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lvrclerc · 18 days ago

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MEANT TO BE YOURS

summary: you didn't expect to realize you didn't want to marry your fiancé at the altar, and you sure as hell didn't expect your formula one driver best friend to be your getaway car. still, you and oscar piastri are facing the neverending coast, and the true reason why you bailed out of your wedding. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « i have never loved before as i love you─ with tenderness, to the point of tears. »

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x best friend!f!reader wordcount: 10.3K content: best friends to lovers, road trip, bittersweet, fluff, toxic/controlling relationship, age gap (not with oscar), happy ending note: requested here! i told myself i'd only write semi-short fics for this event but i have a severe case of overwriting. can you tell i enjoy writing op81 friends to lovers?

♫ paul - big thief, from eden - hozier, anchor - novo amor

SOMEONE RANG THE church bells by accident, a shrill clang which startled the officiant in the middle of his question. Most of the assembly had laughed, albeit awkwardly, to the obnoxious melody coming from the metallic giants, and the man behind the lectern had sputtered out a weak joke to ease the discomfort creeping up your spine at the interruption. Your fiancé, whose callouses still scraped your fingers he held in an iron grip, rolled his eyes and urged him to carry on.

It was the moment you knew.

“Y/N,” the officiant starts again. Your name felt pasty and foreign in his mouth, and reverberated back at you as a distorted echo of yourself you no longer recognized. “Do you take Elijah to be your husband, your best friend, and love for life?”

The look your fiancé laid upon you was nothing short of expectant. His wedding band is cold on your burning skin, branding you with its white hot ore, and you realize you hadn’t had a say in how your own looked like. The venue hadn’t been your choice either: it had been carefully curated by a wedding planner Elijah had paid, draped in strings of pearls and pristine white roses— the thorns on your bouquet hadn’t been removed and poked at your fingers through the gloves.

Your gaze drifted through the assembly. Your side blinked away tears, blotting them with monogrammed napkins bearing the last name you were meant to take, whispering their admiration about how well you were marrying for a girl of your background. His side wore rigid Venetian masks of neutrality, keeping their head high and eyes narrowed in funeral silence, all except for one.

Oscar had his eyes locked upon you. Rust-gold hair fell across his brow, hands tucked on his lap, ever the picture of calmness. Yet, you knew your best friend like no other, and the confusion swirling in his pupils told you he noticed the sweat beading on your forehead, the shuffle of your heels. He knew you just as much—if not more.

Seconds ticked by like hours, your silence was arousing raised eyebrows and disapproving stares. It took you a longer moment to notice the tightening grip Elijah had on your hands. His eyes were harsh and urgent, nothing like the soft questions in Oscar’s. He hadn’t seen it. He didn’t know.

But you did, now.

You took a step back, and the shift was almost imperceptible, still, your heel seemed to strike against the marble floor like a gunshot, rippling through the entire crowd. Gasps turned the air thick with incomprehension, building up the pressure in your lungs. Your vision frayed at the edges. Elijah’s mouth moved in a whisper, “What are you doing?”. Oscar worryingly stirred in his seat.

It took everything in you, every ounce of will and bodily strength, to tear off your hands from your fiancé’s grasp. You didn’t look back at the people seated in front of you. You didn’t even glance back at Elijah, the man you were supposed to marry today.

Desperate, breathless, you looked at Oscar. Mouth agape in search of any intakes of air, tears pearling at your lower lashes. His confusion melted, replaced by a soft understanding, because he knew— he always did. In that moment, your shoulders unknotted. He nodded. Got up from the wooden bench, along with many outraged others.

And you ran.

Your feet pounded against the floor, echoing louder than the gasps behind you. The half-opened side-exit loomed ahead, beckoning you closer, and you hurried toward it without looking back. Cold air wrapped around you, bracing after the weight of the ceremony hall. Behind you, the commotion dulled into a muffled roar: voices tangled together in an indecipherable mess, heels clicking in panic, Elijah’s voice yelling your name. You gathered the heavy layers of your dress, bunching the white satin and lace with trembling fingers, and sprinted through the maze of narrow corridors and clerestory windows, past wooden doors creaking in protests mixing with the rush of blood in your ears.

The last door slammed open beneath your palm, leaving you stumbling to a parking lot, and the bright morning sun seared its shape into your irises. You shielded your face with one hand, lungs dragging in the sharp air. For a moment, light, color and sound blurred together.

Then there was the low purr of an engine, the hasty screeching of tires against the tarmac. A car swerved into view, and the pacific blue of it glinting under the sunlight so familiar it took your heart with the last move of its steering wheel. It came into a clean, urgent stop in front of you.

Oscar threw the passenger door open, already leaning over to push it wide enough. Your breath caught in a sob. He didn’t say anything. You didn’t either.

Wordlessly, you rushed toward him. The train of your dress snagged on the doorframe of the church, and you let out a small, strangled laugh, somewhere between hysteria and relief, as you fought to stuff the endless fabric into the cramped footwell. Oscar helped as much as he could, waiting, always a careful eye set on you.

Once you were in, he met your eyes, hands firmly on the wheel. “Where to?” he asked.

You swallowed and turned your head to the window.

“Anywhere.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate once. The tires squealed as he floored it, the engine growling beneath you like a beast let off leash. Speed took the wheels, and the church disappeared in the rearview mirrors until it was but a grain of sand in the endless ticking of an hourglass. The guests, the whispers, the life you almost disappeared into, and somewhere, amongst it all, Elijah stood at the threshold, watching you vanish.

The bells were still ringing when you passed by the exit sign.

You met Oscar Piastri three years ago. It was the first time Elijah had invited you to a Formula One race. In the two years you’d been dating, it had always come first: he was gone more often than not, attending meetings, galas, and testing weekends.

Elijah wasn’t just anyone in the motorsports world. Not that he was of any importance in the intricacies of engineering, steering the heavy cars across the narrow corners or knew how to navigate overtakes from behind a helmet— he didn’t do any of that. What Elijah did was pay for the parts and repairs, and the logo from the company he had inherited from his father graced the pristine pink and blue of the Alpine racing suit. When you first learned about it, your eyes went wide in childlike excitement. You were only in your second year of university, only nineteen, and the most expensive thing you owned was an Ipad you’d saved for one summer. So when a man, ten years older, confident and polished, told you he had his last name stitched into one of the most elitist sports in the world, it had stunned you into admirative silence.

You’d looked at him like he had been touched by Midas himself. You thought it meant something about him.

Looking back on it now, you could only describe it as garish, and note that he shouldn’t have been talking to you in the first place.

But here you were, twenty-one, dressed like you belonged, stepping into the paddock.

You had always imagined it to be somewhat organized and polished. Instead, you were met with the blur of motions and noises: staff members pushing past, PR agents shouting into headsets, camera shutters clicking in quick succession. Conversations overlapped in different languages, and bodies moved like currents, in which you were just another thing to dodge. However, you had no time to get accustomed to it: Elijah had to leave—“Important meeting, you see,” he said with a formal kiss to your forehead, “you’ll be fine, Alpine’s hospitality’s nearby”—and left you to your own devices in the den of lions.

The Miami heat had a devastating effect, sticking to you like molten plastic. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, and your dress, carefully picked by Elijah, dug uncomfortably into your ribs. Every time you tried to step aside, someone shoved past, never long enough to help.

Vision tunneling, you pressed a hand to your forehead, but even that felt wrong. You didn’t belong there, and Elijah was right not to invite you for so long. The humidity stuck to you like a second layer of skin, your breath shallow.

“Hey.”

A voice, calm and low, cut through the static.

You blinked up, sight clearing, only to find a pair of soft brown eyes studying you, brows furrowed beneath sun-drenched hair. It was Oscar—well, you didn’t know his name yet, but at that moment he already looked familiar, a barrier between you and the world.

“You okay?” he asked, hands tucked in the pocket of his shorts as if not to startle you.

You nodded too fast, then winced at the sudden movement when the world around you started spinning again. “I’m just… I’m supposed to find Alpine’s hospitality? I can’t figure out where that is.”

His gaze flickers past you to the swarm of people. “Yeah… it’s chaos today.” Pulling a hand out one of his pocket, he handed you a water bottle—or what you assumed was a water bottle, warranting your vision could only make out blotches of pale blue. “You should sit for a minute. Shade’s better over there.”

Hesitation overcame you, visible on your face, but he didn’t urge you. He waited.

You took the water.

He led you toward a quiet stretch of wall just beyond the media scrum. It was hardly private, but the sun wasn’t blistering your skin anymore, and fewer people were circulating. You sank to the curb, grateful for the cool concrete against the back of your legs. He sat beside you, elbows on his knees, a polite distance away. You silently thanked him for it.

“I’m Oscar,” he said after a moment, glancing over at you with the same grounded calm. “Oscar Piastri.”

You managed to muster a smile. Shaky, yes, but a smile nonetheless. “Y/N.”

Your hands were trembling slightly when you reached for the cap of the bottle. Observant, as he always was, you’d come to discover down the line, his fingers brushed against yours in a question. You let him take the bottle, which he unscrewed open without much of a word about it. “First race?” he asked.

Nodding, you took back the plastic container. “First time… all of this.”

“Yeah, it can be a lot,” Oscar smiled. It was a tiny stretch of the lips, it could be mistaken for a frown, but it didn’t escape you. “You’ll get around it though, if you stick around.”

“Is that your way of asking if I come here often?” you probed after a gulp of water, arching a brow.

That got a flustered chuckle out of him, the first out of many that you’d elicit in the years to come, and your heart whipped in a somersault. “Not really, but now I’m curious.”

Elijah would later find the two of you engulfed in the small corner, deep in conversation, your laughter a thread of relief amid the chaos of the paddock. His anger, visible in the tight line of his jaw, melted almost immediately when Oscar’s gaze landed on him, unassuming. That day, you’d learn that Oscar was McLaren’s rookie on his first season, just a year older than you, and that he and Elijah had been friends since karting days. For Elijah, it had always been a hobby to brag about at dinners. For Oscar, racing was simply etched in his bones, similar to all nineteen of his colleagues who fought to get there.

You’d smiled and nodded as Elijah threw a possessive arm around your waist, pestering you to the Alpine hospitality. Oscar gave you a small wave as you were pulled away.

It wouldn’t be the last time you’d meet him. You’d run into him on multiple occasions: galas, race weekends. Sometimes he’d find you alone, and you’d share coffee on a bench, no matter how stifling the heat. Among those many instances, you’d exchange numbers. From there, the rest felt inevitable: Oscar would start calling you after races to ask how your day was, participate in movie marathons during which you’d eat room service on the ground and fall asleep leaning on his shoulder, keep the other company in quiet corners when black-tie occasions rose and Elijah left you unsupervised as he networked. Oscar would listen, hold your deepest secrets, and you would hold his, cradling them between your intertwined fingers.

It felt like fate written in the margins. But at that moment in time, you didn’t know. Not yet.

You couldn’t have known he’d be the same guy, three years later, driving well over the speed limit to get you as far away as possible from your own wedding either.

The landscape would be suffocating if it didn’t steal your breath away: the tall pine trees loomed over you like ancient sentinels, their dark bark and deep green needles wrapping around the world in quiet reverence. They stood close, tangled together to form a living fortress stifling any clear view of the coast? In the fleeting glimpses between trunks, you could see the ocean foam itself into a fury against the cliffs, hear its wild applause in the distance.

The air was cooler than it had been at the altar. A bracing wind tore at your carefully pinned curls until they unraveled into ribbons, leaving strands dancing across your face. The car windows were rolled down all the way; you leaned your head back, letting the rush of air thread through your fingers. The radio played low, echoing the chords of a half-forgotten melody you barely listened to.

The tear tracks on your cheeks had dried in delicate salt lines, reminiscent of the sea. You couldn’t remember the last time either of you had spoken.

Oscar’s driving had settled from frantic to steady, but his knuckles remained white on the steering wheel. The sun shifted overhead, sliding across his profile—sharp, yet gentle, a hint of shadow pooling in the curve of his jaw.

You wanted to ask where you were going. He wanted to ask what you were running from. Both questions simmered on your tongues, both knowing, yet neither of you voiced it out. That’s what often happens when you know someone from the inside out—things were left unsaid under the impression the other already understood.

Except sometimes, only sometimes, it didn’t work like that. It had been what Oscar and you struggled with for a while, now.

The car began to slow, easing out of the rapid pace of the highway. Caught up in your own thoughts, you felt the shift before you could see it: Oscar’s foot lightened on the pedal and the hum of the road softened beneath the tires. Through the pines, you noticed the glint of an old, flickering neon sign, weathered by time but still clinging to its pink glow, even in the middle of the day. Rosie’s Diner.

The small building was a 1950s-style chrome beacon, half-buried in the woods, clashing with the darkness by its bright colors. The parking lot was cracked asphalt, wild grass sprouting through the grass in a fragile attempt of a rebellion against time. Oscar pulled into the lot and cut the engine. For a moment, only the soft ticking of the cooling car filled the silence.

You opened your mouth to form a question, but the Australian spoke up first. “It’s almost lunch.” He turned to face you. His gaze flickered to the tear lines on your cheeks, then back to your eyes. “And I know you didn’t eat this morning because of… everything.”

A blush rose to your cheeks, embarrassed by how transparent you could be to him. You looked down at the disheveled wedding dress gathered in your lap, filling the passenger seat with white satin gone grey at the hem and torn lace. “Oscar,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I can’t go in there like this.”

A gentle smile ghosted across his lips. “Y/N, we’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s probably two people in that place. Nobody’s going to look twice at you.” His smile grew a fraction warmer, like it often did with you. “Even if they do, it’s not like we’re going to see them again, are we?”

“You’re a celebrity, Oscar,” you noted, acerbity laced in your trembling tone.

He shrugged. “I don’t see how that factors in anything.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking free as would a breath held for too long. There had been no hesitation in his words, only a factual reassurance. Oscar believed what he was saying, he didn’t see the issue because there wasn’t one. Elijah would have rather died than got out of this car with you in such a state.

Oscar’s hand found yours on the center console, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. The gesture sent a shiver down your spine, no matter how familiar. “Come on,” he said, a quiet invitation to something new.

So you took his hand, letting him anchor you in the moment, and together, you stepped out of the car.

Saying the diner was empty would have been an understatement. Apart from two tired-looking waitresses with roller skates leaning on the counter and a couple of line cooks half-heartedly flipping burgers in the back kitchen, even the rats seemed to have deserted this place.

The years had left their marks: chipped vinyl booths, gritty floor tiles that hadn’t been swept in god knows how long, and walls that might have been white but now leaned closer to a yellow shade of old nicotine. You slid into a corner booth near the window, the cracked red leather sighing under your weight. The menus, laminated and curling at the corners, looked like relics coming straight from the nineties—Comic Sans titles and cartoonish doodles framing a faded list of cheeseburgers, milkshakes, and fries.

Oscar sat next to you. It was an unspoken rule in your friendship, because sitting across from each other always felt too impersonal. He was still in his tuxedo that had started to crease in the humidity of the coast, and his tie was coming undone at his throat. Your gaze lingered on that detail for a split second before you caught sight of yourself in the window: a disheveled bride in a wedding dress, smudged in dust and tears.

What a pair you made.

A waitress ambled over, pencil tucked behind her ear. She glanced between the two of you, curious eyes remaining a beat too long on your wedding dress. You tensed up, and Oscar’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the movement. “Well, don’t you two look like something out of a movie,” she drawled. “What can I get for you today?”

Oscar lifted a brow at you. “Bacon cheeseburger?”

You laughed softly, the sound a little bit broken. “Bacon cheeseburger. As usual.”

She scribbled it down. “Two of those, coming right up. Oh—” she leaned in conspiratorially, a wicked grin on her lips. “And since it looks like you’re getting married and all, that’s half price for y’all today. Congratulations, by the way!”

The comment struck something in your chest, although you couldn’t pinpoint what, exactly. You know it should have stung, tug on what you had left behind, and it looked like Oscar expected as much: he flinched, eyes darting to you, his lips parted as if to protest. You knew what he was thinking about it—your tears, the cadence of your feet as you fled the altar—and he was ready to explain, to protect you from the memory.

You stopped him with a gentle touch on his hand. “Thanks,” you said to the waitress. You offered her a small smile, “Half-price is too good to pass up, right?”

Oscar’s eyes widened in understanding. He quickly went with it, and the waitress winked and bustled off. For a second, the silence between you and Oscar threatened to swallow the air, but then you locked eyes. You both burst out laughing, the sound bright and unexpected, so needed it nearly broke your heart all over again.

“We didn’t need the discount, you know,” he managed to say between laughs.

“I know,” you sighed, “but it doesn’t hurt. Besides, these burgers are so overpriced.” You turned the menu around again, squinting at the faded prices.

Oscar leaned over, close enough that you caught a faint whiff of his cologne, clean and citrusy, washing over you. His cheek brushed your shoulder and you didn’t miss the pink flush at the tip of his ear either. “Maybe the quality’s good?” he teased.

You snorted. “Do you actually believe what you just said?”

“Not at all.”

The waitress came back with your orders in record time, balancing two plates stacked high with cheeseburgers and fries, looking way more delicious than you’d expected. The smell, greasy and comforting, sent your stomach into a frenzy of need. Oscar was right: you were starving.

You grabbed a fry and popped it into your mouth. You groaned in pleasure at the taste, and Oscar raised an eyebrow at you in a way that looked suspiciously like a non-verbal I told you so. You swatted his arm with a napkin.

Between bites, the conversation flowed like seawater, laughter bubbling up to the surface and dissolving into other topics as you made your way through your meal. The remnants of the morning’s panic were at the back of your mind, which was a cruel thing to notice, but the pang in your heart disappeared as Oscar threw another offhand comment at you. At one point, as you set your burger down and wiped a red smear of ketchup from your cheek, you sighed and leaned back against the cracked booth.

“This,” you started lightheartedly, halfway through a burger bite, “reminds me of that time I fake-proposed to you in that little restaurant in Italy.”

Oscar’s groan was immediate and full-bodied, and the sound only widened your grin. “Please, don’t remind me,” he mumbled, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I had to have the weirdest conversation with my media team afterwards— ‘Yes, she’s my best friend. No, I’m not hiding a wedding. Leave me alone.’ Absolute nightmare.”

You cackled at the memory, so dear to you, and the sound echoed bright and sharp, like something cracked open in your chest. “But hey! We got the meal for free! And you got the prettiest ring made out of a napkin.”

He couldn’t help but laugh too, and the inflections of it were so utterly soft, the eyes he set on you captivated as you threw your head back in a chuckle. There was something worshipful in the way his gaze never left you even as he took a slow sip of his soda, and it made you feel blasphemous to sit under it inside a diner booth.

“You know,” Oscar murmured, his voice dropping just enough, “this is nice.”

His tone softened your grin into a smile. “What is?”

“Being with you, like this. You haven’t laughed like that in…,” he sets his drink on the table, “I don’t know. A long time. You kinda—” Oscar paused, searching your face. “You kinda lost your spark. Your thing, you know? So it’s nice. You and I, like this.”

Like old times.

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The words dissolved on your tongue, instead taking the shape of the sudden sting of tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. The words didn’t hurt, but the reality behind them hit you like bullets: you couldn’t recall the last time you let your tongue run free of any overthinking, your laugh coming from the deepest cracks of yourself, your shoulders released of any tension.

You come to the realization you forgot what it was like to be you, and hamburger grease drips down on the white of your wedding dress.

“Shit!” you gasped, dazed, staring at the growing yellow splotch on your bustier.

Frantically, you grabbed a napkin and dabbed at it, but it only smeared. Tears pricked at your lashes, as you bit back a sob as you muttered, “Sorry— god, I’m such a mess.”

Oscar reached across the table and gently took hold of your wrist, fingers marching the warmth of your skin. “It’s okay,” he murmured, and it felt like a balm. “Who cares?”

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. The sticky table, the harsh overhead light in the middle of the day, the chatter of the waitresses, all of it faded, and your world narrowed down to the feel of Oscar’s hand on yours, the salty beads pearling at your eyes, and that stupid stain on your stupid dress. “Yeah,” you breathed out, your voice breaking into a chuckle. “Who cares?”

Oscar’s answering smile lit up his entire face, and you couldn’t help but revel in it. It felt like a sunrise, one you hadn’t seen in a really, really long time.

Because you had forgotten what it was like to be you, and Oscar offered you fragments of it. A reminder you were still there, somewhere in the deepest parts of yourself and the most evident parts of him.

When the waitress dropped the bill, you both paid with cash from the bottoms of your pockets—who brought their credit card to a wedding?—and practically rushed through the door, a newfound lightheartedness in the way your hand rested on his bicep. Oscar took a moment to help you gather the layers of tulle and satin that had tangled around your ankles, his fingers brushing yours as he lifted the skirt with exaggerated care.

“Honestly,” you groaned, tilting your head back, “this dress is the most impractical thing I’ve ever worn.”

Oscar’s eyes crinkled with a grin. “You do look like a giant cupcake.”

The fact that he was bent over and helping you gather the fabric gave you better access to smack his shoulder—playfully, always. “You just know how to reassure a woman, don’t you, Osc’?” That made him laugh.

“Seriously, though,” you sighed, glancing down at the ruffled mess of your skirt, “I need to change. I’m sweating my ass off in this thing.”

Even though your tone was as light as you could make it, your best friend seemed to get the undertones the moment they left your tongue.. “Well, Maps did show a thrift shop about forty minutes from here,” he said, cutting your thoughts short. “Not exactly designer, but…”

A quiet, reckless joy bloomed in your chest. “Screw that, like I care about price tags anyway.”

And just like that, the two of you were rushing back to the car. Oscar hurried ahead and opened the door for you with playful flourish. You tumbled inside, not stopping the string of half-formed sentences and childish giggles that spilled from your lips.

Oscar’s grin widened as he closed the door shut and jogged to the driver’s side. The engine roared back to life with a satisfying growl and with one last glance at you, eyes bright and wild like he had missed, he pulled away.

The hefty silence had been left in Rosie’s Diner’s parking lot. The car had come alive under jokes thrown to the wind funneling in through half-opened windows, and the radio blared loud enough to tempt your lips into finally humming the melody. Sometimes, Oscar's gaze wandered from the road, catching yours, and you’d meet it, beaming. Other times, you’d stare at him as he maneuvered the tight curves of the mountainous coast, seeking any sign of exhaustion in the way the early afternoon light carved shadows in the dark of his irises. There was none, there never was— just unbridled warmth.

Forty minutes slipped by like five and, before you knew it, you were pulling into the dirt lot of a questionable wooden building. The weathered facade had been battered by sea salt and wind until the paint cracked, the structure groaning in rhythm with the coastal gusts. The sign had long given up its name, now only legible by its function: Thrift and Pawn Shop.

“What a fine establishment,” you quipped, eyeing the warped planks.

Oscar killed the engine. “But you don’t care about price tags, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smirk on your lips was nothing if affectionate. “You know, maybe I should’ve let myself die of thirst the day I met you.” You don’t mean it.

“Maybe I should’ve let you,” he fired back, and his traits only carried the same knowing softness. He didn’t mean it either. That was the whole point.

You entered the shop side by side.

The inside was a considerable improvement from the outside, to say the least. It was an Aladdin’s cave of mismatched treasures: clothes and antiquities climbed each wall like ivy, so much the ceiling was brimming with another rack to choose from. Shoes and hats littered the floor to form a winding makeshift pathway to the front counter, a glass table at the back cluttered with multiple trinkets varying in quality, all overseen by a middle-aged woman. When her eyes set upon you, her eyebrows shot up in surprise at the wedding dress trailing behind you and the tuxedo at your side. You offered her an awkward smile, to which she answered with an indifferent shrug.

You and Oscar shared a look—that could be translated by Let’s get this over with—before diving into the efficiently organized chaos.

The options felt endless and overwhelming. You didn’t even know where to start, Oscar either, and the oppressive gaze of the woman at the counter didn’t help your hesitation: racks sagging under the weight of too-small shirts, dresses with questionable patterns, and pants that looked like they’d fit a twelve-year-old or a linebacker, no in-between.

You decided to divide and conquer. Oscar took the left side of the store while you made your way to the right, burying yourself in a twisted maze of dusty shelves.

As per thrift shop customs, everything seemed to miss the mark: too tight, too loose, too… everything. You huffed in frustration, and the creeping feeling of spending the entire day in that wedding dress, like you were originally supposed to, came crashing upon you. Just as the thought swallowed away your renewed optimism, a beacon of hope reached your eyesight.

A pair of worn jean shorts peeked out from underneath a dizzyingly high pile of knitted sweaters. Hoping for a miracle, which would take the form of a size that could actually fit you, you grabbed them. That was when the shelf next to it caught your attention with a slightly askew hanger.

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud when you took it. “Oscar!” you called, giddy and wheezing. He appeared from between racks of 80s windbreakers, eyebrows raised.

“What’d you find?”

With all the pride you could gather, you held up the brand-new, bright orange McLaren shirt you had found, with the number 81 in bold lettering on the front pocket.

His eyes, both reflecting so much and so little, went back between your smile and the shirt a few times.. “I’m… mildly offended to find that in a thrift shop,” he finally said, deadpan.

You chuckled again, and the sound of it stole a fond grin out of Oscar. “It’s half-priced too, $40,” you read off the tag attached to the hanger.

“That’s a bargain.”

“Yeah… might be because of that.” You turned the shirt around.

The number 81 was bigger on the back, but it wasn’t the star of the show. The real showstopper was Oscar’s last name, written similarly, right below it, spelled out in bold—PAISTRY.

There was a moment of silence during which Oscar stared at the letters, entirely too dumbfounded to manage one of his usual dry remarks. You snorted, and that broke the dam: you were both bursting out in messy laughter, doubled over with shaky shoulders and tears prickling at your eyes. The sound ricocheted off the cluttered walls, drawing a loud, pointed cough from the woman at the counter. Reminded of the time and place, you straightened abruptly, slapping a hand over your mouth in a failed attempt to stifle the giggles. Oscar mirrored your motions, clearing his throat, his lips still twitching.

“I’m sorry,” you managed to wheeze out, wiping at your cheeks, “but I have to have this. I can’t just leave it here.”

Oscar laughed. “You could’ve just told me if you wanted one, I’d have stolen you a dozen from the HQ.”

“That’s not the same!” You flipped the shirt back around so you could see the misspelled name. “I can’t pass up the chance to be Mrs. Paistry, can I?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and the significance hit you like a rogue wave, leaving you too dizzy to take them back before the momentum passed. Oscar’s eyes widened just a fraction, a bright, telltale pink dusting his ears and cheeks. You could feel the heat rising in your own and the tip of your fingers tingling as you clutched the shirt tighter. Eye contact felt suddenly unbearable, so you busied yourself looking at every worn vest and secondhand jacket, shifting from one foot to the other like you reverted back to being an awkward sixteen years old, and not at the wise age of twenty-four.

Maybe the truth was that becoming Mrs. Piastri—or Paistry—wasn’t such a terrifying thought after all. Somehow, it sounded better than Mrs. Elijah Hart.

Oscar cleared his throat, cutting your train of thoughts short. ”Do you even have forty bucks?” he asked, voice a touch too casual as if he was trying to keep things light save for his obvious fluster. “I’d get it for you, but I barely have gas money after the burgers.”

“Oh.” You deflated a little. You didn’t have forty dollars. Hell, you probably didn’t have ten. Brides didn’t usually carry money on their wedding days, after all—the rest of your cash and your card were safely tucked at home, which seemed like a whole other world right now.

You ran your thumb absentmindedly over the wedding ring on your finger, something you found yourself doing whenever you were thinking. The smooth gold caught your eye, glinting artificially under the store’s dim light. The idea hit you right here and there.

A spark of defiance bloomed in your chest. Trembling breath and limbs, you took a hold of the layers of your dress and turned toward the counter, where the middle-aged woman still watched you with detached disinterest. “This is a pawn shop, right?” Your voice carried strength, even if you couldn’t feel it in your muscles.

Next to you, Oscar frowned, but kept quiet.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, it is,” she answered, her tone slow and a little suspicious. “Why?”

You paused for a second, letting your skin absorb the coolness of the metal one last time, and before you could hesitate, you slipped the wedding ring off. It fell onto the glass counter with a small clink, which seemed to reverberate inside the entire shop, bouncing off the walls until it was inside your bones. Yet, it was more satisfying than it should have been. “How much for this?”

Oscar let out a stunned exhale, a silent panic flickering in his eyes. The movement was subtle, but there nonetheless: he reached out, the pad of his fingers scraping against your sleeve as he gently held your elbow. “Hey— are you sure about this?” he asked softly, barely above a whisper. “I can get you a better shirt, or a hundred of them. You don’t have to—” He faltered, took a deep breath to regain his usual composure. “If you really want to do this, you have to be sure. It’s big.”

You looked down at the spot where your ring had sat, and spotted the faint tan line that marked the absence of something that had once meant everything, or so you thought. Now, it just looked like a parcel of skin bruised and branded white, a part of yourself that didn’t belong to you anymore but rather to the ghost of something past. You thought of all the sun you’d soak up, the laughter and scratches that would paint over that line, a testimony of the spark you’d welcomed back in the past hours.

You weren’t attached to the ring. Or the marriage. Or any of it, truly.

You took a deep breath and met Oscar’s gaze, smiling. “I’m sure,” and you meant it.

Oscar’s expression melted into a thing of warmth, pride, and maybe a bit of relief. He gave your arm a reassuring squeeze, his eyes shining. “Alright, let’s do it then.”

The woman eyed the two of you before her eyes set back on the ring. Minutes passed while she scrutinized under the glare of a magnifying glass and poked it with a few tools. Pursing her lips, she finally lifted her gaze back to you. “This is expensive stuff. You sure you want to sell that here?”

“Never been more sure of anything.”

She raised her brows and gave you a slow once-over. “Not a happy… almost-marriage, I’m guessing.”

“Let’s say I tend to gravitate more toward silver,” you said in a sigh. The woman looked back at the golden band with an empathetic hum. Oscar, who’s been hovering right behind you, let out a snort.

“That’s a nice way of saying he was a dick,” your best friend interjected dryly, and you turned to him in surprise. Elijah and him had been friends, or so you thought. You wouldn’t have expected Oscar to openly berate him, but then again, today had been a day of surprises—and he had been front row for your entire disaster union.

After a bit of back-and-forth and some haggling, the woman finally relented. She handed you a surprisingly heavy wad of nine hundred dollars in cash—minus the cost of your jean shorts, the McLaren shirt, the surprisingly pristine white sneakers Oscar had found for you, and a new outfit he’d picked out himself. You’d insisted on paying for his clothes, too. Reparations, you’d called it, and he had rolled his eyes at you.

You both made your way to the single changing area at the far end of the thrift shop. Giddy to escape the heat of your dress, you ducked into one stall, while Oscar took the one beside you.

But as you kicked off your heels with relief, cold realization trickled upon you: the tight, back-laced corset. You cursed under your breath. It had taken the combined effort of your mother, your sister, and a few Hail Marys to get it on in the first place. You were a fool to think you could manage it alone. Still, you tried.

You twisted and contorted your body, which definitely earned you a type of scoliosis, and the knots only seemed to get tighter the more you moved. In another effort, your elbow slammed against the thin wall separating you from Oscar’s stall with a loud thud.

“Is everything alright?” Oscar’s voice floated through the cheap wood paneling.

A frustrated laugh, tinged with desperation, escaped you. “No I— I think I might need help. With the dress. This goddamn corset—”

There was a pause. After what felt like forever, you heard the hesitant creak of Oscar’s door and a few footsteps before your own cabin door eased open. He stood there, a little unsure, his shirt half-opened and his jacket forgotten somewhere. He was probably in the middle of changing, you thought, and a flush crept up your neck.

“Can you—?” you gestured awkwardly toward your back.

His brown eyes softened. “Yeah. Of course.”

Oscar carefully stepped inside. The space became more cramped than it already was with the addition of his presence, so when you turned so your back faced him, you were almost leaning entirely against his chest. His breath was a warm wave on the nape of your neck, catching at the sudden closeness, and the mirror in front of you showed the clear tension in your cheeks, your chest heaving.

His fingers, steady, found the first knot and began to loosen it. Oscar was methodical in his movements, making his way slowly through each row with brushes so gentle you wondered if he was even touching you at all. The imperceptible sweep of his knuckles against your spine had been featherlight, maybe accidental, but echoed through your entire body as if he had dug his fingers in your hips. Your breath hitched, and your eyes flew to the mirror.

His had too.

Oscar’s expression was nothing if focused, save for the tenderness of his eyes gliding upon you. His hands untied the last row of ties, achingly measured, each loosened lace a small liberation. The corset eased off, and the cold air hitting your bare back was a relief that almost brought tears to your eyes. Yet, what reduced you to pieces was the subtle ghost of Oscar’s fingertips, his eyes transfixed, tracing down your spine in sheer reverence. You don’t think someone had ever touched you so.

A soft gasp slipped past your lips. “Oscar—” you whispered. Your voice was trembling, carrying gratitude and something else, something you couldn’t quite name, or were too scared to.

His eyes snapped back up to yours, and his cheeks flamed red. His name seemed to have brought him back to whatever trance he had been plunged in. Oscar stumbled back, his hands dropping to his side. “Uh— I’m going to— I’ll go get changed,” he stammered, looking everywhere but at you. “I’ll meet you outside, okay?”

You watched him retreat, a thunderstorm waging in your ribcage, the mirror reflecting your dazed expression. The wedding dress pooled at your feet as you released the iron grip you had on the bustier.

Reaching out for the McLaren shirt hanging on the side with shaky hands, you caught a glimpse of your back in the mirror: hard pressure scars were left where the lace had clung too tightly, where Oscar had let the pad of his fingers drift for mere seconds.

You thought about the pressure of the basque waist. The overwhelming smoothness of the satin against your legs, trapping sweat in every crease. The beading heat between your breasts. Your ribs had cracked, and you had bent yourself into someone whose spine had to fracture in order to breathe.

Slipping on the orange shirt with Oscar’s name on the back, no matter how misspelled and large on your fragile stature, felt like mending bones. Little by little, one vertebra at a time.

Oscar was indeed waiting for you by his car, half-perched on the hood with his arms folded across his chest. He’d traded his tux for a short-sleeved grey shirt that clung to his arms, some well-worn cargo shorts, and a pair of sneakers that matched the ones he picked for you. The outfit was so unapologetically Oscar that you couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle.

He caught the sound immediately and grinned, before pushing himself off the hood. With practiced ease, he opened the backseat door and gestured at the sad remains of your wedding dress you held in your arms, now crumpled like a white flag.

“Figured you’d want to put that behind you,” he said.

“God, yes,” you muttered, dropping it in the backseat. It hung there like a ghost.

You slipped into the passenger seat, stretching your legs. You relished in the space you had, your feet finding a home on the dashboard without a hint of shame. Oscar’s lips twitched in amusement as he buckled up. “So, where to?” he asked

You heard the question beneath the question. Want me to take you home? Get you someplace safe, so you can finally think?

Except you didn’t want safe. You wanted the rest of the world, the horizon you could squeeze in the rest of the day and what Oscar made you see you missed. You wanted everything, or as much of it as you could have right now.

You grinned at him. “Anywhere.” It sounded like a dare, and his smile widened.

He took you there.

You drove down the winding coastal roads with the radio turned all the way up, sea wind tangling in your air as you leaned out the window and belted out every song, no matter how wrong the lyrics. Oscar threw his head back in a laugh, and though he made fun of your singing, he couldn’t resist when you demanded he join in. His voice was lower, just a hum, but it occupied the car entirely.

At a run-down gas station, Oscar filled the car up while you wandered inside and returned with a cheap keychain—a gaudy plastic seahorse with a chipped tail. You looped it around the rearview mirror. Some other charms you had already gotten him were already dangling there, untouched.

An hour down the road, you parked on the shoulder to share sandwiches he had gotten at the gas station behind your back. You sat on a nearby bench, up in each other’s personal spaces as if there wasn’t enough space on the wooden seats for both of you, crossed legs and crumb-covered. Between bites, you caught up on everything that had slipped through the cracks of the preceding year: you both had grown and stumbled, drifted and returned. The reality that you spent a year with Oscar at arm length grew more irrational by the minute, especially when being with him felt so natural.

Eventually, the road leveled out, giving way to a flat stretch of cracked asphalt. On the near horizon, a glimmer of white sand and the loud sound of rolling waves called to you like a siren’s song. You bolted upright in your seat. “We really got to the beach?”

You didn’t have to voice your request. Oscar squinted, frowning at the sky. The clouds had begun to gather in thick gray bunches, and shadows had already started stealing the sunlight. “I don’t know… looks like it might rain.”

“Come on!” You threw your arms in the air dramatically. “It’s just sight-seeing, it’s not going to take long.”

Oscar shook his head, yet a fond expression tugged at his facial traits despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

He parked right here and there.

The beach was a place of wilderness. The rocky cliffs you’d been riding on blurred into the misty edges of the pale sand, littered with dark driftwood and the bleached skeletons of forgotten trees, left to rot amongst the seascape. You could have found poetry in it, about endings and new beginnings, but your mind was too tender to poke at metaphors, bringing you back to your own issues and the meaning behind them. You settled on the simple, superficial beauty of it all.

You and Oscar strolled along the shoreline, careful to keep your semi-new shoes away from the forty reach of the waves; neither of you wanted to risk soggy socks and the humiliation of having to resort to the abandoned loafers and heels. Bits of conversations floated between you, punctuated by the kind of comfortable silence only best-friends shared.

A blush-pink seashell, perfectly intact and glistening in the sand, caught your eye just before you would’ve stepped on it. You bent to pick it up, already imagining nestled in the little collection on your shelf back home, until—

A cold splash of water hit the thin cotton of your shirt. You gasped as more droplets splattered across your arms. You could have sworn it was the rain Oscar had warned about, at least if the latter wasn’t standing there, grinning, with dripping wet hands.

“You little—”

Before you could finish, he flicked another handful of water at you, his laughter joining the rising wind. You lunged, scooping up water with both hands and launching it at him. It hit him square in the chest, and he let out a high-pitched yelp you’d never heard from him before.

Water flew back and forth, each splash accompanied with screeches and half-formed curses. By the time the first real raindrops fell from the darkening sky, your hair was already clinging to your forehead and your clothes were sticking to your skin. Oscar caught your eyes, a tad breathless, and you both turned your faces upward just as the sky opened.

The drizzle turned into a downpour.

“Shit, let’s run!” he shouted, grabbing your hand as you bolted toward the nearest cover: a massive pine tree at the edge of the forest line. You both stumbled underneath, breathing hard and dripping wet on the mix of sand and grass. The rain roared around you like a thousand tiny drums.

Oscar was laughing, really laughing. The kind of laugh he never let out in public, the one with the wide open mouth and the hand on his knees that shook his whole body and took his voice with it. It stole yours away too, reducing you to a look of wonder, taking him in between huffy intakes of air, a parody of the sound that was supposed to come out of your lips.

The reality of what this day had come to was a comic realization, and it struck you right in the chest when you and Oscar locked eyes. His smile was broad when he spoke up, loud enough to be heard above the pounding of the rain. “God, started with a wedding and ended drenched in thrifted clothes on some random beach. That’s wild.”

The giggle bubbled in your throat and escaped your lips, trembling in disbelief at the scene around you. The rain poured down harder now, piercing through the pine canopy and spattering your arm like cold bullets. The air was thick and heavy with fog, choking your lungs and turning the beach sweltering in a shroud of gray. The salt bit at your eyes. The waves roared in a relentless crash. The cold of the settling evening. The breathless laughter splintered into a sob—one miserable gargle at the back of your throat.

Everything came out at once.

You pressed your palms to your eyes in a final, useless attempt to dam the flood, but the tears wouldn’t be stopped. They streamed down your face, and your shoulders convulsed with the strength of them, the effort to hold yourself together failing with every ragged breath.

Oscar’s smile faltered. He stepped forward without hesitation, without a word, and wrapped his arms around you, strong and warm despite the chill. He held you against his chest, a shield against the wind and the rest of the world. You tried to anchor yourself to the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“It’s okay,” he murmured in your ear, one hair smoothing over your hair. “I got you, it’s okay.”

Beneath the shelter of the pine tree, with the storm raging and the ocean crashing in wild, beautiful chaos, you finally let yourself break. You fell apart for good, in ugly, keening sobs and pained wails clawing for blood at your throat, trembling but safe, held fast in the arms of the person who had carried you through everything.

Eventually, the rain relented, leaving a misty calm in its wake. The silence stretched, and stretched, until you felt brave enough to talk again.

“I just— Oh my god. I left him at the altar,” you choked out, your voice hoarse from crying. “I ran away like a coward. And you know the worst of it, Osc’?” You pulled back just enough to see his face, but your hands still rested on his chest. “I’m not even feeling guilty about it. I ran away from my wedding, I sold my ring in a sketchy pawn shop, I got hamburger on my dress and it just felt… freeing. Like— Like I could breathe again. Does that make me a bad person?” You sobbed. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Oscar studied you with that careful focus you’d seen a hundred times, like the night before a race, analyzing data while you dozed next to him on the couch, or after a weekend where the car let him down and he reviewed every lap. Only this time, his eyes were gentler. This time, he didn’t assume he knew the answer.

This time, Oscar asked.

“What pushed you to do it?” There was no judgement in his question. Only curiosity, along with an unbridled desire to understand you.

When you opened your mouth, you knew it was already too late.

“I don’t know, I— He was being rude to the officiant, when the bells rang. And I—” Your voice wavered. “I dropped out of the most prestigious marine biology programs in the country because he asked me to. I sat in his house alone for days while he called me from god-knows-where to ask me to buy a dress and show up at galas I couldn’t even speak at. He asked me to stop being so close to you because it could make him look bad with Alpine. He picked my wardrobe and told me how to stand and what to say, and I let him. I let him. All that— so he could treat the officiant like garbage on our wedding day?”

A sob tore at your throat. “And it’s such a small thing, so insignificant. There were probably a thousand telltale signs before that, but I just— I realized that I couldn’t live my whole life like that. I’m only twenty-four. I met him when I was nineteen, and I— I feel like I wasted such a big part of my life on… nothing. A whole lot of nothing. Delusions. I deserve more. I know I do, but… what am I supposed to do now? With all the things I wasted?”

Your question was met with silence. Truth be told, you hadn’t been expecting an answer—the question had been more directed at yourself than at Oscar. Yet, his hand rose to your cheek, and his thumb swiftly brushed away a tear that had clung stubbornly to your skin. His eyes were so full of tenderness, no matter what you just confessed, it made you shudder. More tears welled up as he smiled at you.

“I’m not… amazing at comforting people, you know it,” he started, “but it doesn’t take an empath to know you didn’t waste anything. Like you said, you’re twenty-four. That’s nothing in the grand scheme of things,” he shook you a little bit when he said that, and a strangled laugh fell from your lips. “You’re not a bad person for knowing what you want, you just had bad timing. You’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of you to decide what you actually want and to take it, instead of wallowing on what you’ve ‘wasted’.”

His thumb traced your cheek again, so gentle it felt like a balm on an old wound. “You’ve always deserved more than what he gave you.”

You blinked through the tears. Oscar’s words wrapped around your heart, swirled in between your ribs, chasing away all guilt and shame. Something in the way he looked at you, so open and certain unlike you’d ever been, hit you in a way you hadn’t quite prepared yourself for. A tremor of realization that cracked open a door you’d been too afraid to look behind.

Maybe the reason you’d run, the reason you’d found your strength, hadn't been just because of what you lost and left behind. Maybe, deep down, it had been because of what you’d always wanted, and who you wanted by your side. Among the corpses of feelings you’d been forced to bury, hopes, dreams, and softest truths, something had survived. Someone had survived. And maybe that someone had been standing right in front of you all along.

Your heart raced at the possibility. It felt as if Oscar could sense the sudden shift in the air between you, the weight of what you’d never dared to name.

You never had the time to figure out what love really was. You didn't know at nineteen any more than you had at sixteen, cradled by storybook fantasies. In reality, every chance you’d had to understand love had been smothered under the suffocating weight of a man’s expectations, with delusions of grandeur packaged as tenderness, objectifying greed dressed as devotion. Your definition of love had been shaped by cold beds and lonely nights, by a hand that hovered at your lower back only when cameras were near, by an iron-tight grip on your wrist and the wrong flowers arriving a day late. Love, to you, had been a cage—a brand name on a leash.

In the span of a single day, between thrift shop and laughter in the rain, you’d learned more about love than you had in the last five years.

Love didn’t need to be grandiloquent in order to be real. It didn’t have to be bought and paraded to matter. Love could be gentle, and match the rhythm of the heart it belonged to, quiet and careful. It could be found in the smallest gestures—wiping away tears, helping someone out of a corset, listening, asking.

You didn’t need grand gestures to know that you loved Oscar Piastri, and maybe you had for a long time now.

“Oscar?” you called, shaky.

Decide what you want and take it.

You could do that.

“Yeah?”

You wanted Oscar, so you took him by the mouth and made him yours.

The gesture was as clumsy as it was true, as hesitant as it was pure. Your lips had moved on their own, seeking the only warmth that ever felt like home. For one suspended second, Oscar froze and you could feel the tension in his body, the startled catch of his breath. In that heartbeat, every doubt you’d harbored came flooding back. Maybe it had been all in your head, that you’d mistaken friendship for something more and lost your best friend for good.

But that’s when Oscar kissed you back.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate, not the kind of kiss you’d expect after a day like this. It was soft, as though he was afraid of breaking something precious if he ever moved too abruptly. His hands found your waist, tentative at first, then firmer, drawing you closer until there was no air left between your bodies but the one you shared. Oscar kissed you the way you’d find peace in the eye of a storm: slow and patient, with a quiet devotion that made your knees go weak. He tasted like the sea.

No urgency, no hunger, just the relief of being known and being wanted exactly as you were.

When you pulled back for breath, your eyes fluttered open to find him staring at you, memorizing your face as if you’d vanish in the next second. A small, incredulous smile curved at Oscar’s lips, and his eyes shined with unshed tears of his own. He dipped his forehead to touch yours.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, breaking with emotion, “how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”

Your heart lost its rhythm, and something between a sob and a laugh escaped you as relief and wonder alike washed over you. Oscar’s arms tightened around your frame and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

“Me too,” you admitted. God, did it feel good to finally say it out loud.

But even in the midst of that newfound honesty, a quiet hesitation tugged at the hem of your being. You loved Oscar—oh, you did—and you wanted him. There wasn’t a single doubt in your heart about that, not anymore, at least. But you’d left your wedding just this morning. You’d left an entire life, five years of your life, and there were wounds you hadn’t even begun to understand, let alone heal.

You drew in a shaky inhale, eyes darting between his, searching for understanding. “I think…” Your voice cracked. “I think I need a little more time before we… you know. Before we start… us.”

Oscar’s gaze softened with a characteristic, unwavering kindness. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes fully, and in them, you saw the steady promise of every whisper, every late-night talk, every wordless understanding you'd share. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “We’ll figure it all out. Everything you want, everything you deserve—I’ll be there. I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears streaming down your cheeks were ones of relief. You exhaled a trembling chuckle. “I know you will.”

The rain had softened back to a drizzle by the time you both made it back to the car, the world around you washed clean. As you settled into the passenger seat, damp, messy, and more at peace than you’d felt in years, Oscar turned the keys and the engine hummed to life.

He glanced over at you, his smile easy and open, like it had always been just for you. “Where to, now?”

You didn’t have to think about it. Your head tipped back in a laugh, the sound unburdened. Free.

“Anywhere.”

And this time, anywhere meant home. Home in his apartment that already had a space carved out for you on the bed, and a toothbrush with your name on it. Anywhere, as long as it was with the man who saw every piece of you and never once tried to turn away, who was letting you reassemble the puzzle yourself. As long as it was with Oscar and no one else.

There wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be, anyway.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

1K notes · View notes

itneverendshere · 21 days ago

Note

i love bitchy!pouge!reader x rafe soooo much! idk how to explain it but the way you write them brings me comfort. i was wondering if you could write what their first fight was about after exchanging i love yous? 🥺

fight so dirty, but you love so sweet - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe warnings: 70% angst

Feelings—especially yours—came barbed, similar to the way you’d grown up.

A girl with no patience for sugarcoated anything and Rafe Cameron with all his kooky contradictions had somehow slithered under your skin. Which made it worse, because you remember who he used to be.

You’re sitting on your porch, feet up on the railing, a melting popsicle between your fingers and your phone in the other hand, scrolling with vague boredom until your thumb freezes.

It’s a picture.

Rafe, at that stupid-ass annual Kook charity event he swore he hated but always went to.

The one he invited you to, told you you should come, even though he knew you'd rather set your hair on fire than mingle with sweater-vested trust fund kids drinking out of champagne flutes like it’s water. You had rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather get hit by a golf cart.”

And he’d laughed—understood. No pressure.

But now the photo…Your stomach drops.

It’s Brielle fucking Simmons, all pearls and perfect hair and fake everything. Rafe’s ex, standing close, hand on his arm, claiming him.

Both smiling, harmless fun, right? Wrong. You’re already texting him before you know what you’re saying.

You: lol tell Brielle she looked cute latched to your arm tonight. You two looked like a literal J. Crew ad. So wholesome. ❤️

It takes three minutes for the dots to start typing. Then stop, start again, and then he calls.

You let it ring out.

He calls again.

“Babe—”

“What the fuck was that?”

“What do you mean?”

“The pictures. Your little date.”

“She’s not my date,” He scoffs, “It was a photo. She walked up, I didn’t—what are you doing right now?”

“Wondering how fast I’d get kicked out if I slapped that fake-ass smile off her face.”

“She’s not important.”

“Oh, but she looks pretty important. All over you, dressed like she just walked out of a Lilly Pulitzer wet dream.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being—” You stand up, pacing now. “Wow. Okay. Let’s unpack that, Rafe.”

Rafe exhales hard. “It was a photo. She came up to me—”

“You sure as fuck didn’t stop her.” You’re pacing now, bare feet hitting the porch. “You look real comfortable. Like old times, huh? Bet she knows exactly where to put her hand.”

He groans.

“Can you relax for a second—I wanted you here. You didn’t wanna be here, and I respected that. What was I supposed to do? Push you to come somewhere you’d hate to avoid a two-second interaction with my ex?”

“You could’ve told her to back off. You could’ve told the photographer to fuck off.”

“She means nothing. You know that.”

Your tongue kisses your teeth.

“That’s what every man says right before he ends up dicking someone in a monogrammed bathroom.”

“Are you fucking serious right now? She wasn’t even—fuck.” He sighs harshly. “You’re jealous over nothing.”

You stop dead. “Did you just call me jealous?”

“What do you want me to say? That I should’ve shoved her off me at a charity event, my dad’s hosting in front of thirty people and a news crew to protect your ego?”

Wow, okay, that one hurt.

“My ego? My ego?”

“You’re not trusting me,” he snaps. “I love you, and one picture sends you spiraling like I’m cheating on you in broad daylight.”

There it is.

He realizes it too late.

You inhale sharply, eyes stinging. “Right. Got it.”

“Wait—no, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t do halfway. If you want me, you want me. You don’t let your ex drape herself over you while you're fucking grinning for a photo-op and I’m at home baking stupid brownies for you.”

“You know I want you. I’m not gonna argue with you over one photo,” he grits out.

“Then don’t,” you say flatly.

Click.

You hang up.

You sit back down, popsicle dripping onto your jeans, and feel that sick, familiar feeling settle into your chest. You knew it was only a matter of time before the Kook fantasy ended.

You were just the wrong shape for him.

You toss your phone onto the steps beside you and stare out at the darkness, but all you can see is her. Her glossy hair, her effortless way of fitting into a world you never had a place in.

And he looked like that old Rafe again, the one who looked at you like you were a problem. You feel your chest rip apart, blooming beneath your ribs. You knew this would happen. You fucking knew it. You chew your thumbnail and tell yourself you’re fine.

You told him when things started to get real—when he began looking at you like you were worth more than a secret thrill—that this wasn’t something you knew how to do; you’d never been the girlfriend.

Guys never wanted you like that, not for long. They fucked you, they laughed with you, and they left, never picking you. You’re the girl who wears ripped shorts and tells people to fuck off before they finish their sentence, who drinks out of bottles and picks fights when she’s scared. You’re not polished. You’re not soft.

You’re not someone a guy keeps.

You know the things they used to say about you. Easy. Fun. Drama. A good time, not a long time. You’d hit, but don’t date her. Too much.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that Rafe said I love you, part of you thinks this was borrowed time.

The stars are out, but you’re not looking at them.

You’re still sitting on that rickety porch with your knees hugged to your chest, hoodie swallowed around your fists, and your phone screen dimmed black beside you.

It’s been thirty minutes since you hung up. It feels like years.

Now the anger’s gone. You know what you did, throwing a grenade and watching it blow—on purpose. It’s easier to burn it down yourself than wait for him to walk away. You chew at your thumbnail, heart beating slow and sick in your chest, that ugly lump still pressing up against your throat.

You knew you were being mean, pushing him in the other direction by accusing him of shit he didn’t do.

Better he hates you than pities you.

You drag your hands down your face and groan into the empty air, not knowing how to fix this. You’re not the girl who apologizes first, you don’t know how to come back after you say things you can’t take back.

You’re just starting to get up—arms sore, heart heavier than it was when you sat down—when you hear tires skidding on gravel.

You freeze on the porch step.

Headlights blast through the trees, and then—

SLAM.

Rafe doesn’t try to park right. The truck is half sideways in the grass, one tire up on the edge of the road, he barely remembered to throw it in park before yanking the keys out.

He’s already out.

You don’t say anything while he storms up the path, chest rising and falling, his shirt wrinkled, sleeves rolled, and hair messy—he likes to drive with the windows down.

When he gets close enough to see your face—the red eyes, the guilt and fear still holding your expression hostage—he softens.

“You’re not answering me.”

You glance away, shame washing over you.

“Didn’t think there was anything left to say.”

Old habits die hard.

Rafe steps up onto the porch, right into your space. You can smell his cologne, expensive and warm and unmistakably his.

You give him your best sneer. “How very on-brand.”

“Are you serious right now? You blew up my phone, accused me of God knows what, and then ignored me for thirty minutes. I thought maybe something happened—”

“Yeah. Something did.” You stand up, jabbing a finger toward him. “I realized I’m the biggest fucking idiot alive for thinking this was ever gonna work.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You laugh bitterly, trying to fold your arms over your chest, but it’s flimsy armor.

His eyes flick over your face—reading you like a fucking map he already knows by heart.

“Don’t run your mouth and act like none of this means shit.”

“It doesn’t.”

His eyes narrow. “Liar.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Say that shit again.”

You’ve always been good at mean. It’s your mother tongue.

He scoffs, disbelieving.

“God, you’re so fucking nasty when you’re scared.”

Your first instinct isn’t offense or surprise. You could pretend to be wounded. Bat your lashes, gasp like a princess in a soap opera, but that’s not you, you’re not built from satin and sentiment.

You’re made of spunk and fight.

Now it’s your turn: “Say that again.”

He exhales through his nose. “You heard me.”

“Yeah, I did. Wanted to make sure you meant it, Country Club.”

“Stop calling me that. I’m in it with you. Whether you believe it or not. Whether you make it as hard as possible or not. Stop acting like you don’t care when I know you do.”

You scoff, tearing your gaze away.

“Looked real nice standing there with her. She had her hand on your arm, and you let her. You smiled.”

“She walked up,” He throws his hands up, “She put her hand there for two seconds, and the second I stepped away, the fucking photographer was already flashing. I didn’t invite her to drape herself over me like a fucking accessory, alright?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You used to want her to.”

“I used to do a lot of shit that made me want to crawl out of my skin.”

You shake your head, stepping down a stair, praying the distance will dull the hurting. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You know what?” Rafe snaps, stepping after you. “You know what didn’t feel nice? That text. You sent it knowing it would fuck with me.”

“I was being funny.”

“No, you were trying to hurt me first.” His voice sharpens. “Because you saw something that scared you, and instead of calling me, you picked a fight, convinced yourself I’m gonna leave.”

Your silence is confirmation, and he laughs once, exasperated.

“You think I’m gonna run because some Kook Barbie pressed her fucking nails into my arm? Did I look happy?”

You glare at the porch floor, too humiliated to meet his eyes but too stubborn to admit you’re wrong.

“She looked perfect next to you,” You mutter. “And I-I’ve never looked like that.”

Rafe’s whole chest expands on a rough inhale. “Bullshit.”

Your lip twitches. “You don’t have to lie just ‘cause I’m about to cry.”

“I’m not lying.” He steps closer, and now there’s no space between you, “I want you. I’m with you. I love you.”

You remember how his mouth used to curl when you walked into a room. You glance up—and you see none of that. His jaw is flexed, brows drawn, but his eyes are nothing but heartbreak, and it’s you he’s looking at like that. As if you have already been forgiven.

You hate how fast your voice cracks. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

The words hurt him more than the fight did. He moves, hands coming up to frame your face gently, catching your cheeks even as you try to turn away.

His thumbs swipe at the tear tracks, physically hurting him to see them. “I hate that you don’t see it,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You do, barely.

His forehead drops to yours, breathing you in, whispering against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m not.”

You swallow. “I don’t believe you.”

“Tough shit, baby.”

Your throat works around a sob that doesn’t quite come. His hands are holding your face like you’re made of glass, but his grip says you’re not going anywhere, even if you try to fight him on it.

So you do. “You’re annoying as fuck.”

He almost smiles. “I know.”

You snort wetly, and it shatters something between you. He’s still close, touching, and you hate how fast you want to fold into it.

You try one last time. “She probably smelled better than me too.”

“I love how you smell.” His eyes roam your face—eyes red, nose pink, hoodie collar pulled up to your chin. “Sunscreen and salt and that stupid coconut lotion.”

Rafe’s smile comes then, unstrained as he kisses you. You gasp into it, and he uses it as an excuse to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, one hand curling around the back of your neck and the other grabbing your hip, pulling you into him.

He pulls back for air, ducking his head to your height one more time, his voice dropping to a rasp.

“I wake up and want you. I get through shit days and want you. I think about my future, and—you’re there. It’s you.”

A single tear slips down your cheek before you can catch it. You hate how fast he’s wiping it away.

“You’re gonna get tired of me.”

“I’m tired without you.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, and Rafe smiles like it’s a fucking miracle.

“You’re gonna leave.”

“I’m here.”

“And if you change your mind?”

“I already made it up.” He kisses your temple, your cheek. “Stop trying to scare me of.”

You sag into him, pressing your lips together, “I’m sorry I was mean.”

He exhales through his nose; you wait for the reminder that you were cruel, but all he does is press another kiss to your shoulder.

“Baby,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Your throat tightens instantly. “Even when I say shit I don’t mean?”

He nods once, serious. “Even then.”

“That’s fucked.” You bite your lip, breath catching. “I didn’t mean it.”

Rafe cuts in, hands cradling your jaw. “I know.”

You bury your face in his chest, fingers fisting in his shirt, hoping it will stop your heart from beating so hard. His hands rub slow circles up and down your back.

“Country Club,” you say, and it’s usually a nickname you usually spit with venom. This time it sounds sweet.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” he says. “We won’t. “

Then, without looking up, you mutter, “I was gonna call you a privileged little trust fund reject with a savior complex and no taste in women.”

He laughs, loud this time, bursting out of him. “There she is.”

The porch is dark and quiet and way too far from anyone who would interrupt, and that might be the only reason you let yourself tip your head back and look at him like that—eyes blown wide.

Rafe mouths at your lips, doing what he’d been waiting all fucking night to earn back, groaning into your mouth, hand sliding up the back of your hoodie, palm pressing against the skin at your spine.

His tongue licks into you again, and your knees damn near buckle. He catches you with one hand wrapped around your thigh, dragging your leg up to hook around his. He pins you back against the porch post with his body, hard already, and not shy about it.

“You always run your mouth,” He makes that annoyed teeth-sucking sound against your neck, breath hot. “Always talking shit.”

You can feel Rafe smirk against your skin when you whimper. His teeth graze that spot beneath your jaw, the one he figured out three nights into fucking you, and he doesn’t let up—kisses, bites, and sucks until you’re pressing your hips forward, forgetting what pride is.

“And now?” He rasps. “Still got something to say?”

You tug at his shirt, breathless.

“Get your hand under my hoodie and maybe I will.”

He laughs and obliges, fingers sliding up over your ribs, under the hem of your bra. He cups one breast in his hand, his thumb brushing your nipple until you’re mewing into his mouth again.

He swallows every sound. Your hands are under his dress shirt now, scratching at the small of his back, hips grinding slowly against his.

“Rafe,” you whisper, need soaked into the syllables.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, his mouth dragging over your jaw, lips warm and wet. "I know."

You tug at his belt, and he doesn’t stop you, only continues to palm your ass and groans when your hand brushes his zipper.

Rafe’s breathing is ragged against your mouth, hands still halfway under your hoodie. You roll your hips against him again.

He groans, head tipping back, needing divine intervention.

Your smirk is pure sin. “Problem, Country Club?”

His fingers dig into your waist. “Yeah, you. You’re the fucking problem.”

You giggle, nipping at his bottom lip just enough to make him twitch. “Oh no. Is the trust fund prince gonna lose his self-control on a porch swing?”

He growls this time and presses his hips forward, cock hard against you and very, very aware of the fact that your leg’s still wrapped around him.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“You already look tempted.”

“I’m serious.” His mouth is on your neck again, trailing hot, open kisses down to your collarbone, voice muffled against your skin. “We’re not fucking on your porch. Your neighbors already hate me.”

“That’s because you park like a psychopath.”

“They’ll hate me more when they see me bending you over the railing.”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and his hands grip tighter, feeling that noise down.

“Baby,” he warns, teeth grazing your throat. “We can’t do it out here.”

Your hand slides between you, palming him through his jeans shamelessly. His breath stutters so hard he chokes.

“Oh, my God,” he hisses, grabbing your wrist, eyes wild.

You shrug, all innocence, “You sure you don’t want the neighbors to know how well you fuck me?”

“I’ll throw you over my shoulder and take you inside if you don’t stop.”

You flash him a grin. “Promise?”

“Fuck. Fine. Inside. Now.”

You don’t try to hide the smug little giggle as he drags you inside by the hand, he’s a man being marched to war—hard, panting, and completely ruined by you.

If fighting gets him this desperate and needy maybe you'll keep doing it.

You love being his problem.

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littlelamy · 2 months ago

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you’d never had a whole week off before. rose had pressed the note into your hand that monday morning—short and stiff, typed on her monogrammed stationery: “y/n l/n, take the week. you’ve earned it. the estate will survive without you. (we hope.)”

you read it three times before blinking up at her. “you mean like.. all week? like seven days? like… no chores?”

she stared at you. sipped her coffee. “yes, seven whole days. go do whatever it is girls your age like you do.”

you gasped, “like pilates and journaling and maybe alphabetizing my nail polish?”

“yes...exactly that.. go away.”

so you did it; you made a color-coded schedule with glitter pens. tuesday was for deep-cleaning your closet and trying on all your swimsuits to see which ones still fit your tits right. wednesday was for cookie experiments. and thursday—thursday was yoga day.

you’d laid your mat out just as the sun came up, soft pink light kissing the dew off the hedges. you wore your tiniest spandex shorts—baby pink, obviously, barely covering the underside of your cheeks—and a workout bra that wasn’t really a bra so much as a small fabric of coverage. it tied in the back, thin like ribbon, your breasts held together more by sheer hope rather than support.

you were already halfway through your routine by the time rafe walked out.

you didn’t see him at first. you were in a downward dog, back arched, breathing steady, totally unaware that his bedroom window faced the front lawn. or that he’d woken up late, shirtless, grumpy, barefoot, and about to storm the kitchen for cereal—until he saw you.

you, on your mat, sun hitting your thighs, bent over with your spine stretched like a sleepy cat and in those little shorts that were definitely illegal in several states, bouncing on your toes between poses like you were doing it just for him.

his mouth went dry, as he desperately trying to grab his phone, snapping a picture on after another and zooming in on some.

“fuck.” he took another one, tilted his head, cursed under his breath when you dropped into child’s pose, ass high, arms stretched forward. rafe inhaled sharply through his teeth, padding outside without a sound. “what the fuck is this, pretty?”

you squeaked, nearly tipping off your mat. twisted around, face gleaming with sweat. “rafe! oh—oh my god, good morning! i didn’t think anyone would be up yet, you scared me!”

he was grinning, eyes locked on your ass. “you’re doing porn on the lawn now?”

you blinked, correcting him, “i’m doing yoga.”

“sure you are.” he stepped closer. your eyes darted to his bare chest, the cute sleepy crinkle of his hair. he hadn’t even put on real pants, just old sweats hanging low on his hips. God, he's gorgeous. your thighs squeezed together at the thought of him from last night, when he split you open on his dad's desk.

you cleared your throat. “it’s thursday. thursday’s yoga day.”

“riiight,” he said, gaze trailing down your body like a drip of warm syrup. “and what’s with the outfit, sweetheart? trying to kill the neighbors?”

you pouted, “i always wear this for yoga. it’s comfy. i get sweaty.”

“you’re giving the grass a hard-on.”

you giggled, “you want to join me?”

he blinked. “what?”

you tilted your head, sitting back on your heels, adjusting your top where it barely clung to your tits. “i said, do you wanna join me? you came all the way out here. unless you just wanted to say hi?”

his jaw flexed, you were being very earnest. no idea what you were doing or how hard he was under those sweats.

“sure,” he said, voice rough. “let’s do some yoga.”

you scoot over, give him half the mat, which doesn’t leave any room for personal space. your knee brushes his; your arm bumps his chest when you stretch sideways. every time you exhale, it’s comes out as little whimper, and every time he inhales, it’s just to smell you. your coconut shampoo, sugary scented lotion, sweat, and sunlight, fuck—he’s going to die.

you guide him through cat-cow. he growls on the exhale. “am i doing it wrong?”

“n-no, baby” you stammer, “you’re just…intense. that’s good though. yoga should be passionate. like..from the inside. that’s what my instructor used to say.”

you move into cobra pose, arching your back until your chest pushes forward. your head falls back with a soft moan of breath.

rafe watches, commits it to memory. you peek over, “you’re not stretching.”

he huffs. “i’m stretched.”

“you’ll pull a muscle, silly. here—”

you reach over, place both hands on his waist. pushing him gently.

“lower..breathe out. let it all go.” he groans, but not from pain. you were right behind him now, hands on his hips, pressing him into the stretch. your chest brushes his back. “does that feel better?”

“yeah,” he chokes.

you tilt your head, “you’re really warm.”

“so are you.”

you smile, drowsy and pleased. “that’s the sun for you. isn’t this nice?”

he turns his head, and your faces are inches apart.

“baby.”

“mm hm?”

“are you trying to kill me?”

you blink, shocked at the accusation, “what? no! i’m trying to help you find your center. we’re working on alignment—”

“alignment,” he repeats, licking his lip. “pretty, if i align any harder, someone’s calling the cops.”

you frown, then following his eyes down to his sweatpants. oh...you cover your mouth, a smiling forming.“oh my god.”

“yeah.”

“was it the child’s pose?”

“babe.”

“or the cobra?”

“it was everything.”

you squirm. “i'm sorry, i didn’t mean to—” he cuts you off by grabbing your wrist.

“stop,” he growls. “don’t apologize for looking like that. i want you to apologize for moaning!”

you squeak. “i was breathing!”

“you were whimpering.”

you blush, “i didn’t know you were watching or paying attention.”

he tugs you into his lap making your legs spread over his thighs. “i’m always watching you,” he says, almost purring. your breath stutters at the sexiness of his voice. his hand slides up your bare back. “you wanna stretch, baby? i’ll give you a good stretch.”

“r-rafe—” like before cuts you off by kissing you.

“fuck yoga,” he breathes. “you and me need a different kind of session.”

❤︎ tags below

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#⋆౨ৎ˚🐇⟡˖ housebunni!reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #rafe fic #rafe #rafe x oc #rafe x oc!reader #my readers!𐔌´⠀ ᩙᩙ `๑꒱#divider by anitalenia

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schlock-luster-video · 2 months ago

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"These cold eyes have watched a thousand men die screaming!"

Here's some original Boris Karloff art inspired by The Ape (1940)!

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fudgebuggyy · 2 months ago

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H E L L I C O N I A S P R I N G

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bob x Thunderbolts!Yelena

Tags: Post-Canon, Thunderbolts Team Members Live in the Watchtower, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Thunderbolts SPOILERS contained!, Implied/Referenced Past Drug Addiction

Word count: 3.186k

Chapters: 1/4

Next Chapter

Summary: Three months have passed since the Void descended upon New York, and Yelena is getting used to the life her sister led--dealing with PR agents and working in a team she's only recently learned to tolerate.

And then there's the Bob thing. And the Bob thing is super fucking complicated.

✢ Chapter 1 ✢

Robert Reynolds wasn’t Sentry.

Robert Reynolds wasn’t the Void.

Three months after New York had been swallowed by a nightmarish blanket of psychological agony, Robert Reynolds was, once again, just Bob. And Just Bob liked boring French New Wave movies and Depeche Mode and pictures of baby Highland cows. He had a scar on his left knee from where he blew it out as a teenager, drunk on a bike in the suburbs. How about you? How many bones have you broken? (Possibly every single one and possibly twice, Yelena had told him; an answer that always seemed to thrill him in some freakish way, that boyish giddiness that overcame grown men showing off their scars).

Bob hated when people chewed with their mouths open. He was a surprisingly good cook and a surprisingly good singer (the latter she had only found out after catching him sneaking a smoke on the Watchtower’s helipad, quietly singing Al Green). He liked stacking french fries inside his burgers in neat rows like a Jenga Tower. He’d been a Buddhist for three years. He made a mean Lasagna alla Bolognese. He liked Jane Kenyon, Allen Ginsberg—from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine. He played the guitar (kind of). He knew how to jumpstart a car (pretty well, actually). He liked chess.

He had a tiny sun tattooed in the dip below his right ankle, a corny memento he'd gotten in Thailand, in a place that doubled as a shoe repair shop, by a half-blind woman who didn’t seem to mind that some white boy was tripping his balls on shrooms he’d stolen from loaded tourists at the Full Moon Party, their tote bags left unattended on a lounger.

Bob had spent most of his life high, bridging the sober gaps with odd jobs and side hustles and jail. He’d stolen from everyone who’d cared about him enough to let him into their lives. Even from his mother: monogrammed silver cufflinks that had belonged to his grandfather, a decorated war vet who'd had a habit of blaming all his problems on immigrants and women.

Yelena collected Bob’s little revelations inside herself. She’d pluck them from him like a magpie lining her nest. Where'd you go to school? Tell me again about those limestone cathedrals on Railay Beach, the rainforest in Taman Negara. What was your brother's name? Did you really run track? You must've been very slow.

For someone who claimed to be “average white trash”, Robert Reynolds had lived a strangely extraordinary life. Civilian, yes. But extraordinary.

Lately Yelena had been catching herself watching him more than usual—Bob, in his hoodies and scuffed sneakers, tousled hair and boyish slouch, the secret packet of American Spirits peeking out of his back pocket—standing there being all strange and extraordinary. He was always around, puttering in the background like a housecat and only emerging fully to greet the team whenever they piled in from the helipad, busied by another one of their stupid arguments only made more stupid by the fact that they all lived in the same building now. She didn't remember when she'd started looking forward to it, to him. His small smile whenever he caught her looking.

Hesitant, bashful.

Bob had the kind of face you could excavate things from, his thoughts so thick they were tangible. Yelena imagined sometimes, plucking the viscous globs of shame from it whenever he assumed he’d said something wrong; the sadness when he thought no one could see; the unmistakable mounds of happiness that bunched around his cheeks, blooming splotchy-red and delightful, crinkled at his eyes, whenever she made him laugh.

She liked making him laugh. That throaty lilting hiccup. He had a kind laugh. He had a kind face. Yelena didn’t remember the last time she’d met someone genuinely kind, someone who liked boring French New Wave movies and Depeche Mode and pictures of baby Highland cows.

Someone who could slam her into the ceiling with a swoop of his hand, and then tear the Winter Soldier’s vibranium arm right out of its socket.

Robert Reynolds wasn’t Sentry, he wasn’t the Void—but he had been. He would be again.

It was a thought that hummed inside of her like the whistle before a bomb hit.

✢ ✢ ✢ ✢ ✢ ✢

They stuck him in a cell for a month.

A safety precaution, Valentina had called it, ensuring Bob didn’t…change again. And he didn’t at first: no floating, no super-strength, no telekinesis or freaky eyes. For a month, they watched and they waited, while they underwent the grueling process of heroification. It turned out Valentina had a knack for cleaning up. She was the magician; they were the feral rabbits in her very skinny, very expensive silk top hat.

Life was a barrage of press conferences and image consultations and government endorsements and merchandising and PR agents pondering on what uniform trousers gave Yelena the most “appropriate” amount of ass. Everything was to be practical but presentable, assertive but inoffensive.

Walker knew the drill, Bucky tolerated it, Alexei flourished under the attention like he was running for prime minister of a very tiny Eastern European country, mustache and bravado and all. Yelena was glad to have Ava around, who’d spent a large chunk of her life in a box and who’d called Valentina’s PR agents incompetent parasitic dildos after they asked if she wanted a uniform with cleavage when they shot for their Wheaties commercial.

By the time Bob was trusted enough to wander around the Watchtower freely—having regained barely enough telekinesis to lift a fork—each sleeve of the team’s new uniforms donned a red A. (And their asses were all deemed appropriate.)

To call themselves a team still felt like a gross exaggeration. Their togetherness was built on shaky forbearance and the mutual agreement to neither murder each other in their sleep, nor the conveniently placed news anchors stationed at street corners during assignments in the city.

Because there was another rule to add to the plethora of rules that secured their existence as the New Avengers: fight like heroes.

And fighting like a hero meant fighting clean, and if you didn’t fight clean enough, someone would be sent to clean up after you. No more sloppily tossed nail bombs, no more torture, no more nailing bad guys to the wall by their junk (much to Yelena’s dismay). Murder was a big no-no. Death was to be doled out only when explicitly necessary, and there were only so many excuses Yelena could come up with during debrief to try and explain away her mounting tower of corpses, according to Valentina, who loved hyperbole as much as she loved making Yelena's life a living nightmare now that annoyance was the only way she could make the team pay for the cataclysmic inconvenience they've caused her since not dying in a desert warehouse.

They had to think about optics now, that and public likability. Apparently the public was picky about who they wanted to be saved by.

The world could see them now, see them fully, from all angles, up close, even when they least expected it or wanted it to.

Was this what it had been like for Natasha?

Natasha, the performer. Sleek and graceful and unknowable, even to those who loved her most.

There was something to be said about the weight of living up to someone else's potential.

Sometimes Yelena swore she felt her here, this tower like a cruel echo chamber with its zig-zag of steel beams and vibranium-enhanced windows designed to withstand the impact of missiles. How it fortified them from Manhattan’s spiky skyline, from the streets below, teeming with cars and people like blood cells, going places, being alive, pacified by the thought that there was a group of chosen heroes watching over them like gods.

Would things change if they discovered those heroes were nothing but a pack of reformed, rebranded ex-criminals?

Did Natasha have trouble sleeping too? Had she felt the unfathomable weight of responsibility flattening her until she couldn't fucking breathe? Had she snuck to the kitchen at night, sat on the island, and destroyed a whole tub of ice cream, wondering when life would finally slow down?

“The infamous ice cream thief,” a voice said behind her.

Yelena had heard Bob long before he’d stepped into the kitchen, his steady gait that dragged just a little. She thought maybe it was a habit, a remnant of a different time, of rubber strings and spoons over flames. She wondered about when he would be strong enough to fly again. She didn’t like wondering about that.

Not bothering to look up, Yelena scraped as much ice cream as she could, lifting the tub to her mouth to shovel the rest of it down before she’d be forced to share.

“You know, you could've just asked.” Bob said.

“True. But that would eliminate the thrill of stealing,” Yelena mumbled, mouth full.

Valentina had them on a strict “hero diet” as well, meaning all the snacks came from Bob, who had a knack for befriending possibly anyone, and who’d managed to get one of Valentina's assistants to help him stock up on the most god-awful American junk they could smuggle through the door. Alexei had started calling Bob their calorie dealer.

Rounding the island, Bob leaned against the counter opposite from her, backlit by the oily bulbs of the range hood. He was in a T-shirt and sweats, barefoot. His hair had been freshly cut.

Was Valentina getting him ready for the cameras? Already?

Yelena stared at the way his hair swirled gently along his brow, his cheek, soft downy brown. He looked like a long nap, the kind that left you foggy afterwards.

“Good. You didn’t go blonde again. Supremely silly by the way,” Yelena said, earning her a snort and an awkward shuffling of feet.

“No, yeah. I looked like a dollar store Fabio Lanzoni.”

“Who?”

“Oh, he was on, like, books. Book covers. You know, like, romance books—Bodice rippers? Gentle Rogue?”

“Gentle Rogue?” Yelena laughed, trying to imagine Bob on the cover of a romance book. “Very 80’s porno.”

“They were way worse. My aunt had a whole collection. Pretty sure it’s the only reason I learned how to read.” He shook his head. “So, uh—is this an eating alone in the kitchen type situation or do you want company?”

She swallowed, felt stupid for feeling…shy? Was she feeling fucking shy? Around Robert of all people?

“Well,” Yelena said, “seeing I’ve finished the Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Chunk, I’d maybe let you stay if you shared something from your commissary.”

“Oh, it’s sharing now?”

“I’m willing to trade.” She tapped the spoon on the kitchen island, thinking. Then, “I’ll teach you how to use those nunchucks.”

Bob blinked.

“Come on, I saw you take them from the training deck. You’re very bad at stealing.”

"Okay, I didn’t steal them, I—borrowed—”

“What do you do? Do you just whip them around in your room?” Yelena leaned forward, voice low. “Do you watch Youtube tutorials, Bob?”

“What do you want?”

“Cheetos.” She grinned, quite pleased with herself.

He looked at the empty tub of ice cream, snorted again, then stepped closer. A move so fast she wondered if any of them really knew how much of his powers had actually returned. Looming between her parted legs, blotting out the light. An arcane panic swelled within her so quickly she grappled to push it down—until she didn't have to anymore. And she breathed in, and she breathed out, and he smelled like a fresh shower, like deodorant. Lemongrass? The heat of him like this. Fuck. Sometimes, just sometimes she thought of what that heat would feel like if she slipped her finger past the hem of his sweaters, flattened her hand against his naked stomach, the soft trail of fuzz below—

Bob blinked, his eyelids twitching the way they did whenever he got nervous, which was always, always, and he was so fucking sweet when he was nervous. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze before clumsily crouching down between her legs, letting her heart slam up her throat before she had time to realize he was just rummaging through the cupboard below her, shoving pots and pans aside to get to his stash.

“Just need to—” His shoulder bumped her ankle. “Sorry.”

When he emerged with the requested bag of Cheetos, he shot her a dopey smile, shaking it in the air. “Deal?”

She slid down the kitchen island, making a show of landing fluidly on her feet. The drop in height made her flounder a little. Tilting her head up, she snatched the bag too fast for him to register, fingers grazing his, and she had to clear her throat before she spoke: “Deal.”

✢ ✢ ✢ ✢ ✢ ✢

“So what was it this time?” Bob asked.

They were sitting on the floor of the freshly renovated lounge, by the windows separating them from the nasty cold of a New York winter.

Everything still smelled new and leathery beneath the loom of the giant light fixture that hung like a planet in the dark. It was a space meant for important people, doing important things. She found solace in the fact that Bob seemed to feel just as uncomfortable being in it as she did, when the lights were on and another party was thrown, and servers whizzed around with trays of tiny food she’d scarf down in two bites and skinny flutes of champagne she couldn’t drink.

It was surprisingly peaceful when it was empty. Yelena liked the tower at night. Liminal. An eerie kind of nostalgia she couldn’t quite place.

After tossing a Cheeto in the air and catching it in her mouth, she turned towards Bob, chewing. “Hm?”

“What kept you up this time?” he repeated.

“Just, you know,” she shrugged, “imposter syndrome…and the burden of mortal stewardship…and, like, the fear of insufficiency…and also the weight of the responsibility of keeping a whole country safe from the intergalactic threat of literally anything. You know. The usual.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s, that’s pretty…weighty.” Bob nodded.

She didn’t want to tell him that it was Natasha who kept her tossing and turning most nights. But her sister was a ghost she couldn’t face completely, and especially not with him.

Clearing her throat, she pointed a Cheeto at him, aiming. She tossed it. He missed tremendously. “You?” she asked.

“Uh—” Bob shrugged, picking up the Cheeto from the floor, looking at it for a moment. “I just really fucking miss being high.”

Yelena laughed like a gunshot, tipping her head back with the force of it. She liked when he was honest. She liked when he said fuck. She was like a child endlessly thrilled by others' deviousness. And Bob, surprisingly, had been quite devious.

“Trying to ride it out.” He shrugged. “Distraction helps.”

“Okay,” Yelena coughed, nodded, lifting another Cheeto and tossing it at his mouth. He caught it this time, chewing on it triumphantly. “Let’s distract you then. Tell me more about your voyages.”

“Voyages?” Now Bob laughed. He always laughed when Yelena said it like that. Do you mean my meth-fueled meandering?

He didn’t see them as voyages or adventures. But they were to Yelena. Bob, the unlikely wayfarer of a psychedelic trek across the globe, with nothing but a donkey-eared passport in his pocket. He had a very peculiar talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and somehow not dying.

“What about yours?” he countered.

“Mine? Mine are just—mission go. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Knee to the face. Bomb. Mission complete.” She pantomimed someone choking to death. “At least yours are super weird.”

“Oh, good to know. Thought you enjoyed them for the ethical quandary.”

“Tell me about Phnom Pen. You didn’t finish last time.”

He snorted. She liked his snorts. “You mean the chicken race?”

“Yeah, of course I mean the chicken race, Bob. It’s a chicken race. You think I’d forget about the chicken race?" She lifted her brows. "Super weird!"

Yelena knew Bob thought of his time before the Sentry Project as pretty miserable, but his stories weren’t all bad, speckled with moments where he hadn’t been so high he couldn’t remember, small audacious moments that had taken him by surprise. As if even now, he had trouble accepting that life hadn't always been out to punish him.

He’d told her of the places and the people he’d met, people like him, people not like him at all, people from all over. He'd told her the longest time he’d ever been sober was in Cambodia, riding out the bouts of withdrawal on an air-mattress in a garage, taken in by a farmer’s son who’d found him face-down in the rice paddies, half-coherent after a two-week stint in Battambang. I stayed in town for a while. Won some cash gambling and I bought them a new fridge. Learned how to make the best red curry you'll ever eat in your life.

“Come on, tell me about the racing chickens,” Yelena said, her head slumped against the window. She blinked expectantly. And so Bob told her about the chicken race, and he told her about what happened after the chicken race, and what happened after that and then after that, until he couldn’t remember. Or didn’t want to.

They were quiet for a while, staring out the window, the sheet of lights that seemed to spill out forever.

"What if we’d met back then?” Yelena said, a little woozy from sleepiness. She felt younger like this. She didn't remember the last time she'd felt like this around someone.

“You wouldn’t have wanted that. Trust me,” he said.

“I do,” she said. Trust you. Is that a bad thing?

“Still.” Her leg slid towards him. “I think I would’ve liked to have known you sooner.”

It wasn’t true, not completely.

She meant another version of her meeting another version of him in another version of life, where all they worried about was what hostel to stay at next, how to scrounge up enough money for a flight back home, where they met at a dive bar on a beach or a hiking trail to some ancient monastery where all the white backpackers went to feel better about the choices they’d made.

But in this version of life, this version of her pressed her socked foot against this version of him. And he wasn’t Sentry, and he wasn’t the Void, not right now and not for this. He was warm, and the city lights painted him in faint, vaporous lines, and his chest was broad when he wasn’t slouching, his hands big and sure and smooth, a little clammy at times but she didn’t mind. I don’t mind. And his face, his open face so full of things.

This time, it wasn’t a thought she spotted there; it was a feeling so unmistakable, trembling from its own heat:

Yearning

✢ ✢ ✢ ✢ ✢ ✢

Yelena Belova was Russian after all.

Here was a feeling she knew like no other.

Next Chapter

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hoesoflamentation · 2 months ago

Text

╰☆☆ 𝙢𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚, 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚 ☆☆╮ om!levi with tattoos & piercings, reader with a vulva, 18+

// content warning for piercings, penetration, pervy behavior (reader spying on levi naked), fingering, handjob, jealous & possessive sex, (kinda?) soft dom levi

L E V I was good at hiding things. As a shy otaku who spent most of his time alone in his bedroom, he had learned a thing or two about going unnoticed.

Maybe that’s why it took his brothers almost a full month to notice the lip ring when he first got it. Mammon was the first to pick up on it, followed by Asmo… and of course, after those two knew something, so did everyone else in the House of Lamentation.

But there were still changes that no one else had noticed. No one, that is, except you. You’d had a crush on him for so long now; had been watching him more closely than anyone. So, naturally, you saw things that the others didn’t.

Like, the way his bangs fell forward when he leaned over his handheld console, revealing a glimpse of a silver eyebrow piercing. Or, the sneak peek of fresh black ink that revealed itself when he forgot to zip up the top inch of his favorite windbreaker.

You wanted to know what other surprises were hiding under his clothes. The thought kept you up at night, desperately pawing at your wet folds, picturing your tongue tangling around secret metal adornments that he kept for your eyes only.

Of course, Levi could never know that you’d had such lewd fantasies. These thoughts were your private delights, taken out for your viewing pleasure only when you were alone.

You never expected them to become reality. Yet, here you found yourself, locked in Asmo’s private bathroom with a secret view of Levi’s naked body on full display.

The night had started as an innocent attempt to take a relaxing bubble bath. You had the fifth-born demon’s full permission to use his powder room whenever you wanted a pick-me-up, and after a stressful day, you could have thought of nothing better than a soak in the tub.

In the privacy of Asmo’s secret oasis, you peeled off all your layers and wrapped yourself in one of his fluffy monogrammed towels. You only realized that you had forgotten to lock the bathroom door when Levi walked in, whistling the tune to his favorite Ruri-chan opener. Too embarrassed to think straight, you did the first thing you thought of: ducked behind a towel rack and pretended you weren’t there.

Maybe he’ll grab something and leave, you had hoped foolishly. Instead, he did the complete opposite: ran the tub full of water, took off his clothes and prepared to stay awhile. And you, like a filthy pervert, had watched from across the room as he shed every article of clothing, each newly-revealed inch of tattooed skin leasing a gasp from your lips that you desperately fought to quell.

Levi wasn’t just hiding one or two tattoos from his family, as you might have suspected. No - nearly his entire body was inked from the neck down, patterns of perched mermaids and coiling snakes and crashing waves dancing across his smooth skin.

You squeezed your eyes (and legs) tightly shut, willing yourself not to imagine tracing every line with your fingers and tongue. But it was already too late: before you could stop yourself, you had already let out a high-pitched whine.

“Aaghh!” Levi startled, frantically wrapping a towel around his waist and adopting an offensive stance. “HALT, NORMIE! Who goes there?!”

Awkwardly, you sidestepped out from your hiding spot and gave a little wave. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here. I’ll go.”

“N-no! Stay!” he stammered, then flushed. “I mean, y-you don’t have to leave… I’ll go.”

“Are you sure?” Jutting out your lower lip, you shifted your weight from side to side. “I feel bad kicking you out.”

“It’s not kicking me out if you were in here first!”

Levi’s lean bicep flexed as he bashfully hid his face behind his hand. An anchor tattoo contracted beneath the rippling contours of his ivory flesh. A shiver ran down your spine.

“No, you stay,” you blurted, heat rushing to your cheeks.

Levi raised his eyebrows in sheepish surprise.

“But you’re-” He struggled to get his words right. “But I’m-”

Unceremoniously, he gestured to his body with a series of flailing limbs. Levi wasn’t graceful, but you got the point: undressing together wasn’t exactly part of your usual hangout routine.

“We’re friends, right?” You shyly averted your gaze. “We can take a bath together. It doesn’t have to be… sexual, or anything.”

Ever the smooth charmer, Levi erupted into a coughing fit at the word ‘sex’ leaving your lips. Between spasms, he managed to choke out a few words: “...i-it doesn’t?”

“Of course not.” You squeezed your legs together even tighter, worried that he would notice the trail of slick running down your inner thighs.

Anxiously, you started babbling: “Yeah, I do it with Asmo all the time!”

Your hand flew to your lips when you realized what you had done. But by then, it was already too late.

“...oh.”

Before you could explain yourself, a dark shadow crossed Levi’s face. He turned away from you, long, elegant fingers white-knuckling the marble-topped vanity. You could see flames reflected in his ochre eyes, flickering in the bathroom mirror as his tattooed shoulders heaved with the weight of his breath.

His voice was quiet and gravelly as he spoke: “You let Asmo see you… like that? It’s so… unfair…”

Immobilized, you watched as his demon form took over, branched horns and tentacles sprouting as his forked tongue seductively caressed his lip ring. You hugged the towel you were wearing closer to your chest, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of your hard, sensitive nipples rubbing against the plush pink fabric.

Levi looked up at you, orange eyes aglow.

“Why’d you let him see you first?” he whined.

Levi released his grip on the table and slowly approached you. As he walked, his towel slid down the contours of his waist, revealing an indigo trail crowning his v-line.

Your breath hitched in your throat as he closed the distance between you, with a careless disregard for how little fabric separated your naked bodies.

“Hah- Levi, what are you doing?” you managed to stammer.

“It should have been me.” Levi roughly seized your arm, locking his fingers around your wrist like shackles. “I told them you were mine.”

Instinctively, you leaned backwards until you stumbled into the countertop behind you. Obviously, you had seen Levi’s jealousy before, but you had never seen him like this - so forward; so primal.

“You belong to me, Y/n,” he growled, pressing one arm to the wall above your head, “so don’t forget it!”

You sighed with a full-body shudder, before losing your grip on the towel concealing your most intimate areas.

“A-ah!” you gasped, starting to reach for the forgotten fabric. “I’m sorry!”

“No,” Levi insisted. “I mean… let me look at you!”

Hesitantly, you followed directions, allowing your arm to fall limply by your side. His ochre gaze burned your naked skin. Shyly, you looked away, pointlessly crossing your arms over the swell of your breasts.

“Why are you hiding your body?” Levi frowned. “You don’t hide it from him.”

“Because-“ You shifted awkwardly from side to side. “I don’t know, it feels different with Asmo.”

…because Asmo was friendly, nonthreatening, nonsexual. Not anything like this. Whatever was going on between you and Levi - this dance of words - the tension in the room was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

“I knew it.” Levi jutted out his lower lip. “You like him better than me.”

“That’s not it-” you tried to protest.

But Levi barely seemed to notice. He was swiftly growing drunk on envy.

If only he could feel what you felt right now; if only he knew that he was the only one in all of heaven, earth, or hell who could make you crave it like this. Maybe then, he would understand that there was nothing for him to be jealous of.

But until then, Levi was intent on making you understand that there was only one demon who was allowed to have you…

“From now on,” he breathed, tongue lolling lazily out of the side of his mouth as he traced the gentle curve of your waist; the pillowy-soft edge of your breast, “I want to be the only one who gets to see you like this.”

You couldn’t help but moan as Levi’s fingertips finally grazed your swollen bud. The corner of Levi’s lip curled wryly. And, as if obeying his commands, you gushed, leaking lustful juices down your thigh.

Levi played your clit like a new game he was trying to master, his strokes assured yet exploratory… and every time he pressed that button, he drew forth new sounds you hadn’t known you could make, as if unlocking a new series of achievements.

“Look at you.” He dug his fingernails greedily into your flesh. “Still so pretty when you’re making a mess. That’s not fair, either…”

The towel around Levi’s waist loosened and dropped to the floor as you bucked hungrily into his embrace. You felt his hardened shaft spring up between you, long and veiny - and, yes, crowned by a barbell through his frenulum.

Merely guessing his size left you feeling very nervous, and very empty - and incredibly desperate to feel that piercing bump up against your deepest places.

“I want to touch you back,” you whispered hoarsely, dizzy with lust. “Can I?”

Despite the demonic energy coursing through his veins, Levi blushed as he nodded. Refusing to look you in the eye, he turned away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, as you wrapped your neatly manicured fingers around his throbbing cock.

“Y-you don’t do this with any of my brothers, do you?” Levi choked out as you massaged precum into his tip, your thumb grazing over his dick piercing.

You replied by parting his lips with your own, fingers tangling in his rumpled violet locks.

Levi groaned into your open mouth with renewed confidence; his free hand wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss as he plunged two long fingers into your sopping hole. The feeling of his fingers inside you alone was enough to make him moan into your open mouth.

“F-fuck! Your pussy’s just too good, Y/n. Can’t believe… it’s all for me…”

A filthy squelch echoed through the room as Levi pumped in and out of you. You squeezed your eyes shut, overcome by how unbelievably good he was making you feel. Your nails etched deep scratches down his back, filling the blank spaces between his tattoos with welts of red, as your tongue traced the smooth metal of his lip ring.

“Levi,” you breathed, “will you please…?”

Understanding your meaning, Levi blushed. “Y-you mean it?”

You pressed a shy kiss to his lips and declared, “I’m all yours.”

Levi wasted no time lifting you onto the countertop, parting your legs, and rubbing his mushroom tip against your slick folds. At first, he carefully aligned himself with your hole, sliding into your depths with gentle precision.

Then, both of you sighed deeply as Levi allowed himself to bottom out inside of you. He closed his eyes as if relieved; pressed his forehead against yours, a few strands of indigo hair clinging to his face with sweat.

“Hahh - you feel so good!” Levi huffed, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “Don’t let anyone else touch you like this, okay? Promise this is just for me.”

“I promise- mm!”

Levi interrupted you by crushing his lips against yours, wrapping his long fingers experimentally around the base of your neck. Arching your hips into the rhythmic glide of his shaft, you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his chest, coyly concealing your fucked-out expression as he choked you and railed you.

As the intensity quickly built up between you, Levi’s thrusts became shallower and more frantic. Your grip on him tightened, and your lips met in a sloppy tangle of tongues.

“Fuck, shit, fuck-” Levi punctuated each jerk of his hips with a string of barely-coherent words. “That’s it, Y/n, you take it so well…”

The otaku third-born bounced you effortlessly on his cock, easily handling your body like you were nothing more than a toy.

“Levi, please,” you whined, tears starting to well in your eyes, “I don’t know how much longer I can-”

You moaned mid-sentence as Levi’s piercing bumped up against your cervix, causing your toes to curl. Levi groaned in desperation as he rutted absentmindedly into your opening.

“Damn it, Y/n, cum for me,” he exhaled into your skin. “Give it all to me, just me… no one else!”

“You too, Levi,” you babbled. “I don’t want to share you with anyone else…”

Bolstered by your reply, Levi started to frantically nip and suck at the delicate skin of your shoulder. Witnessing the trail of delicate purple-red bruises he left behind left you both feeling dizzy and drunk.

“I want to feel you," Levi growled. "P-please, Y/n... will you let me m-make you mine?”

“Levi, I’m -mmfh- I’m already yours!” you gasped, your long nails leaving crescent-shaped imprints in his back.

That was all Levi needed to hear. He closed his eyes and mewled nonsense into your lips, his cock twitching as it shot spurts of his hot seed deep inside your aching pussy. You reached your peak simultaneously, savoring every second of the sparks shooting up your spine; his pelvis making delicious contact with your greedy clit during every shallow thrust of his hips

Finally, Levi collapsed against your torso, his cock still semi-hard inside of you even as the rest of his body went limp in your arms. Slowly, each of his arms wrapped around you, trapping you in his embrace.

You stayed like that for a few moments: coated in a sheen of sex and sweat; feeling the rise and fall of your chest synchronizing with his own. However, recognizing the need to clean yourselves up, you moved to stand - only for Levi to squeeze you even tighter, holding you in place, quietly murmuring words you could barely make out:

“You’re mine now…all mine…”

And he wasn’t letting you go anywhere.

a/n: new layout who dis??? anyways, i'm back from hiatus, i think. and i've been consumed by thoughts of levi with a lip piercing ever since i saw this one piece of fanart. so, here we are. next piece of brainrot is for toji (jjk) but i'm considering opening requests, including for lads now that i'm a certified ~convert~ so lmk if that's something you'd be interested in.

#lavender haze🪻#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me smut #obey me leviathan #obey me levi #obey me levi x reader #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me levi smut #levi obey me smut #obey me leviathan smut

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