, most likely to smart to challenge the dog Nico trained to protect you.

Sniffling, you curse yourself for not being able to just take the fucking joke. You’ll be fine and you can shake it off in a bit but it’s too embarrassing to face Jack right now. You just need a few minutes to hide.

Unfortunately any attempts at hiding in the house are ruined when you run smack dab into Nico’s damp shirt.

“Whoa, whoa what’s going on?” He steadies you by the elbows, “what happened?”

Looking at his feet, you try to stealthily wipe at your eyes but he’s already seen your tear stained face. Nico grabs your chin, makes you look up at him. His hair is darker than usual, damp with sweat and his cheeks look all ruddy and shiny. His eyes search your face, worried and sympathetic.

Your lip wobbles and you can’t help it. You fall into his chest, curling in on yourself when he immediately wraps you up in his arms. He doesn’t smell great, not at all but you don’t care.

“Jack hurt my feelings.” You sniffle, and Nico strokes your hair.

“What did he say?”

“That Timo is only my friend because you pay him to be.”

You can hear the sharp inhale Nico takes, arms tightening just the slightest bit. Somewhere behind you, Jack has gotten back into the house.

“It was a joke Nico!” Jack pleads, that nervous pitch raising his voice. “For TikTok, I didn’t mean to-“

“Out,” Nico orders firmly, effectively quieting Jack. “Go home.”

Embarrassed, Jack mumbles “I can’t drive.”

It would be funny if you weren’t still upset about his comment. Nico doesn’t think it’s funny either by the way he sighs in annoyance. “To your room, now.”

You hear Jack scramble to get away from Nico, disappearing up the large staircase.

“I’m just being a baby,” you mutter sadly. “It was a joke but I-“

“It’s not a joke,” Nico assures, “that’s not a joke. He’s lucky you cried and didn’t swing for the jaw instead.”

Wetly, you giggle. Nico pecks a kiss to the top of your head. “Musli,” he calls softly, “guet hund.” Th dog pads away happily, pleased with the affirmation from Nico.

“You really need a shower,” you say into his shoulder and he snorts.

“Alright, let’s go.”

~~~~

Two days later you and Jack are fine. He apologized, you accepted it and told him you were just caught off guard. Nico glared at him, thumped him on the back of the head just once and then everything went back to normal.

Well almost normal.

“What are we doing Nico?”

He stops at the end of the large hallway, flicking on the light. “Making a better video.” He says casually.

Your heart warms, filling with love to the point that it almost hurts. “You want to be in my TikTok?”

Nico chuckles. “Not regularly but I’ll do it for this one, ok?”

Not wanting him to change his mind, you dig out your phone. He knows how the video works having heard about and seen yours with Jack. So he starts recording, urging you to jog down the hall with a nudge to your hip.

“Suspect is so pretty men will trip trying to hold a door for her and she’ll still say they’re just being polite.”

“They are!” You laugh, butterflies swarming your gut when Nico giggles too.

He just grins, the two of going back to the end of the hall and switching places.

“Suspect is so handsome his workers copy his haircuts and style.” You tease, and Nico shakes his head in amusement.

“What can I say? I have good taste.” He takes the phone from you, resetting for the next clip.

“Suspect has the best ass I’ve ever seen. I mean smile, the best smile.” Your cheeks flame, eyes widening in shock as you look to Nico. He’s grinning like a fool, eyes crinkled and dimples in his cheeks and you think you’re gonna melt just looking at him.

“Keep it PG,” you scold halfheartedly, willing away the blush in your face and taking the phone.

“Suspect has the prettiest baby cow eyes and dimples but refuses to smile in public.”

Nico doesn’t even argue, shrugging as if it’s common knowledge but you can see the slightest tints of red crawling up his neck.

He motions for you to go, clearing his throat and hitting record. “Suspect owns a hundred pajama sets but only sleeps in my clothes.”

“They’re warmer!” You laugh, bubbly and infectious. He laughs with you, pinching at your cheeks teasingly. Then he’s lining up, lightly jogging ahead of you.

You press record, glad you set the video to ten minutes before starting. It seems Nico is pretty good at this. “Suspect eats three servings at dinner and still has room for dessert.”

“I’m a big man,” he defends with a chuckle, patting at his belly through his shirt. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Suspect will say the most inappropriate words I’ve ever heard and then flash her Bambi eyes to get away with it.”

Hunch over into the wall, you laugh and clutch at your cramping side. Maybe you get away with saying crazy things to Nico in public by batting your eyelashes at him, but he plays the same game.

“You’ve never even seen Bambi,” you pant, breathless from laughing and fake jogging. Nico scoffs, handing you your phone.

“I know what he looks like though,” he scoffs.

Still fighting back giggles, you take your turn. “Suspect says he didn’t go college because he’s stupid but is somehow fluent in four languages.”

It’s his turn to laugh, holding his stomach and shoulders shaking as you two swap yet again. His next one has you clinging to the wall again, that blush in your cheeks returning ten fold.

“Suspect has a lethal face card.”

“Suspect has a lethal everything.” You compliment back, looking him up and down as he laughs, like you’re proving your point. Which you are, to be honest.

Nico takes his spot, eyes lovingly looking over your flustered and smiling face. Fighting your overwhelmed grin, you move down the hall again with Nico trailing.

“Suspect doesn’t know it but she is perfect and makes everyday easy.”

He’s still recording when you stop, turning to him with moony eyes and a dropped jaw. “That’s so sweet,” you say in awe, ducking around the phone to hug his waist. Nico turns the phone, arm at an awkward angle to still record you two and he kisses the top of your head.

“Suspect is a big ol’ teddy bear and I love him.” You say sweetly, rising to your toes to kiss his jaw. He grins, bringing the phone back down and blinking at you with those pretty brown eyes.

“I love you too.”

#mob boss nico hischier #him and i chats #nico hischier #him and i #new jersey devils

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junedenim · 1 month ago

Text

a funny thing

part one

books & boys

warnings: the whole shebang, fluff, smut, and stuff, just read it, you perv

word count: 10k

He was a restless boy. His leg had been unstoppably bouncing for weeks, enough that his mum raised concern that he might have come down with a mad case of restless leg syndrome, but all her concerns were alleviated when she looked over his shoulder to see him texting away.

miss u

rly?

ofc

u 2

She can’t quite discern all the texting lingo, but she gets the gist based on who is on the other end. Alex had been a closed book on the topic of girls since girls transitioned for ew to fit. So, when he returned from school last winter with a big smile and a transformation into Chatty Cathy about a girl, it wasn't just a girl.

In July, when paid a visit by this girl, Alex’s cheek seemed a permanent red and he was deeply embarrassed by his mother at every turn. His mum backed up, but it’ll only prompt his father to pinch his cheeks and turn him back into a treatment that had not been seen since Alex’s infancy. You only seemed to laugh at this and said things like, “Now you know what it feels like,” leaving it to be assumed your parents gave similar treatment to you when Alex visited you in June.

In the month between your departure and the term’s start, Alex had been nearly unbearable, which left Penny praying for the start to come quicker so they all wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. She would feel horrible over this, except for the fact that Alex was doing the same thing. His dad would tease him by saying, “Less than 10 days left!” Alex would flush in embarrassment over this teasing, but clearly had his own mental countdown occurring.

It’s slightly pathetic to wait outside someone’s door. He knows that, hands in his pocket, feet pacing the hallway, but he waits because he is pathetic for you, and he’ll own up to that. He doesn’t mind it. He just thanks god no one is here to see it. The mere thought of you is enough to pass the time while he waits outside your dorm door, simply replaying the thought of you. You were supposed to meet here 15 minutes ago, but you’re late, which is slightly worrying considering you’re Little Miss On Time.

Another pair of shoes hit the carpeted floor. He looks up at you, completely casual, bag slung over your shoulder, and your hair a few inches shorter than when he last saw you. “Sorry, I’m late. You’ve been rubbing off on me,” you say.

He doesn’t care. He isn’t punctual like that and he’s just happy to see you. That’s all that matters to him at this moment. It’s like tunnel vision, a kind he wouldn’t mind indelibly having. “Oh, I’ll rub off on you.” You in those little shorts and that stupid shirt you picked up from a charity shop with the periodic table on it that’s missing oxygen. You two laughed about it for days because how do you miss oxygen???

“You can rub off by yourself all you’d like.” You throw an arm around him, yanking him to you. A clueless onlooker might consider it an assault, you shoving your body into his.

Especially when he shouts, “Ow! You’re banging up me head.” He scratched up the back of his hair with a pulling fist. He looks down at you as if you’re sitting in his little T-shirt pocket. A healthy little grin sprouts on his face. “Hi.”

You tip your head back, occupied by a grin. “Hi. How are you?”

He tosses his head from one shoulder to the other. “Alright.” His hand cups your hip bone, pulling it to his. “At least now.” First, your hips kiss, then he bends down and lets himself be the first to do the honours of welcoming you back. And if this kiss is the welcoming committee, a buzz goes through him, imagining what the rest of the year could be like.

“We should probably just go inside if that’s how we’re gonna act,” you suggest.

Sure, your room is right there with a bed just waiting to be acted on, but… “I thought we were going to get donuts.”

You exaggerate a sigh. “The plight of men everywhere. Sex or food?” You take a hand, leading him on a lease to the outside world.

“Not just any food, donuts. Aren’t you hungry?” He feels like a child again, except you are playing the role of his mother, who was forced to give in to his needs for a special treat so he wouldn’t be crying through the shops. He feels bad that he hasn’t quite aged out of this in the decade since, but he’s hoping by the end of university, he can consider himself an adult, or more aptly a man, instead of a boy.

You shrug. He’s staring at your back, shoulders moving, spine curving, butt included. “Yes, but I thought you seemed pretty desperate back there.”

“Well, sure,” he agrees. “But I had to wait sooooooo long, my stomach is grumbling away.”

You shake your head as you push the door, opening the sun to your skin, and he likes the look of it here too, forgets how good you can look when the sun hits you right. Your skin is slightly tanner. He’s still pale as ever, embarrassingly so. All in all, things feel the same, you feel the same, except you’re now with him.

For the first night back, right before classes start, everyone gets the idea to go out together. He’s fine with this because, despite how much he missed you, he missed his friends too. However, he didn’t plan to stay here this long with a need for relief in more… areas… than one. You make it worse and he thinks you know it, but you tend to get pretty oblivious when drunk.

It’s a hectic little fit. The evening is dark, this club is dark, and that’s not just from the sunglasses that seem permanently glued to his face, a habit he’s started ever since a RA caught him high at the end of last year. It also shields his eyes from his obvious staring at your hips swaying on beat. It might seem quite pervy to the unknowing eye, a boy staring from the couch as a girl dances, but he doesn’t think he comes across as a leering old man and you’re, well, you are sort of a smoke show and he’s a sunglass-wearing guy with a hard-on watching you, so, yes, it is quite pervy, but permissive pervy-ness.

He shields himself with his glass like a localised cold shower to his schlong. He stares at the ice in it until he doesn’t feel like he’s about to rip a hole through his jeans.

“The key is to go have a wank in the bathroom,” Matthew teases. Alex snaps a harsh look over at him, which is, of course, mitigated by the fact that he has large black shields over his eyes, which are also stoned as hell. “And maybe stop staring at the girl’s ass.”

“Fuck off,” Alex curses.

Matt simply chuckles in response. “Or is this some game between you two? She got a cock cage on you.”

“You’re awfully concerned with my dick.”

Matt pats him on the back. “I’m just looking out for you, mate. Wouldn’t want you losing the thing.”

“Like you did?”

He shakes his head and stands up. “I’m gonna go get my beak wetted now. Good luck with yours, Al.”

“I know a few hookers who can help you out with that!” Alex shouts out at his disappearing figure. Matt waves him off as his body evaporates into the crowd of people.

“Do you, now?”

“Shit!” He clutches his chest. You stand behind the couch with your arms crossed, getting a kick out of both teasing him and frightening him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

You giggle, rounding the couch until you’re sitting next to him. “I’m sorry your perception skills have been cut in half. I did tell you not to smoke so much.”

“I didn’t!” He insists.

You hum a note of disbelief and cover an arm around him, hugging his tiny frame to yours. “Now, where did you get to know these hookers?”

His lips curl up with confusion. “Huh?”

You shake your head. “Never mind.”

“Hey,” he says, shelving his head on your shoulder. “Missed you. Did you miss me?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, nudging your nose against his. “I’ve already told you.”

“Tell me again. It makes me feel…I don’t know. I don’t even know what it makes me feel, but I like it.”

You kiss him, locking him to you. He’s the most precious thing. Maybe it’s a side effect of young love or maybe it’s a simple fact with his hair completely roughed up from his fingers running through it, with his inability to keep still and his cold hand on your warm, bare thigh. “I missed you very much, Alex.”

He leans back, crossing his arms like a smug little boy getting his way. “Good.”

You roll your eyes because it’s the only way to deal with him when he’s like this. “I’m glad.” You pat his hand and stand up.

“Where are you going?” He whines. “Stay.” He desperately tugs on your hand.

“I have other people to see but you.”

“But are they going to treat you like I’m gonna treat you?”

You pat his cheek. “I’ll call you a hooker to keep you company.”

“Can’t you be my hooker?”

“How much?”

He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet with a handful of bills. You snatch them out of his hand with a shake of your head at the total amount of them. “I’m not made out of money, woman.”

“Woman?”

“Madam.”

“I’ll see you in a little, Al.”

He leans his head back against the couch with a complete sense of exhaustion. Why did I pick donuts over fucking her? Oh, a donut sounds really good right now. But she took all my money. There’s got to be some food in here. His stomach miserably rumbles. Fucking hell I’m starved.

“Hello!” You crash into him, the liquor in his glass slightly spilling, not that either of you notices it. You adjust yourself onto his lap and curl your arms around his neck, tightening a hold on him akin to a death grip. “Where have you been?”

His mouth chews in response. He holds up the bag of Doritos he found.

“Oh, Cool Ranch.” You reach for the bag eagerly too but he snatches it away from your grasp. “Hey! What happened to sharing is caring?”

He pouts. “You stole all my money.”

“How did you get these then?”

He plucks another one, savouring it on his tongue. “Took them from the cupboard.”

You eye him closely. “Stole them from the cupboard.”

“Tomayto, tomahto.”

“Will you let me be an accomplice to your crime?” You pull the sunglasses down to look him directly in his eyes. “Please.”

He sighs exhaustively. “Fine.”

Your face is flushed red with sweat on your temples. He could lick it like a lime after a shot, and he does, a toss-up between hornyness or inebriation. “Don’t act like I won’t be paying you back.” You grind your hips into his.

He grabs your waist. “Don’t be cruel.”

You lock your arms around his neck, pushing closer, your breasts smashing up against his chest. “Oh, you’ll be fine.”

He pushes you back in an attempt to regain control of his airway. “Police officers should use you instead of handcuffs.”

“I am quite known for my domineering power.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you now?” He can’t help but feel eager to once again witness this domineering power.

“Yes,” you sigh, leaning backward until he has to hold onto to make sure you don’t fall backward off his lap onto the cement floors. Quickly, you snap back up, eye to eye with him. “But you already know this.”

He hums. “Shall we?”

You slap his chest. “No, Alex, we have to stay until they do the limbo.”

“The limbo?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes! They do a limbo challenge at midnight every night.”

He’s pretty sure you’ve just made this up, but, sure, why not witness you fail miserably at doing the limbo. “Fine. Then, let me take you to the bathroom.”

“No, not after the shower incident last year.”

“I’m more well-trained this time.”

“Trained enough not to do it.”

“I thought you were going to make it up to me.” He sulks like a sucker, an idiot, or some other variation of the debilitation.

You move off, flipping to lie beside him. “With the privacy of a locked door.”

“I’m sure these doors lock.”

You stand, walking away from him. “You can enjoy it yourself then.”

“Why is everyone talking about me having a wank tonight?”

It was raining on the way home, which put an extra eagerness on getting to shelter as soon as possible. Upon getting inside, in the close vicinity of a bed, it becomes a newfound eagerness to get all clothes off as soon as possible because they were soaked wet, of course. It then became necessary to get your bodies pushed up against one another for warmth. “Pneumonia is a killer way to start the year,” Alex says with his mouth muffled against your neck.

The whole charade of the rain making it a requirement for you to have sex with one another ends there, mostly because there isn’t much reason for Alex to stick his penis inside you because of the rain and it’s hard to say much when Alex’s penis is inside you. Though you are very warm, as he claims, thrusting in and out slowly.

It’s not the best fuck of your life because you’re drunk and he’s high making his movements lethargic and you’re a little too numb to the sensation from the alcohol. It’s like your body is cut in half and your brain can’t quite communicate with your lower half, but that part comes and he seems to do the same at a speed that makes him hide in your neck.

“Sorry, it was so quick. I’ll work harder next time,” he says earnestly. The time away from one another has him slipping under a shadow of insecurity as if you have to reacquaint yourselves with one another. Deep down, hidden in the back of his mind for no one but himself to see, he has the fear of you finding someone else along the way.

You comb your fingers through the back of his head, a slight pull on the longer strands of hair. “I liked it,” you say. “The part of me I can still feel did at least.”

He chuckles into your collarbone, relieving that knot in the center of you. “Plenty of time, plenty of time,” he amends.

“It’s okay,” you whisper into his ear. “I missed you.”

Alex lifts his head, a slow smile on his face for you. “Yeah?” You nod quickly. “Missed you too.” He lands a soft kiss on your cheek.

“But you can’t stay here, you know that,” you break the fantasy.

“Why not?” He whines, already tired out from the idea of walking to his dorm.

You pinch his nose irritatingly until he pulls your hand away. “Because you have an early class tomorrow and I don’t and you’ll wake me up with the alarm or oversleep and you can’t start the term like that and you have no clothes here other than the dirty wet ones on the floor that stink of weed.”

He clicks his tongue repeatedly at you. “Excuses, excuses, excuses.” He noisily exhales, hoisting himself up, and swinging his legs off the side of the small bed. “You’re gonna make me go out in that.” He points to the window where a slight beating of rain is coming down.

“You had no problem making it back here. You’re only a few minutes away and you can borrow my brolly.” You stand up, searching for the umbrella.

He loudly groans. “Now you’re gonna flaunt your naked body in front of me. What a cruel person you are.”

“Don’t be such a baby. You already got to play with it once tonight,” you tease.

“Only once!” He complains. “Why do you get to hang out with it all the time?”

You toss a puzzled look his way as you dig through your bin of things. “You mean, why do I get to be with my own body? Are you trying to tell me something, Al?”

“That I’m horny,” he moans.

You roll your eyes. “Put some clothes on.”

“Same to you.”

You retrieve the umbrella. “Touché.”

Despite his complaints, he begins pulling his damp clothes on with only a few whimpers. “I can’t wait until a year from now when we won’t have to kick one another out.”

“What do you mean?” You question as you pull a shirt on.

He cheekily grins, fixing the wet cloth of his shirt onto his torso. You can't help but ache and think of that Pablo Neruda quote, I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. He’s just so argh. It’s terrorizing.

“When we’re living together, dear.” He makes a point of tenderly placing a peck on your lips and quickly making his way to the door.

“Al!” You call out, but he shuts the door behind him, leaving you with only a quick flash of his smile.

You wait for him by attempting to read a book, but your mind struggles too much to focus on it, not even bothering to stare at the pages, instead the cafe’s front door. He’s late, of course, only by a few minutes, but you’ve already been here for fifteen minutes, hopelessly waiting for him. Again, on you, not him. You’re the steadfast loser whose eyes light up every time you hear the bell of the door ring.

Then, when he walks in with a slow gait and a peaceful smile, you feel you could slide under the covers of him and hibernate for the whole year inside him. He raises his hand with a wave. He waves like a politician, the dorky kind, not the dickhead kind. You tried to look like you’re reading while he waits in line, but you keep looking back to stare at him.

Finally, when he walks over with his signature donut and a coffee, you happily close the unread book. “Don’t let me keep you from…” he bends his head nearly upside-down to read the title of the book. “A Companion to British Art: 1600 to the Present. Riveting.”

“Don’t mock me.”

He slides into the chair across from you. “I’m not mocking you. I’m serious. I’m excited to hear you tell me about it.”

“I’m afraid ancient modernity might go over your head,” you tease.

He opens his mouth in ersatz offense. “Who’s mocking who now? Tell me about it.”

You blush in embarrassment and hide behind your cup of coffee. “I haven’t read it yet.”

He rests his head on his hand. “Read it to me then.”

“I don’t want to bore you.”

“Shush. Read.”

Thus, the distraction becomes the solution as you read him far too many pages with the tiniest text size on ancient modernity in British art, but he listens intently, educating himself for those future geeky flashcards.

Later, once you’ve made it through the chapter, you ask him, “How was your first class? Curricular Integration.”

He smiles at you, remembering before frowning at the reminder of the class. “Fucking boring.”

You laugh at his frustrated expression. “It was the first class. Those are always boring.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I kind of feel like it’s not for me.”

“It’s only been one class, Al, you’ll be okay. I can help you, you know, if you ever need a tutor.” You try to flirt to cheer him up.

It sneaks a half-grin onto his face before the discouragement returns. “Thanks, but it’s not that. I’m just feeling a little lost. It’s not a big deal. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why do you feel lost?” You ask, placing your hand over his, stroking your thumb on the back of it.

He turns away, motioning the topic away. “It’s just one class,” he excuses. “Let’s talk about something else. Please.”

You nod. The words nervously rise up, asking, “What was that thing you were talking about last night?”

“Oh.” A grin quickly spreads across his face. “Living together? Yeah. I mean, it’s a logical conclusion.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Is that so?”

He chuckles at your surprise, taking a sip of his coffee. “Duh.”

“Duh,” you impersonate.

“C’mon. Did you think we’d be living in tiny bedrooms for the rest of uni?”

“Well, no,” you keep your eyes on the napkin you’re ripping up to distract your nerves, “but you’re so sure of it.”

He leans forward. “Like you’re gonna say no.”

“When did you become so confident? Last night, you were so timid.”

“Timid. I know I was slow but I wouldn’t call myself timid.”

You snort a laugh. “You know what I mean, but it’s not like we know each other that well.”

“What do you mean?”

“You barely know me. I could be an axe murderer or you could be. Naive girls fall for that kind of stuff all the time.”

He makes a pointed look. “I wouldn’t call you naive.”

“Besides the point. It’s a risky thing to share something like that.”

He finds this to be a ridiculous argument. You can tell by the look on his face. “It’s an apartment. Not a child or stocks or something.”

“We’ve been together for less than a year and I don’t want to flat-on my ass with nowhere to live next year.”

“I’d move in with Matt before I let you be homeless.”

“You’re very sure of this.”

“I’m just sure of myself with you. Everything else can feel like a mess sometimes that if I start to question this then I might lose it completely. You make sense to me.”

You look over dreamily at him, half-sure you created him in a hyper-delusional state of mind. “You know how to wow a girl.”

“Oh, yeah,” he jests, “I’m teaching a class on it.”

You place a foot between his ankles. “Really? Can I be your TA?”

“It might not be highly advisable for me to be sleeping with my TA, but you’d look good with a ruler in your hand.”

You giggle, slotting your knee between his knees, on the edge of your seat. “What’s it with you in these dominatrix fantasies? Watching too much porn while we were away from one another?”

He won’t be fazed, leaning back in his chair. “I like you in any position.”

You loudly shush him, terrified of eavesdroppers. “I have Rhetorical Theory. You can’t be trying anything at this hour.” You stand, gathering your things.

“But another hour I can?” His head bends back, eyes following your movements.

“I’ll see you at dinner.” You bend down to him to kiss his lips like you’ve done this thousands of times, and you might have at this point. You squeeze his shoulder and disappear out the cafe’s door, only bells left ringing in your wake, one on the door and the one inside of Alex.

On Wednesdays, you two share a class with one another, specially picked out for the purpose. American Literature in the 20th Century. Alex dragged his feet on it until he heard there would be Nabokov short stories and a delectable treat with batting eyelashes and lips that taste so sweet.

You closely clutch the syllabus as you exit the hall together. “And we get to read Franny & Zooey! I love Franny & Zooey!” You shake the paper between your hands in unadulterated excitement.

He taps your back with a chuckle. “Okay, maybe don’t rip the paper in half.”

“Why? You nearly wet yourself when she said we’d be reading Nabokov.”

“Nabokov’s cool.”

“And Salinger isn’t?”

“No, Faulkner isn’t.”

“Right, Faulkner,” you say. “It’ll broaden our knowledge.”

“You and this broadening of knowledge. Can’t I broaden my knowledge by reading something I can actually understand?”

“You’ll understand Faulkner. You’re a lot smarter than you let yourself believe.”

“I think you might be confusing me with someone else. Is this your other boyfriend?”

You pinch his side to get a laugh out of him. “Jealousy isn’t a nice look on you.”

“I’m not jealous,” he mumbles.

You wrap your arm around his back and curl your hand against his body, tugging him closer. You might as well take up a sideshow career as Siamese twins. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He tilts his head until his cheerful smile is facing you directly. “I’m not,” he insists. “And if I were, it would only be a little because this guy gets to spend time with you.”

“We barely talk when we’re together, and when we do, it’s me lecturing him.”

“Isn’t that what we pretty much do?” He reasons.

“He’s much dumber than you.”

“Well, we can’t all have our smarts to fall back on.”

“And our looks,” you compliment with your mouth so close to his skin, the air you let out dances against his jaw.

“What a charmer you are. Do you talk to everyone this way?” His eyes look down like he’s trying perilously to take you all in at once. “Or just the boys you fancy?”

You roll your eyes. “Ha ha,” you exaggerate before mouthing against his ear, “just one boy.”

“Young Joe’s a lucky man.” That’s the boy. Joe.

You sock him in the arm. “I can’t help it if you’ve a teacher kink, you pervert.”

He adjusts his bag to knock shoulders with you as you now walk side-by-side. “If they all looked like you, everyone would have a teacher kink. Hence, young Joseph.”

“He’s only a year younger than us.”

“Is that so? An older woman.”

You huff a laugh as Alex holds the door open for the dining hall. “Weren’t you the one who had a crush on your professor last year? I should be concerned with an older woman coming in to sweep up a young man.”

He rejoins your side, saying, “I simply said she was good looking, not that I wanted to do her. I was fargone on you by that point.”

You hum in a disbelieving fashion. “So you say.”

“Yeah. Just like Junior Joe is. It doesn’t take much.”

“Junior Joe?” You question. “You’re getting very creative with these nicknames for a boy you’ve never met.”

“I know Joey’s kind.”

You infectiously giggle with him. “Are you pretending to be in an old western again?”

He shrugs with a sheepish grin. “We’re watching The Searchers in my film class.”

“Aw,” you coo, pulling at his cheek like an old granny. “You should consider an acting class. It might help you get all that unaddressed rage out.”

“Rage?”

“They’ll at least train you in stage combat, which will help you for duel against Joe, which will, of course, also be your final exam.”

“When you tutor him, do you wrestle in preparation for this final exam?” Alex quips.

You pick up your tray of dinner. “Yes, and we’re usually naked, wet, and oiled up.”

“Really?” He follows behind you like an obedient pup. “Can I sit in on these lessons? I could really use your assistance.”

“But wouldn’t that ruin the integrity of the sport? You would be spying on him.”

“Wouldn’t you be spying on him for me? Or are you going to flip on me? Double agent.”

You sigh. “Not quite yet, but if he throws any other money my way, I can’t make any promises.”

Just as you had taken up tutoring, Alex obtains a job at one of the campus pubs. The best decision the owners of this pub ever made was letting their employees dress in casual attire. It allows Alex to roam the place in his perfectly fitted T-shirts that expose the lower plain of his torso every time he grabs something on one of the taller shelves.

The place itself is a proper hangout spot, allowing you to chill with friends while watching him in the distance or, on slow weekday nights, share a basket of leftover chips with him. On one night, this particular night, his jeans hang loosely on his hips and a navy blue long-sleeved shirt as the cold autumn air creeps its way into every corner of your world. He leans on the bar with the chips sitting between you and other than a gathering of teachers in the corner, the place has grown empty in the late hour.

“He’s too buddy-buddy. He keeps asking me for high fives,” you complain about your British Art professor. “I get that it’s to facilitate a relationship, poorly, I might add, because the guy doesn’t even know my name. I’m sure of this.”

Alex chews and chuckles. “Did you know the high five wasn’t invented until 1977?”

“Shut up, really?” This is clearly a method of distraction, something you won’t pick up on until later.

He hums, taking another chip. “LA Dodgers.”

“Baseball, right?”

“Very good. I’ll add a baseball class to my roster.”

“You barely know anything about baseball. Have you ever even seen a game?”

He counters, “Have you?”

“Fair enough.”

“Besides, what’s there to know—”

“Excuse me!” A group of girls has come in, with one girl violently waving her hand to get Alex’s attention.

He pulls away, attending to them, while you play Lode Runner on your phone with patience. The group is rather large and noisy, ruining the former environment that felt like a cozy fireplace and turning it into an inferno with each drink they gulp down.

“I should go,” you tell Alex when he returns.

“Sorry about them.”

You shake your head, admiring his charming, solemn face. “Nonsense. You better get some good tips.”

He smirks. “I don’t think you’d like that.”

You button up your jacket. “Don’t become some cheating bastard. I’d have to write my name on your forehead.”

“I don’t know. That blonde one looks rather nice.”

You eye the girl, slinging a purse over your shoulder. “One bleach away from her hair falling out. How lovely.”

He chuckles, leaning over the bar for a kiss. “I’ll see you later.” A quick liplock before you once again leave one another.

His hands grow icy on the way to the dorm, enough that he can’t feel the tip of his fingers. The air is windy; it causes his nose to exhibit a biting red that you told him last winter reminded you of Frosty the Snowman. He rubs it and his running nostrils when he finally enters the radiator-heated building, the kind that emits the terrible rusty smell.

He makes it into your room where your sleeping figure lies, shucking his too-thin jacket, and lying down beside—half beside you, half on top of you, considering how small a twin bed is. You murmur an awakening sound, turning to give more space to him.

“Why do they call it a twin if it only fits one person?” He whispers into your ear.

“Because they used to be sold in pairs,” you answer, curling your arms around his neck.

“How’d you know that?” He asks.

“Grandparents.”

You hiss from the contact of his hands on the hollow of your hip. “Sorry,” he softly purrs.

“It’s okay,” you grumble back. “How was the rest of your shift?”

“Alright. Girls were bad tippers.”

You nuzzle your nose into his neck. “‘m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” His hands run up and down your cloth-covered back, both to soothe and to warm.

You raise your head, blinking your eyes, dazedly looking at him. “Do you want a tip?” You ask, nudging what’s between his legs.

He gives a shake of his head and rests you back into him. “No. I just want to lay like this. You’re warm.”

You giggle against his skin. “See what dressing properly gets ya.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” He taps along your skin as he says each word. “Can I stay over tonight?”

“You beat any blanket, babe. Couldn’t have you leave me even if you tried.”

And he thinks this is the kind of thing romance novels are made of. Though, he wouldn’t know, he’s only read Wuthering Heights, which is “totally not a romance” as you repeatedly state at any given chance.

The moors are under a crust of snow—not enough to blanket them in white, but a mean, dirty frosting on the hard earth and wilted shrubs. It was early November but the snow came on so harshly that when the first sign of it had occurred, classes had quickly been cancelled for the day, despite half the school’s attendance rushing outside to engage in squabbles of snowball fights and dip their backs into snow angels.

You sling a scarf around Alex’s bare neck in spite of his protests. You slip on mittens, knitted by his mother. They were sent in this month’s care package, one pair for Alex, one pair for you. You palm his already red cheeks in your hand. “Can’t we stay in?” He whines.

“Everyone else is going out. Don’t be such a loner.”

“I’m not. I just want to be with you and everyone is going to be at the pub tonight.”

“But you’ll be working.”

“Exactly. A convenient excuse to exit any conversation.” He enthusiastically smiles so wide his face might split in two.

You sigh and head for the door. “We have to go and after we can warm up in the shower before you have to go to work.”

“We?” You peek back to see his wide, gratifying smile.

“Yes, we. Now, let’s go.” You tug on his hand and make your way out to the frigid, homely world.

Alex complains about being cold every other sentence before everyone gets sick of it and decides to simply pelt snowballs at him to at least get pleasure in the grumbling, but then Alex keeps insisting on going inside, which you won’t agree to until everyone else decides to disband so Alex quickly hardens and suffocates everyone else in snow, including poor, old you.

“You could’ve at least spared me, the woman you love, the one you want to sleep with. I could’ve gotten a nosebleed or needed stitches.” You pull your snow-covered hat off as you reenter your room. You strip your heavy clothes into the laundry basket, hoping to spare the rest of your room from a wet, melting disaster.

“Poor old baby,” he teases.

You gasp. “Don’t ‘poor old baby’ me! That’s my line, you’re the whiny little brat.”

He tosses his scarf at you before turning on his heels. “I’ll see you in the showers, baby.”

And if he’s going to try and goad you, then you’ll just wait here in your room, under the warm covers, while he impatiently waits in the shower for a gift that won’t be given. Upon his return—with his hair planted to the skin like a wet old dog—you’re on the phone with Holly. You don’t need to be on the phone with Holly, in fact, she’s grown rather annoying, but there’s nothing quite like Alex getting all pent up.

He has one goal in mind: release. He shivers from water still dripping down his body, even as he covers himself with sweats and a hoodie. (Sweats and a hoodie!! He’s good. Too good.) He fiddles with the zipper, pulling it all the way up and all the way down several times, enjoying the percussion of its sound, before settling the slider right below the collar and placing his hands in the pockets.

He stands by the foot of the bed. He might be tapping his foot, but you can’t see the lower half of him. Your eyes acknowledge his presence before tipping them to the ceiling, admiring the cracks in them. “Who are you on the phone with?” He harshly whispers at a level that could be deemed no longer a whisper, other than the fact that he has made his voice more raspy.

The only acceptable answer would be your parents, some important family news that’s worth blowing off giving him a blowjob in the shower. And yeah, maybe a blowjob only involves his desire, but he suffered through the snow, and that’s the only thing he deems worthy enough of giving him a runny nose. “Holly,” you shortly answer.

“Holly?!”

“Yeah.” You don’t spare him a glance. It’s easy to predict the puzzled look on his face, worthy of giving a slap followed by a soul-sucking kiss.

You feel his weight enter the bed. His body rubbing against your legs as he crawls his way up you. “Get off the phone.”

You place your finger over your lips. “No, it’s just Alex,” you irritably say to the phone.

He heaves and takes the phone from your fingers. “She’ll call you back, Holly.”

“That’s very rude,” you say right away.

He straddles your hips. “You left me hanging.”

“I got distracted.” You slyly smile.

He furrows his brows and leans down, hovering his face right above yours. “By Holly? Nice try. You don’t have to be mean to me.”

Your arms hug around him, taking in his body heat. “Yeah, but then you wouldn’t be all cute and crawl in my lap like this.”

He breaks, hiding a chuckle into his shoulder. “You’re very conniving.”

You shrug. “A wise woman. A genius, if you will.”

“Alright, you witch, do I get the pleasure of going into your hut?” He leans down, hiding under the blankets.

His nose tickles your stomach, making you giggle out, “Not if you start speaking like that.”

The laughter hides away as he pulls on the waistband of your sweats, taking them and your underwear down in one pull. He’s a smart man, going straight for the jugular. Mouth meets vagina. His tongue colors within the lines, or maybe outside the lines, because it’s hard to believe other people have felt this pleasure and considered it not worthy of discussion every day, or consider it taboo. This can’t be taboo. Why don’t people have classes on this?

“You should teach a class on how to do this,” you moan out, clawing your fingers into his hair, yanking, combing, petting, stroking, soothing.

He places a kiss just right and speaks against you, “As long as you’re my TA.”

“Quit it with this kink,” you quip. “You’re gonna be one of those pervert professors who fucks their student.”

“You? Hell fucking yes.”

“Quit it. We’re the same age.”

“I’m very advanced.” He reinforces this succinctly, placing his mouth where it should be biologically attached, sucking, licking, kissing, spitting, tonguing. He’s an unwillful beast and a delicate angel wrapped in the body of a boy who loves you. You could kick your feet at the idea if your legs weren’t too busy shaking at the feeling of this uncontrollable vibration.

You go from pushing his face inward like you’re trying to do some reverse birth with him and shove him back into the womb to dragging him away because he’s too much. Too much all the time but really too much when he sucks at you like the elixir of life is hidden within the folds of your vulva.

He hangs around with his chin atop your pubic bone watching your lungs expand and deflate heavily before deciding it has been enough, flipping over, squishing beside you, and declaring, “My turn.” He even helps you out by untying his sweats, but not taking them off because that’s “a woman’s job.” Something he sexistly and sexily declared last month.

“So much for patience.”

Alex points at himself. “I’ve been patient, in fact, I have shown an intense amount of restraint. I’ve made a down payment and now I’m waiting for my return of investment.”

“Jeez, Warren Buffet, you really know how to make a woman feel special.” You roll yourself up because despite his chauvinism, he’s been patient, and he is very, very…

You brush your hand over the fabric of his sweats and his eyes flutter at the mere suggestion of his dick being touched. You would tease him, but you only find his sensitivity endearing. You won’t hold him up anymore, exposing him, just this little portion of him to keep the rest of his sensitive skin warm from this snapping air.

You spit in your hand and give him a few slow tugs. His hips lift and shift. His thighs push against your still exposed center. His knee slides right into it, causing a slight trembling in your motions. It’s hard to tell whether this act was intentional or not. His expression too lost in pleasure, eyes shut, mouth pursed tightly together to fight off the urge to groan.

You slowly lean down. Your lips circle his cock with your tongue sweeping over the head, forcing that groan to leave his mouth in a tiny little mewl. You smile and go lower, halfway down, and then go back out. When you stop halfway again, his hands hold you there, pressing just a little further.

When you pop back out, he says, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rough.”

“You weren’t rough,” you assure. “I liked it.”

His eyes open up darkly. “Good. Go on.”

You shake your head, roll your eyes, and go on. You move lower each time with delight, toe-curling delight. His legs move up and down, not kicking, more digging, heels pressed down into the mattress, and his knee shifting pleasingly at your sensitive bits.

You’re not sure how good at giving head you are. You’ve never received any feedback other than the grateful conclusion of any person: coming. Alex always does this, making a noise almost like he’s so painfully frustrated like there is a splinter in his finger and then a blissful breath as the pest is removed. His cum doesn’t have much of a taste. Maybe a little salty, but that could be sweat. He often sweats, a little gathering right around his pubic hair, but no complaints from either party.

After he has returned to this biosphere, he tucks himself in and hugs you to his chest. “I wish all snow days were like this.”

“I don’t think it would’ve been appropriate—”

“I know,” he cuts you off. “Don’t make some creepy underage sex joke. That’s my territory.”

You ease into his body with your nose poking behind his ear before settling with an exhale. “You’re very possessive lately.”

“I’ve never been called a sharer. Too controlling for that.”

“Obsessive, some may call it.”

He lets out a hollow laugh, his lips not even poking his cheeks. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You okay?”

His fingers brush your upper arm. He doesn’t say anything for a minute before letting out, “Yeah.” Then, sighing. “Just thinking about winter. The break and all. Being away from you.”

“You’ll live.”

“But I won’t want to,” he bemoans.

“Don’t be dramatic, Romeo. I’m only faking my death. No need to kill yourself.”

He stills a laugh, and with that, the year ends, pulled away by two omnipotent hands.

He gets allergies in spring, the terrible, terrible kind where he sneezes all the time and has to carry tissues with him. Those dorky little packs, but you keep an extra pack in your purse in an act of devotion. He theorises in his journal (yeah, he has a dorky little journal too, fuck off) that there’s no greater act of love than carrying tissues around for someone else. It’s a great signal of caring for another person, looking out for their well-being, their forgetfulness, their sickness, their health. It’s what wedding vows are made of, and he sounds insane, 20, and clinging to an eternal loving debt to you.

The days have formed in a lather, rinse, repeat fashion. There’s class, work ( still tutoring for you, the pub for him), and some form of hangout. Sometimes just the two of you, either keeping him company at the pub, sex, or an activity—dinner, “studying,” movie, or, his favourite, the arcade, which may sound geeky and nerdy, but you’re both saving up for Margaritaville light-up ice bucket and that’s not dorky.

Other times, it’s a whole group thing, drunk idiot nonsense, which also includes collecting tickets for the Margaritaville light-up ice bucket that could likely be purchased for less money than what the arcade is selling it for, but you consider it to be a rare luxury only afforded to the stupidest “adults” roaming the UK.

On a Saturday night, a group of you sneak beers into the arcade, and play Jet-Pong, an appropriated version of beer pong for children. You ask Alex, “How can they have beer pong in here and not beer?” as he sinks one pong into the far left corner. “Nothing promotes drinking like a fun game.”

He shrugs, missing the next one.

“Holly asked me about getting a place with her next year.”

“Oh.” He tries his best to focus on the game in front of him. “What’d you say?”

“I’d get back to her.” You pull from your bagged beer. “Since we hadn’t talked about it since the start of the year. I didn’t know if you had made other plans.”

“My offer still stands.” Last pong, center cup. The tickets spit out. “I can always room with Matt.”

“Do you want to room with Matt?”

He bends down to collect the fifteen tickets. “Do I want to room with that dirty bastard or you? I’ll get back to you on that one.” He passes you to go to the ticket counter.

You catch up to his side. “Well, I’d like that too. You and me, I mean.”

“You feel you know me adequately enough?” He asks you as he feeds his bucket of tickets into the machine.

You lean against the side of the machine to be right in his line of sight. He eyes you carefully. “I feel I love you adequately enough.”

He blows a laugh like it’s a sick joke being played. He takes his ticket from the machine and stuffs it for safekeeping into his wallet. Once everything is packed away, he turns to you and reaches his hand out. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” You take his hand, entering the thawing weather, making your way back to the dorms. “Is this the cold shoulder?”

“No,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “I’m just trying to think of something to say.”

“What about ‘Yes!’?” You offer.

He cracks a grin and leans over, kissing your cheek. “You’re very cute. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“I can’t help my feminine wiles.”

“Yeah right. I know how cunny you can be.”

“You like my cunningness.” You make eyes at him, luring him into your web. “So, Alex, what is your answer?”

He has to take a moment to capture this in his mind. This happens every once in a while, usually pertaining to you, but not limited to circumstances associated with you. It’s a click in his head. It might be a camera, but he hasn’t decided yet. It’s his brain having to catch up with the rest of him. It’s a processing issue that might be a sign of a larger problem, but at this point in his life, Alex merely relates it with moments of importance. This, you, the moment are all more than worthy enough. “It’s yes, you dweeb. Now give me a swing of that.”

He finds you curled up in his bed with a book laying facedown on your chest. You haven’t been asleep too long. He can tell because you always end up turning on your stomach and your book hasn’t fallen down onto the floor below. He begins to pry the book out of your hands, you grab his wrist in a frightful fit, scaring him half-to-death.

“It’s just me,” he whispers. You relax back into the substandard mattress, slept on by hundreds of students before him and hundreds more after him. “How’d you get in here?”

“I have my ways,” you sneakily say.

He chuckles, closing the book, and placing it on his desk. He sits down in the desk chair, untying the laces of his Converses, placing them beside yours at the door. “Am I going to wake up tomorrow with all my stuff gone?”

You sleepily giggle. “I’d never steal from you. You don’t have anything worth stealing.”

He cocks his head back, testing a challenged look on you. “What about the girl in my bed?”

“Oh, well, she’s different.”

“Uh-huh.” He strips his jacket off then his jeans before he races on top of you causing you to groan loudly.

“God, you’re gonna break one of my ribs.”

He kisses all around your face, tracing the other corners before bubbling in the circle. “They’re nothing valuable anyway.”

“Really? What about the rest of me?”

“Oh, you’d sell well on the black market.”

The laughter slowly dissolves into a heated make-out session. He takes his time. It’s hard for boys to do that, including him, in this tiny bed, trying to get it over quickly so you don’t have to sit on top of one another in a suffocating fashion. “Won’t it be great when we can do this in a bigger bed. Even a full would do.”

“We are not sleeping in a full. Queen, at least,” you insist.

“I’d get a California king, no complaints.”

The making out resumes, this time a little more naked, and then his fingers inside you like he’s scooping your insides out. He’d liken it to taking all the guts out of a pumpkin, which is admittedly a disgusting comparison, but he can’t think of anything else. He isn’t a sexologist, just a boy who’d like to think he knows his way around you. “Does that feel good?” He asks against your lips.

“Yes,” you whimper out. So, he keeps going like he’s pushing a button or strumming the strings of a guitar. You lean your quivering body into his, exhibiting startled breathing into his ear. Your hands clutch around your shoulder, reassuring him of the previous form of affirmation you gave and then he feels that familiar throbbing around his fingers and you let out a grunt of finality before all the tension furling up inside you is released in one shake.

He lays you down against the mattress. Your hair pressed up in a nest against the pillow. “Do you want to keep going?” He asks, implying future steps: him inside you, preferably with his cock, preferably said cock fucking you, preferably to completion.

“Yeah.” You smile up at him with this smile that he’ll try for many months after to find an adjective that fits this smile before giving up and deciding a person would have to see it to believe the beauty of it. Like a wonder of the ancient world or the harmonium solo in “In My Life.” It feels like that, searing. “Please do.”

It’s a natural inclination. He feels like his soul is being sucked away as he eases into you and lands his hands on your torso in a careful touch. His thumbs stroke your stomach and his fingers pull your skin to his as he settles all the way in. His eyes look at you, speaking for him, asking if it would be okay to keep going, that everything feels good, that this isn’t just for him, this is a shared act. You nod all-knowingly.

It’s how Alex knows this is different. This is love, not everyone can read him at a glance. It’s the beauty of letting someone know all of you. It’s the thing that makes poets write sonnets. It’s what makes ordinary people feel they can write sonnets.

The feeling shifts to his gut, getting tangled up in the center, moving about him in that somersaulting way. A flickering flame in a deep, dark cave. He feels this when he masturbates too, but that’s more lonely, and this is like kilonova or the initial singularity (sorry, he’s reading Carl Sagan right now), and the universe is inflating but hasn’t banged or boomed or whatever the word is yet.

He moves a little quicker in order to get to that bang, but still not what one would perceive as fast. He likes it this way. It’s out of the ordinary but not some wild origami-style sex that is cool to watch but he is so not ready to do yet, or maybe ever because it looks like too much work and it feels good like this and he isn’t ready to mess with a good thing by folding you in half.

His mind tends to drift a lot when he’s having sex. Or all the time. Sometimes he wishes he would just shut up, but occasionally he’s thankful for his fair-weather mind, like during boring lectures or long shifts at the pub. But in situations like this where he should just focus on the simple feeling of sex his mind wanders to Carl Sagan and he’s shouting at himself like “Fucking hell, Alex, just shut the fuck up.”

Of course, you can tell when he does this and then he can tell that you can tell and then he’s stuck on that, that previous feeling of being exposed then feels violating because what gives you the right to know that in his head he’s screaming at himself and then you say something like, “Keep going.” and he realises he is once again reading too much into situations and you’re probably just enjoying the feeling of being fucked or maybe also screaming at yourself in your head too because you’re the same after all or Siamese twins or some shit and he returns to the thought that this fucking feels really fucking good and he’s said the word “fuck” too many fucking times to count and fuck is a weird word, but so is every word, and what is the English language, and why didn’t his mum teach him German like all the students she fucking teaches, instead he only knows how to count to 20 and the colours of the rainbow and other stupid fucking elementary phrases.

And then he comes as he so often does. Cum is disgusting. White, slimy jizz dripping out of him and into a condom. Who invented the condom? He’ll write that down in the back of his mind and try to remember to look it up later, but then everyone in the library will think he’s a pervert for looking up who invented a condom on the communal computers. He should’ve asked for a computer for his birthday. Not that he would use it much, computer screens hurt his eyes and give him a headache, but he sure would help when he wants to look up the inventor of condoms or watch porn or something. And school, that too.

“Alex.” Fuck, right, you. “Can you, um, get out of me? I’ve got to pee.”

“Oh, fuck, sorry.”

You giggle. “You’re okay.” You cradle his face and he feels like a bobblehead that has been shaking around for hours and now suddenly stilled. You kiss his cheek. “I’ll be right back.” You slip on your clothes and shoes and head to the hallway bathroom.

He sits for a while before realising he has been sitting naked with his cock resting in his own jizz wrapped in latex for far too long to be seen as normal if he were to be walked in on. He disposes of the goods and digs into his drawers for his, well, drawers. Isn’t it funny that two words can mean totally different things? And the word for that is…—he struggles on this for a while—homonym, right, right, right.

His stomach rumbles. There were no leftovers at the pub tonight. It was crawling with disgustingly drunk people that make Alex question why alcohol is legal if it makes people into such dickheads. He only has a bag of sour cream & onion chips, and that’ll have to do the job of dinner.

He sits at his desk and grabs handfuls out of the bag, having to truly stuff his face because that is how hungry he is. He understands why the Donner Party ate each other. He looks at the book that you were reading, now sitting next to his journal. He realises he didn’t put a bookmark into the page you were on. He’ll have to remember to apologise for that. He already knows you’ll say it’s fine and you can find the page you left off on, but he’s convinced you’ll be hiding your indignation toward him.

Madame Bovary. He’ll have to pick up a copy. All he knows is Emma Bovary is “a cunt and we love her.” You said this yesterday at the cafe. You were only a few chapters in then. It seems to have gotten much further since based on the thickness of the book’s split when he picked it up.

She cheats, too, Emma Bovary. Maybe that’s a good thing in the book. Like her husband is scum and thank god she was able to find love elsewhere or something. He doesn’t know. Now all he can think about is paranoia about whether you are cheating on him or not. Not you actually cheating, just the paranoia he would feel if you actually did cheat.

He is aware that he’s giving himself ulcers over this heavy contemplation of nothingness but he can’t stop the turning of the wheel. His mind goes on and on and he’s still trying to figure out ways to make this train of thought stop. Like someone tied to the track while the train blows the horn instead of slamming on the brakes. He tugs and tugs but can’t free himself and he’s only making things harder rather than accepting his—

“Hey.” You’ve returned, thank god. “You’ll never guess what I saw in the bathroom.” You hop on the bed with the glee of those monkeys jumping on the bed in that nursery rhyme.

“What?” He chucks his head in anticipatory elation.

“There were eggs all over the floor and I exclaimed something like ‘Ew!’ because, you know, eggs on the bathroom floor is a little bizarre, right?” He’s nodding along. “But then these two girls answered back, saying they were doing an experiment. I asked what kind of experiment and they were like ‘The science kind’ and I said ‘No, shit’ but in my head. When I came out of the stall, they were like ‘Try not to step on the eggs on the way out’ and that’s when I cracked—ha ha, get it, cracked.”

Yeah, he gets it, and he fucking loves this. This is all he needs. He cracks along with you. “Keep going.”

“Right. Sorry. Sorry. So, then I said, ‘Why would I want to step in eggs?’ As if it’s a well-known thing that egg yolk moisturises your skin. Then, I left and came here and had to tell you.”

“Thanks for telling me,” he sincerely says. “I needed it.”

You give a thoughtful smile. “I could tell.”

He doesn’t ask how. He doesn’t feel he is supposed to know. You don’t explain any further. You sit criss-cross on his bed and he remains in his desk chair for now. Of course, he is sure that at some point you’ll both get under the covers and go to sleep, but you’ll just talk for now because he needs it, and you could tell.

a/n: can you tell when i started to like what i was writing? i like the smut in this. maybe because i usually hate the smut i write so this feels like an improvement. it's been a while. maybe i'll do a part three. maybe in a week or four months. thanks. night from me, morning to you.

#alex turner fic #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x oc #alex turner x reader #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #alex turner smut #alex turner #junedenim

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