#maybe in the future though <33 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

norristeria · 12 days ago

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Oddity¹ ! LN04

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

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

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

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

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

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

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your very own Holy Grail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

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

Anything but failure.

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

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

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

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

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

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

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

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

“Naturally.”

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

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

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gulped.

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

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

“Oscar.”

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

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

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

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

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

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

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

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

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

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

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

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

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

First doubt. Then anger.

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

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

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

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

Dear Oscar,

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

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

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

Wishing you happy holidays.

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

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

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

Oscar,

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

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

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

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

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

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

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

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

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar,

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

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

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

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

"What the fuck?"

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

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

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

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

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

Then deleted it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

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

Oscar.

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

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

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

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

“That’s why you’re here.”

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

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

“Why not?”

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

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

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

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you coming?”

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

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

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

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

And that hurt.

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

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

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

She doesn’t belong here.

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

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

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

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

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

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

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

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

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

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

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

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

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

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

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

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

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

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

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

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

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

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

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

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

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

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

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

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

You looked up at Oscar.

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

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

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

A heavy silence followed.

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

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

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

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

“What kind of stupid question is–”

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

For the first time, you were speechless.

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

He stepped closer.

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

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

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

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

“And reply to my emails?”

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

“That too.”

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

The salary didn’t hurt either.

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

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

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

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

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

“Thank you.”

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

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

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

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

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

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

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

“Yes."

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

He sighed and turned down the radio.

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

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

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

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

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

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

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

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

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

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

Take that, Cecilia.

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

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

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

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

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

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

“And this is—”

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

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

“My God! Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

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

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

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

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

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

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daenysx · 13 days ago

Text

this is not the fic idea i mentioned in the poll, just a small something i wanted to post to slowly go back to writing <33

"Oh, no, wait," James stops you. You'd like to know why. "I'll definitely have a heart attack if you wear that."

That being his jersey, with his last name on the back, you are throughly amused by this new attitude. His pretty eyes are wide open, naked chest on display and he looks messed up in the best way possible. You just want to see how the jersey looks on you.

"You're being dramatic, Jamie." you say. James scoffs and oh- he has the audacity to fake pout.

"You don't know what that means, angel," he points a finger to the jersey. "If you ever put that on, I'm gonna be yours forever."

"Oh, really?" you put on your nicest smile. "I'm definitely wearing it now."

"If something happens to my heart, you're gonna be the one explaining this to my coach. You should take the responsibility of your reckless actions."

Reckless actions, he says, as if he's not the one talking without his shirt on. You curve your lips into a snarky smile, taking off your tank top quicker than ever with playful fingers, and it feels so funny. He watches the entire scene without a word, and you can almost hear his heartbeat. Maybe he was being serious.

"It feels so nice," you comment. "I like the fabric."

"Will you marry me?"

"I'm sure you can do better than this," you laugh. "But for future reference, yes. Just close your mouth now, please."

He kisses your cheek before pulling you closer to his chest. It's a perfect hug, he traces the letters on your back with shaky fingers. You kiss his collarbone, he can smell your perfume. The scent will have to stay on this jersey forever.

"I love you," you whisper. "Even though you're being too dramatic over this."

He presses you harder to his chest like it's possible.

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter fluff #marauders #marauders fic #james x you #james x fem!reader #james x reader #the marauders #james potter fic #james potter fanfic #james potter imagine #marauders imagine

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marauder-misprint · 3 months ago

Note

hi! can you do something with the marauders preferably sirius or james where the reader has constantly been like kind of invisible her whole life and spoken over and in the end has just stopped speaking up much ? thankyou <33 ( no pressure though! )

Hi! Thank you for this request ❤︎ Not sure how I feel about the quality of this. I definitely feel like it's not James enough, but it is what it is. Or maybe it's the lack of interactions with the rest of the Marauders that has me feeling like this? Idk. (It also might be because I'm not a huge James writer? Who knows?)

ANYWAYS! I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Potions partner

James Potter x reader

4.6k words

cw: fluff, yapper!James

You’re not sure which is more peculiar: the story you’re telling or the fact that multiple people are listening to you tell it.

It had happened during Care of Magical Creatures class that morning. Professor Kettleburn was trying to settle an aggravated Thestral and was failing horribly to the point where he dismissed class urgently. You were one of the few students who could actually see the beast so your retelling of the event was more descriptive than the rest of the class’.

But what wasn’t peculiar was when a boy sat down a few seats away from you with complaints about the latest Transfiguration essay and all the attention that had been on you and your story moved on. Was the Thestral more interesting? Yes. But you were you, a background character in your own life. People didn’t pay attention to you if there was something else going on.

You sigh and turn your attention to the food on your plate. You’ve barely touched it since you were talking for once. Now that attention has left you like it always does, you’re able to eat. It had been nice to feel heard, even if just for a few minutes. You never did hold people’s attention for long. You were just something to fill the background, nothing special to see. And often you weren’t seen. There were too many times for you to count when someone brushes past you, accidentally knocking you to the ground and they barely give you “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

In short, you weren’t seen and you weren’t heard.

It wasn’t just your classmates either. It seemed like once a week, a professor would scan the classroom as they marked who was in attendance and they’d ask if you were there. You always were. You’d raise your hand and wave it around. Sometimes, even with that, they’d miss you until your friend spoke up and said that, yes, you were, in fact, in class. You weren’t sure how the professors managed to skip over you so much, but they did. Maybe it was because you weren’t an extreme. Your grades weren’t horrible enough to be of concern, nor were they exceptional enough to be used as examples and to earn house points.

That afternoon in Potions, one of your least favorite things happened. Professor Slughorn announced a partnered-project.

“If everyone could get into pairs please! We will be working on brewing Felix Felicis and there will be various assignments with this. Pick someone you will be able to focus with. Yes, this means that Potter and Black cannot be partners.”

A pair of groans erupt from the back of the room.

“I got dibs on Moony,” Sirius says.

James groans again, scanning the room. Lily had picked Mary. Marlene and Peter didn’t continue with Potions in N.E.W.T. level. People got into pairs quickly. You had immediately turned toward Emmeline. She was usually kind to you, but she paired with Benjy Fenwick. Your options dwindled fast.

“Alright, anyone without a partner?” Slughorn asks the class as the room began to settle down.

You and James both raise your hands.

“Alright, you two are paired then. Here is the first assignment…”

You glance at James and cringe internally. Loud, boisterous James was your partner for the foreseeable future. Slughorn hadn’t given a timeframe for how long these assignments would be. You try to listen to everything that he’s saying about the first assignment, but it’s difficult when you’re dreading the assignment before it’s even really begun.

After class ends, you approach James.

“Erm, I’ll do the essay if you want to do the first part of the potion?” you offer, hugging your books tight to your chest.

“Huh? Oh, for the project. The essay’s long, don’t you want to work together on it?” James replies.

“I don’t-” you start to say.

Sirius interrupts you. “Mate, the girl’s just offered you the easy way out of the project. Take it and run.”

You press your lips into a thin line, nod and walk away. Sirius got it. You’d split the project into separate pieces as much as you could. Plus, did Mr. Popular really want to be seen with someone as quiet and invisible as you? You didn’t think so. As you made your way to your next class, you assumed that was the end of the conversation.

It wasn’t.

James finds you in the library after dinner. He’s slightly out of breath as he places his things on the table.

“You’re a hard one to find,” he says, taking a seat across from you.

You don’t say anything. In fact, you barely spare him a glance.

“I wanted to talk to you about the Potions project,” he continues as he takes out homework for a different class. “It’s a multiple part project. It’s very interconnected, not something we can split down the middle and work on separately.”

He stops talking and waits for you to respond. You still don’t look up. You just work on your Herbology assignment.

“You… you are my partner for Potions, right?” he asks, running a hand through already-messy hair. “That’d be embarrassing if I just sat down across from the wrong girl…”

“We’re partners,” you whisper, more to your parchment than James.

“Great. So I’m at the right table! Like I was saying, you can’t do the entire essay and have me do all the brewing. I mean, we can do that. Like you write and I actually brew, which is fine. But we have to meet up to work on it, you know? Can’t do one part without the other.”

“I prefer to work alone,” you say. “So take my offer or do it all by yourself.”

James’ eyes narrow.

“That’s not how partner projects work.”

You raise your eyes to meet his for the first time since he sat down. Pretty. You sigh and look back at your assignment. You have work to get done. You hope that James will get the message, accept your terms and leave you alone. Instead, he starts to work on an essay for Astronomy.

“Do you study at this table often?” he asks nonchalantly.

“Mhmm,” you hum.

Part of you wants to ask why he’s asking. What’s it to him that you work at that table practically like clockwork?

“This a daily thing or weekly? Every other day? Multiple times a day?”

“Whenever I have assignments,” you answer, although it's a very non-answer. When didn’t you have homework as a sixth year?

Every teacher assigned endless work to prepare you for the incoming exams. You were to be prepared and the way to prepare you was to assign work.

“So you’re here every second of every day, got it,” James says cheekily.

A quick glance at him reveals a smirk playing on his lips. Despite his quill hovering about parchment, he’s watching you, scanning your face for some kind of reaction. Something more than the quiet, short answers you’ve responded with so far. It’s a change of pace for James. Everyone wants to talk to him. He can talk with anyone about anything. It’s a gift that he and Sirius share. You, on the other hand, aren’t talking and it’s strange to James. Even Lily talks more when she’s shooting down his advances.

“Do you need help with that for Sprout?” James offers, confident that he can get you to talk more. “I finished it over lunch.”

You shake your head. James frowns, having been hoping for a verbal answer. He gives up trying to get you to talk for the evening, although he doesn’t leave your table. The two of you work in tandem for a few hours. James is far more uncomfortable with the silence between you than you are. It’s something you’re used to, and even if James had decided to ramble on about something, you would’ve managed to get the same amount of work done. James was used to noise around him, even in the library. With friends like his, quiet work time didn’t exist.

The next day James tries to say hi to you during the few classes that you share. You offer a small smile or a quiet ‘hello’ in response. You never stop and talk to him beyond that, which bothers him. You were partners for a project that would inevitably force you to spend some time together. Why didn’t you bother trying to get to know him at all?

“That’s your Potions partner, right?” Sirius asks as you walk away from them for the fourth time. “The one you got stuck with?”

“Yeah. Clearly doesn’t talk much,” James answers, watching you go and wordlessly sit down next to a Hufflepuff. He runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly.

“Maybe she just doesn’t know you? Or like you,” Peter says.

“What do you mean, Wormtail?” James asks.

“You’re not friends with everyone and some people don’t talk to people they don’t like.” Peter said it like it should’ve been common sense.

“But how can she not like me if she doesn’t know me? Won’t even try to know me? I sat with her for hours last night and I got maybe five sentences out of her!”

“You were in the library,” Remus snorts. “Some people respect the library’s quiet.”

“I know how to whisper!”

The other three boys burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter. James Potter whispering was more akin to a stage whisper. So, not a whisper. He was a loud person.

Then after dinner, James sits across from you in the library again.

“Same table. Easier to find,” he says as he takes out his homework.

Just like yesterday, you don’t respond. You don’t look up. You just continue working. James, however, is more intent on getting you to talk. He tries to think of something that might get your attention. It’s more difficult than he originally imagined. He didn’t know you. “What’s today’s assignment?”

“Care of Magical Creatures,” you say, voice barely qualifying as a whisper.

That got James’ attention more than it should have.

“Were you in class with the rampant Thestral? I heard it was crazy. Can’t imagine dealing with a creature you can’t see!” he asks.

“Professor Kettleburn provoked it. He pulled its wing. It looked overstretched,” you say with certainty.

Looked.

“Looked?”

You nod, flipping the page of the book you have open in front of you.

“You can see them? I thought you could only see them if-”

“If you’ve seen death,” you interrupt James.

He’s staring at you with wide eyes.

“You’ve seen death?” James asks.

He’s certain that he won’t get any work done. Not when you can see Thestrals.

You nod, again. Yesterday you were thrilled to have people’s attention as you recounted the beast mauling Kettleburn with its hooves. Today, you want to get your assignment done so you can return to your dorm. You aren’t sure why James is so curious about it, or why he keeps talking to you. No one ever sits at your table two days in a row.

After you don’t speak, James lets the conversation, if you can call it that, die. He figures that you don’t want to talk about who you’ve seen die. Maybe it was someone close to you. Maybe it was recent and hurt too much to talk about. He tries to focus on his work, but he was right in his assumption that he wouldn’t get work done. Even if you weren’t talking, James found you fascinating. His eyes keep drifting up to watch you work.

He breaks the silence after a while. “Can we work on that Potions essay tomorrow? I’m fine with brewing the potion, but we’ll work on the essay together.”

You sigh yet you nod all the same.

“Great!”

And with that, James leaves you alone.

The next day feels the same as the last. James says hi to you whenever he sees you, earning the same responses from you. There’s something nice about him taking the time to say hi to you when most of your classmates barely acknowledge your existence. Still, he’s only your partner in Potions and he didn’t choose to be your partner. It just happened because Slughorn said he couldn’t be with Sirius.

When James finds you in the library after dinner at your usual table, he’s lugging his cauldron with him. You stare as he sets it up next to the table, taking out a small collection of ingredients.

“Bit rough getting this past Madam Pince,” he tells you, seeing that he managed to catch your attention for once. “But I figured, if we’re working on the essay right now, might as well work on the potion too, right?”

You open your mouth as if to speak but nothing comes out. You gape like a fish out of water.

“You do have your Potions stuff with you, yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah… I do…”

You move your unfinished Care of Magical Creatures assignment off to the side. You’d work on it more after James left. Or at least, whenever he was done insisting on this ‘working together’ thing.

“Right, so Slughorn wants the first portion of Felix. And the essay is on the…” James says while looking over his scribbled notes.

“Essay is on the ingredients’ effect on the coloring. Pretty self-explanatory if you ask me,” you finish for him.

“How do you mean?”

You try not to laugh at James.

“Please, occamy and ashwinder eggs? Common rue? Shiny, shiny, yellow. It’s basic color theory.”

“Huh,” is all James says for a moment. Then he follows with, “That’s why you offered to do all the writing, isn’t it!”

“More like I thought you wouldn’t be bothered to work with me.”

James gasps, putting his hand over his heart like you brutally offended him. “Ouch, sweetheart!”

“Just get to brewing, Potter.”

And that’s the last that you spoke that evening. You worked intently on the essay as James brewed the potion. For some time, the sound between you was the crackling of the fire under James’ cauldron. But then he started talking. At first it was about the potion. He told you about everything he did and the immediate effects, every change of color and consistency. You didn’t need the commentary, although you used it to ensure that James was doing everything correctly. His descriptions matched what you had written.

Then he reached the point where the potion needed to simmer, James started talking about quidditch. You humor him for a while, listening to him ramble about what you easily assume is his favorite topic. He talked about more than just the Gryffindor team. He talked about the different tactics he’d seen the other houses use this year and how well they executed them, how they compared to the professional teams and how each of those teams were doing this year. Then he went on a tangent about the new rules and regulations that were passed recently and how they affected the game. He went on for a while.

“Do you want to read this or not?” you ask with some snap to your voice.

You slid the finished essay across the table toward James. You had written the entire thing as he brewed, only a testament to why you thought that partner part of the project was pointless. But if he wanted to ‘work together,’ you figure the least you could do was have him look over your work.

“Oh, yes! Let me see,” he mumbles as he takes the parchment from you.

You resume work on your Magical Creatures assignment. It takes James a few minutes to look over the whole thing. You had put a little extra effort into writing it since it was going to be James’ grade as well. It was one thing if your own work was subpar but when someone else got brought into the equation, you tried a little harder.

“This is great. You really did the whole thing while I brewed?”

You nod.

“You’re fantastic!” You feel a heat creep up your neck at the compliment. It was just an essay.

“Okay, so we have the potion and the essay for the first deadline! Great! I’ll clean up and get out of your hair. But I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he asks, a wide smile on his face.

You nod again.

Over the next week, James continues to meet up with you in the library. He’s grateful that you never change tables. That at least means you don’t mind too much that he’s joining you. With each day, he tries to get you to talk. He tries topic after topic, hoping to come across one that you wouldn’t mind opening up a bit for. What James doesn’t know is that you’ve trained yourself to limit your responses. Even if someone asked about your deepest interest, you’d barely let on that you knew everything about it.

Then, just as you’re getting used to James constantly being at your table, he says something that throws you off.

“I won’t be here tomorrow.”

You want to respond with “Okay?” He wasn’t required to do homework for you after dinner every day. He wasn’t obligated to sit at your table. You still didn’t even really consider him your friend.

“We got the quidditch pitch reserved for a last minute practice before Saturday’s match,” he says, pausing to watch your face with curiosity. If there was a change in your expression, he’d see it. There was no change. “You’re coming to the match on Saturday, right?”

There was hope in his voice. Like he really wanted to make sure that you’d be in the stands for the game. Almost like he wanted to know if you’d be watching him, and just maybe, cheering for him.

You blink your eyes slowly.

“I… I’m not sure.”

“Oh?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Depends on how much work I get done, I guess.”

“Stay hard at work then, will you? I’d like you to be there. Heard it’s going to be a good match,” he says, his grin audible in his voice.

It makes you look up at him rather than at the parchment in front of you.

“Heard it’s going to be good?” you repeat back to him. “Wouldn’t you say that about every match you’re in?”

“I mean, yeah, but Saturday’s especially.”

“We’ll see, Potter.”

“You’ll only see if you go.”

You flex your eyebrows and turn back to your assignment. James smiles to himself as he begins to work again too. Something about your demeanor made him think that you would show up. He wasn’t really sure why he cared if you did, but there was something about you. He had grown to like the quiet air that you maintained. He didn’t mind that you didn’t talk much, despite his desperate attempts to get you to talk. You kind of reminded him of Remus during first year, if he was being honest. And that means that you had the promise of becoming a very dear friend.

You would be lying if you didn’t work extra hard the next evening while James was at practice. You didn’t promise anything but you felt that you owed it to James to at least try to be at a point where you could justify going to the match. You went to a handful of them. You could follow along enough with the game, not that it mattered. Balls were tossed around, some were hit and there was a super small one that only two players tried to catch. That’s about all you needed to know.

Still, you don’t know why you felt the need to show up for James. It wasn’t like he would be able to see you in the sea of students. It was one thing to find you in the library. It was another to spot you from a broom while you were surrounded by hundreds of others pressed together and bundled up against the biting wind. You even figured that you could just tell James that you went, without actually going, and he wouldn’t know the difference.

However, when morning came, you were bundling up. You join the masses heading to the pitch. You listen to the excited chatter about how epic the match is going to be. It was Gryffindor against Slytherin after all, which always made for a good match being the natural rivals that they were. You stood pressed between your friend and one of her closer friends. They cheer louder than you did. You were more focused on trying to keep up with the game as your mind continuously drifts to James. As your mind drifts, so do your eyes. You’re confident that you watched James for at least 90% of the match. Which shouldn’t be too shocking given the amount of times he was in the midst of the action. You swore he had his hands on the quaffle during every play.

And then something happened that made your heart stop.

You swore James’ eyes found yours and then he flashed you a smile. All before proceeding to score again. Almost as if he was doing it just for you.

Which was ridiculous. He was just your Potions partner who happened to be studying a lot with you as of recently.

But still. He found you, in the middle of the crowd, where you should have been as invisible as you always were.

How? How did he see you? It’s all you could think of for the last few minutes of the game. You were so in your own head that you missed the Gryffindor seeker catching the snitch, ending the game and sealing the win for them. You let your friend drag you out of the stands as students filled the pitch. Except you didn’t follow her into the pitch. You started down the path back towards the castle, but you didn’t make it far.

The sun was shining brightly and the air wasn’t too frigid once you were hundreds of feet into the air. You veer from the path and find a nice patch of grass to sit down on. Some sunshine wouldn’t hurt. An occasional shadow passed over your face as clouds drifted across the sky. Each shadow was only momentary, a brief chill until it moved on.

Until one shadow didn’t move on. You waited a minute before opening your eyes to see how big this cloud was.

The cloud in question? James Potter. James Potter still in his quidditch uniform and sporting a smile so bright it could rival the sun itself. And he was standing in front of you.

“Potter,” you say shortly.

“Didn’t see you on the pitch after the match,” he replies, sitting down across from you.

You don’t say anything. What was there to say?

“I was hoping to see you on the pitch. Maybe get a congratulations on the win?” he says with a tilt of his head.

“You played well.” That was as close to a congratulations as he was going to get from you.

“Did you see the goal I scored for you?”

You cough. “For me?”

“Well, yes. I swore I made eye contact with you before I did it.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Or did I look at a different pretty girl?”

You swallow thickly. “No, you, erm, that was me.”

“Ah, then yes. For you. My pretty Potions partner.”

If your heart had stopped in the stands, it must’ve turned into stone now. There was no way that James just called you his pretty Potions partner.

“That’s… ah… that’s alliteration,” you manage to say despite your mouth suddenly becoming drier than the desert.

James tilts his head curiously.

“I did want to thank you,” he says. “For coming to the match. I wasn’t sure if you were going to come. Because of homework, like you said. But I hoped you’d come.” He pauses for a moment. “Did you like it?”

“The-the match or you scoring… for me?” you ask, the end of your question feeling foreign in your mouth.

People didn’t score goals for you. That didn’t happen. You were barely noticed. You were spoken over. You were forgotten about because you offered so little to conversation and friendships.

“Erm, both, I suppose.”

“The match was entertaining. Definitely a step from Binn’s lectures.”

James laughs. It was a delightfully warm sound that draws the attention of students headed to the castle.

“You scoring… for… me…” you continue, the words still feeling odd to you, “was… nice, I guess. Unexpected though.”

James nods, accepting your commentary. He understands why it came across as unexpected. It wasn’t like he had flirted with you in the library. He hadn’t asked you to Hogsmeade or a picnic or even for a measly walk through the corridors together.

“I suppose I did this a bit backwards, haven’t I?” he chuckles.

“Did what?” you ask.

“The fact that you have to ask…” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his windswept hair. “I think I want to ask you out.”

Your eyes go wide and a blush tints your cheeks pink. Your heart has been shocked back to life and is working overtime.

“You think?” you ask once you’re able to say words.

“Okay, well, I do. I want to ask you out. I’m just not sure… if I should? Would you say yes if I did?”

You’re frozen in shock. He wants to ask you out. He grows increasingly nervous when you don’t respond.

“You don’t talk much and you seem to take your studies seriously. You remind me of Remus. You know Remus Lupin, right? Good, good friend of mine. And I think you’re rather pretty. So the combination of both, I want to see if we, you know, work together,” he says all too quickly. “And now I’ve gone and scored a goal for you, which I know most people usually save for after they’ve gone steady with someone or if they’re heavily chatting them up, but you don’t seem like the kind of person to appreciate a proper chatting up so…” He took a sharp breath. “Whatdoyousay?”

You continue to stare at James. It’s a lot. You’re not really sure when he started feeling all of this and you don’t know how to express that. You also don’t know how you managed to catch his eye.

“Can I, ahem, get a nod or something? You, me, butterbeers next weekend?”

You nod slowly and that brings a brilliant grin to James’ face.

“And I’ll see you in the library all week, yeah? Can’t be falling behind in our assignments, can we?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Same table.”

“And there’s a party in the Gryffindor Common Room later, if you want to go. I don’t know if that’s your scene or not, but I’ll be there. Wouldn’t mind seeing you there. But only if you’re up to it.”

You nod, but then realize that he might take that as you agreeing that you’ll go to the party.

“Maybe. I… I need to work on Astronomy but… I’ll consider it.”

His grin gets impossibly wider and he pushes his glasses further up his nose. Then he stands up and holds out a hand to help you up.

“Then let’s get you back to the castle. Can’t work on your Astronomy if you’re out here.”

You take his hand and let him lead you inside. Something about James inviting you places makes you actually want to show up, even if a Gryffindor quidditch party is completely out of your comfort zone.

#marauders #marauders fic #marauder-misprint #request #james potter #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter x reader #james potter fic

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sugurugetoshairbrush · 5 months ago

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Personal Trainer!Toji Fushiguro—”Push through, ma. Do it for me, yeah?” [next]

req by: @sumbarbietingz tyty hope u like <33

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday at 6 AM.

By now, working out is muscle memory—a chore you tick off your list without much thought. You’re not aiming for an Olympian’s physique, nor do you dream of flipping tires or crushing quadruple-digit squats. For you, fitness is about balance, not obsession. The gym is filled with the usual suspects: frat bros showing off one-armed pull-ups, bodybuilders flexing between sets, and athletes moving like they own the place. You don’t envy them, nor do you aspire to join their ranks. In truth, their antics are more intimidating than inspiring.

But lately, something’s shifted. You’ve grown restless with your go-to routine: treadmill sprints, a quick core workout, and stairmaster till failure. It gets the job done, but there’s a whisper in the back of your mind, daring you to try something new. Maybe it’s time to add weights to your regimen. Maybe it’s time to sculpt those glutes and finally chase the coke-bottle figure you’ve been daydreaming about.

For weeks, the squat rack has been your Everest. You’ve watched others load up the bar, their muscles taut with effort, and wondered if you could do the same. It’s not fear holding you back—more like the memory of too many gym bros turning innocent glances into unwelcome conversations. At this gym, you’ve perfected the art of blending in. Headphones in, eyes down, immersed in the personal concert blasting through your ears. The only human contact you entertain is a nod and a quick smile for the woman at the front desk.

Today, though, is different. After your core workout, you finally approach the empty squat rack. Your heart races—not from exertion, but from the thrill of trying something outside your comfort zone. You set down your water bottle, lift the bar experimentally, then add two 20-pound plates on either side. It feels doable. With a deep breath, you duck under the bar, letting it rest on your shoulders. A hype Sexyy Red track thunders in your ears, spurring you on as you knock out your first set.

The burn in your thighs intensifies with each rep, but you keep going, driven by the mental image of your future self: confident, curvy, unstoppable. Sweat beads along your forehead, catching the fluorescent lights above and glistening on your skin. By the time you hit your second set, you’re locked in, laser-focused—until a firm hand lands on your shoulder, breaking your concentration.

You freeze mid-rep, your eyes snapping to the mirror in front of you. A tall, broad-shouldered figure looms at your side, leaning in close enough to be unavoidable. Your stomach twists with annoyance. Of course. Another unsolicited interruption.

Lowering the barbell with a controlled motion, you let out a sigh, already steeling yourself for the usual spiel. You tug your headphones down to your neck, the music fading into background noise as you prepare to deliver a polite but firm rejection. Why is it always men who think mid-squat, drenched in sweat, is the perfect time to chat? And why, without fail, are they never the gym’s best-looking prospects?

Before you can speak, a gravelly voice cuts in.

“Damn, ma, you tryna go deaf? I could hear your music from all the way across the gym.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. The irritation brewing in your chest falters, giving way to reluctant curiosity as you turn to fully take him in. You wipe the back of your hand across your forehead, collecting the beads of sweat rolling down your neck, letting your gaze rake upward.

Crisp white Air Force 1s. Baggy black sweatpants slung low on his hips. A fitted white compression shirt stretched tight over a chiseled torso. Broad shoulders, thick biceps—his entire frame is a testament to strength, and the shirt does little to hide it. You swallow, willing yourself not to gawk, though it takes effort.

When your eyes finally reach his face, restraint becomes even harder. Fine as hell doesn’t do him justice. His sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and the scar slicing through the corner of his smirking lips paint a picture of rugged perfection. Jet-black hair falls messily over his forehead, accentuating dark, brooding eyes that seem to hold an unspoken challenge.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly waiting for you to respond. Too many seconds have passed, and you hastily clear your throat, scrambling to collect yourself.

“And that compelled you to approach me?” you ask, arching a brow of your own. A teasing smirk plays on your lips. “Don’t tell me you’re a fellow Sexyy Red fan?”

His smirk deepens, and he crosses his arms, leaning casually against the squat rack like he has all the time in the world.

“Me?” His voice is low and gravelly, carrying an almost teasing edge. “Nah, can’t say I’m also bumping F My Babydad. In fact, that song’s been used against me in the past. Strongly recommend shuffling your playlist.”

The implication makes you blink. He’s someone’s baby daddy? You glance at him again, and yeah, it tracks. His whole aura screams DILF.

You laugh, breathless from both exertion and his audacity. “My heart goes out to you, but that’s not enough to turn me off the song. It’s keeping me pumped.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling low in his chest. His eyes sweep over you again—this time lingering on your two-piece set, the biker shorts and zip-up jacket hugging your frame. You feel a flicker of pride, knowing the pump is definitely doing its thing. But you quickly remind yourself not to encourage him, no matter how good he looks.

“I noticed,” he says, straightening. “That’s actually why I came over. Hope I’m not overstepping, but your form could use some tweaking. You’re targeting hamstrings more than glutes right now.”

Oh. So he wasn’t hitting on you? Maybe he’s just one of those older gym vets who genuinely want to help. Reluctantly, you concede, eager for the guidance. “Damn, is it that bad? I’m tryna build a dumpy for real. Any tips would be great.”

His brows knit briefly. “A what?”

You grin. “A dumpy. A dump truck. A fat ass. Come on, oldhead.”

His scowl deepens, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Toji. Use my name, not that.” He rolls his eyes, moving to strip the weights from your bar. “But that explains the Sexyy Red. You’re out here tryna Skeeyee or go to Pound town, huh? Don’t worry—I got you. Grab the bar.”

Snickering, you follow his instructions. “Absolutely not. Just help me with my form, Toji.”

Satisfied with your correction, he places a hand on your back, guiding you into a squat. “Wider stance,” he instructs, nodding as you adjust. His hand trails lower down your spine, encouraging you to drop further. “Lower. If you don’t hit a 90-degree angle, you’re not getting the full range of motion.”

You comply, biting back a shiver at his touch. He stays beside you, squatting to observe your form. “When you rise, drive through your heels and tense your glutes—lightly. Not too much.” His hand rests briefly on your hip as you rise, and your focus wavers dangerously.

Somehow, you power through the adjustments and complete your next set, his guidance making all the difference. By the time you finish, you’re drenched in sweat, thighs trembling from exertion, but the burn feels… good.

“You’re a quick learner,” Toji says, lifting the bar off your shoulders and racking it. His tone carries an edge of approval that makes your chest swell. “How’s it feel?”

“Sore, but good.” You glance in the mirror, a grin spreading as you take in your reflection. The pump is real. “You’re a lifesaver. You could seriously be a personal trainer.”

His smirk returns, and for a moment, he almost looks proud. “Good thing I am one. Imagine if you’d said I was trash.” He pauses, then extends a hand. “Hey, doll, this might sound out of line, but I’ve never trained someone on a glute-dominant program. Most of my clients are bodybuilders or boxers, but this could open doors. If you’re down, I’ll train you for free so I can develop a structured workout regimen. What do you say?”

You blink at him, stunned by the offer. Free sessions with this hunk of a man? The decision is a no-brainer.

“How could I say no to that big guy?” You swat playfully at his arm, earning a chuckle. You retrieve your phone from the ground handing it towards him, “I’m in. Here, give me your number.”

Toji takes the device from your hand, his fingers moving swiftly over the screen. His grin is almost teasing as he hands it back. “Demanding,” he murmurs with a grin. “I like that. I’ll text you over the weekend. We’ll start Monday. That work for you?”

Though you agree, the wait over the weekend feels endless. You check your phone obsessively, half-convinced you’d imagined the whole interaction. But finally, a notification pops up while you’re leisurely sprawled out on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through your timeline.

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) Wassup, ma. How about 6 AM on Monday? Tues-Fri, I’m booked mornings, but anytime after 2 works.

You grin, slightly confused by the contact name he’d given himself, but already planning your reply.

You Bet, I’ll be there. We can do 3 PM the other days—I get off at 2.

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) Bet.

You I gotta ask… what does YHPT mean in your contact name?

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) 🤣🤣🤣 Young Hot Personal Trainer

You Young?! Sorry I asked. Lemme fix that.

Toji Fushiguro 👴🏼 (PT) Not too much on me, ma. 😒

On Monday, you start to wonder if Toji even needs to develop a new glute routine. He seems to already have it down to a science. When you meet him outside the locker room, he’s surprisingly professional, carefully explaining the plan for the day.

He considers your current fitness level but warns that he won’t go easy on you. “If you want results, you’ve gotta work for them,” he says.

Back at the squat rack, you steal a glance at his backside, confirming your suspicions: Toji definitely practices what he preaches. His ass is… impressive. Bubble butt levels of impressive. If this workout built that, you’re sold.

The session starts with barbell walking lunges. Toji adjusts the weights slightly heavier than you’re used to, staying close as you move through each step. He’s comfortable in athletic shorts and a pullover, barely breaking a sweat while you’re already glowing in your two-piece set. His hands are steady and deliberate when tweaking your form, his words always encouraging.

By the time you’re on weighted step-ups, you’ve shed your zip-up and tee, left in just your sports bra and shorts. When you transition to hip thrusts, you play coy about your familiarity with the exercise. It pays off deliciously as Toji demonstrates.

He drags a bench over, slides a barbell onto his lap, and gets into position. His thighs flex, the barbell pressing into his hips as he slowly thrusts upward, his voice low as he explains the importance of balance and control. But honestly, you’re too distracted by the sight of him—muscles taut, skin glowing under the gym lights, his bangs sticking to his forehead.

“Got it, ma? I’ll hand it over to you in a sec—might as well finish this set myself.”

That breathy ma and the half-lidded look he shoots your way? It’s lethal. You fidget on your feet, suddenly aware of how warm the gym feels.

When it’s your turn, you do your best to mimic his movements. To dispel any awkwardness, you wink at him. “How’s my form, big guy? I’m giving you all I’ve got.”

Toji chuckles, his grin playful. “Someone’s catching on quick.” He places a firm hand on your knee, his voice dipping, returning your wink. “That thrust is second to one.”

You end with sumo squats, a challenge given their deep range of motion. Determined to achieve those coveted “Megan knees,” you complain to Toji, who looks at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

“Alright, hold up. I know you can nail this—let me help.”

He positions you in front of the mirror, his presence towering behind you. When he steps closer, your breath hitches, his chest brushing against your back as he adjusts your stance.

“Open your legs wider. Angle your feet out,” he murmurs, his hands warm on your thighs. The heat of his breath on your neck nearly sends you spiraling, but you focus on the squat, sinking lower under his guidance.

“Atta girl,” he says softly, his tone making your heart race. “Just like that.”

It hits you then—there’s no way this is just standard training. Especially as you’re keenly aware of the firm press of his body behind yours.

“Toji, how many more? ‘M so tired,” you mumble, struggling through another rep.

“Two more. Push through, ma. Do it for me, yeah?”

His hands guide your hips, and you somehow manage to finish the set. Resting your hands on your knees, you catch your breath while he smirks, handing you a water bottle.

“Good girl,” he says.

Your brain short-circuits.

By Tuesday, you’ve settled into the routine, though Toji remains as hands-on as ever—literally. His physical guidance feels less like training and more like testing your resolve, especially when he throws in casual touches that linger just a bit too long.

The workouts are brutal, but Toji’s encouragement and relentless banter keep you going. You learn snippets about his life, mostly centered around his middle-school-aged son, Megumi—a tech-obsessed, angsty tween with whom Toji is actively struggling to connect with.

You start caring about how you look for these sessions—styling your hair, spritzing perfume, even picking out your cutest gym fits. You tell yourself it’s just motivation, but deep down, you know you’re becoming weak to Toji’s charm.

And Toji? He’s an enigma—a hot, muscular DILF who knows exactly what he’s doing.

On Friday, you meet Toji outside the locker room as usual. His unusually upbeat demeanor is paired with an announcement: he’s reserved a private room upstairs, equipped with advanced machines and, most importantly, a touch of exclusivity to let you experiment with new moves in peace.

“If you wanted to get me alone so badly, you could’ve just said that,” you tease, poking a playful finger at his cheek.

He smirks, catching your hand mid-air before letting it drop. “Can’t a guy be a gentleman and save his moves for later? But if you’re looking for forwardness…” He leans in with a wink, the grin on his face equal parts charming and incorrigible. “I won’t hold back.”

Rolling your eyes, you laugh. “Sure, big guy. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I took your advice,” he says, leading you up the stairs, his hand warm on your back. “Set up Discord for Megumi. Now the kid can actually game with his friends without me being the middleman. Thought I’d reward you with an advanced workout for that stroke of genius.”

You scoff, withdrawing yourself from his grip to cross your arms. “Reward? Sounds more like a punishment.”

He grins wider. “You’ll thank me later, mama. And if you’re not satisfied, you can choose your own reward.”

Inside the private room, your eyes roam over the space. Polished mirrors line one wall, reflecting sleek machines—a leg press, rowing machine, power bike, and more. A faint scent of disinfectant lingers, blending with the promise of an intense workout. Toji tosses his duffel bag near a large speaker in the corner.

“Look at that—a speaker. Gonna cut on some throwbacks so I can put you onto some real music.”

“Still not helping the oldhead allegations,” you quip, shaking your head as he connects his phone.

His smirk widens. “I’m whatever you want me to be, doll. That’s the business I stand on.” He points skyward with dramatic flair.

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “Toji, your usage of slang is deteriorating by the minute.”

Stretching side by side, his 90s playlist humming through the speaker, you fall into the familiar rhythm of the glute routine. The effort is paying off; you swear you’re already seeing results.

Between sets, you’d even started pestering him for diet tips—anything to build that elusive shelf.

But as always, your attention drifts. During hip thrusts, your eyes wander to Toji’s defined arms, the way his shoulders shift as he mirrors your movements. During squats, you can’t help but notice his hands lingering on your hips, guiding you down with whispered encouragements.

“Drive through your heels, mama,” he murmurs near your ear, his breath warm against your neck. You’re panting by the final rep, equal parts exhausted and electrified.

When the set ends, Toji steps back, his absence leaving a surprising chill. He crosses his arms, eyeing you with that ever-present smirk. “You’ve mastered this routine. How about graduating to mine? Fridays are upper body days. What d’ya say?”

You trail a finger down his arm, tracing the veins. “And get jacked like you? Obviously.”

His grin softens into something almost fond. “Bet. Just try not to distract me too much, yeah? It’s hard enough maintaining my professionalism around you.”

You laugh as he pinches your cheek, only to retreat and yank off his tee, leaving him in a fitted black tank. He leads you to the dumbbells for bicep curls, and you challenge yourself with heavier weights to avoid ogling his sculpted frame.

“Look at you,” he says approvingly as you curl the weight. “Getting stronger every day.”

“Thanks, coach,” you reply, though your arms burn with effort.

Toji hoists a 45-pound dumbbell with ease, and your curiosity gets the better of you. “How much can you bench, anyway?”

He pauses mid-rep, considering. “Good question. Haven’t checked in a while. Wanna find out?”

Before you can answer, he’s clearing the bench, stacking plates with casual efficiency. Three 45s on each side—a total pushing 300 pounds—makes your jaw drop.

“Damn.”

He meets your stare, the bar balanced on his lap. “Don’t just stand there gawking. Come spot me.”

You circle behind the bench as Toji reclines, gripping the barbell above his chest. His muscles coil with tension, veins slightly raised under his skin. As you hover your hands just above his for support, you give a small nod for him to start.

Toji pushes the bar upward, arms locking at full extension before lowering it with precision. The rhythm is steady, his breaths growing heavier with each rep.

“Fuck,” he exhales, voice low and strained.

A laugh bubbles up from you, and you instinctively place your hands on his shoulders, feeling the solid swell of muscle shift beneath your touch.

Toji glances at you, eyes narrowing with playful admonition. “What’d I say about distracting me, huh, ma? Cut me some slack.”

Setting the bar down with a controlled thud, he looks up at you, dark locks falling across his face. His smirk is wolfish.

“I don’t think anything could really distract you,” you counter, grinning. “You’re benching 300 pounds like it’s nothing. Feels a little… superhuman.”

“Damn right.” Toji sits up briefly, flexing his arms like a bodybuilder and striking exaggerated poses in the mirror, whistling at himself.

You snort. “Alright, don’t let it go to your head now, big guy.”

He lays back down to begin his second set, but you’re feeling bold. Moving swiftly, you straddle the bench, swinging one leg over and settling into his lap.

His eyes widen briefly as he lowers the bar back to his chest, but he recovers fast, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.

“Guess you’ve got a better view from there, huh?” he murmurs. “You don’t mind counting these out for me, do ya?”

“Not at all.” You plant your hands on his stomach, the fabric of his tank top taut against the solid expanse beneath.

He starts again, pressing the bar up with ease.

“One… two… three… four,” you count, smirking. “You think you can hit twenty?”

“Easy work,” he grunts, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

But you’re feeling mischievous. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, fingers grazing the hard ridges of his abs. The contrast of warmth and strength makes your breath hitch.

“Five… six… seven…eight…” Toji’s steady rhythm falters as you increase the pressure of your movements. His eyes narrow at you, daring yet pleading for restraint.

You relent—for now—your hands sliding to rest firmly on his hips as he recovers.

“Nine… ten… eleven… twelve.” His reps slow significantly, the strain visible in his taut muscles.

Sensing an opportunity, you lean into his weakness, grinding your hips down against him deliberately, the friction drawing a sharp hiss from his lips.

“Shit, ma,” Toji mutters through clenched teeth, sucking in a deep breath before lifting the bar again.

“Thirteen,” you murmur, your voice laced with mischief. You rotate your hips in a slow circle, reveling in the way his eyes squeeze shut and his breath hitches.

“‘s not fair—you’re playing dirty,” Toji rasps, lowering the bar with a groan. For a fleeting moment, you envy the steel weight—it holds all his focus while you fight to claim just half of it.

But it doesn’t matter; his body betrays him. You feel him harden beneath you, the friction growing deliciously intense through the thin layers of clothing separating you.

“Toji,” you gasp, biting down on your lip to stifle the sound as heat pools low in your stomach. Your movements become instinctive, grinding against him in search of relief.

And yet, Toji—ever determined—continues his reps, each lift of the bar accompanied by a subtle grind of his hips into you, fueling the dangerous tension.

“Sixteen—shit… seventeen—mhm… ah—eighteen… n-nineteen…” Your counting falters as you ride the edge of control, each syllable more breathless than the last.

“Mf—ma… I can go to thirty,” Toji growls, his voice thick with desire. “Take it out. Use me. Make yourself feel good.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you scramble to shed one leg of your shorts, fumbling with his waistband. Relief blooms when you find him bare beneath his sweats. You flick his chest, the movement playful yet teasing.

“Slut.”

Toji’s eyes darken, the weight of his gaze making your pulse race. “And what does that make you?”

His voice is a low rumble as he lifts the bar again. “Keep counting, doll.”

“‘Kay,” you breathe, positioning yourself above him. The thick head of his length presses against your clothed center, and the sensation draws a near-whimper from your lips.

“Twenty… fuck—twenty-one… Toji—shit… twenty-two…”

You grind down harder, your movements desperate as you pump him with trembling hands. The feel of his shaft, hot and solid, against your slick sends you spiraling. Toji twitches under your touch, his breath ragged.

“Twenty-three—ah…”

A sharp, obnoxious buzzing cuts through the air, snapping you both out of the haze. The speaker blares with Toji’s ringtone, and he fumbles to set the bar down safely. The sudden motion sends you toppling to the floor in an undignified heap.

You blink, dazed, trying to make sense of the abrupt interruption as Toji curses under his breath. He hauls you back onto the bench, his movements rushed but gentle, before striding to his phone.

“Fuck, it’s Megumi,” Toji grumbles, glancing at his phone connected to the gym’s speaker. He picks it up, the ringtone still blaring. “Kid’s got the worst timing.”

You nod in acknowledgment, adjusting your shorts and ignoring the visible wet patch at the crotch. Toji answers the call, his tone shifting to frustration as he paces.

From his clipped responses, you catch snippets about school, carpooling, and a very annoyed Megumi. Toji sighs heavily, muttering a half-hearted apology before ending the call with a gruff, “See ya soon.”

“Mama,” he starts, turning to you with a weary look. “Forgot it's my turn to pick up Megs and his friends this week. In my defense, he deliberately didn’t remind me this morning just to get me caught up.”

You laugh softly as he digs through his duffle bag, pulling out another pair of sweats. Approaching you, he presses them into your hands.

“Here. Can’t have anyone else noticing the strong… impression I left on you,” he teases, his grin cocky. “Next time, I’ll double it.”

You step into the loose pants, tying the drawstring snugly around your waist. “Next time,” you echo, smiling up at him.

Toji hesitates as if it pains him to leave. He briefly embraces you, firmly squeezing your ass, and planting a wet, lingering kiss against the side of your neck before jogging toward the door.

Hooking up with your personal trainer. Immoral? Yes. Professional? Not even close. Hot? Absolutely.

But hey, it’s still exercise. Gotta see it through.

don’t try that freaky bench press position at home, take spotting seriously—not everyb got a heavenly restriction LOL

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acid-ixx · 2 months ago

Note

my silly little trash baby 💕 sometimes he forgets he has a nub and tries to scratch his torn ear 😔

and he only love he mommy(gn)

colored and non color

— masterlist !

yes !! <33 this is exactly what our precious little fur baby looks like in the series. though don't mind me calling him a she in my early drafts, i have my reasons 😭

he's so adorable, i love the nub but don't be deceived! this cat is feisty, a great judge of character, in fact: upon meeting titus in a future chapter, his immediate response was to hiss and stand in front of his rightful owner as a means to protect you. alfred the cat is also not a great contender for this feral baby, he hates everyone who is not you, anyways. and despite missing a limb, our kangaroo can pack a punch (or a scratch...) always ready to attack any intruders and is oddly connected to the infamous catwoman—

enough of that, he approves conner as your possible lover after enough coddling and unwanted scratching, maybe even bribing with catnip, and hisses and scratches literally everyone else who dares to try to touch you without his permission. yes, even damian, the animal whisperer would struggle to even capture his heart. and no, dick, haley and mr. stinky are not allowed to be in the same space together, he's a senior with no energy. and just because they are both missing a leg doesn't mean he'll tolerate the pet of the very same people who'd neglected you, no way.

tysm for this, he's so baby in your art and i'm so glad you helped introduce a new furry character into my story because the reader needs as much of an emotional support 'cause the future chapters other than chapter 6 is a pain in the ass.

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ctrlhope · 2 months ago

Text

Red Carnations (m)

synopsis: District 11-- your home. Your fields to run through. Your flowers. Your everything before your name was called on that fateful day. Before you were forced into the arena. Before you fought to save your life. Before you knew you were never going to see it again. Because even a victor is never truly free, are they? Even victors are forced to fall to the will of the capitol. And you-- you especially have no choice in the matter. Not when he has fallen for you. When you've become his petal in a much-too grey world. When you're already his everything. As long as you're with him, you're still in the games, aren't you?

p.jimin x f.reader (ft. implied m.yoongi x reader)

⚘ ࣪ ˖ ┊: wc: 9.5k

⚘ ࣪ ˖ ┊: genre: hunger games au, yandere, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort,

⚘ ࣪ ˖ ┊: content: capitol!jimin, victor!reader, yandere!jimin, obsession, kidnapping, toxic relationship, forced relationship, forced affection, manipulation, implied isolation, kisses mwah, reader has trauma, unreliable narrators, hunger games typical violence (though it's only at the beginning, fic begins after reader has won), jimin swears yall are soulmates frfr, future smut

⚘ ࣪ ˖ ┊: notes: HIII!!! surprise!!! this is my love letter to the hunger games lol <33 requests are coming soon I prommie!!! :33 they are in my drafts as we speak!! planning on this becoming a series too, so stay tuned if you guys are interested!!

18+ -> minors / blank blogs dni

The world is spinning– everything is shaking. Air is passing through your lungs, the sound panting through your teeth, yet you’re not entirely sure anything is happening at all. Not cognizant of anything around you, of yourself as you struggle. As you fight. As you move to grasp a single straw from the man pinning you to the ground, baring his teeth in your face.

You remember his hand, the way it reaches down almost as if in slow motion. Coming closer. Ready to grab your forehead. Ready to raise it and bash it into the ground below. Over and over again until you’re no more. Until the crops drop and weep to a shade of grey. To finally kill you. To put you out of this misery.

Allow you to leave painfully, yet with all the grace a man starved from another district could allow. Gracefully. Right.

You knew you fought your hardest until the end. Really, you do.

You hope your parents will be proud of you when you arrive home in those little metal boxes filled with ash. Hope they know how hard you fought to come back to them– to be with them once again. Hopefully your big sister will remember all the ways you tried to fight flowers in her hair when you were meant to be working. Hope your mom and dad remember the way you made sure to dye all your white clothes bright with colours of nature.

Maybe if you were more of a singer you’d comfort yourself with a tune, but you don’t know many songs. Your brother was always more creative. He made sure you knew it. You– you were just a girl of the buds. Nothing more, nothing less. Only glad to be the last child your family had of reaping age. At least they wouldn’t incur anymore loss, would they?

They’ve already watched you go mad. Nothing can be worse than watching their own daughter do what she needs to survive. Only a pity it had to be the last drawing before she was safe, too.

No, the fate before you is one that had been told too many times before. You were never a victor, you knew that. You were meant to be another pitying girl swept away by the slaughter. And that’s okay. You’re okay.

So, the question remains. How did that knife end up in his neck?

Did you do it? You don’t remember doing it. You don’t remember the movement your arm had to have made, or the way it must’ve felt to sink the knife in. You don’t remember much of anything to be honest but oh– oh, he’s fallen off of you. You can move. You can move!!

The shock remains present within you, though. You barely haggard a quick shuffle back, a hand clutching the skin where your heart lies. Your eyes are jittering, frantic. Looking. Trying to see, to make sense of what is happening around you.

Is anyone else coming? Wait– no, that wouldn’t make sense. No, it wouldn’t. You’re the last two alive. Alive? Are you? Wait, hold on. What is happening. What is happening. What is happening. You were going to die– he was going to kill you. But you moved, or maybe, you guess, he let up? But did you, did you really just stab him? Did you just–

There’s blood on your hand.

Bang.

That's the sound. That’s the sound!

You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.

You won.

Trumpets are playing, maybe the capitol anthem. You can’t seem to hear it, not really at least.

No, all you hear is your lungs finally filling with air for the first time in a long time. For the first time since your name was called at the reaping. For the first time since you turned 12.

The next thing you hear is the breeze. Maybe the whole arena is taking a breath since these games started, too.

You look around, try to take in your surroundings. Feel the way the world inhales and exhales along with you. Make yourself finally feel one again after the days that all seem to morph together.

Huh.

Strange shapes crest over the horizon, the ground underneath your scraped limbs feels foreign. The scents that travel are a mystery and the skyline is nothing you’ve ever seen before. You don’t recognise anything. Almost as if you haven’t been here the last 6 days. As if nothing is real.

But it is. You know it is. The pain shooting through every inch of your being tells you as much– tells you everything of the stories you can’t seem to remember. Right along with the loudspeakers, the voice of Octavia Flickerman reigning supreme.

“Everyone, please give a warm welcome to the winner of the One-Hundred Eleventh Hunger Games! (Y/n) (L/n) of District 11!”

You won!! Oh!!! You won!!!!

Jimin practically squeals, jumps from his seat as he watches the screen. His arms flying into the air, brain spinning as adrenaline from the entire event courses through him. Finally settles into a gentle lull as he knows for certain that you’re alive.

He knew you would!! Of course he did! He would never want you to think otherwise, no. He knew from the second he saw your face projected into his apartment on reaping day that you would. Was sure of it when he sat front and centre at the parade, waving to you and only you.

Knew for certain (as if he wasn’t before, duh!) during the interviews when he first heard you speak. The cadence of your voice as you spoke into the microphone– your quipped yet nervous replies as the latest Flickerman worked you into a more relaxed state.

Your shy smiles, the flattery of your dress. Just!! Everything!!

Oh– how enchanting you were!! He knew the rest of the capitol thought so, too. He made sure of it. He knew to make you the star because of course you would be coming back alive.

He knew you would win.

You would be a fool not to with all the gifts he sent you, silly!! They may have cost anyone else a small fortune, but it was nothing for him, so you shouldn’t worry! He’d be sure to remind you of that the next time you meet. He knows you’re kind. He knows you’d feel some sort of guilt.

Oh!! But that doesn’t matter! He much rather thinks about how cute you were on your first day in the arena. How confused and bewildered you looked when his gifts started floating down from the sky. You ran from the center right away, of course you would, because you’re just so smart! But that meant you had nothing.

He didn’t want you to have nothing!!

Blah blah blah, your mentor wanted to wait a bit. Save any money pooled your way. But with Jimin funding everything, why did that even matter?

Soon, you were caked in more weapons than you knew what to do with. It was just too. Fucking. Cute.

You should only be covered in things from him from now on. He was sure of it when you stood there in the arena, trying to figure out how to tote around a spear, bow, sword, knife, club, and a pack full of food, and he’s even more sure of it now. You used his knife to win the games.

His gift he watched you take care of, cherish over the last 6 days.

It’s almost like he was right in there with you! Supporting you, helping you! He couldn’t even sleep the last days, knowing you were in there, scared.

My, he understands now why the skies saved you for him. You two truly are a match made for everyone to bear witness to you.

And now!! Now that you won he knows your fates were set out for in the stars.

He’s just so proud!! So– so proud of you!!

Soon!! Soon he can be with you! He promises, okay?

He knows Namjoon and Taehyung– the former more than the latter, will make him wait a bit before he actually can have you. There are duties you have to attend to, after all! Responsibilities! And he knows you wouldn’t want to neglect those. You’re very accountable like that, he knows it.

But that’s okay! He can be patient. He’s waited his whole life for you– 23 years to be exact! He can wait a little more. Wait for the right moment.

He knows you’ll be hurting from having to wait, too. It’s been so long since you last spoke! You really should have kept up better with your letters, you know!! You’re lucky he even remembered your name!!

He’ll have to scold you for that later– his cheeks puffed out in that way he just knows you’ll find adorable~

Ah!! But he’ll get to see you at the capitol parties!! Won’t that be fun? He’s sure of it! You two will get to dance and fall in love all over again. Taehyung will swoon and wonder when it’ll be his chance at love while Namjoon– well, Namjoon will probably be doting after his latest project or networking with politicians. But he’ll definitely want to hear all about everything from Jimin later!

Oh, he knows you’ll just look so sweet then.

Uhg. But now he just has to wait.

Disgusting it is, being without you for even a second longer.

Disgusting it is, that the eyes of the rest of the world get to bear witness to your beauty, as well.

Fucking peasants.

Namjoon should just let him have you. This whole thing is just ridiculous. Why should he have to wait when you’re soulmates? Why should you be kept from him? All of it is moronic and Namjoon wouldn’t understand the meaning of such love if it slapped him across the face.

Annoying.

Whatever.

…

Oh!! He can rewatch your pre-games interviews again!! Or your reaping– ooo.. He does love watching your reaping.

Or maybe!! Maybe the chariot ride when you wave at him– because he’s sure for a moment then you two locked eyes. And he knows you felt the spark then, too.

Or maybe he should rewatch his favourite scenes from the last 6 days, no matter how fresh in his mind they are. Watch as you become the perfect victor.

Or maybe he should go to the salon again! Get his pink hair fluffed up to perfection! Maybe the shops to get more new clothes for you! Oh, you probably wouldn’t know the renaissance is back in fashion, would you? Hmm, do you know what the renaissance is? What do they teach you in district schools?

Well!! It doesn’t matter! He can ask you soon, and he’s willing to teach you anything, regardless!!

Hmm hmm hmm…

Oh! Oh! Oh! Or maybe he should go around and clean his home again– make sure the apartment is just perfect for you! He knows you’ll love it already, but you know, it never hurts to do a little extra for the one you love!

Oh! He’s so excited to have you home! So, so excited! He just can’t wait! He can’t!

Solid memories, you realise, are hard to come by these days. There are things you think you know, of course. But nothing you can really wire down. Firm up into reality that isn’t mistied by some hazy expanse in the distance.

You remember the capitol– there were parties in your honor, an exit interview. You think you can see yourself rewatching a few clips of the games but… to be honest, it all feels as if you’re looking back in third person. The ghost of yourself watching a shell without a face. Maybe reacting, maybe sitting there in silence. You’re not really sure.

Though, you know all of it happened regardless of what your brain may distance from you. You know it did. But again, memories are… tricky. To say the least.

The next solid one you have after your games, you’re still at the capitol. Still at the world filled with glimmer and gleam. You remember sitting in the shower, water pounding against your skin as the world all to suddenly feels whole again. For the first time in weeks it feels as if you’re wearing your own skin, seeing things through your own eyes.

You remember your eyes casting down upon your hands. Droplets congregate on your palms as you have your first conscious thought since the night those games ended. Since the world became a mist no one would be able to see through.

You’re going home.

The realization is awe-inspiring. Stuttering, really. You know, then, that soon– in just a few days– you’ll be returning to District 11. You’ll be with your flowers and your bees. You’ll be able to walk through the tall grasses that fill your heart. Be able to see the sunset against the horizon and pretend as if you’re a bird dancing among those clouds.

You’ll be able to see your family again. To feel their hugs and listen to their stories. You’ll be their daughter again. Not a box of ash on the mantle, not a tale to avoid especially on the most harrowing nights. You’ll be free from the games. Your family will be free from the games.

You’ll see him.

You’ll see Yoongi.

He gave you a book on the old language of flowers— one of the last few standing after the history of before was erased from the public's eye. The original meaning of petals bound in worn leather, pages dried with colours of pressed flowers in their wake. In their entire glory for only you and him to see. To have together. Antiquities of a time you’ve never known, would never know save for the stories that were hushed in whispers of your attic walls between your voices alone.

The new language of flowers was something you didn’t like as much, not after learning the true words they spoke. Highly published novels depicting a different tale then the ones they murmured to you out in the fields. A language that was a lot more angry, spiteful. Filled with resentment of a darker time that bled into even the most beautiful, innocent things.

The book he gave you now held more meaning than ever before. While you don’t know much, you know that for certain.

You’ll have that book in your hands again soon. Him in your grasp again— soon.

Tears are in your eyes faster than you can blink them away. Sobs of a simple babe leaving your mouth for no one in the capitol to see. Just for yourself. Just for you, in your shower. Pathetic hands moving to try and wipe them away, yet there really is no hope. Tears will continue to flow, just as the sun will rise.

You needed this more than you could ever know. More than anyone would ever know.

Because then the thought is in your head again– about what you had to do to live. To survive. And for some strange reason, when you pull your hands away from your eyes, they look like they’re covered in red again. That boy in the arenas’ red. Your allies’ red. Strangers you didn’t know in the slightest’ red. The pasts’ red.

Tears continue to fall, but for a different reason now.

You’re out of your body again, and you think you might just stay there for a while. Until all of it just stops.

Fuck whatever the hell Namjoon says, actually. Jimin doesn’t give a shit anymore. Jimin doesn’t care about waiting for the “right time” or when you’re more “susceptible” (as if you even need to be!). You need to come home now. You have to.

He can’t just– he can’t just watch you destroy yourself like this in isolation! Especially when you have a warm, loving home to come home to. When he can support you.

Fuck that. He can’t watch this any longer.

This is all his fault, for going out earlier that day. Arriving home later than normal– missing your dinner together entirely. Oh, you’re probably so lonely without knowing he’s watching through the security cameras. Oh-so lonely.

That’s why you’re crying in the bathroom, that’s why you’re hurting inside. Because you’re so alone. Because you have no one when you need him.

You haven’t cried this entire time! There’s no other explanation as to why you’d be breaking down now! On the one day he didn’t have time to spend watching the cameras every waking second!

He always wakes up with you, falls asleep with you. Eats with you, showers with you. Does everything with you! Fuck! How could he be so stupid! How could he be so neglectful! He’s an awful boyfriend! Awful! Awful! Awful!

He can’t just watch you like this anymore. He doesn’t care if you’re more distressed, distraught– whatever. He’ll deal with that then. But you’re crying and it hurts him just as harshly as it does you.

He doesn’t even realise the tears that well in his own eyes. The stinging pain of his nails digging into his palm.

Fuck Namjoon. This is his fault! It is! He’s the one that kept you from him! He’s the one that’s been insisting on your isolation until the “right time”-- whatever the hell that is!

This is all his fault!

You’re so scared. So lonely. So heartbroken.

He’s going to save you. To help you. To bring you home.

Namjoon and Taehyung– they’ll understand, right..? He’s sure they will. They would do the same thing for their soulmates. He knows they would. Taehyung would do it in a second for his fletchling that got away! He could never be mad at Jimin! Never ever!

And Namjoon, Jimin knows that he was just doing what he thought was best– trying to help. But Jimin knows best when it comes to you.

He knows it's time for you to come home, even if it is a little more difficult. He can take it, he knows he can.

Jimin sniffles, wiping the underside of his nose as he mops up his lousy expression. Reminding himself that all of this is okay– at least it will be soon. When you’re with him. When you’re in his arms. Safe from the rest of the world.

Safe because of him.

The scent of sweet linen fills your nostrils to the very brim. Gentle fabrics twist in your palms, head leavered to the side, shoving your face even deeper into the too-soft sheets.

It smells almost like home. Like the fresh flowers you’d pick every morning to put on the table– the lilac, sweet pea, and babies breath mixture you made most often for the neighbours.

Something… Something is off. Something… artificial. But you choose to ignore that fact for the simple instance of staying sane. For the ability to lull your mind into a simpler place– a simpler time. A place before the games. A place so wonderful you don’t even allow yourself to dream of it anymore. Home.

Maybe that was your first mistake, thinking you might return to that place for even a moment.

Maybe it was a lot of things. It could have been imagining you just missed the entire train ride home– that you didn’t fall asleep in your stupid capitol apartment last night. Maybe it was thinking your mom’s bed could even afford such soft cottons to warm the lonely nights. Maybe it was letting your guard down for even a second, missing the footsteps that travel through the door.

Maybe it was missing a whole slew of other signs.

You’re too tired to know. Too tired to care.

Well, that is until a sing-song pitch feels like it breaks the sound barrier. Feels like it shatters your disillusioned peaceful world into a disarray of shards you can’t glue back together. Sends you tumbling from the bed, startling you. Making you remember exactly how you felt in those games all over again.

“Petal~ Are you awake yet, my love? Oh my–” He seems just as shaken as you as he watches you bolt from the bed. Startling back a few steps as you roll to the floor assuming a crouched, almost predatory position. Your hair messy, lips puffy from sleep. Eyes wide, almost unnerving as you try to take him in.

“Ah~” He resumes his original state, the one he had before you spooked him. One more relaxed– more carefree than you would ever be able to hold. A tray of food in his grip, filled to the brim with foods that used to be your favourites.

Food has tasted dull for awhile now.

“My, I must’ve scared you. I’m sorry, little petal.” He hums quietly, ignoring your flighty state instead focusing his path to the end of the bed– a bed you don’t recognise in the slightest. You’re not in any home that you’ve ever known. “I know, it must be pretty startling, hmm? I wanted to wake up in bed with you, but I didn’t think that would be the best idea.”

He lends a giggle to himself, though you can’t understand the humour in his words. Not when you’re reeling. Eyes darting around, taking in the scenery around you. The grandiose bedroom piled high with the most comfort the capitol can offer. A large bed in the center of the room– the bed you were just in. A large window taking space of the entire wall, giving view of the city down below.

How did you get here? What is going on? Who the actual fuck is this guy? How does he know you?

Well, the last question is easy enough to answer. How does anyone know you? The games of course. Your new victor status lends the title of celebrity.

You miss the days you were no one now more than ever. You need to get out.

Your eyes dart between his figure, now perched on the end of the bed next to the tray of food and the door. Could you make it past him? Beat him in a race? Sure, he looks taller than you. But from your position on the floor– practically in a runners start already, you’re sure you could beat anyone in the capitol who’s never had to work a day in their life.

What would you do after you make it out that door? You’re not sure. But you need to put more distance between yourself and this– this psychopath.

“I wouldn’t recommend that if I were you, love.” His voice is light, airy. Your mother would say he sounds like a songbird, however, you know that isn’t true. Only the capitol-created mutts would observe you as he is now. Close, pointnet. “The doorway has a sensor. I go through it, I’m fine. You— bzzt!!”

He grabs his collar, shaking a little to give off the appearance of being electrocuted, giving a light laugh at the end to show humour. What part of this is meant to be fucking funny?! You– you!! He kidnapped you!! What part of that is fucking funny!!

You feel heat in your face, air exhaling a notch faster than before as anger rises higher in your being. Who the fuck does he think he is?! You would be a fool not to go for it anyway. An idiot to just trust this man's words without a second thought.

“Not enough to kill you but–” You bolt for the doorway, running as fast and as hard as you can. Though, it doesn’t last long. The man did not lie, and you are frozen in place the second an inch of your frame has made it through the passage. A current shooting through your being, freezing you in place. Causing you to crumple to the floor without even a second's notice.

The pain is burning, though not as strong as you expected such a force to be. You don’t understand capitol technology, and you don’t want to. You don’t want to know how it could hurt so bad yet not hurt at all at the same time. How it could completely immobilise you yet feel as though it didn’t do any real damage.

A simple shock to your system, as he presumed this whole thing would be.

He tuts out a soft sigh as he watches you fall, standing from his place on the bed and allowing his legs to carry him to your form. “I told you petal, I wouldn’t recommend trying. It’s okay though– I expected this.”

He hums, easily scooping your body into his arms. And as much as you want to run, to push him away, to strangle him– you can’t move a muscle. Limp in his arms, useless to him moving you into bed, tucking you back under the sheets. All save for your face, and maybe your voice. Though, you haven’t tried to use that yet.

“Oh– don’t look at me like that!” He giggles, placing your body upright in bed. Back against the headboard, blankets pulled to your hips. You think you hate the smell of them now more than anything else. “You’ll be able to move again soon, I promise. 10-15 minutes max? I’m not sure the details– Joon set it up for me. I didn’t want to!”

He looks at you seriously now, almost a complete change in his demeanour. His hands moving to clench your unmoving ones, his eyes staring straight into your own still set in a glare. “I knew you would love me right away, petal. I promise. I didn’t think you would run. But Joon said it would be better to be safe than sorry, you know? And I didn’t want you to get hurt with all the shock this change would be! You understand, right?”

You don’t know what the fuck a Joon is or the bullshit the man in front of you is spewing. You don’t even know why he’s spitting it!! You don’t even know him!! You’ve never seen him before in your life!! A thousand words well up in your throat at once, yet you’re not sure which ones want to leave first. Hatred, as well as that puppy-dog look you already have come to despise forces your hand. You want him off of you– away from you. To give you a moment to think and to figure out all of his nonsense!!

“Fuck you.” Is all you can manage between your teeth, though you want to will so much more. Want to let loose every stupid, horrible thing you’ve thought since you first arrived in the capitol. The words you wanted to say during all of your interviews– the words that wouldn’t gain you sponsors or support.

Maybe you should have said them back then, maybe then you wouldn’t be in this position now.

Oh, you hate that he only smiles at your words. Moves, instead, to grab the tray of food abandoned at the edge of the bed. “They’ll be plenty of time for that later, petal.”

You know it’s meant to be a tease– the way he says it puts no real meaning behind his words. But their simple utterance leaves you wanting to spasm. To will your body to move– to make him not threaten you like that again. To yell, to scream, to throw fists his way. To throw him out that giant window. The one that taunts you of your freedom.

“No! No–! There won’t be!” You almost shout, attempting to force your body to move. To twist any part of it. To gain back any level of control. Slap that giggle that spills from his lips. “Who the– Who the fuck are you?!”

Your voice is practically a growl, but he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. In fact he's– he’s jovial? His shoulders shake with amusement while his eyes crest with joy. And you, you hate every second of it.

“Ah~ There’s the petal I know!” He hums, cutting away at the pancakes below. Plucking a few pieces onto a fork, bringing it closer to your lips, “Though, if I’m being honest, I’m a little hurt you don’t remember me, my love! We’ve had so much fun together!!”

His expression softens now, almost appearing wounded. Like you had stabbed him somewhere you couldn’t even begin to explain. It only enrages you further, to be honest. Though, nothing to do about that now. You’ve already boiled over.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! I don’t know you!! We’ve never–” He takes that moment to shove the fluffy bread between your lips, knowing otherwise he would not have the chance. He takes his other hand, placing it on your lower jaw before you have the chance to spit it out. You hate how he seems to know your actions before you know them yourself. You hate everything about him.

“You need to eat.” His tone is harsh again. It switches so easily– everything about him does, honestly. It confuses you, but there isn’t much time to spend on that thought at the moment, is there? Not with a psycho in the room. Not with everything happening.

You still don’t follow his direction. Instead just hold it between your lips, not chewing. It gives you some sense of control you otherwise lacked in every other way. Gives you an ounce of strength.

“Chew. Or else you’ll be on a liquid diet. Neither of us want that.” The way he looks at you now sends a chill down your spine. Eyes half lidded, almost in a glare. Jaw set harshly in place, puffy lips pulled in slightly.

You feel like you’re in the arena again.

Maybe you never left.

“Eat. And I’ll answer your questions.” Begrudgingly, you oblige. Though it doesn’t come without some force, humiliation burns through as you actually listen to what he tells you. As you follow his command.

You want to die, maybe.

Or that could just be the shame that runs through your veins.

You’ve never been a strong person, you don’t think. And the thought feels even more apparent now. Your ally in the games– she would’ve never done what he said. You know that. She was strong. She always listened to her own conscience above all else. She would’ve never given in over a threat and a promise, while you, at least on the inside, feel as if that’s all it ever takes.

A threat and a promise.

You hate it. Even more so when his personality does a complete 180 once again. When he starts praising you. When he hops up next to you on the bed and nestles you into his side. Especially when he plants a kiss on the top of your head, telling you how good you are. How he just knew you wanted to please him and that there's no reason to pretend.

“See, baby? I just knew you could do it. I knew our little rough patch wouldn’t last long, would it? See, you’re already so good for me. Just the perfect little thing like I knew you would be, yeah? Wow~” His lips against your head feel like the first soft thing you’ve felt in the last month. You hate it. “What a perfect little Victor for me baby, you know that? C’mon! Let's eat up lots! I hate how much weight you’ve been losing since you got here from the districts. It’s so sad.”

You want to sob, actually. Burning humiliation feels unbridled in your core. You hate that you can’t push him away. That you can’t get away. Why does such a simple action of chewing food feel like so much more? Why does everything feel like so much more?

You want to go home. You want to be among your flowers and your best friend.

The fork is in front of your mouth again.

This time, you take it without a fight. Already knowing it will be going in your mouth, regardless. Especially in this new, feeble position. His arm around your shoulder, your legs soon tugged onto his lap the same.

“Who are you.” You ask again, hatred in your tone. Though he ignores it completely, instead favouring to focus on the way you took his offering without much physical fight. He could tell the mental one was burdensome, though there will be time to deal with that later.

He smiles at you, though you choose to focus on a spot through the window in the far distance. Hoping against all hope it is the glimmer of the sun rather than a hologram pasted on the glass.

“Jimin. My name is Jimin. Remember it this time, okay petal?” He says softly, as though it was just for you to hear.

You wish it wasn’t.

You wish it was at some sort of public hanging for the world to hear for kidnapping the Capitol’s much favoured victor. You wish he was being hung while you were in the arms of your best friend instead, far away from the entire mess. Far away from everything.

Why hasn’t your mind locked you away again? Made you incapacitated– a drop among the flowing river? Why did it have to make you so aware, now, when it was all you had ever hoped for before? Why couldn’t it lock away these memories like it did for those in the games?

The answer is obvious.

You’re still in them. Maybe not physically, but mentally, now more than ever, you’re in those games. Except now, the only enemy is one and if you make it out, there would be no trumpets signalling your victory.

There is no victory in these games, is there?

“Hmm, you’ve had a hard morning, haven’t you?” He’s still being soft. Still slowly feeding you bites of food you want nothing to do with while his other hand gently traces circles on your ankle. At least you’re still wearing the clothes you fell asleep in. You have that to be thankful for. “I’m sorry for scaring you so badly, I hoped the scents would calm you down but I guess I was wrong.”

You finally spare a glance his way, noticing his lips in a pout. He has nothing to be sad for, you know it to be true. So why is he acting like the burden of the world is on his shoulders? You have not a clue, nor a care. Though you keep yourself quiet all the same, knowing any words you say might set him off– especially the unkind ones you think.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get used to it soon.” He smiles again, eyes cresting into half circles. His lips finding your hair once again, leaving a soft kiss in its wake. It makes you want to gag– want to cry in the way it mimics your mothers. But there's nothing you can do. Absolutely nothing for at least another 3 minutes. But where will you go– what will you do once that time does pass? You need to be smart about this.

You can’t run. You can’t leave this room without being paralyzed. You could grab a fork, you could stab–

Your eyes automatically trail down to your hands, as if they expect the red to still be there. As if you didn’t scrub it away countless times, a new red in its place. Raw and irritated, painful.

…

What will you do when the time passes?

The urge to scratch at your hands once again is insurmountable. An itch pulling behind your eyes as a meager way to force away the visions of that career in your face. Of his expression as blood dribbled from the side of his lips, eyes becoming hollow against the sandy ground.

You force your eyelids closed. Pressing them together. Willing away the picture of at least 12 other tributes– the slaughters you witnessed first hand. The colour draining from their skin from where you hid. The emptiness where there once held life.

You watched them smiling in training. You ate with a few. They were real people with real lives and now they are dead and you’re alive.

You want it to go away. You want it all to go away.

…

You’re not sure what you can do once the time passes. The wails in your ears at the mere thought of stabbing him are evidence of that enough.

You need more time to think.

“Why?” The question hangs heavy in their air, almost so quietly you’re not sure it left your own lips. You don’t remember it leaving them, surely. Nevertheless, willing them to move– but the question found its way out on its own.

You don’t know if you want an answer, but you can’t force it back in.

“Why?” Jimin, your captor, hums. His thumb tapping gently against your ankle bone in a way that you assume is meant to soothe. He takes a moment– thinking, contemplating, before a smile so bright it could be the sun itself takes over his expression. One filled with care, with such soft admiration you’ve only ever seen on one person before.

“Because I love you, of course. You love me too. You promised.”

The days– no, weeks, that follow are, disappointingly, similar to your first. An almost-routine forming between you and Jimin. Horrible, unnerving Jimin. Wake up every morning all-too aware, force yourself from his too-tight grip he’s managed to pull you into while you slept. Check the exits to see if they’re still locked or shocked. Eat breakfast with Jimin, deal with his mood-swings and tantrums.

Eventually he leaves for work– not before he clings to you again, whining about how he doesn’t want to go. You lash out, yell at him to stop touching you– you hate when he touches you– after which he either cries or gets mad. Whimpers about how he doesn’t understand why you’re being so mean. Why you hate him.

A little kid being refused their favourite toy, maybe. The same way your little brother might’ve done the same.

He’s got some sort of twisted reality, that's all you know. Has convinced himself you’ve loved each other for years, that you two are meant to be some sort of fairytale. That it’s fate you were drawn that day– something about letters. You have no clue how he’s come to that conclusion, nor find yourself wanting to delve into it. All you do know is that it’s tiring, too tiring.

To be honest, when he cries like that in the mornings, it almost makes you feel bad. Almost, because you’re not stupid. You know what’s real. You know that before he took you, you had never seen him in your life. You made no promises like he swears, you never showed him any sort of inclination otherwise.

On the other hand, it's clear he’s sick in the head. Clear that something in the capitol deluded him into believing whatever… this is. Maybe he’s never known what actual love is– you doubt the capitol knows anything about that. Maybe it was his friends you’ve been forced to hear about, maybe it’s just, everything else.

Either way, you wouldn’t know. He doesn’t talk much about himself– nor his family. He doesn’t talk about visiting them or introducing them to you the same way he does his best friends.Two people you’ve never met yet already hate. An already-assumed air to the presidency and the head gamemaker– Taehyung, Namjoon.

You really did get lucky with your captor, huh? Well, you knew he had to be in high places for the wealth he assumes. The wealth he practically forced on you in the arena.

Oh, the realization he had been the one to dump food and weapons on you was a sobering one indeed.

You often wonder where it comes from. What he had to do to become so rich when back home, all your family had to their name was a small two bedroom cottage in the far-reaches of town. When your father would become so skinny during the winter months that you found yourself sleeping next to his bed, afraid he might not wake up in the morning.

It had been worse when your parents were little, or so you were told. The capitol used to be worse– more vicious. Something about an almost uprising. An agreement made when a mockingjay flew. You’re not sure, it sounded like some sort of strange symbolism when your teacher spoke the words. And back then, when you were young, you didn’t care about the symbolism of birds. Flowers were much more your heart.

What did the capitol kids learn in school? Did they have it? Or were they already assumed geniuses. A silver spoon born into the mouths of the wealthy, their paths laid out by birthright alone. Never having to worry, never having to struggle. Jimin is most definitely the same, regardless.

Spite is an emotion often had, along with too many others.

You have too much time to think here. Too much time to reflect on your inability to act. Why you’re cursed with visions whenever you so much as have a passing thought about killing Jimin to get away.

Though, maybe it’s a blessing, in a way. What would you do if you did manage such a feat? Run with his friends tailing behind you? Find some way out of the capitol? Risk the lives of everyone you love by somehow returning home with nothing to your name? How would you even leave the apartment? Sure, he normally turns the bedroom shocks off during the day so you can roam, but you know the same device stands at the front door.

The windows are too tall to leap from, no fire escapes in sight. You would be stupid to not assume he already planned for you to try and kill him. Maybe if he dies the entire apartment explodes. Maybe he’s got some sort of medical implant that could patch all wounds instantly. You have no clue what kind of technology the capitol holds, much less one of its most important citizens.

What you can assume? He dies, you die with him.

You’re not sure if you could kill him anyway.

So there you are left, planning. Forced to listen to him. His day, his life. His friends. You. The people he deems actually important to his life, you presume.

Then there are his plans– what he wants to do with you that day, dates he hopes to take you on after you finally accept him. Proposals. Marriage. All things that twist your stomach– make it ache.

Of course, he asks questions, too. Makes it appear as though he actually wants to get to know you better. What a joke. This whole thing feels like one. Like some type of dream you won't be able to escape no matter how hard you thrash under the covers.

Most of the time, you find it easier not to answer. If you say nothing, he can’t use it against you. Can’t turn it into a tantrum from a wrong answer or stare at you with those warm-brown eyes while you open your soul. Can’t take a mile when you only bare him an inch.

You never can tell what he is thinking.

What you do know? He looks so pathetic when he cries during those times you decide to let hate fill your heart. When the band inside finally snaps and you just can’t take anymore of this. The demon clawing out from your abdomen, spewing vile from your lips before you can even think of what you’re truly saying.

Oh, how clings to your legs, looks up at you with tears streaming down his face. His perfectly styled pink hair a wreck, his puffy cheeks flushed red. Veins in his neck straining. Begging, pleading for you to just love him. For you to come to him like he does you, to crave him like he does you. For you to just say you didn’t mean it. To please, please just not hate him. He just can’t take it. You’re soulmates. You’re meant to be. You can’t hate him, you can’t.

Maybe sometimes you feel a small ounce of sympathy when he gets like that, knowing that you caused it. Humanity thriving within you when, at this point, in most it would be squandered away.

You feel too much lately, to be honest.

Though, that little bit of pity, small and waning, is wiped away all the same when he forces you to sit in bed with him at night. Most nights he’s able to hold you due to the same zap you receive every time you try to run out that door– still believing it would be stupid to not try. Others, it's because you’re simply too tired to fight him. Because it’s easier not to.

Either way, the result of your compliance forced or not is the same. Your frame tucked into his side, legs across his lap. His arm pulling you close, tucking the top of your head into his neck. All the while he plays reruns of your games, your interviews, your reaping.

He smiles watching them, eyes casting a fond glow on the projection of your nightmare. The things you wish you didn’t have to do.

You hate that you can see the fondness in his expression, especially. Makes his words seem even more true, that he wholeheartedly believes them. Whenever you appear on screen, his expression lights. His lips quirking whenever he urges you to watch– that his favourite part is coming.

He seems to have a lot of favourite parts.

At least it fills in a lot of gaps in your memory– maybe that’s one good that comes of it. Or maybe it’s another negative. Something that should be forgotten for your own sanity. That’s what your brain thought at least but now… You’re not really sure anymore, to be honest. It’s hard to keep things straight when you’re stuck in this apartment. When everything else your head is doing to protect you is oh-so-tiring.

You remember him showing you your reaping a month after arriving at his apartment– one of the projections you seem to have forgotten completely. A day entirely forgotten returned to you all-too quick. A shot straight to the heart.

You were standing there in line, waiting to have your face and fingerprints scanned for attendance. Hair a little wild, dress bustling in the wind. You watched as you walked forward, as they took you into the system. Corralled you into the area reserved for the oldest age group.

You feel like you look so young then, or at least felt a million years younger than you do now. So happy, so carefree. Waiting for the whole drawing to just be over so you could be free of it. Finally free of it. Of everything.

Fuck, your final reaping, too. How pathetic.

“You looked so pretty for me then, petal. That’s when I recognised your name.” Jimin whispered to you, nuzzling his face in your hair. Yet you paid little mind– eyes glued to the screen as the scenes shifted, bringing you directly to the drawing.

Hearing your name called, your face displayed on the screen was entirely mind-altering, to say the least. The girl on the screen is no longer you– maybe a body double, maybe a secret twin. It doesn’t matter which, because that girl, no. She doesn’t feel like you in the slightest. You don’t remember any of it happening at all.

Back then, you remember how your legs stumbled as they carried you. How they shook with terror. The world was ending, you were sure of it. You knew it was. But the girl on screen is confident. She’s bold. She bares an expression of neutrality– posture held high, chin up against the winds with a red carnation tucked behind her ear.

He tucked that flower behind your ear that morning, you know that for sure. It was tradition that he would. Petals tucked in your tresses, the promise of researching their meaning when you two departed.

Maybe you should have done so before the reaping that day– maybe that was another mistake.

Either way, it doesn’t matter now. Now you’re tucked in the arm of a deluded capitol boy who bought you from the president, being forced to watch the screen as it changes to something you were never meant to witness.

The camera cuts to a scene in the crowd. A group of 6 standing together, holding each other. Mother, Father, Sister, Brother-in-Law, Brother, Sister-in-Law-to-be all joined together to watch their last family members very last reaping.

Your heart shatters as you hear the syllables of your name called once again.

The shock, the horror. The terror. The tears. The realization that you were going into the games. You watched from your seat in the capitol as your mother crumpled in on herself– as your brother fell right alongside her. Trying to hold her, trying to console her while your father just stood in utter shock. Frozen in place from his daughter being taken from him.

He always did say your family was too lucky, to prepare for the worst. When you were young, it was a joke. But on that day it wasn’t, no. It was every nightmare a reality.

Your family’s realization they would never see you run amongst the fields again. Hope already mist in the wind. That’s what it was.

Then, then the weight of ten-thousand bodies feels as though it has fallen onto your shoulders.

The camera cut to him. Your best friend. Your Yoongi. The man who tucked the flower in your hair, who made you promise to come back to him. The man who said he would do anything for you facing the one thing he couldn’t do anything against.

You don’t even know how the cameramen knew to film him in that moment, but you wish they didn’t. You wish against all else that you would’ve never had to see his face like that.

This is the worst thing you could have seen. That Jimin is making you see. Worse than making you rewatch your games with that sickening smile on his face. Worse than making you relive the other lives you had to take in that arena with the weapons Jimin provided through sponsorship. Worse than finding out he had been privy to all the cameras in your capitol apartment.

No, seeing Yoongi again was worse than anything else. Especially knowing you would never see him again.

At least during the games you knew you had a chance. Now, it feels like you have none.

He’s gone.

You can’t stop the tears, from forcing your gaze away from the screen and hiding your face in Jimin’s neck. From breaking down against him– your captor, yet at the same time your only source of comfort.

Maybe that's what he wanted. Maybe that was the point of all of this. You don’t know anything other than the pounding of your head and the burn of your lungs as it tries to pull in air. The static that runs through the wires of your brain as it shuts down, succumbing to the pain. The hurt of just– everything.

“Hey, hey. Baby, it’s okay. It’s okay~” He tries to calm you, yet it does nothing. Your wails only grow louder. Nails scratching, grabbing for anything in their reach. Finding home in his loose linen shirt.

If you were any more sane, maybe you would know he was panicked in that moment too. Scrambling with what to do, how to console you. Eyes darting as he manages your form, tries to discern what to do or say. “That’s enough for today, I think…”

He turns off the tv, you know that. You thank the skies for it. You don’t think you could listen to your supposedly private goodbyes with your family and Yoongi at that moment. You think that might just break you entirely.

The actions that follow are foreign. Too consumed in your grief, you’re not sure how you wound up on his lap. How your body found itself clinging to him entirely. You’re sure of the sound of his voice, though. The way it gently shushes your cries with a smooth hum. Trying to comfort, to soothe while he strokes the top of your head with one hand. The other rubbing circles into your hip as you cry.

The terrible part? You let him.

You let him mumble into your hair. You let him be your support when he was the very thing keeping you away from them. The very being holding you hostage when you should be in the victory village with them. When you should be with Yoongi.

It’s too bad, but you really can’t help it. Honestly. Everything inside of you that you’ve been holding onto for so very long is flushing from your system all at once. Waves of emotion from the reaping, the games, the kidnapping have overflowed, and without something solid, you might have drowned. May have been washed away in a haze of memories you’re unable to come back from.

Can you really be blamed for letting the fire of hatred be quelled for only a night when a tsunami is about to pull you under?

“It’s okay petal, let it out. You needed all of this, hmm? I’m so sorry for upsetting you, baby. I had no clue it would, I swear. I’ll never do something like that again, okay? I don’t want you to hate me, baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know your heart was still all the way back there, okay?”

During the entire time you’ve been in the capitol, not a sole has offered you a single ounce of comfort. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to just let him. To let him comfort you. To let him take care of you. No matter how humiliating or awful it will feel tomorrow, you’re too tired to care.

You’re so tired of fighting. Why do you have to keep fighting? Why you?

“Worked so hard on being so strong. I’m proud of you. I’ve got you now, petal.” He whispered into your hair so softly. As if he could break you, as if he ever even conserved doing such a thing.

Maybe he could feel it then– the way you had given up. Even if it was just for the hour. Maybe he knew to use it to his advantage. That’s what you would have done in the arena. Or maybe he did actually care. Did actually want to be there. Wasn’t planning on using your vulnerability for his own gain.

You would never really know, would you?

You’re just so tired. And the way he gently pulls your face from his neck, tucks your face into his palm sure makes it feel like he cares. You don’t know. You don’t want to care. You just want to be free from thinking for a little while.

Maybe that’s why you don’t look away when his eyes search to find your own. To make a connection– to try and convey that he can be solid for you, despite how he acts most of the time. Maybe it’s the tears that fall onto his cheeks, fooling you into believing his pain is your own. Your head feels so screwy anyway– unable or unwilling to function any longer than it has to.

Maybe that's why you don’t pull away when he glances towards your lips. When his tongue darts out to wet his pretty pink pair. When he leans closer, his lips pressing against your own in a way that is utterly consuming, yet so soft at the same time. Dual worlds colliding together. The very definition of who Jimin seems to be.

The kiss is a short, gentle thing. Something meant to soothe, to help you relax more than anything else. One that you neither respond to, nor push away from. But the fact it happens remains. The fact you didn’t hate it remains a thing to ponder on another day.

His thumbs move up to gently swipe at your cheeks, collecting the last of your tears on his fingertips. Your head choosing to ignore the way he pops the digits in his mouth, tasting the salty tang.

You're too tired– too confused right now, to care anyway.

“Let's go to bed now, okay? You must be tired, baby.” He lifts you, placing you on your side of his massive bed. Tucking your frame in, moving your hair to the side before placing a gentle kiss on your temple.

That night, he doesn’t force you to cuddle him. He doesn’t touch you at all, something you’re grateful for. But it’s clear something– maybe everything has changed. The repercussions, unclear.

Yet the next morning, when you’re shocked awake by a gentle kiss to the lips and the floppy, too-happy face of Jimin in the morning, the memories of the night prior return. Then and there, for the first time, you’re sure you’ve made a mistake.

⋆𐙚 part ii -> coming soon to a theatre near you <33 and as always, feel free to ask hunger games!jimin anything you want along with all my other guys!! MWAH!! ily and i hope you enjoyed <33

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lovelivision · 7 months ago

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Hey if you're writing drabbles, could you please write a friends to lovers/ pre-relationship one with gojo, and maybe the pillow humping prompt. Ngl I kind of fw it

₊⁺ જ⁀➴💌 only a short one today,, sorry !! i wanted to get one out before i go back to staring at my long fic in the word doc i love loser gojo so much, love when a man is horrifically down bad <33 thanks for your request and i hope you enjoyed it !!

꒰꒰mdni // masterlist꒱꒱

Gojo feels pathetic when he thinks about his crush on you, his dear friend who is the subject of all his fantasies. Every time he sees you he feels like his heart stutters in his chest and he can’t help but think about a future with you, the dates he could take you on, the things he would buy you.

And even though he has a desire to treat you right, he also can’t help the desires he has late at night. The ones where he thinks about how cute you looked earlier in the day, how your legs looked when you crossed them, the sound of your laugh and the glow of your smile. His brain fuzzy when he thinks about touching you, hands touching your soft skin.

So badly he wants to dig his fingers into your pliable flesh, he wants to grab you and leave marks all over, just as proof to himself and others that he’s had you. He wants to drag his lips all over, taste you. His imagination running wild at how he could make you feel so good if you let him drop to his knees for you, he just knows you’d squirm for him as he licks at your messy cunt.

It's so embarrassing how he humps into his pillow thinking of you, his dick leaking pitifully as he thinks about his pretty friend. Cock twitching and chest tight as he remembers how glossy your lips were when he saw you today, wanting to know how that shade would look on his dick.

Precum drips in thick globs onto his pillow, wet and sticky from his erratic and uncalculated thrusts. The soft case rubbing against his sensitive cock deliciously but it’s not quite enough, it’s never enough when he’s thinking about you, not in comparison to how he thinks it would feel. The idea of your plush cunt swallowing him whole enough to have him cumming so quickly.

His moans whimpered and pitchy as he cums all over his pillow, his gut clenching thinking about whether you’d let him cum inside you or not. He always feels guilty after, embarrassment hitting him fully at the reality of how he’s just fucked his pillow to the thought of you.

Next time, he thinks, next time he’s definitely telling you how he feels.

#₊⁺ જ⁀➴💌 vinbox #visdrabbles #jjk smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo x reader smut #gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader smut #satoru gojo smut #jjk x reader smut

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lazymonth · 2 months ago

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Don’t worry WIR fandom, I got your back ( drop this ugly man into the cozy cafe game )

I'm trying to replicate the game art style as closely as possible. It might not be perfect, but I'm trying my best now.

A little bit of the concept about if Turbo is in Villains cursed cafe. Even though he's the villain that's actually already in the " modern " world, imagining him living among the actual humans is still pretty funny. Maybe he's got a little handicap from the fact that he's knowing one or two things about coding and technology ( I guess )

Here's the little doodle, idea dump thing :

Honestly, while I'm playing this game. I keep wondering if it's gonna have any updates in the future or not.. like, characters update something like that. Let's hope it has then, haha. But honestly, there's probably a higher percent that this is all the game has for us.. it's a good game tho! I love it sm. Very funny and cozy :3 I don't mind if this is all the game has.

However, if there's really a character update, I'm pretty sure Turbo is not a first choice, or if he's really gonna be in the game. It's gonna be a King candy version for sure ( He's more recognizable outside of the fandom anyway )

Talking about the KC version, I might be drawing him a little bit if I'm having a time<33 He does be very nice in a modern outfit.

#( Honestly; I'm a little bit hope the official dev team account saw this. lol )#( I mean. they seem pretty chill )#villains cursed cafe #disney villains #wreck it ralph #wir #turbotastic #turbo wreck it ralph #turbo #maleficent #procreate #procreateart #procreatedrawing #drawing

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pboogerswbb · 3 months ago

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SO IT GOES - chapter 12

Paige Bueckers x oc Warnings: language, drinking, sexual content (smut), paige being down so bad, incredibly long and dialogue heavy Wordcount: 8.9K A/C: this is dedicated to that anon saying they're sick, i hope you feel better!! also this is so dialogue heavy i'm sorry if it's not that fun to read and idk how this turned out so long but here we are!! hope everyone is well as always leave me thoughts in my inbox i love that shit!! okay bye <33

Before London

“Kiran! Kiran!” My screams echo around the airport as I run towards my brother, without a care in the world of how it might look to other people. I approach him fast, able to recognise the goofy smile and his tired eyes any time any place. Thankfully I wore sandals today, I wouldn’t have been able to run like this in heels

“You’re a lunatic,” he laughs as I crash into him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. Kiran’s comforting hand rubs my upper back. I loved Dallas, I loved my job, the people here were amazing. But one thing was missing, and that was my brother. I wasn’t used to being apart from him for so long. I had been his protector, his best friend the second he was born - not that he had much say in the matter.

“Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you’re here!” I gleam out of breath, pulling back and looking at that familiar face staring back at me, features similar to mine yet sharper, broader. Kiran looks around us slightly embarrassed, some of the surrounding people staring with warm smiles.

“Relax Izzie you’re causing a scene,” he whispers, but I don’t care, too giddy to be close to my baby brother again. I bounce up and down, giggling and squealing with excitement.

“I can’t believe you’re hereeee,” I sigh in a sing-songy voice, looking at my brother whose green eyes stare into my face.

“Hollup,” he grins and pulls back, looking at my feet. “You’re wearing… flats?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s early, couldn’t be bothered with heels.”

“And you haven’t done your hair?”

My brows furrow in annoyance, and I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m trying to avoid using heat on it, why are you nagging like mum?”

“Why are you getting offended? It’s just unlike you.”

So like us to get into an argument the first minute of seeing each other.

“If I wanted to be criticised I would’ve bought a ticket back to London.” I scoff, looking everywhere but my brother to let him know I’m unhappy with him. He takes a deep sigh in frustration before calming himself down.

“Alright, time out,” he groans, knowing he would never win. He knew I always had to have the last word. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, it’s just not like you Iz.”

I suppose he was right. In the past two months I had grown much more relaxed, sure I was still uptight but for some reason everything just seemed easier, lighter. Like I didn’t have to be so high strung constantly. I didn’t always have to be in control. That sometimes it was okay for me to let my waves down or go to the grocery store in leggings. Or to eat dessert before dinner or to sleep in on a Sunday - all things Paige had taught me.

“Fine, let’s just forget it,” I mumble, unwilling to apologise or admit I had maybe overreacted. “C’mon, my friend’s waiting.”

Paige had been insisting all week that I let her drive me to the airport, but after what almost blew up to be our first argument I reminded her that if we wanted to keep this a secret that would have to include not telling Kiran. I also didn’t want to get my brother involved in something that wasn’t going to last in the end. I know he’d get far too excited about the possibility of having a future “sister-in-law” in the league. I couldn’t risk getting his hopes up. It was already dreadful work trying to keep mine realistic.

So instead of getting a cab, I had agreed for Trey to drive us. It was polite of him to offer, though Paige was convinced his intentions were far from chivalrous.

“Who’s this guy again?” Kiran asks, pulling his large suitcase and unzipping his hoodie, already feeling the Dallas heat hit him.

“Just a coworker,” I explain as we step out, Trey leaning against the car with a bright smile once he spots us.

“Kiran! Welcome to Dallas!” He grins brightly, introducing himself to my brother with a firm handshake and an overly friendly expression - something I had grown accustomed to during my months in the States. My brother though, not so much, a little taken aback but still polite as always.

We pack into the car and I let the boys sit in the front, leaning against the cool leather in the backseat as Trey points out different landmarks of the city for my brother.

“So you’re staying for how long?” Trey asks.

“For a little over a week,” I reply for my brother - a habit that I had always had.

“You gotta come see a game man,” Trey smiles, hands holding the wheel with relaxed ease.

Kiran nods, looking back at me. “That’s the plan. Need to get those courtside seats.”

I scoff, letting out a dry laugh. “Courtside? I don’t know how influential you think I am but you’ll take whatever seats I can get you.”

“Oh so I travelled all the way to America to sit in the back and not be able to see anything?”

“I’ll get you binoculars.”

Trey laughs, shrugging. “Everyone gotta experience courtside at least once bro,” he murmurs. “You should ask Paige, Zari.”

Only hearing her name come out of someone’s mouth is enough to make my cheeks flush red, as I toy with my fingers on my lap, clearing my throat to pull myself together.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I chuckle awkwardly.

“Oh c’mon, she’d love to help you out,” Trey encourages me, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. “You’re like two peas in a pod anyway.”

“You are?” My brother turns back to look at me, surprised by this revelation.

“Not really.”

“Pshh, please,” Trey laughs. “They’re basically inseparable, thick as thieves, those two.”

“Wh- Why didn’t you tell me?” My brother who never forgot to mention what a huge fan of Paige he was (and how attractive he found her) asks, clearly offended.

“We’re just coworkers, that’s it,” I get a little too defensive for the lighthearted conversation. My brother doesn’t pick up on it though, too excited to find out that his sister is friends with one of his favourite players.

“You have to introduce us,” he insists. “She’s coming tomorrow right?”

“She’s coming tomorrow,” I groan, leaning the back of my head against the seat. I had invited my coworkers and some of the team over for dinner and drinks to celebrate my brother being here.

“Everyone’s coming! We love your sister here,” Trey smiles, reaching back to squeeze my knee. The gesture almost makes me jump. “She’s been my saving grace, dunno where I’d be without her.”

“You’re too kind Trey,” I reply as we pull up to the front of the apartment building.

“Nah, just honest, beautiful.”

My brother glances at me and the dark haired man sitting in the driver’s seat with a curious smile before leaning back in his seat, looking around the city.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting Paige Bueckers tomorrow,” he murmurs almost to himself. “I need to plan an outfit.”

“Kiran…” I warn him, growing irritated at his fawning. “She’s not Beyonce.”

“Yeah but she’s just as fit.”

Trey laughs, shaking his head. “Oh man, I don’t think you’re her type.”

“Told you,” I add humorlessly, becoming more annoyed.

“I’m sure I could make her change her mind,” he grins arrogantly. Immediately, I smack the back of his head, telling him to quit.

“Ow!”

“You’re disgusting,” I complain, watching Kiran rub the back of his head.

“I was taking the piss, don’t get upset.”

I roll my eyes before forcing on a tense smile. “Anyway, thank you for the drive Trey and I am sorry for my little brother.”

“Nah it’s nothing, just let me know if I can do anything else okay? You need help tomorrow let me know.”

“Oh, I won’t! Thank you th-”

“No, no, I insist,” the man interrupts me. I hated being interrupted, especially by Trey. But he had a habit of doing that so I tried to be understanding. Kiran though, knowing how much I despised it, looks at me nervously. But I simply smile, opening the car door.

“Okay Trey, thank you.”

I climb out as he and Kiran dab each other up, my brother following after and grabbing his bags. As Trey pulls into the lane my brother looks at me.

“Are you and him going out?”

I let out a laugh, thinking he’s joking. But my brother keeps staring at me with the serious eyes of my father. So I raise my brows, shaking my head. Me and Trey? Never. Why does everyone think that.

“Absolutely not, he’s my coworker,” I scoff, walking into the building and calling an elevator.

“He fancies you,” Kiran murmurs with a grin. “Nice guy… A little too nice.”

“Why does everyone think he fancies me?” I snap, stepping into the elevator with my brother at my heel. He’s fanning his face, pearls of sweat already forming in the back of his neck.

“You weren’t joking about this heat,” he sighs looking at me. “Look, just be careful with that. I don’t want what happened with Jas-”

“I can take care of myself,” I say sternly, the sound of the metal key sliding into the lock of my apartment door marking the end of that conversation. Kiran knew better than to push my buttons.

I watch as my brother enters my Dallas apartment, mouth slightly agape as he looks around, kicking his shoes off and neatly setting them against the wall by the door. It felt strange, my two lives merging in this way. A piece of London coming together with my secret life in Texas.

I follow behind Kiran as he takes steady steps along the corridor towards the living room. It’s like I’m seeing my home for the first time in a long time too. What was empty and impersonal just a month ago had become homey and decorated with effort. Framed black and white posters on the blank wall behind the TV, patterned pillows sitting pretty against the grey couch, a baby pink glass vase filled with the white lilies from Paige. The wooden shelf the blonde put up for me is filled with literature and plants. All of a sudden it surprises me, the way I had turned this apartment I thought I might despise forever into a home.

“This is nice,” Kiran admires, fanning his face once more. He walks over to my colour coded schedule hanging off the wall, reading it thoroughly - the current week colour coded green for Kiran.

He lets out a laugh, pointing a finger over messy handwriting in the corner.

“What’s this?”

I walk over, cheeks flashing red the second I realise what he’s pointing at. Underneath his fingertip, it reads: When’s my name getting on this schedule?

Kiran looks at me with a grin as I sigh, shaking my head.

“Iz, just tell me you’re seeing Trey, there’s no shame in that.”

“Dude, I’m not,” I groan. “It’s just my friend playing with me.”

“Sure,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it. Rolling my eyes I turn around, walking to the kitchen to get him something to eat. Fine, he can believe what he wants. I suppose it was better for him to think I was with Trey instead of Paige.

“I never liked that cologne,” Lou says, absentmindedly dribbling the ball along the hardwood. I shoot an easy three, wiping the post practice sweat off my forehead.

“Bro you’re crazy,” Arike laughs, wiping her hands on the towel resting on her broad shoulder. “It smells so good.”

“Nah, it smells bad. Tried it the other day and had to wash it off my wrist.”

“Well actually Izzie said colognes smell different on different people,” I tell the girls, my tone softening as it always did when I mentioned the girl. “Sumn about the oils on your skin.”

I miss the quick glance Lou and Arike give each other as I lean down to grab my water bottle, throwing my head back to chug it down my throat.

“Yo, whose playlist is this?” Lou asks, the sound of a SZA song playing in the background of bouncing basketballs and squeaking sneakers.

“Mine, it’s fire right?” I grin, tossing the ball between my hands. “Izzie loves this song,” I tell the girls, butterflies growing in my abdomen thinking about the way we were listening to Pretty Little Birds just the other day, making out in my car.

“Bro…” Arike laughs, shooting a deep three.

“What?” I ask, confused by the way the girls were snickering together.

“Nun,” the girl murmurs, looking around the court. Everyone else had gone home besides us three, lingering not so much to practice but to spend time together. “I gotta figure out what to get Lala for her birthday.”

“When’s her birthday?” I ask, brushing blonde strands off my face.

“In a week, my Gemini girl,” she hums, wiping sweat off her neck.

“Izzie’s a Leo.”

“Bro!” Arike and Lou groan together, bursting into laughter. I start laughing too, but truthfully I got no idea what they’re finding so funny.

“What?” I ask, slightly annoyed.

“You just can not shut up about her huh?” Lou chuckles, looking at me. To my horror I realise that the entire day I have been bringing her name up in every conversation, always finding a way to snake her in. Truthfully, I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t think of anything else. Just her.

“Bro, no ‘s not like that,” I laugh, rubbing the bridge of my nose in embarrassment. “She just knows stuff. I just be listening.”

“Are you listening to us tho?” Arike teases, walking over and shoving my face playfully. I blush, rolling my eyes.

“Aight, enough.”

“Ohhh she down bad,” Arike taunts me, laughing as she points my face out to Lou, red as a tomato. “Look at how red she is.”

“No, you just being bullies,” I complain, though there was no hiding it. I knew she was right. “We’re just friends.”

“Rightttt,” Lou chuckles, sharing another amused glance with Arike.

“Bro, what?” I ask, sitting down on the hardwood and grabbing my phone.

“You guys are not as slick as you think,” Lou laughs, Rike nodding in agreement.

“Forreal, she be eyefucking you mid practice.”

I nearly choke on my water.

“Yooooo, you trippin,” I complain, eyes widening as I look around the court to make sure no one could hear. The girls share another glance, snickering again. I check the time, realising I need to get home if I want to look presentable for the dinner party. For Izara.

“Shoot, I’mma need to go get ready,” I murmur, climbing up from the floor and grabbing my stuff.

“You nervous meeting her baby bro?” Arike asks.

Yes. I hadn’t slept last night.

“Nah,” I chuckle. “It’s cool, I’ll see y’all tonight.”

You have to be joking. I rummage through my bag once again, pulling out hoodies and towels and socks. Nothing. My hands feel the pockets of my shorts for my keys but they’re nowhere to be found.

“Shit,” I murmur to myself, looking around the apartment stairway as if it might help me figure out a way in. There wasn’t one. Not without my keys, which I clearly didn’t have with me. I really didn’t need this today, I had been on edge all morning, nervousness twisting in my stomach as I thought about meeting Kiran. I had to make a good impression. I just had to.

Digging for my phone in my pocket, I dial the number for a locksmith. But as my finger is about to press call, the screen goes black, flashing to be charged as if taunting me. “Are you kidding me,” I groan rubbing my face.

There was no other choice, so I make my way down the flight of stairs, smoothing my slicked back hair that had gone frizzy at practice as I knock on the door. Quickly it opens, familiar eyes staring back at me. Though they’re not green, more like hazel, still sharp and wise just like Izara’s.

Kiran is a mirror image of her sister, if not for the wide jaw and broad shoulders and the stubble covering the lower half of his face. He also didn’t look nearly as intimidating, a softness on his face the way Izzie’s face relaxed only once when she slept.

“Oh shoot, hey,” I murmur surprised, immediately offering my right hand for him to shake. “I’m Paige, you gotta be Kiran.”

The boy’s brows rise and lips part as he takes it in. Paige Bueckers, in the flesh.

“Oh I know who you are,” he chuckles in a friendly way, shaking my hand firmly. “Big fan.”

“Who is it?” Izara’s voice shouts from the kitchen, gentle steps approaching as she peeks around the corner to the front door. The nervousness in my stomach settles the second I see her face, her green eyes widening.

“Paige,” she gasps, walking hurriedly to me and Kiran as if not wanting to leave us alone for a second. She’s wearing a striped apron over her knitted set, though her makeup and hair are done in preparation for the night.

“Hey Izzie, I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice softening as I speak to her. “I locked myself outta my apartment.”

I want to kiss her, to wrap my arms around her like I always did to greet her. But I knew in front of Kiran we are only friends. It was killing me.

“Did you call a locksmith?” Kiran interrupts, clearly eager to be a part of the conversation. His eyes never leave me, feeling too starstruck in the moment.

“Phone’s dead,” I chuckle awkwardly. Izzie looks from me to her brother, back to me. We’re both awkward, unsure how to act under the watchful eyes of Kiran.

“Go knead the dough,” Izzie commands her brother, pushing him towards the kitchen.

“B-but,” he starts but just like me. he has no choice but to listen to the dark haired girl.

“Go.”

Wordlessly, doing his best not to protest, Kiran turns the corner and goes into the kitchen. Izzie turns to me, wrapping a quick arm around my waist. I press a silent kiss on the top of her hair, my pounding heart slowing down the moment I feel her flush against me.

“Missed you,” I whisper, praying Kiran can’t hear. “I’m sorry for this.”

“No gorgeous, it’s perfectly okay,” Izzie reassures me. “You wanna borrow my phone?”

“Wait she lives right upstairs? Why didn’t you tell me?” Kiran complains but I shush him, wrapping the pasta dough to let it rest in the fridge.

“Because you’re embarrassing me,” I hiss, pushing him out of my way. Paige is in the other room, talking to the locksmith, her voice muffled through the walls.

“Iz why didn’t you tell me you were like… actually good friends?”

I roll my eyes, shutting the fridge door. “We’re friends. That’s it. Coworkers.”

“She calls you Izzie… She gets away with that?”

“She prefers it.”

“No one calls you Izzie but me and like… your best friends,” my brother points out. I shrug, turning to him.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you were gonna be weird about it,” I whisper, listening for the blonde girl making sure she won’t overhear us.

“I won’t be!”

“You’re being weird right now!” My voice rises a little, but I quickly remind myself to be quiet. “Look, Paige is cool. She’s been a good friend to me. That’s all, end of conversation.”

“She’s hotter in person,” Kiran grins, I shove him hard enough to let him know I wasn’t playing around.

“Quit. She’s gay,” I scoff, beginning to chop up some onions.

“How can you be sure?”

Oh if he only knew.

“I’m sure,” I complain, growing irritated and even slightly jealous at my brother’s remarks about Paige. “Just act normal, for once. Please.”

Just as he’s about to answer, the blonde walks around the corner, a frustrated smile stretched across her face.

“Well, bad news,” she groans, walking over to me absentmindedly - our bodies like magnets, pulling to be close each moment. “They not coming till tomorrow.”

“Are you joking?” Kiran asks, laughing and leaning against the counter. Paige nods, shifting on her feet, pushing her cuticles back. An anxious habit she has. It’s then I realise, she’s nervous, looking around the ceiling, biting the insides of her cheeks.

“Wish I was,” she murmurs. “I’mma call Rike and ask if I can go over to theirs.”

“Well, you could stay here, right Iz?” My brother asks. I want to kill him. Not because I don’t want her here. But because I don’t know how long I can keep myself under control with her around. I could already feel my body aching to touch her, to press close to her.

I glance up at Paige whose blue eyes and staring down at me, soft and pleading. I know she feels just as I do.

“Of course you can stay,” I murmur, my voice involuntarily rising and softening.

“Yeah?” Paige asks, her voice a soft hum as if it’s just us two at this moment. I nod, my cheeks turning rosy.

“I need to shower,” she says. “And change.”

“I washed the button up you left here,” I coo, “and you have those black shorts here you could wear them.”

“Thank you Iz,” she murmurs. “Dunno what I’d do without you.”

Kiran clears his throat and suddenly I’m brought back to earth, Paige takes a step back realising she’s probably leaning over a little too close.

“Go shower,” I tell Paige, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.

“Yes ma’am,” the blonde says, leaving with a slight smile to both me and my brother.

“Oh, the towels ar-”

“I know,” Paige shouts from around the corner, disappearing. Avoiding the gaze of my brother, I begin to chop up the onions and carrots, my eyes locked on the chopping board. But I see from the corner of my eye Kiran looking at me curiously. Fuck, I guess we’re being pretty obvious. I’m sure he’s already noticed.

“I’m about to have a sleepover with Paige Bueckers,” he gleams in a quiet voice, his face sparkling. I let out a deep breath, too relieved to even scold him. My dear little brother was bright and kind and gentle - and completely oblivious at times. Thank God.

I stand in my towel in Izzie’s bedroom, looking at my shirt hung up in her closet. It looks right, her clothes next to mine, the white and baby blue striped shirt fitting perfectly with the cream coloured dress beside it. It’s too hot to get fully dressed, so I put on my white sports bra and the black denim shorts, my boxers peeking out just a little. As I’m checking myself in the mirror, Izzie steps in, eyes glancing at my bare abdomen.

“Oh sorry, I should’ve knocked,” she mumbles, closing the door behind her.

“No mama, it’s okay,” I reassure her, watching her walk over to the closet and pull out my shirt, smoothing over it carefully.

“I ironed it too,” she tells me, and my heart nearly bursts from the lilt of her voice.

“Thank you,” I murmur, walking over and snaking a hand around her waist, like I’d been dying to ever since I stepped in. Izzie’s eyes flutter shut, breathing immediately growing heavy. All this sneaking around was somehow getting both of us more hot and bothered.

“I- I’m done with the food, I just have to set the table,” she whispers, exhaling loudly as I lean down and pepper soft kisses along her neck. “I have to get dressed.”

“Lemme help.”

“Paige…” she hums, a feeble attempt at resistance while her body submits, head tilting to give me more space. My hand feels the curve of her body, finding its way to the band of her knitted pants. I had been dying for this, for her.

“Kiss me,” I plead, voice turning whiny. “Please Iz, kiss me.”

She doesn’t hesitate, turning to face me and wrapping her arms around my neck as she pulls me down for a hungry, heated kiss. “You’re driving me crazy,” she whimpers into my mouth as she kicks her pants off. My knee quickly finds its way between her thighs, pressing into her clothed core.

“Missed you so bad baby,” I nearly cry out, touching her everywhere, her legs, her waist, her arms, her face. I couldn’t get enough. Just one night spent apart had been torture.

“Iz where are the napkins?” Kiran’s voice suddenly cuts through our joint panting, making us both stop in our heels.

“Uhh, hold on, I need to change,” Izzie shouts through the door, flustered. I chuckle a little, wiping my lips to dry them from the girl’s spit. “Go show him,” she silently commands, pointing at the door.

“Yes ma’am,” I whisper, grinning and stepping out. Kiran is standing outside the door expectantly, eyes widening when he sees me. He’s not very tall, around the same height as I am. He looks at me for a while, studying my face.

“You okay, you’re a little red?”

I feel my cheeks burn even hotter at his question, just hoping he wasn’t as bright as his older sister.

“Uhh, yeah, was a hot shower,” I chuckle awkwardly, walking to the kitchen with the boy. “How old are you anyway?” I ask to change the subject.

“Oh I’m 22,” he answers. I nod, automatically opening the correct kitchen drawer for the napkins.

“Here,” I murmur, handing them to Kiran.

“Huh.”

I turn my eyes to him curiously. “What?”

“You know where the towels are, where the napkins are, you call her Izzie… You must be really good friends with my sister,” he says, leaning against the counter. I was always a bad liar, so I decided it would be better to be honest - as long as it wasn’t too honest.

“Yeah, she’s awesome,” I smile to myself, watching Kiran reach for plates. “No not those ones,” I tell him, pointing to the second set on top. “She uses those for guests. You know how she is.”

“Oh, trust me I do,” he laughs. “Grew up with her.”

I chuckle. “She always been that…”

“Uptight?”

“I was gon say particular.”

The laughter from Kiran is enough of an answer, making me grin too.

“You know, she didn’t even tell me you two are friends,” he says as we walk the cutlery and glasses to the dining table. I stop, furrowing my brows. Why would she try to hide that? Maybe she was more private than I thought. But not even telling her own brother that we’re friends seemed a little strange.

Kiran notices, grabbing the wine glasses from my hands. “Don’t take it personally, it probably has more to do with me than you. She thinks I’m a fan.”

I chuckle, beginning to set up the plates hoping whatever I was doing would be up to Izara’s standards. Likely not. “Well are you?”

Kiran rolls his eyes, looking like a carbon copy of his sister just for a fleeting second. “Well I mean, you play tough! I can’t deny that.”

“Yeah, top PG in the world,” I joke, knowing that the start to this season had been horrible. It was better to joke than to show how I really felt. I tried to be grateful for the path God had paved for me, but I just didn’t understand why it had to be like this.

“Absolutely not, that’s Magic,” Kiran argues, watching as I set the table.

“Over Steph?”

Kiran thinks for a while, about to answer when Izara steps out of the room, in a cream coloured halter neck dress, making her skin glow even more than usual.

“Steph is the best point guard of all time,” she interrupts, finishing the conversation for both of us. “Paige, could you zip me up?”

I watch her, breathless, before realising I was definitely doting and should probably stop.

“Uh, sure,” I gulp, walking over. Izara turns her back to me, pulling her hair to the side. Flashes of the nights spent together fill my head, memories of the way that back looks in the dim light of her bedroom when she’s bent over for me. I breathe heavily through my nose, my hands nearly shaking when I fumble with the zipper, slowly brushing my fingers against her skin as I zip upwards. It kills me not to lean down and press an open mouthed kiss on her shoulder, Izzie’s perfume in the air taunting me.

The girl feels it too, I can see it from the goosebumps forming on her arms and the irregular way her chest is heaving.

“Uh, Kiran used to play actually,” she says with a gentle voice to interrupt the tender moment.

“Oh, forreal? You should come shoot some ball with us next week,” I suggest, glancing at Kiran who’s obliviously fluffing the pillows on the couch just like his sister does.

“Yeah, he’s not that good,” Iz teases, her breath hitching a little as my hands linger on her neck, bringing her hair back from her shoulder.

“Yeah, well Paige hasn’t been doing too hot either,” Kiran jokes, my brows rising and an offended smile growing on my face.

“Kiran!” Izzie scolds, and it warms my heart how genuinely offended she seems for me. I laugh, rubbing my jaw.

“Nah, he clocked me lowkey,” I chuckle, Kiran sitting down on the couch and laughing. I sit down next to him leaning back, manspreading as always. “You play Fortnite?” Classic way to bond with anyone’s younger brother.

“Oh good heavens,” Izzie murmurs, fixing the way we set the table which, unsurprisingly, wasn’t up to her standards.

“Sometimes, haven’t for a bit though,” Kiran answers.

“You and Iz should come play sometime next week. I got a playstation,” I suggest, wanting to do anything to win him over. I needed him to like me, badly.

“Oh, good luck getting that one to play,” Kiran points at Izzie, whose face is scrunched up in concentration as she refolds the napkins for each plate for the fourth time.

A smug grin spreads on my face. “Oh she played with me.”

The boy’s jaw falls slack as he looks at his sister, a shocked look on his face. “Iz?”

The dark haired girl grins, rolling her eyes. “I had no choice, I lost a bet.”

“What bet?”

The bet when Izara didn’t believe I could make her cum in five minutes. I did it in three. Our eyes meet, a knowing smirk on both our faces. My cheeks turn hot as I chuckle awkwardly, looking to the ground.

“Just some bet,” Iz murmurs. “Now both of you, go change. Guests are gonna be here any minute.”

“Yes ma’am,” me and Kiran answer in unison, getting up from the couch without hesitation.

“Bolognese in a white dress. I’m impressed,” Lala jokes as I set the plate down in front of her, a piece of garlic bread on the side.

“Oh I’m ready to change any moment I spill,” I laugh as Paige emerges from behind me with more plates, placing them in front of each guest. She had insisted on helping me, hovering around me eager for anything to do. I found it incredibly endearing.

Everyone is gathered around the dining table, my coworkers and some of the team I had grown close to all welcoming my brother with open arms. As much as the Texas hostility felt overwhelming at times, at this moment I’m grateful for it. Kiran is sitting between Trey and Arike, engaged in a lively conversation about UK rap, which the girl seems uneducated on. I’m not sure whether to warn her that my brother can talk about any topic for hours, so she should just stop before it starts.

“Could you-” I start but Paige is already turning around.

“The wine and the beer?”

I smile contentedly, chest fluttering as I watch the blonde girl already know what I needed without needing me to finish a sentence. Me and her go around, pouring drinks around the table before settling opposite of Arike and Lala, the older woman smiling at us knowingly. Of course she knew, there was no hiding anything from her I had realised these past couple months as we became closer friends.

“This looks fire,” Arike gleams, about to dig in. But Lala stops her.

“You should say a few words, Zari.”

Not again. What is it with Americans and their stupid speeches? I freeze, trying to maintain my composure. I hadn’t planned for anything to say, my palms beginning to sweat at the idea of an impromptu speech. It was badly reminding me of my arrival to Dallas, and the way Paige had saved me. As if reading my mind, the blonde stands up beside me, grabbing her bottle of beer.

“Uhh, welcome everyone, it’s nice seein’ y’all,” she starts a little flustered. Arike snickers, giving Lou a look. I turn to Paige, watching her glance down at me with a smile. My mouth stretches into an approving grin, feeling butterflies in my stomach for the way the blonde girl just knew me. Just knew when she should take the reins and lead me once in a while. It felt good to be known.

“Iz- I mean Zari, she savin’ her voice so she can yell at me later for fucking up this speech later,”

Laughter. She always knew how to make people laugh. I laugh too, which makes the blonde beam with pride.

“I think I’m speakin’ for everyone when I say we’re all really grateful for this little lady right here,” Paige continues, her hand coming to squeeze my shoulders. Sparks spread down my body, as I bring my hand over hers, patting it.

“I know if it wasn’t for this woman right here I’d be eatin’ McDonalds four times a week,” she chuckles, pulling her hand away after lingering for as long as she possibly can. “We’re so lucky to have her here in Dallas with us, not just tonight but always.”

I chew on my lower lip, my heart pounding in my chest. I want to stand up and kiss her, to hold her forever and never let go.

“So thanks Kiran for letting us borrow your sister. She’s… a blessing,” she smiles, pointing the glass bottle towards my brother who’s smiling up at her. “Uh, anyway, to Izzie. Oh, and welcome Kiran.”

My cheeks burn red as the blonde sits back down, cheering my wine glass with her bottle. I can’t help it when my hand comes to rub her broad, muscular shoulders over the pale blue shirt that made her appear tanner than normal. She looks gorgeous, a wide smile across her face eager for praise.

“You’re so sweet my love,” I whisper to her as the clinking of glasses and bottles fills the room. Paige beams, leaning over and kissing my cheek in a way that could be seen as platonic - but I know better. I can feel the emotion and intent behind it, the way she lingers just a millisecond longer than a friend would.

“Yo, this is so good,” Arike groans as people pass around the parmesan, taking turns grating it onto each plate.

“Iz always made the best bolognese,” Kiran says, setting his napkin neatly onto his lap just like me. I smile happily at the compliments, grating parm onto my plate, and then to Paige’s. I had cooked for her enough times to know how much cheese she liked. My brother, Arike, Lou and Satou stare at us unbeknownst to me, as Paige mutters a quiet thanks. Lala’s hand is quick to swat at her fiance, signalling her to stop her snickering.

I hear the blonde chuckling to herself, watching my brother closely as she takes bites of her food.

“What are you laughing at?” I whisper as the noise and hassle around us fades into a distant hum, the room moving on without us, leaving us slipping into our own little world.

Paige grins, pointing discreetly at my brother who’s meticulously folding the corners of his napkin.

“He’s doin’ that thing you do,” the girl laughs quietly, leaning closer to me. I smirk realising she was right, but can’t keep my eyes on Kiran sitting opposite us when I feel Paige’s hand on my bare knee underneath the table, the ring on her thumb cool against my warm skin. Licking my lips my eyes lock on Paige, who’s leaning back on her chair and sipping her beer, jawline prominent as she throws her head back. She’s engaged in a conversation with Lou sitting next to her, a blonde strand falling on her face from her bun. Without thinking about it I reach over and fix it for her, the simple but intimate gesture making her squeeze my knee and bring her hand a little further, fingertips digging into my thigh now.

We play this cat and mouse game the entire duration of dinner, a glance here, a touch there. It takes all my self-discipline not to allow my hand to travel up and up her silky thigh. But I resist, both of us spending the evening talking to everyone but each other, but we know that we’re both on fire, burning and aching to love on each other.

“Oh gosh, I’m so full,” Izzie complains to Arike and Lala, leaning back on her chair. Without much thinking, I grab the fork from my empty plate and begin to pick at Izara’s leftovers - a routine we had grown into in the past month. She finishes my coffee, I finish her food.

“This was so good, seriously,” Satou praises as Arike reaches for a second helping of garlic bread.

“Delicious Zari, you’re a very good cook,” Trey smiles in a sickly sweet manner, pissing me off. Everything he did pissed me off. I could see through every trick. He had been talking with Kiran all night, interrupting any conversation I had with him. I knew he was trying to win over the little brother. He would never win over Izzie though. He would never make her cum in just three minutes. No, only I did that.

“Thank you everyone,” Iz smiles, looking around the table, her green eyes lined with black stopping on me, lashes fluttering. Suddenly she bursts into a laugh.

“What?” I ask, my mouth full of spaghetti.

The dark haired girl giggles, suddenly grabbing hold of my chin and leaning over with a napkin.

“Oh darling how’d you manage to do this?” She says with a stifled laugh, wiping harshly at the corners of my mouth and chin. My cheeks grow rosy and hot, from embarrassment but also from the way she’s leaning over, the plunging neckline of the dress accentuating her round breasts, nevermind her nails digging into my chin like they sometimes did when she pulled me into a kiss. With an internal groan I force my gaze to the corner of the room, trying to rid the filthy thoughts in my head.

“I dunno, I’m just a messy eater,” I joke, raising my brows and it’s Izara’s turn to blush as she pulls back, shoving me away by my jaw playfully.

“Yooo,” Arike, who's been watching us closely with Lala, laughs to herself. So much for being secretive I guess. To my horror I notice Kiran in the corner, eyeing us suspiciously, but shrugging as he opens another beer.

“Shut up,” Izzie says sternly, shaking her head in disapproval.

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you say.”

She grins, letting out a heavy exhale through her nose before speaking.

“Would anyone want more to drink?” she offers, standing up from her seat. Like clockwork, I do the same.

“I’ll help.”

Trey stands up too, beginning to pile up plates. I wanna strangle him.

“I can help too,” Trey suggests, but I yank the plates from him as gently as you could yank anything, a blank smile on my face.

“Don’t worry bro, small kitchen.” Not really, but I did not need him trying to win my Izara over. Not now, not ever. It was my job and right to serve her and take care of her. Not his. Mine.

I carry the load of dirty dishes into the kitchen where Izara is opening another bottle of wine, a hint of a blush on her cheeks from the alcohol. I watch her scrunched up concentrated face, leaning against the counter with the beer bottle between my lips, taking a long sip. She doesn’t turn her head to look, she knows I’m watching, she can tell by the way it burns her skin.

“You gonna follow me around all night?” She asks, a teasing lilt to her voice. I chuckle dryly, walking closer to help her with the bottle. I might not drink wine but had many practice rounds before hanging out with the dark haired girl. It would’ve been embarrassing if she had found out I didn’t know how to open wine bottles before. My fingers brush over hers, sending sparks everywhere.

“Someone gotta look after you,” I murmur, the discussions from the dining table now merely muffled noises. The silence stretches unbearably, our heavy breathing the only sound as I work the bottle, Izzie’s arm brushing against mine and tickling. With a deep sigh, the dark haired girl turns around towards the sink, beginning to wash the plates, one by one. Finally popping the bottle, I follow her, boldly taking steps towards her until I can feel the heat of her back against my front.

“Why you always gotta be on dish duty?” I ask with a whisper, reaching around her and putting the plates down from her hands. She’s impossibly still, trying not to let me know how much my closeness affected her. Though the goosebumps on her neck were visible, telling me just enough.

“I like taking care of people,” she hums.

“My turn to take care of you ma,” I say softly, turning off the sink. “You got sumn on your neck.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm,” I nod, slowly leaning down as my chest presses into her upper back, my nose brushing the curls on her neck to the side. “Right here.”

I wet my lips before they land on the skin of her neck, Izara’s perfume making my mind spin as I leave gentle kisses on her. She whimpers silently, the curve of her ass fitting perfectly against my hips. I feel a familiar ache growing deep in my stomach, a burn that could only be satisfied by one thing.

As my slow hands are about to land on Izzie’s breasts, footsteps rapidly growing closer force me to take a step back. It’s as if I’m prying myself away from the girl, whole body aching with how badly I need her.

Kiran, holding two empty bottles of beer, turns the corner and smiles.

“Well hello.”

“Havin a good time?” I ask, clearing my throat when my voice comes out hoarse.

“Ohh yeah it’s great,” Kiran grins, wrapping an arm around Izzie’s shoulders. She’s still gathering herself, green eyes locked into mine. “Heard you’ve been taking good care of my sister.”

We both pause, Izara’s eyes widening. Kiran is oblivious though, reaching for a new bottle of beer. I hand it to him, heart pounding fast in my chest.

“Arike was saying how you drive her everywhere so she doesn’t have to take cabs.”

I let out a deep sigh of relief, chuckling awkwardly and shrugging. “‘S nothin, she’s good to me too.”

“Ohhh her best friends are gonna be jealous when I tell them what a good friend you have over in Dallas,” Kiran teases Iz, poking her face. I can see he’s a little tipsy, growing much looser like his sister with alcohol.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” the girl groans, pushing his brother off her playfully. Kiran sips his beer, looking at us two.

“So, what are the sleeping arrangements?”

Me and Izara share a look, unsure of how to play this in a way that will make sure we’ll end up in her bed together by the end of the night.

“I’m playing, of course you’ll sleep together,” Kiran chuckles. “You can stay up and have a sleepover and talk shit about everyone like girls do.”

A nervous laughter fills the kitchen as me and Iz glance at each other. “Why don’t you go back in the living room,” she says, guiding Kiran away from the kitchen. “I’ll come after I get a drink.”

“No, go sit down. I’ll pour you one,” I tell Iz. She turns to me, nearly resisting. But I give her lower back a gentle nudge, nodding towards the living room. “Go relax ma.”

I greet the last guests bye, closing the front door with a glass of red wine - not for me of course, but for the girl leaning back on the couch. I walk to the living room, handing it to her. A gentle smile of approval is all I get and need for a thank you, it being enough to make my ears burn.

“Tired?” I ask gently, my hand petting over Izzie’s dark hair. She shrugs, taking a sip of the red wine letting it paint her lips. My fingertips touch against her neck, on the spot I kissed before, the faint taste of her lips still on mine.

“A little,” she whispers. I know what that means. She wants to get into bed, but not to sleep. Kiran is a little tipsy, digging through his suitcase for pajamas with his back facing us. I take the opportunity to reach for Izara’s hand, and kiss it softly. She hums happily, finishing her wine with a long gulp.

“I’m going to bed,” Izzie yawns loudly, making a big scene for her baby brother.

“Me too, but gotta play Fortnite tomorrow, yeah?” I say, following behind her trail like I had been all night.

“Oh for sure,” Kiran grins, first hugging me, and then her sister. Guess he was more tipsy than I thought.

“Good God, have some water,” Izzie complains as we step into the bedroom, closing the door behind us both.

For a moment we merely look at each other, and only then I realise how badly the burn in my abdomen had been killing me all night. She still looked flawless, though the wine and the company had made her cheeks glow red and eyes grow tired. We get ready for bed together, standing side by side brushing our teeth, taking turns washing our faces. I lean back, letting Izara take her time with her detailed, 12 step skincare routine. It doesn’t bore me, matter of fact I could’ve watched her all night. If it wasn’t for the way my core ached for her.

It all felt so incredibly domestic, her brother sleeping on the couch, the way we had done the dishes together, scrub and dry, scrub and dry, over and over. The way the foam had spilled all over her lips as she leaned over to spit the toothpaste out of her mouth, the way she stared into the mirror to comb through her dark thick hair, letting me catch a glimpse of her inner world. It made me feel special.

“Could you unzip me?” Iz asks, voice hoarse and raspy from talking all night. Without hesitation I walk over, my long fingers pulling down the zipper carefully. I lean down and press a soft kiss onto her upper back. I could get used to this.

I undress too, into my sports bra and boxers, before sliding underneath the sheets. I watch closely as Izzie turns off the lights, the street lamps providing enough light for me to see the dress drop onto the floor, a strapless bra and a matching white thong underneath. I lift the covers for her, never looking away. I couldn’t dare to.

Silently, we turn to our sides, noses nearly touching from how close we are to each other, simply breathing each other in. Our bodies are buzzing with the stolen touches and hungry glances of the night, something about trying to keep this hidden making it all even more ecstatic. Izzie traps her lower lip under her teeth, green eyes gazing into me desperately. I can’t stop myself. I inch closer, nose pressing into hers, her hot minty breath lingering on my face. And then I kiss her, like I had been dying to.

It quickly grows from gentle and loving to intimate and raw. I roll on top of Izzie, beginning to kiss her neck sloppily. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the pure lust, but both of us were getting needier quicker than normal, my teeth nibbling on her long, beautiful neck, probably leaving a mark or two. I couldn’t be bothered to care.

My hands make quick work of her bra, pulling it off and chucking it somewhere on the floor. She’s breathing heavy now, legs wrapping around me. My large hands feel her up everywhere, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her thighs, silky smooth everywhere.

“Fuck,” I whisper, leaning down to trap one of her breasts into my mouth. Izara’s back arches, my lips wrapping around her nipples and sucking, making my boxers grow impossibly wet. “Perfect tits.”

My fingertips travel down her stomach, to the band of her satin panties, dipping underneath just slightly. Iz breathes out loudly, looking at me with furrowed brows.

“What about Kiran?” She whispers, her hips squirming in a way that lets me know she might cry if she doesn’t get this.

“Just gotta be quiet,” I answer comfortingly, raising my head to face her. “You can do that for me, right baby?”

She nods eagerly, a cocky grin spreading onto my face. “Good girl,” I whisper, pulling her panties down. She’s soaked, already dripping onto the sheets. I have to bite down onto her shoulder when my fingers dip into her pussy, making a loud squelching sound as I swirl in her folds. Izzie gasps, but I cover her mouth before she can make noise.

“Oh my poor baby,” I whimper into her ear, nose nuzzling it gently. “You been this wet for me all night?”

“Mhmm,” Izzie nods desperately as my fingertips rub slow and sloppy circles on her puffy, soaked clit. I feel my own pussy throbbing at the way she had been dying all day, needing me so badly. I just wanted to take care of her.

“Lemme make it better,” I murmur, speeding up my movements. “Lemme help baby, it hurts don’t it?”

The girl nods, her eyes rolling back as my fingers rub in fast, tight circles, more precise than before. I feel the way her body’s tensing and flexing underneath me, her pleasure growing each second. She’s impossibly wet, and I pray Kiran can’t hear the squelching sounds nevermind the quiet whimpers coming from her.

“Gonna make you feel so good baby, gonna make it all better,” I coo, a high pitched gasp leaving Izzie when my fingers slide into her tight cunt with ease from how slick she was.

“Shh, gotta be quiet mama,” I remind her, kissing on her neck and breasts as I pump my fingers into her. She’s pulsing already, throbbing around my long digits that are curling against the soft tissue inside her, right at the spot that made her gush around my fingers. Should’ve put a towel down, but right this moment, I couldn’t care less.

“Paige,” she whispers, muffled against my hand covering her mouth. She’s close, but I’m not done, my mouth watering already like it had been all night. So I replace my hand with hers and begin my descent.

I kiss my way down, throwing the blanket off from top of me and her, spreading her legs wide open. She’s really soaked, I can see it even in the dim light of the room. A groan escapes my mouth, watching the way my fingers slip in and out of her with ease, her pussy stretching around them perfectly.

Suddenly, Izzie’s yanking my hair and my lips wrap around her clit, tongue circling it at a rapid pace. She’s squirming, legs shaking but I don’t care, pinning her hips down as my fingers pump into her at an incredible speed, my tongue making quick work of her. Her grip tightens in my hair and her cunt pulses around my fingers desperately. She doesn’t need to tell me, I know she’s cumming.

So I keep going, adding a third finger as my tongue moves back and forth fast, my eyes rolling back from how good she tastes. Izzie’s body tenses up, pussy growing tighter and tighter around me like it never had before. Her whimpers are muffled, but obvious, but both of us are too far gone to care.

“Paige I-” she whispers with a high pitched voice, and suddenly she begins to tremble and shake, tugging at my hair as she finishes all over my face. Perhaps it’s not right to pray to God in moments like these, but I plead that behind the bedroom door her brother’s fast asleep, entirely oblivious to what I was and had been doing to his dear sister.

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