#Going to be keeping an eye out for that fic ^^ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandalhoerian · 3 days ago

Text

i think this is the absolute best caleb and overall lads fic i've ever read. i was fully lying on my side in bed when i started this, and by the end, i'd SAT THE FUCK UP and was doubled over with my faced glued to the damn phone. the sheer physical reaction i had to this fic has been like nothing else!!!!!

i stared out at nothing for a while after i finished it and like. scrolled down the notes for any explanation and then got to your profile and THANK GOD you made a q&a, but even before that i was like. playing ping pong in my head about so many theories -- but i was like full on panicking. PANICKING. IM GONNA BE THINKING ABOUT THIS FIC FOR LIKE A MONTH. ITS GONNA BE MY ROMAN EMPIRE.

PEOPLE WHO WANT TO READ IT DO NOT. I MEAN ABSOLUTELY DO NOT OPEN THE *READ MORE* IT HAS SPOILERS I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD SAY THIS BEFORE BUT YOU NEED TO GO READ THE FIC OKAY. EXPERIENCE THAT SHIT. DONT READ THE SPOILERS. DONT . I PROMISE ITS WORTH IT SHUSH I NEED TO YAP I CANT CONTAIN IT

okay? OKAY. GET OUTTTTTTTT

first of all, you have unmatched mastery of the craft. like, *showing* the grief, and the internal hoops the reader goes through and her inner world. you never once forget her character and what she's going through, her motivations and driving force shows in everything she does and how she reacts. be right back is one of my favorites in black mirror and despite being inspired by it and borrowing some themes, i felt like i was experiencing the first watch of this episode all over again, you really made it your own!!! the reader just accepting her fate when not-caleb started isolating her and staying in that bubble with him despite being very-well aware at the back of her mind was just. you really showed what escapism was. i understood her so well even though i had sinking dread towards her downward spiral. this entire fic is just a portrait of grief done so very well, you never half-assed anything and the beautiful prose just took this to godly levels. it just has so much heart, and all of that passed through the screen to me, i don't know if this is because i relate so much.

the way not-caleb was perfectly caleb and not out of character to her up until the point he started expressing desire for her and she thought "yep. found it" was just. it was CHEF'S KISS GODDDDDDD ARGH along with so many little missable moments. the way she's guilty and regretful about something, the brief mention of how she hurt caleb before he passed, how not-caleb's eyes keep flashing, the way HE SMASHED THROUGH A DOOR LIKE NOTHING AND I ALMOST MISSED IT THAT'S HOW THE PUPPY EYES WERE EFFECTIVE EVEN IN HER POV, the not red flag-inducing way you weaved how gideon and caleb were working for EVER's robotics department, like. i am. i just can't express how the execution of EVERYTHING was so perfect in my eyes.

not-caleb is still a mystery to me, even though the reveal at the end explained SO MUCH about his behavior. i'd like to believe him going sentient was out of caleb's control. being aware of his purpose and his maker (and perhaps the intentions), it was no wonder he started going beyond paranoid after a long period of uncontrollable anxiety paralleling his falling in love process. but i really really wonder when he differentiated *himself* from *caleb's feelings*. i imagine he already came into existence loving the reader, so "i've wanted to do this for so long" is up to interpretation for me and i like the idea of this. but AGAIN, monopolizing the reader and keeping her away from caleb (which. is futile imo...) happening simultaneously with him gaining autonomy thus bringing in negative, anxious feelings he wasn't even supposed to have in the first place is so fascinating to me. does he want to be perceived different from caleb? or does he like it because the reader loves caleb? does he have opinions about being loved *as himself*? AGHHHHHHHH SO MANY THOUGHTS !!! SO MANY!!!!!

but he's painfully *caleb* in his ways of trying to keep her away from what he thinks is harm, by the way. which is. HIMSELF. this literalization of the metaphor took me into orbit i'm telling you. all he can do is keep her away from the outside world. but it's not sustainable. caleb is going to come down from skyhaven eventually to come fetch the reader perhaps, or take away this "faulty" robot. in a way, his plan backfiring so bad that it gained sentience is so fucking funny to me. thats what you get for being a SUPERVILLAIN and BABY TRAPPING THE POOR GIRL. i absolutely love where the fic left off but i want to see what happens SO BAD. i mean, he still does see through not-caleb's eyes, does he know he's going rogue kinda? IM GOING CRAZYYYYYYY IS THIS WHY HE REVEALED HIMSELF? HE'S GONNA BE CRASHING DOWN ON THEM FROM SKYHAVEN LIKE THIS

god, i really thought for a second "oh my god this isnt a random android this is literally caleb. they robot-ified him????" when i breezed through the last paragraphs, my heart was BEATING. i was like this makes so much sense why she got pregnant OMG OMG OMG. but then i re-read and "oh he's in skyhaven. what????" your q&a was so helpful in that regard i was so lost 😭😭😭 the title "trojan horse" is GENIUS . JUST GENIUS. IT LITERALLY GIVES AWAY THE ENTIRE PLOT I WANT TO KISS YOUR BRAIN IM GONNA TWEAK. WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKK

anyway, thank you so much for this fic. you've gained a loyal follower and fan!!!!! this was an insane work, i'm still sure there are so many things i'm missing and that i'll be doing so many re-reads. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SHARING THIS MASTERPIECE WITH THIS FANDOM !!!!!

ps: this is my rendering of the reader in shock after she had sex with not-caleb for the first time, just awake, staring at the ceiling and questioning the decisions she's made

big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations, pregnancy

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

#shai's fic recs

3K notes · View notes

crdteezv · 2 days ago

Text

His #1 Fan - Haechan

Pairing: !idol! Haechan x perv loser fangirl! gf! reader

Genre: idol! au, smut

Synopsis: You told him you were just a fan. But behind closed doors? You were obsessed—saving every fancam, moaning his name into your pillow, and running a secret fan account filled with god knows what. Haechan never suspected a thing… until he came home early and found it all. And now that he knows what you really are?

A pervert.

Warnings: smut. !mean/hard dom! haechan, loser/perv sub!reader, reader has an unhealthy obsession with him and is lowkey creepy at times… mutual masturbation, phone sex?, size kink, oral (giving), fingering (receiving), sex toy use, pillow humping, HEAVY humiliation and degradation, unprotected sex.

Word Count: 5.4k words

A/N: Fair warning—this fic is pretty disturbing, and if you’re not comfortable with any of the tags above, please refrain from reading. This one’s way more intense than most of what I’ve written before.

Also, sorry for disappearing for months… I had zero motivation to write until now!!

AND I did not forget about the NCT prompt requests!! A bunch of them are still in the works, so keep an eye out

You were a fan first. Always.

You’d been following Haechan for years. Not casually. Not like one of those girls who watches a few stages and thinks she’s obsessed because she knows his birthday and blood type. No. You were deep into it. Sick with it. You're the kind of fan people make callout threads about.

You studied him.

Every stage outfit—categorized by tour, color scheme, and accessory. Every fancam—even the shaky, blurry 360p ones where the mic check overshadowed his voice—downloaded, backed up, renamed, and stored in folders sorted by era, hair color, etc. You had tags for expressions like his smirks or lip bites. Livestreams were recorded the second they went up, even the ones that got deleted halfway through. You had them saved forever.

You had clips titled things like "his moan???" and “rude ass stare.mp4.” You watched them on loop.

You came to them.

At first, you told yourself it wasn’t that bad. You weren’t trying to date him. You didn’t want to be his girlfriend. You wanted to be fucked. Used.

You wanted to be some stupid little fan he could bend over the edge of a hotel bed and ruin—nothing but a warm hole to fuck until your throat was raw from moaning and your legs were too weak to stand.

Your private account—@haebrainrot606—was the place where you said all the shit you’d never admit aloud.

he laughs like he knows i’d let him use my throat if he asked

i just know he gives the craziest head i want his face shoved in between my legs

i want to make a mess on his thigh and ride it till i cry

The tweet that went viral wasn’t even your worst one.

i want him to ignore me while he jerks off. just use my mouth. don’t even look at me

15k likes.. People were going crazy in the replies. No one knew who you were. You never posted your face. But your followers? They knew. They understood. They were sick just like you.

You weren’t a fan.

You were a pervert.

And you were fine with that.

Until it stopped being a fantasy.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You were working some nothing backstage job at a music show—wrangling cables, keeping your head down, trying not to get caught staring. You tried not to stare too hard when he walked by.

But he saw you.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

He asked for your name, then asked if you were free that weekend—and you said yes, way too quickly. You went out that weekend, nervous as hell, trying not to shake through the whole thing. You lied—told him you liked his group, but that you weren’t really into K-pop like that. You tried to act cool, like you weren’t always imagining him bending you over in one of the backstage closets and fucking you raw.

He honestly thought you were cute.

You started dating not long after.

Nobody knew. Not the fans. Not your friends. Not your mutuals on Twitter who’d die if they found out the girl thirst-tweeting about getting face-fucked by Haechan was actually dating him.

He didn’t know either.

Not about the account. Not about the folder on your phone marked simply “H.” Not about the screenshots of his hands or the dozens of clips of his hips during choreography. Not about the draft in your Notes app describing him bending you over his kitchen table and muttering, “Don’t fucking speak unless it’s to beg.”

He didn’t know you got off to them. Regularly.

He had no idea you watched his fancams with a vibrator pressed to your cunt. That sometimes you got so high on him, you ignored his texts just to ride your own hand through another orgasm.

He thought you were shy.

He thought you were sweet. Innocent.

He thought you missed him when he went on tour because you loved him.

You did. That part was true.

But you also missed the weight of his cock on your tongue. The way he grunted when you gagged around him. The way he groaned—low and casual, like he didn’t even realize it. You missed how sometimes—just sometimes—he’d look at you while you were on your knees like you’d pissed him off, like he was two seconds away from saying ‘shut the fuck up and take it.’

You missed that look.

You loved him so much it made you sick. Loved the way he touched you like you were breakable. Like he was holding back. Loved the weight of his body over yours, slow and deep, fucking the air from your lungs one thrust at a time.

You wanted him to know.

You wanted to show him the account. Scroll through every tweet. Every draft. Every voice note of his moaning that you looped until your thighs were slick and your sheets were ruined.

You wanted him to snap.

You were soaking, just thinking about it.

His hoodie clung to your skin, black and oversized, still heavy with his cologne. You had your vibrator in one hand, your phone in the other. Fancam loaded. Volume low.

You rolled onto your stomach, shoved a pillow under your hips, and tucked the vibe against your clit.

You were already wet. The second it pulsed, your breath stuttered. The buzz vibrated through your spine, soft and relentless. Your hips rolled down into it, desperate for pressure, for anything.

The screen showed him on stage—sweat-soaked, hair messy, jean jacket clinging to his shoulders. He was practically fucking the air, like the audience wasn’t even there—like the lights, the screams, none of it mattered. His eyes stayed locked straight ahead, jaw clenched, hips grinding with that same brutal rhythm, like he was already inside someone. Like he knew you were out there, watching him lose control—and wishing it was you he was doing it to.

And God, his face. That smirk. Those eyes.

You pressed the vibe harder.

Your moan slipped out soft and broken. Your thighs clenched. You moved against it, slow and messy, your slick coating the pillow underneath you. You didn’t care. Your body was already curling, every nerve drawn tight.

“Fuck…”

The moan echoed through your room, quiet but desperate.

Your mind filled with his voice—imaginary, yet it felt so real

“You’re really humping a pillow, baby?”

You gasped. Your hips bucked. Your hands twisted in the sheets.

“You get off to me like this every night, huh?”

You did.

And you were so close.

“Fucking pathetic.”

You came fast and hard—legs twitching, hips jerking, body trembling.

But the shame didn’t stick.

Because you weren’t done.

You didn’t want to be done.

You turned the vibe higher. Pressed it back against your clit.

You were sobbing. Moaning through it. Guttural, aching sounds you couldn’t even bite back.

You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe.

And then—

Your phone rang.

Your whole body jerked. The vibrator still buzzed mercilessly against your clit.

Caller ID lit up the screen.

Haechan ♥️

Your heart dropped. Your brain fried.

You stared. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then you answered.

“Hi,” you gasped, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

Silence.

A pause.

Then his voice came through the line, low and smug, and knowing.

“You sound fucked out already.”

You choked on air.

“That for me?”

You whimpered. A sound so broken it wasn’t even a word.

He laughed.

And that was when you realized—he knew.

“Jesus, baby,” Haechan said, voice soaked in disbelief. “You miss me that bad?”

You nodded before you remembered he couldn’t see you. Tried to speak, but your throat clenched around the sound. The vibrator was still humming against your swollen clit—slow, cruel pulses dragging you up and down the edge like it had all the time in the world to make you suffer.

“What are you doing right now?” His voice dropped, smoother and a little darker now. “Tell me.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t even breathe, let alone form words. Shame burned through your face, your chest, all the way down to your trembling thighs.

He clicked his tongue—sharp, almost condescending.

“Oh my god. Are you actually touching yourself right now?”

The orgasm that had been teasing at your spine flared hotter.

“I didn’t think you were serious. You really can’t help yourself, huh?” he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Bet you’ve been humping that sad little pillow of yours like it’s my thigh.”

You choked on a moan.

He heard it.

“Aw, baby. You’re so fucking gross.”

He wasn’t mad. That was the worst part. He sounded fond and weirdly amused. Like the whole thing was endearing—your soaked sheets, your ruined underwear, your whimpers breaking apart in the back of your throat.

“You got the vibe still on?”

You nodded. “Yes,” you gasped. “Still—still on—”

“How long have you been like this?”

You had to think. Or maybe just lie.

“An h-hour?” It came out small. Shaky. Fragile.

He exhaled through a soft laugh—dark, amused, and just a little breathless.

“Jesus Christ.” A pause. “Did you cum already?”

You hesitated.

“…Twice.”

His groan bled into the speaker. It was quiet, low, and raw. It sounded like it had slipped past his teeth before he could hold it back.

“Fuck. You’re obsessed.”

You whimpered again, full-body tremble, everything clenched and aching and tight.

“Say it,” he said, voice cutting like a blade between your ribs. “Say what you want.”

You wanted to tell him you’d been jerking off to his fancams, but instead, you just said, “I want you to use me,” the words spilling out all at once, your voice cracking. “I want you to know how desperate I am. Please, Haechan, I want to be yours, I want—”

Your breath caught in your throat. The vibrator ground against your clit like it wanted to break you, and your whole body tensed with a cry.

“Keep going,” he breathed. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You didn’t know what you were saying anymore. It poured out of you—shameless and breathless.

“I think about your dick every night. I dream about your voice, your fingers, the way you fuck—rough, mean, fast—I want you to choke me—”

You screamed as it hit you.

Your orgasm exploded through your spine, brutal and unstoppable. You bit your own arm to keep from sobbing out loud. Your legs locked up, your hips twitched, and your cunt throbbed around nothing, dripping slick down your thighs and into the ruined pillow beneath you.

The vibrator kept buzzing.

Too much.

You clawed at it, yanked it away with shaky fingers, body twitching uncontrollably. You were soaked. The pillow beneath you was drenched. You couldn’t see straight and your vision blurred,

He was still on the line.

You heard him breathing slowly and steadily.

“…Are you okay?” he asked finally, voice wrecked. Like he’d been jerking off the whole time and was pretending not to.

You nodded, then laughed, the sound breaking apart halfway through.

“No,” you exclaimed. “I’m fucking exhausted now.”

He let out a breathy laugh at your response; he found it cute—how easily you fell apart, how quickly you turned into a desperate, needy mess just for him.

“I’m coming home in two days, by the way,” he said, tone soft but heavy, like a warning, like a promise.

You swallowed hard.

“You better be ready.”

You weren’t.

Not even close.

Two days later, he didn’t knock.

No warning. No text. No call.

He just walked in.

You were curled up in his bed, legs folded beneath you, phone glowing in your hand, face buried in his pillow like you were trying to smother yourself with the scent of him.

The same video played on your screen. The one you’d watched too many times. Him in the clear box. Sweating, smirking, thrusting so deep into the air it felt personal. The volume was too high. His voice filled the room—hot and arrogant and cocky—and you were too far gone to notice the door.

But you heard his voice in real time.

“What the fuck is this?”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned slowly. Almost robotically. Like maybe if you didn’t move too fast, you could lie your way out of it.

He stood in the doorway. Still. Calm.

Too calm.

His eyes tracked everything— your flustered expression, your soaked panties half-pulled down your thighs, the spent vibrator glowing faintly at your side. And your phone. Playing him.

You moved too late.

He was already crossing the room, grabbing the phone out of your hand. You didn’t even have time to blink.

He saw everything.

The tweets. The clips. The saved voice notes. The smut drafts in your Notes app.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His thumb flicked across your screen.

Then he read one out loud.

“‘I want to be manhandled by Haechan so bad.’” His gaze snapped up. “Wow.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

He scrolled again.

“‘I want him to use me so bad I don’t give a fuck anymore.’” His head tilted slightly. He looked almost impressed.

“Damn, baby.”

You scrambled. “It’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” he cut in, voice sharp now. “Didn’t think I’d find out?”

You fell silent.

He laughed. A single, low sound, cold and amused.

“All this time,” he said, stepping closer, eyes scanning your face like you were something he didn’t quite recognize. “You’ve been getting off to me in secret. Watching me over and over, like my fancams were made to feed your obsession. Lying to my face. Playing innocent.”

He stepped closer, phone still in his hand, and you instinctively backed up against the headboard.

“You’ve been jerking off to me like a fucking pervert. Fucking your pillow like a bitch in heat. Did you even want me, or did you just want to get off?”

You whimpered. Shook your head. But it was useless.

He was already reaching for you, already grabbing your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until your lips parted with a soft gasp.

“You’re fucking lucky I like you.”

Then he climbed onto the bed, knees pinning your thighs down, eyes flashing with something darker than desire.

You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed down, body trembling like it knew what was coming.

“I—I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely a thread.

“Oh, baby,” he muttered, dark amusement curling through every syllable. “You’re gonna be.”

He dropped your phone onto the bed with a loud, deliberate thud—screen still lit, still open to your account—and you flinched like it’d struck you.

Then his hand was on you.

Fingers curled under your chin, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you couldn’t look anywhere but him. His grip was firm, his eyes burning with something far beyond anger.

“You ever think about telling me?”

All you could do was swallow hard; your throat tightened, and you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him.

“You were gonna take that little account to the grave, huh?”

Still nothing.

He scoffed, like he already knew. Like he’d already read every tweet, every caption, every sick little reply.

And then—without warning—he yanked his hoodie off your body. The fabric dragged across your skin as you gasped, arms instinctively crossing over your chest like you could shield yourself from his gaze.

Pointless.

You were bare underneath. Exposed.

He looked at you slowly as if he was analyzing you.

And everything in his face changed.

His anger didn’t even go away. It just shifted into something colder, hungrier. His eyes darkened, dragging slowly and deliberately down the length of your body, lingering at the subtle twitch of your thighs. His gaze caught where your slick had already started to spill, glistening at your swollen cunt—leaking like you were begging without words.

He looked at you like it was the first time—like he was finally seeing you the way you’ve always seen yourself.

“You were jerking off to me just now, weren’t you?” he asked, voice low, deadly calm.

Your face burned. “Y-Yes.”

He didn’t even blink. “You’re sick.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He stepped closer, closing the space between you in one stride. One hand reached for the back of your neck, gripping tight, fingers splayed wide, ownership in his touch.

“You’ve been jerking off to me every night like some pathetic loser,” he growled, pulling you close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. “You moan into your pillows while touching yourself to the thought of me. You even write your dirty little fanfics and tweet things you’d never dare say to my face—still acting like you’re not already mine.”

“But I-”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “I’m not done.”

You shut it.

His eyes dropped again, scanning your trembling thighs, the way your fingers twitched at your sides. The way your body was begging without saying a word.

“You couldn’t wait two days?” he muttered. “Two fucking days without touching yourself like a slut?”

You shook your head, barely breathing.

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“No self-control,” he whispered.

His hand drifted from your throat, down over your chest, between the curve of your tits, across your stomach, slow enough to make you tremble.

“You like this,” he said. “Being caught? Being humiliated?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“…Yes,” you whispered, throat tight. “I do.”

His fingers skimmed your thighs, teasing the inside, not touching where you needed him—just grazing, just letting you squirm.

“Now you’re gonna sit here,” he said, voice rough. “And you’re gonna watch me go through that little fan account of yours. Every tweet. Every thread. Every disgusting thought you’ve had about my dick.”

You nodded quickly, breath hitching.

The second he told you to drop—you did. Your knees hit the floor like it was second nature to you.

He didn’t waste time.

Didn’t even look at you for long. Just unzipped his pants, pulled his cock out—hard, angry-looking, flushed to the tip like it took every tweet personally.

“Open,” he ordered.

You opened your mouth, and he shoved his cock past your lips without hesitation. No warm-up, no mercy. Just thick, heavy weight pushing into your throat like you were nothing but a hole to fuck. You choked immediately, lips stretching wide, spit spilling down your chin.

Both hands tangled in your hair as he held your head in place. Then he started to move.

“Let’s see if you suck dick as good as you tweet about it.”

You gagged, eyes watering. You tried to keep up—to breathe through your nose, relax your throat—but he didn’t give you the chance. He used you. Fucked into your mouth like he owned it.

When your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, he chuckled darkly.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” he muttered, pulling you back just far enough to watch the spit stretch from your lips to his cock. “You like this. You like being used.”

You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks, spit dripping down to your chest. You were shaking.

“It’s pathetic.”

He shoved your head down again, and you took it. Gagged, swallowed around it. And he still didn’t stop.

He grabbed your phone with one hand and started scrolling again—Like your sobbing throat and strangled gags were nothing more than background noise to him, just his new favorite sound.

Your head already bobbing, spit-slick and twitching from every shove, every taunting roll of his hips like he was trying to bruise your esophagus on purpose. He had one hand tangled in your hair, the other casually lifting your phone, thumb swiping upward as if your tears pooling down his thighs weren’t even worth acknowledgment.

"Oh, what’s this one say?" he mused, even as you spluttered, spit bubbling around his shaft. He tilted the phone slightly, screen lighting his cheek with that faint glow.

"'If he looked at me like that we’re fucking in that box in front of everyone I don't give af.'"

He barked a laugh and shoved his hips forward—not hard, just deep, intentional, burying himself until your throat was full of him and nothing else. Until your nose was pressed up against his happy trail and your eyes blurred with tears.

"Did you actually tweet this? " he taunted, holding the phone up, showing you the exact fancam—the fancam that you came to so many times.—paused right on that moment. His own eyes staring into the camera, pupils dark, jaw tight, every muscle in his body glistening in that glass box during that impossible performance. He hadn’t broken eye contact once with the lens, and you knew it. You’d watched it a hundred times. You tweeted about it.

He thrust again and your whole body jolted, a garbled whimper dragging out of your chest as he tapped the screen, watching himself lock eyes with the camera. With you. Over and over. That same unrelenting stare.

"Fucking in that box in front of everyone, huh?" he repeated, half-laughing now, breathless from how tight your throat clamped down when he quoted you. “God, you’re such a slut… wanting me to fuck you in front of all those people.”

You tried to breathe, tried to speak, but he just rocked into your mouth again, harder this time, making your shoulders hitch and your lungs beg. The phone was still in his hand, still glowing, still showing the loop of him staring into your soul.

“Bet you only said that so everyone would know I belong to you.”

God, he was so right.

You liked the idea of every single one of his fans, your mutuals, your followers, the whole damn world—watching that fancam and reading your tweets and knowing none of them could ever have him. Because he belonged to you. And more than that, you belonged to him.

You were his favorite fangirl.

Your whole body jerked, trembling. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as your throat fought to accommodate all of him and failed, again and again.

You were choking. He was scrolling. Perfect harmony.

His expression twisted, something between disgusted and turned on.

Then he pulled out with a wet pop, shoving your head aside like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

“On the bed.”

You scrambled up, legs barely working, knees weak as you crawled onto the mattress—still damp from earlier, still smelling like your last orgasm. You lay back, legs spread wide, open like muscle memory.

He stared.

Then smacked your clit.

Hard.

You screamed, body arching, hands fisting the sheets.

“You’re soaking just from me being mean to you?” he scoffed. “God, you’re such a fucking loser.”

Then he sank two fingers inside you—deep, rough, fast.

No warning.

They curled immediately, stroking the spot that made you jerk with a cry, your whole body thrumming with need.

You tried to breathe. Tried to stay still. But he was relentless—crooked fingers, wet sounds, his thumb grazing your clit just enough to drive you mad.

He leaned in close, voice pouring into your ear.

“All those dirty little posts?” he whispered. “All those disgusting tweets? You really thought I wouldn’t find out?”

You whimpered.

“You’re a fucking perv.”

He grabbed your phone again, still open on the mattress, still glowing.

“Let’s see what else my number-one fan’s been up to…”

He read aloud, slow and mocking.

“‘God, his hands are so pretty I just wish he could shove them deep inside and not stop no matter how many times I tell him to.’”

He looked at you, smirking. “My hands, baby? Out of everything? That’s what gets you off?”

You couldn’t speak. You were too far gone. Too humiliated.

“You’re such a pervert for me.”

His fingers moved faster. Wet. Unforgiving. Fucking into you with no rhythm, no care—just force and pleasure. Until your legs started shaking and your walls clenched tight and you felt yourself teetering again.

And then—

He stopped.

Pulled out.

You sobbed. A broken, desperate sound.

He clicked his tongue. “Oh, princess. You really thought I’d let you cum after all that gross things you wrote about me?”

You shook your head, begged silently, grinding against nothing.

“You don’t deserve shit from me.”

He unzipped his pants again, pulled his cock out, slapped it against your clit once—twice—just to watch your hips jerk. Your back arched. You needed him. Needed it.

“Mmm, baby,” he said, voice honey-thick and mocking. “Look at it. The cock you’ve been tweeting about. The one you came to.”

Then he flipped you onto your stomach, shoved your face into the mattress, and fucked into you in one vicious, brutal thrust.

You screamed.

“You don’t even deserve to be fucked like this,” he snarled, hips already slamming into yours. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You cried out again. Again. Every thrust shoved you further into the bed, stretched you wider, fucked you raw. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned. “You’re dripping down my cock, baby. Fucking soaked. All for me.”

The sheets smelled like him. Like cologne, sweat, and sex. It was overwhelming. It was perfect.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

Your orgasm was building again.

“Aww, don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already,” he said, voice low. “We barely fucking started.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even form a sound. You didn’t even hear him anymore—his constant taunts and teasing were a blur. All you could feel was his cock pounding into you and your orgasm building like a scream in your throat. All that registered now was the relentless rhythm of his cock slamming into you, slick and punishing, hitting that spot again and again with no mercy, no slowing, no breath between thrusts. Your body wasn't keeping up, and your brain had left hours ago.

And then it hit.

The orgasm came without warning—sudden, blinding, violent. Muscles clamped tight around his cock, walls spasming uncontrollably, thighs shaking as the wave surged through your core and stole every breath. Stars bloom into your vision, and you feel yourself getting dizzy. A scream tore from your throat, raw and broken, muffled into the sheets as your entire body trembled and shook. The convulsions came hard, hips jolting, knees knocking into his without rhythm, and still—he didn’t stop.

He grunted. Slowed just enough to mock you.

“God,” he hissed, breathless, looking down at the mess you’d become. “You’re so fucking gross. You really came that fast?”

Just grabbed your aching body and flipped you over like a ragdoll, letting you bounce onto your back, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“Now it’s my turn.”

And you didn’t get to breathe. Not even once.

He shoved into you in a single, brutal thrust, hips slamming against yours with obscene wet heat. You squealed—sharp and involuntary, a high-pitched gasp that twisted into a choked sob. Your legs instinctively locked around him, thighs clenching at his waist, your arms snapping up around his neck as your whole body reacted with desperate need. He filled you, absolutely filled you, cock stretching your sore pussy wide open again with zero warning, and it was too much.

“Fuck—” he groaned, pressing his chest flush to yours, his entire weight pinning you down into the bed. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift your head. His cock ground inside you, thick and brutal and unrelenting, while he buried his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of your sweat.

“You’re so fucking small under me,” he muttered, voice hoarse with lust, dragging his hips slow now, long, deliberate thrusts that made your back arch off the mattress. His cock slid in deep, too deep, forcing your body to take every inch like it had no choice.

You could barely breathe. He was suffocating you, swallowing your air, pinning your wrists back down with his hands wrapped tight around them like shackles. His broad shoulders caged you in like he wanted to drown you in him. His cock bullied your pussy with every thrust, splitting you open, dragging slick out of you with wet, squelching sounds that made your ears burn.

And you loved it.

You loved being held down. Loved the crushing weight of him on your body, the way his arms flexed over yours, how every part of you was forced to mold to him.

He started fucking harder. Hips snapping forward, slamming into you without rhythm, without restraint—just force. You cried out with each impact, your arms tightening around his neck, trying to anchor yourself to anything as he railed you into the mattress.

Then his mouth found your ear.

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice soft and dangerous, like a knife against skin. “You were running a fan account the whole time.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed cheeks, hips slamming forward as he spoke. Each word landed with a violent thrust.

“All those pathetic little things you posted about me—every night—while I was already fucking you like this in my bed.”

You gasped, trying to stammer something, anything, but the air was gone, and so were your thoughts. His fingers gripped your jaw tightly, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes were wild.

Possessive.

He than whispered in your ear “Don’t you think that’s a little fucking selfish?”

“I—I'm sorry—I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did," he cut you off, cock drilling into you harder, his voice thick with betrayal—and something darker. “You wanted both. You wanted to be my girlfriend and my #1 fan all at the same time. You wanted to write all that crazy shit about me and still look me in the eyes like nothing was wrong.”

Your body jolted as his cock slammed deeper, harder, shoving you up the bed until your head smacked into the headboard, breath ripped from your lungs.

“You’re mine,” he exclaimed. “You’ve always been mine. And no one gets to know that my biggest fan is a gross, pervy little slut I call my girlfriend.”

And that did it. Again.

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and unstoppable. Your legs shook around him, your voice cracked in a hoarse, broken scream that you buried in his shoulder, teeth scraping skin. You clung to him like a lifeline as he fucked you through it—faster now, chasing his own release with those brutal, punishing thrusts that sent the bedframe banging against the wall.

Then you felt it.

The heat. The flood. His cock twitched hard inside you, buried to the hilt, as thick, his warm cum spilling deep into your cunt. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you like he wanted to drown in you, hips still twitching, grinding in lazy aftershocks as your body milked him for every drop.

You were full. Overstuffed. Sore, soaked, still trembling. His cum leaked out of you in hot, messy spurts, mixing with your slick on the sheets. You could feel the mess under you, the wet sound your bodies made every time he shifted slightly, still inside you, cock still hard.

He didn’t move. Just collapsed on top of you, chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he didn’t care if you suffocated under him.

He stayed there.

You stayed under.

His cock twitched inside your pulsing cunt. Your heartbeat pounded against his ribs. You were nothing but a mess under him, and he loved it.

After a long silence, he reached over, his arm dragging lazily across the mattress, and grabbed your phone from where it had fallen off the bed earlier. He unlocked it without asking.

Scrolled.

Paused.

“I thought about it,” he said suddenly, voice low, husky. “But I don’t want you to delete your account.”

You blinked. Tried to process through the fog.

“…W-wait. What?”

“I said,” he repeated, eyes flicking to yours with that same glint of cruel amusement, “you should keep it.”

Your stomach dropped through the bed. You stared, eyes wide and raw. “No. No, wait—”

He leaned in close, mouth brushing yours with a smirk.

“Don’t get all shy now, baby,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes glinting. “Not after you posted that 43 tweet thread about how you’d let me facefuck you while I played League.”

You wanted to vanish, to die, to claw your way under the bed and disappear forever.

But he just kissed you again. Slow this time. Warm. Sickeningly sweet. Sinister.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips. “Don’t worry.”

He pulled back and winked.

“Post whatever you want. Just know I’ll be watching…”

282 notes · View notes

rafayelxsylusho · 21 hours ago

Note

It's 5am and I keep finding more of your amazing shots to continue reading!!!

I love your *at the same time* fics, Sylus, Zayn and Caleb are my favourites so I almost died when I read theirs, it was mind-blowing.

I wanted to request one with Sylus and Zayn, I do love some snowcrow action ❄️🐦‍⬛

Here is some snowcrow for our broken hearts after the main story update from today.

Enjoy!!

TW: Smut

❄️🐦‍⬛

"You're either drunk or plain stupid" Zayne retorts, his eyes narrowing as they remain fixed on Sylus. He doesn't seem impressed by the man's boldness.

Sylus just laughs, a sound that should be illegal, you think to yourself. He leans back, one arm slung casually across the back of the couch behind you, his fingers far too close to your thigh.

"You've never been with a man, Doctor?" Sylus asks, arching a brow at Zayne. There's a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, a gleam of challenge in his crimson eyes.

"I like women," Zayne answers shortly. His tone makes it clear that Sylus' sexuality is of no interest to him. He's not looking away from Sylus, his gaze hard and assessing. Assessing and calculating.

"Is that so?" Sylus purrs. His hand slides a fraction of an inch higher up your thigh. "How interesting. I could have sworn I saw the way you were looking at me, Doctor. Like you wanted to put me in my place."

Your heart races as Sylus stands abruptly, his predatory gaze never leaving Zayne's face. He takes a step towards him, then another, until he's standing right in front of Zayne.

"And I beg to differ," Sylus says as his hand moves to the front of Zayne's pants, palming the obvious bulge straining against the fabric. "Look at how hard you are right now. You can't tell me you don't want this."

Zayne lets out a choked sound, half groan, half whimper, as Sylus gropes him. His hips jerk slightly into the touch before he seems to regain some semblance of control.

"Fuck...wait," Zayne grits out.

Despite his words, he makes no move to stop Sylus' wandering hands. If anything, he seems to be fighting the urge to push his hips forward, to demand more of that touch.

Sylus just chuckles "Oh, I don't think you want me to wait, Doctor." he murmurs. With deliberate slowness, he reaches for Zayne's belt, the leather creaking as he starts to unfasten it.

His belt falls open with a soft clatter, and Sylus slips his hand inside Zayne's pants, palming the hot, hard length of him.

"We can't..." Zayne whispers through clenched teeth.

"Why the fuck not?" Sylus curses, his brow arching sharply.

Zayne turns to you, his eyes dark and intense as they search your face. Do you want this?"

You swallow hard and nod, pulse racing as you meet Zayne's eyes. The intensity there makes it clear that he won't proceed without your full consent.

Meanwhile, Sylus leans in close to Zayne "She's not saying no" he points out. His hand squeezes Zayne's cock almost punishingly. "In fact, she looks like she wants to be filled in every way possible. Doesn't she?"

"You know this is fucked up, right?" Zayne asks, a note of disbelief coloring his tone. Despite his shock, he can't deny the heat building at the idea of the two of them sharing you, pleasuring you. It's wrong, but it would be so very right.

Sylus just laughs again and he crooks a finger at you. "This is the first time I'm going to be with a man as well" he admits, no shame in his voice. "And I'm not opposed to it, on the contrary" His eyes glint as he beckons you closer.

You stand on shaky legs, drawn to Sylus like a child to a toy. Your feet carry you to him until he can wrap a hand around your wrist and pull you against his body. You gasp as he spins you around, pushing you down to your knees in front of Zayne.

"I think I'm going to enjoy this... a lot" Sylus purrs, his voice a sinful rumble that you feel in your bones.

Zayne's breath comes faster, his chest heaving as he stares down at you with hooded eyes. He inhales sharply as you suddenly yank his pants and underwear down, exposing his hard, fat cock to the cool air.

He lets out a strangled groan as your small hand wraps around his length, your fingers barely able to encircle its girth.

"Y/N..." Zayne gasps, his head falling back as you start to stroke him. Slowly at first, feeling every ridge and vein as you move your hand from the base of his shaft up to the swollen head. His hips twitch forward, seeking more of your touch.

"Such a needy little thing", Sylus murmurs. "So eager for a cock" His hand joins yours at the base of Zayne's shaft, wrapping around your smaller one. Together, you stroke Zayne, squeezing and caressing his hard flesh.

"You like this, don't you?" Sylus goads.

But he doesn't wait for an answer before tangling his fingers in your hair and pushing your face forward until your lips brush against the head of Zayne's cock.

"Suck it"

You part your soft lips and extend your small pink tongue, dragging it slowly around the swollen head of Zayne's cock. You can taste the salty tang of his precum, feel the velvet softness of his skin, the thick, pulsing heat of his arousal. A shaky moan escapes your lips as you savor his essence, your eyes fluttering closed.

Zayne lets out a strangled groan, his hand coming up to cover his entire face as he fights the urge to thrust forward.

"That's...fuuuuck..."

"That's it, kitten" Sylus' fingers tighten in your hair as he pushes your head down, encouraging you to take more of Zayne's cock into your mouth. "Take him deeper"

You feel the head of Zayne's cock pushing past your lips, stretching your jaw as you start to take him in inch by inch. You swirl your tongue around him, savoring every throb and twitch of his shaft.

"Get him nice and wet. I want to see you choke on his cock."

Zayne's hips jerk forward slightly, seeking more of your heat, as a litany of curses spill from his lips. "Shit...fuck...Y/N..., you have to...have to slow down..." But his body betrays his words, craving more of you, your mouth, your everything.

You look up at him from beneath, hazy eyes filled with lust and adoration, as you start to bob your head. You take him deeper on each pass, relaxing your throat to accommodate his thick girth until your nose is pressed against the hair at the base of his shaft. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, but you don't stop. You can't.

Zayne's brows furrow in concern when you gag on his cock, when he sees tears spill down your cheeks he immediately pulls back to give you room to breathe. His thumb brushes gently at the tears, wiping them away. "I don't want to hurt you"

Behind you, Sylus lets out a chuckle "Go sit on the couch like a good boy" he orders Zayne with a smirk. "Let me show you how to properly fuck her face"

You look up at Sylus, cheeks flushed and eyes wide "Or..." you whisper.

Sylus reads the unspoken challenge in your gaze and grins. Without a word, he drops fluidly to his knees before Zayne, taking your place. He looks up at Zayne through his lashes, a sinful glint in his eyes.

"Or", Sylus murmurs, "you can practice with me."

And then, before Zayne can react, Sylus leans in and takes his hard, throbbing cock into his mouth. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't tease, but simply swallows Zayne down.

Zayne's eyes widen in shock, a strangled groan tearing from his throat "Wait..." But Sylus pays no mind to his half hearted protests, instead starting to bob his head, sucking Zayne with ease.

Zayne hesitates for only a moment before Sylus' ministrations prove too tempting to resist. With a groan, Zayne tangles his fingers in Sylus' hair and starts to thrust his hips, driving his hard length in and out of his hot, sucking mouth.

Zayne grunts, head thrown back in ecstasy, fingers tightening in Sylus' hair as he starts to thrust harder, faster, chasing his pleasure as Sylus works his cock with single minded focus.

You watch, enraptured and incredibly aroused, as Sylus hollows his cheeks and sucks Zayne. You can see the thick outline of Zayne's cock stretching Sylus' mouth and it makes your core clench with need.

Suddenly, Zayne pulls Sylus off his cock with a wet pop. Sylus gasps in a sharp breath through his nose, a string of saliva connecting his lips to Zayne's throbbing tip.

Sylus grips the base of Zayne's throbbing cock tightly, giving him a warning squeeze as he takes him back into his mouth.

He starts to suck Zayne again, head bobbing faster, cheeks hollowing with intensity. The sound of his slurps and gags fill the room. It doesn't take long before Zayne's control starts to fray at the edges. His grip on Sylus' hair tightens, fingers curling and uncurling.

"Fuck, Sylus, I'm...I'm close," His hips jerk forward, seeking more of Sylus' heat even as he tries to hold back. "Shit, I'm going to...I'm going to cum!"

Sylus pulls off Zayne's cock and once again grips the base tightly.

"See this is why we have to train this big cock," his voice sounds rough from the thorough sucking. "You're so eager to cum everywhere aren't you, Doctor? Down my throat, inside her tight little cunt, her pretty ass and her prettier face."

He gives a slow, deliberate lick up the underside of Zayne's shaft, making him shudder and curse under his breath. Sylus chuckles darkly, enjoying the power he holds over your Zayne.

Zayne turns to look at you, his eyes hazy with lust and desperation "Fuck yes"

You watch as Sylus' tongue darts out again, the erotic sight makes your walls clench with need.

"That's enough, Sylus," you state firmly, your voice breathier than intended.

Turning to Zayne, you give him a smoldering look. "Get on your knees next to him."

Zayne doesn't hesitate, immediately kneeling beside Sylus. They both stare up at you with hungry eyes as you strip, revealing your naked body to them. Their eyes roam over your curves, taking in every dip and swell, their chests heaving with anticipation.

You sit down on the couch, crooking your finger at the two men. "Crawl to me," you purr, "Both of you. Come take what's yours."

Zayne and Sylus exchange a glance, before they turn their eyes back to you and without a word, they start to crawl towards you.

Their eyes never leave your naked body, drinking in the sight of your bare breasts, your hardened nipples, the glistening folds of your sex. You can see the bulge in Sylus' pants, clear evidence of his arousal. Zayne's cock bounces with each movement, flushed a deep, angry red.

They come to a stop before you, kneeling at your feet, waiting for your next command. The sight of them, both strong and powerful men, reduced to kneeling before you makes your clit throb.

You spread your legs wider, baring yourself completely. The action draws an appreciative groan from both men as they drink in the sight of your glistening pussy. Their eyes follow the movement, darkening with lust at the delicious display.

"Zayne," you breathe, pointing at him. "You can take me to bed."

Then you turn to Sylus and bite your lip "And you Sy... You can stay there and watch"

Zayne rises, cradling you against his broad chest as he carries you towards the bed. He lays you down gently, his eyes roving over your naked body with a hunger that makes your skin prickle. He joins you on the bed a moment later, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"You're so beautiful," Zayne murmurs, trailing reverent fingers along your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts.

"Don't keep her waiting too long" Sylus teases "I do hope you can last long enough to satisfy our girl properly"

Zayne just smirks back at Sylus, a challenge in his eyes, before turning his attention back to you.

His fingers dip between your thighs, brushing teasingly over your slick folds. You gasp, hips canting into his touch, already aching for more.

Zayne holds up his glistening fingers, coated in your slick, and shows them to you. "See how wet you are"

He leans in closer, his eyes searching you intently. "Is this all for me," he asks, the question rhetorical but tinged with a hint of curiosity, "or is it for Sylus?"

"Both! "you moan breathlessly in response, your body trembling with need and desire. You're aroused by both of them, by the thought of them touching you, tasting you, filling you in every way imaginable. The idea of them working together to bring you pleasure, sends jolts of electricity crackling through your nerves.

Zayne's eyes darken at your admission, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Greedy girl".

He settles himself between your spread thighs, pushing your legs up and back, opening you fully to him, then takes himself in hand and notches the thick head of his cock against your dripping entrance.

"Fuck, sweetheart" he rasps, fighting the urge to thrust forward and bury himself inside you in one go.

He starts to push forward, his cock stretching you open as he slowly sheaths himself inside you, filling and completing you in a way that makes your toes curl.

"S-so big," you whimper, back arching off the bed as you take him. "So deep."

"You were made for my cock" Zayne growls, finally bottoming out, his hips pressed flush against yours. "Like it was carved to fit you."

Zayne pulls nearly all the way out before driving back in, starting a deep, steady rhythm. Hips rolling in a sensual dance as he takes his pleasure from your willing body. His hands grip your thighs, holding them open and exposing you fully to his touch, to Sylus' eyes.

Each drive draws a breathy moan from your lips, your walls clenching and fluttering around him.

"Oh fuck," you cry out as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves. "Fuck, Zayne!"

"I know," Zayne grunts, his voice sounds strained with the effort of holding back, of being gentle. "I know, you're doing so well, so fucking good for me"

His praise makes you melt, your body going pliant and yielding beneath him. Your moans spill freely and you squeeze your eyes shut.

"Breathe sweetheart. You can take it"

Sylus scoffs "Of course she can fucking take it, she takes my cock wonderfully"

"I'm sure", Zayne agrees "But I'm the one fucking her now."

Zayne leans down and captures your mouth in a kiss, his tongue delving deep. At the same time, he shifts the angle of his hips, driving into that spot inside you that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back in your head.

"Right there," you keen, fingers scrabbling at his back, nails digging into his skin as you cling to him. "Don't stop, Zayne! Fuck me just like that!"

"So fucking tight and wet and perfect. Ungh, I can't...I'm going to..."

"Yes, yes, yes!" you wail, your body bouncing with the force of his thrusts, tits jiggling hypnotically. "Cum inside me, Zayne! "

"Sweetheart, fuck, I'm cumming!" He slamming into you one last time before burying himself to the hilt. His cock throbs and pulses as he starts to cum, painting your insides with thick, hot ropes of his seed.

You feel each spurt of his release, your body milking him for every last drop as you reach your own peak.

"ZAYNE!" you scream, back bowing, eyes rolling back in sheer ecstasy as your pussy clamps down around him.

Zayne's hips give a few more lazy rolls as he works himself through the aftershocks. "You're mine now y/n"

"Ours" Sylus confirms "She belongs to both of us now, so I hope you don't mind sharing"

Zayne pulls out of you with a low groan. He takes in the sight of his seed spilling out of you and feels a deep sense of satisfaction.

With a gentle touch, he brushes your hair back from your forehead, tucking a few stray locks behind your ear.

"Wait here, sweetheart" Zayne murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your lips before rising from the bed. He walks to the bathroom, the muscles of his firm ass flexing with each step.

" I got a towel for..."

Zayne walks back to the bedroom and freezes in the doorway, eyes widening as he takes in the sight before him. Sylus is nestled between your thighs. He looks up at Zayne giving him a lazy smile.

"I'm just cleaning up your mess"

Sylus turns his attention back to you and groans at the sight of Zayne's cum leaking out of you. He leans in and drags his tongue through your folds, moaning at the taste.

Zayne's cock twitches and starts to swell again as he watches Sylus clean up the mess he made, his tongue delving deep to lap up every last drop. The sight sends a fresh surge of blood rushing south, his shaft rising to attention once more.

Sylus seals his lips around your clit and suckles "Mmm, you taste so good together" he murmurs against your flesh, the vibrations making your thighs tremble.

Sylus gives your clit a parting kiss before rising gracefully to his feet. He turns to face Zayne "I want to see you fuck her again. I want to watch you take her over and over until she's a drooling, cock drunk mess."

Zayne strides over to the bed, his thick cock bobbing with each step, hard and ready for more. He settles back against the pillows and calls for you.

"Come here"

You don't hesitate, crawling up the bed until you're poised over Zayne's straining erection. The feeling of his him pressing against your folds again makes you shiver in anticipation.

"You look so pretty like this" Zayne whispers, gripping your hips tightly, guiding you down onto his cock.

With a breathless moan, you sink down onto him, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth as he fills you in one smooth stroke. You both groan at the sensation, your body trembling as you adjust to being so thoroughly stuffed full again.

"Oh god, Zayne!" you cry out, hands braced on his chest. "You're in so deep!"

Zayne grunts, hips flexing slightly, stirring his cock inside you.

"Can I move?" you breathe out, voice quivering with need. "I need to move, you feel..."

"Good?"

"Sooo good, Zayne"

"Move y/n, ride me"

"I want you to feel good Zayne"

"I'm buried deep inside your tight little cunt y/n, I'm already in fucking heaven"

You start to move, rising up until just the tip of Zayne's cock remains inside you. Then you sink back down, taking him to the hilt in one smooth glide.

"Oh fuck, yes! Just like that" his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he guides your movements.

You set a steady rhythm, breasts bouncing with each roll of your hips, your arousal allowing you to slide smoothly along his length. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room.

"Fucking hell, look at her go" you hear Sylus say "She's dripping for it."

"I'm too sensitive, I'm gonna cum again!" you cry out, your hips starting to move erratically as you chase your rapidly approaching climax. "Please Zayne!"

"That's it, Y/N. Don't fight it," Zayne orders as he starts to thrust up to meet your downward movements.

"Oh god, oh... I'm cumming!" you scream, throwing your head back in ecstasy.

Your pussy clamps down on Zayne's shaft as you gush and spasm above him. You scream his name over and over, your vision whiting out from the intensity of your orgasm.

Zayne doesn't stop his thrusts even as you come down from your high, determined to work you through the aftershocks.

He sits up abruptly, strong arms pulling you flush against his chest.

"Sylus deserves a turn," Zayne murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. "Don't you think, sweetheart?"

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Sylus presses his chest against your back, the heat of his skin seeping into yours. You feel the heavy length of his erection nestling in the cleft of your ass. When did he get naked?

"I can't come again," you whine weakly, your body still trembling "It's too much, too soon."

"We'll see about that" Zayne and Sylus say in unison, identical smirks playing at their lips. They exchange a look over your head.

"We'll be gentle," Sylus promises as his hands start to roam over your body. "At first."

"Spread her open for me"

Zayne reaches around to your ass, strong hands gripping the soft globes tightly. He kneads the supple flesh, thumbs digging into the meat of your cheeks as he starts to spread you open. Your ass yields to his touch, the tight ring of muscle slowly widening as he exposes you.

"Fuck, look at that," Sylus growls as he presses the swollen head of his cock against your back entrance. "So pretty, all puckered up and begging for a cock."

"Oh god!" you whimper, fingers scrabbling at Zayne's chest

"Wider, Zayne," Sylus commands, voice strained with the effort of holding back as your incredibly tight rear entrance stretches around the thick head of his cock. "I need more room to play"

"Like this?" Zayne asks, spreading your cheeks as far apart as they can go, thumbs digging into your soft flesh.

"Fuck yes, just like that"

"Ohhh, it's so big!" you cry out, back arching as you feel Sylus' girthy cock stretching you "I feel so full"

You try to close your legs to ease the intense, overwhelming sensation but Zayne stops you.

"Uh-uh, none of that" Zayne scolds, gripping your thighs tightly and pushing them back open, holding you in place.

"This ass is mine," Sylus' hand comes down to grip your cheek hard "Just like the rest of you."

He spits crudely into the valley of your ass, the warm saliva dripping down the cleft and pooling around where he's slowly impaling you on his cock.

Zayne leans in to capture your lips in a filthy kiss, tongue delving into your mouth and tangling with yours once again.

"I'm halfway in" Sylus grits out as he fights the urge to slam the rest of the way in.

"I want it all, Sy," you whimper against Zayne's lips "I need you both"

Sylus smirks at your desperate pleas, hips surging forward to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your ass swallows the last of his length, tight walls clenching and fluttering wildly around the intrusion.

The combined groans of pleasure echo through the room as Sylus hilts inside you, heavy balls nestling against your ass.

"Fuck me, this is incredible," Sylus gasps, head falling back in bliss at the exquisite sensation. He gives a couple of experimental pumps, relishing how your body yields to his dominance.

The sudden, intense stimulation sends both you and Zayne into a fit of desire, bodies writhing against each other as Sylus starts to set a rhythm.

"You like this, don't you, kitten? Are you ready for more?"

"Please Sy...I-I need it" you cry out, head lolling against Zayne's shoulder.

Zayne chuckles and reaches down to roughly palm your tits, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

"What was that kitten?" Sylus murmurs hotly in your ear "Use your words if you are going to beg for it."

"Please fuck me harder. I want to feel you in my fucking stomach! Fuck me stupid with your cock until I can't even remember my own name! Please, please, please! I'm begging you!"

"Good fucking girl"

At your shameless begging, Sylus and Zayne start to move. Their movements match and complement each other perfectly, Sylus slamming into your ass as Zayne fucks into your pussy.

"Oh god, I can feel you both" you breathe out, eyes wide with shock and awe as you feel them pressing against each other through the thin wall of your pelvic tissue, separated only by a thin barrier deep inside you.

The sensation is indescribably intense, the dual stimulation of two cocks stretching and filling you in ways you've never experienced before. The knowledge that these two men are claiming you so completely, in every way imaginable, sends your arousal skyrocketing.

Sylus and Zayne groan in unison as they feel each other through your walls, the knowledge that they are pleasuring you together pushing them closer to the edge.

"Oh...oh fuck, it's too much!" you wail, feeling your climax building at a breathtaking pace.

When Sylus reaches around to flick your clit with expert precision and Zayne latches onto your nipple, sucking hard and grazing it with his teeth, it proves to be the final catalyst your overstimulated body needed. Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave, every nerve ending igniting with mind numbing ecstasy.

"OHHHH FU...,OH GOD, I'M CUMMING!" you scream at the top of your lungs, your voice echoing off the walls. Your pussy clamps down HARD on Zayne's cock, silken walls rippling and squeezing him like a vice. At the same time, your asshole clenches and flutters wildly around Sylus, gripping him like a hot, slick fist.

With synchronized grunts and groans of pure pleasure, they both surge forward one last time, burying themselves as deep as they can into your spasming holes as their own powerful climaxes overtake them.

Sylus hilts deep in your ass. His cock pulses and throbs, painting you with thick ropes of cum. He grips your hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding you in place as he fills you with spurt after spurt of his release.

Zayne slams into your cunt, his cockhead flaring and pulsing as he shoots his own heavy load. Your greedy pussy milks him for every drop, walls rippling and squeezing as it sucks his cum deep into your core. He bites down hard on your nipple, muffling his groans against your breast.

Their combined releases trigger aftershocks of pleasure that wrack your entire body, leaving you shaking and mewling weakly between them.

Their hands grip your trembling body tightly as they ride out their orgasms. They hold you in between them, their softening cocks plugging you up, not allowing a single drop of their release to escape your stuffed holes.

You collapse against Zayne's chest, utterly spent and boneless, your body still twitching. Sylus drapes himself over your back, both of them panting harshly as they try to catch their breath.

"You're heavy, Sy"

Sylus chuckles breathlessly against your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. "Sorry, kitten," he apologizes, but makes no move to lift his weight off you. If anything, he seems to press down harder, enjoying the feeling of pinning you beneath him. "You didn't seem to mind a few minutes ago when I was pounding this perfect ass and fucking you silly"

Zayne smirks, one hand coming up to gently tilt your chin towards him. "He's right, sweetheart. You were screaming for more just a little while ago. Now you're complaining about a little weight?"

"Mmm, I guess I can't complain too much about being the filling in a Sylus and Zayne sandwich, right?"

262 notes · View notes

draconicks · 2 days ago

Text

THE CALLING

pairings: remmick x indigenous!reader. this is very self-indulgent because i am indigenous! warnings: 18+, slow burn, blood, gore, owls as symbolism, dirty talk, stalking, possessiveness, non-consensual turning. a/n: in this fic, remmick has the ability to shape shift - i couldn't get the idea out of my head and i really wanted to incorporate southeastern tribal culture into the story, especially cause that's where i am from.

tags: @beboppbaby @madkingcrowley

The deep Mississippi marsh had called to you, your name breathing from the weeping trees and in the symphony of cicadas. The wind carried through the house you had once called a home, the doors hinges squeaking ever so slightly.

It had felt surreal, time no longer felt real as you stared down at the pictures that decorated the shelves.

Family photographs from when you were a small child, a toothless grin adorning your face in the pictures. You didn't even recognize the people, feeling little familiarity with the woman and man in the photo.

There was a certain disconnection you had felt once you returned to the home, the warmth was still there, but it had become foreign to you.

Moving from the Delta to the city where people were cold towards one another wasn't an easy adjustment, but it didn't take long before you became accustomed to the city life.

It became all you knew, all that there was - an extreme contrast from where you grew up, where everyone knew each other and where everyone was family; a community.

But, coming back home from the city life had made you jarred.

You didn't really think of coming back home - you never would have thought you would, not after the deaths of your grandparents.

What did make you come home was the calling of your name from the marsh.

Life is funny like that; always keeping you on your toes and leading you places where you never expected.

It didn't help that you had always felt drawn, felt compelled to this specific location, like some entities were calling you home; the place where your flesh and blood meshed with the water and soil, where your family and ancestors had bore their children and died on the same grounds.

It was beautiful.

At the same time, it was chilling - the history that was here.

You could always feel it, even away from home, like a thrumming in your body and eyes on you.

It never failed to make your heart race, you knew someone or something was always watching over you, shadowing your every step.

Always.

"You listen here, child," Your grandfather had said, "This here land is yours. No one can take it, even if you tried to give it to ''em," He leaned forward and gently cupped your face, "Your family is here," he waved around the air with his hand, "And when you need them, they will always be here."

A shiver ran down your spine at the memory.

Your grandparents were the apples of your eyes, always there whenever you needed them, which was a lot growing up. The relationship between your father and mother had always been distant, cold, but when it came to Ome and Papa...it was different.

They were there, not just doing the bare minimum. They loved you something fierce, their love was a warm hug on a chill, Autumn evening, waiting for you to arrive. You never expected that treatment out of your parents.

However, they were no longer here - your parents or your grandparents.

The hearth that raised you was just as you left it, but it was empty. Fragile. Just as you were.

That had been the reason you'd left to begin with - nothing changed around here. And you weren't going to stay in a community where you saw no future for yourself, so you saved up enough money and bought yourself a train ticket.

Then, you were out of there.

But, the deep thrumming and the calling within you never stopped.

And neither did the eyes shadowing your every move, like razors on your back.

You sighed and turned your back on the shelves, sitting down on one of the dusty chairs that still sat in your old living room. It didn't surprise you that your parents didn't take anything with them when they moved out.

They somehow knew you would be coming back.

You furrowed your brows, it was just too uncanny how it seemed like fate was dragging you back here - like you were born to leave only to return to your roots.

Some people that did such a thing never came back, while others did.

Others made home where they journeyed.

Papa used to always tell you that home wasn't a place, it was in your heart.

But, you knew that was only half true.

---

The moon was full, the scent of petrichor and honeysuckle flooding your senses. The wind gently blew through the trees, waving the limbs.

You took in a deep breath, breathing the marsh in - just as it breathed you in.

It was peaceful. Bliss. Just as you had remembered, a place where you could lean into and know you would be caught if you were to fall, where you knew that you would be watched over.

You began to slowly rock in the chair, your heels digging into the wood below.

Just then, the wind shifted, not harshly, but just enough to make the cicadas hush for half a second.

The thrum in your chest stilled, replaced by a hollow pause—like something was waiting.

You stopped rocking the chair and squinted at the far end of the driveway.

The shadows at the edge of the marsh, near the drive, shifted with more purpose than they should have. A figure then stepped into the moonlight, quiet as mist, dressed like a man.

You slowly stood up, walking toward the edge of the porch. Not many people came out this far out of town.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The figure asked. You blinked, you didn't recognize the man.

Almost as if he sensed your caution, he playfully threw his hands up, "Sorry, if I spooked you, I was just on my nightly walk and couldn't help myself to stop by." His accent sounded slightly off, almost forced, but that didn't bother you too much.

Cautious, but still curious, you walked toward him, feet still never leaving the porch "May I help you?" You asked the stranger.

He came forward a little bit, the moonlight illuminating his features, making your breath hitch ever so slightly.

He was gorgeous.

He had a sturdy build - his white button up shirt and dark pants clung to him, highlighting every crevice of his body. He had dark hair that covered his forehead, and complimented his features.

He was clearly not from around here, though - your instincts told you that. "My name is Remmick," he paused, eyes raking your body up and down, "I'm just passing through, ma'am." He flashed you a grin, too sharp at the sides and too plastered.

A chill ran through your body, but your core squeezed.

"Well, nice to meet you, Remmick." You weren't good at faking friendly. "Where you from?" You asked him, tilting your head. Something about him rang old—old like the roots of the cypress trees.

But not the kind of old that belonged to this land.

He didn’t answer your question right away. Just stood there, that too-sharp grin lingering like a bad taste in your mouth.

“Nowhere special,” he said finally. “Everywhere and nowhere, depending on the year.”

That wasn’t an answer, and you both knew it. But something in his tone made it sound final.

You shifted your weight, "You some kind of traveler?" You asked him. A feeling of dread began trickling down at you as soon as you asked the question.

The wind picked up again, curling around your ankles like it was trying to warn you. Your Ome used to say that when the trees whispered too loud, it meant someone didn’t belong.

Remmick let out a soft chuckle, his eyes then locking onto yours, "Somethin' of that nature, I been here a long time." His brown eyes danced - you weren't sure with what, but he looked at you like how a cat looked at a toy.

"Odd time to be out walking," you said, folding your arms loosely. "Especially this deep out. Roads are easy to get lost on, if you’re not from here."

"Oh, I don’t get lost," Remmick said smoothly. "I tend to find what I’m looking for.

His eyes darkened, the weight of them made your skin tighten, like your body recognized something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

You’d felt watched before—but this was different.

This was personal.

"You live here alone?" he asked, voice gentle, but wrong in some invisible way. Like a bell rung just off-pitch.

You turned your head, eyes never leaving him, "Depends on who’s asking."

That made him smile wider. The cicadas hadn’t started up again. "Fair enough," he murmured. "I just noticed the place - the porch light, the quiet." A beat of silence, "It called to me."

That stopped you.

It called to me.

Not many folks talked like that. But your family did. Your people did. Remmick wasn’t one of them.

You two stood there for a minute, eyes never leaving each other, one of you rigid, the other one...hungry. The weight of the tension became unbearable for you, you had to say something.

"Well," you cleared your throat, "I best be heading back in now, it's getting awful late."

His teeth glimmered in the moonlight, canines looking too sharp, "Yes ma'am, I agree with you," his voice deepened, "You stay safe now."

It felt like a taunt more than courtesy.

You never left the porch before Remmick left your sight, and when he finally left, you exhaled a breath of relief.

Then, you heard an owl hooting.

The owl’s hoot echoed low and long—close enough to feel in your chest. Owls didn’t usually call this near the house, not unless something had stirred them.

Papa used to say owls were messengers. Ome would whisper when she thought you weren’t listening, "Don’t look ‘em in the eye,” she’d said once. "They see more than we do."

You cast one last glance toward where Remmick had vanished into the woods, but the trees had already swallowed him whole—like he’d never been there at all. No crunch of underbrush, no footfalls, just quiet.

---

The next day came slow and sticky, the Mississippi sun pouring down in thick sheets that clung to your skin and made the house creak like it, too, was sweating.

You moved through the house, but your mind had wandered, drifting back to the porch, to him.

Remmick.

All night as you tossed and turned, the sound of an owl hooting outside your window had kept you wide awake. Owls didn't come to this side of the Delta either - which made you nervous. It hadn't been the first owl you'd seen, but it was enough to make you wary.

No matter how many times you told yourself he was just a traveler—some odd man with a silver tongue and a stranger’s charm—you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had brought something with him.

Something that didn’t belong to the land but recognized it all the same.

You still felt that gaze again suddenly,like knives digging in your back and the thrumming slowly made its way up from your toes up to your neck. The memory of the moonlight lingered too. The way it had spilled over his skin, made his smile too bright, too sharp.

You began to bury it as you prepared your regalia.

The movements were grounding, familiar—brushing out the fringe, checking the beadwork your Ome once did by hand.

You breathed in the cedar oil you’d dabbed on your wrists, hoping it would quiet the buzz beneath your ribs.

By the time the sun dipped low behind the trees, you were on your way to the pow wow grounds, your shawl folded over your arm and your heart feeling heavier than it should.

The sky was on fire—rose gold and rust—and the scent of frybread and smoked meat danced on the breeze.

The gathering was small but full of life.

Children darted through the grass in a blur of color, ribbons trailing behind them like comets. Aunties sat in circles, gossiping and teasing. The men stood off to the side, nodding to the beat of the drum, arms crossed, eyes soft.

You found a spot at the edge of the circle, close enough to feel the rhythm of the drums in your bones but far enough to keep your eyes on the treeline. You told yourself it was nothing.

But your instincts knew better.

Miss Marla was already in the middle of a story, she sat just outside the main drum circle, her voice as rough and warm as a gravel road after rain.

Everyone quieted when she spoke—elders and toddlers alike.

"Back in the old days," she said, "before the river changed Her course and the fences went up, there was a creature that walked like a man but fed like a beast. It didn’t cast a shadow. Didn’t breathe. It could slip into your dreams, wear the face of someone you loved, take the guise of a night bird, but it had one weakness—it couldn’t lie to the land."

The little boy next to you gasped softly.

"The land always knew."

A few children squirmed in their seats, but the adults didn’t laugh. They knew better.

Suddenly, your heart began to beat a little harder, like your body was sensing something that you weren't just yet. Confused, you brushed it off and tried to refocus on Miss Marla.

The cicadas were still singing in the trees, but you could hear something else beneath the forest, it hummed in your chest like a warning.

You scanned the edge of the circle without thinking. Just beyond the last firepit, where the light faded into shadows, you saw nothing. And yet…

That feeling.

The weight of being watched.

You hugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders, suddenly cold despite the heat. The story went on, but the words began to blur, Miss Marla's voice growing distant and fuzzy.

All you could focus on was the way the moonlight had lit up Remmick’s face the night before—and how the trees had gone quiet, and most importantly, the feeling of being watched.

The way the Earth held Her breath.

Miss Marla's words seemed to go completely mute, your mind somewhere else.

Your body was thrumming, your eyes couldn't seem to stop flickering to the forest.

The calling.

And then—from the tree line—

A scream - high, sharp, and raw.

It ripped through the field like rough hands on fabric.

Everything stopped. The crowd froze, heads snapping toward the woods. The children went silent, the elders’ faces turned grim.

You stood slowly, heart hammering. The scream had sounded human… but not right. Something about it curled your stomach, like it had come from a mouth that didn’t quite know how to scream anymore.

Miss Marla didn’t flinch. She just stared into the trees and muttered low under her breath, a prayer you barely caught. "Eyes wide, children. That ain’t no animal."

Fear tore through you, your nerves hijacked and your hair standing straight up.

Your stomach was getting twisted in knots, and you began to lightly tremble. 'What the hell is happening?' You thought to yourself.

Miss Marla's scanned the circle carefully, observing every single person. But her eyes, once soft turned sharp once they landed on you, her gaze resembling that of a mountain lion - predatory and fierce, "Y/N," her voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes shot towards her, "Is there something you need to say?" She asked, her voice knowing. You couldn't even think of a response.

You were just as stunned as everyone else was.

But, deep down, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you were to blame.

Blame for what? You weren't so sure just yet.

With a shake of your head, you casted your gaze onto the fire pit, and you watched as the flames danced and licked upwards into the sky.

---

After the dances had ended and the elders began to gather their young to leave, you stood off to the side, watching your family as they packed up their belongings.

Some were still spooked by the scream, while others had pushed it to the back of their minds.

You kissed and hugged your cousins goodbye, wishing them farewell on their short journeys back home, the little ones ran up to you, sticky with sweat and grins.

You leaned down to hug them, pressing your face into their hair, inhaling cedar and sweet grass. You kissed the tops of their heads and gave soft goodbyes, your voice caught somewhere between love and unease.

"Y’all be safe now," you said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Auntie Marie pulled you into a hug next, her arms sturdy and grounding. "You coming back to the house?" she asked. "We’ve got leftovers.

You shook your head. "Not tonight. I need some quiet."

She didn’t press you. Just gave your hand a soft squeeze. "Be careful driving home." You nodded.

One by one, the cars began pulling out. Headlights flared, laughter faded, and smoke from the fire pits rose into the darkening sky. You stayed put, the crowd thinning until you stood alone at the edge of the clearing, the lingering hum of something that refused to die with the drumbeat.

When the last car disappeared down the gravel road, the silence settled in.

Heavy.

Your ears rang from the sudden absence of voices. The trees loomed taller now, the shadows deeper. You didn’t want to move, but didn’t want to stay. The thrumming got stronger.

Somewhere behind you, in the woods, a twig snapped.

You turned sharply, expecting—what? You weren’t sure. But all you saw was shadow. Shadow and trees, and the glow of the dying firelight at your back.

Then, you saw it. Perched on a low-hanging branch at the tree line, still as stone, was an owl.

A barred owl, feathers soft and streaked with dusk, its wide eyes catching what little moonlight peeked through the canopy.

It didn’t hoot, it just stared - not at you.

But through you.

Something in you twisted—both in fear and in recognition. The kind that comes from blood memory, from stories told so often they’d become part of your bones. Ome’s voice whispered through your mind, low and steady.

"When the owl comes quiet, watching, it means the veil’s been brushed. It’s a spirit, child—sometimes a messenger. Sometimes a warning."

You swallowed hard, the warmth draining from your limbs. It wasn’t just the owl itself. It was the stillness around it.

No cicadas.

No frogs.

No wind.

Just that gaze.

And suddenly, you were back on the porch, bathed in moonlight, with Remmick’s too-sharp smile and the trees holding their breath.

The way the cicadas had gone silent then, too.

The way he had looked at you—like he knew something you didn’t. Like he could see straight through the years and the land and the skin you wore.

Your mouth went dry.

The owl blinked once, slowly, but it didn’t break eye contact. It didn’t move, and you felt seen. Marked.

Just for a second, in the way the moon curved against its feathers, the silhouette looked wrong. Not like an owl at all.

Like the shadow of a man.

You stepped back instinctively, hand brushing the beaded fringe of your regalia like it might anchor you. The owl finally turned its head—unnaturally slow—and took off, wings spread wide and ghostly, disappearing into the trees without a sound.

You were left standing alone, but you didn’t feel alone.

Not anymore.

---

Hot sweat covered you from head to toe, your bedsheets tangled around your body as you jerked from side to side, your chest heaving with terror.

It was off, it was all off.

You were in your apartment back in the city - everything looked the same, felt the same, but the outside was different, there were no street lights, not sound of cars passing by, nothing.

Dead silence.

The closet just across from your bed was slightly opened, the shadows covering the dresser that sat neatly next to it - covering the chair infront of the mirror. You never left your closet door open, but you were unable to get up and close it.

Panic surged through you.

You couldn't move.

You tried to bend your fingers and your toes, but nothing moved, not even slightly.

Then, you heard a deafening creak from across where you slept. The closet door opened achingly slow, long claws gripping the wood as the creature made its presence known.

Blood red eyes glared down at you, hungry and possessive. Your breath caught in your chest, your body going cold with horror as the creature stepped out of the closet, the silhouette only showcasing a shadowy outline.

"I've waited for you, sugar,"

The voice was deep - too deep for a human and raspy, like it had something caught in its throat.

It then closed its eyes and took a deep sniff, turning its head up towards the ceiling, "You smell just as divine as the day you left," it looked back down at you, taking steps towards the foot of the bed, "I can only imagine just how good you taste," the voice growled towards the end.

Your heart hammered so fast in your chest you thought you were going to pass out.

"I've been calling for you to come back home, my love," it tilted its head, admiring you, "Everybody missed you while you were gone."

'Everybody?' You thought to yourself, you didn't know what the creature was talking about, but it began to slowly loom over you, the mattress dipping as its weight pressed against your body.

Cold.

You whimpered, wishing you could move away, but you were completely paralyzed.

"I missed you the most, though," the creatures eyes trailed downwards, over your chest, your belly, and downwards, between your thighs. The creature then smiled - sharp, bloody fangs filling its mouth, grotesque and beautiful.

The creature tsked, its claws resting on your waist, sharp and freezing, "You always had belonged to me though, from the moment I laid eyes on you," it said, turning its head up slowly and locking its eyes onto yours.

Covetous.

Your eyes flickered toward the window, and there you saw a floating black feather.

"And now," the creature leaned forward, its face buried in the crook of your neck, "I'm going to take what's mine." Your eyes widened, wanting desperately to fight back, punch it, kick it, something, but nothing happened - not even as it's tongue licked your neck, fangs piercing down and-

You screamed - your throat raw and desperate - your body shooting straight up from the small bed you slept on.

For just a second, you were unsure on where you were, but then you looked outside through the window and you saw the familiar marsh trees - lined up in a row in-front of the house.

Relief filled you, your heart slowing down and the room seemed to breathe you back in again, calming your nerves.

It was just a dream.

It wasn't real.

You looked down at yourself, sweat was soaked through the sheets and the comforter felt sticky, like the humidity had seeped through the worn fabric. Disgusted, you stood up and began to strip the bed, including the pillow cases.

Hopefully, you'd be able to get better sleep the next night.

As you gathered up the sheets, you slowly felt the familiar crawling feeling of something watching you - this time, it was different.

It felt impatient, ready to pounce.

Your stomach twisted in knots, but you pushed the feeling down. It was too late at night to be dealing with this.

You moved through the rooms, gathering your clean sheets. You were too tired to worry about a comforter - it was too hot anyways, so once the bed was made, you laid back down and attempted to doze back off to sleep.

The last thing you saw before closing your eyes, were two faint, red dots, peeking down at you from the treeline.

---

The kettle whistles just as you finish telling Aunt Marie everything—the owl perched outside your window the night you came home, the strange energy that swirled around you at the pow wow, and that dream you had your first night back.

The scent of chamomile tea fills the kitchen as Aunt Marie turns off the stove.

She doesn’t look at you right away.

Instead, she sets the kettle aside, her movements slow, deliberate. You hear the creak of the old floorboards under her house shoes as she walks back to the table and sits across from you, her face shadowed by the low light.

Her eyes are fixed on her hands, which are clasped tightly together—knuckles pale, a silver ring glinting faintly on one finger.

"You said his name was Remmick?"

You nod. The name still tastes strange in your mouth, like it doesn’t quite belong to this place.

Aunt Marie looks up then, and the softness in her face is gone. Something older and harder has replaced it—something that reminds you of your Ome when the weather was about to turn bad and she just knew.

"You need to be careful with that man," she says, voice quiet but firm. "There's something...off about him," she murmured as she stirred her tea.

You frown, leaning forward.

There was definitely something off about him, but what were the chances of him being connected with the owl? A white man turning into an owl made you almost smile, if it weren't something you were considering right now.

Aunt Marie sighed, fanning the heat, "Did you give him your name?"

You shake your head, you never even gave him your name, but you knew his.

Her expression softens, relief coating her weathered features. "Well, atleast you're smart enough to not give him that."

A chill runs down your spine.

He didn't need to ask, because he could have possibly known already.

You brushed the thought away, it was impossible.

"The owl was your warning, though," she says softly. "Our people have always known that. It watches, it waits. It carries messages from the other side, from the ones who walked before us. And what you felt at the pow wow—that wasn’t just energy, girl. That was your blood remembering something your head forgot. That was the land calling you back—and calling you to protect it."

You feel your throat tighten. "Protect it from what?"

Her gaze darkened, her hand falling to her lap, "I don't know. But, you might - sooner or later."

You blinked rapidly, not sure what to make sense of what she was saying, whether it was a threat or a promise or both. She then looks up at the ceiling and closed her eyes, her chest moving slowly up and down, "You've always had the gift." she whispered.

You frowned, "That's what Miss Marla and some of the elders used to say."

Aunt Marie dryly chuckled, her gaze landing back onto you, "Well, they're right. You've always been able to look through the veil, baby, you just ain't never paid close attention." Her words made tingles go up your spine and radiate across your arms.

She then leans across the table and gently grabbed your hand, a soft smile etching onto her face, "People who are able to listen to the ancestors and hear their words have the gift."

She releases your hand and stands, walking to the her purse, where a tight bundle of sweetgrass hangs. She pulls a strand loose, lights it, and lets the smoke curl through the room, circling you both.

"This is for whatever it is that ails you, my dear. Everything will be okay soon."

---

The night air was still, very little wind compared to previous nights. You sat there on the porch, arms wrapped around your knees, blanket draped across your shoulders. The cup of untouched tea sat besides you, no longer warm like how you preferred.

Your thoughts churned - from the owl, to Aunt Marie, to Miss Marla's words at the pow wow... to Renmick.

You scoffed, there was no reason why a stranger should be taking over your brain this much, but it no longer surprised you. Nothing really surprised you.

You closed your eyes and listened to your surroundings - the beat of the cicadas, the creaking of the wood beneath you, the frogs in the nearby water, the inhale and exhale of the marsh and it's deep humming, almost lulling.

The sound of a twig snapped.

You looked up, and there he was; same as before - at the end of the drive near the tree lines that were lined up on the side of the house.

The hairs began to stand up one by one, goosebumps blanketing your skin. He looked the same as the other night he had showed up - same white shirt, same dark pants.

Same too sharp grin.

He didn't speak at first, just watched you, a familiar glint in his eyes.

You take a deep breath, "Hello, Remmick," You adjust yourself in your chair, "You on another walk?" You asked him.

"I only came cause you left the light on," He said, his voice soft yet filled the space between y'all. You turned your gaze up at the light bulb above you, its light flickering slightly.

"Yes, I tend to leave my outdoor lights on, no matter what time of day it is," You responded to him.

He then began to take steps towards you, like he was being careful, but was still at ease with himself. He walked with a purpose, nonetheless, shoes shuffling against the earth.

Remmick spoke up, voice just slightly louder, "I'll make mental note of that next time I come around," He stopped in his tracks, "May I sit up there with ya?"

You hesitated, but nodded once and gestured to the empty chair across the porch, just a few feet away from you.

He shot you a grateful look before passing by and sitting down in the chair - you had noticed he scooted it closer to you, but you paid little mind to it.

You two sat there for just a little while, absorbing the moonlight and the fresh air. Knives stabbed into you all over your figure, and the thrumming in your chest hadn't paused, it shifted - no longer in your sternum, but instead in your core and stomach.

Remmick was watching you, analyzing you.

The awkwardness and tension began to settle in, and you felt the urge to break it, his eyes boring straight through you.

"So, how long you been here?" You asked him, turning to him. Sitting directly under the porch light, his hair appeared slightly darker, a reddish tint peeping through.

Remmick smirked at your question, "I'm not sure, ma'am. I've been here for...a while,"

You quirked a brow, "How long is a while?" You had never seen or heard of him before, so you thought that maybe he had moved to the Delta sometime after you had left.

Suddenly, and maybe it was your imagination, but right after you had asked him that question, it had looked like a flash of red went across his eyes.

It was for barely a second, but your heart had stuttered once you saw it.

His tongue peeked out over his lips, leaving a glisten of spit in its wake, "You sure do ask a lot of questions," He tapped his foot, "I moved here a long time ago."

A beat of silence was exchanged between the two of you. He wasn't going to elaborate and something told you not to press.

He then spoke, "What about you?" He asked. You uncurled your arms from around your legs, "I was raised here,"

You continued, "My whole family was. We were raised here - died here. I think I might have been the only one to leave," You said.

"I was raised primarily by my grandparents, although I lived with my mother and father. Ome and Papa were the ones who taught me everything there was to know about everything; life, medicine, my culture," Your eyes flickered to Remmick, "Spirits."

You swallowed before continuing, "Ever since I left this place, I've felt a calling to come back, like I had unfinished business. I guess, I've felt this way since I was a child - that no matter where I would go, I would always been drawn to come back here."

Remmick nodded his head in understanding, but there was something in his eyes. The curiosity and charm was gone and seemed to be replaced with a longing, a longing you had never seen before. The shadows from the porch covering his head.

"Aye," He said softly, "I sure wish I felt that way about a place, I don't think I'll ever feel that way again,"

Again.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, he looked at you and beat you to it.

"You sure are beautiful," He leaned closer to you, "I didn't get the chance to tell you before."

You blinked.

Then, you felt heat running up to your ears, "Thank you, Remmick. That's awful sweet of you."

He chuckled at your reaction, "I can't lie, not allowed to, so just know that I'm telling the truth." You couldn't help the smile on your face, although now you had even more questions.

Despite the friendliness that Remmick was displaying, you couldn't shake the deep feeling of something feeling off. Something felt too foreign, too intense about him.

You couldn't put your finger on it, but your instincts were raising flags within you.

At the same time; you felt drawn.

You just couldn't help but wonder more about him - it was eating you alive.

"Do you plan on staying here?" He asked you, his gaze venturing off.

You furrowed your brows, you really weren't sure if you were going to stay, but you knew that you were back here for a reason.

What reason? You were still figuring it out. You were trying to figure everything out.

"I'm not sure," You sniffled, "I might, but I really don't know." Remmick nodded his head stiffly, almost like he was containing something.

A whip of coldness then settled in the air.

"If you do leave, where would you go?"

The trees paused and the air went still for a second - as if they too heard the tone of his voice. The question sounded innocent enough, but his voice was suddenly too deep, almost gurgled.

Like the creature from your dream.

Fear penetrated you, your hair standing from head to toe. The shadows began to eclipse the rest of his features, now you were unsure as to what you were exactly looking at, like a man but not quite.

You couldn't find the words to say something back, but he then chuckled and stood up, the shadows covering his entire body, "I think it's time I head back home," His voice had returned to its natural state, but the effect it had on you were still just as apparent.

"I'll see you later, darlin'." His eyes flashed for a second.

Red.

It wasn't your imagination.

After you stepped off the porch, you immediately flew up and into the house, slamming the door shut behind you.

You needed to contact Miss Marla - and soon.

---

Your eyes darted under your lids, frantically searching for something out of nothing.

The sheets were tangled up around your body, cocooning you in their own little sanctuary as you twitched in your sleep, your legs and arms flinching.

The moon over the Delta had turned to blood, cascading a red glare over the land.

You stood barefoot in the marsh, skin damp with sweat and river fog, your breath quiet as the trees breathed with you. Spanish moss hung like funeral veils from the cypress branches, the air thick with something older than rot. You knew this wasn’t the real world—no chirps, no wind moved the reeds.

You’d been here before.

A chill ran through your body, you felt him before you saw him.

A dark figure, cloaked and red eyes then stepped from between two trees like it had always belonged to this place, like it was the creature's home and you were a visitor.

You took a step back, ready to run before the figure then changed. You couldn't believe it.

Remmick.

He was shirtless, his pants unbuttoned and what appeared to be dried blood coated the hem of his jeans. A gold chain was hanging loosely on his neck, moving slightly with each step.

"Hello, sugar," He whispered, voice like silk dipped in ash.

You didn’t speak.

Words were useless here. He moved closer, and the wilderness pulsed around him, every creature gone silent, every shadow leaning toward his form.

"I can smell your blood - your soul - through your dreams," He said, leaning in so close his lips nearly grazed your ear.

"It sings of fire, of bone, of old deities you still whisper to when you think I’m not listening." He took a deep inhale, his nose pressing firmly against your jawline.

"Perfect." He purred.

Your breath hitched.

He reached out—cold fingers grazing your neck, your collarbone, dragging over the ridge of your shoulder like a memorized ritual.

"Do you remember what it felt like, last time?" he asked. "When we were here in the marsh together, when you cracked open and something older slipped between us?"

His mouth brushed your skin, not biting yet—just pressing, lingering, teasing. A ghost of a smile - a genuine smile - threatened to break out on his face.

Two arms snaked around your waist and yanked you closer to him, your body completely flush against his, not letting you go and having no plans on doing so.

Then, without warning, the marsh changed.

The trees bled sap the color of ink, running into the water beneath. Howls and hoots began to echo all around you, meshing into what sounded like human screams. Clouds churned and hissed with unseen wings, the sound of Jericho's trumpet to be expected, but never coming.

Remmick’s eyes turned black, no iris, no white, just endless dark.

"You brought me here," he hissed, voice now layered, inhuman.

"You called me with your grief. Your land is dying, your bloodline hunted, and still—you dream of me."

His hand snaked between y'all and pressed against your chest, palm flattened against your flesh, but not to comfort.

To hold your heart still.

"I helped call you here." That made you break, a vicious sob ripped from your throat. You tried to twist out of his grip, but that only made him hold you tighter.

"I need you to let me in," he whispered. You squirmed and wiggled against him, but it didn't bother him any. If anything, it made him fall deeper in awe.

"I need you to let me in completely - not just in your dream. Let me bury myself within you, in your soul. I will make you just like me—so you can remember everything that’s been taken from you. Forever."

"No, no, no," You cried. This couldn't be happening, this wasn't real, this wasn't going to be your fate. You were back in the city, far, far away from here, far away him.

He then leaned opened his mouth, revealing a line of fangs - saliva dripping down on the sap beneath your feet.

The hand on your chest moved up to your throat, not squeezing but not gentle and he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

A sharp pinch.

You woke.

The room was almost completely dark, the only thing you could see was from the moon peeking through.

And a single whisper in the air, soft and trembling:

"Next time, you won’t wake up."

---

You sat curled on the edge of your couch, hands clutched around a lukewarm mug you hadn’t sipped from in an hour.

The nightmare still clung to you like smoke. No amount of distraction, tea, or whispered prayers could fully shake it loose.

You had half a mind to call Miss Marla, you even picked up the phone before hanging up, guilt wracking you still from the day before - you still thought you were tied to it.

Besides, what were you even going to say? "Something is watching me", "I think a nightmare creature wants to devour my soul?" "The man that I've been seeing might want to kill me?"

No.

But Miss Marla would’ve understood. She always did. She saw the signs before anyone else did—like she had been born watching shadows dance behind the veil.

She always told you since you were a small child, that you were someone who could bring people - spirits - from the beyond the veil.

You never took it into full consideration until now.

Sharply, you jumped up and grabbed your coat hanging next to the front door. You had to see her face. You had to hear her voice, just to make sure—just to feel assured.

As you drove through the Mississippi marsh, the sun had began to dip behind the trees, leaving behind a canvas of purple and orange and red in its wake, leaving behind the day creatures and welcoming the night.

Although you knew you weren't in a time rush, you couldn't shake the feeling of running out of time. You had a gut feeling - no, not gut - a deep, intuitive feeling - that this was going to be it.

You knew it, and the marsh knew it.

The loud calls had turned to whispers, no longer echoing through your ears.

Instead, it became hushed, tedious, with something dark and predatory rearing its head - rushing hastily to call your name, claim you.

What was it? You knew, but you didn't want to accept it.

The air had become too heavy, too still. No cicadas. No frogs. Just the dull rumble of your tires against dirt and gravel.

When you pulled up to her farm, her porch light was off and the horse pen was wide open.

Odd.

Miss Marla never let her house go dark. Not once. And she sure as hell never let her horse gate wide open.

Immediately, dread twisted in your guts.

You stepped out cautiously, gravel crunching underfoot, your breath puffing white despite the spring warmth. A sense of wrongness pressed in around you like fog.

"Miss Marla?" You yelled out, voice trembling. No answer.

The door was open. Not wide, but just enough. You hesitated at the threshold, but something deep in you told you needed to find out what had happened.

You looked down and your body went cold.

An owl feather.

Taking a sharp breath in, you pushed the door open.

The smell had hit you like a train - pungent.

The entire house reeked of copper and soil. Like something rotten had sunk into the floorboards, and made its way underneath the house.

Gagging, your hand flew to your mouth, eyes watering immediately.

Then, there she was. You stumbled back a step, stomach clenching—but it was too late.

You saw her.

Miss Marla was there, slumped in her chair beside the coffee table. Her head bowed like she’d fallen asleep—but the stillness was all wrong. Her eyes were open, glassy, staring at nothing. Her throat torn, mouth slack.

Blood, old and dark was painting across her lap, running from the large gash that protruded from her throat. Her hair, from the midway down, was soaked.

Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as you backed away, hand clutched to your chest, bile threatening to rise in your throat.

This was a message.

You didn’t remember getting back in the car, didn't remember starting the engine and reversing down the narrow road.

All you knew was the pounding in your ears, the shaking in your hands, and the single, terrible truth sitting in your gut like a stone:

You weren’t safe. Not here. Not anymore.

---

The screen door slammed behind you, you wasted no time in running to the bedroom to grab your bags.

Your body moved on instinct—grabbing your suitcase, stuffing it with whatever you could, your hands shaking, breath coming fast. You’d just left the station, hours of being watched, questioned.

Nobody could believe it, that someone would target her.

But, what made it even more grotesque, was that it had appeared someone had ripped her throat out with her mouth. When you explained this to the officers, they had tried to downplay it until they were dispatched and had seen it for themselves.

The blood had been everywhere.

But, after they were done questioning you, they ordered that you stay put, so they would know where to find you when they needed any answers to their questions.

Yeah, right.

It had been night by the time you left the police station. You knew that time was limited and you needed to get somewhere, not then, but now.

Trembling, you grabbed the phone and dialed, every second an eternity until the line clicked. Relief ran through you, grateful it went through.

"Aunt Marie?" Your voice was barely coherent.

"Baby, what's going on?" Her voice was hushed, but full of concern, she'd been worried over you since the last time she had visited you, which felt like forever ago, but you knew it had only been roughly a few days ago.

"It’s Miss Marla. She’s—" Your voice cracked. "She’s dead."

A beat of silence and then a sharp breath. "How?"

Tears stung your eyes, a painful lump forming in your throat, "Her throat was ripped open, it looked like something-"

"You’ve got to get out of there. Now. Come here. Bring salt. Bring your thread. But you don’t look back, you understand me? You don’t look back." You heard her hands tremble over the phone.

Before you could respond, deep, painful thrumming erupted in your chest. You winced, grabbing your chest and clenching the fabric.

And then you heard it.

That low, wrong owl call outside the house.

Slow. Purposeful. Close.

You turned toward the front window, heart already sinking. He was standing just beyond the porch.

Remmick.

Not a shadow this time, a voice on the wind, or a creature from your dreams. He was a man.

Impossibly still. Eyes black as drowned night, the last sliver of sunlight caught the edge of his jaw, the faint curve of a cruel smile.

He stepped toward the screen door.

You dropped the phone. Aunt Marie’s voice was still calling your name, but you barely heard her, all focus on the man that was approaching you - hunting you.

"I always knew you’d come back," Remmick said gently. “You tried to run, but this land… this land calls you home. Just like I do."

"Stay away," You whispered.

He stopped before the entrance of the home, patient and hungry, his teeth no longer dull, but instead a row of knife-sharp fangs.

"I knew what you were before you did," he said. "You walk the boundary. Between flesh and spirit. Between root and bone. You think you hid it, but it’s in every step you take on this dirt."

He tilted his head, eyes glinting and mouth wide.

"You speak to the dead when you dream. You feel the breath of your ancestors in the wind and think it’s just instinct. But it’s more than that. You’re a beacon. You shine through the veil like a lantern in fog—and I saw you. I felt you."

"That’s not your gift to take," you said, voice shaking. "It belongs to the land. To my people. To me."

His gaze sharpened. "It belongs to whoever’s strong enough to claim it."

Bile rose in your throat, "You mean destroy it."

"No," he said, stepping close, eyes devouring you. "I mean preserve it. Through me. Through us."

He pointed up at the entrance of the door, his patience beginning to wear thin, "You need to let me in, darlin'" He purred, "Or else, I'm gonna pay your little auntie and cousins a final visit."

Ice spread through you. You knew he was being serious.

For a split second, you thought of the sweet grass in the kitchen. Maybe if you lit it and prayed he would go away? No. Maybe some garlic from the cupboard.

You shifted, he took a step back, letting you know he would do it.

Tears fell down your face.

You could barely breathe. “Why me?”

His voice dropped, velvet and grave-deep. "Because, sugar, I love you. I’ve loved you before you were born. Before your name was ever whispered by firelight. You’re not just connected to the dead—you belong with them. With me."

Lips pressed firmly in a thin line, you took a step forward. You weren't going to risk the life of your cousins - barely old enough to be in school and the life of your aunt who only wanted to help you.

Besides, you knew that Remmick was partially right, you did belong with the dead; your ancestors. You always had.

"If I'm going to step out, I need you to back away." Your tone was flat, completely devoid of emotion. This was it.

A flash of victory passed over his face, and he began to step back, leaving you plenty of space to walk outside to him.

Your steps were heavy, like you were stepping in quicksand rather than wooded floor. The closer you approached him, the happier he got, his hand extending out to you. His claws protruded, curved and black. "I'm here for you, baby."

Once you reached the entrance, you took a deep breath. One more step and you were his.

Your eyes darted. He was standing about 5 ft- maybe 6ft from the door, and there was an opening on the porch, next to one of the chairs, where it led straight to the marsh. Could you make it?

He beckoned you, fingers curled in a 'come hither' motion, "Come on, I gotcha'." He whispered.

It's now or never.

You darted.

You slapped his hand out of the way and took off, feet as quick as you could possibly bear it. Your throat and lungs burned, the marsh opened to you and ushered you in, the scent of it -

Two rough hands slid snatched your waist.

Cold and territorial.

"Now, now, pretty thing," he whispered against your ear. "We both know that you can't run or hide from me, so don't bother tryin'," He pressed his face against yours, lips on your cheek as he inhaled deeply.

"You make the dead sing, and I am so, so tired of silence."

You struggled and began to scream before his hand slapped over your mouth. "Now, don't make me upset now - screamin' won't get you nowhere,"

He bared his fangs.

"Screamin' was what ole' Marla had done," His voice hushed, "But, that didn't last for very long - not before she invited me in,"

Your heart ached, the thought of Miss Marla-

A guttural wail bubbled up, unleashing into his palm as he tried to shush you, his nose buried in your hair, "It's okay, baby, I won't make it hurt too bad now,"

His head trailed from your hair to the crook of your neck, before nuzzling against you. Hot, wetness hit your throat, his tongue lapping at the fragile skin. You stilled, too scared to move. This was it, this was how you were going to die.

Remmick opened his mouth.

Then pain - blinding, searing - as his teeth sank into your neck.

Your knees buckled, his arms tightened you against him, never letting you go. Loud groans of ecstasy came from him, as if it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. It reminded you of vulgarity.

Darkness blotted your vision, replacing the lightness as you began to feel yourself drift away.

Time unraveled.

You saw the faces of your ancestors, you heard their screams, you watched them vanish.

The world dimmed.

Your heartbeat faded—

And stopped.

When your eyes opened again, everything was different.

You could feel the earth like a drum beneath your feet. You could hear the ghosts calling. But they did not answer you anymore, instead they watched you.

Remmick looked down from above you, smiling - triumphant and adoring, blood coating his chin and shirt.

"You were the one who heard them," he said, brushing your hair from your face. "Now you are one of them."

You were no longer just of the land. You were cursed to haunt it.

Forever—

with him.

#sinners 2025 #remmick sinners #remmick x reader #remmick x indigenous!reader #jack o'connell

285 notes · View notes

papayadays · 1 day ago

Text

ignore how this took me a few days to finish writing because of schoolwork and tennis 😭 also ignore how i have so many quotes but they're all so beautiful how was i supposed to choose

oh my god that was such a beautiful slowburn fic and i could taste the lines blurring. i read this while listening to merry go round of life and pas de deux andante maestoso from nutcracker and that made this so much raw and stunning

marriage of convenience + soft oscar is a lethal combination and everything told from his perspective?? magnificent

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.

down bad oscar yes! he's already in love. also the second paragraph is beautifully written

After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????

yo oscar piastri can pull?? iconic line. oh to be fake dating oscar piastri and sharing ice cream. i would cheer if i ended up in an edit tbh

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good.

i screamed. future wife hello?? if oscar said that to me, i'd melt. their chemistry is so cute to watch grow

He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.

i love their relationship so much. oscar is fighting for his life while grandma colette is grilling him. "the lighting is... judgmental" lmaoooo love the personification oscar is so uncomfortable

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

Σ>―(〃°ω°〃)♡→ be still my heart

The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.

chaos in a nutshell. for some reason, this just gives charles vibes from monaco 24. like, i can totally see them swan diving

He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin. He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

the stages of falling are so well written here. like every detail is catalogued, it's sickeningly sweet

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

lmao very lando-coded, we might need a spin-off about this 👀

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

oh that's so beautifully sweet

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

protective oscar!! i cheered!

Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now.

screaming this line from the mountain tops btw. so so poetically stunning, i need this tattooed in my brain

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.

just stab me in the back, why don't you? :((( the angst, the avoidance, the denial

He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

need a man to do this for me

You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market.

oh this is so oscar-coded. he def would learn all the small details about you and acts of service oscar my beloved

This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

my heart 🥺 the fact that he thought it while drunk yet the love is everlasting even as he's sober

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP RICHARD SIKEN??? that quote from war of the foxes always twists my heart and here?? it's devastatingly beautiful and it threw me off guard and words cannot convey how well this quote fits in and how much it made me feel

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

kae i'm sobbing at this how could you do this to be (affectionate) this was a gut punch and the tears just started flowing (i'm not crying you are)

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

poetry.

And that’s where he kneels.

Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.

I SCREAMED kicking my feet and cheering 🥹 no joke my heart fluttered the fact that it's at the harbor ASVJHSDF

He can wait.

ADFHGJHDS i was a mess by the end of this fic in the best way possible and just soft, lovestruck oscar hits me different because it's so gentle and beautiful and ethereal that ending literally was the best way to end this fic and i have infinitely positive things to say about this fic

anyways sorry for yapping for so long oops 😅 this is def one my all time faves now <33

most assuredly ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. he opens his mouth to ask for the special. instead, oscar says, “would you like to get married?”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 15.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, humor. mentions of food, alcohol. marriage of convenience, fake dating, set mostly in monaco, serious creative liberties on citizenship/residency rules, google translated french. title from the fray’s look after you (which i would highly recommend listening to while reading). ꔮ commentary box: i thought this would be short, but i fear i’m physically incapable of shutting up about oscar piastri. sue me. wrote this in one deranged sitting, and i leave it to all of you now 💍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ almost (sweet music), hozier. a drop in the ocean, ron pope. hazy, rosi golan ft. william fitzsimmons. fidelity, regina spektor. just say yes, snow patrol. archie, marry me, alvvays.

Oscar Piastri fails his second attempt at Monaco residency on a Tuesday.

The rejection letter is folded too crisply, sealed in a government envelope so sterile it might as well be laughing at him. He stares at it while sipping overpriced espresso from the balcony of his apartment—well, technically, his team principal’s apartment, but the view of the harbor is the same. He watches a seagull steal a croissant from a toddler and thinks: that bird has more rights here than I do.

It’s not that he needs Monaco, but it would make things easier. Taxes, residency, team logistics. Mostly, he just hates the principle of it. He’s raced these streets. Risked his life at La Rascasse. Smiled through grid walks, kissed the trophy once, twice. How much more Monégasque does he need to be?

Still, the Principality remains unimpressed.

Oscar is dreadfully impatient about it all.

He walks to lunch out of spite. Refuses the team car. Chooses the one place that doesn’t care who he is: Chez Colette, tucked between a florist and a family-run tailor, with sun-faded menus and the same specials board since 2004. It smells like lemon and anchovy and garlic confit. Monaco’s soul in three notes.

You’re wiping down a table when he steps in. You don’t look up right away.

He knows your name, but he won’t say it aloud. That would make it too real. Instead, he watches the way your fingers move over the woodgrain, the tiny gold cross around your neck. No wedding ring.

Definitely Monégasque. Probably born here. He’s seen your grandmother in the back, slicing pissaladière with a surgeon’s precision.

You approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. He opens his mouth to ask for the special.

Instead, he says, “Would you like to get married?”

There’s a beat of silence so clean you could plate oysters on it.

Your brow lifts, just slightly. “Pardon?”

Oscar’s own voice catches up with him. “I mean. Lunch. And then—maybe—marriage. If you’re free. Not in the next hour. Just in general.”

Another beat. Then you laugh, low and incredulous. Your English is heavily accented. A telltale sign you learned it for the express purpose of surviving the service industry. “Is this because of the citizenship thing?”

He stares at you.

You shrug, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the first to ask.”

Oscar groans and slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not.”

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

“How do you feel about pissaladière?” you ask, scribbling on your notepad.

“Is that a yes?”

You walk away without answering. He watches you disappear into the kitchen, the sound of your laughter softening the corners of his day.

He’s not sure what he just started. But he knows he’s coming back tomorrow.

And so Oscar returns the next day. Then the day after that. And the one after that.

At first, it’s curiosity. Then it’s habit. Eventually, it becomes something closer to ritual. Lunch. Sometimes dinner. Once, a midnight snack after sim practice, when he told himself he needed carbs and not just a glimpse of the waitress with the tired eyes and fast French.

You mumble French at him when he walks in. The first time, he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or warning. Now, he knows it’s both.

You’re usually wiping something down or balancing three plates on one arm. You never wear makeup. Your apron’s always tied in a double knot. And you never, ever miss a chance to call him out.

“If you’re here to poach the brandamincium recipe, you’ll have to marry my grandmother,” you tell him one afternoon.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I hear she’s already married to the oven.”

You snort, and his chest flares with something stupid and bright.

The regulars give him side-eyes. Your grandmother watches him like she’s trying to solve an equation. Still, you never ask him to leave.

He tips well. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just grateful. For the peace. For the food. For you.

One night, the lights are low and the chairs are half-stacked when he shows up with two tarte aux pommes from the bakery down the street. You look at him like you’re considering throwing him out. Instead, you pour two glasses of wine and sit.

He peels the parchment off the pastries. “Chez Colette. Named after your grandmother?”

You nod. “She started it with my grandfather. 1973.”

He glances around. The cracked tiles. The curling menus. The handwritten notes on the wall that must be decades old. “And now it’s yours”

“Sort of,” you say dismissively. “I wait tables. I do the books. I fix the pipes. Mostly I pray the rent doesn’t go up again.”

Oscar feels a twist beneath his ribs. He’s spent millions on cars. Watches. Sim rigs. But this—this tiny restaurant and your soft frown—feels more fragile than any of it.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

You look at him with the sort of grin that unravels him. “It’s dying.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes a bite of tart. Lets the silence sit between you. He swallows his mouthful of pastry, then says, “Then maybe we save it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We?”

Oscar smiles. When you don’t tell him to leave, he makes a decision.

He returns three days later, after hours. He doesn’t mean to knock twice, but the restaurant is dark, the chairs up, the shutters half-drawn like the building itself is asleep. Still, he raps his knuckles on the glass, envelope in hand, because this isn’t something he can deliver over a text. Or a tart.

You appear after a minute, hair pinned up, sweatshirt on instead of your apron. You squint at him through the glass like he’s forgotten what day it is.

“We’re closed,” you say as you open the door halfway.

“I know,” Oscar replies, holding up the envelope. “I brought... paperwork.”

Your brows knit. You glance down at the crisp white rectangle like it might bite. “If that’s a menu suggestion, je jure devant Dieu—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s—alright, this is going to sound completely mental, but just let me get through it.”

You cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

Oscar takes a breath. You’re still not letting him in; he figures he deserves it. “There’s a clause,” he starts slowly, “in the citizenship law. A foreign spouse of a Monegasque national can apply for residency after one year of marriage and continuous residence in the Principality.”

“I’m aware.”

He opens the envelope and slides out three neat pages, stapled, formatted like a sponsor contract. He’d asked his agent to help without saying why. Said it was a tax thing. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.

“This is a proposal,” he continues. “One year of marriage. Eighteen months, technically, to be safe. We live here, we do all the legal bits. Then we file for annulment, or divorce, or whatever keeps it clean. No... weird stuff. Just paperwork.”

You stare at him. He rushes on.

“In return, I’ll wire you 10% of my racing salary during the term. That’s around 230,000 euros. And 5% annually for five years after. You can use it however you want. To keep Chez Colette open. Renovate. Hire help. Buy better wine. I don’t care.”

You say nothing. The silence stretches. A bird flutters past the awning. Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not asking for a real marriage. Just a legal one,” he manages. “You’ve seen how hard it is for people like me to get a foothold here. I’ve driven Monaco more times than I’ve driven my home streets. I want to stay. I just... can’t do it alone.”

You look at the contract, then back at him. “You typed up a prenup for a fake marriage?”

“Technically it’s a postnup,” he mutters, half to himself.

Something in your face shifts. Not quite a smile. But not a no, either. “You’re serious,” you say, scanning his face for any hint of doubt.

“I really am.”

You shake your head, understandably overwhelmed and disbelieving that this acquaintance had plucked you out of nowhere for his grand citizenship scheme. “Give me a few days. I need to think.”

Oscar nods. He doesn’t push. He just hands you the envelope and steps back into the fading light of Rue Grimaldi.

Two days later, you tell him to come over once again. You give him a specific time.

The restaurant is closed again, but this time it’s by design—chairs down, kettle on, one ceramic pot of lavender still bravely holding on near the window. The table between you is small. A two-seater wedged against the wall beneath a sepia photo of Grace Kelly.

Oscar sits across from you, spine a little too straight, as if you’re about to interrogate him in a language he doesn’t speak. You’re reading the contract like it’s the terms of his parole.

“Alright,” you say, flipping the page with a deliberate rustle. “Ground rules.”

He nods, trying not to look as if he’s bracing for impact.

“One: I’m not changing my last name.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Oscar says.

“Two: no pet names in public. No ‘darling,’ no ‘chérie,’ and absolutely no ‘babe.’”

He makes a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘babe’ in my life.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

You tap the next section of the contract. “Three: no sharing a bed. We alternate who gets the apartment when the press is nosy, but I don’t care how Monégasque the walls are. We are not reenacting a romcom.”

“I like my own space.”

“Four,” you continue, now fully warmed up, “if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend in another country who thinks this is all some hilarious prank, I will go on record. Publicly. With—how do you say?—receipts.”

Oscar’s eyes widen, then he laughs. He can’t help it. You’re glaring, but it only makes him grin harder. “There is no secret girlfriend,” he assures, still smiling. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

You study him a second longer. He meets your gaze. Not in a cold way. More like someone trying very hard to be worthy of trust.

“Alright,” you murmur, sitting back. “We have only one problem.”

“Do we?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the contract, the table, and him. “This is very convincing on paper. But people will ask questions. My grandmother will ask questions.”

“I figured as much,” Oscar says, drawing a breath. “Which is why we’ll need to... date. First.”

“Date,” you say, testing the word out on. Your nose scrunches up a bit. Cute, Oscar thinks, and then he crashes the thought into the wall of his mind so he nevers thinks it again.

“Publicly. Casually. Just enough to sell the story,” he explains. “Lunches, walks, one trip to the paddock maybe. Something the media can sink its teeth into. I’ll—I’ll pay for that, too.”

“You’re telling me I have to pretend to fall in love with you,” you say skeptically.

Oscar’s smile tilts. “Not fall in love. Just look like you could.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you drop your head into your hands, laughing once—sharp and disbelieving. “Dieu m’aide,” you mumble into your palms. “Fine. One year. No pet names. Separate beds. And if you make me wear matching outfits, I walk.”

Oscar’s heart soars. “Deal,” he says, sealing it before you can back out.

He reaches out to shake on it.

You hesitate. Then take his hand.

And just like that, you’re engaged.

A photo of Oscar with a takeaway bag from your restaurant makes the rounds on a gossip account. The caption reads, Local Hero or Just Hungry? Piastri Spotted Again at Chez Colette. He doesn’t comment.

Then, a week later, he’s asked on a podcast what he does on his days off in Monaco. He shrugs, smiles, and says, “There’s this little place down on Rue Grimaldi. Family-owned. Best tapenade in the world.”

The host jokes, “That’s oddly specific.”

Oscar just sips his water. “So’s my palate.”

He never confirms. Never denies. Just keeps showing up like it’s natural. He opens doors. He holds your bag when you need to tie your shoe. He stands a little too close when you’re waiting in line. The story builds itself.

Until one night, a photo leaks.

It’s at the back entrance of the restaurant, late, after a pretend-date that turned into real laughter and too much wine. You’re saying goodbye. He kisses you—cheek first, then temple, then, finally, the crown of your hair.

That’s the money shot. Oscar, his lips pressed atop your head; you, with your eyes closed. Turns out both of you are pretty good actors.

The internet implodes.

Lando calls the next morning.

“Mate.”

Oscar winces. “Hey.”

“You’re dating?” Lando sounds honest-to-goodness betrayed. Oscar almost feels bad.

The Australian squints at the espresso machine like it might save him. “Technically, yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“I was enjoying the privacy,” he deadpans.

Lando hangs up. Oscar makes a mental note to apologize when they see each other next at MTC. For now, though, he has more pressing matters to handle. One he discusses with you while he’s helping you close up shop.

Oscar nudges you gently. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“I need to use a pet name.”

You whip your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hear me out. It’s weird if I call you ‘hey’ in interviews. People are starting to notice. One. Just one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic air. “Darling.”

You shake your head. “Too Downton Abbey.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Too American.”

“Snugglebug?”

You stare.

“That was a test,” he says defensively.

“Try again.”

He considers. “Just—how about ‘my future wife.’”

You look away—too quickly. He sees it. The flicker. The way your lips twitch before you hide them.

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good.

You don’t say it back, don’t promise to call him your future husband. It’s alright. As it is, he has a couple more hurdles before he can even get to the wedding bells part of this arrangement.

Oscar has faced plenty of terrifying things in life: Eau Rouge in the rain, contract negotiations, Lando in a mood. None of them compare to this. Your grandmother’s dining room, cramped and full of porcelain saints.

You sit between Oscar and her, valiantly attempting to translate. The infamous Colette says something sharp and direct in French.

You smile saccharinely sweetly at Oscar. “She wants to know if you have real intentions.”

Oscar clears his throat. “Tell her yes. Tell her I think you’re… remarkable.”

You raise an eyebrow but translate. Your grandmother hums noncommittally, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then she asks another question. You translate again. “She wants to know what you like about me.”

Oscar panics. “Tell her you’re bossy.”

You give him a look.

“In a good way! I like that you tell me what to do. It’s grounding,” he backtracks. “And that you don’t laugh at my French, at least not out loud. And that you know exactly what you want and refuse to settle for less.”

Shaking your head, you deliver the words in French. Oscar has no way to know if it’s verbatim or if you’re somehow making him sound better. Regardless, your next translated words hold true. “She says she still doesn’t trust you,” you say wryly.

“Fair,” he says.

The meal continues. Your grandmother asks about his family, his racing, what he eats before a Grand Prix. You relay each question in English, Oscar doing his best to keep up, alternating between charming and catastrophic. He drops his fork once. He mispronounces aubergine. You have to explain what Vegemite is, and it nearly causes an incident.

Finally, somewhere between the cheese course and dessert, he reaches for your hand. It surprises both of you, the way his fingers find yours without fanfare.

Your grandmother notices. She watches for a long second, then exhales through her nose. Her next words don’t sound as cutting. You murmur, translating, “She says she’ll be keeping an eye on us.”

Oscar nods solemnly.

Outside, later, as the night air cools your flushed cheeks, he lets out a breath like he's crossed the finish line. “Think she’d be open to babysitting the fake kids one day?” he asks ruefully.

You laugh. Hard.

He’ll take it, he decides.

The season starts. You stay in touch. Oscar shows up at the restaurant after three months on the dot, still smelling faintly of champagne and podium spray. “I brought the trophy,” he announces, holding it out like a peace offering.

You stare at the intricate cup accorded to him for crossing the finish line first, then at him. “You think I want a trophy in exchange for emotional labor?”

“I also brought you a pastry,” he adds, brandishing a delicate tarte tropézienne.

You take the pastry.

He follows you inside, slipping into your usual booth in the back, where the sound of the espresso machine muffles any chance of a quiet moment. You sit across from him, pulling your apron over your lap like a barrier.

“So,” he begins. “We should probably talk about... the proposal.”

“You’re really not wasting time,” you chuckle.

“We’ve got a timeline. Press, citizenship, nosy neighbors. I have to make it look like I can’t bear to be without you.”

You snort. “That’ll be a performance.”

He grins. “Oscar-worthy.”

You try not to smile at his joke. “What do you even envision? You just collapsing in the paddock and screaming that you must marry me immediately?”

“That was my backup plan.”

You sip your coffee, watching him over the rim. “And what would be the first plan?”

“Something classic. You’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll get down on one knee. Ideally, there will be flowers, soft lighting, maybe a string quartet hiding behind a hedge.”

You shake your head. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want something like that?”

You hesitate. Just for a bit. “Fine,” you admit. “If it were real, I suppose I would want something simple. Something quiet. Not in front of a crowd. No flash mobs.”

“Noted. Absolutely no synchronized dancing.”

“And I’d want it to be somewhere that means something. Like... the dock near the market, maybe. Where my parents met. Just us. Some lights over the water. Nothing fancy.”

Oscar has gone quiet. It bleeds into the moment after you answer. You’re glaring at him heatlessly when you demand, “What?”

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

You roll your eyes, but the blush betrays you. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Should we make it the market dock, then? For the fake proposal.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. “Alright,” you concede, all the fight gone out of you. “But if you get a string quartet involved, I will throw you into the sea.”

“No promises,” says Oscar, even as he cracks the smallest of smiles.

Oscar FaceTimes his sisters on a Sunday morning, two hours before his second free practice session in Imola. He’s still in his race suit, hair slightly damp from the helmet, seated cross-legged on the floor of his motorhome like a boy about to beg for pocket money.

“Alright,” he says, flashing the camera a sheepish grin. “Before you say anything—I know it’s been a while. But I have news.”

Hattie appears first, her hair in rollers, holding a mug that says #1 Mum despite not having kids. Then Edie, still in bed, squinting at her phone like it betrayed her. Finally Mae joins from what appears to be a café, earbuds in, already suspicious.

“You’re not dying, are you?” Mae says apprehensively. “Because you have ‘soft launch of a terminal illness’ face.”

“No one’s dying,” Oscar says exasperatedly. “I’m—okay, this is going to sound a bit mad, but I need you all to come to Monaco next weekend.”

A beat. Silence. A spoon clinks against ceramic.

“Oscar,” Edie says slowly, “if this is about the cat again—”

“No, no! I swear, it’s not about the cat. I’m—proposing.”

Three sets of eyebrows go up. Even Hattie lowers her mug.

“Is this the waitress?” Mae asks, frowning. “She’s real?”

Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, she’s real. You’ve met her—at Chez Colette, remember? She works there. Thick accent. Quietly judges people with just her eyebrows.”

Recognition dawns slowly. “The waitress who told dad his wine palate was embarrassing?” Hattie says, remembering the one and only time Oscar had taken them to the restaurant, post-race. Back when it was just a place for good food and not ground zero for a marriage of convenience.

“The very one,” he says.

“I liked her,” Edie says. “Sharp. Didn’t laugh at your jokes.”

“So what’s the rush?” Mae’s eyes are narrowed. “You’re not the spontaneous type.”

Oscar hesitates. There’s a script he wrote for this exact moment, but it crumbles like a napkin in his hands. He tries the truth, or at least a gentle version of it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what matters,” he says. “About building something. And... Monaco’s home now, in a weird way. But it’s not really home without her.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole story.

There’s a pause, then Hattie sniffs and says, “Well, if this is how I find out I need a bridesmaid dress, I expect champagne.”

“I want seafood at the rehearsal dinner,” Edie adds.

“And we need a proper girl’s day with our sister-in-law-to-be,” Mae mutters, smiling despite herself.

Oscar grins, relief warm and fizzy in his chest.

“So you’ll come?”

“Of course we’ll come,” they say in near-unison.

The screen glitches for a moment, freezing them mid-laughter. Oscar watches their pixelated faces and thinks, oddly, that maybe this fake proposal has a bit too much heart in it already.

They fly in. His parents, too. The local press catch wind of it; rumors fly, but he says nothing. He’s too busy watching proposals on YouTube and figuring out how to make this halfway convincing.

On the day, Oscar finds that the dock near the market smells like sea salt and overripe citrus. The string of lights overhead flicker like they know what’s about to happen. Oscar stands at the edge, jacket wrinkled, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag tucked under one arm like he’s hiding pastries or nerves.

You arrive five minutes late. On purpose. He doesn’t look up right away, too focused on adjusting something in the bag. When he does glance up, there’s a boyish flush in his cheeks like he’s trying very hard not to bolt.

“You’re early,” you tease.

“I’m punctual,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You walk toward him slowly, letting the moment settle like dust in warm air. Behind the crates of tomatoes and shutters of the market stalls, there’s the faintest sound of movement—your grandmother, probably, crouched next to a box of sardines with Oscar’s sisters stacked like dolls behind her. His parents, also trying to be discreet as they film the proposal on their phones. All of them out of earshot.

Oscar clears his throat. “So,” he says. “I was going to start with a speech. But I practiced it in the mirror and it sounded like I was reciting tyre strategy.”

You fold your arms. "Now I’m intrigued."

Oscar pulls the ring out of the paper bag like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a simple one. No halo, no flash. Just a slim gold band and a small stone, found with the help of a very patient assistant and a very anxious jeweler.

“I know it’s not real,” he says. “But I still wanted to ask properly. Because you deserve that. And because, if I’m going to lie to the world, I want to at least mean every word I say to you.”

He kneels. One knee on the old dock planks, the other wobbling slightly.

You try not to smile too much. You fail.

He looks up. Cheeks flaming, eyes glinting. “Will you marry me, mon amour? For taxes, for residency, and the longevity of Monaco’s local cuisine?”

You take the ring. Slide it on. It fits like something inevitable. “Yes," you say softly, amusedly. “But only if you promise to do the dishes when this all goes sideways.”

He laughs, rises, pulls you into him like he’s trying to remember the shape of this moment for later. The lights flicker above you, the market quiet except for the faint sound of someone muffling a sneeze behind a barrel of oranges. You lean in, mouth near his ear.

“There’s nothing more Monégasque than what I’m about to do.”

Oscar pulls back. “What does that—”

You grab his hand and hurl both of you off the dock.

He surfaces first, sputtering. “I didn’t even bring a string quartet!”

You shrug, treading water, the ring catching the last of the sunset. “Welcome to the Principality, monsieur Piastri.”

Somewhere above, the dock creaks and the lights swing, and a family of co-conspirators starts clapping. The water tastes like the beginning of something strange and maybe wonderful. Monaco, at last, lets him in.

One blurry photo on Instagram is all it takes.

Oscar, soaked to the knees, hair flattened to his forehead, grinning like someone who’s just robbed a patisserie and gotten away with it.

You’re next to him, clutching a towel and wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between incredulity and affection. The ring—small, elegant, unmistakable—catches the light just enough.

His caption is a single word: Oui.

It takes approximately four minutes for the drivers’ WeChat to implode.

Lando is the first to respond: mate MATE tell me this isn’t a prank.

Then Charles: Is that my fucking neighbor????

Followed by George: This is either extremely romantic or deeply strategic. Possibly both.

Fernando simply replies with a sunglasses emoji and the words: classic.

The media goes feral. Engagement! Surprise dock proposal! The Chez Colette Heiress™! There’s already a Buzzfeed article ranking the most Monégasque elements of the proposal (you jumping into the sea is #1, narrowly edging out the string lights). Someone tweets an AI-generated wedding invite. The official F1 social media releases a supportive statement.

By Thursday’s press conference, Oscar has a halo of smug serenity around him. He had fielded questions all morning, deflecting citizenship implications with the precision of a man who’s done thirty rounds with the Monégasque bureaucracy and lost each time.

Lando, seated beside him, nudges his elbow.

“So,” he says into the mic. “Do we call you Mr. Colette now, or…?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Only on the weekdays.”

A ripple of laughter. Cameras flash. “I’m just saying,” Lando continues, faux-serious, “first you get engaged, next thing you know, you’re organizing floral arrangements and crying over table linens.”

“I’ll have you know,” Oscar replies, “the table linens are your problem. You’re best man.”

“Wait, what?”

But Oscar’s already looking past the cameras, past the questions, to the text you sent him that morning: full house again tonight. your trophy is in the pastry case. i put a flower in it. don’t be late.

He shrugs at the next question—something about motives, politics, tax brackets. All he says is, “Chez Colette’s never been busier. She looks beautiful with that ring. I’m winning races. Life’s good.”

And for once, no one argues. (Except Lando, who mutters, “Still can’t believe you beat me to a wife.”)

But then the hate makes its way through the haze. A comment here. A message there. Oscar doesn’t find out until much later, but you supposedly ignored them at first. The usual brand of online cruelty wrapped in emojis and entitlement. It curdled, slow and rancid, like spoiled milk beneath sunshine.

DMs filled with accusations. Gold digger, fame-chaser, fraud. A journalist who called the restaurant pretending to be a customer, asking if it’s true you forged documents. The restaurant landline, unplugged after the fourth prank call.

By the end of the week, someone mails a dead fish to Chez Colette. Wrapped in butcher paper. No return address. A note tucked inside reads: Go back to the shadows.

You find it funny. Morbidly, anyway. You show it to your grandmother like a joke, like something distant and absurd. She doesn’t laugh.

Oscar doesn’t either.

He hears about it secondhand—Lando lets it slip, offhandedly, after qualifying. Something about the restaurant and a very unfortunate cod. He chuckles at first, caught off guard, then notices the way Lando avoids his gaze.

He texts you that same afternoon. what’s this about a fish?

You send back a shrug emoji. He calls you. You don’t pick up.

The silence between you is short and volatile. He digs. He finds out. He walks into the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled, still in his race gear. “You should’ve told me.”

You’re wiping down the bar with the same rag you always use when you’re pretending you’re fine. “It’s not your problem.”

His jaw ticks. He’s too still. That particular quiet you’ve only seen once. After a bad race, helmet still in his lap, staring out at nothing, eyes unblinking. “It is my problem,” he says, voice low, tight. “We did this together.”

“We faked this together,” you correct, sharper than you meant.

“Don’t split hairs with me right now.”

You glance up. There’s a glint in his eye Not anger, exactly. Something colder. Something surgical. Protective. That night, he drafts the statement himself. It’s short. No PR filters. No fluffy team language. No committee approval.

If you think I’d fake a proposal for a passport, you don’t know me. If you think insulting someone I care about makes you a fan, you’re wrong. Leave her alone.

He posts it without warning. No team heads-up. No brand consultation.

The fallout is immediate. And loud. Some applaud him—brave, romantic, principled. Others double down, clawing at conspiracy theories like they hold inheritance rights. But the worst voices get quieter. The dead fish don’t return. You stop sleeping with your phone on airplane mode.

A few sponsors call to ‘express concern.’ He answers them all personally. Later, again in the restaurant kitchen, he leans against the counter while you wash greens, trying to act like it didn’t cost him anything to do what he did. Like it didn’t make something shift between you.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, picking at the label of a pickle jar with too much focus. “I just didn’t want our story to tank before I get my tax break.”

You don’t look at him. He shifts, awkward. Adds, “And... I guess we're friends now. Loosely.”

You pass him a colander without comment. He holds it as if it’s evidence in a case he’s trying to solve. “Still not reading into it,” you say, finally, absolving him and thanking him all at once.

“Good.”

When you turn away, he watches you a little too long. And when you laugh—just barely, just once—he lets himself smile back.

The restaurant is full, as always. Someone just ordered two servings of pissaladière and asked if the newly engaged couple is around tonight.

Your grandmother rolls her eyes and tells them, in her stern, stilted English, “Only if you behave.”

The wedding planning happens in the margins. Between races, between airports, between whatever strange reality the two of you have created and the one that exists on paper. Oscar reads menu options off his phone in airport lounges. You text him photos of flower arrangements with captions like Too romantic? and Is eucalyptus overdone?

Neither of you want something extravagant. The more believable it is, the smaller it needs to be. Just close family. A quiet ceremony. A reception in the restaurant, chairs pushed aside, candles on the table. You call it a micro-wedding. Oscar calls it a tax deduction with canapés.

Still, some things have to be done properly. Rings. A few photos. Legal documents with very real signatures. He misses most of it, but you keep him looped in with texts and the occasional FaceTime call, grainy and too short. It’s always night where one of you is.

On one of his rare trips back to Monaco, he stops by the restaurant to say hello. Your grandmother tells him through gestures that you’re at a fitting two blocks away. He finds the boutique mostly by accident. Sunlight catching on the display window, the bell chiming softly as he pushes the door open.

You’re on the pedestal, the back of the dress being pinned by a seamstress. Simple silk, off-white, the kind of dress that wouldn’t raise eyebrows in a civil hall or turn heads on a red carpet. Your hair is pinned up, loose and a little messy.

Still, he freezes.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and gasp. “Oscar!” you yelp, spinning to look at him. “It’s bad luck to see the dress!”

He blinks, caught. “It’s not a real wedding,” he huffs.

You squint at him. “Still. Don’t ruin my fake dreams.”

He steps further in, slow, like he’s not sure what rules he’s breaking. “So that’s the one?”

You shrug, turning a little in the mirror. "It’s simple. Comfortable. Feels like me."

He nods, too fast. “It’s nice. You look…”

You wait.

He swallows. “Very believable.”

“High praise.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes still on the mirror, or maybe just on you. There’s a feeling crawling up his throat, unfamiliar and slightly inconvenient. “I should go,” he says. “Let you finish.”

“You came all this way. Stay. I want your opinion on shoes.”

“Right, because I am famously qualified to judge footwear.”

And so he sits, cross-legged in a velvet chair that probably costs more than a front wing, and watches you try on shoes, one pair at a time. You argue over ivory versus cream. You make him close his eyes and guess.

He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

The day of the wedding arrives like a postcard. Sun-drenched, breeze-cooled, the sea winking blue behind the low stone wall where the ceremony is set up. Your grandmother insists on arranging the chairs herself. Oscar offers to help and is swiftly redirected to stay out of the way.

Chez Colette is shuttered for the day, but still smells like rosemary and flour. The reception will spill into the alley behind it, where the cobblestones have been hosed down and scattered with mismatched café tables, each with a little glass jar of fresh-cut herbs.

For now, the courtyard near the water has been transformed with folding chairs, borrowed hydrangeas, and a string quartet (at Oscar’s insistence and your distaste) made up of one of your cousins and her friends from the conservatory. They play Debussy with just enough off-tempo charm to feel homemade.

Oscar stands at the front, hands shoved into his pockets, tie slightly crooked despite Lando’s earlier attempts to straighten it. His shoes pinch slightly. He’s convinced his shirt collar is a size too small. Lando is beside him, fidgeting like he’s the one about to get married.

“You good?” Lando whispers, leaning in just enough.

“No.”

“Perfect.”

Oscar smooths the paper in his pocket for the eighth—no, ninth—time. It’s creased and slightly smudged from nerves and a morning espresso. He didn’t memorize his vows. He barely even finished them. But they’re his, and he wrote them himself. With some help from Google Translate and an aggressively kind old woman on the flight to Nice.

Guests trickle in like sunlight. Your friends in summer dresses and linen suits, their laughter lilting in the sea air. His family, sunburned from the beach, trying to look formal but cheerful. Hattie gives him a thumbs-up. Edie mouths, Don’t faint. Mae just grins and adjusts the flower crown someone handed her.

Then you walk in.

And the world does that annoying thing where it goes quiet and dramatic, like a movie scene he wouldn’t believe if he were watching it himself. You wear the simple dress. Ivory, sleeveless, the hem brushing your ankles. Your hair is down this time, soft around your shoulders. You have a hand wrapped around your grandmother’s arm, and your smile is the kind that turns corners into homes.

Oscar forgets what to do with his face.

The ceremony begins. The officiant says words Oscar doesn't register. Lando keeps elbowing Oscar at appropriate times to remind him to nod, and once to stop picking at the hem of his jacket.

You go first, when the vows come. Your voice is steady, low, threaded with amusement and something else. Something real. You say his name like it matters. Like it might keep meaning more with every time you say it.

You make promises that are half-jokes, half truths. To tolerate his road rage on normal roads. To always keep a tarte tropézienne in the freezer for emergencies. To have him; sickness and health, Australian and Monégasque.

His turn.

He pulls the paper from his pocket. Unfolds it like it might disintegrate. Clears his throat. Glances at you.

“Je... je promets de te supporter,” he begins, awkwardly, his accent thick and uneven. “Même quand tu laisses la lumière de la salle de bain allumée.”

There are chuckles. His sisters blow into handkerchiefs. A pigeon flutters past like it, too, is here for the drama. He stumbles through the rest.

Promises to make you coffee badly but consistently. To bring you pastries when you're angry with him. To never again get a string quartet without written approval. He throws in a line about sharing his last fry, even if it's the crispy end piece.

Halfway through, he glances up. And sees it. The shimmer in your eyes. The not-quite-contained tears that threaten to spill. It knocks the air out of him.

By the time the officiant is saying, And now, by the power vested in me—, Oscar doesn’t wait.

He leans forward and kisses you, hands framing your face like he can catch every single tear before it falls. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not rehearsed, but it’s right. You melt forward, like the kiss was always part of the plan.

The crowd cheers. Your grandmother sniffs like she always knew it would come to this. One of your cousins whistles. Lando punches the air with both fists.

The reception begins in the cobbled alley behind Chez Colette, strung with borrowed fairy lights and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The scent of rosemary focaccia and grilled sardines fills the air, mingling with the crisp pop of celebratory champagne.

Someone’s rigged an old speaker system to loop a playlist of jazz and golden-age love songs, occasionally interrupted by the soft hiss of the espresso machine still running inside. Your grandmother commands the kitchen like a general, spooning barbajuan into chipped bowls and muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Monégasque.

The courtyard buzzes with the kind of warmth that can’t be choreographed. Oscar’s sisters are deep in conversation with your friends, comparing childhood embarrassments. Mae pulls up a photo of Oscar in a kangaroo costume at age six and your side of the table erupts in delighted horror. One of your cousins has started a limoncello drinking contest beside the dessert table.

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

The music shifts from upbeat to something softer, slower. Oscar’s mother pulls him onto the floor for their dance. He resists at first, shy in the way only sons can be, but she hushes him gently and holds him like she did when he was five and fell asleep in the backseat of the family car.

They sway to the music, and halfway through, she wipes at her eyes and whispers something that makes Oscar nod too quickly and look away, blinking hard.

Later, it’s your turn. He finds you near the edge of the alley, holding a half-eaten piece of pissaladière, watching the lights flicker across the windows and the harbor beyond. There’s flour on your wrist and a tiny smear of anchovy oil on your collarbone.

“May I?” he asks, offering his hand.

You smile, place your hand in his, and let him pull you in. The music lilts, old and romantic, like something out of your grandmother's record player. You move together in small steps, barely more than a sway, but it’s enough. “A year and a half starts now,” you murmur, eyes on his shoulder.

He hums. “We’ll manage.”

You let out a breath, equal parts hope and hesitation. “Still feels like we’re tempting fate.”

He leans closer, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe we should tempt it properly.”

You look up at him, the warning written all over your face. But he’s already grinning like he’s fifteen again, mischief blooming across his face. “You said you wanted something Monégasque,” he hums.

“Don’t you dare—”

He scoops you up before you can finish, and you yelp, arms flailing around his neck.

“Oscar Piastri, I swear—”

“Too late!”

He runs. Through the alley, past your grandmother shouting something scandalized in, past Lando who drops his glass and whoops, past chairs and flower petals and startled guests, and straight for the harbor.

The water meets you like a shock of laughter and salt, the world disappearing in a splash and a blur of white fabric and suit sleeves. When you surface, gasping, your hair clinging to your cheeks, Oscar is beside you, beaming, his jacket floating nearby like a shipwrecked flag. “Revenge,” he says, breathless, “is so damn sweet out here.”

You splash him, teeth chattering and smile unstoppable. “You are insane.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

On the dock, guests are cheering, others filming, your grandmother shaking her head with a tiny smile and muttering something about theatrical Australians. The string quartet starts playing again, undeterred. Lando appears holding two towels like a game show assistant and shouts, “You better not be honeymooning in the marina!”

Oscar swims closer, hands catching yours underwater. “You know,” he says, nose almost touching yours, “you never did say I do.”

You kiss him. Soft and sure and salt-slicked. “That count?” you murmur against his lips.

He laughs. “Yeah. That counts.”

Beneath the twinkle lights and the ripple of music, the harbor keeps your secret, just for a little while longer.

The headlines arrive before the sun does.

Oscar sees them on his phone somewhere over the Atlantic, legs stretched across the aisle, wedding band catching in the reading light. The screen glows with speculation: Secretly Expecting?, Tax Trick or True Love?, From Waitress to Wifey: The Curious Case of Monaco's Newest Bride.

He scrolls past them all, thumb steady, face unreadable. The truth was never going to be enough for people, he knew that. It didn’t matter that your grandmother cooked the wedding dinner herself or that your bouquet had been made of market stall leftovers and rosemary from the alley. It didn’t matter that Oscar’s mother cried during the ceremony or that you whispered something to him under your breath right before the kiss that made his heart knock painfully against his ribs.

None of that sells as well as scandal. In interviews, he dodges the worst of it with practiced ease. “It was a beautiful day,” he says, and “She looked stunning,” and “No, I’m not changing teams.”

Lando, naturally, finds every headline he can and reads them aloud in the paddock. “‘She’s either carrying his child or his offshore holdings,’” Lando recites dramatically, leaning back in a folding chair, grin wide.

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get invited to the harbor plunge.”

“Mate, you threw your bride into the sea.”

“She started it.”

The grid has a field day. Drivers he’s barely spoken to before raise their eyebrows and offer sly congratulations. Someone leaves a baby bottle in his locker with a bow. Social media eats it up and spits it back out, pixelated and sharp-edged.

But he tunes most of it out. Especially when it turns nasty. He has a team for that now. Official statements, social monitoring, the occasional DM deleted before he can see it. Still, he keeps an eye on the worst of it. Makes sure nothing slips through. Nothing that might reach you.

He lands in Monaco two weeks later with sleep in his eyes and a croissant in a paper bag. He stops by the restaurant like he always does and finds you at the register, wrist turned just so. The ring glints beside the band. Matching his. “You’re wearing it,” he says dazedly.

“We’re married.”

He shrugs, hiding a smile. “Feels weird.”

“That’s because it’s fake.”

“Still,” he says, tapping his own ring against the counter. “Looks good on you.”

You roll your eyes and hand him a plate. “Compliment me less. Pay for lunch more.”

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that your laugh sounds like music, that the lie is starting to feel like it’s been sandpapered into something real and delicate. Instead, he sits in the booth by the window, watching you refill the salt shakers, and thinks—the world can say what it wants.

You know the truth, and so does he.

The week of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and impossibly blue. The streets of the Principality shimmer under the sun, fences rising overnight like scaffolding for a play the city has performed a thousand times. Everything smells faintly of sea salt and fuel, and by mid-morning, the air is alive with the buzz of anticipation and finely tuned engines echoing off marble walls. But this year, the script reads a little differently.

Oscar Piastri is not just another driver on the grid.

The press reminds him of it daily, with a barrage of questions and not-so-subtle headlines. There’s always been one Monégasque darling. Now there’s the new almost-Monégasque.

A man with a newly minted Monégasque wife, a wedding video that’s gone viral twice, and a story that seems too picturesque not to speculate on. Is it for love? For tax benefits? For strategic branding? The opinions come loud and fast, and Oscar finds himself blinking under the weight of it.

He fields the questions with a practiced smile. “No, I’m not replacing Charles. No, I don’t think that’s possible. Yes, Monaco means something different to me now.”

They ask about pressure. About performance. About legacy. He says all the right things. But in the quiet of the restaurant kitchen, where you’re prepping tarragon chicken for your grandmother and your hands smell like thyme, he confesses: “I feel like I might throw up.”

You look up from your chopping board. “That’s not ideal. Especially not in my kitchen.”

He slumps into the stool near the flour bin, the one that squeaks when someone shifts too much weight on it. He rubs his temples, his posture more boy than racer. “It’s just—this place. This race. You. The whole country’s looking at me like I’m trying to steal something.”

You cross to him, wiping your hands on a faded dish towel. The kind with embroidered lemons curling at the hem. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re earning it,” you remind him. “Like you always do.”

He groans, slouching further. “You’re too good to me. I hate that.”

“You love it, actually.”

“That’s the problem.”

The morning of the race is electric. The sun spills golden light over the yachts and balconies, gilding the grandstands in a glow that feels almost unreal. The paddock is a blur of team radios and cameras, the air tight with nerves.

You find him just before the chaos begins. He’s already in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the kind of laser-sharp focus on his face that tells you he’s trying to keep the noise at bay. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just enough to give him away.

You touch his arm. “Oscar.”

He turns, eyes snapping to yours, and before he can speak, you rise on your toes and kiss him. Not a peck. Not performative. Just real. Your hands rest briefly on his waist. His helmet almost slips from his grip.

He blinks when you pull back. “What was that for?”

“Luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“No,” you say. “But I do.”

He grins then, a little sideways, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. He starts P3. Ends P1.

The crowd roars. The champagne flies. The Principality erupts in noise and color. From the podium, as gold confetti floats like sunlit snow and the Mediterranean glitters beneath the terrace, he lifts the bottle, sprays it with abandon—and then he points directly at you.

A clean, deliberate gesture.

When he finds you after the ceremonies, helmet gone, hair mussed, face flushed with sweat and triumph, he pulls you into his arms like he needs to anchor himself.

He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled but sure. “You kissed me and I won Monaco. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m never letting you go.”

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

Your honeymoon is late. A stolen few days during the season break, tucked between sponsor obligations and simulator hours. But it’s enough.

Melbourne is crisp in the winter. Sky the color of chilled steel, air sharp with wattle blossoms. Oscar meets you at the airport with a bouquet of native flowers and the look of a man trying not to sprint.

He’s a different version of himself here. Looser, unspooled. Driving on the left like it’s second nature, narrating every corner you pass with stories from childhood. “That’s where I broke my wrist trying to skateboard. That’s the bakery Mum swears by. That field used to flood every winter—perfect for pretending to be Daniel Ricciardo.”

He takes you everywhere. Fitzroy cafés for flat whites and smashed avo on toast, laughing himself breathless when you wrinkle your nose at Vegemite. St. Kilda for long walks along the pier, the scent of salt and fried food curling around you like a scarf. Luna Park for nostalgia’s sake; he wins you a soft toy at one of the booths, the thing lopsided and overstuffed. You carry it anyway.

He insists on a ride on the Ferris wheel, and you sit in the slow-spinning cage, knees bumping, breath fogging the glass. He holds your hand the entire time, thumb grazing your knuckles.

He shows you his high school, points out the old tennis courts and the library he never quite liked. You joke that he peaked too early, and he grins, nudging your shoulder. “I'm still peaking. Haven’t you heard? Married a local princess.”

You eat fish and chips out of paper by the beach, ketchup on your fingers, your laughter carrying over the dunes. You splurge on a seven-course tasting menu with matching wines the next night.

He doesn’t bat an eye at the bill, just watches you sip the dessert wine like it's the best part of the whole trip. The waiter calls you madame and monsieur, and Oscar almost chokes on his amuse-bouche trying not to laugh.

One afternoon, you stop by a museum, wandering slowly between exhibits, your steps in sync. He buys you a ridiculous magnet in the gift shop and sticks it in your handbag without telling you. “A memento,” he says later, as if the entire trip isn’t becoming one already.

On the third night, after a movie and a tram ride that rocked you gently against his side, you end up in the small rented flat he insisted on decorating with local flowers and candles from a boutique shop in South Melbourne. He lights them all before you even step through the door. There’s soft jazz playing on a speaker, and a tiny box of pastries on the kitchen counter. He remembered you liked the lemon ones best.

You turn to him, laughing. “You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”

His smile falters only a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

But that night, he kisses you like he forgot. Like the boundary lines have been redrawn in candlelight and warmth and the way your laughter fills up his chest.

Oscar, for all his planning and fake vows and clever PR angles, starts to think he doesn’t want to fake a single thing anymore. Not the way your hand fits in his. Not the way you snore just slightly when you’re too tired. Not the way you sigh his name in your sleep like it’s always been yours to say.

Six months into the marriage, Oscar finds it alarmingly easy.

There’s a rhythm now. Races and rest days, press conferences and pasta nights. He wires you money at the start of every month without being asked, a neat sum labeled restaurant support in the memo line, though he likes to pretend it’s something more casual, more romantic.

Sometimes he sends it with a picture. The menu scrawled in your grandmother’s handwriting. A photo of you wiping down the counter, hair tied up and apron on. A video where your voice is muffled under the clatter of pans. He tells himself he does it to keep the illusion going. That the marriage needs its props.

But the truth is, he just wants Chez Colette to survive. Wants your grandmother to keep slicing pissaladière with the same steady hands. Wants your laughter to keep floating through the narrow alleyway outside the kitchen window. Wants to be the reason the lights in the dining room never go out.

That part doesn’t feel fake at all.

In Singapore, the air is thick as molasses and twice as slow. Oscar starts P2. He ends up P4.

The move had been perfect. He was tailing Max, toes on the line, pressure in every nerve. Then the moment came and he hesitated. A flicker. A brake. Not even full pressure—just enough.

Max takes the win. And Oscar sits with it. Sits with the loss, the pause, the decision that shouldn’t have happened but did.

The press room is cold with fluorescent light and smugness. Oscar unzips his race suit halfway and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for the inevitable. His jaw is tight. His eyes sharper than usual. Max gets asked first. He smirks.

“I knew he’d brake. He’s got a wife now,” the Red Bull driver teases. “Has to think twice about these things.”

Laughter. Some loud. Some knowing. Some cruel. Oscar stares at the microphone in front of him like it personally offended him.

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

A beat of silence. Then chaos. Max laughs like it’s a joke. Oscar lets it sit that way. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smile.

He keeps a straight face through the rest of the conference. But there’s something restless behind his eyes, something simmering. Later, the clip goes viral. Memes. Headlines. Polls ranking it as one of the most dramatic moments of the season.

Some people say he’s being possessive. Some say it’s adorable. Others speculate wildly. Pregnancy rumors, tension in the paddock, impending divorce. A few even suggest it’s all a publicity stunt.

Oscar ignores all of it.

He scrolls through his phone in the quiet of the hotel room, looking at a photo you sent that morning. You in a sundress. The restaurant in full swing behind you. A bowl of citrus glowing in the window light. The ring on your finger catching just enough sun to drive him insane.

He should’ve won today. He should be angry at himself. At the telemetry. At the choice he made in that split second.

Instead, he’s angry at Max. At the snickering tone. At the way your name came out of someone else’s mouth like it belonged to everyone but you. Like it was part of a joke he didn’t get to write.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he replays the moment again, the way the word wife sounded when he said it. Sharp, defensive, protective. Not fake. Not rehearsed.

Oscar doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s haunted by the braking point. But because he wonders, for the first time, if he lost the race on purpose. If he braked because the idea of not seeing you again felt worse than losing. If the risk he once lived for now had consequences he isn’t willing to stomach.

He’s never been afraid of risk.

But he’s starting to learn that love, real or pretend, rewrites the whole strategy. And somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten which parts were meant to be fake.

He falls asleep as the sun comes up, the photo still glowing on his phone screen, your smile seared into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Eight months in, Oscar begins to catalogue his realizations like a man trying to make sense of a soft fall. A slow descent he never noticed until the ground felt far away.

He returns to Monaco between races. You meet him outside the market, where the fruit vendors already call him Oscarino, and where the cobblestones wear your footsteps like a second skin.

He watches you point out the small things: the fig tree tucked behind the old chapel wall, the narrow stairwell with the best view of the harbor, the café that serves coffee just a shade too bitter unless you stir it five times.

“Why five?” he asks, half-smiling.

“No idea,” you say. “It’s just what my father used to do. It stuck.”

He nods like this is sacred knowledge. Like he’s been let in on a secret the rest of the world doesn’t deserve. And there it is—realization one: Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now. It’s the way you slip through alleys with familiarity, the way you greet the florist by name, the way your laughter belongs to the air here. It clings to the limestone. It softens the sea.

You show him the bookshop that sells more postcards than novels, the stone bench under the olive tree where your grandmother once waited for a boy who never came. You walk ahead sometimes, pointing out a new pastry shop or pausing to listen to street music, and Oscar lets himself trail behind, watching you like you’re the most intricate part of the landscape.

Realization two: it takes no effort to call you his wife.

He’s stopped hesitating when people say it. Stopped correcting journalists or clarifying the situation. It spills out naturally now, that possessive softness—my wife. Sometimes he says it just to see how it feels. Sometimes he says it because it’s easier than explaining how this all started. But lately, he’s saying it because it makes him feel something solid. Something like belonging.

“This is for my wife,” he says as he buys a box of pastries for the two of you, and he realizes nobody had even asked. He just wanted to say it, wanted to call you that.

At dusk, you both sit near the dock where he proposed. You split a lemon tart, the crust crumbling between your fingers. The lights blink to life along the harbor, flickering like a breath caught in your throat.

“You’re quiet,” you say, licking powdered sugar from your thumb.

He’s quiet because he’s on realization three: he’s in love with you.

Not in the way he warned you against. Not in the doomed, reckless way he once feared. But in the steady kind. The kind that snuck in during long nights on video calls, during your terrible attempt at learning tire strategy lingo, during the sleepy murmurs of your voice when you answered his call at two in the morning just to hear about qualifying.

You nudge his knee with yours. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say you. Or everything. Or I think I’d do it all over again, even if it still ended as pretend.

Instead, he leans over and kisses you. Softly. Just for the sake of kissing you.

Oscar returns to racing with the kind of focus that borders on fear.

The panic builds up quietly, like the slow tightening of a race suit. Zip by zip, breath by breath, until his chest feels too small for his ribs. Every weekend brings new circuits, new stakes, new expectations. Somewhere beneath the roar of the engines, the hum of media questions, the blur of tarmac and hotel rooms, there is a ticking clock. A deadline for when papers have to be filed. He races away from it.

It starts simple: a missed call. Then another. A message from you—lighthearted, teasing, as always. Tell your wife if you’ve died, so she can tell the florist to cancel the sympathy lilies.

He sends a voice memo in response, tired and rushed. Laughs a little. Says he’s just busy. Promises he’ll call when he gets a moment. The moment doesn’t come.

You begin to write instead. Short texts. Then longer ones. Notes about the paperwork, your grandmother’s health, the weather in Monaco. You remind him, gently at first, that his declaration needs to be signed before the deadline. That the longer he waits, the more eyes you’ll have to avoid. You joke about bribing a notary with fougasse. He hearts the message but doesn’t reply.

And slowly, your tone shifts.

I know you’re busy, one message reads, plain and raw. But I haven’t properly heard from you in six weeks. Just say if you don’t want to do this anymore. I won’t make a scene.

He stares at it in the dark of his hotel room. He doesn’t respond that night. Or the next.

In interviews, he smiles too easily. Jokes with Lando. Brushes off questions about Monaco, about the wedding, about how it feels to be the Principality’s newest almost-citizen. He avoids looking at the ring he still wears.

The Abu Dhabi heat wraps around the Yas Marina Circuit like silk clinging to skin. The sun is starting its slow descent over the water, dipping everything in that soft golden wash that photographers live for and drivers hardly notice. Oscar notices, because you’re there.

You’re standing just past the paddock entrance, sundress fluttering lightly at your knees, sunglasses perched high, arms crossed like you’re trying to look casual and failing, which is how he knows you didn’t tell him you were coming.

He stops in his tracks, sweat already drying on the back of his neck from the final practice run, and stares. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says unceremoniously.

“McLaren flew me in,” you reply with a little shrug. “Apparently, there are...rumors. Trouble in paradise.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Trouble manufactured by your absence, more like.”

You raise a brow, just enough for him to catch the sting tucked beneath the humor. “You’ve been making it hard to keep up the illusion.”

Oscar exhales, jaw tightening. He wants to say he knows, that he’s been unraveling with every missed call, every message he didn’t answer because it felt too close to the thing he couldn’t name. Instead, he just says, “I thought the distance would help.”

“It didn’t,” you say simply.

The silence between you stretches, broken only by the far-off roar of another car doing laps in the distance. One of the crew members brushes past, giving Oscar a brief nod, and then disappears into the garage. And then you add, voice softer, “It’s not like I need you to be in Monaco every weekend. But sometimes it felt like you didn’t want to be there at all.”

That lands harder than anything else. There’s tiredness under your eyes, tension in the way you hold your hands together. But you’re here. You flew thousands of miles for a pretend marriage that doesn’t feel so pretend anymore. That has to mean something.

Because of that, Oscar thinks the race is going to be a mess. He thinks he’s going to falter, distracted by the pressure to make the act believable, especially now with you in the crowd and the cameras already tracking every flicker of expression. He thinks he’s going to crash.

He doesn’t.

From the moment the lights go out, he’s more focused than he’s been all season. Every corner feels crisp. Every overtake, calculated. His hands are steady, his breathing even. He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

P1.

He finishes second overall in the standings. But in this moment, it feels like first in everything.

The pit explodes around him. Cheers, backslaps, mechanics tossing gloves in the air. Oscar climbs out of the car, champagne already being popped somewhere, the air sticky and electric. Helmet off, hair damp, grin tights.

He scans the crowd like he always does after a win, but this time he’s looking for someone. You’re pushing through the throng, one of the PR girls parting the sea for you with a practiced flick of her clipboard. You stumble once in your sandals, catch yourself with a laugh, and keep going. He doesn’t even wait. He surges forward, meets you halfway.

Oscar cups your face and kisses you, champagne and sweat and adrenaline on his lips. The cameras go wild. The crowd screams. Somewhere, someone yells his name like they know him. He doesn’t care.

He kisses you like he forgot how much he missed it, how much he missed you, how long it's been since something felt this real. The kiss isn’t perfect—your nose bumps his cheek, his thumb smears makeup from beneath your eye—but it doesn’t matter.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and breathless against your ear. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Apparently, I did,” you grumble, already failing to sound irked. “You keep getting lost without me.”

He laughs, something quiet and incredulous. Then, he holds you tighter and buries his face in your neck for one private second before the next cameras flash.

Monaco in the off-season is softer, like the city exhales after the last race and slips into something comfortable. The streets smell of sea salt and early-morning bread. The market thins out, the water calms, and Oscar returns.

He doesn’t text that he’s coming. He just shows up at Chez Colette on a Tuesday morning, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to apologize just by existing.

Your grandmother spots him first. “Tu as pris ton temps,” she grouses, and swats his arm with a dishtowel. “Si tu la fais attendre plus longtemps, je te servirai ta colonne vertébrale sur un plateau.”

Oscar grins, sheepish, and mumbles, “Yes, Madame.” He finds you in the back kitchen, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes like it’s a form of therapy. You don’t look up at first, but you know it’s him. You always know.

“You’re late,” you say noncommittally.

“I brought flowers,” he says, setting them down between the pepper and the oregano. “And an apology. And—a real estate agent.”

That catches your attention. “What?”

“You said the building has plumbing issues. And your grandmother keeps threatening to fall down the stairs,” he says meekly. “I figured we could find something close. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by wishful thinking and rust.”

Your lips part. “Oscar—”

“We don’t have to move,” he adds quickly. “But I want you to have the option. I—I want to help. Not because of the contract. Because I care for you and the restaurant and your grandmother who wants to serve my spine on a platter for being a terrible husband.”

The silence that follows is thick but not heavy. He reaches out, gently prying the peeler from your hand, and brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “You taught me how to love this city,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

You kiss him before you can think about it. Softly. Slowly. Like you’re reminding yourself what it feels like.

The days that follow move in a familiar rhythm. Oscar doesn’t race. He wakes with you and helps with deliveries. He lets your grandmother teach him how to deglaze a pan, how to make stock from scratch, how to use leftover vegetables for the next day’s soup. He burns the onions twice, gets flour on the ceiling once, and swears he’s getting better. He insists on learning to make pissaladière from scratch and ruins three baking trays in the process. The kitchen smells of olives and chaos.

He holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. And sometimes, when no one’s around at all, he still kisses you like someone might see.

You try not to talk about the timeline. About the looming expiration date. About the day one of you will have to be the first to say it out loud. Instead, you let him tuck your hair behind your ear. You let him draw a smiley face in the steam of your mirror after a shower. You let him fold your laundry even though he does it wrong. You let him dance with you in the living room while something slow and old plays on the radio.

And when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter one evening, his mouth warm against yours, you don’t stop him.

The winter chill makes the cobblestones glisten; Monaco is always sort of a dream after midnight, all soft amber streetlights and the hush of waves echoing off stone. Your laughter fills the alleyways like a song no one else knows. Oscar is drunk. Absolutely, definitely drunk. And you are, too.

You’re both wrapped up in scarves and half-finished wine, weaving through the old town with flushed cheeks and noses red from the cold. Oscar’s coat is too big on you, or maybe you’re just small inside it, and every few steps you bump into his side like a boat tethered too close.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” you ask, tripping a little over a curb. You clutch his arm.

“Nope,” he chirps, tightening his grip around your shoulders. “But we’re not lost. We’re exploring.”

You grin up at him, and it hits him again—how stupidly beautiful you are. Not in the red carpet, glossy magazine kind of way. In the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and how you say his name like it means something. He’s pretty sure his heart’s been doing backflips since the second glass of wine.

You stop by a low stone wall that overlooks the port. The moon sits fat and silver on the horizon, and Oscar feels like the entire world has tilted slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something?” he says, leaning his elbows on the wall beside you.

You nod. Your breath comes in puffs of white.

“What do you know about love?”

“Hm,” you murmur, intoxicated and contemplating. “I know it is tricky. I know it doesn’t always feel like butterflies. Sometimes it’s just... showing up. Letting someone in. Letting them ruin your favorite mug and not holding it against them.”

He huffs a laugh. “That happened to you?”

“Twice,” you say. “Same mug. Different people.”

“Did you love them?”

You pause. “I think I loved the idea of them. The idea of being seen.”

Oscar looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why he cares so much about your answer. Maybe because he’s been feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something enormous. Something irreversible.

“What about you?” you ask, nudging him. “Any great romances, my dearest husband?”

“Not really,” he admits. “There were people. Nothing that lasted. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Because of racing?”

“Because of everything,” he says. “Because I’m good at pretending. And it felt easier than trying.”

You nod slowly, then rest your head against his shoulder. It’s not flirtation. It’s not even comfort. It’s something else. Something steadier. Oscar swallows. His thoughts are a mess of wine and wonder. You, against his side. You, in his jacket. You, not asking him for anything except honesty.

This is love, he thinks.

Not the crash of the waves, not the fireworks. This. He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair.

You sigh, content. “You always say that like you’re not coming with me.”

And he smiles, because he is. Of course he is.

Morning comes, spilling into the bedroom like honey, slow and golden. Monaco hums faintly beyond Oscar wakes to the warmth of your body, the tangle of your leg thrown over his, your hair a soft mess against his chest. He doesn’t move.

There’s a stillness in the morning that doesn’t come often, not with his schedule, not with the pace of the season. But here, now, he lets it hold. This was the second rule you two had broken—realizing that a warm body was something you could both use, even if it wasn’t for the sake of making love. Just to have something to hold.

He remembers the wine from last night, the stumbling laughter, your hand in his as you leaned into his side. This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

His hand drifts along your spine, drawing lazy patterns only he can see. You shift slightly, nuzzling into him, the smallest sigh escaping your lips. You once said you liked how he spooned. It had been early on, somewhere between forced breakfasts and joint bank statements. It had made him feel stupidly triumphant.

He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave this bed. He wants to memorize the weight of you against him, the sound of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch in your sleep. But then his phone buzzes. The alarm is gentle, insistent. He reaches for it without moving too much, careful not to jostle you.

A calendar reminder glows on the screen.

ANNIVERSARY IN 1 WEEK. START CITIZENSHIP DECLARATION.

Oscar stares at it. The words feel like they belong to someone else. A script he memorized, not a life he lives. He dismisses it. Hits snooze like he’s defusing a bomb.

You stir, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he lies, tucking the phone under his pillow.

You hum, unconvinced but too tired to push. He shifts, pulling you closer, curling his arm under your neck, bringing you closer the way you like. Your back fits into his chest like a missing piece. You sigh, warm and content. Within moments, you’re asleep again.

Oscar stays awake. He counts your breaths, anchors himself to the rise and fall of your shoulders. The bed is quiet, your dreams peaceful, but something aches behind his ribs.

One more week. He holds you tighter.

Just a little longer.

Oscar doesn’t mean to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, but the words are sitting like a stone in his chest. They jostle every time you laugh, every time you brush your fingers against his arm, every time you ask if he wants a sip of your drink, already holding the straw out for him.

You’re barefoot, perched on the ledge of the terrace, hair loose. There’s leftover risotto on the table between you and the scent of oranges from the orchard down the street. It should be enough. He should leave it alone. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because a contract is a contract and he refuses to shackle you more than he already has.

“What do you want to do for our anniversary?” he asks, voice low.

You go still. It’s not immediate, but he sees it. The flicker behind your eyes, the pause too long before you smile.

“We could do something small,” you say eventually, your voice gentler than before. “Dinner. Maybe at that place with the sea bass. You liked that one.”

He nods, forcing a smile. “I did.”

You twist the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “And after that,” you say, “you can submit your declaration.”

There it is.

You say it like you’re reading from a recipe card. Like you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. Like you’re trying very hard to pretend your chest doesn’t hurt. Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t trust himself to. You sip your wine, and he watches the way your hand trembles just slightly, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Like you’re preparing.

“Okay,” he says, plain and simple.

You smile. You always do.

When he gets up to leave for the gym, you walk him to the door. It’s quiet. You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, and he turns just enough to catch your lips instead. It happens without thought. Without ceremony. The way it always has.

He pulls back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

But even as you say it, he can feel it. The detachment. The quiet retreat. You’re drawing the curtain in your head, beginning the soft choreography of letting go. Because this is how the plot was written. Because this is how it will go. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer.

He walks out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like the slow fade-out of a film. One where the hero doesn’t get the timing right. One where love comes too late.

On the day of your wedding anniversary, Oscar wakes up early.

Monaco hums quietly beyond the window, still in the lull between morning coffee and the world waking up. He turns onto his side and watches you sleep, for a moment pretending today is just another morning. He tries not to think of it as a Last Good Day.

Still, he makes sure everything is perfect.

He picks out the white dress shirt you said made him look like someone in an Italian film. He even tries to iron it for once. He buys your favorite flowers and then arranges them in the living room vase. He lets you sleep in and makes coffee the way you like it, with a dash of cinnamon. The two of you eat breakfast on the tiny balcony, knees knocking gently beneath the table.

When you smile at him over the rim of your cup, he kisses you. Long, sweet, steady. Like he means it. Because he does.

He books a quiet table at the small bistro tucked into one of the back streets of the city, a place you once said reminded you of Paris. You laugh too loudly over wine, your hand finding his easily over the tablecloth. For a few hours, you let yourselves be the kind of couple you’ve always pretended to be.

Then, slowly, the shadows lengthen.

“Ready to go?” you ask, voice soft as the sun begins to set.

He swallows. “Not really.”

Still, you walk hand in hand down the cobbled streets. The mairie—the city hall—waits like an afterthought, a quiet door at the end of a narrow alley. Oscar detours.

“Gelato?” he offers.

You smile sadly. You know what he’s trying to do. “Before filing paperwork?”

“It’s tradition,” he lies. “One year deserves dessert.”

You let him. You always let him. You get gelato; he tastes one too many samples. He pretends to get lost as you walk through the market, even though Monaco is probably the easiest map to remember in the world. He takes you to the docks, just for a minute, just to watch the boats rock gently in the water. You lean into him, silent, warm, your head tucked beneath his chin. He feels you there, but something else, too. The soft press of reality.

“We should go,” you whisper eventually.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

“Five more minutes,” he says. “Please.”

You let him delay. And delay. And delay.

The moment you file the paperwork, the clock starts ticking in a new way. You’re both aware the curtain is about to fall, but no one wants to call out the final act. So you stay there, together. Not speaking. Just watching the harbor. Pretending it’s still the first day, and not the last good one.

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

You walk into the government building side by side. Oscar’s hand grazes the small of your back as the two of you wait at the numbered queue, the soft whir of the ticket printer, the low hum of bureaucratic silence filling the air.

He signs the papers for the Ordinary Residence Permit with an orange pen you handed him from your bag. You’ve always kept pens on you. He knows that now, like the many other things he’s come to know and love about you. You watch him scrawl his name, carefully, and when he finishes, he exhales through his nose like it took something out of him.

The official behind the desk looks at the documents, stamps them, hands them back with a nod. Oscar is granted residency. Carte Privilège and citizenship are now visible, shimmering just over the next hill.

Neither of you speaks of endings. Not yet.

You agree to drag it out a little more. Not for legal protection now, not even for optics, really. Just to ease the world into the conclusion. He wires you ten percent of every monthly deposit still, but it’s no longer transactional. It’s a quiet act of love, of investment. A stake in something that outlasted the farce.

Two years instead of one and a half. Long enough for the lines to blur beyond recognition.

He’s there when your grandmother needs surgery. You’re there when he misses the podium in Spa and sits, soaked in rain, on the garage floor.

The divorce happens on a random off-season day. A Tuesday, maybe. The restaurant is closed. Oscar wears a hoodie and sunglasses like he’s hiding, but the clerk doesn’t even look up to recognize him.

The two of you sign quietly. No rings on your fingers anymore, but his tan line still shows.

“Take care,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.

He nods. “You, too,” he says, and he means it as much as he knows that he’ll never love anybody else.

The story ends, quiet as it began—

Monaco is a small place. The kind of small that lives in the bones, that lingers in the echo of footsteps down alleys, that smells like salt and baked peaches even in February. Oscar thinks, at first, that he might be able to avoid you. He’s wrong.

He runs into your grandmother before he sees you. She catches his wrist in the produce aisle of the market and drags him toward the tomatoes.

“Ce sont mauvais,” she says, inspecting them with a frown. "Viens avec moi."

Oscar doesn’t protest. He never does with her. Her hand is still strong, her voice still unimpressed by celebrity. She mutters in French about overpriced zucchini and tourists ruining the flow of the Saturday market. He follows her like he used to, like he always will. She doesn’t ask about the divorce, and Oscar is half-tempted to grill her about how you might’ve justified it. In the end, he decides it won’t do him any good.

She feeds him a small pastry over the counter at Chez Colette, dabs powdered sugar off his chin, and says nothing when he glances over at the kitchen, where you aren’t. But you’re there later, arms flour-dusted, laughing with a vendor, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in your hair. And when your eyes meet, the silence isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Familiar. Something like home.

You greet him with the same smile you used to wear when you were both still pretending. “Back already?” you ask, brushing your hands on your apron.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he says. It’s mostly true. Okay, no: it’s entirely true.

In the aftermath, the press circles like gulls. Questions echo at paddocks and press conferences, in magazines and murmurs: Why did the marriage end? Was it all just for the passport? Was there heartbreak? Had there ever been love?

Oscar gives clipped answers. “We’re still friends. It ended amicably. I’ll always care about her.”

He says them all with the same practiced ease he once used on the track. But none of them touch the truth: that sometimes, in the quiet of his apartment, he still thinks of you when he hears the clink of wine glasses. That he misses the sound of your laugh bouncing off tile. That he still folds his laundry the way you taught him. That he sometimes forgets and checks his phone for your texts before remembering you no longer owe him any.

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

Friendship is easier than silence. You both settle into it like a well-worn coat. You pass each other notes on delivery slips, meet for drinks that stretch into hours, walk the promenade without ever having to explain why. You send him soup when he’s sick during the off-season. He fixes the restaurant’s leaky sink without being asked. You tell him about your new dates, gently, and he listens too closely, nodding like he’s not tallying every man who isn’t him.

He learns to exist in proximity to the past. Learns to let his gaze linger on your cheekbones without reaching out. Learns that the ache isn’t something that ever really goes away. He sees you in the blur of every streetlight, in the smell of garlic on his hands, in the soft echo of French murmured over dinner.

The years go on. Races come and go. The restaurant thrives. He doesn’t kiss you again, but he lets you lean your head on his shoulder on cold nights, and you let him hold your hand under the table at weddings. At your grandmother’s birthday, he still helps serve the cake.

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

And Monaco stays small. Always small. Just enough room for memories, for weekend markets, for a kind of love that doesn’t ask for more—but still dares, in the quietest way, to linger.

Three years after the divorce, Oscar renews his Ordinary Residence Permit. It feels less momentous than it should. There are no trumpets, no ceremony. Just a polite government clerk stamping a paper, and a weight Oscar didn’t know he was carrying suddenly easing.

You come over that evening. He insists on cooking.

You arch a brow, leaning against the doorway to his small kitchen. “If you burn the garlic again, I'm calling your mum.”

“She’s the one who taught me this, actually,” he replies, a little too proudly.

The meal is simple: pasta with olive oil, lemon, and garlic, tossed with cherry tomatoes and a flurry of parsley. You watch him plate it with a kind of reverent amusement, your wine glass in hand. He lights a scented candle. It’s too much and too little all at once.

You take a bite of his labor of love. “You’ve improved.”

“No burns this time.”

“Progress.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, the sort of silence that only exists between people who have known one another across the worst and best of themselves. Then, without looking at you, Oscar asks: “Why are you still single?”

The question isn't accusatory. It's soft, tentative, like he's peeling back a layer he doesn't have the right to touch. You don’t answer right away. He glances up.

You're still. Your fork rests against the rim of your plate. You have one or two silver hairs now, and laugh lines from the years. Oscar likes to think one or two of them might be from him. You smile, slow and crooked. Your voice is impossibly sad without taking away from the amusement of your words.

“To be married once is probably enough for me.”

It lands somewhere between a joke and a wound. Oscar nods, because what else can he do?

The pasta is a little too al dente. The wine is already warm. The truth lingers in the corners of the room, unspoken but present. You both sip, chew, avoid. Later, he sees you to the door. You press a kiss to his cheek, brief, like a punctuation mark. “Happy anniversary,” you half-joke.

He leans against the doorframe after you’ve gone, watching the hallway where your footsteps fade.

One full year later, Oscar invites you out again.

Except he doesn’t take you to a restaurant, doesn’t cook some pasta dish for you. Not really. He asks you to walk instead, your hand in his like old times. You go without question, winding through the tight alleys and open plazas until you reach the harbor.

It’s dusk. The dock stretches long and narrow, lined with the boats of old money and new dreams. The sea breathes soft against the pilings. The air is salted and damp, heavy with the scent of brine and engine oil. Lights flicker to life over the water—dancing like stars, like possibility.

He slows as you reach the edge of the dock. The sky is dipped in indigo, the sun a smear of molten orange far behind the hills. You shiver slightly, just enough for him to offer his jacket, which you take with a smile that softens something in his chest.

And that’s where he kneels.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, because you’re looking at him like he’s insane. He deserves that, he figures.

His French fails him in the worst way. All the rehearsed lines dissolve on his tongue. He switches to English, because he’s desperate, because he needs you to know.

“We married for taxes once,” he says. “What do you say about marrying for love?”

He opens the box.

You gasp.

It’s not new. Not a cut-glass showpiece or anything plucked from a catalogue. It’s old. Your birthright. An heirloom. A week ago, Oscar sat across from your grandmother armed with months of practiced French. He told her the whole story, spoke of his devotion, and came out of the conversation with this blessing.

There is so much he wants to say.

How he wishes he could have fallen in love with you in a normal way; how he still probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

How he agrees to be married once is enough, which means he wants to marry you over and over again. In Monaco, in Melbourne, in whichever corner of the world you’ll have him.

Before he can start, you’re sinking down to your knees, too. The dock creaks beneath you both.

You kiss him all over the face—temples, nose, cheeks, lips—laughing and crying all at once. “You idiot,” you whisper. “You stupid, beautiful idiot.”

He pockets the box, and, hands shaking, reaches for your waist, your shoulders, your hair. He laughs into your shoulder. “Is that a yes?” he breathes, but you’re too busy sobbing to get any words out.

That’s okay, Oscar thinks to himself as he pulls you as close as he can.

He can wait. ⛐

#literally one of the best fics i have read #comfort fics #joyce's recs #fav fics

2K notes · View notes

highway-143 · 2 days ago

Text

mirror image- yang jungwon

genre: smut, est. relationship, answer to this ask

pairing: bf!jungwon x fem!reader

taglist: @urlocalmultigroupfan @minkilicious @vrusha01 @shyoko (open taglist)

word count: 1.4k

now playing: freak- doja cat

a.n- chat this jungwon fic is better imo ToT i hope yall like it! you def deserve smth better after that last flop ToT

tw: explicit sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, mirror kink, bratty y/n hehe, brat tamer jungwon, dom jungwon, degradation, fingering, doggy style hehe, creampie, uhhh... that might be it?

(mostly proofread)

all scenarios are fake and are not meant to represent any idol in the story

. ⁺ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ‧₊˚✩彡.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑

"come onnn wonnie, when can we leave?"

you're sprawled out on the floor of the practice room, hair fanning out around your face. your black shorts and sports bra are a little damp with the sweat from dancing with your boyfriend.

he pauses the song blasting on the speakers from his phone.

"just a few more tries babe, i've almost got it down." he laughs at you when you start making snow angels against the wooden floor.

"bruh you guys need some fans in here."

he groans. "i agree... it gets so hot."

he presses play on the song and starts dancing again, his footwork impressive while he moves his arms in fluid motions.

you hold back a smile as you stand up and walk behind jungwon. you trace a finger softly over his shoulderblade and feel him shiver at your touch.

"what are you doing?" he asks, watching you in the floor to ceiling mirror on the wall in front of you.

"just..." your fingers dance down his spine, slipping under his shirt and feeling the taut muscles of his back. "just feeling you..."

he chuckles, dark and low. "yeah? feel me after practice babe."

"no." you frown and wrap your hands around his waist to feel the taut lines of his chest.

"no? careful y/n, you're starting to sound like a brat." he turns his head to give you a sharp glare, a warning in his eyes.

"i swear to god, if you keep touching me, it's not going to end well for you." his words are muffled through his clenched teeth.

you almost laugh as you drag his tee shirt further up his chest, exposing his abs to the mirror

"fuck, jungwon... you look so good like this."

he grabs your wrists and peels them off his body, his shirt falling back down and covering his beautiful muscles.

you whine in annoyance. "come on baby, let me see you."

"y/n, i need to finish practice. we can do this at home."

"but i need you."

he groans, watching you pout.

"fuck-" he grabs you by the waist and shoves you towards the mirror, forcing your hands against the cool metal as his hands squeeze your ass through the thin fabric of your shorts.

"little brat... fucking deserve this. god, look at your shorts, fucking soaked already." his fingers dig into your skin. "you get off on teasing me? slut."

he brings his hand back, landing a sharp slap to your ass. you let a noisy moan slip from your lips at the pain.

"you like that?" he asks, spanking you for a second time. you feel the sting spread through your body, the heat between your thighs making you needier.

"yes wonnie." you breathe, words barely there yet fogging the mirror in front of you.

he chuckles. "yeah? count them then, whore."

he hits you again, the sound echoing along with your moan in the spacious room.

"three"

and then "four"

all the way to a weak "fifteen"

jungwon leans over you and presses a kiss to your cheek. you can feel his hardened dick press into your ass, and your mouth makes a strangled sound.

"you like that?" he grinds against you, his sweats shifting against the backs of your thighs so perfectly. "god, you're so fucking needy."

you whine in agreement, hips wiggling against him.

he drags a harsh hand down your torso, gripping your breasts before hooking under the waistband of your shorts and slipping them off your ass.

"look at you," he says, a hand forcing you to watch yourself in the mirror. "fucked out already and i haven't even properly touched you."

you nod, feeling your slick dripping down your shaking thighs. your cunt clenches around nothing as jungwon lets his hands roam every inch of your body.

"keep fucking looking at yourself, slut." he says, voice deep as his fingers slipped under your bra and kneaded your breasts. "watch how you look while i fucking ruin you."

he brings his hand to your cunt, giving it a quick slap. you cry out, knees trembling as he rubbed your clit with the pad of his thumb.

"god, you're so fucking sexy" he groans, free hand gripping your ass while he stimulated your tingling cunt.

"won... please!" you almost scream when he circles your clit faster, his middle finger sliding through the wet folds of your pussy.

"please what, babe?" he asks. you can see his smirk through the mirror, his lips curling upwards as you hold yourself against the wall.

"please fuck me, oh my god!" he plunges two fingers into your cunt, stroking your walls and curling his digits with loud squelching sounds.

he laughs. "aww, the little brat wants my dick? yeah?" you desperate nod, sweat beading on your forehead as jungwon fingers you faster.

"no, i think you can wait. cum on my fingers first, prove you deserve a cock up there, yeah?"

you feel tears fall down your cheeks and onto the floor. your cunt grips his fingers as you feel your orgasm building impossibly faster.

"shit, wonnie! i- ah... i'm gonna cum, oh fuck-"

he slaps your ass again, his voice a growl now. "fuck, come on babe, cum on my hand, show me you can, fucking do it."

that's all it took for you to spill over the edge. jungwon chuckles at the way your slick builds up between his fingers and drips to his wrist, your pussy sucking him deeper in while he continued to curl his fingers inside you.

you watch yourself fall apart in the mirror, tear tracks on your cheeks, face red and hair a mess of sweat.

"good girl, god that was fucking beautiful." you see jungwon pull down his black sweats, exposing the obvious hard-on he had under them. "you want my dick? fucking whore."

you whimper as he rubs his thick head through your soaked lips, just barely grazing your clit before pushing into your aching hole.

you moan from the stretch, jungwon from your tightness. all of your senses are stronger as he hits deep inside you.

"fuck, you're so damn tight babe. god that's hot."

you can't help but look back at him, wanting a better view than the mirror provided.

jungwon laughs and grabs your chin with his hand. "no, fucking watch yourself while i fuck you. don't look away from that mirror. i want your tears on it."

he forces your head back to stare yourself in the eyes.

he sets a brutal pace, his hips pistoning into you faster than you thought you could take.

his tip grazes your cervix with every thrust, the bump just painful enough to feel good.

you watch your face contort in erotic expressions, mouth wide and tounge practically hanging out of it.

he moans, a lewd sound that rang through the practice room, reminding you of how fucked you'd be if anyone walked in, even though it was midnight.

"shit, i'm gonna fucking cum inside you babe. fuck"

he grabs your hips, fingers bruising your soft skin and making your legs tremble the harder he pounded into you.

he came with a loud groan, hips stopping their assault on your ass and cock twitching deep inside of you as you felt his load fill up whatever space was left.

that's what sent you for the second time.

your cunt gripped his length like it wanted to own it, pulling him in and forcing his seed to stay inside you while your body convulsed and he held your hips in place.

"fuckkk" he groans, pulling his length out of you and watching as his cum pours out of your flexing hole and onto the already soaked floor.

he laughs. "that's gonna be a fun one to clean up."

you grin, weakness slowly making way for smugness.

"i thought you said we had to wait until we got home."

he rolls his eyes. "someone has to tame the brattiness. and who said there wouldn't be any at home?"

you laugh, pulling your shorts back up over your sticky legs and walk over to the door.

"let's go for real though."

jungwon ties the drawstring of his sweats around his waist and pauses, grabbing his phone from his bag.

"what are you doing?"

he smirks. "the hand prints."

"what about them?"

he snaps a few photos. "engenes are gonna have a field day with that one."

. ⁺ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ‧₊˚✩彡.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑

a.n- "ooh, i ate that!" - keeho

but fr, this was sm better than whatever shit that last one is XD

225 notes · View notes

navybrat817 · 2 days ago

Text

Hold You Tight: Part 25

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 24 | Series Masterlist | Part 26

Chapter Word Count: Over 4.2k

Chapter Summary: You want to feel normal after your ordeal, but change won't happen overnight.

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of violence, crying, assault aftermath, inner turmoil, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight, and thank you for sticking with me! Can you believe it has been almost here since we started?! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby and @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-in-darkness . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You woke up earlier than you expected, but made no move to get out of bed. Your body felt stiff when you tried to sit up, which was to be expected since Clark threw you to the ground pretty hard. Being prepared for it didn’t stop you from tearing up. You blinked the tears away when you realized Bucky wasn’t in the room.

You barely said a word after you left the club, and you didn’t protest when he held you close in the car. It was like he needed you in his arms to chase away his remaining demons, and you needed comfort as well. But once you were back at the penthouse, he led you to the guest room instead of the master bedroom. He let you be while you robotically went through your nighttime routine. And he didn’t make a move when he got in bed beside you.

“I just want to make sure you get some sleep,” he told you, his hold tender instead of smothering.

Before you sleep took hold, you heard him whisper that he loved you.

Had he snuck out during the night, or did he get up not too long ago?

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand that Bucky graciously plugged in, you were glad you were alone. You didn’t want Bucky or any of his men hovering while you called Mrs. Crandle. It was bad enough you were calling in when you just wanted the sense of normalcy and control in your life, but what were the chances you’d make it through the day without breaking down?

You held your breath when you dialed and waited for Mrs. Crandle to answer. It didn’t take long. “Hello, dear.”

“Hi, Mrs. Crandle,” you tried to smile, but there were already tears in your throat. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You are never a bother,” she promised, which only made you feel worse. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“I…” What were you going to tell her? “I’m dealing with something very personal right now, and I don’t… I don’t think I can work today. I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t a lie. You were dealing with something personal. It didn’t stop you from feeling like you were letting her down.

“Oh. Oh, dear. You take the day off, and don’t worry about finding someone to cover for you. I’ll take care of that,” she assured you, knowing you weren’t the type to make excuses to skip a shift.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, that’s your business, but is there anything I can do to help?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. She was so kind, always looking out for her staff. “Just… keep being the wonderful boss and person you are.”

“Oh, I will. And you tell that man of yours he’d better be helping one of my favorite employees with whatever’s going on,” she said.

A laugh almost came out. If she only knew. “I’ll tell him,” you said, sitting up straighter when you remembered something. You were concentrating so much on ther other things last night you had forgotten that Zemo met up with her. How could you forget about that? “Before I hang up, I wanted to ask. Did you win an all expenses paid trip to a flower expo?”

“Why yes, I did! Can you believe it? The man I spoke to actually contacted me this morning to make sure I was still going.” You gripped the phone tighter. Zemo had promised to back off, so why continue the charade of the expo? Unless it was legitimate, and letting Mrs. Crandle go was part of the olive branch to you. “I was going to ask if you possibly wanted to go, but if you’re dealing with something-”

“Then it’s probably best that you bring someone else,” you finished for her. “I understand.”

“It would be nice if you could go. I think you’d like Gotham,” she said, making your heart drop. Gotham, where Clark wanted to take you. “But we can discuss that later. You take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will, thanks.”

You put your face in your hands once you hung up. It was all supposed to be over. You hoped it was. Mrs. Crandle deserved only good things, along with everyone you cared about.

You went quickly through your morning routine, and heard chatter once you finally went into the hall. You stood still, torn between eavesdropping and heading to the kitchen for breakfast. Your curiosity got the better of you and you tiptoed down the hall toward an open door- Bucky’s office.

You stopped when you heard Curtis speak.

“You really think she’ll go for that?”

Go for what?

“You’ve already been keeping an eye on my girl from a distance, but she needs a bit more. She needs a real bodyguard,” Bucky replied, your eyes wide. A bodyguard? How the hell would you explain that to your friends? “Last night proves it,” he added with a bite to his voice.

“Why not Ray? From what I’ve seen, she trusts him,” Curtis said, which was true to an extent.

“I could have Ray be her bodyguard, but then I’d need you to be by my side and we know you don’t like being at the club,” Bucky pointed out. “You barely tolerated being there last night.”

Why did guilt fill you? Was it because Curtis put himself in an uncomfortable situation because of you? If you hadn’t been attacked, he would’ve stayed hidden in the shadows.

“She may be grateful that he helped her, boss, but do you think she’ll want him as her bodyguard?” Ray asked. “Or that she’ll want a bodyguard at all?”

“If not Curtis, who else? It’s the best choice,” Bucky replied, which was met with silence. The men must’ve known not to argue further. “And whether she wants one or not, it comes with the territory.”

You exhaled through your nose. Comes with the territory whether you wanted it or not? It was too early for that shit.

“You know, for starters, it would really help if you all asked me,” you said, making your presence known as you walked in. Bucky stood up, alarm in his eyes, while Ray and Curtis looked at you with unreadable expressions from their chairs. “But I guess we’re right back where we started where what I want doesn’t matter.”

Was Bucky going to make you live the rest of your life like that? Would he dictate whatever he wanted while trying to paint it as doing the best thing for you? How could he call that love?

For a moment you thought Bucky looked upset because you were eavesdropping, but he rushed around his desk to you and you knew that wasn’t the case. “Kotyonok, you should be resting.”

“Did you not hear a word I just said?” you asked, stiffening only for a moment when he got closer and reached for you.

You inhaled and exhaled slowly. Bucky wasn’t Clark. He wouldn’t throw you to the floor. He wouldn’t try to choke you.

“I did, and we will talk about that. I’m just glad to see you still have your spirit,” he smiled softly, slowly framing your face with his hands. Your spirit was both itching for a fight and begging for rest. “How are you feeling?”

“Stiff,” you admitted. A bath in that wonderful soaker tub of his would hit the spot, which you would take advantage of later. “But I don’t need any painkillers before you ask.”

He frowned and dropped his hands. “Lay down,” he urged, nodding toward the sofa a few feet from his desk. “It’s very comfortable, trust me.”

You huffed, but went to lay down as instructed. It was only because you were stiff and still tired. Before you could spread out on the sofa, Bucky took a seat on one end and patted his thigh. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Rest your head here,” he urged, patting his thigh again.

You snuck a glance at Curtis who looked like he was fighting a smile. Ray hung his head a little. “You want me to lay with my head in your lap in front of them?” you asked.

“They're going to see us for the rest of our lives,” Bucky said, tossing an arm on the back of the sofa. “Please, lay down.”

You blinked, remembering the night he broke in and sat waiting on your sofa like he owned the place. The darkness in his eyes, the smirk on his face. But now? He only looked like a concerned boyfriend.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, getting as comfortable as you could while resting your head in Bucky’s lap. You opted to curl up facing away from him so you weren't staring directly at his crotch.

Bucky caressed your arm, his touch featherlight. “Is this okay?” he asked.

You tilted your head back. He was asking if it was okay to touch you? “It's fine,” you replied.

You caught the soft smile he gave you before you faced forward again. It was strange how people called you Bucky’s queen when you didn't feel like one. What kind of queen curled up with a king in front of their council? Didn't queens stand tall and proud?

“You're thinking too loud,” Bucky whispered.

How did he know? “I think Zemo contacted Mrs. Crandle,” you said.

“He did,” Bucky confirmed, continuing to caress your arm when you tensed up. “You didn’t think I forgot about her, did you? I’ve had someone keeping an eye on her since Zemo met her up with her.”

You remembered. No one knew Zemo’s angle at the time. “But I didn’t…” You sniffled and felt Bucky’s muscles tense beneath your head. “I didn’t even ask about her last night.”

You asked about Lois and your friends, but not your boss.

“You were attacked and you’ve been dealing with so much. Last night was about getting answers for you and the fact that you went to the club after what you went through is nothing short of amazing,” Bucky said, refusing to let you blame yourself for any of it or let you argue. “Mrs. Crandle will be fine. Nothing's going to happen to her. Zemo just couldn't back out of the expo because it would've hurt or upset her, which would have upset you.”

“And he wants to stay on my good side after last night,” you guessed. So it was an olive branch of sorts. “It’s taking place in Gotham.”

That couldn't be a coincidence.

“Another possible way to get you out of the city, but there was no way to guarantee Mrs. Crandle would've asked for you to go with her,” Ray spoke up. “Not to mention Zemo would've had to handle her if you were missing, which could get messy.”

You shivered and Bucky suddenly had a blanket over you. It would've destroyed her if you went missing while on a trip with her, and your heart could hardly bear the thought of Zemo hurting her or getting rid of her. “So, she’ll be okay?” you asked.

“She’ll be just fine,” Bucky promised.

Your fingers curled in the blanket. “I’m trusting you, Bucky,” you whispered, hoping it was a promise he could keep.

His hand froze and you could sense the emotion in his eyes without looking at him. “Thank you.”

“Curtis?” you asked, his blue eyes meeting yours to acknowledge you. “I know you suggested Ray and I appreciate that, but would you like to be my bodyguard?”

Having a bodyguard was another step in the path of accepting your place in Bucky’s life. But if there were other enemies out there or anyone simply interested in using you as a means to get some of Bucky’s fortune, it was better to have protection. At least for now.

“I already-” Bucky began.

“I’m asking him and giving him a choice,” you cut him off. Yes, Bucky had his mind made up that Curtis would be your bodyguard, but you still wanted to ask. “I think I’ve earned that privilege.”

“Who am I to argue with my queen?” Bucky teased.

Curtis chuckled and you found yourself smiling a little. Even Ray looked like he wanted to smile. “Since you’re asking, the answer is yes.”

“Thank you, Curtis,” you said, closing your eyes. “Can we sort the details out later?”

“Of course,” Bucky replied. You had a feeling he would be the one handling that anyway. “You just need to relax.”

You were trying, but he was making you relax with him. “I need things from my apartment, like my bridesmaid dress,” you said.

“We’ll handle whatever you need so you don’t have to go back there,” Bucky assured you.

You bit the inside of your cheek. It was still him or his men going through your things, your memories. “I need other things. Stuff to bake the brownies, and things to make arrangements here.”

“Again, whatever you need,” he smiled. He’d probably make you a greenhouse on the roof if you asked.

“And I need to get in touch with Natasha so I can-”

“That doesn’t sound much like relaxing,” Bucky gently said. You huffed in response. Sitting around doing nothing wouldn’t do you any good, even if your body was screaming at you not to push it. “But I am arranging our movie and pizza night tonight, so that should help you relax a bit.”

You did agree to that the night before. “I think I want to go to the library,” you said. It was the one place Bucky said he wouldn’t enter without permission and none of his men were allowed in there.

You held your breath and waited for the argument, for Bucky to tell you to stay put. Instead, he carefully helped you sit up. “I’ll take you there and I’ll bring you something to eat, okay? You haven’t had anything yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” you admitted. You called Mrs. Crandle first thing and went to find him.

“Well, let’s change that,” Bucky smiled, helping you to your feet. Ray and Curtis began to stand before their boss motioned for them to sit back down. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said, guiding you out and closing the door behind him.

You glanced back and remembered he had the door open while he spoke with Ray and Curtis. Had he done that as a way to build your trust, to show that he wouldn’t hide things from you? Was he going to make an effort?

Bucky stopped at the library door and kissed your forehead. “I’ll grab your phone for you, too, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, stopping when you took two steps in. “Did you stay with me all night?”

He nodded when you looked back at him. Had he held you? Kissed your forehead? Whispered to you to make any bad dream go away? “I wanted to make sure you slept peacefully, although…”

“You wish I’d sleep in our bedroom.”

His eyes lit up at the realization that you didn’t say his bedroom. “In time,” he whispered, walking away without another word.

You exhaled and went to select a book. Your fingers moved along the spines, recognizing some classics as well as modern titles. But you didn’t pick one, your eyes unfocused.

Curtis was going to be your bodyguard. Your life changed so much that you’d need someone watching you at all times. Would he hang around the shop while you worked? Would he linger nearby when you went out with your friends?

Could you even invite the girls to the penthouse?

You stood at the bookshelf long enough for Bucky to come back and clear his throat from the doorway. “Do you want me to bring the tray in?” he asked, holding it up for you to see. Not only did he have plenty of food, a drink, and your phone, he also had a bright flower in a small vase. It was sweet.

Shaking your head, you went to him. “I can take it,” you said, not wanting anyone in your sanctuary at the moment.

If Bucky was hurt by declining his offer he hid it well. It meant a lot that he kept his word and didn’t go in. That was progress. “You’re not okay, are you?” he asked, your eyes connecting.

You gripped the tray hard when you took it. “I’m just taking it one moment at a time,” you answered. It was all you could do. “Could you please shut the door?”

Bucky didn’t hide the hurt this time. It wasn’t just shutting the door, you were shutting him out. “Sure,” he whispered, the door softly clicking shut when you turned your back to him.

As you sat and ate, you let a few tears fall before you finally selected a book. You were unsure of the next steps, and you mourned, but you weren’t sure exactly what it is you were mourning. A piece of your innocence? A normal future?

Bucky, for his effort, gave you space when you refused to come out after breakfast, leaving your tray outside of the door and refusing to say a word to him. He brought you lunch as well, one of your favorites, and left you another flower and a small sheet of paper that read, “I love you, Kotyonok.” You thought about crumbling up the note, but you put it on the table with the flowers.

Every now and then you’d look around and swear that Clark was there watching you in the shadows. It was your mind playing tricks on you, of course, but you kept your eyes on the door in case someone tried to come in. You swallowed bitterly, hating how afraid you were. How would you conquer that?

The girls in the group chat all mentioned taking it easy today, which brought tears to your eyes all over again. They were taking it easy because they were exhausted, and they were exhausted because they were drugged. All of that because of you. It was your fault. It was all your fault.

No… it was not your fault. None of this was your fault. “It’s not my fault,” you whispered tearfully, gripping your head to quiet the taunting voice that blamed you. “It’s their fault.”

Everything in your mind swirled until it became a tornado, destroying everything in its path. It felt harder to breathe, like something was closing around your lungs. You had to calm down before you spiraled. You needed…

“Bucky!” you shouted.

You barely made it to the door when you heard footsteps race down the hall. The door flew open and Bucky stood with wild eyes, struggling to rush in and pull you toward him since you hadn’t told him to come in. “Kotyonok, what-”

“Tell me you won’t hurt my friends,” you demanded, a sob coming out when you pointed at him. You had to hear him say it. “Tell me.”

Bucky flinched when you gasped for your next breath. “I won’t hurt your friends.”

“Tell me it isn’t my fault,” you continued, shoving him back. You could hear Ray and Curtis in the hall, but you paid no attention to them. “Tell me what happened isn’t my fault.”

“None of this is your fault, do you hear me?” he said through his teeth, his anger directed elsewhere and not at you. “None of it.”

The spiral in your mind began to slow. “Tell me you won’t hurt me,” you barely whispered. “If you really love me you won’t hurt me.”

He made a wounded sound like you saying the words hurt him. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised.

Your shoulders slumped. You believed him, damn it. Why? “I’m sorry. I…”

Bucky waved a hand for Ray and Curtis to stay back before he extended it to you. “Come with me.”

You hesitated before you wiped your eyes and took it. You didn’t realize he pulled you toward the living room when the scent of freshly baked pizza and popped popcorn reached your nostrils. “What…”

Bucky had pizza, popcorn, snacks, and drinks set up along with blankets. “Our movie night,” he reminded you, guiding you to sit down. Had you been in the library so long that it was nighttime? “But before we do anything else, I need you to breathe.”

“Hurts,” you whispered. It hurt to think, hurt to feel, hurt to breathe. Why did it feel so hard today?

“I know it hurts, but you’ll get through the hurt because that’s how incredible you are,” he whispered back, pulling you into his arms to rock you. He breathed slowly, urging you to follow his rhythm. “There you go. Breathe. Good girl.”

You took another deep breath, ignoring how the praise relaxed you. “I didn’t bake today,” you said sadly. You wanted to make those brownies for Curtis. “I didn’t make any arrangements.”

You didn’t contact Natasha to set up those self-defense lessons. You didn’t figure out when you’d visit Lois. God, you didn’t even take that bath. Wallowing in self-pity led you to hiding in the library all day, but maybe you needed it more than you knew.

“It’s okay that you didn’t,” Bucky said, kissing your temple and wiping more tears away. “I know you want to bounce back immediately, but you have to give yourself grace.”

He was right about that. “I shut you out,” you said. You shut him out in his own home. Why? To punish him for his part in all of this? To be in control?

He sighed and only held you closer. “I deserved it,” he whispered, rubbing your back. “But we’ll be okay.”

He said it like he was fighting for you, for each other. “I just want to feel normal,” you said, giving him some insight into your thoughts and feelings.

“And you will. We’ll take it one moment at a time.”

A few minutes passed while he held you, and you eventually put your head on his shoulder. He held you so much in the last few days. You wanted to feel strong and not feel afraid anymore. You wished that could happen overnight, but you needed patience and grace.

And Bucky, well, he would need to accept his hand in this. He had to see you at a low point so that he’d never want you there again. He had to see you broken so you could build yourself again, with or without his help. Because if he wouldn't love and accept you at your lowest, then he didn't deserve you at all.

“So, what are we watching?” you finally asked.

“You said you wanted to pick the movie,” he reminded you.

He listened. He remembered. “Something funny,” you said. Something that wouldn’t upset you or make you think.

“Comedy it is.”

Bucky waited on you hand and foot during the movie, making sure you were comfortable while you ate. He had an arm around you when you weren’t eating, but didn’t let his touch wander. It took a bit, but you eventually laughed during the silly moments in the film, and he gazed at you like the sun rose in front of his very eyes.

You stole a glance after a few more minutes and found him staring at you instead of the screen. Unable to help yourself, you tossed a bit of popcorn at him. He blinked twice in shock while you tried not to laugh. “Did you just…”

“Toss popcorn at you? Yes,” you said, looking back at the screen before popcorn hit your cheek. “Hey!”

He licked the salt and butter from his fingers. “Oops,” he teased. “C’mon, Kotyonok. I had to defend myself.”

One second you were staring at each other and the next second turned into a full blown battle. Popcorn and candy went everywhere as you threw everything within reach and you found yourself laughing when a piece of candy landed in his open mouth. He growled and gently tossed snacks back at you, making you laugh harder.

It was ridiculous. Silly. Unexpected. It felt like… a real date.

“I’m not cleaning this up,” you giggled once the battle ended, gesturing to the mess. At least you didn’t spill any of the drinks. “And I think I won.”

“I have people for that, and we’ll call it a tie,” he smiled, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Fuck, you have a beautiful smile.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He wanted to kiss you, you could feel it, but he didn’t lean in. He waited for you instead. You didn’t kiss his lips, you were still too raw for that today, but you did kiss his cheek before you put your head back on his shoulder.

“Thanks for this,” you whispered. It was only the first day since the incident, but he was trying and you had to give him that.

“Thank you,” he whispered back, leaning his head on yours. “I’ve got you.”

“I know.”

And resting in his arms like an actual date, you were blissfully unaware of the missed calls and texts from your mom.

Our poor girl. Let's hope Bucky keeps trying. And let's hope Mom's messages aren't a bad thing. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

320 notes · View notes