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loveshotzz · 24 days ago

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Party 4 U

steve harrington x fem!reader // situationship

🎶 I was hopin’ you would come through, it’s true, it’s true, I only threw this party for you.🎶

summary: Steve hasn’t returned any of your calls the past two weeks, but Harrington never misses a party.

word count: 4k

warnings: 18+ heartbreak (I mean it’s based of party 4 u and also a little bit of my personal life), emotional cheating kinda, the classic I have to let you go because you don’t realize you’re in love with someone else trope. a little self destructive self aware delulu at the end. kissing. drinking and smoking. also lots of Eddie! 🎸

authors note: my first full fic in over a year 💕 i missed you guys and i hope you enjoy it.

With only a few more weeks of summer left. Everyone in Hawkins was chasing the last bit of those 9 pm sunsets and the freedom they bring only three months out of the year, which made convincing your two roommates to throw a last minute party easy. In fact you were so casual with it, they didn’t even notice the way your canines dug themselves into the skin around your nail bed the moment they both squealed ‘yes!’ in the kind of excitement that would usually be contagious, because who doesn’t love a house party?

Steve Harrington lives for a good house party.

The boy they had warned you about four years ago when you first moved to Indiana, the former king of Hawkins high, and now the current king of Hawkins Community College. A crown that he wears begrudgingly, but a crown with privilege nonetheless.

In fact the warning was so intense, you heeded it like your life depended on it, even when all the stories seemed far from the goofy guy you’d pass in the hallway or see laying out in the courtyard with his fast talking, daily nail color changing best friend, Robin. You stayed strong when he started saying “hi” on your daily passes to class flashing you his perfect pearly whites in jeans that fit him a little too tight. You even held it together when his big hand would spread out in a wave across the lawn in an effort to catch your gaze. His mossy green eyes lingering just a little longer on your thighs whenever it was warm enough to wear shorts no matter what animated thing his best friend was saying.

But at the beginning of May when you stumbled into your house at the crack of dawn after an end of year party with tequila fresh on your breath and his teeth marks decorating your neck, they had to warn you again.

’Everyone who grew up here knows he’s always going to be in love with Nancy Wheeler.’

’He’s never going to leave Hawkins, and you’re moving after college.’

’I think he’s probably dated or asked out every girl in this town at this point. Do you really want to be added to that list?’

Two weeks ago, you couldn’t wait to tell them how wrong they were. That you weren’t the fool they warned you’d become. Not when you’re falling asleep under the stars with him, a blanket that had been shoved in his trunk laid out while your heavy lids win under fingertips that trace the warmed soft skin of your face from a day out in the sun on the lake. You couldn’t be, not when you woke up to sleepy hazel eyes at the crack of dawn and that messy mane of hair at the top of his head somehow even more chaotic than before with a slow lazy smile pulling up at pink lips that constantly beg to be kissed.

There was no way something that feels like this would just go away with a couple hundred miles in between it when the time had to come.

But, that was two weeks ago, and multiple unanswered calls later.

You can start to hear the bells on your jester’s hat beginning to jingle in the distance. Taunting you, just like the sound of his voice mail but you don’t dare to tell them.

Strawberry pink skies bleeds into a dark plum as the setting sun kisses the tops of the swaying trees outside, the chilly breeze that only reveals itself at night in Indiana hits your sticky skin in a welcomed reprieve from the open front door. Anxiety tickles at your subconscious, while glittery fingertips tug at the bottom of your short dress, soft thighs sticking together underneath the thin cotton fabric despite the temporary chill. You’d been standing at the top landing for longer than you’d care to admit, eyes scanning the crowd of rowdy college kids for any signs of him.

Your house vibrates with the energy of twenty something’s on the cusp of the rest of their life, all mega watt smiles and blushing cheeks thanks to the keg Eddie Munson set up in the backyard next to the pool. A kind gesture and a ploy to get with one of your roommates, you just didn’t know which one because he actively flirts with both. It didn’t matter to you tonight, because your new mission was to get that joint you knew he had tucked behind his ear long forgotten since hiding it there before he left the trailer park, because the idea of Steve not showing up has you gnawing at your bottom lip so hard it might bleed.

Making your way through the crowd, there’s an anger that simmers just below the surface and you’re not sure if it should be directed at yourself for letting him get under your skin, when you should’ve known better. Or if maybe, he should take the blame, because the lack of communication on his end comes with realizations shrouded in the kind of sadness you’re not equipped to handle yet. Still, you look for him, smiling and nodding at a few people that you recognize zig zagging through the makeshift dance floor all the way to the kitchen.

At any party, you can always find Eddie Munson by the cheap bottle of tequila, a beer in hand and unlit cigarette dangling dangerously at the edge of his mouth debating peoples music taste. Which typically is annoying for everyone involved but it’s perfect tonight because not only do you need a shot to go with your much needed THC, he needs to finally smoke that cigarette, and whoever he’s trapped needs to be saved.

“There she is! I thought you locked yourself away in your tower for the night.”

The metal head grins wide enough to see his signature dimple poke the side of his cheek when you walk in, and sure enough that Marlboro red is hanging on for dear life. Heather Halloway sees this as her escape route and quickly shuffles out, she is a big New Kids On The Block fan and you know he can’t stand them.

”Thought about it,” you shrug with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, “pour me a shot?”

Eddie studies your face long enough to know something is off, so he pours you a double in a red solo cup instead.

”That’s funny cause, I heard this party was your idea.” He arches a brow, offering you the shot with a hand decorated in chunky silver that catches in the fluorescent light.

”Maybe.” You play nonchalant, downing the whole thing without warning or time for him to give you any kind of chaser which you usually demand with a look of disgust on your face any time you catch a whiff of alcohol.

”Jesus Christ.” Eddie huffs, finally knocking the dangling cigarette from its resting place but his reflexes are still quick enough to catch it, “not maybe, that’s literally what I was told when I was invited.”

”Ooo which one invited you?” You tease, making his cheeks turn pink.

”That’s neither here nor there sweetheart,” He tries fighting a grin before forcing a serious look on his boyish face, “what’s going on here? What’s wrong with you?”

Your stubbornness kicks in, giving him a shrug staring down into your empty red cup, not wanting to reveal all your pathetic cards just yet.

”Pour me another one,” you sigh, finally meeting his big brown eyes, “and then I’ll tell you.”

Eddie contemplates the idea of telling you no because he’s a firm believer of not drinking when you're sad but, he also thinks about the consequences of actually telling you no. So he pours you just a single, in which you down just like the first one tossing the empty solo cup in the trash with a small burp before pointing to the joint behind his ear.

”Also, I wanna smoke that.”

The metal head looks confused for a minute before his eyes roll up towards the joint he had indeed forgotten about, a realization that makes his lips curve up.

”You’re needy tonight aren’t you?” He teases with every intention of giving into you, the nicotine in his fingers calling his name “to the bonfire we go then.”

Goosebumps pebble across the skin that’s not lucky enough to be warmed by the flames in front of you, but the big inhale of your first hit that fills your lungs does what the fire can’t do. The temporary rush to your head settles the anxiety that’s been clawing at your chest for days and you relish in the relief for a little bit before finally confessing your secrets to Eddie under the starry night sky.

”It’s Steve.” You say simply, defeat evident in the way you roll your shoulders back and take your second hit.

”Harrington? Wait, you two are a thing?” He practically chokes on the smoke of his Marlboro.

”It’s new-ish, I mean since right after graduation.” You shrug, desperately trying to come off as nonchalant, refusing to meet his eyes.

”Three months? You and Harrington have been bumping uglies for three months and I never figured it out?!”

“Eww Eddie! You are making me regret this, oh my god.” Embarrassment sets your cheeks on fire, and you take another big hit to get rid of it.

”I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Raising his hands in surrender, the smirk that pulls up his full lips makes you want to punch him, “just not what I was expecting, I mean, good for you. I’ve heard…things.”

”EDDIE!” You huff standing up, smashing the burning end of the joint into the brick surrounding the bonfire, putting it out.

”Sorry! Sorry! Don’t go, please I’ll stop!”

He does his best to sound serious in between small giggles, metal bound fingers grabbing your wrist to stop you from leaving. Your desperation to finally talk about it has you forgiving him quicker than usual, but not without a glare and a heavy roll of your eyes, before you flop back into your chair.

”I can’t stand you.” You complain with a cross of your arms.

”You love me.” He grins, clearing his throat, “so, what’s going on with Steve?”

For some reason hearing someone else say his name makes the dull throb in your chest ache just a little more. Swallowing your pride, you even contemplate re lighting the joint before confessing, but ultimately decide against it.

”I haven’t heard from him in two weeks. I’ve called him a few times, nothing, you know, crazy or anything, but I’m getting pretty familiar with his voicemail.”

You hope that Eddie can’t hear the bitterness in your tone, the anger from before starting to bubble again.

”That’s weird, I literally just saw him yesterday at Wheeler’s house. They’re moving Nancy out, and he was helping everybody. He seemed fine, I mean I’d even say a good mood.” He says casually taking a long drag of his cigarette, not realizing that he just confirmed your worst fear with two simple sentences, punching a hole in your gut.

It’s too late for damage control when realization dawns on Eddie quickly adding in a panicked, “Jonathan was there too!”

But that part didn’t really matter, everyone who’s familiar with their history knew that.

”Umm, I’m uh, glad to hear he’s doing good. Not hurt or like, kidnapped.” There’s no hiding the crack in your voice, and you refuse to meet the pity in Eddie’s gaze that you can feel burning a hole into the top of your head.

”Hey, I’m sure it’s not like tha-“

”EVERYONE JUMP IN THE LAKE!”

Eddie’s attempt at easing your worries falls on deaf ears, both of you jumping at the sound of Patrick McKinny’s very loud exclamation, followed by an even louder round of cheers as most of the party starts running down from the house in a blur of clothes tossed into the air along the way. Conveniently ending your conversation with Eddie at the perfect time.

‘Everyone who grew up here knows he’s always going to be in love with Nancy Wheeler.’

“I’m gonna go with them, thanks for the joint.” You don’t wait for him to answer, getting up and quickly blending in with the crowd, before he can stop you.

The heartbreak tightens in your chest and restricts the air flow to your lungs, the corners of your eyes stinging because how could you be so wrong? How could you be so sure that you were the exception to the Steve Harrington rule?

You blink back tears nearing the edge of the lake, haphazardly kicking off your sandals, letting the soft waves lap at your toes, before taking a shaky breath finally lifting your eyes. The lake is full just like the people swimming in it, water splashes accompanied by playful screams and the kind of smiles that glow under the silvery moonlight. Carefree chaos orchestrated by you, but somehow you’re the one with heavy shoulders, and a broken heart. A plan that was doomed from the start, a truth you knew deep down after day two of his radio silence.

The water is colder than you thought it would be, but you don’t let that stop you from continuing deeper, only getting used to the temperature once you’re waist deep. A shiver runs down your spine, and you plug your nose before throwing all caution to the wind fully submerging yourself. Because who cares at this point?

It’s quiet under the water, and the party that surrounds you becomes muted in the peaceful darkness and it feels like you can finally slow your thoughts down for the first time since Eddie opened his unknowing mouth. Folding your knees you let yourself sink deeper, the soft cotton of your dress clinging to your curves like a second skin. You extend your arms out, spreading your fingers, feeling the soft water between them, letting the gentle currents soothe you. Cursing your need for oxygen, you ignore the screaming of your lungs for as long as you can, basking in your solitude for just a few seconds longer before planting your feet on the rough sand beneath you pushing yourself back up.

It’s almost jarring how loud the party is when you breach the surface, wiping the water from your eyes, you notice how many more people jumped in after you. It makes you wonder just how long you were actually under, especially with the way every deep breath you take stings in your chest. Pushing your hair back, a twinkle in the stars catches your gaze, craning your neck, you try and get a better look. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you pick your feet up, letting the lake cradle your back. Floating. Weightless. Just like you.

The sky expands the more your eyes adjust, and it’s easy to get lost in its beauty just like your thoughts that come racing back. The sadness that you feel now, you know is a temporary kind of pain, because you had a whole life before Steve, and you’ll have another one after him. But it all hurts just the same, mourning the part of you that day dreamed the summer away about a future that might include him too.

’He’s never going to leave Hawkins, and you’re moving after college.’

It’s not Hawkins, that Steve won’t leave. It’s Nancy. He’ll wait here till her inevitable return when her new life with Jonathan implodes in on itself because anyone with eyes can already see the cracks in their foundation. He’ll help her pick up the pieces of her broken dreams and meld himself into them with her new ones. Everyone else between now and that fated moment is just here to pass the time. Practice for the main event. You’re just a visitor in Steve’s long path to the one that got away, whether he knows it or not. There’s a part of you that’s not so sure he even sees it yet, because putting her first has always just been second nature.

The thought is enough to ease some of the anger, but sadness just fills in the gaps, making the corners of your eyes sting again. It takes you a minute to hear it, too lost in your own head to realize the man that’s consumed every waking thought is calling out your name. Your reaction is stalled, heart racing because your plan actually worked after all of this. Your toes find the sand, pushing yourself back up onto your feet, and you hate that you meet his gaze almost instantly. Eyes locking together like two magnets searching for each other, and the smile that pushes up his cheeks makes your chest tighten and not in the way you’ve grown so fond of.

He waves excitedly like he hasn’t just dropped off the face of the earth the past two weeks to help his ex girlfriend move. You wiggle your fingers just barely above the surface and you know your smile doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s either too far to notice or is completely oblivious because the shine of his pearly whites doesn’t falter while he lifts his shirt over his messy bed head making you suck in a sharp breath, and another one when his jeans hit the grass too.

Of course Steve Harrington is coming to unknowingly stomp all over your heart some more in nothing but his underwear.

His skin looks tanner than the last time you saw him, which you didn’t think was even possible this far into summer. The patch of hair on his chest that drives you crazy is a dark contrast to the bronze he glows under the moonlight. His long fingers nervously card through his hair while he adjusts to the water temperature walking towards you trying to play it cool like he didn’t need extra time, and it’s almost enough for the corners of your lips to twitch.

“I was looking for the prettiest girl at the party,” he flirts like he just kissed you silly across the console of his car last night, “and Eddie told me she was in the lake with everyone else.”

Steve winks, looking for the eyeroll he usually gets in response to his relentless cheesy passes, but he gets nothing but an awkward half smirk, and that stupid smile on his face finally falters.

“Hey honey, are you okay?” Concern twists his handsome features, finally closing the space between you, water lapping at his waist straightening up.

Honey.

The anger from before finds its way back, warming your cheeks, and you look up at him between slanted eyes, doing your best to ignore the bergamot and amber that threatens to envelope you.

“It’s weird hearing you say anything besides ‘hey you’ve reached Steve, sorry I missed your call.’”

His face drops, catching the hurt that’s wrapped around your words, guilt making him unsure of what to do next, trying his best to read your body language despite most of it being hidden from his sight under the dark water.

“Look, I know I sucked at calling, but I swear I wasn’t doing anything but helping the Wheelers. Nance is moving to New York with Jonathan -“

”I don’t really care what Nancy Wheeler is doing Steve.” You bite, watching him flinch, satisfaction swelling deep in your gut.

“I just lost track of time, we did so much -“

”You didn’t talk to me for two weeks. What am I supposed to think about that? That I wasn’t even a thought in your head, I wasn’t even worth you sparing five minutes. You don’t even see how wrapped up you are in her do you?”

The tears that had been threatening to spill over finally do, and Steve can’t help himself, swiping them away with the pad of his thumb before cupping the side of your face in the palm of his hand that almost swallows you whole.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, but you refuse to meet his gaze, “I’m here now, I came here for you, I showed up here looking for you, to see you.”

He bends down, doing his best to get you to look at him, but you hold strong because you know that you won’t be able to fight how good it will feel to be with him tonight after wanting nothing more for the past few weeks. Even if you know it’s not the forever that you wished for, the one you were silly enough to daydream about despite knowing better. With just two months before your chapter in Hawkins is set to end, the thought of walking away from him while you can still have him is a different kind of torture you weren’t prepared for yet, one that would be easier when you’re miles apart. Not while he’s pleading for you now.

”I can fix this, I can make it up to you.” He whispers, gently tugging at the bottom of your chin, doing his best to coax you to lift it and meet him halfway. “Come on baby, let me.”

He can’t fix a problem he doesn’t realize is there, a truth he’s not ready to admit to himself yet, but you’ll selfishly let him have it this time because when you finally meet the emerald and gold in his eyes, you want to believe he can too for right now.

”There she is.” His smile is warm, just like his touch pulling you closer by the hip when you lean deeper into his palm. “I’m sorry. I really am, baby. I’m here now though, let me make this okay.”

You don’t trust yourself not to cry if you try to give him a response, so you don’t, encouraging him silently with your hands flattening against his chest instead. Glittery fingers getting lost in coarse hair, deciding to memorize this feeling while it still exists. The sounds of the party drown out for the second time as he bends down, the tip of his nose brushing against yours, asking for permission that you grant with the slightest tilt of your head, letting him kiss you dizzy like this isn’t the end.

#my writing #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #eddie munson #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

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The Witnesses

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Felicity and Oscar’s Years at Haileybury School through the eyes of their classmates.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

I spent every free minute I had in four days writing this and you are getting it today because I'll be busy tomorrow ❤️

Also warning, about a mention of an eating disorder and a bruised sternum and pneumonia...I think that's everything? Wait, I forgot: Teenagers being horrible.

Samir Malik

Oscar Piastri didn’t talk much when he first arrived at Haileybury.

Not in the way that most new kids were shy. No, Oscar was… quiet. Composed. Too still for a 14-year-old. He never cried. Never complained.

He was gone half the time for Karting, and the rest of the time he had his uniform perfect, his homework early, and his backpack zipped with the kind of militant precision that made most of them suspicious.

He was brilliant.

Top marks in math and science by week two. Made the cricket team without breaking a sweat.

But he was always alone.

Some of the boys thought he was a bit of a freak. Too good. Too blank. It wasn’t cruelty at first—just curiosity turned sour when Oscar didn’t play along.

By week two, someone had called him Robot Boy.

By week three, it stuck.

Samir had never said it himself. But he’d laughed the first time someone made the joke in the dorms—when Oscar finished a physics quiz in four minutes flat and just… sat there blinking while everyone else panicked.

“Careful, Robot Boy. You’re gonna fry a circuit.”

Oscar didn’t respond.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

He just looked at them, impassive and too old, and returned to his notebook.

Samir remembered thinking: Jesus. Maybe he really is a robot.

Then came Felicity Leong. She had been there since 7th grade. Singaporean, sharp-eyed and scarily good at Latin. The kind of girl who corrected the teacher when the subjunctive case was wrong and then looked bored five seconds later.

And Robot Boy—Oscar—reacted.

Not big. Not obvious. But Samir noticed it.

Oscar sat next to her in every class. Lingered in hallways. Spoke softly to her in the library like he was afraid too many syllables would scare her off. It was weird. And tender.

And completely recognisable from the stone-faced boy Oscar was around everybody else.

Everyone saw it.

Everyone.

Which is probably why Josh Whitmore opened his dumb mouth.

They were fourteen. Sitting in the courtyard. Samir remembered it clearly—crisp day, grey skies, the smell of overcooked chips wafting from the canteen.

Josh was laughing about something, flicking bottle caps at a tree, and then said—loudly, and with the smugness only a 14-year-old bully can muster:

“Bet Robot Boy only likes her ‘cause she’s got no tits and doesn’t talk back.”

There was a pause.

Oscar, who had been two benches over reading some engineering book like a pensioner, stood up.

Walked over.

Didn’t say anything.

Just looked at Josh with this dead-calm expression that made the hairs on Samir’s neck stand up.

And , then—without a single word—Oscar shoved him. Hard.

Josh went stumbling into the grass with a yelp, more stunned than hurt, and Oscar just kept walking forward. Not fast. Not angry.

Controlled.

Like something had clicked inside him.

“Don’t talk about Felicity like that,” he said quietly.

Josh scrambled up. “Mate, it was a joke—”

Oscar’s voice cut through him like a blade. “Say it again.”

And the whole courtyard went silent.

Samir remembered Felicity arriving seconds later—hair pulled back, eyebrows furrowed, voice soft with warning.

“Oscar. Stop. It’s not worth it.”

And the moment she spoke, the tension snapped. Oscar took a step back. His fists unclenched. He looked at her like gravity pulled him in place.

And then he walked away.

Oscar didn’t get detention—Josh didn’t dare to report it.

Samir sat on the edge of the Year 9 dorm windowsill that night, watching the courtyard disappear into dusk, chewing the inside of his cheek and thinking about the look on Piastri’s face.

Not rage.

Not even anger, really.

Just… defense. Like he’d been wired to stay calm until someone touched the single thing he wouldn’t let them ruin.

And then he snapped.

Samir had seen blokes lose their heads before. Shouting, flailing, posturing. That wasn’t what Oscar did.

Oscar had moved like someone protecting something. Like something old and silent and raw had cracked open, and all that ice they joked about—Robot Boy and the Circuit Board Brain—had turned into fire instead.

He didn’t look robotic anymore.

He looked like he cared.

Which, to be honest, made everything a bit awkward now. Because once Samir saw it—really saw it—he couldn’t unsee it.

The way Oscar sat on the floor beside Felicity in study hall, backs to the radiator, knees just brushing. The way he always knew if she was too quiet. The way she’d pass him a protein bar without looking, or rest her head against his shoulder when she was reading.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t a performance.

It was just… them.

And suddenly all the stupid jokes—the beep boop, the Emotion.exe not found memes, the Robot Boy name—felt wrong.

Small.

Because Oscar Piastri wasn’t a robot.

He was just the kind of kid who didn’t trust the world enough to show what he felt.

Not until someone gave him a reason to.

And Samir had a feeling that reason had a Singaporean accent, an encyclopedic knowledge of Classical literature, and a deadpan stare that could kill gods.

Oscar made his point.

Nobody called him Robot Boy again after that.

***

The thing about Oscar — and Samir had said this more than once, usually while watching another one of their classmates fumble the bare minimum — was that he had better emotional range than half their year combined.

Because while the rest of them were fumbling through breakups and making disasters out of almost-relationships, Oscar Piastri had already picked his person. And he didn’t waffle. Didn’t wander. Didn’t flirt for fun.

It was ridiculous, really.

Unfair.

Downright confusing at times.

They were sixteen, surrounded by the usual chaos of boarding school — boys who thought vulnerability was weakness, who treated relationships like status badges or games, who ghosted girls because they didn’t know how to talk about feelings without making it a joke.

And then there was Oscar. Unflappable. Quiet. Surgical with his logic. And somehow the most emotionally well-adjusted, devotion-wrapped-in-a-Haileybury-blazer boyfriend any of them had ever seen.

By the time they were 15, Oscar Piastri and Felicity Leong were a couple.

And Oscar just… adored Felicity. With the steady, unshakeable devotion of someone who knew.

Most guys in their year didn’t know what to do with girls like Felicity. Too smart, too composed, too quietly self-possessed. The kind of girl who could skin you alive in debate club and do it politely.

Oscar, though?

He adored her. Out loud. No hesitation.

It wasn’t the loud kind of high school obsession, either. He didn’t brag or trail after her like a puppy. There was no performative PDA or “look at us” hallway snogging.

Oscar didn’t half like her. He didn’t flirt with other girls. He didn’t act embarrassed or annoyed when she beat him on mock exams.

He just… adored her.

Unapologetically.

Even at fifteen.

Samir remembered watching them once in the library — Felicity curled in a beanbag with a thick textbook in her lap, Oscar sitting next to her with his laptop open and a hand casually resting on her ankle like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like it was just instinct now. Like: here is the person I love, and here is how I stay tethered to her.

And he meant it. That was the weird part.

Oscar showed up to breakfast half-asleep but always saved her a seat.

He remembered her test dates better than his own.

He didn’t need to say it every five seconds. He didn’t do public declarations or grand gestures.

What he did do was carry her bag when her shoulder hurt.

Robot boy, Samir thought again, watching as Felicity leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

It was him pulling her into his side when she was quiet for too long — not asking questions, just making room.

Oscar waited for Felicity after her lectures. Learn how she took her tea and get genuinely annoyed when someone else got it wrong.

Oscar brought her snacks during exam week. Walked her back from the library even when it was out of his way. Remembered her coffee order. Looked up random facts about things she liked just to talk to her about them.

Once, when she missed school for a week with pneumonia, Oscar handwrote her notes for every subject and stapled them with colour-coded tabs.

Samir remembered watching Oscar slip into the common room once, find Felicity asleep with her head on her textbook, and quietly set a blanket over her shoulders before sitting down with his own homework like it was just part of his day.

No show. No gloating. No performance.

Just a sixteen-year-old boy with a heart so obvious it didn’t need to be shouted.

“God, you’re like her golden retriever,” Aarya had joked once.

And Oscar, without missing a beat, had said, “Yeah. And I’d bite anyone who tried to hurt her.”

No hesitation.

Samir had seen a lot of boys fake maturity. Fake romance. Fake effort.

But Oscar Piastri? He meant every word. Meant it with his hands and his actions.

Oscar Piastri did things no other teenage boy would ever be willingly admit to doing.

He wasn’t embarrassed to sit in the front row of Felicity’s orchestra concerts, even if she only had a three-minute violin solo buried in the middle of a 42-minute program.

He brought flowers, every time — not some sad petrol station bouquet, but little ones he clearly chose himself, wrapped in brown paper like a scene from a European indie film.

He knew when her auditions were. When her math competitions were. He even showed up to the Year 10 robotics club showcase — the one nobody went to except for teachers and bewildered parents — just because Felicity had designed the sensor rig for one of the projects.

And when Samir had casually asked why, Oscar blinked at him and said, "Because it matters to her."

It was that simple.

It always was, with Oscar.

It was the small things, mostly. The things most guys their age would've called "whipped" or "soft" or "too much."

Like how Oscar had learned to braid hair.

Not just ponytails or messy plaits — proper French braids. Fishtails. Crown braids. Because Felicity would get headaches during exam weeks and needed help when her hands were sore from writing too much, and Oscar — ever the problem solver — had simply watched a YouTube tutorial and figured it out.

He kept extra hair ties on his wrist for her after that.

Or the time she went through a stress baking phase and made it exactly three cupcakes before remembering she hated measuring.

Oscar took over the mixing bowls.

By the end of the term, he knew her favourite cookie ratios by heart — and the best way to sneak extra chocolate chips into the dough without her noticing.

The worst — or best — part?

Oscar even tried ballet.

Ballet.

Oscar Piastri, who had the natural grace of a brick in sneakers, signed up for a beginner’s movement class because Felicity once offhandedly said it helped her de-stress. Samir only found out because someone caught a glimpse of him in the dance studio trying not to fall over during a plié and asked if he was doing it for PE credit.

“No,” Oscar had said flatly, stretching his arms out in second position. “I’m just trying to understand why she likes it.”

And it wasn’t weird. Somehow it wasn’t weird.

Because Oscar wasn’t trying to impress her. He wasn’t performing. He just… cared.

Cared for the things that Felicity cared about.

***

It was two weeks before the Winter Formal when Samir walked into the common room and saw something that made him stop dead in his tracks.

Felicity Leong — calm, brilliant, terrifyingly precise Felicity — was in the middle of the room, humming under her breath as she corrected Oscar’s posture with both hands on his shoulders. Oscar, meanwhile, was standing stiffly like he was being prepped for battle, his expression somewhere between concentration and mild existential crisis.

“You’re not holding a steering wheel,” she said, deadpan.

“I feel like I’m about to crash anyway,” Oscar muttered.

Samir blinked. “Is this… dancing?”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “Apparently I have the grace of a traffic cone.”

“He’s not that bad,” Felicity said generously, adjusting his grip. “He just counts every beat like it owes him money.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “You try learning footwork after three hours of calculus.”

Felicity only smiled. “That’s why we’re practicing now.”

They had cleared space near the windows — moved the armchairs back, stacked textbooks on one end table, even pushed the coffee table into the hallway. The overhead lights had been switched off, leaving only the soft glow of lamps and the flicker of fairy lights someone had pinned up for the holidays.

Samir watched as Felicity placed one hand in Oscar’s, the other on his shoulder, and gently nudged him into motion.

“One, two, three,” she counted under her breath. “One, two—Oscar, stop anticipating.”

“I’m trying!”

“You’re panicking.”

“I am not—okay maybe I am.”

They stumbled a little — Oscar’s foot knocking into hers — but Felicity just laughed, soft and patient. She never lost her temper with him. Never seemed bothered that he learned slower than she did, or forgot the names of steps, or treated every turn like a math equation. She just… kept showing up. Kept teaching him.

And Oscar — to his credit — kept trying.

Even when he blushed. Even when he muttered under his breath about how stupid he felt. Even when he absolutely did step on her foot and looked so horrified that she had to reassure him three times that it didn’t hurt.

They danced like that for almost half an hour. Him counting. Her humming. The two of them spinning in slow, careful circles like they existed in their own little orbit.

By the end of it, they were both breathless.

Felicity smoothed her hands down the front of his jumper. “You’re not hopeless.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Oscar muttered.

“You’ll be fine,” she said softly. “It’s just dancing.”

“It’s not just dancing,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It’s you. I don’t want to mess it up.”

She smiled. “Then stop trying to get it perfect. Just hold me and move.”

And when the formal finally came around — when Samir saw them gliding across the dance floor in that same easy rhythm, Oscar whispering something that made Felicity laugh into her hand — he thought back to that night in the common room. To the effort. To the nerves.

To the way love didn’t always look like big declarations.

Sometimes it just looked like a boy learning to waltz because the girl he loved wanted to dance.

And sometimes, that was more than enough.

***

Oscar never bragged.

He never looked around to check if anyone noticed. He just did it — quietly, consistently, like loving Felicity was the most natural thing in the world. Like of course he’d learn basic hairstyling and baroque composer facts and pointe shoe padding techniques.

Like he got how brilliant she was, and just wanted to make the world a little easier for her to keep being that brilliant.

It was also everything most girls in their year didn’t even dare ask for — consistency, care, quiet protection. Not flashy gestures, but a soft kind of loyalty that said, I choose you. Every time.

Samir once watched Oscar press a cold bottle of water to the back of Felicity’s neck after an exam because she looked faint. No drama. No “look at me.” Just calm, practiced concern. Like he knew her body better than she did.

They called him “Robot Boy,” but Samir was starting to think the rest of them were the malfunctioning ones.

Because Oscar had cracked something early — something the rest of them hadn’t figured out yet. That being soft for someone wasn’t weakness. That loving your person out loud didn’t make you less cool. That being emotionally available wasn’t some humiliating thing you had to disguise with bravado.

Oscar didn’t pretend he wasn’t in love.

He was in love.

He knew it. Felicity knew it. Their entire year group knew it.

And Oscar Piastri didn’t give a shit.

Samir once saw Felicity walk into the dining hall in one of Oscar’s hoodies, three sizes too big and clearly stolen that morning. Oscar just smiled at her like she was the sun.

Fifteen years old and that boy looked at her like he’d already found the rest of his life.

And somehow, Samir thought, he probably had.

And when someone once dared to suggest that he was “whipped,” Oscar had looked up from his physics homework and said, without a trace of embarrassment:

“I’m in love. That’s not weakness.”

And Samir, for the first time, hadn’t had a comeback.

Because somehow, the most emotionally competent teenage boy in their entire school… was the one they all thought had no feelings to begin with.

Robot boy, his ass.

Oscar Piastri was the gold standard of emotionally intelligent teenage boys since 2016.

***

Aarya Patel

Aarya had come to Haileybury on a scholarship.

The full-ride kind. Interviews, essays, and recommendation letters from teachers who had to dig their nicest shirts out of the back of their closets just to help her prepare.

Aarya knew the weight of price tags, the stress of term fees, the exact moment each of her shoes started to fray. She knew how to patch the inside hem of a school blazer so no one noticed. Knew how to say no when her friends wanted to go into town for sushi.

So she noticed things. She had to.

She noticed when girls wore real gold instead of plated. When someone's watch wasn’t for fashion, it was family inheritance. When a hair tie cost more than her whole pencil case.

Which was why Felicity Leong had confused the hell out of her.

Because Felicity was rich.

Not new money, not dad’s-got-a-tech-startup rich. Not the noisy kind. Not the constantly-proving-it kind.

She was old money. Singaporean old money. The kind that whispered.

That quietly owned real estate portfolios on three continents.

The kind that came with family foundations.

The kind that embroidered initials into silk pillowcases.

The kind that never checked price tags and had luggage that matched — properly matched.

Aarya had heard the whispers early on.

Leong family. Raffles Girls. Mandarin spoken like silk. Designer uniforms tailored to fit better than any off-the-rack brand. Someone had once said her mother wore Van Cleef like it was costume jewelry. Another claimed Felicity had pearls for every mood.

Felicity’s family didn’t have money.

Felicity had capital-W Wealth.

It was the kind of old, Singaporean, intergenerational wealth that didn’t need to prove itself. The kind that came with century old family trees, and museum-grade jade quietly worn under school jumpers.

Felicity Leong had the kind of posture that came from years of ballet and finishing school, the kind of enunciation that sounded like every word had passed inspection before being spoken.

Her family, Aarya overheard once, lived in an estate in Bukit Timah. Had staff. Flew private when they visited Europe. Somebody once said they had an art collection they anonymously lend to museums.

And Felicity had things.

Tiny pearl studs that had to be real — the soft lustre gave them away.

Blouses that always sat just so at the collarbone.

A cashmere jumper in Year 11 that no one ever commented on, but Aarya had once googled out of spite. It had cost more than Aarya’s family paid for rent in three months.

Felicity had real diamond studs tucked in velvet-lined boxes, pristine skirts that probably cost more than Aarya’s entire wardrobe, and a collection of tailored trousers that could’ve walked straight out of a Vogue editorial.

Silk hair ribbons. A monogrammed Smythson planner. A designer school bag Aarya had only ever seen in glossy fashion magazines. Her shoes were always leather. Her pens were engraved. Engraved.

Felicity had matching pyjama sets. She had a vintage Cartier tank watch she never even bragged about. She had cashmere socks for winter term. She packed her designer shoes in individual dust bags when they went home for the holidays. Her luggage had wheels that actually worked.

Felicity probably didn’t even know how much her shampoo cost.

And she didn’t show off any of it. That was the worst part.

She didn’t flaunt it.

Felicity walked around like all of this was normal — not curated, not performative, just part of the atmospheric pressure of her life.

And at first?

Aarya hated her for it.

She hated Felicity for how effortless it looked.

For how quietly beautiful Felicity was, in a way that didn’t try.

For how softly she spoke.

For how her handwriting looked like it had been lifted out of a calligraphy book. For how teachers always nodded when she raised her hand — not indulgently, but with interest.

For how Felicity could be so nice and still walk around in tailored coats and diamonds.

Aarya couldn’t even afford a coffee from the library vending machine. Felicity carried tea sachets in a silver tin and never even mentioned it.

It burned.

It seethed.

Because if you’re going to be that rich, Aarya thought bitterly, at least have the decency to be horrible.

But Felicity wasn’t horrible.

She was polite. Warm, in a quiet, shy way. She said thank you to staff.

She offered her umbrella to someone once during a sudden downpour — someone she didn’t even know.

She tutored a Year 9 boy in maths after he cried in front of the headmistress. She knew the names of the cleaners and left sticky notes for the librarian when she borrowed extra books.

And the worst part?

Felicity never talked about the money. Never even alluded to it.

Aarya had been waiting — waiting — for the moment the mask would slip. When Felicity would say something out of touch or condescending or make a comment about “the lower sets” or sniff at a secondhand jumper.

But it never came.

Aarya hated that more.

Because if Felicity had been awful, mean, or arrogant, it would’ve been easier. She could have ranted about privilege, weaponised her bitterness into snarky commentary.

But Felicity just... was.

She tucked herself into study carrels like she was trying not to take up space. She said thank you to the dining hall staff. She read novels between classes and didn’t raise her hand in lectures unless she was sure she wouldn’t dominate the conversation.

She turned up to group projects with colour-coded folders.

And when they got partnered in chemistry for three weeks, Felicity had quietly brought extra gloves because Aarya’s had a hole.

She didn’t say anything. Just passed them over with that quiet kind of grace that made Aarya want to scream.

It wasn’t just that Felicity had wealth.

It was that she had elegance. Ease. A kind of unbothered generosity that made Aarya feel every frayed seam and secondhand paperback like a flashing neon sign.

And the worst part?

Felicity didn’t even seem to notice.

She wasn’t trying to make anyone feel lesser. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She had just... grown up differently.

With rooms named after ancestors and furniture older than some countries.

With a family who collected art, not Air Miles. With a mother who’d taught her how to arrange flowers and match emeralds to skin tone.

And despite all of it — all of it — Felicity still sat beside Aarya in physics and offered Aarya her muffin from lunch without blinking.

Felicity still invited her to study sessions. Felicity still lent her a scarf when it got too cold in the dorms.

Felicity didn’t try to be likable.

She just was.

And that, eventually, was what made Aarya stop hating her.

And the resentment, eventually, turned into a grudging admiration.

Then into friendship.

Then into the kind of quiet, no-bullshit loyalty that only happened when two girls survived adolescence together — one of them with patched seams, the other with pearls and perfect grades, both of them brilliant in entirely different ways.

Even if Aarya still thought the pens were a bit much.

***

It started with a hoodie.

A battered blue thing with a cracked HP TUNERS on the front. It looked like it belonged to a mechanic. It even had frayed cuffs.

Felicity had the sleeves pulled over her hands like she didn’t even realise she was doing it, the drawstring half chewed from stress. It didn’t match anything else she wore — not the fine-strapped watch, not the clean ballet flats, not the pearl earrings tucked discreetly into her lobes.

Felicity was, by all accounts, elegant. She wore her school uniform like it was custom-tailored. Her hair was always neatly pinned or knotted or braided, and her posture could make a royal court jealous.

And that hoodie also was…huge. Like, swamp-her-entire-body huge.

Aarya squinted.

And then Oscar Piastri walked into the study room, said, “Hey, you found it,” and tugged at the hoodie’s shoulder playfully.

Aarya blinked.

Oh.

Felicity didn’t blush. She didn’t really do that kind of fluster.

She just shrugged and muttered something about “cold lecture halls” and kept reading.

But after that, it became a pattern.

Every couple of days: a hoodie that was too long in the sleeves. Sometimes even one of Oscar’s t-shirts in the common room in the evening…or while working out — old and soft and worn thin from washing.

And always, always, Felicity wore them like they were hers. Like she forgot they weren’t.

Felicity could’ve worn Chanel to breakfast if she wanted. Could’ve wrapped herself in silk and cashmere and hand-stitched blouses from Orchard Road boutiques.

She had worn a Hermes scarf last year, that had made a couple of girls nearly choke with jealousy.

But somehow Felicity Leong always ended up in something that belonged to Oscar—like she’d rather have cotton that smelled like karting fuel and shampoo than diamonds on her collarbone.

Felicity’s favourite thing in the world seemed to be Oscar Piastri’s hoodies.

She wore them like a clockwork.

Like a habit.

Like comfort.

Aarya remembered watching her slip into one after cross-country practice—hair damp, trainers muddy, too tired to talk. The hoodie was washed soft, practically shapeless, sleeves pulled over her knuckles like armor.

Felicity had a Burberry coat in her wardrobe. A cashmere trench. A silk blazer with the tags still on. But she reached for Oscar’s hoodie instead.

Always his.

It unsettled Aarya.

Because she didn’t get it.

Didn’t understand how someone who had grown up in private jets and penthouses would choose something so ordinary. So threadbare. So unpolished.

So… him.

And Aarya couldn’t help thinking about that.

***

It was a rare quiet Saturday.

Most of the boarding house had scattered…library, practice fields, town runs. Aarya had stayed behind to finish a chemistry write-up, tucked into the corner of the common room with Felicity, who was curled up in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, reading something with six bookmarks and a page full of margin notes.

She was wearing one of Oscar’s hoodies again.

Navy blue. Faded print on the front. Sleeves too long, cuffs tucked between her fingers.

And below it—her skirt and dainty chanel flats.

The contrast struck Aarya like it always did.

“You know,” Aarya said, “I’ve always wondered something.”

Felicity didn’t look up. “Is it the secret to cold fusion? Because if it is, you’ll have to wait until I finish this chapter.”

Aarya huffed a laugh. “No. Just—” She gestured vaguely toward the hoodie. “You always wear his stuff. But everything else you own is, like, designer. Hermes. Dior. Chanel. Your school coat’s got pearls on the buttons.”

Felicity slowly lowered the book and met her gaze with a raised brow. “And?”

Aarya shrugged. “Just wondering why. You don’t have to wear secondhand hoodies. And you obviously don’t care what anyone thinks, so… why do you?”

Felicity was quiet for a long moment. Not in a dismissive way. Just… careful.

Then she said, very simply, “Because I picked the hoodies.”

Aarya blinked.

Felicity looked back at her book, fingers absently smoothing the creased corner. “The rest of it? The labels, the cuts, the colours? My mother picks all of that. I’ve been wearing what she tells me to wear since I was born.”

Her tone wasn’t bitter. Wasn’t even resigned. It was like Felicity was describing the weather.

“She says it’s about presentation. About honouring the family, and making the right impression. I don’t get a say.”

Felicity paused. “But Oscar’s hoodies? Those are mine. I choose them. They don’t fit right and they don’t match and she’d probably faint if she saw me in them—but I chose them. No one else.”

Aarya sat back, something slow and sharp settling in her chest.

“And he never asks for them back,” Felicity added, softer this time. “Not once.”

She didn’t say what that meant.

She didn’t need to.

Aarya got it.

The hoodie wasn’t just fabric. It was freedom. A small rebellion. A claim staked quietly in a world that tried to dress her up and keep her still.

And Oscar—quiet, loyal Oscar—had just let her take it. Again and again. Without question.

Aarya didn’t ask any more questions that day.

But she never looked at those hoodies the same way again.

Because Felicity Leong had everything money could buy.

And she chose something that couldn’t be bought.

She chose a boy from Melbourne with karting calluses on his hands and softness in his eyes.

She chose his hoodie.

Over pearls. Over diamonds. Over all of it.

***

Lara Pearson

Felicity was that girl.

Not in the mean, perfect-blonde-hair, head-girl-with-a-clipboard way. No. She was terrifyingly quiet, borderline surgical with her pens, and once corrected a Year Nine on their French conjugation without looking up from her sudoku.

Here’s the thing about Felicity Leong:

She wasn’t just smart.

She was unreal.

Lara had known it since Year Seven—since the first science lab, actually, when everyone else was still figuring out how to hold a test tube without shattering it, and Felicity was calmly correcting the teacher on which dilution would give the most accurate result.

At eleven.

With pigtails.

And a voice like honeyed ice.

Lara remembered turning to Samir afterward and whispering, “Did she just—”

And Samir, wide-eyed, had nodded. “Yeah. She did.”

By Year Nine, Felicity had memorized three Shakespeare plays for fun and was tutoring older students in calculus.

By Year Ten, she’d won the national science fair, debated a university professor on climate policy (and won), and casually designed an app to help Aarya’s dyslexic younger brother learn phonics.

And by Year Eleven?

Well.

By Year Eleven, Felicity could walk into a room and silence it with nothing more than a glance and a perfectly worded dismantling of someone’s half-baked argument about capitalism.

But it wasn’t just her academics.

It was everything.

The way she saw the world—like it was a system of interlocking parts, and if she looked long enough, she’d figure out the code. Like she could disassemble reality and rebuild it better if she only had the time.

Felicity Leong was terrifying in that quiet, precise way genius often is.

People underestimated her sometimes—mistook her silence for shyness, her neat clothes and high-achieving record as nothing more than that. But Lara had seen behind the curtain.

She’d been there when Felicity, at thirteen, explained quantum entanglement using toast and jam. She’d watched her annotate the entire syllabus of a new elective subject over one day, then act like it wasn’t a big deal.

She once caught Felicity solving a university-level maths problem on the back of a napkin at lunch. Just because she was bored.

Lara had always done well in school. Top sets. Good grades. Solid work ethic.

But Felicity?

Felicity operated on a different plane entirely.

It wasn’t just brainpower—it was how her mind moved. Fast and sharp and endless. Like she could zoom out to the big picture and zoom in to the minutiae at the same time. Like nothing ever truly surprised her because she’d already run every possible version of the conversation in her head.

***

But Felicity’s intelligence was why Lara didn’t get it.

She really didn’t.

It wasn’t that she disliked Oscar Piastri — he was fine, in that blank-expression, too-polite, probably-a-robot way.

But if you’d asked her in Year 8 whether the smartest girl in school would end up with the guy who spent weekends elbow-deep in axle grease and came back smelling like burnt rubber, she would’ve laughed in your face.

Felicity Leong was dazzling. Quiet, yes — but only in the way old libraries were quiet: full of brilliance and backbone.

Felicity Leong was elegance and sharp wit and competence in every form. Her handwriting looked like it belonged in a museum. She’d fixed Lara’s broken laptop charger with a paperclip once and had taught herself enough German to read Goethe in the original by the time she was fifteen.

Oscar Piastri, by comparison, was… a boy. A nice boy, sure. A talented one, okay. But still just a boy.

What Lara didn’t understand was why Felicity — of all people — had chosen to orbit him.

It wasn’t that Oscar was awful. He wasn’t. He was fine. He was kind, soft-spoken, occasionally funny when he forgot to overthink it. And it was clear he’d rather set himself on fire than say anything cruel. But he was also… well, kind of boring.

A “karting wonderboy,” sure. But what did that even mean? Half the school didn’t know what F4 was, and the other half thought racing was just glorified Mario Kart.

Meanwhile, Felicity was Felicity. Lara had watched Felicity take down Year 11 boys in ethics class and build model bridges like she was auditioning for a structural engineering firm.

And now Lara was watching Felicity:

Felicity reminded Oscar of deadlines.

Edited his physics papers.

Built him an study schedule complete with snack reminders.

Used highlighters to colour-code his flashcards.

Taught him how to waltz before the formal.

She once hand-sewed a new velcro patch on his racing gloves because he didn’t want to replace them before the season was over.

Once, Lara had caught her baking cookies. When she asked why, Felicity had said, “Oscar hasn’t been eating properly again. He’s stressed about qualifying.”

Qualifying. Like this was Formula One. Like the boy with the still-cracked phone screen and perma-oil-stained hoodie was actually Lewis Bloody Hamilton.

Felicty bought extra headphones because Oscar kept losing his.

Wrote out study notes for both of them in neat, annotated colors.

And the worst part was, Felicity didn’t even seem to notice she was doing it.

“She could be doing anything,” Lara muttered to Aarya once. “She could build rockets. Or code AI. Or date someone who doesn’t smell like petrol.”

Aarya just shrugged. “She wants Oscar.”

“But why?”

Lara didn’t get it. Couldn’t get it.

Not when she watched Felicity spend hours printing laminated flashcards for Oscar’s media training, or reorganizing their entire joint Google Drive so he wouldn’t have to fumble around for assignments while competing. Not when she skipped out on a party because he had food poisoning in a hotel halfway across the world and she wanted to FaceTime him through it.

Lara noticed all of it. The little ways Felicity folded herself around Oscar’s life — like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And it drove her mad.

Not because she didn’t like Oscar. But because she couldn’t see it. Couldn’t understand why Felicity wasn’t bored out of her mind dating some karting wannabe who barely looked up from his data logs.

“Why him?” she asked once, in a rare late-night moment when it was just the two of them brushing their teeth in the bathroom.

Felicity paused. “What do you mean?”

“You could have anyone. Like, literally anyone. You’re… you. Why Oscar?”

Felicity blinked, then smiled a little — that soft, steady smile that meant she’d already thought about this a hundred times.

“Oscar listens,” she said simply. “He makes space for me.. He’s kind. I don’t need to be brilliant for him.”

Lara frowned. “That’s it?”

Felicity laughed. “That’s everything.”

Lara didn’t get it then. Not really.

***

Lara had always assumed that Felicity’s thing with Oscar was a phase.

A soft rebellion. A teenage distraction. Something tender and temporary — the kind of first love you always remember but eventually outgrow.

Because surely Felicity Leong — with her perfect grades and National Science Fair medals — wouldn’t tether herself to a life that revolved around… motorsports.

But the thing was, Felicity didn’t tether herself to Oscar’s world. She learned it. She mastered it. She made it her own.

At first, Lara thought it was just a phase as well.

Felicity started watching every single race Oscar was in — even the low-res, buffering-on-a-good-day livestreams from some freezing karting track in Belgium. She could quote qualifying lap deltas off the top of her head.

Lara thought Felicity would get over that as well. That she'd stop rearranging their study sessions around free practice and qualifying streams. That she'd eventually tire of kart gear ratios and F2 team hierarchies and why certain drivers struggled in wet conditions.

But she didn’t.

If anything, it got worse.

By the time they were sixteen, Felicity could name every FIA junior formula, describe the mechanics of a front wing configuration, and explain the difference between a wet setup and a quali setup like she’d invented them herself. She talked about tire degradation the way most people talked about poetry.

Felicity watched every livestream — even the terrible, stuttering ones from F4 UAE, or the Renault Eurocup feeds that froze any time there was contact. She knew the race engineers by name, the team principals by accent, and she corrected Oscar’s telemetry notes when he was too tired to spot his own oversteer correction patterns.

“I didn’t even know she liked motorsport,” Lara said once, baffled.

Aarya had just raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t.”

“Then why—?”

“Because he does.”

That was when it hit Lara — the sheer scale of it. Because Felicity Leong never did things halfway. Not for school, not for people, not for love. Especially not for Oscar.

Felicity never said it aloud. Not in a performative way. There was no “supportive girlfriend” act. No posts, no attention-seeking, no fake fandom.

She just... learned. Every single detail. Every rule and reg. Every pit strategy and suspension tweak. Quietly, methodically, fiercely.

By 17, she was the only girl in their year with a solid working knowledge of torque curves and Marxist literary theory.

***

It happened on a Thursday.

Lara would remember that forever, because Thursday was chicken katsu day in the dining hall, and she had just sat down with a plate she was emotionally invested in when Thea dropped the bombshell:

“Felicity and Oscar are graduating next year.”

Lara blinked. “What?”

“They’re doing all their A Levels in one go. Like—next year. And then they’re out. Bye-bye, Haileybury.”

Lara looked down at her tray, then back at Thea. “That’s not a thing people do. That’s not legal.”

Thea shrugged. “It is if you’re both freakishly smart and barely sleep.”

“That’s—what? No. No. They’re in Lower Sixth. We’re in Lower Sixth.”

Thea gave her a look. “Felicity has been in Upper Sixth since she was twelve, spiritually. You know that.”

Lara stood up, plate forgotten. “No, I’m sorry, what do you mean they’re graduating?”

“Ask them.”

So Lara did.

She found Oscar and Felicity exactly where she expected to: curled up together in the corner of the Sixth Form study lounge, surrounded by papers and highlighters and a bottle of cold jasmine tea. Felicity had one leg slung over Oscar’s and was annotating a textbook with deadly precision. Oscar was typing something on his laptop while absentmindedly twisting a strand of her hair around his finger.

“Is it true?” Lara demanded.

Oscar looked up. “Is what true?”

“You’re graduating this year. Both of you.”

Felicity didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“HOW?”

Oscar yawned. “She made a study plan.”

“She made a—”

“Calm down,” Felicity said mildly. “I just doubled up our course loads. With enough independent research modules, the board approved it.”

Lara stared at her. “The exam board approved it.”

“Of course they did. I wrote a proposal.”

Oscar added, “And she’s been ghostwriting half my essays, so I’m fine.”

“You WHAT—”

“Not ghostwriting,” Felicity corrected. “I just build the argument outlines and annotate the sources. He still writes them.”

“She gave me a quote bank last week that was 36 pages long,” Oscar added proudly.

Lara made a noise that was not human.

Felicity finally looked up. “You know this place isn’t built for students like us, right?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve had to correct the teachers twice this term already. And I edited the chemistry revision guides because they had typos. And Oscar needs more time for racing and less writing brain numbing essays for computer sciences.”

Lara sat down slowly, like gravity had finally caught up with her.

“You two are insane.”

Felicity offered her a chocolate from the stash hidden in Oscar’s pencil case. “Thank you.”

Oscar smiled around the bite of his protein bar. “Hey, on the bright side—you get to keep the top spot in the year. We’re gone in May.”

Lara took the chocolate like a woman defeated.

“Do your parents know?” she muttered.

Oscar just shrugged. “Mum said it sounded like something we’d do.”

Lara looked at them—two overachieving academic weapons, casually breaking the rules of reality with matching stationery—and groaned.

“I swear to God,” she said. “If you both end up solving world hunger and winning a Nobel Prize by twenty-five, I’m going to riot.”

Felicity smiled faintly. “I don’t want a Nobel.”

Oscar raised a brow. “What do you want instead?”

“I want a family. And a kitchen that’s mine.”

Oscar leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Lara watched, sighed, and leaned back in her chair.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you graduate early and still come first in everything, I’m slashing your tires.”

“Fair,” Felicity said, already back to highlighting.

***

The thing about Felicity Leong was that she didn’t do things halfway.

That applied to everything — coursework, violin practice, her color-coded study calendars, the banana bread she baked to perfect moisture ratio — but especially, especially, to Oscar.

It was easy to assume Felicity had fallen into Oscar’s world — that she was the brilliant girlfriend dragged into a boy’s motorsport pipe dream. Lara had assumed that, once.

But she’d been wrong.

Because Felicity didn’t fall into things.

She researched them. She learned them.

And when it came to Oscar, she practically earned a damn degree in motorsport before she ever turned 18.

She didn’t just support Oscar’s career. She understood it. She translated it.

And somewhere between late nights watching practice footage on a shared laptop and Oscar ferrying between boarding school weekends and regional races, Felicity changed her future for him.

Not theoretical physics. Not aerospace. Not architecture, even though she had a mind for structural form that made half the teachers beg her to apply to Cambridge.

Mechanical engineering.

Because, as she later explained in the most matter-of-fact voice imaginable: “If he’s going to race cars, someone has to make sure the people designing them aren’t idiots.”

Lara had wanted to laugh. To shake her and say you don’t have to build your life around some boy in a helmet. But she didn’t.

Because Felicity wasn’t building around him.

She was building with him. Every skill she added, every race she studied, every piece of obscure motorsport knowledge she collected — it wasn’t submission. It was strategy. Partnership.

That was the thing about Felicity Leong.

Felicity never asked for recognition. Never asked for thanks. She just poured everything she had into a boy she’d picked at fourteen years old — all the brilliance, all the discipline, all the love she didn’t know how else to express.

And that boy?

He kept every handwritten note.

Every flashcard.

Every time she’d saved his arse with last-minute essay corrections.

He memorized the way she liked her tea, the sound she made when she was tired but trying to hide it, the exact point of her back that hurt after a full day in the ballet studio.

He knew.

He always knew.

And Lara, watching them from the outside, had to admit — even if she never quite understood it, even if it had seemed ridiculous once — that it wasn’t about karting. Or racing. Or obsession.

It was about building a world around each other.

And somehow, Felicity and Oscar had managed to do exactly that.

***

Theodora “Thea” Wheeler:

Thea didn’t really notice it at first.

Not in the way that mattered.

Because Felicity Leong was the kind of girl who did everything right. Always neat. Always on time. Always top marks and clean shoes and perfect plaits in her hair. She didn’t miss things, and nothing about her looked broken.

But then there was the pancake.

It was a Saturday morning at school, and brunch had been served in the big hall with the sunny windows. Everyone had queued up in pyjamas and slipper socks, because it was the weekend and the rules were a little looser, and someone had convinced the kitchen staff to make pancakes with chocolate chips.

Thea remembered being excited.

She remembered how good it had smelled. How the syrup had pooled just right on her plate. How loud the hall had been—laughter, clatter, sugar-fuelled chaos.

She also remembered looking over and seeing Felicity with a plate in front of her.

Empty, except for one plain pancake.

No syrup. No toppings. Just sitting there, going cold.

Felicity didn’t touch it.

She was talking to someone—Samir, maybe—and smiling politely, like everything was normal. Like she wasn’t hungry. Like she wasn’t supposed to be hungry. Her fork didn’t even move. Her hands were folded in her lap like she was trying not to be seen.

Thea frowned. “You’re not eating?”

Felicity looked over. Blinked once. “I’m not really hungry.”

Which… okay. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’d had toast earlier. Or maybe she didn’t like pancakes. But it happened again.

And again.

Over and over, Thea would see her at meals with only a few bites of food on her plate. Or skipping dessert. Or picking at soup with a spoon like it was some kind of science experiment.

She started making excuses.

I had a big breakfast. My stomach hurts. I’m fine.

Always with that same quiet voice. That same polite smile.

Thea tried not to stare. Tried not to wonder, too hard, why Felicity would leave halfway through lunch and come back ten minutes later with red-rimmed eyes.

Or why Oscar—new, quiet Oscar—had started appearing next to her at meals, always coaxing, always gentle, always watchful.

By the time they were 14, Thea had stopped offering her sweets. Felicity never said no outright. She’d just look at them, like they were something too loud, too bright, too much.

Oscar Piastri arrived in Year 10 — quiet, weirdly calm for a 14-year-old, brilliant in the kind of way that made the top sets nervous.

He didn’t talk much. Not at first. But he sat next to Felicity one afternoon in Maths, and by the end of the week, it was like they were always together.

Always.

At meals. In the library. Walking between classes. Doing study in the common room, two heads bent over one laptop with her notes and his logic and some weird telepathy that meant they barely even had to speak out loud anymore.

And then there was the toast.

It was a rainy Tuesday morning when Thea walked into the common room and saw Felicity curled up in her usual corner of the sofa, Oscar beside her with a plate balanced on one knee.

He handed her a slice.

She took it.

Ate it.

Just like that.

Thea tried not to stare.

And over the months that followed, it kept happening. Toast at breakfast. A tangerine at break. Half a sandwich at lunch. Then a whole one. Then soup and salad and seconds. Slowly. Carefully. Like she was relearning hunger and safety in the same breath.

It wasn’t perfect. Some days, Felicity still picked at her food. Some days she was quieter than others, her hands shaking just slightly as she tore a muffin into a hundred pieces and only ate two.

But Oscar always noticed.

Always passed her water. Or offered a bite of whatever was on his plate. Or distracted her with quiet jokes or flashcards or that look—the one that said, I see you, and I’m not going anywhere.

And slowly, Felicity changed.

Her face rounded out. Her jeans fit better. She started wearing Oscar’s oversized hoodies more often—not to hide, Thea thought, but because she liked them. Because they smelled like comfort and safety and someone who never made her earn softness.

It hadn’t been school that helped. Or housemistresses. Or whispered conversations between girls who didn’t know how to help.

It was Oscar.

Oscar, who never pushed but always stayed. Who never made her a project, just held space. Who gave her quiet things: time, food, choice.

It was slow, the way she changed.

But steady. Stronger, somehow.

Like someone finally gave her permission to be a person again. Not a perfect doll. Not a flawless student. Just… Felicity.

And Thea?

Thea didn’t say anything. Not then.

But she smiled more when she looked at them. And saved them seats in the dining hall.

Because not everyone gets someone who sees the storm and still stays.

But Felicity did.

And thank God for that.

***

Jian Chen:

Here’s the thing about Oscar Piastri:

He wasn’t loud.

He didn’t announce his feelings, didn’t broadcast his loyalties, didn’t write grand gestures for the world to see. He mostly kept his head down, did his work, and blended quietly into the fabric of Haileybury life, except for weekends when he’d disappear for races and come back holding another trophy.

But when it came to Felicity Leong?

Oscar was something else entirely.

Jian first noticed it one grey, rainy afternoon in the common room. It was supposed to be revision time—half the year group crammed onto sofas and beanbags, surrounded by textbooks and lukewarm cups of tea—but nobody was really paying attention.

Felicity had claimed one end of the sofa, curled up small and quiet, eyes closed, a pale crease between her brows like something hurt.

Jian had seen that look before—his sister had cramps like that sometimes, the kind that made her shrink into herself and hiss out quiet breaths, counting down seconds until they passed.

But Felicity didn’t say anything. Didn’t complain. Didn’t ask for sympathy.

She just sat there, curled around her discomfort, trying to make herself invisible.

And Oscar?

He didn’t even ask. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait for her to explain.

He just walked in, glanced at her, and without a word, fetched a hot water bottle from his own room. He placed it gently into her hands, as if he’d done it a hundred times before. And then he sat beside her—not too close, not crowding her—but quietly there. A solid, steady presence.

Jian watched him reach into his bag and pull out a little packet of painkillers, nudging it towards her with his knuckles. Felicity murmured something too quiet for Jian to hear, but Oscar nodded anyway, looking at her like she’d made perfect sense.

Felicity settled the hot water bottle against her stomach and finally let her head rest on Oscar’s shoulder, eyes shut tightly, breathing carefully.

Oscar didn’t move.

Not when Samir shouted something about the rugby game. Not when someone accidentally dropped a textbook and everyone laughed. Oscar just stayed there, shoulder steady beneath her cheek, his own textbook forgotten, his posture relaxed but watchful.

And Jian realised something important then:

Oscar wasn’t just taking care of Felicity.

He was guarding her quiet, letting her rest, silently building a wall around her so the world couldn’t touch her until she felt better again.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. It was just Oscar—steady, calm, gentle Oscar—doing exactly what Felicity needed without being asked.

Jian never said anything about it.

He just knew, quietly, in that moment, that Felicity Leong had someone who cared about her in a way most people never experienced at sixteen.

***

It had looked bad on the livestream.

Jian hadn’t been watching the race — not live, anyway — but by Monday morning, the clip had already made it to their year’s group chat. A hard hit to the barrier, fast and sharp. Everyone winced when they saw the replay.

“He’s definitely hurt,” someone had said.

“Maybe just winded?”

Jian hadn’t been sure.

But when Oscar walked — no, shuffled — back onto campus with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a tight grip on his ribs, it was obvious.

He was doing that thing where boys tried not to look in pain. Jaw clenched, back straight, breathing shallow. Stubborn. Stupid. Trying to out-think biology.

Jian was coming back from the vending machine when he saw them: Oscar moving stiffly toward the dorms and Felicity, already heading toward him from across the quad like she’d been waiting all morning. Not hurrying. Not running. Just moving with this terrifying sense of purpose.

She didn’t say anything when she reached him.

She just looked him over, eyes scanning his posture, his expression, the way he held his bag. Then she reached up, gently tugged the strap from his shoulder, and took it for him.

Oscar let her.

That was the first sign something was properly wrong — not the bruising, not the wince, but the fact that Oscar Piastri let someone carry his karting bag.

“Chest?” she asked softly.

“Sternum,” he admitted.

“Show me.”

“Fliss—”

She was already guiding him off the path, out of sight. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just decisive. And he followed her.

Jian didn’t mean to watch. But he did. From behind the hedge, from just the right angle, he could see Oscar unzip his hoodie, slowly and carefully, and pull it open just enough to show the purple-green bloom of bruising across the center of his chest.

Felicity inhaled sharply. Not loud — not even really angry. Just that soft, immediate breath that said: that’s worse than I thought.

She didn’t scold him.

She just pulled a small, square cold pack from her coat pocket — who just had those on them?? — cracked it to activate the chill, and handed it to him.

“Ten minutes,” she murmured. “Then I’m getting you a wrap.”

Oscar nodded like she was the team physio. Like she was the only one allowed to call the shots.

Jian watched her wrap a hoodie around his shoulders, help him sit carefully on the edge of the planter, and sit beside him without saying a word. Her hand hovered near his elbow — not touching unless he needed it.

And later that night, when Jian passed the study lounge, he saw them again.

Oscar was half-reclined on the couch with a pillow behind his back, wrapped snug in a hoodie and blanket. Felicity had brought him tea. Actual tea. Like from a ceramic mug, with honey.

She was retyping his notes for him — because writing hurt — and every few minutes, she’d reach over and tap his side, reminding him to breathe properly.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

They talked softly. Shared a few bites of biscuit. Argued gently over whether or not Oscar needed to skip gym the next day.

And it wasn’t romantic in the hearts-and-roses kind of way.

It was just serious.

Two teenagers acting like they’d already figured out what commitment looked like.

***

Jian remembered the first time Felicity didn’t show up to class.

It was Year 11, early winter. Frost bit at the windows and the whole school smelled faintly of overboiled radiators and wet wool. Normally, Felicity was the one person you could count on being there — with her pens neatly aligned, hair pinned back, eyes alert like she’d memorised the textbook the night before.

But that Tuesday, her desk was empty.

Oscar showed up late. Which was already weird. He looked like hell — hoodie zipped all the way up, jaw set, hair damp from rushing across campus.

He didn’t say anything when he dropped into his seat. Just opened Felicity’s notebook alongside his and took notes for both of them.

By Wednesday, people were whispering.

“She has a cold,” someone muttered. “Nothing serious.”

“She’s just resting.”

But Oscar looked worried. Not anxious. Worried. That quiet kind of dread that sat behind the eyes and didn’t leave room for anything else. He stopped responding in group chats. Barely ate at breakfast.

Jian finally caught him in the library, elbows deep in a pile of flashcards that clearly weren’t his.

“She’s not just sick, is she?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “She can’t breathe right.”

Jian froze. “What?”

“She’s got this rattling sound in her chest. Can’t sleep. Keeps saying she’s fine, but she passed out in the bathroom yesterday.”

“What the hell—did she go to the nurse?”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “The nurse said it’s a bad cold. Told her to hydrate and rest.”

“But it’s worse?”

“She couldn’t stand up long enough to brush her teeth this morning.”

Jian swallowed. “Shit.”

Oscar finally looked at him, eyes bloodshot and furious. “Her family thinks she’s being dramatic. Her mum called and told her to stop being soft.”

That made something cold crawl down Jian’s spine.

“She’s got pneumonia,” Oscar added quietly, voice like steel.

Jian blinked. “How do you know?”

“I looked up the symptoms. She should be in a hospital. She needs antibiotics and oxygen.”

“Did you tell the school?”

Oscar gave him a look. “Do you think they’ll listen to me? Or to her surname?”

It was the first time Jian truly understood that something wasn’t right in the Leong family.

Two days later, the air outside was the kind that turned your fingertips numb within five minutes. Jian was walking back from the dining hall when he saw someone pull up to the front gate in a sleek black car — too expensive, too polished, definitely not a school-run vehicle.

Out stepped a man in a sharply cut coat. Mid twenties, maybe. Cold expression. Perfectly gelled hair.

Henry Leong.

Jian had heard of him. Older brother. Oxford grad. Worked in finance. Apparently one of Singapore’s “most eligible bachelors” if the gossip was to be believed.

Henry Leong walked into the reception office like he owned it.

Jian didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But the walls were thin, and Henry wasn’t exactly quiet.

“My sister is exaggerating,” he said crisply. “She does this. I’m just here because Mother insisted someone check. Is she actually ill, or just emotionally delicate again?”

Jian felt something clench in his gut.

He slipped around the side entrance. Oscar was with Felicity in the common room, holding a bowl of lukewarm soup with one hand and adjusting her blankets with the other. She looked pale — really pale — her lips tinged slightly blue. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were glassy.

She still said, “I’m sorry I didn’t clean up,” when she saw Henry in the doorway.

Oscar muttered, “Don’t apologise,” and touched her forehead gently. “You’re burning up again.”

That’s when the door banged open.

Henry walked in like a storm in cufflinks.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. “Why are you wrapped up like some invalid?”

Felicity blinked at him, confused. “Henry?”

“I told Mother I’d come. You didn’t pick up your phone. What’s this I hear about you being bedbound over a little cold?”

Oscar stood up.

Jian didn’t know what he expected from Oscar Piastri — the quiet, methodical one. But it sure wasn’t the way he stepped between Felicity and her brother like it was instinct.

“She has pneumonia,” he said flatly.

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Felicity coughed weakly. Henry turned toward her. “You always do this. Turn minor problems into some dramatic cry for attention.”

Oscar’s voice went quiet.

“I think you should leave.”

Henry blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

“I’m her brother.”

“And I’m the one who’s been here while she can’t stand without help. I’m the one who held her when she couldn’t stop coughing. And you showed up days late with condescension and talking to your sick sister like she is some kind of burden.”

Henry’s expression twisted. “You’re just some scholarship kid with a go-kart.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But I know what love looks like. You clearly don’t.”

The silence that followed was icy.

Henry left within five minutes.

Jian didn’t say anything. He just sat quietly while Oscar rubbed gentle circles into Felicity’s back until her breathing evened out.

It happened the next morning.

Jian had just made it to the dining hall, still groggy and halfway through buttering his toast, when Samir came in wide-eyed and pale.

“She collapsed.”

The knife slipped out of Jian’s hand.

“Felicity?” he asked, already on his feet.

Samir nodded, winded. “Oscar found her on the floor. She tried to get to the bathroom and—he said she couldn’t breathe. They’re calling an ambulance.”

Jian didn’t remember running, but the next thing he knew, he was outside her dormitory block, shoulders heaving, the gravel scraping under his shoes. A crowd was already gathering. One of the teachers was ushering students back like this was some normal incident and not something serious.

But Jian could see Oscar through the glass door. Kneeling on the floor, arms around Felicity, talking to her in that soft, steady voice like the sheer force of his calm could pull her back from the edge.

She was barely conscious. Her lips were bluish. Her head lolled.

She looked nothing like the girl who used to correct teachers’ maths on the whiteboard. Or the one who wore pearls with her hoodie. Or the girl who could keep five group projects afloat by sheer force of will.

She looked tiny.

Like a girl who had been telling everyone she was in pain and nobody had listened.

Someone—maybe the new nurse—tried to take her pulse, but Oscar didn’t move until the paramedics arrived. And even then, he rode in the ambulance.

Jian watched them go with a kind of hollow, stomach-dropped dread.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not her. Not Felicity.

The fallout came fast.

That afternoon, the head of pastoral care called an emergency staff meeting. People were whispering in the halls. The school nurse who had told Oscar it was “just a cold” didn’t come in the next day.

And suddenly, all the teachers were tripping over themselves — asking if anyone had noticed anything. If there were signs they missed. If perhaps Miss Leong hadn’t been given the appropriate care plan.

Jian nearly laughed when he heard that.

Because everyone missed it. Everyone except the boy with the quiet voice and the karting calluses on his fingers. The one who showed up with ginger tea in his thermos and sat through every night reading beside her bed.

They called Felicity “stoic.” “Well-mannered.” “Mature beyond her years.”

What they meant was that she didn’t complain loudly enough to be taken seriously.

Oscar never once said I told you so.

But Jian could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders when he finally came back onto campus, two days later, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. His hoodie was wrinkled. His jaw was tight.

“She’s okay,” he told Jian quietly, like he’d been rehearsing it. “They’re keeping her a few more days for observation. But her fever’s gone down. The oxygen’s helping.”

And then, for the first time in all the years Jian had known him, Oscar’s voice cracked.

“They didn’t listen,” he whispered. “She told them she couldn’t breathe, and they still didn’t listen.”

Jian didn’t know what to say. So he just sat down next to him.

Because it wasn’t just that Felicity had been sick.

It was that she’d almost disappeared in front of everyone — and they’d let her.

But not Oscar.

Never Oscar.

***

Jian wasn’t sure when it happened.

When Oscar Piastri — robotic, unflappable, ice-cold-under-pressure Oscar — became the kind of boy who let his girlfriend tuck a tissue packet into the sleeve of his school jumper.

It was week six of term. Cold season had arrived like a tidal wave. Half the year group was coughing like they were on the brink of death, and Oscar — who rarely got sick — had finally succumbed. He was pale and sniffling, his voice a little croaky, and he kept blinking like his head was full of fog.

But he still showed up. To every class. Even cricket conditioning.

Jian watched, slightly baffled, as Felicity intercepted him between classes with a packet of throat lozenges and a thermos of ginger tea that very obviously wasn’t from the dining hall.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she muttered, dragging him by the elbow toward a bench in the quad.

Oscar flopped down obediently. “I tried. My nose betrayed me.”

“You sound like a gremlin.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Felicity made a face but pulled out a folded blanket from her bag anyway — a blanket, for god’s sake — and tucked it around him like he was a grandparent in a chilly church pew.

Jian blinked. He wasn’t even surprised anymore.

That was when Oscar’s phone rang. He fished it out of his blazer pocket, glanced at the screen, and handed it straight to Felicity without a word.

“Hi, Nicole,” she said, already standing up and pacing away, the phone pressed to her ear. “Yeah. I’m with him. No, it’s not the flu. Just a head cold. Yes, I made sure he’s drinking water. Yes, I made him soup yesterday. No, he didn’t like the ginger but he drank it anyway. I’ll make sure he sleeps early.”

Jian just stared.

Because Oscar was sitting there under a blanket. Sneezing into a tissue. Looking more exhausted than usual. And still — still — he watched Felicity pace the quad with that tiny half-smile he only seemed to wear when she was around. Like he liked being taken care of. Like he trusted her with all of it.

By the time Felicity returned, she handed the phone back and crouched to check Oscar’s forehead with the back of her hand. It was so natural. So practiced. Like this had happened a dozen times before.

“Your mum says she’s going to mail you a care package,” Felicity murmured. “Also, that I deserve a medal.”

Oscar leaned his head against her shoulder. “You do.”

Jian watched them quietly — the boy who always smelled like karting fuel, and the girl who wore cashmere socks with chanel boots — and thought, Okay, maybe this isn’t some weird co-dependency thing. Maybe it’s just… love.

The strange, soft kind.

The kind that comes with tea, and tissues, and phone calls home.

***

Group Chat: Haileybury Survivor Squad 2020

Jian, Samir, Thea, Lara, Aarya

Aarya: guys GUYS I HAVE NEWS 🚨🚨🚨

Jian: this better be good it’s 2 am, Aarya

Samir: omg did Mr. Forrester finally admit Felicity was right about quantum physics?

Aarya: EVEN BETTER

Lara: Aarya if this isn’t genuinely life-changing I’m kicking you out of this group chat

Aarya: Oscar and Felicity got married

Thea: 😂😂 very funny no seriously what happened

Aarya: No I’m dead serious Felicity literally just texted me

Samir: WHAT NO WAY HOW??? THEY GRADUATED LIKE 3 WEEKS AGO??

Aarya: She sent me a picture of the certificate They legit got married YESTERDAY

Jian: Oscar? Like Oscar PIASTRI? our Oscar? Oscar “I once put almond milk in béchamel sauce” Piastri??

Aarya: YES THAT OSCAR OUR OSCAR FELICITY’S OSCAR

Lara: hang on… I thought they were joking about Vegas???

Samir: wait so that entire convo about Elvis marrying them at a drive-thru chapel was serious? bc I laughed for a week about that

Aarya: not Elvis (sadly) but yes, very real, very married she sent me a selfie she’s wearing Oscar’s hoodie over her wedding dress

Thea: Omg of course she is She probably married him for unlimited hoodie access

Lara: this tracks tbh they graduated early bc they were bored of A-levels got married early bc they were bored of being the smartest teenagers in Britain

Samir: honestly if they weren’t disgustingly cute I’d be so annoyed rn like how do you top getting MARRIED at 18??

Jian: “oh what did you do over summer?” “just got married, no biggie” — Oscar, probably

Thea: Jian, remember when you thought you had a shot with Felicity for exactly 12 minutes in Year 8 😂😂

Jian: STOP THAT NEVER HAPPENED IT WAS TEN MINUTES MAX

Aarya: anyway, Felicity wanted me to tell you guys bc we are “Oscar-and-Felicity-certified not-annoying people”

Lara: that’s genuinely the nicest thing she’s ever said about us I’m touched

Jian: same but also still processing that Oscar “let me just casually carry my wife-to-be across campus” Piastri is an actual husband now

Thea: do we call Felicity Mrs. Piastri now??? or do we call Oscar Mr. Leong bc that’s actually hilarious

Samir: I vote Mr. Leong

Aarya: it’s Mrs. Piastri actually Felicity said so herself and she sounded very smug about it

Lara: OF COURSE SHE DID Oscar’s probably already changed all his racing gear to say “Property of Felicity Piastri” anyway

Samir: ok but imagine their babies tiny little brilliant creatures raised on soba noodles and karting strategies

Thea: they’re probably already planning their kids’ GCSEs as we speak

Aarya: honestly wouldn’t put it past them

Jian: this group chat is now dedicated to tracking Oscar and Felicity’s completely ridiculous married life all in favour say aye

Samir: AYE Lara: AYE Thea: AYE Aarya: AYE

Samir: it’s unanimous long live the Piastris ✨👑✨

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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lordprettyflackotara · 9 months ago

Text

weasley whore || fred & george weasley

‘it’s not about having someone to love me anymore. this is the experience of being a weasley whore.’

sum: fred and george are your stress reliever fuck buddies, who are always there in your time of need. you’ve only ever had your affair with each of them. how will you handle them together for the first time?

tw: smut, minors dni 18+. choking, shower foreplay.

an: got a part two and three in the chamber

Fred and George Weasley were your safety nets. Explaining how it started is difficult, really.

Attempting to explain it to anyone seemed useless, so you kept your forbidden affair with them a secret.

It started back before University, when Professor Snape had done what he always did: ridicule you before the class.

It wasn’t your fault that you sucked at potions, you tried the hardest you could. You even went to the extent of bribing Theodore Nott to tutor you. All of your attempts continued to fail, resulting in you dramatically running out of class mid session. Surprisingly no one followed you as you ran down the empty halls, tears streaming down your face.

It was there you bumped into George, who was skipping whatever course he was supposed to be attending. You had turned a corner blindly, running straight into him. Unfortunately for you he had a small cauldron full of squid ink inside of it, the black liquid staining your white uniform. This sent you into even further hysterics, your fingers trembling as you tried to wipe it off. Like the gentleman George was he offered to help you get cleaned up, sneaking you into the pristine prefects bathroom.

That was the first time you found yourself entangled with a Weasley.

Fred was next, the two of you meeting by pure mistake. You were not a fan of heights, but a group of Slytherin’s bullying you about not even being able to climb a mere tree was ultimately humiliating. It wasn’t your choice to take a dragon riding class, the University plopped you into it as one of your electives. So then came the ridiculing in the main courtyard. Determined to prove yourself you climbed the closest cherry oak tree, only to find yourself stuck once the skies above cursed you with rain.

The Slytherin’s departed quickly, not wanting to get wet. Meanwhile you were clinging onto the tree limb for dear life, eyes screwed shut to avoid looking at the ground. Thats where Fred had found you, having passed by to attempt to at least show up to his astrology class. He found you utterly adorable, your skirt riding up your thighs and arms wrapped around the tree limb. He carried himself shamelessly into the rain, staring up at you from below.

“Need some help?”

His voice was smooth like butter, causing you to nervously peer down at him. Fred managed to help you down, but not without you slipping in the mud. You had accidentally fallen on top of him, your clothed cunt hovering above his crotch.

Fred couldn’t have dragged you into the room of requirement fast enough.

That’s how things went after that. Every bad day or minor inconvenience, you found yourself running to which ever one you found first. Contrary to grade school, the infamous twins were more often separate than together. It never mattered to you who you found first, both of them eager to make you forget about your problems. You hadn’t anticipated this to become your crutch, your addiction. But it had.

Your luck had turned sour over the past week.

Failed exams, explosive potions, accidentally transforming Neville Longbottom into a mouse.

It all came to a head when you were at quidditch practice, your bright yellow uniform a nice contrast against the crimson red ones you were practicing with.

It was rare you practiced with Gryffindor, the houses oftentimes switching opponents around to keep things fresh and interesting. You recognized the Weasley twins instantly, giving them a sheepish wave as you mounted onto your broom. You were a seeker, chasing after the golden snitch like you usually did. You were silently thankful Harry didn’t bother to attend University, instead making Angelina take the spot. You both were neck and neck, your eyes glued to the little gold ball. So glued in fact you hadn’t noticed Angelina falling back, a bludger smacking you dead in the face.

In the most unflattering fashion imaginable you fell off of your broom, hitting the grass with a hard thud.

You were lucky to still be conscious, your head pounding as you forced yourself to sit up. You could hear both teams rushing down to your aid, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you made yourself stand up. You shoved past the crowd of worry players, trudging into the showers. Each team has a designated locker room with showers to clean up after a game. Most teams never used theirs unless they lost, the winning team always off to gloat and party. You hardly ever thought twice about the showers, but now you did.

Peeling off your uniform and throwing it aside carelessly, you cringed at the burning sensation the scolding hot water provided the scrape on your knee. The hot water provided some sort of contentment, your head tilting back to soak in its warmth. You leaned back against the tiled wall, swallowing as you realized you needed some sort of stress relief. You slithered your hand down to your folds, finding your clit. You bit your bottom lip as you began to swirl your fingers around the bud, trying to hold back any sinful noises threatening to slip out.

When was the last time you touched yourself like this? Allowing yourself to unwind on your own?

Even as you did so, the steam from the hot shower rising, your mind went to two gingers.

You had never thought about taking them both before, but your mouth watered at the idea as you began to draw faster circles around your clit. Low whimpers escaped your lips, the thrill of being caught only turning you on further. Your eyes were fluttered shut, your mind lost in a realm of appealing fantasies when you heard footsteps.

You could feel that your face went white, instantly trying to cover yourself.

“Oh don’t stop making those pretty noises just because we’re here,” George cooed.

Poking your head out of the shower curtain your favorite set of twins stood before you. Both of them were undressing, while staring at you like you were the crazy one. “What are you guys doing in here?” You hissed, glancing down at their crimson uniforms. Fred chuckled as he tossed aside his helmet. “What does it look like we’re doing? We’re here to make sure you’re okay,” He said, a mischievous smile crawling up his lips. They both seemed to move in unison, your heart pounding.

“What if you both get caught? It’s forbidden for you to be in here!” You whisper yelled. George had managed to finish stripping first, delivering you a cocky grin. “This wouldn’t be our worst offense little lady. Besides, mostly everyone else left,” He explained. He stepped towards you, your heart racing as you allowed him to step into the shower. You were so flustered you failed to notice Fred step in using the other side, your back colliding with his chest. “Boo,” He chuckled. Your cheeks were flushed with heat, the warm water not helping.

“I-I’m not sure I can take both of you guys,” You admitted lowly. Sheepishly you looked away, George quick to grab your chin. He guided you to look up at him, causing you to swallow. “Shh this isn’t about us. We’re here to take care of you,” He cooed. Fred snickered from behind you, placing his large hands on your hips. “Besides, we heard those pretty noises you made. We know you were thinking about us,” He purred, nibbling on your earlobe. This extracted a groan from you, your body melting under their touch.

George lowered himself onto his knees, maintaining eye contact with you as he did so. “We just wanna make you feel good. You’ll let us do that for you, right?” He asked. Fred’s hands slithered up to your breast, squeezing the flesh before his fingers found your nipples, “You know what we wanna hear baby. Go on. Beg.”

Pleas left your lips like a mantra.

“Please— please, need you both. Wanna be good!”

Your begging only made both of the boys cocks grow harder, George grinning as he nudged his way in between your thighs.

“There we go. There’s our good little witch,” Fred praised, twisting your nipples harshly. You hissed in response as George’s warm tongue licked a stripe up your folds. Your hand instinctively flew to his hair, tangling itself in his roots. “Awe is someone desperate? Thats adorable,” Fred taunted. He snuck one of his hands up to your throat, squeezing the sides as George began to lap at your folds. George adored giving you head, rambling on and on about how divine you tasted. This was evident as he gripped your thighs. His lips sucked at your clit, your juices costing his chin. Fred nibbled at your earlobe, noting the way your body began to grind against George’s face.

“You like that? You like the way George devours that pretty pussy of yours?” Fred asked, brushing your hair to the side to gain access of your neck. You gasped as he attached his lips to your sweet spot, sucking harshly at the skin. “Mmm- yes! Georgie always makes me feel sooooo good,” You slurred. It was then George brought his slender fingers to your entrance, roughly shoving them inside of you. You gasped, shuddering as he curled them inside of you. “Shhh, wouldn’t want anyone to hear you would we?” Fred cooed, smirking into your skin as a bruise began to form. George could feel the way you squeezed his fingers at the idea.

“You should feel the way she’s squeezing me Freddie, I think she wants to be caught,” George commented, acting as if you weren’t even there. That only made you cling to him tighter, your gummy walls telling him everything he needed to know. “Oh is that right? You wanna be caught between us?” Fred mused. His teeth grazed your skin, causing your knees to threaten to buckle. George continued his assault on your g spot, admiring the way your hips bucked towards him. “I think she likes that, us talking about her as if she isn’t here,” George concluded. He then reattached his mouth to your clit, his tongue swirling around the bud.

“Awe is that so? You wanna be our little Weasley whore?” Fred gloated, snickering into your skin. You could feel his hard cock pressing against you from behind, the warm shower water trailing down your skin.

They always brought you to the edge so quickly, but together? You felt like your body was ignited and on fire, engulfed in the pleasurable flames only Fred and George could give you.

“Fuck, yes! Wanna— be your whore!”

George knew the body like the back of your hand, sensing your orgasm was coming near. Fred reattached his hand to your throat, his breath hot as he spoke into your ear.

“Go on then. Call yourself our whore and you can cum.”

His venomous tone only made your thighs tremble, your vision going white as you declared what you truly were.

“I’m cumming, shit- I’m a Weasley whore!”

#fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley smut #fred weasley x oc #fred weasley #george wealsey x reader #george weasly x reader #george wealsey imagine #george weasley #george weasley smut #weasley twins smut #weasley twins

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tojicide · 4 months ago

Text

chapter 2 ── too easy, this game.

the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb x fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, mdni

chapter summary. ┆ after you’re forced to check up on caleb, you realize that your methods of revenge can be sweeter and much more interesting than you had originally anticipated.

prev: chapter one. ┆ series masterlist. ┆ next: chapter three.

“Remember that fundraiser I was telling you about?”

You lift your gaze from the sidewalk, giving Tara a sideways glance. “Yeah, I think so. What about it?”

“Well,” she sings, hugging her thick textbook tighter to her chest before nudging you with her elbow, “I was wondering if you’d like to help us out! We’re always looking for more girls, you know. The sisters of Delta Gamma can only do so much.”

You suck your teeth, tilting your head as your eyes drift to the towering oak tree at the center of the great lawn. The campus had spent the past few days drowning under gray skies and spring showers, but today, the sun had finally broken through. Its warmth pressed against your skin, so bright you had to squint just to avoid being completely blinded.

You look back at Tara. “What day is it again?”

“Next Saturday,” she says with a shrug. “2 PM, in the parking lot between the Delta Gamma house and Lambda Chi Alpha’s.” A pause, as if she was already sensing your impending rejection. “Please? Please!”

You hate when she does this. The puppy dog eyes. That hopeful little tilt of her head. The same look that had managed to drag you to one too many frat parties when you swore you wouldn’t go. Saying no made you feel like some heartless villain stomping on an ant just for the fun of it, and for a moment, you almost caved entirely.

“I’ll… think about it, but midterms are–” you start, but before you can finish, she’s already beaming.

“Yay!” Tara links her arm through yours, practically bouncing as you continue toward Grand Hall. “I’ll text you all the details, ‘kay? I so owe you one.”

You press your lips into a thin smile, debating whether to remind her that you hadn’t actually said yes. Instead, you settle for, “If I end up making it, we’ll call it even for you helping me study for chem.”

She grins. “Good luck on that, by the way. I know you’ll do great!”

The two of you stop outside the building, and Tara leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially like she’s about to tell you a scandalous secret.

“And remember, the electron cloud model—”

“—is the area around an atom’s nucleus where electrons are most likely to be found,” you finish, unable to fight a smile. “I know, I know. You trained me well.”

You squeeze her arm before unhooking yourself and stepping into the lecture hall.

“I’ll find you after class!” she calls after you.

Inside, the air is sharp with cold, and a shiver runs down your spine. The mood of the room seems different today, as if the oxygen you were all breathing in was thick with anxiety. Your seatmate, Yvonne, is already at her desk, supplies neatly arranged in front of her. You give her a silent smile before sitting down and doing the same.

Once again, you can’t help but notice that the room is quiet—eerily so. Everyone is either too tired to talk or too nervous to form a coherent sentence. Probably a mixture of both.

As the exam begins, the only sounds filling the space are the rustling of paper and the scratch of pencils against scantrons. You’re on question 21 when you realize you’ve just marked “C” four times in a row. A bead of cold sweat pricks at your temple, and you read over each question about a hundred times, praying that you’ll catch your mistake. After all, that can’t be right… can it? Your gut says yes.

An hour later, relief ripples through the room as students zip up their backpacks and shuffle toward the front to turn in their scantrons. You’re right behind them, ready to bolt for the door—until Dr. Rappaccini calls your name.

Pausing mid-step, you turn back to face her, plastering on a polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah?”

She digs through her bag before pulling out a worn notebook, its cover littered with colorful tabs and sticky notes. Holding it out to you, she looks as if she couldn’t care less about the transaction.

“I believe your lab partner left this in the laboratory last class.”

Your brows furrow as you take the heavy notebook into your hands, flipping it open with a frown. Lo and behold, there it was—‘Property of Caleb Xia’ scribbled in that god-awful handwriting. Raising an eyebrow, you shake your head. “It’s his, yeah… but why are you giving it to me?”

“He didn’t show up for today’s exam, and I’ve canceled class next Monday,” she explains, slinging her tote bag over her shoulder. “Since you work closely with him, I figured you’d see him before I do.”

Now that catches your attention. A sliver—no, a slap—of satisfaction rolls through you. So his sabotage in the lab had already come back to bite him? Karma was fast today. You couldn’t be happier. But unfortunately, the thought of voluntarily interacting with Caleb makes your stomach churn, so you extend the notebook back to your professor without hesitation.

“I assure you, I don’t care to see that man. It’s probably best if you return it to him.”

She glances at her watch, and you can practically see the sweat break out on her forehead. “Oh, I wish I had the time to. I’m running late!”

Gathering her belongings, she makes a beeline for the door. You’re quick to try and follow suit.

Her voice adds a swift, “Ask around! I’m sure someone can help you track him down.”

“But wait! I don’t even—”

The door slams behind Dr. Rappaccini, leaving you frozen in place with Caleb’s stupid notebook clutched to your chest.

“—know what building he lives in.”

You groan, dragging your feet toward the exit, already dreading the idea of having to track down that idiot. In fact, maybe you won’t.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Tara’s voice cuts through the air, startling you. The flicked lighter in your hand dies out before you can hold it to the bottom of Caleb’s notebook long enough for the flames to catch.

“The damn thing won’t light,” you huff, shaking your head in defeat. “Do you happen to know anyone on campus who has lighter fluid?”

Tara crouches beside you, watching with mild horror as you attempt—and fail—to ignite the corner of the notebook again. “Uh… no, not off the top of my head.” She pauses, tilting her head. “And just to be clear, you’re aware that you’re about to light your notebook on fire, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not mine.”

Her head snaps toward you so fast you worry about whiplash. “Okay, let me rephrase that. You’re aware that you’re about to commit a felony, right?”

You flick the lighter again, giving her a puzzled look. “Please, Tara, I don’t care about felonies right now. This is war, and I need to take my revenge.”

“Revenge?” she echoes, her lips tugging downward like she hadn’t considered that to be your motive. “On the notebook or the owner?”

“On Caleb fucking Xia,” you reply, punctuating each word with another flick of the lighter. Then, finally, a tiny flame flickers to life at the corner of the notebook. A wide grin spreads across your lips. “Yay! I did it! Look, I—”

Tara leans forward, blows out the flame, and snatches the lighter from your grasp. “Are you nuts? You can’t just burn his chem notebook!”

You hum, twisting your lips to the side. “You’re right. I’d totally get caught. Maybe I should pawn it off to a frat guy? Make a quick buck. They’d probably pay good money for his notes.”

“What? No! You can’t burn his notebook because that would mean stooping to his level!”

You reach for the lighter, but she stretches her arm out just far enough that you can’t reach.

“Tara! When they go low, we must go lower.”

“When they go low, we should be the bigger person,” she corrects, patting your head like a disobedient child. “How did you even get it? You didn’t steal it, did you?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “No, I wish. Dr. Rappaccini gave it to me to return to him. Apparently, he left it in the lab.”

Tara tilts her head. “Oh. He didn’t show up for the exam? That’s… unlike him.”

Shrugging, you brush off the singed paper flakes from the bottom of the notebook. “I guess. Can’t say I care, though. It’s what he deserves.”

She scoffs. “Geez, this whole scandal has turned you heartless. The Caleb I know would rather eat glass than miss an exam, especially the first one of the semester. I hope he’s alright.”

“In that case, maybe you should be the one to return it to him,” you suggest, holding it out. “You seem to know where he lives, and you actually care if he’s alive. That’s already two steps in the right direction.”

Tara glances at her phone, then sucks on her teeth before flashing you a wry smile. “Oh, shoot! I can’t. I have my physics exam in four minutes.” Before you can argue, she’s already bolting toward her class. “Uh, I think he’s close with Zayne! The one from our bio class!”

You toss your hands up. “Why the hell am I being sent on a manhunt?” Patting your pockets, you realize something’s missing. “Hey! You took my lighter.”

“It’s for the better!” she calls over her shoulder.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

After a deep dive through Canvas, a trip to Outlook to send Zayne a rather frantic email, and a very long walk across campus, you find yourself stalking through the halls of an unfamiliar dorm building.

Your eyes flick up from your phone every few steps, scanning the numbers on the doors to make sure you haven’t somehow wandered into oblivion. It’s been ten minutes—too long, in your opinion—and you’re beginning to feel like a headless zombie, doomed to wander these halls forever.

That is, until your eyes land on a familiar set of numbers.

Room 323.

Exhaling sharply, you raise your fist and knock three times against the door. The response is almost immediate—an audible thud, followed by an impressive string of curses.

Then, the door swings open, revealing a very panicked and very shirtless Caleb.

And you? Your brain short-circuits.

For a second—just one—you can’t help it. Your gaze drops straight to his torso, where sharp lines of muscle carve into his biceps and abdomen like a damn Michelangelo sculpture. You’re almost positive those weren’t there yesterday. Scratch that. You’re absolutely positive they weren’t.

And you would have noticed. You’re nothing if not boundlessly observant. After all, you’re just a girl. You would have noticed if your infuriating classmate had nice biceps that would have certainly softened the blow of his sudden betrayal in the lab yesterday.

Pretty privilege is alive and well, you can’t help but think.

Caleb, looking equally flustered, yanks the door halfway shut, reducing the view to just his face. His chest still heaves from whatever chaos had preceded your arrival.

“I, uh… um.” He blinks, clearly rebooting his internal system. His brain fries, and of course the first thing he can do is lean his elbow against the door frame while not-so-obviously flexing his much larger bicep in the process. “So… what’s up?”

Dragging your gaze up to meet his with only minor difficulty, you hold up the slightly charred notebook in your hands. “You left this in class. Rappaccini told me to bring it to you.”

Caleb reaches for it, and the moment his fingers graze the cover, his brows furrow. He flips it over, rubbing his thumb against the edge. A smudge of soot stains his hand.

“What… happened to it?”

You lift your shoulders, hands flying up in a gesture of pure innocence. “No clue. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Before he can properly assess the obvious fire damage, you straighten your posture. If you beat him to it, there’s a good chance that you’ll be able to walk away from this entire ordeal scot free.

Just… be civil. You can do that much.

“Are you not going to say thank you? I literally had to email your roommate to find out where you live. It was a total inconvenience.”

Or not.

Caleb presses his lips into a thin line, tossing the notebook onto his desk before giving you a barely-there nod. “Right. Thanks.”

His clipped tone does nothing to soothe your irritation. You’re actually starting to regret not letting the damn thing go up in flames. If it weren’t for Tara and her obnoxious morality complex, you would have.

“You’re welcome,” you say sweetly, pivoting to leave. But just before he can close the door, something crosses your mind. “Oh! By the way, I wrote my number in the margin.”

Caleb’s eyes widen. His grip on the door frame tightens. “What? For me?”

A beat of silence. Then, you burst into laughter, and the fact that he isn’t laughing with you makes it ten times funnier. You have to physically wipe the tears from your eyes before you can speak again.

“Oh, you’re serious?” you wheeze, still catching your breath. “God, no. It’s for Zayne.”

“For… Zayne?”

You nod. “Yup. I have biology with him.”

Caleb leans back slightly, like you’ve just personally offended his ancestors. “And? You have chem with me.”

You flash him an expression that Caleb can only assume is the most passive-aggressive smile known to mankind. “Mm-hmm. Well, maybe I want to get in kahoots with people who don’t sabotage my lab reports.”

Ouch. Caleb rubs the back of his neck, swallowing hard. “About that…”

“Save it,” you hum, turning to leave. “Just be a doll and relay the message, yeah?”

But just before you step away, your eyes flicker to his chest again—this time, with an exaggerated furrow of concern. “Wait a sec… what the hell is that? You should really get that nasty mole checked out.”

Caleb’s brows knit together. He instinctively glances down—

And just as his chin tilts, your hand smacks against it, forcing it back up. Your laughter is louder this time. Almost cruel.

“Too easy, this game,” you taunt, shaking your head.

You’re gone before he can do anything other than stand there, jaw slack, ears burning a shade of red that rivals a fire hydrant. How could you prank him with the easiest trick in the book? He rubs his chin, shaking his head in utter defeat as he nudges his door shut.

Yeah. He doesn’t like you one bit.

Before he can dwell on that fact, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

xavier (pres of lambda chi alpha): i woke up late and missed physics. can U slide me the notes for the past week? i also slept through those days too… btw Ur still coming to the frat car wash next saturday right ?? we need U bro. U brought in so many new customers

caleb: sure man :)

xavier (pres of lambda chi alpha): the goat

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Sirens blare loud enough to wake you, their wailing cries bouncing off the buildings outside your window. The flashing of red and blue does little to ease your nerves—if anything, it invites the perfect storm of overthinking.

Your room is a mess. You haven’t eaten a balanced meal in days. A biology project is due next week. But above all? Midterms are rapidly approaching.

Lately, most of your days are spent holed up on the second floor of the library, tucked away in your usual corner seat. From there, you can people-watch from above and soak in just enough sunlight to keep from feeling like life is draining from you with each word you scribble down or type up. But after a while, even the comfort of routine turns into a cage.

It’s monotonous. Tiring. Far too predictable for your liking. If you don’t see at least one interesting thing each day—whether it’s someone walking their adorable dog or a person wearing a sweater so blindingly neon it makes your eyes hurt—you consider the day a waste. You still study, of course, but you need something of substance to fuel your brain. Something besides your bitter iced coffee, which barely manages to keep you conscious.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion of your second midterm season settling into your bones. Maybe it’s the weight of all your responsibilities pressing down on your shoulders. Whatever it is, it drives you to seek out a new place to study.

Is it 4 AM? Yes. Are the sirens especially loud tonight? Also yes. You can’t sleep. Sue you.

It makes perfect sense why you find yourself trudging into your university’s 24-hour café, headphones snug over your ears and meal card already in hand. Fuzzy pajama pants and an oversized hoodie hang off your frame, but if the cashier doesn’t care, neither do you. You’d be damned if you didn’t at least get your usual morning drink and a slice of banana bread to kickstart your day.

No more than an hour passes before the faint jingle of the entrance bell rings to life, prompting you to spare a glance over your shoulder, curiosity piqued.

Luck isn’t on your side. Of course it’s Caleb.

And he looks… different. Not in the way he did a few days ago—no, he looks worn. Tired. A bruise blooms across his cheek, stark even in the café’s dim lighting. You force yourself to look away before you can start ogling like a freak. Again.

But as he makes his way in your direction, you barely suppress a groan, turning back toward your laptop in a last-ditch effort to seem busy. It doesn’t work. Not when you feel the weight of his beady little amethyst stare boring into the back of your head.

You sigh, forcing a cheery tone. “Can you maybe not stand next to me looking like a decaying corpse? You’re going to attract flies.”

Caleb shrugs, managing to pick an almond off your banana bread before you slap his hand away. “You’re doing that on your own. Didn’t you hear? This café was infested with fruit flies last semester. Your perfume is basically a mating call for ‘em.”

You huff, tilting your head. “Aw. Is that your way of saying I smell nice?”

Rolling his eyes, Caleb crosses his arms over his chest. You notice a small cut on his bicep, but you do your best not to stare. You've done enough of that lately.

“No,” he flatly says. “I’m just… stating my observation.”

You turn back to your laptop, sliding your headphones over your ears. “Well, stop observing me.”

”Psh. Gladly.”

His actions are the first thing to betray his words, because he makes the executive decision to sit in the chair directly behind yours. He was sitting so damn close that you could feel the warmth of his skin through his hoodie—which you now notice is thrashed in a few places, as if he had taken scissors to the fabric and snipped away. It was odd, but you managed to look away as he shifted around to fish his own laptop out of his backpack.

Then, before you can finish typing the sentence you’d been working on before he walked in, he beats you to it. Obnoxiously so. His fingers slam against his keyboard with such force you briefly wonder if an elephant from the Linkon City Zoo has escaped and taken up tap dancing behind you.

Your teeth clench. “Can you stop typing so damn loud?”

“Oh, I’m not the loud one here.”

You glance over your shoulder, finding that he was already looking at you, “And that means what exactly?”

“It means that I could probably hear your music if I was three miles away.” With his new heightened senses, that was hardly an exaggeration. He gave you an all-too-charming smile. “Turn it down a few levels, yeah? Thanks.”

The lilt to his voice made you want to set him straight in more ways than one. “You little—”

“New Magic Wand by Tyler, The Creator at 4 AM is crazy work, by the way.”

“Boy, I’ll show you crazy—”

Suddenly, a chipper voice rings through the air. Much to your surprise, it called out your name.

Tara strides in as if you all aren’t up at the crack of dawn, looking incredibly enthusiastic about life, much like she always did. You wish you could inherit whatever will she has to live.

“Hey!” she greets with a wave. She plops down beside you, turning around in her seat so that she could face both you and Caleb at the same time. “Funny seeing you guys here. Are you talking about the fundraiser?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Why would we be talking about the fundraiser?” he can’t help but question.

“Well,” Tara sings, “my girl here is going to be helping out Delta Gamma with the sorority wash! And you’re going to be helping out Lambda Chi Alpha again this year, right?”

Caleb is almost positive that his heart has just dropped to his ass.

He looks between you and Tara. “What? She can’t come.”

You let out a short, annoyed breath. “And why can’t I?”

And he knows he sounds like a petulant child when he mutters, “It’s my thing.”

“Aw,” you coo, tilting your head with a forced pout. “Is it your thing? Womp womp.”

Caleb rolls his eyes, but you don’t care to see it as you lean toward Tara, lowering your voice as if you were telling her top secret information. “Why didn’t you tell me he would be there?”

“Because if I had, you would have totally refused,” she says matter-of-factly. “And we need you! We can’t let the guys bring in more revenue than us this semester, they held it over our heads for, like… months last time! Plus, I need you to combat him. I swear, he brought in more customers than anyone ever has, it’s no wonder Xavier begged him to do it again.”

You blink. “Are you serious?”

Tara nods.

You can’t help but rub your chin. “I’m surprised anyone paid him for that.”

Caleb glances between the two of you. “I’m sitting right here.”

You glance his way. “We know.”

He lets out a harsh breath. “Look. If you don’t want to see me there, don’t come. Real easy fix.”

You tilt your head, raising a brow. “Why do I have to be the one to cancel? Why can’t you just skip it? You already had your fun last year playing chick magnet or… whatever.”

“I can’t. I already made a commitment.”

“Well, so did I.”

“Perfect!” Tara beams, clasping her hands together. “I’ll see you both there then. This is gonna be sooo much fun, guys! You can probably even get over the little feud you have going on, I swear, it’ll be…”

Caleb can’t even hear the rest of whatever Tara was saying. His mind is too busy short-circuiting over this very dreadful realization.

You’ll be there.

In a bikini top.

Covered in soap suds.

Trying to pass him up yet again.

This was going to be a damn nightmare.

series masterlist. ┆ next: chapter three.

a/n consider liking, commenting, or rb if you enjoyed :) i’m sorry this update took so long </3 i got so swamped with my uni work and wasn’t entirely satisfied with the chapter sooo i pushed it off.

i know that this is lowkey a slow start with really short chapters and there isn’t much spider-man stuff going on rn but… trust me guys. just trust me.

also ofc there’s a xavier cameo bc that’s my man soooo i had to include him somehow, even if he’s just a sleepy frat boy

edit: if you don’t know what a frat/sorority wash is just look them up on tiktok LMAO, it’s usually shirtless frat guys and sorority girls in bikini tops who wash cars to raise money for their foundations. it’s just a silly college tradition idk 😭

taglist. (join it by commenting under this post!)

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inseobts · 3 months ago

Note

Can we get a oneshot the strawhat crew members with a fem reader like the wrestler mizuki? She’s dresses super cutesy but can beat the crap out of her opponent’s without breaking a sweat!!

Sugarbomb Slam!

strawhat crew x fem!reader (platonic)

a/n: omg I honestly didn't know mizuki, so I did some research and watched many photos and video AND OMG SHE'S SO COOL, I love it!! I hope I made the fanfic right tho

words count: 1.3k

tags: platonic, comedy, action, fluff, deceptively cute but deadly

masterlist || ko-fi

The Sunny drifts lazily across a glittering sea, the air warm, the skies clear, too peaceful for pirates this chaotic.

“Oi, Luffy,” Usopp calls from the crow’s nest, peering through binoculars “There’s someone out there… on a floating bunny?”

“Bunny?!” Luffy rockets to the bow of the ship “Let’s go get ‘em!”

“Wait—what?!” Nami shouts, already steering toward the mystery raft.

Sanji’s a blur, heart practically launching from his chest “A ladyyy?! No time to waste!”

Zoro doesn’t move “Sounds like a headache already.”

Within minutes, the crew is gathered around as Franky hauls up the soft, oversized bunny-shaped float.

Perched neatly on top of it is you, sipping a juice box, your boots laced with pink ribbons and your outfit a burst of ruffles and pastel colors. You look more like a candy shop mascot than someone lost at sea.

“Hi!” you chirp, like this is the most normal situation in the world “Thanks for the lift. That whirlpool nearly trashed my hair.”

Luffy tilts his head “Who are you?”

“Y/N the disaster magnet, that’s how people call me” You grin, eyes sparkling “But I make up for it with a cool dropkick.”

Usopp snorts “Wait, you what?”

“Uh-huh.”

Brook tilts his skull “With all due respect, miss… you look more like you wrestle with fashion choices.”

You smile.

And then you casually grab Brook by the collar and flip him overhead. His skull clacks against the deck as he lands flat on his back.

“Respect is earned” you say sweetly, patting your skirt back into place.

The crew freezes.

“Whoa,” Chopper gasps “She didn’t even try…”

“That was… hot!” Sanji whispers, nosebleed creeping in.

Robin chuckles “She’s got flair.”

Franky grins “And moves.”

Luffy’s eyes sparkle “Join my crew!”

“Huh?” You blink “You just met me.”

“You’re strong, you’re cool, and you beat up the skeleton,” he shrugs “That’s good enough for me!”

“I don’t even know where you’re going.”

“Neither do we half the time” Usopp mutters.

You look around. Pirates, but not the burn-and-loot kind. They seem… fun. Maybe even your kind of crazy.

You stretch, cracking your neck “Alright. But only if I get to beat up the next idiot who tries anything funny.”

“Deal!” Luffy laughs.

Zoro closes his eyes “Why do I feel like this one’s gonna be worse than the cook?”

Later on, the Sunny docks at a sleepy little island, just a quick stop for supplies, snacks, and the kind of chaos that always seems to follow the Straw Hats.

You bounce lightly on your heels, hands behind your back. Your puffy boots squeak a little “Alright! Who wants to throw down? Just a little warm-up match!”

Zoro glances up from where he’s leaning against a tree “…Why?”

“Because I need to move or I’ll go insane!” you say brightly “Also, I wanna see what you guys can do. And maybe you’d like to see what I’m capable of doing as well.”

Luffy’s eyes light up “Ooooh! Fight! Yeah, let’s see what you got!”

Sanji steps forward, already loosening his tie “My lady, if it’s a match you want—”

Robin, lounging under an umbrella with a book, raises an eyebrow “You going to break your code for her, Sanji?”

He freezes “…Tch. Damn it.”

You grin “You can’t hit girls, huh?”

“I won’t hit girls,” he says, adjusting his collar “There’s a difference.”

“Well, I respect that.” You crack your knuckles “But I still need a volunteer.”

Usopp immediately points at Zoro “Why not him?”

Zoro scowls “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who won’t cry if she throws you through a wall” Nami says, sipping her drink.

You smile “Aw, come on, greenie. Scared I’ll mess up your hair?”

Zoro stands up slowly “Fine. Five minutes. But don’t expect me to go easy just because you’re wearing ribbons.”

“You’re sweet,” you say, taking your stance “But I wouldn’t want you to.”

Five minutes later the crew forms a loose circle around you and Zoro.

He cracks his neck “Last chance to back out.”

You tap your boots together and blow a bubblegum bubble “Nah. You’ll be fine.”

He rushes first… quick, but not reckless. He goes for a clean sweep at your legs.

You jump way higher than anyone expects, twist in mid-air, and come down hard on his shoulders, flipping him flat on his back with a move that should not be humanly possible.

WHAM.

Zoro blinks up at the sky “…The hell was that?”

“A headscissor takedown,” you say, offering a hand “With extra sparkle.”

Luffy howls “YOU’RE SO COOL!”

Chopper’s fur is bristling with excitement “Can she teach us everything?!”

Sanji, conflicted but heart-eyed, mutters, “I’m fine with being kicked if it’s her.”

Robin flips a page in her book “This trip just got more entertaining.”

Zoro accepts your hand, dusting himself off.

“Not bad, but you’re lucky I didn’t fight you with my swords.” he says.

You grin, brushing your skirt back into place “You’re not so bad yourself, greenie.”

Later on you all decide to stroll into the small, quiet island town.

Luffy’s chasing the smell of meat, Nami and Robin are window-shopping, and you’re just enjoying the breeze.

Everything’s peaceful, until a scream cuts through the air.

The crew halts. Your eyes snap toward a side alley.

“What was that?” Chopper asks, ears twitching.

You don’t wait for permission, you’re already sprinting.

You turn the corner just in time to see a woman shoved roughly to the ground by a man with a long coat and bounty tags clinking from his belt. Three others stand nearby, laughing.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” the leader sneers, grabbing the woman by the arm “We were just askin’ a question—”

CRACK.

He steps back, hand now twisted in your grip. You didn’t yell. You didn’t threaten. You just showed up.

Your voice is light “Leave her alone.”

The man snarls “Who the hell are you?”

You smile “Someone who really hates cowards like you and your friends.”

He pulls a knife “You wanna get cute, princess?”

You sigh, glance down at your frilly dress, then back up at him “Too late. I already am.”

Behind you, the rest of the crew rounds the corner.

“What’s going on?” Usopp pants.

The bounty hunters were circle you, laughing like they’ve already won.

You crack your neck and bounce once on your heels.

“Alright,” you say, smiling “Who wants to be first?”

Ten seconds later you launch forward and take the knife guy by the wrist, twist, and throw him overhead. He slams into the ground and doesn’t get up.

The others charge. Bad idea.

You spin into a high kick that flattens the second one against the wall.

The third swings a bat.

You duck, sweep his legs, grab him mid-fall and powerbomb him into the cobblestones.

The alley echoes with the sound of bones hitting stone.

Then silence.

You’re still smiling as you dust off your skirt “Anyone else wanna bully someone smaller than them?”

The first guy groans from the ground “What are you…”

You lean down, voice sweet “I’m Y/N.”

The Straw Hats stare, completely frozen.

Luffy’s mouth hangs open “That. Was. AWESOME.”

Chopper’s eyes sparkle “She was like—bam! And then—WHAM! And then the suplex—!”

Nami blinks “I knew she was strong, but—damn.”

Robin chuckles “She’s holding back more than I thought.”

Usopp points “She... she was faster than Sanji to react at that scream. And did you guys see that? She broke the ground!”

Sanji clutches his chest “She’s… so perfect…I am totally in love!”

Zoro grins for real this time “Alright. She’s one of us.”

You turn back to the woman, gently helping her up.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, brushing dust from her dress.

She nods, eyes wide “T-Thank you…”

You smile again bright, gentle, sweet as sugar.

“Of course. Guys like that piss me off.”

You twirl back to your crewmates like nothing happened “So... lunch?”

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spookysanta · 2 months ago

Text

Puffball. (MBJ)

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: none

from the drafts

written out of my disdain for spring, and my love for corny nicknames.

Spring didn’t just arrive that year. It ambushed the world.

Bright skies broke open overnight, buzzing bees filled the air, and thin clouds of yellow pollen floated thick enough to shimmer in the morning light. Michael’s house sat right in the middle of it all, surrounded by towering old trees that seemed hellbent on waging war against anyone with a fragile immune system. Every gust of wind stirred up another invisible storm, leaving a fine dust clinging to the porch railings, the windows, the cars parked outside.

It was beautiful.

It was hell.

And she walked right into it.

Michael spotted her from the front window, hunched against the breeze, sneakers scuffing the gravel, tissues clutched in one hand like a white flag of surrender. She sneezed once — head snapping forward hard enough that her bag nearly slipped from her shoulder. Then again, louder, more desperate, forcing her to stop and swipe at her leaking eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

Michael barked a laugh, shaking his head as he swung the door open. The breeze carried another wave of pollen straight into the house.

“Baby girl,” he drawled, half-pitying, half-amused, “you didn’t even stand a chance out there, huh?”

She stumbled inside, blinking up at him through red-rimmed, glassy eyes, voice wrecked as she groaned, “I hate spring. I hate it.”

Michael grinned, catching her around the waist before she could crash face-first onto the couch.

“Nah, you love it,” he teased, hauling her close. “You just forgot your damn meds.”

“Hh’CHHH!” The sneeze ripped through her without warning, muffled into the chest of his hoodie.

Michael rocked back from the force of it, laughing harder, arms cinching tighter around her. He kissed the top of her messy hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Goddamn, bunny,” he said, smoothing a hand down her back, “you sound like you’re gonna blow yourself off your feet.”

She glared up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes streaming, nose twitching — and somehow looked even less threatening than usual. Michael laughed again, leaning in to kiss her forehead before she could argue.

“Don’t call me that,” she rasped, sniffling miserably. “Bunny’s for when I look cute. I don’t look cute right now.”

Michael chuckled, dropping another kiss onto her hair without letting her go. “You’re always cute,” he murmured, pulling her in tighter like he didn’t even hear her protests.

She huffed a miserable little sound, trying to look indignant. Another sneeze barreled through her before she could even open her mouth.

“Hh’KTSHH!”

Michael caught it like it was nothing. Grinning, he grabbed the tissues from her limp hand and dabbed at her nose, quick and gentle, before sliding a hand up her damp cheek. “Shit,” he chuckled, “you’re my little Puffball now.”

She froze. Pulled back just far enough to stare at him, puffy-eyed and utterly betrayed. “Puffball?” she croaked, voice thick with congestion and outrage.

Michael smirked, thumb brushing slow across her cheekbone. “Yeah,” he said, tilting his head in mock thoughtfulness. “You’re all puffy and cute and miserable. Puffball fits.”

She groaned, dropping her forehead to his chest, muttering something that sounded like, “I hate you,” into the fabric. But she didn’t pull away. Not really.

Michael smiled against her hair, rocking her gently back and forth like a slow dance neither of them had agreed to.

He finally got her onto the couch, buried under a fortress of blankets. Tissues were stacked within reach, and he made sure she had a full glass of water before handing her two allergy pills. “Take ’em,” he ordered, crouching next to the couch until she swallowed them both down.

She did, pouting miserably. Michael tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, kissed her forehead, and murmured, “Good girl.”

Every time she sneezed — sharp, helpless, miserable — he was there. Pressing kisses to her temple. Whispering, “Bless you, Puffball,” soft and unrelenting.

Every time, she huffed and buried deeper into the blankets.

Every time, he smiled like he was the luckiest man alive.

Later, when the meds kicked in and she was feeling just a little bolder, she plotted her revenge.

She crept up behind him while he was flipping through channels on the TV, wide grin stretching across her face. Without warning, she leaned in and let out the loudest, most dramatic fake sneeze right against his neck.

“Hh’CHHH!!”

Michael flinched like he’d been shot, yelping in pure betrayal. “You little shit!” he roared, dropping the remote and lunging off the couch.

She shrieked, giggling hysterically as she darted down the hall, blanket trailing behind her like a cape. Michael caught her in two steps, scooping her clean off the ground and tackling her onto the bed in a pile of tangled limbs and laughter.

He pinned her wrists above her head, grinning down at her, chest heaving. “You think you’re funny, Puffball?”

She nodded furiously, breathless with laughter.

Michael leaned down, brushing his nose against her throat, then her jaw, then the flushed apple of her cheek. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, peppering obnoxious, wet kisses all over her face as she squealed and squirmed under him. “You’re so goddamn lucky, baby girl.”

Eventually, they calmed.

Tangled in the blankets, her face pressed against his bare chest, the slow thud of his heart in her ear.

The room smelled like laundry detergent, fading traces of tissue dust, and Michael — warm, musky, grounding.

She sighed, small and content. “Is Puffball… the thing now?” she mumbled into his skin.

Michael laughed low, threading his fingers through her hair, thumb tracing the curve of her scalp. “Yeah, baby,” he said, voice softer than anything. “It’s the thing.”

She groaned, but she was smiling, cheeks hot, heart thudding helplessly against his ribs.

Michael just kissed the top of her head again, breathing her in.

It was the thing.

It was their thing.

Always would be.

—

Tags:

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#michael b jordan x black reader #michael b jordan x reader #michael b jordan #spookysanta #x black woman #x black girl #x black y/n #x black fem reader #x black reader #x reader

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ceilidho · 2 years ago

Text

prompt: reader is hired as a live in house cleaner because ghost is always away and he only comes back on leave and he insists she stay in the guest room. Over time he increasingly acts like she’s his live in girlfriend or something. Very confusing for reader lmao.

The job comes at the exact right time.

The way you stumble onto your new job is a bit dicey, if you’re being honest. You’ve been meaning to get out of the waitressing life for a while—the tips are shit and the number of times that you’ve had your backside pinched has slowly but steadily climbed into the double digits. You just haven’t had direction; somewhere to go.

Your savior comes in the form of a six foot plus soldier. Oh, he doesn’t tell you that, but his body language speaks for itself.

At first, even the sight of him makes your belly clench and palms sweat like when you watch rock climbing documentaries or parkour videos online (all moist and clammy and you have to wipe them on your jeans before shaking his hand). He’s a one-time customer at your little roadside diner that gradually becomes a repeat offender.

He comes at odd times, sometimes disappearing for a month or two before he’s back to sitting in the booth at the back of the diner with his back against the wall. You smile shakily when you pour him coffee after coffee. He never eats. Always sits in the same booth, dressed in the same black hoodie that does nothing to hide the sheer size of him and a black surgical mask that he never removes. He has a sixth sense for when you’re watching him from behind the counter, waiting for him to take a sip.

You never do catch a glimpse of his face. Not completely anyway. You know him only by the faint smell of gunpowder and metal that clings to him like a second skin, and the feeling of his calloused hand against yours.

Like ice slowly chipping off a glacier that one day cracks, a huge chunk splintering off and crashing into the sea, you know nothing about him until you’re suddenly in his house. Simon, he tells you, and the sound of his name awakens something in you. He needs a housekeeper and you need a reason to leave.

You quit the diner; barely even put in a week’s notice.

The day you drive up the long beaten road up to his property, a cabin deep in the English countryside, clear blue skies follow you. Clouds crisp, delicate even. Simon takes you through the house, showing you to the guest room where you’ll be staying while he’s away. He never directly confirms your suspicions, but the faint tightness around his eyes when he mentions his job tells you all you need to know. No wonder he needs someone to keep the house in order. Never around to do it himself.

Then he’s gone, swift as a ghost. You wake up in the guest room to a hastily scrawled note on your bedside table and a faint feeling of loss.

You scrub tiles and dust the top bit of the fan that everyone always misses; you mow the lawn, clean the gutters, and sit under the shade of a poplar tree with a glass of lemonade in the early evenings. If you look up into the tree, you’ll see spiders and squirrel nests. It’s almost therapeutic.

Weeks pass at a time. Simon reemerges like clear skies between periods of rain. Sometimes even before you wake up, you can feel the change like lighting sizzling in the air, crackling hot under your fingertips and then stumbling into the kitchen to find him leaning against the counter, coffee already brewing. You blush into an apology that he waves off.

Good soldier. Better boss.

You fall into a routine, something of a cadence that is only interrupted by Simon’s hands on your hips when he moves you out of the way to grab a mug from the top shelf. His finger brushing over the curve of your cheekbone to wipe away flour smudged on your cheek. Then he’s gone again, passing through like a ghost.

Perhaps he’s a more tactile man than you originally assumed. Something about the way he held himself in those first few weeks in the diner suggested otherwise, the way he seemed to radiate a latent hostility. Do not get close. You read this in the general slope of his eyebrows and the scars across his muscled forearms up until he reaches out to touch you, growing more and more comfortable with you around.

“You alright, love?” said into your ear on a warm night when Simon materializes onto the couch beside you, practically out of thin air. Your heart almost bursts in your chest.

When you turn, he’s as beautiful as ever, honey burnt eyes staring out from behind a balaclava this time. Still dresses in his standard issue tactical pants, the faint smear of grime and gore around the ankles. There’s a lump in your throat when you smile.

He smells richer now. Deeper, like the forest floor. Like crawling through mud and spider webs and a thick, cloying miasma of desperation.

“Sorry—I didn’t know you’d be back,” you apologize, going to rise up to your feet. It feels wrong to commandeer his house when he’s on leave, even though you live here too.

A heavy hand on your shoulder pulls you down, settling you to his side. “Off your feet now—there you go, atta girl. No sense getting up; show’s not even done.”

He angles you back to face the TV and tugs you into his lap almost effortlessly. You do not look back, even when you feel him slip the balaclava off, hot breath fanning over your neck. Not even when fingers play over the thin line of skin where your shirt rides up. You blink like your eyes are gummy and try not to shudder when his thumb dips underneath your shirt.

#cod mw2 #ghost cod #cod x reader #cod simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #ceil writing #house cleaner au

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ultravi0lence14 · 6 months ago

Text

Thoroughfare

DEAN WINCHESTER X DOE!READER

WARNINGS: sexual content (MDNI), fingering, hair pulling, finger sucking. first smut, pls i know it’s bad🫣

SUMMARY: with a light whisper of ‘do you wanna see the west with me?’ dean had you right where he wanted; by his side and sitting pretty in the front seat of his car.

WC: 3.3k

the humid air of the western skies lingered on your skin, bringing a humid and sticky sheen to your arms and shoulders. dean had all the windows rolled down, a testament to the light breeze that broke through the stickiness of montana.

your cotton tank top stuck to your skin, slick sweat making you feel like it had melded with your body. the cutoff’s you wore weren’t any better, adhering to your thighs like glue. the stubborn weather of a mid july afternoon didn’t allow for any cold; no chill wracking you through the bone, only a sickly, immobilizing heat that crashed through your senses and made it’s way into your dna.

though some part of you didn’t seem to mind. the rolled down windows allowed you to stick your head out the open space, wind blowing in your hair as you took in the blurred and rolling sights of crooked leafless trees and dried up fields.

dean wasn’t any better. one of his hands rested on the steering wheel, long nimble fingers clutched tightly so he could steer you to wherever the road leads you two. his other hand — firm in it’s grip, rested on your thigh. his fingers travelled into the inside of your leg, fingers delicately dancing across the seem of your shorts as his eyes stared at you from his peripheral vision.

you were ethereal, an angel sent from God just for him. your hair, unruly in how the wind tossed it about, was flowing behind you like a fairy with her wings. the side profile of your face was directed towards dean, your back facing the passenger side door as you stuck your head out in the placid and dry air.

the fullness of your cheeks was properly on display to dean’s eager eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to run his lips across the skin, brushing delicate kisses onto your cheeks and face until you were covered in his love. he could faintly see the plump pout of your own lips, eyes shimmering with admiration and desire as he pictured running his tongue across them; your soft lips pressed timidly against his as he pulled you into his body, almost swallowing you whole.

he loved you, so incandescently. you were the face of beauty, a true goddess in the eyes of the eldest winchester. it wasn’t just your delicate features that pulled dean in, it was the way you carried yourself, a graceful mist following you wherever you went.

softness rolled off of you in tidal waves, and dean loved how your gentle nature contrasted and grounded his frequent pessimistic and grumpy behaviour. the human embodiment of a doe; a creature full of love and life, who walked through flower gardens erupted by spring like it was her calling.

it didn’t help that your eyes resembled one of the animal; big and round, always so soft and caring. he loved you so much, it physically made his soul ache.

you were always there for him, never wavering even when times got tough. you didn’t love his job, believing that hunting was dangerous and the stem of all of his childhood and lasting trauma. but dean always waved you off, saying that this was his life, and he would never do anything that would jeopardize a life and future with you.

but he could still see the emotional tole it was taking on you, weighing on your heart like a heavy burden that you shouldn’t be carrying. he ached for you to feel secure in this life that he was giving you, but dean also knew that everyone needed breaks. so, he decided to give you one.

a couple nights ago, the two of you found yourselves tangled in the sheets of a nebraskan motel, limbs intertwined as dean embraced you in his arms, your fingers drawing small hearts on his chest.

“let’s go to california.” the random outburst from dean had you pulling away from him slightly, lifting up on your elbows so you could get a better look at the man who’s eyes glimmered with hope and mischief. “what are you talking about, dean?”

“what i’m trying to say is,” dean sat up as he spoke, resting against the headboard and grabbing your hips so he could pull you into his lap. “let’s go to california. you are always begging me to go to malibu, and you deserve a vacation every now and then.”

the smile on your lips was beaming, a shine that could light up a thousand skies. dean wanted to bottle it up, put it in a jar, and never let it leave his side. he felt your hands move to his shoulders, those big, beautiful eyes staring at him with unbridled excitement. “you’re being serious right now? this isn’t just some sick joke?”

“no jokes baby,” he drawled, hand brushing your soft hair away from your face. pulling his face closer to yours so he could brush his lips against your ear, dean whispered so softly you believed you were imagining it. “do you wanna go see the west with me, pretty girl?”

you were elated the whole car ride, excitedly babbling about all the things you two would do in the golden state. as the nights rolled into days, the air started to get more and more humid, which led to the very moment that dean was in now. he shook his head from the memory of how he got here, watching your smile take up your whole face as you giggled at something unbeknownst to him. he didn’t really think about the why, he was too busy getting drunk on the sound of your laugh.

lightly patting your thigh, dean grinned over at your windswept and sticky frame as your giggles danced alongside the flow of the wind. “c’mon crazy girl, get back in here. can’t have you falling out.” his words held a joking lilt, yet you could see the concern in dean’s eyes. with a joking huff, you retreated back into the car, legs immediately sticking to the leather as the hot air melded your skin like sticky glue.

“oh c’mon dean, it’s so hot.” you groaned out, another giggle rippling through your lips as you saw dean playfully role his eyes in your peripheral. “i can basically feel my skin melting off.”

“you’re so dramatic,” his teasing was palpable, you could feel it in the way his smile reached his eyes and how his fingers clutched a little tighter onto your thigh. “what do you think cali’s going to be like, baby? think it’s going to be an ice box?”

letting out a grunt as you smacked his arm, dean watched with love struck eyes as your grin got impossibly even more wide. “you’re such a jerk, dean winchester!” dean swore he has never smiled harder in his life than when he was with you. that sweet, playful nature always brought out the best in him, and he didn’t even dare think about a life without your brightened presence.

crossing your arms over your chest, those pretty pink lips dean loved so much puffed out in a pretty pout. dean’s hand itched on your thigh, wanting to reach up and pull down your bottom lip. “i’m prepared for the weather in california, dean.” your voice broke him from his revere, making dean slightly cough as he intently listened to your ramble

“we won’t be spending all the time in the car. we’ll be at the beach, santa monica pier — oh i’m so excited for all the rides!” the vibrant glimmer of your excitement shined through the car, hitting dean straight in his heart, spreading until it was pumping through his veins.

“yeah, no rides, doe.” the previous excitement in your eyes dwindled, a shocked expression breaking through. “what? we have to go on the rides dean! it’s almost like a birthright.” he just loved how you expressed yourself, loving how when you defended the things you loved, your eyes got wild and your cheeks tinted. it was such a pretty sight, though dean was starting to believe everything about you was pretty.

dean’s words came through his lips in a chuckle, a grin etched onto his face as he looked at your pretty features. “i don’t do rides. never have, never will. sorry, sweets.”

shaking your head in disdain, a sad pout decorated your face, turning towards dean as he continued to drive down the desolate, montana road. “you’re such a buzz kill, do you even know what fun is?”

your question was a joke, your voice light and airy as it always was, but this time with a twinkle of comedy. but dean was already so wound up from the image of how pretty you looked with the wind blowing in your hair, illuminating you like a framed painting, that an idea slid into the depths of his mind.

a smirk adorned his lips as he shifted the wheel, pulling the impala off to the side of the road. your face twisted up in confusion as dean pulled the gear shift into park, cutting the ignition and turning his body to face you. your lips parted in question, about to voice your thoughts before dean’s hands grabbed at your calves.

with a squeak from your lips, dean hauled your legs onto the front seat, moving your body so your back was leaned against the door. he then tracked his fingers down the smooth expanse of your skin, grabbing at your ankles and pulling you down until you laid flat on your back.

the space was cramped, but dean somehow found a way to make it work; bending your legs at the knees and spreading them open so he could fit in between them. words were lodged in your throat, a sputter of air leaving your lips as dean situated himself. he had that shit eating grin on his face, and you could already tell that he had something wild up his sleeve.

“dean!” you exclaimed, hands going to rest against his chest as a laugh erupted from your lips. “what are you doing?”

he just smirked, trailing his hands from your ankles up your thighs, one hand gripping your waist as the other worked to pop the button of your shorts. “just showing my girl how fun i can really be.”

the words that fell from his lips were amplified with the sound of your zipper undoing, and your eyes widened suddenly at the realization of what dean had in mind.

“we can’t do this now, dean.” you exasperated, hands pushing at his chest as his fingers worked to take off your pants. “someone could drive by, they could see us for christ’s sake!”

dean just leaned down to leave a lingering kiss on your forehead, shimmying the waistband of your shorts a little ways down your waist before his hand on your hip shifted to go under your ass. “no one’s been on the road for miles, sweet thing. we’re alone, everything is going to be okay.” his words were followed by the softening of his eyes, the hand that had been undoing your zipper went up to stroke your cheek. “do you trust me?”

sliding your hands up from his chest to around his shoulders, a soft, serene smile graced your lips. you brought your face upward, brushing your mouth against his as the shallow breath’s leaving dean’s lips hit your own. “of course, i always do.”

you felt him smile against your lips, placing a delicate kiss on your nose before he pulled back slightly. “good,” he breathed, hands going back to your waistband. “now, lift your hips f’me, baby.”

a dusty blush adorned your cheeks as you obliged, hips lifting slightly as dean slid your jean shorts from your legs. when they got to your ankles, dean helped you kick them off, picking them up and throwing them somewhere in the backseat with a grin.

“that’s much better.” words wrapped around a grin as his fingers dipped into the waistband of your panties. the giggle that left your lips at his comment turned into a shallow whimper as one of his fingers dipped into your folds, his fingers slipping through your already wet cunt.

a breath left dean’s lips, eyes blowing wide as he watched your face twist in pleasure from the finger he had down your pants. “jesus, sweets, you’re already fucking soaked. did i do this to you? was it my words and my finger that got you this wet?”

a high pitched ‘mhm’ left your lips as you nodded your head, eye’s half lidded as you watched dean stare down at his finger teasing your folds. moving the finger that was teasing your entrance towards your clit, lightly pressing down and eliciting a sharp moan from deep in your gut. “there’s my girl,” dean cooed, his fingers moving in tight circles on your sensitive bud. “you’re doing so good for me baby, such a good fucking girl.”

the sensation was overwhelming, a shot of bliss the curled in your gut and wound into your soul. your half-lidded eyes caught sight of dean, his head down as he watched the way his finger played with your clit. the mid-day sun was washing over his figure, bathing him in such a light that made him look almost angelic.

as dean pulled his finger away, you felt a sense of emptiness unfurl in your stomach. a deep whine left your lips, hips lifting upwards to try and chase the high that dean was providing you. “more dean. please, give me more.”

“patience, pretty girl.” his voice was soft, but there was an air of demand and dominance that hid behind the cracks of his voice. “i’m just getting started. didn’t know you were so needy for me.”

another whine tore from the depths of your throat, whimpering as dean slid the side of your underwear out of the way, exposing your cunt to his eyes and the cold air that was whirling through the car’s vents. a groan rumbled in his throat, your eyes half lidded as you watched him put the finger covered in your slick in his mouth.

“jesus christ, you taste like a fucking dream.” his words sound slurred, and they were heightened as two of his fingers went back to your leaking pussy, prodding at your entrance as tiny whimpers left your throat. “i can’t wait to see how you look stuffed with my fingers, gushing all over my hand like the good girl i know you are.”

the whine that would’ve left your lips at his words turned into a deep moan, dean’s middle and pointer finger entering your tight walls, his own ragged breaths mixing with yours as he felt you clenching around him.

he watched as your breathing grew ragged, chest heaving up and down as you gripped onto his shoulders for dear life. he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so dean waited until you gave him the green light, his other hand smoothing down the hair the fell in your face.

after a couple of moments, he felt your hips rut into his hand, eyes screwing shut in pure pleasure. that was all he needed to thrust his fingers into your tight walls.

high pitched whimpers left your lips as dean’s fingers prodded at your cervix, a guttural moan leaving your lips as he brushed against your g-spot.

“there it is,” he breathed, hollow breaths leaving his own lips as he watched his fingers go in and out of you. “that’s the spot, isn’t it baby? you like it when my fingers make you feel good?”

all you could let out was a guttural moan, hands clawing at dean’s clothed chest for any sign of resolve. too caught up in your own pleasure, you didn’t realize that dean had forgotten to roll up the windows, your loud moans and whines flowing through the wind and alerting anyone who drove by about what was going on inside of the impala.

but in the moment, you didn’t seem to care. dean started to move his fingers faster, your hips rutting up to meet the frenzied pace of his hand. the coil in your stomach was starting to tighten more and more, and you couldn’t help but scrunch your eyes closed and slightly turn your head as the euphoric feelings started to intensify.

though that didn’t last for long, because without a warning, the hand that dean had previously used to smooth down your hair tangled in it’s strands, gripping tightly as he pulled your head upwards so you were face to face with him.

“open those pretty eyes for me, sweetheart.” his voice held that same softness with a lilt of dominance, fingers quickening as he felt your orgasm approach. “i wanna see you when you cum. see how good i make you feel when i fuck you with my fingers.”

your eye’s shot open, lips parted and heavy pants and whines leaving your throat as dean kept going with the relenting pace. “i can’t- fuck, dean! i’m gonna cum!”

the pace at which dean’s fingers were moving inside of you was relentless. each thrust of his fingers hitting your g-spot as his piercing green eyes stared into yours. at your words, he moved a little faster, lips brushing yours as his voice travelled from his lips to yours. “c‘mon, my sweet girl, come for me.”

you could feel it, the bliss that started in your core and creeped it’s way into your entire body. the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening until, like a crashing wave, it gave way.

you came with a loud cry, back arched and head leaning into dean’s hand embedded into your hair. you watched as dean kept moving his fingers inside of you even as you gushed around his fingers. he was transfixed, completely enchanted by the bliss that took over your face.

“there you go,” he cooed, the hand in your hair lessening as his fingers started to slow down. “pretty girl, all messed up, coming on my fingers. you look fucking unreal.”

his words were mixed in with the small whimpers that left your lips, mouth parted and cheeks flushed with bliss. there was drool running down the corners of your mouth, and you felt as dean took his hand out of your hair and wiped it away with his thumb.

you whined as he pulled his fingers out, feeling empty without his fingers deep inside of you. looking down, you watched as your juices spilled out of your entrance, dean immediately dipping his two already wet fingers in the mess and putting them in front of your mouth.

“open up for me, doe. want you to taste yourself on my fingers.” with wide, wet eyes, you parted your lips for dean to place his two fingers on your tongue. when you closed your mouth, sucking on the two digits, you felt as the pads of middle and pointer finger prodded at the back of your throat.

“that’s my girl.” dean breathed out, watching in awe as he stared at your pretty face sucking your juices off of his fingers. he swore you weren’t real in that moment, too good to be true. yet as you swirled your tongue around his fingers, he realized that you were his, and he was yours, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world.

as you came down from your high, dean cleaned you up with a napkin that he found in his centre console. when he was done, he helped you sit up, moving your underwear back into place and allowing you to take a breather.

realizing your shorts were in the backseat, you leaned over the seat to try and find them, jumping as you felt dean land a smack on your ass.

“jesus dean,” you laughed, grabbing your shorts and sitting back down. “can’t get enough can you?”

“when it comes to you?” he grinned, turning the car back on and starting to pull back onto the street. “i can never have enough,”

TAGS: @haunteres @starzify @floralscented @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @foolinthera1n @vaiieydoii @bluemerakis

NAT BABBLES: i’ve been so wrapped up with my angel series, that i wanted to reset and write a little dean story. also, this is my first time writing smut, so i know it’s probably ass, but just bare with me😭

#supernatural #dean winchester #imagine #supernatural x reader #fluff #ultravi0lence14 #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x doe!reader #ethel cain #southern gothic #dean winchester smut

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wileys-russo · 6 months ago

Note

Wally, “they just called me your girlfriend and you didn’t correct them” at a cafe or smth please

correction II l.wälti

"-and you're sure you know where we're going?" you asked skeptically, shrugging on your puffer jacket and grabbing your scarf from the hat rack.

"of course i do! i am the local here, no?" the swiss woman huffed, raising an eyebrow questioningly as you wrapped your scarf around your neck and shrugged.

"i wasn't aware you grew up on the mountains in the middle of nowhere. were you raised by wolves?" you teased the girl who mocked you and pulled a face, pulling your beanie down to cover your face.

"we are not in the middle of nowhere, we are at a ski resort and going for a walk on a marked trail. it will be fine!"

turns out, those were famous last words.

"we've passed this tree trunk before." you narrowed your eyes, jutting out your hip and looking it up and down. "how would you know that!" lia paused beside you and scoffed, hands on her own hips.

"easy. you tripped over it, see? your boot mark in the snow." you pointed out, squatting down and outlining the partially covered up print, pointing then to lias own boot with a satisfied nod.

"i tripped over? you pushed me!" lia argued as you glanced up with a sly smile. "me? i would never dare." you gasped sarcastically, standing up straight and backing away slightly, noticing lia now had one hand hidden behind her back.

you weren't quite sure what the two of you were, close friends to say the least, though you'd be lying if you hadn't thought about becoming more, wondering if lia had too.

it had started only a few months ago, what had grown to be a comfortable and dependable friendship with the midfielder seemed to shift one night, a group of your teammates over for dinner all but lia had headed off to their own homes.

the two of you had been locked into a very heated game of monopoly, warned by your captain you had training the next morning but both of your competitive natures meant you weren't stopping until someone won.

well that was the plan, until lia, who was surely set to lose, was suddenly just far too tired to continue, insisting the two of you call it a draw and ignoring your accusations she was only saying this so she didn't lose.

she'd wound up staying the night, and not bothered to change the sheets in your spare bedroom she'd crashed with you, only when you awoke it was to the pair of you much closer than you'd been when you drifted off, limbs entangled and lia's face so close to yours you could count the freckles dotting her nose if you wished.

since then you noticed the pair of you, who'd always seemed to gravitate toward one another, had somehow grown even closer, lia seeming to spend the night more often, and every morning you'd wake up wrapped up together, but never did you really speak about it.

from then on it felt a little like the two of you were doing some sort of dance, you'd get close, then closer, then right as it seemed like maybe something a little less than friendly might happen one of you spun away like a top, and a little while later the cycle would repeat itself again.

then came the winning of the continental cup, and the alcohol fueled dance party that carried on till the early hours of the morning, the pair of you both crashing at leahs house too drunk to remember your own addresses to add to the uber.

and around three in the morning, curled up together on the sofa in leahs living room, the pair of you shared a very drunken kiss, a habit which seemed to follow you both though a habit which only raised its head when your bloodstreams pumped with alcohol.

then the next morning would come the fake amnesia, neither one of you choosing to bring up your activities the night before but also not making a choice to refrain from letting them happen again.

and just like that a whole new step was added to your little dance routine.

a lack of new years plans had you roped into lia's, the girl forever eager to gush about her home country was all the more excited to be able to actually show it to you, meeting up with a few of her friends after she'd picked you up from the airport two days after christmas.

"say that you tripped me." lia ordered, her slow steps forward matching yours which moved backwards, hand still hidden behind her back, your lips curling into a smile at the accent which stuck to her words.

"i was raised not to tell lies, wälti." you grinned, a slight mistetp having you tripping over a stick hidden beneath the pilowy white surface of the snow trodden ground, and with that little wobble, the swiss woman struck.

"oh? well then since i was raised by wolves..." you squealed as the ball of snow exploded against the side of your face, lia's own lit up with a shit eating grin, a belt of laughter echoing through the air.

"this means war."

somewhere along the way of your running and dodging and throwing it would seem you'd stumbled back into the ski village, the trail left behind you as you felt your back knock into someone.

"oh god i am so-" but your words fell short as a snowball hit you in the back of the head, the man you'd bumped into giving you an odd look and continuing on his way.

"oh lia it went down the back of my neck!" you whined with a groan, wiggling uncomfortably as the ice cold water trickled down your spine, your scarf now also damp and useless as it was balled up in your hands.

"entschuldigung. come on, let us warm back up!" the woman laughed, arm slung over your shoulders and an apologetic kiss pressed to your cheek, marching the pair of you toward the nearest cafe.

"now will you admit that you got us lost?" you accused, bumping your shoulder into lia's after she'd ordered coffees for the pair of you. "no! i knew where were going the whole time." lia declined as you scoffed and she gave you a cheeky smile.

"you absolutely did not." "i did!" "you did not!" "i did. we got back here, no?" "no thanks to you!"

your little argument was paused by lia's name being called out as she pulled your beanie down over your face again and hurried to the counter to collect them.

"oo wait they have chocolate syrup!" you spied eagerly as lia handed you your coffee, darting off back to the counter as she watched with a smile before looking around the crowded room for a free table.

unable to find one she made her way to a couple sat at a six seater, politely asking if they'd mind sharing which neither one of them did, lia finding you chatting away happily to the barista, catching your eye with a little wave.

you'd made enough polite conversation with the couple beside you to warrant them bidding their goodbyes as they had a ski lesson booked in, though you'd excused yourself to use the bathroom when they arose from the table.

however you did catch the very last of their farewell as you returned toward the table, messing about with the zipper of your puffer which was jammed, a frustrated huff leaving your lips.

"-and tell your girlfriend we said good luck for the champions league for both of you. up the arsenal!" the woman cheered before her partner who appeared a little embarrassed tugged her away, lia laughing and waving them off.

"well we can tell leah that we have converted some non football fans into gooners!" lia teased as you joined her back at the table, both of your coffees long finished and a slice of chocolate cake shared between you.

"they just called me your girlfriend, and you didn't correct them." you stated as you took your seat, lia's cheeks flushing with colour. "i-well yes." she confirmed, a little lost for words and clearly flustered.

"does that maybe mean if i asked you to get dinner tonight, it could be a date?" you weren't sure where the sudden burst of confidence came from, the fear of rejection simmering at the surface the more seconds ticked by without an answer.

"or that was a stupid idea and-" "yes."

"yes?" you asked, wide eyed in surprise as now your own cheeks seemed to flush a rosy pink. "yes. its a date!" lia smiled shyly, knee knocking into yours as a few moments of comfortable silence passed between you.

"so does this mean now you will admit you got us lost?"

#woso x reader #lia walti x reader #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso fanfics

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werezmastarbucks · 5 months ago

Text

of those who found out

in which yoongi protects you

fluff, hurt/comfort

yoongi x nonKorean!f!reader x established relationship, husband!yoongi, protective!yoongi

word count: 5439

warnings / tags: violence, bodily harm, wound description, parasocial, mentions of hypothetic suicide, angry yoongi / angry jungkook, fuckboy jungkook, street fighting, married members

Newly married. When Yoongi told you he managed to claw not two, not three weeks for the honeymoon, but four, you spun about the room. The world tour after the reunion has been all kinds of unexpected, gruelling and exciting, and lonely, for an inexperienced you. Now, you got to marry the person you loved, and not have to share him with the rest of the world, for a full month. Osaka is unusually fresh and beautiful in early April: cherries in full bloom, blue skies, mild wind. And your dream boy would be with you this whole time; as you watched his preoccupied face, frowned by the pressures of his work, his second life, the need to pretend, the need to smile, change to relaxation; the weather outside the plane window changed as well. Osaka had the special kind of blue in its sky, the almost dream-like color, as if you weren't really there. Every time you happened in that city, it always seemed like you layered into parts and not all of you was present, but in a good way. People in Osaka didn't care about faces; Yoongi would always drop his shoulders comfortably, making his wide and tough frame a little softer. He didn't wear a mask in Osaka, and didn't pull his cap so far down that he couldn't see where he was going. Seeing him become nonchalant like that, looking around instead of straight ahead and down, swing his arms as he walked, and swing his head to look at buildings and trees; it was just happy. Your left hand was pleasantly and unusually heavy with the new ring; you would raise your palm against the bright sky to look how the sun sneaks in between your middle and ring finger; and catch Yoongi looking at you. You knew intuitively, as it always happens when you feel on top of the world, that it would only get better and better with time. As if nothing bad can ever happen to such people as you: young and happy and so strong. Whatever parts of him weren't healed yet, he was now at least okay with them, and was learning to embrace them. He wasn't screaming in his songs anymore. His voice acquired the soft murmur again. He smiled so much nowadays, showing his small delicate teeth, as if he finally learnt to click and switch, from Suga to Yoongi, and back again.

"You always looked kinda Tokyo to me", you noted, studying his face. Yoongi's eyes were narrowed as he watched the streets slowing down behind the window of the train.

"Shin-Imamiya", he hummed, as if he didn't hear you at first, seconds before the soft faceless voice announced the station. Yoongi's hand squeezed yours, and you ouched out of habit; he couldn't get used to the rings, either. Was accustomed to holding your hand very tightly, pushing the engagement ring with briar rose gemstone into your nearby fingers. His hold loosened immediately.

"Sorry", you got off the train, and your head snapped to look around at the unconventional urbanistic rundown architecture around.

"Japanese, huh?"

"About twelve per cent Japanese".

"People usually tell me, once I hit thirty, I started looking like a Chinese crook from a nineties movie", he confessed, with just not enough indifference.

"You would love to be one, huh?" you grinned. You could see it, too, now. Your thought adjusted. His high cheekbones and sharp, unforgiving slant of the eyes, and without makeup to smooth his face, he did look like he was capable of bad things. Yoongi nodded, quite content. He led you through the pedestrian tunnel into the wide sleepy street, with tall, dishevelled buildings, pieces of clothes hanging warily from the balconies, bright grey shining in the spring sun. In this weather, even the less attractive districts looked rather like locations from a video game, with its special greenpunk charm. Yoongi's short black hair moved lazily in the light wind; he cut his royal mane right after the wedding, elated like a puppy who caused mischied and knew about it. He did leave two wavy strands to frame his face though. Both you and his mother were glad.

You walked down the street looking at people living his life; someone adjusting a flower pot on their balcony, or thrashing a sheet furiously; some voices flew down from the top floors as the tall houses grew and grew on above your heads. Some kids left the building, hands in their jean pockets, caps, chains on their thighs. Yoongi checked the map on his phone:

"To the left at the end of the street".

He clocked them first; but you didn't even notice. The years living in safe Seoul all but killed your spacial awareness skills; and as far as you knew, Japan was even safer. Crime rates low on the ground, you always hopped like a butterfly on the Kyoto streets even when you were alone. So now, as you heard a whistle coming from one of the entrances, you attributed it to some internal conversation among a group of people.

"Oh, no way", Yoongi grumbled, and you finally paid attention. He was looking at the group of young people huddled together in between two broken up flower beds in front of the building. Your natural instinct finally kicked in: three men of moderate height but sick built. Wide shoulders, thick legs, they looked like people who were looking for trouble.

"It's not even evening", you mumbled, frustrated. Yoongi couldn't break the lock with them as he watched the group that gestured something towards you.

"Tourists?" you heard. One guy motioned his hand. The other two started babbling something in Japanese assuming Yoongi would understand them. One of the guys was looking at you the way drunk Itaewon men usually did. You pushed against his body but tried not to show your growing anxiety.

"Don't fuss", he advised, his fingers caressing the back of your palm reassuringly. Amidst the conversation the three peace breakers engaged in, you could make out something like 'pretty boy'. Sure your boy was pretty. But, as they set off from the flower beds and started cutting your way across the street, he also got angrier.

The thing about Yoongi was, he was like a battery that liked to snap. His large storage could contain a lot of annoyance, a lot of disrespect and exhaustion, but when the time and space was up, someone who tipped his peace at last would always get a handful. Yoongi used this internal fuel well in his work. Hooding his eyes, dangerous stare from behind the long locks falling onto his face, he would slouch his shoulders in a way that made him look much, much bigger than he really was. Perhaps he learnt this method from cats: the small, clawed and unpredictable carnivores that were unhinged enough to scare away bears. Yoongi was that kind of a person. You have never been scared when you were with him; it's the raging optimism of knowing that your fiancé, now husband, was ready to throw hands at anyone which could easily be read on his face. The years of neglect, condescending nods and underestimation helped him be spared of fear of bodily harm. You noticed this weird feature with every one of his six brothers, too. They were successful and beautiful, and still, they were desperate to prove themselves.

You tugged on his hand when Yoongi tensed towards the three people stopping you in your tracks. A short exchange in Japanese sounded hostile to you. You were half-through with your Korean, the language occupying all your attention, so you haven't thought of starting Japanese yet. Yoongi knew just enough of it to be able to tell people to fuck off.

The tallest, buff guy, undoubtedly, the leader of this pathetic, bored pack, stepped from side to side, and pointed his finger at you. Yoongi's left arm which was attached to you, pushed you slightly, and you read the cue to step back. The blank faces in front of you. Nothing behind the eyes, just sheer boredom of the Saturday afternoon. Someone yelled in Japanese from the above balcony, perhaps calling their nineteen-year old jobless son to leave tourists alone. He paid no attention. You felt your heart pumping blood in your chest. There's three of them after all, and this is not a dream anymore. You looked at their arms and shoulders; one, buff, the other kind of in the middle, and the third was totally thin, but still a fighting force. Yoongi said something, a bit louder, and you realized that your husband was crazy. His face was his asset, and it couldn't be broken. Instead of acting timid and saying you don't need trouble, he was stepping up and grilling them. You clutched his hand, poking him with your nails, but he didn't feel it at all.

The fallout was very quick. With that hand, he pushed you away, making you stumble a little, while with the other, he already aimed for the nose. From four steps away, you watched as his hair shone in the bright April sun; Yoongi ducked and punched the buff guy in the throat. The leader's friend stepped up to him from the side, grabbing his shoulder, and he kicked. Bam! It was over. One boy on the ground, the second, swaying in hesitation, the third decided to run. Yoongi turned around, his face relaxing as if he didn't just reenact his nineties movie dream, and grabbed your hand.

"We should get through another station", he panted, a little bit happy. You ran together, hand in hand, and by the end of the street, the fright was leaving your mouth in the form of breathless giggle.

Jungkook just had too much energy. The boy never ran out of it. He could do a two and a half hour concert and then go clubbing because the performance didn't drain him; on the opposite, it energized him. Seeing all these people, bouncing with them, dancing in synch, being in the spotlight - he was a natural. Where Jimin fainted after every fourth show, and Yoongi became unnaturally grumpy after outpouring all his might into it, Jin, retreating into the hotel room to ron in bed, Jungook would beam brighter than the sun. During the training, he was the one who would do twice as much as needed, straining his body to the extreme maximum, only to outperform himself every time. His mind wandered in all directions and his body moved, like he was a shark. He had love for everyone. He loved his members to death, and yet he loved to babble away, sometimes not listening to himself and what he's saying. He loved the crowds, his fans, and people around, and yet basked in their reciprocated love so self-indulgingly sometimes that it seemed like he thought he was the only one in the world. Jungkook loved the love, and he loved women, and it was obvious he needed them, because they were beautiful, and he was handsome, and young, and always needed to release his energy somewhere, or he would burst like a blood bubble. He was the golden maknae, everybody's favorite, and more often than not, he got away with things that weren't allowed for the others.

During the tour, the standard procedure was thus: in the morning, everybody got up almost always hungover and with wrinkled faces, Jin, usually with insane bed hair, and slowly set off for the airport. There, on the apron, you would all wait, the members and the team, while the crew was loading the luggage onto the plane. You all usually preferred to wait outside because the air was fresher, and most of you were afraid of flying.

You'd normally be enveloped around Yoongi as the flights were undertaken at ungodly hours. Wrapped in a hoodie, in the tight circle of his arms (he would actually lean onto you like onto a huge pillow and try to sleep upright for a minute), in the wicked wind, you peeked out and saw Jungkook's girl doing the same as you. She'd look better, dolled up even at seven or six am, with nice hair. They'd murmur to each other or kiss quietly. Almost every other city the girl would be new. You stopped the efforts to memorize the names when you realized Jungkook wasn't serious about it. Of course, there's beauty in consensual, situational one-night stands; he'd pick up a pretty and lively girl at a bar after the show and pull her along for a couple of days, sometimes she'd even fly to another city with the band. That's how he recharged. He was an adult now, and you caught it in the way Namjoon and Jin looked at him. They still couldn't believe he had slipped through their fingers, all the while being proud of their MVP Jungkook. They always let him be, and the others did, too. You had fun hanging out with his girlfriends while on tour as you soon got too anxious attending every show every other night. While they performed in a new city, you'd stay in a hotel and play boardgames, drink, or even wander around the city with the girl. Most of them were actually amazing. Always very beautiful, funny, effortlessly perfect with their appearance, and easy going. Of course, there were no conversations about 'our boys'. Jungkook belonged to everyone, he belonged to no one. And most of the girls understood that.

Parasocial was dangerous. It's a good thing that you, like your batshit husband, could put up a fight.

One of the girls, Laura, or Lara, was more complicated to get along with. Simply speaking, she wasn't interested in anything apart from Jungkook, and wouldn't leave him alone. The middle of the tour, you already forgot where he picked her up, and how long ago. Was it France? No, that one was Marie, and she got off in Rome. Then that was the next one, but she didn't speak Italian. You remembered because you tried to get her to teach you the hand gestures. She frankly paid no attention to you at all which was an okay break. You've been a little under the weather all week, and was happy to spend a quiet day at a hotel while everybody worked their backs off.

You were trying to figure out what time it was after the sharp knock dragged you out of a nap. The movie was still on the TV which showed you hadn't slept much. Swaying a little bit, you hiccuped once and looked into the peephole. Laura. You were under the impression she went to see the tonight's show, but okay. You opened the door and noticed she looked a little worn out, her face puffy from crying. Something dawned on you unpleasantly: they probably had had a fight. And her time was almost up.

"Y/N", she whined, letting herself into your room. There was no contiunation, so you closed the door and tried to assess her condition.

"How are you?"

"I think I love him", she slurred. Drunk. Crying and drinking and not attending the show.

"Why aren't you at the arena? I thought you wanted to see the concert", you offered. Laura shook her head and then ran the fingers of her right hand through the lush curly hair. She sniffed. She was a full mess. You were considering filling her a bath.

"He just doesn't take it seriously. Tell me the truth, Y/N, you think it's not serious? I asked him about what after the tour, and", she was messing up her words, "he just smiled at me and changed the subject, you know how it is..." her mouth formed a painful O and her eyes pierced you. Suddenly, Laura was angry for no reason. Well, there was a reason. Jungkook fucked up and took in a girl who was in love with him. In love panicking, desperate.

"He told me not to think about the future", she whispered. You just stood there, unmoving, not sure what to say. "But the thing is, he is my future. I need him".

"I think..." you faltered, "you should really talk about it with him, and not let him off the hook until he lets you know..."

"I already know!" she yelled. In the silence between, a character yelled from the TV. There it was, the cue to leave. As her eyes grew in size, beautiful green, but a little mad right now, you realized she was breaking down. You wanted to give her a hug, but instead, Laura shook and raised her other hand that you hadn't seen previously. It was conveniently behind her back and you failed to pay attention. There was no chance you could expect her holding a razor.

"I said, he is my future", she pressed. You quickly went from compassionate to annoyed.

"Give me that", you ordered. You were older. And was already used to the convenient Korean tradition of younger people doing what they're told. But she was European, drunk, and didn't give a shit. Your outstretched hand with the palm open was almost closing on the sharp elongated blade. Where did she even get a dangerous razor. On a private jet, you can bring all kind of shit with you nowadays.

"Laura, give me the razor. You're not killing yourself over Jungkook", you felt comical saying that. Laura's eyes went completely round.

"I am Lauren", she hissed, totally offended. "You don't even know my fucking name".

She probably wanted to throw her hands up, like, nobody here thinks anything of me! kind of way. But, several glasses of Jungkook's fine whiskey from the mini bar affecting her, she must have fogotten she's holding a sharp razor in her hand. God know what she was intending to do with that; probably practice threatening suicide so that you could tell her if the peformance was convincing enough. Now the weapon of the naive was slashing your forearm which you put out instinctively in front of your face. Sharp pain downed the yelp inside of you as the rage kicked in. You straightened the arm which was yet to be engulfed in burning ache, and threw a fist towards her face. Lauren produced a gentle 'ah!' and stumbled back, but stayed on her feet. Hissing with the coming sensation, you knew that you had to disarm her before you collapse. Bright narrow stream of your blood was flying as you moved your arm. The hotel room spun due to adrenaline shaking you completely awake. You stepped to Lauren carefully, trying not to give her time to undestand what's happening, and grabbed her hand with the razor.

"Let go!" you yelled. You had to bash her palm onto the wall to make her sturdy fingers uncurl, and, as the weapon fell on the carpet with a thud, you slapped her across the face again. Then, took her by the neck, making her bow and walk. Lauren was bawling. You opened the door, already moaning with pain, and screamed into the corridor:

"Help, please!"

Jungkook's rabbit eyes were staring into the designated spot on the tip of Jin's shoe. He always had this astounded look when he was uncomfortable; a natural manipulative trick which made him look like an adorable owl baby, making you want to protect him. One gaze at this face, his jaws clenched, the rings in his lower lip giving him the doll shine, eyes transfixed, and you already forgave him. You weren't mad anymore, but you were, indeed, in pain. The razor cut the exact spot on your arm which you offered; the amount of skin and fat there covering the bone was laughable, so it cut until it got stuck on that. As the medics were wrapping up the arm, you could actually see your own bone which you didn't think you'd ever get to. The pain was phenomenal: going into the wrist, to the tips of fingers, and up, until the very neck, at first you worried that you were somehow mortally wounded. But no, it was just how it was: deep cut.

Yoongi was livid. Jungkook was terrified, and yet, his pride wouldn't let him budge in front of everyone. You all grouped into logical units. Yoongi stood with his back to the door, making it impossible for the youngest to escape. Behind him, Namjoon and Jin paced and nibbled on their fingers. You were propped against the wall on the side, head low as if you were the one who fucked up. Jimin, the pacifier, was at your side, his silent support making you not feel alone. While you just needed Suga to take off his stage clothes and comfort you, he was busy fuming at Jungkook, seemingly releasing the built-up annoyance with his affairs. Taehyung and Hoseok were judging silently on Jungkook's side; nobody wanted to join, scared that Yoongi will blow up and start screaming.

You could understand about 70% of what they were saying already. Yoongi was scolding Jungkook for being reckless, and interrogating him about the girl. Jungkook was replying that no, he had no idea she'd be so broken up about the casualty of the relationship. Yoongi was being sarcastic, calling Jungkook to admit it was stupid to begin with, to expect that a new girl every fourth night would cause no drama sooner or later. Then he dragged you into this, pointing his finger at you, saying something like,

"And now Y/N is hurt, someone who is actually supposed to stay".

You checked the wedding band on your finger. That was correct. Jimin sighed. He was anxious about the moment when the management barges into here, with penalties, insults and things to say. They all knew they had to sort this out quickly, and then reform and protect Jungkook together, no matter what each of them thinks.

Jin said something quietly, and Yoongi started speaking so quickly that finally you stopped understanding. His finger pointing accusingly at Jungkook who seemed to grow, hurt by the resentment his ever protecting hyung was now directing. He chewed on his rings, eyes targeting Yoongi, his brow lowering. Soon, it was an exchange. Don't you think you are being a little too dramatic about this? Is there anything deeper that you want to tell me?

Yes, I wanna tell you that your fuckery now led to my wife being slashed to the bone by your psychotic one night stand, you're behaving like a baby, you're losing your caution and act with no regard for people around you, and so on, and on, like an old man scolding a youngster at a fish market for shoplifting. You were breathing heavily because it was hard; you craved a painkiller of some sort, and only Jimin noticed. But he was quiet, frightened of getting in the middle of it. Taehyung rolled his eyes and covered his face with his hands. Hoseok seemed struck on the head, his eyes resting on the carpet. Everybody was hesitant to look at you, as if you could shout at them, as if it was their collective fault. The blood on the carpet was washed out by the time they returned after the show, and even the medics left; Lauren was locked up in Jungkook's room with the hotel staff, and this overdue outburst was tiring.

But of course there was something warm about Yoongi not being able to shut up about this. He's never seen you wounded like this and was probably in shock. Thought of what could've happened if you failed to outpower her. Pictured coming to the hotel to find your body with throat slashed. All due to this unhappy coincidence, because of Jungkook's carelessness. He was wiser and more paranoid naturally, he knew how small things led to big tragedies. He was the one stopping at the intersection for a fraction of a second only to then be chewed by the wheels of a car. He was scared.

What if she stayed in the room and waited for you? With the razor? What if she killed you while you slept? What if she killed herself in your room?

Namjoon winced painfully, trying to stop him from spinning this further and further. He tried to intervene by saying:

"It's generally not a good idea to date so many girls all the time".

You noted how rough he formulated this, trying not to sound too judgemental, but to express the firm desire to ban groupies.

"Not my fault Yoongi managed to only pull one", Jungkook spat, still looking like he was about to faint, like he was surrounded by wolves, and not by friends. Your brows flew up, as Jimin facepalmed, while Yoongi would've jumped him across the room. Would have, but the older ones caught him by the shoulders, visibly having been prepared for something like that.

"Aahh", Hobi added, sounding like he was being tortured.

The room was jumping in your vision field as pain quickly drained you of energy. You managed to see Taehyung push Jungkook in the shoulder, distraught.

"Don't listen to him", Jimin mumbled, "sometimes he says things just to say something".

"I am also married, so what are you gonna say to me?" Taehyung demanded. You loudly moaned with pain in order to pull the teeth from this fight. It worked. Yoongi deflated immediately, his eyes snapping to you, and before you knew it, you were in his arms. His breathing was in his chest, still agitated, and he led you out of the quietened room. You managed to steal one last look at Jungkook who looked like the sweet baby he was; you couldn't fight the maternal instinct this twenty-nine year old guy awoke in you. He was seemingly about to cry.

"It's been three hours, right?" Yoongi was preoccupied. His lips were pressed together firmly even when he was speaking. His face was very pale, and you, dizzy with pain, almost drunk-like, touched it to see if he still had makeup on. This gesture, taken by Yoongi as a distress sign, made him look at you intently. And you knew you loved his eyes and everything about him; when he was fussy and angry like this, as well. Simply because he was never angry with you. It was abnormal; he tended to always put you on a special place and act like a rabid dog if someone crossed you, even if it was in his imagination. You could never make him angry, and you tried. But he was too collected for that, only allowing himself to crumble on the moments like this. He had a good outlet for emotions in the shape of music. That was his sewage drain.

"You okay? We need to change the band, right? The doctors told me to change this every three hours".

You winced, expecting immense pain again. The wound just barely seized torturing you just now, when you held your forearm bent, and you had to bother it again.

"Why don't you take a painkiller?" he murmured. You nodded, unable to speak. He left the bathroom for less than a minute and returned with a pill and a glass of water. While you drank, he studied your face.

"Okay?" for the eighth time in ten minutes. You nodded yes and put your head on his shoulder to feel his warmth and feel his breathing. He was probably very tired, he is always sleepy after the shows. The tips of his hair tickled your face, and it smelt wonderful. Like hairspray and perfume. You realized you weren't really shaken by the altercation. It ended relatively well, you weren't scared. Rather,

"I am a bit heartbroken for her".

Yoongi chuckled ironically.

"I would've probably broken her fucking arm if I was there", he replied grumpily. "I know I would've regretted it, but still".

"I mean, I understand a little", you continued, as if not hearing him, "she is very in love with Jungkook and I wish he hadn't hurt her like that".

"You are too kind to some people".

Perhaps by 'some people' he also meant his youngest, for tonight.

He said nothing else and got to the procedure, whispering to you when you whimpered with pain. Yoongi hissed when he looked a the open wound; stitching it was impossible as skin was so tightly wrapped around this spot that it simply tore and pulled away after the cut. He had to wrap it up tightly, to make skin connect again, which meant he had to make you scream. Painkiller wouldn't help here. You rested on his chest after, panting and greatful, as his hands held your head. His big palm on the back of your head, and the violent beast of pain, still playing your bones like a guitar, had to retreat a little. The relief of being with him every day was powerful.

Someone knocked on the door. You smiled madly at the thought of round two, now, with an axe. Yoongi sighed and looked at you, asking silently if he should get the door.

"You aren't going to faint, are you?" he asked, bewildered.

"No, it just hurts".

He pressed a kiss on your forehead and went, dragging his feet, one hand in his long hair. It was too late by the time you realized that, if it's Jungkook, he might get punched as soon as the door opens. You pushed yourself off the bathtub edge and walked behind him to see. He stood, his head in the slit between the door and the frame, low voice saying something.

Then, a dispassionate, evaluating look at you, the look of a bodyguard. Do you wanna see him? Sometimes you could read his mind. Then Yoongi finally gave in and moved slowly away from the door and stood by the bed, observing. Jungkook appeared, the old version, sincere regret in his eyes, angel face concerned. Even his frame looked younger again.

"Y/N, I am so sorry", he started immediately, "I never meant for you to get hurt, I never thought it would happen. If I had known she'd do anything like that, I... I never, never wanted you to be hurt..."

He was apologizing feverishly, like a child, like he thought he only had thirty seconds before the door shuts on him, and it made your eyes water. You blinked the unwanted tears of tenderness. Yoongi was darker than night, his hands crossed on his chest. He wouldn't let it go that easily, and it scared you. It was Jungkook, his boy. The boy he protected all these years, that he watched grow, that he taught to cook. The boy he comforted when he got homesick and missed his mum, when he fell sick on tour and wasn't allowed even one day off, so he had to train with fever, and faint; the boy who Yoongi used to rage for like he raged tonight. Something changed. Yoongi was prone to tough love. The child wasn't a child anymore, and they all had to get used to it.

"It's okay", you whispered, moving quickly to Jungkook, and wrapping your good arm around his bent neck.

"It's alright, it's not your fault", you said quietly so that Yoongi wouldn't hear, but he did.

"It is", your husband barked from behind you. Jingkook sighed with an animalistic tremble, like a dog shaking off water. You knew he was looking at his hyung.

"I'm sorry", he repeated, and you tried to console him by stroking his head. The soft uncombed hair tickled your palm,

"I know you are also shaken".

"I am mortified. Are you in a lot of pain? How bad is it, really? Will you be okay?"

"Of course. It's just a big cut".

"I could see her bone", Yoongi intervened again, and you had to turn around to give him a look. He didn't budge.

"I'm sorry", Jungkook buried his face in your shoulder, "I didn't mean any of it", he said, his voice muffled.

A little more patting on the back and convincing him he was okay, and you were okay, and everything was okay, and he retreated, completely devastated. As soon as the door closed behind him, you turned to Yoongi again.

"I hate to see him sad".

He wanted to say something, but just rolled his eyes instead.

The cut left an elongated half-moon scar and became a reminder of three things:

you can throw a punch;

always protect your face;

Yoongi loved you the same way he loved his skin and bone.

#yoongi imagine #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts x reader #bts imagine #jungkook #husband yoongi

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thoughtfulfiction · 6 months ago

Text

Carpe Diem

Author’s Note: We all miss him. So I wrote the most romantic thing I’ve ever written.

A glass of chilled Savasana California Rosé sat in front of you, its diluted pink hue a stark contrast to the sweet yet crisp taste. With a fork in hand you begin to dig into the chicken parmesan with strozzapreti pasta, the chunky tomato sauce brings a rich and comforting smell that shifts your attention from the constant hum of the plane's engine. Eating dinner on a plane like this—silverware instead of plastic cutlery, wine served in real glass—felt oddly surreal. This whole trip did, like you’d stumbled into someone else’s life.

You hadn’t always pictured yourself in this life—a corner office in Berkeley, managing accounts worth millions and rubbing elbows with executives. The internship you’d applied for during your junior year of college was meant to be a stepping stone, a way to pad your resume and have something cool to look back on the future. You hadn’t expected it to become the foundation of a career at a place ranked 7th among the largest biomedical companies by revenue in the world. And here you were sipping rosé in first class on your way to a solo vacation in Greece. Somehow, it had all come together. Your first year making six figures was surreal enough, but now the freedom to spend it on something like this felt even more unbelievable.

The hotel room you would be calling home for the next few days was stretched out like it came straight out of a travel magazine. Everything about it screamed neutral paradise, highlighting the warmth of the space. Plush pillows stacked neatly atop the Temper-Pedic king sized bed that earned the hotel all five of its stars with just one glance. The open layout gave the impression of a private condo, complete with a sleek mini bar and an espresso machine that practically begged to be used. The view from the top floor was breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling glass windows that made way for the vibrant blue skies that allowed the sun to shine at it's greatest capacity, reflecting off the marble from the streets of southern Athens below. And the colors were so dynamic; olive groves, fields of breathtaking wildflowers and citrus trees brought the city to life. Everything reminded you of a landscape painting, it was all so perfect you almost had to pinch yourself to make sure you were really here.

But before your Athens takeover could really commence, you needed a nap. Or three.

Day one passed in a blissful haze of recovery. After a nap that could have doubled as a small coma, you walked by the hotel’s pool, taking in the sparkling water and the soft chatter of other guests lounging under striped umbrellas. Breakfast that morning was a feast fit for royalty, an omelet folded to perfection, fresh fruit that tasted like sunshine, and Moustokouloura, a pastry so rich and sweet it felt like dessert at dawn. The concierge insisted you try Greek coffee, and when the steaming cup arrived at your door, its strong, earthy aroma greeted you like a wake-up call from the gods. You took it to the patio, sipping as you let the city below slowly introduce itself. This is exactly where you're supposed to be. Athens was filled with color, sound, and possibility. This was freedom, pure and simple.

Feeling refreshed on your second morning after some extensive Tik Tok research about things to do in Athens, you walked around the streets of Plaka, by far the most recommended place on the site. And it didn't take long for you to understand why. The neighborhood was a collection of some of the most beautiful brick buildings, an array of restaurants with uniquely placed outdoor seating. The air carried the mingling scents of fresh pita, grilling souvlaki, and blooming jasmine. Laughter and snippets of conversation floated from café tables spilling onto the sidewalks, where diners lingered over plates of mezes and glasses of ouzo. You walked slowly, admiring every square inch of the place like you were going to commit every detail to memory, stumbling upon a store with random trinkets you figured you could take home to your friends and tell them what they were getting themselves into when you all would be in Greece together eventually. Now that you'd experienced this on your own, you couldn't wait to share this experience with them next time. The first person you spotted when you walked in was a tall man, well over six feet, broad shoulders with his back facing the door. He was sexy from the back which meant...no. You shook yourself out of the daydream about what this man could possibly look like because of course men in Greece looked better. That was some sort of law or something based on every movie you'd ever seen. The book shelf at the front of the store caught your eye first, a Greek guide book with common phrases for tourists to know, things that maybe Duolingo wouldn't think of so you grabbed it, scanning the pages for useful information. You tried to focus on the guidebook in your hands, but your nerves betrayed you. An older man’s gaze prickled at your skin, a quiet warning sounding in your mind. Maybe it was nothing, you told yourself. He could just be a curious local. But by the third lap around the shop and you could still feel his eyes in you, the goosebumps on your arms had turned into a full-blown alarm.

The man was closer now, his steps too deliberate to be a coincidence. By the time he spoke, his voice was low and overly familiar, the kind of tone that made your stomach twist. “Hi. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I just... couldn’t help noticing you.”

You swallowed thickly, hoping to keep the conversation short, sweet and with as little personal information exchanged as humanly possible. "Yes. Just visiting," you force out a smile.

"Ah I see, those are pretty," he gestures toward the necklaces in your hand, "pretty necklaces for a pretty lady. Does the pretty lady have a name?"

"Um," you wanted to take a step back, you wanted to walk away, but there was literally no way out of this situation because he was standing in between you and the exit. And for some reason you couldn't think of a fake name off the top of your head to give him. "It's—”

“Oh hey, babe. There you are,” a deep voice interrupted. Your head whipped around, and there he was—broad shoulders, a jawline sharp enough to rival a Greek statue. He had the kind of easy confidence that made your heart skip a beat. Mr. Broad Shoulders slid his arm around you, his touch casual but protective, the warmth of his hand anchoring you in place but doubling your pulse rate for a different reason. “Thought you wanted those charm bracelets, but you disappeared on me.”

“I got distracted.” Your gaze flickered upward, caught on the sun-kissed curl falling across his forehead. He smelled faintly of cinnamon, like he’d been leaning over a freshly lit candle moments before swooping in to save you.

The man takes a look at the two of you and apologizes, walking away without a second glance. You let out a sigh of relief, "thanks for the save, I really didn't know what to do and you just-I really appreciate it."

"No worries, I saw him following you around and thought it was weird. Glad I could help."

You look around to make sure the man from before, spotting him circling the back area with the pasties. "It's...very weird. He didn’t seem like he’d back down that easily."

“I’m Joe, by the way. Since I’m your boyfriend now, that seems like something you should know.”

You laughed, the tension in your chest finally easing. “Yeah, probably. Nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Y/N, your very grateful girlfriend.”

Joe leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant just for you. “He’s still watching us. Mind if I sell this a little more?” Without waiting for an answer, he adjusted his grip, his arm tightening around your shoulders like he’d been holding you this way forever. It was seamless, effortless, entirely too convincing. And it left you speechless. All you could do was nod, looking up at him, thinking about how this guy might be the most gorgeous person you've ever seen.

The two of you moved around the store aimlessly, the conversation flowing like you’d known each other for longer than half an hour. Joe explained he’d been in Greece for a few days, taking time to decompress after a grueling work season. “Sometimes, I just need to step away,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity that struck a chord.

“I get that,” you replied, sharing your own story of navigating your career and this newfound independence. You admitted, almost sheepishly, that sometimes your job didn’t feel like work because it aligned with your passions so perfectly. Joe nodded, his expression softening. “That’s how I feel,” he said. “I mean, this year it really magnified that for me. But sometimes when things don't go the way you hoped or planned, it makes the sacrifices worth more. Like not having as much free time when I'm working. Now, I have endless free time."

There was something magnetic about him—not just the broad shoulders and effortless charm, but the way he seemed so present. Every touch felt intentional, whether it was his hand on your back as you navigated tight spaces or his offer to buy the travel book you’d been thumbing through. You felt a strange sense of familiarity, like you’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t quite place it.

After carefully deliberating over the trinkets, you settled on matching necklaces for your friends. On your way to the register, a woman approached, her expression warm and animated.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she began, “but I just had to tell you—you two make the most stunning couple. The way you look at each other, it’s just... beautiful. Are you here on an anniversary trip?”

“One year,” Joe answered without hesitation, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he squeezed your hand.

“That’s incredible! Congratulations!” the woman gushed. “Athens is the perfect place to explore as a couple. Do you have plans yet?”

You chimed in, “Not really. We were just going to see where the day takes us.”

The woman nodded enthusiastically and rattled off recommendations, from must-visit landmarks to hidden culinary gems. You took notes on your phone, her suggestions igniting your excitement for the day ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe watched you with a kind of awe. The way your face lit up when you talked about exploring the city tugged at something deep inside him.

He’d spent the last four days locked away in his room, trying to process a season that had been equal parts triumph and heartbreak. It wasn’t just the physical toll of the game—it was the sting of being so close to the pinnacle and falling short. They had gone from 4-8 to 9-8 in what felt like the blink of an eye. The unmet expectations that he had for the team dulled his personal success a bit and he needed to escape after watching other teams prepare for their playoff runs while he cleaned out his locker. He just wanted to recharge and regroup…alone. And here you were, an unexpected spark in the midst of his self-imposed solitude.

When the woman finally bid you goodbye, you hesitated. Should you ask him to join you? The idea of spending the day with a stranger—no matter how kind and gorgeous—felt bold, maybe too bold. But being alone again felt... unbearable. You decided against asking because the thought of rejection was a step above unbearable, if at all possible.

“Well,” you began, your voice faltering slightly, “I guess this is it. I should probably head to my next stop now that I have a to-do list.” You forced a small laugh, keeping your gaze on the floor.

Joe nodded, his smile tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I hope you check off everything on your list.”

He watched you walk away, his chest tightening with each step. He wanted to stop you, to ask you to stay, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was stand there, frozen, as the door swung open.

You paused just before stepping outside. Something tugged at you—a feeling that walking away now would be a mistake.

Turning back, you smiled shyly. “I just realized... how am I supposed to experience Athens to its full potential without my boyfriend? On our anniversary trip, no less?”

Joe’s laugh was warm, easy. “No idea. Luckily, I think I know someone who can help.”

“You’re always so helpful. I feel like I won the dating lottery.”

“Can’t disagree,” he teased, his grin widening.

“Alright,” you said, nudging him playfully, “let’s get out of here before your head gets so big it doesn’t fit through the door.”

He walked out with you, allowing you to lead the way to your first stop.

Fairytale Athens looked like an intense mix between the Garden of Eden and Alice in Wonderland. "This is...wow," Joe quips, the vast array of flowers on the ceiling, the pink bar area and the flamingos. So many flamingos.

You could tell by his tight expression that this place isn't really his scene. "We're not here for two hours of afternoon tea or anything," you reassure him with a smile, "Dimitra said that we should grab drinks before walking around Acropolis and that..." you glance at the menu in front of you, "...strawberry ginger lemonade? That might be calling my name." He shakes his head and orders a mint and cucumber lemonade for himself, your lemonade and two waters as you walk around the princess castle, taking as many pictures as possible before Joe walked back over with all four drinks in hand before heading to the incredibly famous tourist attraction.

The package you paid for allowed you to skip the line and head through a side entrance, your tour guide walking you through the history of the ancient sights along with details about the architectural styles, construction techniques, and the symbolism of the monuments. The faint echo of the voices highlighted the rich history of the place you were standing in, the warm air a stark contrast to the cool lemonade in your hand. It seemed like Joe was hanging onto every word as he helped you up some steep ancient steps, his eyes lighting up as the guide drove you over to the museum, going into depth about the Gods.

"This exhibit is Gods, Worship and Magic, one of the most popular sites this year. You guys can walk around and read about the different deities featured." Artemis' exhibit, caught your eye first.

Glancing down at the steel plaque, "goddess of the hunt, devoted to nature. Were you ever a Percy Jackson fan growing up?"

"I was more of a SpongeBob guy. And Star Wars. Definitely had a dinosaur phase that lasted a lot longer than I care to share," he looks up, wondering why in the hell he just told you that. "Do—do you have any humiliating stories you'd like to share with the class?"

He nudged you as you walked alongside him, his hand so dangerously close to yours. You had the biggest urge to reach out and touch him. So you did. Reaching out maybe an inch, you interlocked your pinky with his, making his heart take a leap in his chest, swinging your hands happily towards the Eros exhibit. "The god of—”

"Love and desire," he finishes for you. Just because he wasn’t a Percy Jackson fanatic, doesn’t mean he didn’t pay close attention to the Greek mythology unit in school.

"Look at the hands," you said softly, leaning in closer. "It's like they're...perfectly fit for each other, you know?"

Joe's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He was standing so close now, the faint scent of mint and cucumber from his lemonade mingling with the earthy air of the exhibit. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice warm and low, "I know what you mean."

Your pinkies were still hooked, but now the little space between you felt electrified. You didn't dare turn to meet his eyes, afraid of what you might see—or what he might see in yours.

"I do have an embarrassing thing to share with the class," you turn to face him and admire the excited look on his face, like what you're about to say is the most important thing in the world. "When I was little I was obsessed with Mama Mia." He gives you a puzzled look. "It's a musical that they turned into a movie. Anyway...it's about a girl that's getting married in a small town in Greece and the views just..." you pause, smiling at the memory, "...changed my life. I've always wanted that magical movie moment feeling. The music, the views, the…”

"Romance?" he finishes softly, a knowing look in his eyes.

You exhale, your cheeks warming as you nod. "Yeah...the romance. It was nice too." You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. "Doesn’t really compare to the real thing, though," you add, barely above a whisper.

The weight of the moment lingers between you. His gaze searches yours, his expression softening like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. Your heart stumbles, and suddenly you feel too seen. You clear your throat, breaking the spell. "I'm, uh, getting kind of hungry. We should grab lunch and head to the next spot."

Joe blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, like he wasn't ready for the shift. "Yeah, sure," he says, his voice gentler now. He watches you for a second longer than you'd expect, then nods. As you walk back to meet the tour guide, Joe finds himself wondering how you’ve managed to unravel him so quickly, leaving him wondering why he already feels so invested in figuring you out.

When you get into the Uber it's like a weight has been lifted off your chest. The museum, which was supposed to be a calm and educational experience was too stuffy and intimate by the end of the visit. In the car, you could have your own space, sitting as close to the door as you could to gather yourself and your thoughts. The driver was nice enough, he had chargers in the car and gave you water bottles, noting that the heat would steadily increase throughout the day. You noticed him stealing glances at Joe in the rearview mirror, his hands tightening on the wheel like he was holding back words. The silence stretched until finally—“I’m sorry, man. I just gotta say…” he finally utters out, "I've been a Bengals fan since I was 8. And I woke up at ungodly hours to watch you play every week. Huge, huge fan."

You laughed at yourself in your seat, the pieces of the puzzle being put together. All of your focus had been on the day, spending every waking minute together and you didn't even fully process why he looked so familiar because the odds of that just sounded too insane to be real. Joe managed a polite smile, his usual ease replaced with a flicker of discomfort. You glanced at him, watching his jaw tighten just slightly as he signed the hat, the faintest blush creeping up his neck. Did he worry you’d see him differently now?

The car stopped near a bustling square lined with food trucks and small cafes. The aroma of grilled meat and spices wafted through the air as you wandered, your eyes drawn to colorful menus. It didn’t take long for the debate to begin.

"Joseph, the mini burgers are definitely better than the souvlaki cones. Be serious."

"No they aren't!" He argues, "you just need to try another one, here."

The souvlaki cone was tender and smoky, the tzatziki tangy and cool against the heat of the pork. But the burger—crispy bacon, the creamy richness of the mayo—felt indulgent, almost sinful. You savored every bite, laughing at Joe’s mock-offended gasp when you declared it the winner. "I hear you and I respect your wrong opinion. But the burger is just better I'm sorry. Do you want another bite?"

He shakes his head slowly, admiring you while you did such a mundane task, silently cursing himself at the fact that he chartered a plane to leave early the next morning. The two of you needed more time together. One day just wasn't going to be enough and the more time he spent with you the more apparent that fact became.

And then you took him on a boat.

It rocked gently, but Joe’s hands gripped the edge of the seat like the waves were threatening to tip them over. His gaze darted toward the horizon, avoiding the churning water below. “You’re really not a boat guy, huh?” you teased, your voice softening when his fingers tightened further. "I'm so sorry I had no idea. But Joe? We're literally in Greece, it's like, treason not to get on a boat here."

"Exactly, so I'm abiding by the law. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it."

Your hand found his thigh in a quiet attempt to reassure him, and you felt the tension slowly drain from his muscles. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable, but the way his leg leaned ever so slightly into your touch sent a warmth through you that lingered long after. Aegina’s coastline unfolded before you, the white-washed buildings glowing under the sun, expansive trees swaying in the breeze. Joe stepped out first, offering his hand. His grip was firm, steadying you until your feet found the solid ground. You smiled up at him, the unspoken connection between you stronger than ever.

Just as Dimitra had described to you before, the pottery studio was tucked in a quiet corner of the island. Inside, the walls were lined with vibrant pottery, each bowl and vase a testament to countless hands shaping their stories, their glazes gleaming softly in the sunlight as you and Joe grabbed seats toward the back of the room. The instructor's notes were simple, to mold an item of your choice to keep at the end of the session, giving everyone creative freedom to produce a piece of their heart's desire. The clay felt cool to the touch, it's sticky and wet texture balanced wonderfully with the earthy smell that made your experience all the more relaxing and fun. Joe on the other hand, was creating a bowl with a lopsided shape, "it's supposed to look like this," he said firmly, biting back a laugh as you tried (and failed) to keep a straight face.

"Abstract art is still art. I just thought maybe...a quarterback would be better with his hands," you teased.

"Oh yeah? Let's see your work, Picasso." He took a break from his work station to scoot closer to yours, "shit, that actually looks pretty good."

You clean your hands off and move over to his station when he sets his chair back down. "I worked at my uncle's ceramic shop when I was little. It was his passion project so we all had to pitch in as a family and take turns," you helped guide his hand along the bowl, allowing him to smooth over the ridges efficiently evening out some of the misshapen parts. "I'm not saying I’m an expert by any means but I can get you to a point where your bowl can sit up by itself." Your fingers brushed his as you guided his hand, the soft pressure of your touch steadying his movements. Together, the ridges of the bowl began to smooth, though neither of you seemed in a hurry to let go. By the end of the session both bowls were done to the best of your ability, sort of bowl shaped, sort of not and full of personality.

"You’re good at this," Joe says, watching as continued to shape your bowl.

"Good at pottery?" you ask, laughing.

"Good at making things feel...easier," he replies softly. The pottery, he thought to himself, sort of mirrored your time together-unpolished, imperfect, but full of potential and that was both exciting and daunting. After your hands were clean, he grabbed your phone and snapped a picture of the two of you showing off your bowls.

"I was scared when you mentioned doing this at first, but I actually really enjoyed that. This," he gestures to his masterpiece, "is going up somewhere, maybe next to the trophy case at my parent's house. Funny enough, they also live in Athens. Ohio, not Greece," he clarifies.

"You might've missed your true calling," you tell him with a laugh, "here you are wasting your talents on football when the art community needs you."

"Yeah...sure," he laughs, holding onto the bags with your now fully dry bowls in them. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'm ready to quit my day job. Quite frankly, I don't think the art world is ready for me yet. Although working that clay could have been really good wrist rehab."

There it was, that can of worms you'd been trying to navigate. You didn't want to push him to talk about the season or his job if he didn't want to. And now the door was open for you to ask. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to but...was it scary? You know, putting your entire life, all of your free time, your dedication to this one thing that you're obviously really good at. Putting in all that work and then one day it's all just...taken away from you?"

He stops walking for a bit and your breath hitches in your throat, fearing that you've pushed him too far. At the end of the day you were still a stranger to him and maybe that was too personal?

You could tell the question was kind of eating at him, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

"No it's fine. I just…yeah. I was terrified for a little bit. No one had been through this before—not at my position, not at this level. I had no blueprint, no one to turn to for advice. It felt like— walking on a tightrope in the dark, hoping I wouldn’t fall.

“The scariest part wasn’t the pain or the rehab," Joe admits. "It was not knowing if I’d still be...me when it was all over."

You tilt your head, searching his face. "You mean, the quarterback?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "No. Just...me. Without football, I really didn’t know who that was, how I was going to navigate fame and my private life and everything in between that comes with being me. Whatever that means. And I had an uncomfortably long amount of time to figure it out. Now that the wrist and my health is not an issue anymore and with everything that happened during the season I just felt drained afterwards. Exhausted honestly. And today's been exactly what I needed.”

"Today's been a breath a fresh air for me too. Obviously I didn't have 500 pounds of man laying on top of me but I get it on a smaller scale. Feeling like work is drowning you and nothing you do is good enough so you need to escape. This trip isn’t just a celebration," you confess. "It’s a reminder that I’m more than my deadlines and titles. My boss once called me at 11 p.m. on a Sunday, and I didn’t even blink before picking up. I guess I forgot what it felt like to just...be. I really needed a—”

"Reset," the two of you say at the same time, a comfortable silence washing over you as you continue to walk. "That’s kind of why I came here," you confess. "Not to figure out who I am, but...to remind myself I’m more than my job. More than what other people expect of me."

"Feels like everyone’s always watching, doesn’t it?" Joe says, his voice quieter. "Waiting for you to fail or...prove them right."

"Yeah. But I think we deserve more than that."

Joe sighs, nodding quietly, "We do," Joe says with a small smile. "And one day, when we get it, we’ll look back on this trip as the start of something different." He didn’t say everything he was thinking—some things needed more time to come to the surface.

"Sounds perfect, lead the way."

After you shared the world's greatest chicken gyro, you walked around Aegina a little more, realizing that you had no time to change before dinner and you'd been wearing the same clothes all day long. You walked into a small store, grabbing things off the shelf to try on. Joe was easy, settling for gray cargo pants and a blue striped knit top. Rummaging through clothes and anything that wasn't instant online shopping had become a bit of a chore and you were on a time crunch which made you feel even more rushed. You grabbed three or four dresses and had Joe sit outside the fitting room while you tried the stuff on, only stepping out to show him your favorite.

"What do you think about this?”

The baby blue square neck A-line dress hugged your body like it was created just for you to wear, it's length accentuating your curves in a way that almost had him physically picking his jaw up off the floor. He didn't think you could look any better before but you'd just shattered his expectations. "You look absolutely amazing," he says sincerely, his mouth feeling dry.

You glance at him, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. Compliments weren’t new, but the way he said it—like it was the only thing in the world that mattered—left you speechless. You managed a soft laugh, pretending to study your reflection. "Thanks." After heading back to the fitting room to change, you grabbed all of your items and headed to the front to pay with Joe standing behind you in line. The cashier rung up your items and was getting ready to bag it when Joe added his clothes to the mix.

"Joe what are you doing? You're not paying for my clothes."

He handed over his card without hesitation, ignoring your protests. "I’ve got this," he said, his voice casual but his eyes portraying something deeper, like this was the most natural thing in the world to him. "Boyfriends are supposed to buy things. I think it’s in the constitution.”

"It's definitely not. And seriously, you don't have to do this."

"I got it, don't worry babe." The word slipped out so effortlessly that for a second, you wondered if you’d misheard him. But the way his eyes flicked to yours, briefly widening, told you everything. He realized it too—and yet, he didn’t take it back.You thanked him the entire walk back to the boat, his soft laugh sending warm and fuzzy feelings in your chest.

You were starting to acknowledge the growing warmth between you two, the way Joe’s presence seemed to make every moment feel right. The idea of saying goodbye felt heavier than it should after just one day, but somehow, it seemed inevitable. The next spot was inside a resort, they allowed you to change your clothes and head upstairs to the rooftop bar to watch the sunset. The drinks and the view had nothing on you, he quickly realized, finding himself unable to tear his eyes away. Everything just made sense today, the museum walk, the easy conversation, the boat ride. He didn't want to leave before but now the mere thought of packing his suitcase tonight made him upset.

"What are you thinking about over there?" Your words snap him out of his thoughts.

"Nothing, just how much I'm going to miss it here. The peace, the incredible sunset..."

You. The word hung in the air for a while before he pushed it down and tried to move on.

"We should head over to there and get closer to the view, you can literally see the entire city from glass railing." You stood up first and grabbed his hand, practically dragging him over there. Luckily there wasn't anyone else in the area. "This is the most insane scenery. I don't get how anyone could get tired of seeing this everyday, I'd never be inside. I feel like we’ve been the physical representation of carpe diem."

He looks at you confused, "what does that even mean?"

"Carpe diem? It’s Latin for 'seize the day.' Basically saying not to focus too much on the future and live in the present to the fullest capacity.”

"I like that," he chuckles.

Long after the sun went down and most of your dishes were cleared from the table, the lingering sweetness of caramel on your lips was all you could think about, a fleeting pleasure that only made the impending goodbye sting even more.

"Joe I have to tell you something," he looks at you as you head over to stand in one of the private lounge areas, giving you his undivided attention. "I saw you this morning in the store. Your back was facing me but I don't know, you caught my eye. And I told myself I wouldn't say anything, I wouldn't go up to you and make small talk because I'm here on a solo vacation to be one with myself and-now I'm really glad that I know you."

A smile forms on the corner of his mouth, "I've been telling myself all day that this isn't real. That I could just let my guard down because in Greece, I don't have to be Joe Burrow. I can just be...Joe. You let me be exactly who I am, nothing more, nothing less. And honestly? This might've been the single greatest day of my life. I've had good ones, really good ones. But today is up there for sure." You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten until you could feel his arm against yours, his breath soft and warm on your cheek. His eyes dropped to your lips again, this time lingering a moment longer, as if the air between you had thickened. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his breath just a whisper away, as his hand hovered near your cheek. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a spark through you, and for a moment, you thought he might pull you in.

You couldn't allow yourself to go there. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, not like this—but the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, made it hard to think clearly. As much as you wanted this, to feel him close, to taste the sweetness of that kiss, the weight of knowing how fleeting it all was crushed down on you. This wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything you were afraid to want, a piece of yourself that you couldn’t let slip away so easily. If you already felt this strongly about him after a day, how were you going to make it through the rest of the vacation without him knowing how his lips tasted and how his strong hands pulled you in close, holding onto you like he'd rather lose everything than let you go. There was no way in the world you'd recover.

"We can't," you whisper, watching him drop his hand that had just been lightly caressing your cheek. "You're gonna leave tomorrow and I'm gonna be thinking about this kiss for a long time. And I can't," your voice trembles. "I don't want you to go, so I can't kiss you. I'm sorry."

"No don't—don't apologize. I get it." He still hadn't taken a step back, biting his lip to keep his emotions in check. "I can walk you back to your hotel? I haven't packed yet and I need to.”

"Sure, yeah that's fine."

The 15 minute walk felt like three seconds. You didn't want him to go. He no longer wanted to leave. "Y/N I—”

You wrapped him up in a bone crushing hug, silently begging him to stay, just for a few more days. His grip on you was just as strong, his heartbeat thumping rapidly against your body. There weren't enough words in the English, or Greek dictionary to describe how much you were going to miss him. To miss this day. "Bye Joe." That was it. That was all you could manage. The moment you let go of him felt like a piece of your heart stayed in his arms. There was no way to explain the ache in your chest as you watched him turn away, the pull to stay stronger than any rational thought.

Going to sleep that night sounded impossible. The day had started out so innocent and special and the adventure and emotional rollercoaster you'd been on during the day made it feel like you'd experienced a series of days all wrapped into one. You set your bags down on the ground when you got to your room, too tired to change out of your clothes and falling asleep on top of the covers as soon as you laid down.

The next morning you checked the time on your phone, it was 8am. Joe had told you yesterday he was leaving at 10. That meek little goodbye wasn't going to cut it. You didn't even have his number. After your teeth were brushed and your clothes were changed, you rushed out of your hotel and got in an Uber, on your way to Joe's resort. The 46 minute ride allowed you to come up with everything you wanted to say, how this was only meant to be for a day but maybe it could be more? Maybe you could come see him in Cincinnati or he could come to Berkeley or someway somehow you could figure out a way to make it work.

You thanked your driver, opting to speed walk into the lobby. The person at the front desk couldn't give you access to the room without a reason, even when you gave them the name Joe used for his reservation. Pulling out your phone, you showed her the picture of you and Joe that he took at the pottery place and she finally believed you.

"I'm sorry ma'am, he actually left this morning a bit earlier than planned. He checked out at 7am to get on the plane."

Your chest tightened as the words settled in—he was gone. Just like that, in the span of a few hours, everything had shifted. The chance to say what was left unsaid, the connection you had just begun to explore, all slipped away before you could even hold onto it.

It felt like a dark cloud loomed over you throughout the rest of the day. The sun, once so warm on your skin, now felt distant and cold. The flowers that had seemed so alive that morning now appeared dull, their colors muted, as though even nature understood the weight on your heart. While you ate lunch, you tried to people watch, although you quickly discovered that there were only couples surrounding you, sharing meals and laughing at each other's jokes which made you miss him even more. The only real bright spot of the day was your flower garden excursion, taking pictures of the newly bloomed bulbs and taking in their fresh scent. As the hours passed, you allowed yourself to breathe a little deeper, letting the moments of regret slip away as you focused on the simple joys of your surroundings. The beauty of the flowers, the calm of the gardens, it all reminded you that there was still peace to be found in this unexpected chapter of your life.

You were just beginning to let go of the weight on your chest, convincing yourself that maybe, just maybe, this was how things were meant to be. But as you laid your phone down beside you, the familiar ping of a message broke the stillness.

It was an DM request on Instagram. The message had two simple words.

Carpe diem.

For a second, your heart skipped, and you couldn’t help but smile. That phrase, so simple and yet so loaded with meaning, sent a wave of warmth through you. It was him. In a way, he had left his mark on you after all, even if he wasn’t here to say the words aloud. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end. And though you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring or if this connection would ever evolve beyond this brief encounter, in that moment, with his words glowing on your screen, you allowed yourself one final thought: Maybe this was only the beginning.

#Joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic

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vargrblood · 1 month ago

Text

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝒃𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 ───── 연시은

IN WHICH falling in love with Yeon Sieun was imminent for you. Imminent in the same way as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

3.4k+ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𔘓 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎gn! reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𔘓 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎event 𝑚-𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

based on req ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𔘓 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎scroll till the end for notes

I. Peach eyes and blue skies

Love is imminent.

Love is just imminent, you're bound to fall in love with someone sooner or later. Doesn't matter if it's today, tomorrow or the next day or the next next day— you're bound to fall in love with someone.

It is imminent in the same way as natural phenomena, just like how the winter is followed by spring, how the moon influences the tides and how every bud is meant to blossom into a beautiful flower.

It can happen in many ways. It might just be someone you've known for a long time and in a moment everything just shifts, you see them in a different light, in a way so different that it makes your heart pound so hard that it feels as if it is going to burst out of your ribcage and jump into their hands.

It can happen in a way that when you first lay your eyes on them you just know; that this is going to the person my world will revolve around, that this is going to be the person my heart beats for, that this is going to be the person that will plague my every waking thought & appear in my dreams, that this is going to be the person i love for the rest of my life.

It really does happen like that sometimes, that you know the person you just laid your eyes on will be the object of your affection for the foreseeable and unforeseeable future.

When you first laid your eyes on Yeon Sieun, you just knew.

It is a truth, like the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, that earth is the third planet from the sun and that universe is forever expanding till it ends.

It is the truth.

You are in love.

Your heart will chase him like the sun chases the moon or the moon chases the sun across the canvas of the beautiful sky over us all.

Your heart will chase him and beat for him.

Your heart will beat in such rhythms that will be impossible for you to ignore the loud vibrations that will soon drip into your compositions and creations.

The truth is; you are in love with the peach eyed boy.

II.

I'll be with you on your ride

The first time you meet Yeon Sieun, it is at the cultural centre Juntae and his friends are volunteering. You—Juntae’s sibling— were tasked by your mom to keep an eye on Juntae and see if his friends were any trouble.

The school had called after all, saying how Juntae had gotten into a fight near the school and the guys he had fought had not shown up at the school the next day. Which was funny because Juntae never fights.

Regardless.

The day you met him, you still remember so clearly because how could you forget?

The wind was a little chilly, the kind of chilly you enjoy when you are enveloped by the warmth of your favourite sweater. The kind of chilly, when the wind blows onto your face you feel like a weak leaf falling off the tree and dancing in the wind to the tune of nature.

The sky was blue, no clouds, just a calming presence on top of your heads as you went about your day. But, now that you look back, you think it was the same shade of blue that your wallpaper was in your childhood bedroom.

When you first walked into the room where Juntae and Sieun were, you were un-suspecting. You had walked towards Juntae, not minding his friend, after all you had no actual business with him. But when you had called out for your brother, he had turned too, and when you met his eyes the time had slowed down, sluggish in its movements around you and Sieun, time had slowed down. It was like being suspended in honey, sweet and sticky, slowly dripping down.

Sieun had looked like he had picked the most beautiful constellations in the entirety of the night sky, collected them by hand and put them in a bucket and later poured down the contents of the bucket in the pools of his eyes. The creases of his eyelids were beautiful too, though they were a little assymetrical.

For a second, you wonder if the boy in front of you feels the same thing you are feeling, did time stop for him too?

But does it matter if he feels the same?

You feel it. It is real for you. It is as real as the warmth of the sun you crave when the weather’s too cool, and it is as real as the tender flesh of the tangerines your mom peeled for you the day before.

It is real and it is love.

Love at first sight.

III.

It's on the moonlight

Artists are, well, strange creatures with the ability to make you feel things you've never experienced before, or have experienced before but are too scared to relive those moments or experiences you will never experience. But the bottom line is, artists are strange creatures of experience.

Experience is like drops of lemon juice on savoury food, something that's not a necessary ingredient to cook the food but something that enhances the experience of enjoying it.

That is what your teacher says. She says that you can always write and compose about things you might have not gone through, they might be beautiful, but the true glimmer always shines when you create a piece about something you've experienced deeply.

And now that you're finally in love, no matter what you play, there are hints of yearning.

When you play the violin, love loosens out and flows like drops of sap on a tree, it sticks onto the haunting and eerie crescendo and then with painfully slow movement, it's present in the drop that comes with the aching decrescendo.

When you play the piano, love blooms like the brightest flower that always catches your attention when you walk by its bush, it attaches itself onto the notes and glides through the air.

When you play the guitar, love coos like a cuckoo bird, the sound that you always hear when you need to, the sound that always catches your attention no matter what you're doing.

Your teacher catches onto it, she tells you to hold onto it, drown in the feeling so it sinks into your very being, so that it can be embossed into your creations.

To you, the love you've just started to feel is like a gentle caress of a mother on the face of her child after the child has fallen asleep.

It is the same faint touch of your birth mother you remember, the gentle yet warm parting hug.

It is also similar to the the firm touch of your father, not to hard, not to soft that one can mistake for a ghostly whisper.

It is also like the kiss your Mom—Ms. Seo— presses on to the top of your head, something that is meant to be felt, something that is proclaimed.

(There is a distinction between Mother and Mom.

Mother is the one who gave birth to you. Mother is the one who was with you for the first three years of your life.

Mom is Ms. Seo, the one who gave birth to Juntae. Mom is the one who was with you after the the first three years of your life.)

You somehow became a friend of Juntae’s friends, you don't go to the same school but they always invite you to hangout. That is how you ended up here; sitting in the basketball court, chatting with the guys about everything and nothing.

The amber lights shine down harshly on all of you, a colour that can be only found in Vivaldian music and for a moment you are taken aback when Sieun cracks a small smile at the antics of Juntae’s—now your—friends.

And it's the moment you saw him for the first time again, the time stopped like you were just mere beetles trapped in amber forever, you wish you were insects in amber and the time stopped on this moment forever.

That night you thought of his smile, beautiful smile, and thought:

Love is like the gentle moonlight.

IV.

How many songs I write

Your birth mother was a pianist, a talented one at that. People did know of her. One of your earliest memories is of her playing a melody on the keys of the piano, the same tune that she always sang for you to put you to sleep. A tender composition she created just for you, however, no matter how much you try to recreate it with your own hands, you simply cannot. She did not leave behind the manuscript for that specific song.

Mother had a knack for all things musical. The melody she had created just for you was very raw, it's still clear in your memory, raw like the tender flesh of a bruised heart. And the melody was light and gentle, like the sunlight that seeps into your skin during winter, light and warm enough to comfort you when the snow melts slowly. And you still remember the sickly sweetness of the melody, quite like a jar of freshly harvested honey, yellowish colour with tinges of orange like the setting sun.

Despite remembering it oh so clearly, you could never recreate it. It is there but also not.

But such is the pain of a musician, no matter how hard you try, you never capture the true essence of the actual piece in front of you, the river of time flows and smudges the colours of the intricate painting leaving you with only a faint membrane of what used to be.

Maybe that's why you chose to drown yourself in the same liquor as your Mother; music.

Maybe it was in your warm blood, the urge to just create something, to create art. Art is eternal, a river that passes yet remains, unlike your Mother. Art could never die and leave you.

Maybe it was to connect to your Mother. The child's instinct is always to look for the mother, after all. Maybe that's why you try to drown yourself in this cool river, maybe a ghost will pull you down to the depths of your mind and maybe then you will be able to finally recreate the lullaby your Mother sang you to sleep and played for you on the piano.

Deep within your mind, you are still looking for your Mother.

Looking back, you remember only three memories of your Mother.

First, where she tucks you to bed and kisses your nose and continues to hum the same lullaby. She never wrote it down on any sheets because she thought she would always be there to sing it for you.

Second, where she feeds you peaches with the softest of flesh, you can still taste them in your mouth and the way they melted and the way they had hints of sourness.

Third, where she hugs you for the last time. Her hair tickles your face as she pulls you in, she pats your back and you see her smile. And it is warm. Like the melody she always played for you.

You sigh as you fill in the notehead in front of you, scratching your pen until it's completely filled the same way your heart is filled yearning for the peach-eyed boy.

“You okay? You've been sighing a lot.” Your seat partner asks you.

“Mhm. Just thinking about him.” You answer slowly, your words roll out in a dreamy drawl, like your attention is elsewhere in the prettiest gardens of paradise.

“Him who?”

“My muse.” You say, with your eyes still focused on the sheet on your desk. The eyebrows of your partner quirk up, this is some new gossip topic. “His name has three syllables. You know what else has three syllables? ‘I love you.’”

Your seat partner looks at you strangely.

You seem to have forgotten that most Korean names are composed of three syllables. But it's still the most poetic thing to you.

You pay your seatmate no mind as you continue to fill in the staves with the dripping emotions that have latched onto your mind. Your hand reaches up to touch your sternum through your uniform to feel the quickening rhythm of your tender heart.

You'll be my sunlight

“So, are you going to tell him?” Juntae says with a soft voice, like he's treading into a territory he's not meant to, he slowly crunches leaves that have fallen down.

The weather has gone chillier, in a way that makes wisps of fog appear when you speak.

“Tell who what?” You say dumbly. You do have inkling of what your dear brother means but you're not ready to accept that he took notice of what he might say next.

“Sieun. About your feelings.” Of course he knows. This sneaky bastard. When you turn to face him finally, there's a slight smirk on his face. Was your crush so obvious?

“I don't know, man.” You sigh. You've never imagined taking your crush to that level and confessing, you cannot imagine Sieun being your boyfriend, he's better off as a muse. You kick a pebble away.

He's a sweet boy though, Yeon Sieun, he always listens to you ramble when others lose focus because of their lack of musical knowledge.

He also listens to the songs you recommend, he likes them sometimes, sometimes they're not his taste. But at least he's honest enough to accept when he likes something and when he doesn't.

He doesn't talk much, but when he speaks, he says what he means and what he wants to. This is something you admire about him.

“Mhm.” Juntae hums as he sees you get lost in your thoughts again, the smirk doesn't leave his feature though. If you can't tell Sieun about your feelings, he sure can.

𓂃

In the sky, pinks meet the orange, a soft colour is conceived, a colour that looks like peach soda. You're sitting next to Sieun. Juntae, Baku and Gotak are still playing basketball, they seem to have better stamina than Sieun.

You lose your focus, the world blurs a little, you're too deep in your thoughts, riveting in the notes ringing in your head. You've been practicing a lot, recently. Perfecting the composition you came up with, your fingers and shoulder have gone tired with the countless hours you've been pouring into your craft.

There is a certain joy that comes with perfection. When you can move people with the music that you create, you reach a state of euphoria and the hard work you put on yourself finally feels worth it.

As the music in your head slowly dissipates as it comes towards the end, you turn to look at Sieun, who is drinking water. The way his Adam's apple bobs with every gulp has you entranced, but you soon realise that you might be looking like a weirdo so you turn away.

Sieun puts the water bottle away.

Well, it's now or never, right?

With your heart beating like a wild beast that was chained inside a cage of bones, you finally gather courage.

“Sieun-ah.” You start. A crow caws in the distance and the sneakers against the ground screech.

When he turns to look at you, you're taken back to the moment where the yellowish lights of the outside court had you feeling like insects swimming in pools of honey, the moment where you wished time stopped forever because of the twinkle of Sieun’s eyes.

“Has anyone told you before that you have pretty eyes?”

You don't know if it's the sky that is casting down pinkish hues on Sieun or if he's actually blushing.

𓂃

You let out a soft sigh as you sit on the sofa, tired from a long day of practicing violin. You even have dreams of playing the specific composition, the one you've titled ‘Peach eyes’.

Your Mom pulls you close to her into a side hug. She pats you slowly, her touch is gentle and soothing.

“Don’t stress yourself too much. I know you'll do great, my child.” She speaks brightly, her words filled with nothing but love.

“Thank you. I love you.” And with that you sink yourself deeper into her embrace.

VI.

How could I not rely

On you, peach eyes?

The silence is broken by the sound of bow meeting the strings, the first touch is always gentle like a lover's kiss, it always starts slowly and builds momentum. The notes flow endlessly and beautifully into the air, with a certain warmth that comes with love.

At first, it is like rich cashmere being undone, thread by thread, slowly and painfully unravelled, something akin to accepting that you are in love and the fear that comes with it. When you accept you are in love, you're baring your soul. The sound that comes with each friction of bow and violin slowly dissolves the tension built up in the pit of your stomach. The sound is now like a knife cutting through flesh, thorough and sharp and easy. There is a sting in it, the kind felt by snow when the sun shines its rays on it harshly to melt it away, with that the fear in your mind melts away slowly too.

The unraveling is firm yet gentle, the touch is soft like water that envelopes your feet at the beach but it's firm, like the hardened bark of a tree. It feels like a lover undoing your being, slowly exposing your secrets to themselves and loving you despite.

The song builds up, it's now haunting like whispers of the past, something you can see on the back of your eyelids when you close them but something that fades away when you try to reach out for it.

The audience is completely trapped into the hypnotising performance you're putting, they're stuck in a trance like bugs caught up in sticky-trap.

There is pain in longing and you captured it perfectly in your music sheets and you've now turned it into music, the music that reverberates through your upper body, the music you made is being fed on by your heart.

The song is now turning like a tide, at first it was like expensive cloth being unstitched but now, it feels as though the seams are being sewn together again, this time better than they were before. Each note is like a torrent of brushstrokes on a canvas, each stroke building up to a precise picture.

You're pouring out every single emotion you've felt for the peach-eyed boy into this performance. Each note you play feels like a breath that brings you back to life. It now feels like a faint touch of moonlight on skin.

When you finish the melodies still linger in the air, like the whistling wind on a stormy day. The audience is quiet for a short moment, taking in the opus they just experienced but they soon break into applause.

Afterwards, you meet up with your friends after your violin solo ends. Juntae had invited his friends too, and they're all drowning you in praises. You try not to pay attention to the person that your solo was dedicated to, instead you chat with your friends as you lead them back to the hall for the next performance.

You're left alone outside the theatre hall, and you breathe out a sigh of satisfaction. You decide to go back to the artist’s lounge to pack up your things and just as you turn, Sieun appears, holding a bouquet of roses.

“You seem to be avoiding me.” He speaks with a matter-of-fact tone.

You look around and then point at yourself.

“Me? Haha, never.”

Sieun doesn't say anything else, and for a second, silence settles over both of you. You finally look into the eyes you were avoiding the entire evening, and now, you are in a trance. Like a snake being charmed by a snake charmer, you are charmed by the boy in front of you. You look into his eyes and they look soft and filled with stars like always.

Sieun hands you the bouquet, and his fingers brush against yours, you take in the rich peach and white coloured flowers to your view to ignore the loud beating of your heart and the blood rushing to your cheeks.

“The performance was beautiful.” He states.

But you are more beautiful; you want to say.

And a whisper of a smile appears on Sieun’s face.

Maybe, falling in love with you was imminent for Yeon Sieun too.

𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎( ‎whc masterlist )

woohoo! 3.4k words, that was a long ride, i hope you enjoyed! likes, reblogs & comments are appreciated.

if it wasn't clear; y/n is a music student who is juntae's step-sibling. y/n's father remarried juntae's mom! y/n's birth mother was a pianist who passed away. y/n can play three instruments—piano, violin & acoustic guitar. the final scene was them performing a violin solo they composed.

taglist. ( join it here )

@mariii-0001 @gacktsa @haitani-22 @pavitrata @yujiswave @svtf1lms @sadesutopia

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