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piastriprincess · 2 months ago

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caught up in circles ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .

featuring oscar piastri , time loop , f1 med staff!reader , strangers to lovers , slow burn . tw one crash , z*k br*wn and chr*stian h*rner mentions lol word count 9.9k author’s note this one is for my piastri princesses ! aka it’s all about oscar and entirely self - indulgent but i hope you all like it too ! inspired by palm springs - one of my favorite movies which for some reason made me think of osc the last time i was watching it <3 this is lowkey long as hell but in my opinion it’s worth it . as always let me know what you think , and my inbox is open for requests ! i’m hoping to have an event up in the next couple of days too . love you all MWAH ! title is from time after time by cyndi lauper .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it.

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop.

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep.

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains.

Number two: he can alter the day.

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life �� a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet.

Number three: he can’t die.

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him.

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out.

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there.

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him.

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest.

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side.

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock.

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads.

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words.

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet.

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied.

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still.

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word.

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway.

You’re not here.

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine.

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache.

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before.

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters.

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it.

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around.

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood.

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his.

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.”

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice.

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear.

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri.

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!!

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes.

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend.

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on.

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either.

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water.

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan.

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent.

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.”

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters.

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does.

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin.

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets).

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing.

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water.

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic.

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head.

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht.

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment.

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck.

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing.

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t.

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time.

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake.

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you.

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to.

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you.

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap.

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache.

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life.

And then he jumps.

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly.

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air.

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours.

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook.

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment.

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet.

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own.

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always.

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today.

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now.

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment.

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone.

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it.

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences.

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion.

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table.

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food.

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?”

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice.

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth.

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped.

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you.

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done.

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart.

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow.

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it.

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries.

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you.

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure.

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling.

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.”

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time.

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you.

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising.

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors.

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time.

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened.

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once.

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you.

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit.

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different.

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof.

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness.

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir.

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else.

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips.

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it.

#f1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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wellextol · 1 year ago

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Pure Neuro Supplement Review | Achieve Razor Sharp Memory | Perfect Memory Recall

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mikkies · 1 month ago

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「 DEAR SWEET CHILD, NO NEED TO CRY, I WILL HOLD YOU TIGHT. 」

Various! Forsaken! x GN! Child! Reader

warnings: Mentions of death

notes: anyways platonic (as if it wasn't obvious enough), I'm just using x reader tag since.. there's no platonic version of x reader 😿

➷ — Guest 1337

Fluff: Guest 1337 takes on a full parental role, always ensuring you're safe and happy. He teaches you survival tricks, like how to spot the best hiding places or distract killers, though he keeps it lighthearted. He’s quick to scoop you up when danger is near, carrying you to safety with a protective arm around you.

“Don’t wander too far, kiddo. You’re my responsibility now.”

Angst: Every time you gets into danger, Guest is haunted by the memory of his own child. He’s fiercely protective—watching you fall never gets easier for Guest. Each time, he stiffens, forcing himself to look away. He often wonders how many more times he’ll have to witness it. Though he puts on a brave face, there are moments when he whispers,

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I’ll do better next time.”

➷ — Elliot

Fluff: Elliot is the “fun uncle” figure, always sneaking the you extra pizza slices and teaching you silly tricks. He often tries to make you laugh, doing little impressions or balancing pizzas on his head. He genuinely enjoys your company, even if he pretends not to care.

“Alright, you can have one more slice, but only if you say ‘Uncle Elliot is the best!’”

Angst: Though he tries to act unfazed, Elliot can’t hide his discomfort when the you are hurt or “killed” in a round. Even though yoy always respawn back, the sight of your small, lifeless form makes his jokes falter. When the round ends, he’ll say something like,

“You're a tough kid, huh? But… maybe stay closer next time, alright?”

➷ — Taph

Fluff: Taph’s antics amuse you endlessly. He often mimics your movements or pretends to be startled by your “attacks.” He lets you “chase” his feathers and playfully flutters his wings to create gusts of air for your amusement. He often lingers nearby, keeping a watchful eye.

"✨🎁🫵" (Look! For you!)

Angst: Taph becomes visibly distraught when you're is hurt, his wings flaring out protectively as he shields you with his body. Even after the round ends, he sticks unusually close, as if afraid you might die again.

"🫵💪👤‼️🤷‍♂️💪‼️" (You're strong! Don't lose that strength!)

➷ — 007n7

Fluff: 007n7 sees the you as a chance for redemption, treating you with endless kindness and patience. He lets you ride on his shoulders, telling you stories of his past adventures while trying to filter out the darker details.

“You remind me of someone I loved very much. Let’s make sure you stay safe, okay?”

Angst: Each time you fall, 007n7 is hit with guilt and regret, reliving the loss of his own child. When you respawn, he tries to mask his worry with humor, but his voice always trembles slightly as he says,

“Glad you’re back, champ. I thought I’d lost you for a second.”

➷ — Builderman

Fluff: Builderman is a steady and reliable presence, always crafting little gadgets to make you smile. He even builds you small toys, like wind-up robots or puzzles, to keep your spirits up during tense times.

“There you go, little one. Something to keep you busy while we plan.”

Angst: Though he knows you will respawn, Builderman feels a deep sense of failure every time you're hurt. He works tirelessly to improve his contraptions, muttering,

“Not again. Next time, I’ll make it foolproof.” Despite his efforts, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s always one step behind.

➷ — Noob:

Fluff: Noob becomes fiercely protective of you when you're in danger, even though they’re a scaredy-cat. They’ll clumsily throw themselves into action if it means keeping you safe, muttering, “I can’t let you get hurt—just, uh, stay behind me, okay?” If they have a Bloxy Cola, they’ll hand it to you without hesitation.

“Here! You need this more than me. Go fast and don’t look back!”

Angst: When you're either hurt or "killed," Noob blames themselves for not being braver. They linger near the spot you died, apologizing softly before leaving in case the killer comes back.

“I should’ve been faster, or—or smarter. I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

➷ — John Doe:

Fluff: John Doe occasionally teaches the child little tricks, like how to navigate his traps safely or avoid his faint trails. Though his demeanor is stoic, there’s a softness in the way he patiently explains things.

“You’re a quick learner. Keep this up, and you’ll outlast the rest of them.”

Angst: Watching the child die—even knowing they’ll respawn—brings a flicker of old, forgotten pain to John Doe’s mind. When they return, he stands nearby, silent but watchful, his corrupted arm twitching slightly as he whispers,

“Don’t make me watch that again.”

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theskywithin · 4 months ago

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Birth Chart Breakdown - Mars Through The Houses

We speak of Mars as drive, desire, action, but beneath every spark is a story. A reason we move the way we do. A part of ourselves we’re trying to protect, prove, or reclaim.

First House

Your strength is seen, but rarely softened. You lead. You assert. You enter every room like it owes you space. But even warriors long to rest. You’ve learned to carry your identity like a shield, but who are you when you’re not proving you belong? Even fire needs a place to burn safely, without burning through everything.

Second House

You chase security like it owes you proof. As if having more will finally make you enough. You work hard. You hold tight. You protect what’s yours. But self-worth isn’t earned, it’s remembered. Let your value rise from within, not from what you build to be seen as valuable.

Third House

You speak like it’s survival. Sharp, fast, relentless. Your mind is wired for action, always reaching for understanding, but sometimes, silence speaks louder. Not every truth needs defending. Not every thought needs to be said to be known.

Fourth House

You protect your inner world like a soldier on sacred ground. There’s a storm in your ribcage that only you know how to navigate. You want peace, but sometimes peace feels unsafe. Not every memory needs to be rewritten. Some things can simply be witnessed, without turning them into wars.

Fifth House

You love loudly. Create fiercely. Every emotion becomes a firework, quick, bright, unforgettable. You chase the thrill because it reminds you you’re alive. But your joy doesn’t have to be earned through fire. Let passion be a home, not a chase. Stay long enough for it to bloom.

Sixth House

You work like your worth depends on it. You keep moving, fixing, improving, hoping the inner chaos might finally go quiet. You measure love in usefulness. But rest is also a form of service. You’re allowed to slow down. You’re allowed to just be.

Seventh House

You don’t just want love, you enter battle for it. Your passion in partnership is unmatched, but sometimes you fight because connection feels vulnerable. Not every relationship needs saving. Not every bond is proof of your power. Let yourself be met, not just pursued.

Eighth House

Intensity lives in your bones. You crave the kind of connection that consumes and remakes. Power, trust, surrender, they’re never simple for you. But transformation doesn’t always require destruction. You can release without disappearing. You can love without losing the parts you’ve fought so hard to reclaim.

Ninth House

You move like there’s something to outrun. You chase freedom with holy fire, as if motion itself can offer meaning. But freedom without reflection can leave you ungrounded. Let your beliefs evolve as you do. The horizon will always be there, but truth lives in how you carry it with you.

Tenth House

You climb. You conquer. You build. You measure yourself by impact, by progress, by proof. But legacy without soul is just performance. You are more than your public self. Let your ambition serve your inner world too. True success is showing up in both.

Eleventh House

You fight for the future. For the group. For the cause. You dream big, act fast, and pull others toward the vision, but even visionaries get lonely. When you’re always leading, it’s easy to forget to belong. Your power multiplies when you trust others to walk beside you.

Twelfth House

Your fire moves inward. A quiet battle. A sacred undoing. You’re not always sure why you act, or where the emotion is coming from, only that it demands release. Your anger speaks in symbols. Your passion hides in dreams. But what grows in the dark is not weak, it’s ancient, holy, and learning to rise in its own way.

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #birth chart #natal chart #natal astrology #natal aspects #mars #natal placements #astro placements

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bamsara · 1 month ago

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Very personal vent, will nuke it after a nap I think

2024 was arguably one of the worst years of my life outside of having my heart and brain issues from 2020. I left an abusive situation, still recovering from it, left a *second* toxic friendship that resulted in my physical location being compromised, and right as I think 2025 will be better, one of them comes uninvited into my house *again*, and my step father gets diagnosed with heart failure, with the same exact issues that killed my birth dad. We had to buy a wearable difibulator since it can go out any moment

All that and we are in a hell recession

I am constantly afraid, both in online and in real life spaces. I dont think I have social anxiety in a normal sense, I think im really good at talking to people, but I'm never fast at it and I'm never natural at it.

I constantly worry about taking up too much space and that people I've never met online fucking hate me because I exist in the same sphere as them, that there are preconceived ideas of who or what I am as a person because I'm not seen as a person in the online space but just as a creator, and online: creators are not considered people. I wish some of my stuff never got popular, even SL, not that I don't like talking about what I'm passionate about, but I'm constantly afraid of crossing that line of 'random artist' into being seen as 'self absorbed big shot' because I posted too many au dumps or got too rambley. And if I talk about this, I fear any reassurance I get will because of those prior factors

I've thought about deleting this account before a long while ago, but then I'd lose Everything I've ever done for over 10 years. Not just artwork and community but real life milestones and memories and that's not worth losing over some stressful situations

I genuinely do not understand why we cannot be nice to each other either. I know it's a very vague and general statement and I feel like hard to explain what I mean by that, but I cannot imagine passive aggression, comparison or general rudeness to be the 'default' way people talk! I am so tired of people being mean for fun or to feel like they fit in on a conversation! And I'm not even recieving the mean, I just witness it and its upsetting! Real life and Online! But don't listen to me on that because I want people who've probably don't like me to like me and seek validation from people I have differences with so I am not a good example of judgement.

And my health I'm not even gonna touch that one. But at least I'm working on dental stuff, which is nice. I got health insurance again, right as they go to cut medicaid.

But in my mind I cannot stop thinking about if I can just get better at what I'm doing. If I can get better at artwork that I hate my style of, it's never polished and there's people younger than me who's work is so much better. If I can just write faster or draw better and remember to post things then I don't have to worry about anything else. But I've been drawing for so so long, and my art style that I've put so much time into I feel is the equivalent of a learn-how-to-draw-anime workbook you get in a middle school library. And yes I've been told it's good but all art is good. All art styles are good styles. I just don't like it when I'm the one who draws it.

In the last 12 months I've been IRL stalked, family medical, helping support them with what I do make and also myself and literally every coping hobby I have and have had for over a decade just feels more and more like I'm never improving fast enough or that I just Care Too Much at my big age and I should be doing something more substantial with my life, but if I don't craft something or draw or write even if I despise it in the end then it's so much worse

#sara shush #vent #personal #tw medical #death mention #stalking mention #ngl i will more than likely delete this later

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foldingfittedsheets · 10 months ago

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A basic human skill that people usually lock down around the age of three or four is impulse control. To conceptualize an action and it’s consequences before taking it. Maybe considering how that action affects other people. We then refine it through most of our childhood.

When I was a teenager my hold on this ability became… tenuous. I became a volatile and dangerous creature.

It’s probably not unique to me, but I had a perfect storm in terms of mental upsets. I had just mastered enough basic social skills, so I finally had a strong group of friends when my dad suddenly needed to move for work. Ripped away from my support network, blooming with hormones, I was dragged to Arizona. I was always a child of forests and mist and suddenly everything was hot, dry, and extremely pointy and aggressive.

Additionally to being abruptly transplanted I found myself an object of affection in a way I’d never been before. Lonely and desperate to make friends the only people who wanted to spend time with me had romantic designs. I just wanted to figure out my shit but I had a baby lesbian flirting with increasing aggression in art, a soft boy making heart eyes at me in biology, a senior nerd asking if I wanted to play Halo at his house and could he hold my hand?

Reader, I snapped. I didn’t want this romantic attention but I also didn’t want to be alone. My brain coped the only way it knew how, by simply cutting out decision making. Any action was the right action to take.

It started with the boy in biology. I’d stolen his pencil out of mischief and to my overwhelming fury instead of trying to steal it back he just softened his eyes and chucked me gently under my chin, a gesture so overtly sweet and romantic that I saw red.

I stabbed him with his own pencil.

I honestly and truly have no memory of it. It happened as fast as a snake striking and I was instantly filled with terrified remorse. Unfortunately that manifested as psychotic giggling.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I don’t know why- I’m so sorry!” I said, while hysterically laughing. I ended up having lodged some graphite in his palm and had to tweeze it out with my nails while apologizing furiously. (It’s very important to note here that he forgave me and we’re still friends)

That was weird, I thought. Why didn’t I think before I stabbed someone?

The next event was equally catastrophic, and I had even less reason to do it. In gym with two girls I was tentatively befriending, we were warming up running laps. I started racing one of them. At breakneck speed we were sprinting around the gym.

This time, there was a blip of thought before I fucked up. I should get the other girl! I have no idea why or what the plan was but I turned on a swivel and body checked the other girl. We both fell down in immense pain. I think that’s the moment I broke my tailbone. Her knees were horribly bruised and she looked at me in bewildered pain. “Why did you do that?!”

I had no idea. I apologized and helped her up, both of us hobbling like newborn horses, bruised and hurting.

By this time there’d been enough social upheavals that I was reduced to spending time with some girls I had nothing in common with and low key disliked. Sat at a table listening to this girl talk about how she wanted to be a stripper when she grew up I thought, You’d better put the cap on before you throw it.

I then chucked my empty water bottle directly at her face. It bounced off her forehead with a bop! that would have made a sound mixer weep at its perfection.

All eyes turned to me is startlement. I stared back at her, stunned by my own action, just as confused as everyone else at the table as to why I’d done that. One of the girls to my right said, “Were you trying to hit that fly?”

“Yes!” I lied, “I’m sorry, I thought I could hit the fly!”

Everyone laughed at my antics and I joined in rather than admit I had just chucked something at her for no reason.

Things did start to improve after that. I solidified a friendship with the girl I’d raced (who I developed a massive crush on and ten years later would go on to date). My outbursts turned more whimsical rather than aggressive. Like accosting a girl leaving the cafeteria to look deeply into her eyes and say with great compassion, “It’s going to be alright.”

My new friend and I snuck into the van that delivered our cafeterias baked goods and lay giggling in the back. When I’d impulsively hopped in she’d joined me and made it a game.

After a year in Arizona I broke down crying to my mother, an act of great desperation, and we ended up moving back home. My impulse control returned to normal teenage levels and life resumed in a happier state of mind.

#ramblies #story #writing #ffs foibles #funny story #teen angst #arizona #impulse control

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kxsagi · 4 months ago

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"𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮"

kaiser was used to getting what he wanted.

a childhood of fists and slurred threats had taught him that power belonged to the strongest, the smartest, the ones who knew how to control the board. his father had controlled through fear. his mother had controlled through absence. he had learned to control through understanding. not to heal, but to win.

that was why he read. psychology books lined his shelves, not for self-improvement, but for strategy. he picked apart minds the way he picked apart defenses on the field, exploiting weaknesses to his advantage. every opponent had an insecurity, a trigger, a soft spot. teammates were no different. he whispered the right words at the right time, making them believe in him, bend to him. he played the game not just with his feet, but with his mind.

and he won. always.

until you.

you were supposed to be another challenge, another prize. kaiser was good-looking, successful, charismatic, no one told him no. but you did. not rudely, not cruelly. just a simple, unwavering “no” that threw him off balance more than any defender ever had.

“you’re not ready for me,” you had said. “not like this.”

he had scoffed, laughed it off, but something in your eyes unsettled him. you saw through him. the masks, the manipulations, the carefully crafted persona he had spent years perfecting. you weren’t interested in his charm, his success, or the way he could twist words to make people crumble.

you wanted something he didn’t know how to give.

“come back when you’ve stopped running,” you told him.

at first, he convinced himself you were playing hard to get. that you’d come around, like they all did. but days turned to weeks, then months, and you didn’t waver. every time he saw you, you were the same. honest. steady. unmoved by his tactics.

it pissed him off.

kaiser found himself standing in front of a mirror late one night, gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles white. the bathroom lights flickered slightly, an old wiring issue he hadn’t bothered to fix. his breath came hard and fast. another bad game. another night where he’d screamed at his teammates for mistakes that were just as much his fault as theirs. he had watched their faces, the way their shoulders tensed, the way their confidence shrank.

he knew that feeling.

he had worn it once, long ago, cowering under his father’s drunken rage.

the thought hit him like a punch to the gut. his grip on the sink tightened as he forced himself to look at his reflection. dark circles beneath his eyes, tension in his jaw, a sneer twisting his lips. he looked like a man who resented the world. like a man who needed control to survive.

like his father.

a sickening wave of nausea curled in his stomach. he stumbled back, his breath coming sharp and ragged. he clenched his fists, shaking his head.

no. that wasn’t him. he wasn’t like that.

but wasn’t he?

hadn’t he built his entire life on power, on knowing exactly how to bend people to his will? hadn’t he used his words like his father had used his fists? maybe not in violence, but in force. in control.

a trembling breath escaped his lips. he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memory away. the stench of beer on his father’s breath, the sharp sting of words that cut deeper than any blow. “you’ll never be anything. you’re just like me.”

no.

he had spent his entire life trying to prove that wrong, but maybe in the end, he had just become the same poison, poured into a different bottle.

that night, he barely slept. he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, haunted by the realization that for all his intelligence, all his careful calculations, he had never once truly looked at himself.

but you had.

𐙚

kaiser found you at the park just before sunset. the sky was painted in streaks of orange and pink, the air crisp with the fading warmth of the day. you were sitting on a wooden bench near the soccer field, watching a group of kids kick around a ball, their laughter ringing through the air.

he hesitated for a moment, hands in his pockets, before forcing himself to move forward. the old him would have had a plan, a perfect script to sway you. but now, he had nothing but the truth.

so he sat beside you, letting a moment of silence settle between you both before speaking.

“i don’t know how to be better,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. “i only know how to win. and i don’t want to do that with you.”

you turned to look at him, studying him in that way you always did, like you saw past everything he tried to be and straight to everything he was.

he braced himself, expecting rejection, expecting you to say that it was too late.

but you didn’t.

“you’re trying,” you said softly. “that’s enough.”

his chest tightened. his whole life, worth had been measured by success, by control. but here you were, telling him that just the act of trying was enough.

“you’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” he asked, half a smile pulling at his lips.

you shook your head, though there was warmth in your eyes. “no. if it was easy, it wouldn’t mean anything.”

he let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair as he glanced toward the kids still playing.

“then i guess i’ve got work to do.”

you smiled, and for the first time in his life, he felt like he wasn’t running.

he was finally standing still.

and maybe, just maybe, that was how he really won you.

a/n: kaiser is one of my favorite written characters and i definitely see a lot of people get him wrong. this video does a really good job of explaining who he is and i highly recommend it https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bD77we_jtQQ&list=LL&index=8

he definitely doesn't deserve to have grown up the way he did, but i also want to include the message in here to not repeat generational cycles. sometimes, we can even do it unconsciously, but catch yourself before it becomes too familiar. work on yourself, healing is the best thing you can do for yourself. sending much love to everyone reading this 🫶🏻

#michael kaiser #kaiser michael #kaiser #kaiser x reader #kaiser michael x reader #michael kaiser x reader #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #winning you

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zorostitties · 5 months ago

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Aurora, 3 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 6k

A/N: Happy one week anniversary to this fic!!! Three chapters in seven days??? I don't write this much or this fast since I was like 15. Oh God. Hyperfixation go BOOM Thank you everybody that left comments last chapter!! Reading them makes my day!! Without further ado, let's hear Alucards thoughts. Enjoy! <3

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Playlist

The fast passage of time never failed to surprise Alucard.

The way the pages of his favorite books would get yellowed and frail without him noticing. How stone pavement would get slippery, worn out, after years of feet walking on it. How quickly a small village with only a few families could turn into a city bubbling with thousands of lives. How a small seedling would turn into a tall apple tree laden with fruit before he could take notice of it. The way fashion changed rapidly; how his clothes would get outdated and he’d be forced to acquire new ones in order to fit better into society.

How fast humans aged.

He didn’t like to ponder too much into it. Not anymore. It always made old scars ache again. However, as he looked at Juste Belmont, he couldn’t stop himself.

A part of his brain still expected to see a skinny and clumsy boy when Richter mentioned Juste. After all, that was his last memory of the Belmont, although he knew it was impossible. And yet… when Alucard laid eyes on the man, he couldn��t help but be shocked. He knew he’d see an adult, yes… not an elderly man with white hair, beard and deep wrinkles, a man that looked older than him (even though he was in much better form than the average human his age).

How many years had it been since Alucard last saw Juste...? It was around the time his grandfather passed, if he wasn’t mistaken. Was it around 50 years ago, perhaps?

Hell. Only 50 years had passed, and Juste already looked like a raisin.

Half of him knew that was part of the beauty of human existence: its fleetingness. Every human had a clear and direct story: beginning, middle, end. Their will to build, transform, adapt, improve and sometimes destroy, despite the little time they had on Earth. That was why human society changed so much in all those years. They had limited time: they were in a hurry to do everything they could with what they got – and that’s why Alucard admired mankind so much. Despite their immortality, vampires didn’t seem as willing to make significant changes, always choosing complacency or destruction instead.

The other half of him – the half where his deepest scars where hidden – hated this fact about humans. Even felt bitter of them, although he wouldn’t admit it out loud. Humans came and went before he could notice. They marked his life and left him alone before he could even prepare himself.

Alucard inherited the human heart that an immortal shouldn’t have. That was one of the small curses he carried for being who he was.

“Why don’t I come to Paris with you?” Juste argued with Richter, which honestly humored Alucard a bit. The younger man was acting as the adult, coming with up with rational reasons, while the elder was eager to join the fight with them. There it was… humans’ will to do something despite everything.

The white-haired vampire watched the scene in silence, sitting on a tree trunk with Annette by his side. The morning fog over the lake and around the clearing made him keep his guard up despite his relaxed demeanor, as it could hide spies easily; in fact, he was almost sure there was someone out there, but he couldn’t tell exactly where. The smell of burnt wood, ashes and vampire corpses was disorienting.

“Are all Belmonts like this?” Annette wondered out loud with a quirked eyebrow.

“Irritating? Oh, yes.” Alucard knew that it was a genetic trait inherited by every Belmont (other than their clear blue eyes). “To be honest, it’s been years since I’ve had much to do with them.” He admitted. Even so, it seemed that things hadn’t changed much in this aspect. “But if I can’t stop Erzsebet, I’ll need a Belmont to finish the job. Or a revolutionary witch, of course.” Annette opened a small, bashful smile at his last sentence.

Richter started to list reasons to why Juste should stay in Machecoul – he owed it to Maria’s mother, he didn’t care if Juste wasn’t great with teenage girls, all the usual Belmont family drama. Well, something else that time hadn’t changed. Alucard almost had a deja vu, as it wasn’t the first time he witnessed a scene like that.

So he decided to lay his attention elsewhere.

Ruby was standing at a good distance from the rest of the group; she had a focused – slightly annoyed, even – expression on her face as she analyzed the pairs of boots in front of her. She had taken them herself from the corpses before the three men collected the deceased vampires to throw them at the fire burning in the Belmont’s now ruined cottage.

She took a boot and placed it next to her barefoot feet, measuring it. Apparently, it was too big. She sighed and did the same with the next pair.

Alucard had been paying much attention to her. He’s one to always focus on the task at hand – said task meant to stop the impending doom hovering over mankind on Europe – however, from the moment he entered her room through her window, things took a different turn. Got more complicated.

The white-haired vampire knew she wasn’t lying. After you live that long, you learn how to pick up the mannerisms of deceit, especially in humans. They blush, blink, avoid your gaze, stutter, their voice gets higher. It takes a lot of practice to get rid of these involuntary quirks. From the moment they first met, Ruby seemed absolutely honest in her fright; in fact, it was as if she couldn’t lie even if she wanted to. As if… she was trained to never lie.

However, it wasn’t enough to make Alucard less suspicious of her. Too much was at stake to let himself be carried away by her story. He knew he was too old to get fooled, but he also knew to never say never – thus why he kept his attention on her, even if he didn’t show it.

He was trying to understand her. Get a glimpse of what was really going on.

Ruby kept silent during most of the way to Juste’s cottage – and that was a lot, given they walked the entire night. She barely made questions. She didn’t ask to rest, to get some water, didn’t complain about her tight shoe (Alucard could feel the faint smell of blood coming from the scratch on her heel). She kept her head low most of the time. Well… she did promise that they wouldn’t even notice she was there, but Alucard didn’t think she was so serious about it.

It made him feel bad for her, to be honest. He could tell it was another thing she was trained to do.

Three moments of their long walk towards Juste’s location caught his attention the most.

The first was during one of their few stops, when Ruby stood apart of the group and stared at the sky for quite some time, in complete silence. She had a focused expression he hadn’t seen her show yet; one that didn’t somehow look pained. The second was when she caught glimpse of a squirrel – the tiny animal ran up a tree so fast that Richter and Annette didn’t notice it – and gasped, her eyes widened, as if she’d never seen a squirrel before. When the two asked what happened, Ruby brushed it off in embarrassment.

The third moment was while Annette explained what they were going to retrieve in Paris – Sekhmet’s mummy which contained half of her soul. And… Ruby didn’t react.

Alucard remembered that both Richter and Annette got confused at what a mummy is. Ruby didn’t. As if she already knew what it was.

That put a question mark in his head.

Alucard wanted to trust her. She seemed genuine. He got really worried about her at the forest, when she learned about Drolta’s death; there was no way she could lie about that. But… how could he trust someone whose own mind was untrustworthy?

Ruby measured her feet with another worn out leather boot, knee-high and with a very short heel. This time, it seemed to match. She put on the pair. Tip-toed, turned her ankles around, took some steps. Finally, she opened a tiny satisfied smile and sighed in relief. “This will do,” she muttered to herself.

Alucard narrowed his eyes slightly.

There was a time – a long time ago –, when he was young, Alucard would trust her in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t even question her. He’d let himself be carried by his inexperience, his naivety… and his inherent taste for beautiful, delicate things. Because yes, Ruby was beautiful like a flower. She reminded him of a weeping begonia – graceful, colorful, yet with a certain melancholy to it. He’d offer help, cook for her, give her a shelter. He’d even offer himself to carry her on his back the entire way due to her hurt heel.

But Alucard wasn’t naive anymore, and there was too much at stake to have faith in her like that.

Of course, one could argue that if that’s the case, then he shouldn’t trust Richter and Annette as well, given he barely knew both. But Richter was a Belmont – and like all Belmonts, he carried his heart on his sleeve; Richter was incapable of deceit. Annette was mature, much more than someone her age should be, due to her past; Alucard could recognize someone with a strong sense of justice and pride like her. There was nothing complicated about them. Ruby was complicated. Ruby meant mystery in a situation that demanded clarity.

Ruby was their upper hand against Erzsebet, but she was also a problem.

“Annette,” the white-haired vampire called quietly. The girl looked at him immediately, understanding his quiet and serious tone. “I’d like to ask you a favor.” She nodded. “Try to… stay close to Ruby. She might feel more comfortable to talk with another woman.”

Annette narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. It might’ve sounded that he was just caring for Ruby, but the suspicion in his expression told her otherwise.

“Do you think she’s lying?” she asked in the same quiet voice.

“No,” Alucard said. “But she doesn’t remember anything from her past, so it doesn’t mean much. Perhaps… the real Ruby hidden in her memories might not be who she seems to be.”

Annette appeared hesitant – Alucard knew she had sympathy for Ruby – but nodded anyway.

The white-haired vampire sighed, tired of hearing the Belmonts talk, and got up.

“Richter. We need to go.” He was about to call Ruby as well, but she was already running towards them.

“Did you find one that fits?” Annette asked as she also got up. Ruby nodded.

“Yes. It doesn’t even smell bad, either.” She appeared so content with something so simple. Annette sent her a small smile before frowning and crossing her arms.

“What happens if we get to Paris and the mummy doesn’t hold any power, it’s just some old corpse that was stolen hundreds of years ago?” Annette wondered – but Alucard didn’t really pay attention to it.

Richter hugged Juste. Ruby watched it in silence – and the faint happiness she held seconds ago for finding good boots immediately faded away, being replaced by… longing. It was like watching a flower wither in front of his eyes.

A weeping begonia, indeed.

It was another one of those moments when Alucard wished he didn’t have his human heart. One of the few things that the fast passage of time hadn’t been able to change.

“Then at least it’s no use to Erzsebet, either,” he answered Annette’s question and turned around, not waiting for anyone to follow him.

When the great flowing river appeared, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement.

Rivers and lakes kept frozen most of the time in Erzsebet’s country. It amounted to your pile of new experiences. In 24 hours, you’d already seen and done much more than during your time in imprisonment.

You tried not to gasp. This river was much larger than the one you’d seen a few hours ago, during one of the stops you’d made to drink water. The sound of the serene current was hypnotizing; it reflected sunlight beautifully, its surface shimmering with the glow of a million diamonds. A bit of fog still hovered over the nearby trees of the river bank.

“The river will take us much of the way from here,” Alucard explained. Since leaving Juste’s clearing, he had taken the lead and resumed himself to not talking much. Richter and Annette were carrying all of the conversations, to be honest, as you decided to also keep quiet.

Since you left the ruins at Machecoul, you noticed that Alucard was a bit… aloof. Or at least, he decided to act this way due the current situation – and you could understand that. The half-vampire wasn’t being rude, and never once did he appear annoyed anytime Richter and Annette made questions; in fact, he was more than eager to debate their plans or to explain how his hunt for Sekhmet’s mummy went over the years. And at the same time… his expression stayed nonchalant all throughout the way.

Well. You couldn’t expect anything less from a man that stayed extremely calm as he invaded Erzsebet’s chateau.

Nevertheless, it made you feel a bit… weird. You didn’t want to say lonely, but that’s more or less how you felt. Alucard was the one to talk to you at the forest after all, and Richter and Annette… they seemed too enthralled in each other, so you didn’t want to interrupt. You didn’t have the courage to initiate a conversation with Alucard either, scared to bother him. So to you, the entire travel had been a long, weird silence.

There was also the fact that you were in panic of attracting any attention to yourself. They must be extremely confident to walk around at night, you thought; how many vampires could be lurking under the moonlight, between the shadows? As much as the sights amazed you – heavens, you even saw a squirrel! –, you couldn’t help but also shiver whenever one of them stepped on twig.

“We won’t be stopping, so if you need provisions, get them now,” Alucard continued. “Keep out of sight. For sure, we’re being followed.” There it was. Just as you were thinking of vampires lurking, he confirmed your fears. And yet, instead of taking a fight stance or getting tense, he just furrowed his eyebrows and completed in an annoyed tone: “I’m always being bloody followed.”

Richter looked back. Then, you saw as his chest bubbled with excitement.

“Are you going to turn the tables on them, surprise them and then take them out with your flying-sword-thing?!” he asked on the same beat, not taking a second to breathe, his blue eyes shining with anticipation.

Alucard stared at him an embarrassingly second longer than normal.

“...I’m going to find a boat.”

And walked away.

Annette covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. Richter’s face got redder than a tomato. You looked down, unable to hide your chuckle as well. He seemed… very impressed by Alucard, you noticed. Once again, excited like a child. It was cute – and you got surprised at yourself, because you didn’t remember thinking anything was cute before.

Richter recovered from the embarrassment in a second. “I’ll hunt, you gather,” he said, pointing with his thumb. “I mean… you could hunt, too.”

Annette giggled once again. “I’ll find some mushrooms.”

They started to walk into the woods while talking about mushroom types.

For a second, you stood in place like a scared cat. Should you follow Alucard? Would that annoy him? Should you follow the other two? Would you annoy them? Didn’t they said you’d have to keep under watch at all times? But what if you became a burden? What if–

“Why aren’t you coming, Ruby?”

You jumped.

Annette and Richter stopped walking to look back at you. The girl had a little smile on her lips. “Do you like mushrooms?”

Oh. Right.

You ran to reach them. “I do,” you said awkwardly. The only good thing about living under Erzsebet’s enclosure was that you were, in fact, well-fed. It wasn’t always like that… but after you became obedient, you were served good food – and creamy mushroom soup was one of the dishes you liked.

“Let’s just hope that Alucard likes it, too,” Richter pondered, holding his chin. “If he even eats at all.”

“Of course he eats. Why wouldn’t he?” Annette raised one eyebrow.

Richter shrugged. “Well, I’m not an expert in half-vampire anatomy to understand his physiological needs.”

You clasped your hands behind your back, taking courage to speak up. “Is he… always like that?” You knew Alucard must’ve been far by that point, yet you still lowered your voice, as if afraid that he might hear it.

You didn’t even need to explain what “like that” meant. Annette pursed her lips. “I can’t tell. To be honest, we know him as long as you do.” That took you by surprise; you mean that Alucard trusted Richter and Annette without even knowing them?! The girl in yellow smirked and sent a teasing look towards Richter. “I mean, I didn’t know him; Richter right here knows everything about Alucard.”

“Hey– it’s not like that,” the boy blushed yet again and scratched the back of his neck. It seemed to be a quirk of his whenever he felt embarrassed. “It’s just that my family knows him for a long time, okay? I’ve… always heard stories about Alucard.”

“And is he what you were expecting?” Annette asked. Richter hummed, taking a second to answer.

“...Not exactly.” He crossed his arms. “I always imagined he’d look older. I mean, if you heard the stories they told me when I was a kid, you’d expect to meet a giant, like five meters tall.” Annette chuckled.

“Why does your family know him?” you asked Richter. He sighed.

“The Belmonts… we’re a long lineage of vampire hunters. Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors helped him defeat Dracula.”

Hundreds of years ago? So Alucard was that old? You shouldn’t be surprised as you knew that vampires didn’t age, keeping the same appearance they had when they were turned. Yet, since Alucard was only half vampire, you thought that he actually was the age he looked to be...

Annette narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think she knows who Dracula is. I didn’t know.”

“Riiight.” Richter nodded awkwardly. “Well, Dracula was considered by many the Vampire King for a long time. He was extremely powerful. And he almost wiped out life on Earth. Lovely guy,” Richter shrugged. “There’s also the detail that he was Alucard’s father.”

You widened you eyes. That meant that… Alucard had to kill his own father?!

“Does that make him the Vampire Prince?” Annette wondered, not appearing to care about what the blue eyed boy just stated at all.

“That’s one of his titles in the legends, though I don’t think he likes it,” Richter crossed his arms. “Well, he does look like a prince.”

The girl opened the most playful, devious grin you’ve ever seen – in fact, that was the most emotion you’ve seen her show up until now. Annette was somewhat serious and her reactions were very contained, so you were a bit surprised by that. It seemed that only Richter could evoke these reactions from her…

“Oh, God. Are you going to ask his hand in marriage? When you do, tell us previously, so we can leave the room,” she playfully elbowed his ribs.

“Wait– That’s not– What I meant is–“ Richter stumbled over his words, his cheeks redder than ever – and this time you couldn’t help but giggle with Annette, covering your mouth. It also seemed that only Annette could get Richter flustered like that…

“Alright, lover boy. This seems like a good place,” she stopped walking, pointing to her right side. “Let’s see if we can find some good ones. Take care to not get hurt by your dangerous rabbits,” she sent him one last playful look.

Still blushing, Richter smiled, shook his head and kept walking ahead.

Her eyes lingered on his figure. For a second, you wondered if she forgot you were even there.

Finally, she looked at you. “Shall we?”

You nodded, following her into the woods.

And… back to silence.

Awkward silence.

You didn’t really know how to start conversations. You didn’t even know if you should. That might annoy her, you thought. I’m not her friend like Richter. It’s better if I just keep silent to not attract unwanted attention.

With the corner of your eye, you observed Annette.

Richter commented that Alucard looked like a prince - and talking about royalty… you also thought that Annette looked like a princess. Her features were delicate; she was soft spoken, polite and intelligent. Her round brown eyes reminded you of kindness and warmth, although you could see they were clouded with some sadness and distress. The way she matched her yellow vest with the golden hair rings and earrings reminded you of a sunflower. Earrings… looking at them made you feel the ghost of a familiar pain. Whenever they dressed you up for Erzsebet’s night balls, they’d have to pierce your ears to put earrings on them. Every single time. And the skin would constantly try to heal around the earring, making them itch uncontrollably until you’d finally rip them off–

“Oh! Looks like we found some,” Annette cut your line of thoughts before they could spiral. “Well, that was fast…”

She pointed towards the ground nearby. There was a tree with a couple of mushrooms growing near the roots. Annette took a small wooden bowl from the shoulder bag she carried across her chest and knelt down in front of the tree.

You narrowed your eyes as you got closer to the tree…

“These aren’t edible.” You blurted out.

Annette looked back at you.

You stepped closer, shyly pointing towards the mushrooms.

“They’re… too white. The gills. Poisonous,” each word that came out of your mouth made you frown more.

The girl in yellow looked down at the mushrooms, softly pushing them with her fingertips to see under the cap better. Then, she looked back at you.

“You’re right,” she got up, watching you in silence.

You looked back at her in silence, too.

Silence.

“I didn’t know I knew that,” you admitted in a whisper.

Annette cracked a small smile. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“You remembered something.”

You remembered…?

You were sure of one thing – never once in your life have you ever went mushroom picking under Erzsebet’s imprisonment. Your memory could be a mess, but of that you were sure. So why would you know how to spot a poisonous mushroom?

Was that… was that really a memory?

“You look very shocked,” Annette pointed out. You realized she was already some steps ahead of you looking for another tree. You ran to reach her.

“I… well, I… do you think this could be a memory?” You didn’t like how high pitched your voice sounded.

“Of course it’s a memory. What is knowledge if not a collection of memories?” she said softly.

You felt excitement bubbling within your chest, making your heartbeat increase and you grab the fabric of the skirt.

“Then I think I had another memory past night.” This caught Annette’s attention. “I… I saw a squirrel.” She quirked one eyebrow up, confused. “See, back in Erzsebet’s castle, I was always locked up. And it’s a cold place, there’s always too much snow. Even if I’d go out, I don’t think I’d ever see a squirrel.” You looked up at her, eyes gleaming with excitement. “B-But I saw a squirrel yesterday and I knew what it was, you see? It’s the same situation, isn’t it? A… a knowledge?”

Annette chuckled, but you saw in her eyes – they were very honest – that she didn’t find the situation funny at all. It was… maybe similar to what you saw in Alucard’s eyes past afternoon. It had sympathy and, again, a hint of sadness.

Oh… you let it slip the part about being locked up in a castle.

She was probably feeling bad about you.

“It might be,” she spoke, once again, in that soft tone. “Perhaps those things are common to you, and now you’re beginning to remember.”

Right.

Right, right, right. She was right. Your heartbeat kept up its fast pace as a million ideas flooded your mind. This was the first time you weren’t being mistreated and tortured. When you weren’t being tortured, you were under the constant anxiety of when it was going to happen next. That’s why you slept so much. This was the first time you refused to sleep in order to take in everything happening around you, even the smallest things. What if it was somehow healing your mind?

What if you used to live in a place with mushrooms and squirrels? What if it was a cottage like Juste’s, near a clearing? What if it had trees all around? What if… what if you had relatives that would hug you like Juste and Richter? What if they taught you the difference between an edible and a poisonous mushroom? What if you had parents?

What name did your parents give you?

What was your name? Your actual name, and not this mockery Erzsebet named you that night?

Ruby. That beautiful necklace, bejeweled with diamonds and a big ruby stone that you hated so much. It seemed to burn your skin, seemed to weight tons. But yes, it had the same color of your blood; the necklace got soaked with it whenever Erzebet’s fangs sank in your throat, it’d soak the collar of your dresses, it’d paint your body in that color, it’d paint the Vampire Messiah’s lips–

You gasped and flinched away when you felt a hand on your arm.

Annette looked at you with worry.

“I’m sorry. I called you a few times but you didn’t listen…”

You gulped, putting your hand over your chest and feeling your heart thundering nonstop. The way she was looking at you…

It happened again… just like yesterday, with Alucard…

You hated how your hands were shaking. You hated that you could feel your vision get blurred. You hated all of it, and you hated how a simple thought could make you drift back to her.

You also hated that this thing happened, yet again, with someone to witness. Heavens… you didn’t want to appear weak. These people already had enough problems; all you had to do was not bring them more trouble, to be as unnoticeable as possible, but how could they not notice you if you kept embarrassing yourself like that over and over again?

“My apologies.” You managed to speak somehow. “I’m fine.”

Annette pressed her lips together. Oh, you hated a bit how genuine her eyes were… she couldn’t hide any emotion at all. She felt bad for you. She was worried. You didn’t want to worry anyone.

The girl let out a deep sigh. She held the wooden bowl with both hands, pressing it close to her abdomen, and looked down. For the first time, you noticed the symbol burned on the skin of her right hand… it looked like a flower. Was she branded…?

“I… understand how you feel,” Annette started in a quiet voice. The way she somehow sounded fragile took you off guard; it was the first time you’d seen her like that. “I really do. Those people… they keep haunting you. On your sleep, or even when you’re awake…”

Wind swayed the trees above, played with Annette’s hair, made the golden rings around her locs tinkle softly. In that moment, she looked very young… no. She was very young. Yet, it was the first time you noticed it. She always kept a certain posture, a certain way of speech, that didn’t let this fact be noticed easily. Her fragility almost made her look child-like.

Oh…

The sadness in her eyes… it didn’t have much to do with you. Your state just reminded her of something painful.

“I am not saying that it’s easy to get over it. I still struggle myself,” she admitted quietly, as if she wasn’t proud of it. “And I am not saying that you should be embarrassed to feel this way. It’s… natural.”

Finally, she lifted her head, looking at you once again.

“I don’t know exactly what you went through. But what I can say is that… to be truly freed is to not be afraid. Because when you’re not afraid anymore, they can never hurt you again, even in your mind.” She opened a small, dimpled smile. “And when we defeat Erzsebet, justice will be done. You will be entirely free.”

Sunlight that breached through the leaves touched her face softly. Made her golden earrings glow; lightened her deep brown eyes, making them look caramel. The hint of sadness was still there, but they also shimmered with something else: hope. Courage.

You wondered what Annette must’ve been through; you weren’t brave enough to ask. You could see that life hadn’t been kind to her… her eyes didn’t lie. And even so, she was walking towards indescribable evil to fight against it, even though she had her own demons to face. She was taking her time to offer you encouraging words.

Annette was really like a sunflower; despite the darkness of the world, she chose to face the sun.

You didn’t even know what to reply.

“Thank you,” was all you managed to say now that your heart had fallen into a slower pace again. Luckily, Annette didn’t seem to expect you to elaborate. It’s like she knew you couldn’t.

She nodded and tapped the side of your arm. “We still have mushrooms to pick. And it’s better if you find them… I was about to poison us all, apparently,” she managed to jester, earning a chuckle from you.

When Annette came back, she had the weirdest expression on her face.

After you finished picking enough mushrooms, she went to look out for Richter. Although you were still uneasy, she declared that there was no danger nearby, so you could rest a little if you wanted – which you accepted to do, sitting under a tree for a while. It was nice being alone for some moments. You tried to hear your own mind; maybe it could whisper new memories…

However, Annette came back barely five minutes later with her eyes widened.

You got up immediately. “Did you find Richter? Is everything alright?”

The girl blinked several times. “Y-Yes, I found him. Everything’s alright.”

Annette… stuttering?

Then you noticed… she was blushing.

What…?

“We s-should reunite with Alucard,” she sounded a bit exasperated and rushed. “Richter’s still hunting, but I bet he–“

That’s when you heard the sound of the explosion.

The floor shook beneath your feet. The loud noise came from close by, followed by a loud grunt. Richter’s voice.

Your entire body got tense. Your eyes widened. Your breath hitched.

But, before you could say anything, Annette looked at something behind you and widened her eyes.

“Get down!”

She didn’t need to say it twice.

You dropped, covering your head with both hands, one second before a scrawny looking vampire could stab your temple with a knife.

The thing hissed – and for a second you got desperate thinking, Annette is going to die.

Only for one second, though.

It was the time it took her to kill him.

With a quick gesture of hers, the knife the vampire held melted into somewhat a formless pulp mid air and floated to her hand, where it was reshaped as a spear. With a groan of effort, Annette pierced through the vampire’s skull as if it was butter.

You looked at her in absolute shock.

“Nice reflexes!” She said. But you heard Richter’s voice again, the sound of flames whooshing in the wind, and other unknown voices; the sounds of a fight. “Let’s go!”

She grabbed you by the wrist and ran.

Your most primitive instincts wanted to run in the opposite direction; hell, you’d barely recovered from whatever just happened a second ago. Your worst fears became true; there were vampires deep within the forest, hiding in the shadows even during the day. And you were alone in the woods… if Annette had taken a minute longer, you’d have been knocked out. Maybe that vampire would’ve taken you and ran back to Erzsebet’s entourage. Was Alucard nearby? Did he heard the fight? Was he coming to help you three–?

All your thoughts disappeared.

Richter was fighting two vampires at the same time with his bare hands. You watched, in shock, as he switched from fire to ice to lightning, covering his punches and kicks in blue elemental magic, not showing any sign of struggle at all.

He managed to knock two of them – but didn’t notice as a third short vampire was ready to shot him with a shotgun. Annette was faster. Once again, she controlled the metal of the bullet, disintegrating it before it could even touch Richter, and forced the projectiles to ricochet back at its shooter.

Richter looked at you and Annette.

“I would’ve dodged that,” he complained, pouting.

“Is ‘thank you’ so hard?” Annette retorted.

The blue eyed boy looked at you. “Stand behind us, yes?” As if he needed to say it. Another tall vampire wearing an armor sprinted at them as they took their offensive positions.

You were in such a deep shock that you couldn’t even be scared anymore.

They… they weren’t struggling. At all. They were just human beings, fighting against vampires and winning, winning with the help of magic. They predicted the vampires’ moves and broke their attacks like it was nothing. They were so overwhelmingly superior that the enemies barely even noticed you were there, too focused in trying to survive.

Now you understood why Alucard trusted them without even knowing them well.

They didn’t even need Alucard’s aid.

Annette fought against a tall and skinny vampire. She controlled the blades he used on his sleeves, preventing him to run away; she then reshaped his blades into a sharp spear. After exchanging a few blows, she launched the spear with a scream of effort – and hit bullseye. Quite literally. The spear pierced into the vampire’s eye through his skull, killing him immediately.

Richter had ran off after the last vampire, disappearing from your sights.

“Where’d he go?!” she asked in a rushed tone. You pointed towards the direction he sprinted on, unable to speak.

She didn’t need to ask you to follow her.

When you reached him, the situation seemed under control. Richter had retrieved his whip, and the short vampire was down on his knees.

Richter smirked confidently.

“I hope the vampires in Paris are better than this bunch of blood wankers,” he boasted in a cocky way…

But the vampire smirked as well.

With a puff of black smoke, he turned into a small bat.

“Richter!” Annette called. At the same time, another vampire appeared from within the shadows.

The blue eyed boy didn’t know which to chase – but the new enemy seemed faster and more dangerous. His whip got involved in blue fire; with a single whiplash, the vampire was killed.

But the bat had already disappeared.

“The little one’s escaped!” Annette groaned. It was the first time she looked even slightly annoyed at Richter. She had a breathless scowl in her face, her nose slightly crunched. “Great! Now they know where we are going!”

Richter was distressed. He looked around, his cheeks flushed either because of the physical effort or sheer embarrassment. “Let’s– Let’s look around for him, he mustn’t be far!”

“A tiny bat flew away between the trees, Richter. We won’t find it.” The girl put her hands on each side of her waist.

They started arguing on what they should do next. You didn’t have it in you to interrupt.

Now that adrenaline was slowly fading away, you felt… pretty useless. All you could do was stand there like a frozen statue while these two fought like beasts. At least you didn’t disturb them or made the situation more difficult.

The bigger part of your brain was still frightened. A tiny part of it was… a little excited.

“I suppose we should tell Alucard,” Richter admitted defeat after apologizing over a hundred times, shoulders dropped and a flushed pout on his lips. Annette sighed.

“Let’s not. It probably won’t matter.” Maybe she had a point… these vampires didn’t look like Erzsebet’s servants. No cloaks, no moon symbol on their foreheads. She crossed her arms. “And I don’t want to give him another excuse for that ‘oh, you children’ look he does.”

You wanted to disagree, but you didn’t feel that you had the right… not after what you saw them do.

And… you couldn’t judge them for hiding something.

You were hiding something, too. Something you didn’t want to talk about – at least, not yet.

Three memories of yours awakened that day.

You knew what a squirrel was. You knew what poisonous and edible mushrooms were.

And...

I don’t think she knows who Dracula is, Annette said back then.

She was wrong.

You did.

#alucard x reader #castlevania #castlevania nocturne #adrian tepes #alucard x you #adrian fahrenheit tepes #castlevania alucard #alucard tepes #alucard adrian tepes #castlevania x reader

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the-kr8tor · 8 months ago

Note

For you Ekko reqs, may I suggest R and Ekko hurt/comfort where Ekko slowly confides with R about what happened at the end of show (like probably a year or 2 of Ekko trying to process everything) and how he sometimes wished he stayed at the alt timeline? 🥲 Just him processing his grief of everything while R comforts him. Mans deserves better

-😅

Ahhhhh writing this made me tear up ngl 🥲 I hope you like it! ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.3k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, can be read as platonic, cw violence mention, cw injury mention, cw blood and death mention, hurt/comfort.

Navigation

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

“Ekko?” Your call is carried by the cool autumn wind, breeze fluttering your lashes as you stare at his back. You see him shrink in his seat, face hidden on the crook of his elbow. Walking closer, footsteps clanging against the metal balcony where you always find him on the same day it all happened. “You'll catch a cold up here.”

Piltover shines in front of you, warm light flickering off by the windows as people settle in for the night. But the glimmering fire paper still flies above the city, its light fading as it burns out in the breeze. It's the anniversary of that day, the day Piltover and Zaun saw war right on their doorstep.

Your arm aches, a phantom pain ebbing in and out when your mind goes back to that exact day where the sky was covered in searing smoke, and the streets splashed in warm crimson. Thumb brushing along your scar, it's a mark, a reminder of what was lost that day.

After a minute, Ekko sighs, still unmoving on his spot. “I'm not leaving.”

“I'm not trying to make you leave.” You fetch the blanket that was folded and draped over your shoulder. “I have a blanket for you. If you want it.”

He turns his head slowly over to you, mind playing tricks on him as he sees the flash of you bleeding and yelling for him. Eyes bloodshot, skin clammy and marred with blood. As fast as it came, he blinked and it's gone. Vision returning to the present, the present that wouldn't be possible if not for his sacrifice.

“Don't just gawk at me, bossman,” you smile gently at him, the blanket now unfurled in front of you, ready to drape it over his trembling form. “Do you want it or not?”

The corner of his lip curls up in a small smile, his eyes are tired, weighed down by the world. “Come sit down?”

He has never asked you to join him. You always left him alone up here whenever the anniversary comes around, thinking that's what he needed. But you always waited patiently just outside the door, sitting down on the cold steps while you let grief wash over you like the tides. Until it's time to pick yourself up again at the sound of the door opening. His hand helping you up wordlessly, grief holding the two of you in place, mourning together silently. When morning comes, everything seems to go back in place. The sun still shines, the world still breathes. But it lingers, that grief that has etched itself in your bones, sorrow that lives in his chest, weighing him down but never letting it fester and spread.

You two continue to fight, to improve the very place where blood has been spilled. Carry their memories, their names and their voices until the end. Lest their sacrifices would be in vain. Ekko's sacrifice would be in vain. He deserves better, to not bear the heaviness left in his soul.

“Are you just gonna gawk there or will you take a seat?” He uses your own words against you.

“Can't help it,” you say, heart pounding in your chest as you take a seat right next to him. Giving him enough space, but close enough to see his heavy eyes marred by unshed tears. “You look good under the moonlight.” You joke in an attempt to make him smile.

Ekko manages to chuckle softly, letting you drape the fluffy blanket around his shoulders. Your warm fingers grazing along his cool skin, sending goosebumps on his lean arms.

“Do you find my frown charming?”

You smile kindly, knuckles brushing down his goosebumps. “It’s the tear stained cheeks that gets me everytime.”

He scoffs with a small smile, attention turned towards the Piltover sky. The smell of burnt paper and violets linger in the air, frown deepening at his racing thoughts.

“Will you stay?”

With trepidation, you take his hand in yours, giving him enough time to pull away. He doesn't, instead, he weaves his fingers around yours. His grip is weak, but you can feel how much he needed it by how his eyes stare at your joined hands.

“Of course, whatever you need, Ekko.” You'll stay forever if he asks.

He nods, eyes staying downturned. “I wanted to stay at that place.” Letting out a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, trying to remember what they look like in his mind's eye. Faces that he once thought that he'll never see again. Faces that he had to say goodbye to. “But that would be selfish. I couldn't—” you squeeze his hand. “—I couldn't just leave this place and let it burn.”

The last two years have melded together in your head. All those months of waiting for him at the edge of the hideout, never losing hope, not even when they declared him dead. And then the war came, and you two didn't have the time to reunite, until it ended with you laying half dead on the streets of Piltover. Waking up to him holding your hand in a grip, wishing for you to open your eyes. And you did. A year later, he comes to you, angry and furious, wanting to let it all out. You still remember the day he told you exactly what happened when he disappeared for months like it was yesterday.

He recalls it all like it was a dream, a dream that was destined to be forgotten once he awakes. He didn't want to wake up, not when everything he always dreamed of was there. He gripped onto you tightly that day, held onto you until the sun rose. Nothing was left unsaid, his story left a hole in your heart, wishing that you've seen it for yourself. But you're afraid that you wouldn't be strong enough to leave, as strong as him who made a difficult choice to leave.

He has experienced unthinkable loss, a longing you've never felt. You don't have the exact words to comfort him, to soothe his want, so you move closer to him, fixing where the blanket has fallen and wrapping it over his body like a warm cocoon. You could only hope that it's enough, but you know it will never be enough.

Ekko tucks his head on your shoulder, hand finding its way over to your raised scar. His thumb traces along the skin, feeling your warmth and in turn comforting you. He knows the pain you're in too, he witnessed it, all the nights you've hid away only to come back with red eyes and grief etched on your face.

“I couldn't leave you and Zaun behind.” He mumbles against your shoulder.

Your heart wretches out of your chest. “It wouldn't be selfish.” You say, whispering it into the air around you. “I think— I would've done what you wanted to do. I wouldn't be strong enough to leave, but you did.” He leans away, eyes soft and shining under the moonlight as he meets with your eyes. “You're brave, Ekko. You might not want everyone to know what you had to do to save everyone, but I know. And I'm forever grateful for what you did. For what you have sacrificed so we could live. I'll remember it until I can't, even then, I'll try not to forget.” Cupping his jaw, you watch as a tear slides down. You wipe it away gingerly, smiling at him as he leans against your warmth, eyes closing, shoulders slumping with every word you utter. “You did well, Ekko.”

He moves forward, leaning his forehead against your own, affection radiating off him. “Thank you.”

“We'll be okay. We have time.”

“I know.” He has seen it, one day that dream will come true.

With a tender squeeze, his hand takes the other edge of the blanket, pulling and covering you with its warmth right next to him.

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arcadia-smith · 4 months ago

Text

I can fix you

Hockey AU Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Pairing: Hockey player Simon Riley x data analyst fem!Reader.

Summary: Tention rises as you try to improve his performance. Spoiler alert- he's not a fan at first.

Word count: 4,100 something.

Warnings: Light smut.

Note: I might be making more of this AU, because I am kinda back on the Hockey fanfics at the moment. (Might not really be Hockey accurate though.)

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Your job was simple: analyze the numbers, track player performance, and keep your head down. You were a data analyst, not a coach, not a player, and certainly not someone who should be arguing with Simon Riley in the middle of the rink.

But here you were.

"You skate like you're afraid of breaking something," you snapped, arms crossed against the biting cold of the arena.

Simon—Ghost, as he was known on the ice—tilted his head, eyes glinting under the shadow of his helmet. "And you talk like you know what you’re on about."

Your jaw clenched. The man was infuriating. He was also one of the best enforcers in the league, a defensive powerhouse with a reputation for being impossible to get past. He was ruthless, strategic, and, unfortunately, absolutely terrible at taking advice.

"Your speed's down this season," you said, stepping closer. "You're holding back."

Ghost huffed, a short, unimpressed sound. "And what? You think your little spreadsheets can tell me how to play?"

"Yes, actually," you shot back. "And if you weren’t so damn stubborn, you’d listen."

He smirked— just the barest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was almost worse than his usual blank stare because it meant he was enjoying this.

"Alright," he drawled, voice low and edged with challenge. "Show me."

Your pulse jumped. "What?"

"You think you know how to fix my skating? Prove it." He tapped his stick against the ice. "Get your skates on."

Your stomach dropped. It had been years since you'd been on the ice properly, but there was no backing down now. Not with Ghost watching.

And definitely not with the way his gaze lingered, like he already knew you were going to fall—and was waiting to catch you.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Simon Riley, had just called your bluff, or the fact that you were actually considering going through with it.

You stared up at him, his smirk carved into his face like he already knew you’d back down. Like he was daring you to try.

Shit.

"Fine," you said, your voice sharper than you felt. "But if I prove you’re holding back, you listen to me."

Ghost’s smirk deepened. "Deal."

Your skates cut into the ice as you glided forward, adjusting to the familiar but slightly awkward feeling of being back on your blades. It had been years, but muscle memory kicked in fast. You weren’t a pro, but you weren’t half-bad either.

Ghost skated a slow circle around you, watching. "Didn’t think you’d actually do it."

"You should stop underestimating me."

He let out a low chuckle, barely audible over the distant echo of a puck hitting the boards. "Alright then. Show me."

You took a breath, planting your stick against the ice. "You’ve been pulling up too early on your stops," you started. "You’re bleeding momentum before you need to, which slows you down in transitions."

Ghost raised an unimpressed brow. "Or maybe I just know how to control my movement so I don’t go crashing into people like a bloody wrecking ball."

"That’s literally your job, though."

He grunted, but didn't deny it.

"Watch," you said, skating ahead.

You picked up speed, your movements steady but aggressive, before shifting your weight and digging your blades into the ice. You came to a clean, sharp stop, sending a spray of ice in Ghost’s direction.

His mask did nothing to hide the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable.

"Now, your turn Ghost." You said, turning your attention to him, while trying to catch a breath and don't make it too obvious. His stance was wide, solid, but you could see where he hesitated just a fraction of a second before his stops, just enough to take the edge off his speed.

"You're compensating for something," you said, "Left knee?"

Ghost’s expression darkened.

Bingo.

"Not injured," he muttered. "Just... old habits."

You skated closer, your fingers flexing around your stick. "You trust me yet?"

He just watched you, his jaw tight, something unreadable behind his gaze.

"You always this stubborn?" he finally asked.

You smirked. "You always this difficult?"

Ghost exhaled through his nose, like he wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t quite get there. "You’re trouble," he muttered.

You weren’t sure if it was the cold or the way Ghost was looking at you that made your pulse pick up speed.

"Alright," he muttered after a long pause. "Say you’re right—say I’m slowing down."

"You are."

His eyes narrowed. "Then fix it."

That caught you off guard. You blinked up at him, breath still coming a little faster from skating. "You actually want my help now?"

He exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t quite ready to admit it. "You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re not wrong."

Coming from him, that was the closest thing to a glowing endorsement.

"Alright," you said, shifting your grip on your stick. "We’ll start with edgework. If you can get more confidence on tight turns, you won’t instinctively brace as much."

Ghost made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a scoff. "I don’t brace."

You tilted your head, letting your smirk show. "Then you won’t mind proving it."

Something flickered behind his gaze and suddenly he was moving—fast. Before you could react, he cut a tight circle around you, his skates carving clean, efficient arcs into the ice. He was controlled, powerful, and when he stopped—right in front of you—the spray of ice nearly hit your face.

You stumbled back half a step, startled.

Ghost caught your wrist before you could fall.

The contact was brief but solid, his glove warm against your sleeve, his grip unyielding. You inhaled sharply, eyes snapping up to his.

He was too close. Close enough that you could see the way his breath misted in the cold air, close enough that you could catch the faintest hint of something—cologne, sweat, a lingering sharpness of the rink.

His fingers flexed around your wrist before he let go.

"You alright?" he asked, voice lower than before.

You swallowed. "Yeah."

Liar.

His head tilted just slightly, like he could see right through you. Like he knew exactly what effect he had.

Then, as quickly as it happened, he skated back.

"Try to keep up, then," he said, his smirk making a slow return.

Your pulse was still racing by the time practice ended. You weren’t sure if it was from the skating or the way Ghost had looked at you when he let go of your wrist.

You tried to shake it off as you made your way through the tunnel, past the locker rooms. The team had filed in already, and the distant sounds of showers running, sticks clattering, and voices arguing over game footage filled the air.

You weren’t supposed to be in here. But you also weren’t supposed to be coaching one of the most stubborn players in the league, so at this point, what was one more bad decision?

Ghost’s locker was near the back, separate from the others. He wasn’t one to linger, always the first to leave after, rarely talking unless absolutely necessary. But tonight, he was still there, taping up his stick with slow, methodical movements.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. "You lost?"

You crossed your arms. "I don’t get lost."

Ghost huffed out something that could have been a laugh. "Right."

The air in the room was warm from the showers, a stark contrast to the cold rink. You ignored the heat creeping up your neck as you leaned against the wall. "You were faster by the end of practice."

He didn’t respond, just tore another strip of tape and smoothed it over the blade of his stick.

"You gonna pretend that wasn’t because of me?" you pushed.

Ghost finally glanced up, his gaze unreadable. "You want me to say thanks?"

You shrugged. "Would be nice."

He made a low sound, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "Don’t hold your breath."

You rolled your eyes, pushing off the wall. "You really are impossible."

"Yet you keep coming back."

Your steps faltered for half a second. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one feeling the pull between you.

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, ready to shut it down before it could turn into something more. But before you could speak, another voice called out.

"Oi, Riley! You done brooding, or what?"

You turned just in time to see Johnny MacTavish rounding the corner, towel slung over his shoulder, still damp from the showers. His gaze flicked between you and Ghost, brows raising slightly at the tension in the air.

Ghost sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. I’m coming."

Soap smirked, clearly picking up on something. "Didn’t mean to interrupt."

You felt your face heat. "You weren’t."

"Sure, sure," he said, grinning like he absolutely didn’t believe you. "See you ‘round, then."

He clapped Ghost on the shoulder before heading out, leaving you standing there, still caught in the moment you weren’t sure how to walk away from.

Ghost exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "You really that determined to fix me?"

Your stomach twisted. "I don’t think you’re broken, Riley."

Something flickered in his eyes—something quick, unreadable. Then, just as fast, it was gone.

"Get out of here," he muttered, reaching for his duffel. "Before you start thinking I might actually listen to you."

You smirked, stepping back toward the exit. "Too late."

You told yourself you weren’t thinking about him.

You told yourself you weren’t replaying that moment in the locker room—the way Ghost had looked at you, the way his voice had dipped just enough to make your breath hitch.

You told yourself a lot of things.

But then the road trip happened.

The team bus was packed with gear, exhausted players, and the hum of pre-game tension. You had claimed a seat toward the middle, laptop open, reviewing analytics for the match against Dallas.

You were not paying attention to the man sitting across the aisle.

Ghost had his hood up, arms crossed, a pair of headphones resting around his neck. He wasn’t asleep, but he also wasn’t acknowledging anyone—classic Ghost behavior.

You tried to focus on your work. You really did. But then Soap, sitting in the seat behind you, leaned forward with a shit-eating grin.

"So," he said, voice low enough to not attract too much attention. "You and Riley, huh?"

You kept your eyes on your screen, fingers stilling over your keyboard. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Soap chuckled. "Aye, sure you don’t. Just sayin'—never seen him listen to anyone the way he listens to you."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. "He doesn’t listen to me."

"Noticed he’s stoppin’ cleaner, though," Soap mused. "Movin’ faster. That’s you, yeah?"

You didn’t answer.

"Relax," Soap said, clapping your shoulder before leaning back. "Just don’t break his heart, alright?"

Soap just laughed, shaking his head like he knew something you didn’t.

And across the aisle, Ghost’s fingers tapped once against his knee—just once, barely noticeable. But you saw it.

Like maybe he’d heard everything.

The game had been brutal. Hard hits, dirty plays, and a one-goal lead that had come down to the final seconds.

Ghost had been a force, shutting down every attempt on net, getting under the other team’s skin until fists started flying. You weren’t sure if it was the strategy sessions or the sheer stubbornness, but he’d been faster tonight. More aggressive.

More himself.

The team was celebrating in the hotel bar, but you weren’t drinking. You were tucked into a booth in the corner, reviewing the game footage. You were so focused you didn’t notice him until he sat down across from you.

"You’re avoiding me," Ghost muttered.

You looked up, caught off guard. "I’m working."

He huffed, shaking his head. "Bullshit."

You tensed. "What’s your problem?"

Ghost leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. "You got in my head."

Your breath caught. "What?"

"You heard me." His gaze was heavy, unreadable. "Every time I skated, every time I stopped, I heard your voice. You sure you’re not tryin’ to fix me?"

Your mouth felt dry. "I told you. You’re not broken."

Ghost exhaled slowly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you said it, "You were better tonight."

His fingers curled into fists on the table. His jaw tightened, like he was fighting something back.

Then, without a word, he stood up.

The hotel was quiet.

Most of the team was still downstairs celebrating, but you had slipped away, the weight of the game and whatever the hell was happening with Ghost pressing down on you.

You told yourself you were just tired. That you weren’t replaying the way he looked at you in the bar, like you had gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.

But then—a knock at your door.

Your stomach flipped.

You already knew who it was.

You took a slow breath before opening the door.

Ghost stood there, still in his hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets. His mask was gone, leaving his face shadowed in the dim hallway light. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes.

You swallowed. "Ghost—"

"Simon," he interrupted.

You blinked. "What?"

His jaw clenched, "Call me Simon."

He never let people use his real name. Not teammates, not coaches, no one.

And yet, here he was, standing in your doorway, demanding it from you.

You felt lightheaded. "Simon."

His eyes darkened.

Then, suddenly, he was inside.

You barely had time to step back before he pushed the door shut behind him, crowding into your space. You should have been nervous—he was so close, his presence so overwhelming—but you weren’t.

"You got in my head," he muttered. "You’re still in my head."

Your breath hitched. "Simon—"

"You’re pissin’ me off," he growled. "But I—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I can’t stop thinkin’ about you."

The words hit you like a body check against the boards.

"What do you want me to say?"

His eyes flickered down to your lips.

"Tell me I’m not losin’ my mind," he muttered.

You swallowed hard. "You’re not."

Something snapped.

Then—his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, all sharp edges and frustration, like he had been holding back for too damn long and finally let himself break.

You gasped against him, but he didn’t let you pull away. His hands braced against the door, caging you in as he kissed you like he had been waiting for this since the moment you first challenged him on the ice.

You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly your hands were in his hoodie, grabbing at the fabric, pulling him closer.

Simon groaned—actually groaned—into your mouth, pressing harder, like he was trying to prove something. Like he was trying to make sure you knew this wasn’t just a mistake.

Like he was staking his claim.

And God help you—you let him.

Simon kissed like he played—hard, relentless, and with no intention of letting you walk away unscathed.

His mouth slanted over yours, demanding, pushing, devouring. His hands, huge and impossibly steady, bracketed your face, fingers threading into your hair as he backed you up against the hotel door.

You should have slowed down. You should have stopped. But the way he kissed you—rough and unyielding, like he had been starving for this—made it impossible to think about anything but more.

A gasp slipped from your lips as he moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. His breath was ragged, his stubble scraping against your skin as he pressed against you, all muscle, all heat, all Simon.

"You have no idea," he murmured against your throat, "how long I’ve wanted to do this."

Your legs nearly gave out.

But Simon was already there, catching you, pressing you against the door like he didn’t trust himself not to tear you apart right there.

"Bed," you managed to whisper, you grabbed his hoodie and yanked it over his head.

His shirt went next, and—fuck.

You had known he was built—obviously—but seeing him like this, bare, scarred, solid, was something else entirely.

Simon didn’t give you long to stare. He was already on you again, kissing you deeper, rougher, guiding you backward until your legs hit the bed.

Then—you were falling.

Simon followed, his body covering yours, heat pressing into you, his hands already working your clothes off. Every inch of skin he revealed, he touched. Every inch of you, he claimed.

You weren’t sure who moaned first when he finally got you bare beneath him, but it didn’t matter.

"You sure about this?" he rasped, voice strained, like he was holding onto the last thread of his control.

You pulled him down, lips brushing against his.

"Shut up and fuck me, Riley."

His control snapped.

Simon wasted no time. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid between your legs, finding you soaking, ready, desperate for him.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, nearly losing it right then and there. "Look at you."

Your back arched as he teased you, dragging his fingers through your slick, his breath hot against your ear.

"You want me?" he rasped, pressing against your entrance but not quite giving you what you needed.

"Simon," you gasped, nails digging into his arms.

"Say it," he demanded, voice low and dangerous, like he needed to hear it just as bad as you needed him.

Your head fell back against the pillows. "I want you."

That was all he needed.

In one smooth, powerful thrust, Simon buried himself inside you.

You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist, nails scraping down his back as he stretched you, filled you, ruined you.

"Fuck," he groaned, forehead dropping to yours, fighting for control as your body squeezed around him.

But you didn’t want control.

You wanted him raw, reckless, gone.

"Move," you whispered.

Simon set a brutal pace, his hips snapping into yours, taking you apart one deep thrust at a time. Every movement, every sound, every ounce of tension that had been building between you for weeks, months, longer than either of you wanted to admit—it all exploded into this moment.

He fucked you like he played—ruthless, unstoppable, and completely, devastatingly yours.

"Mine," he growled against your throat, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew there would be bruises.

You barely managed to gasp out, "Yours."

His rhythm stuttered, his breath came ragged, and his hands pinned you down as he chased his high—dragging you with him.

And when you shattered—when pleasure tore through you so hard you thought you might break—Simon was right there with you, cursing, groaning, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your chest heaved, your body still trembling, every nerve burned raw from him.

Simon stayed inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven.

"You," he finally muttered, voice hoarse, "are the biggest fucking mistake I’ve ever made."

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself.

"But?" you whispered.

His fingers brushed over your jaw, his lips ghosting against your temple.

"But I’m not sure I give a shit anymore."

You were fucked.

Not just because you had let Simon Riley break you apart in a hotel room last night—more than once. Not just because you could still feel the ache between your legs from the way he had taken you like he had something to prove.

But because now, by the ice at morning skate, you couldn’t stop looking at him.

And worse—he was looking at you, too.

It had started the moment you walked onto the rink.

Simon was already there, stretching near the bench, looking every bit the same as always—broad, unreadable, perfectly in control.

Except he wasn’t.

Because the second you walked in, his eyes snapped to you.

It wasn’t obvious. Not to anyone else. But you felt it.

And then—he smirked.

Smirked.

The bastard knew exactly what he was doing, standing there like he wasn’t the reason your entire body was still on fire from last night.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to focus, forcing yourself to act like nothing had happened. But it was impossible. Because every time he moved, every time his voice rumbled across the ice, you remembered.

You remembered the weight of him, the way he had growled your name, the way he had—

"Hey data girl."

Simon had skated right up to you, stopping by the boards, just close enough that you felt the heat radiating off him. His face was unreadable, but his eyes weren’t.

You swallowed hard. "Riley."

His lips twitched. "You look tense."

Oh, this fucker.

"Stretching helps," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. "Wouldn’t want you getting all stiff."

Your brain short-circuited. Last night. His hands. His mouth.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

You forced a neutral expression. "You here to skate or run your mouth?"

Simon’s smirk deepened.

"Both."

Fucker.

You should have expected it.

Simon had always played hard, but today—he was on a mission.

And apparently, that mission involved driving you insane.

Every time he came near the bench, he would stop just close enough to make you notice. He’d glance at you, barely smirking, his gaze dark and knowing.

But the worst part?

He was playing better than ever.

Faster. Sharper. Completely in control—unlike you.

And then—the hit happened.

It was mid-scrimmage, a full-contact drill, but when Simon slammed an opposing player (who, by the way, was trying to hit you up before the game) into the boards with enough force to shake the glass, you knew.

That wasn’t just a hit. That was territorial.

The other player groaned, shoving at Simon's chest. "Jesus, Riley, calm the fuck down."

But Simon barely acknowledged him. He was already skating away—backward.

Looking at you.

Only you.

And you knew, without a doubt, that the hit had nothing to do with the play and everything to do with last night.

Your grip on the boards tightened. Fucker.

The second the final whistle blew, you were already moving.

You didn’t wait for the team to clear the ice. Didn’t wait for the knowing glances from Soap, or the way Simon had skated past you one last time with that same infuriating, cocky smirk.

You just walked.

Straight to the locker room.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was there.

Simon stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, his skates slung over one shoulder.

You spun to face him, still fuming. "What the hell was that?"

His expression was maddeningly blank. "What was what?"

Oh, you wanted to hit him.

"The hit," you snapped, crossing your arms. "The staring. The smirking. The—"

"The fucking?" he interrupted, tilting his head.

You froze.

Your pulse skipped.

And he knew it.

"Careful, love," he murmured, stepping closer, invading your space like he had every right to be there. "People might start to think you actually enjoyed yourself last night."

Your jaw clenched. "You’re an asshole."

Simon hummed, reaching past you to set his skates down on the bench. The movement brought him so close you had to fight the urge to back up.

Or worse—to close the distance yourself.

"You’re not mad about the hit," he muttered, voice dropping. "You’re mad because this time I got in your head."

He was right.

And he knew it.

You squared your shoulders. "I’m mad because you can’t keep your shit together on the ice."

His gaze darkened.

"Can’t keep my shit together?" he repeated, stepping even closer. "Right. Because you weren’t in the stands, watchin’ me. Because you weren’t picturing my hands on you the whole time."

You hated that he was right.

But you hated even more that your body betrayed you.

Your breath came quicker. Your pulse pounded. And Simon—fucking Simon—just smirked.

"You liked it," he murmured.

You swallowed hard. "Shut up, Simon."

His eyes flickered. Something changed.

"Say it again."

You frowned. "What?"

"My name." His voice was rough. Low. "Say it again." his fingers were flexing at his sides like he was seconds away from grabbing you.

And God help you—you wanted him to.

But not here. Not like this.

So you did the only thing you could.

You took a slow breath, tilted your chin up, and said—

"Try to keep up, Simon."

Then you turned, pushing the door open, leaving him standing there.

Breathing hard.

Watching you go.

And if you weren’t mistaken—

Smirking.

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