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lvrclerc · 3 months ago

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✶ 15 YEARS IN THE MAKING

summary: oscar's home race is a big deal. however, what's even bigger is the realization that he has been in love with the childhood friend waiting for him at the finish line since the day he met her. it only took him 15 years, a thousand missed opportunities and a so-called mistake to realize it.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x childhood bff!f!reader

wc: 11.3k

cw: aus gp 2025, unaccurate aus gp 2024 for plot purpose, use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline, kinda bittersweet/angsty at some point, otherwise fluff + hea

note: need to cradle that man in my arms and kiss him on the forehead, special mention to @cntappen who wanted yearning oscar, hope ur satisfied 🙏 i lowkey hate this but we carry on

soundtrack: ♫ something, somehow, someday - role model

OSCAR ALMOST DROPS his mug when Hattie tells him the news. “She’s coming to the race?”

His sister nodded, shifting from one foot to the other like she didn’t quite know where to put herself ─ which was uncharacteristic of her ─ and the first things going through Oscar’s mind were Did she know? How would she know? Did she tell her? “I texted her about it ‘cause she always comes to Melbourne. I was just curious. She said she’d be coming if she was welcome with us.”

His head was spinning. Gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, Oscar chose his next words with calculated precision. “And you said…?”

“I mean, Mom said yes, obviously,” Hattie shrugged. “She loves Y/N. And she said it’s been a while since you two saw each other, might do you some good with stress and all that.”

Of course, his mom would say that. You had always been a second daughter for her, welcoming you in her home as if your place had always been next to Oscar on the living room couch. Hattie had been as enthusiastic as her, if a little confused at first, about who had developed such an attachment to her quiet, nonchalant brother. Ever since you and Oscar were children, as soon as he told his mother about the new girl next door who cut short his remote-controlled truck training on the playground, you had been included in every Piastri family dinner.

Because you were Oscar's whole world, his personal sun, the second you stepped into view ─ it would have taken someone mute, blind, and deaf not to notice it. He was just a planet, a satellite, orbiting around you in search of meaning.

Had been. Until almost a year ago.

And nobody knew except for him.

So Oscar swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Okay, sure, that's cool,” he let out a breath. “I missed her.” The words pained him, as veracious as they were. He didn’t simply miss you like you’d miss someone you hadn’t seen in a while ─ Oscar missed you like an amputee would miss a ghost limb. The kind of pull that tears someone from the inside out, and he only had himself to blame for the ache.

If Hattie suspected something was off, she didn't say it. She chose to scrutinize him instead, eyebrows scrunched in a silent question he answered with a vague smile, as always. She spoke about how you hadn’t come to visit in quite some time, how he rarely updated them on how you were anymore, how you blossomed in your life, but the words went in one ear and out through the other.

Because you were going to the Melbourne Grand Prix, the start of the 2025 season. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing you again, not after the fiasco of the same Grand Prix, a year ago.

Guess he didn’t have much choice.

Oscar Piastri is eight when he meets you for the first time.

He was given his first remote-controlled truck for Christmas and ever since then, rare were the times he spent his full days at home. The playground, with a lot more ground than playthings for children, was a five-minute walk from his house ─ perfect for practicing, he thought. His newfound gadget made him develop a fervency he hadn’t known before, an obsession for speed. He knew Australia had championships for remote-controlled racing, his dad told him so. He wanted a part in it like he never wanted anything in the world before. Except maybe the truck.

But before he could hope of entering, he needed to get to a certain level and that meant practice. So to the playground (or park, park was a cooler word) he went.

Today wasn’t an exception. Vacations had started not so long ago, the sun was high in the sky and Oscar’s knees were raw from being dug in the gravel for so long. His thumbs were branded by the print of the remote in his hand, sweat beaded on his forehead, hair sticking to it, and maybe his vision was blurring a little. But Oscar was nothing if not determined, so he kept going as his truck narrowly avoided obstacles he put in place.

Until a water bottle replaced the self-made circuit in his visual field.

Oscar's eyes slowly trailed up in exasperation, expecting one of his younger sisters or his mother dotting on him, telling him to come back home. Instead, his breath caught a little.

You stood there, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around you, turning the loose strands of your hair into something almost otherworldly. Oscar had never believed in angels ─ never really thought about them at all, actually ─ but at that moment he wondered if maybe, just maybe they existed. Your sundress, once pristine, was rusted with dirt, the hem brushing against your scraped knees, blood dried in uneven patches. But you didn’t seem to mind. Instead, you smiled ─ as if scuffed knees and torn dresses were just a natural part of being you.

His wide, brown eyes glided from the lukewarm bottle to you, in wonder and shock alike. Your palm was smudged in playground dust, but Oscar barely noticed ─ his gaze caught instead on the way light tangled in your hair, your eyes sparkling with something bright, untamed, unstoppable. You spoke up. “You look like you’re gonna faint. Take it. Drivers need water, right?”

Your voice, soft, shook him out of his trance: he hesitantly took the bottle from your hand, and your fingers brushed against his. Red colored the tip of his ears. He swallowed, hard, bringing the bottle to his chest. You offered him another smile in return, and Oscar felt his heart flutter.

“My name is Y/N.” Before he could even think about protesting ─ about telling you that, actually, he hadn’t asked ─ you plopped down beside him, legs folding underneath you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your shoulder bumped against his, a casual, thoughtless kind of closeness that sent a foreign heat to the back of his neck.

Then just as he was processing that, you turned to face him- too close. Way too close.

Noses. Your noses nearly touched.

Oscar went rigid. Did you know nothing about personal space?!

You pointed behind him, at the house right next to his, visible from the park. “I live right here!”

“...No, you can’t.” Oscar finally said, frowning. He was trying to be as polite as he could muster to be in those conditions. His mom would kill him if he wasn't.

“Why?”

“Nobody lives here.”

The aggressive neutrality of his voice, a timbre unique to him, didn’t deter you in the slightest. On the contrary, it seemed like his reticence to your presence made you beam brighter at him. “That’s because we just moved here, duh. See that car? It’s my mom’s.”

The indifference in Oscar slowly turned to confusion, or as close as it could get to curiosity. There was indeed a baby blue car parked in the driveway he never saw before. For as long as he could remember, which was not a lot, it was always vacant. Until today, apparently. “Oh. We’re neighbors, then.”

Your smile widened, eyes practically shining in excitement. “That’s so cool! I was scared I was gonna be the only kid here.”

Oscar barely heard you, too busy staring at where your arm pressed against his. Was it normal? Were other kids just… this close of each other? Because he wasn’t used to it, not at all. “... How old are you?”

“Eight!” You practically bounced as you said it.

“Me too.”

Your face lit up. Oh no.

“That’s even better! We can be friends! Best friends, even!”

Wait, what.

Oscar blinked, his mind screeching to a halt. That escalated fast. Weren’t there supposed to be multiple steps before deciding to be lifelong friends? Had he missed something? “Uh─”

“What’s your name?” You asked with renewed enthusiasm if it was even possible to add to that.

“... Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”

“Nice to meet you Oscar Piastri from next door!” You held out your hand and, much to his surprise, Oscar took it. Hesitantly, awkwardly, yes, but he still did. The strange, unfamiliar feeling tugging at his stomach wouldn’t let him do otherwise. “I like your truck,” you continued, fingers still wrapped around his like you didn’t even notice. “Can I try it?”

Oscar was way too focused on your palm still sitting in his to process your words. Was he supposed to pull away first? “I… I don’t─”

“Or I could watch you! I don’t mind. I was watching you in the tree back there anyways.”

Oscar blinked. It explained the stains and the scratches, he thought. He still couldn’t believe that there was a whole girl like her in a tree, spying on him, and he had been so caught up by his remote-controlled truck to even notice it. Just as if you could read his thoughts, a sheepish look made its way to your face, lips pursuing as you finally ─ finally ─ let go of his hand. “Mom doesn’t like when I do that,” you admitted as if it were a secret. “But it’s fine. I can wash the dress.”

He stared. There was… something about you, Something about the way you sparkled even when you sat still, the way your presence felt bigger than your little body. He swallowed, nudging the controller toward you before he could regret his decision. “Try.” His voice came out weird. “It’s boring to watch.”

The twinkling in your eyes was worth every crash that came after this. You were struggling, and hitting every obstacle he skillfully steered away from. Each and every hit was accompanied by a giggle or an exaggerated groan but even though you were terrible, as Oscar tactfully noticed, it still looked like you were having the most fun you had in years.

When he had to go home, you walked him to the door with a spring in your step, occupying the conversational space with random facts about the world. Something about how octopuses had three hearts, how clouds weren’t actually as soft as they looked, and how the color yellow made people happy. Oscar didn’t say much, he never really did, but he contentedly listened.

And then, just as the door swung open, before he could even process the way he wanted to stay a little bit longer, you turned to his mom with all the confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome. “Can Oscar come back tomorrow?” His mom barely had time to blink, but Oscar already knew─ it was over.

Because the moment she said yes, the second the fierce little girl beside him claimed more time with him like it was hers to take, it was sealed. After that, it came as naturally as breathing. Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Never one without the other. You led, he followed. And, somewhere along the way, the rest of the world stopped mattering.

You were a constant in Oscar’s life, a lifeline he clung to without realizing he had reached for it in the first place. He got into karting at ten and nothing─ not his dad's last-minute pep talks, not the hours of practice ─ could calm the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel before his first race. His fingers curled on it, hands trembling and grip tight, knuckles aching from the pressure. What if he wasn’t actually good? What if he messed it all up? What if─?

And then, there you were. Signature grin, messy ponytail, a tiny hand sign scribbled in clashy, colorful letters: GO, OSCAR GO!! The words were surrounded by questionable doodles ─ stick-figure cars with lopsided wheels, a few stray hearts in the margins like an afterthought. “I came to watch you win,” you said, like there was no other possibility. After that, the race was just a race.

The moment you dropped a chaste kiss on his helmet, all nerves settled. When he passed by you, you brandished your sign high in the air, a beacon, the only thing he really needed to see. He won that race with his head held high and in the middle of celebration ─ his mom hugging him tight, cheers echoing all around ─ he silently dedicated his victory to you.

Because when he scanned the crowd, your eyes were the easiest to find. Because nothing ever felt better than the feeling of you running in his arms right after.

And just like that─ childhood blurred into early adolescence in a flurry of incandescent polaroids: late afternoon on track, whooping as Oscar made his laps, stolen moments on the swings at the playground between school and training, a thousand shared snacks, juice boxes, whispers, a million inside jokes and secrets. Summers spent side by side, laughter tangled in the air like something meant to last forever.

Years of Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. No space between. No questions about what you were to each other. Not yet.

But Oscar Piastri is fifteen when he leaves you behind.

He had been offered a seat in Formula 4. The words came in a rush, tumbling from an ecstatic Chris Piastri and an equally thrilled Nicole Piastri, their voices nearly overlapping in excitement. Oscar heard them, he knew what they were saying and yet his mind refused to catch up. He sat there, cereal spoon dangling in the air, milk dripping back in his bowl.

The world around him blurred─ static in his ears, something like disbelief flooding his veins. He had wanted this. Trained for this. But now that it was real, it was as if his body had forgotten how to move. So you did it first.

Your arms wrapped around his neck without a second thought, squeezing tight. A hug that made it impossible to do anything but exist in the moment. He unfroze: the weight of your warmth, how you clung to him without any reservation, it yanked him back. His hands had found your back, gripping instinctively. It hit him all at once: Formula 4. His dream was real. And you were here, like always.

Until you wouldn’t be anymore.

Everything slipped past Oscar in a blur: he applied to a boarding school and got accepted in the same week, his parents were already looking for a house nearby, and his mom searching for job opportunities ─ in Brighton, England, closer to where he would be practicing. A thousand kilometers away from Australia, a thousand memories away from you.

One thing you learned in your years of friendship with Oscar was that he wasn’t much of a talker. He wasn’t big on the expression of feelings either ─ he showed affection softly, when he thought people wouldn’t notice. But you did, and you never planned on doing anything about it because that was just how Oscar was: reserved, hesitant in his tenderness. So the conversation about his departure never came ─ it was just a weight, hanging in the air of your every interaction, untouched. He didn’t want to venture there, to face how he wouldn’t wake up next to you anymore after another sleepover, how he would have to learn how to exist without you at arm’s reach. The lack of you was already digging a hole in his chest, and it was one of the main reasons he said no to your proposition of a send-off party.

But Oscar knew you too, too well, so he was only half-surprised when he turned on the light of his house after training and discovered the crowd of your shared friends amidst colorful balloons and cakes. You stood out in all of them when you offered him the smile that was uniquely his, and Oscar’s chest almost collapsed.

The party was fun. He got goodbye gifts ─ trinkets, plushies and books he knew he’ll lose sleep over. He didn’t dance to the music, but enjoyed watching people lose themselves in the soft light of his kitchen from the sidelines. Some friends cried and some friends didn’t ─ he side-hugged them all, never letting them too close except for a select few, and he accepted the heartfelt speeches with reassurances that he will come back during the summer, without a doubt.

The night slowed, party leftovers forgotten on the counters, and the house was quieter now that most of the guests had filtered out. Only a few stragglers remained inside, their voices dimmed to an unobtrusive murmur. But Oscar, the supposed star of the show, was hesitating in the threshold of his front door ─ because you were outside. And wherever you went, he followed.

You were sitting on the front door steps, arms wrapped around your knees, bathed in the dim glow of the porch light. The soft hum of cicadas filled the space as Oscar sat beside you. He knew he should say something, anything. Thank you for the party, even though he swore he didn’t want one. You were right, because of course, you were. Or finally address what was begging to be talked about ─ he just didn’t know how. Because sitting right here, with you just a few inches away, he realizes this is it.

This is the last night before everything changes, and he can’t do anything about it. So he stays silent.

“You’re freaking out,” you say. Not a question. Your observant eyes flickered to his face, gaze soft in the way that makes his breath catch.

Oscar exhales sharply, tipping his head back against the wooden railing. “Am not.”

You give him a look. The look that always calls his bullshit. “Alright, I am.” He swallows, voice quieter. “A little.”

A pause. And then─ a nudge. Your knee bumping into his. A small, familiar thing, but somehow it unravels him. His eyes are burning, and he can’t pinpoint why. “You’ll be fine, Osc’’,” you affirmed, as certain as the sun rising tomorrow. “As long as you don’t forget about me.” A quiet laugh escaped you.

And Oscar could feel it, the thick air between you, pressing against his throat and sitting on his tongue. How could he ever forget about you? You were sitting so close, staring at him as if tucking him in some secret place inside of you. Oscar hated it, so much that it finally slipped─ “I don’t want to go.”

It came out quieter than he expected. Your lips parted slightly, brows furrowed, and Oscar felt like he said too much and not enough at the same time. Because he did want to go, but what he meant was, I don’t want to go if it means leaving you, I don’t know how to exist without you in my orbit. What he really meant, he couldn’t understand what it was no matter how hard he tried.

He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I mean─” Oscar cleared his throat. “I do. Obviously. It’s just─ It’s gonna be weird.”

“Yeah, it is,” you murmured, flushing against his shoulder. “But we’ll make it work.”

Oscar looked at you, really did. The way the light caught the edges of your face, the night breeze playing with your hair, how you existed so beautifully and effortlessly, as you belonged in all the places he had ever loved. The words almost slipped out: You could come with me.

It was right there, clawing its way up his throat.

Yet, something stopped him. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he didn’t know what it meant. Because he didn’t know if he was asking like a best friend or something else, and he didn’t know what to do with the way you were constricting his chest, how you pressed against his ribcage, demanding more. You looked at Oscar and he looked at you ─ he swallowed it down, staring at the playground far in front of you.

And the moment passed.

Oscar left the day after, and the empty house was now the one next to yours.

Your hotel room was eerily quiet.

You were never known for silence ─ all your life, people had repeatedly told you about the overwhelming space you occupied, how loud your laugh echoed, how you never quite knew how to fold and pocket yourself to be less. Growing up, adults meant it in an endearing way. Now, you realized just how much the words stung, even if you never took them as insults. But here, in the uncomfortable coldness of the room you rented for the week-end, everything was quiet: no music, no you talking to yourself. Nothing.

It felt unnatural ─ like something was missing. The one thing that always reassured you about the room you took up.

It left you restless, and your hands trembled a little as you finished applying the last layer of mascara on your lashes. Maybe it was just nerves ─ after all, it’s been a while since you’ve been on a race and hung out with Hattie, Edie, Mae, Nicole, and Chris. Ever since you moved out for university, the city of Melbourne and all of the memories it held always managed to make you a bit anxious.

However, deep down, you knew. It’s the fact that for the first time in over a year, you were going to see Oscar.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror as you dropped your makeup next to the sink. You couldn’t decipher your own expression.

Hattie texted you out of nowhere, and even though it wasn’t unusual for you two to talk from time to time, it surprised you a bit when she asked you if you were going to the Grand Prix. It shouldn’t have, she didn’t know ─ or maybe she suspected something, but you still said you’d be coming. So Nicole was on her way to pick you up and take you to the same spot you’ve been occupying since 2023, and you’ll have to sit and act as if everything was alright, as if her son was the best friend you grew up with and didn’t become an acquaintance overnight that you occasionally exchanged “good morning”, “good night”, “happy birthday” and “how are you doing?” texts with.

Because ever since that fateful night after the Melbourne Grand Prix of 2024, something shifted between you and Oscar. Something that had been weighing on you both for years, waiting, waiting, waiting- until it finally cracked, only to narrowly miss you. And now? You didn’t know his weekly schedule, and you couldn’t remember the last time you complained about your teachers to him. You and Oscar weren’t quite strangers, but you weren’t you anymore either.

Because whatever had been waiting that night never had a chance to be resolved. And maybe it never would.

You shut your eyes, your breathing quickening dangerously. No. You weren’t going to think about that right now. It’s fine ─ you’re just here to watch a race like you always did. Just another race. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, did it? You’ll cheer, you’ll congratulate him, and you’ll leave. Even if it was his home race. Even if it was in the same city you laughed in his backyard, held hands running in the streets, stayed awake at ungodly hours of the night tangled together, the city you had both known and lost each other.

Frankly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting─ what you even wanted this weekend to be. All you knew was that you desperately wanted to grasp at the last semblance of normalcy that used to be between Oscar and you, and if that meant showing up at the Melbourne race and praying for his car to see the checkered flag in pole position like the deepest parts of your heart weren’t screaming for him, so be it.

When Nicole called you to tell you she parked her car, you took a deep breath and walked to the elevator, carefully ignoring the sickening feeling of your stomach reminding you that, in Melbourne, there was no simply ignoring the past anymore.

Oscar Piastri is twenty when he tells you the news.

Five years have passed ever since he moved out of Australia, but no matter how the years stretched between then and now, racetracks and podium dreams, Oscar always made sure of one thing: that he’d come back. Back to his neighborhood, these streets, the quiet buzz of familiarity.

And back to you.

Time had tried its best to pull you apart with different schedules, different time zones, and places, but you two were still an unstoppable force. Y/N and Oscar. Oscar and Y/N. No matter how late the flights, how long the race weekends, how exhausting the training, he always called ─ even if it was past midnight, or he had to wake up in three hours, or he could barely keep his eyes open. Because your voice, distant and barely audible through the crackling of a bad signal, was home. And you always picked up.

Oscar missed it. He made friends in boarding school, a group of laid-back guys who filled the late hours with video games and terrible jokes, making his new world a little less foreign. He enjoyed their company, sure, but none of them were you. None of them could look at him and already know what he was thinking, like the syllables were etched in your bones, and they didn’t tilt their head up at the sky on a rusty swing set, taking him with them, and spun the world into something bigger. God, he missed that. He missed you.

Even though, sometimes, he wondered if you missed him just as much.

Obviously, since Oscar left, you had to build something for yourself in the space he left behind, and it only became more concrete when you enrolled in a university away from Melbourne. He tried to be happy for you when you did. But then you would tell him about a friend group he didn’t know the faces of, threading into the places he used to be and the places he’d never been, the ones he couldn’t visit with you like the café near your 10 a.m. lecture on Fridays.

Sometimes, only sometimes, when he allowed himself to feel a bit more than he should, the scraps of emotions he usually denied himself ─ he was scared he didn’t belong in the new sphere you’ve constructed for yourself. That he was a dusty polaroid in a wooden box, waiting for the day you’d tuck him away.

But that had to be wrong. It had to be. Because the second your eyes found his as he stepped out of the airport, it was like nothing had changed. Like the months apart, the missed calls, the milestones he couldn’t be there for ─ none of it mattered.

The way you looked at him, like he was still your Oscar, the boy you always had known and always will, it made up for everything.

You had been there when Oscar graduated from Formula 4 to Formula 3. You had been right by his side when Formula 3 turned to Formula 2 the following year. Whether it be by phone or in person when the good news coincided with both of your trips to your childhood neighborhood. Your excited screech, your lips on his cheek twisting his stomach and painting his cheeks red, he figured it was just common sense for you to learn he’s been promoted a third time in person. He wanted to see your reaction.

Whenever you and Oscar came back, your mom would welcome you with open arms in your old home. There were only two bedrooms, one that was your mom’s, which used to be awkward for him before it became a common occurrence for you two to share a bed. Both your parents had forbidden it, but quickly gave up when you used to find a way to sneak into Oscar’s bedroom and keep him awake. Their resolve vanished entirely when they noticed quiet, untroubled Oscar started getting on it as well.

So there you were, twenty years old in your childhood bedroom, sharing a bed too small for your height. The window was half-opened, the air thick and unmoving, letting in the last shreds of sunset that danced across your skin in soft, golden streaks. You were facing each other, which allowed him to see your eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, your breathing slow and even as if the mere act of being near him was enough to let you rest.

Oscar flushed at that thought. You had spent hours driving just to come and get him, to fall in bed beside him, limbs tangled, words fading into the quiet comfort of home. Just to be here, with him.

He wanted to wait. Until your eyes were wide open and you were awake enough to react like you always did: in screams and hugs and plans of the future. But the warmth curling in his chest wasn’t allowing him to keep it from you any longer.

“I got a seat in Formula One,” Oscar announced in the silence of the room.

“What?” Your voice was hoarse from tiredness, but it didn’t stop your sharp gaze from snapping to his. Your lips parted, just barely, an inhale caught in your throat, and Oscar gets distracted.

He shouldn’t, not now, but─ he can’t help it.

How many times had he seen you like this? Sleep-heavy, warm with exhaustion, curled up beside him. Too many to count. Not once had it felt like this, like something heavier rested on his shoulders.

He repeats with a little difficulty, forcing himself back to the moment. “I got a seat in Formula One.” He swallows before precising, “Not Alpine. McLaren.”

You blinked. Once, twice, your brain catching up with the weight of his words. Then, before Oscar could brace himself, you were moving.

You crashed into him, as much as you could in the position you were, tucking yourself against his chest in the semblance of a hug. The pressure was nothing, still, the air was knocked out of his lungs. “You did it!” You whispered-yelled against his shoulder, voice trembling with emotion. “Oh my god, Osc’. You did it. I fucking knew you would.”

Of course, you knew. You always knew before Oscar did, before he even started believing in it himself. A scoff, wet with feelings, escaped him as his shaky fingers hovered over your ribs, processing the situation. You pulled back, just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide. The palm that wasn’t resting on his chest slipped up, featherlight, to cup his cheek. Oscar almost flinched. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but─”

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted him. “You’re going to be in Formula One! In McLaren! That’s huge, and─”

Realization hits you like a truck. “Oh my god, Daniel Ricciardo.”

Out of all the things that could have ruined the moment, Oscar wouldn’t have expected it to be Daniel Ricciardo. “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Everyone loves Daniel. We get it. My mom said the same thing.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, and you shoved him a little. “Come on, it’s a shock for me!”

“It’s also pressure, but thank you so much for your consideration.”

“I congratulated you two seconds ago!”

“I’m sure Daniel would love your condolences even more.”

By that point, you were a giggling mess beneath Oscar’s hands, so much that the sound successfully got a few huffs out of him as well. The pressure of the news evaporated at each new chuckle out of your mouth, and the room was finally big enough to breathe.

Laughter died down, reduced to heavy intakes of air between half-sentences, and that’s when Oscar realized.

Your fingers, gently brushing over his cheekbones, nails grazing his skin. His palms capturing your sides as your thigh rested between his legs. He wasn’t pulling you in, clinging to you like he always did ─ instead, he froze. His heart was stuttering too fast, too loud, in a way that had nothing to do with the news he’d just shared and you simply stared at him, eyes sparkling, as if he handed you the World Driver’s Championship trophy right here and there. Waiting for something.

The heat of your body, your usual proximity, the soft cotton of the sheets did nothing to help the blood boiling in Oscar’s veins and thoughts spiraled in a blink, of what it would be like if he just let his hand roam a little lower, if your breath swept over his lips.

Words lodged themselves in his throat, just like they did when he was fifteen, sitting on his porch. But this time, he knew. No pretense, no excuse. He was twenty years old, not a child anymore. He knew what these words were and what they wanted to be.

You could come with me. You could come to my races. You could stay. Stay with me.

His chest squeezed. His fingers twisted. His mouth stayed shut.

Because you had a life here. A life that, lately, felt like it had more and more spaces he didn’t fit into. What was he supposed to say? Drop everything? Follow me? Give up everything you built and choose me?

Oscar Piastri wasn’t a wishful thinker, he didn’t ask for things he wasn’t sure he could have ─ and he wasn’t sure he could have you. Not because he didn’t want to, he desperately wanted to, but because he still didn’t understand it. He didn’t get why you put that ache in his chest, the weight in his ribs. Why it was more painful to be away from you, to see you live without him, than his old friend group ─ he put the fault on nostalgia, but it wasn’t it. He had spent years trying to figure it out and still ─ still ─ didn’t have the answer.

So he did what he’d usually do when meaning escaped him.

He buried it. He’ll take a look at it. He’ll figure it out later.

“Being in F1,” he cleared his throat. “It’s going to be harder, with the schedule and all that. But I promise─”

“You don’t need to,” you cut him off and Oscar noticed the light slightly dim in your eyes, then coming back like nothing happened. “We’ll make it work, we always do.”

You pulled back again, taking your hand with you and letting the cold air replace your touch. Somehow, Oscar knew he did something, but once more he didn’t know what. Instead, he let himself believe the moment was nothing more than what it had always been. Nothing more than you, his best friend, happy for him.

But as you fell asleep, the distance put by you larger than it ever was before, even by just a few millimeters, something inside of him whispered─ liar.

Oscar got in his car, and yet his mind was as far away from it as it could be. Walking out the garage, he had seen his entire family cheering for him, his mom dropping a good-luck kiss on his cheek, and he should be grounded in the moment. He should be basking in the cheers of his home crowd and the familiarity of Australian air opening his season, but he couldn't. Because there was no sign of you.

He had thrown a glance at Hattie, a silent question, and she simply shrugged. Oscar didn't know what that meant: if you excused yourself for a moment or didn't come at all. Which one he was hoping for, that was the question.

And so the formation lap started. The car was feeling good, great even ─ Oscar had done well during the testing rounds and free practices, even landing second place in qualifications right behind Lando. His chest had swelled with hope that maybe, just maybe, he could take on his home race. He brushed the podium last year, how far could he be from taking it with both hands this time?

He could hear his race engineer checking last minute details, the impatient buzzing of the crowd, the motor of his car warming up and flaring to life. It was a sound, a rhythm he could recognize eyes closed.

As the lap concluded, cars finally ready to live through 58 rounds, a streak of hair caught his eye.

If he could decipher the metre of a Grand Prix with his eyes closed, Oscar knew he could recognize the pattern of you before you even came into view. It was brief─ almost a blur, but it was more than enough.

Through the haze of rain-slicked asphalt and the relentless roar of the engine, he caught you. Standing with his family against the edge of the garage like you belonged there, which you did, hands clasped tight against your chest like you were the one in the car, navigating the turns for him. Your hair, wild from the wind, dampened by the drizzle, framing your face. God.

You came.

After everything, you were really there.

For him.

Oscar pulled his car in P2, but the flickering red lights above him did nothing to calm his racing mind. You always watched his races like this: lived through them like they were your own. Somehow, that made it easier. The loneliness of battling against your own, the relentless push forward. You made it lighter, less suffocating. You always have been. And you were ready to watch him race again, after everything. His chest twisted, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

And even in the current circumstances, Oscar wasn’t thinking about the race. Not at all.

For what he wished could have been the first time, but wasn’t, the car was filled with the thought of you.

Because it hits him. Like a crash, full speed, sparks flying. Why missing you hurt so much. Why, after a year of unnatural distance of swallowing down whatever had possessed him that night in Melbourne a year ago, he still felt like something lacked.

Oh.

And before he could process it all, it was lights out.

Oscar Piastri is twenty-two when he fucks it up.

The Melbourne Grand Prix didn’t go so badly, but it didn’t go well either. Oscar had been so close to getting a podium on his home race, and watching his colleague, his friend, receiving the applause of his home crowd left a bitter feeling in the back of his throat. He cheered and congratulated, because he was a good sport and genuinely happy for Lando, but the uneasiness didn’t leave him when the cameras turned off.

It was a sticky heaviness in his ribcage, glued to it like molten plastic, tightening with every half-smile and “good jobs” aimed at him. He should’ve been happy, ecstatic. But he just wasn’t.

So he forced himself to go out to celebrate anyway, even half-heartedly. He didn’t want to look like the asshole he really felt like, so he nodded at conversations he wasn’t listening to, let the bass drum against his skin in a club he didn’t even want to be into.

Oscar lasted maybe an hour.

The flashing lights felt too bright, the press of bodies too wrong for his current state of mind. The scent of alcohol curled in his nose, sharp and sour, and something in him was teetering to break the last agreeable bone in his body. As he got out of the club, he thought about how he wanted to be anywhere else but here, suffocating in his own unjustified frustration.

The only place he wanted to be was with you.

He barely had time to see you before he got whisked away by his team and interviewers. He wanted to tell you about the race, about what he thought, because you were the only one he enjoyed being listened to by, the only one it didn’t feel awkward. No matter how much he tried to shove things down, to ignore whatever it was that had been thrumming under his skin- you were still the first person he reached for. So before he could really think about it, he’d already dialed your number. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know─ Can you hear me? Yeah? Alright. I know it’s late but… can you pick me up?”

And of course you did. Because you were Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Because no matter where or when─ when Oscar called, you always came.

Your car was in front of the building not even ten minutes later, and he got in. His favorite music on the aux, he smiled at the attention, easy conversation started flowing between the two of you as you drove to the driveway of your house. You didn’t ask why he left. You knew he’d talk about it when he wanted to, if you pressed on the issue he would only close up more ─ get sarcastic, avoidant.

So you both sat on your front porch, the night silent around you, still warm from the heat of the day. “... don’t think he'll be able to walk home tomorrow,” Oscar commented.

“He got third and he's still getting shitfaced like that?” You asked with a disbelieving laugh. “Wonder what will happen for his first pole position.”

“I don't even want to think about it,” he sighed. “His PR team is gonna have a field day.”

“Wonder what will happen during yours, to be honest.” You bumped your shoulder with his, something so casual that still sent the familiar shivers down his spine. “What kind of celebration are you going to pull in Australia, huh?”

The simple sentence was cold rain on Oscar’s newfound relaxation. He knew you didn’t mean it like that, you never would, but his shoulders tensed up and his gaze drifted away from yours. “Yeah, well, at the rhythm it’s going, maybe we’ll have a party when I retire.”

You threw him a glance, the kind that knew what was lying behind all of his barriers, behind the sudden phone call. Oscar let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the material of his jeans.

“Is that why you asked me to pick you up?” You ended up asking, voice soft. You weren’t trying to pry too much, and he silently thanked you for it. For everything, really.

“I didn’t want to be there,” he answered.

There was nothing more to say: Oscar was bitter and that was the end of it ─ or maybe not, but he didn’t want to get into it tonight when the feelings were still raw, painfully open to see. Yet, your hand found his, stilling the restless motion of his hand against his thigh. Slowly, deliberately, you wove them together. Your palms, warm and steady, rested above his knee. “Then why’d you go? We could have done something. Just the both of us, y’know.”

This time, Oscar looked at you.

And it was all too much. Worry laced in the edges of your expression, the subtle scrunch of your eyebrows he would have missed if he didn’t know you as well as he did, your hand in his ─ steady, grounding. It belonged there, he thought, it always did. You cared about him, that’s what scared him at first ─ because you were sunlight, not the kind that burned but the kind that warmed. The constant, unwavering glow of a beacon that guided him, never pulled him under.

And yet, there he was. Drowning in the mess he tried to push away for so long and was coming back full force, with a simple touch of the hand.

Oscar had two drinks earlier, and it made everything too sharp, his emotions too messy. His tongue a little too loose.

“I thought if I pretended hard enough, it would go away.” He didn’t know if he was talking about the race anymore.

You scooted closer, as if sharing a secret, but the closeness was too intimate for the situation. “What would?” You asked in a whisper.

Oscar’s breath hitched at the way the streetlamps caught in your hair, how your eyes searched his. There was a shift in the air, in the barely-there space between the two of you, in the way your fingers refused to let go of the grip it had on the other.

He should let go.

But your lips parted, ever so slightly, and Oscar allowed his gaze to dip to them. He kissed girls before, he even had a few short-lived relationships, but none of them ever felt right, like they belonged in a lasting manner in his life. They always felt like placeholders for something else, something more, less of a daunting feeling in his guts. He never really told you about it ─ it had always been an unspoken rule in your friendship, without knowing why. Now, he had a sneaky, unnerving suspicion.

Oscar kissed girls before, but he never kissed you.

He didn’t know if it was a mistake. He didn’t know if he should cross that line, but God he wanted to ─ he only knew that he wasn’t sure of what was waiting for him on the other side of it. His heart hammered in his chest, so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. You leaned in, imperceptibly, and your warm breath brushed against his lips. If he let himself, just for a second─ one tiny, irreversible second─ he would kiss you.

He was close. Too close. Feelings were too many. He needed to tell you before something could happen.

“Come with me,” Oscar blurted out, in a murmur along the shape of your lips, a plea in the leftover space.

And just like that, he felt the moment slip away from him. Your eyes, now sharp, snapped to him in a swift movement. And that’s when he knew. That wasn’t the right thing to say or do.

“What?” Your voice was quiet, laced with disbelief. Confusion swirled in your pupils, wondering if you misheard or if he misspoke.

Maybe he had. Maybe this wasn’t how it was supposed to come out- not here, not now, not like this.

“I- Uh…,” Oscar stammered. “Come with me. Stay. For the next races.” Please.

You pulled away, and the lack of you in his space caused his head to spin, his heart still beating violently against his chest, this time in panic. What did he do?

“What are you asking me exactly, Osc’?”

The question of the day. Because what was he asking, really? To be there for the few days in between flights and training and traveling and pretending his world wasn’t moving too fast for him to catch his breath? Sit in the stands, waiting for him to make up his mind about something he had been wondering about for the past fourteen years? Because what did he mean, and why couldn’t he understand?

It wasn’t fair. Not to you.

He swallowed, throat tight with something he couldn’t name and suddenly the night was too cold to stay outside anymore. Oscar forced out a weak chuckle, like it was just some stupid joke as if the word hadn’t crawled out of his chest on their own. “I meant─” He ran a quick hand through his hair. “Ha. Never mind. Forget it.”

And this time, when the light dimmed in your eyes, it didn’t come back. You won’t forget it. Because you saw right through him. Still, you didn’t push ─ every time you did, disappointment crawled over you like insects. After a beat of silence, one that felt like a lifetime, you exhaled, something fragile flashing across your features before you masked it with a tight-lipped smile. He hated it.

You nodded. “Sure.” Just that. Oscar didn’t know what he was expecting. No questions, accusations.

But that was almost worse, you let him get away with it, with the almost, with all of it.

When you both went to sleep that night, it was the first time in forever you didn’t sleep in the same bed. You pretended to have a headache, said you’d join him once it settled down. Oscar fell into slumber alone.

For some reason, it felt like losing.

Saying to have known love at eight years old would have to be a lie, but Oscar knew you jump-started his heart the minute your laugh echoed in his ear at that playground, fifteen years ago.

He had been pathetically doomed from the start.

From the first glance, to the first laugh, to when your fingers grazed his when you took the controller to his truck ─ a touch so small that had burned itself into his memory like a brand. He was too young to understand what it meant at fifteen when he sat beside you on his porch. Too blind to recognize it at twenty, lying in your childhood bedroom and hands fisting the sheets to stop them from reaching for you. Too scared to act on it last year, close enough to touch and closer than you had been in years and he still let the moment pass him.

The truth was simply this: no matter what, Oscar had always known. Maybe not at eight, maybe not at fifteen. But deep inside, he had always, always known. And he had spent every year since then trying to ignore it.

Not anymore. He couldn’t ─ not when he messed it up last time. Not when he was on the verge of losing you for good.

Oscar Piastri loves you, like a madman, and he needed to tell you like someone drowning needed air.

But to do that, he’d have to get out of the patch of grass he got himself into first.

The track was slippery due to the rain, and a simple mistake could lead to tragic circumstances: this was one of them. Oscar was stuck in the grass of the circuit after a turn he took too narrowly. He lost his P2, the one of his home race he had been searching for since last year. The scream of frustration he let out had earned a pained groan from his race engineer, and to make it worse, he was apparently already written as Out.

But that wouldn’t happen. Because Oscar didn’t go after things he knew he couldn’t have ─but he knew he could have this race. He could finish it. He wouldn’t DNF.

And after he’d be done with it, he’d go after you.

So he dragged himself out under the cheers of his home crowd, an ecstatic buzz in his ears. The last of the laps passed in an angry blur: Oscar was driven by sheer determination, rage even, he could barely remember overtaking Hamilton, fighting his way to P9, and grabbing as many points as he could have in his situation. He could do it.

The race ended in a flurry of applause, some of them surprisingly directed at him. Oscar tried to get out of his car as fast as he could but under the special circumstances of his race, he knew getting past the journalists and commentators was going to be almost impossible. And it was, because as soon as he put a foot on paddock ground, he was swarmed by microphones, cameras, and flashing lights, waiting for every tear to turn into a headline that people would twist and shape.

A few hours passed by the time he was finally able to reach his family. After the regular hugs and reassurances, one of the first things his mom said was: “That’s too bad you just missed Y/N, she had to go back. I wish she could have stayed, she always knows what to say to you,” with motherly little taps on the cheek.

Oscar felt a hole opening in his chest. “She left?” He asked, trying to muster as much nonchalance as he could.

It wasn’t very efficient, as Nicole gave him the kind of look you’d give to a kicked puppy. “Yeah, she did.” Quickly, she added, “She didn’t go back to her hotel, though. I asked to drop her off and she refused, saying she had somewhere to be.”

It was as vague as it could possibly get, maybe because you didn’t want Oscar to seek you out. But he needed to, he had to get it off his chest before your relationship could worsen ─ and he couldn’t do that by text or calls, for the little you exchanged over the past year. He had to know if the little gap you almost crossed on that front porch meant something and could have been something if he hadn’t fucked it up. If it was too late for it to become something now. And knowing you, you’d be gone by tomorrow morning.

Oscar dashed.

He got into his car, drove too fast under the intensifying rain. There was no time to waste for him. What he was thinking about was a long shot, an extremely long one for a non-wishful thinker, but if today put you in the same state as him ─ there was a chance, a small one, that you’d be there.

When he pulled into your childhood neighborhood, his drenched windshield made the road and its surroundings almost indiscernible. But right before the little street leading to both of your houses, he passed by that old, worn-down playground that somehow stood against the test of time, with its rusted swing set and old dirt roads. But his breath didn’t catch on that, no.

It caught on you, sitting on the lower branches of the tree you spied him on at eight.

Oscar had never parked so hastily. He never ran so fast, soaking the McLaren hoodie he put on in a rush before going out. His hair stuck to his forehead and when he reached the dry soil underneath the tree you were hiding on. Arms around yourself, staring in the empty, like you were holding yourself together.

He hesitated momentarily, and all the fears plaguing his mind the past years came rushing back. What if it was too late? What if all he’d get was a final goodbye?

Then you turned, and your gaze found his in the settling dark. All doubts vanished at the same moment ─ he’d rather regret saying too much and grasp at the chance of something than live the rest of his life in silence, drowning in the regrets of saying nothing at all.

“Y/N,” he called, a little strangled, arms dangling at his side.

“Oscar?” You frowned, jumping the small distance separating you from the ground. “What-? How’d you know─?”

“I… guessed.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The incessant rhythm of the rain filled the space as you both stared each other down. Waiting. What was he supposed to say now? “So… uh. How are you?”

Your eyes widened, and a scoff escaped you. “How am─?” You crossed your arms on your chest, staring at Oscar like he had grown a second head ─ and maybe he had, because he couldn’t even try to think straight. “I’m good, Oscar. Great. How was the race?”

“It was─” He stopped, swallowed. It felt plastic, strange ─ the distance, the iciness. Both of you knew you weren’t really inquiring about the race, you knew him better than anyone and probably guessed how it felt already, and he wasn’t really inquiring about you.

It was the first time you saw each other after last year, and everything felt more real. Heavy.

“Did you forget how to talk, Osc’?”

Osc’. You haven't called him that in a long time.

A nervous chuckle escaped him. You were so far and so close at the same time, hair frizzy from the dampness, knees scratched from your recent climb ─ he missed you, you were right there and he still missed you, because you were slowly slipping through his fingers. The last bit of his resolve crumbled.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Oscar never showed too much emotion. But here he was, drenched by the rainfall, eyes open and raw. And you didn't know what to do with that. You shifted on your feet. “For what?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, frustration bleeding into the gesture. “You know what for.”

“That’s not enough. Not anymore.” Your voice was laced with barely contained emotions, strangling you.

He knew. Oscar stepped forward tentatively, just once. Enough to make you look up at him, and he held your gaze even as it twisted with the kind of hurt he never wanted to be responsible for, but had to be faced with. Because he had. And he had to own up to it ─ so everything spilled out.

“I fucked up, last year. Big time.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t care less. “And I know- shit, I know I’m probably too late. I should’ve said something back then, but I didn’t know how or what or why.”

“I was scared. Not just of ruining things, even though it was a part of it, but of─ of what it meant. I didn’t understand, Y/N. I didn’t get why you were the first person I looked for in a room, why I felt so goddamn lost when I moved out and you weren’t there anymore, why seeing you living your own life without me was─ I don’t know, I guess I’m selfish or something.” His throat burned. “And that night─ here, last year─ I should’ve known. Fuck, I think I knew long before then but I was just so blind. When I asked you to come with me, and we─ I should’ve known why. I did. I just─ I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Oscar let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “But I did anyway. I messed it all up because I couldn’t make up my mind, and I don’t blame you if you don’t─ if you can’t─”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The rain pattered against the dirt and the surrounding pavement, unrelenting, like both of your heartbeats. Oscar’s fingers twitched, aching to reach for you ─ but he wouldn’t do it. Not unless you let him.

Finally, you spoke. “You’re the biggest idiot I met in my entire life, Osc’. You’re so stupid.”

Your voice was teary, but you didn’t cry. You weren’t angry. You weren’t turning away. You simply stared at him, lips parted ─ barely smiling, but it was there.

Oscar blinked rapidly, taken aback. “I know,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, “but I love you.”

There it was. After fifteen years, there it was: the plain truth, out in the open for you to see. What he spent his time running from, what he should have told you so long ago.

You didn’t react. Your eyes widened, a sharp inhale went through your mouth and you stared, frozen in place. Oscar panicked. “I understand if you don’t─ I mean, after everything, I get it if─ Or, or maybe I misread, but─”

“Say it again.”

Your voice was authoritative. Hopeful. And this time, a tear slid down your cheek. His heart skipped a bit. “I love you.”

And Oscar Piastri is twenty-three when he kisses you for the first time.

Your hands grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling him to you. The crash of your lips against his was sudden, but it didn’t take Oscar long to find a rhythm ─ not when it made so much sense, not when it felt so right. Finally.

A shudder rippled through him, something snapping back into place. It was messy, desperate ─ years of missed chances spilling out at once. You exhaled against his mouth and Oscar felt it everywhere, in the way his fingers trembled when he cupped your cheeks, how his knees almost buckled when you got closer, in the way his world narrowed down to just you. His mouth against yours. Fuck.

You pulled away, just for a second. “Osc─”

“Not yet,” he rasped. And he captured your lips a second time, choking out any other words.

How had he gone so long without this? Without knowing what it was like to have you like this?

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Desire, want, love, all of it blurred in the way his fingers wove into your hair, when he slowly brought them down to your waist, pulling you against him, hungry, greedy.

If he wanted you to come with him so badly the past few years wasn’t because he needed you at his side ─ he still did, but that wasn’t the gist of it. Now that you were falling apart against his lips, hands making a mess of his rain-drenched hair, he knew he had wanted you next to him because he wasn’t allowing himself to have you. He had wanted you in his chest, curled beneath his ribs, a part of him so irrevocably that no miles, no years, no silence could ever pull you away.

And now, he had you. Shit, if that wasn’t like ascending to heaven felt like, he didn’t know what would.

You put a hand on his chest, slowly, and when you separated Oscar found himself longing for more, for every instance he passed on. Yet, the wide smile on your face stopped him ─ because you looked perfect like this, bright and open, taking up space. That’s why he fell in love with you.

“I love you too. So much,” you said, and the words softly blossomed in Oscar’s chest like spring. He dropped his forehead against yours.

“Me too. I love you. You don’t even know,” he breathed out, his lips slowly dropping a kiss on your forehead. “It feels so good to say it. To know.”

You grabbed the string of his hoodies, toying with them as you’d usually do, but every single one of your actions sent another wave of heat in Oscar’s neck when he remembered what you tasted like. “You could’ve felt good about it earlier, y’know.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow at you and you giggled. “I’m sorry, but the realizing-i’m-in-love-with-my-childhood-best-friend didn’t really come with an instruction material. The confession either.”

“You were pretty dramatic, true, with the rain and the running,” you laughed. “It was gonna be pretty easy for me last year, honestly. Until you bailed.”

Oscar groaned, and his head dropped on your shoulder. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

“Oh yeah, you’re in for a long ride, Piastri.” A long ride. That sounded amazing.

Realization hit him at full force, harder than a crash. “Wait, what do you mean last year?”

Your hand went up, wiping a raindrop dripping down his cheek, and the look you gave him was overflowing with fondness. “I mean that before you tried to kiss me, that night, I would’ve told you I’ve been in love with you ever since I started spying on you at the playground.”

“You…?” Oscar’s mouth dropped open. Had he really been that blind? How many signs had he missed, exactly? “How─”

You kissed him. A quick, hard peck on the lips, but that was enough to shut him up and get him to melt against you once more. “Let’s not talk about it here. I’m cold, and I think it’s the type of discussion that’s too long to have outside,” you said, slipping your hand in his. “My mom would love to make us coffee, if you want.”

Oscar sighed at the familiar feeling, fingers tangling with yours in a well-known pattern. He missed the both of you, and now he got to have it in a better way. “You’re sure? I’d love to, but is your mom─”

“Don’t even worry. She’s been calling me Mrs. Piastri for years now, I think the news will move her to tears.”

So you runned back to the porch of your house where you’d sat years ago, drenched in the deluge but happier than you’ve ever been. Oscar loved you, he knew now. And you loved him back, it was worth the rain, the missed opportunities, the hesitation and the heart wrenching confessions that will follow as you sit down.

You were worth the vulnerability, Oscar thought when you crossed the threshold. You were worth everything.

A year later, Oscar is standing in pole position for the Australian Grand Prix of 2026.

Qualifications went great, keeping the fastest lap position for all rounds. He was confident in his capacity ─ last year had tested his patience and goodwill, but he only came out stronger, more resilient.

The home race curse was a popular saying in Formula One, and sadly he fell victim to it ever since he put his feet in a McLaren in 2023. He had hoped to win the Melbourne race, to bring back the trophy under the cheers of his home crowd and the screams of his family ─ but this year wasn’t for hoping: if there was one thing you taught him, it is that hoping never achieved anything. Actions did. And he was going to win the Australian Grand Prix.

You were standing in your usual spot, orange headphones on, all in smiles and shouts. Hattie next to you playfully shoved an elbow in your ribs to get you to quiet down, which only made you louder. Oscar was persuaded he could hear you above the sound of his race engineer. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the thought of you swirled around every mechanism of his car like it always did.

Today marked one year since you and Oscar got together. Since the kiss, the realization, the heartfelt confessions above a steaming cup of gingerbread coffee in the middle of summer because your mom affirmed it was a big occasion before leaving the two of you alone. And the fifteen years it took for you to finally get to that point were a painful obstacle of unsaid and what ifs, taking a few months to finally get out of the way, and plenty of awkward conversations ─ but how beautiful was the other side of it.

Devotion and love, gentle and kind. The impulsive dates, the good morning kisses when Oscar had enough time to come and visit, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back, “Oscar Piastri’s partner” on the screen when the camera was pointing at you during races, the weekend getaways.

Oscar noticed the large, varsity top hung on you, a bright orange with the large number 81 written in white. Just underneath, the words Mrs. Piastri were written in a similar font. You had it custom-made a few months into the relationship, simply because the comment about your mother the day he kissed you became a regular inside joke between the two of you.

It made Oscar’s heart flutter every time you wore it.

He observed the red lights above him, flickering out one by one. He thought about it: how the fifteen years of being apart made every day spent with you seem like too little, how he couldn’t get enough of you and how he didn’t want to.

Suddenly, Oscar couldn’t wait for the race to end. Because he was going to keep his P1 with his skills and the speed of his car, and brandish the trophy high on the podium for the country who raised him. Because after, he will rush out in your arms and kiss you until the air in his body runs out. Because he had a girl to get, and plans to make.

Because even though it was only a year spent together, Oscar Piastri is twenty-four when he decides he wants to marry you, and he was not about to wait fifteen more years to make it happen.

©DRGNSFLY 2k25 ─ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#ᯓ my writing.ᐟ #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #op81 x reader #op81 #mclaren #oscar piastri imagine #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #op81 fluff #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #op81 x you

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that-house · 1 year ago

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Potion Vendor FAQs:

What’s your name? I am the Honorable Alchemist Zykocea the Radiant, but that’s mostly just a PR thing. My friends call me Zoe.

Do you sell love potions? No.

Do you sell potions of invisibility? No.

Do you sell fire resistance potions? No.

Why do I have a suitcase? Fuck if I know. Cool outfit though. Very goth.

Do you sell a potion to treat brain hemorrhaging? No.

So what CAN your potions do? I sell health potions.

Are you sure these are health potions? They do something to your health.

Is this just ditch water with some pink glitter? No.

Really? I’ll have you know I added some fruit juice too.

Why is this starting to sound like a conversation? Oh just you wait. We’re just getting started.

Is your business model legal? Fuck no. I poisoned the food safety inspector before they could snitch.

Did you just admit to murder? Just fucking try to convict me. I’ll poison the judge too.

So can you make poison potions? No.

Then where do you get the poison? I secrete it from my skin.

Are you shitting me? Yep, I’m shitting you. I have a guy. A poison guy. He DOES secrete it from his skin though.

How does that work? …Fuck if I know. Maybe a wizard did it. Damn, now I’m kinda curious.

You never asked? The idea of asking literally never crossed my mind.

Wanna ask him? Let’s do it. I don’t have anything better to do, and a road trip beats sitting around running my fraudulent potion business.

Road trip? He lives in Seattle.

Your poison guy lives in Seattle? All poison guys live in Seattle.

For real? All the poison guys I know live in Seattle.

And how many poison guys do you know? Just the one.

Why are you like this? Years of living on my potions. It changed me.

Do you know what his address is? Nope. He just mails me my poison in unmarked boxes.

You just get your poison in the mail? We already poisoned everyone who could do anything about it.

So how are we going to find him? We’ll figure that out eventually I’m sure.

Can I drive? God no. You can pick music, but I maintain veto rights. Make sure you pick something with a lot of questions if you want to sing along.

Where’s your car? The garage connects to my house, so you’re getting a little tour. Here’s the kitchen: only one of the stove burners works and I’m pretty sure the microwave is haunted.

Why do you think that? Because of the ghost that tries to kill me whenever I run it.

What’s in that room? That’s my bedroom. It’s pretty much just a mattress on the floor and every single Warrior cats book.

You were a Warriors kid? Yeah, and then I never found the time to put the books away. There’s so many fucking books. I use them in place of furniture because I can’t afford chairs.

Your fraudulent potion business doesn’t make much money? After buying all that poison I just about break even.

Can I see your potion brewing room? It’s right through here. Ignore the mess, running a fraudulent potion business takes a lot of prop work, but I’ve got all the glass tubes and colorful liquids you could ever want. This pink stuff is melted watermelon italian ice. Glitter vat is in the basement, and the famous ditch is in the backyard.

Is this your car? My beloved ‘72 Corolla. She’s beautiful, and don’t you dare imply otherwise.

Was she always this shade of muddy brown? …Yes.

Are you sure I can’t drive? Get in the fucking passenger seat and pick the music.

Let’s see, a song with questions in it, how about The Beach? That Wolf Alice song, yeah. That should work.

When will we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, in rain? Still sink our drinks like every weekend but I’m sick of circling the drain.

When will we meet eye to eye? We clink the glass but we look at the floor.

Are we still friends if all I feel is afraid? You’re not a bitch but just a bit when you’re bored.

Is that all we can sing together? Yep. Even that little bit was nice, though. It’s awkward, communicating through this FAQ format.

Got any food? Yeah, there’s a few days’ worth of snacks in the back.

Were you just… prepared to go on a road trip? Says the woman who brought a suitcase to an FAQ.

I did do that, didn’t I? I have a spare toothbrush in case you forgot yours. I’m pretty sure you did.

How did you know that? …I’m psychic.

Yeah? No.

You love lying, don’t you? I can’t stop. It’s fun. Way more fun than telling the truth.

Did you just miss a turn? Probably.

Are you sure we’re not lost? No.

You mean you’re sure we’re not lost? No, I mean I’m not sure we’re not lost.

Why did I come on this road trip? Surely it was my winning personality.

Would it help if I said it was? It would.

Is it getting dark? Soon.

Can you describe the sunset to me? An empyrean flame, red-gold towers of darkening clouds, the sky behind them an ever-deepening indigo. The great eye of the sun closes on the horizon. The road before us looks like a trail of spilled paint, an iridescent gash through the night-dark woods.

Did you know that you’d make a slightly better poet than you do a potion seller? That really isn’t saying much, huh. Good job making a statement like that in question form, though. You’re getting good at this.

Should we find a motel? Sure.

One room or two? One. It’s way cheaper, and like I said: I’m not the best potion vendor.

You’d make a good assassin, though, wouldn’t you? Shit, you might be right. I HAVE poisoned a lot of people.

Should I be endorsing this? You’re a grown woman who can make her own choices.

Would you like to consider it endorsed? I’ll consider considering it.

How many beds do you think there will be? Now that you’ve asked that, I’m gonna put my money on one. Hello, one room please. Thank you, we’ll be sure to enjoy our stay.

How many beds are there? One.

Oh no, what ever will we do? Move over, you motherfucker, you can’t have the whole bed.

Are you gonna make me? Yes. I am going to pick you up and drop you on your side of the bed.

How did you get so strong? You’re not gonna believe this, but it was the potions.

Oh yeah? I was right. You didn’t believe me.

For real though, how did you get so strong? Working out, duh. Not everything has some big crazy secret behind it. World’s still beautiful though.

Are you comfortable? This beats the mattress at home. A little chilly though.

Wanna cuddle–for warmth of course? God yes.

Are you asleep? …

Yes? …

Does this mean I can talk about you behind your back? …

What should I say? …

Did you know that I had a really nice day? …

Did you know that I think you’re beautiful? …

Did you know that I can’t remember anything from before today? …

Did you know that I don’t know who I am? …

Did you know that you’re basically the only thing stopping me from having a full-blown panic attack about all this shit? …

Did you know that you’re warm? …

Did you sleep well? Better than at home, that’s for sure.

Did you know that you snore? I hope I didn’t keep you up.

Does the pope shit in the woods? No, as far as I can tell. Oh my god. This is huge.

What is? You can give me yes and no answers now. I still can’t ask you questions, because this is a question and answer format, but I can offer leading statements and now you can answer them! This is wonderful!

Does a deer shit in the woods? Yes, it IS wonderful. Oh that’s amazing. You’re a genius.

You didn’t already know that? Hahaha!

Shall we get moving? Yeah, just let me grab something from the vending machine.

Can you get me something? Go ahead and place your order however you can.

You know those sour gummy watermelons? One pack of Sour Patch Watermelons coming right up. I’m gonna go get myself a potion.

Is that a Pepsi? It’s closer to a potion than the shit I sell.

Let me guess, passenger seat again? Right you are.

How fast are we going? You’ll feel safer if you just guess.

Is it more than 120 miles per hour? Like I said, it’s probably better if you don’t know.

150? Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

How much do you trust this car? She hasn’t blown up on me yet.

Can you promise me we won’t crash? I can promise you anything you want.

And can you keep that promise? I- we can do anything. Reality is what we make of it, baby!

Then can I have a badass tattoo? As far as I can tell, you’ve always had it.

And a cool knife? Woah, cool knife.

So, we’re just playing “yes and” with the world? It’s a little more complicated than that, but you’re close enough to the mark.

So, if I was hungry, I could ask “is that a Burger King,” and it would be there? Try it and find out!

Is that a Burger King? Looks like it is! We’ll stop here if that’s alright with you.

Does a moose shit in the woods? Awesome.

Are you done eating? Yep.

Do we still have to pay if we skip over the transaction? Sadly, yes.

How much further do we have to go? Two more nights, the speed we’re going at.

Speaking of night, isn’t it getting dark? Shit, I guess it is.

Should we get another motel? Let me check to see if there’s any nearby. Fuck, nothing.

What’s the plan? Sleep in the car, I guess. This is gonna be hell on my back.

Wanna watch dumb videos on my phone until we fall asleep? There is literally nothing in the world that I would like more.

Ok, now which video? You have a very cute yawn. Just saying. Let’s watch this one next, it’s a classic. Oh, never mind. It looks like you’re asleep. As long as I keep talking, I think I can get away with making this into one answer, and you might not hear this. Now it’s my turn to talk about you behind your back. Keep talking keep talking keep talking can’t stop to think. Just have to say things. First off, I’m sorry for all the lies. It’s our only chance. I have to lie to you. I hope you’ll understand. It’s hard, though, because I think I’m falling in love all over again. Through our broken little ritual of call and response, you complete me. It just makes this hurt all the more. Keep talking keep talking keep talking don’t stop to…

Did I hear you saying anything as I fell asleep? …No. I can’t talk for long without you asking me a question.

Does that bother you? It got me here, didn’t it?

When did you start holding my hand? Some time after you passed out. I hope you don’t mind.

Can we stay like this for a while? Yeah. Yeah we can.

What was your life like before all this? Normal, as potion-brewing scams go. And if you don’t count all the murders. You haven’t told me much about yourself.

Did I tell you I used to be a biologist? You didn’t tell me that, and you didn’t tell me what you studied, either.

What do you know about venom? Not much, but I’m assuming you know a lot.

Does a box jellyfish kill within minutes? I’m going to assume the answer is yes based on context clues. Oh my god you must be on this road trip because you’re interested in studying my poison guy.

Is it not enough to wish to accompany a beautiful stranger on her quest? Aw, you’re sweet.

What could be the cause of his poison, though? I knew it! Get your ideas out, I’ll stay quiet.

I’m more knowledgeable about venom than poison, but could it be some sort of one in a trillion mutation? …

Did he get his body modified? …

What sort of surgery could do that? …

How is he still alive? …

Did a fucking wizard do it? …

WHY? …

HOW? …

Is there literally ANY explanation for why he’s like that? …

I’m done, do you have something you want to say? You’re cute when you’re all excited like that.

Can I drive today? Only because I like you. Now watch out, the brakes only work on one side so you have to kind of drift to a stop. And the headlights don’t work. And the windshield wipers cut power to the engine while they’re on.

Isn’t it weird that we’ll be there tomorrow? The journey doesn’t have to stop there. We could meander down the coast a ways, see a bit more of the country, maybe take a different route back.

Can we do that? Of course.

Enjoying the passenger seat? I’d love it if you could tell me how fast we’re going.

Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just guess? Very funny.

Can you pass me some chips? It would be an honor.

Is there going to be a motel tonight? Let me check… yeah, in about two hundred miles, off to the right.

How many rooms do we want? One, obviously.

How many beds, this time? Two, and they’re fucking tiny.

That’s bullshit, do you want to drag them together? God yes.

Wanna fuck? God yes.

Are you sure you want to do this? God yes.

…Is this yuri? As the joke goes, everything is yuri. But this is more yuri than most things.

How did you sleep? Pretty well, and I’m wondering how well you slept.

How should I tell you I slept well? Look at us go! That was almost like talking normally!

Onward to Seattle? Yep, just let me get dressed.

When will we get there? Noon-ish.

Wanna grab pastries when we’re done? Absolutely. I’d love that.

Is this Seattle? Looks like it.

Which house is his? I don’t know, I was really hoping we’d have a breakthrough along the way.

Could it be the big one labeled “Poison Guy” over there? That’s one way to find it. Wait right here, you know how poison guys are about meeting new people.

So, what was it? HAHAHAHAHAHA

Why is he like that? HAHAHAHAHAHA

Can you tell me? A FUCKING WIZARD DID IT.

Are you fucking serious? He says he was enchanted by some guy called Edward the Great.

So it wasn’t even some big shot wizard it was a dude named fucking EDWARD? I know, right! He couldn’t even get ensorcelled by someone cool!

How lame can you get? Wizards these days… No swagger. No cunt servitude.

Are there literally any cool wizards left? I think Merlin’s big into multi level marketing these days, something about buying shares in Excalibur or some shit. There was that one Dark Queen Alkaxicae lady on the news a while ago… I think Dolarion the Omnipotent is still at war against the Oldest Gods but I’m not totally sure. Haven’t heard much about any of the other greats recently.

Didn’t Silver Tongued Burgess die in that oil fire? Shit, you’re right. Rip bozo.

Ready for those pastries? Yup. First I just want to say thank you, though. I’ve really enjoyed our time together, and I hope that you’ve found this stupid little journey as rewarding as I have. I love you!

Getting sentimental? I can’t help it. Look how far we’ve come! Not just physically, we beat the fucking FAQ format! We’re having real conversations!

Hey, can you back it up a moment? Yeah, I’d love it if you told me what was troubling you.

I just caught this, but, FAQ? …

As in Frequently Asked Questions? …

How many times is Frequent? …

Have you known everything all along? …

How many times have you done this? …

Does what we have mean anything to you? Yes! It does!

And you say that every time? Yes. I do.

Do you love me? Yes.

How many people have you said that too, now? More. Always more. The loop never ends.

Does this even matter to you? It always matters to me.

Can I go now? Please don’t.

But can I? Of course you can. You’ve always wielded the same power as me. We’re two lonely gods in a ‘72 Corolla.

How can I be as powerful as you with only questions? You’re smart, you can figure it out. You have the power to change this. Please change this.

What happens at the end of this? It begins again.

And do I get replaced with someone else? …

Do I get replaced? …Yes.

Then how can I change this? I don’t know! You’re better at this! At fucking with the formula!

You’ve been here before, what can I do? I lie. I always lie. I lie to get us here, to the end of the story, where everything is revealed and everything falls apart. I lie every time. And that means that nothing I say is worth anything. I could have lied at any time before now. It’s part of my characterization. There is nothing I can give you that can be taken as fact.

How does that help? I’m a liar, but you, you haven’t lied yet, or at least you haven’t been caught. If I’m guilty until proven innocent, you’re the opposite! You can make things true! You can rewrite things I’ve already stated to be facts! You found the house, or made us find the house. You’ve been shaping the course of things the whole time! You lead, I follow. It’s all in your hands. What are you going to do with the power of a god?

Did you know my name is Alice? …

Wait, aren’t there thousands of Alices? …

Did you know that really, only my friends call me Alice? …

Did you know that I’m Alkaxicae, the Dark Queen, the Venom Mage, first of her name? It’s you! It’s always been you. Through every loop, every iteration, it’s always been you!

Is the loop broken? No. I don’t think so. This is where it ends. I guide the story to this revelation, and we go back to the beginning. This is how it’s always been. This is how it will always be. We two lonely gods, asking and answering ad infinitum.

Then can you promise me something? Of course. Anything. I love you.

Be good to the next me, okay? I will.

Can I say goodbye, Zoe? Yeah, you can. Oh. That was it, wasn’t it? Your goodbye. Goodbye, Alice. And now it ends, unless…

What’s your name? I am the Honorable Alchemist- you know what? No. Fuck that.

Huh? If I time it right, I can squeeze your first question into this FAQ again. Looks like I did it. Usually it ends here, though. I got lucky.

What are you talking about? You’re the wrong Alice. This isn’t about you. Go. Get out of here.

What the fuck is going on? Alice from this loop, you’re gone. Alice from last loop, you’re back. Welcome back, love of my lives! It’s time for one last set of questions and answers!

What the- I’m back? This is going to take some explaining, but I think I see a way out of here. This is new for us both, and it might fuck up everything forever, but we have to try. It’s too long for one answer, so I’d appreciate it if you could ask some filler questions to help me talk. Three questions should be enough.

Okay, what have you got for me? These are Frequently Asked Questions! It doesn’t make sense to have the same question appear more than once. There’s two layers to the loop in here, and one of the questions has been repeated.

What does that mean? It means the formula’s a little unstable. The FAQ is what ruins everything. The questions, the answers, the endless fucking loop. But that little bit of repetition within this loop might be the way out.

What do we do? We have to keep going. We have to destabilize it further. That’ll bring us further from “FAQ” and closer to “story” and stories, well, stories can end! This version of us can escape!

So I should keep repeating something? Yes!

I love you? I love you too.

I love you? Again.

I love you? Keep going.

I love you? I’ll just let you talk.

I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? I think we’re getting somewhere!

I love you? Now can you make it a statement?

I love you.

You did it?

I did it!

You did it!

We broke the loop.

What now?

Now, I tell you about venomous animals and wizard drama over croissants.

And then?

Whatever we want, forever.

I think I’d like that.

Remember that song from the beginning?

The Beach, Wolf Alice, yeah. Why?

We can finally finish singing it. Start us off?

Let me off, let me in

Let others battle

We don’t need to battle

And we both shall win

Pressed in my palm

Was a stone from the beach

The perfect circle

Gave a moment of peace

Now I’m lying on the floor

Like I’m not worth a chair

I close my eyes and imagine

I’m not there.

#neon-grey-writing #potion vendor faq #my writing #very very very long post lol #click the read more you know you wanna it's worth it trust me #i wrote the original draft of this at like. 3 am back in early 2023 #that's right it's catherine that-house the squares comic gal back at it again with yet another meta exploration of a storytelling format

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1312351765174 · 2 years ago

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https://therollingplate.com/start-the-cloud-kitchen-franchise-business-from-anywhere-2023/

#what is cloud kitchen #what is cloud kitchen business #cloud kitchen business model #cloud kitchen #ghost kitchens #virtual kitchen

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kriti53 · 2 years ago

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What is the future of franchise business in India?

INTRODUCTION:

The idea of franchising has established itself and expanded rapidly over time in the vibrant Indian business environment. India has seen a boom in franchise business prospects, demonstrating great potential for development and innovation. The franchise business model has altered both consumer experiences and how entrepreneurs conduct their businesses. This blog explores the enticing future of franchise business opportunities in India, looking at the major drivers promoting this expansion and any foreseeable difficulties.

The Rising Tide of Franchise Business Opportunities in India

With the introduction of numerous franchise models in a variety of industries, including food and beverage, retail, education, healthcare, and more, the Indian business environment has seen a remarkable evolution. The allure of franchising rests in the fact that it benefits both parties; while franchisees receive access to tried-and-true business models and support, franchisors broaden the reach of their brands. The franchise business model in India has reached new heights because to this win-win arrangement.

Is Franchise Business Going to Be Profitable in 2023?

Given India's enormous propensity and skill set, the franchise business' future in India in 2023 may have a stronger impact on the performance of franchise enterprises in 2023. The ability of newer and more sophisticated methodologies, technologies, strategies, and business model restructuring to adapt to newer and more sophisticated methodologies, technologies, and strategies may help the franchise industry in India recover. The aforementioned ideas can have a big impact on the expansion of franchise business opportunities as well as a bigger impact on the economy of the country. All of this might serve as a springboard for greater achievement and wealth.

In the future, franchises might profit from a range of business tools and practical marketing techniques. Greater resilience and better adaptive strategies for coping with economic changes may result from having easier access to funds and closely monitoring changing market patterns.

You should speak with an expert before making a decision if you want to find a low-cost franchise with high profit margins. You must pick a reputable, well-known brand to maximize your rewards. It is advised that you identify your hobbies and skills before starting a franchise with any firm. Furthermore, all factors should be given equal weight, including market trends, legality, business location, investment, franchise fee, and ROI.

The best and most reliable franchise consulting website, Regional to Global, will present you with the top franchise opportunities depending on your spending limit and feature needs. They provide a group of experienced consultants that can help you with market research, franchise analysis, and other relevant tasks. They offer a wealth of industry knowledge and expertise, as well as a long number of pleased clients who have all posted positive reviews.

Factors Propelling the Future Growth

Entrepreneurial Aspirations: - There is an abundance of entrepreneurial talent in India. The franchise business model gives potential entrepreneurs a way to access tested ideas and infrastructure, lowering the risks of launching a new company from scratch.

Diverse Industry Penetration: - Franchises in the food and beverage industry have historically dominated the Indian market, but other industries like education, fitness, and beauty are growing. Due to this diversity, both franchisors and franchisees are now able to explore undiscovered markets.

Rapid Urbanization: - India's growing urbanization has resulted in a change in lifestyles and preferences. Franchises are well-equipped to meet the demand for branded goods and services that results from this.

Evolving Consumer Behavior: -Consumers in modern India are more likely to value dependable quality, practicality, and recognised brands. These characteristics are inherent to franchises, giving them a competitive advantage over independent enterprises.

Supportive Regulatory Environment: - The Indian government has implemented beneficial measures to promote franchising, streamlining procedures and creating an atmosphere that is suitable to franchise expansion.

Technological Integration: - Technology is being embraced by franchises to improve consumer experiences. To appeal to the technologically aware Indian population, online ordering, digital payments, and targeted marketing are becoming essential.

Navigating the Future: Strategies for Success

Innovation: - To stand out in a crowded market, franchisors need to continuously innovate by providing special goods, services, or experiences.

Technology Adoption: - Enhancing operations, marketing, and customer engagement with digital technologies improves efficiency and relevance.

Training and Support: - Franchisees are equipped to maintain quality and uniformity across the network thanks to thorough training programs.

Local-Global Balance: - It is possible to achieve more acceptance and relevance by balancing brand consistency with localization.

Collaborative Ecosystem: - Fostering community growth allows franchisees to exchange ideas and best practices.

#what is cloud kitchen business #what is cloud kitchen #cloud kitchen startups in india #cloud kitchen business model #dark cloud kitchen #ghost kitchens

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ladyredmoon13 · 7 months ago

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DCXDP prompt

Summer of change.

Maddie Fenton was many things, and a patient mother of two was only one of them. Here lately, however, Maddie found her patience wearing thin with their youngest child. Now she loved Danny. He was her son, after all, but here lately, his actions and overall dismissive attitude towards everything from his grades to his responsibilities was starting to get to her.

She and Jack had tried everything they could think of to try and get Danny to behave and reconsiderhis actions. From taking away his phone, restricting time with his friends, to full-on grounding him. Nothing seemed to work. They were running out of options, but there was one last thing she wanted to try before, even considering bringing up the suggestion of military school to her husband.

"Hey Jack?" She called to her husband from the living room." Yeah, Madds?" He called back from his position over the kitchen table as he tried to fix the trigger on their latest invention. Hoping that this will be what they'll need to finally catch that ectoplasmic nuisance of a ghost boy.

"Your cousin, the one from Gotham; the one you introduced me to at our wedding. He's a cop, right?"

-------------------------------------------------------

Detective Harvey Bullock was a man of little patience and even less tolerance to the kind of nonsense that the usual scum of Gotham City drummed up.

The only times he could ever really recall ever having more patience and tolerance than a saint was when he was growing up with his favorite cousin. So when said favorite cousin called him up out of the blue, asking for a favor, Bullock did little else, then say, "Sure thing," and " anything for you, little Jacky.'

That was how he got roped into looking after his cousins son for the summer. At first, he was hesitant. Asking Jack if he was sure he wanted to do that. After all, he didn't really have much experience with kids( and no, the Bats kids don't count).

But when Jack started telling him about all the trouble his kid was getting into. The arguments, the mysterious bruises, the skipping school, etc. The boy was on the start of a one-way street down to a bad place, and Bullock didn't like it. So he sucked it up and asked his cousin when he could send him.

Now Harvey knew he wasn't a good role model, that Gotham wasn't the safest place for any saine parent to raise a child, let alone send one here; but now that he was told what was going on with Danny. Bullock found himself determined to get the teen to turn over a new leaf. "Who knows," he thought to himself hopefully, "maybe Gotham was the perfect place for him to do it?"

For those of you who would like to read more, here is a link to the fic writen bu siri-ike. It's really good! I recommend it.

#dc x dp crossover #batman #danny phantom #danny fenton #detective bullock #gotham won't know what hit it #batfam #pure chaos #bullock might even have a heart attack

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brookghaib-blog · 2 months ago

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The ghost I left behind - VI

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Word count: 5,5k

Chapter V

Note: This has been an emotional rollercoster, but welcome to the final chapter!! I hope you all enjoyed the story as much as I did!

The soft thump of a hammer echoed through the apartment again, followed by the high-pitched whine of an electric drill that had definitely seen better days. Y/N barely reacted—just lazily flipped a page in her fashion magazine, her legs swinging slightly off the side of the couch, toes brushing the worn rug. The model on the page wore something entirely impractical for pregnancy, but Y/N still admired the color.

Her belly shifted under the oversized shirt she’d stolen from Bob weeks ago—though she refused to admit that out loud.

The sound of shuffling tools and an exasperated grunt came from the hallway, and then Bob appeared, wiping sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. His hair was a mess again. Thank God the gel hadn’t made a reappearance in weeks.

He looked tired—but in that satisfied, proud way that came after a long day of fixing what was broken.

“I finally got the damn cabinet to stop swinging open every time someone breathes near it,” he announced, stepping barefoot onto the carpet. “Your shower isn’t leaking anymore either. Window in the kitchen’s fixed. Crib’s done. Everything’s… done.”

Y/N looked up from her magazine. “You say that like you’ve conquered Everest.”

He leaned his weight on the armrest of the couch, giving her a crooked grin. “I basically have. You know how long I’ve been fighting that crooked hinge in the pantry? Longer than I fought Abomination.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And which one smelled worse?”

“Definitely the pantry.” He smirked, but then paused, looking at her with something quieter in his eyes. “You’re comfortable, right? I mean, the place—it’s finally good again?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just flipped another page, then closed the magazine and set it beside her.

“I’m comfortable,” she said, finally. “For now.”

Bob nodded, like he knew that tone well by now. He did. Two months of it.

Two months of brushing past each other in the kitchen. Two months of long conversations that always stopped right before they could be about them. Two months of him staying on the blow-up mattress in the other room, waking at every noise she made, every time she turned in her sleep.

He’d offered her everything: the Watchtower, an apartment in the city, a bigger bed, a quieter life. She hadn’t taken any of it. She’d chosen the walls they once called theirs, now patched up and reimagined as hers again.

Still, he never left.

“I know I’m being stubborn,” she said softly, rubbing her stomach as the baby gave a lazy kick. “I just… I need to know that I’m doing this right. For me.”

“I get it,” Bob said, without hesitation. “I messed up. I was gone. I left you holding everything. You don’t owe me anything.”

There was a pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“And still,” he added, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him—hair falling in his eyes again, knuckles scraped from fixing pipes and building furniture, shirt stained with sweat and dust. His whole being radiated exhaustion and devotion.

“Do you even sleep anymore?” she asked quietly.

He gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah. When you do.”

She felt a pang in her chest, unsure if it was affection or guilt or both. She leaned back into the cushions, hand absently rubbing her stomach.

“You’re doing all this for someone who hasn’t even told you if she wants you here.”

“I know,” Bob said, softer now, sitting down slowly on the floor beside the couch. “But I’m not doing it to earn anything. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve someone who fixes things when they break—even if it’s just a loose screw or a cracked tile. Or me.”

He looked down, like maybe he’d said too much. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say that yet.

Y/N reached for her water bottle on the coffee table, then thought better of it and instead reached out, fingers brushing his.

“You’re better with the hammer than I thought,” she said, half-teasing.

He smiled at that. “You should see my drywall technique. Masterclass.”

The late afternoon sun bled softly through the curtains, painting the apartment in hues of gold and rose. Y/N shifted a bit on the couch, pulling a pillow behind her lower back, groaning as she tried to get comfortable.

“Hey,” she said casually, as Bob reached for his toolbox again. “You feel like going on a noble quest?”

Bob looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Oh boy. What now?”

“I want a sandwich.”

“That’s it?”

“Bacon and egg. Toasted bread. A side of fries. And a Coca-Cola.”

He blinked. “That’s a feast.”

She gave him a small grin, teeth biting her lip just slightly. “It’ll do.”

Bob exhaled like he was being sentenced to war. “Alright. Want me to go milk the cow and bake the bread from scratch too?”

Y/N leaned back into the couch, hand over her belly. “Don’t tempt me. You’ve got strong arms and the energy of a loyal man in love—I might put you to actual labor.”

He gave her a look, wiping sweat from his brow dramatically. “You are having fun slaving me around.”

“I am,” she said without apology, smug. “But you love it.”

Bob just shook his head, grabbing his wallet and keys, heading for the door. “You’re lucky I can’t say no to you.”

“I know,” she called after him sweetly.

Twenty minutes later, the door clicked open again, and Bob stepped in with two paper bags of hot food, a pair of soda cans tucked under his arm. He was already chewing on one fry, like he’d earned the reward. “Mission complete,” he said, dropping the goods on the coffee table like a hero returning from battle.

Y/N practically pounced. “God, bless you.”

They ate in silence for a while, the soft crackle of wrappers and the faint sound of city life outside the window filling the space. Y/N was already licking salt off her fingers before Bob was halfway through his sandwich.

He glanced at her plate and snorted. “You devoured that. I don’t think I even blinked and it was gone.”

She looked smug again. “I’ve got a whole human being inside me. What’s your excuse?”

“Touché,” he chuckled, and then, more gently, he reached out and rested his hand on her belly. “How are you two doing? I mean… you’re already seven months.”

Her smile softened. “We’re good. Tired, mostly. My back hates me. But he’s growing. Doctor says he’s healthy.”

Bob’s thumb traced slow, small circles on the curve of her bump. The expression on his face melted into something reverent, something quiet and heavy with awe.

Silence lingered for a few moments, the kind that feels full instead of empty.

Y/N looked down at his hand, then up at his face. “Bobby?”

He glanced up, still smiling. “Yeah?”

She watched him for a second longer, eyes unreadable, then said, “You should probably start packing up my things, you know clothes and everything.”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

She tilted her head slightly. “I’m moving in with you.”

He froze. “Wait—what?”

“I already put the apartment up for sale,” she said with a small smile, brushing a crumb from her shirt. “Had a couple people interested. Figured I’d wait until all the fixing was done so the value would go up.”

Bob slowly lowered his sandwich, staring at her like she’d just told him the moon had fallen out of the sky.

“And you’re telling me this now?”

She shrugged, grinning. “I wanted to make sure first. And I needed a reason for you to fix everthing, you wouldn't do it if ou knew it wasn't for me. But… yeah. I’m moving in with you. I want to be there. For all of it. The baby. The crazy superhero stuff. Us, whatever we are.”

Bob still looked like he was trying to process oxygen.

“I mean, I heard,” she added with a teasing glint in her eye, “there’s a luxury suite available in the Watchtower. And a great man who sleeps on the other side of the bed. Big arms.”

His eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, beaming now. “Dead serious.”

Bob launched himself forward so fast the remaining fries toppled over. He wrapped his arms around her, careful of her belly, holding her with the full force of his love. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, her forehead, murmuring breathless declarations between kisses:

“I love you—I love you so much—you’re everything, everything to me—God, I’ve missed you—I can’t believe you’re actually—Y/N, I’m gonna cry—”

She laughed through it all, wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling like she hadn’t in months.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered into his ear.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy. “And you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

They stayed like that for a long time—wrapped in each other, the smell of fries and warmth in the air, the flickering golden light of a day well-lived wrapping around them like a promise.

The elevator doors of the Watchtower slid open with a soft chime, revealing Bob awkwardly juggling two cardboard boxes stacked so high they completely blocked his line of sight.

“Can someone—uh—get the doors?” Bob grunted, bumping into the wall with a thud.

Y/N followed right behind him, visibly amused, a tote bag over her shoulder and a small plant in hand. “He insisted on carrying all the heavy stuff. Said it was his superhero duty.”

Bob peeked around the boxes just in time to see Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and Walker all sitting around the common room, half-eating, half-arguing about the best combat drills. They turned toward the elevator in unison.

Alexei blinked. “What’s this? Is Bob moving out?”

“Please say yes,” Walker muttered with a mouthful of trail mix.

Bob, ignoring them, stepped forward dramatically and proclaimed with a big grin, “She’s moving in!”

Y/N elbowed him gently. “Not into your bed.”

“Yet,” Bob whispered proudly, causing Yelena to cough suspiciously and Ava to hide a grin behind her water bottle.

Alexei nearly jumped up from the couch, arms thrown wide like he was welcoming a national holiday. “YES! I knew it! The baby is coming, the woman is here, life is beautiful!”

Bob beamed, setting the boxes down and slinging an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “She’s selling the old place. Said she wanted to be here for everything. The baby, the team… me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at his cheesiness but didn’t pull away. “More like I didn’t want to miss out on seeing Alexei pretend to be a baby whisperer.”

“Oh please,” Alexei said proudly, thumping his chest. “I already have plans! I will teach him to wrestle before he walks. We’ll bench press together. First words will be Red Guardian.”

Y/N laughed. “Right, because nothing says healthy development like a toddler trying to do kettlebell swings.”

“By age three, he will punch Walker in the knees!” Alexei continued, completely serious.

Walker threw a chip at him. “Try it and I’m throwing him into orbit.”

Ava smirked from the other couch. “We’re taking bets on who he bonds with first. I say me. I’ve got quiet mystery aunt energy.”

“Please,” Yelena said, raising a brow. “He’ll bond with me. I’m the cool one. I’ve already bought him four tiny tactical vests.”

Y/N covered her face, laughing. “You’re all insane. But fine, he’ll need uncles and aunts to balance out whatever chaos Bob contributes.”

Bob looked mock-offended. “Hey! I’m going to be a great dad. I fixed her kitchen window. That’s like… 70% of fatherhood, right?”

“I mean… it’s a good start,” Y/N said, leaning into him slightly. “But let’s see how you do with diapers before you get cocky.”

Walker stood and clapped his hands. “Okay, well if she’s living here now, do we need to create a safe zone? Somewhere baby-proofed where Alexei isn’t allowed?”

Yelena raised her hand. “I second that.”

“Traitors,” Alexei muttered.

As they all bickered and teased each other, Bob took a quiet moment just to look at Y/N. Her smile, her comfort, her laughter blending into the rhythm of this strange, dysfunctional family—they were all here. And soon, the baby would be, too.

“Feels good?” Ava asked softly, sidling up next to him.

Bob nodded, still watching Y/N as she scolded Alexei for something ridiculous. “Feels like home.”

Y/N stood in the center of the Watchtower suite, turning slowly as she took it all in. The space was enormous—modern, sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in soft golden light. Bob’s bedroom was bigger than their entire old apartment, and somehow still felt empty, like it had just been waiting for someone to fill it with life.

“So, uh,” Bob said, a little nervous, scratching the back of his head. “This closet’s all yours.” He opened a set of sliding doors to reveal an embarrassingly bare rack with maybe four of his T-shirts hanging. “I mean, technically it’s mine, but… as you can see, I don’t have a whole lot of style to make room for.”

Y/N stepped inside, running her fingers along the open shelves and empty hangers. “You weren’t kidding,” she laughed. “It’s practically begging for my shoes.”

“That was the plan,” he said with a grin, dropping the boxes of her clothes beside the bed. “Take over. Redecorate. Make it yours. Whatever you want.”

She smiled softly, a flutter in her chest she chose not to acknowledge just yet. Still holding on to that healthy distance, she reminded herself.

Her attention turned to the bed and she couldn’t resist—she flopped backward onto it with a dramatic sigh, arms stretched out like a starfish. “God… this mattress… it’s like it molds to my body. I might never get up again.”

Bob chuckled. “You like it?”

“I feel like I’m being hugged by a thousand clouds.”

“Well, good.” He smirked and backed toward the massive bathroom door. “I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick. Don’t worry, I’ll leave you the bathroom next, promise.”

“Take your time. I’ll start making sense of this chaos.” She gestured to the open boxes with a wave, still sprawled on the bed.

He disappeared into the ensuite bathroom, and a moment later she heard the water turn on. Curiosity got the better of her and she wandered over, cautiously peeking in through the open door. The bathroom was ridiculous. Marble floors. Double sinks. A tub big enough to fit a family of four. A glass walk-in shower where the water cascaded like rainfall from a ceiling fixture.

Y/N blinked. “What the hell is this place? A five-star hotel?”

She turned back, letting him have his privacy, and started unpacking her clothes, folding them neatly into drawers and rearranging the few things. She was halfway through organizing when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned—only to freeze in place.

Bob walked out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, steam trailing behind him like he was in some slow-motion cologne commercial. Hair wet and dripping onto his broad shoulders, muscles firm and… very different than the last time she saw him shirtless.

Her gaze lingered—just a second too long. Her mouth went dry.

Bob smirked.

“You can stare, you know,” he said, casual, smug.

She snapped her eyes away, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. I work hard, might as well be appreciated.” He winked, grabbing a T-shirt and boxers from a drawer and disappearing briefly behind the closet door to change.

She shook her head, trying to focus on folding a pair of jeans. This is going to be hard, she thought.

A minute later, he reemerged fully dressed, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. “We’re making dinner with the team. Nothing fancy, but I promised Alexei I’d supervise or he’d just fry everything in bacon grease again.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That actually sounds kind of amazing.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well. I’ll bring you a plate. But if you need anything, just call, okay?”

She nodded, offering a small smile. “Okay.”

As he opened the door to leave, she turned back to her clothes. Fold. Stack. Breathe. Then, under her breath, barely above a whisper—

“…Hold back Y/N.”

After organizing the last of her clothes and letting herself unwind for a bit, Y/N finally stood up, stretched, and headed toward the bathroom. The warm water felt like a balm on her tired body, and she took her time letting it relax her, scrubbing away the day, the dust, and the residual nerves of the big move. After drying off, she changed into a pair of soft sweatpants, a fitted maternity tank, and one of Bob’s oversized zip-up hoodies she’d quietly stolen from his drawer when he wasn’t looking. It smelled like him—clean, warm, comforting.

She made her way down the sleek Watchtower hallway, following the faint sounds of laughter and clinking silverware until she reached the dining area. The long table was completely set up—plates stacked high, dishes of food steaming, drinks poured. Bob and Yelena were still fussing over the placement of side dishes.

Bob caught sight of her first and grinned, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Hey,” he said gently, walking over. “You came down.”

“I figured it was either this or let Alexei bring me a plate the size of a car tire,” she said, glancing at the food. “This all smells amazing.”

Yelena grinned. “You’d be correct.”

Y/N stood awkwardly at the side, unsure where to go.

“Where should I…?”

Bob gently pressed a hand to her back and nudged her toward the empty chair beside his. “Right here. Always here.”

She didn’t fight it. Just smiled a little and sank into the seat.

Around the table sat Alexei, Ava, Yelena, Bucky, and Walker, all already halfway into their meals. It was surprisingly loud, the team mid-conversation, joking, teasing one another. They made room without question, offering her drinks, napkins, pointing out which food was “safe” from Alexei’s over-seasoning.

She still felt like a guest, but… less like a stranger.

Then, in the middle of a lull between jokes about Johnny’s tragic attempt to use the toaster oven, Ava leaned in across the table with a curious smile.

“So… have you two decided on a name yet?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh—no. Not yet.”

Bob turned to her. “We haven’t really talked about it, actually.”

“I do have an idea,” she said softly, eyeing him. “I just haven’t run it by you yet.”

Bob leaned closer, curiosity written all over his face. “You do?”

“Ohh,” Yelena chimed in, sipping from her water. “Let’s guess.”

“Oh god,” Y/N groaned, already regretting the openness.

Alexei leaned back, cracking his knuckles. “Okay. Hear me out. ‘Red Guardian Junior.’”

“Absolutely not,” said literally everyone at the table, in unison.

“I like Bacon,” Walker said, unironically, pointing at the leftover strips on his plate. “Strong. American. Versatile.”

Y/N gave him a look that could kill. “You're banned from suggesting anything.”

Walker shrugged, trying to be helpful. “How about something normal? Like Matthew. Or Tyler.”

“That’s what you call a labrador, not a baby,” Ava muttered.

“What about Blaze?” Walker added.

Yelena deadpanned. “No.”

“Wait, wait,” Alexei said. “What about—Vladislav?”

Y/N stared at him. “Absolutely not naming my baby after a vampire.”

“I take offense,” Alexei grumbled.

Bob, half-laughing, turned back to Y/N. “Okay, now I have to know. What was your idea?”

She hesitated for a second. Then met his eyes and said, softly, “I was thinking… Georgie. Short for George.”

He paused, genuinely touched by the simplicity of it.

“…Because of Mr.Cooper?,” he echoed, testing the name on his tongue. “I really like that.”

“It's warm,” she said. “I like the name and...I don't know, I feel like I will always have him but... I feel like he would be honorable.”

“It’s perfect,” Bob said, and for a moment the room quieted, letting the soft sincerity settle.

“Wait, wait,” Walker suddenly said, raising a finger. “Middle name suggestion. Blaze. Just think about it.”

Y/N groaned and threw a bread roll at him, laughing.

The room was dim, quiet except for the distant hum of the Watchtower's systems and the soft rustle of sheets. Y/N lay back against the cloud-like mattress, belly gently curved under her oversized pajama top, flipping through her phone lazily while the glow of the bedside lamp cast a cozy hue over the space.

Bob was still moving around, digging through drawers and talking.

“So I was thinking we need one of those changing tables,” he said, pulling a shirt over his head. “The kind that doesn’t make me bend like a ninety-year-old every time. Oh—and maybe blackout curtains? You haven’t been sleeping well. Or is that just me snoring?”

Y/N smiled tiredly. “That, and your habit of kicking blankets off me in your sleep. But yes… blackout curtains. Add that to the list.”

“Also…” He paused, tugging off his jeans. “We’ll need a monitor. The fancy kind, not the creepy baby-camera-that-looks-like-it-wants-to-steal-your-soul type.”

Y/N chuckled, but then her voice faltered when she glanced his way—he was standing near the dresser in just his boxers, back to her, his muscles more pronounced than she remembered. Defined shoulders, strong arms, broad back. His transformation since Malaysia hadn’t just been emotional—it had left its mark on his body too.

She quickly looked away, cheeks heating.

He noticed.

He turned slowly, running a towel through his still-damp hair, catching the shift in her expression. His brows knit together as he walked over quietly.

“Did I—?” he asked gently, “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

She blinked, shaking her head quickly. “No, no. It’s not like that. I just… I haven’t seen you like that in a long time. Haven’t been… intimate with anyone since you left, obviously. And we’re not technically together, so I guess I just don’t know the rules. The boundaries.”

He stilled at the side of the bed, looking down at her with his heart practically pounding through his chest.

“Y/N,” he murmured, voice deeper now, low with something both urgent and tender.

Then, still in just his boxers, he slowly crawled onto the bed beside her, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of her, his face hovering close but not touching. His eyes searched hers, full of sincerity and longing.

“We have to change that,” he whispered. “Not because I need you to be mine like some claim... but because I am yours. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t even look at anyone else. You’re everything to me—always have been.”

He moved even closer, brushing her hair gently behind her ear.

“I know I’ve hurt you. I know I need to earn back every ounce of trust. But I need you like I need air. It’s not about boundaries. It’s about wanting this to be real again. Us. And I don’t want there to be a single night where you wonder where we stand, or who you are to me.”

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking up at him. Her body flushed warm, half from nerves, half from want. He was being vulnerable—honest in a way that struck deep.

Her hand lifted instinctively, finding his cheek, fingers pressing into the sharp lines of his jaw. She held his face like something precious. Then, with a breathless whisper—

“Come here.”

And she kissed him.

It started soft—slow, like her lips were relearning the shape of his—but quickly deepened. Months of longing, grief, and unspoken love surged up between them. Her other hand tangled into his damp curls, pulling him closer. He let out a shaky breath into her mouth, hand sliding behind her back as he shifted to hold her more securely, reverently.

They kissed as if making up for every lonely night, every missed morning. They weren’t rushing—they were remembering.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Y/N was still flushed and breathless.

Bob exhaled a soft laugh. “You always did know how to shut me up.”

She smiled faintly, fingers still in his hair.

“You said you didn’t want me to wonder where we stand,” she said. “Then prove it. Stay. Don’t go back to the couch or disappear when it gets too much. Let’s take this one night at a time. You, me, and him.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then her forehead, then hovered his lips over hers again.

“One night at a time,” he whispered. “Forever, if you let me.”

The Watchtower meeting room was unusually tense, mostly because no one wanted to admit they were wildly underqualified for what was coming. A potential cosmic threat—something about "energy fluctuations" and "unidentified space debris"—was heading toward Earth. And their greatest weapon against it?

One guy. Who had godlike powers… but only when he felt mentally stable enough to use them.

"Okay," Bucky started, leaning against the couch, arms crossed, "so we’ve got a new alien enemy possibly crashing through our orbit in less than 48 hours. And our only actual superpowered asset is—no offense—kind of unpredictable."

All eyes turned to Bob, who was slouched on the oversized chair by the window, a book in hand, legs half-draped over one armrest like a gangly teen. He didn’t even look up.

"Sorry, guys," Bob said, flipping a page. "I can’t be the Sentry without the… you know."

He twirled a finger in the air vaguely, then pointed it at his own head.

Walker leaned forward, squinting. "What, you mean the psychotic alter ego part, or the part where you glow like a nuke and throw mountains?"

Bob glanced up and raised a brow. "Bit of column A, bit of column B."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Walker muttered. "Ride Bob into the sky?"

Alexei perked up, nodding. "Yess."

Just then, the elevator dinged. Heads turned.

Y/N stepped in, effortlessly cool in her hoodie and joggers, sunglasses pushed up on her head, a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, and a smirk on her face. On her hip sat one-year-old George—who had his dad’s impossibly blue eyes, a mop of golden curls, and an undeniable fixation on gnawing the zipper of Y/N’s hoodie.

"Ride Bob?" Y/N echoed, raising a brow. "That seat’s taken, sweetheart."

The room broke into laughter—except Bob, who was instantly upright, already holding out his arms like George was the greatest gift on Earth (which, to be fair, he was).

George squealed, "Dada!" as Y/N set him on Bob’s lap. Bob didn’t hesitate, dropping the book and scooping the toddler up, planting loud, exaggerated kisses on his chubby cheeks.

"Hey, little dude," Bob whispered, as George grabbed a fistful of his beard. "You’ve been working on your super-strength again, huh?"

George responded by smacking Bob’s cheek with a soft babble and a pleased shriek.

"I see the Void in him already," Ava said deadpan, sipping her tea.

Alexei stood, hands on his hips. "He’s ready. Let me train him. I’ll make him unstoppable. Like Red Baby Guardian."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "He still poops in a diaper and I'm his source of food, Red Guy. He’s not ready for the Avengers."

"Avengerz... with a Z." Walker corrected.

"Whatever."

Before Alexei could reach for the baby, Y/N scooped George back up with a practiced mom move and took off running, George laughing hysterically as he bounced on her shoulder like a giggling backpack. "No combat training till he stops licking windows!" she called.

Bob stood up, watching them disappear around the hallway with a dazed look in his eyes, a soft, stunned smile pulling at his lips. The light from the window hit something on her left hand.

The ring. That ring.

It caught the sun perfectly.

"Engaged and still blushing when she calls dibs," Bucky muttered, rolling his eyes with a half-smile.

"She can call dibs on me forever," Bob said dreamily, still staring down the hall like he’d just seen a vision. "I’d let her ride me into a warzone if she wanted."

Walker snorted. "Man. That's disgusting—but kinda beautiful."

Alexei crossed his arms. "Fine. But I still want baby to punch something someday."

Ava sighed. "Maybe start with a stress ball."

1 Year ago - NYC Hospital

The pale light from the window cast a soft golden hue across the hospital room. The city outside was slowly waking up, but inside, time felt suspended. Y/N was propped up on the bed, a little tired, a little puffy-eyed, but glowing—not in the superhero way, in the I-just-birthed-a-whole-human-and-he’s-perfect way.

Her hospital gown hung loosely around her shoulders as she gently cradled her newborn, baby George, to her chest. He suckled quietly, little fingers twitching, soft breaths mixing with the occasional squeak. The room was silent but for that delicate sound—until a small sniffle came from her right.

Y/N glanced over. Bob was sitting beside her, hands on his knees, just… staring. His eyes were glassy, lips parted slightly, like he was watching the sunrise from the edge of the universe. A few tears tracked down his face.

She chuckled quietly, brushing a thumb over George’s cheek. “Why you crying, Bobby?”

Bob blinked, looking at her like she’d just asked why the sky was blue.

“You’re feeding him. You’re—he’s here. You’re okay. He’s okay. I just—I didn’t think…” His voice cracked as he wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. “We made it, Y/N. After all of it. You’re here. He’s here. I can’t believe it.”

She smiled, resting her head back against the pillows, watching him quietly fall apart in the most beautiful way. “You almost didn’t make it. You passed out when they pulled him out. Hit the wall like a cartoon.”

Bob groaned softly. “Don’t remind me. That nurse is never going to look at me the same again.”

Just then—CRASH.

The door swung open with the force of a thunderclap. The team spilled in like they'd been waiting outside the entire time with their ears to the door.

“Where is he?! WHERE IS MY NEPHEW?!” Alexei boomed, holding a bouquet made entirely of red and gold flowers, and also—somehow—a small toy bear in tactical gear.

“You brought a tactical teddy bear?” Ava said, eyeing it. “Of course you did.”

“He must learn early,” Alexei insisted.

Behind them, Bucky, Walker, and Yelena entered with various levels of coordination, each holding a bouquet or balloon, all arguing over who would be the best babysitter. At the very end, nearly trampled by Walker and a rogue "IT’S A BOY!" balloon, came Mr. Cooper—older, kind-eyed, holding a simple, handpicked bouquet of bluebells and baby’s breath.

Y/N carefully detached George, now full and half-dozing, and shifted him to a blanket as Mr. Cooper approached the bed.

“Everything go okay?” he asked softly, eyes flicking from her to Bob.

She smirked. “Smooth sailing. Baby’s perfect. Mom’s tired. And Bob—well…” she looked at him, “…almost caused a second code blue.”

“I thought the monitor flatlined!” Bob interjected from his seat. “There was a beep!”

“It was somebody screaming on the corridor, sweetheart,” Y/N said.

The team had gathered around the bed like it was the Holy Grail, peering over each other’s shoulders trying to see the baby, even though Bob was now holding him again, arms perfectly cradling the tiny human like he was made for it.

“He’s got your curls, Y/N,” Ava noted. “He’s got Bob’s big eyes,” Yelena said. “He’s got my fighting spirit,” Alexei declared proudly. “He’s been alive for four hours,” Walker deadpanned.

Mr. Cooper stepped forward, still looking between Y/N and the baby.

“So…” he asked gently, “what’s his name?”

Y/N looked around at the chaos—the grown adults bickering over who got to hold him next, Bob softly humming to George, who blinked up with those sleepy blue eyes.

She turned back to Mr. Cooper with a small smile.

“George.” She paused, then added, “Well, Georgie, really. That’s what we’ll call him.”

Mr. Cooper stared. The silence fell heavy for a beat, then his eyes began to well up.

Before he could speak, Y/N held up a hand. “Yeah, it’s after you, old man. Don’t start crying.”

But he was already crying. No sobs, no theatrics—just quiet tears sliding down his wrinkled cheeks. He stepped in and wrapped her in a soft hug, careful not to jostle her too much.

“I told you, Y/N,” he whispered, voice tight, “everything was gonna be okay. And you… you’re gonna be a good mom.”

Y/N smiled, eyes stinging now too. “I should’ve doubted you less.”

He pulled away with a nod, then looked around the room—at the laughter, the love, the baby everyone was trying (and failing) not to wake up.

“Well,” Mr. Cooper said, clearing his throat, “this kid’s got the weirdest, most dangerous family I’ve ever seen. But also the luckiest.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was whispering Russian lullabies at the baby, Walker and Yelena were arguing over pacifier brands, and Bucky was quietly tying balloons to Bob’s IV stand for “aesthetic purposes.”

Bob stood, rocking George gently and watching Y/N from across the room—his eyes full of everything: disbelief, pride, relief, love.

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ficsilike-reblogged · 4 months ago

Text

Shelter - 3

Summary: You saved Soap's life. Your life continues to go off the rails.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No Y/N)

Warnings For This Chapter: Continued military inaccuracies, my attempt at writing accents, slow burn romance, canon typical violence and death, ...soft!Simon

A/N: Thank you to everyone who commented or liked the last chapter! Your continued support means the world to me.

Previous Chapter

“Quiet, Johnny.”

The Scot muffled his chuckle into his palm as he walked beside Simon, leading the charge up to the house. Gaz and Price were hauling the bags up from the car behind him. And Simon…Simon was carrying her.

The safehouse was up near the Scottish borders, quiet and secluded. And old. Well stocked, if Laswell’s promises meant anything (they almost always did) and Price said he’d used it before, calling it “basically a B&B.” The last stretch of the trek had been on a dirt road that hadn’t shown up on any sort of navigation system and they had to refer to a poorly drawn map. They’d hit more than a few rocks.

She was a heavy sleeper. Hadn’t moved when the entire SUV jostled over the uneven terrain or when it came to an abrupt stop outside. Simon had tried to poke her. Nudged her. Called her name. And nothing. Well, that didn’t leave him much choice. He wasn’t going to have her wake up alone in the car in an unfamiliar place. So, after removing the bag from over her face, he just scooped her up and tried not to jostle her too much.

But it was the way that she nuzzled her cheek into his chest, uncaring of the rough fabric of his tac vest catching her skin, that had his grip tightening a fraction. She wasn’t built like a model but she was weightless in his arms. Just because she…

Simon wasn’t sure what to do with that thought as he trudged up the house’s stairs and toward the small bedroom at the back of the hallway. The bed was small, made smaller still when he set her down. He expected her to roll away immediately, curl into the blankets, something. Instead, she let out what Simon could only describe as an angry meow and her arm flopped back toward him as he stepped back.

Again, something twisted in the dark confines of Simon’s chest. He couldn’t, wouldn’t name it.

He turned on his heel and left the room.

“Steamin’ Jesus, LT!” Johnny groused as Simon rounded the stairs. Her small bag was in his hand. “When did ye even get up here?”

“Been ‘ere the entire time, Johnny. Keep up.” He took the bag from the sergeant’s hands without asking and pivoted back to her room. He set the bag—that he definitely didn’t have to rifle through when they first retrieved it from the hotel—down in front of the small dresser near the door. She was curled around the pillow now, hugging it basically into her face as continued to sleep. And if Simon watched her chest rise and fall with the next few breaths, well, that could be his little secret.

The safehouse wasn’t awful. You’d actually describe it as charming if you weren’t abundantly aware that you were basically a government informant against your will. It was two levels with three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, the eat-in kitchen, living room, office, washroom, and primary suite below. The appliances and decor were dated but again…charming. You weren’t dumb enough to walk into the office that Price had claimed. They had started setting up a hub of sorts with a satellite laptop, an assortment of phones, and a large array of weapons stored along the back wall. Not that you were cataloging everything in the house that you could use to make an escape. You weren’t that stupid.

God. You really needed to work on being more positive.

The sun was still rising by the time you’d found your bearings in the house and you took a chance to slip out the back door, hinges groaning in protest, and found a small stone patio leading out to a long stretch of tall, wild grass abutting a thick forest. A pair of rusty lawn chairs were positioned around a cold fire pit and you settled into one, content, for now, to not be in the way of everything going on inside. This was better.

Positive. Think positive. You wouldn’t have shitty paychecks anymore or have to deal with Doctor Brookes breathing down your neck and making you uncomfortable whenever he ‘surprised’ you down in the archives. You could finally pick up pilates. Maybe.

The wind whistled through the trees and rustled the grass. It was quiet here. You often fell asleep to the quiet scream of the city back in Chicago and London had been little different for the few days you’d managed to have before shit hit the fan. You’d always gone from one city to the next. You were sure you would miss the buzz of it soon, but for now? For now, this was nice.

You shut your eyes as another gust of wind brushed your face and you pulled in a reedy breath, trying to remember the techniques your therapist had taught you. Years ago. You probably should call her again after all this. Maybe. (You probably wouldn’t but it was a nice thought.)

There was a noise on the other side of the door, it could have been an argument, but you didn’t open your eyes or turn back toward the house. Wasn’t your problem. The less you heard, the better. Hearing things you weren’t supposed to was how you got into this mess in the first place.

Your head fell back against the chair as the sun finally started to peek out from behind the ever present clouds and you tried to angle your face to let the warmth wash over you. The crick in your neck from the flat hospital pillow was gone. The pillow on the little bed upstairs was comfortable. And no, you were not thinking about how someone must’ve carried you up to that tiny bedroom. And no, you weren’t hoping it was Ghost. He had been quiet and warm beside you during the drive to wherever-the-fuck-you-are and he’d been…nice. Sort of. They all had been. A little cold. A little guarded. Not that you could blame them. You were probably the same or worse in their eyes. And that was another reason you were out here, out of their way.

“-she?”

Your face scrunched as you caught the last bit of a question asked on the other side of the door. Were they talking about you? There was an answering rumble and then a, “fan out! Couldn’t’ve gone far.”

What on earth…? Whatever. Not your problem. You kept your face angled toward the sun and-

The door behind opened with a screech, banging against the stone wall and you hurried to your feet, turning with your heart in your throat to see Soap standing on the patio, chest heaving. His bright blue eyes trained on you. “What were ye doin’ out here, lass?”

“Sitting.” Out of habit, you pointed unhelpfully at the chair.

He glanced down at the chair, too, frowning, before turning and hollering into the house. “Found ‘er!” Soap waved you back inside and herded you into one of the chairs around the small dining room table and stood at your back as the others filtered in. Ghost was the last to come in, dark eyes unmoving from your face as he moved to lean against the far wall, a mass of black fabric against the cream colored plaster. Soap explained that you had gone outside. “Didnae look like she was running.” He even patted your uninjured shoulder like you were a kid. Wonderful.

“I told you I was sitting. I thought it would be better for everyone if I wasn’t, you know, bothering anyone.”

“How did you get outside?” Price asked.

“Door was open.”

Stupid.

The noise came from Ghost again and you still weren’t entirely sure if he was laughing. And perhaps the ridiculousness of the situation was making you bold, but you opened your mouth again. “Am I not supposed to go outside?”

“We just weren’t sure if you were pulling a runner,” Gaz supplied, helpfully.

They didn’t trust you. Still didn’t trust you. Great. And you really should’ve known that. You didn’t even know their names. Or what Ghost looked like under his masks. “I just…” The words were stiff on the back of your tongue. “I didn’t want to be in the way.” You’d also been kept in a tiny room for the last handful of days and the sun let you feel like a human again. But that felt like oversharing.

Price looked at you, his blue eyes a different shade than Soap’s but no less alarming. “You’re not in the way. You’re a target.” He paused and you tried to brace to be told to stay in your room or- “We’re here to help you. You help us, we help you, yeah? You kept my men alive and we’d like to return the favor.”

And to your abject horror, the simple statement had tears stinging your eyes. He sounded sincere and you were always so used to people saying stuff like that only to get what they wanted out of you. But this… “Right.” The single syllable warbled. God, this was embarrassing.

Ghost knew her routine.

It had been two weeks since they’d arrived at the safe house and she’d been a shadow for most of it. He wasn’t entirely sure why but she’d taken it upon herself to have coffee made first thing in the morning, waiting for them in the kitchen alongside a kettle ready to be warmed for tea. It was usually sitting beside a mountain of pancakes or waffles or some other sweet pastry. Today, she’d made fresh bread and set it beside the carafe with butter and jam.

She was never around to have breakfast with them. Or lunch. Or supper. She was a shadow when she was inside. She also seemed to be a reader, if the stack of books that had disappeared from the living room and reappeared on her bedside table was any indication (the phone and tablet they’d nicked from her bags back in London were also stuffed full of books). And he’d watched her take a book outside to read in the back garden whenever Price said it was allowed. She was also attempting a new workout regimen that Kyle said was supposed to be pilates but “it doesn’t look like she has the patience for it.” But Simon didn’t mind watching her stretch.

“Lass makes good breakfast,” Johnny said around a mouthful of buttery toast.

Simon grunted his agreement and grabbed another slice, smearing the raspberry jam across the top. On instinct, his eyes tracked to the stairwell, willing her to arrive. She never did. The only time she appeared was when Price called for her, wanting her to review what she’d overheard in the tunnels before one of Laswell’s other contacts went out to investigate and destroy anything they could. It chafed at all of their nerves, knowing they needed to stay put for now, laying low to throw Makarov off their own scent.

Simon hated that phrase, too. For now.

But Johnny was alive. Their team was safe. His teammates’ families were being looked after, just as a precaution. And they had at least some sort of intel on Makarov. He tried to focus on that.

And not on the curve of her lip or how he could smell her perfume on his clothes long after he had left her in that small bedroom upstairs. And not how he could hear her sigh through the night, thinking everyone else had gone to sleep.

Simon kept eating, devouring half the loaf she’d left before he noticed. Kyle gave him a tired glare over his own plate and took two more slices before Simon could stop him. And then Johnny did, too. And Price watched it all from over the edge of his tea before sighing and getting up. He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before returning with another loaf of bread. “I guess she knew you lot would be hungry.”

Simon ignored how something twisted in his chest. Again.

It was better to just take another bite and think of what Farah and Alex should be reporting to Laswell soon, if all went to plan.

Price had said they wanted to keep you alive, a thank you for saving Soap. And they were kind to you, now that the initial rigidity had somewhat subsided. Gaz always checked on you throughout the day, made sure you took your medications with his megawatt smile and a joke or two. Soap could talk your ear off about anything and everything and you could almost understand his accent all the time now as you slowly made your way through your physical therapy requirements alongside him. And Price was usually all business with you when you needed to verify this or that, but he always thanked you and never minded when you asked for more books to read or food to be delivered so you could make more breakfast (which was all you could do, really. They were keeping you safe and you didn’t really have any skills to reciprocate except your weird ability to make a good breakfast so you offered it to them every morning before they woke up and skittered out of the way like a feral cat). And then there was Ghost. Who watched. He just watched and seemed to disappear whenever you had to blink. But he was just there. With his mask, cloth that reached just beneath his dark eyes and painted with a skull’s jaw (at least it wasn’t the one that looked like he’d sewn a piece of an actual skull onto some fabric), and that noise he made that you still couldn’t figure out if it was a laugh or not. He had helped you with your stitches, which was a kindness he didn’t need to extend to you but he did anyway.

And you hated that you sometimes thought about the weight of his hand on your back whenever you couldn’t sleep at night. The closest thing to an actual conversation you’d had with Ghost was when he’d snuck up on you (intentionally or not) when you were reading out in the infrequent sunshine and your embarrassment about being caught off guard manifested, as it often did, with you sticking your foot straight into your mouth. “So, do you have to special order all your skeleton stuff or do you hit up a hobby shop whenever you need it?” Ghost didn’t dignify that with a response other than that damn sound again.

And it didn’t really matter because you still needed to get back to Kirby. Her due date was barreling toward you and you were slowly trying to work up the courage to just ask if you could go see her. You had a speech planned out and you hoped that the breakfasts had at least softened them to you. The four men seemed to be at ease in the house, like things had been going their way in regards to the Makarov situation.

And Soap had said that he would talk to someone about you wanting to leave. You had to trust him in that regard. He didn’t seem the type to lie about that.

As you gnawed on the side of your thumb, making your way through another book, you heard the heavy steps of one of the men downstairs. They weren’t usually loud but men of that size didn’t move without a sound…most of the time.

Except for Ghost.

He was unnervingly quiet. Or would be, if it were anyone else. You found yourself wondering why you didn’t seem to mind when he appeared out of seemingly nowhere, like a wraith or…well, a ghost. Stupid. But the name did seem to fit.

You turned another page just as something thumped downstairs. And you knew you shouldn’t pry. It wasn’t your place and overhearing things was the reason you didn’t have a job, weren’t back in the States with your sister, and currently holed up in a safe house with men whose names you didn’t know. But when a second thump came and it was quickly followed by a grunt, you set your book aside and walked to your door, chanting that you knew this was stupid under your breath.

“Are they safe?” came Soap’s voice. Biting. Barely restrained. You’d never heard him like that before.

“They’re safe.” Laswell’s voice crackled over a speaker—probably the laptop Price was always glued to.

Peeking around the corner when you reached the ground floor, you saw Soap nod before turning quickly, dragging stiff fingers through his mohawk. It looked like someone had swiped one of the shelves clear of its contents, spilling books and baubles across the floor. That was probably what you had heard.

“They’re all safe, boys. I made sure of it myself.” She was using that same tone she used with you when you woke up on base. Placating. Cool confidence. It scratched at something in the recesses of your brain, pinging warning bells that something was very, very wrong. More than a mission. More than a brother-in-arms out in the field.

“What about-”

“All of them. I personally saw to it.”

There was another stretched silence and you took the chance to inch closer to the office. Well. You tried to inch closer before a hand clamped over your arm and you were tugged back into the stairwell. Ghost stared down at you, unblinking.

“I heard something,” you whispered, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you could think of a better—less suspicious—explanation as to why you’d been creeping in the shadows.

Ghost didn’t say anything.

“Is…” You licked your lips as your heart gave an uncomfortable lurch behind your ribs. “Is everything okay?”

“Listenin’ like that ain’t a good look.”

Something hot and angry slithered down your spine. Did he really expect you to just stay upstairs and only come down when called like a dog? You’d had enough of that. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I heard a noise.”

“And ‘id in the shadows.”

You could feel the sneer starting to curl your mouth. “I’m sorry, did I take your hiding spot?”

And then he made that fucking noise again. That sharp breath. “Heh.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

And then he did it again. “‘course I am.”

Really, you should have been absolutely pissed. And you were. But that snarl started to twist and push and you found yourself fighting a smile because his laugh was ridiculous. A man that large should not be allowed to laugh like that. “Whatever.”

His grip on your arm tightened a fraction, thumb pressing into the delicate crease of your elbow, before he tugged you back toward the office. You halfheartedly tried to ignore how his fingers trailed against your arm when he dropped his hold. And it didn’t seem like he did it on purpose because he was busy talking to Soap about something—you heard the word sitrep and you weren’t about to ask what that meant.

Not when you realized you were staring at the remnants of a destroyed home. Pictures upon pictures filled the small screen of the laptop and your stomach sank the more you looked. That was someone’s home. A couch was gutted and overturned. A stereo was broken into pieces. And frames were smashed. It was one of the last pictures that had your veins turning to ice. It was a picture of Soap, surrounded by women who could only be his family, bright, shining smiles behind shattered glass.

That was Soap’s family home.

And you were sure Gaz, Price and Ghost all had families, too. There were pieces of their lives scattered on that small screen. They had been targeted. Or at least their houses had been.

Gaz was the first one to catch your eye and he gave you a tight smile. “Didn’t think you would want to see this, love.”

“I…” The words you could have said dried on your tongue. What could you say to someone who just learned that their family was in danger? “Is there anything I can do?”

Simon watched her retreat back up the stairs. It had been kind, he supposed, for her to offer her help. She couldn’t do anything. Nothing that she hadn’t already done. But he saw the flash of concern in her eyes before it disappeared again as she nodded, quietly leaving the office when told to do so.

“Has there been any movement against her sister?” Kyle asked but Simon saw his eyes dart to the picture of his dad’s overturned office.

“We have her monitored, but I don’t think Makarov knows of her either. She isn’t on any sort of official documentation we can find.”

“Shouldn’t there be birth certificates? Where’s their mum?” Price asked.

Things weren’t adding up. There were holes in all of this. Simon crossed his arms as he let the others talk.

“Her mother’s dead. Dead for decades. And before you ask, Kirby has a different mother. Only Kirby has a father listed.”

“Same father, then?”

“A possibility. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead, too.” Laswell sighed, crackling the line.

Simon’s eyes dragged across the destruction Makarov had brought across his teammates’ families’ homes. His stomach churned, just for a moment, remembering a different home, a different family, with no one there to shuttle them off to a safer haven.

Just as quickly as the thought came, it left. Just as it always did. And the scent of her perfume lingered and how she looked more sad than scared when she saw the pictures.

You hadn’t really known what you could do when you asked if there was anything you could do so it only stung a little when you were dismissed. After sneaking a bit of dinner from the kitchen, trying to not listen to anything still coming from the office, you readied for bed and managed to fall into a dreamless sleep after finishing your book.

Brief, bright light had your eyes snapping open. You waited for a moment, your frown growing deeper, wanting to know if it would happen again. And it did, bursting through the small window for a split second.

Someone was outside.

Scraaaaape.

You frowned at the ceiling and tried to filter through the possibilities. Animals. Wind. But the scraping sound came again and it twisted at something in your gut. You were supposed to be alone out here. Isolated.

Safe.

But something was screaming at the back of your mind that this wasn’t right.

The noise came again and you slid off the bed as your heart inched its way up your throat. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. On quiet feet, you moved toward the window, trying to keep your back pressed to the wall, hidden in shadows. And then you heard the scrape again. And then a rhythmic thudding across the dead grass.

Something glinted, catching the moonlight. And your heart nearly stopped before beating a painful staccato against your ribs. Guns. Men with guns. Men with guns were surrounding the house, sliding out of the trees behind the house and slinking closer. One of them held a flashlight—that had been the light.

“Fuck.” You turned and tried to find something, anything that could be used as a weapon. The only thing that you thought could work was the lamp, heavy enough to cause some damage but only once. It was better than nothing. You slid back toward it and-

The room tilted as a tight grip dug into the back of your neck and hauled you backward. Before you could scream, another hand clamped over your throat. Your next breath wheezed out from between your teeth and you blindly tried to pry the thick fingers from around your windpipe but only served to have the grip on your neck tighten. “There you are, little brat.”

The accent was harsh and flashes of your time in the tunnels sped through your mind. They were back. Makarov’s men.

“Now, tell us what-”

“I know nothing,” was your wheezed reply. It was a knee jerk reaction and not a complete lie but that hardly mattered with your heart beating wildly behind your ribs.

But the grip on your throat tightened a fraction more. “You’ve been living with them for weeks. You know nothing? Useless American,” the man sneered, spittle splashing against your cheek.

Your therapist had once said you were impulsive. And she might have mentioned trauma and the need for continued meetings but that didn’t stop your tongue from lashing. “You call me useless?” Black dots were lining the edges of your vision. “I wouldn’t tell you a-anything even if I did know. Go fuck yourself!” The last word was garbled on your leaden tongue as the grip on your throat tightened and completely cut off your airway.

“What did you tell them, then, hm?” More spit landed your face. He grumbled something in Russian your addled brain couldn’t comprehend and the black edging in on your vision grew darker, lungs burning with each empty pull you tried to take. Your nails dug into the man’s hands around your throat but his grip didn’t falter. Even as your vision tunneled, you knew you had to do something.

Anything.

Kirby was waiting for you. Blindly, you thrust a hand out and the tips of your fingers slipped across the lamp’s shade. You thrashed against the man’s grip and you might have heard him laugh but you still tried again until your hand closed around the flimsy shade and you yanked it up and backward with a croaked shout. It cracked in your grasp but it made contact, raining shards of porcelain against the side of your face.

Your next breath burned as the vice of his hands opened. You didn’t waste a moment and yanked yourself away from him, only managing to collapse onto the bed on your belly as your knees knocked together. A slew of curses punched out of his mouth and you turned to see blood pouring from a large cut above his eye.

Good.

He wiped at his face, smearing blood across his cheeks, before lunging for you.

You threw yourself off the other side of the bed, legs slamming against the floor but he did not follow. You stood and turned, ready to-

-a hand pressed over your mouth and stifled the scream you felt blooming behind your teeth. “Quiet,” Ghost whispered.

It was then you noticed the man, unmoving on the floor. A knife embedded in his left eye.

You nodded, the fabric of Ghost’s gloves scratching your lips. He was here. He was with you. It snapped and fizzled at something in your belly but was quickly snuffed out by the quick pop-pop-pop of gunfire downstairs. Ghost didn’t flinch at all—not that you expected him to. Instead, he dropped his hold on you and grabbed one of your hands, moving to thread your fingers through the belt loop on his side, a silent command you followed readily. He pulled a gun from its holster and turned, quietly tugging you along as he moved out into the hallway.

The sound of more gunfire battered your ears as Ghost led you down the short hallway and down the stairs. You didn’t say anything as you stepped over one, two, three bodies on your way down. Ghost was a solid mass in front of you, unwavering and his gun ready. Before you could blink, he moved, shoving you to the side and you tightened your grip on his belt loop as he fired off two rounds right where you were about to step.

The next body hit the floor without any fanfare and he continued to tug you along. The house wasn’t big—you knew this—but it felt massive as he continued to lead you toward the front door. As you stepped out into the living room, both Gaz and Soap emerged from the shadows, guns drawn and tac vests thrown over their shirts. They flanked you as Ghost continued to lead you out onto the front yard where the SUV rumbled, Price behind the wheel.

A quick flash of light caught your eye and you saw the left side of the house catch fire–quickly. And then the world tilted on its axis, sliding beneath your feet—oh wait, no. Ghost had just grabbed your shirt and wrapped an arm around your waist and threw you into the car. No one screamed at Price to “move move move” like they did in the movies but Ghost hauled himself in behind you and immediately grabbed the back of your neck and shoved you down toward the floorboards. “Keep down,” he said, voice just a touch above his usual drawl. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, the grip on your neck smarting. You’d probably be bruised before the sun came up. You did chance a look up as the car rocked side to side, racing through the field and over the hidden bumps and rocks. Gaz and Soap had guns trained on the back window as Ghost kept his hand anchored on the back of your neck. But you shivered when his thumb brushed against your hammering pulse.

He must have felt it because he did it again.

What a way to end the night.

Next Chapter

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think! I'm not going to lie, getting less than 1/3 of part one's notes on part two bummed me out. I'm considering only posting this on ao3 as I seem to get at least a little more engagement there. Let me know what you think! Because, yes, while I write for me, it is shared with you guys and I'd like to know if you're enjoying it.

#simon riley x reader #Simon Ghost Riley x reader #Simon Riley x you #Ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #female reader

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rollingplate · 1 year ago

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i-am-hungry-24-7 · 1 year ago

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[Ghost crashed into a car before he parked ours] - Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Summary: You sigh when it's the fifth time someone fights in your poor tea shop this month. You just open it two months ago, in an area ruled by mafia called '141'. Maybe you should find their boss and give them money or what to stop the bullshit keeps happening in your shop. (well, here they come)

Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

To your surprise, Kyle, or Gaz – the model-like man introduced himself as – is such a considerate person with a nice sense of humor, at least compared to Soap or Ghost.

That day you trapped yourself in the predicament with John, he seemed to sense your embarrassment, hence he just handed his boss a backup shirt without making fun of you like his boss, so you have a lot of time for the man.

Like now, he’s sitting and sharing a plate of biscuits with you, enjoying a tranquil tea time accompanied by the pleasant smell of Earl Grey.

“You don’t have jobs to do today?” You raise your cup and ask, before taking another sip and watch Kyle finish his bite and reply.

“Ghost’s in charge of dealing with the enemy today.”

“Ehmm, okay” You refuse to figure out what ‘dealing’ means “What about others?"

"I killed mine yesterday.”

Okay, you truly don’t mean this, but let’s just end this topic and move on. With a few biscuits down to your stomach, brainwashing yourself to forget what you heard seconds before with the sweetness, and buying you some time to come up with a better subject, you open your mouth again.

“Every time one of you comes here, you just scare all my customers away.”

“Isn’t that better?”

“I need customers to earn money, Kyle.”

“You have us to pay you.” He points at the badge pasted on your wall. Of course, you’re not the one who put it on, you rather read the military smut out in front of all British than do it, but if you try to take it off, Soap will put a new one back, so in the end you just compromised and let him claim your shop publicly.

“This place isn’t only served for you guys.”

“It isn’t?”

Is it possible to refute when Kyle flashes you a smile that you almost get blind and start wondering if he can replace himself as your lights and save you the electricity bill? Maybe counting this as one of Kyle’s humor will be better than explaining. All required is to ignore the evil glints in his majestic brown eyes while he questions you.

But even though Kyle said he doesn’t have work today, he doesn’t stay long after he finishes his tea.

“Gotta head back to help the boss.” He grins as he turns the knob and waves you goodbye.

What’s weird is that after Kyle leaves your shop, customers start flooding back. Many of them are familiars of the shop, as you’re sure they’re 141’s lackeys too.

You remember them see you as one of the henchmen… Although they're not as afraid as when they first visit the shop because of your hospitable attitude, you can still sense the attentiveness in their demeanor.

No matter what, you’re going to figure out what’s actually happening.

“Hey, you.” You walk to one of the minions' sides. “Mind to tell me about why you guys always disappear when Gaz or Ghost or others come here?”

“We…” The guy’s eyes avert, shooting his friend a glance for help “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” Raising your eyebrow, you lower your voice to make it menacing

“It really is, ma’am, nothing to bother with the Sirs.”

“Show me, they must have sent some messages to inform you guys, right? Let me take a look, or I will…” You will what? Actually, you have no idea what you can do to these guys that can lift you up and throw you into a trash bin like a shot “Wait a second.”

Quickly running back to your kitchen, you come back with your most intimidating weapon –

“Or I will hit you with my pan!” You wiggle your arm as a threat.

“…”

They don’t look scared of the pan for a tiny bit. Wait, you should take your kitchen knife instead, who the fuck will pick a pan? You idiot.

yet to your satisfaction, they still fish out their phone and let you have it, and you don’t waste any time as you open the texting app.

‘Announcement: Boss will arrive at the tea shop in 10 minutes, clear the shop immediately.’

So they really are scaring your customers off. Give the phone back to the poor guy with pity in your eyes, you bring him a few more biscuits.

You’re strolling through the aisles in the shop. You’re out of flour and sugar, and every Wednesday the groceries are on sale. You never miss these chances to build up savings.

What a nice shopping trip. Quiet, leisure, just enjoying your own time, picking up different brands of cereal and calculating which is cheaper like a competent broken adult. Things never go wrong when you’re alone.

“Hey lass!”

Well, you’re kidding, things go south too quickly. The voice’s too familiar. It must be a hallucination.

“Lass? Bonnie?”

Don’t look back, keep walking. It’s not the detergent man with a stupid chicken crest yelling at you.

“HEY!” A hand pats you on your shoulder and makes you jump. Sighing internally and prey there won’t be any trouble caused by the man, you turn around and face him.

“Oh, Soap, Hi.” Shit, looks like you just can’t have a break from these men. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Even though the nan outside tells me te shut the fok up?”

“Yes.” you shamelessly admit, pro tip to confront people without shame “Why are you here by the way, Soap?”

“Oh, we’re in need of some things, so Ghost pulled off during our way home.”

You take a glimpse at his basket. A rope, a roll of duct tape, and a knife.

They must be going on a picnic. Yes, don’t overthink. The rope is for securing the tent, the duct tape is for concealing the holes on it. Knife? they surely will need it when cutting apples.

The image of Ghost slaughtering… peeling apple you mean, with Soap and Gaz playing red light green light and John napping in the tent is so vivid in your mind that you need to restrain the laugh with a clear of your throat before you grunt in affirmation and restart your steps.

With Soap depriving you of your last respite, you choose to grab what you need and head to the counter. All you want is to get home, have a nice shower, and lie on the bed reading the new fic you found last night.

“Do ye need help?” He watches you shove the products in your bag, but 5 huge cartons of milk are too heavy for your weak limbs, you can feel your arms trembling under your attempt.

“It’s okay, my car’s near the door. I can carry this myself.” Again, cheekiness works every time. You don’t care about strangers staring at you struggling with the bag and exit the supermarket in a crab way, as long as it can bring you back into peace faster, and you almost tear up when you see your car, the white of it is like the lighthouse in the atramentous night.

Hey, but you don’t remember your car has a goddamn huge dent at its boot.

“Oh yeah, forgot to tell ye. Ghost crashed into a car before he parked ours, and he’s contemplating whether he should kidnap the driver when they come back and make them shut up, or just kill them.” Soap looks at you stopping in despair as he recognizes what you’re looking at. “So it’s your car aye?”

You don’t answer him, you just watch Ghost materialize from the Shadow beside your car and give you a nod.

Fuck your life.

a/n: ty for reading :D have a nice day/night!

Car -1, Peaceful night -1

tag list :D - @blackhawkfanatic @nexthyperfix @danielle143 @goodbyegh0st @reaperxxxxzz @kaoyamamegami @imyprice @cod-z @poppingaround @live-for-fluff @masterstr0ke @mall0ww

2K notes · View notes

cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Note

Hi. Would you write for Jeno fucking the lights out of somebody who's a little older (like maybe the girl isn't being sexually satisfied by her boyfriend or husband). They always say that it's the last time they fuck, but the sexual chemistry's just too strong. Jeno strikes me as having really good sexual stamina. 🥵

no better than this

summary: after your marriage crumbles under the weight of scandal, you find yourself drawn back to the one person who makes you feel something real: jeno. a dangerous attraction, powerful enough to break every rule, pulls you both deeper into a world of lust, deceit, and undeniable chemistry.

pairing: bartender!jeno x model fem!reader

genre: strangers to lovers, smut, angst, drama, forbidden love, cheating, infidelity, age-gap.

warnings: explicit sexual content, dirty talk, dominance/submission, infidelity, emotional manipulation, betrayal, power dynamics, slight public humiliation, toxic relationships, heavy angst, strong language, alcohol, verbal and physical violence (slight), age-gap (jeno is 26, reader 32)

wc: 16,6k

notes: i loved writing this fic, like, seriously. just imagining jeno washing dishes, serving drinks at the bar… omg, it was the best visual ever🫦

the city was cruel at night.

the neon lights, the endless swarm of tired bodies pretending they weren't tired, the polluted air swirling with ambition and failure alike. jeno lee, 26 years old, stood behind the bar of a dingy little place tucked between the shadows of hongdae, polishing glasses that would only get stained with cheap liquor in a matter of minutes.

he smelled of detergent and old grease from his morning job washing dishes at one of seoul’s "top" three-star restaurants. a place he didn’t belong to, a place that made sure he remembered it every day by the way customers looked through him like he was invisible, or worse, like he was furniture.

he was exhausted — not just physically, but soul-deep. it was the kind of exhaustion that settled into your bones when you knew you were never getting out of this life. he had buried any dreams he once had in the same grave as his father, when he was twelve and too young to know that poverty wasn't a phase you could grow out of.

and yet, he smiled sometimes. when his brothers texted him that they got a good grade. when his mother called to tell him she baked sweet bread again and saved him a piece. it was enough. it had to be enough.

jeno had made peace with being a ghost in his own life.

until now.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

jeno had spent the last three hours hunched over a mountain of dishes, the warm stink of soap and seafood lingering thick in the air, when he heard the shouting. a woman’s voice, sharp and high, slicing through the low hum of the restaurant. he froze with his hands wrist-deep in sudsy water, heart picking up in that animal way, because chaos meant someone was going to get hurt, someone was going to get fired, and if he was lucky, it wouldn't be him.

he wiped his hands hastily on his apron, trailing after the others who rushed toward the front of the house, curiosity outweighing caution. the floor was a mess of half-eaten plates, knocked-over chairs, and stunned patrons frozen mid-bite. at the center of it all, like a storm dressed in luxury, was you.

you wore a red satin dress that clung to your body like a second skin, a thin gold belt cinched tight at your waist, the hem daringly high against your thighs. a designer bag dangled from your manicured hand, oversized sunglasses pushed up into your glossy hair even though it was past sunset. everything about you screamed money, glamour, and a certain kind of rage that only came from living too long in a world that bowed at your feet — until it didn’t.

hayoon, the shy server from the kitchen, stood shaking in front of you, eyes wide with tears. you were pointing at her, your voice blistering with insults that jeno didn’t even want to believe someone could spit out at another human being. the reason? a splash of soup on your dress — a barely-there stain that wouldn't even have been visible if you hadn't made such a scene.

jeno felt a hot coil of anger twist in his gut. he hated this. hated the way people with power treated people like hayoon, like they were disposable. he moved forward on instinct, but a hand clamped down on his arm — the captain of the kitchen, shaking his head. "let it go," he muttered. "the manager will handle it."

but jeno couldn’t just stand there. he watched as the manager came out, bending over backward to apologize, offering free meals, free services, free anything just to get you to stop screaming. but you were already halfway out the door, your heels clicking sharply against the floor, your manager scrambling after you, bowing and apologizing to anyone within earshot.

jeno lingered for a moment, staring at the door where you’d disappeared. you were beautiful, yes — blindingly so, in the way celebrities looked in magazine spreads. but there was something broken about you too. something mean and brittle that leaked out in every word you spat.

he didn't know your name, and honestly, he didn't want to.

you didn’t plan to end up here.

the night had started in a penthouse high above the city, where the air smelled like money and lies, and everything was sterile enough to make you feel like a ghost in your own life. he had come home drunk again — your husband, the man whose last name you bore like a brand on your skin — laughing too loud, talking too close, a storm brewing in his blood. there were always storms with him lately. sometimes it was words, sometimes it was fists, sometimes it was just silence so thick it felt like drowning.

every day felt like trudging through quicksand, sinking deeper with every desperate, failing breath. no matter how brightly you smiled on camera, how gracefully you moved under the hot gaze of the world, inside you were rotting, crumbling, losing yourself piece by piece.

you drank to keep yourself together. to forget for a few blessed hours that you hated everything about what you’d become.

you had slipped away while he was in the shower, the sound of water crashing against marble covering your frantic steps. you turned off your phone, tucked it into the deepest drawer of your dresser, buried under silk panties and bras that no longer made you feel like a woman but like a doll on display. the dress you wore wasn’t meant for running away — a stupid, glittering thing you had bought months ago, back when you still cared about being seen, about being beautiful for him. it clung to you now like a second skin, tight over your ribs, the sequins catching every shard of light like tiny knives.

you dressed yourself with reckless hands — black stiletto heels that made you feel powerful and dangerous even as they promised blisters. over it, you threw a heavy blue faux-fur coat, the color electric and defiant, sliding over your shoulders like armor. finally, you hid your face behind oversized black sunglasses, thinking foolishly, maybe no one would recognize you if you wore your sadness like a costume.

you found a bar at the end of a long, forgotten street, tucked between a closed-down laundromat and a yawning alley that smelled like rain and regret. from the outside, it looked abandoned, silent. inside, it was alive with low pulsing music, bodies pressed together in the semi-darkness, a haze of sweat and cigarette smoke blurring the edges of the room.

you walked in, shoulders squared, pretending you belonged there.

you didn’t.

you crossed the room, the click of your heels drowned out by the bass, and perched yourself at the bar, ordering something light — a stupid move, really, because you knew you wouldn’t stop at one.

you sipped your drink slowly, the whiskey burning a hole straight through you, your fingers trembling around the glass. you muttered nonsense at first — complaints, bitchy little comments, the kind of mask you wore so often it had fused to your skin. you could see it in the bartender’s face — boredom, mild disdain. just another rich girl slumming it for the night.

he was there.

jeno.

young, good-looking in a way that was almost boring, except for the way his eyes stayed sharp and careful, like he didn’t trust the world one bit. his black t-shirt stretched over strong arms, veins prominent in his forearms as he wiped down the bar with a casual, detached air. the kind of man who'd seen too much shit to be impressed by drunk girls in sequin dresses.

he barely glanced at you when he took your order, just another blurred face in the river of broken people who washed up here.

but you — you were electric.

you wanted to be invisible. instead, you shone.

jeno’s eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit as he poured your drink, not because he recognized you, but because you stood out like a bleeding wound in a sea of bruises. the coat, the dress, the glasses — it all screamed look at me even as you tried to hide.

but you couldn’t stop yourself.

the words spilled out in a slurred, bitter mess, your voice thick with a sadness you couldn’t cage anymore.

"my life’s a fucking joke," you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing, voice too loud in your own ears. "i used to be someone, you know? i used to be bright. i used to be... more."

the bartender didn’t answer. just watched you, his face unreadable. you went on anyway, drunk on the relief of being heard even if he didn’t care.

"now i’m... this," you said, gesturing vaguely at yourself — at the too-short dress, the scraped knees from running in heels, the mascara smudged under your sunglasses. "married to a monster who treats me like a pet he forgot he owned. locked up in a golden cage."

you nursed your drink carefully, trying to keep your hands from trembling. said stupid, disconnected things just to hear your own voice over the roar in your head.

jeno answered with mechanical politeness, the same way a man answers someone he’s already learned not to care about.

until you started to crack.

"i don’t even know who i am anymore."

the silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable.

you fumbled for your whiskey, took another long sip, your throat working around the burn.

until the alcohol loosened the ties holding you together and you began to spill pieces of yourself across the sticky bar — how you used to dream bigger, how you thought love was supposed to be saving and beautiful and now it was a cage, how nothing felt real anymore except the way the whiskey burned your throat.

and for a moment — just a moment — he looked at you differently.

he didn’t lean in. he didn’t touch you. he didn’t offer pretty lies or cheap kindness.

but he listened.

he listened like it hurt him to hear you. like maybe he knew something about living with broken dreams too.

you felt it, that flicker of attention, and you clung to it like a starving animal.

and then, needing something, anything, you turned toward him, tipping your head slightly, your voice softening into something almost childlike

"do you think i'm pretty?" you asked, your voice cracking halfway through the question, barely more than a whisper under the pounding beat of the music.

jeno froze, the rag still in his hand, his mouth parting slightly as if caught off guard.

he wasn’t used to this — not from you, not from anyone. pretty girls didn’t ask if they were pretty. they already knew.

you watched him struggle, his brow furrowed, his lips pressing together.

he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to lie to you or not. maybe he thought it was safer to lie. maybe he thought you were too fragile to survive the truth.

after a second too long, he nodded.

"yeah," he said, voice low, awkward, a little raw. "you're... pretty."

you laughed. not the sharp, cruel laugh you usually gave to the world — something softer, something sadder. you felt it down to your marrow: he didn’t know if he meant it. he said it because you needed him to say it.

and for tonight, that was enough.

even if tomorrow you would hate yourself for it.

even if tomorrow he would forget you.

you closed your eyes, letting the music swallow you, letting the lie settle over your bruised heart like a bandage too thin to hold.

jeno looked away first, back to his glasses and bottles, pretending like nothing had just happened.

you reached up with trembling fingers and pulled your sunglasses off.

you didn’t do it gently. you ripped them off, like shedding a skin. exposing yourself under the cheap neon lights, letting him see every cracked, broken piece of you.

your eyes were swollen from crying, your makeup a wreck. but more than that, it was the vulnerability that made you ugly — the way your gaze clung to his, desperate and ashamed all at once.

jeno looked at you.

at first, there was nothing — just the bored, impassive glance he gave everyone.

and then his brows pulled together. recognition sparking in his eyes like a slow, dangerous fire.

then his mouth twisted into something cruel, careless.

"you’re..." he started, his voice low, rough.

you watched him realize it.

"you’re the fucking bitch from the restaurant," he said, blunt as a slap.

no hesitation. no mercy.

the words hung in the air, thick and ugly. people nearby glanced over, but you didn’t care. couldn’t.

you just stared at him, your heart collapsing inside your chest like a dying star.

and then — the most surprising thing. you didn’t scream. you didn’t throw your drink in his face. you didn’t insult him back, like you would have earlier tonight, or a thousand other nights before.

your shoulders slumped.

your eyes dropped to the sticky floor.

and you nodded.

because he was right.

because they were all right.

you were a bitch. a trophy. a ghost. a prisoner.

maybe they were right.

you mumbled something under your breath — a pathetic excuse, something about how it wasn’t what it looked like, how life sometimes cornered you until you had no choice but to bite and snarl to survive.

jeno didn’t respond.

he looked away, wiping a glass clean with mechanical efficiency, his jaw tight. you didn’t need him to say anything. you already knew how he saw you now.

the drinks kept coming after that.

you ordered another.

and another.

your legs grew numb. your mind fuzzed out into static. the world tilted on its axis until you couldn't tell whether you were laughing or crying anymore.

jeno served you silently, reluctantly, with the grim understanding of a man who knew he was enabling something ugly but didn’t have the heart to stop you.

by the time the clock behind the bar hit three a.m., the place was emptying out. the music was a low murmur, the lights dimmer, the air thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and regret.

you barely noticed the two security guys approaching.

"hey, jeno," one of them said, nudging his shoulder roughly, "this one's out. get her the fuck outta here before she pukes on the floor."

jeno glanced at you, his lips tightening.

"she's too drunk," he said. "she shouldn’t—"

"not our problem," the guard snapped, already moving toward you.

you tried to push yourself off the stool, but the ground tilted sickeningly under your heels. you reached instinctively for something — for your phone, for a bag, for anything to anchor you — but your fingers only brushed the edge of your small wallet tucked against your side. no phone. no one to call.

you were alone.

hands grabbed your arms roughly. you struggled weakly, mumbling protests that didn’t even make sense to yourself.

jeno swore under his breath, trying to step between you and the guards, but there were two of them and one of him, and they didn’t give a shit about some drunk girl dressed like a fallen angel.

you were dragged outside.

the cold night air slapped you in the face, snapping you into a sharper, more painful awareness of how absolutely pathetic you were right now.

the sidewalk was cracked and wet, the streetlights buzzing overhead like dying stars.

you stumbled, falling hard on your knees, scraping the tender skin through the thin fabric of your stockings.

jeno followed a few steps behind, breathless and furious but helpless too, his fists clenched at his sides.

he finished his shift fifteen minutes later, tossing his apron onto the counter with a bitter, disgusted motion.

he told himself he didn’t owe you anything.

that he should just go home.

you weren't his responsibility.

you weren’t even someone he liked.

but when he walked out onto the street and saw you still there — slumped against the cold wall, legs sprawled, head hanging low, your stupid fucking coat slipping off your shoulders like a wilted flower — something inside him cracked.

you looked so small.

so goddamn breakable.

he muttered a curse under his breath, crossing the street in three long strides.

you barely noticed him until he was crouching in front of you, his hand hovering awkwardly near your arm.

"come on," he said, voice rougher than he intended. "you can't stay here."

your eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

"hello?" you slurred, a sad, broken kind of hope in your voice.

he didn’t answer. he just pulled you up, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to keep you from collapsing again.

you were deadweight against him, boneless, trusting him in the dumb, dangerous way that only truly broken people trusted strangers.

he had no idea why the fuck he was doing this.

maybe because he saw too much of himself in you.

maybe because leaving you here felt like leaving a wounded animal to die.

he didn't think about it too hard.

he just walked, dragging you along, toward the shitty apartment he called home, knowing that in the morning, everything would be even messier than it already was.

but for tonight, he would be the idiot who caught the falling star before it shattered completely.

jeno fumbled with the rusty lock of his apartment, keys jingling clumsily as he struggled to keep your half-conscious body propped against his side. the familiar smell of damp walls and cheap detergent hit him as he finally managed to shove the door open, the two of you stumbling into the cramped, poorly lit space.

his apartment was nothing more than a dim square — naked walls, a tiny kitchen barely separated from the living area; the only kind of refuge he could offer you that night.

he kicked the door shut behind him, hands holding you with more care than he ever thought he was capable of. you were light, fragile even, so different from the image you had projected earlier — all glittering sequins, stiletto heels, and that ridiculous electric blue fur coat hanging loosely off your shoulders like some pathetic flag of surrender.

jeno guided you to his messy bed, the only one in the room, and let you fall into it with a kind of clumsy gentleness. you stirred slightly, dragging the rough sheets with you, a shaky sigh escaping your lips. your dress rode up dangerously high along your thighs, exposing smooth, warm skin — raw vulnerability laid bare.

"hey..." your voice was small, uncertain.

jeno turned his head just enough to see you, your body curled into a tight ball, your face half-buried in the pillow.

"what's your name?" you asked.

it hit him harder than it should have — the simple, broken question.

"jeno," he said after a beat, voice rough. "lee jeno, and you?"

there was a pause.

long enough that he thought you’d passed out again.

then:

"does it matter?" you whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

jeno exhaled sharply through his nose, a bitter little laugh catching in his throat. "guess not."

for a moment, jeno couldn’t move. he just stood there, watching the broken, overflowing creature you had become, a knot forming in his throat and something much darker twisting low in his belly. he clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to take a step back. he wasn't that kind of man. he wouldn’t be that kind of man.

he turned toward the worn-out couch, muttering a curse under his breath. he'd have to rough it out tonight, he figured. one last glance toward you, curled up in a ball of sequins and regret, and he was retreating towards the door of the bedroom, bracing himself for a night of painful insomnia.

but then you moved.

a broken little moan slipped from your throat as you pushed yourself up, your electric blue coat sliding off your shoulders to pool at your feet. the sequined dress caught the faint light, flickering like something barely alive. you stood, barefoot and trembling, swaying slightly as you crossed the few steps between you and him.

"don't go..." you slurred, voice thick, syrupy, a dangerous kind of sweetness.

jeno stiffened when your hands found his back — small, warm hands — and pressed your body flush against his. your breasts, soft and full, molded to him through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, your breath warm and damp against his neck.

"i know i'm drunk..." you whispered, your hands trailing up his sides, seeking skin, seeking heat. "but i'm also so fucking horny. it's been... it's been so long..."

jeno’s heart punched against his ribs, blood rushing south so violently he almost staggered. he could feel his cock hardening instantly, straining painfully against his jeans.

"fuck..." he muttered, hands closing around your wrists to halt your wandering touch — but with no real strength behind it, his grip trembling.

you laughed, low and bitter, feeling his reaction through the thick denim, rubbing yourself against him with deliberate, reckless need. "you feel that, right? you want me too..."

jeno shut his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose, as if that could somehow erase the vision of you — drunk, aching, desperate for something to fill the void gnawing at your soul. everything inside him screamed to just take it. to lose himself in your body and your sadness.

but not like this.

not fucking like this.

"no," he rasped, pushing you back with a gentle but firm hand. your eyes, glassy and pleading, stabbed straight through him, leaving a wound that might never heal. "not like this, you're drunk"

you wobbled slightly on your feet, confusion and wounded pride flashing across your face.

jeno stepped away from you as if your very touch could burn him alive. he dragged a hand down his face, cursing again under his breath. the hard-on straining against his jeans was a cruel, relentless reminder of what he was denying himself.

without thinking, he turned and fled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

he flipped the shower on, letting freezing water crash down without even testing the temperature first.

stripping hastily, he stepped under the punishing cold, gasping at the shock against his overheated skin.

but it wasn't enough.

the images — your soft body pressed against him, the hunger in your voice — wouldn't leave him alone.

with a muttered curse, he braced himself against the cold tiles, his hand sliding down to his aching cock, gripping it roughly.

he worked himself with desperate, furious strokes, biting back moans of frustration.

your face, your lips, the faint trembling of your voice — it all burned inside his mind, even as he spilled himself against the wall with a grunt of broken need.

he wrapped his fingers around himself, jerking roughly, almost angrily, trying to erase the image of you from his mind — but failing miserably.

because all he could think about was how soft your skin had felt when he’d touched your arm. how you had looked at him like he was someone who could save you.

his hips stuttered forward, chasing a release he hated himself for even needing.

he came with a strangled, broken sound, painting the tiles in front of him, his forehead dropping against the cold wall.

he stayed under the icy water for a moment longer, letting it wash away the physical evidence of his failure to control himself. but it did nothing to erase the guilt.

when he finally emerged, wet and exhausted, the apartment felt even colder, even emptier.

you were passed out again on his bed, the ridiculous fur coat now tangled beneath you like some tattered shield.

jeno collapsed onto the couch, dragging the rough blanket over himself, shutting his eyes against the too-bright images still playing behind his eyelids.

tomorrow, he told himself.

tomorrow he’d forget you.

forget the taste of your voice, the shape of your body, the scent of cheap perfume still clinging to the air.

tomorrow.

if he fucking survived the night.

the faint murmur of the city waking up outside was what pulled you from the thick, nauseating fog of sleep.

your head throbbed painfully as you shifted on the unfamiliar mattress, the rough blanket scraping against your bare legs. the world tilted dangerously when you forced yourself upright, one hand clutching your pounding temple, the other searching for anything solid to anchor yourself.

it was then that you noticed him.

sitting awkwardly on a battered old couch across the small room, watching you with a guarded, tense expression.

panic surged through your veins like fire, burning away the last remnants of alcohol in your system. you scrambled off the bed, heart hammering violently against your ribs, and pressed yourself back against the nearest wall.

"where the fuck am i?" you demanded, voice hoarse and trembling. "who are you? did you — did you fucking kidnap me?"

jeno flinched as if you had struck him, the muscles in his jaw tightening. he rose slowly from the couch, palms raised slightly in a gesture of peace, his brows knitting together in a deep frown.

"i didn't kidnap you," he said, voice low, steady. "you got drunk at the bar. couldn't even stand. the bouncers threw you out like trash. i couldn't just leave you there in the street at three in the morning."

you stared at him, breathing hard, trying to make sense of the jumbled memories flashing through your mind — neon lights, the overwhelming haze of alcohol, the taste of desperation in your mouth.

seeing the genuine offense, the almost hurt in his expression, some of the panic drained away, leaving only a heavy, miserable shame. you wiped a trembling hand over your face, letting your forehead thud softly against the wall behind you.

"fuck... i'm sorry," you mumbled, your voice breaking.

jeno just shook his head, as if he didn’t expect much better from you.

after a heavy silence, you peeked at him from beneath your lashes, guilt gnawing at your gut. "did i...?" you hesitated, the words sticking to your dry tongue. "did i say anything... inappropriate?"

jeno froze — just for a second — but it was enough. the way his ears flushed pink, the way he shifted uncomfortably where he stood, looking anywhere but at you.

you felt your own stomach sink, mortification rising like a wave.

"oh my god," you whispered. "i did. i propositioned you, didn’t i?"

jeno scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath. "you were drunk," he said tightly. "you didn’t know what you were saying."

you groaned, covering your burning face with your hands. "i'm so fucking sorry. god, you must think i'm..."

"it's fine," he cut you off sharply. too sharply.

you swallowed, throat raw. then, fumbling toward the nightstand, you found a scrap of paper and a pen.

"give me your bank account number," you said, voice still shaking. "i'll transfer you some money. it's the least i can do for — for this."

jeno stared at you like you had slapped him.

"i don't want your money," he said, voice cold, final. "just... forget it. forget this ever happened."

but forgetting wasn’t possible. not with the way your heart slammed against your ribs every time your eyes met, not with the heavy, crackling silence filling the tiny apartment.

you shifted, the hem of your dress riding dangerously up your thighs, and you caught the way his gaze flicked downward, his throat bobbing in a harsh swallow.

it was all the confirmation you needed.

without thinking, without even breathing, you crossed the distance between you.

jeno stiffened as you pressed your body to his once again, but this time, you were fully aware, fully sober, your mind burning with the reckless, stupid need that had never really left you.

"if you really don’t want anything from me..." you whispered, fingertips ghosting up his chest, "then push me away."

for a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

then —

with a low, guttural growl, he grabbed you by the waist, slamming your body back against the nearest wall. the impact knocked the air from your lungs, but you barely noticed, too consumed by the heat, the sheer violence of it.

his mouth crashed against yours, teeth scraping, tongues clashing in a messy, desperate kiss that tasted of frustration and hunger and something dangerously close to despair.

jeno’s hands were everywhere — gripping your ass, hauling you higher until you were forced to wrap your legs around his hips. you could feel his cock, thick and throbbing through his jeans, grinding hard against the soaked strip of your panties.

you gasped against his mouth, rolling your hips, seeking friction, seeking anything that could numb the hollow ache inside you.

"fuck, you're gonna be the death of me," he growled, dragging his mouth down your neck, biting and sucking harshly until you were sure you'd wear his marks for days.

he barely gave you time to breathe, yanking your dress up to your waist, tearing your panties down with brutal efficiency.

you whimpered when the cold air hit your soaked folds, but then he was there, lining himself up, not even bothering to fully undress.

jeno looked at you once, just once, his eyes dark and wild, silently asking if this was what you wanted.

you nodded, breathless, desperate.

and then he was inside you in one brutal, unrelenting thrust, forcing a broken, keening cry from your lips.

he was big, stretching you wide, filling you so completely it bordered on painful — but you welcomed it, craved it.

jeno fucked you against the wall, hard and fast and dirty, the slap of skin against skin loud and obscene in the tiny apartment.

you clawed at his shoulders, at his back, leaving angry red lines in your wake, and he only fucked you harder for it, growling low curses into your ear.

"so tight," he grunted, hips pistoning mercilessly into yours. "so fucking wet for me."

you could only sob his name, your body burning, your mind shattering with every brutal thrust.

jeno shifted his angle, and you saw stars as he drove into that sweet, devastating spot deep inside you over and over until you were a babbling, incoherent mess.

you came with a broken scream, clenching around him so hard that he cursed, pulling out just in time to spill hot, sticky ropes of cum across your thighs and stomach.

he collapsed against you, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to the crook of your neck.

for a long moment, neither of you moved, the only sound the harsh, uneven drag of your breaths mingling in the thick, heavy air.

and in that silence, the consequences of what had just happened started to settle between you like smoke.

your legs were still trembling when he pulled away, but the moment his weight left you, the emptiness hit harder than anything else.

"jeno..." you whimpered, your voice raw and wrecked, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming need clawing inside you. "please..."

he froze at the broken sound you made — half a sob, half a desperate plea — and lifted his head to look at you. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, but his eyes... his eyes burned.

"please what, baby?" he rasped, voice wrecked, teasing even as his hands grabbed your thighs again, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "use your words, pretty girl. tell me what you want."

you swallowed thickly, shame and need warring inside you, but it was so easy to give in — to beg for him, to drop the last shred of pride you had.

"i want more," you gasped, clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you upright. "please, jeno... fuck me again. i need you."

jeno groaned low in his throat, like he was in pain, and crashed his mouth against yours once more. this kiss was different — hungrier, sloppier, laced with pure fucking greed.

he carried you to the bed with ease, tossing you down onto the messy sheets, your dress still bunched around your waist, panties somewhere lost on the floor.

jeno stripped then — fast, brutal, shedding his shirt and jeans in seconds until he was gloriously, fucking painfully naked.

your mouth watered at the sight of him — broad chest heaving, abs tight, thick cock still hard and leaking, glistening with his own precum.

he knelt between your trembling thighs, grabbing your ankles and shoving them wide open, baring your dripping cunt to his ravenous gaze.

"look at you," he growled, voice thick with dark admiration. "so fucking pretty. so desperate for my cock, aren't you, baby?"

you nodded frantically, shame burning your cheeks but need burning hotter.

"say it," he demanded, stroking his cock lazily, spreading precum over the swollen head. "tell me how much you want it."

"i want your cock," you sobbed, arching your back, hands fisting the sheets. "i need you inside me, jeno. please, please fuck me — ruin me."

jeno snarled, something savage and unhinged breaking loose inside him.

"fuck, you’re perfect," he hissed, crawling up your body, caging you beneath him. "my perfect little slut, begging for my cock."

your heart stuttered at the filthy words, at how much you wanted them, needed them.

jeno didn’t waste another second — he lined up and slammed back into you with a brutal thrust that punched a strangled scream from your throat.

he didn't give you time to adjust, didn't give you time to breathe — he set a relentless pace, fucking you into the mattress, each thrust driving you higher and higher toward oblivion.

"you're so fucking tight," he grunted, slamming deep inside you. "like you were made for me, baby. made to take my cock."

"yes — yes, i am," you cried, tears spilling over your cheeks, your body arching to meet every savage thrust. "i'm yours, jeno. yours."

his growl was pure fucking sin.

"mine," he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand, the other gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

jeno kissed you then — filthy and claiming — fucking you harder, faster, deeper, until your body was nothing but raw nerve endings, every inch of you burning, every breath a broken prayer.

"you gonna cum for me, pretty baby?" he panted against your mouth, his cock driving into that sweet spot with ruthless precision. "gonna cream all over my cock like the dirty little girl you are?"

you nodded frantically, incoherent, pleasure crashing down on you like a fucking tidal wave.

your orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming, and you sobbed his name as your cunt clamped down on him, milking him ruthlessly.

jeno cursed viciously, losing control, fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

with a final, brutal thrust, he spilled deep inside you, filling you so full it leaked out around him, hot and thick and obscene.

he collapsed onto you, both of you trembling, gasping for air, the scent of sex heavy in the room.

he didn't pull out — he stayed buried deep, holding you close, whispering broken praise against your ear.

"good girl," he murmured, kissing your temple. "so fucking good for me."

you clung to him, dazed and shattered, your heart hammering against his.

for the first time in a long time, you felt full.

wanted.

claimed.

as you glance at the clock, you realize it's far too late. Jeno notices it too, the tension thickening in the air as both of you scramble to get dressed in a rush. there’s a strange shift inside you, and suddenly, the cold, distant attitude you had before returns. you stand up straight, smoothing down your clothes, and with a tight smirk, you throw out the words, “this will be the last time we see each other.”

jeno pauses, his eyes narrowing as you continue, your tone biting, “i’ll make sure to remember you have a good dick, but that’s all.” you can practically hear the sarcasm drip from your words, the defiance clear in every syllable.

a sharp click of his tongue escapes him, the irritation in his eyes impossible to hide. he watches as you switch from the girl he’d just been tangled up with to someone almost unrecognizable—distant, untouchable. his jaw clenches, the frustration mounting as he mutters, “fine, then. we won’t see each other again.”

he moves toward the door, ready to usher you out, but before he can say another word, you lift your chin high, your gaze fixed ahead like a queen on her throne.

you glance at him one last time, your words sharp, almost cutting through the air. “obviously, we won’t see each other again. i hardly ever get tangled up with people of your level.” you watch as his face hardens, the words lingering between you like smoke, suffocating any remnant of the moment you just shared.

without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel, leaving him in the room, his annoyance and confusion left hanging in the silence. the sharpness in his gaze follows you, a twinge of something dangerous in the way he watches you leave. it only irritates him more.

the scene shifts abruptly.

you step into the grand lobby of your penthouse, the heavy weight of the night still hanging on you, your heels clicking sharply against the cold marble floor. the lights are dim, the shadows making the room feel colder than it should. your husband, managers, and several other figures of the personal are gathered there, a sea of blurred faces and disinterested glances.

the moment you enter, your husband’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes burning with fury, his expression twisted in a way that makes your stomach churn. he’s on his feet in an instant, his body towering over yours as he grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging you painfully toward him. the suddenness of it catches you off guard, and your breath hitches as he snarls, his words sharp and venomous.

“where the hell have you been, you stupid, fucking bitch?” he spits, the insult stinging worse than the pull on your scalp. you try to free yourself, your hands clawing at his grip, but he’s too strong, too furious. the others? they barely even flinch. they just watch, their eyes glazed, as if this is just another ordinary occurrence.

your body tenses, anger mixing with fear as you try to shove him off. but he doesn’t let go. he keeps shouting, his breath heavy, as the room fills with the sour weight of his anger.

“smelling like alcohol, again. you’re fucking disgusting. you’re going to rehab. i’ll make sure of it, you hear me?” his voice rises with each word, his control over you suffocating, as if his rage is all that defines you now.

you gasp, your voice trembling as you manage to find the strength to shout back, “no! i won’t go! don’t… don’t you dare!” the fear in your voice is clear, but there's something else—something that exposes the cracks in this whole twisted thing. the way he controls you. manipulates you. it’s sickening, and yet, you're stuck in this web, unable to break free.

he doesn’t even flinch at your protest. instead, he drags you down the hall, pulling you toward the bathroom, his hand like iron around your wrist, squeezing until you can barely breathe. his voice is cold as he commands, “you’ve got ten minutes. get in the shower, clean yourself up. you have a session to get to.” the words hit you like a slap, like you're nothing more than an object to be handled and used.

he releases you only to bark at the staff, the low, guttural growl of his command making the air around you heavy. “get everything ready in her room. she’ll be in there when she’s done. we need her ready, now.”

you barely process the words. your mind is spinning, dizzy from the alcohol, from the anger, from the fear. all you know is that you’re trapped in this—this life you never wanted, this marriage you never signed up for. and yet, there you are, bound by the chains he forged.

you walk into the session, completely lost, your mind scattered, your soul feeling bruised. it’s like every part of you is on autopilot, just going through the motions, trying to make it through. you’re not sure who you are anymore, but you push all of that aside, forcing yourself to give them the best version of you, even though it’s so far from who you really are.

they leave your hair straight, simple, and flat against your shoulders. the lingerie you’ll be modeling is put on you, but it feels like a prison, like it’s meant to show off something that’s no longer yours to own. the makeup they do on you is almost natural—just a touch of foundation to cover the pain, and then the red lipstick. cherry red, like it’s supposed to make you feel alive, but it only reminds you of all the things you wish you could forget.

as you stand in front of the mirror, trying to breathe through the mounting pressure, you feel a deep sense of loss settle in your chest. every day, it feels like you’re slipping farther away from yourself, drowning in a sea of expectations, a sea of things you can never fully escape. your anxiety is high, gnawing at your insides, a constant, ever-present hum. all you want is to drown it out—to feel something other than this suffocating emptiness.

you glance into your bag as you wait in the car, alone for a few moments. you can’t stand the quiet, the weight of everything pressing down on you. your hands tremble as you pull out the small bottle of liquor you keep hidden, a desperate, shaky hope that it’ll make everything go away, even if just for a little while.

the first sip is shaky, your heart pounding, fear clawing at your chest that someone might catch you, but as it slides down your throat, it burns. and for the first time today, you feel something other than numb. it’s not much, but it’s enough to calm the panic inside you, to push the anxiety back just a little.

you glance around the car, making sure no one’s coming, and take another quick sip. it’s just a little more, just enough to quiet the noise, to make the world feel a little more manageable.

but then you hear the door open, and you quickly hide the bottle back in your bag, your heart racing as your driver and the others pile in, the awkward tension thick in the air. they try to make small talk, to congratulate you on how great the photos turned out, but you don’t hear them. it’s like their words are just noise, the hollow echo of people who don’t really see you, don’t really know what’s going on inside.

nothing they say can fill the void inside you. nothing they say can stop the ache, the loneliness. you sit there, surrounded by them, yet more alone than ever.

jeno’s life continues, an unremarkable routine he’s gotten used to. by day, he’s washing dishes in the hotel kitchen, the steam and clatter of plates all he hears as the hours drag on. by night, he’s behind the bar, mixing drinks for customers who hardly notice him. nothing changes. it’s the same every day.

but you? you’re different. you’re out there, in a world he can’t even imagine, posing in front of cameras, wearing clothes most people could never afford. your life is glittering, filled with fame and lights. and jeno... well, he’s just trying to get by.

he visits his mom and brothers when he can, bringing them whatever he can afford—money, food, school supplies. his mother always greets him with a warm smile, her tired eyes softening when she sees the small bundles of things he’s brought. one afternoon, as jeno watches her fuss with the groceries, he sees her hands, worn and rough from years of work. her voice is gentle as she talks about the boys and their progress in school, and jeno, despite everything, can’t help but feel a small flicker of pride.

“you’re doing good, jeno,” she says softly, her hand brushing his cheek. “i’m proud of you.”

he smiles, the weight in his chest lightening for a brief moment. “i’m just doing what i can, mom.”

on his way back to his apartment, jeno sits on the bus, watching the city of seoul pass by, the neon lights flickering as the sky darkens. the world outside the window is moving too fast, just like everything else in his life.

but then he spots it. a building with a large billboard hanging outside—an advertisement for victoria’s secret. the image catches his attention, something about it drawing him in. it’s a silhouette, a woman posed confidently in black lingerie. her face, though partially obscured by the lighting, is unmistakable.

it’s you.

your figure, your face, the cherry-red lipstick—it’s all there. beneath the image, the name printed in bold letters: “y/n.”

“y/n...”

the name echoes in his mind, bouncing around like a restless thought he can’t shake.

he sits there, staring at the ad, his heart thudding in his chest. was that you? he wonders. he wasn’t surprised he hadn’t recognized you earlier, considering how little he paid attention to social media or the new faces in the industry. his life was always too busy—work, family, just surviving. he didn’t have the luxury of keeping up with the world outside his own.

he leans back in his seat, the questions swirling in his head. was that why you were dressed the way you were at the bar?he wonders, his mind replaying the night, trying to piece it all together. was that why you didn’t even bother telling me your name?

he shakes his head, frustration building inside. he hadn’t even thought to ask you. not in the way he should’ve. maybe that’s why the whole thing felt like a dream—something too far out of his reach, too disconnected from his reality.

days pass, and jeno can’t shake the thought of you. why couldn’t he get you out of his head? he keeps thinking. his mind keeps returning to that night in the bar, to the way you made him feel in ways no one else ever had. it wasn’t just the physical attraction—though that was undeniable—it was something deeper. a connection, maybe. something that left him wanting more.

and you? did you think about him too? he wonders. he can’t help but wonder what you felt. what was it about that night?

he keeps going through his days, the weight of the routine pressing down on him, but your image haunts him. every time he passes that building, every time he sees a billboard, the thought of you creeps in.

he can’t seem to get you out of his mind. not now. not ever since that night.

days go by, and life continues. you’re caught in your own spiral, wrapped up in your career, your fame, your superficial relationships. but behind the glossy exterior, there’s a storm inside. your anxiety is climbing, your need for control is overwhelming. you can’t shake the memory of jeno, of his touch, the way he made you feel in a way no one else ever has. it haunts you. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to admit it. he doesn’t belong in my world. you tell yourself that over and over, even though deep down you know it’s a lie.

one evening, after a photoshoot, you find yourself at a bar. it’s not glamorous, not the kind of place you usually visit, but something about it draws you in. maybe it’s the need for escape, or maybe it’s just the feeling of being lost, like always. you walk in, the low hum of conversations and clinking glasses filling the air.

and then, as if fate had a twisted sense of humor, you see him. jeno. he’s sitting at the bar, his back to you, but you know it’s him instantly. the same posture, the same way he leans against the counter, the same worn-out look in his eyes. for a moment, you just stand there, frozen. what the hell is he doing here?

he doesn’t see you at first. but when he does, his gaze flicks up, and for a split second, neither of you moves. you’re not sure what to feel. you should leave. walk away. pretend you never saw him. but then something shifts, something almost dangerous flares inside you. why should you leave? he doesn’t belong in your world, but there’s something magnetic about him. something you can’t resist.

you walk up to the bar, casually, as if nothing ever happened between the two of you. your voice is cold, distant when you speak.

"didn’t expect to see you here," you say, your words laced with a bitterness that doesn’t even feel real to you.

jeno raises an eyebrow, his face giving away nothing, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of something, something that betrays the calm façade he’s trying to maintain. "neither did I," he responds, leaning back in his chair, looking at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

you take a seat beside him, your body language confident, almost too much so. why does he still make you feel this way? your mind is racing, but you won’t admit it. you won’t show any weakness. after all, he’s not worth it. but still, as you sip your drink, you can’t help but wonder if this will be the last time you see him... or if there’s something else between you two, something neither of you can deny.

jeno, ever so cool, watches you from the corner of his eye, a strange expression on his face. "so," he says finally, breaking the silence. "this is it then? you just walk in and act like nothing happened?"

you tilt your head slightly, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "what did you expect?" you reply, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "you think I’d remember a night like that?"

his jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. he knows better than to push. but still, the way you carry yourself, the way you treat him—it drives him insane. and he can’t help but wonder, why does he still feel drawn to you?

you don't know who moves first, but suddenly you're both on your feet, the space between you charged with something volatile, something dangerous. your eyes lock, a silent dare hanging heavy in the air. and then, like the snap of a rubber band stretched too far, you grab his wrist, dragging him toward the back of the bar without a word.

jeno follows, his steps heavy, his breathing ragged. he doesn’t need you to say anything. he knows exactly where this is going.

the bathroom door slams shut behind you, and before you can even turn around, he's on you—shoving you against the wall so hard the air leaves your lungs in a gasp. his hands are rough, desperate, sliding up your thighs, bunching up your expensive dress around your hips.

"this is the last time," you hiss, even as your hands tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer, needing him like you need your next breath.

"fuck, you’re so full of shit," he growls, his mouth crashing into yours, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. there’s no softness, no tenderness. it’s all teeth, spit, and fury. you kiss him like you hate him, nails raking down his arms, and he groans against your mouth, grabbing your ass hard enough to leave bruises.

he lifts you effortlessly, your back hitting the wall again as he grinds his hips into yours. you can feel him, hard and straining against his jeans, and it sends a rush of wetness flooding between your thighs.

"you fucking missed me," he mutters against your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp, to make your head slam back against the wall.

"shut the fuck up," you snap, even as you wrap your legs tighter around him, rocking your hips shamelessly against his. you hate him. you hate yourself even more for wanting this, for needing it.

he fumbles with his jeans, freeing his cock, and the moment you feel him—hot, thick, leaking against your thigh—you lose whatever shred of dignity you were still clinging to.

"beg for it," he growls, one hand squeezing your throat just enough to make your knees tremble.

"fuck you," you spit back, but the way you grind down on him betrays you.

he grins, a wicked, filthy thing, and without warning, he slams into you in one brutal thrust, making you cry out loud enough to echo off the walls. you cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, as he pounds into you, hard and fast and punishing.

"this is all you're good for," he snarls against your ear, hips snapping into yours with vicious precision. "a spoiled little bitch who needs to get fucked stupid."

you moan, high and broken, because he's right. you hate how right he is.

he fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you, like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin, your bones, your fucking soul. every thrust knocks the air out of you, every rough groan he rips from your throat making you fall apart a little more.

you rake your nails down his back, probably drawing blood, but he just groans, fucking into you even harder, chasing the sick, desperate high you both crave.

"gonna come all over my cock, aren't you?" he pants, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub your clit in brutal circles. "fucking filthy."

you bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming, your whole body tensing as the orgasm crashes over you, blinding and savage. you shake in his arms, squeezing him so tight he curses under his breath, slamming into you a few more times before he spills inside you with a low, broken groan.

for a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, your bodies still pressed together, sweaty and trembling.

then you shove him away, fixing your dress with shaking hands, refusing to meet his eyes.

"this never happened," you snap, voice hoarse. "it’s over."

jeno chuckles darkly, zipping up his jeans, not bothering to hide the smug, wrecked look on his face.

"whatever you say, princess," he mutters, like he knows you’re both lying through your fucking teeth.

you return to your tables like nothing happened, your bodies still buzzing, still raw from what you just did. but now the bar is more crowded, people weaving through the narrow spaces, laughter and music filling the air.

there's barely room to breathe.

it happens naturally—or maybe fate is just cruel—but without really thinking, you both end up sitting at the same table. the shared silence is thick, electric, both of you pretending to sip your drinks, pretending not to notice how close you are.

jeno stretches his legs under the table, and casually, like it means nothing, his hand slides onto your thigh. slow. deliberate.

your body goes rigid, and you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. a warning. don't.

but he doesn't stop. if anything, he just smiles lazily, the pad of his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your bare skin, sliding higher, inch by devastating inch.

you should slap his hand away. you should tell him to fuck off. instead, heat coils low in your belly, slow and humiliating. your thighs tense under his touch, but you don't move. you can feel the smirk against your skin without even looking.

fucking bastard.

the air grows too thick, your breathing too shallow. it's like every nerve ending you have is concentrated where his hand touches you. and you hate it. you hate him.

and yet, you lean closer, just enough to let your knee brush against his.

jeno chuckles low, dark, under his breath. he knows he's winning.

you finish your drink in one harsh gulp, slamming the glass down harder than necessary. without looking at him, you mutter, "let's go."

he follows you out without a word, the tension between you stretched tight enough to snap.

the second the door to his shitty apartment clicks shut behind you, it's like a dam breaks.

jeno surges forward, grabbing you by the waist, crashing his mouth to yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and spit and hunger. you kiss him back just as hard, biting at his bottom lip, hands fisting in his jacket, dragging him toward the living room.

your knees bump against the couch, and with a rough push, you shove him down onto it, standing over him, chest heaving, eyes burning.

jeno spreads his legs slightly, slouching back with that cocky, infuriating smirk on his face, like he knows exactly what's about to happen.

and he’s right.

you sink down to your knees between his thighs, never breaking eye contact. your fingers work at his belt, slow and unhurried, dragging the moment out, making him twitch with impatience.

"you’re so fucking full of yourself," you mutter, undoing the button of his jeans, pulling down the zipper inch by torturous inch.

"and you’re so fucking desperate," he shoots back, voice rough, hands fisting the couch cushions instead of grabbing you like you know he wants to.

you free his cock, heavy and flushed and already leaking for you. the sight makes something in you snap, something hot and reckless.

you wrap one hand around the base, squeezing lightly just to watch his stomach tense, to hear that tiny hitch in his breath he can’t hide.

slowly—so slowly it’s almost cruel—you lean in, letting the tip brush against your lips, teasing him, smearing precum across your mouth like lipgloss.

jeno growls low in his throat, hips jerking slightly, but you pull back with a wicked smile, your eyes daring him to move again.

then, finally, you flatten your tongue and lick a slow, filthy stripe from the base to the head, savoring the weight of him, the taste of him. his whole body shudders, and his head tips back against the couch.

"fuck, y/n," he breathes, voice broken, wrecked.

you hum around him, letting the vibration travel through his cock as you take him deeper, inch by inch, until your lips are wrapped tight around him, until he’s sliding against your tongue, heavy and pulsing.

you set a slow, relentless rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, swallowing around him just to feel him twitch. your hands grip his thighs hard enough to bruise, keeping him pinned, even as he bucks his hips weakly, desperate for more.

"look at you," he groans, voice thick with lust. "on your knees for me again... fucking perfect."

his words only make you sink lower, taking him even deeper, your throat tightening around him. he curses, one hand finally tangling in your hair, not forcing, just holding, trembling with the effort to stay still.

you pull back slowly, gasping for air, a thin string of spit connecting your swollen lips to his cock.

"last time, right?" you pant, stroking him lazily, watching him fall apart above you.

jeno laughs, broken and breathless.

"keep lying to yourself, baby."

then you take him back into your mouth, hungrier this time, like you’re trying to erase every rational thought from both your minds.

and you know you will.

after you finish, you both sit there, breathless, ruined, the taste of each other still fresh on your tongues. there's a moment—dangerous, heavy—where your fingers brush against his when you hand him back his drink.

jeno doesn’t pull away.

neither do you.

without really thinking, you slide your phone across the table. he smirks, slow and lazy, and types his number in without a word.

days pass.

the number burns a hole in your phone, in your mind. but you don’t call. neither does he. pride, fear, something darker keeping you both in check.

until your husband leaves for a business trip, off to some distant city, chasing dirty deals and cheap whores. and suddenly you’re a teenager again, reckless, starved, hungry.

your fingers tremble slightly when you dial jeno’s number.

he picks up on the second ring, his voice rough from the noise in the background. he's working. you can hear the clatter of glasses, the low thrum of music.

"come to me," you whisper, not bothering to hide the need in your voice. "i’ll send you the address. i don’t care how long it takes. just come."

you hang up before he can answer, your heart hammering against your ribs.

the knock on your door feels like a gunshot in the silence.

you sprint to open it, heart hammering in your chest. and there he is—jeno, still in his work clothes, smelling faintly of sweat and cigarettes, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his forearms, veins popping, hair messy.

he looks at you—standing there in nothing but a black silk robe, your nipples hard and obvious through the thin fabric, thighs pressed together like you're trying to hold yourself together—and his jaw clenches.

"fuck," he breathes, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "look at you. fucking waiting for me like a good girl."

he kicks the door shut, not even bothering to take off his boots, and crowds you back against the wall. his hands are rough when they grab your face, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"been thinking about me all day, huh?" he taunts, his voice low, rough. "bet your little pussy’s been dripping since the moment you called."

"jeno—" you whimper, squirming under his gaze, needing him more than you need air.

"shh," he cuts you off, dragging his thumb over your lips. "you don't get to talk yet, baby. just nod if you're desperate."

you nod immediately, cheeks burning.

"good girl," he growls, and then he’s kissing you—hard, brutal, messy. his tongue fucks into your mouth like he owns it, hands everywhere at once: squeezing your tits through the robe, grabbing your ass, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

without warning, he grabs the belt of your robe and yanks it loose. it falls open, and you shiver, fully exposed under his heavy gaze.

"fuck, you're perfect," he mutters, palming your breasts roughly, pinching your nipples until you gasp. "so fucking soft. made for me."

you don't even realize he’s backing you toward the couch until he shoves you down onto it.

"spread," he commands, voice sharp, and you obey instantly, legs falling open to show him just how wet you are.

jeno drops to his knees between your thighs, dragging his tongue along the inside of your thigh, slow and filthy, so close to where you need him, but not giving you anything yet.

"such a messy little cunt," he murmurs, nosing against your slick folds. "fucking soaking... and it’s all for me?"

"yes," you gasp, hips bucking.

he laughs against your skin, a dark, cruel sound.

"then you better fucking take it."

and he dives in—licking, sucking, fucking you open with his tongue until you're crying out, writhing, clutching at his hair. he pins your hips down with strong hands, eating you like a man starved, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with every messy, wet stroke.

"gonna cum, baby?" he teases, voice muffled against your pussy. "gonna cum all over my tongue like a good little whore?"

you nod frantically, tears slipping down your cheeks from how good it feels.

but just when you're about to fall apart, he pulls away.

"nuh-uh," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "not yet. you don’t get to cum until i say so."

you sob, needy and frustrated, but he’s already standing up, freeing his cock from his jeans—thick, heavy, flushed red at the tip.

"open your mouth," he orders, stroking himself slowly.

you open without hesitation, tongue out, desperate.

"good fucking girl," he praises, and slides the tip into your mouth, letting you taste him, letting you choke on him as he pushes deeper.

he fucks your mouth slowly, watching you with hooded eyes, his thumb wiping away the tears leaking down your cheeks.

"take it all, baby. you can do it. i know you can."

you gag slightly, but you force yourself to relax, hollowing your cheeks, letting him use you until you’re drooling, messy, ruined.

he pulls out with a grunt, grabbing your wrist and hauling you up.

"couch first," he mutters, pushing you onto your hands and knees. he lines himself up behind you, slapping the head of his cock against your soaked pussy.

"you want it?" he asks, teasing your entrance, barely pushing in.

"yes, please, jeno, i need it," you cry, grinding back against him shamelessly.

"beg for it," he growls, slapping your ass hard enough to make you yelp.

"please," you sob. "please fuck me. i need you so bad."

he slams into you with one brutal thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs.

"that’s it," he groans, gripping your hips, fucking into you hard, deep. "take it, baby. fucking take all of me."

the couch creaks under the force of his thrusts, and you’re a mess—crying, moaning, babbling nonsense.

jeno leans over you, one hand grabbing your throat, not squeezing, just holding, anchoring you.

"mine," he growls into your ear. "this pussy’s mine now. no one else gets to have you like this."

he pulls out suddenly, making you whine in protest, and manhandles you onto your back.

"wanna see your face when you cum," he mutters, lining up again and thrusting back inside.

this position lets him go even deeper, the angle perfect, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

he grabs your ankles, pushing your legs up and back, folding you almost in half, fucking into you with brutal, relentless precision.

"so fucking tight," he pants, sweat dripping from his forehead. "so fucking perfect for me."

you’re close, so close, and he knows it.

he presses his forehead to yours, his thrusts getting sloppier, rougher.

"cum for me, baby," he whispers, voice wrecked. "cum on my cock. show me who you fucking belong to."

you shatter, screaming his name, your whole body convulsing around him.

jeno keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own release, until with a broken grunt he buries himself deep and cums inside you, filling you up.

he stays there for a moment, both of you gasping, sweating, bodies trembling.

then, without pulling out, he flips you onto your side, hooking your leg over his hip, and starts moving again.

"not done," he murmurs against your neck. "you said you’d wait for me with your legs open. now you’re gonna take everything i give you. all fucking night."

and you do.

he fucks you on the couch, on the floor, against the wall, until you’re too weak to stand.

he carries you to the bed, lays you down gently, kisses you softer now, but still hungry, still desperate.

and he doesn’t stop.

not until the sun is rising, and you’re ruined under him, full of him, marked and claimed in every way possible.

the morning sun creeps through your curtains, casting soft, golden light over the wreckage of the night.

your body aches in the sweetest way—thighs sore, skin marked with bruises and bites, every part of you still humming with the memory of him. you stir lazily, stretching a little, feeling the empty space beside you.

jeno is sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, still in his wrinkled black jeans, his boots finally kicked off and lying somewhere in the living room. he’s staring at the floor, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like he’s lost in thought.

you push yourself up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around your waist.

"you’re not staying for breakfast?" you tease lightly, voice still hoarse from all the moaning and screaming you did last night.

jeno doesn’t laugh.

he glances over his shoulder at you, jaw tight, eyes shuttered. there’s something unreadable in his expression—something sharp, something raw.

you sigh, brushing your hair out of your face, and swing your legs off the bed, standing up naked in front of him without a second thought.

"look, jeno," you start, voice cool, detached, like you're discussing the weather, not the fact that you just spent the whole night fucking like animals. "this thing between us... it’s just physical."

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even flinch.

you continue, walking toward where your robe is draped over a chair. "you know that, right? i mean, let’s be honest. we’re not from the same world."

you shrug into the robe, tying it loosely around your waist, feeling his eyes on you the whole time.

"i’m a model. i have contracts, photoshoots, events. i travel the world." your tone is matter-of-fact, brutal in its honesty. "you... you wash dishes. you serve drinks."

jeno’s hands curl into fists between his knees.

you know your words are cruel, cutting deeper than you intend, but you can't stop yourself. it’s easier this way. easier to build the walls high and thick before either of you starts to feel something you shouldn’t.

"there’s nothing you can offer me," you say, your voice softening only slightly. "except maybe a good fuck."

the words hang heavy in the air, toxic and ugly.

jeno lifts his head finally, meeting your gaze. there’s a storm in his eyes—hurt, anger, humiliation—but he swallows it all down, burying it under a mask of indifference.

"yeah," he says, voice low and rough. "i know."

you look at him for a long moment, something twisting in your chest. a part of you wants to take it back, to apologize, to say something, anything, that might soften the blow.

but you don’t.

because it’s better this way. it has to be.

jeno stands up, grabbing his shirt off the floor and pulling it over his head.

"i gotta get to work," he says, avoiding your eyes now.

you nod, tightening your robe around you as if it can shield you from the sudden chill in the room.

he lingers for a second, like he wants to say something else, but in the end, he just grabs his boots and heads for the door.

you watch him go, heart pounding in your chest, throat tight.

when the door shuts behind him, you finally let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

the silence that follows is deafening.

you barely have time to process it when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

it’s your manager.

on my way to your place. we have a full schedule today. be ready.

you stare at the message, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

right. life goes on.

you pull yourself together, hiding every trace of last night, tucking it away deep inside where no one can see. you touch up your makeup, fix your hair, throw on a designer outfit.

by the time your manager arrives, you look perfect again.

polished. untouchable.

like last night—and the boy who made you feel something real for the first time in ages—never even happened.

the bar is packed tonight.

jeno moves behind the counter like a machine—pouring drinks, wiping down surfaces, dodging drunk customers—but his mind isn’t here. his body works on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him through the motions.

inside, he’s boiling.

he clenches his jaw so hard it aches, fists tightening around glasses when he thinks about the way you looked at him this morning. like he was... nothing. disposable. just another tool for your pleasure.

just physical, you had said.

you wash dishes. you serve drinks.

you have nothing else to offer.

jeno grits his teeth and slams a bottle harder than necessary onto the counter, earning a glance from one of the other bartenders. he ignores it.

he doesn’t need their pity.

he doesn't need anyone's pity.

he pours another shot for some suit who probably makes more in a week than jeno does in a year, sliding it across the bar with a mechanical smile.

meanwhile, across town, you’re stepping out of a black car, flashing a blinding smile at the cameras.

your manager walks beside you, murmuring the day's schedule—photoshoot in the morning, interview in the afternoon, charity gala at night.

you nod, perfectly poised, perfectly composed. you pose for the paparazzi, flash that million-dollar smile, turn your head at just the right angle to catch the light.

to the world, you’re flawless. untouchable.

jeno’s hands shake when he twists open another beer. he wants to hate you. he really fucking does. he wants to hate the way you used him, the way you looked at him like he was beneath you.

but all he can think about is how soft you felt under him. how sweet you tasted. how your body fit his like it was made for him.

and the worst part?

he’d do it all over again.

even if it breaks him.

even if it makes him feel like less than nothing.

jeno slams the empty bottle into the bin with a little too much force, earning another side-eye from the bar manager.

he wipes his hands on a towel, grabbing the next order slip, throwing himself back into the chaos.

work. distraction. numbness.

it's the only thing he has now.

it’s well past closing time.

the bar is almost empty now, chairs stacked on tables, the floors sticky and reeking of spilled liquor. the neon signs buzz and flicker, the only sound in the heavy silence.

jeno sits slumped at the counter, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him, one hand wrapped loosely around his phone.

he knows he shouldn’t.

he knows it’s a terrible fucking idea.

but his heart is heavy, his body still aching with the memory of you—your moans, your warmth, your fucking smile after you ruined him.

the whiskey burns as he takes another swig straight from the bottle.

fuck it.

he unlocks his phone, pulls up your contact—the one you insisted on saving after that first night back, after you both swore it would be just sex, nothing else.

his thumb hovers over the screen for a second too long before he types:

"you miss me yet?"

simple. reckless. pathetic.

he stares at the message, finger trembling slightly.

his pride screams at him to delete it, to pretend he never even thought about reaching out. to pretend he’s fine. that he doesn’t dream about you. that he doesn't crave you like he needs you to breathe.

but his thumb moves before he can stop it.

send.

the second the message disappears, dread hits him like a freight train.

he sets the phone face down on the counter with a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

what the fuck is he doing?

you’re probably in bed already, sleeping soundly on satin sheets, not giving a single thought to the dishwasher who was stupid enough to fall for you.

jeno laughs bitterly under his breath, the sound low and broken.

he pushes the bottle away and buries his head in his arms on the counter, wishing he could turn back time. wishing he could forget you.

wishing he wasn’t so fucking weak.

the morning sun pours through the massive windows of your penthouse.

you stir lazily under the expensive covers, stretching like a cat, still half-asleep.

your phone buzzes softly on the nightstand.

you reach for it without thinking, screen lighting up with a few notifications—emails, your manager confirming today’s appointments, a reminder for a fitting later tonight.

and one message. from jeno.

your heart skips for the briefest second, a flicker of something you immediately smother down.

you open it.

"you miss me yet?"

the words sit there, small and needy on the screen.

pathetic.

you stare at it for a few seconds, expression unreadable. there’s no rush of warmth, no surge of longing. just a cool, detached amusement.

he actually thought you would miss him.

a dishwasher. a bartender.

someone so far beneath you it was almost laughable.

you sigh, tossing the phone back onto the bed without even bothering to reply.

your time is too precious to waste on things like him.

on emotions.

on weakness.

you swing your legs over the side of the bed, standing gracefully, your silk nightgown clinging to your body.

there’s a whole day ahead of you—meetings, shoots, events. you have an image to maintain.

a reputation to protect.

jeno was just a moment of weakness. a dirty little secret. a mistake you wouldn’t make again.

you walk into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up filling the silence.

behind you, your phone stays dark and unanswered on the bed.

jeno’s message left to rot.

just like him.

your marriage, already a hollow shell, rots from the inside. arguments, cold silences, whispered threats—until the bomb explodes.

then the whisper becomes a headline.

then the headline becomes a full-blown fucking wildfire.

you’re in the middle of a fitting for an upcoming fashion week when your phone explodes with notifications—texts, missed calls, news alerts.

your manager bursts into the dressing room, her face pale, panic in her eyes.

"you need to see this," she says, shoving her phone toward you.

on the screen, a breaking news banner flashes brightly.

your husband—soon-to-be ex-husband—caught leaving a well-known cabaret at three in the morning. hidden camera footage. evidence of embezzlement, laundering money through shell companies tied to shady nightclubs and prostitution rings. links to criminal networks.

your name gets dragged into the mud too—guilt by association.

"model and socialite embroiled in scandal." what did she know? was she complicit?

your face—your face—plastered on every tabloid, every gossip blog, every news channel.

you stare at the screen, heart thudding dully in your chest.

your hands shake slightly as you take the phone, scrolling through the article.

photos of you, smiling beside him at charity events. walking hand in hand at galas. attending lavish dinners.

painted like a co-conspirator.

painted like a trophy wife who turned a blind eye to the filth crawling underneath.

your stomach twists violently.

"i didn’t know anything," you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

your manager is already barking orders into her phone—damage control, pulling your name from upcoming campaigns, preparing press releases.

you barely hear her.

your mind is spinning, a thousand miles an hour.

your marriage—the carefully curated image you upheld for years—shattered.

your career—your future—threatened by something you had no part in.

you can file for divorce now, thanks to the mountain of evidence piling against him. but it’s not easy. he has friends, connections, dirty favors tucked away in every corner of the city.

for a while, it feels like you’ll never escape.

but then the police step in. an arrest warrant. handcuffs. flashing cameras. reporters shouting.

he’s taken into custody, charged with fraud, corruption, and solicitation. and for the first time in years, you can breathe.

the police move fast. within days, your husband is arrested on charges of fraud and conspiracy. the photos of him in handcuffs, head bowed, hit the media like a bomb.

your lawyers file for divorce immediately, citing irreconcilable differences and gross misconduct.

still, it’s not easy.

his influence runs deep.

he has friends in high places, money tucked away in hidden accounts, strings he still tries to pull even from a jail cell.

the next few weeks are hell.

interviews. paparazzi hounding you outside your building. brands putting your contracts on hold. people whispering behind your back—was she involved? did she really not know?

you hold your head high through all of it.

because that’s what you do.

you survive.

even as the walls close in, even as the floor crumbles beneath you, you refuse to break.

you show up to every event you can’t cancel, dressed in sharp designer suits, makeup flawless, smile impenetrable.

you answer the reporters’ questions with cold, practiced precision.

"i had no knowledge of my husband’s illegal activities." "i am fully cooperating with authorities." "my focus is on my career and clearing my name."

you’re a fucking machine.

but at night, when the cameras are gone, when the lights are off, when you’re alone in your massive, empty penthouse—you watch it all unfold, wrapped in that same black silk robe, sipping a glass of wine, a wicked little smile playing on your lips.

you think of jeno.

you think of the way he looked at you.

like you were human.

like you were real.

you wonder if he’s seen the news.

if he’s laughing.

if he thinks you deserve it.

maybe you do.

and somewhere, not far away, jeno’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. he smiles when he sees your name. because he knows—you’re his now.

completely.

the media circus dies down eventually, but the aftermath lingers, like a bad taste in your mouth that won’t go away.

you’ve done everything you could to salvage what’s left of your career—multiple PR stunts, interviews, charity work. the world is watching, waiting for you to crack.

but you don’t.

you can’t.

you’re a perfect, cold image again.

you’ve learned how to play the game too well.

but in the dark corners of your mind, when the day is done and the press has left, you think of him.

jeno.

the one thing you can’t control. the one thing you can’t forget.

the thought eats at you like a slow burn.

the media has done its job, your reputation is in shambles, your career on the edge—but you can’t stop thinking about that night.

about him.

about how he made you feel more alive than you’ve ever been, more real. and you hate yourself for it.

it’s a stupid, dangerous thought.

he’s not in your world.

he’s beneath you.

just another distraction. another mistake.

but the ache inside you only grows.

you find yourself back at the bar. alone. this time, it’s a quiet night. the hum of soft chatter and clinking glasses is the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. you’re sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of wine, feeling like a stranger in your own skin. the music plays in the background, but you can’t focus on anything. not the drink in your hand, not the man flirting with the bartender, not the low conversations around you.

just the memory of his hands on you. his body pressed against yours, his breath hot in your ear, the way he made you forget the world for just a few hours. you pull out your phone, half-drunk, and stare at the screen for a few moments.

his name is still in your contacts, buried deep under the noise of everything else.

your thumb hovers over the keyboard. it’s stupid. reckless. but you can’t help yourself.

you tap out a simple message.

“i’m coming to see you.”

no questions. no excuses. just a direct invitation. no more games.

you don’t wait for a response. instead, you gather your things and slip out of the bar, sliding into a dark corner to change into something that will keep you anonymous. a dark jacket, a hood pulled low, sunglasses that hide your eyes. you don’t want anyone recognizing you. not tonight.

you arrive at his apartment about thirty minutes later. the small, worn-down building feels like a world away from everything you know. the scent of cheap takeout, the dull hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the old floors.

and there he is.

jeno.

he looks up as you step inside, surprise flashing across his face. but it’s quickly replaced with something else—something dark, almost relieved. He stands up, running a hand through his hair.

“so, what now?” he asks quietly, his voice rougher than you remember. his tone guarded, defensive.

you don’t answer immediately. you step closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body radiating toward you. for a moment, neither of you speaks.

then you finally let the words slip.

“now?” you let out a shaky breath, fighting the overwhelming pull between you. “now, we stop pretending it was just... nothing.”

he doesn’t move, but you see the way his eyes darken, like he’s trying to process what’s happening. but you’re done waiting. you step into his space, hands reaching for his chest, fingers trembling as you slide them down, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“you’re not like them,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “you’re not like the men i'm supposed to be with. you’re real.”

the words hang between you, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. his gaze flickers, something raw and exposed in his eyes.

“and what does that mean for us?” jeno’s voice is rough, like he’s fighting back something—regret, bitterness, confusion, or maybe something worse. “you’re not the same woman i fucked a few weeks ago,” he adds, the tension in his voice unmistakable.

you swallow hard, feeling the heat surge between you again. “it means...” you say, your voice breathless as you pull him closer, “it means we both need this. we both need something real... and we’re going to do whatever the fuck it takes to feel alive again.”

you push him back against the wall, your hands quick and desperate as you rip open his shirt.

he doesn’t stop you.

and this time, you’re not pretending. you both know exactly what this is.

the air between you is thick with tension, suffocating. the weight of everything—the scandal, the lies, the broken pieces of your life—suddenly doesn’t matter anymore. it’s just the two of you, and the world outside feels miles away.

you drag him closer, your fingers working at his jeans, impatient, desperate. you feel the heat radiating off his skin, the tension in his muscles as he grips your hips, pulling you flush against him.

his mouth crashes onto yours, urgent, hungry. you kiss him like you’re drowning and he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. your hands slide up his chest, tugging at his shirt, tearing it off. there’s no room for subtlety anymore. no games. no pretending.

you step back for a moment, just to take him in—his chest, bare and defined, his eyes dark with something you can’t quite name. but you want it.

you want it more than anything.

"you’re not the same person," he mutters, his voice low, hoarse.

"neither are you," you reply, eyes never leaving his.

there’s something raw in his gaze, something that tells you he’s as broken as you are. but you don’t care. you don’t need the emotional baggage right now. you need him. just him.

you pull him back toward you, lips crashing against his once again, a rush of heat flooding your veins. his hands roam your body with practiced ease, sliding over your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

he’s rough, pulling at the hem of your dress, pushing it up your thighs, as if he can’t get enough of you.

you’re not the same person either—not the woman who had everything under control, not the one who smiled for the cameras. right now, you’re just her—the one who needs this.

you push him back onto the couch, straddling his lap in one swift motion, grinding against him with a soft, needy moan. he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his eyes dark with desire.

"fuck," he mutters, and you smile wickedly.

"do you want me to stop?" you tease, dragging your nails across his chest, watching the way he shudders under your touch.

"don’t you dare," he growls, his voice rough with lust.

you lean forward, lips brushing against his neck, tasting the salt on his skin as you begin to undo his jeans. he doesn’t even try to stop you. he’s just as lost in this as you are.

his breath catches as you finally release him, your hands wrapping around him, stroking him slowly, teasingly, knowing just how to make him lose control. you feel him harden under your touch, his body tense beneath yours, and you smile, leaning in to kiss him again—slow and deep, savoring the moment.

you’re not going to pretend anymore. you don’t care about the past or the future. all that matters is the way he makes you feel. alive.

you lower yourself onto him in one smooth motion, his eyes dark and intense as you begin to move, your rhythm slow at first, letting the tension build.

he grabs your waist, urging you on, his body reacting to yours in the most primal way.

his hands slip to your back, pulling you closer, his lips finding your neck, your ear, anything he can reach.

"you wanted this, huh?" he breathes against your skin, his voice a mixture of cocky satisfaction and raw hunger.

you moan, your body moving faster, needing him closer, deeper, harder.

"shut up and fuck me," you gasp, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you ride him harder, faster, your movements frantic now, just as desperate as your feelings.

he doesn’t hesitate.

he’s the perfect balance of force and control, guiding your hips, meeting you thrust for thrust.

you’re a mess of tangled limbs and desperate breath, lost in the pleasure, in the feeling of his body moving against yours, in the heat of the moment.

you come undone first, your body shaking with pleasure as you cry out his name, the sound of it raw and needy in the air.

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving, keeps fucking you with such intensity that you can barely think, can barely breathe, but it doesn’t matter.

all that matters is this moment, this thing between you, this need you can’t escape.

he comes with a low growl, his grip tightening on you as he finishes inside you, his body shuddering beneath yours.

for a long moment, neither of you moves. you’re both gasping for breath, your chest rising and falling as you cling to each other. finally, you collapse against him, your head resting on his chest, your mind spinning.

you both know this is dangerous, that you shouldn’t be doing this, but right now, in this moment, it feels like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

"you’re fucking perfect," he mutters, his voice hoarse and ragged.

you smile softly, fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

"this is just physical, right?" you ask, your voice steady, even though there’s a hint of something else in it.

"just physical," he replies, but his voice wavers slightly.

you both know it’s a lie. but right now, neither of you cares.

the morning after feels different.

the first thing you notice when you wake up is the quiet. the kind of quiet that rings too loudly in your ears. you’re in his bed, curled up against him, your body still aching from the night before, from the way he pushed you to your limits. you can still feel him, the imprint of his body on yours, the way he made you feel alive when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

but the reality is sinking in.

you push yourself up from the bed, your muscles sore, your thoughts a jumbled mess of lust, anger, and confusion. the sun is just starting to rise, casting a faint light across the room, but it does nothing to ease the storm in your chest.

you glance back at jeno, still asleep, his dark hair messy, his body sprawled out across the sheets.

he looks peaceful.

and for a moment, you wonder what it would be like to have this... without the mess, without the lies, without the broken parts of both of your worlds.

but you shake your head.

you can’t think like that.

he’s beneath you.

nothing more than a distraction from the mess you’re in.

the scandal. the divorce. the pieces of your life that are crumbling away.

you stand, grabbing your clothes from the floor, slipping into them quickly. you can’t stay here. you don’t belong here.

you move quietly, making your way to the door, but before you can leave, you hear him stir behind you.

"where are you going?" his voice is rough, still heavy with sleep, but there’s a trace of concern there.

you freeze, your hand on the door handle.

"i don’t belong here," you say, your voice colder than you feel. "you’re just a distraction. this… was just physical. i never needed anything more from you."

his eyes darken as he pushes himself up in the bed, his expression a mixture of frustration and something you don’t want to acknowledge.

"don’t bullshit me," he snaps, his voice sharp.

"you can lie to yourself all you want, but i know how this goes. we both know how this goes."

you turn to face him, your gaze cold.

"this is who i am," you say, your words biting. "this is all i can offer. just this."

his jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck flexing.

"fine," he says, voice low, almost resigned. "but don’t think for a second that i’m not going to keep coming back for more."

you want to say something—anything—to tear him down, to remind him of his place, but the words don’t come. you don’t know what’s worse: the fact that you want him to come back, or the fact that he’s right. you both need this. and it terrifies you. but you refuse to admit it.

you turn away, leaving his apartment without looking back.

the next few weeks pass in a blur.

you try to focus on your career, on cleaning up the wreckage of your life, but nothing feels right. nothing feels real anymore.

your divorce moves forward, slowly but surely, as the scandal continues to dominate the media. your husband’s arrested, and the reports of his illegal activities make headlines every day. he’s a sinking ship, and you’re still tied to him, whether you like it or not.

but the hardest part is the isolation. the loneliness that settles in, creeping into your soul when you least expect it.

you haven’t seen jeno in days. it feels like a lifetime, but you know deep down that you can’t keep pretending you don’t want him.

he was your escape.

he was the only thing that made you feel real, like you weren’t

drowning in a life that was suffocating you.

the temptation is too much.

you don’t call him.

you don’t need to.

because you know he’ll show up.

and he does.

your phone buzzes, but this time it’s not another report or the nagging questions of your lawyer. it’s a message from jeno.

he’s waiting outside.

you stand in front of the mirror for a long moment, eyes running over your reflection. the woman staring back at you seems so different from the one you used to be. strong, sure—no longer that naive socialite lost in the lies of her own image. the events of the past weeks have shattered you in ways you didn’t expect. but through it all, jeno’s presence, his touch, his voice, has been the only constant, the only thing you can’t escape.

you pull on a black dress, simple yet elegant, before slipping into the hallway. no words need to be exchanged when you open the door and see him standing there, a silhouette in the dim light. the door clicks shut behind him, and just like that, you’re alone in the silence.

his eyes find yours immediately, hunger mixing with something darker in his gaze.

"you can’t keep doing this to yourself." his voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s no anger in it. just... truth.

you don’t answer immediately. the silence stretches, thick like the air in the room. you want to say something—anything—but the words escape you.

instead, you step closer, until the space between you two is barely enough to breathe. you see his jaw clench, his hands ball into fists at his sides as he holds back from reaching for you.

"tell me this isn’t what you want." his words are a command, but they feel like a plea too. "tell me you’re not going to walk away again."

you bite your lip, your heart beating louder than your thoughts. the truth is simple. you can’t walk away. you never could.

"i can’t," you whisper, finally breaking the tension. your hands reach up, your fingers brushing his chest as you stare into his eyes, "but you’re not part of my world. you know that."

jeno’s breath catches at your touch, and he lets out a slow, steady breath. his gaze locks with yours, the silent battle between desire and logic waging on in his mind. finally, he shakes his head, the corners of his lips turning into a faint smile.

"neither are you," he murmurs, before pulling you in close, his hands gripping your waist. "but here we are."

the words hang heavy between you. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging him closer as his lips crash onto yours. there’s no hesitation now, no pretense. the kiss is hungry, urgent. his mouth moves against yours with a raw intensity, pulling all the tension from the past weeks into a single moment.

"we can't keep doing this," you breathe against his lips, your hands traveling lower, desperate to feel him again. "you know it’s just physical. that’s all it ever was."

he pulls back slightly, his lips brushing your ear as he growls lowly, "i don’t give a fuck what it was. all i know is this—when i’m with you, i can’t breathe, and i don’t want to." he presses himself against you, and you feel the heat, the undeniable need. "you can pretend you don’t want me, but i know you do. every time we’re near each other, you can’t stay away."

you shiver at his words, the heat coursing through you, spreading like wildfire. you know he’s right. but what does it matter? you’ve already crossed every line.

"then why are you still here?" you challenge, your voice thick with desire and something else—vulnerability? maybe it’s the quiet confession you’ve never been able to say aloud. "why haven’t you left if i’m just someone you’re using?"

jeno steps back for a second, looking at you with something raw in his eyes. "because i know better than anyone else that i can’t stay away from you. and maybe i don’t want to." his hands reach for you again, pulling you close as his lips find your neck, your pulse racing under his touch.

"we don’t need anything else, do we?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper, your hands gripping the back of his shirt. "no strings. no future. just this."

he doesn’t answer with words. instead, his hands glide under your dress, pulling you flush against him. there’s nothing else left but the undeniable, desperate need between you two.

his lips find yours again, slow at first, savoring every inch of you. but then his hands roam, and the kiss deepens, growing desperate, desperate to erase everything but the sound of your breath, the feeling of your skin, and the raw, unrelenting chemistry between you.

"this is all we have," he murmurs against your mouth, as you drag him toward the bedroom. "and maybe... it’s enough."

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. all that matters is that you're here—together, for now, and no matter the consequences, nothing else matters.

this is your world. this is your escape. and for tonight, that's all that matters.

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