#and now have too much energy for my own good

[sports-on-sundays]

lucky strike / CL16

Summary: Charles x American!female!reader - F1 comes to Sin City and you unexpectedly run into a certain someone.

Warnings: gambling, alcohol, cussing, use of pet names (A LOT), flirting, one moment of implied jealousy

Requested?: Sort of! Thank you to everyone who voted for Charles in the poll!

Author's Note: Charles won out in the poll, so here you go, everybody! (Of course I HAD to use The Charles Vegas Podium Picture). Also, I listened to Lucky Strike by Maroon 5 while writing.

one in a million ; my lucky strike

Well, you thought the whole F1 thing was absolutely ridiculous. You couldn't care an ounce less about Formula 1, so you certainly weren't happy about all the complications of it coming to your city.

You would call yourself an all American girl, and you're proud of it. If any racing, NASCAR. Football is the sport with the brown ball you throw- NFL, not the white and black ball you kick. That's soccer. You have the greatest food, the greatest mix of cultures, the greatest weather. If you didn't know better, you'd say you have the greatest country, too.

You watched a Formula 1 race when you realized the whole Las Vegas Grand Prix thing was actual, and when you saw that (firstly) it was honestly pretty boring, and (secondly) the only American driver is basically the most sucky one, you decided it would be pretty hard to get into it.

You're a Vegas girl, and you're proud of it. You're actually from Los Angeles, California, but you moved to Vegas to chase your dreams and live the life you dreamed of a year ago with your boyfriend, and it was so worth it.

Now you identify yourself with Vegas even more than you do with the Los Angeles Rams, despite the fact that your boyfriend broke up with you seven months ago and left to go be a prodigal son in New York City.

You decided Vegas was perfect enough for your clever hand, and you'd continue to be a prodigal daughter right where you're at.

But now the Grand Prix is the newest thing, and you don't like it at all. All these people flooding in, like as if there's not already enough people. Just to watch some cars drive around in circles, closing up main roads? No, you're not into it.

Your girl friends all seem to think this is just the best thing, and you discuss it across the table with two of them. One says, "Honestly, the McLaren duo are the hottest."

"No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?" your other friend disagrees.

You snort in disbelief and say sarcastically, "How about neither? So you guys only care about this because the racers are hot? Give me a break."

"Well," one of your friends starts, crossing her arms across her chest, "They are hot. At first, I wasn't so sure, but, I mean, come on! Maybe we could get glimpses of them when they're in Vegas!"

"Or meet them!" your other friend pipes in.

You scoff. "Good luck with that. Aren't these guys self-focused millionaires with too much money for their own good? Probably all greedy idiots who hook up with every half-sexy girl who comes along. So if you're into that, sure, waste your time trying to meet some hot plutocrats, with the one percent chance you might get f*cked like crazy for a night before they forget about you and move back to their mansions across the world! F*ck, is race car driving even a real sport? It's f*cking driving cars. I could do that!"

Your friends don't really argue with you, because you're right. And clearly, they do only care about the hot racers, because you figure any real fan of the sport would argue with you.

Two days before the Strip is supposed to be closed up for the Grand Prix, you find yourself submerged in the vibrant energy of Wynn Las Vegas, the dazzling lights and sounds of the casino floor swirling around you. The scent of alcohol lingers in the air, a reminder of the drinks you've indulged in throughout the night.

You slip between two people to reach the roulette wheel, holding your newly bought chips, with money you've earned earlier in the night.

Bets are placed around the table over and over, as you earn more and more chips. You feel someone nudge your shoulder, and a cocky male voice comments next to you, "You're having a good night, huh?"

"Every night is a good night," you remark back, not even glancing up at the man talking with you. He seems to have some sort of accent that you can't place. Perhaps French?

Which means he's probably from Louisiana. Possibly Quebec.

Probably some rich idiot F1 fan who can afford to travel half way across the country for the Grand Prix.

You don't plan to even give him the light of day.

"Until it's not," he says as you watch the roulette wheel spin once more.

You smirk and feel his eyes on you as you collect more chips.

The game goes on, and you think he's gotten the message that you don't care to converse with him, because does shut up.

But now it's the last bet of the game. You take a sip from your glass and feel a stupid, risky streak in you.

Some idiot part of you that's drunk and wants to push her luck way too far.

You place a straight-up bet, all your chips on the number sixteen.

You can feel eyes on you, and the same man next to you from earlier says, "Are you stupid?"

You chuckle. "Possibly."

"You're going to lose all your-"

"No, I won't." You straighten your back, staring at the wheel. It's true, you've earned a lot of money throughout this game.

And honest, it is true that you're stupid.

But it's also true that for some reason, you're confident.

"So you're overconfident and risky? I like that," comments the guy next to you. "But you're going to lose all your money. All that good luck for nothing..."

"You'll see," you breathe, ignoring his little flirt. "It's going to land on sixteen."

"Sixteen, huh?" This man's hazel eyes sparkle, and something in you tells you that you've seen this guy's brown locks, bright dimples, and perfect stubble before.

You've seen him somewhere. Recently. Like some guy you could haven't been drunk with, but the memory is fuzzy.

But you weren't drunk with him.

Despite being sure you've seen this guy before, you're also sure you've never met him before, either.

"Yeah," you nod, looking away, staring as the roulette wheel begins spinning. "It's my lucky number."

You're not looking at him, but you can feel him grin next to you. "Your lucky number, huh? Just so happens, it's mine, too."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Is that some lame attempt of a flirt?"

"No. It really is my lucky number." By his tone, you can tell that grin has downgraded to a smirk. "But if you'd like to see a lame attempt of a flirt, that's an option, too..." His voice lowers as you feel his arm snake around you, and his hand land on your waist.

You gently shove it off as the wheel begins to slow. You hold your breath, watching, this stupid French boy no longer even a fraction of your concerns. All focus is on your slight potential lucky strike.

And then the world stops as the wheel stops, too.

On sixteen.

And then it all comes flooding back. "Oh my God!" you squeal stupidly, covering your mouth as there's rounds of, "You've got to be kidding me," "No way," "It's impossible!" and "How lucky is this girl?"

You feel surges of shock and pride as you collect all your money. Once you've received it, after such luck, and earning a fortune, you decide you're going to have a drink. Or more than just one.

But when you turn, there's that guy again.

"What's up?" you ask, the grin on your face impossible to wipe off.

"How did you know it was going to stop on sixteen?" he questions, and he looks a little more handsome than he did before as this time he succeeds in taking your waist.

"Are you trying to pick my pocket?" you question warily, though, shoving his hand away.

"Not at all," he chuckles, "But you're a smart girl, aren't you? And I think I might be a lucky boy. Come on- I'll buy you a drink."

You snort. "No way, pretty boy! I can buy my own drink, after what just happened! How cocky are you?"

"Call me cocky, or call me rich, but either way, you're too sexy to have to pay for your own drink."

You scoff at this, but figure that you can't really let down an offer of free stuff. You'll be the first to admit you're greedy. Once of the biggest reasons why you gamble is because you want money- duh- and as much of it as you can get.

So soon, you're sitting at a table with this random guy, looking into his eyes, holding your drink in your hand. After barely a moment of hesitation, your curiosity finally gets to you, and you ask, "Who are you, anyway? I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere recently."

He gets a smug look on his face, which you don't like, before he says, "You really don't know?"

Your nose crinkles up in confusion, and for a second you feel ultra worried. Is this someone that I've met, that I should remember? Am I a terrible person for not knowing who this is...?

But then he says simply, "My first name is Charles. Charles Leclerc."

You stare at the taller individual, knowing you've heard that name, trying desperately to wrack your brain of it.

And then, suddenly, it hits you.

Loudly, in your head, in your friend's voice, in the exact tone she said it, 'No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?'

"Wait-!" you say in shock. You can see the satisfaction on the man's face, Charles, as you realize. "So, you're one of those F1 racers? Like, you race for the Ferrari team?"

He snorts and nods. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize me right away. Do you live here in Vegas?"

"Yeah," you say simply, taking a sip of your drink.

"So I take it you hate Formula 1, then? Because how else are you living in Vegas right now and don't know my name, or recognize my face?"

"You sound awfully prideful."

Suddenly, he smirks, and drags his finger across your jawline, pulling your face to look up at him in the process. "Maybe so. But clearly you're not so much better yourself, Miss Bet It All On Sixteen."

You cock an eyebrow at him and return his smirk with a challenging grin. "Sure, but I was right. I won what I wanted."

"Hmm... Well, what if I'm about to win what I want?"

"Oh, yeah? And what is it that you want?"

He leans in closer, so you can feel his hot breath tickle your ear as he utters simply, "You, baby."

You smirk. "We just met, buddy. I'm not that stupid."

"I think you're just playing hard to get."

"Or maybe it's just hard for you to get me," you counter.

"Well, I like your spunk. And your good luck. I think I might need a little bit more of that." He leans away a bit, and comments, "And I think I foresee a little bit more of luck in your future."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he smirks, leaning in closer. In barely any second, his lips meet yours, and though you know you should, there's no way you're pulling away now. He wraps his arm around you, urging you to lean into the kiss. You melt, letting him.

You don't know what it is.

But in this moment, you gently let your lips part, inviting his tongue to slip in between your lips, allowing yourself to, yes, make out with basically a stranger.

It wouldn't be the first time, but it also isn't something you do for fun whenever you feel.

When you finally force yourself to pull away, the first thing you breathe is, "How did you do that?"

He grins, and is clearly red in the face. But there's a look of shock on his face, too. As if his flirty cover was just confidence, and not because he gets tons of girls like this...?

Or maybe you're just reading too much into his expression.

Either way, he responds with, stroking your cheek, "No idea. Maybe I just have a way with you?"

You roll your eyes as you check your purse. No, he didn't pickpocket. He meant to kiss you. You stand up and say simply, "Well, I better get going n-"

"Sorry, what?" he suddenly snatches your arm back, pulling you back down to sit again with a surprised chuckle. "You just met a famous millionaire race car driver who bought you a drink after you won big money in roulette, let him make out with you, loved it, and now you're just going to casually walk off?"

You grin. "What? Do you think I was impressed by you? Think again, honey. Just because you drive cars fast and make ridiculous amounts of stupid money for it, and that you're insanely handsome- none of that means I'm any more impressed with you than I am with any other guys I meet on my night outs."

"Hm," he raises an eyebrow, and says, "What if you could get more from me, missy? Clearly, you're out for yourself and will do anything for a good deal. And you're f*cking sexy about it, too. So what if I had something else to offer you?"

You let yourself sit down at this, looking at him expectantly.

He smirks, clearly loving that he's 'won you over,' before saying simply, "Would like a free pass to the whole weekend, and a pass for the paddock?"

Your eyebrows scrunch together, and your eyes widen. "I- what?"

His smirk grows even bigger. "You heard me."

You inhale sharply, but cross your arms across your chest and come out sharply saying, "Unfortunately for you, I couldn't care less about Formula 1. In fact, I'm starting to dislike it a lot. But thanks for the offer."

His jaw drops, and his eyes practically pops out of his head, which gets a chuckle from you. For a moment, he's actually speechless, before he finally gets out, "Are you aware of the offer you just refused?"

You raise an eyebrow, not able to keep the cheeky grin off your face. "Probably not, but that's okay. Why, anyways, would you give a stranger such an opportunity in the first place? You probably have ulterior motives, and I think I can pretty much guess what they are, mister. You don't even know my name yet."

"Oh, God, you're right," he laughs, taking another sip of his drink. "Well, what's your name, princess?"

You roll your eyes, and tell him.

He grins. "It's been wonderful meeting you." He digs in the pocket of his light blue jeans, and pulls out a pen and a restaurant receipt. "I know you think you'll be able to forget me so easily, princess," he starts, scribbling something on the receipt, "but trust me- you'll be wanting this." He takes your hand and presses the receipt into it, before standing up just like that, and saying with a wave as he turns to walk off, "I'll talk to you later, angel."

You look down at the receipt to see a phone number scribbled on it in chicken scratch. But the numbers are clear. And though you walk out that night rolling your eyes at this Charles's boldness and cockiness, with an abundance of money you've earned that's a lot more worth the stupid grease-stained receipt, the moment you get back to your apartment, the first thing you intend to is putting that stupid number into your phone.

"This is stupid," you comment as you slide into the backseat, next to Charles.

He just rolls his eyes. "You won't be saying that by the end of this experience. Besides, you were the one who decided to text me, like I said you would. You were just playing hard to get."

You scoff. "Oh, shut up."

"You look lovely, by the way," he comments in a lower voice. "I like that skirt." You look down at yourself. You're wearing a matching crop top shirt and short skirt, your sunglasses holding your hair back away from your face, and brown sandals.

"Thanks," you snort, crossing your arms and looking out the window, turning your gaze away from the Monégasque driver. (Yes, you did, despite yourself, look him up last night, just to know who the heck this guy even is.)

(You also were sure to look up his salary.)

(Ridiculous.)

(But also intriguing.)

Soon enough, before you know it, you're walking alongside him, about to enter the 'paddock.'

Makes it sound like a bunch of horses racing.

But when you're there, surrounded by it, in the moment, you don't think rude comments like that.

You stop, taking in the high life atmosphere. The revving car noises, the lights of The Strip on the 'racetrack,' the crowds, the music, the richness, and the challenge.

Your breathing falters, and your heart beat quickens as your hand involuntarily finds Charles's wrist and grips it as you gasp, "It's... extraordinary."

You glance to Charles's face to see him softly grinning. His hand slips down to hold yours as he comments, "You seemed like the type of girl to love it."

Your smile widens. "I've been here so many times. On The Strip. But... it's not the same. How did they do it?"

He begins walking, pulling you along by your hand as you look around. "That's just Formula 1 for you. There's nothing in the world quite like it, Y/n."

He leads you by the hand toward the Ferrari garage. Once you're there, he says, "Want to meet my teammate, Carlos?"

"Don't know who Carlos is, but sure..." you say vaguely, taking in the large piece of machinery- the Formula 1 car- in front of you.

He chuckles. "You're f*cking adorable," he murmurs, before leading you away to see Carlos.

He's a well-built man with fluffy dark hair, tan skin, big brown cow eyes, and stubble. Pretty much looks like exactly how you'd imagine a Formula 1 driver to look.

He nods respectfully. "Hey, Charles," he says, and shakes your hand with a friendly wink. "This your new girlfriend?"

You look up to see Charles smirk. "Not yet."

One of Carlos's thick, dark eyebrows cocks up, and the suggestion of an amused smirk travels on his lips for a second. "Ah, I see."

"Charles!" you snap, your eyebrows scrunches together. "Not ever."

"Well, we'll see about that. So far, I've been the right one, now, princess, haven't I?"

"Pfft. I was right about sixteen, wasn't I?"

He rolls his eyes as Carlos says with a chuckle, "Well, it will sure be interesting to see how this plays out," before moving on with his life.

Charles takes the time to show you around, and halfway through the tour, you blurt suddenly, "So, this is all the Italian team and stuff. Isn't there an American team?"

"Hmmm," Charles snorts as his eyebrows travel farther up and he fights off a seemingly somewhat mocking smirk. "There is."

"Why don't you show me them? Don't they have an American driver? Like, Carlos is Italian, right? Isn't it protocol or somethin'? Anyway, isn't it called Williams, the American team, or something? Some guy named Logan something that's an American racer on there-"

At this, Charles can't seem to hold it together anymore, and doubles over laughing, essentially, at you.

"What?!" you demand indignantly.

"You really are clueless!"

"I-"

"Alright, alright, Y/n. Haas is the American team. They don't have an American driver- German and Danish. No, Carlos is not Italian; he's from Spain. Williams is British, and yes, Logan Sargeant races for Williams, and he is American. About the only thing you got right."

You roll your eyes with a shrug. "I told you I don't give a damn about this stupid sport."

"Whatever you say, Miss Starry Eyes."

So, first Charles takes you to Haas, where you learn, surprisingly, that not all the racers are young hotshots like Charles and Carlos at least seem to be. They're friendly enough there, but really don't care much to give you any of their time, so then Charles suggests to go to the Williams garage and see if there's Logan to bother. You agree to that, so soon, you're entering Williams.

As soon as you see Logan, you know he's the American. You can see it in his stance. You can see it in his golden blond slightly sweeped hair, gray blue eyes, and strong jawline. "That's Logan, isn't it?"

"How'd you know?"

You shrug, breaking off from Charles to Logan. "Hey! You're the only American 'round here?!" you ask with a friendly grin.

"Huh?" he asks, looking up, in the most United States of America way. "Oh, hi," he says in what you perceive as dumbly, with a friendly smile. Ah, that's more like it. None of these posh Monacan boys and hot Spanish men- this guy is just like home sweet home!

You can practically hear the eagles cawing over the Rocky Mountains!

"You're Logan Sargeant?"

He nods. "I am. And you are...?"

"Just some Vegas girl dragged here by Charles."

"Ah... so you know him?"

"Well, now, unfortunately, yes."

His eyebrows furrow, but he chuckles at the same time. Though this guy isn't nearly as handsome or charming as Charles, there's something about him you like a bit more-

Suddenly, a hand is on your waist, and hot breath says in your ear, "Got to be getting back to Ferrari now. Come on with me?"

You blush and nod. "Right, Charles."

You have no idea what to think of him.

"Podium?! Uh- is a podium good?!" you ask, eyes wide as Charles brings it home in second.

"Yeah, yeah, it's good!" some guy you don't know wearing red near you says.

"Oh- Alright, well- That's good, I suppose!" you respond a little manically.

As soon as Charles as the chance, he finds you. He still has champagne on his race suit and his face is glistening with sweat, and there's no way you can deny it- he's sexy. When he reaches you, he wraps his arms around you, and his stunning eyes seem to burn into you. He can't fight the grin off his face as he says lowly, "Get why my lucky number is sixteen, baby girl?"

"Ah, stop with that," you snap, your voice cracking. You don't know, but this seems- all this seems-

Way too important.

You reach up to touch the number sixteen on his hat, before taking it off his head and slipping it on your own, backwards, on impulse.

He grins. "You can keep it. Not like you'll need a keepsake. You won't forget me."

You bite your lip, giving a quick nod, still studying his handsome face. Your eyes linger on his light pink lips, which arch into a perfect cupid's bow, as you murmur absently, "You seem pretty confident about that, huh?"

"Of course I do. Looks like you might be my little good luck charm, hm? Can't be letting you run away from me, can I?"

"Hm. Well, we'll see about that."

"Still playing hard to get?"

"Not playing. I just am hard to get."

"Whatever you say, darling," he comments with a shrug, walking off.

The French accent is pretty sexy.

Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you see are the big earnest eyes of Charles Leclerc, staring back into your eyes. "Morning sunsh-"

Your immediate reaction is to scream and promptly slap him across his pretty face.

He grunts as his hand flies to his cheek to cover it up, and he says, "Hey, hey, calm down!"

But your eyes scan the room. It's clearly a hotel room. There's only one bed: the one you and Charles are laying in right at this moment. You're wearing a large black T-shirt and big blue gym shorts very tightly tied to fit your waist. Charles is dressed in a grey hoodie and jeans with a white T-shirt underneath, his regular jewelry, and white sneakers. So clearly, he's already showered and gotten dressed. He smells like his rich cologne, and his hair is all washed and fluffy and clean. If you weren't in a slight panic right now, you'd have wondered if you could touch his hair and feel how soft it is.

But!

As you're about to gasp out questions, Charles sits up and gently sets his hand on top of yours. You become aware of the pounding in your head as you bite your lip nervously. Charles looks at you earnestly, and says calmly, "Hey, you don't have to worry. It's okay."

"What happened?" you exhale.

"Nothing," he soothes. "We went out. You got more drunk than any of us though you should. I didn't know where you lived, so I took you to my hotel room. Gave you clothes to change into, and we went to sleep. Nothing more."

You swallow an anxious lump in your throat. "How do I know I can trust you? Please, just be honest with me. I won't be mad. You didn't know any bet-"

"I didn't do anything. We didn't do anything. Okay?" he leans in closer, and reaches to cup your cheeks in his hands. "'Kay? Can you just trust me?"

You bite your lip, but slowly nod. "I suppose that's the only thing I can do."

Over six months later, you stand on the boat, staring out at the Mediterranean Sea, smelling the salty breeze in the air, feeling content, wearing a loose button down, light blue jean shorts with a brown belt, your slew of bracelets, white sneakers, and a headband holding back your hair.

Suddenly, Charles is up next to you. "Hey, princess." For months, you've had what you stubbornly call a 'situationship,' whilst Charles calls you his girlfriend.

Because you love Vegas more than you love Charles (or at least that's what you like to say), you refused to leave when Charles did. You like taking risks. Just not the 'travelling halfway across the world for a hot guy' kind of risks.

But you stayed in touch. Charles made sure of that.

Well, he meant it when he said he'd make sure you'll never forget him.

But then Formula 1 came back to the States, to Miami, and you knew you'd have to make the trip. The flirty comments and romantic tension thick enough to cut ensued as soon as you and Charles set eyes upon each other, like as if it hadn't been six months or so since you'd last seen each other last.

It just felt like-

Somehow fate is involved.

Well, when Charles invited you to the Monaco Grand Prix, that was an offer you felt you couldn't let down.

And, boy, was that the best descision of your life.

To see Charles win his home race like that, and to be there? Just thinking about it now gives you goosebumps. Charles had wrapped his arms around you after the race, his eyes a little damp, and you felt something more.

Like he really cared.

If you didn't know better, you'd say it was like he really loved.

Loved you.

But, no. Of course not. That can't be.

Can it?

Well, all night you partied. You were in on the fun. You also made sure to pay a visit to the Monte Carlo casino, as you obviously must.

You had amazing luck, once again.

On this thought, as you feel Charles approaching from behind you, you comment into the wind, "You know, I'm starting to think you're my lucky charm, honey."

He chuckles, coming up next to you. "Oh, yeah? That's what I said six months ago when I first met you, you know. I've been starting to think the same thing about you."

You snort. "Maybe so, Monaco race winner."

He smirks, and you can feel the pure joy radiating off him. He slips his hand into yours as he murmurs, "I was so lucky to meet you."

I smirk. "I am pretty awesome."

He rolls his eyes, but squeezes your hand. "So, do you like it here in Monaco?"

You nod vigorously. "Gosh, Charles, it's amazing."

"Better than Vegas?"

"Well- I don't know if anything is better than Vegas..."

He leans in closer and speaks lower. "Well, would Monaco be better if your good luck charm just so happens to reside here?"

"Hm..." you smirk, flushing a bit. "I'd have to think about that, prince."

"Yeah," he nod, his tone softer. "Why don't you."

There's some silence, as you watch the sun begin to set, reflecting off the sparkling water.

Charles leans even closer to you, his hands gliding around your waist, pulling you towards him. He leans down, gazing deeply into your eyes. Then that stupid flirty grin appears on his face again. "F*cking gorgeous you are, one in a million. I struck lucky with you. My lucky strike."

He closes the distance between you, his soft lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss. The heat of his body against yours sends shivers down your spine, igniting a spark between you as your tongues dance together in a sensual embrace. Connected.

Maybe it's not fate.

But it is most certainly luck.

And in this moment, with the lips of the winner of Monaco sucking on yours, you feel like the one who struck it lucky.

[dilfluvrr10]

Joost x music journalist!reader where joost invites them for a show and they thinks its for work but actually he did it bc he likes them 🤭

Guysss I just wrote thisss. This is my first fanfiction I've ever written, pls pls pls feel free to send through any feedback good and bad. I really hope I managed to satisfy your request. Thank you <3

Lmk if you're interested in a Part 2

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮ The Interview ╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

I looked through my closet unsure of what to wear, do I go concert or casual tonight? This was going to be huge for my career, interviewing THE Joost Klein, so of course I was stressing over every detail. I settled on a classic little black dress, nothing too much, enough to make a good first impression. I glanced at the time repeatedly while doing my makeup, the closer it crept to 7:00pm, the more anxiety started eating at me. I packed my bag and drove to the venue, practicing each and every question, my facial expressions, my laugh, my smile, every detail. I admit, Joost was an attractive man, a confident man, and a great musician, maybe that’s why I was so worked up. That’s definitely why I was so worked up. I’d been following Joost’s career before his stardom reached an all time high after Eurovision, I had to remind myself to keep my composure and leave any fangirling behind.

When I received the invitation I was absolutely thrilled, jumping up and down like I was a teenage girl again. However, it was different from the usual press releases I’ve received, addressed to me specifically instead of my publication. Despite my usual professional demeanour, I couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. When I finally arrived at the venue my anticipation only intensified. I glanced in the rear view mirror one last time, ensuring every hair was in place, took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. I had been instructed to enter through the same way production entered and meet Joost in the green room before he was expected on stage. Backstage was buzzing, ensuring everything for tonight’s performance was perfect. I navigated through the organized chaos, my heart pounding with each step closer to the green room.

There he was sitting around a table laughing and joking with his friends in Dutch. “Heyyy you’re here! I’m so happy you came”, his signature smile plastered on his face causing one of my own in response. He told his friends we were doing an interview and to so kindly leave, each one greeting me with that European charm before exiting the room. He gestured for me to sit down where comfortable. He sat loosely on the couch, adorned in black jeans, a white button up paired with a black tie and his signature thick rimmed glasses and gloves to tie it all together. God black was his colour. His cuffs rolled up, revealing a scatter of tattoos on his forearms and biceps. I sat on the chair closest to him but not on the couch next to him, trying to keep it as professional as possible. I really wanted to squeal, ask him for a photo and tell him all about how much his music resonated with me.

“Thank you so much for the invitation, I really appreciate this Joost”, my nerves slipped away as we began talking, his energy warm and inviting. “No, no, I’ve wanted to meet you for a while now actually…” his words hung in the air, his eyes darted around my face as if he was unsure how I would react. “Really, you know me?” I was stunned by the idea of Joost being aware of my work. A soft smile played at the corners of his lips as he nodded. “You’re works amazing, you have this way of talking to people that just…opens them up, you know?”, the sincerity of his words hit me hard. My heart fluttered and I felt my professionalism slowly decay. He shifted in his seat adjusting his pants and clearing his throat. He was feeling the change of mood too. As I thought of something to say to change the subject I noticed his gaze kept falling to my lap. My dress had lifted a bit, my thighs exposed a little. I began to feel hot and bothered, my cheeks burning red, his subtle smirk didn’t escape my notice, only adding to my discomfort. He clocked on to my embarrassment, shamefully, it fed him with confidence. “I used to watch your videos on YouTube, when you were working independently. Seeing you now here in front of me…you’ve really, grown up” he cooed with a meaning I couldn’t quite grasp. I cleared my throat, trying to shake off the rush of heat that grew in my body. “Thank you Joost, that means a lot coming from you,” I replied, hoping to steer the conversation back to professional grounds. “So, how are you feeling about tonight’s concert? Any pre-show rituals?”

He chuckled, the sound sultry and pleasant. “Just hanging out with my friends, like you saw. We try to keep it light and fun. Music is about connecting with people, so I try to keep that spirit alive before I go on stage.” I nodded, jotting down notes even though I recorded interviews on my phone. It was more to keep my hands busy and give me something to focus on other than his heavy gaze. Our conversation flowed easily after that, and the interview wrapped up nicely. He stood up, offering his hand to help me up from the chair. His touch was warm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “I’m glad we finally got to meet,” his eyes held mine for a heartbeat longer before he glanced away, a hint of shyness creeping into his demeanour.

Just then, one of his crew members popped their head into the room, announcing that it was time for Joost to get ready. He turned to me, his smile back in full force. “Enjoy the show. I’ll make sure you have a great view.”

I smiled back, my heart fluttering again. “I’m sure I will.”

[starfall-spirit]

Read on Ao3

Summary: After one last screaming match and a good cry, Feyre is finally ready to move on from her lousy ex and rebuild the life he took her away from. She didn't imagine she'd be right back in the thick of it, reviving buried feelings for her best friend's cousin.

OR;

Feyre dumps Tamlin, moves back to big city life, and gets herself an alpha who will treat her right.

AN: Omegaverse!Feysand, as promised. A gift for @whatishowedyouinthedark. If you hadn't posted Too Sweet, I don't know that this would have left the drafts. This ended up being 4.3k, but there will be a morning after chapter as well.

CW: NSFW, mildly dubious consent/coercion

Chapter I

“You sure you’re alright, Feyre?” Another ounce of weight seemed to lift from her shoulders at the soft worry in Mor’s voice. “I know you don’t really want to talk about this yet, but I’m always here for you.”

“I know. And I’m okay, Mor. I’ll be even better in, oh—” She lifted her wrist enough to glance at the time. “—six hours when you meet me outside SFO.” Her friend stayed quiet a moment longer. “I’ve wasted so much time and energy on that guy. He doesn’t deserve my tears too.”

“Damn right. I can’t wait to see you. It’s been so long, Feyre.”

“I know.”

That’s what it had really come to. The lost time. The isolation. A year ago, Feyre had been at the center of it all, her art sales lucrative enough to keep her head above water, her friend circle close but full of life. When Tamlin’s work had taken him out of the big city and to someplace more remote, Feyre had imagined it would be temporary. Her “nest egg” from her art sales would only need to hold her for a few months before she could dive right back into dealing with her clientele face-to-face.

But whatever silver lining her situation came with was in short supply. Hopeful as she had been once upon a time, nothing could change the fact that this move halfway across the country was made with only the purpose of separating her from the life and people she knew. Feyre was just ashamed it had taken her so long to see it herself. She’d confronted him last night and the truth had all come to light. “So what if your account is running low? Do I not take care of you regardless? I thought this was what you wanted, Feyre. Isn’t this what all omegas want? Someone to depend on?”

It turned out Feyre and Tamlin’s views on designations were worlds apart.

After a devastating break up fight and a good long cry, Feyre had locked herself in the guest room and called Mor with the promise that she was scraping together what she had left and coming home the next afternoon. “Say no more, Feyre. I’ll get Rhysie to make that ticket first class for you.”

“Don’t you dare, Mor.” But for the first time in months there had been laughter beneath her words. For once she didn’t find herself rolling her eyes when Mor reminded her that her older cousin was rich and single, last she heard of it. Not that Feyre’s memory needed jogging on that point. Ever since Rhys had stepped into her first art showing, oozing raw confidence and control, she’d been no better than a school girl doodling hearts and initials in her journal margins. But he’d then flown out to manage his father’s New York business, his return to California only in the past few months, when Feyre was long gone herself.

She shook off the flush running through her body, trying to focus on Mor jabbering in her ear about events around the city. Served her right, lusting after an alpha so far out of her league. Rhys might be nice enough to buy her paintings or bump her flight ticket to first class, but she certainly had no illusions that he would be the male helping her through her next heat. Hell, by now he likely had an omega of his own, hand-selected by his prick of a father. 

Not exactly fond of the flare of… something… that thought sent through her, Feyre stood, pacing the few feet she dared from her carry-on in the crowded terminal. “Hey, girl. We’ll be boarding any minute. Can I let you go for now?”

“Absolutely. Love you lots. I’ll see you tonight. Don’t eat anything huge. We’ve got dinner plans.”

~~~~~

Dinner plans amounted to a delivery of Feyre’s favorite chinese food not even five minutes after she was settled in from the car ride home. “You spoil me, Mor,” she said, setting down her chopsticks long enough to shrug into the oversized hoodie behind her that smelled absolutely delightful for some reason and debate the nearly identical bottles of red nail polish in front of her. Her friend certainly had a signature color.

“Someone has to,” Mor groused, starting an episode of a cop show they’d seen one too many times. “If you won’t spoil yourself, your bestie’s gonna do it for you.” She eyed Feyre’s newly acquired hoodie with a slight smirk. “Among a few others.”

“What? I was cold. And what do you mean, others?”

Mor just waved a hand in dismissal. “Rhys, Cass, and Az are around here all the time. Rhys lives a floor above me, for that matter. You know they’re all thrilled you’re back in town. Emerie is excited to meet you too. I think you guys will really hit it off.” Mor sighed, a wistful look in her eyes.

“You really like this one, don’t you?”

“She’s amazing. And she’s been so patient with me. You know how my family can be about my preferences. She hasn’t said much, but I think her family gives her a lot of the same shit about it. She gets it. Gets me.” Feyre’s heart just about melted at that and she reached across the couch to squeeze Mor’s hand. “I even asked—”

The front door opened then, to both their surprise, Cassian falling through the frame with a shit-eating grin on his face. “She’s back! Feyre Archeron, where have you been?! C’mere.” She squealed as he lifted her by the hips to spin her around

Mor shook her head, mumbling about how this was supposed to be girls’ night before everyone saw her at Rita’s the next evening. “Sorry, Mor,” another voice said from the door, warm, rich, and amused. “We saw you ladies pull in earlier from the window. I kept him there as long as I could. It’s good to see you, Feyre.” 

Grinning ear to ear, Feyre braced a hand on Cassian’s chest until the vertigo faded. “Yeah, good to see you guys. I—What?” she asked, finally looking at Rhys. 

He was just as she remembered. It had been fice years since he’d flown out to manage that east coast business after earning his business degree and he hadn’t changed one bit—still the most beautiful man she’d ever met. The only thing that truly caught her off guard was the odd glint in his eyes, focusing on the hoodie she was wearing—almost pleased, if she was reading him right. Another step into the room and his scent hit her, citrus and the sea, the same soothing fragrance that clung to the sweatshirt she’d thoughtlessly pulled on with the assumption it was one of Mor’s baggier favorites.

Fuck.

Rhys smirked then, every bit the smug alpha she knew he was. She wasn’t ready to analyze the response that inspired in her. The fluttering in her stomach that quickened as he approached, the heat that flushed her check when he stepped into her space, fingering the ratty sleeve that fell well past her fingertips. “I was wondering where that had wandered off to.”

“I—”

“Keep it, darling. It looks better on you anyway.”

She shuffled back a step, uncharacteristically flustered by his proximity. Omega or not, the flirtation of men didn’t usually affect her this way. Even in the early days between her and Tamlin she—She would not be comparing her ex to anyone. She came back to San Francisco to wash her hands of him, after all. 

“I—” She sighed. “Thanks.”

Mor cleared her throat, though her shameless grin was a near mirror to her cousin’s. “If that’s all, boys.” She batted her eyes, looping her arm back through Feyre’s. “This was girls’ night, remember?”

Cassian chuckled, ignoring the dismissal and slumping into the couch. “So, how goes the move in?”

Feyre scoffed. “My plane touched down only an hour ago. Can I finish my dinner and wine before tackling my bags?” The other three exchanged a look, Mor seeming suddenly guilty. “What?”

“With how quickly this all came together, I suppose I never got around to mentioning I… I asked Emerie to move in. It doesn’t change the fact the extra room is yours,” she hurried to say. “You have a place here of course.”

“Or you could have one upstairs,” Rhys mumbled.

Feyre blinked. “Excuse me?”

“They get their privacy, you get a good night's sleep every night.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s just a room, Feyre. You know I’m a gentleman.”

“I wouldn’t suggest otherwise.” Eyeing his reaction, she sipped from her wine glass. “Out loud.” 

Cassian cackled. “God, I’ve missed you. About time you traded the hills for skyscrapers again, little sister.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

~~~~~

“I told you,” Rhys sang as Feyre stepped out of the elevator and into his apartment. It had only taken two nights to change her mind about his proposal. She adored Mor and Emerie was a delight—a perfect match for her oldest friend. But that didn’t change the fact the walls were paper thin.

“Hush. Emerie is a wonderful woman. I could never begrudge them their happiness, even if it costs me my sleep.”

“Of course not. Anyways, welcome to my humble abode. The first door on the left down the hall is your room for as long as you want it. Just across from mine, if you need anything. I’ll let you get unpacked.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, heading down the short hall and into the room he directed her to, only to stop short in the doorway. “Rhys.”

“Yes?” he called back, presumably from the living space. 

“What is all of this?” 

He approached slowly, looking almost sheepish. “Too much?” She gaped. “I can return it if you don’t like it. I just happened to overhear you tell Mor you had left behind some of your favorite nesting things and… Here, I’ll just pack it up and—”

“No.” His brows rose as she shifted to block the doorway. “I—” She cleared her throat softly. “It was sweet of you to consider it. I’m not far from my next heat, actually. I really appreciate you letting me crash here and letting me nest.” 

He scoffed. “Nesting is natural. It isn’t something I’d try to stop any omega from doing.”

“If only my ex had seen it that way.” She flinched. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

He growled softly, eyes dark as he dropped his head to hold her gaze, one hand braced against the doorjamb she already leaned against. His scent washed over her once again and Feyre hoped her full body shutter wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Your ex was an alpha?” She nodded. “Not one with any honor, it seems. You are what you are, Feyre. If that bastard ever made you take shame in it, I hope you’ll soon change your way of thinking.”

“I’m not ashamed of anything,” she murmured. 

The knuckles of his free hand brushed along her cheekbone. “Good. I’ll let you finish up here. As I said, if you need anything for the nest or otherwise, I’m here to help.”

“I’m not a charity case, Rhysand. I always manage to get back on my feet quickly enough.”

“I know that, darling. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy spoiling sweet little things like you rotten.”

A quiet, shocked sound escaped her, but her usually sharp wit had been neutralized, it seemed. And all by a few charming words. Sweet little things like you.

“No,” she muttered to herself, refusing to watch him walk away. Approaching heat or not, she was not getting tangled up with an entitled alpha ever again. And that vow would not be changing

~~~~~

The next few weeks were normal, all things considered. Rhys went to work in the morning and Feyre either arranged calls or set out to reopen contact with previous buyers interested in her art. In the evenings they alternated cooking meals and washing dishes, occasionally enjoying a movie or game together before returning to their separate rooms for the night.

Everything was perfectly platonic if you excused a few mildly flirtatious remarks. The only thing that left her unsteady was the surprise treats and little actions to take care of her, each one either frivolous or thoughtful. It was as frustrating as it was pleasing and she hoped Rhys couldn’t see how she truly felt about each little favor. She didn’t know what she’d do if he came to learn about the pure satisfaction she felt each time she saw that he had snuck into her room to switch out the sweatshirt she’d so carefully placed among the pillows and blankets in her nest the moment his scent faded from the fabric.

She had dared to ask him after the third time he’d replaced the garment why he was so attentive to that specific want.

“You may not be my chosen mate, but you are an omega under my care. Just as you follow your instincts to keep something with an alpha’s scent, I will follow my instinct to provide for you as long as you live with me. A missing sweatshirt is hardly a great sacrifice, Feyre.”

He’d stood from the dinner table with a smile, mumbling something along the lines of, “Such a pretty little blush you have, darling,” before loading his plate in the dishwasher and heading for his room. Any other remarks had been few and far between, but each one stuck with her for days afterwards.

She gave a sharp huff as she stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea, prepared to do nothing more than hole up in her room with a good book and a hot drink as the Saturday storm bathed the city. “Read my book and not think about this a second longer.” 

If only she’d realized what a hopeless endeavor that would turn out to be.

She was only two chapters into her newest read when the first hot flash came. Her heat. And damn if she couldn’t already feel this was going to be a rough one without a partner. Jumping from her chair, she started to head for the bathroom, reaching for the tub’s faucet. Then, a cool bath wouldn’t do her any favors. As quickly as she felt her skin burn, she knew she’d be shivering in a matter of minutes, that first cycle of hot and cold lasting for a few hours before the endless heat became constant, especially without an alpha to soften the effects of her episode.

“Fuck.” She needed to get off the floor and back to her room. To her nest, whatever small comfort it could offer her. “Fuck,” she repeated.

“Eloquently put,” a too-familiar voice said. She didn’t bother peeling her eyes open, letting Rhys drop to a knee and slip his arms beneath her knees and behind her back. “Come on. To bed with you.”

“Put me down. I’m fine.” Never mind that her teeth were already chattering and a cramping had started low in her gut.

“I’m sure you are, darling.” Shifting his arm so her back remained supported, he pressed his palm to the back of her head, pressing lightly until she caved, letting him guide her nose to that special spot on his neck where his scent was strongest. The tension that had claimed her body vanished in an instant. “There, little one. Better, hm?”

She mumbled something equally proud and bitter that she could really only half understand herself with this fog stealing over her mind so quickly, then, “Hurts,” she whimpered.

He hummed, laying her down in the very center of the nest of bedding and clothes she’d so meticulously arranged and rearranged over the past few weeks. She should have realized she was days from her next cycle when the impulse to perfect the space became so prominent. Now she would be glued to it for days on end. The problem? “Why are you so far away?”

Rhys chuckled. “You said you wanted to work through your heat alone, little one. That you don’t need an alpha. Have you changed your mind?” Feyre bit her lip, contemplating her options. Endure this alone and maintain her pride, or welcome his help and pray she was only opening a physical connection, rather than an emotional one. “Feyre.” She blinked up at him. “Temper your pride. Invite me into your nest, little one. This doesn’t have to be so painful.” It only took a moment for her to grip his hand, tugging softly. “Such a good girl,” he murmured, settling in carefully, so as to not disturb her arrangement.

“Don’t need a knot,” Feyre told him petulantly. “Just…” Nose buried in his neck, hand tucked under his shirt, Feyre stopped protesting for the moment, the only sound leaving her a soft whimpering.  

That’s when he began to purr, summoning a gush of slick, to her humiliation. “Rhys—”

“Hush, sweet girl. Let’s see what we can do about your little problem here.” She couldn’t help but squirm a bit as he peeled her leggings away inch by inch, face flushing hot when her slick clung to the fabric of her panties on their way down. “Settle now, pet. You just lay back and let your alpha take care of you.”

“You’re not my—I didn’t ask you to—” Feyre hadn’t realized her pants had been completely cast aside until his tongue was stroking up her slit. “Oh, god.” Another drag of it and her fingers were threaded in his hair, tugging sharply. He hummed. “Rhys.” She tried to lift her hips, only for Rhys to reach up and lay his arm over her waist, keeping her mostly still. She let out a groan of frustration.

“All in good time, little one. All in good time.” He looked all too pleased by the frustrated growl that passed her lips, her protest cut off the moment two thick fingers pushed inside of her, curling in a way that had her hurtling to the edge of her release. “That’s it, darling, he encouraged her, repeating the motion while twisting his hand enough that he could rub her clit with his thumb. “Come for me.” Considering the state she was already in and how it only seemed to worsen with time, it took nothing more than those few words for her to shatter, clenching around his fingers so tight he cursed—even as he stroked her through it. “Good girl.” 

Feyre shuttered beneath him, She didn’t need to peel her heavy eyes open to know she would find him smirking down at her. There wasn’t a chance in hell a man as observant as Rhys would misread what his praise did to her. She felt the tip of his nose skate across her cheek before his soft mouth was pressed to the flesh of her throat, his fingers already beginning to curl inside of her once again. “Rhys, wait.”

“Darling, do you really think that little knotting toy you bought the other day is going to be enough to satisfy you in this? You know what you need and you know who can give it to you.”

That unbearable cramping began anew, and Feyre knew she had no hope of resisting.

~~~~~

Most days, Rhys would consider himself an honorable man. He was capable of detaching emotions from matters of business and handling what needed to be handled without causing a fuss. Taking losses he earned himself with grace. Regarding his personal life, he never stooped to pursue someone who’s capability of consent was so precarious. He’d certainly never attempted to coerce a hesitant partner. 

But he’d walked into the house and her heat scent had hit him in full force. Finding her slumped on the bathroom floor and burning up had his protective instincts rearing their head. Now he was in her nest, had his fingers buried inside of her, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, addling his own mind.

He could reconsider the standing of his honor tomorrow. 

He’d get rid of that last edge of nerves his little omega was facing, then he’d show her where she belonged. Right here in this apartment, in this nest, for him to come home every day and spoil senseless. He had already come to enjoy their evening bonding immensely, and could only imagine he’d be even more delighted to share those talks when Feyre had her studio up and running, resuming the work she cherished so dearly. And whatever her reservations about alphas may be at the moment, she’d come around to the thought as well, he was certain. Every omega needs an alpha to lean on. 

“God,” she hissed, palm pressing low on her stomach. Eyes shut tight once again, Feyre let her nails bite into his wrist, spurring him into action. He stripped the shirt she wore, baring her entirely before bringing that hand back to her center, this time with the intention of preparing her to take his knot. At the rate her heat was progressing, her pride would fall away momentarily and she’d be begging for the relief she knew it would provide her, he was certain. 

Her next groan morphed to something softer, her head falling back to the pillows when his mouth closed over her nipple. Once again, her fingers found a home in his hair, tugging just harshly enough he felt justified in nipping her breast. “Be nice, darling.” 

Scowling, Feyre surged upwards, gripping his shirt front as her lips finally found his. “You know it’s really, really unfair that I’m the only one undressed here.” She didn’t give him the courtesy of unbuttoning the garment himself, yanking hard enough to send the buttons flying, lost to the fabrics of the nest. Her teeth sank into his bottom lip hard enough he groaned, his free hand sliding up around her throat. “Rhys.” 

He couldn’t help but smile as her eyes fluttered shut, her body relaxed enough for him to manipulate, guiding her back down into the pillow and removing his hand from its home between her thighs. “Sweet thing,” he cooed when a little pout began to form. “So needy for your alpha.” Moving his hand from her throat to her waist, he pushed those two slick fingers past her swollen lips, swallowing the growl building in his throat at the stroke of her tongue, letting himself watch as she fell deeper into that haze of lust and need.

“Well done, sweet girl,” he praised, withdrawing his fingers. 

“Alpha,” she whispered, one hand sliding down until it rested over the hard line showing through his jeans.

“You need your alpha’s cock, pet?” He began working his thumb over her clit, just letting his fingers graze the rest of her. “You think you’re ready for that? Think you can take my knot, Feyre?”

“Please.” The next down stroke was rougher and he knew she was close to coming again when her body bowed towards him. “Please give it to me. Need your knot.”

There it was. And how sweet it sounded.

Kissing her neck, he let himself enjoy that lilac and pear scent for a moment before peeling out of the last of his clothes. Feyre had a hand around him before he could reach down to stroke himself, painfully hard beneath her touch. The moment she grazed his knot he jolted, one hand closing over hers while the other fisted one of the pillows beneath them. “Fuck, Feyre.”

“I want to taste you.” He clenched his jaw tight. This woman would be the death of him. 

“Soon, darling. But first I need to be inside of you.” She lifted her hips, bending them at the knees in invitation. “Soaked for me,” he purred, lining up to claim her. “You’re going to take me so well, Feyre. Every inch.”

She swallowed, but nodded. Pinning her hips to keep her from rushing to take him, he pushed the tip in, grunting softly as she clenched around him. At this rate he wasn’t going to last long. “More,” Feyre begged, heels digging into his back. “Need more.”

“Patience is a virtue, pet.” Still, he fed her another inch, rocking in and out, working into her until only his knot remained. Smirking at the blissed out look covering her face, Rhys leaned down to whisper in her ear. “So fucking beautiful, filled up like this. Open those eyes for me, Feyre.” She trembled, eyes remaining closed. A sharp flick to her clit and she cried out, eyes flying open and snapping to his. “Watch, Feyre. Watch me give you my knot.” Her eyes darted down. Her nails bit into his back the moment he bottomed out. “Hot little cunt, taking me so well.” 

Rhys didn’t let her catch her breath before he started rolling his hips again, dragging in and out of her, animalistic pride beginning to build when he felt her thighs trembling around him and the hot little puffs of air against the shell of his ear, when each thrust was made easier by another gush of slick soaking his length. “So close,” she whined, writhing beneath him, his name falling from her lips in a constant chant. 

His rhythm faltered, feeling his release within reach as well. “Come for me, Feyre.” She keened, needing that push over the edge. Flicking her clit, he slammed home, spilling into her the moment her teeth latched down on his shoulder, nails cutting into his back. A moment later she shuttered beneath him, her grip going lax. He couldn’t help but push her damp hair back from her sweaty face, kissing her brow. Not wanting to crush her, he turned on his back, repositioning her legs on either side of him.

“That was…” She sighed, eyes drooping. “Thank you.”

“Rest, Feyre. Before the next wave hits. I’ve got you."

~~~~~

Taglist: @lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone // @rosanna-writer

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Mira congrats on your milestone!! I wish I was good at coming up with requests… hmm… do you ever get more ideas for pomegranate ink? Maybe a scene of them much later in the future? I loved that fic so much ☹️ I hope they’re happy and living a super fluffy adorable life after all they went thru 💔 (can you tell I’m still heartbroken over JJK leaks) - @yutaleks

── CLOUDS

Synopsis: A snapshot of your life with Yuta Okkotsu, some time after the events of Pomegranate Ink.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Yuta x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 1.9k

Content Warnings: hurt/comfort, kind of angsty, yuta is insecure, yuta is fundamentally different because of what he did for reader, spoilers for the ending of my ultra mega long fic pomegranate ink (which you all should definitely read)

A/N: on this blog we pretend like the jjk manga doesn’t exist and pomegranate ink is canon LMAO 😭 i haven’t thought much about what y/n + yuta’s life after the main story would look like hence why this is so short, but aleks i hope this heals your yuta-loving soul a bit!! ty for requesting and also being like. my first tumblr follower ever i’m pretty sure 🥹🫶🏻

Additional: part of my 500 follower event! see the event description and rules to make a request of your own.

Yuta was rubbing his eyes again. He did so frequently — it was a new habit he had picked up, ever since that final battle against Sukuna. They itched sometimes, he told you, because they were trying to see something they no longer could.

Ever since he had brought you back to life, Yuta had been a normal human. Like Maki, he couldn’t see curses, but unlike her, he couldn’t even sense them, their presences nor their effects. His movements were dulled and slow, and he was far clumsier than he used to be. You knew it frustrated him, the blindness, the childish tripping over his own feet when he was so used to having a sleek body that possessed the grace of a jungle cat.

It wasn’t just his cursed energy that had been depleted. His strength, too, was all but gone. His hands shook when he tried to hold his katana, and although he once was able to carry you around effortlessly, it was now a struggle for him to lift you even a few inches off of the ground for more than a couple of seconds. 

He had given up everything for you. You hadn’t understood the magnitude of it until you saw it in action — he was so prone to downplaying his suffering that you all had dismissed it at first. So what if he couldn’t see curses or use his technique anymore? That only meant he was safer.

But giving up a cursed technique was something unprecedented and new. None of you could have been prepared for what it would do to him. Ieri’s theory was this: because a cursed technique was engraved onto one’s brain and soul, the loss of that energy would immeasurably alter one, had immeasurably altered Yuta, permanently.

Once, his memory had been nearly photographic. Now, he was forgetful, requiring reminders about birthdays and anniversaries and appointments. He no longer seemed so deadly, either — there had always been a malevolent aura following him, a sort of viciousness to his otherwise-kind demeanor that made him so frightening, but now, he was so unassuming and gentle that it was impossible to imagine anyone cowering from him like they all used to.

His eyes bore the most significant shift. They used to be a blue like poison, sharp and dark and predatory in an uncanny way, but now, they were faded and gray, sensitive to the sun and entirely unable to see the world to which they had once belonged. He blinked a lot more, too, and Ieri suspected he might need glasses in the near future — not to see curses in specific, but just to be able to see at all.

“Stop that,” you said, pulling his hands away from his eyes before he could turn them bloodshot. “Ieri said it’s not good for you.”

“Sorry,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut so that the momentary pressure could relieve the discomfort. Resting your palms against his temples, you used your thumbs to soothe over his eyelids, kissing his forehead as you did so. “I’m sorry you have to take care of me. You’re the one who just came back from a mission.”

“It’s okay, Yuta. I don’t mind. It wasn’t a particularly difficult assignment; any curses left have gotten so weak that even an untrained first year could take them on and win. We should finish the clean-up job within the year,” you said.

“I should be out there, too,” he said. “I should be able to help. Maki can do it without a cursed technique, so there’s no reason for me to be like this.”

“Maki has a Heavenly Restriction. It’s a bit different than not having a technique or any cursed energy at all,” you said, as gently as possible. It was difficult for Yuta, who preferred shouldering the world’s burdens on his own, to sit back and watch as the rest of you fought and he stayed behind. Maki, Toge, Yuji…even Noritoshi and Elakshi had returned from their trip abroad to help in your efforts. Every remaining sorcerer had dedicated themselves to the cause, so that you could eradicate the remaining curses and then move on with your lives.

But Yuta Okkotsu was no longer a sorcerer. He was a normal person, and normal people had no place facing off against curses, especially when they could not so much as see them. In this manner, he was weaker than even your mother, who as of late had dedicated herself to running a charity caring for the displaced survivors of the Shibuya and Shinjuku incidents.

“I was the second strongest sorcerer in the world,” he said. “Now I’m nothing. I swore I would always protect you, and I can’t even do that anymore. You’re the one who has to look out for me.”

“You brought me back to life,” you said. “There’s nothing greater that you could do for me than that.”

He wrapped his arms around your midsection, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, pressing his lips against your pulse. It was another new habit of his — now that he could not use cursed signature detection to constantly be aware of your continued existence, he had developed an obsession with feeling your heartbeat, that steady rhythm which reassured him that you were still alive.

“Do you resent me?” he said.

“Why would I resent you?” you said, running your fingers through his silky hair. “Yuta, what could you possibly have done that would make me resent you?”

“When you brought me back to life, you were unchanged. You didn’t become weak; if anything, it made you stronger. It wasn’t like that for me. Don’t you find me pitiful? I couldn’t even resurrect you properly. I had to give up so much to do it. You must find it humorous,” he said. “You must think of me as some half-rate sorcerer.”

“Of course not,” you said. “What you did was ten times as impressive as what I did. I had Rika helping me, and your own natural Reverse Cursed Technique, and of course the heightened emotions which fueled Composition. Beyond that, Composition as a Reverse Cursed Technique was designed for such feats. You had none of those advantages, and yet you still brought me back. That’s not half-rate; that’s the kind of thing that only happens in myths and fairytales.”

Something scalding splashed against your skin, and then you realized that his body was shaking in your embrace. He was sobbing, clinging onto you in a rare display of weakness. Yuta hated falling apart, and he hated falling apart in front of others even more, yet here he was, doing just that. He always told you that he was supposed to be the one that others relied on. He wasn’t supposed to be the one that crumbled, but of course, no one could say strong forever.

“Do you still love me?” he said. If he had held you like this a year ago, then his grip would have crushed you, but now, it was you who had to be careful with your power, with his softer body. “Y/N, do you still love me?”

“Yes, how could you question that?” you said. “I love more than anyone.”

“You loved Yuta Okkotsu,” he whimpered. “Yuta Okkotsu, special-grade sorcerer. Yuta Okkotsu, who was powerful enough to save you from anything. I’m not him anymore. I’m someone else. Someone weak and stupid, who can barely see and whose body always aches.”

“Hey,” you said, holding him at an arm’s length, using the hem of your shirt to dry his tears. “Hey, hey, look at me. Are you looking at me?”

His eyes, the soft color of clouds, settled on you. You weren’t sure what you had done to deserve that kind of trust, that kind of affection or devotion, but you did the best you could with it, holding his face in your hands and squishing his cheeks fondly.

“Yes,” he said.

“I didn’t fall in love with what you have up here,” you said, knocking on his head lightly. “Nor here, nor here.” This was accompanied by pinches on each of his arms. “What I cared about, what I still care about, is this.”

You placed your hand on his heart. He tilted his chin to gaze at it, and you took the moment to flick him, earning you a small whine.

“My heart?” he said.

“Your heart,” you agreed. “In all the world, I don’t think there’s any other that could claim to be its equal, and that’s a fact independent of your cursed technique or your strength. I’ll always love that heart of yours, Yuta. There’s nothing you can do that’ll stop me from doing so. Change your name, change your face, change everything else about you — I’ll recognize it all the same, and I will love it regardless.”

“Do you mean that?” he said.

“I’ve never meant anything more,” you said. “I love you for who you are, not for what you can do.”

“You really, truly are sure of that?” he said.

“How many times do I have to say it? How many words will it take for you to believe me? I love you, Yuta, I love you, I love you, I love you. Is that enough, or is there something else you’d prefer?” you said.

“There is,” he said. “There’s something else I want you to say.”

“What is it?” you said. “You only need to tell me, and I will.”

“I know I’m not strong or capable anymore. I can’t promise to protect you, and it’ll be more work on your part than anything, so I understand if you don’t want to do it,” he said. “It’s a terrible deal for you.”

“Huh?” you said. He avoided your eyes, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, velvet box, opening it and clearing his throat.

“I’m delicate now,” he said. “But if you’ll still have me, even in this condition, then…?”

“Are you proposing?” you said. He nodded shyly.

“I was going to wait to do it until after everything with the curses was resolved, but I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he said. “I guess I kind of got caught up in the moment. I’m sorry.”

I wouldn’t have before, he seemed to be thinking. Before, I would’ve been disciplined enough to deny myself that joy until the perfect moment.

You didn’t want Yuta to ever deny himself anything again, though. He had given you everything so that you could have a second chance at life; it was only fair that you spent the rest of that life with him. It belonged to him already, anyways. Every thump of your heart, every breath in your lungs, every thought in your mind…they were all his.

“Don’t apologize,” you said. “It’s perfect. This is perfect. Everything about it is.”

“Really?” he said dubiously.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes, it’s perfect, and yes, I’ll marry you.”

He swallowed, and then slowly, he slid the ring onto your finger, with all the painstaking care of a surgeon. Then he blinked up at you, frowning when tears of your own welled against your lashes.

“Is everything okay?” he said.

“It’s more than okay. I’m happy,” you said. “I’m so happy that I can’t help but weep. I never thought that I could be so lucky.”

You wished that you could tell your younger versions that the two of you would end up like this, that everything would work itself out in the best way that it could, that eventually, you would again find something like happiness. Maybe it was true that you both were different now — Yuta was missing his cursed technique, and you could never again simultaneously heal and fight — but you had made it. Somehow, despite everything, despite all that you had lost, you had made it.

In the end, what more could either of you ask for?

[doktorvelociraptor]

Dracula would’ve suffered in the modern era if he had made it this far (and wasn’t fictional)

I don’t believe he could participate in the unique performer/consumer dynamic of 2020’s culture at any level. He couldn’t even post selfies without a mirrorless camera and once he did? He would be torn to shreds by 14 year olds telling him to shave his palms and that its time for his meds at the old folks home; If a 25 year old is called a crypt keeper on tiktok? Drac has no chance.

I don’t even think anyone would pick up on him even being a vampire because the image has changed so much, and people would not be polite enough to get to know him to find out.

Not to mention he would probably immediately be funnelled into some sort of alt right pipeline because he clicked a video called “5 tips to make sure your woman respects you in your house”

And offline? He couldn’t even handle one guy with PTSD chasing him down the street with a knife. If he looked sufficiently eccentric that would be like a weekly occurrence. He wouldn’t even have to know the guy. It just happens.

[jils-things]

by the lighthouse.

dividers

[diseaseriddencube]

girls literally only want one thing and it's fucking disgusting

[life size replica of Courier's bike]

[penisbilt]

the bittersweet but absolute flood of relief that comes from admitting defeat at living independently, to have to move back in with parents. we tried! we gave it our best shot for almost 3 years! but living like this (being on our own) is just not possible for us at this time of our lives. we've finally proved it to ourselves that we can't do it. it'll be okay to let ourselves rest now

[lunarharp]

witchies 🎃 cosplaying as eniawe & dewiela

[icewindandboringhorror]

Daily Log 4

Trying out (probably just temporarily) making short daily-ish notes about things, in an attempt to see if it helps me be more reflective or productive lol.

Activities: Woke up late because I went back to sleep with a headache briefly, then kind of struggled to focus all day ToT

Worked more on the aforementioned tapestry/painting type of thing. I've done the base layer of painting for the main image, now I'm lining in darker outlines. I wanted to finish the center art before getting into the intricate borders. Still haven't translated the text lol..

Made a small bowl and also a little box with a lid out of more avocado pits. Still just with random nail cuticle tool things and kitchen knives, as I don't have proper carving tools.

Finished editing and proofreading the new poll adventure post!! I don't have time to post it tonight because I need to get to sleep early but.. I have it Completely 100% Ready.. finally..

Also washed the clothes I got together yesterday. Called about the bloodwork. Sent an email to a doctor.

Reviewed some writing documents to get back into my game maybe?? (basically, I started working on a visual novel type game a few years ago, decided it was a huge project so kind of put it on the backburner for a while in favor of things that were more easily finishable/tangible. then later on a game website I play (similar to neopets or something, there are collectable little creatures, etc.) there was an opportunity for me to design a pet on site, so I made a smaller shorter visual novel centered around that, where people on the site have to play the game in order to earn the pet, and I have a google form for them to answer a few short questions about it. All of the feedback is quite positive (reached 200 responses a while ago! though still only like 4 comments on the itch.io page lol.. Mandatory Form vs. Optional Comments evil showdown), but sometimes I get commentary that's really enthusiastic and inspires me to start back working on the OTHER bigger game. The small game was kind of like, a proof of concept that was safe because I had a guaranteed audience, that has helped me gain more insight for the larger one.

Anyway, since I've abandoned the Main Large Game for so long, I have to re-read and review/probably rewrite A LOT of things just to pick it back up again as A Thing I'm Actively Working On, so it's another one of those tasks that I do maybe 45 minutes of and then realize it's going to take days and days and get discouraged lol..

Notable sights: Saw two cats in windows. No clovers. It rained a little today but I didn't get to go outside and see it. One of the pieces of asparagus in the fridge was like the size of a carrot, comically overgrown downright ridiculous looking asparagus. Maybe I'll get taller after eating it.

Goals moving forward: Consistent sleep schedule. Focus on social activities, finding new friends in the places I want to move, communicating with ones I have. Physical therapy exercises. Plant nasturtiums. Finish and upload videos, edit costume pictures & etc.

Notable foods: ASPARAGUS AGAIN BABEY.. yeaAAAAGHHH asparagus squad !!!!!!

[goldensunset]

this ‘taking care of your fragile mortal body’ thing is really getting on my nerves

[arthur-r]

i have the most insane fucking news

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[8bit-mau5]

downside of waking up at reasonable morning hours is that im dead tired at 7pm.

[starberry-skies]

What if someone gets mad at you for making an image description? Does that happen often?

tbh i don't think i've ever heard of that happening. the only scenario i can think of where that's at least a little bit probable is describing someone's oc and u get their pronouns/gender wrong, which is an honest mistake that can be fixed pretty easily. people like accessibility ! they like their art being spread to a wider audience. image descriptions are inherently good, and people respect that :D

[riverofrainbows]

I wish i had been healthy when studying and done this properly. It's absolute hell trying to pick up the pieces for my big exam thats coming up, all the lectures I've never been to, all the exams the most i was able to study for was half assed so i still don't know the subject properly, the study notes and lecture notes that i never properly sorted after i got home and still fly around, almost impossible to decipher now. I had a chance to rewatch some of the lectures that were recorded for covid, but today for some reason I've been thrown out of the website again, and I haven't gotten even halfway through yet.

I've been going through all my study materials trying to sort them and prepare for the exam, and found subjects i have no memory of taking, meticulous flashcards i have no memory of making (nor of their content). I see mountains and mountains of evidence how bad i was doing all these years, and how much i tried despite, still.

And it makes me so sad, so Fucking sad. I am grieving all the time i struggled so hard and tried and tried my best, and it was a jangled mess i am trying to pick up now.

And i am angry because it's so much harder trying to study with no or lacking lecture notes, having to dig through the mess instead of just taking it out of a folder. It was hard then, and suffering back then still makes life harder for me now.