#He followed it up with “no no you look great you look great mate” though because he’s just so kind like that 🥺 :)

[bodyexchangeman]

So here's part three of the experiences of Harry and Kieran. It's pretty long again. I'm trying to explore how this kind of "non magical" swap might work so hopefully people will appreciate that. But there is a bit of excitement at the end so it's worth persevering lol. And if anyone wants to chat about role / body swaps or maybe even do this sort of stuff in real life then do hit me up.

Anyway - as a precursor, here's how Harry and Kieran looked when they arrived that day:

Trading Places

Part 3: Reflections Over Pasta

An hour later, the lobby of the hotel buzzed with the quiet comings and goings of early evening. Harry stepped out of the lift, tugging slightly at the hem of the black Armani t-shirt that hugged his frame more snugly than he was used to. The scent of Lynx body spray clung faintly to him—sharp and sweet in a way that brought back teenage memories. The ripped black jeans sat low on his hips, and Kieran’s black Mallet trainers felt heavier and chunkier than he was used to, but somehow... they felt right. Keiran’s silver chain rested just below Harry’s collarbone, glinting under the soft light, stark against the blackness of his t-shirt. Harry had finished the outfit with the plain black Armani baseball cap he had found tucked in Keiran’s bag but now wondered if that was right, is that what Keiran would wear on a night out?

Across the reception, Keiran was already waiting. He looked up from his phone and gave a half-smile as Harry approached. Keiran, in Harry’s crisp white shirt, black tie and tailored navy trousers, looked like he’d walked off a glossy brochure. The suede Chelsea boots gave him a subtle elegance, and the expensive cologne—Harry’s Jo Malone—gave him a scent of confidence. The heavy watch on his wrist completed the transformation.

“Bloody hell,” Keiran said with a slow grin, eyes tracing over Harry’s new outfit. “Didn’t think you’d go full Saturday night lad.”

Harry laughed. “You picked it. I’m just following the brief.”

Keiran glanced down at his own outfit. “I feel like I should be reading fancy books and drinking champagne or something.”

“You look great,” Harry said, meaning it. “But my life isn’t really like that, you know.”  Keiran smiled - “I’m only messing with you” he said, and nudged Harry playful in the ribs. “Not gonna lie though - my phone is full of pictures of me in this get up now.  I wanted to have those memories.”

“Mine too” Harry replied, his mind flashing back to himself posing and flexing as he took pictures of himself dressed in Keirans stuff. And of the ones he took of himself in just Keiran’s Lonsdale briefs, socks, chain and baseball cap. His excitement had been difficult to hide in those briefs.

“We’ve got time for a quick drink here first?” Harry said with a questioning tone in his voice

“Sure” replied Keiran who was smoothing down his crisp white shirt as he spoke. They wandered into the hotel bar and chose a small table in the hotel window. There was that unspoken buzz about being on show, two lads having a drink, for any passer by to see.

“Your round I think”, said Keiran, nodding across at the bar, in reference to their earlier drink. Harry nodded and took a few paces before stopping and turning back to regain his seat. Keiran looked at him quizzically.

“Was thinking we should do this right fam,” Harry said. Keiran smirked at his new friend's turn of phrase and wondered how much he was putting on and how much was starting to come naturally.

Harry reached into his jeans pockets and pulled out a crisp black leather wallet, smooth and hand stitched, a few cards and some crisp notes were its neat contents. He placed it on the table between the two men and nodded suggestively at it.

Keiran paused, and stared back with a look of surprise.

“You sure mate?” he asked. “That’s a lot of trust.” Keiran said, gazing down at the leather wallet between them. 

“I’m sure,” said Harry, his voice more confident than he felt. “I trust you. And I think you trust me. And if we are doing this we should go all in.”

Keiran paused for another second and nodded. He quickly scooped up the wallet and slipped it into his trouser pocket. After a few seconds, glancing round to ensure no one was idly watching them, he placed another wallet on the table. This one was old and battered. There were marks rubbed into the leather where the wallet’s contents had pressed against it. It was considerably thicker than Harry's but looked to be largely full of bits of paper, betting slips, lottery tickets and other stuff. Harry could make out a few notes and some cards amidst the clutter. He smiled as he noticed the circular mark on the face of the wallet, an obvious wear mark.

“Cheers,” Harry said, grabbing the wallet and slipping it into his back pocket as he stood. “Usual?” he called back as he began to step over to the bar.

“Yeah, thanks Keiran.” came the reply. Harry paused slightly. The sound of someone calling him by another name sent a shiver up his spine that soon became a warm glow spreading across him.  Yes, for this night he was Keiran and it felt good. Really good.

Harry rested himself against the bar as he ordered a couple of drinks. Without thinking he pulled out the wallet and flipped through it to extract a bank card. He looked down at the name on it and it hit him again. “Keiran Ford”. He smiled to himself as the barman placed his drinks down. Harry tapped his card onto the cash machine and felt a wave of surprise when the reader flashed green and the bartender thanked him and turned to his next customer. Harry had to remind himself that this shouldn’t be a surprise. For all intents and purposes he was Keiran. That was his cash card. Why wouldn’t it work?

Harry picked up the two pint glasses and turned back, pausing to take a sip from the Carlsberg lager he had bought for himself. He had never liked lager but guessed he would need to get used to it. He allowed the pale liquid to wash around his mouth, its bitter taste and odour filling his senses. As he approached he saw that Keiran was idly looking through his wallet. Pulling out the cards and then replacing them, scanning the contents. Harry should have been mortified. But he wasn’t. This was what he’d always dreamed of. He recognised that. And he was relishing everything that came with it. Every little nuance. Every realisation. Every pang of nerves. Every adrenaline rush as he felt more at home in his new persona.

Harry reached the table and placed Keiran’s drink in front of him. “Pale ale looked most like your kind of thing” Harry said as he slid into his chair. “Cheers,” he said, holding his glass up. Keiran looked him in the eyes and smiled that cute grin of his. “Cheers,” Keiran replied and they chinked their glasses. 

—---------------------

Later, they walked side by side toward a small Italian restaurant just off the high street. The place was quiet, candlelit, and warm with the scent of garlic and tomato. As they settled into a booth near the back, Keiran ran a hand through his neatly styled hair.

“I feel like everyone’s looking at me,” Keiran said, half-joking. “Like I shouldn’t be in this gear. Like I’m pretending.”

Harry tilted his head. “I feel the opposite. Like people are ignoring me again. Like I don’t have to be anything.”

Keiran nodded. “Funny how clothes change everything. The way people treat you. The way you treat yourself.”

The waiter approached with menus and left them to choose.

“What would you go for?” asked Harry looking across at his companion.

“Dunno,” said Keiran, flicking through the pages. “Probably just a pepperoni pizza and some garlic mushrooms," he said, chuckling as he looked up. “I’m a pretty basic guy.”

“Sirloin steak with orzo pasta and a truffle sauce looks really good. Mussels to start.” Harry responded.

The waiter re-appeared and hovered over them. “Ready to order gents?” he asked. Harry jumped in quickly “I’ll have garlic mushrooms to start and then just a pepperoni pizza.” He looked pointedly at Kerian as the waiter stood, his pen expectantly poised over his pad.

“Oh,” said Keiran, slightly flustered, “I’ve lost it now, what was it?” He hurriedly flicked through the pages until he found the steaks “Sirloin with orzo pasta and truffle sauce” he read. “Mussles to start”. He flashed a stare across the table at Harry, his cheeks reddening.

“And to drink? Any wine, beers?” the waiter asked, glancing between the two diners.

“Can I just have a lager please?" Harry asked. Keiran was still somewhat flustered and flicking through the drinks menu. “A perroni” he said with a slight question in his voice. Harry imperceptibly nodded at him.

“Wine?” the waiter asked. Hmmm…” Keiran said as he ran his finger down the wine list. He suddenly felt a small kick on his shin from across the table. He left his finger where it had reached. “The chianti,” he said, pointing to the page. The waiter nodded and removed their menus and headed back to the kitchen.

Keiran leaned forwards across the table “Do you know how much that wine cost?” he asked.

“Don’t worry,” Harry replied. “You’re paying for it.” Keiran opened his mouth to reply but then a realisation crawled across his face. “Oh yeah…” he said and sat back in his seat.

A look of concern flashed over Harry’s face “I hope you don’t have a seafood allergy? I should have checked.”

“Dunno,” replied Keiran. “Never had it before. Guess we’ll find out”

Their food and drinks arrived and as the pair worked their way through their meal they could both feel themselves sinking further into their new roles. Keiran had somewhat nervously picked at his mussels at first but once they established he wasn’t going to have a bad reaction he was soon wolfing them down. They talked about everything and nothing. Each trying to subtly drop comments about their borrowed life into the conversation, the other gently nudging them in the right direction if they went off on the wrong tack.

Harry talked about working on the building site with his mates, and how he enjoyed gaming and the odd smoke in the evenings. Keiran talked about his architecture degree and the sort of buildings he admired. He talked about his friends back home and his family skiing trips.

Eventually the food was completed and they agreed it was time to pay. The waiter presented the bill tucked into a leather binder with a pen.

Keiran looked at Harry for a moment. “How is this going to work?” he asked quietly. “I can’t sign your name.”

“Sure you can” Harry replied, “They never really check and if they do we’ll just front it out somehow”. Keiran looked more nervous than Harry had seen him all day but he nodded.

When the waiter returned Keiran pulled out a sleek black bank card and handed it to the server like he’d done it a hundred times. When the man returned with the receipt, Keiran signed with a flourish, then looked back at Harry, grinning.

“That felt dangerously powerful.”

They lingered long after their plates were cleared, sipping wine and leaning across the table in the flickering light.

“You know,” Keiran said, swirling the last of his drink, “this has been the most honest I’ve felt in ages. Even though I’m dressed like someone I’m not.”

Harry’s voice was soft. “Maybe you are that person. Or maybe you’re both.”

Keiran smiled. “You too, you know. You’re not just some posh lad. You’ve got something else going on under all that polish.”

There was a pause. Their eyes met. Something charged passed between them—unspoken, but deeply felt. The world outside the restaurant melted away for a moment.

“We should get back,” Harry said finally, his voice just a little lower.

“Yeah,” Keiran said, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”

_-----------

Back at the hotel, the hallway was quiet, carpet muffling their footsteps. They paused at the door to Harry’s room—now Keiran’s, in this strange shared life they’d created for a day.

Keiran swiped the keycard. The room was dim, city lights glowing through the curtains. Keiran stepped in first and turned around as Harry followed. For a second, neither said anything.

“You okay?” Keiran asked.

Harry nodded. “More than okay.”

He stepped forward. The air between them buzzed, warm and loaded. They kissed—tentative at first, then deeper, more certain. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t confused. It just felt right.

Their kisses became more intense. Breath quickening. Harry felt Keiran's hands on his body. Running over his chest. Sliding down his back and cupping his arse.

Harry had for so long wondered if this would ever happen. All those furtive wanks, his mind dreaming of guys like Kieran and then the post ejaculation come down when he became confused and slightly embarrassed once more.

But now it felt right. With Harry it felt right.... Harry's mind did a summersault - had he just thought about the guy he was kissing as being Harry? Was he thinking of himself as Keiran now? Either way it gave him another burst of confidence and he snaked his tongue into the other man's mouth, running it across his teeth, savouring the flavour of him.

Instinctively he loosened Keiran's tie and began to unbutton his shirt, pulling it out of the trousers he was wearing. Harry ran his hand across Keiran's tight abs, savouring the feeling of his warm flesh. Exposing Keiran's chest Harry leaned in and began to suck on his partners nipples. Feeling them harden he began to nibble them, then more roughly bite them.

"Oh yeah.." Kieran moaned.

Instinctively Harry's hand snaked down to Keirans crotch. Feeling him bulging against the woolen material of those trousers. Increasingly roughly Harry undid the belt and unbuttoned those trousers letting them fall to the floor. He roughly shoved his hand into those silk boxers and yanked his partners cock out. Holding Keiran's throbbing member in his fist he began to roughly wank him as they returned to the most primal of kisses.

"Mmm yeah Keiran... Take me. I'm your boy" he heard Keiran mutter.

This only intensified his rough treatment of his partners member. He could feel Keiran frantically scrabbling to unzip the tight jeans Harry was wearing. Then the cold skin of Keiran's hand as it slid into those Lonsdale briefs, grasping his thick, hard shaft. Keiran let out a muffled gasp. As they pulled apart and Harry stared him deep in the eyes, the feeling of Keiran tightly gripping his dick still filling his mind.

With a smirk Harry roughly pushed Keiran to his knees, grabbing the back of his head and pushing Keiran's face into his crotch. He could feel Keiran's breath through the material of his briefs and the other man took deep gasping breaths.

"That's it fam," said Harry as he roughly ground the kneeling Keiran's face into his crotch. "Smell that proper lads cock in it" he found himself saying. "Proper scally dick that is... You wanna suck it don't you?"

Keiran looked up at him. An almost pleading look in his eyes and nodded meekly.

Harry needed no more encouragement and roughly yanked his briefs down, grabbing his hard dick and slapping Keiran on the face with it. A small spot of precum had leaked out and affixed to the side of Keiran's face, a thin string of liquid connecting the two men as Harry continued to slap his partners face.

Eventually he roughly grabbed the back of Keiran's head again and thrust his member into Keiran's open mouth. Completely wild now, Harry began to thrust harder and harder. He could feel Keiran's lips wrapped around his shaft as he thrust it in and out of Keiran's mouth. He could feel Keiran's hand gently massaging and squeezing his balls with each animalistic thrust.

"Come on posh boy" Harry grunted. "Suck my scally dick. Fucking suck the cum out of me".

Then Harry felt a surge rising from the base of his spine. Sweat was running down his face and he felt his balls swelling, his dick starting to throb. With one almighty thrust he began to pump load after load of his seed into Keiran's mouth.

"Fuck yeah" Harry moaned. "Suck that dick Harry, drink my scally spunk" as he continued to pump into his friend. He could hear Keiran gasping as Harry held his face deep into his crotch. He could hear Keiran gulping as he swallowed his friends load. Then Keiran let out an almost yelping noise and stated shaking. Harry looked down, his cock still buried deep into Keiran's mouth. His friend was shooting his own load from his member that he had been frantically wanking even as his own throat was assaulted. Ropes of cum splattered from his dick as he jerked spasmodically. Several splattered across the black Mallet trainers that Harry was wearing.

Their orgasms subsiding they both pulled back and gasped for air. Looking each other in the eye.

"Fuck" they both exclaimed in unison. Then they began giggling.

---------+

Later that evening they lay on the hotel bed, half clothed, their minds drifting through the events of the day. In the safety of the dim room, surrounded by borrowed clothes and lives, they found something real. The roles had blurred, the personas stripped back—what was left was two people who’d seen each other clearly for the first time.

And for now, that was enough

To be continued...

[i-may-be-an-emu]

TOM IS SAVAGE

“Fascinating fashion! I wish I could pull that off… you and put it in a bin :D” (to Sam)

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, omegaverse, subjugation, some type of sexism, bad politics, chemically induced heat? institutionalized reader, doctors, wack rehabilitation program, ish brainwashing

fem reader

You’d been difficult to tame. Or, he just didn’t have the time to do it properly—too busy at work and too tired when coming home. He’d wanted a sweet Omega, one who did house chores when he was away and had dinner ready for him when he got off.

You’d looked real sweet at the auction—a perfectly beautiful Omega. You weren’t cheap either—everyone had made their bids, but he’d been the one to walk away with the prize in the end. He can’t say he regrets it—he still has a fondness for you even though you’re not what he’d thought he’d purchased.

You just need some behavioral correcting. And so, he put you in an Omega institution.

It had been recommended to him. It’s not so uncommon, he later found out while reading up on the place. Auctioned Omegas tend to end up a little rough around the edges—here, at the institution, they’ll smooth those edges right out.

Sadly, there’s been a rise in unstable Omegas as of late—he reads on their website. It’s a misguided revolution taking place in several auction homes that’s to blame for it—circling modern ideas of liberation, equality, andindependence. It all stems from a place of fear, the website explains in detail—Omegas seek to stand on their own in the world. Cooped up in auction homes, they fear they’ll never see the outside without a mate—and as the years dwindle on and their prospects become slimmer, they start fantasizing about doing it on their own.

He feels sorry for you while reading it. Your attitude makes more sense now, knowing you’ve been fed a bunch of deluded nonsense. He can’t blame you for getting swept up in it—you’re a little younger than him, after all. But the silly idea of a lone Omega isn’t just laughable but dangerous. It was best of him to make sure any such notions were quashed—for your own good—before you end up doing something you might regret. 

And it seemed this place was the place to do it. In fact, many of his fellow Alphas had done the same, and they’d all sung this particular institution’s praises.

Oh, but it’s been hard. You wouldn’t talk to him much or even keep him in good company at home, but still, he misses your presence. The house seems so empty without your little everyday spats to keep him on his toes.

You’ve been away for a whole month now, and he hasn’t even been allowed to visit, not once. It would ruin the process, he was told. But he’s been assured that the caretakers there have been making great progress with you. He should be able to come pick you up as soon as the start of next week.

He remembers having been skeptical about leaving you here as he walks to announce himself at the help desk. The facility is pristine and sterile—very impersonal, just like any other hospital. He wonders if you’ve been scared. After all, it’s most likely your skittish nature that makes you so hostile, joined with misgivings making you confused. It can’t be easy. He hopes the doctors here have helped you sort things out. Maybe you won’t be so frustrated all the time.

He was led to a private room where he could complete some paperwork for your release while waiting for your discharge. He made quick work of it. A door opens, and your doctor comes through, and then, following right behind him, there’s you—his pretty little Omega.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you quite so subdued—not even when you’d been caged at the auction, there’d still been some fight to your spirit. Now, not so much—taking quiet and careful steps with your head hung, looking at your slipper-clad feet.

You pick your face up when you recognize the scent, and then you look at him like you’ve just seen a ghost. Wide-eyed and lock-jawed—your breathing picks up rapidly, and his name drops from your lips like a pained whimper, followed by a sudden burst of tears and a rush toward him. “You came back—” 

You’re on him before he has the time to blink—pressed against him tightly, skin-to-skin and heart-to-heart, with your face buried in the grove of his neck. Your claws are slightly drawn, but in no effort to hurt him—rather, to cling to him. It’s not any normal hug—not that you’d ever given him one before—but even so, you’re swaddledaround his neck with your legs crossed at his back.

He’s taken aback by the behavior—it isn’t like you at all. He remembers your aversion to his touch, how you’d regard him like a plague, snarling each time he’d get too close. This was beyond new.

But you leave him no opening to comment either, too busy rambling in meek little whispers pressed into his skin, “Thank you, thank you, thank you—I knew you’d come back—knew you hadn’t forgotten about me. I’m sorry I was being difficult, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’ve forgiven me, right? You’ll take me home now, right? Please—”

He’d never been in a position to soothe you before—you’d never wanted it. He doesn’t know what else to do but smooth a hand over your hunched and shuddering back, shushing you like he’d seen mothers do with their sobbing children. You didn’t look much different right now.

“Yeah… we’re going home,” he assures you. 

You hug him a little tighter as a sob wreaks through you.

This isn’t exactly what he prepared himself for. He thought you’d be... well, he doesn’t really know... nicer?Perhaps. Agreeable. Not so violent. But not this—this broken little ball of shivering sniffles holding onto him as if the world was about to end.

He swallows thickly, then looks at your doctor—he doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, he seems utterly unfazed.

It makes him wonder, a little warily, “What have you done with her?”

The doctor seems more than happy to explain—it’s only customary, after all. He’d paid a lot to have you rehabilitated here.

“Each omega requires special treatment suited to them,” the doctor explains. “Yours was particularly unruly.”

You flinch. He feels your claws dig deeper, but they’re too blunt to draw blood and too weak to hurt anyway. But even so, your sentiments are more than clear—you fear this doctor with your entire being.

“We’ve found that in the case of hostile Omegas, the most effective way to correct their behavior is to keep them isolated and let their own instincts remind them of what they need,” the doctor continues. “Of course, we’ve taken protective measures to ensure she wouldn’t harm herself in said isolation and have fed her accordingly at scheduled times every day.” He smiles. “We can assure you she’s been perfectly safe in the pillow room.”

He lifts the silver suitcase he’d been holding, props it up, and pops the lid, revealing a row of ten syringes—a hot pink fluid within.

“This is our recommended medicine.”

You shudder even more, unrelenting in your grip around him—hanging on so tightly as if you fear someone would come and pry you off him at any moment.

“Give one to her if and when she acts up. More instructions come with the case—please read through them carefully.”

He eyes the syringes with furrowed brows, picking one up to inspect it further. They don’t look like anything he’s read about in the brochure or on the website—perhaps a brand new method for treating Omegas? This is a cutting-edge institution, after all.

He can’t guess what they must do to make you cower like that. The spit-spire he left here a month ago wouldn’t cry over a tiny needle.

“What are they?” he asks.

The doctor’s smile stretches. “Nothing dangerous. All natural hormone components.”

He’s not sure what that entails, and so he quirks a brow while laying the syringe back in its designated mold. “And what does that mean?”

The doctor clasps the case shut and hands it over to him while explaining plainly, “They induce heat.” 

He accepts the case before his ears have the chance to draw back at his words. Now that explains your sudden clinginess—why you’re so frigid.

The doctor adds, “Poor thing’s spent quite a few alone in the pillow room, so I’m sure she’ll be grateful to finally be by her mate’s side again.”

He’s speechless.

Spending heat alone, without any relief, is a form nothing short of torture. If he’d known that was what they were doing to you, he wouldn’t have sent you here in the first place. He very nearly chews the doctor out for using such barbaric methods but thinks better of it. If anything were to be done, it would be through a well-worded and filed complaint and a vow to never do business with them ever again.

Though, coming home with you by his side, still clinging to him… he can’t argue with the results. 

So he doesn’t complain. He just enjoys your new and improved wellness and promises never to use those injections on you himself. Yes, they’d forego their expiration date soon enough, dusting away in the back of his closet. He’d never ever put you through something so horrid. That’s his pledge as your mate.

Oh, but then... the honeymoon phase dissolves. And you return to your old habits of teeth and claws.

It’s never-ending barking with you all over again—you want to leave, you want to be alone, you don’t want him to touch you, you blame him for what you went through at the institution, you hate him for it, and you’ll never ever forgive him.

He doesn’t want to—he swears while holding the syringe to your thigh where he’s strapped you down in bed with ropes and knots—he doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t, but you leave him no choice when you act like a wild animal. 

The first time is always the hardest. But he doesn’t leave you alone in a room like they did at the institution—no, he helps you through it. It’s not torture this way. It’s just… well, what can he say? It’s just a little reminder to get you back on your good behavior.

You would rather stay here than get sent back to the pillow room, right?

It’s all too easy the second time around even though it shouldn’t have been. It was only a day of small uproars, nothing all that bad—refusing to greet him at the door, to make dinner, to fix his plate, to wash dishes, to come to bed. He’d allowed you days like that in the past, but this time, he’d felt himself gravitate towards his so-called last resort once again. 

Still, he’d felt a little guilty about it. 

It would be easier to refrain if it didn’t work like a charm.

Now, he goes and finds the briefcase at the drop of a hat. Say something snarky or look at him funny. Give him any opportunity, and he’ll abuse it—even things you don’t even mean to do, like burning the food, shrinking his clothes in the wash, or forgetting to make the bed in the morning. He’s on you with the syringe deep in your flesh before you can even mouth the words “I’m sorry—”

You’re limp and sweat-drenched after a few hours. He spoons you as the spasms continuously ricochet through you—his spent leaking down your thighs. Even after several rounds, the hormones are still brewing up a bad storm within your gut, thundering in your heart as its lightning zips along your limbs. Your head is a rainy cloud—heavy and full yet soft like cotton.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—it was an accident—” you mumble between labored breaths, not entirely sure what error you’d made this time, shivering against his warm chest as he cups your breast in one big hand and your swollen cunt in the other.

“I know, I know it was, baby,” he coos. “But you need to be more mindful—can’t be making so many mistakes all the time.” His lips brush your skin as he purrs, placing small pecks against your cheek and neck. “How can I trust you with my pups if you’re gonna be such a scatterbrain, hm?”

The mention of pups makes something roar more ferociously in your underbelly, and you whimper meekly in return. “I’m sorry—I’ll do better.”

“Good. I’m sure you’ll get there, sweetie.”

The storm within crackles, rumbling with a deepening hunger. Even though you feel battle-worn and ever ready for the sweet escape of sleep, there’s something even needier and heedless that makes your body feel all but set ablaze.

You’ve cum so many times already, but it’s still not enough—it’s never enough. It takes everything in you to make sense of his words—to act civil even when all you want is to jump his bones—make him fuck you until your fever breaks, then allow you rest.

But act in any way out of turn, and he’ll only drag this out. Be sweet, you remind yourself—sugar, syrup, honeycomb—sweet and soft like velvet—no teeth or claws or growling. No matter what, don’t let the animal out of the cage.

“No matter how many lessons it’ll take…” he murmurs. “I’m here to help.”

“Thank you—” you wince while rubbing your thighs together—grinding against his hand in desperation. “Can you… can we—”

He chuckles fondly, feeling you rub your ass back against his crotch wantingly. “Oh? Another round so soon?” 

You bite your lip at his teasing. Far beyond proud to not be begging, “Yes, please—pretty, pretty please—”

The sweet warble in your voice is so pitiful and cute—he can’t help the smile it brings him. “Alright, honey,” he hums while shifting, getting up with a hearty sigh, then leaning over you to give your pleading little pout a kiss. He feeds you his next words with a grin on his face, “Let’s see about that needy pussy of yours.”

He spreads and shimmies himself between your aching thighs, nice and snug against the weeping little thing between them—looking down at you with heavy-lidded eyes and a smug smile that makes you feel like the most hopeless little Omega in the world.

He places another kiss upon your forehead—dwarfing your hand in his big one, braiding your fingers together while the other carries his meaty cock, holding it steady up to your fluttering and glossy slit. 

The size never fails to make you squirm as you look down at it—wondering why you crave it so badly when it only serves to make your body twist and scream from the stretch it gives you.

 “Don’t worry, sweetie,” he soothes the tiny cry that cracks from your throat once he starts easing the length inside the snug comforts of your walls. “Your Alpha’s here to make it all better.”

♡ BNHA – old man Bakugou, Deku, Kirishima, Enji ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Kusakabe ♡ HQ – Daichi, Ushijima ♡ AOT – Erwin

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[dismalflo]

picture perfect

Rugby!James potter x Photographer!reader who meet for the first time while they're both working ✩ 3.2k words

summary: when Lily calls asking you to fill in for the team photographer, you agree. you meet a very nice and slightly flirty team captain - James Potter.

cw: just fluff, James is a sweetheart,

When Lily called you to ask if you could photograph the promo shots for the rugby team's social media, you should’ve said no. But, despite knowing her for years, saying no to Lily Evans is a skill you’ve never quite mastered, and lord knows, you’ve tried.

“I’m sorry, Lily, it’s just not the kind of photography I do,” you’d said, hoping she’d back off.

“I know that, but our team photographer quit out of nowhere to go ‘find himself,’ and it’s just this one time. You’d be my hero if you could help.”

“...Fine.”

So yes, you tried, but to no avail.

Now, as you drive onto the grounds, the nerves start to creep in. Lily’s request meant they were desperate, but that only ramps up the pressure. You have to get the shots right. Perfect. No room for mistakes. Because of this, your car’s boot is packed with a variety of lenses, camera bodies, and a couple of tripods. At least no one could accuse you of being underprepared.

Once you park, you allow yourself a moment to breathe. You’re not sure what you’re walking into, and the unknown is always unnerving. Hands still firmly planted on the steering wheel and eyes staring unseeingly at the dash. This is silly, you haven't felt this panicked once in the lead up to this job, but it seems to have hit you like a brick all at once at the worst possible time.

Just as your mind starts to spiral, a gentle tap on your window pulls you back to reality. You glance up to find one of the biggest men you’ve ever seen, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, dressed in joggers and a jacket with the team’s logo emblazoned on it. His face is calm, his smile warm and relaxed. If sunshine were a person It’d be him. You try to shake off the wave of nerves and return an awkward grin, fumbling to get out of the car.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice steady and easy.

“Yeah, I’m, uh… I’m here to do the promo photos for the team,” you say, your tone hesitant, unsure of your place here.

“Oh, great. Lily mentioned you'd be coming,” he says with a nod. Then, with a casual gesture toward your car, he adds, “Need a hand bringing your stuff in?”

You're taken aback by his immediate kindness. You'd half-expected to be ignored by a bunch of burly men all day, but this tall, curly-haired guy is completely throwing you off. It's a relief, though—one you didn’t even realise you needed.

“That would be great, actually,” you say, voice softer now, but still nervous as you rush to add, “If—if that’s alright.”

As you round the car to pop open the boot, you can't help but feel a little self-conscious. Not only have you just managed to act like a bumbling fool, but there's also this man—who looks like he's been sculpted by the gods—following right behind you.

When the boot clicks open, he lets out a low whistle. “Wow, one of my mates is really into film photography,” he says, his face lighting up as he speaks. “Not sure he’s got a kit as impressive as yours, though. So, what do you need me to carry?”

You can’t help but chuckle at his comment. He’s kind, but rugby players aren’t exactly known for their gentle touch. As charming as this one is, you’re not about to risk it. You point toward the tripod bags. “Those, if you don’t mind,” you say.

He nods with an easy grin, effortlessly lifting one of the heavy tripod bags. “No problem. I’ve got it.” His muscles shift under his jacket as he adjusts the weight, and you try not to let your gaze linger too long on the way his jacket clings to his broad shoulders.

You grab a camera body, a little flustered by the close proximity of this boy, but you make an effort to steady yourself. “Thanks” you mutter, looking up at him, a little rushed.

“No worries,” he says with a chuckle, then adds, “They're all nice lads, you’ll be fine.”

The reassurance is exactly what you needed, even if it doesn’t quite settle the flutter of nerves in your stomach. “I hope so,” you reply with a faint smile, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

As you both start walking toward the stadium, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet morning air, he turns his head slightly, keeping his tone casual. “So, is this your usual kind of job?” he asks, clearly trying to get a conversation going as you both make your way through the car park.

You’re grateful for the distraction, even if the question catches you a little off guard. “I mean, I mostly do portraits and landscapes,” you answer, trying to sound like you have it all together. “I don’t usually do team sports, but Lily called in a favour.”

He gives you a sideways glance, his smile widening just a bit as he lets out a low chuckle. “Well, if it makes you feel better, the team’s not as scary as they look. And, if you need a bit of help with that, I’m more than happy to make sure they stay in line.”

You both reach the entrance of the stadium, and he holds the door open for you, his smile still warm. “After you, photographer,” he says with a playful wink.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to maintain your composure. “Are you always this charming?” you can’t help but ask, a little teasing of your own slipping into your voice.

He grins even wider, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Only when I’m trying to get someone to stop being nervous,” he says easily, then adds with a shrug, “Seems like it’s working, though, doesn’t it?”

You can't help but laugh, the tension easing slightly as you step into the stadium, the vast space unfolding before you. The first thing your eyes catch is the bright red hair of Lily Evans, making her way toward you, a grin spreading across her face.

"Thank you so much for this," she says, pulling you into a quick hug. "I mean it, you're a lifesaver." As she pulls away, you nod enthusiastically, your words failing you. Her gaze flicks over to the man standing behind you.

"I see you've met James," she says, reaching for the Tripod bag from him. "He's the team captain—and apparently not where he’s supposed to be."

James scoffs, indignant. "I was making sure this lovely thing got in here in one piece. Didn't see you rushing to help them." Lily doesn’t respond, merely shoos him away. To his credit, James takes it in stride, backing off with his hands raised in mock surrender.

Just as he turns to leave, you remember yourself and call out, "Thanks for the help!" But James doesn’t seem to hear you, already heading toward the changing rooms.

Lily gives you a soft, amused look and gestures toward a nearby hallway. "Come on, I'll show you where we'll be shooting." Her familiarity with the space is evident, and it's reassuring in a way—this is her turf, a fancy social media manager, and you’re just trying to find your footing.

She leads you down the hallway, her steps confident as she continues to chat. “Alright, so we’ll do individual portraits first. Each player will come up, and you can get the posed shots. Nothing too fancy—just something clean and simple for the social media pages.” She glances over her shoulder at you, offering a quick smile.

You nod, trying to lock that information into place. Individual portraits? You can do that. You’ve done countless shoots for portraits before, even if these players are a bit more... intimidating than your usual subjects.

Lily pauses at the edge of the room and gestures to a clear space by a set of large windows. The natural light coming in looks ideal. “We’ll set up here for the portraits. Nothing too wild. Just enough to show who they are, you know?”

“Got it,” you say, trying to steady your breath. You adjust the strap on your camera, mentally preparing for the first round of shots.

She gives you a thumbs-up before stepping away, her voice carrying back over her shoulder. “After the portraits, we’ll move to the pitch for the action shots. I’m thinking some training photos, maybe a few of them in motion, running drills.”

She turns the corner into the locker room, calling over her shoulder, “Let me know if you need anything. I’m not far!”

As you begin setting up your gear, arranging the tripod and adjusting your lenses, you steal a glance at the team members trickling out of the locker room. Their voices blend in a hum of casual chatter, punctuated by the occasional laugh. A few of them catch sight of you, offering quick nods or polite smiles as they take their positions.

But then your heart skips a beat. James emerges from the locker room, flashing you that cheeky grin of his as he surveys the space. Your hands freeze, nearly losing grip on the camera. He stands there—broad shoulders, relaxed posture—exuding a quiet confidence. His eyes lock with yours, and he winks, that familiar teasing energy lighting up the air between you.

You shake off the brief moment of distraction, focusing back on your task. You work through the shots with precision, photographing each player quickly but methodically. The room feels less overwhelming now as the others drift off, their photos already taken. Just as you finish capturing a man with dark hair and tattoos snaking up his forearms, you look up and realize there's only one player left. James.

He steps up to the backdrop, flashing you that grin again. “You’re impressive, y’know.”

You blink, taken aback. “How do you mean?” you ask, your face flushing at the unexpected compliment.

James shrugs casually, his posture still relaxed but with an edge of warmth in his eyes. “I mean, you’ve got this whole calm, collected photographer thing down. And you’re, like, making it look easy.” His voice holds a playful lilt, like he’s genuinely impressed but also enjoying how much he can throw you off with a few words.

You laugh, trying to shake the sudden flutter of nerves that surge through you again. “Well, I’ve had a bit of practice,” you say, focusing on adjusting your camera settings to avoid his teasing gaze. “And it’s only a little intimidating being surrounded by a team of professional athletes.” You glance up briefly, catching his gaze again. There’s something about him that makes your hands a little shaky, but you try not to let it show.

James doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, he looks even more comfortable, his hands resting on his hips as he gives you an easy smile. “I wouldn’t say intimidating. More like... impressive, right? We’re a bunch of big, tough guys who can knock each other out on the field, but off it? Pretty harmless.” He tilts his head, studying you as if trying to gauge how you’re doing with all the attention. “Plus, I’ve been told I’m easy to work with.” He winks again, and the teasing energy returns.

You roll your eyes playfully, setting up the shot. “Oh, I’m sure you are. I’m just worried I might accidentally photograph your ego instead of your face.” You smile as you say it, hoping it comes off as light-hearted, but internally, you’re wondering how you keep managing to get caught up in this back-and-forth with him.

James laughs, the sound easy and rich, like he's genuinely enjoying himself. “That wouldn't be a good look for me but you're the photographer, angel, do what you want.”

You take a deep breath, trying to maintain your composure as you adjust your camera settings again, focusing more on the equipment than the man in front of you. His teasing grin hasn't faltered, and it's making it harder to concentrate. You need to get the shot—simple, clean, just like Lily said. But somehow, with James standing there, the task feels a little more complicated.

“Alright,” you say, trying to steady your hands as you bring the camera to your eye. “Just relax and look natural, okay?”

He nods with exaggerated seriousness, then steps back, looking you dead in the eye as if he's about to pull off some grand dramatic pose. But instead, he just stands tall, hands in his pockets, eyes soft, looking completely unbothered. And somehow, it’s perfect.

After a few shots, you pause, studying the pictures on your camera’s screen. They’re good. No, they’re better than good. The natural light falls perfectly on his face, and there’s something in his eyes—something that isn’t quite the usual mischief, but maybe a little more... real.

“Not bad, huh?” James’s voice interrupts your thoughts, and you look up to find him still standing there, this time a little more relaxed than before.

You nod slowly, doing your best to mask just how much you’re replaying the image of him in that moment. “Yeah, these are great. You’ve got a good... um, 'look.'” You immediately cringe, realizing how awkward that sounded, but he just flashes a smile, unfazed.

“Of course I do,” he says, winking again, and you roll your eyes, trying to shake off the embarrassment.

A brief silence settles between you both as you both focus on the photos. Clearing your throat, you turn to James. “Thank you for–” but you're interrupted when the door swings open, and in walks the man with dark hair and tattoos.

“Prongs, stop flirting with the pretty photographer,” he says with a teasing grin, throwing an apologetic look your way. “We’ve got work to do.”

Suddenly, you feel heat rush to your cheeks, realizing you’ve held James up for longer than you should have. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” you rush out. But when you look at James, his soft gaze is fixed on you, his smile still warm and genuine.

He shakes his head slightly. “It was really nice talking to you.” His voice is calm, steady, and there’s no teasing in sight. Then, with one last glance, he turns to follow his teammate out the door, leaving you to ponder the sincerity behind his words.

The rest of the day is very uneventful. Aside from the fact your gaze kept wandering back to James, the fact that he kept making eye contact with you as if he’d already been looking, and one rogue comment from Lily.

“What have you done to James?” she asks, smirking.

“I– nothing… what?” you reply, confused and a furrow to your brows.

“He’s usually very focused,” she gives you a pointed look before leaning it, “He doesn't seem to be today.” her tone teasing.

You decided at the time not to dwell on those words. But now, as you make your way back to the car with the equipment, they echo in your mind, replaying over and over. What did she mean? You can’t help but wonder if you’ve done something to make James uncomfortable. A small—no, a rather large—part of you hopes he might actually like you.

Fumbling with your keys, your hands full and your mind racing, you hear a voice call from a distance. “Hey!”

You look up to see none other than James, jogging toward you with that effortless smile.

“Let me help,” he says, reaching for the strap of your bag and gently lifting it off your shoulder.

“Oh, thanks, James,” you reply, a shy smile tugging at your lips as your heart skips a beat.

"Anything for the best and prettiest photographer around." The compliment makes you fluster as he loads the bags into the car. "I can't wait to see the final results." His grin is the biggest you've seen all day, and you return it automatically, lost for words.

"Listen…" James straightens up to face you, rocking on the balls of his feet. "I was wondering if I could get your number?"

Your mind races through a million possibilities, but you quickly dismiss the idea that he's interested in you personally. Instead, you settle on the thought that he probably wants it for professional reasons.

"I—uh, I did this as a one-off. I'm not a sports photographer."

He chuckles softly, glancing down at the floor before raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck. "I know," he says, meeting your eyes. "But I meant it more like... I was hoping to take you on a date." He pauses, then adds, "If you'd like to."

"Oh." You're stunned into silence, and James immediately takes it as rejection.

"You should say no if you don't want to," he says quickly, looking away. "I can handle it."

"No, I—I'd really like that," you respond, nodding more to yourself than to him, but your smile betrays the nervous excitement bubbling up inside.

James’s face breaks into a grin that nearly lights up the entire car park, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice suddenly softer, as though trying to gauge whether this is really happening.

You nod, suddenly shy, your heart doing a strange flip in your chest. “Yeah,” you repeat, giving him a small, tentative smile.

“Good,” he says with a relaxed chuckle, almost like he didn’t expect this to go as smoothly as it has. “So, uh… I’ll text you, then?”

“Yeah. Definitely,” you say, finally letting yourself exhale, feeling the tension leave your shoulders.

He doesn’t hesitate, pulling out his phone and typing something quickly before showing it to you, waiting for you to type in your number. As you do, you can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t mind it. This doesn’t feel weird or awkward, it feels—well, kind of exciting.

“Alright,” he says, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll let you get going.” He turns toward the building, but not before looking back over his shoulder with a smirk. “I’ll be in touch, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching him walk away with a mix of amusement and disbelief. Once he’s out of sight, you take a deep breath, your hands feeling lighter now, a strange warmth spreading through you.

By the time you get into your car and start driving away, your mind is a whirlwind. You keep replaying the moments—his smile, his words, the way he looked at you.

Once home, your heart is still racing, the adrenaline from the shoot finally starting to settle, replaced by a warm, giddy feeling you didn’t expect.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out to find a message from James: “Had a great time today. Can’t wait to see you again. ;)”

You laugh, your fingers hovering over the screen as you try to think of the perfect response. Maybe something casual, something cool... But who are you kidding? You quickly type back: “Same here. Looking forward to it.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

let me know what you think of this! <3

[bunnis-monsters]

Cafes and knotting

Werewolf x Vampire!Reader

PREVIEW

warnings: breeding, knotting, blood drinking, mating, grinding

WC: 2.5k

It was one of those nights, the type where you spent every moment of your eternal life on your feet, jogging back and forth between customers.

Working at a cafe for monsters wasn’t terrible. If anyone asked, you would say it was a fun job with great perks.

The only problem you had was the pushy, rude customers that either wanted the manager or something inappropriate from you.

Thankfully, some of your regulars always stuck up for you when a situation got out of hand.

Especially him.

Standing at a little over 6 foot and with a muscular frame, his eyes always followed the sultry sway of your hips as you moved around the cafe.

Usually, he came in twice a day. Once in the morning for a black coffee and donut before work, and once at night for a protein shake and any pastries you had left to fuel up for the gym.

So when someone got rowdy, he was quick to run over and get up in their face. Tobias was that kind of guy, always ready to help.

You had no idea that he had a thing for you, and that’s why he was so defensive over his cute vampire barista.

To most it was obvious you were crushing on him like crazy too, but neither of you were aware of your shared love.

Most of the time you spent the day sighing wistfully, watching him from the register as he chowed down on your freshly baked pastries. He had a huge appetite after his workouts, so you decided to treat him.

Although today was relatively peaceful, the werewolf was still on edge, as if he could sense something was about to happen.

“Toby, something up?”

You walked over, placing a pastry in front of him. “Here, it’s on the house.”

Tobias looked up at you as if you offered him the world, taking the pastry into his hands carefully. The man loved his baked goods, and giving him something like this for free meant a lot more to him than you knew.

“Thank you… and it’s nothing, I just…”

His wolf ears perked up when the bell chimed, signaling someone had just walked in. A nasty looking monster walked in, his horrible body odor spreading through the cafe like a thick miasma.

None of that mattered to you, though. You politely greeted him, smiling as you gestures towards your menu. “Welcome, what would you like, sir?”

“Hey, toots. Black coffee and some of those bagels, stat.”

Code: hunni for 20% off of your first month of membership on Patreon!

Wanna read this story early? Go to Patreon or Kofi! There are plenty of other early and exclusive stories to read there!

[sxcretricciardo]

I’m back… pt.2

social media au

part 1 here

•

astonmartinf1 another successful weekend for our team! P1 for Alonso and P2 for Y/L/N 💪🏻

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username1 the amount of points they’re getting this season I’m shook

username2 the best decision was to get these two driving together

yourusername let’s partyyyyy

-> fernandoalo_oficial please yes

-> georgerussel63 am I invited?

-> yourusername of course! You’re part of our podium lol p3 great drive tho 😌

-> landonorris is p4 invited?

-> carlossainz55 meet you at the club 🥳

•

f1gossip a follower just sent us these photos of some of the f1 drivers partying and having fun at a club after the Aston Martin podium today! It is rumored that McLaren driver Lando Norris was also present and that there was a heated argument between him and Y/N. Waiting for more details 👀

•

yourusername me and my besties 👯‍♀️

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georgerussel63 I’m hungover

-> yourusername you need to keep up mate 💅

carlossainz55 party animals

username1 are Y/N and George looking at Lando and gossiping???

liked by yourusername

-> username2 they for sure were 🙂‍↔️

username3 I wanna know all the details about the argument 😒

fernandoalo_oficial finally someone that can keep the party alive 😴

•

real life

The club was alive with energy, the sound of music and chatter filling the space. The podium celebration was still fresh in your mind, the high of the race, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. After a long, hard-fought race, you had finally made it to the top three, standing on the podium with a huge smile on your face. You had earned it. You had worked so hard for it. Fernando Alonso had finished alongside you, and both of you were now celebrating the victory with close friends and teammates.

As you stood surrounded by Fernando, Carlos Sainz, and George Russell, the four of you were laughing, sharing stories of the race, and enjoying the excitement of the moment. Fernando had his arm draped around your shoulders, a proud smile on his face, his voice full of excitement as he spoke animatedly about the race. Carlos was teasing you both about how you were going to beat him next time, and George was raising a glass to your hard-earned success. Everything felt perfect — until he walked in.

Lando Norris.

The moment your eyes met his, your stomach twisted into a knot. There he was, striding confidently into the club, a slight smile on his face, as if nothing had ever happened. He was still the same Lando you remembered: the boy you once loved, the boy who had shattered your heart.

You immediately tensed, your grip on your drink tightening. Fernando noticed the shift in your demeanor, his brow furrowing in confusion before he glanced over his shoulder to see what you were looking at. His expression immediately hardened, and Carlos and George followed his gaze.

Lando, oblivious to the sudden shift in the atmosphere, walked up to the bar with a casual air, nodding at a few people in the crowd. It wasn’t until he caught sight of you that his smile faltered, though it didn’t disappear entirely.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Lando said, his voice light, as though nothing had ever happened between you two.

You couldn’t help but scoff, your anger rising quickly. Fernando, sensing the tension, took a step back, giving you space, though he kept his eyes on Lando with a wary look. Carlos and George, too, gave the two of you some room, but they didn’t hide their discomfort.

Lando leaned against the bar casually, his eyes flicking over to Fernando. “Looks like it’s been a good day for both of you,” he said, motioning to the celebration around you. “Podium, huh? Congrats.”

You could feel the heat of frustration welling up inside of you, all the old feelings coming back to the surface. How dare he waltz in here like everything was fine, like he hadn’t betrayed you? Like he hadn’t destroyed everything you once believed in.

“Don’t act like you care,” you said coldly, your voice sharp as a knife. “You have a funny way of congratulating someone, Lando.”

Lando blinked, clearly surprised by your hostility. His smile faltered, and he glanced at Fernando and the others, as if searching for something to make this moment less awkward. But you weren’t giving him that luxury.

“Are you serious?” Lando’s voice hardened, his earlier casualness replaced with something darker. “I come in here to show some support, and you act like I just killed your puppy? It’s been years.”

You could feel the anger building up inside you, the emotions from all those years ago surging to the surface. “You don’t get to act like nothing happened,” you shot back, voice tight with fury. “You don’t get to pretend we’re fine. You cheated on me. You humiliated me in front of everyone. And when I got hurt, when I was out for a year, you didn’t even care. You didn’t even apologize.”

Lando’s eyes widened at the intensity of your words, but he quickly recovered, a defensive look crossing his face. “That was a long time ago. You think I don’t regret it? You think I don’t feel like an asshole for how things ended?”

“Oh, so now you regret it?” You laughed bitterly, the sound cutting through the noise of the club. “You should have thought about that before you—”

“Before I what?!” Lando snapped, stepping closer to you now, his voice low and fierce. “Before I made a mistake? You think I don’t know how badly I messed up? But you’ve been holding this over my head for years, and it’s not even about that anymore, is it? It’s about holding onto your grudge.”

You didn’t back down. “I’m not holding a grudge. I’m holding onto the truth. You left me broken, and for what? Because you couldn’t stay faithful? Because you wanted to feel good about yourself while I was dealing with the aftermath of your mistakes?”

Fernando stepped in, placing a hand on Lando’s shoulder, his expression stern, but calm. “This isn’t the place for this,” he said quietly, his voice laced with authority. “We’re here to celebrate a win, not dredge up old wounds.”

Lando looked at Fernando, clearly irritated by his intervention, but he didn’t argue. His eyes moved back to you, and there was a flicker of regret in them. But you didn’t care about the flicker. You cared about the damage he had done.

“You should leave,” you said, your voice colder now. “This is a celebration, not a pity party for you.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to lash out again, but instead, he took a deep breath. His eyes briefly met yours — there was a faint trace of apology, but it was clouded by his own pride.

“You’re still angry,” he said quietly, as if finally understanding. “I get it. But I’m not going anywhere.”

“You should,” you shot back, your eyes blazing. “Go anywhere but here.”

The tension between you two hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Fernando gave Lando one final look, his expression hardening before he stepped away from the group, signaling the others to follow him.

Carlos leaned in toward you and whispered, “Are you okay?”

You nodded, though the emotion was raw in your chest, and it would take a lot more than a few words to heal that wound. But for now, you were surrounded by the people who truly mattered — the ones who had been there for you when Lando had abandoned you.

The music played on, and for a moment, the weight of the past started to lift as you turned your attention back to your celebration. But Lando’s presence, even from across the room, lingered.

•

yourusername they want what u had

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oscarpiastri give me my hoodie back

-> yourusername next time don’t leave it unattended 🤡

fernandoalo_oficial my sunglasses 😒

-> yourusername they look better on me anyway 🥵

username1 the caption SHES ON FIRE

username2 lando really lost a hottie

liked by yourusername

•

part 3 here

tags: @angstynasty @elieanana

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot (4) - Mattheo Riddle

The whispers had become a constant hum in the Great Hall, a low murmur that followed Mattheo like a shadow. Ever since his father’s return, his name carried more weight than ever—more fear, more suspicion. Students shrank away when he passed, their voices hushed but not enough to stop him from hearing. Voldemort. The name curled on their tongues like poison.

He didn’t care. Let them whisper. Let them believe whatever their terrified minds conjured. His only concern sat beside him, unaware of the storm brewing in his head. You.

You were sitting with Mattheo, Theo, and Enzo at the Slytherin table, your hands resting on Mattheo’s thigh as he absentmindedly played with your fingers, his other hand holding a goblet of wine-red pumpkin juice. He looked calm, at least on the surface, but you could tell by the tension in his shoulders that something was off.

You followed his gaze, your stomach twisting when you saw the source of his irritation—Fred Weasley.

Fred was sitting at the Gryffindor table, laughing with his twin and a few others. He didn’t seem to notice Mattheo’s glare burning into the side of his head, but you knew it wouldn’t take much to set your boyfriend off. The last time Fred had said something about Mattheo’s family, Mattheo had nearly hexed him into the hospital wing.

Theo and Enzo were already watching with mild amusement, waiting to see what would happen.

"Mate, just hex him already and get it over with," Theo said lazily, stabbing at his food with his fork. "You’re going to combust if you keep glaring like that."

"Nah," Enzo countered, smirking. "He’s waiting for a real reason. Give Weasley a few minutes; he always runs his mouth eventually."

Mattheo didn’t respond, but his fingers tensed around yours. You could feel the barely restrained anger rolling off him in waves. You sighed, squeezing his hand. "Mattheo, focus," you murmured. "You promised you’d help me with my Charms essay, remember?"

His eyes flicked to you, still dark with irritation, but his expression softened slightly. "I did, didn’t I?" he mused, though his glare returned to Fred a second later.

You rolled your eyes, realizing there was only one way to get his attention back on you.

Without warning, you grabbed his chin and pulled him into a deep kiss. Mattheo immediately responded, his grip tightening on your waist as he kissed you back, his fingers tangling in your hair. The sound of Enzo and Theo groaning in mock disgust barely registered in your mind.

"Bloody hell," Theo muttered. "We get it, you two are obsessed with each other."

"I’m going to hex myself just to escape this," Enzo added, pretending to gag.

When you finally pulled back, Mattheo looked at you with a dazed expression, his anger momentarily forgotten. His pupils were blown wide, and his lips were slightly swollen from the kiss. "What were we talking about again?" he murmured.

You smirked, brushing your thumb over his jaw. "My Charms essay."

"Right," he said, though he still looked entirely distracted by you.

Theo snorted. "Unbelievable. One kiss and you’ve melted him completely. You really do own him."

"Shut up, Theo," Mattheo grumbled, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he turned his full attention to you, leaning in so close that his nose brushed against yours. "Alright, love, let’s talk about Charms. I’ll give you whatever help you need."

You smiled triumphantly, knowing you’d successfully pulled him back to you. But as much as Mattheo was now entirely focused on you, you couldn’t ignore the way he occasionally glanced back at the Gryffindor table, like he was still debating whether or not to throw a hex.

You sighed. It was only a matter of time before chaos struck again.

As dinner continued, you could feel Mattheo’s fingers twitching where they rested against your thigh, his eyes flickering back to the Gryffindor table every so often. He was distracted, but at least he wasn’t storming over there yet. Small victories.

Theo and Enzo, however, weren’t helping.

"You know," Theo started, picking at his food with a smirk, "if you don’t do something soon, Weasley might get the idea that you’ve gone soft."

Mattheo tensed beside you, his jaw clenching.

Enzo grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah, imagine what people would say. ‘Mattheo Riddle, heir to the Dark Lord, taken down by a single kiss.’ Sounds tragic, really."

You shot them both a look. "Would you two shut up? He’s already trying not to murder anyone tonight, let’s not encourage him."

"We’re just pointing out facts," Theo said, raising his hands innocently. "Your boyfriend has a reputation to uphold."

"His reputation is fine," you shot back, but Mattheo exhaled sharply and leaned back in his seat, his fingers flexing as if itching to grab his wand.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake," he muttered, pushing his plate away.

You could tell he was at his limit. The stress of all the drama and attention surrounding his father’s return to power was all weighing on him. And now, Theo and Enzo were poking at him like he was some caged animal ready to snap.

You sighed, reaching for his hand again. "Mattheo, don’t."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, but before he could respond, Fred’s loud, obnoxious voice carried across the hall.

"—not like Riddle can do anything, anyway. All that talk, but he only picks fights when he knows he’ll win."

The moment those words left Fred’s mouth, the Great Hall went still. A few students turned their heads, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Even some of the professors seemed to pause, looking toward the Slytherin table warily.

Mattheo, who had been on edge all night, went entirely still beside you. You could practically feel the rage rolling off of him, his entire body tensing like a predator that had just locked onto its prey.

Theo and Enzo immediately sat up straighter, no longer smirking.

"Oh, fuck," Enzo muttered under his breath.

Theo blinked. "Well. That was a choice Weasley just made."

You groaned, knowing exactly what was about to happen. "Mattheo—"

Too late.

Before you could stop him, Mattheo was already out of his seat, moving with a deadly grace toward the Gryffindor table. The hall erupted into hushed murmurs as students watched him stalk forward like a man possessed.

You got up immediately, following after him, but Theo grabbed your wrist. "Let him have this one," he murmured. "You know he needs it."

You bit your lip, torn between stopping Mattheo and knowing that Theo was right. After everything that had happened, Mattheo needed an outlet. And unfortunately for Fred, he had just volunteered himself as a sacrifice.

By the time Mattheo reached the Gryffindor table, Fred was already standing, his usual cocky smirk in place. "Ah, there he is. Took you long enough—"

He didn’t get to finish.

Mattheo’s fist connected with Fred’s jaw so fast that most people barely had time to register what had happened before Fred was stumbling backward, knocking into George.

The hall exploded into chaos.

"What the fuck, Riddle?!" Fred shouted, clutching his jaw.

Mattheo just stood there, rolling his shoulders like he hadn’t just decked a Weasley in the middle of dinner. "What? I thought you wanted a fight," he said, voice eerily calm. "Or was all that talking just for show?"

Fred, never one to back down, lunged at him, and suddenly the two of them were full-on brawling in the middle of the Great Hall.

Students were cheering, some scrambling to get out of the way. The professors were already shouting, wands raised, but no one dared to step in just yet.

Theo and Enzo were thrilled.

"Oh, this is fantastic," Enzo grinned, leaning forward with an excited gleam in his eyes. "Best dinner we’ve had in weeks."

"My money’s on Riddle knocking him out cold in the next three minutes," Theo said, nudging Enzo.

"Two," Enzo countered.

"One," you deadpanned, because Mattheo had just slammed Fred into the Gryffindor table so hard that plates shattered on impact.

"Alright, that’s enough!"

Professor McGonagall’s voice rang through the chaos, and with a flick of her wand, both Mattheo and Fred were forcibly separated, yanked apart by an invisible force.

Mattheo was breathing heavily, his lip bleeding slightly, but he looked thrilled.

Fred, on the other hand, looked like he had just gone through a war. His hair was a mess, his shirt was ripped, and he had a nasty bruise forming on his cheekbone.

McGonagall looked furious. "Detention. The both of you. My office. Now."

Mattheo wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, smirking as he glanced back at you.

"Worth it," he mouthed.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as he was practically dragged out of the hall by McGonagall.

Theo and Enzo were howling with laughter.

"That was beautiful," Theo said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "Absolutely stunning work. I’m so proud of him."

"He looked so feral," Enzo added. "Did you see the way he threw Weasley into the table? Absolute art."

You shot them both a look. "You two are the worst."

"And yet, you love us," Theo grinned.

"No, I love Mattheo, but he’s also currently on his way to serve detention, so thanks for that," you muttered, shaking your head.

Theo smirked. "You gonna go wait for him?"

You hesitated for a second before sighing. "Yeah. Someone’s gotta make sure he doesn’t hex the next person he sees.”

Enzo grinned. "Good luck with that one.”

You rolled your eyes but turned on your heel, making your way toward McGonagall’s office. Mattheo Riddle was going to be the death of you, but Merlin help you, you wouldn’t have him any other way.

You leaned against the cold stone wall outside McGonagall’s office, arms crossed as you waited for Mattheo to emerge from his detention. The hallways were quiet now, dinner having ended long ago, and you were left with nothing but the occasional flicker of torchlight and the muffled sounds of students moving about the castle.

You had half a mind to be annoyed with Mattheo—because honestly, punching Fred Weasley in the middle of the Great Hall? Not his smartest moment. But at the same time, you knew exactly why he’d done it. He had been itching for a release, something to pour his anger into. And Fred, with his big mouth and reckless attitude, had given him the perfect excuse.

The door creaked open.

Mattheo stepped out, looking entirely unbothered, as if he hadn’t just spent an hour being lectured by McGonagall. His lip was still a little split, though the swelling had gone down, and there were faint bruises blooming along his knuckles. His tie was loosened, and his shirt was slightly untucked—he looked thoroughly unrepentant.

The moment he spotted you, his entire expression softened. "Hey, love," he murmured, already moving toward you.

You sighed, shaking your head. "Mattheo."

"What?" he asked, smirking as he reached for your waist. "Didn’t you love watching me put Weasley in his place?"

"You’re impossible," you muttered, but you didn’t pull away when he wrapped his arms around you, tugging you into him.

"And yet, you’re here waiting for me," he murmured, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of your jaw. "Which means you love me anyway."

You rolled your eyes, but your hands found their way to his chest, fingers brushing over the faint bruises peeking from under his collar. "You’re lucky I do," you muttered. "Otherwise, I’d let you deal with your injuries alone."

"You’d never," he teased, but there was something softer in his voice now. His forehead dropped against yours, his hands gripping your waist a little tighter. "You always take care of me."

Your expression softened. "Of course I do. Someone has to.”

Mattheo exhaled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. "Come on, let’s get out of here. I’m in desperate need of a bath, and you, my love, are in desperate need of letting me spoil you properly."

"Spoil me?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You’re the one who got in a fight."

"Exactly," he murmured, smirking. "Which means you had to stress over me, and for that, you deserve extra attention."

You rolled your eyes, but you let him lace his fingers with yours as he led you down the hallway.

Of course, when you got back to the Slytherin common room, Theo and Enzo were waiting.

"Ah, there they are," Theo said, grinning. "Hogwarts’ favorite troublemaker and his poor, suffering girlfriend."

"Took you long enough," Enzo added, smirking. "Did you two snog in the hallway or something?"

Mattheo smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know."

Theo groaned. "Merlin, you two are insufferable."

"And yet," you said, smiling sweetly, "you love us anyway."

Theo muttered something under his breath, but Enzo just laughed. "She’s got you there, mate."

Mattheo tugged you toward the couch, pulling you down onto his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His arms wrapped around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder as he exhaled contentedly. "Much better," he murmured. "Now, I believe I promised to spoil you, love."

"Oh?" Theo quipped, smirking. "And what does spoiling entail?"

Mattheo smirked against your skin. "Wouldn’t you like to know."

Theo groaned again, while Enzo just cackled.

And despite the absolute chaos of the day, you couldn’t help but smile. Because as long as you had Mattheo, Theo, and Enzo—your ridiculous, unhinged little group—you knew that, somehow, everything would be okay.

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Where's My Chocolate?! | LN4

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Where Lando has a massive chocolate addiction but his trainer put a ban on it. How's a man supposed to live without his Kinder Joys? or his Kinder Maxis? or his Kinder Eggs? or his-

LANDO NORRIS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Lando was practically vibrating with excitement as he unlocked the door to his flat. It was the off-season, the glorious time when he could finally eat what he wanted without Jon breathing down his neck about "his unhealthy eating habits" and "lack of diet discipline." The crown jewel of his freedom? The stash of Kinder chocolates meticulously hoarded over the year.

He burst into the kitchen, opened his sacred candy drawer, and froze. The drawer was half-empty. Half-empty.

Lando stared in disbelief, his hands gripping the edge of the counter like he was about to faint. He began rifling through the contents, counting and recounting the chocolates as though they’d magically multiply.

"Babe!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "Where’s my chocolate?"

Y/n strolled into the kitchen, holding a cup of tea, completely unfazed by the brewing storm. "Hi to you too, Lando."

He spun around, clutching a Kinder Maxi like a lifeline. "Don’t ‘hi’ me. My stash is gone. Did you—" He gasped dramatically. "Did you eat it?"

She blinked at him. "What? No!"

"Then who? The Easter Bunny?" he shrieked. "It was full last week!"

Sipping her tea, she said casually, "Oh, Jon called."

Lando’s face went pale. "Jon? My trainer, Jon?"

"Yep," she said, setting her mug down. "He told me to keep an eye on your candy consumption. Said something about ‘self-control’ and ‘preventing cavities.’ Apparently, you have a chocolate limit now."

Lando stared at her like she’d just betrayed him in the worst way possible. "You’re lying."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"No," he said, his voice rising to a dramatic wail. "You can’t do this to me! I’ve been waiting all year for this! This is my moment!"

"Your moment?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Lando, it’s just chocolate."

"It’s not just chocolate! It’s freedom! It’s happiness!" He dropped to his knees, clutching a Kinder Egg like it was a dying bird. "This is cruel and unusual punishment!"

"Alright, Shakespeare," she said, stepping over him to close the drawer. "Get up. You’re not a toddler."

But Lando’s resolve was already solidifying. He wouldn’t be defeated so easily.

That night, Y/n woke to the sound of faint rustling. Bleary-eyed, she reached over for Lando, only to find his side of the bed empty. Squinting in the dim light, she followed the noise to the kitchen.

There he was, crouched in front of the candy drawer like some sort of gremlin, surrounded by half-opened drawers and cabinets. He was whispering to himself, "Where is it? Where did she put it?"

"Lando," she said, crossing her arms.

He froze, slowly turning his head to look at her. His eyes were wide and wild, his hair sticking up in all directions. "Oh. Hey. Fancy seeing you here."

She pointed at the mess around him. "What are you doing?"

"Uh, night yoga?"

"Yoga," she repeated flatly.

"Yeah, it’s great for flexibility," he said, attempting a stretch that ended with him knocking over a jar of flour.

"Get back to bed, Lando," she said, grabbing him by the arm.

The next day, Lando devised Plan B. He called Oscar.

"Mate, you have to help me," Lando whispered into the phone like a spy in enemy territory.

"What now?" Oscar asked, already regretting picking up.

"She’s hidden my chocolates. All of them. I’m dying here."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Smuggle some Kinder Eggs to me. Discreetly."

Oscar sighed. "Absolutely not. She’ll kill me."

"Oscar, please! I’m losing my mind, mate!"

"And I’d like to live, thanks."

Lando groaned, hanging up dramatically.

The coup de grâce happened at Max and Kelly’s house. They had invited them both over for lunch, and for a brief moment, everything was going fine. That is, until Penelope came running into the room, tears streaming down her face.

"Uncle Lala stole my chocolates!" she wailed.

All heads turned to the pantry, where Lando was caught red-handed, stuffing his face with what was unmistakably Penelope’s stash. His cheeks bulged like a hamster’s, and he froze mid-bite when he saw everyone staring.

"Lando," Max said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That’s for my kid."

"I’m...uh...testing for poison?" Lando offered, his words muffled by chocolate. He was already edging toward the door, trying to shield his loot from view.

"Seriously?" Y/n said, marching over, her voice a mix of frustration and disbelief. "You’re stealing from a child?"

Lando clutched the Kinder Joys tighter, his eyes darting around the room like he was calculating an escape route. "You don’t get it! These chocolates—" he paused, clutching the candy dramatically to his chest, "—are essential. I need them more than Penelope does."

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "You’re a grown man, Lando! Have some self-control for once."

"Uncle Lala should go to jail for stealing my chocolates!" Penelope said with all the righteous fury of a five-year-old, pointing an accusing finger at Lando.

"If loving chocolate is a crime, then lock me up!" he declared, crouching lower and hissing dramatically at anyone who dared approach him.

"Oh my god," Max groaned, rubbing his temples. "I can’t believe I’m witnessing this."

Kelly crossed her arms, glaring at Lando. "You’re eating a five-year-old’s Christmas stash, Lando. Have you no shame?"

Penelope, who had been standing quietly until now, stomped her tiny foot. "Uncle Lala, give it back! Mommy says stealing is bad!"

Lando froze, looking genuinely wounded. "I’m not stealing," he said earnestly. "I’m redistributing the wealth." He paused, then added with a whisper, "For the greater good."

Max raised an eyebrow. "You’ve lost your mind. Put the chocolates down."

"Never!" Lando shouted, clutching the stash tighter and attempting to back into the pantry.

"Uncle Lala!" Penelope shrieked, rushing forward to tug on his arm. "You’re a meanie!"

"Lando," Kelly said, exasperated, "Give P her chocolates back please"

"I can’t!" Lando wailed dramatically, holding up an empty wrapper like it was his salvation. "I’ve been oppressed for weeks. Weeks! Do you know what it’s like to have Jon ruin your life?"

"I’m going to call Jon," she threatened, pulling out her phone.

"No! Not Jon!" Lando cried, dropping to his knees and scrambling to hide behind Max. "Anything but that! Please, I’ll do anything! I’ll eat kale. I’ll run an extra five miles tomorrow. Just don’t call Jon!"

Max stared down at him, torn between amusement and second-hand embarrassment. "Lando, mate, I think you’ve hit rock bottom."

Lando peeked out from behind Max’s legs, his chocolate-smeared face a picture of desperation. "This isn’t rock bottom. Rock bottom is no chocolate at all."

Penelope crossed her arms, looking unimpressed. "Uncle Lala, you’re being very silly."

"You’re right," Kelly said, scooping up Penelope. "Lando, apologize to my daughter and step away from the pantry."

He clutched one last Kinder Joy, giving it a sorrowful look. "I’m sorry, P. But you’ll understand one day. Love makes you do crazy things." He kissed the chocolate dramatically before surrendering it to Kelly.

The lowest point came a few nights later when she woke to Lando’s sleep-talking.

"Kinder Maxi...so creamy...so sweet..." he mumbled, drooling onto his pillow.

She stared at him, half amused, half exasperated.

By Christmas, she couldn’t take it anymore. The sight of Lando moping around the house like a sad puppy had broken her resolve. So, on Christmas morning, she led him to the kitchen, where a decadent chocolate cake sat waiting on the counter, accompanied by a wicker basket brimming with his favorite chocolates—Kinder Maxis, Kinder Eggs, and everything else she could get her hands on.

Lando froze in the doorway, his eyes wide as they darted from her to the cake. "What’s this?" he asked, his voice tinged with awe.

"Merry Christmas," she said, her smile soft but brimming with excitement. "It’s all for you."

His gaze flickered between her and the cake, his expression shifting from disbelief to pure, unfiltered joy. "You… you did this? For me?"

She nodded, and his lips parted slightly, his eyes shimmering as if he might actually cry. "You’re the best girlfriend ever," he choked out before pulling her into a bone-crushing hug, his arms wrapping around her as he swiped some of the chocolate frosting.

She laughed against his shoulder, the warmth of his embrace making her cheeks flush. "Do you love me more than chocolate now?" she teased, her voice light and playful.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face alight with a cheeky grin. "That’s debatable," he said, dragging the words out as if he were seriously contemplating it.

Her eyes narrowed in mock offense as she gasped and pretended to reach for the cake. "Fine, I’ll just eat this myself—"

"No!" he yelped, grabbing her waist before she could step away. With a quick, smooth motion, he spun her around, his laughter filling the kitchen. "Okay, okay! I love you more."

She tilted her head, her lips quirking upward. "Prove it," she challenged, her voice daring but soft.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Lando’s grin faded, replaced by an expression so earnest it made her heart skip a beat. He stepped closer, his hands sliding up from her waist to cradle her face gently. His thumbs brushed against her cheekbones as he leaned in, his gaze locking with hers.

When his lips finally met hers, it was like warmth spreading through her veins. The kiss started tender, his lips soft and lingering as if he were savoring the moment. But then he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and the tenderness gave way to something more fervent. His hands moved to her hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he pulled her closer, pressing their bodies together until there was no space left between them.

Her hands found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt as she melted into him. She could feel his heart beating rapidly under her palm, matching the rhythm of her own. The faint taste of chocolate lingered on his lips, making the kiss feel all the more intoxicating.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other as they tried to steady themselves. Her cheeks were flushed, and Lando’s eyes sparkled with a mix of giddiness and something deeper.

"Alright, you win," she said, laughing softly as she looked up at him. Her voice was teasing, but her eyes held a warmth that mirrored his own.

Lando grinned, his dimples making an appearance as he leaned in to peck her lips again, quick and sweet. "How did you get Jon to agree to this?" he asked, his voice still slightly breathless as he glanced toward the cake.

She smirked, stepping back to grab a fork from the counter. "What Jon doesn��t know won’t hurt him."

His laughter was loud and unrestrained, echoing through the kitchen. "You rebel. I love it."

She handed him the fork, watching as he eagerly sliced into the cake. "Keep up with your training," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter, "and I might sneak you some chocolates now and then."

"Deal," he said, shoving a forkful of cake into his mouth with a contented hum. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste before looking at her with a wide, chocolate-smeared smile. "Best Christmas ever."

[pitlanepeach]

From Eden | Chapter Seven pt.1 (7/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a Youtube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings — Agoraphobia, severe social anxiety, references to a skin-picking relapse, antidepressants, therapy sessions, bad family situations, panic attacks, sexual content.

Notes — Yes, Ch7 will be split into two halves, because I’m good to you guys like that, and have so much of their story left to tell. No social media posts in this one (hope u don’t mind). Enjoy — Peach x

iMessage — Oscar & Mark 

Mark

How’s things mate? 

Oscar 

Really good. 

Really, really good. 

Mark 

You’re all in for this girl then?

Oscar 

All in. 

Mark 

Let me know when you want her in the paddock. I’ll make it work for her. 

Oscar

Thanks. Means a lot 

Mark

Anytime kid. 

— 

Francesca felt like everything was moving in slow motion. 

The revolving doors of the Harper Collins offices loomed. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. God, why was everything was so clean? And bright. There were too many reflective surfaces. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the chrome panels — pasty skinned, wide-eyed, white knuckling the strap of her handbag.

“You’re doing great,” Katie said beside her, breezing along in a bright yellow pantsuit, the epitome of an actual boss-babe. “You didn’t even throw up on the tube.” 

“I’m sweating through my bra,” Francesca muttered back, voice tight. “I’m going to get… patches. Sweat patches.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “No, you won’t. This building is definitely air conditioned.” 

They stepped into the marble-floored lobby. Francesca tried not to visibly recoil at the echoing sound of high-heels and the very serious man behind the reception desk. Her heart was thudding. 

Over the past week, she’d done a lot of hard things. More walks to the cafe. More talking about her feelings. Upping the frequency of her therapy sessions to twice a week instead of once. 

She could survive a publisher meeting.

The receptionist, not as intimidating once Katie had introduced them and he’d beamed at them (teeth and all), led them up in a mirrored elevator to the 14th floor. Francesca tried not to think about how long the fall would be if she had to resort to throwing herself out a window. Katie, probably reading the expression on her face, reached over and squeezed her hand. 

When they stepped into the meeting room, everything smelled like coffee and expensive paper.

Two editors, a publicity manager, and a junior marketing exec were seated around the polished table, smiling like this was completely normal and not the most terrifying thing Francesca had ever done in her entire life. 

“Francesca,” said the older of the editors — Laura, the woman they’d had a handful of zoom meetings with over the past few weeks. She stood and offered her hand. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you in person.”

Francesca smiled and hoped that it didn’t look to wobbly around the edges. “You too.”

She sat down. Katie followed without hesitation, plopping beside her like she belonged there; she did. None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for her. She was as big of a part of this deal as Francesca was. 

There were questions about tone and voice and back cover copy. Francesca nodded along, offering thoughts when she had could actually manage to form them into words, Katie chiming in like a practiced publicist even though she technically wasn’t one. 

When Laura mentioned the projected release date — June 2024 — Francesca blinked.

“That’s so soon,” she said softly. It was already November. 

“That’s exciting,” Katie corrected her, nudging her under the table. “Right?”

Francesca nodded slowly. “Yeah. Exciting.”

She let the word sit there in her mouth, tasting it. 

Laura smiled. “We think your audience will be more than ready. We’re already seeing a lot of positive engagement following your announcement, and that established platform that you have really does give us a great foundation to build on.”

Francesca swallowed. “That’s… amazing. I just— I want it all to go well.”

“It will,” the marketing exec said, with a nod that was full of certainty. “Your draft — what you’ve created — it’s vulnerable and funny and deeply human. People are going to see themselves in it. That’s rare in fiction, even rarer in contemporary romance. It’s impressive.”

She blinked hard. Looked at the table. Pushed through the hitch in her breath.

Katie covered her hand under the desk, her thumb brushing reassuring circles against Francesca’s knuckles. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it anchored her more than she could explain.

The meeting stretched well into the afternoon. Coffee and biscuits appeared partway through. When Francesca shyly asked if they happened to have oat milk, one of the assistants dashed off without hesitation, returning five minutes later with two cartons and an apologetic smile like it had been some kind of emergency.

Francesca didn’t know what to do with that level of accommodation. She sipped slowly, kept her shoulders down, and tried to answer every question directed her way with a level of professionalism that didn’t come naturally. 

By the time they wrapped, her brain felt like soup. There were quick hugs goodbye, promises to follow up by email, someone scribbling a phone number onto a scrap of paper and handing it to Katie with an instruction to “get in touch” with any urgent follow-ups. 

She let herself be ushered into the lift, then out through the revolving doors, and only when the cold November air hit her face did she let out a breath that had been building in her lungs for hours.

“I didn’t cry,” she murmured, almost in disbelief. Her eyes lifted to the slate-grey sky, where the clouds had settled low and heavy. London in November — foggy and damp.

Katie bumped their hips together gently, her tone somewhere between teasing and proud. “They loved you.”

Francesca laughed, shaky and a little stunned. “I guess. Maybe.”

“They did. You’re talented and lovely and weirdly charming when you’re nervous.”

“I’m always nervous.” Francesca deadpanned. 

Katie grinned. “Exactly. It’s kind of your brand.”

Francesca let out a breathy laugh and tipped her head against her friend's shoulder for a moment.

“My brain’s doing that thing where I can’t remember anything I said,” she admitted.

Katie hummed. “You were great. You only said the word ‘vibes’ twice, and one of those times it actually worked in your favour.”

“Generous of them to let me get away with that,” Francesca said, the words half-laugh, half-relief. 

Katie snorted. “They’re publishing your book and expecting it to make them millions, babe. You could’ve walked in there and recited the alphabet backwards and they still probably would’ve given you a round of applause. You had all of the power.”

Francesca glanced sideways, skeptical. “I was, like, shaking half the time. I spilt the oat milk.”

“You were adorable. And powerful.”

Francesca huffed a laugh, but didn’t argue. Instead, she looked up, gaze drifting over the familiar skyline — grey, fog-drenched. 

She exhaled slowly. “I’m glad you were there with me.”

Katie, walking beside her with that usual casual grace, bumped her shoulder gently. “Always.”

The entrance to the tube station came into view at the end of the street, bustling and loud, people pouring in and out like water. 

“You realise you’re in the acknowledgements, right?” Francesca said after a beat.

Katie arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I’d better be. I want at least two full paragraphs.”

Francesca snorted. “Greedy.”

“Supportive,” Katie corrected primly, nose tilted in the air like she expected applause.

Francesca rolled her eyes, biting back a grin.

They reached the steps leading down to the underground platform, and Francesca’s pace faltered. Her hand landed on the rail, knuckles whitening as she gripped it. Her chest fluttered with that too-familiar tremor — the one that liked to remind her it could show up anywhere, anytime.

Katie noticed immediately. Of course she did.

She slowed too, watching her with gentle eyes. “We can get an uber,” she said quickly.

Francesca didn’t answer right away. Instead, she closed her eyes, grounding herself like Dr. Kapoor had taught her.

Three breaths, slow and deliberate. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again.

Your fears are valid, she reminded herself, but they don’t get to dictate your day. They don’t have the power to actually hurt you.

She squeezed the railing, not out of panic this time, but as an anchor. Then she looked over at Katie and nodded, barely, but firmly. “No, it’s okay. I want to take the tube.”

Katie’s expression softened with something like pride — quiet and unspoken, but unmistakable. “Alright then,” she said. “Let’s go.”

— 

She woke up sweating. Disoriented. Nausea clinging to her. 

The dream was still sticky around the edges, too vivid to shake.

Oscar — in a glittering white tuxedo. An Elvis impersonator officiating. A woman Francesca didn’t recognise, tall and stunning, in a rhinestoned mini-dress and platform heels, blowing kisses to a fake crowd of cardboard cutouts.

There were fog machines. Lando Norris was playing “Viva Las Vegas” on a kazoo. Oscar looked confused. Then resigned. Then he said “I do.”

— 

iMessage — Francesca & Oscar 

Francesca

i had a dream

and by dream i mean horrifying nightmare

and i am blaming my new sertraline dose ok

but i need you to be honest with me

Oscar

You okay baby?

Ask me anything. I’m always honest with you

Francesca

does lando know how to play the kazoo

Oscar

Right. Literally would never have guessed that was where this was going

One sec. I’ll ask.

He does not.

He’s also deeply confused and a little afraid. 

Francesca

okay phew

because in my dream you got VEGAS MARRIED

like i turned on the tv and there was a LIVE BROADCAST

of you wearing a glitter tux and holding hands with a woman named Brandi (with an i?????????)

and lando was your kazoo player slash ring bearer

and there were sparklers

Oscar

…I don’t even know where to start

First of all: never been near a kazoo

Second: you think I’d name someone named Brandi? 

Francesca

idk. you looked so smug though

like “oh sorry babe i had no choice, she had great bone structure and her dad owns a boat dealership”

and THEN the wedding cake was shaped like your helmet.

i feel violent. i’ll kill her. 

Oscar

Lando is finding this very funny. 

Really? A helmet cake?

Francesca

okay but the crocs were the worst part

she was wearing white crocs with rhinestones that spelled out “WIFEY 4 LYFE”

i woke up sweating

Oscar

I would rather eat a kazoo than be legally bound to someone who wears crocs

Francesca

thank you.

i needed to hear that.

Oscar

Are you having any other side effects?

From your medication, not the dream

Francesca

um some nausea and headaches ig 

nothing too bad

can u remind me what time i need to wake up to watch fp1

Oscar

6:30 baby

I’ll text u at 6 before I get my phone taken

Love you

Francesca 

love you. don’t get married pls. 

Oscar 

I promise you that I won’t. 

Get some sleep baby

—

The Zoom window opened with a quiet pop and a small ping. Francesca sat cross-legged on the sofa, laptop balanced on a cushion in her lap, a cup of chamomile tea going cold on the coffee table. The Las Vegas GP coverage was playing on mute on the TV — just FP3. 

Dr. Kapoor smiled at her, framed by warm-toned bookshelves and a tall potted plant. 

“Good morning, Francesca," she said, with that steady, velvet voice that had become an anchor of emotion. "How are you today?"

Francesca gave a half-shrug. “Floating. Not in a bad way, though. Like… a little bit light-headed. Like someone took my brain out, dipped it in disinfectant, and then put it back in. Upside down.”

Dr. Kapoor chuckled. “Ah. You increased your sertraline dose this week.” She recalled. 

“Yup,” Francesca said, popping the ‘p’. “Per your suggestion. I know you warned me about the side effects, but the dreams have been, uh, pretty vivid.”

Dr. Kapoor’s brow lifted, amused. “That’s not unusual. Dosage changes can be a little problematic until they settle. Have you had any other symptoms?”

Francesca hesitated. “Some nausea. I’m drinking a lot more ginger tea than usual, but it’s manageable. Also headaches.”

“All very normal, and if I’m remembering correctly, exactly what you experienced when you started taking your very first dose.” Dr. Kapoor leaned in a little, eyes kind. “Are you doing well otherwise?” 

“I— I think so,” Francesca said, then fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “But I feel like there’s a limit on how far I can, like, push myself. You know how crazy these past few weeks have been; I feel like it might be too much, too soon.” 

Dr. Kapoor’s expression softened, but her voice turned firm. “Francesca, I want to challenge something you just said.”

Francesca blinked. “Okay?”

“There is no ceiling on what you’re capable of,” Dr. Kapoor said. “You’ve internalised this idea that there’s a glass wall between you and the life you want — and sure, right now, some things might feel hard, maybe even impossible. But that wall? It’s not real. It’s just fear. And fear doesn't have control over you, not unless you want it to.”

Francesca swallowed, feeling off-centre. “I just don’t want to mess it all up. Especially when things feel… good. I don’t trust it.”

“That’s okay. Trust, even in ourselves, has to be earned over time,” Dr. Kapoor said, her voice steady. “But don’t mistake the discomfort of growth for danger. You’ve outgrown certain patterns, Francesca. Your world is expanding very quickly. It’s only natural to feel unsure.” 

Francesca looked away from the screen for a second, blinking fast. “Sometimes I don’t even recognise myself lately,” she admitted.

“A million versions of you can exist all at once, in perfect tandem,” Dr. Kapoor said gently. “The scared version, the brave one, the writer, the woman in love, the one still healing — they’re all you. You don’t have to pick just one. You’re not a contradiction, Francesca. You’re human.”

Francesca let out a shaky breath, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a fraction. “So I’m allowed to be both terrified and… really, really happy?”

Dr. Kapoor smiled. “Absolutely. In fact, that’s usually how we know we’re moving forward — when both can exist at the same time.”

— 

The living room was dim, lit only by the flicker of the race on her TV. It was still dark outside despite it technically being morning. Francesca sat cross-legged on the sofa, a blanket half-pulled around her shoulders, her phone resting nearby, screen dark.

She was trying not to be anxious. Really trying.

She knew Oscar was good — not just talented, but smart. Careful. Strategic in the way he drove. 

Still, like they did during every race, her fingers had curled into the blanket without her noticing. Her knuckles had gone white.

It was an eventful first three laps. Chaos on every corner. Francesca kept her eyes locked on the timing sheets in the corner of the screen, watching Oscar’s number creep forward, her heart lifting every time he overtook someone cleanly.

He was going to get himself into the points if he kept driving that way for the rest of the race. Pulling something brilliant out of a back-of-the-grid start.

And then—

And then the crash happened.

It was sudden — jarring. One moment, the cars were slicing through the neon chaos of the Vegas strip, all controlled precision and searing light. The next, a blur of motion went sideways, smoke billowed, sparks flew. A car snapped against the barrier like a toy, wheels skidding, debris scattering. The camera cut wide. The commentators shot up in pitch, sharp and immediate, overlapping in alarm.

Francesca’s blood turned to ice.

“—McLaren in the wall—heavy impact—”

She couldn’t breathe.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

Oscar.

Oscar.

Her heart thundered against her ribs as she scrambled for the remote, nearly dropping it, fingers numb. She turned the volume up so fast the speakers on the TV crackled. The image on screen was too far away, the impact too quick — she couldn’t tell who it was. Couldn’t see the number, or the helmet.

The camera stayed wide. No confirmation. No replay. No name.

She felt sick. Her pulse roared in her ears.

Please not him. Please not him.

“And that’s the McLaren of Lando Norris—”

The relief hit so fast she almost keeled over. Her whole body folded forward, shoulders shaking, hand covering her mouth like it might hold her together.

It wasn’t Oscar. He was still driving. Still safe.

The rush of it — the overwhelming, selfish relief — made her dizzy. She wasn’t crying, not exactly, but her eyes burned, throat tight, breath coming in shallow gasps.

And then… slowly… it shifted.

The camera zoomed in on the wreckage.

She sat upright again, eyes narrowing as she took in the sight. The smoke was clearing, marshals were running. No movement from the cockpit yet.

Her relief soured into guilt.

It wasn’t Oscar… but it was still Lando.

Lando. 

Her chest ached again, but for a different reason now.

“Come on,” she whispered to the screen. “Come on, get out. Be okay.”

The replays started. She flinched. The way the car had hit. The angle. The bounce.

She imagined Oscar watching it from the cockpit of his car. She imagined the silence in his radio. The breath that must’ve caught in his throat.

The guilt doubled.

It wasn't Oscar — but it could’ve been.

And now Lando was somewhere in that shattered car, and she didn’t know if he was okay.

They deployed the safety car. 

The McLaren — what was left of it — sat limp in the runoff, sparks still flickering beneath it. The halo was intact. The front wing was gone. Smoke rose in gentle, mocking spirals.

Then, finally, movement.

The camera zoomed just slightly, shaky and grainy in the low light of the Vegas circuit — but there he was. Lando. Climbing out. Slowly, stiffly, but moving under his own power.

Francesca let out a sound she hadn’t meant to make — a breathy, gasping laugh that cracked down the middle. She leaned forward, hand gripping the edge of the coffee table like an anchor, eyes locked on the screen.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. She covered her face with both hands, sucked in a lungful of air, and let it go with a shaky exhale. “Thank god.”

The screen showed him walking, slowly, toward the medical car. A marshal steadying him. He was probably bruised to hell. Maybe concussed. But he was alive.

She watched the rest of the race with her heart in her throat. 

— 

Incoming FaceTime from Oscar 

Her phone lit up just as she started pacing the kitchen for the third time since Oscar had passed the chequered flag. 

Francesca answered instantly.

Oscar’s face filled the screen — a little sweaty, a little flushed, hair damp and stuck to his forehead, still in his race suit, half-unzipped to the waist. His fireproofs clung to his body like a second skin. The familiar chaos of a post-race backdrop buzzed behind him.

But his eyes were calm. Warm. Focused entirely on her.

“Hey, baby,” he said softly.

She didn’t return the greeting — not yet. “Is Lando okay?”

Oscar nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s alright. Bit winded. They’ve taken him to the hospital for checks, but he was up, talking, walking. Properly okay.”

Francesca let out a long breath and closed her eyes for a second. “I— I saw it happen. Thought it was you for a second. My heart stopped.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured you would’ve. You okay?”

Her hand trembled just slightly as she pushed her hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay now. Just— needed to hear that he was okay from you, not the Sky Sports people, you know?”

He smiled gently, and even with the grainy front camera and the low lighting, it made her feel steadier. “He really is. Pretty sure he’s already on his way back to the paddock.” 

“Good,” she said, her voice softer now. “And— hey. Points finish. P10. You did really well, Osc. I’m so proud of you.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, like he was trying to bite down a grin and failing. His ears turned red. “Thanks, beautiful.” 

— 

iMessage — Lando & Francesca 

Francesca 

hey its francesca, oscar gave me ur number 

rly glad ur ok, that looked scary

Lando 

haha yeah im all good!

thanks for checking, means a lot 

Francesca

u scared the shit out of me lol

Lando

😭😭😭

yeah sorry about that

wasn’t my best work

Francesca

do me a favour and try not to do that again

Lando

noted

Francesca

anyway, genuinely glad you're okay

Lando

cheers mate :) u ever need anything just lmk 

Francesca 

ty! 

— 

The call connected before Francesca could brace herself.

“Francesca,” her mum said immediately, like she’d been waiting by the phone for hours. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Hi, Mum.” Francesca tucked her legs beneath her, one hand already curled into the sleeve of her jumper. “Just wanted to call and check in. See how you and Dad are doing.”

“We’re managing,” her mother said with a pointed sigh, already shifting the tone. “Your father’s been having more trouble with his back again, of course. And I’ve had no help getting the decorations down from the loft — your sister promised she would, but you know how she is…”

Francesca nodded, even though her mum couldn’t see it. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

“Well.” A pause. “That’s why I hope you’ll be here for Christmas. It’s been too long, Francesca. We haven’t seen you in a year. You didn’t come in the summer, even though I practically begged—”

“I know, Mum, but I had work committments—”

“We all have work,” her mother said, voice wobbling. “But you make time for family. Especially now that we’re… not getting any younger.”

That particular line landed like a weight to the chest. Francesca rubbed at her temple. “Mum…”

“I just—” And then came the softest sniff, just audible enough. “I miss you, darling. I know you have your… your own little life. But I thought maybe Christmas, at least —you could make the effort for Christmas.”

Francesca swallowed against the lump in her throat. She thought about how tired she’d been lately, how much she’d wanted to spend Christmas quietly, maybe even with Oscar, maybe even happy. But instead, the image of her mum alone in the kitchen, crying over tinsel, took root in her mind. 

“Okay,” she said, staring blankly at the wall. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Her mother’s relief was immediate, audible in the way her breath rushed out. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart. Your dad will be so pleased. We’ll do all your favourites —those potatoes you like, and the pudding—”

Francesca closed her eyes, nodding again. She hated potatoes, didn’t like them in any form other than deep-fried, and the only pudding she was interested in were pastries that Oscar brought for her, still warm and fresh from the bakery down the road. “Yeah. That sounds good.” She lied.

“Maybe this time, you can stay longer than just two nights.” She said, slightly snippily. 

“Mmhmm,” Francesca murmured, already feeling the edges of herself shrink back into something smaller.

— 

Her living room was a riot of snacks and empty kebab containers. 

Katie sat cross-legged on the floor, a blanket draped around her shoulders like a cape, holding a bright orange drink garnished with a paper umbrella and a gummy tyre. Francesca was curled sideways in the armchair, an 81 McLaren cap pulled low over her eyes, the brim doing little to hide her hyper-focus on the screen.

“Okay, these are actually good,” Katie said, gesturing to her mocktail. “Did you invent these?”

“I adapted the recipe,” Francesca said, smug. “Google gave me a Red Bull themed one and I nearly threw my phone in the bin.”

Katie cackled. “Aw. You’re so loyal.” 

“Not hard when they’ve got best driver on the grid,” Francesca mumbled, eyes glued to the formation lap. 

“So… You’re really going to your parents for Christmas?” Katie asked, plucking a popcorn kernel from the bowl between them.

Francesca nodded slowly. “Yeah. I still need to book my flights and talk to Osc about it, but… yeah. Mum’s already sent me a list of things that she needs me to do when I get there.” 

Katie winced. “You okay with that?”

“I think so.” Francesca ran her thumb along the side of her cup. “I mean, no. Not really. But I said yes anyway, didn’t argue too much. And I do want to see my dad.”

“What do you think he’ll say about it? Oscar?” She asked, head tilted. 

Francesca shrugged. “I don’t know,” then her expression softened. “But his family are coming to London next week, actually. Staying for a couple nights.”

“Wait, they’re coming to you?” Katie asked, her eyes wide. 

“Mmhmm,” Francesca said, tucking her knees up under her oversized hoodie — Oscar’s hoodie, technically, soft from wear and printed with his number across the back. “I said I felt bad about it, so he just made up some elaborate lie about Hattie wanting to go to the Christmas markets and try the churros in Hyde Park.”

She tugged at the hem of the sleeve, twisting it between her fingers, a small smile pulling at her mouth despite herself.

Katie snorted into her glass. “Well. Nobody can ever accuse him of being a good liar.”

“No, he’s terrible,” Francesca agreed, fondly exasperated. “He tried to look serious while saying it, but I could hear the smirk through the phone.”

“He’s such a simp for you,” Katie grinned. “It’s kind of biblical.”

Francesca didn’t disagree. She tilted her head back against the armchair, eyes flicking back to the screen. The pre-race build-up was rolling on — sweeping drone shots, pit crew scrambling, the overhead buzz of helicopters blending into the hum of nerves in her chest.

“He’s travelling back here in two days,” she said, voice soft. “Straight from Abu Dhabi. No press. No detours. Just… me.”

Katie raised her glass like a toast. “To the final race of the 2023 season.”

“To Oscar officially winning Rookie of the Year,” Francesca corrected, her eyes shining as she clinked their glasses together.

In truth, she was only half watching the screen now — the rest of her mind was already spinning ahead, past the chequered flag, past the interviews and flights and time zones. To the moment the front door would creak open and Oscar would be standing there, backpack slung over one shoulder, exhausted but smiling. Hers.

She imagined his hands on her waist. Nipping at his neck and watching his nose scrunch in response. How his voice would go soft when he finally whispered hi, beautiful.

The lights on the grid went out — five reds blinking out in sequence — and both girls leaned forward like clockwork, all anticipation.

Snacks forgotten. Breath held.

“Lights out and away we go!”

— 

The bathroom was full of steam and lavender, the soft fizz of a half-melted bath bomb curling lazy tendrils through the air. Her candle flickered on the windowsill, casting golden light across the bubbles piled high around her shoulders.

Francesca sank a little deeper into the heat, her phone held above the water in one hand, thumb scrolling absently through her Pinterest board labeled ‘Monaco Apartment’.

There were photos of sun-drenched balconies with striped umbrellas, airy cream interiors, lemon trees in terra cotta pots. Shelves lined with books and trinkets. Kitchens too pretty to ever cook in. One picture had a view that looked suspiciously like it came straight from Oscar’s daydreams — a narrow window framing a sliver of glittering sea. One of the pictures had a framed photo of a Formula One car hanging above a desk — a desk that could be hers. Used to edit on, write on, and film behind. 

Henry, perched regally on the closed toilet seat, gave a soft, chirping meow.

Francesca tilted the phone to show him a pin she’d just saved — a sunny corner nook with a hammock slung just below a wide-open window, a ginger cat lounging in a patch of light.

“Well?” she asked. “Would you want that to be you?”

Henry blinked slowly, then meowed again, louder this time, tail flicking once. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She smiled, heart doing that soft little skip it always did when she let herself imagine it — not just Monaco, but the after. The life that came with it. The one she was slowly starting to believe she might actually get to have.

Somewhere between fantasy and possibility, she saved the pin and let herself drift a little deeper into the bubbles.

— 

iMessage — Francesca & Oscar

Francesca

currently having a crisis

Oscar

You okay??

What kind of crisis are we talking

Francesca

i don’t know what to get your dad for christmas

Oscar

What??

You’re getting my dad a Christmas present?

Francesca

babe i’m getting your entire family presents lol 

anyway do you think he’d like some fancy wine? or is that too boring. socks? books? a bonsai tree?

Oscar

You really don’t have to do that

They will love you, presents or not 

Francesca

everyone else was easy to buy for but your dad has very specific vibes 

he’s difficult. mysterious. i must impress him… 

Oscar

He’s literally just a chill guy who watches cricket and makes too many dad jokes

You’re overthinking

Francesca

okay but hear me out

what if i knit him a scarf

and then he wears it

and i become his favourite

think of the long-term benefits osc

Oscar

If you knit my dad a scarf he will cry. Actually cry.

Do it. I wanna see it

Francesca

say less

pulling out the yarn as we speak

it will be mclaren themed so he can wear it on race weekends

Oscar

You’re crazy

I miss you so much it’s painful

See you in less than 48 hours baby

Francesca

i’m gonna jump you at the door

just so you know

Oscar

I’ll catch you

— 

The flat smelled like cinnamon and pine — Francesca had gone a little overboard with festive candles and a preemptive fake Christmas tree (still undecorated, but proudly up and not at all lopsided). The heating was on full blast, and Henry was perched by the door, waiting. 

She’d made a banner. Like, a very large banner — with gold lettering and orange glitter and those little sticky foam stars you get in craft kits. 

WELCOME HOME, ROOKIE OF THE YEAR

It hung wonkily across the living room wall. She stood underneath it in an oversized McLaren hoodie, leggings, and socks with snowmen on them. She had half a mind to be embarrassed — but she was too excited.

The door, unlocked in preparation for his arrival, swung open. 

And there he was.

Flushed from travel, hair rumpled, that stupid duffle bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes found hers instantly, lighting up like they always did, and for a second, he just stood there — stunned, smile blooming slow and warm across his face.

“Rookie of the year,” she announced, spreading her arms, presenting him with the banner and all her pent-up affection. “I’m so proud of you!” 

He dropped the bag. “You’re insane,” he said, already laughing. “Baby. You made a banner?”

She was across the room and in his arms a second later. He caught her with a soft, surprised breath, holding her tight, lifting her slightly off the ground.

“I missed you so much,” she whispered, burying her face in his neck.

“I thought about you every second,” he said. “Couldn’t wait to come back to you.”

“You’re here now,” she murmured, kissing his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

He grinned — and then she kissed him fully, properly, like she'd been waiting all month. Because she had.

His hands slid up under her hoodie as they stumbled toward the sofa, laughing between kisses, clumsy with how much they wanted — wanted to be close, wanted to feel like themselves again, all skin and heartbeats and soft sighs.

The banner fluttered slightly above them. Henry meowed disapprovingly at being ignored, and promptly turned tail and stomped into the kitchen.

Francesca’s back hit the sofa cushions, a quiet gasp leaving her as Oscar followed her down, his thumbs brushing the warm skin just beneath her ribs.

“I like this hoodie on you,” he said into her neck. “But I need it gone.”

She laughed softly, breath hitching as he kissed a slow line along her collarbone. “I stole it fair and square.”

“I’ll let you have it back,” he said, pulling it up, over her head — his fingers a little clumsy, caught in her hair. “Later.”

He kissed her like he meant it — deep and slow, like he had nowhere else in the world to be, like he’d missed her every single second they’d been apart. His hands found her waist, curved over her hips like muscle memory, tugging her closer until she could feel how much he wanted her.

“You’re warm,” she whispered, letting her legs fall open just enough to pull him between them.

“I ran up the stairs,” he murmured against her lips. “I couldn’t wait for the lift.”

Clothes came off in messy layers, half-laughed, half-torn, with the urgency of two people who’d waited too long and weren’t even trying to be patient anymore.

Francesca traced her fingers down the line of his spine, kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then lower. Oscar groaned softly, eyes fluttering shut, already breathless.

When he finally sank into her, their bodies fitting together like they always had — like they were made for this — Francesca clutched at his shoulders, pulled him in even closer.

“Hi,” she whispered, dazed and dizzy.

Oscar laughed, kissed her with a grin. “Hi, beautiful.”

They moved slow at first — hands roaming, mouths exploring, like they were relearning each other from scratch — then faster, more desperate, tangled up in each other and the couch cushions and the soft creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath them.

Oscar murmured her name, forehead pressed to hers, eyes so full of awe it made her chest ache.

She came first, clinging to him, breath caught on a gasp, heart wide open.

He followed with a low, wrecked moan, collapsing against her with a weight that felt more like surrender than anything else. Safe. Home.

— 

ONE WEEK LATER

Francesca checked the oven clock for the third time in as many minutes.

“They land in half an hour,” Oscar said behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and leaning his chin on her shoulder. “We’ve got ages, babe.”

“I just—what if your mum doesn’t like me?” she asked, turning slightly in his hold, nerves edging her voice. “What if your dad thinks I’m weird? What if your sister thinks I’m… boring?”

Oscar gave her a flat look. “Hattie has your book pre-ordered. A signed copy. She talks about you all the damn time.”

Francesca blinked up at him. “She does not.”

“She does,” he said with a grin, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of her ear. “My mum is trying to fake being cool, but she’s so excited to meet you. And my dad’s probably going to try and convince us both to go back to Australia with them and then never let us leave.”

She breathed in deeply, but her shoulders didn’t fully settle. “Should I have made a roast? Should I have baked something?” she asked, after a beat, wringing her fingers in the hem of her jumper.

Oscar leaned back slightly so he could see her face better, resting his hands lightly on her hips. “Baby. No one’s expecting anything from you. They just want to meet you. That’s it.”

Francesca gave him a sceptical look, but he just smiled, warm and fond and utterly sure. 

“We’re going to order that really good takeaway Thai that you love, and we’ve got Henry on emotional support duty, and you look—” he paused, letting his eyes sweep her slowly, head to toe, “—ridiculously beautiful. I would kiss you right now, except that I’m afraid if I start, I won’t be able to stop.”

She gave him a small, reluctant smile, and he caught her chin gently between his fingers to tip her gaze up.

“You don’t have to perform for them,” he said softly. “Just be you. That’s the person I fell for. That’s the person they’re about to fall for too.”

Francesca blinked, throat suddenly thick. “God, you’re good at this.”

Oscar grinned. “What, being your boyfriend? Yeah. Been practising.”

She sniffed in amusement, leaning into him. “Love you.” 

He lifted her onto the kitchen counter. She automatically wrapped her legs around his waist and draped her arms over his shoulders. 

“Love you more.” He said against her lips. 

—

Three hours later, they were at the door.

Francesca stood just behind Oscar, her palms slightly damp where they pressed to the hem of her t-shirt. 

Oscar glanced back at her with a soft smile, one hand already on the door handle. “You’re gonna be fine. Promise.”

She nodded, even though her stomach was somersaulting.

Then, the door swung open.

“Oscar!”

Nicole barely gave her son a second to breathe before she launched into a hug — arms wound tightly around his shoulders, her face pressed against his cheek. She was radiant, glamorous in that naturally chic way, with a warm Australian accent that rolled off her tongue like sunlight.

“Oh my god, my boy,” she said, pulling back to hold him at arm’s length like she needed to take stock of him in real time. “You look so good. Older!”

Oscar laughed, ducking his head. “Mum, you literally saw me two months ago.”

Nicole turned — and her expression immediately softened into something even warmer. Her eyes found Francesca. “And you must be Francesca.”

Before Francesca could say a word, she was swept into a firm, no-nonsense hug that smelled faintly of sandalwood and rose. Nicole’s grip was all-in — no hesitation, no formality. Just pure unbridled warmth.

“You are so beautiful,” she said, cupping Francesca’s cheek in both hands once she stepped back. “He’s completely obsessed with you, you know.”

Francesca blinked, and then her face flamed red. “Um — likewise.” She whispered, glancing over at Oscar, who winked at her, and then blushed himself when he realised his mum had probably seen him do it. 

Then came Chris, who stepped up behind Nicole with an easy, gentlemanly smile. He was tall and quietly charismatic, with the kind of calming energy that could neutralise a room.

“Lovely to finally meet you,” he said, extending a hand.

When Francesca shook it, he gave a small nod and gently patted her other hand, like she was someone to be trusted with something precious. “Thank you for looking after our boy.”

She smiled, unsure what to say, but touched by how genuine he sounded.

And then—

A thud and a grunt came from behind them, and Oscar rolled his eyes fondly. “And that’s Hattie.”

Hattie stumbled in with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and sunglasses still perched on her head. She was all chaotic charm — jeans with paint on them, an oversized denim jacket, and about six mismatched rings.

“Finally,” she said, dropping the bag like it had personally offended her and striding over to Francesca. “You’re real! And you’re so pretty!” 

Francesca laughed, startled by the sheer energy. “I— Thank you. So are you.”

“I can’t believe I’m actually in your apartment.” Hattie threw her arms around Francesca like they were already best friends, and it filled Francesca with ease. “I’m sorry in advance for how much I’m gonna annoy you this weekend, but I literally feel like I’m meeting my favourite internet celebrity right now.”

Oscar mouthed, told you so from behind her.

Nicole was cooing at Henry, who was perched high on the windowsill, blinking slowly .“And you must be Henry,” she said, voice pitched like she was meeting royalty. “Gosh, he’s even cuter than he is in the pictures.”

“This is his palace,” Oscar added, dropping his bag by the door. “He just lets us stay because we feed him.”

Us. We.

Francesca felt the words settle somewhere soft in her chest, warm and unfamiliar. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to it — the ease with which he spoke like this place belonged to both of them.

Chris chuckled and stepped further in. “Right then — do we get to sit down, or is this a standing-room-only sort of welcome?”

Francesca laughed, finally exhaling a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“Come in,” she said, stepping aside, warmth blooming slowly in her chest. “We ordered enough Thai food to feed a small village.”

Nicole beamed. “Perfect.”

Oscar caught her eye, brushing her hand with his as everyone made to settle into the small space. “See? Told you they’d love you.”

She gave him a look, but couldn’t help smiling. “They’re not so bad,” she murmured, grinning as she watched Hattie try to pick a nervous Henry up. 

Chris grunted as he sank into the couch, only to immediately shift and reach behind him with a puzzled look. He pulled out a small ball of tangled yarn and a pair of knitting needles. “Oh. Do you knit, Francesca?”

Francesca froze, blinking at him like a deer caught in headlights. “Um—”

Oscar, stood beside her, folded over with a wheeze of laughter, practically choking on it.

She glared at him. 

Chris looked confused. 

Nicole just watched them, a serene smile on her face. 

And Hattie… Hattie was still trying to convince Henry to let her hold him. 

— 

The kitchen was warm, golden-lit and quiet. The distant hum of laughter and murmured conversation came from the living room, where Oscar and Hattie were still squabbling over who got the last of the noodles.

Francesca stood in-front the sink, rinsing mugs and lining them up on the counter. She liked the rhythm of it — slow and grounding. She didn’t hear Nicole come in until the older woman leaned gently against the counter beside her.

“Can I help with anything, sweetheart?” Nicole asked softly, already reaching for a tea towel.

Francesca smiled and shook her head. “I’m good, I promise. Nearly done.”

Nicole didn’t move. Instead, she watched her for a moment, and then said, “Thank you again, for having us. I know it’s a lot — letting all of us into your space like this.”

Francesca shrugged, a little shyly. “I— Oscar’s always here, it only makes sense that you guys get to spend some time here too.”

Nicole’s eyes warmed. “Still. It’s a big thing, meeting everyone. You’ve been great.” 

Francesca dried her hands and leaned back against the counter, suddenly a little fidgety under the praise. “I was very nervous,” she admitted. “I still kind of am.”

Nicole’s brow furrowed, gently. “Why?”

Francesca gave a half-laugh, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. I guess I just… wanted to impress you.”

Nicole reached over, placing a hand over Francesca’s. “Oh, darling,” she said softly. “From the first time Oscar told me about you, I could hear it in his voice — how much you mean to him. You don’t ever have to be anything other than yourself to impress anyone, but especially us.”

Francesca blinked, throat tightening unexpectedly. “Really?”

“Of course,” Nicole said.

Francesca looked down, her cheeks pink, unsure what to say.

Nicole gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. From what Oscar shared with me in those early weeks, and then seeing you now? You’ve come so far, honey.”

Francesca’s voice was barely more than a breath. “Thank you.”

Nicole smiled, warm and full of something steady. “Just make sure he’s eating enough vegetables and not leaving dirty socks everywhere, alright?”

Francesca let out a soft laugh, the lump in her throat loosening. “I can definitely try. The sock thing’s a losing battle though.”

Nicole nudged her shoulder with a conspiratorial grin. “That’s alright. He’s always been a bit hopeless. But he’s got a good heart. Always has.”

Francesca’s gaze dropped, her cheeks warm. “Yeah. I know.”

Nicole reached for a dish towel and tossed it over her shoulder with practiced ease. “Now come on. If we leave those three alone for too long, they might start to miss us.”

Oscar appeared in the doorway just as Nicole finished speaking, shoulder propped lazily against the frame, his hair a little mussed and his cheeks pink from laughing. He looked so at ease, so completely at home in this little corner of her world, that Francesca felt her heart catch in her chest.

“Too late,” he said, grinning. “I was about to launch a search party.”

Nicole rolled her eyes. “Always so dramatic.”

Francesca stared at him, utterly endeared by the chaos, by his easy warmth — by how he made this space, this life, feel so full. So safe. She didn’t move, even as he crossed the kitchen in a few strides and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her into his chest like it was instinct. Like she belonged there.

“You good?” he murmured against her hair, his voice low, meant just for her.

She nodded. Pressed into him. Let herself just… exist in his orbit. 

She leaned up a little as Nicole walked back through to the living room, whispering just under her breath, “I’m really glad they’re here.”

Oscar’s lips pressed against the top of her head with a lingering kiss. “Me too, baby.”

— 

Chris didn’t cry when he unwrapped his scarf, embroidered with Oscar’s race number and their surname, but his eyes did get suspiciously shiny, and he hugged her for a solid two minutes afterwards. 

— 

A WEEK LATER

iMessage — Oscar & Francesca 

Oscar 

Okay I may or may not have gone a bit rogue

Francesca 

?? explain pls

Oscar

I got us cinnamon buns the size of our heads

Also two kinds of cake because I couldn’t decide which one I wanted more

And the coffee place had your weird vanilla oat thing so I got two just in case you want one for later too

Francesca 

aw baby ur the best bf ever 

but like every time i roll over and you’re not there i lose a year off my life. i’m down to like. five.

hurry up and come back

Oscar

Back in 5

Don’t move

Or do move if Henry gets hungry 

But otherwise stay cosy

I have carbs and caffeine and I love you. 

Francesca 

i wanna thank you with my mouth. not the talking kind.

Oscar 

Aw. You’re so romantic baby.  

—

They were in bed, a few days later, when she finally gathered enough nerve to bring it up. 

The duvet was pulled up to her chin, her socked feet tucked beneath Oscar’s legs for warmth. The bedside lamp cast a soft, golden glow over the room, and outside the window, the sky was navy. It was quiet — Henry was snoring from his new tee-pee bed in the corner of the room. Oscar had bought it for him as an early Christmas present. 

Francesca had been quiet for a while, absently scrolling on her phone, her fingers lingering too long on the same screen. Oscar had noticed — of course he had — but he didn’t press. Just waited.

Then, eventually, she said, “I told my mum I’d go home for Christmas.”

Oscar turned his head on the pillow, looking at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded, small and hesitant. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence, before he asked, in that same soft voice that made her stomach warm, “How do you feel about it?”

She looked down at her hands, thumbs pressing into each other. “I don’t know. Not good.”

He shifted beside her, the duvet rustling. “Talk to me, baby…”

“I’m scared,” she admitted, quietly, ashamed of the words. “The last time I was there, I was the worst version of myself. Hurting, hiding, constantly ashamed of myself.” She sniffled. 

Oscar sat up and then reached beneath the duvet to grab her by the hips. With ease, he pulled her up and out of the sheets and onto his lap, letting her curl into his chest and holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world. 

Her voice wobbled. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. I haven’t even booked flights yet. Every time I try, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Oscar gave her hand a squeeze. “Then I’ll do it.”

She blinked over at him. “What?”

“I’ll book everything,” he said gently. “I’ll figure it out. We’ll fly out of Gatwick.” 

Her brows furrowed, eyes going wide. “Osc, you don’t have to—”

“I’ll figure it out,” he repeated, more firm that time. “I know I don’t have to,” he said, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “But why wouldn’t I, if it makes things easier for you? I know you can do it alone. That’s not why I’m offering. I just… want to be there to take care of you. That’s all.”

Francesca’s chest gave a quiet, aching sort of flutter. There was so much love packed into his words, steady and certain. And when she looked at him — really looked — she realised: this wasn’t just kindness. It was commitment. He’d said we’ll, without hesitation. Like it wasn’t even an option to let her go alone.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

Oscar caught it with the pad of his thumb. “Hey.” He whispered. 

“I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice catching. “I’m just… relieved. And so lucky to have you.” 

“I’m the lucky one,” he said simply, kissing her forehead. “Always.”

Francesca let herself melt into him, burrowing into his chest as his arms came around her.

After a moment, he mumbled into her hair, “Now I just have to figure out which airline we should fly with. Because I’m not squeezing into a stupid EasyJet seat for five hours.”

She laughed into his shirt. “God, I love you.”

He hummed against her temple. “I know.”

—

The morning of the trip started early, still silent and black outside when Oscar’s phone alarm buzzed. Francesca had barely slept, despite Oscar’s arms wrapped around her all night, steady and grounding. Her stomach was tight twisted with anxiety, the familiar anticipation of pure fear already blooming in her chest.

But from the moment she opened her eyes, Oscar was calm. Unhurried. Kind.

He kissed her forehead. “Everything’s sorted, baby. All you have to do is get dressed and get in the car.”

And it was true — he’d done everything. Their bags were packed and ready by the door. Their passports tucked safely in the front pocket of his backpack. The car service was on its way. At the airport, he had everything already checked in. He handed her the boarding pass with her name on it like it was a love letter rather than a potential death sentence.

But it didn’t hit her fully until they were going through security — the long queue, the low hum of fluorescent lights, the crowd pressing too close, her backpack feeling too heavy and her hands too empty at the same time.

She felt the shift — the surge of static under her skin, the way the air suddenly felt too thin.

Oscar noticed immediately.

“Hey.” His voice was low, soft. Just for her. “You’re okay.”

She was shaking her head before he’d even finished the sentence.

Oscar stepped in front of her, shielding her slightly from the crowd. “Alright. Look at me.”

She did — barely.

“Remember what Dr. Kapoor said?” he murmured. “In for four.”

He held up his fingers, counting silently. She matched his breath, though it came shuddering at first.

“That’s it,” he said, nodding. “Hold for four.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. He counted again.

“And out for six.”

It took a few rounds. But eventually the tremble eased. Her hands relaxed where they’d clenched around the strap of her bag.

When she opened her eyes again, his were waiting for hers. Steady. Gentle. Proud.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

He always did. 

When she blinked up at him in surprise as they stopped at the business class gate, he added gently, “There’s also a hotel booked for us near your parents’ place, so you can have space if you need it. I got a room with a giant bathtub.” Then he smirked, trying to cut through the tension winding tight around her shoulders. “Also, I hired a car. It’ll be at the airport when we land. Figured you’d be more comfortable with me driving than, you know, someone else.”

She stared at him, then narrowed her eyes, suspicion creeping in beneath the nerves. “What kind of car?”

“A nice one,” he said, bumping his shoulder gently into hers, like he wasn’t trying to soothe her — but he was. He always was. “Fast. Pretty. Might be orange.”

She chuckled in response and leaned into him fully, her entire weight settling against his side. It was early — painfully early — and despite the bustle of the airport, with the overhead lights too bright and the tannoy voice too loud and clipped, Oscar was like a shield between her and the world.

No one had recognised him yet, which felt almost miraculous. But it was before dawn, and he had his hood up, and Francesca was practically plastered to his side. He’d angled himself between her and everyone else as they queued, one hand low on her back. Steady. 

Every echo bounced around her skull, every sharp noise chipped away at her carefully built calm. Her chest was tight, like her ribs were drawn in with string, and she hadn’t taken a deep breath since they left the flat.

She hated this part — the waiting. The shuffling forward. The lack of exits. Her fingers had long since curled into fists inside the pocket of her coat, nails digging crescents into her palms, and she didn’t even notice until Oscar gently untucked one hand and threaded his fingers through hers.

“Breathe,” he said softly, his thumb brushing hers. “You’re doing so good, ‘Cesca. Just hold on a bit longer.”

Her throat ached with how much she loved him for that — the complete lack of frustration when she was like this. When she was small and quiet and too overwhelmed to mask it in any sort of way.

“I hate this,” she whispered, her voice raw with shame she couldn’t fully hide.

“I know,” he said, like it wasn’t a problem. Like it was just a fact.

She blinked hard, swallowing the lump forming thick in her throat.

“You really got an orange car?” She asked, with a hint of disgust in her wobbly voice. 

Oscar smiled down at her, soft and utterly besotted. “Yep. It’s so flashy. Your mum will absolutely hate it.” 

A breath of laughter slipped out of her, shaky but real. It loosened something in her chest.

And Oscar kissed the top of her head. “That’s my girl.”

— 

iMessage — Katie & Francesca 

Katie 

Your son misses you but he is being spoiled rotten by his godmother 

*insert picture of Henry asleep in Katie’s bathtub*

Francesca 

stop. i miss him so much already

my shaylaaaaaaaa

Katie 

He’s a big fan of my new curtains

They’re very climbable apparently 😃

Franceca 

omg 

if he tears them down i’ll pms 

Katie 

They cost me a lot of money Francesca 

Francesca 

henry has no morals, money doesn’t matter to him

he chewed up oscar’s 5k sunglasses the other day 

it was hilarious

Katie 

Why does your bf own 5k sunglasses?

Francesca 

he doesn’t anymore lmaooooo

—

The engine purred beneath them like it was alive — a low, silky rumble that vibrated through the soles of her shoes. Francesca sat in the passenger seat, her fingers curled around the edge of the leather seat, the window cracked open just enough to let in the Spanish air. It cut through the lingering hum of adrenaline in her chest.

The sports car — bright, loud, and so orange — gleamed obnoxiously in the afternoon light. It had turned every head in the car park.

Oscar glanced at her from the driver’s seat as they idled at a stop light, his hand resting palm-up on the console between them, waiting for hers. “You did so good today,” he said, sincere and soft.

Francesca looked at him. He had his sunglasses on, the ones he’d bought at the airport out of necessity, thanks to Henry. The way his mouth tilted was all affection — proud, reassuring. Safe.

She exhaled, the sound shaky. “Thanks,” she said. Then, after a beat, she added, “I feel like I might need to completely shut down. Like, physically curl into a ball and not speak again until tomorrow.”

Oscar nodded like that made perfect sense. “Then that’s what we do,” he said simply. “Shut down protocol activated. We’ll go straight to the hotel now, yeah? I’ll run you a bath, order room service, give you your big headphones, and we won’t even think about the outside world until tomorrow.”

The words wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She didn’t have to pretend. Didn’t have to force a smile or hold a conversation when all she wanted was to disappear for a bit and let her nervous system recalibrate.

“You sure you don’t mind?” she asked, voice small.

He glanced at her again, reaching over to squeeze her thigh. “Baby. You’ve been holding yourself together since we left the flat. You don’t have to prove anything to me. You’ve already done the hard part — you got on the plane. You landed. You’re here.”

She let out a laugh that was more breath than sound. “I’m not sure how I managed to do it.”

“You just did,” Oscar said.

The light turned green. He eased them forward, smooth and unbothered, like they had all the time in the world. The car glided, fast and controlled — a strange, soothing contrast to the chaos inside her.

Francesca let herself sag back into the seat, exhaustion settling in like fog. Her fingers brushed over Oscar’s where they rested beside the gear shift, warm and steady. “I’ll text my mum,” she murmured. “Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow instead.”

Oscar glanced at her, eyes soft beneath the shadow of his lashes. “She still doesn’t know I’m coming, does she?”

“I told her I was bringing my boyfriend,” she said with a wry smile. “She thought I was joking.” 

He laughed lowly, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ll be a surprise then.” 

“A big one.” She hummed. 

— 

The hotel room was dim and quiet, lit only by the pinkish glow of the evening light and the television flickering on the wall. Francesca was curled up on the bed in one of Oscar’s shirts, her legs stretched across his lap as he absentmindedly rubbed her calf beneath the blanket.

Her phone buzzed against the duvet.

She ignored it once. Twice. But the third time, she sighed and grabbed it.

—

iMessage — Izzy & Francesca 

Izzy

Seriously? A hotel? You’re literally ten minutes away from the house.

You’re so ridiculous.

Mum thinks so too, btw

—

Francesca’s stomach twisted. She swallowed hard and set the phone face-down, trying to push the sudden weight in her chest back down.

Oscar felt the shift in her immediately. He tapped her leg gently. “Hey. What was that?”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly. “Just Izzy being... Izzy.”

He reached across and plucked the phone from the duvet before she could protest, flipping it over and reading the messages. His jaw tightened slightly.

“She texted you that?” he asked, tone flat.

Francesca didn’t answer — just looked at him, unsure what to say.

Oscar exhaled slowly. “I’m not sure whether I’m going to like her.”

Her lips twitched in a smile. “Yeah, well. She’s not exactly an easy sell.”

He tossed the phone back down and refocused on her. “You don’t have to defend any of this, okay? Wanting space. Setting boundaries. You’re an adult.”

She nodded, but her throat was too tight to speak.

Oscar leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her knee.

Francesca blinked at him, then crawled into his lap fully, curling into the warmth of him like he was the only place on earth she felt safe.

“You’re kind of perfect, you know that?” she whispered into his shoulder.

He smiled against her hair. “Only for you.”

— 

The hotel bathroom was steamy, dimly lit, quiet but for the gentle hum of running water and the soft slosh as Francesca shifted back against Oscar’s chest.

He had his arms around her, legs bracketing hers beneath the bubbles, and she was half-asleep with how warm and safe she felt. Her damp hair clung to the curve of her neck and his lips followed it there, pressing lazy kisses into her skin like he had nowhere else to be — like he’d never want to be anywhere else.

“You good?” he murmured against her shoulder, voice low and sleepy.

She nodded, hand finding his beneath the water. “Mhm. This helps.”

He smiled against her skin, tightening his arm a little. “Good. You did so well today.”

Francesca sighed, the kind that came from somewhere deep in her chest. “I don’t feel like I did.”

Oscar nudged his nose into her hair. “Doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

She turned just slightly, enough to see him, cheeks pink from the heat and eyes heavy-lidded with the same tenderness she felt blooming in her chest.

“You always say that.”

“That’s because I always mean it,” he said simply. “And also because you’re naked and wet and sitting in my lap and it’s extremely… nice.”

A laugh broke out of her before she could stop it — breathless and disbelieving and adoring. “I knew this was a trap.”

“Hey,” he protested softly, grinning now, “I’m being very respectful. For now.”

She shifted again, slow and languid, and tilted her head just enough to kiss him — long and sleepy and close. His hand slid up her arm, water dripping down her shoulder, and when he kissed her back, it was with a kind of quiet worship that said more than words ever could.

She let herself sink against him again, head tucked into the space beneath his jaw, their hearts beating steady and warm beneath the surface of the water.

Slowly, his hand skimmed down her side, slow and deliberate, fingers trailing like he was savouring every inch of her. When he reached the inside of her thigh, he paused, thumb brushing lazy circles on soft skin, peering down at her with hooded, burning eyes.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his lips ghosting against her collarbone. “Baby.” 

“You,” she breathed. “Always you.”

That made something flicker in him — something reverent. He kissed her then, deeper, more possessive, like he couldn’t help himself. His hand moved again, higher this time, between her legs, gentle but assured.

She gasped into his mouth as his fingers slipped against her — teasing, exploring, learning. Her hips jerked, but he held her steady, murmuring soft praise against her cheek as he worked her open.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he said, coaxing. “Just let go for me.”

And she did.

So beautifully.

— 

The house hadn’t changed.

Same red bricks, same Christmas wreaths hung on the windows, same too-tight smile on her mother’s face when she answered the door. Francesca stood half behind Oscar, already regretting everything, but it was too late now — her sister was storming into the hallway behind their mum, eyes widening when they landed on him.

“Oh my god,” she said, and it wasn’t subtle. “You’re Oscar Piastri.”

Her mum blinked. “I’m sorry, who?”

Oscar smiled, polite and calm. “Hi, I’m Oscar. Francesca’s boyfriend.”

That made her dad glance up from where he was reading something at the dining table, just inside the house. “Boyfriend?”

“I told you I was bringing someone,” Francesca said, her voice smaller than she meant it to be.

Her sister gave a bark of laughter. “You didn’t say you were bringing him. Like, fucking Oscar Piastri. Jesus.”

“Mum thought I was joking,” Francesca said, attempting levity, but it didn’t quite land.

Her mother’s eyes swept over Oscar like she didn’t believe he was real. “Well. You’ve never brought a boyfriend home before.”

Oscar laced his fingers with hers, thumb brushing along the side of her hand.

Her sister rolled her eyes, sharp and narrowed as she looked between Francesca and Oscar. “How did you two even happen?” she asked, the words coated in a thin, scoffing laugh.

Francesca didn’t answer.

She didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she felt herself start to slip — quiet and practiced — into that small, familiar corner of her mind she’d built a long time ago. A place made for moments like this, when it was safer to fold in on herself than push back. When it was easier to go quiet than let the words catch in her throat.

“Bloody hell,” her dad muttered, eyes fixed just over their shoulders. “That’s a lovely car.”

Francesca didn’t need to turn around to know he meant the Ferrari parked at the curb, sleek and ridiculous in its McLaren-orange glory.

Her mum glanced at it and immediately wrinkled her nose. “Gaudy,” she said, as if the word had a bad taste.

—

Later, at lunch, the table was crowded with mismatched dishes and clattering silverware. Francesca picked at a slice of bread, her appetite dulled by the tension sitting heavy in her chest.

“I mean,” her mum said, cutting her food, “it’s lovely to see you like this. Smiling. You must be doing so much better now, with the boyfriend and everything.”

Oscar paused mid-chew. Francesca didn’t move at all.

Her mum went on, cutting into her salad with a little too much force. “It’s almost like magic, really. A famous boyfriend and poof — all that silly anxiety, just gone.”

The words hung heavy in the air, clinking harder than cutlery.

Francesca’s stomach tightened, but she didn’t look up.

Her sister laughed — sharp, high-pitched, and cruel. “Mum, I’ve been trying to tell you for years. It’s all for show. Attention. It’s the only reason people care about her online, too — they think she’s fragile. It’s ridiculous. She’s clearly doing just fine.”

Francesca swallowed hard. Her vision prickled at the edges.

Oscar set his fork down slowly. “‘Cesca,” he said, his voice gentle but direct, “do you want to leave?”

Her hands had curled into her lap. They were sore. She hadn’t even realised that she’d started doing it, pinching and twisting at her own skin. She didn’t look at him, but she nodded.

He pushed his chair back, scraping against the floor. “Okay,” he said, standing. “Let’s go.”

There was stunned silence.

Oscar didn’t let it hang in the air. He turned to her parents, calm but firm, his voice low and unwavering. “You have no idea how hard this is for her.”

“Oh, Oscar, darling—” Francesca’s mum started, her tone already turning frantic.

Her dad stared at his plate, suddenly very interested in his untouched food.

Her mum pressed her lips together, eyes flicking from Francesca to Oscar and back again, something uncertain flickering behind her defensiveness.

Her sister, however, didn’t flinch. She stared at Oscar like she was trying to figure out how best to wound him — something cold and mean curling behind her narrowed eyes.

Francesca blinked quickly, fighting back the sting behind her eyes as Oscar stood, helping her into her coat with practiced care. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make a scene — he just… said exactly what needed to be said. 

There were no more words spoken. 

Just the soft scrape of the front door opening and then clicking shut.

And then they were gone.

—

The car was silent for a while, save for the low hum of the engine and the distant rush of the road beneath them. Francesca stared out the window, the world blurring past.

“I probably made it worse. By leaving like that,” she whispered eventually.

“You didn’t,” Oscar said, eyes steady on the road.

She let her head fall back against the seat. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quiet,” he said. “You need to breathe.”

When the coastline came into view, she nearly cried again — salt air and the sound of gulls overhead, a long stretch of sand just beyond the dunes.

Oscar parked, turned to her, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Let’s just sit for a while,” he said. “Yeah?”

Francesca didn’t say anything. She just nodded, already climbing into his lap the moment the engine turned off, curling into his chest like it was where she belonged. 

The safest place in the world. 

— 

Back at the hotel, the door had barely shut behind them when Francesca pressed her face into Oscar’s chest. She was quiet for a long time, just letting herself feel him — solid, warm, here. His arms came around her without hesitation.

“Your family made me feel more loved in a few days,” she murmured, voice muffled against his hoodie, “than mine ever have. Isn’t that so messed up?”

Oscar exhaled slowly, resting his chin on the top of her head. “It’s just… their loss.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

“You’ll never have to find out.” His voice was soft, but the promise in it was solid.

Her eyes shimmered. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Oscar’s thumb brushed gently across her cheek. “One day,” he said, tone suddenly light, teasing at the edges, “you’ll be a Piastri, and you won’t just have my family — you’ll be my family.”

She blinked, startled, then laughed, even as her throat caught. “Are you proposing right now?”

“Absolutely not.” He shook his head. “Not while you’re wearing socks with cats on them.”

“They’re Henry socks,” she protested. “You were the one who got them for me.”

“I know. I still think they’re hideous.” His grin tugged at one side, but then softened into something gentler, more sincere. “Just saying… you’ve got me. And my family. For good.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his jaw, the affection in her chest rising up like a tide.

Then she nipped at his skin, not hard, but firm enough to make him flinch.

He winced with a half-laugh. “Babe…”

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Thinking about being your wife made me feel a bit feral.”

— 

iMessage — Oscar & Mark

Oscar 

I’m going to marry her one day 

Mark 

You are both 22 years old

You’re fucking babies 

Oscar 

I said one day, not tomorrow 

Maybe next week 

Mark

Crikey. 

— 

Oscar leans against the counter, phone pressed to his ear. Through the open door, he can still hear Francesca’s soft, steady breathing from the bed — dead to the world after the long, emotionally exhausting day she’d just endured.

His mum picks up on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

Oscar exhales, scrubbing a hand through his curls. “Not really.”

There’s a pause, a shift in her tone. “What’s happened?”

“Francesca’s asleep,” he says quietly. “Finally. But… God, Mum. Her family. It was worse than I thought.”

Nicole is silent for a beat, letting him talk.

“They made all these little comments. Acted like—  like they don’t know her at all.” He paces a little. “They talk over her. Around her. Like she’s not even in the bloody room. And she just— she shuts down. I watched it happen; right in front of me.”

Nicole sighs, low and full of something maternal and knowing. “Our poor girl.”

Oscar leans back against the sink, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She deserves so much better. They make her feel like she’s small. Like she’s in the way. I want to—” He breaks off, jaw clenched. “I want to protect her from all of it. I just don’t know where the line has to be, you know? They’re still her family, whether I like it or not.”

Nicole doesn’t speak immediately. When she does, her voice is gentle, firm. “You’re already doing it, Oscar. Protecting her.”

He swallows hard. “It doesn’t feel like I’m doing enough.”

“Well, she’s not alone now, is she?”

He shakes his head, more to himself than to her. “No. She’s not.”

There’s a soft pause. “Book some flights,” Nicole says simply.

Oscar stills. “What?”

“To come home,” she says. “Both of you. Bring her here. Let her rest. Let her breathe. You said she felt loved when she was with us — so let’s give her some more of that at a time of the year when everyone deserves to be surrounded by it. Show her what home is supposed to feel like.”

His heart aches with warmth for his mum, even as he hesitates, thinking about the logistics, wondering if Francesca would even be ready for that kind of leap. “You don’t mind?”

Nicole scoffs, like the question itself is absurd. “Darling, I bought her a beach cover-up for Christmas. It’s wrapped and under the tree. I was counting on you bringing her here.”

Oscar grins, the weight in his chest easing just slightly. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she teases. “Now go get some sleep. And tell her we can’t wait to see her again.”

Oscar hangs up a minute later, slipping quietly back into bed. Francesca stirs, curling instinctively into him as he slides under the covers. He kisses the top of her head, breathes in her raspberry scent, and lets himself drift. 

CHAPTER SEVEN PT.2

[yrluvjane]

i saw you were asking for requests, can i request a drabble where reader works as a waitress or just customer service in general and gets flirted with by james and she just assumes it's a prank since he's laughing with the marauders later? fluff ending plss

The bell above the café door jingled for what felt like the hundredth time that hour, and you barely resisted the urge to groan as yet another group of customers strolled in. Your feet ached, your apron was stained with at least three different beverages, and you were this close to snapping at the next person who snapped their fingers at you.

And then they walked in.

Four boys, loud and laughing, tumbling into the café like they owned the place. The one in front—messy dark hair, glasses slightly askew, and a grin that could probably charm the Queen herself—immediately zeroed in on the last empty booth by the window. His friends followed, the black-haired one dramatically flopping into the seat while the other two bickered over who got the spot against the wall.

You took a deep breath, plastered on your best customer service smile, and marched over.

"Welcome in," you said, voice carefully neutral despite the exhaustion creeping in. "What can I get you?"

The messy-haired one looked up, and—oh.

His grin widened. "Wow. You're really pretty."

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then, deadpan: "Great. One harassment to go, then?"

His friends exploded with laughter. The black-haired one—Sirius, you'd hear James call him later—nearly fell out of the booth, clutching his stomach, while the sleepy-looking one buried his face in his hands like he was praying for the ground to swallow him whole. The fourth, a round-faced boy who looked equal parts amused and terrified, just shook his head like this was a regular occurrence.

Messy Hair, however, looked delighted. "That was brilliant. I'm James, by the way."

You scribbled on your notepad, unfazed. "Uh-huh. Four coffees?"

James leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand like he was settling in for a proper chat. "Actually, I was hoping you could recommend something sweet."

You didn't even look up. "The chocolate croissants."

He tilted his head. "I was thinking more along the lines of your number."

You snorted. "Wow. Original."

Sirius was wheezing now, tears in his eyes. "Mate, she's destroying you."

James didn't even look embarrassed. If anything, he looked impressed.

You rolled your eyes, jotting down their order with perhaps more force than necessary. "Four coffees, one chocolate croissant, and zero chances of me falling for whatever prank this is."

James gasped, hand over his heart like you'd wounded him. "You think this is a prank?"

You gave him a flat look, then pointedly glanced at Sirius, who was still filming the entire interaction on his phone.

James followed your gaze and groaned. "Okay, that part was a prank."

You smirked. "Called it."

But then—just as you turned to leave—James caught your wrist, gentle but firm. When you looked back, his expression was unexpectedly earnest, the playful glint in his eyes softening into something that made your stomach do a weird little flip.

"Hey," he said, voice lower now, just for you. "For real, though. If I came back tomorrow—just me, no idiots—would you let me buy you a coffee?"

You hesitated.

Because, okay, sure, he was ridiculously good-looking, and yeah, the way his thumb was absently brushing against your pulse point was doing things to your ability to think straight—but you weren't stupid. Guys like him didn't flirt with café waitresses unless it was for a laugh.

"...Maybe," you said finally, pulling your hand away. "If you tip well."

James beamed, that bright, boyish grin that made his glasses slide further down his nose. "Deal."

(And if you may have given him an extra-large slice of cake with his order later, well. That was between you and the kitchen staff.)

Later that night, Your phone buzzed just as you were collapsing onto your couch, feet finally free from those godforsaken non-slip shoes. You fumbled for it, squinting at the screen.

Unknown Number: hey it's james. from the café. you never gave me your name

You stared. Then—

You: How did you get this number?

James: asked the guy at the register. he said you'd kill him

You: I'm going to.

James: worth it

James: so. name?

You hesitated. Then, against your better judgment—

You: It's (Y/N).

James: (Y/N).

James: pretty.

James: just like you

You groaned, throwing your phone across the couch.

You were not smiling. Absolutely not.

[iimplicitt]

Ahhh okay I'm so glad you like the idea, I was kinda nervous ngl <3

HUNGRY EYES PART ONE | LN4 OP81

pairings: business partners landoscar x secretary! character

a/n-warnings: suggestive themes, language, inappropriate work relationship, secret relationships, older! lando & older! oscar, 18+, unprotected! smut, age gap (secretary is in her 20s), power play, sir! kink is alive and thriving, semi-public smut, choking, spitting, fingering, oral! (fem receiving), multiple parts SORRY i got carried away

wc: 4.6k

“She’s mine,” Oscar bit out, tempted to punch his long time business partner in the face.

“Sure, mate.” Lando smiled, looking wicked. “Wasn’t what she was telling me inside of my office, though.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Her first month had been uneventful, to say the least. The paperwork was plenty, the calls all rerouted, emails answered swiftly, but still she grew bored halfway through the day. Pen tapping against the desk, the click click click matching in rhythm with the clock mounted on the wall behind her. As if taunting, each tick telling her she was wasting her youth away.

She could never rest easy, never felt like she could even lounge. Always performing, keeping her posture in check.

So many men around.

The hallways of the law firm constantly paraded by swathes of testosterone. Glowing eyes that looked at her chest as they muttered their good mornings as they walked to their desks. Or their gazes would be fixed on the two doorways on either side of her. Anxiety knitting their brows and tongues being burnt on too hot coffee.

This morning was different than no other, only there was a voice muffled behind the door on her left. Mr. Piastri was in office today. Early, he had been there when she arrived. Already in a meeting and an email waiting in her inbox, asking for invoices. A space down a PSA, not to be late.

She ground her jaw. She was never late. In fact, as her eyes flicked back to clock behind her she was early.

Biting her tongue, she simply sat herself down and smoothed out her skirt. Attaching the necassey files and ignoring his last statement, aggressively hitting send.

In her time there she had hardly spoken a word to him. Neither of them, really, her bosses. They didn’t frequent the building often, probably out doing business on some yacht in Monaco. Meetings drowning in champagne before waltzing into courtrooms with their three pieced suits and egos so big Narcissus would go slack jawed.

The few times she had spoken to them it tended be one sided. Their gazes on their phones as they walked by her desk, their only conversations, if she could call them that, done over email.

But she would watch the other men in the office, how they held their breaths, eyes waiting, practically drooling anytime either of them walked in the doors or held a meeting.

She grew rather spiteful.

Watching through the glass of the meeting room across the floor as Mr. Norris, the other owner, stood casually with a hand in his pocket as he went over some presentation. Seeing how the men of the firm practically swayed with each movement.

Great Mr. Norris. Brilliant Mr. Norris. Shining Mr. Norris. God-like Mr. Norris.

How the endearments piled up.

She scoffed.

“Problem?”

She flinched, turning to see Mr. Piastri leaned against the tall edge of her desk on one elbow, following her glance to the conference room and a barely there smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but other than that his expression remained blank. Stoney. As it always had been. Even when she heard him in meetings, his tone was always even. Dry. Slightly rough around the edges, but even tempered.

Commanding.

She swallowed dryly. “No, sir.”

His eyes turned back to her, his brown eyes looking dark in the lighting of the office. Shadows danced across the sharp planes of his face, casting certain parts into darkness. Making up a phantom. Staring at her as if he’d only just realised she was there.

“It doesn’t paint a pretty picture if our secretary is scowling at the CEO.” He commented, voice smooth. Sometimes it felt like he hated her. She often caught him staring at her, the slightest of frowns on his lips. Practically invisible, but there. She couldn’t read him. Which unnerved her. Nearly all the men in this office were like an open book, their pages pathetically falling open in her lap.

“I didn’t realise I was here to look pretty.” She shouldn’t have said it but the words were out into the air nonetheless.

He blinked at her, eyes slowly dancing to her name plate and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he’d forgotten her name.

Mr. Piastri’s tongue ran along the inside of his cheek as he looked at her again. Really looked at her. Taking her in from head to toe and she felt a blush start to flare up her neck from his apt attention.

“You aren’t. Nor are you here to scowl.” He tapped a quick rhythm on her desk. “Don’t be late tomorrow morning.”

She should’ve waited till she heard his office door shut when she next spoke, “prick.”

Maybe she would’ve paled if she realised he’d heard her. Maybe she would’ve seen that string pull at the corners of his lips again before he disappeared inside his office.

Her eyes drifted to Mr. Norris again, her eyes narrowing slighting over her monitor as she watched an easy smile grace his lips as the presentation concluded. Muffled applause sounded from the conference room and she found her fingers hitting the keyboard a little harder than usual.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

“Good morning.”

She jumped slightly at the words, careful not to spill her coffee as she looked up at the passing figure of Mr. Piastri.

Was she imagining things? They hadn’t spoken in two weeks. Then again, he hadn’t been in the office since then. But he had never once said good morning to her.

“Good morning?” It left her like a question as she stared after him, only catching a glimpse of the slightly amused expression he wore before he shut the door to his office.

When she turned she jumped again, this time she did spill coffee and the hot liquid soaked into her white blouse. A string of curses leaving her lips as she quickly pulled the fabric away from her burning skin.

Her other boss, Mr. Norris, standing in front of her desk looking anything but sorry.

He clicked his tongue. “Someone is jumpy.”

She couldn’t help it as she stared at him. He’d never come to talk to her, not since her first day when he showed her where her desk was and that was it.

His eyes flicked down to her soaked top, his expression unreadable. “Are you busy?”

“I—“

“I need you to accompany me on a meeting.”

“Now?”

He hummed, already beginning to walk away.

“But,” she looked down at her shirt, at the list of emails she needed to answer, at the stacks of paperwork. “I— Mr. Norris—“

“We don’t have all day,” he called over his shoulder, his finger already pressing into the lift button.

Feeling as though her brain was short circuiting, she quickly scraped a notepad and pens into her purse before following after him. Sparing a glance to Mr. Piastri’s office, wondering if he knew where she’d run off to.

Stepping into the lift behind him, she swallowed thickly and kept her distance. Her wet shirt already started to feel cold and she wondered if she was having some sort of nightmare.

She eyed her boss out of the corner of her eye, watching how the light caught against his tan skin and sharp features. His hair always a mess of curls, a contrast to the neat hairstyle Mr. Piastri always adorned.

With shaking hands, she took out her phone and began drafting an email to the whole office, saying she would be out in a meeting when a large hand suddenly covered her phone screen.

Eyes flicking up, she was taken aback by how glittering his eyes looked. Darkened by the shadow of his thick lashes.

“That won’t be necessary.” He muttered, pulling his hand away before shoving it back in the pocket of his slacks.

“What?” She said dumbly.

“This meeting is a need to know sort of thing.”

She raised a brow. “Okay, but everyone is going to be wondering where I went.”

He looked down at her, a crease lightly forming between his brow. “Do they really bother you that much?”

She balked at him. “What is it that you think I do all day?”

His lips tugged to the side, revealing a dimple. “Make coffee?”

She could’ve sworn her eye twitched before a light laugh left him. “I’m kidding. They’ll survive you being gone for a few hours. Besides, maybe they’ll actually get their work done.”

“Meaning?”

The lift doors opened and he stepped out, leaving her to follow after him.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

She had gotten caught up late into the evening, well past the office closure to catch up on everything to-do, due to their shareholder meeting Mr. Norris had taken her to.

He was… not what she was expecting.

Sure, she saw how the men praised him from afar. But to actually sit next to him, watching how charismatic he was. Words woven carefully, expertly twining around those he was doing business with… she felt a little dazed. Or maybe that was the wine.

Nonetheless her cheeks were rosy and she was charmed. Not to mention he had taken her shopping for a new top.

Saying she could have whatever else she wanted but the whole thing felt entirely overwhelming. She wasn’t used to his attention.

Her whole body felt too warm as she stepped out of the dressing room to look in the mirror, catching the sight of him in the reflection leaning against the wall, eyes on her and tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

It felt wrong. Unprofessional. But nothing was happening, she knew that.

Mr. Norris was just… a lot.

She shook the memory away as she gathered her things, the only light in the office being her lamp and the red glow of the emergency exits.

Just as she shut off her lamp, a crack of lightning followed by the blinding light flickered through the windows and she groaned. Of course it would rain.

She looked down at her new shirt, knowing it was about to get soaked all over again because she didn’t have a coat or umbrella.

When she stepped outside, she rocked on her heels for a moment as she stood under the awning. Her eyes watched as rain pellets shot to the pavement and exploded against the already flooding streets of London.

Sighing, she held her bag close to her side and stepped out into the storm, the rain making quick work to drench her from head to toe as she walked.

She tried to hail a cab as she made her way towards the station. Anything to get out of her current predicament, eyes squinting against the blinding lights and the shadows playing tricks on her.

It wasn’t the safest scenario, she knew that. A woman out in the night, alone for that matter, was like a beacon for trouble.

So when a sleek black car slowed down she kept her head low and kept walking, her teeth chattering slightly and her heart racing before it came to an abrupt halt as a voice rang out from the vehicle.

Her name carried on the storm by a familiar voice.

She paused, her heels clicking against the puddles around her feet and she turned, trying to see through the window that had rolled down.

“Mr. Piastri?”

His expression for the most part was neutral, but his eyes glowed from the baseboard, looking at her like she was insane.

She probably looked insane. Wet strands of hair fell in her face and mascara was running down her cheeks in rivers of charcoal.

“Get in.”

“But sir—“

“Get in the car.”

His tone left no room for argument and she quickly slipped into the seat, the expensive smell of leather surrounding her and she watched as he reached a hand out to turn up the heat.

She still shivered, eyeing him like a deer in headlights as the car pulled away from the curb.

“I—“ she looked around the sports car, feeling a lump in her throat. “Your seats—“

His fingers flexed on the steering wheel, not looking at her. His whole body stiff. The air tense. “I’ll live.”

She blinked at him. Her mind not quite catching up. This was the second time she found herself alone with one of her bosses in a car that day. Only this time around the waters felt much more complicated to navigate.

He seemed agitated. Though his features were stoney and blank as per usual, there was something palpable circulating around him.

She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to say anything. The silence felt awkward and she played with a wet strand of her hair for a moment. “Sir-“

“Why on earth were you out there walking? In the rain, might I add.” His fingers flexed again. “Alone”

Her mouth opened a couple of times. So he was annoyed at her? Her brows furrowed. “I had to work late.”

His jaw rolled slightly. “Right, Lando.” Her other boss’s name left his mouth like a curse. “I have no idea why he took you to that damned meeting. And now look at you. Wandering the streets—“

“I’m not five, you arse.” She snapped. Not loving his tone but she could mildly appreciate his concern. She had to then remind herself this was her boss and she bit her tongue, pulling her eyes away from him. “Sorry,” she muttered.

It was silent for a moment and she began to worry she had royally fucked up.

Mr. Piastri’s voice was quiet, his voice nearly as warm as the heat blowing out of the vents. “That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day.”

She froze for a moment before her fingers tightened on the hem of her skirt. Her stomach swirled a bit, a combination of worry and something else that was wholly inappropriate. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean—“

A light laugh left him, though it seemed more of an exhale.

He still wouldn’t look at her.

“It’s fine, your bluntness is appreciated. That being said, I prefer you didn’t call me anything such as a twat in front of my employees.”

She was being let in. Only a little bit. She couldn’t help it as she started to smile. “So only in private, then?”

She watched in fascination as that string pulled slightly at his mouth, his dark eyes sliding over to her for only a moment and it made her head spin. Her stomach swoop.

“Only in private,” Mr. Piastri muttered.

She felt like a line was being crossed. Just slightly. It was being carefully tread. Invaded. Redrawn. She knew better. Then again, maybe she was just delusional.

Her eyes then widened as she realised something. “Oh, I never told you my address.”

His fingers thrummed against the steering wheel, a nervous tick maybe? Did she make him nervous? The street lights made his eyes glow every few seconds and the smell of his rich cologne swirled around her.

He was quiet for a moment and she was about to just tell him where she lived to fill the silence when he finally spoke, the words snatching the air from her lungs.

“How about a drink?”

Her lips parted slightly, taken off guard by his suggestion. It was an offering. She knew that, she wasn’t stupid. But she still felt like she needed to pinch herself to see if this was real.

“Is that allowed?” She wanted to slap herself for the dumb question. She knew she needed to be smart about this but the air was hot and heavy, her head swirling, and when he looked at her again his eyes briefly danced down to her mouth and she threw her common sense out the window.

“It’s a yes or no, darling.”

His eyes held hers as street lights flicked by, the hum of the engine rattling her to her core and the world was spinning.

The word yes left her in an exhale.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

It was reckless. Utterly stupid. Wildly inappropriate. A screaming HR violation.

But the wine had made the world feel fuzzy and made her feel like the world was at her fingertips. That at the end of the day, did it really matter?

The world was ending, so fuck it. Right?

That’s what she kept telling herself.

That’s what she told herself as he pulled up to a nice bar. That’s what she told herself as she let him order a bottle. It’s what she told herself as she downed another glass. What her mind whispered as they stumbled into the back of a cab, the liquor in her veins making the world come alive as she felt the brush of his body against hers in the back seat. It’s what she told herself as she laughed behind her hand as she watched him struggle to open the door to his flat.

It was only a quiet murmur as she leaned against the counter, watching him pour two more glasses. Taking in the drunken flush of his cheeks and how his usually perfect hair was disheveled. Unkempt.

He looked devastatingly handsome.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

She’d gone out drinking with plenty of coworkers before.

They hadn’t even properly touched.

It was fine.

Cordial.

Friendly.

Until it wasn’t.

She leaned over the table, looking at some of his records he had brought out when he was suddenly behind her. His presence a heavy shadow before slowly she felt his body press into hers, his hands falling right next to her own on the table. Surrounding her. He was restraining himself, just barely. His breath held as his mouth danced close to her neck.

Her eyes flicked down to their hands. Almost touching. Her heart beat in her ears.

She wrapped her pinky over his index finger.

Permission.

She was spun around, his mouth on hers, the sudden contact almost violent as he backed her against the window that overlooked London from his penthouse. Her head would’ve slammed into the glass, but his hand had snaked into her hair and absorbed the pressure.

His fingers twining, tight, and yanked. Making her mouth fall open in a moan and he all but lunged on the opportunity. Tongue slipping into her mouth and exploring, his own groan leaving him and he slowly became unbound.

She felt more intoxicated in the sight of him unraveling than any of the alcohol she had drank. Oscar Piastri was always so composed. It felt like a privilege to see him like this. A power trip to know she was the one undoing him.

She couldn’t think as his mouth slid down to her jaw. Couldn’t think as his teeth sunk in, biting and soothing. Couldn’t summon a thought as his thigh wedged between her legs making her moan.

She didn’t think about how he was her boss. Didn’t think about how he was too old for her. Didn’t think about how half of London could see her riding his thigh and his hands pulling up her skirt.

He pulled back slightly, eyelids heavy and his fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt.

“Did he buy you this?”

She felt dazed. Her hands falling lightly from his hair to his shoulders as she looked down at her blouse. “Oh, Mr. Norris—“

The sudden sound of fabric ripping cut her off, her gasp barely leaving her before he was on her again. Her shirt fell to the floor in tatters, the cool air biting at her skin and she shivered when his warm hands danced up her back to undo her bra.

Just as it fell to the floor he picked her up as if it was nothing, her legs easily wrapping around his waist as he carried her through his home.

He kicked open a door which she could only assume was his bedroom before she let out a quiet yell as he dropped her onto his bed.

She sat up in her elbows, her mouth dry as she watched him undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Take off your skirt.”

“I—“

His hand reached out and gripped her jaw, tight but not painful, making her look up at him.

God, he was devastating.

Brown hair fell over his eyes, his cheekbones looking carved from marble by the low lighting of his room and he stared down at her, his gaze lustful and coated in barely tempered violence.

“Do as you're told.”

“Yes, sir.”

His fingers slid down to her neck and tightened as he tugged her forward, landing a messy kiss on her lips before dropping back to continue undressing himself. All the while his watchful gaze stayed on her as he observed her slip out of her skirt.

When she went to reach for her underwear he slapped her hand away as he crawled on top of her, spreading her legs with his knees as he went.

Mr. Piastri laced his fingers with hers and dragged her hands up above her head, his lips dragging against her ear as he leaned down.

“You have been haunting me, I hope you know that.” His teeth dragged down her throat, making her gasp as he settled his weight between her hips. She could feel him. All of him. Her thin underwear not leaving much to the imagination.

Part of her couldn’t believe this was happening. The other part didn’t want to think at all.

He leaned back and picked up his tie from where he had thrown his shirt on the bed, holding eye contact as he leaned over her again to tie her wrists back, then looping it around his head board.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

She loved it.

Before she could realise what was happening, he was sliding down her body and pushing her knees back, up, and out. Mouth latching onto her through her underwear and her hips bucked up at the heat of his mouth.

It was dizzying. And a bit embarrassing if she were honest, given the noises that were leaving her mouth and her body felt like it was being scorched as he laughed into her before pulling her underwater aside, fingers sinking in.

She clenched around him, desperate for anything. More. Hands tugging on their restraints and her back arching off the bed.

He leaned up on one hand, the other still dragging in and out of her, smiling like a devil who had just struck a bargain.

“Oh you young thing,” he mused. He was watching her so carefully. His voice dropping into a tone she’d never heard him use before. “You’re dripping.”

A whine left her involuntarily and he shut his eyes briefly at the sound.

“This is wrong,” he muttered, but still he lowered himself to his knees, nose dusting along the inside of her thighs. Making her shiver in anticipation.

“Please,” she managed to get out, breathless as she watched him.

“God, forgive me.” And he dove in like a man starved, fingers picking up their pace, another added, his mouth latching onto her clit.

She was shamelessly grinding into her boss’s face.

He was fucking her with his fingers and tongue, making her see stars. That small voice in the back of her head mumbled what on earth am I doing? But it was quickly snuffed out as she came. Hard. All over his face and his name was a shout ripped from her lungs.

He was climbing over her again but the world was still flickering in and out of focus as she came down from her high. His face buried in her neck and she gasped, arms yanking down but they were still bound tight as he sank into her, pushing her well beyond overstimulation.

She cried out, feeling more so than hearing him laugh into her neck as he slowly pulled out before slamming into her again. The thrust was brutal and unforgiving. Delicious and painful. Electric.

Too much.

He leaned back, one hand on her waist to yank her down onto his cock as the other rubbed circles into her clit.

She began to shake her head, tears pricking her eyes, moaning and everything was too vibrant. She was trembling. Coming again already but he didn’t stop.

“I can’t, I can’t—“

“No?” He said softly, slowing down his digits and he began to pull out of her. “That’s too bad,” he tsk-d. The sudden emptiness felt like whiplash and she was about to backtrack what she said when he suddenly yanked her back down on his cock, his hips rolling forward to somehow get even deeper than before. “You’re going to be a good girl and take it, though. Aren’t you?”

“I— Sir, oh my god—“

His hand snaked around her throat, choking her as he fucked her. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” she gasped out, feeling light headed with the pressure of his palm.

His hips snapped against hers. A warning.

She quickly corrected herself. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Piastri’s hand left her throat and she sharply breathed in air, though it quickly left her again as he hand found his way back down to her cunt.

Barely a second later she was coming again, liquid squirting out and over his abdomen. It was almost painful, too much, too everything. Wonderful.

“God, what he would do to see you like this,” he muttered against her skin and she wasn’t sure she heard him right. Who? Her body tried to pull back as he kept thrusting into her, though he got more sloppy. Erratic. He was close.

Something snapped in her. A woman possessed, perhaps. Dazed and fucked out, maybe.

She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist and met her hips up with his thrusts, deeper and painful. A moan mixed in with her voice as she said, “more.”

“Fuck,” he rasped out, fingers digging into her hips so hard it was going to leave bruises and she watched in fascination as he came. His head was thrown back, the muscles in his stomach tightened and sweat glistened along his body as she felt his release began to drip out of her as he slowed down his pace before coming to a stop with his hips sealed to hers.

He collapsed, arms briefly catching himself so he didn’t crush her but she didn’t mind. Everything was so hazy. It felt like heaven, having him so close.

She wanted to touch him, desperately, only to have the reminder her hands were still tied and they began to feel sore.

“Sir,” her voice was soft, scared to break the spell.

He lifted his head. He himself looked dazed, a beautiful mess she felt honored to see. Fucked out in his own way and his eyes drifted to her hands, that smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached up and untied her.

Her hands fell, the flesh tender around her wrists and she felt her heart lurch a little as he rested his head back down on her chest. Exhausted and still feeling the tail end of intoxication.

Slowly, her hands drifted into his hair, playing with it softly.

“Oscar,” he said. His voice made her pause as she felt his heartbeat slowing against her skin.

“What?”

He lifted his head to rest his chin on her sternum and her hands fell from his hair to hold his face, her thumbs dancing along his cheekbones. His eyes were glowing and his own hand reached out to tuck loose hair that had fallen behind her ear.

“Call me Oscar.”

She smiled slightly. “Only in private?”

He observed her for another moment, still hard to read but that was okay.

Eventually he leaned up, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her head.

“Only in private.”

part two

Tag list: @theonottsbxtch @fortunapre @c8lap1nto @ashbone @taasgirl @stopeatread @dying-inside-but-its-classy (let me know if you’d like to be added to the list!)

[prythianpages]

Hopelessly Devoted | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader x Azriel | You're hopelessly devoted to Azriel, suspecting he’s your true love. Meanwhile, Eris is hopelessly longing after you. aka Eris being your mate but you're too infatuated with Az to notice.

warnings: slight angst, reader being a bit delulu

*also disclaimer that I am no expert in astrology and my knowledge is usually what I gathered from friends or tiktok so if I'm wrong, please correct me but do it nicely pls bc I am sensitive lol*

a/n: I wasn't sure whether to include Az or not in the pairing but I liked the idea of leaving this fic up to your interpretation. Anyway, happy reading! <3

As you entered the Night Court’s observatory, you traced your fingers along the edge of the great celestial map laid before you. You could feel the soft hum of magic beneath your fingertips, still smell the faintest hint of sage–a remnant of your father’s last ritual here. For centuries, your father has served as the Night Court’s astrologer. He’s guided and advised High Lord Rhysand and on occasion, Keir, the steward of the Court of Nightmares.

Above you, constellations and planets danced across the domed ceiling, the stars gleaming as though they were ready to whisper secrets just for you. You took a deep breath, centering yourself, and placed a palm flat against the massive zodiac wheel etched onto the floor. It began to glow, a warm golden light tracing symbols of the zodiacs and planets.

“Stars above and stars below, reveal the path I seek to know,” you quietly murmured.

The markings on the wheel shifted in response, aligning and realigning with clicking sounds, the warm golden light following. Then, your own chart had appeared, shimmering above you. It was a translucent web of stars and planets connected by silvery lines. You’ve read your birth chart many times, become so familiar with it that you knew it by heart even.

But tonight, you needed the extra reassurance. So you looked up, watching as the planets moved slowly. Your heartbeat a little faster as you spotted Jupiter making transit through your seventh house. The promise of growth, abundance, luck and most important of all, love filled the air. 

You slipped a small vial from the hidden pocket of your cobalt blue dress. The words Love Potion No.9 gleamed on the glass, the dark red liquid swirling. It was the enchanted perfume you’d bought from a witch last week—a little love potion designed to make you irresistibly alluring to your soulmate.

You felt a bit foolish, seeking a witch for guidance on love of all matters. Witches were frowned upon in the Court of Nightmares, after all. But impatience had finally nudged you to venture beyond the court’s dark mountain and into the surrounding forests, in search of someone who could help.

“Seek the one who walks between light and shadow with a mask of cool indifference, where fire meets the edge of night. There your heart shall find its match,” she had told you as she handed you the enchanted perfume.

Her words had only confirmed what you had been suspecting for years, centuries even.

Azriel was your soulmate. 

Azriel, the very embodiment of cool indifference, wore a mask of stoicism in the Court of Nightmares, just as High Lord Rhysand did. But his hazel eyes always seemed to burn with a hidden fire. And when you were alone with him, away from the cold nobility of the Night Court, Azriel would let that mask slip, revealing a kinder side that laughed and smiled with you. He was your friend and not only did he literally walk among shadows, he wielded them. It had to be him!

And then, there was your birth chart. Your seventh house lay in Taurus—a sign ruled by Venus. With Venus positioned in your twelfth house, everything pointed to the idea that your future soulmate would bring your happiness and pleasure. And since you met Azriel all those years ago during a counseling your father led, happiness had been an emotion you'd grown more familiar with.

The stars couldn’t have given you a clearer message!

**

There was a flutter in your stomach as you approached Azriel. The two of you had been stealing glances at one another, as you usually did anytime you found yourselves in the same place. He looked as beautiful as ever. As dreamy as ever. 

Though your High Lord and High Lady had moved to the center of the ballroom for a dance, he had stayed by the dais. “Hello,” you greeted him with a small smile.

Azriel turned to you, that mask of his slipping for just a brief moment to smile back at you. He took the extra wine glass in your hold, murmuring a small thanks. He turned his head back to the dance floor, attentive to his High Lady’s whereabouts. But he shifted closer to you, the coolness of his shadows caressing your bare arm and you couldn’t help but wonder if the perfume was working.

“You look nice,” he commented.

“Thanks.” A blush rose to your cheeks. You’d taken care to match your dress to the exact shade of his siphons. And he noticed. “So do you.”

“I wear this all the time.” Azriel replied drily, referring to his usual Illyrian leathers.

“Yeah, I know.” You cursed yourself inwardly for the awkward response, then shifted closer, leaning toward him. “Do I smell to you?”

Azriel paused, his shadows brushing close, as if curious themselves. “No,” he said after a moment.

“Oh.” Disappointment seeped into your voice despite your best efforts, and his gaze shifted to you, a hint of a frown in his brows.

“Do you want to smell?”

There’s a teasing edge to his tone, a subtle quirk of his lips. You shook your head, letting out a small, nervous laugh. "No. I just wanted to know if I smelled any…different…,” and then, in a much quieter tone, you murmured, “to you.”

Azriel considered your words. He looked to you in what seemed like permission. You gave a nod of your head and he leaned in, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “You smell the same to me.” At the breath you let out, he quickly added: “which is good by the way. You smell nice.”

“Oh, okay,” you smile, albeit a bit awkwardly, the flutter you had felt in your stomach earlier twisting into a knot. 

“Y/n, is everything alright?” Azriel asked softly.

“Yeah, I just thought—” You stopped, not sure how to explain without sounding foolish. It wasn’t like you could admit to feeling disappointed over the lack of reaction from an enchanted perfume you’d spent quite a fortune on. Especially when he was the sole purpose for it. Had the witch scammed you?

Azriel waited for you patiently, concern flashing in his eyes. Maybe the perfume hadn’t worked, but the stars and planets had never led you astray. That still had to mean something, right? 

“I’m fine.” You finally said.

“Are you sure?”

The way he was looking at you had warmth creeping up your neck and settling deeper in your cheeks. “Yeah.”

A single shadow curled around Azriel’s ear and in the blink of an eye, his head turned. Your gaze followed his, to where Rhysand and Feyre were standing. Rhysand sent him a slight nod and with a sigh, Azriel returned it.

“Sorry, I have to go.” Azriel said, quickly downing the remaining wine from his glass.

You held out your hand, offering to take it for him.

“Thank you. I’ll be back. Don’t have too much fun without me, alright?”

“I’ll try not to,” you replied.

You watched Azriel disappear into his shadows before turning away from the dais and making your way to the refreshments table. You were eager for a refill on your glass. Perhaps a little more wine would help ease the sting of disappointment. But he’d said he’d be back, hadn’t he?

As you scanned the room, you noticed your father in conversation with one of Keir’s sons and your mother eyeing potential suitors for your older brother. As an elite warrior of the Darkbringers, he had no shortage of admirers, and it was only a matter of time before your mother secured him a match—perfect or not.

You suspected you’d be next on her matchmaking list, so you busied yourself with small talk among familiar ladies. Conversations were always a mind-numbing, the ladies your age exchanging beauty tips that centered around the male’s eye or fawning over this season’s most eligible males. Which this season just so happens to be your brother. Gross. If only they knew him the way you did….

Second to him was Bret—or some equally uninspiring name. A Scorpio, of all things, which clashed miserably with your chart. Not that it mattered. You had no interest in any noble of the Court of Nightmares. Or any male here. Most, if not all, were cruel and narcissists, only viewing females as child bearers and nothing more. 

There was a reason why this court was burdened with the title “Nightmares.”  And to marry someone from here would mean never waking up from this darkness. No stars to light your night skies, only endless shadow and despair.

So, you’d taken fate into your own hands. You’d turned to your birth chart, hoping the stars would lead you somewhere beyond Hewn City, beyond this never-ending nightmare. And they had. They led you to believe it was Azriel. Azriel, who was not only honorable and single but also, technically, part of the Court of Dreams. He’d been your friend for centuries, seeing you for who you are rather than an object or prize like most males here. 

As you sneak away from the conversation, you bump into something–someone. Behind you, a deep voice huffed a low, mocking chuckle. “Easy there, librarian.” 

You could recognize that voice anywhere, could recognize the heat radiating from him. It pressed down on you, leaving you simmering with irritation.

“I’m a libra, not a librarian.” You bit out. It hasn’t even been a minute and already you were exhausted by the searing presence behind you. “And besides, to you, it’s Lady Y/N.”

When you turned, you found Eris looming over you. His amber eyes gleamed with a familiar, infuriating mischief. He gave you that signature smirk of his, the one that made his sharp features all the more arrogant. “Such a harsh tone. Hardly fitting for a Lady.”

Your gaze hardened into a glare, only to have it stray toward a movement across the ballroom.  A flicker of shadow caught your attention, and your heart gave a small, hopeful jump as your gaze softened. There he was—Azriel.

He had returned to the ballroom…but he hadn’t returned to you…

Eris raised a glass to his lips, amber eyes flicking lazily between you and Azriel. “Disappointment doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not disappointed.” You muttered hastily.

He gave a scoff, his smirk widening with dark amusement. “Please. I can practically feel it.”

“Liar,” you shot back. 

“Azriel said he’d find me again and unlike you, he’s a male of his word,” you continued, not sure why you were telling Eris this. “He’s…”

Your words trailed off as you watched Azriel, who stood next to Nesta and Elain. He laughed–actually laughed!-- at something Elain had said, shadows absent from his frame as his focus remained solely on her. You couldn’t miss the soft smile playing on his lips, nor the warmth in his gaze. Did he do that with every female he knew? You thought he reserved that just for you…

The bubble in your chest slowly deflated.

“Keep dreaming,” Eris huffed out. He seemed to take special pleasure in your reaction. It prompted your cheeks to flush but this time, with irritation.

“Oh, go away, you prick,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?" he replied, leaning closer, his sharp gaze burning into you. You missed the flash of longing in his amber eyes, too focused on Azriel. Or the way the words that had been on the tip of his tongue faltered as your scent suddenly overwhelmed him, his breath hitching slightly.

 "You smell.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mumbled absently.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, his voice gruff and pupils flaring. “You smell different tonight…good...”

You blinked, barely processing his words. Was he actually being nice to you? In all the years you’ve known him, he’s always had snark remark after snark remark for you. The way it would roll smoothly off his tongue always left you wondering if he’d rehearse them for his visits to the Court of Nightmares. 

You fidgeted, fingers grazing your wine glass as you cast a hesitant glance back at Azriel. Your chest tightened as he remained engrossed in conversation with Elain. Turn around, please. But he hadn’t even looked your way once. 

Eris stepped in front of you, drawing your attention back to him. His gaze roamed over you, your dress. He took in the shade and he knew why you had chosen it–and for whom.  "You know," he said, his gaze lingering on your face.  "Red suits you far better.”

“And there he is, you’re back…”

"I’m serious. This—" He gestured to your gown with a slight grimace, his fingers brushing the silk fabric in disappointment. "This color washes you out. Red would bring out the color of your eyes…”

Your jaw clenched but you remained silent, refusing to admit that his words stirred something within you. Eris was insufferable, arrogant, and yet you couldn't deny his eye for detail. He, after all, was always dressed impeccably in the finest Autumn attire. But you would never give him the satisfaction of admitting he might be right.

His smirk widened, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Do you want to know another thing?”

“No,” you said immediately.

But he leaned in anyway, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re hopelessly devoted to a male who doesn’t even look your way.”

Your mouth opened, brows furrowing in protest, but he went on. His smirk softened, fading into a half-smile. One that didn’t reach his eyes, dimming the fire that usually burned so brightly there. And then, in a much quieter, reluctant tone, he murmured, “And I am no different, it seems.”

"But…" You stammered, resisting the urge to steal another glance at Azriel. "He does look my way…sometimes.”

Eris’s smile faded, his expression tightening. A flicker of pain crossed his face. So brief, you almost thought you imagined it.  "You’re delusional.”

“And you’re insufferable.” You scoffed, heart pounding.

“Better than being a fool.” 

The mocking tone was there but the usual sharpness had been softened by a strange, subtle sadness. Was this… pity?

You swallowed, lifting your chin defiantly. “The stars wouldn’t lie to me,” you said, though the conviction in your voice wavered. “He’s the one for me.”`

You met his eyes then and Eris held your gaze. His amber eyes warm and molten, the intensity of his stare prickling at your skin. An unsettling flutter erupted in your stomach, rising to your chest. A feeling you quickly dismissed when you felt something cool brush against your arm.

“Is he bothering you, y/n?”

Eris scoffed at the sudden presence beside you. It sickened him to see that sweet, adoring look on your face, the triumphant gleam in your eyes as you looked up at Azriel. The sight made Eris grit his teeth. His instincts roared at him, the fire in his veins was scorching.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, realizing both males were waiting for your answer. “No,” you said but the way you shifted to stand behind Azriel said otherwise.

Azriel’s gaze hardened as he looked toward Eris. “Stay away from her,” he seethed.

A low growl rumbled from Eris’s chest as he took a step forward, his amber eyes flaring with rage. Though not as tall as Azriel, he seemed to tower over him at this moment. His teeth flashed as his lips curled into a snarl. “I do not take orders from bastards like you.”

Azriel’s wings tensed, threatening to unfurl and the movement of his shadows quickened. Like a storm ready to unfold. But before it could, you placed a hand on his arm. Right over one of his glowing siphons that seemed to be growing hotter and hotter, daring to match the fire coursing through Eris’s veins.

“Az, don’t,” you told him gently, not wanting to draw any attention to the three of you. You felt his muscles ease under your touch, his shadows brushing over your hand in agreement.

Eris’s gaze dropped to your hand on Azriel’s arm, his expression darkening into something unreadable. He exhaled sharply, turning his head as though trying to shake off whatever thought had crossed his mind.

When he looked back, his features had shifted into his usual cool mask, that infuriating smirk sliding back into place. He looked right at you.

“When you wake up from this deranged dream of yours, come find me.”

You watched him, feeling a strange, unwelcome tug in your chest as he turned to leave. Perhaps, one day you’d realize that the enchanted perfume you had bought was not a scam. 

And that the male you searched through the stars and planets for was not the one standing beside you, but the one who’d just walked away.

a/n: sorry if you're not a libra, I just thought it'd be funny for Eris to purposely say reader's sign wrong as he knows astrology is a huge influence on her.

[series masterlist]

[Eris masterlist]

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits15, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

[quarterlifekitty]

Hi! could you possibly write something about a fuckboy!soap and shy!reader that he uses for sex, and she keeps letting him? im craving angsty angst ANGST that just keeps hurting…you don’t have to if you don’t want to and thank you if you do! Have a great day!

Okay, one thing you all should know about me? Is that I’m a weenie lol so I can’t help but make things a little hopeful most of the time. Also— gonna make this like a college type AU

Soap clocks you from a mile away when he sees you at a party. There’s a cup of beer in your hand that you’ve been nursing, just sipping to have something to do while you cling to the side of the friend who forced you to come.

He’s seen you in his classes before. You’re good. Not the type to be seen in a place like this. And that kinda whets his appetite. He wants to fuck you, break you, make you fall apart for his own amusement.

He nudges Gaz— they have the routine down to a science— splitting up the birdies that are a little too huddled together so they can have their way with them. Gaz runs interference this time, Johnny mouthing an “I owe ye” his way— chatting up and pulling your friend away to talk a bit more. You’re alone now, and Johnny swoops in, weaving through people on a warpath.

He corners you expertly, and you’re a pathetically easy read. Easy to tease, to coax, to push. He just has to throw in a few lines about how pretty you look, peppered between him saying he’s always wanted to talk with you, always admired you in class— he gives just enough detail to lull you into thinking this is courting. That he’s going to fuck you because he likes you.

Works like a charm. Always does. You clumsily follow him to his room—“Ye didnae ken? This is my fraternity’s house, bonnie,”— as he pulls you along by the hand.

He enjoys pulling you apart. Like the birds taking Prometheus’s liver. He’s not a complete animal, he makes you cum, but he doesn’t give you kisses the way you’d probably hoped he would. He’ll tell his mates later— it was kinda cute how fucking bad you were at giving head, too.

He lets you stay the night even though your clinging is a bit annoying. Pushing you out would burn this bridge, and he’s not ready to do that just yet. Not when he could keep having fun.

Come morning your clothes are tossed your way (sans panties, those are going in his trophy collection), and he has the decency to drop you off at your place with the promise of further contact.

Come your next class, he’s back to acting like he doesn’t know you. You’re shy, but you’re not stupid. It’s easy to see that you were played, and you curse yourself for falling into it.

So why do you show up when he texts you, asking you to come over?

Promethean indeed.

And it keeps happening.

It’s not like he treats you badly— that’s what you tell yourself. You’re just the idiot for expecting more than orgasms. It’s nice to feel wanted. It’s not nice to put your clothes on and get out right after, but you’re willing to ignore that. You shouldn’t be. But you are.

You’re not the kind of girl who gets asked out. So why refuse the one source of attention you have? He makes you cum, right? That’s more than a lot of guys do, so it would be unfair to expect more. High maintenance. Right?

If Johnny can see the hurt behind your eyes when you turn to check behind you when you leave, as if he’ll suddenly change his mind and call you back into bed to hold you, he doesn’t do anything about it. He’s content to tug on his jeans and brush past you with a cigarette in his mouth.

You steel yourself as usual, double checking the straightness of your clothes as if it’ll make you feel like less of a cheap whore when his housemates glance your way as you leave.

The door across from Johnny’s is almost always open, despite how closed off its occupant seems. You’ve never met Simon. Well, you really haven’t met anyone in Soap’s life. That’s not what he keeps you for, is it? Fucktoys don’t get introduced to the friend group. Doesn’t stop Simon from staring holes in your back every time you leave. Must think you’re easy. Must wonder if Johnny’ll mind if he has a go. Or maybe he just thinks you’re pathetic. You certainly do.

But it’s happened one too many times. Apparently, even a worm will turn. His stare itches and crawls up your skin when you already feel like such a piece of meat— chewed up and spit out. And you must be losing flavor. Before long you won’t even have this. You turn to look at him instead of walking on as usual.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” You spit in a tone that surprises you. You’ve never said anything like that to someone, not in earnest, anyway.

“Lemme take y’out somewhere.”

What?

What?

[dismalflo]

Help, sweet Louise! I have a little request for ya if that’s okay: introvert Remus x introvert fem reader at Hogwarts - they decide to learn how to snog by practicing with each other just because they’re bffs and super awkward in general except when together… and obviously sparks fly and the dorks realise after a few epic snogs that there’s something real there. Thank you so much! I love Remus and I love your writing of him!

thank you for the request darling! <3 i hope i've done your idea justice, this is also much longer than originally intended.

Remus Lupin x reader who practice kissing with each other ✩ 2.3k words

cw: fluff, inexperienced remus, inexperienced reader, reader is a lil insecure, remus blushes alot.

The common room is quieter and more serene than usual. People come and go, but none linger or speak above a whisper—the subtle, soothing atmosphere of a Sunday evening. That leaves only you, Remus, and Sirius. The boy with black hair is frantically working to finish an assignment due tomorrow, one he’s obviously put off until the last possible moment. He’s most definitely copying the essay Remus lent him. “It’s just for inspiration, Moony, I swear,” he insisted, but his transparency is undeniable.

You and Remus, both finished with your own work, are lounging comfortably on the sofa by the fireplace, lost in your books. The warmth of the fire and the peacefulness of the room feel like pure bliss. You're sure if you could hear Remus' thoughts, they would echo your own contentment.

The stillness is shattered when James Potter bursts in, looking as though he's being chased, shouting and waving his arms in the air.

“Guys!” he exclaims, skidding to a halt near your group, his chest heaving as though he’s just sprinted the length of the school. “You’ll never guess what just happened!”

You don’t bother to look up, eyes still fixed on the words in your book, more than happy to listen to the usual cascade of nonsense that follows James’ entrances.

“You made a fool of yourself?” Sirius asks, his tone flat and unimpressed, a look of mild exasperation on his face. On any other day, that guess would’ve been spot-on, but the fidgeting from James is relentless, and you can practically feel his excitement seeping into the room.

“I kissed Lily,” he says, a wistful tone in his voice. It’s then that you finally glance up, curiosity piqued. The expression on his face matches his words—a mix of pride and awe—and your lips curl into a smile, genuinely happy for him.

“That’s great, Prongs,” Sirius says with a grin before leaning in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But if I’m right, I’m pretty sure you’ve done that before.”

“Pads is right, mate,” Remus adds, his voice soft but amused. You glance over at him, finding him in the same position as you—leaning forward slightly, his lips curled into a quiet smile.

James blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, as if he hadn’t quite expected this reaction from his friends. But he shrugs, quickly recovering. “Yeah, but this time was different,” he says, his voice warming with enthusiasm as he paces the room. “It was a proper kiss! A snog for the first time. That's got to be special, admit it.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow, making a face that says it all—a mix of amusement and disbelief. He shrugs again, as if James’s excitement is lost on him. James deflates slightly, but it doesn’t last long before he turns toward Remus, eager for some support.

“You get it, don’t you, Rem?” he asks, his gaze intense but hopeful.

Remus opens his mouth, shuts it again, looking uncharacteristically flustered, the telltale flush creeping up his neck. He doesn’t even have the chance to respond before Sirius cuts in.

“Oi, don’t ask him,” Sirius says, teasing but with a hint of affection. “Our lovely Moony has no idea—fuck knows how.”

He says it like it's some sort of grand mystery, and as the words hang in the air, Remus’s gaze flicks over to you. The blush on his cheeks deepens just a shade, and you can feel the weight of his gaze before he quickly looks away.

Before you can process it, James spins toward you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “What about you, sunshine?” he asks, a teasing lilt in his voice. “You must know.”

Heat rises to your face as you glance down at your lap, fingers nervously fiddling with the edges of your book. Usually, the lack of kisses in your life doesn’t bother you, but under the boys' scrutiny, it feels like the most embarrassing thing in the world.

“No… I—I haven’t…” you stammer, your cheeks burning. “Before.” Your eyes are firmly locked on your lap.

“Leave her alone, James,” Remus says, his voice quiet and soft. He’s aware that if he makes a big deal out of it, you’ll only feel more flustered and retreat further into yourself.

James raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he huffs, clearly frustrated that none of you share his perspective. “Sorry,” he adds, offering you a grin. You nod absently, still trying to recover from the sudden rush of heat flooding your face.

“Right,” Sirius interrupts, slapping his knees as he stands. He turns to James with a grin. “I’m starving. Kitchens?” Without waiting for a reply, the two of them rush out of the room, their footsteps quickly fading away, leaving the common room in silence.

The only sound now is the soft rustling of pages as Remus returns to his book. But the words on the page blur in front of you, your mind fixated on the conversation that just unfolded. Confusion churns in your stomach, a burning insecurity settling deep in your chest as you replay the moment over and over.

You try to focus, but a question lingers, just on the tip of your tongue, like a secret you’re too afraid to speak. “Do you…” Your voice falters, barely above a whisper. The relief that washes over you when you realise your voice may have been too soft for Remus to hear is short-lived.

“Do I what, dove?” Remus hums, glancing over to you, his eyes soft with understanding. Clearly, you weren’t as quiet as you thought.

“Do you think it’s weird… to have never been kissed?” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, but you realize that asking the question, though painful, is better than letting it fester inside you.

He pauses, watching you carefully, as though weighing his words. After a moment, he shrugs, though the blush creeping onto his cheeks again betrays him. “I don’t think so.” His voice is steady, and he seems to believe it. “I’ve never been either. It’ll happen when it happens, I think.”

His calm, judgment-free response gives you a sense of comfort, and you feel emboldened. The thoughts you've been bottling up surge to the surface. “What if, when it does happen, I mess it all up because I don’t know what I’m doing?” There’s a sharp, desperate edge to your voice now, a frantic urgency you can’t seem to contain.

Remus’s gaze softens even more, the gentle warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. He sets his book down and shifts closer to you on the sofa, his voice quiet but filled with reassurance.

“You won’t mess it up,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m sure everyone feels a bit awkward the first time. I think… I think it’s supposed to be a little weird. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about… well, figuring it out together.”

You turn your head to look at him, your heart unexpectedly skipping a beat at the sincerity in his words. There’s a certain calmness about Remus that makes everything feel more safe. The gnawing insecurity in your chest eases just a fraction, but it’s still there.

“I hope so,” you say softly, eyes drifting back down to your lap as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

A silence settles between you two, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Remus shifts next to you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks.

“Do you want to… practice?” he asks, so quietly that you almost don’t catch it, his voice barely above a whisper. But the words hit you like a spell, and for a moment, the world seems to stop spinning.

“Practice?” you echo, blinking at him in confusion. Your heart is suddenly in your throat, your palms growing clammy.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little steadier now, though the blush on his cheeks only deepens. “Like… you know, just so we both don’t mess it up when it actually happens. Maybe we could just… figure it out. Together.” He shrugs, an awkward, nervous smile tugging at his lips.

Your mind goes blank for a moment as the weight of his suggestion settles in. It sounds absurd, and yet, the more you think about it, the more it seems… right. After all, you trust Remus more than anyone else. You’ve spent countless hours together, quietly existing in each other’s company, but this is different. The air feels thicker, charged with a kind of energy you’ve never quite experienced before.

“Just… practice,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “Nothing serious. Just… friendly. We’re friends, right?”

You nod slowly, your mouth dry as your gaze flicks back to him. “Yeah. Friends,” you repeat.

There’s a moment of stillness before you both shift slightly, the unspoken agreement hanging between you two. You can’t quite tell if it’s the nervous energy or something else, but when you finally look at Remus again, there’s a spark in his eyes—a flicker of something that seems to make the room suddenly feel smaller, warmer.

"Okay," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you sit up straighter. Your heart is racing now, but you can’t help the soft, nervous laugh that escapes your lips.

Remus turns toward you fully, a faint grin curling on his lips, though his expression is still a little sheepish. “Alright then. So… how do we start?”

“Um… I don’t know,” you admit, your own nerves suddenly rising again. “Do we… just… kiss?”

The word seems to hang in the air like a strange, foreign thing. But before you can spiral into embarrassment, Remus leans in slightly, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Yeah,” he says, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. “We just… kiss.”

And then, with an almost surreal kind of slowness, Remus’s face inches closer to yours. Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears that you almost can’t hear anything else—nothing except for the sound of your own breath, and the slight shift in the air as your lips draw closer. You close your eyes just before they meet, a quiet shudder running through you.

The first touch of his lips against yours is hesitant, like a question. And then, slowly, it deepens, and you find yourself returning the kiss with more urgency than you expected, as if your body is doing things your mind hasn’t quite caught up with yet. The warmth of his lips, the softness, the slight pressure of his hand against your shoulder—it all feels so new, but so natural, like you’ve been waiting for this moment for longer than you care to admit.

When you both pull away, it’s like the world has shifted somehow. The air between you feels charged, and yet there’s still that soft, strange energy that’s been so familiar to you both. You blink at him, breathless and wide-eyed, and he does the same.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of the kiss lingers between you, something you both feel but can’t quite name. Your heart races, a little faster than it did before, and you’re sure Remus feels the same way. The room feels even quieter now, the crackling fire the only sound to fill the space.

“I… I think that was better than I expected,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter whatever this moment is. You feel a little embarrassed, but mostly… amazed.

Remus laughs, a nervous chuckle, and rubs the back of his neck again. “Yeah, me too.” He glances at you, then looks away quickly, his face flushed a deep shade of red. His smile is hesitant but genuine. “You—uh, you didn’t mess it up at all. Not even close.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of your lips. “Good to know.”

You sit there, eyes meeting his once again, and for a brief, strange moment, the awkwardness feels like an old friend. Something comfortable. But something more too. The air between you both has shifted—there’s no denying it now.

Remus clears his throat softly, breaking the silence. “So… maybe… should we try again?” He says it carefully, almost as if he’s afraid of making things worse, but you can see the genuine curiosity in his eyes. A soft, playful tension fills the space between you two.

For some reason, the question feels different this time. It doesn’t feel like you’re fumbling or practicing anymore. It feels real.

“Yeah,” you answer, breathless again, but this time there’s no hesitation. There’s only the quiet certainty of something new blooming between you. When your lips meet again, it’s not hesitant this time. It’s familiar, tender, and there’s an unspoken promise there, a quiet connection that grows deeper with each gentle press of lips against lips.

The world around you disappears— no more uncertainty or awkwardness. Just the soft pressure of his lips, the warmth of his hand settling against your cheek, and the steady rhythm of your shared breath. There’s something slow and sweet about this kiss, something that feels like the beginning of something bigger.

When you finally pull away, it’s not the same as before. This time, when you open your eyes, you can’t help but smile—genuinely. You feel… different. And judging by the look on Remus’s face, he feels it too. His eyes are wide but soft, and the flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded at all, but it seems to suit him somehow.

“I think I get it now,” you murmur softly, “what James was talking about.” your voice barely above a whisper as you look at him. Remus simply nods, his lips curving into a small, private smile.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice equally quiet. “Me too.”

[witherby]

Could you make more Damian and mer!Reader? I wanna see them swim together!

Yeah, I can do that! The previous post surpassed 10 reblogs so y'all can have another installment :)

Part 2 of Human!Damian x Mer!Reader

Content: Fluff, Swimming, Language Barrier, Courtship Ritual (unbeknownst to Damian)

Part 1 is Here!

You swim in fast spirals through your enclosure, ducking around seaweed and colorful rocks and the fake castle spire they installed for you to hide in, tail brushing against the rough, stony texture. The lights all dimmed about thirty minutes ago, leaving just the bioluminescent foliage scattered throughout your tank and a few, small overhead lamps to illuminate the space. You know that this means all the Attention Time is done for the day, and that Damian will soon be around for dinner and playtime.

When you feel those familiar disturbances in the water, the gentle swish, swish, swish of your favorite caretaker's hand, you bolt towards it and surface with a splash and a chirp. Damian wipes the water off his face and levels you with an unamused look, which you preen at, and you rest your arms on the lip of the tank.

"Hello to you, too," he greets, holding up your bucket. "It's dinner time. You did great today, as though we could expect anything less than perfection at this point."

You take the bucket and start eating, offering a piece of squid to Damian. He scrunches his nose and politely refuses, so you shove it between your own, razor-sharp teeth instead.

"Visitors asked a lot of questions about you today," Damian says. You register the general idea of what he's talking about �� the "visitors" are the creatures that come to stare at you in the funny tunnels. "Two of the tour groups asked if you were lonely, being the only mer we have in the aquarium."

The boy tilts his head, vibrant green eyes unusually pensive as he regards you. You stare back as you chew, the fins on either side of your head twitching. You love staring at his eyes, more vibrant than any foliage in your tank and endlessly entertaining to look at. When he speaks again, you do your best to keep following along.

"I didn't know how to answer them. Mers, from what few we've observed in the wild, travel in pods. You don't exhibit behaviors of loneliness or excessive stress, however; I don't think living here without pod-mates is causing you harm, otherwise we'd see you picking at your fins and scales, or lashing out more violently, or at the very least hiding more often."

You smile. How silly of your caretaker — he is your pod! You socialize with him plenty, even if he can't live in your enclosure with you! You click your tongue and trill, showing him your empty bucket to get the frown off his face.

Damian takes it back with a quick word of praise and dodges your grabby hands when you make to pull him into the water.

"Patience. Let me change into the wetsuit, okay, Princess?"

You perk up and chirrup with glee. You know that word! He's going to come into the tank and play!

Damian disappears through a set of doors several yards away from the edge of your tank. You slip under the water to rehydrate your gills, floating aimlessly for a few minutes. When you surface again, Damian is standing on the edge of your tank in a black wetsuit with a small apparatus on his face. After an accident (and it was an accident, you promise! How were you supposed to know the land creatures couldn't breathe water the same way you did?) where you almost drowned Damian trying to play with him, he showed up a few days later with the suit and small face-thing that you learned was important not to pull off of him.

You whistle and trill, arms extended in delight. Damian's eyes crinkle just slightly around the edges, as he can't smile around the rebreather, and he lets his body tip forward into your waiting arms.

You splash into the water together, squeezing him in a tight hug, then draw back to grab his hand and pull him along. Damian allows it, kicking the flippers on his feet to help propel him along, though they're no match for your huge tail.

Playtime always starts with you dragging Damian to the bottom of your tank, either to show him the latest way you've arranged your collection of colorful rocks, or to find a gift for him. Sometimes you give him a rock, sometimes you give him a piece of foliage, and once you gave him a loose brick taken from your castle spire (he put that one back).

Today, you release his hand to dart into your seaweed nest, pawing around until you find what you're looking for, then pop back out and press it into his hands. Damian's eyes go wide, clutching the small handful of shredded scales you passed over with the delicateness one would use to cradle a baby.

Mers tended to have hoarding tendencies, especially for shiny things. Your myriad of painted stones and other aquatic-safe decorations were proof of that. In the wild, shedded scales were kept and used as further decoration for a nest, or placed around the entrance of their home so it could be easily identifiable. To see you hand him what is typically considered a valuable resource to your species...

Well, he's nothing short of flattered. You must care for him a great deal to be willing to part with your scales.

He signs Thank You under the water and carefully tucks the gift into a bag on his hip, since the wetsuit has no pockets. You grin back and twirl around him, bumping him a bit with your tail. Damian can just barely make out the sound of you trilling under the water as you bump him back and forth a couple times, a behavior you've never exhibited before. He bumps you back, which makes you trill even louder. It's fascinating.

When you're done, you circle Damian a few times, chittering and chirping, then gently shove his shoulders and take off like a bullet through the water, off to find a space to tuck yourself into for hide and seek. You can't play tag with him, it's never fair, but other games like this are easily adaptable between the two of you, especially given that your enclosure spans several floors of the building.

As you dart across your expansive tank looking for a place to slip into, you can't fight the giddy little skip in your heart. Damian accepted your scales! He accepted them and thanked you! You're so happy he accepted your proposal to be mated!

-----

Thanks for your support! Reblogs = more content!

[deatheaterv]

FIRST LOVE

pairing : harry potter x weasley!fem!reader

genre : fluff

summary : harry potter has always noticed you, ron’s younger sister, but it’s only as time passes that he starts to develop feelings for you. determined to get closer, harry finds himself struggling, especially with other boys always around you.

harry didn’t believe in love at first sight. it was an idea that felt too dreamy, too far removed from his reality. but that was before he met you.

the first time harry noticed you wasn’t in any dramatic moment. it was simple, really. on the train to hogwarts, he’d just been looking out the window, lost in his own thoughts, when he noticed you sitting with ginny, laughing at something that had been said. the sound of your laughter caught his attention before anything else. you were warm, glowing, and there was an ease to the way you carried yourself that made harry’s heart beat a little faster.

he didn’t think much of it at first. after all, you were ron’s younger sister, and they were all just getting to know each other. but over time, his feelings grew.

it wasn’t just the way you smiled or the way your hair caught the light. it was how kind you were to everyone around you, how you made others feel seen and heard. harry found himself noticing the little things. like how you always had time to help someone with their homework or how you would slip off to the library when you needed a quiet moment, always finding the perfect books to recommend to others.

and it made harry realize just how special you were. how different you were from anyone else he’d met.

but how could he get close to you? how could he, the boy who was always in the shadow of his own fame and the weight of his destiny, break through the wall that seemed to exist between them?

so, harry did what he always did. he watched. he’d find himself sneaking peeks at you, listening to your conversations with ginny or luna, just wanting to understand you better. but every time he tried to speak to you, the words seemed to slip away. it was never the right time. there was always someone else there.

he began to ask ron more questions, though not directly. he'd bring up random things like how his sister was doing in classes, or if you had any big plans for the holidays, always steering the conversation back to you.

ron noticed. "why do you always ask about her?" he asked one evening, his tone a bit suspicious.

"i’m just curious," harry said quickly, but the blush creeping up his neck gave him away. "you know, y/n's really smart. i was just wondering how she does so well in everything."

ron, ever oblivious, shrugged. "she’s always been like that. don’t know how she manages it. but don’t get your hopes up, mate, she’s got plenty of blokes around her."

harry hadn’t really considered that. the idea of other boys showing interest in you made something in his chest tighten. he wasn’t sure what it was, but it made him uneasy. he tried to push it aside, telling himself that he wasn’t the jealous type. but the more he saw you with other guys, michael corner, dean thomas, even lee jordan, the more that tightness in his chest grew.

it was stupid. he was harry potter, the chosen one. why did this feel so difficult?

one day, harry pulled out the marauder’s map and quietly followed you, careful not to be noticed. he wasn’t stalking you. well, maybe just a little. but he was trying to figure out where you went when you had time to yourself. maybe then, when you were alone, he could finally find the courage to speak to you.

he checked the map. you were in the great hall, sitting with the weasleys for dinner. harry’s heart skipped a beat.

he made his way there, trying to keep his steps quiet, hoping you wouldn’t notice him. but as he entered, he immediately spotted you. sitting with ginny, fred, george, and ron, laughing over something, her face glowing in the warm light. harry couldn’t help it. he found himself smiling. in fact, he was so lost in watching you that he didn’t notice ron glaring at him from the other side of the table.

"mate," ron’s voice suddenly cut through his daydream, "what are you doing?"

harry blinked and quickly wiped the goofy smile off his face. "what? nothing."

ron raised an eyebrow, glancing at you across the table. "you’re staring at my sister. again."

"no, i’m not," harry quickly muttered, avoiding eye contact. but it was too late. ron had already noticed.

"you’ve been doing that all evening," ron continued, his tone half teasing, half annoyed. "just... stop it. it’s creepy."

harry flushed, suddenly embarrassed. "i wasn’t... i didn’t mean to..." his voice trailed off. he had no idea how to explain why he was so interested in you without sounding like a fool.

ron just rolled his eyes. "she’s got a lot of attention already, harry. you know that. and she’s not interested in you like that, so don’t get your hopes up."

harry’s heart sank. "i wasn’t. i’m just... i just wanted to know how she’s doing. as a friend."

ron gave him a long look, his expression unreadable. "yeah, sure," he said with a shrug, returning to his food. but harry could tell that ron didn’t quite believe him.

a few weeks later, harry was invited to the burrow for the holidays, and after a day spent helping mrs. weasley in the kitchen, harry found himself wandering upstairs to your room. he knocked softly at the door.

"come in," you told him to, from the inside.

harry pushed the door open, his heart thumping as he saw you sitting by the window, a book in your hands. you looked up and smiled when you saw him. "hey, harry. what’s up?"

"just thought I’d come see how you were doing," harry said with a casual shrug, walking in and sitting on the edge of your bed.

"doing good," you replied, placing your book down. "busy with all the holiday stuff."

they started chatting, mostly small talk at first. it was easy. harry felt like he could just be himself around you. your presence was calming, like nothing else mattered when they were together.

as their conversation went on, harry found his gaze drifting to your lips. he didn’t want to rush things, but it felt like the moment was right. without thinking, he leaned in, his breath mingling with hers. you didn’t pull away.

the kiss was slow, gentle, the tension between them building. harry’s hand gently cupped your face as he deepened the kiss. he could feel your hands on his chest, pulling him closer. it was everything he had imagined and more.

but before either of them could process what was happening, the door flew open.

"blimey, harry," fred exclaimed, poking his head in, followed by george, both wearing mischievous grins. "we leave you alone for five minutes, and.."

"you two are unbelievable," george added, shaking his head.

harry and you pulled away quickly, both flushed and trying to hide their smiles. "you’re not supposed to be here!" you protested, laughing nervously.

fred and george just laughed, exchanging glances. "oh, we know," fred said. "but it’s too funny to miss."

harry’s face went red, and you laughed, your eyes sparkling with amusement. it wasn’t exactly how he had imagined their first kiss, but at least he had finally made it happen.

and maybe, just maybe, it was worth the wait.