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papayainsectorone · 8 days ago

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You Only Want To Kiss By The Pool

summary: a sultry, aching summer entanglement unfolds between two people tangled in history, habit, and hurt.

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, angst, emotionally unavailable!charles, p in v, protected and unprotected sex, dry humping, more angst, emotional vulnerability, toxic intimacy, unresolved tension, messy feelings, blood/injury mention, longing, self-loathing, summer heartbreak, EVEN MORE ANGST, my personal vendetta against the cicadas in this story turning into a stylised thing lol word count: 10k

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader a thought: soooo 10k words huh 😭 I swear this wasn’t on purpose… or maybe it was, who knows at this point. I’m not even sure if this turned out how I originally imagined it, but I really hope you enjoy it!! i uploaded a bit eralier then usual bc of the race today a´s masterlist

You arrive right at golden hour, when everything looks like it’s been dipped in honey, too soft, too golden, too damn familiar.

The light slants through the cypress trees lining the gravel driveway, casting long, flickering shadows across the hood of the car like fingers you don’t want to name.

The air smells like rosemary and sunscreen residue, like heat baked into old stones and that same vanilla-sweet cigarette someone always smokes down the hill, burning slow, never gone.

The wheels of your suitcase stutter against the gravel in a rhythm your body remembers even if your brain tries not to. It’s the same sound every summer since you were eight: uneven, jarring, too loud in the stillness. It sounds like memory. It sounds like a warning you never listen to.

Laughter rises from behind the house, bright, breathless, edged with wine and the kind of joy that makes you feel at home before you’ve even walked in. You stop at the gate. Not ready to see everyone. Not him. Not yet or not again. You breathe in sharp, like maybe oxygen will smooth out the tremor in your hands. It doesn’t.

The house is exactly the same. Of course it is. That’s the part that knocks you off balance. The terracotta tiles still dip unevenly toward the front steps, like they might collapse if you step too hard. The shutters still creak, lazy with age. The olive trees are overgrown, thick with shadows that look too much like last year. You already know the cicadas will start screaming right before dusk like they always do. You already know the kitchen door sticks unless you lift it gently. You already know this place too well. You already know how the next weeks will go.

Inside, the floor is cool beneath your sandals, a sudden relief against skin too warm from the drive. You don’t call out. Don’t let anyone know you’ve arrived. Instead, you slip up the stairs without a sound, like the house might swallow you whole if you move gently enough.

The door to your usual room opens with the same soft resistance. It still smells faintly of the linen detergent his mother always used, dried lavender and something older, something dustier. Nostalgia, maybe. Or the ache of something that never was.

The closet door creaks like it remembers you. You shove your suitcase inside without even pretending you’ll unpack it tonight. The zip catches on the edge of the frame and you yank harder than you mean to. The thud echoes. Too loud for a room this quiet.

It smells the same in here. Wood polish and sun-warmed fabric, the ghost of old perfume clinging to the curtains. You feel it settle around you, this too-familiar hush. As if the walls remember every version of you that’s ever stood here. Eight, twelve, seventeen. Laughing, crying, pretending. There are layers of you folded into the linens. Some you’ve outgrown. Some that still fit a little too well. You don't look in the mirror.

You pull off your shoes and cross to the balcony, bare feet whispering across cool tile. The small iron door sticks before it gives, then opens wide to the same view you’ve looked at a hundred times before, maybe more. And still, it stuns.

The hills roll out in ribbons of gold and green, draped over each other like sleep-warmed limbs. Light bleeds across them in waves, hazy with heat and distance. It’s a landscape built for remembering: soft-edged, sun-split, too beautiful to feel safe. Below, the pool lies still, catching the last of the sun like it’s trying to bottle the moment. Its surface trembles in the breeze, glinting and nervous. Like a mirror about to crack. Like it knows things. Like it sees you.

And then—just like that—the silence breaks.

Laughter rides the wind, faint at first, then clearer. Voices carry up from the patio, sun-drenched and wine-loose. You recognize them even before you parse the words: your mother’s high, bright tone; Charles’ mother, always elegant even when she’s too loud; the boys, deep-voiced and jostling each other as they pass around olives or wine or stories no one’s finished telling. It’s a soundscape of summer, unchanged and unbothered by time.

Your mother sees you first. Of course she does. She stands and waves both arms overhead, graceless and joyful, like a child who’s been given a second dessert. “There you are!” she calls, as if you’ve been lost for days, not delayed for hours. “You’re so late! Come down—we’ve started without you!”

They act like nothing’s changed. Like you’ve never left. Like you’re not bracing yourself in a doorway two floors above them, body gone still.

You scan the crowd, breath held tight. He’s not there.

For a flicker of a moment—so quick you almost miss it—you let yourself hope. Maybe he’s not here this year. Maybe he’s in Monaco, like he would usually be. Or Spain, or Italy, or anywhere other than this sliver of hillside where everything feels one second away from breaking open. The thought slides in cold and fast: maybe you won’t see him at all.

Relief blooms. Clean. Bright. A burst of something dangerously close to joy. You hold onto it like a secret. You let yourself believe it.

But then you open your bedroom door again.

And the house, ancient and alive in the ways that matter most, seems to punish you for the thought.

Because he’s right there.

You don’t hear him until he’s too close, until it’s too late to step aside, too late to pull the door shut and breathe. You turn and collide, your chest hitting bare skin, solid and warm and real in a way that steals your breath more than the impact. You gasp. His hands are already on your arms, firm but unhurried, grounding you before you stumble.

His grip is confident, muscle and memory and the cruel exactness of someone who still remembers the shape of you. It’s the way he always used to touch you: like you were his, like you’d never been anything else.

And of course he’s not wearing a shirt.

The hallway is narrow and the air between you shrinks until it feels nonexistent. You can smell him: salt and sun, a trace of cologne he never wears in the city and something else, maybe the ghost of last summer or the one before. He leans in just slightly, not enough to threaten, just enough to take up all your space.

“Bonjour, chérie,” he says, voice wrapped in silk and sunshine, rough at the edges from sleep or wine or both. The words slip out like they belong here, like you still belong to each other. His smile is slow and sharp, all teeth and nostalgia. “Seems like you missed me.”

The sound of him is a whole summer unto itself. Familiar in a way that hurts. The vowels curl lazy in his throat, lower than you remember, but not strange. Never strange.

Then his face tilts, just slightly, and he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s too soft. Too slow. Like the kind of thing that should come after everything else, not before it. It lingers longer than it should, like punctuation that doesn’t quite fit the sentence.

You don’t move. You don’t return it. You just pull back a fraction, barely enough to register, and meet his gaze without offering much of anything. “Yeah. Hi.”

The moment breaks like glass underfoot.

You walk down toward the backyard together. Side by side. Not touching, but too close not to feel it. The air has thickened, the late heat curling under your collar, sweat at the nape of your neck now tinged with the weight of memory. You can feel it building around you, this ache you didn’t plan to carry.

You step through the open patio doors just as someone uncorks another bottle of wine. The pop cuts through the twilight like a held breath finally let go.

Your mother sees you first—again—and claps her hands together like she’s been waiting days instead of hours. “There she is!” she says, already half out of her chair. “I thought we’d have to send Charles up with a search party.”

Someone laughs, Arthur, that same easy snort he’s had since he was thirteen. His mother is already pouring you a glass of white, humming something tuneless as she gestures you toward the table.

The scent of grilled peaches and rosemary chicken curls through the warm air. The citronella candles flicker. There’s a stack of mismatched plates on the table, a bowl of cherries passed around like currency, laughter rising in messy waves between bites.

They pull you into it easily, like you never left, like nothing cracked or shifted or nearly unraveled. Your father ruffles your hair like you're still the same girl who wore bandaids on her knees and sulked through dinners. One of the Leclercs tells you you look different, then immediately backpedals with a compliment that feels rehearsed but sweet.

You smile at all the right moments. Sip your wine. Let the warmth of their welcome soak through your skin.

But even as you laugh, even as you settle into your old seat and pass the salad bowl like muscle memory, you feel him across the table, his gaze, the orbit of his presence, quiet and magnetic.

You don’t look at him again. At least you try.

Later, the sun is long gone. The last streaks of lavender have faded from the sky. The pool lights blink on one by one, casting the water in a pale blue glow that ripples against the stone like soft electricity. It looks otherworldly now, like a portal instead of a pool.

You sit at the deep end, feet in the water, your drink sweating onto the flagstone beside you. The chill of the pool creeps up your calves, grounding, but it’s not enough to cool the fire crawling under your skin.

Then Charles is there.

He doesn’t speak. Just slides down beside you, as easy as anything, his thigh brushing yours in a way that feels accidental and entirely intentional. You don’t move away. You don’t lean in. The closeness settles, thick and quiet.

“I missed this,” he murmurs, gaze out over the water. The words land soft, but they burn anyway.

You don’t ask him what he means. You already know. You’ve always known. He means this, this moment, this version of you, this curated slice of late summer nostalgia. Not you in your real life. Not you with complications and context. Just here. Just now. Just like this.

You turn toward him. His face is turned slightly down, lit from beneath by the water’s shimmer. Half-shadow, half-memory. His mouth is parted. His expression open, soft. That look he only ever wears after too much wine and too little caution.

He leans in.

Of course he does. It’s written in his bones, the way he moves toward you. Like there’s only one ending this scene has ever had.

His mouth hovers, inches from yours. The space between you hums.

But you don’t close it.

You turn your head, slow and deliberate. His breath skims your cheek instead of your lips.

You look ahead, toward the water, and say, quiet but steady, “Yeah. You missed this.”

Silence folds around you like thick night air, humid, clinging, full of everything unsaid. It presses in where words should go, settling between your collarbones, behind your ribs, in the hollows of your throat.

He doesn’t speak. Just lingers there, breath still shallow from the space you didn’t close. His face is close enough that you can see the shift in his eyes, the flicker of something wounded, or worse, surprised. As if he’d forgotten you had the power to say no. The will to say no.

He pulls back, slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment entirely. Like he’s still hoping it might rewind if he moves carefully enough. But you’re already somewhere else.

You slide your feet out of the pool, water dripping off your calves, leaving small dark prints across the stone. You don’t glance back. You just rise, smooth your dress down with damp fingers, and walk away—deliberate, quiet, unhurried. The echo of what almost happened follows you. It stays with him, hovering in the charged space where your lips didn’t meet, suspended between the low hum of the pool filter and the ache curling just under the sound of summer.

You didn’t always hate the sound of the cicadas.

But now, you hear them for what they are: a warning, not a song.

Every July, someone herded you into this house like clockwork, since you were seven. Like tradition was a story you could rehearse. “Let the kids bond,” the adults always said, raising glasses full of ice and wine. As if summer could be assigned. As if affection could be grown like tomatoes in clay pots.

But it worked. At least in the way those things sometimes do. Not because anyone forced it, but because the days were long and the rules were soft and kids will always find each other in the absence of supervision.

Within hours of arrival, all kids would be side-by-side again, running barefoot through the dusty village streets, staging makeshift pool parties with chipped speakers and melting popsicles, choreographing elaborate games that never needed to be explained, only remembered.

They’d pile into one bedroom for sleepovers that turned into late-night whisper wars, the kind that made your cheeks ache from laughing. They shared bikes and towels and secrets that only made sense under July skies. Together they discovered the hidden parts of the town, abandoned stone barns at the edge of the vineyard, an old cemetery you all swore was haunted, a bakery that gave free pastries if Charles asked in his charming Monegasque way.

No one really missed their parents. The adults were background noise: clinking glasses, sun hats, lazy arguments about where to buy the best olives. They lived on the terrace, in the wine-soaked air of adult summers, while you lived in the dirt and chlorine and wonder of your own little kingdom.

The friendships were real in the way summer friendships are. Bright. Uncomplicated. Built on nothing but shared time.

Every year, you slipped into it like a costume that still fit. Every year, you tried not to notice how it didn’t quite feel the same as it did the year before.

Every year, you and Charles always found your way back to each other, too—but that was a different kind of bond.

That night, the grown-ups were inside, already drunk on rosé and charred sea bass and the weightlessness of the season. Laughter leaked out through the open windows, mingling with the too loud cicadas and the low hum of the pool filter. Someone had lit the fire pit too early. It sputtered in the wind, more smoke than flame.

You were sitting cross-legged near the edge of the glow, arms wrapped around your knees, half-listening to the night. And then he sat beside you.

He smelled like chlorine and something expensive. A trace of bonfire clung to him, warm and sharp.

He leaned in close, eyes gleaming with something just on the edge of mischief.

“T’as encore peur de moi, hein?” he asked, teasing. Still scared of me, huh?

You shook your head, but the word no barely made it out, more breath than voice.

He watched your face like it was something he could easily figure out how to read. His thumb brushed your cheek, a slow, deliberate touch, like he was waiting for permission you didn’t know how to give.

Then: “Have you ever kissed someone?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t wait.

The kiss was soft. Clumsy. Your teeth knocked once. He laughed, low, unbothered and leaned in again. This time it was smoother, warmer, his hand slipping behind your neck. You felt it all the way down your spine.

Behind you, the fire cracked like punctuation.

That was the first kiss. But not the last.

That summer unfolded in stolen moments and shared towels, too-long glances and too-short goodnights. Kisses in the shade. Fingers brushed beneath the table. A closeness that grew like ivy—tender, quiet, climbing fast.

Then it was the next summer and the same house. The same pool, shimmering. The same voices floated from the kitchen, wine-loose and full of soft arguments about apricot jam and whether anyone remembered to buy more cheese.

But the quiet between you had changed.

You were older. Not by much, but enough. Enough to know what you wanted, or at least to want wanting. And enough to notice that he looked at you differently now, less like a childhood friend, more like a secret.

You were by the pool again. Of course you were. That’s where it always started.

You sat beside him, legs dangling in the warm water, the tiles still hot against your palms. The sun had just slipped behind the hills, leaving the sky dusted with gold. Your skin buzzed with heat and the residual hum of too many hours in the sun.

He leaned back on his elbows, shirt tossed somewhere behind him, hair still wet from the pool. He didn’t say much. Neither did you. The silence between you was thick with memory and something newer, something heavier.

Eventually, you ended up stretched out on one of the lounge chairs, side by side, barely touching.

You turned onto your side to face him, chin propped on your hand. He was watching the stars begin to appear, like he could read something in their flicker. You watched him instead. The lines of his jaw. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The curve of his mouth, parted like he was about to speak but hadn’t yet decided how.

His fingers found your stomach—light at first. A single brush. Then again, slower. He was tracing the edge of your bikini bottoms like he was learning it.

“Tu veux que je continue?” You want me to keep going?

You didn’t know what yes looked like yet. But you didn’t say no.

He pulled you into his lap, tentative at first, but then firmer, like he knew what he was doing and wanted you to know it too. His hands settled on your hips, guiding. Grounding.

You were grinding into him in soft, uncertain rolls, your breath catching every time you felt the friction hit just right. His mouth dropped open. A low groan escaped him, half-swallowed by the night.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The pressure built, slowly at first, then all at once. And even though you were both still dressed—your bikini clinging wetly to you, his swim trunks low on his hips—it didn’t matter.

You came like that. Both of you. Quietly. Urgently. In the dark, with the stars blinking overhead and the pool lights flickering like underwater fireflies.

It wasn’t the last time that summer.

You did it again. And again. In the shallow end, half-hidden behind the pool float. In your bed with the shutters open. In his, early in the morning when no one else was awake. On the sun-warmed couch the afternoon the parents went grocery shopping and left you behind “just to relax.”

That summer was a secret, pressed between kisses and the hush of wet skin, held like breath, never spoken aloud. You never talked about what it meant.

You just kept doing it.

Another year passed. And again, it was the same house, the same pool, the same slant of light across the water like time didn’t matter at all. But this time, it did. This time, you noticed how the air felt heavier, slower, like it was dragging you toward something inevitable.

He was already in the water when you came out, doing lazy laps in the deep end. The surface broke around his shoulders as he swam, broad now, stronger. You could see it immediately. The difference. His chest was fuller. His jaw more carved. There was a shadow of stubble across his cheek and it caught the late light like it was meant to be there.

He’d changed. Not in a way that made you uncertain, no, in a way that made your stomach flip. Grown into himself. Grown into the way he watched you now, more direct, more aware of the way your body had changed too. It wasn’t subtle. Nothing about it was.

The others were inside again, predictably tipsy—someone had made sangria this evening and you could hear the sound of glass clinking, soft laughter echoing through the windows.

And again, it was just the two of you.

You sat at the edge of the pool, again, feet in the water, again, arms wrapped loosely around your knees, again. You didn’t say much. You didn’t have to.

He pulled himself out of the pool, water dripping off him in steady rivulets. He didn’t towel off. Just came over and stood behind you for a second, close enough to make you shiver even in the heat.

When he leaned down, his voice was rough in your ear. “Come with me.”

You didn’t ask where.

You followed him to the pool house, one hand brushing against his, pretending it was an accident.

Inside, the air was thick. He kissed you against the door. No buildup. No hesitation. His mouth was hungry and open and wet with want.

You let him push your swimsuit straps down slowly, almost reverently, like he was unwrapping something delicate. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and wanted you to believe he cared. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then lower, tracing your skin in a line so feather-light it made you hold your breath.

He kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, like he was trying to anchor the moment in your chest. Like it meant something.

You wanted to believe it did.

You didn’t say anything when he lay you down on the old chaise lounge in the pool house. It groaned under your weight, too narrow and too soft in all the wrong places, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did except the way he looked at you—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, gaze dragging down your body like it held some secret he wanted to memorize. Like you were something rare.

And maybe you were. For a second, you let yourself believe you were.

His hand traced the edge of your ribs, slow and deliberate, before slipping down to your waist. He stopped there—fingers hovering at the dip of your skin like a question. Not forceful, not impatient. Just waiting. For breath. For permission. Or maybe just to make the moment stretch—so it would feel like more than it was.

“Cha—Charles, I’ve never…”

“Je sais,” I know he said softly, then, switching to English, “I’ll show you.”

He didn’t smile. But there was a quiet curve to his mouth, something settled and self-assured, like he already knew you’d say yes. Like he’d been waiting for this moment—not because it meant something, but because he wanted to feel it. To feel you.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Not rushed. Not greedy. His lips dragged over your cheek, your jaw, your neck, like he was mapping you for his own satisfaction. He whispered something into your skin—your name maybe, or just breath. You nodded anyway, body already giving in.

He slipped your swimsuit bottoms down, inch by inch, his knuckles brushing your thighs. You tried not to squirm, not to notice how awkward it felt—your skin damp and sticky, your legs trembling. But his touch didn’t waver. He wasn’t embarrassed. If anything, he liked it. The unraveling of you. The way you softened under him.

The condom came out of his pocket with practiced ease. He tore the wrapper open with his teeth, grinning faintly like it was a joke he’d told before. His hands were steady, his breath even. When he rolled it on, you could feel the heat of him against your leg—solid, certain.

And then he looked at you. Just for a second.

“Ready?” he murmured, more serious now. Almost soft.

You nodded.

When he pushed in, it hurt—a sharp, blooming stretch that made you gasp. He paused, exhaled against your throat, one hand gripping your hip. Not possessive. Not protective. Just...grounding. Measured. His other hand skimmed your ribs, coaxing your body open like he wanted you to feel it, really feel it, and remember that it was him.

“Just breathe,” he said, low and calm. And you did. You let him move.

It wasn’t rushed. Every stroke was deliberate, built for tension, for pleasure. He was focused—not on himself, but on you. The way your back arched. The way your breath caught. He studied you like it mattered. Like your pleasure was the goal, not the side effect. And somehow, that made it worse. Because it was good. He was good. And you knew that’s all he ever intended to be.

It didn’t last long, but it felt long enough. He stayed with you the whole time, hands steady, pace unhurried. He kissed you through it—not your mouth, but everywhere else. The curve of your collarbone. The place just below your ear. Your shoulder.

And when it was over, he didn’t roll away immediately. He hovered, catching his breath, his palm resting flat on your stomach like he was claiming something. Or just appreciating it.

He kissed your shoulder again, soft and absentminded.

And still, you pretended it meant something. That maybe he felt something too.

But his body was already cooling. Sliding away from yours like tide pulling back from sand. And you were left aching, not from the stretch, not from the sex, but from the quiet understanding settling in your chest.

He was never going to stay.

That should’ve been your first or last lesson: Summer isn’t about what you remember. It’s about what you let yourself forget.

Every summer after that, it was just the same again.

It didn’t matter how much time passed, how many months crawled by in between. When you returned to the house, the pool, everything clicked back into place like muscle memory. Like a scene you both knew too well to forget.

It always started at the pool.

You’d be lying out on one of the sun-warmed loungers, a book forgotten on your lap, the heat humming under your skin. He’d appear like he always did, barefoot, tanned, hair longer or shorter depending on the year, but always smug with familiarity. He’d grin like no time had passed and sit beside you like he’d never left.

“Missed me?” Always that. Or something like it. A joke. A flirt. An echo.

And just like that, the rhythm began again.

He knew your body by then. Where to touch. How to kiss you soft at first, then deeper, just rough enough to make you forget how temporary it all was. You always let him. You always wanted him to.

Each year, he found new ways to make you feel like you mattered, at least here, at least now. He’d rest his head on your stomach while you played with his hair. He’d trace shapes along your thigh with fingers gone lazy from sun and sex. He’d steal your sunglasses and lie in the shade with his head in your lap, talking nonsense while your heart thudded like it still didn’t know better.

Once, the summer you turned nineteen, you both swam out to the middle of the pool just before midnight. The water was warm, moonlit. He held your waist beneath the surface and whispered something soft and slurred into your ear. You didn’t catch it all, just the word “belle” and the breathy way he said your name like it hurt him to say it. He kissed your collarbone underwater. You held your breath until it ached.

That night, you fell asleep in his bed, tangled in sheets that smelled like summer and him. When you woke up, he was already outside, playing cards with your siblings like nothing had changed. He didn’t look at you until you passed behind his chair and even then it was just a wink. Like the night didn’t live inside you now. Like it wasn’t something you’d carry.

By your twenty-first summer, it was almost funny, how predictable it all was. The pool. The silence after. The space between what you hoped for and what he gave. You started to expect it: the way he’d vanish for whole afternoons without explanation, then reappear at sunset with wet hair and some joke about paddleboarding. The way he always kissed you like it was the last time, but never said goodbye.

Then months of nothing.

Until the next year. Until the next return. Until the next version of the same old story.

You learned to live for the moments and to let go of the rest.

You told yourself it was okay. That it didn’t mean anything if you didn’t let it. That summer was just summer, and he was just a boy you knew how to miss.

But some nights, back in your apartment, deep in the middle of winter, you’d dream of him. Of chlorine and starlight and the way he once held your wrist like it was something precious. You’d wake up breathless, your mouth still shaped around his name.

And every summer, you’d go back.

Back in the present, you lie awake in the same bed you’ve had him in almost every night. For years.

Different sheets now, soft hotel-cotton ones your mother picked up in some end-of-season sale, but the same creaky mattress, the same half-stuck window that never quite lets in enough air. The same fan above you, still clicking faintly with every lazy rotation like it’s keeping time for a memory you can’t outrun.

You stare at the ceiling and imagine him still outside. Poolside. Beer bottle sweating in his hand, gaze fixed on the horizon like it holds answers. Maybe he’s wondering why you didn’t let him kiss you. He propably isn’t. You never know how deep his thoughts go when you’re not in the room. And you’re not sure which version hurts more.

You close your eyes. Try not to think about the answer.

You wake up to too much light. The kind of light that doesn’t soften—it sharpens. It cuts. It pours through the shutters like judgment, golden and brutal. You hate how the sun here always feels like it’s watching you. Like it knows.

You make it downstairs still half-asleep, barefoot, wearing a too-big T-shirt that isn’t his but might as well be. Faded navy, soft with years of wash. You wore it in the summers before. He once said it made you look like summer personified. You pretended it didn’t make your stomach twist when he said things like that.

At the breakfast table, your mother presses a mug into your hand. “Drink, ma chérie. You look pale.”

You mumble a merci, too tired to fake much warmth. The smell of coffee is grounding, almost. Until someone laughs and makes a joke about the playlist. Something about how it's still full of the same French indie tracks from five years ago. Still Charles’s. Still yours in ways you try not to think about.

You chew your toast slowly. You laugh when you’re supposed to. You answer questions about work, about London, about whether or not you’re seeing anyone. You lie easily. You’ve had practice. Everyone’s too sun-drunk to notice the cracks.

But the weight of past summers clings to you like wet linen, heavy, clinging, impossible to shake. It’s in the way your skin prickles under his name, even when you don’t hear it. In the way you keep checking the patio door without meaning to.

And for a second, for just a blink, you let yourself wonder if maybe this year will be different. Maybe he won’t behave the same way. Maybe, just maybe, this is the summer where the pattern finally breaks.

But of course he does.

He shows up just past noon, towel slung low around his neck like it’s a movie prop, sunglasses in his hair, his skin bronzed from the early sun. His grin is all practiced ease, sun-warmed confidence. He walks like the lawn belongs to him. Like you do.

Your stomach twists. Not in hate. Not in longing. Something murkier. Something like resignation.

He looks right at you.

“What you looking at, chérie?” he says, the lilt of his voice just teasing enough to make it sting.

Your eyes meet. Just for a second too long.

Then he drops into the chair across from you, legs spread, posture loose and open like you’re already in his lap. He sips from a drink someone handed him and then slides his foot under the table. It nudges yours once. Then again. Then trails just a bit higher up your shin.

You shift your leg away like it burns.

He notices. His eyebrows pull in slightly, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. He doesn’t say anything.

Later, it’s just the two of you again. The house is quiet, naps and errands, people scattered. You’re in the kitchen refilling water bottles, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a swim you took alone.

He walks in like he owns the walls. Leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching you.

“Pourquoi tu m’évites?” Why are you avoiding me?

You screw the cap on too tightly. You feel the twist in your wrist. “I’m not.”

His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something colder beneath it now. “Didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t even look at me.”

You raise your gaze to the window. “You didn’t say anything worth replying to.”

He blinks, once. A slow reaction, like he’s recalibrating. You can feel the moment his confidence falters, but just slightly.

“You mad at me?” he asks, softer now.

You finally look at him, and it lands heavy. Your voice is steady. “No.”

He pushes off the counter. Takes a slow step forward. Then another. He’s close now. Closer than he should be.

You take a step back. Barely. Reflex.

And that’s when the smile falls.

“You didn’t used to do that,” he says. His voice is quieter. Not a whisper, but something near it.

You shrug. “I didn’t used to think about things too much.”

The silence between you feels electric. Not like desire, like static. Like the storm that builds just before something snaps.

He stares at you for a beat. Then two.

And for the first time, maybe ever, he doesn’t have something slick to say back.

You end up by the pool again that evening. Of course you do.

It’s muscle memory by now, the tug in your chest when the sun dips low and the damn cicadas start up again, loud and constant like they’ve never stopped screaming since the first time. The water shimmers in the half-light, dappled gold giving way to deeper blue. It smells like chlorine and dusk and the faint curl of someone’s forgotten cologne in the air.

The others are gone, upstairs, passed out in the humid lull of too much rosé, or maybe out driving to the village for dessert or cigarettes or something else that doesn’t matter. The point is: it’s just the two of you.

Like always.

You’re sitting on the edge of the pool, feet skimming the surface, arms wrapped loosely around your knees. Again. Just as always. Again and again and again. The concrete is still warm beneath your thighs, and the silence buzzes, close and thick and unspoken.

He joins you without asking. Drops into the space beside you like he belongs there, like there was never a version of this where he didn’t. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t move it.

You feel the tension gather in your chest like a fist. It wraps around your ribs, slow and quiet and cruel. You breathe carefully, like exhaling too loudly might shatter the delicate balance of pretending you’re unaffected.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. Just lets the silence stretch, the way he always does when he wants you to come to him. When he’s too sure you will.

Then: “You remember that storm summer?” His voice is soft, nostalgic. Easy. That tone he uses when he wants you to forget what he’s done, what he hasn’t said.

You nod. Slowly.

He smiles, crooked and fond. “You were so scared, you crawled into my bed in the middle of the night.”

You remember.

You weren’t scared. Not really. You just wanted an excuse. You needed a reason to cross the hallway. Something you could say later that made it sound innocent.

You say, “I wasn’t scared.”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “Sure you weren’t.”

And then he reaches for you.

It’s not rushed. Not aggressive. Just smooth, confident, the way it always is with him. Like he knows what your body wants even when your mouth says nothing. Like he’s done this before. Because he has.

His hand finds your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. His mouth hovers, breath warm against your skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet. He doesn’t have to.

“You want this,” he murmurs, eyes on your mouth. It´s not a question.

And maybe, maybe, a part of you does.

But not like this.

Not again. Not in this cycle of silence and sunburn and pretending. Not when you know how it ends. Not when he never stays.

Because what you want—really want—is for it to mean something. To be more than a summer reflex. More than a postcard memory you both abandon when September comes.

And this—his hand, his grin, his whisper—it isn’t more.

Not to him.

You pull back.

Just slightly. But enough.

His fingers fall away like he’s been burned. He blinks, slow, like the moment broke too fast for him to catch it.

“What?” he says, like it genuinely baffles him.

You swallow, throat dry. You keep your voice even. “I don´t want this. I don’t want to be your vacation habit anymore.”

His brows draw together. He leans back a little, his weight shifting. “It’s not like that.”

You laugh. But there’s no humor in it. Just sharpness. Just air escaping through something cracked.

“Of course it is,” you say. And then you stand.

You leave him there, pool lights flickering across his skin, hand still half-curled in the air like he doesn’t understand how this didn’t go the way it always does.

You don’t look back.

That night, even in sleep, it’s him.

Of course it is.

Your dreams pull you under like warm water, heavy, thick, familiar. And in them, it’s always Charles. Always that night, that specific summer, like your brain’s built a shrine to it in the back of your mind. A flickering reel of skin and salt and him, always him, undoing you in soft shadows.

You’d had sex before. Lots of it, if you’re being honest. Familiar, habitual, sometimes even fun. You knew each other’s rhythms, the little cues, a hand at the base of your spine meant he wanted it slow, a kiss to your jaw meant he wanted it now. You could read each other in darkness better than most people could in daylight.

But that night was different.

It was slower. Hungrier. Like you both knew the clock was ticking on the end of summer and neither of you could afford to waste what was left. He touched you like you were something rare. Something that might vanish if he moved too fast.

You remember the way he found you, on the balcony, legs tucked beneath you, curled in a sweatshirt that wasn’t yours. It was hisYou remember the feel of it: oversized, sun-warmed, smelling faintly of detergent.

He leaned against the balcony door, watching you for a long time before he said anything. Eyes heavy, hair a little damp, arms crossed casually like he didn’t know he was already in your bloodstream.

“Tu penses à moi?” Are you thinking about me?

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because then he crossed the space and kissed you like it was the first time all over again. Like he hadn’t already had you a dozen different ways in every spare corner of this house. His mouth was warm, coaxing, so slow it hurt. His hands gripped your thighs, tugged you closer, and you didn’t resist. You never did.

He didn’t say much. Charles never needed to. His hands said enough, sliding under his shirt on your body, over your ribs, up to your chest. He palmed you gently, thumbs grazing over skin until your breath hitched. You melted into him, easy, too easy.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You always wanted him. Even when you shouldn’t.

Inside, the house was empty. Or quiet enough to pretend it was. The others were gone, out late or asleep or too drunk to notice. The air buzzed with possibility. With risk. With heat.

He laid you down on the mattress like he was offering you to the night. Peeled your clothes off piece by piece. He looked at you like he wanted to memorize everything—every curve, every mark, the way your stomach fluttered when his fingers ghosted across your skin.

And then his mouth was on you.

You’d made a sound, sharp, startled, like something broken. He looked up at you, lips wet, hair falling into his eyes. Smirked like the devil himself.

“Tu l’aimes comme ça, hein?” You like it like that, huh?

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

He reached toward the nightstand, already moving for the drawer. But your hand caught his wrist.

You shook your head.

Soft. Certain.

His eyes flicked to yours, caught something there he hadn’t expected. Surprise bloomed into something darker, sharper.

He swore under his breath in French. “Putain…” Then louder, brow furrowed: “You serious ?”

You nodded, just once, barely.

He swore again, rougher this time, almost frustrated, but not with you. With himself. With the weight of what this meant.

And when he finally pushed into you—bare, careful, deep—you gasped, and he stilled. For one suspended second, you both just breathed, your bodies locked together like an answer to a question neither of you had been ready to ask.

You wrapped your legs around him—not from reflex, but from want. From something deeper. Like if you could just hold him close enough, if you stayed joined like this long enough, maybe something would shift. Maybe he’d stay.

And for a moment, it felt like he might.

Because this time, it wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t distant. He moved slowly, deliberately, each thrust thick with heat and something that almost felt like care. He kissed you between breaths—your shoulder, your jaw, your mouth—and each one felt less like routine, more like instinct. More like he needed you.

He moaned your name, more than once. Said it like a truth he couldn’t swallow. Like it meant something now.

And you let yourself answer—soft noises, whispered pleas, arms wrapped tight around him as if to keep him from unraveling out of your life.

When it was over, he didn’t pull away right away. He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, breath tangled with yours. Then his hand slipped behind your neck, fingers warm and tender, and he kissed you.

Really kissed you.

Like it mattered.

And the worst part?

You let yourself believe it did.

Again.

You told yourself this time was different. That maybe all the years of almost could turn into something solid. That maybe the ache in your chest meant he felt it too.

But even as he held you, even as his mouth lingered on yours—your heart knew better.

Because even care, when it isn’t followed by clarity, still ends in confusion.

And when he fell asleep, arm wrapped around you, heavy and warm, like something that belonged, you didn’t move.

He was pressed so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, his breath soft and steady on the curve of your neck. It should not have been comforting. Should not have made you feel wanted.

But the worst part? It was.

So you lay there, still and wide awake, your heart thudding against the silence, your body sore in places you wanted to pretend meant something. And all you could hear, through the window, through the ache, were the fucking cicadas.

You wake up drenched in sweat. The kind that feels cold even in the heat. Your shirt sticks to your back, your shorts twisted around your waist, limbs tangled in the sheets like you fought something in your sleep and lost.

Your heart pounds.

Hard. Too hard. Like he never left your body. Like he’s still in you, mouth on your skin, hands between your legs, voice in your ear. Your thighs clench involuntarily. You hate the way it makes your stomach twist.

It disgusts you.

Not the memory. Not exactly. It’s the clarity of it. The precision. The way your body betrays you with perfect recall. The way the ghost of him still clings, under your nails, behind your knees, at the hollow of your throat.

You roll over too fast, kicking the sheets away. The pillow slips, flops off the side of the bed and knocks over the half-empty glass of water. You hear it before you see it.

The shatter.

Loud in the quiet.

“Fuck,” you mutter, louder than you meant. The word sticks in the humid air like smoke.

You sit up too quickly, swing your legs over the edge and try to stand. A jagged sting slices through your heel. A hot, immediate pain.

You hiss, sharper this time, “Fuck—”

You freeze mid-step, breathing through your teeth. Blood pools beneath your arch, ruby-red on white tile. It drips from you steadily, and you don’t move. Just glare at the floor like it offended you.

Then: a knock at the door.

“Chérie?”

Of course.

Charles.

“You okay?”

His voice is soft, concerned, but not panicked. You know that tone. It’s his gentle act. His default charm. You almost say “go away,” but the words never make it out.

He steps in like it’s still his place to. Like this is still routine. Like he didn’t unravel you in your sleep and leave the seams exposed.

“I heard something brea—” He stops mid-sentence. Eyes drop to your foot. To the blood. “Oh. Did you hurt yourself?”

You don’t answer right away. Your jaw is too tight. “I stepped on glass,” you say finally. “Be careful—it’s everywhere.”

He glances down. “I’m wearing shoes,” he says with a small shrug. “Don’t worry.”

You want to snap at him for it, for the casualness, the ease. But then he’s moving. Crunching glass underfoot like it’s nothing. And then suddenly he’s close—too close—and before you can protest, he’s lifting you.

Strong arms under your knees, a hand steady at your back. He carries you a few steps and sets you down gently, away from the mess, onto the other side of the bed.

“Wait here,” he says, already turning away.

And for some reason, you do.

He disappears into the bathroom without another word. You hear the familiar creak of the cabinet door, the rattle of the first-aid kit as he digs through it, the splash of water in the sink. He moves like someone who’s done this before—like someone who’s been taught to fix what he breaks, but not to stop breaking it.

When he returns, his sleeves are rolled up, and he’s carrying a damp towel, the antiseptic, tweezers, and gauze. He kneels in front of you without asking. He doesn’t sit. He kneels. And it’s stupid, but something about that posture makes your throat catch. Like penance. Like prayer.

He sets everything carefully on the edge of the bed beside your thigh, glancing up once. His eyes are unreadable. Not soft, exactly, but focused. Present.

His fingers hover over your foot.

“Don’t move,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You try not to.

But when he touches the first shard, you jolt, sharp and involuntary. Pain flares, quick and bright. You suck in a breath through your teeth. Tears burn before you can stop them. One escapes, streaking hot down your cheek.

“Fuck,” you whisper, trembling.

His hands still. “Sorry,” he says, this time with real quiet behind it. “Just a little longer.”

You nod, eyes shut tight.

He goes back in, slow now, precise. The tweezers move delicately, and his other hand steadies your ankle. His thumb rubs absent circles on your skin, maybe without realizing it. Maybe on purpose. You don’t know which would be worse.

You need something to hold onto. Anything. Your hand finds his shoulder, fingers curling into the warm fabric of his shirt, gripping harder than you mean to. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t comment.

The last shard comes free, and you feel the pressure ease. He presses the towel to your foot, then tapes the gauze gently in place, wrapping it secure, snug—but not tight.

Then, just when you think it’s over, he does something unexpected.

He leans down.

And kisses your ankle.

Light. Warm. Unforgivable.

Your breath catches. You stare at him, but he doesn’t look up right away. He brushes his fingers once more along your calf, and finally speaks, voice low, coaxing:

“You’re good now.”

But he doesn’t move away.

He lingers, still holding your leg, thumb brushing slow arcs against your skin.

“I can make you forget the pain,” he murmurs, as his lips press higher, just a little. A kiss to the curve of your calf. Then another, slow, deliberate, just below your knee.

“Charles…” It’s barely a breath. A warning with no teeth.

But he keeps going.

His mouth moves up your leg with agonizing care, each kiss another spark in the dark. Your hand stays on his shoulder, palm flat now, a soft push. Not enough to stop him. Just enough to ask.

He pauses.

Lifts his head. His breath skims your thigh. His eyes find yours—dark, wide, a flicker of something earnest or maybe just expertly disguised want.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

The question is simple. The silence that follows is not.

You look at him. His hair is a mess, sticking out in soft, familiar directions. His expression is almost boyish. Expectant. You hate that you can’t tell if it’s real. If any of this is.

You should say yes.

You should scream it.

But you don’t.

You say nothing.

And he smirks—small, knowing. That same smirk from every summer before.

You lie there wondering how the hell you got here again.

Wondering when wanting stopped being a choice, and just became something your body did, on cue, on instinct, like muscle memory carved too deep to unlearn.

Because it isn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not like guilt twisted up in your gut. Not like shame blooming in your chest before he’s even touched you properly.

But he does. Touch you, that is. Slowly. With precision, with purpose. His mouth drags higher along the inside of your thigh, teasing you, coaxing you open. Your breath stutters. Your legs part like a reflex, and that’s when it happens, he slips a hand under your shorts and pushes your panties aside with a confidence that makes your stomach curl.

You should stop him. You’re thinking it, you know you are.

But then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Open. Patient.

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, and your hips twitch helplessly toward him. His hand presses gently to your stomach, grounding you like he knows what you need even before you do. You feel the press of his palm, firm and familiar, the faint scrape of his stubble against the inside of your thigh. It makes you shiver.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

What are you doing?

But then he moans softly into you, like the taste of you is something he's missed, like it's the only thing that matters. And your thoughts splinter, because the thing about Charles is, he doesn’t need much to undo you. One sound, one breath, one flick of his tongue, and you’re unraveling like you never learned how to hold yourself together.

His mouth moves with a purpose now—slow but relentless, teasing you open, licking you soft and wet and dizzy until your hands scramble for something—anything—to hold onto. The sheets. His shoulders. The edge of the mattress.

You feel yourself slipping under, pulled into the tide of him again. You gasp, his name breaks from your lips unbidden, and you hate how natural it feels, how familiar.

He doesn’t stop.

He never does.

He keeps going like he wants to wring every shiver from your bones, every gasp from your lungs. And when you come, sharp and loud and trembling, he hums like he’s satisfied, like he owns it.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth glistens and his eyes are blown wide, dark with want. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and climbs over you without a word, sliding into the space between your thighs like it was carved out for him.

Your body reaches for him before you can stop it. Your fingers find his jaw, your mouth parts for his kiss. You want to push him away, but you’re already pulling him closer.

He kisses you slow, like he’s trying to make you forget the ache, the history, the truth. His hand finds your chest, warm and heavy, palm pressing into your skin until you gasp into his mouth. He drinks it down greedily.

“Want you,” he murmurs into your throat. “Right now.”

You close your eyes. It’s too late. You’re already here.

“You already have me,” you say. And it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all summer.

He exhales, shaky. You feel his body stutter for a second, like your words land somewhere deep in him, a hit he didn’t expect. You don’t know if it’s guilt or triumph that flashes across his face.

Then everything unravels.

He pushes his pants down, yours follow, and it happens in a blur, like your bodies are moving faster than your minds can keep up. You’re already wet, already open, and when he pushes into you, slow and full and unbearably deep, both of you make a sound like it hurts.

Maybe it does.

You wrap around him without thinking. Like instinct. Like gravity. He fucks you slow at first, deliberate, like he’s trying to savor it. And for a moment, it almost feels real.

Almost tender. But there's a wall there, always has been something unreachable behind his eyes.

Still, your hand finds his. Fingers lace tight. Foreheads press together.

Your name breaks from his lips again, softer this time—like a question, like a prayer. His pace falters. His jaw tightens. And then something in him gives. He pushes deeper, harder, with that desperate edge—like he’s trying to reach the parts of you he never could. Like he wants to leave something behind in you, something only he can claim.

You come again, your body wrung out, face turned into the pillow to muffle the sound. You bite down so hard you taste copper. This one is different. It burns. It's grief threaded through pleasure—like mourning disguised as release. A goodbye, dressed up in want.

He finishes seconds later, his face pressed into your neck, breath short and uneven. He doesn't say your name this time.

He just breathes, still buried in you.

Then, quietly, he says, “That’s what I missed.”

You feel it like a blade. The tears sting instantly, blurring the edges of the room. He kisses your shoulder—soft, almost reverent—and asks, “Do you want me to stay?”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

When you do, it’s a whisper: “No.”

He’s still for a second. Then he kisses your cheek, almost like a thank-you, and stands.

"See you tomorrow, chérie."

Just like that.

No apology. No fight. No closing of the space he just carved open.

You hear the rustle of fabric, the zipper. He doesn’t look back. He’s already halfway dressed before you even sit up.

Your skin is sticky with sweat, with him. The sheets twisted around your legs. The silence.

Except it isn’t silent.

The goddamn cicadas are screaming outside.

You wake with the taste of him still lingering on your tongue—salt and sweat and the bitter afterburn of regret. You haven’t even opened your eyes yet and already you feel it, clawing up your throat: the self-loathing, the ache, the heavy hush of shame that no shower can scrub away.

You feel hollow. Stupid. Bruised in places no one can see.

You don’t cry. You’re past crying. Past pleading. There’s nothing left in your chest but the slow, dull throb of disappointment.

Mostly at yourself.

By the time the sun finds its angle across the pool deck, you’ve already been sitting out there for hours. Skin hot, eyes dry, limbs leaden with the weight of what you’re about to say. You've gone over it a hundred times, every word, every beat, every possible way to get through it without shaking.

You hear him before you see him. Flip-flops against tile. A yawn, too casual. Then the creak of the lounge chair as he lowers himself beside you, like nothing’s changed. Like you didn't break open under him last night and wake up full of splinters.

He stretches, scratches the back of his neck. Glances at you sideways.

“Sleep okay?”

His voice is easy. Too easy. Like you’re strangers playing house. Like he didn’t kiss you with shaking hands. Like he didn’t leave without saying a word.

You don’t answer the question. You just say it.

“I meant what I said yesterday.”

He pauses. “What?”

“That I don’t want to be your summer vacation habit.”

“Didn’t feel like that last night.”

And there it is.

You turn to him, slow. Eyes burning. Voice steady.

“You only wanna kiss by the pool,” you say, the words landing heavier than you expected. “When you’re in the mood. When the sky’s pink and the water’s warm and no one else is looking.”

He shifts but doesn’t speak. The silence between you buzzes — thick with the motherfucking cicadas, thick with every version of you that said yes when she should’ve said nothing.

“You want me to talk like your maman in French,” you go on, “soft and sweet and half-wrapped in fantasy. Like I’m something you can visit, not someone you choose.”

His jaw clenches.

“And you just wanna vibe—sometimes. Not all the time. God forbid you actually have to keep me in your mind when I’m not right in front of you.”

The hurt flashes across his face this time. Brief, but real. But you’re already past it.

His voice comes soft, defensive: “C’est pas vrai…” It’s not true

But it is. God, it is.

“You were calling me to your room,” you say. “I always answered right away.”

You pause, then say it plain:

“But you never made me stay.”

He reaches for your name like it’s a solution. Like if he says it soft enough, it’ll stitch something back together.

But you shake your head.

“Don’t.”

And this time, he listens.

You stand. Not with hope. Not with heartbreak. But with the aching stillness of someone finally done romanticizing their own loneliness.

You leave him there. In the blue-glow hush of a memory too fragile to carry. In a summer you won’t write poems about anymore. With the soft chirps of cicadas arround him.

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@mara1999 @random-movie

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humaling · 2 months ago

Text

Nothing's Ever Gonna Hurt You, Baby.

pairings: finnick odair x victor!reader

summary: it's supposed to be another normal day with your husband—but it takes a turn when you wake up to eerie silence.

warnings: anxiety attack

word count: 3.8k

author's note: based on a req! i tried my best to write an anxiety attack. i got a bit lazy w the ending heh

When the war ended, you and Finnick moved back to District 4. It was a heartbreaking sight—the town lay in ruins, everything you once knew and loved buried beneath the rubble. But not all was lost. Some homes near the shore or deeper into the outskirts had been spared the worst of the destruction. A few were falling apart, some had been looted, but they were still standing.

Like the old family beach house you grew up in. Tucked away at the far edge of District 4, hidden behind thick jungle, it had always been out of reach—too remote for Snow’s influence to ever fully touch.

You hated living there as a kid. The jungle terrified you at night—the shadows, the sounds, the way the wind moved through the trees like whispers. You begged your parents to move closer to town, to where life felt brighter, safer.

Now, decades later, you and Finnick—your husband—have made that same beach house your home. It's the only thing that still feels familiar, untouched by the Capitol’s hand. Even with its isolation, or maybe because of it, you both prefer it here. It offers a kind of peace, a quiet freedom neither of you ever had before.

For a while, you both tried to believe that peace was enough. That the quiet meant safety. That the crashing of the waves and the rustling of the jungle could lull you into something like normal. You planted herbs in the garden. Finnick fixed the broken shutters. You spent long afternoons sitting in the sand, your feet buried in the warmth, watching the tide come in. There were even moments—brief, fleeting—when it almost felt like healing.

But peace is a strange thing when you've lived without it for so long. It starts to feel unfamiliar, almost threatening. You wait for it to be broken, because it always was before. Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget.

But freedom, you’ve learned, comes with a price. Snow may be gone, but the scars he left on both of you remain.

They linger in the quiet moments, in the in-between spaces—when the chores are done, when the sun dips behind the trees, when the fire crackles low and there’s nothing left to distract you. That’s when it creeps in. The past. The memories. The ache you’ve tucked so carefully behind smiles and routines.

That’s when the silence changes.

Some nights, it’s too quiet.

That kind of quiet that creeps under your skin and settles in your bones. The kind that isn’t peaceful at all—it’s heavy, still, like something’s waiting to happen. You’ve come to hate that silence. Because that was what it sounded like the morning you were reaped. No birdsong. No waves crashing. Just this eerie, unnatural calm. The air so still, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

It was the same during the Quarter Quell. That silence before they called your name again. Before they dragged you back.

Now, even here—years later, with the war over, with Finnick beside you—you can still feel it. That weight. That pause before the storm. It comes without warning. You’ll be chopping vegetables or brushing your hair or just standing on the porch watching the sea, and then… silence.

Your hands start to tremble. Your breath gets shallow. And for a moment, you’re not in the beach house anymore. You’re sixteen again, standing on that stage, eyes fixed on the Capitol seal. Or you’re in the arena, cold and bloodied, waiting for a cannon.

Finnick notices every time. He doesn’t say much—he just comes close, presses his hand over yours, or pulls you into his arms, grounding you with his presence. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes it isn’t. But he never leaves you in it.

You wake to the sound of nothing.

No gulls. No wind through the trees. No boards creaking under Finnick’s footsteps. Just stillness.

The kind that wraps around the house like fog, thick and quiet and wrong.

You sit up slowly, the sheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. The sun’s already risen—soft light spills in through the window, casting long, golden bars across the floor. Finnick’s side of the bed is cold.

You already know he’s gone to the market. He mentioned it last night, just before falling asleep with his hand resting on your back. “Won’t be long,” he’d said. “Back before lunch.”

Still, knowing and feeling aren’t the same.

The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s oppressive. Heavy. Your chest tightens before your brain can catch up, before you can remind yourself that you’re safe, that this is your home now, that there are no cameras, no Games, no Capitol.

It doesn’t matter.

Because this is the kind of quiet that used to come before something awful. The kind of quiet that filled the square before a name was read out loud. The kind that settled over the jungle before a trap snapped shut.

You throw the blankets off and plant your feet on the wooden floor, grounding yourself with the texture, the temperature, the reality. You breathe in through your nose, slow, steady. Just air. Just the smell of salt and sun and old pinewood.

You tell yourself to move.

You go through the motions like it’s all fine—open the shutters, wash your face, tie your hair back. Pretend the pounding in your chest is just leftover from a dream. Pretend your fingers don’t shake when you reach for a cup. Pretend the silence is just silence.

You don’t let yourself cry. Not today. Not over nothing.

By the time Finnick returns, basket in hand, salt in his hair, humming something low under his breath, you’re sitting at the table slicing fruit with a steady hand.

He leans down to kiss the top of your head like he always does.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice soft.

And you lie with a smile. “Yeah. Just a little too quiet this morning.”

You don’t look up when you say it. Just keep slicing the fruit—steady, even strokes, the way you were taught back in the Capitol when everything had to be perfect.

Finnick pauses.

It’s just a moment, barely more than a breath, but you feel it. The way his hand stills on the back of the chair. The way his body goes quiet, not tense, just still. He’s watching you—reading more into your voice than the words you gave him.

You don’t have to explain. You never really have with him.

Still, he doesn’t say anything right away. Just slides the basket onto the counter and starts unpacking it like nothing’s wrong. Fish, bread, a jar of honey. A few apples, bruised but fresh. His movements are easy, casual—but his eyes flick to you now and then, like he’s keeping track of your breathing, your shoulders, the way your hand tightens just slightly on the knife.

“You know,” he says after a minute, like it’s just a passing thought, “the gulls were making a racket near the dock this morning. Could barely hear myself think.”

You glance up, and he’s got that look—half-grin, half-concern. The kind he wears when he’s trying to make you smile without calling attention to why you’re not. It’s light, but it’s there: the worry, tucked behind his lashes.

“They must’ve all flown off the moment I got back,” he adds, turning to rinse a piece of fruit in the sink. “Didn’t want to compete with your mood.”

It’s not a joke, not really, but the way he says it—soft, teasing, careful—it makes something inside you loosen. Not all the way. Not enough to stop the thrum of anxiety under your skin. But enough to let you breathe a little deeper.

You set the knife down, wipe your hands on a towel, and lean against the counter next to him.

“They’re cowards,” you say quietly.

He huffs a laugh. “That’s what I’ve always said.”

You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t need it. He just bumps your shoulder with his and starts slicing the bread, like the silence never touched either of you at all.

The kitchen settles into a soft rhythm. Finnick slices the bread while you arrange the fruit. The air smells like salt and citrus, and for a little while, it feels almost normal. The silence no longer presses—it breathes. Shared, it’s lighter.

You’re halfway through whisking eggs when the old telephone in the hallway buzzes. It’s a low, crackling ring—the kind that always startles you, even though you’ve lived with it for years.

Finnick wipes his hands on a towel and glances toward the doorway.

“I’ve got it,” he says, already moving.

You nod, not looking up.

The moment he steps out of the kitchen, the room changes.

It’s subtle. No footsteps. No hum under his breath. No weight in the air beside you. Just the eggs, the sound of your whisk scraping the bowl, and the sharp scent of rosemary from the sprig he’d dropped onto the cutting board.

And that’s what does it.

The rosemary.

The Capitol had used it in everything—on meats, in oils, in perfumes they gave to the stylists. That crisp, herbal scent that once meant luxury now coils in your chest like smoke. It clings to your skin, to the walls, and suddenly you’re not in the kitchen anymore. You’re in a room too clean, too white, too quiet, the kind of quiet that hums just beneath your ears. The kind of quiet that always came before someone screamed.

Your grip tightens on the whisk. You blink. You try to breathe, but your lungs don’t seem to want it. The light from the window feels too bright. The bowl is too loud. The silence is back—but it’s not empty this time. It’s waiting.

You tell yourself you’re here. That the war is over. That you’re home.

But your chest keeps rising too fast. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to stir again, but the motion turns frantic. The whisk hits the side of the bowl too hard. The sound is sharp—like metal clashing—and it yanks you deeper into the memory.

Your vision blurs. You press your palms flat against the counter, the wood solid beneath your skin, grounding—but barely. Your knees threaten to buckle. You think about calling out to Finnick, but your throat’s too tight. You can’t make a sound.

Your palms are flat against the counter, your breath shallow and ragged, but it’s not helping. You’re still not in your body. You're still not here.

You're there.

The scent of rosemary thickens, warping into something else—metallic, sterile, suffocating. The kitchen tilts just slightly, enough to make your stomach twist. The light in the window shifts too fast, too bright—like the artificial sun in the training center, never rising, never setting. Just watching.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Hard. Fast. Like it’s trying to outrun something. The room feels too small. Too loud. Too quiet. Your fingers twitch. Your jaw clenches.

And then—your elbow bumps the bowl.

It clatters off the edge of the counter and crashes to the floor. The sound shatters through the silence. Eggs spill across the wood in a yellow bloom, splattering up your legs. The metal whisk bounces once, then rolls, slow and mocking.

You fall to your knees in the mess, your hands trembling uncontrollably. Your chest tightens until there's no air, no space to breathe. Your vision blurs as your mind races, latching onto one terrible, impossible thought:

They’re sending you back.

You don’t know how or why or when, but it’s happening. The Capitol found a way. They always do. You can already hear your name echoing through the square again, see the seal flashing in the sky, feel the grip of peacekeepers dragging you toward that same metal door. You’re sixteen again. You’re twenty again. You’re never free.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Please—I can’t do it again—”

Your hands are over your ears, trying to drown out a sound that isn't there. Your body curls in, trying to disappear, but the panic swells bigger than your skin. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

Then you hear it—footsteps. Fast. Familiar.

Finnick bursts through the doorway, breath catching at the sight of you on the floor.

“Hey—hey, I’m here,” he says immediately, voice low but firm, already dropping to his knees beside you. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

His hands don’t grab, don’t rush. He’s careful—always careful. He slides one arm around your shoulders, the other gently covering your trembling hands, coaxing them down. He presses his forehead lightly to yours, anchoring you.

“You’re not going back,” he murmurs. “You’re never going back.”

Finnick’s voice seems distant, muffled—like it’s coming from a far-off dream. You can see his lips moving, but you can’t hear him. The world around you is too loud, too chaotic. Your mind is racing, drowning in the fear, in the terror, in the impossible thought that this will never end—that you will always be herded, always be a tool for their games. Always.

His hands are on your arms, his voice in your ear, but it’s not enough. You’re still trapped. Still choking on the panic that rises up like a wall around you.

Finnick tries again, sliding his arms around you, holding you close. His warmth is solid—his touch soft but urgent. You feel him against you, but you can’t seem to grab onto the reality of it. The world is spinning too fast. You’re suffocating in it.

His thumb gently presses against your wrist, soothing, steady, but your breathing is still ragged, too fast. You can’t catch it. Can’t catch anything.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, a calm insistence, but it feels like your eyes are stuck behind glass. “I need you to look at me, sweetheart.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t pull your face toward his. Instead, he leans in, just enough to let his breath brush against your ear. His words are a quiet hum, just soft enough to slip under your skin. He knows you’re listening, even if you can’t hear him all the way.

“Focus on me,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

But your mind can’t stop spinning, and all you can feel is the pressure—the terrible pressure—in your chest.

You feel him adjust his hold, and before you can process what’s happening, his hand is on your wrist, gently pulling it toward his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat fills your senses—strong, steady, frantic with worry, but there. You press your palm flat against the warm, firm skin under his shirt, the thump of his pulse grounding you.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches you with his warm, quiet eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest work through the shaking of your body.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice soft like a lullaby. "I’m here, honey. I’m right here, and you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone."

You press your palm harder against him, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart in time with the panic still swirling inside you, and for the first time, it anchors you. His heartbeat, frantic but real, becomes your lifeline. Something solid. Something constant.

He continues to breathe deeply, slowly, and as his chest rises and falls under your hand, your own breath starts to find its rhythm too. You can hear his voice again, soft and soothing, cooing gently at you.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart. In and out. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s as though his heartbeat is guiding you, leading you back to yourself. You press your face against his shirt, taking another shuddering breath, then another. The panic still clings to the edges of your mind, but Finnick doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull away. He simply holds you, holds you together, as the storm inside you starts to quiet.

With every beat of his heart against your palm, you begin to feel the ground under your feet again. Solid. Real. Safe.

You cling to him, your hands still trembling, but now they’re locked onto the front of his shirt, holding on like he’s your lifeline, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. Your fingers dig into the fabric, needing to feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him, beneath your touch.

You press your face into his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat the only thing that makes any sense. The terror still lingers at the edges of your thoughts, but Finnick is here. He’s always been here.

And that thought—he’s here—becomes the anchor you need.

He’s murmuring softly into your hair, his voice smooth and quiet, like he's speaking only for you, only to you. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, his hand running up and down your back in soothing strokes. His warmth seeps into you, calming the tremors that still shake your body.

“They won’t bring you back,” he says, his voice firm but gentle, a promise etched in every syllable. “No one is ever going to send you back into those arenas. Not again.”

You try to breathe, to pull in the air that’s been so elusive, and the simple truth in his words begins to seep through the fog of fear. But the panic is still raw, still sharp. You squeeze him tighter.

He presses his lips gently to the top of your head, a soft kiss, as if that kiss could chase the darkness from your mind. “It’s just me and you now. Always. You’re safe here, sweetheart. I’m right here, and I always will be.”

Your hands move to his back, desperate to feel every inch of him, like you need to make sure he’s real. That this—this life, this peace—is real. You try to nod, but your body doesn’t quite follow.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer, his voice low, rhythmic, like a lullaby. “No one can take you from me. Not ever. It’s just us, okay?”

You breathe again—slow, even this time, like you can finally draw the air deep into your lungs. The crushing weight of it all lightens just a little. You feel him there, solid and unmovable, his warmth wrapping around you like a shield. The fear begins to loosen its grip, just a little, but the feeling of him—his strength, his presence—grounds you more than you ever thought possible.

You press yourself closer, clinging to him like you’re afraid of letting go, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold on. Lets you take the time you need to breathe through it, to feel the trembling ease.

“It’s just us,” he whispers again, voice soft, so tender. “And we’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

The words feel like the only truth in the world right now, and slowly, the storm inside of you begins to quiet. With every breath you take, with every beat of his heart under your hand, you start to feel yourself coming back. More grounded. More here. More safe.

The panic still lingers at the edges, but Finnick’s presence is a steady reminder that it won’t take you again. That this is your life now, and he’s right beside you in it.

You slowly lift your head from his chest, meeting his eyes, still clinging to him as though you never want to let go.

“I’m here,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the last of the tears. “And I always will be.”

The world starts to shift back into focus, but you stay in his arms. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break this fragile moment just yet. His warmth is like a shield, keeping you safe from the echoes of fear that still try to creep up from the depths of your mind.

For a while, you simply breathe. Slow, steady, in and out, matching the rise and fall of Finnick’s chest beneath your palm. It’s like he’s breathing for you, keeping the rhythm until you can catch it yourself.

His arms are still wrapped around you, one hand resting gently against the back of your head, the other at your waist, keeping you close to him. You don’t say anything, neither of you do, but there’s a quiet, unspoken agreement in the stillness between you.

You’re safe here. Safe with him.

Every time the panic tries to sneak back in, Finnick seems to sense it. His thumb continues to stroke up and down your back, the motion comforting, calming. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push you to speak or explain. He knows. He understands.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you don’t need to explain. You don’t need to hide the fear. He knows it, just like he knows the quiet spaces inside of you—the ones no one else could ever touch.

“Whenever you need to,” he says softly after a while, his voice steady now, without the urgent tone from before. “You can hold me like this. You don’t have to face it alone. Not ever.”

The sincerity in his words settles over you like a blanket, the warmth of them seeping into your bones. You nod slightly, still curled into his chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. Your hands are still gripping him, but not in panic anymore.

The silence between you now feels different. Not like the heavy, oppressive quiet you felt earlier, but something softer. Like a shared space where nothing is expected—just two people breathing together, letting time stretch out around them.

Minutes pass, maybe even an hour. You lose track of time, caught in the comfort of his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your palm. Slowly, the tension in your body starts to ease, the sharp edges of fear softening, melting away. You can still feel the residue of it, just a faint echo, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight it had before.

You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs. And then another.

“Thank you,” you murmur against him, the words thick with emotion, but they feel right. You’re not sure you’ve ever said them with more honesty.

Finnick presses his lips into your hair, the lightest kiss, and you feel the soft smile in the movement. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t loosen his hold. Instead, he just stays there, holding you as you settle back into yourself, as you piece together the fragments of calm you can finally feel.

“I told you,” he whispers softly, voice laced with that quiet confidence that’s always been a part of him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

You don’t have the words to respond. All you can do is hold onto him, close your eyes, and allow yourself to let the fear fade into the background. The world outside can wait. For now, it’s just you and Finnick, and the peace of this moment, fragile but real.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #the hunger games x reader

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deepfriedhopesanddreams · 2 years ago

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More Bumblebee and Shutter!

#transformers #working on a transformers au #tf bumblebee #bumblebee #tf shutter #shutter #tf swindle #swindle #lazy road au #maccadam

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fangirlfuel · 2 months ago

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New Wag

---

Summary: It’s your first time in the paddock. First time in the spotlight. First time as his. And Kimi Antonelli is making sure everyone knows just how much he loves you—from soft kisses and warm hands to whispered words meant only for you. The race weekend might belong to him, but every heartbeat in between is yours.

---

You had imagined this moment before, your first race weekend, walking into the paddock as someone’s girlfriend. Not just someone. His.

But nothing in your daydreams had prepared you for the heat of Jeddah, the shine of the cameras, or the buzz of the Formula 1 circus moving around you. It was loud. Flashy. Fast. And yet…

“Too fast?” Kimi murmured softly, his fingers laced with yours, his thumb brushing slow circles across your skin.

You looked up at him, Mercedes black shirt clinging to his lean frame, sun-kissed curls curling just above his temples, his seablue eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing that mattered.

“A little,” you admitted, your voice small under the roar of an engine starting nearby. “I just don’t want to mess anything up.”

He stopped walking, even as people bustled around you, mechanics, drivers, VIPs, team managers. Like the entire world didn’t exist beyond the two of you.

“You couldn’t mess up a thing,” he said, tugging you gently into his chest. “You’re doing amazing. You’re here. With me. That’s already perfect.”

Your cheek pressed against the Mercedes logo on his shirt as he wrapped his arms around you, warm and strong and safe. You heard more camera shutters nearby, probably capturing the way his lips found your hair, the way his eyes softened when they looked at you, the way his hands never strayed far from your body.

You didn’t care. Neither did he.

“Everyone’s looking,” you mumbled.

“Let them,” he said simply, and tilted your chin up to kiss you. Not a rushed kiss. Not one of those nervous, polite ones you sneak when no one’s watching. No...this one was slow, full of heat and honey and quiet reassurance. The kind of kiss that said you’re mine without a single word.

And when he pulled away, he smiled like you’d just given him pole position.

“You’re so clingy today,” you teased, still breathless.

He smirked, brushing his nose against yours. “I’m in love. I’m allowed.”

The entire day, he barely let you go. In the hospitality suite, he pulled you onto his lap, arms wrapped around your waist as if that was his only source of energy. His head rested on your shoulder between meetings. He brought you water before you even asked, whispered sweet nothings in Italian under his breath ,things you barely understood but felt deep in your stomach.

During press time, he kept glancing your way. Every smile he gave the camera? You knew it was meant for you.

You had a new "nickname" by the end of the afternoon.

“The one Kimi can’t stop touching.”

And it was true. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Even Toto rolled his eyes when he walked in and found you both curled up on the lounge sofa, your fingers tangled in Kimi’s curls, his lips pressing lazy kisses to your collarbone. “Young love,” he muttered with a chuckle before backing out of the room.

Later, as qualifying approached, the tone shifted just slightly. Kimi became quieter, more focused. His grip on your hand didn’t loosen, but his brows furrowed, his shoulders tensed, his racer mode switched on.

“You nervous?” you asked, leaning against him as he changed into his race suit.

He exhaled. “No. Not really. Not about driving.” Then he turned to you, his hands finding your waist, his forehead resting against yours. “I just want to make you proud.”

“Kimi…” you whispered, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “You already do. Every day.”

He kissed you again, this time slower, deeper. His hand rested on your lower back, anchoring you to him like you were the only thing steady in the chaos.

“You’ll wait for me at the pit wall?” he asked.

“Always.”

Before he stepped into the garage, he looked back just once, giving you a wink and a crooked little grin. That was your boy, playful, charming, electric.

And then he was gone, swallowed by noise and speed and expectation.

You watched every second of qualifying from the monitor, heart pounding in rhythm with every lap. Your nails dug into your palms. You held your breath. Whispered his name.

When it ended, and he did more than well, the entire garage burst into claps and cheers. You saw the smile through his helmet, the relief in his shoulders. He pulled off his gloves, then his helmet, eyes scanning the crowd until they found you.

You didn’t even have time to think. He was suddenly in front of you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you up slightly, spinning you into a kiss that stole the air from your lungs.

“You were watching?” he asked, brushing your hair from your face.

“Of course I was,” you smiled. “You were incredible.”

His lips curved, and then he kissed you again. Forehead. Cheek. Nose. Lips. “You’re the reason.”

“I think the car helped.”

He laughed. “Sure. The car. But mostly you.”

---

That night, wrapped in hotel sheets and arms, your legs tangled together, Kimi laid with his head on your chest, tracing patterns on your skin with his fingertips.

“You still overwhelmed?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. “No. Now I’m just… full.”

He looked up at you, sleepy and soft. “Full of what?”

“Love,” you whispered.

His smile was everything. “You make the paddock feel like home, you know that?”

You kissed his forehead. “You make everywhere feel like home.”

And as his arms pulled you even closer and the night settled around you like a secret, you realized one thing:

You were exactly where you were meant to be.

---

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aleese1111 · 2 months ago

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oil and cashmere | geum seong je x fem!reader

summary: at daesung Bikes, a Union-run chop shop, geum seong-je hides a forbidden secret—his affair with the boss' niece. When she accidentally leaves behind her cardigan, Baek Jin arrives and notices.

warnings: implied sexual content, criminal activity, violence.

author's note: first fic lol. requests in dms!

late afternoon light filtered through the half-open shutters, slicing across the dust-filled air of the garage in harsh beams. the metallic clatter of tools echoed somewhere in the back as two underlings worked on stripping a stolen ducati. a playlist of half-dead punk played from a speaker on the shelf, loud enough to fill the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the unease that always lingered in this place.

the garage was many things—a chop shop, a graveyard for stolen engines, a union hideout masquerading as a legal front—but to seong je, it was also a den. a lair. a place where he could let his guard down, just a little. that is, when certain people weren’t around.

seong je sat sprawled across the cracked leather couch, legs stretched, arm draped lazily over the backrest. his cigarette burned low, the smoke curling around his face like lazy ghosts. he had that look on—detached, disinterested, predatory boredom.

but his eyes kept flicking—very subtly—to one thing.

a cardigan.

it lay on the far end of the couch, half-hanging over the edge. cream-colored, soft, expensive. a woman’s piece. a luxury item. and in this place of blood, rust, and oil, it might as well have been a glowing red flag.

she had left it.

not on purpose. she was careful, always. meticulous. clean exits. no footprints. but today, something had slipped. and now it sat there like a trap waiting to snap shut.

the door opened.

he didn’t move, but he knew that gait. the steady, unhurried pace. calculated.

baek jin.

he entered without a word, gaze cutting across the garage with cool detachment. still in uniform, blazer loose over his shoulders, posture relaxed but never vulnerable. he nodded to one of the boys in the back, then made his way toward the office.

he watched him go, exhaling smoke through his teeth.

a few minutes passed. then baek jin returned, steps lighter, hands in his pockets as he drifted toward the couch.

“everything in order?” he asked without looking.

“mm,” baek jin said, eyes drifting again. “still missing that cb650. might’ve been stashed in the old textile lot.”

“could be,” he replied. “kids have been sloppy.”

baek jin stopped a few feet from the couch, then slowly lowered himself onto the bench opposite, just far enough to look like he wasn’t here to confront anything.

his eyes wandered.

and landed.

on the cardigan.

it wasn’t dramatic. just a subtle shift in his gaze, the way a wolf notices a broken branch in the woods.

he noticed. of course he did.

baek jin tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “someone leave something?”

he didn’t look. “guess so.”

“odd to see something like that here,” jin said. “doesn’t match the decor.”

“girls swing by sometimes,” he muttered, tapping ash onto the floor. “one of them probably forgot it.”

“mmh.” jin nodded slowly. “looks pricey.”

“yeah. didn’t check the tag.”

another pause.

baek jin leaned back just slightly. “you remember who was here last?”

his eyes finally met jin’s. slow. bored. “nah. wasn’t paying attention.”

there was a beat of silence—just long enough for tension to thread between them.

then jin smiled, faint. almost amused. “i’ve seen something like that before.”

#geum seong je x reader #weak hero class x reader #geum seong je #weak hero class #kdrama x reader #weak hero class 2 #whc2 #seong je #aleese1111

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quackfallbackhq · 3 months ago

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Transformers Autobots Characters Reacting To They're S/o Thinking Of Having Their Sparkling's (NSFW DRABBLES?)

(semi) SMUT - you been warned

The characters are written down below are,, Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Ratchet, Jazz, Ironhide, Sideswipe, Crosshairs, Drift, Hound and Hotrod.

Optimus Prime

Optimus stills—his entire frame locked as your whispered words register.

You thought about having sparkings anyway.

His spark flares, heat thrumming through his frame as his servos instinctively tighten on your hips. His optics dim, processor struggling to keep up with the sheer weight of what you just confessed.

“You… thought about carrying mine?” His voice is low, rough—there’s something primal lurking beneath the usual control.

And then he groans, optics flickering as he pulls you closer, his frame still deeply connected to yours.

“… Then let’s make it happen.”

Bumblebee

Bee’s entire frame shutters, vents stuttering as he tries to process what you just said.

"You… you thought about it?"

His servos tremble against your thighs, his engine revving instinctively. You feel the way his spark pulses against yours, how his field tightens around you.

His optics flash, helm pressing into your shoulder as he grinds into you just a little more—still sensitive but reacting to the idea.

“Primus, you can’t just say that,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, voice thick with something deep, something needy. “Now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Ratchet

Ratchet’s processor blue screens.

Like—this wasn’t a conversation he expected to have while still buried inside you.

His optics flicker, his servo gripping your waist as his vents struggle to cycle properly.

“… You want that?” His voice is rough, almost hoarse.

You nod, hips shifting just slightly against him, and he growls—low, deep, his spark flaring as the implications of what you’re saying hit hard.

“… Then we might need to test your frame’s compatibility,” he mutters, lips grazing your jaw. “Thoroughly.”

Jazz

Jazz whimpers.

Like, actually whimpers.

His processor is fried, his entire frame shuddering as your words settle into his very spark.

“Oh, frag—”

He buries his face against your chest, field wrapping around yours in a desperate, needy embrace.

"You can't just say that, babe,” he pants, his servos gripping your hips, optics blazing.

But then—he grins, lazy and sultry, his hips rolling just slightly to emphasize he’s still deep inside you.

“… Guess we better keep trying ‘til we know for sure, huh?”

Ironhide

Ironhide’s engine rumbles.

Your words sink in slowly—his processor taking an extra second to fully grasp what you just admitted.

And then?

His grip tightens.

"You thought about it, huh?" His voice is low, deep, filled with something possessive.

His optics flash, his entire field surging around you as he pulls you closer, his plating still pressed flush against yours.

“… Then maybe it’s time we stop thinking and make it real.”

Sideswipe

“Oh, frag, you mean that?”

Sideswipe’s vents shudder, his entire frame twitching from overstimulation, but frag if he doesn’t immediately react to what you just whispered.

You feel his engine rev, his servo gripping your thigh as his processor struggles to keep up.

"Primus, you can’t just drop that on me right after—"

His optics flicker, something hungry brewing in his expression.

“… You sure? ‘Cause I really wouldn’t mind putting in some more… effort.”

Crosshairs

Crosshairs chokes.

Like, full-on chokes. His vents glitch, his entire frame going rigid as his processor shuts down for a solid three seconds.

Then—his optics flick to yours. Wide.

“Wait, wait—you what?”

You smirk, shifting just slightly around him, and he groans, helm dropping back as his servos tighten around you.

"Primus, you can't just say stuff like that—" He pauses, optics flickering with something darker.

"... But if you're serious, sweetheart? Then frag, we better get to work."

Drift

Drift stills.

His optics are dark, his vents slow and measured—but his field? It flares so intensely around you that you feel the weight of his emotions immediately.

“… You would carry mine?”

His servo drifts to your abdomen, his plating still intimately pressed against yours as his spark pulses hard.

The reverence in his gaze, the way his lips part slightly as he drinks in your words—it’s overwhelming.

“… Then let us not waste time, my love.”

Hound

Hound groans—deep, rough, his entire frame thrumming beneath you.

"You thought about it?" His voice is gravelly, optics flickering as his servos tighten on your waist.

Then, suddenly, his lips are on you again—claiming, desperate, his spark pulsing violently against yours.

“… Then we better make damn sure it happens.”

And with the way he rolls his hips? Oh, he’s not stopping anytime soon.

HotRod

Hot Rod whimpers.

Like, actually whimpers. His vents are shaky, his optics wide as your words fully register.

“… Wait. You mean that?”

His field flares, his servos locking around your waist as his processor overheats.

You nod—smug, teasing—and he groans, his engine revving uncontrollably.

"Oh, frag, babe—you know I’m gonna make sure it happens now, right?”

And with the way his hips instinctively buck into yours again? Yeah, you knew exactly what you were doing.

notes - you can read this as different transformers shows or comics you wish, I personally imagine these of Bayverse autobots x cybertronian reader, there's still more I want to write down but let me know if you want more of different things!

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foreveia · 5 months ago

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fourteen ⤨ oikawa tooru

⨭ genre; fluff

⨭ pairing; oikawa tooru x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 6.5k

⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.

⨭ warnings; profanity

⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki

one.

During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.

You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.

But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.

Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.

You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.

“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.

You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.

Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.

Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”

“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”

He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”

You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.

He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” you sigh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t remember you asking one.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are.”

“Touché.”

You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.

Then, in a flash, it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”

“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”

Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”

“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”

His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”

“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”

He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”

Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”

“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”

“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”

“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”

Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.

You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”

“For what?”

“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”

“Japan?”

“Bingo.”

Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”

Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.

Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You are going to lose your goddamn mind.

two.

For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.

Not… this.

Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.

He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.

“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.

Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”

“Show me your ticket.”

He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.

Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”

You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.

The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.

Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”

“My what?”

“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”

“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”

Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”

You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.

He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”

You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m fun.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Same thing.”

You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”

“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.

Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.

You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”

You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t.

Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.

three.

By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics.

Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.

Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.

Spoiler: he notices immediately.

“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it.

You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”

“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”

“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”

He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.

Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”

You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”

“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”

You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”

Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”

“What, grand romantic gestures?”

“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”

You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”

The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?

If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.

You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.

“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”

Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.

You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.

“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”

You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.

And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.

Oh God. That can’t be good.

four.

Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.

Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less.

You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction.

He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.

You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.

The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.

“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest.

You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”

You scoff. “And you’re not?”

“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”

Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”

“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.

“Mm. You sure?”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”

You snort. “Doubt that.”

His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Oikawa.”

He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.

And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.

The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep.

“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”

“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”

You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed.

“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”

Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”

Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”

He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”

“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.

“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.

You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”

Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.

“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.

“What?” You glance at him.

He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”

You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re a playboy.”

He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”

You snort. “Did you?”

Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him.

There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”

Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.

You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”

He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”

Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”

You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”

Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.

five.

Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.

You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.

The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.

And that’s when you see it.

You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.

“Oikawa.”

He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”

“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”

He yawns, unbothered. “And?”

“And that’s… so predictable.”

He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”

“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”

Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”

He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.

You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”

He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”

“Instagram? KingOikawa.”

“Hey, now—”

“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”

“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”

Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.

Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.

You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”

Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.

***

At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.

The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.

You, on the other hand, remain awake.

You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.

Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”

You blink, a little surprised. “What?”

He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”

You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”

Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.

“Here,” he says, placing it between you.

You frown at it. “What?”

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”

Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”

After a moment of hesitation, you do.

And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”

Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.

***

At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.

It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.

Then, slowly, the details start to register.

The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.

Your pulse stutters.

He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.

And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.

Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.

The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.

But right now?

Right now, he’s none of those things.

His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.

And it unsettles you. Because this is real.

This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.

You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.

It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.

For some reason, you let him stay.

six.

There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.

And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.

You hate that it makes your stomach sink.

You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.

The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.

You don’t know what you get.

The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.

Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.

You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”

Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.

You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”

You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.

It’s almost over.

***

Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.

That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.

A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.

A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.

You blink. “What the fuck.”

Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.

“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.

It’s also… kind of nice.

You hate that you think that.

Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”

You frown. “So, what?”

His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”

Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.

Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?

The answer forms before you can stop it.

“…I think I’m starting to.”

Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.

You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.

Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”

You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.

Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”

“A first for you, I’m sure.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.

“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”

And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.

Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.

So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”

⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all

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