#I love how his posture is so polite but his resting face is just | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ethe-realfantasy · 2 days ago

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How Simon Ghost Riley falls in love with a civilian visitor… (final) Part VII

(Slow burn, pure fluff, Simon is a big, burly, brooding mess (not really awkward anymore… but kinda shy??), IT FINALLY happens GUYS)

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It's almost 7 p.m. and you are curled up on the sofa, face masked with a thin layer of pink clay and a scrunchie holding your damp hair in a messy bun. A rom-com flickers softly on the TV, but you're only half watching, idly painting your toes a warm nude shade.

Your phone buzzes next to your thigh. When you glance at the screen, you see his name pop up.

Long shift. Haven’t eaten since breakfast. Feel like keeping me company for dinner?

Your heart thuds. It's so him. Short, dry, straightforward. But you can read the tone beneath it. That quiet, steady hopefulness.

You don't even answer right away. Instead, you launch off the couch, face mask half-dry, and run to your bedroom like a girl late for prom.

“Oh god, what do I wear, what do I wear,” you mutter, tearing through your closet.

You pull out a pale cream wrap dress made of a delicate fabric. It's feminine, gentle. You wore it once to a summer wedding and always liked how it made you feel.

Back in the bathroom, you quickly wash off the mask and redo your skincare in record time. You give yourself a quick once-over in the mirror and put on a bit of tinted lip balm. It's nothing dramatic, just enough.

Finally, you grab your phone again and text back:

That sounds like a very serious emergency. I’m getting ready now. Where should I meet you?

As soon as you hit send, you phone buzzes again.

No need to meet me. I’ll come get you.

Your thumb hovers over the screen as you read it again and smile. No emojis or unnecessary words. Still you heard everything in that simple message. He wants to come get you. Your pulse flutters in your throat.

Suddenly, the pale cream dress feels… too polite. Too safe.

You turn back toward your closet, standing in the soft light of your bedroom. And then, slowly, your eyes find it... the other dress. It's a soft blush pink, lightweight silk, with thin straps. Flattering in a way that always makes you a little nervous to wear it alone. It hugs you gently where it should and moves like water when you walk. You once wore it out but didn't like how everyone noticed you.

But tonight? With him? With Simon waiting outside for you, the thought doesn't scare you anymore. It rather excites you.

You slip into the dress, smoothing it down over your hips and check yourself in the mirror. Your hair falls gently around your shoulders now, the tiniest curl at the ends. Finally, you add a touch of perfume.

When you hear his truck roll up to the curb, you don't hesitate to slip on your shoes, grab your bag and walk straight down to him.

As you step out into the quiet evening, the cool air kisses the bare skin of your shoulders. The pavement is still warm from the day, but your heart beats faster with every step toward the familiar dark truck parked by the curb.

At first, all you see is the broad silhouette. His body is resting casually against the truck, the sleeve of his hoodie is pushed up just enough to show a sliver of forearm. You swallow.

Then he turns and his profile comes into view. The sharp line of his jaw, his dark lashes, that unmistakable calm strength in his posture... and then his eyes find yours.

Your heels slow as you watch as his gaze move over you. His gaze is direct, not shocked, but… reverent. Like he didn't expect you to look... like that. Like he can't get enough.

And yet, he doesn't say a word. Simon just stares at you for a second longer and then opens the passenger door. You climb in, pulse hammering behind your ribs. His scent filled the inside of the truck, warm and familiar, something woodsy and clean that lingers in the air. He doesn't speak right away. Instead he lets his eyes flick to your legs as he settles in the truck, then straight ahead again, hands on the wheel.

“Hi,” you say softly, smiling in his direction.

“Evenin’,” he murmurs, finally stealing another glance at you. His voice is quiet.

“You look nice,” you add, tugging your dress down gently over your thighs, suddenly self-conscious.

“You…” he exhales and gives a slight shake of his head, eyes on the road as he pulls away from the curb. “You look incredible.”

You try not to melt into your seat.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, after a moment, clearing his throat. “Didn’t really plan anything fancy. Just a place I go after long days. Laid-back. Food’s good.”

“I don’t mind,” you say gently.

He glances at you again, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You sure that dress won’t be mad about it?”

You laugh. “This old thing? She’s just along for the ride.”

And when his fingers grip the wheel just a little tighter, jaw working faintly as if to keep a reply at bay, you feel the glow return to your cheeks.

It's going to be a good night.

The truck slows to a gentle stop outside a quiet spot tucked just off a main road. It's unassuming from the outside, the kind of place that only locals know. The smell of grilled something delicious floats faintly through the air even before you step out of the truck.

Simon unbuckles, steps out and shuts the driver’s side door with a quiet thunk. Then, in only a few strides, he is there, opening your door with one hand and offering the other to help you out with the kind of old-school chivalry that makes your breath hitch.

You slip your fingers into his and the second you stand, that dress… it clings. And Simon almost growls. It moves like it's made just for your body.

And it doesn't help that you smile up at him like you don't even realize you are walking around looking like that.

Looking like that in his presence, in public, with that soft perfume and those bright eyes and that delicate laugh already teasing at his better judgment.

He stands close, just a little too close, one hand hovering protectively at your lower back as if he is afraid someone might even look at you sideways. He doesn't say it aloud, but the thought passes through him anyway like a flicker of heat:

That dress should be outlawed. Or worn only indoors. With him. Alone.

And then he exhales and clears his throat, grounding himself.

“C’mon,” he mutters gruffly, still not letting go of your hand. “Let’s get inside.”

You let yourself be led, your heels tapping softly on the sidewalk. You feel light, giddy, even. Like you were just invited to prom by the guy every girl whispered about but no one really knew.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you tease, glancing up at him. “Regretting asking me yet?”

He shoots you a look, a mix between dry, amused and a little dangerous.

“Just tryin’ not to get myself arrested.”

You burst out laughing, elbowing him gently as you step through the front door into the low-lit warmth of the bar. It smells like grilled meat and oak. Soft music plays overhead. No one pays you much attention and still, he stays close. His hand is still pressed lightly against your back.

The dinner is warm and casual, full of easy conversation, little smirks between bites, and the occasional flicker of something unspoken threading between you.

You chose something light, something you could eat without worrying about talking too much or too little and Simon, true to form, ordered something hearty. He is quiet as ever while he eats, but he is still watching you with those sharp eyes that make you feel like he is listening to more than just your voice.

You tell him a little story about the firm, nothing too serious and he chuckles under his breath, rubbing a thumb along the rim of his glass.

“You should laugh more,” you say quietly, tilting your head. “You look way too serious most of the time.”

Simon smirks, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “I laugh plenty. Just… usually not in public.”

That earns him a grin from you and you roll your eyes, setting your fork down.

“Alright, I’ll be right back", you say while you stand up.

As you turn to go, your hand drifts out, almost absently and your fingertips brush along the curve of his shoulder. Just a soft touch. There is barely any pressure. But you linger for one heartbeat too long.

And then you're gone.

Simon blinks and his jaw tightens. He stares at the spot where your hand was just seconds ago. Something behind his sternum tightens, low and hot.

Hell.

He swallows, shifting slightly in his seat, one hand twitching with the impulse to follow you... no, to pull you down into his lap right here in the booth and kiss you like he’s been aching to do all evening. Ever since you stepped out of your apartment in that dress.

But no.

He flexes his hand once beneath the table, grounding himself.

Later... maybe.

God, hopefully.

You step into the bathroom, the quiet clicking of your heels echoing behind you. The corners of your lips are still curled in a smile, soft and warm. You pause by the mirror, smoothing your hands down the sides of your dress, making sure everything still sat just right. Your reflection looks a little flushed, a little too glowy from nothing more than a dinner out, but you don't care.

You touch up your lipstick, take a breath and smile at yourself in the mirror. That little touch.... your fingers brushing his shoulder... it landed. You don't even have to see his face to know it. You felt it in the way his posture shifted. How still he went.

You aren't reckless, but you aren't oblivious either. You knew exactly what you did. And God, the tension he carried in his frame when you left the table, it was enough to make you feel wanted.

You return to the table a few minutes later, gracefully sliding back into your seat and Simon’s eyes are already on you before you even sit down.

“I'm sorry,” you say gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I did not mean to be gone long.”

He shakes his head once. “Didn’t feel long.”

His voice ia low and just a bit rough. His eyes drop to your mouth for a half-second too long. It makes your pulse flutter.

You glance outside, where the city lights bleed into the soft hues of early night and then look back at him.

“Do you want to walk a little?” you ask quietly. “It’s really beautiful out… and I’m not ready to go home just yet.”

Simon doesn't hesitate. He immediately reaches for his wallet.

“Yeah,” he says. “A walk sounds good.”

What he doesn't say, however, is: I need air. I need space between us or I’ll forget myself. I need to remember I’m not supposed to touch you the way I’m thinking right now.

Instead, he pays for dinner and gently guides you outside with his hand just near your lower back. He opens the door for you like it is instinct, like he has to remind the world with that simple gesture: She's with me.

And you? You just smile, glowy, sweet, like you feel all of that too.

The city air is warm, balmy even, carrying the gentle hum of nightlife and late diners spilling out onto terraces. Your heels click softly on the pavement beside Simon’s heavy steps, your bodies walking in rhythm, arms just grazing now and then but never quite linking.

Your conversation is soft and careless and your laugh comes easy with him. He has this way of being dry without being cold and his glances toward you when you get animated... God, they make your heart stutter.

Then, as you turn a corner near a quieter stretch of the street, a voice pipes up behind you.

“y/n?”

You turn, smile already forming.

“Oh! Daniel... hey.”

It's Daniel from the firm. He wears a sharp suit - the kind of law school sharpness. It's almost repulsive. He looks from you to Simon with a polite, practiced smile, but his eyes give him away. He gives Simon a quick flicker up and down, clocking the height, the build and the tattoos peeking from Simon’s sleeves.

“Well, fancy seeing you out here,” Daniel says, hands in his pockets, like he's trying not to look nosy. “Didn’t peg you for the type to enjoy… the more rugged charm of the city.”

Your brow arches delicately and you give him that smile you use in meetings... the one that says: You think you’re being subtle, but you’re not.

“I’m full of surprises,” you say sweetly, unbothered. “This one’s a good one.”

Simon doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Instead, he just offers the man a quiet nod, his posture relaxed but his eyes razor-sharp. He's watching, reading.

Daniel’s gaze lingers. He is clearly weighing something before giving a short, humorless laugh.

“Well,” he says, “if you ever tire of brawn, you know where the brain trust is.” Then he gives you a small wink. “Good night, y/n. Sir", he says and walks off with too much self-satisfaction in his stride.

You exhale slowly. “Subtle, huh?”

Simon doesn't laugh. He just looks after Daniel for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“You okay?” you ask, grabbing his arm gently.

He blinks once, then his eyes drop to meet yours. The tension in his body eases.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “He’s lucky you’re kind.”

You smile, leaning in just enough to brush your shoulder against his.

“I know what I’m doing,” you say, quietly, confidently. “And who I’m doing it with.”

That makes him smirk immediately.

Your hand moves without a second thought and your fingers are sliding around Simon’s bicep like it belongs there. Like he belongs to you. It isn't a territorial move.

It is something warmer. You don't care that Daniel saw you with Simon. If anything, that moment only solidified what you want to make unmistakably clear:

This man... he’s mine.

Simon feels it too. The way your touch anchors him and the way your body leans just slightly into his as you walk again. Your touch isn't possessive... it's proud. And it has him tightening his jaw for an entirely different reason now. He looks ahead again, but the ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. And when you slide your hand a little more snugly around his arm, he doesn't say a word... he just lets you. Gladly.

You stop by a tiny late-night gelato place. It's one of those hidden gems tucked between quiet cafés and sleepy bookshops, still open with a lazy hum of overhead lights. You order your favorite and Simon goes for something simple and classic: Vanilla... in a cone.

You nearly lose it when you see him.

Not because it's funny, not exactly. But because there is something so… soft about it. This big man, black shirt stretched across his shoulders, eyes still quietly alert as always and yet here he is, calmly licking at a delicate swirl of ice cream like it's the most normal thing in the world. Like he doesn't even register the contrast.

He catches you staring.

“What?”, he asks, without making eye contact.

You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back a grin. “Nothing,” you say, blushing. “I just didn’t peg you as a cone guy.”

Simon takes another unbothered lick. “Didn’t realize there were rules.”

“No, no,” you. “I like it. It’s… adorable.”

He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Adorable?"

“Yep,” you nod, lips around your spoon, “but in a very masculine, terrifying kind of way.”

Simon huffs through a laugh and keeps walking, nudging your shoulder with his. “Keep talkin’, sweetheart.”

You wander slowly back to his truck, your steps syncing in that easy way again. The night air is mild and the street quiet. You swear you can feel the calm settle into your bones.

When you reach your apartment, Simon parks and cuts the engine, the gentle tick-tick-tick of the truck cooling down filling the pause.

You don't move. You just sit back in your seat and look ahead, one leg folded over the other, your hand still resting near where your dress skims your knee. Simon doesn't rush you... he rarely does. He just watches you from the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, still.

The silence isn't awkward. It's full of something unspoken, some charged tether gently tightening between you again. You let out a breath, soft and reluctant. The kind that spoke volumes without a word.

Simon turns his head toward you and just watches you for a second, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he gives a faint nod, quiet and almost old-fashioned, as he reaches to open his door.

You stay still, waiting.

He rounds the truck and opens your door with that same quiet care, his hand reaching out to help you step down. His palm is is warm and steady when you take it. As you find your balance on the pavement, you look up to thank him.

But whatever words you might have said disappear, when the kiss comes. It isn't rushed or wild, but full. Slow. Like you both know it was waiting for the right moment.

He pulls away just slightly, not far, his brow brushing against yours, his breath still mingling with yours in the cool night air. His voice is quiet, nearly swallowed by the stillness.

“I’ve wanted to do that… since I saw you step out in that dress.”

It isn't a confession. It isn't meant to pull you closer or to suggest anything more. It is just the truth, softly placed between you like something precious.

His thumb grazes the side of your hand once before he lets it go.

You walk up the short path to your building side by side, the hush of the late evening wrapping around you like a gentle blanket. When you reach your door, he stops beside you. His hand brushes briefly against the small of your back before falling away, a quiet gesture, not demanding anything more. Just there.

You turn to him, the light from the porch softly catching in your hair. Your voice is a murmur, close and sincere.

“I had a really nice time tonight.”

Simon gives you a slow nod, the corner of his mouth tugging into something almost like a smile. Something just for you.

But before you say goodnight, you remember. “Oh! Actually… I got a call from base this afternoon. I have to be there tomorrow.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You nod, shyly. “It’s nothing big, just some planning stuff for the daycare program. But I’ll be on base most of the day.”

For a beat, Simon is quiet, he's thinking... maybe. Then he tilts his head slightly, voice low and unassuming.

“You want some company during my break? We could walk a bit. Around base.”

Your smile is soft, surprised in that delighted way only he could pull from you. “Yeah… I’d like that", you say, eyes glowing with anticipation.

He gives another quiet nod, almost ceremonial in its gentleness and turns to go.

________

You barely have time to breathe that morning.

Your meetings at base run back to back, punctuated by a flurry of notes, quick exchanges with officers and a minor scramble when one of your project folders goes missing for a moment.

You navigate it all with practiced poise, but by the time your break rolls around, your shoulders are tense and your brain is foggy.

You step out into the sun, the wide concrete expanse of base is buzzing with activity, but your eyes scan automatically for one figure in particular.

And there he is.

Simon stands off to the side, leaning with practiced indifference against the side of a truck, hands tucked into the pockets of his cargo pants. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms taut and tan and even from a distance, he looks like the only still point in a moving world.

You smile and approach him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Hey."

“Hi,” he says lowly, with that faint rasp that only came through when he is relaxed. Or with you.

You barely took two steps together when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Well, look who finally managed to drag the Ghost out in daylight,” Soap calls out with a smirk, jogging past you in full gear. His tone is cheeky, but his eyes flick to you with curiosity and just a hint of mischief. “And here I thought you weren’t the type to fraternize on base.”

Simon doesn't break stride. He merely huffs, that short, dry sound that can mean anything from shut up to not your business and lets the comment slide off him like water off armor. Unbothered.

You give Soap an amused smile as he passes, but once he is gone, you grin at Simon as you continue your walk.

“Is he always like that?” you ask playfully.

“Worse,” he says, the corner of his mouth barely twitching. “He’s being polite ‘cause you’re here.”

You make your way along a quieter path that skirts the edge of the training field. The trees offer shade, and the air smells faintly of sun-warmed gravel and old motor oil. You exhale, finally beginning to relax.

Your conversation drifted in and out: light talk about your meeting, him grumbling gently about an equipment issue, the occasional quiet laughter shared like secrets.

When you circle back toward the main building, your phone buzzes with a reminder for your next session.

Simon notices. “You should go.”

You give him a reluctant look. “Yeah. I wish I didn’t have to.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I’ll wait for you after my shift. You’ll be done around six?”

You nod.

“Grab something to eat. Your pick.”

You smile with anticipation. “I like the sound of that.”

--------

By the time you meet up again after your meetings, the sun already starts to dip behind the horizon, casting long shadows across the base. You're was waiting at the curb outside one of the back exits, your blazer slung over your arm, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of your dress. You look at ease now and when you see him approach, that familiar soft curve lifts your mouth.

Simon, still in uniform but with the top half tied around his waist, nods toward the street.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” you say and follow him without hesitation.

You end up at one of those roadside burger joints that Simon swears have “the best chips in a three-mile radius.” You don't argue, mostly because he looks so damn confident about it. You order greasy cheeseburgers, fries, and two milkshakes, one vanilla, one chocolate. The food comes fast, the kind of meal wrapped in thin paper that immediately leaves stains on fingers and wrappers half-torn open from hunger.

“Okay,” you start, balancing your tray in your hands. “Not that I don’t love the ambiance, but what if we… I don’t know, moved this gourmet experience to the bed of your truck? A little picnic?”

Simon blinks at you, his brow rising slightly. “You want to eat there? In the back?”

“Well, yeah,” you say. “Unless you’re scared of crumbs.”

He gives you a long, unreadable look, then smirks faintly. “You’re cleaning up after.”

You climb into the back of the truck together, making a makeshift seat of old blankets and gear tarps. The food is an absolute disaster: sauce dripping, chips flying, you're trying not to drop ketchup on your dress. Simon tries to eat with the kind of clean efficiency he uses on missions, but you bump into him, laughing as he narrowly misses spilling a dollop of mustard on his shirt.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, but his voice istoo fond for the words to have any bite.

“You love it,” you quip, licking chocolate shake from your thumb.

He nearly chokes.

At one point, you got grease on your cheek and when he wipes it off with the corner of his sleeve, just a brief, unthinking touch, something warm sparks under your skin. The back of the truck is quiet for a second, the kind of pause that thickens the air. But neither of you moves to make it anything else. Not yet.

Eventually, with bellies full and fingers sticky, you lean back against the cab wall with a contented sigh.

“This was fun.”

“You made a warzone out of my truck,” Simon dead-pans.

You glance at him mischievously. “You’ll live.”

He looks at you for a beat too long, “Yeah. Probably.”

You pack up the trash and climb back inside. While you're brushing the remains of the fries off your dress, Simon is wiping his hands on a napkin with a muttered curse.

Back on your street, the truck idles quietly. You glance over as you slow to a stop.

“You want to come up?” you ask, voice light, casual... almost. But the way you look at him isn't casual at all.

Simon meets your gaze. Then, slowly, he nods. “Yeah. I do.”

And this time, there is no restraint.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You toe off your shoes and flick on the hallway light, casting a warm, golden glow over the quiet apartment. It smells faintly of lavender and something sweet, something that reminds Simon of you without even trying.

“Do you want something to drink?” you ask as you walk toward the kitchen, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

He nods, wordless for a beat too long. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

You smile and busy yourself at the counter, pulling two glasses from the cupboard and pouring some fizzy drink, something light, something easy. He stands awkwardly in the living room, trying not to fidget while taking in the details of your space again: the throw blanket folded over the edge of the sofa, the little stack of novels on the coffee table. It's soft and feminine. Just like you.

When you return, you hand him a glass and drop beside him on the couch with a quiet exhale. Your arms brush and neither of you pulls away.

Simon looks down at the glass in his hand, then at you.

“y/n,” he says, voice quieter than usual. He turns to you, shifting slightly so his knee presses against yours. “I, uh-” A pause. Then, steadier: “I really like you.”

Your breath catches and suddenly you start smiling.

There is something almost boyish in the way he says it... not unsure, just unguarded. He lifts a hand to your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he's afraid you might vanish if he moves too quickly. You blink at him, lips parting slightly, stunned at the softness in his expression. The vulnerability behind it.

A second passes. Maybe even two.

Then you laugh. Not mockingly, but this quiet, flustered, utterly overwhelmed sound that shakes your shoulders. And before he can think, you're on him, flinging yourself into his arms with a kiss so deep and eager, it nearly knocks the glasses off the table.

He catches you, of course... steady and solid as ever, arms folding around you like it was instinct.

The kiss cracks open something in both of you. His hands find your waist, then the curve of your back, your thigh pressing against his as you shift to straddle his lap without breaking the kiss. Your fingers are in his hair now, mouth warm and insistent against his, and he lets out a soft groan, burying himself in the heat of it.

You gasp when he kisses down the curve of your neck, your head tipping back, breath stuttering against his temple. But he doesn't rush you. He doesn't press for more. He just holds you close, your legs bracketing his hips, your bodies flush, tangled and alive.

Your hands tremble slightly against his chest.

“Still really like me?” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw.

He looks up at you with a rising chest and smiles. “Even more now.”

For a while, it's just the sound of your breathing. Soft exhales against skin, the slight creak of the couch beneath you, the quiet fizz of your untouched drink still sitting on the table.

You stay perched on his lap, your arms loose around his neck, your forehead resting against his. You're still close, intimately so, and the warmth of his body underneath yours isn't something you can ignore anymore. Neither could he.

You shift slightly, just enough to adjust your weight... when you feel it.

His body tenses beneath you, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he tries not to react. But it's too late. You feel the full breadth of his response pressed between you, unmistakable in the way he inhales sharply and then goes perfectly still.

You pull back just enough to see his face.

Simon’s ears are already red. His neck, too. His eyes flick up to meet yours for a split second, then away, like he's mortified to have been caught. You feel his hands tighten at your waist a little before he lets them drop to your thighs, a silent apology written in every inch of his posture.

“Sorry,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Didn’t mean... I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

His cheeks are flushed now, more than you have ever seen. It isn't often you see Simon, of all people, blush like this.

You blink, caught off guard by just how shy he is and then your lips curl softly, tenderly.

“Simon,” you say, brushing your fingers gently through the short hair at the back of his neck. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you like he doesn't quite believe it or doesn't know what to do with the fact that you aren't recoiling. That you aren't teasing him or making a joke. You're just… there. Warm and gentle and still sitting on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “It’s kind of flattering.”

His brows lift slightly. “Flattering?”

You nod. “I mean… I’m blushing too, if that helps", you say, not able to look him in the eyes.

And that earns you the smallest laugh. It's husky, low, still tinged with nerves, but real.

You sit like that for a moment longer, not kissing now, just looking at each other. Like something unspoken settled between you.

Then you lean your forehead back to his, your noses brushing, and whisper with the faintest, cheeky lilt:

“So, uh… remind me why we’re still dressed?”

His laughter bursts out this time, full, sudden, muffled against your skin as he pulls you in tight.

“Because,” he says into your shoulder, still pink in the face, “you’re trouble.”

“And you like trouble,” you remind him, smiling.

“Only when it looks like you", he manages.

Simon tries to steady his breath, but your weight on him, your softness and the way your fingers are idly tracing the nape of his neck, it's all undoing him piece by piece.

You tilt your head just enough to catch his eye again, your smile small but unmistakably wicked. “You know,” you murmur, voice low and teasing, “if this is what happens when I just sit on you… I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I moved.”

Simon lets out a choked sound that might be a laugh, might be a plea for mercy. His hand instinctively tightens on your hip, as if to keep you from moving.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, head tipping back against the couch, eyes closed.

You grin absolutely delighted, and laugh. “You love it,” you whisper near his jaw.

He turns his head then, his mouth finding yours again in a kiss that has more heat now, less hesitation. The air shifts. Everything becomes slower, deeper. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Finally, he moves one hand up your back, the other anchoring you to him like he isn't ready to let you go for even a second.

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timethehobo · 9 months ago

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Thinking about his intense resting face.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #DAtV #Emmrich volkarin #my art #he’s so done ahah #I love how his posture is so polite but his resting face is just #exhausted #hehe I got tired to draw his button up collar so eh take the collar #excited for the game grrrr

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aleskie · 3 months ago

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EIGHTEEN | Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Oscar Piastri has loved you since he was eighteen. It just takes him a while to get to that point. Or so he thinks. This is Oscar's journey to realizing that maybe the girl he's always hated isn't so bad at all. In fact, she's actually...pretty loveable.

Warnings: None just Enemies to Lovers?? Or is it more Rivals to Lovers?? Also, the timeline is wonky with the irl events, so just pretend it makes sense. And also i had to look up the british school systems SO THEY MAY BE WRONG BUT PLEASE JUST PRETEND

♫ Listen: 18 by One Direction ♫

2016: Year 10 [15 years old]

He didn’t know why, but from the moment you two met at the headmaster’s office, Oscar Piastri knew he hated you.

Maybe it was your posture—back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting politely on your lap—or maybe it was your voice, too polished, too proper, like you were reciting lines off a script. Or maybe it was everything else.

The way you barely acknowledged him as you both waited in the stuffy office, but flashed a smile so perfectly pleasant it had to be fake the second the teachers and headmaster walked in. The way your eyes flickered over him when he introduced himself, assessing, calculating, like he was a pawn to be placed, a connection to be measured. Or maybe—definitely—it was when you called motorsport, his life’s mission and passion, a hobby.

He tried not to let it get to him. He really did. But even he had to admit he could be a little petty.

“At least I have a hobby,” he muttered in your direction as soon as the faculty members were out of earshot.

For a split second, he thought you looked hurt—something in the way your lips parted, the slightest flicker of hesitation in your expression. But then it was gone, replaced by a scoff and a perfectly arched brow.

“At least I know my dreams have a higher chance of succeeding than yours do.”

Low blow.

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag. “You’ve got dreams?” He sneered. “Must be hard for a princess like you to have to be here and work for them then.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something sharp in the way you did it, like you were daring him to say more. “Don’t act like you know me, Piastri.”

He huffed out a dry laugh. “I could say the same for you.”

You turn your head away from him at the sound of light footsteps—faculty returning, this time accompanied by older students meant to be your guides. And just like that, the stupidly perfect, fake smile was back on your face, as if the last few minutes of exchanged barbs had never happened.

“I see you two have been conversing,” says the headmaster, smiling warmly. If only she knew about the jabs you’d taken at each other. Would she still be smiling?

“He’s been lovely company, Mrs. Berkshire,” you lie with effortless charm, your voice smooth as silk. “It’s been comforting to know I’m not the only transfer student.”

Then, as if to twist the knife a little deeper, you turn to him with a look so deceptively sweet it could almost pass as genuine—almost. “I’m glad Oscar feels the same.”

There’s a glint in your eyes, something smug and self-satisfied, and he wonders if anyone else in the room can see just how full of it you are. Probably not. Mrs. Berkshire certainly doesn’t. She beams, clearly pleased at the thought of her two new students becoming fast friends.

Oscar clenches his jaw. He could call you out, make it clear that you’re full of it—but what’s the point? Instead, he forces himself to nod, his voice tight as he grits out, “Yeah. She’s been great.”

He sees it then—that flicker of amusement, the way your lips almost twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. Almost. Couldn’t let your facade slip, not even for a second.

And it pissed him off.

You spend most of your first year at boarding school in different circles.

Oscar lays low, slipping easily into a group of laid-back boys who are effortlessly easy to be around. They play video games in dorm rooms until lights out, kick a ball around after class, and never demand much from each other beyond good company. They cheer him on when he leaves to compete and catch him up on everything he’s missed when he comes back. They’re great. Better than he could have ever imagined.

You, on the other hand, carve out your place at the top of the food chain. Academically untouchable, always two steps ahead. First in your class, a key member of the Debate Team and MUN Club, and well on your way to securing a prefect badge. Your uniform is always pristine, your headband perfectly in place, not a single strand of hair out of order. You have a small group of friends who he assumes are just as intelligent, uptight, and snooty as you are.

And yet—when he sees you laughing with them, head thrown back, completely unguarded—something about you seems softer. You don’t look like the girl who calculated every move, who smiled just enough to be polite but never enough to be real. In those moments, with that rare, genuine laugh, he thinks—begrudgingly—that you actually look quite…pretty.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know why he even notices. It’s not like he cares.

But sometimes, in the middle of a dull afternoon or while walking past the library, he catches glimpses of you—not the polished, picture-perfect version of you that you show everyone else, but something different. Unpolished. Real.

Like when you’re sprawled across a bench outside with your friends, books and papers in a chaotic mess around you, groaning about an impossible assignment—right up until someone cracks a joke that sends you into a fit of laughter. The kind of laugh that makes you cover your mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners, completely unguarded.

Or when, on those rare occasions, he catches you slipping up in class, head bobbing forward as you fight off sleep, fingers twitching as you try—and fail—to take notes.

Or when he walks past the debate team’s practice room and sees you in your element, arguing fiercely, hands moving with conviction, voice steady and sure. Confidence radiating off you in a way that has nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with certainty.

And for a second, just a second, he forgets to be annoyed by you.

But then you glance up, catch him staring, and arch a perfectly shaped brow in challenge—like you know something he doesn’t.

Right. He still hates you. Definitely.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking.

2017: Year 11 [16 years old]

Oscar was back at school regularly after the summer holidays and the season ending. He was pretty pleased with himself—2nd place wasn’t anything to scoff at. Sure, first would’ve been better, but it was fairly won. Besides, it had been a fun season, his best yet. More importantly, he hadn’t thought about you for months. Too busy with his Formula 4 campaign, too focused on climbing the motorsport ladder, too—

Well. That’s what he told himself.

He stepped through the iron gates of the academy, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his phone buzzing with check-up texts from his mom. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass and old stone filled his lungs, a quiet signal that summer was officially over. Students crowded the courtyard, reuniting after the break, voices overlapping in a chorus of excitement. His friends spotted him almost immediately, calling his name, pulling him into easy conversation—asking about his races, his wins, his losses, his plans.

And then—there you were.

Standing by the main building, perfect posture as always, chatting with one of your equally polished friends. Your hair was different, slightly shorter, but the headband remained, a signature piece of armor. Your uniform was just as crisp as it had been last year, not a wrinkle in sight, now complete with a new prefect’s badge that you wore with unmistakable pride. And when you laughed at something your friend said, it was that same light, practiced sound he recognized all too well.

It took exactly eight seconds for you to notice him.

Your gaze flicked toward him, assessing, calculating—just like it had in the headmaster’s office when you first met. Then—because you were you—your lips curled into a polite, almost saccharine smile, the kind reserved for faculty members and people you didn’t actually care about.

He scoffed. Typical.

“Piastri,” you greeted, voice smooth, just a little too pleasant.

“Princess,” he shot back, just to see if he could get a reaction.

And for a split second, he did—your brow twitched, barely noticeable, but he caught it. Then, just as quickly, you smoothed your expression, tilting your head ever so slightly in mock amusement.

“We’re in Year 11 now, and you’re still calling me that?”

“You’re still acting like one.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. But then, after a beat, you said, “I saw that you got second in the championship. Congratulations.”

Oscar blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Compliments from you were rare, practically unheard of. He studied your face, searching for sarcasm, but found none. Just a simple, matter-of-fact acknowledgment.

“…Thanks,” he said, accepting it before you could take it back. “Bet it was a little more interesting than your summer,” he added, smirking.

You raised a brow. “What, don’t tell me you’re…curious about my summer, Piastri.”

His smirk vanished. His brain short-circuited.

And just like that, you had him cornered.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shut it. His brain scrambled for a way to recover, but all it did was replay the way you’d said his name just now—not in the usual clipped, disapproving way. No, this time it had been lighter, teasing. Maybe even…amused.

Suddenly, the two of you were locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to look away first.

Your friend cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. Oscar barely noticed. Because in that moment—standing there, the summer heat giving way to the crispness of early autumn, your eyes locked onto his with that same sharp, knowing look—he realized something.

He hadn’t actually stopped thinking about you at all.

The mere thought made his stomach twist, and before he could process it any further, he turned on his heel, raising a hasty hand in goodbye as he strode back to his friends. Fast. Like putting distance between you would somehow fix whatever the hell had just happened in his head.

“Okay, that was a little weird,” he heard your friend murmur behind him. “Is he alright?”

“Maybe the gasoline finally got to his brain,” you quipped. “A pity. He was a little smart, too.”

Oscar nearly tripped.

He wanted to say the comment about his "off attitude" annoyed him. He wanted to say that the gasoline remark made him dislike you more. He wanted to say that he had a cutting comeback ready to fire back at you.

But all he could think about was how you called him smart.

God, what was happening to him?

He knew something was going to go wrong last week when their teacher announced he’d be the one pairing up students for the project, taking matters into his own hands with a kind of cruel indifference that made Oscar’s stomach twist.

He knew something was going to go wrong when, at the start of class, the teacher gave both you and him a pointed look—sharp, knowing—before moving on like nothing had happened. You had shot him a confused glance then, your brow furrowing ever so slightly in a rare moment of shared uncertainty. He had stared back, just as lost. Neither of you had any idea what was coming, but for once, you were both on the same side of the battlefield.

And then the teacher started listing off partners.

It started harmless enough—his friends were getting paired with each other, easy matches. So were yours. Names fell into place like puzzle pieces, creating perfectly balanced, cooperative duos that wouldn’t cause trouble. And then—

“And finally, Oscar and...Y/N.”

Silence.

For a moment, he swore he misheard. But then he turned, and there you were, staring at the teacher like you were considering staging a full-scale academic rebellion. The slight tightening of your jaw, the way your fingers curled subtly against your sleeves—he could practically hear the calculations running through your head, weighing the pros and cons of outright protesting.

A second ticked by. Then another.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you muttered under your breath, but the teacher either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“I expect full collaboration,” they continued, already moving on. “This project is a significant portion of your grade, so I suggest you all put any personal differences aside and focus on the work.”

Oscar barely heard the rest. He was too busy glaring at his desk, resisting the urge to run a hand down his face. Of course, this just had to happen. Most teachers kept the two of you apart, aware of the silent war you had waged since the day you met. But not this one. No, this one was smarter—or crueler—ready and waiting to watch the fire combust.

Great. Just great. Out of everyone in this class, he was stuck with you.

By the time class ended, he had barely processed anything. He was about to make his escape when he felt a presence beside him.

“You.”

He sighed before even turning around.

You had stopped him just outside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the slight, irritated furrow of your brow. The usual superiority was absent—no smug glint in your eyes, no perfectly poised smirk. Just frustration, quiet but simmering.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” you said flatly.

Oscar let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Trust me, Princess, I’d rather fail.”

And then—you smiled.

Not the polite, school-perfect kind you used on teachers. Not the barely-there one reserved for acquaintances. No, this one was slow, sharp, and just smug enough to make his blood boil.

“Then I guess we have very different priorities.”

He hated that he had no comeback.

God, this was going to be a disaster.

“We should take a break,” Oscar says, hunching over the library table, rubbing his temples like the weight of academia is physically crushing him. “We’ve been at this for hours.”

You barely spare him a glance. “It’s been two hours and seven minutes.”

“See? It’s been so long,” he complains, dragging a hand down his face. “Let’s take a break. You’re done with your part anyway.”

You turn to him, assessing. “Are you finished with your part?”

He hesitates. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he sighs. “Give me like an hour, and I’ll be finished.”

You straighten, your posture sharpening into something unreadable, something that makes him feel like a student being reprimanded. “Piastri, this is due tomorrow. We need to get it done today.”

“And we will,” he argues, matching your intensity. “Just let me nap for a bit.”

You inhale sharply, clenching your jaw, and he already knows what’s coming. That calm facade. That practiced composure. That same tone you use when talking to teachers, the one that makes him want to throw his pen at the wall.

“The library closes in three hours,” you say evenly. “This is just the first draft, so we still need to revise. And not to mention we have to properly format our sources—thirteen of them, by the way. Do you know how long that’s going to take?”

Oscar groans, letting his head fall dramatically onto the open textbook in front of him. “Princess, we can afford not to revise this. It’s literally a first draft for comments. We can just start formatting the citations.”

You don’t budge. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “What page of the document are you working on?��

He blinks, suspicious. “…Why?”

“I’ll finish it.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“We need to finish on time, and I refuse to let my grade be pulled down because we don’t submit a good output.”

“You’re not doing my work.” His voice comes out sharper than he expects, but the idea of you just taking over, of you thinking you have to—he hates it. “It’s literally my work for a reason.”

“And you aren’t getting it done, so let me do it.” You nearly exclaim, only to catch yourself, voice lowering when you remember where you are. The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and distant whispers. You press your lips together like you’re trying to hold the rest of the argument inside.

It’s silent between you for a long moment.

And then—

“…Do you always end up doing the work?”

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your gaze flickers away, shifting toward the window. Anywhere but him.

Oscar watches you carefully, something tightening in his chest. “Y/N, what the hell? People have just been riding on your work?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, voice even. Practiced. “We get it done. And we get it done well.”

His brows furrow. He doesn’t know why he’s so upset. He shouldn’t care. It’s not his problem, right? It was your choice to take on the workload, to let people walk over you.

But still…knowing that people just expect you to pick up the slack, that they let you do it without even thinking—

It pisses him off.

And what pisses him off more is the way you look right now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just resigned.

Like this is just the way things are. Like you’re used to it. And he hates that more than anything.

“Give me like forty-five minutes,” Oscar says after a beat, exhaling through his nose. “We’ll start revising after, and then we can split the citations.”

You blink, eyes flickering with something unreadable—surprise, maybe. He can’t tell. But then, just for a second, he swears he sees the corners of your lips twitch upward, like you’re trying not to smile.

“Just…” You hesitate, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of your notebook. “Tell me if you need help. Or…y’know. If you have questions.”

Your voice is quieter this time, less clipped, lacking the usual sharp edge you use when you’re exasperated with him.

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. The library is quieter now, the golden hues of the sunset stretching across the wooden tables and casting long shadows over your open books. The light catches on your face—soft, warm—and for the first time, he gets a proper look at you up close.

You look tired. Not just from today, but in the way that lingers—faint bags under your eyes, a kind of weariness that no amount of perfect posture or crisp uniforms can fully hide. And yet, right now, there’s something peaceful about you. The way you rest your head against your palm, watching him work—not impatient, not irritated. Just…watching.

You must notice, because your brows furrow slightly. “Do I have something on my face?”

“What?” He blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he had fallen into.

“You were staring.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“It was nothing,” he says quickly, looking back at his laptop. “Just zoning out.”

You hum, unconvinced. But instead of arguing, you simply go back to flipping through your notes, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

“…Okay,” you say.

He exhales, forcing himself to focus. “Okay.”

Somehow, he feels like forty-five minutes is going to take much longer.

Three weeks into the project, Oscar realizes something: you’re actually kind of well-known on campus.

Or, at the very least, you know a lot of people.

It’s not like he was completely unaware of it before. Your perfect reputation precedes you—your name carries weight in every class. Teachers mention you as an example of excellence, throwing your name around as if it alone should inspire the rest of them to do better. But working with you forces him to see it firsthand.

It seems like every five seconds, someone is coming up to greet you.

It doesn’t matter where you are—library, hallways, common areas. Someone always stops by.

Underclassmen ask for help on assignments—apparently, you tutor them sometimes, though Oscar doesn’t know how you find the time. Classmates ask about group projects. A girl from the debate team once yelled and waved from across the quad while you were in the middle of explaining a research point. Even the Year 13s, the ones Oscar barely interacts with, acknowledge you with nods and casual greetings.

And the weirdest part? You handle it all effortlessly.

He expected you to treat them the way you treat him—polite but cold, maybe even dismissive. But you don’t.

Instead, you smile. The fake one. The one he recognizes now, warm but not inviting. Like a wall disguised as a door, keeping people at a carefully measured distance. You don’t brush them off, but you don’t encourage them either. Your reactions are controlled, calculated. Just like everything else about you.

It’s impressive.

It’s annoying.

And it shouldn’t bother him. Not really.

But after three weeks of constantly being in your presence, after working side by side for hours on end, after getting into at least five arguments over formatting and research sources and the exact tone an introduction should have—he feels a little close to you. Not enough to like you, obviously. But enough that his respect for you has grown, just a little.

And with that, he’s started to notice things.

Like how you always twirl your pen when you’re deep in thought, but you never drop it. How you tap your fingers against your notebook in the exact rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head. How you drink tea instead of coffee and always wince at the first sip, like it’s too hot but you drink it anyway. How you use hair ties instead of your signature headband when you’re frustrated, tying and untying your hair over and over again only to fall back to your tried and tested headband after a while. How you let out a tiny sigh whenever you finish an assignment, as if mentally crossing it off a never-ending list.

He notices these things, and he tells himself it’s just because you’re working together. Because you’re spending time together. Because of course he’s going to pick up on small details when you’re stuck in the same space for hours.

That’s all it is.

Right?

Definitely.

And then, one afternoon, as you sit across from him at the library, books and notes spread between you, someone approaches.

"Y/N, hey."

Oscar looks up. It’s some guy—one of the Year 12s from the student council. He’s polished and confident, wearing the kind of casual smirk Oscar immediately finds irritating.

You blink in mild surprise before offering a smile—thankfully, the fake one. The one that’s polite, effortless, and just distant enough.

"Hello, Eric."

Eric leans against the table, his entire focus on you. He doesn’t even acknowledge Oscar.

"Haven’t seen you at any events lately. You’ve been busy?"

You glance at the open laptop in front of you, gesturing vaguely to your notes. "Yeah, the project’s been taking up a lot of time."

"Oh, right. This is for—" He finally gives Oscar a glance, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s only just realizing he’s there. "This is your partner?"

Oscar doesn’t like the way he says that.

You nod. "Yeah. We’ve been working on it together for a while now."

Eric hums, then—too casually—grins. "Well, don’t work too hard. Wouldn’t want you burning out before the weekend." His voice drops slightly, just enough to sound a little too suggestive for Oscar’s liking. "You should take a break. Come to the council’s seminar on Friday afternoon."

You hesitate, and for some reason, Oscar finds himself gripping his pen just a little tighter.

"It sounds fun," you admit, "But, with my schedule, I’m not sure—"

"You should go," Eric insists, tilting his head. "C’mon. You worked hard to help organize it—Thanks for the great speakers you found, by the way—I’ll even save you a seat next to me."

Something bristles in Oscar’s chest.

He doesn’t know why, but the entire interaction irks him. Maybe it’s the way Eric acts like he already knows you’ll say yes. Maybe it’s the casual confidence, the assumption that you’d drop everything just because he asked. Or maybe it’s the way you’re actually considering it.

Before he can stop himself, Oscar lets out a scoff.

Both you and Eric turn toward him.

"You good, man?" Eric asks, clearly amused.

Oscar leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Didn’t realize we were in the middle of a social hour, Y/N. Thought we were working."

Your eyes narrow slightly, but before you can say anything, Eric just laughs, pushing off the table. "Relax, Piastri. Didn’t mean to interrupt." He turns back to you, giving you an easy grin. "Think about it, yeah? It’d be nice to see you there."

You give a noncommittal nod, and just like that, he walks off.

The moment he’s gone, you exhale, turning to Oscar with a raised brow. "Was that necessary?"

He shrugs. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, muttering, "You’re so weird."

Oscar clenches his jaw, tapping his fingers against the table, suddenly annoyed.

Not at you. Not even at Eric.

Just at the fact that, for some stupid reason, the thought of you actually going to that seminar is really bothering him.

And he has no idea why.

He sneaks out of the dorms on Friday night, hands in his pockets, head low as he moves through the dimly lit pathways of the school. The night air is crisp, the kind that clears his mind if he lets it, but tonight, it does nothing to untangle the thoughts looping through his head.

It’s stupid. The fact that he even cares. That the idea of you and Eric sitting together, side by side, laughing at some dull student council joke, is bothering him.

It doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

Because he doesn’t like you.

He still thinks you’re stuck-up, overly competitive, and have a way of looking at him like you know exactly how to get under his skin. The faces you make, the way you roll your eyes when he so much as breathes the wrong way—it’s all infuriating.

But you’re smart. Intelligent. And your work ethic is something he respects, even if he won’t admit it.

And, yeah, you’re pretty. Even he has to acknowledge that much. But not the obvious kind of pretty. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that feels like a place you recognize, a feeling that lingers in the quiet spaces between conversations. It’s the kind that makes you feel at home.

The kind that—if he were the type to believe in this kind of thing—you’d find when you’re in love.

Not that he is. Obviously.

He shakes the thought away, sighing as he rounds the corner of the old courtyard. And then—

"It’s lights out, Piastri."

Your voice cuts through the silence, and he stops dead in his tracks.

You’re standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the dim glow of the campus lamps casting soft shadows across your face. You look unimpressed but not surprised, like you already expected to catch someone out of bed tonight.

He exhales, shoulders dropping. Of course.

"Then what are you doing here?" he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. "I’m a prefect, remember? Tonight’s my shift to make rounds before security does."

"Oh."

A beat.

"So," you say, tilting your head slightly. "What made you break curfew? You don’t seem like the type."

"Just needed to walk. Clear my head."

You hum in response, your gaze flicking over him, assessing. Then, after a moment:

"Well, the classrooms in the east wing don't get much attention. You can stay there and then sneak back out when the prefects and security switch shifts."

Oscar blinks. Of all the responses he expected from you, that wasn’t one of them.

He raises a brow, smirking. "And you know this…how?"

Your expression doesn’t change, but he catches the way your lips twitch slightly, like you’re holding back a smile. "I can be a little disobedient too. Sometimes."

That surprises him.

"You?" he says, skeptical.

You shrug. "It doesn’t happen often. Just when I need to clear my head." A pause, then, voice quieter, "Those classrooms are my spot, so don’t go there too often. I don’t need to see you when I’m stressed."

Oscar snorts. "Wow. What an honor."

"Exactly."

For a moment, neither of you move. There’s something odd about standing here, talking like this—like you’re two people who aren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Like, in this sliver of time, there’s something unspoken but mutual between you.

It doesn’t last long.

You straighten your posture, clearing your throat. "Now, get going before I change my mind and actually report you."

"Noted, Princess."

You roll your eyes and turn away, disappearing down the corridor.

And for some stupid reason, as Oscar watches you leave, he wonders if you ever feel as restless as he does.

2018: Year 12 [17 years old]

He’s been using the classrooms in the east wing as a secret place to clear his head since the night you told him about it. So far, he’s never run into you.

Maybe you use a different classroom. Maybe you come on different days. Or maybe—like everything else in your life—you have a system, a strict schedule he’s unknowingly managed to avoid.

Either way, he’s always had the classrooms to himself.

Until tonight.

The air is heavier than usual as he makes his way through the dimly lit hallways, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s restless. Frustrated. He tells himself it’s because of the season he’s just had. The Eurocup was brutal and he definitely wasn’t at his best. Every race felt like a battle he couldn’t ever win and every misstep made the weight in his chest grow heavier.

All he wants is to be home. Back in Australia, where everything is familiar—the streets, the skies, the people who don’t expect anything from him except to just be. But instead, he’s here. At fucking boarding school.

He exhales sharply as he pushes the classroom door open, stepping into the quiet. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights—he knows this space well enough now. The desks are still arranged the way they always are, the faint scent of old paper and dry-erase markers lingering in the air. It’s not much, but it’s his for the night.

At least, that’s what he thinks.

Not even five minutes later, the door swings open behind him, and he barely has time to turn his head before—

You.

You freeze in the doorway, hand still on the handle. There’s a flicker of something across your face—surprise, maybe even slight irritation. You definitely thought you were going to be alone.

He should’ve figured this would happen eventually.

Your lips part slightly before you collect yourself. “I’ll use a different—”

“You can stay.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

You hesitate, eyebrows drawing together slightly, like you’re trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. He doesn’t blame you.

But then, after a beat, you nod, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you, switching on one of the lights and dimly lighting up the room. Neither of you say anything as you move to opposite sides of the room, like unspoken rules are being established in real time.

Oscar exhales, rolling his shoulders back as he leans against one of the desks. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That you being here changes nothing.

So why does the room suddenly feel smaller?

He looks over at you. You’re scrolling through your phone, eyes scanning over messages he can’t see—but whatever’s on the screen has your jaw clenched tight. His gaze flickers down to your hands, the way your fingers tremble slightly over the glass. And then, in the dim light, he sees it. Faint but undeniable—tear stains trailing down your flushed cheeks.

His stomach twists.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice careful.

“Fine.” You don’t even look up.

He doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. “You sure?”

“Why do you care, Piastri?” You finally glance at him, but your expression is unreadable. “You don’t even like me.”

He stills. He wasn’t expecting you to be that blunt about your whole dynamic.

“Any decent person would care about someone who looks like they’ve just bawled their eyes out,” he says, crossing his arms.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, I’m fine.” Your posture shifts, back straightening as your expression smooths out into something eerily familiar. And then it’s there—the mask. The same sweet, practiced smile you wear around everyone else, the one he’s hated since the moment he first saw it in the headmaster’s office years ago. The one that hides everything.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say smoothly. “I have everything under control.” You turn to leave. “I’ll be off now—”

“Cut the bullshit, Y/N.”

The sharpness in his voice makes you freeze, hand hovering over the door handle.

“We both know you’re not fine.” His voice is lower now, steadier, but just as firm. “I know that face. I think I’m the only one who knows that face and how it’s not real. It’s never been real.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “For once in your life, just be fucking honest.”

You don’t turn around immediately. When you do, your face is unreadable. Then—so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it—you whisper,

“I’m not at the top of our class anymore.”

His breath catches.

“My grades are dropping—fast,” you continue, voice shaking despite how hard you try to control it. “My A-levels are harder than I expected. I thought I could handle it, but I—” You swallow. “I’m failing. And I’m letting everyone down.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

His chest tightens.

“My parents are pissed. My siblings are pissed because now my parents are pissed at them too. If I were just smarter, if I were better, none of this would be happening. Everything would be fine. Everyone would be happy.” You suck in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t stop the fresh tears from spilling down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away. You just stand there, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

“I’m just tired,” you whisper.

Silence.

It hangs thick between you, pressing against the walls, settling into the space between your feet.

Before he can think twice about it, Oscar moves. Slowly. Carefully. Until he’s standing in front of you. Not too close, but close enough that he can see the way your lashes clump together from the tears, the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still trying to keep yourself from breaking completely.

“I…didn’t think you could cry,” he mutters, before realizing how weird that sounds.

You blink at him, and for once, there’s no condescension in your expression—just something flat, unimpressed.

“You’re weird,” you say, voice hitching slightly from crying, “But you’re pretty good.”

His brows furrow. “Like, as a person?”

“Take it however you want.” You chuckle, a small, tired sound. You wipe your tears away, then, tilting your head, you ask, “So, why’d you come here?”

He hesitates. Looks down at his hands. Then, finally, exhales.

“I got ninth at the Eurocup this season.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightens. “I let everyone down. The team. The sponsors. My family.” His fists clench. “I did everything right. I trained harder than ever, I did my best, I gave everything—and it still wasn’t enough. I failed and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

The room is quiet again. Until—

You move.

Soft footsteps against the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing even closer to him. And then, hesitantly, you lift a hand and rest it on his shoulder. The warmth of your touch is unexpected, but grounding.

“Well,” you say, your voice quieter now, “I guess that makes us both failures.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, half in disbelief at the words that just left your mouth, half at the sheer irony of it all.

The girl he’s spent years hating is somehow the only person who understands exactly how he feels.

And when you laugh along with him—soft and real, no mask in sight—he thinks it might be the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

But just in an objective way.

Obviously.

Something shifts after that night.

The jabs between you are still there, but they’ve lost their edge—less snark and spite, more playful banter. The kind that lingers just long enough to be amusing but never actually stings.

You smile at him when you pass each other in the hallway now. Not the polite, distant one you give everyone else, but a real one—small, barely-there, but real. You don’t avoid sitting with him anymore when the study hall is packed, and somehow, he swears people have started reserving a seat next to him for you.

He finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

It was weird at first—falling into this easy rhythm with you. He doesn’t quite know when it happened, only that it did.

Now, you help each other out when you can, despite having different A-levels.

You teach him how to organize his notes properly, finally getting him to admit that his system of stuffing everything into his bag “where I can find it later” is inefficient. In return, you steal scratch paper from him when you need to jot things down quickly, muttering a half-hearted “thanks” while he snorts and tells you to bring your own next time.

You ask him to explain things you don’t have the patience to reread, and he—after weeks of resisting—finally accepts your request to have a shared study playlist, since, for some reason, you two find yourselves next to each other so often.

It’s fun. Organic. Comfortable.

And then one day, in the middle of study hall, as he’s flipping through notes and barely paying attention, you look up from your work and—completely unprompted—ask:

“So, tell me about racing.”

He freezes, caught completely off guard.

“…Finally interested in my hobby?” He smirks, leaning back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers just like you’d taught him.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Ugh. Let it go, we were like fifteen.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Yeah, something’s definitely changed.

“So…” He watches you intently, trying to gauge if you actually want to know. “You really wanna hear about it?”

“Well, you won’t shut up about it,” you say, propping your chin on your hand. “Might as well figure out what’s so cool about it.”

He snorts. “Then sure, princess, let’s introduce you to motorsport, yeah?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but he catches the way you shift slightly in your seat, just a little closer, just a little more engaged.

“There’s a few types of it,” he starts, leaning back against the desk. “You’ve got the motorcycles and there’s even stuff where there’s two people in one car. But I’m in single-seater racing, so it’s just me.” His voice gains a certain ease as he speaks, his usual sharp edges softening. “I’m aiming for Formula One, which is like… the top of it all.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He always seemed most alive when he was annoyed at something—eyes sharp, jaw tight, voice lined with exasperation. But this? This is different. His posture is looser, his words flowing without the usual bite. There’s no frustration here, just passion.

You nod, and—true to form—pull out your notebook, flipping to a fresh page. The sharp click of your pen echoes in the room.

He stops. Stares.

“…Are you seriously taking notes?”

"Duh,” you reply, completely serious. “I need to keep up.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you. Then he huffs out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. But he doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Alright then,” he says, smirking slightly. “Most of us start in karting as kids. Like, literally kids. I was ten when I started—a little late, actually—but that’s where you learn the basics. Overtaking, defending, racing lines, racecraft—the whole lot.”

You hum thoughtfully, jotting something down. Then you glance up at him, the corner of your lips lifting. “Were you fast?”

“In karting?” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Obviously.”

You snicker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He shoots you a look, rolling his eyes before continuing. “Well, after that, you move up into junior divisions. It’s harder, more competitive, and way more expensive.” His fingers drum against the desk absently. “Talent alone isn’t enough there. There’s sponsors, funding, getting with a good team—and even with all that, nothing’s guaranteed.”

You watch him carefully, catching the way his jaw clenches at that last part.

It’s subtle, but there. The briefest flicker of frustration—of something deeper—before he forces it back down.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you tap your pen against your notebook, tilting your head. “So, let me get this straight,” you say, holding back a smile, pretending to examine your notes. “You’re telling me that you just drive in circles really fast, and you need rich people to like you?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “It is not just driving in circles.”

"Of course." You grin. “You drive in different squiggles really fast."

“Oh my god—”

You both burst out laughing, your voices filling the mostly quiet study hall, and the tension lifts.

He finds that you've been doing that lately—smoothing out the tightness in his chest until there's nothing but left but peace.

The kind he realizes he only really finds with you.

The annual retreat was supposed to be a break—a chance for students to step away from deadlines and exams, breathe in fresh air, and pretend they weren’t slowly losing their minds under the weight of classes.

Traditionally, it was some wilderness training program, the kind where they’d be forced to build shelters out of sticks and start fires with nothing but sheer willpower. But this year, the school had gone easy on them.

Instead of roughing it in the wild, they were headed to a quiet camping site tucked away in the countryside. Cabins instead of tents, a scenic lake, and just enough planned activities to call it "team-building" without making it actual suffering. Oscar didn't mind. A few days away from campus, where he didn’t have to think about exams or sponsors or whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing with his life? Yeah, he’d take it.

By the time they arrived, the sun was already slipping lower in the sky, casting warm gold over the treetops. The air was crisp, cooler than the city, carrying the distant scent of pine and lake water. As he stepped off the bus, stretching out his limbs, he could hear his friends already making plans—who was bunking with who, what they were sneaking into the cabins, whether or not they could get away with "accidentally" skipping the reflection sessions.

And then, of course, he spotted you.

Standing near the second bus, arms crossed, listening to one of your friends ramble about something—probably the itinerary. Your uniform blazer was gone, replaced by a jacket, and for once, your hair wasn’t held back by your usual headband. Something about it made you seem different. Less put together, less perfect. More like a person, less like the image of one.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Not that it mattered.

Because when you finally noticed him watching, you raised a brow, expression unreadable for all of two seconds before you smirked—just slightly, just enough to mouth: Stop staring, you weirdo.

Oscar exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile as he shouldered his duffel bag.

Just his luck—two days in the outdoors with you.

Or so he thought.

He didn’t see you at all that first night, too caught up in settling into the cabin with his friends, planning out their excursions for the next day. The schedule was packed but perfect: kayaking in the morning, followed by a swim in the lake. Archery in the afternoon, right after lunch. Then they’d spend the evening holed up in their cabin, pretending to nap so they could conveniently "miss" the reflection exercises. After dinner, they'd break out the snacks and board games they’d smuggled in, playing well past curfew.

Between all that, he was sure he’d run into you at some point. The camp wasn’t that big.

And yet, as the new day unfolded, you were nowhere to be found.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did see you. But only in passing—too focused on organizing the next day’s team-building activities, pouring over notes with the other prefects to even notice him.

Which was fine. Totally fine.

You were busy, after all.

Not that it mattered.

Not that it should have mattered.

And yet, for some reason, it did.

If the first day at camp was a relaxed free period with a required meditation session, the second was the complete opposite. Designed as a full-day competition, the campgrounds buzzed with energy as different challenges ran simultaneously—relay races, strategy games, problem-solving tasks. Every student was assigned to a random team and a random event. When they said team-building, they meant it.

Oscar got assigned to the obstacle course.

Which would’ve been fine—great, even—if it weren’t for the immediate complaints from the other teams the second they saw his name on the roster.

“Oh, come on,” someone groaned. “How’s that fair? He’s literally a professional athlete!”

“We’re going against a guy who has an actual training regimen,” another muttered, crossing their arms.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, feeling an unfamiliar prickle of embarrassment as all eyes turned to him. Great. He didn’t even want an unfair advantage, but now he was public enemy number one.

And then, of course, you stepped in.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” you said, somehow managing to corral the complaints into grumbling silence. Then, after a pause, you turned to him, a slow smirk pulling at your lips. “How about we give him a handicap, then?”

Oscar narrowed his eyes immediately. He knew that tone. That was your I’m about to mess with you tone.

“What do you think, Piastri?” you continued, crossing your arms. “Up for the challenge?”

He wasn’t, actually. Not at all. But some part of him—some deeply irrational, definitely stupid part—thought you might be a little impressed if he pulled it off.

“Sure,” he said, tilting his head at you. “What’s the handicap?”

You grinned. Too pleased. “We’re adding some weight on you.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

Another facilitator stepped forward, handing you a backpack that looked harmless enough. That is, until you struggled just a little to lift it, adjusting your stance to keep from stumbling.

Oscar stared. Oh, hell no.

“You…” He sighed heavily, reaching for the bag. The second he strapped it on, he felt the weight drag at his shoulders, and he let out a quiet grunt. Okay. Yeah. That’s ridiculous.

“You,” he muttered, adjusting the straps, “Are so lucky I tolerate you.”

You just flashed him a teasing smile and—because you were the actual worst—blew him a mocking kiss before turning back to the rest of the group.

“Alright!” you clapped your hands together. “Now that we’re all happy with the arrangements, let’s go over the rules!”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, shifting the weight on his back as you explained the mechanics. A team-based obstacle course where every challenge had to be completed by every member. Fastest team wins.

His team shot him a look, somewhere between amusement and pity.

Oscar just rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Fine. He could do this.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d make sure to throw you in the lake after.

“Are we all ready?” you call out over the crowd.

“Yeah!” they cheer back, voices full of energy.

“On your marks!”

Oscar positions himself at the back of his team, muscles tensed, ready. He could’ve started at the front—probably should have, considering he was technically the athlete—but he stayed behind instead, ready to help if anyone needed it. Team-building and all that.

“Get set!”

You scan the group, making sure everyone is in place. Then, for the briefest moment, your eyes lock with his.

His fingers twitch. Yours drum against your clipboard.

And because he’s him and you’re you, he casually flips you off.

You grin, wide and smug, like you’ve already won.

“Go!”

Oscar takes off.

The weight of the bag is brutal, but he barely registers it. All he knows is that he is not going to let you have the satisfaction of messing with him too much.

He was so going to win this.

Okay, so he was a little disappointed that you weren’t at the awarding ceremony when they handed out medals to his team for winning—even with the practically evil handicap you gave him.

But you were probably just busy cleaning up after the competitions.

No big deal.

And, yes, he did get a little annoyed when he spotted you later—freshened up and back in your usual composed state—smiling and giggling with another prefect.

But you were probably just planning the bonfire for tonight.

Totally valid.

He was fine.

At least, he was.

And then…

“So, you wanna sit with me at the bonfire tonight?”

Oscar stops in his tracks.

He doesn’t see your reaction, but he hears it. That soft hum of consideration, the one he’s learned you make when you’re actually thinking about something.

You were actually considering it.

Before he can hear your answer, he turns and walks away, jaw tight, steps a little heavier than necessary.

He doesn’t know what pisses him off more—the fact that you might say yes, or the fact that he cares if you do.

As suspected, you’re nowhere to be seen the entire bonfire.

Not that it mattered.

Oscar spent the night exactly how he should—hanging out with his friends, caught up in the whirlwind of music, laughter, and an excessive, probably unhealthy amount of s’mores. Someone had smuggled in a speaker, blasting everything from classic rock to obnoxious pop songs that made everyone yell along. They danced, they joked, they reveled in the rare freedom of being away from school.

He had a blast.

Seriously. A fucking great time.

So why the hell couldn’t he shake the thought of you?

The question stuck to the back of his mind, clinging like sap, stubborn and impossible to ignore. It wasn’t like you had to be here. Maybe you weren’t a bonfire person. Maybe you were holed up in your cabin, exhausted from running the competitions all day. Maybe you were off somewhere with that prefect—

Oscar scowled, shaking the thought away as he stretched out on the wooden bench outside his cabin. The night air was cool, the distant crackle of the bonfire still audible from the main clearing.

It was supposed to be two days in the outdoors with you.

With you.

Late into the night, long after most of the camp had settled down, the thought hadn’t left him.

Annoyed—at himself, at you, at whatever this was—he exhaled sharply, pushing off the bench and shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. Without thinking, his feet carried him toward the bonfire.

The flames had burned lower, flickering embers casting soft orange glows across the empty clearing. Most of the students had already turned in for the night, only a few stragglers left chatting quietly at the edges of the fire.

And then—finally—he saw you.

Sitting alone on the other side of the fire, half-hidden by the flickering glow, arms wrapped around your knees as you stared into the flames.

His steps faltered.

Where the hell had you been all night?

More importantly—why did you look so…lost?

Oscar takes a deep breath before stepping forward, his footsteps quiet against the dirt. You don’t notice him at first, too lost in whatever thoughts have anchored you to this spot. He sinks down beside you on the makeshift seat—a sturdy log warmed by the fire—resting his arms on his knees.

The bonfire crackles, embers drifting up into the night, casting flickering light across your face. The voices of other students murmur in the background, distant and indistinct. Crickets chirp in the trees.

You don’t look at him.

Oscar watches you instead, studying the way your shoulders curve inward as you sit cross-legged, the way your fingers fidget absently in your lap. You look…small, in a way he isn’t used to seeing. Like you’re carrying something heavy and don’t know where to set it down.

It’s silent, but strangely enough, he doesn’t feel alone.

Then, after a moment, you break the quiet.

“Why do you hate me?”

It’s a sudden question, one that hits sharper than he expects. A question about feelings he decided he had when he was fifteen, feelings he had held onto tightly—until a few months ago, when you had sat in that quiet classroom and shared your struggles with each other.

Feelings he honestly forgot he had.

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t hate you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not anymore, at least. But you did. Once.”

Finally, you turn to him, firelight reflected in your eyes. “Why did you?”

“I…” He pauses, considering his words. “I thought you were kind of stuck-up when we first met. And fake. And…and you called racing a hobby.”

Your lips twitch, amused. “Well, at least one of those things is actually something I did wrong.” Then, softer, “I’m sorry I said that. About racing.”

You lift a hand, smoothing down his hair in a gesture so natural, so easy, that it catches him completely off guard. “It’s your passion, your life. You worked really hard for it.”

A small chuckle escapes you. “I was a little stuck-up though, wasn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.” Oscar smirks. “Though you were great at returning the attitude I gave you,” he admits, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes. “And yet you think I’m the fake one? I was very honest about how much I didn’t appreciate you disliking me.”

“I just think—”

“Not thought?” you interrupt. “Present tense?”

Oscar hesitates, then nods. “You don’t show what’s in your head…What’s in your heart. You have all these smiles and scripts practiced. And you always look put together—even now that we’re literally out in nature. And you’re never seen with bad posture. Your grades are perfect and so is your conduct, and you’re actually kinda nice to be with. By all accounts, you’re…perfect.” He pauses, voice softer now. “But no one’s perfect, Y/N. Not even you. No matter how much distance you put between yourself and everyone else so they can think that you are.”

At that, you finally look away, gaze dropping to the ground.

“You can say that because you’re all set, Oscar,” you murmur. “You don’t need to be perfect because you already know what you want. You have a path, and you work hard for it. You can take your mistakes and turn them into lessons because you have something you want to be great for. You can try again and again when things don’t work out because you actually have a dream.”

Your breath catches slightly, and you swallow hard before continuing.

“I don’t have that.”

The words are quiet but heavy, settling in the space between you.

“So, I need to be perfect, Oscar.” Your fingers tighten over your knee. “Because I don’t know where I’ll end up if I’m not.”

The fire crackles. The night feels impossibly still.

And for the first time since he met you, Oscar doesn’t know what to say.

He just sits next to you for a while, keeping you company as the fire crackles and burns lower. The murmured conversations of the last few stragglers fade one by one, until eventually, it’s just the two of you left.

The night air is cool, carrying the distant sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, the faint chirping of crickets. The firelight flickers, casting shifting shadows across your face, across the way your shoulders remain tense, like you’re still bracing for something unseen.

Oscar exhales, shifting slightly closer. “I don’t think you need to have everything sorted out yet,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “We still have next year. And there’s the year after that. And the year after.”

You don’t respond. Not immediately.

“Y/N,” he calls, softer this time. “We have a lot left to live. You’ll find your place. You’ll figure everything out.”

You finally turn to him, eyes uncertain, on the verge of overflowing.

“Do you mean it?” Your voice is shaky, fragile in a way he’s not used to hearing.

“I do.”

You look away, but before you can retreat entirely, Oscar moves without thinking—cupping your face gently with one hand, tilting your chin just enough to meet his gaze.

It’s foreign. Surprising.

But not…unwelcome.

Your breath catches, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. The air between you shifts, something unspoken stretching thin and taut, the space closing inch by inch.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

His thumb brushes against your cheek, just barely.

“Everything will be fine.”

And then the dam breaks.

A sharp inhale, then a quiet sob. The first tear slips down your cheek, then another, and before you can stop it, you’re crying—really crying, shoulders shaking as you press your face into his chest.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you in without a second thought, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from the weight of whatever’s been crushing you for so long. His hand rests at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair as you let yourself fall apart against him.

And all he can do—all he wants to do—is hold you.

It’s strange.

He doesn’t ever see you like this. Just once before. You’re so composed, always controlled, always held together by perfectly measured smiles.

But right now, you’re none of those things.

You’re just you.

You're real.

You're in his arms and you're real.

And it hits him, in the stillness of the moment, in the way the firelight dances across tear-streaked skin—You’re beautiful.

Not in the way he used to think, not just in the way everyone already knew.

But in the way that matters.

The kind of beautiful that settles in the quiet spaces, that lingers, that takes you home. The kind that isn’t just seen but felt—woven into the way you carry yourself, the way you fight so hard to hold everything together, the way you’re allowing yourself to not be perfect, just for a moment.

Even in your worst state, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.

And suddenly—too fast—he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more there. If there’s a chance he likes you. In that way.

If, deep down, he’s been falling this whole time.

2019: Year 13 [18 years old]

When autumn rolls around and he’s back at school again, Oscar Piastri is a Eurocup champion. Testing for Formula 3 is lined up, doors are opening, and for the first time, the dream that once felt impossibly distant is now right in front of him. He’s buzzing, electric with the thrill of it all.

And you’re the person he most wants to tell everything to.

Not much has changed between you two after the bonfire. You still bicker, still trade sharp remarks, but there’s a warmth underneath it now—something softer, something unspoken. Something that makes his stomach twist in a way he’s beginning to understand.

Because, yes, he’s finally realized it.

He likes you. In that way.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance you feel the same.

He runs into you in the hallway, where your hair is still neatly styled, your uniform still crisp, but there’s something new. The prefect’s badge you once wore with careful pride is gone, replaced by a Head Girl badge gleaming against your blazer.

“You’ve come a long way, princess,” he says, stopping in front of you, hands casually shoved in his pockets. “Congrats on being Head Girl.”

Your smile is wide, genuine—the kind he doesn’t see you give to just anyone. “Congratulations to you too, Piastri—Eurocup champion.”

The way you say it, like you mean it, like you’re proud of him, makes something tighten in his chest.

“Wanna walk to class together?” he asks, like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like the idea of just existing next to you isn’t becoming something he needs.

You tilt your head, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “I have study hall for most of the day, actually.” Then, as if to soften the blow, you brighten. “I’ll send you my schedule, though, so we can coordinate!”

Something about that—coordinating, making time for each other—sits so naturally between you.

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “See you later?”

“See you later, Piastri.”

You turn and walk away, and just the thought of syncing your schedules is enough motivation for him to get through the day.

Except…when he finally gets your message, his stomach drops.

Because there, glaring back at him, is one unavoidable fact:

Nothing aligns.

Oscar had always been good at adjusting. Racing taught him that—how to adapt, how to move forward, how to deal with losing things and making peace with it.

But this? This was different.

He wasn’t used to missing someone. Not like this.

Sure, he missed his mom and dad. He missed his sisters. He missed the Australian heat and slang. He missed his racing friends when he went back to school. He missed the tracks and his car. But never in his life did he think he’d miss you.

And maybe that’s why the switch was so jarring. He’d spent years wishing he was away from you, wishing for different classes, wishing to never see your face.

Now that he has that, he wants nothing more than to bring back the simpler days—when you were always classmates, always orbiting each other, always trying to avoid the other but never quite succeeding at staying away.

Ever since he’d gotten your schedule and realized that nothing aligned, it was like there was an empty space in his day where you were supposed to be.

It wasn’t like you’d disappeared. He still saw you, sometimes—passing glimpses in hallways, quick nods across the library, an occasional “Hey, Piastri” when your paths crossed. But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t like before.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because before, he didn’t think he’d need more.

Now, though? It was all he could think about.

Oscar had wanted a lot of things in his life, but rarely did he ever want something back.

He wants back the way you twirl your pen in between your fingers at a speed he still can’t match, no matter how many times you try to teach him. He wants the ever-changing rearrangement of your hair when you get stressed, never sticking to one style within the hour. He wants your study sessions and your stealing of his scratch papers. He wants your smiles and your quips and your banter.

He wants you back.

So, like in racing, he strategizes.

He figures out which routes you take so he can walk by at just the right moment, just to get a minute of conversation before you scurry off to class. He starts showing up at the library earlier, knowing you’ll pass by on your way to study hall. He “accidentally” bumps into you at the cafeteria, acting surprised even though he knows exactly when you go.

He even texts you more, something he never used to do before. Just small things at first—jokes, complaints about assignments, links to articles about topics he knows will spark an argument. Anything to keep the conversation going.

And yet, it isn’t the same.

No matter what he does, it’s not enough of you.

At some point, it’s wasn't just missing you anymore—it’s something heavier, something that sits in his chest and refuses to leave. Because no matter how many stolen moments he squeezes into his day, no matter how often he “accidentally” finds himself in your orbit, it never lasts long enough.

And the worst part?

You don’t even notice.

Not in the way he wants you to.

You’re busy—busier than ever. Between Head Girl responsibilities, exams, and whatever future you’re silently trying to carve out for yourself, it feels like you’re slipping further and further away. And Oscar, for the first time in his life, hates the idea of being left behind.

He tries not to let it bother him. You’re just focused, that’s all. It’s not like you’re avoiding him.

Except maybe you are.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a mean way.

But in the way that means he’s no longer a priority.

And that realization hits harder than he expects.

Because before, if he wanted to see you, he could. If he wanted to talk to you, he’d find a way, and you’d let him.

But now?

Now, you’re harder to reach. Harder to catch. Harder to keep.

And the closer graduation gets, the more he starts to wonder—If he doesn’t do something soon, will you slip away completely?

It’s right as the holiday break approaches that he finally gets a moment alone with you again—on a random night, past curfew, when you both somehow end up sneaking into the same empty classroom.

It’s similar, but different.

The lights are still dimmed, casting familiar shadows against the walls. The air is still heavy, thick with exhaustion from exams and the looming uncertainty of the future. But this time, you’re standing closer together. This time, the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s something known, something safe.

Because this time, no matter how much is changing, you both know one thing for sure—You’ve got each other.

How’s life been for you, Oscar?” you ask, leaning against the wall, a warm smile on your face. “It’s been a while, so tell me everything.”

“I don’t think it’s been any different from yours,” he says, mirroring your smile. “Tests, papers…” He hesitates. “Graduation. The future.”

You exhale, the weight of that word hanging between you. “Well, those are definitely in my head.” A small chuckle escapes your lips. “Is it weird that I miss those early days here at the academy?”

“What, the ones where we hated each other?” He smirks.

You roll your eyes. “Yes and no.” Turning toward the window, you watch the campus lights flicker in the distance, the glow casting soft light across your features. Oscar should look away, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

“I mean, things were simpler then,” you continue. “We had all the time in the world.”

He hums in response, watching the way your fingers trace absent patterns against the windowsill.

“I wish we could go back to then,” you say softly. “I’d be nicer to you. We could have been friends faster.”

You both giggle at this, the sound light and easy, but something in his chest pulls.

“What about you, Oscar? Would you change anything?”

He thinks for a moment. He thinks about the previous year—the late-night study sessions, the bickering that turned into something softer, the night by the bonfire when you let your walls down. He thinks about being paired with you for that stupid project in your second year, about meeting you in this exact room right around this time last year. He thinks about the very first time he saw you, sitting so perfectly poised in the headmaster’s office, completely unaware of the way you’d wedge yourself into his life, piece by stubborn piece.

He thinks.

Then—

“Nothing.”

You blink, turning back to face him. “Nothing?”

“I think…” He exhales, searching for the right words. “I think we’re where we’re at because it took a while to get to know each other. If we had been friends from the start, maybe things would’ve been easier—but I don’t think they would’ve been right.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting his weight slightly. “If we had been friends back then, I think I would’ve liked you the way everyone else does. The way people admire you from a distance.” His voice is quieter now. “But…I got to see you. Not just the perfect grades or the Head Girl badge. I got to see the way you actually think, the way you talk when you’re not putting on a front. The way you try so hard even when you don’t have to.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And then, finally, you smile. Not the polite kind. Not the practiced one.

The real one.

“Well,” you say, voice softer than before. “I’m glad you got to know me.”

He’s glad too. More than you’ll ever know.

You just bask in the silence for a while, letting the quiet settle between you like something warm, something known. The window glass is cool beneath your fingertips as you both watch the lights flicker outside, the campus stretched out before you, vast and unchanging.

Your fingers brush against each other.

It’s light—barely even there, just a whisper of a touch. But it burns.

Something inside him ignites, sharp and immediate, like the flick of a match against dry kindling.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

He doesn’t move his hand away. Neither do you.

“You should call me by my name more.”

You tilt your head slightly, raising a brow. “Tired of hearing your last name?” The corner of your lips lilts in amusement.

Well, you might have it one day, he thinks.

But instead, he just shrugs. “I like hearing you say it.”

The teasing look in your eyes falters for just a second—your lips parting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before your cheeks flush.

You blink at him, the weight of his words lingering between you.

And then—

“Okay, then,” you say softly, watching him just as intently.

“…Oscar.”

You still don’t see much of each other throughout the rest of the year.

Between exams, responsibilities, and the looming pressure of the future, time slips through your fingers faster than either of you can catch it. Even texting becomes rare—just the occasional Good luck on your exam or a late-night complaint about an assignment. Nothing deep. Nothing real.

But Oscar takes what he can get.

His comfort comes in brief meetings in the hallways—your rushed conversations between classes, cramming a day’s worth of thoughts into a handful of stolen seconds.

“Got a physics test after lunch,” you’d say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “If I fail, I’m blaming you.”

He’d smirk. “What did I do?”

“The playlist you gave me last time distracted me.”

“Hey, I have great taste.”

“You can keep telling yourself that.”

And then the bell would ring, and just like that, you’d be gone—your presence slipping through his fingers before he could even think about holding on.

Hearing you call out his name in the busy hallway became the highlight of his day. A moment of certainty in a year that felt anything but steady.

But the times your knuckles brushed, the moments your shoulders bumped in passing, those felt like something more. Like maybe, if things had been different, there would’ve been time for more.

Except there wasn’t.

And maybe that’s why the thought of you leaving hits harder than it should.

He isn’t expecting to hear it—not like this, not by accident. But as he’s passing the debate room on his way to class, your voice stops him in his tracks.

“The university there offered me a great scholarship,” you tell a friend, your tone measured, practical. “It would be stupid not to take it.”

There’s a beat of silence before your friend speaks, quieter, hesitant. “So, that’s it then? You’re just…leaving?”

Oscar freezes mid-step.

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

And then—

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s so final. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that settles deep in his chest, heavier than it should be. “I’m leaving.”

And suddenly, the ground beneath him doesn’t feel so steady anymore.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” The words slip out before he can stop them, raw and too loud, cutting through the quiet corridor.

You blink, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone, by the urgency in his voice.

“Y/N, what are you even talking about?”

The hurt is there, unmistakable, woven between the syllables. And maybe if he hadn’t spent so long trying to deny it, he’d understand it better.

No. He does understand.

Because there was so much he wanted to tell you.

Because you were supposed to have time.

You were supposed to figure this out together.

“Oscar,” you say cautiously, as if approaching something fragile, something breakable. You glance at your friend, giving them a small nod, a silent request for space. They hesitate before excusing themselves, leaving just the two of you.

You inhale deeply, as if preparing yourself.

“I got an offer from a university outside the country,” you say, voice steady, like you’ve rehearsed this before, like you’ve already convinced yourself that this is good. That this is right. “Full-ride scholarship with room and board and a possible slot in a master’s program after I get my undergraduate.”

It’s a perfect opportunity.

It’s everything you’ve worked for.

You should be thrilled. You are thrilled.

So why does your heart ache at the way he’s looking at you?

Oscar doesn’t speak right away, just stares, his lips parting slightly like he’s still trying to process what you just said.

And then, finally, he breathes, “It’s a great opportunity.”

You nod, stepping closer, reaching for his hand before you can stop yourself. You don’t know why you do it—maybe to reassure him, maybe to reassure yourself. His palm is warm, his fingers rough but familiar, grounding.

“I’m going to take it,” you say. And you mean it.

But when his grip tightens around yours, when his thumb brushes absently against your skin like he’s memorizing the feeling, something inside you wavers.

Oscar swallows, staring at your joined hands like they hold all the answers he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what he expected—that you’d stay? That you’d change your mind? That he’d still have more time to figure out what you mean to him before you slip away completely?

He thought he had more time.

He thought—

“I love you.”

It comes out before he can second-guess it, before he can tell himself that this isn’t the right time, that this isn’t how he was supposed to say it. But none of that matters now.

His grip on your hand tightens. His voice is softer the second time, but truer, like the words are settling into something real.

“I love you.”

The world tilts slightly.

Your breath catches.

Because of course he does. Of course this is what it’s been building up to—every argument, every stolen glance, every almost-moment that neither of you dared to name.

But now that it’s here, now that he’s standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, you don’t know what to do with it.

Because you’re leaving.

Because you’ve already decided.

And because some part of you wonders if maybe, maybe, you were waiting for him to say it sooner.

You look down, your eyes fixed on the floor because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than facing the way his voice cracks, the way his words hang heavy between you.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you whisper, and even that feels like too much.

“Do you feel the same?” he asks, his voice quiet but firm.

You close your eyes. “I’m leaving, Oscar.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice softens, but the urgency stays. “Do you feel the same?”

“It’s not going to work,” you say, your breath hitching. You hate how your voice shakes, hate the way your heart is pounding so fast it hurts. “We’re going in very different directions and—”

“Do you feel the same, Y/N?” he asks again, his voice breaking just slightly.

And that—that’s what makes you falter. Because you can hear it. The way he’s holding on so tight, the way he’s afraid of your answer.

“Just let me go,” you whisper, even though it’s the last thing you want.

“I can’t,” he says after a beat, and his voice is so soft when he says it, but there’s no mistaking the weight of those words. “I can’t because I know you. Because I know I’m not the only one who feels this.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m trying to be practical—”

“I’m trying to tell you I love you!” His voice rises, frustration and desperation bleeding into every word.

And then—

“So do I!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them, loud and broken and everything you’ve been trying to bury.

The silence after is deafening.

You look up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. “I love you too,” you whisper, like it’s a secret you’re only brave enough to say now. And when you step forward and press your forehead to his chest, his arms come around you without hesitation, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “But it’s too late, Oscar. I’m leaving.”

“It’s not too late.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks—wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling. His touch is so gentle it breaks you a little more.

“We’re right here,” he says, his voice quiet and steady. “So, it’s not too late.”

And then—slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—he leans in.

Your breath catches.

And when his lips finally meet yours, the world falls away.

It’s soft at first—tentative and slow, like both of you are afraid of pushing too far, afraid of what this means. But then your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and his hand slips into your hair, and the kiss deepens. It becomes something warmer, desperate—like making up for every second you wasted, every word you never said.

And for a while, there’s no leaving. No future pulling you in different directions. No goodbye waiting on the horizon.

It’s just you.

It’s just him.

The warmth of his hands on your skin, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. The way your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. The quiet, shared ache in every kiss—like you’re both trying to memorize this, to keep this, even when you know you can’t.

And maybe this is all you get—this moment, this kiss, this fragile space where neither of you has to think about what comes next.

But maybe…maybe it’s just the beginning.

Because when you finally pull apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads still pressed together, his breath still tangled with yours—you both know the truth.

This moment? It’s fleeting.

But his eyes—warm and steady—hold you there.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, and somehow, you believe him.

You nod, your voice barely more than a breath. “Yeah. We will.”

And even if the future is uncertain, even if the next steps take you miles apart—right now, this?

This is yours.

And for the first time, even with your heart breaking in the most beautiful way, it feels like enough.

2022: Epilogue 1

“I can’t believe you just did that!” you exclaim over the phone, your voice half-outraged, half-incredulous. “Oscar, you’re giving me a heart attack from like fifty thousand miles away!”

“Everything’s under control,” he says, grinning as he leans back against the wall of his hotel room, the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. “Trust me. It’s all in motion—you’ll see.”

“Honey,” you huff, and he can hear the dramatic eye roll in your voice, “I’ll believe you when you’re in that fucking Formula One seat, driving around squiggles for two hours.”

He chuckles, the sound low and easy, and God, he misses you. “You worry too much.”

“I have to worry,” you snap, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Because my idiot boyfriend decided to end his partnership with the team that made him their reserve driver by tweeting about it!” You huff. “I mean, listen to this: I understand that without my consent—”

“Okay, yeah, I typed that out,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t need to relive it, thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” you tease, your voice softening just enough to make him smile.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of your keyboard clacking in the background. “Anyway, experts are absolutely shitting on you online,” you inform him. “But don’t worry—I’m your biggest defender.”

“Please don’t fight with analysts on the internet,” he laughs, though the image of you going to battle for him is both hilarious and weirdly endearing. “They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Oscar, I had to deal with your attitude for years before we got together,” you shoot back, your tone sweet as sugar. “Trust me— some slimy little reporters are nothing to me.”

He laughs, the sound full and warm—the kind of laugh only you ever seem to pull out of him.

And as the miles stretch between you, the distance feels just a little smaller.

2023: Epilogue 2

The roar of the crowd was deafening — a steady pulse of noise that vibrated through the air, through the track, through Oscar’s bones. He could feel it, even from the garage, where the final checks were being made on his car. The smell of fuel and rubber mixed with the electric tension of the starting grid, and the weight of what was about to happen settled heavily on his chest.

Bahrain 2023.

His first Formula One race.

Everything he had worked for, fought for—the years of training, the endless sacrifices, the victories and the failures—had led him here. To this moment. To this seat. To this dream.

And still, when his eyes flicked to the edge of the garage, searching through the sea of engineers and team personnel, it wasn’t the car or the track or even the starting lights that grounded him.

It was her.

Y/N stood just beyond the bustle of the team, arms crossed and wearing his team’s colors, her ever-pristine hair now tucked beneath a cap. But the calm, poised version of her he’d fallen for wasn’t here today. Today, her excitement cracked through the surface—eyes bright, smile wide, nerves barely contained.

Three years, and she were still his greatest victory.

As if sensing his gaze, she turned—and when she smiled at him, everything else faded away. The crowd, the noise, the pressure.

It was just her. It was always her.

He lifted his hand in a small wave, and she grinned, mouthing words he didn’t need to hear to understand.

You’ve got this.

And just like that, the weight in his chest eased.

Because no matter what happened on the track today—win or lose, first place or last—she’d still be there.

And that? That was enough to make him feel unstoppable.

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri #op81 #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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zorosangell · 6 months ago

Text

⛥ﾟ・。 piña colada

synopsis: some women just can't take a hint... good thing Zoro's only got eyes for one girl.

cw: nsfw (oral: female receiving), this woman is really shameless, surprisingly tender Zoro, you two are so in love, kinda magical ngl, etc.

"Hey, there," a woman—who was in the tiniest bikini known to man—hummed, tone low as she approached the lounge chair. "I don't think I've seen you on this island before."

'For fuck's sake...'

Annoyed, Zoro let a heavy sigh out from his nose, not even bothering to glance in the girl's direction as his sunglasses shaded his harsh side eye.

You'd think after seeing eight other women walk dejectedly away from his umbrella, the others would catch the hint?

"Not interested," he stated, curtly, hands firmly tucked behind his head as he looked out to sea.

The woman chuckled, softly, completely ignoring his comment and taking a seat in the sand.

She sat criss-crossed, dropping her hands in her lap and using her arms to slightly push her tits together, attempting to endearingly lean closer to your swordsman.

"Don't be so hasty," she sweetly smiled, taking his rudeness in stride. "Haven't even given me the chance to speak."

"Well, that's 'cause I really don't give a shit what you say otherwise," he sighed, shutting his eyes.

"I can name ten other men off the top of my head that would beg to differ," she countered, slyly.

"I'm not other men."

"You certainly aren't..."

'Walked right into that one.'

His brows flattened, and for a moment he wondered if this was a real person talking, slightly glancing around to see if he could find a camera crew of some sort.

Yet, to his surprise, there was none.

"I have a girlfriend," he dealt the finishing blow, delivering the final line that scared away all the other women from before.

He could finally get some peace and quiet.

"I don't see her here," the woman shrugged, simply, as if what he just said made no difference to her.

Zoro threw his head back with an irritated groan, wanting nothing more than to drop kick the woman away and go back to napping.

This was all Luffy and Usopp's fault.

The crew had been docked on a tropical summer island for a few days, and for all of them, you and Zoro had gone down to the beach together and lounged in the sun—tanning, napping, eating, and drinking in rotation.

But on that particular day, the boys had whisked you away to go explore some cove they found on the beach's edge, leaving your swordsman to fend off the wolves by himself.

And at first, it wasn't that bad.

The girls that approached were polite and had pure intentions, and actually respected his wishes when he said he was uninterested.

But numbers four through eight?

Hell, the woman sitting next to him?

Less so.

"Are you deaf or somethin'?" he asked, brows furrowed as he sat up, not appreciating her comment at all. "I already told you, I'm not interested. So get lost."

"Oh, c'mon," she rolled her eyes with a laugh. "There's no way you actually have a girlfriend. No girl in her right mind would leave her man alone on a beach like this, especially if he was as handsome as you."

"Maybe that's why she's my girlfriend and you're not," he scoffed, sarcastically.

Her brow twitched, the remark clearly striking a nerve as her posture suddenly straightened, her sickeningly sweet tone turning sour in a second.

"Well then, maybe your girlfriend can step up and we can see who's really the shit," she spat, standing from her spot in the sand. "Since she's so fuckin' great, let's see how she fares in a fight."

A smirk rose to the woman's lips, her hand coming to rest cockily on her hip.

"I might not look it, but I'm this island's martial arts champion... And I've yet to lose a fight. So let's see how she does with her face in the sand."

Zoro paused a moment, almost disbelieving, lifting up his sunglasses and taking a breath to see if the woman was serious.

She was.

Deadly serious, actually.

'HA!'

The man threw his head back in a burst of uproarious laughter, the sound causing the woman to jolt with surprise, and slight fear.

She'd never seen his expressions range anything past annoyance, so seeing him so amused seemed almost uncanny, especially since he was nearly howling with hilarity.

But he couldn't help himself.

You, the woman with a bounty over one billion?

You, the woman with the devil fruit of the personified spirit of death?

You, the woman who has fought literal monsters with her bare hands?

Lose to a random martial arts lady on a peaceful summer island?

It was almost too much.

The woman's brows furrowed, face warming at the mockery.

"The hell's so funny?!" she huffed with a childish pout.

Attempting to regain his composure, he wiped a tear from his eye, slightly clutching his stomach as his laughs died down.

"She'd fuckin' kill you," he chuckled, shoulders bobbing. "Like actually."

Furious, the woman broke into a long-winded tirade about why she would win... or how badly you would lose... or something along those lines.

If he was being honest, he zoned out the moment she started talking, something more interesting seeming to catch his eye.

You.

Like a dog with a bone, he watched, mesmerized, as you made your way over, hips looking ripe and tender for the grabbing.

'Goddamn...'

After days in the sun, you'd developed a delectably smooth tan, the sunscreen you had him apply earlier giving your skin an alluring shine.

Eyes scanning over your body, he took in the light (f/c) of your bikini, which had a few complimentary, (o/c) flowers decorating its corners, along with the waist beads resting lazily over your stomach, not to mention the gold anklets and bracelets that littered your ankles and wrists.

You looked good enough to eat—a thought he didn't mind indulging in later.

"Hey! Are you listening to me?" the woman continued pestering him, her hand coming up to rest on his bicep.

Huge mistake.

Faster than she could even see, Zoro grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand off and staring her down with a deadly glare, his patience long since run thin.

The woman froze, fear slowly creeping into her chest at the sharpness of his eyes.

He looked like he had half the mind to slit her throat right there.

"I'm only gonna tell you this one last time..." he warned, tone leaving no room for argument. "Get. Lost."

Roughly, he let go of her, and she quickly scrambled to her feet, scurrying back over to the safety of her friend's towel just as you arrived.

"Hey, Zo'!" you chirped, taking a seat on your swordsman's lap as you took a sip of your cocktail, which was in a cut-off coconut.

"Hey, pretty," he greeted with a smirk, placing a kiss on your neck. "Whatchu got there?"

"Some kinda coconut-rum drink," you answered, plucking the pineapple off the rim and taking a bite out of it. "The guy at the bar called it a Piña Colada."

Zoro nodded, "S'it any good?"

"Might be a bit too sweet for you," you shrugged, holding it out to him. "But try it."

Leaning forward, he sipped a bit from the straw, his nose scrunching slightly.

It was incredibly sweet.

"Yeah, I figured as much," you giggled, amused by his expression as you took it back. "By the way, who was that girl that went running away from here? She looked scared."

Slightly, you leaned over to glance at her, who was sitting not too far away, and raised a brow as she quickly turned around, terrified by your gaze.

'The hell?'

"Was she in trouble or somethin'?"

Zoro chuckled, knowingly, his hand sliding up your side to give your hip a lackadaisical squeeze.

"Nah," he shook his head, finally leaning back and allowing himself to relax in the chair. "Just needed help takin' a hint."

"So... I miss anything while you were on your trip with Luffy?" Zoro asked with a smile, slowly gliding his oar through the sparkling ocean.

You lit up with excitement, suddenly reminded of the events of the day.

"I wish I dragged you along! You woulda loved it," you sighed, leaning back in your spot in the canoe. "Turns out this island isn't as peaceful as we thought. When we went to the edge of the beach, we found tons of monster-sized crabs and lobsters, all of them strong as hell."

You smirked, holding up your fist.

"Me an' Luffy made a game over who could beat the most, while Usopp kept count. And we ended up in a draw."

'Damn.'

That blew his day fighting off women right out the water.

He should've gone with you.

"What about you? Anything interesting happen while I was away?" you asked.

"Eh," he shrugged, moving his oar to the other side. "Nothin' worth mentioning. My day was honestly pretty boring."

But he was hoping to change that.

While you were gone, he found Nami and Robin on the beach, and managed to weave through theirs sea of admirers in order to ask some advice.

Things had been going really great between the two of you, and since you were always so good with surprising him with gifts and gestures, he wanted to try his hand at it.

Of course, he had no idea where to begin.

And while Nami was little to no help, spending most of the time talking his ear off about how brutish and hopeless he was, Robin recommended taking you out to the nearby cove for a romantic night.

So, after scrounging up his island allowance and buying some booze and a canoe, he swept you away, all of the day's tribulations fading to the back of his mind as he watched you sit down in his lap.

"Y'know, this is really sweet of you, Zoro," you smiled, your fingers carefully tracing the scar across his chest. "Makin' me feel all special..."

He nodded, eyes raking over your face with an almost analytical look.

God, you were so fuckin' pretty.

It was almost baffling.

If he wasn't in this canoe—

"Figured you deserved something nice," he cleared his throat, warding off the less than decent thoughts creeping into his head.

He couldn't keep the romance up if he was too busy thinking about jumping your bones.

But little did he know... you were thinking the same thing.

Shifting your position, you rested your knees on either side of him, smoothly moving to bury your face in his neck, placing firm, meaningful kisses on his flesh.

Instinctively, the man leaned into your touch, one of his hands coming up to steady you at the small of your back, while the other continued to paddle.

Gliding your manicured hands up his body, you rested them on his strong shoulders, using them for purchase as you continued to nip at him.

His chest rumbled with a deep hum at the feeling, relishing in the way your lips felt against his pulse point, sucking a hickey onto his skin.

Yet, just as it was getting good, you pulled away with a soft pop, moving to obscure his view of the water.

"I'm blockin' you. You can't see. What're we gonna do?" you grinned, cheekily, continuing to move in front of him as he tried to peer around you. "Oh, my Gods, we're gonna crash."

He looked up at you with a small smirk and a raised brow, amused, as you continued your antics.

"Oh, no. What's gonna happen?"

Suddenly, his hand roughly pulled you into his side, a soft squeal leaving your lips as he chuckled, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck and continue your kissing assault while his two hands returned to the oar.

Nuzzling into the crook of his neck, you peppered lazy kisses on his skin, your hand coming up to card through the hairs at the base of his neck.

Tenderly, Zoro placed a few kisses of his own on your shoulder, his eye perking at the sight of your destination.

Robin had given him impossibly thorough instructions on how to get there, which is the only reason why you two hadn't miraculously made it to the next island.

"Hey..." he lightly nudged you as the boat approached the shore. "We're here."

Lifting your head, you carefully flew out his lap, touching down on the dry sand as he hopped into the shallow water, walking around to the back and pushing the canoe onto the shore.

"Oh, wow," you gasped, in awe at the beauty laid before you. "This is beautiful! Look at the view"

The moon hovered over the water, making the waves crystallize like diamonds below, just as the stars in the ink-black sky.

The sea breeze wafted your hair and cooled the sweat on your body from the heat of the day.

It felt good to get away from people, the serenity too nice to put off.

Suddenly, Zoro scooped you up, you in one arm and the case of booze in the other as he began walking toward the cove.

"It gets better," he smirked, leading you over to where the tall rocks flattened out and arched upward, turning themselves into a natural cabana.

Placing you down, he quickly gathered some sticks from nearby, before bringing them back and starting a fire.

And as he did so, you couldn't help but marvel at his body, thick, corded muscle flexing and extending under his skin at each minute movement, looking delicious enough to bite.

And that wasn't the blood-sucker in you talking.

You sighed in contentment as you tipped your head up towards the sky, admiring the stars twinkling above

Finishing up, Zoro plopped down beside you and threw an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side with a proud smile.

"Nice, right?" he chuckled.

You lazily nodded, wanting to stay there forever—among the water, stars, and him.

You peered up at him through your lashes, hesitant to speak in fear of ruining the moment.

Slowly, he wrapped his arms around you, engulfing you in them. And you let yourself be pulled into him, sighing when your head met the crook of his shoulder.

You embraced him back, crushing your breasts against his hard chest.

There, you two stayed, holding each other, linked together like magnets.

"You smell nice," he murmured into your skin, taking a deep inhale of you. "Like coconut."

You smiled, shyly, warmth rising to your cheeks at the compliment.

And after a few silent seconds, he pulled away from you, his eyes dark as the night sky.

"I'm gonna kiss you," he stated, curtly, his gaze alight with enamor.

You didn't get to say a reply, too preoccupied with the lips pressing against yours.

The kiss was hungry, your lips moving against each other's like you both were starving for one another.

And you were.

You could tell Zoro wanted the same thing you did when his hands moved below your waist to squeeze your ass, the feeling making you moan into his mouth.

He replied with his own grunt and pulled away, his eyes glazed over with lust.

"I wanna see you," he stated, his voice a deep rumble.

There was a molten tenderness in his gaze that had you shivering in pleasure and anticipation, wondering what else he had in store for you.

So you stripped.

Catching the hint, your hands glided up your back, pulling the string of your bikini top and letting your breasts fall out of the cups, along with the strings to your bottoms.

Zoro's eyes raked over the sight of you as if you were a piece of art he was admiring in a museum.

"Shit," he softly hissed to himself, amazed at the sight of your brown, hardened nipples.

You softly whimpered at his calloused hands caressing your sensitive breasts, causing him to move on to other matters.

He leaned in and latched his lips onto one of your nipples, where he began to suckle on.

You threw your head back to stare at the endless sky, your mouth open in an O as pleasured moans fell from your lips.

You couldn't help yourself, especially when Zoro began to suckle and flick his tongue along the sensitive bud of your nipple, his hand kneading your other breast in the process.

Then he switched, giving your other breast the same treatment.

Your hands found his hair, your fingers aimlessly wandering through the green strands.

You were ruining its somewhat even style, but he didn't seem to care.

He was more concerned with nibbling along your nipple, making you sharply inhale before your voice choked on a broken moan.

You couldn't take it.

All of this was going straight to your core, which was now throbbing and begging for attention between your thighs.

"Please, Zo'..." you whined, gripping his hair. "I need you to touch me."

With a cocky smile, the man nodded, slowly leaning forward to lay you down in the sand.

Your eyes flitted up to the torch lit beach across the water, realizing any eagle-eyed person could come out and see you naked.

"Wait... what if someone sees us?" you asked, uncharacteristically timid.

A devious smirk rose to his lips, and he pressed a reassuring kiss on your lips.

"Let 'em... They'll be in for a show."

Gently, he pried your thighs open, revealing your sobbing, wet core.

You watched his face change from playful to downright feral as he stared at your cunt.

You flushed at his expression.

'Gods, give me strength...'

"Zoro, I'm serious—"

He shushed you, leaning forward to press wet kisses along your inner thighs.

"No more talkin', pretty," he growled against them. "All I wanna hear is my name on your lips."

He continued to pepper you thighs in kisses while his hands pinned your legs apart, his hold on you firm.

He didn't want you hiding from him.

And it felt good.

You didn't stop him when he dove right into your pussy, first peppering your lips and clit in open-mouthed kisses as if he was making out with them.

It had been so long since the two of you'd gotten intimate like this, you nearly forgot the way the man worked his mouth.

Especially when he started to flick his tongue against your clit.

His tongue swirled around it and flicked it gently based on your responses.

And shit, you were responding well.

Your body couldn't help but react pleasantly to the sensations—your toes curling; your back arching; your eyes fluttering shut; your mouth falling open into an O as moans and gasps fell from your lips.

Zoro was not only good with his tongue, but good with his hands.

He reached up and played with your titties, tweaking and pinching your nipples according to your verbal cues.

"H-Harder, please!" you begged, to which he pinched the hard, brown peaks a little harder, the burst of pain making you gush all over his lips.

"Fuck, Zo'," you moaned. "That feels so good..."

Zoro hummed approvingly into your cunt, the vibrations making your clit quiver pleasurably.

"Keep feelin' good for me, pretty," he said between the wet flicks of his tongue on your rosebud. "Lean back and wrap your thighs around my head f'me."

Before you could even say anything, he was already tugging you closer by your ankle, earning a squeal from you.

He stood on his knees for a moment, taking you in.

His lust-blown eyes trailed up and down your naked form, drinking in every part of you.

Then he inhaled deeply, as if struggling to process the sight in front of him.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' gorgeous," he huskily said.

You had no idea what to say to that.

All you could do was shyly smile up at him as he stared down at you, both of you enchanted with each other.

Then he was ducking back down and throwing your thighs across his shoulders with ease, wrapping your legs around his head.

This gave him better access to your pussy so he could easily tongue-fuck you.

As soon as you felt the wet muscle entering your wet folds and his nose brush against your clit you were in heaven.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head and your hands found his hair, gripping the blonde strands as your hips began to grind shamelessly into his face.

"Mmm-hmmm," he hummed approvingly, keeping up the pace.

He didn't pause or slow down.

He continued to work your pussy just how you wanted, making you see stars behind your eyelids and cry to the moon above.

It didn't take long for that feeling of release to dawn on you.

You couldn't help it.

His tongue just felt too good.

Plus, the atmosphere and the whole idea of getting caught in such a risque position turned you on more than you'd like to admit.

Zoro must've realized you were close because his jaw started to move fast, accompanying his tongue-fucking with porn-worthy grunts of his own that nearly threw you over the edge.

"Fuck, Zoro!" you whined. "M'gonna come!"

Eagerly, he hummed into your pussy, pulling his tongue out of your hole and proceeding to suck on your clit while his finger began to stroke the outside of your slit, barely touching your insides.

But it was enough to push you further and further down that road to releasing all over him.

His darkened eyes flicked up to yours, staring you down between your thighs.

"Come for me," he demanded. "Come for me, baby. Don't fuckin' hold back."

He grinned up at you, his eyes glistening in the moonlight.

He attached his mouth to your pussy again, and ran it until you couldn't help but fall over the edge.

"Come for me," he groaned into your cunt, becoming gradually louder as your moans reached higher pitches. "Come for me. Come for me. Come for me."

And you finally did.

That tight knot in your core finally snapped and a wave of euphoria washed over you as you came all over Zoro's face and eager lips with a loud moan.

You saw the entire galaxy and beyond as your pussy gushed, your body shivering and shuddering.

Your back arched and your hips widened into Zoro's face, trying to keep as much of the feeling going as possible.

When it finally faded, you were left feeling tired, spent, and oh-so good.

Zoro lazily cleaned you up, taking care to not overstimulate you as he ran his tongue over your sensitive, twitching core.

Then he lifted his head up away from your thighs, giving you a peak of his chin and mouth shining in your juices.

With the moon in his glazed eyes, he hummed to himself.

"You taste better than the rum."

#zorosangell #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro #roronoa x reader #roronoa #op #op x reader #one piece x reader #one piece

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multific · 5 months ago

Text

The Crown’s Weight

Lucius Verus x Reader

Summary: Your marriage was for politics. But he couldn't ignore your presence, especially your kindness.

The Emperor's chambers were filled with ornate details that spoke of duty and power.

At first, that’s all your marriage to Lucius had been, a strategic arrangement, nothing more.

Yet, over time, the lines of duty began to blur.

Lucius carried the Empire with unwavering strength, much like how he won in the Gladiator games, but you began to notice something else underneath his facade.

At first, your moments together were brief, a quiet exchange during a meal or a passing glance. He barely looked at you.

Slowly, something deeper began to form. Something, you didn't notice at first.

One evening, you found him on the balcony, the moonlight glowing on his handsome face.

You hesitated before stepping closer.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, your voice hesitant.

His head turned slightly, and he gave a small nod.

“Not tonight. The weight of the Empire doesn’t lift at night.”

“It’s a heavy burden to carry alone.”

His gaze lingered on you, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

For the first time, you reached out and touched his arm, a simple gesture that seemed to break through the walls he built around him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words quiet but genuine.

From that moment, the nature of your relationship shifted.

Another time, you had found him alone in the library, the strain of his duties evident in his posture.

You placed a cup of tea beside him, and his fingers brushed yours.

"Thank you," he would say. No other words were exchanged that day.

Another time, you walked through the gardens together.

A simple walk, which he invited you on.

“Which flower do you like best?” he asked suddenly, his voice softer than usual but not unnatural.

“That one.” you pointed at the lilies. "I like their colour."

The next day, you found a vase with the same flower on your desk. He didn’t leave a note, but he didn’t need to, you it was Lucius who sent them.

These small moments developed into something deeper, even if neither of you had said the words.

But the Empire often found its way between you, sparking tension.

After one particularly heated argument about a decision for the provinces, you paced your chambers, your frustration palpable.

Lucius entered, his expression was wild.

“I’m trying to protect the future of this Empire!” he snapped but didn't yell.

“And I’m trying to protect you!” you shot back. “You can’t do this alone, Lucius. You don’t have to.”

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Then, his features softened, and he stepped closer.

“This marriage was supposed to be for the Empire,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But somewhere along the way, it became something more.”

“What do you mean?” Your heart raced as you processed his words.

“I mean,” he said, his hands gently cupping your face, “I love you. Not just as my Empress, but as the one person who truly knows me. The real me.”

“I love you too, Lucius. It is why I worry so much." you admitted and it felt so good to say those words aloud. Because you did love him.

He pulled you closer, his hand resting on your hip as the other held your face.

The kiss he gave you was tender yet full of emotion, a promise that you weren’t just a partner in duty but in love.

When he finally pulled away, he didn't move back and looked into your eyes.

“Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

“Together,” you echoed his words. "I have to ask you to share your worries with me. It is too much burden for you to carry. I understand you are... strong, but I'm your wife. I want to help."

"I will if you promise we will share sleeping chambers from now. We are no longer how we were when we met. I wish to sleep with my wife."

"I thought you would never ask." you smiled at this.

You always loved his strong he was. You used to watch him fight, his body was impressive. Little did you know that his mind was also like that.

But here he was now, an Emperor.

Gladiator II Collection

Taglist:

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen @brevlada24

@mel-vaz @akamitrani @ange-olras @nicholaschavezslut69

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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asterafroditis · 2 months ago

Note

I would love to make a request if you dont mind me :3c

I wish to request for the first year students reaction to their gn!crush just staring at them, and when they ask if they need something their crush bluntly answer with a smile "you are just too beautiful to dont get lost in you" before going back to whatever was doing like nothing happened

𐔌 . ⋮ lost in your eyes .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ First Years x gn! reader

𓏵 639 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff

this one's pretty short but I hope you enjoy it ( ´･ω･) feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Ace had been goofing off—tapping his pen against his notes, spinning a pencil between his fingers—until he noticed you staring. He raises a brow, smirking.

“Huh? What’s with that look? Something on my face?”

But then you hit him with that line.

“You’re just too beautiful to not get lost in you.”

Cue a pause. A very, very long pause.

He sputters. “H-HUH?!”

Instantly flustered. Tries to play it cool, but fails. He leans back in his chair and grins like he’s unbothered, but he’s totally flustered. Peeks at you every few seconds, hoping you’ll say something else. Spoiler: he's not gonna shut up about it anytime soon.

“You can’t just say that and go back to your book! Who taught you to flirt like that—Cater?”

─────────────────────────

Deuce was genuinely focused, actually studying for once, so when he catches you staring, he gives you this concerned puppy look.

“Did I do something wrong? Is my tie crooked?”

Then your voice: “You’re just too beautiful to not get lost in you.”

His entire brain short-circuits. His pen falls from his hand. He forgets the name of the subject he was studying. His ears turn beet red.

“I—I—HUH?!”

Deuce immediately sits up straighter like it’s a disciplinary hearing. He stammers, trying to think of a response that doesn't make him sound lame. But inside? He’s melting. He won’t bring it up again, but you’ll notice him being extra polite and flustered around you for the rest of the week.

“W-Wait! You—You think I’m beautiful?!”

─────────────────────────

Jack had been reading something quietly beside you, calm and composed as always. When he catches you staring, he glances up and tilts his head slightly.

“…Need something?”

You smile. “You’re just too beautiful to not get lost in you.”

Jack’s ears instantly shoot upright. He freezes. Blinks. You can practically hear the internal bark of panic in his head.

“I—wh… what kind of line is that?!”

He turns away with a huff, but it’s so clear he’s flustered. His tail’s twitching like mad, and he keeps shifting in his seat. Still, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he stays near you, trying to act unaffected. (He fails.)

“You… shouldn’t say stuff like that so casually.”

─────────────────────────

Epel was mid-rant about some exam or Vil’s latest lecture, when he caught your gaze lingering. He slows, frowning slightly.

“What? Do I got somethin’ on my face?”

And then you hit him with it.

“You’re just too beautiful to not get lost in you.”

His entire brain does a backflip.

“WH—?!”

Cue the world's most offended splutter. He is bright red and immediately tries to reassert his masculinity. Crosses his arms. Scoots away.

“I ain’t some pretty flower you can just say stuff like that to, y’know!”

…but then he sneaks glances at you the rest of the time with this tiny, shy smile. He's definitely gonna brag about it to the others. Then regret it instantly.

─────────────────────────

Sebek was probably mid-rant about how humans needed to improve their posture or study habits when he noticed your unwavering stare. He straightens his already perfect spine.

“Speak up, human! Is there a reason you’re gawking at me so intently?!”

You smile softly. “You’re just too beautiful to not get lost in you.”

He chokes. Literally. The next few seconds are just incoherent Sebek noises.

“W-WHAT NONSENSE! H-How dare you spout such fl-flagrant—”

He’s blushing so hard his ears go pink. He stomps away to "compose himself," but he keeps peeking around the corner to see if you’re watching him. Will probably mutter to Silver later about how "foolish humans are... yet strangely sincere…"

“I am not... beautiful! I am a warrior!”

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donatellawritings · 1 year ago

Text

🎀 ྀིྀི

౨ৎ introducing babydoll!reader and dealer!rafe

loud trap music boomed through the speakers, bass echoing through the air of tannyhill as rafe adjusted his hips, throwing his head back with a shit-eating grin, his nostril dusted with a remanence of the finely cut coke that once laid neatly lined up on the coffee table beside his titanium amex card. running a hand through his stringy strands, rafe lets out a relaxed huff as he straightens himself out, bringing his intoxicated gaze to the flimsy wad of cash that rested in his free hand.

you were a bit skittish about trying coke for the first time, let alone purchasing it on your own, so having to do it in the midst of a party left you all shy and timid.

everything about you screamed fabulosity — you always wore the finest of vintage designer clothes, your shiny hair remained in a bouncy bombshell blowout — perfectly trimmed layers framing your face just right, your acrylic nails remained long, the tapered edges sharp and glazed with a glittery polish. you weren’t all that spunky, as some would say, but you packed quite the attitude, if you didn’t get your way. you were doused in the shiniest of jewelry, your fingers covered in dainty diamond bands. and every accessory you owned, just so happened to be a variation of a soft powder pink! i mean, you absolutely loved pink! to the point where even the reusable straw that sat at the bottom of your birkin had to be pink. your volume set of lash extensions always remained filled in and perfectly curled, your filled lips always swelled from the shimmery plumping gloss that you smeared on them every fifteen minutes or so.

so, seeing a dainty little thing like you approaching the coffee table left rafe a bit taken aback, “um, excuse me,” you called out, suddenly too aware of just how high the slits of your baby pink ruffle tube dress sat. forcing a smile, you squirm just a bit at the strong gaze of the young man who sat before you, a joint sat behind his ear as he cocks his head to the side, “i, uh — can i buy some c—” you began, immediately silenced as he looks up at you through lowly hung eyes and a slightly opened mouth.

“y’even old enough to be here, kid?” rafe questions smugly, stealing a quick glance at your nipples that poked through the thing fabric of your dress, money still in-hand as he flicks his eyes back up to meet your shy gaze, “can’t talk now, huh? well, i don’t sell to little girls,” he adds, his pink lips remaining parted as he continues to silently sift through the countless wrinkled dollar bills that sat in his hold.

pursing your sticky swollen lips into a pout, you lightly stomp your miu miu kitten heel into the flooring of the patio, your doe eyes silently pleading with your godbrother who stood leaned against the wall, rolling his eyes knowingly, “yo, country club she’s a’ight — only a line though — s’my godsister,” your godbrother barry tuts at the young man, motioning towards you with a nod.

now still, you watch as the blue eyed man quickly flits a glance between you and barry, a chuckle of disbelief leaving his mouth as he tongues the inside of his cheek, before straightening his posture, “shit — yeah man, let me cut one up for her,” he smiles, carelessly leaving the stack of wilted bills to his side as barry motions for you to take a seat.

“eek! thank you barry, thank you, thank you, thank you!” you shriek excitedly, rushing to swing your arms around your unamused godbrother’s neck as he stiffly pats your back with pursed lips.

“yeah, yeah — one line, don’t get used to this shit either, a’ight?” barry pulls away, pointing a scolding finger at you.

feverishly nodding, you sink your top teeth into your bottom lip, all peppy and anxious as you politely take a seat beside rafe, “this is my first time,” you breathe out with a coy laugh as rafe nods wordlessly, carefully pouring a small pile of coke on the glass table.

carefully slicing into the white mound with his credit card, rafe glances over at you, “yeah? m’surprised barry even allowed you to come here, pretty girls like you shouldn’t be around this, hm?” he questions, sliding his tongue over his lips and he meticulously cuts the coke into three tight lines.

“i just — i wanted to try it, just one time—” you began.

“in your pretty mouth or up your nose?” rafe sighs, leaving you wide eyed and dumbfounded. you were entirely new to this kind of thing — you were always taught that drugs were icky.

parting your lips, you shrug, your glassy eyes darting all around for your godbrother who was nowhere to be found. nervously flipping your hair over your shoulder, you watch as rafe snorts a line clean off of the glass surface, rolling his shoulders back as he swipes his nostril clean of any residue.

“i don’t kn—”

bringing a strong hand to clamp around the back of your neck, rafe smiles, his pupils blown to hell as he carefully looks you over — he could ruin you so easily, but he wouldn’t … not yet, at least.

“open your mouth, kid,” he speaks sternly, stringy strands of fringe covering his eyes as you nod obediently, parting your swollen lips, “atta girl, now this s’gonna be the first and last time y’do this shit, so enjoy it, yeah?” he decides, bringing his hand to lightly grin your chin as two fingers on his free hand gather some of the coke that rested on the table.

forcing your eyes shut, you whimper as rafe’s thick fingers slide underneath your top lip, gently smearing the powder across your gums, “gross,” you whine, your small hand latching on to rafe’s wrist as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, his eyes carefully watching the way your pupils slowly expand.

privy to the way your eyes glaze over, rafe nudges your jaw with a rough knuckle, “gotta keep those pretty eyes open, kid — s’alot the first time but y’can take it,” he tuts, earning a slow nod from you as he makes the bold decision cup a hand under your chin, lightly squeezing your cheeks and ever so gently kneading into the soft skin with his fingers, “better not catch y’doin this shit after today, either — y’got that?” he questions, his bright blue eyes narrowed as you lick over your suddenly dry lips.

“i won’t!” you squeak.

“good, because now y—”

“country club, y’better back the fuck up off my godsister, before i knock y’rich boy ass out,” barry warns, causing rafe to flinch slightly as you gaze up at barry with wet eyes, your heart racing in your chest, “c’mon babydoll, m’takin you home,” barry whistles, your eyes quickly darting to rafe with parted swollen lips as you sent him an apologetic pout.

jumping to stand on your mule-clad feet, you take a steadying breath before sending a perky wave towards rafe, “bye!” you chirp, spinning to follow barry, your dress blowing up to give rafe the quickest peek at the hot pink thong that clung to your plump ass.

rafe was going to get himself killed messing around with you, but fuck, it would be so worth it.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron x reader #obx imagine #obx #rafe cameron smut #rafe smut #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #babydoll!reader #dealer!rafe

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senascoop · 8 months ago

Text

☁︎ . , JUST SO YOU KNOW , Y.JW !

PAIRING: boyfriend ! jungwon × girlfriend ! afab reader. SYNOPSIS: when you can't help but want everyone else to know that he's yours. GENRE: jealous girlfriend trope, drabble. WARNING(S): hickey (mentioned), jealous reader, not proofread. WORD COUNT: 587. [ARCHIVE]

Jungwon sits stiffly in his chair, trying to maintain a polite smile while the female idol leans a little too close for comfort. Her hand casually brushes his arm, and he shifts slightly, hoping to create some distance. His discomfort is evident in the way his fingers twitch nervously at his sides. The crew around them laughs, some whispering that the two of them look "so cute together."

“You two should date, honestly,” one of the stylists says with a playful nudge, completely unaware of how uncomfortable Jungwon feels.

The female idol, catching on, giggles and leans in closer, batting her eyelashes. “Should we?” she asks, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. She knows about you, but she’s choosing to ignore it. Her hand lingers on Jungwon’s shoulder, her fingers playing with the fabric of his jacket, as if testing his boundaries.

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, but he forces a polite smile, swallowing down his frustration. “I’m already datin—” he starts, trying to assert his relationship, but before he can finish, the door to the room swings open.

You step in, your smile so sweet it could melt ice, but the fire in your eyes tells a different story. Without missing a beat, you stride over to Jungwon, effortlessly slipping your arm through his, your body pressing gently against his side. The tension in the room shifts immediately, and Jungwon’s entire posture relaxes at the sight of you.

“Oh? What were you saying?” you ask, your voice dripping with playful curiosity, eyes locking onto the stylist who had just suggested the ridiculous idea. You look so serene, like you hadn’t heard a word of what was said, but Jungwon knows better. Beneath your calm exterior is a storm.

The room falls silent. The stylists and crew exchange awkward glances, the female idol's face paling slightly as you shoot her a glance—sharp, protective.

“Ah... nothing... uh, are you Jungwon’s…” The stylist trails off, unsure of how to proceed under your intense gaze.

You turn to Jungwon, urging him with a tilt of your head to clear things up once and for all. His throat goes dry for a second, but then he nods, stepping up. “Yes,” he says, voice firm but slightly nervous under your watchful eye. “We're dating.”

You hum in approval, but your eyes glitter mischievously. “Oh, really? You didn’t tell them about this?” You feign innocence as your finger softly grazes the side of his neck, pulling down the collar just enough to reveal the faint purplish mark you’d left there earlier that day.

Jungwon’s cheeks flush a deep shade of pink, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His eyes dart between you and the now-silent crew, utterly embarrassed but also relieved to have you there. The rest of the room goes wide-eyed, a mix of shock and sudden realization flooding their expressions.

The female idol visibly stiffens, retracting her hand from Jungwon’s shoulder, now clearly outmatched. She clears her throat and forces a smile, taking a step back. “Oh… I see,” she mutters under her breath, trying to play it off coolly, but the damage is done.

You smirk slightly, giving her one last glance before turning back to Jungwon. Your hand squeezes his arm a bit tighter, possessive but loving. Jungwon finally breaks into a small, relieved smile, the tension from before melting away as he looks at you with gratitude.

Leaning closer to him, you murmur teasingly, “Next time, don’t make me have to do this, okay?”

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allieslittlewritings · 6 months ago

Text

Smiley Hotchner

Aaron Hotchner + toddler!daughter!reader

Summary: Toddler!reader spends a day at the BAU

Warnings: None, vague UnSub things

Word Count: 750

‎Aaron bringing you to the bureau was a rare occasion. He had always preferred to keep you away from his work as much as humanly possible. However, when their most recent case involved a local UnSub whose victims all bared an eery resemblance to you, he couldn't ignore the nagging voice in his head telling him you would be safer with him.

Though it leaned towards unprofessionalism, he couldn't help himself. He called your babysitter and she brought you to the bureau shortly after.

The other team members diverted their attention from the evidence board to the small footsteps sounding through the bureau.

Blissfully unaware of the real reason you were there, you immediately ran to your dad with a bright smile on your face. Aaron felt the tension in his posture ease when he saw you.

"Hi, Daddy." Your loving smile remained on your face.

"Hi, honey." The smile on his face was smaller but no less full of love and warmth. He started carrying you to his office, pointedly staring at the rest of the team so they would get back to working on their profile.

"How was your day, sweetheart?" Aaron asked, putting you down on the couch in his office.

"It was good!" You reached into your little backpack and pulled out a piece of slightly folded paper. "My teacher told us to draw something we love, so I drew you." You held the piece of paper out to your dad, expectedly waiting for him to take it.

He gratefully took it and felt his heart melt in his chest. The scribbles you had drawn would by no means be hung in a museum (unless it was owned by Aaron in which case it would be the number one display), but it was surely one his favorites pieces of art to ever be created.

A line of red as his tie, messy brown dots for his eyes, and a wonky line on his face to represent a grin.

"Do you like it?" you asked hopefully.

He bent down to be closer to you. "I love it." He gently kissed your head and handed the drawing back to you.

For the next few hours, you stayed in his office, drawing more scribbles and playing with the toys he kept in his office for you.

Most of the team went to apprehend the UnSub. Their profile indicated that the UnSub would comply relatively easy when arrested so a few of the team stayed behind.

Aaron being the Unit Chief meant he had to go along. Before he left he asked the ones staying behind to keep an eye on you.

Reaching up to open his office door, you curiously exited his office. Spencer and JJ were in the bullpen, removing things from the evidence board and putting files away, while Penelope sat on Spencer's desk and told them about the reality TV show she was currently watching.

You ran, carefully so you wouldn't trip, to where they were and waited for them to acknowledge your presence.

"Hi, Y/N!" Penelope happily greeted you, holding her arms open for a hug.

You practically crashed into her and hugged her back before doing the same to JJ, and Spencer. You opted for staying by him, holding onto one of his legs and admiring his shoes. You wondered how he kept them so clean when he wore them just about every time you saw him.

He wasn't sure whether he should politely tell you to let go of him, so he could remove a somewhat graphic photo from the board before you saw it, or let you stay there.

He looked at JJ and Penelope, visibly conflicted and in need of help.

Penelope smiled amusedly and gently poked your arm, getting you to look up at her with one eye, the other being lightly squished against Spencer's leg. "Hey, baby Hotch, why don't we go to my lair and I can show you the new game I made?"

"Ooh, okay!" You let go of Spencer and held out your hand for Penelope to take.

She grabbed your hand and started leading you to her office. You looked back at JJ and Spencer, who very quickly covered the photo he'd wanted to remove, and waved at them. Spencer wasn't thinking very well when he removed his hand from the board to wave back to you. Realization only hit him when he saw your gleeful expression morph into one of shock.

Aaron happened to walk back into the bureau at that exact moment and saw the surprise on your face. Spencer gulped nervously at the hard stare Aaron gave him.

Before he could go over to scold him for not being more careful, you tugged at his pant leg and looked up at him, gaining his attention. He leaned down, thinking you were upset. "What is it, honey?"

"Daddy, I desperately need shoes like Uncle Spencer's."

#aaron hotchner x daughter!reader #aaron hotchner x child!reader #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #criminal minds #daughter!reader #fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #allieslittlewritings ★#idk what this is #it's definitely something

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lucysarah1875 · 2 months ago

Text

Mounting Spring Ch.13 Spoilers!

I swear hahaha I love MS' MC, she's the funniest.

The camp was alive with activity—soldiers bustling about, taking advantage of the brief stop, while others tended to their gear or rested where they could. Amidst the organized chaos, she spotted Levi seated on a stack of wooden crates, calmly peeling potatoes with the same precision he used in battle.

Even in such a mundane moment, he radiated quiet authority. She blinked in surprise at the sight of him, the front buckle of his chest straps undone, his posture curled over parted legs as he worked. It was... oddly humanizing.

She approached, heart fluttering with a cocktail of nervousness and admiration.

“Levi!” she called out cheerfully, her voice bubbling with energy.

“What?” he asked flatly, then turned his gaze back to his hands.

She stopped in front of him, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “Is it true? What they told me about you… defeating the Beast Titan?”

The question made his brow crease at first. “The monkey?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah.” His reply was simple, as if she’d asked about the weather.

But she couldn’t hold it in—her smile spread, radiant and sincere. “You really did that? Made the Titans line up like that?”

Her voice was so full of wonder, her bright smile so pure, that Levi was reminded for a second of the kids who used to chase him through the streets. Something in him softened. A flicker of pride sparked in his steel gaze.

“Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here,” he said, matter-of-fact.

Her Omega instincts swelled with joy, washing over her in a warm tide. She felt proud—deeply, instinctively proud. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as her smile widened, and her scent began to slip out unbidden, betraying her happiness. It was as if, in that moment, her body insisted that choosing this man was not just a political match—but the choice of a capable, discerning mate.

Levi’s eyes narrowed. He sniffed faintly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing with happiness. “Oh, nothing…”

He clicked his tongue, an exasperated puff escaping his nose. “What?”

She giggled, raising a hand to her mouth in pure, cheeky delight. “I always thought when people called you Humanity’s Strongest, it was just some dumb rumour. You're so—tiny, you know?”

His eyes widened, pride stung. It felt like a dagger between the ribs. “You think that’s funny?” he muttered darkly.

She nodded enthusiastically, still laughing. “But it was a lie! You are Humanity’s Strongest!”

He sighed, glaring off into the void like it had personally offended him, letting her words—both the insult and the admiration—sink in like some weird bittersweet mix.

She spun on her heel, ready to bounce off as energetically as she’d arrived, when something tugged on the back of her dress. She yelped as the momentum pulled her down onto a crate beside him.

“Where do you think you’re going, girly?” Levi said, unimpressed.

“Oi!” she squeaked, twisting to look at him—but he was already placing a knife and a potato into her hands.

Pointing with his own blade, he said, “Help me with the peeling.”

“Nooo!” she whined, pouting dramatically. “This was a trap! Why?!”

“Because you’re eating this too,” he said dryly. “Chop chop.”

She sighed and reluctantly started fumbling with the task. “What are we having?”

“Stew.”

She made a face. “We’ve had that the past five days!”

Levi rolled his eyes. “And what do you suggest? Michelin-star cuisine?”

“Oh! A mushroom risotto with quail would be so lovely right now,” she said dreamily, sitting beside him with all the poise of a pampered lady.

Levi gave her a long, unimpressed look. He didn’t even bother answering.

She pouted, picking up on the unspoken judgment. “It can’t be that hard to make…”

“Do you even know how to cook?”

She chuckled. “I don’t even know how to turn on the stove.”

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ethe-realfantasy · 18 days ago

Text

How Simon Ghost Riley falls in love with a civilian visitor... Part II

(Slow burn, pure fluff, Simon is still a big, burly, brooding awkward mess)

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅••⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅••⑅♡⑅•

The gravel crunches beneath your sandals. His boots, heavier, fall in a steady rhythm beside you. The sun casts everything in amber, even the dull grey of the outer wall looks warmer in this light.

It’s quiet at first. You don’t rush to fill the space.

“You’re taller than I thought,” you say lightly, glancing over at him with a half-smile. “When you’re not towering over people in full gear, I mean.”

He lets out a low, amused sound.

“…And here I was thinkin’ I was intimidatin’.”

“Oh, you are,” you tease. “But not right now. Right now, you’re just… a guy walking next to me.”

He glances at you. You can’t see his expression, but there’s something in his posture that softens: shoulders looser, chin tilted a bit toward you.

“…Not used to that,” he says after a moment.

You lift a brow. “Being a guy?”

Another soft huff from him.

“…Being just ‘someone.’ Without all the other things stitched to my name.”

You nod, thoughtful. “Well, I don’t know your full name, so it’s easier for me to imagine.”

His eyes flick toward you, dry.

“…You’re not letting that go, are you?”

You grin. “Absolutely not.”

He shakes his head once, then looks ahead. His voice, when it comes again, is rough but quieter.

“…Simon.”

You stop walking, just for a second. He does too. Not turning fully to you, but enough that you see his profile in the light.

Your voice, when it finally comes, is soft. “ Really?”

He nods once.

Your smile fades into something quieter… not serious, just gentle.

“Thank you.”

He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. But you know it isn’t. You both start walking again.

Then, with mock innocence:

“So, Simon… do you ever do anything outside of lurking around base entrances and sharing coffee with civilians?”

He gives you a long side-glance.

“…I’ll have you know I was professionally lurking before it was cool.”

You try not to laugh, but it escapes anyway: a bright sound in the golden evening. You think you see his shoulders lift just slightly, like he might be smiling under the mask too.

You reach the edge of the visitor lot. Your car’s not far now.

You slow a little. You don’t want this to end just yet. Neither does he.

But both of you feel the moment shifting… that tug of real life waiting on the other side.

“I’d walk further,” you say, “but I have to drive back tonight.”

He nods. But doesn’t step away.

The car door is open, one hand resting on the top of it as you turn to face him. The engine isn’t running yet. Neither of you really want this moment to end, even if you both pretend it’s just another passing goodbye.

Simon stands just to the side, close enough that the warmth between you is palpable, distant enough that it’s still polite.

You smile at him, softly. “Thanks for walking with me.”

He nods, hands in his pockets, gaze steady beneath the fading sun.

“…Least I could do.”

You hesitate, fingers brushing the edge of the door, not getting in just yet.

He sees that.

And he knows… if he’s going to do it, it has to be now.

He shifts slightly, the gravel under his boots cracking faintly. Clears his throat.

“…y/n.”

The way he says your name - low, careful, almost like it’s something he’s still getting used to. It makes you pause and look at him fully.

His eyes meet yours.

“I was thinkin’…” he begins, and already you hear the hesitation. He’s steady in a firefight, but this (asking a woman like you out) that’s another battlefield entirely.

“…Next time you’re on base,” he continues, slower now, “maybe it doesn’t have to be by accident.”

Your heart stirs. He’s not saying it perfectly. He’s not even sure he can. But you hear it anyway.

You tilt your head, gentle teasing in your voice:

“You trying to schedule me in, Lieutenant?”

He huffs, a faint glimmer of amusement under his mask.

“…Something like that.”

Another beat. Then, he adds, voice quiet:

“Would you want to? Have dinner, I mean.”

You blink, startled by the directness under all the restraint. A beat of silence. You smile. Slow and sure, warmth filling your chest.

„Yeah. I‘d like that.“

The car hums softly beneath you as you settle into the seat. The moment is seconds from ending - the kind you know you’ll think about later, wondering if you said enough. If you lingered long enough.

Simon still hasn’t stepped back. Still standing there beside your door like he’s waiting for something.

You lean slightly toward the center console. You hesitate… then reach into your bag.

You pull out a pen and grab an old receipt, fold it once, then scribble across the back.

He watches you, head tilted slightly, but he doesn’t ask.

When you finish, you reach out. You’re not handing it over awkwardly, but letting it flutter into his palm, like it’s just a casual thing. Nothing too meaningful.

Except, of course, it is.

“In case you want to make that dinner official.”

His hand closes around the slip of paper. He looks at it, then back at you. His eyes are steady, but something flickers beneath the surface. A pause like he’s about to say something else, but he only gives a short nod.

“…I will.”

You smile, more to yourself than to him, and shift the car into gear.

“Bye, Simon.”

He watches as you pull away. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t speak again. Just stands there with your number in his hand and something that feels suspiciously like hope in his chest.

—————

[Unknown Number]

It’s Riley. From earlier.

I’m off Friday. You still up for dinner?

I’ll handle the place.

He stares at it for a second after hitting send. Doesn’t reread it. Doesn’t double text. But his phone stays in his hand longer than it should.

When you see the message, it makes you smile before you even realise you‘re doing it. Simple, direct, a little stiff… but in a way that’s so him, it’s endearing.

You type back, fingers hovering for a second.

I’m in. Just don’t take me somewhere where I have to eat in tactical gear.

Three dots appear.

Then stop.

Then appear again.

No promises.

—————

Friday — Your place:

You stare into the mirror. Again.

You‘ve tried on three different dresses. Each one lasted five minutes before getting folded neatly back on the bed. Nothing seems right.

Not too dressy, not too casual, not like you‘re trying too hard but also like… maybe you are? Just a little?

You‘ve never been on a date with someone like him before. Not even close. The man who walked you to you car didn’t flirt -not really- but there was something there. Something steady. Heavy. Honest.

You finally settle on a soft, midi-length dress. Simple. Flowy. A pale color. Something calm. Something you feel beautiful in. Then you brush your hair out again, even though you already did it. Then recheck the mirror.

He’s not going to care what I wear, you tell yourself.

And yet… You’ve never wanted someone to notice more.

—————

Friday — His place:

Simon stands in front of his wardrobe like it personally offended him.

He’s already showered. Fresh shave. Hair combed back. He stares at a plain black button-up and hesitates. Then pulls it out. Then puts it back. Then pulls it out again.

He ends up going with that one.

Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. Clean jeans, boots. It’s still him, but just a little more… effort. He doesn’t own anything “date-like.” But this, at least, feels intentional.

He glances down at his watch. 6:17. He’ll be there early… He knows that. He’s never late to anything, especially not this.

But right now? His palms are actually a little clammy. He rubs them against his jeans and mutters under his breath.

“…It’s just dinner“, he says to himself.

But it’s not.

—————

It’s a quiet spot off-base. Not flashy, but warm. Dim lights. Real food. Wooden tables and low music. Not the kind of place soldiers come to blow off steam, the kind of place people meet.

He waits by the entrance, shifting slightly when he sees headlights approaching.

And then he sees you.

The second you step out of the car, he forgets how to breathe for a second.

The dress is soft, your hair catching in the breeze, and you‘re…

God.

You‘re really here.

You see him and slow just a little.

He’s wearing black. Neat. Confident but not loud. He stands with his hands in his pockets, gaze unreadable, but you see the way his eyes track you.

You walk toward him, heartbeat way too fast, and smile.

“Hi.”

He nods once, then twice, like it takes him a second.

“…Hey.”

You look him up and down slowly, amused.

“You clean up well“, you say sweetly.

He glances down at himself, then back at you.

“You’re not exactly hard to dress up for.”

And it slips out before he can stop it. His eyes widen a fraction, like he didn’t mean to say it quite like that.

You just smile, gently.

“Good answer.”

You stand in front of the door for one more beat. Then he steps ahead and opens it for you, just a little shy, just a little formal.

But when your eyes meet again in the warm light spilling from the restaurant, there’s something unmistakable in the air.

Something new.

Something quietly electric.

—————

It’s quiet, not empty, just comfortably hushed. The kind of place where the lighting is low and golden, and the music is soft enough that conversation feels private, even across a small table.

The hostess seats you by the window. Simon lets you take the inside seat, then pulls his own chair out with quiet precision. He doesn’t say much at first, never does, but his eyes keep flicking up to you when he thinks you‘re not looking.

You glance at the menu, but only briefly. You already know what you‘re going to order.

He’s barely opened his. You watch him for a moment before speaking.

“I think I’ll get the risotto.”

Simon looks up, then closes the menu without hesitation.

“Risotto,” he says to the waiter who suddenly appears at his side, “and the grilled chicken. I’ll have the steak. Medium. Thanks.” Not rude. Just straight to the point.

The server nods and disappears.

You raise an eyebrow, amused.

“Didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink.”

Simon looks faintly sheepish.

“…Right. Rookie mistake.” A beat passes.

Then he adds dryly:

“Water? Or something dangerous like iced tea?”

You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Water’s fine. For now.”

Your eyes meet for a second too long. It’s not awkward. Not quite. But it’s new.

He leans back a little, arms relaxed but posture still that of a man who’s never quite off-duty.

You tilt your head, fingers laced gently on the table.

“So, Lieutenant Riley…” you tease lightly, “what do you do when you’re not standing guard like a silent knight?”

He huffs a short breath through his nose — something close to a laugh.

“…Believe it or not, I’ve got hobbies.”

“Really?” You play along. “Does brooding count as a hobby?”

Now he actually laughs. It’s low, unguarded, brief.

“…Used to. Got a bit too competitive with it.”

You smile at that. And for a moment, the silence is comfortable.

Then, unexpectedly, he adds:

“I’ve got a dog.”

Your face softens.

“You do?”

He nods.

“Name’s Riley. Not after me, after the guy who gave him to me. Old mate.”

He pauses for a moment.

“Big lump. Mix of… I don’t even know. Loyal though. Smarter than she looks. Hates when I’m gone too long.”

You smile again… gentler now.

“That sounds like a good life. Quiet companionship.”

He shrugs. “It helps. Keeps me steady.”

There’s something in his voice, not quite sadness, not even nostalgia. Just honesty.

You watch him for a moment.

“You know, I wouldn’t have guessed you were a dog person.”

He leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on yours.

“Wouldn’t have guessed you’d talk to the scary masked man at the gate.”

You lift your glass, smiling over the rim.

“Can‘t argue with that.“

—————

The food’s long arrived. Your fork rests delicately on the edge of your plate. You‘ve barely touched the risotto in the last ten minutes. Not because it isn’t good. But because you‘re… distracted.

By the way Simon speaks when he forgets to guard himself.

By the dry wit that cuts through his rough exterior.

By the rare, rare moments he smiles without catching himself.

And this is one of them.

He’s just told you about a time he tried to train Riley to bring him the remote.

“Ended up chewing the sofa instead. Dunno what lesson she learned, but I learned mine.”

You laugh. Genuinely, freely, the kind that lights up your whole face.

“Poor dog. Bet she thought she was doing you a favour.”

Simon shrugs, almost smirking.

“Could be. Honestly, I think she’s smarter than I am. Just hides it well.”

Your smile stutters… a heartbeat behind your reaction. And then you laugh again, softer this time.

Without thinking, you reach across the table, placing your hand lightly over his. Just for a second. Fingertips warm against the back of his hand, like you forgot you weren’t supposed to do that. Like something inside you just needed to close that tiny space.

The touch is light. Barely a moment.

But for Simon, it’s like the world shifts under his skin.

His hand doesn’t move. Not towards you, not away. Just stays perfectly still, like he’s afraid if he twitches, the spell will break.

You blink and realise what you’ve just done.

And slowly you draw your hand back.

“I—” you begin, flustered, cheeks coloring in a way you really didn’t want him to see.

“I just… I’m gonna use the bathroom. Be right back.”

You rise a little too quickly. Not dramatic, but not smooth, either. He watches you walk away, his expression unreadable at first.

But when you’re gone, he exhales and glances down at the spot where your hand had been.

He flexes his fingers once. Slowly. Then rests them on the table again.

Still.

—————

The door clicks shut behind you.

You exhale, leaning back against it for a second, heart racing like you just ran ten flights of stairs. It’s not even nerves, not really. It’s something deeper. Warmer. Heavier.

You push off the door and walk slowly to the sink. The mirror meets you, soft light overhead, polished tile all around. You look… flushed. Not messy, not flustered on the outside. But in your eyes?

Wrecked in a way you didn’t expect.

You lean forward, palms flat on the counter and whisper to yourself: “…What the hell are you doing?”

It’s not accusatory. Not really. It’s bewildered. Like your body moved faster than your thoughts and now your heart is playing catch-up.

You study yourself. Touch your lips. Brush your hair back from your cheek. Then you shake your head slowly.

“It was just his hand.”

But that’s a lie. You know it. It wasn’t just anything.

The way he looked at you before you touched him… The pause in him afterward, not surprised, not uncomfortable, just… stunned.

The quiet permission in it.

You turn the tap on, splash cold water onto your wrists, then dab a little on the side of your neck.

Staring into your own reflection, you mutter:

“You barely know him.”

And yet…

That hand. That stillness. That kind of presence.

The man who barely talks, but every word means something.

The man who waited outside your car door like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve barely said more than a few dozen words to each other.”

But it already feels like more than most people say in hundreds.

You sigh and then stand up straighter. Just enough time has passed. Not too much.

You smooth your dress and check your face one last time.

Then you whisper to yourself, almost smiling:

“Okay. Deep breath. He’s just a man.”

But as you reach for the handle your pulse still flickers in your throat… and you know:

He is not just a man.

—————

Simon hasn’t moved.

He’s still seated exactly as you left him, one arm draped loosely on the table, the other resting in his lap. His steak is untouched. The wine glass has beads of condensation trailing down its side, forgotten.

But the moment he hears your heels click softly on the wooden floor, he lifts his gaze.

There’s nothing dramatic in it. No shift of posture. No sudden change.

But something about the stillness in him says it all:

He noticed how long you were gone. He wasn’t sure if you‘d come back.

You walk up slowly, your expression composed, but when your eyes meet again, there’s something different in it now. You’re not hiding behind small talk or light smiles.

There’s a subtle warmth there. A truth you’re not quite ready to say out loud.

You slide back into your seat and smooth your dress. Then you glance at him with a soft breath of laughter, attempting to break the tension.

“Sorry. I think I needed that moment.”

Simon nods once.

Quiet. Understanding. Maybe too understanding.

“No problem,” he says, voice low. “Figured the risotto wasn’t the only thing overwhelming.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Then you huff a breath.

“You’re making jokes now?”

He leans back a little, tilting his head.

“Don’t get used to it. I’ve got a strict one-laugh-per-week policy.”

You laugh again (truly this time) and the weight lifts, just a little. You reach for your glass, take a slow sip, then you turn to studying him across the table.

“So,” you say lightly, twirling the stem of the glass between your fingers, “Do you usually stun women into silence?“

Simon gives a slow blink at your words and leans forward slightly, arms resting on the table. His expression unreadable except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You were quiet when I met you“, he says softly.

He says it evenly, but it lands somewhere between a reminder and a challenge.

You quirk a brow, smiling into your glass.

“I didn’t want to interrupt a man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.”

He tilts his head, considering you.

“Maybe I was just hoping you’d come interrupt anyway.”

You freeze for just a second, the subtle honesty in that sentence disarming you more than it should. Your lashes lower instinctively, brushing your cheeks as you look down.

“Maybe I was hoping you’d say something first.”

It’s barely above a whisper. But he catches it.

The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable. Just full. Like you both know you’ve peeled back a layer, and now the air feels… brighter somehow.

Simon shifts his gaze down to his hands, then back up again.

“So… y/n.”

He says your name a little slower this time, like he’s trying it out. Like he’s never really said it before, not properly.

“What are you thinking now?”

You blink, surprised.

“You asking that like you actually want an honest answer.”

“Maybe I do.”

His voice is quieter now. Not hesitant, just… open.

More than you expected from him.

You study his face, the way his jaw moves when he’s uncertain, the flicker of something like vulnerability beneath the strength. It undoes you just a little.

So you just smile.

Honestly??

“I’m thinking… I don’t usually do this.”

He nods once. He understands without asking what this means.

“But I’m glad you did,” he says, low, barely audible.

You look at him. And that’s when it happens, not with words, not with movement, but with presence. A closeness neither of you leans into, yet both of you feel.

You shift slightly, elbow resting on the edge of the table.

“You said something earlier. About having a dog.”

“Riley,” he confirms.

“Right.” A playful gleam in your eye now.

“So I’m guessing you’re more of a ‘stay in, keep it quiet’ kind of guy?”

He smirks, just a little.

“Don’t like crowds. Don’t like noise. And I’ve seen enough bars for ten lifetimes.”

“So what do you do on a night off?”

He pauses, he’s being honest again:

“Cook. Read a bit. Take Riley out. Sleep, if I’m lucky.”

You tilt your head.

“You read?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Not the fancy stuff. Just things that keep my head quiet.”

You‘re quiet for a moment.

“What kind of things do you need to quiet down from?”, you ask curiously.

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment you wonder if you went too far.

“More than I want to bring to a first date“, he says finally.

And suddenly that single word hangs between you.

A date.

Neither of you said it until now. You didn’t exactly deny it either.

But hearing it out loud? It settles into you like something true.

You smile again, soft and sure.

“Well… for a first date, you’re doing okay.“

He lifts his glass. Nods.

“I’m glad you think so.”

—————

The soft clink of cutlery and distant conversation fades behind you as the door swings shut. A breeze rolls in, gentle but cool, rustling the hem of your dress and tousling a loose strand of hair across your cheek.

Simon notices it immediately.

He doesn’t say anything. Just slowly reaches up, almost as if asking permission, and brushes the strand away with the back of his fingers. His touch is barely there.

You look up at him and your breath catches. But you don’t move away.

He clears his throat softly, hand lowering.

“You cold?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

You walk slowly down the quiet street toward your car. The distance between you is minimal… no touching, but aware. You can feel the shape of him beside you. Like gravity trying to close the gap.

When you reach the car, you turn with a soft sigh. Your keys are in your hand, but you make no move to unlock the door yet.

Simon looks down at you, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

“Thanks for tonight.”

“I enjoyed it.”

There’s something tender in the way you both hesitate. Like you’re standing on the edge of something you’re not ready to name.

Simon shifts his weight slightly.

“You’ll let me know you got home safe?”

Your eyes soften.

“I will.” A pause.

A flicker of amusement in his eyes is quickly swallowed. He nods.

Then he steps forward, just a little, just enough and leans down slightly. For a second you think he might kiss you.

But instead, he stops just close enough for you to feel the warmth of him.

“Good night, y/n.”

There’s something in the way he says your name: careful, reverent, as if it means more to him than it should.

You breathe in, heart fluttering, and smile.

“Good night, Simon.”

And he lingers.

Just for a second longer than he should. Then he steps back.

You open your door slowly, looking over your shoulder at him before you get in. There’s a flicker of something raw in your eyes: gratitude, maybe. Or longing. Or something that has no word yet.

He watches you drive away, the taillights glowing red, then fading.

Then finally, he exhales and walks back the way he came. A little slower than before.

—————

On your drive home you see images of Simon standing in front of you. The way he said your name before walking away… like it meant something. Like he’d been holding it all night, turning it over quietly in his mind, waiting for the right moment to give it back to you.

Your hands tighten slightly on the wheel.

A laugh escapes your lips. It’s soft, breathy, full of disbelief.

What just happened?

The night feels surreal. You touch your cheek without realizing it, not because anything touched you there, but because everything inside you is suddenly warm.

—————

You sit in the car long after the engine’s off, your phone resting on your lap. No message.

Not that you need one… it’s not like you promised anything. But… he’d said let me know you’re home safe

Maybe he’s waiting for that. Maybe he’s not the type to jump in first. Or maybe he’s just as unsure as you are.

You exhale and open your messages.

His number is already saved. Simon. No last name. No emoji. Just… simple. Like him.

You type a message, then you delete it. Then you try again:

Hi. Just letting you know I got home safe. And thank you again. I had a really nice time tonight.

You stare at it for a full minute.

It’s simple. Safe. Honest. Still… your finger hovers before you finally hit send.

Delivered.

You set the phone aside and sink back into the seat. Eyes closed. Heart light.

He’s just stepped out of the shower, towel around his neck, hair damp. Riley is curled up on the floor, already half-asleep.

Simon checks his phone like he has every fifteen minutes.

Still nothing.

And then.. buzz.

The screen lights up. Your name.

He doesn’t open it right away. Just looks at it. The message preview:

Hi. Just letting you know I got home safe…

His lips twitch into something close to a smile. A real smile, not a reflex. His thumb hovers over the screen for a second longer than it needs to.

He opens it. Reads it twice.Then replies:

I’m glad. And I’m really glad you came.

He adds a second message after a beat:

You made tonight… better than I expected.

You‘re lying on your stomach, chin resting on your hand, phone in front of you like it might bite if you press the wrong key.

You read his last message again.

You made tonight… better than I expected.

God.

Instinctively you start typing:

I’m still smiling, if that tells you anything.

You pause and quickly delete it. Then you try again:

Thank you. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy myself this much either. You surprised me.

Then you delete that too. It feels way too honest.

You give it more try:

Sleep well, Simon. And thank you again.

Then you quickly add:

You’re not what I expected. In a good way.

Your thumb rests on “send.”

It’s soft, careful… just enough to keep the door open without stepping through too fast.

You tap send. Immediately you turn your phone over and press it face-down to your chest, like it might stop your heart from fluttering.

But you’re smiling. Only smiling.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed now, dressed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp, the towel forgotten somewhere on the floor.

His phone lights up on the nightstand.

He doesn’t touch it at first.

He just looks at it… that faint glow in the dark, your name lighting it up like a whisper.

He reaches over eventually, leans back against the headboard and unlocks the screen.

Sleep well, Simon. And thank you again. You’re not what I expected.In a good way.

A quiet breath leaves him.

His thumb rests on the reply field, unmoving. He wants to say something. Wants to let you know you’re not what he expected either and that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the moment you smiled at him outside the base in that red dress.

But he doesn’t type it. Not yet. Not tonight. Instead, he just sets the phone down again, screen facing up this time. Lets it sit beside him in the dark like a presence.

His thoughts drift, not heavy, not sharp. Just full.

You touched his hand.

You laughed at his jokes.

You gave him your number.

He rubs a hand across his jaw, slow, thoughtful.

Second date.

Yeah. He’s asking you out again. Soon. Nothing fancy. Just time, more time, to hear your voice and see what else you don’t expect from him.

He lies down eventually. One arm behind his head, eyes open in the dark.

And for once, for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t think about the next mission.

Just you.

—————

The first thing you do when you wake isn’t checking the time. It’s checking your phone.

Still no reply.

The screen is quiet. Just a few notifications you ignore: a calendar reminder, an email from the firm, something about dry cleaning.

But not Simon.

You blink and let the phone fall back onto the comforter. Slowly you roll onto your back and start staring at the ceiling.

Your heart sinks just a little.

Maybe he changed his mind.

Maybe you said too much. Maybe he regretted the whole thing, or decided it had been a one-time spark that didn’t need to go further.

You chew the inside of your cheek, feeling that familiar tightness in your chest. But then...

no.

You exhale slowly and shut your eyes.

No, y/n. Don’t go there.

Last night was good. You know it was. You felt it in the way he looked at you, the way he said your name, the way he didn’t let go of you right away in front of your car.

That happened. And nothing can take that away.

You get up, quietly, and pad across the room, bare feet on hardwood. You need to start your morning routine.

Hair up. Makeup simple. Baby blue blouse, navy slacks, delicate necklace.

You don’t check your phone again. Not yet. Not until you're out the door, coffee in hand, heading to the law firm that never waits.

Whatever that night was… it’s yours to keep. Even if it stays only a memory.

But still…

A small part of you hopes you'll feel your phone buzz sometime before lunch.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare ii #modern warefare ii #modern warfare #modern warfare iii #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #mine #ethe-realfantasy #ghost slow burn #ghost #ghost fanfiction #call of duty fanfic #simon riley fanfic

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booliuu · 3 months ago

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Can we get your Homicidal Liu HCs? Your BP ones were amazing!! :D

♱ Homicidal Liu Headcanons .ᐟ.ᐟ ⟢˚﹒

ꪆৎ 𝙰/𝙽 : ANSJSJSB IM SO GLAD YOU LOVE IT !!!! and ofc! 💚💚 i hope this is what your looking for anon ^^ im sorry it’s so long! the urge of yapping about liu has been so strong these days lol.

my inbox is open for asks & requests!! if you like my content don’t forget to like , comment , & reblog❤️. enjoy reading!

latest hc’s i finished are : ej’s & bloody painter . you should check it as well!

pictures are from pinterest 🍀.

🍁. . . His full name is Liu Woods. also known as homicidal liu. creeps call him homicidal just to taunt him . absolutely hates the name. heavily likes to be referred to as Liu.

🍁. . . Height : he’s the eldest sibling so he’s pretty dang tall. I’d say 6’0 or 6’5.

🍁. . . siblings: Jeffery Woods.

🍁. . . His birthday: 12/21. December 21st . ( he’s in his late 20’s ) him and jeff are about 2-3 years apart.

🍁. . . he/him.

🍁. . . bisexual.

🍁. . . he’s a Sagittarius ♐️ .

🍁. . . he’s American. born and raised in america 🇺🇸 . same with his younger brother.

🍁. . . he’s white. has spanish roots from both parents . same with his little bro . likely there ancestors are from Spain or Venezuela .

🍁. . . His favorite color is fall colors. such as orange, red , yellow . but also loves different shades of green c:

🍁. . . his main catchphrase: “ I forgave my brother for trying to kill me. I understand the urges he gets, I’ve fallen for the same ones time and time again in the past, so who am I to really judge him, anyway…”

🍁. . . i would describe his built to be that he’s so freaking tall. ( nothing compared to ej , laughing jack or slender though..) most of the time creeps have to look up while talking to him. his posture is good its just..chronic back pains TvT.

🍁. . . some may think he’s skinny and sick looking but under all the thick clothes he’s wearing all day he’s actually pretty lean. he has a bit of muscles in him. healthy and tone! tries to take care of himself as best as he can. ^_^

🍁. . . i say “sick looking” because generally speaking he’s very pale. his eye bags are bad. it’s makes ppl worry if he’s taking care of himself or not lol…. i’m not even going to sugar coat it. tired 24/7. relying on caffeine almost daily.

🍁. . . his eyes are prone to be red looking because he’s with the creeps that has pretty bad insomnia.

🍁. . . has BEAUTIFUL gorgeous olive green eyes. there so so.. pretty . honestly they almost look like emeralds ( okok it’s not that shiny.. but yk what i mean lol) . his hair is reddish brown .. it’s so soft and well taken care of . and by that, he cuts it often because he has bangs and he hates it when he can’t see. very handsome boy!

🍁. . . has ear piercings. stretched lobes. and the rest of his lobes done. too scared to get anything done above that.

🍁. . . he’s really really self conscious about the scars and stitches that practically littered all of over his face and body but honestly if your asking me that’s what makes him unique.

🍁. . . Liu’s the most normal wait no.. actually he’s the closest you’ll get to normal person. he’s living with a bunch of serial k*llers , he’s able to some how keep himself sane with all the bullshit he see’s and deal with every day in the mansion . ( and by that it’s dealing with his younger brother…)

literally a complete 360 of his brother tbhhh. ☠️

🍁. . . personality wise he’s quiet, well mannered , and uses big words when he talks. (i would describe his voice to be soft spoken and polite , he speaks in a velvety , smooth , and gentle tone. )

🍁. . . furthermore, he’s protective, caring, and overall he’s part of the small percentage of creeps that is friendly and respectful to new comers and residents of the mansion . older brother vibes yk? lots of creeps are fond of him because he has this warm and safe front to him .

🍁. . . he may be calm and collected. but that doesn’t mean he could see you right through your bullshit. he can read someone wants to do mischief to him easily . is capable putting you in your place or will let sully front .

🍁. . . downside to him being , he’s very paranoid. everyone around him. especially around jeff. he knows jeff is his brother and should leave the past behind. but how can he. when jeff is around , he can’t help but be super cautious and up guard around him. somewhat turns back into his 13 y.o self when the ..incident… happened.

🍁. . . under that calm face of his.. he’s fucking terrified what his brother is going to do next. his head spirals around if jeff will attack him again. can’t help but keep his mend hand on his g*n that’s underneath his trench coat because he.. so scared.

🍁. . . can’t be the same room with jeff. he’s immediately in flight or fight mode. he leaves the room immediately. his presence makes him so uncomfortable and feels like he’s suffocating around him.

🍁. . . huge dependency issues. secretly wants or desires to be with someone (doesn’t matter if it’s platonic or romantic) that he can trust , or just honestly wants anyone that will give him the feeling of safety and comfort again. will do drop anything for that to happen. yet the person he trusted the most tried to m*rder him.. developed awful trust issues after what happened with jeff.

🍁. . . Liu’s been dealing with a lot mental package half his life. grieves so much about his parents death. visit his parents grave from time to time. gives them flowers and remembers the memories they had together.

🍁. . . it’s not only D.I.D that liu suffers with but i believe he also has bipolar disorder and ptsd.

🍁. . . typically wears his thick black trench coat, that black and white scarf ( that he never washes ..😔 * sighs* oh liu… ) , under that he wears a black shirt. as well as black pants and combat boots. all though from time to time he wears dark academia clothing.

🍁. . . smells like cigarettes, the woods , or baked goods .

🍁. . . loves coffee. loves tea . biggg caffeine lover actually dependents on it to stay up for the day .

🍁. . . smokes whenever he’s needs too. honestly after the shit he’s been.. yeah i don’t blame him.

🍁. . . hangs out freely in public. literally the government knows that he’s dead because he has a grave and stuff but that doesn’t stop him from visiting small local libraries or towns.

🍁. . . goes to church pretty often but not to just pray . holding a broken rosary in his hand , and just sits seats there.. just thinking and …. thinking majority of the time . pure silence alone with thoughts.

🍁. . . thinks about the past quite a lot and especially if he saw or comes across something from him and jeff’s childhood, immediate waves of nostalgia washes over him . sadden of the fact things can’t be how they used to be .

🍁. . . he’s probably really good at baking. not cooking though. just baking . like will make someone a really good sour bread , muffins , or just give leftovers he couldn’t finish to creeps to closes with.

Now let’s talk about sully. . .

♦️. . . we all know liu suffers with D.I.D ( Dissosiative Identity Disorder) which means a person has two or more distinct identities that control their behavior at different times. And in this case it’s sully.

♦️. . . his alter mainly consists of being only sully i believe ( i think there’s one more but idk if that’s canon or not …) . now sully didn’t develop when he was born. actually developed with jeff attack him that night. and has been with him ever since then.

♦️. . . sully communicates with liu in his mental headspace if that makes sense. particularly sully will talk out loud to liu in his head.

♦️. . . if sully fronts then he talk to liu as if he’s standing right front of him. but if liu is fronting then he’s much better at keeping sully comments to himself. but will talk to each when left alone though.

♦️. . . liu doesn’t kill but he’s capable of doing it (more info about that later …) . most of the time its sully who does most of the m*rder. after the crime scene is finished and liu fronts again , feels extreme guilt of that the person who is now dead.

♦️. . . after jeff’s attack, he was in the hospital for a while and that how he came into terms with sully.

♦️. . . sully is very different compared to liu. mentally , and metaphorically speaking.

♦️. . . when sully fronts, his eyes changes from liu’s greens ones to reddish pink. his eyes could be read as frantic and almost angry looking. sully voice is more throaty and low. he’s more cocky , loud , impatient , rude and fussy. he’s prone to curse like sailor no matter the situation.

♦️. . . sully in the other hand , is the least dependent on people . he prefers gets things done by himself . not willing to trust others because he believes they will betray him in a matter of days. normally he’s comes out as aggressive to scare ppl away.

♦️. . . sully doesn’t kill people willy nilly. will front when he has strong urge too. especially when liu’s in danger because he wants protect him. or he decides liu is being “too soft” for his liking then fronts to tells him “ this is how a real man should do or act” ..

♦️. . . almost like a protective guard alter you could say …

‼️ approaching heavier topics … mostly talking about his past . ( tw m*rder and g*re ) .

🍁. . . liu was really protective of jeff growing up and till to this day blame himself how jeff came to be. when he’s bed sometimes he cries to himself and tells himself that failed being a big brother…

🍁. . . when they were little , he tried tend off the bullies before they pulled out knifes and jeff needed to go to the hospital immediate medical care. he spoke up about jeff’s face not looking to bad when he woke up from surgery and after that the family went quiet for a while .

🍁. . . was jeff’s only “ friend “ when they all moved to the new neighborhood.

🍁. . . one night in particular, after jeff gutted there parents. he snuck into liu’s room and attempted to give the same faith of there parents. liu fight back and chocked his brother with now a broken rosary. still has the rosary till this day.

🍁. . . jeff being stronger than liu, he gave liu pretty severe injuries. when jeff thought liu “died” he abandoned him and his whereabouts are unknown after that . likely slender found him and decided to take him in…

🍁. . . one of there neighbors heard screaming coming from there home. went the wood’s house to investigate. come to find liu bleeding out on the floor with severe injuries, horrified what they saw they called the ambulance .

🍁. . . liu almost died at the hospital but he some how pulled through with numerous surgeries done to him. it’s miracle he survived .

🍁. . . a nurse that was taking care of him called his brother a monster and that’s when he snapped and ended her life by pushing her off the hospital’s window . yk how i said he k*lled before , that was liu’s first victim.

🍁. . . after that event and realized what he’ve done in a pit of rage , not wanting to face consequences he ran away from the hospital and made his way to his families house and got a few things he needed .

🍁. . . attempted to burn the house and the rest of the belongings. he left the building, noticing the blood on his hands he didn’t turn back and his whereabouts were unknown. you can guess who took him .

🍁. . . after the events that occurred, liu still cares deeply about his younger brother and forgave him in the end because he’s experienced first hand the will to kill.

🍁. . . Liu's killings may also be influenced by Sully, a sociopath/psychopathic personality alter he developed after the night Jeff tried to kill him to cope with the traumatic events.

🍁. . . when slander made him his proxy perhaps out of pity.. he now lives in the mansion . jeff couldn’t believe it. thinks liu’s is just an illusion or just slender taunting him . nevertheless refuses to be close to liu thinking he’s not real. after a long time, reality sets in and realizes liu’s is in fact is here with him .

🍁. . . all jeff could think about is liu suppose to dead because after what he’s done to him, he shouldn’t survive. he has grave for god’s sake.

🍁. . . numerous times liu has tried to connect with his brother just like the good old times . Whether it's passing by him trying to start a decent conversation or when he's partnered with him on missions,tries teaming up with jeff to end the job faster.

🍁. . . there’s a parts of him is thinking, the younger brother he knows is still there and they can come back where things used to be but there’s a bigger part of him knowing jeff’s to far gone and hates him.

🍁. . . jeff being jeff shuts down by either completely ignoring him, mumbling something under his breath and shoving him to a wall abruptly . or being rudely abrasive. will start getting a little physical and blood is sometimes involved. quick trips to ej’s is greatly needed ...

🍁. . . still him and jeff still have a really strained relationship. if they have missions together long story short, they both will only get the job done without much communication. other than that they ignore each other.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅✧⋄⋆⋅

🍁. . . i have a feeling jeff is really jealous by liu growing up but won’t admit it of course. i mean his brother has perfect grades, had friends , knew his parents preferred liu over him. ( liu has tried telling jeff that they love him but jeff wouldn’t budge. can read his parents actions pretty well and it’s obvious what sibling they favor the most.) it started with small grudges then quickly developed into deep seated resentment.

🍁. . . i saw this post the other day and IT REALLYYY speaks to me how much this represents there dynamic. there literally estranged siblings guys . there relationship is so broken down and as a resulted they don’t not communicating or avoiding each other.

🍁. . . once in a blue moon though, jeff will give a liu a hug. it shocks liu so much. he questions if this is really jeff or he’s pulling something again to get under his skin. jeff very faintly mumbles a apology. then in a second starts acting it never happened.

🍁. . . creeps can tell who’s the older and younger sibling at a first glance lol. like yes, physically it shows but there personalities are so different is really hard to ignore .

🍁. . . he’s LOVVVES writing poetry. if your his friend or there’s a creep that he considers to be a friend he will leave out little post it notes around their room to find.

🍁. . . he’s has many acquaintances of the residence living in the mansion. doesn’t believe in making rivalry or tense bonds. i’d say he’s close friends with helen ( okok hear me out but they had a little situationship b4 in the past but they end it in good terms and there good friends… helen can’t get over him lolololll, a bit obsessed i dare say) ej , nina , and kagekao .

🍁. . . younger creeps consider liu as a older brother figure. when he found out about that he made it his duty to give them best old brother experience he can provide .

🍁. . . his favorite seasons have to be fall and winter because those were the times where life was simple and fun. loves it when it rains, takes out his piles of books and reads while sitting on his bed . with his choice of beverage ofc.

🍁. . . gets really jealous almost envy whenever he’s out in public and see families getting along. the the whole day it sours his mood and the memories starts to flood back.

🍁. . . walks around the forest quite often ( especially after it rains, he likes the smell of rain so much for some reason..) and meets different strays along the way and pets all of them.

🍁. . . another creep that’s loves cats!! his favorites have to be rag doll’s , maine coon’s , siamese and balinese.

🍁. . . strikes me the type where he remembers bits of pieces of his close friends telling him stuff . he has shit memories but he’ll remember almost everything about them. like there coffee order, favorite book, list goes on . . .

🍁. . . hole in the wall cafes + liu. it’s a dream come true honestly . he quite literally visits this one cafe that he know the route by heart , and orders the same thing. it’s london fog and a slice of pound cake :3. the owner’s first language isn’t english but calls liu love all the time because liu reminds them of there son. makes liu tear up inside.

🍁. . . even though he literally in his late twenties, he gets really attached to much more older flocks that looks his parents .

🍁. . . when they call him nicknames out of acts of endearment and treat him as if it’s there own son it’s makes him mushy because he lost his parent pretty young and now there’s a hole in his heart that needs parental support and love in a way.

🍁. . . keeps photos of his family. and not to mention toys and other nik naks that him and jeff used to play with together hidden in a little compartment in his room.

🍁. . . liu’s a mama’s boy change my mind y’all. ever since he was little he always sticks with his mother all the time before .

🍁. . . both sully and liu have terrible sleeping habits. it’s save to assume they suffer with insomnia. liu especially because after the incident he has night terrors that wakes him from a cold sweat .

🍁. . . vaguely remembers jeff often comforted him after night terrors when they were younger. He has fond memories of heating warm milk together and watching t.v late at night, curled up on the living room couch.

🍁. . .things can’t turn back the way it used to be . liu can’t sleep keep due to constant late night disturbances so he make himself a cup of tea for the night. he misses so much of jeff’s care for him because it actually helped him sleep. sometimes rewatches the cartoons him and jeff used to watch together .

🍁. . . he loves reading. he owns like two BIG book cases that’s placed furtherest corners of his room filled hundreds of books. and in the middle of them owns a desk, a office chair , and a lamp. that’s where he actually writes poetry on.

🍁. . . close friends with helen and often volunteer’s being helen’s muse for the day if no one want too . while helen paints him , they have nice convo about anything.

🍁. . . he’s super good listener hands down. will listen to you vent about anything. doesn’t matter how stupid the topic is, he’s there for you. if your upset and starting to tear up he get you a tissue and help you clean up your tears. makes you a cup of whatever you want as well. won’t judge you at all.

🍁. . . has multiple accounts on the phones… he sully “collected” and has many playlist that listens to daily while hanging out on his bed. he’s giving bôa , cults , TV girl , the cardigans , strawberry guy and mac demarco . definitely not from my playlist…🤫

🍁. . . some of the residents living in the mansion are children and they love hanging out with liu . makes me him either play pretend tea parties , drawing and dragging helen when they want art lessons , watching a movie. they just love liu so much.

𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚜: @/bloodibambiidoll & @/omi-resources.

ꪆৎ 𝙰/𝙽 : another underrated pasta i love dearly!!! he’s literally my roman empire and helen too lol 😖. same with the woods brothers i talk about them for ages. i hope you enjoy my hc’s anon! thx for the ask and checking out my blog too.

next hc’s will be the rest of the marble hornets crew, keep an eye out!

if you like my content please don’t forget to like , reblog , and comment ^^.

liuuboo2025 ♡ﾟ

#₊‧꒰ა🍓 liu's post's #creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #homicidal liu #liu woods #homicidal liu headcanons #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #my headcanons #my post #creepypasta x reader #homicidal liu x reader

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