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ichorai · 1 month ago

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xerox ; robert reynolds ; part three.

part one. | part two.

pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader

synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

words ; 4.3k

themes ; action, angst, slowburn, fluffy near the end, the beginnings of romance

warnings / includes ; violence, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), the void is hot unfortunately, foul language, everyone's mental health sucks but they're actually getting better now!

a/n ; this chapter is a bit shorter than the other two just because it only covers the very end of the movie PLUS a little bonus scene to get you guys excited for future avengers tower moments :) thank you again for all the support! also did you guys catch the mutant mention wink wonk

main masterlist. read on ao3!

Bob’s first room had an angry, middle-aged man standing in the very center, veins protruding out of his neck as he yelled gibberish. Flecks of spittle fell from his slurring lips. Bob, whose warm hand was intertwined with yours, flinched at the sudden volume.

Walker didn’t hesitate to strike him down with his taco-shaped shield.

“He seems nice,” Ava said.

The room gave a massive rumble, as if upset that things weren’t going its way, and the walls began to close in.

“This way!” Alexei bellowed, ushering everyone forward into a wooden wardrobe full of clothes.

“Narnia?” you asked as you shouldered through moth-eaten coats, giving Bob a quick glance over your shoulder.

Bob gave you a nervous smile. “It was one of my favorites as a kid.”

The floors gave out beneath you, and you found yourself free-falling for a few seconds before landing on the rough ground with a resounding thud. The new room smelled of gasoline and burnt rubber tires.

You helped Yelena up to her feet, only to be whacked over the back of the head with a sharp plastic sign that read ALFREDO’S BAIL BONDS! in a hideous shade of red, by a chicken mascot that had equally hard-on-the-eyes yellow feathers. With a low moan, you started crawling away from the crazed chicken, who had turned to attack Ava and Alexei.

“Oh, God!” Bob exclaimed, scrambling over to give you a hand. “Are you okay?”

“IF YOU DON’T STOP HITTING ME WITH THAT SIGN—!” Alexei gruffed from across the room, now bleeding from the nose.

“I was on meth!” Bob shrieked apologetically right before grabbing your head and shoving you down just in time to duck away from another sign-swing from the high chicken.

Whilst lowered, you spotted a stack of wooden vegetable crates across the street. There seemed to be no other exits from the room. Ava kept the chicken occupied and distracted by repeatedly phasing through him, so you took the opportunity to break open the bottom of the crates, which smelled faintly of rotting tomatoes.

“Through here!” you called. “Crawl through the crates!”

Past-Bob made a bee-line for current Bob, the sharp end of the sign aimed straight at him like a crude stake. With a stinging cheek and a clenched jaw, Bucky stepped in between them and punched the chicken square in the face (beak?) with his metal arm.

As you made your way through to the new room, you distantly heard Walker gagging behind you. “I hate tomatoes.”

Through the crates was a cleaner, more sterile space. The new room looked… clinical. You immediately tensed, eyes darting back and forth. There were beakers, needles, and measuring devices everywhere—all the marks of a science lab. You had to suck in a deep, painful breath to remind yourself that this wasn’t your room—it was Bob’s. A few meters away from you, there was an operating table. Big surgical lights looming over it like curved, robotic flowers. And on the bed sat past-Bob, shoulders hunched into himself. He looked the very same as the Bob right beside you, holding your hand. But his eyes were sunken and empty. Tired.

“I’ve been here before,” Yelena whispered. “Malaysia.”

Bob bit down on the inside of his cheek. “It’s where it all started. I was roaming Southeast Asia. Thought I’d figure something out. A way to find more drugs. And there’s this guy… he started talking to me about a medical study. A trial drug that can make me stronger and not feel like… me anymore. It was like a miracle.”

You felt your face fall with sympathy. You squeezed his hand, and Bob met your gaze with pursed lips. Slowly, the group began to advance towards Past-Bob. At least he wasn’t swinging a sign at all of your heads in a chicken suit this time.

“I thought I would get to show everyone that I was more… that I was something,” Bob told everyone, shame tinting each of his words a melancholic blue.

Past-Bob, now shrouded in shadow, finally straightened.

“And look what you unleashed,” the voice purred, echoing in your head as if he had managed to worm inside and tapping at the very base of your ear drums.

That wasn’t Bob, you realized with a heavy pit in your stomach. It was the Void. He hopped off the surgical table, turning to face the team, face dark, but eyes glowing.

“How could you possibly think you could be worth anything?” he said, calm as untouched waters. You could feel your skin prickle.

Yelena stepped forward. “We’re leaving.”

The Void stayed silent for a moment, scrutinizing the ragged team of misfits and criminals with an empty expression. Then, he shook his head in miniscule movements. “No,” he simply said.

Behind him the surgical table rose into the air and flew across the room at a startlingly rapid speed, crashing against Yelena and Alexei, pinning them against the wall behind. The long strips of buzzing, artificial lights above were torn from the ceiling and wound around Bucky, keeping him to one of the lab’s counters. Several metal frames from a window came whizzing across the room to bury into the edges of Walker’s suit, keeping him stuck on the ground. Ava was sent flying into the other side of the lab when a crumbled garbage can wound about her midriff. She would have phased right through it, but there was a force weighing her down.

You managed to dodge the door that was coming at you, having to relinquish Bob’s hand to do so, but missed the heavy metal shelf used to store plastic pill pots heading toward you from the opposite direction. It slammed into your stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs, and you were left struggling fruitlessly against the wall it lodged you up against.

“Stop,” Bob pleaded to the Void with wide, watery eyes. “Let them go.”

“You think they care about you?” The Void stepped closer until he was right in front of you, close enough that you could feel it—the cold darkness. The dread. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The weight of all you’ve done wrong, all the people you’ve murdered and maimed, all your deaths, all your lies—resting right on top of your sternum. You gasped for breath. You felt something cold touch your face, so cold it felt blistering hot. You simultaneously wanted to pull away and lean in closer. The Void’s fingers were caressing your cheek ever so gently, and Bob did nothing but watch. He felt frozen to the floor, paralyzed with fear and uncertainty.

“Xerox… lovely, sad Xerox…” crooned the Void, almost sing-songy. “Bob’s got a fixation with you, you know. It’s pathetic. He’s like a sad mutt begging for scraps from the table.” There was an amused hum from him before he continued, this time speaking to Bob. “Xerox doesn’t want to help you. None of them do. They’re all using you. Deep down, you know they despise you. You’re a burden.”

“That’s not true!” Yelena screamed from the opposite side of the room. IV drip wires wrapped around her throat so tight her eyelids fluttered and her words were caught on her tongue.

“Isn’t that right, Xerox?” said the Void, his cool thumb slipped beneath your chin to tilt your head up as he regarded you with those cold, blank eyes. “You chose the darkness. You chose me.”

“I came…” The weight was growing stronger. The words felt like thorns in your mouth, painful to speak. What was he doing to you? “I came to help him.”

The Void tilted his head. Then, you felt the coldness close around your throat. The edges of your vision darkened. If your hands weren’t pinned back, you would’ve been clawing at your neck for breath.

“I told you… he doesn’t want your help. He’s pathetic. Why would he deserve it? Deserve you? Now tell him. Tell him the truth. It’s what he needs to hear… some tough love.”

When you opened your mouth this time, words spilled out that weren’t yours. “I don’t want to help you,” you found yourself saying. Not to the Void, but to Bob. Your Pal. You gasped, a cold tear slipping down your cheek. The words came out grated, as if someone had forced you to swallow razors. “I never liked you, Robert. You’re nothing. In fact, worse than that. You’re an active hindrance. A thorn in everyone’s side. I wish… schkk—I wish you had stayed dead when they shot you down.”

“That’s right,” murmured the Void. “Good.”

“Please stop,” Bob ground out. You weren’t sure if he was saying that to you or to the Void.

His dark counterpart laughed a deep, rumbling noise. “Robert the Hero. Doesn’t sound right, does it? Fake. Like a comic book story. What a joke.”

Walker was close to prying himself out of his confines.

The Void flicked his wrist. All the glass from the beakers and volumetric cylinders in the lab exploded. Crystal shards scratched at the team’s face, leaving everyone with stinging, bloodied cuts. The Void’s hand slipped away from your throat to pull out the piece of glass that had embedded into your skin.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, almost a whisper. It would’ve sounded sincere if it hadn’t sounded like an automated message. “You do enough of that to yourself. Did you enjoy what I showed you? The darkness has been kind to you, hasn’t it? The only one you can trust is yourself.”

“Yes,” you choked out, and your head bowed into a nod even though you hadn’t wanted to. “I deserve to relive it all. All the worst parts of me. I’m just as bad as I thought I was.”

Bob was breathing heavily, expression twisted into one of pain. The Void was hurting you. He was hurting you.

“I’m stronger than you,” Bob told his alter-ego, trying to sound more confident than he was. “I can beat you.”

The Void grinned. It was a terrifying sight. Wolfish. Predatory. “Let’s see.”

The shadowed figure finally stepped away from you, and you seemed to lean forward, as if chasing his touch. Once the Void was far enough, Bob watched you recoil with a trace of disgust to your expression. At yourself or at him?

“It wasn’t me,” you croaked, misty eyes now glued to Bob. Not the Void. Just Bob. “Palindrome. It wasn’t me.”

And Bob believed you. He trusted you. With a determined nod, he ran forward and swung a punch to the Void. The dark mass hit back with equal ferocity, sending Bob sprawling to the ground. Glass dug into his skin.

“Get up, Bobby,” Walker gruffed. “Get up!”

“You thought you would be some great man? Some savior?” taunted the Void as he kicked at Bob. “You can’t even save yourself.”

You watched in horror as the Void picked Bob up by the scruff of his sweatshirt, and struck him three more times.

“We will always be alone.”

The room began to shift, elongating. The entire group was pulled further and further away from Bob and the Void. Bob watched the team go—his friends grow smaller with the distance—and blew out a choked breath. Alexei was bleeding profusely from his head. Yelena’s face was turning blue from the cords cutting her airway. Ava, Bucky, and John were still working against their bonds. Bob glanced at you hanging limply behind the shelf, staring at nothing in particular with glazed eyes. No doubt that was the Void’s doing.

Bob turned. His lips curled angrily. Then he launched himself at the Void with a mangled cry. He began punching the figure with all his might. To his fury, the Void only smiled, unhurt.

“There we go,” the Void whispered in a mocking manner. “Show them how strong you are.”

The room began to crack and crumble. Darkness began to eat away at Bob the more he struck his darker self. His shoes were swallowed first, now beginning to crawl up his shins.

“This isn’t right,” Bucky gruffed.

“Bob, stop!” Yelena coughed out. Having had enough, Alexei strained as much as he could to push the weight off of them. Just enough to let Yelena wriggle loose. She slipped out with a pained groan, tore the IV off her, and began running towards Bob. The room shifted to try to stop her—throwing cabinets and beakers and tables at her, but she lithely dodged each one.

By the time she got to Bob, the darkness had seeped up to his neck.

“I’m here,” she said, wrapping her arms around Bob from behind, trying to hold him back. Bob kept hitting the darkness, relentless.

“It will always be just us,” the Void told him, almost comforting. “I’m the only one you can rely on.”

Yelena held onto him tighter. “I’m here, Bob,” repeated Yelena. “You’re not alone.”

Finally, Bucky managed to tear himself free. He helped Walker get free, and Walker then stalked over to push the shelf off of you with a grunt. You collapsed with a dizzy intake of breath. Ava and Alexei were quick to free themselves afterwards, bonds slightly loosened—it seemed that Yelena’s words of comfort were actually helping.

The rest of the team ran towards Bob, Yelena, and the Void.

“We’re all here,” Yelena told her friend. “We’re here for you, Bob.”

You kneeled down beside him, hand wrapping around the wrist that led to a now-bloodied fist. The team piled together, all holding Bob—and each other. In the tangled mess of limbs and arms, Bob began to weep. His head knocked against yours as he sobbed, and you held him all the tighter.

“Let it out, Pal,” you said. “We’ve got you.”

Then the entire group fell backwards. Your spine hit the rough surface of a broken road. After blinking several times and adjusting to the sudden onslaught of light, the city of New York came back into view. The shadows were slowly but surely melting away.

The team slowly struggled to their feet. People were gradually but surely returning from the Void’s realm.

You sniffled, wiping an errant tear with your sleeve. The Void’s hold on your mind was still fresh, and you certainly felt a little worse for wear. You felt Bob’s concerned hand on your shoulder, and you turned and enveloped him into a sudden, tight hug, yanking him close. He emitted a noise of surprise, but his arms wound around you out of instinct.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, breathing shallow and rapid. “I don’t wish you died. I don’t think you’re a burden. I think you’re really sweet and cool and—” Your words were spoken so quickly and pretty muffled into the fabric of his sweatshirt that Bob didn’t really catch them.

Bob held you until your breaths mellowed out a bit. Even patted your back a few times for good measure. There were no complaints on his end for the hug, but he wasn’t very sure why you were giving him one.

“This is nice,” he started, uncertain.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask if I could hug you,” you whispered once you pulled away, cheeks flushed.

“You don’t need to ask,” he said, almost too quickly. There was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. “You don’t ever need to ask to hug me. It’s nice. I like it.”

Walker came to stand beside you, having done a quick survey of the premise. “You were great in there, Bob.”

Bob blinked at the bearded man and smiled. That was probably the nicest thing Walker has ever said to him. Too bad he had no clue what he was talking about. “Thanks, Walker,” he said, still smiling goofily. “In—wait, in where?” Finally, Bob took a glance around. There was wreckage everywhere. Had the Avengers totaled New York yet again? “Woah. What happened here?”

“You don’t… remember?” you asked, eyeing him with kinked brows.. “Did you hit your head a bit too hard?”

Bob patted down his skull. “Feels normal.” He laughed a bit—a nervous, knee-jerk reaction. “Sorry, I’m a bit confused.”

“Are you okay?” Yelena asked, looking at him with nothing but concern.

Bob’s brows twitched, still completely lost. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why’s everyone looking at me like that?”

“Are you serious?” Alexei deadpanned. “We were in crazy rooms of despair and misery and—”

“Thanks, Alexei,” you cut in, giving the giant of a man a pointed look. “You did good, Bob. I can explain the details later. For now—”

Your reassurance was cut off by Valentina shrilly speaking into a phone, only a few yards away. You could feel anger twist your insides just from seeing her.

“I’m going to kill that woman,” Alexei gruffed.

“We can’t kill her. We have to take her in,” Bucky said with an exasperated sigh. It was clear that he had plenty of experience being the voice of reason.

“What happens when he regains his memory?” Walker asked. “Will we have to go through that all over again?”

Yelena shook her head. She took Bob by the elbow and began leading him towards Valentina. “Okay. Come on, Bob.”

“I’m going with you guys?”

“Of course you are,” you said as you walked alongside them towards Valentina, nudging Bob with a soft smile. “We’re a team now.”

Bob returned your smile easily. “That sounds nice.”

Yelena nodded. “We stick together from now on.”

When Valentina spotted the Thunderbolts coming towards her, she began to hurry backwards. “Hello, team! I know we’re all dealing with very big feelings right now, just give me—give me half a second—!”

She disappeared behind some wreckage.

As you rounded the broken pieces of construction, you were met with the blinding flashes of about fifty cameras. There were news trucks, reporters, microphones, the entire shebang. Even a podium for Valentina to stand behind as she hushed the audience. A small part of you thought about all the dried blood on your face and body—it was a relief your suit was dark, or it would’ve looked like you were mauled by a bear. Or, more likely that you were the one that mauled the bear.

“What’s going on?” Bob leaned closer to whisper to you.

“No idea,” you whispered back.

“Cool.” The smile that appeared on his face was boyish and lopsided. “It’s nice not being the only one who’s confused.”

“Are we live?” Valentina asked one of the cameramen. Once he nodded, she began speaking with a shiny, rehearsed smile. “For years, I have been working secretly to develop a new age of protection. Today, the citizens of the United States need that protection. Thanks to my hard work, they got it. Ladies and gentlemen… meet the new Avengers.”

Avenger? You? That didn’t sound quite right. The Avengers were heroes. They were a beacon of light and hope and occasional destruction of city-folk. You were…

Just a person trying to do better.

The Thunderbolts stared at each other in a mixture of disbelief and disdain. Bob began to clap loudly, but you put a hand on his, forcing him to lower them down.

“What?” he asked, still completely miffed, and you shook your head with an I’ll tell you later look. Bob nodded solemnly and put his hands behind his back, which made you hold back an amused grin. The snaps coming from the cameras seemed to flare with every tiny movement you made, so you weren’t too keen on giving them anything to pick apart.

Yelena strode up to Valentina. She covered the microphone, leaned down, and said, just loud enough so she and the rest of the team could hear. “We own you now.”

This time, you didn’t bother trying to smother your smile. The cameras went crazy.

“Have you seen the news?” Bob asked you, settling down next to you on the couch. He handed you the steaming mug of tea, made just the way you liked. His knees knocked against yours.

You glanced away from your crossword puzzle and took the mug with a warm smile. “Thanks. Seen what? I haven’t checked ever since news of mutants broke out.” You were still waiting for your own test results to come back. The memory of the clinic drawing your blood made you shudder. It did, however, make you feel slightly better knowing that the entire team was squashed in the tiny waiting room right outside the door for you. Even Bucky, who swore up and down that he was busy that afternoon still showed up. You made a mental note to get him a smoothie from that juice shop he liked so much.

Bob gave you an awkward grimace. “They’re writing about us again.”

This made you roll your eyes. “They’re always writing about us.”

Just yesterday, Ava had shown you an article that said: THE HEROES NOBODY ASKED FOR! IS NEW ALWAYS BETTER?

Which, to be fair, was a completely valid article. However, counterpoint, none of you asked to be on the Avengers. Except Alexei and Walker at some point, you suspected.

“No,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Not us like the group, but us us.”

“Oh?” You quirked a brow. “What are they saying this time?” Last week, they were convinced Bob was a special secret agent of sorts.

Bob handed you the rolled up newspaper he was holding.

SPOTTED: BOB WHO? MYSTERY MAN SEEN WITH NEW AVENGER ‘XEROX’ — ROMANCE BLOSSOMING IN THE TOWER?

Though you were wearing a baseball cap, that clearly wasn’t enough to hide your identity. Beneath the article title was a grainy image of you and Bob in the park, feeding the ducks. The two of you were wearing identical, fond grins; but you were looking at the ducks, and his eyes were trained on you. There was another photo beneath where the two of you were sharing a milkshake in one of your favorite diners. You let out a sigh—you supposed you couldn’t be going to that diner as often anymore.

“Oh,” you muttered, reading through the first few lines, which turned out to be a whole bunch of speculative nonsense. “They’re always doing this, aren’t they? Making something out of nothing.”

“Right,” said Bob, nodding. “It’s nothing. You’re right.”

When you caught his eye, noting the slightly crestfallen look on his face, you shook your head, assuming he was just upset about the whole ordeal. You could understand—losing your privacy overnight wasn’t something you were very keen about, either. “Try not to pay too much mind to the news people. I guess we just have to lay low for a while. It’ll die down. They’ll move on to the next big trendy thing in a minute or two.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bob said. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Does this mean we have to stop going to the park together?”

“No,” you reassured. “We just have to put on some better disguises. I’m sure Valentina could scrounge up the money. After all, she kinda has to do whatever we want now.”

Bob smiled, all awkward and endearing. “Good. Yeah. I… I like the time we spend together.”

“I like it, too,” you said, lips upturned. Bob had to force his eyes away. It was nothing. Right.

You patted his leg and returned to your crossword puzzle. You were about halfway through the crossword book that Bob had bought for you from the musty cornerstore two blocks away. It was the first gift you’d ever gotten from someone.

Yelena walked into one of the Tower’s many common areas an hour later to find you and Bob leaning against each other, dozing away. Your puzzle book was discarded to the side, pencil sticking out one of the pages to mark your place. Bob’s mouth was slightly agape and he looked about two seconds away from slipping and face-planting painfully into the boniest part of your shoulder. Your legs were intertwined with his in a position that certainly couldn’t have been comfortable. Yelena regarded the two of you with a downturned smile.

“Okay, you sleepy lovebirds,” she muttered, grabbing a neatly folded blanket from the corner of the long couch and draping it over the both of you. You stirred ever so slightly, mumbling something under your breath, then settled back closer to Bob. “Sweet dreams.”

The two of you were startled awake just as Yelena was leaving and Alexei stormed in, loudly complaining about how this lady in the grocery store wouldn’t buy the Avengers Wheaties cereal box even though he’d explicitly recommended it to her.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly, standing up to stretch upwards like a feline after a long nap. Bob watched you with a sleepy grin. “Ooh, that just reminded me. I need to go pick up some ingredients for soup night tomorrow. Walker hates tomatoes, so tomato soup is off the menu.”

With no hesitation whatsoever, Bob asked, “Can I come with you?”

You thought distantly to the news reports. Let them think what they want. Whatever you had with Bob, you liked it just as it was.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d love that. We can stop by the library afterwards, too. I’ve heard they’ve got a new copy of…”

Alexei and Yelena watched the two of you head out, animatedly discussing some sort of new mystery book, shoulders practically pressed up to each other.

“Are they—” Alexei sent his daughter a pointed look. “You know?”

“I’m not speaking about this with you,” Yelena curtly said, turning on her heel. “But no, not yet. Ava and I have a bet going on.”

This made a devilish grin spread over Alexei’s face. “He makes it obvious, the way he looks at Xerox. I give them a week.”

Yelena scoffed. He was such an optimist. She gave them three months at the very least. “You’re on.”

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norristeria · 1 month ago

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Oddity¹ ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader, Oscar Piastri x PA! FemReader ( platonic )

SUMMARY 𝄡 Though Oscar's teammate is the strangest man you've ever met, you cannot help but find this oddity charming.

IN THIS CHAPTER... Desperate for a job, you apply to be a personal assistant for a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports.’ It's harder than it looks, but only because your new employer is dead set on being a pain in the ass. And what's the deal with his new teammate?

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

NOTE 𝄡 Everyone loved the pairing, so I wrote the series⏤it's as simple as that. What do we think? Not much Lando in this chapter but Oscar and Reader's subplot has my entire heart! I tweaked the chronology a bit because I can. ( not edited. if you see a typo⏤no, you didn't. ) <33

For a better experience, read this story in light mode! ( use of black writing on transparent background )

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

‘Mark Webber’ sounded like an important name, enough to have its gold plaque hanging on a solid oak door.

The man who opened it matched that image—serene and proud, the kind of man that had known glory, however small, in the past. Mark Webber's charisma was undeniable, yes, but the expectation that lit up his face as he extended a hand toward you, the need for recognition clearly visible in his eyes, made him so painfully human that your shoulders relaxed.

He may have been the manager of your future client—a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports' according to the job description—but he was still a man, and you knew how to deal with those. Had been doing it for years during your bachelor’s degree and, later on, your master’s in business administration and management. Those so-called “sons of” or “self-made men” proliferated in Harvard, waiting for one thing only: for you to recognize them without ever needing to introduce themselves.

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

“Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

1K notes · View notes

heartthrobin · 11 months ago

Text

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle.

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports.

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge.

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner.

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers.

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor.

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed.

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish.

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster.

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge.

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you.

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone.

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move.

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face.

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches.

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.”

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again.

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.”

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor.

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick.

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.”

He’s brushing past you.

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded.

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable.

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?”

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked.

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone.

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him.

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration.

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him.

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.”

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle.

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own.

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.”

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness.

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms.

It’s quiet.

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks.

“Why’re you out here alone?”

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him.

Why do you care?

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters.

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.”

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t.

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches.

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something.

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent.

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room.

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.”

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours.

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!”

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch.

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow.

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction.

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way.

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it.

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets.

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed :)

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@laurenmckiernan-blog @mooneyswife @meyaareads @buffkittenmuscles @emielry @amora-lilly @maximumride1 @sarcastic-nerd @chanyeolsbeloved @pinkb4t @betty13augustine @toadweed-twinklegaze-silverpuff @bella-rose29 @grimm1992 @mortallytenaciousmoon @alanalanalanalanalanna @amane-enama @sosasi521-blog @head-in-the-clouds222 @she-went-that-way @joeybelle @mahidahi @malenk @lillyys-reposts @m626 @rain-echos @meidl @arwn-yng @hotchberry1245 @avatar-lovergirl011 @silverblur @aphroditesanem0ne @angstywaifu @2-blind-2-see @alanatheblogger @ebklsbxgdsworld @gwnwrites @skskskye @girlqrush @cas-planet @thycia-flowers @badonkadork @malachitecorgi-spicy-account @carter-knight @angelic-destiny25 @nyxm0on @saltistic-dumbass @maddsunn @margflower @curlyblaze @ardrhys8 @carolga @my-beloved-fandoms @leaawrites @ilovelilies @ahead-fullofdreams @perciver4ever @amaliarosewood @iamthejam

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prettyngeto · 1 month ago

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PROLOGUE || signed, sealed, delivered (i'm yours) - 18+

sukuna x f!reader - series

summary: one night (and one wine bottle in), you decide to sign up for an anonymous pen pal programme at uni. sukuna was given two options - a therapist or a pen pal. you can guess which one he chose. only problem? you hated each other's guts in real life.

content: uni au, anonymous pen pals, academic rivals to lovers, slow burn, bad boy sukuna x fed up reader, forensic sciences student! sukuna, mutual pining masked as academic warfare, sukuna lashes out at everyone except her because yes... he's still a little shit though, reader has a cute obsession with sea animals - specifically sharks, eventual smut 🌚

main masterlist || jjk masterlist

series masterlist ⌯⌲ prologue ⌯⌲ chapter one (tba)

Dr Yumi Takahashi’s office smelt like oranges and vanilla - sweet and serene. Ryomen Sukuna hated it with every fibre of his being.

He sat slouched in the annoyingly comfortable seat across her desk, arms folded tight across his broad chest. His gaze scanned the room in quiet disdain before honing in on her baby blue blazer. Then lower - to the enamel pin on her lapel that read: ‘catch vibes, not viruses’. God help him. He fought the urge to scoff, lips curling, tongue flicking over his lip ring - a nervous habit disguised as irritation. The fabric of his black compression shirt stretched over solid muscle and tattooed skin as he shifted, itching to bolt out the door at any given moment.

“So, Ryomen,” Dr Takahashi began, voice eerily soft, placing her mug of lavender tea down to put on her signature pair of lime-green rimmed glasses. “Let’s talk about what happened in Professor Kimura’s class.”

“I didn’t do shit,” he snapped.

“Language.” She chimed, eyes peeking up at him over the frame of her glasses disapprovingly whilst pointing to the poster behind her that read ‘No vulgar vocabulary!!’, complete with a smiley face in the corner. She opened a purple polka dotted file, RYOMEN SUKUNA, printed out in bold across the front.

“Let’s get back to the issue at hand. You slammed a textbook so hard you cracked the desk Ryomen.” She paused, hands folded as she leaned forward. “You wanna tell me why?”

He scoffed, irritation growing once more. “He said I was wrong just because I didn’t cite his paper. Sue me for not wanting to kiss his academic ass. Besides, it’s not my fault he wrote a whole load of bullshit. I cited three other papers - all peer-reviewed by the way - was that not good enough for him?”

Dr Takahashi blinked slowly. Calmly. Deadly. “You have anger issues, love.”

“Tch, no shit.” He mutters, rolling his eyes.

She remained silent, ignoring his quiet jab. She simply opened her drawer to pull out a floral folder, sliding it across the desk with the air of someone offering a dessert menu. “Two options.” She hummed, pushing her glasses up her nose, holding up her index finger. “Option one: therapy. Weekly anger management sessions. No exceptions.”

Sukuna paled, mouth parting slightly in horror. Sit in a room with some shrink and talk about his feelings for the better part of the day? Fuck no.

“…What’s the other option?” He muttered, tongue flicking out to tap at his lip ring again.

She smiled. Sweet. Slightly sadistic. There wasn’t much that could scare Sukuna. But Dr Takahashi’s smile? Yeah, that shit made the list.

She slid across a bright yellow pamphlet, a cartoon envelope taking up most of the page. “Option two: you join the university’s anonymous pen pal programme.” Her smile widened. “Organised by yours truly”

He balked. His eyes flicked up at her. Then at the leaflet. Then, back at her, squinting like she’d just asked him to scale Everest with a fucking toothpick. Hell, at this rate, he’d rather do that.

“You want me to write? Letters? To some fuckass stranger? Like it's 1725?”

“Writing is a powerful emotional outlet, Ryomen.” She explained, with the patience of a monk. “And it’s anonymous, no names, no faces. Just pure communication. I think it could do you some good.”

“I refuse.”

Her smile sharpened - no more softness, just pure sadism.

Sukuna shivered.

“Shall I book your first therapy session then?” she hummed, voice sickly sweet.

His eyes flitted back to the therapy form. He imagined someone staring at him, asking him: ‘And how did that make you feel?’ with faux sympathy. It made him want to punch a wall. Or maybe someone.

He sucked in a sharp breath, seething silently, crimson eyes fixed on the stupid pamphlet.

“....Fine,” he muttered. “Give me the damn pen.”

A FEW HOURS LATER - 2AM, THE GIRLS' DORMS

You sat cross-legged against the headboard of your bed, laptop perched on your thighs as you took another swig of your wine bottle. Yes, bottle - because somewhere around your fourth sip, you decided glasses were beneath you.

10 Things I Hate About You was playing for what was probably the millionth time in the background, when your laptop pinged. A new email? Who in their right mind was sending campus-wide emails at two in the fucking morning?

I regret to inform you that curiosity (and alcohol) won this time - you open it.

“Not therapy. Not journaling. But a little bit of both.” ‘Dr. Y. Takahashi’s new wellbeing initiative—connect through anonymous letters!’

Well fuck… that was poetic, (according to your wine-hazy brain.)

Naturally, you did what anyone halfway through a bottle of Chardonnay and going through a quarter life crisis would do right now. You signed up.

ᯓ★ notes from star: IM SO EXCITED FOR THIS SERIES GUYS i'm cooking so hard, trust. as always, comments and reblogs appreciated and let me know if you wanna be in the taglist!! mwah <3

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blood-smiles · 7 months ago

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𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐓 ⊹₊⟡⋆

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 - TW: Gore description at the end of the chapter . icky stuff, reader has a little bit of androphobia .

ׂ╰┈➤ Ever since you were a little kid you dreamed of being a nurse, any kind of nurse, you really just wanted to help for the greater cause. Was it you trying to indulge a savior complex? Perhaps.

Now that you were in fact at camp, training under a more experienced nurse you came to realize that this place was so so much worse than you expected.

These soldiers were no walk in the park, many of them were traumatized from war, sometimes even refusing to take their medicine because it would numb their pain, the only thing that let them know that they were in fact alive.

It broke your heart.

Then came the harassment, some shouted and tried to swipe at you, doing all they could to keep you away from them. sometimes it was just lustful men, not seeing a woman in so long causing them to grow impatient, some would grab you, look you up and down like a fresh piece of meat. Ugh, disgusting.

You hauled around a basket full of medicine and fresh gauze, turning and weaving through the make shift hospital until reaching a white tent .

You unzipped the “door” and shimmied inside the tent, two people came into view, you greeted your senior nurse and the injured soldier politely.

The nurse turned around, clasping her hands together in what seemed a pleading gesture.

“Oh! (Y/N) there you are, can you take over this one for me? There’s another man badly injured in another tent.”

What? No, please don’t leave me with him!

You sent a pathetic look to the other nurse, begging her not to leave you all alone.

You turned your gaze over to the man sitting on the stretcher, the grip on your basket growing tighter.

He was fucking huge, his body being muscular and tall at the same time. His face obscured by dirtied bandages, all sorts of grime and dried blood splashed on his bandages like faded watercolor.

The nurse gave you a soft pat on the shoulder as she left in a haste.

You cleared your throat, shrugging off the discomfort in your system and getting to work swiftly.

You approached the sink, letting the cold water run over your skin, allowing the soap suds to cleanse the impurities and leave a fresh and pure exterior.

You patted your hands against a paper towel and grabbed the basket containing the various first aid equipment.

“I’m (Y/N) and I will be your nurse for today.” The practiced words rolled off your tongue smoothly, although your expression betrayed your confident rambling.

The man glanced up at you, steely blue-grey eyes glaring at you through golden eyelashes.

You swallowed thickly, quickly observing his physical state, you could point out two or three injuries. But with his face covered you can barely make out if he needs anything to be done on his face.

“I need to remove your bandages to clean injuries below them.” You folded your hands in front of your stomach, furrowing your brows while waiting for him to shout at you.

But the boisterous voice never came, instead a soft grunt answered along with the shuffling of fabric.

The dirtied bandages coiled around his neck, draping over his shoulders as he nodded his head to get his hair out of his vision.

You gazed at his features.. He was beautiful.

Not the delicate flower type of beauty, not something to be gently handled or protected. It was more like a rough, jagged beauty, alike to the beauty of a rusted, jagged claymore, flowers curled along its hilt and blade.

Blonde hair curled in between his eyebrows in a sort of X shape. His features were strong and sharp, his expression stony and serious. His slightly tanned skin decorated with scars and small cuts.

“Are there any serious injuries you have right now?”

The man rolled up his stained tank top to reveal bandages wrapped around his ribs, light pink stains splashed on the surface of the yellowed bandages.

You took a deep breath, putting some gloves on to begin inspecting the wound.

You slowly unraveled the bandages, revealing a half-scabbed half-fresh wound underneath, you glanced up at the large man to get a look at how well he was fairing with the pain.

Only the slightest twitch of his eyebrow and the soft flushing along his cheekbones were telling you that he was feeling pain.

He glanced down at you, pupils dilating for a moment before looking entirely away.

After a little you made sure to send him on his way, his right side was wrapped in bandages and thoroughly disinfected.

You made sure to clean the minor cuts on his face too, medical tape covering some of them.

You grabbed your clipboard, recording his visit today and a simple report on what was done.

“Can you give me your whole name and birthdate?” You asked softly, glancing down at the white boxed paper.

“February 14.” His accented voice answered, folding his old bandages in his own hand.

“..Marcelle Kühn.” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye shyly.

“Alright, I believe that is it..” you muttered, taking out some pain killers and handing them to him “You can take two every six hours to keep down the pain.. Is there anything else you wanted to speak about?”

Marcelle looked up from his hands, gently taking your in his,

“Yes, right here.” He placed your hand over his chest, right over his heart, it was erratically beating against his ribcage almost as if it were about to jump out of his tórax and run off.

“Every time I look at you. My heart.. em.. how do you say..? Fast.” He explained, pressing your hand into his chest even more.

His cheeks were flushed a red tint, small sweat suds forming over his scarred skin.

You laughed nervously, prying your hand away from his relaxed, soft muscles.

Your ears were beginning to feel warmer, how do you explain this to him without outright embarrassing him?

You started “Erm.. Well—“

“Lieutenant cottontail!! There you are.” Another deep voice cut you off as he stepped into the tent.

“..Salvador.”

It was another burly man of Marcelle’s size, big muscular and intimidating handsome..

But this one was a stark contrast to him, he seemed more extroverted and.. louder, you suppose.

His black hair fell over his face loosely, styled in a messy half-up-half-down type of way.

His gaze shifted to you, eyes widening just a little bit, giving you a curious look.

“hello there.. sorry for the intrusion, muñeca.” He waved at you, his shoulders relaxed.

You stayed quiet, before just nodding your head.

“You must be the new nurse, right?” He walked closer to you, you tried to ignore how his boots were tracking blood and mud into the sterile tent..

“C-correct.” He leaned down to your level for a moment, observing you intently for a moment, his dark eyes narrowed.

You were about to pop a blood vessel, you could hear the blood pumping through your ears frantically, did you do something wrong? Why was he looking at you like that?

“..You’re pretty cute.” He whispered to himself before he backed away completely, swiveling around to greet the blonde man on the cot.

“We have a new unit of rookies, cmon.” The new man(Salvador) motioned with his head for the other male to get moving.

“See you around, (Y/N).” The black haired one bid his goodbye with a nod of his head and a pat to your head.

The blonde one stared at you for a second, you swear you saw the corners of his lips twitch up slightly before muttering a farewell too.

…

Marcelle might have been struck with Cupid’s arrow. Unfortunately it seemed that he wasn’t the only one under the mischievous cherub’s control.

his “friend” had been shot too. Marcelle could tell, Salvador was laidback and a good personality, complete contrast to him but even with that arrogant exterior Salvador adored to display, Marcelle knew that something changed.

When he spoke to you the tips of his ears were slightly flushed, he toned down his prideful side too, truly a miracle.

as far as Marcelle knew, Salvador loathed physical touch. However he didn’t hesitate to brush against you. Male-Whore.

And what did the blonde man do this whole time? Seethe as he watched the interaction. He was pushing 34 years old and he was still too shy to speak to a girl. Pathetic.

He now had competition, he hoped that it was just a puppy crush and would lay over and be forgotten by Salvador and him.

Oh how wrong he was.

…

It had been a while since you begun to feel at home at base, and now you had.. friends, you suppose.

Those two soldiers were becoming close to your heart, both of them paying you almost daily visits, gifting you small trinkets they found and wild flowers from their outings.

Salvador liked giving you flowers, especially red ones for some reason, he was the more flirtatious one out of the pair, but you just laughed it off. not like he could have feelings for a puny person like you, could he? He was probably playing with you..

God, are you dense or do you think he doesn’t like you? Salvador has tried everything, he has flirted, shown that you are special to HIM, he has gotten rid of all the nuisances, he literally worships the ground you walk on and you still don’t get that he is hopelessly I love with you?!

Marcelle was sweet, you honestly didn’t expect it from him, he always had an annoyed look and seemed milliseconds away from tearing your head off your shoulders clean.

But he was.. basically a human sized teddy bear—at least towards you. He liked physical proximity(surprisingly), gently hugging your head closer to his chest, burying his nose into your hair, you name it.

Salvador never had any of it, shooting nasty looks at Marcelle and muttering jabs at him, They were both like two brothers fighting over a plushie.

Somehow they both would always end up hugging a part of your body after bickering for a while.

Lately there has been various soldier deaths, strangely enough they were men you knew, both in your good and not so good graces.

They were admitted into the infirmary for life threatening wounds and most of the time died due to blood loss or a punctured organ.

It was traumatic. Having to drag the body out and into a sealed bag to the corresponding family.

Your ears pricked at the sound of screams, you were used to hearing those cries for help. You learned throughout so many years that you were to mind your business, not to investigate and much less wander near the forest.

Bloodcurdling screams resounded from the woods, only the birds and bears present to hear the sound of death.

A blonde man grabbed onto the lower jaw of the bloodied man lying on the floor, thick fingers lodging onto the frenulum of his mouth.

The sound of cartilage tearing reached his ears, a sick laugh reverberating from his chest as blood streamed out the injured soldiers mouth.

“Fancy seeing you here.” A lax voice sounded from behind Marcelle.

Salvador dragged a body with him, creating a dark trail of guts and blood on the dirt flooring.

The man Marcelle was finishing with flailed and cried on the ground, his tongue sticking out from his mouth as there was no more jaw to hang on to.

He flailed for help to the black haired fellow, only for his hopes to be crushed when he started laughing at his misery.

“I know this guy. He groped (Y/N) did he not?” Salvador cracked a rare smile, walking up to the male on the floor and landing a powerful kick to his gut.

Blood gurgled out his mouth, eyes wide as he stared up at both of the devils with fear.

Marcelle scoffed, nodding his head as he placed his foot on his head, applying pressure on hid frontal lobe until it exploded.

Making a mess of blood and brains under his black boot, even after death Marcelle had decided he hadn’t had enough though.

Lifting his leg he stomped down on his head, over and over. And over. And over again.

The deceased man’s face was unrecognizable, being pulverized into the soil as only remnants of skin and meat suggested there was a head on his body once.

Marcelle ripped his name off his uniform, taking out his lighter and burning it.

Salvador threw his own body next to the headless corpse, nudging it with his foot lightly before spitting on the corpses.

“Let’s go. (Y/N) is waiting for us.” Marcelle mumbled, eyeing the bodies one last time before leaving.

You enjoyed your lunch with both the soldiers. But you couldn’t help but notice the slight red tint to Marcelle’s usually honey blonde hair. The red under Salvador’s nails scared you, but you just figured they must have hurt themselves.

You tried to ignore the insanity behind the pair’s eyes as they stared at you, they were looking at you as if they had placed their hearts on silver platters and were waiting for you to take them.

You just smiled, thinking it was just your mind playing tricks on you from exhaustion. Sadly that wasn’t the case. ♡

#yandere x reader #smilesyanderes #yandere #male yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere oc #MarcellePosting #SalvadorPosting #yandere x darling #im too tired to double check my writing so enjoy!!#COD inspired ig #Credit to kodaswrld for divider

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blackmarketvoices · 4 months ago

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So you’re clever, not just handsome. Good. That will make this easier.

Charliegolightly in collaboration with Black Market Voices returns with CORRUPTED: THE PODFIC - CHAPTER THREE: D.B. COOPER OF THE DEMON WORLD

We're honored to help produce and distribute this incredible work, and we're delighted to have Charlie be part of our team! LISTEN HERE WATCH HERE …now also on your favorite platforms! https://blackmarketvoicesplatforms.carrd.co/ Follow us on our official socials for future updates!

#malevolent #malevolent podcast #malevolent fanfic #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #malevolent podfic #tma podfic #podfic #hastur #the king in yellow #tma #timothy stoker #tma tim #chapter three

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yuansie · 2 months ago

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(1) even when there was rain, sunshine came

pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)

synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.

genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l

warnings. slight ooc caleb (i have not read homecoming or wtv that chapter is called BC BLUESTACKS DOES NOT WANT ME TO FINISH LONG AWAITED REVELRY OR WTV THAT CHAPTER IS CALLED IM STUCK ON CH12...), NOT canon compliant oops (no higher being placing a curse on zayne, no experimentation done on mc and caleb bc josephine is a good person this time BYEEEE), reader has neglectful parent(s) in the beginning kind of, mentions/descriptions of crying, mc is female (she doesn't have a name in here either). if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!

rating. sfw but make it lowk very angsty but fluffy ish at the same time.

wc. 8.2 k

a/n. live love laugh angst (but with a happy ending) and live love laugh not proof reading and SORRY FOR NOT UPLOADING THIS EARLIERRR uni sucks booty fr !! also, i've come to the decision that i will just make this into a mini series, having about 5-10 chapters maximum !! the ideas keep coming, and i'd like to take a different approach to this prompt/world i've build for this nonmc! reader in an actual caleb series much like my rafayel one! also decided to make it into a mini series bc i cant keep writing and expanding on this and leave yall hanging for longer IOEOIFJAWEOI

YOU’RE EIGHT YEARS OLD WHEN YOU MEET CALEB. it was in the last days of summer, right before the leaves began turning red and yellow and orange. you remember your dad telling you that an older lady moved into the house across from yours, that there two kids living with her: a girl younger than you and a boy your age though a couple months older. he said something about the girl having a special condition but the words went through your ear and out the other because you didn’t care about them; you knew you wouldn’t talk to them anyways.

then, your dad left to go to work and you were all alone.

you were always alone, and you felt that loneliness every second, acutely aware at how it bleeds into your soul and makes you so, so sad. it’s what makes you head to the park two houses down the street and sit at the big, oak tree there. your favorite thing to do is climb it and sit on one of the bigger branches around its middle, feeling as if you could reach the sky and escape these heavy feelings. you blame your dad for making you like this: for making you think that the heavens can help you escape your heavy feelings. he told you once, on a night where he was in charge of tucking you in while your mom worked late at the hospital, that he loves the sky and how it makes him feel like all of his worries are nothing but a speck of dust. he made you think that one day, you could reach the sky and feel what he felt. if you reached out enough, you would be free.

but today you had no energy to do that.

as soon as you reached the oak tree, you sat down and rested your back against the trunk. your eyes watered instantaneously, cold tears dripping down your cheek and to the tip of your chin as you tucked your knees into your chest, your arms holding them in place so they could keep your weeping heart warm. you were so lost in your overflowing sorrow that you didn’t notice a boy running to the tree, not even when he stood three steps away from you.

“why are you crying?”

you snapped your head upwards.

the boy looked surprised, his purple eyes as large as the moon as he stared at you. his back was to the sun, covering him in a golden glow. he didn't say anything as he knelt down, his brows furrowed.

you hiccuped and looked away, angrily staring at your house from where you sat. “go away, stranger.” you see the older boy that lives next door when you avert your gaze from your home. it’s zayne—you recall your mom telling you that you used to have playdates together when you were younger. obviously, you don’t anymore. you don't even speak to one another—perhaps, he thinks being friends with a girl two years younger than him is not worth his time.

you don’t blame him for thinking that; after all, your own parents probably think the same.

before your mind spirals into the inky void that tells you bad things, the boy speaks up. “my name is caleb! now i’m not a stranger, right?” you glance at him from the corner of your eye. caleb grins at you, his smile as bright as the sun. it’s too blinding, you decide, and drop your gaze to the ground. “i guess not…” you mumble.

“so that means we’re friends!” caleb laughs when you quickly look at him again, surprise evident in your features. “now you can tell me why you’re sad!”

you wrack through your brain to come up with an excuse and end up stuttering out, “b-but you don’t know my name!”

“you’re y/n, right?” he laughs again when your jaw drops in comical way, gasping for air in between his next words. “ha! g-gran… talked t-to your… parents!” caleb wheezes, tears in his eyes. “y-your parents told us about you!” once he calms down, caleb lets out a sigh as he sits next to you, nudging your shoulder. “c’mon, you can tell me why you’re so sad now.”

you look back at your house, frowning at how lonely it looked. “i… i don’t think my parents love me.”

“what?”

“i mean,” you rest your head on your knees, your voice now muffled. “they’re never home and they never spend time with me.”

your dad is often away, being the colonel and all, which means he’s gone for months at a time. it wasn’t always like that, but things changed when that forsaken tunnel appeared above the city. your dad was one of the first to answer the call, to fly in the sky to protect the world from wanderers. so it isn’t his fault and neither is it your mom’s that they’re never there. she’s a doctor, a colleague of your next door neighbor's parents.

it is not your fault they are both needed by more people and by more important matters.

caleb’s about to say something when a girl calls out his name, running until she stands in front of you two. you don’t pay attention to her, and instead keep your eyes focused on your house. you wish your parents were home more, that they’d spend more time with you. the girl ends up leaving after she speaks to caleb, who watches her go with a careful eye.

“sorry about that,” he says, scratching his cheek. “gran sent her to tell me it’s time for lunch, but don’t worry! i’ll stay here with you until your parents are back!”

you blink at him, feeling your eyes start to burn. “you’ll stay?”

“mhm!” he smiles, and this time you actually don’t turn away. caleb laughs softly, leaning forwards to wipe away at the tears that fall from your wide eyes. “why are you crying again?”

you didn’t even notice that you had stopped in the first place. “i-i don’t know.” you do know.

it's the first time someone ever stayed with you in a long time.

caleb, surprisingly, calmed you down in a matter of seconds. he stayed with you until the sun began to set, when the blue sky became tinted by orange and pink. he made time go by fast, making you smile and laugh until your cheeks and stomach hurt. and he was surprisingly attentive, noticing immediately the way you perked up when you saw your mom’s car drive down the road and stop in front of your home.

“you ready to go now?” caleb stood up and stuck his hand out, waiting for you to grab it.

“your hand is warm,” you mumble, gripping tightly onto his hand as you lead the way back to your house.

he giggles and nudges your shoulder. “my hand is warm?”

“mhm.” it’s very warm, akin to the blankets you wrap yourself with during the cold days of winter.

and just like that you were at your front door, shyly waving goodbye before going inside. the doorbell rang shortly afterwards, yet before you could open the door, your mom had already done so. you left and headed up the stairs and into your room, telling yourself you’ll eat something after your mom retires for the night.

but that never happens.

because the strangest thing happened afterwards: your mom came up to your room and talked to you, apologizing for making you feel lonely and abandoned.

you know it was caleb’s doing: why else would your mom be like this?

without meaning to, caleb planted a seed in your heart that day.

when you’re ten, you realize that you’ve changed the slightest bit. you’re a little more outspoken, a little more confident in yourself; and your world that was once monochrome is now full of color, full of warmth and life.

you have memories where you’re laughing until your stomach hurts, where you’re learning to love apple and bake apple pies to perfection, where you’re learning to do cartwheels with the little girl while his laughter echoes in the air. it’s all thanks to caleb—he reached out to you, deciding to integrate you into his world. you’re forever thankful that he decided to talk to you two years ago, thankful that he spoke to your parents about your feelings because otherwise you would be stuck in the dark.

caleb has brought light and warmth into your life, and now you are never cold and lonely. he even sticks to you like glue at school, never leaving you alone for a second in the classroom because somehow you always manage to be in the same class as him. sometimes you grow tired of having to keep up with the energetic boy, sometimes the fatigue wearing your bones down and rendering you useless. caleb seems to know when that happens, or maybe he doesn’t. what matters is that he seems to time his golden smile; it is a smile so radiant that it melts away what weighs you down.

and always being with him has made you adopt some of his habits, his attentiveness being the one that shines through the most. it’s what makes you notice your next door neighbor. days of careful glances makes you learn that he’s always reading on the porch of his house or he’ll do the same inside by the window, that he’s never with any other kids his age and that he’s never at the park.

maybe you should talk to him and—

“y/n~” caleb nudges your shoulder. you jerk in surprise and wobble on the tree branch you both sit on, gripping tightly onto the wood while you lean forwards from your lack of balance. the boy yelps and takes a firm hold of your arm, stabilizing you. “you scared me!”

you huff, glaring at him. “you scared me! i could've fallen just now, dimwit.”

he pouts, “but that's your fault! you weren't listening to me.”

“yes i was!”

“oh yeah?” caleb raises an eyebrow. “then what was i saying?” he snickers when you don't reply, gently nudging your shoulders this time because he learns from his mistakes, you know! “see? i was right. you keep staring over there.” he gestures in the general direction of where you keep staring. his finger touches the green leaves of the tree, the tips fading into a yellow color.

autumn is coming. not yet, but it will be there in due time.

you decide to tease him a little. “pft, you’re pointing at the leaves.”

his lips curl into a frown. “you know what i—”

“caleb!”

the eight year old girl comes running up to the tree, huffing as she points up at your best friend. “i-it’s time for dinner!” she tilts her head over at you, beaming. “gran said you can come, sis!”

caleb looks at you, “you coming?”

you smile at the girl before shaking your head, moving towards the tree trunk. “i need to do something,” you grunt, shimmying down whereas he just jumps off the branch and lands with a thud. the girls gasps and you gape at him with wide eyes once your feet hit the ground, “are you okay?”

“a-okay!” he grins, standing up proudly as if he didn’t just scare the living daylight out of you. caleb flexes a boney arm, “i’m strong, after all!”

“yeah, okay hercules.” you chortle, rolling your eyes. “i’ll see you around.”

you watch as he and she wave goodbye at you, caleb hooking their arms together as they disappear into their house afterwards. you notice that there's a tightness in your chest when you see them hold hands or hook their arms together—it happens sometimes, not always. like right now: your chest tightens a little, feeling heavy. you chalk it up to wanting to do that with caleb one day and go your merry way.

your mom is startled when she opens the front door just as you reach out for the doorknob. she holds a container with cake inside. “goodness,” she chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek. “you scared me.”

“are you going next door again?” you move to the side so your mom can walk out.

she hums, “i am! i left some—”

“can i come this time?” you usually don't go to the dinners your mom has with zayne’s family every friday, always heading to hers and caleb’s house instead despite your mom’s best efforts in convincing you to join her. you always had an inkling that she wanted you to spend time with the older boy next door.

your mom beams at you so wide that you’re taken aback as she drags you to the li’s front door. did it really mean that much to her that you want to join this time? well, you’re on a mission to get close to zayne so that he can have friends too.

speaking of the devil, the door opens immediately after your mom presses the doorbell, revealing the older boy. his eyes widen the slightest bit when he sees you, though he quickly regains composure, his features relaxing. with a small smile, he greets your mom. “hello, mrs l/n.” he directs his gaze at you next, “hi y/n.”

you blink in surprise. “…hi zayne.” you didn’t expect him to remember you because you don't particularly remember much about him.

he steps aside just as his mom appears from behind, momentary shock melting into a warm smile. “y/n! i’m so happy to see you! will she be joining us?” her eyes flit up to your mom, who nods excitedly.

you’re ushered inside and into a seat not even a second after being welcomed in. “we always have a plate and cutlery out in case you stop by,” mrs li says. a lump forms in your throat and it’s hard to swallow. you feel awful, knowing that every time you chose to stay with caleb, the li family had hope that you’d stop by and eat with them.

still, you somehow manage to smile at the older lady. “i’ll make sure to come with my mom from now on.”

“really?”

you nod. “of course,” holding out your pinkie, mrs li laughs and hooks her own with yours. “i promise.”

mrs li heads into the kitchen with your mom, leaving you and zayne alone at the dining table. he sits in the chair next to you and you fidget in your seat, not sure how to break the stifling silence. what would caleb do in this moment? he’d probably say something stupid or just go ahead and ask to be friends… that’s something only he could do easily, but for you? that’s a challenge.

“you look worried.” zayne says, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

you frown and play with your fingers, “was it that noticeable?”

zayne hums as the two moms come back with pots of food while chatting about your dad. “you aren't doing a good job at being subtle.”

his comment makes you huff through your nose, the corners of your lips curling upwards. caleb says that to you all the time, claiming that you make it is easy for him to read you.

“smiling suits you.”

you stop breathing and stare at the boy with raven hair, slowly blinking while the moms plate the food and continue talking. zayne glances at you again and then looks at his plate, eyebrows furrowed as he picks up a fork and pokes at the carrots, nudging them into a corner. “did i say something wrong?” he mumbles.

he didn't say anything wrong… it’s just that no one has said that to you. not even after your change, even if it was a small one.

not even caleb.

you shake your head, “no.” coughing, your eyes shift to his hands, seeing how he stabs the last carrot on his plate and places it in the corner along with the rest. “you… you still don’t like carrots?” you vaguely recall a memory from when you were about five: you and zayne were eating a plate of oranges when he suddenly spat it out and a chewed piece of carrot was then laying on the table. his mom had cut small pieces of carrot inside his bowl alone with the oranges, trying to trick him into eating them.

zayne’s hazel eyes widen. “you remember?”

with a snort, you answer, “you spit out the carrots every time your mom tried tricking you into eating them. that’s pretty hard to forget, if you’re asking me.”

his ears flush the lightest shade of pink, making you giggle as your fingers wrap around his plate, rotating it. with your other hand, you grab your fork and take his carrots.

“…thank you.”

“i should be thanking you,” you hum, “i love carrots.”

whereas you and caleb are polar opposites and only have a thing in common, you and zayne are not. you’re so alike: reserved and quiet, both sticking to what you deem is the vicinity of your personal bubble. it was easy to befriend him again; by the end of what remained of summer, you had introduced him to caleb and her. it did take a month and a half of convincing, of relentless pleading that convinced zayne to follow you to the park where she and caleb were playing as usual.

caleb and zayne didn't get along well right off the bat, and they always argued. it took you aback in the beginning, not used to seeing caleb argue so… pettishly with someone. much less with zayne. zayne baffles you every time he mutters under his breath about how caleb is ‘so annoying’ because all he does is talk about dinosaurs or is ‘a child’ during friday dinners at his house. well, he is a child, so he’s not wrong there. but with that logic, he should also be calling you a child and yet he doesn’t.

zayne does, however, get along well with her.

you see it in zayne’s attentiveness to the young girl, you see it in the way his voice softens when he speaks to her, and you see it in the way he hangs onto her every word as if it were something sacred.

you also see it in the way his ears sometimes turn the lightest shade of pink when he speaks to her.

when you think about it, they’re both alike in that way.

the sun is in the sky, bright and warm like the boy next to you.

“he’s trying to steal her from me,” grumbles caleb. he swings his legs back and forth while the two of you sit on a tree branch, zayne and the girl sitting underneath on the other side of the tree. she’s teaching him how to braid a crown of flowers, and you can see the small curl of his lips. he’s smiling a shy sort of smile only reserved for her.

“he can’t steal her from you because she isn’t an object.” you tear your eyes away from them and focus on the brooding boy beside you, taking note of how he pinches his brows together and pouts, mumbling something under his breath. while the branches and its leaves provide good shade from the sweltering heat, there is still sunlight that peeks through gaps, and golden specks manage to coat caleb’s figure. “that means you can’t have her either, cal.”

your words have him turning to you quickly, his eyes wide. “i can’t have her?”

“of course not!” your silent admiration of seconds ago dissipates as you scoff, flicking his forehead. he yelps as you continue, “she’s a person! you can’t have people; that’s weird.”

“but that monster is stealing my best friend!”

you frown, blinking once. “zayne isn’t a monster.” but caleb sure seems like one at the moment, you think. a monster of green envy.

“yes he is!”

“zayne is not a monster.” you repeat, irritation beginning to bubble in your chest because caleb wouldn't be saying such things if he didn't have this weird rivalry going on with zayne. “don’t say that about him.”

“why are you defending him anyways?” caleb narrows his eyes at you. “you’re supposed to be my friend—”

friend. best friend. you realize he hasn't ever really called you his best friend because she’s his best friend while you think he's yours. if he doesn't think that of you, then you can’t think that of him… right?

you both whip your heads to the ground, clambering down the tree as zayne calls out both yours and caleb’s name. if his voice hadn’t betrayed the frantic feeling swirling in it, maybe you wouldn’t have this overwhelming sense of dread. when you both round the tree trunk, you see that his face is pale, and he’s holding onto her. she’s trembling, her face paler than zayne’s as if all the color had been drained from her features, and she’s heaving and trembling uncontrollably. the sight makes your stomach drop to the ground as caleb dashes forwards, dropping to his knees while yelling about getting granny josephine to them. you honestly don't remember running to their house, asking josephine to help the little girl—it’s all a blur. all you can remember is how the two boys finally had something in common other than their care for the younger girl: their expression.

they were both horrified.

and you wonder if you looked like them.

your eleventh autumn was just like any other, but this time it was different because of him.

you decided to stay the night after having dinner at zayne’s so he could help you study for your science test on monday. caleb would have been the one helping you, being in the same classes and all, but he was helping her study. while you do love and care about her, you care more about your grades because surely the tests in middle school are harder than the ones in elementary, right?

you’ve been inside zayne’s room before. more often than not, after dinner, you’d end up in there with him while talking about everything and nothing. sometimes you’d both be quiet, content with just being next to each other while reading a book on his bed, and sometimes you both would talk about current hobbies and interests.

“where will you sleep?” zayne’s voice comes from near his bed while you head towards his desk.

“in your bed, duh.” your eyes skim over the surface, chuckling at how tidy it is… until your eyes fall on a haphazardly hidden pieces of paper underneath zayne’s stack of notebooks. weird, you think. zayne likes keeping notebooks, books, and papers separate from each other.

“why would you sleep in bed with me?” he asks.

“we used to sleep in the same bed when we were children.” which is true: your moms have a photo book with evidence in it from your younger days together. “i don’t see why we can’t if we’re still children.”

you hear him huff through his nose. he’s probably pinching it right now. “you’re eleven and i’m thirteen. you’re a child and i’m a teenager.”

“didn’t you say that teenagers are fourteen-year-olds and up the other day?” your fingers wrap around one of the notebook’s spine, carefully lifting it and whatver notebooks are on top and pull the pieces of papers out.

your eyes scan the contents of one of the pages, highlighted words aiding in your understanding of what it is that you’re reading. medical school… majors… he’s looking at colleges.

“well, yes.”

you turn around and hide the papers behind you. “so that means we can share the same bed, right?”

zayne sighs, shaking his head while his lips curl upwards just the slightest bit. “you win this round, miss know-it-all.”

you grin at him and bring the papers out. “you sure i’m a know-it-all?”

the older boy stares at the papers you wave in the air, staying silent as if trying to find the words to explain something to you. you raise your eyebrows. “staying silent makes you look like you were hiding something from me.”

“well… i am. was, i was.” zayne corrects himself and sits down at the edge of his bed, patting the space next to him. you take a seat and eye him. “i’ve been trying to tell you this past summer that… well…” he sighs. “i skipped grades.”

“oh—” you gasp, eyes widening to the size of saucers. “so this means…”

majors.

medical school.

he’s grad—

he exhales slowly. “i’m graduating from high school this year.”

you feel the world go still. you hear your breathing. you feel cold. suddenly, you feel deep and heavy dread wash over you.

after this year, zayne will leave.

your best friend is leaving you.

“why are you crying?” zayne panics, clumsily wiping the tears you didn’t know were falling down your cheeks. the pad of his thumb is a little rough against your skin, but his touch is soft. he’s trying to be gentle, and it makes you feel more gloomy.

“i don’t know,” you mumble, hiccupping as you look down at your hands, watching the tears he doesn’t manage to wipe away fall onto them. “it’s just…” do you tell him? that you don’t want him to leave you alone? sure, caleb is a great friend but you’ve come to realize, since the incident last summer, that she will always be his top priority and—

majors. medical school… her.

“you’re doing this for her, aren’t you?” your voice is quiet.

you love her, you do. she’s like a little sister, and you obviously care for her like they do. but they care more, they love her more. you don’t quite understand the intensity of their love for her. and despite their burning ardor in wanting to be there for her and how it always ends up making you invisible, you can’t bring yourself to ever hate her. she’s innocent, just living her life while the two boys flock to her. she didn’t ask for their attention or love, it’s just that she’s so easy to love.

“…don’t tell her.” zayne’s hands fall from your cheeks and grab onto your hands. his touch is cold, unlike caleb, but it doesn’t make you flinch away from him. you let him take your hands into his, holding them carefully. “please.”

you huff through your nose. “if that’s what you want,” you answer. “it isn’t my place to tell them, anyways.”

it’s quiet, peaceful almost if you weren’t so caught up in the sinking feeling your chest. your heart just sinks and continues to sink in black ink, growing heavy. zayne’s voice timidly calls out your name. “you’re still crying. there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“i don’t want you to leave.” because if he leaves, you’re afraid that you’ll have to admit the ugly truth you know, deep down, about caleb. it’s a truth that is so clear to everyone, a truth that you see every single time they’re in their own world. a world that pushes you and zayne out like the waves when they leave shore and retreat back into the ocean.

the older buy chuckles, and you look at him through your wet lashes, noting how his hazel eyes flicker with quiet care in them. “i’m not leaving yet.”

“keyword being yet,” you mumble, gripping onto his hands now. “…i’m being dramatic, aren’t i?”

zayne opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. “i should be happy that you’re doing something so cool. i mean, skipping basically all of high school and graduating super early? that’s so cool… and i’m here crying like a baby over it.”

“but your reaction is reasonable,” zayne says. “i’d be upset, too, if my best friend told me all of sudden they’d be leaving at the end of the school year.”

best friend. not just friend.

“i’m your best friend?”

“naturally.” zayne responds quickly. “you know me better than anyone, just as i know you better than anyone.”

just like that, your tears stop falling and the sun peeks out from the cloudy sky inside you.

the rest of the night goes smoothly: zayne helped you study for your science test, which you both found boring after an hour because all of the questions were easy, and you spent the rest of your time talking with him. you wanted to know of his plans, what he’s thinking, about what he wants to do after graduating. you both fell asleep in the midst of your conversation, though you wake up at three in the morning because you felt weird. your own body was telling you that you forgot to do your night routine. so when you wake up, all blurry-eyed and dazed, the first thing you can see is your sleeping best friend. after a couple of blinks, your vision clears up and you’re aware that you’re close to him. in fact, you’re close enough to see and count his dark eyelashes. you pout, no way he has prettier eyelashes than i do. the thought goes away as quickly as it had formed in your mind, replaced by the icky realization that you fell asleep without brushing your teeth. so you sit up, gently waking zayne so he could do the same. when he stirs awake and stares at you with squinting eyes, he knows what you mean when all you do is wordlessly point at your mouth despite the sleepy haze of his mind. and just like that, you both silently head to the bathroom and brush your teeth next to each other, quickly going back to his bed and falling asleep once more.

when morning came, you both find yourselves staring at his mom with confusion as she giggles and repeatedly asks how you both slept during breakfast. you think she must have seen something while you both slept, though you decide to let your suspicions go when you bid the li family goodbye and head next door to your house.

mom will probably tell me about it later tonight, you think just as you shove your house keys into the lock. you push the door open and kick your shoes off your feet, sliding them to the side and slipping into your slippers when you step inside. you hear someone running down the street, and right when you’re about to close the door, you hear your name being called out.

“i didn’t see you at all yesterday!” caleb runs up to you, a bright grin plastered on his lips. with his back to the sun, he looks as if he's bathed in gold. “pips missed you, you know? what were you up to that—what’s that?”

you blink once and suddenly he’s in your bubble, burning fingers gingerly touching your eye. you close it on instinct, and he runs his thumb over your eyelid. you can see yourself reflected in his eyes from this close. his warmth seeps into your skin, and you have the urge to lean into his touch. your heart lurches and skips a beat, feeling excited and calm at the same time.

“what’s what?” you cough, taking a step back.

he frowns, his thumb now under your bottom lashes. “your eyes are red and puffy. are you sick or something? you feel oddly hot.”

oh, that’s right. you cried yesterday, and you feel as if your heart is ready to jump out of your chest and into his arms where it wishes it could be.

“i’m fine. it’s just that i watched a sad movie after dinner with zayne,” you sigh, gently pushing his fingers away from your eyes. zayne’s words echo in your head, a quiet reminder that you can't tell caleb because he’d tell her right afterwards.

caleb huffs through his nose, his lips curling into an amused smile. he shakes his head once, his purple irises reflecting the warmth he radiates. “you do cry a lot while watching movies, don’t you?” he leans back and tilts his head at you. “alright.”

you furrow your eyebrows. “alright… what?”

“even though you’re clearly hiding something from me, i believe you.” caleb pinches your cheek, the amusement in his lips softening. “i’ll see you later?”

“yeah…” you say, dazed, but shake your head quickly. “wait, what are we doing?”

caleb laughs, the hand pinching your cheek now covering his mouth, “don’t tell me you forgot that we’re supposed to study for the science test on monday?”

“about that…” you look away from him. “zayne helped me study for it last night.”

his silence has you taking a quick glance at him. caleb seems shocked and his eyebrow twitches, though it disappears and is replaced by something you can’t quite describe. a forced smile of sorts? “he helped you study?” he asks. “then what’s your verdict? will the test be easy or hard?”

you scratch your cheek, thinking. “well… even though he helped me study for a bit, i say the test is going to be very easy.”

“guess that means i won’t study.” caleb shrugs and ruffles your hair, a real smile on his lips now. “talk to you later, short stuff.”

“i am not that short, cal!” ever since he’s grown an exact inch taller than you, he acts like you're a midget now.

you watch as he waves goodbye, walking backwards for a couple steps with a laugh before twisting around and heading down the street. he’s probably heading to the small dessert shop nearby to pick up some of her favorite doughnuts—it’s what he does every saturday morning.

your twelfth autumn marks your first one without zayne.

he left at the end of summer, right as the tips of the green-yellow leaves on your favorite tree began turning a slight orange, barely noticeable. his disappearance had gone unnoticed until yesterday, half way into the fall quarter and midway into october. you’re in the middle of reading a book, one of your dad’s that he let you borrow, on his bed laying on your stomach while caleb helps her do her homework at his desk. he has a singular picture on it that he puts down whenever you're over, but you never ask why he does that.

“where is zayne?” she wondered aloud, tapping her pencil against her chin. “i haven’t seen him around lately.”

“huh,” caleb clicks his tongue in thought. “now that you mention it, neither have i.”

both their eyes land on you, though you don’t bother looking up. with practiced ease, you reply. “i haven’t seen him around.”

“but you go to his house every friday? and he’s your best friend? surely you know something.” she leans forwards in her chair, trying to get a better look at you.

“i go every friday because i made a promise to his mom,” you retort, finally looking up. with a shrug, you continue, “his mom hasn’t said anything about his whereabouts, so i’m just as clueless as you bunch.”

the girl drops it, a smile now on her lips. “your dad is coming home soon, right?”

you blink in surprise. “you remember?” you mentioned it in passing, it was when she and you were watching caleb during basketball tryouts. you told her that your dad would be coming back soon from the fleet, how you were excited to finally see him after so long.

caleb huffs a laugh through his nose, “of course she remembers, short stuff.”

you grimace, rolling onto your side and reach out to grab something in your vicinity, which happens to be a pen on his bedside, and fling it towards him. “you are literally just a couple inches taller than me, cal.” he’s actually a whole head taller than you now, and caleb's growing into his features. his cheeks have started losing their softness, his eyes a little sharper now. he has a natural, boyish charm, something that makes everyone notice him at school.

he loudly laughs, the pen stopping right in front of him before he swats it away. it lands with a clatter against the floor, somewhere in his room. with a huff, you lay on your back. “better work on that aim, short stuff~” he sings, getting up from his desk and heading over to his bed. you look up at him, your lips pursed as he pinches your cheek, purple eyes warm with mirth. his hair falls over his eyes, making its color look deeper. “how else are you going to get into the aerospace academy with me?”

you raise your brows, “you're acting as if you're already in.”

“well—”

the girl hums. “so you both want to leave me.”

just like that, caleb is back at her side and you’re all alone. “i would never leave you, pips.”

“pinkie promise?”

you watch from the corner of your eye how he wears a soft smile as they wrap their pinkies, his touch lingering.

you aren't stupid; in fact, you pride yourself in being so smart and attentive. so, you know that the tightness in your chest is because of caleb, because of the feelings you harbor for him. you aren't stupid, so you already know that caleb can never be yours, that he can never feel that way for you.

because he is hers.

with a sigh, you close your eyes and will yourself to calm your aching heart. you should be used to the ache that settles in your chest when this happens, but here you are.

later that day, right as the sun begins to set, you bid her and granny josephine goodbye. the taste of her apple pie from dinner lingers in your mouth.

“you don’t have to walk me home, cal.” you say, chuckling as you bump shoulders with him. instead of walking across the street, you walk down the sidewalk.

he hums, following you, “just let me be a good friend, short stuff.”

“you just love rubbing it in, don’t you?” you grumble, stepping into the park. your feet take you to the tree until you’re in front of it. you look behind you, raising an eyebrow at caleb. “i’ll stay here for a few minutes, so you can leave if you want.”

“i’ll stay.” at his confirmation, he moves past you, a faint scent of apples lingering in the air along with the sweet, woody smell from the oak tree as he scales up the trunk with ease. “your turn!”

“yeah, yeah.” you huff, rolling your eyes as you climb the tree and make it to the branch caleb chose to sit at. you breathe in and out slowly.

“the tunnel makes the sky look ugly.”

you snort, slightly baffled at the sudden proclamation from the boy. “where did that come from?”

“what?” caleb shrugs with a laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “it does make it look ugly. like, really ugly.”

your quiet giggles get louder, and you throw your head back. “that is the first time i have ever heard anyone say that.” you wheeze, your laughter so strong you wobble on the branch. caleb wraps an arm around you to keep you from falling, his touch making you still instantly.

“you need to be careful,” he says. “one of these days you’re going to end up falling and i’ll fall with you.”

“if i ever fall, it’ll be because of you.” you cough and attempt to shimmy away from him, though his grip slightly tightens, preventing you from getting away.

the brunette absentmindedly taps on your arm with a finger. “i’d never let you fall… you know that.”

he’s saying that because you're his friend, and he is fiercely protective of those he cares about: the people in his inner circle. you are a part of it, you know that, and yet your heart cannot help but to stupidly flutter at the illusion of a hidden meaning behind his words.

“…it’s getting late.” which is true—the oranges and pinks of the sunset are now bleeding into a purple hue. “i should get going now.” you don't wait for him to say anything; you just climb down the trees as quickly and possible and book it to your home.

caleb is not far behind you.

stepping on the first step of your house’s porch, you stop and turn around. you’re eye to eye with caleb.

caleb wears a boyish grin on his lips, something that makes your stomach flip. “i have something for you.”

“oh? and what would that be?” the corners of your lips turn upwards.

“how about you close your eyes?” you shut your eyes, hearing intently to the boy shuffling. you feel a warmth brush against your cheek, trailing over to the back your neck. “give me a second.”

you hold your breath. caleb’s fingers work nimbly, and something cold hangs around your neck. there’s silence for a beat; he’s still close enough for you to hear his breathing until he leans away. “open your eyes.”

they flutter open at his command, and flitter down to see a necklace. there is a cloud with a wispy appearance right at the bottom, and small translucent beads hang from it in white and blue. the chain around your neck is decorated with solid white and blue beads.

“do you like it?” caleb scratches his neck, eyes carefully watching your reaction.

your voice comes out quiet, shy. “i do.”

you hear the smile in his voice. “i’ve been trying to give it to you since your birthday.”

“what?” looking up from the necklace, you blink at him repeatedly. “but my birthday—”

“i know.” he laughs softly, shaking his head. “i’ve had it since last year, and… i just didn’t know how to give it to you. i thought now would be a good time.”

i thought now would be a good time.

his words echo in your mind, and you take a deep breath. you also have something you want to give him: it’s sitting in the drawer of your desk, in a small box. “do you… do you want to come inside?”

you’ve never invited anyone inside your house, inside the walls that is your safe space. zayne is the only one who has stepped foot inside, who has made it up the stairs and into your room on more than one occasion. caleb used to bug you about that when you two first met, into the early months of your friendship. he thought it was weird that you were always over at his home while he had never gone inside yours. his complaints stopped when you introduced zayne to them—probably because he didn’t want to be around him despite the desire he had to discover what lays hidden in your home. you like to think that he finally decided to wait until you were ready to show him what’s inside.

caleb’s eyes are wide with surprise. “you want me to go inside?”

“i also have something for you.”

despite the poor lighting of the porch lamp, caleb is still akin to gold. he smiles and you turn around to unlock the front door, your heart thumping loudly in your chest. when you open the door and hold it open for him, caleb is all too quick to walk inside, following you up the stairs into your room after you shut the door. his eyes scan the inside of your room as soon as you turn on the lights, shuffling over to your desk as he stands by the doorframe. the color of your walls are a light blue, strings attached to the ceiling with paper clouds hanging at the end. he realizes there’s glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling after squinting. there’s a book shelf in the corner of your room, right besides your desk. the top shelf has a few trinkets: a small airplane, a blimp, a cap.

he assumes it's your dad’s cap, the one that goes with his uniform.

the second shelf has a couple of books, a stuffed animal in the form of a snowman, and a picture: the last one you took with your parents. last summer, you and your family took a trip to verona. in the picture, your dad has you hoisted onto his shoulders, an arm on your legs to keep you steady while the other is wrapped around your mom. everyone wears a smile, yet yours is the brightest one out of the three. caleb’s chest swells with pride, knowing he did the right thing all those years ago when he found you crying at the big oak tree.

the third shelf has a picture, one where it’s you and him. he remembers when, where and who took the picture. it was on your last day of school, your fifth grade promotion ceremony, and your mom took it. again, your smile is the brightest one. though, upon further inspection, he realizes your picture is different from the one he has on his desk. you’ve decorated it with small stickers, ones of golden and purple swirls that sit on the frame.

then there’s more books. another picture frame—is that zayne? you and zayne as children… oh, well you look at that? another picture frame of you and zayne. a recent picture, it seems, decorated in the same manner as his. he’s not sure when or where or who took this picture—

“think fast!”

caleb blinks and the flying box stills in front of him, floating in the air before it can hit his chest. “uh… why?”

“gotta be on your toes if you want to be in the aerospace academy with me.”

he laughs. “look at you, already acting as if you’re in.”

you shrug. “you do the same.”

“touché.” his eyes look down at the box. with a hum, he grabs and opens it, blinking once. inside sits a necklace, one with a small, silver sun on it with a purple gem in the middle. “…a sun?”

“you remind me of the sun.” you mumble. “you’re warm like it, too.”

caleb beams so wide his cheeks start to hurt, and there's faint blush on his cheeks that spreads to the tips of his ears. “i’m like the sun?”

“mhm.”

“funny… because i got you a cloud because sometimes you’re calm and happy, sometimes you’re gray and gloomy, and there are times when you’re like a storm.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed, and he continues. “tell me when you feel like there’s a storm in you.” he gets closer to you so that he can tap on the necklace that hangs around your neck. “so i can shine the sun on you... i will never hurt you with my warmth.”

it’s a silent promise that he’ll be there for you.

“and if you do?”

“then you can hit me!”

his fingers twitch, his foot taking a step forwards. but there’s a knock on your door before it’s pushed open. both you and caleb watch, confused.

your mom has a night shift and wouldn’t be back until morning.

caleb doesn't see a thing before you’re already leaping forwards into the arms of a man in a black uniform, his cap falling onto the ground. he recognizes the man as the one that holds you on his shoulders in the picture on your bookshelf.

your dad, the colonel of the farspace fleet.

caleb smiles to himself, his hold on the tiny box in his hands slightly tightening. he will be there for you, whenever you're sad or happy or mad.

he will be there.

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gloomwitchwrites · 3 months ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Four

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: post-apocalyptic au, swearing, dubcon elements, touching, kissing, dirty talk, sexual content, jealousy, possessive behavior, manipulation, mild degradation, oral sex (female receiving)

Word Count: 4.5k

You make yourself an offering. You and Ghost give into your base urges. Soap comes knocking.

Chapter Three // Chapter Five

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Warmth at your back. Solidness against your thigh. A comforting halo of safety.

Home.

Where there is a hammock on the porch. Where the garden calls your name. Where you sit amongst your archive, losing yourself in the endless books.

Inhaling through your nostrils, you exhale through your mouth, yawning slightly as you stretch your leg muscles, the tension melting away, feeding into the moment of peace.

You’re floating. Content.

There are no marauders. No gunshots. No skull-faced lieutenant dressed in black.

A dream is all it is—a distant nightmare that has passed into memory. It will no longer plague you like an itch. Freedom is in your hands. Vast. Open. A field of endless flowers.

Beside you, something moves, and all that peace is yanked from behind your eyelids.

One eye opens, searching. As you turn your head, a sliver of sunlight cuts through your vision. With an annoyed groan, you retreat from the light. You sniff, and the place smells wrong. It doesn’t smell of home.

“You’re moving too much,” grumbles a male voice.

British. Gruff. Familiar.

We’re taking her with us.

You don’t belong to me.

Your eyes snap open. The wall is an off-white with a hint of yellow, not the florals you’re used to. Above you, the ceiling is the same. This is not your bedroom. This is not your space.

Not a dream, then. Which means—

Ben.

The blood and bullets return, creeping in until it consumes, forcing you back to a moment you long to forget. Unable to contain the pain, you release a little whimper, sounding like a kicked dog.

A large hand gently grasps your upper arm. It’s warm—a little rough. “What’s wrong, love?”

Lieutenant Riley. Ghost. Captor.

A wave rises—laced with grief. Last night, Ghost insisted he could not take you home. That he would not take you back. Home has been ripped from you. By him.

The hand upon your upper arm squeezes in reassurance, urging you to turn toward him. Part of you resists. Refuses. But the pull of comfort is a siren’s song, and there is a man here willing to give it.

You roll onto your back, only for Ghost to push up onto his elbow, leaning over you. The middle of his brow is creased with concern, his whiskey-brown gaze roaming over your face before checking the parts of you above the sheets.

“Are you hurt?”

The tenderness in which Ghost asks surprises you. His grip shifts, cradling your cheek, thumb gently brushing back-and-forth across your skin.

Ghost’s head tilts, gaze roaming over you with an assessing look. “I was rough with you.”

You swallow, saliva sticking in your throat. “You were,” you agree.

His fingers curl slightly, catching on the small hairs on the back of your neck. It’s just a light tug—a redirection, but you surrender to him, allowing Ghost to draw you in.

“Are you in pain?” Ghost’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip.

You shake your head. “Not the physical kind.”

The corners of Ghost’s mouth slightly turn downward. “I can’t take you home.”

“I know,” you reply, voice cracking. Your eyes burn, tears threatening to claw themselves up to the surface. “You said that.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it sounds like he means it.

The future is uncertain, laced with the unknown probability that you will likely never return to the life you knew. But this new world shaped you—made you understand that you don’t always have a choice.

Whatever happens—whatever life you’re about to be handed—you will survive.

You always do.

“I want to believe you. But I don’t trust you.”

Ghost leans in further, the tip of his nose nearly brushing yours. “You shouldn’t.”

Piercing. Sharp. A hollow point on impact. The pain runs deep through your veins, seizing your blood.

This man is no savior—no sanctuary. But he is all you have now.

What will you do after processing, when you’re reintegrated into society? Will they dump you onto the street? Force you to fend for yourself?

Your answer is cradling your cheek, asking if you’re all right.

Survival. Always survival.

“What do you need?” asks Ghost, a husky bite in his voice.

The pain will swallow you up if you allow it, shredding your resolve until you waste away from despair. Dust. Smaller than dust. A scattering of atoms. A small drop in a large ocean. Yet a life raft floats in front of you, asking you what you need, inviting you to grab hold.

Placing your hand flat against Ghost’s chest, you splay your fingers wide, gently caressing. Ghost groans low in his throat—the sound nearly a growl.

“I want to forget for a bit,” you whisper. “To not be afraid.”

Ghost shifts closer, his grip tightening to a possessive hold. “Do I frighten you?”

“Yes,” you gasp as Ghost’s lips linger just shy of your own, teasing the promise of a kiss.

“Do you know what you’re asking for? With me?”

No.

“I don’t care,” you reply, sounding more desperate than you mean to be.

This is a power play, a way to draw him in, to want you enough that you’ll be protected once you make it to the safe zone. Nothing about Lieutenant Riley’s behavior says that he’ll force himself on you, but his actions haven’t entirely been pure. He might be a bad man, but he isn’t the worst of them.

“Won’t lie,” he growls. “You’re a bloody tempting thing.” Ghost’s thumb drops to your throat, pressing lightly against the pulse point.

You press yourself into him, showing interest. A low groan escapes him, his pupils dilating with arousal. Showing a bit of vulnerability with Ghost might result in nothing. Give him your body for the morning, allow him to rut and fuck to his contentment, only to toss you aside once you arrive at the safe zone. It’s a real possibility. A true fear.

Yet there is hesitation speaking in your ear—whispering.

He comforted you during the executions.

He placed Ben somewhere Zac and the others will find him.

No one tried to take advantage of you with him around.

Small acts of kindness. Moments of gentleness. Each is a confusing justification for how you’re feeling. Ghost is not to be trusted, but you might be able to rely on him in this unknown world.

But you also remember his boot on your back, the way he shoved you against the armored truck, how he joined you in the shower uninvited. They negate the good, and you’re left with a neutral reservation of how to approach this man to your advantage.

So you fall into what you know.

“Then take the offer,” you sigh, offering your mouth.

Ghost lingers in the moment, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. Thumb sliding up your neck, Ghost presses it to your bottom lip, dragging it down to admire your teeth. Releasing, it pops back into place.

“And what are you offering, hm?” he muses, snuggling closer to you.

The boxer briefs he wears hide nothing, outlining every inch of what he has to offer. There is no mistaking his interest.

“Me,” you answer, all breathy and soft. “You can have me.”

“And I make you forget for a bit?”

You nod, and Ghost shakes his head. “Do you really want this?”

The answer is unclear like swamp water. Ghost isn’t shoving you down into the bed. He’s not forcing your legs open to slot himself between. But he isn’t pushing away or denying you. Either would be preferable. At least you’d know where you stand.

This back and forth is worse.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?” you entice, tilting your chin.

“Yes,” he replies automatically. “Badly.”

Badly is a growl, bordering on desperation.

Oh, fuck.

Ghost’s grip on the back of your neck tightens—almost hurts. You attempt to move and find that you cannot. “You called me a selfish bastard last night. Now you want to have it off with me?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” you counter.

Ghost smirks. “No.”

“You’re familiar with a woman hate-fucking you?”

His smirk becomes a knowing grin. “A good hate-fuck is my specialty, love.”

You roll your eyes, the palm against his chest no longer a caress but a barrier. Pushing at him, you attempt to scoot closer to the wall—to create some distance.

“No,” he says, the singular word full of authority. Ghost surges forward, rolling you beneath him, trapping you against the bed.

“Get off me,” you snarl.

“Thought you wanted to forget?” he chides. Ghost’s knee slots between your legs, forcing them open a bit.

The only thing between your bodies is the shirt you wear. Nothing else. Can Ghost sense your arousal even though you deny it yourself?

“I do,” you answer. Ghost arches a single eyebrow. “I did,” you correct.

“I don’t believe you,” he teases, brushing the tip of his nose against yours, lips dangerously close to falling upon you.

Like a flint strike, a spark snaps into existence. Ghost’s hand delves downward, fingers featherlight as they skim over your bare thigh, only to curl under your knee. He urges your left leg out and then up against his waist. Through his boxer briefs, Ghost’s erection settles where your pelvis and hip meet.

“What would I find if I touched you?” asks Ghost, his hand sliding higher. “Would you be wet for me?”

“No,” you lie.

Ghost clucks his tongue like he knows the truth. His hand moves higher. Higher. Higher. With a roughness that makes you moan, Ghost squeezes your upper thigh, fingers digging into your skin.

“Should we find out, love?”

That large hand of his shifts to your inner thigh, creeping closer to your exposed sex. There is no underwear to create a barrier, and the shirt you wear is bunched around your stomach. As his thumb brushes over your labia, your hips involuntarily rock into his touch. Ghost’s response is an answering groan, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he nuzzles the side of your face.

“Are you wet for me?” he asks, voice a whiskey-bite of a caress.

Breath heavy, chest heaving, you open your leg wider, giving Ghost complete access. It’s just a touch, brief and tentative.

“You are wet for me,” he sighs, thumb pressing to the entrance of your pussy.

You can no longer deny—no longer pretend that his closeness isn’t affecting you. You hate this man. You want to push him away, to claw out his fucking eyes, to scream and curse him with all your energy. But he smells nice, his touch gentle, and the intimacy in which he holds himself over you speaks to a desire within him that seems to go beyond the bonds of simple arousal.

It makes no sense. It’s absurd. Infuriating. Confusing.

You are breaking. Fracturing. Is this even survival anymore? Are you simply giving in?

Just a small twist of his wrist and Ghost’s thumb ascends to gently circle your clit. You gasp with pleasure, head falling back to expose your neck. Ghost dives in, running his tongue along your throat.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“A hate-fuck doesn’t have to be rough,” croons Ghost. “Can take you just like this.” His thumb plays with you, circling and circling until the soft tingle of pleasure becomes a building, pulsing thing that vibrates under your skin. “Make you beg for me,” he breathes.

With his other hand, Ghost grasps your throat, forcing you to look at him. He holds you close, lips just shy of touching.

“I’ll fuck you slow. And you can tell me how much you fucking hate my guts as I rearrange yours.” Ghost presses his thumb directly against your clit, making you shiver. “What do you say, love?”

“I think you talk too much,” you murmur, purposefully goading Ghost to action.

“Then let’s put our mouths to better use.”

He moves first, closing the distance, pressing his lips to yours. Acceptance is all you can do—all you can offer. You’ve started this game, insisted on this, and now there is nothing but to follow through. You need Ghost to want you, to keep wanting you.

Grasping the back of his neck, you meet him with equal need. While you need him on your side, you also need to let go, to release some of this tension and pretend that your life hasn’t been upended.

His hand between your legs gently strokes, slowly building you towards your release. You gasp against Ghost’s mouth, and he chuckles, going in for one more kiss before descending, peppering your neck with affection.

Your hand roams over his muscled back. There is no consistent smoothness to his skin. Scars are present. Some clean and thin and solid. Others jagged. Rigged. And you briefly wonder where he obtained them all.

Ghost’s tongue tastes the hollow of your throat. “This needs to fucking go,” he growls, tugging at your shirt.

He ceases playing with you, both of his hands grasping your shirt, pushing it up your body. A sudden wave of apprehension rises. The shirt is a barrier, an illusion of safety. And there it goes, right over your head, tossed to the floor.

Ghost’s grasps the sides of your ribcage, planting a kiss between your breasts. “Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, turning his head to tease the underside of your left breast with his tongue.

“Lieutenant,” you mewl when he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

You fist his hair, tugging Ghost up your body. He makes a pleased sound as he rises to meet you, seizing your mouth with a kiss that steals your breath. His strength is a powerful thing, yet the way he kisses you—touches you is almost reserved in its intensity. There is no intent to harm, to make you fear him.

Ghost breaks the kiss, easing his weight onto one arm. He reaches between your bodies for his boxer briefs, shoving them down and over his thighs, kicking them away. There is nothing between your bodies, not even the sheets.

Sitting up, Ghost settles between your legs on his knees. Every inch of Lieutenant Riley is on full display. Solid, thick muscles. Criss-crossing scars. Tattoos on his fingers and an entire sleeve down his left arm. Whiskey-brown eyes with pale eyelashes that pierce right through you.

This is a wraith. A Sentinel of Hell. Dangerous. Fierce.

And you’re beneath him, panting with the anticipation of bringing your bodies together.

“Tell me you hate me,” he commands, voice gruff and laced with lust.

“I hate you,” you murmur as Ghost reaches out and caresses your inner thigh.

His hand roams upward, smoothing over your stomach. “Again.”

“I fucking hate you,” you say a bit louder.

Ghost fists his cock and pinches one of your nipples between thumb and index finger. “Again,” he growls. “With more venom.”

“I hate you,” you moan. “You’re a selfish fucking bastard. And I hate you.”

Another pass of his hand, fingers tracing lines down your body, sending little sparks of pleasure through you. It’s blissful agony, and though you do hate Lieutenant Riley and the situation he’s put you in, his touch is welcome.

Your legs fall wider.

“Bloody hell,” breathes Ghost as he slides his hand up and down his cock.

In other situations, like this, when you were simply trying to feed yourself or put a roof over your head, the men would already be on top of you, grunting like feral animals for a few thrusts before finishing. There was never any pleasure in it. Never any desire. They would quickly fall asleep, leaving you hollow like an abandoned burrow.

Predators. Every. One. They all leered—sneered at you like you were filth, as if the only place you belonged was beneath them.

Lieutenant Riley doesn’t gaze at you like that. There is appreciation in the way he takes you in. A longing. A…yearning that makes you question all his motives for taking you in the first place. Under his attention, you feel wanted. Desired.

Another stroke, and a bead of precum blooms. You lock onto it, gaze focusing in as more emerges from his slit. As if sensing your thoughts, Ghost wipes it up with his thumb. Reaching out, he presses his thumb flat against your skin between your breast, drawing a line of cum downward.

“Open your mouth,” he commands.

You comply, and that thumb slides past your lips and over your tongue. A slightly salty flavor flowers. Now you know his taste.

Ghost drags his thumb over your tongue, then your bottom lip, and to your chin. “Grab your thighs. Draw your legs up. Keep yourself open for me.”

Refusing his authority and pushing back is natural at this point, but in this, you submit. And you’re glad to.

Ghost lowers himself, lips finding yours. It’s not a tease of a kiss, but an embrace, surrounding you with lustful need. You’re going to enjoy this. Deep within you, you understand this, and you want to explore this primal intensity.

Another kiss. Lower. Down your neck. Over your breasts. Across your stomach. Descending. Further. Further still.

His tongue teases, and a little cry escapes you.

“LT!” You nearly come off the bed as someone pounds on the door. “You awake, Ghost?”

“Shit,” mutters Ghost, his warm breath brushing against your inner thigh.

Releasing your thighs, you sit up slightly, staring at the door. There’s a stranger here, wanting entrance. The lusty haze over your eyes evaporates, your head clearing like a rainstorm surrendering to the sun. You went too far. Ghost has his head between your thighs and you were holding your legs open for him, enjoying every second of his tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper as a spike of panic rises.

You start to draw inward. Even your legs are retreating, pulling away from Ghost.

“No,” he growls, large arms hooking under your thighs. He drags you back. “We’re not done.”

The stranger pounds on the door again. “Ghost!”

“Piss off!” he shouts over the top of your thigh.

Whoever is on the other side of the door laughs. “Captain sent me.”

With a deep sigh, Ghost rests his forehead against your stomach. “Stay here,” he murmurs. He lifts his head, lips glossy, and there is so much hunger in his gaze that it momentarily spears you. “I’m not done with you.”

Jesus Christ.

Ghost pushes off from the bed, and you remain the stagnant deer, frozen to the spot. The pounding comes again, the door rattling loudly in its frame. He strides forward, steps purposeful and pounding.

Disengaging the lock, Ghost yanks open the door. Bright sunlight pours in. “What the bloody hell is it, Soap?”

Soap. You know that name. He sat beside Lieutenant Riley in the Humvee.

Without the plain black balaclava on, you have a clear view of Soap’s face. His eyes are a lovely blue, his dark brown hair is styled into a short mohawk, the sides shaved but not bald. In his arms is a stack of neatly folded clothes.

Soap’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. He whistles, taking in all of Ghost’s nakedness. “Damn, Lt. What a greeting.” He shrugs, smiling like an idiot. “Feel a bit overdressed.”

“You’re taking the piss,” mutters Ghost. “What do you want?”

Soap opens his mouth, clearly intending to deliver a message, but his gaze snags as if caught on a fishing hook.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes as he focuses in on your nude body.

You snatch the bedsheet, covering yourself quickly.

“Eyes on me, Sergeant,” growls Ghost. There’s no kindness in it—only authority.

Soap’s gaze lingers for a few seconds, eventually shifting back to Ghost. “This an open invitation, Lt?”

“No.”

“Sure about that?” asks Soap. He starts to lean to the side, peering at you around Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost steps into his line of sight, cutting you off from his view. “Put one foot inside this door and I’ll fucking kill you.”

Soap snorts. “Okay, Lt,” he laughs. “I’ll back off.”

Tucking the sheet around you, you scoot down the bed, leaning forward to listen in.

“What’s all this?”

“Clothes,” answers Soap. “Clean uniform for you. Things for her.”

Ghost grunts and extends his arms. Soap surrenders the clothes to him. “Should grab breakfast before it’s all gone.”

“We’ll do that,” mumbles Ghost.

Soap shrugs, and then a wickedly mischievous grin spreads over his face. “Unless this is your breakfast?”

Ghost’s answer is to slam the door in Soap’s face.

There will be no continuation. It’s clear from the heave of Ghost’s shoulders before he turns around to face you. And it’s not like you want to anyway. The fleeting moment of desperation and craving for human connection is shattered. Reality has made a home in your bones, sobering you against the lust you felt only minutes ago.

“What did he bring?” you ask, sliding to the edge of the bed.

Ghost walks up to the bed, dropping the stack on the edge. He starts to sort it, dividing everything into two piles.

“There’s pants and a long-sleeved shirt for you.” He tosses them into your lap. “Socks. A jacket.” Ghost goes through the clothes one more time. “Nothing else.”

No bra or underwear. That’s fine. You can go without for now.

As you start to turn away with the intent to dress yourself, Ghost’s arm rises, his large hand grasping the side your neck. You’re forced back around, staring up at him. He takes a step forward into your space, but you don’t break eye contact. You don’t dare look away.

Everything is falling back into place.

You hate this man even if his mouth made you moan. All you know has been ripped from you, and Ghost is leading you toward a huge unknown without even considering what you want. It’s wrong. It’s fucked up.

It’s a drowning.

In an act of defiance, you attempt to jerk out of his hold, but Ghost remains firm, squeezing until you comply.

“If you want to belong to me, just say the word. I can make it happen.”

You remain mute. Silent.

Fuck him. Fuck all of this.

You are not a toy. Not a piece of property. You are a person, and that should be enough. At home, you were an equal, and no one dared lay hands on you. But this is not home. This is…society. What’s left of it. The very dredges of humanity.

And it’s like scraping the bottom of a shit pot.

Whether Ghost likes your silence or not is unclear. When he releases your neck, he doesn’t ask again, and he doesn’t make conversation. He completely turns away from you, dressing like you’re not even in the room.

Tears form, threatening to spill over, to make you appear weak and frail before him. Angrily wiping at your eyes, you drop the sheet and give Ghost your back. He’s already seen you naked. Fuck—you were holding yourself open while he tongued your pussy. What’s a bit of skin?

You dress quickly, wanting to fix your hair in the mirror before you leave. But as you turn around, you find all your thoughts leaving you. Ghost is a masterpiece of a human, and that ember from earlier sparks again, insisting when it shouldn’t.

His pants are black camo. On his upper body is a long sleeve tactical shirt, solid black in the front and back while the sleeves are black camo. Ghost reaches for his gun, attaching it to his thigh. Next are his knives which he lays out on the small desk nearby. You observe but say nothing as he laces up his boots and slides one of the knives into it.

You expect the skull mask, the eye black. Instead, Ghost slips on a plain black balaclava. On his upper bicep is the flag of the United Kingdom and of the United Nations. Neither of those should exist, and you don’t entirely believe what Ghost said last night. There are still questions lingering in your mind, and though you desperately crave answers, this doesn’t seem like the time.

Ghost clears his throat as he adjusts his belt. “Let’s get some food in you.”

A bit of bite comes to the surface. “As I recall,” you begin. “You were wanting to put something else in me just a few minutes ago.”

Ghost stills, his hands still on his belt. “Are you already on your bullshit today?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Guiding the belt through the loop, Ghost tugs, tightening it. “You said you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“How am I causing problems?” you reply, extending your arms outward as if the problem is a physical thing in the room with you.

Ghost shakes his head, giving the belt one more tug before securing it. “My control is thin right now, love.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your ‘love.’ I’m not anything to you. We’re not friends. Or lovers.”

Ghost chuckles, placing his hands on his hips. “What would you like me to call you?”

“Use my fucking name.”

Just a few steps and Ghost is on you. You stagger backwards, falling onto the bed as he cages you in. “It is taking everything in me not to rip off your clothes and bend you over.”

“Fucking try it,” you snarl.

Ghost is completely calm, unfazed by your outburst. “You’d look so pretty full of me.”

You know he’s goading you. And you fall for it. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I’d keep you here,” he continues. “Fucking breed you until you’re dripping.” Ghost pushes in, and you have nowhere to go. His face is so close, the fabric of the balaclava scratches your skin. “Put a baby in you. Then you’d truly belong to me.”

No. No.

“You’re no better than those men you killed.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, bird. With me, you’d be protected. Cared for. You’d want for nothing.”

“You don’t even know me,” you reply. “Every word you say is a lie.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I don’t lie.” You scoff, but he continues. “And you can’t take back what happened this morning.”

With both hands on his chest, you shove at him. Ghost doesn’t budge. He is a rock. Immovable.

“You wanted me,” he murmurs.

“Shut up,” you stammer, shoving at him again.

“So wet,” he purrs. “And it was all for me.”

“Stop,” you plead, giving him another shove.

Ghost pushes off from the bed in one fluid movement. Grasping your wrists, he yanks you up and onto your feet.

“I’m not your enemy,” he says like his word alone is enough for you to agree.

It’s all fucked. All of it. You need to survive, to make sure you’re safe for whatever comes to greet you, but you’re afraid. Fearful, like a cornered animal.

Lieutenant Riley is your enemy as much as he is your protector. It’s maddening. Unfair.

I don’t want to go with you. I want to go home.

You lick your lips, trying so desperately hard not to fall apart in front of him. “Then show me,” you plead.

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